[Stargate SG-1 02] - The Price You Pay

by Ashley McConnell - (ebook by Undead)

  The kids were organizing themselves around the four tribute carts, picking up bundles that had fallen to the ground and piling them up again in a haphazard fashion. One of the wheels was askew on its spoke, and one of the kids had pointed it out. Several of them were now trying to raise the loaded cart up so that the wheel could be straightened and locked in place. Nekhmet observed with growing irritation.

  “I wonder where all that stuff’s going to go,” Daniel observed quietly.

  “I wonder why Nekky doesn’t just wave his hand again,” O’Neill retorted.

  “Maybe the bracelet sent a code to some kind of transporter in the hall. Or he can only do that trick once.”

  “Once is one more than we needed.”

  The wheel was finally adjusted, more fallen bundles were replaced, and the group looked toward Nekhmet for guidance. He lifted his hand in an elegant fashion and pointed across the meadow to the trees. One of the Serpent Guards took point, while the rest deployed around the tribute.

  “I guess we go over there,” O’Neill remarked, as the two of them moved to join the little procession. As they moved off, he looked back over his shoulder to see if Nekhmet was going to soil his jeweled sandals by joining in the hike.

  Apparently not. Where the ambassador had stood only moments before, there was only a blurring in the air, like heat distortion; then it, like the servant of the Goa’uld, was gone.

  O’Neill amused himself by speculating about the military uses of possible interdimensional transport systems, while simultaneously studying the terrain. If this was the home-world of the Goa’uld—the jury was still out on that one—it was a pleasant enough place. Judging by the number of flowers that had gone to seed, it was mid- to late summer.

  Not too hot, not too cold. Very much like M’kwethet, in fact. The air was filled with vegetable perfumes.

  Daniel was sneezing steadily.

  O’Neill glanced over at the Serpent Guards, trudging along silently as escort. Once Nekhmet had disappeared, they seemed to feel free to let down their hair, or at least their helmets. One could be a cousin of Teal’C’s—tall, massively muscled, ebony skin disfigured only by the golden cartouche of the Serpent embedded in his forehead. Like Teal’C, his face seemed carved of obsidian, the features immobile.

  Two more of the Guards could have stepped off the beaches of California. O’Neill noted with interest the surfer tans; so the Guards didn’t spend all their time in those helmets. He wondered where they were barracked, how they were trained. He made a note to ask Teal’C more about it when they got the team back together again.

  The fourth Guard had the olive skin and dark, large liquid eyes of someone from the Indian subcontinent: Indian or Pakistani. O’Neill knew that none of these Guards had actually come from Earth, at least not in the sense of being born there, but their ancestors might very well have done so. Apparently Ra and his colleagues had picked over the whole planet looking for their slaves.

  It was an interesting scrap of information, but not very useful. He could see Daniel coming to much the same conclusion, except that the archaeologist was probably planning a whole seminar series based on field interviews with the Jaffa on how much cultural drift had taken place between the stars. It was tough enough getting funding to keep the Gate open—he shuddered to think what Hammond’s reaction to a grant proposal for anthropological research would be.

  Eventually they worked their way through the trees, stopping every few feet to re-stack the carts when the vehicles tilted and toppled over tree roots. They came out of the shade of the trees into bright sunlight again, and shielded their eyes against the reflected dazzle of the Goa’uld city.

  The buildings were tall, square, and white, and seemed bizarrely out of place in the green, soft valley. It took O’Neill a moment or two to figure it out. The architecture was reminiscent of pharaonic Egypt, recalling the desert sands; it featured columns and heroic statues of seated pharaohs and wide paved walkways.

  But there were no desert sands here. Beside the walkways ran cheerful streams fringed with grass, and instead of pyramids and sphinxes, the city was surrounded by green mountains. It took another hour to get to the paved road, where at least they could take advantage of the shade of trees. They had plenty of time to study the buildings as they approached. Once on the road, they were able to move much more quickly, and soon were able to see more details.

  The white walls and the paved roads were made of large square blocks, fitted together so closely that they could barely see the lines between them. A thin trim of colored squares, much like the colored mosaic of the Hall of the Gate, defined the arched outlines of doors and windows. The cobra helmets of the Guards flowed back into place, and the four of them took up a more military position around the tribute caravan.

  “Wonder where we’re going,” Daniel muttered. A sheen of sweat covered his fair skin, and the bridge of his nose was beginning to redden. “I could use a drink of water.”

  “Likewise.” They were proceeding between the buildings now, and O’Neill couldn’t help but compare them with the houses of M’kwethet. These buildings were larger, more perfect somehow, showing no signs of normal erosion or wear and tear, as if the stone were a flawless plastic replica of a natural material. Two of the Guards had taken up position in front of them, with the other two walking behind. The streets were empty, as if the city were empty of everything except themselves, Guards, and tribute.

  “I wonder why the hike,” Daniel went on.

  “I think they’re trying to impress us,” O’Neill remarked. He was feeling the effects of the beating and the heat. “Okay, I’m impressed. Can we stop this now?”

  “You okay?”

  “‘Fine as frog hair’, as Hawkeye would say.” He had to work at not panting as they walked, and his hand shook minutely as he wiped sweat out of his eyes. “Do frogs have hair?”

  “I’m an archaeologist, not a biologist.”

  “Thank you, Dr. McCoy.”

  Turning a corner, they could see a broad avenue stretching perpendicular to their route. On one end was a massive temple, with rows of white columns at the top of a flight of shallow steps. The columns were crowned with lotus blossoms covered in glistening gold leaf.

  On the other end of the avenue, perhaps half a mile away, facing the temple like an anxious supplicant, stood a smaller building, still at least three stories tall. Its columns were fewer, smaller, bare stone.

  The arrangement was, in fact, very much like the relationship of the Gate to the Agora on M’kwethet. O’Neill wondered just how much of a coincidence that was supposed to be.

  The Serpent Guards guided them to their left, to the smaller second building. The kids were showing their weariness, stumbling as they dragged the carts to the bottom of the tall, narrow steps. No ramps were visible.

  “This building is not ADA-compliant,” O’Neill said with great disgust. The kids looked at him with the same apprehension they might give any typical madman. Jackson rolled his eyes.

  The Guards were not impressed. With quick, blunt gestures, they indicated that the carts were to be unloaded where they stood and the contents carried up the steps and into the building. Jackson and O’Neill stepped forward to help. Loading themselves with baskets of grain, they followed the Guards up the steps.

  For the first time, other people appeared, taking the various packages and bundles. They were dressed in linen kilts, white triangular headscarves, plain gray broad metal collars, and leather sandals.

  “Typical Old Kingdom servant dress,” Jackson said, but even he blinked at the bare breasts of the woman who took the basket from him.

  Once the carts were unloaded, Nekhmet came from the depths of the building and stood looking at them.

  “This is the House of the Tribute,” he said, “where you will make your home until you are Chosen of the Goa’uld or rejected to be returned to your world. You will find food here and places to sleep and work to do in the service of the Great Ones. You have been
honored beyond all others of your world. Try to be worthy.”

  O’Neill snorted, but he did it softly. Nekhmet’s outlined eyes didn’t shift in his direction.

  “You will be guided to your sleeping places by Ahmose, who is Overseer of the Tribute. Ahmose is my voice, as I am the Voice of Apophis.”

  “Where is this Apophis?” O’Neill spoke up.

  Jackson groaned under his breath.

  Nekhmet’s finely arched brows climbed halfway up his forehead. “You will not question the ways of the Goa’uld,” he said. “Most especially you will not question the ways of the Lord Apophis.”

  As he spoke, one of the Serpent Guards clubbed O’Neill down. Nekhmet strode forward to stare at the man writhing on the tiles before him. “You are insolent,” he said. “Is this the kind of tribute M’kwethet sends us? It has been long since your world felt the discipline of the Goa’uld. Perhaps it is time again.”

  The others of the Tribute gasped.

  O’Neill forced his eyes open, narrowed them to bring the two images of Nekhmet back into focus. “No,” he forced himself to say. “M’kwethet… does not question… Apophis.”

  Jackson, on his knees beside him, bowed down. “We are the dust beneath the feet of the Goa’uld,” he said rapidly. “We are your slaves, who seek only to discover how best to serve the magnificence of the Goa’uld. This man is nothing before you. Do not punish him for his eagerness to serve, I beg you.”

  “Perhaps if his tongue were removed he would not speak so intemperately,” one of the Serpent Guards suggested.

  “And he could not add his voice to the praises of Apophis. Surely the Great One does not wish his slaves mutilated unnecessarily? We are new to this world and this service. Allow us time to learn your ways, I entreat you.”

  Nekhmet appeared to consider the situation. He tilted his head, studying Jackson’s groveling technique, and seemed well pleased.

  “Very well,” he said. “Ahmose will assign you your resting places. In time you will be summoned to service. Be sure that when that time comes you know proper behavior.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Council of the Rejected Ones of M’kwethet gathered in the remotest meeting room of the Agora, kicked off their sandals, and poured themselves a drink.

  “Did we do the right thing?” Jareth asked.

  Alizane spun a goblet between her fingers, lost in the play of light on the delicate glaze, and declined to answer.

  “Yes,” Karlanan rumbled. He was already on his second drink. “If we’re lucky they were Selected right away and all we have to do is find the ones who are still here.”

  The dancing light on the glaze stood still as the goblet stopped moving.

  “When I was Chosen,” Karlanan went on, as if speaking to the walls, “I knew I was doing the right thing. That was the year of the rumors.” He glared meaningfully at Alizane, who ignored him. “They told us nonsense about ‘larvae’ too, some of those who came back. I didn’t believe them. I never saw such a thing. Did you? You were part of that tribute. Was it true?”

  Alizane swallowed a deep draught and shook her head silently.

  “Jareth? Did you ever see any?”

  The older man stared at the floor. “I was a gardener,” he apologized. “I spent all my time growing flowers and vegetables. The only larvae I ever saw were those of… insects.”

  “So.” Karlanan finished his drink and poured himself a third. “It isn’t true. Never was.” He nodded confidently to himself.

  “Remind me,” Alizane said suddenly. “How many Returned with you?”

  There was a pause, as Karlanan considered. “Two,” he said finally. “Me and Thos. Poor Thos,” he went on thickly.

  “Hanged himself, didn’t he?” the woman said, an edge of malice in her voice.

  “Yeah. Why’d he do that?” The youngest member of the Council finished his third drink, reached for the pitcher again, and reconsidered. “Doan’ know why he did that.”

  “What happened to the rest?” Alizane asked, still studying her goblet.

  Karlanan blinked. “The rest? Uh.” Changing his mind, he filled his goblet again and drained it. “I dunno. Stayed, I guess.”

  “Why?” The question was gentle, insinuating, like a coiling snake.

  “For the service of the Goa’uld and the honor of M’kwethet!” Karlanan tried to get to this feet and raise his cup in the toast, but staggered.

  Jareth took the empty goblet away from him. “Time to go to bed, my friend,” he suggested gently. “It’s over now. It’s all over.”

  “No, it isn’t,” the other man denied, peering at him owlishly. “Got to find those runaways. Got to punish them. They were s’posed to go. Didn’t, ’s not the honor of M’kwethet.”

  “That’s all right,” Jareth soothed. “Go on. Go home and rest. We’ll deal with morning in the morning.”

  “Rather deal with it in the afternoon,” Karlanan confided, giggling.

  Jareth gave him a pained smile. “If you like. Go on, now.”

  Karlanan thought about it, finally nodded and staggered out the door.

  Some minutes later, still staring at her goblet, Alizane said idly, “I suppose they’ve gone to the caves.”

  From behind her, sitting in a chair in the shadows against the wall, Jareth nodded. “Probably.”

  “Did you ever go there when you were young, Jareth? Did you ever daydream about fighting nobly against the Goa’uld?”

  Jareth sighed. “I’m only a gardener, Alizane. There’s nothing noble about a fighting gardener.”

  She snorted, a half-strangled laugh. “You were a gardener. I cleaned latrines in the Serpent Guard barracks. Surely that prepares us well to govern our people.”

  “Who else would do it?” Jareth asked. “At least we know.”

  Alizane took a deep breath and put her goblet down. “Do we? Does Karlanan? How much have we forgotten because we can’t bear to remember?”

  “When I need to remember,” Jareth said, “I go to the Spoiled City on the other side of the mountains, and it reminds me of everything I need to know. We are doing the right thing, Alizane.”

  She closed her eyes and swallowed. “I hope so.”

  “And tomorrow or the next day we can go up to the caves and bring the youngsters home. We don’t have to tell Karlanan. We can outvote him, after all.” He got to his feet and held out a hand to her. “It will all pass, and our people will remain at peace. Come, my dear. It’s time to go home.”

  By the time Samantha Carter climbed the last steep slope up to the cave, it was nearly dark. So when Teal’C silently materialized out of the shadows, she gasped and went for her sidearm. Fortunately for them both, the Jaffa merely stood, waiting for her to recognize him. He chose to ignore her abashed reholstering of her weapon and waited politely for her to regain her composure before asking, pointedly, “Where are O’Neill and Jackson?”

  She swallowed hard and checked to make sure their little band of refugees were all safely out of earshot before responding. “They’re gone,” she said. “They went through the Gate with the Chosen ones. The colonel said to wait until after they were gone and then bring the kids back.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “Not exactly.” The whole story of how she’d received her orders could wait, she decided. She’d occupied the hours climbing back to their refuge with equal parts of dodging search parties and thinking hard. “There must be some way to open the Gate from this side; if they go with the tribute they can find out how to do it, and come back for us, and then we can all get back home.”

  Teal’C nodded approval. “It is a good plan. But it requires them to place themselves at the mercy of the Goa’uld.”

  “And the Goa’uld haven’t got any.” Carter finished the thought for him, shuddering. “But the orders were clear: We have to get the kids together—the rest of the kids—and go back to the M’kwethet Gate and wait for ‘developments’.”

  Elsewhere, on a world fa
r, far away, Daniel Jackson sat cross-legged on a stone floor, meditating. Across the room from him, Jack O’Neill lay on a cot, snoring.

  It was a big room, relatively speaking, at least fifteen by fifteen feet. Jackson suspected that under normal circumstances it would provide sleeping quarters for at least six, instead of the two Earth team members. Ahmose had decided, quite rightly, to isolate the possible source of trouble by putting them together and far away from the already-cowed younger members of the tribute.

  They had stored all the goods away, each in its own dedicated room, with a significant part set aside for shipment elsewhere. Jackson had been fascinated to see the feather room, filled to overflowing with plumes of every size, color, and description. Unfortunately, the dust they accumulated had sent him into a sneezing fit that almost brought him to his knees. Part of his mind was still busily developing hypotheses about what possible use a highly technological race like the Goa’uld would have for feathers. Ceremonial purposes, no doubt.

  The Goa’uld were very ceremonial. They’d adopted wholesale, or possibly even influenced, many of Earth’s mythologies, especially those of ancient Egypt. He was more inclined to the former theory, given the unbelievable mishmash of customs, artifacts, and attire they exhibited; it was as if they had sampled Egyptian culture at irregular intervals from the predynastic period clear up through the Roman conquest, and picked whatever they liked best whether it all fit together or not. Ahmose, for instance—that was the name of a pharaoh. Was it likely that a slave would share a royal name? Maybe. Maybe not.

  Apophis. The enemy of Ra, the Great Serpent who attempted to devour the Sun God’s boat when he finished his daily journey across the skies. He wondered if the rivalry between the Egyptian deities was reflected in Goa’uld politics. He wondered if the Goa’uld actually had politics.