Stargate SG-1: Trial by Fire: SG1-1

by Sabine C. Bauer

  DanielJackson, we -

  What? We believe you should mind your own damn business? Dollars to donuts.

  He sighed and flipped up the collar of his jacket against the wind. It didn't keep out the cold, but it sent a small cascade of rainwater chasing down his back. Lord Meleq's alleged climatic reprisal was beginning to reach old-testamentary proportions. Obviously his lordship was peeved enough to aim for the Deluge. It hadn't stopped raining since last night, and if it continued a little longer, Daniel would be able to farm mushrooms under his boonie hat. He spent a rueful thought on the comforts of the warm, dry Synod Hall.

  Said comforts had been precipitously abandoned when the UAV's receptors picked up the tracking signal from Jack's radio ten seconds into the first go-around. Much to the alarm of the Synod, Dr. Jackson's own radio had burst into crackles and started to emit the gruff tones of General Hammond who'd requested that someone check out the coordinates. Seeing that Teal'c's esoteric status would allow him to make easier headway with the priests, Daniel had volunteered and departed for grid coordinates G-J/37. Despite the weather, Hamilqart had offered his services as a guide, either because Kandaulo had told him not to let the strangers out of his sight or because he felt guilty for abandoning Jack and Dr. Kelly.

  They'd found their target within five paces of where Jack's knife had lain, half submerged in mud, which explained why even Teal'c had missed it the night before. Of course there was no further trace of Jack. He must have lost his radio in the fight. Daniel had reported back to the SGC, secure in the knowledge that the combined radios now made him 200% trackable. A dejected General Hammond had asked that Dr. Jackson stay onsite to help with the retrieval of the UAV if necessary.

  That had been six hours ago. When the UAV had returned for the second time, a couple of Siler's guys had arrived through the `gate and brought an umbrella whose style suggested that they'd requisitioned it from an elderly lab assistant. The umbrella had lasted exactly eleven minutes before succumbing to a gust. Folded over and half stripped, it looked like a spider with psoriasis and lurked in a sheltered comer by the steps to the dais. Daniel himself had retreated among the trees by the path and slumped in the mud in silent acknowledgement of the fact that he couldn't possibly get any wetter or filthier than he already was.

  Hamilqart finally lost sight of the UAV and came to join him. He cast a dubious glance at the archaeologist, then at the squishy ground, and turned around a couple of times like a giant cat looking for a place to settle. At last he grunted and dropped into a stiffbacked squat, which he evidently deemed necessary for opening a conversation.

  "This bird of Meleq? Did the Lord Meleq himself create it, Daniel Jackson?" He had adopted the spirit's way of addressing Dr. Jackson.

  Grinning, Daniel shook his head. "No. We built it."

  "But it comes from Lord Meleq's realm."

  "No. It comes from a place called Earth, where we live."

  It was Hamilgart's turn to grin, and he coupled it with a sly wink. "You are making fun of me, Daniel Jackson. Every child knows that the Chappa'ai is the entrance to Lord Meleq's realm."

  "It's the entrance to a great many places. Literally hundreds of them. You punch the right combination of symbols on this" - Daniel pointed at the DHD - "and you can travel almost anywhere you like." Suddenly a thought struck him. "Do you know which symbols open the gate to Meleq's realm?"

  Eyes so huge that the pupils were ringed by white, Hamilgart stared at him as though he'd been asked to kill his own mother. "Only two people alive ever know this secret. The High Priest and his successor. Since the death of Abibaal it is merely one, Kandaulo, as no successor has yet been chosen. Of all the people of Tyros, Kandaulo alone is permitted to touch the lock. For anyone else even to try would be the most despicable heresy."

  The lock, huh?

  "I'm sorry, Hamilqart. I didn't mean to offend. I'm just curious."

  "So am I, my friend. So am I." Pulling his dripping robes a little tighter around him, he recovered his affability as quickly as he'd lost it. "And I am sure you meant no harm. But tell me, this bird? How do you make it fly? Is it magic?"

  "No magic. It's science."

  "Science?"

  Terrific, Jackson! This guy's idea of science is Pythagoras and very little beyond. Should have agreed to magic and left it at that. He'd now have to try and explain Bernoulli's Principle, which he barely understood himself, to someone whose grasp of aerodynamics was strictly limited to sailing and in a rudimentary fashion at that. Where was Sam when you needed her?

  Having backed himself into a comer, Daniel decided on an unhappy medium. "We studied the wings of birds and copied them. That's how we make the machine fly."

  "Ah," said Hamilqart and pounced on the obvious flaw. "But they don't look -"

  - like birds' wings. Dr. Jackson was painfully aware of it.

  "Hamilqart, may I ask you a question?" he interjected quickly.

  "Of course you may."

  "I was told that Lord Meleq visits the temple sometimes."

  "This is true. What is your question?"

  "Have you ever seen him?"

  "Just once, a long time ago." Hamilqart's face crimped into the likeness of a basset hound, and he seemed to want to disappear in the folds of his robe.

  As well he might. It could be bad news. In Daniel's experience, the only gods who ran around showing their faces tended to be conspicuously bright-eyed. On the other hand, it was equally possible that one of the priests simply dressed up as the god.

  "What did he... uh... look like?"

  "Masterful. Tall and dark, clad all in black, as befits the god of storms. When he spoke "

  "How did he sound?" Daniel struggled to keep the alarm out of his own voice.

  "Like the gales that announce the coming of the tempest."

  His Tyrean friend seemed to be back in lyrical mode, which wasn't overly helpful, and Dr. Jackson figured that any queries regarding drainpipe acoustics might be counterproductive. A new tack maybe...

  "So you've only seen him that one time?"

  "Alas, it is true. You must understand, I am a mere acolyte. Only the priests are permitted to regularly behold the Lord Meleq."

  Which kind of lent credence to the costume party theory. If the priests were faking divine appearances, they wouldn't risk discovery by overdoing the act. And the fact remained that so far the team had found no evidence of Goa'uld activity on the planet - by and large a pretty hard thing to overlook. Still, better to make sure.

  "So none of the ordinary people ever see him?"

  "No. Not unless -" Hamilqart cut himself off. "But that has not occurred for many years, Me1eq be praised."

  A fat drop of water tore loose from a low-hanging branch and hit the brim of Daniel's hat with a loud splat. A warning from Meleq against undue curiosity? He decided to take his chances.

  "Unless what?"

  "Unless a person commits an act of grave heresy or treason. They are much the same thing, obviously."

  "Obviously. So what would happen if a person committed such an act?"

  "Once they are apprehended - which they will be, naturally, because the Lord Meleq will not let traitors and heretics go uncontested - they are brought to the temple. The High Priest invokes the Lord Meleq and begs him to grant Purification."

  "Purification?" Call it a wild-ass guess, but Dr. Jackson didn't think soap and water came into it.

  "It is a great ceremony," explained Hamilqart. His voice trembled, and he displayed an air of gravity that clashed absurdly with his drenched robes and the untidy black curls plastered to his forehead. "Our highest ceremony, because it reveals the majesty and the mercy of the Lord Meleq. It also is the only one that may be attended by all the people."

  "And it entails what exactly?"

  The Tyrean had straightened from his crouch, as though the matter were too exalted to be discussed in proximity to lesser things such as mud. Or perhaps it was the good old fight or flight instinct kicking in. Arms
spread wide, Hamilqart stood in the pouring rain and began to chant.

  "Submit, oh child, that thou mayest be cleansed from thy transgression. Submit, oh child, that thou beest purified in Meleq's fervor. Submit, oh child, that thou shalt be consumed by the blessed Mysteries of Meleq..." The arms drooped, and he trailed off, like someone had suddenly pulled the rug out from under him. "Forgive me. I... I get carried away... You may be lucky enough to witness a Purification."

  "Witness it?" Daniel wasn't entirely sure he'd appreciate the honor. "How come? Didn't you say this hasn't happened in a long time?"

  "I did. But look around you, Daniel Jackson. The Phrygians openly challenge the Lord Meleq and attack us and our children. With your help we shall find them and when we do, Meleq shall receive our children and he shall purify the transgressors, Phrygian and Tyrean."

  "There are... uh... transgressors among your own people?"

  "Ale!"

  It was difficult to tell whether his panicked little squeal referred to the fact that there were spiritually and politically unsound elements among the Tyrean population, or to the slip of the tongue that had let this particular cat out of the bag.

  "Do you know who they are?"

  "Oh no! No, of course not. Such people are very clandestine, are they not? But the Phrygians knew... things... only one of us could have known. They knew of the side door to the temple. They knew the children had been chosen. They knew it was safe to come to the harbor." Hamilgart had slumped back into a squat, as if weighed down by mortification, and now he switched topics, prattling on aimlessly. "The harbor was a pleasant place once. A fishing village. My wife Ayzebel was born there, but it has been abandoned since. You -"

  At that moment a sliver of sunlight pierced the clouds, widening and reflecting in a myriad drops of water. Over the Stargate and the temple precinct rose a rainbow, luminous against the leaden sky. Latching on to it with something bordering on desperation, Hamilgart clapped his hands.

  "I am wrong to quail," he exclaimed. "Look! Even now the Lord Meleq tells us that we are not beyond deliverance. There is hope yet! My son shall be returned to Meleq's service, and your friends shall be redeemed."

  Redeemed.

  Daniel wondered about the Tyreans' idea of redemption. He gladly would have settled for found - alive and in one piece, if that wasn't too much to ask the Lord Meleq. Watching the rainbow fade as the cloud cover swelled solid again, he had an ugly suspicion that it just might be.

  t least they'd unshackled his feet, which made it easier to walk in a straight line. Terra firma, his ass! The ground moved, and never mind that they were climbing a pass. Rough-hewn stone treads gently bobbed under his boots, up and down and sideways. His inner ear hadn't adjusted to dry land yet - although dry was relative. Thick clouds shrouded the peaks and sagged all the way onto the trail; the next best thing to being wrapped in a wet blanket.

  A few hundred feet below, the two ships lay moored in a sheltered inlet that started to melt into fog and drizzle. On the path behind him, cajoled up the mountain by a contingent of Phrygians or Romans or whatever, followed the older children. The four youngest had been taken by riders who'd left the moment their horses were brought ashore. Luli was with the older ones, tired and scared and cold but otherwise unharmed.

  The bad news was that, so far, opportunities for escape were so scarce as to be non-existent. A steep chasm to his left, equally steep mountainside to his right, a pass that didn't do his knees any favors and could be closed by two armed men, and his hands were securely tied behind his back. Besides, there was nowhere to run. They were on an island. Given the situation, he supposed he should feel flattered to rate a total of four Schwarzenegger-sized babysitters who rewarded unscheduled stops with fits of pique.

  "Moh-vay!" barked Goonius Nosenseothumorus and coupled it with a shove, in case there were any linguistic ambiguities.

  Jack stumbled and barely checked the impulse to head-butt the guy. It might be refreshing but the end result would probably prove unhealthy. For him.

  "How do you say Next time I'm gonna beat the crap outta you in Latin?"

  His crash course in ancient languages courtesy of Malachi's machinations had been sadly deficient where it came to Latin cuss words. It had taken him five loops to discover something that approximated 'idiot'...

  But Goonius had caught his drift anyway, because he didn't repeat the maneuver. Instead the tip of a sword grazed that tickly spot in Jack's neck. Not quite an answer but the prospect of a few inches of steel up the medulla was persuasive enough. He bit back a curse and walked on.

  Heavily leaning on a stick somebody had cut for her, Miss Marple was hatchoo-ing her way uphill some ten meters ahead of him. Either the sneezes were an homage to Dr. Jackson or she'd caught a whopper of a cold. Other than that she clearly preferred sailing trips to hiking, despite the fact that her hands were untied. Maybe he should give these folks a heads-up on the true nature of the beast. Jack grinned a little. She'd been right, though: this was like something out of Gladiator. Question was when they'd meet the lions and tigers and bears, oh my...

  A little later the unlikely trek of children and legionnaires and assorted prisoners reached the crest of the pass, and Colonel O'Neill developed a hunch that the menagerie would pose the least of his problems. He found himself gazing into a valley enclosed by sheer rock. The only access route he could see was the one he currently stood on. It led to a fortified settlement. The surrounding land had been cleared for farming and offered pasture, grain crops, vegetables, and practically no cover unless you fancied your chances of hiding behind a pig. Except, it wouldn't come to that. On his own he might have been able to sneak out unnoticed and make a run for it, but not with Kelly and the kids. He couldn't leave them behind, it was as simple as that. They either all went or nobody did. He'd just have to think of something else. Diplomacy, for instance.

  "God help me," he whispered and received another polite invitation to keep moving.

  Picking his way down the trail, he foraged for any facts left over from long-ago, paralytically boring history classes. The garrison - village, really - was based on a Roman encampment. Rectangular layout, single-story houses instead of tents, passages and alleys intersecting at right angles. A sturdy wooden wall topped a manhigh earth berm, which explained where all those trees from the clearing had gone. Watchtowers reared above it at regular intervals, but only every other was manned. By a single soldier.

  Staff shortages? Maybe. It looked like Kelly had been right on this one, too: they'd pulled out all the stops to stage the raid on the temple.

  But why take that risk? Why leave the settlement vulnerable? Cockiness? Hardly, considering they'd bent over backwards to make sure he wouldn't get `rambunctious' again.

  What then? What could be so important about abducting those kids?

  Eventually the gradient eased and the path dipped into an olive grove. After that it flared into a gravel road that led straight on for about a mile and ended at the only visible gate in the perimeter wall. As they approached, the gate swung open, disclosing a town not quite drab but modest, a stark contrast to the colorful affluence of the market of Tyros. Main street was split by a fragrant sewer and lined with workshops; a fletcher, an armorer, a couple of weavers, a cobbler, a blacksmith, a variety of woodworkers.

  Now and then craftsmen glanced up as they walked past; furtive smiles for the kids, bemused or startled frowns for the prisoners. The latter suggested that adult captives were a novelty, but he already knew that. They hadn't taken prisoners on that ship, had they? Fighting to push past unbidden images of carnage, Jack wondered what the sudden change of SOP meant and ended up with lions and tigers and bears. Oh my.

  At last they arrived on a large square at the heart of the settlement. It was framed by houses and at its north side loomed a building with a portico and lots of pillars. Internal Revenue? A bunch of men, women, and children stood waiting in the drizzle, the first group who openly acknowledged them - or the kids, ra
ther. There were calls of salvete - welcome - and excited nodding and pointing of fingers.

  His babysitters parked him next to Kelly. She looked pale and disheveled, looked her age. Being a pain in the mikta had its drawbacks.

  "How're you doing?" It came out more gently than he'd intended.

  "How the devil do you think I am? I'm wet, my sciatica is playing up, and I've caught the dreaded lurghi."

  The what? Whatever it was, it couldn't be that bad if it hadn't affected the attitude. Good for her. He grinned. "You haven't yelled at me for a while. I got worried."

  " Silentium," snarled his pal Goonius.

  "Eat my shorts," Jack replied genially.

  Kelly chuckled. "By the way, I think it translates as posthinc merdam ex tibi cudam."

  "Eat my shorts?"

  "No. Next time I'm gonna beat the crap

  "Silentium!"

  Goonius was getting a little agitated. Enough for Miss Marple to sneeze appealingly and turn her attention to the small crowd on the square. It was splitting into families, couples, and a few singles who began mustering the kids. Your friendly neighborhood Goa'ulds checking out the hosts.

  Jack thought of the dungeon on Chulak again, felt his hackles rise, and tried to get a grip on himself. These folks weren't Goa'uld. Their eyes didn't glow, their dress code was on the self-effacing side, and there was no arrogance about them. They didn't examine the victims' teeth and muscle tone, didn't engage in that malicious selection process that had degraded people to livestock. Instead they tried to kill the kids with kindness.

  A haggard woman with a three-tooth leer draped a woolen blanket over the sodden, soiled robes of a boy as skinny and gaptoothed as she. While tucking him in, she was crooning to him, and the kid forgot to snivel and broke into a cautious smile. Her gummy grin broadened, and she led him off across the square. To the Gingerbread House?