"I see." And he did. Their escort was an unknown quantity.
For a while they walked in silence, all senses keyed to their surroundings. Teal'c heard the whispered footfalls of a small night creature scampering to safety at their passing; the far-off cry of a bird of prey and its mate's answer; the muted voices of the men behind him, discussing a variety of subjects, from commanding officers to sexual exploits. The Marines, at least, felt at ease in this place.
Suddenly Dr. Fraiser murmured, "Sam? Did you warn Warren?"
The flashlight's beam jerked up a fraction and settled back onto their path, telling Teal'c that Major Carter had flinched. He knew why. It had been the only possible course to take, but it went against the one rule O'Neill held immutable, for himself and for his team. Nobody gets left behind.
"No," she said softly and then, more to herself than to Dr. Fraiser, "I couldn't risk it. We'll brief General Hammond and be back with reinforcements by tomorrow evening at the latest. If Warren's involved in whatever this is, he'dhave stoppedus. Ifhe isn't, he'll be safer not knowing."
The gorge took a sharp bend to the left, the rock barriers narrowing. Teal'c remembered this feature. Past the bend, the ravine would open abruptly into the crater that held the Stargate. If there was to be an ambush, it would be his task to prevent the Marines behind from closing the narrows. Ahead, Major Carter and then Dr. Fraiser disappeared from view and his immediate protection. An impulse to race after them screamed to be obeyed. Teal'c curbed it, fell back even further so as not to lose the Marines, and followed the shimmer of the light that hovered along rock walls like a ghost. His world shrank to this dancing glow, the white plumes of his breath rising in the air, and the echoes of footsteps before and behind. No sight or sound out of the ordinary.
When he emerged from the narrows, a familiar sensation leaped at him with painful acuity
Major Carter and Dr. Fraiser stood motionless, staring at the Stargate and the three men posted in front of it. Only three. The five who had accompanied them were nowhere to be seen. Deep within his pouch, Teal'c felt a ripple; the symbiote stirring, affected by its carrier's tension-or the proximity of its kind.
This time the men did react. Their weapons came up. One of them, tall and heavily muscled, slowly walked down the steps of the dais.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he demanded, his submachine gun aimed at Major Carter.
"Drop the Rambo act, Poletti! They're going home!" The voice at his back very nearly startled Teal'c into a jump. Their escort's leader stepped out in front of them. "You hear me, you dumb guinea? It's Johnson. Stand down and breathe, will ya?"
Approaching, Mr. Poletti swore, lowered his weapon, and signaled his comrades to do the same. "Jesus Christ, Johnson! Nobody told us you guys were coming!"
"Yeah, well. Nice to know you weren't asleep."
"Who'd wanna sleep in this creepy shit-hole?" Mr. Poletti seemed to reflect on his choice of words and, with a nod at Major Carter and Dr. Fraiser added, "Sorry, ma'am, Doc. Uh, I really enjoyed that talk ofyours by the way. Shame we had to leave."
"Thanks," Dr. Fraiser said weakly, her tone betraying an uncertainty Teal'c shared.
Of one thing, however, he was certain now. These men were not Goa'uld. A Goa'uld never would have countenanced an insult, no matter how jocular. They had to be Jaffa therefore-although it still did not explain by whom and for what reason they had been created.
"Look, gentlemen, it's getting a little chilly, and I'd hate to catch a cold. So, if it's okay with you?" Major Carter motioned at the DHD, her weapon lowered but still unsafed.
"Of course, ma'am." Mr. Poletti moved aside, smiling. "All yours."
While Major Carter stepped to the DHD and dialed, the other two men moved down from the dais and joined Mr. Poletti in a tight group. Their backs were turned on Teal'c, who could hear them whispering. It disturbed him, but there was no palpable reason to interfere.
One by one the chevrons locked with reassuring clanks and the wormhole established in a splendid flare of power. Teal'c released a breath he had been unaware of holding and, as soon as Major Carter had entered the ID code, nudged Dr. Fraiser forward. The doctor hurried past the men, up the dais, and disappeared in the event horizon. Over by the DHD, Major Carter had turned to face him, her eyes issuing a silent command. This time he refused. He would not leave M3D 335 until he knew her safe. A slight nod conceded his choice, and she went to follow Dr. Fraiser.
"Well, it's been a pleasure," said the escort's leader.
Teal'c inclined his head in acknowledgment and walked toward the Stargate, acutely aware of the Marines' stares. Their eyes seemed to be burning his back, but the men never moved. Then he was at the dais, and four large strides carried him up the steps and into the wormhole.
The fractional part of his higher consciousness that always remained alert to the journey registered the wrongness now, and it was screaming. Untold forces tore at him, intent to shred his every fiber until he was nothing but dust drifting in the vastness of space. Wrapped in icy agony, he howled his defiance, was still howling when the Stargate spat him out onto spongy ground, wet and redolent with the stench of decay.
Impossibly far above him the wormhole disengaged, leaving the Stargate a gaping hole in the forehead of a face carved into ancient masonry. Above that mask soared the impenetrable canopy of a rainforest.
Groaning, every joint aflame, Teal'c pushed himself to his knees. A few meters to his right lay Dr. Fraiser, unconscious, bleeding from a head wound. She had struck the root of a giant tree. Not far from her, Major Carter was drowsily struggling to her feet. He saw her eyes widen when the realization hit home.
"Where the hell are we, and where's the DHD?"
"I do not-"
As silent as it was ferocious, the attack came without warning.
Reward Pathway: Areas of the brain stimulated while a subject is engaged in pleasurable activity.
eneral Hammond contemplated a heap of unattended paperwork-taller by three inches than the sheaf of documents in his out-tray-and wondered why vital matters such as parking permits for visiting officers couldn't be authorized by someone of less exalted rank. Then again, the whole point of doing paperwork was to avoid witnessing the deployment of another twenty Marines to `335. If Crowley kept going at this clip, he'd run out of Earthside personnel by the end of next week.
Holding on to that thought, Hammond peeled a two-page document from the heap, this one a request from SG-11 for permission to wear sneakers instead of combat boots on archeological digs. Apparently artifacts, when trodden on, responded better to sneakers. Well, that was painless. Next. Next was an advisory to the engineering unit, which shouldn't have landed on his desk in the first place. From underneath peered Colonel O'Neill's letter, still half-opened, the way he'd left it after Dr. Jackson's remarkable disclosure.
In the four days since that conversation, Hammond had called in a handful of chits and launched some very hushed enquiries into General Crowley and his connections to the NID. So far it'd got him zip. He'd even formalized Major Carter's rather inspired call to her friend, Augustus the Unpronounceable, only to receive a terse email from Mr. Przsemolensky's superior at the NRO, informing General Hammond that there were no satellite pictures of the Colorado Springs area taken at that time. He didn't know what annoyed him more: the man's low opinion of his mental faculties-Cheyenne Mountain rated twenty-four hour satellite surveillance-or the sheer frustration of it all.
Still, something needed to be done. Hammond tugged at the letter. Its tattered flap caught on a paper clip, with the result that the whole stack of correspondence keeled over and spilled onto the floor. The ensuing blue streak was interrupted by a rap on his office door.
"Come in!" grunted Major General George Hammond, doubled over in the chair and gathering the equivalent of a medium-size forest from the carpet.
"Ah. I'll come back later, sir."
Hearing the voice, Hammond shot up abruptly. The impact of his
skull on the underside of the desk loosened a tooth or two. Biting back another curse, he bellowed, "You'll do nothing of the kind, Colonel! Sit down!"
By the time Hammond had extricated his head from under the desk and straightened up, Jack had eased himself into a chair. He wore civvies, looked like he'd been subsisting on a diet of coffee and next to no sleep, and did a great job of avoiding Hammond's gaze. Which admittedly wasn't all that difficult, given the mess.
Jack studied it intently and finally looked up. "Bad day, General?"
"I've had fourteen of them so far, and counting."
"The Marine base?" Seeing his CO's frown, he added, "Don't blame Daniel, sir. He couldn't help it. I plied him with beer until he talked." The grin he was aiming for didn't quite materialize. "It's my fault, isn't? If I hadn't blown the exercise, they-"
"The exercise was rigged."
The anger coiled behind Jack's eyes erupted. "I told them I didn't want it to go any further! Who was it? Carter? Daniel?"
"I may be an old fool, son, but there's still a thing or two I can figure out for myself" Technically, it wasn't a lie. Hammond felt rather pleased with himself.
Not least because it took the wind out of Jack's sails. To an extent. "Like what, sir? The infamous grappling hook theory? I suppose it didn't occur to you or my team that it'd be a piece of cake if you did it in two stages: get up to the gallery first, and from there to the girders."
"And on the gallery you hook onto what? An antique railing that broke when you fell against it?"
"It could have been a weak spot. Look, sir, one thing that's not gonna happen is me trying to avoid the consequences by accusing another officer."
At that moment the klaxons went off. Jack's hands closed on the armrests of the chair, as though he were about to push himself up and run downstairs to the control room. And then it passed. He sank back, a look of defeat in his eyes.
George Hammond had seen that same look thirty-odd years ago, and it scared the hell out of him. It always was the best who were hit hardest, because you didn't get to be best if you didn't care. And yes, you knew that death was on the cards every time you led a team out there. Jack knew it as well as Freeman had known. But seeing people you care about die-even in an exercise-because of a mistake you've made... now, that was a whole different ballgame. After that, you ended up doubting your choice of toothpaste and breakfast cereal, and never mind your ability to lead a team.
Aware of the scrutiny, Jack tried to dodge Hammond's gaze again. He zeroed in on the wad of papers rescued from the floor and, as luck would have it, the letter lay topmost. "I'd been wondering why I hadn't heard from you. It's why I'm here, really."
"I tried to call you a couple of times, Jack. Kept getting a lady who speaks Japanese."
"Oh." For a second he looked genuinely puzzled, then he nodded at the letter. "You should read it, sir. I'm saying some pretty nice things about you."
"It's the rest I'm worried about. I-"
The knock was vigorous enough to make the door hinges rattle.
"That's gotta be a Marine," muttered Jack.
"Behave, Colonel." Hammond stepped on a grin. "Come in!"
It turned out to be an admirable piece of divination on Jack's part. The door opened on the somewhat crumpled shape of Major Warren, fresh through the gate and obviously in one big hurry.
"General Hammond. Colonel. Sony to butt in, sirs."
Grimacing, Jack hauled himself from the chair. "I'd better-"
"Stay put, son! We're not finished yet," snapped Hammond and, just to be on the safe side, waited until the delinquent had sat back down before addressing Major Warren. "Good to see you back, Major. What can I do for you?"
The expression on Warren's face plainly said that, whatever he'd expected, it wasn't this. "Major Carter's lab results, sir. Has she come up with anything yet? Colonel Norris is getting a little antsy and... Well, he wasn't real happy about you letting those troops gate out to `335."
Whatever General Hammond had expected, it wasn't this either. "Care to run this by me again slowly? I've got no idea what you're talking about. Major Carter, Teal'c, and Dr. Fraiser have been on `335 for the past four days and, frankly, I'd been hoping to have at least my chief medical officer back by now."
The expression intensified, graduated from What the heck? to Oh crap! The old man's cracked, and Hammond felt a chill crawl up his neck and raise his hackles. Finally, carefully almost, Warren offered, "Sir, they gated back here three days ago."
"What?" It had come from Jack.
"You heard me, sirs. They stayed for one night; next day the doe gave her lectures, and then Carter told Colonel Norris that she'd found some kinda gremlin messin' with the gate... Well, she didn't say it like that."
"Wouldn't have thought so," Jack grumbled.
Momentarily thrown, Warren cast a sidelong glance at him, sniffed, and continued, "Anyway, she told the colonel she needed to get back here PDQ to figure it out, and that's when they left."
Hammond's mind was racing through a whole kaleidoscope of possibilities, from busy signals and secondary gates in cold places to people's matrices being stored inside the gate in ways even Sam Carter could barely explain, let alone remedy. None of these possibilities seemed desirable, and so he latched on to the obvious. "Major, they're not here. Take my word for it. So I'm suggesting they never left. There was a minor anomaly, but that only affected outgoing-"
"General, they had an escort, and those guys saw them go through the gate. As a matter of fact, the..."
Warren trailed off, mystified by the antics of Colonel O'Neill who'd leaned forward, reached out, and gingerly removed an unopened letter from the base commander's desk.
"Something on your mind, son?" Hammond asked quietly.
"I'd like to return to active duty, sir." The letter disappeared into the inside pocket of Jack's leather jacket.
"You sure about this? What about your ribs?"
"My ribs are fine."
"Uhuh. I can tell by the way you move like you've swallowed a poker, Colonel."
"It's the deportment classes I've been taking. Sir, please. I want to go to `335."
"With respect, Colonel!" spluttered Warren. "If you're implying-
"I'm not implying. I'm noting that two thirds of my team and Dr. Fraiser have gone missing. Now, I don't know about you, Major, but I'd like to find out what the hell happened."
"Yes, sir. Sony."
Going by the way Jack heaved himself from the chair, the deportment classes hadn't yet advanced to Lesson Two, Rising Gracefully. He hid a wince, turned to Hammond. "Request permission to gate out to M3D 335, sir."
Past experience showed that Jack wasn't going to take No for an answer. Besides, Hammond had got what he wanted, and if circumstances had been less worrying, he'd have called the situation a Godsend. "Permission granted, Colonel. Take SG-3 and-"
"No. Sir. I'm going on my own. It's a whole moon full of Marines, General, and I don't... I don't want to put anybody else at risk."
The toy huddled in a comer, and he pretended to be asleep. He was not. His eyelids fluttered in an involuntary spasm. Fear made it impossible for him to relax. This attempt to deceive her was the first vaguely amusing act he had conceived in three days. Perhaps she should not have revived him. But it had been worth it, if only for the knowledge of having flouted the will of that arrogant human, Simmons. Besides, it could be remedied. Quite easily, in fact.
Nirrti nudged the toy with her toes and found a fleeting spark of enjoyment in the way a shudder racked his body and his eyes snapped open on a look of pure terror. Maybe not?
No. It was time for something new. She turned away, heard the toy sob with relief, and smiled. The room was splendid, and this was an opulence that would never pall. Intricately carved pillars of wood, hard and small-grained and with a reddish sheen, supported a low ceiling. From the beams hung curtains of sheer silk that partitioned the space into a gently swaying maze in all shades of red and orange. One entire wall w
as taken up by a mirror of polished silver. Savoring the whisper of cool fabric on her skin, she parted the curtains to step through and study her own image.
How long had it been? Seven hundred years? Eight hundred? She barely remembered. The host's body had worn well, still retained a fair measure of its former owner's youthful allure. But it would not last, could not last. She thought of the Hankan girl, the boundless possibilities and power open to a hak'taur, and felt the rage rise again. A new host was another debt the Tauri owed her.
A touch on the bluish gem set in her ribbon device released an invisible burst of energy that altered the molecular structure of the mirror. Like oil welling from a vent, viscous grayness pooled and obscured Nirrti's reflection, then cleared to a jungle vista. Deep within a closed-off part of her cortex, her host dreamed of home, while she watched, once more and as if through a window, the events of three days ago.
The Chappa'ai, inset in the outer wall of the temple, fills with liquid azure gleam, and Simmons 's gift is flung from the wormhole in a graceful arc. Once, twice, the healer spins in the air and comes down heavily on the root of a thousand-year-old tree. In coarse tan clothes, not in white today, she lies motionless. Stunned? Dead? The latter would be inconvenient. But no. She lives. Near her slack mouth a leaf shivers under shallow puffs of breath. Nirrti, too, breathes again, entranced by the stirrings of the leaf.
And so she starts when a second traveler seems to fly straight at her. For a second their eyes meet, black on blue, although the woman, tall and blond, is unaware of it. Nirrti sees shock, pain, and a gleam of avid curiosity. This intrigues her more than the leaf because curiosity would have been her own first instinct. Curiosity and the need to examine just how the Chappa'ai could have deceived them to such a degree. Maybe she will reveal the secret. After all, this Tauri woman probably has saved Nirrti's life by staying the healer's hand and she will bear closer scrutiny. In good time. Is it possible that Simmons has given more than he intended? For the moment, though
Stargate SG-1: Survival of the Fittest: SG1-7 Page 8
