"Clean it up!" she snapped. "I do not want any more."
"Yes, mistress," whined the dog and came scuttling from his corner on all fours, not daring to raise his eyes now. At her feet he froze. "Mistress, please! I beg your forgiveness."
"No. And do not ask me again. Else I shall do what I ought to have done." Once more she felt like smiling. "Do you know what I ought to have done, slave?"
"No, mistress."
He did not dare to move when she reached out, briefly caressed the flaps of his pouch, inserted her hand. The symbiote squirmed, warm between her fingers. She tightened her grip, clutched it. Macdonald gasped, as much a reaction to his own discomfort as to that of the symbiote's.
Leaning forward, she murmured into his ear. "Shall I tell you what would happen if I crushed it?"
"Mistress, please," the man whimpered.
And why not? It did not matter. She squeezed harder, felt the symbiote's flapping panic, heard the man's groan. Harder still until she heard a soft crunch. "Its blood is bright blue and beautiful," she whispered. "It also is deadly to you, slave. The blood will mingle with yours, killing you slowly and very, very painfully."
Twitching and bawling as the poison took effect, he sagged into a heap, and she let go. A flimsy sheet of silk from the couch served as a towel to clean her hand. Finished with itand him- she dropped it to the floor and rose. Her new First Prime abandoned his position by the door, gliding forward and sneering at the dying slave. Not as handsome as his predecessor, but perhaps smart enough to learn from poor example.
He lowered his head. "What is your desire, Lady Nirrti?"
"Take two others and accompany me." She brushed past him and through the door, his reply sliding from her back. It was predictable, anyhow.
"As you wish, Lady Nirrti."
Hurrying into the staircase, she could hear them fall in behind her, swift and silent, as they should be. Wide loops of stairs spiraled down into shadow and to the lower levels. Cool marble under her feet, she slipped past derelict floors, past the level that now housed over sixty new Jaffa, past the laboratory, and finally to the bottom, where the stairwell opened out toward the vault. The flickering distortion across the doorway indicated an exit secured by a force shield. From the inside it would seem opaque, allowing her to observe the new arrival without being seen herself.
Already small of stature, the Tauri healer was dwarfed by the dimensions of the room. The wet trail of footprints she had left reminded Nirrti of the puny, busy perambulations of an insect-an ant perhaps, separated from the hive and frantically searching for the other ants. Or at least a way out.
Now that the vibrations no longer warped the healer's mind, the woman was reacting normally again. The ant trail ran-pat-patpat-straight from the large puddle at the center of the room to the force shield where, no doubt, she had received a shock. For some reason they all tried at least once, believing themselves immune to physics. Then-pat-pat-pat-the trail doubled back on itself to where she had arrived. The rings were gone of course. At this moment-patpat-pat-she was traipsing along a wall, fingertips examining coarse stone, sooty from the torches that lit the room. Obviously she was hoping to find the controls for the ring transporter. Enterprising, if overly optimistic. The transporters inside the fortress could only be operated from a ribbon device.
Much like the force shield.
Nirrti touched a gem on her device, and a silent command neutralized photons and realigned the charges of the air molecules inside the doorway, until the air became just that-air-and lost its tense shimmer. The prisoner looked up, alerted by that indefinable sense of interrupted solitude all trapped animals seemed to possess. Her hair hung in limp red strands-amazingly it had changed color, chameleon-like, since Nirrti had last seen her on Earth-and she was soaked and pale and filthy, but there was no fear in her dark eyes. In fact, there was something almost akin to mockery. Mockery and contempt and collected stillness.
"I had a hunch it'd be you," she said. "The transporter control in the pool was a tad obvious."
Ah yes. The palm print. Originally designed for fever-ridden Hankan adolescents who, like the good little apes they were, could never resist placing their paws inside the relief to see if it fit. "Why modify a thing that serves its purpose?" Nirrti replied pleasantly. "It did for you, did it not? Without it you might have drowned."
The healer's fist scrubbed across her forehead, betraying her thoughts. "What did you do to me? Drugs? Nish'ta?"
"Nothing so crude. Think!" Her peal of laughter made the woman flinch, and Nirrti relished it. "When would I have administered a drug?" As she walked into the room, closing the distance between them, laughter was supplanted by just the correct amount of threat in her tone. "Do not underestimate me. I am not your prisoner now, and you do not have a weapon."
A flicker of defiance and raw hatred danced through the healer's eyes. "So that's what this is about? Revenge? Are you going to kill me or just implant me with a Goa'uld?"
"I told you not to underestimate me! Revenge? Do you really believe you can judge me by the paltry standards of the Tauri? Of course, should the chance for revenge present itself..." Nirrti smiled. "For now you shall make yourself useful. You are amply qualified, and you owe me a service."
The healer stiffened, brow furrowing in mulish refusal. A minute wave of their mistress' hand made the three Jaffa guards step from the shadows by the doorway. For a moment, the woman's eyes widened, and in that tiny frame of time puzzlement darkened to recognition and abhorrence.
Excellent.
Turning to share the healer's view, Nirrti herself found nothing abhorrent in her creations. "She will come with us," she said to her new First Prime and strode past him toward the doorway.
Lingering to watch was unnecessary. They would surround the prisoner, two either side, one at her back and, if called for, they would beat her into obedience. One way or the other, the woman would follow.
Nirrti scaled the stairs to the level above and headed down the hallway to the laboratory. The door that sealed the entrance opened noiselessly. Cold air hissed into the corridor, coating gilded walls and floors with moisture. Used to the brutal drop in temperature, she ignored it. Besides, she was able to adjust the host's body heat and barely noticed any discomfort. The healer, drenched from her bath in the pool and accustomed to the warmth of the jungle would suffer, of course. So much the better.
Overhead lights, activated by motion sensors, shed a pure white gleam on a facility that clashed with the opulence of the hallway and the rest of the palace. This was the domain of science, utilitarian and sterile by necessity, though to Nirrti it had a beauty of its own. Less sensual perhaps, but ultimately more enduring. The doors slid shut behind her Jaffa and their charge, and over their footfalls she could hear the woman's gasp. She knew what had provoked it.
The layout of the laboratory was that of a giant wheel. Its hub was occupied by a large surgical table, banks of equipment, and the climate-controlled vats that harbored swirling masses of larvae. The spokes radiating from the hub were dedicated to Macdonald, her new First Prime, and nine other warriors and held parallel rows of clear cylinders, each about seven feet high, three feet in diameter and filled with liquid. From some of the gestation tubes her creatures were staring at her, dawning recognition in their gaze. These would be mature soon, and they sensed the approach of their birth and prim ta. The Macdonalds looked sullen, as though they realized that their prototype had been tried and found wanting.
She addressed the Jaffa escort. "You may go."
"Yes, Lady Nirrti," her First Prime responded.
All three of them bowed, identical movements; identical smiles on identical faces. Three sets of steps of the same length, three bodies swaying with the same little swagger, they left the laboratory.
"Clones," the healer whispered, her face deathly pale. She was hugging herself, seeking protection from the cold or the shock or both. "Why?"
Partly because she knew it would heighten her pr
isoner's discomfort, Nirrti laughed again. "How else would I obtain a sufficient number of subjects? Diversity is essential for maintaining a healthy stock."
"Sufficient subjects for what?"
"That is none of your concern. Your only concern is to assist me in creating more."
"No!"
"As you wish."
Nirrti's fingers found the contact on the ribbon device, activated it. The vibrations resonated through the room at a frequency far below human hearing. They once more rendered the healer's mind suggestible, open to Nirrti's invasion, the effect almost as pleasurable as taking a host. Pain and terror suffused the woman's eyes as she fought vainly to retain control of her will.
These are deficient. You may begin by destroying them, Nirrti thought at her, pointing at the endless rows of Macdonalds. It is a task suited to you. As I recall you delight in destroying the work of others.
"It's an acquired taste. Have another." Frank Simmons poured a second round of oak-aged Macallan at seventy bucks a bottle and returned to the fireplace to put the glasses on a low table. Playing butler. Why the hell not? "I'd suggest you drink it slowly this time."
Conrad, ensconced in one of the leather armchairs, picked up the tumbler and tossed back its contents. Then he studied the reflection of the fire in his glass. "My host is partial to wine-a type you refer to as Californian Shiraz-but he detests spirits. An instance of overindulgence in his youth, I believe. As for myself, ethanol has no effect on me. I can metabolize it into carbohydrates faster than you can pour. So you may as well abandon your attempt to intoxicate me."
"That wasn't the idea." Of course it had been precisely the idea of this companionable little get-together in the library of the safe house, but Simmons wasn't fool enough to admit it. He eased himself into his chair and took a sip of whiskey, savoring it. "I was trying to invoke a spirit of cooperation rather than opposition. We can both profit from working together. Partners, if you will."
"Is it customary among the Tauri to control their partners by leashing explosive devices around their necks?"
"Touche. On the other hand, it also isn't customary among us to control our partners by taking them as hosts, if you catch my drift."
"I have a host, Simmons. Admittedly, I would not have chosen him. As you would say, he is not my type. But neither are you." A sardonic eyebrow flicked up. Conrad actually had a sense of humor. "There is no sufficient enticement to switch hosts, so you are perfectly safe."
"Good to know." Simmons snorted. "What is your type?"
"Given the choice, I would have taken Conrad's assistant."
"A woman? I never considered-"
"Surely you are aware that the Goa'uld essentially are hermaphrodites. The gender of the host is irrelevant and purely a matter of personal preference."
In fact, Simmons's interest in the bedroom habits of a race of spiky reptiles was strictly limited. He'd read about it in the SGC reports and filed it away. And Conrad, under that personable mask he wore right now, was trying to play him. In a minute the bastard would claim he'd surrendered vital information and demand a cookie. Well, he could have a carrot. It was healthier all round.
"Prove to me that I can trust you, and the necklace goes away," Simmons offered over another sip of whiskey.
Conrad's hands rose in a mix of frustration and defensiveness. Sometimes the way he adopted human mannerisms was eerie. "I have already helped you by gaining Lady Nirrti's assistance. Is that notenough?"
"Nowhere near enough, my friend! You put me in touch with Nirrti because there was something in it for her, and you hoped the deal would get you on her good side. I'm looking for a slightly more disinterested show of faith."
"And how do I know that I can trust you?"
"I saved your life."
"Because I could be of profit to you."
Simmons laughed. "Do you have any idea how much more profitable you would be dissected and sold to the highest bidder? All the scientific benefit without the risks."
For once it gave Conrad pause. The silence was filled with the tap of rain against tall windows and the crackle of fire in the hearth. The Victorian idyll seemed custom-made to lend credibility to this charade of two old pals having an after-dinner chat. The only thing missing were the cigars. Simmons didn't smoke. Somewhere in the house a phone rang, muted and out of place. It jarred Conrad from his thoughts, remarkably without flashing eyes or vocal hi jinks or any other theatrics.
"Very well," he said. "What do you wish to know?"
"What I've been wanting to know all last week. Jaffa training."
Conrad sighed, like a preschool teacher faced with a particularly imbecilic batch of toddlers. "And what I have been telling you all last week is true. I do not know. I am Goa'uld, not Jaffa. How the Jaffa train their warriors is of no concern to us as long as these warriors are skilled enough to do our bidding. One thing I can tell you, however. Your men must be trained."
"Oh really?" snapped Simmons. "Wake me when you're through dispensing platitudes!"
"Listen to me, Tauri!" And now Conrad rolled out the whole sound and light show. "I assume Nirrti did not tell you this, because she seeks her own advantage-taking what you offer without surrendering anything in return. You never wasted a thought on the skills necessary for your men to wield the powers they are given. And you call the Goa'uld arrogant? We possess the entire knowledge of our race from birth. Learning is not a requirement for us. For you it is a matter of survival, as it is for the Jaffa. But, unlike you, the Jaffa are humble enough to know that they have to learn.
"Why do you think a Jaffa warrior begins his education even before he receives his prim ta? It takes years to master kelno'reem and to school the senses for the presence of the symbiote. Unless your men receive proper training, they will weaken. Eventually they will die. Not straightaway, but they will die."
Simmons found that his fingers had clenched around the tumbler during this speech. If this was true... His hand shook, and he knocked back the whiskey in one gulp and deposited the glass on the table lest he broke it. "The tame Jaffa they keep at the SGC never mentioned any of this," he snarled at last.
"Why would he? Jaffa consider the relationship with their symbiote a private matter. Besides, he is a shol'va. Perhaps he had an ulterior motive for not mentioning it."
"So what do you suggest I do?"
"Is it not obvious?" Conrad's left eyebrow leaped up again, this time in disbelief. "Use the shol'va. Order him to train them."
Good thinking. Except, this obvious solution had an equally obvious hitch the Goa'uld wasn't aware of. Annoyingly, the hitch was of Simmons's own making. Which meant that Simmons would have to find a way around it.
His ruminations were interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Come."
An agent entered, brandishing a phone handset. He cast a quick, uneasy glance at Conrad before redirecting his attention to Simmons. "Call for you, sir."
"Dammit! I-"
"Sorry, sir. They said it was urgent."
Simmons snatched the phone. "What?"
The voice at the other end sounded sheepish. "It's General Hammond, sir. We, uh... we lost him."
The news was enough to make him jump to his feet and start pacing. "You did what?"
"He got picked up by a cab outside BollingAFB. We're thinking it may have been arranged. We're also pretty sure the guy driving was Maybourne."
Maybourne. They should have executed him while they'd had the chance. Some days Simmons could swear the son of a bitch was going out of his way to make his successor's life hell. This was one of those days. "When did this happen?" he barked, staring through a rain-streaked window.
"Just after five this afternoon."
"And you've waited until now to tell me?"
"They were heading out 1-66 last time we saw them from the car, sir. So we decided to check with the airlines at Dulles. Turns out two passengers who fit the description were booked on a United flight to Seattle."
"Did you
say Seattle?" A silver lining. Maybe. If this was true, he had a fair idea of where to look for them.
"Yes, sir. We missed them by ten minutes."
"My congratulations on the spectacularly narrow margin. You still missed them, idiot!" Simmons disconnected the call and tossed the handset to the waiting agent. "I'm flying to Seattle tonight. Make the necessary arrangements. I'll be taking three men."
"Yes, Sir." The agent left the library a lot faster than he'd entered it, undoubtedly grateful to get away from Conrad.
Who slowly rose from his chair and faced Simmons across the room. "May I accompany you?"
"Why? Homesick?"
"I suppose my host is." Conrad smiled a nasty little smile. "You appear to have been apprised of a problem. Perhaps I could make myself useful."
"Useful?"
"How can I gain your trust if you do not give me a chance to prove myself?'
True enough. And why not? Perhaps he really could make himself useful. At last, Simmons nodded. "Fine. But the necklace stays on. For now."
Jack carefully cranked one eye open. The world started to rotate around a hole in the ceiling. Through the hole snaked an arm-thick bunch of vines, and from their tendrils plopped a steady supply of water drops. Into his face. Which was what had woken him. He guessed.
Ceiling.
There'd been no ceiling before... before the cause of the headache. No ceilings in the jungle. And he was pretty sure he'd been in the middle of a jungle in the none-too-distant past. The ceiling belonged to a small room, stone walls blackened by age and slick with moisture. A single casement opened onto a dripping mass of green; foliage, trees, the whole nine yards of rainforest.
Ah.
The wall opposite was covered in intricate friezes, people and animals and ornaments, and Daniel probably would- Daniel!
Jack tried to sit up and promptly wished he'd opted for Plan B. Whatever that was, it had to be less nauseating. The room revved up to a brisk 90 rpm, and suddenly the face of Dr. Jackson spiraled into view, concerned, sweaty, with a paisley bandanna tied over the busted eye.
Stargate SG-1: Survival of the Fittest: SG1-7 Page 15
