CHAPTER SIX

 

 

Reward Pathway: Areas of the brain stimulated while a subject is engaged in pleasurable activity.

 

General 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. Sorry 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 doc 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. Sorry.”

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 corner, 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 was 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’ 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—

Incredibly, a third figure hurtles from the Chappa’ai. Now Nirrti is sure that Simmons has not intended this. Greed and caution would not have permitted it. For the third is male, but not human. He is Jaffa, the shol’va who denied his god. A memory of Apophis’ fury makes her smile. She herself relishes the illusion of divinity and the terrified veneration it brings, but she is a scientist and has never been deluded enough to believe her own lie. The key to immortality is, after all, knowledge not godhead.

Mouth gaping, teeth bared in a scream of rage and pain, the shol’va hits the ground hard. When, at last, the Chappa’ai winks out, the blond female is the first to discover that they cannot leave this place. One terror compounded by another. And it is only the beginning. What the Tauri and even the Jaffa cannot hear are the vibrations that whip the beasts into a frenzy and lure them to their prey. Hungry and swift-footed, they fly from their lair, dark, bristling shapes unlike anything the subjects have ever seen. And, as planned, the subjects are driven apart in the struggle for their lives.

“A gift. My, what a gift,” Nirrti murmured as the image dissolved into the silver surface of the mirror.

Slowly, her fingers curled and clenched in a fight to resist temptation. She wanted to bring them in now, break them now, use them now. But it would not be the same. The true triumph lay in their willing surrender when the horrors out there had piled despair upon despair and even servitude seemed preferable to further endurance or lingering death.

Exhaling, she relaxed, clapped her hands once. One of her beautiful new Jaffa entered instantly and quietly, anticipating every whim of his mistress, as a good servant should. He had brought a flowing red robe, held it out for her approval, and she raised her arms and permitted him to clothe her. When he was done tugging folds into place, he took a step back, eyes averted, as though he had anticipated this need, too. For a few moments she studied him, appreciated the nervous play of muscles under milky skin dotted with freckles, the almost imperceptible flaring of nostrils when he sensed her gaze on his face and the new tattoo on his forehead—the golden shape of a dove in flight. At last she reached out, fingertips caressing the sensitive flaps of his pouch.

“You please me, child,” she said.

His smile was beatific. “You honor me, Lady Nirrti.”

“Yes, I do. The question is whether you deserve it.” She increased the pressure of her touch just enough to suggest the potential for exquisite pain, but not enough to hurt him. Yet.

Only the slightest squirm betrayed his desire to back away. Excellent. He had been one of the first, and he had come far. “How can I make myself more deserving, Lady Nirrti?”

Yes, he had come far indeed. But was it far enough? “What is your name?” she asked.

“Master Sergeant Charles Macdonald.”

She almost laughed. Such a waste of time, Tauri names. “Master Sergeant Charles Macdonald, I have a task for you.”

“Please, Lady Nirrti, name it.”

“Dispose of the thing in corner.”

“As you wish, Lady Nirrti.”

He disappeared through the curtains, and she curbed an impulse to follow and watch. Let him believe he was trusted. Shadows danced and from behind sheer fabric rose the toy’s cracking voice.

“Sarge, what are you doing? Hey, come on, Sarge. It’s me, Gonzales. Gonzo… Come on, you remember me. You gotta remember me! Please, Sar—”

When her Jaffa returned to drag his prisoner before her, the toy’s eyes, unearthly pale in an olive-skinned face, appeared to scream.

“How do you wish me to dispose of him, Lady Nirrti?”

“Take him to the temple. And”—she smiled at the thought—“make my pets jump.”

 

BDUs and combat boots felt uncomfortable and alien after a couple of weeks of jeans and sweatshirts and walking barefoot round the house.

Bull, Jack decided, suddenly angry at himself.

It was neither the BDUs nor the boots. He felt uncomfortable and alien. Though not usually prone to fits of nostalgia—God knew he had little enough reason to be—right now he wished he were in his twenties again, a stupid kid off on his first mission, young and eager and full of himself. Not exactly ideal either, but preferable to middle-aged and jaded and full of something else.

“Chevron five engaged,” chanted Sergeant Harriman.

Five? Thirty-nine, more like. What the hell was taking so long? The gate’s inner ring seemed to be spinning at half its usual speed and doing it on purpose.

“Chevron six engaged.”

Harriman’s contributions to this interior monolog were a tad predictable. Why couldn’t he say something interesting like, The balalaika-type thing’s just got a triangle clamped over if!

“Chevron seven locked.”

Locked. Now there was a plot twist!

Jack O’Neill watched the event horizon roar out at him; a blaze of glory that momentarily froze all thought. It always did. Given a chance, he’d look at it all day. Of course it didn’t stand still long enough. It sloshed back into a luminous membrane across the gate and sent blue reflections rippling around the room.

At which point Hammond was supposed to say Colonel O’Neill, you have a Go or Godspeed, Colonel or both. He didn’t.

Now what?

Clutching his P90 until he thought either the gun or his fingers would snap, Jack refused to turn around. The last thing Hammond needed to see was him getting jumpy. Getting jumpy?

Just stand here and breathe, O’Neill. He’s gonna say it. Any second now…

He didn’t.

Instead the blast door rumbled open. The noise was followed by the clatter of boots on concrete. Hurried boots on concrete. There was only one person who regularly entered the gate room at this pace. Something to do with time-keeping issues brought on by a propensity to lose himself in dictionaries or similarly riveting literature.

“Come to kiss me goodbye, Daniel?”

The boots clattered to a halt beside him. “Uh, nothing personal, Jack, but no.”

Jack whirled around, stared up at the control room window, just in time to see Harriman take cover behind his computer screen. Hammond next to him didn’t move; a burly, implacable rock who stared right back.

“General, we had a deal!”

“That’s right, Colonel. The deal was for me to pretend I’ve never received a certain piece of correspondence and let you go through that gate. But you either go with Dr. Jackson or not at all.”

The SFs dotted around the room began to look interested, and Jack began to feel no longer uncomfortable and alien but slightly nauseous. “Daniel’s half blind! He’s not fit for duty!”

“Neither are you,” Daniel muttered helpfully. “Want me to poke your ribs?”

“Daniel—”

“They’re my friends, too. I know the score, Jack. I’ve always known it. I was the one who took us to Abydos without having the coordinates to get back, remember?”

Oh yes! How could he possibly forget? The first of three supremely joyous occasions on which Daniel Jackson had died. Jack’s nausea ratcheted up a notch. If he ever went through that wormhole, he’d sail out the other end barfing. “Is this supposed to convince me?”

The response didn’t come in quite the way Jack had anticipated. Instead of waiting for General Hammond’s blessing, Daniel took the steps up to the ramp two at a time and steamed for the Stargate at flank speed.

“Dammit, Daniel!”

It was pointless, and Jack knew full well that he’d lost this argument. He only had two options. One—staying put—was absolutely out of the question. And thus Colonel O’Neill, for the umpteenth time, found himself running after an enterprising archeologist. Halfway into the event horizon, he heard Hammond’s voice rattle over the PA.

“Godspeed, Colonel.”

Very funny, sir.

The thought melted into rushing, star-streaked black.

Stumbling out onto orange air and looming rock, Jack decided that the trip through the wormhole had left him more than usually chilled. His first impression of M3D 335 didn’t help. The gate sat at the bottom of some humungous hole, which in turn was capped by a planet that looked set to belch in his face. Apart from the Stargate, the only access to this tomb was by parachute or through a narrow gorge opposite. And if the locals didn’t want you to come calling, they either whacked you upside the head as soon as you poked your nose into said gorge, or they lined up around the crater to shoot fish in a barrel. Or both.

Jack sensed a cold prickle of paranoia seep up his back and tried to ignore it. At least he had an answer to Question Number One. Part of him had been hoping for a forest with thick underbrush to hide in. But, given the terrain, there was no way in hell that Carter, Teal’c, and the doc could have gone anywhere, except where Warren said they’d gone. Unless the escort had been lying. But why would the Marines lie? Why indeed? The query brought to mind his team’s interesting theory about the—

“DHD seems okay to me,” said Daniel who’d crouched in front of the Dial-Home-Device, tinkering with some diagnostic tools. Now he stowed them and rose. “Of course, Sam’s the expert, but I can’t see anything wrong with it.”

Daniel’s words sounded flat and sank like lead under the weight of the planet above, but at least they’d fractured the eerie quiet of this place. Too much quiet. No wind, no trees, not even a pebble clattering down the cliffs. Why were there no guards at the gate? Warren had mentioned guards, three of them. Maybe only after dark. Maybe. But still…

“Jack? Are you listening?”

“Yeah. The DHD’s fine.”

Which led straight to Question Number Two. Harriman had corroborated that the gate malfunction was intermittent and affected outgoing wormholes only. That aside, whatever had caused the problem, it seemed to have resolved itself. During the past few days there’d been no further glitches. So why would Carter concoct some cockamamie tale to scare Norris?

“…unless she had a damn convincing reason to get off this rock,” Jack mused aloud. “A reason she didn’t want to air to the gentlemen of the Marine Corps.”

“What are you—” Daniel stiffened suddenly and turned toward the gorge. “Shh!”

“I wasn’t saying anything.”

“Shh! Somebody’s coming.”

Almost of its own accord, Jack’s hand flew into a sequence of signals. A swift memory flashed up, of the last time he’d done it and what had happened next. When the image receded, he already was running for a boulder to the left of the gorge, keeping an eye on Daniel who’d headed right as ordered. On the dusty ground their footfalls made virtually no noise, but the tracks would be visible. Couldn’t be helped. They’d just have to be fast.

Pretending that the activity his ribs currently engaged in was normal, Jack skidded into cover behind the boulder. Nice view. Across the mouth of the gorge he saw Daniel peer around the edge of his rock, giving a thumbs-up. Like Carter, just before—Throttling that thought, Jack brought up his gun. The metallic click of the safety coming off sounded perversely loud. He flinched and forced himself to go still. Never easy for him, more difficult than ever now.

The gorge funneled noises into the crater like the an old gramophone tube. Out there the ground had to be covered in shale. He could hear the crunch of boots on stone. Four sets of boots… probably. Voices. No. One voice. Barking commands. In English. He relaxed a fraction. It ruled out Goa’uld or Jaffa—unless they were practicing. Well, they had to sometimes, right?

Daniel had heard them, too, raised an enquiring eyebrow, and Jack shook his head. Before he indulged in prospects of a happy reunion with his pals, the Marines, he needed to have these guys where he could see them—or draw a bead on them if necessary.

The footfalls grew louder. The visitors were moving fast, carelessly, which was good news one way or the other: they either had no idea that somebody was expecting them, or their intentions were as pure as driven snow. Okay, there was a third way, and it wasn’t such good news: they knew they owned the goddamn place. Eyes fixed on the cleft in the rock wall, Jack spot-welded the P90 against his cheek and waited.

A minute later Larry, Curly, and Moe trotted into view, as unwholesome as he remembered them from the exercise. Behind them followed their CO. All things considered, a bunch of Goa’uld would have been preferable.