CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

 

Kin Selection: Behavior that lowers an individual’s own chances of survival in order to enable the continued existence of a relative.

 

Teal’c approached the end of the tunnel wishing, not for the first time, that there were two of him so that he could guard Daniel Jackson’s back while, simultaneously, taking point. However, in light of what the young man had reported, it seemed preferable to remain unique, despite the shortcomings of the condition. Besides, these corridors showed no sign of recent occupancy, and unless the two Marines had been discovered and overrun, his and Daniel Jackson’s backs were reasonably secure. Any palpable danger lay ahead.

Which was reason enough to focus his attention that way, instead of engaging in fruitless speculation. The tunnel ended at a waist-high heap of broken masonry that extended into the small room beyond. That room, in turn, had three doorways, two of them—leading off to the left—dark and uninviting, the third—straight across—a narrow portal onto brightness and the sounds Teal’c had heard earlier. Boots hammering down a set of steps, he was certain of it.

“Somebody’s bricked this off at some point.” Daniel Jackson had joined Teal’c and picked up a lump of stone, squinting at it in the dim light. When he spoke again, he sounded pleased. “Looks like the cave-in had no help from our friends out there,” he said, one finger tracing a brittle crest of mortar still stuck to the stone. “It’s possible they don’t even know the tunnel exists. Which means we’ve got ourselves a bolthole.”

“Perhaps.” Teal’c directed a pointed glance at the doorway opposite. “Although it might prove unfeasible to return here.”

“Didn’t Bra’tac ever tell you that negativity is bad for morale?”

“He did not. He did, however, tell me that undue optimism damages one’s health.”

“He would.”

Daniel Jackson’s mien darkened, and Teal’c knew that his friend was lost in the same memory as he. Trapped in the cargo hold of Klorel’s ha’tak, Master Bra’tac had vowed to go down fighting. O’Neill had embraced the idea of fighting but—predictably—refused to go down. As so often, his stubbornness had saved them, because it had forced them to consider options they might otherwise have disregarded.

“We shall find O’Neill,” Teal’c said quietly. “I would not abandon my brother.”

“I know.”

Without another word, Daniel Jackson began to climb across the heap of debris. Fatigue and injuries made him clumsy, and he slipped frequently, his boots kicking loose rubble. Pebbles rolled to the floor, their clatter amplified a hundredfold through the confines of the room and the corridor behind. To Teal’c it sounded like thunder.

But nobody outside that small room appeared to hear or respond to it, and he finally conceded that adrenaline might be playing tricks on his awareness.

By the time Teal’c reached the other side, his friend was exploring the two passages to the left. Both were dead ends, blocked off long ago. “Shame,” Daniel Jackson muttered.

Teal’c concurred. But it could not be helped; the only way ahead led toward the noise he had heard. He eased along the wall and into the third doorway. Past the opening lay a vast round space, tiled with stone, and a stairway spiraling to dizzying height along a wall covered in friezes. It partly explained why the anteroom and tunnel were abandoned. The doorway, narrow and uninviting to begin with, was overhung by steps and cloaked in shadow; also, it was located at the lowest level of this structure. Given that there was only one other room off the central stairwell, Teal’c presumed that few people would have reason to come here.

He slipped out into the rotunda, keeping a wary eye on the floors above and ready to duck back into cover at the first sign of company. Further up, alcoves clad in wooden lattices protruded from the wall at irregular intervals, possibly concealing prying eyes. It was a risk they would have to take. A hum of distant activity mixed with words torn free from conversations and drifting down on him like stones thrown into a pond. Though whoever or whatever caused the sounds remained invisible.

“My God.” Daniel Jackson had stepped beside him and was craning his neck to stare up the seemingly endless shaft and at the patch of blue sky at its top. For a split-second his face wilted into a mask of hopelessness that reflected Teal’c’s own fears. If this was the only access route, their chances of reaching the upper levels unobserved were so slim as to be nonexistent. The young man swallowed hard. “It’ll have to be very fast and very quiet.”

“Indeed. I suggest you remain here, Daniel Jackson.”

“And I suggest you get stuffed, Teal’c.” With that he dropped into a crouch and proceeded to take off his boots. When there was no reply, he looked up, his features drawn and determined under the lurid display of bruises. “You decided I was the brains, remember? You need me. Having said that, if I slow you up or get in your way, feel free to push me off the stairs.”

“O’Neill would disapprove.”

“Yeah, well, Jack isn’t here, is he?”

Teal’c disapproved at least as much as O’Neill might have, but he merely removed his own boots, watched while his friend stowed both pairs in the anteroom. “You shall take point,” he said, not for a moment deluding himself that his intention of letting the injured man set the pace would be missed.

Zat’nikatel ready to fire, Daniel Jackson tapped Teal’c’s chest. “Tag. You’re it,” he whispered and set off up the stairs at a speed he could not possibly sustain. Of course, Daniel Jackson was at least as stubborn as O’Neill.

After each full revolution around the interior of the shaft, the steps leveled to a gallery that circled the stairwell and gave access to various rooms and corridors. On the first level they reached, they passed two such openings, both tight and unlit, but the third was a wide hallway, suffused with light that glittered from golden walls. Daniel Jackson skidded to a halt and stood staring down the corridor toward a set of closed doors.

“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?” he panted softly. “Maybe we should—”

At that moment, the doors at the end of the hallway began to slide open, and Teal’c fancied he could feel chilled air brushing his skin. “We should not!” he gasped, one arm snapping around Daniel Jackson, scooping the young man away with him along the gallery and through a fourth doorway into a musty storeroom, empty except for dust and cobwebs. They slammed into a wall, Teal’c’s body covering his friend.

From the corridor, gradually getting louder, drifted the sound of steps; the resonant stomp of a Jaffa’s boots and beneath, barely audible, the patter of bare feet. The footfalls reached the end of the hallway and continued to approach. They would come past this room. Teal’c held his breath, dedicated his whole attention to listening.

“We counted twenty of them,” a male voice said. “They came through the gate, but of course the, uh, watchdogs hadn’t been alerted.”

Momentarily Teal’c indulged in a fantasy of much-needed reinforcements having arrived at last, then he discarded it, realizing the impossibility. He never doubted that General Hammond was searching for them, but since the General did not know where to look it was a barren hope.

The voice outside carried on. “They left no guards at the gate—for obvious reasons—and are headed straight for the city, heavily armed.”

“Weapons will not help them,” replied another voice, unmistakably Nirrti’s.

A tremor of muscles tautened to the point of cramping betrayed Daniel Jackson’s tension. Teal’c felt fury radiating from him like heat. He shared the rage, and the part of him that had remained untamed by a century of training and discipline wanted to kill Nirrti and kill her now. It would be so very easy. It would also alert her troops, and he and Daniel Jackson would never be able to accomplish what they had come here to do.

“Take your men to the sanctuary. They are to attack at my command,” she said. “I shall remind Simmons not to come here uninvited.”

“Yes, Lady Nirrti.”

The Jaffa’s bootfalls moved away rapidly, running up the stairs. The tread of Nirrti’s bare feet receded at a less hurried rate. When Teal’c was sure he could no longer hear it, he straightened up.

“Thanks,” gasped Daniel Jackson. “Next time try not to suffocate me.”

“That was not the intention.”

“Apology accepted, but you still need a shower.”

Teal’c smothered a grin. “As indeed do you, Daniel Jackson.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. By the way, am I hearing things or did she mention Simmons?”

“She did.”

“So how does he come into this mess?”

“In no small measure, I would surmise.”

“Glad you cleared that up.” Daniel Jackson eased himself away from the wall and cautiously proceeded to the entrance to survey the staircase. “Looks quiet. I’m thinking we should go before—”

The mournful blare of a horn cut him off. Teal’c recognized it only too well. It was an alarm signal. Almost instantly shouts and the beat of running boots cascaded down the stairwell, tumbling and echoing and bouncing into pre-battle frenzy. Two levels above a stream of men emerged onto the gallery.

“On second thought, maybe not!” Shouting to make himself heard, Daniel Jackson recoiled from the door and settled back in the corner he had just left.

After a moment, Teal’c joined him. “They are coming this way. There must be an exit on this level.”

First shadows trampled across the puddle of light that seeped through the doorway and into the chamber. The footsteps did not slow down but continued around the gallery, then changed cadence as they raced down the bottom set of stairs, proving Teal’c wrong.

“I know where they’re going,” Daniel Jackson declared suddenly. “The second room on the bottom level? Has to be the vault where Janet sent us last night. There’s a ring transporter there, and it’s linked to some kind of shrine—probably the ‘sanctuary’ Nirrti talked about.” He fell silent for a minute or two, while Nirrti’s Jaffa continued to run past, then he added, “That’s why the tunnels were blocked off. Somebody wanted to make sure the ring transporter is the only way in or out of here.”

Teal’c had to agree with this assessment. Nodding briefly, he resumed his count of the shadows flitting across the door. It took a long time until the last one raced past, the clank of boots fading down the stairs.

“Fifty-eight,” he whispered.

“She’s been busy,” murmured Daniel Jackson. “You know, I never figured I’d be grateful to Simmons for anything. But whatever he’s up to, it got those Jaffa clones off our backs.”

“There will be a large number left behind as guards,” Teal’c reminded him.

“So what else is new?”

From below came the rhythmic whine of a ring transporter. Teal’c sidled to the door and carefully, so as not to be spotted by a straggler, checked the stairwell again. It was clear.

 

It was rabidly green, humid, full of unidentifiable sounds that were best ignored. Not the easiest thing to do when the stench of the past clung to you limpet-like and almost alive. Hammond was breathing through his mouth so as not to smell it, and he’d never in a million years have expected his reaction to be this strong. Of course, he’d never tested it. He’d developed a preference for vacationing in temperate climates and refused to consider even Hawaii.

This was the last thing he’d anticipated and, shamefully, the first thing he’d fretted about—even before the missing DHD—after a thirty foot drop from the wormhole into a mud bath had knocked the stuffing out of their little expedition force. He liked to think that he still would have come, even if he’d known. Freeman would have, he was sure.

Maybourne, who was weaving through the trees some five meters off to the right, changed to an intercept course. Reaching Hammond’s side, he slid over a glance, too penetrating for comfort. Hammond kept going, tried to ignore that, too.

“You’ve been to ’Nam, haven’t you?” Harry asked softly.

“What gives you that idea?”

“You’re the right age. Plus, you look like you’re gonna keel over any second now. Cold sweat, is it?”

“I don’t handle heat very well.”

“Yeah, that usually makes a guy jump each time he steps on a twig.” When he got no reply, Harry continued. “You wanna hear something funny?”

“What?”

“Mice.”

“What?”

“I’m scared of mice. Embarrassing, but there it is. I just freeze up. No good reason—I mean the stupid things don’t even carry guns.” Harry’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Unlike Charlie.”

“Dammit, I—”

“Take it easy.” Maybourne clapped his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I happen to think you got two big brass ones, General.” With that he broke formation and slipped back between the trees.

Mice, huh? Hammond grinned and, to his astonishment, found the jungle a little easier to bear. Just as well, else he might have shot Bra’tac, who appeared from between two bushes like a phantom—or a Vietcong soldier. In a flash, unbidden and unstoppable, Hammond heard the screams of dying men, saw the look of horrified realization in Colonel Freeman’s eyes. His fingers cramped with the effort to control the instinct of pulling the trigger. But it was just Bra’tac. Just Bra’tac, the other four Jaffa remaining invisible.

“Don’t do that!” Hammond hissed.

Unaware of his almost-demise, Bra’tac fell in beside him and grunted disapproval. “It is a miracle that you have survived this long, human. You make more noise than a temple bell.” He paused a moment to let his admonition sink in—to no effect; Hammond and Maybourne moved as quietly as they knew how, but they were no Jaffa—then he changed the subject. “We have found the Marines.”

It wasn’t exactly in the same league as finding the Titanic. The Marines seemed to have vacated the clearing by the Stargate at a run—a profusion of king-size trotter prints in the mud might have had something to do with it—and left a swath of trampled vegetation in their wake. A kindergartner could have tracked them.

“And?” Hammond asked.

“They have halted. We shall approach and try to discover their plans. Come!”

Motioning for Harry to join them, Bra’tac headed away from the trail and for the undergrowth, which was the last route Hammond wanted to take—no, the penultimate; tunnels would have been worse. He felt an urge to make small-talk, distract himself from swirling mists and dripping foliage and stewing heat.

I spy something starting with a “D”.

He didn’t, of course, which would be the point. So where was the DHD? It might not be crucial since the two Jaffa they’d left on M3D 335 were to follow in the tel’tac. But for all he knew, the planet—a place called Yamalok, as Bra’tac had determined from the gate coordinates—could be at the other end of the galaxy from ’335, which meant the trip might take more time than they had. George Hammond had learned the value of fallback options the hard way—especially when the mission objective was bringing his people home.

His people. He didn’t spy anything starting with an “S” either. What if SG-1 and Dr. Fraiser weren’t on Yamalok at all?

Ahead, Bra’tac’s shadowy figure crouched in a bank of mist, his upraised fist barely visible through the vapor. Hammond crept closer and squatted next to the old warrior, who wordlessly pointed at a glade that opened about ten meters away. A few seconds later Maybourne settled in as well.

Out in the glade sat the Marines. Twenty men, some sipping from their canteens, all relaxed, none of them chatting. They were focused on their task—which would be what exactly? The answer came quicker than Hammond had hoped.

“Listen up, guys!” The speaker’s insignia made him a gunnery sergeant.

This was odd. Where were the officers? A quick scan of BDUs revealed that there were no officers. All enlisted men. Hammond felt a fist of anger knotting in his stomach. He’d come up through the ranks, he’d been there and done that, and he despised the kind of attitude that had put the line animals out here on their own. Then again, if these men were Jaffa, it made sense in a twisted sort of way. An officer who was part alien would be an unacceptable security risk, at least to people with the mindset of Simmons and Crowley.

“You all know the lay of the land, so I’ll keep this short,” the gunny carried on. “We’re gonna leave all heavy gear and head straight for the city, ’cos chances are that they’ll be hiding out there—provided they’re still alive.”

Provided who was still alive?

“Inside the city, we split into three teams—two of seven, one of six, which I’ll be joining, ’cos my little critter is worth two of yours any day of the week.”

It provoked some good-natured protests and chuckles, and it confirmed that the men did, in fact, carry symbiotes.

“Now, in case any of you has second thoughts about this, I suggest you keep in mind what General Crowley told you. This is a matter of national security. You’re to hunt down and eliminate the colonel, the major, and the geek, and you’re to capture the alien alive. Are we clear on this?”

“What about the doc?” one of the men asked.

“Don’t worry about her. The lady’s taken care of her.”

The lady?

“Anything else?”

Shaking of heads all round, and the brief bout of sympathy Hammond had felt for the Marines shriveled in the jungle heat. A gnarled hand clamped around his forearm, painfully tight. Bra’tac sent him a look of warning, and Hammond realized that he was grinding his teeth. He forced his jaw to relax, let the tension trickle down his back together with the sweat. At least they had the right planet.

“We’ll stay in radio contact throughout,” continued the gunnery sergeant. “Once you’ve achieved your objective, you’re to return here, not to the gate. We’ll want these”—he nodded at a grenade launcher—“to take out the boars and get to the dialing thingy. Right, if there are no more questions, move out!”

So there was a DHD. It would simply be a matter of finding it.

The Marines stacked the launchers and some of their packs by a tree, covered them with camouflage-netting, and filtered back into the jungle. Less than a minute after the last one had disappeared they were inaudible. Bra’tac still motioned to wait. His hearing was better, of course.

Harry lasted another minute, then he shrugged, scrabbling to his feet. “Let’s go.”

In a move so fast it looked like a blur, Bra’tac’s hand shot out and yanked him back. “Let us wait.”

Eventually Hammond realized what they were waiting for. One cry at a time, animal hoots and cackles replaced the dripping silence that had fallen while the Marines were in the glade.

When the full cacophony of jungle noises was restored, Bra’tac rose. “Now let us go.”

“Who the hell put you in charge, old man?” snapped Maybourne.

“This!” The staff weapon twirled up in a swift arc and held, tip cracked open and buzzing with energy, an inch away from Harry’s nose. Bra’tac flicked a glance at Hammond. “He reminds me of O’Neill.”

“Whom is he trying to insult?” Harry’s hands had risen, placating and palms front, and he angled back from the tip of the staff weapon. “Me or Jack?”

Somewhere in the canopy some animal crowed a reply. The staff weapon whirled again, came to a rest again, still pointed at Harry’s nose, except now Harry was lying on his back, a fern frond gracefully draped over his forehead. Bra’tac had knocked the legs out from under him.

“Not bad for an old man of one hundred and thirty-seven,” said Hammond, trying to keep a straight face.

“Ha! You have heard of our match!” Bra’tac barked a dry laugh. “O’Neill did well for a human. Few could have taken me then. Now, of course, it is different. I am older.”

“And meaner,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“Indeed! You would be wise not to forget it.” The staff weapon swung upright, and Bra’tac took a step back. “If you wish to survive, you will do exactly as I say.”

Scowling in Hammond’s direction, Harry came to his feet. “Thanks for all the support, Huggy.” Once he’d dusted off his wounded pride, his gaze settled on the mound of launchers. “We should borrow a couple of those, just in case.”

“He’s got a point,” conceded Hammond, remembering the outsize trotter prints and what the gunny had said about needing the artillery to get to the DHD, wherever it was. “They might come in handy.”

“What purpose do they serve?” Bra’tac looked doubtful.

“They blow holes in things. Big holes.”

“Very well. Jaffa! Kree!”

Hammond noted with vague surprise that this time he barely started when two Jaffa materialized like mushrooms popping from the ground. Bra’tac gave his orders in hushed Goa’uld, and the men quietly retrieved two of the grenade launchers and draped the netting back into place to make it look as though nothing had been disturbed.

By now the light in the glade had begun to dim, and the slide of the day into late afternoon recalled the urgency of the situation. They had been issued an ultimatum. They needed to find SG-1 before the Marine Jaffa did. Bra’tac knew it, too. Eyes even darker than usual, he aimed a slow nod at Hammond, then turned, cloak swirling, and led the way back onto the trail of the Marines.

 

Knowing her leg still existed was one thing. Translating that knowledge into locomotion was quite another. For the time being, she concentrated on skipping along on the cognitively and sensually verifiable leg, which had its own drawbacks. The thigh muscles she could feel were cramping, and her head objected to being jolted every five seconds.

“I need a break,” panted Sam. More than anything she was getting fed up with wandering—jumping—around aimlessly.

“You should use both legs,” Macdonald retorted. “Ma’am.”

“Easy for you to say. Why don’t you just climb out of a window?”

“Point taken. Come on.”

Sam suspected it was a trick to keep her going—hopping—at least for a little while longer. She wanted a beer and a wheelchair, in that order. Some twenty minutes ago an alarm had sounded, and he must have assumed that her escape had been discovered. He’d led her from one flight of rooms to the next, each deserted, some windowless—a shuttered procession of ghostly habitats, festooned in faded silk and dry rot. Eventually they’d come out into the corridor they were in now.

Ahead lay a T-junction. Macdonald parked her against the wall and quietly slipped out of sight. Half a minute later he was back. “You wanted a break. Round the corner is some kind of an alcove. We can hide in there for a while.”

In real terms, the alcove was a balcony that clung to the wall like a barnacle to a ship’s hull and looked out over an enormous round stairwell. Enclosed by wooden lattices and no larger than a wardrobe, it offered just enough space for two people to sit down opposite one another. Macdonald eased her to the ground, pulled the door shut behind him, and slid down the panel until he hit the floor.

A warm evening glow trickled in through the latticework and cast his face into an untidy mosaic of dark and light. One eye had disappeared completely, the other stared out at her from a patch of gold. Sam looked away, gave up on the mind reading, and let silence ratchet up the tension until the air seemed to crackle around them.

A split-second before something—Sam’s patience or the alcove’s struts—snapped, he asked, “You done any thinking yet?”

“What?”

“The mind control thing.”

As a matter of fact, she had, and she wasn’t sure at all that this really was mind control. “What if it’s posthypnotic suggestion, Sergeant?”

He gave a soft snort. “I’m Force Recon, Major. Same caliber of training as your Special Ops boys. Brainwashing techniques and how to defuse them are pretty high on the agenda. I know how posthypnotic suggestion works. This ain’t it. Besides”—he did that curious head-tap again—“it doesn’t explain how she can know what goes on in here. And I’m not nuts, ma’am.”

No, Macdonald seemed perfectly sane. And he was right. Posthypnotic suggestion didn’t explain Janet either. Her behavior had been far too complex for that. But the notion that Nirrti was a telepath was equally farfetched. They had absolutely no prior evidence for that.

Which left Sam with what? An abiding wish to have her team around, so she could bounce ideas off Daniel, Teal’c, the Colonel. Thinking of them raised a cold wad of anguish that threatened to swallow her whole. She couldn’t allow that to happen; she’d be unable to function.

Next.

Suppose the gadget was exactly what Macdonald said it was—a gadget. It made sense. Nirrti loved gadgets. So, if Sam were her, where would she put it? She reached up, laced her fingers through the lattices, and pulled herself to a stand.

“I thought you wanted a break,” Macdonald hissed.

Ignoring him, she stared out into the rotunda, spiraling stairs, rooms and corridors spoking off from galleries, and more alcoves above and below. “I need a floor plan, Sergeant. What’s what.”

“Why?”

Talk about wringing water from a stone. “Dammit, Sergeant, do I have to make it an order? Right now I only have the vaguest idea of what it is we’re looking for, but knowing where to look for it might help firm it up a little!”

He came to his feet with a grunt and squeezed in next to her, rubbing up against her shoulder and hip. The touchy-feely stuff wasn’t strictly necessary; on the other hand, it wasn’t overt enough to call him on it. If he needed to play his little games, fine. “This is the only connection between the different levels,” he said, nodding at the stairs. “Well, the only one I’ve found, and believe me, I’ve been looking.”

Superb from a strategic point of view, Sam admitted, but for their purposes it sucked. “What else?”

“This level and the level below, barracks—quarters—and armory.”

“Armory?” Sam cocked an eyebrow;. This sounded better.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Major. That’s one of the places where the air gets real thin for me real quick.”

“Too bad, but it probably won’t for me.”

Another snort. “Leaving aside your mobility problem, ma’am, do you even know how to use the weapons they’ve got?”

Well enough to damn near kill my CO, you arrogant goon! Aloud she said, “Do you, Sergeant?”

The reply was unintelligible.

“I didn’t get that, Marine.”

“Ma’am. No, ma’am.”

“If you ask nicely, I might teach you someday. What else?”

“Everything you see there”—Macdonald pointed up some forty meters worth of shaft—“is Nirrti’s private domain.”

“All of it?”

“She only really uses the top level. That’s where her rooms are. There’s also some kind of roof terrace. The floors below are kind of a buffer zone, I expect. To separate her from the rabble,” he snarled. “Access to the penthouse suite is by invitation only.”

“Who’s invited?”

“Her personal guard, Lennox from third platoon—well, a copy that’s her, uh, First Prime I, think she calls it—and her servants.”

“Servants?”

“Some guys who didn’t make the cut for cloning.” He gave a crooked grin. “Like my copy.”

Which could be useful. Sam filed away the information, then realized that one item remained conspicuously absent from Macdonald’s list of facilities. She thought she knew why. “What about Nirrti’s lab? That’s up there as well?”

“What makes you think she’s got a lab?” His eyes narrowed. Evidently the distrust was mutual.

“She’s cloning people, right? You can’t do that in the bathtub, so there has to be a lab. Where is it?”

“You want me to tell you where O’Neill is? Forget it!”

When hell freezes over. Besides, Macdonald had just told her. The Colonel was in the lab. As, in all likelihood, was Nirrti. And if Nirrti was the only one who could operate the ring transporter, she also was their only ticket out of here. Sam tried her best smile. “Look, Sergeant, first of all, it’s Colonel O’Neill to you. Second, has it ever occurred to you that this gadget may be in the lab? Whether you like it or not, you’ll have to tell me and we may have to try and bust in. So stop second-guessing me and tell me where the goddamn lab is!”

“Two levels down.” He’d probably broken a tooth or two grinding it out.

“Thank you.” She raised herself on her toes and craned her neck to peek down. Yeah, two levels down and diagonally across she could just make out a wider than usual corridor that shimmered golden. Looked about right to her. Looked Goa’uld to her. “Oh, hang on…”

“What?”

She wasn’t sure she’d seen what she thought she’d seen. A wisp of movement, caught from the corner of her eye—it might have been nothing. She kept staring at the area, a shadowy recess one level up from the lab where the stairs reached the gallery. Ten seconds later she knew it was .something alright. She and Macdonald weren’t the only people creeping around in the fortress. A dark figure emerged from the niche, then another.

“My God!” she breathed.

“What?” Macdonald asked again.

“Take me out onto the gallery. Now! And this time it is an order!”

His eyes widened. “With all due respect, ma’am, are you crazy?”

“No. I got us some reinforcements. Move it, Sergeant!”

“Reinforce—Yes, ma’am!” Patterns of light and shade madly gyrated across his face as he nodded.

While Macdonald half dragged, half carried her from the alcove, along the hallway, and toward the exit to the stairwell, Sam tried to compute timings. Six corridors for cover around the gallery, and up a flight of stairs—how fast? She had to head them off, because the one thing she couldn’t risk was calling out to them. And what if they didn’t come up here? What if they disappeared down a hallway on the level below? What if—

“That’s far enough,” whispered Macdonald and ground to a halt. “We don’t want to be seen.”

Wrong. Five meters ahead, the corridor opened onto the gallery and the void beyond. Sam disengaged herself from the sergeant, dropped to the floor, and began to crawl. Just as well she could do at least that on her own, because Macdonald wasn’t happy. There was a novelty. She headed for the shadows by the wall and stopped with six inches to spare. Out in the stairwell everything seemed quiet, no noises, and she could see half of a flight of stairs from where she lay. Empty, and so was the gallery. Had they gone past already? One by one, she scanned the doorways on her level for a flicker of movement. Nothing.

Damn, damn, damn! Where—

On the level below, a figure broke cover and hurtled up the stairs, two steps at a time. Yes! It was Daniel. So—

“Freeze!” yelled a voice from somewhere above. “Identify yourself!”

The ID came in the form of a staff blast from the same corridor where Daniel had appeared. A split-second later, Teal’c raced after his team mate, who’d stopped and turned.

“Go!” Teal’c roared, loosed a second blast, and kept running.

Except, he was drawing fire now. Whoever was upstairs had recovered from their surprise. Three plasma bolts in quick succession exploded around Teal’c, raining chunks of masonry down the stairwell. Sam gritted her teeth in frustration. She couldn’t recall ever having wanted a weapon so much, but all she could do was pray.