CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

 

Missing Link: Absent member required to complete a developmental chain.

 

“I am hurrying up!” hissed Maybourne and inserted the fifth skeleton key in as many minutes into the door lock. “Don’t know what he thinks he’s keeping in there. Last time I saw something like this, I was in Leavenworth.”

Probably a hyperbole, but still not exactly encouraging, given the fact that Harry’s lock-picking talent wasn’t what had busted him out of jail. That particular miracle had been wrought by Jack O’Neill calling in a lifetime collection of chits.

Not for the first time tonight George Hammond wished they could have hidden out at Jack’s place. It would have made things easier all round. But Colonel O’Neill very likely headed the NID’s list of People To Be Put Under Surveillance. Hammond sighed and checked over his shoulder. The orange-pop glow of streetlamps bounced off low clouds and trickled into this backyard in suburban Colorado Springs; a timid soul in one of the neighboring houses had left on a nightlight, and three or four yards over a lovesick tomcat yowled his misery. Otherwise everything was quiet. Question was for how long.

“Hurry up,” Hammond whispered. Again.

“For the—” A gentle click cut off the tirade, then the lock gave. Maybourne straightened up and eased a kink from his neck. “See?”

He nudged the crack in the door wider and slipped inside. A fraction of a second later Hammond heard muffled cussing, followed by a series of dull thuds. Damn. “Stand down, Sergeant!”

There was a pause. Next the lights came on and the door flew all the way open. In the frame stood Sergeant Siler, wielding the great-grandmother of all wrenches. If Harry had been given a center parting with that thing, he probably needed a neurosurgeon.

Behind the wire-frame glasses, the sergeant’s eyes were wide as saucers. “General! I… You…” The wrench gave a diffident wiggle that made Hammond want to duck. Siler swallowed. “Uh, sorry, sir. Please, uh… come on in.”

“Thanks.” Hammond stepped into a small, well-appointed kitchen that was twice as clean as his own and outed the unassuming sergeant as either a neat-freak or a hobby cook. A groan from behind the door made him turn.

Maybourne was coming to, gingerly probing what promised to become the goose-egg to end them all. “I’m okay. Thanks for the concern.”

Siler’s eyes went even wider. “Sir, that’s Colonel Maybourne!”

“I noticed. You won’t be needing the wrench, though.”

“Yessir.” Siler closed the door, locked it, and deposited the tool on the kitchen table. “Was it him who kidnapped you?”

Evidently the NID had stuck with the abduction tale, the easier to explain his planned demise, no doubt. Hammond shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Want me to call the police, sir?”

“No,” said Hammond.

“No!” yelped Maybourne, picking himself up from the linoleum. His gaze arrested on Siler, and his jaw dropped. “On second thought, maybe you should. I’m not sure that’s legal.”

The sergeant’s pajamas displayed scenes from the marital life of Marge and Homer Simpson you didn’t get to see on any television network Hammond had ever heard of. Siler blushed furiously and cleared his throat. “Present from Colonel O’Neill. Sir. He dropped it off last time he put me in the infirmary.”

Taking in the nightwear, Harry Maybourne looked like a man about to weep for joy. “That’s Jack for you. Thoughtful to a fault.”

“Uh, yessir,” the sergeant muttered a little uncertainly. Then he decided it might be safer to opt for a change of topic. “General, it’s not that I’m not pleased to see you, but, with respect, sir, what are you doing here?”

Excellent question—and kind of a long story. Luckily, when he’d set out to elope with a USAF general, Harry had come prepared. For the first time in his life, George Hammond had traveled on a false passport. Harry also had demonstrated how to hotwire a car. Assuming—correctly—that there would be no NID goons posted across the border, they’d evaded several roadblocks, driven from Seattle to Vancouver and flown back to Denver from there. After that they’d hitched a ride down the 1-25 to Colorado Springs. The truck had dropped them off ten minutes’ walk from George Hammond’s house—and a black sedan waiting for them outside. They’d turned around and crept away, desperate for a bolt hole now.

“I apologize for the break-in, Sergeant,” Hammond said. “When we didn’t see a car in the driveway and nobody answered the door I figured you were on night-duty. We had to get off the street before they caught us.”

“Car’s at the workshop. Needs a new transmission,” Technical Sergeant Siler admitted, clearly dismayed about having to resort to the services of a car mechanic. “Who are they?”

“NID.”

“Should have guessed,” muttered the Sergeant. “Cheyenne Mountain’s crawling with them. And Colonel Simmons pretends he’s been put in command of the SGC.”

“Simmons is on my base?”

“Does his arm bother him?” Apparently the blow to head had affected Maybourne’s sense of relevance.

Hammond shot him an angry look. “Since when have they been there?”

“They got there first thing this—yesterday morning. Seems like they’re keeping an eye on everybody. Sir, what’s going on?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I need your help, Sergeant.”

“Sure thing.” Siler nodded solemnly, the sentiment somewhat at odds with Homer and Marge’s frolics. “How about I make us some coffee? No offense, but you look like you could use some.”

“Sounds good.” Maybourne craned his neck to sneak a peek into what presumably was a living room. “You got a computer?”

“Yep.” Going by the mulish expression he adopted, Siler was less willing to render assistance to rogue colonels. The precise whereabouts of the machine or permission for Harry to use it weren’t forthcoming.

“It’s alright, Sergeant. He’s playing on our team for a change,” interceded Hammond.

Siler grudgingly pointed at an archway that divided the kitchen from the den. “Through there.”

Nodding his thanks, Maybourne made a beeline for it, George Hammond on his heels. The computer wasn’t quite state-of-the-art, but it would do. Besides, they didn’t exactly have a choice. The usual IT ritual of startup and boot seemed maddeningly slow. Maybourne dropped into a chair, slapped the DVD into the drive, waited for it to load, clicked the first file open.

A video clip started to play, picture fuzzy, sound dull and bubbling with static. The image showed the OR Hammond had seen at St. Christina’s. Only now it was in use. A man—PFC Thomas J Corbett, according to the file label—was strapped to the operating table, intubated, eyes taped shut, his midriff iodine red from disinfectant. Arranged around the table was a group of doctors and nurses, their identities hidden behind green masks. The meticulous choreography of a surgical procedure played out, though what exactly they were doing beat Hammond. Best he could tell, it wasn’t a tonsillectomy.

“We need to show this to Dr. Fraiser. She might—” He cut himself off. They wouldn’t be showing this to his CMO any time soon. Janet Fraiser was missing, so were Major Carter and Teal’c.

“Oh hello,” murmured Maybourne, never glancing up from the screen.

One of the OR team had opened the lid of a sterile container and lifted out a pale, limp sac, riddled with veins and glistening with some sort of clear, moist coating. The surgeon shoved the sac into the incision in the man’s stomach, then began suturing the edges to the peritoneum.

“What on Earth are they doing?”

“Looks to me like they’re making a Jaffa, sir.” Siler had noiselessly padded into the den and was peering over their shoulders at the monitor.

The unexpected reply made Hammond jump; a reaction he resented. “Impossible,” he snapped. “That’s—”

“—precisely what they’re doing. Well spotted, Sergeant.” Maybourne had paused the recording and swiveled the chair around to face them. “Talk about not seeing the wood for the trees. This is nothing new. A few years ago, when I was running Area 51, we were toying with the idea. One of the reasons I was so keen to get my hands on Teal’c.” He made a faintly apologetic noise and dodged Hammond’s glare. “I scrubbed the project. It didn’t work. We had pouch cell cultures harvested from a bunch of injured Jaffa, but we never got beyond testing it in vitro. No matter what we tried—and believe me, we tried everything on the market and a few things the FDA doesn’t even dream of—the human immune reaction was so massive, the cell cultures practically self-destructed.”

“What would you gain by turning people into Jaffa?” Hammond had trouble wrapping his head around a concept so Frankensteinesque.

“Are you kidding, General?” Maybourne snorted. “Vastly improved combat skills—strength, speed, reaction time, stamina, you name it—plus self-healing powers that could reduce casualties by a factor of ten. The strategic advantages are incalculable, and I bet you dollars to donuts that’s why the NID is trying it again.”

“But you already proved that it doesn’t work.”

“Didn’t work. Like I said, it was a few years back. Since then, biogenetics have taken another quantum leap. Those guys”—he jerked his chin at the image on the monitor—“may have got the solution.”

“Not for him, they haven’t.” Staring at the screen, Hammond fought down a bout of nausea. “We found him in one of those morgue drawers.”

“True. How about this: PFC Corbett and the other poor bastards stubbornly insist on biting the dust, whereupon silver-tongued Simmons wheedles his pet Goa’uld into lending a helping hand? Ask yourself. What was Conrad doing at the hospital?”

The million dollar question. And it made perfect sense. Talk about a deal with the devil. They still didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle, and Hammond still didn’t know how the exercise and the Marine camp on M3D 335 came into it, but he was convinced they were connected somehow. Simmons’ involvement in both, the Marines’ involvement in both, was too much of coincidence. He thought of the corpses in the lab at St. Christina’s. Fine young men, and no doubt they’d volunteered for the job. But with equal certainty they’d never been told the truth about what it really entailed. And what was happening to the dozens of others who’d been sent to Parris Island? What had happened to his own people? For a brief moment he indulged in a fantasy about locking the NID colonel in a room together with Siler and his wrench. It might clear up matters pretty damn quick.

Realizing that his fists were clenched, George Hammond slowly uncurled his fingers and let out a deep breath. It all came back to the moon and what was going on there. They needed intel, simple as that. They also needed an expert, but first things first.

“When are you on duty, Sergeant?” he asked Siler.

The sergeant finally set down a couple of coffee mugs that had stopped steaming quite some time ago. “Zero seven hundred, sir.”

“Good. We can’t risk making phone calls, because the lines probably are bugged, but I want you to find a pretext to talk to Colonel O’Neill. Tell him—”

“Sir?” Siler wore the same ominously puzzled expression Hammond had seen on Major Warren’s face, eons ago or so it seemed. “Colonel O’Neill and Dr. Jackson are on Parris—I mean, M3D 335.”

Maybourne cussed. “When was Jack supposed to come back?”

“Yesterday.” Feeling himself go cold, Hammond asked, “I take it he hasn’t made contact since gating out?”

“No, sir. Not as far as I’m aware,” mumbled Siler, his face falling as he realized what it meant. “Maybe I just didn’t hear about it,” he offered.

And pigs could fly. The sergeant, in his unobtrusive way, managed to be one of the best-informed people at the SGC. Occasionally he seemed to catch the latest news before the base commander did. Hammond found a chair, slumped in it heavily.

“Not your fault, George,” said Maybourne.

“The hell it isn’t! I gave him permission to go. I sent Dr. Jackson along for good measure. Without having a clue about what’s happening on that moon—apart from the fact that three of my people disappeared there. And now two more have vanished, thanks to me.”

“How were you going to find out, unless you sent someone to investigate? And don’t tell me that Jack didn’t give you an earache and a half about going.”

Wrong. George Hammond had been too damn clever for his own good and jumped at the opportunity of getting back his best unit commander. Christ, he’d practically pushed Jack into it! And none of these profound insights was going to change a thing—as Major General Hammond would have been the first to point out to Colonel O’Neill if positions were reversed. He’d find out alright, and then he’d bring Jack and the rest of SG-1 and Dr. Fraiser home.

“Siler!”

Jolted from his contemplation of a mug of coffee, the sergeant flinched. “Yessir.”

“Can you get me into the mountain and through the gate without anyone noticing?”

“Come again, sir?”

“Can you get me—”

“And me,” Harry piped up.

“Out of the question,” Hammond said mechanically. “Apart from anything else, it’s too risky.”

“I knew this gig was dangerous when I signed up for it, General. Same as Jack, I would imagine.” Turning to Siler, Maybourne added, “Anyway, whaddya say, Sergeant? Two men into the mountain and through the gate without anyone noticing?”

Scratching the back of his head, the sergeant muttered, “Maybe. I’m gonna have to figure out a couple things, though.”

 

Daniel stared up at a strip of sky, which had begun to turn a watery predawn green. Maybe the revolting color scheme was down to his one functioning eye having decided to get its own back. Or maybe it was just the budding migraine. That at least was no great surprise, not if you spent half the night draped head-down over a staircase. He had a vague recollection of being forcefully catapulted over the top of the stairs. The fall must have knocked him out.

A flock of birds barreled from the treetops, screeching but offering no further clues. His legs still pointed uphill, and he studied them briefly. Trying to get the right way up might be a start. It would hurt. Then again, that was fast becoming a habit. Oh yeah. He tentatively wiggled one foot, then the other. It hurt alright, but he didn’t think anything was seriously damaged. Given his track record lately, that alone was reason to break out the champagne. Well, okay, he’d settle for water. Pushing himself up, he looked around for his backpack. Nothing. What the…?

Suddenly he remembered. He’d hurled it at some Jaffa who’d been about to break Jack’s back. After that things got a tad hazy. Something to do with a pair of outsize twins pounding him into the floor tiles. Twins’? There’d been six of them, perfect look-alikes. Congratulations, Mrs. Jaffa! It’s identical sextuplets. Probably not what had happened. After all, Jack had identified the guy as one of Norris’ boys… six of Norris’ boys. Jesus!

So what had happened?

Maybe it was better to postpone the problem until his skull had stopped throbbing and he was capable of gathering at least one clear thought. He looked up at the sky again. The sun was rising fast. You could feel it; air temperature and humidity already racing toward another record high. The steps were still cool, though, and so was the wall Daniel used as a prop to push himself to his feet. Shivering a little, he closed his eyes… eye and waited for the world to stop spinning. It did. Eventually.

Fifteen or so steps up was the top of the staircase. He recognized the place. They’d followed Janet up there last night. Just before she’d sold them out to… Nirrti. A bolt of panic knocked the breath from his lungs. Nirrti had Sam. And Jack. And Daniel had been thrown out like a drunken gatecrasher, because she had no use for him. She wanted Jack, that much had been clear.

Why? What made Jack so different? Apart from the obvious, of course.

At this juncture, the answer to that question wouldn’t be of any help. A little wobbly at first, Daniel began to scale the stairs. Halfway up, he stopped. What was he going to do? Return to the shrine, in the hope of finding somebody who’d show him the transporter controls? And then? Storm Nirrti’s stronghold, nibble his way through force shields, bombard Jaffa with backpacks, and single-handedly free his team mates?

Not damn likely.

Nirrti hadn’t sent him back out here from the goodness of her heart. She’d sent him out here to spare herself the trouble of killing him personally.

Keep this up, and you’ll have accommodated her plans inside the next two hours, Jackson.

An insistent little voice told him to try and find Teal’c, but this idea was nearly as crazy. Teal’c was the proverbial needle in a planet-size haystack—if he was still alive. In light of last night’s events, Janet’s admission that she had lost him could be interpreted in any number of ways. The only sensible choice was to get back to the Stargate, find the DHD, bring help. Sometimes he hated sensible choices.

Slowly he turned and squinted at the blur of the ruined city spread out below; a sea of stone, unmoving and unmoved. Far in the east stone seemed to butt onto thin air. It had to be the temple where the Stargate was; it stood on a cliff rearing over the forest. To the north the terrain rose steeply, its highest point occupied by a fuzzy gray blob. If he were Nirrti, he’d camp out up there. Daniel filed the thought away for further examination. Southward, the gaps between buildings seemed to widen until they opened into one large space, lined by the city wall and the jungle beyond. Inset into the wall was what had to be a gate. Of course, at that distance, he was unable to tell a trolley from a trampoline, though on the whole a gate made more sense than either of the other two items.

Daniel decided to head south.

By the time he’d reached the bottom of the staircase, the sun had climbed above the rooftops and was teasing the back of his head. Flies started buzzing in the warm air, and somewhere to his right he heard the faint murmur of the waterfall. He turned left, out of the sun and into a narrow alley that, two corners on, began to meander wildly until he could no longer tell which way he was going or whether he’d doubled back on himself. Great. So when was this wide-open-space thing going to happen?

Ahead was a building that once might have been an inn of some sort. Behind a crumbling archway lay an inner court seamed by two tiers of galleries. Bamboo ladders connected the galleries to the ground and led up to a roof terrace, maybe high enough to overlook the area and recover his bearings.

Rungs creaking under his boots, small plumes of dust billowing from the twine that tied the ladders, he climbed to the top. The terrace was dotted with holes where joists had given and the ceiling collapsed into the rooms below. Carefully, Daniel picked a path to the parapet. He hadn’t gone back on himself. Not quite, anyway. He’d just ended up a lot further east than planned. His best option was to make it to the city wall and follow that to the gate.

“Turn tail and run,” he whispered bitterly. Knowing that it wasn’t true, that getting himself killed wouldn’t save Jack and Sam, didn’t help. It sure as hell felt like he was running—leaving them behind. And nothing to be—

The shot missed him by a whisker, passing close enough for a whiff of displaced air to brush his skin. Swearing, he dropped flat behind the parapet just as a second round tore past. This one would have hit him. Daniel crawled a couple of meters along the wall and cautiously inched his head over the edge. Number three grazed his ear, and he ducked with a gasp, dabbing at the trickle of blood on his neck. The shooter definitely was getting warm—and whatever else he or she might be, it wasn’t Jaffa. After five years of playing with the things against his better judgment, Daniel recognized the bark of a submachine gun when he heard it. He wouldn’t stake his life on the make and model, but that was beside the point. Jaffa didn’t use submachine guns—not even K’tano’s former mob, not anymore; Jack had repossessed the P90s.

Keeping his head down, Daniel shouted, “You’re shooting at a friendly! My name is Daniel Jackson. I’m a civilian advisor, US Air Force, but I don’t expect you to take my word for it. So I’m going to get up for you to take a look. I’d be grateful if you could suspend target practice for the time being.”

No reply. But no more potshots either. Hands raised, Daniel slowly came to a stand, expecting the shooter to show himself, too. Nope. Empty casements stared back at him from the building opposite, and the alley below was deserted.

“Hey! Where are you?”

It was instinct more than anything else. He spun around just in time to see a figure dashing from one doorway to the next. A split-second later another shot rang out, Daniel hit the deck, and the attacker scrambled for the entrance to the inn.

“Oh crap,” muttered Daniel. “Slick move, Jackson.”

The guy, whoever he was, meant business and didn’t give a damn about civilian advisors. For reasons best known to himself, he’d declared open season on archeologists. By now he also would have realized that his prey was unarmed. Not even a backpack to toss, Daniel thought ruefully.

He darted back to the roof hatch and froze at the creaking and groaning of bamboo on stone. Someone was coming up the ladder.

“Crap,” he muttered again. His only escape route had just been cut off.

Darting precariously between the voids in the terrace floor, counting off seconds in his head, he ran for the far side of the roof. Okay, now or never. If he left it too late, he’d be toast. Daniel dropped to his knees, slid toward one of the holes. From the edges jutted the remnants of beams, and here was hoping they weren’t too rotten to take his weight. He grabbed hold of the end of a joist and eased himself into the opening, legs dangling. Holding his breath, he let go.

And crashed hard onto the wooden floor. The drop had only been about four feet. Daniel had figured it’d be more, which skewed his landing and sent him staggering against the mildewed remains of a bed. In a cloud of dust and clatter, the bed frame collapsed under the impact. A heartbeat later the rapid thud of booted feet came from above, closing fast.

Daniel scrambled for the door, knowing the dust would settle, but not in time to conceal the recent upheaval. Out on the gallery he started running, not caring whether he could be heard now. It didn’t matter anymore. His trigger-happy playfellow would guess where he’d gone and could come bursting from any of these rooms at any moment.

The thought had barely formed when, in a shower of splintering wood, the shooter slammed through a door panel. In front of Daniel, not behind. For a startled second they looked at each other, then the man smiled. He was a Marine. A goddamn US Marine, so what the hell had happened to posse comitatus and all that? Of course, this wasn’t exactly US soil. And maybe this was the wrong moment to ask for clarification.

The muzzle of the submachine gun—an MP5, incidentally—lowered to point at Daniel’s chest, and the Marine chuckled. “Run, Mr. Civilian Advisor. Run.”

Daniel had no moral qualms about being shot in the back. Presenting the honorable front got you just as dead and quicker. He turned on his heel and hared back the way he’d come, the Marine’s laughter driving him like a gust. A hailstorm of rounds exploded around his feet. The son of a bitch was toying with him. Or not. The next burst went over Daniel’s head, too close to tell if it’d missed by accident or design. He kept running, bent low, arms curled over his head.

Idiot! Like that’s going to protect you!

As if to prove the point, two rounds in quick succession scraped his arms. Yelling, in rage rather than pain, he flung himself sideways through the nearest door. Mercifully, it led into a corridor rather than a guestroom. Maybe there was another wing. Preferably with an exit.

Daniel straightened up and sprinted down the gloomy hallway. More shots rang out from the gallery, and there was shouting, words drowned out by the cackle of the gun. Too bad, but if he was honest, he didn’t much feel like making conversation. Ahead loomed a set of three doorways. He ducked through the last one, almost sobbing with relief when it opened onto a dark, narrow staircase. There was a way out after all.

Two steps at a time, he hurtled down the stairs into a soot-blackened, windowless kitchen—and stuttered to a dead halt. If there had been a backdoor once, it was buried under a mountain of debris where the rear half of the room had collapsed. The only exit from the kitchen was the staircase. He fought down a rising tide of panic, tiptoed back to the bottom of the stairs. Maybe he’d have enough time to—No. His pal was coming.

Across the room lay the upturned husk of a clay stove. When he pushed the door open a half dozen shiny eyes stared at him maliciously and three rats—or what passed for rats in this place—scurried past him. Suppressing a shudder, Daniel backed into the oven on all fours and pulled the door shut behind him. The fit was claustrophobic, the stench sickening, his whole body ached, and he’d probably die in this hellhole. In about sixty seconds or so.

Heart racing, he tried to listen to the noises outside. A few squeals from the rats voicing their protest and then the creak of a loose floorboard on the stairs. His pal was coming alright. The footsteps were quiet, measured, made by someone in total control of the situation. All the guy had to do was rip open the oven door and turn Dr. Jackson into shish kebab.

The footsteps stopped. Daniel gritted his teeth. Under his right hand he felt something hard and jagged. An old bone perhaps, or a shard. His fingers closed around it. He’d gut the bastard or at least go out trying.

Sorry, Jack. Seems I was wrong. Or maybe it means that you’re—

The door flew open. His hand shot up and instantly was clamped in an iron grip. The owner of those relentless fingers crouched, peered into the oven.

“Daniel Jackson. I am most grateful to find you alive.” Teal’c’s face lit up in a rare, broad smile.

 

He looked like a caged animal, Mrityu thought, poised to strike and devious. He was a caged animal, without discipline, without the sense to save his strength, without the wisdom to submit to his goddess. After endlessly pacing its cage until its energy was spent and reduced to helpless inertia, the animal had retreated into silence, sitting on the floor, back pushed against the wall, refusing to accept any kind of hospitality. He would be brooding, scheming, underneath.

Mrityu deactivated the force shield and quietly slipped into the room, waiting until he took notice of her. When he did, the anger simmering in his eyes crumbled to incomprehension and the profound hurt of betrayal. The look haunted her more than she cared to admit, spoke to something—someone—she did not dare to reawaken. Though she was on her own for the moment, free of the radiant pressure in her mind, she knew that even the contemplation of misconduct might bring punishment.

And when has that ever stopped you before?

Not Lady Nirrti’s thoughts but a voice from deep within Mrityu herself. Frantically, she silenced it, wishing she could erase it, wishing she could avoid those dark, probing eyes. Why was he staring at her like that?

“Lady Nirrti wants to see you,” she said, hoping he would look away.

He didn’t.

“What did I do, Fraiser?” he asked. “I mean, I must have pissed you off somehow. It’s the only explanation I can come up with. So what was it? Cholesterol levels too high? Blood count off? What? I’d just like to know.”

She didn’t understand his questions. Wasn’t Lady Nirrti instructing him? Or perhaps he was slow to listen. Mrityu recalled that she herself had not truly grasped the meaning of the voice at first.

“Give it time,” she said, trying to sound encouraging. After all it wasn’t his fault. That look in his eyes made encouragement difficult, though. She dropped her gaze, noted that the bed hadn’t been slept in. “You should have rested.”

“Sir.”

“Excuse me?” Mrityu blinked.

“I still outrank you, Major. So it’s sir or Colonel or Colonel O’Neill to you. Any of the above’ll do nicely. Are we clear?”

“You’ll soon be given a new name.”

“Can’t wait,” he muttered. Eyes narrowing a fraction, he pushed himself up from the floor, slowly and clumsily. When he stood at last, he remained slightly stooped, arms crossed protectively in front of his chest. “What’s your name?”

“Mrityu,” she replied.

“Death.” His face twisted, whether in shock or anger she couldn’t tell. Struggling to keep his voice even, he asked, “She told you that’s what it means, right? Mrityu? Death.”

“You’re lying.” But the creature within wailed, because it recognized the truth in this—so many deaths. A silken drape brushed her shoulder as she backed away, and she flinched, ducked behind the flimsy fabric as though it could shield her. “You’re lying.”

“I think we both know who’s lying.” He took a step closer, swiped at a barrier of silk. “You and Teal’c got separated? Separated as in: you killed him?”

“No!” Another step, and she was holding on to the drape as if to steady herself. “I disobeyed. I couldn’t… I—”

“And Sam? She trusted you to help her.”

“Carter is fine!”

“Her name is Samantha. You call her Sam. She’s your friend. Your best friend.”

“No.” Her shoulders struck the wall. No more room to back off, and he still kept coming, and that buried thing, creature, in her mind was fighting her tooth and nail. Please, mistress, help! Silence. Only silence. Mrityu was beginning to feel cold, rime chilling her body from the inside out. “Don’t! Don’t come any closer!”

Two more steps. He wasn’t listening. “You missed the main event last night. Did you know Nirrti has ways of using a healing device that will hurt the other person? Sam eventually passed out. Before that she screamed a lot, though. First, do no harm. Is that what you were thinking of when you sold her out? And Daniel? And Teal’c? First do no harm. You swore an oath, Janet. That’s your name, by the way. Janet. Janet Fraiser and—”

“Stop it!” She flung herself against him with everything she had.

He staggered back against a low table, fought to regain his balance, lost, and slowly crumpled to his knees. For a while the only sound in the room were his gasps, low and shallow and never drawing enough air.

First, do no harm. First, do no harm. First…

“I warned you,” she whispered, shivering. “Why can’t you ever listen, sir?”

Waves of cold coursing through her, she edged closer, crouched beside him. He’d gone chalky white, sweat beading on his forehead, and she didn’t like what his breathing was doing. The bruised ribs shouldn’t cause him so much trouble, not after all this time. How did she know that? An exercise gone wrong. And he’d blamed himself. He was a friend, too. She gently clasped his shoulders.

“Your hands,” he panted. “Freezing.”

“Don’t talk. You think you can straighten up a little? I want to take a look at you.”

“I’m—”

“Peachy. Yes.”

“What?” His eyes flew open, and he caught her in that disconcerting gaze again. “Janet?”

It was easier to bear now. And harder in some ways, because she couldn’t be sure whether she’d be telling him the truth. “I don’t know, Colonel. And I don’t know how long it’ll last, so—”

“What did she do to you? Tell me, Janet. You’ve got to.”

“Don’t, sir. Please. Don’t say anything.”

“She’s nowhere in sight.” Of course he wouldn’t let it rest. He never did, did he?

“She doesn’t have to be. She can make me do things.” When she lifted his shirt and touched his bare skin, he flinched. Because her hands were cold. Or because he didn’t trust her any longer—and why should he? “I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’m starting to think it’s not your fault, Doc.”

The bruising was worse than she recalled. Maybe ribs were broken. No wonder he—

What are you doing? I asked you to bring him to me!

It cut into her like shards of ice, tightened around her mind, made her want to curl up and whimper. “Forgive me, mistress. I did not mean to—”

“Janet? Who are you talking to?” The Tauri’s eyes were on her, they hadn’t left, as though he thought he could keep the creature rampant just by staring at her.

There is no need for words! I told you this before. Do it again and you shall be punished.

I forgot, mistress, Mrityu stammered. I forgot.

What did you tell him?

Nothing. Nothing, mistress.

A lie. It was a lie. The creature had broken free. The creature had talked to the Tauri. She knew him. And if Lady Nirrti found out… Distract her. Distract her now.

The Tauri is injured, mistress. He requires healing, else the injury will worsen.

The silence that followed was intolerable. The Tauri kept saying things, but Mrityu barely heard him. At last the cold eased a fraction.

Bring him.

Yes, mistress. Yes.

“Janet? Don’t listen to her, Janet.” The Tauri’s hands were clasping her face, freezing her skin and the flesh underneath, holding her in place so that his eyes could haunt her at leisure. “Stay with me. Come on, Janet.”

“Let go of me!” she hissed.

“No. I need you, Janet. I need your help. Sam needs your help. If you help us, we can all get out—”

“Don’t ever touch me again!” She slapped his hands aside, wishing she could do the same to his gaze. Why didn’t she look away? Why? “Guards!”

The two Jaffa had been posted outside the room and arrived within seconds, and the Tauri finally found something other than her to hold his interest.

“Lady Nirrti wishes to see him. Bring him.” Mystified, Mrityu heard herself add, “But be careful. He is injured.”