CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

Apoptosis: Genetically programmed cell death.

 

God, this place was a dump! Frank Simmons cast another glance at the moon above his head. The pregnant misery wasn’t a moon, of course. It was the planet around which this dust ball revolved. Funny how, even centuries after Galilei and light-years across the galaxy, you still couldn’t help thinking in geocentric terms.

He’d already decided that gate travel was overrated and wished he’d stayed Earthside, especially given his injury. If he ever got his hands on Maybourne, he’d kill the bastard. Unfortunately, Maybourne and Hammond seemed to have dropped off the face of the moon, pun intended. The NID’s best guess was that they’d slipped across the border into Canada—like a pair of draft dodgers. The thought brought a sour grin. Not that Simmons believed for a moment this would be the end of it. Hammond wasn’t the guy to let things go, and Maybourne was a pain in the ass on principle.

While the golf cart supplied for people who couldn’t be expected to walk—himself, Crowley, and a couple of xenophysicians from Area 51—crawled from between the walls of the canyon and out into an arid plain that made North Dakota look alpine, Simmons’ mind flipped back to the so-called calibration test. Something about it had smelled fishy, if only because he knew the tech sergeant who’d shown up with the barrels. He’d interviewed the man, one of Hammond’s special cronies. Hell, what was he thinking? They all were. Including the meek-looking nerd at the dialing computer who’d provided information on P5C-12—some piece of rock with an unbreathable atmosphere that wobbled around in the general direction of Alpha Centauri. Very plausible and well-documented, except there was no way of proving that P5C-12 had in fact been the destination of the oil drums.

Anyhow, it was a moot point now, wherever the damn barrels had gone. If Hammond stayed out of the picture—and Frank Simmons fully intended to ensure that the he did—the days of the sergeant and the nerd and the entire herd of Hammond fans at the SGC would be numbered. With SG-1 and the good General having disappeared so tragically, there was nothing to stand in the way of progress. Fate was a funny thing, Simmons reflected. The rigged USMC/Air Force exercise—originally intended as a springboard for shoehorning the Marines past Stargate Command and into a place where they could operate according to NID requirements—had snowballed in ways nobody had ever dreamed of. One of the advantages was that the problem of communicating with M3D 335 was a thing of the past—though, admittedly, Simmons’ presence on the moon now was down to curiosity more than anything else. He wanted to see his Jaffa.

Ahead, a cluster of miniature huts and fences that formed the camp grew steadily larger. One of the Area 51 scientists perched in the back of the golf cart peered at it and offered his expert opinion. “Bit unprotected, isn’t it?”

Crowley, who was driving, gave a snort and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “It’s perfectly protected. Visibility works both ways. In the unlikely event that anyone actually gets past security at the Stargate, the guys in camp’ll see them coming from the literal mile off. The only way of dropping in unannounced is from the air, and that isn’t going to happen here. The Marine Corps owns this moon.”

The xenodoc sniffed, unconvinced, but he didn’t offer any further strategic insights. His colleague, a hatchet-faced brunette, sighed in ennui. Simmons half expected her to chant Are we there yet?

Ten minutes later they were there, and Crowley displayed the good sense to nip Norris’ welcoming ceremony in the bud. “Take it as read, Colonel,” he barked when Norris threatened to protest. “We want to see the men who have completed survival training.”

He should have said successfully, Simmons thought. They’d all completed it. Some were just deader than others.

“Yessir!” Norris snapped, bright red in the face. Then he turned to the sixty or so Marines lined up on the square. “Everyone fall out, except Alpha platoon.”

Men started to scramble, scaring up a cloud of dust. Some headed for the mess barrack to gossip over coffee; others hung around the fringes of the square to watch, probably jealous of the men who’d been singled out. His Jaffa, the first step toward assuring Earth’s safety and the continuation of the American way of life.

There were twenty of them, plus an additional four on guard duty at the gate. Better than projected. The way this was going, they could start assembling Beta platoon before the week was out. Still, the twenty men who made up most of Alpha seemed adrift in the vast central square of the camp. Simmons knew damn well that he’d been entertaining visions of an army and that visions rarely corresponded to reality, but the frustration was there and nagging. So far they’d sent out almost a hundred Marines and lost most of them. But, as he’d repeatedly tried to persuade himself, a twenty-five percent success rate wasn’t to be sneezed at. Well, nearer thirty percent, if you figured in Nirrti’s share. And the fact of the matter was, before Nirrti had come on the plan, they’d had a failure rate of one hundred percent. Those were figures you couldn’t argue with.

Van Leyden, the NID agent in charge on the moon, slipped in behind him. “Nice of you to stop by, Colonel. Looking good, aren’t they?”

Superficially the men looked no different, except perhaps for the fact that they were glowing with health. Even the three who had returned from “survival training” only yesterday. After what they’d been through, they should at least show a few scrapes and bruises, but none had so much as a hangnail.

“Yeah,” Simmons agreed. What else was he supposed to say? That he wished they wouldn’t have to pay in Jaffa? “Any complaints from our good friend, Lady Nirrti, regarding her reimbursement?”

“According to the reports she haggled like a bazaar dealer, but in the end she agreed to twenty percent. No histrionics since.”

That was a surprise. From what Simmons had witnessed, Nirrti would give up her lifeblood rather than her histrionics. And a Goa’uld actually honoring a bargain? Rare, by all accounts. The rarity being one of the reasons why Conrad was back in his cage—throwing straw from it, for all Simmons cared. “You’re sure?”

“Yep. Master Sergeant Macdonald is our liaison at the other end, and he’s in charge of seeing that she sticks to the deal. Macdonald says she kept six of the guys. I can give you their names, if you like. I can also give you the casualty list. It’s long, but that was to be expected. Only the very best made the cut. These guys are good to start with, and in order to make it they had to go up against each other.”

With a little persuasion courtesy of Nirrti’s technical expertise. Which meant she could have tried her hand at persuading subjects other than those designated. Simmons had a fleeting memory of an infatuated young farm boy. “Is Macdonald aboveboard?” he asked.

It got a laugh from van Leyden. “You mean did she turn him? No way, Colonel. Macdonald’s third generation USMC. His old man’s sergeant major to the Commandant. Nobody turns Macdonald. Besides, I’m in regular contact with him. I’d have noticed if something were off.”

“Let’s hope so.” Simmons still wasn’t entirely convinced. Then again, why waste time questioning things that actually worked out? He directed his attention back to the square.

Crowley was holding forth about what an honor this was and how Alpha platoon would perform to the greater glory of God and country. The men seemed to believe it. Just as well. Once Crowley had finished pontificating, Norris took over to handle the mundane. Alpha platoon was to report to sickbay for medicals. The doctors were expecting them. Simmons wondered briefly what Norris would say if he knew the real specialty of the doctors newly arrived from Area 51.

“Norris is developing a spine,” van Leyden whispered. “He’s been giving me hell over that incident with O’Neill and Jackson.”

“He knows they never made it back Earthside?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. But he was pretty shocked when things got rougher than absolutely necessary. Our boys still have problems gauging their own strength. Anyway, he could cause trouble down the line.”

“Well, in that case I’d suggest another unfortunate gate malfunction.”

A warm breeze chased dust devils across the square, playing around the men’s feet as Alpha platoon fell out in the direction of the shack that housed the sickbay. Crowley ambled over to Simmons and van Leyden.

“Pleased with what you’ve seen, Colonel?”

“Yeah,” Simmons grunted, unwilling to engage in a back-patting fest just yet.

“So what are your plans? Staying around for a while?”

“General, my urge to sleep in tents is something I learned to control years ago. First time at summer camp, if I remember correctly. So, no, I won’t be staying. I’ll wait for the preliminary results of the medicals and then head back to the SGC.”

“Suit yourself.” Crowley gave a shrug and pointed in the direction of the mess. “How about a coffee while you’re waiting?”

Simmons’ preferred blend was dark-roasted Sumatra, freshly ground, which the mess probably didn’t serve. On the other hand, accepting the invitation definitely beat standing out here and admiring the orange-bulge-set. “Thanks.” He started heading for the mess building. “By the way, General?”

“Yes?”

“That idea we discussed?”

“And which one of your many ideas would that be, Colonel?” Crowley chuckled and sneaked a glance at van Leyden, inviting applause. Van Leyden knew better than doing him the favor.

“The one that’ll take care of the little problem that’s been accumulating at the training site.”

“Would that be the problem that’s been aggravated since your boy van Leyden here had the snot beaten out of an Air Force officer and a civilian before marooning them on our playground?” Apparently, the general didn’t take kindly to his jokes being ignored.

“Look, General, let’s not get into a pissing contest, shall we? Otherwise I’d see myself forced to remind you how this mess started.” Simmons smiled. “We’ve got to test the men one way or another, so they might as well do something productive instead of setting new records for one-armed pushups.”

“Alright, alright!” Some of the Marines still loitering on the square were stealing curious looks. Realizing that he had an audience, Crowley lowered his voice. “I never said I didn’t agree with you. Better not to leave any loose ends. When do you want to stage it?”

“The sooner, the better. Tonight. And General?”

“What?”

“If Alpha comes across the SGC’s Jaffa, they’re to take him alive. We may need him.”

 

“Daniel Jackson. I insist that you take a rest!” This time Teal’c seemed to mean it. He caught a fistful of Daniel’s shirt and yanked hard. “We cannot afford to lose our way because you are ailing. You shall rest and you shall eat.”

“We cannot afford to waste time on lunch breaks!” Admittedly, his protest would have had more impact if Daniel hadn’t listed in the direction of that fistful of shirt.

Teal’c caught him and safely deposited him on the ground. “It will be dinner break.”

“That wasn’t fair,” muttered Daniel, wondering if the hallway would stop bobbing any time soon. It felt like getting back on dry land after a round-the-world sailing trip. Maybe sitting down wasn’t such a bad move after all. The two gunshot wounds didn’t trouble him; they were mere scratches. His head was different matter. It hurt to the point of Daniel occasionally losing what was left of his vision. The latest such incident had prompted Teal’c’s little attack, which was pointless anyway. Daniel had no appetite whatsoever. He closed his eyes instead, knowing he couldn’t risk falling asleep.

The echo of soft footsteps told him that the two Marines had caught up, but he didn’t bother to look. Instead he listened to a rustle, pop, rattle, and glug—at least until somebody nudged his shoulder too insistently to ignore. Daniel looked.

Sergeant Lambert was crouched in front of him, holding out a canteen and a couple of ten-megaton Tylenol to his erstwhile victim. “Take those. They should work. I’m real sorry, Dr. Jackson.”

“Thanks, Sergeant. And quit apologizing.”

Not having a clue of what Daniel had said, Lambert nodded. “Sorry, sir. I mean it.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Daniel swallowed the Tylenol and grabbed Lambert’s sleeve.

“What, sir?”

Using the canteen like a gavel, Daniel started tapping the man’s arm: -.-. .- -. .. - .- .-.. .-. . .- -.. -.-- .-.-.- .. - ... --- -.-

“c-a-n i-t a-l-r-e-a-d-y. i-t-s o-k,” Lambert spelled out. Then he grinned. “Not bad. When did you learn that?”

At age seven in the Valley of the Kings, because the second-hand radios mom and dad had didn’t work worth a damn underground The prospect of having to tap this out in Morse code sent the hallway bobbing again, so Daniel simply shrugged and smiled. It probably made him look enigmatic.

Corporal Wilkins had dug four MREs from his pack. Now he peeled out the candy bars and thrust them at Daniel, who accepted despite his lack of appetite. Sugar always worked. It might actually keep him going for another twenty minutes or so. Munching chocolate, he studied the corridor.

They’d all agreed that approaching the fortress out in the open would be a very bad idea, so he’d led Teal’c and the two Marines back into the maze of rooms, hallways, and subterranean passages he’d found yesterday. Had it only been yesterday? He was losing track of time. Another bad idea.

For about six hours they’d been heading steadily north, slowed down by dead ends that forced them into an endless succession of detours. Currently they sat in what looked like another cul-de-sac, which was lousy news. They were fast running out of options on this level, and doubling back to try their luck on the floor above held little appeal—or hope.

Like everywhere, the walls were crumbling. Dislodged by gigantic roots that had squeezed their way into the corridor, masonry had fallen and lay in moss covered heaps on the ground, creating an obstacle course—not improved by the darkness. This far in, there were no more mirrors to channel daylight, and they were dependent on the Marines’ flashlights. The batteries wouldn’t last forever, though. Unless they found an entrance to the fortress soon, they’d have to fashion torches—but maybe not just yet.

Staring at the roots, something struck Daniel as odd. He wolfed down the remainder of the second candy bar, scrunched up the wrapper, and groped his way up the wall and to his feet. The Tylenol seemed to have kicked in, but the hallway was still bobbing. Never mind. He’d marched through earthquakes before. Navigating from root to root, he stumbled the five yards to the end of the corridor.

“Daniel Jackson. What are you doing?” Teal’c used the exquisitely cautious tones of someone dealing with a raving lunatic.

“Come have a look at this!” Knowing what it would do to his head, Daniel resisted the temptation to laugh. “I should have seen it right away!”

It being the conspicuous absence of roots drilling though the wall that closed off the tunnel. More importantly, either side of the blockage was a figure carved in the stone.

“What is it?” asked Teal’c from behind, still sounding therapeutic—possibly to do with the fact that there was nothing to look at. Though that, very likely, had been the point.

“Speak friend and enter.“ Daniel whispered ecstatically. Gandalf in the Mines of Moria, indeed.

“I do not understand.” Teal’c’s tone was graduating from therapy to Diazepam.

“It’s from a book, Teal’c. These people are trying to open a closed gate, and Speak friend and enter is the only clue they’ve got toward the password.”

“I see. Unless I am mistaken, the password was mellon, meaning friend.” At Daniel’s one-eyed stare of disbelief, Teal’c looked just about as smug as he could manage. Very, in other words. “I have seen the movie.”

“Uhuh.”

“You believe that this is a similar mechanism?”

“I believe it’s a door,” Daniel replied. “See those two figures. They’re dikpals.” Possessed by the sudden, inescapable notion of what Jack would make of that name, he brought his face back under control and pointed at the carvings. “It means guardians or gatekeepers—and they wouldn’t guard just nothing. There’s got to be an entrance here. Between you and our friends, we should be able to open it.”

Like rubberneckers who’d arrived at an accident site too late, the Marines had joined them without understanding what all the excitement was about. Wilkins was the first to twig on. When Teal’c leveled his staff weapon at the wall, the corporal placed a restraining hand on his arm.

“Hang on. I’m thinking we don’t wanna raise a whole lot of noise unless it’s unavoidable. See this?”

“There’s a crack there?” And no, Daniel couldn’t see it, though that wasn’t entirely surprising. He watched Wilkins’ fingers outline a six by six foot square on the wall.

“Might as well try pushing,” the corporal suggested.

They did. Two United States Marines and one Jaffa were pushing that wall to within an inch of its life, and nothing moved. Teal’c longingly eyed his staff weapon. Not yet. Daniel reached for the nearest piece of metal, which happened to be Lambert’s canteen again, unclipped it from the sergeant’s belt, and started knocking along the invisible square Wilson had drawn. Down the left vertical, the sound changed pitch. The wall was thinner there, which only made sense—unless it had some kind of bevel, the door couldn’t open. Never underestimate a sugar high.

“It’s got a central hinge,” Daniel guessed. “Push on the right.”

Three brawny men applied their combined weight to the right half of the panel. Without so much as a creak, the massive stone slab began to pivot until it stood parallel to the corridor walls, leaving a two-and-a-half foot gap on either side.

“Open Sesame,” said Sergeant Lambert.

“Wrong story,” Daniel remarked under his breath and turned to Teal’c. “We’ve got to leave Wilkins and Lambert here. In there they’ll be at too much of a disadvantage—besides, we need somebody to keep the door open.”

It took a while to persuade the Marines that it wasn’t an issue of trust, but eventually they bowed to common sense. Lambert even went as far as offering Daniel his sidearm. The offer was declined in Morse, complete with an explanation of how Teal’c’s staff weapon and zat would be quite sufficient. The two men, still grumbling, settled in behind the door, and Daniel and Teal’c slipped through one of the gaps into what Daniel hoped was Nirrti’s fortress.

At first glance it was a dead ringer for what they’d encountered on the other side; walls in need of repainting, rubble-strewn corridors, tree roots in search of space. But the tunnel was leading steadily uphill now, there was less water damage, and at last the roots gave up, too. After about an hour of silently creeping up the passage, Teal’c froze and snapped off the flashlight. Darkness dropped like a lead weight, but once his vision had adjusted, Daniel could make out a faint bright glimmer—miles away it seemed.

“Someone is ahead,” whispered Teal’c. “I can hear footsteps and voices.”

Daniel had long given up on jumping at this type of announcement from Teal’c. Jaffa hearing was at least twice as acute as anything mere humans had to offer. “Any idea how many?”

“Not yet. We are too far away still. How do you wish to proceed?”

How do I wish to proceed? It was too dark to see Teal’c’s face and determine if, maybe, this was a Jaffa joke.

“Daniel Jackson?”

Okay. No joke. So who had died and put Dr. Jackson in command? And that was a very nasty thought. Having decisions forced on him wasn’t a happy thing either—probably dreamed up by some cosmic force that wanted to have fun at Daniel’s expense. Something about the shoe being on the other foot. What was it Jack had said apropos of bad calls?

Of course Daniel had done it before. Digs with SG-11, meet-and-greets with SG-9, he’d gone undercover—hell, to all intents and purposes he’d led the Abydonians. But that didn’t mean he had to like treading that fine line between reason and instinct or embrace this other lives depend on my every move tactical stuff. The kind of stuff Jack did every day of his life. The kind of stuff Teal’c had done. And look what it did to them. So, unless it was to teach him a redundant object lesson at the worst possible time, why would Teal’c—

“It is merely expedient, Daniel Jackson. Under the circumstances we both shall fare better if I supply the brawn to your brain.”

“It’s not like you’re stupid, Teal’c.”

“I am not. You, however, are not very brawny at this moment in time.”

“Point taken. Though I’m sure if you thought about it, you could put it little more bluntly.”

“Without doubt. How do you wish to proceed?”

Ah, yes. The million dollar question hadn’t gone away, had it? Dr. Jackson, how do you wish to proceed? Apart from sauntering into a Goa’uld Shangri-La overrun with Jaffa clones and asking politely if they minded handing back your team mates, washed and pressed if it wasn’t too much trouble.

Daniel’s instinct was to charge in and free Jack, thus putting someone with the necessary training and experience back in charge. Reason told him it was a crap idea—and yes, he did hate treading that fine line. Jack was the one Nirrti wanted, which meant two things. First, he’d be under heavy guard—too heavy for two lightly armed men—and, second, he probably was safe for the time being. Probably.

Other lives depend on my every move.

It was a hell of a choice. “We try and find Sam,” Daniel said softly and then, driven by some weird urge to justify himself, rattled on, “She’s the technical wiz. So if I’m right about that transmitter, and if we’re going to put that thing out of commission, we’ll need her expertise. Besides, she’s—”

“I believe it is a wise decision, Daniel Jackson.”

“So what are we waiting for?”

And that was that.

 

Neon-bright streaks—stars stretched to infinity in hyper-space—rushed past the tel’tac’s cockpit window. Hammond watched them with something that bordered on a five-year-old’s sense of awe and a good deal of humility. Only a handful of Earthlings, for want of a better word, had ever seen this. But it didn’t stop man from using pilfered technology he couldn’t even begin to comprehend to build a vessel capable of these speeds. Hubris? Or the desire to defend a planet that, polluted and overpopulated, still was the only home he had? Maybe a little bit of both. And if that was the case, did George Hammond really have a right to judge Simmons and the NID?

The hell he didn’t. He wasn’t quite that humble.

“We shall be leaving hyperspace soon.” Bra’tac glanced up at him, hands cupped around the navigational controls of the tel’tac. It looked like he was cradling a glowing basketball. “You may wish to sit, Hammond of Texas.”

“Why?” Maybourne asked suspiciously, white-knuckled fingers clutching the armrests of his seat. He wasn’t really taking to this deep space thing and had been subdued ever since he’d first clapped eyes on the small transport ship.

Hammond made it to a seat with less than a second to spare. Engines roaring in protest, the tel’tac gave a sharp lurch, and the bright streaks outside the window abruptly contracted into shiny pinpricks. Harry gave a soft groan and closed his eyes.

“That is why,” Bra’tac replied after the fact and in a tone that suggested smugness lessons were an integral part of Jaffa training. Teal’c had it down to a fine art, too.

Seemingly ponderous at sub-light speed, the tel’tac entered the system that was their destination. The second planet was a gas giant and, like Jupiter, had trapped more than its fair share of moons. The sixth of those moons was M3D 335, and it was rising; a small beige crescent that peeked over the orange and purple striations of its primary’s atmosphere and slowly rounded into a disc, still beige and still unremarkable—but for what had happened there.

What had happened there—or what Hammond thought had happened—was the reason that he and Bra’tac had agreed not to use the Stargate. The trip in the tel’tac might take longer, but the fact that they could drop in unannounced and—thanks to the cloaking device—unobserved more than made up for the delay.

“Do you wish me to approach the moon’s Chappa’ai, Hammond of Texas?”

“Yes, Master Bra’tac. It’s as good a place as any to start looking.”

“Indeed.”

Bra’tac slipped the little ship into a retrograde orbit around M3D 335, and they slowly spiraled toward the surface and the night side of the moon. There was no cloud cover, only a fine haze that softened what few contours the landscape showed. This was one heck of a boring piece of rock, Hammond decided and watched the holographic display in front of Bra’tac instead. Not that he could make any sense of the Goa’uld glyphs that flicked through thin air. His best guess was that the tel’tac’s sensors were scanning for naquadah. Given that a Stargate’s rings were made entirely of the metal, it was one sure-fire way of locating the gate.

Up ahead the endless plains suddenly were broken up by some sort of elevation, craggy, black enough to make the evening gloom seem bright, and jutting from the ground like Ayers Rock—only much, much larger. At some distance to the east of it, between the ship and the range of cliffs, twinkled lights.

“There’s the camp,” Hammond said, rising from his seat again.

The tel’tac banked south to bring them in directly above the scattered collection of huts and tents.

“Looks quiet enough,” offered Maybourne. Now that terra firma was in sight, he obviously felt that it was safe to leave his chair and had stepped up to the window.

“Yeah,” Hammond muttered. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected—Goa’uld motherships, factory-size labs, the island of Dr Moreau—but all he saw was a thoroughly average training camp. “Let’s find the gate.”

Bra’tac didn’t acknowledge, but the camp fell away beneath them and the tel’tac sped for the cliffs, sniffing after naquadah. Within moments the rock face had grown into a humungous obsidian wall.

“Dead end,” Maybourne said dryly.

“It is not.” Bra’tac launched a pitying glance in his direction. “Observe, Maybourne.”

Presumably Sam Carter could have explained how this worked. George Hammond, on the other hand, didn’t have the first idea—not that it bothered him too much, above and beyond the sudden covetous realization of how useful this gadget would be for long-range reconnaissance. The view from the window was replaced by a three-dimensional topographic skeleton of the area ahead. Tightly packed contour lines shone bright green and, about a klick north of their current position, retracted sharply into a gorge that sliced the cliffs in half.

“Very nice.” As the map winked out, Harry gave a grin. “Listen, Master, if you got any of these to spare, I know some people who’d be happy to—”

“Cut it out,” snapped Hammond.

It got him a sour stare, but Maybourne stopped wheeler-dealing for the time being. Without comment, Bra’tac shifted his hands over the surface of the basketball. The ship banked again and headed for the mouth of the gorge, climbing all the way to hug the top of the cliffs and turn east, following the canyon below. Seconds later, the tel’tac swept out over a sizeable crater and hovered, silently and invisibly, some fifty meters above the gate.

Beneath, a platoon-strength group of Marines stood lined up in orderly rows of two, clearly waiting to embark and clearly not expecting a free ride. In addition to Spaz-12s and rifles, each pair carried a grenade launcher. One of four men who seemed to constitute the guard force at the gate stepped in front of the DHD and began to dial.

“Where the hell are they off to?” asked Maybourne. “Kabul?”

“Unlikely,” Hammond murmured absently, squinting at the DHD. “I can’t see a damn thing.”

Bra’tac’s fingers slid over the controls, and the image in the window jumped closer—or so it seemed. Trying to ignore the knot of worry in his gut, Hammond stared at the brightly lit glyphs around the red centerpiece. “Earth,” he said softly. “They’re going back to the SGC.”

“With that kind of gear? Are they planning to stage a palace revolution? I mean—”

“Hammond of Texas,” Bra’tac interrupted, sounding a little vague. “You may wish to look at the Chappa’ai.”

Vagueness in Bra’tac was enough of a novelty to make Hammond take up the suggestion. At first it didn’t register, but when it did, he let out a low, slow whistle. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured under his breath.

The gate was spinning for its third lock. The second one, the one Hammond had just about caught, had been Auriga. It should have been Cetus. The third chevron engaged—on Lynx instead of Centaurus. Although the DHD showed the coordinates for Earth, the gate itself was dialing somewhere else entirely. The Marines below were either blissfully unaware of the situation—or fully aware of circumstances General Hammond had never been briefed on; they embarked briskly and without hesitation, pair after pair stepping into the event horizon and traveling—where?

“Carter was right,” Harry said. “It’s malfunctioning.”

“I do not believe it is.” Bra’tac didn’t offer any further insights, and it was impossible to tell whether he contradicted Maybourne for the heck of it or whether there was something else on his mind.

Below, the last pair of Marines mounted the dais. George Hammond was staring at the gate with the kind of desperate intensity that made your eyes water. Then the men disappeared, the wormhole collapsed, and the chevrons winked out.

“I didn’t catch the first glyph, but I’ve got the rest of the address,” Hammond announced.

“Indeed, so have I.” Bra’tac flashed a sly smile, fingers gliding across the controls again. The tel’tac’s onboard systems played back a holographic image of seven glyphs.

Hammond wrestled down a growl and checked if Harry was entertaining any further notions of acquiring contraband technology. In fact, the ex-colonel wasn’t. He was studying the gate and the surrounding area.

As if he’d noticed Hammond’s stare, he suddenly turned. “Four guards at the gate. That’s a bit light. Unless—”

“—the guards are Jaffa,” Hammond finished for him.

“These men are not Jaffa.” Bra’tac’s dark eyes glittered with a mix of pride and righteous indignation. “You are Jaffa here and here”—gnarled fingers tapped the old warrior’s head and heart—“and it takes years upon years of training to truly understand this. You may become Jaffa without a symbiote, but a symbiote alone will not make you Jaffa.

“However, I should not indulge myself. At one hundred and thirty-seven years of age and with these old bones aching, teaching sometimes seems more attractive than fighting.” The shrewd glance he threw at Hammond gave the lie to that confession—Bra’tac could be as coy as a maiden aunt and obviously enjoyed the effect. Even when it was slightly marred by an agile leap from the pilot’s seat. “Jaffa! Kree r

The door to the cargo compartment slid open with a promptitude that suggested Bra’tac’s men had been standing right behind it, rigidly at attention, shin guards spit-shined to a luster. Contemplating his disembowelment, no doubt, Harry retreated to the farthest corner of the cockpit. Bra’tac pretended not to notice and began to issue a clipped string of orders in Goa’uld.

Hammond felt a momentary twinge of sympathy for Harry. It passed when he remembered Teal’c, stolidly submitting to Maybourne’s threat of using him as a lab rat. Had he considered it just punishment for his betrayal of Apophis? Or had he known it would never happen, because his trust in Jack O’Neill had been complete even then?

The memories spun away, scattered by a hard hand slapping Hammond’s back. “Observe,” Bra’tac said and turned him back to the window.

The glass—no, it couldn’t be glass, Hammond reminded himself—the clear pane darkened to the charcoal tint of a celebrity limo’s passenger windows, and from the cargo hold came an oddly rhythmic hum and a surge of light. He would have looked had Bra’tac’s hand on his shoulder not stopped him. In front of the gate five metal circles—like miniature Stargates—seemed to pop from the ground, stacking on top of each other and infusing with sudden radiance. A ring transporter. Hammond was aware of the technology, of course, but he’d never seen it for himself.

The cloverleaf of Marines had sprung apart, diving into cover behind the DHD and the dais. As the rings whapped out of existence again, apprehensive faces, MP5s glued to cheeks, peered from the respective hideouts. The weapons were trained on the object the transporter had delivered, a small silvery sphere sitting harmlessly in the dust. George Hammond could relate to silver-sphere-o-phobia. A similar globe, inhabited by sentient bacteria of all things, had nailed Jack to the gate room wall and just about killed him. Though this one seemed to be of a different variety, and if he was right, it—

The little ball exploded into brutal brilliance—even the tinted window couldn’t dim it completely—and if such nuclear brightness had an acoustic equivalent, Hammond was hearing it now, though tamped by distance and the tel’tac’s hull. If it felt like this inside the ship, just how bad would it be it out there? Legends claimed a banshee’s shriek could kill a person. Hammond decided he believed it.

Outside, the Marines were reeling, eyes scrunched shut, hands clapped over ears, weapons discarded, mouths gaping in screams that remained inaudible under the noise. Within moments the men collapsed, crumpling like rag dolls while the light faded and the shrieking stilled.

“Are they dead?” Hammond asked in a dry-throated rasp, suspecting the answer but needing to make sure nonetheless.

“They are not,” replied Bra’tac. “It was a stun grenade.”

“Flash-bang for grownups.” Harry’s enthusiastic tone was at odds with the wistful look he shot Hammond, correctly assuming that the grenades were off-limits, too.

“Come quickly. We cannot wait until they revive or reinforcements arrive.”

Bra’tac shooed them into the cargo hold and, together with four of his Jaffa, into position for the ring transporter. It was a snug fit, and the air buzzed with the smell of men sweating pre-battle adrenaline—though, if they were lucky, there would be no battle. Not yet, at any rate.

Men and smell and anticipation fractured to nothing. A ring transporter worked along the same principles as the Stargate, Sam Carter had said. Sounded about right, except the experience was a little less disorientating, a little less chilly. Like pictures changing in a slide-show, the stuffy cargo hold morphed into the crater around the gate and tepid air, with only a brief moment of blackness in between.

The Marines were out cold, draped around the dais and the DHD. Bra’tac crouched by the nearest man, a faintly Mediterranean looking hulk. Two quick slices with a knife exposed the Marine’s midriff, and for a second Bra’tac recoiled, shoulders stiffening. Then he slipped his fingers into the pouch and teased the symbiote from its womb. Blindly searching for something—a host?—the black, spiky head undulated over the Marine’s stomach, sniffing the air until it withdrew again—not soon enough for Hammond’s liking.

“Jeez,” groaned Harry, voice strangled with revulsion.

Bra’tac rose with an awkwardness that, for once, betrayed his age and rapped out a command, sending his troops into a flurry of activity. “This man is weak,” he remarked grimly, turning to Hammond. “We must make haste. Come.”

While his Jaffa began to tie up the unconscious Marines, Bra’tac headed for the DHD in a whirl of black wool and worry. Reaching the device, he dropped to his knees and opened an inspection hatch under the dialing table. “See?” he asked curtly.

George Hammond didn’t. “What am I looking at?”

“These”—Bra’tac pointed at an array of colored crystals that gleamed dismally in the jaundiced light of the planet—“have been switched. That is why the symbols do no longer correspond.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Worst thing you could do.” Harry shook his head, heading off the reply. “Four missing guards will leave them guessing, but if you fix that they’ll know that we know.”

“Your shol’va is right, Hammond of Texas.” You had to look twice to spot it, but Bra’tac was actually grinning a little. “Undoing the damage would reveal more than we want to reveal. By dialing the address for the Tauri, we can follow those warriors. If your information is correct, we shall find your people and Teal’c there.”

“Alright.” Hammond nodded slowly, then jerked his chin at the Marines who, bound and gagged and hovered over by Bra’tac’s men, now lay side by side like a row of corncobs in a produce stall. “What about them?”

“They will be brought aboard the tel’tac. Two of my men will guard them.”

Which left Hammond with Bra’tac, four Jaffa, and Harry Maybourne whose support was capricious, to say the least. Not exactly the stuff of conquests, but it would have to be enough. Without another word, George Hammond stepped to the DHD and dialed the coordinates for Earth.