CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

The last thing Sam remembered, though she couldn’t recall how or why, was drowning in pain, and she gathered that memory and put it where she couldn’t see it. She’d take it out, dust it off, and analyze it later, but right now other stuff probably was higher up on the agenda.

Like where the hell she was.

Unwilling to move just yet, she patted around and, much to her surprise, found soft, dry surfaces. That ruled out the jungle, which had a habit of being either hard and damp or squishy and sodden. It also was notable for a shortage of beds, and she was lying in a bed. Plus, she no longer reeked of bacterial rot, hell hog dung, and God knew what else. Somebody had bathed her, put her into clean clothes—clean sheets at the very least.

None of which explained where the hell she was.

Her eyes had drifted shut again while she wasn’t paying attention, and now she forced herself into another effort to open them. Lids scraped over eyeballs coated with ground glass, but aside from that she was feeling better than she had in days. Less feverish, less woozy. Her leg didn’t hurt, and that was very welcome news.

Of course it still didn’t explain where the hell she was.

The room was on the smallish side, filled with the spicy, resiny scent of wooden wall panels and ceilings. No windows, though light filtered in through an open door and a couple of carved screens, inset into the wall and separating the chamber from the hallway outside. The carvings looked familiar. Figures. Daniel had called them Baklava, Balaclava, and Meyer. Or something. She probably was hanging around Colonel O’Neill too much.

The Colonel.

Daniel.

Events crashed in on her like a collapsing roof and yanked her up from the bed, bolt-upright amid a swirling cloud of fear and panic. No, not panic. You can’t afford panic, Major! Concentrate on the situation.

She was the sole occupant of the room—no more than she’d expected—and the hallway seemed deserted. Okay, this could officially be declared weird. Unless she’d skipped a page, she should be held prisoner, in some state-of-the-art Goa’uld facility with a bunch of Jaffa (identical or otherwise) clomping up and down outside the cell. Instead, open doors and a bed. The latter had been a godsend, and the former she wasn’t going to quibble with. High time to check out the neighborhood.

The sit-up had caused no side-effects, so she probably was alright to get up. Sam flung back the cover, a wispy sheet of silk and merely perfunctory in the heat, stood and toppled over, pole-axed too suddenly to break the fall. Her shoulder and hip took the brunt, slamming into an unforgiving stone floor with enough force to make her teeth rattle.

For a few seconds she just lay there, dazed, then she contracted into a curl, whimpering softly when the movement jarred parts of her body that didn’t want to be jarred ever again. Cheek pressed against the coolness of the tiles, she groped through the fog in her brain, trying to think, because that at least didn’t require any form of motion. What had happened just now?

… gravity will win, because that’s what gravity does…

Physics 101.

But gravity can only win when the system’s out of balance. She hadn’t been out of balance, had she? Sat up straight, both feet firmly on the ground, both—

Both?

She couldn’t remember because, once you’d learned to walk, it was just one of the things you did without giving it a second thought, like breathing. Of course breathing was different in that it was a reflex and didn’t have to be learned, so—

Quit stalling.

One palm pressed against cool stone, Sam eased herself over, the skin on her back spiking into goose-bumps where it touched the floor. T-shirt shrunk in the wash? She slid her hands over her chest and realized that she was wearing some kind of crop-top, tight-fitting and embroidered. Last time she’d worn something along those lines, she’d ended up in a harem. Fingers glided on across a bare midriff feeling warm and little sweaty, but no longer fever-hot. Just below the waist, more fabric, light and loose and silky. A sari. Cute. She’d blend right in with Nirrti’s cronies.

Nirrti.

Time to get going.

Deciding to ignore the order, her hands kept exploring, and her right leg was in collusion. The knee bent, pulled up, for her fingers to feel taut muscle under the silk. All present and correct, and it really didn’t seem necessary to continue the study, but her body was determined to do its own thing. Left leg. The bad leg. Better not to do anything too wild. Gently. Gently now. Her hand brushed a hip, reached down, found a thigh, angled for the knee, clutched a fistful of empty silk.

“No.”

The terror that had been spinning in shiny whorls ever since the fall—from grace, from all that defined her life—cascaded up her throat, stifling a need to howl, turning it into soft keening, the sound of an animal trapped. She’d known, of course, from the instant she’d lost her balance; just as she’d known that it would have to come to this. But she’d wanted it to happen on her terms, be there, be awake when it happened, so she could find a way of dealing with it. Nirrti had taken that from her, too, like she’d taken everything else—Janet, Teal’c, Daniel, the Colonel.

No wonder the room had been left unlocked and unguarded. Dr. Samantha Carter, Major, USAF, wasn’t going anywhere. The thought brought a laugh that sounded like a death rattle to her. Then the need to howl came back, kept in check only by her resolve not to give anyone that satisfaction—not Nirrti, not anyone. Instead, her fists, balled tight enough to drive her nails—short and unglamorous but practical, because Sam believed in things practical, like having two legs—to drive her nails into her palms. The fists started pounding the floor, a trick she’d picked up from Colonel O’Neill. He’d use it to channel pain, but after a while the slow thud-thud also became soothingly hypnotic. Besides, there was little else she could do.

Thud-thud. Lie on her back, stare at the ceiling, pound the floor. It wasn’t the end of the world. Thud-thud. Not as long as she kept her fitness reports up to scratch. There were plenty of amputees in the armed forces. Thud-thud. Amputee. She rolled the word over in her mind, not ready to say it out loud—if she’d ever be. She’d get a desk job. Not the end of the world. Thud-thud. Except, it looked like a damn close second when the thing you loved more than anything was the thrill of going through the Stargate. Thud—

A barely noticeable drop in temperature stroked over her incomplete body. Someone was standing in the doorway, blocking the light, casting a shadow. The fists froze mid-thud, and her right hand unfurled and, obeying years of training and habit, shot to her hip, where the holster used to be and her sidearm.

“You won’t need your gun, Major, even if you had it.” The voice sounded calm, almost diffident, and vaguely familiar.

Familiar enough to pique Sam’s curiosity, and she finally tore her gaze away from the ceiling. Nothing much there, anyway. The shadow filled the door, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall. Teal’c’s bulk, but not Teal’c’s voice. She levered herself up on her elbows, watched him slip into the room as furtively as he’d arrived at the door. She was curious now—even if it didn’t translate into caring what happened to her.

At two meters distance she recognized him, resisted the impulse to scuttle backward and away from him. After all, she didn’t care. “You!”

“Easy, ma’am.” He crouched by her side. “I’ve got no intention of harming you.”

She almost believed him. In the past three days he seemed to have aged ten years—they had to be traveling in the same time zone, Sam thought wryly. His eyes were bloodshot and heavily ringed, and the haggard face clashed with the folkloristic outfit. Bare chest, baggy pants, and no shoes—the latter explained why she hadn’t heard him coming. Then she noticed something else, and it tipped the balance. “Last time I saw you, you had a pouch and a tattoo.”

“No, ma’am.” Master Sergeant Macdonald shook his head emphatically. “You didn’t see me. I’m the original.”

“Sure,” Sam grunted noncommittally. “So you’re saying you’re not the one tried to shoot me out of a tree?”

More headshaking. “That was the prototype. If it’s any consolation, when Nirrti heard you’d kicked the snot out of him, she got so pissed she terminated him and the entire line.”

“While letting you stroll around at will?” There probably wasn’t much point in picking at the inconsistencies in Macdonald’s story, but what the hell? Sam pushed herself up a little more. Her shoulder ached.

“She isn’t. Letting me stroll around at will, I mean.” He winced and shrugged it away, whatever it was. “Look, I probably haven’t got much time. We need to get going.”

That settled it. If blind men could be Marines, she could stay with the flyboys. “Where? And how? You gonna carry me?”

“Come again?” His eyebrows headed north. “Look, Major, I realize you’re Air Force, but even you guys have been known to walk on occasion.”

Holy crap! He really did have vision problems—or was lacking some basic numeracy skills. “Sergeant, last time I looked I was a leg short.” Sam’s breath hitched for an instant. She’d said it. It was real now. “I may be wrong about this, but I think it might put a crimp into that walking thing.”

“Goddammit, not you too!” Macdonald started swearing a blue streak. When he came up for air, he leaned closer, mumbled an apology, and slapped her hard. “Look at it! Look at your legs, Major! What do you see?”

“Stars!” she hissed, but for a moment—maybe because stark fury blotted everything else from her mind—the veil tore, and Sam saw empty folds of silk fill out, take shape, taper down a calf to reveal an ankle and foot, complete with five toes and a set of blisters. She reached out reflexively, responding to a need to let other senses confirm the impossible, but before her fingers could touch the fabric, it deflated again and the image—vision—delusion—dissolved.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Macdonald asked quietly, a pinch of triumph spicing his tone.

“What? Why?” She had no idea how to phrase the question, let alone what the answer might be.

“It’s that b—that witch, Nirrti. She’s messing with your head.”

“How?” It provoked a shrug. Sam thought of Janet and that inconceivable act of betrayal. “Dr. Fraiser?”

He nodded an affirmation. “Dr. Fraiser, me, my men, too. We started killing each other to get here, to be chosen.” The lines of fatigue on his face deepened, and his complexion turned gray in the mellow light fingering through the screens. “We—”

“If what you’re saying is true, it’s not your fault, Sergeant.”

“The hell it isn’t! That clone of mine has got my body, my mind, he’s me—and he goes and strings one of my own men up on the temple wall to be eaten alive.”

The kid’s pale face, pleading eyes, bloodied body leaped out at Sam in living color, and she struggled to breathe under that crushing weight of guilt and responsibility. “For what it’s worth, he wasn’t eaten alive,” she whispered. “I shot him. There was nothing else I could do for him. I’m sorry, Sergeant.”

“His name was Gonzales.” He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he glanced at the door, the hallway. “We have to go. Here, let me help you up.”

Threading his arms around Sam, Macdonald lugged her to her feet… foot. Knowing—or having a strong hunch at least—that her leg was exactly where it was supposed to be didn’t make a difference. She felt as though someone had ordered her to levitate. “This won’t work,” she muttered.

“Hey, Major, you ever hike someplace really cold?”

Antarctica sprang to mind. “Yes.”

“Ever froze your toes? Same difference. You can’t feel them, but you still can walk.”

The memory triggered by his query had nothing to do with Antarctica. It was fresh, and it hit hard enough to make her gasp.

“Major?” The sergeant’s voice barely registered.

Daniel is gone.

Two identical Jaffa, a pair of twins in a tug o’ war over a floppy toy, have Colonel O’Neill strung between them. He doesn’t seem to notice; a mix of rage and grief boiling behind his eyes, he stares at the spot where the ring transporter disappeared.

Sam, like so much deadwood, is still lying on the floor of the vault. One Jaffa pins down her shoulders, another her ankles, and Nirrti crouches next to her.

“What the hell do you think you’re—” A backhand across the face snaps off the Colonel’s protest.

Nirrti’s hand opens on a healing device concealed in her palm. “You do not wish her to die, do you?”

The device hovers over Sam’s leg, its glow rising from amber to deep red. It’s wrong. All wrong. All freezing. The pain is icy, eating its way outward from the bone, freezing nerve and muscle, and wrapping Sam in a glacial cocoon she can’t escape. Somewhere outside Colonel O’Neill is shouting, the sound of his voice blending into a fabric of agony that seems to draw down the ceiling to stifle her. She hears herself scream, thrashes against the hands holding her down, and finally, mercifully, passes out.

“Major!” Macdonald was shaking her.

A ruse within a ruse within a ruse, like some goddamn Russian doll—or the mirror cabinet at a fun fair, and Sam was rapidly losing track of which way to turn or what to think. Or whom to trust, for that matter. She pushed the sergeant away, her balance precarious on an unfelt leg she’d tentatively ordered not to give under her. Like St. Peter following Christ across the Lake of Galilee—if she lost faith, she’d sink. But it seemed as though Macdonald had told her the truth on this count at least. Her weight poised in a way that should have sent her sprawling again, she remained vertical. It was in her head—but what else had Nirrti done to her?

She shelved the question as not immediately relevant and glared at the sergeant. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

His hands flew up in a Whoa! gesture, and he smiled at her coolly. “Common sense and training kicking in, Major? Don’t worry, I probably wouldn’t trust me either. Fact is, your reputation precedes you. They say you’re smart.” He closed in a step, making it a struggle for Sam to hold her ground. “You asked me why Nirrti lets me wander at will. She knows I can’t run. If I go anyplace I shouldn’t go, she reaches in there”—he tapped the side of his skull—“and I stop breathing, simple as that. If she wants me to come to her, I come, like a dog on a leash. If she says contact your superiors, I do it, and I tell them what she orders me to tell.

“What I want? I want to get out of here. Go home, get reinforcements, free my men. You’re gonna make it possible. You’re gonna knock out whatever gadget Nirrti uses to screw with my head. In exchange, I’ll take you along with me. Fair enough?”

He sounded convincing. Sounded being the operative word. Sam decided to sniff at the bait. A little. “How does Nirrti communicate with you?”

“I told you.” He did that skull-tap thing again. “She reaches in there.”

“So what makes you think she won’t notice what you’re up to?”

“I never thought that for a moment. But she’s a little busy right now, so we’ve got a window. When she starts looking for me, you’ll be the first to know.” Macdonald sucked in a deep breath and looked straight at her. “There’s a good chance I’ll sell you out.”

And that, Sam admitted, had to be God’s own truth. He couldn’t be that stupid, could he? Unless it was a ruse within a ruse within a ruse. Then again, her options were few and far between. One point needed clearing up, though. “It’s not fair enough.”

“What?”

“Your deal. Before I do anything else, we go and get Colonel O’Neill.”

“Out of the question, Major. Who the hell do you figure is keeping Nirrti busy?”

Reeling back might have been a relief. As it was, Sam didn’t dare to, for reasons static and tactical. Nirrti, who enjoyed turning children into bombs or programming their bodies to self-destruct, was busy with the Colonel. It didn’t bear thinking about, so why did her brain, with the brutal zeal of a fire-and-brimstone preacher, latch on to the notion of blood and screams?

“If you’re trying to persuade me, you’re failing, Sergeant.” She choked it out, bristled at herself for that weakness.

“We’ve got a motto, ma’am.” Macdonald’s voice carried a trace of pity. “Semperfi. Don’t for a second believe I forgot.”

“We got something like that, too,” she replied softly but didn’t elaborate. Macdonald was right. If Colonel O’Neill was to have any chance at all, she’d have to play it the sergeant’s way. “What kind of gadget are we talking about?”

“Damned if I know, Major.” He gave a crooked grin. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“Great,” muttered Sam, already starting on a mental sift of everything she’d ever read or heard about mind control. Holding out an arm for the sergeant to steady her, she added, “Let’s go. I can think and walk at the same time.”

 

“To sum it up, the men are in good health and symbiote acceptance is one-hundred percent across the board.” The nerdier of the two xenodocs stabbed the air with a white, maggoty-looking finger and leaned further into the table. “However,” he intoned and followed it up with a theatrical pause.

“However what?” barked Frank Simmons, whose tolerance for histrionics had reached zero.

His arm hurt, he’d had too much excruciatingly bad coffee while waiting out the medical exams, and he was tired to death of the posturing and the monumental waste of time these people subjected him to. And now the hatchet-faced brunette set her features into a scandalized pucker, van Leyden made placating noises in his direction, and Crowley gave a long-suffering sigh.

Simmons allowed himself a couple of breaths, inhaling air so depleted of oxygen it felt like chicken soup. No wonder he was getting fractious. For the past two hours they’d been cooped up here, in the com shack, the chosen conference venue by virtue of its being off-limits to practically everybody, and had listened to an interminable litany of test results, which could have been summarized in two minutes flat.

The minuscule room was stuffed with electronics gear, leaving just enough space at the center to accommodate a table and a handful of chairs. A single window looked out across the plain, toward the moon’s horizon and a sky filled with the swollen belly of the planet above, which did nothing to ease the encroaching sense of claustrophobia. What was more—and Simmons finally admitted it—he had a pretty good idea as to the precise nature of however.

“However what?” he asked again, trying to sound apologetic.

The nerd made a prissy show of straightening out his dented ego and offered, “However, in all cases the subjects’ metabolism runs well above normal parameters. They burn vastly more energy than non-enhanced subjects.”

Dammit. With some difficulty, Simmons controlled a grimace. No use getting all excited. It might be a normal side-effect of the enhancement. After all, given the rapid healing and recovery from exertion, plus the increased strength and stamina, it stood to reason that the whole system needed to be sped up, didn’t it?

Apparently Crowley thought as much. “Well, so we feed them protein supplements and stuff. So what? I mean, they’re eating for two now, aren’t they?”

Van Leyden’s aide spotted a chance to kiss ass and burst into uproarious laughter. Hatchet-Face stared at him as though he were an insect she’d fished from a tub of cold cream on her dresser at home, and Nerd performed an eye roll.

“You might want to think of a campfire, General,” he addressed Crowley in the tone of infinitely strained patience one would use with a dull child. “The hotter it gets, the faster it burns.”

“Don’t patronize me, Doctor!” snapped Crowley, making the lingering chuckles subside into a hiccup. “Just spit it out, whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

“What my esteemed colleague is trying to say, sir,” Hatchet-Face took up the gauntlet, “is that accelerated cell metabolism means accelerated aging. We’ve also noted that it becomes more pronounced the longer the subject has been modified.”

“And?”

“And if this trend continues, the long-term prognosis is grim, to say the least.”

“What’s to say that the trend will continue?” Simmons asked, knowing he was clutching at straws. “It may be a natural reaction to the symbiote and work itself out after a while.”

Nerd piped up again. “It may, but so far our results indicate otherwise, Colonel. Two of your Marines, Sergeants”—he shuffled the papers in front of him and eventually retrieved a crumpled name list—“Poletti and Keefe, were among the first men to be enhanced, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Actually, they were the very first,” offered van Leyden’s aide.

“Yeah, well, that would seem to corroborate our theory. Tissue samples from both these men show evidence of cell death. In addition, their bodies have started to burn muscle tissue in order to fuel an exponentially increased rate of metabolism. In the simplest of terms, gentlemen”—Nerd peered at them, one at a time—“these two men are starving.”

“Impossible!” Crowley’s face suggested that he considered this to be an affront against the US Marine Corps in general, and against himself in particular.

The xenodocs responded with synchronized shrugs. “It’s what the tests say,” Hatchet-Face proclaimed in a monotone. “Although there is always the possibility, as Colonel Simmons theorized earlier, that this is a temporary and normal side-effect of the enhancement.”

Nobody looked convinced. Van Leyden cleared his throat and asked the million dollar question. “So what do you recommend we do, Doctors?”

“The safest course of action,” stated Nerd after a quick glance at Hatchet-Face; they seemed to have argued over that one, “would be to recall the two men”—more shuffling of papers until he found the list again—“Poletti and Keefe. We propose to take them to Area 51 for observation. One of the possibilities we discussed was a high-protein, high-fat diet. It may solve the problem.”

“Fine. Let’s do that,” confirmed Crowley. Then he turned to van Leyden. “Are Poletti and Keefe with the team that’s embarked to the training site?”

“No, sir. Poletti, Keefe, and two others are on guard duty at the gate.”

“Well, that’s easy enough.” Crowley looked at Simmons. “You can just pick them up when you go back. We’ll send a couple men with you to take over from the sergeants. So, if that’s all,” he added, rising. Clearly, this was to be all. “Dismissed, gentlemen… and lady.”

Snapping of briefcase lids, rustling of documents, and scraping of chair legs blended into the usual symphony of exodus. Simmons wanted to shove aside this assembly of small-minded small-talkers and barrel out the door for some fresh air, but that would only have betrayed his anxiety. If the xenodocs—and Conrad—were right, before long they’d be back to a hundred percent failure rate. He banished the thought. He wouldn’t let it happen, simple as that. Jaffa had thrived for millennia, so there was no earthly reason why his Jaffa couldn’t do the same—and never mind Conrad’s doomsaying.

Van Leyden headed outside and popped back a second later. “The golf carts are waiting, sirs, ma’am. We can start back as soon as you like.”

“Right now would be good,” snapped Simmons. “We’ve been here long enough.”

“I was going to get a snack for the journey,” Nerd protested.

“Doctor, it’s a fifteen minute trip back to Earth. I trust you’ll last, even if you don’t go pee before we start out.”

Ignoring the academic splutter, Simmons nodded for van Leyden to join him and climbed into the first cart. As soon as the agent had dropped into his seat, the driver, an as yet un-enhanced private, set off. Simmons supposed he should admire the “planetset”, but he had no mind for it now—if ever.

“I want you to contact our friend,” he said. “I’d do it myself, but I’ll have to stay at the SGC for the next couple of days.”

“Yes, sir,” van Leyden replied blankly, hedging his bets—or maybe he just was that uninspired. Then again, efficiency was more important than inspiration, and the man sure as hell was efficient.

“And I mean her. Don’t use that tame jarhead you’ve got in place as a go-between. That’d be about as effective as sending a note of protest to Saddam’s valet. It’s time the lady understands who’s boss.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell her she’s been sending us defective goods. She’s got twelve hours to come up with an acceptable solution to the problem. If she doesn’t, the deal’s off.” “Off!”

Barely suppressing a sigh, Simmons stared out across the plain and thought that it closely resembled the intricacy of some people’s brains. “It’s a bluff of course. She’ll suspect it, but she can’t risk to call me on it. She depends on us for delivery of the symbiotes.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the ensuing silence, the golf cart rattled on into the gorge. The towering rock seemed to stifle any form of conversation, not that Simmons minded. A couple minutes later, they rounded a narrow bend and rolled toward the opening into the crater. Thank God for—

His prayer of thanks was interrupted by a sharp jolt. The driver had slammed on the brakes hard enough for them to be all but rear-ended by the second cart. “What the hell?” he enquired of no one in particular.

“What the hell?” echoed van Leyden.

Simmons refrained from making it a trio, but he shared the sentiment. The gate and DHD were deserted, the guards nowhere in sight. They hadn’t come back to camp—they would have been seen—and they couldn’t have flown out of the crater. The only explanation that made any sense at all was that they’d left through the gate. But why?

“Take us closer,” he said to the private. “Slowly.”

The close-up revealed nothing new. The men were gone, seemingly without a trace. Van Leyden leaped from the cart and ran over to the DHD, where he dropped to his knees to unfasten the lid of an inspection hatch in the base of the device. For a long time he stared at what looked like some kind of early learning toy—colorful crystals arranged in no pattern Simmons could discern.

At last van Leyden closed the hatch and straightened up. “It hasn’t been tampered with, as far as I can tell. The changes still are as per your diagram.”

Conrad’s diagram, to be precise, but Simmons wasn’t about to correct the mistake.

“They’re not here,” observed Hatchet-Face.

“Gee, really?” the private muttered under his breath.

Nerd sniffed, dolefully glanced skyward, and said, “Let’s go. I’m feeling watched. This place has a bad aura.”

Bad aura. Christ almighty! The guy probably saw purple and green halos around everybody. Then again, the underlying notion wasn’t too far off the mark. Simmons, too, felt exposed—watched. “Van Leyden, dial up Earth. No point in us hanging around. Notify Crowley and tell him to find those men. When you’ve got them, send them back. In the meantime, keep me posted. I’ll be at the SGC.”

 

The holographic screen showed liquid swirls of red, throbbing, transforming, until they flowed into the shape of two helices embracing one another. They would link, their joints would bond, and they would be functional as before. Only more so. Much, much more so.

Nirrti smiled. The Tauri’s genetic profile was surprising, to say the least. It contained material she had never encountered before, and he had been subtly altered, as though someone had meant to prevent him from doing the things his genes said he was able to do. In some ways he already was hak’taur—all she needed to achieve was activation of his programming. It proved more difficult than expected.

A fraction of a second before the marriage of the helices was completed, golden starbursts erupted at the precise center of each link, tearing the bonds, forcing the strands of red apart to dull and fade. Again. She cried out in shrill frustration, swiped her hand over one of the luminous control pads. The slender white beam aimed at the area of his body where the umbilical cord had been attached once—her host called it a chakra, whatever that meant; and what a curious way of gestation the Tauri had—waned and winked out. The same instant another hologram rose from the console; a pumping lump of muscle that twitched erratically, as if to flash out a warning or signal its distress.

The energy flow that altered the subject’s genetic structure—was supposed to alter the subject’s genetic structure—also supported the vital systems during the transformation process. Once the process was concluded—successful or not—the subject’s body was on its own again, for better or worse. In the Tauri’s case, for worse. His heart was weakening rapidly now.

She dredged her host’s mind for a suitable curse and vented her rage. Of course, it did not change anything. Not her inability to break his body’s code, not the fact that, before long, that body would give out and have to be revived in the sarcophagus, while she would be subjected to the tedium of waiting for him to heal. Barely quelled, her anger rose again, and her fists struck the console. Then she pushed herself away, and marched across the room to where he lay, unmoving.

Although his eyes were wide open, he neither turned his head nor glanced at her sideways. He could not. The second energy beam, the one that connected to his forehead—another chakra, according to her host—rendered him immobile. Not so much as a wink of an eyelid, unless she permitted it, and she had no intention of granting that permission. He was too dangerous, and they were not finished yet. Not for a long while.

But she would grant him a moment’s respite. His breathing was shallow, and his face and body were glazed with sweat, despite the low temperature of the laboratory. Across one cheek ran a glittering trail of moisture. Not sweat. He could not cry out, of course—any form of vocalization required movement after all—but tears were entirely possible.

Nirrti cupped the side of his face with her left hand, thumb brushing at the fluid. Yes. Tears. She briefly wondered if there was a way of suppressing it, decided that it was immaterial, and leaned closer.

“What is your secret? What is it? What are you?” Her right hand lightly stroked his chest. “It is unfortunate that you cannot tell me. It would be easier on you. But I shall do my best to work quickly.” To her amazement, Nirrti recognized that she meant it. “I promise you,” she added, the phrase feeling odd and unfamiliar, as though her host had regained control and were reciting words first spoken in a distant past. “I—”

“Lady Nirrti!”

She whirled around, instantly furious at her own carelessness—she should have heard the door slide open—and at the impertinence of her First Prime. “How dare you intrude here?”

“Forgive me!” The man prostrated himself, shaking. At least he knew he had transgressed. “Forgive me, Lady Nirrti. I had to notify you immediately. There is… an aberration.”

The only aberration she could see was the sniveling cretin at her feet. “What do you mean?”

“You should see for yourself, Lady Nirrti. That’s why I’ve come. Colonel Simmons’ Jaffa have returned.”

Which, if true, would indeed merit the name aberration. What was Simmons trying to do? Tax her patience until she had no choice but to annihilate him? Presumably, the actions of his Jaffa would answer that question. She would have to see for herself indeed. What a pity. The timing was regrettable, but the experiment need not be interrupted. She focused her thoughts, imagining she could feel them vibrate and amplify through the minute crystal behind her right ear, and summoned Mrityu. And that, Nirrti admitted, was a most satisfactory idea. Mrityu would agonize over this, yet she would have no choice but to obey.

By the time the woman arrived, Nirrti was smiling again. Frantic to be of service, to be wanted, after her earlier dismissal, Mrityu shambled into the laboratory. Her gaze held a thoroughly gratifying mix of dread and eagerness and, predictably, wandered to the surgical table and the supine form of the Tauri.

Ah yes. You find it distressing, do you not?

Mrityu gave no reply other than to exude a mangled flow of despair and fear and outrage. It was good enough. Deciding to amuse herself for a moment or two, Nirrti relinquished her hold on the healer. She could regain it whenever she pleased, and this brief spell of freedom would serve to torment the woman even more.

As if pulled on a chain, Mrityu darted toward the table and to the Tauri’s side. Fingers, slight and trembling, wrapped around his wrist, feeling for a pulse. What they felt clearly displeased Mrityu. Her features knotted in shock, and her hand released the Tauri’s wrist to touch his face, much in the same way as Nirrti had touched him only minutes ago.

“Colonel?” whispered Mrityu. “Can you hear me, sir? Colonel O’Neill?”

“He can hear you. However, he will not be able to answer until I allow it,” Nirrti advised her.

Mrityu’s head shot up, and she stared at Nirrti. “What the hell have you done to him?”

“What needs to be done. When I have finished with him, he will be immeasurably more useful than the pathetic creature you choose to call your daughter.” Nirrti slid closer, as if to reassert ownership of the Tauri—and to drive home the invisible blade of guilt. “I am indebted to you. By denying me the girl, you have forced me to look elsewhere. And of course, you were kind enough to deliver him to me.”

If the loathing in Mrityu’s eyes had been a weapon, Nirrti would be dead. Sadly for the healer, wishes could harm no one. “I had no choice,” the woman hissed. “I had no choice, and you know it.”

Nirrti relished her pain. It was sweet-scented and savory. “Do not blame your weakness on me. You wanted to live. You could have permitted yourself to drown in the pond, and none of this would have happened. But no. You were so desperate to survive you could not wait to offer your fealty. You betrayed him and the others so you could live.”

Shuddering under Nirrti’s words as though they were physical blows, the healer turned back to the Tauri, took a limp hand in hers to stroke it. “It’s not true, sir. Please, Colonel, don’t believe—”

“He will not have to believe,” Nirrti said gently. “He will know. Because you shall perform a service for me.”

The way Mrityu recoiled was almost comical. “No!”

“Yes. We both know you will. Now listen carefully.” Tightening her grasp on the healer’s mind slightly, to ensure that Mrityu would indeed listen and retain the information, Nirrti explained the workings of the console and how to calibrate the beam. “You will repeat the procedure continuously either until I return or until you obtain the desired result. Do you understand me?”

Thoughts and emotions were pummeling the walls of Nirrti’s awareness like puny fists. The healer was fighting her, more stubbornly and angrily than ever before—not that it would change the outcome. “No!” Mrityu gasped again, a flopping little fish, on the hook and already hurled from the safety of water. “It would kill him.”

“It almost certainly will,” retorted Nirrti. “He is weak. When he dies, revive him in the sarcophagus and continue.” She forced herself further into Mrityu’s mind, felt the healer cling to a fragment of an imperative embedded too deeply for Nirrti to eradicate.

First, do no harm.

“What does that mean?” she demanded.

With a scream of rage, Mrityu pushed her back and clutched the Tauri’s hand in a death grip. “Stop me, sir! For God’s sake, stop me! She’ll make me do it, if you—”

“Enough!” The game was beginning to get boring. Nirrti thrust the full force of her will at the healer and sensed the barriers crumble. It was less sensual than taking a host. But it was far more challenging. Taking a host meant coercing a body. This meant coercing a mind. “Do it,” she said and smiled.

Mrityu’s hand relinquished its hold on the Tauri, jerkily, like the limb of a puppet manipulated by two players, one of whom was inept. Then she staggered across the laboratory and to the console, to study panels and recall Nirrti’s instructions. Embraced by soft light, her fingers crept over the control pad, reactivated the transformer beam.

With a brief, satisfied nod, Nirrti turned to her First Prime, who had been watching impassively, still kneeling on the floor. “Come. Show me this aberration,” she said, delighting in the smooth play of muscles as he rose.