STARGATE SG-1: Oceans of Dust

by Peter J Evans

  The firing stopped.

  Carter looked up, towards the doorway. The lead Jaffa was stalking towards her, raising a hand to his neck armor as he did so. She saw the double snake head split, split again, separate into a jigsaw of metal leaves that folded and compacted and slotted away into nothing.

  Beneath them, the man’s face was dark and lined. A golden symbol gleamed at his forehead, a curling Y. His staff weapon, open and livid with golden energy, was held steadily at her face. “Aray kree,” he snarled.

  “We are required to remain still,” Teal’c translated. Carter didn’t tell him that she had worked that part out for herself.

  “Be silent!” The other Jaffa snapped, switching to English. “Identify yourselves.”

  “I will speak only to your master,” Teal’c replied.

  “You will speak to me or die!”

  “You are the First Prime of Neheb-Kau.” Teal’c’s voice was utterly calm “I also am First Prime. I will speak to your master, or not at all.”

  The other man glared, then barked out a command. The other warrior, the one still on his feet, ran forwards. He snatched up Carter’s MP-5 and Teal’c’s staff, while holding his own weapon to cover them. “Up,” he growled.

  Carter got to her feet. The Jaffa moved to one side, motioning her past him. She took a breath, looked out into the light, and saw more snake-headed warriors peering in at her. “We’ve drawn a crowd,” she said quietly.

  The warrior prodded her, not as hard as he probably could have done. Carter sighed and started walking.

  As she reached the door, she glanced back. The four technicians were at the cylinder, surrounding it, plugging their golden machines into its base, and just as she was shoved out of the Pit by the warrior behind her, she saw them lift it free of the dais.

  The machines had been built to fit the cylinder, she realized. They had been made for it.

  Whoever Neheb-Kau might be, he already knew about the Ash Eater.

  Chapter 10.

  Black Burning Heart

  After his encounter in the Pit of Sorrows, Kafra needed time to think.

  His orders had been to report back to his master as soon as the Casket had been secured. Kafra was First Prime to Neheb-Kau, his most trusted Jaffa and second in command only to the God himself, and as such he would not even consider actually disobeying the order. He had been loyal to Neheb-Kau for seventy years, through the worst of times.

  He would not, could not fail his God.

  After all, if he did not have his loyalty, what else was there left to him?

  But the thought of facing Neheb-Kau now, so soon after the firefight, was like a shard of ice in his heart. And so, instead of going directly to the royal decks as he had planned, he walked out into the glider bay to watch the removal of the Casket, telling himself that it was necessary and right to make sure such a dangerous artifact did not suffer any accident on its way to the vaults. When that job was done, he would make his way to a transporter on one of the garrison levels, and centre himself as he walked. To be at his best for his master.

  It was a lie, and he knew it. A procrastination of the worst order. But it was also a vital survival tactic, and one that had already served him well, on the days when Neheb-Kau’s rages became too much to bear, when the God’s internal darkness had spread to consume those around him.

  There had been many of those, in the past seven decades. Too many to count.

  Besides, the God was in his coffin. Kafra had a little time yet.

  The glider bay had been modified to accommodate the Pit of Sorrows. It was far from the only change Neheb-Kau had made to his throneship over the centuries. In fact, Kafra wondered at times if there was anything left of the original vessel at all.

  A great claw had been installed, fixed to the end of a thick, hinged arm that had reached obscenely out of the Ha’tak’s belly to snatch the Pit from space. Kafra had overseen the operation himself, following Neheb-Kau’s instructions to the letter. As usual in these things, the God’s calculations were flawless, and the Pit had emerged from hyperspace exactly when and where he had said it would. Kafra had been able to use the arm to reach out and grab it from the blackness as easily as taking fruit from a tree.

  It hung, now, in the golden grip of the metal claw: less like a fruit and more like an angular black tumor, dangling high in the open air between the glider racks. A narrow, railed bridge stretched out to it, over which the prisoners had been marched several minutes before. Now, Kafra stood on one of the surrounding gantries, death gliders hunched over his head like roosting birds, and watched as the Casket of the Ash Eater was carried, with infinite and terrified care, by the four ch’epta, the lower technicians.

  The prisoners would be in a ring dungeon by now, if they were still alive. Kafra had left them in the care of Shenet, one of the warriors who had accompanied him into the pit with the ch’epta. The man who had been shot was Arekhat, a close friend of Shenet. Kafra knew that the two were in fact lovers, which had not concerned him in the past: however, if Shenet was stricken with grief over Arekhat, he might disobey his orders to keep the intruders alive.

  Kafra rubbed his lacerated right arm thoughtfully, and wondered how concerned he should be about that. The thought of losing Arekhat, though, was of note. The man was not expected to survive his injuries, and there were few Jaffa aboard the throneship that were as skilled and reliable. Neheb-Kau’s domains were small, and far from those of the other System Lords. There had been no fresh blood in his armies for centuries.

  If Arekhat died, his loss would be felt by more than just Shenet.

  Once the Casket was safely off the bridge, Kafra waited where he was for a time, watching technicians swarming over the Pit. It was said that most System Lords kept far fewer ch’epta in their retinues: maybe a handful of ka’epta, the senior engineers, each with their own small staff. But Neheb-Kau was not like most System Lords. His priorities, Kafra had learned, were very different to others of his kind.

  Eventually, he knew he could delay no longer, and began to make his way out of the glider bay. Explaining the presence of the two prisoners to Neheb-Kau was going to make for an interesting discourse, he thought sourly, as he walked the long gantries. And more to the point, who were they?

  The human woman was a small, pale thing, of little consequence. Or would have been, had she not been wielding some kind of primitive projectile thrower. Primitive, he thought ruefully, but potentially lethal: it had shattered the wall next to him with quite astounding force, each of the dozen or so impacts sending glassy shrapnel into his arm and shoulder. His armor had stopped most of it, but the suit was not in the best of repair, and some pieces of stone had made it through. He had heard Neheb-Kau talk of rogue human worlds, technologically advanced planets that could possibly even pose a threat to the rule of the Goa’uld, but he had passed them off as more of the God’s ranting fantasies. Could the woman have been from such a place?

  And of the Jaffa, Kafra could fathom even less. He wore the mark of the First Prime of Apophis, but what could that mean? Apophis and Neheb-Kau had never fought directly, it was true, but the God had been outside the territory of any other Goa’uld for so long that it was impossible to know what Apophis might be planning.

  Most disturbing of all, though, was how the Jaffa and the Tau’ri seemed to know each other, and well. Was she a plaything of his, maybe? Some kind of concubine?

  Kafra doubted it, but he had heard of stranger things.

  Still, what concerned him most greatly was the Ash Eater. If everything he had heard about the monster was true, Neheb-Kau had brought a force of untold destructive power onto the throneship. Obviously, he thought he could control it, but Kafra doubted that very much indeed.

  There were times when Neheb-Kau couldn’t even control himself.

  Once Kafra found the nearest transporter platform, he keyed in the location cartouche for Neheb-Kau’s chambers with his wrist console, and stepped into the circle.

  He
felt a moment’s concern as the stone rings hovered down around him. A transporter had malfunctioned only a few weeks before, one of the continuous series of system errors that plagued the throneship, and had explosively dismembered one of his Jaffa when he had tried to use it. Much of the man had since been located, although there were some parts that Kafra believed would never be found. After all, the throneship was a big vessel. They could have ended up anywhere.

  There was always the possibility that the malfunction could occur again, although Kafra couldn’t bring himself to exactly fear such a demise. After so long in the service of Neheb-Kau, self-preservation was no longer his primary instinct.

  No such event occurred. The rings functioned perfectly, sweeping him from the lower levels of the ship to the God’s most secure deck.

  As the light of reintegration faded, Kafra stepped off the platform and into the Colonnade, the long, pillared hallway that lead to Neheb-Kau’s throne room. He began to make his way along it, his pace measured. The Colonnade was lined with Royal Guard, and each dropped to one knee as Kafra passed them, in perfect sequence, helmed heads lowered in supplication. Only when he reached the great doors at the end did he hear them start to rise again.

  He swept his hand across a control, and waited while the doors swung inwards. He had been half-expecting the God to be there already, waiting for him, but he saw no-one. Kafra closed the doors behind him, then marched quickly across the throne room towards the revival chamber. Thankfully, the great viewport that backed the room was sealed, protecting him from the desolate sight that lay beyond. It would do nothing for his state of mind, and he needed his focus.

  Now, perhaps, more than ever.

  Two more gold-clad Jaffa were at the door to the revival chamber, and they too dropped at Kafra’s approach. He acknowledged them with a nod, then paused, and went in.

  The chamber was long, but narrow. The only light came from burning lanterns set into the walls, so that the corners of the place were lost to fluttering shadow. Kafra slowed his pace, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.

  When he neared the chamber’s far end he could see that the golden bulk of the sarcophagus was closed. Neheb-Kau was still within, dreaming his strange and terrible dreams.

  There were two other occupants in the chamber: human slaves, robed in gold and silk, their heads shaved but for a single long trail of hair down their backs. They stood side by side, behind an ornate throne, the only other object in the chamber. Neither of them acknowledged Kafra as he walked in, but he hadn’t expected them to. It was entirely possible they didn’t even know he was there, since their eyes had been put out long ago. It was a requirement of their profession.

  Kafra had never heard them speak. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know why not.

  At least Djetec, the God’s hawk-faced Tjaty, was not in evidence. Kafra had lost count of the times he had been summoned to the revival chamber, only to find Djetec whispering some poison into the Neheb-Kau’s ear. It was a matter of debate which of the two was the most actively dangerous — Neheb-Kau, with his rages and his black despair and his terrible thirst for knowledge, or his vizier, whose ambitions could only be guessed at. Kafra had his own theories on the matter, although to voice them, even in private, was to invite death. Through Djetec, the God heard all.

  Kafra walked up to his position in front of the sarcophagus, rested the club end of his staff on the smooth dark floor, and waited.

  Long minutes passed. Kafra did not move.

  Finally, the sarcophagus began to open. Its cover hinged upwards, split, spread slowly like great wings. The flanks moved apart, and light spilled from within.

  Something rose from the light, fumbled for the edge of the sarcophagus, and gripped it hesitantly. Something which, once, had been a hand.

  Kafra dropped to one knee and bowed his head while Neheb-Kau rose from his healing rest.

  He didn’t look up as the God clambered out, but he caught a glimpse of the hem of his robes trail past him. Still, he waited.

  After a time, his God spoke.

  His voice was thin, breathy, like an excited child. “Ah, Kafra. My beloved First Prime. I was hoping you would be here when I awoke.”

  “As you commanded me.”

  “Indeed. And what news do you bring me?”

  Kafra kept his head down. Neheb-Kau was not masked. “My Lord, the Pit of Sorrows was as you foresaw. The Casket is intact, and has been taken to its place in the Vault.”

  For a time, silence. Then a long, satisfied sigh.

  “It begins,” whispered Neheb-Kau, his high voice echoing around the chamber. “Oh, Kafra, do you know how long I have waited for this day?”

  “I do not,” Kafra lied.

  “Many lifetimes, my friend. Many, many lifetimes.”

  There was a dry rustle of robes as the God sat down on his throne. Behind him, the blind slaves moved. Kafra could hear the chime of their jewelry; the bands at their wrists and necks, the rings through their empty eyelids. They were lifting Neheb-Kau’s golden pectoral onto his chest, the holy armor onto his shoulders, placing his scepter in what was left of his hands.

  Better they were blind, Kafra thought. He could not pity them.

  The thought betrayed his body. Despite himself he looked up, and saw the face of his God. He dropped his gaze, quickly, but not quickly enough. Neheb-Kau had seen the reaction.

  He had torn the eyes from Jaffa who had done the same in the past, but his mood seemed too good for such excesses today. Instead, he gave a dry chuckle. “Is my appearance really so upsetting, old friend?”

  “I… I fear for your wellbeing, my Lord.” Kafra forced his gaze up again. “Your host is failing again. The sarcophagus no longer helps. Please, choose another, and swiftly.”

  “Kafra, my loyal First Prime, I have had host after host fall away from me. It is the natural order of things.” Neheb-Kau touched a control on his pectoral. His helm rose like a swarm of blades from the armor at his back, folding to enclose his peeling head in strips of gold and bright lapis lazuli. His mask, glittering and bearded, came up in segments, joining seamlessly to complete his encasement.

  The eyes glowed white-gold, just for a moment, as the God tested his power. “I know I must choose a new host soon, but not today. We have a guest, one who demands obeisance.”

  Kafra cleared his throat. “On that matter, my Lord…”

  The mask tilted towards him. “Yes?”

  The word was a warning.

  “When we opened the Pit of Sorrows, there were others within.”

  “Others.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Do you mock me, Kafra?”

  He was close to death. He could feel it in the air between them. It was like seeing water, cold clear water, and suddenly finding himself desperately thirsty.

  No. He could not drink, no matter how much he craved. He had a holy duty.

  “Never, my Lord. But I speak the truth — there were two survivors within the Pit. They must have been trapped there when the terminal failsafe was activated.”

  “Survivors!” Neheb-Kau rose from the throne, his voice liquid with excitement. “These others were alive?”

  “Alive, and armed. They attacked as we entered. My Jaffa subdued them.”

  “Who? Who were these survivors? Tell me quickly!”

  “One is a Jaffa — he bears the symbol of the First Prime of Apophis. The other is a human woman. She bore a strange weapon.”

  “Apophis, you say? Really?” The God raised a ravaged hand to stroke the metal beard of his mask, an affectation that spoke of intense thought. “Now why would that cretin send me his First Prime, hm? As an assassin? A gift? An emissary, perhaps…”

  “Give me the order, and I shall cut the answers from him.”

  “Perhaps later. For now, we must consider the fact that this First Prime survived many hours in the Pit, apparently unharmed. I believe a proper study of him could be enlightening.” The mask tilted upwards slightly, as though
the God were listening to something only he could hear. “Inform Pa’Nakht that his services will be required.”

  A cold weight grew inside Kafra. Pa’Nakht was the ka’epta of surgeries, chief of medics aboard the throneship; a technician of prodigious skill and vast experience in the workings of the living body. A pity, then, that the man seemed to possess no moral sense whatsoever. He was just as likely to be found taking a slave apart to see how it worked as he was to be healing its wounds.

  If the First Prime of Apophis was fated to be turned over to Pa’Nakht, it would have been better for him had Shenet had been unable to control his grief, and murdered him on their way to the ring dungeon. “I will see to it, my Lord. You will have your answers.”

  “I desire many. We have been away for too long, Kafra, and there is much we do not know. This is a most delicate time. We must be open to all things.”

  “I understand.”

  “And besides…” Neheb-Kau stalked closer, the mask’s gleaming gaze fixed implacably on him. “Oh, to be in such a place, with such a thing… And to have lived… Kafra, can you imagine?”

  “I cannot, my Lord.” It was another lie. He had imagined worse. “And what of the woman?”

  “Bring her to me. And the weapon you took from her. Once she is bathed, of course.”

  “My Lord?” Kafra stared. “Bathed?”

  “Of course. She will have been in the Pit for hours. Days. I have no wish to be near such a foulness. That awful dust… Give her to the slaves. Have her bathed if she is dirty. If she is hungry, feed her…” He waved a hand, dismissively. “Have her prepared for my audience.”

  “As you command, my Lord.” Kafra stood up, bowed, and turned.

  When he reached the door, he heard an odd sound. He paused, and risked a glance back over his shoulder.

  Neheb-Kau was standing by the sarcophagus, watching it fold itself shut again. And he was humming, softly, to himself. An old song.

  A lullaby.

  Kafra sighed, and headed back to the transporter. Perhaps, this time, it would show mercy and rip him limb from limb.