It was pointless to do anything but wait. Even if they were responsible for her being here, it would be better to be recaptured than to die of exposure. The thought of simply being warm again was worth whatever the accompanying risk might be.
Still, Sam tensed. It was hard to be a sitting duck.
When the figure was about two meters away, it stopped, offering her an object it carried. It was a coat. Without even thinking, Sam reached for it. She hadn’t realized how badly she was shivering until it took two attempts to slip her arm into the sleeve. The coat’s warmth instantly enveloped her and she nodded gratefully.
She could see now that, although thin, the figure was male. He motioned her to come, before turning back into the wind. Stepping in his boot prints, Sam followed. Even though he was no more than a couple of meters ahead of her, she occasionally lost him in the renewed blizzard.
The building was closer than she’d thought. It appeared out of nowhere, looming before her in the gray light. It was an oddly comforting sight. Her guide reached for her hand, assisting her over one last enormous snow drift and onto the steps.
The mausoleum was not as Sam had left it. A small fire was crackling in the middle of the room, setting macabre shadows dancing along the white walls. Near it waited a pair of fur-lined boots, identical to the ones her rescuer wore. He gestured her toward them.
“Th-thanks,” Sam stuttered, moving to the fire and bringing her hands as close to it as she dared. They tingled painfully.
The man removed his goggles and unwound his scarf, but his hood still concealed much of his face. When he spoke, she didn’t recognize his voice.
“Please, allow me to see your fingers.”
Before she could protest, he reached for her hand. His touch caused her fingers to sting like a pinprick and she yanked them back.
“Who are you?” Rescuer or captor, she needed to know.
Slowly he pushed back his hood. “Surely you haven’t forgotten, Samantha. It is I, Martouf.”
Sam blinked. For just a moment she hadn’t recognized him, but now, with the full firelight on his face, she could see it really was him.
Which was, of course, impossible.
“No.” She shook her head and glared at him. “Martouf is dead. I ought to know. I’m the one who killed him.”
His gaze was kind, if sad.
“A necessary act, given the circumstances. You did what you had to do, Samantha. I have never held it against you.”
Sam continued to shake her head. All her logic insisted that the man standing before her could not be Martouf. This was some kind of a trick. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time the Goa’uld had tried to make her believe something that wasn’t true. Maybe she was hallucinating, or they’d drugged her water.
“I don’t know who you really are,” she told him, “or how you’re doing this, but you can just stop it, right now, because I’m not buying it.”
A slightly pained look crossed his face as she spoke. It was a look she’d seen before, a look Jolinar had known too well. For just a moment it stirred something within Sam. A memory of feelings that were not her own.
“I knew this would be difficult for you.” His tone was gentle. “You depend so very much on your science and your logic to explain everything. But they cannot explain this. This requires that you set your preconceived notions aside and take a leap of faith, Samantha. And I know only too well that this is something you are not accustomed to doing.”
The last time she’d had a conversation like this she’d ended up with a psych evaluation and that creep, Simmons, breathing down her neck. Not to mention having to buy a new toaster. But even Orlin hadn’t tried to make her believe something she knew, fundamentally, to be untrue.
“So, if you’re Martouf, then just what, exactly, is ‘this’ supposed to be?” Maybe if she just let him play his part, she could gather enough information to figure out what his game was.
Although that hadn’t worked especially well with Orlin either.
The mausoleum had warmed quickly with the fire. Sam moved away from it, taking a seat on the nearby stone slab. She kept a watchful eye on ‘Martouf’. Beneath his now unbuttoned coat she could see the familiar Tok’ra attire, including a sheath from which the handle of a knife protruded. She filed that information away for future use.
He sat next to her. Close, she noticed, but not too close.
“On your world, Samantha, do you not have any sort of belief system that prepares you for life after death?”
“We have several, actually. Many of which are quite different from one another.”
“And is there none among these to which you subscribe?”
She wasn’t the one who really needed to be answering questions, but it was clear he was leading her somewhere with this line of inquiry. It might be useful to know where.
“I did. Once. A long time ago.” Sunday mornings in the base chapel with her mother and Mark emerged from a dusty corner of her memory. Ankle socks and patent leather shoes as shiny as her father’s best dress ones. Mark’s hair plastered to his head, his tie never quite straight. It ran like an old eight millimeter movie in her mind.
Sam pulled out of her reverie. Martouf was waiting for her to continue.
“Heaven,” she explained abruptly. “It’s called heaven. But believe me, it’s not supposed to be anything like this.” She gestured at their surroundings. This place was about as far from heaven as one could possibly get.
“Do you make no journey to get to this ‘heaven’ after you die?”
Sam shrugged. “It depends. Some people think there’s a place you go to beforehand. A place where you atone for all the mistakes you made in your life.”
He was nodding now, and she could finally see where he was going with this. Not that it was going to convince her one bit.
“And is it not possible that this could be such a place, a place of atonement and self-discovery?”
“Theoretically, I suppose so.” She wasn’t going to get sucked into this. “But it’s not. I’m sorry.”
Martouf sighed with disappointment.
“Samantha, why do you not trust your own senses? Did you yourself not witness the death of the others? Teal’c? Dr. Jackson? Colonel O’Neill?”
Sam’s stomach gave a sickening lurch at their names. She studied her hands so that Martouf wouldn’t be able to read her face. No matter what he said, she still had hope. She had been revived. The others may have been too. She wasn’t going to give up on them yet. That was what she had to hold onto.
Her lack of an immediate response, however, seemed to have encouraged him. He slid closer to her and picked up her hand.
“I have been given a great honor,” he said softly. “The honor of being your guide through this journey. I will help you find your way. There is a place that awaits us when we are done, a paradise where we can dwell for eternity. Join me, Samantha, and we will find it together.”
More memories that were not hers recognized the texture of his hands and the gentle caress of his thumb against her skin. They had sat like this before, many times, Martouf and Jolinar, finding quiet comfort and solace in each other’s company. An ache of longing for the loss of it swelled in her chest.
Sam pulled her hand free, irritated. “Stop it. I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work. If you think I can’t tell the difference between Jolinar’s feelings and my own, then think again. And stop trying to play me.”
Martouf looked stricken, but she didn’t care. She stood up and walked back to the small fire just to be away from him. It had been a long time since Jolinar’s memories had surfaced so strongly. The strength of them had caught her off-guard and she needed a few moments to steady herself without the false Martouf hovering inches away.
Unfortunately, he followed her.
“I offer you eternity, Samantha. You. Not Jolinar. Why won’t you at least consider this?”
“Because I’m not dead!” She all but shouted it at him. “And n
othing you can say or do will convince me that I am.” She pointed at the doorway, which was growing dim with the approaching twilight. “The only thing I’m going to do when I leave this place is to look for the rest of my team, because, if I’m not dead, then odds are they’re not either.” She glared at him. “And if they’re alive, I’m going to find them.”
“And sacrifice your place in the afterlife?” he pursued, his brow creased, as if what she was saying seemed incomprehensible to him. “You would give it all up — for them?”
She let a steely, determined smile crease her face. She didn’t even have to think twice. “Damn right.”
He shook his head. “Forgive me, Samantha, but it is wasted effort. If you cannot see that now, you will in time. However —” He held up his hand as she was about to retort. “I will still accompany you, if you will permit me. Then, perhaps, when you realize the futility of your quest, you will accept the great gift which I am offering you.”
Sam squelched her first instinct to tell Martouf exactly what he could do with his offer. It probably would have made even the colonel blush. The simple fact was, even though she loathed the idea, she needed someone who knew their way around here. Whatever his motives were, he at least seemed familiar with this place and she probably would increase her likelihood of finding the others if she accepted his proposal.
As long as she didn’t allow him to sabotage her efforts. Which, considering how he was still trying to manipulate her feelings, she was almost certain he would attempt to do. His appearance, his voice, everything about him, was Martouf down to a tee. It would be a constant battle to remind herself that this was not the man she had once known.
“Fine,” she said. “You can come.” And then added, because she felt she should, “Thank you, by the way. For the coat and the boots — and for guiding me back here. I don’t think I would have lasted much longer if you hadn’t come along.”
“Dying here is —”
“Impossible, I know. Because I’m already supposed to be dead. I get it.”
“Actually, I was going to say that dying here is called the Second Death. And it is something to be greatly feared. It means that your body is forever separated from your soul and cannot be reunited in the afterlife. In fact, it means that you will never achieve the afterlife and true death will be the end of your existence.”
A chill ran through her at Martouf’s words. Not that she believed him, but the thought of oblivion, of non-existence…? She’d felt that once. Or something very like it, trapped in the computer of the SGC. A vast expanse of nothing. It had been terrifying.
And something she hoped to never experience again.
“Then I guess we’ll try to avoid that,” she said curtly, walking away from Martouf and heading toward the door. The need to get some distance from him was very strong. Now that she paid attention to it, she realized why.
“You’ve got a symbiote,” she said, turning back to him in surprise. “You have one in you right now.”
Martouf looked taken aback. “Of course. I am Tok’ra —”
“No.” She cut him off before he could spin more lies. “You were Tok’ra. It was Martouf who died, but Lantash is still very much alive. The Tok’ra have him in stasis, awaiting a host. If you really were Martouf, and this was some kind of afterlife, you’d be symbiote-free. And you’re not.” Not that she’d needed further proof, but there it was. Let him try to explain his way out of that one.
Martouf sighed. Sam thought she could sense an edge of impatience in it.
“Samantha, you do not understand the nuances of this existence yet. Lantash will always be a part of me, and it is that which you sense. Nothing more.”
Damn, but he was going to be persistent. Fine. It didn’t change anything anyway. She still was going to search for the others. And she still needed him to come along.
“Sure. Fine. Whatever,” she replied dismissively. There had to be some advantage for him to keep up this charade. She’d figure it out eventually. But she was tired of playing the game right now. Getting out of this place needed to be her first priority. “How long is it dark here?” She gestured toward the door.
“The night is long, I fear. Daylight will not return for many hours.” He gave her the same fond look the real Martouf had so often given her. “You should get some rest, Samantha. Our journey will be arduous. You will need your strength.”
She was weary, she’d give him that. It was a lot colder by the door so she moved back to the fire, sitting as close to it on the marble floor as she could comfortably get. What little smoke there was drifted up to the invisible ceiling of the mausoleum and dissipated as gusts of wind through the open doorway occasionally purged the smoky air.
“It is safe to sleep,” Martouf assured her. “I will keep watch.”
Sam merely threw him a doubtful look. What she needed to be most on guard against didn’t lie outside in the dark and the snow. She pulled the hood up over her head and sighed. Sleep would definitely not be on the agenda for tonight.
It was going to be a long wait until dawn.
Chapter Seven
“THIS is everything?”
Freya looked apologetic.
“I am afraid so, General. The Tok’ra retain very few personal belongings. Because we are so often forced to relocate at a moment’s notice, burdening ourselves with items that are nonessential would hinder our evacuations needlessly. Besides, many Tok’ra have lived several lifetimes. Retaining trinkets from a previous host might make the present host uncomfortable. For these reasons, our possessions are few.”
Hammond looked at the small box on his desk with its meager contents. On the one hand, he felt voyeuristic, examining the intimate items of a person’s life. But on the other, he was frustrated that it held so few things, none of which seemed to offer any clues as to who Jenmar was or what his motive for betraying SG-1 might have been.
Carefully he removed each item. A small book. A stone the size of a child’s fist with a glyph emblazoned on it. A comb. Three pairs of what Hammond recognized as SGC-issue socks. And a small figurine that resembled something he’d expect to see in Dr. Jackson’s office.
“That is the symbol of the home planet of Jenmar’s host, Keyleb.” Freya indicated the stone with the glyph that he was now turning over in his hand. “It was destroyed by Cronus a few years ago and its people all killed. Keyleb is the last of his race. We assume the symbol is to remind him of his heritage.”
Hammond studied it. Mementos, he’d learned, could either be a source of solace or a reminder of loss. For some reason, he suspected this was the latter. Still, it told him nothing, so he set it aside. The comb and the socks also told him nothing, except that perhaps the man had cold feet — or light fingers.
“What about this book?”
“We were able to translate some of it,” Anise explained as Hammond examined it. “It seems to be some sort of, for want of a better term, prayer book.”
Hammond was surprised. “That’s a bit unusual for a Tok’ra isn’t it?”
“Most certainly,” Anise affirmed. “But not as unusual as that.” She pointed at the small figurine.
If he hadn’t known better, Hammond would have sworn it was Ancient Egyptian. Whatever its origin, the statue was worn to the point of almost being unrecognizable, but it appeared to be a woman with a crown on her head. There were markings on the entire length of the statue, but he couldn’t tell if they were supposed to be there or simply the result of its obvious age.
“I take it we know what this is,” he said, studying it closely. If ever there was a time he needed Dr. Jackson.
“I will be honest, General. Of all the items we found in Jenmar’s quarters, that was, perhaps, the most disturbing.”
Hammond glanced at her, surprised. Her brow was knit in worry as she eyed the little statuette.
“I assume you’re going to tell me why?”.
She reached out and took it carefully from his hand, holding it as if it were conta
minated in some way.
“As you know, the Tok’ra broke away from the Goa’uld many thousands of years ago. Among other differences, we did not believe in taking human hosts against their will nor subjugating less evolved species by pretending to be their gods.”
Hammond resisted the urge to comment on the phrasing ‘less evolved species.’ It was more important to hear Anise’s explanation, after all.
“There was another group which also chose to break from the Goa’uld at the same time,” she continued. “They called themselves the Djedu. Like the Tok’ra, they found the taking of a host against their will abhorrent, but, like the Goa’uld, when they did take a host, they blended with it completely. The Djedu, however, claimed that, because the host was willing, this blending created a whole new being who was neither host nor symbiote, but a perfect merging of two minds and two bodies. They believed this set them apart from both the Goa’uld and the Tok’ra.”
Another group of symbiotes running lose in the galaxy? Had the Tok’ra never thought to mention this before? Hammond could feel his blood pressure rise.
“Why have we never heard about these Djedu?” he asked, curtly. Mentally he began composing his phone call to the President and the Joint Chiefs.
Anise handed him back the small figurine. “Because we believed them to have died out long ago. Their leader was named NebtHet. As a Goa’uld she had modeled herself after one of your Egyptian goddesses.” Anise pointed toward the statue. “That is her image. From time to time, over the millennia, small groups of Tok’ra, and even some of the Goa’uld, have claimed to be followers of the Djedu cult. They’ve insisted that the Djedu still exist, in hiding, on a planet called Duat. As with such things, the popularity of these claims peaks and wanes. But the presence of the NebtHet deity among Jenmar’s possessions, along with the prayer book, would suggest that he considers himself a follower of the cult. Perhaps over and above his status as a Tok’ra.”
STARGATE SG-1 29 Hall of the Two Truths Page 8