Alliances

by Stargate

  After a glaring moment, Boaz nodded. “Very well.” His gaze shifted and a grim smile touched his lips. “Now get back to work. Hol’c is coming. If he sees you idly standing he’ll use his fire-brand on you… and I won’t say a word to stop him.”

  O’Neill turned. Yes, there was Hol’c. Striding towards them from the far side of the plowed field as though he owned the world.

  Ignoring his back, his knee, his blisters and his sunburn, O’Neill picked up his hoe and went back to work… and hoped Carter and Daniel were having better luck.

  With a smile plastered to her aching face Sam thought, grimly, I’m going to do it. I really am. Five seconds after I lay eyes on my father again I am going to punch him on the nose.

  She was sitting on the grass outside the babyhouse, under a shady tree. The kindest of breezes rustled the blue-tinged leaves, ruffled her hair. Stirred sweet floral scents from the scattered flower beds. Jewel-bright butterflies flirted with nothing. There were children everywhere she looked. Vigorous, vocal and apparently happy. Too young, still, to know how to be anything else. All of them were sure-fire winners of any Baby Beautiful competition they entered.

  Sitting with her were three of the women currently assigned to working in the babyhouse. Qualah looked to be in her late twenties, and well into her third trimester. Berez was maybe a year or two younger, her pregnancy barely showing. Even so, she was nursing a baby. It wasn’t hers. Some women, she’d been told without the slightest hint of horror, were kept in milk all the time in case another woman should dry up without warning.

  She was trying very hard not to think about that. Or what happened to the women whose bodies, protesting an endless cycle of conception, gestation and birth, simply shut down and ceased to function.

  The third woman in their group wasn’t even a woman. Not really. Tima could only have been sixteen but she was nursing her fourth child now. Two of her other babies, both toddlers, were around here somewhere. The oldest lived with their father, Tima’s mate before last.

  She’d heard it all, chapter and verse, and could barely keep from screaming. How no woman could bear more than two children to the same man. How the Lord Choulai was very careful about selecting which man should quicken which woman. How he always selected just the right combinations to ensure maximum beauty and grace.

  It was the most revolting kind of eugenics. It was Alar and his horrible Eurondan followers all over again, obsessed with purity and control. What she couldn’t understand was these women’s complacency. They were so calm, so accepting, so unquestioning of what was being done to them. And while yes, she knew it all came down to environment and brainwashing and never knowing anything different… what about the human spirit? Surely it was natural to rail against this barbaric treatment? Where were the fighters, the protesters, the rebels?

  You know where they are, she answered herself, and felt a pricking of tears. Plowed into the barley field. Silenced. Murdered.

  Which was why she was here. To speak for them. Rebel for them. To put a stop to this Goa’uld-inspired evil.

  “… but if he doesn’t quicken you within the month,” Qualah continued, comfortably oblivious, “then perhaps Lord Choulai will take you from Joseph and give you to Boaz!” She sighed, and rubbed her plump hands together. The equally plump baby slung in the hammocked skirt between her knees giggled, and pumped its own little hands with glee. “Boaz sires the most beautiful children. And this Joseph you’ve been given—he’s not what I would call a man to sire beautiful children. Strong, yes. And tall. But you are so very beautiful, Serena. You should have a beautiful man.”

  “Not that we question the wisdom of the Lord Choulai,” added Berez, hastily, and poked Qualah in the shoulder. She looked afraid. “Lord Choulai is beloved of the god, and must know what is best.”

  “Except I was given to Joseph by Lord Rebec,” Sam said. Who is so going to get punched on the nose. “Lord Choulai had nothing to do with it.”

  Berez nodded. “Yes. I see. And this Lord Rebec did not know Boaz was here, and available.”

  “You might be given to David,” said Tima, wincing as the baby suckling at her breast snuffled and grunted with his eagerness. “He is beautiful too.”

  If I hear the word ‘beautiful’ one more time I’m going to scream. “Well, possibly,” Sam said, inwardly boggled by the thought. “But it’s a bit early to be worrying about all that. I was only given to Joseph yesterday.”

  Qualah laughed and dug Berez with her elbow. “This Tima, she just wants Boaz for herself!” she scoffed. “I’ve watched her making eyes at Boaz since she was a child.”

  Berez nodded, chortling, and Tima pouted. Sam kept on smiling, because it was smile or fall into a foaming fit. Qualah hadn’t trusted her with a baby to hold, yet. The last thing she wanted was a baby to hold. If she held a baby she’d fall in love with it, and there was no way the colonel would let her take it home. Probably he’d bite her head right off just for asking.

  “Boaz says,” Qualah murmured, her expression sympathetic, “your lord before Choulai would not let you breed. So sad. You must be happy to join us here, Serena, knowing your life will from now on be filled with babies.”

  It wasn’t something she’d let herself think about. Marriage. Children. Engaged to Jonah there’d been the expectation, of course. The assumption that one day, down the track, she’d become a mother. But then that relationship blew up in her face, messier than the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and after that it was work, work, work at the Pentagon. Followed by Excuse me, you want me to do what? Travel through a wormhole to the other side of the galaxy?

  Are you kidding? Of course I’m on board! Where do I sign?

  There were married people on other SG teams. She didn’t understand how they could do it. Not that she was judging, that wasn’t her place. But to leave a husband, a wife, children… and step through the Stargate. Yes, yes, married military personnel served on active duty in a dozen hotspots round the world. Always had, always would.

  But this was different. This was serving on other planets.

  And anyway. When did she have time to date? And how could she possibly get involved with someone in any meaningful fashion when she wasn’t allowed to explain how she’d come home from a hard day’s monitoring deep space telemetry with a staff weapon burn, or someone else’s memories downloaded into her brain, or the remnants of a Neanderthal retrovirus still percolating in her bloodstream, or a weird blistery scald mark in the middle of her forehead where an evil alien parasitical life-form had tried turning her brain into scrambled eggs…

  Sam blinked, and emerged from profitless speculation to find Qualah, Berez and Tima staring at her expectantly. Dear God, they were so… so… she had to say it: beautiful. And exquisite. And perfect. Luminous. They made the celebrated beauties of home—women like Catherine Zeta Jones, Charlize Theron, Halle Berry—look, well, not plain. Never plain. But… ordinary. Or… not so extraordinary.

  It was creepy.

  Qualah said, “Serena? Did you not hear me?”

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t,” she apologized. “I was… daydreaming.”

  Berez laughed. “Of babies. It is good for women to think of babies.”

  Yes, but she wasn’t here to think of babies. She was here to do a job, one far more difficult and complicated than any of them had anticipated. On a deep breath she tried to access the part of herself that had somehow become Jolinar, so it could help her assess these women as potential hosts. She’d done it on Vorash, she could do it here.

  The trick was not to try too hard…

  “Berez, isn’t it difficult?” she said, and rested her fingers on the woman’s bare arm. Physical contact seemed to help her subconscious read the subject. “Giving up your babies to Lord Choulai?”

  “They are not babies when Lord Choulai takes them,” said Berez. “They are grown and ready to serve the god Yu, Mighty and Everlasting.”

  “All right, but still. Don’t you find it wrenching, to see
them taken away? Don’t you wish you could keep them, see them grow into young men and women?”

  Tima, her sculptured face pulled into a frown, shifted her nursing son from one breast to the other. Qualah and Berez exchanged uneasy glances. Tima said, fussing with the baby, “We serve our Lord Choulai without question.”

  Berez was staring at the scattered playing children, her gaze fierce, as though searching for one child in particular. “What we might wish for, Serena, doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice distant and cool. “You come to us from far away. There you served our god as he desired in a manner unknown to us. But now you are here, and here you serve him with the babies of your body. It is your duty to give them to the god when he sends for them. Not once, not twice, but all the times you bear a child. The women who cannot accept that do not live long or happily.”

  “I understand that,” Sam said. With an effort, she hid a surge of excitement as the part of her that remained Jolinar stirred softly, like a breeze. This Berez could be a potential recruit. She had strength and fire. The kind of mental flavor the Tok’ra were seeking. “I do. But I can’t help wondering… are you all really as indifferent as you seem? I can understand how the men might not feel the loss so deeply. Men can love their children but they aren’t mothers. It’s not the same. Maybe it should be, but it isn’t. You three are mothers. Are you indifferent?”

  “What does it matter how we feel?” said Tima, roughly. “The babies are taken whether we cry or we laugh. And if we cry, Hol’c hurts us. Lord Choulai hurts us. It’s better for us if we don’t feel anything at all.”

  “You will learn this,” said Berez. “Sooner or later. For your sake, Serena, learn it sooner. Whether it is by Joseph or some other man you will soon quicken and bear your first child and before you know it, that child will be taken. As will the other children you’ve birthed in the meantime. Accustom yourself… or pay the price.”

  “You must not say more,” said Qualah. The warm friendliness had died out of her face; now her magnificent green eyes were cold and suspicious. “You insult the god when you question his desires. We were born to serve him, Serena. Those who will not serve must die. Is that what you desire?”

  The woman was serious. “No,” Sam said fervently. “I don’t want to die. I want to serve. I was only curious. I meant no harm.”

  Moving awkwardly, hampered by her large belly, Qualah scooped up her drowsy baby from its skirt-hammock and lumbered to her feet. “It is time to prepare the children’s midmeal. You will assist me, Serena and Tima. Berez, see that the children out here are calmed and ready for their food.”

  The cosy gossip was over. Sam, Berez and Tima stood too. Hiding her frustration and annoyance, Sam watched Qualah march back towards the babyhouse with Tima by her side.

  Berez looked at her. “Be careful. If Hol’c suspects you are not peaceful in your duty, you will be punished. Or killed.”

  “Even if I’m pregnant?”

  “Once the baby is born,” said Berez. “If you have quickened. Don’t think your beauty will save you. Here, beauty is commonplace. Obedience is prized highest of all. And Hol’c is easily offended. There is no profit in weeping for what cannot be changed, Serena.”

  “And if it could be changed, Berez?” she replied. Wondering, what would this woman say if she knew I’ve killed more Hol’cs than she can count? That I could kill Boaz or any man here with my bare hands? That everything she believes to be true is a lie? “If it could be changed… would you want to change it?”

  Deep in Berez’s clear blue eyes, a killing flame. “Yes,” she whispered. Then she drew back. “But if you tell anyone I said so, I will kill you myself.”

  From the babyhouse, Qualah’s imperious cry. “Serena! Join us now!”

  Berez was holding a baby, so a hug was out of the question. Sam squeezed her shoulder instead. Her instincts were correct; Berez was definitely a candidate for the Tok’ra. “I won’t tell a soul, I promise,” she whispered. “I just want you to know… you’re not alone.”

  “Serena!”

  She turned. “Coming, Qualah!”

  And with a last, swift smile at Berez, whose face had gone still and frowning, she jogged back to the babyhouse. Suddenly, unexpectedly, filled with hope.

  Maybe they weren’t wasting their time here after all.

  “And so,” said Daniel, “Jack grabbed his axe and he chopped and he chopped and he chopped that beanstalk all the way through. And the giant fell down, down, down and he hit the ground and he died. Splat.”

  There was a silence as his audience sat and thought about that for a while. Eventually one young girl poked him in the knee and said, “But you said the giant was a hundred times bigger than Jack.”

  “Yes, Sallah, I did say that,” he agreed. “Which means… can you guess what it means?”

  Padra, a year older than Sallah, gave a scornful hoot. “It means this is a made up story,” she said, witheringly. “It never happened.”

  The rest of Daniel’s audience snickered and giggled. Little shoves. Sly pinches. Sallah looked ready to cry. “True. It is a made up story,” Daniel said quickly, forestalling catastrophe. “But even made up stories can mean something important. So… what does this one mean, do you think?”

  Sallah sniffed. “Maybe—maybe that big people don’t always have to win?”

  He grinned. “Exactly. That’s exactly right, Sallah. Big people—powerful people—people you might think you can never defeat? They can be defeated.”

  Baen, at twelve the oldest in the group, said, “David, we’re supposed to be picking stones and minding the goats. If Hol’c finds us sitting around listening to stupid made up stories we’ll get into trouble.”

  At the mention of Hol’c’s name the other children’s faces pinched tight with terror. With little cries they scrambled to their feet and looked at him, fearful, accusing, as though he’d somehow let them down.

  Slowly, Daniel unfolded his crossed legs and knelt before them. “We have been picking stones and minding the goats all day,” he said gently. “I was tired. I needed to rest. So did you. The goats are still here, and so are the stones.”

  “And so is Hol’c,” said Baen. “You’re new, David. You don’t understand.”

  “Trust me,” said Daniel grimly, and pushed to his feet. “When it comes to the Jaffa I understand everything.” He dusted his hands up and down the front of his shirt, then reached out and patted Sallah on the head. “I’m rested now, and so are you. Baen is right. We should get back to work.”

  Sallah tugged at his sleeve. “Why are you here with us, David? Men don’t mind the goats. That’s child work.”

  “Ah, but you see, Sallah, I’m not like other men. I’m a scribe. I’ve spent my life working with words, not knives and hoes and axes. Boaz thinks this is the safest place for me. Looking after you, and the goats, and picking up the rocks and stones that work their way to the pasture’s surface.”

  Sallah had a smile to warm the dead. It lit her face now as she said, “I’m glad Boaz thinks that.” And she danced away to join the other children.

  Daniel smiled after her, then got back to collecting the damned rocks and stones.

  Goats being goats, the animals were happy to thrive on tough pickings. They were pastured daily some distance from the village and its surrounding rich fields and growing crops. Maybe a mile, a mile and a half. Out here the land wasn’t so intensively cultivated. It was hot, but not unbearably so. The work was steady, but not too taxing. The children, a dozen of them, were scrappy little buggers. Daniel was reminded of Abydos. Of Skaara and his friends, squabbling and scuffling and turning chores into an excuse for laughter and play. With the spectre of Ra gone they had learned the meaning of freedom.

  Ra. One down, only a few hundred more to go. As Jack would say, giant killer in his own right: a piece of cake…

  Abydos. One small planet that had shaken itself free of Goa’uld shackles. Once upon a time his home. The home, the family, he’d never
thought to have.

  Don’t, Daniel told himself sharply. Abydos is the past. Sha’re is the past. And Skaara. Kasuf. All of them, the past.

  The pain faded, slowly. He shook himself, bent to picking up more stones and gradually became aware he was being watched.

  “Your face is sad, David,” said Sallah, her small hands full of rocks. She had a look of Sha’re about her; dark hair, dark eyes. That smile. “Don’t you like to be here with us?”

  He took the rocks from her and placed them on top of the tall pile they’d collected already. Nearby, two young buck goats got into an argument over a scrawny thistle. He watched them until he could trust his voice not to frighten the child.

  “I like you, Sallah,” he said, and touched her petal cheek with his finger. “And your friends. But I wish we all were somewhere else.”

  The vanquished buck gave one last toss of its head—I never wanted it anyway, so there—and trotted off to find another thistle. Sallah said, puzzled, “Where else could we be? I am too young to serve the god, and you serve him here already.”

  He felt his heart hitch. She was what—seven? eight?—and she made him feel like an adolescent. The wickedness of this place would destroy him, if he let it. Get in, do the job, get out. Stay detached. Stay focused. It’s not a rescue mission, Daniel.

  It sounded so simple, in theory…

  “Listen!” said Sallah, and tugged at his hand. “The night bell, can you hear it?”

  He turned his head. Yes. There, on the breeze. A faint clang-clang-clang from the village. Scattered over the rest of the pasture, picking up rocks, the other children heard it too.

  “We must go back now,” said Sallah. All day long she’d been lecturing him. Guiding him. Pointing out his myriad errors. The older boys, led by Baen, had dismissed him within minutes as a lightweight. But it seemed that Sallah had adopted him.

  I wonder if Jack would notice an extra, short team member.

  Baen came over now, loping easily like some young hunting cat. “That was the bell, David.”