Alliances

by Stargate

  She nodded. “I do.”

  “Then I’ll believe it, too.”

  “And me,” said Mikah.

  “So Boaz,” Jack said briskly, “you can talk comparative religion with Daniel when this is over, it’s right up his alley, but for now we need to focus. Which of the villagers would join a fight against the Goa’uld?”

  Boaz frowned, thinking. “I cannot say for certain, Jack. You must understand—whatever we might think we never question the god aloud. Defiance is death.”

  Mikah made a rude noise. “Jenc wouldn’t join you. Jenc would run to Hol’c if you asked him to fight.”

  Boaz tightened his arms. “Mikah’s right. Jenc must not suspect a thing.”

  “I doubt Qualah would join us either,” said Sam. “Or Tima. But I know Berez would.”

  “Berez?” He was shocked. “Berez questioned the go—the Goa’uld?”

  Sam shrugged. “Not in so many words. It’s hard to explain, Boaz. I just have a sense about these things. And when I hinted I wasn’t happy about children going into slavery she didn’t argue. She was upset at the idea of hers being sent away.”

  “Perhaps that’s the key,” said Daniel. “Jack reached you, Boaz, because of Mikah. Sam’s reached this Berez through her children. Maybe that’s the approach we should be taking. Targeting the parents upset about losing their children to the Goa’uld.”

  Jack made an impatient sound. “Daniel, that’s all of them.”

  “Well, can you think of a better opening?” Daniel retorted. “I mean, we’re new here. It’s kind of a natural question to ask, isn’t it?”

  Jack rubbed his face. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “And at least it’s more subtle than, ‘Hey I was just wondering, has it ever occurred to you that the Goa’uld aren’t gods?’”

  “Okay, Daniel, you’ve made your point!” said Jack. His voice was dangerous again; Mikah flinched, and Boaz tightened his arms protectively.

  Daniel seemed unaffected. “So if that’s the approach we’re going to take,” he said, sounding perfectly cheerful, “I guess that means you’ll need to assign me somewhere else tomorrow, Boaz. I doubt very much if the goats have an opinion about the Goa’uld.”

  “Speaking of tomorrow,” said Jack, “it’s late. Time to hit the hay.”

  Mikah giggled drowsily. “Why? Was it bad?”

  “It’s an expression,” said Jack, briefly smiling. “It means get some rest. We’ve only got a few days before we have to get out of here and we need to stay on our toes.”

  Sam tugged Mikah’s curls. “That means stay alert,” she said. “And be very careful about what we say outside this house. Do you understand, Mikah?”

  Solemnly Mikah nodded. “I understand, Sam.”

  “Because our lives depend on all of us keeping this a secret.”

  “I know that, Sam,” said Mikah. “I know what Hol’c will do if he finds out we know the Goa’uld are not gods.”

  She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. Her eyes were very bright. “Good boy. And don’t forget—I’m only Sam here, in the house. Outside I’m still Serena.”

  “Yes. And he’s Joseph, and he’s David,” said Mikah, pointing. “I won’t forget. I promise.”

  Boaz stood, Mikah in his arms. “Nor will I.”

  “Thank you, Boaz,” said Daniel. “We know you’re afraid. We know we’re asking you for an incredible leap of faith. But it will be worth it, I swear.”

  There was no guile in this man. No cold killing hardness, as he’d seen in Jack. In Sam. In this man’s eyes were warmth and compassion and a deep well of sorrow.

  “Good night,” he said, Mikah’s head on his shoulder. “I will wake you in the morning.” And he took his son to bed. Covered him in blankets, kissed his cheek and said, his voice unsteady, “Sleep now, Mikah. And dream of freedom.”

  Then he retired to his own room, blew out the lamp and lay in the darkness.

  The Goa’uld are not gods.

  Never once in his life had he thought to question the divinity of Yu. Even when his heart was breaking, when he denied his anguish at the loss of Tayt and all the children culled before him, buried that pain in work or making more babies, he had never thought, Yu is no god and this is wrong. Never. It was not safe to think such things.

  But I believe them now because in my heart I know them to be true.

  Did he? Or did he only want them to be true?

  And did the difference matter? These strangers, these humans who had never been slaves, they said they could stop the hurting and the culling. They said they could make the god—the Goa’uld—Yu pay. Make Hol’c pay, and his cruel Jaffa.

  It was enough.

  The Goa’uld are not gods.

  As the door to Boaz’s room closed, Daniel let out a gust of air from his aching lungs.

  “Dammit, Jack. You took one hell of a risk!”

  Jack shrugged. “Not really.” Then he disappeared into his bedroom, came out again with his Tok’ra communicator and added, “I had the situation covered.”

  He looked at Sam. She raised an eyebrow. He waited a moment till he could trust himself then said, with immense care, “You were serious? If Boaz had tried something you’d have killed him. Just like that.”

  Jack was wearing his ‘Special Forces face’. The one that meant he was in no mood for arguments or taking prisoners.

  “Yes, Daniel,” he said, his voice clipped and neutral, with the merest hint of warning. “Just like that. And you know it. So why are we having this conversation?”

  These were the times Daniel remembered that much of Jack remained a mystery. Perhaps, when it came to throats and knives and slitting, there wasn’t so much difference between a sheep and a man. If it had to be done then it was done, efficiently and humanely. Sometimes it was almost impossible to reconcile those two stark sides of his difficult friend: the Jack who’d invited cruel punishment to save a child from torture, and the other Jack who was prepared to kill that same child’s father if it came to a choice between him and the team.

  Jack’s expression had changed again. It was impatiently understanding now. “Daniel. Stop brooding. It didn’t happen, let’s move on.” He flicked on his communicator. “Jacob. Jacob, it’s Jack. Do you read?”

  A buzzing hum, then: “Colonel O’Neill? This is Martouf. Jacob is sleeping. Do you have a report?”

  Jack rolled his eyes at Sam, who grinned and shrugged. “Yes, Martouf, I have a report. It’s ten bells and all is well.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Martouf, after a puzzled pause. “Why are there bells? Is it not night in the village?”

  “Never mind,” said Jack. “When Jacob wakes up, tell him we’ve made some progress.”

  “That is good to hear, Colonel.”

  “It is, isn’t it? So that’s it from me. But you guys might want to stand by the radio and keep the engine running; could be we’ll need to make a fast getaway in the next day or so.”

  “A fast getaway,” said Martouf. Now he sounded resigned. “I will tell Jacob.”

  “You do that, Marty. O’Neill out.” He clicked off the communicator, shaking his head. “The Tok’ra should hold a raffle and raise some money so they can buy that guy a clue.”

  “Be fair,” said Sam. “You do it on purpose, just to confuse him.”

  A small spark of amusement glinted in Jack’s eyes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, Carter.”

  Sam pulled a face at him, and he pulled one back. Daniel made sure his own expression stayed studiously blank.

  Sam said, only a little hesitant, “Daniel’s right, sir. You took an awful risk.”

  “Yeah. And it paid off. Even if Boaz can’t help you finger any more likely spies-in-training, at least we’ve got him and Mikah to take with us. Berez too. That’s not bad for a couple of days’ work.”

  “And there’s the baby Berez is wet-nursing.”

  Jack frowned. “It’s not hers?”

  “No. Her first child died. She’s pr
egnant again, though.”

  “Yeah…” Jack said, sounding reluctant. “About that…”

  She sat up. “Sir, I doubt she’ll leave it behind!”

  “She might not have a choice.”

  “But sir—”

  “Hey!” he said, one hand sharply lifted. “If you can think of a way to winkle a screaming baby out from under that Qualah’s nose, Carter, good luck to you. But I’m telling you right now, and if I have to make it a direct order I will: babies in swaddling clothes not directly related to a recruit can’t be our top priority. Because our mission here is—” He turned. “Daniel, what’s our mission here?”

  Daniel favored Jack with his most innocent face. “Sorry. I forget.” Which earned him a look fit to incinerate asbestos, but that was too bad. It wasn’t wise to let Jack have things all his own way.

  Sam was chewing a thumbnail. “Sir, what if Berez will only come with us if—”

  “Carter!” said Jack, exasperated. “Worry about it when it happens, not before.”

  She sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  “You two should hit the sack,” he added. “Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” Jack hooked out a chair with his foot and sat on it. “I had a long nap already. Think I’ll stay up a while and… pare my fingernails.”

  Daniel exchanged a meaningful look with Sam. “You mean you want to stand guard in case Boaz isn’t as shattered as he looked, or on our side as much as we think,” he said, and felt his guts tighten.

  “You suspect he was playing us?” said Sam. “That he might try and sneak out once we’re asleep and tell Hol’c who we are and why we’re here?”

  Jack shrugged. “Thinking’s your department, Carter. I’m just the muscle.”

  Desperately, Daniel tried to lighten the suddenly tense mood. “Hey. If she’s the brain and you’re the brawn, what does that make me?”

  Jack smiled, not altogether kindly. “The pain in the ass. Now go to bed, both of you. That is an order.”

  There was no point in arguing. They went to bed.

  Boaz woke them in the morning. Calm, resolute, committed. “I thought of what you said all night,” he told them, as they prepared to leave for firstmeal. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “Good,” said Jack, and patted him on the shoulder. “Then it’s game on. So let’s do it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thank God for Tok’ra subspace communication technology, thought Jacob, as he waited for someone to fetch George Hammond to the phone. Beyond the cloaked cargo ship’s window, the stars continued their twinkling undisturbed. The gas giant continued its slow self-immolation. Panotek and its other two moons continued orbiting without comment. It was very much a case of same old, same old.

  Just the way he liked it.

  A crackling hum, caused by interference from the gas giant, then George’s voice filled the flight deck. “Jacob! It’s about time, I was starting to worry. What’s your status?”

  “My status, George, is near-terminal boredom. There’s not a lot to do out here. And there’s only so many times I can listen to Selmak’s jokes before they stop being funny.”

  George chuckled. “I can imagine.”

  “Sorry if you’ve been worrying, my friend, but I did warn you I’d only make contact if I had something to report. We may be parked in the ass-end of Yu’s empire but I still don’t like taking unnecessary risks. Slim or not, there’s always a chance our transmissions could be picked up.”

  “I know, Jacob, I know,” said George, apologetic. “I’m just not very good at sitting on the sidelines.”

  “Then I guess you should’ve thought twice about accepting that promotion.”

  “So I take it there’s good news?” said George, refusing the bait. Sounding hopeful, even through the static.

  “Well, there’s news,” he said. “How good it is remains to be seen. We heard from Jack last night. He says they’re making progress.”

  “And that’s it?” said George. “That’s all he said?”

  “Martouf took the message. It was a typical O’Neill communiqué—short on details, long on obscurity. Personally, I think he just likes twisting Martouf’s tail.”

  “Then you tell him from me I’ll be the one doing the tail-twisting if he doesn’t provide a complete update the next time he contacts you!”

  That made Jacob laugh. “Be fair, George. He’s got to keep it cryptic.”

  A crackly, static-ridden sigh. “I’m just worried about them, Jacob. Are you sure you’re in a position to get them out of there fast if anything goes wrong?”

  Jacob hesitated, debating whether or not it was worth worrying George with stuff he couldn’t fix sitting in the SGC. Then he considered how pissed he’d be if someone withheld information from him in a misguided attempt to spare his feelings.

  “Honestly, George? Conditions aren’t ideal, but we’re coping. This whole mission’s a tightrope walk, you know that.”

  “I don’t much care for the sound of that, Jacob.”

  “I don’t much care for it either, George, but it is what it is. We’re doing our best.”

  “I know you are,” said George. “And you say they’re making progress? Does that mean they’ve found some candidates for you?”

  “I’m guessing that’s what it means,” he said. “I’ll know more tonight hopefully, once I’ve spoken to Jack.”

  “And you’ll make sure to speak with him yourself this time? No more cryptic messages via Martouf?”

  “Don’t worry, George, I’ll get all the skinny.”

  “And you’ll contact me as soon as you can, to keep me apprised? Kinsey’s pressuring the President again, wanting to know if Jack’s so-called emergency secondment was really an emergency after all. I swear, Jacob, the man’s like a case of athlete’s foot. Just when you think you’re rid of him…”

  “I’ll contact you the moment I know anything,” he promised. “What time is it there?”

  “Fifteen-twenty.”

  Jacob checked his flight deck chronometer and did a quick mental calculation. “Okay. Expect to hear from me around 0700 tomorrow, your time.”

  “Good. And Jacob—when you speak to Jack—tell him we’re thinking of them here and we’re looking forward to seeing them home again, safe and sound.”

  “Will do, George. Jacob out.”

  He disconnected the subspace communicator and sat back, smiling. Good old George. There wasn’t a better man in the service to have at your back, or at your front for that matter. He inspired the kind of loyalty the Kinseys of this galaxy could only dream about. The kind of loyalty Jack O’Neill inspired.

  No wonder Kinsey hated them.

  Selmak said, You did a fine job fooling the general, Jacob, but don’t think you can fool me. You’re worried.

  Of course I’m worried, he replied. That’s my little girl down there. Being treated like a piece of meat because I asked her to get involved. What father wouldn’t be worried?

  She chose this life, Jacob.

  Because she wanted to please me.

  She didn’t join the Stargate program to please you. She did that to please herself.

  Hey, he said. Worrying is a father’s prerogative.

  You’re not just worried about Samantha. There’s something else.

  No, there’s not.

  Jacob, please. I know you. What is—

  “I don’t know!” he snapped. “Nothing I can put my finger on. Now quit nagging me, would you?”

  “Nagging you?” said Martouf, bemused, emerging from the cargo hold where they’d set up their camp-beds. “When was I nagging you?”

  Jacob shifted round in the pilot’s seat. “Not you. Selmak.”

  “Ah.” His brief smile fading, Martouf began a series of complicated and painful-looking stretches. “Has there been more word from SG-1?”

  “No, but I’ve updated George Hammond. He’s starting to get antsy.” Shifting to
face front again, Jacob frowned at the surface of the distant moon. “And he’s not the only one.”

  Martouf lowered himself into a split position that would’ve turned Rudolf Nureyev green with envy. Resting his forehead on his leg he said, slightly muffled, “Samantha is a formidable warrior, Jacob. And she has been in far more dangerous situations than this.”

  Jacob stifled an impatient sigh. Martouf would never admit it but he was worried for Sam too. “I know.”

  “In addition, she has Colonel O’Neill watching her back. He will not let any harm come to her. Indeed, I have observed he is quick to put himself in danger to protect her.”

  “I know that, too.” And he did. In fact, it was something he kept meaning to talk to Sam about. Because he had some nasty suspicions in that department… a strong hunch there were things brewing beneath the surface of her professional relationship with Jack that could get messy if everyone involved wasn’t extremely careful.

  “So really,” said Martouf, encouragingly, “there is very little to worry about. Yours and Selmak’s choice of a preliminary target has proven most worthy.”

  Maybe. But Jacob was in a worrying mood. He felt uneasy. Prickled with nerves. He couldn’t explain why; the feeling wasn’t rational. It was a familiar sensation, one he’d experienced many times, in conflicts throughout his military career on a number of different continents. Well. Planets, now.

  He’d learned the hard way not to ignore it.

  “What are you doing?” said Martouf, on his feet again and holding a perfectly balanced one-legged stand, his left leg folded behind him.

  “Running a long-range sensor sweep,” he said, his fingers dancing across the control panel.

  “Why?”

  “Do I need a reason?” he said, as the skin between his shoulder blades crawled and twitched. “I’m bored. It’ll kill some time.”

  Slowly Martouf put his left foot on the ground. “Jacob,” said Lantash, sounding more than ever like an irascible schoolmaster. “Is there cause for concern?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, checking the sensor readouts. “Nothing’s showing up, and I’ve sent the sweep out to a full parsec. I’ve just got this feeling that—”