by Stargate
“Indeed.”
Provided they were still alive to get through it. But she wasn’t going to say that aloud. Saying that aloud would be tantamount to giving up on them. She brushed Teal’c’s arm with her fingers, instead. “I’m sorry. I should’ve spoken up about you not coming with us.”
His hand covered hers. “It seemed a wise decision at the time.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But God, I wish you’d been there. You could’ve evened the odds.” Brutal as blood spatter, the image of Boaz and Mikah’s bodies, sprawled in ugly death… “We made friends there, kind of. The head man and his little boy. Heru’ur’s Jaffa killed them.”
“Hey, Sam!” said Janet brightly, sweeping into the room. “There you are. Teal’c, you want to give us some privacy? This won’t take long.”
As Teal’c withdrew, Janet whipped the curtain round the bed then took a moment to give her a hard once-over look. “So. I hear things went to hell in a hand basket.”
“Yeah,” she managed. Boaz. Mikah. “Just a little bit.”
With a sigh, Janet put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “You know it’s not your fault, right? That you escaped, and they didn’t? You know it was just dumb luck, the way the cookie crumbled, the chips falling where they fell? Sam? Tell me you know it’s not your fault.”
“It just all happened so fast… one minute I was playing pat-a-cake with a three year old girl, then the doors were blowing in and there were Jaffa and—and—we had no warning—we had no weapons—there was nothing I could do but run—”
“Shh, shh, I know,” said Janet, soothing. “But you’re okay? You’re not injured?”
“No, no, I’m fine, I’m just tired, the colonel’s a really bad sleeper and he hogs the bed, I—”
“Sam,” said Janet, delicately. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
She felt her face heating. “Damn. I wasn’t going to say anything about that. Um. Look. Janet. It’s not what you think. Nothing… happened. We just got stuck sharing a bed. In our clothes. I even kept my socks on. All perfectly innocent. And our little secret, okay?”
“Hmm,” said Janet, and looked at the enclosing curtain. “Hey, Teal’c. You still out there?”
“I am.”
“Did you hear any of that?”
“I did not.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
Sam was torn between laughter and anger. “Janet, God, none of this is funny!”
Janet picked up her wrist and pressed cool fingers to its pulse point. “Adrenaline fatigue, Sam,” she said quietly. “I know you know the drill. If you don’t unwind you’re going to burn out, and how will that help the colonel or Daniel?”
She was right. It wouldn’t. And it wouldn’t bring back Boaz or Mikah. “How are Berez and Qualah? The babies?”
Janet smiled. “Everyone’s fine, Sam. Now hush a while and let me do my thing, so you and Teal’c can go do yours.”
It was a good idea. She hushed, and let Janet work.
Hang in there guys. We’re coming. We’re coming.
On regaining his senses, Daniel discovered two important things. He wasn’t dead… and he still had the communicator. On the downside, his cut hand hurt like hell and insisted on dribbling. He was squashed in the back of a Goa’uld al’kesh with several hundred crying, wailing, terrified humans of assorted ages. And as far as he could tell, none of them was Jack or Sam. Not that he wanted Jack or Sam to be captured. He just didn’t want to be captured alone.
Which still didn’t sound right, but what the hey. In the immortal words of Jack O’Neill: he was having a bad, bad day.
Please God, please, let them have escaped.
The other good thing was there weren’t any Jaffa squashed in here with them. Well, naturally. Catch a Jaffa flying coach. He wondered if Boaz or Mikah were in here with him but nobody he was squished with knew where they were, and he couldn’t see them anywhere. When he called out their names they didn’t answer.
In his overcrowded and post-zat blast haze, it felt as though the ride through hyperspace went on forever. He drifted in and out of consciousness and didn’t try to fight that; it was a relief to escape the stench of fear and sweat and bodily wastes. The gut-churning sounds of misery, unbridled. He was vividly reminded of photos he’d seen depicting railway cars crammed with Jews on their way to Dachau, Auschwitz, Sobibor.
The analogy was uncomfortably close for comfort.
He knew he should be thinking of escape. And he would be, if he had the first idea of where to begin. But he was an archaeologist, for God’s sake, not Harry Houdini. Not Jack O’Neill, career military expert and survivor extraordinaire.
God. I wish Jack was here.
It occurred to him, as he drifted in and out of his current revolting reality, that it was perhaps the merest smidgin hypocritical, maybe, the way he looked on Jack as his very own personal Swiss Army knife. Handy for picking locks, prying the tops off stubborn drink bottles and… oh yes, slitting the occasional enemy throat. Otherwise to be folded up neatly and put away where he wouldn’t slice any accidental fingers.
I have trusted you over and over and over again. And all I ask in return is that you show me a little respect. I have never said don’t disagree with me. What I have said, more than once, is disagree with me by all means… just do it in private. But you never do. And you don’t even see it’s a problem.
The words reverberated inside his skull, courtesy of that damned inconvenient perfect audio recall. And now, at last, as he found himself in the direst of dire straits, he could finally admit it.
Jack was right.
Pride: it was his besetting sin. He liked to tell himself it was integrity. Perseverance. The courage to hold fast in the face of adversity. And yes, sometimes it was. Mostly, it was. But other times it was nothing but good old fashioned stubbornness and pride, bolstering his ego, giving him permission to cross the line. To fool himself into believing that because he was morally in the right he didn’t have to concern himself with the position or feelings of the individual he’d placed squarely in the wrong.
These days, usually, that individual was Jack.
But what gutted him breathless now, even more than the unpalatable truth or the stinking atmosphere in this temporary prison, was the fact that Jack had said it. Jack never—well, almost never—made inappropriate personal comments. In fact, he practically never made appropriate ones. Jack was the kind of man who really did believe that actions spoke louder than words.
Hey, I killed the bastard who was trying to kill you, what else do you need? Flowers?
For him to articulate, with such devastating bluntness, in sentences longer than five words—hell, in sentences, full stop—the depth and breadth of his hurt, his disappointment…
Without any warning the al’kesh shuddered, decelerating. The other captives cried out in fear, or pain, or both. Some started pushing at the rear doors, at the walls, all rational thought abandoned.
“It’s all right!” he shouted. “Don’t be frightened, we’re just slowing to sub-light. We’ll probably be landing soon. Don’t panic. Stay calm. Or people will be hurt.”
But they wouldn’t listen. Just when he thought he’d be trampled himself, smeared to red jelly by mindless mob terror, the rear doors of the ship opened, admitting fading afternoon light, warm air and a phantom promise of freedom.
“Humans, be silent!” roared an enormous Jaffa, and punctuated the order with a staff weapon blast above their heads.
Silence fell like an ax.
“Humans,” the Jaffa bellowed, “You are now the property of our great god Heru’ur, held in trust for him by Lord Anatapas. I am Va’ton, the lord’s First Prime. Glory to Heru’ur and his beloved Lord Anatapas! Glory to Heru’ur and his beloved Lord Anatapas! Glory to Heru’ur and—”
Raggedly, weakly, Yu’s former humans took up the insistent chant. Repeated it more loudly, more fervently, as Va’ton and his Jaffa poked and prodded and menaced them out of
the al’kesh, into a courtyard, then a massive stone building, and finally down a long, dark stone staircase to cages deep underground.
Treading carefully, one hand pressed protectively over his pocket and the Tok’ra communicator hidden there, Daniel went with them… just one more faceless human in the crowd.
Dedra, loyal servant to Lord Anatapas and to the great god Heru’ur, known elsewhere as Leith of the Tok’ra, watched as one by one the returned al’kesh disgorged their stolen cargo into the fortress courtyard, and was dismayed.
She’d been told of the raid on Yu’s breeding farm only after the al’kesh had left. Too late to try and use her meagre influence to stop the madness before it began. She’d protested anyway.
“My lord Anatapas, why would you do this? Against Heru’ur’s wishes? His treaty with Yu forbids—”
“You forget yourself, Dedra!” Anatapas had snarled. Like so many Goa’uld he was gloriously handsome. Irredeemably degenerate. Ruthless, and cruel. “I serve Heru’ur with every breath. Yu’s minions have raided us three times in the last star cycle. Heru’ur does battle with Cronos therefore I have punished Yu for him. Yu thought to keep these humans hidden, his most prized and valuable crop. Now they will serve Heru’ur—and Yu will never know. But we will know. We will flaunt them under his nose when next the system lords meet in treaty. And so will Yu be punished for trespassing in the empire of Heru’ur! And the god Heru’ur will reward me!”
He was mad, of course. Crazed with ambition, another predictable Goa’uld trait.
All those poor humans. Pretty cattle, nothing more.
She’d have to tell the Tok’ra. If Yu discovered the identity of the thieves who’d raided his slave farm it might have grave repercussions for the galaxy’s balance of power. The Goa’uld were so easily offended; there could be all-out war between Yu and Heru’ur over this.
Leith kept her Tok’ra subspace communicator hidden beneath a loosened flagstone under the rug in her chamber. For nearly one whole Vorash year she’d lived in Anatapas’ fortress, located on a small planet within Heru’ur’s empire. In all that time she’d never been suspected. Never had trouble making her regular reports. She hoped now, fervently, that her luck would continue to hold.
Behind her closed door, tucked into her chamber’s small bathing alcove, she opened a secure channel and contacted home.
“Vorash. Vorash this is Leith, requesting communications. Vorash, this is Leith.”
Long, heart-pounding seconds of silence. Then: “Leith, this is Vorash. A moment, please.”
She knew that voice. Her heart constricted with a dreadful wave of homesickness. “Anise? Why must I wait, I don’t have long, I—”
“Leith, this is Aldwyn. Listen carefully. Heru’ur’s forces have raided one of Yu’s slave farms. They—”
“I know! It’s why I’m calling! It was Anatapas. The stolen slaves are here, on Elekba. If Yu finds out it was Anatapas acting for Heru’ur, he—”
“Listen, Leith!” said Aldwyn sharply. He sounded odd. Alarmed. Aldwyn was never alarmed. Her heart-rate soared. “Humans of the Tauri were on that slave farm. Members of SG-1. Jacob and Martouf rescued Major Carter but believe Colonel O’Neill and Daniel Jackson were captured in the raid. Do you understand?”
Leith felt her mouth suck dry with fright. All the Goa’uld knew of SG-1. If Anatapas discovered he held them captive… “Yes, Aldwyn. Of course.”
“Can you mingle with the slaves at all? Find O’Neill and Jackson without revealing yourself to the Goa’uld?”
“Possibly. I’m not certain. Anatapas trusts no-one. He suspects the birds of conspiring to thwart his service to Heru’ur.”
Aldwyn sighed. “We think Jackson has a Tok’ra communicator. He knows we have operatives spying on Heru’ur. He might try to send a distress call. If he does, do your best to answer it. Let him know who you are.”
“And if he is recognized? He’ll reveal my presence, he—”
“Leith, we are standing by to extract O’Neill and Jackson, if they are there. We’ll bring you out as well. But first you must confirm they are prisoners of Anatapas and warn them to draw no attention to themselves or attempt escape on their own. Do you understand?”
Oh yes, she understood. She understood that her dangerous life had just become infinitely more so. “I understand, Aldwyn,” she said, subdued. “I will contact you again when the chance presents itself, and I will do my best to find the Tauri humans.”
She ended the transmission. Returned her transmitter to its secret home in the floor, and took her small hand-held communicator from its hiding place in the wainscoting by the window. It had a silent alarm function for covert operations; she activated that, and tucked the whole thing into her bodice.
For once, having large breasts was coming in handy.
We must take care, said her symbiote, Moradh. Or this situation will rapidly deteriorate.
Moradh had a knack for stating the obvious. I know, she replied. Are you ready?
Always.
She checked herself in the mirror, to make sure none of her inner turmoil was reflected in her demeanor. It wasn’t. Her eyes were calm, her mouth relaxed. Her face wore its usual haughty mask of Goa’uld superiority. Excellent. The hour for dinner was almost upon them, and all the Goa’uld residing here were expected to attend the feast.
She adjusted her fine brocade skirts and swept from the chamber. The human slave in the corridor outside prostrated itself as she passed. She ignored it, as any Goa’uld would, her mind racing with thoughts.
O’Neill and Jackson of SG-1 in the slave pens deep below the fortress of Anatapas.
Could her day get any worse?
Daniel couldn’t be certain, but he thought there were three cages in total filled with humans from Yu’s farm. Jack or Sam weren’t in his cage, so they had to be in one or both of the remaining two.
They had to be. He’d decided any other possibility was… well… impossible. Unthinkable. And not not not true. Because they’d escaped.
Oh God. What if they didn’t?
What he really wanted to do was stand up and shout their names at the top of his lungs until one of them heard him and shouted back. And he’d have done it, too, if it weren’t for the Jaffa guards prowling the place like panthers in search of their next good meal.
So if they were here he’d find them tomorrow, once the humans had been let outside for some exercise. The Jaffa had to let them out, right? They hadn’t been stolen from Yu’s farm just to rot underground in these cages, had they?
Yeah. Okay. That would be something else he wasn’t going to think about.
So the plan was: survive the night. In the morning hook up with his missing team mates in the clean fresh air. And in the meantime…
Contact the Tok’ra, you idiot.
Because Jacob knew he was alive. Jacob knew he had a communicator. And Jacob, being unable to rescue him or anyone else in his eensy teensy unarmed tel’tac, must have hotfooted it home to Vorash, raised the alarm, and told every last Tok’ra spy who was spying on Heru’ur to keep an ear out for a call from one ever-so-slightly panicked Doctor Daniel Jackson.
Unless of course Jacob had managed to rescue Jack and Sam and believed him to be dead or unsalvageable. Or been blown out of the sky by one of the al’keshs’ plasma cannons… in which case he really was alone.
Oh, God.
Just like Sam, he thought too much.
Exhausted, Daniel slumped against the wall in a corner of the cage and tried to get some sleep. He was roused from his stupor an indeterminate time later by the arrival of food. Well. Stuff impersonating food. He was unpleasantly reminded of the slops they’d been fed on the prison planet Hadante.
Surprisingly, thoughts of Hadante cheered him up. He’d made it out of that hell hole. He’d make it out of this one, too. Just see if he didn’t.
Except, his treacherous inner Daniel reminded him, then you had Jack, Sam, Teal’c and Linea on your side.
Daniel,
shut the hell up, he told himself. And realized that now, with the Jaffa guards occupied with feeding time at the zoo and his fellow cage-mates likewise food-focused, for themselves and the children penned in with them, he could maybe possibly whisper ‘help’ into his Tok’ra communicator and nobody would notice. Of course he had no idea what the range was on one of these things; probably Jacob had mentioned it at some point but when briefings got military and technical he tended to tune out. A communicator like this one had reached Teal’c in orbit above Ne’tu, and even further away than that. It had to be worth a try.
Huddling as far into his corner as he could reach, presenting his back to the rest of the cage’s occupants under guise of eating his disgusting dinner in private, he fished the communicator out of his pocket, turned his face to the wall and did indeed call for help.
Called once. Called twice. Called thrice and a fourth time for the dregs of luck.
And just as he was about to give up and turn the damned thing off… somebody answered.
“This is Leith of the Tok’ra.”
For a moment he couldn’t speak, the shock and relief and sheer disbelief of hearing a friendly voice, no matter how soft and hard to decipher, was overwhelming.
“Oh, thank God,” he said at last, barely moving his lips. “Where are you? Can you get me out here?”
“I reside in the fortress above you. You must be strong. You will be rescued but it could take time. Do nothing to reveal yourself. I am known here as Dedra. I will come for you when I can.”
“What about the others, Leith? Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter, do you know—”
But the Tok’ra was gone. With trembling fingers Daniel put the communicator back in his pocket. Covered his face with his hands, breathing hard.
Somebody touched his leg, and he jerked around. It was Sallah, from the goat field. God, he hadn’t seen her, hadn’t realized she was here. She was a child, he hadn’t been looking at the children.
“Don’t be afraid, David,” she said. She was smeared and filthy, her lovely face marred by a swollen bruise. “The great god Yu, Mighty and Everlasting, will save us. You’ll see. He will come, and we’ll go home.”