Alliances

by Stargate

  “Where’s your mother, Sallah?” he whispered. “Where’s your father?”

  Her thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. “They died in the sickness, seasons ago. I live with Dusha, but I can’t find her.”

  She was so young, and helpless. Daniel put his arm around her, felt her sag against his side. Her head drooped to his shoulder.

  “Probably she’s in one of the other cages,” he told her. “We’ll find her in the morning, Sallah. Okay? Until then, try to sleep.”

  She was sleeping already, worn out by her ordeal.

  After speaking with Dedra, Leith, whatever her name was, he was too keyed up to sleep. So he sat with his back to the wall, with his arm around Sallah, and waited for tomorrow. For rescue.

  Daniel Jackson’s call for help had come during the evening banquet’s second course. Leith’s communicator’s silent alarm was heat activated. It sat in her bodice like a burning coal; she could scarcely keep from squirming.

  “My lord Anatapas,” Moradh murmured. It had to be Moradh; when in the Goa’uld’s presence, one spoke as a Goa’uld. “Your servant requests leave to withdraw momentarily.”

  Anatapas had stared at her, his deep-set eyes avaricious. Then he jerked his head at the banquet hall’s door. “Go.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Moradh, and sank out of sight. Walking when she wanted to run, Leith slipped out to the corridor then let herself onto one of the fortress’s fourth floor balconies. Answering the call from her communicator, she spoke for the first time with Daniel Jackson of the infamous Tauri warriors SG-1.

  He’d sounded young. And ordinary. And scared. Not the stuff of legend… or a man to frighten the Goa’uld.

  Nevertheless he was feared and hated by the system lords and held in high affection by Selmak. So possibly his day had been less than inspiring, also.

  She tucked the communicator back in her bodice, her mind a maelstrom of thought and conjecture.

  If she approached Anatapas and begged for a boon, for a slave from among the new arrivals… Anatapas desired her. She could see it in his eyes but had never allowed him access. That might have to change. She might have to lower herself to consorting with a Goa’uld, just a little, in order to achieve her objective.

  Yes. She could surrender to him then ask for a gift as a token of his appreciation. She’d have to flatter him to vomiting point, of course. And pretend his attentions were welcome. Pleasurable. Addictive. Pretend she’d just been too shy, too awed, too disbelieving that such a great lord could truly be interested in her…

  Yes. She could do that. She and Moradh would hate it. But she could do it.

  O’Neill and Jackson must not be discovered.

  The decision made, her distaste buried deep inside, for later perusal, she stepped from the balcony back into the corridor…

  … and was confronted by Lord Anatapas himself. He was smiling. His eyes lit from within, a burst of heat and power.

  “Enjoying some fresh air, Dedra?”

  Leith swept him the lowest of curtseys, making sure all her cleavage was displayed. “My lord, yes,” Moradh answered for them. “I was overcome by the warmth of the feasting hall. The… warmth of your regard.”

  “Indeed?” said Anatapas. Bending down, he placed a finger beneath her chin and raised her, inexorably, to her feet. “You value my regard, Dedra?”

  “Most highly, my lord.”

  “If that is so, Dedra, explain this.”

  He snapped his fingers and the Goa’uld lordling Rabek stepped out of hiding, her long range Tok’ra communicator dangling from his hand.

  She felt herself flush as hot as Abydos. As cold as the moons of Vexitilia.

  “An unknown tel’tac was seen at the raided slave farm, Dedra. If that is your name,” said Anatapas, his voice trebled with rage. “Part of a communication was intercepted between the tel’tac and someone on the ground. I have deemed the communication to be Tok’ra. We have suspected you are Tok’ra for some time now. I alerted Heru’ur to your… suspicious… behaviors and he told me to watch you closely. I did. Then a Tok’ra spy was caught aboard the god Kotosh’s own personal ha’tak, some little time ago. It spoke at length before it died.” He laughed. “So much for Tok’ra fortitude. It said one of my servants served not our system lord. When Heru’ur told me, I knew it had spoken of you. But I had no proof… till now.”

  Leith felt her insides twist in anguish. Felt Moradh’s anguished echo. Irrilain. Was it Irrilain who’d spied on Kotosh? Had he been caught, and failed to commit suicide in time? And did the High Council know? Operatives were often out of contact for extended periods…

  Anatapas said, “I have been monitoring subspace communications, Dedra, since receiving Heru’ur’s warning. We found this device in your chamber. It is of Tok’ra origin. We know you called the Tok’ra after the raiders returned today. Were I to strip you naked, I would find a smaller Tok’ra device about your person. A device you were using just moments ago, on the balcony. And were I to inspect the slave pens below this fortress… I think I might find another. Who were you talking to, Dedra? A human co-conspirator? One of your fellow Tok’ra? Who?”

  Leith felt her spine stiffen. Her head come up. Her racing heart settle to a more bearable rhythm. Moradh stepped back, and she spoke as herself.

  “No-one. I talked to no-one.”

  Anatapas stroked his fingers down her cheek. Plunged them into the bodice of her dress and withdrew her small communicator. His perfect lips curved into a perfect smile.

  “You are lying. But that’s no matter. I will find the person on the other end of this device, Dedra. They are here… now… below our feet. And when I do, you will both beg for a mercy that will never be shown.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Damn and damn and damn his damn crap knee. To hell and gone, and back again.

  Swallowing a grunt of discomfort, O’Neill shifted position on his cage’s cold stone floor. The chill seeping up from the unprotected flagstones had sharp teeth; it tore at his strained anterior cruciate ligament like a starving dog.

  If his knee hadn’t stopped him, he might’ve got away.

  Had anyone else got away? Carter? Daniel? Mikah? Boaz?

  He had no way of knowing. His al’kesh had been the last unloaded, all the other humans were locked out of sight in their cages when he was locked into his. He didn’t dare risk calling their names, either; Heru’ur’s Jaffa stood guard outside.

  God. Not knowing was a bitch.

  He thought of his Tok’ra communicator, back in Boaz’s house, and could easily have wept… if he’d been the weeping type. He wasn’t.

  You haven’t got the damned thing, Jack. Deal with it and move on.

  The cage wasn’t tiny but it wasn’t a penthouse at the Ritz, either. Designed to hold a hundred, a hundred and fifty humans, tops. Right now it held closer to two hundred, and even though a bunch of them were children conditions were still uncomfortably close.

  He wondered, briefly, what had happened to the farm’s babies then decided he didn’t want to know.

  His internal clock, finely calibrated over years of Black Ops work, told him that five hours had passed since they’d been shoved into these pens. Chances were it was dark outside now. It was still light in here, though. Torches guttered shadows over the blank stone walls and stank up the air with their smoke.

  He leaned his head against the wall behind him. He needed to sleep, to recoup some energy so he could face whatever the universe threw at him next. Provided Jacob and Martouf hadn’t been discovered and blown out of the sky please, God, please God chances were good—okay, fair—that some kind of rescue was imminent. The Tok’ra had ways of findings things out. They might never share the information, but they usually had it.

  And if anyone could make them cough it up it was General George Hammond. As sure as God made little green apples, Hammond wouldn’t leave any of his people stranded here. The smartest thing to do right now was stay low. Unnoticed. Completely unremar
ked.

  If Carter was here somewhere, he knew she’d be okay. She’d know to keep her head down. Play it cool. If Daniel was here…

  God. If you’re here, Daniel, no matter what happens don’t do anything stupid. And for crying out loud keep your big mouth shut.

  Clearly SG-1 had been caught up in some kind of pissing contest between Yu and Heru’ur. Funny how the Tok’ra had let that fact slip their minds.

  Yeah. Freakin’ hilarious.

  He’d never heard of this Goa’uld Lord Anatapas. Obviously he was one of Heru’ur’s minions. Well, with a bit of luck snaky Lord Anatapas had never heard of him either. Or Carter. Or Daniel. Of course he’d have heard of the Tok’ra… but there was no reason for Anatapas to suspect a Tok’ra presence amongst these stolen humans.

  Keep flying under the radar, Jack, and you just might make it home for The Simpsons.

  God. He hoped Carter and Daniel were okay… and far away from here.

  Selfishly, he did wish Teal’c was here. Having Teal’c in the trenches with him was like having a twin, only bigger and stronger and even less likely than he was himself to care about alien rights, interesting cave paintings and whether or not what they did in the here-and-now might affect someone sixteen generations down the track.

  But he didn’t have Teal’c. He didn’t have his Tok’ra communicator. He didn’t have a gun or even the small boning knives any more, because the Jaffa had stripped him of the bloodstained leather apron. In short he was deep in me, myself and I territory and if he didn’t stop fretting about that he was going to erode the inner barricades he’d built over more than a decade of Special Forces work…

  And that might well prove fatal.

  Get a grip, Jack. You’ve been here before. And with any luck you’ll be here again. Or at least you’ll get the chance to avoid being here again. Just stay cool, and don’t screw up.

  Beyond the overcrowded cage, a stirring. Jaffa voices, babbling in Jaffa. His cage was closest to the doors of the underground prison complex; he heard one of the Jaffa say, “Kree! How can we serve you, Lord Anatapas?”

  So… the snakehead had come to pay a visit. Couldn’t resist the urge to gloat. Typical. God, they were so pathetic.

  As the other occupants of his cage stirred and muttered and whimpered in fright, O’Neill managed to get himself back on his feet. Even though he’d made sure to position himself right at the back, where the Jaffa couldn’t easily see him, he still had a decent line of sight to the cage’s iron door.

  Which opened with a jingling of keys to admit the enormous Jaffa Va’ton. He was armed with a staff weapon and accompanied by a swanky, slimy, over-dressed, over-coiffed, over-everythinged individual with glowing white-hot eyes.

  The prisoners fell silent, cowed by the presence of a god, and pressed as far away from him as they could get.

  “I am Lord Anatapas, beloved servant of the god Heru’ur,” the snakehead announced. He looked at the Jaffa, and nodded. Va’ton shot dead the nearest five humans. Two of them were children.

  Sonofabitch!

  The bodies hit the floor. The other humans started shrieking, crying. Howled for Yu to save their lives. The Jaffa flipped his staff weapon up and discharged it over their heads. Smoke. Sparks. The eye-searing stink of melted rock. Silence fell, broken only by a woman’s terrible weeping.

  Heart pounding, bile scalding his throat, O’Neill stared at the Goa’uld. God, to be an X-Man, to freeze the bastard solid or burst him into flame or cook him alive from the inside out!

  The Goa’uld ignored the murdered humans at his feet. “I speak to the Tok’ra,” he said, his voice bloated with malice. “Your agent Dedra, sent to spy on Heru’ur, has confirmed your presence. She was caught talking to you on her communicator. Surrender yourself, Tok’ra, or I will kill more of these humans.”

  What? He didn’t have a communicator…

  Oh, crap. It had to be Daniel. Carter would never have disobeyed his order to leave their communicators in Boaz’s house. In Daniel’s world, orders were just suggestions. He was here, somewhere. He’d managed to make contact with a Tok’ra operative inside this bastard’s fortress… and now their cover was blown to hell.

  Anatapas had him, which was bad enough. But if he got his hands on Daniel too…

  Bite the bullet, Daniel. Keep your damned head down…

  Anatapas looked again to his hulking First Prime. Va’ton swung his staff weapon—hit the switch—plasma surged, waiting to fire—

  “No!” O’Neill shouted, and shoved his way forward, cursing the brushfire in his knee. Cursing the Goa’uld. Cursing God. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  He made it to the front of the crowd, just, and sprawled without dignity at the Goa’uld’s feet. Va’ton bent down and hauled him upright, almost yanking his arm from its shoulder socket.

  Anatapas considered him. “You have no symbiote. You are not Tok’ra.”

  The staff weapon charged, swung—

  “I am! I am! I’m a human Tok’ra! Swear to God. Mine, not yours. I work for the Tok’ra. Don’t kill anyone else. I’m the guy you’re after. I wish I wasn’t, but there you go. I am.”

  The Goa’uld’s heavy eyelids drooped to half-mast. “Prove it,” he drawled. “Give me your Tok’ra communicator.”

  Crap. “I threw it away. I got scared you’d discover me and I threw it away.”

  Anatapas curled his lip in disgust. “Kill it,” he said to his tame mass-murderer. “And then kill two more. The true Tok’ra is in here somewhere. I will flush it out if I have to kill every last slave in this place.”

  “Wait!” O’Neill shouted, as Va’ton took aim. “Okay! You win! I’m not a Tok’ra!” He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly. God help me, God help me, you’d better be sending the cavalry, George… “I’m Jack O’Neill of SG-1. Possibly you’ve heard of me, from such popular shows as Killing Apophis 2.”

  Silence; the kind that sent cold shivers down a person’s spine. The Goa’uld’s eyes flashed. “Jack O’Neill?” He was practically purring. “SG-1 of the Tauri?”

  “One and the same.” O’Neill forced a smile. “Ah, fame. Ain’t it sweet?”

  “And what were you doing on Lord Yu’s slave farm, O’Neill of the Tauri?” demanded Anatapas, stepping close.

  He shrugged. “Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that. Some sight-seeing. A little souvenir shopping.”

  The Goa’uld ignored that. “Where is the rest of SG-1?”

  “Kicking some snaky snakehead Goa’uld butt on the other side of the galaxy. Haven’t seem ‘em for weeks.”

  The Goa’uld’s eyes narrowed. “I do not believe you.”

  He risked another shrug. “You might as well. It’s the truth.”

  Anatapas hit him, hard enough that he saw stars. “Where is the rest of SG-1?”

  He spat blood. “Go screw yourself,” he suggested, savagely. “Which I guess you can do more easily than most. I told you already. I’m flying solo!”

  “You lie,” said Anatapas. “The Goa’uld know you work as a team.” He whirled in a flurry of silk brocade skirts and stepped out into the wide corridor between the cages. “I have O’Neill, Tauri SG-1!” he shouted, his thrumming voice bouncing from wall to wall. “Now I want the rest of you! Surrender yourselves or I will kill these humans one by one until you obey my command or they are all dead!”

  “You stupid bastard, I’m on my own!” O’Neill shouted, launching himself at the cage’s open door, and Anatapas. Va’ton swung a fist, knocking him to the floor.

  “Jaffa, kill another one!” Anatapas ordered. “Make it a child!”

  “You bastard—”

  “My lord, my lord!” a new voice shouted. “My lord, you must come! The god Heru’ur commands your presence!”

  Head ringing, the flesh over his cheek-bone split from the Jaffa’s blow and rapidly swelling, O’Neill slowly sat up.

  Anatapas raised his hand, halting Va’ton, and waited for the new Jaffa to join
him. “Heru’ur calls?”

  The Jaffa plunged to one knee. “My lord, he does. He summons you to him and commands you take no further action against the captured Tok’ra until you both have spoken.”

  “You told him?”

  The Jaffa went pale. “My lord, he asked.”

  Anatapas nodded, curtly. “Very well. Tell Heru’ur I come this instant.”

  “My lord,” said the Jaffa, and ran out.

  Anatapas turned to his First Prime. “Take the Tauri and put him with the Tok’ra. Fair Dedra can tell him what pleasures await if he refuses to co-operate.”

  O’Neill scrambled to his feet before Va’ton could try ripping off his other arm. “Since when do the Goa’uld care about co-operation?”

  Anatapas smiled. “When the other system lords learn it is Heru’ur who possesses SG-1 they will choke on their envy and ire. He will wish to display you as a trophy… after you have revealed to us all your secrets. But if you do not co-operate we will torture you… for longer than your puny intellect can imagine. The choice is yours.”

  As Va’ton dragged him away down the corridor, to whatever new cell and horrors awaited, O’Neill thought he caught a glimpse of Daniel. Just a blurred impression from the corner of his eye, as he was hauled past the other cages.

  Hang in there, Daniel, he tried to signal. You know help’s coming. It’s coming. It has to.

  Daniel knew the situation had plummeted from bad to worse when he heard the staff blasts, and the screaming. It meant people were dead, and their murders hurt like a knife-thrust through his heart. Sallah whimpered, hiding her face in his chest.

  Soon after that he heard a furious, despairing, familiar voice shout: “No! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  Damn. It was Jack.

  Chaotic emotions cascaded through him. Flooding relief, that he wasn’t alone. Shame, that he could be so small. Fear, because he had no idea what was coming next.

  His guts churned. He felt light-headed. He gave Sallah to someone else to hold and clawed to his feet. All the humans in the cage with him were silent, eyes wide, faces chalky-white with terror and shock. They knew what those sounds meant as well as he did. After life on the slave farm, probably better. They looked at each other, but not at him. Time passed, and they waited to hear more staff blasts. The ugly sounds of death. Would Jack’s be among them? And what about Sam? Was she with him? Was she here at all? If so, she was keeping silent. He should keep silent too. That was their game plane, the standard M.O.