by Stargate
"Daniel Jackson," Teal'c interrupted, "do you believe this inscription is of use to us?"
"Ah, maybe," Daniel mused, nodding. "I've found a couple over here too. Looks like all of Baal's epithets. Baal-Gad, Baal-Hammon." He moved along, flashlight searching for the next cartouche, "Baal- Meon. That means Lord of the Dwelling... Ah, here's an appropriate one - Baal-Ze'bub. Lord of Flies. Flies and disease." He chuckled darkly. "Beelzebub, or Satan - very apt."
"Did not Sokar adopt that persona?"
"Sokar was the Egyptian version. I guess there's no monopoly on absolute evil." He concluded his circuit around the dais and came to stand with Teal'c. "Plenty to go around."
"Without doubt," Teal' c agreed, then indicated the pillar before him. "The inscription is here."
Daniel looked. "Baal-Peor," he translated. "Lord of the Opening."
"Opening?"
"Too obvious," Daniel assured him as he touched the carving. "I mean, that would be tantamount to saying Open Sesame and-" Beneath his fingers the stone moved inwards. Daniel flinched, braced for either himself or the ceiling to fall. Neither happened. Instead, at the foot of the pillar, a small door slid back to reveal the glowing crystals of Goa'uld technology. Eyebrows raised, he glanced ruefully at Teal'c. "Open Sesame."
"Sir..." Carter's voice whispered through the room, her eyes rolling back.
Panic rising, O'Neill stared at the incomprehensible control panel in front of him. The lights and buttons blurred into a chaotic mosaic, a jumble of meaningless color. He had no clue. No damn clue! The gray of Carter's lips was seeping up into her face. She wasn't breathing. There was no time! Standing back he leveled the staff weapon at the control panel and fired. Sparks and flame flared high into the room, electrical wiring fizzed, and the lights on the console gutted and died. A bloom of acrid smoke filled his lungs, choking him as he raced down the steps and back toward the gravity wall. For an instant he panicked; Carter was gone. The grate had opened, plunging her into death andThen he saw her, crumpled at its base. The gravity field was dead.
Heart pounding, he rolled her onto her back and pressed his fingers to her neck, bending close to her mouth until he felt a tickle of air against his skin. Thank God! A steady pulse and good breaths. Sitting back, he took her chin between his fingers and started to shake her gently. "Carter, wake up. We gotta go."
She stirred groggily and groaned.
"Carter!" The fire in the circuitry was crackling nicely, and he knew it could only be minutes - maybe moments - before Larry, Curly and Moe came to investigate. "Come on! On your feet."
Her eyes opened, disoriented and afraid for an instant. Then recognition and memory surfaced and she was back with him, pushing herself up from the floor. "What happened?"
"I couldn't find the off-switch." Offering her a hand up, he glanced toward the door. "We need to get out of here."
"Wait," she said, letting him pull her to her feet, but resisting his tug toward the door. She was staring at the sprawled body of the Jaffa who'd been interrogating her. Interrogating? What a wonderful euphemism. "Sir, may I use your zat?"
Normally he wouldn't have hesitated, but her serene tone unnerved him. "Carter?"
"I promised myself I'd kick his ass to hell." She sounded positively icy, so restrained she might as well have been still pinned against the gravity wall.
Jack shifted, uncomfortable with seeing so much of himself in that oh-so controlled demeanor. "Consider it kicked, Carter. Come on, we gotta-"
"He's not in hell yet." There was a plea in her voice that he couldn't ignore. He couldn't give in to it either.
"In cold blood, Carter?" She held his gaze, but rage flickered behind her polished military facade. "That's not who you are." That was the kind of thing he'd do, not Carter. "You're better than that."
She shook her head, a hand pressing against the wound on her shoulder. It needed to be dressed. "How many people do you think have been through here?" she asked distantly "How many more will be?"
"Killing him won't change that." He knew it for a fact. "And it won't make you feel any better."
Carter turned away, staring at the grate and studying it closely. He followed her gaze, tracing the hated contours with his mind. It was an abomination. The whole room was an abomination.
Suddenly he knew what he had to do, what he'd wanted to do since the day he'd stumbled home with Shallan in tow. Feeling oddly disembodied, as if acting on a some kind of divine plan, he stepped in front of Carter. The dissipating smoke swirled around the dark metal of the gravity wall, and he could almost see his own blood mingling with Carter's on its bars. Breath motionless in his lungs, the retching stench of acid and fear in his mouth, he raised the zat and fired. And fired again. Then, without pleasure or pain, he fired for a third time. The monstrosity blinked and shimmered out of existence, leaving only the yawning blackness beyond. From inside the Jaffa armor Jack pulled one of the two concussion grenades he'd retrieved from his vest. "Carter!" She turned and he tossed it to her. "Do the honors."
Her expression was curiously blank as she yanked the safety pin and slipped her finger through the pull ring. She stepped closer to the pit, the one he'd fallen into too many times to remember. Silent words fluttered over her lips before she tugged the ring and hurled the grenade with enough power to send the damn thing to hell.
The detonation shook the entire room. Smoke and dust belched from the pit like a parody of an opening Stargate. And if that didn't raise the alarm he didn't know what the hell would. Jack didn't plan to find out. Activating the helmet on his armor he cursed as his vision narrowed to the impractical slit through which the Jaffa viewed the world. How the hell did anyone ever fight in these things? Fumbling for the staff weapon he grabbed Carter's arm and pulled her toward the door. "Time to go, Major. Try to look defeated." It wouldn't be hard.
Stepping out into the corridor, he could already hear the clanking of running men in armor. Hoping for the best, he pushed Carter ahead of him and leveled his staff-weapon at her back. Head bowed, she gave a damn convincing performance as the cowed prisoner.
"Let's go," he hissed. And together, with nothing but a thin disguise between them and catastrophe, they marched into the face of the enemy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
eneral George Hammond disliked Councilor Damaris from the moment she glided into the large, white conference room at the heart of the Kinahhi government complex. Her gaze drifted up and down his uniformed length with a disdain she didn't bother to hide, and she pointedly addressed her words to Crawford.
"You bring more soldiers, Ambassador? After the actions of Colonel O'Neill you cannot imagine that is acceptable."
"I_,,
Hammond didn't give him time to finish. "Ma'am," he said, stepping forward, "my name is Major General Hammond. I'm the leader of Stargate Command, and as such am the commanding officer of Colonel O'Neill and his team. You have made some serious allegations about my people, and I'm here to investigate."
So quick you'd miss it if you hadn't spent a decade in close company with politicians, Damaris flicked a glance at Crawford that made him square his shoulders and stand straight. Almost at attention, and definitely edgy. His reaction gave him away; compared with the Kinahhi he had all the subtlety of a Goa'uld. "There is nothing to investigate," Damaris said smoothly. "Ambassador Crawford, I believe, has shown you the evidence of Colonel O'Neill's guilt?"
Hammond shook his head. "The stolen blueprints in Colonel O'Neill's possession is the only evidence that will convince me, or any court of law in the United States." He paused. "I gather you searched SG-1 before they left, and found nothing?"
"Lack of evidence does not prove their innocence," Damaris stated. "We know the plans were put into their possession."
"Where I'm from, Councilor, that's just not good enough. Your allegations can't be ignored, but your evidence is lacking. I'm here to find out the truth." He looked over at Crawford. "I'm sure that's what we all want."
Crawford jutted ou
t his chin. "The truth," he said, "is already in front of you. You're just too stubborn to see it. This little mas querade won't save your people, General. They've gone too far this time."
"We'll see." Hammond turned back to the cool face of the Kinahhi councilor. "I'd like to see SG-1's accommodation while they were here," he said. "Just in case there's something your people missed."
Narrow-eyed, Damaris nodded to a weather-beaten soldier, not far from O'Neill's age. He broke rank and fell in at Hammond's side. "Commander Kenna, please escort General Hammond to plaza 101," she told him. "Offer any assistance he may require, within reason."
"I appreciate your help, ma'am," Hammond began, suspicious of her easy capitulation, but refusing to sacrifice good manners. "I'm sure-"
"Ambassador?" Damaris's attention left him, a deliberate snub. "Have you brought the treaty documents? The Security Council is keen to finally sign the agreement with your people."
"Your wisdom and patience are much appreciated, Councilor," Crawford oozed, turning his back on Hammond. "And I trust this will mark a fresh start in the relations between the Tauri and the Kinahhi..."
Warily, Hammond watched them walk away. He didn't give a damn about the woman's good opinion, or Crawford's, but he was beginning to wonder if she was less subtle than she imagined. Her pointed rebuff spoke of anger, and in his experience the root of all anger lay in fear. The question was, why was Councilor Damaris afraid of him? What was she hiding? And did he have an ice cube's chance in Houston of finding out?
With a determined sigh, he turned to the man at his side - Commander Kenna. As reserved as Damaris, a soldier hid behind the man's alien eyes and Hammond knew he was looking at a kindred spirit. Politicians were anathema to all good military men the galaxy over, or so it seemed.
"Please follow me, General," Kenna offered, quite properly keeping his thoughts to himself.
"Thank you, son." Hammond braced himself for another tour through the endless white corridors of Kinahhi bureaucracy. Small wonder Colonel O'Neill hated this place; it was like the Pentagon in triplicate.
Teal'c crouched before the control panel, eyeing the glowing crystals and wishing for Major Carter's knowledge. Shutting down the power should be a simple task, but he knew the tricky minds of the Goa'uld and feared that any tampering would either raise silent alarms or mete out arbitrary punishment, most likely in the form of sudden, painful death.
"What if we pulled them all out?" Daniel Jackson suggested, peering over Teal'c's shoulder. "Would that work?"
"It may," Teal'c agreed. "Or it may cause the device to selfdestruct, killing us both in the resulting explosion."
There was a pause. "So maybe not. How about the green one? Just pull the green one out and see what happens."
Teal'c threw a glance over his shoulder. "Do you wish to do this yourself, Daniel Jackson?"
His friend backed off a step. "No. No, I was just... You know. Trying to help."
"Your silence," Teal'c observed, "would be most helpful."
Eyebrows climbing, Daniel Jackson opened his mouth to answer. Then closed it and offered a sheepish smile. Then frowned, clearly thinking of something else and again opened his mouth to speak. Just then, a distant explosion rumbled through the complex, dislodging some of the rubble above them and sending it tumbling down the stairs in a cloud of rocky dust. Daniel Jackson flinched and glanced up. Another noise was chasing the heels of the explosion, a screeching sound of failing metal. It was much, much closer. "That doesn't sound good."
Teal'c followed his friend's gaze to the mosaic ceiling. In the room above something large and heavy thudded to the floor - more masonry, he suspected. Dust motes sifted through the small tiles, one of which fell, tinkling to the stone floor. It did not bode well.
"We'd, ah, better hurry," Daniel said calmly, gaze flicking up to the ceiling and back.
Without further conversation Teal'c turned back to the crystals. His fingers hovered, and eventually landed on the green one. "Dan iel Jackson, I will-"
Thunder detonated above him. The air turned thick and choking and something heavy slammed against his back. It knocked the breath from his lungs and smashed him hard into the floor. A crushing weight pressed him down, heavy and growing heavier. Breathing became arduous. A waterfall of rocks fell just feet from his blurring eyes, suffocating the room with dirt. His lips and mouth were coated.
"Teal'c!" Daniel Jackson was yelling his name. "Teal'c!" Suddenly the weight on his chest lifted a fraction. He could breathe more easily. But he could not move. Had he still possessed the power of his symbiote... But no, even now, he would not regret its loss. Better to die free than to live as a slave.
As the avalanche abated sounds resurfaced. The closest were soft grunts of effort. He strained to turn his head and saw Daniel Jackson with his shoulder wedged under the broken pillar that pinned Teal'c to the floor. In the hazy beam of his flashlight he could see the strain on his friend's face as he braced it, his human strength the only thing between Teal'c and crushing suffocation.
"Go!" Teal'c managed to say. "I cannot move."
"No!" Daniel grunted. "Not leaving."
Teal'c coughed, but there was no room to draw adequate breath and he felt his lungs begin to spasm. He plunged down into his own mind, a journey well paved by years of kelnoreem, and took control of his body, coaxing his lungs to relax. Air trickled in, and slowly his eyes opened. He found them resting on a dull, red light mere inches from his face. It was one of the Goa'uld crystals. It must have fallen free when the pillar fell. "The force shield," he asked, dismayed by the wheeze in his voice. "Is it deactivated?"
"Can't see," Daniel grunted in response. "Teal'c, you gotta move. I can't hold this forever."
"Then go," Teal'c growled. "Take the power unit. Find O'Neill and-"
"I said no!" Anger flared in his friend's voice. "Now help me!"
Stubborn. As stubborn as O'Neill. With a grunt of effort, Teal'c pressed his back up against the pillar, forcing his arms to push up, struggling to create enough space to get his legs beneath him. Mus- Iles shaking, something sharp cutting into his shoulder, he pushed up and into the pillar.
"Yes!" Daniel Jackson hissed. "It's moving."
Teal'c roared his frustration as he pressed up, arms screaming in pain. At last he got a knee under him and leaned his back into the endeavor. Above him Jackson was snarling with his own effort. "Get out!" he gasped. "I can hold it!"
Muscles trembling with the effort, Teal'c squeezed from beneath the pillar, tearing flesh and clothing as he slithered over the jagged, broken stone.
With a final yell, Daniel Jackson jumped free and the pillar crashed into the floor. He was breathing hard and dabbing curiously at a scratch on the side of his face, glasses opaque with grime and slightly askew.
"I am in your debt," Teal'c gasped.
"I thought we quit keeping score years ago." Daniel Jackson sneezed and glanced up at the collapsed ceiling. The worst had fallen between themselves and the staircase to the room above. Had they been beneath it, they would not have survived. "We were lucky."
Teal'c acknowledged the truth silently.
"On the plus side," his friend continued, turning to look behind him, "the force shield is down."
Teal'c stared at the mound of rubble that now covered the altar. "It appears we shall have to excavate the statue."
"I guess we'll be needing an archeologist then..."
Teal'c didn't comment, although he noted the glint of humor in his friend's eyes. Instead, he simply followed him to the place where the icon had once stood and began helping him to pull away the rubble with his bare hands.
Sam tried not to react as six Jaffa hove into view around a bend in the corridor. Smoke curled from the open doors of the torture room behind her, and she hoped it would be enough to distract them.
"Pa'kree?" barked the Jaffa leader, slowing the pace of his men.
Sam slowed too and every muscle in her body coiled in anticipation. Three-to-one odds, o
nly she wasn't armed and her shoulder thrummed with numbing pain, leaving her left arm hanging virtually useless. Still, they'd faced worse and-
The startling j ab of a staff weapon in her back sent her stumbling. "Kree!" snarled the colonel, one hand seizing her good shoulder and roughly urging her forward. With the staff weapon he gestured back toward the smoke. "Tauri!"
The Jaffa seemed unsure, but O'Neill simply ignored him and shoved her forward again. Fate balanced like a blade standing on its tip. Sam decided to give it a push in their favor. "You bastard!" she growled at the colonel, breaking free of his grip. "You'll never win against us! You'll never-"
The colonel slapped her face, hard. Reeling back, hand over her split lip, she tasted blood. But O'Neill didn't pause. Grabbing her arm, he hauled her away from the Jaffa.
"I'm gonna make you pay for this!" she yelled for effect, twisting in his grip just far enough to see the troop of Jaffa turn and start jogging back toward the smoke. Then suddenly she was being yanked around a comer and they were out of sight. Thank God. O'Neill loosened his hold on her arm, but didn't speak or let go. Less than twenty meters further on he stopped outside a small, nondescript door. With a brief glance either way he opened it and pulled her inside.
Two Jaffa lay trussed and semi-conscious on the floor, alongside the colonel's tac vest and half his kit. Including a P90. The sight of the gun made her fingers itch for her own lost weapon; she felt naked without it.
This hiss of the Jaffa helmet opening drew her attention back to O'Neill. He looked concerned as he gestured toward her face. "Sorry about the lip. How is it?"
Painful, she thought, running a light finger over the swelling. "Fine. You fooled them."
"Yeah." He started unbuckling his armor. "You need to see to that shoulder. There's a med-kit in my vest." He lifted the heavy breastplate from his shoulders and dropped it with obvious relief on the floor. "Gah!" he muttered, sniffing disgustedly at his T-shirt.
Ferreting through the vest, she found the med-kit and lowered herself to the floor. She could feel bruises running the length of her back and legs, an imprint of the grate she'd been compressed against. With her good arm, she dragged the med-kit into her lap and found a sterile dressing. Pulling down the neck of her T-shirt she winced as the fabric plucked at the wound beneath. The ragged edges of the gash opened like bloody, swollen lips. Gritting her teeth she slid the dressing over the top, pressed down and wondered how to reach the adhesive bandage.