Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KALI’S WRATH
Keith R.A. DeCandido
An original publication of Fandemonium Ltd, produced under license from MGM Consumer Products.
Fandemonium Books, PO Box 795A, Surbiton, Surrey KT5 8YB, United Kingdom
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METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER Presents
RICHARD DEAN ANDERSON
in
STARGATE SG-1™
MICHAEL SHANKS AMANDA TAPPING CHRISTOPHER JUDGE DON S. DAVIS
Executive Producers BRAD WRIGHT MICHAEL GREENBURG
RICHARD DEAN ANDERSON
Developed for Television by BRAD WRIGHT & JONATHAN GLASSNER
STARGATE SG-1 is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. © 1997-2016 MGM Television Entertainment Inc. and MGM Global Holdings Inc. All Rights Reserved.
METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Lion Corp. © 2016 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written consent of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Dedicated to the memory of Leonard Nimoy. He lived long. He prospered.
Historical note:
This novel takes place late in the fifth season of STARGATE SG-1, between the episodes “The Warrior” and “Menace.” It is shortly after Imhotep attempted to break the Jaffa rebellion by posing as Kytano, and not long after Anubis made his presence known openly to the System Lords.
PROLOGUE
P3X-418
CAPTAIN Kirti Patel had thought it to be a good day up until the blast came out of nowhere and made a smoking hole in Sergeant Castro’s chest.
The rings had deposited them in an area that was covered in deep snowdrifts and sheets of ice. Unlike the area by the Stargate, it wasn’t actually snowing here. Major Steven Lagdamen, SG-7’s commanding officer, bellowed, “Take cover!” even as he dove behind a drift. “Johnson, check on Castro!”
Patel dove behind another drift, while Airman Anwan Johnson ran over to the sergeant’s body. She wasn’t sure why the major had given that order — there was no way that Elena Castro could have survived that.
Another bolt flew from nowhere and blew up the snow in front of Lagdamen.
Aiming her P90, Patel fired at full automatic on the spot where the blast had come from. The rounds just flew straight through the air at nothing, even as Lagdamen shouted, “Hold your fire, Patel!”
After Patel ceased firing, she gave her CO a questioning look. “You know what it is, sir?”
“Looks like a Reetou.” Lagdamen had slid over to better cover. “Actually, it looks like nothing, which means invisible, which means Reetou. You agree, Johnson?”
The airman had at this point taken up position behind his own pile of snow. “Sergeant Castro’s dead, sir. And yes, those look like the same weapons they used in the SGC three years ago, sir.”
Patel nodded. She remembered the file on the Reetou, who somehow existed 180 degrees off from the rest of the universe — or something. Physics wasn’t her strong suit. The point was, they were invisible, making them damn near impossible to kill — especially since the weapon that worked best on them wasn’t standard issue for regular offworld missions. Stargate Command only had a handful of the Transphase Eradication Rods.
“They took out some good people,” Lagdamen said. “But a P90 won’t cut it. We’ve got to get back to the rings.”
It had been a straightforward recon mission. SG-7 had been assigned to the next planet on the Abydos Cartouche that Dr. Daniel Jackson had provided to the SGC five years earlier. The MALP had gone through the Stargate to find a habitable world, albeit one that kept its gate on an island in an area that was in its winter season. The island was very small, but did have a collection of rafts. Lagdamen, Patel, Castro, and Johnson had donned their winter gear and gone through the gate.
Castro had discovered a set of markings that indicated a ring transporter, and she figured out the controls while the others stood watch. Lagdamen, a Philadelphia native, had been complaining about the mess hall’s version of a cheesesteak, which the major had declared to be an abomination, while Johnson had said that they actually tasted pretty good, which had earned him a dirty look from Lagdamen.
Once Castro had deciphered the ring code sequence and showed it to each of the other three, they had gone through, weapons at the ready.
And then Castro had been shot two seconds after the rings dropped back belowground and Patel was now staring at the sergeant’s dead body.
Her career in the Air Force in general, and her time in combat in particular, had made it easy for Patel to compartmentalize and not think about Castro’s husband and son in New York City.
Or think about the fact that she died on an alien world. That part of her assignment to Cheyenne Mountain was something she still wasn’t quite used to yet.
Another bolt flew from midair — from a different spot this time, and Patel cried out, “Sir!”
Lagdamen flung himself to the side, but the bolt struck Johnson on his shoulder.
Johnson cried out in pain. Lagdamen crabwalked over to him. “Easy, Johnson, it’s just a scratch.”
Patel shook her head. The major was saying that to make Johnson feel better, but the wound was pretty bad. At the very least, he wasn’t likely to be able to use his right arm for many months. His days in combat were over.
Then a large insect-like creature suddenly appeared about a yard in front of her.
Just as she raised her P90 and squeezed off several rounds, a blast from a staff weapon slammed into the creature’s side.
Looking to her right, Patel saw a tall man who looked very much like her uncle Rajesh: huge muscles, close-cropped hair, and a dot in the center of his forehead. The dot was bigger than usual, though, and black rather than red. His staff weapon had a T.E.R. attachment. He wore tan knee-length robes with a red sash as a belt, which covered metal neck-to-boots armor.
“So,” the large man said, “the Tau’ri have invaded Imphal as well. Are you in league with the Reetou?”
“The Reetou killed one of my — ” Lagdamen started.
“No matter.” The man held up a hand. “You are prisoners of the Mother Goddess Kali, and will be brought to her immediately.”
Lagdamen shook his head and held up his P90. “Not a chance, Jaffa.”
Before the conversation could continue, another bolt flew through the air and struck the Jaffa right in the belly, no doubt va
porizing his Goa’uld larva.
As the Jaffa fell to the snow, Patel broke cover to grab the T.E.R./staff weapon hybrid that he’d just dropped. She immediately did a sweep with the modified weapon, trying desperately to remember the files she read on her first day in Cheyenne Mountain. The Reetou tended to attack in groups of five, and she and the Jaffa had killed one.
The T.E.R. showed her two more about ten yards away, and Patel immediately fired the staff weapon at them, even as one of them fired a weapon of its own. She again dove for cover after firing.
A fist of ice that was even colder than the snow she was now lying in gripped her heart at the sound of screams from behind her. Gazing over the snowdrift, she saw the bodies of both Anwan Johnson and Steven Lagdamen. The major didn’t even have a face anymore, and half of the airman’s torso was on fire.
Gritting her teeth, she detached the T.E.R. from the staff weapon, held it with her left hand while hefting the P90 with her other, bracing it against her shoulder and hoping that the thick fleece jacket she wore over her fatigues in deference to the weather would do enough to retard the weapon’s kick while held one-handed.
She broke cover and again swung the T.E.R. around. One of the Reetou was dead, but its comrade was advancing on their position, along with another that was just coming into view. Squeezing her right index finger, dozens of P90 rounds sliced into both Reetou. Their inhuman screams lasted only a second.
That was four. There was still one more.
Or perhaps more. She wasn’t a hundred percent sure she was remembering the mission report properly. There had been so many from the various SG teams over the years, she hadn’t been able to keep track of them all since her transfer.
A voice from the distance cried, “Jaffa! Kree!”
Patel winced. She hated hearing those two words in succession.
And then suddenly she saw a dozen Reetou at least. So much for only five attacking at a time.
Taking advantage of having a target to fight, she squeezed her P90 until the magazine ran out, then she took cover to reload. Even as she did so, five Jaffa came over a nearby ridge, firing their staff weapons which were — like her late would-be jailer’s — combined with T.E.R.s. Four of these Jaffa were also dressed in knee-length robes of either white, blue, or tan, all with red or gold sashes for belts, and all with the black circle in the center of their forehead.
Between her own P90 fire and the Jaffa staff weapons, the dozen Reetou were all taken care of.
When it was over, the fifth Jaffa stepped forward. He was even larger than the Jaffa who’d tried to take SG-7 prisoner, and the circle on his forehead was gold, indicating that he was First Prime. That circle was partly obscured by his shaggy dark collar-length hair. His robes were gold, and he wore a shoulder sash rather than a belt sash, which was red.
He frowned down at her and spoke in a surprisingly gentle voice. “I was unaware that any of the Kali Kula were among the Tau’ri.”
“I’m sorry?” Patel slowly got to her feet, but did not lower her weapon.
“You must come with us.”
“Like hell. My teammates are all dead thanks to the Reetou, and I need to ring back to the Stargate and report in.”
The First Prime smiled widely. “I cannot permit you to go to the chappa’ai, Kula.”
“My name is Captain Kirti Patel, and I want to — ”
“Thakka!”
The First Prime — who was apparently named Thakka? — turned and Patel did likewise. Then all the Jaffa doubled over in pain.
Four more Reetou were bearing down on their position. Patel recalled from the file that the Reetou’s presence had an adverse effect on a symbiote — that meant that Goa’uld, Tok’ra, and Jaffa were all vulnerable.
She took all of half a second to mull. Yes, these were Jaffa, but the Reetou had just killed her entire team.
She squeezed the trigger on her P90.
The Jaffa recovered enough to return fire too, but four of the five Jaffa were killed in the ensuing firefight.
In the aftermath, Thakka looked around. “That is sixteen of these creatures that we have killed.”
“My team and I took three out,” Patel said, preferring to give more credit to her deceased comrades than the Jaffa who tried to imprison them.
“Then there is another,” Thakka said grimly. “Three teams of Reetou attempted to destroy this base, but the Mother Goddess, in her great wisdom, provided us with weapons that would detect their perfidy.”
Patel might have laughed under different circumstances. Until she joined the SGC, she didn’t think anyone talked like that outside of comic books.
Thakka turned to her. “You fought bravely. Truly, you are Kula.”
Looking at all the dead Jaffa, as well as Thakka, she saw that each of them looked like they were of Indian descent, same as she was. Never mind that she herself was born and raised in Los Angeles — it wasn’t as if any of these folks had ever seen New Delhi either. Probably when Kali left Earth, she took a bunch of people from India and its environs with her to seed her worlds, just like many other Goa’uld did when they abandoned the planet thousands of years earlier.
The First Prime continued, “I will allow you to do as you requested, Kula. You may return to your fellow Tau’ri and tell them what has happened this day.”
Blinking, Patel said, “Ah, thank you.” She quickly went to the bodies of Lagdamen, Castro, and Johnson and removed their dogtags, placing them in one of her fleece’s Velcro pockets. No way could she bring their bodies back, but she wanted to give something to their families.
Solemnly, she walked to the ring platform, removed her gloves, now stained with the blood of her teammates after removing their tags, and started to enter the coordinates to bring her back to the island that had the gate.
“Kula!” Thakka cried, and he leapt in front of Patel as she was pressing the last control. A Reetou bolt slammed into Thakka’s side as he blocked her. Patel’s eyes went wide — the blast would surely have killed her if he hadn’t done what he did.
Thakka landed at her feet, and then the rings sprung up out of the ground and brought them both to the island.
When the rings lowered again, Patel was hit by a gust of wind and pelted by heavy snow.
She looked down at Thakka, writhing in agony on the ground. The blast had hit near the symbiote pouch. If the symbiote was damaged it wouldn’t be able to heal Thakka and he might die. And he was only wounded at all because he saved her life from the last Reetou left on this world.
Walking to the DHD, she dialed Earth, then entered SG-7’s code into her GDO. Shouldering her P90 and putting her blood-stained gloves back on, she grabbed Thakka underneath his arms and started dragging him slowly toward the gate.
She almost gave up just because he was so damned heavy — what with his size, plus the armor, he probably weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds — but dammit, he did save her life. She owed him a trip to the SGC’s infirmary.
CHAPTER ONE
Stargate Command
“UNSCHEDULED off-world activation!”
Colonel Jack O’Neill heard the alert over the SGC’s speakers as he exited the men’s room. It was rarely a good thing when Master Sergeant Walter Harriman spoke those words. Still, there was always a chance this would be one of those rare good things. Or at least a not-actively-bad thing.
Or maybe it’d be some snake-head trying to kill them, or a rebel Jaffa or a Tok’ra showing up with bad news…
Either way, it was an excuse for O’Neill to put off doing the paperwork on the whole Imhotep disaster. He hated writing mission reports. For starters, Carter, Daniel, and Teal’c were all so much better at it. Carter and Daniel always included way more detail than O’Neill, and Teal’c’s reports were downright meticulous.
O’Neill entered the control room to see that General Hammond was already there, standing over Harriman. Peering through the window, O’Neill saw that Captain Engenbe’s platoon of Marines was surroundin
g the ramp. The iris was closed, but O’Neill could see the glow of the active gate behind it.
The sergeant looked up at Hammond. “Receiving SG-7’s IDC, sir.”
“Open the iris,” Hammond said quickly. “They only embarked half an hour ago.” The general looked over at O’Neill. “You feeling all right, Colonel?”
“Hm? Oh, no, just a little upset stomach. It was cheesesteak day in the mess.”
Hammond nodded knowingly.
The iris cycled open, and a few seconds later Captain Patel came through, dragging a large man onto the ramp. “Need a medical team, stat!” she was shouting as she dropped the man with a resounding metallic thud. The captain’s hands and arms were covered in blood.
“That’s a First Prime,” O’Neill said, noticing the gold circle on the man’s forehead.
“I can see that, Colonel.” Hammond leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “Medical team, report to the gate room. Captain Engenbe, remain as you are.”
O’Neill nodded his approval.
Patel turned and shot a look up at Hammond. “General, I know this man is a Jaffa, but he was wounded saving my life. And he and I are the only ones who survived the Reetou attack.”
“Reetou?” O’Neill tensed. They hadn’t heard much from those overgrown invisible insects since stopping the team that tried to destroy the SGC, but there’d been reports from the Tok’ra of other attacks on Goa’uld worlds.
“Seal the room!” Hammond cried. Immediately, Harriman closed both side doors. “Captain, T.E.R. scan now!”
Engenbe said, “Yes sir,” and then nodded to one of the other Marines in the gate room, who immediately whipped out one of the three T.E.R.s they had at the SGC, which Hammond had made standard equipment for whichever team was in charge of gate room security.
After aiming the T.E.R. all over the room, the Marine turned to Engenbe and said, “Clear, sir.”
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