The beaming couple in their thirties zeroed in on a tubby redhaired kid. The husband had the weathered face and knotty build of a farmer or soldier; his wife a soft, apple-cheeked foil to him. She rummaged through a wicker basket and finally retrieved a small parcel, wrapped in clean linen. The linen came off, revealing something golden and gooey inside. When he recognized the honeycomb, young Ginger's face spread in greedy relief. Obviously his overriding concern hadn't been cold and wet, but imminent starvation. A slice of white bread joined the honeycomb, and his bliss was complete.
Jack could relate. He'd lost track of when or what exactly he'd last eaten, which was beside the point anyway because, by his reckoning, some four weeks' worth of cheese burritos and guacamole had found their way into that bucket in the hold. Looking at the bread just about made him drool. He ignored the rumbles rising from his stomach and focused on this strange exercise in seduction again.
Happily sucking on his honeycomb and flanked by the farmer and his wife, Ginger trotted off, probably in the direction of a juicy steak. Rib eye. T-bone. Entrecote. With baked potatoes and slaw. And sour cream. Fries. Carbohydrates. Calories. Cholesterol. Doc Fraiser had warned him about that: Just watch it before it creeps up on you. It's an age-thing, sir. So he'd gone ahead and shed about ten pounds more than he could afford. Substantially helped by his little sojourn in Baal's wellness club... And who the hell had let that thought out of its cage?
Somebody put the food where he couldn't smell it, for cryin' out loud!
Ginger, the bread, and the honeycomb vanished into a stone house that crouched under its thatched roof, eaves reaching over the windows like drooping lids. Another kid scampered across the square together with two new playmates and their parents, won over by God knew what. The native equivalent of a Playstation maybe. It was like an auction. Or some weird kind of adoption fair. The four little ones who'd traveled ahead must have found homes already. Jack wondered if they'd been given a choice. Milk or cookies?
It still didn't explain a thing, though. So the children were farmed out to foster families. Why? Something in the water that made people sterile? They couldn't have kids of their own and had decided to steal them?
Three boys approached Luli and the two oldest kids, who'd stubbornly studied their toes while the others peeled off for warmth or food or toys. The tallest of the newcomers had suffered a recent spurt of growth. Bony wrists and gawky hands peeped from tooshort sleeves, and the pants gave up just an inch shy of his knees. His face was florid with acne. Luli glanced at him, and his eyes lit up with incredulous realization.
"Jabnit! You are alive!"
"Of course I am alive! What did you expect?" The boy Jabnit burst into an erratic laugh, jumping from soprano to baritone and back again. His voice had the same Which register is it today? quality.
"Nobody at home knows what became of you," Luli gasped. "And Hannon ... and Abimilki ... all the others. We feared you dead."
"Do I look dead to you?"
Proof positive that Kandaulo's speculations had been on the money. At least some of the missing children were still alive. This boy was one of them. How long had they been here? And what about the others?
That hormone-tossed laugh erupted again and stopped. Jabnit said something, too quietly for Jack to hear, but it punctured Luli's joy. The boy went white as a ghost. Jabnit, on the other hand, looked filled with messianic fervor, like a preacher at a prayer meeting - or a pubescent kid describing the assets of Jennifer Lopez. Consumed by this state of near rapture, he failed to notice that he'd lost his audience.
"No!" shouted Luli, every bit as furious as he'd been two days ago in the market.
Blinking in surprise, Jabnit shook his head. "Luli, listen to me. What we were taught -"
"No! They're murderers! Heretics!"
"They're not!"
"They murdered Abibaal!"
Most of these folks couldn't understand what Luli was saying. So it had to be the name. It detonated on the square like a grenade. People who'd been observing passively until now retreated a collective step, as though the kid had called down the plague on them. The name alone evoked hatred, which didn't make an awful lot of sense because, whatever his personal foibles, the old guy had been fried to a crisp, courtesy of the Phrygians. Yet another thing that didn't make sense. This was so getting old.
"They did not!" Jabnit had recovered from his shock.
"Yes, they did!"
Did not... Did... Not... Did, too... Oh please! Shame Daniel wasn't here.
Jabnit's patience had lasted longer than anyone could reasonably expect in a teen and finally began to wear thin. His complexion turned beetroot, which nicely camouflaged the zits.
"It's a lie!" he yelled. "But even if it were true, Abibaal deserves no better. Nor do any of the Synod!"
Stockholm Syndrome. The victim identifying with his or her abductor. Once upon a time, in the bad old days, then Major O'Neill and his team had been assigned to spring a couple of American operatives held hostage by some low-lives in a more than usually obnoxious corner of the globe. The so-called hostages had been armed to the teeth and defended their captors by taking pot shots at the rescuers. His team had managed to extract the guys, but not before one of them had sheesh-kabobed Jack's arm with a machete. Fortunately the thing had been pretty blunt, otherwise he'd be winning Captain Hook competitions up and down the country.
Luli didn't care about psychological mechanisms. He lost it. A couple of heads shorter than his pal - ex-pal - he flung himself at Jabnit, kicking and screaming. However confused the older boy might be about the facts, one bit of parental advice apparently had stuck: you didn't beat up smaller kids, no matter how ornery they got. Instead of hitting back, he merely tried to grab hold of Luli and immobilize him somehow. He might as well have tried to catch a dervish at full RPM.
The bystanders formed a circle, cheering on Jabnit, who kept backing away until he slipped in the ankle-deep mire in the square and landed flat on his six. The crowd ooh-ed, and Luli was on him in a flash. At which point the guards decided that the wrestling match had gone far enough. Smirking, a man stepped forward, plucked the thrashing kid off his opponent, and started shaking him.
"Hey!" bellowed Jack.
"Silentium!" bellowed Goonius. He needed to work on his vocabulary.
"Don't!" bellowed Miss Marple who apparently had joined the UN Peace Corps.
"Hey! Beefcake!"
The guard ignored it. Maybe his name wasn't Beefcake. Goonius, on the other hand, didn't ignore it. Jack sensed movement behind him, ducked a blow he'd guessed rather than seen coming, and darted forward, nearly tripping over a woman who'd crouched by Jabnit to wipe the mud off him. She gave a high-pitched squeal and rose, just in time to waylay Goonius for a few seconds. The guard was paying attention now, but not soon enough to avoid a tidy football tackle that had Jack's left shoulder slam into his gut.
It felt like colliding with a brick wall.
The crowd aah-ed.
So it was Gladiator after all. They just hadn't gone through the expense of building an arena.
"Oomph," said the guard, which was roughly the extent of his reaction.
Well, he had let go of Luli.
A pale little face streaked with dirt and tears fleetingly danced into view as Jack dodged a knee aimed at his privates. The twist almost made him lose balance, but he managed to recover and braved Beefcake's glare.
"What? Taking on someone your own size isn't as much fun?"
That despairing groan from ringside could only have been Kelly's. For a reason. Beefcake wasn't really Jack's size. Beefcake was about twice as wide. Beefcake grunted and flexed his fingers. Next there'd be columns of steam shooting from the guy's nostrils and he'd rake his toes through the mud.
Sweet, O'Neill! What was it again they taught you in Special Ops? Oh yeah... When your hands are tied behind your back, do not insult the local muscle or pick a fight.
He kept forgetting that rule. On the upside, he had l
egs. The footing could be better, but it would do as long as he didn't try to turn too fast. All he'd have to watch were angle and momentum. Oh, and falling on his butt would be seriously uncool.
Beefcake charged with the finesse of a train wreck. Knees slightly bent, Jack performed a smooth half-turn, tilted to lower his center of gravity, and kicked out and up for all he was worth. Above a mouthful of very muddy Air Force issue boot, Beefcake's eyes went wide for a moment, then he gurgled something, and then he keeled backwards like a felled ox, dropping into the sludge with a resounding splat. The Iron Man had a glass chin.
The crowd booed.
Yeah, well, Jack hadn't believed it was fair eith-
An elbow slammed into his back, almost knocking him over. Before he could regroup, something hard struck his head. Not that again!
The catcalls hadn't been for him at all, had -
Major Samantha Carter stepped from the `gate on P2X 159 and realized two things. The rain finally had stopped, and it was night. Of course it was. She'd been gone just over eighteen hours, and the planet's diurnal rhythm was slightly shorter than Earth's. A trio of moons had risen in a clear sky, pouring milky light on the path, the forest, and the temple in the distance. Looping across the flagstones like an incomplete set of Olympic rings fell the triple shadow of the Stargate. She smiled briefly. The surfeit of heavenly bodies sure made for a good show.
Water dripped softly from wet branches, tapping on damp soil that breathed mist among the trees. The stillness was almost absolute. Almost. From the corner of her eye she noticed a motion, brought up the P90, aimed.
"Whoa! Take it easy!"
"Daniel! Dammit, but you should know better than that!" Sam lowered the gun, exhaled. "I could have shot you."
"Nah. You're too careful."
Good grief!
He looked like he'd just come from a casting call for Flash Gordon. The old series, the one where the spaceships had sparklers for jets and juddered through the galaxy suspended on fishing line.
"So?" she asked. "Did you get the part?"
"Huh? What part?"
"King of the Mud People."
"Oh... We... got kinda soaked."
"I can see that. What are you doing here?"
Daniel shrugged. "General Hammond's asked me to help with the UAV recovery."
"The last sortie finished nearly six hours ago, Daniel. Why didn't you go and get some sleep?"
Hi, kettle. Meet pot.
In defiance of orders, she'd slept all of fifty-four minutes. She had taken that shower, though. After that she'd flopped on the bunk in her quarters, staring at the ceiling, wanting to be able to do something, wishing to God she'd defied Jack O'Neill's orders, too. At some point she'd dozed off, only to jolt awake shaking and soaked in sweat, still seeing dream images of bodies engulfed by flames. So she'd gone and treated herself to another shower, cold this time, followed by a gallon of liquid tar coffee in the commissary (sadly they didn't serve whisky chasers), until she felt she was about to sprout chest chair. At 1730 hours sharp she'd reported to the control room. The General had shot her a long-suffering glance, suspecting but not saying anything.
"I thought I might as well wait for you. Why didn't you?" Daniel asked back, staring at her sharply. "Sleep, I mean."
Oops. It didn't exactly take a genius, she supposed. There'd been a rationale behind her avoidance of mirrors.
"Bad dreams," she muttered.
"Yeah..." He looked a little sheepish. "I figured you'd be back a bit sooner."
"We had to analyze the footage. It takes time." It had taken more time than she liked.
"And?"
The lost puppy face. Guaranteed to bring sensitive souls and elderly ladies to their knees. To be fair to Daniel, he didn't normally try it on his team mates. That he did so now probably revealed more than he would have wanted to show. Daniel and the Colonel were like fire and water, entirely capable of driving each other up the wall in two seconds flat. Which somehow seemed to scientifically explain their friendship. Positive and negative charges, electromagnetic energy, that kind of thing. It was different from the unquestioning kinship between Teal'c and the Colonel - in his more emotional moments Teal'c referred to him as `brother' - and it was radically different from her own complex and volatile bond with her CO.
Daniel had met Jack O'Neill at his worst and managed to pull him back. Some people believed that, ifyou saved a man, he became your responsibility for the rest of your life. Daniel most certainly believed it. Good enough reason not to tell him what had happened to the Colonel last year. Good enough reason not to give in to the puppy dog routine and paint a cheerful picture now. Besides, if she raised his hopes, she'd raise her own, and Sam Carter wasn't sure she could cope with that.
"Aaand?" he asked again.
"Maybe." She hesitated. "The weather didn't help."
"Maybe's good." Tail wagging. "It means you'll think of something."
Great! She must have missed the moment when he'd started channeling Colonel O'Neill. So much for not raising hopes.
"Daniel -"
"I'd like to see what you've got. Let's get our stuff and head back into town."
Our stuff?
He trotted off along the path, three Daniel shadows gliding in front of him. About fifty meters on, he veered to the right and into the forest. Ribbons of moonlight slanted through the trees and frosted a makeshift camp, grouped around a field cooker and a halfdead umbrella. On the cooker burbled a pot with Daniel's drug of choice.
"Want some coffee before I pour it away?" he offered.
"No, thanks." Sam grimaced. The mere notion of more coffee made her queasy. "I think I overdosed back at the SGC."
A purple heap between the roots of a cedar emitted gentle snores. Next to it, cross-legged and placid like a Buddha, sat Teal'c, practicing the meditation that had replaced kelno'reem since the loss of his symbiote. At the sound of her voice, his eyes snapped open.
"Major Carter. I trust you are well."
"I'm fine. What are you doing up here? Last I heard you were talking to the Synod."
"Negotiations were adjourned for the night. I brought some sustenance for Daniel Jackson and Hamilgart."
The snoring heap. Of course. "Any other party guests I should know about?" Sam shook her head. "You'd have been more comfortable waiting at Hamilgart's place."
"Given the circumstances of O'Neill's and Professor Kelly's disappearance, Daniel Jackson and I deemed it best if you were not left to return into town on your own."
So that's what it was. She gave a tiny, lopsided grin. "Teal'c, I can take care of myself"
"As O'Neill would have said."
Sam recoiled, stung. It was precisely what he had said.
I can take care of myself. I'm good at this, Carter.
And he was. Extremely good. But it didn't change the fact that she wished, for the hundredth time, she'd done what Teal'c and Daniel had done tonight: force him to accept backup and chain-ofcommand be damned.
"You're right, Teal'c. Thanks."
"It is merely prudent, Major Carter. In view of our need for information, I should be most distressed if we were to lose you as well."
The smile was there, so minute it could have been nothing more than the subtle play of light and shadow. As usual, Teal'c's idea of a joke wasn't exactly thigh-slapping material, but she was grateful for his attempt to distract her.
"I'll take care not to distress you." She smiled back at him. "How did you get on with the Synod?"
He cast a sidelong glimpse at the purple heap, satisfying himself that Hamilgart was still asleep. Then he expelled a breath that in anyone else would have qualified as a sigh. "I am beginning to appreciate O'Neill's attitude toward diplomacy."
"That good, huh?"
"It is tiresome and of little avail." Said with rather more feeling than he normally invested in his utterances.
"Teal'c, do us all a favor and don't tell the Colonel. He doesn't need encouragement." If we find him, t
hat is. If we find him alive... Sam leaned against a tree trunk and studied her Jaffa friend. "What happened? Weren't they supposed to appreciate our help?"
"Indeed. There is, however, considerable dispute in the Synod as to the extent of this help."
"In what way?"
"The leading faction would prefer that we provide them with the location of the Phrygians but do not participate in any ensuing action."
"Unacceptable. It's our people out there."
"That is what I have told them. It caused a stalemate that remained unresolved by the time the meeting broke up. I propose to -
Daniel had tossed cooker and coffee pot into his backpack. The clatter sounded deafening in the quiet of the night, and the purple heap jerked and stopped snoring. Folds rustled, fabric heaved, and at length a tousled head emerged. Hamilgart squinted myopically, then his eyes bulged, and he leaped up with a gasp, wildly glancing around him, shoulders bunched, fists balled.
"We're under attack! The Phrygians! Where are they?"
Next he'd shout Have at 'em!
There was something inherently comical about a squat, meek, peace-loving man roused from deep slumber and snapping into what he imagined to be battle-readiness. Physique aside, he wasn't so unlike Dr. Jackson in the early days: bumbling but with guts to spare. Daniel seemed to harbor similar thoughts. Eyebrows arched to his hairline, the corners of his mouth fighting an irresistible upward pull, he stared at Hamilgart.
"Stand down. It's just Sam."
"Oh! Oh..." Hamilgart straightened his robes and attempted to smooth a matted shock of hair. Once he considered himself reasonably presentable, he bowed. "Welcome back, Lady Samantha. I am pleased to see you well. Do you bring news from the Lord Meleq?"
"Uhm..." She cast a pleading glance at Daniel.
Palms spread in a Don't look at me gesture, their resident expert for tricky conversations with aliens whispered, "I did explain..."
"I have some news, yes," Sam answered cautiously.
"You have discovered the whereabouts of my son?"
He wore the same hopeful, trusting look as Daniel, betraying a quasi-religious belief that she would make things alright. Even worse, she knew the Colonel shared that creed. Sam `Fix-it' Carter would find him and Kelly. If it was impossible, it'd simply take a half hour longer. After all, she was the one who built particle accelerators, found ways of detonating whole suns, and diverted comets through the third planet of their native solar system. Show her where to stand, and she shall move the Earth. Except, it wasn't that easy. Sometimes his faith could be a bugbear rather than a reassurance. What if she blew it? She'd come pretty dam close on a few occasions and got saved by pure luck - and Jack O'Neill's obstinate refusal to give up on her.
Stargate SG-1: Trial by Fire: SG1-1 Page 10