For the briefest of moments the beam brushed Janet's face and the inhuman anticipation written there. This wasn't right. Sam had known Janet Fraiser for five years, they were friends, close friends, and this wasn't Janet. This was a shell filled with something unspeakable.
"Don't go in there, sir," Sam whispered. "It's wrong. It's all wrong."
"What's wrong, Carter?" he asked back quietly. "Goa'uld?"
"No. No, not that." How was she going to explain? There was nothing she could put her finger on, and her brain wasn't working.
Janet edged closer, placed an icy hand on Sam's forehead. "Fever's spiking, Colonel. She's probably getting delirious. We can't afford to wait."
Perhaps it was true. This was Janet, after all. Carried into the building, Sam clung to that thought for dear life. It didn't help. Shadows threatened to smother her, and the wrongness exploded out of all proportion. She fought an impulse to curl up, claw Colonel O'Neill's shirt like a startled cat. Wouldn't do. Wouldn't do at all.
Sounds were reduced to boot falls that drowned out the patter of Janet's bare feet-how come she was barefoot?-and the steady plinking of condensation from the walls and ceiling. The gleam of Daniel's lamp ghosted ahead over moss-coated masonry, until it tumbled out into a chamber and refracted into dazzling brightness. All around the room gilt friezes flickered to life as the beam of the flashlight danced over them.
Daniel sighed softly, enthralled, his reaction as unalterably out of place as it was normal and reassuring. Everything would be okay. Wouldn't it?
"Give me a hand, Daniel," the Colonel said.
"What? Oh."
"Here, let me hold this." Smiling, Janet reached out for the flashlight and staff weapon Daniel was carrying.
No.
"Sure, thanks."
"No," croaked Sam.
Or maybe it had been a shout rather than a croak. Colonel O'Neill's face tightened, all hard angles, the way it did when he was trying his damnedest to keep a lid on his feelings. Had he ever realized that they knew him far too well to buy it anymore?
"It's gotta be done, Carter," he murmured. "I'm sorry."
What was he talking about? Oh. Her leg. With an air of detachment she stared down at the festering mess. Right now it was easy to pretend this didn't belong to her. She didn't care. Much. She cared about the staff weapon. Which was changing hands.
No. Sir, can't you see it's wrong?
Daniel's arm, warm and strong, slipped under her back, and together he and Colonel O'Neill eased her to the ground. Stone tiles, and when she turned her head they felt cool under her cheek. Past Daniel's back she watched as Janet carried the weapon across the small room and placed it on the floor along the wall.
The doctor turned, shining the flashlight directly at Sam, blinding her. "See?" Janet asked. "Nothing to worry about."
"Uhm, Janet?" Going by the tone of Daniel's voice there was everything to worry about. "I don't see any-"
"Surgical kit," completed the Colonel. "What the hell is going on, Fraiser?"
By ways of a response, the light receded. Sam squinted against the glare, but all she could make out were a pair of bare feet walking backwards.
Suddenly Colonel O'Neill leaped from his crouch. "Don't! Don't do-"
"Unless you want to be cut in half, stay where you are!" The voice was glacial. Not Janet's. Not Janet's at all.
The rings shot from the ground. Daniel grabbed the Colonel's arm, yanking him away from the periphery, yelling something Sam couldn't understand under the hum of the ring transporter. Around them the room disintegrated in a brilliant flash of light.
A heartbeat later, she found herself lying on a different floor.
"-trying to kill yourself, Jack?" Daniel finished hollering. Then his jaw dropped, and he took in their new location still hanging on to the Colonel.
They'd landed in a basement vault-surrounded, from Sam's perspective, by a picket fence of armor-clad shins. Her gaze traveled up the shin plates, thighs, bellies, chests, to the faces... face. One face, times six.
"Kumtraya," she whispered.
"If that's Harlan's idea of a joke, so help me, this time I shoot the fat old bastard!"
"With what, Jack?" Daniel slid a pointed glance at his friend's empty hands. Janet had seen to it that their staff weapon wouldn't make the trip.
"Good point. Make that throttle."
"Besides, I don't think they're robots," Daniel added. "I think they're real."
"That's what you thought last time." The Colonel freed himself from Daniel's grip and took a couple of steps toward the nearest Jaffa, regarding him as if he were mustering the troops. "I remember this guy from the exercise. He's one of Norris's surprise mob."
With peculiar grace, almost as if he were performing a dance, he spun on the man to his left. His elbow slammed into an unprotected midriff, and the Jaffa recoiled, startled. Colonel O'Neill tried to follow up with a right hook, but the man had regained his wits, blocked the punch, and delivered two hard, rapid jabs to the Colonel's chest. Smiling, he watched as Jack O'Neill doubled over, fighting for air.
The Jaffa raised his staff weapon for a blow. His doppelgangers cheered him on. "Let's see how this feels. Maybe-"
He didn't get any further. Daniel had grabbed the nearest thing remotely looking like a weapon and flung it at him. The staff missed its target as the backpack hit the Jaffa in the face, exploding into a shower of field rations and cooking gear, and two of the man's doubles piled on top of Daniel to inflict an etiquette lesson. The remaining threesome looked on unconcerned.
Between their legs Sam could see movement. Somebody else had entered the vault. Delicate feet, golden toe rings and anklets, sheer, flowing fabric. A woman. Jaffa?
"Enough!" The metallic resonance of the voice gave it away. A Goa'uld.
Fighting a bout of dizziness, Sam watched as Colonel O'Neill and Daniel were dragged next to her and pushed to their knees.
"Kneel before your goddess," one of the Jaffa intoned, while the others shuffled aside to clear a path for the Goa'uld.
"You were right," the Colonel muttered at Daniel, eyes narrow. "Did I mention that I hate it when you're right?"
"Sorry."
Sam had no idea who or what they were talking about, until the Goa'uld casually strolled into her field of vision. Nirrti. Could this day get any worse? Probably yes. Her interest in the prisoners seemed to be strictly confined to one person only, and the look on her face was predatory. Great.
"We meet again, O'Neill," observed Nirrti.
"Thrilled. Can we go now?"
"If you wish." Nirrti stepped closer and nudged Sam's side with her foot. "Naturally, if you leave, she dies."
"So?"
"I believe it would distress you."
"You believe wrong." To anyone who didn't know him well, the Colonel's show of indifference should have been convincing. The only giveaway was a white stress line around his mouth, always there when he was holding on too hard.
Nirrti's fist closed in his hair, and she pulled his head back, forcing him to look at her. "And you are lying. You persuaded your superior to free me in order to save the Hankan girl. Because the thought of her death distressed you."
"We all make mistakes."
"Indeed." Nirrti smiled. "Some greater than others."
His control began to slip. "What do you want?"
"You."
"Fine." The answer came too rapidly, flagging up his relief. "You can have me, but you let Daniel and Carter go."
"You are hardly in a position to make demands, Tauri." To underline her point, Nirrti forced his head back further. "That is what you told me not so long ago, is it not? Count yourself lucky that I do not hold grudges. I shall grant your wish. Some of it at least." She abruptly released the Colonel and addressed the Jaffa guarding Daniel. "Take this one back to the shrine and set him free. I have no use for him."
"No!" Colonel O'Neill tried to get up, but a pair of beefy hands held him in place. "He's injured and una
rmed. It's a death sentence."
"It is what you asked for."
"You damn well know it isn't. I-"
"Can't wait to get a bit of fresh air." Through a bruised and swollen face, Daniel tried to grin. "Hate to tell you, Jack, but you could do with a shower. Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone. I'll be back and-"
"Enough! Take him away!"
The Jaffa hauled Daniel to the center of the vault. From the cage of the transporter rings he kept smiling at Sam and the Colonel until he disappeared in a pillar of white light.
Missing Link: Absent member required to complete a developmental chain.
am hurrying up!" hissed Maybourne and inserted the fifth skeleton key in as many minutes into the door lock. "Don't know what he thinks he's keeping in there. Last time I saw something like this, I was in Leavenworth."
Probably a hyperbole, but still not exactly encouraging, given the fact that Harry's lock-picking talent wasn't what had busted him out of jail. That particular miracle had been wrought by Jack O'Neill calling in a lifetime collection of chits.
Not for the first time tonight George Hammond wished they could have hidden out at Jack's place. It would have made things easier all round. But Colonel O'Neill very likely headed the NID's list of People To Be Put Under Surveillance. Hammond sighed and checked over his shoulder. The orange-pop glow of streetlamps bounced off low clouds and trickled into this backyard in suburban Colorado Springs; a timid soul in one of the neighboring houses had left on a nightlight, and three or four yards over a lovesick tomcat yowled his misery. Otherwise everything was quiet. Question was for how long.
"Hurry up," Hammond whispered. Again.
"For the-" A gentle click cut off the tirade, then the lock gave. Maybourne straightened up and eased a kink from his neck. "See?"
He nudged the crack in the door wider and slipped inside. A fraction of a second later Hammond heard muffled cussing, followed by a series of dull thuds. Damn. "Stand down, Sergeant!"
There was a pause. Next the lights came on and the door flew all the way open. In the frame stood Sergeant Siler, wielding the greatgrandmother of all wrenches. If Harry had been given a center parting with that thing, he probably needed a neurosurgeon.
Behind the wire-frame glasses, the sergeant's eyes were wide as saucers. "General! I... You..." The wrench gave a diffident wiggle that made Hammond want to duck. Siler swallowed. "Uh, sorry, sir. Please, uh... come on in."
"Thanks." Hammond stepped into a small, well-appointed kitchen that was twice as clean as his own and outed the unassuming sergeant as either a neat-freak or a hobby cook. A groan from behind the door made him turn.
Maybourne was coming to, gingerly probing what promised to become the goose-egg to end them all. "I'm okay. Thanks for the concern."
Siler's eyes went even wider. "Sir, that's Colonel Maybourne!"
"I noticed. You won't be needing the wrench, though."
"Yessir." Siler closed the door, locked it, and deposited the tool on the kitchen table. "Was it him who kidnapped you?"
Evidently the NID had stuck with the abduction tale, the easier to explain his planned demise, no doubt. Hammond shrugged. "In a manner of speaking."
"Want me to call the police, sir?"
"No," said Hammond.
"No!" yelped Maybourne, picking himself up from the linoleum. His gaze arrested on Siler, and his jaw dropped. "On second thought, maybe you should. I'm not sure that's legal."
The sergeant's pajamas displayed scenes from the marital life of Marge and Homer Simpson you didn't get to see on any television network Hammond had ever heard of. Siler blushed furiously and cleared his throat. "Present from Colonel O'Neill. Sir. He dropped it off last time he put me in the infirmary."
Taking in the nightwear, Harry Maybourne looked like a man about to weep for joy. "That's Jack for you. Thoughtful to a fault."
"Uh, yessir," the sergeant muttered a little uncertainly. Then he decided it might be safer to opt for a change of topic. "General, it's not that I'm not pleased to see you, but, with respect, sir, what are you doing here?"
Excellent question-and kind of a long story. Luckily, when he'd set out to elope with a USAF general, Harry had come prepared. For the first time in his life, George Hammond had traveled on a false passport. Harry also had demonstrated how to hotwire a car. Assuming-correctly-that there would be no NID goons posted across the border, they'd evaded several roadblocks, driven from Seattle to Vancouver and flown back to Denver from there. After that they'd hitched a ride down the 1-25 to Colorado Springs. The truck had dropped them off ten minutes' walk from George Hammond's house-and a black sedan waiting for them outside. They'd turned around and crept away, desperate for a bolt hole now.
"I apologize for the break-in, Sergeant," Hammond said. "When we didn't see a car in the driveway and nobody answered the door I figured you were on night-duty. We had to get off the street before they caught us."
"Car's at the workshop. Needs a new transmission," Technical Sergeant Siler admitted, clearly dismayed about having to resort to the services of a car mechanic. "Who are they?"
"NID."
"Should have guessed," muttered the Sergeant. "Cheyenne Mountain's crawling with them. And Colonel Simmons pretends he's been put in command of the SGC."
"Simmons is on my base?"
"Does his arm bother him?" Apparently the blow to head had affected Maybourne's sense of relevance.
Hammond shot him an angry look. "Since when have they been there?"
"They got there first thing this- yesterday morning. Seems like they're keeping an eye on everybody. Sir, what's going on?"
"That's what we're trying to find out. I need your help, Sergeant."
"Sure thing." Siler nodded solemnly, the sentiment somewhat at odds with Homer and Marge's frolics. "How about I make us some coffee? No offense, but you look like you could use some."
"Sounds good." Maybourne craned his neck to sneak a peek into what presumably was a living room. "You got a computer?"
"Yep." Going by the mulish expression he adopted, Siler was less willing to render assistance to rogue colonels. The precise whereabouts of the machine or permission for Harry to use it weren't forthcoming.
"It's alright, Sergeant. He's playing on our team for a change," interceded Hammond.
Siler grudgingly pointed at an archway that divided the kitchen from the den. "Through there."
Nodding his thanks, Maybourne made a beeline for it, George Hammond on his heels. The computer wasn't quite state-of-the-art, but it would do. Besides, they didn't exactly have a choice. The usual IT ritual of startup and boot seemed maddeningly slow. Maybourne dropped into a chair, slapped the DVD into the drive, waited for it to load, clicked the first file open.
A video clip started to play, picture fuzzy, sound dull and bubbling with static. The image showed the OR Hammond had seen at St. Christina's. Only now it was in use. Aman-PFC Thomas J Corbett, according to the file label-was strapped to the operating table, intubated, eyes taped shut, his midriff iodine red from disinfectant. Arranged around the table was a group of doctors and nurses, their identities hidden behind green masks. The meticulous choreography of a surgical procedure played out, though what exactly they were doing beat Hammond. Best he could tell, it wasn't a tonsillectomy.
"We need to show this to Dr. Fraiser. She might-" He cut himself off. They wouldn't be showing this to his CMO any time soon. Janet Fraiser was missing, so were Major Carter and Teal'c.
"Oh hello," murmured Maybourne, never glancing up from the screen.
One of the OR team had opened the lid of a sterile container and lifted out a pale, limp sac, riddled with veins and glistening with some sort of clear, moist coating. The surgeon shoved the sac into the incision in the man's stomach, then began suturing the edges to the peritoneum.
"What on Earth are they doing?"
"Looks to me like they're making a Jaffa, sir." Siler had noiselessly padded into the den and was peering over their shoulders a
t the monitor.
The unexpected reply made Hammond jump; a reaction he resented. "Impossible," he snapped. "That's-"
11 -precisely what they're doing. Well spotted, Sergeant." Maybourne had paused the recording and swiveled the chair around to face them. "Talk about not seeing the wood for the trees. This is nothing new. A few years ago, when I was running Area 51, we were toying with the idea. One of the reasons I was so keen to get my hands on Teal'c." He made a faintly apologetic noise and dodged Hammond's glare. "I scrubbed the project. It didn't work. We had pouch cell cultures harvested from a bunch of injured Jaffa, but we never got beyond testing it in vitro. No matter what we tried-and believe me, we tried everything on the market and a few things the FDA doesn't even dream of-the human immune reaction was so massive, the cell cultures practically self-destructed."
"Whatwouldyou gain by turningpeople into Jaffa?" Hammondhad trouble wrapping his head around a concept so Frankensteinesque.
"Are you kidding, General?" Maybourne snorted. "Vastly improved combat skills-strength, speed, reaction time, stamina, you name it-plus self-healing powers that could reduce casualties by a factor of ten. The strategic advantages are incalculable, and I bet you dollars to donuts that's why the NID is trying it again."
"But you already proved that it doesn't work."
"Didn't work. Like I said, it was a few years back. Since then, bio- genetics have taken another quantum leap. Those guys"-he jerked his chin at the image on the monitor-"may have got the solution."
"Not for him, they haven't." Staring at the screen, Hammond fought down a bout of nausea. "We found him in one of those morgue drawers."
"True. How about this: PFC Corbett and the other poor bastards stubbornly insist on biting the dust, whereupon silver-tongued Simmons wheedles his pet Goa'uld into lending a helping hand? Ask yourself. What was Conrad doing at the hospital?"
The million dollar question. And it made perfect sense. Talk about a deal with the devil. They still didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle, and Hammond still didn't know how the exercise and the Marine camp on M3D 335 came into it, but he was convinced they were connected somehow. Simmons's involvement in both, the Marines' involvement in both, was too much of coincidence. He thought of the corpses in the lab at St. Christina's. Fine young men, and no doubt they'd volunteered for the job. But with equal certainty they'd never been told the truth about what it really entailed. And what was happening to the dozens of others who'd been sent to Parris Island? What had happened to his own people? For a brief moment he indulged in a fantasy about locking the NID colonel in a room together with Siler and his wrench. It might clear up matters pretty damn quick.
Stargate SG-1: Survival of the Fittest: SG1-7 Page 21