"I don't like it."
Cross-legged on one of the room's two queens, Sam blinked incredulously at him. "Why not?"
Dean eyed the papers, neatly ordered and spread across the green-white bedspread. Such a control freak. Papers from Stanford, cheerily accepting his brother back again whenever the opportunity arose. Papers from MIT, a little more complicated because of murder charges and his supposed death, essentially saying the same thing.
And the third envelope, with papers that explained the two academic institutions' sudden change in attitude toward the Winchester brothers. From the White House.
At the edge of his own bed, Dean picked up these last, reading them again. "Well, for one thing, I don't think anyone's told Henriksen."
"Huh?"
Dean jabbed at the date on the official, Presidential pardons issued for the both of them, formally – legally – clearing their names. "This is about a month before Milwaukee."
The mattress, new for once, didn't creak as his brother shifted forward. Long fingers appropriated the sheets in his grasp, blue-green fixed in on the date and mentally matching it up against the 'bank-job'. I hate skinwalkers.
"Hnnn." A curl of wrinkles formed between Sam's brows.
They'd snuck their way into Cheyenne after the disaster with the bank-robbing shapeshifter, but there had been signs that the FBI was searching since then. Wanted posters, television notices . . . not often enough to throw them into a panic, but enough to show the Winchesters that Agent Henriksen wasn't giving up any time soon. "Yeah."
Too much power. Nevermind that they'd had to, nevermind that it had been killing people – tangling with the facility under Cheyenne Mountain was starting to prove one of the worst things they'd done so far, Milwaukee friggin' included. Thinking of how easily they had pulled these strings made a chill take up residence in Dean's spine.
Dunno if they're trying to buy us off or prove a point – but I got the message, thanks. The Winchesters couldn't afford to piss off the people under the Mountain. If he thought it would do any good, they'd never come back to Cedar Rapids and he'd change his cell phone number this minute. But the President's signature on those pardons told him there wouldn't be a place they could run that would be far enough away from this. They know who we are.
Son of a bitch.
Sam shifted again, unfolding from his crouch to snag their laptop off the bedside table. "I wonder if we still come up on the FBI's Most Wanted lists."
I'd bet on it. The sound of Sam's stomach growling loud enough to be heard across the room decided him. Dean snagged his coat from the back of one of the room's two chairs, smirking a little at the embarrassed flush on his brother's cheeks. "Let's get some food first."
Jack took a good look at the computer print-out the archaeologist was holding. What, no incense or funky robes? "And you're just gonna . . . read. You think it'll work?"
Daniel shrugged in his blue BDU jacket, pushing round lenses up. "Unless you have to be ordained to perform an exorcism, yeah. It should work."
"Ordained?" Jack couldn't figure out how that word was supposed to come out, so he settled on sarcasm. Thought of spiked and shaggy hair, ripped jeans, and identical expressions of stubbornness. Grinned. Yeah, right. "Somehow, I think we'll be fine." Clapped his hands, rocking a moment on the balls of his feet. "Ready?"
A sigh and a nod, as Daniel stood from behind his desk, eyes flicking through the office for anything he might need. At the door, Jack whistled tunelessly, waiting for the archaeologist to shrug into his BDU jacket. Flicking the lights and shutting the door, Daniel stepped to his side as Jack meandered down the corridor. "You head down to the holding cell – I'll go get Jacob."
"What? No!" Daniel protested.
Now what? "He wants to see it."
"Words aren't like a gun," Daniel sputtered, blue eyes wide. "I can't just aim them and not hit anyone else. We don't know what's going to happen. They can't be in the same room. I don't even know if they can watch over a video feed – just hearing the words might be enough. Or seeing the ritual."
And the one thing they didn't want to do was accidentally remove the Tok'ra ambassador to Earth from its host.
Great. Carter's dad was just going to love this. "So do you want to tell him, or shall I?" Jack clapped his hands together, absently rubbing his palms and trying not to grimace.
"I've got to go prepare for the exorcism," the archaeologist responded immediately, face perfectly straight, all butter-wouldn't-melt innocence and wicked laughter hiding in blue eyes.
"Right. Great. Fantastic."
Which was Jacob's estimation.
"The High Council -" Selmac started, voice reverberating in the VIP room.
"- doesn't want to lose its ambassador," Jack cut in. Jacob at least understood where he was coming from, but his symbiote was insisting. Oldest and most wise of the Tok'ra. Most pig-headed, too. "Look, we'll record it for you, dub out the sound, and release that to the High Council if there are no negative aftereffects. But we can't let you watch during the exorcism. It's too dangerous."
And that was, more or less, that.
Jack managed to escape before Aldwin and the other Tok'ra – Tiernan? – made their way back from the Commissary. With any luck, this'll be over and done with before they even find out about it.
Jack rocked on his feet, toe to heel to toe, waiting for the elevator, keeping a ruthless control on the rising excitement inside. When the car arrived, it was empty. If this works . . .
If it worked, then they had a weapon against the Goa'uld that even the Tok'ra hadn't anticipated. It might be as dangerous to the Jaffa as blended hosts, but they could work around that – and the possibilities were endless. Broadcasting of a looping recording of the rite before they went through the 'Gate, having something to finally free hosts without the dangerous surgery that made the Doc's lips go tight when they demanded she perform it . . . Oh yeah.
The holding cells were only a few corridors away from the elevator bank; Jack's steps were light on the way there. The one in question was easily identified; Carter was muttering with Daniel not far from the four SF's ringing the heavily-barred door.
"Sir," the astrophysicist spotted him first, head coming up.
"Carter," he acknowledged. Jack eyed the SF's. Might want to get more down here.
"General Hammond will be here in a moment," she filled in. "Teal'c's in there now, getting him ready."
"Tying him up," the archaeologist corrected absently, still poring over the ritual.
Jack flapped a hand, catching the low, familiar cadence of Latin as Daniel played with meter. "Ah, details."
Approaching footsteps ringing against concrete pulled his attention from the snicker Daniel let out – in spite of himself, Jack was sure. The General rounded the corner, accompanied by Doc Frasier. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"
A thousand years ago, his host had gone by the name Adegoke, and could never have imagined the power Olokun would gather to himself as a System Lord. Never more than a minor one, but he would change that.
Not when captured by the Tau'ri.
The room they had locked him in was drab and utterly bare, little more than a box made of a smooth, rock-like material that did not yield to the blow of a fist. It might, should he use Goa'uld strength, but the likelihood of incurring damage to his host body was high, and wasting time on healing might deprive him of a prime opportunity. And hands, with their ability to manipulate the world around them, were a tool greater than any other.
The situation as it stood was little more than a temporary inconvenience; for all their trouble to the System Lords, the Tau'ri were a primitive race. No, it was the Tok'ra that would require . . . delicate handling.
The Tok'ra would torture the body to pull answers from the symbiote, and Olokun would not be able to leave his host under the watchful eye of other Goa'uld. Escape must be carried out from the Tau'ri homeworld. And with their protective iris over the Stargate, he could expect no reinforcements from his Jaffa.
Still, they were careless enough in their methods of imprisonment.
"Shol'va," Olokun hissed at the Jaffa who had chained him, eyes flaring at the gold symbol of servitude to Apophis displayed on the traitor's forehead. Even shoved to the far reaches of the galaxy, word of this great betrayal had reached him. That a First Prime could harbor such blasphemous faults that would lead to the downfall of a God . . .
The Jaffa didn't blink, utterly impassive, circling behind him and out of Olokun's line of sight. Well-trained, if traitorous. Olokun sneered; any other reaction was more acknowledgment than this filth deserved. He rattled the metal bracelets chaining him to the seat they had brought in. One of his two guards eyed him distrustfully, readjusting his grip on the weapon he held. Attached to him by a strap. Provides a hindrance in close-quarters combat. It was the move of a chal'tii to so blatantly telegraph unease.
The twitch of a wrist, the bunching of muscles in his forearm, would see him free –
The door opened.
First through the opening was a Tau'ri female who jangled against his nerves, rather than his host's. Olokun narrowed the man's eyes, staring – after so many centuries, the body was as much his as it had been the man Adegoke's. Golden hair, cropped short, of medium stature, well-curved, with fair skin and eyes the color of the event horizon. Nothing spectacular, nor a great beauty like those hosts favored by the female of his species. But. She was a host. I do not recognize her. A minor System Lord, then, or perhaps a Tok'ra.
Another Tau'ri, male, one that like the Jaffa, he easily identified. This one had killed his own First Prime with a staff-blast, allowing the shol'va to corner him. "Ha'taaka."
"Back atcha," the Tau'ri grinned, completely undisturbed by his wrath.
Olokun's fury grew. They thought to imprison him, the lord of death, and chain him like common chattel for them to mock? I will enjoy killing this one.
Another woman, pushing before her a wheeled tank filled with clear water. Symbiote tank. So the Tau'ri planned to free his host of him. But there were no hand devices that he could see, and none except the blonde woman capable of wielding them. None of the primitive Tau'ri devices that he'd heard rumors of, spreading through his Jaffa – not even a knife, to cut him out of Adegoke's body.
Just another Tau'ri with pages of paper, slipping through the door before it was barred from the outside. They clumped together behind his watchful guards, voices hissing and muttering but indistinguishable to him no matter how he strained his host's ears.
A thousand years in this body, and they believe there is still a host left to save? The mind simmering below his thoughts was silent more often than not; that it was still sane after this long a sign of Olokun's mercy to his people.
The group scattered, all taking up positions around the guards and just as armed. Olokun relaxed against the thin metal chair, readying himself for the coming confrontation.
And the last Tau'ri, clearly a scholar, began to speak. "Regna terrae, cantate Deo, salite domino. Que ferter super celem -"
The slightest of tingles shivered his spine, but nothing more. The Tau'ri continued to read in a strong voice, but Olokun's uncertainty faded as, after long moments, nothing happened.
". . . tribute virtutem deo. Exorcisamus te, omnes in mundus spiritus, omnes satanica potestas, omnes incursio infernales adversarii, omnes legio, omnes congregatio, et sectat deabolico -"
The shol'va Teal'c was behind him, unmoving. The blonde woman was frowning heavily, and their leader's face had drawn into a scowl, his weapon rising higher as Olokun sat undisturbed. The System Lord locked eyes with the belligerent Tau'ri, strange words humming in his ears to no effect.
"It does not appear to be working, O'Neill," the Jaffa murmured, voice pitched to carry below the flow of words.
"Vade satana inventor et magister omnes velacio. Hostis humare salutis humiliare potente -"
"Yeah, I can see that," the one called O'Neill snapped.
Olokun laughed, long and deeply, though it did not ease the continuous chant. Shak'ti'qua?"
There was no answer, but he didn't expect one. It was clear that whatever experiment the Tau'ri had thought to try on him was failing.
"Ipse tribuet virtutem et fortitudenem lebe suae benedictus deus gloria patri." The young Tau'ri whose voice had been filling the room for many minutes fell silent at last.
"Keep going, Daniel," O'Neill snapped. No one moved.
"That's the end of it," was the response. Olokun broke gazes with O'Neill to give his attention to the scholar, a crease forming between his brows as his mouth moved silently over meaningless words. "That's the entire ritual, Jack."
"But that doesn't make any sense," the blonde woman interrupted. "It was working before, we all saw it."
Not on me. Which made him wonder – who had they tested this on, to believe that it would succeed now? And the surprise in their bodies was genuine. So this – these words – were supposed to separate host from symbiote, and he was mysteriously immune.
The young Tau'ri was shuffling through papers, frowning and chewing his lip in puzzlement. "It's the exact ritual Sam left me."
O'Neill's voice rose. "Teal'c?"
"My prim'ta was initially disturbed, but the sensation soon eased."
"It should work," the young Tau'ri male – Daniel? – insisted. "Maybe there was something with the pronunciation -"
"Great." O'Neill's weapon lowered, animosity in every line of his body. Olokun met calculating brown eyes and smiled. O'Neill growled. "When the Tok'ra hear about this, they'll want to move him immediately." The others, including the guards, retreated toward the door. Olokun caught O'Neill's final words as they exited, leaving him chained to the chair in the middle of the room. "Call Davis."
The sound of sliding metal barring his prison shut echoed in the empty room.
Foolish.
Olokun tested the links once more, satisfied that they would snap with little effort and no damage to his host body. The Tau'ri had left him little, but he could make weapons from what he had easily enough.
You will not keep me here for long.
Sam scooped up the last of his vanilla ice cream, cutting the thickness of chocolate mousse against his tastebuds, and eyed Dean's plate with satisfaction. The beets hadn't gone over well – hadn't gone over at all – but the lure of a steakhouse was enough to prompt his brother's appetite and up the amount of protein he consumed by a significant margin.
Warm lighting, booths cushioned in cloth rather than vinyl, and enough room for him to slouch comfortably beneath the table put Chili's Grill & Bar on his list of 'return-if-possible's. Conversation churned lightly around them, amiable atmosphere permeating their booth in the corner of the room and brightening Sam's mood considerably. Helps that Dean doesn't look like he's going to fall over when he tries to stand up.
Iron and protein and electrolytes, and his brother was steadier on his feet if not fully back on top of his game. Still tired, though, if the hand he rubbed over his eyes was any indication. Maybe I can convince him to go to bed early. The good, heavy meal and the warmth of the room were already conspiring to weight green eyes with drowsiness.
Sam ran white cloth over his face, catching the smirk Dean sent his way. And then, he saw the massive chocolate smears that transferred from his skin to the napkin, and glared. "Dude!"
"What?"
Sam could feel heat crawling up his face, and Dean's innocent act was betrayed by the gleam in wicked eyes. "You could have told me," he waved the stained napkin, fighting his blush back.
That got a cackle in response, and the waving of his brother's camera-phone. Sam knew for a fact Dean hadn't used it. But oh, yeah, the older Winchester was feeling better. Sam gritted his teeth, hiding the smile that wanted to emerge. "You're a friggin' jerk."
Settling further into the booth's padded bench, Dean chuckled.
Sam flicked a soggy crumb at him; it fell flat, skittering over the glossy tabletop before coming to a rolling halt, fat inches away from his brother's hand.
Dean raised a brow at him, not quite suppressing his smirk. Green eyes strayed to the curvaceous form of a passing waitress, then snapped back to him. "So. Any leads on a new gig?"
"You're kidding." Sam stared at his brother. Dean knew as well as he did that unless forced, they never hunted if they weren't at one hundred percent. The risks not only to their own lives but those of the innocents they hoped to save weren't worth chancing that exhaustion or an incompletely healed injury wouldn't cost them at a critical moment. And Dean's not one hundred percent, there's no way.
His brother met his eyes evenly. "Not now. In like a week or so."
Yeah, a week would do it. A week was probably overkill, in fact, but that Dean had been so lenient told Sam his brother had thought he'd push for more if it came to a knock-down, drag-out fight. "Well, then we've got time to look, right?"
Dean shrugged, making conversation more than anything else. "Spend some time in town, maybe. Fill out those credit-card applications, sort out the mess with -" one hand flapped, encompassing Stanford and MIT and Presidential pardons in a single movement. "Everything."
"Sleep," Sam muttered, mind on more immediate issues. He hadn't gotten enough in the past three days, between losing and tracking down Dean, killing the djinn, and they'd spent today in cleanup and travel . . .
Under the gentle lamplight illuminating their booth, the smudges beneath Dean's eyes deepened. "Yeah."
Should probably get the check the next time the waitress comes around. He wasn't sure, but Sam thought it likely Aaron Neumann would be paying for this meal.
Into the silence, a cell phone rang, blaring heavy rock across the booth. Great. Sam tensed, unhappy. He'd just gotten his brother relaxed enough that suggesting an early night would probably have gone with only the hitch of Dean's grumbling.
Dean held the phone up, frowning at the number, and flipped it open. "Hello?"
"When do you think they'll be here?"
I hope Dad can stall the High Council for a little longer. Sam took another look at the clock in Daniel's office, twisting a little as she stretched out her back. 0630. The on-base personnel housing wasn't awful, but it was a far cry from the SGC's VIP rooms. She was pretty sure that Colonel O'Neill had gone home, and that Daniel hadn't, after the failed exorcism. Teal'c was taking a few hours for kel'no'reem in his quarters.
"Dean said they were about twelve hours out," Daniel repeated, glancing up from his computer to give her a small smile. Sam shook her head with a smile, and the archaeologist continued. "They were going to drive through the night to get here, so there wouldn't be as much traffic. Hopefully."
"And they couldn't take a plane why?" In the corner, Colonel O'Neill was fiddling with a statuette the length of his hand, carved from bright turquoise, with some . . . highly exaggerated bodily features.
The archaeologist rolled his eyes, tapping a few keys as he stood from behind his desk. "Because they have some – specialized equipment – that wouldn't make it through security," he answered. She wiggled on her chair, finger marking her place in the text SG-1's linguist had asked her to look through.
"Guns," the Colonel muttered, relinquishing the figurine to Daniel's patiently outstretched hand. He wandered over to the bookshelf, one finger running along the spines stacked there, as he ambled the length of the office. "We could have given them guns."
"Not guns compatible with their ammunition," Sam pointed out. Silver rounds crafted for a .45 wouldn't exactly be useful for a P-90 or M-16.
"I still don't see why they couldn't have just told you what was wrong over the phone," Jack groused. Sam's eyes followed him as he shifted toward the large table occupying the center of the room, overrun with books and artifacts and more than a little dirt from various planets.
"Because I went over it with Sam – Winchester," Daniel clarified, plucking a ceremonial dagger from Jack's line of sight and shutting it in a desk drawer. "It wasn't the ritual, it wasn't the meter or the pronunciation or the content. And it should work – they've used it before, apparently."
Sam shivered. On . . . demons. Like we don't have enough problems off-world without finding out that hellspawn are real? "Did they have any ideas about what went wrong?"
Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning against his office table. "Sam said it might be because Goa'uld are actual physical entities. Mostly, the ritual is used on demons, which are incorporeal. They've got exorcism rituals from a dozen religions that work, and this one was working initially, so we'll see what happens when they get here. I'm just looking up the roots of the one they left me, to see if there's another variation I can try."
"Before the High Council decides Jacob's stalled long enough and General Hammond has to let them take His Snakiness to Vorash," the Colonel muttered.
Sam frowned, tugging a sticky-note free of its pad to mark her spot. "Apparently their operative in Olokun's forces – um, Tiernan is the host and Marsil is the symbiote – was able to gather data on Jaffa movements and strength, which indicate that he's getting in position to strike out at the upper System Lords. But Olokun hasn't told his plans to anyone. And they want to know what advantage he has that he'd try to take down someone with the equivalent of Ra's power, roughly."
"They're probably afraid it's the time-travel device," Daniel muttered.
God, I hope not. She was an astrophysicist, and since they had accidentally activated a wormhole through a solar flare and gotten themselves sent back to 1969, she'd taken a closer look at what was known of time-travel through Einstein's theories and the space-time continuum. "If they find out -"
Rrrring.
Daniel reached for the receiver, and Sam bit back the rest of her statement.
"Yeah, he's right here."
Jack's brows went up, and the archaeologist nodded, beckoning.
Taking the receiver, the Colonel spoke into the phone. "O'Neill." He paused, a look of satisfaction coming over his face. "Good. No, I'll be right up." The phone clattered into its cradle, and the leader of SG-1 gave them a smug smile. "Guess who's topside?"
Dean watched Sam walking back toward the parked Impala, within sight but far out of earshot of the front gate and kiosk to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. Not out of range of their surveillance equipment, though. Cameras were stationed regularly, at the fence-posts, he would bet, with long-distance mikes as well; all monitored constantly. Wonder how they changed the system since we broke in? He smirked.
"They said they'd get O'Neill up here to see us through."
Dean settled against the Impala's hood, willing to wait. For a little while, anyway. "Good. No way we'd be able to bring in any of our gear through the front door."
Sam gave a half-laugh, yawning and stretching his arms over his head. He'd slept the ten hours it had taken them to get here. Still looks tired. "Yeah, no kidding."
At least he seemed to have woken up on the right side of the Impala, for once – the fight they'd had about coming nine hundred miles ameliorated a little by the immediacy of the situation. At least, the way Paul explained it. Dean had cut him off halfway through a way-too-detailed description of inter-planetary politics.
"Daniel said he did the exorcism exactly as I left it." Sam was eyeing the chain-link fence and perimeter guards disappearing into the shadows of the trees coating Cheyenne Mountain.
Not this again. "He can't have, if it didn't work."
"I went over it with him," Sam muttered, hands delving into his pockets and shoulders shrugging, resettling his jacket against the thin breeze. "I mean, his pronunciation was a little different, but that shouldn't have had any effect – it's just like an accent. Doesn't change the meaning of the words or the intent behind them."
Dean groaned. If I find out I had to drive nine hundred miles because of the difference between church-Latin and academic-Latin, I swear I'm gonna –
The gates were opening, and someone was coming their way. "Sam, twelve o'clock."
They were shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting, when O'Neill came within speaking distance. "Nice ride."
Olive branch? Screw that. Not when these guys had the power to take away problems like the Feds, or could hold Sam's dream of going back to school over them, just to make the Winchesters jump every time they snapped their fingers. Dean wasn't blind – and he had the feeling their pardons and re-admissions to school didn't come without a hell of a lot of strings attached. "You gonna let us in or what?"
"Some reason you couldn't just drive up to the gate?" O'Neill glanced between them.
Dean snorted; Sam snickered.
They split, Sam rounding the hood to slip into shotgun, Dean continuing along the driver's side of the Impala to the trunk. Cracking it open, he lifted the false bottom and said dryly, "I have the feeling your guys might have stopped us. Just a hunch." And I'd rather not get shot for trying to sneak this in.
O'Neill blinked at the array of guns and canisters filled with salt and gasoline and holy water, dozens of items meticulously cleaned and packed away. "It's like The Hitchhiker all over again."
Dean let the slam of the trunk do his talking for him, sparing a hand to give the Impala a consoling pat on his way to the driver's seat. Asshole. "Backseat," he ordered O'Neill with the jerk of a thumb.
Getting through the front gate went remarkably smoothly with a Colonel in the back, though the looks O'Neill didn't get indicated he was a little higher on Cheyenne's food chain than Dean had assumed. From the worried purse to his lips, Sam noticed it too.
Corridors mysteriously cleared before them as O'Neill led the way deeper into the Mountain, past various offices dedicated to the inner workings of NORAD, none of which the Winchesters should have been able to just walk by. They weren't even patted down or made to go through metal detectors; Dean had a gun and two knives secreted away, Sam the same, and they were just waved through. No one even tried to check the duffle of supplies Dean had slung over one shoulder. What the hell.
The only holdup came on Level 11.
"Yeah, they definitely remember you," Sam grinned, looking around at the guards who had suddenly snapped to attention. The officer behind the desk glared his way; Dean sneered right back.
"Sir," the man snapped, lips thinning under the force of his displeasure. "This is the man who -"
"I know, Lieutenant Poletti," O'Neill answered, palm slapping against the chest-high desk doubling as a barrier as he walked by, flashing his ID. "They're with me."
No way he's going to take that for an answer.
But that was precisely what happened; the stuffy guard backed down immediately, pissed off but unable to say much of anything in the face of O'Neill's casual disregard. Dean's eyes narrowed on the Colonel's back as he followed the man into the elevator. Used to having people fall in line with what he says, no matter what. Add to that the unconscious way O'Neill carried himself, and Dean knew that he was looking at more than just Air Force. Special Forces, of some kind, definitely – maybe even Black Ops.
"Holy crap," Sam mouthed, surprise in blue-green eyes, before O'Neill turned.
You said it, little brother. Even Dad hadn't been that – arrogant? Only word for it.
The odd silence that reigned in elevators across the country attacked, leaving them in an awkward quiet. Sam shifted his grip on the reference books he carried; exorcisms in various religions that they could try, just in case. Dean shook his head over the way the numbers on the elevator's display increased as the floor dropped beneath his feet.
They were at sixteen – holding cells, Dean remembered – before the car came to a halt. He took point, hearing Sam start, "So where's -"
Red lights exploded, alarms searingly loud in his ears.
Dean flinched in shock, yelling over the sudden noise, "What the hell is that?"
Between screaming electronic whoops, an impersonal voice beamed across the loudspeakers, answering his question. "Unscheduled off-world activation."
A/N: Translations of the Goa'uld, courtesy the Wiki page on the Goa'uld language. Chili's Grill & Bar is, according to the , in Cedar Rapids, but I've never been there, so everything but the name is fictitious. And the exorcism above? Painstaking re-piecing of the Latin from the DVDs of 'Phantom Traveller' and 'Devil's Trap' (I kept getting distracted by Dean's intensity in the latter, so that took some serious concentration, plus JP's Latin-reading accent is waaay different from mine, so goodbye, all my Latin knowledge) and some helpful and not-so-helpful SuperWiki transcripts.
Shol'va – traitor; also, 'heretic', as to betray the Goa'uld is to betray one's god.
Chal'tii – untrained warrior
Ha'taaka – vile one
Shak'ti'qua – What do you think you are doing?
Prim'ta – larval Goa'uld, which resides in a womb-like stomach pouch of a Jaffa and acts as the Jaffa's immune system.