Taken
Sparks
Glinda couldn't help it. She twisted her body to look fully at the Colonel.
Sam's face had lost color, and a slight movement in her temple indicated the tight set of her teeth. Her breathing had become unnaturally even, even the loose fit of her blouse wasn't able to hide the set of her body. If Glinda didn't know better, she would have interpreted that movement as an attempt to swallow a sob.
But surely she knew better.
Still, the Colonel refused to catch her eye, so Glinda found herself frowning and turning back to her vantage point. From between the folders, Glinda watched as the Goa'uld toyed with his zat, his knobby fingers rubbing the gray, metallic head.
"Come, now, Colonel." The Goa'uld raked his gaze over the darkened interior of the barn. "You can't keep away from me forever. I know where you are, and I assure you that there is no way out."
"You know me, Bill, I'm not going to just give up."
Glinda jumped at Sam's voice. She turned her head again, and watched with trepidation as Sam scooted out towards the end of the tank, now nearly in full view of the Goa'uld. She paused at the edge and reached into her pocket, withdrawing an item which she hid with a quick movement of her hand.
"Nor will I, Colonel Carter. Not when you carry the means of my perfection."
Glinda watched Sam process the statement, watching has her eyes widened, and then her face steadied again, her expression a perfect mask of serenity.
"I don't know what you mean. There's nothing special about me." Sam looked up, purposefully catching Glinda's eye. With a nod of her head, she indicated the bag, and Glinda automatically reached behind her and clasped the straps, pulling them over her shoulder. Her fingers tightened on the handle of her meat tenderizer.
"Oh, but there is, Colonel Carter. And the ironic thing is that it has only just come to me." His round face relaxed into a crooked smile. "This was never part of the plan. Of course, having you here at all wasn't part of my plan, but there it is. I may as well make good use of you."
"Bill, come on—I'm just your average Tau'ri female. I've got nothing for you." But Sam had turned and was now on her knees, crouching as low as she could. The position could not have been comfortable, and Glinda thought that she saw the Colonel wince as she balanced herself.
"Genetics, Colonel." He took a step closer to where Glinda hid behind the cabinet. "It's all about genetics. Just look at what body my brethren cursed me with. They created me only for their own use—never with the intention to allow me to reach my full potential."
"And how exactly am I supposed to help you fix that?" Sam shifted again, until she was perched on the balls of her feet, and Glinda found herself mirroring the stance, balancing herself with a hand on the cabinet and the other leaning on her club—utilizing its tensile strength as a cane.
"Come now, Colonel. Surely you know how we Goa'uld have exercised our dominance over human physiology. We created the Jaffa to incubate our young, and others of my kind have experimented throughout history with your species' abilities in order to make a hok'taur. I find myself in need of a stronger new host. And here you are—just when I need you. Ready to make a contribution."
"I won't give you anything." Sam scooted one foot forward, nodding when she noticed Glinda preparing for the next move. With her head, she motioned towards the back entrance—where they'd entered in the first place.
The Goa'uld in the center, and cabinetry gathered all around the sarcophagus, Glinda could see the wisdom in this action. They stood a good chance of rounding the perimeter of the lab before their hunter could find an exit and give chase. She tried not to concentrate too much on the words being bandied over her head—knew that Sam was keeping the conversation going in order to stall for the time needed to prepare for their escape. But the chill creeping down her spine couldn't be quelled with the knowledge that the banter, at least on one side, was being argued in earnest. This little balding man, Goa'uld though he may be, wanted something quite specific from the Colonel. Still, Glinda jerked when his voice drifted again—almost lazily—through the dimness.
"No, but my mind is racing." He turned his body slightly and ran his thick hand along the smooth surface of the sarcophagus. "All those cells—so new. So fresh. So perfect. Wonderfully malleable."
Glinda felt her eyes flare wide. He couldn't mean what it sounded like he meant. Her hand slipped a little on her weapon as she turned and captured Sam's eyes.
The Colonel's expression was raw. Pain, incredulity, and anger played in waves across her lovely face—her hand had slipped to her midsection, as her lips had tightened into white-edged line. From under the golden fringe of her bangs, her eyes were huge—wide—and they flashed with something that Glinda couldn't fathom. Like a feral beast protecting her young.
Somehow, the Colonel was still able to speak—no doubt it was her training coming in to play—and her years of experience.
"They've been zatted, Bill. As far as we know, those particular cells are worthless by now." But Glinda could hear the quaver in her voice—knew instinctively what those words had cost Sam to say.
"Then you'll be cooperative as I remove them." The Goa'uld stretched out an empty hand—beckoning them out of hiding—the zat still held ready at his side. "Just imagine the Ancient gene included in the mix. What Goa'uld would not want the ability to control Ancient devices? Even the Asgard considered it."
"The Asgard couldn't make it work." Sam's head peeped out from around the tank. She took a quick scan of the barn and then righted herself, raising her right hand. Finally, Glinda could see what she'd been holding within her hand. Held aloft, the blade of the rotary cutter gleamed a dullish green in the reflected light of the tank. The Colonel had already flicked the lock on the handle, and grasped it with her thumb and pinkie even as she wiggled three fingers, then folded them back down.
Reading the Colonel's signs, Glinda readied herself. She turned her body away from the Goa'uld, instead facing the far corner of the lab, where a narrow passage connected the area where she'd crouched for so long with the back entrance of the barn. From the corner of her eye, she saw the Colonel turn, too, and Glinda remembered to take a deep breath.
"You can forget that plan, Bill. I'm not giving you anything." Stronger, now. The Colonel's words accompanied her half-rise, and muffled the now-familiar sound of the zat head being raised.
But the Goa'uld had taken another step closer. "Colonel Carter. My patience is wearing thin."
"So's mine." Sam raised the first finger in Glinda's direction.
"You are being most obstinate."
Another finger rose, even as Carter's voice carried across the wall of steel shelving. "Bill, Bill. It's what I do." And then, with a swiftness that Glinda wouldn't have thought possible, Sam flashed the third count and stood, motioning sharply at the secretary.
Glinda rose fully, her body hidden completely by the tall cabinet behind which she'd taken refuge. Turning, she immediately started running—as well as her bare feet and stiff legs would allow her to run—towards the back of the barn, Sam's footsteps staccato-sounding behind her.
The Goa'uld shouted in surprise, and then growled in anger, and Glinda felt the singe of a zat blast before she even heard the report. She rounded the corner, stunned by how dark the narrow passage seemed after the ambient lights from the devices in the main part of the lab. Half-blind, the large bag banging against the cabinetry to her right, she stumbled towards the exit, where a faint sliver of moonlight painted a stripe of white on the floor.
The Goa'uld Doctor Lee leveled another blast towards them, and Glinda stumbled as heat licked at her shoulder. A hand from behind caught at her, keeping her upright, and fairly shoving her towards their goal. She lengthened her steps and made it to the door in two more long strides, pulling open the door just as she saw Doctor Lee round the shelving on the opposite side.
She knew she squealed—knew how undignified that sounded—and fought to keep her focus as the man barreled his way down the corridor towards them.
The grass felt clean and fresh against the soles of her feet. For the first time in the course of the sordid situation, Glinda was grateful not to have shoes on—her longish toes gripped the sod and helped her run faster.
A word and a shove from the Colonel behind her were all the direction she needed. Directly behind the barn, a thin stretch of grass led directly to a corral. Beyond the gaping gates of the enclosure, a line of tall trees beckoned—offering escape, and a place to hide.
A sound behind her proved worrisome, and she chanced a look backwards, only to find herself swallowing a scream.
The cloned Doctor Lee ran after them, his hefty body lumbering across the grass. And behind him, holding good old Earth handguns and not zats, two more men had emerged around the side of the barn and were also running towards them. Glinda reapplied herself to her goal—aiming her body for the wide maw of the corral gate, grateful when she passed through into the sandy soil of the training yard.
A noise echoed behind her—and she tried not to place it—but when a second one sounded, she instinctively dodged. She'd heard that noise before—that popping that had to be gunfire. Her already questionable breathing hitched up, and she gulped in breath after breath.
"Go!" Behind her, the Colonel's voice issued forth harshly. Glinda turned her head in time to see Sam raise her zat and squeeze off a few successive shots of blue fire.
But the men kept after them—faces determined, their weapons glinting black and deadly in the light of the moon. And they were gaining on Glinda and Sam.
Glinda reached the other side of the corral and nearly screamed in frustration. Where the entrance had lain open, the exit fencing sat tightly locked. Glinda shoved at the gate, knowing it was in vain, before hiking her skirt up to her hips and bending in half. Shoving her purse through the space between the bars, she threw a leg over the middle bar and then squeezed herself through the opening, hopping slightly as she swung the other leg through.
Sam had reached the fence, too, and stood firing the zat until Glinda had attained the other side.
"Colonel! Come on!" Glinda paused outside the corral, trying not to notice how near the men were to the entrance of the corral. "Hurry!"
"Go! Just run, Glinda!" Sam's shout pierced through Glinda, and she turned towards the woods, but the pounding of the men's boots in the dirt of the corral forced her back to the bars.
Summoning up her courage, Glinda dropped the tenderizer, reached out and grasped the alien weapon between shots, wresting it away from the Colonel through the element of surprise and sheer determination. She found the indentation in the handle that served as the trigger and, pointing it in the general direction of their pursuers, tightened her finger.
She'd been expecting recoil, and had, in fact, braced her body for it. But the device fired smoothly—the only indication that she'd discharged it at all being a slight tingle in her palm—presumably from the energy surging through the weapon. She squeezed again and again, assiduously ignoring just how very close the men had become, and how much louder the ominous popping had become. She completely sublimated the sharp 'ping' she'd heard—even knowing it meant that a bullet had just ricocheted somewhere very near.
Glinda refused to think about what was actually happening—deciding instead that this was merely a horrendously bad dream. That she wasn't actually being chased by men capable not only of shooting at a gently bred, graciously reared secretary of advancing years, but also actually wanting to hit her. Her orderly mind careened—desperate to put it all in context—but what possible context was there for this fear? This rush of adrenaline and worry and anger?
Glinda snuck a look at the Colonel, who had placed a foot on the middle bar and swung over the fence, keeping her torso low on the bar. She'd angled her body over and was preparing to drop to the other side when Glinda noticed her jerk—heard her sudden intake of breath.
And then she just slid, slipping off the fence top and landing on her side, her face little more than a contortion.
"Sam!" Glinda bent, then reconsidered and straightened, necessity forcing the Warrior to emerge again. She took careful aim and fired once—then twice—finding the incongruous ability to smile when one of their pursuers crumpled in a dusty heap in the corral. The man's companion slowed to make a quick check of his fallen comrade, and then, with a furied shout, continued on towards them at a steady pace, leveling his gun in their direction.
"Glinda—please—just go!" The Colonel had sat up and was trying to stand, an ugly stain spreading across her pants near her knee. "I'll catch up! You get out of here!"
But Glinda wasn't about to leave Sam behind—and as if she needed to prove it, she stood straight even while the villain was striding vehemently in her direction with the ugly, ominous barrel of his pistol staring at her, and squeezed the trigger of the zat. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to run—but for some reason, she needed to foil the cowardice that rose within her, and, taking a stand, she fired again. The second man dropped in a flash of blue.
"Glinda!" Sam had risen up on her one uninjured leg, and was pulling at the secretary's skirt. "Watch out!"
And as she combed the corral with her terrified gaze, she saw the fleshy copy of Doctor Lee approaching from around the outside edge of the enclosure, zat raised, an expression of fevered excitement on his bearded face.
"Don't bother, Miss Baldrich!" He smiled. "You're only making things worse!"
He drew near rapidly—ten yards, then eight—his purposeful strides eating up the distance.
Glinda raised the zat and tried to put herself in front of Sam, attempting to protect her, but the Colonel placed a hand on her side, and with a sharp effort, shoved her out of the way. As she whirled out of the line of the clone's fire, Glinda could see a bright flash of yellow, black, and silver whizzing past her, and flinched when she heard the sickening sound of impact.
Sam's deflated body language told Glinda what she needed to know—the clone was no longer an immediate danger. But the secretary turned because she needed to—because in the few short hours during which she'd been embroiled in this drama, Glinda Baldrich had come to realize that there were indeed, consequences for evil. And the stout body laying in the grass demonstrated that fact—on his back, mouth opening and closing soundlessly while the blood poured out from around the rotary cutter embedded in his neck. And although she wished for world peace as devoutly as the next beauty pageant contestant, she knew that this entity would have done any amount of damage necessary in order to fulfill his own desires.
And for that reason, she felt no compassion whatsoever at his pain.
And then with a little cry, she let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Because she was a little horrified at that discovery, after all.
"Glinda—we have to go."
Turning a bit, Glinda could see that Sam had struggled to her feet, her pant leg now heavily stained with blood. She steadied herself with a hand on the bars of the corral, her entire focus on the older woman standing just a step or two away from her.
"Glinda." Sam said again, her tone stronger, more forceful. "We have to go. Those guys won't take long to wake up, and that little fight we just had wasn't particularly quiet. Someone from the main house had to have heard that. We have to go."
She could only nod. Turning, she held out an arm to the Colonel, who accepted the support without argument. Grateful for the first time in her life that she wasn't petite, Glinda took a strong grip around the Colonel's ribcage and helped her walk the short distance from the corral into the woods.
The grass turned sharp and brittle in the shadow of the trees. Beneath their feet, pine needles combined with other leaves and undergrowth to create a dense, rough carpet on which to walk. Glinda, helping to balance the Colonel with her left arm, held the zat with her right hand, the purse sandwiched between their bodies. Being the one who was not bleeding, nor in any other form of physical distress, Glinda tried to pick their way carefully through the growth in an effort to protect their feet, but it proved useless. It simply wasn't possible to see well enough to guard against the occasional painful branch or stone. Within minutes, her soles were tender.
Silence surrounded them in the darkness of the forest. Whatever nocturnal creatures that normally resided here had fled—probably due to the O.K. Corral-like gun battle they'd just participated in. The woods seemed vast—yet close—and Glinda fought against an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. But still she walked, deeper into the abyss, grateful for the moments when the moonlight penetrated the canopy and shed its light before them.
"Are you okay, Glinda?"
They went two or three more steps before Glinda found the courage to answer. "I assume so."
Ten steps later, she found more within her. "How are you feeling, Colonel Carter?" Why did her voice sound as if she were making charity visits at the Home? She inwardly cringed at her default stuffiness.
The Colonel's words were immediate. "I need to stop. I need to see what the damage is, and figure out if we can find a way to bind it up." Her voice emerged tightly—evenly—perfectly controlled.
Glinda cast a look around and found a log some distance away. "There." Gently, she steered them towards the log, turning awkwardly once they had reached it, lowering the Colonel to sit. Kneeling in front of the log, she carefully raised Sam's pant leg to her knee, squinting in the murky darkness to ascertain the extent of the damage.
"It's only a deep scratch—the bullet must have just grazed you." She looked up at Sam and, for the first time since their mad-dash escape from the barn, met her eyes. "It could have been so much worse."
"And I deserved it. I was an idiot." Sam raised a hand to her face, swiping at her forehead in a gesture of self-recrimination. "I tried to crawl through the bars like you had, but couldn't bend over well enough."
"Is your back injured, too?" Instant was Glinda's concern.
"No—it just felt like I was trying to fold myself over a basketball. It wasn't terribly comfortable."
Glinda's mouth formed a tiny 'o'. "The baby."
"I'm tall, so I hide it well, but bending over like that—" she faltered, shaking her head. "How many recruits have I chastised for doing just that—for leaving themselves as perfect targets. The number is gargantuan."
"You weren't thinking clearly. This circumstance is completely out of the ordinary."
"Not for me, Glinda." Sam chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, her gaze flying upwards, to where a slight breeze had shifted the branches above them enough to let in a little starlight. "I've been doing this kind of thing for more than fifteen years, now."
"How have you survived?" Glinda truly wanted to know—devoutly hoping that there was some magic remedy for finding peace after such a time as this. "I must admit to being in a little bit of shock."
"I know." Sam reached out a hand and placed it gently on Glinda's shoulder. "You have been unbelievable through all of this. I am in awe of you. And we'll be here for you. You're one of us, now, and we don't leave our people behind."
And suddenly, Glinda's eyes went all blurry. Surely it was from the dust in the air—the cool wind was fiddling with her nasolacrimal ducts—or her body was merely trying to replace some moisture lost over the past few hours. The wetness she felt certainly wasn't emotional. And that trail she felt down her cheek most assuredly wasn't a tear. Glinda Baldrich didn't cry.
Sam was the one bleeding all over the ground—her pants torn asunder by an actual bullet. She had the right to be upset, to need comfort. Glinda, on the other hand, had sailed through the firefight unscathed, and had needed to be saved in the final moments by this wounded woman. Glinda bowed her head in shame, her breathing shallow, her jaw tight.
"Glinda?" Sam's hand moved on her shoulder. "We'll get through this."
But the secretary could only nod. It felt as if something inside her were unraveling—as if over the past several hours she had been wound tighter and tighter, and all at once, in one single motion, the spring had sprung.
She forced back the rest of her tears, searching within herself for control. Hands shaking slightly, she wiped away the single drop that had come to a precipitous halt on her chin, then quashed a giggle that she was certain would have been inappropriate and a little ludicrous. And all the while, she felt the Colonel watching her, judging her, gauging her responses. All the while she assessed herself, and found herself wanting.
"Glinda—you don't have to be tough." Sam shifted on the log, stretching her good leg to one side. "You're not a soldier. It's okay to admit that you are feeling ambivalent—" but the Colonel suddenly stopped talking.
Her absolute quietness brought Glinda to full alert.
The Colonel had sat straight up, a puzzled, incredulous expression on her lovely face. Slowly, as if she were afraid to break some spell, she brought her hand to her midsection, lifting her eyes to meet Glinda's.
"What? Colonel? Are you all right?"
And the Colonel grinned fully, then, on a log in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, her leg bleeding, pants torn, being chased by madmen and villainous aliens, accompanied only by a combat-naïve sexagenarian with a very large purse.
"Colonel?"
"I'm fine, Glinda." She looked down where her hand made a pale shadow on her blouse, then back up, her blue eyes meeting Glinda's green ones. "More than fine."
"Are you sure?" Uncertainly, Glinda watched as the Colonel nodded, her braid bobbing at her nape.
"I'm positive. Glinda—I just felt the baby move."