Chapter 4
Darkness before dawn
Hello my dear readers. I rewrote the end of the chapter. The old text was written back in 2012... and was decidedly unfinished. So I made it better.
And, I'm actively writing chapter 5 (the first lines can be found at the usual places, SB and AH).
Cheers !
Baal's domain
An'chokwit garrison world
Hyperspace travel. A lifetime ago such a thing had belonged to science fiction, dismissed in real life as impossible. A violation of the laws of physics.
A few hours staring at the bluish fluctuating walls of an hyperspace tunnel and hearing the low-pitched drone of the ship's hyperdrive weren't quite enough to make it a routine to O'Neill's mind, yet the strangely soothing sensory experience was a low-key reminder of the fact that the ship he was a passenger of made the crossing of interstellar distances just as easy and ordinary as boosting to orbit had been back on Earth.
It wasn't the journey that matter, though. What mattered was the destination. The world Baal used as the staging point for his invasion of Samothrace. A garrison world, Selmak told him, housing millions of Jaffas at all times, a training and resting place for his warriors and their families. A well-protected one, lavishly covered by ground to orbit cannons and theater shield generators and defense satellites, guarded by a dedicated fleet of Ha'taks and Al'keshs and thousands of Death Gliders.
Any conventional assault would be costly. Fortunately, it wasn't what Selmak had in mind, as his plan relied on ruse and deception. Wit, dare and luck were going to be their path to success – or death. In truth, even mission success didn't entirely exclude their death as long as "success" was defined as preventing Baal from acquiring Freedom Station. And for the millionth time O'Neill thought of the thousands who would be sacrificed if that was the last option, and for the millionth time he fought off the tide of despair with iron resolve.
It was Selmak's voice that broke through his rumination this time.
"We're approaching our emergence point, O'Neill."
The soldier's gaze shook itself from its trance-like contemplation of the arcane energies at work outside the ship's windows and focused on the man sitting at the other end of the cockpit and manipulating controls. He nodded.
"Need to rehearse the plan one last time ?" Selmak arched an interrogative eyebrow.
"We slip in, land and go through the gate under disguise, leaving a parting present behind us, and then we improvise on the other side. Basically."
"Indeed." The Tok'ra operative sighed. "Not much of a plan, I'm afraid, but time…" he trailed.
"Time we didn't have" O'Neill relayed. "We'll improvise, adapt and overcome, as my folks say."
A contained grin met his remark.
"I like that saying. Improvise, adapt, overcome. Sums up what I've been doing for centuries."
A two-tone chime sounded from the ship's console signaling their reversion to real space. Almost immediately following the return of the black star-spanned vista filling their viewscreen were the multiple proximity warnings of weapon locks and active sensor scans. The holographic display morphed to a close-range representation of the ship's surroundings. A glance was enough to realize the Tel'tak was bracketed by multiple weapon platforms, their heavy staff cannons trained on the small transport who'd just rematerialized in the sector for space they were covering. They were held from immediately firing and obliterating the offending object by the friendly transponder signal it was transmitting, but remained ready to do so at a second's notice while the duty controller's voice filled the cockpit, a Jaffa's heavily accented one.
"Incoming ship! By order of Lord Baal, this is a restricted system Identify yourself and state the reason of your presence!"
Selmak slid into his role smoothly.
"I am here by Lord Baal's order, Jaffa" he answered in a most Goa'uldish smug and assured tone. "I need not state my mission to such underlings as you. You need only check the validity of my travel passport, which I am transmitting to you now." He finished with a regal tip-up of the head, his projected assurance as much a weapon as the forged electronic documentation he was relying on to ensure their passage.
Seconds passed as the ship coasted forward on residual inertia along one of the pre-authorized orbital insertion vectors that were, in theory, only known to those operatives and shipmasters serving Baal. A first layer of defense, any ship arriving outside those closely-guarded procedures was to be deemed hostile and destroyed immediately. It wasn't enough though. Actually earning the right to pass through the orbital defenses and making planetfall required more justification. One did not fly to a garrison world fortuitously, after all. Such travel passports were delivered with parsimony, through a well-established chain of command and bureaucratic procedures, and they were unique. Falsifying their quantum signature was impossible even for the Tok'ra, which made them extremely valuable. As Selmak had explained to his companion of fortune, it had taken him decades of patience and work in Baal's high administration to acquire one, or more accurately, divert one and cover the theft.
But it was worth the effort now. It was highly unlikely that An'chokwit increased security level would extend to the point of manually checking the passport's validity and its owner's legitimacy through the domain's administrative capital, a process that would take days as it couldn't be done through a simple data transmission.
The Jaffa controller did not bother. The computer told him the passport was valid, the ship itself was a known and registered one, and scans showed only two living beings inside, one Goa'uld and one Jaffa. A common enough assortment for a high level courier or a middling bureaucrat. Besides, it wasn't as if the ongoing operation hadn't caused increased traffic already.
It didn't mean that he had to sound anything but annoyed at the interruption of his cushy routine, and his go ahead came in as gruff a voice as any Jaffa could get away with in the face of a low ranking god, along with a dire warning not to stray from the regulated travel lanes, or else. A warning that the ship's pilot had no intention of ignoring, as his craft skimmed the atmosphere on a reentry vector that would take him to the planet's main landmass and the military complex built around its stargate.
"So far, so good" he observed offhand. The Tel'tak was on autopilot for the remainder of the trip, allowing both men to focus their attention to the surrounding view where the deep black of space was gradually heating up to a pink hue, then a fiery red as air resistance increased. Atmospheric reentries were not a new experience, but O'Neill still noticed glaring differences between the Goa'uld craft and the transorbital shuttles he was used to. The customary roar was heavily dulled and the buffeting almost inexistent despite the speed. The prow should have been glowing a cherry red and internal temperature ought to have become significantly warmer – but it wasn't presently the case. Watching attentively through the viewscreen, he could discern a shimmering gap between the bare hull and the superheated air, energy shielding protecting the exotic alloy from the fire.
"It saves wear and tear."
O'Neill's head swiveled aside, perplexed.
"Are you reading my mind ?"
"As talented as we are, telepathy isn't part of our abilities" Garam answered for both intertwined minds, and then attempted to restrain a chuckle. Watching him, O'Neill had the distinct impression that he was being the object of a joke between two strangers and didn't bother to hide a hint of irritation.
"What's so funny, you two ?" he blurted out impatiently, arms crossed as the other man managed to refrain his irreverent mirth. And then, as the more disciplined Selmak got their facial expression under control, it was O'Neill's turn to emit a short, sharp laugh and make the other look perplex.
"Sorry. I just realized, I said 'you two' and you're just one, well… body. Feels a bit crazy, if you see what I mean."
Selmak nodded knowingly. "Ah, yes. It's a common reaction among the people who deal with the Tok'ra. They're often… confused, understandably. It's just that we're two minds fused into one, even though we retain our part of individuality, we become one… how to explain it in your words… one personality, only with two faces, but that's not really accurate –"
"Two faces, eh ? Like Janus ?"
"You know Janus ?" Selmak asked out, sounding surprised. "He died ages ago ! How could you… Oh, I see. He would be a mythological figure on your world. Not uncommon at all."
O'Neill fought the sudden impression of having fallen through the rabbit hole. This galaxy was a strange enough place. Goa'uld as mythological figures…? If true… the implications on mankind's past history…
"Janus was a god in one of Earth's ancient Roman pantheon, two millennia ago."
Selmak was thoughtful for a moment. "Two thousand years... assuming that your planet's orbital period is close enough to the galactic average… yes, it would fit. I wish I knew more about the history of your world, O'Neill. It might be among the oldest colonized ones."
"Colonized ? We have archeological records, fossil evidence of our species' evolution dating back millions of years. Modern man – my current form – has been around for at least a hundred thousand years !" he replied animatedly, forgetting the outside view where the firestorm was gradually abating and leaving dark blue sky instead.
"How long is one of your years anyway ?"
Selmak's enquiry prompted O'Neill to find a way and explain. How could he tell the length of a Terran year to an alien who likely didn't even use the same measurement units ?
"Okay, the basic time slice is a second. It's the duration of a pendulum swing" he started, hoping that the words he used meant something to his interlocutor. "In our gravity, at least. The planet where Baal found us, its gravity was ninety-seven hundredths of Earth" he added to provide a reference, and Selmak nodded.
"I see. This would make your second…" he trailed out as he did the calculus in his mind in the span of a heartbeat, "exactly the same as the equivalent Goa'uld short time unit !" he ended with a slight expression of surprise.
"I suppose it's not too extraordinary", the human offered. "Habitable planets must follow a certain standard, I guess. Anyway, sixty seconds make up a minute, and…" O'Neill continued, elaborating on minutes, hours and days, then to months and years. As he finished his expose, he noticed that Selmak had gone almost rigid with shock.
"What ?" he asked, unnerved.
"What ? You've just described the System Lord timekeeping system down to the most minute detail. Your basic time units are exactly the same. It cannot be a coincidence – not if what you told me about your species' evolution is true as well."
He finished with an undertone of awe.
"Your home world, Earth – it is the place where it all began, the world where Ra founded his empire, and the world where he faced his slaves' rebellion for the first time. It was thought lost, forgotten by all, even by us Tok'ra… the ancient Tauri, lost in time and found again !"
He caught his breath, then : "Jaffa shit" he swore viciously, "if Baal realizes this… realizes that Ra's ancient throne world is populated by humans free of Goa'uld rule… fuck, bad doesn't even begin to describe it."
Xxx
There were so many questions raised by Selmak's revelation and not enough time to answer them all. To begin with, the discovery that Earth's ancient pantheons were apparently inspired by the Goa'uld, who had enslaved its inhabitants. And the mystery that came along – what had become of Ra ? How could such a powerful being suddenly disappear and why had Earth remained untouched for millennia ? At least the matter of Earth's stargate was not entirely obscure : somehow, the Draka came ahold of it. The sheer thought that the Snakes were out in the galaxy was horrendous, but a part of O'Neill's mind felt strangely gleeful, picturing the Domination under fire from Goa'uld motherships. Not exactly a consolation, but still soothing in a distorted way.
Nevertheless, the immediate matter at hand was Freedom Station. The task was difficult enough, and mental distractions would not help, he reasoned.
The ship was plunging towards the cottony cloud carpet hanging lazily far below. Holes in the cover revealed blue water shimmering. Again, the similarity with Earth was surreal.
Selmak was silent, his fingers dancing on through the holographic interface as he performed checked and scans of the continent ahead, still invisible beyond the horizon.
They flew lower and lower, their speed merely supersonic now, leaving a trailing shockwave as they skimmed the highest clouds and tore apart the diaphanous cirrus layer. A lazy banking turn and then the metal wedge dropped to the level of towering thunderclouds, their blackened heads flashing here and there with contained lightning.
There was something disquieting for a Terran pilot, flying so close to storm clouds. Even the sleek powerful scramjets did not, as a rule, fly through that kind of weather during approach, and he made the remark to Selmak, who shrugged.
"A few lightning strikes aren't going to threaten a ship that flies through hyperspace routinely", the Tok'ra explained. "At worst, the energy would go straight to the capacitors."
He flipped a finger at a projected image. "Our destination's straight ahead, near the river mouth you see there. Rain isn't going to matter" he zoomed the tridimensional map with a gesture. It reminded O'Neill of a high resolution radar map, except in the golden hues favored by the Goa'uld in every little thing.
An'chokwit, or rather its capital, was a sprawling collection of geometrical shaped buildings. O'Neill recognized ziggurats and massive arches, forest-like porticos reminiscent of Egyptian temples, huge brick-like warehouses along the city's harbor and its complex of quays and jetties, and surrounding the stone mastodons lied warrens of smaller constructions that O'Neill assumed to be houses and shops and everything a city needed. His analytical eye noticed a discrepancy between the city projected before his eyes and what he'd learnt about those in Ancient history. There was none of the anarchy usually shown among the latter, the result of unplanned and unchecked urban sprawl creating twisted mazes of narrow streets. In the present case, there appeared to be a clear plan at work, built around orthogonal streets and large radiating avenues leading to the cyclopean fortress gates piercing the city's curtain wall. Roads disappeared further away in the countryside, past defensive bastions that appeared to sport anti-orbital cannons as well as old-style crenellations in a fantastic mish-mash of technology and eras.
"How many people live there?" O'Neill enquired, staring at the projected map.
"About half a million according to the latest census," the Tok'ra operative answered easily. His cover job in Baal's administrative apparatus had allowed him to learn everything there was to know about the System Lord's domains. "That's not counting temporary troop concentrations, naturally."
A whistle came from the Earther's lips. "That's a lot of mouths to feed."
"Indeed, and in most Goa'uld domains it would be a very large city." He paused, as if reluctant to add "For all his faults, Baal is a good administrator. For a Goa'uld, of course. He has to, because his empire is smaller than most his rivals'. Only Yu's empire has anything like the bureaucratic efficiency needed to accommodate such population densities, with planetary populations reaching in the billion figure. Such massive populations are rare among System Lord space," he explained "the stagnant and backward societies they keep their subjects in are hardly compatible with very large populations." Another shrug. "Though, System Lords own many worlds. Individually, they're not much, but they add up to large numbers of subjects." There was a grimace on Selmak's face as he ended his impromptu expose. "That's how they can afford to lose millions of Jaffas every year in their pointless wars across the galaxy."
O'Neill's answer was summation enough. "This is really fucked up."
With barely a buffet the ship broke out of the lowest cloud layer and into thick rainy twilight, right over the bay and the choppy slate grey sea. Wind-borne water streamed past the windscreen, diverted by the low power field hugging the transparent material, and O'Neill saw the city with his own eyes at last. No golden hues anymore but shades of grey, the buildings' colorful markings dulled by the raging rainstorm, and those cyclopean shapes emerged sullenly from the soaked gloom as the Tel'tak crossed the protective jetty's stone works and overflew the harbor.
Once again the Earther's mind was assaulted by the incredible contrast between the Goa'ulds' advanced technology, as shown on the very spacecraft he was riding, and the life they forced on their subjects. The Tel'tak was a marvel of advanced engineering and scientific principles capable of traveling between stars and yet the ships moored below, swaying in the wind despite the thick lines fastening them to the piers, these ships wouldn't have looked out of place in the ancient Mediterranean. Fat ungainly merchantmen, their masts bare and rope-bound and fast transport galleys whose oars were raised and secured along their flanks made up the bulk of the fleet, dozens of wooden boats whose shapes would have appeared familiar to Themistocles and Scipio. A smattering of naval dust and fishermen rowboats were dispersed among their larger brethren, all of them deserted as the sailors sheltered behind walls and covered decks.
Thoughts invaded the agent's mind. These people below, they had lives, jobs, families, they ate and drank and loved, certainly. And they, in all likelihood, worshipped that Baal thing as a god. Some of them were probably praying and asking for clear weather, he reflected in passing. It was all so trivial after a fashion, a city full of humans who lived ordinary industrious lives… and yet it was stupendous to bear in mind the setting.
And he had to kill them. Not that they were directly targeted, but he doubted that a high-yield bomb going off inside the Jaffa quarters would leave the surrounding neighborhoods unscathed.
Kill Baal's subjects. Like Domination serfs. Collateral damage. For all his ruminations the mind of the Alliance operative was clear of moral quandary. He'd kill every living being on this planet of that meant his people's salvation. Without regret. As the realization reached his conscious mind, his features hardened into the stone mask of cold resolution. He would kill the Jaffas, kill Baal, kill Kheshmet even if that meant killing Carter. It would be a mercy anyway. And he'd kill Selmak too, if it came to that, if the Tok'ra's interests went against his own. He hoped not. The alien was rather likable after a fashion.
Deftly, Selmak flew the small transport ship over the defensive rim of the Jaffa quarters, allowing his passenger to glimpse open courtyards and covered passageways interspersed between the squat cantonments and picture in his mind the mail-clad warriors training and drilling in the open plazas during fairer weather. The outside view was then obscured as the Tel'tak reached one of the ziggurat-shaped buildings and threaded through the gaping maw at the top and down a vertical shaft. Its circular walls slid by rapidly, covered in multicolored ceramic tiles arranged in spiraling geometrical motifs that looked vaguely Babylonian, and after a few seconds O'Neill estimated that they had to be past ground level, right before they emerged into the cavernous ship bay at the bottom.
It appeared to be hemispherical in shape and large enough to contain one of the New America's cruisers – assuming it could be squeezed down the access shaft. Sparse lighting left many patches and corners in the dark, but the internal layout was easy to comprehend, with the larger ships – other Tel'taks, and the larger type involved in the attack on the island planet – sitting on raised plots over the floor, and four rows of the predatory bird shaped fighters held in docking cradles around the curving walls with connecting gantries and ladders. There appeared to be a single main access at ground level, with a pair of Jaffas standing guard nearby, too far to discern their features, and roving four-man patrols scattered across the vast expanse.
As the spacecraft slowly lowered itself over one of the empty plots, the nearest patrol moved in at a leisurely jogging pace, enough to cover the distance with time to spare as the ship settled down and powered off. The four warriors stood motionless as the two operatives exited their transport, their stance non-hostile enough, yet their alertness was easy to see. Garrison troops or not, these ones didn't seem to take their job sloppily.
The four straightened a bit as they caught sight of Selmak in his Goa'uld dignitary appearance, bearing himself as erect as the golden filigree rod he carried as a symbol of his office. The Tok'ra was making a very good approximation of the sniffing, disdainful official, impatient to finish dealing with the rabble's pesky formalities in order to carry on with the Very Important Business he was after.
His eyes glowed balefully as he spoke to them.
"Jaffa ! Kree !"
Once again, O'Neill wondered just how many meanings the monosyllable word had or whether he was missing subtle, particular inflections that gave it context. In any case, it seemed to function more or less as a general "you there, do whatever you're supposed to do, pronto, before I kick your sorry ass", he chuckled inwardly.
Outwardly, he very much kept his sudden burst mirth, one he attributed to his mind reacting to the mission-jitters he was otherwise feeling, to himself. After all… he had to look his part, therefore his own face remained fixed in a constipated scowl. It helped that he felt his forehead itching – or was he merely imagining it ? – right on the spot where Selmak had drawn a temporary Jaffa tattoo in the shape of Baal's sigil. It, and the metallic armor he wore over his Alliance-issue kit, were the visible part of his disguise. The other one was invisible but just as important, or even more so. A Tok'ra-made special compound that mimicked the chemical and bioelectrical signature of the juvenile symbiote every true Jaffa carried in his belly pouch. It would fool even a true Goa'uld, Selmak said.
The welcome party saluted in response, fist over chest, and their leader answered.
"My Lord" he said formally, and pointed to the sturdy fabric bag O'Neill was carrying in one hand, his other one busy holding a staff weapon. "I have to inspect the contents of this bag" he ended deferentially but firmly.
Selmak had anticipated this, but he nonetheless made a point of appearing slightly offended at the inferior Jaffa making demands to the minor god he was impersonating.
"What impudence is this ? I am on a mission to bring special magical artifacts to aid Lady Kheshmet in her valiant battle against the blasphemers. I doubt that she will take a delay lightly, Jaffa !" he ended with an appropriate burst of indignant spittle.
His little display nevertheless didn't appear to faze the warrior, who kept pointing at the bag and repeated.
"Pardon me, my Lord, but we have to follow the orders given by the Garrison Master. Maybe your exalted being would like to complain with him…?" he finished with a small bow of respect that O'Neill suspected was not entirely sincere. Apparently, while the Goa'uld enforced a rigid pecking order, the people in it were still human enough to test its bounds occasionally. He filed the observation away for the future.
Selmak's frown deepened in a very accurate pretense of exasperation, and then he barked another "Kree", but this time over the shoulder and addressed at his "bodyguard". On cue, the disguised human stepped forward ponderously and dropped the heavy sack at the other Jaffa's feet. Literally. And made a mocking grin as the other one gasped in surprise more than pain. A few tense seconds ensued as both men glared daggers at each other, the genuine Jaffa's eyes saying something like "you bastard, I'd really kill you if you didn't belong to that stuck-up asshole there" while the imposter's underlined his mocking smirk.
And it was a sincere one too. The OSS man was enjoying it, no more hiding and waiting but thrust into action and danger where he belonged, with a chance to pay the bastards back. He just hoped that he wasn't overdoing it. Selmak had briefed him as well as time allowed : a certain level of antagonism was normal and expected among Jaffas belonging to different units. It was guard dog-like behavior, and Jaffas were guard dogs when all was said and done.
Eventually the Jaffa broke away from the staring contest, letting O'Neill enjoy the small victory, and bent to open the bag and rummage the contents. He apparently didn't see anything he could tag as abnormal or dangerous with certitude – the objects inside were indeed magic to his ignorant mind and Selmak had taken care to avoid anything that could look suspicious. Even the high-yield naquadah-potassium bomb was disguised as a portable computer terminal, far beyond the reach of a Jaffa's technical analysis skill.
Nor would the cursory inspection, sure to be performed by the patrol aboard the empty ship after the newcomers had left, reveal anything suspicious.
Almost reluctantly, the Jaffa leader straightened up again and took a step backwards.
"My Lord. You may pass now."
With an upturned nose Selmak pranced forward, not even sparing a glance at the four warriors who'd parted to allow passage. O'Neill followed, having picked the bag up and won a last battle of egos at the patrol leader's expense by rubbing armored shoulders on the way. A petty little contest between lackeys, he reasoned, that went unseen by the exalted being forging ahead in apparent obliviousness. For the intelligence officer, it was yet another little detail helping build a picture of Goa'uld-ruled society.
Freedom Station, Samothrace System
The answer wasn't exactly what the arrogant Goa'uld commander had expected. Those humans were helpless. Their warriors were all dead, or scattered and unable to fight back. Their families, women and children were at her mercy, and of those women many were even now being used by the late-arriving Jaffas as warrior's relief, their cries and pleas sweet to her ears. Maybe she ought to have made them wait until the station was fully secured for that, a small part of her mind objected, but she didn't really care.
Her shock troops had fought valiantly. Losses were acceptable, not crippling. The sole remaining opposition was locked up in the Core, behind thick safety bulkheads and armored doors, and they could not operate whatever defensive systems the station may have. Primitive and foolish to defy her will.
And yet they did – this general Lefarge did. Oh, she understood fully well. With her host's memories an open book to read, the man's motivation was easy to comprehend. But understanding wasn't acceptation, and she bristled in contained anger at the human's impudent resistance. The glow in her eyes and the arrogance in her features were matched by the hardness of the uniformed human's eyes and the hateful set of his jaw.
She'd offered a reasonable bargain, too. One that she even intended to follow honestly. But once the short delay had ticked out and the time had come to receive the Alliance commander's answer… it was a short, steadfast, defiant "No."
"No?" Kheshmet took a second to digest the unwelcome response. "No?" she repeated, incredulous, eyes flashing almost reflexively. "I'm offering you your life, and the lives of your people – and you dare say no?" she added, switching to her Goa'uld voice.
"No" Lefarge answered again, each subsequent word delivered with scalpel-cut precision. "No, these lives are not yours to offer. They're only yours to take. But there is one thing you cannot take," he paused. "And that's our freedom. The choice you offered? Life for servitude? We rejected it once already." His voice became more passionate, more animated as he went on. "If the choice is between slavery or death, then we'll choose death. Liberty or death! We will never be anyone's slaves!" he growled through the intercom screen.
"Then you will die" Kheshmet interjected, "all of you!"
A sinister smirk answered.
"We'll die, but it will be a death of our own choosing. The last free humans are not going to die meekly under your butcher's knife, you flesh-wearing abomination" Lefarge spat venomously, "whoever, whatever you really are under this stolen skin, you will not," his voice rose, "have us BOW BEFORE YOU!" he roared away, red with fury, and Kheshmet recoiled almost without realizing, her face expressing shock and disbelief.
Before she could summon a retort, Lefarge went on, gleeful almost.
"I have ordered the New America on a collision course with this station," malice glinted in his eyes. "There are less than thirty minutes before impact, and strong as this hull can be, I doubt it can withstand several thousand tons of antimatter crashing through." He laughed, a short, mocking laugh. "Freedom Station will never be yours, abomination!"
Then the link was cut, and Kheshmet stood wordless at the blank screen, her mind churning to process what the rebellious human had just said. Especially the last part. The parasitic being delved into the memories of its unwilling host, ignoring the faint repressed personality still lingering there powerless, and dug out its knowledge on the interstellar spacecraft aboard which those humans had made the journey from their distant world to the present system. Ramp up times and acceleration figures popped up and checked against orbital parameters, going by the position of the New America as Carter remembered it. The thirty minutes delay was making sense, and there was no way to avoid it – she had no assets outside the damn facility, not even a single Deathglider, and the damned human parasite cruisers inside the hangar bay were preventing her Jaffas from approaching the station's small ships, assuming she could even operate some of them.
She couldn't count on Baal's own Ha'tak arriving in time to prevent the collision either. It was scheduled to arrive soon – but how soon was that? It could be five minutes away, or an hour. She couldn't afford to wait!
Hypothetical outcomes and avenues of action flashed through the Goa'uld commander's mind. In truth there weren't many options, nor were there any certainties – that impudent human general had well and truly blindsided her with his irrational death wish, his refusal to accept his fate. A small detached part of her approved the display of ruthlessness, but that was no consolation nor solution to her immediate conundrum.
No, the only hope to salvage her mission… was the mission itself. If she could gain access to the station's control room and directly interface with the systems… the construct had to possess defenses, and if she could activate them she could deal with the colony ship's suicide charge. If. If. But those "if" were the best cards she was left with. And there was no question at all whether the General was bluffing. He was not, she could see it and hear it. That was a man with nothing left to lose.
So she had to take action.
Orders snapped out of her mouth as she set herself in motion. Her words were relayed to her officers helmets throughout the construct and the troops they were leading burst into action together as sharp commands were bellowed across halls and chambers, a flurry of movement that rapidly set itself into order despite the apparent haste.
Inside the occupied habitats helpless captives were hurried on their feet by motioning and gesturing Jaffas, the urgent prodding and beating if they didn't move fast enough bringing an understanding that the alien words didn't. Disarmed men, women and children became a mass of stampeding cattle as whips and plasma bolts lashed at their heels, corralled into the vast station's passageways with a unique destination, the outlying room containing the stargate. As the warrior flood had gone the prisoner crowd went in reverse, clogging the station's arteries and capillaries to burst – but not all had a remote chance of making through. The vast Ancient construct was simply too vast, and the distances too far especially with the internal transport network down, for those furthermost groups of captives and Jaffas to reach the stargate before the coming impact.
But many could, those who were captured the earliest, or who were picked out to be transferred the soonest. These ones, fortunate in their misfortune, were already on the way under escort. Children among them formed the largest proportion, part of the reason being their value as potential slaves, and also a measure of mercy by certain Jaffa officers who wished to spare them the cruel spectacle of their abused kindred. Officers like Kejar of Ladnarn, rough men with decades of war and rapine under their belt yet tempered by their own familial duties and a lingering sense of compassion that even Goa'uld rule couldn't completely stamp out in human minds.
But mercy was in short supply on Freedom Station as Cristina Brackman would have acquiesced, had her mind not been shattered by the slaying of her unique son and the revelation of her husband's death, immediately followed by her own degradation at the hands of Jaffas who did not exhibit a single trait of kindness. She was the first, but in the time she'd remained conscious, when the first rough men lowered their breeches between her splayed thighs and forced themselves inside her she heard and glimpsed the same thing happening to more of the women around the plaza, and the staff weapons used as clubs to make room for the gang rapes. Her mind slipped away among the screams and yelps and whimpers and the grotesque sucking and sloshing noises of violent intercourse, her last conscious sight, through the tears blurring her vision, was the leering face of the warrior – was it the third ? the fourth ? she couldn't count – tearing her insides apart and the hungry drool coming from the foul-breathing face over her.
She was too far gone to notice when her last rapist hurriedly pulled away with a wet slurping sound, cursing in frustration, and left her laying like a corpse in a puddle of blood and sperm. It didn't matter to her anymore. Nothing did.
Nor did the civilians' fate really mattered to Kheshmet. If some of them made it through the gate, so much the better, but it would be scant consolation if the station was blown up – with her inside. And there was absolutely no chance of a timely escape for her and her spearhead troops.
But they weren't far from the prize. Only one last manned line of defense remained ahead, and then they would be facing the armored doors separating the control center from the rest of the station. But it was a fairly defensible position, as the Ancient designers had maybe intended.
Making her way forward in hurried strides, Kheshmet brought up the schematics of the Core on her ocular display, the ghostly X-ray like vision provided by the exquisitely sophisticated portable subspace scanner built into her war gear. There was no dampening field in activity, and the entire core sector was laid out before her eyes, bulkhead and decks and internal spaces. Yet the peeled open structure didn't reveal any obvious bypass, and she knew from Carter's memories that the classic air vent method of infiltration was closed as well, the core being its own self-contained life support cell.
The only way was the obvious way – barring drilling though meters of the ultra strong hull material, which wasn't an option in such narrow a timeframe.
Whatever the reasoning behind it - defensibility or aesthetics - the designers of the station had followed the "core" metaphor closely, and suspended the nervous center of the construct at its very heart, a metallic kernel nested inside its own hollowed, cavern-like husk, its diameter equivalent to the length of a football field. Thick anchoring pillars crossed the void between the vast seed and its envelope, providing support and damping through complex piston-mounted attachment points as well as a convenient pathway for the redundant bundles of cabling providing connectivity to and from the control center to the rest of the station. These attachment points were apparently capable of unplugging from the core according to the Alliance techs who had rappelled down to observe them closely, leading them to speculate that maybe the control center also doubled as an escape capsule of some sort – but no confirmation could be obtained for that in the time they had before the attack, this mystery just one of the numerous riddles they were struggling to answer when disaster struck.
Access to the center was through a single blast door on the equator, large enough to bring a car through into the lobby beyond, right before the standard sliding doors with their centrally-mounted, sunburst design locking mechanism that led to the Control room itself.
A tubular framed bridge spanned the distance between gate and outer shell, its open sides overlaid with various holographic notices and status displays hovering above the slender safety railing. Environmental conditions and transportation schedules seemed to make up most of those, and the latter were blinking interruptions of service in dreary amber tones, a testament to the disruption brought about by the Jaffa assault.
The straight open path was channeling any attack into a single killing ground, and the last defenders were sheltering behind makeshift barricades hastily welded to the metal floor, using their deported sights to shoot at the Jaffas poking their heads and staff weapons around the corners of the distant T-shaped intersection. Shock grenades could not be used effectively as the defenders could, and did, shoot them before they rolled close enough, blowing up the little metallic spheres in great geysers of sparks – those that didn't fall overboard anyway; and too far also for the Jaffas to rush through – the number of mail-clad corpses laying across the contested ground marked it in letters of blood.
The Goa'uld leader sighed inwardly. At least, she reflected with relief, the primitive defenders hadn't been able to activate whatever technological barriers might otherwise have impaired an attack – force fields or auto tracking energy weapons, she imagined – and this meant that a determined assault had a chance to succeed.
But she would have to do it herself. Well, she smiled hungrily, violence was what she lived for, wasn't it ?
Outside Freedom Station
Far above the desolate planet's surface and opposite the moon-sized construct looming over it for past eons, another artificial object hung in the void's eternal silence. Mankind's greatest achievement it was once thought, the last hope if its creators, a weapon and a shield together. Immensely strong load structures cradling cryovaults and cargo pods, vast radiation screens stretched like sails between those and the titanic engines at the ship's tail end, and dark wings extended along its cylindrical length, cold and dark now that the fantastic waste heat from the annihilation of matter and antimatter had had months to radiate away.
But if the passengers had left, the vast ship was still alive. It had been left slumbering for a while, its vast power unneeded, but still manned and maintained by a rotation of crews. Someone was always maintaining the watch inside the command deck, ready to answer a call from the newly established colony or one of the smaller ships surveying the system for exploitable resources, and monitoring the other crewmen scattered across the giant's frame.
It was, all in all, a dull job, far from the main source of excitement, and the duty officer spent hours staring at status displays that were self-monitoring anyway. And there was a limit to how long one could passively gape at the external camera repeaters. Even the grandiose parade of the pristine planet below grew old after a while.
And as the saying went, boredom was the mother of all vices, or so thought Rose O'Hare whenever she was stuck in the duty couch. Boredom was of course a staple of life as a Space Force lieutenant, and long rotations spent alone with her own mind as sole companion could lead even a properly reared American gal to bottomless pits of personal depravation, a fact that she'd long learnt to live with and deal with the occasional bouts of shame as she looked herself in a mirror after a particularly vivid fantasizing session.
After all, it wasn't her fault if the solitude and quiet of the flight deck was just so auspicious to the kind of self-play the young spacer had grown to fancy ; and so it was that she was deeply ensconced in the delightful process of pleasuring herself, writhing inside the couch's zero-gee restraints, her flight suit unzipped and half-discarded, one hand busy fondling her breast while the other slipped and thrust between her legs in cadence with the animated pictures on her personal compslate – the unfolded flat screen floating above her and showing one of her private (and so very encrypted) collection of bootlegged Draka-porn movies in fabulous high resolution, when the distress call from Freedom Station came and abruptly cut down her building climax, the high-priority tag barely allowing her to hastily mute the moaning and grunting soundtrack and draw up the flapping halves of her flight suit before the video link opened automatically.
Fortunately perhaps, the wild-eyed rating at the other end was in such a state of disarray himself that he didn't pick up on Rose's own disheveled and flushed appearance.
Since then, the New America's skeleton crew had stayed at high alert. No more frolicking for Lt O'Hare either, and a somber anxious mood fell upon the vast ship as the dozen men and women gathered on the command deck and took turns manning the stations with scattered and increasingly dire reports from the colony as the sole distraction in their vigil.
Until at last the order came from the General, the one order they'd dreaded receiving for it meant all hope was lost and nothing was left but a blazing last act of defiance.
The New America was to ram Freedom Station at full thrust and therefore ensure its complete destruction. Samothrace would not fall in servitude, were the words that came across the carrier waves, hard-edged and hate-filled.
And so they prepared to carry out their duty with the mixture of gravity and solemn resignation that befit such a moment. Engineering began the steady and deliberate process of bringing up the enormous engines up to operating status while Navigation went over orbital charts and plotted a least-time collision vector. Alone in the dark, the colossal mothership corrected its orientation with almost agonizing slowness as house-sized flying wheels fought the inertia of hundreds of thousand tons, and structural frames as strong as anything ever built before them groaned soundlessly as carbon nanotube-infused metallic-ceramic compounds fought against enormous shear loads.
Finally, as all the preparations were completed, a man-made sun lit up inside the main engine's magnetic containment fields, an oversized torch whose output could sterilize entire regions at the height of its power, and the New America became for the second time the second most brilliant object in the sky.
Inside Freedom Station – The Core
The lull was the longest so far. Almost fifteen minutes without a tattooed warrior poking his head around and getting shot – maybe they'd learnt the lesson the last time they'd tried assaulting the bridge. Or maybe they were running out of bodies. The Marine – one of the last surviving ones – snorted behind his face shield, crouched behind the panel of metal improvising as a makeshift crenellation and kept the muzzle of his rifle, along with the computerized sight attachment, pointing towards the far side, where the enemy hid even now.
These bastards must have an inexhaustible supply of cannon fodder unlike his own side. He shook his head nervously. Sooner or later ammunition would run out, and the handful of men defending the path to the control center would be dead. But then the station would be destroyed and the bastards would be denied their prize. He only had to hold until then. Not too long. Soon. The harassed soldier licked his lips without thinking, his mind unwilling, unable, to think beyond the next minutes that were all that remained.
Across the disputed gulf, beyond the scorched and pitted arch leading to the rest of the station, waited the thirty hand picked Jaffas left under Kejar's tactical command. Not a single one was left without a mark of the fighting they'd been through. Rents in the mail they wore, streaks of blood and gore matting their armor, cuts and superficial wounds already clotting on their exposed flesh. Sweat and grime and other body fluids – theirs and others'. The ones who'd died, either alongside or facing them, and they made a long list already. The names of fallen warriors would be honored by their comrades and their family, or barring that, in the afterlife they were promised, basking in the glorious light of the gods who walked the mortal plane in bodies of eternal flesh. As to the fallen adversaries, who knew, maybe they'd find forgiveness in time.
Kejar stood with a slight hunch, gripping his staff weapon and using it as support. He was weary despite his enhanced constitution, tired and weary, but this didn't worry him. He knew he'd find a surge of strength whenever called for, a certainty borne of experience. He didn't say a word. His men were arrayed around the murderous gate, keeping out of sight but weapons ready. All of them were echoing his own mood on their faces – tense, tired but eager to end this battle – though not to the point of rushing headlong into waiting gunfire. That, they'd rather leave to the young and hot-headed, the ones who were keen to reap glory in battle and ended up more often than not dead with a smoking hole in their chest. There was enough of those on the bridge. Fools, a part of Kejar's mind scolded. Their group leaders had sneered at him as they walked past, and he'd happily obliged. He knew their type, and he was still alive after all those years.
What he needed was a shielded staff cannon. Alas, these were ungainly and had to be wheeled along. He'd asked for one, and was told that one was on the way from An'chokwit. But it would take hours to arrive. And apparently there was a new urgency, judging by the tone in Kheshmet's voice when she'd spoken to him through the talk-magic.
Whatever was the problem, he'd know soon, he reasoned. Hopefully, he'd even survive this.
The first thing that something was about to happen was the noise coming from the far side. Or, more accurately, the chanting that started and grew louder in seconds, loud enough that the sheltering Marine didn't need to strain to discern the words.
Thirty coarse throats were chanting and thirty metal rods were striking the floor in cadence.
KREE! KREE! KHESHMET, KREE!
The humans' blood froze as they recognized the name of their hateful enemy, the alien thing masquerading as one of theirs and claiming to be some kind of god – a demon, more like, a hell-spawned succubus thirsting for the blood of innocents ; and they readied their rifles once more.
Kheshmet strutted down the connecting passage between her warriors, projecting an outward appearance of serene confidence for their benefit. Their display of awe and loyalty a song to her ears, flattering her species' vanity even though she affected not to value their lives other than as mere tools to be expended in pursuit of her goals – which were first and foremost to please her own lord and master, of course, for despite her being a Goa'uld and thus being no stranger to her kind's ravenous hunger for power she was above all a product of her master's shaping, the offspring of Baal's most unique trait of genius among his peers : that he was, of all the System Lords, the one most dedicated and accomplished at distilling a genuine sense of steadfast loyalty among his close lieutenants, beginning with the precious and jealously guarded queen that provided him with the supply of juvenile symbiotes who were destined to become his realm's guardians and enforcers.
Of those, Kheshmet prided herself in being the very best. She would not fail, not so close to winning, and a handful of pathetic humans were not to stop her, she thought in bloodlust. Her fingers closed on the hilt of her ceremonial blade, the thin dagger of finest trinium alloy enhanced by its own powered cutting field, perfectly balanced despite the ornate pattern of golden filigree and ruby gems embellishing its lethal elegance. An assassin's weapon, torn from the bloody hand of its previous owner as befitted its deathly nature.
The blade and the Kara'kesh in her left palm were all she needed in the restricted battlefield. Her shield would protect against the enemy's projectile weapons until she was in their midst – then she would slaughter them.
She took a deeper breath just before the portal, and then she stepped in sight of the waiting defenders. The first bullets struck her protective energy bubble in ripples of golden light and she neglected them, her focus intent on the path laying ahead, plotting her footsteps among treacherous piled corpses and slick bloody floor plates in the span of a single heartbeat. And then she entered her dance, from sedate walk to bounding run, feet barely touching ground as she went from one unobstructed patch of ground to another, a huntress' grin on her lips. She felt invulnerable, she felt like Death incarnate, and she reached the first barricade and the human cowering behind, trying to raise his weapon against her – this could be dangerous in close proximity, inside the perimeter of the shield bubble.
But there was no chance for that. Her host body, fortified and enhanced by her symbiotic powers, was too fast, too attuned to her will, and she kicked the rifle away in the middle of her leap, opening the soldier's guard an allowing her to land right onto him. Her left hand pushed forward, her open palm snapping against the top of his helmet and uncovering his throat, in time for her right to thrust the dagger deep into the man's neck, piercing the ballistic fabric effortlessly.
She rolled away from the already-dead man and rose again, left hand extended. A burst of kinetic force speared towards her next target and slammed its body like a giant's fist. He fell dead, his internal organs reduced to pulp, a dislocated sack of meat and broken bones tumbling down the void over the bridge without a single cry. She laughed, standing in place arrogantly, contemptuous of the fire still coming at her without effect, and flashed her eyes at the remaining defenders, unable to resist the urge to gloat and taunt.
"WATCH YOUR DOOM COMING!" she called out mockingly.
It was at this moment that the last figment of hope left the last defenders, but they poured in fire nonetheless, emptying their last magazines without consideration of the future – for they knew it was futile, but there was nothing else to do. And Kheshmet stood as bullet after bullet turned to crystalline dust against her shield, until the last rifle fell silent.
There was complete quiet as crystal dust settled down in the acrid reek of propellant fumes, the warrior Goa'uld facing her remaining opponents, mirrored in immobility. Then it was time for her to end their lives, and she did so with relish and efficiency, allowing a minimum of flourish to her lethal motions. Air turned into moving masses of concrete, smashing faces and limbs as her kara'kesh unleashed its destructive energies, and blood arced away from her blade as she moved through them, striking fast and hard like an angry snake.
At last she stood before the entrance of the Core, covered in the blood of her fallen victims, her chest heaving under the clingy material of her suit, her Jaffas standing ready behind.
Ten minutes remained in the countdown to the station's destruction, and inside the Core, Lefarge's last men and women felt their stomachs turn to lead as the first overcharged bolts of plasma began to batter the gates.
An'chokwit, meantime
A medieval fortress with bits of space-age technology thrown around : this was how O'Neill saw the place as he "escorted" Selmak from the ship bay to the part of the compound where the stargate, or chap'pai as the locals called it, was situated. For obvious reasons it was located in the most central and fortified part of the fortress, but the path was straight enough. The Earther was relieved too as the way seemed to circle around the barracks and their concentrations of genuine Jaffas. He wasn't sure that he could fool a large number of them if left to his own devices, but fortunately Selmak's presence meant he did all the talking with a smattering of "Kree!" thrown around for good measure.
There was just one tense and awkward time in the journey when the duo had to pass through one of the guarded gates separating sections of the fortress. Selmak made his best to hasten the process, acting arrogant and flashing his eyes to the clerk on duty in best Goa'uld style, yet a trio of passing Jaffas who seemed to be on their way back from training judging fro the strong reek of sweat coming from them, tried to strike a conversation with the lone fellow tailing the stuck-up official.
And O'Neill could not understand a damn word of what they said. For all intents and purposes they could be asking what the weather was like on the planet he came from or when was the last time he had fucked a wench, he thought with trepidation, hiding his nascent panic under an impassive façade and furrowed brows.
Better look like an unfriendly jerk than betray his true identity, he reasoned, praying frantically for Selmak to finish with the paperwork and release him from those fellows' attention as the Jaffas, puzzled by his lack of response, began to eye him curiously, with expressions whose tone came uncomfortably across as "who's this moron, did he lose his tongue or what?".
Sweat was starting to bead on his temples when the Tok'ra came to his rescue, at last, and shooed the nagging warriors away with a few choice words, naturally ending in Kree.
A very relieved O'Neill later asked his companion just what he'd told these Jaffas.
"Simple enough. I told them you were mentally damaged in battle and couldn't form sentences anymore."
"Oh. Thank you" the Earther didn't try to hide the sarcasm in his voice and the Tok'ra shrugged. "Well, it's a plausible explanation."
"But aren't these Jaffas supposed to heal from anything thanks to their implanted symbiote ?"
"Almost anything. Some injuries can't be repaired, especially those of the central nervous system."
"So they're like zombies, shoot 'em in the head to be sure?"
"Zombies? What are those? Some kind of dangerous animal from your world?"
"Noo… they're people who come back from the dead and shamble around for all eternity, trying to eat the brains of the living" O'Neill explained happily, although this little piece of Terran lore apparently didn't impress Selmak.
"That's the stupidest belief I've heard in centuries, and trust me I've seen a lot under the System Lords."
"Hey, we're not actually believing it!" the Alliance officer interjected defensively. "They're stories, for fun and entertainment-" the Tok'ra raised a skeptical eyebrow "-it's movie stuff, to watch while eating popcorn –but you wouldn't know what popcorn is, right".
"Your people's customs are strange, O'Neill" the alien spy observed. "But I wouldn't mind seeing one of those movies. Novel entertainment is hard to come by, nowadays."
"Tell you what, if we manage to save Freedom Station I'll make sure that you see Attack of the Janissary Zombies. It's the best classic ever!"
"I'll look forward to that, O'Neill."
But all sense of levity left the duo soon afterwards when they finally entered the hall of the chap'pai. Far from the open-air stargates found on most planets in Goa'uld domains, this one was adequately sheltered and protected as befitted the status of its world. In a cathedral-sized hall it stood on a raised dais of black stone, at the end of a parallel alignment of man-sized marble pillars flanking the path from entrance to stargate. A floor of black stone, polished by generations of iron-shod warriors, and narrow windows of blood-red stained glass were the other major features, the combination intended to strike fear and awe undoubtedly in the eyes of those who walked down the grand hall, an effect that the storm raging outside complemented, howling wind barely dulled by the massive stonework and lightning coming through the glass in stroboscopic crimson.
The vast space wasn't empty. Blocks of Jaffa infantry were arrayed on the sides, their armor glistening under the blood light as if already covered in gore, and O'Neill quick estimation counted at least two thousand of them in the hall alone, ready to cross the star portal to kill, slaughter and pillage his people. There were other implements of war, things that looked like the gun carriages of Earth's past history when muskets were still the primary weapon of the infantry, but the guns themselves were not things of milled iron, their shapes too reminiscent of the Jaffas' energy weapons, only larger in scale.
The two operatives stood on the edge of the three-story tall entrance arch for a brief moment, taking in the sight of Baal's arrayed army and O'Neill made a quiet whistle, too low for any nearby guard to hear, and deliberately refrained from gawking around the vast hall. Still, sideway glances brought more details to observation, such as the various stalls hugging the walls either side of the entrance. Merchant stalls, it seemed, most of them offering various steaming dishes for the Jaffas' nourishment – those who weren't standing in formation and ready to transit through the stargate at least, seemed to trump boredom by lapping up bowls of soups or stews or tea analogues and chatting in clumps of threes and fours.
It was a contrast between the back of the hall where Jaffas and locals seemed to mingle and trade wares, and the areas closer to the stargate itself where strict martial order was apparently maintained, without a physical separation between the two. To the Alliance officer it was definitely an alien way of proceeding, but it felt strangely in keeping with the otherwise ancient-medieval ways of the place. At least the aromas wafting about from the food stalls weren't too unpleasant.
Nor was the sight of injured and inanimate warriors carried in makeshift slings by their comrades down up the aisle. There seemed to be some kind of rough triage going on, the obviously dead being carried through one of the smaller sideway doors and the merely injured and walking wounded going through another – probably to another section of the complex, an infirmary if such a thing existed here.
At least the bastards were paying for this, he thought.
He followed Selmak as the Tok'ra spy threaded a path through the milling crowd, the golden rod of officialdom held at shoulder level being enough of a "get out of the way" sign. To O'Neill's respite they weren't drawing too many stares – evidently such a sight as a Goa'uld mid-level official and his Jaffa escort wasn't uncommon, especially on the staging grounds of an invasion.
They walked up the basilica-sized building, keeping to the side, behind the waiting blocks of infantry, past rank after rank of close-cropped or shaved heads, immobile warriors statuesque in the shifting light cast by flickering torches and lightning strobes, until at last they reached the vicinity of the star portal.
Another Goa'uld was standing there at the dialing pedestal. The mushroom shaped apparatus was offset from the stargate itself, stationed upon its own raised cubicle on the right of the central alley, a location that not only afforded an elevated vantage point on the rest of the hall's expanse but also shielded the precious device from any direct fire coming from the stargate thanks to its thick waist-height stone sides.
Selmak went up the short stairs, ignoring the pair of guards stationed at the bottom, who didn't tried to interfere despite the minute, but noticeable to an attentive eye, stiffening of their posture. No doubt they trusted their nearby superior to warn them if something was amiss, but O'Neill 's instinct warned him to stay back. It probably wouldn't be in character to follow his "master" up the dialing platform, and so he elected to stay put and just enough out of reach of the guards to defuse any attempt at conversation.
There he waited, slouching a little on his staff weapon in the nonchalant waiting posture he'd seen the other warriors use, and projected an appearance of utter disinterest that belied his heightened awareness of the sights and sounds around him. He was in the heart of the enemy machine, an intelligence operative's professional dream and his senses were running at peak performance, leaving nothing out. Later, he knew, he would be able to revisit the scene in detail from memory alone.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched the exchange taking place between his ally and the Goa'uld in charge of controlling the transit through the stargate. This particular one evidently subscribed to the species' more exuberant fashion camp, or maybe it was a general attitude among the female-hosted ones, going by Kheshmet's own style. Not that he could really formulate a general theory on Goa'uld attire based on such a limited number of examples, but still, they sure seemed to enjoy flaunting their physical perfection.
This one was a brunette with a mix of features that couldn't really be linked to any single race of old Earth, but would have been consistent with a mostly Eurasian lineage, for the delicate traits and barely noticeable epicanthic fold, spiced with a dash of Latin American, for the duskier skin tone of light caramel.
A model's figure and narrow waist, legs appropriately long and slender and breasts impossibly firm under a short tunic of supple iridescent leather – the material of which O'Neill surmised to have come from some sea-dwelling beast, maybe related to the present world's oceans – that clung to her curves in a very risqué manner, together made for a sight that could have jumped straight from a pre-War cutting edge fashion show – and likely one taking place in Archona.
The comparison struck O'Neill's mind just as he made it. Just how similar those Goa'uld were to the Draka, in their ways, was mind-numbingly eerie. A shared evilness, and propensity towards showing off without a single ounce of shame. If God was real, the skeptical Earther reflected one more time in his career, his Creation was displaying a rather sadistic sense of humor at work.
The female Goa'uld frowned as she took the passport and fake travel orders presented by Selmak. Fortunately, it seemed to be a display of mild impatience rather than suspicion, probably for disrupting her neat schedule, and she handed the document back shortly. More words followed along with some arm gestures that encompassed the mass of troops waiting beyond, as if to say "just look at the stuff I have to deal with already!", but whatever token argument she made for the sake of appearing busy didn't last long before she agreed on Selmak's demand, and the Tok'ra left her with a small bow of courtesy.
His back facing the pedestal and its occupant to ensure that she couldn't read his lips, and speaking just loud enough to be understood by his apparent escort but not the nearest Jaffas, he rapidly explained.
"I checked with the gate master back there" he referred to the Goa'uld minion "we're going to follow the next reinforcements to the station in a couple minutes." A nod of understanding came back, and both then stood silent in anticipation.
The wait wasn't long. Following a cue from the gate master's, the Jaffa signalman standing next to the stargate raised an unadorned horn and blew powerfully, briefly filling the entire hall with a deep brass note that reverberated between the stone walls and eclipsed every other sound. Immediately, the warriors forming the block closest to the blue-grey ring moved forward in lockstep onto the central path, where in a textbook display of formation marching they faced left and tightened their ranks to form a column, six men abreast, without so much as a shout other than the initial "Kree!" that spurred them into motion.
As the warriors reformed their lines the gate master pressed the combination on the dialing board, and the wormhole rushed into being right as the martial choreography ended, prompting the Alliance soldier to wonder if the synchronization was deliberate. Probably, he surmised. These people did seem to take the basics seriously, whatever their other shortcomings – especially for men who were otherwise kept in a pseudo-medieval state of superstition.
A second call of the horn, a variation on the first note, rose in the air, and the company started forward in quick step, almost a jog, in order to clear the path for the following troops already moving in position behind.
The fourth company was making its transit, and after it a pair of the wheeled gun carriages were being manhandled forward, when something happened to break the orderly process.
Outside of the duo's attention, the Goa'uld in control of the transit stiffened and raised her hand to her ear, the one containing the minuscule communication bead that kept her in touch with the far side assault force's commanders. An unconscious, automatic gesture, followed by a sudden widening of her eyes in surprise and then alarm, immediately suppressed as her self-control reasserted itself.
An instant later her voice boomed across the section of the hall and froze the Jaffas in their tracks, then sent them back with a direct command, away from the gate and running back to the side they came from, their former marching discipline temporarily forgotten in favor of maximum swiftness.
As they did so the connection to the distant stargate shut down – only to reappear seconds later as an incoming wormhole and allow the recently departed Jaffas to pour through, in the reverse order and in noticeably less orderly fashion.
Hope burst in O'Neill's heart – the bastards were fleeing! – only to be crushed a moment later. For among the retreating warriors were being dragged and carried clumps of bedraggled inhabitants of Freedom Station – none of them military. Children, he realized with horror, screaming and beating their captors with their fists to little effect, and then women, no… young women, barely out of teen age, the torn clothing and marks of abuse visible on their bodies evidence enough of their fate.
Decades of military experience and dangerous special assignments suddenly slipped out of the Earther's mind. The sight was perhaps too much, his own mental scars too fresh ; a hate-filled growl came through gritted teeth, foot lifting in a forward step – on the verge of making an irreparable, and deadly mistake the Alliance man was saved by his ally. A hand pressed on his arm firmly, the urgent grip bringing reality back to a mind that was almost too far gone.
Words, urgently whispered to his ear.
"O'Neill! O'Neill! Control yourself, for both our sakes', you can't do anything now! Something's happening, we have to wait!"
Selmak's near-frantic murmurs broke the spell at last, before anyone else could have remarked anything untoward in the false Jaffa's attitude – thankfully the present sight was dragging everyone's attention to the stargate and the crowd passing through, until the flow ebbed to a mere trickle as the freshly arrived troops and the captives already gathered near Freedom Station's stargate were through.
Minutes went past without so much as an explanation being provided to the duo as the gate master and her aides struggled to control and orient the fresh arrivals, and those minutes felt like the longest in the Major's life.
Freedom Station, the Core
Only seven minutes to go, Lefarge thought. Death was on its way – whether it came through the New America crashing against the station, or administered by the twisted thing that wore Carter's skin, it didn't matter any more.
And to be true, he told himself, death would almost be welcome. Maybe it would free him from the crushing burden of failure, utter failure at saving his people. Their escape from Sol was only a temporary respite afforded by the uncaring universe, a gnawing voice whispered to his mind. He didn't prevent the Draka from winning the war. And he doomed the survivors by allowing Carter onboard. No, he couldn't have known! He countered the voice. How was he supposed to know? How?
It didn't matter! His men were dead, those who tried to defend the station while he cowered inside the control center. Children and women, left defenseless to capture and servitude. He might as well have tattooed a serf barcode on their neck ten years ago!
Standing alone in front of the inner doors, the gun in his hand feeling far heavier than it should, there was nothing more to do but await the end. A futile gesture of defiance, he knew – but what else was a leader to do in defeat? He'd told the others to keep to the back, behind the rows of consoles. Not out of hope – in fact, he didn't exactly know why. He just felt that way. It was his own fight now, at last.
The worst thing, not knowing if his family was even still alive or already dead. Or worse, enslaved. The locator beacons had become useless as the radio relays were destroyed by the fighting inside the station, deliberately targeted by the attackers it seemed, and radio waves didn't exactly travel well through metal bulkheads.
Regret. Such marvels they were only able to glimpse, so many possibilities. Freedom Station could have been the new start they all needed… maybe a way to bring the fight back to Sol, to pay the Snakes back.
A louder impact, and a crash that was felt through the deck soles, followed by a strong reek of burnt metal and plastic. They were in.
The gun rose, fingers tightened around the well-worn grip. Aiming right where the first intruder's head ought to appear… soon…
The familiar click-whirl of the lock. Ancient panels slid apart with a hiss.
The gunshot rang, almost deafening inside the enclosed space, and another, and another, as the General emptied his magazine.
For nothing. Bullet after bullet plowed into the immaterial barrier of Kheshmet's protective shield, golden light rippling in thin air. Almost unnoticed, the small dinging of flattened slugs dropping to the floor out of momentum.
More hideous than ever, the cruel smirk of triumph on Kheshmet's face. Carter's lips, betraying her people with promises of pain and death. Walking with the sureness of one who expects no possible resistance, the Goa'uld commander entered, her Jaffas quick on her heels to fan around, weapons ready to cover every corner of the room.
"It's over, General Lefarge" she simply said.
"Oh no it's not," he spat back "You're going to die here with us, freak!".
"I don't think so." She smiled coolly. "But you are."
The strike was swift, quicker than the Earther could realize. One second he was standing in front of her, the next… she was inside his reach, her face only inches apart from his eyes, and her left hand gripped his the back of his neck as in a lover's embrace. A cruel perversion of one, for there was neither love nor tenderness in the glowing stare drilling into his own eyes. It was the touch of Death instead, and he felt almost belatedly a keen stabbing pain in his chest as her right hand drove the dagger fully into his heart, past body armor and ballistic fabric.
Kheshmet kept him locked in place, supporting the man with her own strength as his departed, drinking his expression of shock and betrayal like a divine elixir, her own face mocking and triumphant, her murderous delight made even more intense by the mental screams of Samantha Carter faintly echoing in her mind.
Her latest victim's eyes glazed at last, locked in the same expression forever, and she released her grip, letting the body collapse at her feet.
Then she took in the surroundings fully, noting how her Jaffas were already subduing the shell-shocked Alliance survivors, but her true attention wasn't focused on the struggles and cries of the vanquished. She strode forward, eyes locked on the true goal, the one thing that justified everything. The command chair on its vantage platform, the true nerve center of the station, her instinct screamed. It was more than intuition, more than a deduction made from her vast technological knowledge. It was as if something else, something deeper drove her towards the device, a primal call that came from her species most atavistic compulsions, beyond conscious analysis.
She paused right before the throne-like seat. It was curiously unadorned, far from the ornate chairs her race favored as expressions of their rule. Padding and metal, utilitarian if comfortable, framed with various repeaters that were currently folded in their stowage positions. She ran a finger on the armrest and felt the ancient leather-like material's grain against her tips.
Then, almost religiously, she sat down, noting how the chair automatically adapted to the shape of her body with a faint whirring of servos. She relaxed in the hugging caress of the chair and let her head lean against the cushioned rest. A faint hum came from the surrounding mechanism, and blue light glowed soothingly around her.
She saw the metal-covered ends of the armrest slide away under her hands, revealing twin pads made of a soft gel-like substance. She took the invitation and pushed her fingers onto the warm yielding surface, welcoming the electric tingle that ran from it into her nerves. Her face relaxed into a placidly content expression as the station's nervous system began to merge with hers, and she didn't remark the metal fingers that extruded from the seat frame to lock her other limbs in place.
Her attention was already swallowed by the process commencing, and her mind only distantly felt the cold touch of the metal tips against her temples completing the physical connection between flesh and machine.
Her eyes closed on their own accord, but it didn't matter anyway. She saw through another medium now, and her mind seemed to float upwards as it was gathered and expanded into the ancient computer mainframe that responded to her neural impulses, those same impulses she'd used to interact with Goa'uld technology for all her life. She didn't think of wondering why it happened so smoothly – maybe, if she had, things would have happened otherwise – she let it click inside her mind.
It took less than a second in the outside world, but inside the new world she entered time didn't have the same meaning.
Sector after sector, system after system, data node after data node, her mind merged with the station's long-dormant one, and she felt the vast construct come alive around her. Systems and capabilities that no one among the Alliance crew had suspected were laid out as extensions of herself. She was the station, its systems were talking to her. She was no longer a being of flesh and bone, she was metal and crystal and arcane fields of energy, and the station's Voice spoke to her like a twin.
Organic interface and transfer modes adjusted for new user. Neural merge complete. Command link active.
Status ? Kheshmet's disembodied persona inquired in manner that was neither talk not written word.
Preliminary systems diagnostic completed.
Minor damage found inside inhabited volume. Time to complete repair : 178 hours, 23 seconds, barring additional damage.
All primary systems fully operational. Maintenance schedule unchanged. Secondary diagnostics in progress-
Priority warning, external threat detected. Starship of unregistered design on a collision course. Impact in 1 minutes 8 seconds. Defensive measures will be taken in the absence of an immediate course change.
It won't change course, take defensive measures now!
Command input accepted. Analysis…
Optical signals and electrical impulses ran through Freedom Station's internal data paths from the Core and its commanding intelligence to the periphery. Active scanning instruments came to life inside the vast construct's skin, subspace-based arrays powered up and began to send their great waves of energy rippling away in the immaterial boundary skein between the visible, tangible universe and the parallel and separate, yet inextricably entwined dimensional mirror image of exotic energies and particles that was hyperspace, focusing on the infinitesimal – at this scale – volume where the New America flew headlong towards self-destruction.
The sensors probed through multidimensional geometries, unimpeded by the simple alloys and shielding of the Earth-built starship, and the station's intelligence established the magnitude of the threat to its integrity.
Scan complete. Target composition includes contained stabilized antimatter in a quantity sufficient to catastrophically disrupt hull integrity even at full protective shield strength.
Fuck!
Unable to comply. Organic reproductive intercourse is not a part of my functions. User command interpreted as indicative of frustration.
Had she not been neutrally linked to the computer, Kheshmet would have rolled her eyes in annoyance. As it was, she couldn't even think of herself as a self-contained entity, engrossed as she was in the system. In fact, and she didn't even realize it, her own consciousness was, at the moment, residing more inside the Core's voluminous crystalline processing substrates than inside the cells of her own body and host.
There was no time to dwell on self-analysis, though, even in this accelerated state of consciousness.
She was a soldier and a commander, and her mind tackled the situation at hand, calling up data and figures and seamlessly meshing them into simulated scenarii of action, noting the predicted outcomes. And she smiled, or at least the disincarnate projection of herself in the machine did the equivalent.
Raise the shield and concentrate field strength to cover the side exposed to the threat.
It won't be enough to block a localized energy release of this magnitude, the station's gestalt echoed in return.
It won't have to. Not if this energy's released before it's directly touching us.
She felt the understanding of the machine mind engulf her.
Energy armament charging. Opening firing apertures for heavy plasma batteries. Targeting arrays calibrated, firing solution set. Ready to fire.
Outside, massive shutters, built into the geometrical motifs adorning the city-sized expanses of alloy that made up the station's hull, opened themselves with a smooth celerity that belied their titanic size. Out of those artificial caverns came the cylindrical shapes of the Ancient colony's heavy energy cannons, dark and austere, as their long dead designers had elected to eschew any embellishment that could have softened and lessened the terrible nature of their purpose.
They were huge things, sized in proportion with the mighty bulk of the construction they were intended to protect, and were fed by reactors that dwarfed anything aboard mere starships. Their power was intended by their peace-loving creators to deter an aggression, but these and their ideals were long past, and Freedom Station's new directing mind was only too content to find such lethal instruments at her call.
Kheshmet willed them to fire. It was no mere word spoken in virtuality, but the purest expression of her fusion with the machine. In a brief instant, Freedom Station was her and she was Freedom Station, and she felt orgasmic release feeding back to her consciousness when the titanic energy was unleashed.
Three of the guns fired at once in perfect synchronization and three projectiles made of the matter found at the heart of a star, pockets of plasma brought to staggering high density and temperature and encased in volatile self-stabilized containment fields, streaked towards their target at a high fraction of the speed of light.
Their goal was so close – relative to the vast scale of space – that it was struck almost instantaneously. The spidery frame and the fragile structures it supported were obliterated, their size inconsequential in the face of such power. Whole sections evaporated instantly, rows of empty cryotubes and storage banks and life support machinery vanishing in the devouring maelstrom. But even this was almost inconsequential, when a fraction of a second later the racing tide of destruction reached the engine section of the New America and its antimatter storage.
A new star lit up in Samothrace's sky, expanding and swallowing even the fiery wake left by the destroyed ship's engine beforehand. Matter and its exotic nemesis annihilated each other in one single orgiastic release of hard radiation and searing radiance that expanded outwards at the speed of light.
Its waves slammed into Freedom Station's shield like a tsunami battering a stone bulwark and mad ripples of iridescent light danced across its surface, bright and colorful enough to blot out the structure sheltering behind for several seconds.
And then, as suddenly as it came, it was over, and space returned to its cold dark state again. Of the New America, there was not a trace, not even a drifting atom. It was as is it had never existed, swallowed in ultimate entropy.
Inside the Core, astonished Jaffas stood mouth agape at the curving walls of the control center, where they had just witnessed the titanic event taking place outside. Their minds, though deliberately kept in ignorance of the true nature of things, guessed anyway that their leader had to have invoked such powerful magic, of the kind that made the gods' great palaces of metal fly between worlds and throw fire and lightning at their enemies.
They also knew that they were still alive, and that it meant victory, certainly. And so, like a man, they cheered thunderously, oblivious to the tears of despair shed by their captives who knew exactly what the great flash in the sky meant.
Target destroyed. No threat remaining. Shutting down shield and weapons.
No damage.
Resuming standard operations.
Kheshmet pulled back from the fascinating sensory experience – senses she could never have felt with her organic body – back to the gestalt intelligence's dwelling space, back to her own place in the merged consciousness, like twin beings operating in near-perfect synchronization rather than the fully incarnate state she had just experienced. She still felt the station around her, like an extended and vast body, but it was no longer like being it, it was more like wearing it, the conscious realization reached to her. Still, she marveled at the experience and its fullness – nothing of her past existence came close to it, and she became aware of just how crude and limited the works of her race were, pale imitations of the Gatebuilders' true glory.
And she didn't even mind that realization, as mesmerized as she was by the new world of possibilities at her fingertips. Abruptly, the very temptation she had so efficiently repressed in all her past existence flared into the forefront of her thoughts.
With that much power and knowledge, what and who could stop her ? She could become more than any one of the System Lords, more than Baal himself, she could carve herself an empire greater than Ra's mythical glory – it was possible, she knew it now.
With the genetic memory of the Goa'uld in her and the vast untapped data in the ancient station's memory banks, she could –
Anomaly detected. Full user bioscan required.
Bioscan in progress.
With a cold stab of surprise and dread, Kheshmet felt the intimate link between the station's gestalt and herself dissolve without warning. She was still inside the virtual world, still connected to the virtual space, but reduced to something that was far less than what she'd just been, just her own mind and senses that were provided for by a foreign machine.
It was as if she was a prisoner thrust inside a blank featureless cell, and in this white fog of nothingness the only thing remaining was the station's not-quite-voice, distant and uncaring.
Anomalous reading confirmed, analyzing.
Foreign tissue detected. Nature : unregistered Menta Auxilia type symbiotic organism.
Warning, symbiotic neuro-enhancement subsystem found operating substantially outside safe parameters. Severe impairment of central nervous system. Presence of parasitic processes inside host mindspace.
Analysis.
Removal of symbiotic organism following standard established procedure : impossible with available facilities.
Alternate : recalibration of symbiotic processes to baseline operating parameters and restoration of normal user functionality.
Preparing interface for recalibration.
Wait! Wait! What do you mean, what are you- No, NOOOOOOOOO-
The thing that was Kheshmet understood too late. It was, in a way, ironic that she, alone of all her species - save one very peculiar one whose hate was fueled by this very knowledge - understood the true nature of her kind right as the consequence caught up with her.
She was, in any case, unable to do anything to escape her fate as Freedom Station's caretaking intelligence, acting on instructions left by its creators millions of years ago, thrust its own questing tendrils through her host body's skin and bones and interfaced with the hijacked nervous system inside Samantha Carter's skull.
A buzzing sensation, and – like a candle in the wind, Kheshmet's consciousness dissolved as the system overwrote its neural pathways, releasing the kidnapped soul it had suppressed so far.
With a sudden jolt, Samantha Carter opened her eyes and her mouth, at last, released her long bottled-up scream.
Xxx
Kejar looked up sharply at his commander. He didn't know exactly what kind of magic was at work here – one thing was sure, it was far above his understanding – but that scream didn't sound like it belonged in a minor goddess' mouth.
Under his alarmed gaze – and the puzzled stares of his warriors – Kheshmet, or rather, Samantha Carter, for the former didn't exist anymore, woke up from the most atrocious dream ever. Except, it wasn't a dream. There was no room for doubt inside her mind, the memories were far too real – and she did wear Kheshmet's gear.
It was a testament to the woman's fortitude that she didn't lapse into insanity at once. It took but a couple seconds, during which her mind tottered on the edge between sanity and madness, yet she firmed up. No doubt, because her mind hadn't yet shattered under Kheshmet's duress. Had her liberation happened later, it might have delivered a hollow shell of a soul, one incapable of coherent thought, only fit to alternate between screams and incoherent mutterings, a drooling psych-ward case.
But this was not the case, and the true mind of Samantha Carter reasserted herself. And with the memories of the past days, came the realization of her current situation. She was alone, surrounded by enemies and her own people believed she was a monster from hell.
She took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in her throat, and directed her gaze at the Jaffa standing a short distance away, the one whose name was Kejar of Ladnarn. She could feel the interrogations welling inside the warrior's mind, and she had to reassess her dominance over those men at once if she hoped to reverse the near-hopeless situation of her people.
"Jaffa ! Kree !" she barked as she stood up from the chair. She was satisfied to see him straighten automatically in learned obedience. "The crisis is over. You will leave the captives here for interrogation. I want you and your men to stand guard outside". As she spoke in the unnatural tones of a Goa'uld, she briefly wondered whether this ability to emulate her former torturer's manner of speech was the only such gift left behind by Kheshmet. Even as she did, she felt the connection linking her mind to the Goa'uld hardware she wore. Yes, she definitely had recovered more than just her body.
And she did demonstrate it, for she saw the hesitation remaining on Kejar's face, and what better way to reinforce his obedience than… She focused her mind and brought up her hand. The focusing crystal at the heart of her palm flared menacingly, air rippling visibly around her hand, the manifestation of her divine power, and that was all it took the Jaffas to recognize their mistress. Leaving the bound prisoners in place, they filed out of the room, hiding whatever interrogations they might have, for they were, after all, used to their masters' superior motives being sometimes too opaque to decipher.
When the last mail-clad warrior had left her field of vision, Carter broke out of the hieratic pose she'd struck as Kheshmet and almost flew herself down the dais in her haste to reach Lefarge's body. She knew, she knew she had the power to cure as well as kill, owing to the imprinted memories and skills left by the Goa'uld enforcer's presence inside her head. She hoped it wasn't too late, and ignored the wild stares of the other Samothracians. Their questions would be answered later.
She knelt besides the prone form, ignoring the slick wetness of his blood pooling on the floor, and extended her hand, palm down, over the mortal wound. Closing her eyes, she focused and pulled the relevant imprints out of the pool of Kheshmet's knowledge, forcing her own mind to wrap around the unfamiliar concepts and experiences. She had to do it… had to make it work…
She felt the link strengthen as the kara'kesh answered the relevant neural impulses, felt it reconfigure itself, atoms bonding into delicate sub molecular circuits to channel the device's energies in a way intended to repair rather than destroy. The glow brightened and grew into a channel of pure golden light that bore down and bathed the wound, streams and tendrils of half-solidified energy swirling down to begin repairing the damaged flesh.
"What are you doing you monster –" she heard an indignant cry. Unwilling to break her concentration, she merely rose her other hand in a "shut up" gesture. Whether out of fear or something else, the voice stopped in its tracks, but Carter still could feel the stares coming from the kneeling ex-captives – they didn't know their unexpected salvation yet.
But it was working. She opened her eyes again, to confirm what her other, new, arcane senses already told her : the healing process was actually working. She saw the flesh impossibly knitting itself together, the deep wound channel filling up, undamaged tissue growing with unnatural speed, and then, at last, the radiance dissolved.
There wasn't even a scar, Carter marveled. Nothing but the tear in Lefarge's uniform and the blood… a lot of blood, she realized. Fixing the wound wasn't enough. The General was still, for all intents and purposes, dead, unbreathing, bled almost white.
Frantically, she searched the room visually. She knew there had to be an emergency pack somewhere, she remembered it… she spotted it, a red box laying quietly on the floor, undisturbed by the fighting, and she leapt out. Bringing it back to the waiting body allowed her to begin answering the unsaid questions in the room, glancing at the captives.
"I'm trying to save the General" she merely stated.
Kneeling again, she unpacked the box and its contents, driven not by Kheshmet's memories this time but her own Alliance training. In mere seconds, she cut open the General's sleeve and inserted the IV connected to the pack of hyper-oxygenated synthetic blood, following with an adrenaline shot.
Applying the portable defibrillator's pads, she allowed herself a short prayer. Please God, if you actually exist in spite of this screwed up universe, please help me this time…
A sequence of electronic beeps, and the General's body shook. The monitor showed the artificially-induced heartbeat. Flatlining, again.
The automated unit went on, recharged and shocked the patient's heart a second time.
Carter let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been keeping. A third heartbeat – owing nothing to the defib unit, this time, a natural one. Lefarge's chest heaved slightly, an intake of air, autonomous.
"He's alive ! He's alive !" She cried out, almost deliriously, tears streaming out of a relief that could barely be measured. This, she was aware of, was the first step towards her own redemption.
An'chokwit, Transit Hall
What's happening ? O'Neill's eyes were asking the silent question as Selmak returned to his side, having just spent the past five minutes hovering close to the Goa'uld gatekeeper, listening in and obtaining, at last, some explanations on the current crisis.
"There's a situation over there. Apparently, your leader threatens to self-destruct the station and Kheshmet is leading an all-out assault on the command room" the Tok'ra grimly explained.
It was like the proverbial punch in the stomach for O'Neill, taking all of his self-control not to flinch visibly and attract attention to themselves. Thoughts raced by : what would he do if the station was destroyed along with the rest of his people ? Vengeance ? As pointless as it would be…
His companion must have felt his turmoil, for he put a hand on his shoulder.
"We have to wait. There's always hope."
It wasn't much, but in those alien eyes shone genuine concern and sympathy. It would do, for the time being.
Minutes ticked by amidst the hubbub of the transit hall, subdued by tension this close to the gate and the waiting formations. Then…
"Look, the Chap'pai is opening !"
As soon as the connection materialized eyes turned to the Gatekeeper's post. Her brow was furrowed, listening intently, fingers unconsciously raised to her ear. Concentration, then puzzlement on her features, an arched eyebrow – replying, speaking fast. The dialogue ended and the wormhole dissipated, but the Goa'uld officer remained still for a moment, an internal debate evidently going on as Selmak and O'Neill watched expectantly – along with every one else in the vicinity. Finally, she shrugged, a universal gesture of "oh well, not my job to ask questions", and dialed the gate again, shooting orders as she did so.
As the ring spun the Jaffa battalions stepped out a second time, ready to march through, but they were not to go first : the throng of captives were being dragged back, obviously in order to make the reverse trip. This was not expected, both operatives realized. Why would they sent back to the station ? What sinister purpose did Kheshmet have in mind ?
They watched in silence as women and children were manhandled through the event horizon, ignorant of their fate on the other side, and then it was time for the rest of the crowd. A hand sign from the Gatekeeper signaled the duo that it was their turn to move, before the arrayed Jaffas. At last, both men thought, breaking into step, the false Jaffa trailing his "master" by a couple paces as was the custom.
It was a mere ten meter distance to the wormhole, and yet such a huge chasm to cross in the unknown, O'Neill reflected. He discreetly glanced up and aside at the decidedly good-looking Goa'uld – and his danger sense tingled. She had her listening look again, but she wasn't staring into the empty air : she was staring right at them, and the look on her face was… wrong.
The Earther felt adrenaline rush into his system, a familiar feeling. Selmak must have sensed something as well, for he was in the process of turning his head back –
"SHOLVA !"
The alien word came out, furious, deadly. Traitor. Only Selmak understood the language, but O'Neill instinctively understood the undertone : they were discovered.
And then all hell broke loose.
The Tok'ra operative pressed a tiny activation stud on the small transceiver he'd kept affixed to his sleeve, just another jewel to a casual observer. It transmitted a signal through short-range subspace radio, a one-time use code that told the receiving end, back onto the transport shuttle, to activate the mechanism it was plugged into.
Mechanism wasn't the best word, perhaps, to describe a thing of solid-state crystalline circuitry, another banal-looking component in the ship's engine room. It wouldn't stand out on anything but a thorough system diagnostic, and it wouldn't even have made the tiniest effect, hadn't Selmak previously disabled certain built-in safeties into the naquadah power pile… but he had, and nothing opposed the overload spike that destabilized the energetic core of the hyperspace-rated vessel. In a fraction of a second, a significant fraction of the potential energy contained inside the power core was converted rather explosively into heat and assorted radiation.
The fortress' defenses were designed to keep energy out, not in. The underground ship garage was strongly built, but now its very strength was turned against it, tamping the expanding detonation and multiplying its force tenfold.
Like the cone of an out of control volcano, the ziggurat vanished in the titanic shockwave that drowned the storm and cut a swathe through the thunderclouds above. A pillar of flame burst skyward. The flash was enough to temporarily blind the sailors in the distant harbor's whorehouses – those who were looking through a window, at least – but it was nothing compared to the sonic front that shattered those windows, leaving the men and women deaf and panicking.
Above them cyclopean blocks of rock and stone were projected outwards from t he site of the explosion, and as they fell down they crushed buildings and lives kilometers away, and in the harbor ships capsized as local tsunami waves broke their wooden hulls like so many toys.
Inside the garrison, the wave front of incineration flushed through the tunnels and passageways, burning away any living being in the closest barracks before the weakened constructions even had time to collapse, the ground wave turning those century old foundations into rubble.
Inside the basilica-sized transit hall, O'Neill barely managed to keep track of the following seconds. His mind was still coping with the fight or flight instinct woken by the Gatekeeper's outburst when he felt a strong hand clamp on his arm and pull him – towards the stargate, towards salvation, even as the tall narrow windows shattered into thousands of deadly fragments above their heads.
The last sight he managed to catch, right before the wormhole engulfed his mind and vision, was the hall's mighty pillars collapsing on themselves and the roof falling down in great chunks of stone and broken beams, and the horrified stare of the Goa'uld official as she watched her world topple.
Samothrace system approaches, several hours later
Fear was seldom a feeling experienced by the Goa'uld. On the other hand, apprehension and expectation often were. At least during a war.
So was Baal (one of the many) filled with the above emotions as his ship prepared to translate out of hyperspace several astronomical units away from its ultimate goal.
It was prudence, for the collective memory of the System Lords held a few rather… unsettling stories that served as a warning against over eagerness when it came to finding ancient technological treasures. Most of the time it seemed, these had a strong tendency to kill their inventor in various and surprising ways.
Most modern Goa'uld were born long after those truly antique times and many considered that Ra was in fact just the luckiest of their far ancestors, having retrieved ancient technology that was actually useful and not too insanely risky to tinker with. It also explained why nobody really cared to tread outside the mapped Stargate addresses, even though everyone knew there had to be many, many more worlds out there in the network. It was simple wisdom : the risks far outweighed the gains and the Goa'uld, for all their faults, were a very, very pragmatic people.
Right on time, the ship's Pel'tak rang with the soft chime announcing transition back to real space. Ba'al released a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Outside the bridge window was blackness. They were too far away for the visible eye to distinguish anything, even something as large as the Ancient station. A command, though, and the ship's computer threw up a projection of the system, correlating observation data with whatever canned knowledge resided inside its navigational databanks. Which didn't amount to much. Flying so far coreward just wasn't something the Goa'uld did willy-nilly. Granted, most important and historical systems tended to gravitate more towards the rich inner rather than the sparser, outer parts of the galaxy. But there was a rough limit beyond which the sheer amount of hard radiation and the density of cosmic hazards, from pulsars to singularities, had prevented complex life from developing. There was a point where proximity to the supermassive black hole at the galactic center started to restrict, then outright inhibit, stargate connections from establishing reliably, where the linking wormholes just couldn't bend around anymore.
Even here, Ba'al's ship was forced to slow down at the end of its hyperjourney, like a seagoing ship slowing down in rough waves. An end leg that should have taken a mere hour had eventually stretched to several, but it was over now. The prize was waiting.
As real-time sensor data filtered in, the display updated, with the computer prioritizing the most noteworthy feature: the huge artificial object laying around the planet deeper in-system. Ba'al sent a command and the display zoomed in, showing a grainy picture of the ancient station. There was some residual radiation nearby, hinting that something big had exploded, but the artifact itself was intact. And, more importantly, no active weapon signature, no obvious targeting signal coming from it.
Ba'al tried raising his agent on the subspace com. No answer came in, yet he didn't fret. Such a large structure could very well interfere, and there was no certainty that its own communication arrays would pick up his signal to relay. Sooner or later Kheshmet would be in contact. At worse, he would board the floating city himself and find out.
The Ha'tak's cybernetic intelligence was powerful, even smart in a limited sense, though definitely and purposely not sentient. Or imaginative. Recognizing the Ancient construct's significance and offering to display it was obvious.
But in its limited worldview, dead Jaffa bodies drifting like microscopic gnats over the mountain-sized metallic flank of the station just didn't warrant notice.
Inside Freedom Station's command center didn't exactly reign an atmosphere of normalcy, though the excitement had abated noticeably. Terror and dread had at least left place to a mixture of relief and horror. Relief, for the timely turning of Samantha Carter had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, using her commandeered Goa'uld persona to herd every Jaffa into the great spaceship bay – ostensibly to take possession of the advanced spacecraft there – then using her new link to the station's command system to flush them off into vacuum.
Relief, when a rather bewildered O'Neill had made contact from inside the station, then introduced a new friend. Who was promptly bewildered as well, when his own examination confirmed that Samantha Carter's body indeed contained a mindless Goa'uld symbionts. Learning how said Goa'uld had ended that way, the Tok'ra operative had then studiously and understandably avoided coming any closer to the ancient command chair.
Horror, when the full extent of the injuries became known. Not merely the KIA figures, but the horrific physical and emotional toll on the civilian population. The medical personnel would have their hands full for days – that they could now start relying fully on the floating city's built-in medical facilities was a serious blessing.
The various populated spaces of the city nevertheless showed more in common with the old Earth refugee camps, with their triage areas. Worse were the cleaning details who had the grim task of searching and collecting the bodies of the dead – with a special emphasis on checking dead Jaffa corpses for missing symbionts. At least they had help from the city's own cleaning and repair drones.
Samantha Carter peered at the mirror. She could barely watch her own reflection. It was even worse as she couldn't even change into normal clothing – Ba'al was coming, any moment, and she needed to appear as Kheshmet. Even though the others had accepted, intellectually, that she, herself, was as much a victim of Kheshmet, they didn't see her with anything remotely like a normal gaze. As much as they tried to hide it, she knew it. What they saw was still the freak alien killer. After all, it was what she saw as well.
Her eyes were still red. She'd managed to hold herself together during the informal and hurried debriefing, answering the immediate questions of General Lefarge, Colonel O'Neill and Selmak the Tok'ra. She had bravely sat in the chair again, reconnecting with Control, giving full command of the station's systems to the rest of the staff, initiating translation protocols to ease them in.
But as the follow-up attack failed to immediately materialize, she'd requested a moment alone. In the otherwise empty bathroom, her composure broke. She briefly lost track of time, through tears and wails and banging at the walls until her eyes ran dry and her sobbing abated. She felt the urgent need to beg forgiveness from every single member of New America, alive or dead. She felt the temptation to end it all, shame and regret, shooting herself in the head and be done with it.
But she still had a duty, be it her last.
"Carter! Are you there?" O'Neill's voice followed the knocks at the door. "I know you're there. I know you need… time. But we need you. Ba'al's here."
A last, deep, steadying breath and she came out. She saw the expected concern, and maybe the relief that she didn't kill herself yet.
"Fine. Let's deal with the bastard", she snarled.
From a closer distance, the sheer scale of the floating city made itself clear, filling up the Pelt'ak viewport.
The Divine Fist of Unity was hardly small. It was larger than the old generation of Ha'tak, the one that initially cemented Goa'uld rule on large portions of the galaxy and served millennia with only minimal, mostly cosmetic changes. All followed the basic, unchanged design principle: the golden pyramidal core, copied from Ra's "star chariot", that found itself augmented and surrounded with a utilitarian belt of additional hangar spaces, barrack areas and weapon emplacements. After all, when it took a System Lord months to cross his own domain by ship, it made sense to bring along a worthwhile allotment of force. Enough to swiftly quell any thought of rebellion, or garrison strategic systems and deter everyone else.
But those "old faithful" had often met ignominious deaths facing the newer, improved battleships fielded by Anubis, then everyone else as they frantically geared up to meet the new threat, sacrificing their older fleets to win time. Even then, the other System Lords were only saved by two factors: one, Anubis initially fielded few ships along with his monstrous "super-Ha'tak". Two, his new ships had vastly improved shields and weapons, but their hyperdrives didn't appear enhanced to the same degree. So, while his initial push (along with his rallied and coerced minions) had the unstoppable character of a tsunami, and rightfully smashed through the smaller Goa'uld fiefdoms, just like a tsunami it lost momentum and petered out from the sheer scale of a battlefield spanning a significant fraction of the galaxy. Next, his adversaries used the respite to establish a formal alliance, launch delaying counterattacks, reverse engineer some wreckage and build their own larger, improved motherships.
Of whose Divine Fist was a typical item. Yet, floating close to the hundred-kilometer span of the ancient void city, it seemed shriveled down to minnow status.
"Master."
Kheshmet's deep voice resonated on the bridge and cut short Ba'al internal fidgeting.
"I secured the station and enslaved its inhabitants. They will make fitting slaves to your greatness!"
"Good," the doppel-Goa'uld stroke his goatee with a satisfied smirk. "What of the station itself?"
"You have to see it for yourself, Master. It is full of wonders. Truly it will be the crown of your Empire!" Kheshmet spoke quickly, her face expressing awe. "It is beyond anything I know. Alas, it doesn't seem to contain any transport rings. But," she added with a satisfied voice, "it contains enough hangar space to dock a Ha'tak!"
"Then, by all means open the way. I am impatient to set foot in my new domain. And, Kheshmet? You will be rewarded appropriately for this victory."
The female operative bowed her head in acknowledgment, then cut the link.
A few seconds later, massive doors began to slide apart on the station's flank, exposing a cavernous space. At first a dark hole spreading across the metallic cliff, then internal lights came on, making it a shining beacon.
One of the station's space docks, this one didn't contain any original spacecraft, nor any of the newcomers'. An empty parallelepiped whose volume was measured in cubic kilometers, its sides white-painted. Gantries small and large, covered or not, piping of all kinds for energy, fluids, gases and such. Conveyor belts and hatches of all dimensions for crew, supplies and worker drones, folded cranes and robotic arms bearing tool heads and data ports. All features bathed in the uniform glare projected by giant lighting strips on every facet.
Divine Fist, prodded by its owner personally helming it, gracefully flew towards the vast open space doors. If it could have felt emotions, it might have been humbled, or even afraid. Yet the closest thing to feeling it had was a sense of… welcoming. There just was something vaguely familiar in the sensed hum of power, in the various signals bouncing wirelessly around the vast artificial cavern. It settled gently on the waiting deck with its lightened gravity, with the computer equivalent of a content sigh. It felt… homely.
The hangar's ancillary systems were speaking to it, initiating deep-seated welcome protocols, easing it into allowing access to the support and maintenance ports dotting its underhull.
Inside the Pel'tak, neither Ba'al nor his Jaffa crew paid any attention to the automated processes happening outside their view. They were rather more interested by the fact that yes, there was atmosphere inside the hangar, and open doors could be glimpsed in the distant inner wall that would lead them inside the station.
Underneath the Ha'tak, a seldom-used maintenance hatch revolved apart. It wasn't meant for biological crew, revealing nothing but a heavy-duty power and data port. It was used for the last time when the ship's construction was over, and the building slip primed its systems with the necessary start-up charge and all the necessary programming updates.
From the station's deck came up a snakelike data conduit, its crystalline business end glowing. It paused for a minute second in front of the waiting port, confirming the correct alignment. Then it slid in.
And someone was fucked.
