Zoltan Kibwe sat straight in his Transportation Directorate's Serf Scheduler's First-Class uniform, the console enabling most stargate operations on Abydos spread under his eyes and fingers. The headset was light on his close-shaven head, but he had the oblivious affectation of putting his finger on the ear-pad whenever he was listening intently to whoever was calling or answering. Most of the time it was his alter ego on Luna, similarly watching over regular transfers through the gate in Dante Base.
It was his second year in and while day-to-day operations acquired a routine feel to them, there was still a thrill whenever the incredibly ancient alien ring activated under his instructions. This, and living on another planet, light-years away from Earth, rewarding him for his hard work and dedication to the Domination's massive transportation apparatus that started as steam and iron railways crossing the vast African expanses to end up laying maglev tracks under alien suns.
Beyond his console, the far wall was a vast screen that showed monitoring views of the transit area as well as various telemetry windows for the benefit of everyone else in the control room, including the War Directorate officer who was always present to oversee operations – even though the Transport Directorate was in charge of managing day-to-day civilian transits as well as elaborating the weekly schedule. Other consoles were presently unmanned, for this slot was solely dedicated to transportation activities rather than exploration or the kind of trans-gate assault he'd only personally witnessed in exercises rather than the real ones from the early days he'd heard exciting stories about.
Two kilometers away and beyond several lines of defenses stood the actual transit area where the stargate itself was erected. The ring device was held vertical inside a sturdy azimuthal mount. At a command, it could be rotated down to the horizontal - such a thing being a defensive measure in itself, as it ensured any non-powered invader would sink back into the event horizon, or direct incoming fire at the sky. The conformal shield generators mounted on the frame were another such defense, a rather more sophisticated one than the solid swiveling plug at Dante Base, if effectively similar in goal.
The mount was solidly anchored on a fat swiveling pillar that protruded like a turret barbette from the four-meter-deep moat – the concrete basin forming a ring thirty meters wide around it. Painted markings materialized the various orientation settings used in the complex' operations. Presently the pillar and stargate were facing the maglev transit markings and the track bridge was extended from the far side of the moat, its near end resting onto the sharply sloping edge of the pillar, facing the ring perfectly.
Zoltan glanced at the digital clock stack that showed local and Earth reference time. The next outbound crossing was coming up, the train's position materialized on the stylized network map as it decelerated on approaching the complex's outer perimeter. Green lights all around. It was time to dial.
"Suh, permission to dial Luna."
"Permission granted. Proceed as usual." The citizen officer's response was well-oiled as fit this routine, yet Zoltan knew the man saw and double-checked everything. This still qualified as a war posting, a frontier to the unknown and there would be no cutting corners, routine or not. The complex' defenses were always ready to spring into action in response to a threat, an edge that weekly exercises were designed to keep honed and sharp. And the local control room was in turn watched by the underground command post, buried deep underneath mountains, that oversaw the defense of the entire system and could override his control if needed.
Zoltan Kibwe hit the activation key for the preloaded address of Sol. The chevrons lit up in quick succession and the familiar energetic cascade geysered above the moat. It was a recent upgrade to the dialing system that eliminated the need for the cumbersome mechanical rotation of the inner ring – an achievement that Zoltan suspected owed at least partially to the Race's Tollan allies, but such information was way above his grade.
The cargo train was gliding through openings in the successive barriers when he reached for his counterpart.
"Luna control, this is Abydos, over."
"Abydos, Luna, go ahead" the reply came a moment later after his opposite number checked the coded handshake signal was genuine and valid.
"Ready for scheduled maglev transit, over."
"Ready for maglev transit, Abydos. You're cleared through. Over." Zoltan recognized the voice and its subtly different nasal accentuation of the Draka Anglic's drawl. That was Amir, a classmate from Transportation technical school. But there was little room for familiarity here.
"Cleared through. Sending."
A couple seconds later, the train resumed its steately progress forward through the opened inner gate and over the moat with a thrum of working superconductor magnets. Its blunt prow disappeared into the wormhole's meniscus, then carriage after carriage steadily followed, the cylindrical pressurized containers full of raw foodstuffs, grain and meat from the vast plantations sprouting up on the world's underutilized surface.
It took five minutes for the entire length of the train to be swallowed and rematerialize light-years away on Luna's surface.
"Crossing complete, Luna."
"Crossing successful, Abydos. Cleared t'cut off, ovah. 'Til next time" Amir said.
"Next time, Luna. G'night."
Another box ticked, thought Kibwe. Next was something more exotic. The data card slid up on his console display and he pressed the necessary controls to reconfigure the transit area.
The pillar rotated into another marked position even as the maglev bridge retracted towards the outer wall, man-sized carriage wheels rolling on the metal tracks inlaid in the concrete bottom of the moat. Simultaneously another gateway scissored out of another groove in the outer wall like a folding bridge, heavy-duty grating and wheel tracks on a sturdy frame owing much of its legacy to the assault bridges employed by the Domination's military during its Earth-bound wars. The thick gate barring access through the outer wall began to slide away even as the stargate birthed another outgoing wormhole.
Once again authentication systems proceeded to exchange encrypted handshakes, confirming identities on both sides before the radio link came to life.
"Valkyrie ground, Abydos stargate operations, ready with your resupply, over".
"Valkyrie ground, ready to receive."
"Sending, stand by."
Zoltan watched on the repeater displays as things stirred in the forward logistics staging area, a wide expanse of concrete ground outside the inner perimeter. The first stargate-gauge shipping container, shaped like an extruded octagon lifted off the floor, carried by the matching pair of grav-tug modules clamped over both extremities. Yet another piece of hardware that was outright bought from the Tollan and adapted to Domination standards and requirements. The container hovered thirty centimeters above the hard surface then started forward on the marked path doglegging through the concentric isolation barriers of packed earth and concrete and their purposefully misaligned apertures. Behind it, another lifted up and followed, then another and another forming into an automated convoy on their way to the waiting stargate meniscus. Bringing up the rear was a comparatively small new-model aircar, one of the vacuum-rated and orbital capable ones thanks to grav-buoyancy tech, painted in light grey and stenciled with a War Directorate registration. It carried a Signals Corp officer and his escort, though Zoltan had no idea of the occupants' identity – such an information he was not required to know. Manacled in an old-fashioned way to the officer's wrist was a suitcase rated to sustain a close nuclear blast. As the hovering containers were meant to replenish Valkyrie's stores of fresh foodstuffs and sundry supplies, the suitcase contained fresh encryption keys and pads for the cruiser's secure communications. There was no need for more than that – the ship had sustained no damage that needed spares it couldn't readily manufacture, nor did it dent its store of precious, and impossible to produce outside the vast Mercury accelerator plants, mirrormatter.
The hovering procession disappeared into the waiting wormhole as the maglev train did before and the far side acknowledged good reception of all items. This was a novel procedure, Zoltan reflected, but it was hardly more involved than juggling train carriages. The tugs could basically drive themselves, only needing guidance to navigate obstacles such as the labyrinthine defense perimeter. He couldn't see what was happening on the other side, but his imagination provided him with a vision of the containers flying out of the far stargate then rising majestically in the air, higher and higher until they escaped the atmosphere, then away on a leisurely controlled path to the waiting ship's cargo loading bays.
At last, the blue meniscus vanished. Another transit conducted without a hitch; the technician allowed his professional pride a measure of self-congratulation.
"Riiight," his Citizen overseer drawled a moment later. "That went like a cock into a well-lubed cunt. Good work, Kibwe. Another day of duty to the State."
Zoltan nodded modestly. The day had nothing unduly hard – training at Transportation school threw him far more hairy scenarios! But it felt good nonetheless. And a glance to the clock indeed confirmed that it was time to put down his earset and go off-duty. The next timeslot, all five hours of it would be exploration, under direct War Directorate responsibility. In fact, his counterparts in the War Directorate's Auxiliary Corps uniform were filing in the room now along with another Citizen officer.
He collected his lunch box and personal items as one of them settled into his vacated seat and lost no time reconfiguring the systems. About to leave the room himself, he glanced at the wall display. The cargo bridge was retracting, the outer wall's gunports were cycling open in readiness, along with whatever classified systems activated as part of the exploration procedures he wasn't privy to; the pillar was rotating again to face the telescoping arm carrying the signal collection arrays. Zoltan couldn't help saying a little prayer in his mind that all would go smoothly. The dreaded April Fool's Incursion was something his instructors in the Stargate program had quite graphically told him about to underline the kind of dangers lurking in the unexplored galaxy. What else might be waiting in the dark? He preferred not to dwell too much on that thought. No, better focus his mind on the upcoming reunion with his wife, an Abydosian native with smooth honey skin, dark wavy chestnut hair and all the right kind of curves. All in all, he told himself as he whistled a light tune on his way to the exit, he was quite privileged.
xxx
The Jaffa waved them forward with nothing more than a cursory visual inspection and off they were through another monumental gate – this one facing the road leading to the stargate, it was richly adorned with colorful painted bas-reliefs, all new and unworn, best to impress newcomers to Lord Camulus' capital city.
Ann Rayner trundled forward a deferential half-step behind her "husband", with Bald'reek's legs flexing a dozen steps forward, the only part of his body showing beyond the mountain of bags and items attached to his carrying frame – a good thing he was racially Jaffa despite his otherwise faults, for the load would make anyone less sturdy buckle down. A load a bit heavier than before as his masters acquired a few local items, ostensibly to trade offworld, to better maintain their disguise.
The city's surroundings were different from her memories too. The scorched battlefield was gone but labor gangs were still in sight, working on the elaborate flower beds lining the newly-laid cobbled road leading to the distant forest. Looking at the floral arrangements, Rayner felt that the local ruler – or his governor underling – was actually keen on presenting a pleasant and tidy place to whomever was traveling from outside. An aesthetic concern that echoed her own race, as a matter of fact. Maybe the war and the destruction it wrought motivated the local powers-that-be into a long-overdue makeover.
She inwardly shrugged. Who knew for how long this world would remain spared new wars and new destructions? She wished the natives would enjoy many years of quiet prosperity before the cruelties of war visited again.
She was idly mulling over such things when they crossed into the forest boundary, neatly trimmed brush keeping the gently meandering road clear. It was quiet with the soothing sound of a light breeze rustling leaves and swaying high branches.
Predictably, not many people were traveling this road – interstellar tourism and trade wasn't exactly a mass activity in Goa'uld space. Those few passersby were in fact locals carrying wicker baskets of berries and mushrooms which they must be picking in the surrounding woods, itself a sign that these woods were a safe enough place to go.
After some time, a clearing came in sight. The road was going past a guardpost, a wooden palisade surrounding a watch tower of sturdy timber and a low-slung rectangular guardhouse with thick packed earth walls and narrow apertures. Flanking it and the road were firing pits and neat timber-clad trenches – Rayner minutely lifted her eyebrow at the uncharacteristic display of military sensibility. Very obviously, in case of attack the local guard was to man those defenses and either slow down their enemies' progress or die loudly enough to alert the actual garrison. It was not a bad set-up considering their operating constraints, Rayner thought critically.
Beyond the guardpost the road kept going straight over a gentle terrain bump to the effect that only the very top of the stargate's profile was visible in the distance, yet must be completely exposed to any observer on the tower. Rayner made another appreciative checkmark in her mind. The set-up allowed defenders to deploy out of line of sight – and fire – from the gate's location, especially since any assailant would have to reorient after exiting the gate, but could be subjected to flanking fire from the tower. Such defenses would do nothing against an assault by the Draka military, but against fellow Jaffa on foot shooting their atrocious staves, it was perfectly sensible. Evidently the War did have a selective pressure effect on the Jaffa despite the constraints set from above hindering their effectiveness. Those who survived the conflict must have picked a modicum of tactical baggage, including some basic notions such as "shooting from cover". Now, she mulled, how long would their "lords" tolerate such displays of above-average smarts before they forced a reversal to their traditional braindead practices?
In any case, the post was visibly not on an alert standing. A single lookout was atop the tower, watching the surroundings with unaided eyes – though Jaffa did have excellent sight. A pair of guards were visible next to the road, sitting across a small rounded table, their weapons propped on the wall. They lifted an eye from their game of jacks as the trio approached their position. Rayner's party was apparently not deemed much of a threat, from the lack of concern in the guards' expressions, yet they stood up unhurriedly and picked their staves to establish a desultory roadblock.
"Be'nial!"
The "stop here" order was doubled with a clear hand gesture from the closest Jaffa and the three travelers obediently stopped in place. A glance at Bald'reek's appearance was enough for the guardsman to conclude that this was not the one in charge of the little party and he stepped aside to address Karl'ac, who by eliminative logic being the only other male had to be the leader.
"You, peddler! Are you authorized to travel through the Ring of the Gods?"
"By the Lords' grace, noble warrior! Please, see for yourself!" He removed the necklace with a golden token so that the Jaffa could inspect it. The medallion-styled pass was neatly engraved with Camulus' sigil. It also contained a very specific isotopic mix that emitted a tiny and harmless amount of radiation, which the guard's specialized gauntlet picked up. A gem lit up, godmagic at work confirming that indeed, this peddler was authorized to travel to and from Lord Camulus' domain through the Chappai.
"Hmmmm" the Jaffa growled dubiously. "This is an authentic token, but…" he let the sentence open. Karl'ac knew perfectly well the Jaffa's meaning. With a small flourish, he produced a tiny leatherbound notebook. "A small gift for you, noble warrior! In appreciation for your duty!" he bowed obsequiously, proffering the donation. The warrior took it, opened it and flipped through the first pages. A grin painted itself on his features as his eyes found the charming black-and-white drawings of graceful ladies in various stages of undress and situations becoming riskier and riskier as the pages went – ending in full-blown sapphic pornography. He chuckled and showed the pages to his colleague, who made appreciative noises in turn. "This'll save you a trip to Fatma's" the joke made them bellow in laughter.
Evidently the "gift" was a good one, for a magnanimous "you may proceed" gesture was all Karl'ac got in return, but it was enough.
Two minutes later as the guardpost gradually disappeared from view and the stargate grew more visible in reverse, Ann commented no louder than a whisper "that was smooth." Karl'ac responded in the same way. "A small bribe's expected. Money's not much to the Jaffa, but something to relieve boredom is always appreciated."
Standing in front of the still gate, Rayner's mind suddenly turned toward their plan again, inasmuch as it could be called such. Going back to Karl'ac's old throne world like that, with no prior intel – the gossip at the trade house didn't include anything from such a remote and faraway place – was appearing increasingly reckless now that they were at the doorstep. Maybe spending several additional weeks cooped up inside Alix with a disgraced Goa'uld and a dirty, sex-obsessed Jaffa would have been a sensible sacrifice instead. She couldn't even recall the ship and have it deliver some last-minute cargo – such as full-sized weapons and armor. It would undoubtedly be detected on the way, this close to Bellenos' capital.
She took a deep, calming intake of breath and caught her employer's eye. A small nod conveyed her readiness to proceed and he bent over the dialing pedestal, taking care to shield it from view of the guard tower. The Jaffa there would expect anyone traveling for business to jealously guard their destination secret against competition. As paradoxical as it could seem to outsiders, it was part of the unwritten but firmly upheld traditions governing the use of the gate network. Any legitimate user – be it the Goa'uld themselves, their minions or anyone they granted access - was entitled to their most precious knowledge – their address book. Naturally, it didn't prevent spying attempts, or even torturing a foe to extract such knowledge in times of war, but in this returned time of peace a lowly huckster was unlikely to warrant such attention.
Standing aside, she watched the wormhole spring into being, letting the destructive vortex subside before she stepped close to the meniscus. She removed a small object from a pouch – it was the size and shape of a stone marble, indeed it was part of such a set, its presence thus easily justified, a tiny unremarkable item. With a flick of her wrist it sailed straight into the wormhole with barely a ripple.
Seconds later it came alive as it sailed out of the far 'gate, dropping down onto the faraway stone pedestal and rolling down the stairs before it came to rest at the base of the distant stargate setup. The miniaturized environmental sensor collected data from its surroundings and sent it all in a low-power burst radio transmission that traveled back through the wormhole.
The data came up through Rayner's implant, confirming several things. First of all, the distant gate wasn't blocked. Second, the destination's gravity, temperature, air pressure and composition were those of a livable world. The little sensor marble couldn't tell much more than that – it was deliberately crude and limited so as to escape superficial scans. But it was enough. They weren't going to die simply trying to travel through the gate.
Rayner made a "come along" gesture and both Karl'ac and Bald'reek took the steps towards the waiting interstellar portal. As they prepared to cross, she made a last signal through her implant. Buried amongst the ambulatory junkyard that was Bald'reek's carrying frame was a case containing something very similar to a game of checkers. An ingenious and compact traveling case, too, holding the actual checkers stacked in beautifully filigreed tubes – a metal filigree that happened to make a working electrical circuit, if anybody cared to analyze such an obviously decorative work. The stacked checker pawns themselves exhibited an abstract metallic pattern on both top and bottom faces – for inside they contained flat slivers of supercapacitive slate. And buried in the layers of veneer of the case was more intricate circuitry, of which a tiny part intercepted the implant's signal and recognized it. With electronic quickness it woke up the rest of the device. The subspace beacon activated as the stacked checkers emptied their content in a one-use burst of energy, sending a short encoded subspace signal which might or might not be intercepted – at this point it didn't matter much anymore. The patiently drifting Alkesh picked it up light-minutes away from the planet. Its meaning was short and to the point. "Proceed to destination."
Less than ten seconds later, Alix vanished through hyperspace on a course that would eventually take her to the same place as her owner. The empty portion of deep space where she'd impersonated a cold drifting piece of rock remained undisturbed for another hour before the four-Udajeet patrol sliced through, vectored in after the huge sensor apparatus inside Camulus' fortress moon picked up the small energy spike's signal, barely out of the noise floor. Of course, by then there was nothing to see any more and the fortress' operators dismissed it as yet another scouting run by a rival Goa'uld. Worth logging, but routine as such things went. Besides, so small and distant was the event that there was no vector to be extracted. Without it, they couldn't even begin to speculate as to where their visitor went.
Local gravity was minutely different, Rayner felt. But mostly what assaulted her senses was a thunderstorm. The genuine item. As the blue glow of the wormhole vanished behind her back and left only inky night blackness, a flash of lightning briefly illuminated her new surroundings, quickly followed by a deafening shockwave of thunder that momentarily eclipsed the tremendous patter of freezing rain that soaked her outer layer in seconds. A piercing gale was howling through the branches as trees – yet another stargate in a forest, she thought whimsically – flexed and bent madly.
"Charming welcome! I love your world already!" she shouted at Karl'ac, who was huddling forward down the stairs. Bald'reek was swaying perilously a couple paces ahead as the gale caught on his tall burden. His feet splashed in the mud and he narrowly caught himself on the edge of the dialing pedestal, but appeared otherwise in his element.
"I forgot to take the season into account. It's late fall here on Malabon. But it's good to be home!" Karl'ac shouted back. "Come! The road goes down to a village. We should find shelter there!"
It was fortunate that all three had the benefit of a stronger-than-normal metabolism, for the wind, rain and sloshing mud they had to slog through were decidedly having a chilling effect. Military training had further acquainted Rayner with the worst kinds of environments to fight in, but here she didn't exactly have the benefit of specialized equipment. The oiled cloak she hastily unwrapped and draped over her shoulders was keeping the worst out, at least. She consoled herself with the thought that such nasty weather would hopefully keep any enemy guard – she was firmly treating this place as enemy territory until proven otherwise – inside shelter rather than actively patrolling.
They progressed down a narrow, slippery and winding path cutting a trench through the forest – the place was very reminiscent of central European woods, down to a strong scent of humus and mushroom. The hammering of rain was less violent under cover of the tree canopy, but rivulets of muddy water were rushing down the path and making it treacherous. More than once Bald'reek had to catch himself on the sides of the path, but the mud on his hands was a welcome feeling. Much better than this frightening big stone city where people tried to kill him for no reason, he felt.
The storm abated two hours later as the thickest mass of thunderclouds finally moved away. The interval between actinic flashes and booming, rolling cracks grew longer and the howling wind morphed into a strong breeze that didn't drive sheets of rain almost horizontally any more.
Rayner woke up first, her senses far sharper than her companions. The small fire wasn't burning any more, but reddish embers were still radiating warmth over to the three bodies huddled around it, tucked at the back of a rocky overhang that didn't quite qualify as a cave, but was narrow and deep enough to provide shelter against the worst of the elements. All three could have gone onward, but she felt it was safer to wait out the storm – some of the lightning strikes came down uncomfortably close to the path they travelled and the booming thunderclaps were followed by loud crashing noises as branches or entire sections of trunks fell shattered to the ground. Well, they couldn't expect always exiting a stargate into bright clear weather and manicured forest, Ann thought with resignation.
She fished into the fire with a stick, rummaged through the ashes until the embers glowed again, then speared at a lump with her knife and took the roasted potato out. It was no variety found on Earth, but recognizably one nevertheless, bought on Bellenos' market before they set off in the morning. It was burning hot and she left it to cool down on a reasonably clean flat stone while she took a deep swig off her leather flask – the herbal tea was slightly bitter but refreshing.
The knife cut through the potato lengthwise and its sweet aroma wafted to her companions' nostrils, starting the process of waking them up. Karl'ac opened his eyes several times and managed to keep them open on the fourth attempt. Bald'reek grunted nosily and Rayner was once more reminded of a pig – doubly so when he loudly farted, still believing himself in one of his dreams. He woke up for good when his master cuffed him on the head with a snort of disgust. His first sight was the potato halves emitting their fragrant steam and his fingers reflexively shot forward. Rayner had a fraction of a second to decide whether to skewer the grubby hand with the knife or not. Practicality won and she merely struck it hard with the knife's pommel.
An "Ow!" of pain and surprise came out of the Jaffa's mouth before his brain, now fully awoken, belatedly understood its lapse of manners and he froze in place. He couldn't judge which expression held the most detrimental promises for his rump – the beautiful warrior-goddess' face was stony, mouth thin-lipped and eyes narrowed to piercing slits; his god and master's was furrowed into a disbelieving frown, both nevertheless intensely judging.
"Hands off my food" Rayner simply stated after she counted half a dozen heartbeats from the offender's noticeably increased pulse. She pointed at the campfire with her free hand. "Yours' in there. There's enough for all three of us."
As he emitted a groveling amalgamation of thanks and apologies and turned to rummage on all fours for his waiting potato, Rayner's gaze met Karl'ac's and she mouthed silently, but eloquently, "explosives". He caught the allusion to Bald'reek's putative future use as a diversion, glanced down at the Jaffa's dirty breaches, and replied in kind. "Definitely."
"So tell me, Karl'ac. Why didn't you place that stargate closer to your capital instead of… out there in the middle of nowhere?" As the first glimmers of dawn colored the sky a light purple and the forest grew less and less dense, Rayner voiced the question aloud that was rattling her brains ever since he'd mentioned a village.
They marched on for a short time, silent but for the sharp little sound of their walking sticks hitting the ground, as he contemplated his answer. She gave him this time, understanding that Goa'uld, as a rule were not exactly used to revealing much about their actual selves to anyone. The musing entertained her that maybe all the species' problems were due to not having an alienist to speak to, then Karl'ac spoke.
"Emplacing a Chappai is always a matter of… compromise" he said in a slow, considering tone. "Ideally it would be found inside the palace, or the temple… but doing so would open an easy avenue for invasion. As I told you before, it is forbidden to place a blocking shield on one, outside very specific and regulated circumstances. Hence my kind usually sets them some way outside their settlements to establish some defensive depth."
"But the one on Bellenos wasn't so far from the capital city."
"No" Karl'ac made something very much like a sigh. "But a Goa'uld like Camulus ranks only below the System Lords. I, on the other hand…"
"…didn't have as much forces to muster for defense?" Rayner probed.
Karl'ac made a somewhat peeved gesture. "True. But… that's not all there is." He paused and her eyes met his, encouraging him to go on. "For a lower lord such as I was… the Chappai is… well, it's mostly the way through which we send tribute or levies. Our domains are too poor to see much off-world trade, nor so vast that we'd take years merely visiting from one world to another. In short, the Chappai is where we pay our taxes, meet our overlords" and grovel humiliatingly, he didn't care to admit "and our potential enemies launch invasions – potential enemies including our own overlords for that matter, if they find their whim of the day to be so. If it wasn't for it also being a mystical object underlying our subjects'… worship, we'd even be happy to see it go away."
"And I don't suppose your overlords would take it nicely to the news of you folks… misplacing one" Rayner commented in a dry tone.
Karl'ac winced. "Indeed, the culprit would find himself… misplaced at the wrong end of a torture beam."
There seemed to be no need to elaborate, so Rayner spent the following minute mulling over the provided information and how it brought valuable additional insights into Goa'uld psychology. All of this would find a proper place in her next report. If she lived to make it.
"I think I understand now why the Chappai's tucked in as remote a place as you could get away with" she finally said, smiling good-naturedly as she did.
Then a second later her smile died as they rounded a bend in the path. The edge of the forest was in sight. Beyond it stretched the cultivated plateau which made up most of the surrounding region. The aforementioned village was visible in the distance like miniature toy houses in the middle of pastures and fields separated by the thin lines of low walls made of slate stone. The houses appeared huddled around a larger building which had to be the common house serving as a combined townhall, temple and inn. The entire scene appeared in dark brownish hues in the low morning light of fall, but this wasn't what made Rayner's smile vanish in favor of a concerned frown. It was the smoke billowing over the place, coming from something that looked very much like a pyre in her eagle sight.
The eyes of her Goa'uld companion were not as good, but he saw the smoke as well.
"What? The village's burning?"
"It's not the village" she corrected him. "There seems to be some kind of pyre, down in that central square in front of the common hall." Her nostrils flared then as wind brought in new information that her very sensitive nose could analyze. "Smells like burnt wood and flesh. Human flesh." She paused to let the disquieting news sink in. "I don't suppose your subjects were into human sacrifices?"
Karl'ac opened his own eyes wide in shock. "No!" his denegation came out as if he was personally offended by such a proposition. "My subjects were decent, hard-working folk. This must be something else!"
"A plague, maybe?"
"This is a more likely possibility, though nothing of that kind ever happened here before. I had strict sanitary rules. Of course, whoever replaced me…"
"…might not be as sensible a ruler" Ann finished for him. She noticed the tiny, tell-tale change in posture – straightening minutely up, softening around the eyes – that betrayed his prideful acceptance of her hypothesis.
A plague, she thought. Most certainly not a threat to herself or to her employer, nor to Bald'reek. She'd taken care to purchase all the missing updates to his synthetic immune system from Tech-Con Health Solutions before they left the Hebridean system. Then it remained to be seen whether it might be a hindrance or an opportunity.
There was no welcoming committee on the outskirts of the village. In fact, its streets appeared deserted. Wooden shutters were closed up over every window in sight, doors appeared similarly shut. An emaciated dog stole a glance at the approaching trio, then bowed its head nervously and fled out of sight instead of barking an alarm. Crows were making the only sounds of life, it seemed, gathered as they were on the roofs near the funeral pyre. The smell grew more pregnant as they reached the square, but Rayner's sharp nose took in more than the overpowering burned meat aroma. There was an undercurrent of… disease indeed, of putrefying flesh and weeping sores, too subtle out here in the open for anyone but her to detect. Then there was the relative absence of the smells she would have expected from such a community, the various spoors of everyday life – sweat, bread dough, warmed up iron, cooking pots, even the animal aftertaste of sex. An absence that paralleled the absence of people outside. The auditory spectrum was similarly quiet. There were people living here still – she'd caught signs of them – but they were obviously keeping indoors as would be expected during a plague.
"Not a thriving community" she quietly remarked aside to her "husband". "I don't expect we'll make much trade."
"No, but hopefully someone will tell us what is happening."
The square was mournful and empty save for the pile of incinerated corpses. Half a dozen blackened bodies were stacked over the ash-white remnants of burnt logs, desiccated to the point of being barely recognizable as former human bodies. Rayner swept her gaze over them. It would take a forensic examination to determine whether they used to be old or young, male or female. At least they didn't seem to show obvious signs of a violent death – if dying of a plague wasn't violent enough. No sign of major inflicted physical trauma or major wounds.
Suddenly she heard faint noises from behind the hall's barred doors. People were inside and stirring – she caught words, sounding much as orders – heavy footsteps approaching beyond the sturdy iron-reinforced wood gate. Now both Karl'ac and Bald'reek must have heard something as well, for they turned towards the hall's entrance.
A clang as whatever locking mechanism was removed – then it opened with a grinding squeal of poorly-adjusted and lubricated hinges.
The newcomers were not villagers, that much became obvious as they marched out in lockstep. A half-squad of Jaffa – six of them – were exiting in lockstep, two columns of three surrounding a seventh figure in an escorting formation. Rayner felt Karl'ac suddenly tenser attitude, although nothing betrayed it visually. The reason was obvious as she scanned the Jaffas' foreheads. She'd studied the Goa'uld enough to recognize the symbol tattooed there. It was Nirrti's seal. So this was whom they were against. The stakes were suddenly rising, considering she had actually put a bounty on Karl'ac's head, to be delivered dead or alive – dead didn't matter as long as his corpse was fresh enough that it could be revived.
The seventh character's appearance was altogether more puzzling. A man, she deduced from his gait and smell, for his body was concealed behind a long black robe of coarse fabric. Long pinched sleeves disappeared inside high gloves of rough black leather. As to his face, it was hidden behind a beaked mask of the same material which immediately brought to her mind the comparison with those physician's masks of centuries past, back when diseases were deemed best cured by bloodletting. Her impression was further reinforced by the strong smell of vinegar and herbs that seemed to imbibe the figure.
The local doctor, she wondered? But something in Karl'ac's minute intake of breath – so tiny only she could hear it – betrayed a reaction of utter surprise in him. She couldn't ask aloud what it was now that they had to stick to their disguise, but she felt that he wouldn't be shocked by a physician's presence in these circumstances.
The Jaffas trotted out and surrounded the trio in a loose semi-circle, not quite pointing their staves at the visitors, but not exactly aiming elsewhere either. The beaked character stopped a staff length away from where Rayner and Karl'ac were standing, with Bald'reek a few paces behind and thankfully keeping to his mute impersonation.
"Greetings, M'lord" Karl'ac saluted with oiled obsequiousness, bending into a theatrical half-curtsy with the hand that wasn't leaning on the walking stick. "I'm Karbas, peddler in trinkets and wonders from the skygods' domains, and" he gestured at Rayner "this is my faithful wife Rina." His chin pointed over his shoulder "and my son, whose brains are unfortunately not as strong as his limbs, but a good obedient lad he is."
"A peddler here." Beak-man's answering tone had a disquieting overtone of incredulity. "Your kind hasn't visited here in ages."
"Karbas" inclined himself again. "It might well be true, M'lord. I was given this world's address by another merchant, many years ago, but the war…" he made a small eloquent flourish with his stick.
"The war" Beakman repeated. "Yes. Thank the gods it's over now. This way we can finally focus on rebuilding our society, free of vice and in a more righteous and brotherly manner."
Rayner didn't like the man's words, nor his suddenly zealous tone. Free of vice, more righteous, huh. Sure sounds like some fanatic's crap.
"Certaily, M'lo-" "And stop calling me lord. I'm but a servant of the people, with guidance from our Brother-Governor Skath and under the eye of our fair lady Nirrti, praise be upon her" the local sternly corrected Karbas the peddler.
"Brother-Governor Skath" Karl'ac repeated, as if unfamiliar with the title – which admittedly was an unheard one in Goa'uld space. But his "wife" had a keener eye. There was another layer in her "husband's" surprise. A contraction of his pupils from shock as he heard the name Skath, as if the name itself was familiar enough, but not in association with such a position.
Beakman stared at the trio of unexpected visitors with eyes narrowed in suspicion. On the one hand such wandering merchants were certainly known to exist. But on the other hand, there was trouble enough enforcing the new order and the plague wasn't making things easier.
"You will wait in the hall while I decide what to do with you" he finally stated.
Sitting cross-legged on the town hall's straw-covered floor, Rayner finally allowed herself to voice out her questions, keeping her words barely above a whisper.
"Who's that Skath then?"
Karl'ac shook his head as though to express disbelief.
"Meerdak Skath. He used to be the master of the gog-farmer guild."
"The gog-farmer guild?"
"The latrine cleaners. The shit-scavengers. As I told you, I had strict sanitary rules. None was allowed to empty their bowels in the streets of my city. I even had a sewer built! Anyway, every house and building must have latrines with a collecting receptacle and the contents of those used to be removed every week by workers from the gog-farmer guild."
"I see. Let me guess – that guild and its workers used to sit at the bottom of the social order?"
"Well, yes, obviously. Who else?"
Rayner didn't bother answering his rhetorical question. She had a good inkling of what might have happened. Disgrunted workers doing a shitty job – literally – and a leader who might have entertained… order-upsetting ideas before a war ousted the established ruler.
Shit-shoveling revolutionaries and a notoriously unhinged Goa'uld. What could go wrong?
Waiting for Beakman's decision inside the gloomy common hall, Rayner didn't feel unduly worried yet. At worst, she could drop those six Jaffa, especially with the element of surprise and doubted their minder would then be more than a bug on the windshield. Then she mulled what to make of the overall situation. Upsetting the established social order always created resentment if not outright hostility. Certainly, it might provide opportunities, but to get a proper grip on those they would have to get out of this dinky forsaken place. If Beakman decided "Karbas" was better sent back to the stargate, well, they'd have to give him the slip.
A sound rose above the threshold of her audition, extremely faint and distant first but rapidly growing louder. She instantly recognized the particular thrumming of a counter-grav engine, a Teltak one specifically. A ship! Was it for them? Bootsteps were striking the ground outside as if they were answering her question. Seconds later the gates were pulled open, allowing daylight inside the hall again. Beakman strode in, followed by a pair of guards. Rayner supposed the rest were still outside, perhaps guarding a landing spot for the incoming ship.
"Well, Karbas. It's been a long time since a merchant was here, and in those trying times you may prove to be a welcome distraction for the people. But your presence would be wasted on forsaken villages such as this one. Since my business here is done, I'm going back to Malabar – our proud capital and seat of the Brother-Governor, I'll make you a favor by bringing you along on my transport."
"Karbas the merchant" immediately and profusely drowned Beakman in thanks. Rayner found herself of two minds about this. They were getting a lift, but also bypassing what might have been profitable opportunities to sound off what the country folk truly thought of "Brother-Governor Skath". At least, Beakman wasn't trying to trick them into coming only to throw them in a dungeon later. She would have caught such a deception. Her sharp senses were as good as a lie detector, mask or not. She also noted how Beakman's speech was revealing a rather elevated mastery of the common tongue instead of the expected patois – his grammar was near perfect and he didn't exhibit the kind of thick accent she'd encountered during their journey so far among such common folks. It was a puzzling fact, in sharp contrast with his supposed origin as a latrine cleaner.
The pyre outside was as dead as its contents. The smell was strong as ever still and the faint breeze was blowing ashes outwards. She caught sight of villagers, half-hiding behind corners and casting furtive glances at the square and its occupants. They were thin and grey-looking – featureless clothing as drab as their hungry appearances, sunken cheeks hinting that they hadn't been eating their fill for weeks at the minimum. Yet the surrounding lands appeared fertile enough – certainly it was fall and the fields were bare, but they should be giving adequate crops otherwise. She suspected the explanation involved the likes of Beakman and their Brother-Governor's policies, but confirmation would have to wait.
The Teltak was only remarkable in contrast to the squalid village and its malnourished, diseased inhabitants. It was otherwise undistinguishable from countless clones plying Goa'uld space. It was hovering just beyond the village's limits. Rayner noticed how the Jaffas kept a vigilant watch on their surroundings – another sign that not all was rosy under Skath's enlightened leadership. And how exactly did it fit in Nirrti's plans, whatever these might be… she still had no idea.
She made a proper show of awe when the transport rings dropped from the ship's belly and surrounded her in a blue-white light. This was godmagic after all. Then she sat in a corner of the hold, a picture of humble, self-effacing feminity in the presence of so many burly and dangerous men. Karl'ac made a similarly convincing act and Bald'reek was Bald'reek. He was a natural at appearing stupid and clueless.
They were not alone in the transport. The pilot, briefly glimpsed through the connecting door to the cockpit was another Jaffa. But another Beakman was there as well, with another pair of guards sporting Nirrti's seal. Adding the bales of grain stacked against the walls of the ship's hold, it made the space rather tight.
Both Beakmen greeted each other in a way that made it obvious that they were used to going on missions at the same time and using the same ship. Rayner noticed the way they bumped a closed right fist against the other's in casual salute. She was willing to bet it came from their guild roots. Then as the ship rose and imperceptibly accelerated away, they happened to engage in familiar chit-chat.
"Who are those?" the second one, who was a head shorter, asked his associate with a sweeping gesture at the foreign trio in a corner.
"A traveling merchant from the Chappai, believe it or not!"
"Good thing you found them. Those deceitful, faithless peasants might have eaten them instead!"
"Blah. They're always hiding and hoarding food, you know it as well as I do." The taller Beakman pointed at the bulging sacks of grain taking up half the space. "And apparently you managed to recover some."
"They volunteered it, actually. To buy Lady Nirrti's grace and be spared the plague."
"Volunteered? You know what this means..."
"They've got more hidden away, yes. I'll report it and come back later with more men. These fat peasants need to learn sharing!"
The picture that exchange painted in Rayner's mind was not something entirely novel – in fact she remembered very well the History classes where she'd learnt about another vanquished bushman state, swallowed by the Domination in the great Eurasian War decades before she was born. She very much doubted Nirrti or Meerdak Skath had ever heard of Lenin and the Soviet Union, but it appeared they were going after their local version of the kulaks. That train of thought made her wonder if that made her Karl'ac's Kolchak.
She shrugged inwardly. Those long-vanished White Russian armies were defeated by their more ruthless and effective enemy. She on the other hand was a Draka, and she didn't intend to lose, ever. Right now she could and did run in her mind multiple ways of taking out every single one of those warriors inside the Teltak with nothing but a knife to start with. But she doubted she would have a need to: weren't they so helpfully sparing her a long trek through blighted countryside?
The inner mirth she felt at this thought died off as a loud BANG crashed through the hull and the Teltak violently shuddered. Its smooth course through the air suddenly became much more erratic and noticeable as the inertial compensation faltered and acrid white smoke began to fill the space. She watched everyone's expression turn into shock and alarm as her stomach dropped – and seconds later the crippled Teltak plowed nose-first into the forest it was serenely overflying a moment before. Its damaged flight systems held just enough, a testament to the ruggedness of Goa'uld engineering, to ensure it was a controlled crash, its tough exterior hull smashing through branches and trunks before it finally came to rest at the end of a furrow of destruction.
As silence descended over the martyred hull, its interior filled with the groans of men violently and unexpectedly thrown about in an enclosed space. A heavy sack of grain catapulted from the opposite wall had narrowly missed Karl'ac, but he appeared otherwise unscathed, only rattled. Bald'reek's carrying frame had similarly protected him although he'd crashed head-first into another of the sacks lining Rayner's side of the hold.
Between the cushioning effect of the grain load and the damaged inertial compensation still managing to shave off gravities from their violent deceleration, Rayner quickly realized it could have been a lot worse as the groans gave way to the complaints and inevitable rounds of "what happened?". None of the Jaffa appeared crippled and both Beakmen, although visibly rattled didn't seem to show life-threatening injuries.
One of the Jaffa, maybe the quickest-thinking one opened the side hatch to allow fresh air and light in, then climbed out. Rayner heard him sliding down the sloping flank of the ship and land feet first on the loam. Another followed, then another until they were all outside. She heard them exchange terse words – check out the ship, establish a perimeter. Sensible, she commented to herself. Ships like this didn't fall out of the sky for no reason.
An instant later her suspicions were validated by the hissing-crack sound of staff weapon fire.
Her first instinct was to rush out and meet the fighting. But this was the Draka in her – her cover identity would cower in fear instead, and so she did, eyes and ears opened as wide as they could.
The hull rang again with impacts, ordinary staff blasts from the sound of it. Shots were going in and out, fired from the Jaffa and whoever was surrounding the crashed ship. From the sounds of it incoming fire was significantly thicker, but the hits on the stricken Teltak were a minority – good thing, she reflected, because even hull plating might be proof against scattered staff shots but there was a limit to everything. She suspected the hit which brought down the craft was from something heavier, maybe a staff cannon. Was another Goa'uld outfit involved?
Shouts – sharp, hoarse ones from the nearby Jaffas, others coming from further away. Screams too, vocal outbursts of shock and agony from those where staff bolts didn't miss their target. Despite her focus it was hard for Rayner to build an accurate representation of the battlespace from sound alone, filtered and funneled through the hull opening. Yet she was quite sure the ambushers were moving closer and spreading out, probably to flank the defenders.
The shorter Beakman hopped to the hatch, cradling a sprained arm, then poked his head out to try and make sense of whatever was happening outside. An instant later his head exploded in a spray of gore that painted the opposite side of the hold the deep red of flash-cooked flesh. As the headless body collapsed bonelessly, Rayner made a mental double-take. This was either a stroke of luck - bad or good depending on the viewpoint - or some quite remarkable aiming skill with the staff. If so, it didn't bode well for the defenders.
Her evaluation was validated as the outgoing fire abated, the defending staff weapons going silent one by one. Five minutes after the crash according to her internal timepiece, although it seemed longer as it happened – typical, she reflected. She was wondering what to make of the remaining Beakman when a small mirrored sphere sailed in through the open hatch, leaving her a second to recognize what it was but no time to do anything about it. The shock grenade activated, filling the enclosed space with unbelievably bright flashing light patterns, spearing in their visual cortex with utter contempt for closed eyelids even as curtains of weaponized sound hammered at auditory nerves like the end of the world. The multisensory assault was fiendishly effective at temporarily scrambling human and symbiote brains and even Rayner's hardened Drakensis nervous system was no immune to its effects, merely harder to knock out. The signal dazed her like a violent uppercut throwing a boxer to the ground to blink at the ceiling lights while her three remaining traveling companions blacked out.
Her consciousness felt like clouded jelly through which the small part of her mind that was still capable of coherent operation sensed new presences coming in. Voices distorted and unintelligible as if she was sitting at the bottom of a pool. Her disconnected body limp as it was dragged then carried up and about – she vaguely recognized the tones of complaining in the disembodied voices bracketing her as they strained to lift her surprisingly heavy frame, her senses progressively creeping back up to full operational status. She knew the effects of the shock grenade from training. In another minute or so her body would shrug off its effects completely, just as they did for zat'niktel discharges. The Domination's bioscience mastery couldn't – yet, she idly mused – make her immune to the Goa'uld less-than-lethal weapons, only reduce the time she was incapacitated.
Despite her strength recovering she let herself be carried between two bearers, allowing them to believe she was still firmly out of it. They dropped her with grunts of relief and she felt grass pressing up on her uncovered wrists, between glove and sleeve. A moment later she felt the choreography of footsteps and the ground-transmitted pulse of her companions' bodies similarly laid to lie in a row. They were breathing, slow and shallow. Now out in the open she could use her ears to count the ambushing party from their voices, breathing, footsteps, heartbeat even. Smells came in to enrich her sightless picture – stale sweat, a hint of woodsmoke stuck on clothing, a faint aroma of flour. The coppery scent of blood was strong as well. There were at least twenty of them, she realized.
Presences coming closer again, bending over her. Callused hands on her wrists brought her hands together then quickly tied them with a rough braided rope. Not much of a worry, she found after they were done, unobtrusively testing the bond. The small cord would snap as soon as she put her strength to it, but in the meantime, they'd carry on believing she was a harmless factor. Her unconscious companions received the same treatment, but the still-breathing Beakman was in for a bad time, from the sounds their captors made.
More noises – bodies being dragged and gathered in place. The dead Jaffas' Rayner surmised. Blades unsheathed quickly sharpened on a whetting stone. Then – wet ripping sounds and strained grunts and the renewed copper scent of blood. She had a pretty good idea of what was happening and found it slightly unsettling.
"Make sure to account for the demons" a female voice shouted. Acquiescing noises answered her. More wet sounds as hands and blades dug inside body cavities. An angry, inhuman hiss cut off with a snap.
Minutes passed before Karl'ac's breath quickened, then Bald'reek coughed. Beakman whimpered then opened his eyes, blinking against the sun's glare spearing through the scattered canopy. Rayner finally allowed herself to make waking noises as well.
She wasn't surprised to open her eyes to the sight of people pointing staves at them – admittedly more at the males, leaving her as an afterthought. Beakman was firmly trussed up and two pairs of arms lifted him to his knees.
Their captors were an interesting group. They were not Jaffa, Rayner immediately understood from their lack of facial tattoo. Their clothing didn't fit either, despite bits and pieces of mail showing here and there over drab, mud-colored vestments. Men, all of them save the one character whose voice she'd heard. That one female was standing in front of the kneeling Beakman, sideways and markedly separated from Rayner and her two companions. The three of them were apparently set aside, which she took as a good sign, for everyone else who'd been in the Teltak was evidently earmarked for a nasty end. The Jaffa at least were already dead when they were dragged there and roped to a thick trunk where they made an upright garland. A very red and glistening one too, for Rayner's interpretation of those earlier ripping noises was spot on. The dead warriors had been rapidly but efficiently flayed. Chest cavities were gaping – in several cases ripped inside, allowing guts to bulge out like pink-red ropes.
In front of that tree, on a carpet made of skin lay a small pile of dead symbiotes, their heads crushed to paste. Rayner inwardly whistled. Whoever these people were, they had at minimum an understanding of what made Jaffa tick. And if they made the connection with the similar organism hiding inside Karl'ac's host body, well, it might complicate matters for him.
Her attention whipped back to the lone female of the group. Like her comrades, her features were concealed by a woolen hat and scarf tied over her face like a mask. She wore the same loose pants and tunic as the rest, her feet encased in supple leather ankle boots. A staff weapon was slung over her back and Rayner did another double-take. The weapon itself was unremarkable, utterly identical to the rest of them. What caught the undercover Draka's attention was the pair of small but oh-so-significant additions secured to the shaft with thin iron bands. One of them was right behind the emitter head, the other about two feet behind on the shaft, not far from the firing stud. The foremost item was a small ring set on a thin, fixed inch-high pole. Aft was another stick-like affair, and the combination would effectively make a crude, but serviceable set of iron sights. The same set-up was visible on several other weapons in the rebels' hands.
Rayner felt like breaking in laughter. There was a band of rebels on the back-end of nowhere who had apparently found a way to shoot more accurately with a staff weapon. Now this explained how the short Beakman's messy end at the ship's hatch might not have been a lucky fluke and how the trained warriors were picked up one by one.
Beakman was struggling against his bonds and trying to stand but the hands would not let him. Apparently, the masked woman was the leader of the ambushers, for she made a small flick of her wrist and Beakman's bird-like mask was ripped away, revealing a rather young but harsh face, pitted with acne scars.
"You're not getting away with this!" he growled. "Scum!" he spat at the woman standing in front of him. "I know who you are, bitch! My brothers will find you and make you pay like the rest of your family!"
Her nostrils flared behind her own scarf, Rayner noticed. Her scent betrayed anger, fury, hatred. Obviously, there was a story of revenge unfolding here among others.
She flicked the fabric down below her chin, revealing a face that was no older than her opposite's. Similarities ended there though. Where the young man's features betrayed a life of hardship ever from the cradle, down to the missing teeth hollowing the front of his mouth; hers sported a fair and delicate foundation where new lines only added character and maturity. Rayner estimated that she must be between sixteen and seventeen, still in possession of all visible teeth. A strand of blonde hair escaped from her woolen hat.
Her lips twisted into an ugly grin, matching the rest of her expression in something that didn't belong to such a young and pretty face. An expression of pure hatred and cruelty. Her left hand shot forward to grasp Beakman's hair and lift his face up. Then she thrusted the index and middle finger of her right hand like a blade straight into her captive's eye. His scream rose like a banshee's and grew even more inhuman as she hooked her fingers inside his eye socket and pulled, gouging the bloody ruin out to hand over his cheek at the end of its raw optic nerve. The long scream died as the young man ran out of breath, then sobbed, only managing to take another lungful of air before his second scream went out along with his remaining eye.
The girl released her grip on his hair and his ruined face hung limp. Not for longer than a couple of seconds, the time she needed to step behind the kneeling form. Her fingers found their purchase in the boy's hair again and drew his head back in place – just as her other hand finished unsheathing a wicked-looking serrated blade. Another scream rose as the locally-forged knife went into the side of his neck and turned into a bubbling squeal.
Rayner forced herself to gasp and retch, since this would the natural reaction of her character, but kept watching the proceeding from the corner of her eye as the rebel girl sliced into her prisoner's neck with a look of savage ecstasy, sawing back and forth until the last strand of skin parted. She turned the disconnected head down and spat inside the bloody ragged hole of his throat, then kicked the decapitated corpse for good measure.
"Go to your so-called god Nirrti's hell then" she spat again at the corpse as a venomous parting message.
Rayner's analytical gaze saw the bead of sweat rolling down Karl'ac's brow and she couldn't help her inner amusement.
Maybe now you wish you never left Galaxy Hotel, do you?
With every Jaffa and representative of the Brother-Governor accounted for in afterlife, the bloodthirsty teenager turned to her remaining three captives. Her flint-like gaze went over them like a scanning beam, but her face was composed again after her savage outburst of violence.
"Now who are you?" she leveled her question at the kneeling Karl'ac, who was to his credit either talentedly acting fear or actually feeling it. From the pheromonal output he was giving, Rayner leaned toward the latter hypothesis. Bald'reek was doing his best impersonation of a boulder, which made her reevaluate his intelligence level a smidge upward. Or maybe it was just his survival instinct kicking in to prevent him from saying anything stupid, the cynical side of her countered.
As to herself, she couldn't help finding the situation exciting. Certainly, her Drakensis blood loved the violence, but her colder analytical side was supporting its outlook. Unless these rebels were themselves augmented, she still had a more than fair chance of taking them all out despite starting unarmed. At the very worst she should be able to escape in the forest. Leaving her two companions behind, sure, but then, sometimes a job just didn't pan out as planned.
"I'm Karbas, a world-traveling merchant… m'lady" the words stammered out of the disguised Goa'uld's mouth. His wide eyes pointed at his two companions in turn. "My wife Rina and Baldek, my mute son." The subtle inflexion on mute coupled with the stare straight into Bald'reek's eyes was thankfully caught by the latter.
"A merchant. I gathered so much from that mess out there" the rebel leader gestured at the trade goods laid out on the grass a distance away and attracting quite obvious glances from her men.
"It is all yours, my lady! If that's your pleasure" Karl'ac sputtered out in the most pathetically subservient voice he could muster, figuring that any lowly peddler caught in such a situation would be groveling to save his life.
A snort answered him. "Don't mistake me for a lowly thief" the young woman retorted, hands on her hips. "I'm fighting for the freedom of my people."
"I… see" Karl'ac cautiously replied, the specter of an immediate and messy death apparently moving away. "Pardon me, my lady, but I was not… aware of the… situation here before I set through the Chappai"
Laughs and chuckles greeted this admission from the rebels. Their leader grinned tolerantly. "Had you known, I figure you would have gone somewhere else, wouldn't you?
Karl'ac nodded emphatically. "Obviously my knowledge about his world was very outdated" he ventured "I was told years ago that Malabon was a quiet, peaceful realm with a well-meaning ruler…"
"You mean under old Karl'ac?" She harrumphed dubiously. "I barely remember myself those times myself but the old folks keep saying it was better back then. Certainly, mad men like Skath used to stay where they belonged, down in the filth." Both Karl'ac and Rayner's mind lit up with a mad men, says the girl who just sliced a young man's head off comment, which they both kept to their inner selves.
On the other hand, whatever pleasure Karl'ac might have felt at hearing his rule being remembered as "better times" vanished with the young firebrand's next words. "Not that it matters. He's been gone for a long time and he was one of those false gods anyway, like Nirrti." Her men spat at the ground to mark their disgust with the planet's current suzerainship. "We won't let anyone of those rule over us ever again!"
"But… the gods are powerful" Karl'ac countered rather lamely.
"False gods!" the girl's eye flashed with anger. "Those… demons have been deceiving us for countless generations! No more!"
"I mean, whatever they are, they wield great power… surely you don't think you will keep their sky palaces at bay with those stolen Jaffa weapons?"
"Karbas" must have made a convincing point, for several of the men shifted uncomfortably. Despite the masks concealing their expression, there was a distinct feeling of wavering as the reminder hit home. But their leader would have none of it. Her eyes lit with fanatical certainty.
"We'll be free or die trying!" she shouted at her captive's face. "But maybe you like the false gods better? Why else would they let you wander about through their magical portal, I wonder? In fact," she bent closer, her eyes narrowing dangerously "someone like you would make a perfect spy for them, now that I think about it!"
The rebel fighters' attitude suddenly shifted as the cowed and innocuous-looking trio became a target for suspicion. Lazy postures precipitously straightened. Hands driven by instinct squeezed the weapons they were carrying so casually a second before.
Rayner tensed as well, heartbeat increasing as adrenaline began to flow through her blood when the mood of their captors turned hostile.
"Look…" Karl'ac tried to argue, spreading the fingers of his bound together hands apart; but he was cut off as the bloodthirsty grin returned to the girl's lips. "Oh yes, why are you here now of all times? Men!" she glanced back at her troops and half of them stepped forward in anticipation of the orders they knew were coming "strip those and tie them to a tree…" she turned to stare at Karl'ac again "we'll… tickle you" the way her eyes were dilated by bloodlust and the cold set of her lips were in blatant contrast with the innocuous-sounding words "until I hear you speak the truth, I think!"
Karl'ac's own eyes dilated in fear and even Bald'reek shifted against his bonds. Time slowed in Rayner's perception. Two rebels were standing a short pace behind. The rest were in front, beyond the native woman. They were not looking at her, no weapon was aimed at her person yet – of course, she was instinctively relegated at the bottom of the threat list. She found this ironic, considering the sex of their own leader.
Their brains were barely beginning to form the nerve impulses involved in shifting limbs into motion and execute the orders they were given when the so-far unremarkable merchant's wife disappeared in a blur. Rayner sprang up and the rope tying her hands snapped as if it was never there. As her body came out of her kneeling position her right foot kicked back into a calculated strike into the closest guard's midsection, rupturing his kidney. Agonizing pain and shock dropped him to the ground screaming a second later. By this time his attacker had switched her weight to her right leg again, danced a half-step laterally and launched a hip-driven sidekick towards the second one, dispatching the man in the same manner before his mouth could form into a O of surprise. While not immediately lethal, she knew the kidney strikes would incapacitate them long enough.
The rest were reacting as if in slow motion in her combat overdrive's crystal clarity perception. Shock was widening the girl's eyes and parting her lips as Rayner's hand closed over the front of her tunic and pulled with the force of a catapult, lifting her off her feet. She gave a strangled cry and found herself an instant later immobilized in a steel vice, her erstwhile captive's knee firmly lodged in her back, an arm encircling her neck and lifting her face up, half-crouching in a way that interposed her own body between her men's weapons and her sudden attacker. Then her eyes grew wide as the sharp point of her own knife poked at her neck and drew a small drop of blood.
The rest of the rebels froze in place, their minds racing to comprehend what had just happened. All they could see was their leader turned into a hostage in the blink of an eye by the very factor they'd so far treated with disdain.
Then Rayner spoke, allowing a hint of her native drawl into the foreign language.
"Ah' dunnn' think so."
The girl twitched, her pheromonal output heavy with rage and fear intertwined. So did her men's eyes, split between the urge to do something and the near-certainty of indirectly killing their leader if they did. Behind, the pair of dropped rebels were whimpering, curled in a fetal position.
"Let's put cards on the tables, shall we?" Rayner continued in her most reasonable tone, underlining her words with a soothing pheromonal stream of her own. She felt it hit the targets. Breathes deepened, heartbeats slowed down. Even the girl in her clutches minutely relaxed.
"It appears we have a common enemy here. Namely Nirrti. So let's be reasonable and talk like adults, yes?" She stared at the standing men, then plunged her gaze down and read defiance still registering in her hostage's blue-grey eyes. "Look, if my goal was to kill you, you would all be dead already. In case you didn't realize it by now, I'm not one of those Jaffa you seem used to fighting."
Her words appeared to sink in as they replayed her lightning-fast moves in their mind. Then the obvious question came out. "Who are you then?"
Rayner showed her teeth in a smile. "Name's Rayna. I'm a warrior from a faraway world, outside the Goa'uld's – those false gods you speak of – sphere of influence."
Her statement triggered a quick deluge of questions in return.
"You mean there are worlds where people are free?"
"What world is that?"
"Why can't we go there?"
"Why are you here?"
"Who are those two with you?"
Her left hand – the one not wielding the knife – uncurled into a "hold" sign. "I'll answer it all, but can we do that not pointing weapons at each other?" The conversational words found their mark and the men relaxed one after another and lifted their weapons, some of them going as far as slinging their staff over their back. In response she removed the point of the blade from the girl's skin and fractionally relaxed her iron grip around her neck, allowing her to breathe more freely. Her eyes were still resentful – it was obvious that she was still peeved at Rayner for stealing the forelight, but she kept quiet.
"My world is free from Goa'uld rule, and its people wield power that rivals them, yes, but it is only one world. So don't expect them to rush here and liberate you. Besides… no offence, but you would not fit there. Trust me, you would only trade a bad situation for another."
"Why?"
"Because coming from a… less advanced society as you do, you wouldn't bring any skill or knowledge that would be valued there. At best, you would end up surviving in the streets, fighting for scraps. At worst, you would end dead so that bandits could scavenge and sell your body parts." She saw the eyes going wide in incredulous shock and raised a placating hand again. "I know it sounds harsh but it's the truth. This universe we all live in is under no obligation to be fair."
"So what you're saying is we're stuck here!"
"Yes, but here you can actually try to make a difference. And my being here means you now have a fighting chance against Nirrti and her minions."
"Why would you fight them in the first place?"
"Because I was hired to."
"By who?"
Rayner grinned.
"By your dear old ruler Karl'ac, of course."
Another outburst of incredulous and stunned exclamations greeted her admission. Capping it came the expected "he's a false god too! No way he'll lord over us again!" hiss from the hotheaded girl. Karl'ac remained wisely silent.
"True. He's a Goa'uld. But," Ann went on "unlike most of them, he did get a healthy dose of humility crammed down his nose. And he's been exiled on my world where his… perception of things adjusted. As a matter of fact" she glanced at the kneeling "merchant" and nodded "if I thought he was just as bad as someone like Nirrti, I wouldn't have accepted to help him."
"We only have your word about that!"
"And you don't know yet how much my word is worth, I know."
"You almost killed my men!" ground out the rebel girl. She was obviously still worked up about losing the deciding role and so Rayner answered with an even calmer tone.
"Again, if I wanted to kill them, we wouldn't hear them whimper right now. I only needed to put them out of the fight. They'll be pissing blood a few days but they'll live."
The rebels were shuffling on their feet, still unsure. One of them voiced his objections again in a sullen voice.
"So what? You're saying we should risk our lives to oust Nirrti's lackeys so that Karl'ac gets to lord over us like before? No way!"
A chorus of "Aye" and "That's right!" underscored his statement. A triumphant smile spread on the girl's face and she stared at her captor from the corner of her eye with a "gotcha!" expression. It was time for a little more world-explaining, reasoned the Draka operative.
"I understand your feeling" she said with utmost sincerity. "But let's be realistic here. Assuming you manage to win – that is, fight off the Jaffa garrison and get rid of Skath – then what happens? What's stopping Nirrti from returning?"
"We'll bury the Chappai!"
"And Nirrti will return aboard her flying palace and rain fire down to burn every city and every village."
"Then we ambush her… and kill her too!"
"Even if you managed to pull that off, your world lies deep in Goa'uld space. As soon as her death is noticed, another one will come around to seize her territory."
She saw the defiant faces almost comically deflate as they considered the conundrum she'd helpfully laid open. She also didn't miss the irony of herself, a Draka advising feral rebels on the best way to overthrow their overlords. Or more accurately, choose the best between two forms of servitude.
She stifled a laugh hearing the exasperated, subvocalized "shit!" coming from her hostage, as even her teenage hotheadedness couldn't ignore the obvious no matter how she wished things conformed to her biddings.
"At least you can choose the demon you know" Rayner paused imperceptibly as her superhuman senses caught the silent "ha, ha, so funny" and the subtle eyeroll coming from Karl'ac. "And like I said, he's definitely improved since he was last here."
Snorts came back, then a mocking "So he won't just sit his fat ass on his gilded throne and expect us to worship him?"
Rayner arched her brow. "Well, you can ask him directly."
The man's eyes widened as the planet's previous ruler, still bound and kneeling flashed his own eyes and spoke again in his deep resonant Goa'uld voice.
"Indeed, I don't expect you to kneel before me and call me your god any more. But just so you know, my ass isn't fat."
There was a palpable lull as eyes wide as saucers converged on the planet's former ruler and strained to recognize him under the disguise. Using the small blade hitherto concealed in his wide cuff, he deftly cut through the cord tying his wrist and slipped the kara'kesh he'd worn as a bracelet – suitably altered to look like the kind of cheap jewelry such a character would wear – back onto his hand in a fluid motion. The look of relish that spread on his borrowed features when his mind reconnected with the familiar device could not be faked, not was the tell-tale shimmer of the personal shield that flickered into existence like a soap bubble. Nothing so fancy as the exquisitely-tuned defensive systems owned by the System Lords – such things were far above his rank – but it could at least stop a few staff blasts.
He rose on his feet, careful not to make a swift movement that might be construed as hostile, then reached down the collar of his shirt, found the thin, invisible edge of his facial prosthetic, hooked his nails underneath and delicately pulled the synthetic second skin off. As sophisticated and breathable as the material was, it felt good to let his real skin out in the open. He couldn't help finding the stunned expressions of his former captors rather satisfying.
"For the record" he added with deliberate casualness "I may not be an actual god, but I could have killed you all too if I wanted." This, he was too honest with himself to ignore that it wasn't entirely true, but it nevertheless soothed his ego and established a suitable impression, he reasoned. A second later his satisfied expression melted.
"I'm a dangerous warrior too!" Bald'reek chose to break his mute impersonation. He was still tied though and shuffled to his feet with the grace of a pig rising up from a roll in the mud. He grinned at the rebel girl, exposing rows of brown uneven teeth and she shuddered in disgust. A cold stare from Rayner stopped his eyes from obviously undressing the local girl and made him close his mouth abruptly.
"This… is Karl'ac's last loyal Jaffa" she explained with a neutral expression. "Accordingly, I had to bring him along." The curious glances and twitching lips told her most of the rebels caught the "even if he's useless" subtext. Even the girl in her lap shifted and close as she was, there was no hiding the gist of her thoughts to the Drakensis' senses. A flash of amusement at seeing the former master of her world reduced to this, then cold calculation. Rayner waited for the words she sensed were coming out.
"Fine. We do seem to share a common enemy and you" she stared at the Goa'uld "might actually be worth the air you breathe. Enough reasons not to kill each other, perhaps, Rayna" the girl's lips curved into a smile that actually reached her eyes, even though it didn't raise the temperature a single degree. There were too many dark undercurrents in that mind of her, Rayner sensed.
A nasty little viper, this one, she made a note to herself. I better watch her carefully.
A moment later they all filed out into the forest – laden with sacks of grain from the downed ship. Rayner wondered how long it would take for the garrison to send for the missing transport. Again, she reflected on the Goa'uld paradox. They wielded considerable power and technology so advanced it might pass as magic. And yet most products of their technology showed flaws that were obvious to anyone with a similar background to hers. Like transport craft that didn't come equipped with the kind of transponder taken for granted on every technological world she knew. Domination, Tollan or Hebridean flying hardware down to the humblest aircar had transponders and datalinks. Any accident or malfunction was instantly shared with the traffic authority, help would be dispatched if necessary – or if the owner could afford it, in Hebridea's case.
If the downed Tel'tak had been a Domination military transport, the pilot would have been drilled to call a mayday even as he tried to crash-land. The transponder would have switched to its emergency setting on its own. A reaction force would already have arrived on the spot and ghouloons would be running down the attackers' trail. No such thing here. It was head-shakingly stupid, she thought. But then she knew enough by now to realize the Jaffa weren't the actual System Lord military, merely tin soldiers and enforcers. Their true strength lay elsewhere. In the motherships' near-impenetrable shields and heavy cannons, for a conspicuous and conventional form. Or the sneaky and unconventional ways she's heard about, mostly indirectly. Like how Hebridean medical cyberware and synthetic immune systems included countermeasures against Goa'uld-designated bioweapons, buried deep in their specifications and coding, missed by all but the deepest technical analysis. Something she'd learned after she acquired that technical data at a hefty cost for the Domination's benefit. She suspected the data had come as an unpleasant surprise back home, in the secret laboratories of Virunga. It had been her assessment, in the report that accompanied her stolen data, that Hebridean medical science was at least on par with the Domination's, having chosen to push down the cyber-enhancement route rather than extreme genetic engineering as her people did. She had often wondered what the powers in Archona made of it. Maybe old Shrakenberg was actually managing to shift the Domination onto a less universally belligerent path. Maybe she wasn't the lone vanguard of another future devastating war.
Her inner musings fluttered away as a new and familiar smell reached her nostrils. They were walking down a narrow ravine, water splashing under their feet so as to erase any trail the garrison Jaffa could follow. Ten minutes later the column turned up the stream's mossy bank and the smell grew stronger, though still only to Rayner's nose.
Then she heard the faint distant sound of a pair of Deathgliders slicing through the air and hesitated to tell the rebel girl walking in front of her about it. Eventually she decided against it. The fighters were not a threat – even if they were flying much closer, their pilots would have trouble spotting the rebel column underneath the tree canopy, with their drab skin-covering clothes an effective form of camouflage. The Goa'uld fighters' sensors were again superbly advanced hardware… with a stultified functional viewpoint. They were set to find and target other ships and advanced power sources and allow uneducated operators to navigate through the immensity of space without getting hopelessly lost – in short, they were another typically Goa'uld schizophrenic application of technology, leaving its operator to rely on his Mark 1 eyeball to search for people on the ground.
No, better she keep the extent of her abilities to herself for now. Which was why she acted all surprised when they rounded a bend in the forest's mazelike broken ground and found the waiting horses. Small horses or large ponies of no breed Rayner could recognize, unsurprisingly. Watching over them were four other sturdy-looking rebels and as she saw the staff cannon neatly broken down for transport, barrel on one side and folded tripod on the other near the ponies, she understood this was the team who'd actually shot down the Tel'tak.
Their own surprise at seeing the newcomers was quickly answered by a short explanation from their leader, eliciting the expected exclamations of disbelief before Karl'ac congratulated them on a job well done in his Goa'uld voice. Which naturally raised another round of shocked reactions.
Rayner watched it all with a faint smile, having removed her own prosthetic mask on the way but keeping her cloak's hood up and a barrier of neutering pheromones around. She didn't need to make them all horny just now.
The rendezvous was merely a stop on the way. The heavy sacks went over the ponies' backs, the sturdy little beasts valiantly taking the load with patient stolidness. Every Draka, even a urban dweller knew something about farming and husbandship and Rayner couldn't help thinking of those robust little steeds that once bore the khans' armies across Eurasia.
Conversations rose quietly between the rebels – their content all too obvious as they centered around Karl'ac's return. There were reservations and wariness but at least no outright promises of violence, apparently the men were prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Which really was the best she could expect.
"Nice job on the Tel'tak" having drifted closer to the four men of the staff cannon team, she quietly spoke the comment in an off-hand way. They greeted her observation with quiet grins and the closest one turned an almost mischievous brown eye at her.
"Hope you weren't too scared?"
She held his gaze with laughing eyes. "A boring flight suddenly turned very exciting. But really, I'm amazed that you managed that ambush. A flying craft like that isn't an easy target."
The flattering comment was received with the expected appreciation mixed with the instinctual drive to show off in front of an attractive woman.
"They always fly in a straight line. We knew where they were going and positioned ourselves accordingly" the man chuckled. "But to be honest, it wasn't the first attempt. Only this time they flew right overhead and we could take the shot."
"I see" she nodded "you didn't want to betray your presence for no result."
"Exactly so. Wanted to be certain of shooting it down, leave them no chance to escape and call for help!"
"Very wise" Rayner said with an appreciative curl of her lip. "I wouldn't have done it differently."
She felt the weight of curiosity and doubt gazing at her. These men didn't actually see her move and fight. Her being a warrior was not something they could take for granted yet.
"Have you killed a Jaffa before?" another of the four suddenly asked without entirely concealing the tinge of skepticism in his tone.
Memories of her escape from Barshan's clutches flashed through her mind. She answered in a level voice that nevertheless left no room for doubt.
"With my bare hands while escaping the palace of a Goa'uld underlord who'd been torturing me to death and reviving me several times."
She felt their attention snap back to her, their minds fighting between disbelief and the conveyed assurance in her voice that dared them to express any misgivings. Something their deep-buried instincts, the lizard brain warned against.
"How did you end up his prisoner?"
"After a city-busting explosion threw me several hundred yards through the air to smash into another forest, leaving me dead and helpless."
"Wait, he revived you with… godmagic?"
"Yes, though there's nothing divine about it."
"Huh" was all the man had to reply.
"So, um" the third one observed "I suppose you had reasons to hate the false gods too."
She smiled slyly in response. "Well, the first time I met your old ruler in exile and he revealed himself to be one of them, I almost slit his throat with a piece of broken glass."
This finally made them snort and chuckle and she felt their reluctance slip away at last, unconsciously granting her an equal standing to theirs.
It was late afternoon and the sun was climbing down its perch, casting long rays through the canopy to spear at ferns and moss-covered rocks. The terrain was becoming increasingly uneven. Mounds became low hillocks, they were coming up the first slopes of a series of hills cutting through the plateau, Rayner realized as she reviewed local topography from early planning sessions. It was certainly a good place to hide a guerilla as long as the opposing force didn't go through the effort of a massive ground sweep. Maybe the garrison didn't have the numbers or inclination for that.
Another stream running at the bottom of a gully, they followed it upstream through a narrow pass. The water was clear but freezing cold – glacier run-off, had to be. The gully was shielding them from observation from any angle save directly above.
She scented the settlement long before it was in sight. Sentries and their sweat. Wood smoke, very faint. Cooking food, which made her stomach growl.
A bird cry rose from an artfully concealed position. Another answered from the column. No alarm was raised as sentries and returning guerillas exchanged the proper signals, then another bend was rounded and the cave mouth gaped into view.
The brook was spilling down a small series of chutes and the walking path followed an ascending curve that let the laden ponies safely up through the cave's threshold. It had to be an underground river system, the offworld mercenary understood. An even more perfect place to hide with access to clean water, shielding from all but the most intensive scans. She was willing to bet that it had multiple exits as well.
She realized she'd been right as the fissure swallowed the rebel column then widened after several bends. Rayner found herself inside a large room that doubled as a stable of sorts – wicker panels on wooden stands partitioned a paddock. The ponies went there to be greeted by welcoming neighs from siblings. A young boy handled them and the beasts greedily chomped on the proffered hay.
Similar welcomes, sans neighing greeted the returning humans and the newcomers finally got a good view of their newest allies. Rayner was hardly surprised to discover that most of the stay-at-home were women and a handful of children. Predictably, the females wore sensible utilitarian dresses and aprons with dashes of color here and there in a display of feminine coquettishness, although the faint light afforded by lamps and the occasional light shaft coming from a crack in the ceiling didn't do them justice. That and most were verging on crone status, the newcomer observed. Crone here might mean forty Terran years, of course. The strands of silver escaping from the ubiquitous headscarves were telling enough. The clothing, the physiques, all pointed to the kind of life peasants used to live everywhere on Earth before the Industrial Revolution swept them all. Only details pointed at the uniqueness of this particular culture here. Even the accent, the devolved Goa'uld patois told this story, coming from mouths framed by uneven or missing teeth.
Shitspawn, the Domination assuming control here would be an improvement. Rayner shook her head. Her newfound consciousness might protest, but at least the Draka brought modern healthcare. As liberal as her worldview might have shifted since her multiple occurrences of cheating with Death – the SD would no doubt call it "traitorous" if they fully knew, she had no doubt about that – there was no denying the sad reality of the universe, she told herself. Someone was always in charge. That someone might as well be one who cared.
In the following hour introductions were made, stories were told and shoulders were slapped. It was obvious that Karl'ac relished being the center of attention again and it was equally as obvious that Marta – as the rebel girl finally introduced herself to them – resented this. Her dark stares any time one of her folks addressed their erstwhile ruler with a look of ingrained deference were telling enough and in proper teenager fashion, she didn't even try to hide them. Rayner would have found the show funny, if not for the stakes and the demonstrated ruthlessness of their host.
The cavern didn't exactly sport a proper dining room. The kitchen was a connected cave where several airshafts helped dissipate fire smoke. It was the domain of the women, who made abundantly clear whenever one of the men tried to sneak in for an illicit treat. When dinner came it predictably was not a formal affair. The rebels went to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of stew and flat bread leaves. So did the newcomers, then Rayner and Karl'ac sat on conveniently flat limestone outcroppings to have a go at their own dishes. Bald'reek was out and about on his own, no doubt trying to sniff panties or the lack thereof, having noisily polished his own bowl.
Rayner eyed her dish with a dubious pout. The stew reminded her of a thin porridge in which swam traces of meat. Despite the cooks' effort to season it with wild herbs, it wouldn't win any cooking prize. She supposed it was standard fare for the locals, and dipping the bread in would suitably fill a normal belly. But she wasn't standard fare and her metabolism screamed for something more substantial. Fortunately, she'd noticed enough hints to the presence of game in the forest and made herself a promise to have a little hunting session later, both for her and her hosts' benefit.
She was going to dip her bread in when she heard Marta's footsteps approaching. She was chewing on her first mouthful when the woman indeed took a seat opposite her own. A part of her was amused to see that Her Bloodthirstiness was obviously making an effort not to sulk away – and the sensible part welcomed the opportunity to assuage the girl's fears before they became something dangerous.
"This is good" she began, pointing at the bowl with her chin "simple but good." It never hurt to compliment the host's cuisine, she reasoned.
Marta arched a skeptical brow. "It's not much. With Nirrti's Jaffas confiscating much of the grain from the villages… and we can't exactly grow food here." Rayner nodded. None of these people could be described as fat. All showed the lean physique of field laborers, thinned even more by the rigors of fighting a guerilla. Marta herself was thin and wiry, albeit it was obvious to the Drakensis' examination that she came from a different background. Her hands didn't show yet the kind of wear expected from a peasant girl, nor did her skin, or her teeth, all of them present and accounted for. Recent privations thinned her body but until then she'd eaten a suitably filling fare. In short, Rayner's mind concluded with an almost embarrassing pang of lust, the girl was attractive, but she uncharacteristically shut down the sudden heat that threatened to spread from between her thighs with a firm mental shake. Oh sure, she could easily steer the girl into spreading her legs for her, but right now she suspected it would only complicate the situation. Besides, the girl's crazy and I don't need crazy right now!
Marta dipped her bread into the stew, not exactly daintily, yet with more grace than did the rest of her band, another clue as to her different upbringing. She appeared content to munch on her meal alongside the two off-worlders, but her heartbeat was just that little bit elevated. She was tense and trying to hide it, acting cool and unconcerned. Rayner decided to be helpful.
"I think there's some game in those forests. I might be able to hunt some, add to the larder here" she offered, keeping the and get my full quota of calories to herself.
"That… would be helpful" reluctance and relief mixed in Marta's voice. The girl had a hard time still accepting outside help. "But didn't you come all the way here to hunt another prey?" she asked in a sharper tone than she fully intended before nearly biting her lip. Rayner pretended she didn't notice it.
"I did" her lip curled to reveal a sharp canine.
"But you didn't bring any weapons" Marta's frown was almost accusatory.
"Killing Jaffas is something I can do very well bare handed" she wiggled her fingers, picked a small block of limestone and squeezed. The stone audibly cracked, then crunched in her hand and Marta's eyes snapped incredulously saucer-like. Her mouth opened but no sound managed to come out. Gravel fell through the Draka's fingers as her eyes twinkled. "As you can see, I'm more than merely human. But I do have weapons on my space ship."
"You have a sky chariot… then, why…"
"Why did I come through the Chappai instead? Well, because traveling through the ring is instantaneous. My ship will take weeks to fly through the starry void here. I intended to use that time to scout out the place and formulate a plan not only to eliminate Nirrti's men, but also to make sure they never come back."
"I see" Marta blinked. That was always the step where her dreams came to a stop. Ambush Jaffa she could do. Infiltrate the town and slit the throat of the Brother-Governor's men, she could, and did. But even her restless mind had to pause when she contemplated the obvious: the false goddess Nirrti, her magic and her sky palace, despite having only ever seen it once, when she was still a child. The Ha'tak hovering over a city was an ominous sight, so big that it was blotting the sun out, its dark underside speckled with unnaturally steady lights. Then smaller sky chariots erupted out of its cliff-like flanks and screamed over the streets, faster than the fastest bird she'd ever seen. It was a display of power that she simply could not forget, as it was intended.
But this stranger… if she had a sky chariot of her own, if Karl'ac used his own magic alongside them… Why then, her rebellion had a chance. Her family would be avenged… She would slit Meerdak Skath's throat and watch him drown in his own blood too. But only after she made him truly suffer. She blinked again and her faraway stare switched back to the male sitting in front. Another false god, the barely-remembered lord her father used to mention sometimes. He too used to dwell in a sky palace… yet he was now down in the same cave as her, eating the same stew as she did, wearing clothes that any commoner might wear. Even joking like they were old acquaintances.
"And you" her eyes suddenly bore into him "what's your plan?"
Karl'ac finished chewing his latest stew-soaked morsel of bread, swallowed then returned the stare with a knowing smile. "My plan… assuming we manage to get rid of Nirrti and her lackeys… well, the years I spent in exile, out there in Rayna's world, it had me thinking, you know. There are many things I would like to improve, turn this world here into something more fitting of its people's true potential."
Marta snorted. "Are you promising us sky chariots of our own?"
Karl'ac shook his head. "This isn't something I can promise with honesty. And… there are many leaps your people would have to take before they're ready to wield that kind of power for themselves, not merely wield it but truly understand it." He quickly rose a placating hand as Marta's eyes blazed. "All I mean is the knowledge involved is way beyond how to best till a field or milk a cow. Ask Rayna!"
She nodded sagely and invisibly made a pheromonal contribution to quieten the quick-tempered girl. "He's right. It took my people many generations to reach the level where we could build our own sky chariots and travel the stars."
Having forestalled Marta's upcoming outburst Karl'ac continued. "Then there's the other problem." He waved at the sky. "My fellow Goa'uld, especially those of a higher status, those we call the System Lords. My overlords. You see, one thing they absolutely hate is subject people growing bolder and wiser and turning rebellious. Not only would they burn this world to a crisp if they caught us… They would also torture me in the most agonizing ways they know, and trust me they're very imaginative. Torture me to death, then revive me with magic and torture me again. And again." He let the realization percolate through Marta's mind. "They'd make an example of me to deter the rest from trying the same."
"That's horrible!" the girl said, forgetting her own distrust of Karl'ac for an instant.
"Yes, and that's why we'll have to play the aftermath very cautiously. But we're not there yet."
"And it's nice to dream of sky chariots" Rayna chimed in "but there are more immediate benefits we can bring to your people. Healing the sick. Better and hardier crops. Things that will help your people recover from Skath's plunders, then make them stronger and healthier without giving away anything to the System Lords."
Seconds went by as the native girl's mind settled, having had her limited worldview both upset and radically expanded at the same time.
"Tell me what you need" eventually came out of her mouth.
"To start with, tell me everything that happened in those years after Karl'ac fled."
Marta reached for her goatskin flask, uncorked it and took a long swig of water as if she was expecting to be talking for a long time. A series of swallows traveled down her exposed throat before she put the flask down and brushed the back of her hand against her lips in a display of animal neatness. The girl's blue-grey eyes stared in the distance as her mind replayed events pasts and her chest fluttered with a rapid intake of breath. After a moment her vacant stare returned to the real in time with her settling heartbeat. Her toe unconsciously scratched at the dusty ground, almost unseen in the rapidly darkening cavern.
"I remember watching the lights in the sky… we all were" she began. Her entire family – the entire city, in fact were out in the open despite it being the middle of the night, necks craned up to stare at the heavens where the gods were battling it out in the sky chariots and sky palaces, flinging bolts of divine fire at each other like outwordly meteors. The fireworks were short enough – listening to her recollection, Karl'ac remembered the hopelessness of it all too well. The next battle, the one for his last star system had ended with his crazy flight to that distant hostile world from which he'd escaped only by the skin of his teeth after witnessing Ra's long dead body. A momentous secret which he'd so far kept only to himself despite the temptation of selling it to the Hebrideans. In part a remnant of racial loyalty, for it ran against any Goa'uld instinct to have free non-Goa'uld worlds cooperating together; in part because deep down he'd always caressed the hope of one day returning to those unknown regions now that Ra wasn't jealously lording over them anymore. Something he couldn't do without a fleet. And to have a fleet, he needed a realm to exploit, naquadah to mine and trade with those of his species who possessed those jealously-guarded shipyards and techno-seeds. These were distant dreams anyway and he mentally shook himself up, turning his full attention back to Marta's story.
More meteors streamed down the sky in the following hours as deorbiting debris consumed themselves in Malabon's atmosphere. The planet's denizens were fortunate. Most pieces weren't large enough to survive the downward journey. The few that were, hit deserted areas, far from any settlement.
Then it was over save for the talking and the following weeks were only troubled by fierce discussions on the meaning of that fire rain. The world otherwise went on living the same as it had generation after generation. Sure, priests took advantage of the vivid display to rekindle the faith – with dire warnings pertaining to divine wrath. The remaining Jaffa went on maintaining order, and everyone else continued plying their trade, observing traditions and pursuing petty squabbles, or petty they thought. Despite a general sense of foreboding, fields had to be tilled, seeds had to be planted, crops had to be reaped, grain had to be milled, bread had to be baked or everyone would have far more pressing issues – generally described as "starving". The palace scribes went on levying taxes – their bureaucratic minds safe in the belief, never proven wrong, that it didn't matter the particular ruler, taxes had to be paid. So endured their customary headbutting with the guild representatives, to whom it was just as customary to argue and squabble over the weight of said taxes - always backbreaking, naturally.
Above them the palace mayor dutifully arbitrated them all in the absence of their actual lord, feeling his own hair grow whiter in the process and praying every night that said lord would return and take charge.
So did life go on across all four worlds of Karl'ac's vacated domain with little contact between them. None of the other three was remotely as populous as Malabon, but all were relatively self-sufficient thanks to their very primitiveness. None of them had a warning for what was about to come.
It took approximatively two months before the rest of the universe knocked at the door again. One morning the villagers neighboring Malabon' stargate woke up to the barks of Jaffa – but those bore an unfamiliar sigil, the one they later came to learn as the infamous Nirrti's. Staves crashed down on crude doors. Burly arms pushed and shoved with barefanged contempt. Cries of protestation rose, cut off by slaps in the face that left red welts on humiliated expressions. Indignant cackles rent the air as invading hands rummaged through chicken coops and snatched freshly laid eggs for a quick snack. An earpiercing wail cut through a hovel's dry mud wall, followed by more slaps and angry shouts. Then it was loud sobbing and wet slapping noises. The squad pillaging that particular shack had found one of the village's nubile girls and were busy demonstrating how little they cared for the locals' dignity and honor. Besides, such things were customary in war, weren't they? They didn't even strive to be particularly brutal once the girls legs were open and her initial resistance overcome – they merely didn't care about anything save their own pleasure. In time, the girl recovered from the injury, though her honor didn't. Nobody was surprised when her belly swelled a couple months later. Nor did anyone lend much of a hand to the new mother and her bastard child, not when they were having greater troubles themselves. Not long after the new plague came did the village's burial ground sport two fresh graves, dug not even a week apart. One of them was tiny. They wouldn't be the last.
By the time the city dwellers learnt of the villagers' woes and the unnamed sullied girl, the troubles had caught up with them. The village invaders were but a vanguard. More Jaffa came through the gate – a tiny invading force by the standards of the war raging throughout the Goa'uld domain, but more than enough to overpower the remaining garrison with the benefit of air support. The defenders made a valiant stand before a volley of energy bombs dropped in the wake of an Al'kesh squadron, incinerating them along with their fortified position.
Some pillaging followed. More girls lost their honor the following night as victory-drunk warriors made no difference between professional whore and honest woman. Some jewelery and precious sundries forcibly changed hands. But Nirrti's Jaffa could be said to have shown commendable restraint, for at the end of the night the dead could be counted on one hand and no building was on fire.
The palace mayor was executed the next day. It wasn't that the Jaffa Third Prime in charge of the invasion had a particular grudge against the man, but it was a quick and demonstrative way to establish the change in ownership. At least the hapless mayor was granted a quick death. A point blank shot at the back of the head left him no time to suffer. His dead body rolled on the hastily erected platform so that the crowd could witness the change, if the Jaffa standing guard all around, weapons held level at them wasn't enough of a reminder.
This episode wasn't something Marta was an eyewitness of. Her parents had sensibly left the children at home that day even if they couldn't avoid the show themselves. Her elder sister was left in charge of watching the younglings – she remembered how nervous Nirta had acted that day, coming down on the younger kids like a hawk whenever they made a noise, as if the Jaffa would barge in at the first signal. In retrospect, she realized much later, Nirta had been lucky to escape being raped the previous night and was mature enough to know it. No wonder her sister was deathly afraid of attracting attention.
Little did she know attention would eventually catch up with her family in the worst possible way.
Marta ran fingers through her hair and yawned in the dark. With natural light gone, what little illumination existed came from the scattered braseros that granted a small measure of heat and light. Little groups were clumped around them across the cave's volume. Some of Marta's people were still awake and trading stories in low voices or playing games. Most appeared to be sleeping already, their steady breathing a soothing background noise in Rayner's ear. These people didn't have her engineered senses. Once the sun was down and with little artificial light to be found, their motivation to stay up was largely gone as well. These bushmen – Rayner couldn't help the traditional Draka word for what the rest of the world used to call guerrilleros or freedom fighters from surfacing in her mind – had a wearisome day as well. She suspected most of them would sleep like rocks. Perhaps the skinless corpses of their enemies would pester them in nightmares, or not.
She spoke before Marta resumed her story. "We can continue tomorrow if you like."
Another half-stifled yawn seemed to preempt whatever reservations the Malabonian native might have entertained against admitting fatigue.
"Fine" she breathed out, put her hands on her knees and pushed herself up. "It's been a long day." She turned back after a couple steps away. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Rayner watched her receding back – she must know the cave's topography very well, but still made her way carefully in the dark, as much to avoid tripping as to spare the sleeping folk any unwanted exclamation of pain or surprise. Unsurprisingly, the girl didn't join the clumps of sleepers who were sharing communal beds of straw and leaves overlaid with rough woolen blankets and fur quilts, further adding to the medieval vibe of the place. Individual bedding would be an unheard-of luxury in those parts. Just like peasant families on Earth used to share a single bed, those natives must be used to sharing sleeping accommodations and body heat. Their noses were fortunately inured to the smells as well. Infrequently-cleaned fabrics gave off an almost sheep-like odor. Unwashed bodies clumped together bathing in an olfactory cocktail of sweat, farts and halitosis. That city girl must have had a more sheltered upbringing, maybe even her own bed and the luxury of regular hot baths. How she came to lead this ragged band of militia – a reasonably effective one to boot – was a story Ann was eager to hear.
"Well, we should try to sleep too…" she heard Karl'ac lean sideway to whisper in her ear and felt his hand land on the small of her back, almost eliciting a snort out of her. Thor's balls, the Goa'uld could be almost as frisky as her own kind.
"Yes. Sleep". She accentuated the last word with a heavy dose of sarcasm, her heightened senses unneeded to tell her about her companion making his best impression of sad puppy eyes. "Stay here while I pick our sleeping gear and a suitable spot." A Goa'uld might have perfect vision by ordinary human standards but this was still far beneath her own. She didn't need him stumbling around in the dark and spraining an ankle or worse, stepping on someone's face.
She recovered their rolled mats near Bald'reek's carrying frame, incidentally finding him sleeping like a child next to it. She would have expected him to try and snuggle next to a local female, but then these were probably called for already.
The place she picked for bedding was a suitably flat spot near the back of the cave and conveniently concealed by parallel rows of chest-high stalagmites. Near absolute silence was only broken by the faint murmur of water that came from a nearby crevice and the water droplets falling down from the tip of matching stalactites with metronomic regularity. Karl'ac used a faint glow from his kara'kesh as a torch while he unrolled his mat and removed his exterior layers of clothes, wrinkling his nose as the collar of his shirt went over his head. The small reaction didn't escape his perceptive companion, eliciting a small unseen grin at his fastidiousness. By necessity Drakensis had a higher tolerance to odors – or giving them an olfactory sense rivaling a dog would have been a curse. And while the Draka enjoyed taking long baths as much as the ancient Romans it was tempered by the necessities of field marches and outdoor military training.
She quickly unlatched her belt and unlaced her overdress then stepped out of it and left it crudely folded on the ground. Her underdress followed, leaving her wearing only the linen chemise that acted as underwear. The cave's air was on the chill side of fresh and accordingly damp, her bare legs erupted in goosebumps and she gratefully thrust herself under the heavy quilted blanket. Yes, she could bear cold just fine, but it didn't mean she had to like it. She was happy to curl in a fetal position under the heat-retaining cover with only the top of her head protruding, congratulating herself again for including some decidedly non-primitive metamaterial layers inside the outwardly low-tech mats so that they actually expanded when unrolled, providing added cushioning and isolation. The covers shifted as her companion inserted himself between the linked bedding layers and his body warmth reached her skin even before he made spooning contact. Her lip curled up happily – the physical contact was altogether comforting in those primitive circumstances, but she suspected he wouldn't stop at merely sharing animal heat. Her suspicions were instantly validated as he shifted himself to fully match her contours and his right hand reached over her flank to cup a breast over the thin fabric. She gave a low groan of mock exasperation and wiggled her butt as if to escape his clutch. His answer came in a warm breath over her neck and fingers pushed away a strand of hair. Teeth delicately nibbled at her ear. She tried to emit another growl but this time she had to admit it sounded suspiciously like a purr, which visibly encouraged the fingers of his other hand to close over her nipple and twist it ever so, just like he'd come to know she enjoyed it. A sigh of willing resignation escaped her lips and she twisted her face back, offering her mouth for a deep kiss. His tongue darted in seemingly off her own volition and she sucked it in just like the way she knew sparked electric tingles all down his body.
His knee slid between hers and she entwined her own leg back over his, allowing his upper thigh to rub over her rapidly liquefying parts. She wasn't alone getting engorged, felt the tell-tale hardening pressing on her lower back.
She broke the kiss and rolled on her back, forcing him to extract himself from her legs if only temporarily, and laid a warning hand on his chest. "There are people around!" she whispered despite being all too aware that such a thing usually didn't deter a Draka from doing the deed if they felt like it.
"So what? They're asleep, they won't hear us" came the all-too-rational rebuke. Besides, his fingers had managed to cling onto her breast and resumed their ministrations, undermining any shred of reluctance she might have summoned. Her own sigh signaled her surrender eloquently enough before it was smothered by another tongue-swapping kiss. She didn't have to worry about allowing him access to the back of her throat – any Goa'uld symbiote who attempted to turn her into their host would find it a very unpleasant, if not lethal experience, and that was assuming they even made it past her teeth in one piece.
Her own fingers traced a line across his chest down and closed around his fully-awoken state, measuring the satisfying girth of it and flattering it with soft, feather-light strokes that left it questing for more as if it had a mind of its own. She felt him poised to swing over her but she had something else in mind. Her own strength preempted and countered his move and she ended up on top of him, legs straddling his hips, hands planted on both sides of his head, having discarded the chemise in a swift motion. Her smile hovered above him like a whitish ghost in the dark and he obediently let himself be driven in the sure expectation of coming pleasure. He raised his own hands to probe in absolute darkness, found the hanging fruits, kneaded and twisted so as to elicit a soft moan out of her. His lips found her nipple and sucked at the same time as her hand reached down and closed around his twitching flesh to aim it just right. She lowered herself fractionally, bringing sword and sheath in contact. His eyes widened on their own as the feel of her liquid warmth registered on his nerves, then again when her hand reached up to the back of his head and pulled him out of suckling. He knew better than to resist the fingers locked over his hair as they forced him down on the flat pillow. Her own breath followed and her mouth clamped over his again to stifle his instinctual gasp when her legs flexed with almost machine precision, allowing his lance to breach her narrow gates. His hips automatically reached up even as his hands positioned themselves over her lower back.
They both tensed and held themselves motionless, savoring the fact that they knew exactly what was about to happen yet this foreknowledge left no room to monotony. They held as seconds ticked by the metronomic tap of the falling droplets until she could hold no more and rammed herself all the way down. The tip of his spear stretched her insides apart, smashed against her furthest reaches and she couldn't hold the cry that escaped her throat. It met his own grunt, both sounds stifled by their locked embrace, yet she paused with her ears questing for any sign that the rest of the cave had noticed their coupling. But all that rose was the uninterrupted murmur of the stream and the steady rhythm of the sleepers' breathing.
With her concern of being caught in the act of fucking a Goa'uld assuaged, she clenched her abdominal muscles several times and relished the look of absolute wonderment on Karl'ac's face. It never failed, she told herself with a smile. Men were so used to female innards acting like passive receptacles that anything like said receptacle actively responding had their mind in awe. She remembered the times when simply milking him that way, without actually moving the rest of her body was enough to make her partner climax. This time, though, she wanted to take her pleasure too and she settled on a slow pace, almost agonizingly so, savoring the way her inner lips gripped his tense wood every upward stroke, noticing how her lover held the air inside his lungs almost as if he forgot to breath until she broke of the kiss to take a lungful herself. She arched her back, her arms straight as supporting pillars and slowly increased her pace. Her stroking became rapid while her partner's hands alternated between running their nails across her flanks and teasing her shuddering breasts. A soft moan escaped her mouth, then another. She was past caring now, sliding with unerring accuracy up to the very tip, not allowing it to slip out once, then back down to slam her bottom onto his hips in a frenzy of controlled motion. Anyone listening now would catch the unmistakable sounds of slapping wet flesh if not the moans and grunts, but it seemed nobody was.
She timed it with knowledge born of built-up intimacy and they spasmed together in a pulsating, mind-blanking release, his own back arching as he ground his hips against her rump with the animal urge to weld himself in intimate fusion with her, fingers pressing deep into the smooth skin of her haunches where a cushiony layer of fat allowed him to grasp a handful of her flesh instead of unyielding hard muscle. The heat wave engulfed his mind with every pulse shooting his seed in the body's instinctual urge to impregnate, breed and cheat its mortal condition.
"Tel'mah" the word escaped his mouth as his lungs finally released all the air they'd been imprisoning during his climax. My love. His full consciousness returned a moment later as the normal blood flow resumed to his entwined brain and the endorphin cascade that flooded even his symbiotic self finally abated.
Aw fuck, Karl'ac. Ann remained immobile to savor her own post-orgasmic completeness and to contemplate her partner's mindless admission. He was just as frozen as her save the soft stroking of his fingertips on her skin. That and his unseen deflating self. Goa'uld, she'd found were more adept at keeping their thoughts to themselves, unlike so many humans subvocalizing their mind away. She waited for any sign of a follow-up but all she heard was the sound of his breathing returning to normal. Huh. Maybe he was too far gone to realize what he was saying. Or he's too embarrassed now. She stroked his cheek with a smile, tenderly, then flexed her legs up and allowed him to drop out. Her fingers hurriedly caught the ensuing trickle. There was no convenient washcloth at hand, but it wouldn't be the first time she licked them clean that way. Besides, her partners loved it when she did so.
She swung herself clear and laid on her side facing him. Languidly caressing his chest, she smiled. "Well, that was a nice way to cap an interesting day" she whispered at his ear.
"You mean we managed to live another day" he half-grinned. "Though yes… dying at your side doesn't sound so bad if I had to choose." The last admission came out half sheepish, half dreamlike. Rayner rolled her eyes up toward the uneven ceiling.
Just look at me, universe. I'm saddled with a romantic Goa'uld.
Her mind debated how to deal with it. But she didn't have to pick an answer this time, for Karl'ac started softly snoring a moment later.
Seriously?
At the same moment, far away past forested hills, tilled fields and pastures, beyond the clumps of shacks and hovels that grew like so many mushrooms down the low mound and palisade of the city walls, across the rows of timber-framed houses stooping over meandering streets and alleyways like hunched giants, a gaunt-faced man stood at his window and stared at the dark townscape from the vantage point of a palace tower, his thoughts just as remote as those sloping shingled roofs. The curfew was in place as much to keep people indoors as to lessen the ever-present risk of fire. The town guards and Jaffa garrison would be patrolling the streets all night long to enforce the strict policy – it worked, didn't it? The plague was under control. Cases still sparked here and there, sure, but no widespread blaze rampaged through Malabon's capital. Its streets were cleaner, even, now that everyone else was compelled to contribute. Those privileged guild-families who used to turn their nose up at the lowly, smelly gog-farmers. Now their men had to take turns emptying the contents of the city's latrines into the waste-wagons and pull them through the streets. They got to smell the foul odor of their families' piss and shit and guess what, even their precious daughters didn't lay rose-smelling logs, no matter how much scented-water they poured to wash off the traces. Those same precious daughters uppity fathers would only give off to these men of families of similar stature or to palace officers.
His brothers were born in the gutter just like him. Under the old ways they'd never have found a proper wife – even the cheapest whores made disgusted faces as they took their money, laid on all four so they didn't have to see them and buried their nose in perfumed handkerchiefs so they didn't have to smell them.
The forcible redistribution of roles put quite an end to that. There were no more organized guilds and castes on Malabon – all natives were equal under Lady Nirrti's remote gaze. Meerdak harbored no illusion about it – his world was insignificant. He knew that every star flickering above him belonged to the gods' domain. But this was his only world and he was gifted the opportunity to bring justice in it. And justice often came with revenge, didn't it? Generations of oppression demanded reparation. It wasn't the gods who mandated that his brothers be kicked into the mud – it was the way things used to be.
Most of these families – the breadmakers, the butchers, the clothespinners and smiths, shopkeepers all the way down to the lowliest used to consider themselves a world apart from the gog-farmers. Asking them to reconsider… was met with laughter. Until he came back with Nirrti's Jaffa, then they laughed no more. They screamed insults at him and his sensible-enough reforms. The most vocal ones were executed. Their homes, ransacked. The rest got the lesson and shut up. Some screamed again when the Brothers picked brides among their daughters. Those were luckier, they didn't lose their life. Only parts of their body, parts they didn't need to keep working.
With the rest of the community now sharing the load of gog-farming Meerdak's brothers could move on to become the pillars of the new order. Now the relative literacy he'd drilled into them as a symbolic gesture of defiance against their enforced baseness, ever since he became their leader, came to practical use. It became almost poetic justice that his humble and despised men could out-speak those who used to view themselves as unattainably loftier.
They used to live in rickety shacks clustered around the guild-house – not so much a house as a cluster of oversized barns in the city's outskirts where the contents of the wagons could be emptied in deep pits along with quicklime ; spending their evenings dreaming about a better life and ways to achieve it. And now they were headquartered in the palace grounds whenever they weren't directly supervising or inspecting the work of others.
For Lady Nirrti didn't care who did what as long as Malabon paid its tithes. And that was the problem that now kept him awake at night. Oh, the mines kept producing their trickle of precious ores the gods demanded in tribute. They were isolated enough that his goddess' warriors could keep them secure. Flying metal chariots took care of the transport. He actually had little to do with the entire process, supervised as it was by the Jaffa and a handful of palace officers who answered only to the lady Erynie, as the minor god was called who oversaw those newly-conquered worlds in Nirrti's place.
No, the problem was food. The plague hit the peasants hard and those who didn't die spent weeks unable to work. And those who were given Nirrti's mercy – chosen to rise away in her sky chariots to the heavens – never came back. Without it… it would have worked, he was so sure. In time they would have realized the benefits of his new system where all worked and shared the fruits of the works fairly, peasants and city folk alike. But no. The plague hit, then the bad crops. Requesting the city's share of the crops at armed point only made the farmers and laborers try to hide everything away. The Brothers couldn't kill too many either – every able hand was sorely needed.
Then they started resisting with improvised weapons at first, stolen ones afterward. Then he was the one who had to try and prevent the Jaffa from enacting large-scale retribution. Any village or farm burned to the ground – dwellers included – would only worsen the situation.
Meerdak gritted his teeth. He'd find a solution. If only he could deal with those roving bands of rebels, the rest would follow.
Marta. That damn little welp. If she hadn't escaped… but then she was only a child, nothing to worry about, wasn't she? The breadmaker guild's resistance had to be broken. Killing the head – Marta's father – did that well enough. The rest folded in line after his defiant words were cut off by a staff blast. Killing the wife… well she shouldn't have rushed the Jaffa with a knife, really. Unfortunate. He couldn't exactly blame his brothers for holding a grudge against a man who'd so prominently sneered at them before and mocked their cries for a fairer treatment. Ransacking his house was justice.
They'd even tried to deal fairly with the new orphans. The small boys were taken by the Brotherhood as apprentices. They were young enough. Nirta, the oldest daughter, became his deputy's wife. She was predictably unhappy with that, but she had a roof over her head and food on the table. In the long run she would surely realize her luck; in the meantime she was busy with three children of her own.
But Marta, Marta had somehow managed to slip away. A thing of no consequence really, what was a disappeared child in the grand scheme of things? Until she reappeared years later, grown up and leading a pack of feral dogs. Country men who knew the terrain better than anyone, struck hard and fast then disappeared into the ground. Searches found nothing and eventually the local Jaffa commander told him in undiplomatic terms to stuff it, his warriors would keep to guarding the city and the Brothers' requisition trips, and nothing else.
The rebels were a side itch, when all things were considered. Eventually…
A series of knocks on the door behind interrupted his train of thought and made him turn away from the window.
Recognizing the pattern of knocks and who must be standing behind the studded door, he invited the late visitor in, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry across the interval.
"Brother" he greeted his deputy. Ghenath was taller than he was, though not so much. Gutter kids like them didn't grow tall. But that will change, he promised himself. Once our work is done, there won't be any gutter kids anymore.
Ghenath's face was dour, anxious even. Meerdak made an attempt at lightness.
"Why the sour face, brother? Is your wife giving you trouble?"
His visitor scowled. "Not since the last time I gave her a good spanking. She's been behaving since, though I'm afraid she'll never love me" he held a hand against Meerdak's commiserating look "I don't mind. She's a good mother and she spreads her legs obediently whenever I fancy it. But I didn't come here to talk about my private life, brother."
Skath raised an eyebrow in a classic "what then" motion. When Ghenath spoke again, his voice was stony.
"The Jaffa found Gangrath's body."
The Brother-Governor's face instantly hardened. "How?"
"His sky-chariot was apparently brought down" the shock must have registered on Skath's face, for Ghenath nodded as if to mean as unbelievable as it sounds before he went on "by a stolen sun-thrower, say the Jaffa."
Skath unconsciously stamped his foot on the ground in annoyance. Damnit. If the rebels indeed had access to one of the larger mystical weapons that fired the essence of the sun… At least they could't possibly sneak one inside the city. They were too big to conceal – hell even an ordinary staff couldn't be concealed easily.
"Did he die in the fall?" sky chariots were tough, imbued with the power of the gods, but could still be destroyed by similar power as the battle in heaven once demonstrated.
"No, Brother…" the pain in his deputy's voice broke through "he was butchered afterward. So were his escorting Jaffa. Apparently Brenak died early in the fight, luckily for him." He kept for himself the horrifically graphic description made by the search party's leader. No need to make his brother's burden heavier.
"The bastards left the bodies in the vicinity and left with half the grain load."
"Probably as much as they could carry" Meerdak thoughtfully commented. "They wouldn't have left anything otherwise. I suppose they couldn't be tracked back to their nest?"
"Unfortunately not, brother."
Whoever had poisoned the garrison's dogs – not whoever, Kath corrected himself. One of the ground cleaners had gone missing the same night. The man originally came from the countryside. Searching his native village had yielded no result, even the Jaffa didn't bother with more than a cursory interrogation of his relatives – cursory meaning the scars would eventually heal, naturally. Nobody expected the man to be stupid enough to go where he'd most easily be found.
The Brother-Governor nervously brushed his face with a hand, then started to pace the room, shaking his head spasmodically. Ghenath stayed rooted to his place, observing and noting how his brother and friend's nerves had been fraying ever since he'd assumed the highest responsibility. To be fair, his didn't get better either. There were too many things to deal with, too many obstacles to realizing their shared vision of a fairer future for all Malabonians. Like Marta. Marta the butcher. The day she was caught… oh boy, would they repay her in kind. She wouldn't die quickly and she would scream all the way, this was a promise to himself.
"If we could petition Our Lady for more Jaffa, even temporarily, just enough time to sweep through the Bal'nak hills for good…" the place where Marta's dogs were most likely hiding.
"It would take thousands" Meerdak cut him off. "Lady Erinye even told me so. We're unlikely to get as much, so long as the rebels don't threaten the mines."
If that's so, maybe we should threaten the mines and pass it off as Marta's work, Ghenath acidly commented in the confines of his mind. There was no telling how deep their gods' sight and hearing extended, especially inside the palace… and he felt no pressing urge to visit the torture pit as a guest. Therefore, he merely stared as his friend paced the room between desk and bed, his dim indistinct shadow shivering in the flickering light of the oil lamp. If only we could have one of those magical lamps… but no, I guess it would be asking too much again, would it? The thought was acidic again. Sometimes Ghenath wondered if men wouldn't be better off without the gods and their fickle ways. What have they ever done for us? As much as his mind recoiled whenever such heretical, blasphemous feelings reared their ugly heads inside, there was a part of him – the same part that initially jumped in Meerdak's beliefs in a fairer, more balanced world – that stubbornly threatened to throw a finger at the likes of Erynie and Nirrti. A part only kept in check by the certainty of the gods' power being a real thing when it came to killing and destroying.
Meerdak paused by his desk and extended a hand to touch the wooden surface, as if doing so would help stabilize his feelings. His other fingers rans over the stubble that covered his skull. An old habit from the gog-farming days that didn't die. One didn't wear long hair when they emptied buckets of shit all day long. When he spoke, it was in a low voice, staring at the empty surface of the desk. The thing was a joke, he felt. He couldn't write very well, as much as he wanted to. He had to call a scribe whenever he wanted to write something down. It was too much a metaphor for his apparent power, the treacherous musing murmured in his head.
"We'll hold a funeral for Brenak and Gangrath." He pivoted his face at Ghenath and stared at his deputy with deadened eyes. "Then we'll publicly execute the guild hostages. We need to send Marta a message."
Ann Rayner mentally clutched at the receding dream where she was chugging strange-looking cocktails, perched on an inflatable pink flamingo that somehow, by the weird logic of dreams was firmly planted at the bottom of the Galaxy Hotel's sky pool and watching tiny ants crawling far below who were actually mechanical ants with humanoid heads. Then she realized she had firmly crossed back to the awake realm, took a deep intake of breath and felt the oxygen surge fill her lungs and rouse her whole body. Her arms stretched behind her head, past the warm confines of her quilted blanket and goosebumps instantly erupted over her exposed skin. Her back arched, making her nipples rub against the fabric and she instantly remembered the past evening with appreciation. She wouldn't mind having another go at it… but others were rousing from their sleep in the vast cave. Karl'ac was still happily snoozing, curled over his side of their joined couch. It appeared the Goa'uld did need their beauty sleep too, especially when they were as drained as he'd been last night.
Her stomach rumbled for various reasons and she reluctantly left the covers, adjusting at once to the chill early morning air. A very minute amount of natural light was making its way inside, enough for her. The chemise went back on, then she went on to find the closest latrine. One of the local women was conveniently ahead of her, carrying a small lamp in one hand and a chamber pot in the other and helpfully leading the way. The reason for the chamber pot was made obvious, for the path to the drainage pit led them deeper into the cave through a path that would be utterly treacherous in complete dark with a half-asleep brain.
The dress-clad local emptied her pot carefully over a waiting hole in the rock floor, then turned and left with a dubious glance at the foreign woman standing there in a flimsy shirt that barely covered the middle of her thighs. Rayner superbly ignored the older and uglier woman's subvocalized slut. Since she wasn't trying to pass as "Karbas the traveling peddler's" wife anymore, her native Domination upbringing was reasserting itself along with the innate, inescapable sense of superiority that held in total contempt the very proposition that she ought to be somehow ashamed of her naked appearance. The only reason she was even bothering with the shirt was that she didn't want to alienate this rabble of bushmen just yet.
As soon as she squatted over the hole and let her bowels relax, her mind switched over to strategies and outcomes. Her ultimate goal was to put Karl'ac back in control of his little realm – if one could count four inhabitable planets and moons as "little". Such a qualifier said more about the laughably inefficient way the Goa'uld exploited their extensive possessions. Even the old Domination achieved a much better balance between productive output and ecological preservation, with a similarly slave-based society.
Then, she was to groom him into an intelligence source, milking him for useful information on his kind's activities. Something she'd already initiated in a very physical sense, pointed the sarcastic voice in her head.
And the stabler his realm was, the better in the long run. And that was a problem. Marta was quite obviously not the most… adjusted person. Her merry band of bushmen were now accustomed to killing without remorse. As much as they apparently agreed on restoring the former social order, they'd made it quite clear how they viewed their former ruler as nothing more than a convenience, a feeling held in check only by the looming threat of his bigger and badder counterparts.
Therefore, she felt quite prepared to write them off – maybe at the same time as Bald'reek, a tiny devil whispered in her mind. The discarding thought conveniently timed itself with the wet splashing bombs away sound coming from below.
She helped herself to the conveniently placed heap of fresh moss, then rose up. Before leaving, curiosity compelled her to glance down the vacated hole. The faint flicker of light on running water caught her eye and she raised an appreciative brow. Whatever they were, these bushmen had chosen their hiding place well. It even had a naturally-flushing toilet.
Four weeks later
Gelmak rubbed his gloved hands together close to the lips of his hood, blowing warm air over them. His companion was doing the same across the width of the road leading in the city through the fortified wooden gate, stamping his feet alternatively to keep them from growing numb. It was early in Malabon's winter. First snow had come the previous day and the sky was a leaden overcast.
A small brasero on tripod legs was valiantly smoldering inside the little guard room set inside the thick walls of the gate. A kettle was standing over it. A few more minutes and it would start to boil, then the herbal tea would warm up Gelmak's stomach. A Jaffa might be a hardy fellow but still rather not being cold and miserable. Besides, sentry duty was such a boring thing now that winter came and the flow of countryside peasants bringing food and sundry supplies was down to a trickle. A small cart loaded with spun wool fabric had come in the past hour, their sole customer so far. Gelmak had inspected it thoroughly as much to follow standing orders as to drag out the moment when he'd have nothing to do again but watch his breath condense in front of his face.
At least it was safe. With open fields everywhere to the horizon, there was no way a band of rebels might sneak unsuspectedly close. The damn forests were out of sight. Let them starve during the winter, he reasoned.
"I wish I were somewhere else."
His Jaffa brother was complaining again, but Gelmak shrugged. Nobody here would castigate such a lapse in discipline. Their closest superior was safely ensconced inside the nearest barracks with a nice fire going and warm beer. If anything worthwhile happened, they'd simply ring the alarm bell.
"Be glad we're not trying to flush those rebel murderers out of their woods" Gelmak countered. The shiver that ran through his back owed little to the cold seeping through his thick woolen cloak. He'd been there when the bodies of their dead comrades were brought back after their transport was shot down. Seen the raw red flayed flesh, like meat at a butcher's shop, before they were given the rites and prayers for the dead. He too had vowed vengeance, but the rebels slipped out of the garrison's grasp.
Nevertheless, his comrade was obviously in the mood to share his feelings about it. His next sentence didn't come out fully as whining, but almost. "We should simply burn those damn forests from orbit. It's the only way to be sure!" Gelmak shrugged, the motion all but lost under the multiple layers of clothing and armor he wore. "The gods' fire wrath would be wasted over such an insignificant threat to them" he replied reasonably, his thoughts back to the momentous war that ended some time ago. He'd seen fleets of motherships fight in the dark void between worlds. Army-scale assaults on enemy strongholds, fields littered with the remains of dead warriors. In comparison this pissant little world's tiny band of rebels, as much a local nuisance as it was, was only that, a local nuisance, not much more than rats.
"Stinking little ball of mud" the other Jaffa opiniated with a scraping kick, sending a sample of that very mud flying outwards, both gesture and words expressing the sum of his feelings about the world they were garrisoning. Gelmak couldn't find himself to disagree. "Now Bellenos, that was a nice place, you 'member?"
"I 'member" Gelmak said dreamily. Their Jaffa legion, or what was left of it was sent to that allied world to rest and refit before another offensive. Lord Camulus' Jaffa were nothing if amicable, they were after all fighting on the same side. Then there were the other local highlights… His companion was reminiscing the same things, it seemed.
"You 'member the market? That stall with the fat baker and the meatcakes?"
"I 'member! Warm and juicy, never found anything like them elsewhere!"
"Speaking of warm and juicy, 'member Fatma's house?"
"Oh, I 'member!" Jaffa such as him used to spend half their pay there, after all. His recollection came with a wide leering grin. "I 'member that exquisite blonde with huge tits and what she could do with them!"
"The one with the rings in the…? Kadshya?"
"That one" Gelmak nodded.
"I heard she was killed when the city was hit a year later" the second sentry said mournfully.
"Huh? Who told you that?"
"Remember after we took that outpost on Kolrath Two? That smuggler we played scales against?"
Gelmak nodded in recollection, his brow furrowing in annoyance. The wily little bastard used to shadow the frontline and stuff his Tel'tak full of loot. Of course he remembered! They'd believed him to be easy picking after downing so many jugs of liquor. The joke had been on them, he'd cleaned them out of their purse that night.
"What was his name again…"
"Ansol'o" his companion helpfully reminded. "He'd been on Bellenos a couple months before that, told me there was a big crater in the middle of the city. Kadshya was a favorite of his too, but he only got to see her grave."
"Hearing that makes me sad. Such a waste of good pussy" Gelmak said in a mournful tone that somehow fit with the surroundings.
The kettle began to hiss, but the sentries' attention was captured by a distant rumble coming from the sky. The snow-heavy clouds were not like those making thunder, they knew instinctively. Which meant…
Gelmak and his comrade scanned the cottony grey ceiling with suddenly alerted eyes. And indeed seconds later a dark object pierced the cloudy veil and became visible. It was far away but the Jaffa's acute sight recognized the triangular silhouette facing them. An Al'kesh was coming right at them. The shape steadily grew in size and they aimed their staves at the flying object, a part of their mind realizing it was a rather futile gesture if the incoming warship was hostile. For the same reason they collectively breathed out in relief when the unknown ship veered over the fields, slowing as it banked over the snow-covered emptiness, and smoothly came to a hovering stop chest-high over the surface, sideways to the gate and a stone-throw away. The two sentries nevertheless kept their weapons leveled in its direction, all thoughts of cold and boredom forgotten as much as the nostalgia-laden banter.
The side hatch opened with a faint hiss and a silhouette jumped off over the side, landing onto the ground with a puff of displaced snow. Gelmak watched the newcomer amble closer, noticing the tell-tale swaying of hips. The visitor was a she. Not another Jaffa, then – another minor goddess? Lady Erinye would have used the palace rings, so who was this?
The figure resolved into a tallish female with dark reddish hair curling around her neck in a neat shoulder-length braid. A fur-lined cloak swayed across her back as she strode confidently forward, revealing tunic and trousers made of some smooth leathery material, black with burgundy accents and brass trimmings. It was very much the kind of outfit a minor goddess would wear, Gelmak realized, stylish and somewhat flamboyant yet practical. So was the face, sternly beautiful and unmarred by any such sign of disease as befell lowly mortals toiling over a world like Malabon. But why would another Goa'uld come here…?
The visitor stopped before the gate and stared at the sentries as if she was looking for something, then an instant later "You, Jaffa. You serve lady Nirrti." It came as a statement rather than a question, nonetheless Gelmak responded with a blunt, business-like tone.
"Aye. Who are you and what is your business in her realm?"
The woman reached into her cloak, removed something and extended her hand. Gelmak stepped forward and took it. A thin flimsy sheaf of some material that wasn't exactly like the rough paper he knew, yet there was a picture on it, life-like in accurate color and detail. The small item was obvious godmagic in its perfection.
"Recognize him?"
Gelmak raised an eyebrow in faint recognition. The picture was showing a male figure bound in chains and sitting on a metal chair. Behind was a featureless metal wall. The face was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite pinpoint who it was.
"I'm quite certain I saw that face before, but…" he shrugged for emphasis. The woman made an almost disappointed frown. "Your lady put a bounty on him." "Wouldn't be the first." Another shrug. An impatient flare of her shapely nostrils. "This is the former ruler of this world!"
Gelmak's eyes widened in sudden understanding. No wonder the face looked familiar, despite the black eye and split lip.
"Oh."
Behind him, the beating of feet clad in heavy boots signaled reinforcements arriving at the scene. "Have you come to claim the bounty, then?"
"If lady Nirrti's true to her word."
The Jaffa's eyes glared at the newcomer coming so close to insulting their goddess' honor. His answering tone was as cutting as the sound of activating weapons behind them. "And who would you be to question her word?" The visitor inclined her head in a sign of apology. "I never meant offense, warrior. On the contrary, I only wish to please your goddess with her vanquished enemy" Her following grin exposed perfect white teeth. "My name is Rayna and I come from a faraway world."
