They retraced their steps down the claustrophobic tunnel to the small elevator. The ride was just as long as Makepeace remembered, yet according to the panel they only traveled up one level before exiting. Unlike the bunker, the area here had taken a beating. The ceiling and walls were cracked and crumbling, displaying the glassy green materials within. Dust filtered down from the damage overhead. Chunks of broken jade and shattered emerald littered the floor. Through the damaged walls could be seen bundles of crystalline fibers in a rainbow of colors, running in and out of gold and silver junction boxes and thin peridot sheets. Light pulses flashed along the glistening strands, indicating that despite the damage, the city still lived. For now.
There were no windows, anywhere. By that Makepeace assumed they were still underground. Doors lined the hallway at irregular intervals, many partially open. Their control mechanisms or sensors were broken, as they neither opened further nor closed as the Marines passed by. The artificial lighting flickered, creating a weird strobing effect. The four men kept their eyes on both sides of the hall, peering into the doorways for potential threats. The bombardment seemed to be over, but that might only be temporary, and whoever had attacked the city could have sent in advance troops. The servitors didn't do anything to interfere with SG-3 beyond keeping them moving.
They continued deeper into the damaged city, staying on the same level. Booted feet crunched on jagged, sparkling shards, the remains of spun-glass sculptures and mysterious gemstone objects. In some places entire walls had crumbled, revealing more of the city's glittering guts. Makepeace felt an uncomfortable, niggling sense of familiarity as he stepped over debris and took in the destruction. In the past, in war zones on Earth, he'd ordered such attacks, and been on the receiving end as well. But here he felt something more than the usual fear and horror, something different, something personal.
He'd seen all this before, in his dreams, in his nightmares. In Varayimshaeta's memories. His memories, now.
They turned right and headed along another corridor. At the halfway point, a large doorway on the left stood partially open, the three sections of the door receded not quite all the way into their slots.
Johnson looked past the pointed edges, and stopped in his tracks. He stared, his lips parted, then turned a shocked face to his teammates. "Guys? I think you should take a look in here."
They all crowded to the door. Curiously, the servitors didn't harass or hinder them, instead waiting patiently in the hall.
"Aw, hell," Henderson said softly.
Ice ran down Makepeace's spine when he looked into the amethyst room and saw the six hexagonal columns. Arranged equidistant from one another in a circle, they stretched from the ceiling to the floor. Each column was divided into three parts, with the top and bottom segments made of a polished gold material. The center sections were tanks, filled with clear fluid.
A single, human fetus floated in each tank.
Makepeace set his jaw and forced himself to step inside for a closer look. Aside from the columns, the room was empty, its glassy, violet walls crazed and cloudy with internal damage. Dim, flickering light emanated from smooth jewels in the ceiling. Shadows danced in the silence, giving the chamber a surreal, creepy atmosphere.
Two tanks glowed softly with warm, golden light; the other four were dark. He moved to one that was still lit—he supposed they were incubators, artificial uteruses, gestation tanks, something sci-fi like that—and inspected its occupant.
He flinched when the fetus moved. It clenched its tiny, little fingers into fists, then raised one dainty hand to rest against its mouth and nose. Traceries of veins showed under the translucent skin. An umbilical cord ran from its stomach to the top of the tank, where it disappeared into the equipment. Makepeace forced himself to look closer.
"It's a girl," he murmured. A perfect little girl.
Henderson stood next to him and spoke quietly. "I hate being right."
"Vara's repopulation project." It was a simple statement of fact.
"Yes, sir," Henderson said. "There are three girls and three boys in here. Their development and maturation rates must have been accelerated. They look to be about, oh, maybe seventeen weeks along or so. You can see how small they are."
"And they're ours." They'd have to be.
"Yeah." Henderson drew in a deep breath, let it out in a long, slow exhale. "If Vara followed the plan it explained to us, each of these...babies...probably has genetic material from at least two of us. Maybe all four of us."
Makepeace gazed at the fragile little girl, thinking of his own kids, wondering if they had a new baby sister, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.
Henderson said, "Only two girls are still alive, sir. The others—the ones in the dark tanks—are dead. Looks like the equipment lost power."
Makepeace only nodded.
Johnson and Andrews had stayed silent, just walking through the room, looking at the tiny occupants of the tanks. Now they joined Makepeace and Henderson.
Johnson looked upset. "I don't understand. Why wasn't this room protected better? It should have been the safest place in the entire complex. Our bunker didn't even feel the attacks, and yet this room—Jesus, why?"
"Because Vara can easily make more babies," Makepeace said tonelessly.
Johnson and Andrews stared at him, but Henderson nodded his head. "As the only socialized adults available, we're far more valuable," he said. "I know it sounds harsh, but the babies are expendable. We're not. Vara needs us to raise the children it creates."
"That's obscene," Johnson spat.
"It's not really any different back home," Henderson said. "Nature designed things that way all on its own. We just don't like to admit it."
Johnson looked ready to explode. Before he could vent his anger, Andrews broke in. "What are we going to do about these…" he waved a hand at the two lit tanks, "...these children?"
Henderson answered the question. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" Johnson rounded on him. "You son of a bitch—"
Henderson stood his ground. "There's nothing we can do. They're too young to survive on their own. We'll kill them if we remove them from the tanks."
That cold, hard fact solved the dilemma. Makepeace schooled his features into a calm, dispassionate mask that hid his inner turmoil. "You're sure, Corporal?"
"Absolutely, Colonel. They'll die in just a few minutes without some kind of life support system in place. Their lungs won't be able to handle breathing air without mechanical intervention. And even if we had the equipment and specialists available, their bodies simply aren't developed enough to survive very long anyway." He lifted his hands, an unspoken plea for understanding and rationality. "Besides, I don't see any portable intensive care units around here. Do any of you?"
"So we leave them to die, instead?" Johnson asked, subdued.
Makepeace said, "There's no saying we'll live any longer than them, Lieutenant." Johnson looked down at his feet. Makepeace sighed deeply, wishing they'd never set foot in this damned room. He glanced back at the door, where the golden orbs waited. "Look, right now, let's just find out what the servitors want. My guess is we're going to have another chat with Vara. Maybe it'll finally tell us what's going on."
The fetal girl kicked once, twice, then relaxed and drifted peacefully in her artificial womb.
"Let's go," Makepeace said.