Taken
Flares
Glinda sank to a crouch, using a hand against the siding of the barn for balance. Her fingers gripped the metal handle of her weapon with a determination that had, at one point during the run across the lawn, seemed beyond her. She was exhausted—beyond tired. Beyond thinking of anything further than finding a place to rest for a few moments.
They'd come around the back of the house, pausing as the General had surveyed the scene with his nifty little scope, and then made a beeline for the barn. Ending up on the same side as had the Colonel and she the night before, they proceeded to stick close to the wall on their way to the back entrance. The eaves hid them as they made their way around to the far outer corner.
The General, holding his shotgun easily in one hand, motioned for her to stay put. Grateful to comply, Glinda lowered herself to the ground, concentrating on catching her breath as she watched Daniel and General O'Neill move smoothly around the corner, weapons at the ready.
"Are you prepared to do battle once we are inside?" Ba'al paused next to her, his face a mottled sheen with the combination of exertion and the growing morning heat.
"I've been doing battle for twenty-four hours, now." Glinda looked up at him, her fingers tightening on the meat tenderizer. "I believe that shows that I will do what is necessary."
The Goa'uld studied her for several breaths. Glinda tried to ignore him, refusing to give him any hint as to her true state. She knew it was considered prideful to disguise need or emotion, but she just could not imagine giving this parasite the power of knowing how she was truly faring through this mess.
But his dark eyes intruded anyway, and she cringed inside. Just knowing that penetrating gaze remained on her, so similar to the stares of the men in the barn—she couldn't control the shudder that rippled through her any more than she could dictate the movements of the Earth or Moon.
So, she closed her eyes to the brightness of the sun that managed to make its way through the low hanging eaves of the outbuilding, and concentrated on preserving her strength. And on instilling herself with the gumption necessary to accomplish the mission at hand.
Whatever else happened, whatever else she had to do, she would see the Colonel safe. She would know for a fact that Sam's unborn child would have a chance at life. If that wasn't fulfilling the measure of her creation, she didn't know what was. Paving the way for new lives, fresh hopes.
"I must admit that you have surprised me, Miss Baldrich."
Perhaps it was because she'd been so steeped in thought that she answered automatically—without filtering through possible responses first. "Oh? Dare I inquire as to how?"
"I had assumed that the elderly of the Tau'ri would be weak and worthless." His handsome face seemed almost pleasant, even as those unnervingly clear eyes assessed her. "But you have shown an amazing degree of capability and courage."
Glinda frowned at the Goa'uld. "Why would you think me to be weak?"
"Age. With age comes infirmity." He raised a shoulder slightly, his white shirt considerably dirtier in the daylight. "My kind have had to counteract the ravages time has taken in our hosts for thousands of years."
She squinted up at him. "Haven't your kind also caused many of those ravages?"
Ba'al's teeth flashed in something akin to a smile. "Indeed, they have. But you are forgetting that we have also prolonged the lives of countless humans. With our healing abilities, we can lengthen the natural years and provide an extension of youth."
"Through the technology in the sarcophagus."
He had the grace to look just the merest bit sheepish. "Still, however, the host body survives to live for thousands of years."
He raised a hand to stroke at his facial hair, and Glinda was struck at how often in the past half an hour she had seen him attending to his appearance. The alien seemed to be inordinately concerned with his physical form. She refused to give herself another once-over, knowing that she would have self-consciously attempted some sort of restorative ablutions. But with the Colonel's whereabouts and condition unknown, and with the real Doctor Lee in the fray, it hardly seemed to be the time for vanity.
And so, she sat, silent, at the wall, watching him preen, feeling absolutely certain that she was not the only person to have done so.
Still, she was a bit taken aback when he turned to her again, a questioning gleam in his dark eyes. "Would you not like to host a god? Would you not like to live forever?"
His words struck Glinda to her core, and for the smallest of breaths, she held the idea close. She'd never considered the thought—never once in all her days contemplated a life that did not come to a natural conclusion. Whatever else she'd employed to fill her time, it had not been thoughts of immortality.
Human physical existence wasn't supposed to last forever. A natural order had been ordained long before Glinda made her appearance into the world; an order in which people—creatures—beings—were born, lived life to their approximation of the fullest, and then gracefully accepted the end when it came. She fully believed that something lived on—that the light each person called their own continued progressing even after the body had disintegrated.
She'd found herself able to contemplate that time more, lately—and whether that insight fell due to her own aging reflection in the mirror, or to the current events in which she found herself embroiled, it still made her more accepting of death not just as an end to one thing, but as a beginning of another.
She believed in that beginning. It had sustained her during the dark, fetid days after her mother's loss, and again as she'd prepared to bury her father. To suppose that it all ended pointlessly would also force the belief that none of it had any purpose at all. That life itself befell humanity as an amazing fluke.
In which case nothing had any lasting significance.
She rejected that notion outright. Had long ago ceded herself to a power greater than herself. And she'd found within herself a little of that greatness during this last day. Had discovered that she couldn't just forfeit herself to the actions of others, while concurrently uncovering the rather jarring knowledge that she would gladly die—and kill—for certain causes.
Because Glinda Baldrich was more than physical life. She'd never really thought of exactly what it was that made her her. But it had nothing to do with her body. And giving that body immortality would do no good unless the essence of Glinda inhabited it. Her soul. Her spirit. Her character.
With a piercing look at the Goa'uld, she felt her shoulders square. "Immortality achieves nothing unless you are engaged in a good cause. And unless your spirit dictates your own destiny. The way your kind subjugates the human spirit in order to meet its own ends is shameful."
"Ah. But that is where you are mistaken about me." Ba'al tilted a look back down at her. "I have never taken a host. This body has never possessed a human consciousness. I have enslaved no one."
"Then perhaps you should stop considering yourself as host and captor, and instead just concentrate your efforts on becoming human."
Despite the situation, or perhaps because of them, his expression made her grin. Such arrogance, to be disgusted at the thought of resigning oneself to a mere human existence. Such misplaced superiority.
With what appeared to be tremendous effort, he forced his expression back to a vacant semblance of amusement. "Regardless, this body is flawed. I need to utilize the sarcophagus to make repairs."
"And so that's why you're here. Not to do good, but to benefit from other people's actions."
He opened his mouth to answer, but a movement at the edge of the building halted their conversation. The General rounded the corner, his weapon glinting deadly in the sun. His long strides drew him close—jostling roughly past the Goa'uld as he neared her. He crouched next to her with a grimace.
"It's locked."
"The small door?"
"The whole damned place." His jaw worked once, twice, before he tilted his head back towards where Daniel stood, gun in hand, at the corner. "I could blow the locks, but that would ruin the element of surprise. And that's all we've got. Is there any other entrance into this place?"
Glinda frowned, drawing forth her memories to rifle through—to consider. The lab appeared in her mind's eye, the surrounding wall of shelving and cabinetry, the skylights, the doors—
"Stalls."
"I'm not stalling. I'm asking—"
She interrupted him without ceremony. "I know, sir. What I'm saying is that on the other side of this building there are rooms formerly used for housing horses. The cloning tank was in what appeared to be a wide stall—perhaps one that had been a broodmare foaling area. There would be doors on the outside of the stall that would lead out into an enclosure."
The General immediately reached for her hand, and she found herself hauled upright and dragged along in his wake as he strode purposefully towards the back of the building. He peeped around the corner first, and then motioned for her to follow as he sidled around the bend and moved quietly past first the single door, and then the double doors of the building, towards where Daniel stood at the far end.
Glinda padded behind O'Neill, her senses keen, her movements infused with caution. That they passed in full view of the corral where the firefight had taken place the night before didn't accomplish anything towards easing her nerves. She could still see the men on the ground, and worse, the ones who had headed toward the opposite end of the corral, shooting at her and the Colonel.
Forcing her attention from the scene, she caught up with the General and his friend, stopping just behind them at the corner of the building.
A glance to the right convinced O'Neill that nobody lay beyond, and he rounded to that side of the barn, moving until he reached a set of stacked doors. They were wide—and painted the same red as the rest of the building. Both doors had identical heavy iron hinges, and even heavier iron latches through which were threaded twin shiny steel padlocks.
"Crap." The General fingered the lock on the bottom door, pulling it up and glaring at its underside. With a growled sigh, he pulled a multi-tool out of his pocket and turned it, looking for a specific component.
"Do you know how to pick locks, too?" She spoke without thinking, then immediately bit her lips together, feeling foolish.
But the General seemed unfazed. Finding the tool he wanted, he thumbed it out and held it up. "Nope. Just getting handy in my old age."
He fitted the Phillips blade into the screws holding the latches to the wall adjoining the door, and within a few moments, had them loosened enough that he could pull them out the rest of the way. Moving towards the wall, he waved the Glinda and Ba'al to the side, and then, signaling in some seemingly covert way, guided Daniel to stand directly at his back, creating a shadow on the door frame. His face tight, he used the latch as a handle, pulling the lower door open just far enough to peer in.
Glinda struggled not to hold her breath, trying only somewhat successfully to control the palpitations of her heart. Tense, she watched as the General scanned the interior of the room through the tiny sliver of an opening, and then reclosed it to look over his shoulder at Daniel.
"It's empty. Except for the tank."
Daniel looked down at Glinda. "And there wasn't anything else in that particular room?"
She shook her head. "Not that I recall. Unless they've put something else in there."
"No." O'Neill shook his head once. "So we use it for cover. I go first. Pinky, you're next. Then you." He glared at the Goa'uld.
"And I'll bring up the rear." Daniel nodded. "Glinda, Ba'al. You stay to the rear of the tank. I'll close the door, and go to the right. Jack, you take the left."
"And what then? I hide like a peasant while the two of you save the day?"
Rolling his eyes at the Goa'uld, Daniel sighed quietly. "No, you stay out of the way while Jack and I liberate your sarcophagus."
"I should be armed."
"Uh—" the General's eyes flared wide before narrowing. With a curt shake of his head, he said only, "No."
"Why does the old woman merit a weapon and not I? I have commanded great armies in battle. I have defeated even the likes of you in war. I would be useful in there."
"Ba'al."
"General O'Neill. You are being singularly stupid in this matter. Have not I demonstrated some sort of allegiance to you in this endeavor?"
The Goa'uld stood, crossing his arms across his chest with an indolence that grated on Glinda's nerves. Completely without thinking, she lashed out, bringing her meat tenderizer down on his big toe, encased as it was in his expensive Italian shoes. He hissed in a breath, jerking away from her. "What was that for?"
"Perhaps he would give you a gun if you learned to shut up and follow orders." Glinda was gratified that her voice issued forth as clearly as it did, even speaking as quietly as she had. "And perhaps you should figure out where the prepositions belong in your sentences."
The General grinned at that, more to himself than anything else, then reached behind him to pull his Beretta out of the holster at the small of his back. Balancing his shotgun on his thigh, he cocked the handgun, glancing up at Glinda as the slide clicked home.
Hesitating, he stared at the weapon and then up at the Goa'uld. His jaw tight, he extended his hand, holding the weapon out towards the alien.
The Goa'uld stared at it for another breath, then reached out and took it, curling his hand around the grip, fitting his finger to the trigger.
O'Neill tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrow. With a meaningful glare, he nodded towards the weapon in the alien's hand. "I'm trusting you."
And the Goa'uld lifted a brow, but this time it wasn't in condescension, it was in gratitude. With none of his previous cockiness, he met the General's eyes clearly. "I know."
Daniel grunted quietly behind them. "Are you sure, Jack?"
"Yeah." The General scowled. "It doesn't make sense to take him in unarmed. And he's right—it would be a waste of a body on our side."
"Sir?"
"Yes, Pinky?"
"If he gets out of line, I'll conk him on the head with my meat tenderizer." Glinda brandished it gamely. "I seem to be somewhat talented in that capacity."
O'Neill looked back at the stall door, then placed his hand on the latch again, before returning his attention to his secretary. His expression caught hers with an odd conglomeration of emotion—humor, amazingly enough, and something else. It took Glinda a moment to place it.
Pride.
As he tightened his hand on the latch, she ducked her head—trying not to smile, trying not to recognize the odd surge of terrified excitement that seemed to be rising up within her. She raised her mallet, and then her face, and watched as he smiled at her again—a crooked, endearing grin.
"Remind me to give you a raise."
She nodded. "The Colonel told me that she would suggest it, too."
And he turned his head to Daniel, and then to Ba'al, and spoke, his voice low. "Then let's go get her back."
-OOOOOOO-
"I'm telling you—it won't work."
"You will make it work, Colonel."
Sam let out a sound that could only be described as a growl. Something banged on a desk, and smaller items—pencils? A ruler?—bounced on the surface in response. Another voice spoke low—too indistinct to be heard from far away, and Sam's voice again shone through the lab. "No, Bill. I've already tried that."
"Then try it again." This speaker, Glinda recognized. His twin stood not too far away from the secretary's vantage point behind the tank.
The interior of the converted stall was cool and dark, but conspicuously not quiet. They'd emerged into an argument of some sort between Sam and the Ba'al clone, their voices immediately recognizable in the larger area of the laboratory.
In her prescribed spot behind the vat, Glinda turned and stole a look into the room, but couldn't see much beyond the annoyingly familiar steel shelves and cabinets.
They'd gotten in undetected—a minor miracle when one considered that a guard stood just on the other side of the shelving from the tank room. But he hadn't turned, hadn't so much as cocked an ear, even when the Goa'uld had knocked his knee on the edge of the glass case.
The General moved forward, closer to the lab, crouching low, his shotgun held in both hands. Daniel had come in behind them, pulling the door quietly closed behind him. He had glided past Glinda and the tank, easily, in a manner obviously well practiced, both hands steady on his Glock. He turned at the inner door, pressing his back flush with the paneling, his body hidden in the shadows. Over his right shoulder, he scoped the interior of the lab, then flashed a series of concise hand signals at the General, who nodded back.
Ba'al rose and crossed to where Daniel stood, and Glinda scooted around the tank on the far side—Daniel's side—exactly where the Colonel had hidden so many hours earlier from the Doctor Lee clone.
Again, Sam's voice broke the odd quiet. "I've already told you. The math is wrong."
"This is not about mathematics, Colonel, this is about the crystals."
"Damn it, Ba'al. Listen to me."
Footsteps, and then a slap, followed by a sound that could only be termed a sob. Glinda immediately peeked at the General, then cringed, almost wishing she hadn't.
He'd transformed—morphed into a man she'd never met before. She'd never seen him so forbidding—never seen him so cold. His expression had lost any semblance of his normal gregarious self and had turned distant—dangerous. So this was the man she'd read about in those mission reports. This was the man who had led his team to take down empires.
"What do you have to say, now?"
Glinda heard a shuffle—bare feet searching for purchase on the smooth wooden floor?—and then a groan. Deep breathing, and a creaking sound—like weight being forced on a table top. She could see it in her head, that which she couldn't see from where she crouched—see the Colonel struggle to her feet, unaided, too proud to be laid low.
"So, Colonel? Have you seen that no rescue comes for you? Have you seen that stalling will not help you?"
"I'm not stalling."
"You're lying."
To this, Sam had no answer. Glinda heard another impact—but no accompanying sound of anyone falling. And then a newer voice—less familiar. One she'd heard only briefly, and only just before Whiny Dave had faked securing her hands.
"Sir, Ba'al. She's right. It's not going to work. The coding on the crystals has been altered—and neither of us has a clue as to the new code."
"So, decipher it." The clone's voice was degrading—becoming more loose, somehow, less elegant.
"We can't. That's what I've been trying to say."
Glinda jumped as a violent screech entered the fray. Heavy footsteps clodded across the floor, and she could see the top of the Bill clone's head bob across the inner sanctum of the lab. "Worthless! They are useless! Do it! Do it now!"
"They are not ready for it, brother."
"I cannot wait any longer. This host is destabilizing. I can feel the body degrade." He fought for breath, his efforts harsh, and crude. "Do it."
"There is no guarantee that it will give us the results we seek."
"Do it!" More footsteps sounded in the lab, plodding, graceless. And then a shifting of metal on metal, and the faint squeak of hinges.
"No—please." Sam again, her tone losing strength. "Let me try again."
"The moment has passed for your pleading. We have run out of patience." The Bill clone coughed, then made a hawking sound and spat. "And you have run out of time."
Glinda heard an oddly familiar noise. If she didn't know better, she would think that someone had opened a container of pickles. Metal on glass, a jar's threaded top being navigated by a lid. And then a weak squeal—chilling, almost infantile.
"Ba'al—don't let him do this. Please." Trembling, now, slightly breathless, the Colonel sounded nearly defeated. "I'm begging you."
"I did warn you to cooperate." He snapped, and more footsteps sounded on the wood flooring. "I tried it your way."
The guard directly in front of the tank room moved forward, and the General took the opportunity to move out of the tank room and into the corridor created by the stainless steel shelving units. Daniel quickly stepped over the threshold and out, as well, moving in the opposite direction. Beretta held low, Ba'al followed Daniel into the corridor, disappearing from Glinda's view.
The weird, disturbing screeching strengthened, and the secretary rose and repositioned herself near the doorway to the tank room. Through the shelving, now, the scene became clear, and Glinda forced herself not to cry out—not to scream as the Colonel was overtaken by the guards and shoved into position at the edge of a desk.
Her face was turned towards Glinda. Dirty, bedraggled, and pale, her lip had been split wide, and a line of blood trailed its way down her chin. Her bruised cheek was livid, now, and a smudge of blood had dried up high, near her temple. Two men held her arms firmly behind her back, wedging her legs between their own and the front of the desk. The guard who had been nearest the tank room had set his weapon down and shoved himself up behind her, his hand fisted in her hair. With a rough jerk, he pulled her head to one side and then thrust her forward, slamming the side of her face into the cabinet's facade.
"Don't worry, Colonel Carter." The Doctor Lee clone emerged from where he'd been behind some opened cabinet doors. "Your wounds will soon be healed." Holding his hand up, he studied the creature squirming in his grip.
Blue eyes wide, she watched him loom near, nostrils flaring as she fought for breath, for strength. "Please don't. I'll do anything—"
"Yes." Pasty, white, and moist, the clone nodded, calmly caressing the writhing symbiote he held aloft. "Yes, you will."
