BOOK OF THE DEAD

BOOK OF THE DEAD
A Stargate SG-1TM (Fan Fiction) Novel
Based on the story and characters created by
Dean Devlin & Roland Emmerich
Developed for television b Jonathan Glassner & Brad Wright
J.D. Stiver
www.JDStiver.com
STARGATE SG-1 Copyright © 2007 MGM Worldwide Television
Productions, Inc. STARGATE SG-1 is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved. No monetary compensation was obtained for
the writing of this story.
Author’s Note: This novel is intended as a “love letter” to Stargate
the movie, the shows, and the fans. (And, of course, as a means to see if
I could play in someone else’s sandbox, so to speak.)
The work is dedicated to Mel Odom, a great writer and one of my best
friends, with whom I will always be indebted for his vast amount of
encouragement. Thanks Mel.
J. D. STIVER
The action in this story takes place midway through the fifth season of
Stargate: SG-1, just after “48 Hours” and before Anubis is introduced
in “Summit.”
I
The Door to Heaven ...
Dr. Daniel Jackson’s particles were hurtling through the void of
space along a subspace matter stream created by the Stargate, the
technological marvel left by the Ancients, which connected various
planets scattered throughout the galaxy.
Upon arriving at the destination Stargate, Daniel’s particles were
reassembled and he emerged through the shimmering blue event
horizon feeling like he’d just stepped through directly from Stargate
Command, as if the trip were instantaneous.
His thoughts were never even interrupted by the process, but those
thoughts never centered on how extraordinary that fact actually was.
Instead, Daniel was remembering the time he stepped through the gate
shortly before the first Abydos mission—how optimistic he’d felt about
the wonders that lay beyond.
The team who assembled to unlock the mysteries of the Stargate
consisted of military and civilian scientists who had spent several years
studying the ancient device. Daniel was invited to contribute late in the
process, but he proved pivotal in opening the doorway that allowed
Earth to explore the rest of the galaxy.
They had incorrectly deciphered the cover-stone of the Stargate,
unearthed at Giza, Egypt in 1928, as “Door to Heaven,” and Daniel
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
automatically corrected the imprecise translation moments after
arriving.
In fact, the cover-stone writing called the device a “Stargate,” but
when Daniel witnessed the initial formation of the event horizon for the
very first time, it was hard for him to continue thinking of it as
anything other than a “Door to Heaven.”
That was six years ago and a lot has happened to him since then.
“Over here, Daniel Jackson,” said the deep-set voice of Teal’C, one
of his closest friends and fellow member of SG-1.
Daniel didn’t see anything out of the ordinary—except, of course,
that there weren’t any people present.
The inhabitants of this village—who, Daniel believed, were
descendants from a mixture of Greek and Roman people from Earth
long ago—called this planet “Cartago.”
During SG-1’s first year together, Teal’C was captured and put on
trial for a murder he committed during his prior service to the Goa’uld,
Apophis. The man’s son, Hanno, demanded justice during a trial they
called the “Cor-ai,” and they would have executed Teal’C if Apophis
hadn’t sent a group of Jaffa at that very moment to attack the village.
In defending them, Teal’C proved his valor to Hanno and his
people.
At the conclusion of the Cor-ai, the SGC promised they would send
a team through the gate periodically to provide them with weapons,
supplies, and training so they could defend themselves against the
Goa’uld—a promise the SGC made good on.
In the years since, Teal’C and Hanno had grown close, and every
year he returned to the planet on the anniversary of Hanno’s father’s
death to participate in a ritual called Paternalia, a private gathering
where individual families honored their dead with gifts, food, and other
offerings placed near the graves of their loved ones.
The fact that Teal’C was invited to such a private affair meant that
Hanno now considered him family, and Teal’C responded accordingly,
revisiting Cartago each year to honor the man he had once slain.
Daniel knew how Hanno felt. When his own wife had been taken by
Apophis and used as a host for his queen, it was Teal’C who kidnapped
her. It was only one year later that Teal’C accompanied him back to
Abydos so Daniel could keep a promise that he made to his adopted
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J. D. STIVER
people; and for that reason, as well as a million others just like it,
Daniel also thought of Teal’C as family.
Through some quirk of fate, both he and Teal’C were able to attend
the Paternalia ceremony each year because Col. Jack O’Neill, the
leader of SG-1, also took a few personal days around this same time.
Because of this, SG-1 was on a temporary hiatus, and both Daniel and
Teal’C availed themselves of the opportunity to right past wrongs, in
whatever way they could.
“I don’t see anyone,” Daniel said. “Weren’t they expecting us?”
“Indeed, they were, Daniel Jackson,” Teal’C replied. “Something is
wrong.
Four years ago, when SG-1 first arrived on Cartago, the town’s
inhabitants hid themselves when they saw an incoming wormhole
forming inside the Stargate. After several generations of having their
people kidnapped by the Goa’uld and used as hosts, they began to hide
in numerous tunnels scattered beneath the city whenever it activated,
seeming to disappear into thin air in mere seconds.
Since then, various SG teams have trained them in the use of
firearms and defensive tactics, and in the years that Teal’C and Daniel
have visited, they always discovered a well-armed group guarding the
gate. But now, the village appeared deserted, just like the
reconnaissance MALP had shown.
Daniel agreed with Teal’C: The fact that no one was present meant
that something was wrong.
Teal’C crouched low to inspect some footprints he discovered in the
dirt leading away from the Stargate. “Four men carried another toward
the village in this direction,” he said, pointing to a grouping of
makeshift structures—Cartago’s version of a housing complex.
Daniel was always impressed with Teal’C ability to deduce actions
from patterns in the dirt. “Okay, so, that way it is.”
Daniel sighed and his breath exhaled as a wisp of visible steam. It
was bitterly cold.
The Cartago Stargate sat atop a mountainous basin at a high
altitude, and a chilled wind had kicked up to blow right through
Daniel’s standard issue Air Force fatigues. The only thing that grew at
this elevation were pine and cedar trees that spread outward from the
village to creep along the side of the nearby mountain range, the tips of
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
which could be seen stabbing through the highest clouds as jagged,
white peaks.
The basin was fed by water runoff in the summer that pooled in
lakes further down into the sloping forest on the far side of the village.
Each summer, the villagers ventured deep into the woods to collect as
much water as they could, and then they made the long journey back up
to re-supply their reservoirs for the winter. It was nearing winter now,
and he doubted they were off in the forest in view of the predictably
dropping temperatures.
In thinking about their method of collecting water, Daniel recalled
the Romans had been skilled builders of complex aqueduct systems,
and he believed their descendants here on this planet would’ve
eventually crafted something just as efficient to supply their water
needs.
That is, if they’d been given a chance.
Instead, a crop of their best and brightest were regularly taken as
hosts for the parasitical Goa’uld, leaving the rest to fend for themselves
as best they could.
There was only one permanent structure near the Stargate, which
Daniel thought might’ve been somewhat influenced by Greek
architecture. That building served as the primary meeting place for the
village elders, and was the location of the Cor-ai during SG-1’s first
visit to the planet.
It stood three-stories high and was accented by twelve pillars on the
two upper level balconies, designed in the Greek Ionic style. Six
additional pillars were erected near the first-floor entrance, and once
Daniel had a chance to study them more in depth, he discovered
intricate writings etched into the pillars that spiraled upward along the
columns, and then outward into the uppermost boarder of the meeting
hall itself.
The writing served as the basis for their law, and it answered at
least one question Daniel had: Why would these people stay so close to
the Stargate if it brought the Goa’uld to their doorstep? The reason was
simple, in retrospect: It was the only link they had to their heritage. For
that reason alone, it was important to them.
It was also the only structure they were able to build before the
Goa’uld came back to reap the human crop they’d planted on Cartago.
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J. D. STIVER
After that, the villagers took to living in underground tunnels and
simple cottages of stone and wood, many of which dotted the landscape
as far as the eye could see.
When Daniel refocused his attention to the village once again,
something glinted out of the corner of his eye and attracted his
attention. It caught Teal’C’s attention as well, and Daniel instinctively
froze in place when he saw his friend’s massive body stiffen, as if he’d
just become alerted to a potential danger.
“Do not move,” he said to Daniel. “We are being watched.”
Daniel scanned the meeting hall, wondering about the source of the
reflection. The sun was casting light directly on the building, and
whatever had momentarily reflected that light seemed to come from the
upper level. He wondered what it was, and a series of possibilities
flashed through his mind.
A mirror? A cigarette lighter? A rifle scope?
Uh-oh.
A cold shudder reverberated down Daniel’s spine. He looked down
at his own chest and saw a tiny, red dot hovering across his midsection—which could only mean he was in the crosshairs of a laser
sight, probably attached to a P90 or MP5, the standard weapons SG-1
carried.
They were also the weapons they provided to the inhabitants of
Cartago, he thought, and one of them seemed to be aimed right at him.
“Uh ... Teal’C? Someone’s pointing a gun at me.”
Teal’C was still crouched by the footprints he discovered, but now
his staff weapon was firmly aimed at the position of Daniel’s would-be
assassin. The prongs at the tip of Teal’C’s weapon separated like
partially uncoiling metallic pedals, and a yellow charge of deadly
energy licked menacingly across the length of the tip. Priming the
weapon was the only warning Jaffa ever gave before they opened fire.
But then, Teal’C was no ordinary Jaffa.
“Do not fire!” he called up to whoever was preparing to ambush
them. “We are allies and mean you no harm! But I will fire if we are
provoked!”
Daniel wasn’t so sure about that plan.
“Uh, what about if he’s ... provoked?”
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
“I know who you are, Jaffa!” someone shouted down from inside
the structure. “I remember you well. What have you done to my
people?”
The voice was male and had a slight crack to it, like that of a
teenager on Earth whose voice was changing with the onset of puberty.
Whoever he was, he was young; likely inexperienced; and he was
angry at something that he apparently blamed them for.
But there was something else, Daniel noted. Fear laced the anger in
his voice. He was scared, angry, and armed with a weapon they gave
him. Soothing tones were needed, Daniel knew, and Teal’C just wasn’t
up to the task.
“Hey,” Daniel said, calmly. “We’re friends. I don’t know what this
is about, but maybe we can help.”
That was as far as he got before the boy shot him.
As the wind was kicked from his lungs and his body lurched back
violently, a final, fleeting thought occurred to him just before he lost
consciousness: He remembered that on Cartago, the Stargate was called
the “Circ Kakona,” which translated to “Circle of Woes.”
He hoped there would never be a time when he stopped thinking of
the Stargate as a Door to Heaven. He had to admit, though, they did
have a point.
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J. D. STIVER
II
WINTER PARK, COLORADO
Colonel Jack O’Neill was standing with the setting sun to his back
and a deep shadow etched across his face, staring at the marble
gravestone of his only son.
The air was warm but still amiable for August, and the pleasant
breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass and tree blossoms. In a lot
of ways, it was just like the day of the accident. Maybe that’s the
reason the echoes from that day played across his mind so vividly—the
sounds of laughter, happy but haunting in its eventual silence, followed
by a loud gunshot that rings out in a single violent burst, and then trails
into the horror-laden screams of his wife, Sarah, who kept repeating
their child’s name in between sobbing gasps of dread.
Maybe the weather was the cause of the echoes, or the fact that it
was the anniversary. Yeah. Maybe.
But that wasn’t the truth, O’Neill knew in his soul, because the
echoes were always there; they just weren’t always this loud. But that’s
what he gets for setting aside a day without distractions. No gate travel.
No saving the world.
Just spending a day with his son. He owed him that.
No one should have to bury his own child.
That’s what he told Daniel Jackson back on the first Abydos
mission—back when he wasn’t feeling all that talkative. At the time, it
was the only thing worth saying. He still believed it.
He looked down at the gravestone and read the inscription for the
hundredth time; an old habit that died hard. Even after all of these
years, there was still a small part of his mind that had trouble
processing the truth of it, and reading the inscription made it seem more
real.
TYLER CHARLES “CHARLIE” O’NEILL, OCTOBER 28, 1985AUGUST 29, 1994. SON TO JACK AND SARA. HE LOVED
BASEBALL. HE LOVED TO LAUGH.
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
“We should’ve also put that he loved his father,” said a familiar
voice from behind him.
He’d heard her approach, of course. He’d had too much training not
to. But even still, the sound of her voice slid like a sharp blade over an
old scar.
“Yeah,” O’Neill replied. He turned and saw Sara approaching, the
sun setting behind her back, a silhouette against ambient light. “And his
mom. I think he mentioned that a lot. Nice entrance. You been here
long?”
Sara was still attractive. Her blond hair was cut short these days and
a few new wrinkles sprouted up around her blue eyes; but those same
eyes that had looked so tired when he last saw her were now alert,
alive, and full of hope, if not total confidence.
She wore white, a summer gown that slid down her petite frame and
billowed freely in the summer breeze. It was a stark contrast to the
black she wore when they’d last stood in the cemetery together.
She’d probably done that on purpose.
Sarah smiled, though the smile displayed some of her uncertainty.
“Just got here,” she said. “Funny thing. I just knew you did this. I’ve
known for years, but I always thought I’d give you your space to do it.
So this year, I thought ... maybe he doesn’t really want to visit Charlie
alone.
“So I called some places around here and asked if anyone named
Jack O’Neill made a reservation. Found one. They misspelled your
name again. They always forget the last ‘L’ in O’Neill. You ought to
just give up and drop it.”
“Ah,” he agreed. “That is the family curse. All the O’Neill’s have to
contend with it. I’m always saying, it’s O’Neill, with two ‘Ls,’ but they
never listen.”
Sara made eye contact with her ex-husband, but then broke it. “I
know,” she said. “I’ve still got the name. I just let them spell it however
they want.”
O’Neill knew this woman. He knew this was her way of telling him
that she wasn’t re-married. He also knew that she’d hate being so
obvious about it.
“Well you shouldn’t,” he said, somewhat softly. “It’s the only way
they’ll learn to get it right.”
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J. D. STIVER
O’Neill never was an articulate man. When they first married, he
was caught up in the military life and all the bravado that entailed. But
he made her laugh, so she must have seen something in him. Then
Charlie died and he got quiet while simmering in his own self-loathing.
Sara had always been able to find him before—no matter how quiet
he got, or how much humor he used to deflect his true feelings. But
with Charlie gone, O’Neill went to a dark place where she just couldn’t
find him anymore.
But is he still there?
“You know,” Sara said, finally breaking the somewhat
uncomfortable silence they were sharing, “it took me a few years, but I
finally realized that the last thing Charlie would’ve wanted is for us to
stop living because he did.”
O’Neill’s posture stiffened noticeably.
“I mean, I live with it,” she added, in attempt to clarify her thought.
“I live with it everyday, and there are days when it’s still so hard, Jack.
But now ... I’m living with it, you know?”
O’Neill relaxed a bit because he got it. He lived with it too. “Yeah,”
he said. “But there are days—like today. What brings you by?”
Again she stared into his deep blue eyes as if searching for thoughts
that might be hidden beyond them. And, again, she broke eye contact
with him and proceeded to declare her intent, blindly and bravely,
because O’Neill was a tough nut to crack.
“I thought,” she answered, a bit uneasily as she looked back up to
face him. “I thought maybe you might buy me a beer.”
“No,” O’Neill said. She looked back down at her own feet after he
answered, but when she did, he smiled and titled her head back up to
face him. “Do you know how much a bottle of beer costs these days? I
have a better idea.”
•••
He had rented a suite at a lodge, complete with a kitchen, laundry
area, and balcony that overlooked the mountainside of picturesque
Winter Park.
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
It was the kind of place that really drew people in during the skiing
season, but here in August, there weren’t a lot of skiers. You couldn’t
beat the view, though.
“So, what would you like to drink?” O’Neill asked his former wife,
after they walked through the door to his room. “I’ve got Guinness or ...
tap ... water.”
Sara sat on the sofa and smiled at the selection. “Hmmm,” she said,
in mocking contemplation, “How about a Guinness?”
“Excellent,” he replied, with a smirk. “You’ve come to the right
place. I’ve got plenty of that.”
He could feel Sara watching him as he walked over to the kitchen
and opened the refrigerator. He found there was something familiar
about it that he sort of missed.
Just as promised, the fridge was stocked with beer.
And that was pretty much it.
Sara let out a little snicker when she saw the meager contents of his
kitchen.
“Honestly, Jack, how do you survive?”
He flashed her a glance—the same one that occasionally drove
General George Hammond, his commanding officer, crazy. “I survive,”
he declared, with a playfully indignant tone. “On Guinness. I survive
on Guinness. And take out. Want an egg roll?”
“No thanks.”
“Fortune cookie?”
“No.”
“Right. Beer, then.”
He brought two bottles of Guinness from the kitchen and then tilted
his head toward the sliding glass door that led to the patio, indicating
that she should accompany him. Sara stood and then followed him out
to the balcony.
The suite had a rustic look to it, kind of a log-cabin-in-themountains feel. They pulled two chairs out from a table that appeared
to be crafted from a wooden log, and they situated their seats to face the
nighttime sky.
The mountain was a deep black object that seemed to jut from the
earth like a massive wall of sharp angles, set against a backdrop of
stars. Downtown Winter Park could be seen at the opposite side of the
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J. D. STIVER
horizon, an outstretching of tiny lights that cast their combined
illumination upward to create the soft glow of civilization.
The lights weren’t powerful enough to blot out the stars, which is
the reason he always booked this suite whenever he visited Winter
Park.
He’d brought his telescope with him. It sat at the other end of the
balcony.
“When did you take up stargazing?” Sara asked, after the telescope
caught her attention. “When did you ever have the time for a hobby?”
“I try to make the time,” O’Neill said. “But, you know, work keeps
calling.”
Sara sipped her beer, thoughtfully. “So ... how’s the Stargate?”
On SG-1’s first official year of active duty, an alien entity that
existed as pure energy briefly took the form of Jack O’Neill after it had
accidentally wounded him while he was off-world. During that time, it
sought out Sara because it was confused about Charlie, and when it
found her, the alien mentioned the Stargate.
Because of the top-secret nature of his work, the Air Force
dispatched two officers to Sara’s house, who showed up the next day to
make the standard National Security spiel and have her sign a nondisclosure form. She signed it, though a bit reluctantly because she was
a little put off that they felt is was necessary.
She had been the wife of an Air Force colonel, and that meant she
knew what topics were off limits in polite conversation. He guessed
that since they were alone, she likely thought it couldn’t hurt to pry just
a little, especially since she’d already heard the speech and signed the
form.
Nevertheless, she still didn’t have the clearance.
“Stargate?” O’Neill said. “Whatever that is.”
Sara took a longer sip of her beer and then looked out at the stars.
“I’m not asking for specifics, Jack, I know it’s classified. It’s just ... the
day they came to reinstate you, I saw you in Charlie’s room. I saw you
with the gun that ... I saw you with it.
“I knew when you left that you weren’t planning on coming back. I
knew you’d taken a dangerous assignment because you didn’t want to.
I know you still take dangerous assignments now. I guess what I want
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
to know is whether it’s really worth it. Tell me you’re not still
punishing yourself because of Charlie.”
O’Neill was thoughtfully twirling his beer-cap between his thumb,
index and middle finger. It was almost like coin flipping, with the
facets of the argument turning over and over in his head. Then he held
his hand up parallel to his head and snapped his fingers, which sent the
beer-cap hurtling through the air to land somewhere in the kitchen.
That’s what O’Neill almost always did when he was faced with a
difficult internal argument: He thought, screw it, and then he made the
best call he could.
“Okay,” he said. “Since you asked, and since you were nice enough
not to beat the crap out of the officers we sent to give you the speech,
I’ll tell you this: What I do, I do for Charlie, not because of him. I do it
for you and all the other Charlies out there.”
“And that is ...?”
“Nothing much. Just save the world,” O’Neill said, matter-of-factly,
and in that tone that made the casual listener think he was spewing BS.
But then Sara was not the casual listener. She knew him, and she knew
when he wasn’t kidding.
“About every year,” he continued. “Well, accept for that second
year when I had to be saved, but pretty much every year after that. Yup,
we really found our stride after that second year.”
Sara sat back and took in this new information. She had no idea she
even lived in a world that needed saving, let alone on a yearly basis.
She started to get an inkling of why their jobs were so secretive. No one
really wanted to know that they lived in a world on the brink.
“Huh,” she said, finally. “Maybe I should’ve offered to buy you a
beer, instead.”
O’Neill smiled. He was starting to remember who Sara was. He was
starting to remember who he was. He looked out over the starry horizon
and wondered what the sunrise would look like. Most of all, for the
first time in a long time, he wondered what the new day might bring.
Maybe she’s right, he thought. Maybe it really is time to start living
a little.
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J. D. STIVER
III
CARTAGO (P3X-1279)
The world was fuzzy white and filled with strange images to which
he could attach no meaning. Then, it was suddenly as if his hovering
consciousness slammed back into his body with a sharp thud.
Pain reverberated from his skull to his spine, and the images he was
trying to focus on solidified—somewhat, at least.
“Daniel? How are you feeling?”
Daniel squinted. Not only did it feel like someone was jamming
white, hot pokers through his temples, but he must not be wearing his
glasses. The voice came from Dr. Janet Fraiser, the chief medical
officer assigned to the SGC. For some reason he couldn’t yet fathom,
she looked distorted and orange.
“Bit of a headache,” Daniel answered. “It feels like I have little
people in my head trying to tunnel out. Did I get shot?”
“Yes,” Dr. Fraiser answered. “Fortunately though, it was with an
intar.”
“Ah,” he said, in a tone that indicated he was unsure how fortunate
he actually felt.
A few years ago, SG-1 stumbled upon a group of young Jaffa who
were training to infiltrate the SGC by disguising themselves as Air
Force personnel. At the time, they were engaging in battle scenarios
using weapons called intars, which were designed to look like standard
issue weaponry, but were actually energy weapons only capable of
stunning their targets.
Once those Jaffa learned that their “god,” Apophis, was dead, they
simply packed up and went home, leaving the weapons to be collected
by the SGC. They were still used for training purposes, and Daniel
surmised that the young man who shot him did so out of anger, and
with the only weapon he’d been issued.
Jack O’Neill wasn’t the kind of Colonel who made many standing
orders, but when he did, he meant it.
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Jack never was comfortable with guns in the hands of kids, Daniel
thought. It’s a good thing too, otherwise I would probably be dead
now.
“Intar? That’s why this headache feels so familiar. Can I have my
glasses back, please?”
The blurry, orange image shifted and Daniel felt his glasses being
slid back onto his face. When his eyes adjusted, he was unhappy to note
that Dr. Fraser was wearing an orange protective suit—the kind that
SGC personnel wore when they were working in an environment that
presented a contamination risk.
He looked around. It was dark, damp and cold, and he could hear
the slight hum of a nearby Naquadah generator. Two airmen, who also
wore protective gear, were setting up various lighting equipment and a
portable heater inside the spacious chamber.
Nearby plastic hung like strange hospital curtains, sectioning off his
cot from the rest of the room. Chemical sprayers were set up near the
exit that doused anyone coming or going through the tunnel with a
mist-like, decontamination solvent. All of this combined to give him
the impression that maybe—just maybe—he was under some sort of
quarantine.
The airmen finished installing the lighting equipment and the room
became flooded with intense illumination. It was bright enough to
cause the stabbing sensation in Daniel’s temples to return.
“Hey, Janet ... what’s going on?”
“We’ve got a situation, Daniel,” Dr. Fraiser said, in a somber tone
of voice. “It seems to be some sort of pandemic that’s moving through
the population, and that’s all we know at this point.”
That made a sort of sense, Daniel thought. No one present at the
Stargate to greet them; a person, who likely collapsed from illness
being drug away from the gate; the entire population heading
underground because they were in no condition to defend themselves if
the Goa’uld abruptly appeared.
They had suffered some sort of disease outbreak. But why? And
how? And did he have it, whatever it was?
“Am I ... uh, you know?”
“Infected?” Dr. Fraiser said, finishing his thought.
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J. D. STIVER
“I’ll know more when I have a chance to analyze a sample of your
blood. Until then, we’re setting up a command center to see if we can
help.”
Dr. Fraiser was about to shine her penlight into Daniel’s pupils—
the thought of which caused him to wince—when they both noticed the
distinct sound of the sprayers going off.
They turned toward the exit and saw Teal’C entering with a young
man in his arms. As a Jaffa, Teal’C carried a symbonite, the larva form
of an infant Goa’uld within his body, which acted as an enhanced
immune system. Because of this, he was the only one in the room not
wearing a protective suit.
“Dr. Fraiser!” he called out. “This boy requires medical attention!”
The person Teal’C carried looked familiar to Daniel. It took him a
moment, but he finally realized who he was: When Apophis sent a
group of Jaffa to attack the village on SG-1’s first visit to Cartago,
Hanno took a group of men to offer a diversion while the women,
children, and the elderly made their way to safety.
Before he left, Hanno pulled a young boy aside and told him that if
he didn’t make it, he wanted the boy to tell any survivors that he
expected Teal’C’s sentence to be delivered.
That boy was a teenager now, no more than age fourteen in Earth
years.
Teal’C rushed him over to a cot located at the far end of the room.
“He is having difficulty breathing, Dr. Fraiser.”
The boy started to convulse violently while still in Teal’C’s arms,
and a mixture of blood and bile oozed out of his mouth. Then he
stopped breathing and his body fell limp. Dr. Fraiser called out into the
tunnel and a group of her staff ran into the room. “He’s gone into
arrest! I need a defibulator!” she shouted through the muffling
headpiece of her protective suit.
“We don’t have one yet, doctor,” one of the men responded. “We’re
still transporting the equipment over!”
“Damn! Teal’C, do you know CPR?”
“I do not.”
Dr. Fraiser tilted the young man’s head back. “Listen carefully, I
want that defibulator brought in here in fifteen minutes, airmen! We’ll
administer CPR until then! Move! Teal’C, you’re the only one who can
16
BOOK OF THE DEAD
do this because of the decontamination protocol. When I give the word,
I want you to breathe air into his lungs, okay?”
Teal’C nodded.
In watching him, Daniel thought something was very wrong with
his demeanor. As a Jaffa, Teal’C has seen many people die in his 102
years of life. Although Daniel knew that none of them, including
Teal’C, could ever really get used to death, he never thought he’d see
the blood drain out of his friend’s face because of it.
Teal’C did as Dr. Fraiser instructed while the airmen ran out of the
room, presumably to fetch the defibulator. Teal’C breathed into the
boy’s lungs in two short bursts, and Dr. Fraiser applied pressure on his
chest in a series of quick thrusts.
They alternated. Again. And again.
Time passed like a torture session. And just like a torture session, it
drug on until someone died.
It took the airmen twenty minutes to return with the defibulator, but
it was too late to help the boy. At that point, even if they could revive
him, he would never be the same person he was.
Dr. Fraiser slumped her shoulders. “Just put it over there,” she said,
pointing to a corner of the room. “I’m sure we’ll need it again, at some
point.”
The two men nodded, gravely.
Daniel looked over at Teal’C. The Jaffa had always possessed a
seemingly stoic dispossession. He barely spoke at all during SG-1’s
first year of active duty, so Daniel learned a long time ago that when he
wanted to know what was going on with Teal’C, he needed to look into
his eyes for the answer.
Over the years, those eyes have flared with passion and
commitment; but now, they had a faraway look to them that Daniel
didn’t like at all.
“Teal’C?” Daniel said. “What happened?”
“He should not have died, Daniel Jackson,” Teal’C said. “I do not
understand.”
“Look at me, please,” Daniel asserted. Teal’C did as he was asked
and their eyes locked. “What happened?”
“It was this boy who attacked you,” Teal’C said, at last. “I tracked
him for some time but he was able to ambush my position.”
17
J. D. STIVER
Daniel looked over at the young man’s face. A splotch of acne
dotted his chin and his features were more angular than he remembered
them as a child, but the red-haired boy would’ve been a handsome man.
He would’ve attracted a beautiful woman, and they would have married
and had children of their own ...
Then Daniel had to abruptly turn away because he stopped seeing
the possibilities and started seeing what was really there—a still, pale
face with dead lips that would never be kissed by a wife; would never
recite nuptial vows; would never drink wine in celebration, ever.
“I shot him but once with a Zat-nik-a-tel,” Teal’C continued. “It
should merely have stunned him. He should not be ... gone.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Teal’C,” Daniel said. But the words rang
hollow. There weren’t any comforting words he could think of to
impart to his troubled friend. The only thing he had to offer was more
questions.
“Why would he attack us?” Daniel asked, somewhat rhetorically.
“His parents have fallen to the illness,” a woman’s voice said. “And
he believed your people brought this illness to our world as punishment
for challenging the gods.”
Daniel was surprised by the sudden appearance of the woman, who,
he assumed, must’ve entered the room when their attention was
diverted toward saving the boy. He recognized her immediately as one
of the Elders of the village.
The middle-aged woman was a formidable presence, with beauty
that belied her age. She had high, proud cheekbones and striking green
eyes that shimmered with intelligence, and she wore a heavy white robe
that was adorned with a leather belt and an ornamental, gold necklace.
Her silver hair was tied back neatly and braided in the back, which fell
just past her shoulders.
As Elder, she had a presence that commanded respect. In a lot of
ways, she reminded Daniel of General Hammond, the leader of the
SGC. Like him, she was wise—and more than that, she was honorable.
“Friend, Daniel.” she said, as a greeting. “Friend, Jaffa.”
Teal’C bowed his head, a Jaffa custom of bestowing friendship,
service, and honor. “Elder,” he said. “I stand ready to receive any
judgment your people may wish to implement for this boy’s death. I
ask only that you know I meant no lasting harm.”
18
BOOK OF THE DEAD
Daniel was about to object. The last thing they needed on their
hands was another Cor-ai. Fortunately, he didn’t have to voice that
particular concern.
“One must be wise to preside over Cor-ai,” the Elder said. “And
one must be wise to know when not to; would you not agree, Friend,
Daniel?”
“You are indeed wise, Elder,” Daniel said, as a way of indicating
his thanks.
“We have many stories in our Temple that teach us truths, for as
you know, truth is the path to wisdom,” she said. “One such story that I
learned in my youth dictates accountability in leadership; and as Elder,
I dwell on it often. I will share this story with you now, Friend, Jaffa,
because I believe it to be relevant.
“‘A man leads his brothers through the wilderness. Along the way,
they come to a fork in the path. Which way should they take? Both are
ripe with peril, but only one leads to salvation.’
“‘After some consideration, the man decides upon a path, and the
others decide to follow. One day, along this path that he has chosen, a
child is attacked by a tiger.
His injuries are grave and his brothers must soon mourn his loss.
But who is to blame for this loss? The man who led them down the
path? Or the tiger?’”
Teal’C considered her question. He broke eye contact with her and
glanced at the lifeless body of the boy lying on the portable cot. “Does
this man truly know the right path?” he asked, almost quietly, as if
speaking only to himself.
“So he claims,” the Elder answered. “And so he believes. His faith
is such that the others also believe. They cannot go back. They cannot
undo what is done. The only option left, then, is for the man to continue
leading down the path, as once he did.”
The Elder turned and began walking toward the exit, apparently
having said what she came to say. But then she turned, as if another
thought occurred to her. “Belief is contagious, Friend, Jaffa. It leads to
hope; but there is one other thing the man may do to secure that hope.”
Teal’C refocused his gaze back to the Elder and away from the
motionless body of the boy. “Tell me.”
19
J. D. STIVER
“The man may refine his promise to include this: When, at last, they
come to the end of their chosen path, and they find salvation on the
other side of their journey, then, perhaps, they will hold a great feast to
honor the boy.”
“Yes, Elder,” Teal’C agreed.
She smiled at him, then, but her smile soon darkened.
“And he may tell his people this, Friend, Jaffa; on that day, we will
feast on Tiger.”
Teal’C’s eyes began to sparkle and Daniel finally understood what
the Elder had done for him. Unlike what Daniel told him—that there
was nothing Teal’C could do—the Elder, instead, charged him to find
justice.
Teal’C bowed, yet again. “Perhaps, Elder, they will even hunt Tiger
along the way.”
Her smile, still tinged with sadness, lightened somewhat. “Good
hunting, Friend, Jaffa.”
Once she left, Daniel observed Dr. Fraiser having a muffled
discussion with the airmen who brought back the defibulator. The quiet
in her voice suggested she didn’t want the Elder to hear their
conversation, but it was her tone that caught Daniel’s attention more
than anything else.
She wasn’t happy about something they were relaying to her.
He rose from his cot and was surprised that he felt a little unsteady
on his feet. (He was either still feeling the effects of being shot with the
intar, or he had slammed his head on the ground after being knocked
unconscious—or, more likely, it was the combination of the two.
Ignore it, he thought. That’s what the colonel did. Of course, Jack’s
head was thicker.)
The airman saluted Dr. Fraiser and she returned the salute. Then she
walked over to Daniel, apparently catching notice that he was interested
in whatever had just changed.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion with the woman who
came by, Teal’C,” Dr. Fraiser said. “I wish you hadn’t promised her
that whoever was responsible for this disease would be held
accountable by her people.”
Teal’C tilted his head as if curious by her statement. “Why is that,
Dr. Fraiser?”
20
BOOK OF THE DEAD
“Because it looks like we’re the ones responsible.”
Daniel rubbed his temples. He was afraid of this.
“I just got word that General Hammond is recalling us,” Dr. Fraiser
added. “There’s been an additional outbreak on another world, and
right now the only common link appears to be SG-3.”
“This is bad,” Daniel said. An understatement for sure, but it was
the only way he could process this unwanted information. “What
world?”
Dr. Fraiser paused, and Daniel knew he wouldn’t like the answer.
“I’m sorry, Daniel. It’s Abydos.”
He almost knew that was coming. For some reason, he knew. The
world that had been his home for a year; the world that gave birth to his
deceased wife and her brother, who was like a second son to Jack
O’Neill; the world that was on the other side of the Stargate when he
opened it for the very first time—Abydos; his second home.
“Could this get any worse?” Daniel asked. He wasn’t hoping for a
response, but he got one anyway.
“I’m afraid so,” Dr. Fraiser informed him. “We’re being recalled
because this just got political.”
Daniel groaned with noticeable irritation. “How?”
“Senator Kinsey has taken an interest.”
Circle of Woes, Daniel thought. They really did have a point.
21
J. D. STIVER
IV
AREA 51, NEILLS AIR FORCE BASE,
GROOM LAKE, NEVADA
Major Samantha Carter was spending her free time in the same way
that she spent the rest of any time that was available to her—prying
apart the mysteries of advanced technology in order to incorporate
them into practical battlefield implementation.
And people say that you don’t know how to have fun.
That’s what Colonel O’Neill said to her once, during one of the
many occasions when he’d tried to arrange a fishing trip on their
downtime. She always did her best to explain that she really did enjoy
what she was doing—and more than that, it was necessary work since
the day might actually come when understanding this very technology
would not only save the team, but the entire planet.
The truth was, when it came to dealing with alien machinery,
especially when it was provided by the Asgard, they were dealing with
technology that was hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of years
beyond anything Earth could duplicate. Understanding it took time,
patience, and diligence. (No time for fishing, colonel. Sorry.)
Currently, she was engaged in an experiment to determine whether
they could expand the field of an Asgard personal cloaking device to
cover a wider area. She had tapped into the device’s operating system
and successfully interfaced it with her laptop, which allowed her to
adjust the field. For added power, she’d even managed to connect a
Naqahdah generator adaptor to the device’s control crystal port.
Dr. Bill Lee, who was assisting with the experiment, smiled at her
with innocent curiosity. “Well,” he said. “That ought to do it.”
Samantha returned his smile. “Okay. Here’s goes.”
She scrolled the mouse over her laptop screen and clicked. The
Naqahdah generator hummed. There was a surge of energy and a bright
flash emitted from the cloaking device—a small, reddish, handheld
item that vaguely resembled a Celtic rune stone.
22
BOOK OF THE DEAD
Carter rubbed her eyes after the flash subsided. When she opened
them back up, Dr. Lee was missing.
“Dr. Lee?” she asked. “Bill?”
“Yeah?” a disembodied voice replied. “Did something happen? I
think something happened.”
Samantha closed her eyes and shook her head.
Dr. Lee sighed. “Something went wrong, didn’t it?”
“You’re invisible.”
“I am? Wow. That’s … not good.”
“No,” Carter agreed. She looked down at the rising smoke plume
spiraling up from the control crystal port. “It looks like the surge fused
the adaptor. You might be stuck like this for a little while until we can
figure out how the field is being sustained without a power source.”
“I can’t see my hands,” Dr. Lee replied.
“I know,” Carter said. “I’m sure it’s only … temporary.”
This was the kind of thing that the other members of SG-1 never
really saw. The trials. The errors.
Once, Daniel told her about a literary concept called the deus ex
machina—an improbable devise or event that is introduced into the
story that resolves an impossible situation. Daniel had meant it as a
compliment, implying that Carter was their version of the deus ex
machina because her expertise in alien technology often saved the day
at the very last minute.
What Daniel failed to comprehend is how much work was involved
in even beginning to comprehend technology that was years beyond her
own understanding.
So many things could go wrong. A little more than a year ago, they
had adapted components from a salvaged Goa’uld Death Glider into the
design of a U.S. Air Force Nighthawk Stealth Fighter, and on the very
first test flight of the aircraft—dubbed the X-301—a hidden recall
device imbedded in the alien navigational system launched the craft
into space.
The incident nearly cost Colonel O’Neill and Teal’C their lives, and
served as an example of just how wrong things can go when one
doesn’t fully understand the equipment that is being incorporated.
23
J. D. STIVER
Now, the Air Force was attempting to adapt Asgard technology into
the design of the X-303—a much bigger battle cruiser that would serve
as Earth’s first line of defense in the event of an alien attack.
Most of the Asgard components were recovered from a wrecked
ship that crashed into the Pacific Ocean a year ago after becoming
infested with Replicators. The shields and weapons were damaged
beyond repair, but the Pentagon was pleased to hear the beaming and
hyperdrive technology was salvageable
Dr. Lee was a vital member assigned to incorporate the recovered
components into the ship’s systems. Currently, he led the team that was
attempting to adapt the Asgard sensor grid that would allow the X-303
to locate and transport people and supplies from the ship to the
surface—but his team hadn’t achieved much success as of yet.
Their superiors weren’t going to like it when they discovered the
project could be delayed because Carter had just turned Dr. Lee
invisible during a routine experiment.
Maybe he can still work on the project, she thought, brightening a
bit with a newfound sense of forced optimism. It’s not like he’s phased
out of our dimension or anything.
“I can’t see my legs, either,” Dr. Lee exclaimed, in both fascination
and borderline dread. “This is so weird. I could come to work naked
and no one would know. Didn’t this happen to Colonel O’Neill once?”
Carter slumped her shoulders, her optimism fading.
Then her cell phone rang.
“This is Sam.”
“Sam!” Daniel exclaimed over the receiver. “Hey. We need you to
come back to the base.”
Carter looked over at where she assumed Dr. Lee was still standing.
“Hey, Daniel. I’ve kind of got … a situation here.”
“Me too. We do … too. Trust me. This is worse. Much … much
worse.”
Carter had known Daniel for going on six years. There was a sense
of panic in his voice that indicated the situation was grave.
“Deus ex machina?” she asked.
“Oh yeah,” Daniel said. “This might shut the Stargate program
down and kill the entire population of two planets. This is, well, this is
big. We’ll fill you in when you get back.”
24
BOOK OF THE DEAD
“Right, I’m on my way.”
She looked around the lab and still didn’t see anybody else in the
room with her. “Dr. Lee?”
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Dr. Lee said. “It’s okay, I was just
thinking that I probably got saturated by the particle field from the
cloaking device and—oh, hey! You don’t suppose there’s a chance of
radiation exposure, do you?”
“Uh … well, I hadn’t, but now that you … mention it …”
“Oh, that is not good.”
“Probably just minute traces,” Carter reassured. “Very minute. I’ll
contact the Asgard when I get back to the SCG. In the meantime,
pretend you’re Colonel O’Neill and make the best of it.”
Carter left hurriedly, almost appreciative for the excuse to return to
work. (Though, she knew from past experience, this was likely to
change once she got there.)
Deus ex machina.
Her biggest fear was that one day, she wouldn’t be able to pull it off
and good people would die because she wasn’t smart enough. Her
greatest hope, as always, was that it wouldn’t be today.
25
J. D. STIVER
V
STARGATE COMMAND,
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COMPLEX,
COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO
General George Hammond was speaking to the President of the
United States on a direct line inside of his office. His face was creased
in frustration since this particular conversation was of the one-sided
variety.
That side, unfortunately, wasn’t Hammond’s.
“Yes sir, Mr. President, I can appreciate your position on the
matter; but the fact is, we don’t know what happened yet,” Hammond
said, as a means of offering a respectful objection. “Yes sir, I’ll begin
recalling our off-world teams the minute you reach a decision. Until
then, I believe they should continue to render whatever aid we can to
the people affected by this outbreak … thank you, sir.”
Hammond hung the phone up. On his desk, there was a crude
drawing from his granddaughter that he prized above anything
displayed in a prestigious art gallery. He looked at it with fondness and
thought of the tiny hand that drew it.
It depicted a bright yellow sun; green, green grass; and two stick
figure little girls walking hand-in-hand with a stick figured bald man.
He touched it and regained a slight smile. The idea behind joining
the military was to make the world a safer place for your children and
grandchildren. There were days, like today, when he wondered if he
were succeeding. Then he looked at that drawing and remembered how
important it was to keep trying, even if the odds were against him.
Dr. Fraiser returned from Cartago approximately two hours ago
with Dr. Jackson. The news of an outbreak—which, regrettably, might
be the result of SGC negligence—had been met with a flurry of
commotion at the Pentagon.
There was a growing movement within the medical ranks that had
been warning something like this might eventually happen. Ever since
the bacterial outbreak on P8X-987—which cost the lives of SG-7 and
26
BOOK OF THE DEAD
nearly the entire population of the planet except for one, small girl—the
group had been gaining momentum, and more and more people within
the Pentagon and White House were starting to listen.
At the time of that outbreak, SGC’s own Dr. Fraiser initially
theorized that an Earthborn bacteria had inadvertently been carried
through the Stargate and then mixed with a local germ to mutate into
the deadliest epidemic she’d ever seen.
It wasn’t until later that SG-1 discovered a Goa’uld, Nirti, was
actually behind the plague. By the time they did, however, it was too
late. People were already thinking along that direction.
What if a homegrown germ did mutate into something deadly after
being introduced into a completely alien environment? What if it
mutated somewhere in the population of Earth and suddenly there was
an incurable pandemic spreading across the planet?
Hammond took one more look at the drawing on his desk and
thought about the happy little girl who drew it. He had to admit, that
particular “what if” scenario was bone chilling.
The Pentagon wondered about the statistical likelihood of such a
scenario playing out, and so they commissioned a report that was
undertaken by Dr. Richard Tobaine, who heads medical research out at
Area 51.
That report stated it was statistically feasible that this would occur
with alarming frequency, given how quickly viruses and bacteria are
known to mutate on Earth.
However, Dr. Tobaine also noted that the GATE TRAVEL
VERSES PATHOGEN OUTBREAK RATIO was lower than he
would’ve expected, perhaps because humans usually inhabit most of
the planets visited by Stargate personnel.
With the news of this latest epidemic, the president had just
informed Hammond that Dr. Tobaine was heading to the SGC to
evaluate the situation personally. The president also made it clear that
Tobaine’s expert opinion was suddenly given new weight and that he
would adhere to Dr. Tobaine’s recommendation, no matter what it was.
Hammond managed to briefly hold out hope that the doctor would
be fair and impartial; but that hope diminished the second he heard that
Senator Robert Kinsey would be accompanying Dr. Tobaine to the
base.
27
J. D. STIVER
The Stargate program is as good as dead, Hammond thought. That
son of a bitch sure is persistent.
Kinsey despised the SGC—especially Colonel O’Neill and the rest
of SG-1—because they once defied his ability to end the program, as
well as proving him wrong about the danger facing the planet and even
managing to save the world, despite him.
In fact, Kinsey’s been wrong so many times, Hammond couldn’t
understand why anyone still listened to him at all. Now he’s back,
Hammond realized. And this time he’s allied with someone who could
very well know what he’s talking about. That makes Kinsey even more
dangerous than ever.
They would arrive at 0800 hours, first thing in the morning. That
was also the time that he was expecting Dr. Fraiser’s preliminary report
about the epidemic that was allowed to occur under his watch.
Hammond was no fool. Someone was going to have to answer for
this epidemic, and he’d been around long enough to know that it was
likely going to be him.
This was not a visit he was looking forward to.
In the meantime, reports kept coming in from Cartago and Abydos
and the situation wasn’t improving. Colonel O’Neill was on leave and,
as expected, he wasn’t answering his cell phone. Hammond was almost
glad. When Jack hears about what’s happening on Abydos, he’s going
to flip, Hammond thought. And that’s before I even tell him that we
might not be around to help.
As much as Hammond loathed the upcoming visit from Kinsey, he
was positively dreading the thought of having to debrief SG-1.
•••
There was a loud and persistent knocking on the door. Ignoring it
did not make it go away. Perhaps shouting at whoever was knocking
would. That could be worth a try.
O’Neill rose and lumbered out of his warm bed. He managed to find
his robe and then he shuffled over to the door. “Stop knocking!”
Once he opened the door, he saw a clean-cut young man in uniform
standing on the porch. O’Neill knew instantly that this did not bode
28
BOOK OF THE DEAD
well for the wonderful plans he’d envisioned enjoying the following
morning.
“Sir!” the young airman said, while offering a professional salute.
O’Neill returned a drowsy salute of his own. “What?”
“General Hammond has ordered that you report to him
immediately, sir!”
O’Neill scratched his head sleepily and then yawned. “Why didn’t
you just call?”
“General Hammond also requested that I give you this,” the young
airman replied, as he handed O’Neill a familiar looking cell phone.
“You left it at the base, sir.”
O’Neill took his phone. “Wonder why I did that,” he responded,
sarcastically. “Tell General Hammond that I’ll be along shortly,
airman. Just as soon as I find my pants.”
“Uh … yes sir.”
O’Neill closed the door. He wasn’t kidding about finding his pants.
They could be anywhere. Bits of clothing were scattered throughout the
cabin. He walked back over to the bed and sat down. “Where are my
pants?”
The warm lump beneath the bed sheets stirred, unhappily.
“In the kitchen,” Sara said. “Remember?”
“Right. We were doing dishes and then …”
“Yeah.”
Sara popped her head out from beneath the pillow she’d buried it
under once the lights came on. She rubbed her eyes and then smiled.
“Did we really just … last night?”
“Yup.”
“What does this mean, Jack?”
O’Neill seemed to ponder the question. “I don’t know.”
“And now you’re leaving?”
“I have to,” he said. “It must be important or Hammond wouldn’t
have risked giving that fine, young airman such a savage beating.”
Sara snickered. “I really have missed you, Jack.”
He smiled back. “Yeah.”
Sara rolled over and prepared to go back to sleep. (Either that, or
she didn’t want him to see the worry in her eyes.)
“So, I guess you’re off to save the world, huh?”
29
J. D. STIVER
O’Neill touched her cheek softly and turned her back toward him.
“I don’t know yet,” he replied. “It seems a little early in the season for
that. Probably just some other world.”
“Call me when you get back?”
“Yeah,” he promised. “I’ve got my phone back now.”
•••
Daniel was having trouble sleeping. Something was gnawing at
him, and it wasn’t just that he was worried. (But there was THAT, of
course.)
He sat up on the cot inside of his lab and reached over to turn on a
nearby lamp. A dim light glowed throughout the room, illuminating the
framed picture that he kept on his desk.
It was his wife, Sha’re.
He found it hard not to think about Sha’re, now that her people
were in serious danger. It was just a little more than five years ago that
he found himself lying in a bed on Abydos—a straw bed that wrecked
havoc on his allergies, but comfortable, nonetheless—and he thought to
himself, here he was, happy for the first time in his life. Yet even then,
he couldn’t just BE content.
His curiosity still managed to get the better of him.
Not long after that, he started exploring the pyramid on Abydos and
that’s when he discovered a hidden chamber leading to the cartouche
that had multiple Stargate addresses etched into its golden surface.
Armed with the knowledge it presented, Daniel decided that it was safe
enough to unbury the Abydos Stargate, just in case Earth reached the
same conclusion that he did:
The Stargate goes to other planets.
That one, single decision set into motion a chain of events that
eventually led to the death of his beloved wife. And now, that chain has
led here, to the potential extinction of Sha’re’s people.
His people. They were his people too.
That’s when Daniel got it. The thing that was gnawing at him
wasn’t worry or even grief—it was guilt.
Whatever evil happened to the people of Abydos was his fault. No
matter who was behind it, it was still, ultimately, his fault.
30
BOOK OF THE DEAD
He unlocked the combination back on Earth. He unburied the
Abydos Gate. And people were dying now, just because Daniel was
always so damn curious.
•••
Carter arrived at the SGC in the early hours of the morning before
the sun even rose.
At first she was momentarily surprised by all the activity at this
hour, but then she remembered why she’d returned in the first place:
An emergency had arisen that could actually end the Stargate Program
and extinguish the population of two separate planets, according to
what Daniel had told her on the phone.
She needed to be debriefed. General Hammond had left for the day
in preparation for an upcoming meeting. (He only did that when he
wanted to prepare himself for something big, without any interruptions
getting in the way.) Colonel O’Neill hadn’t arrived yet. Teal’C was offworld assisting with the crisis (whatever it was) and Daniel was resting
in his lab on the base.
That only leaves Janet, she thought.
Carter hoped that she wouldn’t find Dr. Fraiser in the infirmary
because that would mean whatever crisis they were dealing with was a
medical one.
Unfortunately, she did find Janet there, against Carter’s hopes.
“I came as soon I could, Janet,” Carter said, as a means of offering a
greeting. “What’s going on?”
Dr. Fraiser was reviewing a report in her hand, her expression
denoting severe concern. “We’ve got an even bigger problem than I
thought,” she said. “We called you back because there’s been a
bacterial epidemic on Abydos and Cartago.”
“Oh God,” Carter said, remembering the special significance those
two worlds held for the members of SG-1.
“It gets worse,” Fraiser added. “It looks like the infection was
spread by Major Tom Anders from SG-3. He survived, but the other
members of the team are dead. Here, take a look at this.”
Dr. Fraiser handed Carter the report. As she read, a chill began to
reverberate down her spine.
31
J. D. STIVER
“How can this be?” Carter stated with alarm. “Is he a Goa’uld?”
“No,” Frasier said. “I ordered a sonogram to make sure. There’s
nothing foreign inside of his body that I can detect, accept for the
presence of the bacteria and—”
“Naquadah.”
“It gets worse than that, Sam.”
Carter finished reading the preliminary report. “Oh no.”
“Like I said,’ Dr. Fraiser reiterated. “We’ve got a big problem on
our hands.”
32
BOOK OF THE DEAD
VI
Daniel squinted as piercing light shot into the dark room,
awakening him from a hard-won sleep where he dreamed of mass
graves being laid into the cold earth amid the sounds of weeping.
He shot up, startled. “No!”
There was a shadowy figure standing in the doorway—a silhouette
against a hazy aura—that made a startled sound of its own, apparently
caught off guard by Daniel’s presence in the lab.
“Oh! Dr. Jackson, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
Daniel’s eyes slowly adjusted as the specters conjured by his dream
began to disperse with the onset of consciousness. Once he regained his
bearings, Daniel realized that the person standing in his doorway was
simply an enlisted man wearing standard Air Force fatigues. He was
holding a small brown package, like something that came through the
mail.
“Sorry,” Daniel said. “I was having a bad dream. What’s that?”
“It was delivered to you, Dr. Jackson. Where would you like me to
put it?”
Daniel looked around the lab. The cluttered room was filled with
various artifacts that sprawled along the worktable and adjacent shelves
as they awaited his efforts to properly catalogue each item.
“Uh, thanks,” Daniel said. “Just … put it on the table, I guess. Next
to the, um, other stuff.”
The airman did as he was asked and then turned to leave. Daniel
climbed stiffly out of the uncomfortable cot with a yawn. Then he
reached into his pocket and pulled out his glasses.
The world came back into focus. The package was addressed to him
and seemed to be sent from Dr. Katherine Langford, the woman who
recruited Daniel into the Stargate Program more than six years ago.
He wondered what she’d sent him. There goes that curiosity again,
he thought. He opened the package and unburied the mystery item from
the beneath the Styrofoam packaging and discovered a small statue of
Egyptian descent.
The item troubled him.
33
J. D. STIVER
The figure depicted a female with the head of a lioness, who Daniel
immediately recognized as the Egyptian goddess, Sekhmet.
He started to get a bad feeling about it.
To verify his hunch, he walked over to a shelf that housed his
reference books, then he pulled a thick, dusty tome away from its slot.
He opened the book and blew, which caused a small dust cloud to
scatter and slowly spiral upward within the mild currents circulating
from the air conditioning system.
Daniel sneezed.
Then he returned to his worktable. The book was a reference text
for ancient Egyptian mythology. He looked up Sekhmet and then
realized what had been troubling him.
“Sekhmet,” he read aloud. “Sometimes called the ‘Goddess of
Vengeance’ or the ‘Lady of Pestilence’.”
Daniel sighed. “This can’t be a coincidence.”
•••
There was a flurry of activity when O’Neill emerged from the
elevator on the 27th sublevel of Stargate Command.
He paused and briefly seemed to consider closing the doors and
going back up.
But he didn’t. Instead, he stuck his head out and peered around the
corridor. Actually, activity wasn’t the right word, he mused, beneath a
tired scowl. No, this was more along the lines of a commotion. And
commotions, he thought, as his scowl deepened, did not bode well for
even the simplest of goals, such as getting a nice Styrofoam cup of
coffee before getting swept up in them.
He stepped through the sliding doors and heard someone frantically
call out his name.
“Jack!”
“D’oh.”
“Jack!”
O’Neill turned and saw Daniel rushing toward him, sliding uneasily
between an opposing flow of people who were sweeping through the
cement-lined corridor like a powerful torrent.
34
BOOK OF THE DEAD
Daniel approached O’Neill with frantic eyes and an open mouth,
clearly indicating that he had many important things to share, but then
Daniel paused, as if caught off guard by something.
His mouth closed.
“What?” O’Neill asked.
“You look … happy.”
O’Neill glanced down at himself and then back up at Daniel.
“You don’t,” he replied.
“I got shot.”
Jack stood silent, then looked Daniel over for a moment. “With a
gun?”
“Intar.”
“Oh … ouch.”
“Yeah.”
O’Neill was waiting for more information but Daniel didn’t offer
any, as if he were still trying to figure out why O’Neill looked different.
“I’m getting less happy by the minute, Daniel,” O’Neill said. “Why
am I here and not on my well-earned vacation?”
“Uh … we have a problem.”
“Nothing new there. Fine. Debriefing, then?”
O’Neill started walking toward the conference room with Daniel in
tow. “Hey,” he said, as they pushed past the various SGC personnel.
“What’s with all the commotion?”
“Oh, right,” Daniel answered. “Kinsey’s coming. There’s talk about
shutting the Stargate program down.”
O’Neill stopped walking. “What, again? We did that already.”
“Yeah, well, it looks like we’re doing it again. There’s been an
outbreak and Kinsey thinks it’s our fault. But that’s not the really bad
news.”
O’Neill waited. “Yeah?”
Daniel locked eyes with O’Neill. “This time,” he said. “He might be
right.”
•••
Senator Robert Kinsey walked the corridors of Stargate Command
with a smirk on his face, flanked by aids in—as one might expect from
35
J. D. STIVER
a man they had all come to know as a complete ass—a gratuitous
display of ego.
It was 0900 hours. General Hammond, O’Neill, Daniel, Carter, and
Dr. Fraiser had been waiting in the conference room for more than an
hour.
“Sorry I’m late,” Kinsey said, after strolling through the door. “I
was—”
“Let me guess,” O’Neill cut in. “You were just in a meeting with
people much more important than us, who you were unable to break
from in a timely fashion?”
“Colonel,” Hammond said, slightly rebuking O’Neill.
“I’m just saying,” O’Neill countered. “Maybe the good senator
could have the decency to retire so we can pitch in and buy him a nice
watch. I’m thinkin’ a Casio, maybe?”
O’Neill was disappointed to see Kinsey smile at the remark. The
fact that he was in such good cheer was not a hopeful sign.
“In a manner of speaking, Colonel, you’re correct,” Kinsey replied.
“I was in a meeting with the president, and, yes, he is much more
important than you. But make no mistake, I might be late, but I
wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
Lucky us, O’Neill thought.
Kinsey wasn’t alone when he entered the room. In addition to his
three aids—two young women who looked like they could still be
interns in college (surprising that they had the security clearance) and a
meticulously dressed young man who struck O’Neill as someone who
secretly wanted to be an accountant—there was another man who stood
off to the side, away from Kinsey’s cluster of sycophants.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Dr. Richard Tobaine,” Kinsey
said. “The man whose theories will change the way the Stargate
Program operates.”
O’Neill sized the doctor up, immediately.
Tobaine was a tall, stout man with robust facial features and thick,
wavy black hair. He had gray, emotionless eyes that viewed the world
from behind circular, wire-frame spectacles.
He stood rigid, confident, stoic, and appeared to be relatively
young, which indicated he was likely gifted in his respective field of
expertise. (This was someone who the president was listening to, after
36
BOOK OF THE DEAD
all.) Also, O’Neill couldn’t help but note that Tobaine had a presence
about him that commanded authority, even among seasoned Air Force
personnel.
Unlike Kinsey, who was a graying, snake-like politician with a
calculated smile that often degenerated into a condescending sneer,
Tobaine was clearly formidable. While Kinsey was opportunistic and
vindictive, fully capable of shaking a man’s hand one moment and then
jabbing a knife in his back the next, Tobaine struck O’Neill as a
thinker.
He was someone who could disassemble a problem in the same
manner a surgeon would—with precision and cold efficiency. That
made him a tool that Kinsey was using. (Not a sword, but a scalpel.)
Tobaine approached the conference table and positioned his
briefcase on the smooth, polished surface. Then he opened it and pulled
out a handful of papers, which he offered to Hammond with the implied
expectation that he should take one copy and pass the rest down.
Hammond glared a moment at Kinsey, then exhaled through his
nose and complied.
“Let’s get down to business,” Tobaine said. “In view of the newly
developing crisis, I have finally been able to convince the president that
the SGC’s ability to both cope and prevent a potentially dangerous
pathogenic outbreak is surprisingly lacking.”
“I have to say, I completely disagree, doctor,” Hammond countered.
“We follow the strictest protocols, and the fact that no contamination
has ever left this facility is testament to the fact that those protocols are
working.”
“Please, general,” Tobaine retorted. “Outlined in the report I just
gave you, you’ll find several instances where this very facility has
either—or could easily have become—compromised. Off the top of my
head, I can cite the virus that reverted nearly every human on this base
back into a primitive state of evolution. You, yourself, became infected
that time.”
“And this base was locked down accordingly,” Hammond insisted.
“As standard protocol dictated.”
Tobaine smiled. “General, the ‘standard protocol’ I’m insisting on
doesn’t allow the virus to make it back to Earth in the first place.”
37
J. D. STIVER
Hammond sat back in his seat. This was Tobaine’s show and,
unfortunately, he and his staff were nothing more than a captive
audience.
“Doctor, surely you understand that every time we go through the
Stargate, it’s a calculated risk,” Carter said, weighing in on topic.
“I do,” Tobaine answered. “It’s just that I believe your calculations
are off, medically speaking.”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” O’Neil declared. “While we’re sitting
here on our collective asses wasting time in this meeting—which you
were late to, I might add—good people on two different worlds are
dying!”
Tobaine arched an eyebrow. “I know,” he said. “And unfortunately,
colonel, I find it highly probable that it was the SGC’s fault it happened
in the first place. I realize that a layman might not understand the
complexities of how a pathogen evolves each time it comes into contact
with a biological organism, but I can assure you, it does happen.
“As it stands right now, the CDC is warning that an avian influenza
pandemic will likely occur here in the next few years. The last time that
happened, we called it the Spanish Flu, and it killed between fifty to
one hundred million people worldwide.
“A pathogen can evolve to such an extent that humans just don’t
have a natural defense against it—and that’s just here on Earth. Now,
imagine what can happen when you start throwing into the equation
various organisms that are completely alien in nature. I count it as
fortunate that an outbreak occurred off-world, rather than outside this
facility.”
Daniel stiffened in his seat. “I’m … I’m sorry, did you just say …
fortunate? I guess it is fortunate, unless you’re a person living on one
of those two planets.”
“Dr. Jackson,” Tobaine corrected. “I did not mean to imply that I
am belittling what the people of Cartago or Abydos are suffering, I
merely meant to state that because Earth is our primary concern, we are
fortunate we did not bring harm to the people of this planet. I’m sure
you can agree with that assessment?”
Daniel remained silent.
“I did not reach my position in a vacuum, gentlemen,” Tobaine
continued. “There have been many times when I found myself behind
38
BOOK OF THE DEAD
the quarantine lines of an infectious hot zone, and I’ve witnessed firsthand just how devastating a plague can be on a human population. It’s
heartbreaking, and that’s why my primary focus here is to prevent that
from ever happening again, especially if it’s due to simple negligence.”
O’Neill had had enough. He glanced at his watch and realized,
gloomily, that the meeting only started two minutes ago. He decided to
see if he could end it in less than five.
“SG-1 stands by its record,” O’Neill said.
Kinsey brightened at the statement, and Tobaine shook his head in
disbelief. “Really?” he said. “Would you care to go over that record?”
“Sure,” O’Neill replied. “I’ve just been waiting for a chance to do
that again.”
“Very well,” Tobaine agreed. “Following the incident that could
have knocked every human on this planet back down the evolutionary
scale, you, colonel, engaged in an act of sexual intercourse that infected
you with a technologically induced illness, which aged you
considerably.”
O’Neill smiled, as if pleased with himself at that one. “Yes. But in
my defense, if you had seen her dance … ”
“And then there was the bacterial outbreak on P8X-987.”
“Where?” O’Neill asked.
“Cassandra’s planet, sir,” Carter offered.
“Right. Nirti did that.”
“Yes,” Tobaine conceded. “And if I recall, you actually touched one
of the infected bodies?”
“I washed my hands,” O’Neill countered. “Twice. I even used soap
the second time.”
“And what about PJ2-445? The planet where you nearly caused the
extinction of an entire race of aliens.”
O’Neil shrugged. “Where?”
“The little, white guys,” Daniel said. “I sneezed and then they
started fainting?”
“Right. We crashed a UV plane into one the plants they needed.”
“Again,” Tobaine argued. “Your own doctor first postulated that
you introduced an illness into their population, which their immune
systems were unable to cope with. She could easily have been right.”
“Yeah,” O’Neill agreed. “We told ‘em we were sorry about that.”
39
J. D. STIVER
Tobaine sighed. “Barring those occasions when a known outbreak
has actually occurred, it still doesn’t excuse all the times when proper
precautions weren’t in place.”
“Like when?” O’Neill challenged.
“Even as early as your first trip through the Stargate, while on
Abydos, you and your team ate an animal that might have contained
any number of alien bacterial agents.”
“Okay, the cooked … animal … thing,” O’Neill recalled.
“Looked a little like an armadillo,” Daniel elaborated.
“Tasted like chicken,” O’Neill added.
“You see?” Kinsey said to Tobaine. “This is exactly the kind of
cooperation I said you could expect from them.”
“Oh come on, Kinsey!” O’Neill chided. “If our disease protocols
were any stricter, we wouldn’t have let you on the base. Every time I
see you, I feel a little ill.”
Kinsey glared and O’Neill felt a measure of satisfaction with his
insult. It was worth it just to see the bastard stop smiling.
Even Hammond lowered his head and smirked, albeit briefly.
“Let’s bottom-line this for them, doctor,” Kinsey suggested. “They
don’t seem to understand where this is going.”
“Oh, I understand,” Hammond cut in. “You’re going to use this
incident to push for new leadership of the SGC, senator—something
you’ve been trying to do for years.”
“And, perhaps, for good reason,” Tobaine argued. “And I can’t help
but note that your chief physician has remained silent on the subject?”
Dr. Fraiser looked up at Tobaine. “Like SG-1, I stand by our
record,” she said, angrily.
“Well, I don’t,” Tobaine replied. “Following this meeting, I will
recommend to the president that the Stargate program undergo a
ninety-day review of its lax policies in dealing with the potential for a
pathogenic outbreak. During that review period, I also expect that the
program will suspend all operation while the issue of future SGC
leadership can be discussed.”
Hammond stood up, abruptly. “And in the meantime, I suppose the
good people of Abydos and Cartago can just suffer for the next three
months? What the hell kind of doctor are you?”
“General,” Tobaine said. “I’m sure we’re all sorry it’s come—”
40
BOOK OF THE DEAD
“You might not be happy with the decisions I’ve made, but until
I’m relieved of command, you two are no longer welcome here.
Airmen! Escort these people off my base!”
Two MPs who stood at the doorway quickly sprang to life and
approached Kinsey’s congregation. “Sir, we have to ask you all to
come with us,” one said.
The senator glared angrily at Hammond, but then suddenly broke
into a confident grin. “The game is afoot, gentlemen.”
As soon as they had departed, O’Neill checked his watch. “A five
minute meeting,” he declared. “Hey, that went pretty well.”
41
J. D. STIVER
VII
Six months ago, Dr. Eric MacKenzie, a colonel with the U.S. Air
Force and a psychological consultant with the SGC, found himself
being chased through an underground parking garage.
He turned, frantically, and looked all around him. Cars sat dark and
motionless in the dim lighting. He could hear dripping from leaky pipes
trickling into tiny pools.
But he didn’t see anything.
He had been running for about fifteen minutes through the scarcely
populated, nighttime streets. His lungs burned, his heart was thundering
in his chest, and somewhere in the back of his mind, oddly, he made a
connection about who it was that must be chasing him.
The parking garage offered what he hoped would be an effective
hiding place. That’s when he made the mistake of stopping long
enough to wonder if he’d gotten away.
Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind and hurtled through the air,
only to land several feet away onto the hood of a nearby automobile.
He impacted with such force, the windshield shattered and shards of
splintered glass dug into his bruised and bleeding back.
When he finally lost consciousness, it was almost a blessing.
He never even saw his assailant.
In the days that followed Dr. MacKenzie’s disappearance,
investigators from several different governmental agencies, including
the Air Force and Stargate Command, have been searching for him.
With the newly developing crisis on Abydos and Cartago, the SGC has
refocused their attention away from MacKenzie’s abduction and onto
an even bigger problem.
They don’t even realize there’s a connection. They don’t even
realize he’s right under their nose.
•••
“So, where does that leave us, other than screwed, I mean?” O’Neill
asked.
42
BOOK OF THE DEAD
“That’s what we need to discuss, colonel,” Hammond said. “Dr.
Fraiser, can I assume that you have a good reason for not wanting to
share your preliminary findings with Dr. Tobaine?”
“Yes, sir,” Fraiser admitted. “I’ve determined that the outbreak on
Abydos and Cartago is a bacterial agent that works similar to a
cytokine storm—in essence, it causes a person’s immune system to
begin attacking the body’s own tissue. I believe this is why the
electrical charge that Teal’C fired on Cartago killed the teenaged boy:
He was already severally weakened because his immune system had
been compromised. He was actually lucky, sir.”
“I don’t understand,” Hammond said.
“General, this bacteria triggers a process that literally eats away the
body from the inside out. It’s one of the most painful deaths that I can
imagine. But that’s not the worse part … ”
“Go on.”
“We’ve seen it before, sir,” Carter said. “On P8X-987.”
“Cassandra’s planet,” O’Neill remembered.
“Yes, sir,” Carter confirmed. “As you recall, the entire population
of that world, including SG-7, were killed when Nirti saturated the
surface of the planet with the bacteria. The only survivor was
Cassandra, and we think she was able to fight off the infection because
of the traces of Naquadah we found in her blood.”
Everyone in the conference room remembered the incident, all too
well. Nirti had allowed Cassandra to survive the plague because she’d
hidden a Naquadah-based bomb in her chest that activated whenever
the girl was in close proximately to the Stargate. If it had detonated, it
would have destroyed not only Stargate Command, but also a large
section of the state.
“We still don’t understand the interplay of Naquadah in enhancing
the body’s immune system, but we do that it does,” Fraiser reported.
“And that’s the other troubling thing I discovered.”
“Yes?” Hammond prompted.
“We traced the source of the initial outbreak to Major Tom Anders
of SG-3. Major Anders receives weekly allergy shots from his family
physician, and I’m betting that’s the method that was used to introduce
the bacteria into his system. As you know, sir, his team was the only
common link between Abydos and Cartago.”
43
J. D. STIVER
“And Major Anders has, so far, been the only confirmed case of the
infection to survive,” Hammond reasoned. “Are you saying it’s because
you also found Naquadah in his blood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hammond considered this new information. He felt fairly certain
that they could rule out an attack by the Goa’uld because neither
Abydos nor Cartago held any strategic value at the moment.
Not only that, but Anders hadn’t been anywhere near a Goa’uld
occupied world in several months. Nor had he ever been on
Cassandra’s homeworld. In fact, the only way he could have been
infected was …
Hammond slumped his shoulders. “I think I see where this is
going.”
“Now you understand why I waited until Dr. Tobaine left before I
shared my findings,” Fraiser explained.
“Care to enlighten the rest of us?” O’Neill said.
“Sir, we took samples of the bacteria that infected P8X-987 and
transported them to Area 51 for study,” Carter replied. “The only way I
can think of for Anders to become infected was if he were exposed
intentionally.”
“Ah.”
“And the fact that he had Naquadah in his blood suggests they
wanted him to survive?” Daniel asked.
“To be a carrier,” Fraiser said. “They wanted him to infect other
people.”
“And Tobaine?” O’Neill asked.
Carter closed her eyes and shook her head. “Sir, Dr. Tobaine heads
medical research out at Area 51. He would have easy access to the
bacteria.”
“Son of a bitch!”
Suddenly, down below in the Embarkation Room, the Stargate
activated. Everyone sitting around the conference table glanced
downward through the observation window, just in time to see the
familiar blue vortex surge forward and then collapse back into the
sparkling event horizon of an incoming wormhole.
Hammond looked down at his watch. “That should be Teal’C
returning from Cartago, as per your request, Dr. Jackson.”
44
BOOK OF THE DEAD
Sure enough, Teal’C emerged and was immediately doused by the
chemical sprayers set up at the base of the Stargate to decontaminate
personnel returning from one of the two plague-infected worlds.
“Good!” Daniel said. “I have an idea about what’s driving all of
this.”
Then Daniel stood up and abruptly left the conference room, much
to the surprise of everyone else.
“Well, that explains a lot,” O’Neill said, sarcastically. “Any idea
where he went?”
Daniel popped his head back though the doorway. “Oh, uh, I’ll be
right back,” he offered, as almost an afterthought.
Then Daniel disappeared again.
When he returned a few moments later, he was carrying a small
statue and a thick, reference book. O’Neill saw the book and laid his
head down on the table with a moan. “This is going to be a long
explanation, isn’t it?”
Daniel retook in his seat. “Yes. It’s history, and … there’s …
there’s a lot of it. Okay, this,” he said, holding up the statue for all to
see, “is Sekhmet, the Egyptian goddess of vengeance. Someone sent it
to me last night. They used Katherine Langford’s address, but she
doesn’t know anything about it. Guys, I think it’s a message from
whoever is behind the outbreaks.”
O’Neill lifted his head. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but
… why do you think that, Daniel?”
“Well, lots of reasons—the fact that it’s a representation of Sekhmet
for one thing. Among her various titles, she was also called the ‘Lady
of Slaughter’ or the ‘Lady of Pestilence’.”
“Some lady,” O’Neill remarked.
“Yeah, uh … no. Not really. According to legend, Ra created her as
a weapon to destroy mankind for their wicked ways, and she went
about it, uh, vigorously. Eventually, even Ra felt sorry for us and he
stopped her. Given what we know about Ra, that’s … that’s pretty
bad.”
“… Yeah.”
“In Egyptian mythology, Sekhmet is credited with both bringing
disease to mankind, as well as their cures. I think that’s the message
this statue was meant to convey.”
45
J. D. STIVER
“Huh?”
“Inscribed on the back of the statue, I discovered a reference to the
Egyptian ‘Book of the Dead.’ Now, obviously, I had read this before,
but … knowing what I know now about the Stargate, some of the
passages take on a whole new meaning.”
“Huh?”
Daniel put the statue down and began thumbing through the
reference book. “Okay, Sekhmet is mentioned in various spells, but this
caught my attention: It says, ‘I have sailed up the river to Abydos. I
have performed the ceremonies of Hu and Sa. I have entered the House
of Astes. I have made supplication to the Khati gods and to Sekhmet in
the Temple of Nét, or the Aged Ones.’ So, you can see where I’m going
with this …”
Daniel looked up from reading the book. He glanced around and
realized that no one appeared to know what he was talking about.
“Hey, I’ve been to Abydos,” O’Neill remarked. “Don’t remember a
lot of rivers.”
“Exactly!” Daniel exclaimed. “I’ve been to Abydos, too. That’s
what caught my attention. What if the passages we only thought were
spells the Egyptians wrote to navigate the afterlife were actually
passages that evolved from journeys through the Stargate?”
O’Neill shrugged. “So?”
“Did you just say ‘so’?”
“Yeah. So?”
“The Aged Ones? Jack, I think they’re talking about the Ancients.”
O’Neill frowned. “Bit of a stretch.”
“I don’t think so,” Daniel pressed. “We know that the Goa’uld
didn’t invent their technology, they found it leftover by the Ancients.
Now, what if Sekhmet was a Goa’uld who once unleashed a plague—”
“Why?”
“Punishment? Vengeance? Maybe as some form of population
control? Who knows?”
“Or they’re just evil?”
“Yeah,” Daniel agreed. “No argument there. Whatever the reason,
where’d she get the plague? We’ve wondered where the Ancients went,
and one of the theories we have is that they died off from a disease. If
that’s the case, then they must have been trying to fight it.”
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
“Sir,” Carter said. “I think Daniel might be onto something. If a
Goa’uld found an Ancient medical research lab thousands of years ago,
that’s probably the use they would have put it to.”
“But wouldn’t the Gould have cleaned the place out already?”
O’Neill asked.
“I don’t think so,” Daniel responded. “Or at least, whoever sent me
the statue doesn’t think so.”
“You’re sure?”
“Jack, it can’t be a coincidence.”
Just then, Teal’C entered the room and took an empty seat.
Hammond could tell by the look on the Jaffa’s face that
circumstances on Cartago hadn’t improved—and, in all likelihood, had
actually worsened. Nevertheless, Hammond asked anyway, and braced
himself for what he knew would be a grim report.
“What’s the situation, Teal’C?”
“The circumstances are most dire, General Hammond,” he said.
“Many hundreds of people have become infected.”
“I see,” Hammond replied, regretfully. “I know this has been
particularly hard on you, Teal’C, but we need to ask you about a place
called … ”
“The Temple of Nét,” Daniel said.
Teal’C stiffed in his seat. “Indeed,” he replied, uncomfortably. “The
Temple of Nét fell into Ra’s domain. After the news reached Chulak of
his death, Apophis sent a squadron of his most loyal Jaffa through the
Stargate to uncover its secrets. None returned.”
“Sounds safe enough,” O’Neill remarked.
“There is more,” Teal’C continued. “The temple is said to fall under
the rule of Neith, who, like Anubis, was thought to oversee the realm of
the dead. No Jaffa would willingly visit the Temple of Nét. Why do you
ask, Daniel Jackson?”
“Because we need to visit the Temple of Nét,” he said, matter-offactly. “Know the Stargate address by any chance?”
“… I do.”
“What do we know about this Neith?” Hammond asked.
“Well, according to Egyptian myth, she was the mother of Ra,
which could indicate she was possibly a Goa’uld queen. She’s a
goddess of war and is often depicted wearing bandages because of her
47
J. D. STIVER
close association with Egyptian funerary rites. Other than that, not
much.”
“Bandages?” O’Neill said. “That makes her Ra’s mommy’s …
mummy?”
“Um … sure,” Daniel confirmed. “Listen, I’m sure that whoever
sent me the statue knows there’s something on that planet worth going
after. I’m also sure they’re the ones who gave us the reason to go.”
“The outbreaks,” O’Neill said, finishing Daniel’s thought.
“Jack … people are dying. Sha’re’s people. Skarra.”
“Yeah …I know.”
“Sir,” Carter said, addressing Hammond. “We’ve contacted our offworld allies. The Tok’ra just don’t have the resources to fight an
outbreak of this magnitude and the Asgard haven’t responded, probably
because of their war with the Replicators. We … really don’t have
much of an alternative.”
Hammond took a moment to weigh his options, but in the long run,
he knew his options were really quite limited.
“Very well,” Hammond agreed. “Assuming we can get a Stargate
lock and the MALP doesn’t show anything noticeably life-threatening,
you have a go, SG-1—that is, all but you Major Carter.”
“Sir?” Carter said.
“Uh, general,” O’Neill cut in. “If this planet really does have a
bunch of Ancient stuff, won’t we need Carter to figure out what it
does?”
“I have a special assignment for Major Carter, colonel,” Hammond
said. “Don’t worry, Jack. I have someone in mind to send along with
your team. You leave just as soon as we can determine the mission’s
viability.”
“Yes, sir,” O’Neil agreed, but with obvious reservation. “But
seriously, though. Who’s as smart as Carter?”
•••
Six hours later, Dr. Rodney McKay was attempting an urgent
negotiation with a Russian airline stewardess for a second portion of
the meal they were serving onboard the flight from Moscow to
Colorado Springs—much to the irritation of the weary stewardess.
48
BOOK OF THE DEAD
The talks were at a noticeable low point. When the stewardess
finally reemerged from the cabin after being summoned by McKay for
the twenty-fifth time in the last two hours, she was carrying a tall glass
of orange juice and approached him with a noticeably sadistic smile.
McKay suspected, only then, that she meant to kill him.
“I told you,” he said, eyeing the vulgar drink as one might glare at a
wineglass laced with arsenic, “that I’m deathly allergic to anything with
citrus. It could kill me.”
The woman’s smile broadened, menacingly. “Yes,” she replied,
with a thick Russian accent. “Drink.”
“No!” he shrieked. “Could I at least have another bag of peanuts?
And another pillow? And some kind of assurance that you won’t try to
kill me in my sleep?”
The stewardess glanced down at the ten or eleven crumpled bags of
peanuts lying at McKay’s feet. She rubbed her temples, reached toward
her cart and produced a tiny bottle of vodka.
“I don’t want a drink,” McKay said. “Don’t you understand?
Peanuts. Pillow. Don’t kill me.”
Paying no attention to him, the stewardess opened the bottle and
downed the contents herself, then returned to the cabin, mumbling
something in Russian.
McKay shrugged, then sat back in his window seat and watched the
thick, black clouds swirl above the massive ocean far below. Beside
him, a fat Russian businessman who smelled heavily of vodka snored
loudly, causing McKay to wish that the wretched stewardess could’ve
at least brought the additional pillow so he could cover the man’s face.
You’d think the Air Force would’ve sprung for a first-class ticket
since they need me back so badly, he thought. After all, it’s the least
they could do after forcing me to oversee Russia’s Naquadah generator
production process.
But all of that was behind him now, McKay realized with a smile.
They needed him back. They understood their mistake, and now he was
going off-world to discover technology that even the great and
wonderful Samantha Carter hadn’t found.
The world was his oyster. He was finally going to get the respect he
so richly deserved.
49
J. D. STIVER
The anticipation was almost unbearable and McKay didn’t believe
he would be able to sleep. Then he wondered if they had any tech
magazines onboard. He pressed the service button on his chair seat and
a familiar little chime sounded, summoning the stewardess once again.
When she arrived, she was holding the pillow he requested.
Then she began to beat him with it.
50
BOOK OF THE DEAD
VIII
NÉT (P3X-484)
In the Eight Thousand, Seven Hundred and Twenty-First Cycle in
the Reign of Ra (May He Rule the Skies For All Of Time) the end of
the world began on what had been a beautiful day.
The sun hung brilliantly in the clear, blue sky, casting its radiance
onto the sand-swept world to gleam from the limestone walls of the
City of Nét.
Off in the distance, one could see patches of palm trees dotting the
barren horizon along the eastern slope, an oasis here and there, where
an underground brook runs shallow enough to nestle the tree’s deepreaching roots.
Even the sands seemed to slither with the warm wind currents,
rising and circling like a gentle desert dance, then falling motionless
and indistinguishable from the infinite specs that filled the world.
Though splendid, however, the desert could not compare to the
vivacity of the City of Nét.
Buildings of various sizes, shapes and functions rose from the sand,
forged from the minerals and the mud of the desert by the long-dead
hands of the ancestors—a testament to their skill and craftsmanship.
On the outskirts of the City, the forty-two gods stood vigil, their
strong and angular features chiseled from sandstone with devoted
precision by the Priests of Neith, who are said to sleep with her now in
the great Pyramid, which looms at the center of the City, reflecting
some of the sun’s intensity from its polished black surface.
It was a perfect day.
And so it was on this glorious occasion in the Season of Shemu
(Season of Harvest) that Aneksi, Daughter of Emsaf the Carpenter,
wandered away from her shaded dwelling with her sisters, and away
from the public gardens and watering brooks that offered throngs of
young men and women with shade and fruit, to a distant oasis on the
City’s outer edge.
51
J. D. STIVER
There, by the circular Gate of the Domain, she found a soothing
pool that cast the sun’s illumination back into her amber-colored eyes
with rippling, hypnotic luster. She basked a moment in the warm light
with her sisters, then disrobed—her white, linen garment sliding down
the contours of her olive skin like the uncoiling pedals of a flower.
She stood as the dry breeze washed over her and billowed through
her long, black hair, then she began to wade into the invigorating water.
Her sisters laughed and splashed, carelessly, while Aneksi dipped her
cloth into the pool and began to cleanse herself.
Then everything changed.
There was a noise—a strange grinding, like that of heavy stones.
She turned and saw the symbols on the Gate of the Domain begin to
glow red, like the eyes of a Serpent Daemon.
“No,” she whispered, remembering the carnage that ensued the last
time the Gateway unfurled—though she had been five cycles younger,
and not yet expected to fulfill her people’s purpose.
Several long moments seemed to pass, and then there was a violent,
outward surge, like that of angry waters, which soon recoiled back to
reveal an iridescent pool within the Gateway. Her sisters, who were
younger than Aneksi, screamed in terror.
But Aneksi held her ground.
She walked, naked and dripping, from the calm waters of perfection
to the ill omen before her. Her life would change. The world would
end. And she, Aneksi, Daughter of Emsaf the Carpenter, would face it
standing with her head held firm.
She was surprised when Serpent Daemon did not emerge from the
shimmering portal. Instead, curiously, a strange creature surfaced that
was both dull gray but gleaming, which reflected her image back on
portions of its block-shaped body, like a reflecting pool would.
The creature had a big, black eye that rotated, as if gauging its new
surroundings. When the eye fixated on Aneksi, it spoke—though she
did not understand the strange words that emanated from this odd,
mouth-less creature.
“Whoa!” it said. “Naked. Did we come at a bad time? Hello?”
“Uh, Jack? Maybe you should let me …?”
“Right.”
“Uh, hi! Hello?”
52
BOOK OF THE DEAD
“Well, I could’ve said that, Daniel.”
“Jack.”
“Fine. Talk away. Find out how they feel about visitors. And
clothing. We don’t want to offend them if we … overdress.”
“What manner of creature are you?” Aneksi asked, in her own
tongue. To her further surprise, the creature replied, also in her
language (albeit with a strange dialect).
“We’re travelers,” it said. “And we would like a chance to meet
your people.”
Aneksi tilted her head as her inquisitive nature began to assert itself.
“To what places have you traveled, strange one?”
“Lots of places,” the creature said. “I began my travels by sailing up
the river to Abydos.”
Aneksi smiled. “You have read from the Book of Going Forth?”
“Yes. Yes I have. And now, if you will allow it, I would like to visit
the Temple of the Aged Ones.”
Aneksi felt herself stop smiling at the mention of the Temple. A
wave of sorrow washed over her as she remembered her parents—her
father’s strong hands and her mother’s kind face, now lost to her
forever because of visitors who came to her city through the Gateway.
“If you have read from the Book of Going Forth, then you know
that a journey to the Temple will extract a toll,” she said.
“I am sure that it will,” the creature replied. “But we must. It is …
important to us.”
Aneksi lowered her head. “Very well, then. We are powerless to
prevent you from doing as you will. I must inform the Priests of Neith
and the appropriate ceremony will be held in accordance with your
visit.”
“Uh … right. Looking forward to meeting you. See you soon.”
The Gateway blinked and a searing wind blew through the ring,
which now showed only vast, empty desert on the other side.
Then Aneksi sat by the pool and wept. The end of the world was
coming forth, and she could think of nothing in that world to prevent it.
•••
53
J. D. STIVER
Buried in darkness, deep within the enormous pyramid that stands
in the center of the City of Nét, an old god awakens.
The room begins to glow soft blue, as aged technology springs to
life. The old god’s muscular body hangs suspended, surrounded by a
stasis field that seems to crystallize the very air inside of the catacomb
in which he lies, but then, the field draws back, and the old god draws
breath.
He is awakened for another hunt. And the hunt is what made him a
god.
•••
“They’re going to throw us a party?” O’Neill asked, inside the SGC
control room, shortly after the Stargate deactivated and Daniel
translated his brief conversation with Aneksi. “That doesn’t sound so
bad.”
“Well,” Daniel said, recalling the specific word that Aneksi used.
“More of a ceremony, actually.”
O’Neill frowned. “The kind of ceremony where we end up best
friends? Or the kind that’ll make us have to shoot them?”
“Well I don’t know,” Daniel admitted. “I’ve never been there
before. Their language is similar to the one spoken on Abydos, but
even though there seems to be a common link to an ancient Egyptian
heritage, their customs have evolved independently over the course of a
few thousand years.”
This time it was Hammond’s turn to frown. Something wasn’t
sitting right with him. “That woman didn’t appear threatening in any
way, Dr. Jackson, and yet, I can’t help but wonder what happened to
the Jaffa that Apophis sent through to their planet.”
“Yeah,” O’Neill agreed. “There is that.”
Hammond seemed to weigh his options for a moment but then, once
again, soon appeared to realize that his options were quite limited.
“Colonel, you’ll take SG-5 and 8 as backup. You have a go just as soon
as Dr. McKay arrives.”
“Uh, general? About that … are you sure you wouldn’t like to
trade? We get Carter and you can have the stuck-up jerk?”
“Those are your orders, colonel.”
54
BOOK OF THE DEAD
“You drive a hard bargain, general,” O’Neill pressed. “I’ll even
throw in Daniel.”
Hammond smiled, briefly, and shook his head. “Colonel.”
“And all of SG-8? That’s got to be worth one Carter.”
“Jack, get the hell out of here. Go prep for the mission.”
“Right. Mission. Thank you, sir.”
•••
Hammond would never admit it out loud, but he had grown fond of
Jack O’Neill over the last few years. His command style was
unorthodox—to say the least—but the man got results, and he always
put the mission and those under his command ahead of himself.
But that wasn’t all. Jack had put his own ass on the line for
Hammond, as well. A little more than a year ago, Hammond had been
blackmailed—coerced, really—into early retirement by members of the
NID, a shadowy intelligence agency linked to various criminal
activities including theft, blackmail, and high treason.
During the first official year of the SGC, a second Stargate was
accidentally discovered in Antarctica. Not long after, Hammond
learned that rogue elements within the NID were using the second gate
to steal powerful alien technology under the pretense of protecting the
Earth from a Goa’uld attack. In reality, however, the NID was believed
to be in league with various powerful corporations who sought to
exploit that technology for their own financial benefit.
The SGC, thanks in no small part to the efforts of Colonel Jack
O’Neill, was able to expose the NID’s illegal operation and effectively
shut down their access to alien technology by reacquiring the second
gate and arresting those involved. As a repercussion, the NID made it
clear to Hammond that they could get to his grandchildren anytime they
wanted.
He got the message.
Hammond retired, but O’Neill just wouldn’t let it go. On his own
initiative, O’Neill discovered that Sen. Robert Kinsey was, himself,
linked to the NID, including some of their more illegal operations.
Armed with this knowledge, O’Neill blackmailed Kinsey, and
Hammond was reinstated without incident.
55
J. D. STIVER
The fact that Kinsey was involved in this current crisis suggested to
Hammond that the NID was, once again, also somehow connected.
It makes sense, Hammond thought. We shut down their access to
alien technology, so they create a situation where we have to go and
get it for them. But why try to shut the SGC down if they want us to go?
There were still too many questions that needed answered, and
because of the nature of the crisis, Hammond could think of only one
person who could get to the bottom of it. He sat in his office and
pondered the situation until he heard a knock on his door.
“Sir?”
Hammond looked up from his desk and snapped back to the
present. Major Carter was reporting for her scheduled debriefing.
And she was the one he needed to unravel this mystery.
•••
Carter hated the fact that her team was heading into an unknown
situation without her—and that they were bringing Rodney McKay, of
all people, along in her place.
Hate it? Yes. But she had served under the command of General
George Hammond for more than five years now, and she knew he
wouldn’t have pulled her from the mission without a damn good
reason.
Still, that didn’t mean she had to like it.
“Come in, major,” Hammond said. “Have a seat.”
Carter entered the office and sat across from her commanding
officer at his desk. “Yes, sir.”
Hammond’s brow furrowed in thought and worry, and Carter knew
she didn’t have to be psychic to guess what he was thinking:
He was wondering how much time they had before Dr. Tobaine
made good on his threat. He was wondering when the president would
call to shut them down for review. But first and foremost, he was
wondering who was behind it all.
“What’s your take on all this, major?” Hammond asked.
“I’m thinking rogue NID, sir,” Carter speculated. “They’re the only
ones with both the motive and the resources to pull something like this
off.”
56
BOOK OF THE DEAD
“I concur,” Hammond agreed. “But my gut tells me there’s more to
this than we’re getting.”
Carter was one of the most intelligent people in the nation—if not
the whole planet. That wasn’t a conceit, she knew, but a quantifiable
appraisal. Even still, when she looked into Hammond’s eyes, she saw
something behind them that she, herself, was lacking: The insight
accrued from nearly forty years of service to country.
The man was wise. If Hammond believed there was more to this
than a simple technology grab by the NID, then she knew enough to
listen.
“I want you to get to the bottom of it, major,” he said. “Dig into
Tobaine’s operation at Area 51 and find out how that damn bacteria
spread to two other planets.”
“Uh, sir,” Carter said, her unease with the situation coming through
in her voice. “How?”
Hammond smiled, reassuringly. He handed her a file, which she
opened and quickly scanned. The file appeared to be medical personnel
assigned to Area 51 under Dr. Tobaine.
“Recognize any names?” Hammond asked.
One name did jump out at her, and suddenly she understood why
she had to be the one to undertake this particular mission.
“Yes, sir.”
Hammond stood and Carter followed suit. “Then don’t let me keep
you, major. Time is something we don’t have.”
They saluted, and Carter prepared herself to go and see an old
friend.
•••
Rodney McKay arrived at Stargate Command more than two hours
late, sporting a leather jacket, a “Mr. Terrific” t-shirt, and a black eye.
“Don’t ask,” he snapped, shortly after exiting from the elevator and
seeing, of all people, Samantha Carter. “Just don’t ask about the eye.”
Carter smiled. With so many variables in the universe, it was nice
that some things seemed … universal.
The urge to hit Rodney McKay, for example.
“Is he here yet?!” O’Neill bellowed from down the corridor.
57
J. D. STIVER
McKay turned, slowly, and came face to chest with O’Neill, who
towered over the scientist, a man of average height. O’Neill wore
standard, desert-issue tan camouflage fatigues and appeared quite angry
at McKay’s tardiness.
“Colonel O’Neill,” McKay stated, his tone conveying a measure of
discomfort with O’Neill’s close proximity. “And how are you?”
“Pissed!” O’Neill shouted. “Gear up and let’s go!”
McKay bristled at O’Neill’s intense greeting. “Look, you came to
me!” he shot back, going from sheepish to cocky in mere seconds.
“And if you want to try the mission without me, colonel, then by all
means, be my guest!”
McKay extended his hand toward the embarkation room, gesturing
that they could damn well leave without him. O’Neill’s eyes widened
in anger while Daniel, who had been standing near Carter, jumped in to
defuse the situation before O’Neill completed his mental assessment of
whether or not to beat the crap out of the newest addition to his team.
“Hey!” Daniel said. “Let’s … let’s gear up, huh?”
He approached McKay and began to lead him down the corridor.
McKay broke eye contact with O’Neill first, and then followed Daniel,
reluctantly.
“Mr. Terrific,” O’Neill said, shaking his head in disbelief. “For
crying out loud.”
Carter, who was still standing with O’Neill in the corridor, felt
compelled to speak in McKay’s defense. She knew what was behind
O’Neill’s anger, and it wasn’t entirely the fact that McKay had held up
the mission for a few hours. He was worried about her digging into
NID business without backup. But more than that, McKay could never
be exactly what O’Neill wanted:
He could never be Samantha Carter.
“I hate to say this, sir,” Carter said. “But McKay knows his stuff.”
“Reminds me a little of Daniel,” O’Neill responded. “We left him
behind after the first Abydos mission, you know.”
“I know.”
“Thinking about doing it again,” he added, this time with a wry
smile. “McKay? Oh, killed in action, sir. Terrible thing.”
Carter smiled. Then, she decided to address the real reason O’Neill
was upset. “I’ll be fine, sir.”
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
O’Neill snapped upright, all professional. He seemed a bit taken
aback that Carter had learned to read him so readily.
“I know you will, major.”
•••
“Is he always like that?” McKay complained, as he pulled a left
military-issue boot over his socked foot.
“Well,” Daniel said, after considering the question. “You are two
hours late. And then there’s the fact that hundreds of people are dying
and it’s up to us to save them. Oh! And also the president might call at
any moment and suspend the program, meaning it could lead to a court
marshal and prison sentence if we decide to go anyway. So, yeah,
offhand, I’d say he’s a little more stressed than usual.”
McKay paused. “Prison?”
“Uh-huh.”
McKay seemed troubled by this news. “I don’t want to go to
prison.”
Daniel made a circular gesture with his hand. “Yeah, that’d be bad,
so you should, you know, hurry it up. Oh, I almost forgot to show you
this.”
McKay just noticed that Daniel was holding a file. He opened it up
and produced a photograph, which he then handed to McKay. “Sam
printed this out just in case you were worried about the whole prison
thing. It’s a photo of the first person we made contact with on Nét.”
McKay looked at the photograph. There stood the most beautiful
woman he’d ever seen.
And she was naked.
The blood drained from McKay’s face. “Well, people are, uh,
people are counting on us, right?”
“Yes,” Daniel agreed. “Yes they are.”
McKay took one final look at the photograph and then decided to
put his best effort forward in saving the people of Cartago and Abydos,
and, especially, in meeting the people of Nét. “Can I keep the photo?”
•••
59
J. D. STIVER
Teal’C stood in the embarkation room at the base of the Stargate
ramp clutching his staff weapon tightly.
Beside him, several Field Remote Expeditionary Devices (FREDs),
loaded to the brim with equipment, were being stocked and tested by
various SGC personnel. Everything from weapons to rations to supplies
were being included—a sure sign that General Hammond was taking
no chances with this mission going wrong.
Even so, Teal’C felt ill at ease. Six years ago, when Apophis
dispatched his squadron of Jaffa to Nét in order to uncover its secrets,
Teal’C had been leading a battle against the System Lord, Yu.
Consequently, he was able to avoid whatever fate befell his brothers—
at least until now.
Teal’C thought back to the Jaffa who had been sent. Most of them
were loyal to Apophis, but a small handful had been struggling with
their own doubts, the same as Teal’C. Such things were never spoken
of aloud, of course, but he could see it in their eyes—a kindred fire that
burned with questions.
While on Nét, it is likely that his brothers fell to some—as yet
unseen—enemy. If so, they gave their lives in the name of a false god,
and Teal’C could think of no worse fate.
Now, as he watched the Tau’ri prepare for an incursion onto the
very world that claimed a squadron of well-trained Jaffa, he couldn’t
help but wonder if a similar fate would befall him.
No, he suddenly thought, as a proud smile creased his lips. No
matter what I find on this world, my fate is my own. I may die, like my
brothers before me, but unlike them, I die free.
•••
McKay and Daniel joined the rest of SG-1—minus Carter—as well
as SG-5 and SG-8, led respectively by Majors Kyle Sharpe and Phillip
Birchard.
The off-world team was heavily armed, being equipped with P90s,
grenades, Zat-nik-a-tels (Zat guns), and other assorted armaments.
Their demeanor was all business, expressionless and cold.
The bulk of the weapons and supplies were already scaling up the
ramp remotely via five FREDs, and McKay noted with some concern
60
BOOK OF THE DEAD
that they appeared to include three M60 machine guns, two portable
FIM-92 Stinger surface-to-air missile launchers, and a Mark-5 nuke—
which struck him as a little excessive
“Just what kind of naked women are on this planet?” McKay
whispered to Daniel, just as the first FRED began to disappear into the
Stargate’s event horizon.
“Oh, you know the military,” Daniel whispered back. “They
always like to bring at least one nuke along, just in case.”
There’s something they aren’t telling me, McKay thought. Why
does that not surprise me?
“Nice of you to join us, Dr. McKay,” Hammond said, from inside
the control room. His voice thundered over the intercom and seemed to
reverberate off the cement walls of the embarkation room.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” McKay acknowledged, dismissively. “You
made sure to load all of my supplies, right? Or did you run out of room
after stockpiling the FREDs with enough weapons to win World War
Three?”
McKay’s list had been very precise. In addition to a specifically
altered MALP that was equipped with the latest sensors developed by
MIT, which could detect everything from barometric pressure to energy
signatures emitted by advanced technology, he had also made sure to
request a number of medical remedies for certain conditions from
which he suffered. They included Ibuprofen (for pain), along with a
hearty supply of antihistamines, antacids, motion sickness pills and his
own special blend of SPF 100 sunblock to protect his fair complexion.
(It’s a desert world, after all.)
“You’ll have everything you need, doctor,” Hammond reassured,
without actually committing to answering the question. “All of you
remember: There are two planets and hundreds—if not thousands—of
lives depending on the success of this mission. God speed.”
“Alright,” O’Neill said, while positioning his sunglasses over his
face. “Let’s head out.”
61
J. D. STIVER
IX
Going from the climate controlled environment of the SGC to an
alien world was always a shock to the system, no matter how many
times O’Neill had done it.
That was especially true of a desert environment. The sun was
glaring overhead and he had to squint even through his sunglasses.
“Oh, man,” said Lt. Faraday, one of the members of SG-8. “Is it
ever hot.”
He was right. It felt at least 110 degrees Fahrenheit.
“Yes,” O’Neill agreed. “But at least it’s a dry heat, right?”
A searing wind was blowing hard, kicking hot sand onto the
exposed areas of their skin.
Only McKay had it slightly worse than everyone else. O’Neill
smiled inwardly as he recalled seeing the man apply a generous portion
of sunblock on his face. With the wind picking up each passing minute,
the sand was clinging to his sticky skin like a thin layer of grimy
sandpaper. It would be easy to assume the extent of McKay’s misery
just by looking at him, O’Neill thought, even if he wasn’t complaining
as vocally as he possibly could—which he was.
“I hate sand!” McKay shouted, over the howling wind.
“You’ll get used to it,” Daniel reassured. “Does the MALP say
anything about the weather?”
McKay shrugged. Then he checked his handheld, portable
computer, which fed him information directly from the MALP’s
sensors. “Yeah. The MALP says it’s hot! And windy!”
“That’s good to know,” Daniel replied, while shaking his head as if
to agree with himself. “Does it say anything about a sandstorm coming
this way?”
McKay’s facial expression veered from severe annoyance to the
edge of panic. He rechecked the weather readings and tapped on his
console in order to shift to a different informational screen.
“Oh boy.”
“Sounds like a yes to me,” O’Neill declared. “Dial it up, Daniel.
Let’s head back.”
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
“Jack,” Daniel protested. “We might not get another shot at this.”
O’Neill sighed. He hated to admit it, but Daniel was right.
Ordinarily, it would be a simple matter to head back to the SGC and
simply wait for the sandstorm to pass. But now, in view of Kinsey’s
attempt to shut the program down—yet again, the bastard—they
couldn’t chance heading back and not being allowed to return.
“Damn it,” O’Neill said, irritated. “Alright, crack out the tents.
Looks like we’re going to be here awhile.”
•••
The People of the City of Nét were somber after hearing news that
outsiders had arrived through the Gate of the Domain.
One by one, or two by two, they walked from their dwellings,
leaving footprints in the sand behind them, which soon vanished in the
scattering winds to leave no visible trace of their journey.
In pairs, in groups, and in multitudes they gathered at the Temple of
Going Forth, a holy place that is said to contain the teachings that will
prepare the enlightened scholar to ascend into the next world.
Aneksi stood a great distance away and observed her fair City. The
Temple sat at the base of a great rock on the edge of Nét, which jutted
up from the sand like a large, jagged shard. It could be seen from vast
distances in any direction.
The Temple was carved from the rock of the mountain itself, and
spread outward into colonnaded terraces that were stacked three-layers
high. The entrance pylon was flanked by giant statues of Ra, and his
Queen Mother, Neith, who serves as advocate for the People of Nét.
Ra held a feather in one hand and scales in the other, while Neith
held a human heart.
The interior of the Temple opens to various courts, including a
hypostyle hall, sun court, and chapel sanctuary—all of which were
decorated by skilled artisans with both brush and chisel.
Animals were being slaughtered even now, and dedicated to the
gods in preparation for the feast that will be held in their honor and in
their service.
From inside the Temple’s Sun Court, a great smoke plume rose
from the cooking pit, smelling alluring with the singed flesh of many
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J. D. STIVER
beasts. But off in the distance, Aneksi also noted, a great storm was
coming from the direction of the Gateway.
Our traditions must be observed, she thought, with her heart
weighing heavy in her chest. Still, it is difficult to envision that after
this night, everything we were and everything we are will be lost to the
bitter sands.
•••
“Is anybody else hungry?” McKay asked, and not for the first time
since setting up camp.
“For the last time, McKay—yes!” O’Neill answered. “Mind you, I
wasn’t hungry until you brought the subject up, repeatedly, every
couple of minutes!”
“Well excuse me for being hypoglycemic!” McKay shot back,
offended. “It’s just that we’ve been here for several hours now and the
storm doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.”
Once the off-world team determined that a sandstorm was, in fact,
heading their way, they decided to seek refuge near the only visible
landmark they could find. Fortunately, that landmark turned out to be a
giant boulder that created a steep enough embankment to allow
adequate protection from the wind.
With an effective camp location established, O’Neill ordered the
teams to erect four 20 sq. ft. combat tents to provide additional
protection from the elements. SG-5 and 8 each got their own tent, while
Teal’C got one to himself, presumably so he could meditate.
That left Daniel and McKay in O’Neill’s tent. Daniel was reading
up on the Egyptian Book of the Dead and O’Neill was contemplating
burying his own head in the sand.
“Well I was waiting until we got really hungry before I mentioned
this, but I did snag something from the commissary before we left,”
Daniel said, without actually averting his eyes from the pages of his
book.
“Really?” McKay asked, brightening a bit. “Is it a candy bar?”
“No,” Daniel replied. “Here you go.”
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
He reached into his pocket and tossed something to McKay, who
caught the object with zeal, as if the small, edible item could save his
life. Then he saw what it was.
“It’s an orange,” he said, dejectedly.
“Tangerine,” Daniel corrected.
“I can’t eat citrus. It could kill me.”
“Bon Appétit, then” O’Neill insisted.
“Funny. I hate going off-world. Is it always this bad?”
“You think this is bad?” O’Neill asked. “Normally, people are
trying to kill us by now.”
McKay turned toward Daniel for corroboration. “Yeah, actually,
he’s right,” Daniel confirmed. “That, or we’ve stumbled onto some dire
situation that’ll become life-threatening on down the road.”
“Ah, yes,” O’Neill agreed, a sense of mock fondness coming
through in his tone. “Good times.”
“Well, I’m not going to just sit here and starve to death,” McKay
declared. “I’m going to find the FRED with all the food.”
McKay stood up and abruptly exited the tent.
Daniel kept reading. “Jack,” he said. “You’ve got to go and get
him.”
O’Neill slid the fabric of the tent open and glanced outside. The
wind was whipping sand along at dangerous, gale force speeds. No one
could survive out there for very long.
“He’ll be fine,” O’Neill argued, unconvincingly.
“Jack.”
“Oh, for crying out loud.”
Just as O’Neill stood, however, they heard McKay start shouting as
though something had just startled him to death.
“What now?”
He and Daniel went outside and were joined by the rest of the offworld team. There, they saw McKay standing over what could only be
described as a mass grave.
“How’s that for ‘dire situation that’ll become life-threatening on
down the road’?” McKay shouted, while pointing toward his grim
discovery.
65
J. D. STIVER
There were dozens of bodies in the pit, which seemed to have only
recently become exposed—no doubt due to the massive reshuffling of
sand from the storm.
Something terrible had happened here, and for once, not even
O’Neill could think of something funny to say.
•••
“They are Jaffa,” Teal’C confirmed, approximately an hour later,
after the winds had died down to allow a more detailed investigation.
“Not all of them,” Major Sharpe added, while stooping low for a
better look. “This one’s not wearing the uniform.”
He was right. It took a moment to see it because of the condition of
the remains—most of which weren’t completely in tact. The corpses of
several dozen Jaffa were intermingled with other bodies. Some
appeared charred in certain sections while others were simply
dismembered.
“These were hit with staff weapons,” Teal’C reported, after
inspecting some of the human remains. “But it is very odd, O’Neill.
Many of the bodies appear to have been hit numerous times in multiple
areas.”
O’Neill recalled his past battles with the Jaffa. Several SGC
personnel had been killed over the years with staff weapons, and he
knew through hard experience that it usually only took one shot.
Hitting someone multiple times was overkill, and a Jaffa wouldn’t
bother—unless they had a damn good reason.
“Something else,” Sharpe noticed. “There’s no scorch marks on the
Jaffa corpses.”
Daniel peered low for a closer look. He picked up a bone—which
might’ve been part of an arm at one point—then held it close, as if to
examine something peculiar. “Uh, Jack. This isn’t good.”
“What? This gets worse?” O’Neill asked, somewhat uneasily.
“There are teeth marks all over this bone. They, uh, look like they
were made by human teeth.”
An unsettling quiet fell over the team.
“You mean someone ate this guy?”
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
“Umm … yeah. Also, I hate to say it, but … judging by the length
of the scrape patterns, he might’ve been alive when it happened. It
almost looks like he was trying to get away while he was being …”
“Eaten alive?”
“…Yeah.”
None of this added up, and O’Neill wasn’t sure he wanted to do the
math. He’d had just about enough of the planet Nét and decided to
explore the possibility of a quick departure.
As soon as the storm had settled, O’Neill dispatched Major
Birchard and SG-8 back to the gate so they could dial Earth and brief
General Hammond on their situation, as well as check on the condition
of the FREDs (which had been unable to move effectively over the
sandy terrain).
O’Neill looked at his watch and guessed they ought to be in
position by now. He tapped his communicator, nestled in his vest
pocket. “Sierra Gulf One to Sierra Gulf Eight, what is your status?”
“Not good, sir,” Birchard replied over the communicator. “We
found the gate—or at least part of it, but the FREDs are gone. So is the
MALP.”
“What?! Gone where?”
“Beneath the sand, sir. We think the storm covered them up. It
almost covered up the Stargate, too. Only the very tip of the gate is still
exposed. If I hadn’t almost tripped over it, we might’ve missed it
completely.”
“That sucks!” McKay bellowed, finally unleashing the fear and
panic he’d held in reserve since discovering the mass grave.
“Shut up, McKay!” O’Neill screamed back. Then, he lowered his
voice and resumed his debriefing on the Stargate situation.
“He’s right, though,” O’Neill admitted, quietly into his
communicator. “That does suck.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What have we got to unbury the gate?”
There was a short pause. “Well, sir, we’ve got … our hands.”
O’Neill knew that Major Birchard was going to hate him for this.
“Understood, major. Better get to it, then.”
Another pause, this time a bit longer.
“Yes, sir.”
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J. D. STIVER
O’Neill turned toward the rest of the off-world team and did his
best imitation of a reassuring smile. “Gate’s buried.”
“Yeah, uh, we heard,” Daniel said. “So what now?”
O’Neill surveyed the landscape. Then he assessed their situation:
Miles and miles of desert in every direction. Limited supply of water.
No food. Planet possibly populated by cannibals. Completely screwed.
“O’Neill,” Teal’C said, while pointing off in the distant horizon.
“There is a fire burning in this direction.”
O’Neill turned. He was right. He could see a smoke plume
billowing up in a northeasterly direction.
“Maybe someone’s cooking,” O’Neill guessed. “Might be a source
of food.”
McKay waved his arms frantically. “And what if they’re cooking
people?!”
“Then we’ll lie and tell them, no thanks, we grabbed lunch on the
way over. At the very least, maybe we can find some shovels to unbury
the gate. Who knows, we might even be able to complete the mission.”
None of them were sure of the mission’s viability at this point;
O’Neill could see it written on their faces. Even Daniel had his doubts,
and was probably second guessing himself for insisting they come to
this unholy world in the first place. O’Neill would never admit it to
Daniel, but the man was usually right about these sorts of things. He
had an intuition.
O’Neill, on the other hand, was no scientist. He was no intellectual.
He was a simple military man, and if his years of facing impossible
situations had taught him anything, it was this: Sometimes a mission’s
success came through a combination of sheer, blind will, and pure,
dumb luck.
It’s what they had now, and it would have to be enough.
“Alright” he said. “Major Sharpe and SG-5, you’re with us. Let’s
move out.”
68
BOOK OF THE DEAD
X
The journey along Nevada State Route 375 doesn’t present much in
the way of scenery. The area consists mostly of desert and the
occasional refueling station. But Carter never minded the drive from
the airport to Groom Lake’s Neills Air Force Base for the simple fact
that it gave her a chance to catch up with her thoughts.
Normally those thoughts centered on a technical problem arising
from whatever research she was conducting at the time. But now, her
thoughts centered on an old friend, whom she hadn’t seen in far too
long a time.
Dr. Timothy Harlow, one of the country’s leading geneticists, had
almost been like a second father to Carter back when she worked with
him at the Pentagon several years ago.
They had developed such a close working relationship that Carter
had personally vouched for him to General Hammond when an alien,
insect-type creature stung Teal’C while off-world three years ago.
The insect’s venom contained a retrovirus that was essentially rewriting Teal’C’s DNA to create copies of itself as a means of
procreating. Unfortunately, when Dr. Harlow arrived to render his aid,
the situation had also attracted Colonel Harry Maybourne and the NID.
Maybourne procured orders to have Teal’C shipped to Area 51 for
further “study”—meaning, Maybourne was going to allow Teal’C to
mutate into more of the insects for possible use as a bio-weapon.
That didn’t sit right with Harlow once he discovered Maybourne’s
true intention, and he sabotaged the venom specimen after he
developed a cure for Teal’C. Because of Dr. Harlow, the NID was
robbed of a potentially dangerous experiment that could end all human
life on Earth if containment ever failed.
Because of Harlow’s expertise in genetic research, coupled with his
high-level security clearance, he was offered a position in the medical
research branch at Area 51 under Dr. Tobaine.
In view of Harlow’s actions three years ago, both Carter and
Hammond believe that he, alone, could be trusted to assist with Carter’s
unofficial investigation into the outbreak crisis on Cartago and Abydos.
69
J. D. STIVER
She was just hoping he knew something useful. But more than that,
she was hoping that by approaching him, he wouldn’t be placed in any
immediate danger.
•••
“Sam!” Dr. Harlow exclaimed, happily, when they finally
rendezvoused at a small diner approximately three miles from Neills
Air Force Base. “How are you?”
“Oh, keeping busy,” Carter replied, with a sincere smile. She
approached Harlow, who was already sitting at a corner booth in the
diner. She walked over and took his hand, mildly surprised at how cool
to the touch it was.
“Oh! Your hands are freezing.”
“Well,” Harlow responded, “I’d like to see how good your
circulation is when you get to be my age, young lady.”
Carter’s smile deepened. She had missed him. “Please. I should
have half the energy you do at my age.”
She wasn’t kidding. Harlow had kept busy circulating papers
among the medical community that presented bold, new ideas in the
field of gene therapy. Unfortunately, some of them were lambasted as
being completely “theoretical” and lacking any quantifiable data. They
had no way of knowing, of course, that the data to support Harlow’s
theories did exist, but that they were classified by the Pentagon since
the information was obtained from travels through the Stargate.
His papers did attract the attention of the Pentagon, however, which
is why Harlow was promoted to a position at Area 51. Since then,
Harlow has seemed generally happy—at least, during the two or three
times Carter had talked to him over the past few years.
Looking at him now—on the verge of his sixtieth birthday, his gray
hair a little thinner and a few more wrinkles around his eyes—Carter
felt a ping of guilt.
The rest of SG-1 still managed to find at least one day out of the
year to visit the people who mattered the most. Carter, on the other
hand, always chose to catch up on her work. She never stopped to think
that some people wouldn’t be around forever, and that she should seize
the occasion to visit them while she could.
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
“So, how’s the research going?” she asked, after they each placed
their respective orders to the waitress.
“Quite well,” Harlow said. Then he lowered his voice. “I’m sure
you remember the technologically induced illness that caused Colonel
O’Neill to age prematurely on P3X-8596?”
“Of course I do. Something like that is kind of hard to forget.”
“Well,” Harlow continued, edging closer like someone about to
offer a hot stock tip on the sly. “I’ve been working on a way to reverse
the process using that same nanotechnology. Imagine, being able to
increase people’s lifespan by decades, or maybe even centuries.”
Carter wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Ironically, only a
moment ago, she was regretting that time seemed to pass by so quickly,
but now that she was faced with the possibility of adding years—
maybe even decades or centuries—to a person’s life, the entire prospect
seemed almost … wrong.
That ability was nothing new to the Goa’uld, who had long ago
discovered ways to prolong the human body through use of their
sarcophagus technology. It sounded good, but the members of SG-1
had seen first-hand how addictive the sarcophagus could be, and how
deteriorative to the human psyche its effects were. Even Daniel once
postulated that continued use of the sarcophagus was a contributing
factor to their “evil” nature.
Nevertheless, Carter was a scientist, first and foremost, and she
decided to keep an open mind. And besides, the true reason for her
scheduled lunch with Dr. Harlow wasn’t to debate the ethics of his
work.
“It sounds really … interesting, Timothy, but I need to discuss
another matter with you.”
Harlow smiled knowingly and sat back in his seat. “Yes, I had
assumed that you didn’t fly all the way out here from Colorado just to
have lunch with an old friend.”
Carter smiled, guiltily. “I’m sorry. I know I don’t call as much as I
should, Timothy, but this is really important.”
Harlow chuckled. “Yes, Dr. Tobaine mentioned his visit did not go
well. In view of his pending recommendations to the president, can I
assume that you are trying to get my perspective on the matter?”
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J. D. STIVER
Carter dropped the smile in order to communicate just how serious
the “matter” truly was.
“This goes beyond politics, Timothy,” she said. “Do you know
anything about the outbreaks on Abydos and Cartago?”
Harlow broke eye contact with Carter. “I had heard something
about them, yes,” he admitted. “The timing for Dr. Tobaine’s visit
could not have been worse.”
“Or better,” Carter argued. “A few years ago, a Goa’uld named
Nirti used a bacterial strain to exterminate the population of a world
designated P8X-987. A sample of that bacteria was later brought to
Area 51 for study.”
Harlow looked perplexed. “Yes, I remember reading the report, but
what does this have to do with … ? Oh.”
“Now you understand,” Carter said. “That same bacteria is the one
we’re up against now. We think the contagion started from the sample
we took to Area 51.”
Harlow looked almost speechless. “My God,” he said. “How could
this have happened?”
“Well, we don’t know exactly,” Carter admitted. “But right now,
we’re looking at Dr. Tobaine.”
Harlow shook his head. “You can’t be serious, Samantha. What
could he possibly have to gain?”
Carter told Harlow all about the statue that Daniel received, along
with his theory about why it was sent, including the presumption that
the whole affair was a means to procure advanced technology from
Nét.
“I don’t know what to say, Samantha,” Harlow confessed, clearly
disturbed by the implications. “I’ve always found Dr. Tobaine to be a
colleague of extraordinary character.”
Carter smiled, trying to take the edge off of the bombshell she just
dropped in her old friend’s lap. She had to smile because, as much as
she hated to do it, she was about to drop another bombshell.
“Timothy, I need your help,” she pleaded. “I need access to Dr.
Tobaine’s personal files on his laptop. They might provide some clues
as to how this bacteria made it’s way through our Stargate.”
Harlow seemed stunned. “You want me to break into Dr. Tobaine’s
personal files, like some kind of criminal?”
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
“No,” Carter retorted. “Not like a criminal; like someone who is
willing to do the right thing. If he is responsible for the current
outbreak, then we need to know. If he’s not, then at least we’ll know
we’re on the wrong track.”
“That’s assuming he would even keep information like that on his
computer,” Harlow argued, clearly struggling with the moral ambiguity
of the situation.
Carter fixed her deep blue eyes with his. She hated herself for doing
it because she knew it would work. She was playing at his
vulnerabilities, like a trained solider would.
“Timothy … please. People are dying.”
Harlow shifted in his seat, uncomfortably. “Fine, Samantha,” he
said, at last. “I’ll help you. But I want to make it clear that I am only
agreeing to do this so I can clear the good name of my colleague and
friend.”
Samantha nodded.
She knew that Harlow was upset with her for this, and she couldn’t
blame him. She had just pulled his strings to get what she wanted from
him and he knew it. In doing so, she hoped that she hadn’t just lost a
good friend.
•••
On the way back to her rental car, Carter realized she was being
followed. When entering the restaurant earlier, she’d spotted a man in a
brown suede jacket and white baseball cap across the street, sitting on a
bus stop reading a paper.
Carter knew from her time working at Area 51 that the bus schedule
for this time of day arrived every fifteen minutes, and yet that same
man was now standing on the corner leaning on a light pole, apparently
oblivious to the fact that he could’ve caught at least two buses in the
time it took Carter to conduct her business with Dr. Harlow.
But it was more than that. Carter was a major in the U.S. Air Force,
and her training allowed her to get a feeling for this type of thing. Still,
although she knew the man was following her, he wasn’t very good at
it. Either he had been poorly trained or …
He wanted her to know.
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J. D. STIVER
Carter walked casually up to the man, approaching him from
behind. When she was within striking distance (presuming she would
need to strike him) she confronted her pursuer.
“You’re following me,” she said, in the most authoritative tone she
could muster. “Why?”
“Because, major,” the man answered. He was still facing away from
her so that she couldn’t see his face, but she thought she recognized the
voice. “Jack asked me to, that’s why.”
The man turned and Carter was only half surprised by who she saw.
“Maybourne?”
“H’ya, Sam,” he said. “You’re being followed.”
Carter shook her head in disbelief. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“Not me,” Maybourne corrected. “I’m talking about the ones you
didn’t notice. Two NID, there … and there …”
Carter glanced in the direction that Maybourne had indicated. She
saw a bald man sitting in a tan SUV talking on a cell phone. Down the
street at the edge of the block, there was another man glancing in a
shop window, which appeared to sell televisions and various
electronics.
“And now that they see me, they know they’ve been made,”
Maybourne said, his tone shifting to one of reserved alarm. “We’ve got
to get out of here.”
The two men appeared to blend in perfectly with the other people
coming or going about their daily business, and Carter had a measure of
doubt about Maybourne’s assertion.
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me, major. They are NID.”
As if on cue, two black SUVs sped down the road toward them.
Then the bald man in the tan SUV produced an Uzi and exited his
vehicle, making his way toward them as well.
Carter stiffened. She looked around. The spectacle had caused a few
dozen civilians to stop what they were doing and gawk at the growing
excitement, and Carter believed that if she fought back or resisted,
some of the civilians could get hurt—or worse.
“Okay, I take it back,” she whispered to Maybourne. “We’ve got to
get out of here. Follow me.”
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
She and Maybourne broke into a quick run toward the alley side of
the diner. When they rounded the corner into the alley, they saw a
dead-end up ahead, barred only by a large, chain-link fence. Carter
estimated only seconds before the NID agents were on top of them, and
that wasn’t enough time to scale the fence and make their escape.
“Dead end!” Maybourne shouted.
Carter scowled. “They’ll be on top of us any second,” she guessed.
“Hold me.”
Maybourne’s facial expression morphed from concern to utter
bafflement. “Huh?”
“I said hold on to me,” Carter ordered. “Wrap your arms around me,
tight.”
Then the NID agents turned the corner and entered the alley.
•••
An hour and a half before Carter made her lunch appointment with
Dr. Harlow, she was relieved to see Dr. Bill Lee standing in the Area
51 laboratory that was earmarked for X-303 experiments, including the
one that she was conducting earlier on the Asgard personal cloaking
device.
She was relieved because the last time she “saw” him, Dr. Lee was
completely invisible.
“Bill,” she exclaimed, happily. “You figured out how to reverse the
phase shifting?”
“Huh?” Dr. Lee said, slightly startled because he hadn’t heard her
enter the room. “Oh … yeah. You know, I actually had to recalibrate
the particle field emitted from the personal cloaking devise to a phase
variance within our visible light spectrum? Believe you me, figuring
out the—”
Carter smiled. This must be what Colonel O’Neill felt when she
rambled on. “That’s great, Bill,” she said, cutting him off. “I need a
favor, but it’s got to be … off the record.”
“Yeah … oh, wait. What?” Dr. Lee replied, entirely confused.
“General Hammond has ordered me to investigate something,
unofficially. Because of the nature of the investigation, I might need …
an edge.”
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J. D. STIVER
Dr. Lee just stared at her. “Right … huh?”
“I need to borrow one of the cloaking devices.”
“Oh …” he answered, clearly troubled by her request since he knew
full well how illegal it was. “Those don’t … belong to us …”
Carter smiled at Dr. Lee, reassuring him in a calm, soothing
manner that it would be okay for him to trust her, even if it could very
well mean an extended jail sentence if he did.
“I know they don’t belong to us, Bill. I’m the one who convinced
the Asgard to lend them to us, remember?”
Like most races with advanced technology the SGC encountered,
the Asgard didn’t like to share. They didn’t like it because they knew
the damage that could arise within a society that experiences a radical
jump in technological capabilities—especially when geopolitical
cohesion isn’t keeping pace.
There was a saying among some of the scientists at Area 51: When
Prometheus stole fire from the gods, he didn’t give it to the first child
he came across. (After all, everyone knows that you don’t give a child a
book of matches.) Nevertheless, the war with the Goa’uld demanded
the SGC search out technology that could defend the planet from an
invasion, so the saying was more of a cautionary tale to remind them
that they must respect the dangers their discoveries presented.
Because Carter had personally helped to save an Asgard world from
a Replicator attack a year ago, she was able to convince them to loan
three personal cloaking devices to the SGC for the duration of one solar
Earth year.
Time was already up and they had only scratched the surface in
understanding how the cloaking devices even work, to say nothing
about reverse engineering them for mass production. The only reason
they still had the devices in the first place is because the Asgard were
busy fighting the Replicators and hadn’t bothered to come and get
them. But when they did—which could be any day now—they would
not want to hear that one of them was missing.
“Bill,” Carter said, still smiling. “It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask.”
Dr. Lee sighed. “It’s just … there’s a problem. We just discovered
that one of them is already missing.”
Carter scowled, a bit taken aback by the surprising news. Security at
Area 51 was no laughing mater. Intimidating signs marred the outside
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
perimeter of the base (warning that trespassers will “be shot on sight”)
and the inside facilities weren’t much more inviting.
Security checkpoints were established at the entrances to the base
that not only required authorized personnel to scan their ID and security
clearance badges before gaining access, but also submit to a fingerprint
scan, as well. The fact that someone would simply walk out with one of
the cloaking devices was difficult to imagine, but the idea that an
unauthorized person could get his hands on one in the first place was
unbelievable.
“I know,” Dr. Lee said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Wow, huh? I
mean, how did they do it?”
As baffling as this mystery was, Carter couldn’t allow herself to be
sidetracked. She needed to accomplish the purpose for her visit.
“How they got to the device is a mystery, Bill,” she said. “But I
think I know how they made off with it.”
“Yeah?” Dr. Lee said, clearly intrigued.
Carter walked over to the cloaking device on Dr. Lee’s worktable
and peered down at it. “It’s pretty obvious, when you think about it.”
“It is?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Well … how?”
“Like this.”
Carter picked up the device and slapped it onto her left shoulder. As
soon as it made contact, she faded out of the range of visible light and
seemed to disappear.
Dr. Lee nodded. “Well, yeah,” he said. “I mean getting it out isn’t
the hard part, but how did they get their hands on it at all?”
There was no answer. There was only silence. Then the lab door
opened and then closed.
“Uh … hello?”
More silence.
“Major Carter? Sam? You just made off with the cloak, didn’t you?
Uh … oh boy.”
•••
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J. D. STIVER
Two hours later, the rogue NID agents rounded the corner into the
alley by the diner and saw that their quarry had disappeared.
If this surprised them, they gave no indication. There were four of
them and they moved in like professionals. They appeared to be led by
the bald man, who seemed much scarier in person than he had at a
distance. He had a black goatee and a pale scar that ran down the length
of his face, across his left eye. The injury caused his pupil to go milky
white, like that of a corpse; nevertheless, it joined his functioning eye
in scanning the alley like a hawk.
“Fan out,” he said, his voice like churning gravel. “Sweep the
alley.”
They moved in pairs, their weapons (mostly P90s and an Uzi, which
was held by their leader) scanned up and down and from side to side,
always pointing toward the center of their vision. Between the four of
them, they swept every inch of the confined area in mere seconds. Then
they paused and listened intently, and Carter knew they suspected she
and Maybourne were still in the alley.
They’re listening for us, she thought. They’re smart, they’re well
trained, and they’ve got good Intel. We might be in real trouble, here.
The bald man was standing so close to Carter and Maybourne that
she could smell his aftershave. She could hear him receiving orders
over the tiny communicator that was lodged in his ear.
“Local authorities are on the way,” someone stated through that
communicator. “Abort and return to base.”
The bald man scowled. Then he stiffed the air, inhaling deeply
though his beak-like nose. (The man really was like a hawk, and he was
searching for her scent.)
Like Carter, this man seemed to know that the cloaking device
wasn’t impenetrable. Those who wore it couldn’t be seen, but they
could be heard. They could also be smelled. Carter’s heart began to
race. She hadn’t worn perfume, but she had applied deodorant. Even if
she hadn’t, though, she knew that this man would search her out by the
scent of her sweat.
Luckily, Carter and Maybourne were standing downwind of several
garbage cans that contained rotting food, discarded from the diner.
Sheer luck had provided the only means that might save them from this
unrelenting predator.
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
Moments went by, and a number of possible scenarios played
through her mind. What if he took a hostage and forced them to reveal
themselves? Could she shoot all four of them—even with the cloak—
before they slaughtered innocent people?
Then she heard sirens in the distance. The bald man bristled and
then slammed his fist into the bricked wall, missing Carter’s head by
only inches.
“Abort,” he commanded. “This isn’t over, major. I know you’re
here, and I will find you, eventually. That goes for you too,
Maybourne.”
With that, the men turned and quickly departed the alley, only
minutes before the authorities arrived. Carter knew the police wouldn’t
be able to find the NID agents, and, fortunately, they would never know
how lucky they were that they didn’t.
She also knew the bald man was right. It wasn’t over between them.
Not by a long shot.
•••
“His name is Michael Tobias, and he’s as good as they come,”
Maybourne said to Carter, an hour after the local police had finished
taking statements from witnesses and vacated the area.
She took off the cloaking device and dislodged herself from
Maybourne’s bear-hug grip. (They had to be close; closer than she
would have liked so that both of them could fit inside of the cloaking
field. If they had moved at all, the field would have been disrupted
because it wasn’t designed for two people. She really wished she had
grabbed the other one too. Her muscles ached from standing in place so
long.)
Once visible, Maybourne suggested that it wasn’t safe for Carter to
return to her motel room. He then convinced her to accompany him to
an apartment he’d established under an assumed identity.
She hated to admit it, but he was right.
Carter had to presume that the rogue NID had planted a tracking
device on her rental car, so they left it behind in favor of taking
Maybourne’s minivan. As they drove, she wondered how she’d been
located so readily by the NID while she watched buildings speed past
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J. D. STIVER
on unfamiliar streets. She hadn’t asked Maybourne who the bald man
was, but he didn’t need to be psychic to know that she was wondering
that as well.
“Tobias?” Carter asked. “That name sounds familiar.”
“It should,” Maybourne said. “You beat his sister out of admission
into the Stargate Program, so I recruited her for my off-world
operation. She’s not as good as you, of course, but she’s close.”
That bit of information actually answered a big question: When the
bald man—who she now knew as Michael Tobias—had been ordered
to vacant the alley, he resisted. Then he slammed his fist into the wall
when it became evident that he didn’t have enough time to locate them
before the authorities arrived. Knowing who his sister was shed some
light on the way he was behaving.
This was personal.
His sister, Lt. Clare Tobias, was almost good enough to work at
Stargate Command. Somewhere along the line, though, she fell in with
Maybourne when he was running his illegal NID operation using the
second Stargate, which he stole from Area 51. Jack O’Neill went
undercover to infiltrate Maybourne’s inner ring and was able to expose
the operation, and Clare Tobias was arrested along with her cohorts.
She was then charged with treason, convicted, and received the death
penalty. Every one of them was now sitting on death row—except for
Maybourne, who had managed to escape.
“He’s got every reason to hate us,” Maybourne explained. “And
he’s as dangerous as they come. I recruited him from the CIA, where he
specialized in covert, wetwork operations—real nasty stuff. He’s as
good as Jack, maybe better; only he doesn’t have Jack’s sense of humor
… or his morals.”
Carter didn’t like the way this was sounding. “Why would you
recruit someone that like, Maybourne? Even if your operation was
illegal, he still seems way too unstable.”
Maybourne chuckled. It was probably his way of conveying to
Carter how naive he thought she was. “I told you, he’s good at what he
does and his skills could’ve come in handy. Even still, you’ve got a
point. My operation was to obtain technology at any cost, not
assassinate people. Truth is, I only recruited him so I could bring his
sister into the fold.”
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Carter chuckled back. “I’ll bet he absolutely hates you.”
Maybourne smiled. “Oh, yeah. The man’s ruthless in all but one
area: His sister. He’s second generation CIA. His parents were killed
during the cold war—revenge for an op that went bad—and Michael
took his sister under wing when they died. He put her through school,
even the graduate stuff. She would’ve been accepted into the Stargate
Program if you hadn’t come along, so guess what?”
Carter thought Maybourne’s point through to its logical conclusion.
“He hates me too, right?”
Maybourne nodded. “Probably why he was brought onboard for this
particular op. You’re poking into NID business, so they’re poking
back—hard. You hungry?”
Before she could answer, Maybourne turned into a restaurant
parking lot and proceeded to the drive-thru. “Best burgers in Nevada. I
come here every time I visit,” he explained, happily.
Carter just shook her head. “How can you think of food at a time
like this?”
“What? You mean because people are after us? Thanks to Jack, I’m
a wanted fugitive—people are always after me. What can I say?
Running makes you hungry.”
When they pulled next to the drive thru’s speaker box, Maybourne
ordered his burger (extra barbeque sauce and onions, which meant
she’d have to avoid facing him directly) while Carter ordered a coffee
that came in a Styrofoam cup.
Once they received their order, Maybourne pulled into a parking
spot and munched contentedly on his food. Carter sipped her coffee,
hoping the caffeine would sweep the fatigue from her mind. As she
drank, she recalled the first and only time she’d ever been seated across
from Harry Maybourne while drinking coffee.
More than two years ago, the SGC encountered a foothold situation
where the base was taken over by an alien species they had never
encountered before. One by one, SGC personnel were being replaced.
The aliens had brought technology that was capable of scanning the
bodies of the people they’d secretly captured, allowing them to mimic
those people perfectly—their appearance, the feel and texture of their
clothing, even their thoughts, speech, and inflections.
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J. D. STIVER
Without knowing whom she could trust within the mountain
complex, Carter turned to Harry Maybourne, who she met at a café
near NID headquarters in Washington D.C. At the time, she believed
she could trust him—or, at least, that she could trust he wasn’t an alien
duplicate. Of course back then, they didn’t know about Maybourne’s
illegal activities, and Carter remembered thinking that, if nothing else,
he was a by-the-book colonel—if somewhat uptight.
In those days, Maybourne was always cleanly shaven and his hair
was neatly combed and parted just right. That image stood in stark
contract to the man who was now seated next to her. Not only had he
allowed a thick beard to grow over his once cleanly shaven face, but his
uptight persona had evaporated into a cynical man whose adage seemed
to be “life’s too short; enjoy it while you can.”
In a perverse way, she reminded him a little of Jack O’Neill.
“You said the colonel asked you to assist me with my
investigation?” Carter asked. “That’s a big favor for someone who’s
responsible for sending you to prison.”
Maybourne offered her an ironic smirk. “That doesn’t mean I don’t
respect him,” he countered. “In fact, now that my … former associates
have turned their backs on me, Jack’s the closest thing I have to a
friend.”
That was a sad commentary on Maybourne’s life. Or was it?
There had been many times that she’d overheard O’Neill express
his complete and utter dislike for Harry Maybourne. And yet,
Maybourne had escaped his prison sentence shortly after helping the
colonel reinstate General Hammond when he was forced into an early
retirement. If she were a cynical woman, she would’ve concluded that
O’Neill had allowed his escape because Maybourne would owe him a
favor—something that could be called in when needed. But there was
another part of her—somewhat more optimistic—that chose to believe
O’Neill was offering Maybourne something he desperately wanted: A
chance to redeem himself.
“So, how did you even find me, Maybourne? My flight, rental car,
and hotel room were booked under a manufactured identity.”
Maybourne took a big, long gulp of his soda and then wiped his
mouth with a paper napkin. “I know,” he said. “Ethel Place, right? The
name was Jack’s suggestion?”
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Carter nodded.
“Last time I saw Jack, I told him that I booked a room under the
name Butch Cassidy. Yesterday, I read a message that said, ‘hey Butch,
keep an eye on Etta. You know the drill.’ I figured he meant you.”
Carter still didn’t understand. “Why?”
Maybourne smiled. “If I’m Butch Cassidy, that makes him the
Sundance Kid. Etta Place was the Kid’s girlfriend.”
Carter suddenly felt a little awkward. “Ah.”
“And it’s a good thing, too,” Maybourne continued. “Jack only
plays it stupid, but that doesn’t mean he is. Michael Tobias is
dangerous, which means the NID aren’t taking chances this time.
We’ve got to take him out.”
Carter looked up from her coffee cup. “Now wait a minute,” she
argued. “We are not going to kill anyone unless it’s absolutely—”
“Major, I think you misunderstood me,” Maybourne interrupted.
“He won’t let us kill him because he’s too good. It’s much more likely
that he’ll find and kill us if he isn’t neutralized first.”
Carter shrugged. “So … how do we do that?”
This time Maybourne’s smile took on an ominous quality. “Easy,”
he said. “We’ll threaten to kill his sister.”
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J. D. STIVER
XI
The City of Nét:
Nestled at the base of a large mountain with jagged, black peaks,
the City of Nét sprawled out behind a great wall that spanned nearly
five kilometers in diameter.
The wall appeared to consist primarily of large sandstone blocks,
with giant statues inset into the stone in symmetrical locations around
the perimeter. There was an entrance on the southern tip, clearly
distinguishable by the fact that it was flanked with huge pylons and
accentuated with two towering obelisks on each side.
“Whoa,” O’Neill said, as the off-world team made their way over a
massive sand dune to glimpse their first view of the city. “Big.”
Within the walls, the city appeared to consist mostly of sandstone
structures, block-shaped and multi-layered buildings with gardens,
palm trees, and sporadic pools, the color of dark sand. Here and there,
an oasis could be seen, offering shaded groves and clear water that was
likely fed from underground brooks.
Statues of gods with a number of different animal headed designs
also dotted the interior, as well as an assortment of diverse sculptures of
varying sizes and shapes—owls, cats, goats, bulls, a lioness, and a
winged sphinx were readily noticeable, just at a preliminary glance.
At the center of the city, a great black pyramid rose into the
heavens, measuring approximately 50,000 square meters at the base
and rising more than 450 feet into the air at its apex.
Toward the back of the city, a great temple was constructed as a
testament to the architectural mastery of those who designed it. The
shrine rose into three levels of terraces that were built into the slope of
a towering limestone cliff, and connected to each other by a broad
central staircase. The upper levels appeared to be supported underneath
by long, colonnaded porticoes, similar in many respects to the classical
designs that could be seen on Earth in ancient Greece and Rome.
“That temple is really odd,” Daniel noted, more as a means of
thinking out loud than anything else. “It’s almost identical in design to
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the Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut, near the Valley of the Kings in
Egypt.”
“Uh huh,” O’Neill said. “Is that relevant to anything, whatsoever?”
“Might be,” he responded. “Hatshepsut was an 18th Dynasty
pharaoh who claimed to be the offspring of Ra.”
O’Neill sighed. “Great … she’s dead, right?”
“Well, they, uh, never found her body … exactly.”
“Even better,” O’Neill added, clearly annoyed that the Goa’uld
were probably going to be brought into this matter. “Ra’s mother and
now his kid. We could have a whole family reunion going on down
there. Any brothers I should know about?”
Teal’C smiled. “Apophis,” he said, with reserved pleasure in his
voice, no doubt remembering when SG-1 sent their hated foe’s ship
careening into the side of a planet.
“Well, at least we know he won’t be stopping by,” O’Neill decided.
“Okay, from what I see, it looks like there’s two main places to hit: The
pyramid and that temple thingie that everyone seems to be going into.”
Daniel adjusted his binoculars. Crowds of people were flocking to
the temple in massive droves. There appeared to be a few hundred, in
all. “You’re probably right,” Daniel agreed. “They did say they were
preparing for some sort of ceremony in preparation for our arrival. We
should check out the temple, first.”
“Alright,” O’Neill said. “Teal’C, Daniel, McKay, you’re with me.
Major Sharpe, you and SG-5 hang back and cover our six. Assuming
you don’t see us being chased by man-eating cannibals, wait until
sunset and then go check out the pyramid.”
•••
“Hey, look at this,” Daniel said, just as the rest of SG-1 prepared to
cross the threshold into the ancient city of Nét. His attention seemed to
be focused on the encryptions etched into both of the giant pylons,
which allowed access through the city’s outer wall.
The craftsmanship of the writing was remarkable, depicting
hieroglyphs and assorted carved reliefs, chiseled into the surface and
highlighted with a polished blue marble inlay.
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J. D. STIVER
“Nice,” O’Neill remarked, after a quick glance. “I’m thinking of
having my bathroom decorated just like it. We ready yet?”
“Please say yes,” McKay cut in.
“No,” Daniel objected. “Just … just give me a minute. This writing
seems to tell the story of the city’s founding. It’s similar to a creation
myth that dominated Lower Egypt prior to the New Kingdom.”
“So?” O’Neill griped.
“Well, among other things, it tells how Neith emerged from the
primeval waters to form the world and later became the first to create
the seed of gods and men.”
“Neith was a Goa’uld queen,” Teal’C speculated.
“Most likely,” Daniel confirmed. “Maybe even the one that
spawned Ra and the System Lords.”
O’Neill checked the clip in his P90 to ensure it was loaded properly.
He did that when he suspected he’d soon be firing it.
“I’ve got some good news, though,” Daniel offered. “I think Neith
might be dead.”
O’Neill perked up. “Yeah?”
“I think so,” Daniel confirmed. “Jack, this city is starting to take on
the feel of a memorial. I think it’s possible Nét might have been
constructed as Neith’s eternal resting place.”
“One can only hope,” O’Neill said. “Problem is, sometimes the
Goulds don’t rest so eternally, if you know what I mean. You think the
old gal kicked off before they started using a sarcophagus?”
“Or she was just too old for it to work on her any longer,” Daniel
guessed. “Either way, I think she’s dead.”
O’Neill smiled.
“But let us not forget, O’Neill,” Teal’C interjected. “Something
attacked the Jaffa we encountered. There is a danger here, as yet
unseen. Of this, I am sure.”
O’Neill stopped smiling. “Thanks for the pep talk, Teal’C. Alright,
let’s move out.”
•••
Nét was magnificent, but it had seen better days. There were telltale
signs scattered throughout the area that pointed to a general decline.
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Unattended gardens had overgrown and rotted. Pools were filled
with sand. Then the most striking indicator of that decline began to
surface: Circular black scorch marks marred the surface of walls,
statues and columns on many of the city’s landmarks.
“Staff weapon blasts,” McKay said, somewhat nervously. “Wonder
what they were shooting at, huh?”
O’Neill checked his watch. Then he looked up toward the sky. The
sun appeared to be traveling east, if his compass was accurate. It was
probably early afternoon, and he estimated it would be six more hours
before dusk.
Then something struck him about the patterns of the staff weapon
blasts. “Hey, Daniel,” he said. “This is a house, right?”
Daniel inspected the structure indicated by O’Neill. It appeared to
be a simple, box-shaped design constructed out of hardened mud
bricks. “Umm … yeah. Looks to be. Why?”
“No one’s home, huh?”
Daniel surveyed their immediate area. “Yeah, everyone seems to be
traveling to the temple, just like they’ve been doing for a while now.”
“Good,” O’Neill said. “Let’s head into one of these houses and see
if we can’t find some clothes—you know, to blend in a little better?
Then, you’re going to the Temple with me. Teal’C, I want you and
McKay to stay here.”
Teal’C raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. Then he looked at
the scorch marks and probably deduced what O’Neill was thinking.
“Oh, come on!” McKay complained. “You brought me here to find
advanced technology! The only technology in that hut is probably a
stick that someone’s chewed to a point!”
“Look, doctor,” O’Neill shot back. “You’re not going to be finding
anything if you get killed. You see those staff weapon blasts? Notice
anything about them?”
McKay took a hard look at one. “They’ll take a while to buff out?”
O’Neill rolled his eyes and wished (not for the first time) that Carter
were here instead of him. “The Jaffa came through here like we just
did. Those blast marks can be seen on just about everything along this
route.”
McKay continued to stare at him, not catching his meaning. “So?”
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“So, this route leads directly to that temple. Whatever those Jaffa
were shooting at, it came from there.”
McKay followed the trail of damage all the way to the temple.
“Oh,” he said, slightly humbled. “So it does. I guess, uh, I guess I’ll
just wait here, then.”
“And what of me, O’Neill?” Teal’C asked, clearly unhappy with the
prospect of his teammates facing danger without him.
“You keep McKay from getting killed,” O’Neill answered. “As
much as it pains me to admit it, we might actually need him at some
point.”
•••
“No,” O’Neill protested, moments after Daniel tossed him a pair of
sandals that he discovered from inside one of the homes. “I am not
wearing those.”
“Well, if you’re looking to fit in, no one here has standard issue
military boots,” Daniel pointed out. “Most people are probably walking
around with sandals or barefoot.”
O’Neill grunted. “Most people around here probably won’t be
carrying a P90, either. But we sure will.”
While Daniel and O’Neill discussed their clothing options, McKay
wandered around the simple dwelling, marveling at the fact that people
could exist with such basic accommodations.
For starters, the home was uncomfortably warm.
Though Daniel explained that the person who lived in the house
was probably wealthy because he could afford two layers of mud bricks
instead of just a single layer, the only area in the four-room dwelling
that was remotely tolerable was a central room that was raised slightly
higher than the rest of the structure. There, they had hollowed out a
series of small holes near the roof, which allowed heat to escape.
It didn’t help much, and it certainly couldn’t compare to central
heat and air conditioning. McKay believed he simply couldn’t relate to
this type of squalor. No sir. You wouldn’t catch him living in some
ancient city, and he was glad for that.
And he wasn’t alone in that belief.
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“A loincloth!” O’Neill bellowed, from inside one of the outer
rooms. “I don’t know about you, Daniel, but my loins need a little more
cloth. There has got to be something else to wear.”
McKay smiled inwardly to himself. He was glad this mission was
throwing someone else a curve ball for a change.
When he was first approached about going off-world, McKay was
excited about the prospect of new discovery. All he could think about
was the important technologies he would uncover. Little did he realize
that he’d be exploring a mud hut on some desert world while an
archeologist—someone who would actually appreciate a mud hut—
would be heading off to look for the very technology they came to
retrieve. (If that wasn’t a waste of an astrophysics doctorate, he didn’t
know what was.)
The room McKay found himself in was dimly lit. There was a torch
fastened to the wall. Simple curiosity overtook him, and he decided to
light it so he could get a better look at his surroundings. He struck a
match and lit the torch, and was surprised to find a series of drawings
etched into the surface of the wall.
“Hmm,” he said, out loud to himself. “I guess when you don’t have
a television, you get your entertainment where you can, huh?”
The drawings were simple and crudely sketched, but he did
recognize some of what they depicted.
In one section, he saw a circular object with a bunch of stick figure
men marching away from it. They had serpent heads and were passing
an overturned obelisk while shooting fire from their staff weapons. The
fire was painstakingly applied with a bright red dye. In the serpent
guards’ path, a pile of bodies lay at their feet. Though crude, someone
had spent a great deal of time working on it. Above the depiction, a
series of hieroglyphs were written, but McKay couldn’t make them out.
“They’re names,” Daniel said, startling McKay in the process. He
hadn’t heard him enter the room. “Whoever drew this was probably a
child. If I had to guess, I’d say the names are his parents, who were
probably killed when the Serpent Guards came through the Stargate a
few years ago. This is a nice find you just made, Rodney.”
McKay turned around, hoping he wouldn’t see Daniel sporting a
loincloth. Instead, he’d apparently found a long, white linen robe that
covered him from head to ankle, which fit snuggly over his uniform.
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“If I was an anthropologist, I would have to agree with you on that,”
McKay stated, bitterly. “But since I’m an astrophysicists, I’m starting
to wonder why I came along.”
Much to his surprise, Daniel gave him a reassuring smile. “Oh, you
never know,” he said, with remarkable warmth for someone whose
profession had just been insulted. “On our first mission to Abydos, we
couldn’t locate the seventh symbol right away. Without the point of
origin, I couldn’t send anyone home. We would probably still be
stranded there today if it hadn’t been for Skaara. He and a bunch of
kids helped us to escape from Ra, and then we all fled to a nearby cave.
While there, Skaara took a piece of charcoal and began drawing our
‘victory’ on the cave wall—you know, for posterity?
“He didn’t know it at the time, but he gave me the clue I needed to
deduce the seventh symbol and send everyone home. If it hadn’t been
for Skaara’s desire to record our victory, who knows how things would
have turned out? In my line of work, you learn that if it was important
enough for someone to write down, then it’s important enough to read.”
McKay suspected that Daniel was simply trying to make him feel
useful. “Yeah, well, this doesn’t tell us anything that we didn’t already
know,” he said. “The Jaffa came through the gate and slaughtered
everybody. In the unlikely event that this drawing actually turns out to
be useful, I’ll eat Colonel O’Neill’s loincloth.”
Daniel grimaced.
“Guess you’re still pretty hungry, huh?”
•••
The sun was nearing the western horizon and would set within the
next two hours. O’Neill was hoping that dusk would provide the best
cover for he and Daniel to make their way to the temple, gather Intel
and then slip back out, undetected.
Also, from what he could hear in the distance, the good people of
Nét seemed to be celebrating for some reason. With any luck, they’d be
too good and drunk when he arrived at the temple to notice his
presence, so there’d be no need for anyone to have to get shot.
Or eaten.
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“Okay,” O’Neill said to Teal’C. “We’re leaving. If Daniel and I
aren’t back before sundown, meet up with SG-5 at the pyramid and
help them check things out. That ought to keep McKay happy.”
The Jaffa lowered his head, bowing in compliance.
“Be vigilant, O’Neill,” Teal’C advised. “I have a dire sentiment
concerning this world.”
O’Neill scrunched up his face in thought. “I think you mean you’ve
got a ‘bad feeling’ about this, Teal’C. And you’re not the only one.”
Both Daniel and O’Neill were wearing robes over their uniforms.
Their weapons—a P90 and a Zat, each—were hidden appropriately
beneath their outer garment. Daniel, for his part, was already outside,
reading various statues and markers, studying everything about Nét that
he possibly could. O’Neill had learned to give the archeologist a wide
latitude in such matters—you never knew what could end up being
important.
As for O’Neill, he gauged things by his gut. For some reason, the
image of Boris Karloff as “The Mummy” kept popping into his head.
He didn’t know why.
But his gut was telling him this was a bad thing.
•••
The Priests of Neith emerged from the Pyramid even before Aneksi
returned to tell her people that the Gate of the Domain had opened.
They walked in procession to the Temple while carrying their
symbolic tools of office, in preparation for the ceremony that all would
dread but none would oppose. The people watched them file past,
solemn and hooded in red billowing robes, their faces hidden and
obscured, much like their order, which was also shrouded in secrecy.
They were old.
There were tales that said when the Pyramid was constructed in
ancient times, the Priests of Neith were there, watching. There were
others who claimed they didn’t exist at all, and that they were only
folktales told to scare young children, warning them to stay clear of the
Pyramid and the dangers inside.
And then one day, those people were proven wrong. The Gate of
the Domain unfurled and Serpent Daemon marched forth. At first, only
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a few of the daemon emerged, but were quickly followed by several
thousand more.
In that brief span of time, before the first of the armies amassed, the
Priests of Neith arose from the Pyramid and demanded that the people
of Nét fulfill their ultimate function.
A Ceremony was held.
The children were spared, secured in a hidden vault deep within the
Temple. The vault was shut. The door was locked. It was locked from
the inside. On the night of the Ceremony, Aneksi heard noises—even
through the rock, she heard noises that haunt her still. When the noises
stopped, the children emerged. What they found next became the
landscape of their nightmares.
And the Priests of Neith were there, watching.
The Ceremony is called the Opening of the Mouth and Eyes.
The festival that precedes it is unnamed. It is an occasion where the
people are permitted a single night to shed their inhibitions and partake
in the enjoyment of life’s offerings before making the final sacrifice for
their god, Ra. (May His Light Radiate from the Heavens, Forever.)
Animals are slaughtered and eaten over song, and cups run full with
beer and wine. Fires rise upward from ceremonial pits, and people
dance around the fluidic flames, mimicking their movement. Men and
women copulate for little more reason than sheer pleasure, as warm
bodies come together under dim stars, silhouetted against a backdrop of
firelight and the setting sun.
But there was no laughter, Aneksi noted. It was as if her people
were blind, desperately touching the contours and textures of life, but
missing the vibrant spectrum of color and light.
There had to be more.
There had to be a future.
On this dusk when inhibitions were freely discarded, Aneksi did not
seek physical pleasure as so many of her kin had chosen to do. She did
not partake in wine or drink, or dance beneath the waning sunlight, or
seek comfort in the embrace of another.
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Instead, she ventured forth into the darkest regions of the Temple,
past the great colonnaded hall (which contains the wisdom of the Book
of Going Forth, etched into its robust pillars) and past the sun court,
where her people gathered for their festival beneath the emerging
constellations. There, in the dark places of the mountain, Aneksi
approached the Priests of Neith.
“My lords,” she said, as she entered the chamber, unbidden and
unannounced.
There were seven of them present. They sat on thrones cut out of
old rock, the room lit only by torchlight, which cast flickering shadows
on the ashen walls. Their hooded faces were obscured by darkness.
Nevertheless, she felt their cold eyes assess her.
“By what right do you address us, child?” asked one, his voice
sliding through the very air like a serpent.
“I am acting according to tradition, my lord,” Aneksi replied. “Is
this not an occasion when our people are permitted to shed their
reticence? Are we not given a span of time to act freely in the
enjoyment of life, prior to providing service to Almighty Ra?”
The Priests of Neith fell silent.
The tactic that Aneksi employed was perilous. Revealing herself to
be clever was a calculated act, and one born of desperation. Reading
was forbidden for a female and she would be subject to a harsh penalty
if they uncovered her true intellect.
“And so it is, child,” the Priests were made to agree. “Yet, while the
other women of your kind are enjoying carnal gratification, you have
elected to address us? To what end?”
“Survival,” Aneksi stated, unflinching. “As my lords are no doubt
aware, it has been countless generations since the Gate of the Domain
has unfurled. Now, in a short span of time, it has again brought forth
visitors. With an entire generation of our people called into service
once more, my lords, I fear our people will not survive.”
The Priests were unmoved.
“What is your name, child?”
“I am Aneksi, Daughter of Emsaf the Carpenter,” she said, feeling
no shame in her father’s comparatively unimportant vocation.
Nevertheless, the Priests adopted a tone that suggested she should.
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“A carpenter’s daughter?” one asked, his tone mocking. “A
carpenter’s daughter believes that she may second guess the Decree of
the Gods? Almighty Ra grants us life so that we may serve and worship
him, child. Our land is holy and its secrets many. Is it not our duty to
smite the infidels who desecrate our sacred city with their very
footsteps?
“Do you believe that when the gods call upon us to serve a higher
purpose—even at the expense of our very lives—that we have the right
to question their divine authority? Do you believe that the daughter of a
mere carpenter has the intellect to question the tenants that have served
to offer our people their purpose for generations?”
Aneksi knew this line of questioning was a ploy. She knew they
sought to trick her into either revealing the extent of her education or
lead her into a statement of heresy.
She bowed her head to them, graciously. “I thank you for granting
me perspective on this matter, my lords,” she declared. “When put into
those terms, the answer to my question is apparent. I am grateful to you
for showing me my true path.”
The Priests of Neith were satisfied with her response.
“Of course, child.”
Aneksi turned and departed. As she did so, the Priests’ questions
echoed through her mind. Do you believe that the daughter of a mere
carpenter has the right to question the gods’ divine authority?
In considering their question, Aneksi was left with only one answer.
That answer was obvious. Her true path was clear.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
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XII
FOUR YEARS AGO
Lt. Clare Tobias couldn’t believe that the planet she now found
herself on was worth the trip to get there—even if that trip were
instantaneous.
P34-574.
It was a planet that seemed to consist entirely of a cornfield (or, at
least, a vegetable similar to corn) and not much else. It was night, and
she was standing in a cold, damp field on an entirely new planet—one
the SGC hadn’t even visited yet. Still, though, she wondered why
Maybourne had dispatched them to this particular world.
Since she was still new to the operation, she wasn’t privy to mission
details just yet, and she halfway suspected that their trip to this
meaningless corner of the galaxy was just some form of hazing ritual.
“Ah, man,” Major Newman, one of her teammates, said. “I just
stepped in pile of shit.”
Newman was young, good looking and new to the operation, as
well. Apparently, she thought, as she snickered quietly to herself, he’s
getting hazed too.
Any doubts she might have harbored about the seriousness of this
mission were shattered in the very next second. She should have
known: Colonel Sean Grieves didn’t have a sense of humor.
“So help me God, major, if you don’t shut up and start taking this
mission seriously, I will shoot you myself. Is that understood?”
No sense of humor at all. When he said he’d shoot Newman, he
meant it. Grieves was hard as nails and took their mission’s mandate to
heart: They were going to obtain alien technology to defend Earth from
the Goa’uld—and unlike the SGC, they would do it at any cost.
Grieves fixed an icy stare on Newman and the man went white.
“Y-yes, sir.”
The three of them were dressed entirely in black. Their weapons
were of Goa’uld design. Tobias held the serpentine-looking weapon
and wondered if and when she would be able to dissect one for study.
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J. D. STIVER
She couldn’t wait.
The allure of new discovery coursed through her veins, and
suddenly, as she brushed her blond hair back from her eyes and gazed
upward at unfamiliar constellations, she was excited to be on this
planet—even if they’d had to steal a Stargate to get there.
Behind them, several FREDs emerged from the gate, carrying
equipment and supplies from their base at Area 51, including two
Naquadah generators. Whatever they were doing, she was the tech, and
she was sure that she’d be the one doing it.
“Okay,” Grieves said, once all of the equipment was safely through
the gate and the wormhole had closed. “Tobias, I need you to start
working on the Stargate. We need you to increase the distance of the
unstable vortex that forms prior to establishing a new wormhole by
approximately eight feet.”
Tobias snapped back to her present situation, slightly in shock at
what she had just been asked to do. “What? I’m not even sure that can
be done.”
“Fine a way,” he ordered. “You have seven hours, and I mean seven
hours precisely. Newman?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re on recon. Somewhere on this planet, there’s got to be a
living person. These crops didn’t plant themselves. Find that person,
just in case Tobias doesn’t have the skills we think she does.”
Tobias and Newman glanced at each other and then shot off toward
their respective tasks.
After that, hours sped by. The first hour was spent in darkness, as
Tobias desperately tried to review what she knew about the Stargate’s
inner workings. She disassembled the gate’s DHD and removed all of
the control crystals, mostly so it would appear to Col. Grieves that she
knew what she was doing. It gave her time to think, if nothing else.
The sun came up during the second hour and she took a moment to
look over the surrounding area. The sky was lit up in soft, burgundy
light which made the clouds appear a deep purple. It was the most
breathtaking sunrise she’d ever seen. But other than that, there was
nothing much else to look at, even in daylight. Tobias wondered, idly,
if there was a single hill or mountain on this entire planet. Newman was
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
no doubt wondering if there were any people. She didn’t envy him at
all.
The third hour saw yet another sunrise, not quite as beautiful as the
first. There were, apparently, two suns, which meant it was starting to
get hot. She stripped off her jacket and wiped sweat from her eyes. She
tied back her hair and vowed to cut her bangs short the next time she
was on Earth.
On the fourth hour, Grieves started to get grumpy. Fortunately,
Tobias had stalled long enough to think through the problem so she
could give him a working theory:
“Okay,” she said, “the gate basically works as a superconductor that
channels and stores energy from a variety of different forms—heat,
kinetic, electrical—then it releases any excess energy as an unstable
vortex each time it establishes a new wormhole. So what we have to do
is channel a tremendous amount of energy into the gate, to the point of
nearly overloading the capacitors, and then convince the gate’s
diagnostic system to detect the excess energy and release an increased
amount in order to reestablish equilibrium. The only problem is
figuring out the correct proportions of degree and duration.”
Grieves snorted. “It took you all that time to come up with that?
Why do you think we brought the generators along?”
“I don’t think you understand,” she added. “If we channel too much
too fast, the gate could explode. I’ll also have to write a subroutine and
upload it into the DHD that—”
Grieves dabbed sweat away from his balding head with a cloth.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s harder to do than it sounds. I get it. So get it done.”
Tobias turned away and rolled her eyes. She suspected it was much
easier for COs to make command decisions when they didn’t fully
understand what they were asking the underlings to do.
Nevertheless, she carried out her orders.
As she worked, she decided to strike up a conversation with
Grieves; or, at least, to make the attempt. (To be honest, she believed
the gate potentially exploding in their faces was a far less scary
prospect, but she just couldn’t stand the silence any longer.)
“So,” she said, as she connected the electrical conduits from the
generators to the gate, “are we here to steal corn, or what?”
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J. D. STIVER
“I’m not a big fan of the word, ‘steal’,” he replied. “And no, we’re
not here for the corn.”
“So, why are we here, sir?”
Grieves stood silent for a long moment. Just as she’d given up on
her assessment of his conversational abilities, he spoke. “From what we
can tell, this is a farming planet,” he said. “No technology to speak of,
except for one important thing: Every seven hours, a machine comes
along and deposits a large amount of corn through the Stargate. We
think it’s some kind of harvester that appears to be completely
automated.”
“And that’s what we’re after?”
“That’s what we’re after. It floats.”
Tobias smiled. “Antigravity?” she asked. “That’s incredible.”
“Yeah, and it also makes it incredibly hard to reach. So, we’re
going to force it to land.”
Tobias furrowed her brow in thought. “Uh … how?”
“Just do your job and you’ll see.”
Just then, Newman piped through on Grave’s communicator. “Sir?”
“Report,” Grieves ordered.
“I’ve only been able to locate a single structure within three miles
of the Stargate. It appears to be occupied by a man, one woman, and a
small child. What are your orders, sir?”
Grieves looked at Tobias. His face was deadly serious. “Okay,
Tobias, this is the moment of truth. If you don’t think you can make the
Stargate do what we need it to do, now’s the time to say so. I’ll have no
choice but to order Newman to capture the man and bring him back so
we can determine if there’s anything he knows about the harvester that
we can use to get onboard. He won’t want to come willingly.”
Tobias knew what that meant. The child and the woman were in
danger if she couldn’t convince Grieves that is was unnecessary to
involve them. She thought back to how she felt just after her own
parents died, and found a new resolve to complete her end of the
mission.
“I can get it to work,” she reported. “That’s why you recruited me.”
Grieves looked her over for a long moment, assessing her honesty.
Then he reestablished contact with Newman.
“Return to base camp, Newman. You’ve got forty-five minutes.”
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“Yes, sir.”
When Newman returned, energy was already pumping into the gate.
They used the remaining time to hide their equipment several yards
from their position, just in case the harvester wasn’t as automated as
they thought. If anyone were onboard, they didn’t want to be detected.
Then they hid and waited.
Shortly before the seven-hour mark, they heard a noise in the
distance. Tobias looked upward and saw the harvester, floating along
and heading toward the gate, right on schedule. The oblong-shaped,
metallic craft appeared to be approximately one kilometer in length,
and yet it hovered weightlessly over the cornfields like a boat gliding
along smooth, invisible waters.
“It’s incredible,” she said. “How is the antigravity being
generated?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Grieves said. “And if you did
your job right, we’ll know soon enough.”
As the harvester approached the Stargate, a dialing protocol was
initiated. Then the pedestal that held the gate in place began to rise and
dip to a ninety-degree angle, just as the harvester maneuvered directly
overhead.
“We’ve watched this process before,” Grieves said. “The harvester
always moves in the same pattern at the exact same attitude over the
horizontally inclined Stargate to deposit the corn. We think it has four
plates that generate the antigravity field directly beneath the craft.
Unfortunately for them, one of those plates is awfully close to our
booby-trapped Stargate.”
He was right. Tobias spotted them, separated in equal lengths along
the underside of the craft. When the Stargate’s seventh chevron locked,
the vortex ignited like a mushroom cloud, unleashing a massive wave
directly beneath the unsuspecting craft. The first antigravity plate was
completely destroyed; leaving only a smoldering crater in its wake once
the unstable vortex finally subsided.
The harvester started to creek and moan, as sudden gravity surged
downward on the front of the craft, causing a colossal strain on the
hull’s integrity. Tobias thought the noise was similar to what the
Titanic must have sounded like, as it broke apart before disappearing
into the dark abyss.
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J. D. STIVER
The front of the harvester plunged downward, until the other three
plates finally buckled under the pressure as well. There was a loud,
earth-shaking crash, followed by an eerily serene silence. A dust plume
was thrown into the air, and when it eventually cleared, there was little
doubt that their mission had been successful.
The harvester was down.
And it’s secretes were theirs for the taking.
“Nice job, people,” Grieves commended. “Now we disassemble it
and ship it back to Area 51. Who knows, whatever is onboard this thing
could just provide the edge we’re looking for in our fight against the
Goa’uld.”
At the time, Tobias smiled, feeling pride in her contribution to the
mission. It wasn’t until years later when she learned that because of her
actions on this world, she was nearly an accomplice in ending all life
on the planet Earth.
•••
LOS VEGAS, NEVADA
PRESENT DAY
“I don’t know how much clearer I can be, Maybourne,” Carter said.
We are not going to kill Clare Tobias.”
They were both at Maybourne’s apartment, a sparsely decorated
timeshare rented under the name of Harry Benecheck of St. Petersburg,
Florida. There was nothing in the fridge but beer and cream cheese,
which meant either Maybourne didn’t visit the place often, or he had
the same eating habits as Colonel O’Neill.
Samantha Carter was beginning to suspect that eating habits were
the only thing this man had in common with her respected commanding
officer.
“Now take it easy, major,” Harry replied, in between sips of
imported beer. “You might have a point. Killing Michael Tobias’ sister
might take the fight out of him, or it could make him come after us with
a vengeance. It’s hard to say which.”
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Carter just glared at him, stunned. “Not to mention, it’s wrong,” she
added. “I don’t care if she is sitting on death row.”
Maybourne snickered, which made Carter think this was just a joke
to him. She began to wonder if she wasn’t wasting valuable time by
even discussing the matter with this man.
“Sometimes I wish I had worked at Cheyenne Mountain,” he
admitted. “You know, I’ve never actually been through the Stargate?”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Serving under Hammond has really fostered a sense of higher
purpose for you all, hasn’t it? Even Jack, with his checkered past, has
been allowed to develop a moral high ground. Maybe it’s the Goa’uld’s
fault. They’re so clearly evil that fighting them is so clearly right. Do
that long enough and you forget that you live on a planet that has
shades of gray, where right and wrong can get a little blurry.”
“What’s your point, Maybourne?”
“My point is, Jack understands that in a situation like this, we’re not
fighting the Goa’uld, we’re fighting people. That makes certain things
harder. Jack was always willing to do whatever needed to be done
when he came to me for help, even if compromises had to be made.
Even if he felt guilty about it later.”
Carter looked deep inside of herself and wondered just how far she
would really go to defend the people she loved. Even still, thinking
back on Jack O’Neill and the kind of man he was, she still had trouble
accepting the fact that he would actually kill someone in cold blood,
even to safeguard the success of a mission.
“No,” she said, at last. “The Jack O’Neill I know would want me to
find another way, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
Maybourne graced her with another smile; only this time she
thought she saw a glint of admiration flicker across his eyes.
“Okay,” he said. “So what have we got?”
Carter sat down at the kitchen table a few feet from Maybourne,
who was reclining on a nearby love seat. She thought back to where
this all began.
“What we’ve got is a mystery,” she concluded. “Two weeks ago,
someone infected Major Tom Anders of SG-3 with the same bacteria
Nirti once used on a planet designated P8X-987. The result was the
spread of a plague on two different worlds.”
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J. D. STIVER
“Which ones?” Maybourne asked.
“Cartago and Abydos.”
Maybourne pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.
“We traced the bacteria back to a sample that was brought to Area
51 shortly after Nirti used it, but the timing of this outbreak couldn’t
have been worse,” Carter said.
“Tobaine’s visit?”
“Yes.”
“The man’s a putz,” Maybourne pronounced. “Go on, major.”
“Well that ‘putz’ has the president’s attention,” she said. “In view
of the current crisis, the president is finally considering Dr. Tobaine’s
longstanding recommendation to shut the program down for a three
month review on SGC medical protocol.”
“Right,” Maybourne said, with obvious contempt in his voice.
“Never mind the fact that the doomsday scenario he’s been spewing for
years just hasn’t happened. What else?”
“After that, Daniel received a statue in the mail that led SG-1 to a
planet called Nét, where he believes an ancient medical research lab is
located. He also believes the planet was discovered by the Goa’uld long
ago, and might even be the epicenter for the technology they currently
use.”
Maybourne finished his beer. Then he opened another bottle.
“That’s new,” he said. “I’ve never heard of the place before. They
must be milking Adrian Conrad’s snake for Intel.”
Carter bristled at the mention of that particular name. Not long ago,
a successful businessman named Adrian Conrad used his connections
to procure a Goa’uld symbonite, hoping to cure an immune system
disorder that was killing him. He also kidnapped Carter after learning
that she was once a host for a symbonite, thinking her body could
provide a biological answer in how to break free of the symbonite’s
control once it had healed his condition.
Conrad was successful in implanting the Goa’uld into his own
body, and the symbonite did heal his condition, but at a high cost: He
was captured by the NID before he could find a way to remove it, and
now he, along with the Goa’uld he carried, were prisoners of the NID.
A flash of anger surged through Carter. She recalled that Harry
Maybourne was the very person who had sold the symbonite to Conrad
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in the first place. If it hadn’t been for the other members of SG-1, she
would have been killed and dissected in the futile attempt to free
Conrad from his own desperate actions.
Carter took a deep breath and reminded herself that although
Maybourne had played a hand in getting her into that mess, he also
played a vital role in getting her out of it.
Once her anger subsided, she concluded Maybourne was probably
right: Conrad’s Goa’uld was the only way the NID could’ve known
about the existence of Nét.
“That’s a fair assessment,” she agreed. “Which would have to mean
that the NID is behind the current crisis.”
Maybourne shook his head. “Not the NID,” he argued. “Or, at least,
not the legitimate NID. No, this is the work of the Committee.”
Carter extended her arms in a questioning gesture. “Who?”
“Businessmen. CEOs and shareholders of several multinational
corporations—they’re the people pulling the strings behind the rogue
NID. Whatever ancient device they think is on that planet, they must
also think it’ll make them an awful lot of money. If this device will
cure the plague, who knows what other diseases it’ll cure? The patents
are probably already in the works.”
That made sense. Carter knew that a number of products have
already been released into the marketplace that could be traced directly
from alien technology brought to Area 51—the very place Daniel’s
ancient device would ultimately go if SG-1 were successful in
procuring it from Nét. But if that’s what the NID (or, more precisely,
what the people controlling the rogue elements of the NID) wanted,
then why involve Senator Kinsey in yet another effort to shut the
program down?
Carter posed that very question to Maybourne and his answer
seemed obvious once he stated it. She then wondered why she hadn’t
thought of it herself.
“Revenge,” Maybourne said. “Jack, Hammond, and the rest of you
shut down their access to the second Stargate. Now they have to rely on
the SGC to decide what gets brought back, and they don’t always like
the result.”
Carter nodded. “That’s why they coerced General Hammond into
an early retirement.”
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J. D. STIVER
“And Kinsey got exposed as a result, making them vulnerable,” he
added. “Kinsey might sell them out to save his own ass, so they’re
giving him something they all want: Hammond and SG1’s head on a
platter.”
“How?”
“Come on, major. Think about the two worlds that got infected,”
Maybourne said. “Cartago and Abydos? They might as well have sent
out an invitation specifically to SG-1. Teal’C visits Cartago every year,
and Daniel Jackson actually married someone from Abydos. Hell, even
Jack loves Abydos—he’s fond of that kid, remember? How could they
not help the people of those two planets? They’d go, even if they had to
defy a presidential order to do it.”
“That’s what they were trying to do!” Carter exclaimed, the answer
now seeming as clear as day. “They wanted the president to shut down
the program and have SG-1 go anyway!”
“You’ve defied orders before,” Maybourne agreed. “Only this time,
it would have meant a court marshal instead of a hero’s welcome for
saving the world. You’ve gotta admit, the psychology of it is brilliant.”
Diabolical is more like it, Carter thought. Whoever is behind this is
turning SG-1’s most likely response to a crisis against them.
Maybourne was right. Whoever the puppet master was, he (or she) was
brilliant. But who was it?
“General Hammond suspects Dr. Tobaine is responsible for the
outbreak,” Carter said.
“Nope,” Maybourne argued. “Tobaine wouldn’t throw in with the
NID. I knew him. I would’ve already brought him onboard if he were
the type to play ball.”
“But he had easy access to Nirti’s bacteria at Area 51.”
“So did just about anyone else who could bypass the laser security
grid. I hate to admit this, major, but because of my … questionable
allegiances in the past, I initiated certain security procedures that might
seem a bit lax while I was in charge at Area 51.”
Carter just shook her head, dismayed at the understatement. All
kinds of things went missing when Harry Maybourne was in charge,
including the second Stargate.
“Uh, yeah,” she agreed. “What procedures?”
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“Well, for one thing, all the scientists working at Area 51 are
allowed access to only one alien device at a time when conducting
experiments—a policy that’s still in affect, I might add. That leaves the
other devices in cold storage the rest of the time. No guards are present
around those storage areas, just a security grid that can be bypassed if
someone knows how. The idea behind this … arrangement … is that
some of the alien tech could be borrowed —”
“— You mean stolen —”
“— Lent, with a promise of return, to the private sector so they
could conduct studies of their own … without the devices being
missed.”
“For a small fee, Maybourne?”
“Hey, Harry Benecheck has to pay for his timeshare somehow.”
Carter groaned. Naturally, she was aware of this policy and had
been subjected to it as well; she just didn’t know Maybourne was
behind it or what its true purpose had been. It was also one of the
reasons that an Asgard personal cloaking device just disappeared right
out from under her nose. And God only knew when it happened.
“So you see,” he continued. “Anyone could have taken Nirti’s
bacteria, providing they could get access to the base in the first place.
Tobaine is just a patsy in all of this.”
“We’ll see,” Carter decided. “And thanks to your complete
disregard for security protocol, something else is missing: An Asgard
personal cloaking device.”
Maybourne shrugged, guiltily. “Well, there you go,” he said. “Now
you know how they got past the security grid.”
Carter sighed. But he did have a point. If Maybourne was telling her
was the truth, Area 51 had something of a backdoor policy that made it
easy for things to disappear. Still, that didn’t mean her lead on Dr.
Tobaine shouldn’t be followed up—and if she left now, she could still
make her rendezvous with Dr. Harlow.”
She stood up. “I need to borrow the keys to your car, Maybourne,”
she said. “I’ve got an appointment to keep.”
Maybourne opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again
without saying a word. “Fine,” he agreed. “Major … Samantha … just
be careful, huh? Michael Tobias is still out there, and Jack would never
forgive me if anything happened to you.”
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J. D. STIVER
Carter smiled. “He’d shoot you,” she replied. “I’ll meet you back
here in a few hours.”
•••
The Committee.
They meet in shadow, and not just metaphorically. The room is dark
and cool, with an internal temperature being maintained at 68 degrees
Fahrenheit. Some believe it’s just a way of making their visitors
uncomfortable—not that they have many visitors, and not that they
meet all that often.
In truth, the reason for this is entirely practical: Secrecy.
All visitors are subjected to a mild electromagnetic pulse as they
enter the dilapidated warehouse, located in one of Washington D.C.’s
more dangerous neighborhoods. The EMP wipes out any possibility of
smuggling a surveillance device into the building and having it actually
work. The computers that are used inside the warehouse are the same
kind NASA employs on the space shuttles, comprised of radiation
hardened (rad-hard) technology capable of withstanding—among other
things—an electromagnetic pulse. The rad-hard computers process
information slower, burn more power, and create more heat than a
typical PC, thus the need to maintain the room’s temperature at a cool,
68 degrees Fahrenheit.
Two of the members share co-ownership for the rad-hard patent. (It
was a top seller in the heyday of the Cold War when the threat of
nuclear warfare was prevalent. Not so much these days because
terrorists simply don’t have the technology to create an EMP capable of
threatening the United States. One of those patent-holders is
considering doing something about that. Should get sales back on
track.)
Other patents owned by the five-member board comprising the
Committee includes, but is not limited to, a cure for Alzheimer’s
(which can be cured outright, but is in the process of being reworked
into a lifelong treatment), various designs for the standard ballistic
missile (a big seller in the Middle East), the antiballistic missile (a big
seller in the U.S. and Israel), and various missile guidance systems (a
big seller to everyone).
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And all of that was before the Stargate opened for business.
Now, the sky was no limit. Now, they could literally reach out and
touch the stars, and return with technology only science fiction writers
dreamed possible.
Of course, the Stargate presented a unique set of problems. That’s
why they were here, now. That’s why Michael Tobias was standing
before them in a dimly lit room, in a bad part of town, addressing a
committee that didn’t use names. (Couldn’t be too careful, after all.
One never knew when some alien somewhere would invent a
surveillance device capable of withstanding an electromagnetic pulse.
The Committee cringed at the thought—that is, of course, unless one of
them could manage to obtain the patent first.)
This was the current situation: If they were successful in their latest
endeavor, they would not only eliminate several thorns in their sides,
but also gain access to a machine that was capable of curing just about
any disease known to man (as well as create new ones to cure later).
If successful, their wealth would multiply exponentially.
On the eve of such profound success, they didn’t want to hear that
Major Samantha Carter was getting too close. They didn’t want to hear
that Harry Maybourne (a traitor on multiple fronts) was aiding Major
Carter in her investigation. And they most certainly did not want to
hear that the bacteria used to infect Abydos and Cartago could be
traced directly back to them.
The Committee sat in their respective seats around a polished black
table, listening intently to Michael Tobias’s report.
He stood at the edge of the conference table. He wasn’t invited to
take a seat and he wouldn’t want to if he were invited. (Judas did not
break bread with the High Priests of Caiaphas; he simply took his thirty
pieces of silver and fulfilled his function.)
“The addition of Harry Maybourne into the equation presents an
unstable factor,” one of them postulated.
“And this is how he repays us,” said another. “After we put the
bastard in touch with Adrian Conrad so he could sell his symbonite?
We should have eliminated him when we had the chance.”
“But then, we would not have access to the information supplied by
the Goa’uld,” argued the first. “No, we acted responsibly in that
regard.”
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“Still,” a third member interjected. “We will only reap the
dividends if we act to severe the connection linking us to the bacteria.”
“Agreed,” said the first. “Where is Maybourne now?”
“The NID has been tracking him for more than a year,” Tobias said.
“When he hacked into our server last year, we planted a worm on his
hard drive that told us everything we need to know about his financial
records, holdings, and various identities.”
“And since he has information tying Senator Kinsey directly to us,
we’ve allowed him to operate with immunity,” the first Committee
member stated.
“Yes,” Tobias agreed. “However, given the current situation,
perhaps you might reconsider? We’ve traced his current location to an
apartment he uses in Los Vegas under the alias, Harry Benecheck.
We’ve also monitored a recent phone call that puts him into contact
with a scientist out at Area 51. Conrad Greene.”
“Good God! That son of a bitch.”
“We’ve also bugged the apartment and learned that Samantha
Carter is leaving Maybourne’s residence to keep an appointment. We
believe she is meeting a former acquaintance of hers: Dr. Timothy
Harlow. I’ve dispatched operatives to deal with Greene and
Maybourne, and I will personally deal with Carter—”
“No,” the first Committee member interrupted. “Eliminating Carter
will only invite the SGC to meddle in more of our affairs—especially if
we are unsuccessful in facilitating a court marshal for Hammond and
O’Neill.”
“And Dr. Harlow may prove to be an asset to us,” the second
member stated. “At least for the time being.”
Tobias stood rigid, his eyes glaring with white-hot rage. “It was my
understanding that I was specifically contacted to deal with Carter.”
“We wanted her monitored, not eliminated,” the first scolded. “You
were contacted because we received assurances that you are the very
best at what you do.”
“Your skills are an asset to us,” the second agreed. “Do not become
a liability.”
“So, what do you want me to do?” Tobias asked.
“Eliminate Greene,” the first ordered.
“And what about Maybourne?”
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There was silence as the Committee weighed their options.
“Nothing is to happen to Maybourne as long as Kinsey is in the
picture. We’ll sever our ties with both of them soon enough.”
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XIII
GIZA, EGYPT
7,956 B.C.
Blood has a very distinctive smell.
When shed in battle, it smells glorious. When shed in his name, it
smells like sweet nectar that fills his senses like the burning incense of
his holy shines, rising up to the very constellations. But here and now,
the blood-soaked sand smelled of foul decay, sitting in stagnant pools
near piles of rotting corpses under the arid sun.
Even here in Egypt, the crown jewel of his vast and glorious
empire, the betrayal of his own kin incensed him all the more because
of the method they used to attack his forces.
Pestilence. Disease. Plague. And, once unleashed, something far
more sinister had been awakened within the bodies of those who had
fallen.
This was no way to wage a battle. This was no way to conquer a
pharaoh.
They all had a hand in it.
Osiris. Isis. Sekhmet. Anubis.
Even Neith, his own queen mother, had betrayed him.
It was only by uniting his forces with that of Setesh, and diverting
his fleet from engaging Apophis that he had managed to avoid outright
defeat. Because of this, he was forced to capitulate several worlds to
Setesh and had lost valuable territory to the vile serpent—but it would
be as nothing to the standing he would surrender among the System
Lords if he were to lose his own capital city to those he trusted most.
The fallout from their actions would be enormous. As it stood, the
moment his Jaffa emerged onto the battlefield to fight in his name, they
faced an enemy far more terrible than any they had ever known.
Even now, he has received word that the Jaffa are already spreading
the dread tale of Neith and her unholy army—forever cementing her
name among their darkest legend.
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But Ra, along with the other System Lords, knew the truth.
Sekhmet had used her pestilence on thousands of simple human
slaves, causing a whole generation of workers to be lost to him. But
what Anubis did to their corpses? It was nothing short of an
abomination in the eyes of the System Lords.
In his quietest moments of reflection, however, Ra had to admit that
Anubis was brilliant, but deprived—perhaps even mad. While all
Goa’uld seek to discover methods of prolonging their own lives (it was
what brought him to the Tau’ri, after all) Anubis, alone, concerned his
thoughts with matters of death—and what lies beyond it.
Clearly his studies into the knowledge discovered by the Aged Ones
had yielded unprecedented results. But to unleash this … curse … onto
his most prized jewel? Anubis would pay for his obsession, Ra vowed.
They would all pay.
His decree:
Neith, Osiris, Isis, and Sekhmet would be subjected to the
mummification process—while still living. If their symbiotes are strong
enough to survive the long and agonizing process, they will be placed
in canopic jars and banished for all of eternity.
As for Anubis—the sole conspirator who managed to escape his
wrath—he would dispatch the Ash’rak, who would hunt him through
the galaxy like the jackal he invokes.
His days were numbered.
“The battle is won, my lord, by your decree.”
The gruff, commanding voice behind him always made Ra envision
churning shards of charred sand. He turned and beheld the Jaffa who
approached him (who, in many ways, was something of an oddity in his
court). Above all else, Ra required beauty in his surroundings, along
with both form and function. His palace ship was the apex of might and
splendor, like a finely crafted ceremonial blade, both deadly and ornate.
There was but one exception: His First Prime, a warrior so lethal and
cunning, he had even achieved station among the gods.
“Anhur,” Ra said, as his Hem of Office retracted to reveal his true
face. “You have battled what no warrior should, this nightmare that
Anubis has wrought. You have battled well, in my name.”
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The warrior traversed the ship’s observation deck toward Ra, as his
master stood in the diminishing sunlight, surveying his smoldering
kingdom.
What they each saw was utter devastation.
Smoke plumes spiraled upward into the air to blot out the sun. Piles
of bodies were being cast on immense fires by the thousands. People
wept and wailed from the streets to the distant sands, while many
covered themselves in the ashes of their fallen loved ones. Every
building—from the tiniest hut to the greatest pyramid—was marred by
flame, soot or blood. The stench was unbearable, as the odor of ripe
decay attracted a swarm of flies by the millions, like a ravaging plague
that threatened to consume the whole of Egypt.
Ra’s eyes burned white hot with rage as he beheld his once great
kingdom. Then, he turned away from his crippled city and assessed the
warrior who had managed to fight back the legion of death unleashed
by the jackal, Anubis.
In his former life, Anhur had been a Nubian prince. He towered
over Ra, as well as most every other human who had likely ever lived.
His muscles were like tightly wound coils that could lash out with great
speed and fury, while his features appeared to be chiseled out of the
blackest obsidian.
Pale scars played across his body like secret writing—tribal
markings that were etched intricately into his skin by his village’s
elders long ago, with the finest edge of a sharpened stone.
He was bald, except for four separately woven locks of hair that
jutted from the back of his head like thick rope that were braided with
bits of bone and feathers. His breastplate was adorned with gold and
ivory, and he wore a kilt of thick leather, made from an animal he had
slaughtered himself, whose pelt had toughened in the immense heat of
the desert sun. Anhur smelled of blood and sweat and primal
pheromones, a creature of instinct and the ritual of the hunt.
Though untamed in most respects, his forehead was still branded
with the Eye of Ra, a golden emblem that announced to the world that
this creature was fierce, but still bowed to one far greater than he.
He belonged to Ra.
In Anhur’s right hand, he carried the jackal-headed Hemet of
Anubis. Without love or ceremony, he tossed the metallic trophy to the
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ground, as if to indicate to his master that the god who once claimed
ownership had fallen similarly by his hand.
“My one regret, my lord, is that the head of Anubis is no longer
within his hem.”
Ra smiled.
“Until it is, my faithful servant, this prize is but a trinket,” Ra said,
his god-voice echoing over the background sounds of weeping, emitted
by his people far below. “By my decree, Anubis’ head will one day
adorn these very walls, Anhur. But for your actions this day, I shall
bestow his helm to you.”
Anhur cocked his head, noticeably surprised.
“As my First Prime, Anhur, you shall wear the helm of Anubis and
rule over his territories in my stead. This will be the highest honor ever
bestowed upon a Jaffa.”
Anhur bowed his head.
“Walk with me, my servant.”
Ra led Anhur from his immense throne room, located near the peak
of his pyramid-shaped vessel, and strolled the vast halls of his ship at a
measured pace, his scarlet robes flowing behind him in his wake.
Anhur followed his master three paces behind his stride—no more,
no less. (He was well trained, Ra noted with some pride. One does not
tread on equal footing with a god.) As they descended into the ship’s
darkened interior, Ra’s thoughts turned to the vessel’s décor. Torchlight
burned along the passageway and created deep, flickering shadows
along the gold-plated walls, which outlined in elaborately scripted
detail the stories and fables of the gods. Nearby, giant statues aligned
the vast corridors, each one chiseled by the finest artisans from out of
marble and gold. All depicted an Egyptian god—many of them System
Lords, and all of them an important aspect in Goa’uld rule.
In many ways, every facet of this ship—from the scripted writing to
the finely crafted statues—was a testament to the importance he placed
on crafting a legacy; and thusly, maintaining his rule. In this, Ra, alone,
was a pragmatist: Without belief, gods are nothing. Anubis the
individual was unimportant. But Anubis the idea must be replaced to
maintain the legacy.
Too many of his brethren did not understand the importance of
maintaining their godly legacies. Too many of the System Lords ruled
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by the hammer. Only Ra seemed to appreciate that sometimes, the
chisel was needed to compliment the hammer.
“The Jaffa?” Ra said to Anhur, after pondering this notion for a
time. “They now fear my queen mother, Neith?”
“They do, my lord. Her army was as nothing they have ever seen or
battled before. Her command of life and death will not so easily be
forgotten.”
Ra smiled. A thought occurred to him. (He did not reach his station
without fostering an ability to seize opportunities when they arose.) For
some time, the Goa’uld shared technology with one another—a pact
that united the fragile alliance of the System Lords. The greatest of
these technologies were discovered on many various planets leftover by
the Aged Ones; but one world, in particular, held an abundance unlike
any other. That world now fell in Ra’s domain, but if today’s narrow
victory had taught him anything, it was that the boundaries of one’s
domain could shift like the desert sands.
Moreover, though many of the Goa’uld (himself included) had been
unable to reverse engineer all of the Aged One’s technological marvels,
there were those—like Anubis—who would be able to succeed where
others had failed. The results of which, Ra noted with disdain, could be
devastating.
He needed to enact certain security measures on that world while
the opportunity was ripe.
A plan began to formulate in his mind.
But then …
Quite without warning, Anhur crept behind Ra, silently as a
shadow, and slid a blade into his back. “Sekhmet, my true goddess,
sends her regards, my ‘lord’,” Anhur whispered into his ear, while
holding his former master as close as a lover.
Panic-stricken, Ra’s mind raced with thoughts of betrayal. He
angrily recalled dispatching Anhur into the service of Sekhmet to battle
a rival System Lord—obviously a mistake, perhaps even a fatal one.
Ra had raised Anhur from a child, after his parents presented the
boy as a token of their surrender once his forces marched into their
land. In Ra’s care, Anhur was educated by the finest minds in military
tactics and granted a life of privilege and station, far beyond what any
human of this world could ever know.
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Years later, Ra presented him to his beloved, Hathor, who granted
Anhur the gift of strength and longevity by transforming him into the
first of the human-form Jaffa. Then, Ra bore witness as Anhur stood in
the hallowed halls of Dakara and received his first Prim’ta, cementing
his place among the legends of his people.
Ra was betrayed.
By his brethren. By his queen mother.
And now, by his favored son.
“Your … treachery runs deeper than … any blade … could …
Shol’va,” Ra spat, between dying gasps.
Ra could feel hot breath on the back of his neck. “Be silent,” Anhur
commanded. “Die in a manner of some dignity, my little god.”
Then he slit Ra’s throat from ear to ear.
Ra could feel his body going limp and cold as the blood filled his
lungs, throat, and mouth. Strangely, a final and absurd thought occurred
to him as the life left his body:
His own blood had a very distinctive taste.
•••
THE CITY OF NÉT
PRESNT DAY
“Hmmm…” Daniel said, approximately an hour after entering the
colonnaded hall inside the Temple of Nét. “This is very interesting.”
O’Neill flashed the archeologist a skeptical look. “You always say
that, Daniel,” he chided. “It’s usually because you’ve forgotten that we
have very different ideas on what the word ‘interesting’ is supposed to
mean.”
O’Neill knew that Daniel had a knack for sometimes getting
distracted by details outside of their mission parameters. So far, none of
the planet’s inhabitants had noticed their arrival (since they were all too
busy living it up at their little party, apparently). Nevertheless, O’Neill
didn’t want to press their luck by sticking around too long.
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It wasn’t that any of these people seemed particularly dangerous,
per say, but he just couldn’t shake the notion that something terrible
had killed an entire squadron of highly trained Jaffa. Sure he was
curious about what that terrible thing could possibly have been, but that
didn’t mean he wanted to stick around and find out the hard way.
O’Neill glanced down at his watch. They had been planet-side for
just under nine hours. Time was short and getting shorter.
“No, seriously,” Daniel insisted. “This really is interesting.”
“Oh?” O’Neill countered. “Any mention of some cool Ancient
device?”
“Uh … no.”
“See? Not interesting.”
Like most of the writing scattered throughout the city, the etching
that pervaded the temple—including those contained on the columns
that spanned several rows inside of the hall—depicted Egyptianlooking pictographs and assorted carved reliefs, accentuated with
polished blue marble.
In one section, there appeared to be a man walking hand-in-hand
with another man, who had the head of a dog. (O’Neill thought he
remembered seeing a similar-looking helmet back on the first Abydos
mission.) In another section, dogface was sitting at the center of a giant
scale, weighing something.
“Jack, do you know what this is?” Daniel asked. “I think this is the
basis for the religious aspects outlined in the Egyptian Book of the
Dead.”
O’Neill shook his head. Then he kicked a small sandstone pebble
across the temple floor, more or less out of boredom. “Daniel, that is so
not the thing we came here to discover.”
Unperturbed by O’Neill’s obvious lack of interest, Daniel continued
with his explanation. “The ‘Book of the Dead’ is a misnomer coined in
1842 by German Egyptologist Karl Richard Lepsius. A more precise
translation would be ‘The Book of Going Forth by Day’ because it was
meant to prepare the dead for their journey into the afterlife. Now, like
I said back at the SGC, a lot of the book seems to be a compilation of
spells, hymns, and protocols that we originally thought were designed
to help the traveler navigate from one point to the next through the
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afterlife, but may have actually evolved from travels through the
Stargate.
“What’s always bothered me about it—especially from what we
now know about the Goa’uld—is this section here: It talks about how
the Egyptian god, Anubis, weighs the heart of the dead against a feather
of Ma’at, the goddess of truth and justice. If the heart is found to be
heavy with evil, the heart is devoured. If the heart is found to weigh
less than a feather, then the traveler can proceed into the afterlife.”
O’Neill had already lowered his hood and was rubbing both of his
hands through his hair, a frustrated gesture that he remembered making
more than once in the presence of Daniel.
“A feather?” O’Neill said, at last. “Sounds rigged.”
“Jack, the idea it’s conveying is very similar to one of the concepts
we found written on the temple walls at Kheb. Guilt, evil, a sense of
unworthiness—all of that can weigh a heart down and keep a person
from advancing into the afterlife. Does any of that sound familiar?”
O’Neill pulled his hood back up and glared at Daniel in what he
hoped was an indignant manner. “Nope.”
“Ascension!” Daniel exclaimed, excitedly. “Jack, I think this
reference is talking about one of the tenants for ascension.”
O’Neill glanced around the temple’s interior, feeling a bit queasy in
his stomach. The first time he’d ever seen an ascended being, it was on
a world called Kheb while SG-1 was searching for the infant son of
Apophis and Daniel’s wife, Sha’re (an unholy union, if ever there was
one). While there, they became surrounded by at least a thousand Jaffa,
and would have been captured if not for the intervention of an ascended
woman Daniel had met there.
She saved his team by causing lightning to rain down from the
heavens—the most spectacular display of raw power he had ever
witnessed. Although her involvement had saved the day, O’Neill still
wasn’t keen on running across another ascended being anytime soon.
“Do you, uh, do you think there’s one of them … around?” O’Neill
wondered, aloud.
Daniel shrugged while continuing his reading. “I don’t know. Could
be.”
“Right,” O’Neill agreed. “You keep reading. I’ll … have a look
around.”
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“Okay. Have fun,” Daniel replied, in a distracted manner that made
O’Neill wonder if he’d actually heard anything that was being said.
O’Neill knew from past experience that Daniel was lost to him for
the time being. That was fine with O’Neill for the moment. He didn’t
need to be told what was “interesting” and what wasn’t. He’d find his
own interesting matters to inspect, starting with a little recon of that
party going on outside toward the back of the temple.
As O’Neill walked, he glanced at the many pillars he passed, each
containing various Egyptian writing and strange drawings, wondering
to himself how Daniel understood any of it.
Halfway down the hall, he spotted something that even he could
understand—through he wished he hadn’t.
It depicted a walking mummy approaching a terrified cluster of
people. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “Hey, Daniel!” he called back to the
archeologist, who was apparently still engrossed within his own
studies. “Come here.”
“Reading,” Daniel called out, with a dismissive motion of his hand.
“Meaning of life stuff.”
“Oh?” O’Neill shouted back. “I’ve got walking mummy stuff over
here! Seriously! Don’t make me come over there and get you!”
Daniel let out an exasperated sigh. “Jack!”
“Daniel!”
Daniel stood up and reluctantly made his way toward the colonel.
“It’s probably not a walking mummy,” Daniel scolded, as he
approached. “Walking mummies and Egyptian curses were invented by
Hollywood and have absolutely no historical … oh.”
Daniel squinted through his glasses at the depiction while O’Neill
made hand gestures that seemed to say, “Told ya.”
“Actually … that does sort of look like a walking …”
“ … Mummy,” O’Neill and Daniel both concluded, in unison.
“Yeah,” Daniel agreed. “We should, uh, we should find what we
came here for and … leave. Wait, wait. This doesn’t make any sense.”
O’Neill rubbed his hands through his hair, an exasperated gesture of
his own. “What about a walking mummy doesn’t make any sense to
you, Daniel? Seems pretty cut and dry to me.”
Daniel shook his head. “No, this,” he said, pointing to the figures
standing with the mummy.
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The first figure stood directly behind the walking, bandaged corpse
and appeared to be the dog-faced guy, who Daniel called “Anubis.”
Directly in the center of the depiction was a face he had come to know
well from the first Abydos mission.
It was Ra.
“It’s very odd to see Ra depicted with death or the underworld since
he was primarily the Egyptian god of sunlight and of the day,” Daniel
observed. “This must mean something.”
“Could it, per chance, mean that Ra’s got a walking mummy
stashed somewhere on this planet, Daniel?” O’Neill postulated, in a
tone that conveyed this was a definite point for consideration.
“Well, that seems unlikely … or … then again, maybe.”
O’Neill glared at his teammate. “I’m likin’ this mission less and
less, and I wasn’t a big fan to start with.”
“Anhur,” said a female voice from behind them.
O’Neill and Daniel lifted their gaze from the depiction and looked
at one another. Then they each swiveled their heads slowly toward the
sound of the voice.
A woman was standing behind them. She appeared to be the same
woman they saw relayed from the MALP.
“I think we’ve been discovered by the natives,” Daniel said, on the
sly, while smiling at the woman in a non-threatening manner.
“Ya think?” O’Neill replied, agreeing with his colleague’s
assessment, obvious though it was. “Did she just say Ben-Hur?”
“Anhur,” Daniel corrected, while still smiling at the woman. “An
Egyptian god of war and the hunt. He’s often credited with returning
the ‘Eye of Ra’ and may have even been Ra’s son. He’s also closely
associated with the Egyptian goddess Mekhit, who might’ve been
Sekhmet, since they’re both goddesses who are represented by the
lioness.”
O’Neill shot Daniel an annoyed look. “But why did she say it?”
“I have no idea,” Daniel admitted. Then he began talking to the
woman in her language. O’Neill watched Daniel’s facial expressions as
they spoke. There were moments when he seemed to struggle to
understand certain phrases.
Then disbelief crossed his face.
The woman nodded, as if to indicate the truthfulness of her words.
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Then Daniel looked a bit worried. “Ah,” he said, at last. “Well that
isn’t good. She said Anhur rises from his tomb inside the pyramid and
leads the army of the undead into battle whenever someone comes
through the Stargate.”
“What?!” O’Neill exclaimed. “Army of the … what?!”
“Well, there is no precise … translation,” Daniel explained. “A
closer rendition would be the army of the dead who are not dead, but I
think I got the gist of it.”
O’Neill didn’t believe for one second that there was something on
this planet that could cause the dead to walk again (science fiction
nonsense, that was). But he had been traveling through the Stargate
long enough to see some pretty strange stuff, and he was willing to
admit that there was probably something on this planet disturbing
enough to make these locals think that it was the walking dead —
which still made it something that he didn’t want to encounter.
His mind flashed back to the bodies of the Jaffa they had found
buried on the outskirts of the city. Their bones had teeth marks on
them, like they’d been eaten alive.
The thought made him shudder.
Then something else occurred to him. “Wait a minute! Did you just
say he rises from his tomb … inside the pyramid?” He glanced outside
the temple and saw the sun beginning to set over the desert horizon.
Daniel caught on to O’Neill’s primary focus of concern.
“Teal’C and SG-5! They’re getting ready to head into the pyramid!
Jack, you’ve got to stop them.”
O’Neill didn’t even wait for Daniel to finish; he was already
running in the direction of the pyramid, hoping that it wasn’t too late to
stave off whatever danger lurked inside.
“Stay here, Daniel!” O’Neill ordered, as he ran. “Keep talking to
the woman and gather whatever Intel you can! We need to know what
we’re up against!”
But even as O’Neill barked the order, he suspected that knowing
what they were up against wasn’t really going to be of any help.
•••
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
CHRONICLES OF THE GREAT CITY NÉT
(BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE RESURRECTION OF
MIGHTY RA AND THE FALL OF TRAITOROUS ANHUR)
In a far off land, before the dawn of time and past the veil of the
Shimmering Waters beyond the Gate of the Domain, Mighty Ra was
once banished to the Sunless Lands by his traitorous son, Anhur.
Ra’s body was stolen away by his own priests before the
mummification process could begin. In the dead of night, under the
blackest of cover, he was transported up to his celestial palace and
placed in a sarcophagus, where its magics revived our god and
repaired the mortal injury that he substantiated at the hands of the
Shol’va, Anhur, who is called in many tongues, the Lord of the
Slaughter.
Ra’s anger was great when he emerged from the Shadow Realm
and he vowed revenge on Anhur, placing a curse on his disloyal son for
all of eternity.
Grand battles were waged, as Anhur now commanded legions of the
sun god’s Jaffa army, but Ra’s might was great, and he was soon
victorious.
A thousand times Ra slew Anhur, and a thousand times he returned
Anhur from the Sunless Lands with his sarcophagus.
Only then, did Mighty Ra’s anger begin to wane.
The day soon came when the Great God Ra decreed that a glorious
city be built as a memorial to his queen mother, Neith, to serve as her
eternal cradle into the afterlife.
And so it was that many workers, craftsmen, artisans, builders and
laborers of every sort were brought forth through the Shimmering
Waters, and the Great City Nét sprang up from the desert sands.
When the city was erected, Ra made peace with Anubis, JackalHeaded God of the Sunless Lands, and commanded him to grant Anhur
a portion of his power to command the armies of the undead.
As further atonement for his misdeeds, Ra forbade Anubis from ever
admitting Anhur into his realm, so that he would live in death for all of
time, standing vigil in the Great City of Nét.
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Daniel looked up from the pictographs with a sick feeling, once he
finished reading the passage that O’Neill had discovered.
“Oh God,” he said, quietly. “A thousand times revived in a
sarcophagus after being tortured and killed. That’s … unimaginable.”
The woman Daniel had just met, whose name was Aneksi, looked at
him with inquisitive eyes, not understanding the meaning of his strange
words.
Daniel wasn’t sure he wanted to explain it to her, either. Probably
for the same reason one doesn’t want to explain horrendous acts or
atrocities to a child. Once gone, innocence isn’t something you can just
get back again. He knew that better than most.
“Your words are foreign to me but I know your voice,” she said, her
head tilted slightly to the right, inquisitively. “You spoke through the
strange creature that I encountered at the Gate of the Domain.”
Daniel looked up from the glyphs and their eyes met. “Yes,” he
admitted. “We are peaceful explorers who mean you and your people
no harm.”
“But you ignored my warnings and ventured forth, regardless?” she
asked, now less out of curiosity and more out of concern. “Why have
you done this? Did you not understand the carnage that your actions
would provoke?”
Daniel was puzzled. “Uh … no. Not really. Did you just say …
carnage?”
Aneksi shook her head, as if pitying him for his complete and total
ignorance. (And he thought that was a little ironic, since that’s exactly
what he had just felt for her only moments ago.)
“Did I not warn you that a ceremony will be held in light of your
visit?” she asked. “Do you not understand the significance of the
approaching ritual, the Opening of the Mouth and Eyes?”
On Earth, in ancient Egypt, that particular ritual was often
performed on the day of internment for a Pharaoh to ensure that “life”
would renter the deceased king in preparation for his symbolic journey
into the “afterlife.” Daniel was beginning to suspect that it carried an
entirely different significance on this world, possibly something far
more literal.
“Uh, yes … yes, you did. What’s that mean … exactly?”
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Aneksi was growing flustered. She pointed to the glyphs on the
temple wall—specifically, to that of Anhur.
“Right,” Daniel said, catching her drift. “Walking corpse.”
He tapped his communicator on. “Uh, Jack? I think something bad
is about to happen.”
•••
O’Neill had already forged his own opinion that something bad was
about to happen.
As he ran from the temple toward the pyramid, he tried desperately
to reach Teal’C on his communicator. Every attempt was met with
static, and he didn’t like the fact that something, clearly, was blocking
their communication.
There was only one reason he could imagine that would happen: It
was a prelude for an attack of some sort.
The pyramid was off in the distance—roughly a mile down the
barren, sand-swept path. Around him, the entire area had grown dark in
the short time he’d been running. The temperature had also dropped
several degrees cooler than what he would have expected.
Something was wrong.
He looked up and saw dark clouds gathering. They were moving in
from the east and began to circle overhead like an immense, black
vortex.
“Kind of odd weather for a desert,” he said, to himself.
Then something occurred to him that almost made him turn back:
The epicenter of this gathering storm appeared to be the temple where
he had just left Daniel.
“Oh, crap.”
•••
McKay was standing outside watching colossal, dark clouds churn
overhead, circling the temple that O’Neill and Daniel had left for
roughly two hours ago.
“Hey,” he said to Teal’C, who was approaching with the members
of SG-5 in tow. “Whoever heard of storm clouds in a desert?”
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“Such weather is most unusual,” Teal’C confirmed. “It is possible
this is not a natural occurrence.”
McKay considered the implication. Due to his employment and
high-level security clearance with the U.S. Air Force, McKay had been
privy to various top-secret reports concerning the SGC. In considering
the strange weather that seemed to be amassing, one report, in
particular, jumped out from his memory.
“The Touchstone!” he exclaimed. “Madrona? The device that
controlled the weather you guys found a few years back? It has to be
something like that. We have to get to that temple and investigate.”
McKay could tell that Teal’C was concerned about the safety of his
friends because of the way he kept glancing toward the temple. But
unlike McKay, Teal’C was trained to be a solider, decades before
McKay had even been born. Therefore, as a solider, Teal’C knew the
importance of following orders.
“Such speculation is of no benefit,” he said. “We will head to the
pyramid as ordered by Colonel O’Neill. Please follow us, Rodney
McKay, and keep further discussion to a minimum.”
McKay sighed. There was nothing like being the unwanted member
of a group and having an opinion that carried zero weight.
It was like high school all over again.
“Yeah, yeah,” McKay complained. “Why investigate the obvious
signs of advanced technology in its most probable location, I always
say. Much better for us to head off in the exact opposite direction,
right?”
Teal’C flashed McKay a look that suggested he would be happy to
offer a more detailed explanation of what “shut up” was supposed to
mean, and McKay got the message.
He had been wrong. This was nothing at all like high school, he
thought.
It was actually a little worse.
•••
Daniel and Aneksi made their way to the outside courtyard area
behind the temple, where her people had gathered for the impending
ceremony that was supposed the “raise the dead.”
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To his relief, Daniel didn’t see any dead people. No corpses had
been gathered for use as props in some perverse and ancient ceremony,
which, though a relief, still begged the question: What kind of dead
were they intending to raise?
The weather outside was growing cooler and the wind was picking
up speed. He glanced up toward the sky and became increasingly
alarmed at the unusual weather pattern that seemed to be developing.
He had never seen dark clouds swirl overhead in such a consistent
manner, and he couldn’t imagine how this was even possible in a desert
climate. (Where was the moisture coming from?)
One look at Aneksi told him that she was also confused and anxious
about the unusual weather, and he quickly ruled out the prospect that
this was some sort of natural—through unusual—cloud formation that
could occur here from time to time.
“I have never beheld such a thing,” Aneksi said, almost trembling.
“The end of all days is surely upon us.”
Daniel looked around to gauge his surroundings. Though the overall
design of the structure closely resembled the Temple of Hatshepsut in
Egypt, it was actually constructed on a much grander scale. The outside
courtyard rested directly at the base of the mountain (like it did on
Earth) but its overall size was immense and could easily house four
football fields within its interior.
The courtyard was flanked by high walls on both sides, constructed
of smooth sandstone with giant statues of numerous gods built right
into the structure. (It looked like a who’s who of Egyptian
mythology—or, more than likely, Goa’uld System Lords.)
Toward the back of the courtyard, the mountain’s base was chiseled
out so its design fit more closely with the rest of the temple’s
architecture, except the color was of a darker tint since the rock, itself,
was not composed of sandstone like the rest of the structure.
Throngs of people had gathered inside, and Daniel put a rough
estimate at approximately four hundred and fifty inhabitants. By this
point, the party appeared to be winding down, and the city’s population
acted almost lethargic at whatever fate awaited them.
Despite the somber tone that was prevalent, Daniel got the distinct
impression that they were waiting for something to happen. All of their
focus seemed to be directed at the mountain.
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Daniel shifted his attention there as well, and noted two more
statues, much larger than those aligning walls. Both were elaborately
carved out of the rock face of the mountain and were designed to
portray the Egyptian gods Ptah and Sokar—both of whom were
associated with the “Opening of the Mouth and Eyes” ritual back on
Earth. Even their portrayal closely resembled depictions that could
easily have been prominent in ancient Egypt:
Ptah was designed as a bearded, mummified man wearing a
skullcap who carried a staff with an ankh (the symbol of life) attached
at the tip, while Sokar was also shown as a mummified man, but with
the head of a falcon.
On Egypt, Sokar was thought to be responsible for separating the
soul from the body after death, and was believed to reside in a vast
underworld surrounded by darkness. Though Daniel had never met any
Goa’uld who took on the persona of Ptah, he had encountered a System
Lord who called himself Sokar—and, based on what Daniel had seen
and heard, the Goa’uld Sokar closely modeled himself (or was the basis
for) the devil in medieval Christian lore.
“The ceremony will begin in moments,” Aneksi warned. “You must
not be observed in this place.”
Daniel pulled his hood up over his head and glanced down (hoping
no one would notice his standard issue military boots.) When he looked
at the ground, something else caught his eye:
“That’s not sand,” he said, in English. He knelt down and picked up
a handful of earth and inspected the dark granules that covered the
ground throughout the courtyard. “It’s Naquadah.”
Why would anyone discard such an abundant amount of Naquadah
inside a courtyard? From what he understood, the quartz-like mineral
(which the Stargate was constructed of) was highly prized throughout
the galaxy. The Goa’uld, especially, had based the bulk of their
technology on Naquadah, even going so far as to incorporate it into
their bloodstream so that only those with Naquadah in their blood (such
as current and former human hosts) could operate their most sensitive
devices.
The more Daniel learned about this planet, the more questions he
had. Before he could ponder this notion further, the large crowd of
people began to murmur. Daniel glanced toward the back of the temple
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and saw seven priests emerge from the black stone structure at the base
of the mountain, all clad in red robes with hoods concealing their faces.
“The Priests of Neith draw forth,” Aneksi said, in despair. “If only
you had heeded my words, Daniel. Now, the end of the world is upon
us.”
•••
Something was happening at the great pyramid.
There was a rumbling that shook the ground like a small earthquake
while streaks of electrical discharge began to slither across the surface
of each colossal slope, until finally, a great boom rang out, like an
explosive thunderclap, which reverberated across the evening desert,
outstretching miles from the epicenter.
Each side of the pyramid began to peel back; parting at the apex,
until an opening formed that was roughly the diameter of the Stargate.
From there, a silver orb floated gradually upward from within the
pyramid’s core, in defiance of gravity, until it began to hover mere feet
from the tip of the crown. Once in place, electrical currents streaked
upward from the base of the structure into the orb, until it resembled a
perfect sphere of imprisoned lightning.
•••
“Well, that looks awfully menacing,” McKay noted, after reaching
the pyramid moments later. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that—”
“A Goa’uld long-range visual communication device,” Teal’C
offered, finishing McKay’s thought. “But I have never before observed
one deployed in such a manner.”
“So, what’s up, doc?” Major Sharpe asked, his question directed at
McKay. “Time to earn your keep, right? What is that and what’s it
doing?”
“What is it?” McKay asked. “Weren’t you listening? It’s a longrange visual communication device. As for what it’s doing, it seems to
be hovering on top of a pyramid.”
Major Sharpe was unimpressed with McKay’s analysis.
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“Well, don’t you eggheads have equipment or something that’s
supposed to give you an idea of what this stuff does?”
“Yes,” McKay admitted, in a tone that suggested he was mustering
his last thread of tolerance for this intolerable man. “If only I had
thought to bring that equipment along. Oh, wait! I did! Then it got
buried under a ton of sand, remember?!”
Sharpe glared at McKay. Then he decided to seek an alternate
means of coping with the situation. He tapped his communicator.
“Sierra Gulf Five to Sierra Gulf Eight. Major Birchard, what’s your
status on recovering our equipment, over?”
There was nothing but static.
“I don’t like this one bit,” Sharpe said, summarizing what they all
felt. “Just what the hell is going on here?”
•••
A ceremony.
That’s what was going on at the Temple of Nét.
Not just any ceremony, but one that invoked very specific gods in
ancient Egyptian lore—one who held the power of life, and one who
brought the onset of death.
“Transition,” Daniel mumbled to himself. “The two brought
together into one place makes this a transitional ceremony from life to
death.”
Then he remembered everything Aneksi had been telling him about
the ritual that was taking place. “Or from death to life.”
Overhead, the skies were black and swirling. The wind was
increasing and Daniel swore he could almost smell rain. The crowd
around him didn’t seem to notice or care, but instead appeared entirely
preoccupied with the ritual.
Then, a scarlet-clad Priest of Neith spoke.
“People of the Great City of Neith,” he said, his voice ringing out
through the wind like the toll of a bell. “You have been chosen as the
instruments of the gods. A time of reckoning is at hand. Even now, the
sanctity of our world is being desecrated by evil. The Gate of the
Domain has once again brought forth an unholy army. But know this!
By the power of Ptah and by the Ring of Sokar, we will wash over the
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infidels like a great flood. We will be a pestilence upon their forces, a
plague upon their might, so that they will crumble to dust and their
armies will be laid low!”
“Since when is twelve people an ‘army of evil’?” Daniel whispered
to Aneksi.
She shushed him. “You must not be seen,” she said. “Keep your
head low, as though you are in reverence.”
Daniel took a glance around. She was right. Everyone else in the
crowd had their heads lowered. But whereas Aneksi called what they
were doing an act of “reverence,” Daniel considered it more of a
submissive act committed by people whose willpower had been grinded
down into non-existence. These were people who had no hope, just like
the people of Abydos before their first mission through the Stargate.
Beyond that, something still bothered him.
When he lowered his head, he took note of the Naquadah once
more, scattered throughout the courtyard.
Why? Why was it there? It didn’t appear to be a natural formation,
which meant someone had put it there.
What did he know about Naquadah?
It was rare. It was highly valued among the Goa’uld. It was the
basis for their advanced technology. The Ancients used it. They built
the Stargates out of it, and the reason they chose Naquadah is because
it’s the best substance for channeling the tremendous energy necessary
to open a stable wormhole to another planet.
So, it’s … highly …
“… Conductive?”
He looked back up at the sky, as lightning began to arch across the
heavens. “Oh, no,” he said.
Then something else occurred to him: The priest had mentioned
something called the “Ring of Sokar.”
More than two years ago, SG-1 encountered a planet within the
domain of Sokar where an Abbot (a portly, self-righteous opportunist)
controlled his people out of fear and intimation. The Abbot was
responsible for ferreting out those who were “possessed by evil”—in
other words, he got to choose who would be sacrificed as hosts to the
Goa’uld. When SG-1 arrived and offered their help, the abbot rewarded
them by touching a ring on his finger, which had a red stone that
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J. D. STIVER
glowed when activated. As soon as he touched it, clouds gathered
overhead and a bolt of lightning shot down and struck his team,
rendering them unconscious.
The abbot was eventually possessed by a visiting Goa’uld and later
killed before SG-1 left the planet. Afterward, the ring was brought back
to Earth for study, but none of the scientists at Area 51 could get it to
work. Samantha Carter theorized that the ring acted as a control
mechanism for another devise, similar to the Touchstone on Madrona,
and had to be keyed specifically to a particular planet in order to
function properly.
“The Ring of Sokar?” Daniel asked. “What is that?”
Aneksi looked perplexed, as if struggling to understand how
someone could be so ignorant of her people’s ways.
“It is said that the Priests of Neith possess a ring once owned by the
god, Sokar, and that it contains his magics.”
Daniel watched the lighting intensify. “Does it control the
weather?”
“Weather?” she asked, now more confused than ever.
Of course, Daniel reasoned. Aneksi lived in a desert climate. All she
knows of weather is varying degrees of dry and hot.
“Forget it,” he said. “I’m guessing it controls the weather. We have
to get out of here. If lighting hits anywhere inside this courtyard with
all of the Naquadah present, it’ll spread over the entire surface and kill
us all.”
Aneksi turned pale. “So, this is the manner in which they slaughter
my people.”
Daniel pulled out his P90 from beneath his linen robe. “Not if I can
help it.”
And with that, he opened fire.
•••
How to survive a lightning strike?
That was one of the things O’Neill was pondering as he made his
way to the pyramid in the middle of a storm that was now producing a
fair amount of lightning. From what he remembered of his training, the
best method of avoiding being struck was to not be out in it.
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He picked up the pace and started to run a little faster.
Second, one should always seek immediate shelter inside a building
or an automobile—none of which were readily available to him at the
moment. If outdoors, one should always avoid water, high ground, and
open spaces. He glanced around. The path leading from the temple to
the town was a barren, flat desert wasteland. From what he knew of
lightning, it would always strike the tallest standing object, which was
unfortunate, he surmised, because at this moment, the tallest standing
object in the middle of the flat desert was Colonel Jack O’Neill,
running for his life.
“Oh … not good.”
Third, in the event of a strike, metallic objects in the vicinity of the
skin may concentrate the lightning, preventing the “flashover effect”
and causing a more profound injury. He did a mental inventory of the
items he currently wore. They included a communicator, P90, clips,
tactic light and laserpointer P90 attachment, Zat gun, Ontario knife,
Suunto Advizor wristwatch, dog tag, and a tactic vest loaded with,
among other things, C4, which tended to explode if introduced to an
electrical charge.
“Oh, really, really not good.”
On the upside, however, the Suunto Advizor watch is known to be
shock-resistant, which meant that the vendor who sold it to him was
probably correct: The watch would outlive him.
•••
“We have to seek shelter inside the pyramid!” Major Sharpe
shouted, above the roar of the wind. It was now raining heavily and
gale force winds were whipping small debris about the area.
“Are you crazy?!” McKay shouted back. “We have to get to the
temple! That’s the source of the weather!”
“Negative!” Sharpe shouted back. “Trying to reach the temple in
this storm would be suicide! Follow your orders, doctor!”
“You think the temple is any safer?!” McKay countered. “It’s got
electrical currents flowing all over it!”
Sharpe didn’t wait for McKay to build his argument. He pushed the
relatively small scientist forward, conveying to McKay that he had no
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real choice in the matter. McKay kept moving, vowing that if he lived
through this experience, it would be the last time that he went off-world
or worked with the military.
As they made their way onward, slowly and half blind through the
wind and rain, a bright flash caused them to stop dead in their tracks.
A massive bolt of lightning had just struck the temple.
•••
“If you don’t leave right now, all of you are dead!” Daniel screamed
to the group of people clustered outside the temple.
He then fired his P90 into the air, hoping the loud, sudden noise
would jar these people to their senses. Instead, everyone looked at him
with mild curiosity, which made absolutely no sense, whatsoever.
He fired the weapon again.
“An outsider!” one of the Priests observed, while pointing in
Daniel’s direction. “Seize him!”
Now the crowd took notice of his presence. Approximately four
hundred and fifty people suddenly turned their undivided attention
toward him, and began pressing forward like a great tidal wave. They
moved in a sluggish manner, and Daniel had a chance to look directly
into the eyes of those closest to him.
Their pupils were dilated.
“They’ve been drugged!” he said to Aneksi, who stood directly
behind him as they began to fall back to the interior of the temple. “Of
course they’ve been drugged. How else are you going to get hundreds
of people to stand out in the middle of a dangerous storm they’ve never
seen before and wait to get struck by lightning?”
To control people, the Goa’uld typically employed fear. To get
information, they sometimes used a drug called the “Blood of Sokar,”
(a powerful hallucinogen) but they seemed to only use it when more
favored torture devices weren’t readily available to them. (They much
preferred the torture devices.)
However, there were instances when brainwashing was necessary
because it worked much better than fear or torture, and there was only
one substance that Daniel had encountered that would work on this
scale since it could easily be deployed as an airborne agent.
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“Nish’ta!” Daniel called out, finally working through one more
component of the booby trap that seemed to spring whenever someone
emerged through the Stargate on this word.
Nish’ta was a biological compound employed by the Goa’uld as a
form of mind control. The SGC had encountered it a few times (which
was a few times too many, in Daniel’s opinion.) There was only one
way to kill it once the host had absorbed it into his or her system: An
electrical shock.
He pulled out his Zat gun from beneath his robe. The weapon
uncoiled like a serpent preparing to strike. He pulled the trigger and
streams of blue electrical energy shot off into the crowd.
People fell, unconscious. Later, when they would awake, they
would be free of the Nish’ta’s influence. Unfortunately, Daniel had his
doubts about whether “later” would actually come. This concern only
strengthened as he watched the horde of mindless people clamor over
their fallen brethren in an effort to reach Daniel, so much so that he
couldn’t see how the unconscious would be able to avoid being
suffocated or trampled to death.
In view of this, Daniel realized that shooting them with the Zat gun
wasn’t doing them any real favors. So he decided to change tactics. The
ultimate goal was to draw the people away before the Priests could use
the Ring of Sokar to draw down the lightning, killing everyone in the
temple, including himself and Aneksi.
“Run!” Daniel shouted to his companion. “Lead them back into the
temple!”
Aneksi turned to do as he instructed. But Daniel was having a
difficult time carrying through with his own plan. A sea of arms
reached toward him and pawed at his outer garment, pulling him back
toward certain death. Quickly, he slipped his arms free of his robe and
slid the garment off, falling to the floor clumsily as he did so.
Before the horde could reach for him again, he turned and fired the
Zat at the ground, hitting the Naquadah and scattering the charge along
the floor to render five or six of the crowd unconscious. The others
stampeded over them, awkwardly, once they fell, allowing Daniel the
time he needed to get to his feet and reach the interior of the temple.
The Priests of Neith must have realized what he was doing. Only
seconds after Daniel reached safety, there was a blinding flash of light
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J. D. STIVER
and the air exploded into a heated burst of sound and furry, then
crackled through the temple’s interior before falling into a complete
and terrible silence.
The Priests had called down the thunder. And four hundred and
fifty people had been there to meet it.
Aneksi had been right all along. For all intents and purposes, this
was the end of their world.
•••
CHRONICLES OF THE GREAT CITY NÉT
(BEING AN UNWRITTEN ACCOUNT)
7,954 B.C.
The Tel’tak landed near the great pyramid of Giza, sweeping desert
sand into the chilled night.
It opened its doors with a loud hiss, and intense light shot out of the
interior, briefly blinding the hordes of slaves who slept in nearby
tents—all of them workers who were charged with the reconstruction
project following the dark days when the gods made war and the dead
walked the earth.
As the light from the Tel’tak began to fade, a single dark figure
emerged from the ship. The figure was robed and hooded, and walked
with a confident, steady stride toward the pyramid, as if he intended to
command an audience with the god inside.
The workers who witnessed it were bewildered. Who would
approach Ra’s celestial palace without fear or reverence? What
madness would possess any being—human, Jaffa or even a god—to
commit such an affront?
The workers, of course, had no way of knowing that the cloaked
figure who strode past them had already offended Ra greatly, but had
survived despite this. They had no way of knowing how dangerous and
clever this being truly was, nor how lucky they were that—for the
moment—they had all remained beneath his attention.
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In his hands, he carried two leather satchels. The first was flat and
contained a slab of stone. The second was round and contained a
trophy. The contents of both would speak volumes about the being who
carried them.
At the entrance of the pyramid, four Jaffa stood vigil. The cloaked
figure approached them without noticeable intimidation. “Stand aside,
Jaffa,” he commanded. “I would speak with your master.”
“You are expected,” said one. “Our master awaits your arrival in
his palace chamber. But be warned, we will tolerate no treachery.”
The cloaked figure tilted his head, as if amused. “This alliance will
serve your master well, Jaffa, as you have served him by issuing this
unwarranted caution. Now, let us proceed without further discourse, or
I shall have your tongue.”
The Jaffa commander scoffed. “We will inspect your affects, first,
my lord. Hand over your satchels.”
“As you wish,” the cloaked figure agreed, raising his arms to
surrender his belongings.
Two Jaffa approached and took possession of the satchels. The first
was opened to reveal a small slab of sandstone. Strange words of a
foreign tongue were etched onto its smooth surface.
“What manner of prize is this for our lord?” the Jaffa asked,
sardonically.
“Knowledge,” the cloaked figure stated. “On it is engraved the
ultimate fate of the Aged Ones. I will challenge your lord to decipher
its secrets, as I have.”
The Jaffa snorted, then gave a commanding nod to his underling,
who held the round satchel in his hands. “Open it.”
He did.
There was a severed head inside.
The Jaffa dropped the satchel in the sand with utter revulsion. When
it hit the earth, the head tumbled out and rolled three times before
coming to a stop. Its milky, pale eyes stared upward with a grimace of
eternal horror.
The cloaked figure chuckled. “A gift for ‘mighty’ Ra,” he stated,
his eyes glowing white beneath his cloak and his god voice slicing
through the quiet of the night. “I present the head of the Ash’rak that
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your lord dispatched to eliminate me. Now go, and tell your master that
Anubis would speak with him.”
The Jaffa all took four steps back from the mysterious figure,
suddenly fearful of the one who stood in their presence.
As well they should have been all along.
“I do believe I frightened your Jaffa,” Anubis announced, by way of
a greeting, moments after entering Ra’s palace court.
The Supreme System Lord was not amused. His mask retracted to
reveal the young face of a boy, whose jaw was clenched tightly in
anger.
Anubis followed suit, removing his cloak to reveal the face of a
man, whose long and angular features almost resembled the jackal he
invoked, even without his hem. His skin was pale and marred by
blemishes. His hair was oil-slick-black, with a chemical, rainbow
sheen.
“Ironic,” Anubis said, at last, after several long moments were spent
sizing each other up.
“That you, of all the Goa’uld with whom I have battled, would once
again stand in my court?” Ra asked. “I, too, see the irony of this.”
Anubis chuckled, yet again. “I was referring to your hem; the
Pharaoh’s Death Mask. I have heard tales that you recently had
occasion to use it within your own tomb. Betrayed by your loyal Jaffa,
were you?”
Ra’s eyes glowed with rage. “Following events that you helped set
into motion! Grant me one reason why I should not have you killed
where you stand.”
Anubis smiled, like the edge of a blade.
“Among the tales that I have heard, I understand that you seek to
recreate my methods in securing your grand necropolis. Few of the
Systems Lords know this city now rests on the very planet where we
acquired the bulk of our technology.”
Ra said nothing.
“I am, of course, one of few who have continued to live with this
knowledge. Your grand city is a shroud, and you now seek to create a
means of guarding it so vile, no Jaffa army would dare to encroach, not
even if their god commanded them to do so.”
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Ra scowled, but then his face softened into a wry smile. “You were
always clever, Anubis. I am pleased the Ash’rak failed so miserably to
eliminate you from my service.”
Anubis’ smile vanished. “I am in your service … for the time
being,” he admitted. “Have you examined the tablet that I have
provided?”
Ra nodded.
“Even still,” Anubis continued. “I know you lack the intellect to
uncover its meaning; therefore, I shall translate it’s significance. There
was once a race of Ancients whose wonders spanned the galaxy.
Powerful though they were, they could not stop the onset of a great
plague that claimed their civilization and ultimately wiped them from
the stars.
“Your planet—the one where your memorial city now rests—was
once a medical research outpost charged with the function of curing
this plague. As time passed, they became aware that there was no cure,
and they turned their thoughts toward higher forms of existence.”
Ra waved his hand, a gesture of indifference. “My concerns do not
extend to matters beyond life.”
Anubis’ smile returned. “But what of your followers?” he pressed.
“Eternal life is not theirs to enjoy. And, perhaps, it is not even ours.
You, yourself, were recently killed—slain by your own Jaffa. Even I
was mocked while I made my way to your palace court. Are these the
conditions afforded to gods?”
Ra considered this line of reasoning.
“What do you propose?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.
“Structured religion,” Anubis suggested. “As pharaohs, we
command their minds and bodies. But as gods, should we not also
command their hearts and souls?”
Anubis could see Ra beginning to be swayed by his argument.
“I will give you what you seek,” Anubis offered. “I will grant you
the means to protect the secrets of your city. I will also craft a religion
for you, befitting a true god. I will even allow you to keep my domain,
unchallenged, while your Jaffa rules with my hem on his lowly head, if
you will grant me but three boons.”
Ra agreed. “State your terms and you shall have them.”
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Anubis’ smile widened like a Cheshire cat. “First, I wish to study
the philosophies of the Ancients on your world, unburdened by prying
eyes. I require privacy while I secure your city.”
Ra nodded, but added a condition: “You may study the ruins, but
not the technology,” he said.
Anubis waited several moments before agreeing to the condition.
(He wanted it to appear that he was conceding that point. He didn’t
want the fool to know that it really was the philosophies of the
Ancients that served as his primary motivation.)
“Agreed,” Anubis said, as if capitulating. “Secondly, I want Anhur
as my servant. I want his suffering to be eternal for defeating me in
battle and stealing my hem.”
Ra scowled. “The mind of Anhur is not what it once was,” he
warned. “But I will grant you his shell to do with as you will.”
Anubis pulled his cloak back over his head as he prepared to depart.
A dark shadow blotted out the presence of his face.
“And third,” he stated, with cold ire. “I want the tongue of the Jaffa
who greeted me this night. I made him a promise that I intend to keep.”
Ra considered this final request.
“You may remove it yourself, jackal.”
As Anubis turned to leave, he offered his compatriot a final
promise. “It shall be whispered among the Jaffa in the quiet hours of
the night until the end of time: Within the walls of the City of Neith,
the dead are known to walk.”
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XIV
On the drive back to Groom Lake, Carter decided to touch base
with the SGC in order to get an update on SG-1’s status.
“So far, we’ve heard nothing,” General Hammond reported over
Carter’s cell phone. “We’ve tried a few times to dial out to the
coordinates Teal’C provided us, but we can’t get a lock. We’re still
holding out hope.”
“I understand, sir,” Carter said. “I’m on my way to pursue a lead
that could either incriminate or clear Dr. Tobaine. I also have to ask a
favor, sir.”
“Yes, major?”
“I need you to contact the president.”
Carter told him why.
“I see,” Hammond said. “And you believe this is absolutely
essential to the success of your investigation?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I also believe it is essential in terms of
me not getting … killed.”
Hammond paused, no doubt to see if she was kidding. He quickly
determined that she wasn’t. “Do you need backup, major?”
“No, sir. No yet, anyway. Colonel O’Neill has already provided me
with some … help.”
Hammond read between the lines and deduced the person she was
referring to. Officially, Maybourne was a fugitive from justice and a
convicted traitor, so neither of them could acknowledge his
involvement, but they both understood that no one knew the NID better
than Harry Maybourne. Thinking like the enemy was a tried and true
military tactic.
“Be careful, major,” Hammond advised.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and one last thing,” he added. “Dr. Fraiser has asked me to tell
you some good news. The people of Abydos are fighting off the effects
of the bacteria. As many as ninety percent of their population are
expected to make a full recovery.”
Carter almost shouted for joy. “That’s wonderful news, sir! How?”
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J. D. STIVER
“To be honest, we probably should have seen it coming,” he said,
and then Carter got it.
She was immune to the effects of the bacteria (as well as many
other illnesses) because she was once a host to Jolinar of the Tok’ra.
She was immune for the same reason that Teal’C was, and Cassandra,
and Major Tom Anders of SG-3.
“Naquadah!” she exclaimed. “They’ve got Naquadah in their
system!”
“Not surprising when you consider they’ve been mining it for
generations,” Hammond confirmed. “Hell, it’s even in their drinking
water.”
Carter smiled. Then a thought hit her. “Sir! That could mean—”
“We’re way ahead of you, major. Dr. Fraiser has already submitted
a proposal to begin a series of Naquadah injections to all SGC
personnel in small dosages. It probably won’t protect us from
everything out there, but she believes it will enhance our natural
immune system enough to avoid contracting every bug we come
across.”
“That’s amazing, sir.”
“It gets better,” Hammond continued. “Based on her proposal, I’ve
managed to convince the president that we should continue our offworld operations, even while Dr. Tobaine conducts his review. The
program isn’t going to be shutdown anytime soon.”
Carter was stunned. She hadn’t been expecting good news when
she phoned. She decided to press her luck.
“And what about the people of Cartago, sir?”
Hammond fell silent. “I’m sorry, major. That was all the good news
I had. It’s up to SG-1 now.”
Carter shook her head. She never thought she’d be on the receiving
end of that statement. Before she disconnected, she remembered one
last thing that bore mentioning. It could be a stab in the dark, but it also
couldn’t hurt to ask.
“One last thing, general,” she said. “Have there been any odd
reports that might’ve surfaced involving … invisibility?”
Hammond thought about it for a moment. “As a matter of fact,
major, there was.”
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Hammond proceeded to inform her that six months ago, Dr. Eric
MacKenzie was kidnapped from an underground parking garage near
his home in Winter Park. Three witnesses claimed they saw him
running wildly through the street as if being chased, but they couldn’t
see anyone pursuing him.
Not long after, the police arrived and found blood at the scene of
the abduction, but no one remembers witnessing Dr. MacKenzie leave
the parking garage after he entered it.
There’s been no trace of him since, and no ransom demand has been
made. It’s as if he just vanished into thin air.
“Oh my God,” Carter said. “Why haven’t we heard anything about
this before?”
“The SGC was assisting in the investigation, along with the FBI and
the NID. Believe it or not, major, SG-1 is not involved in every aspect
of this command.”
Carter knew she had just been rebuked. “Sorry, sir.”
Hammond changed his tone. “It’s all right, Sam. To be honest, it
was a dark street at two in the morning, and the witnesses had just left a
local pub. They were so inebriated, they could barely walk from what
I’m told. Do you think it’s relevant to your current investigation?”
Carter thought about everything she’d learned. What was it
Maybourne had said? The psychology of it is brilliant.
Dr. MacKenzie is a staff psychologist assigned to Stargate
Command. He has a psychological profile for every member of the
SCG. No one on the planet was more capable of manipulating SG-1
than Dr. MacKenzie. He was involved, and he wasn’t a willing
participant.
And there was something else, Carter thought. There was something
that troubled her about the eyewitness account. Something she couldn’t
quite put her finger on yet.
“Yes, sir,” Carter said. “I do believe there is a connection.”
•••
Harry Maybourne loved a good spy novel.
This was how he imagined it would be—a secret meeting in a local
park. On one side, a Russian, or the other, an American—one’s an
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J. D. STIVER
informant; the other’s a buyer. Danger and deception are lurking at
every turn.
Trust no one.
God, he wished he’d been a spy. Okay, so he kind of was a spy, he
reflected, as he watched Conrad Greene wait for him on a park bench,
nervously, his brow beaded with sweat, his eyes flickering about from
one end of the park to the other. But upon reflection, Maybourne
wasn’t so sure that spying on his own country for a group of corporate
assholes was really the kind of proper spying that inspires good fiction.
Nevertheless, a secret meeting in the park was awaiting his
participation. It would have to do.
“Conrad,” Maybourne said, emerging from the bushes directly
behind the nervous little man.
“Jeeze!” Greene shouted. “You scared the hell out of me,
Maybourne! I didn’t even hear you approach.”
What would be a good spy thing to say? Ah.
“A necessary trait of my … former occupation.”
Maybourne stifled a chuckle and remained grimfaced. Greene
looked worried, imagining what sorts of evil deeds Maybourne had
participated in, wondering what he was capable of now.
Okay. Enough fun. Time to get serious.
“You know why I called,” Maybourne said. “Things are going
missing at Area 51 and you’re in charge of the inventory.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Greene shot back. “It’s why you hired me,
remember? Arranging for things to disappear? Covering up their
disappearance?”
“Except this time you supplied the item yourself. The bacteria,
which was used to infect a member of the SGC and the population of
two different worlds.”
Greene looked down at his own feet. “What can I say, Maybourne?
They offered me a lot of money.”
Maybourne glared. “And you were smart enough to create a new
account to deposit the payment into.”
“Of course.”
“But stupid enough to make a car payment with that account. It took
me ten minutes on a computer to discover it was you.”
“What?!” Greene shrieked. “No I didn’t!”
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Maybourne gave him a sympatric sigh. “Of course you didn’t.
Nobody is that stupid. They’re setting you up to take the fall, you
idiot.”
“Oh, God!”
“Shut up,” Maybourne ordered. He had scared the little bastard.
Now it was time to offer him some hope. “I have in my pocket a oneway ticket to the Cayman Islands. The flight leaves in two hours. It’s
yours if you tell me what I want to know.”
Conrad Greene began his life at Area 51 as a lowly scientist until
Maybourne had discovered his true talent: He was organized and he
lacked any discernible scruples. In Maybourne’s assessment, that was a
winning combination for the work they needed to do.
The primary function of Area 51 was to develop defense technology
by reverse engineering the alien tech brought back through the Stargate.
The idea was that it would be used to defend the planet from another
Goa’uld attack, but everyone quickly realized that advanced technology
could have other useful advantages—mostly financial.
Various businesses and vast corporations were chosen to develop
and introduce this technology into the market as a means of offsetting
the enormous cost of running the SCG. Unfortunately, the businesses
that weren’t selected were not thrilled about the selection process.
Many sent representatives to Maybourne after he was placed in
command of Area 51, offering large sums of money in exchange for
access to alien tech. As far as Maybourne was concerned, it made sense
to allow as many businesses as possible to develop advanced Earth
technology, rather than placing all their eggs in one basket, so to speak.
(And the fact that he was handsomely rewarded for this viewpoint
didn’t hurt.)
Enter Conrad Greene. Maybourne placed him in an oversight
position, with his official job being to oversee all aspects of the
development process. His real job, however, was to coordinate the
dispersal of alien tech to the legitimate scientists and businesses, as
well as the illegitimate ones. (Especially the illegitimate ones.)
In other words, things went missing from Area 51 all the time, only
no one knew about it because Greene had kept it that way. He juggled
the inventory schedule and made sure everything was where it needed
to be when it needed to be there, and the Pentagon was none the wiser
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J. D. STIVER
when things disappeared for a few months to allow some unauthorized
people to take a quick look.
After Maybourne went down, he kept Greene’s name out of it.
When he escaped, he blackmailed Greene for information, threatening
to expose him if he didn’t cooperate. (The fact that Maybourne’s
former associates were on death row went a long way toward keeping
him cooperative.)
Of course this time, Maybourne needed the information from
Greene to be dead on accurate, so he decided to up the intimidation
factor. In reality, Maybourne was sure the Committee wouldn’t select
Greene to take the fall for the missing bacteria because he was too
valuable to them—but that didn’t mean Maybourne couldn’t make
Greene think they were setting him up. He would be much more likely
to talk that way, and Maybourne needed answers.
Too much about this situation just didn’t make sense.
“Who took the Asgard cloaking device, Greene?” Maybourne
asked.
“We don’t know,” Greene swore. “It was unsanctioned.”
An unsanctioned theft definitely was unusual. Somebody was
playing his own angle, and that somebody was at Area 51.
“What else is missing?” Maybourne demanded, his tone darkening.
This was no longer a game. His gut was telling him this was far more
serious than anybody thought.
“Oh, you’re going to love this,” Greene said, in a manner that
suggested Maybourne wasn’t going to love it at all. “Remember the
harvester from P34-574?”
Maybourne’s face went a little pale. “Well … that puts an entirely
new spin on things. Have you told anybody?”
“Who would I tell? Just knowing it’s there would be like admitting
I was part of your illegal operation. That thing didn’t come through the
regular Stargate, you know.”
“Is anything else missing?”
“Yeah,” Greene admitted, clearly troubled. “And it’s bad,
Maybourne. Real bad. You remember those devices that—”
A shot was fired.
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Then the back of Greene’s head exploded. His body lurched
violently backward and then Maybourne heard the shot slice through
the air like a thunderclap.
Someone had just killed Greene.
And he was next.
•••
“Bases are loaded. Operation: American Pastime is underway.”
Michael Tobias stared at a large, flat-panel monitor that fed a realtime image relayed from Jaycee Park, via satellite. He was sitting on a
plush, leather seat inside of his penthouse apartment, drinking brandy
and monitoring his operatives’ communication chatter.
The image from the satellite was so cutting-edge, he could see
Maybourne’s bald spot. He smiled and took another sip of brandy.
Then he pushed his own headset into position and committed himself to
murder.
“I have the game on Pay-per-view,” he said. “Play ball.”
He watched Maybourne surprise Conrad Greene by sneaking up
behind him, startling the nervous, little scientist. Then he saw Greene
spill his guts to Maybourne, sealing his own death sentence.
“Manager, this is Pitcher, wind-up is complete.”
“Wait until Umpire and Relief Pitcher are in position,” Tobias
ordered. “The Owners don’t want any foul balls running into the
stands.”
“Confirmed.”
“Manager, this is Umpire; we’re in position.”
Tobias smiled. “Umpire, please confirm players.”
“Players are confirmed, Manager.”
“Player Number One is the crowd pleaser,” Tobias said, referring to
Greene, who stood left of Maybourne in the park. “Bottom of the
Ninth. Make the pitch.”
Greene’s head exploded and his body collapsed in the bloodspattered grass. Maybourne took two steps back from the remains of
the man he’d just been talking to, then glanced all around him,
frantically searching for the shooter.
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J. D. STIVER
Tobias took great pleasure in the panic he’d just instilled within his
hated quarry. Maybourne would never be able to spot the sniper, of
course. He was approximately eight hundred meters away, standing on
the roof of a parking garage. Seconds passed, and Maybourne collected
his senses. He seemed to realize that searching for the shooter was
futile, and that his efforts would be better spent running for his life.
Maybourne ran like the hounds of hell were chasing him, and for all
intents and purposes, Tobias mused, they were.
“Pitch was across the plate,” the sniper reported. “Player Number
One has been retired. Umpire, please confirm.”
“Confirmed,” Umpire said. “And Player Number Two is stealing
home. Manager, we need a play. Do we tag him out?”
Tobias sat back in his seat and thought about his sister, Clare,
rotting on death row because both of them once trusted the man he now
had in his crosshairs. It would be so easy, he thought. He had two
snipers in position covering all the angles of Maybourne’s escape.
“Manager, please advise.”
“Wait,” Tobias ordered. “I am assessing play. Stand by.”
If he did kill Maybourne, it would be unsanctioned. He probably
had made arrangements so that if anything ever happened to him, the
information he obtained on Kinsey would be released. If Kinsey was
incriminated, the Committee wouldn’t be far behind, and Tobias knew
that could mean his own head would be fixed squarely in the crosshairs
of a sniper someday.
Still … Clare.
He remembered a cool night in September of 1986, sitting in the
stands of Shea Stadium with his sister, who was twelve at the time.
Their parents had just died six months earlier and their aunt was raising
Clare, but Michael wanted a chance to spend some time with her.
He wanted to get to know her.
He arranged for a brief leave of absence from his duties and flew
Clare out to his apartment in Queens, where, he discovered, he was
completely unprepared for the role of an older brother. Clare was a
precocious child who liked to take things apart, like their toaster, radio,
and television.
The television, especially, had been upsetting. That year, the Mets
were heading to the World Series, and Michael made it a point to watch
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every game. He went to the store to buy some beer and hot dogs, and
when he returned, Clare had taken the television apart.
“I … I was … I thought I could improve the reception,” she
claimed, when he returned home and caught her in the act.
“The game?” was all he could mumble. “Get in the car.”
Clare lowered her head and obeyed him, probably expecting that he
was taking her to the airport to fly her back to their aunt’s.
Instead, he took her to Shea Stadium. He bought tickets from a
scalper and the two of them watched Darryl Strawberry do what he did
best. As Michael sat in the stands, he marveled at the fact that this girl
had shown him something he’d long since forgotten:
In his occupation, he’d done some damn despicable things in
service to country, and he did it so other people could enjoy simple
pleasures like watching a baseball game with their friends and family.
It was a pleasure he had denied himself because attachment to
others was a liability in his profession.
He enjoyed that night, immensely.
Clare, for her part, didn’t pay much attention to the game. Instead,
she kept looking at the stars. “They’re hard to see because of the
lights,” she said, when he asked what she was doing. “I wish I could
see the stars better.”
“So, I take it you don’t want to be a baseball player when you grow
up?” Michael asked, jokingly.
“Nope,” she replied. “I want to be an astronaut for NASA.”
She never made it into NASA. But she did come close to being
accepted into the Stargate Program. She was one of the dozens of
people who were assigned by the Air Force to uncover the Stargate’s
secrets, but when Samantha Carter showed up, Clare suddenly didn’t
look as good to the brass. She never made it into the Stargate Program,
and she had Carter to thank for that.
Then one day, Harry Maybourne came along.
“There’s another Stargate!” she said. “The NID are running it and
I’ve been asked to join that operation. Did you have something to do
with it?”
Maybourne had mentioned Michael’s name to Clare when he
recruited her. In retrospect, that’s probably why Maybourne had
recruited him in the first place: To get to Clare.
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J. D. STIVER
Michael could never forget the look in his sister’s big, blue eyes
when she told him she’d actually get to visit another planet. She bought
the bullshit line about protecting the Earth—hook, line, and sinker.
Maybourne had her.
She probably thought she was being heroic.
And now she’s on death row, sitting in a prison cell that doesn’t
have any windows, where she can’t even see the stars.
And just like that, Michael knew he was going to kill Maybourne,
whether the Committee wanted him to or not. And he was probably
going to kill Samantha Carter while he was at it.
But not yet. He’d do it alone. And he’d do it with his bare hands.
“Umpire and Pitchers, return to Dugout,” Tobias ordered. “Send in
Relief Hitters Roy and Hobbs. Remove Player Number Two from the
field, but do not retire. I repeat: Do not retire.”
Soon, you chubby bastard, Tobias thought. I’m going to put a bullet
right through that bald spot of yours.
•••
Maybourne could feel the invisible hand of Michael Tobias closing
in around him. He couldn’t believe the sniper didn’t kill him by taking
a second shot. He couldn’t believe that he had walked right into an
ambush like a stupid rookie.
And he certainly couldn’t believe that he was running through the
park while being chased by two NID agents, and the only weapon he’d
brought along was a .22 caliber Ruger.
They were wearing vests, he was sure of it, and there was no way
he could take both of the agents out before at least one of them
managed to shoot him. He needed something bigger to make his point,
and the point he wanted to make was this: Stop following me, or I’ll kill
you.
He’d chosen to meet in the park for a reason. For one thing, it was a
public area. Even now, people were converging toward the scene of the
crime, drawn by the sounds of a gunshot. The police would be called at
any moment, which meant the agents who were following him had to
play this cool.
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Maybourne spotted them easily. As far as appearances went, they
blended in with everyone else. They wore jeans and button up shirts
with baseball caps. If not for the fact that they were the only two people
in the park who didn’t appear terribly concerned with the unexpected
appearance of a bloody corpse, they would have blended in perfectly.
A portly woman walking her dog discovered Greene’s body. Her
scream alerted everyone in the park, if not the entire city of Las Vegas.
He needed to get as far away from the scene of the crime as he could,
yet remain in a heavily populated area. Fortunately, he had options.
He’d brought along a little insurance just in case things went sour, and
the Super-Mart across the street from the park would provide exactly
what he was looking for.
He crossed the street, briskly but casually. He didn’t want to draw
undue attention to himself. The NID agents followed suit.
Their eyes were fixed on him. Other people were glancing toward
him as well. He made himself relax. Appear normal. Avoid
unnecessary attention.
“Welcome to Super-Mart, would you like a shopping cart?” said the
elderly greeter at the door.
“No,” Maybourne replied, in a friendly but slightly rushed manner.
“Can you please direct me to sporting goods?”
“Sure,” the old man said. “That way.”
He was passing the women’s section when he saw the NID agents
enter the store. He passed shoppers of every variety: Men walking
purposefully to the item they’d come specifically to get; women with
shopping carts strolling casually, browsing for bargains; kids running
wildly through the toy aisle, unsupervised. It would be pandemonium
in just a few moments, and he’d vanish in the confusion—or, at least,
that was the plan.
Only moments later, he reached the sporting goods section.
“Hi,” he said, greeting the clerk standing behind the boxed-in
employee counter. Maybourne looked at the clerk’s name-badge. “Jake,
is it? Hi, Jake, I’m looking for a rifle capable of holding a .30-caliber
short magnum cartridge. Do you have something like that?”
The clerk smiled. He did. A Remington Bolt Action Rifle Sendero
SF II. It carried a $1,200 price tag.
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J. D. STIVER
“You sure know your weapons,” the clerk said to Maybourne, as he
handed him the rifle.
“Oh, I’ve been around,” Maybourne agreed, while he seemed to
offer a visual inspection of the weapon. Then he darted a quick glance
toward the two agents. They rounded the aisle and were approaching
quickly.
“Hey, just out of curiosity, why were you so specific about the kind
of ammo the weapon needed to fire?” the clerk asked, making
conversation.
“Because that’s the kind of ammo I’m carrying in my pocket,”
Maybourne said, as he reached into his pocket and then proceeded to
load the rifle.
The clerk turned pale. “Oh … no.”
“Oh, yes,” Maybourne replied. “Trust me, Jake. They’ve got this
coming.”
And then Maybourne fired the rifle and pandemonium erupted
throughout the Super-Mart.
•••
“A crazed man opens fire at a local Super-Mart,” said a radio
announcement over Maybourne’s car radio. “Details tonight on our six
o’clock broadcast.”
Carter switched off the radio, glad that not everything that went
wrong in the world had something to do with the Stargate.
Timothy Harlow lived in a condo seventeen miles north of Groom
Lake. The area was nice. The complex had a swimming pool and a
nicely maintained garden, which sat in the center of a winding,
Cobblestone walkway. Carter navigated the walkway, passing small
children playing with action figures and residents languishing in the
pool. Some of the children smiled and waved at her.
She smiled and waved back.
When she reached Harlow’s door, she picked the lock. Then she
went inside, noting to herself that she’d have to mention to her friend
that he needed to install better locks.
The inside of Harlow’s condo was small, but quaint. It had a
vaulted ceiling, designed to offer the illusion of more space than it
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actually had. It would have been a great place to hang plants, only that
thought hadn’t occurred to Harlow.
He lived alone; being a widower whose children had long since
grown. The interior was nicely decorated and ordered, but appeared
surprisingly dusty and unkempt. The pictures of his wife and kids that
hung on the walls had a dust layer covering their smiling faces, which
struck Carter as uncharacteristically odd. She’d been in pyramids on
alien worlds that looked more lived-in.
She worried Harlow might be suffering from some form of
depression, but then she reasoned that he was simply busy at work and
didn’t make the time to keep up with appearances at home.
When she opened the refrigerator, she noted that it was empty. Even
Maybourne—hell, even Colonel O’Neill—had more to offer guests, in
the rare occasion they visited. “Guess he eats out, a lot,” she said, to
herself. She opened the cupboard and located a glass. There was a thick
layer of dust in the glass as well, and the cupboard contained a spider’s
web, billowing in the corner.
She washed out the glass in the kitchen sink and then filled it with
tap water. After that, she sat down at his kitchen table and waited for
Harlow to return home.
Thirty-two minutes later, she heard someone insert a key into the
lock. On instinct, she placed her hand on her revolver. Fortunately, it
was only Harlow, and he was carrying Tobaine’s laptop as promised.
“Samantha,” he said. “You’re adept at picking locks, I see.”
“What can I say, Timothy? Astrophysics saved me from a life of
crime,” she responded.
She knew Harlow wasn’t pleased at being asked to steal Dr.
Tobaine’s personal laptop from his office, and she was trying to offset
some of the tension that was running between them as a consequence.
It didn’t work.
“That’s what I might have said about being one of the nation’s
foremost experts in genetics,” he shot back, bitterly. “And yet, here I
stand with a stolen computer in my hand.”
Carter exhaled. She hoped that whatever was on Tobaine’s laptop
was worth it.
Turns out, it was.
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J. D. STIVER
It took her fifteen minutes to bypass the password. Then she was
pleased to discover that the encryption was astonishingly inept—
probably because Tobaine wasn’t expecting the laptop to be stolen,
considering it was located within one of the most highly guarded
military bases in the nation. Granted, there was no document that said
something along the lines of “I’ve stolen the bacteria, hope no one finds
out,” but Carter was able to locate incriminating (if somewhat
circumstantial) evidence within his financial records.
“Listen to this,” Carter said. “According to Dr. Tobaine’s
investment portfolio, he liquidated most of his assets and then
reinvested the funds into multiple shares of a company called Inzon
Pharmaceuticals.”
Harlow didn’t understand the significance. “I would personally
choose to keep my retirement portfolio as diverse as possible, given the
instability of the economy, Samantha, but that doesn’t mean he is guilty
of a crime.”
“Inzon Pharmaceuticals is a subsidiary of Zetatron Industries, a
company that was owned by Adrian Conrad.”
“Who?”
“Long story,” Carter said, slightly put off by the number of times
Adrian Conrad had popped up during the course of this investigation.
“Before I left, Dr. Fraiser speculated that an officer with the SGC was
intentionally infected with the bacteria so he could spread it to Cartago
and Abydos. She also suspected that it was introduced into his system
through his weekly allergy shots, which he receives regularly from his
family doctor.”
“I think I know where this is going,” Harlow speculated. “The
company that supplied the allergy shot is Inzon Pharmaceuticals,
right?”
Carter nodded. “Now, without actually being able to analyze the
syringe that was used, we don’t have any hard evidence that there’s a
connection—but you’ve got to admit, it’s an unlikely coincidence.”
“Unlikely, maybe,” Harlow argued. “But hardly conclusive.”
Now Carter was annoyed. “Oh, come on, Timothy! You work at
Are 51! You know how this works! A percentage of everything we
bring back through the Stargate eventually ends up being contracted out
to the private sector for mass production. As of right now, SG-1 is on a
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world looking for something that can cure this outbreak, and if Daniel’s
right and the Ancients created whatever it is they’re looking for, I’ll bet
anything it’ll revolutionize the medical industry.”
Harlow glared. “So?”
“So? If SG-1 is successful, I’m thinking Dr. Tobaine has already
determined who will receive the paten: Inzon Pharmaceuticals. That’s
why he invested all of his financial holdings with that company.”
Harlow thought about Carter’s argument. “And if you’re right,
Samantha, Inzon Pharmaceuticals is partly responsible for the bacterial
outbreak in the first place.”
“It’s the perfect crime,” Carter said, marveling at the concept. “No
actual money has changed hands. Dr. Tobaine didn’t pay Inzon to
infect our patient zero at the SGC, he just put them in a position to
make a lot of money in the future, and then he invested in their stock.”
“Ensuring that he’ll make a lot of money, too,” Harlow added,
finishing her train of thought. “My God. Could Richard have actually
done this …?”
Carter’s cell phone rang. She glanced at her caller ID and saw
NORAD, meaning it was likely someone calling from the SGC.
“Hello … you can’t be serious …”
It was General Hammond, and he was serious. “Are you by a
television set, major?” he said. “It’s all over the news.”
Carter asked Harlow to turn on his television. As soon as he did,
they saw Tobaine’s face plastered in the top right corner. He was dead.
The newscaster filled in the details:
“The small charter jet was in route from Washington D.C. when it
experienced engine failure and crashed only moments after take off.
Sources say Dr. Tobaine was in Washington meeting with the
president, in what many considered to be an informal presidential
assessment of whether he might replace the surgeon general after he
retires next month. Right now, authorities aren’t willing to speculate
publicly on why the engine might have malfunctioned …”
Harlow turned the volume of the broadcast back down so Carter
could finish her briefing from Hammond.
“I don’t know, sir. The timing is awfully improbable to believe this
is an accident,” she said. “We just found circumstantial evidence that
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seems to incriminate Dr. Tobaine, and before we can even question
him, he’s killed in a plane crash.”
“Keep digging, major,” Hammond ordered. “I want answers before
all of our leads become dead ends.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carter hung up the phone and just sat in her chair, attempting to
collect her thoughts. She’d been up for more than seventy-two hours
without any sleep, and she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to sleep if
she tried. There was too much to think about.
Give her wormhole stability theories and inter-dimensional matterstream calculations any day of the week, and she was your gal. But give
her an investigation like this, and her worst fear was realized:
She wasn’t smart enough to figure it out.
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XV
THE CITY OF NÉT
DAY OF APOCALYPSE
Aneksi wept tears that no human on Earth had ever wept.
She was the last of her people. The last of her kind, standing among
a sea of bodies that stretched outward by the hundreds, one atop the
other like a tapestry of mass murder. And there, nestled between the
ancient icons of the gods who had failed her, in the center of the temple
made of stone, blood, and sweat, she screamed in unison with the storm
that raged around her.
And the Priests of Neith were there, watching …
Daniel stepped over arms and legs, between heads and over strands
of blood-soaked hair and frayed clothing, winding his way through the
massacre that had unfolded only moments ago.
Lightning arched across the sky, while the wind kicked rain and hail
at a sideways slant, but Daniel scarcely noticed. His eyes and gaze were
locked on the Priests of Neith, all seven of them, who stood back
toward the entrance to the black mountain, between the gods who
symbolized life and death to these people, as if they also had the right
to implement that divine judgment.
He tried not to listen to Aneksi—to her wretched screams of
anguish and her sobs that erupted from the pit of her stomach to the top
of the clouds—but he couldn’t help it. Her screams rose over the wind
and the thunder, and tore away bits of his soul with each passing step,
leaving him in tatters, like the flowing mast of a shipwreck, smashed
against the jagged rocks from an angry sea.
The bodies in the center of the courtyard were charred beyond
recognition, while the others were collapsed upon one another,
contorted and mangled from the fatal surge. Their faces were frozen in
horror, confusion, and agony. The entire courtyard smelled of burnt
hair and flesh, but he did not convulse in nausea, nor did he look too
closely at the slain multitude.
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J. D. STIVER
Daniel knew what he would find if he did. He would see his wife,
Sha’re, somewhere among them. Every time he opened the Stargate
and people died, he saw her face, somewhere among the dead.
The scarlet robes of the Priests billowed in the wind, but they stood
firm and defiant, well rid of their humanity in the service of evil gods.
They did not object to his approach, but actually seemed to welcome it,
as if they had looked over the horizon of the future and foresaw their
ultimate fate.
An eternity passed, or, perhaps, it was only minutes.
Daniel stopped walking when he was within arm’s reach of these
soulless men, and, only then, did he allow himself to gaze out over the
carnage they had unleashed. He saw death on a scale that he could
scarcely comprehend, as if the whole of the world and everything he
held dear had been rendered meaningless and without merit.
And, just as he expected, he saw Sha’re.
He lifted his P90 and fixed them in his sights. And then …
•••
“Did you guys see that?” O’Neill asked, seconds after catching up
with his off-world team near the base of the great pyramid. “Did
lightning just hit the temple?”
“Indeed,” Teal’C confirmed. “Where is Daniel Jackson, O’Neill?”
“Uh, he’s … still at the temple,” O’Neill replied, though somewhat
bothered by the admission. “I’m sure he’s … fine. Is that Gould TV up
there?”
Everyone peered up at the long-range visual communication device,
still hovering atop the pyramid while streams of electrical current
continued to pour into the pulsating sphere.
“Yes, sir,” Major Sharpe confirmed. “But not even the great
Rodney McKay knows what it’s doing up there.”
“Oh, thank you for that!” McKay objected. “Just because I’m a
genus doesn’t mean I’m physic! Look, I think the pyramid is drawing
kinetic energy from the storm and channeling it into the device. That
black rock it’s encased in is probably Naquadah. As for why it’s doing
that, who knows? Grab a shovel, unbury the rest of my equipment and
I’ll tell you more!”
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O’Neill continued to stare up at the object floating high above his
head. “So, there’s no chance some Gould is going to pop up on that
thing and tell us what the hell is going on?” he asked. “I’d even be
willing to sit through one of their clichéd, over-the-top ‘you are all
doomed’ speeches if they’d just clue us in. How about it, Teal’C?”
“You are correct, O’Neill,” his friend agreed. “This world is most
unusual, yet I do believe the answers we seek are within this pyramid.”
“Yeah, about that,” O’Neill said. “Daniel thinks there’s someone
named Anhur inside who might be dangerous. He thought I should
warn you before we went in.”
“Well, as far as that goes, sir, we actually can’t,” Sharpe reported.
“The pyramid is sealed shut. Probably happened when it started doing
whatever it is it’s doing now.”
O’Neill thought long and hard about the situation. “I’m starting to
think this mission is a bust,” he decided. “Sharpe, send your team to
meet up with SG-8 back at the gate. Get it unburied so we can dial out
and get the hell out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe agreed. “You heard him! Sanchez, Tiegs, Taylor!
Find some shovels and carry out your orders.”
The three men saluted their commanding officer and then departed,
leaving McKay, O’Neill and Sharpe to ponder their next move. When
O’Neill glanced back over at Teal’C, he realized for the first time that
he could see something in the Jaffa’s eyes that he had never seen
before.
“O’Neill?” Teal’C said, after several minutes of silence. “Does
Daniel Jackson believe Anhur is alive on this world?”
O’Neill didn’t care for Teal’C’s tone at all. In all of the years that
he had known him, this was the first time that he had ever heard dread
in Teal’C’s voice.
“Sorta,” O’Neill said. “Although, there seems to be a little question
about how alive he is. Why?”
Teal’C clutched his staff weapon tightly in his hand; a subtle
indicator of how hard he was trying to reign in his fear. Most people
wouldn’t have noticed, but O’Neill had been fighting alongside the
proud Jaffa warrior for several years now. The fact that he was so
worried plunged O’Neill into new, previously unexplored depths of
apprehension.
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“What is it, Teal’C?”
“I believe that you have made the correct decision,” he said. “If
Anhur is on this world, we are all in considerable danger. We must
leave as soon as we are able.”
O’Neill suspected there was a little more to the story than Teal’C
was saying out loud.
“Alright,” he said. “The storm seems to be dying down a little. Let’s
go get Daniel.”
As the four men set out for the temple, O’Neill tried not to think
about what could possibly be scary enough to spook Teal’C. As long as
he was at it, he also decided to avoid considering the possibility that
Daniel Jackson—his friend, who he left behind at the temple—was now
dead.
•••
Atop the pyramid, the sphere hovers. Electrical currents strobe over
its smooth and glinting surface. Suddenly, it pulsates, sending a
distorted wave outward from the epicenter, which washes over the flesh
of every person within a twenty-five mile radius.
They all feel it. Their skin tingles. Their hair stands on end. It feels
like a cold chill or a sudden fright. It leaves goose bumps.
New wounds begin to mend.
It feels wonderful; so wonderful, in fact, that prolonged exposure
can cause the living to experience addiction and madness. It feels so
powerful that it can cause the dead to re-experience life.
Or, at least, a close approximation of it.
•••
“Did you feel that?” Captain Gary Taylor asked the two other
members of SG-5. “That cold … draft?”
Lieutenant Jason Tiegs and Technical Master Sergeant John
Sanchez both nodded, gravely. They both clutched their P90s a little
tighter and glanced around their surroundings a little more sharply.
The city was creepy and miserable. Although the storm did appear
to be dying down, it was still far from over. Lightning flashed across
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the ash-colored sky to light up the city, casting deep, misshapen
shadows of the statues onto the sandstone buildings, while rain
streamed down in thick droplets, creating streets comprised of sandy
sludge that made the terrain difficult to traverse by foot.
“I hate this planet,” Taylor said. “I hate ancient Egypt, too.”
“Boy, are you in the wrong line of work,” Tiegs observed.
“Yeah? Well, when I first joined the Air Force, I didn’t think it’d
come up, you know?”
Taylor was a seasoned officer of fifteen years in the U.S. Air Force
but had only joined the Stargate program roughly a year ago. The
previous SG-5 team had died from exposure to an addictive radiation
they discovered on P4X-347. He was recommended to the program by
Major Louis Ferretti, a friend of his who had traveled through the
Stargate during the first Abydos mission.
A year after that first mission, Ferretti was nearly killed when
Apophis attacked Abydos, and, shortly thereafter, their mutual friend,
Major Charles Kawalsky, had also been killed after a Goa’uld symbiote
invaded his body while on Chulak. Because of these events, Taylor
never forgot the little “pep talk” Ferretti gave him after he joined SG-5.
“Jack’s got the luck of the Irish,” Ferretti said. “You and me,
though? We’re living on borrowed time. You know that Marine
battalion, the One-Nine? During the Vietnam War, they had a ninetythree percent KIA rate, so they used to call those guys the ‘Walking
Dead.’ That’s you and me, Taylor: We’re the walking dead. Welcome
to the SGC.”
Taylor never forgot that speech. He always remembered it when he
went off-world, especially when things went south.
“That’s kind of a strange thing to hate, isn’t it?” Sanchez asked,
breaking Taylor’s thought.
“What?”
“Ancient Egypt,” he said. “That’s kind of a strange thing to hate. I
heard of people hating snakes, or spiders, or politicians. But I’ve never
heard of anybody hating ancient Egypt. What’s that about?”
“Man, look at this place,” Taylor said. “All these weird-looking
statues with animal heads. Mummies. That stuff doesn’t creep you
out?”
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“Nope, I just got the History Channel,” Sanchez teased. “Ancient
Egypt’s pretty cool.”
Both men snickered at him.
“Fine,” Taylor said. “I got lost in a museum when I was a kid,
okay? That’s why I hate ancient Egypt.”
Both men continued to walk, waiting for more of the story to
surface. It didn’t.
“That’s it?” Tiegs asked. “That’s the only reason? You got lost in a
museum? I got lost at Disney Land once, and I don’t hate Mickey
Mouse.”
Taylor gave his teammate the finger.
“Mickey Mouse didn’t have his brains removed through his nostrils
and his organs placed in jars before they wrapped him up in bandages,
smartass. It’s a lousy place to take a kid, is all I’m saying. Why don’t
schools just schedule field trips to funeral homes while they’re at it?”
“There’s a thought,” Tiegs agreed. “When I was a kid, they took us
to the Air and Space Museum. Now that’s a field trip. Changed my life.
As soon as I turned eighteen, I joined the Air Force. Thought I’d be
flyin’ more than I do, though, not walking around some planet looking
for a shovel.”
Sanchez snickered. “Hey, you guys ever heard that joke about the
Air Force?”
Taylor shook his head. “If I say yes, will it stop you from telling
us?”
“Nope,” Sanchez declared, happily. “So, there’s this Army grunt,
sitting in a foxhole eating MRE’s. He’s wearing fifty pounds of gear
after marching twelve miles, and he says to himself, ‘this sucks’.”
“I heard this one already,” Tiegs complained. “It’s an old joke.”
“It’s a classic,” Sanchez argued. “So next, there’s this Navy
seaman, right? He’s sitting on his bunk in a closet-sized room that he
shares with six other guys, smelling of oil and rolling on the waves. He
hasn’t seen the sky for thirty days, and he says, ‘this really sucks!’”
“Seaman,” Tiegs repeated, with a smirk.
“So now there’s this Marine, right? He’s doing push-ups in the mud
after an eighteen-mile march with sixty pounds of gear on his back, and
he says, ‘I love the ways this sucks!’”
“Oorah,” Tiegs added, for affect.
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“Then we got this Special Forces Green Beret, crawling through a
leech-infested swamp, eating bugs and tree bark for six days, and he
says, ‘I wish this could suck even more!’”
“Here’s the payoff,” Tiegs promised.
“And finally, there’s this Air Force pilot. He’s sitting in an easy
chair in an air-conditioned motel, holding a remote control, and he
says, ‘no cable? This sucks!’”
Sanchez laughed quietly while his two teammates traded amused
glances. Watching the man laugh at his own jokes was almost worth
sitting through them, each and every time.
Almost.
“So, why’d you join the Air Force then, Sanchez?” Taylor asked.
“Since we’re such lazy, slack asses and all?”
“My father,” Sanchez answered. “My brother was in the Army. He
got killed in Desert Storm. So my father says, ‘Son, if you’re gonna
join the military, join the Air Force. I don’t want you dying in some
desert somewhere. Better to just drop bombs on the sons of bitches’.”
“Shows what he knows,” Tiegs offered, while gesturing at the
desert around them.
“We’re not dead,” Taylor countered. “Not yet, anyway.”
Of the two of them, Taylor almost always saw eye-to-eye with
Tiegs. He was a natural pessimist. He was a young man, good-looking,
with blond hair, blue eyes, and striking features. He was a ladies man, a
single bachelor who loved a woman for one whole night, and the
following night, he loved another woman all over again. All the signs
were there: Tiegs didn’t see any need to forge any real bonds outside of
work. He didn’t believe he’d see old age.
Sanchez, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. He was
a technical master sergeant who could damn near figure any machine
out on Earth (or any other planet). He was from East L.A. in California,
and though he never said for sure, Taylor got the impression that he’d
been involved in gangs when he was a kid. He’d never been caught
doing anything illegal, but Taylor definitely got the impression that
there was something nasty in his background that made him do a oneeighty and get his life in check.
He joined the Air Force, graduated from MIT, and got himself the
prettiest wife in the entire state of Colorado. He wasn’t the best-looking
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J. D. STIVER
guy in the world, but he had an upbeat personality that was almost
contagious. Working with him this past year, Taylor believed he’d
figured out Sanchez’s secret: Sanchez had already lived longer than he
ever thought he would, and he was going to make every minute of it
count for something.
His wife was expecting their first child, any day now.
“Where the hell are we supposed to find shovels?” Tiegs
complained. “What if they don’t have any?”
“Pretty basic tool,” Taylor surmised. “I’ve been to villages so
primitive, you’d think the only technology they had were sticks they
chewed to a point, and even they had shovels.”
“We should look for irrigation ditches,” Sanchez suggested. “In
Egypt, they used to build irrigation ditches to channel the flood waters
from the Nile to their crops. They might do something like that here.”
Both Taylor and Tiegs looked at their teammate, a little surprised at
his knowledge.
“What?” Sanchez asked. “I told you guys, I got the History
Channel.”
Taylor shrugged. “Alright,” he agreed. “Irrigation ditches it is.”
“Yeah, well, before we start looking, I gotta take a leak,” Tiegs
said. “Hold up here a minute.”
Tiegs ducked behind a sandstone building to relieve himself while
Sanchez and Taylor sat on a large stone block at the base of a statue
and waited.
Taylor looked up and moaned. “These are the ugliest freaking
statues. Give me a Greek sculpture any day of the week over this shit.
Aphrodite. Athena. This guy looks like he ought to be doing Kibbles &
Bits commercials.”
“That’s Anubis,” Sanchez said. “The Egyptians thought he was the
protector of the deceased and their tombs.”
“Well, I think he was the Egyptian god of ass sniffing and leg
humping if you ask me. How much History Channel do you watch,
anyway?”
“Aw, you know. Here and there. It’s a good conversation starter.
Susan’s always throwing dinner parties with the neighbors when I’m
home. Everyone starts talking about what they do at work, which I
can’t do with it being classified and all, so I start talking about history.”
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Taylor laughed. “Yeah, I can just see that. ‘So, Bill closed the
Peterson account and Fred got promoted to associate VP of marketing
and research. And what do you do, John?’”
Sanchez smiled. “Oh, I travel to other planets and fight evil aliens,
mostly. It was kinda a slow night last night, though. I just sort of milled
around an ancient city looking for a shovel. So, Bill closed the Peterson
account, huh? Tell me more about that!”
Both men laughed.
“Best job in the world,” Sanchez said.
“Yeah … I guess it is.”
Several minutes passed before either of them noticed they haven’t
heard from Tiegs in a while.
“Hey, Tiegs,” Taylor called over. “You about done with that leak?”
There was no answer.
Taylor stood up. “Better go check on him,” he said. “No telling
what could’ve happened to him on this spooky planet.”
Sanchez checked the clip on his P90. “Yeah, hopefully he’s got one
of them bladders, but you never know.”
They turned the corner and Tiegs was nowhere to be seen. Both
men glanced around the immediate area and only saw the various mudbrick homes prevalent in this area of the city. There were two sets of
footprints leading to the corner of one of the homes. One set was made
by standard issue military boots worn by members of the off-world
team, while the other was made by a barefooted man of considerable
size and bulk.
Near the corner, where Tiegs’ tracks ended, there was a pool of
blood soaking into the wet sand, and the barefooted man’s tracks
deepened, as if he had carried Tiegs away.
“Shit!” Taylor called out. “Tiegs!”
There was no reply.
Taylor darted his gaze from left to right, desperately looking for any
indication of what may have happened to his teammate. “Sanchez? You
see anything.”
Sanchez had turned as white as a sheet. He lifted his hand and
pointed toward the edge of the city, in the direction of the great pylons
that marked the entrance into Nét. There, hanging from one of the
pylons by his neck was Tiegs.
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J. D. STIVER
He wasn’t alone. All four members of SG-8 hung next to him, their
dangling corpses swaying in the stormy wind. Each one had blood
soaked into his vest that streamed down their uniforms and dripped to
the earth beneath. It looked like their throats had been slit.
“Oh, god,” Sanchez said, like the air had just been kicked out of his
chest. “We’ve got to warn the others.”
Taylor could feel panic welling up inside him, but he swallowed
hard and reminded himself that he had been trained by the U.S. Air
Force for just about anything. Even still, as he looked around, he swore
he could see movement in the shadows—and any one of those shadows
could be hiding a killer.
“Let’s keep our heads, Sanchez,” he said, with iron grit in his voice.
“I’ll take point, you watch my six.”
Sanchez nodded.
They moved slowly. Both men walked with painstaking attention to
their environment, the barrels of their P90s aimed ahead and darting
from left to right, up and down, scanning the area for danger.
Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Neither spoke as they
moved quietly along the row of mud huts.
“Taylor,” Sanchez whispered. “If I don’t make it, I want you to tell
my wife ...”
They turned a corner and headed east, back toward the pyramid.
“I’m not telling your wife shit, Sanchez,” Taylor interrupted. “I
don’t think she likes me. So, you’re just gonna have to make it. You’ll
be torturing people with bad jokes for years to come if you just shut up
and keep your head.”
A few more minutes passed in silence. Taylor kept his focus dead
ahead, looking for threats that could be hiding anywhere in this
endlessly dark city from hell.
“Alright, fine,” Taylor eventually conceded, after reconsidering his
friend’s request. “What’d you want me to tell her?”
There was no answer.
Taylor turned around and didn’t see Sanchez anywhere.
“God damn it!” he shouted. “Sanchez!” he called out.
He heard a splash. He whipped around toward the direction of the
noise. Something rolled across a puddle in the sand and it was heading
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straight for him. He aimed his P90 at it and kept the object in his
crosshairs until it came to a stop at his feet.
It was Sanchez’s head.
“‘Walking Dead.’ That’s you and me, Taylor: We’re the walking
dead.”
Taylor ran.
Fifteen years of Air Force training and experience had given way to
fear so profound, it was an almost a child-like terror. He left deep
footprints in the saturated sand, making his run difficult, but he scarcely
noticed the effort.
He thought something moved in the shadows, and he fired his
weapon wildly, spraying the entire area with bullets. There was a noise
from behind him, and he turned and fired in that direction as well.
“Come on you son of a bitch!” he screamed. “Show yourself!”
Nothing.
He ran some more, darting from home to home and ducking for
cover. Eventually he came to a clearing of empty desert, which he
knew he had to cross in order to reach the pyramid. He heard no noises
and saw nothing.
He made a run for it. He heard a whistling sound and then
something struck him in the back of the head—hard. He saw lights, a
blossoming fireworks display of purples and greens and then his vision
blurred.
When he regained his senses, he tasted gritty sand in his mouth and
the back of his head felt sticky and wet. There was a smooth stone lying
next to him. It was covered in blood.
He was lying on the ground. Slowly, he started to crawl, inch by
inch, but then he collapsed, like his whole body was nothing but useless
dead weight. His eyelids felt heavy and a wave of drowsiness overtook
him. He watched the man walking toward him, just a blurry pair of dark
legs and bare feet, which he noted with an almost lethargic curiosity
until the images stopped registering any meaning within his mind.
His eyelids shut and a cold and final darkness washed over him …
And then there was nothing.
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•••
From out of darkness they awoke. Writing masses twisting in the
mud, blindly sniffing the air with an animalistic hunger, like newborn
infants spawned from the depths of the underworld.
Slowly, they untangled their limbs and rose to their feet, in agony
and pain, with contorted joints and pale eyes that gazed off into the
turbulent world around them.
The wind carried a scent—of heat and sweat, and blood coursing
through warm veins. It was the smell of the living, which stirred distant
memories now confined to dark pockets within their primal brains,
prompting them forward into the black night with a ravenous craving.
And four hundred and fifty bodies went out in search of food.
•••
“Alright, Teal’C,” O’Neill said. “Who’s Anhur and why’s he got
you so spooked?”
Teal’C said nothing.
“No insights? Perspectives? Amusing anecdotes? Nothing?”
“He was the first Jaffa,” Teal’C finally answered, after many
moments of contemplating his response. “He was once First Prime to
Ra but our stories say that he betrayed Ra and was banished to the
underworld. Of our people, he is widely held to be the most formidable
warrior to ever stand on the field of battle. It is even said that he, alone,
slew four hundred warriors with his own two hands.”
“Cool,” O’Neill exclaimed. “Betrayed Ra, huh? Sounds like you
guys have something in common.”
Teal’C’s face remained stoic.
“Not cool?” O’Neill guessed.
“Unlike common Jaffa, Anhur’s tactics rely on stealth and guile,”
Teal’C explained. “On Chulak, some believe that Anhur was once even
able to slay Ra. After reviving in his sarcophagus, Ra decreed that no
Jaffa would ever again serve as his personal guard, his trust forever
shaken in their loyalty.”
That made sense, O’Neill thought. Back on the first Abydos
mission, Ra’s personal guards were all human, each one trained to act
and function as Jaffa. Their tactics also seemed to be different than any
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other Jaffa SG-1 had encountered since. From what Ferretti had told
him, Ra’s elite guard took out most of the base camp before any of
them even knew they were in the building. That was a far cry from how
the rest of Teal’C’s people seemed to do things—marching around in
big, heavy armor, where you could hear them coming from a mile
away.
“So, he’s a … bad guy?” O’Neill reasoned. “And he might be alive
on this planet? I’ll tell ya, Teal’C, we have got to start getting better
Intel before we step through that gate.”
Teal’C nodded in agreement. “Until I first set foot on this world,
O’Neill, I did not know that Anhur had been banished to this world.”
O’Neill patted his friend on the back, reassuringly. “Let’s go get
Daniel and we’ll figure this out, huh?”
The walk to the temple from the main living area of the city was a
vast and empty space of nothing, as if the city’s inhabitants had no wish
to live anywhere near the temple. O’Neill judged that it was roughly a
mile between the city’s outskirts and the temple’s entrance, with each
edge of the outer wall spaced approximately three miles apart from the
eastern to the western border.
Though the main fury of the storm had subsided, it was still pouring
down rain and miserably wet. It was also immensely dark since the
clouds blotted out the stars and the moon (if this planet even had a
moon, that is). Every now and then, lightning would flicker across the
sky, which illuminated the world briefly.
As the team scaled over a large sand dune and prepared to traverse
the downward slope, lightning flashed in the sky and O’Neill thought
he saw movement on the distant horizon. He lifted his hand and halted
the others. Then he crouched down and took out his night-vision
binoculars to peer toward the temple.
“Oh, crap.”
It looked like the Night of the Living Dead.
“Oh, my god,” McKay added, after peering though his own nightvision binoculars. “Is that what I think it is?”
“No,” O’Neill said. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this out loud,
but … it’s looks like a bunch of dead people walking toward us.”
McKay lowered his binoculars. “For the record, colonel, that is
what I thought is was.”
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J. D. STIVER
Scores of people were lumbering forward from the direction of the
temple—men, women, even children, all wearing tattered linen robes or
loincloths soaked in mud, blood, or other bodily excretions. They
walked toward the city with pale eyes and mouths that dripped with
bile. Some of their wounds were so severe that they couldn’t—or
shouldn’t—still be alive. (In fact, a few of them were charred so badly,
they looked like they’d been hit by lightning, which is most certainly
what had happened.) As for the rest of the approaching mass, although
they weren’t burnt to a crisp like the other few, they were, however,
clearly not alive.
In fact, anything that was alive in their path didn’t stay that way for
very long. Sporadic clusters were hunched over dark objects, which
confused O’Neill at first, until he a noticed a frantic animal (which
looked a little like a bull) running from a huge group a quarter mile
from the temple’s entrance.
The horde managed to corner the animal against the edge of the
city’s eastern border, which caused the frightened animal to charge
wildly into the wall of people. Its efforts to escape were unsuccessful
because there were just too many of them. A wave of bodies piled on
top of the animal and its dying screams could be heard echoing through
the night. After a few minutes of crying out, the animal grew still and
the swarm fed.
“Okay,” O’Neill said. “Time to break out the claymores.”
“Uh, sir?” Sharpe replied. “They’re buried with the rest of our
equipment back at the Stargate.”
O’Neill nodded as he processed this unfortunate information.
“Right. So, what have we got?”
“Well, we’ve got our P90s, a handful of clips, a few grenades, and
some C4.”
“And my laptop,” McKay added.
O’Neill, Sharpe, and Teal’C turned toward McKay and eyed him
reproachfully. “Which … I’ll admit, doesn’t really help much in the
fight against bloodthirsty zombies,” he corrected. “I just thought you’d
like to know that I have it, just in case you actually want me to
interface with some technology; you know, the reason you brought me
along?”
O’Neill threw up his hands. “What technology?”
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“Well, for starters, how about the kind of technology that causes
dead people to walk around!” McKay shot back. “I know it’s my first
visit to another planet and all, but this doesn’t normally happen, right?
Not without a little help from some technology?”
O’Neill thought about McKay’s assertion. It made sense.
“A Goa’uld sarcophagus,” Teal’C said.
McKay snapped his fingers in rapid succession. A thought had
occurred to him. “The pyramid!” he shouted. “The long range visual
communication device!”
“Huh?” Sharpe asked. “I thought that was for long range … visual
… communication?”
“Well, obviously … yeah,” McKay confirmed. “But its main
function is to receive and broadcast signals. One of the Gould must
have figured out how to channel the energy from a sarcophagus and
broadcast it out into the city as an energy pulse. Whoever thought of
that was brilliant. We have got to get inside that pyramid and shut it
off.”
O’Neill continued to watch the undead horde progress in their
direction. “Hey, McKay, just a thought here, but what if we can’t get
inside the pyramid? It’s sealed shut, right?”
“Then we all get eaten alive,” McKay answered. “And since the
healing energy from the sarcophagus will continue to broadcast from
the pyramid, we’ll be completely alive for most of the feast! Every
painful minute of it!”
O’Neill cringed. Nothing about that sounded pleasant.
“Alright,” he agreed. “Let’s fallback to a more defensible position
inside the city. And, I’d just like to say for the record here, I think this
is the worst planet that we have ever—EVER—visited.”
•••
Upon further analysis, O’Neill realized, grimly, that the City of Nét
was not designed to function as a stronghold against zombie attack.
For example, having the ability to hold up behind locked and bolted
doors would’ve been ideal, considering the situation. Unfortunately,
this strategy was rendered impossible because the good people of Nét
had neglected to invent doors to their homes. Or locks. Or bolts.
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“Trusting bunch,” O’Neill grumbled to himself.
The second thing he would have done, in the absence of claymores,
would be to MacGyver a few into existence using C4 and, possibly,
roofing tacks or nails. That, also, was rendered impossible since the
people of this world had failed to invent either of those two things,
opting instead to construct their city of out of mud and sandstone with
simple tools made out of wood, copper, and bits of stone.
Their idea of what a window was supposed to be was also
disappointing inept, since they were designed—as Daniel had pointed
out earlier—as a means to allow the heat to escape their homes. Since
that was the case, the windows tended to be tiny slits near the ceiling,
rather than the far-more preferable design that would have allowed him
to stick the barrel of his P90 out the window and fire away at the
zombie horde, all from a vantage point that provided relative cover.
Because of these immense failings on the part of the city’s
architects, O’Neill, Sharpe, and Teal’C were now crouched near the
entrance to the pyramid, trying to envision a means of defending
themselves with no cover and limited ammunition.
“We are so boned,” O’Neill realized, after exhausting his strategic
options.
“I gotta tell ya, sir, that’s an awfully demoralizing thing to hear you
say,” Sharpe pointed out.
“Indeed,” Teal’C concurred.
“Look, I haven’t given up,” O’Neill said. “It’s just that in these
types of situations, I tend to want to blow things up. Currently, I’m a
little troubled that I can’t.”
“Kerosene,” Teal’C suggested, as if the thought had just occurred to
him. “Many of these homes are lit by torchlight. The torches are doused
in flammable oil, much like your Kerosene on Earth. Perhaps this can
be used to our advantage, O’Neill.”
“Flammable’s good,” he agreed. “Why don’t you go and round us
up some, Teal’C. While you’re gone, we’ll start figuring out the best
use for our C4.”
Teal’C nodded and then quickly departed.
Once O’Neill believed his friend was out of earshot, he continued
talking to Sharpe. There was only one use for his C4 that made any
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sense to him under the circumstances, and he didn’t want Teal’C to
hear what it was.
“A suicide vest?” Sharpe asked, when O’Neill told him the plan.
“That’s the order,” O’Neill confirmed. “Give me all of your C4,
major. I’m going to draw them away from the pyramid and give you
guys a chance to make it inside. When they inevitably surround me, I’ll
blow the C4 and take as many of them with me as I can.”
Sharpe appeared troubled. “Are you serious, sir?”
“Not often,” O’Neill admitted. “But I can be. This is one of those
times. I told you, when I’m not sure what else to do, I usually fall back
on the fine military tradition of blowing things up. Now, are you going
to follow your orders, major, or am I going to have to run you up on
charges?”
“Uh … yes, sir.”
Sharpe complied with his commanding officer and handed him each
of his four blocks of C4. Combined with his own, O’Neill now had
eight blocks of explosives, which would create one hell of a bang when
they went off. He figured he could take fifty, maybe sixty of those poor
sons of bitches with him.
O’Neill glanced at his watch. Judging by the distance and stride of
the undead horde, he figured they’d be popping into town in about
fifteen minutes. It would take another fifteen minutes for them to reach
the pyramid. His plan was to get to them before they discovered the rest
of his team.
That left one more matter to discuss.
“I don’t know what happened to Daniel,” O’Neill said. “But if you
see him and he’s not … the Daniel we know … shoot him, is that
clear?”
Sharpe knew what that meant. “Yes, sir.”
“Start making the vest for me,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.”
The entrance to the pyramid on this planet was almost identical to
the one they discovered on Abydos. Two obelisks protruded up from
the sand to mark the entrance. Between the obelisks, a long, narrow
ramp led down to the sandy terrain below.
There was one, important difference, however.
“Rings!” McKay shouted. “Oh, thank god!”
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He was right. When O’Neill scaled up the ramp to debrief McKay,
he saw it: There, on the stone floor beneath the vaulted archway that
marked the pyramid’s entrance, O’Neill recognized the familiar circular
markings of a ring platform.
Without hesitation, McKay pulled a panel free to reveal the ring’s
inner workings. Various blue and green control crystals were lit up
against the dark interior of the small chamber. McKay searched until he
found a red crystal and then he pulled it from its slot. After that, he
removed a spherical device from his backpack, which was small
enough to fit in the palm of his hand. The device had a long wire that
was connected to his laptop and a port that was designed to house one
of the crystals. He stuck the red crystal into the port and information
was immediately relayed to his computer screen.
McKay took a deep breath. “Just what I was afraid of,” he said,
“It’s encrypted.”
“Huh?” O’Neill asked.
“I can’t just turn it on without sending the right signal. It’d be like
trying to …”
“Call someone with the wrong phone number?”
“No,” McKay corrected. “It’s more like … oh, wait. Actually, yes,
that’s exactly what it’s like.”
O’Neill rolled his eyes. “We need a wrist device,” he decided, while
remembering the ring activation device that was worn by Ra’s first
prime back on Abydos. There was just one problem with that: Odds
were good that IF the wrist device existed at all, it was probably in the
possession of Anhur. Worse yet, from what Teal’C had said about him,
he wouldn’t just hand it over without a fight.
O’Neill watched McKay work, secretly coming to respect the illmannered scientist, despite his many, many flaws. For all of his
sarcasm and complaining, the man really would do anything to help
everyone survive this horrible ordeal.
“So …?” O’Neill asked.
“So … what? It’s a combination sequence. Without knowing the
right combination, all I can do is try as many variations as I can before
the zombies come and we all turn into an all-you-can-eat buffet.”
“So … no pressure, huh?”
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O’Neill looked at his watch. The horde would be here in another
twenty minutes. He looked down the ramp and saw that Major Sharpe
was almost done assembling the “suicide vest” as ordered. With eight
blocks of C4 attached to his body, there wouldn’t be enough of him left
to bury. (Perhaps that was a good thing, he thought. However this
pyramid was doing it, it was causing the dead to rise, and O’Neill
suspected that it was a fate worse than death.)
That thought made him think of Daniel.
O’Neill surveyed the dark, damp city around him, remembering
back to the first Abydos mission. He had also thought that mission was
going to end in suicide. If not for Daniel Jackson, it probably would
have. Now, his friend could be dead. He could have been hit by
lightning and might now be walking among the undead horde about to
invade the city. If that was the case, O’Neill promised himself that he
wouldn’t detonate the C4 until he could take Daniel with him. He
wouldn’t leave his friend to a fate worse than death.
He owed him that. Hell, he owed him more than that.
As O’Neill scaled back down the ramp, he saw Sharpe signaling for
him to come closer.
“Sir?” he said. “Do you think McKay can get us inside?”
“Probably not,” O’Neill admitted. “Even still, I’ll buy as much time
as I can. Your orders are to protect McKay at any cost.”
“Sir?”
“If he can get inside that pyramid, he might be able to locate and
extract whatever we came here to get. There are people on two planets
who are counting on us, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With any luck, SG-8 has got the gate unburied by now.
Communication still down?”
“Yes, sir.”
O’Neill gritted his teeth. “Damn it. When Teal’C gets back, tell him
that there may—and I’ll reemphasize the word ‘may’—be a wrist
device somewhere that can access the rings. He’ll know where to look.”
“Yes, sir.” Sharpe said. “Before you leave, sir, I wanted to say
something to you.”
O’Neill shifted from one foot to the other. Sentiment always made
him uncomfortable.
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“We don’t have a lot of time, major.”
Sharpe nodded. “You saved the planet, sir,” he said. “You actually
saved the whole planet. By defying orders, you and SG-1 headed off an
invasion by Apophis that would have ended all life as we know it. I’ve
always believed that we owe you one for that.”
Sharpe lifted his Zat gun and pointed it at O’Neill. “It’s been an
honor to serve with you, sir.”
Before O’Neil could protest, Sharpe shot him. The blue energy
sprayed over O’Neill’s body until he fell to the ground, unconscious.
•••
Teal’C stands on a windswept, snowy peak on Chulak, bare-chested
and blindfolded, listening for the sounds of the approaching enemy.
He hears nothing.
“This is pointless,” he says, in frustration. “I am not blind.”
His opponent sneaks up from behind him and taps the back of his
neck with a charged staff weapon, the yellow energy crackling down
the metallic prongs and singing his cold, exposed skin.
“In battle, you must use all of your senses,” Master Bra’tac says to
his young student. “If you cannot, you are of no use to me.”
Teal’C opened his eyes.
Fostering an ability to sense an enemy beyond the boundaries of
sight and sound was a hard-won lesson. It wasn’t until now that Teal’C
fully appreciated Master Bra’tac’s efforts.
Teal’C was being stalked.
His enemy made no sound. He couldn’t be seen. But Teal’C could
feel him close by, watching, waiting. The feeling was unmistakable.
He surveyed his surroundings. From time to time he caught a
fleeting glimpse of movement within the shadows. Teal’C knew he was
being followed, but his adversary was not yet ready to make his move.
If he were human, Teal’C suspected the First Jaffa would have
killed him already. But Teal’C was not human. Moreover, not only was
he a Jaffa, he was a Jaffa who had ascended to the rank of First Prime.
Anhur likely knew that one did not rush into battle with a First
Prime. One studied them to glean insight into their battle strategies and
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tactics, as well as their fighting styles. Only then, could one feel
confident of victory.
Knowing this as he did, Teal’C was careful not to give any
indication that he was aware of Anhur’s presence. He wanted him to
believe that Jaffa training had become lax over the eons and that he
would be easy prey.
To accomplish this, he carried out his mission given to him by
Colonel O’Neill. He went inside the simple dwellings scattered
throughout the living quarters of the city and collected the lamp oil,
which he found in various small ceramic vases. He had managed to
collect a handful when he thought he heard movement in the shadowy
area between two of the homes.
Teal’C closed his eyes and took a deep breath. In his mind’s eye, he
could see his enemy, crouched and shrouded in darkness, confident in
his belief that he was well hidden.
He opened his eyes. Then he lobbed the oil containers in the
direction of his enemy, and before they could land, he fired his staff
weapon, shattering the containers and igniting the oil within. Each one
went up like a roman candle and bathed the area with a yellowish,
iridescent glow as the wall of liquid flame rained down. Unfortunately,
the fire was nowhere near Anhur, but it did give Teal’C an idea of
where to shoot. He fired a barrage of staff weapon blasts but his enemy
was able to roll to cover behind a home and avoid being hit.
Teal’C thought he heard a whistling noise.
He looked down saw the handle of a knife sticking out of his
shoulder. Then another one hit him in the leg.
Quickly, he limped to cover of his own, surprised with the speed
and proficiency that Anhur was able to counter attack. Every step that
he took shot a wave of agony through his leg. He could also feel the
wound in his shoulder throb with each beat of his heart. Both knives
had hit arteries. Blood was leaking out in spastic bursts, leaving a trail
wherever he went. Only then did he realize the trouble he was in:
Anhur was a thinker. He had made it possible to follow Teal’C
wherever he went.
All he needed to do was follow the trail of blood.
If he pulled the knives free, it would open the wounds further,
leaving a more profound trail. Teal’C decided against this course of
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action, opting instead to leave the knives in while he moved. He
hobbled, painfully, back toward the pyramid, keeping close to the edge
of a wall that aligned a garden area.
He heard a noise and something landed by his feet.
He looked down.
It was a grenade.
Teal’C dove to the wet earth and covered his head with his hands,
just as the grenade went off, unleashing an orgy of fire and sharp
metallic fragments. Shrapnel dug deep into his good leg and jutted out
of the exposed inner flesh, like wet, red clumps.
Anhur had used a Tau’ri grenade. That probably meant that one or
more of the SG teams were already dead. Angered, Teal’C started to
slowly crawl forward, inch by inch, through the opening of the gateway
into the garden beyond. The rain picked up and the lightning started to
play across the sky like the battleground of angry gods.
Teal’C was wrong. Anhur wasn’t tagging him in order to follow his
prey; he was taking Teal’C apart, piece-by-piece.
White-hot rage welled up inside him, and he picked himself up off
the ground, trembling, defiantly, with the aid of his staff weapon. He
stood unsteadily, at first, but even as his anger grew, a measure of his
strength returned.
“Coward!” he shouted, against a backdrop of lightning, swirling
clouds and heavy rain. “Is this the method in which the great Anhur
does battle? Like a fearful child hiding in shadows?”
Teal’C waited and hoped. His only salvation was an old truth
Bra’tac had told him long ago: The greater their skills, the greater their
pride. His biggest worry was that Anhur’s pride was well earned.
Lightning flashed and he saw a dark silhouette standing within the
archway leading into the garden.
He was big. He was also strong and fast and smart.
And he was aiming his staff weapon at Teal’C—the prongs
separated, the yellow energy sliding along the tip like the tongue of a
hungry lion.
“As Jaffa—as warriors—our destinies are not our own,” Bra’tac
said to him once, his words echoing from out of the distant past. “When
the hand of the Goa’uld move across the galaxy to do battle, we are
their swords. We are forged in the fires of a thousand battles and
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tempered by the consequence of our actions. You, Teal’C, are the
sword, and I am the stone that sharpens you, eh? Take what I have
taught you and always stay as sharp as the edge of a blade.”
Bra’tac spoke those words to remind Teal’C that he, also, was a
thinker. But what did he know of Anhur? Stories. Fables. Snippets.
Nothing concrete. It was said that he was the greatest Jaffa warrior that
their people had ever known. Unfortunately, much of his legacy was
lost to the sands of time, but Teal’C had heard tales that the Warriors of
the Sodan—an elite order of Jaffa who disappeared more than five
thousand years ago—were skilled in a lost fighting style that Anhur had
taught them long ago. Though no Jaffa had seen or heard from a Sodan
warrior in many ages, they were widely regarded to be honorable,
bound by a strict code of ethics.
Perhaps Anhur had taught them that as well?
“I claim Kel Shak Lo!” Teal’C shouted. “You have spilled the
blood of my brothers of the Tau’ri, and if there is any Jaffa left within
you, Anhur, you will honor my claim!”
Anhur tilted his head, as if struggling to remember the meaning of
Teal’C’s words. He stood barefooted and bare-chested, and wore only a
leather loincloth with a belt that was adorned with many sharp knives.
He was bald, except for two braided locks of black hair that were tied
together with strands of leather, ivory and bits of bone. His skin was
slick with the blood of his victims. He had pale scars all over his ebony
body—some ornamental and some were testament to the pain he had
once endured.
He smiled and Teal’C realized that his teeth were filed sharp. He
also wore a Goa’uld wrist device on his left hand and carried a staff
weapon with prongs at each tip, capable of firing from both ends.
“Kel Shak Lo?” he said, his voice like grinding flecks of gravel. “A
challenge to the death, Jaffa?”
Teal’C nodded.
Anhur lowered the tip of his weapon. He tilted his head and cracked
his neck, while coiled muscles stretched and came alive within his skin.
Anhur nodded back. “When the thunder cracks, we shall begin,” he
announced.
“Agreed.”
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A flash of lightning erupted in the distance. Seconds later, the
thunderclap boomed overhead and shook the world.
And both warriors sprang forward with a murderous scream.
•••
“You shot the colonel!” McKay exclaimed, as he stood over the
unconscious body of O’Neill, who was now lying at the foot of the
ramp in the soft, muddy sand.
“Yeah, but I did not shoot the deputy,”
“Is that a joke?
“Uh-huh. A bad one.”
“Yes, really, really bad,” McKay agreed. “He is going to be so
pissed when he wakes up!”
“Probably,” Major Sharpe admitted. “Help me get him up the ramp
so we can get him out of the rain.”
“Why did you shoot him?”
Sharpe considered his response. “His orders were ill-conceived. He
was about to undertake a suicide mission. Now he won’t.”
McKay lifted O’Neill’s legs while Sharpe hoisted him up by his
shoulders and the two men carried the colonel up the ramp to lay him at
the foot of the entrance beneath the archway.
“How much longer until you can get the rings operational?”
McKay shrugged. “At this rate, I’d have to say … never. We need
that wrist device.”
“Here,” Sharpe said, while tossing McKay a small object.
McKay caught it without knowing what it was. When he realized
what he had just caught, he turned a little pale. “C4?”
“Blow the damn door, McKay. I’m going off to buy you as much
time as I can.”
By now, they could see the massive horde entering the outskirts of
the city like a bunch of cockroaches scurrying around in the dark.
Sharpe pulled out his night-vision binoculars and monitored their
progress. They appeared to be slow moving, almost wandering
aimlessly, until they detected something living. When they came upon
an animal stall near one of the homes, several dozen lunged toward the
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herd, piling on top of the doomed animals in a tidal wave of flesh,
blood and screams.
“You have got to be kidding!” McKay exclaimed, while also
watching the carnage unfold. “You’re going to go out there to face …
that?!”
Sharpe took a deep breath and mustered up his courage.
“That’s the job, McKay,” he said. “I wouldn’t expect you to
understand since you’re not in the military. Every time you step
through the gate, the only thing you can truly count on is the people in
your unit and the trust you have that they’ve got your six when things
go wrong. My assessment of this mission is that things have gone
horribly wrong.”
“Yeah, I’d have to agree with you on that,” McKay said, his tone
conveying how screwed he thought they all were.
“You need time to get inside the pyramid, right? I’m going to buy
you some of the time you need. Make good use of it, huh?”
McKay nodded. “It’s … yeah.”
With that, Sharpe went off into the night on his final mission.
They weren’t like the zombies depicted in movies, that’s for sure. In
the movies, they walked stiffly and were almost, if not entirely,
decomposed. In the movies, even the ones that were mostly skeletons
could still see, even without eyes. But the best part about the movies?
You could take them out by shooting them in the head.
That wasn’t the case here.
Sharpe positioned himself atop a sand dune and watched the edge of
the city. They were starting to filter in, a few here and there. Every now
and then, they would stop and stiff the air around them, which made
him suspect they couldn’t see anything through those pale eyes of
theirs. He scanned the area and located one that was separated from the
group by at least seventy yards.
He picked that one to see what he was up against.
The P90 is an incredible weapon, he thought, even as he took aim.
It carries a fifty-round top-loading magazine with a cyclical rate of fire
at 900 rounds per minute. On a single shot setting, the P90 is capable of
putting a Teflon coated bullet right up someone’s nostril up to three
hundred yards away.
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That’s exactly what he did. The creature arched backward when the
bullet hit and crashed to the earth, hard.
The shot didn’t “kill” it. Instead, the wounded thing continued to
writhe on the ground until it eventually was able to get back to it’s feet,
lunging ahead angrily with it’s arms outstretched, blindly searching for
whatever it was that had attacked it. Most of its head was split open,
exposing its brain, as dark fluid oozed down its face and upper torso.
Sharpe looked back toward the pyramid. Electrical currents
continued to streak upward along the outer layer and into the sphere
hovering at its apex. Only the archway and the entrance to the structure
seemed free of the deadly current. That probably meant that whatever
had brought these people back from death was keeping them that way.
That also meant they couldn’t be killed.
“Shit,” he said. “Plan B.”
If they couldn’t be killed, then maybe they could be disabled.
Sharpe re-aimed his weapon and fired two shots at the creature’s knees.
Each shot connected and its kneecaps exploded, causing the creature to
stumble and fall forward with an agonizing scream. Those screams
attracted the attention of the others. Several dozen came forward,
sniffing the air. There was a moment of stillness and then, all at once,
they charged in his direction.
He lobbed a grenade.
When it exploded, five or six of them were flung into the air, their
bodies opening up and their limbs scattering in all directions. It didn’t
even slow the rest of them down. Scores of undead people walked over
their fallen comrades, who, themselves, continued to crawl forward,
dragging their mangled bodies toward him in animalistic hunger.
He threw another grenade but the result was the same. That brought
the total number of disabled to approximately twelve.
There were hundreds more behind them.
Sharpe stood up.
Then he charged the mass, firing his P90 into the crowd as he went.
Bodies were torn apart in the wake of the weapon’s fire until he
exhausted his clip.
He reloaded.
He fired again, but now they were almost upon him.
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He fired at a man, hitting him pointblank in the chest, his ribcage
and flesh shredding open to reveal his soft inner organs and un-beating
heart. He emptied the last of his clips into another cluster, ripping their
torsos into shards of bone and bloody pulp.
Then, a woman grabbed him from behind and bit into his left
shoulder. He reached for his sidearm with his left hand, lifted the
weapon to the edge of her temple and pulled the trigger. The shot rang
in his ears and he felt a wet mist spray him in the face.
Then he saw a child approach, who was maybe six or seven years
old. He pointed his weapon, but hesitated. That child rewarded him by
diving forward and biting a chunk out of his right leg. Instinctively,
Sharpe fired his sidearm. Again. And again. The mangled, small body
lay at his feet, twitching in violent spasms.
Revolted by the sight of the child, Sharpe started backing away; but
now he was surrounded. Cold, dead hands pulled at him violently,
forcing him down while mouths opened and began to gnaw at his skin,
pulling bits of his flesh away in painful chunks.
The pain was excruciating, but he knew it would be over soon.
His hand moved into his pocket and pulled the detonator free. He
lifted the safety cap and fingered the trigger.
“Go to hell,” he said, defiantly, as the mob began to feast.
•••
There was an enormous explosion in the distance.
Teal’C barely noticed. He spat blood onto the dark, wet sand, and
then lunged forward for an attack.
But his opponent was anticipating his move. Sparks flew as the
metallic staff weapons collided, but then Anhur swung low and struck
Teal’C’s legs out from under him. He fell backwards, but rolled,
managing to dodge Anhur’s downward thrust. His opponent’s staff
weapon plunged deep into the sand where Teal’C’s head had been only
seconds before.
As Teal’C rose to his feet, he realized with a grim clarity that this
fight could have been over only seconds after it started. His enemy was
merely toying with him, seeing how much punishment he could
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withstand. That was fine with Teal’C. The longer he managed to
preoccupy Anhur, the longer his friends were safe from this monster.
His legs were unsteady beneath his own weight. His staff weapon
was far heavier than it had ever been. He was bleeding from cuts,
scrapes, and deep wounds too numerous to count—perhaps even
beyond his symbiote’s ability to heal. His ribs were fractured, and he
was likely suffering from internal bleeding as well.
He would probably die tonight.
But he would die free.
•••
O’Neill hangs in the dusty, stale air, suspended by a rope, the
abrasive strands digging deep into his wrist while blood streams down
his arms, making them both slick and sticky. The sounds of people
screaming fill the dark interior of Abu Ghraib, the Iraqi prison that
Frank Cromwell and the rest of his unit abandoned him to.
There is a car battery on the floor. There is a dark figure standing
next to it, his face hidden by shadow.
“You are an American, eh?” he asks, his voice thick with an Iraqi
accent.
“Nope,” O’Neill replies, in English. “I’m a Russian.”
“I think not.”
The car battery is attached to jumper cables. The positive end is
fastened to one of the battery’s prongs while his Iraqi tormentor holds
the other. He opens up the clip and attaches it to O’Neill’s left earlobe.
Current rages through his body and his screams are added to the
chorus of Abu Ghraib, like a blossoming ballad of the damned.
There was an enormous explosion in the distance.
“What the … hell … was that?” O’Neill grumbled, as he lifted his
head and looked around, groggily.
McKay was still hovering over his laptop, trying to get the ring
platform to work. “You aren’t going to like it,” he replied. “I think that
explosion was the sound of Major Sharpe buying us some time. Now
we’re out of it and I still can’t get us inside the pyramid.”
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A flood of memories poured into O’Neill’s mind. Planet. Zombies.
C4. Suicide mission. Major Sharpe. The butt end of a Zat gun.
“Son of a bitch!” O’Neill shouted. “Where’s Teal’C?”
McKay kept talking without looking up. “He hasn’t come back
yet.”
“Damn it!” O’Neill sat up. “”Come on, we’re going to look for
him.”
“I’m not going anywhere!” McKay screamed. “Because if I can’t
get this door open, we are all going to die! And if that happens, colonel,
then Major Sharpe just died for nothing!”
Inwardly, O’Neill was impressed that Sharpe’s ultimate sacrifice
appeared to have had a profound affect on McKay. Outwardly, though,
O’Neill was getting tired of people second-guessing his command
decisions.
“Oh, yes you are, McKay!” he shouted back. “I’m not losing
anyone else on my team tonight! Now let’s go!”
O’Neill had had just about enough of this planet. He stood up,
grabbed his sidearm and tossed it toward McKay.
“You ever fire a weapon before?”
McKay just stared at the lump of cold, deadly metal in his hands.
“I built a nuclear bomb in grade school, once, for a science fair
project? Does that count?”
O’Neill sighed. “No.”
He then walked over to McKay and pointed out the various
functions of the weapon in a hurried fashion. “Here’s the safety. Here’s
where the clips go. Here’s the trigger. Got it?”
“Uh … got it.”
Minutes later:
The undead horde had made it into the city. In ones, in twos, or in
groups, they filed in, searching through scent, hungry for flesh.
O’Neill stopped dead in his tracks. McKay did the same.
A woman tilted her head in their direction, seeking to ascertain
whether they were close. Her body was charred around her mid-section
and her torso was opened up to expose her ribcage. Her head was also
burnt and pitted; her hair was singed and gone.
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She caught their scent and let out a blood-curling scream. Then she
charged in their direction as they made their way through the maze-like
residential area of the city.
O’Neill fired his P90, concentrating the deadly barrage on her
already-damaged chest area. The wound opened up, kicking bits of
pulpy flesh free until the bullets tore deep into her chest cavity. It
knocked her down, finally, but she continued to crawl toward them,
clawing at the dark sand as she made her way forward.
Two walking corpses approached from behind her.
O’Neill fired at them, too, and tore them to shreds before they could
make it within twenty feet of their position. Then he heard McKay
shriek from behind him. O’Neill turned and saw Captain Gary Taylor
(or what was left of him, anyway) pulling McKay close to his mouth as
if he intended to take a bite out of the frightened scientist.
Taylor’s throat appeared to be cut and someone had removed his
heart. There was a very distinctive, dark, gaping hole in his chest where
the vital organ had been, and O’Neill shuddered when he realized the
final fate of the man formerly under his command.
It only took seconds for O’Neill to remember that this monster was
no longer the Gary Taylor that he knew, but rather a dangerous threat
that intended to kill Rodney McKay in the worst way imaginable.
“Shoot him!” McKay shouted.
But O’Neill couldn’t. At least not while Taylor was holding McKay
so close. Instead, he took a grenade and ran toward the animated
remains of Taylor.
For four long months, O’Neill languished in darkness at Abu
Ghraib. They kept him isolated from the other prisoners within a
cement room in solitary confinement. There were no windows, and no
discernable way to measure the passage of time. There was no
washbasin or toilet, and the flies were attracted to the stench,
swarming throughout the small interior and nesting in his raw, open
wounds. He dined on a meager ration of stale bread and brown water,
which was slid under the door sporadically.
It is under these conditions that a man’s true nature will emerge. It
was here that the surface layers of his personality peeled away under
the duress of daily torture. Perhaps it was the loss of blood combined
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with malnutrition, but in the darkness of the room, O’Neill saw faces
hovering in the deep black. They flowed like ink in murky water, or like
smoke in stagnant air.
He saw his wife. He saw his son, Charlie.
And he knew, then, what he had to do.
“Get down!” he shouted to McKay, as he ran up and punched
Taylor square in the nose, shattering the bone and cartilage into a red,
clumpy mess. The thing that used to be Taylor staggered backward and
released his grip on McKay, who then ducked down as ordered.
Five more of the undead were rushing toward O’Neill, screeching
with hellish fury. They would be on him in seconds.
O’Neill keeps his own counsel. He is flippant, sarcastic, and he has
a wry sense of humor that he uses strategically. It disarms when he
wants it to and enrages when the situation calls for it. He uses it so
often, people no longer notice that he never really tells them anything
about who he truly is. Beneath that exterior, there is a warrior, far
more intelligent than he lets on, and far more deadly than he is given
credit for.
In prison, especially Abu Ghraib, hours pass like a blade sliding
across soft, pale skin.
“Let’s try this again, eh?” his Iraqi torturer says, slightly amused
at the daily ritual they share. “You are an American, yes?”
“No,” O’Neill replies. “I’m French. My name is … Pépe Le Pew.”
“I think not.”
O’Neill hangs in the dusty, stale air, suspended by a rope. His legs
are cuffed and chained. He has been beaten and tortured for months,
and given little food and barely any water. He shouldn’t have the
strength to lift his head, and yet, even as he lifts his legs and kicks his
tormentor squarely in the groin and then wraps his leg chains around
the vile man’s neck, he sees a dawning realization in the bastard’s
eyes. That realization soon becomes horror and then fades into nothing
as O’Neill squeezes his legs tight until he hears the satisfying snap.
O’Neill killed fourteen people that day, while escaping the confines
of Abu Ghraib because the Iraqi torturer had made a grave
miscalculation. Not only had he become overconfident, reveling in the
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J. D. STIVER
breaking of his captor, he had failed to understand the basic nature of
the man that he had sought to break. It isn’t from food or water that
O’Neill draws his resolve.
In truth, he draws his greatest strength from the ones he loves.
Five more of the undead were rushing toward O’Neill, screeching
with hellish fury. Taylor writhed in his arms like a wounded animal,
lashing out in blind rage, but O’Neill ignored the danger. Instead, he
took his grenade and jammed it into Taylor’s open chest cavity. Once
the pin was pulled, he spun as hard as he could and flung the body into
the approaching horde.
It exploded in a maelstrom of blood and fire, severely wounding all
five and shattering Taylor from within.
McKay was still crouched on the ground, his arms wrapped around
his head, scared to death. O’Neill jerked the man back up to his feet.
“Get up and start shooting!” he ordered. “And don’t stop until we
find Teal’C!”
McKay discharged his weapon. A few of the bullets even struck
their target. None of them slowed the approaching horde.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” McKay shouted, frantically.
O’Neill opened fire with his P90, finishing off the few that McKay
had hit. He then lobbed his last grenade, then grabbed McKay and
plunged to the ground for cover, as heated fragments of bone and metal
scattered overhead.
There was a walled-in area nearby. He could see a garden beyond
the entrance. There was movement inside.
“Teal’C!”
Lightning slid across the dark sky like bright fractures in the
heavens, as the wind and rain spilled forth in fury, as if mirroring the
death duel taking place far below.
Metal met metal and sparks flew like the fall of tiny angels, as each
warrior spun, struck and pivoted in a graceful, ageless dance.
“Teal’C!” O’Neill shouted, as he made his way into the garden of
palm trees and statues of angry gods.
Teal’C lunged at his attacker, his staff weapon held high for a
downward strike, but Anhur stepped back, avoiding the blow. The risky
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
move had left Teal’C wide open and his opponent seized the moment to
unleash a torrent of quick, punishing blows, which tore into the
weakened Jaffa’s body like a vengeful storm of hammers.
As Anhur prepared to deliver his coup de grâce, he swung his staff
weapon and struck Teal’C in his right knee near the area where the
grenade shrapnel was lodged, and, as Teal’C fell, Anhur swung the
other end of the weapon upward toward his temple with the intention of
knocking him out.
Instead, Teal’C lifted his arm to block the blow and the weapon
smashed into his forearm, cracking the bone beneath his blood-soaked
skin. The Jaffa cried out in agony and rolled away from his attacker
like a wounded animal.
As the distance between Teal’C and Anhur widened, however
slightly, the ancient warrior turned, instinctively knowing that O’Neill
would use that opportunity to attack.
O’Neill fired his P90, but Anhur was ready. He pressed a button on
the Goa’uld wrist device and a yellowish energy shield enveloped him,
crackling as each bullet struck the impenetrable force field.
The son of a bitch smiled.
When O’Neill exhausted his clip, the force field dispersed and
Anhur lifted his staff weapon to unleash a deadly salvo of his own. This
time, it was O’Neill who was ready, as he dove to safety behind the
garden’s wall while the barrage of deadly plasma streaked above his
head.
“He’s got an energy shield!” McKay shouted. “Is he a Gould?”
“I have HAD it with this planet!” O’Neill shouted back, enraged.
“Give me that C4!”
McKay tossed him the single block of C4 that Major Sharpe had
left him. To his credit, if there was any thought in McKay’s mind that
he was giving up their only chance to open the pyramid door by
surrendering the explosive, he didn’t show it. O’Neill took the C4 and
stuck the charge deep within its malleable surface. Then he set the
block on the ground and took out his knife and then stabbed it right
through the center.
Finally, he pulled out the detonator from his vest pocket, lifted the
safety cap and fingered the trigger with his left hand. With his right
hand, he clutched the knife handle tightly.
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“When I give the word, I want you to lay down suppression fire,
got it?”
“Uh … huh?” McKay said, uneasily.
“Now!”
McKay nodded, then leaned into the entrance and fired O’Neill’s
sidearm. Again, Anhur pressed the button on the wrist device and the
energy shield sparkled into existence, creating a false sense of security
for the bloodthirsty Jaffa standing behind it.
O’Neill stood and walked through the entrance, his eyes burning
with anger. “Let’s see you smile at this.”
The knife sliced though the air with precision, carrying its deadly
package. It cut through the shield like warm butter and plunged deep
into Anhur’s left shoulder. Anhur tilted his gaze down at the foreign
object sticking out of his body; clearly unaware of the danger it posed.
“Say hi to Ra for me, asshole.”
O’Neill pulled the trigger and the resulting blast bathed Anhur in
righteous fire, kicking him sideways as his entrails spilled out with
explosive fury. Charred meat and shards of bone were strewn in bloody
clumps throughout the garden, as the once great Jaffa warrior tumbled
down like Lucifer falling into the awaiting inferno.
In the fiery wake, O’Neill listened to the sounds around him, fully
aware that they were not yet out of danger. Now, there were only
several hundred more undead, restless souls to contend with in this
unholy section of hell, and O’Neill, for his part, was still angry enough
to take on every, single one of them.
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XVI
An energy burst is fired down the darkened corridor and everything
glows briefly blue and green, the color of fireworks. Her father is hit,
thrusting him violently back into the cement-lined wall, his left
shoulder aflame.
They’re pinned down. Someone is shooting at them.
Carter awoke on Maybourne’s couch after having dozed off for
roughly an hour. Sheer exhaustion had finally gotten the better of her.
Outside, the sun was going down, casting a brilliant, yellowish orange
light into the living room through the outside window.
Maybourne was nowhere around and hadn’t been for a while. She
wondered where he was. She needed to wake up. She needed to think
clearly.
She needed a cup of coffee.
She sat groggily on the couch for a moment, staring at the
diminishing sunlight filtering into the room. It reflected from the offwhite walls like the color fire, and this stirred a distant memory within
her. Fire. She’d been dreaming about fire. Or was it fireworks?
No matter.
She slipped on her shoes and then walked into the kitchen to make
some coffee. (She’d made sure to pick some up on the way over.)
While she waited for the coffee to perk, she turned on the television to
see if any new details about Dr. Tobaine’s death were being released.
“A highly respected local doctor was killed in a plane crash shortly
after visiting the president,” the newscaster reported, in what Carter felt
was an entirely too upbeat manner. “But first, police are searching for a
man who opened fire at shoppers in an area Super-Mart today, injuring
one man and taking another hostage.”
Carter stood up and walked over to the coffee maker, while
continuing to listen to the broadcast.
“He’d been planning this for a while, you could tell,” a young
man’s voice reported. The newscaster said the man’s name was Jake
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J. D. STIVER
Sanders, an employee of the Super-Mart. “He just loaded up the rifle
that he made me give him and started shooting wildly, at random.”
“Sounds like a nasty guy,” Carter said, as she sat back down and
took her first sip of coffee.
“After opening fire and wounding at least one man, the shooter
then took another man hostage and made his way to the parking lot,
where he stole a 1996 silver Ford Explorer.”
Carter heard screeching tires outside the widow, as someone
frantically hit his brakes after having driven at a high rate of speed. She
leaned over and peered outside. She saw a 1996 silver Ford Explorer.
“Investigators have released this surveillance video from the SuperMart, and are asking anyone with information to contact police right
away.”
The surveillance video showed Harry Maybourne firing the rifle as
shoppers fled the scene of the crime, screaming.
Carter spat out her coffee. “Holy Hannah!”
Outside, Maybourne got out of the Explorer, and Carter suddenly
wished she’d taken her chances in her own motel room with the NID.
“There has been no word yet on the condition of the man who was
wounded by the shooter. Back to you, Fred.”
•••
“I didn’t kill anybody!” Maybourne insisted. “I shot him in the
shoulder. He’ll be fine.”
Even as Carter rode in the passenger seat of Maybourne’s minivan,
she still couldn’t believe she’d been talked into riding along with a
wanted fugitive who’d just been on a shooting spree.
“Where’s the rifle, Maybourne?”
“I left it there. I didn’t pay for it. I’m not a thief, you know.”
Carter rolled her eyes. “And the hostage?”
“I’m taking you to him,” he said. “I’ve got him in an abandon
factory where I stashed a hidden weapon’s cache for emergencies. He’s
not just some shopper, despite what the news is saying. He’s NID. He
and his buddies just killed an informant of mine.”
Carter and Maybourne exchanged stories.
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“So, both of our leads just turned into dead ends?” Carter
concluded. “What now?”
“Now we go and question the NID agent I’ve got tied to a chair, and
we make him talk by any means necessary.”
Carter wasn’t sure she liked the dark tone in Maybourne’s voice.
“And if he doesn’t want to talk?” she asked, bracing herself for the
answer. “We’re not going to kill him, Maybourne. No matter how
much we want the information. No mater what he did, we’re not going
to sink down to that level.”
Maybourne kept driving, without making eye contact with her.
“We’re going to do what we have to do, major. This isn’t just some
technology grab. It was made to look like one, but it isn’t. You
remember the Aschen?”
Oh, yeah. She remembered the Aschen. About a year ago, a strange,
blood-spattered note came through the Stargate in Colonel Jack
O’Neill’s handwriting, written on a type of paper that hasn’t been
invented—yet. The note warned that under no circumstances were they
to visit P4C-970.
Two months ago, they found out why. Though General Hammond
had taken the note’s warning seriously and locked out that address, they
did visit another world relatively close and unwittingly made contact
with the Aschen through another race, the Volians.
At first, the Aschen appeared to be a benevolent race that not only
possessed technological superiority over the Goa’uld, but were also
willing to share it as well. However, after further investigation into the
Volians’ past, they soon discovered that the Aschen were a conquering
race that used their technology to spread sterility to the population of
the worlds they controlled.
When this truth was brought to light, the Aschen tried to release a
biogenic weapon through Earth’s Stargate. The attempt was narrowly
averted, and cost the life of one of Earth’s ambassadors, Joe Faxon,
“This is going to come as a surprise to you, major, but SG-1 wasn’t
the first off-world team to encounter the Aschen,” Maybourne said.
“My team was. Four years ago.”
“What?”
“Back when we were using the second Stargate, we decided to
explore a few planets of our own so we wouldn’t cross paths with
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J. D. STIVER
anyone from the SGC. We didn’t know it at the time, but one of those
planets was located within the Aschen Confederation. My team found
what they thought was a meaningless farming planet until they
discovered a harvester floating overhead.”
“Let me guess what happened next,” Carter interrupted. “You stole
it?”
“Well … yeah,” Maybourne admitted. “We had to take it apart first,
though. We wanted to study it and then reverse-engineer the antigravity
plates, but we found something else when we began dissecting it. At
first, we didn’t know what it was—no one did until your report
surfaced two months ago. A giant sphere that looks kinda like a huge,
metallic ribcage?”
A chill ran down the length of Carter’s spine.
“I see by the look on your face that you know what I’m talking
about,” Maybourne said. “Anyway, we probably would’ve determined
what it was … eventually. But not long after that, SG-1 caught us using
the second Stargate and forced my team into hiding. The item we
recovered from the Aschen has been sitting in a subbasement at Area
51 all this time. Very few people even know it’s there, not that any of
them would admit they know since the knowledge could land them in
prison.”
Carter couldn’t believe something that dangerous was just lying
around Area 51, unprotected. “My God, Maybourne, do you even know
what it is you had?”
“It’s a weapon of mass destruction that makes a nuke look like a
firecracker,” Maybourne said. “And it’s missing.”
The chill Carter was experiencing got even worse. She could feel
the hair on her head standing on end. “What?! Missing?”
“That’s what my informant at Area 51 was telling me before
someone put a bullet through his head. It’s missing. And not just that,
some other device is missing too.”
“What device?” Carter demanded.
“Well I don’t know,” Maybourne replied. “He got killed before he
could tell me. So now I’m thinking we should ask the NID agent I’ve
got stashed away. And if he doesn’t want to talk, I’m thinking we
should make him.”
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Carter thought about what Maybourne was suggesting. It didn’t sit
right with her at all, but what choice did they really have? How far
would she be willing to go to get the truth?
“It’s doubtful the agent you captured was even privy to the
information we need,” Carter asserted.
Maybourne was undeterred. “Only one way to find out,” he
countered. “According to your own report, that Aschen device is an
advanced delivery system capable of dispersing a bio-weapon on a
global scale. Now that SG-1 is on a mission to bring back a piece of
Ancient tech that can cure or create new and wonderful diseases, this
situation isn’t adding up to anything good.”
•••
“Maybourne has taken one of my agents,” Tobias reported to the
Committee, via a secure satellite feed from inside his apartment.
“Another is in custody following a hospital—”
The face that was glaring at him from his flat-panel monitor was not
happy. “We don’t care about your agents! What we care about is
learning how this operation became botched to the point of becoming a
media circus!”
Tobias clenched his fists. “Maybourne likely selected the park
because of its close proximity to the Super-Mart, possibly to draw
attention to the Committee’s involvement,” he said. “I remind you all
that I did offer to remove Maybourne from the equation, and you failed
to see the wisdom in that offer.”
That silenced them—but not in a good way. They all sat there
stewing in their anger, and Tobias knew he’d just pressed their buttons.
“Do not take that tone with us, Tobias. We are unimpressed with
your handling of this situation, thus far.”
Tobias didn’t care if they were pissed. He decided to press further.
“I know where they are,” he said. “I know where they’ve taken my
agent, and I’m willing to remove the thorn from your paw if you will
simply allow me to do what I do best.”
The Committee weighed their options. Tobias knew they were
angry—an anger that he had purposefully stoked—and now he had
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pressed them into making a decision about whether they would allow
him to kill Maybourne and Carter.
They were angry enough that he knew what their answer would be.
“Very well Tobias,” they agreed. “Do not fail us again, or we will
be forced to terminate our working relationship with you.”
“Yes,” Tobias retorted. “And I think we all know what that means.
But since that hasn’t happen yet, and, presently, we are all such good
chums, I need you to send me something first.”
•••
Whatever the abandon factory made before it became abandon was
hard to tell. The outside of the structure was composed of large gray
bricks, broken windows, and graffiti. The inside had been practically
gutted long ago, except for huge scraps of rusty metal, strewn
throughout the dust-covered interior.
Here and there, Carter could see evidence that homeless people had
been using the building as a dwelling. Discarded mattresses and a
abundant amount of trash were piled in various spots, including
newspapers, soda cans, and shopping carts filled with clothing and
other assorted junk.
Some of those people had been inside the factory recently, she
noted, as evidenced by the semi-fresh urine stain on a nearby wall. That
area smelled foul, like ammonia, and Carter couldn’t imagine anyone
living under these conditions.
“Nice place you have here, Maybourne,”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, sarcastically. “A bit of a fixer upper, but
you can’t beat the rent. And what it lacks in aesthetics, it more than
makes up for in privacy. I ran all the homeless people out, except one.”
They progressed through the dilapidated structure until they
eventually came to a room, sectioned off from the vast interior toward
the back of the building. It had clearly been an office at some point in
the distant past.
There, sitting in the corner and tied to a wooden chair with
electrical tape, the NID agent was held prisoner. A homeless man who
looked to be in mid-fifties, who had a long, gray beard and calm, pale
blue eyes was guarding the agent.
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“This is Lt. Wilkerson,” Maybourne said, introducing the homeless
man, who appeared to be, in some strange way, employed by
Maybourne. “He’s undercover.”
Carter smiled in what she hoped was a non-threatening manner.
“Undercover? For who?”
“Starfleet,” Lt. Wilkerson replied, on the sly.
“Ah.”
“The prisoner tried to escape, captain. Many times. But he was
thwarted by my diligence.”
The agent glared at the homeless man, but said nothing, likely
because his mouth was taped shut.
“Good work,” Maybourne said. “I’ll note a … commendation in my
log, lieutenant.”
The homeless man beamed with pride.
“Here’s twenty bucks,” Maybourne added. “Why don’t you go and
get something to eat. And no Romulan Ale this time.”
He handed Wilkerson the money while Carter removed the tape
from the agent’s mouth. Before he left, Wilkerson attempted to show
his former prisoner that there were no hard feelings.
“Live long and prosper,” Wilkerson said, to the agent.
“Eat shit and die,” the agent replied.
Wilkerson then vanished into the darkened factory, mumbling
something to himself about “colorful metaphors.”
When they were sure he was gone, Maybourne went over to an
adjacent corner of the room and removed one of the large, gray bricks
from the bottom section of the wall. From there, he produced a bulky
metal toolbox that appeared old and rusted from disuse.
When he opened it, Carter was surprised to see a Zat, two
handguns, and something else she didn’t expect to see.
“You’ve got a Goa’uld pain stick?” she said, further concerned
where this interrogation was heading.
The pain stick was a Goa’uld torture device that looked something
like a high-tech cattle prod. It emitted a charge so powerful that it
caused the victim’s eyes, nose, and mouth to light up when they were
touched with it. O’Neill once told her that in all of his years of service,
he’d been shot, stabbed, sliced, electrocuted, and had so many bones
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J. D. STIVER
broken that he’d lost count—and none of it was worse than being hit
with the pain stick.
“Is that supposed to intimate me, Maybourne?” the agent spat,
defiantly. “I heard those things are little better than a Taser.”
Maybourne smiled, menacingly. “You heard wrong,” he said. “You
know, when I first got this thing, I thought how bad could it be? So I
had one of my guys zap me with it so I could find out. Dumbest idea I
ever had.”
He strolled around the agent’s chair, leisurely, while carrying the
pain stick. Carter knew that his body language was subconsciously
conveying to the prisoner that they had all the time in the world for
their upcoming chat. That, and he planned to savor the moment by
dragging it out. Carter then wondered if Maybourne had done this type
of thing before.
“When a person gets touched by one of these, the energy can be
seen pouring out of them—the ears, the mouth, the eyes. When it hits
the eyes, especially, it feels like a million little white-hot needles,
jabbing right into the optic nerve.”
“Have at it,” the agent dared. “I don’t know anything and I
wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
Maybourne smiled. “What makes you think I want information? I
don’t. I’m pissed because you killed a friend of mine today. And I’m
gonna take it out on you.”
Maybourne touched the agent’s stomach and he lit up like a burning
candle—a living candle, writhing in agony.
Carter turned away so she couldn’t see it. But she could still hear
him screaming.
•••
“I don’t know anything, I swear!” the agent sobbed, after enduring
the torture process for approximately ten minutes. “Our orders were to
take Greene out, but we never knew why!”
“Should have taken me out, too!” Maybourne shouted.
Then he lit the agent up again.
Carter, for her part, left the room soon after the “interrogation”
began. She leaned on a dirty wall and closed her eyes, trying to block
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out the man’s screams. She kept telling herself that this was necessary
and that they desperately needed whatever information this agent had.
But that nagging voice inside of her head kept expressing its
disappointment and revulsion for allowing this torture to continue.
That nagging voice sounded just like the colonel’s.
“So, we’re acting like Goulds, now?” the voice said.
“I don’t know what else to do, sir,” Carter responded, quietly within
her own mind. “He might know something or he might not, but he’s not
going to tell us either way. I think Maybourne’s right in at least one
regard: There’s more going on here than we know.”
“So, we’re acting like Goulds, now?” the voice repeated.
“What else can I do, sir?! What would you do?”
“Well,” the inner voice of O’Neill said, after considering the
question. “I think I’d start by shooting Maybourne. Then, I’d look to
you to think of something else. It’s why you’re on the team, Carter.
You’re supposed to be smart.”
Carter felt ashamed of herself, like she’d betrayed who and what
she is. She knew O’Neill and Hammond would be disappointed in her
as well, and that made it worse.
She drew her revolver. She went back into the room. Then she
pointed the revolver at Maybourne.
“Maybourne, stop!” she ordered. “If you touch him with that again,
I’m going to shoot you.”
Maybourne turned, slowly and angrily. “You’re starting to sound
like Jack.”
“Thanks. Now, step away from him.”
Maybourne locked eyes with Carter and saw that she wasn’t
bluffing. He dropped the pain stick and began backing away from the
agent.
“We’ve been through this, major,” Maybourne pressed. “There’s no
other way to get the information we need.”
Carter smiled and shook her head, dismissing his assertion.
“There’s always another way,” she said. “We’ve just got to be
smarter than them. But even if there wasn’t another way, that doesn’t
give us the right to act like the enemy we’re fighting. We’re supposed
to be better than that, remember?”
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She could tell by Maybourne’s face that he didn’t agree. Maybe he
didn’t remember because he never knew it in the first place.
Maybourne subscribed to the belief that they needed to protect the
planet at any cost—lying, stealing, torturing, killing—and now, more
than ever, she was thankful that she worked with people who knew
better than that.
The NID agent sat wearily in his chair. “You couldn’t have had this
moral epiphany ten minutes ago? Bitch.”
“Maybourne, hand me your Zat,” she said.
Maybourne handed her the Zat. Then Carter shot the agent. He
shook spastically as the blue electrical field coursed through his body,
and then he slumped in his seat, unconscious.
“Now that we’re alone, Maybourne, I’ve been thinking. Did he have
anything on him when you captured him? Like a cell phone?”
Maybourne thought about it. “Yeah. So?”
“So, if Michael Tobias is as good as you say he is, then he knows
you can track a person’s whereabouts using their cell phone. In fact,
he’s probably already on his way here.”
Maybourne glanced down at the lump of personal effects he
collected from the agent and then piled in the corner of the room—his
revolver, bulletproof vest, wallet (no ID card or driver’s license) and
his cell phone.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” he asked, rhetorically.
“It’s why I’m on the team,” Carter said. “Come on, I have a plan.”
•••
Michael Tobias found the factory located approximately twentyseven miles from Maybourne’s apartment, on the northern outskirts of
Las Vegas.
If they were expecting him at all, they probably sat a trap. He
smiled as he thought about that notion. Major Carter no doubt believes
that her cloaking device will protect her as it had before.
She was wrong.
“This is Manager,” Tobias said, into his headset. “I have found the
probable location of Agent Hobbs. It looks to be a derelict building,
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most likely an abandon factory. Please confirm I am in the vicinity of
Hobb’s cell phone.”
“Confirmed, Manager. Would you like backup?”
“Negative,” Tobias said. “This one is personal. Manager, out.”
Tobias took off his headset and set it inside his glove compartment.
On the passenger side seat, a metallic carrying case was resting. He
opened it and his smile widened.
From what he gathered from NID intelligence, the SGC was once
attacked by invisible aliens some time ago. They were able to
overcome this threat only because an additional race of aliens, the
Tok’ra, lent them two handheld weapons that emitted a scanning beam
capable of detecting cloaked people or objects. They called the weapon
a Transphase Eradication Rod (TER).
The problem? They only had two. It then became necessary to
reverse engineer the technology for mass production. Fortunately, and
unknown the SGC, the corporation that was selected for this task has
financial ties to the Committee.
Tobias held the prototype in his hand.
Unlike the TER the Tok’ra delivered, this version was designed to
operate similarly to a laser sight and was mounted on top of a standard
P90. It didn’t look like much, but from what he understood, it cost
several million dollars to develop (from initial research to prototype).
Coupled with the cost to pay him, and he figured they must really want
Maybourne and Carter dead.
He couldn’t blame them. He’d have taken this job for free.
He slid his black leather sport jacket over his bulletproof vest and
slapped a cartridge into the P90. Then he gathered some supplementary
equipment, including five additional P90 cartridges, two stun grenades,
trip wire, and infrared goggles.
After that, he committed himself to murder.
•••
Outside the factory, a homeless man sat with a bottle of his favorite
cheap whiskey, singing drunken songs to himself merrily in the
moonlight.
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Tobias used a riflescope to get a closer look at the man’s face
before he closed in on the factory’s location. He wanted to ensure that
it wasn’t Maybourne or Carter in some sort of flimsy disguise. (Though
this was, perhaps, a bit overcautious. Even from where Tobias was
standing, the man smelled as if he’d been bathing in whiskey rather
than just drinking it.)
Once Tobias had assessed the homeless man was no threat, he
moved around to the back of the building until he located a fire escape.
From there, he scaled upward to the second floor. The window was
boarded up, but the wood had long since rotted away. The planks came
loose instantly and quietly, almost like they were made of paper.
He snuck inside through the window and made his way along the
cluttered upper level. The interior of the factory was dark, which could
be used to his advantage. If either of them were cloaked, it would help
if they couldn’t see him either.
Tobias then located the front entrance and decided to risk losing one
of his stun grenades. It made sense that Carter or Maybourne might
choose to remain near the main entrance to guard against incursion,
especially if they felt safe behind a cloaking field.
If they had, he’d know it soon enough.
The stun grenade he’d brought was a an M84 NFDD, capable of
producing a blinding flash between six to eight million candela, with a
blast that measures between 170 to 180 db SPL. (Very bright, very
loud.)
He pulled the pin and lobbed it downward toward the bottom level,
near the entrance. Then he shielded his eyes and ears, and for good
reason. If lightning were to ever strike inside a building, this is what it
would look and sound like.
Flash. Bang. Pop.
Once the burst subsided, he darted up to his feet and scanned the
area with his TER scope. After a few seconds, it revealed Carter
running, disorientated and blindly, toward the cover of a nearby brick
wall. Tobias never gave her a chance to make it. He aimed the P90 and
fired a single shot, hitting her square in the chest, thrusting her body
backward to land, crimpled and broken, into the dirt-covered cement
floor.
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Tobias felt a ping of regret surge through him. It shouldn’t have
been this easy. In truth, he felt a little cheated.
One down. One to go.
•••
Carter wasn’t dead, after all.
Tobias found her breathing and struggling to make it up to her feet.
She was attempting to crawl away pathetically when she heard him
nearing her position. She turned and tried to raise her revolver toward
him, but he beat her to it.
“Don’t,” he said, the barrel of his P90 aimed point blank at her
forehead. The barrel was so close to her face that she almost had to
cross her eyes to focus on it. Tobias let her linger a minute, enjoying
the sight of this supposedly brilliant scientist and skilled military
officer, sprawling in filth with her eyes crossed.
He almost laughed.
“I don’t know what the aliens are like that you fight, major, but they
must be pretty stupid.”
“They’re overconfident, mostly,” she replied in a weak, almost
breathless manner.
“Unbutton your shirt,” Tobias ordered.
Carter was defiant. “No.”
He reached down and jerked her up to her feet. Then he ripped her
shirt open to reveal a bulletproof vest, exact in every way to his own.
“This type of vest is not on the market yet,” Tobias said. “It belongs
to my agent, doesn’t it?”
Carter was angry. “What do you think?”
He smiled. “I think you’re going to take me to him. And I think
Maybourne will be nearby. And from there, I think I’m going to kill
you both.”
The cloaking device was attached to Carter’s vest. Tobias pulled it
free and then dropped it on the floor. Then he shot it, rendering what
was once a technological marvel into nothing more than a smoldering
clump of charred metal.
“No more hiding,” Tobias said. “Time to settle up with your past.”
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•••
Maybourne had chosen to barricade himself in a confined room
within the factory, which only had one means of escape—a solitary
doorway, which Tobias now blocked. He could already spot his agent,
slumped in a chair, unconscious.
Maybourne was armed. A shot rang out and narrowly missed
Tobias’ shoulder, striking the edge of the cement doorframe instead,
and kicking bits of rock freely into the air.
Tobias pushed Carter into the doorway while he remained out of
Maybourne’s line of fire. Then he pressed the barrel of his P90 into the
side of her head.
“Throw out your weapon, Maybourne,” Tobias ordered. “Or I’ll kill
her.”
“Cloaking device didn’t work out this time, huh?” Maybourne said,
to Carter.
“Nope.”
“Nice plan.”
“Are you just getting accustomed to seeing me blow your friends’
heads apart, Maybourne?” Tobias interjected. “Throw your weapon
out.”
“I’ve got a question, first,” Maybourne replied. “How do you know
I’ve only got one weapon? What if I shoot you in the forehead when
you peak around the corner to see if I’ve completely disarmed? Just a
thought.”
“Have it your way.”
With that, Tobias shoved Carter into the room toward the sound of
Maybourne’s voice, and then he lobbed the last of his stun grenades
into the enclosed area.
Even with his eyes shut and his hands covering his ears, the bang
was staggering. He almost felt sorry for Carter, who had to endure it a
second time.
Before they could rebound, Tobias rushed in and struck Maybourne
in the head with the butt of his P90. The man staggered backward until
he hit the cement wall and then fell over, defeated.
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Maybourne wasn’t lying. He did have two handguns. Angered,
Tobias kicked him in the chest, forcing all the air out of his lungs and
possibly breaking a few of his ribs.
It felt good, so he did it a few more times.
Carter tried to help him by attempting to rush Tobias, so he shot her
in the chest again. He knew she was wearing a vest so it wouldn’t kill
her, but it would hurt like hell, and the bruise would linger for months.
Or, at least, it would’ve lingered for months if she had that long,
which she didn’t.
“I’ve seen farmers in third world villages put up a better fight than
you two did,” Tobias bragged. “And you’re the one who beat out my
sister for a position in the SGC?”
Carter was struggling to get air back into her lungs. Maybourne was
doing the same; only he was coughing up blood.
“I’ve … ” Carter said, trying to speak. “I’ve … received … combat
training.”
“What? That’s why you beat out Clare? Because you had better
combat training than she did? Lot of good it did you.”
Carter nodded and smiled. The smile was laced with agony, but
there was something else about it that Tobias recognized instantly.
Victory.
Something was wrong. He turned, but it was too late.
The homeless man shot him with a Zat, and only then did he realize
he’d been had.
•••
Thirty-two minutes earlier:
“That’s a really stupid idea, major,” Maybourne argued. “I thought
you were the smart member of SG-1.”
Carter shrugged off the criticism. “I once destroyed three Replicator
ships with a stupid idea, Maybourne. Besides, what choice do we
have?”
Maybourne thought about it, and was reluctantly forced to agree.
Their options were limited. He suspected Carter was right. Tobias was
probably on the way. Their hope was that this mission was so personal
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J. D. STIVER
for him that he would opt to go it alone, thinking his skills would be
more than a match for the two of them.
He thought that because he was right. That’s why Carter wanted to
bring in a third person.
“But Wilkerson? Isn’t there anyone else? In case you haven’t
noticed, the guy’s a few fries short of a happy meal.”
Carter shrugged. “Yeah, I … I did notice. But we have to assume
that Tobias is on his way here already. We don’t have the time to send
for backup. Besides, Tobias has received military training, which
means assessing a threat is second nature to him. So what we have to
do is recruit someone who shouldn’t pose a threat.”
“But, Wilkerson?”
“Listen,” Carter added, seeking to stress her point. “We’ll give him
a Zat. We’ll tell him it’s a … ”
“… Phaser ... ”
“Right. A Phaser. All he has to do is wait until we’re in position and
then fire the Zat.”
Yeah,” Maybourne thought. But getting into position isn’t going to
be a picnic.
“Look,” Carter said, pushing forward with her argument. “I’ve
surveyed the building. There are too many windows and cracks in the
walls big enough for a person can squeeze through. There’s no way to
guard all the entrances and defend our position. We can’t even rely on
the Asgard cloaking device if Tobias is as good as you say he is. He’ll
find a way around it. He’ll probably use flash grenades to even the
playing field. I know I would.”
“You hope that’s all he’ll use,” Maybourne corrected. “There’s also
frag, concussion, incendiary, and CS gas grenades that he could use to
ferret out someone he believes is cloaked. And that’s not even
mentioning the family of missiles and personal assault weapons that he
has access to.”
Carter sighed. “I know,” she explained. “I’m hoping he’ll view this
as a surgical strike and not open warfare. But even so, maybe I can
increase my chances.”
She walked over to the corner of the room and picked up the agent’s
bulletproof vest, then inspected its design.
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“Hmmm …” she said, after some moments. “This type of vest is a
nanocomposite design based on Tungsten Disulfide. Several of the SG
teams have encountered nanotechnology that we brought back through
the gate—some of which is being developed for market use. This vest
appears to be one of them.”
Maybourne kept staring at her, hoping her explanation would begin
to make sense.
“The prototype for this armor withstood impacts from projectiles
traveling at velocities of up to 1.5 kilometers per second and shock
pressure generated by the impact of up to 250 tons per square
centimeter,” she added, for clarification.
“So … it’ll stop a bullet, then?” Maybourne added, just so he was
clear on what she had just said.
“Oh, yeah,” she confirmed. “You should go get Wilkerson before
he spends that money you gave him.”
Maybourne sighed, heavily. “All right,” he agreed. “What could go
wrong, huh?”
•••
Forty-seven minutes later:
“That son of a bitch broke three of my ribs,” Maybourne
complained, as he spat blood onto the dirty floor. “Let’s wake the
bastard up and see what he knows. You wanna use the pain stick, or
should I?”
Carter shot him a dirty look. She was way too sore to have that
discussion again. Even Tobias didn’t deserve the pain stick. (Besides,
she had a better alternative already set in motion.)
Minutes later, their new friend, Lt. Wilkerson of the fictional
Starfleet, had finished applying several layers of electrical tape to their
new prisoner.
Maybourne made a point of commending the homeless man, in a
language he’d understand—“You’re a credit to the uniform, Wilkerson.
You deserve some shore leave. Here’s another twenty bucks. Yes, the
commander and I will be heading to sickbay before too long. We know
we look like we’ve just battled a squadron of Klingons. Thanks for
noticing. Oh, and I need the Phaser back.”
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Once Wilkerson had departed for his “shore leave,” that left Carter
and Maybourne alone with their assailant. Hopefully, now they could
finally get the answers they’d been waiting for.
Or so they hoped.
Maybourne doused Tobias’ head with Wilkerson’s whiskey. The
unconscious man stirred, unhappily. Then he opened his eyes and
groaned.
“You had better kill me,” he warned. “Because there is no way I’ll
let you live long enough for people to find out about this.”
Maybourne spat another glob of blood onto the floor. He was
aiming for Tobias’ left shoe. “Oh, bite me,” he said. “We didn’t do this
to you, Tobias. The homeless guy did.”
Carter decided to cut to the chase. She wanted this to be over.
“Here’s the situation, Michael: You work for us, now.”
Tobias continued to glare. “You’ve got to be kidding, lady.”
Carter locked eyes with him.
“No. I’m not kidding. I lost my sense of humor the second time you
shot me. I’ve had General Hammond speak to the president, Michael.
Clare’s death sentence has been commuted to life—if you cooperate.”
Tobias was silent.
“You’ll also be happy to know that we’ve arranged for her to spend
the rest of her sentence in a much more desirable location.”
His facial expression started to soften. “Where?”
“M4C-862.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” she said. “We have a research outpost there. We also
discovered a life form unlike anything we’ve ever encountered before.
It’ll take a lifetime to study, not to mention the other alien devices and
artifacts we choose to bring there. Clare is a talented woman and she
can contribute. She won’t be able to return to Earth, but we’ve spoken
to her and she’s already agreed.”
Michael’s eyes (even the pale, blind one) suddenly had a far off,
distant look to them. It was the first time Carter had ever thought of this
man as being human.
“You’d do that?”
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“If it means figuring out what this whole mess has been about and
possibly preventing something disastrous from happening, then yes,
Michael, I would. Do we have a deal?”
Tobias thought hard (but not long) about the proposal. She knew
why. When the Committee and rogue NID learn that he betrayed them,
he would be as good as dead. In affect, what they were doing is shifting
Clare’s death sentence onto her brother. To his credit, he accepted.
Maybourne’s Intel had proven correct.
The man was ruthless.
In all but one regard.
“I’ll tell you what I know,” he offered. “But it’s not much.”
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J. D. STIVER
XVII
CHRONICLES OF THE DOOMED CITY NÉT
7,001 B.C.
CONTINUED BELOW …
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BOOK OF THE DEAD
XVIII
An energy burst is fired down the darkened corridor and everything
glows briefly blue and green, the color of fireworks. Her father is hit,
thrusting him violently back into the cement-lined wall, his left
shoulder aflame.
“Dad!”
They’re pinned down. Something is shooting at them. Her father
moans in agony, the flames on his shoulder subsiding to leave a
charred patch of red and black flesh.
Are you okay?” she asks.
“Not really. Get the damn thing.”
Carter jerked awake during her flight back to Colorado from a
reoccurring nightmare, one where her father was in danger from an
unseen enemy.
The flight was experiencing turbulence. She opened her eyes and
saw enormous, dark clouds swirling outside her tiny window. Then
they flew into a low-pressure pocket, which caused the aircraft to lurch
downward into a freefall, making her feel like she was trapped inside a
high-speed elevator. It fell and fell for a long moment before finally
leveling off.
The pilot turned on the “FASTEN SEATBELTS” sign and Carter
sighed. Her body was still too sore to enjoy the prospect of being
buckled in, even if it meant continued safety. Nevertheless, she
complied. She closed her window shutter then sat back and relaxed as
best she could.
It was not a relaxing flight.
“Don’t like flying, huh?” the man seated next to her said. He was a
young man in his early thirties, with short-cropped, blond hair, and
piercing green eyes. (She suspected they were contacts.)
Carter smiled. A distracting conversation was just the thing she
needed to get her mind off of this rocky flight—not to mention, the
events of the last few days.
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J. D. STIVER
“Believe it or not, I’m in the Air Force,” she replied. “I just don’t
like the fact that I have so little control over the flight.”
“Air Force, huh? So what do you do?”
Oh, nothing much. Just explore other planets through the Stargate,
a device that creates a subspace matter stream through the formation
of a stable wormhole, connected between superconducting rings that
have been placed in fixed positions elsewhere in the galaxy. We defend
Earth from evil, parasitic aliens. And you?
“Deep space radar telemetry,” she lied, offering him the standard
cover story. Usually after she said that, people stopped asking questions
about her occupation.
“Oh,” the man said. “Sounds … fun. You know, I’ve been waiting
for you to wake up for a while.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, with a sardonic smile. “You talk in your sleep.”
Carter was surprised by this news. She hoped that he was just
pulling her leg. “I do?”
“Yeah.”
“So … what was I saying?”
“Well … a lot of mumbling, mostly. But I did think I understood at
least one word.”
Please don’t be Stargate. Please don’t let that be what I said.
“And what was that?” she asked, her exterior expression remaining
calm.
“R2D2,” the man said. “You like science fiction?”
Carter breathed a sigh of relief. “Not really,” she admitted. “Real
science is so much better.”
“You say so.”
It was usually at this point in a conversation where Carter could
bring everything to an abrupt halt if she wanted to. All she had to do
was start talking about the theories associated with her profession until
their eyes glazed over, which didn’t take all that long to happen. If she
wanted to continue talking, all she had to do was ask about his
profession instead.
“And what do you do, mister …?”
“Quinn. David Quinn. I, uh, I write science fiction. Ever heard of a
show called Wormhole X-treme? I was one of the staff writers.”
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“That’s … you don’t say? I think I heard about that show …
somewhere.”
“It was horrible,” Quinn admitted. “Canceled after only one show.
So now I’m back to working on my mystery novel until more work
surfaces.”
Mystery?
“As a matter of fact,” Carter interjected. “I’m working on
something of a mystery, myself. It’s giving me a headache.”
“I see. Deep space radar telemetry and mystery enthusiast, huh? I
guess I can see that.”
Carter flashed him a sincere smile. “Sure.”
“No really,” he insisted. “J. Robert Oppenheimer once said that
‘both the man of science and the man of art live always at the edge of
mystery, surrounded by it.’ I’m pretty sure that applies to pretty lady
astrophysicists, too.”
Now she was impressed. “You know about Oppenheimer?”
Quinn nodded. “Helped to create the atomic bomb and was
surprised by how it got put to use. Sure. It’s a reoccurring theme in
science fiction. The scientists never realize that ‘man is not ready’ for
whatever dangerous, marvelous thing they invent. We’re pretty
destructive when you get down to it.”
I wonder how he would feel if he knew I once blew up a whole solar
system? Good thing it’s classified.
“Well, since you’ve apparently got a head full of quotes, do you
happen to know any that will help out with my mystery?” she asked.
“I’ve gone over the clues again and again, and I just can’t make it all fit
together.”
Quinn thought about it. “Well,” he said. “Uh … here’s a good one:
The French philosopher Simone Weil once said ‘evil being the root of
mystery; pain is the root of knowledge.’ How’s that?”
Carter considered the statement. “Yeah, I … I don’t get it,” she
finally concluded.
Quinn shrugged. “Well, maybe your mystery is giving you such a
hard time because the answer is hidden in a place where you don’t want
to see it, because it’s painful. Just a thought. Have I impressed you
enough to ask for your number, yet?”
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Carter broke eye contact with him at that point. “I’m flattered,
really,” she said. “But I’m kind of married to my work.”
•••
To Be Continued …
212