Stargate SG-1: Trial by Fire: SG1-1 (15 page)

"Eat my shorts," Jack replied genially.

Kelly chuckled. "By the way, I think it translates as posthinc
merdam ex tibi cudam."

"Eat my shorts?"

"No. Next time I'm gonna beat the crap

"Silentium!"

Goonius was getting a little agitated. Enough for Miss Marple
to sneeze appealingly and turn her attention to the small crowd
on the square. It was splitting into families, couples, and a few
singles who began mustering the kids. Your friendly neighborhood
Goa'ulds checking out the hosts.

Jack thought of the dungeon on Chulak again, felt his hackles
rise, and tried to get a grip on himself. These folks weren't Goa'uld.
Their eyes didn't glow, their dress code was on the self-effacing
side, and there was no arrogance about them. They didn't examine
the victims' teeth and muscle tone, didn't engage in that malicious
selection process that had degraded people to livestock. Instead
they tried to kill the kids with kindness.

A haggard woman with a three-tooth leer draped a woolen
blanket over the sodden, soiled robes of a boy as skinny and gaptoothed as she. While tucking him in, she was crooning to him,
and the kid forgot to snivel and broke into a cautious smile. Her
gummy grin broadened, and she led him off across the square. To
the Gingerbread House?

The beaming couple in their thirties zeroed in on a tubby redhaired kid. The husband had the weathered face and knotty build
of a farmer or soldier; his wife a soft, apple-cheeked foil to him.
She rummaged through a wicker basket and finally retrieved a
small parcel, wrapped in clean linen. The linen came off, revealing
something golden and gooey inside. When he recognized the
honeycomb, young Ginger's face spread in greedy relief. Obviously his overriding concern hadn't been cold and wet, but imminent
starvation. A slice of white bread joined the honeycomb, and his
bliss was complete.

Jack could relate. He'd lost track of when or what exactly
he'd last eaten, which was beside the point anyway because, by
his reckoning, some four weeks' worth of cheese burritos and
guacamole had found their way into that bucket in the hold. Looking
at the bread just about made him drool. He ignored the rumbles
rising from his stomach and focused on this strange exercise in
seduction again.

Happily sucking on his honeycomb and flanked by the farmer
and his wife, Ginger trotted off, probably in the direction of a juicy
steak. Rib eye. T-bone. Entrecote. With baked potatoes and slaw.
And sour cream. Fries. Carbohydrates. Calories. Cholesterol. Doc
Fraiser had warned him about that: Just watch it before it creeps up
on you. It's an age-thing, sir. So he'd gone ahead and shed about
ten pounds more than he could afford. Substantially helped by his
little sojourn in Baal's wellness club... And who the hell had let
that thought out of its cage?

Somebody put the food where he couldn't smell it, for cryin'
out loud!

Ginger, the bread, and the honeycomb vanished into a stone
house that crouched under its thatched roof, eaves reaching over
the windows like drooping lids. Another kid scampered across the
square together with two new playmates and their parents, won
over by God knew what. The native equivalent of a Playstation
maybe. It was like an auction. Or some weird kind of adoption
fair. The four little ones who'd traveled ahead must have found
homes already. Jack wondered if they'd been given a choice. Milk
or cookies?

It still didn't explain a thing, though. So the children were
farmed out to foster families. Why? Something in the water that
made people sterile? They couldn't have kids of their own and had
decided to steal them?

Three boys approached Luli and the two oldest kids, who'd
stubbornly studied their toes while the others peeled off for warmth
or food or toys. The tallest of the newcomers had suffered a recent spurt of growth. Bony wrists and gawky hands peeped from tooshort sleeves, and the pants gave up just an inch shy of his knees.
His face was florid with acne. Luli glanced at him, and his eyes lit
up with incredulous realization.

"Jabnit! You are alive!"

"Of course I am alive! What did you expect?" The boy Jabnit
burst into an erratic laugh, jumping from soprano to baritone and
back again. His voice had the same Which register is it today?
quality.

"Nobody at home knows what became of you," Luli gasped.
"And Hannon ... and Abimilki ... all the others. We feared you
dead."

"Do I look dead to you?"

Proof positive that Kandaulo's speculations had been on the
money. At least some of the missing children were still alive. This
boy was one of them. How long had they been here? And what
about the others?

That hormone-tossed laugh erupted again and stopped. Jabnit
said something, too quietly for Jack to hear, but it punctured Luli's
joy. The boy went white as a ghost. Jabnit, on the other hand, looked
filled with messianic fervor, like a preacher at a prayer meeting - or
a pubescent kid describing the assets of Jennifer Lopez. Consumed
by this state of near rapture, he failed to notice that he'd lost his
audience.

"No!" shouted Luli, every bit as furious as he'd been two days
ago in the market.

Blinking in surprise, Jabnit shook his head. "Luli, listen to me.
What we were taught -"

"No! They're murderers! Heretics!"

"They're not!"

"They murdered Abibaal!"

Most of these folks couldn't understand what Luli was saying.
So it had to be the name. It detonated on the square like a grenade.
People who'd been observing passively until now retreated a
collective step, as though the kid had called down the plague on
them. The name alone evoked hatred, which didn't make an awful
lot of sense because, whatever his personal foibles, the old guy had been fried to a crisp, courtesy of the Phrygians. Yet another thing
that didn't make sense. This was so getting old.

"They did not!" Jabnit had recovered from his shock.

"Yes, they did!"

Did not... Did... Not... Did, too... Oh please! Shame Daniel
wasn't here.

Jabnit's patience had lasted longer than anyone could reasonably
expect in a teen and finally began to wear thin. His complexion
turned beetroot, which nicely camouflaged the zits.

"It's a lie!" he yelled. "But even if it were true, Abibaal deserves
no better. Nor do any of the Synod!"

Stockholm Syndrome. The victim identifying with his or her
abductor. Once upon a time, in the bad old days, then Major O'Neill
and his team had been assigned to spring a couple of American
operatives held hostage by some low-lives in a more than usually
obnoxious corner of the globe. The so-called hostages had been
armed to the teeth and defended their captors by taking pot shots
at the rescuers. His team had managed to extract the guys, but not
before one of them had sheesh-kabobed Jack's arm with a machete.
Fortunately the thing had been pretty blunt, otherwise he'd be
winning Captain Hook competitions up and down the country.

Luli didn't care about psychological mechanisms. He lost it. A
couple of heads shorter than his pal - ex-pal - he flung himself at
Jabnit, kicking and screaming. However confused the older boy
might be about the facts, one bit of parental advice apparently had
stuck: you didn't beat up smaller kids, no matter how ornery they
got. Instead of hitting back, he merely tried to grab hold of Luli and
immobilize him somehow. He might as well have tried to catch a
dervish at full RPM.

The bystanders formed a circle, cheering on Jabnit, who kept
backing away until he slipped in the ankle-deep mire in the square
and landed flat on his six. The crowd ooh-ed, and Luli was on him in
a flash. At which point the guards decided that the wrestling match
had gone far enough. Smirking, a man stepped forward, plucked
the thrashing kid off his opponent, and started shaking him.

"Hey!" bellowed Jack.

"Silentium!" bellowed Goonius. He needed to work on his vocabulary.

"Don't!" bellowed Miss Marple who apparently had joined the
UN Peace Corps.

"Hey! Beefcake!"

The guard ignored it. Maybe his name wasn't Beefcake.
Goonius, on the other hand, didn't ignore it. Jack sensed movement
behind him, ducked a blow he'd guessed rather than seen coming,
and darted forward, nearly tripping over a woman who'd crouched
by Jabnit to wipe the mud off him. She gave a high-pitched squeal
and rose, just in time to waylay Goonius for a few seconds. The
guard was paying attention now, but not soon enough to avoid a
tidy football tackle that had Jack's left shoulder slam into his gut.

It felt like colliding with a brick wall.

The crowd aah-ed.

So it was Gladiator after all. They just hadn't gone through the
expense of building an arena.

"Oomph," said the guard, which was roughly the extent of his
reaction.

Well, he had let go of Luli.

A pale little face streaked with dirt and tears fleetingly danced
into view as Jack dodged a knee aimed at his privates. The twist
almost made him lose balance, but he managed to recover and
braved Beefcake's glare.

"What? Taking on someone your own size isn't as much fun?"

That despairing groan from ringside could only have been
Kelly's. For a reason. Beefcake wasn't really Jack's size. Beefcake
was about twice as wide. Beefcake grunted and flexed his fingers.
Next there'd be columns of steam shooting from the guy's nostrils
and he'd rake his toes through the mud.

Sweet, O'Neill! What was it again they taught you in Special
Ops? Oh yeah... When your hands are tied behind your back, do
not insult the local muscle or pick a fight.

He kept forgetting that rule. On the upside, he had legs. The
footing could be better, but it would do as long as he didn't try to
turn too fast. All he'd have to watch were angle and momentum.
Oh, and falling on his butt would be seriously uncool.

Beefcake charged with the finesse of a train wreck. Knees slightly bent, Jack performed a smooth half-turn, tilted to lower
his center of gravity, and kicked out and up for all he was worth.
Above a mouthful of very muddy Air Force issue boot, Beefcake's
eyes went wide for a moment, then he gurgled something, and then
he keeled backwards like a felled ox, dropping into the sludge with
a resounding splat. The Iron Man had a glass chin.

The crowd booed.

Yeah, well, Jack hadn't believed it was fair eith-

An elbow slammed into his back, almost knocking him over.
Before he could regroup, something hard struck his head. Not that
again!

The catcalls hadn't been for him at all, had -

Major Samantha Carter stepped from the `gate on P2X 159 and
realized two things. The rain finally had stopped, and it was night.
Of course it was. She'd been gone just over eighteen hours, and the
planet's diurnal rhythm was slightly shorter than Earth's. A trio of
moons had risen in a clear sky, pouring milky light on the path, the
forest, and the temple in the distance. Looping across the flagstones
like an incomplete set of Olympic rings fell the triple shadow of the
Stargate. She smiled briefly. The surfeit of heavenly bodies sure
made for a good show.

Water dripped softly from wet branches, tapping on damp
soil that breathed mist among the trees. The stillness was almost
absolute. Almost. From the corner of her eye she noticed a motion,
brought up the P90, aimed.

"Whoa! Take it easy!"

"Daniel! Dammit, but you should know better than that!" Sam
lowered the gun, exhaled. "I could have shot you."

"Nah. You're too careful."

Good grief!

He looked like he'd just come from a casting call for Flash
Gordon. The old series, the one where the spaceships had sparklers
for jets and juddered through the galaxy suspended on fishing
line.

"So?" she asked. "Did you get the part?"

"Huh? What part?"

"King of the Mud People."

"Oh... We... got kinda soaked."

"I can see that. What are you doing here?"

Daniel shrugged. "General Hammond's asked me to help with
the UAV recovery."

"The last sortie finished nearly six hours ago, Daniel. Why
didn't you go and get some sleep?"

Hi, kettle. Meet pot.

In defiance of orders, she'd slept all of fifty-four minutes. She
had taken that shower, though. After that she'd flopped on the
bunk in her quarters, staring at the ceiling, wanting to be able to
do something, wishing to God she'd defied Jack O'Neill's orders,
too. At some point she'd dozed off, only to jolt awake shaking and
soaked in sweat, still seeing dream images of bodies engulfed by
flames. So she'd gone and treated herself to another shower, cold
this time, followed by a gallon of liquid tar coffee in the commissary
(sadly they didn't serve whisky chasers), until she felt she was
about to sprout chest chair. At 1730 hours sharp she'd reported to
the control room. The General had shot her a long-suffering glance,
suspecting but not saying anything.

"I thought I might as well wait for you. Why didn't you?" Daniel
asked back, staring at her sharply. "Sleep, I mean."

Oops. It didn't exactly take a genius, she supposed. There'd
been a rationale behind her avoidance of mirrors.

"Bad dreams," she muttered.

"Yeah..." He looked a little sheepish. "I figured you'd be back
a bit sooner."

"We had to analyze the footage. It takes time." It had taken more
time than she liked.

"And?"

The lost puppy face. Guaranteed to bring sensitive souls
and elderly ladies to their knees. To be fair to Daniel, he didn't
normally try it on his team mates. That he did so now probably
revealed more than he would have wanted to show. Daniel and
the Colonel were like fire and water, entirely capable of driving
each other up the wall in two seconds flat. Which somehow seemed
to scientifically explain their friendship. Positive and negative charges, electromagnetic energy, that kind of thing. It was different
from the unquestioning kinship between Teal'c and the Colonel -
in his more emotional moments Teal'c referred to him as `brother'
- and it was radically different from her own complex and volatile
bond with her CO.