Team, Part 4
 
 
Jackson and Vala had been right, of course. Landry had reassigned SG-13 to the search for the mad Goa'uld and their child hosts. And now, fourteen hours into the day-and-a-half journey to the Gou'ald asylum, Cam sat in one of the cabins on the Hammond, bored to tears. Careful what you ask for, he thought. Already, he'd annoyed each of his teammates in turn, he'd finished the book he'd brought and borrowed another one, and he'd jogged the corridors of the great ship with a strange sense of déjà vu. Colonel Cheryl Womack, no doubt sick of Cam's hovering, had even let him sit at the helm and pilot the Hammond for a while. Not that there was much to it. Punch in the coordinates, lean back and wait for something to beep. With all due respect to the excellent crew, any moron could do that. Which was why, Cam assumed with a grin, Womack had let him take the controls in the first place. Cam didn't think his short time at the helm of the Odyssey a while back had had much impact on Womack's decision.
 
After playing with the ship and taking a nap he didn't need, Cam had been at a loss once more for something to do, so he'd gone over, again, what the guys at Area 51 had come up with from Ba'al's database, including a cryptic mention of experimental chemical weapons. They all suspected that Chenzira had heavily edited much of the information, and they were under orders to take it all with a “very big grain of salt,” as Landry had put it, but still, the possibilities were unsettling.
 
Finished with the Area 51 data, Cam had read and reread Jackson's report, with its copious notes on Attila and Kauket, both of whom had an Earth history, and his short but simple warning on Serilipum: “Never heard of him. Tok'ra claim not to know him either, but from what Belita says, he may be the most dangerous. Think psychopath and sadist, and proceed accordingly.”
 
Despite the grim content, Cam had smiled when he'd first read that: short, sweet and to the point. Jackson had wanted badly to come on this mission, but, given that O'Neill was never going to let both him and Sam go, he had grudgingly admitted that SG-13 didn't need him on a probably empty space station. So he'd stayed behind to help sort through the myriad false sightings and tips that were starting to come in from around the galaxy, so that after SG-13 returned, they'd have some idea of where to start. Once the SGC had gotten the word out that they were searching for these Goa'uld, along with the descriptions of the hosts, it was as if they had posted an 800 number to the universe. Toll-free! Pick up that phone and call, whether you know anything or not!
 
Anyway, as if that weren't enough to keep Jackson busy, SG-1 already had their hands full with that Solarjai thing, not to mention sorting out the mess that had resulted when SG-9 had inadvertently violated a treaty with those little guys with the supercrops—the Xorans?—and who better than Jackson to calm everyone down? Still, Daniel had not been a happy camper.
 
Cam grimaced. There was a lot of that going around. Vala, obviously hurting from whatever demons Belita's story had raised, had been stomping around the ship looking as if she wanted to kick the next person who came close, and Kal'toc, whose enthusiasm had seemed so excessive before, had been downright gloomy since he'd returned from his visit home, although he had claimed everything was fine when Cam had asked.
 
Even Sam had made herself scarce, burying herself in a project with the Hammond engineers, something about increasing the “repellent capacity”—he was pretty sure he had that wrong—of the shields. Not that it was unusual for Sam to get lost in an experiment, but he suspected this time it was her worry over the fate of Atlantis that had her furiously calculating. It had been two weeks since Atlantis had been forced, with no warning, to lift off from San Francisco Bay to prevent an Ancient failsafe weapon from firing upon Earth, and there had still been no word. Sure, they all knew Atlantis had been out of contact before and that there was nothing any of them could do except wait for it to touch down somewhere, but the waiting was never easy. And it had to be especially hard for Sam. After all, for a while they'd been her people, and he knew she still felt that bond.
 
Only Grogan seemed to be taking everything in stride. He played Ping-Pong with the crew, hung out in the mess and seemed generally relaxed. To give the young captain his due, early on he too had tried to talk to Kal'toc. Cam didn't know what had been said, but from the brevity of the conversation and Grogan's frown, he figured that Grogan had had no more luck figuring out what was bugging the young Jaffa than Cam had. And then there had been that little scene with Vala, when she'd been sitting by herself in the mess, distractedly pushing the food around on her plate. Grogan had pulled a sundae from the freezer, walked over to Vala and set it in front of her, then walked away. Vala had raised her head with a scowl and looked from the ice cream to Grogan's retreating back, staring until he left the room. Then she'd pushed her plate away and reached for the ice cream.
 
Now that, thought Cam, was pretty damn brilliant. No talk, no awkward silences, just a gesture that said everything that needed to be said: “Here, I know you're hurting; I'm not going to intrude, but I'm around if you need me.” Cam had felt sort of a paternal pride watching it—Isn't it great, honey, how the kids are getting along?—and he'd laughed at himself. They weren't a family, he knew, but maybe, just maybe, they were coming together as a team.
 
Cam shook his head. Well, one could at least hope. In the meantime, they still had twenty hours aboard this tub, and he was about to lose his mind. Maybe he'd go bug Sam, or badger Womack into letting him play at the controls again, or drag Kal'toc from his cabin and teach him to play backgammon, or something, anything, to pass the time.
 
*******
 
Kal’toc stayed mostly to himself on the 36-hour voyage to the small space station said to have housed the Goa’uld “asylum.” He’d been surprised upon his return from his visit home to learn that the mission that had been scheduled to PX3-J41 had been assigned to another team; they were now to give their full attention until further notice to recovering the hosts of the escaped Goa’uld inmates. SG-13 had been told to be prepared to leave on the Hammond as soon as she arrived in orbit.
 
Now, less than halfway into the journey, Kal’toc wished most fervently that their assignment had not been changed. The mission to PX3-J41, a planet whose people had mysteriously disappeared some decades ago, would have at least required vigilance on his part. The enforced idleness of this long trip allowed too much time to think, too much time for his doubts to grow.
 
He had thoroughly enjoyed his visit home. He was able to joke and play with his brother, Ree'nan, now almost nine, and regale him with exaggerated stories of his exploits as a part of the SGC. In the meantime, his mother had praised him to the heavens and fed him his favorite foods—which he had sorely missed living among the Tau'ri—and had even allowed him to help with the addition to their small home. Before, she never would have asked for or accepted help from him in this way: such work was considered too menial for a warrior. But gradually the freedom that had created the Free Jaffa nation had seeped into all areas of life. Now, a warrior could still be a warrior, yet work with his hands or study a religious tract.
 
And Kal'toc had enjoyed the heavy work, feeling his muscles strain, watching the room take shape, creating something from nothing. It was gratifying to be of help to his mother and brother, to see the appreciation in her eyes and to see Ree'nan watching in awe as Kal'toc lifted the heavy beams.
 
Masters Bra'tac and Teal'c, and other warriors whose honor could not be questioned, were persuasive when they argued that true freedom meant choice in all aspects of their lives, that the strict delineation of class and purpose in Jaffa society was another vestige of slavery. But many, nevertheless, continued to object to these new ideas. They felt that it demeaned the warriors, diluted their power, made them weak.
 
Sometimes, Kal'toc would admit, although only to himself, that he was swayed by these arguments. The old ways were deeply ingrained, and he had learned them with a great sense of pride. It brought the warriors together as brothers, created bonds that could be broken only by death, allowed them to fight as one. He often felt the loss of this bond deeply when he was with the Tau'ri and had to remind himself that it was an honor to be chosen, that he had vied for the chance to work with the Earth warriors. This was not as easy to remember when he was home among his own kind, where he could speak freely and laugh with his friends, where he felt the relief of not having to choose each word with care lest he violate arcane rules he was not privy to. And several of his old comrades, who were now soldiers in the Free Jaffa defense forces, scoffed at his enthusiasm for his chosen path, told him he was a fool for joining with the weaker, softer Tau'ri. He'd felt the sting of their comments keenly.
 
Could they be right?
 
He thought of Colonel Mitchell's seeming hesitation to be involved in a battle, even with a lone Goa'uld, and the oddity of a leader who wanted his orders questioned. He thought of this sudden change in SG-13's assignment, to join in the search for the Goa'uld in their child hosts, motivated, as far as he could tell, by sentiment. None of these things would have occurred in a Jaffa army.
 
And yet, they had captured the Goa'uld Heronus, with no losses on their side, and could not an officer's desire to hear from those under his command be considered a sign of respect? And while it was perhaps strange to abandon an important mission to try to save four hosts in a wide galaxy, would he not willingly search the entire universe if Ree'nan were lost? Of course he would, but . . . was such a wish sufficient to move an army?
 
Kal'toc sighed. Weakness or strength? Foolishness or wisdom?
 
A part of him longed for the simplicity of the life he'd led as a foot soldier in the war against the Goa'uld, when the goal was unambiguous and his role clear. And sometimes he even, though he could barely admit it to himself, missed the clarity he'd felt when, as a boy, he had learned that his fate was to serve his one, true god. Not that he any longer believed that the Goa'uld were gods and not that he would ever regret taking up arms against them. He despised the Goa'uld with every fiber of his body!
 
Yet sometimes, just sometimes, he wished life were that simple again.
 
 
*********
 
 
Sam and SG-13, in red Hazmat suits, weapons at the ready, beamed to the bridge of the abandoned space station. They appeared in a tight circle, backs to each other, and quickly scanned the room, then spread out, weapons still raised. It was eerily quiet, except for a periodic metallic creaking sound, like that of a submarine at depth. The lighting was dim and the room had been ransacked, some of the equipment smashed, some of it cannibalized. The remains of two Goa'uld symbiotes were splattered across the main console, the dried blood having long since darkened from blue to almost black. Kal'toc brought one hand to his abdomen and frowned, and Cam figured his symbiote was not happy at the sight. The room was, as expected, empty of life.
 
Sam checked the readings on her handheld scanner once more and nodded at Cam, taking off her Hazmat mask. Cam did the same, grimacing at the stale air, then radioed the Hammond. “Were in, Hammond. Confirming life support and breathable air, no toxins. We'll continue to check in every 30—” he looked around at the destruction and the dead Goa'uld and amended “—every 20 minutes. Over.”
 
Sam smiled a little, sharing the general sense of unease. “Maybe we ought to make it every 10,” she joked.
 
Vala took off her mask and shook out her hair. “Maybe we ought to get moving,” she said, but remained where she was, waiting.
 

Cam rolled his eyes, and everyone else, inured to Vala's testiness after the long day and a half aboard the Hammond, opted for the safest course of action and ignored her.
 
“I might be able to retrieve some of the data here,” Sam said, kneeling down by one of the consoles and pulling out a cracked crystal, “but it would take awhile.”
 
The station gave another, loud, drawn out creak, as if the hull were moaning, and they all froze for a moment.
 
“We sure this hunk of junk will hold together that long?” Cam asked.
 
Sam looked again at the data gathered by the Hammond techs. “Umm. No, not really. Hull integrity seems to be at acceptable levels, but without being able to interface with the station's computers. . . .”
 
They all, except for Vala, who was scowling impatiently, stared at Sam with varying levels of incredulity.
 
“Sam? You didn't think it was important to mention this before?” Cam asked.
 
“I did mention it,” Sam said. “In the briefing. I pointed out that the integrity was at .02 of a. . . .”
 
Sam stopped at the blank expression on Cam's face and sighed. She'd forgotten how, well, Jack-like he could be sometimes.
 
“We should be all right for now,” she said, finally. Then she smiled. “And there's always emergency beam out.”
 
No one smiled back. Finally Grogan broke the silence that followed that less-than-cheery thought: “In that case, like Vala said, let's get moving.”
 
“Right,” Cam said, pulling out a folded sheet from the pocket of his Hazmat suit, “absolutely. Looks like we've got no time to waste. Vala? Belita's map says we head this way to the room that held the tanks”—he pointed to one of the two doors that led from the bridge—“and that way to the labs. That jibe with what you remember, princess?”
 
Vala nodded.
 
“O.K., I don't like splitting up here, but since we don't know how long we've got before we're sucked out into space, I don't see that we have much choice. As my grandmother used to say. . . . oh, never mind. Sam, Grogan, you check out the labs. Just because we didn't detect any life signs, that doesn't mean there won't be any surprises, so keep your heads up, and watch out for booby traps. Anything, anything at all unusual, and I want to hear about it.”
 
“Yes, sir,” Grogan said. Sam nodded almost absently, her mind, no doubt, already on what they might find in the labs.
 
“Vala, Kal'toc, you're with me.”
 
Cam, Vala and Kal’toc walked out and down a long, dim corridor, with smooth black walls and no adornment. Not very Goa’uld-like, Cam thought, but he stayed silent. They came to two doors of the same smooth metallic material as the walls. The creaking sounds abated then started up again; they all did their best to ignore them.
 
“Vala?” Cam asked. “You wouldn’t happen to remember the codes?”
 
Vala narrowed her eyes, trying to remember. “I think if I just. . . ,” she said, and waved her hand over what looked like a scanner above the keypad on one of the doors. Cam and Kal’toc raised their weapons, but the door slid open to reveal a small space. There was a smashed crate off to one side, and a long row of tall metal cabinets, also empty.
 
“Weapons were stored here,” Kal'toc said. Cam nodded.
 
“Heronus had no weapons,” Kal'toc continued, “and we found none on his ship.”
 
Cam nodded again. Maybe they'd just been very lucky that that was true.
 
They turned to the other door. Vala did her magic, and Cam and Kal’toc stood at the ready again. This time when the door slid open, they saw a room as ornate as any they had seen elsewhere, with a large canopied bed, intricately woven hangings and gold plate on the walls. A robe, much like the one Heronus had worn, except intact, was thrown over a plush chair. By the bed was a small table holding two empty silver plates and a single goblet.
 
Cam tilted his head at Kal’toc, who entered slowly. He checked behind the tapestries and on the far side of the bed, and then knelt down to look underneath. Vala let out an impatient sigh, but Cam stopped her from saying anything with his eyes. Kal’toc was right to check.
 
Kal’toc stood back up and turned to Cam and Vala. “There appears to be nothing of interest in this room either, Colonel Mitchell.”
 
“No,” Cam agreed, then keyed his radio. “Sam, Grogan, anything? I'm about to check in.” 
 
“It's a real mess back here, Colonel,” Grogan responded. “It's pretty slow going. We're still trying to figure out what's what.”
 
“All right. Keep us posted,” Cam said, then, “Hammond, this is SG-13. We're continuing our search of the station. Nothing to report.”
 
“We read you, SG-13. Next check in at 0224. Over.”
 
Cam, Vala and Kal'toc continued in silence down the long and now curved corridor. They came to another doorway, this one open. Unlike the other rooms, there was no light inside. Cam motioned for Kal'toc to hang back and for Vala to fall in behind him, then sidled up to the door. For some reason a chill ran down his spine, and he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was waiting for them inside. On the count of three, Cam dived past the open door, coming up in a squat on the other side, P-90 pointing into the room. At the same time, Vala stepped around the door pointing her weapon high. Nothing happened. Cam, feeling somewhat foolish, took a closer look at the room. In the light from the hall, he saw that it was almost empty, but for a large table in the center and a smaller one nearby, with some chairs lined up against one wall.
 
Cam pulled out his flashlight and shone it on the large table. It was about seven feet long and three feet wide, and manacles hung from all four corners. There was the unmistakable rust color of old blood, human blood, staining the manacles and streaking the surface. Vala shone her flashlight on the other table, and the three looked at the contents silently. There were knives of various shapes and sizes, a metal club and what looked like a drill. All of them were stained with blood.
 
“Oh, goody,” Vala said, finally, the tension and anger in her voice belying the lightness of her words, “they left us some toys.”
 
Cam gave only a half-hearted grimace at the attempt at humor. He looked from the torture implements to the chairs thoughtfully provided for an audience, then said, “O.K., let's get going,” and he turned and left the room ahead of them. Vala and Kal'toc looked at each other and at the now empty doorway and then followed Cam out.
 
They continued down the corridor, toward the room in which the “crazy” Goa'uld had been imprisoned. The station gave a long groan, and the lights flickered off, then on again. Cam stopped and raised his fist, and Vala and Kal'toc stopped as well. When nothing else happened, they started forward.
 
Then the lights went out completely.
 
“Great,” Cam said into the complete darkness. “I'm pretty sure I've seen this movie.”
 
“And everyone lives happily ever after?” Vala asked, humoring him.
 
“No,” he said. “Everybody dies.”
 
The lights came on again, dimmed, then brightened.
 
He keyed his radio. “Sam?”
 
“I don't know, Cam. I could go back to the bridge and try to find the problem, but I'm not sure how long that would take.”
 
“Recommendations?” Cam asked. He saw Kal'toc turn to look at him, then look away.
 
There was a brief burst of static, then Sam said, “Life support doesn't seem to be affected. I say we keep going.”
 
“All right. Agreed.”
 
The three continued down the hallway until they came to a set of wide, sealed metal doors.
 
“This it?” Cam asked, and Vala nodded.
 
“Well, go ahead and do your thing,” he said, raising his weapon. He watched Kal'toc do the same.
 
“You know, you could do it yourself,” Vala said.
 
“I thought you had some ex-Goa'uld thingy going on that let you open the door. Don't you?”
 
“Maybe,” Vala said, “but these doors aren't locked. The others weren't either.”
 
Cam rolled his eyes and motioned to Vala to step to the other side of the doors, then raised his weapon. He nodded to Kal'toc, who was standing closest to the keypad. Kal'toc, almost hesitantly, waved his palm above the keypad, and the doors slid open. Cam and Vala slipped inside, scanning the room, and Kal'toc stood directly behind them, weapon at the ready.
 
In the center of the large hexagonal room, on a low stand, was a huge tank, ornately decorated around the edges in typical Goa'uld fashion. It had been smashed and was empty. On the floor, an intact Goa'uld symbiote lay dead, and around it lay the twisted corpses of other symbiotes. Discarded nearby was a stained ax, the color of the blood impossible to make out. The dim light glittered off the gold-plated walls, but there were still too many recesses, too many spaces draped with tapestries, too many places to hide.
 
Cam motioned to Kal'toc to step into the room, then the young warrior and Vala began to circle slowly in either direction, stooping to look in storage spaces, carefully lifting the tapestries. Cam stepped farther into the room as well, taking in the details. Here too there were chairs against one wall, these plush with a garish burgundy. Large cushions in black and gold, some with the stuffing now hanging out, were scattered on the floor in front of them. A number of the chairs had been overturned, as if in a struggle. Chains—gold chains, in yet another demonstration of Goa'uld excess—hung in several places from the walls and from the ceiling. Against another wall there were racks that held what looked like ceremonial weapons, swords, spears and axes, and Cam had no doubt that the ax on the floor had been ripped from that wall.
 
As Cam rounded the tank, he noticed that a tapestry had been pulled down and was lying in a heap on the floor. Underneath was the clear outline of a body, and he noticed for the first time the streaks on the floor leading to it. “Aw, crap,” he thought. “Belita's husband?” Vala said quietly, and Cam nodded, remembering the gory details of Belita's story. He really did not want to see this. He was tempted to order Kal'toc to take a look instead, but Cam made himself step forward until he was close enough to reach down and pull up the tapestry.
 
Vala and Kal'toc had both paused and were watching him; his eyes met Vala's and he saw understanding there. She gave a short nod and a grimace. His stomach was already churning in anticipation but he took a shallow breath and held it, then reached down with one hand, grabbed a corner of the tapestry and threw it back.
 
A shrill scream pierced the room, and a thin, naked figure under the tapestry kicked out, almost catching Cam in the legs. Cam jumped backward and fell hard on his shoulder, but he rolled and came up fast. Holy sh**! was all he had time to think before he saw Vala's and Kal'toc's weapons swing around.
 
“Hold your fire. HOLD YOUR FIRE!” he managed to shout over the thumping of his own heart. Vala jerked her weapon up just in time and shot a round into air. Kal'toc let out what sounded like a Chulakian curse that Cam was sure he'd remember the translation of when his brain started working again, but the young Jaffa didn't fire. The figure scrambled back against the wall then and curled into a fetal position, mumbling something in a weird, dual-toned whisper. Cam gestured with his head toward Kal'toc, and Kal'toc stepped toward him. Vala stayed where she was and covered the room. Cam thought he saw her hands shaking slightly and noticed that his were as well.
 
When Kal'toc reached his side, Cam asked in a low voice, “What's he saying?”
 
Kal'toc took another careful step forward and tilted his head to listen, and then, without moving his eyes or his weapon from the Goa'uld, said, “He is apologizing.”
 
Cam looked at him in surprise, then turned his head back toward the pitiful figure on the floor. “For what?” he asked.
 
“He does not say. He simply repeats the same words: 'I am sorry. I am sorry. I betrayed them. I am sorry.' ”
 
“Cover him,” Cam said unnecessarily, then reached for his radio. He winced a little at the pull on his shoulder and he figured that he'd have one hell of a bruise to show off by tomorrow. “Sam?”
 
There was no answer, and he keyed his radio again. “Sam, come in, please.”
 
“Sorry, Cam, we're here,” Sam's voice came back.
 
“What's your status?”
 
“I think we're done. We've found an intact crystal and some sealed canisters that match the description of the ones Vala and Kal'toc found in Heronus's ship, and what looks like an unfinished pulse weapon of some sort and something else that I can't figure out until we get it back to my lab. . . .”
 
Cam, having no choice, waited for Sam to finish. He really, really wanted to get out of that room and be done with this mission. The Goa'uld whimpered and shifted, and all three of them tensed, but he stayed on the floor and continued his whispered chant.
 
“. . . . or I could start on the bridge computers now. . . .” Cam could hear the ominous creak at the other end of the station through his radio. “. . . .or not,” Sam finished, finally.
 
“Can you carry what you have?”
 
“We can manage.”
 
“Good. 'Cause we've found ourselves a nice little stowaway here, and I'd like you and Grogan to meet him.”
 
There was a brief silence, then Sam said, “Human?”
 
“Human with a snake. We've got everything under control, but given that we've got definite life where there were no life signs. . . .”
 
“We're on our way,” Sam said.
 
“No. We'll meet you at the bridge in fifteen.”
 
“You sure you don't need any help?” Sam asked.
 
“I'm sure.”
 
“O.K., fifteen minutes.”
 
Cam turned to Vala. “Vala, you search the rest of the room. Kal'toc, you keep an eye on our guest. I'll contact our ride.” He keyed his radio again and said, “Hammond, this is Mitchell.”
 
“We read you. Colonel. We were just about to try to raise you.”
 
“Yeah, well, we had a little situation here. We've found a very live Goa'uld, so I suggest you run a diagnostic on your sensors.”
 
Womack came on the line then. “I'll have our people look into it. Is everyone all right? Do you need assistance?”
 
“No, we're fine. I'm hoping we'll wrap it up here by . . .” Cam looked at his watch. “. . . 0245. Be ready for five and a guest.”
 
“All right, Mitchell. We'll be waiting.”
 
Mitchell let go of his radio and looked at the Goa'uld, considering the best way to get him back to the Hammond. He wasn't looking forward to a wrestling match with a naked, weeping, guilt-ridden snake and decided that a quick blast with a zat was called for. He was pulling his zat from his belt when he felt Vala, who had finished her search, take a step closer, and he turned to see her staring at their prisoner with her head tilted to one side.
 
“That's Ren,” she said, finally, “Ren Starat. The crewman.”
 
“You sure?” Cam said, although he supposed it made sense that it would be one of Belita's people.
 
Before she could answer, the Goa'uld lifted his head slightly and sniffed, “Yes, that is my host. He is very frightened. We both are. I do not know how to help him.”
 
“You want to help him?” Vala asked.
 
“I do,” said the Goa'uld, who looked no more threatening than a starved boy. He continued to speak in his dual-toned voice, still facing the wall. “I know it is not natural, that it is a sign of my insanity, but I do want to help him.” Then he fell silent.
 
“It is a trick, Vala, to gain our trust,” Kal'toc said then. “No Goa'uld feels pity for the host.”
 
“If he is Goa'uld,” Vala said. She took a step closer and asked, remembering his earlier chant, “Who is it you betrayed? The Goa'uld?”
 
“No,” the whisper came again. “I betrayed them, the voices. When I took this host without his consent and forced him to attack the child, I betrayed them.” Then he started moaning and crying again.
 
Cam sighed, lifted his zat and fired. At Vala's look, he said, “Tok'ra, Goa'uld, I don't know, but we've got to get off this station. We done here?”
 
“Yes,” Vala said. "There's nothing else.”
 
“Good. Vala, you tie our friend's hands and stick this in the ropes,” Cam said, tossing her a locator beacon. “Kal'toc,” he said, turning to his other teammate, “you think you can carry this guy on your own?”
 
Kal'toc looked again at the thin figure. “With ease, Colonel Mitchell,” he replied.
 
“Good. Then let's get out of here. The place gives me the creeps.”
 
When Vala finished making sure the locator beacon was secure, Kal'toc hefted the unconscious Goa'uld onto his shoulder in a fireman's hold and the three left behind the room where so much horror had occurred.
 
Cam had Vala take point with Kal'toc and his burden in the middle, and then he took up the rear. The military precision of their positions probably wasn't necessary, since they'd already searched every room and every crawl space, but they'd all had enough surprises for one day. It would be stupid to be careless and screw up a successful mission—after all, barely more than three days into their quest to rescue Belita's family, they were already bringing home the young crewman . . . and maybe a long-lost Tok'ra.
 
When they were just a few yards from the bridge, there was a loud cracking noise, and the lights went out again. The tortured creaking continued. Cam heard Vala mutter something and then saw her flashlight go on. A burst of static came over their radios.
 
“Cam?” Sam said.
 
Cam didn't bother with the radio. “We're here, Sam,” he shouted as they came to the door. “What the hell was that?”
 
“I don't know, but it doesn't sound good,” Sam said. She looked at Kal'toc's passenger and raised her eyebrows but didn't say anything. “We could use some help with this stuff,” she said, turning her flashlight on a crate and several oddly shaped contraptions, including one that looked like something a kid had put together from spare parts. Cam pointed his light toward Grogan and saw that he was already loaded down with the silver canisters and what Cam guessed was the unfinished pulse weapon.
 
“Right, everyone grab something and let's get out of here,” Cam said. He reached for his radio—
“Hammond, prepare for our signal,”—and bent to pick up one of the contraptions, awkwardly hanging onto his flashlight. Vala picked up another, and Sam the third. The large square crate still remained.
 
Kal'toc carefully lowered his burden to the ground, checking that the locator beacon was still securely attached, and went to pick up the crate. As he stooped to pick it up, the station gave a horrific grinding sound, and tilted suddenly, almost throwing them off their feet. Sam yelled into her radio, “Now, Hammond, now!” and in an instant they were standing in the ring room of the Earth ship.
 
There was a moment of complete silence, and then Cam swore. “Now that was too damn close,” he said, as he looked around the room at his teammates and the Marines taking charge of their prisoner. “Is everyone. . . . Wait, where the hell is Kal'toc?”
 
The others looked around in shock, and Grogan, panic in his voice, said, “He didn't make it? Colonel, we have to go back!”
 
The technician at the console by the doors put her hand to the receiver in her ear and said, “We can't get a lock on Kal'toc's marker. We're trying to pinpoint the problem, but. . . .”
 
“Send me back!” Cam yelled.
 
“Colonel,” the technician said, “the station is coming apart at the seams. . . .”
 
“GOD DAMN IT TO HELL,” Cam roared, “SEND ME BACK NOW!”
 
The young lieutenant put her hand to her ear again, nodded, and Cam disappeared.
 
“Oh, God,” Sam said, not even noticing as one of the Marines took the contraption from her arms. “I don't think there was enough time. . . .”
 

 
Grogan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Vala looked at Sam defiantly and said, “Of course there was enough time, Sam. They wouldn't have sent him back if there weren't.”
 
At that moment, the blue light flashed again and, with the sound of their yells preceding them, Cam and Kal'toc appeared on the floor. Cam's arms were wrapped around Kal'toc's legs as if he'd tackled him. The screams cut off abruptly as they realized where they were.
 
Vala gave Sam a small smirk, and Sam gave a relieved smile back before they went with Grogan to help the two men up.
 
Cam let go of Kal'toc's legs, and, with Vala and Sam on either arm, got a little shakily to his feet. Kal'toc made it on his own to his knees. He had a cut on his forehead and another on one arm and was breathing heavily.
 
“Thank you for returning for me, Colonel Mitchell,” he said.
 
Cam smiled weakly. “Not a problem, Kal'toc. Anytime.”
 
Grogan grasped Kal'toc's uninjured arm and helped him the rest of the way to his feet. “Just how close was that, Kal'toc?” he asked.
 
Kal'toc swayed a little and Grogan steadied him. “As Colonel Mitchell might say,” he responded after a moment, “it was 'too damn close.' ”
 
Grogan let out a burst of laughter, the relief making him a little giddy, and Sam and Vala both smiled.
 
Cam just stared at Kal'toc for a moment, then grinned and shook his head. “I hear that,” he said, as the Marines continued to bustle around them and a medical team came running through the doors. “I surely hear that.”
 
End Part 4

 
 
part 5 

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