Part 6
 
 
“Colonel,” a familiar voice said, “we will release you if you stop fighting us and remain silent.”
 
Cam nodded and the callused hand came away from his mouth and his arms were released. Cam let go a short hiss at the pain in his injured arm and sat up. He moved away from the men who'd held him, only to find himself up against another man's knees.
 
He felt suddenly claustrophobic and took a deep breath to keep from sliding over into panic.
 
“Thome?” he whispered, confronting the man who had spoken. “What the hell is going on here?”
 
 
*******
 
 
“SG-13, this is Landry. Do you copy? . . . SG-13, please respond.”
 
Walter looked up and shook his head, confirming what they all already knew. No response. Fifty minutes after Mitchell had confirmed the team was fine and on the way to the Gate, SG-13 appeared to have disappeared into thin air. The MALP showed nothing: no sign of life, no sign of a struggle, only the empty trail surrounded by empty fields on a seemingly peaceful, sunny day.
 
Landry sighed and looked to the members of SG-1, who were all again in the control room. The grim looks on their faces matched his feeling of foreboding. This was undoubtedly the worst part of this job. He had four people in trouble and no way to help them without almost certain casualties to any rescue team.
 
Apparently reading his thoughts, Jack said, “What's our closest ship?”
 
Landry had a pretty good idea, but he looked to Harriman to confirm it.
 
“Walter?” he said.
 
Walter looked briefly at one of his computer screens and answered, “That would be the Daedalus, sir. She's on the resupply mission to PX5-222. Based on her last reported location, they'd be about . . .” He tapped a few keys. “. . . eight hours out, unless they cross through Horan space.”
 
Landry grimaced. To cross into Horan space would violate Horan law and, worse, risk attack by the Lucian Alliance, but he needed to know all their options. “And if they cross through Horan space?”
 
“A little more than three hours,” Walter responded.
 
“Our recent contact with the Horan indicates that they may agree to let us traverse their space,” Teal'c said. “And if Daniel Jackson's theory is correct, the Lucian Alliance may be amenable as well.”
 
“Even if they are,” Daniel said then, “and I'd hate to risk the crew of the Daedalus on a theory, three hours is too long. We have to get them out now.”
 
“I agree with Daniel, sir. We can't wait,” Sam said, turning to Landry.
 
“Colonel Carter, we have to assume that any team walking through that Gate will be walking straight into trouble.”
 
“Yes, sir,” Sam said. “It wouldn't be the first time.”
 
“I concur, General Landry,” Teal'c weighed in. “SG-13 is already well overdue. The longer we delay, the less likely we are to succeed in a search and rescue. It is imperative that we leave immediately.”
 
“Are you suggesting that SG-1 head any rescue mission?” Landry asked.
 
Teal'c glanced briefly at Sam and Daniel. “We are,” he said. “We can be ready to leave in minutes, and if I am not mistaken, with three teams on P4X-578, it will be necessary to recall another team for backup from off-world if we do not, causing unnecessary and possibly fatal delay.”
 
Daniel saw Landry's hesitation and added, “It's not as if we've forgotten how, General. And we're better equipped to go than anyone. I'm as close to an expert as we have on Cartinia, and Sam wrote the report on what weaponry and technology Attila is likely to have.”
 
“All that is true, Dr. Jackson, but you won't be able to use any of that knowledge if you walk through that Gate into an ambush,” Landry said. “You yourself suggested that Attila may already be gathering an army. The most likely result of sending a rescue party through is the loss of two more teams, and until I hear something to convince me there is some chance of success, I can't approve a ground rescue.”
 
Landry's statement was met by dead silence. Teal'c shifted his feet, and Daniel looked down. Sam glanced toward Jack to find him staring back at her: She couldn't read his expression, and she found that strangely unnerving. Finally she said, “We've gone through the Gate in far worse, sir. In this case, the Gate is in a field, with no cover, and the path to the village is clear, so we're unlikely to go through into a firefight. The most likely place for an ambush is in the village itself, and we can be prepared for that. I can rig a camera to a UAV to give us an extra set of eyes. I think it's worth the risk, sir.”
 
Landry turned to Jack, who up to that moment had been uncharacteristically silent. “Jack?” he said.
 
Jack looked to his teammates, who were practically vibrating with urgency, and read the subtext. He would keep them from attempting to rescue their former teammates at his own peril. “Who do we have to go through with us?” he asked. He felt the tension in the room go down a notch at his consent, even as his own went up.
 
“SG-6 is on standby. I'll call Major Atwater,” Landry said, all business now that a decision had been made. “I want SG-6 and SG-1 ready to go in twenty-five minutes. In the meantime, Walter, try to raise Colonel Mitchell and his team one more time, and if they don't respond, broadcast that we'll open the Gate again in five hours and five times after that, per SOP. If any unfriendlies are listening in, with luck they'll think they've got hours. If SG-13 is listening, they'll know rescue is coming in twenty-five minutes. Then shut the Gate down. Jack, what about the Horan?”
 
Jack stood up. The Horan government was self-serving and cowardly, and he didn't need a degree in diplomacy to know how to deal with their type. “Teal'c, contact Ambassador Desra and let her know we will help in any way we can with their problem—we'll negotiate the terms later—but we need permission to use Horan space and we need to know that the Lucian Alliance will leave us alone. If she can't promise us that, the Daedalus will have to go around. If Desra says the Alliance will let our ship pass, then tell her she better be damn sure, because if we send Daedalus through and she's attacked, this new criminal enterprise will be the least of their problems. Teal'c, permission to make that sound as threatening as you'd like.”
 
Teal'c smiled, but it was without mirth. “I believe Ambassador Desra will be sufficiently intimidated, O'Neill.”
 
“Good, either way, we should know before we leave if we're on our own for two hours or eight.
All right, back in the gate room in twenty minutes. Daniel, don't be late.”
 
Daniel didn't even attempt to give his standard annoyed look, and Jack shook his head. God help them if SG-13 didn’t make it back in one piece.
 
Sam and Daniel left the room, while Teal'c remained behind to wait for Walter to dial up the Horan home world. Landry, walking out with Jack, had the courtesy to wait till they were out of earshot of the others to ask what he'd really wanted to: “How're the knees holding up these days, Jack?”
 
Good question, Jack thought, but he answered in keeping with the tone of the query: “Shut up, Hank,” he said, then took his wonky knees with him to the locker room to change for the mission.
 
 
*******
 
 
 
Grogan had been shot enough times that he considered himself something of an expert, so he felt he could say, categorically, that the pulse weapon or whatever the hell the child Goa'uld had hit them with, was the worst of them—worse than a zat, worse than a staff weapon and for sure worse than a bullet, although he'd only been grazed that one time, so he supposed he could be wrong about that.
 
He didn't think so, though. He had never felt anything more painful than the blast that had hit him today. He'd felt certain that his very cells were exploding, and he couldn't understand why he didn't die, or at least lose consciousness. But instead he'd writhed and jerked on the ground, in too much pain to even scream but all too aware of what was going on around him.
 
He'd heard the colonel firing and yelling. He'd seen Vala convulsing on the ground next to him and seen Kal'toc take a hit to his shoulder and then one brutal kick after another from the Goa'uld, Ser. . . Sera. . . . oh what the hell did it matter what his name was. The little sh** had kicked the hell out of Kal'toc and laughed while he'd done it. Some of the other children, and he was pretty sure they were really children, had started crying then. Grogan wondered if they had thought it all a game until that moment.
 
Some game. Tired of lying like a sack of grain on the dirt floor in the little room in which the three of them had been dumped after their cart ride away from the village, Grogan decided to give moving another try. A few minutes ago he'd been able to wave his fingers and lift one hand. Now he found he could turn his head, so he did, slowly, waiting for another set of explosions in his body, and he was pleased that the pain stayed steady, at a level somewhere just below excruciating. All he could see, though, was more dirt and a wooden wall, so he turned his head in the other direction and saw Kal'toc's boots only a few inches from his face.
 
“Kal'toc?” he rasped, surprised that he could get his vocal cords to work at all. “Kal'toc?”
 
The young soldier gave no response, and as far as Grogan could see, which was just past the boots, he didn't move either.
 
“Vala?” Grogan tried this time, not having the energy to turn in her direction just yet. Nothing. Hell. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Grogan brought his knees up, rolled to his side and slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. The muscles in his left leg and side started to spasm. “Ow, goddam it!” he gasped and waited for the pain to subside.
 
“Karl?” he heard Vala croak then, and he opened the eyes he hadn't even realized he'd closed and looked over to where he knew she was lying, flat on her back. Her head was turned toward him and she was staring back at him. He tried to smooth the pain and worry from his face, but he was pretty sure he failed.
 
Vala saw his look and lifted herself up a little, letting out a small groan. “I may call you Karl, right?” she said. “I mean, Grogan seems so impersonal given the circumstances, and I could call you handsome, but I can't call everyone handsome, that would be so confusing. . . .”
 
Grogan let loose a bark of a laugh and then a moan. “Ow, ow, Vala, don't make me laugh.”
 
“Sorry,” she said and gave him a little grin through her own pain. “Bad habit. . . . Well, here goes nothing,” she added, then rolled over quickly and pushed herself up so she was sitting also. She gave a little hiss and looked as if she were going to pass out, but she steadied herself and took a long deep breath and exhaled.
 
Grogan didn't realize he'd let his mouth drop open until Vala spoke again. “I'm told I have a very high pain threshold,” she said and paused a beat. “Ask Daniel.” Grogan was glad the room was dim, because he was pretty sure she had just made him blush.
 
She looked over at Kal'toc and said, more soberly, “How is he?”
 
Grogan looked toward their teammate, who was lying face down. “He took a pretty bad beating,” he said.
 
Vala nodded. “I saw.”
 
Grogan grimaced and moved forward till he was by Kal'toc's shoulders, then got to his knees, expecting to be felled by more convulsions. His body cooperated this time, though, so he leaned over and put his hand carefully to the side of the injured man's head.
 
“Kal'toc?” he said quietly.
 
Kal'toc's eyes opened, “Yes, Captain,” he said.
 
“How are you?” Grogan asked.
 
Kal'toc gave that some thought. He'd been told that the courteous response to this question was, “I am fine, thank you,” but that did not seem to fit the situation.
 
“I have been shot and then repeatedly kicked by a very small Goa'uld,” he said.
 
Grogan bit off another laugh. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was the only sane member of his team. “We saw, Kal'toc,” he said. “Can you move?”
 
Again there was silence as Kal'toc appeared to consider the question. “I can,” he said, finally, although he continued to lie where he was.
 
Grogan nodded. “Good.” The men who had thrown them into the cart after the Goa'uld had finished with Kal'toc had taken their packs along with their vests and radios, so there really wasn't much he could do for him anyway. He moved back against the closest wall and leaned back gingerly, then asked the question they'd all been avoiding.
 
“Either of you see what happened to Colonel Mitchell? I heard him firing and I heard him yell, but I couldn't see him.”
 
“He escaped,” Vala said.
 
“You saw him?” Grogan asked, allowing a little hope to creep into his voice.
 
“No, but they were still looking for him when they threw us in that cart. If he were. . . .” Vala had been about to say, “If he were dead,” but stopped herself. “If they couldn't find him, he must have escaped.”
 
“I believe he was wounded by the men in the village,” Kal'toc said. “I saw him fall and rise again.”
 
“Badly wounded?” Grogan asked.
 
“I don't know. He moved quickly, however, so perhaps not. I did not see what happened to him afterward, although I too heard him shout. He sounded angry.”
 
Grogan didn't doubt that. The man had just watched his entire team go down.
 
A team that was now Grogan's responsibility.
 
Grogan took a deep breath. He wasn't sure he was ready for this, but what choice did he have? “All right, I'm going to assume the colonel is O.K. and out there somewhere doing whatever he needs to do to get us out. But for the time being we're on our own. We know that one of our Goa'uld is here and that the boy . . .”
 
“Simis,” Vala supplied.
 
“. . . Simis is still the host. He has an unknown number of men and women working with him. I think we're in the meeting house that was in Dr. Jackson's report. Anyone remember how far it is from the village?”
 
“Two point three kilometers,” Kal'toc said, quoting the report. The young Jaffa pushed himself slowly up till he was on his hands and knees, where he swayed momentarily before moving backward into a seated position. Grogan could see the strain in his teammate's bruised and cut face, but no sound escaped him. “Two point three kilometers from the village,” Kal'toc continued, his harsher breathing the only indication of the pain he was suffering, “and three point one kilometers from the Stargate.”
 
Grogan nodded. “Guards?” he asked.
 
“I counted three men outside, besides the four with us, and none inside,” Vala said. “I don't know how many more were about. There could have been fifty men in the woods.”
 
“So, an unknown number of hostiles outside, unknown number inside,” Grogan summarized. “Wonderful.” He looked around the room they were in: dirt floor, solidly built wood-plank walls, a small high window, a wooden door leading back to the large main room they'd been carried through—a wooden door without a lock, now that he thought about it. There probably hadn't been much need for locks on Cartinia, until now.
 
“It's pretty quiet out there,” he said. “Maybe we should just try opening the door.”
 
“Wonderful suggestion, darling, you go first,” Vala said, making it clear what she thought of the idea.
 
“Well, the only other escape route I can see would be to dig under the walls with our bare hands,” Grogan said. “What do you figure that would take, Vala, two-three days?”
 
“Someone approaches,” Kal'toc said suddenly, before Vala could respond.
 
And then Grogan heard it too, the sound of footsteps in the next room. They heard a fearful male voice say, “My lady, General Attila has ordered that no one enter until he returns,” and a high-pitched child's voice mixed with the clear Goa'uld undertones respond, “And who will stop us? You?” Grogan tried to get to his feet, thinking to move behind the door and surprise whoever came through, but his legs spasmed and gave out beneath him, and he fell backward against the wall just as the footsteps stopped and the door swung open.
 
*********
 
Thome finished with the neat, tight bandage on Cam's arm and stepped back. “I believe it will heal well, Colonel Mitchell,” he said with satisfaction.
 
“Thank you, Thome.” Cam looked around the underground room at the people around him. They were a mismatched bunch, these Cartinians. Two old men; one middle-aged guy running to fat despite the obvious callused worker's hands; a broad-shouldered young man in the prime of life, two skinny teenage boys, one pale enough to be albino; a slight, sad-looking young woman with a long braid down her back; and Thome. “Thank you all,” he said. “But I need to leave now; I need to get to my people. Do you know where they are?”
 
“You think to rescue them alone?” Thome asked.
 
“If I have to,” Cam said. “Do you know where they are?” he repeated. Every minute Grogan, Vala and Kal'toc were in the hands of the Goa'uld was a minute too long. He had to get going.
 
“We do. They are being kept in the meeting house.”
 
“Outside of town?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“And they're alive?”
 
“We have someone watching, and there are guards posted outside, so at least one of your people is still alive. The Goa’uld have not yet entered, so they have not been taken as hosts.”
 
Cam suddenly felt sick. Oh, god.
 
“Hosts?” he said.
 
“Yes, that is why you were lured here. They want hosts with the knowledge of the Tau’ri.”
 
“You knew this and you didn’t warn us?” Cam said, glaring at Thome.
 
“We were being watched, and they were threatening our families. My uncle would be very angry that I am here now, but the Goa’uld killed my parents when I was a child. I will not let them destroy my adopted home.”
 
Cam took a deep breath and let it out, looking at the ragtag band around him. “You are all risking your lives to be here with me. I can’t let you do that. You should go.”
 
“No! We have a right to be here! We're ready to fight!” This enthusiastic remark was from the boy who wasn’t an albino, and Cam was reminded of Kal'toc.
 
“The boy is excitable, but he is correct. We will help rid our planet of the Goa’uld, with or without you, Colonel Mitchell,” said one of the elderly men. Cam looked at him. He was pale, thin and stooped over even while seated, and his face was filled with the wrinkles of a man who had spent his life working in the fields. His voice was strong, however, and his gaze was direct.
 
Cam nodded. He would feel the same if it was Earth, even if it weren't already his job to protect it. Understanding it, though, wasn't the same as going along with it, but he didn't have time to argue.
 
“Fair enough,” he said. “Tell me what you know. You mentioned Goa'uld, plural. How many are here?”
 
“Three,” said the young woman, speaking for the first time. “Two have children as hosts, one just a tiny girl, and one, who calls himself Attila, is in a man.”
 
“A man, not a teenager?”
 
“I don't understand. What is a teenager?”
 
“Like these two here,” Cam said, indicating the boys.
 
“No,” Thome answered for her. “The one who calls himself Attila is in the body of a man older than myself.”
 
Cam offered up a silent prayer for the boy Hentik, but he didn't have time to dwell. Two Goa'uld still in the bodies of the children meant two Goa'uld still searching for hosts, and he'd be damned if they were going to take his teammates.
 
“They have men with them. How many?”
 
“Nineteen men came through the Chappa'ai after the Goa'uld landed the ship,” said the other elderly man. He was tall and had obviously once been quite strong, although his hands shook now and his muscles sagged. “Attila called them his 'army,' but that insults the word. I once commanded my own men, and these are nothing more than thieves and murderers, without true skill or discipline.”
 
“I killed two,” Cam said, remembering the men running at him.
 
“And your Jaffa killed one and wounded two more,” Thome said.
 
“So, three Goa'uld and fourteen to sixteen men,” Cam murmured. Would Landry risk sending a team or teams through to find them? If the old soldier was correct, two SGC teams would be more than enough of a match for Attila's men. If they could make it through. . . .
 
“Are they watching the Stargate . . . the Chappa'ai?” he asked.
 
“Yes, the portly man said. “They await your rescue team, hoping to have a greater choice in hosts.”
 
Crap, Cam thought. Now the set up with the ship in the field and the late attack made more sense. “That's why they didn't attack until we were contacted by the SGC,” he said out loud. “They wanted more teams through the Gate. . . . How many of their men are at the Gate?”
 
The albino kid spoke then: “None at the 'Gate,' but Trevian and I counted nine men still in the village, included the injured ones. One of the injured appears able to fight.”
 
“And my son reported that he has seen five men guarding the meeting house,” added the stooped old man, “and the two child Goa'uld.”
 
“And Attila?” Cam asked.
 
“We don't know,” the other kid, Trevian, said.
 
Cam rubbed his eyes. He looked at his watch and saw that almost forty minutes had passed since he'd told Landry they'd be home in twenty. It wouldn't be long before the SGC made contact. Should he try to warn them? Take out some of the men in the village to even the odds should Landry decide to send a rescue team? Leave his team longer to the mercy of the Goa'uld? Cam growled in frustration as he had a sudden vision of what it would be like to lose Vala, to be the one responsible for Grogan's luck finally running out, to have to tell Kal'toc's family that the boy they worshiped was never coming home.
 
Most in the room looked at him curiously, but the old ex-soldier smiled grimly. “You'll need our help,” he said. “You can't aid your friends coming through the Gate and rescue your team on your own.”
 
“I told you, I'm not asking for your help,” Cam said.
 
Thome answered with certainty, “You are not asking; we are insisting.”
 
Cam hesitated a moment more, then said, “How many Cartinians can we count on?”
 
The youths looked at each other, then looked down, red-faced, as if they were ashamed.
 
“Except for Grien's grandson,” the young woman answered, “and my sister who is watching the Circle, we are all there is. The others do not wish to help the Goa'uld, but they will not risk their lives to help us either.”
 
“All right,” Cam said, “then we'll need some firepower. What've we got?”
 
When he received nothing but blanks stares, he sighed and translated: “Weapons?”
 
The people in the room shifted, pulling out a hodgepodge of weapons from their clothing and from behind them. They all had knives, and there were several “projectile” weapons similar to rifles, which he guessed they'd grabbed from Attila's fallen men. Both boys pulled out what looked like slingshots as well, and Cam almost rolled his eyes, but stopped himself. He didn't want to wound their pride, and besides, he remembered bringing down a large raven once with one of those things—much to his mother's horror—and he realized that, if the boys were skilled enough, they could do quite a bit of damage.
 
The old soldier, Vineon, watched the others, then smiled and pulled out a zat, and Cam smiled back.
 
“You have ammunition for those things,” he said then, pointing to the guns, one of which the portly man held.
 
“We do.”
 
“You know how to shoot them?”
 
“I do. I will show the others.”
 
“O.K., that's good. What we need. . . .”
 
There was a muffled thump and a scurrying sound as something came toward the room. They all stiffened, and Cam turned and lifted his P-90. A child with an obvious resemblance to the sad-looking woman ducked through the opening and almost fell into the room, breathless.
 
“Gretyl,” her sister chastised her. “The signal!”
 
Gretyl's eyes widened as she took in the weapons still pointing at her. “Oh, I forgot! Antria, I'm sorry. But I must tell you!”
 
Cam lowered his weapon as the others did and shook his head, minutely. The girl couldn't have been more than twelve. She was the one they had watching the Gate?
 
“Tell us then,” her sister snapped. The stooped elderly man put his hand on her shoulder, and she took a deep breath and said more gently, “What is it you saw, Gretyl?”
 
“The circle, it opened, but no one came through. Only a voice.”
 
Cam swore and looked at his radio. It was on, and he didn't think it had been damaged. Being underground must have interfered with the radio signal.
 
The girl looked at him, frightened, and stopped talking.
 
“I'm sorry, Gretyl,” he said. “What did the voice say?”
 
She looked to her sister, who nodded. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to remember exactly, then said, “SG-13, SG-13, this is Landry, do you copy? Please respond.”
 
She looked at him worriedly. “Do those words make sense?”
 
Cam couldn't help but smile at her. “Yes, they do. Anything else?”
 
“The words repeated, and then there was a silence and they repeated again. And then there was a long silence and another voice said, 'SG-13, if you can hear this, we will contact you again in five hours and five times after that.' ”
 
Five hours? And five times after that? Cam thought, then said, “Are you sure that's right?”
 
The little girl looked upset again. “Yes, I am. I am very good at remembering words. Aren't I teacher?” She addressed this last to, Grien, the stooped, elderly man.
 
“Yes, you are,” he said gently. He turned to Cam. “If she says that is what the voice said, then that is what it said.”
 
“And there was more,” the girl added. She squinted her eyes in concentration. “'Per stan-dard operating pro-ce-dure. Out.' And then the circle was empty again.”
 
Cam stared at her. No way that was SOP, he thought, and then the lightbulb went off in his head. Five times five. They'd be there in twenty-five minutes. Less, now, depending on how much time had passed.
 
“How long ago was this?” he asked.
 
She shrugged. “I ran to get here. I was fast.”
 
“Did the men in the village come toward the . . . circle while this was happening?”
 
“No, no one came from the village that I could see.”
 
“How did you get here without them seeing you?”
 
The girl looked at him as if he were a little bit stupid. “I came through the tunnel in the woods.”
 
Cam sat up straighter. “There are more tunnels?” he said to the others in the room. He had thought there was only the claustrophobic passageway from the house at the edge of the village to the “room” they were in now. He'd have to kick himself later for the stupid assumption.
 
“Yes,” Thome said. “They were built by the earliest settlers who had fled Goa'uld domination. They knew they would need places to hide. They stretch from here to the nearby woods and fields, and also out to the woods nearby the meeting house, where your friends are kept.”
 
For the first time, despite the dread he felt for his teammates, Cam started to feel some hope. “Do the tunnels lead to other parts of the village?” he asked.
 
“They do,” the broad-shouldered young man spoke for the first time.
 
Cam nodded slowly, the germ of an idea forming in his mind. “All right, gentlemen . . . and ladies,” he said after minute. “Here's the plan.” He leaned forward and started to talk, and his troop of irregulars leaned forward to listen.
 
*******
 
The UAV came through the gate on PX4-322, made a lazy circle, then flew toward the village. Moments later Jack and Teal'c stepped through, and then Daniel and Sam. Daniel, P-90 grasped securely in one hand, kept a light hold on Sam's arm as she stared at the video screen of her handheld computer. SG-6 came right behind them and fanned out around the Gate.
 
“Carter?” Jack said, eyeing their empty surroundings warily. Except for the buzz of the UAV as it grew more distant, it was eerily quiet.
 
“Looks as if we were right about unfriendlies in the village, sir. I saw two men duck for cover, and another man pull someone out of sight.”
 
Daniel was looking over her shoulder. “It's hard to tell with the size of the image, but they don't look like locals. The clothes are wrong, and I could swear at least one of them has a staff weapon.”
 
“Any sign of our people?”
 
“No, sir.”
 
“Teal'c?”
 
“I may have detected motion in the woods,” he said, indicating the treeline several hundred yards to their left, “but I am uncertain.”
 
“O.K., keep an eye out. Everyone have their toys?” Jack said. At Sam's and Daniel's nods, he turned to Atwater and his men:
 
“Keep it clear for us, Major,” he said. “We may come running.”
 
“Yes, sir, General. We've got your backs,” Atwater said.
 
Jack turned to Sam. “We sure they don't have anything that can reach us from that range?” he said, moving his chin toward the woods.
 
“Nothing they brought back from the station, sir, unless they took the time to alter the data crystal we found,” Sam said.
 
“O.K. then, kids. Let's go. Teal'c, you take point; I've got our six.”
 
**********
 
Vala watched Grogan fall back against the wall and winced in sympathy, then turned toward the open door. Her own limbs still trembled in pain, but she pulled herself up straighter and pasted the usual half-sardonic, half-defiant look on her face. She was impressed with herself that, when she saw who was standing before her, she kept her face in place, allowing herself only a short intake of breath.
 
There she was. It was Palita. She was still alive. The Goa'uld that possessed her, Kauket, stepped into the room, her leg dragging grotesquely behind her. She was followed by Simis—no Serilpum, Vala corrected herself—who looked as if he was carrying a Goa'uld pain stick. Three armed men came behind her, two with what looked almost like Earth rifles and one with a staff weapon.
 
Palita/Kauket walked farther into the room and looked at them with disdain.“These pitiful creatures are of the great Tau'ri we have heard so much about?” She looked at Kal'toc and said, “One is not even human. Jaffa,” she hissed, “where is your mistress, Nirrti, my sister of the night?”
 
Kal'toc stared stonily back but did not answer.
 
Kauket narrowed her eyes at him, then turned to Serilipum, who gave a feral grin so out of place on his sweet boy's face that it was even more terrifying and took a step toward the silent Jaffa.
 
“You will answer, hashak,” he snapped.
 
Vala wasn't sure Kal'toc would survive another beating. “Nirrti is dead, I'm afraid,” she said. “Killed by her own people. Very messy, I hear.”
 
Serilipum paused, and Kauket took two dragging steps toward Vala and, before Vala could react, she raised her tiny hand and slapped her hard enough to knock her down. “I did not give you permission to speak!” she screamed, sounding very much like a small child having a tantrum.
 
Vala pushed herself up and wiped the blood from the cut in her mouth. “Sorry,” she said. “My mistake.”
 
Grogan cleared his throat, and Vala turned to see him standing, albeit unsteadily. “Is there something you want?” he asked, holding Kauket's gaze when she met his.
 
Kauket flicked a look toward Serilipum then back to Grogan and smiled. Grogan felt Serilipum approach, but he was determined to show no fear. He forced himself not to look in the direction of the sadistic Goa'uld, instead continuing to stare at the small girl child with the evil eyes. He saw the pain stick out of the corner of his eye and drew in a breath. He'd never felt the effects of one of those, but he knew it was going to be very, very bad. Kauket gave a small nod, smiling still, and Serilipum stabbed the pain stick into Grogan's neck. He felt the pain burn through him, bursting from his mouth and eyes. He went to his knees and screamed. Serilipum pulled the stick away, and Grogan fell to his side. The feeling of acid in his veins mixed with the pain from the pulse weapon. He felt his limbs trembling again, uncontrollably, and tears stung his eyes.
 
“Again,” Kauket said.
 
Kal'toc started to his feet, but found himself staring into the barrel of one of the guns. He heard the staff weapon activate and he froze in a crouch.
 
“Really, this isn't necessary,” Vala said, but Serilipum only laughed a high-pitched giggle and jabbed the pain stick toward Grogan's neck once again, stopping just short when a voice spoke from the doorway.
 
“Enjoying yourselves?” The voice was low and dual toned and dripping with menace. Serilipum pulled the weapon away from his target and stepped back, turning toward the door. Vala looked as well and saw a tall, middle-aged man with short-cropped light-brown hair, high cheekbones and a broad mouth. He was dressed simply in black trousers and shirt and a sort of a long jacket, but there was no mistaking what he was. He held himself with an exaggerated regal bearing, and arrogance fairly dripped from his pores.
 
“Attila,” Serilipum said, and nothing more.
 
Kauket turned too and smiled brightly. “Yes, my lord, we are enjoying ourselves. Very much so.”
 
Attila looked back at her coldly, then turned toward the guard who had remained closest to the door.
 
“My orders were than no one enter this room without me,” he said.
 
The man swallowed convulsively and stuttered, “Sir. The lady . . . Lady Kauket . . . she insisted. . . .”
 
“Hand me your weapon,” Attila said. When the man stayed rooted to the spot, he repeated slowly, “Hand me your weapon.”
 
The guard stepped forward and held out the rifle with a shaking hand. Attila grabbed the his arm, pulled a long, curved knife from beneath the cloak and thrust it into the man's chest, slashing downward. The guard made a strangled, gurgling sound, his eyes grew wide and then they dimmed. Attila pulled the bloody knife out and let the him drop to the ground, not sparing him a second glance.
 
“Hessen,” Attila said, wiping the knife on his trousers and placing it back in the scabbard inside his jacket.
 
“Yes, sir,” the man with the staff weapon said, pulling his gaze from the body of his comrade, who was now lying in a spreading pool of blood on the dirt floor.
 
“You command the guard now. You and the others divide Atchien's wealth. Dispose of the corpse and leave us alone here. I want three men to remain outside the building and the rest in the great room, understood?”
 
“Yes, sir,” Hessen said, grinning at the thought of his new riches. Catching the third guard's eye, he jerked his head toward Atchien's body. They each grabbed a leg and dragged the still-warm corpse from the room.
 
Attila turned to the members of SG-13, ignoring his fellow Goa'uld. He studied them silently for a moment, and appeared deep in thought. Vala looked at her teammates. Grogan had pulled himself back up so he was sitting against the wall. He was breathing shallowly as if trying to control the pain. Kal'toc had risen to his knees when the guards had taken their weapons from his face, and he stared back at Attila, his face almost expressionless.
 
Serilipum started dancing from foot to foot with impatience, then giggled nervously. “Which one do I get, which one do I get?” he said.
 
Attila turned toward him, not bothering to mask the distaste he felt toward his fellow Goa'uld. “Which one do you want?” he said.
 
Serilipum smiled in surprise and almost skipped to Grogan's side. He grabbed Grogan by the hair, pulling his head back painfully. “This one, I want this one as my host. And then I want you to give me that one”—he pointed to Vala—“to play with.”
 
“And the Jaffa? What would you do with him?”
 
Serilipum tilted his boy's head to the side and considered Ka'toc. The young Jaffa did not look in his direction but continued to stare coolly at Attila.
 
Serilipum released Grogan's head and turned toward the Goa'uld general. “Flay him?” he said and giggled. “I would like to flay him!”
 
“And what do you think of that plan, Jaffa?”
 
Kal'toc glanced at Serilipum then before returning his stare to Attila. “He is welcome to try,” Kal'toc said.
 
Serilipum hissed, Vala smirked and Attila burst out laughing. “This one,” he said, “this one I would like to keep for myself. What do you say, Jaffa, do you not tire of fighting with these humans?”
 
Kal'toc looked at Grogan and Vala and back at Attila. “What is it you offer?” he said. Vala raised her eyebrows in surprise and Grogan sat up a little straighter.
 
“First Prime, of course. If you prove yourself worthy, you will lead my armies.”
 
“Your armies?” Kal'toc said, looking through the open door, his tone making it clear what he thought of the “troops” he'd seen so far.
 
Attila eyes flashed at the challenge and for a moment he looked ready to kill Kal'toc with his bare hands, but then he relaxed and laughed again.
 
“Careful, Jaffa. I do not suffer disrespect lightly. But you are right. So far, they are not much of an army, but if I have accomplished this much in a matter of weeks, what do you imagine we can accomplish together in another month?”
 
“Your soldiers refer to you as 'sir,' not 'my lord.' ” Kal'toc said, after a moment. “Do you not claim to be a god?”
 
“I am Goa'uld,” Attila said, “and the greatest general to have ever lived. I offer them riches and power beyond their dreams, and in return I expect absolute loyalty. These things are enough.”
 
Kal'toc nodded slowly and asked one last question. “And if I decline?”
 
“Then you die.”
 
Kal'toc looked to his teammates again. He thought he saw a message in the captain's eyes, but he couldn't read it. Vala stared at him quizzically. Kal'toc looked away from their steady gazes and down at the dirt floor. He thought of what he had learned of the Tau'ri since he'd been with SG-13, and all the doubts he'd suffered after his journey home. And he thought of how far he'd come in his short life and how far he still had to go.
 
And he made his decision.
 
Still avoiding the eyes of his teammates, he rose to his feet, taking care not to show any pain or hesitation. “Then I agree,” he said. “I would be honored to become First Prime to General Attila, who does not claim to be a god.”
 
 
 
part 7 

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