Stargate SG-1: Trial by Fire: SG1-1 (12 page)

Wood, hemp, and canvas emitted a symphony of groans, and
their cell lurched into a violent sequence of rolls and pitches. The
horses took it stoically, unlike his stomach. That flipped. On the
upside, it let the headache pale to insignificance. Breathing slowly
and deeply through his mouth, he struggled to ignore the cold sweat
and to focus on the horses. He faintly remembered something to do
with horses. Something to do with dangling sideways in front of a
saddle, his nose colliding with a pungent flank at each jolt... jolt...
lousy choice of words under the circumstances...

Through the wooden grate that locked off their end of the hold
he could see two rows of benches. On them fourteen bulky men
pulled at bulky oars. The queasy reality of the `s'-word became less
and less deniable. Then again, it could be worse. He could have a
starring role in this B-picture remake of Ben Hur and be out there,
pulling away to avoid the wrath of some seven-foot meatball with
a cat o' nine tails.

"I'm amazedwe're still alive," Kelly remarked conversationally. "They're Romans."

"I thought they were Phrygians." It came out a little clipped.
Talking caused a hideous upward motion in his gorge.

"Maybe it's a disguise. They speak Latin, and all their equipment
and weapons are Roman. Bloody barbarians!"

Barbarians? The Romans? Jack had an inkling that Crinklebutt
and Haze might have argued with that, but he didn't feel fit enough
to take up the gauntlet. "Why didn't you get out of there?"

"One of those plonkers was threatening to cut your throat." She
shrugged. "He sounded convincing."

"Oh," he said, wondering if he should ask who or what a plonker
was.

"Is that all you can say? Oh?"

As a matter of fact, yes. Beyond the grate the front echelon of
oarsmen soared skywards, while the pallet dropped out from under
Jack in a seesaw countermove. This time one of the groans had
definitely been his. Hot on its heels a fist of nausea raced up his
throat, and he tasted bile. Eyes narrow, Kelly peered at him.

"Lie down," she recommended.

"I'm fine!"

If he told himself long enough, it might come true. And even if
it didn't, there was no way on P2X 159 that he'd barf his guts out
in front of Miss Marple. No! Way!

Then two things happened. They were catapulted from the
trough they'd sunk into seconds ago, and Mr Ed chose that precise
moment to vent his terminal flatulence. Again. Jack lunged for a
bucket that stood by the foot of the pallet and barely made it. After
five minutes of retching he'd graduated mostly to dry heaves. Kelly
was still watching him with scientific interest.

"You're seasick."

Oh yes. She definitely had a knack for diagnosing the obvious.

"Why the hell do you think I joined the Air Force instead of the
Navy?" he gurgled and dived over the bucket again.

"Because nobody in their right mind would want to wear those
poncy bell-bottoms?"

Jack was surprised enough to abandon his intestinal calisthenics
for a wry grin. "That too... By the way, I won't be held responsible for the consequences if you make me lau-"

Just in case he added a free demonstration, in the course of
which he noticed that something was missing.

"Where's my radio?" he croaked once he'd finished the current
round.

"I think it spooked them. They threw it away."

Great. This day just kept getting better and better. "It spooked
them? How?"

"It started talking. That girl was trying to contact you."

That girl likely as not meant Carter. "When exactly was that?"

"About ten hours ago."

"What?'

"When you first came round you turned a little rambunctious.
They made you drink some sort of draught."

He had absolutely no recollection of anything beyond sniffing
horse flank and figured he must have forgotten to mention that he
had issues with the drugged-out-strapped-to-the-bed thing. And
ships! He had issues with ships, too.

"My guess would be poppy seed. You were out for rather a long
time." She sneezed, shivered a little, and added accusingly, "I was
starting to worry."

"I'm fine," he muttered again, distractedly noting that it hadn't
become any truer since the last time. A change of topic might be in
order. "Are you okay? They hurt you?"

"The pillock who knocked you out thumped me on the noggin
too, but not seriously. Mind you, he -"

"Professor?"

"Yes, duckie?"

"What's a pillock?"

"A plonker. Don't interrupt me! As I was saying, he told his
chums not to kill us."

"He told them not to kill us?"

"Quite."

Jack finally gave up and eased back onto the pallet, experiencing
the same murky sense of confusion he'd had yesterday, listening
to Kandaulo in Hamilgart's patio. So the folks who'd allegedly
massacred a shipload of people over a dispute on religious practice had gone through the trouble of abducting Kelly and him instead
of killing them. And this was after he'd put a few of these guys
out of commission. It didn't compute. He also needed to pee, but
that didn't bother him nearly as much. Generally speaking, he had
no problem playing the village idiot, but he preferred doing it on
his terms rather than because he genuinely didn't get it. Confusion
wasn't a viable tactical proposition.

Mr Ed seemed to share Jack's misgivings and snorted in his
face.

"Can it, horsebreath!"

"He likes you," offered Kelly.

"Yeah, well, somebody has to..." Turning his head, he waited
for the next wave of nausea, which miraculously didn't materialize.
Lying down did help, although he had no intention of admitting it
to Miss Marple. "They took the children?"

"I gather that was the point of attacking in the first place."

"Where are they?"

"Eight of them are in the forward hold here, and the little ones
are on the other ship. They were drugged, too. Apparently these
people are of the opinion that children should be seen but not
heard." She stared at him. "I must say I agree."

He chose to ignore the dig. "Two ships?"

"Yes." Kelly nodded. "Two galleys. Small ones."

"Which tells us what?" groused Jack, profoundly averse to the
notion of small in conjunction with eight or nine Beaufort ripping
across the deck above.

"Think, duckie! Or do you only use your head to prop your ears
apart? It tells us that they probably don't have battleships. If I were
to stage a raid like this, I'd want a big, fast, armoured ship in the
event of the injured party coming after me. Correct?" She smirked
and proceeded to answer her own question. "Of course it is. Now,
if they don't have battleships, why do you think that is?"

He was suffering flashbacks to fourth grade and that mealymouthed gargoyle of a teacher. Apply yourself, Jonathan!

"Come back, Daniel. All is forgiven," he grumbled under his
breath. Aloud he said, "Because recent fluctuations on the Tyrean
stock market have driven yacht prices through the roof?"

"Very good!" cried Kelly. If she weren't tied up, she'd clap
her flippers like a performing seal. "They can't afford them.
Coincidentally, most of our intrepid warriors double as oarsmen,
which is another indicator that we're dealing with a relatively small
guerrilla organisation rather than a nation state."

"We already know that. Kandaulo told us."

She snorted, startling Mr Ed. "Don't insult my intelligence! You
weren't exactly subtle, you know? You don't trust that imitation
wizard as far as you could throw him."

Ah. He'd have to work on this diplomacy thing some more -
later. "Any idea of where we're going?"

Another snort. This time Mr Ed farted in protest against the
constant invasion of his territory. The Professor graced him with
a scowl and continued to pontificate. "The ships were moored in a
derelict harbour. I'm not sure how far or in which direction from
the temple, because I didn't wake up until we were nearly there.
Once they had loaded the children and those nags, they left the
cove due south, about twenty men to a ship."

Some useful information at last, though it wasn't what he'd
wanted to hear. Not quite as hopeless as being thrown off-wormhole
and somersaulting through the wrong Stargate and into an ice cave,
but close. Come to think of it, Sam Carter putting a splint on his
leg had been eminently preferable to Kelly watching him toss his
cookies. For starters, the ice cave hadn't rolled, plus they'd had a
means of communication for all the good that had done.

"Without my radio it'll be tricky..." he murmured. "Although
Carter's got more rabbits in her cap than anyone else I know."

"The girl?"

"The theoretical astrophysicist. You just think you're smart. She
is smart. But in case Carter can't track us down, we'll have to start
thinking about making it back to Tyros on our own."

"And just how do you propose to do that? Spew the enemy into
submission?"

Hey, it was a thought...

"Besides," Kelly prattled on, "in my humble opinion acts of
piracy are a great deal easier to accomplish when one isn't chained
to the floor. So do us both a favour, get some rest, and keep your Jolly Roger where I can't see it!"

Excuse me?

In all probability it was wisest not to follow up on that one. Miss
Marple had a point, though; short of actually staying alive, there
was absolutely nothing they could do about this mess before they
reached dry land. If they reached dry land.

God, he hated sailing!

"It's SG-1's IDC," announced Sergeant Davis, a hint of a quaver
in his voice.

George Hammond closed his eyes in resignation. SG-units 3
and 17 had just come back from a surprise run-in with a gang of
Anubis' Jaffa, and the infirmary was packed to capacity.

"Open the iris," he said.

"Med team on standby, sir?"

"Easy on the defeatism, Sergeant."

While the gray panels of the iris scraped open, Hammond
entertained himself by envisioning a scenario where, just for once,
the premature return of his flagship team didn't herald trouble but
merely the heartfelt desire of the rulers of P2X-whatever to wish
him a belated Happy Thanksgiving. When Major Carter emerged
from the event horizon under her own steam and without any visible
damage, his spirits rose a little. Next he noticed the look on her
face. This, combined with the fact that she was still her own when
the wormhole collapsed, put paid to the Thanksgiving wishes.

The Major didn't wait for him to meet her. Swatting SFs from
her path, she stormed through the blast doors and came barreling
up the stairs to the control room, two steps at a time.

"Sir. Sergeant."

Bedraggled and soaking wet, with dark smudges under her
eyes - dirt or exhaustion - she seemed to have been on the go for
twenty-four hours straight, running all the way.

Hammond frowned. "Major, something tells me you didn't just
drop in to see how we're doing."

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir..." Petering out, she ran a wet hand over
her face. The smudges stayed. Exhaustion, then. And something
else. Fear. "Sir, with your permission, I'd like to stage a UAV search as soon -"

"Permission denied!"

"General, we've -"

"At least until I find out what makes you come barging into my
base like your pants are on fire!"

"Yessir!"

She straightened up, the disciplined facade snapping back into
place with a vengeance. The fact that it ever had been out of place
told its own tale.

"Briefing room, Major."

"Yessir."

Not waiting for her to move, he made for the stairs. From
the comer of his eye he noticed Walter Davis' face crease with
worry. The Sergeant almost looked his age, and George Hammond
wondered just what age he looked at this moment. Behind him
Carter's footsteps dragged, from fatigue or guilt or both.

If anyone had told him seven years ago that an astrophysicist, a
civilian linguist/archeologist, a former First Prime, and a pretend
cynic with a penchant for artistic insubordination were to form the
most close-knit, effective team he'd ever deployed, Major General
Hammond would have called a shrink. But here they were, nearly
seven years on, having saved good old Earth and a few other
planets several times over, and along the way they'd all developed
an uncanny knack for bouncing back. Hammond was very well
aware that, given the line of work they were in, the bounce might
just not be enough one of these days. Going by Major Carter's
entrance, today could be the day. Then again, he'd thought that
before.

Buoyed by a pinch of bogus optimism, the General scaled the
last few steps to the briefing room. It was overheated, as usual, but
in this instance he didn't mind. The infirmary was busy enough
without Sam Carter catching the common cold.

"Have a seat, Major." Hammond sank into his usual chair at the
head of the table.

She took off her backpack and sat across the corner from him.
The sleeves of her BDU left moist smears on the polished tabletop,
and the water dripping from her jacket gathered in puddles on the leather seat. Whoever had dreamed up this executive briefing room
suite needed a reality check.

"Sir, we've lost Colonel O'Neill," she said without preamble.

"Lost Colonel O'Neill?" he shot back, hoping to hell this wasn't
a euphemism.

"He's missing."

Missing, not dead. George Hammond let go of a breath he
hadn't known he was holding, his gut-deep relief venting itself in
irritation. "Of all the infuriating hobbies, did he have to take up
this one?"

"Sir?"

"By my count it's the third time inside twelve months, Major."

Last time he'd leaped after Harry Maybourne through some sort
of force field that promptly catapulted the Colonel to an unknown
location and a vacation experience with a difference. It had taken
them a month to find him. Jack had been retrieved with a great deal
of luck and some help from the Tok'ra, nursing a skewered thigh
and suffering from the aftereffects of a hallucinogenic that made
LSD look like candy.