Retaliation (15 page)

“Incoming!” Brubaker yelled, hitting the idiot button that started an ah-OOO-gah! blat of sirens through the pyramid complex, as well as warning the officer of the guard.

Brubaker’s other hand darted to the switch that trig-gered the first wave of claymores. The crash of the curved plastic explosive charges detonated in counter-point to the three-round bursts from the riflemen of Brubaker’s guard detachment.

The invaders hesitated, irresolute, right in the middle of the kill zone. Claymores cut fan-shaped windrows through the packed mass of intruders. The survivors staggered around as the riflemen went to single, aimed shots. “Surrender, you dumb bastards!” Brubaker almost begged. It was like a turkey shoot. Dead Horus guards lay mounded in front of the glowing portal. Then the strange, almost musical note sounded again, energy gushed from the ring, and the force field formed anew. A fresh wave of masked figures stumbled forth.

Brubaker stabbed the control for the next ring of claymores. His men frantically slammed new maga-zines into their rifles. The slaughter started all over again, amplified as more squads rushed in to add their firepower. When it was over, the hall was almost echoingly silent. Dead enemies lay piled waist-deep on the ac-cess ramp.

The hammering finally left Brubaker’s ears. His hands were still shaking from the adrenaline surge.

“Sarge, why did they stay bunched up like that while we shot the piss out of ‘em?” one of his men asked.

These were, after all, the same warriors who’d kicked major ass on the recon team and later on the ex-peditionary force. Maybe these guys had had an extra-bad trip through the StarGate. Brubaker’s passage hadn’t been any picnic. He’d heard fellow Marines re-fer to the transit as the “puke chute.” Or perhaps the invaders had just never encoun-tered terrible resistance-or such concentrated fire.

Glancing around, the sergeant realized that none of his comrades had even been hit.

Brubaker licked his dry lips and tried to shape them into a grin. “Maybe,” he suggested, “that was the Army arm of the Horus guards.” The men laughed, but no eyes left the StarGate. Was it going to cycle again and spill out a new crop of lambs for the slaughter?

Minutes passed, and Brubaker felt the familiar let-down that came after combat.

An adrenaline rush used up the body’s resources. When it passed ... “We ought to get up there and check,” he finally said. “Some of them might still be alive.”

He detailed a team for the gruesome task of examin-ing the shredded bodies. It was enough to make hard-ened veterans pale. But the searchers turned from wading among the corpses and pierced Brubaker with shocked eyes. “Sarge, they’re old men,” the corporal in charge faltered.

“And women,” another Marine added.

‘These masks”-one of the searchers crushed a hawk shape in his fingers-“They’re made out of, like, aluminum foil.”

But it was the- corporal who reached the final, damning realization. “And they were all unarmed).”

The defenders stood frozen in awful silence. Brubaker heard one of the younger kids retching.

Then the StarGate began to cycle again.

“Get out! Get out of there!” Brubaker screamed.

It was like one of those slow-motion nightmares. The men were drained by combat and still unstrung form their shattering discovery. They were sinking into the mounded dead like kids on a snowbank.

They tried to scramble away, but the hawk-masked Horus guards were materializing behind them.

These were the real thing, moving with agility and strength to engage the guards with their blast-lances.

And Brubaker couldn’t trigger the claymores with his own people in the kill zone.

“Bastards!” he cursed, snatching up his own rifle. “Scum-sucking-“ A bolt from a Horus guard vaulting off the heap of dead caught him in the face. In the golden halls of the downed starship, militia-men stirred fearfully behind their barricades. The im-provised fortifications had been raised to bar the Urt-men from the interior of the vessel. Now the strangers seemed to roam the ship at will, trying to understand its mysteries. But the guards and most of the barriers still remained.

Baki, Skaara’s deputy at the ship, knew that the belching sound echoing down the corridors was the Earthmen’s warning of an attack coming through the StarGate. He’d heard gunfire, explosions, then a ragged cheer rang out. Moments later, the sounds of combat rever-berated again. Then came a long silence. Baki finally sent one of his men to see what was going on. The runner had just reached the entrance to the StarGate pyramid when a new combat cacophony broke out. This time the sound of rifles blended-then was overwhelmed-by the crash of blast-lances.

Baki’s messenger came dashing back into view seconds after he’d entered the pyramid. The man’s eyes were wide with fear as he ran down the hall. Then the hawk-masks appeared in the opening behind him.... “We have to help the Earthmen,” Baki cried from his vantage point atop the barricade. He leaned into the corridor to gather his men-And a blast-bolt from behind jolted his lifeless body down into the hallway. Gunshots a couple of blocks away jolted the tense silence in the house. “You’re really going to go out into that?” Wa’bet asked her husband. Ged nodded, carefully working the magazine into his M-16. Desert heat had warped the thin metal, mak-ing the fit difficult.

Frankly, Ged was just as glad to keep his attention on his work. He didn’t want to have to see his young wife, her face too thin, her belly great with child. Wa’bet’s accusing eyes were swollen, too, from furious tears. “We have to impose order,” he said. “Skaara has called out all the militia. I’m one of the trusted men. That’s why I have the rifle.” “Can’t you give the gun to one of the others?” Wa’bet begged.

Ged finally looked at her. “No,” he said.

He stepped out of his door, the rifle slung over his shoulder. One look told him he’d delayed too long.

His neighbors were gathered in the middle of the street, blocking the way. He recognized Hormose, who tooled the leather harnesses for mastadges, and Anpu the silversmith.

“Why are you leaving us defenseless?” Anpu de-manded. “There were thieves in the lesser market. A man shot them.”

“I’ve been called,” Ged replied. “You heard the criers.”

“So did the thieves,” Hormose said.

“We have valuables to protect,” Anpu whined.

“Then call whoever shot the men in the lesser mar-ket,” Ged said impatiently.

“Or stay gathered out here until the militia-“

“I hear the warriors are fighting among them-selves!” a shrill voice cut him off.

“What if someone else comes with a gun?”

“You can’t leave us!”

Before Ged could move, the crowd engulfed him like an amoeba. For a while a little epicenter of resis-tance marked his location. Then it disappeared. A bloody hand raised the rifle. “I have it!” Anpu shouted. “Now we’ll be safe!” Reddish plumes rose among the buildings as Skaara led his riot squad down the street. Some fool had just tried to kill them, but had used a smoke grenade in-stead of a fragmentation weapon.

Skaara shuddered for a moment. But for that error... He forced his mind to other matters, tiredly sorting through reports. He’d led these, his most trusted men, back and forth through the city, quashing chaos wher-ever it had raised its head.

Unfortunately, chaos had more heads than he had men. Too many of his followers hadn’t come out at his call, or hadn’t made it to him. After losses Skaara had little more than half the men he’d used to quell the protesters a few weeks ago. His men looked tired. Some were bruised or bloody, walking wounded. A number had shattered rifle butts. Reluctantly, Skaara had ended hand-to-hand intervention. His people fired if they were fired upon. Several shots had disposed of the inept bomb thrower.

Skaara came to a decision. “We’re going back to headquarters,” he announced. The neighborhood around the building that housed the militia’s small logistical detail was quiet. But as he entered the headquarters, Skaara could smell cordite-and blood.

Silently, with hand signals, he deployed his troops. They burst into the room Skaara used as an office to find two of his most trusted men dead on the floor, and four strangers trying to destroy the padlock Jack O’Neil had given him to protect the militia’s blast-lances.

Skaara decided there was no benefit to be gained from interrogating any of these. “No quarter,” he yelled, and his men took care of the rest. As his men cleared the room of bodies, Skaara knelt over the mangled lock and inserted the key. He opened the heavy wooden door and made a quick count of his energy-weapon assets. “As I thought,” he said. “We have just enough to go around.”

Daniel Jackson walked with his shoulders hunched and the hood of his robe pulled low over his face. He didn’t want anyone to see or recognize him. And he didn’t want to see what was happening to Nagada.

After Djutmose and the young politicians of the Freedom faction had flatly refused to help him, Daniel and Faizah had sallied forth to find some reasonable figure and start proving Daniel’s innocence.

But reason was in very short supply in Nagada that day. There were plenty of mobs looking for Urt-men to kill. People were looting and stealing from one another. Militia units with their blood up were firing into crowds or at each other. The only unifying point among them seemed to be a burning desire to string up anybody with blond hair. They’d wandered about for a while, but as the streets had grown more and more dangerous, Faizah had finally suggested a possible hiding place. She’d taken them on a tortuous route to avoid burning buildings, firefights, and rooftop snipers. At last they arrived, footsore and weary, in an area that seemed to specialize in small, rundown warehouses. Their destination had a door secured not by a lock but by a thin rope with a complicated knot. Faizah ex-amined the intricate loops, then nodded in satisfac-tion. “I tied that. No one else has been here.” She deftly undid her signature lock knot and led him inside a long, dark room. A lamp stood on a shoulder-length shelf by the door. She lit it, barred the outer door shut, then led him deeper into the gloom.

In the flickering circle of light thrown by the lamp he could see urns and baskets. The air had a spicy tang to it.

Faizah brought him to a wooden loft structure built out over a series of jars large enough to hide the Forty thieves. She pointed to a ladder. “Up here.” Daniel climbed while Faizah followed him up with the lamp. They arrived at a platform with about five feet of head room. The little loft was equipped with all the comforts a student could desire-pillows, bedding, and, Daniel was amused to note, a couple of packages of MRE’s.

“What is this?” he asked.

Sitting with her feet tucked under her, Faizah shrugged. “Sometimes it’s nice to have someplace where you can get away.”

Knowing Faizah, Daniel wouldn’t be surprised if she’d set up this little passion pit all by herself.

All Daniel wanted to do was fall asleep, but Faizah snuggled beside him. “So tense!” she said, her hand going to unkink the muscles in his shoulder. That led to a neck rub, and a back rub.

“Faizah,” he said hoarsely, trying to put his foot down. But he was so tired, so empty . ..

“It’s been so unfair for you,” Faizah murmured in his ear. As she moved in behind him, kneading Daniel’s loosening muscles, he realized her robe must have magically opened. Warm flesh seemed to burn into his back through his robe. Then she was undoing the fastenings at his throat, loosening his robe.

“What’s this?” she said, finding the chain around his neck. “It’s a gift from an old friend back home.”

Daniel closed his eyes as Faizah gathered in the necklace. “It was found with the Earth StarGate-“ “The Eye of Ra!” Faizah’s voice had a wholly differ-ent timbre when she held the pendant in her hand. “Not only Ra’s symbol-it’s Ra’s medallion!” Daniel’s eyes opened. How could this country girl identify something that was ten thousand years old?

“Feii-“ he began.

But the fingers that had been easing muscles were suddenly pinching pressure points. Blackness descended on Daniel Jackson in a wave.

The woman known as Faizah let the unconscious Daniel Jackson slump to the loft floor as she continued to examine the medallion he wore. She had seen it of-ten enough around Ra’s neck in the days of the First Time, in procession with the other gods, in attendance at Ra’s throne room ... from the times she’d shared Ra’s bed.

All of Faizah’s wide-eyed, youthful mannerisms faded from the beautiful face.

She was Hathor again.

How ironic! In all the time I spent among my enemies, preparing them for the slaughter, I discover this just before the death stroke. Hathor thought back to a night in the Nile valley, millennia before, when she had discovered that this Eye of Ra was more than a mere decoration. She had gone to offer herself to the god king when she found Ra leaving his chambers with an unwontedly surreptitious air. So she had followed him out of the palace, into the night, to the place of the StarGate. There he had removed the medallion from his throat and pressed it to the heart of one of the constel-lations that decorated the huge ring. The great torus had revolved of its own accord, each of the chevrons automatically falling into place.

But they were not lin-ing up with the constellation coordinates carved into the glowing crystal!

The medallion was a special key, coding the Star-Gate to a destination it would never reach in its normal operation!

A swirl of energy had gouted from the ring, stabiliz-ing into the familiar gateway. Ra had vanished within.

Hathor had not dared to follow. The danger of dis-covery was too great, and Ra always thought that the best protector of his secrets was the cold, cruel grave. But Hathor had always remembered the incident, the secret destination. And now chance had dropped the key right into her hands.

“I wish to God I’d never heard of Ra’s Eye\” Barbara Shore shouted, her voice echoing through the engine room of the out-of-commission starship. Standing be-side her, Sha’uri glanced from the gleaming crystal constructions of the actual engines to the copy of an incomprehensible schematic. Peter Auchinloss had discovered some sort of training programs in the ship’s computers. But even when Sha’uri managed to translate the symbols, Barbara was swearing. “So this junk here just refers to what the readings should be on the board?” The physicist tapped a disgusted finger on the section Sha’uri had laboriously succeeded in making some sense of.