STARGATE SG-1: Oceans of Dust Page 13

  Although the scene was harsh, Hera didn’t find it unpleasant. It had triggered something within her, an old fragment of memory, and for a few seconds she allowed herself to take refuge in it. The memory was not her own, nor did it lie in the ceaseless, ageless genetic recall of the Goa’uld. No, this was an image from her host, from the young woman whose body she had taken as her own more than two and a half thousand years before.

  She closed her eyes, took in a slow breath, feeling it fill the lungs of the host with dry heat. In the memory, the breeze was scented with olive and lemon tree and the faint, salt freshness of a distant sea. The grass had been soft and green beneath her bare feet, and gulls had wheeled and turned in the cloudless sky.

  Hera felt struck by a sudden and unaccountable sense of loss. She opened her eyes and then, purely on a whim, slipped out of her sandals and began to walk barefoot across the dry plain towards her yacht. Other System Lords would probably have thought her actions strange, but Hera prided herself on being atypical among the Goa’uld, and whimsy had always pleased her.

  Behind her, two of her Jaffa hoplites stepped out of the shade and began to follow at a discreet distance. Hera assumed one of them would have picked up her sandals, but she didn’t look back to make sure. It was their place to do so. It was their pleasure.

  Her yacht lay a hundred meters distant, its slender hull gleaming white in the blinding sun. Far to her right squatted the dark bulk of Anshar’s royal barque, fashioned in the stylized shape of a winged bull with a human head, cast from what looked like black iron. To her left was the imperial barge of Lord Tsukiyomi, all green and gold and angles. The three vessels had set down equidistant from one another, and the Hall of Negotiation had been erected in a direct line with the primary weapons of all three.

  When System Lords met on neutral ground, little would keep their excesses in check save the threat of mutually assured destruction.

  Hera put a hand to her diadem, touched a control at her temple. “Eri?”

  “My Lady. I’m sorry to interrupt you, but the Oracle asks for you.”

  “I thought as much. In which case, your presence will be required while I am gone. Have you been listening in?”

  “Of course, just as you commanded. Shall I transport across now?”

  “Let them wait a minute or two. Have some slaves bring them drink and sweetmeats, then go in and start where I left off.” She thought of Ericaceae among the two System Lords and their Jaffa, and grimaced. “Disgusting, the pair of them, but don’t let that affect your reactions.”

  “What path shall I take?”

  “Only that which presents itself to you. Oh, one more thing, sister. It is time that Lord Anshar heard news from home.”

  “By your will. I shall lift the communications block immediately.”

  There was a faint chime as Ericaceae broke the connection. Already she would be hurrying from her hiding place to take Hera’s seat at the table. The thought made her smile faintly.

  The smile did not last long. The captain of her yacht was waiting for her at the embarkation ramp, head tipped forwards in defense.

  She reached out to him, used a fingertip to lift his head. “The Oracle?”

  “In the communications chamber.”

  That took the smile well and truly off Hera’s lips. “I shall attend her. Thank you, Captain.” She strode past him, quickly, so that he would not see the displeasure in her eyes.

  Or the fear.

  Hera made her way through the yacht to the communications vault, quickly and without acknowledging the hoplites who bowed as she passed them. Once she reached the heavy, armored hatch she pressed her open hand against the gold panel in its centre, and waited a moment for the ship’s mechanisms to recognize her essence. It was a slightly infuriating pause, and Hera was not usually accustomed to waiting for anything, at least nothing so trivial as the opening of a door. But the vault was a secret place, tended only by her most trusted Jaffa, and she would rather force herself to wait like a common slave for the door to admit her than she would risk its security being compromised.

  After a few seconds the door shivered, its powerful locking fields ebbing away, and it slid aside. Hera stepped through, into cool, softly chattering gloom.

  The chamber was long, angular. The only light came from the instrumentation ranged around its walls; glowing icons and pulsing data panels, the constant scroll of hieroglyphs and the whirl of graphics. Along each of the two long walls sat several Jaffa operators, hunched over their control boards. They did not move as she entered, did not look up or pause in their work. Hera would have been extremely surprised if they had, given the amount of modification they had endured.

  She padded past them, bare feet silent on the cold floor.

  The Oracle stood at the far end of the chamber, outlined in the fluttering blue light of three huge data panels. She turned as Hera approached, and dropped to one knee, her head lowered, dark hair flowing down almost to the floor. “My Lady.”

  “Pythia.” Hera stooped, took the woman’s hand and raised her. The Oracle was taller than her, but she was used to that. Most people were. “You have been inhaling the vapors, I trust?”

  “Of course, Lady.” The Oracle smiled wryly. It was a private joke between them, playing on the superstition of the lesser slaves. In legend, oracles would enter a frenzy induced by pneuma, the foul miasmas from some mysterious seismic process, and in that state would utter prophesies. On occasion, it amused Hera to hint that such an act was still carried out, that on her throneworld there existed a chasm from which pneuma still issued. Only a fool would believe such a thing, she knew.

  Hera was painfully aware that there was no shortage of fools among the Goa’uld.

  Pythia’s ‘vapors’ consisted of raw data, of tactical information gathered by the Jaffa in the communications chamber and others like it in starships and palaces across Hera’s empire. The gift of prophesy stemmed from her phenomenal ability to collate and process that data, to compare it to past histories and present conditions, and from that sea of raw information draw forth prediction. Hera employed the services of many such Oracles throughout her empire, but Pythia was, and had been for a thousand years, the utmost among them. Her forecasts had a degree of accuracy that was unparalleled.

  It was not her only valuable quality. Pythia was a superb tactician, a trusted advisor, a brutal warrior and a skilled lover. She was, perhaps, the closest thing Hera had to a friend. All the more amazing, then, that she carried no Goa’uld within her skull. The woman was entirely human, or at least whatever a human became after a thousand years fending off time in a healing sarcophagus.

  Again, Hera knew that many Goa’uld would regard her as — at best — a fool for such an act, and at worst dangerously insane. It mattered not one iota to her what they thought. She had known true Goa’uld folly, more than once. Compared to that, her own habits warranted no mention at all.

  “And so?”

  Pythia held her gaze. “Ra’s voice has been heard a second time.”

  “You have analyzed the message?”

  “I have. The terminal failsafe has been activated.”

  Hera had expected nothing less. But still, the news hit her like a physical blow. “And the demon?”

  “In flight, Lady.”

  “I see.” Hera turned away. Her heart — the heart of her host — was pounding. “So we were right. Ra had that creature all along.”

  “It would appear so. Unless the messages have been part of an elaborate ruse. I am working to eliminate that possibility.”

  Hera nodded. “There is a chance. And I would welcome it, believe me. But Ra was as stupid as he was cruel — he could easily have kept that nightmare around for his own amusement. It would not surprise me in the least.”

  “If so, then the vessel would already have left Tau’ri. I have my sources looking out for hyperspace activity in that area.”

  “Assuming this is not a ruse, can the demon be tracked?”

&
nbsp; “I believe so.”

  “Good. Pythia, if that thing is out there, I don’t want you to take your eyes off it for a moment. Whatever resources you need, I will —” She stopped in mid-sentence. Her diadem had vibrated, silently.

  “Eri? What news?”

  “My Lady, there has been a development.”

  “Unexpected?”

  “No.”

  So soon, Hera thought. “Very well. I shall return immediately. Keep Anshar in place until I signal.”

  She cut the connection. “Things are moving more quickly than I had anticipated, Oracle. I need to return to the discussions.”

  “Of course. In the meantime?”

  “Order the third and seventh squadrons to rendezvous at Perleptis. The Clythena will join them as soon as we are done here. Squadrons four to six are to make their way to our border with Lord Anshar’s domain, eight to eleven to the edge of Lord Tsukiyomi’s. And Pythia?”

  “Lady?”

  “Contact the shipyard at Perleptis. Tell them to ready the Auger.”

  Pythia paled slightly. But she set her jaw, and nodded. “By your will.”

  “If there were any other way, sweet Pythia, I would not suggest it.” Hera reached out, brushed a fingertip gently along the woman’s jawline. “And if there is any possibility of ending this without its use, I will welcome it.”

  “You are wise, my Lady.” The Oracle’s voice was a whisper. “Wise and strong.”

  Hera forced a smile. “I know.”

  There was a transporter in the yacht, and another in the Hall of Negotiation. Hera could have used the device to sweep her instantly to her meeting with the Oracle, but that would have spoiled her walk. Besides, she had needed time to think.

  There could be no delaying now. Hera retrieved her sandals from the hoplite who had been dutifully carrying them since she had left the Hall, transmitted a pre-arranged signal to Ericaceae, and then stepped into the transporter. A moment later, she was back in the Hall of Negotiation, and bronze rings were flying up from around her and into the ceiling.

  Ericaceae was waiting for her in the transport chamber. “Lord Anshar has gathered his retinue. He says that he must return to his domains at once.”

  “I see. And there has been no mention of why.”

  “None.”

  “No surprise there. Well done, sister. Now go to the yacht and wait for me.”

  She paused at the door to the chamber, until Ericaceae had transported away, then stepped outside. There was a concealed route around to the Hall’s main entrance, and by the time she had reached it, more of her hoplites had assembled there, under Pythia’s orders. She motioned them to form up behind her, then hurried out after Anshar. “My Lord!”

  He turned at her cry, the Jaffa flanking him dropping into a fluid combat stance. She saw their staff weapons snap open, but raised her hand to prevent her hoplites from activating their own.

  Instead, she paced forwards until she was face to face with Anshar. Or face to chest, at any rate. “My Lord, please forgive this impertinence. I could not speak freely in front of Tsukiyomi.”

  “Neither could I.” He smiled wanly, but past the beard his face was pale with fury and distress. “Lady Hera, I apologize again. There are… Matters I must attend to.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tsukiyomi’s spies…” He turned his head and spat onto the dry ground. “Thank you for helping me root them out. Your insight into their identities was invaluable.”

  Hera spread her hands. “It was only right. Alliances should be built on trust, openness, not the foul treachery of fools like Tsukiyomi.”

  Anshar raised an eyebrow. “There will be an alliance, then?”

  “When your duties at home are completed, we will conduct our own…” She tilted her head, just so, and looked up at him, the ghost of a smile at her lips. “Our own negotiations, my Lord.”

  His eyes glowed, subtly. “Hasten the day, Lady.” He span on his heel. “Jaffa! Kree!”

  She watched him stride away towards his barque. When he was within twenty paces of it, the great iron head at its prow began to fold downwards, as if the winged bull-centaur was bowing to him. Its mouth gaped, hinged apart, became a ramp up which Lord Anshar strode, his Jaffa marching alongside him in a glitter of scarlet and brass.

  To her credit, Hera kept her face neutral and her words in check even while the barque was lifting off. Only when it was leaping away into the hot sky did she turn away and make her way back to the Hall of Negotiation.

  Tsukiyomi was still seated, waiting for her. He stood as she opened the hatch and stepped through. “Lady Hera.”

  “My Lord.” She tipped her head, the slightest bow of deference. “Please, allow me to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “Anshar’s conduct.”

  Tsukiyomi dropped languidly back into his throne. “I expect nothing less from him. He is a brute and a boor.”

  “He is an idiot,” Hera smiled.

  “That too.”

  “How lucky that we are not.” She leaned forwards, just a little, over the table. She had heard rumors of Tsukiyomi’s preferences, but the involuntary dip of his eyes belied them. She pretended not to notice. “However, I also must apologize for my own conduct.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Alliances should be based on trust and openness, do you not think?”

  At the mention of the word, Tsukiyomi did a little leaning of his own. “I do, my Lady.”

  “I could not mention this in front of Anshar, you understand. He is still convinced your First Prime, Hashitara, was killed during the attack on his diplomatic convoy.”

  Tsukiyomi gaped. “I… He… Lady, he lives?”

  “Barely. He was critically injured. His symbiote suffered great damage. We have been treating him as best we can, but even so he requires many more hours in a sarcophagus before he can be truly well.”

  “Where is he?” The words were a whisper.

  “On my yacht. I will have his sarcophagus transported to your vessel immediately.”

  Tsukiyomi frowned. “Lady, the sarcophagus too? How shall I return it to you?”

  “Consider it a gift. To cement our alliance. Our…” She held out her hand, palm up for him to kiss. “Our friendship.”

  When Tsukiyomi’s ship was gone from the sky, Hera went to join Ericaceae at the yacht.

  She walked, again. There would be a time for haste, when the Auger was ready and her flagship, the mighty Clythena, was ready to take her to it, and then on in search of the demon. But for now, it pleased her to take refuge in her host’s memory again, in the feeling of dry grass under her bare feet.

  “They are gone, then?” Ericaceae asked, as she approached. She was waiting at the base of the ramp.

  Hera nodded. Behind her, mechanical clatters and whirrs echoed out across the plain, as the Hall of Negotiation began to fold itself away. “They are indeed.”

  “Do you think either will trouble you again?”

  “I very much doubt it.” In fact, Hera thought idly, Tsukiyomi probably wouldn’t even make it home. While the sarcophagus he had taken so eagerly aboard his vessel did indeed house the broken body of Hashitara — broken by Hera’s own Minotaurs, in fact — it also contained an extra addition of Pythia’s devising. A pulse emitter, powerful enough to destabilize the frequency of his Ha’tak’s hyperdrive. If he did not find it before trying to re-enter realspace, his entire vessel would detonate before it ever reached its window.

  If he did find it, certain aspects of its design would leave him in no doubt that the device had been planted by Anshar.

  And as for Lord Anshar himself, his chances of survival were slimmer than Tsukiyomi’s. Hera had been most adept in helping the System Lord seek out the spies in his royal household, and little wonder — it was she who had put them there in the first place. Unfortunately for Anshar, they too carried a little something extra with them; a genetically-tailored disease, unrivalled in its vir
ulence and the agonizing, incurable damage it would wreak on a Goa’uld symbiote. Of course, had Anshar not been so fond of inflicting pain himself, his household would have been spared the pestilence that was tearing it apart. The disease had been designed to remain inert and undetectable until such time that it was activated by extreme levels of stress hormone.

  And Anshar’s interrogators had caused the hapless spies a very great deal of stress indeed.

  In the best case, both Anshar and Tsukiyomi would be dead very soon, and what was left of their clans and households would each blame the other. Even if both System Lords survived, they would still declare war on one another, a war which would leave both weakened and ripe for the harvest.

  In either case — in every possible case — Hera would take their domains within the year.

  Somehow, that should have made her feel better than it did. But right now, all she could think of was the demon, Ra’s monstrous Ash Eater, loose among the stars.

  Evidently, Ericaceae was thinking about the same thing. “Do you think he will be seeking it too?”

  “Neheb-Kau? If he still lives, then yes. I cannot imagine that he would not.”

  “So you may be required to fight him.”

  Hera glanced sideways at her sister. As usual, it was like looking into a mirror. “Neheb-Kau is the least of our problems, Eri. You never saw the Ash Eater feeding. I did, and it haunts me to this day.”

  “I know.”

  Hera’s eyes narrowed. “You do?”

  “You talk in your sleep, remember?”

  “Ah.” She looked up, into the hot sky. The first shades of twilight were beginning to show at the far horizon. Days were long on this world, but they did not last forever. Nothing did. “Eri?”

  “Yes, my Lady?”

  “This is not going to have a happy ending, is it?”

  There was as slight pause, and then: “The omens are against it.”

  The Hall of Negotiation had completed its collapse. It had been reduced from a sprawling complex of tents and pyramids into a flat slab of metal, waist-high, ready to be picked up by Hera’s yacht and borne away. “Then we must face our destiny, sister. Unfettered, the Ash Eater could destroy everything we have worked for. I will not allow that.”