Snakepit : A Stargate - Draka Crossover

[iborg]

***

Blackness lifted to leave… more blackness. But at least it was conscious - or was it ? It could listen itself thinking - and replay its latest memories. The fullness of the host body, its myriad nerve endings, muscle strands and biorythms, the other human body in close contact, the sudden interruption in mid-climax. Frustration. Then… fear. For the carnal memory left to a present… nothingness. The mind inside the symbiote known as Bar’shan, former Goa’uld lord, writhed in a void of sensory deprivation. The constant input of physical stimulations from its bodies had abruptly ceased. How was it possible ? Why didn’t it feel anything… not even its own serpentine form ? A pure mind, absolved from the flesh. Such a thing was just speculation by philosphers with too much idle time on their hands. And then, quickly, far too quickly for its sanity, the full brunt of void vertigo hit it. A mind existing just by itself. Unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling. Just its core self-awareness. Awareness of its own thought process now going in circles - I can’t feel anything I can’t feel anything am I alive who am I what am I I can’t feel anything I can’t feel myself what’s happening to me what’s happening to me I can’t feel anything I don’t have a mouth and I want to scream - Bar’shan’s sanity streamed away as the panic, pure primal panic as everything a sentient mind took for granted was swept off under its feet.

“Neuronal activity increasing - it’s conscious again”
Seconds later. “Activity spiking - going haywire in there”
“It’s going into sensory deprivation syndrome -”
“Time for step two”

The freewheeling, on the edge of madness, Bar’shan entity entombed into its own non-responding snakelike body was saved - right on the brink of permanent dementia - by very little things. It wasn’t more than the confuse luminous motives one sees projected on the interior of his eyelids when closing his eyes. Little pinpricks of light dancing on a black background. But it was enough of an anchor to reality and the drowning mind clung madly to the dancing multicolored spots. It was something, it wasn’t itself, it connected it to something else, to the world, whatever that was. It wasn’t alone !

“Base visual stimulation initialized”
“Got a response”
Professional voices. Clinical, as if describing an experiment - which was indeed the case.
“Good. Neural activity stabilizing - I think it was close”
A shrug. “It’s a complex organism, more than the subjects we used before - what did you expect ? But we got it licked, I think. Going to step three…”
“Initializing auditory link and connecting external visualization”
“Keep the self-perception trunk off for now”

There was a white flash, and the luminous dots rearranged themselves into an undoubtedly organized pattern. Lines and shapes, coagulating in more and more accurate motifs… and vision. Pixellated vision, with colors that felt both too vivid and too artificial, yet there was no mistaking it. It didn’t come from its eyes, but the symbiote saw. Tried to shift the field of vision, instinctively. And realized there was something wrong, for it didn’t move at all. An immutable window, it had no control over it… but things moved inside. Flat shapes, blurry and ill-defined, with colors that didn’t make sense, moving and shifting. One of them grew larger until it filled almost all the picture. Bar’shan realized it was a face, a human face, made of multicolored pixels, a composite of a face in drug-induced vision. But it wasn’t the effect of a drug, Bar’shan felt certain of it. And focused onto the face even as distorted noises joined the visual stimuli, bringing down another wall of its mental prison. Sounds, weird but remotely recognizable, like a swimmer immerged in water and hearing voices coming from above, crossing the barrier between two different media. Voices !

“Increased activity of visual and auditory cortex”
“It hears”
“And sees”
“Adjusting input levels. Let’s try to refine the stimulation…”

The shape that was a face jumped into focus and the wild colors became less artificial - still oversaturated, and not quite like the picture created by human eyes or symbiotic ones. But the alien brain could use the input and process it into something that made sense to itself.
And it wanted to scream again. The face floating seemingly centimeters ahead, belonged to the hated Draka commander with the barbarian name. There was no mistaking this, nor the smirk curving his lips.
Was it an illusion, and hallucination ?
Nothing could have prepared the Goa’uld for that.
And the voices came back. One of them, much closer, still warped like a parody of a Goa’uld’s command voice. But what it said, Bar’shan understood.
“Are you happy to see me ?”
Again, the yearning to burst out into reality - real reality - smash the walls that kept its mind as a prisoner inside itself - and to scream rage and defiance.
To grab and shake the bars blocking the exit from its prison cell - except there were no bars, and no prison cell. Just a floating sensationless void, and the sole window close enough to touch and an eternity away.

“Stress levels mounting - I think our little friend is angry, Merarch”
Anton de Polignac straightened up and away from the small video camera and glanced aside, at the men and women in white coats emblazoned with Biocontrol’s crest. The elite of the Domination when it came to mastery of life. The team of scientists and researchers in this room had unraveled the mysteries of the human brain - they were the fathers (and mothers) of neural implant technology, the art of interfacing brain and machine. What they had created in the past decade would soon become a fundamental part of every sentient being in the Domination, allowing them to exert the same control over unliving matter as they did over their own living body.
And they had applied this knowledge to the Goa’uld brain as well, as soon as their colleagues had learned how to keep the symbiote alive out of a host organism.
And they had learned a very interesting thing in their experiments. Brains - human brains - needed external stimuli. Cut from it, even from the feedback signals of their own living supporting tissue, they simply went mad in short order. It could even be made into a very effective form of torture, like controlled drowning.
And Goa’uld brains were, in that respect, similar. It had taken time to identify the specific nerve terminations and cerebral arrays linked to a symbiote’s perception. A fair number of subjects had died, even experimental host bodies used to pinpoint symbiote sensory pathways. But it was worth it.

Standing in one corner of the research laboratory, a circular column, its inferior half brushed metal and featureless but for a couple thick cables snaking out to the compsets taking up most of the remaining space. The upper half was transparent glass, like an aquarium, and filled with a physiological-compatible fluid. Inside it was Bar’shan, or at least its core Goa’uld part, the black serpent held in place by metal shackles, and a mane of translucent gossamer-thing fibers floated gently before disappearing into the metal cylinder below. Each fiber, on the other end, was attached to the symbiote’s, piercing the skin with needles thinner than a human hair that connected directly on one of the alien’s myriad nerve endings.

Anton casually strode to the womb-like column and rapped on the glass cover twice just as the senior Biocontrol researcher turned the video camera towards the corner apparatus, allowing the being imprisoned inside to get a view of itself.
“Knock knock, Bar’shan. How do you like your new home ?”
Outgoing audio was still not satisfactorily calibrated yet, and therefore inactive. But the frenzied stirring of the dark alien ophidian against its restraints was answer enough. It didn’t look very happy, and its Drakensis nemesis watched its futile agitation with bared teeth.

[JointStrikeFighter]

Draka increase their abhorrence by a factor of 5. Making one feel sorry for the goa'uld = good lord.

Here's to the crew of the New America finding some Von Neumann armada and wiping the Draka from existence.

[iborg]

Draka increase their abhorrence by a factor of 5. Making one feel sorry for the goa'uld = good lord.

Here's to the crew of the New America finding some Von Neumann armada and wiping the Draka from existence.

This particular Goa'uld deserved it.
But yeah, ending up as a brain-in-a-jar isn't pleasant.



Abydos, New Burgundy Province
04/16/2011


So many trees ! A desert dweller, Asif had never seen so many trees ! Even in the oasis he used to call home, and which represented the only spot of green in thousands of square miles of dry scorching sand and rocks, even there the trees were less numerous, less dense, less tall, less green. It was awe-inducing. The goat-shepherd’s previous life hadn’t prepared him for the sights. Previous life, for him and everyone else on Abydos, who’d been stuck at ancient Egyptian-levels of development until the New Masters came and replaced the old near-forgotten gods.
So many wonders he had witnessed, he, a simple goat shepherd whose sole ambition growing up could be summed up in “marry a girl of the tribe, own a small goat herd, have kids of his own and then die, never having seen much more than his oasis and the surrounding desert”.
Maybe he wasn’t his own man. His life and loyalty belonged to the Masters, and the neck tattoo was ample proof of it if he needed a reminder. But so were the clean, healthy teeth in his mouth. Or the full belly he had, every day since the Masters’ arrival. Or the lack of sickness. The list could have gone on and on. No, really, in his mind the Drakas did deliver on their promise of protection, peace and abundance. They did deserve unquestioned obeisance and, well, acceptance of their stranger mores. Besides, it wasn’t as if they asked human sacrifices out of their servants, like the Valley Lords used to according to the caravan traders !
There was work to do, yes. Often it was hard, physical work. But they allowed the men to rest and made sure they stayed fit. Like most able men of his tribe, Asif was drafted following the Yoking, and worked in the labor gangs laying the maglev track in the desert. He was trained in the wondrous machines introduced by the Masters, machines that cut through hard soil as if it were wet sand, and moved dirt around in huge lumps that no beast of burden could have carried. And one day they rejoined the other end of the track in the middle of the desert, and there was a great feast in celebration.

And now, he was to discover new things. Seeing his birth world from the sky, as the giant airship glided over desert then mountains and snowcaps then lush jungle, immense savannahs, seas and lakes full of water, more water than he ever imagined possible, then lands covered in trees like a green pelt, more rivers and streams ! He could have spent all the journey with his face stuck on the transparent glass, if the other passengers, serfs like him, some he knew from the oasis, others coming from the Eastern lands, hadn’t jostled and competed for the same. The compartment only had four such openings, and contained a hundred men, all of them eager to marvel at the planetary vistas. It was a little cramped and the benches were hard, but to them all it was nothing short of divine. Flying in the sky like the gods did !
Well, it would have been even better if the men hadn’t been kept apart from the women, and Asif thus separated from his lovely new wife for the duration of the voyage. Of course, it was temporary, and then he met her again once the airship landed and disgorged its cargo of human labor, equipment and supplies for the newly-established plantations.
Asif was lucky. His good work on the maglev track was noted by the Overseers, and he was therefore hand-picked by one of the Draka settlers, a soldier, the native knew, one who was battling the enemies of the Domination among the stars.
He had been allowed to marry Kasia before leaving, and there was a feast too, with hs parents and tribesfolk, and the Masters even dropped by to bless the new couple.

Yes, he would give hs best. So many trees ! He would cut them and build a house for Kasia, and the children she would soon give him with the blessing of the Masters. A house made of wood ! And it would be close to the river, and they could bathe and swim !
His overseer had even shown him the plans of the Plantation. They would cut down the trees and create vast grain fields, fertile orchards. It was the work of a lifetime, and he was looking forward to do his part. Maybe his future children would do the same one day, perhaps even on another world !


Tollania
04/16/2011

Ann Rayner woke up and streched, taking care not to disturb and wake up her companion, still asleep on the bed next to her. The bedroom was still dark, the polarizing bay keeping out exterior light. But it should be close to dawn, she reckoned. She rose up in a fluid motion, leaving the material of the bed adjust to her absent weight, and stretched again, hands reaching up for the ceiling. She felt her leg and arm muscles tense and relax, shedding the last vestiges of morning stiffness, and tiptoed out of the silent room. The seperation screen slid shut and opaque behind her, and she navigated the dark living space with cat-like ease until she reached a wall panel. The system was simple to understand, and she was becoming familiar with Tollan user interfaces. She was rewarded by a soft chime and a sudden avalanche of light as the great exterior bay depolarized, allowing the golden dawn to flood the apartment’s main living quarter. She stepped closer, mesmerized by the revealed magnificience of the urban vista, viewed from the upscale suite of her… recent acquaintance, perched five hundred meters above ground level, higher than many of the surrounding skyscrapers and therefore fully illuminated by the rising Tollan star. A forest of glittering glass towers, their mineral purity only enhanced by the gem-like colored spots of vertical gardens and flower-strips, sharply delineated by the deep contrasting shadows casted by the near-horizontal sunlight. Air traffic was light, here and there an aircar or larger vehicle caught the sun rays and flashed briefly to draw her eye.
Tollania, capital and crown jewel of the Tollan Empire. It was beautiful, after its builders’ fashion, subdued elegance rather than the flamboyant excentricity Rayner was accustomed to, and she loved every detail of the sight. The sated smile on her lips she didn’t even notice consciously, as much the effect of this morning visual treat as the afterglow of her night’s pleasures.

Her hand hit another control, and a section of the clear vertical surface slid aside, while a soft buzz, imperceptible but for her enhanced hearing, signaled the activation of the protective external forcefield. She stepped forward onto the balcony and leant against the railing’s adaptive surface. Had she even cared about her present nudity, the technology built into the Tollan skytower would have addressed her concern, for the protective field didn’t merely cut off the howling altitude wind, it also presented an opaque mirror-like shell to exterior observers and preserved the residents’ privacy. It was expensive, though, a luxury item found only in the most upscale dwellings. Its concealing effect was also limited to the visual and infrared spectrum. It was enough for civilians. The Tollan military had next to no use for such a limited cloak.
The tall redhead bent forward with more caution than she would have admitted. Knowing there was no risk of plummeting down to crash on the ground a half-kilometer below was one thing. Believing it enough to override one’s deeply-rooted survival instinct was another. Far below, she could distinguish the fringes of the Imperial Gardens, its parks and lawns and streams still asleep and bathed in darkness. Almost. Her eye picked up a flight of birds landing on a pond’s shore to sate their morning thirst. Tall spindly legs, a flexible neck and a long straw-like beak, black bodies with a streak of red on their backs, so different and similar at the same time from the Earth birds she knew.
And she heard the panel slide open again behind her, the subtle air displacement created by a body’s passage. She smiled at the distant birds, just as two hands seized her waist. She didn’t startle, surely to her would-be startler’s disappointment, although she whimsically reflected how unwise and detrimental to one’s health it usually was, trying to startle an adult Drakensis.
She inhaled the scent. The perfume had faded, but the musky animal smell was still a healthy, masculine and inebriating one. There was also a lingering trace of her own scent, mixed with his, which was all too unsurprising after the previous night’s exertions. She bit her lip at the sudden memories, blinked slowly, and turned her head to face him, beaming quietly under his touch.
“Morning, beautiful”
The words still felt strange, their meaning so familiar in a tongue that was still foreign, even to her quick learning mind. The undercurrents of old, long dead Earth languages only made it more surreal. She almost snorted at that. Surreal was the term, yes. Her behavior to begin with. Cavorting with a human… a feral, in her people’s lexicon, by itslf wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Doing it without asserting her dominance and control, on the other hand… Not even acting equal, as she’d usually do with fellow Citizens. The freak she had become instead gave herself to a man, gave herself for his pleasure and enjoyment, down on all four like a bitch in heat and begging him to take her, her pheromones screaming her need to be filled and mounted. And screamed she had as he rode her, his hands grabbing handfuls of red hair for impromptu reins while she bucked under his drive. He hadn’t noticed his own exhaustion until much later, even in the longer Tollan night. He had nearly collapsed after their last orgasm faded, muttered a few words and almost fell unconscious on the bed. She had followed suit, satiated for a while at last, and slid into Morpheus’ embrace with her head propped on his chest.

“Hello.” The word was followed by a kiss, at first a light peck on the lips. He answered her push and pressed his own tongue on her lips in return, prompting those to part again and allow her own tongue to probe out. Seconds and heartbeats ticked by, a brief split for breath, and both mouths merged again, as deep as before, and fingers went to work on the sides. Ann’s body turned around, rubbing with deliberate slowness against his until she was facing the Tollan male with her back against the railing, never unlocking her lips from his.
The first sunrays began to hit the tallest trees, far below, as a Drakensis woman shared a lover’s kiss with an alien man. And then she withdrew, and halted his instinctual lunge toward her with two fingers and a mischievous wink. His expression of frustration and surprise quickly disappeared in understanding, when she slowly, agonizingly slowly slid down, the tip of her nails tracing goosebumps on his skin then stopping at mid-height, where the long fingers caught a firm grip on his cheeks, pressing down against the firm muscle under the skin.
And she locked eyes with his, allowing him to gaze deep at her twinkling blue orbs, her face a picture of renewed lust and desire to please. No more words had been exchanged. Just a deep sighing moan to express the intense feeling of fullness, when her lips parted again and took his manhood inside their feverish embrace.

To many Tollans, the Drakas were heroes, liberators, lifesavers. To many more, they were a mystery. To a few, they were an unsettling enigma. To one of them, they were a woman, a gorgeous and strong woman who had the supernatural gift to give pleasure again and again in addition to the sharp mind he had only glimpsed in their short time together.

To other beings far and farther away, the Drakas were enemies or monsters to erase from the universe. Some of those beings were ancient and powerful beyond measure, yet they still ignored the unknown threat. A few others had fled with scant hope of ever finding the means to avenge themselves. Yet they had, by an unpredictable twist of fate. And they were just beginning to realize the possibilities they had stumbled upon.

The Drakas themselves knew one thing. Whatever new order would reign over the galaxy would be born in war. And war was what they prepared for.




And there it is. The End. No more Snakepit, it’s over ! You won’t be getting anymore !

…

…

Wait, what do you think you’re doing with that rope ? And is that...? Drop it, dammit, before you hurt someone with that sharpened stake !

Okay, okay ! Snakepit’s finished. But the characters will be back in the following volume !
It’s going to be named Stars of Iron (title could still change, but it sounds cool). And it should debut shortly enough for you dear readers and fans not to succumb to the urge of… well, whatever.

[[R_H]]

Abydos, New Burgundy Province

The Draka aren't that original when it comes to naming places, are they.

[Baughn]

You'll make a post here when you start the next one, right?

There needs to be a reckoning. And by reckoning, I mean dead Drakas. ^_^

Perhaps Ann could decide she'd rather switch teams, and explain to the Tollana just what they're up against...

[iborg]

You'll make a post here when you start the next one, right?

There needs to be a reckoning. And by reckoning, I mean dead Drakas. ^_^

Perhaps Ann could decide she'd rather switch teams, and explain to the Tollana just what they're up against...

Well, duh, of course. I'll post the story here too, why wouldn't I
Normally, the start should cover the NA side and tell what they've been up to.
Ann Rayner... well so many possibilities

R_H : indeed, but it seems to be a common thing with settlers : New York, New Orleans, New Amsterdam, New whatever. People tend to project what they're used to. And since there wasn't any native there's no native-inspired name either.

[Baughn]

I meant in this thread. Switching titles often seems to mean switching threads too, and I don't actually make a habit of scanning the thread index.

[iborg]

I meant in this thread. Switching titles often seems to mean switching threads too, and I don't actually make a habit of scanning the thread index.

Ah ! Well, I can keep posting in this thread. No problem.
In the meantime, the first interlude.

Interlude n°1


Rebirth of the Janissaries


The Tollan Curia
Blue Conference Room


It was often said that the more participants in a meeting in the Imperial administration, the less weight the discussion had. Savvy commentators of Tollan politics knew the reverse rule : the really important decisions were always taken by a few characters in quiet and discreet meetings, safely tucked in the heart of the Curia building where no prying ear could listen and no loudspoken fool could interrupt.
Blue conference room didn’t look like much from inside. Pale blue walls (hence its name), a display-glass surface with room for eight seats around its octogonal perimeter, a handful neutral still picture-frames, and a standard issue holodisplay stuck on the ceiling above, a silver dish contraption studded with photonic windows. It was inactive, as was the display surface. The three men sitting there didn’t need any visual input for what they were discussing.
They knew each other well. It was hardly the first time they met in that way, after all.
All three were well into mature age and heir seniority showed itself in greying or white-laced hair, lines set on faces that were used to long frowns of concentration, and attentive if subtly relaxed postures, as if their inherent seriousness was tempered by self-confidence borne from decades of experience.
All wore sober clothing as befitted such senior leaders and movers, in light shades of grey. The only peculiarity was a low-key one, only apparent because of the lack of any other. One of the men was speaking softly but articulately, on his breast glinted the platinium three-pointed star of a Tollan Navy Senior High Fleet Commander, the highest rank in the Imperial armed forces, and it belonged to the highest-ranked of them all. Effectively, SHFCdr Doranis was the head of the Navy, answering to the Curia only, and he had been holding this rank since the opening battles of the Third Goa’uld War (mere skirmishes didn’t count). A war that closed a long period of effortless Tollan supremacy, and whose outcome would have been much, much worse if the Empire hadn’t found an unexpected ally to put a stop on Tanith’s string of victories.

He knew better than anyone how complacence had nearly doomed them all. And he was determined to use the breathing space to ensure such a thing would never happen again on his watch.

“The Curia already agreed on the new military construction plan, High Commander. Therefore, I do wonder at the reason why you requested this meeting ?”
Doranis only smiled slyly at the question raised without preamble. Councilor Damoros was the Navy’s best supporter in the Curia, and held considerable sway in Tollan affairs as well. And he usually went straight to the point when cajoling his opposite numbers wasn’t needed. The last man remained silent. Another member of the Curia, he was junior to the game, but his past career and connections in the Diplomatic Service made him a useful ally. And he was sensible as far as military matters went, contradicting the common saw that diplomats and soldiers didn’t go along.
“Indeed, Councilors. The whole package went through the vote without a hitch, and I must say I didn’t expect anything else. Even Councilor Lomarr supported it without reservation. Expanding fleet numbers, bigger and more powerful weapons, hyperdrive research, it’s all funded for the next ten years at the minimum. The holes in our order of battle should be plugged earlier… but we’ll be stuck without a significant force projection capability for three years, at least, until the new squadrons start coming online. We need to build the hulls and train the crews, and we lost all too many experienced personnel in the war.”

The two councilors nodded. This was nothing they didn’t already know. The whole Navy was to be rebuilt and upgraded to bridge the gap in firepower with Goa’uld Ha’taks. Phase-shifting was yet another casualty of the war, it followed. For centuries it had remained the Tollan ace in the hole, a triumph of finesse over brute force. That era was over. Until the scientists could come up with something better (which nobody expected them to, since phase-shifting itself was still a barely-understood, reverse-engineered technology originally found in the ancient-beyond-belief artefacts whose discovery had kick-started Tollan scientific progress centuries ago) then brute force would have to do.
Fortunately, the indigenous shipborne naquadah-enhanced fusion generators could provide enough energy to rival a Ha’tak’s armament, to say nothing of the planet-bound ZPF energy plants. Using their output to power a planetary shield was altogether not the best use, but they could very adequately power planetary defense batteries of oversized ion cannons. Those were already out of the drawing boards - in effect, they were oversized versions of the standard Tollan heavy gun, albeit stripped of their phase-shifting component to leave only pure, raw hitting power. Utterly unsubtle, utterly inelegant, and (hopefully) utterly overkill, since their projected firepower surpassed the shield strength of Tanith’s captured motherships.
It should become a one shot one kill weapon again, albeit limited to planetary defense. There were significant theoretical barriers against miniaturizing the Zero Point Field technology, as far as the Tollan scientific establishment knew. And while the completed Super Ion Cannons would devastate a attacking squadron in orbit, they could be made ineffective by ships dropping out of FTL right over the surface. A tactic which, suicidal as it first appeared, had been used successfully by Tanith’s fleet.

This was the reason behind another project, this one utterly black, so black it didn’t even have a name. Of the Imperial administration, only the two Councilors sitting in the room knew about it, for they had arranged funding and support through (hopefully) untraceable and covert ways. And Doranis had done his best to prevent anyone from remarking that the Empire’s best hyperphysicists had been physically relocated in a remote and very secure research facility. This wasn’t expected to yield practical results before years, again, but if the researchers’ initial intuitions were confirmed, the Tollan Navy wouldn’t have to worry about enemies hypering out right on top of the planets it was tasked with defending.

The High Commander put the glass of water down and resumed. None of the other two had said a word to interrupt him yet.
“What I’m here to talk about might be viewed as accessory compared to fleet building ad superweapons, but I think that focusing entirely on big iron would hide an important factor.” He paused for effect, took a theatrical breath.
“The human factor.”
Damoros blinked. “I’m not sure what you’re alluding to… we are already committed to training more Navy crews, aren’t we ?”
“Allow me to explain, Councilor. It’s not about training technically competent men and women… it is about training warriors.”
“I see.”
Doranis bent forward, staring intently at his interlocutors. His tone became more focused, more intense, expressing his intimate conviction across.
“When our troops found out that the very weapon they relied upon the most had lost any effectiveness against Tanith’s forces, they were caught entirely unaware. Collective panic - we were unable to adapt and overcome, robbed of our single technological advantage. What did the Drakas show us, on the other hand ? They came in with even less experience against the Goa’uld and the Kull Warriors especially. Did they panic ?”
He shook his head negatively.
“No. They took losses, but the didn’t panic. They didn’t let fear shackle them. And they slaughtered both Jaffa legions and Kull Warriors all by themselves, using what we’d call inferior technology.”
“I think I understand what you’re trying to tell us, High Commander. We should emulate them. Is this it ?”
“Absolutely ! They demonstrated superior fighting spirit and skill. Something we have lost track of as we relied more and more on technological marvels to fight for us !” The high commander was now talking animatedly. “We need to return to that basic tenet of warfare : the mind of a soldier is his most effective weapon !”

“I can share your sentiment, High Commander. But how exactly do you intend to accomplish this most worthy goal ?” Assuredly, Damoros thought, the man already had an idea about it.
And it showed in the huge grin that answered them.
“Well, Councilors, the Ground Force will be expanding and recruiting and those soldiers on the ground are those who need that fighting spirit most. Who best could help us turn inoffensive civilians into professional killers ?”
“The Drakas, I take it. But as you know, they train from childhood into martial arts. Even those who weren’t genetically augmented for that. I doubt the average young Tollan adult could match this level of commitment.”
“Yes, yes” Doranis waved the objection away “but they don’t need to reach the same level of physical performance. Nevertheless, I’m certain the Drakas could provide entirely valuable expertise, at least to train the first new classes of what should become a vastly expanded Tollan Army. And I did some preliminary inquiries already - I think they would accept.”


Several days later, Eric von Shrakenberg had to muster all his self-discipline not to smirk evilly in the direction of the nearly-red Security Directorate Strategos, whose face he couldn’t help mentally overlay with a certain Governor Gayner, and instead smiled suavely.
“Why, Strategos, of course I’m going to accede to the Tollans’ request.” His tone became even more mellow, if possible. “Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, and if they’re willing to bleed for us, why not let them ?”
Even better if the very idea gives your kind an ulcer, he didn’t say out loud.


Nautona, Tollan Empire
Joint Military Enclave
Three months later


Whatever second thoughts Cenor could have, now was too late. The tall wrought iron gates had closed behind, sealing the great parade field. White gravel crunched under his steps, and his curious, if mildly apprehensive gaze took in the rest of the surroundings. The Enclave was deceptively low-key, or what he was able to see. Neat lawn borders, gravel paths, white-painted wooden barracks - wooden ? How quaint ! There was a row of them along one side of the square parade ground, their length perpendicular to the border, like long rectangular boxes on low stilts, just high enough for a man to crawl under, with a short flight of steps leading to the manually-operated door. Across the grounds were another cluster of low-slung buildings, and the most noteworthy detail was the pair of banners hanging on twin poles, one of them bearing the familiar crest of the Empire, the other a blood-red, stylized winged beast that was vaguely reptilian and fierce-looking. The dragon symbol of the Domination, one the young man knew from the recruitment posters gracing the streets of his home city. In glorious vivid colors, it showed a soldier clad in an artistically-rendered version of Draka infantry armor, an oversized and brutal looking rifle held at the low ready positions, pointing down and sideways across his chest, atop a pile of dead Jaffa bodies, his booted foot crushing a screaming Goa’uld symbiote under the heel. The soldier’s face was young, handsome in a virile self-confident way and smiling triumphantly, as if the universe belonged to him.
Underneath the picture, between the crests of the Imperial Tollan Navy and the Domination of the Draka, was a simple question.
“DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES ?”

It was the question Cenor had tortured himself with every single day since the invasion. Did he have what it takes to protect his land and his loved one ?
He could see how Natilis viewed the Draka soldiers in town. She loved him, he knew that. He had felt so inadequate ! Yet, the encounter with the lonely Ann Rayner had somehow made him realize that dwelling on one’s misery wasn’t the way to spend a life. She had suffered worse and there she was, unbroken despite the tears she had shed. A true soldier, he felt. A hero. And a inspiration for the young couple whose perspectives on life had been shattered.
And Natilis saw that strength everytime her eyes met one of the foreigners. And Cenor saw her look. And there was a message there, of that he was certain, even though she didn’t say a word. And he wanted her to look at him and see the same strength, the same bravery, the same projected aura.
He wanted to become a warrior like those men. And there was the opportunity. So he took it despite any exhortation to the contrary, from some of his friends who didn’t see the point in soulless violence. Of course, they hadn’t been on Nautona when the Jaffas came.

And he’d walked into the recruitment office, where a cheering Ground Force NCO slapped him on the back and poured him a strong shot of brandy after he’d signed, physically and electronically, his request for enlistment. He was a bit dazed after that. And two hours later, an electronic priority-flagged message caught up with him, confirming his preliminary inductment and setting the time and day for him to start training. A short addendum warned that failure to perform was see him chucked back to civilian life with no ill effect. Save to his self-esteem, he gathered. And Natilis’. Who had, to his relief, taken the news well enough - she’d made that clear during the night. Somehow, she’d shown some of the flame he thought extinguished by the captivity and the rapes. This alone was reason enough to hold no regret, he reflected again as he met the rest of the trainees milling without direction in a corner of the parade square.

There were a couple familiar faces scattered in the crowd, and he went to them for the sake of familiarity in unfamiliar terrain. Boys his age, trying to hide their nervousness too, and they laughed together when he pointed that. There was idle chat as more draftees arrived under the mid-afternoon sun. And he was beginning to wonder at the apparent absence of supervision when a door at the other side opened, on the very construction flanked by the flagpoles. There was a plaque, but he was too far to read. Nevertheless, he reasoned that it probably was some kind of commander’s office.
A man strode out, then another, and another. All three wore uniforms. Only one was Tollan silver and grey. The remaining two wore variations of the same, a tan-colored ensemble of pants and matching hip-length jacket, both a compromise of practical looseness and soldierly sternness. Ironed-out cargo-pockets figured in abundance, four visible on the jacket and two on the thighs. A brown leather belt surrounded their waist, held by a shiny brass buckle, and each wore a handgun in a prominent matching leather holster. One of them, the first to exit the building, also carried a large holstered blade on the other hip.
As they came closer, Cenor spotted additional details. The first soldier was no youngling. His lined and tanned face and grey-streaked chestnut hair showed that. He also wore silver insignias while the second one wore gold ones, but the multicolored ribbons on his chest were just as numerous and Cenor knew those to represent battles and war feats. He had no idea of their precise significance, but by the number of them he was staring at two very experienced warriors.
By then, everyone else had stopped moving and chatting and was staring as well, and the little crowd morphed into a rough line as its components moved forward to look at the newcomers.

The uniformed trio stopped four armspans from the first aspiring soldier. Standing in a vanguard formation, the Tollan one in front, they gazed at the waiting men levelly, the Drakas’ faces inscrutable as they did so.
“Greetings !” the leader addressed them at last, in a clear, strong voice which nonetheless held, Cenor was sure of it, a little trepidation.
“I am Ground Commander Ochomos, and I’m here to greet you in the name of the Imperial Armed Forces. As you probably know, this facility is under joint Draka and Tollan jurisdiction, and I share its command with my Draka counterpart” he made a formal pointing gesture with his flat hand, and the other officer nodded minutely, eyes never leaving their clinical scan of the new draftees “Cohortarch Olufsen. His role will be more executive than mine. I am for the most part dealing with the myriad administrative duties that such a facility entails.” Also he didn’t say, but he would be off-base most of the time. That Draka bastard was frightening, even when just sitting behind an office. “And” he pointed the other way “Decurion Hartmann will be tasked with instructing you in basic military discipline and skills.” And good fucking luck.
Ochomos stared intently at the young faces in front of him. “You are Tollan, every single one of you, and I expect you to make us proud. It will be tough, and maybe not all of you will survive to graduate, but I am fully confident that in time, you will become a force to make the Goa’uld fear us again !”

He nodded and took a step back at the end of his welcome speech, prompting the Cohortarch to step forward and scan the group from one end to the other again.
“Greetings” his voice was slightly raspy, but loud and clear, and heavily accented. “I’ve served the Domination for twenty years, leading men like you in combat. Heavy, mudslugging combat, fighting in artillery-torn fields and burning cities. I saw rivers of blood run under my feet. I killed men with my bare hands and I listened to the wail of their women.” Maybe this was overdoing it, he mused. But the lads were listening intently. “The Goa’uld and their Jaffa dogs raped your land and your girlfriends, maybe they raped you too. And you want to make them pay. That’s good. But right now the lot of you couldn’t harm one of those Jaffas even if he was tied to a tree !”
There was a few murmurs at that. Olufsen caught one of the boys and strode in front of him. He locked eyes. A mere second later the other one averted his gaze.
“So. You have something to object ?”
“Sir, I took fighting classes at school. I can defend myself !”
“Really ? Could you defend yourself if I attacked you ?”
“Err…”
“Or maybe you could try to attack me ?” The Cohortarch smiled sweetly. Behind him, Decurion Hartmann remained stone-faced, but his eyes twinkled maliciously. Commander Omochos merely watched, expecting what would follow.
The young civilian had hesitation painted on his features. But wisdom asserted itself.
“I’d rather not Sir. I suspect I wouldn’t accomplish anything save hurting myself” he exhaled.

Olufsen licked his lip and his eyes narrowed for a second. Then a grin crossed his face and he slapped the draftee’s shoulder amicably.
“Good lad ! At least you have a modicum of sense, I see. This might help you in the future.” He stepped back and addressed the group as a whole. “I won’t say I’m happy to be pulled out of retirement for your sake” actually, he was. At over sixty, he was unlikely to take part in front-line combat, and his old Janissary command had been disbanded years ago. And being here beat staying on cold, shortage-ridden Earth. His own children were adults, and he didn’t have a plantation to stay attached to. Not even a wife anymore, thanks to a Yank hypersonic. The Damnyanks he hated for good personal reasons. But he’d never come to view his Janissary soldiers as cattle, as some (the bad officers, in his opinion) did. Serfs or not, they were his men, his charges, and more than once he’d gone out of his way to spare their lives. He knew that was probably one of the reasons why he had been recalled by Castle Tarleton to help train the Tollans.
Decurion Hartmann had ended his active career in Janissary Training. A little younger at fifty-three, he had apparently kept the same level of fitness after leaving active duty when the Ghouloons began to form the bulk of the Auxiliaries. And he was probably here because he was happy to have fresh recruits to torment.
The officer pursued. “But I intend to whip you into a fighting force. Or make you die trying.” The latter was delivered as a quip, but he was actually dead serious. Say what you wanted about the Tollans, but their leadership had made it clear that a percentage of losses in training was perfectly acceptable, as long as the rest performed to spec in the end.
“And now I’ll leave you to Decurion Hartmann, who will lead you through inprocessing. You will receive training fatigues and a standard personal effects pack. Your own stuff you’ll leave to the quartermasters. If all goes well, you’ll get it back when you leave this camp - whether it’s in a uniform, or in a casket.”
The Draka NCO took his cue and went forward, smiling amicably, although the friendliness didn’t go quite up to his eyes.
“All right, children. Form up and follow me.” This was the easiest day. For them.

[KlavoHunter]

Decurion Hartmann? Oh, those poor, poor Tollans!

At least, knowing how to fight for real will make it much harder if the Draka ever try and enserf the Tollans.

[spartasman]

Either that, or they will implement some sort of brainwashing or indoctrination during their training, which I imagine will involve a lot of golf balls and garden hoses.

[[R_H]]

That Interlude reminds me of the whole "Watch on the Rhine" stuff.

[iborg]

That Interlude reminds me of the whole "Watch on the Rhine" stuff.

Well, I can't help drawing on various "boot camp" type stories I've read or watched. Decurion Hartmann is an obvious reference to the infamous drill sergeant. Also WotR, surely, although I'm not sure there are hippie green liberal Tollans to beat with sticks
Freehold (yeah, yeah I know), Starship Troopers, etc.

At least, knowing how to fight for real will make it much harder if the Draka ever try and enserf the Tollans.

In some twisted barely conscious way, that's exactly Shrakenberg's motivation. He was always the most "liberal" Draka around.

[[R_H]]

That Interlude reminds me of the whole "Watch on the Rhine" stuff.

Well, I can't help drawing on various "boot camp" type stories I've read or watched. Decurion Hartmann is an obvious reference to the infamous drill sergeant. Also WotR, surely, although I'm not sure there are hippie green liberal Tollans to beat with sticks
Freehold (yeah, yeah I know), Starship Troopers, etc.

At least, knowing how to fight for real will make it much harder if the Draka ever try and enserf the Tollans.

In some twisted barely conscious way, that's exactly Shrakenberg's motivation. He was always the most "liberal" Draka around.

Channeling ol' Kratman are you?

Oh Shrakenberg, that self-hating...Draka

[Kristoff]

"Tollan Navy wouldn’t have to worry about enemies hypering out right on top of the planets it was tasked with defending" - Attero device?

[iborg]

"Tollan Navy wouldn’t have to worry about enemies hypering out right on top of the planets it was tasked with defending" - Attero device?

Nope, a giant neon sign in space that says "DROP OUT OF HYPERSPACE HERE"

[ziasyn]

Decurion Hartmann? Oh, those poor, poor Tollans!

At least, knowing how to fight for real will make it much harder if the Draka ever try and enserf the Tollans.

I think it will make the Tollans easier to enserf in the long run considering that these Tollan Jannissaries are going to be trained and most likely led by Draka officers making them more loyal to Earth than Tollana

Please keep posting more I hate it when I catch up to the current post and the story is ended for the moment

[iborg]

***

Cenor had imagined various (and devious) ways for the Draka instructor to wake up the sleeping barracks. All of them included noise, lots of noise. Klaxons, sirens, screams - in fact, he and a group of fellow recruits had made a pool bet about it, right before they went to bed the previous evening. Beds that were just as crude as the rest of the barracks, by the way. The whole setting felt like something from two centuries ago. Wooden three-storey beds, natural fabric sheets, no adaptive foam. A few recruits had complained to a passing Tollan Army clerk, out of Hartmann’s ear, and the answer was “if you pussies wanted comfort you should have joined the Navy”. Apparently, the Draka and Tollan personnel had synchronized their tune.
At least the training fatigues and the rest of the personal gear were Imperial issue down to the sonic toothbrush and self-cleaning underwear. But that was apparently the full extent of the set-up’s concessions to modernity. And any device connected to the globalnet was prohibited. Not even offline media browsers were allowed. Cenor suspected they wouldn’t have time to miss any of those, though.

In the end, nobody won the bet. Right before dawn the dormitory’s front door was slammed open, and a flurry of loud, angry animal barks drove the most heavy sleepers awake in a heartbeat, their hindbrains reacting to the sudden predatory noise with a celerity engraved into them since the dawn of homo sapiens.
Cenor opened his eyes, thrust his face into the central alleyway and found himself staring at a foaming, canine-filled maw in an elongated muzzle, and eyes that looked at him as if he was an early morning snack. The quadrupedal beast was easily half as tall as a man, lean and mean and straining half-erect at its leash, obviously wanting nothing more than to jerk free and rampage inside the confined quarters. And it was barking and woofing, filling the space with a raucous, hungry cacophony, soon augmented by frenetic yells and cries by the dumbstruck and shaken young Tollans. The din rose to a crescendo in the half-gloom, until the electric lighting blazed dry and crude and Decurion Hartmann’s powerful voice bellowed it all to a halt.
“CESAR ! QUIET ! AND YOU MONKEYS SHUT UP AND FALL IN, RIGHT FUCKING NOW !”
The beast fell silent, clearly reminded who was the boss, and the room’s occupants left their beds in hasty if uncoordinated fashion to stand in line all along the passage between the rows of bunks. Most were blinking furiously to try and clear the grit still in their eyes, and the closest to the door were very obviously trying to keep as much distance as they could between their selves and the quieter, but still hungry and mean-looking animal and its owner. It really didn’t help that the creature was still showing bared rows of flesh-tearing teeth, and looking at the arrayed humans as if they were so much meat.
Seconds later, the man behind the leash smirked, apparently satisfied by the success of his introduction. A moment of utter silence followed, only broken by the wet sound of Cesar licking its chops.

“And now, ladies, allow me to introduce my loyal assistant” Hartmann’s chin pointed at the black creature at the end of the leash. “This is Cesar. Cesar is a sixty kilo Dobermann. I believe you people know what a dog is, technically, but Cesar would eat your Tollan-bred poodles for breakfast and then shit them before lunch.” As if on cue, the dog smiled, looking as evil as its owner doing so. “He just left quarantine and let me tell you, being stuck in a metal cage for a week made him rightfully pissed off. As such, there’s nothing he’d like more right now than to tear your guts out and run with them for sport. And run you will.”
The man-dog duo began to walk down the aisle, inspecting the slightly quivering recruits as they went, and Cenor felt his balls retract in pure reflex when the dog’s muzzle came sniffing within inches of his crotch. He also got a close look at the Decurion, who was quite amazingly looking as fresh as if just unboxed, cheeks shaved clean, mustache neatly brushed, uniform immaculately pressed and adjusted, and felt justifiably envious.
The Draka NCO continued his inspection and introductory morning speech, pausing between sentences to stare at the recruits.
“Cesar’s a great partner. He’ll help me put a spine up your ass, hopefully. And if one of you monkeys tries to slack off, I’ll personally tear off his balls and give them to Cesar to chew on. I will not allow you lousy subhumans to make me look incompetent ! Is that clear ?”
There was a ragged chorus of “Yes, Sir”. Which only inflamed the Decurion. “In case you weren’t told already, I’m not Sir, I’m Master Hartmann for you ! And I believe you’re just out of bed and not even tired yet, so no shortening it to just Master yet !”
This time, the “Yes, Master Hartmann” were louder and more coordinated, and the Decurion stepped forward, then turned on his heel to stare at a single recruit squarely. As it happened, it was one of the handful women among the company, an athletic-looking brunette with short neck-length hair. She straightened under Hartmann’s glare and returned his stare defiantly, an attitude that got him to chuckle with amusement.

“Trying to impress the boys, hmmm ? Gotta show them what a gurrl can do ?” She didn’t answer verbally, but the slight narrowing of her eyes and the subtle contraction of her jaw was a dead give-away to the observant Draka instructor. “Good spirit. Aggressivity’s a key trait for a soldier. But it’s not enough. Right now” his look turned contemptuous “I see a pair of walking boobies with an inferiority complex and the need to show off to Poppa and Momma and friends. Right now, I’m not sure you’re even fit to suck my cock.” The brown eyes blazed under the insult.
“Recruit Sorinna, you’re allowed to answer.”
The female aspiring soldier replied between her teeth.
“I’ll prove what I can do, Master Hartmann” Her jaws were tense.
“If you’re talking about sucking my dick, then we’ll see in the evening, if you’re not too exhausted by the first day of training” The mocking comment drew a few muffled snickers around, which were sharply cut off by Cesar’s prickling his ears and growling menacingly at the closest offender. The object of the mockery was reddening angrily though, and Hartmann addressed her again, his tone devoid of any malice this time, only with an overtone of genuine curiosity.
“So you really believe you have what it takes to become an infantry soldier, recruit ?”
“I want to fight, Master Hartmann. I can perform as well as any male, and the Navy doesn’t have a problem with female crews” the last words were almost snarled, but their recipient only welcomed them with a short laugh. At least that was what it seemed.
Cesar, with the benefit of a lifetime spent at the side of his master, knew better and waited obediently. He wasn’t disappointed, as always when guessing his master’s reaction.

There was a flash of movement and Sorinna doubled over in pain, gasping loudly for breath. Hartmann’s punch wasn’t simulated, although he didn’t put his full power behind it. And then he was standing in the same unworried, dominating stance again as if he had never moved at all. He listened to the woman’s half-choking sounds for a short moment, then spoke again with an encompassing glance over the rest of the recruits.
“If you think that being able to press buttons and stare at a holo in a nice cozy air-conditioned ship bridge is what this is all about, then think again. Fighting as an infantryman requires technical skill, and guts, and the ability to withstand pain, and exhaustion, a level of pure physical and mental resilience you’re all light-years from possessing. And the requirements are the same regardless of sex. The enemy doesn’t care if you’re a boy or girl - the only difference it makes is the number of holes he’s going to rape afterwards. If you are still alive. And maybe even if you’re not”
He walked a smirking glance over the parallel lines of standing men, some showing sickened expressions at his crude depiction. Cesar, on the contrary, was beaming happily and looking up at his master with adoring eyes, wagging his short tail stump.
“Is that clear enough ?”
“YES, MASTER HARTMANN !”
“Good. And now I want you all outside and in running gear, five minutes from now ! MOVE !”

At the end of the five minutes, the company was indeed standing on the gravel of the parade ground, all 56 men and 4 women of it, clad in their Tollan-issue running shoes and thermoregulating fabric short and tank top. The tight-fitting garments were adapted from a successful range of civilian outdoor clothing, only blue-grey and emblazoned with the abbreviated acronym of the newly expanding Imperial Tollan Army, which had long vegetated under the shadow of its larger and more prestigious sister service, to the point of usually being assimilated to the Imperial Navy’s Ground Force.
The sixty recruits were arrayed in three ranks. This had not seemed too difficult, as every young Tollan schoolkid was used to that kind of rank-dressing. And the lack of delay in doing so had pleased the Decurion, although he wasn’t showing it. His charges were on the other hand openly gawking at his express transformation, for in the short time between his exiting the dormitory and the first recruit following his steps in running gear, the Draka had magically shed his tan uniform and donned his own running equipment.
His was showing a contrast with the sleek-looking Tollan-issue gear. Laced black leather boots, buttons and zips, versus shiny silver second-skin shoes and magnetic seams. The only concession to modernity, it seemed, was the touchpad in a clear protective sleeve attached to his left biceps.

“All right, monkeys. Since you managed to find the way out of your cage in the alloted time, we’ll cut the delay down to three minutes tomorrow. But tomorrow’s another day. This morning, we’ll start with a little warm-up. As you can see” he gestured towads the surroundings “we’re right in the middle of nowhere, nature everywhere. We’ve got hills, rivers and streams, grasslands and forest, and no pesky civilians for a hundred kils around the facility. Ain’t that just wonderful ?”
“Yes, Master Hartmann !”
“Did you pussies fall asleep while I was speaking or what ?”
“NO, MASTER HARTMANN ! IT’S WONDERFUL, MASTER HARTMANN !”
“That’s more like it !” he nodded vigorously. “Now, the path we’ll take has been helpfully indicated by marker signs like those” his finger extended towards a wooden arrow just visible beyond the wrought-iron gates, not too far from the public aircar landing pad. There was a grassy footpath leading into the countryside and the low forested hills a few kilometers to the East of the enclave. Cenor remembered seeing that path the previous day, but the sign had not been there. He wondered what was written on it. He couldn’t read it from there. And the Decurion’s voice pulled him out of his musing.
“We’ll take the small loop and come back through the North gate. Real easy. I don’t expect anyone to lag behind - else Cesar will make sure to bite his sorry ass. He enjoys playing shepherd dog that way. Understood ?”
“YES MASTER HARTMANN !” If any of the recruits was apprehensive, they weren’t showing it.
“All right ! Now move, monkeys !”

It was ten minutes before Decurion Hartmann got the first hint that something was very wrong. He was running a good pace with the gaggle of Tollans following and Cesar tailing them, nothing exerting, but the collective breathing behind wasn’t even becoming ragged. They were following his stride without apparent difficulty. Oh well, he reasoned, maybe those ferals really took care of themselves after all. So he increased the rate.
The tree-planted hills were looming forward, the sun was now clear over the horizon and its rays were falling obliquely, casting long shadows on the ground. The air was clear and pure, and crisp enough to pleasantly cool the skin, with a sweet scent of dewy grass. Hartmann breathed deeply and regularly, savoring the moment. This was one pleasant world, if it weren’t for the lack of serfs it would be perfect. The local staff was polite and efficient enough, but he had to treat them as more or less equals and that still felt too weird. It helped that many natives showed something very akin to awe whenever anything Draka was involved. The thought made him chuckle. As the Draka community on Nautona had begun to realize, there was no shortage of willing pussy - or dick, as affiliations went.

Thirty minutes into the march and the Tollans were not showing a significant strain. Now there was definitely something wrong. The group was heading up a hill on a zig-zagging dirt trail and while the recruits were now breathing louder, and stretching formation as some showed more stamina than others, it was still nowhere close to the misery Hartmann had expected from a fresh bunch of civilian ferals. And he had done his homework - neither their ordinary human physiology nor their Tollan rearing should have prepared them so well.
He slowed down, gesturing at them to keep going, and observed the passing recruits carefully, trying to discern the source of the problem, drawing from his professional knowledge of kinesthetics to dissect the way they were moving. And the realization made him angry with himself. He should have thought about it !
He sped up to the head of the column and there bellowed a “RECRUITS, HALT !” that brought them all to a stop. He watched them gather, not even trying hard to catch their breath. A sweet-looking smile crept on his lips and the recruits suddenly realized something was wrong. That smile, they’d began to learn, was a Bad Omen.
Walking closer to the nearest Tollan, the Decurion addressed the young man, head slightly cocked and hands on his hips.

“Tell me, monkey… why don’t I have that running gear of yours ? It seems awfully nice.” He pointed down. “Those shiny shoes especially.”
The recruit looked down at his feet, then at Hartmann’s leather boots.
“I don’t know, Master Hartmann. You ought to get some, though, they're designed to recycle three-quarters of the wearer’s energy when running ! It makes it so much easier !” He answered happily, pleased to explain something to the foreign soldier and perhaps flout superior Tollan engineering. The Draka nodded genially, as if to confirm this interpretation. Cenor watched. Unlike his comrade, he had a bad feeling about it.
“And those garments, they seem rather helpful as well, in addition to the aesthetics, no ?”
“Yes, Master Hartmann” the other boy nodded vigorously, uncognizant of the danger. “They regulate temperature and evacuate sweat, and the fabric also contains nano-compounds that help our muscles clear out toxins !”
“I see” the Decurion replied softly. “This is all very helpful, obviously.”
His smile turned sinister and his next command came in a flat, cold and very frightening voice, just loud enough for every recruit to hear.
“All of you, remove your shoes and take off your clothes. Now.”
There was not a word of protest under the Draka’s murderous glare. Only the faint sounds of sixty recruits stripping down in the middle of a forest, then leaving the discarded gear in a heap on the side of the path. The four females were drawing their fair share of attention, though, and Hartmann decided to cut off any nascent friskiness, not so much out of consideration for the blushing girls than wanting to make everyone miserable.
“And now, back to running, monkey-shits ! No more cheating !”

Fourty-five minutes later, a satisfied-looking Decurion led his nude, panting, and definitely sweating charges back into the camp, now appropriately sick and suffering and putting their abused feet gingerly down at every step. The few stragglers were harried forward by Cesar’s menacing fangs.
Cohortarch Olufsen was out on the steps of his office-cum-accomodation, sipping a steaming cup of Tollan coffee and thanking whichever old Goa’uld had transplanted the first humans in this corner of the galaxy and brought the caffeine-laden plant along. He watched his Citizen subordinate lead the recruits to the sanitary block, where they disappeared one by one for the morning shit and (collective) shower.
A grin formed on the senior Draka’s lips.
Ho ho, Hartmann found out about the magic Tollan wondershoes.

[KlavoHunter]

First we have Decurion Hartmann, and now we have a dog named... Cesar. I see what you did there.

[ziasyn]

iborg I was wondering if you are taking requests on little side missions the Draka might be doing in SG-1 season 1 ep4 the Broca Divide SG1 encounters the histimine eating virus that turns people into neanderthals and Season 4 ep6 Window of Opportunity where earth and and a bunch of other worlds get stuck in a timeloop caused by a defunct ancient time machine. Those two events might throw the Draka in a tizzy

[declan]

***
This morning, we’ll start with a little warm-up. As you can see” he gestured towads the surroundings “we’re right in the middle of nowhere, nature everywhere. We’ve got hills, rivers and streams, grasslands and forest, and no pesky civilians for a hundred kils around the facility. Ain’t that just wonderful?

I was so expecting landmines , either buried or trip wired just to keep the new boots a bit paranoid.

Declan

[iborg]

I was so expecting landmines , either buried or trip wired just to keep the new boots a bit paranoid.

Declan

Only later, when they're beginning to shape up.

I'm varying the positions with the Muse, so to speak, as well as filling out the universe. I'd planned to dedicate an interlude to Ann Rayner. It'll probably contain more romance (waaah ! girly stuff !) but I'm quite eager at trying that genre too. Writing is experimenting after all.
Still, describing our favorite Draka girl comes dangerously close to Mary-Sue territory, but shit, I can't help it. Every female Draka's second name is Mary-Sue anyway.
I'll update both stories in turn. A third one might appear, dealing with the Goa'uld investigator/special agent.


Loving on the edge of a blade
A Snakepit interlude


Decades ago, the designers of what would become Homo Drakensis had aimed at further improving the traditional qualities of the Draka citizen, by literally engraving them in their descendants’ base genetic code. Faster, stronger, smarter, hardier, the Drakensis was to become Homo Sapiens’ ultimate predator as well as protector - an homo sapiens who itself would be tailored into a meeker, obedient strain to build, finally, Naldorssen’s dream society. Forever dominant.
And the New Race had indeed met those expectations beautifully, as far as everyone could judge, filling their parents with pride as well as lingering regret that they would not share their children’s destiny, bound by their own Nature-designed genes.
Now the children of the Drakon were spreading their wings towards the stars as well and meeting an even greater challenge, new foes and even friends - as outlandish as it seemed. And friends and foes alike witnessed Drakensis’ qualities in action.

Among those qualities was the ability to stay still. As still as a statue, and perfectly composed as if wearing a marmorean mask.
And that was an artist’s dream, as one particular Tollan was realizing. He was standing in the familiar surroundings of his workshop, a airy spacious room receiving uninterrupted sunlight during the day thanks to the full baywall lining one side, the remaining sidewalls and ceiling painted a brilliant white and magnifying the impression of light and spaciousness. There were trestle tables and shelves and toolracks in a quasi-haphazard fashion, but one corner was kept free of obstructions, save for the circular screens mounted on spindly articulated legs that cast reflected light on the subject of Lancor’s study. Past realizations, miniatures and empty molds strewn atop the trestles where their aker had last set them down. Bodies, faces, human and animal, abstract shapes, flowing geometries of white plaster and chromed metal, random samples of the sculpted pieces that made their creator a celebrity among the Tolllan Empire’s finest aesthete minds.
The simple (and extravagant) fact that all were born out of a creative process that didn’t involve the slightest advanced technological intervention naturally commanded correspondingly extravagant prices. This allowed said creator to focus in turn on refining his art when not indulging in the affluent interplanetary lifestyle he could afford. Perks like this palatial apartment in the upper-crust district, a 30 meter in-system private yacht, and a smattering of secondary residences scattered along the most secluded, paradisiac and exclusive spots of the Empire.

Which was nothing, he reflected, compared to the social connections. Being on a personal standing with every Coucilor of the Curia, as well as the leaders of the military by virtue of being a Navy veteran - albeit long before the recent war and only for a four-year tour - and having contributed a few pieces to the glorification of the Service, allowed him to be on the List for every important public event. Like the Victory Reception at the Curia, two weeks ago. An event where the main attractions were the Draka diplomatic and military staff. And to Lancor’s delight, they had shown a deep appreciation of artistic matters, one of them going to the length of showing a few exemples of his planet’s art, paintings and sculptures fascinating both as masterpieces and windows to a whole other culture, a rich and ancient one as far as he could divine.
And so, like many of his Imperial denizens, he became more than a little mesmerized by the still-mysterious foreign power. And why, finding himself sipping a drink at the iconic (and oh-so-private) Cosmos orbital lounge, his contemplation of the seas and continents of Tolla filling the huge panoramic wall was hijacked by the apparition of the sculptural redhaired beauty walking panther-like in a perfectly-tailored black dress, followed by every pair of eyes in the sparsely crowded establishment. She walked unhurriedly on the mirrored black concourse that espoused the lounge’s curving interior wall, overlooking the main floor and the tables arrayed on amphitheater-like steps to provide each an unblocked view on the outside vista. And she was heading in his direction, Lancor realized - well, towards the bar at least, sashaying on a pair of decidedly unending legs ending in stiletto heels, and he had an intuition that this woman could walk on such heels and never make a misstep. The asymetric hem of her dress slashed across her thighs, showing a light-gold tan and a firm skin - either she used the best cosmetics available or her body didn’t know what cellulitis was, he decided.
He continued to observe her from the corner of his eye, pretending to focus on the electric blue fluid sloshing inside his glass. She was probably a runner - long limbs, athletic in a build that suggested endurance rather than brute power and just enough subcutaneous fat to smooth over the unaesthetic dryness of raw exposed muscles. Broad shoulders like a swimmer, left mostly bare by the thin stretch of dress looping behind her neck, the rippling silk molding the twin globes of her breasts like wet drapery. Coppery red hair pulled backward in a thick undulated bun, a thin strand left dangling lazily down her left temple and shading a sapphire blue eye, high cheekbones, a slightly upturned nose and wide sultry lips breaking what could have been frigid perfection.
His trained eye noticed the subdued sophistication of the jewellery discreetly highlighting her deceptively sober dress. A single platinum chain, thin and short, swayed under her right ear, complementing the asymetrical theme in combination with an intricately wrought flower of matching composition pinned on her left breast. Her neck was left bare, self-sufficient in its regal bearing, and a single blue gem glittered on her right hand, the one which wasn’t clutching a small black varnished leather pouch.

Lancor wasn’t surprised to feel the bite of curiosity and desire all at once. How could such a woman exist in the Empire and he didn’t know who she was ? She looked like a young adult, fresh out of adolescence. Was she some kind of heiress ? An actress he’d have heard of, surely. Or… well, she might be a professional courtesan. Definitely an over-expensive one, too, and new to the scene as well or he’d know her face already.
He felt an electric thrill in his spine as her eyes met his squarely for the time of a heartbeat. Her iris were thin blue rings in Cosmos’ perpetual subdued lighting, preventing him from noticing the Drakensis pupils, and he merely nodded a courteous informal salute to the furtive acknowledging smile she flashed at his attention before perching herself on the nearest stool, facing the laquered counter and leaning forward to address the drink attendant. As she did so, supporting the weight of her upper body on her elbows, she also offered an unrestricted view of her back, the tapering V cut of her dress ending with a loose draped hem right over the nascent crease of her buttocks and allowing her neighbour to confirm the absence of any underwear.
The Tollan felt himself twitch with physical lust. She was gorgeous, she was alone, and she wore clothes that screamed Fuck Me Tonight. Whoever she was, he’d find out even if it cost him the proverbial arm.

The uniformed attendant glided in place with smooth precision, his expression perfectly composed with lifelong training in keeping his full wits in the presence of fabulously desirable creatures.
“Noble lady” he intoned his customary greeting “how would your palate be entertained tonight ?”
Ann Rayner repressed a laugh at the slightly pretentious-sounding phrasing. And she had no idea what the drinks were. On the other hand…
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your liquid delights” she offered back with a suavish smile, and turned half-way on her seat to indicate her neighbour’s glass “but if this tastes as fantastic as it looks, I’d be willing to try it.” Her gaze met Lancor’s again, as if to confirm the innuendo, before she faced the waiting attendant again.
“Ah, the Nova Blue. A discerning choice by a discerning man, a worthy choice to emulate indeed. Let me compose one for you, Noble lady.” The object of the compliment sent a silent thanks at the host. If his just-drafted plans were met with success, the artist-socialite would make sure to send a proper token of appreciation. A Draka, she was a Draka ! No wonder she looked otherwordly good. It all made sense now. And unless the way her mind worked was radically alien, she might certainly be open to the possibility of, well… making further acquaintance, he hoped.
So he focused his mind toward the goal.

“Greetings. I’m Lancor Manim, and I must say I’m deeply honored to sit next to one of Nautona’s heroic saviors” he attacked gallantly, albeit his words held truth beyond the calculated formality. Despite his assurance, he was as any human she’d met save her Old Race Citizen elders, transparent to her heightened perception. She found the sincere admiration, and the surrounding lust and calculated strategy to serve that lust was in no way shocking. It was, on the contrary, deeply gratifying. Feeling desired was something she’d been aching for since her recent mental transformation, and she kept her pheromones to a minimum at the moment although it was almost straining her control.
She smiled back.
“Ann Rayner, Decurion, Stargate Expeditionary Command” She offered her upturned right wrist to the brush of his lips in the formal gallant manner of the host culture, having picked up on Tollan cultural codes in her spare time.
“Again, it is an honor and a pleasure, Decurion Rayner.”
“Just Ann. I’m not on duty.”
“I had gathered that much” they shared a knowing chuckle. “So what brings you to our Capital, if asking’s not so indiscrete ? I was at the Victory Celebration and I would have noticed your presence among your state’s embassy staff.”
“I was on Luna at the time, on our main base of operations. And…” she hesitated. The destruction of Complex Alpha was a military secret, the circumstances of it kept under tight wraps. The Tollan high command had not been noticed of it even. “I suffered an injury in the course of duty, and I’m currently on leave to, well, unwind, you might say.”
The man received the explanation with a frown of concern, a subtle change in posture as his mind’s eye saw the woman in front of him injured and suffering. She felt his sudden rush of empathy and immediately elaborated.
“I’m fine, thanks for worrying” her right hand rose from the counter, palm outward in gestual support of her words “the wounds healed quickly enough. I’m using the opportunity to visit the Empire, really” her smile was reassuring, but her mind’s voice was conscious of the lie. She wasn’t exactly fine and her wounds weren’t exactly minor. But the sarcophagus and its unpredicted side effects weren’t something she wanted to confess about. Not to a stranger, not to her closest friends even.

Right then, the attendant returned with her Nova Blue, and she took it with a thanks. She raised the inverted-cone of the glass, seeing Lancor’s face distorted and tinted blue through the exotic cocktail. He returned the gesture with his own lighter glass and pronounced the customary words.
“Your loves”
The concoction tasted as brilliant as it looked, she decided after the first sip. The underlying alcohol was familiar enough, but the rest of the contents were definitely not something she knew. It was sweet and zesty at the same time with a hint of something that reminded of lime, yet different. And the whole impression was of a star bursting over her tongue, as the name implied. Fitting, she concluded. She might have to torture the attendant for the recipe as well, although getting the ingredients outside of the Empire would probably amount to a lost cause. She was in no danger of getting drunk, courtesy of her New Race metabolism, despite the high proof of the mixture, but she nevertheless regulated her sipping. Doing otherwise would appear rude.

By the time her glass was empty, she knew a lot more about her drinking companion, and she was also admitting to herself that she wouldn’t mind taking it to the next level. She also knew that he wouldn’t mind that either.
“That’s fantastic. I’d love to see you work, you know. One of my aunts dabbled in sculpture as well and I loved to visit her when she was working on a piece, but she left us eight years ago, unfortunately.”
“Oh. My condolences for your loss. I’m sure she was talented - and of course you’re welcome to see my work. In fact, why not tonight ? After dinner, maybe ? We could take a private shuttle down to my tower. What do you say ?” He flashed a hopeful smile.
“Dinner sounds fine” she returned a toothy grin “I came up here because the dishes are supposed to be the best in the Empire, after all !” And then her smile changed to pure seductiveness. “And… your invitation for later suits me.”



Thus Lancor was standing at his working spot, three days after this encounter. Three passion-filled days with a woman whose bedroom appetite and stamina had seemed insatiable, and whose intelligence he’d discovered during their long after-sex discussions. Ann Rayner was truly fascinating and the feelings he suspected himself to harbor and nurture were suspiciously similar to love. He took that with philosophy. After all, it had to happen one day. Only he wasn’t certain of hers. She did seem to enjoy her time with him. Yet there were the known and unknown but suspected obstacles. She was a foreigner. She wasn’t even the exact same species. She was a soldier, and she was to obey the orders of her leaders, orders that would undoubtedly send her away one day, probably earlier than he wished.
Yet here she was, posing for him in her glorious nudity. The sketches he was tracing, in various angles and various positions, would stay with him if all else vanished, and his creative mind worked to think up the composition that would best show her amazing beauty and grace, to be immortalized in bronze and marble. And she watched him work with a silent smile and questing eyes.

[iborg]

Back to Rebirth of the Janissaries (RotJ ?)

***


At least it wasn’t the gravel, Cenor thought with mild relief. The trimmed grass was a lot easier on the recruits’ palms and feet, especially feet as those were sore as hell from the barefoot run Hartmann had insisted on. A few men were actually sporting repair bandages on skin cuts.
As tough as it seemed, there was a sense of vitality to be found in the simple physical exertion. Of course, the morning run was far from the extent of the Decurion’s program. He had actually timed the shower step by step. Water. Soap. Rinse. Dry. Watching them try to conciliate the slightly frantic race to cleanliness with the preservation of a semblance of modesty, and failing. There was a logic to that, he knew, but it didn’t make it any easier to lather himself right next to a young woman who was altogether fit and attractive and lathering herself as well. He had thought of Natylis to fight the burgeoning lust. It had made it even worse. He’d been of the verge of panic, trying to press his body against the tiled wall to conceal a growing hard-on, when the ever helpful Decurion made a passing remark for the benefit of every male trainee, having accurately guessed their predicament.
“Think about solving equations, boys ! It’ll save you from getting a kick in the nuts by those ladies !”
The “lady” next to Cenor had then glanced aside and noticed the very thing he was trying to hide.
“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to - I have a fiancee already, I-” he managed to babble out, red-faced. She didn’t let him finish.
“Then I’ll finger her cunt after I’ve finished spanking your ass, prick !” she snarled very unlady-like. “And I’m not into swinging meat if you see what I mean !” she hissed just loud enough for him.
Oh fine. She’s a aggressive rugmuncher, I guess that figures. Now those equations… He had managed to shape himself down by the time he was rinsing down the soap. Furtive glances had told him he wasn’t alone anyway in needing a mental diversion.
Some managed better than others, though.

“Recruit Garbom !” Hartmann barked. “Is that what you call standing to attention ?” Fifty-nine pairs of eyes swung toward the target of the outburst. Garbom, a tall and somewhat lanky dark-haired lad, was flushed a vivid shade of red, and slumping unconsciously, as if trying to make his long frame less noticeable. His hands were also trying to cover, albeit imperfectly, a stubborn state of erection that doggedly resisted the algebra therapy. Close-by and keeping as far as she could, Sorinna was glaring rather angrily. The rest of the boys were torn between muted snickers and commiseration, pretending to ignore the whole thing.
“CESAR ! IN HERE !”
Whatever Hartmann’s four-legged minion might have been doing outside, he heard and answered his master’s call. The tall Dobermann’s claws patted the floor tiling as they brought his black bulk to the Decurion’s side, and he sat there, tongue lolling and alternating between threatening stares at the wet bodies and inquisitive glances at his master.
The whole situation was feeling dirty to Cenor’s civilized mind. Just what would that perverted sadist invent now ?
Hartmann pointed. “Cesar ! Sausage !”
Garbom’s eyes went wide with horror as the beast leapt in his direction and jumped at him, forepaws extended as if to bowl him down. The young man raised his own arms in reflex and took a step back as the closest recruits scattered away to a safer distance. The dog’s mass made him stagger as it pushed on his chest, barking with vicious enthusiasm. He struggled against the animal to push it away and keep it from threatening his precious physical integrity, but the damn thing was strong and seemed to enjoy the wrestle, forcing Garbom to retreat several steps, arms flailing against the offending paws. Eventually, Hartmann’s voice rose again.
“Cesar ! Back !”
Instantly, the beast ceased its relentless assault, turned around and trotted back to the Draka’s side, stopping mid-way to shake itself vigorously, spraying water from its fur. And the panting Tollan boy looked down to find his penis still intact, if limp and shriveled up.

“Listen, monkeys !” Hartmann’s frown swept the wet crowd “There’s nothing wrong in a healthy fucking instinct, and I personally don’t care if you fuck each other like rabbits in the barracks, but here’s the catch !” He paused, his sweeping gaze lingering over the females “you’re going to train together and - Loki help me - maybe fight together in a distant future ! And you will do so as a unit. Fraternization can be a useful motivation to fight hard and protect your buddies, at least that’s what the Citizen Force noticed back home. But !” The next sentence was hammered one group of words at a time. “You will Learn to keep Those worms Dangling between your legs Under control The rest of the time !”
Another glare. “You will learn to deal with promiscuity, because when it’s time to fight you’ll find out that not even your fiancee or regular fuckbuddy knows you with as much intimacy as your fellow squadmate !” Sideway glances met the last statement, the Tollans trying to wrap their mind around the notion that, maybe, that dumb-looking perv close-by might become as close as wife or husband and even more, trusted to protect their very own life.
“So you monkey-boys will make sure that Mister Worm down there doesn’t forget elementary politeness. And you monkey-girls will learn not to feel violated if you find a dangling cock next to you in the shower ! Is that clear enough ?”
“YES MASTER HARTMANN !”
The Decurion glared at them for a couple seconds to emphasize it.
“Good. Now dry up and then head out for morning chow. I want you all fed and assembled on the parade ground in twenty minutes. Recruit Cenor, you’re lead. Don’t fuck up or I’ll have to skin your ass.”
Cenor swallowed a lump. “Yes, Master Hartmann !”

He managed to lead the flock in good order to the chowhall, another long wooden shed attached to the base kitchen. Angry glares from the sixty recruits managed to convey a “one comment or misplaced stare and we’ll boil you alive in your own kitchen” message to the mess crew, who then carefully ensured their eyes always pointed higher than waist-level. And higher still when the four females were concerned.

The meal was simple, reasonably decent-tasting, and energetic enough to fuel what would end up as the most exhausting half-day in Cenor’s life. Until the next one, that is.
And the company was back on parade square in the prescribed delay. Cenor felt a small pride in the achievement.
And Hartmann came back, accurate to the second and wearing his day uniform again, having apparently showered and eaten in the same time. He gave a brief inspection of the ranks, nodded to Cenor and then led them all to the grass field beyond the barracks. A variety of spartan-looking tubular frames were laying around, too. Overhead beams. Horizontal scales. Obstacles of various forms, some constructed of rough unpainted wood. Those weren’t for immediate use though.
“All right monkeys ! Space out and drop down on your hands and feet, body and arms straight extended !”
He waited a couple seconds as the sixty Tollans dropped down into the canonical push-up position. He had to rectify a few, using astutely placed kicks, until he was satisfied with the starting configuration.
“And One !” There was a chorus of groans as the trainees lowered themselves on their arms, then pushed up, back to the starting position. Their synchronisation wasn’t the best, and it got worse “And Two !”
“And Three !”
“Freya’s cunt, goddamn limp-wristed cocksucking cheese-smelling scrotum-pubes !”
Predictably, Hartmann’s verbal abuse began on the fifteenth repetition, as the already-imperfect collective motion broke apart, some getting ahead, others failing to follow the rhythm, and many shifting to unsanctioned postures to relieve the tension in their muscles.
“Hold !”
The Decurion strode from one offending recruit to the other, correcting their positions with vigorous heel stomps, unheeding of the groans, cries and plain yells.
“Who gave me such a turdheap of rotten maggot-shit to whip into chocolate mousse ? Which fucking inbred mythical divinity have I offended in my past life to get this ?” The rant continued, drawing from the vast library of abusive language accumulated by generation upon generation of Janissary Drill Instructors, mixing original Draka Anglic expression with rough-sounding literal translations into Tollan and Standard Goa’uld. Not all of it was understood by the recruits, but the gist of it was. If the kicks and stomps and spitting downs weren’t clear enough.

“And Sixteenth !” Groans and moans.
Hartmann bent down next to a boy. “Lower !” The recruit inched his chest downward. “Lower, dammit ! The tip of your cock is positively stratospheric above ground level ! Either you’ve got a tiny one or you’re a slacker !” Strained chuckles staccatoed around as the offender found the strength to make his glans kiss the grass.
“That’s more like it !” Hartmann straightened up, and swept the assembly of nude sweaty backs and clamped buttocks with a satisfied eye. “I want those cocks to touch the ground at every repetition ! And don’t think of cheating !” His gaze fell on Sorinna. “And you she-apes give some love to Mother Earth with those tits !”

In the end, the torture stopped at fifty. A pitiful number in the Decurion’s disgusted opinion, as he made clear in another abusive tirade, right before granting a three minutes rest before the follow-up fun.
Leg crunches. Pull-ups on the overhead beams. Endless series punctuated by more push-ups, especially for those unlucky sould who managed to offend Hartmann’s professional sensitivity. A few recruits puked on themselves, getting disgusted angry comments from those collateral victims who caught explosively-dispersed vomit droplets as an unwelcome refreshment.
There were runs, short sprints, climbs over obstacles. The rare minutes of relief were entirely not enough. As the sun neared its zenith, though, their tormenter judged it was enough for the time being. Cenor was feeling his heart beating against his ribcage as if trying to punch out and escape. Various muscles seemed to have gone absent without leave. At least the regular drinking had prevented more painful cramps. Hartmann had explained how the slightly metallic-tasting liquid contained all sorts of beneficial compounds to help their bodies cope with the level of physical exertion.
Ten more minutes were spent on the grass, stretching arms and legs and massaging each other’s knotted muscles under the Decurion’s direction. The physical contact still felt strange and embarrassing. Finding one’s hands close to another guy’s balls wasn’t something most Tollans were used to. But the sheer pain and fatigue made the comfort-giving touch less awkward. In effect, they were too fucked up to care much, Cenor snickered to himself.

Then it was midday lunch, and the still naked and somewhat rank-smelling recruits ate ravenously. After that and much to their surprise, Decurion Hartmann got them to lay on thin mats over the grass, and led them through the first biofeedback lesson. It was more like a controlled, half-awake nap. Amazingly, they got out of the hour-long session refreshed mentally and physically, at least enough to perform an afternoon march through the hills. On the way, they noticed that the pile of discarded clothing had been removed.
More physical exercise in the compound. Weight training to build muscle mass. More stretching.
Evening took every recruit by surprise in their dazed state. Another shower, this time unsupervised, and all made a point to behave, Garbom included. Dinner, to refill their energy reserves and bring proteins.
After which Hartmann took them to the dorm. He didn’t need to warn them about not wasting time keeping awake. All of them fell asleep as soon as they laid on their bed.

“So. How was that first day ?” Olufsen’s question was expected. Hartmann took a sip of the offered Tollan brandy first, sprawled over a deep-cushioned leather seat. There wasn’t much formality off-duty between Citizens belonging to the same unit.
“Pah. Never saw such a group of lazy-ass chimps. Too used to comfort, I guess, not like our Janissaries, back in the time.” The Decurion’s eyes lost focus, fixed toward an unremarkable spot on the wall. “Good shit, this Tollan rotgut.”
“Well, what can you expect. Janissaries came from a different kind of stock. Though, at least thos Tollies are healthy and well-fed. That’s a decent starting point, we don’t have to worry about nutrition deficiencies, sickness and all that.”
“True.”
“Think we’ll end up with something that can fight ?”
“Oh, sure. Against the Jaffas, at least. We’ll get something, even if not all those kids make it through. I don’t think they realize just what they signed for, yet.”
“Hmm.” The Cohortarch swirled a mouthful of liquor before swallowing silently. “Ole boy Schrakenberg’s playing a queer game at that, y’know.”
Hartmann’s eyes refocused and met his fellow Citizen’s.
“Interesting times, eh ?”

[KlavoHunter]

Sorry, the last bit there was a little jarring, implying that the serfs that would become Janissaries were malnourished - I thought the Draka took good care of their property?

[tortieconspiracy]

Actually, it doesn't imply that all potential Janissaries had those problems, only that such problems came up.

There could be several reasons for that. One: while there was a cultural imperative to take good care of one's property, that doesn't mean every Draka did. Two: Even if a particular Draka made an honest effort, crop failure or having one's estate be in range of the enemy might mean that the Draka in question was struggling to meet their own basic needs, much less meeting the needs of their serfs.

I think this bit from the first "Rebirth of the Janissaries" post supports both possibilities:

“I won’t say I’m happy to be pulled out of retirement for your sake” actually, he was. At over sixty, he was unlikely to take part in front-line combat, and his old Janissary command had been disbanded years ago. And being here beat staying on cold, shortage-ridden Earth. His own children were adults, and he didn’t have a plantation to stay attached to. Not even a wife anymore, thanks to a Yank hypersonic. The Damnyanks he hated for good personal reasons. But he’d never come to view his Janissary soldiers as cattle, as some (the bad officers, in his opinion) did. Serfs or not, they were his men, his charges, and more than once he’d gone out of his way to spare their lives. He knew that was probably one of the reasons why he had been recalled by Castle Tarleton to help train the Tollans.

Three: I have impression that a lot of Janissaries were recruited from enemy soldiers who switched sides. Being starving, clearly on the losing side, and possibly already a prisoner can be a great incentive to go over.

[ziasyn]

whens the next update I am really jonsing for some more of this story