Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
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KlavoHunter
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Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Why would the Snakes name their flagship fighter the Mongoose?
"The 4th Earl of Hereford led the fight on the bridge, but he and his men were caught in the arrow fire. Then one of de Harclay's pikemen, concealed beneath the bridge, thrust upwards between the planks and skewered the Earl of Hereford through the anus, twisting the head of the iron pike into his intestines. His dying screams turned the advance into a panic."'
SDNW4: The Sultanate of Klavostan
SDNW4: The Sultanate of Klavostan
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
They don't exactly name themselves snakesKlavoHunter wrote:Why would the Snakes name their flagship fighter the Mongoose?
The Mongoose... because it jumps around and avoids the strike of its enemy, which kinda fits.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Tech Sheet
Shark class System Defense Frigate
Domination of the Draka
IOC : DASC Tigershark, first unit commissioned in 2014
Role/History :
Wargames and tactical simulations as well as Tollan learnings showed the necessity of heavy mobile firepower to complement the fixed and orbital defensive installations of Sol and Abydos against a small-scale Goa'uld invasion as early as 2011. Continued reflexion taking into account enemy capability and technological opportunities eventually produced a set of requirements issued by the War Directorate, and the Mongoose drone became the first weapon system designed around the revised, post-Contact space control doctrine. While a successful and capable design it was still deemed insufficient against Goa'uld capital ships as well as lacking endurance for extended in-system patrolling.
The Shark-class frigate was thus designed around the concept of a mobile, intra-system heavy weapon platform, fast and well protected yet able to be produced in large numbers and require as few personnel as possible.
Appearance and size :
Length overall : 230m
Height : 67m
Width : 178m
Mass, empty hull : 48 Kt
Mass, mission loadout : 87Kt
The frigate's general shape is a departure from previous generation of spaceships in that post-Contact technological advancement allowed for a heavier and stronger hull and a general shaping that's less about basic geometric shapes (spheres and cylinders) connected by lightweight mesh structures, and more akin to a shaped metal box. The bulk of the ship is a flattened wedge shape allowing for improved fields of fire in the front, top, down and side sectors.
The design incorporates as many pre-existing subsystems as possible (such as the chemical RCS thrusters from pre-Contact cruisers, helium 3 fusion reactors, life support systems…).
Construction involves a CNT-matrix composite and cermet primary structure with trinium alloy reinforcements.
Power and propulsion :
Power generation :
⁃ 1 x 20.9 PW matter annihilation reactor, energium-amplified for main electrical and plasma generation
⁃ 2 x 70 MW He3 compact fusion reactors for auxiliary and emergency power
⁃ supercapacitor banks rated for 198 PJ (total added values)
⁃ 3 x redundant independent energy distribution grids
Propulsion and maneuvering :
⁃ 1 x plasma-ion reaction thruster, axially mounted, rear facing exhaust ; maximum continuous thrust : 7G real at full combat load, 70G observed (instantaneous in-axis acceleration), max. observed 700G after 180s (ramp-up time of the inertia-cancellation system)
⁃ 10 x plasma-ion reaction thrusters in paired arrangements (one pair for each axis) to provide all-axis maneuvering and braking thrust, all installed in the wedge's thicker rear section. Typical rates : 70°/s roll, 55°/s yaw, 89°/s pitch
⁃ 12 x auxiliary chemical reaction thrusters for emergency attitude adjustment and docking maneuvers
⁃ 1 x inverse-gravity-well system to enable planetary lift-off and hover capability
⁃ 1 x compact interplanetary hyperdrive, useable for short in-system jumps. Spool-up time of three minutes under maximum reactor output and no concurrent power drain (such as weapons or shield). Speed : 400PSL sustained for 2 hours before a 15 minutes cool-down is required.
The main reactor provides the extremely high instantaneous power flow needed for weapons and shield in combat and uses antimatter as its primary fuel. Energy released by the annihilation process is captured by the collector fields and amplified by the energium-based array to be either used immediately or stored.
Additional matter can be injected in the reaction chamber in order to provide high-energy plasma for the weapon systems.
Cooling is provided by a liquid naquadah regenerative system. Excess heat can be dumped into a subspace entropy sink.
Sensors :
Long range search, track and identification :
⁃ L-band and X-band active radar arrays, conformal, 230* front spherical coverage
⁃ 3 x optical-infrared telescope, 3m aperture, 300-4000x magnification power
⁃ passive ELINT receivers
⁃ FTL passive subspace-skein sensory array, long range - Al'kesh-sized hyper-window detection at 13 AU, hyper-wake vector tracking at 43 LS
⁃ FTL active subspace scanner, effective detection, classification and analysis range on Al'kesh-type ship : 7.2 AU (1 LH)
Approach warning and all-around surveillance :
⁃ X-band and millimeter-wave spherical coverage for approach warning and threat avoidance.
⁃ Distributed aperture UV and infrared detection and warning, staring array imagers
⁃ laser warning system
Communications :
Laser and radio-frequency tight-beam transmitters
Omnidirectional subspace T/R system
Tactical datalink
Emergency buoy system
Weapons :
Axially mounted :
⁃ 1 x spinal heavy pulse particle cannon, on-mount supercapacitor and cooling arrays. RoF at full power : 1 pulse every 8s. Effective range > 35000 km. Effect : one full power particle pulse achieved a 30% shield strength drop on the Al'kesh test target.
⁃ 4 x heavy plasma repeater cannons, capital-grade, modified Ha'tak type
Turreted :
⁃ 4 x Point-Defense Class laser emitters, each serving 2 firing apertures for omnidirectional coverage
⁃ 6 x 2 light plasma repeaters (Deathglider type) for close-in anti-fighter defense
Missile armament :
⁃ 4 x 18 cell rapid launch systems, loaded with SM-8C space combat missiles (inertia-cancelled, solid-propellant rocket engines, 250G for 30s), 35 KT shaped-explosive warhead or 10 Kt X-ray laser head)
⁃ 4 x Star Arrow Block 15 heavy missiles in semi-recessed hard points, 4.2 GT shaped warhead
Embarked :
⁃ 4 x Mongoose drones, 2 of them usually the R variant for detached reconnaissance work
⁃ 2 x shuttles/escape ships
All carried inside the compact ventral bay.
Protection :
Key systems (reactor and antimatter storage, main thruster, crew module…) are armored in TES alloy (trinium-energium steel) and protected by internal emergency disruptor fields. Main hull is coated with a trinium/naquadah energy absorption layer.
Main energy shield : Goa'uld bubble-type including protection against phased weaponry. Maximum instantaneous absorption rate : 150 KT before bleed-through.
Crew :
12, All-Drakensis (3x4, 8 hours shift duty rotation). Commander of Centurion or Cohortarch (as squadron commander) rank. Each crewman has a private, if small (10 cubic meters) zero-gee cabin. Sanitation and recreational facilities are communal and gravitized (1 G). A 50-50 gender ratio is usual.
Typical patrol time is 2 months. Maximum endurance : 6 months (fuel and food limited).
Small replacement parts can be produced in one of the two on-board light fabricators. However, the type isn't meant for sustained autonomous operation and anything more than light, routine maintenance has to be done in dock. Damage control is largely automated and not suitable for repairing heavy combat-inflicted damage.
Those limitations were deemed acceptable in the intended role of the frigate.
Shark class System Defense Frigate
Domination of the Draka
IOC : DASC Tigershark, first unit commissioned in 2014
Role/History :
Wargames and tactical simulations as well as Tollan learnings showed the necessity of heavy mobile firepower to complement the fixed and orbital defensive installations of Sol and Abydos against a small-scale Goa'uld invasion as early as 2011. Continued reflexion taking into account enemy capability and technological opportunities eventually produced a set of requirements issued by the War Directorate, and the Mongoose drone became the first weapon system designed around the revised, post-Contact space control doctrine. While a successful and capable design it was still deemed insufficient against Goa'uld capital ships as well as lacking endurance for extended in-system patrolling.
The Shark-class frigate was thus designed around the concept of a mobile, intra-system heavy weapon platform, fast and well protected yet able to be produced in large numbers and require as few personnel as possible.
Appearance and size :
Length overall : 230m
Height : 67m
Width : 178m
Mass, empty hull : 48 Kt
Mass, mission loadout : 87Kt
The frigate's general shape is a departure from previous generation of spaceships in that post-Contact technological advancement allowed for a heavier and stronger hull and a general shaping that's less about basic geometric shapes (spheres and cylinders) connected by lightweight mesh structures, and more akin to a shaped metal box. The bulk of the ship is a flattened wedge shape allowing for improved fields of fire in the front, top, down and side sectors.
The design incorporates as many pre-existing subsystems as possible (such as the chemical RCS thrusters from pre-Contact cruisers, helium 3 fusion reactors, life support systems…).
Construction involves a CNT-matrix composite and cermet primary structure with trinium alloy reinforcements.
Power and propulsion :
Power generation :
⁃ 1 x 20.9 PW matter annihilation reactor, energium-amplified for main electrical and plasma generation
⁃ 2 x 70 MW He3 compact fusion reactors for auxiliary and emergency power
⁃ supercapacitor banks rated for 198 PJ (total added values)
⁃ 3 x redundant independent energy distribution grids
Propulsion and maneuvering :
⁃ 1 x plasma-ion reaction thruster, axially mounted, rear facing exhaust ; maximum continuous thrust : 7G real at full combat load, 70G observed (instantaneous in-axis acceleration), max. observed 700G after 180s (ramp-up time of the inertia-cancellation system)
⁃ 10 x plasma-ion reaction thrusters in paired arrangements (one pair for each axis) to provide all-axis maneuvering and braking thrust, all installed in the wedge's thicker rear section. Typical rates : 70°/s roll, 55°/s yaw, 89°/s pitch
⁃ 12 x auxiliary chemical reaction thrusters for emergency attitude adjustment and docking maneuvers
⁃ 1 x inverse-gravity-well system to enable planetary lift-off and hover capability
⁃ 1 x compact interplanetary hyperdrive, useable for short in-system jumps. Spool-up time of three minutes under maximum reactor output and no concurrent power drain (such as weapons or shield). Speed : 400PSL sustained for 2 hours before a 15 minutes cool-down is required.
The main reactor provides the extremely high instantaneous power flow needed for weapons and shield in combat and uses antimatter as its primary fuel. Energy released by the annihilation process is captured by the collector fields and amplified by the energium-based array to be either used immediately or stored.
Additional matter can be injected in the reaction chamber in order to provide high-energy plasma for the weapon systems.
Cooling is provided by a liquid naquadah regenerative system. Excess heat can be dumped into a subspace entropy sink.
Sensors :
Long range search, track and identification :
⁃ L-band and X-band active radar arrays, conformal, 230* front spherical coverage
⁃ 3 x optical-infrared telescope, 3m aperture, 300-4000x magnification power
⁃ passive ELINT receivers
⁃ FTL passive subspace-skein sensory array, long range - Al'kesh-sized hyper-window detection at 13 AU, hyper-wake vector tracking at 43 LS
⁃ FTL active subspace scanner, effective detection, classification and analysis range on Al'kesh-type ship : 7.2 AU (1 LH)
Approach warning and all-around surveillance :
⁃ X-band and millimeter-wave spherical coverage for approach warning and threat avoidance.
⁃ Distributed aperture UV and infrared detection and warning, staring array imagers
⁃ laser warning system
Communications :
Laser and radio-frequency tight-beam transmitters
Omnidirectional subspace T/R system
Tactical datalink
Emergency buoy system
Weapons :
Axially mounted :
⁃ 1 x spinal heavy pulse particle cannon, on-mount supercapacitor and cooling arrays. RoF at full power : 1 pulse every 8s. Effective range > 35000 km. Effect : one full power particle pulse achieved a 30% shield strength drop on the Al'kesh test target.
⁃ 4 x heavy plasma repeater cannons, capital-grade, modified Ha'tak type
Turreted :
⁃ 4 x Point-Defense Class laser emitters, each serving 2 firing apertures for omnidirectional coverage
⁃ 6 x 2 light plasma repeaters (Deathglider type) for close-in anti-fighter defense
Missile armament :
⁃ 4 x 18 cell rapid launch systems, loaded with SM-8C space combat missiles (inertia-cancelled, solid-propellant rocket engines, 250G for 30s), 35 KT shaped-explosive warhead or 10 Kt X-ray laser head)
⁃ 4 x Star Arrow Block 15 heavy missiles in semi-recessed hard points, 4.2 GT shaped warhead
Embarked :
⁃ 4 x Mongoose drones, 2 of them usually the R variant for detached reconnaissance work
⁃ 2 x shuttles/escape ships
All carried inside the compact ventral bay.
Protection :
Key systems (reactor and antimatter storage, main thruster, crew module…) are armored in TES alloy (trinium-energium steel) and protected by internal emergency disruptor fields. Main hull is coated with a trinium/naquadah energy absorption layer.
Main energy shield : Goa'uld bubble-type including protection against phased weaponry. Maximum instantaneous absorption rate : 150 KT before bleed-through.
Crew :
12, All-Drakensis (3x4, 8 hours shift duty rotation). Commander of Centurion or Cohortarch (as squadron commander) rank. Each crewman has a private, if small (10 cubic meters) zero-gee cabin. Sanitation and recreational facilities are communal and gravitized (1 G). A 50-50 gender ratio is usual.
Typical patrol time is 2 months. Maximum endurance : 6 months (fuel and food limited).
Small replacement parts can be produced in one of the two on-board light fabricators. However, the type isn't meant for sustained autonomous operation and anything more than light, routine maintenance has to be done in dock. Damage control is largely automated and not suitable for repairing heavy combat-inflicted damage.
Those limitations were deemed acceptable in the intended role of the frigate.
Last edited by iborg on 2010-12-29 12:56pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Here's a cruiser spec.
Tech Sheet
Valhalla class interstellar cruiser
Domination of the Draka
IOC : DASC Valhalla commissioned in 2018
Role/History :
While Shark frigates proved a cost-effective mean of securing Domination space against Goa'uld incursions, those short-legged and low endurance vessels didn't allow true power projection outside the bounds of the Domination's star systems. In addition, they were not powerful enough by themselves to survive extended independent offensive operations against the likes of Ha'taks being produced by the various System Lords, and also far from the level of lethality achieved by Tollan cruisers.
The design of the Valhalla class reflected the evolution of the Domination's strategic posture in the second half of the Contact decade. The massive re-industrialization effort in the Core systems was more or less complete, with the Helios arrays on line in solar orbit providing virtually limitless energy and the automated extractors and smelters in the asteroid belts ensuring a steadily increasing stream of refined material for the various shipyards and production lines refitted with post-Contact technology.
In parallel, the Domination's scientific and technical establishment's progress in understanding and applying the windfall of new ideas, theories and knowledge had produced several generations of increasingly sophisticated and powerful hardware ouch as the third generation hyperdrive designs allowing far greater strategic speed and making galactic power projection outside the stargate network practical.
The combination of overall strategic posture going from primarily defensive to offensive and expansionist, technological progress and industrial might enabled the design of new, improved and orders of magnitude more powerful military hardware in addition to incremental improvements to existing designs (such as the Mongoose drone-fighter).
Valhalla class cruisers made up the tip of the spear at their introduction and remained among the Domination's primary offensive platforms even after the larger and considerably more powerful, but less numerous Galaxy class dreadnoughts were introduced.
Appearance and size :
Length overall : 892m
Height : 258m
Width : 348m
Mass, empty hull : 7.1 Mt
Mass, full load : 22.2 Mt
General shape : main cross-section is a symmetrical hexagon (flat dorsal and ventral sides) ending in a prismatic horizontal hammerhead at the front. The back end is a vertical cut-off, framed by the four semi-blended main engine nacelles in a X arrangement.
Construction involves a primary load-bearing structure of high-grade trinium alloy with CNT-matrix reinforcements, cermet and low-grade trinium alloy secondary framing and structural members.
Power and propulsion :
Power generation :
⁃ 1 x 12 EW (at 150% rated power redline) energium-amplified high-density matter annihilation reactor for main electrical and plasma generation
⁃ 12 x 700 MW solid-state long-life Nq generators for auxiliary and emergency power, in distributed arrangement
⁃ supercapacitor banks rated for 36 times main reactor hourly output, distributed
⁃ 3 x independent energy distribution grids
Propulsion and maneuvering :
⁃ 2 x 4 plasma-ion reaction thrusters, nacelle-mounted, one set rear-facing, one set front-facing for full in-axis acceleration and deceleration power ; max continuous thrust : 860G fully inertially compensated after six minutes ramp-up from rest outside planetary gravity wells
⁃ 4 x 2 vectored plasma-ion reaction thrusters for quick attitude change maneuvers
⁃ 36 x auxiliary thrusters for emergency attitude adjustment and precision docking maneuvers
⁃ 1 x gravity-induction drive core for lift-off assistance and hover, emergency deep space maneuver (all-axis 3G acceleration)
⁃ 2 x redundant hyperdrives, interstellar class, capable of sustained 28000 C (3.2 LY, 1 parsec per hour) flight and 34000C dash speed for up to 6 hours (after which a 18 h cool-down and systems diagnostic and overhaul time is necessary). Cool-down and inspection of a drive can be done while the other is running.
The main reactor provides the extremely high instantaneous power flow needed for weapons and shield in combat and uses antimatter as its primary fuel. Energy released by the annihilation process is captured by the collector fields and amplified by the energium-based array to be either used immediately or stored.
Additional matter can be injected in the reaction chamber in order to provide high-energy plasma for the weapon systems.
Cooling is provided by a liquid naquadah regenerative system. Excess heat can be dumped into one of the three redundant subspace entropy sinks. Another, ship-wide liquid nitrogen cryogenic dual redundant circuit provides cooling for other systems.
Antimatter fuel is stored in ultra-dense form inside sealed, armored high-grade trinium containers, each equipped with an autonomous Nq power supply for its internal containment fields.
Hydrogen reaction mass and fuel is stored in ultra-dense metastable liquid metallic form in structural cells between the primary hull and the exterior armored hull. Their location provides an additional layer of protection for the ship's internals.
Sensors :
The Valhalla's sensor suite is articulated around FTL and STL systems. STL sensors include the full range of radar and electro-optical detection and tracking systems, and ELINT receivers. Main pursuit telescopes are 3m aperture, 300-4000x magnification turreted models (same as on Shark frigates).
However, Draka-built subspace sensors have reached a level of accuracy and sophistication that enables their use as primary sensors at ranges of up to 40 AU.
Additionally, instantaneous detection of high-energy interface events (such as catastrophic failure of a ship hyperdrive) can be achieved at light-year distances.
Communications :
STL : laser and radiowave transmitters
FTL data transfer :
⁃ subspace long-range high-bandwidth Transmit/Receive system (35 LY)
⁃ quantum-entanglement transmitter, low-bandwidth, unlimited range, only works with paired stations and is used between ships and the Space Force headquarters. Due to the low data rate pre-coded short letter words are used.
Weapons :
Axially mounted long range armament :
⁃ 1 x spinal heavy pulse particle cannon, on-mount capacitor and cooling arrays. RoF at full power : 1 pulse every 16s. Effective range > 150,000 km. Effect : instantaneous destruction of Al'kesh type target, 18% shield strength drop achieved in tests against captured Ha'tak mothership.
⁃ 2 x heavy X-Ray lasers, 5 meter virtual aperture, 83 TW power, femtosecond pulsed, 20 kiloton equivalent, effective range of several LS. RoF : 6 sec. Tests showed higher shield-draining effectiveness than expected owing to extremely tight beam focusing.
⁃ 2 x launch tubes for Star Arrow Block 30 heavy missiles and Pathfinder stealthy reconnaissance drones, 2 x 18 round magazines. Typical mission loadout : 30 missiles and 6 recon drones.
Turreted armament :
⁃ 26 x point defense lasers, all-round coverage with minimum 250% redundancy on all threat axis. Only the firing apertures protrude from the hull armor and are protected inside prismatic turrets.
⁃ 14 x heavy plasma repeater cannons, capital-grade, Ha'tak type, megaton-range yield. Arrangement : 1 on each engine nacelle, 6 x 2 in dorsal/ventral hull pairs, 4 on the front hammerhead.
⁃ 28 x 2 light plasma repeaters (improved Deathglider type) for close-in defense, located in pairs near each heavy plasma turret.
Missile armament :
⁃ 8 x 24 cell rapid launch systems loaded with SM-9A space combat missiles (1200G max acceleration, 45s powered time, 35 KT shaped nuclear warhead or 10 KT stand-off X-ray laser head)
Embarked :
⁃ 10 x Mongoose drone fighters, usually C and P variant
⁃ 5 x shuttles / escape ships
Automated Mongoose launch and storage bay, separated shuttle bay, both dorsally located.
Protection :
Key systems (reactor and antimatter storage, main thrusters, crew quarters…) are armored in TES alloy (trinium-energium steel) and protected by internal emergency disruptor fields. Main hull is coated with a trinium/naquadah energy absorption layer.
Exterior hull plating varies between 30cm and 250cm (front glacis) of laminated armor. Core hull average armor thickness : 45cm of TES, main frame bulkheads : 18cm TES, sectional bulkheads : 4cm TES.
Compartmentalization is extensive throughout the ship. All non-permanently crewed spaces are unpressurized. During combat normal breathing atmosphere is replaced by a pure nitrogen one except in the hydroponics sections which are kept under a high-carbon mix atmosphere.
Dual energy shielding :
⁃ Goa'uld-type bubble shield (including protection against phased weaponry), maximum instantaneous absorption rate : 1.7 GT before bleed-through. Shield draining rate depends of enemy weapon yield and RoF as well as power available for the shield.
⁃ Tollan-type conformal dissipative shielding, less energy intensive and thus used as navigational shield. Protects against low-mass relativistic impacts and radiation. In combat, provides an additional layer of defense, particularly effective in conjunction with the cruiser's heavy armor.
Crew :
Normal : 490, mixed-species, 1/3 Drakensis/Servus ratio. 8 hours shift rotation. Commander of Cohortarch or Merarch rank.
Drakensis crew enjoy single cabins with private or communal sanitation facilities. Servus share 4-person cabins with communal sanitation. A 50-50 gender ratio is kept across both species crew. Citizen and Serf quarters are segregated although jointly located (there are three crew quarters blocks on the ship) and serfs are allowed into Citizen quarters under supervision. All living quarters are kept under 1 gravity. Some crewed spaces are under reduced or zero gravity (shuttle bay for eg.)
In addition to the cruiser's basic crew an additional 90 person can be transported, usually a short Century of infantry.
The absolute maximum life-support load is 700 persons transported, although it's theoretically possible to load more in reduced metabolism cryo-hibernation pods.
Closed-cycle life-support can be sustained for as long as auxiliary power can be provided. Consumables (water, air) can be replenished from space resources. Food supply comes from two sources :
⁃ long-term storage in frozen or canned form (a cruiser will typically leave dock with several hundred tons of frozen and canned goods)
⁃ on-board production : hydroponics-raised vegetables, vat-grown meat, and synthesized nutrient pastes (the latter only under emergency rationing).
On-board production cannot, for reasons of available volume, provide food for the entire crew, as such the theoretical maximum mission time in complete autonomy amounts to 15 months as stored foodstuffs are consumed. However, stargate-based logistics can be used to extend that time.
On-board fabricators can produce spare parts for most subsystems and the internal layout allows easy access and routine maintenance. On the other hand, large scale damage repair has to be done by external means (dock or mobile support ship).
Miscellaneous equipment :
One ring transport set, hard-locked and constantly monitored
Nanofabricators able to produce most small-scale equipment
Sickbay includes the specs of standard Domination biobombs and is able to produce them.
2 x emergency message buoys, hyperspace capable.
Tech Sheet
Valhalla class interstellar cruiser
Domination of the Draka
IOC : DASC Valhalla commissioned in 2018
Role/History :
While Shark frigates proved a cost-effective mean of securing Domination space against Goa'uld incursions, those short-legged and low endurance vessels didn't allow true power projection outside the bounds of the Domination's star systems. In addition, they were not powerful enough by themselves to survive extended independent offensive operations against the likes of Ha'taks being produced by the various System Lords, and also far from the level of lethality achieved by Tollan cruisers.
The design of the Valhalla class reflected the evolution of the Domination's strategic posture in the second half of the Contact decade. The massive re-industrialization effort in the Core systems was more or less complete, with the Helios arrays on line in solar orbit providing virtually limitless energy and the automated extractors and smelters in the asteroid belts ensuring a steadily increasing stream of refined material for the various shipyards and production lines refitted with post-Contact technology.
In parallel, the Domination's scientific and technical establishment's progress in understanding and applying the windfall of new ideas, theories and knowledge had produced several generations of increasingly sophisticated and powerful hardware ouch as the third generation hyperdrive designs allowing far greater strategic speed and making galactic power projection outside the stargate network practical.
The combination of overall strategic posture going from primarily defensive to offensive and expansionist, technological progress and industrial might enabled the design of new, improved and orders of magnitude more powerful military hardware in addition to incremental improvements to existing designs (such as the Mongoose drone-fighter).
Valhalla class cruisers made up the tip of the spear at their introduction and remained among the Domination's primary offensive platforms even after the larger and considerably more powerful, but less numerous Galaxy class dreadnoughts were introduced.
Appearance and size :
Length overall : 892m
Height : 258m
Width : 348m
Mass, empty hull : 7.1 Mt
Mass, full load : 22.2 Mt
General shape : main cross-section is a symmetrical hexagon (flat dorsal and ventral sides) ending in a prismatic horizontal hammerhead at the front. The back end is a vertical cut-off, framed by the four semi-blended main engine nacelles in a X arrangement.
Construction involves a primary load-bearing structure of high-grade trinium alloy with CNT-matrix reinforcements, cermet and low-grade trinium alloy secondary framing and structural members.
Power and propulsion :
Power generation :
⁃ 1 x 12 EW (at 150% rated power redline) energium-amplified high-density matter annihilation reactor for main electrical and plasma generation
⁃ 12 x 700 MW solid-state long-life Nq generators for auxiliary and emergency power, in distributed arrangement
⁃ supercapacitor banks rated for 36 times main reactor hourly output, distributed
⁃ 3 x independent energy distribution grids
Propulsion and maneuvering :
⁃ 2 x 4 plasma-ion reaction thrusters, nacelle-mounted, one set rear-facing, one set front-facing for full in-axis acceleration and deceleration power ; max continuous thrust : 860G fully inertially compensated after six minutes ramp-up from rest outside planetary gravity wells
⁃ 4 x 2 vectored plasma-ion reaction thrusters for quick attitude change maneuvers
⁃ 36 x auxiliary thrusters for emergency attitude adjustment and precision docking maneuvers
⁃ 1 x gravity-induction drive core for lift-off assistance and hover, emergency deep space maneuver (all-axis 3G acceleration)
⁃ 2 x redundant hyperdrives, interstellar class, capable of sustained 28000 C (3.2 LY, 1 parsec per hour) flight and 34000C dash speed for up to 6 hours (after which a 18 h cool-down and systems diagnostic and overhaul time is necessary). Cool-down and inspection of a drive can be done while the other is running.
The main reactor provides the extremely high instantaneous power flow needed for weapons and shield in combat and uses antimatter as its primary fuel. Energy released by the annihilation process is captured by the collector fields and amplified by the energium-based array to be either used immediately or stored.
Additional matter can be injected in the reaction chamber in order to provide high-energy plasma for the weapon systems.
Cooling is provided by a liquid naquadah regenerative system. Excess heat can be dumped into one of the three redundant subspace entropy sinks. Another, ship-wide liquid nitrogen cryogenic dual redundant circuit provides cooling for other systems.
Antimatter fuel is stored in ultra-dense form inside sealed, armored high-grade trinium containers, each equipped with an autonomous Nq power supply for its internal containment fields.
Hydrogen reaction mass and fuel is stored in ultra-dense metastable liquid metallic form in structural cells between the primary hull and the exterior armored hull. Their location provides an additional layer of protection for the ship's internals.
Sensors :
The Valhalla's sensor suite is articulated around FTL and STL systems. STL sensors include the full range of radar and electro-optical detection and tracking systems, and ELINT receivers. Main pursuit telescopes are 3m aperture, 300-4000x magnification turreted models (same as on Shark frigates).
However, Draka-built subspace sensors have reached a level of accuracy and sophistication that enables their use as primary sensors at ranges of up to 40 AU.
Additionally, instantaneous detection of high-energy interface events (such as catastrophic failure of a ship hyperdrive) can be achieved at light-year distances.
Communications :
STL : laser and radiowave transmitters
FTL data transfer :
⁃ subspace long-range high-bandwidth Transmit/Receive system (35 LY)
⁃ quantum-entanglement transmitter, low-bandwidth, unlimited range, only works with paired stations and is used between ships and the Space Force headquarters. Due to the low data rate pre-coded short letter words are used.
Weapons :
Axially mounted long range armament :
⁃ 1 x spinal heavy pulse particle cannon, on-mount capacitor and cooling arrays. RoF at full power : 1 pulse every 16s. Effective range > 150,000 km. Effect : instantaneous destruction of Al'kesh type target, 18% shield strength drop achieved in tests against captured Ha'tak mothership.
⁃ 2 x heavy X-Ray lasers, 5 meter virtual aperture, 83 TW power, femtosecond pulsed, 20 kiloton equivalent, effective range of several LS. RoF : 6 sec. Tests showed higher shield-draining effectiveness than expected owing to extremely tight beam focusing.
⁃ 2 x launch tubes for Star Arrow Block 30 heavy missiles and Pathfinder stealthy reconnaissance drones, 2 x 18 round magazines. Typical mission loadout : 30 missiles and 6 recon drones.
Turreted armament :
⁃ 26 x point defense lasers, all-round coverage with minimum 250% redundancy on all threat axis. Only the firing apertures protrude from the hull armor and are protected inside prismatic turrets.
⁃ 14 x heavy plasma repeater cannons, capital-grade, Ha'tak type, megaton-range yield. Arrangement : 1 on each engine nacelle, 6 x 2 in dorsal/ventral hull pairs, 4 on the front hammerhead.
⁃ 28 x 2 light plasma repeaters (improved Deathglider type) for close-in defense, located in pairs near each heavy plasma turret.
Missile armament :
⁃ 8 x 24 cell rapid launch systems loaded with SM-9A space combat missiles (1200G max acceleration, 45s powered time, 35 KT shaped nuclear warhead or 10 KT stand-off X-ray laser head)
Embarked :
⁃ 10 x Mongoose drone fighters, usually C and P variant
⁃ 5 x shuttles / escape ships
Automated Mongoose launch and storage bay, separated shuttle bay, both dorsally located.
Protection :
Key systems (reactor and antimatter storage, main thrusters, crew quarters…) are armored in TES alloy (trinium-energium steel) and protected by internal emergency disruptor fields. Main hull is coated with a trinium/naquadah energy absorption layer.
Exterior hull plating varies between 30cm and 250cm (front glacis) of laminated armor. Core hull average armor thickness : 45cm of TES, main frame bulkheads : 18cm TES, sectional bulkheads : 4cm TES.
Compartmentalization is extensive throughout the ship. All non-permanently crewed spaces are unpressurized. During combat normal breathing atmosphere is replaced by a pure nitrogen one except in the hydroponics sections which are kept under a high-carbon mix atmosphere.
Dual energy shielding :
⁃ Goa'uld-type bubble shield (including protection against phased weaponry), maximum instantaneous absorption rate : 1.7 GT before bleed-through. Shield draining rate depends of enemy weapon yield and RoF as well as power available for the shield.
⁃ Tollan-type conformal dissipative shielding, less energy intensive and thus used as navigational shield. Protects against low-mass relativistic impacts and radiation. In combat, provides an additional layer of defense, particularly effective in conjunction with the cruiser's heavy armor.
Crew :
Normal : 490, mixed-species, 1/3 Drakensis/Servus ratio. 8 hours shift rotation. Commander of Cohortarch or Merarch rank.
Drakensis crew enjoy single cabins with private or communal sanitation facilities. Servus share 4-person cabins with communal sanitation. A 50-50 gender ratio is kept across both species crew. Citizen and Serf quarters are segregated although jointly located (there are three crew quarters blocks on the ship) and serfs are allowed into Citizen quarters under supervision. All living quarters are kept under 1 gravity. Some crewed spaces are under reduced or zero gravity (shuttle bay for eg.)
In addition to the cruiser's basic crew an additional 90 person can be transported, usually a short Century of infantry.
The absolute maximum life-support load is 700 persons transported, although it's theoretically possible to load more in reduced metabolism cryo-hibernation pods.
Closed-cycle life-support can be sustained for as long as auxiliary power can be provided. Consumables (water, air) can be replenished from space resources. Food supply comes from two sources :
⁃ long-term storage in frozen or canned form (a cruiser will typically leave dock with several hundred tons of frozen and canned goods)
⁃ on-board production : hydroponics-raised vegetables, vat-grown meat, and synthesized nutrient pastes (the latter only under emergency rationing).
On-board production cannot, for reasons of available volume, provide food for the entire crew, as such the theoretical maximum mission time in complete autonomy amounts to 15 months as stored foodstuffs are consumed. However, stargate-based logistics can be used to extend that time.
On-board fabricators can produce spare parts for most subsystems and the internal layout allows easy access and routine maintenance. On the other hand, large scale damage repair has to be done by external means (dock or mobile support ship).
Miscellaneous equipment :
One ring transport set, hard-locked and constantly monitored
Nanofabricators able to produce most small-scale equipment
Sickbay includes the specs of standard Domination biobombs and is able to produce them.
2 x emergency message buoys, hyperspace capable.
Last edited by iborg on 2010-12-29 12:53pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Story update.
***
“If by ‘Goa’uld’ you mean ‘guy with flashy eyes, distorted voice and weird lifestyle’ like those Baal and Kheshmet fellows, then who, or what are you ?” Perplexity, distrust and a bit of sarcasm tainted the Major’s voice, and his body posture - squeezed in the seat as far away from his neighbour as possible - made it clear that Selmak’s flashy demonstration didn’t exactly make him at ease. “It’s funny but I can’t keep myself from thinking you might have one of those ugly snake-things in your head too.” He finished crossing his arms. The bag containing his gear and weapon was back in the cargo compartment, and he really wished he had his gun now.
His interlocutor chuckled apologetically and then answered in his human voice.
“Yes, I can see why you’d be suspicious, although I wouldn’t refer to Selmak as an ugly snake-thing”. He tapped his temple. “He is a Tok’ra, biologically the same species as the Goa’uld, but… much nicer and saner. In fact, the Tok’ra and the Goa’uld hate each other.”
“What,” O’Neill stared with narrow eyes “who’s speaking ?”
“I’m Garam, the… let’s say, original owner of this body. Selmak’s host.”
“Like you’ve got a say ? How do I know you’re not just a puppet like Sam was ?” the Earther’s tone was animated, still disbelieving, tinged with all the tension he was just beginning to release after the escape.
“Well, that’s the difference between Tok’ra and Goa’uld. The Tok’ra hate slavery, and they only take volunteer hosts. And we’re sharing, it is in every sense a true symbioic relationship. I was not forced to become Selmak’s host, and I don’t regret it the slightest bit. I can’t prove it to you, but I’m not Selmak’s slave.”
“I… see but don’t expect me to take your word for it. It could all be bullshit, a trap to make me trust you !”
“In your position, I’d think likewise, Major O’Neill. And I’m not asking you to trust me blindly… but Selmak and I did take a big risk to rescue you.”
“Yes, and why not sooner, before Carter was, was…” he didn’t finish the sentence.
“Because we couldn’t, and to tell you the truth it was only later, when we learnt what exactly was involved, that we understood how important it was not to allow Baal and Kheshmet to get away with it -”
“Oh, I see” O’Neill interrupted “at first we were just some dumb humans being tortured for fun and giggles, but once it became clear that the guys you were spying on would soon acquire an enormous advantage, you had to act.”
Garam stared at him levelly and answered after a moment.
“Yes. You have to understand, the stakes are…-”
“Yes I do, some kind of galactic game between those System Lords and you Tok’ra people, and compared to that the personal fate of two unlucky humans wasn’t important enough. I gathered as much.”
Behind the sarcastic tone there was true understanding in the OSS man’s mind. He was recognizing this Garam, or Selmak, person to be something like his alien professional peer. A dangerous person, one that served a goal, had a duty, and was prepared to go to extreme ways to accomplish it. But all the same this might make him an ally in the present circumstances. And he had rescued him from Baal’s clutches, after all, which was worth some measure of goodwill.
As Selmak didn’t answer immediately, apparently content to just wait his companion’s mental process out, O’Neill eventually spoke again.
“All right, so we’re in the same boat so far. What’s next ?” and the underlying, do you have a plan ?
“First, we make a stop at a safe place.”
The naked man raised his brows, and watched the pilot input something into the ship’s controls. A couple seconds later there was a small shudder, and the star-speckled black veil of ordinary space was replaced by a swirling tunnel of blue light as the hijacked Tel’tak jumped into hyperspace.
“We’ll follow a deception vector until we’re clear out of hypertracking range, then swing towards our true destination. In the meantime, why don’t you take a shower and dress up ?”
O’Neill nodded, and began to rise from his seat. “There’s a shower on this ship ?”
“Of course. Travel time can easily involve days, even weeks. It’s the door across the cargo deck. Just call me if you have trouble with the controls, I’m staying here just in case Baal’s boys try to follow our trace.”
“Is that likely ?” the moving man asked over his shoulder.
“Not really. There’s a sizable pursuit squadron in orbit, but, well… the duty controller suffered an unfortunate accident before he could tag us as hostile to the defense grid” Selmak smirked, and his interlocutor chuckled back, remembering the massive fireball incinerating Baal’s palace and the Jaffa garrison. He started to move again, then paused “By the way, why this ship…?” and not the first one ?
“Simple. I had already removed the locator beacon on this ship and deactivated the call-back circuit. And tampered with the other ships’ reactor safeties” the Tok’ra agent explained.
The clarification raised a lopsided grin on O’Neill’s face.
“Glad to be working with a professional.”
Freedom Station, Samothrace System
Same time
They were losing, Frederick Lefarge realized. It was the inescapable conclusion to be drawn from the steady progression of the invading force, a progression that could be followed almost in real time as sectors of the vast artificial construct went dark on the tridimensional representation rotating slowly in the Control Center’s holotank.
His men, operating the alien consoles were trying to slow the attackers down, shutting down local environmental systems, sealing blast doors, cutting off access everywhere the centralized damage control system allowed them. They were merely delaying the enemy’s advance, as they were proving adept at overriding or bypassing the station’s decentralized control nodes and hacking the doors open.
His response teams had started to weld them shut, but this was only prompting their opponents to use breaching charges, or try another way in. And there was always one in the sprawling assembly of communicating compartments, passages, vertical access shafts and maintenance crawlways that made up the station’s internal structure.
Worse, the response teams were too few, far too few to have a hope in hell of covering every possible avenue of approach, and the invaders had the initiative. They had the luxury of a seemingly never-ending supply of combatants, and they kept coming despite their casualties, relentlessly.
And casualties were mounting on the Samothracian side. The New America had left Sol with nothing more than a Marine security company, and half their number was already dead, missing or incapacitated, having sold their lives dearly to slow the invasion. But no matter how many they killed, there were more to come. The teams were being shored up with Navy and civilian personnel using salvaged weapons, for the colony had not expected to fight a war at their planned destination, and as such the stock of man-portable weapons was extremely limited.
It was a cruel irony, considering that the ships themselves had the firepower to annihilate any number of footsoldiers… if only they could bring their weapons to bear. It had happened only once, when a group of enemies had forced open the great shipbay’s main access. Nearly a hundred of the mail-clad soldiers had spilled on the football stadium sized central terrace like ants on a patch of concrete, in their haste to gain control of the cavernous hangar and the docked Alteran spacecrafts.
They hadn’t counted on the pair of Alliance cruisers moored inside the zero-gee bay and their laser batteries. And thus they were flash-cooked in seconds as the powerful beams swept the flat surface clean, and the warships had since managed to interdict the bay, beating off a couple more infiltration attempts with railgun slugs and laser pulses cued by their all-seeing infrared eyes.
But even that localized success couldn’t hide the larger, bleaker, situation. If the station was lost, the ships would have nowhere to go, and anyway the bulk of the colonists were already cut off from the exterior, effectively besieged by the attackers who were progressing through the external maglev rings to spread around the station’s periphery, only limited by the speed at which they could run and override the blast doors delimiting the main sectors.
And for the last hours they’d been heading inwards, towards the inner inhabited sections of the station. Towards the staggered, concentric rings of self-contained habitats.
“Get that fucking door sealed tight, those bastards are right behind us !” Corporal Rodrigo Brackman snarled loudly as he crossed the threshold of the thick, vacuum-rated hatch separating two main hull subdivisions. They were deep inside the station, into the living districts, and the walls were, somewhat infuriatingly, still displaying their serene recreation of mountainous meadows somewhere in the galaxy. It could have been Earth, but for the twin suns shining down upon the bright green grass, and the lack of cows which, to the Corporal’s eyes, ought to adorn such a bucolic scene.
And the contrast made the present situation almost surreal, fighting for their lives against a ruthless, faceless enemy.
He paused right inside the massive door’s threshold, just long enough to grab the last member of his team and pull him energetically through the already closing twin slabs of alloy. The other three team members were already inside, covering the doorway with rifles and pistol, the latter belonging to the civilian engineer who had replaced a Marine killed ten minutes ago.
Brackman waited until the gap was completely closed and took three steps back, allowing the Navy crewman with the plasma torch to step in and begin to weld the joined metal lips.
By chance, those internal doors were made of a steel-based alloy instead of the more exotic hull material and the Earth-designed tool was having and effect on it.
It left time for the fighters to do an ammunition check, and it was bleak. Five magazines for the three rifles, two reloads for the pistol, and no more grenades. These were all expended during the past hours fighting a retreat through Freedom Station’s external sections. And it wasn’t just the ammo. The Corporal had started the fight under the authority of a Master Sergeant who was now dead, his head blasted open by one of those god-damned plasma rounds the invaders used, and two more Fleet men had fought alongside them as well before meeting their end.
The welding torch had just travelled ten centimetres down when a buzz came from the wall-mounted control panel, indicating that someone was trying to get the doors open on the other side. The technician gingerly jumped back and extinguished his flame, and all was quiet for a short time. Until a deep, almost subterranean-sounding boom sounded off from the alloy panels, like a muffled gong.
“Shit they’re going to burn through already, fuck fuck fuck” Brackman spat “everyone move back to the next intersection, go !”
More booms followed, and the interlocking panels of metal began to glow red around the centrally-mounted locking mechanism, deforming and buckling under the superheated plasma’s assault. Half a minute of almost continuous fire fatally weakened the structure until it failed catastrophically, the nearly-molten disk of wrought alloy exploding out of its slot like a fireball to ricochet on the wall with a shower of sparks, leaving an ugly trail of molten droplets and a blackened, crackled spot on the holowall’s no longer pristine surface. The out-of-control piece of metal finished its course a dozen meters away, where it started to cool down with various sizzling sounds.
A bitter hack of coughing came from the civilian. Without the Marine’s breathing filters, he’d involuntarily inhaled a whiff of the toxic metal fumes coming from the molten door fragments.
Brackman spared the teary-eyed, coughing man a quick look, but didn’t have time to do anything for him. A barrage of plasma bolts tore through the corridor from the hole in the door, where one of the Jaffas was laying down suppressive fire, walking it from left to right blindly but effectively enough. The noise reverberated inside the close space, the sound of plasma bolts tearing through the air and superheating it along their path like ripping cloth and the splashing cracks when they impacted a solid surface, melting furrows along the walls and floor and leaving dead, blackened smears onto the no-longer pristine virtual scenery.
The gunner’s comrades used the distraction to brace against the door halves and muscle them apart, the weakened weld offering no more resistance than a hardened lump of chewing-gum. More weapons began to fire through the crack to keep the suppression going, firing somewhat more deliberately now that the warriors could see a little where the fire was going. But it was a two-way street now and the Marines used their helmet sights to fire accurate bursts, keeping their bodies behind cover and firing the rifles around the corners, ignoring the scorching plasma whizzing past and splashing on the walls around them, unconcerned by the rising ambiant heat that was beginning to burn unprotected skin.
Their focus was rewarded by cries from behind the half-opened doors and a drop in the volume of incoming fire. The lull in the suppressive rain of plasma was instantly recognized by the Corporal.
“Get ready to move” he shouted to the cowering, heat-burned civilian and the Fleet man. “Through that side passage” he gestured energetically at the far end of the intersecting cross-corridor, across from his own corner “get it open and ready for us when we disengage !”
The Fleet-uniformed tech nodded and began to pull the other man out with a guiding hand. Brackman glanced back at the destroyed doorway through his rifle sight and squeezed a quick three-round burst at a moving shadow behind the semi-retracted alloy panels. He saw it stagger and fall, and bared his teeth. One more dead fucker.
The next Jaffas didn’t try to aim through the crack and simply resumed their blind suppressive fire, content to sit tight behind the protective slabs and pour bolts in the general direction of the defending soldiers. They’d lost enough of their number, either outright dead, their flesh shredded by the razor-sharp fragmenting crystal bullets beyond the ability of their symbiote to heal, or grievously wounded. The former were unceremoniously dragged out of the way to await a funeral detail, the latter were pulled back to the nearest cover and left there for their augmented physiology to stabilize itself before evacuation.
Similar scenes were repeated around the station’s interior, and floors which had remained sterile for millions of years were now streaked with running blood and gore belonging to attackers and defenders alike.
As the Marines continued to answer the Jaffas’ fire, albeit shooting sparingly to extend their remaining ammunition, Brackman tried to think the team’s next steps. They’d been falling back steadily, trading ground for time or so they were hoping. He didn’t want to think about that. He glanced at the color-coded location markings of the intersection. They had retreated towards the center, a distance equivalent to three magline stops. Except it had taken hours in the maze of intricate compartments and passages between the main thoroughfares. He didn’t even have an idea where the next defending group was, too many metal interfering and not enough relay transmitters. He’d stick to the plan then, continue to retreat and slow the invaders until they reached the first habitat ring. There should be a defense line there, or at least someone to join with.
Maybe they should have done this earlier, he reflected. Trying to hold such a perimeter with so few men was a mistake, they should have pulled back the core sections to mount a denser resistance. But then, hindsight was always perfect, and they couldn’t have expected the invaders to hack through the remote systems so easily. Attempting to contain them where they’d first appeared, at the gate room, had been a logical choice… but it had horribly backfired when the enemy had broken out of the cordon and overwhelm the little force on site.
Of course he was just a Corporal, maybe the higher-ups in the Control Center had a better idea of the situation. But it still felt like shit to him.
His peripheral vision caught the Navy tech waving at him. Certainly the signal to pull out. The spacer was standing near the far door panel, which led to a hydroponics installation if his memory served him right. At least plants were easy to identify, unlike some of the arcane glowy stuff inside most rooms in the outer station. The civilian man was still coughing, it seemed, prostrated on his ass and apparently even more miserable than everyone else.
Remember kids, smoking’s bad for your lungs ! the thought rising up incongruously in his mind made him snicker.
And then his face froze mid-grin under the helmet. The far door had just skid open, and Brackman watched, almost distantly from shock and surprise, as two of the mail-clad invaders fired their staff-looking weapons directly at the surprised Samothracians. As if in slow motion, the Fleet tech’s belly exploded out as plasma superheated his entrails and forced them to burst out messily from his ruined one-piece working suit. Blood sprayed on the holowall, tainting the virtual grass red and the mortally wounded man stumbled forward, towards Brackman, eyes bulging and face contorted in astonishment more than pain before his legs gave. His body seemed to crumple down, the shattered spine no longer supporting the weight of his torso upright and letting it fold down and follow the glistening bundle of intestines smearing themselves on the floor.
The hapless man was already dieing when the Jaffa pointed his weapon down and fired again, spreading cooked bits of bone and brains everywhere.
The Corporal reacted at last, and began to raise his rifle in the direction of the unexpected assault. Adrenaline flooding his mind made everything seem slower, his weapon rising, the other distant warrior pumping a bolt of plasma through the terrorized civilian’s head right after the tech’s messy put-down, the hint of greenery behind them, behind the rest of the warriors following the first pair stepping across the doorway.
He fired two bursts in quick succession and the two lead Jaffas stopped in their tracks as crystalline shards scythed through their own insides. Behind them their comrades had their own staff guns ready and their plasma fire crossed the intervening distance even as more Earth-manufactured projectiles streaked the other way.
Brackman saw two more of the bastards drop and then the returning fire began to hit, all in the span of a few seconds. A first plasma bolt struck the far Marine in the flank as he continued firing down the main corridor and he cried out in shock as the fiery ionized matter burnt through his light armor. Out of balance, he unconsciously stumbled sideways, right into the open and another bolt struck him face-on. The kinetic force of the blast made him stagger back and drop his rifle. The metallic clatter was covered by the scream just coming now as pain caught up with the soldier’s central nervous system. The next hit might have been a mercy, whether by random or deliberate aiming it struck right in the Marine’s face, shatter-melting the bullet-proof plastic and scorching away the skin from the skull. It was a dieing and smoking body who fell backwards not to move again.
The other Marine snap-crouched aside behind his corner as his colleague died and switched his fire to the new group of Jaffas, supplementing Brackman’s own outgoing fusillade. More Jaffas fell but more took their place and they were facing two outnumbered men.
Brackman’s ammo cassette ran out and his drilled hand moved without conscious reflexion to snatch a full magazine even as the empty one ejected from the rifle. He was fast, and the new cassette slotted in place a fraction of a section later, but there was no miracle that day. One man’s speed couldn’t nullify the number facing him not the volume of fire aimed at him. A plasma bolt grazed his elbow, the burning sensation making him flinch and ruin his aim. His first burst went wide, striking sparks against the far walls instead of hitting the Jaffas in the distance. Another bolt followed and went true, hitting him center. His rifle seemed to explode in his face and his arms flew apart out of the burning impact, and he fell back out of balance. The corner of his eye caught his last living Marine firing full-auto at the mass of targets, hoping to kill them before they killed him and very nearly succeeding, a half-dozen mail-clad warriors staggering out of the fight dead or too wounded to continue.
Any elation was squashed in the bud in instant later when the Marine’s magazine ran out just as a staff weapon was extended around the corner, held by some Jaffa who had run down the main passage when he’d realized no more suppressive fire was coming from the defenders. He fired blind, trusting proximity and the Gods’ luck to find a target, and the Gods indeed seemed to favor him.
The Marine staggered back as plasma flash-boiled his light chest armor, and then more Jaffas appeared from the distant hydroponics doorway, firing their staff guns as they jogged in. The flurry of bolts tore into the still-standing Marine, over Brackman’s prone form and a sharp tremor conducted through the floor told the Corporal his last man had fallen.
Dazed, burned and wounded the Marine NCO tried to rise, cursing the hands that wouldn’t support him, their flesh charred to the bones. Trampling footsteps rushed towards him, surrounded him, and he saw one of the enemy warriors towering above him. A staff butt slammed down, cracking his weakened faceshield and visor and pouding the back of his cranium back to the hard floor.
Through the cracked and deformed ballistic plastic and the film of blood coating his eyes Brackman saw the same staff rise again and turn around between its owner’s hands.
Shit, that’s how it ends. Knowledge of his impending death brought memories and visions flashing forward. One in particular, a face, a beautiful face, golden skin and dark curls, as dark as her eyes, just as he’d last seen her this morning.
I love you Cristina.
There was a last flash, then nothing mattered to Rodrigo Brackman any more.
***
“If by ‘Goa’uld’ you mean ‘guy with flashy eyes, distorted voice and weird lifestyle’ like those Baal and Kheshmet fellows, then who, or what are you ?” Perplexity, distrust and a bit of sarcasm tainted the Major’s voice, and his body posture - squeezed in the seat as far away from his neighbour as possible - made it clear that Selmak’s flashy demonstration didn’t exactly make him at ease. “It’s funny but I can’t keep myself from thinking you might have one of those ugly snake-things in your head too.” He finished crossing his arms. The bag containing his gear and weapon was back in the cargo compartment, and he really wished he had his gun now.
His interlocutor chuckled apologetically and then answered in his human voice.
“Yes, I can see why you’d be suspicious, although I wouldn’t refer to Selmak as an ugly snake-thing”. He tapped his temple. “He is a Tok’ra, biologically the same species as the Goa’uld, but… much nicer and saner. In fact, the Tok’ra and the Goa’uld hate each other.”
“What,” O’Neill stared with narrow eyes “who’s speaking ?”
“I’m Garam, the… let’s say, original owner of this body. Selmak’s host.”
“Like you’ve got a say ? How do I know you’re not just a puppet like Sam was ?” the Earther’s tone was animated, still disbelieving, tinged with all the tension he was just beginning to release after the escape.
“Well, that’s the difference between Tok’ra and Goa’uld. The Tok’ra hate slavery, and they only take volunteer hosts. And we’re sharing, it is in every sense a true symbioic relationship. I was not forced to become Selmak’s host, and I don’t regret it the slightest bit. I can’t prove it to you, but I’m not Selmak’s slave.”
“I… see but don’t expect me to take your word for it. It could all be bullshit, a trap to make me trust you !”
“In your position, I’d think likewise, Major O’Neill. And I’m not asking you to trust me blindly… but Selmak and I did take a big risk to rescue you.”
“Yes, and why not sooner, before Carter was, was…” he didn’t finish the sentence.
“Because we couldn’t, and to tell you the truth it was only later, when we learnt what exactly was involved, that we understood how important it was not to allow Baal and Kheshmet to get away with it -”
“Oh, I see” O’Neill interrupted “at first we were just some dumb humans being tortured for fun and giggles, but once it became clear that the guys you were spying on would soon acquire an enormous advantage, you had to act.”
Garam stared at him levelly and answered after a moment.
“Yes. You have to understand, the stakes are…-”
“Yes I do, some kind of galactic game between those System Lords and you Tok’ra people, and compared to that the personal fate of two unlucky humans wasn’t important enough. I gathered as much.”
Behind the sarcastic tone there was true understanding in the OSS man’s mind. He was recognizing this Garam, or Selmak, person to be something like his alien professional peer. A dangerous person, one that served a goal, had a duty, and was prepared to go to extreme ways to accomplish it. But all the same this might make him an ally in the present circumstances. And he had rescued him from Baal’s clutches, after all, which was worth some measure of goodwill.
As Selmak didn’t answer immediately, apparently content to just wait his companion’s mental process out, O’Neill eventually spoke again.
“All right, so we’re in the same boat so far. What’s next ?” and the underlying, do you have a plan ?
“First, we make a stop at a safe place.”
The naked man raised his brows, and watched the pilot input something into the ship’s controls. A couple seconds later there was a small shudder, and the star-speckled black veil of ordinary space was replaced by a swirling tunnel of blue light as the hijacked Tel’tak jumped into hyperspace.
“We’ll follow a deception vector until we’re clear out of hypertracking range, then swing towards our true destination. In the meantime, why don’t you take a shower and dress up ?”
O’Neill nodded, and began to rise from his seat. “There’s a shower on this ship ?”
“Of course. Travel time can easily involve days, even weeks. It’s the door across the cargo deck. Just call me if you have trouble with the controls, I’m staying here just in case Baal’s boys try to follow our trace.”
“Is that likely ?” the moving man asked over his shoulder.
“Not really. There’s a sizable pursuit squadron in orbit, but, well… the duty controller suffered an unfortunate accident before he could tag us as hostile to the defense grid” Selmak smirked, and his interlocutor chuckled back, remembering the massive fireball incinerating Baal’s palace and the Jaffa garrison. He started to move again, then paused “By the way, why this ship…?” and not the first one ?
“Simple. I had already removed the locator beacon on this ship and deactivated the call-back circuit. And tampered with the other ships’ reactor safeties” the Tok’ra agent explained.
The clarification raised a lopsided grin on O’Neill’s face.
“Glad to be working with a professional.”
Freedom Station, Samothrace System
Same time
They were losing, Frederick Lefarge realized. It was the inescapable conclusion to be drawn from the steady progression of the invading force, a progression that could be followed almost in real time as sectors of the vast artificial construct went dark on the tridimensional representation rotating slowly in the Control Center’s holotank.
His men, operating the alien consoles were trying to slow the attackers down, shutting down local environmental systems, sealing blast doors, cutting off access everywhere the centralized damage control system allowed them. They were merely delaying the enemy’s advance, as they were proving adept at overriding or bypassing the station’s decentralized control nodes and hacking the doors open.
His response teams had started to weld them shut, but this was only prompting their opponents to use breaching charges, or try another way in. And there was always one in the sprawling assembly of communicating compartments, passages, vertical access shafts and maintenance crawlways that made up the station’s internal structure.
Worse, the response teams were too few, far too few to have a hope in hell of covering every possible avenue of approach, and the invaders had the initiative. They had the luxury of a seemingly never-ending supply of combatants, and they kept coming despite their casualties, relentlessly.
And casualties were mounting on the Samothracian side. The New America had left Sol with nothing more than a Marine security company, and half their number was already dead, missing or incapacitated, having sold their lives dearly to slow the invasion. But no matter how many they killed, there were more to come. The teams were being shored up with Navy and civilian personnel using salvaged weapons, for the colony had not expected to fight a war at their planned destination, and as such the stock of man-portable weapons was extremely limited.
It was a cruel irony, considering that the ships themselves had the firepower to annihilate any number of footsoldiers… if only they could bring their weapons to bear. It had happened only once, when a group of enemies had forced open the great shipbay’s main access. Nearly a hundred of the mail-clad soldiers had spilled on the football stadium sized central terrace like ants on a patch of concrete, in their haste to gain control of the cavernous hangar and the docked Alteran spacecrafts.
They hadn’t counted on the pair of Alliance cruisers moored inside the zero-gee bay and their laser batteries. And thus they were flash-cooked in seconds as the powerful beams swept the flat surface clean, and the warships had since managed to interdict the bay, beating off a couple more infiltration attempts with railgun slugs and laser pulses cued by their all-seeing infrared eyes.
But even that localized success couldn’t hide the larger, bleaker, situation. If the station was lost, the ships would have nowhere to go, and anyway the bulk of the colonists were already cut off from the exterior, effectively besieged by the attackers who were progressing through the external maglev rings to spread around the station’s periphery, only limited by the speed at which they could run and override the blast doors delimiting the main sectors.
And for the last hours they’d been heading inwards, towards the inner inhabited sections of the station. Towards the staggered, concentric rings of self-contained habitats.
“Get that fucking door sealed tight, those bastards are right behind us !” Corporal Rodrigo Brackman snarled loudly as he crossed the threshold of the thick, vacuum-rated hatch separating two main hull subdivisions. They were deep inside the station, into the living districts, and the walls were, somewhat infuriatingly, still displaying their serene recreation of mountainous meadows somewhere in the galaxy. It could have been Earth, but for the twin suns shining down upon the bright green grass, and the lack of cows which, to the Corporal’s eyes, ought to adorn such a bucolic scene.
And the contrast made the present situation almost surreal, fighting for their lives against a ruthless, faceless enemy.
He paused right inside the massive door’s threshold, just long enough to grab the last member of his team and pull him energetically through the already closing twin slabs of alloy. The other three team members were already inside, covering the doorway with rifles and pistol, the latter belonging to the civilian engineer who had replaced a Marine killed ten minutes ago.
Brackman waited until the gap was completely closed and took three steps back, allowing the Navy crewman with the plasma torch to step in and begin to weld the joined metal lips.
By chance, those internal doors were made of a steel-based alloy instead of the more exotic hull material and the Earth-designed tool was having and effect on it.
It left time for the fighters to do an ammunition check, and it was bleak. Five magazines for the three rifles, two reloads for the pistol, and no more grenades. These were all expended during the past hours fighting a retreat through Freedom Station’s external sections. And it wasn’t just the ammo. The Corporal had started the fight under the authority of a Master Sergeant who was now dead, his head blasted open by one of those god-damned plasma rounds the invaders used, and two more Fleet men had fought alongside them as well before meeting their end.
The welding torch had just travelled ten centimetres down when a buzz came from the wall-mounted control panel, indicating that someone was trying to get the doors open on the other side. The technician gingerly jumped back and extinguished his flame, and all was quiet for a short time. Until a deep, almost subterranean-sounding boom sounded off from the alloy panels, like a muffled gong.
“Shit they’re going to burn through already, fuck fuck fuck” Brackman spat “everyone move back to the next intersection, go !”
More booms followed, and the interlocking panels of metal began to glow red around the centrally-mounted locking mechanism, deforming and buckling under the superheated plasma’s assault. Half a minute of almost continuous fire fatally weakened the structure until it failed catastrophically, the nearly-molten disk of wrought alloy exploding out of its slot like a fireball to ricochet on the wall with a shower of sparks, leaving an ugly trail of molten droplets and a blackened, crackled spot on the holowall’s no longer pristine surface. The out-of-control piece of metal finished its course a dozen meters away, where it started to cool down with various sizzling sounds.
A bitter hack of coughing came from the civilian. Without the Marine’s breathing filters, he’d involuntarily inhaled a whiff of the toxic metal fumes coming from the molten door fragments.
Brackman spared the teary-eyed, coughing man a quick look, but didn’t have time to do anything for him. A barrage of plasma bolts tore through the corridor from the hole in the door, where one of the Jaffas was laying down suppressive fire, walking it from left to right blindly but effectively enough. The noise reverberated inside the close space, the sound of plasma bolts tearing through the air and superheating it along their path like ripping cloth and the splashing cracks when they impacted a solid surface, melting furrows along the walls and floor and leaving dead, blackened smears onto the no-longer pristine virtual scenery.
The gunner’s comrades used the distraction to brace against the door halves and muscle them apart, the weakened weld offering no more resistance than a hardened lump of chewing-gum. More weapons began to fire through the crack to keep the suppression going, firing somewhat more deliberately now that the warriors could see a little where the fire was going. But it was a two-way street now and the Marines used their helmet sights to fire accurate bursts, keeping their bodies behind cover and firing the rifles around the corners, ignoring the scorching plasma whizzing past and splashing on the walls around them, unconcerned by the rising ambiant heat that was beginning to burn unprotected skin.
Their focus was rewarded by cries from behind the half-opened doors and a drop in the volume of incoming fire. The lull in the suppressive rain of plasma was instantly recognized by the Corporal.
“Get ready to move” he shouted to the cowering, heat-burned civilian and the Fleet man. “Through that side passage” he gestured energetically at the far end of the intersecting cross-corridor, across from his own corner “get it open and ready for us when we disengage !”
The Fleet-uniformed tech nodded and began to pull the other man out with a guiding hand. Brackman glanced back at the destroyed doorway through his rifle sight and squeezed a quick three-round burst at a moving shadow behind the semi-retracted alloy panels. He saw it stagger and fall, and bared his teeth. One more dead fucker.
The next Jaffas didn’t try to aim through the crack and simply resumed their blind suppressive fire, content to sit tight behind the protective slabs and pour bolts in the general direction of the defending soldiers. They’d lost enough of their number, either outright dead, their flesh shredded by the razor-sharp fragmenting crystal bullets beyond the ability of their symbiote to heal, or grievously wounded. The former were unceremoniously dragged out of the way to await a funeral detail, the latter were pulled back to the nearest cover and left there for their augmented physiology to stabilize itself before evacuation.
Similar scenes were repeated around the station’s interior, and floors which had remained sterile for millions of years were now streaked with running blood and gore belonging to attackers and defenders alike.
As the Marines continued to answer the Jaffas’ fire, albeit shooting sparingly to extend their remaining ammunition, Brackman tried to think the team’s next steps. They’d been falling back steadily, trading ground for time or so they were hoping. He didn’t want to think about that. He glanced at the color-coded location markings of the intersection. They had retreated towards the center, a distance equivalent to three magline stops. Except it had taken hours in the maze of intricate compartments and passages between the main thoroughfares. He didn’t even have an idea where the next defending group was, too many metal interfering and not enough relay transmitters. He’d stick to the plan then, continue to retreat and slow the invaders until they reached the first habitat ring. There should be a defense line there, or at least someone to join with.
Maybe they should have done this earlier, he reflected. Trying to hold such a perimeter with so few men was a mistake, they should have pulled back the core sections to mount a denser resistance. But then, hindsight was always perfect, and they couldn’t have expected the invaders to hack through the remote systems so easily. Attempting to contain them where they’d first appeared, at the gate room, had been a logical choice… but it had horribly backfired when the enemy had broken out of the cordon and overwhelm the little force on site.
Of course he was just a Corporal, maybe the higher-ups in the Control Center had a better idea of the situation. But it still felt like shit to him.
His peripheral vision caught the Navy tech waving at him. Certainly the signal to pull out. The spacer was standing near the far door panel, which led to a hydroponics installation if his memory served him right. At least plants were easy to identify, unlike some of the arcane glowy stuff inside most rooms in the outer station. The civilian man was still coughing, it seemed, prostrated on his ass and apparently even more miserable than everyone else.
Remember kids, smoking’s bad for your lungs ! the thought rising up incongruously in his mind made him snicker.
And then his face froze mid-grin under the helmet. The far door had just skid open, and Brackman watched, almost distantly from shock and surprise, as two of the mail-clad invaders fired their staff-looking weapons directly at the surprised Samothracians. As if in slow motion, the Fleet tech’s belly exploded out as plasma superheated his entrails and forced them to burst out messily from his ruined one-piece working suit. Blood sprayed on the holowall, tainting the virtual grass red and the mortally wounded man stumbled forward, towards Brackman, eyes bulging and face contorted in astonishment more than pain before his legs gave. His body seemed to crumple down, the shattered spine no longer supporting the weight of his torso upright and letting it fold down and follow the glistening bundle of intestines smearing themselves on the floor.
The hapless man was already dieing when the Jaffa pointed his weapon down and fired again, spreading cooked bits of bone and brains everywhere.
The Corporal reacted at last, and began to raise his rifle in the direction of the unexpected assault. Adrenaline flooding his mind made everything seem slower, his weapon rising, the other distant warrior pumping a bolt of plasma through the terrorized civilian’s head right after the tech’s messy put-down, the hint of greenery behind them, behind the rest of the warriors following the first pair stepping across the doorway.
He fired two bursts in quick succession and the two lead Jaffas stopped in their tracks as crystalline shards scythed through their own insides. Behind them their comrades had their own staff guns ready and their plasma fire crossed the intervening distance even as more Earth-manufactured projectiles streaked the other way.
Brackman saw two more of the bastards drop and then the returning fire began to hit, all in the span of a few seconds. A first plasma bolt struck the far Marine in the flank as he continued firing down the main corridor and he cried out in shock as the fiery ionized matter burnt through his light armor. Out of balance, he unconsciously stumbled sideways, right into the open and another bolt struck him face-on. The kinetic force of the blast made him stagger back and drop his rifle. The metallic clatter was covered by the scream just coming now as pain caught up with the soldier’s central nervous system. The next hit might have been a mercy, whether by random or deliberate aiming it struck right in the Marine’s face, shatter-melting the bullet-proof plastic and scorching away the skin from the skull. It was a dieing and smoking body who fell backwards not to move again.
The other Marine snap-crouched aside behind his corner as his colleague died and switched his fire to the new group of Jaffas, supplementing Brackman’s own outgoing fusillade. More Jaffas fell but more took their place and they were facing two outnumbered men.
Brackman’s ammo cassette ran out and his drilled hand moved without conscious reflexion to snatch a full magazine even as the empty one ejected from the rifle. He was fast, and the new cassette slotted in place a fraction of a section later, but there was no miracle that day. One man’s speed couldn’t nullify the number facing him not the volume of fire aimed at him. A plasma bolt grazed his elbow, the burning sensation making him flinch and ruin his aim. His first burst went wide, striking sparks against the far walls instead of hitting the Jaffas in the distance. Another bolt followed and went true, hitting him center. His rifle seemed to explode in his face and his arms flew apart out of the burning impact, and he fell back out of balance. The corner of his eye caught his last living Marine firing full-auto at the mass of targets, hoping to kill them before they killed him and very nearly succeeding, a half-dozen mail-clad warriors staggering out of the fight dead or too wounded to continue.
Any elation was squashed in the bud in instant later when the Marine’s magazine ran out just as a staff weapon was extended around the corner, held by some Jaffa who had run down the main passage when he’d realized no more suppressive fire was coming from the defenders. He fired blind, trusting proximity and the Gods’ luck to find a target, and the Gods indeed seemed to favor him.
The Marine staggered back as plasma flash-boiled his light chest armor, and then more Jaffas appeared from the distant hydroponics doorway, firing their staff guns as they jogged in. The flurry of bolts tore into the still-standing Marine, over Brackman’s prone form and a sharp tremor conducted through the floor told the Corporal his last man had fallen.
Dazed, burned and wounded the Marine NCO tried to rise, cursing the hands that wouldn’t support him, their flesh charred to the bones. Trampling footsteps rushed towards him, surrounded him, and he saw one of the enemy warriors towering above him. A staff butt slammed down, cracking his weakened faceshield and visor and pouding the back of his cranium back to the hard floor.
Through the cracked and deformed ballistic plastic and the film of blood coating his eyes Brackman saw the same staff rise again and turn around between its owner’s hands.
Shit, that’s how it ends. Knowledge of his impending death brought memories and visions flashing forward. One in particular, a face, a beautiful face, golden skin and dark curls, as dark as her eyes, just as he’d last seen her this morning.
I love you Cristina.
There was a last flash, then nothing mattered to Rodrigo Brackman any more.
-
Sky Captain
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1267
- Joined: 2008-11-14 12:47pm
- Location: Latvia
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Nice update 
I have no idea how they are going to save the situation. It looks pretty much hopeless, with stargate under goauld control they can continuasly send in new jaffa to make up for looses while Samothracians have no such option. And with goauld fleet on the way there is nowhere to escape with sublight ships. Unless Asgard show up and defeat the intruders Samothracians are pretty much toast.
And even if they somehow make it through Draka will soon have pretty impressive space forces.
I have no idea how they are going to save the situation. It looks pretty much hopeless, with stargate under goauld control they can continuasly send in new jaffa to make up for looses while Samothracians have no such option. And with goauld fleet on the way there is nowhere to escape with sublight ships. Unless Asgard show up and defeat the intruders Samothracians are pretty much toast.
And even if they somehow make it through Draka will soon have pretty impressive space forces.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Yup, it's tough for the Samos, but they will get something worthwhile in return, after the current ordeal's finished.
Also, here's the last tech sheet (for now).
Tech Sheet
Galaxy class interstellar dreadnought
Domination of the Draka
IOC : DASC Galaxy commissioned in 2029 (keel laid in 2023, Deimos Principal shipyard)
Role/History :
Born from the same offensive doctrine as the Valhalla class of ships, the Galaxy can be seen and a larger and nastier version of the Domination's proven attack cruiser design. Incorporating incremental improvements over the cruiser's design, the increase in power mostly comes from its increased size however, as technology reached a temporary plateau after the (relatively) rapid pace of development in the 2010s. In cases such a power generation and drive engines, the "larger = more efficient" statement held especially true. Remarkably, the FTL cruise performance of the much heavier Galaxy surpassed even the Valhalla's.
Perhaps surprisingly for a vessel of this size and power, the Galaxies were first used as an exploration and raiding weapon, sent deep behind enemy lines to attack high-value targets and force the opposition to devote entire fleets to counter them, fleets that naturally weren't available to attack Domination space.
The class' size and power also meant they were a prime recipient for systems upgrades and refit during their life, modifications made easier by its modular philosophy.
Appearance and size :
Length : 3180 m
Height : 779 m
Width : 989 m
Mass, empty : 650 Mt
Mass, full load : 3,390 Mt
General shape : asymmetrical (across the horizontal axis) hexagon body cross-section with roughly equal width flat dorsal and ventral sides. Upper half of the hexagon is taller than the lower half. Front section is slightly flared and follows the hexagonal proportions as it narrows down to the bow, which contains a 19 meter high running horizontal trench separating the two horizontal halves. Recessed inside the trench and protected from any fire from above or below are the firing apertures of the spinal weaponry.
At the back, the main hull ends in a vertical cut-off, framed by the six semi-blended drive nacelles.
Primary load-bearing structure of advanced high-grade trinium alloy with CNT-matrix composite reinforcements, cermet, carbon composite and low-grade trinium alloy secondary framing and structural members.
Power and propulsion :
Power generation :
⁃ 3 x 5.4 EW (normal) - 16.7 EW (max) energium-amplified, ultradense fusion / matter annihilation reactors for main electrical and plasma generation
⁃ 23 x 700 MW solid-state long-life Nq generators for auxiliary and emergency power, distributed throughout the ship
⁃ distributed supercapacitor banks rated for a maximum charge of 53 ZJ (1 hour main reactors normal output in fusion mode)
⁃ 3 x independent energy distribution grids
Propulsion and maneuvering :
⁃ 2 x 6 combined single-axis gravity-induction / plasma-ion drives, nacelle-mounted, one set rear-facing and one front-facing. Max acceleration in GI mode : 149 G fully compensated, in combined mode : 842 G, 13-minute ramp-up time.
⁃ 38 x auxiliary single-axis GI thrusters, attitude change and docking maneuvers
⁃ 1 x inverse gravity well generator for lift-off assistance and hover capability, max -6 G
⁃ 2 x redundant hyperdrives, interstellar class, 42000 C sustained (3.8 LY or 1.5 parsec per hour), 48000 C dash for 6 hours with 18 h cool-down and overhaul period. Theoretically the Galaxy could cross the diameter of the Milky Way in 2.5 years.
The main reactor provides the extremely high instantaneous power flow needed for weapons and shield in combat and uses hydrogen and antimatter as its primary fuel. Energy released by the fusion/annihilation process is captured by the collector fields and amplified by the energium-based array to be either used immediately or stored. Normal cruise is done on fusion power with antimatter injection providing the additional power needed for combat.
Breakthroughs in ultra-dense field confinement and energium-mediated subspace amplification enabled the use of cheaper hydrogen fuel to provide the dreadnought's already considerable energy needs during normal operation. The ship's engineering department also includes the necessary machinery to convert gaseous or liquid phase hydrogen into its metastable liquid metallic form. Refueling can be done inside a gaseous giant's atmosphere.
Cooling is provided by a liquid naquadah regenerative system. Excess heat can be dumped into the six redundant subspace entropy sinks. Another, ship-wide liquid nitrogen cryogenic dual redundant circuit provides cooling for other systems.
Antimatter fuel is stored in ultra-dense form inside sealed, armored high-grade trinium containers, each equipped with an autonomous Nq power supply for its internal containment fields.
Hydrogen reaction mass and fuel is stored in ultra-dense metastable liquid metallic form in structural cells underneath the exterior armored hull. Their location provides an additional layer of protection for the ship's internals.
Sensors :
The Galaxy's sensor suite is articulated around FTL and STL systems. STL sensors include the full range of radar and electro-optical detection and tracking systems, as well as ELINT receivers and neutrino detectors. Main pursuit telescopes are 12m virtual aperture, 300-12000x magnification turreted gravity-lens models.
Active subspace scanner range : 80 AU max with resolution sufficient to map asteroid-sized objects.
Passive subspace-skein sensory array can detect high-energy interface events (such as catastrophic failure of a ship hyperdrive), hyperdrive wakes and mass shadows at light-year distances.
Communications :
STL laser and radiowave transmitters
FTL data transfer :
⁃ subspace long-range high-bandwidth Transmit/Receive system (200 LY)
⁃ quantum-entanglement transmitter, low-bandwidth, unlimited range, only works with paired stations and is used between ships and the Space Force headquarters. Due to the low data rate pre-coded short letter words are used.
Weapons :
Axially mounted long range armament :
⁃ 1 x 2 EW spinal heavy particle beam cannon, on-mount capacitor and cooling arrays. Continuous beam operation, 478 MT/s yield, 3 second beam duration. Cooling and recharge time : 80 seconds. Effective range > 1LS.
⁃ 2 x heavy X-Ray lasers, 5 meter virtual aperture, 251 TW power, 60 KT/s equivalent, effective range of several LS. RoF : 2.3 sec. Tests showed higher shield-draining effectiveness than expected owing to extremely tight beam focusing and pulse repetition rate.
⁃ 4 x rapid-fire heavy plasma repeater cannons, capital-grade, Ha'tak type, megaton-range yield, 2 cycles/s.
⁃ 6 x launch tubes (lower cheek mounts) for Star Arrow Block 30 heavy missiles and Pathfinder stealthy reconnaissance drones, 6 x 18 rounds magazines. Typical mission loadout : 12 missiles and 6 recon drones per magazine. RoF : 1 launch/30 s.
⁃ 4 x surface interdiction infrared lasers, variable aperture, 125 TW, 30 KT/s continuous beam. Ventrally mounted, fixed firing window, 8° off-axis beam steering.
Turreted armament :
⁃ 98 x point defense lasers, all-round coverage, 1 cycle/s per emitter. Only the firing apertures protrude from the hull armor and are sheltered inside prismatic turrets.
⁃ 36 x heavy plasma repeater cannons, capital-grade, Ha'tak type, megaton-range yield. Arrangement : 1 on each engine nacelle, 6 x 4 ventral and dorsal (3 turret clusters on each surface), 6 individual bow turrets.
⁃ 64 x 2 light plasma repeaters (improved Deathglider type) for close-in defense, dispersed hull mounts.
Missile armament :
⁃ 40 x 24 cell rapid launch systems loaded with SM-9C space combat missiles (1200G max acceleration, 45s powered time, 35 KT dual mode warhead (focused explosive / stand-off X-ray laser).
Embarked :
⁃ 2 x 60 Mongoose drone fighters in two automated launch and storage bays (location : upper hull flanks)
⁃ 4 x assault dropships, interplanetary range, fitted to transport a full assault infantry century. Belly-located launch bay.
⁃ 2 x 5 shuttles / escape ships in two lower hull flank bays.
Protection :
Key systems (reactor and antimatter storage, main thrusters, crew quarters…) are armored in TES alloy plating (200 cm average thickness) and EKD (energy/kinetic dispersive) macromolecular weave and protected by internal emergency disruptor fields. Main hull is coated with a trinium/naquadah energy absorption layer.
Exterior hull plating varies between 260 cm and 650cm (front glacis) of laminated armor. Core hull average armor thickness : 70 cm TES, main frame bulkheads : 28 cm TES, sectional bulkheads : 14 cm TES (equivalent value against plasma weapons).
Compartmentalization is extensive throughout the ship. All non-permanently crewed spaces are kept either unpressurized or nitrogen-filled. During General Quarters conditions, normal breathing mix is replaced by a pure nitrogen one except in the hydroponics sections which are kept in a high-carbon mix atmosphere.
Surge protectors are installed throughout the ship's electrical grid. All supercapacitor banks are fitted with emergency subspace shunts to prevent damage-induced catastrophic discharge.
Dual energy shielding :
⁃ Goa'uld-type bubble shield (including protection against phased weaponry), maximum instantaneous absorption rate at 100% integrity : 4.2 GT/s before bleed-through. Shield draining rate depends of enemy weapon yield and RoF as well as power available for the shield. Instantaneous absorption rate decrease proportional to shield integrity level.
⁃ Tollan-type conformal dissipative shielding, less energy intensive and thus used as navigational shield. Protects against low-mass relativistic impacts and radiation. Provides an additional layer of defense during combat by dispersing the energy hitting the hull. Higher effectiveness against plasma and kinetic impacts.
Crew :
Normal naval crew : 3080, mixed-species, 1/3 Drakensis/Servus ratio. 8 hours shift rotation (Active duty, training/maintenance duty, rest). Commander of Strategos rank.
Drakensis crew enjoy single cabins with private or communal sanitation facilities. Servus share 4-person cabins with communal sanitation. A 50-50 gender ratio is kept across both species crew. Citizen and Serf quarters are segregated although jointly located (there are five crew quarters blocks on the ship) and serfs are allowed into Citizen quarters under supervision. All living quarters are kept under 1 gravity. Some crewed spaces are under reduced or zero gravity (fighter and shuttle bays for eg.)
In addition, a full Cohort of Citizen assault infantry is carried, with their own training and armory space located on top of the dropship bay, along with their serf technical personnel, for an additional headcount of 710 (500 Draka, 210 Servus).
Cryo-hibernation pods are provided as standard for up to 2000 personnel, to be used during long hyperspace transits and minimize life-support costs. Exceptionally they can be used to transport more people on an emergency basis.
Closed-cycle life-support can be sustained for as long as auxiliary power can be provided. Fluid consumables (water, air) can be replenished from space resources. Food supply comes from two sources :
⁃ long-term storage in frozen, vacuum-dried or canned form. Fresh resources can be processed on-board for long-term storage.
⁃ on-board production : hydroponics-raised vegetables, vat-grown meat and synthesized nutrient pastes (the latter only under emergency rationing).
On-board production can provide nutrition for the entire crew as synthetic nutrient paste for as long as auxiliary power's available (assuming no significant loss in the recycling loop). However, this regimen isn't recommended for crew morale outside of emergency conditions. Normal food autonomy : 2.5 years.
Naturally, stargate-based logistics can be used to extend that time.
Extra thought was given to the comfort of the crew during year-long missions with an extensive range of amenities available for entertainment and relaxation.
Miscellaneous equipment :
⁃ 5 x on-board machine shops and nanofabricators, can produce spare parts for 99% of subsystems. Internal layout is optimized for easy maintenance access (with extensive security measures to prevent unauthorized entry and tampering). Robotic technical remotes are used extensively for vacuum or hazardous environment repairs.
⁃ In addition, the ship's primary structural materials are self-repairing for radiation-based damage and micro-scale stress fractures.
⁃ 1 x ring transporter set, hard-locked.
⁃ 1 x stargate (salvaged) and Draka-built support and control equipment, energy and backup trinium alloy shield. The stargate can be jettisoned in space as an emergency measure.
⁃ 2 x emergency message buoys, hyper-capable.
⁃ 1 x hospital with 400 beds capacity, 3 x dispersed sickbays (3 x 50 beds). Ship is biowarfare capable.
I was heavily inspired by the good old battlestar to create this design. General shape is more like a Mercury (flat armoring, no ribbing), with Galactica-style heavy weapon turrets set in groups of 4. There are no separated flight pods though, and thus the hull's central body doesn't narrow like a battlestar's does.
The power figures are starting to border on wank, but hey that's Stargate for you. I tried to remain reasonable, yet make it clear that it's a nasty beast, built as big as needed to have a shitload of raw power and utterly rape normal Ha'taks.
Also, here's the last tech sheet (for now).
Tech Sheet
Galaxy class interstellar dreadnought
Domination of the Draka
IOC : DASC Galaxy commissioned in 2029 (keel laid in 2023, Deimos Principal shipyard)
Role/History :
Born from the same offensive doctrine as the Valhalla class of ships, the Galaxy can be seen and a larger and nastier version of the Domination's proven attack cruiser design. Incorporating incremental improvements over the cruiser's design, the increase in power mostly comes from its increased size however, as technology reached a temporary plateau after the (relatively) rapid pace of development in the 2010s. In cases such a power generation and drive engines, the "larger = more efficient" statement held especially true. Remarkably, the FTL cruise performance of the much heavier Galaxy surpassed even the Valhalla's.
Perhaps surprisingly for a vessel of this size and power, the Galaxies were first used as an exploration and raiding weapon, sent deep behind enemy lines to attack high-value targets and force the opposition to devote entire fleets to counter them, fleets that naturally weren't available to attack Domination space.
The class' size and power also meant they were a prime recipient for systems upgrades and refit during their life, modifications made easier by its modular philosophy.
Appearance and size :
Length : 3180 m
Height : 779 m
Width : 989 m
Mass, empty : 650 Mt
Mass, full load : 3,390 Mt
General shape : asymmetrical (across the horizontal axis) hexagon body cross-section with roughly equal width flat dorsal and ventral sides. Upper half of the hexagon is taller than the lower half. Front section is slightly flared and follows the hexagonal proportions as it narrows down to the bow, which contains a 19 meter high running horizontal trench separating the two horizontal halves. Recessed inside the trench and protected from any fire from above or below are the firing apertures of the spinal weaponry.
At the back, the main hull ends in a vertical cut-off, framed by the six semi-blended drive nacelles.
Primary load-bearing structure of advanced high-grade trinium alloy with CNT-matrix composite reinforcements, cermet, carbon composite and low-grade trinium alloy secondary framing and structural members.
Power and propulsion :
Power generation :
⁃ 3 x 5.4 EW (normal) - 16.7 EW (max) energium-amplified, ultradense fusion / matter annihilation reactors for main electrical and plasma generation
⁃ 23 x 700 MW solid-state long-life Nq generators for auxiliary and emergency power, distributed throughout the ship
⁃ distributed supercapacitor banks rated for a maximum charge of 53 ZJ (1 hour main reactors normal output in fusion mode)
⁃ 3 x independent energy distribution grids
Propulsion and maneuvering :
⁃ 2 x 6 combined single-axis gravity-induction / plasma-ion drives, nacelle-mounted, one set rear-facing and one front-facing. Max acceleration in GI mode : 149 G fully compensated, in combined mode : 842 G, 13-minute ramp-up time.
⁃ 38 x auxiliary single-axis GI thrusters, attitude change and docking maneuvers
⁃ 1 x inverse gravity well generator for lift-off assistance and hover capability, max -6 G
⁃ 2 x redundant hyperdrives, interstellar class, 42000 C sustained (3.8 LY or 1.5 parsec per hour), 48000 C dash for 6 hours with 18 h cool-down and overhaul period. Theoretically the Galaxy could cross the diameter of the Milky Way in 2.5 years.
The main reactor provides the extremely high instantaneous power flow needed for weapons and shield in combat and uses hydrogen and antimatter as its primary fuel. Energy released by the fusion/annihilation process is captured by the collector fields and amplified by the energium-based array to be either used immediately or stored. Normal cruise is done on fusion power with antimatter injection providing the additional power needed for combat.
Breakthroughs in ultra-dense field confinement and energium-mediated subspace amplification enabled the use of cheaper hydrogen fuel to provide the dreadnought's already considerable energy needs during normal operation. The ship's engineering department also includes the necessary machinery to convert gaseous or liquid phase hydrogen into its metastable liquid metallic form. Refueling can be done inside a gaseous giant's atmosphere.
Cooling is provided by a liquid naquadah regenerative system. Excess heat can be dumped into the six redundant subspace entropy sinks. Another, ship-wide liquid nitrogen cryogenic dual redundant circuit provides cooling for other systems.
Antimatter fuel is stored in ultra-dense form inside sealed, armored high-grade trinium containers, each equipped with an autonomous Nq power supply for its internal containment fields.
Hydrogen reaction mass and fuel is stored in ultra-dense metastable liquid metallic form in structural cells underneath the exterior armored hull. Their location provides an additional layer of protection for the ship's internals.
Sensors :
The Galaxy's sensor suite is articulated around FTL and STL systems. STL sensors include the full range of radar and electro-optical detection and tracking systems, as well as ELINT receivers and neutrino detectors. Main pursuit telescopes are 12m virtual aperture, 300-12000x magnification turreted gravity-lens models.
Active subspace scanner range : 80 AU max with resolution sufficient to map asteroid-sized objects.
Passive subspace-skein sensory array can detect high-energy interface events (such as catastrophic failure of a ship hyperdrive), hyperdrive wakes and mass shadows at light-year distances.
Communications :
STL laser and radiowave transmitters
FTL data transfer :
⁃ subspace long-range high-bandwidth Transmit/Receive system (200 LY)
⁃ quantum-entanglement transmitter, low-bandwidth, unlimited range, only works with paired stations and is used between ships and the Space Force headquarters. Due to the low data rate pre-coded short letter words are used.
Weapons :
Axially mounted long range armament :
⁃ 1 x 2 EW spinal heavy particle beam cannon, on-mount capacitor and cooling arrays. Continuous beam operation, 478 MT/s yield, 3 second beam duration. Cooling and recharge time : 80 seconds. Effective range > 1LS.
⁃ 2 x heavy X-Ray lasers, 5 meter virtual aperture, 251 TW power, 60 KT/s equivalent, effective range of several LS. RoF : 2.3 sec. Tests showed higher shield-draining effectiveness than expected owing to extremely tight beam focusing and pulse repetition rate.
⁃ 4 x rapid-fire heavy plasma repeater cannons, capital-grade, Ha'tak type, megaton-range yield, 2 cycles/s.
⁃ 6 x launch tubes (lower cheek mounts) for Star Arrow Block 30 heavy missiles and Pathfinder stealthy reconnaissance drones, 6 x 18 rounds magazines. Typical mission loadout : 12 missiles and 6 recon drones per magazine. RoF : 1 launch/30 s.
⁃ 4 x surface interdiction infrared lasers, variable aperture, 125 TW, 30 KT/s continuous beam. Ventrally mounted, fixed firing window, 8° off-axis beam steering.
Turreted armament :
⁃ 98 x point defense lasers, all-round coverage, 1 cycle/s per emitter. Only the firing apertures protrude from the hull armor and are sheltered inside prismatic turrets.
⁃ 36 x heavy plasma repeater cannons, capital-grade, Ha'tak type, megaton-range yield. Arrangement : 1 on each engine nacelle, 6 x 4 ventral and dorsal (3 turret clusters on each surface), 6 individual bow turrets.
⁃ 64 x 2 light plasma repeaters (improved Deathglider type) for close-in defense, dispersed hull mounts.
Missile armament :
⁃ 40 x 24 cell rapid launch systems loaded with SM-9C space combat missiles (1200G max acceleration, 45s powered time, 35 KT dual mode warhead (focused explosive / stand-off X-ray laser).
Embarked :
⁃ 2 x 60 Mongoose drone fighters in two automated launch and storage bays (location : upper hull flanks)
⁃ 4 x assault dropships, interplanetary range, fitted to transport a full assault infantry century. Belly-located launch bay.
⁃ 2 x 5 shuttles / escape ships in two lower hull flank bays.
Protection :
Key systems (reactor and antimatter storage, main thrusters, crew quarters…) are armored in TES alloy plating (200 cm average thickness) and EKD (energy/kinetic dispersive) macromolecular weave and protected by internal emergency disruptor fields. Main hull is coated with a trinium/naquadah energy absorption layer.
Exterior hull plating varies between 260 cm and 650cm (front glacis) of laminated armor. Core hull average armor thickness : 70 cm TES, main frame bulkheads : 28 cm TES, sectional bulkheads : 14 cm TES (equivalent value against plasma weapons).
Compartmentalization is extensive throughout the ship. All non-permanently crewed spaces are kept either unpressurized or nitrogen-filled. During General Quarters conditions, normal breathing mix is replaced by a pure nitrogen one except in the hydroponics sections which are kept in a high-carbon mix atmosphere.
Surge protectors are installed throughout the ship's electrical grid. All supercapacitor banks are fitted with emergency subspace shunts to prevent damage-induced catastrophic discharge.
Dual energy shielding :
⁃ Goa'uld-type bubble shield (including protection against phased weaponry), maximum instantaneous absorption rate at 100% integrity : 4.2 GT/s before bleed-through. Shield draining rate depends of enemy weapon yield and RoF as well as power available for the shield. Instantaneous absorption rate decrease proportional to shield integrity level.
⁃ Tollan-type conformal dissipative shielding, less energy intensive and thus used as navigational shield. Protects against low-mass relativistic impacts and radiation. Provides an additional layer of defense during combat by dispersing the energy hitting the hull. Higher effectiveness against plasma and kinetic impacts.
Crew :
Normal naval crew : 3080, mixed-species, 1/3 Drakensis/Servus ratio. 8 hours shift rotation (Active duty, training/maintenance duty, rest). Commander of Strategos rank.
Drakensis crew enjoy single cabins with private or communal sanitation facilities. Servus share 4-person cabins with communal sanitation. A 50-50 gender ratio is kept across both species crew. Citizen and Serf quarters are segregated although jointly located (there are five crew quarters blocks on the ship) and serfs are allowed into Citizen quarters under supervision. All living quarters are kept under 1 gravity. Some crewed spaces are under reduced or zero gravity (fighter and shuttle bays for eg.)
In addition, a full Cohort of Citizen assault infantry is carried, with their own training and armory space located on top of the dropship bay, along with their serf technical personnel, for an additional headcount of 710 (500 Draka, 210 Servus).
Cryo-hibernation pods are provided as standard for up to 2000 personnel, to be used during long hyperspace transits and minimize life-support costs. Exceptionally they can be used to transport more people on an emergency basis.
Closed-cycle life-support can be sustained for as long as auxiliary power can be provided. Fluid consumables (water, air) can be replenished from space resources. Food supply comes from two sources :
⁃ long-term storage in frozen, vacuum-dried or canned form. Fresh resources can be processed on-board for long-term storage.
⁃ on-board production : hydroponics-raised vegetables, vat-grown meat and synthesized nutrient pastes (the latter only under emergency rationing).
On-board production can provide nutrition for the entire crew as synthetic nutrient paste for as long as auxiliary power's available (assuming no significant loss in the recycling loop). However, this regimen isn't recommended for crew morale outside of emergency conditions. Normal food autonomy : 2.5 years.
Naturally, stargate-based logistics can be used to extend that time.
Extra thought was given to the comfort of the crew during year-long missions with an extensive range of amenities available for entertainment and relaxation.
Miscellaneous equipment :
⁃ 5 x on-board machine shops and nanofabricators, can produce spare parts for 99% of subsystems. Internal layout is optimized for easy maintenance access (with extensive security measures to prevent unauthorized entry and tampering). Robotic technical remotes are used extensively for vacuum or hazardous environment repairs.
⁃ In addition, the ship's primary structural materials are self-repairing for radiation-based damage and micro-scale stress fractures.
⁃ 1 x ring transporter set, hard-locked.
⁃ 1 x stargate (salvaged) and Draka-built support and control equipment, energy and backup trinium alloy shield. The stargate can be jettisoned in space as an emergency measure.
⁃ 2 x emergency message buoys, hyper-capable.
⁃ 1 x hospital with 400 beds capacity, 3 x dispersed sickbays (3 x 50 beds). Ship is biowarfare capable.
I was heavily inspired by the good old battlestar to create this design. General shape is more like a Mercury (flat armoring, no ribbing), with Galactica-style heavy weapon turrets set in groups of 4. There are no separated flight pods though, and thus the hull's central body doesn't narrow like a battlestar's does.
The power figures are starting to border on wank, but hey that's Stargate for you. I tried to remain reasonable, yet make it clear that it's a nasty beast, built as big as needed to have a shitload of raw power and utterly rape normal Ha'taks.
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Sky Captain
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1267
- Joined: 2008-11-14 12:47pm
- Location: Latvia
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Hmm... now I think term pretty impressive space forces was serious understatment 
Monstrous space forces would be more appropriate 
I see no way for New America people to overthrow Draka. They have limited numbers limited industrial base while Draka soon will be galactic scale power. Any tech advantage the ancient station provided will soon be gone anyway.
Monstrous space forces would be more appropriate I see no way for New America people to overthrow Draka. They have limited numbers limited industrial base while Draka soon will be galactic scale power. Any tech advantage the ancient station provided will soon be gone anyway.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Baal’s domain
Unregistered system
The Tel’tak shuddered out of hyperspace right on the precise instant calculated by its navigation logic in order to reappear in real space precisely where it was supposed to, that is a few thousand kilometers from a dark and unremarkable rock floating in orbit around an equally unremarkable giant ball of gas. Unremarkable in the sense that it was one among billions in the galaxy, naturally. Seen through the small transport’s viewport, it still made a majectic sight of orange-red swirls and eddies and clouds that were the size of continents despite their apparent scale.
Jack O’Neill found himself looking for the Great Red Spot, and found a couple small ones on the illuminated side of the planet’s terminator line. Well, it wasn’t Jupiter for sure. The holographic projection that sprung up distracted him, highlighting a region of black emptiness outside.
“There’s our destination” Selmak commented for the Earther’s benefit, but kept his attention fixated on the visual interface. A second later, the field of view shifted minutely as the spacecraft adjusted its course.
“I can’t see anything” O’Neill complained.
“Because it’s currently in the planet’s shadow. Don’t worry we’ll be there in a couple minutes, there’s no atmosphere here to limit our acceleration.”
A nod answered. There was no telling what the ship’s exact performance was since everything was labelled in those pseudo-egyptian glyphs he couldn’t understand, but what he could see was already head-turning. Not least because it actually travelled faster than light and was smaller than one of the New America’s transorbital shuttles.
More comfortable as well. It did have internal gravity and a recognizable, fully functional bathroom, albeit some specific details were not arranged in a way familiar to an Earth-born user. In any case, he was refreshed and dressed again in his Alliance uniform, having verified that the built-in perscomp and communicator was still functional.
And he wasn’t naked any more. Thinking back on what Selmak had told him of the Tok’ra, and the way they apparently moved host without necessarily keeping to the same gender, the whole thing was just a little bit too queer for comfort. Not that his present companion had exhibited any sign of un-professional behavior, but still.
A few minutes went by in silence, and eventually the ship’s destination became visible to the naked eye. It was dark, almost invisible, blotting out the stars as it grew ever larger until it filled the viewscreen. It was notoriously hard to get a sense of scale in space, but that rock had to span tens of kilometers across, which was a piddly distance in astronomical terms but still imposing when viewed from up-close, and the overall darkness blurring the limits made it look even more looming, almost foreboding.
The holoplot had switched to a close mapping grid and the ship was creeping towards a golden dot which marked the end of its course. A final glide and it was there, and the field of view swung around as the Tel’tak realigned itself so that its belly faced the rock’s surface.
Selmak put the ship on station-keeping mode and rose from his chair.
“There we are. Come with me.”
The blinding white light dissipated and O’Neill caught the same set of floating horizontal rings flying down to the floor where they disappeared from sight. He didn’t feel anything - maybe a minute prickling, but he wasn’t sure. It might be his mind inventing things.
The teleporter - for that’s what it was - had deposited both men in the middle of a low-ceiling circular room, and a remarkable room it was, as if carved from a forest of blue-purple crystal. The walls were crystalline, the floor, the ceiling - everything made of some extruded, transluscent, glittering crystal-like material, like some geological wonder. The surface was smooth though instead of the jagged surface he’d have expected, and offered no tricky steps to stumble and trip on despite the diffracted light playing tricks in the material’s thickness.
There was an opening in the wall leading to a corridor.
“This way.” O’Neill followed the Tok’ra operative, glancing and gaping at the peculiar environment. “So we’re inside that asteroid, huh ?” Selmak nodded without slowing. “Some kind of secret base of yours ?” This time Selmak looked back. “Something like that.”
The tunnel led to another room and unlike the first, this one was filled with containers and random-looking objects. On one of the walls a rack held various weapons, all of them apparently belonging to different types and even worlds. Some of them looked like Eurasian War era rifles, stamped metal and wooden grips, yet on closer inspection they didn’t belong to Earth’s history at all. Others were made of obviously synthetic materials, polymers and crystals and sleek alloys, and some looked absolutely terrible as practical weapons.
O’Neill pointed at the most unergonomic-looking one, a cross between a handheld shower head and a pistol, except the grip angle was all wrong for accuracy and there was absolutely no visible sight. “What’s this ?”
Selmak spared a side glance and replied without a further look. “A phase pistol, built by the long-gone United Planets Federation. An antique, I think it’s about three centuries old. Of course, I never used it, even the Jaffas’ staff weapon’s better designed” he ended in a contemptuous tone.
“What happened to that Federation ? Who were they ?” the Earther went on, his curiosity too strong to contain.
The Tok’ra froze mid-motion over an opened chest, appearing to think about it.
“I never dealt directly with them, but from what I learnt they were a multi-planet political entity, hence the name, populated by humans like you as well as a number of humanoid, alien species. They had interstellar travel capability, obviously, and one day they met Sokar, one of the System Lords” He paused, eyes unfocused. “They were a well-meaning, if naïve people, and they tried to negotiate with Sokar.” A sharp laugh escaped Selmak’s lips. “The fools ! Sokar didn’t negotiate, of course. He disabled the Federation ship and sent his Jaffas to board it. They slaughtered the remaining crew and Sokar found the location of the Federation worlds inside the computers.”
“Sounds like they had terrible infosec” the OSS agent commented.
“As I said, they were a naïve and pacifistic people. Although possessing commendably advanced technology, their use of it was not optimal especially when it came to war.”
“I take it they paid dearly for that.”
“Yes. Sokar destroyed their remaining fleet and laid waste to their worlds, not bothering to enslave them as they were too advanced to believe the Goa’ulds’ delusions of godhood.” His voice took a faint tinge of melancholy. “Now this antique might be all that remains of their civilization” he finished, returning to his search.
O’Neill found himself digesting the information. Knowing the fate of the Feddies didn’t exactly fill him with optimism.
He looked around, unable to shrug off a feeling of helplessness. Here he was in an alien spy’s secret den, facing the forces of an interstellar tyrant, cut off from his own people who were probably now fighting for their lives against his invading minions. And Samantha Carter, prisoner inside her own mind, a puppet forced to accomplish shameful acts against her will. And his, although in other circumstances he might well have repeated those acts willingly. Considering the events of the past months and the succession of mind-shattering discoveries they represented, there was even a good excuse to just freak out and yell obscenities at the universe. And maybe he’d do that later, too, but for the time being he was on a mission. A desperate-looking one, sure, but it still focused his mind on something worthwhile.
Selmak’s rummaging eventually produced a metallic sphere, etched in elegant curvy motifs and a little larger than a baseball in size. Holding it on his outstretched palm, he mentally sent a command and the long range communicator activated.
“Whoa !” a surprised O’Neill blurted out. A holographic projection had just sprung above the sphere, at first a white emptiness until a few seconds later, when the destination device sent back its own captured image from a thousand light years away.
A disembodied woman’s head floated inside the holopicture, hair black and falling behind the shoulders, a mature face, attractive in a severe way, eyes steady and penetrative. The look of an experienced leader. Upon recognizing her caller she raised her brow and addressed him in Goa’uld.
“Selmak ! I hope you have a good reason to break the comm silence. What happened to your mission ?”
Selmak shot a “now be quiet and let me talk” glance at the Earther and then answered the floating head, switching to the Goa’uld tongue as well.
“Executive Garshaw. There has been an unexpected development…” an abridged explanation of the last days followed “...the perspective of Baal acquiring a large intact and functioning Ancient installation seemed to justify breaking my cover and acting to prevent it.”
“I see. Your reasoning seems valid indeed, this is an extraordinary situation and something has to be done. We cannot allow Baal, or any other System Lord, to capture such an incredible find. Who knows what kind of technology lies inside this station ? One Anubis is more than enough !”
Selmak nodded gravely. Despite the lack of conclusive proof it was widely believed among both Goa’uld and Tok’ra that Anubis’ recent and successful comeback was due to his finding previously unknown artefacts of the Gate-Builders.
“Do you think it’s another Dakara ?”
Garshaw shook her head indecisively.
“We never knew what exactly was on Dakara, except that Anubis wanted it and wanted it very badly. We managed to manipulate the Coalition to destroy that mountain and everything inside out of fear. But this is different. An intact Gatebuilder station is something the System Lords will try to capture, not destroy.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, Selmak, you’re the only asset we have in position to do something about it. Baal’s domain always proved most difficult to infiltrate successfully.”
The male Tok’ra nodded again. “There is the problem of the humans there.”
“They’re unfortunate” Garshaw’s expression was controlled and determined “but it is paramount that neither Baal nor any other Goa’uld ends up in control of that station. Everything else is secondary : if there is no other choice but to destroy it entirely, then do it, is that clear ?”
“Clear, Executive.” The operative’s voice didn’t waver and he met his superior’s gaze levelly. “Mission goes first.”
Garshaw’s head bowed fractionally in response, and then the holographic link was cut.
The communicator went back into the chest, and Selmak answered his companion’s worldless interrogation even as he began to gather various objects in the room.
“I checked in with my superiors. I have, as you say…” he paused, fumbling with the foreign, unfamiliar expression “carte blanche to prevent Baal from taking control of Freedom Station.”
“Does that mean you’re going to blow it up before he gets it ?” O’Neill interjected, arms crossed on his chest. Selmak froze an instant, then decided to answer honestly and met the Earther’s stare.
“Yes. If it’s the only way.” His judgment of O’Neill proved accurate.
“I understand. I’d do the same as well, but-” the Major stammered out the last part “I’ll do everything I can to save my people first. Are we clear on that ?”
“Very clear, Major O’Neill. It is my hope too that we can save them… but long experience taught me not to expect any miracle.”
“Well, Mister Selmak, I might not be as old as you are, but I’ve seen strange enough things in my days.”
Freedom Station
Samothrace System
There was a sick feeling in General Lefarge’s stomach as he watched the surveillance feed. The invaders were barely slowed by resistance - in fact, the sheer distances involved in penetrating the vast construct had had more effect than the Marines’ sacrifice. There seemed to be no end in sight to the number of mail-clad warriors advancing down the passages and living spaces of the besieged colony and the last hour had seen the defense collapse under the pressure. There were literally not enough defenders left to mount a resistance outside a few ultimate fall-back points near the station’s heart and the Control Center it contained like a seed inside an apples’ core. Maybe if they’d done this right at the beginning of the attack, regrouping in the center inside of trying to hold them off at the periphery, a forlorn hope…
It was too late in any case. And above all, Samantha Carter’s treason had made a bad situation worse. There was no use speculating how she’d been subverted, what kind of brainwashing she had undergone to exhibit behavior so unlike hers. Watching the few glimpses of her new character on the video feeds, it felt like watching an entirely different person, only sharing a superficial likeness to the former. The face was the same under the garish make-up, younger looking somehow, but the features were arranged in a different set of expressions, more… ruthless, cruel, dominating, reveling in the carnage and suffering happening around her. A Snake’s face, as impossible as it seemed.
The Alliance leader had briefly wondered about it. Had the Drakas something to do with this, somehow ? He’d quashed the thought soon enough, those new enemies might behave somewhat like the Snakes, but everything else was different. The uniforms, the weapons, even the language. Those warriors were not Janissaries for sure, not unless their masters had taken to tattooing their foreheads instead of their necks. Besides, neither Kheshmet nor “Lord Baal” were Draka names. It was something else entirely, another enemy a wicked universe had sprung onto the refugees.
Frederick Lefarge wasn’t a very religious man despite his upbringing. Working for the OSS tended to instill a heavy dose of skepticism and pessimism into one’s worldview. And right now he really, really wanted to scream “fuck you !” at God’s face, if the bastard was even bothering to look.
Instead his hands gripped the handles of the command chair, the one overlooking the Control Center and its rows of consoles with the panoramic holowall surrounding everything. The stars were still shining steadily, the planet below half illuminated by the distant star’s light, completely oblivious to the mortal struggle going on inside the bubble of livable atmosphere hanging alone in space’s cold embrace.
At times he’d felt something he couldn’t exactly qualify - he wasn’t even sure it was not his own overstressed mind playing tricks - the best he could tell was like a faint echo inside his brain, as if he was shouting down a deep canyon and seconds later the sound of his voice, his mind-voice, came back distorted and foreign. As if something was there, hovering at the edge of his consciousness, awaiting to answer the right call, yet he couldn’t put his finger on it. A ghost of thought. He shook his head. Vague impressions and illusions didn’t help.
At the other side of the link, down in the brightly lit several story high corridor-streets of the station’s inner habitat ring, Kheshmet walked with supple fluidity towards the central plaza, Jaffas around her with their helmets deployed, weapons trained outwards even though the area was secured by three hundred of their comrades, most of them in overlooking positions among the cascading terraces and balconies, scanning the wide amphitheater-like village for threats.
Not that such were to be expected. The entire section had been surrounded and cut off two hours ago by Jaffa vanguards, leaving no escape route to the trapped souls inside. Few men, most of them women, teenagers and children who had believed they were safely tucked inside, having sealed the gates and raised a few pithy barricades behind those. The following assault was quick and brutal. Barricades manned by mostly unarmed civilians did not hold Kheshmet’s warriors for longer than a minute. A few defenders had died right there and then, and after that resistance had collapsed utterly along with the need to kill.
“My Lady” a tall warrior saluted, fist over heart, when Kheshmet entered the plaza “we have secured this area and gathered the captives. My warriors are ready to push forward as soon as follow-up troops can relieve us from guard duty !”
The Goa’uld inside Samantha Carter’s body returned the salute. She had no obligation to do so - Jaffas were inferiors - but it was good practice for a field commander, and these warriors had done well, as expected from an elite legion. She let her gaze linger on the Jaffa facing her - strong features, square jaws expressing resolution and devotion to duty, short cropped black hair, skin tanned by multiple planetary campaigns - and the small honorary insignas on his chest. An experienced man, century old certainly, a veteran of many wars, having survived them as well pointed to both luck and skill. One of the Guard’s best sub-unit commanders. Kheshmet delved into her deep memory, putting a name on the face.
“Kejar of Ladnarn” she replied, noting the way he reacted with pride at her recalling his name “you have fought well again. Lord Baal will be pleased. Now, show me those captives.”
“My Lady, follow me.” He turned aside and shouted at a group of warriors hovering nearby. “Jaffa, Kree !” They fell into a vanguard formation, preceding the officer and the Goa’uld commander as they strode forward into the habitat’s lower sections, glancing at the towering support pillars and animated walls, keeping any wonderment they could experience at the display of divine magic for themselves.
They rounded another sculpted framework - an elaborate succession of vertical cascades and water collectors, still bare instead of overfilling with aquatic greenery and flowers as intended. They stood on the lowest terrace, directly overlooking the bottom-most floor and its wide central pool filled with crystalline water and a handful of growing water-lillies providing a few scattered patches of green. The entire level was supposed to function as a collecting point for the ornamental waterworks running throughout the whole habitat, as well as handle an accidental overfill. As a result there was no level access. The only ways down were shallow stairs, although overhanging gangways and platforms allowed audacious minds to plunge down into the pool if they wanted. Now those were supporting Jaffa guards, staves pointed down at the poolsides where the captured civilians huddled and pressed together on the soft plastic beach, unconsciously wanting to put the most distance between themselves and the watching guards.
There were more than a few gasps and muffled exclamations of surprise when the prisoners spotted the familiar-yet-different face of Samantha Carter. Murmurs ran low, questioning, wondering. Kheshmet watched in glee, savouring the scent of fear and unease coming from the thousands of human cattle huddling below.
She made her eyes flash, and spoke loud and clear, her deep Goa’uld voice seamlessly amplified by the collar she wore.
“Kneel, humans, for you belong now to Lord Baal, King of Kings, God of Gods, Master of all Living Souls !”
Incredulous words and expressions answered her statement. Anger now, curses and insults rising from the cattle. She laughed inwardly at the scattered “snake !” epithets muttered or outright shouted at her. The involuntary confusion was highly entertaining to her, possessing the corresponding memories of Major Carter. Yet defiance had to be crushed. And as always she was going to take pleasure in doing so.
“SILENCE !” the word boomed across the cathedral-sized space. She pointed to one of the most vocal dissenters, a male teenager (as such often were) whose eyes flashed defiance almost as brightly as a Goa’uld glare, and made an imperious gesture with her hand. “Jaffa, Kree !”
Answering her call, a squad of warriors strode down to the human mass and then opened a way in the most brutal manner, using steel-shod boots and staff butts to smash heads and bodies aside, parting the sea of captives like a boat and leaving a wake of bruised and bleeding limbs behind them. Their target tried to flee as they came, clawing at the flesh in his haste to escape - hopelessly. The guards watching from above wouldn’t have allowed it even if the ones below hadn’t caught up, the looming threat and the immediate brutality breaking any idea of resistance before it could even take hold.
The young man was grabbed by the arms and collar, hauled up and dragged away despite his flailing and screaming, and dropped again like a sack of meat near the bottom of the stairs closest to Kheshmet even as more Jaffas established a cordon outside, keeping the first rank of captives away.
Silence fell, only broken by scattered gasps and sobs, and the Goa’uld slowly descended the flight of stairs, savouring each step down, a wicked smile on her lips.
“Hmmm” she purred, stopping in front of the group. She met the black-haired teenager’s gaze, noting how it kept flicking down to her chest and below, his imagination running wild even though the form-fitting garment left little to it. She traced a finger down his jaw. Strong already yet delicate and smooth like a child’s. He didn’t flinch. That took some spirit, she thought. “Manuel, yes ? I remember your name. Your father was a soldier, I think… no ?” she asked seductively, keeping her eyes locked with his brown ones.
“My father’s a Marine and he’s going to kick your butt, you bitch !” the youngster spat back with teenage scorn, shaking the grip of his Jaffa captors.
Slap ! The backhand strike cut through the air and left a red mark on Manuel’s cheek.
“Fool ! Your father is dead, as is everyone who fought us on this station !” Kheshmet’s reply was stone-cold. “His death was honorable at least. Yours won’t !” she hissed, then snapped an order. “Jaffa ! Hold him !”
The pair of warriors kept a strong grip on the boy as their female overlord collar-handled him over the pool’s edge. She felt him tense again, putting all his youthful strength into resisting her pressure - not enough, it only made it so much more enjoyable as she forced his face down under the water’s surface. She held him there for a minute, sensing his struggle to break above and breath, and pulled up. Sputters, then a single ragged, deep inspiration before he went down again. The struggle resumed, bubbles streaming to the agitated surface, and she held him longer before pulling again. She repeated the process a third, then a fourth time, each time longer, each time the struggling growing weaker, the boy’s strength drowning away. A desperate scream rose from the crowd, a female one.
“Stop, please, stop, kill me instead, leave my boy alone !”
A woman had risen out of the squatting, cowering mass of prisoners, and she was weaving her way towards Kheshmet’s group a hundred paces away, placing her steps by instinct over the rest of the bodies as she kept her gaze imploringly fixed in the aliens’ direction. She traced a crying line through the shell-shocked flesh, begging for clemency all along until she threw herself down on her knees behind the Jaffa cordon, prostrating herself supplicatingly in the space vacated by her companions of infortune, recoiling from her as though she was doomed already and touching her would doom them as well.
“Please, lady” she raised her face, flushed and wet from her crying “please kill me instead don’t kill my sonny please let me do anything for you -”
“Will you ?”
Kheshmet stared at the mother, keeping the son’s face a millimeter above the water as he made retching sounds. Vomit splurged from his mouth, spoiling the purity of the pool.
The supplicant woman nodded nervously. “I’ll kill myself if you want to, just, just please don’t kill my Manuel” she spluttered out under the Goa’uld’s coldly calculating gaze.
“Jaffa ! Let her pass.” The warriors opened a gap as instructed. Kheshmet switched to English.
“Come” she snapped out at the woman, emphasizing the order with a curt shake of her head.
“Stand” the mother did so and Kheshmet walked closer, leaving the young man in the Jaffas’ grip. A silent mutual examination followed, apprehensive and fearful on one side, slyly, wickedly amused on the other. The woman was slightly shorter than Samantha Carter, brunette and brown-eyed, her skin complexion and delicate features showing her Hispanic heritage, trembling in her grey civilian overalls. She was somewhat familiar in Carter’s memories. Time spent in various social circles during the New America project, back in the Solar System - we’ll need to check this place too, the symbiote thought - had produced some mutual recognition and Kheshmet’s enhanced memory recall produced a name as well.
“Cristina Brackman” she detached each syllable as if they were rare delicacies, her voice back to her host’s natural one. “I remember your delicious crab cakes.” Souvenirs from a habitat party on Ceres. Cristina’s gaze turned incredulous at the turn of conversation, before it became more personal.
“You certainly have a pleasant physique too, for the mother of a sixteen year old child. Strip.”
“What ?” disbelief colored the woman’s voice at the preposterous request.
“Strip ! Or -” Kheshmet gestured back, letting the threat loom in the air. Cristina’s eyes widened at once, flicking to her son’s prone form.
“Mom…” he whined out, saliva dribbling down the side of his mouth.
“Don’t look, don’t say anything Manuel, please be strong for me !” she tried to put some strength and encouragement in her tone even as her heart beat faster, her skin flushed from anticipated shame. She waited until her son averted his face from her incoming humiliation, and then unzipped the jacket enblazoned with the New America’s crest, uncovering the white brassiere underneath. A practical one, designed for support and comfort rather than looks like a sports bra, it covered most of her chest. She felt the gazes of her fellow captives on her back as well as the Jaffas’, leering behind their stony masks. Carter, no, Kheshmet was drinking the sight, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted. It felt perverse, sinful. Whoever this being was was a Godless deviant, as shameless as the Draka themselves. But there was nothing a mother wouldn’t do to save her child.
Cristina went on, unstrapping her bra, her mind blank, going through the gestures like an automaton, eyes fixed forward vacantly. She barely remarked the other woman biting her lip in appreciation. Behind her, her fellow New Americans averted their eyes, respectful of her ordeal save a few teenagers who stole ogling glances.
Trousers and panties followed jacket and bra on the discarded pile and Cristina Brackman stood straight and naked, her arms dangling along her sides, making no effort at hiding her nudity. She was expecting to be raped - growing up on the same planet as the Domination of the Draka at least made a woman passingly familiar with the idea. How many of those not-Janissaries would plow her was the only unknown part, she figured.
She didn’t quite expect the crimson-clad female to close the gap between them in one stride, one hand closing around her right breast while the other wormed its way between her thighs. The wife - now a widow - straightened under the touch, rejecting it by instinct and decency. It wasn’t right, wasn’t right at least those soldiers were men but this - her half-strangled cry of surprised disgust was snuffed out by the mouth closing on hers and the tongue probing out, tasting her obscenely - a perverted mirror image of the other body intrusion taking place down below. Cristina’s intimate muscles clenched automatically against the finger pushing up and Kheshmet cursed. It wasn’t so much the resistance - that was expected - than the utter lack of reaction to her touch. Her tongue felt like exploring a dead, inert mouth and the dryness below didn’t change. The naked woman was inert save for her reflexive squeeze, dry and inert. Frigid against the Goa’uld commander’s expert assault. That was a worse insult.
“Bitch” Kheshmet hissed, recoiling from the uncooperative woman. “Enjoy seeing your son die !”
She glanced back and made a cutting gesture with her left hand, even as her right swung up, the golden device on her palm flashing into life. A bright glow speared down from her elevated palm to the brunette’s forehead, and her body reacted to the excruciating pain tearing through her limbs, eyes bulging open, falling on her knees with her strength sapped dry, head paralyzed, upturned, receiving the full wrath of the Goa’uld above her. Shivering, convulsing, yet unable to move out of the agonizing beam, eyes rolled upwards showing their whites, face contorted in terror and pain, mouth open and dribbling on her chin, caught under the spell of the pulsating light spearing her brain.
In fact, she didn’t see the Jaffa’s blade sliding under Manuel’s throat, and the pulsing jets of blood reddening the water below until the beam vanished, cut at the source, and a thin thread of consciousness reclaimed her mind, battling the aftershock and the dying waves of pain cutting her nerves open down their length.
“NOOOOOOOO !” the scream coming from her mouth was ragged-sounding, and her eyes went from the sight of her dying son’s last convulsions to the coldly satisfied face above her, anguish and hate competing among the tears.
“Now” Kheshmet turned to face Kejar who was still standing a few paces away, watching the cowed crowd of captives with a close expression. “Rape her !”
The Jaffa’s stone mask barely cracked, an eyebrow rising higher than the other. “My Lady ? I am a warrior, and there are still living enemies…” he put all the respect he could muster into the suggestion. He was longing for combat, for honorable battle. Rape, while occasionally pleasant, wasn’t something to do when the battlefield was still contested. And the display had left a sour taste in his mouth. There had been no need to draw out the execution, and his clan valued family enough that he took no pleasure in watching a mother lose her unique son. Even rebels and heretics, he was persuaded, deserved a measure of compassion, a clean death at least. Fortunately the sound of footsteps, hundreds of footsteps clanging on the hard floor as more Jaffas poured into the open spaces, saved him from having to abuse the female captive himself.
“Then the relief unit will have their way with those cattle” his commander snapped out impatiently. “I’ll lead the final assault personally. Kejar, assemble the rest of your warriors. The prize is near !”
Unregistered system
The Tel’tak shuddered out of hyperspace right on the precise instant calculated by its navigation logic in order to reappear in real space precisely where it was supposed to, that is a few thousand kilometers from a dark and unremarkable rock floating in orbit around an equally unremarkable giant ball of gas. Unremarkable in the sense that it was one among billions in the galaxy, naturally. Seen through the small transport’s viewport, it still made a majectic sight of orange-red swirls and eddies and clouds that were the size of continents despite their apparent scale.
Jack O’Neill found himself looking for the Great Red Spot, and found a couple small ones on the illuminated side of the planet’s terminator line. Well, it wasn’t Jupiter for sure. The holographic projection that sprung up distracted him, highlighting a region of black emptiness outside.
“There’s our destination” Selmak commented for the Earther’s benefit, but kept his attention fixated on the visual interface. A second later, the field of view shifted minutely as the spacecraft adjusted its course.
“I can’t see anything” O’Neill complained.
“Because it’s currently in the planet’s shadow. Don’t worry we’ll be there in a couple minutes, there’s no atmosphere here to limit our acceleration.”
A nod answered. There was no telling what the ship’s exact performance was since everything was labelled in those pseudo-egyptian glyphs he couldn’t understand, but what he could see was already head-turning. Not least because it actually travelled faster than light and was smaller than one of the New America’s transorbital shuttles.
More comfortable as well. It did have internal gravity and a recognizable, fully functional bathroom, albeit some specific details were not arranged in a way familiar to an Earth-born user. In any case, he was refreshed and dressed again in his Alliance uniform, having verified that the built-in perscomp and communicator was still functional.
And he wasn’t naked any more. Thinking back on what Selmak had told him of the Tok’ra, and the way they apparently moved host without necessarily keeping to the same gender, the whole thing was just a little bit too queer for comfort. Not that his present companion had exhibited any sign of un-professional behavior, but still.
A few minutes went by in silence, and eventually the ship’s destination became visible to the naked eye. It was dark, almost invisible, blotting out the stars as it grew ever larger until it filled the viewscreen. It was notoriously hard to get a sense of scale in space, but that rock had to span tens of kilometers across, which was a piddly distance in astronomical terms but still imposing when viewed from up-close, and the overall darkness blurring the limits made it look even more looming, almost foreboding.
The holoplot had switched to a close mapping grid and the ship was creeping towards a golden dot which marked the end of its course. A final glide and it was there, and the field of view swung around as the Tel’tak realigned itself so that its belly faced the rock’s surface.
Selmak put the ship on station-keeping mode and rose from his chair.
“There we are. Come with me.”
The blinding white light dissipated and O’Neill caught the same set of floating horizontal rings flying down to the floor where they disappeared from sight. He didn’t feel anything - maybe a minute prickling, but he wasn’t sure. It might be his mind inventing things.
The teleporter - for that’s what it was - had deposited both men in the middle of a low-ceiling circular room, and a remarkable room it was, as if carved from a forest of blue-purple crystal. The walls were crystalline, the floor, the ceiling - everything made of some extruded, transluscent, glittering crystal-like material, like some geological wonder. The surface was smooth though instead of the jagged surface he’d have expected, and offered no tricky steps to stumble and trip on despite the diffracted light playing tricks in the material’s thickness.
There was an opening in the wall leading to a corridor.
“This way.” O’Neill followed the Tok’ra operative, glancing and gaping at the peculiar environment. “So we’re inside that asteroid, huh ?” Selmak nodded without slowing. “Some kind of secret base of yours ?” This time Selmak looked back. “Something like that.”
The tunnel led to another room and unlike the first, this one was filled with containers and random-looking objects. On one of the walls a rack held various weapons, all of them apparently belonging to different types and even worlds. Some of them looked like Eurasian War era rifles, stamped metal and wooden grips, yet on closer inspection they didn’t belong to Earth’s history at all. Others were made of obviously synthetic materials, polymers and crystals and sleek alloys, and some looked absolutely terrible as practical weapons.
O’Neill pointed at the most unergonomic-looking one, a cross between a handheld shower head and a pistol, except the grip angle was all wrong for accuracy and there was absolutely no visible sight. “What’s this ?”
Selmak spared a side glance and replied without a further look. “A phase pistol, built by the long-gone United Planets Federation. An antique, I think it’s about three centuries old. Of course, I never used it, even the Jaffas’ staff weapon’s better designed” he ended in a contemptuous tone.
“What happened to that Federation ? Who were they ?” the Earther went on, his curiosity too strong to contain.
The Tok’ra froze mid-motion over an opened chest, appearing to think about it.
“I never dealt directly with them, but from what I learnt they were a multi-planet political entity, hence the name, populated by humans like you as well as a number of humanoid, alien species. They had interstellar travel capability, obviously, and one day they met Sokar, one of the System Lords” He paused, eyes unfocused. “They were a well-meaning, if naïve people, and they tried to negotiate with Sokar.” A sharp laugh escaped Selmak’s lips. “The fools ! Sokar didn’t negotiate, of course. He disabled the Federation ship and sent his Jaffas to board it. They slaughtered the remaining crew and Sokar found the location of the Federation worlds inside the computers.”
“Sounds like they had terrible infosec” the OSS agent commented.
“As I said, they were a naïve and pacifistic people. Although possessing commendably advanced technology, their use of it was not optimal especially when it came to war.”
“I take it they paid dearly for that.”
“Yes. Sokar destroyed their remaining fleet and laid waste to their worlds, not bothering to enslave them as they were too advanced to believe the Goa’ulds’ delusions of godhood.” His voice took a faint tinge of melancholy. “Now this antique might be all that remains of their civilization” he finished, returning to his search.
O’Neill found himself digesting the information. Knowing the fate of the Feddies didn’t exactly fill him with optimism.
He looked around, unable to shrug off a feeling of helplessness. Here he was in an alien spy’s secret den, facing the forces of an interstellar tyrant, cut off from his own people who were probably now fighting for their lives against his invading minions. And Samantha Carter, prisoner inside her own mind, a puppet forced to accomplish shameful acts against her will. And his, although in other circumstances he might well have repeated those acts willingly. Considering the events of the past months and the succession of mind-shattering discoveries they represented, there was even a good excuse to just freak out and yell obscenities at the universe. And maybe he’d do that later, too, but for the time being he was on a mission. A desperate-looking one, sure, but it still focused his mind on something worthwhile.
Selmak’s rummaging eventually produced a metallic sphere, etched in elegant curvy motifs and a little larger than a baseball in size. Holding it on his outstretched palm, he mentally sent a command and the long range communicator activated.
“Whoa !” a surprised O’Neill blurted out. A holographic projection had just sprung above the sphere, at first a white emptiness until a few seconds later, when the destination device sent back its own captured image from a thousand light years away.
A disembodied woman’s head floated inside the holopicture, hair black and falling behind the shoulders, a mature face, attractive in a severe way, eyes steady and penetrative. The look of an experienced leader. Upon recognizing her caller she raised her brow and addressed him in Goa’uld.
“Selmak ! I hope you have a good reason to break the comm silence. What happened to your mission ?”
Selmak shot a “now be quiet and let me talk” glance at the Earther and then answered the floating head, switching to the Goa’uld tongue as well.
“Executive Garshaw. There has been an unexpected development…” an abridged explanation of the last days followed “...the perspective of Baal acquiring a large intact and functioning Ancient installation seemed to justify breaking my cover and acting to prevent it.”
“I see. Your reasoning seems valid indeed, this is an extraordinary situation and something has to be done. We cannot allow Baal, or any other System Lord, to capture such an incredible find. Who knows what kind of technology lies inside this station ? One Anubis is more than enough !”
Selmak nodded gravely. Despite the lack of conclusive proof it was widely believed among both Goa’uld and Tok’ra that Anubis’ recent and successful comeback was due to his finding previously unknown artefacts of the Gate-Builders.
“Do you think it’s another Dakara ?”
Garshaw shook her head indecisively.
“We never knew what exactly was on Dakara, except that Anubis wanted it and wanted it very badly. We managed to manipulate the Coalition to destroy that mountain and everything inside out of fear. But this is different. An intact Gatebuilder station is something the System Lords will try to capture, not destroy.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, Selmak, you’re the only asset we have in position to do something about it. Baal’s domain always proved most difficult to infiltrate successfully.”
The male Tok’ra nodded again. “There is the problem of the humans there.”
“They’re unfortunate” Garshaw’s expression was controlled and determined “but it is paramount that neither Baal nor any other Goa’uld ends up in control of that station. Everything else is secondary : if there is no other choice but to destroy it entirely, then do it, is that clear ?”
“Clear, Executive.” The operative’s voice didn’t waver and he met his superior’s gaze levelly. “Mission goes first.”
Garshaw’s head bowed fractionally in response, and then the holographic link was cut.
The communicator went back into the chest, and Selmak answered his companion’s worldless interrogation even as he began to gather various objects in the room.
“I checked in with my superiors. I have, as you say…” he paused, fumbling with the foreign, unfamiliar expression “carte blanche to prevent Baal from taking control of Freedom Station.”
“Does that mean you’re going to blow it up before he gets it ?” O’Neill interjected, arms crossed on his chest. Selmak froze an instant, then decided to answer honestly and met the Earther’s stare.
“Yes. If it’s the only way.” His judgment of O’Neill proved accurate.
“I understand. I’d do the same as well, but-” the Major stammered out the last part “I’ll do everything I can to save my people first. Are we clear on that ?”
“Very clear, Major O’Neill. It is my hope too that we can save them… but long experience taught me not to expect any miracle.”
“Well, Mister Selmak, I might not be as old as you are, but I’ve seen strange enough things in my days.”
Freedom Station
Samothrace System
There was a sick feeling in General Lefarge’s stomach as he watched the surveillance feed. The invaders were barely slowed by resistance - in fact, the sheer distances involved in penetrating the vast construct had had more effect than the Marines’ sacrifice. There seemed to be no end in sight to the number of mail-clad warriors advancing down the passages and living spaces of the besieged colony and the last hour had seen the defense collapse under the pressure. There were literally not enough defenders left to mount a resistance outside a few ultimate fall-back points near the station’s heart and the Control Center it contained like a seed inside an apples’ core. Maybe if they’d done this right at the beginning of the attack, regrouping in the center inside of trying to hold them off at the periphery, a forlorn hope…
It was too late in any case. And above all, Samantha Carter’s treason had made a bad situation worse. There was no use speculating how she’d been subverted, what kind of brainwashing she had undergone to exhibit behavior so unlike hers. Watching the few glimpses of her new character on the video feeds, it felt like watching an entirely different person, only sharing a superficial likeness to the former. The face was the same under the garish make-up, younger looking somehow, but the features were arranged in a different set of expressions, more… ruthless, cruel, dominating, reveling in the carnage and suffering happening around her. A Snake’s face, as impossible as it seemed.
The Alliance leader had briefly wondered about it. Had the Drakas something to do with this, somehow ? He’d quashed the thought soon enough, those new enemies might behave somewhat like the Snakes, but everything else was different. The uniforms, the weapons, even the language. Those warriors were not Janissaries for sure, not unless their masters had taken to tattooing their foreheads instead of their necks. Besides, neither Kheshmet nor “Lord Baal” were Draka names. It was something else entirely, another enemy a wicked universe had sprung onto the refugees.
Frederick Lefarge wasn’t a very religious man despite his upbringing. Working for the OSS tended to instill a heavy dose of skepticism and pessimism into one’s worldview. And right now he really, really wanted to scream “fuck you !” at God’s face, if the bastard was even bothering to look.
Instead his hands gripped the handles of the command chair, the one overlooking the Control Center and its rows of consoles with the panoramic holowall surrounding everything. The stars were still shining steadily, the planet below half illuminated by the distant star’s light, completely oblivious to the mortal struggle going on inside the bubble of livable atmosphere hanging alone in space’s cold embrace.
At times he’d felt something he couldn’t exactly qualify - he wasn’t even sure it was not his own overstressed mind playing tricks - the best he could tell was like a faint echo inside his brain, as if he was shouting down a deep canyon and seconds later the sound of his voice, his mind-voice, came back distorted and foreign. As if something was there, hovering at the edge of his consciousness, awaiting to answer the right call, yet he couldn’t put his finger on it. A ghost of thought. He shook his head. Vague impressions and illusions didn’t help.
At the other side of the link, down in the brightly lit several story high corridor-streets of the station’s inner habitat ring, Kheshmet walked with supple fluidity towards the central plaza, Jaffas around her with their helmets deployed, weapons trained outwards even though the area was secured by three hundred of their comrades, most of them in overlooking positions among the cascading terraces and balconies, scanning the wide amphitheater-like village for threats.
Not that such were to be expected. The entire section had been surrounded and cut off two hours ago by Jaffa vanguards, leaving no escape route to the trapped souls inside. Few men, most of them women, teenagers and children who had believed they were safely tucked inside, having sealed the gates and raised a few pithy barricades behind those. The following assault was quick and brutal. Barricades manned by mostly unarmed civilians did not hold Kheshmet’s warriors for longer than a minute. A few defenders had died right there and then, and after that resistance had collapsed utterly along with the need to kill.
“My Lady” a tall warrior saluted, fist over heart, when Kheshmet entered the plaza “we have secured this area and gathered the captives. My warriors are ready to push forward as soon as follow-up troops can relieve us from guard duty !”
The Goa’uld inside Samantha Carter’s body returned the salute. She had no obligation to do so - Jaffas were inferiors - but it was good practice for a field commander, and these warriors had done well, as expected from an elite legion. She let her gaze linger on the Jaffa facing her - strong features, square jaws expressing resolution and devotion to duty, short cropped black hair, skin tanned by multiple planetary campaigns - and the small honorary insignas on his chest. An experienced man, century old certainly, a veteran of many wars, having survived them as well pointed to both luck and skill. One of the Guard’s best sub-unit commanders. Kheshmet delved into her deep memory, putting a name on the face.
“Kejar of Ladnarn” she replied, noting the way he reacted with pride at her recalling his name “you have fought well again. Lord Baal will be pleased. Now, show me those captives.”
“My Lady, follow me.” He turned aside and shouted at a group of warriors hovering nearby. “Jaffa, Kree !” They fell into a vanguard formation, preceding the officer and the Goa’uld commander as they strode forward into the habitat’s lower sections, glancing at the towering support pillars and animated walls, keeping any wonderment they could experience at the display of divine magic for themselves.
They rounded another sculpted framework - an elaborate succession of vertical cascades and water collectors, still bare instead of overfilling with aquatic greenery and flowers as intended. They stood on the lowest terrace, directly overlooking the bottom-most floor and its wide central pool filled with crystalline water and a handful of growing water-lillies providing a few scattered patches of green. The entire level was supposed to function as a collecting point for the ornamental waterworks running throughout the whole habitat, as well as handle an accidental overfill. As a result there was no level access. The only ways down were shallow stairs, although overhanging gangways and platforms allowed audacious minds to plunge down into the pool if they wanted. Now those were supporting Jaffa guards, staves pointed down at the poolsides where the captured civilians huddled and pressed together on the soft plastic beach, unconsciously wanting to put the most distance between themselves and the watching guards.
There were more than a few gasps and muffled exclamations of surprise when the prisoners spotted the familiar-yet-different face of Samantha Carter. Murmurs ran low, questioning, wondering. Kheshmet watched in glee, savouring the scent of fear and unease coming from the thousands of human cattle huddling below.
She made her eyes flash, and spoke loud and clear, her deep Goa’uld voice seamlessly amplified by the collar she wore.
“Kneel, humans, for you belong now to Lord Baal, King of Kings, God of Gods, Master of all Living Souls !”
Incredulous words and expressions answered her statement. Anger now, curses and insults rising from the cattle. She laughed inwardly at the scattered “snake !” epithets muttered or outright shouted at her. The involuntary confusion was highly entertaining to her, possessing the corresponding memories of Major Carter. Yet defiance had to be crushed. And as always she was going to take pleasure in doing so.
“SILENCE !” the word boomed across the cathedral-sized space. She pointed to one of the most vocal dissenters, a male teenager (as such often were) whose eyes flashed defiance almost as brightly as a Goa’uld glare, and made an imperious gesture with her hand. “Jaffa, Kree !”
Answering her call, a squad of warriors strode down to the human mass and then opened a way in the most brutal manner, using steel-shod boots and staff butts to smash heads and bodies aside, parting the sea of captives like a boat and leaving a wake of bruised and bleeding limbs behind them. Their target tried to flee as they came, clawing at the flesh in his haste to escape - hopelessly. The guards watching from above wouldn’t have allowed it even if the ones below hadn’t caught up, the looming threat and the immediate brutality breaking any idea of resistance before it could even take hold.
The young man was grabbed by the arms and collar, hauled up and dragged away despite his flailing and screaming, and dropped again like a sack of meat near the bottom of the stairs closest to Kheshmet even as more Jaffas established a cordon outside, keeping the first rank of captives away.
Silence fell, only broken by scattered gasps and sobs, and the Goa’uld slowly descended the flight of stairs, savouring each step down, a wicked smile on her lips.
“Hmmm” she purred, stopping in front of the group. She met the black-haired teenager’s gaze, noting how it kept flicking down to her chest and below, his imagination running wild even though the form-fitting garment left little to it. She traced a finger down his jaw. Strong already yet delicate and smooth like a child’s. He didn’t flinch. That took some spirit, she thought. “Manuel, yes ? I remember your name. Your father was a soldier, I think… no ?” she asked seductively, keeping her eyes locked with his brown ones.
“My father’s a Marine and he’s going to kick your butt, you bitch !” the youngster spat back with teenage scorn, shaking the grip of his Jaffa captors.
Slap ! The backhand strike cut through the air and left a red mark on Manuel’s cheek.
“Fool ! Your father is dead, as is everyone who fought us on this station !” Kheshmet’s reply was stone-cold. “His death was honorable at least. Yours won’t !” she hissed, then snapped an order. “Jaffa ! Hold him !”
The pair of warriors kept a strong grip on the boy as their female overlord collar-handled him over the pool’s edge. She felt him tense again, putting all his youthful strength into resisting her pressure - not enough, it only made it so much more enjoyable as she forced his face down under the water’s surface. She held him there for a minute, sensing his struggle to break above and breath, and pulled up. Sputters, then a single ragged, deep inspiration before he went down again. The struggle resumed, bubbles streaming to the agitated surface, and she held him longer before pulling again. She repeated the process a third, then a fourth time, each time longer, each time the struggling growing weaker, the boy’s strength drowning away. A desperate scream rose from the crowd, a female one.
“Stop, please, stop, kill me instead, leave my boy alone !”
A woman had risen out of the squatting, cowering mass of prisoners, and she was weaving her way towards Kheshmet’s group a hundred paces away, placing her steps by instinct over the rest of the bodies as she kept her gaze imploringly fixed in the aliens’ direction. She traced a crying line through the shell-shocked flesh, begging for clemency all along until she threw herself down on her knees behind the Jaffa cordon, prostrating herself supplicatingly in the space vacated by her companions of infortune, recoiling from her as though she was doomed already and touching her would doom them as well.
“Please, lady” she raised her face, flushed and wet from her crying “please kill me instead don’t kill my sonny please let me do anything for you -”
“Will you ?”
Kheshmet stared at the mother, keeping the son’s face a millimeter above the water as he made retching sounds. Vomit splurged from his mouth, spoiling the purity of the pool.
The supplicant woman nodded nervously. “I’ll kill myself if you want to, just, just please don’t kill my Manuel” she spluttered out under the Goa’uld’s coldly calculating gaze.
“Jaffa ! Let her pass.” The warriors opened a gap as instructed. Kheshmet switched to English.
“Come” she snapped out at the woman, emphasizing the order with a curt shake of her head.
“Stand” the mother did so and Kheshmet walked closer, leaving the young man in the Jaffas’ grip. A silent mutual examination followed, apprehensive and fearful on one side, slyly, wickedly amused on the other. The woman was slightly shorter than Samantha Carter, brunette and brown-eyed, her skin complexion and delicate features showing her Hispanic heritage, trembling in her grey civilian overalls. She was somewhat familiar in Carter’s memories. Time spent in various social circles during the New America project, back in the Solar System - we’ll need to check this place too, the symbiote thought - had produced some mutual recognition and Kheshmet’s enhanced memory recall produced a name as well.
“Cristina Brackman” she detached each syllable as if they were rare delicacies, her voice back to her host’s natural one. “I remember your delicious crab cakes.” Souvenirs from a habitat party on Ceres. Cristina’s gaze turned incredulous at the turn of conversation, before it became more personal.
“You certainly have a pleasant physique too, for the mother of a sixteen year old child. Strip.”
“What ?” disbelief colored the woman’s voice at the preposterous request.
“Strip ! Or -” Kheshmet gestured back, letting the threat loom in the air. Cristina’s eyes widened at once, flicking to her son’s prone form.
“Mom…” he whined out, saliva dribbling down the side of his mouth.
“Don’t look, don’t say anything Manuel, please be strong for me !” she tried to put some strength and encouragement in her tone even as her heart beat faster, her skin flushed from anticipated shame. She waited until her son averted his face from her incoming humiliation, and then unzipped the jacket enblazoned with the New America’s crest, uncovering the white brassiere underneath. A practical one, designed for support and comfort rather than looks like a sports bra, it covered most of her chest. She felt the gazes of her fellow captives on her back as well as the Jaffas’, leering behind their stony masks. Carter, no, Kheshmet was drinking the sight, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted. It felt perverse, sinful. Whoever this being was was a Godless deviant, as shameless as the Draka themselves. But there was nothing a mother wouldn’t do to save her child.
Cristina went on, unstrapping her bra, her mind blank, going through the gestures like an automaton, eyes fixed forward vacantly. She barely remarked the other woman biting her lip in appreciation. Behind her, her fellow New Americans averted their eyes, respectful of her ordeal save a few teenagers who stole ogling glances.
Trousers and panties followed jacket and bra on the discarded pile and Cristina Brackman stood straight and naked, her arms dangling along her sides, making no effort at hiding her nudity. She was expecting to be raped - growing up on the same planet as the Domination of the Draka at least made a woman passingly familiar with the idea. How many of those not-Janissaries would plow her was the only unknown part, she figured.
She didn’t quite expect the crimson-clad female to close the gap between them in one stride, one hand closing around her right breast while the other wormed its way between her thighs. The wife - now a widow - straightened under the touch, rejecting it by instinct and decency. It wasn’t right, wasn’t right at least those soldiers were men but this - her half-strangled cry of surprised disgust was snuffed out by the mouth closing on hers and the tongue probing out, tasting her obscenely - a perverted mirror image of the other body intrusion taking place down below. Cristina’s intimate muscles clenched automatically against the finger pushing up and Kheshmet cursed. It wasn’t so much the resistance - that was expected - than the utter lack of reaction to her touch. Her tongue felt like exploring a dead, inert mouth and the dryness below didn’t change. The naked woman was inert save for her reflexive squeeze, dry and inert. Frigid against the Goa’uld commander’s expert assault. That was a worse insult.
“Bitch” Kheshmet hissed, recoiling from the uncooperative woman. “Enjoy seeing your son die !”
She glanced back and made a cutting gesture with her left hand, even as her right swung up, the golden device on her palm flashing into life. A bright glow speared down from her elevated palm to the brunette’s forehead, and her body reacted to the excruciating pain tearing through her limbs, eyes bulging open, falling on her knees with her strength sapped dry, head paralyzed, upturned, receiving the full wrath of the Goa’uld above her. Shivering, convulsing, yet unable to move out of the agonizing beam, eyes rolled upwards showing their whites, face contorted in terror and pain, mouth open and dribbling on her chin, caught under the spell of the pulsating light spearing her brain.
In fact, she didn’t see the Jaffa’s blade sliding under Manuel’s throat, and the pulsing jets of blood reddening the water below until the beam vanished, cut at the source, and a thin thread of consciousness reclaimed her mind, battling the aftershock and the dying waves of pain cutting her nerves open down their length.
“NOOOOOOOO !” the scream coming from her mouth was ragged-sounding, and her eyes went from the sight of her dying son’s last convulsions to the coldly satisfied face above her, anguish and hate competing among the tears.
“Now” Kheshmet turned to face Kejar who was still standing a few paces away, watching the cowed crowd of captives with a close expression. “Rape her !”
The Jaffa’s stone mask barely cracked, an eyebrow rising higher than the other. “My Lady ? I am a warrior, and there are still living enemies…” he put all the respect he could muster into the suggestion. He was longing for combat, for honorable battle. Rape, while occasionally pleasant, wasn’t something to do when the battlefield was still contested. And the display had left a sour taste in his mouth. There had been no need to draw out the execution, and his clan valued family enough that he took no pleasure in watching a mother lose her unique son. Even rebels and heretics, he was persuaded, deserved a measure of compassion, a clean death at least. Fortunately the sound of footsteps, hundreds of footsteps clanging on the hard floor as more Jaffas poured into the open spaces, saved him from having to abuse the female captive himself.
“Then the relief unit will have their way with those cattle” his commander snapped out impatiently. “I’ll lead the final assault personally. Kejar, assemble the rest of your warriors. The prize is near !”
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
I smell the scent of Deus Ex Machina that Stargate is so famous for. LeFarge wouldn't happen to carry the ATA gene, would he?Instead his hands gripped the handles of the command chair, the one overlooking the Control Center and its rows of consoles with the panoramic holowall surrounding everything. The stars were still shining steadily, the planet below half illuminated by the distant star’s light, completely oblivious to the mortal struggle going on inside the bubble of livable atmosphere hanging alone in space’s cold embrace.
At times he’d felt something he couldn’t exactly qualify - he wasn’t even sure it was not his own overstressed mind playing tricks - the best he could tell was like a faint echo inside his brain, as if he was shouting down a deep canyon and seconds later the sound of his voice, his mind-voice, came back distorted and foreign. As if something was there, hovering at the edge of his consciousness, awaiting to answer the right call, yet he couldn’t put his finger on it. A ghost of thought.
"Only a fool expects rational behaviour from their fellow humans. Why do you expect it from a machine that humans have designed?"
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
The bit about the Federation was a bit too much fan-service for my tastes.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Then I'll do the Empire in a future update to balance it out[R_H] wrote:The bit about the Federation was a bit too much fan-service for my tastes.
/joking
End of chapter 3
Another hour. Another hour and the Divine Fist of Unity, one of the strongest Goa’uld motherships in this sector of the galaxy, would exit hyperspace in the star system containing the fabulous prize awaiting Baal. A fully functional Ancient station. One left in quasi stasis for millions of years, dating back to the nebulous early days of the Gatebuilder civilization. It wasn’t the technology alone. In fact, going by the captured human female’s memories it might not represent a tall leap over contemporary Goa’uld capabilities. But instead of the bits and pieces and small trinkets the first Goa’uld lords in recorded memory had used to create the foundations of their empire, this was much bigger. Who knew what insights the databanks inside the station could reveal about its near-legendary creators? There were always tales and rumors about the Gatebuilders. Often they were nothing more than wild stories. In some cases, enterprising Goa’ulds looking for lost or hidden wonders had disappeared outright, victims of powers far beyond their wisdom. In a few other recorded cases, and those were always difficult to confirm for no Goa’uld wanted to let his competitors learn of their most prized treasures, ancient artifacts had yielded some of their secrets to a careful owner.
Maybe, just maybe the Ancient construct would yield clues as to the galaxy’s greatest mystery, an enigma every Goa’uld had pondered since the species had learnt travelling the stars. What were the stargate’s eighth and ninth chevron for? Nobody had ever found out, and not for lack of trying. It was said that Ra himself, millennia ago, spent a century dialing random combinations from an isolated stargate, to no avail, and stopped only after exhausting the naquadah of a whole star system, enough to build entire war fleets, powering the experiment.
The Baal clone pondered all this behind his customary half-smirk. A facade intended for his minions, handpicked Jaffas from his core worlds, warriors of experience who all had proven their loyalty beyond doubt. Men whose ancestors had fought for their present master, whose families were among the most prominent and honored. Dynasties of loyal servants who served not merely because of blind indoctrination but also because it was in their genuine interest to do so. Those, in Baal’s experience, made the most accountable and effective servants. Not every System Lord understood this, and those who didn’t, who ruled by fear and fanaticism alone, were so much more vulnerable to foreign subversion - beginning with the damn Tok’ra.
At least he was reasonably certain that no Tok’ra agent was hidden on this ship, thanks to the stringent checks performed on every member of the crew. The danger of sabotage and infiltration was too high otherwise, as many a careless Goa’uld in history had found when his powerful and near invulnerable “war chariot” had blown up under his regal bottom.
Just another hour, and Baal would be able to watch his new possession with his own eyes. He’d departed after the initial assault, with confirmation that a secure beachhead was established inside the orbital city and expectation that fully reducing the defenders would probably take days, such was the size of the contested territory. If everything had gone according to plan, the mothership would reenter realspace and find the place mostly under control.
The next question would be what to do with the humans inside. Strenuous interrogation would be useless. Most likely, everything worth knowing had already been revealed inside the female captive’s mind. The location of their home planet was interesting, deep inside what used to be Ra’s private domain, and apparently among the first ever to be colonized and populated with human slaves. Maybe even the first, the Tauri of legend and old lore, the source of the System Lords’ slave population. An interesting find certainly, and worthy of future investigation whenever the more important matters of war were dealt with.
Inside Freedom Station
“General Lefarge”
The man nearly flinched at the sudden call. He’d been watching the various readouts and display with almost hypnotic attention, an attention proportional to the impotence he was actually reduced to. The safety of the habitats had proven to be a false one and they had fallen one after another, practically undefended; and now he was forced to watch as tens of thousands of the people he was sworn to lead and protect kneeled in submission beneath the alien invaders’ weapons. Kneeled, or worse. The attackers hadn’t bothered to deactivate the surveillance devices, an obvious act of psychological warfare intended for the last defenders, those hundreds locked inside the station’s core and maybe a few scattered tens under the dome, hiding in the barren wilderness.
He still had cards to play, he tried to convince himself. The ships were still there, still manned and operational. But what good could they bring except for some kind of Draka-ish suicidal gesture? Detonating their antimatter fuel inside or near the station might destroy or cripple it. And then the last free humans from Earth would be gone. Such an ironic thing it would be, the General thought, reminiscing his last conversation with Von Shrakenberg. An insurance policy for the human race, he’d said. Well, it was looking like the fucking Draka would be the last ones standing as it was, at least until whatever alien power it was knocked at Sol’s door.
The unexpected call had interrupted the pessimistic brooding. And replaced it with renewed anger, for it was Carter’s voice, belonging to that Kheshmet murderer, her face snapping into focus on his side display.
“Hello, General” the voice repeated seductively, playfully. It was enjoying itself. “I know you can hear me, this communication panel cuts straight into the command emergency circuit.”
“You” Lefarge spat with all the contempt he could muster, raising a short laugh from the other side of the conversation. Bright white teeth, long eyelashes lowered before mirthful blue eyes, the arrogance of a gorgeous young woman fully conscious of her power and willing to use it to obtain whatever she wanted from men. But this wasn’t a teenager despite the looks, and the power it wielded was far more than simply sexual. It was the power of life and death, the power of the victor holding the fates of defeated enemies in his hands. And it, she knew, knew through the Colonel’s memories how little was left to the human defenders.
It was time to acknowledge it.
“Me, I, Lady Kheshmet, courtesy of this endearing host body, one fit for a Queen really” she slowly rubbed her hands over her chest to emphasize her comment. Lefarge’s gaze hardened.
“What do you want” he ground out between his teeth, dreading the answer.
The red-clad woman tipped her head higher, straightening her already arrogant body attitude. Her own eyes flashed and she replied in the deep guttural tones of her species.
“I want your complete surrender, in the name of Lord Baal.”
Seconds ticked by before a response came.
“I saw how your kind treats prisoners. Why should I trust you? Why shouldn’t I destroy this whole installation instead and take you all out with us?”
“War always implies…” Kheshmet shrugged minutely “unfortunate collateral damage.”
“Collateral damage?” Lefarge’s tone was laced with fury and disbelief “Is that how you call what you did to that family? Killing the son in cold blood and forcing his mother to watch? You fucking… bitch, if you’re even female to begin with, you have no idea what -”
“Oh but I have, General. I know everything about the Alliance for Democracy, and the Domination of the Draka. I know your people were beaten, broken, and you are but refugees, exiles, cast off from your star system aboard those pitifully backwards things you call starships” her smirk was contemptuous as she paused, eyes boring into Lefarge’s. “I am offering you a way to survive, under Lord Baal’s authority. Accept, and today’s suffering will be over. Your people will be transported to a safe, fertile world to spend the remainder of their lives unharmed.”
She switched over to Carter’s normal voice, as much to preserve her host’s vocal cords as to play a psychological game, counting on the voice’s familiarity to influence her interlocutor.
“Of course, you will have to relinquish your technology. You will be permitted to live as farmers and artisans. The use of any written language and technology higher than animal, wind or water-driven machinery will be forbidden under penalty of death. In time, your children will grow up to be Lord Baal’s loyal subjects.”
The General took a deep, forceful breath, forcing himself to stay calm even though he felt like screaming and punching the display. His stare drilled through the vid-link.
“This is no better than being under the Yoke” he spat out.
“Actually it is” Kheshmet replied nonchalantly. “Your descendants will still be human instead of genetically engineered cattle. And above all, they will be alive.”
She let a moment of reflexion sink in, then added “You have ten minutes to decide. After that, my warriors will start executing the captives. Beginning with the children.”
She spared another glance at the uniformed man, and then switched off the communication panel.
It was a hard bargain, as Lefarge was left to contemplate. But the bitch and her warriors held most of the cards and he couldn’t deny it however much he wanted to. He didn’t have an army anymore and the ships - well they couldn’t do much except open fire on Freedom Station and kill everyone. He might have been willing to do that if the invaders had been Drakas, but…
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling more wary than he’d ever been. Could he believe Kheshmet’s promise that his people wouldn’t be harmed? Would they be left to live their lives alone? It was a hope, a hope that, centuries later their descendants would be alive and maybe, maybe they’d find freedom again. And the horse might learn to sing.
Chapter 4
Darkness before dawn
Baal’s domain
An’chokwit garrison world
Hyperspace travel. A lifetime ago such a thing had belonged to science fiction, dismissed in real life as impossible. A violation of the laws of physics.
A few hours staring at the bluish fluctuating walls of an hyperspace tunnel and hearing the low-pitched drone of the ship’s hyperdrive weren’t quite enough to make it a routine to O’Neill’s mind, yet the strangely soothing sensory experience was a low-key reminder of the fact that the ship he was a passenger of made the crossing of interstellar distances just as easy and ordinary as boosting to orbit had been back on Earth.
It wasn’t the journey that matter, though. What mattered was the destination. The world Baal used as the staging point for his invasion of Samothrace. A garrison world, Selmak told him, housing millions of Jaffas at all times, a training and resting place for his warriors and their families. A well-protected one, lavishly covered by ground to orbit cannons and theater shield generators and defense satellites, guarded by a dedicated fleet of Ha’taks and Al’keshs and thousands of Death Gliders.
Any conventional assault would be costly. Fortunately, it wasn’t what Selmak had in mind, as his plan relied on ruse and deception. Wit, dare and luck were going to be their path to success – or death. In truth, even mission success didn’t entirely exclude their death as long as “success” was defined as preventing Baal from acquiring Freedom Station. And for the millionth time O’Neill thought of the thousands who would be sacrificed if that was the last option, and for the millionth time he fought off the tide of despair with iron resolve.
It was Selmak’s voice that broke through his rumination this time.
“We’re approaching our emergence point, O’Neill.”
The soldier’s gaze shook itself from its trance-like contemplation of the arcane energies at work outside the ship’s windows and focused on the man sitting at the other end of the cockpit and manipulating controls. He nodded.
“Need to rehearse the plan one last time ?” Selmak arched an interrogative eyebrow.
“We slip in, land and go through the gate under disguise, leaving a parting present behind us, and then we improvise on the other side. Basically.”
“Indeed.” The Tok’ra operative sighed. “Not much of a plan, I’m afraid, but time…” he trailed.
“Time we didn’t have” O’Neill relayed. “We’ll improvise, adapt and overcome, as my folks say.”
A contained grin met his remark.
“I like that saying. Improvise, adapt, overcome. Sums up what I’ve been doing for centuries.”
A two-tone chime sounded from the ship’s console signaling their reversion to real space. Almost immediately following the return of the black star-spanned vista filling their viewscreen were the multiple proximity warnings of weapon locks and active sensor scans. The holographic display morphed to a close-range representation of the ship’s surroundings. A glance was enough to realize the Tel’tak was bracketed by multiple weapon platforms, their heavy staff cannons trained on the small transport who’d just rematerialized in the sector for space they were covering. They were held from immediately firing and obliterating the offending object by the friendly transponder signal it was transmitting, but remained ready to do so at a second’s notice while the duty controller’s voice filled the cockpit, a Jaffa’s heavily accented one.
“Incoming ship! By order of Lord Baal, this is a restricted system Identify yourself and state the reason of your presence!”
Selmak slid into his role smoothly.
“I am here by Lord Baal’s order, Jaffa” he answered in a most Goa’uldish smug and assured tone. “I need not state my mission to such underlings as you. You need only check the validity of my travel passport, which I am transmitting to you now.” He finished with a regal tip-up of the head, his projected assurance as much a weapon as the forged electronic documentation he was relying on to ensure their passage.
Seconds passed as the ship coasted forward on residual inertia along one of the pre-authorized orbital insertion vectors that were, in theory, only known to those operatives and shipmasters serving Baal. A first layer of defense, any ship arriving outside those closely-guarded procedures was to be deemed hostile and destroyed immediately. It wasn’t enough though. Actually earning the right to pass through the orbital defenses and making planetfall required more justification. One did not fly to a garrison world fortuitously, after all. Such travel passports were delivered with parsimony, through a well-established chain of command and bureaucratic procedures, and they were unique. Falsifying their quantum signature was impossible even for the Tok’ra, which made them extremely valuable. As Selmak had explained to his companion of fortune, it had taken him decades of patience and work in Baal’s high administration to acquire one, or more accurately, divert one and cover the theft.
But it was worth the effort now. It was highly unlikely that An’chokwit increased security level would extend to the point of manually checking the passport’s validity and its owner’s legitimacy through the domain’s administrative capital, a process that would take days as it couldn’t be done through a simple data transmission.
The Jaffa controller did not bother. The computer told him the passport was valid, the ship itself was a known and registered one, and scans showed only two living beings inside, one Goa’uld and one Jaffa. A common enough assortment for a high level courier or a middling bureaucrat. Besides, it wasn’t as if the ongoing operation hadn’t caused increased traffic already.
It didn’t mean that he had to sound anything but annoyed at the interruption of his cushy routine, and his go ahead came in as gruff a voice as any Jaffa could get away with in the face of a low ranking god, along with a dire warning not to stray from the regulated travel lanes, or else. A warning that the ship’s pilot had no intention of ignoring, as his craft skimmed the atmosphere on a reentry vector that would take him to the planet’s main landmass and the military complex built around its stargate.
“So far, so good” he observed offhand. The Tel’tak was on autopilot for the remainder of the trip, allowing both men to focus their attention to the surrounding view where the deep black of space was gradually heating up to a pink hue, then a fiery red as air resistance increased. Atmospheric reentries were not a new experience, but O’Neill still noticed glaring differences between the Goa’uld craft and the transorbital shuttles he was used to. The customary roar was heavily dulled and the buffeting almost inexistent despite the speed. The prow should have been glowing a cherry red and internal temperature ought to have become significantly warmer – but it wasn’t presently the case. Watching attentively through the viewscreen, he could discern a shimmering gap between the bare hull and the superheated air, energy shielding protecting the exotic alloy from the fire.
“It saves wear and tear."
O’Neill’s head swiveled aside, perplexed.
“Are you reading my mind ?”
“As talented as we are, telepathy isn’t part of our abilities” Garam answered for both intertwined minds, and then attempted to restrain a chuckle. Watching him, O’Neill had the distinct impression that he was being the object of a joke between two strangers and didn’t bother to hide a hint of irritation.
“What’s so funny, you two ?” he blurted out impatiently, arms crossed as the other man managed to refrain his irreverent mirth. And then, as the more disciplined Selmak got their facial expression under control, it was O’Neill’s turn to emit a short, sharp laugh and make the other look perplex.
“Sorry. I just realized, I said ‘you two’ and you’re just one, well… body. Feels a bit crazy, if you see what I mean.”
Selmak nodded knowingly. “Ah, yes. It’s a common reaction among the people who deal with the Tok’ra. They’re often… confused, understandably. It’s just that we’re two minds fused into one, even though we retain our part of individuality, we become one… how to explain it in your words… one personality, only with two faces, but that’s not really accurate –“
“Two faces, eh ? Like Janus ?”
“You know Janus ?” Selmak asked out, sounding surprised. “He died ages ago ! How could you… Oh, I see. He would be a mythological figure on your world. Not uncommon at all.”
O’Neill fought the sudden impression of having fallen through the rabbit hole. This galaxy was a strange enough place. Goa’uld as mythological figures…? If true… the implications on mankind’s past history…
“Janus was a god in one of Earth’s ancient Roman pantheon, two millennia ago.”
Selmak was thoughtful for a moment. “Two thousand years... assuming that your planet’s orbital period is close enough to the galactic average… yes, it would fit. I wish I knew more about the history of your world, O’Neill. It might be among the oldest colonized ones.”
“Colonized ? We have archeological records, fossil evidence of our species’ evolution dating back millions of years. Modern man – my current form – has been around for at least a hundred thousand years !” he replied animatedly, forgetting the outside view where the firestorm was gradually abating and leaving dark blue sky instead.
“How long is one of your years anyway ?”
Selmak’s enquiry prompted O’Neill to find a way and explain. How could he tell the length of a Terran year to an alien who likely didn’t even use the same measurement units ?
“Okay, the basic time slice is a second. It’s the duration of a pendulum swing” he started, hoping that the words he used meant something to his interlocutor. “In our gravity, at least. The planet where Baal found us, its gravity was ninety-seven hundredths of Earth” he added to provide a reference, and Selmak nodded.
“I see. This would make your second…” he trailed out as he did the calculus in his mind in the span of a heartbeat, “exactly the same as the equivalent Goa’uld short time unit !” he ended with a slight expression of surprise.
“I suppose it’s not too extraordinary”, the human offered. “Habitable planets must follow a certain standard, I guess. Anyway, sixty seconds make up a minute, and…” O’Neill continued, elaborating on minutes, hours and days, then to months and years. As he finished his expose, he noticed that Selmak had gone almost rigid with shock.
“What ?” he asked, unnerved.
“What ? You’ve just described the System Lord timekeeping system down to the most minute detail. Your basic time units are exactly the same. It cannot be a coincidence – not if what you told me about your species’ evolution is true as well.”
He finished with an undertone of awe.
“Your home world, Earth – it is the place where it all began, the world where Ra founded his empire, and the world where he faced his slaves’ rebellion for the first time. It was thought lost, forgotten by all, even by us Tok’ra… the ancient Tauri, lost in time and found again !”
He caught his breath, then : “Jaffa shit” he swore viciously, “if Baal realizes this… realizes that Ra’s ancient throne world is populated by humans free of Goa’uld rule… fuck, bad doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
-
spartasman
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 314
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Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
...it lives...
Don't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first.
- Samuel Clemens
- Samuel Clemens
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Yes it does ! I had to do some slightly necromantic rites, but hey /shrugs
There were so many questions raised by Selmak’s revelation and not enough time to answer them all. To begin with, the discovery that Earth’s ancient pantheons were apparently inspired by the Goa’uld, who had enslaved its inhabitants. And the mystery that came along – what had become of Ra ? How could such a powerful being suddenly disappear and why had Earth remained untouched for millennia ? At least the matter of Earth’s stargate was not entirely obscure : somehow, the Draka came ahold of it. The sheer thought that the Snakes were out in the galaxy was horrendous, but a part of O’Neill’s mind felt strangely gleeful, picturing the Domination under fire from Goa’uld motherships. Not exactly a consolation, but still soothing in a distorted way.
Nevertheless, the immediate matter at hand was Freedom Station. The task was difficult enough, and mental distractions would not help, he reasoned.
The ship was plunging towards the cottony cloud carpet hanging lazily far below. Holes in the cover revealed blue water shimmering. Again, the similarity with Earth was surreal.
Selmak was silent, his fingers dancing on through the holographic interface as he performed checked and scans of the continent ahead, still invisible beyond the horizon.
They flew lower and lower, their speed merely supersonic now, leaving a trailing shockwave as they skimmed the highest clouds and tore apart the diaphanous cirrus layer. A lazy banking turn and then the metal wedge dropped to the level of towering thunderclouds, their blackened heads flashing here and there with contained lightning.
There was something disquieting for a Terran pilot, flying so close to storm clouds. Even the sleek powerful scramjets did not, as a rule, fly through that kind of weather during approach, and he made the remark to Selmak, who shrugged.
“A few lightning strikes aren’t going to threaten a ship that flies through hyperspace routinely”, the Tok’ra explained. “At worst, the energy would go straight to the capacitors.”
He flipped a finger at a projected image. “Our destination’s straight ahead, near the river mouth you see there. Rain isn’t going to matter” he zoomed the tridimensional map with a gesture. It reminded O’Neill of a high resolution radar map, except in the golden hues favored by the Goa’uld in every little thing.
An’chokwit, or rather its capital, was a sprawling collection of geometrical shaped buildings. O’Neill recognized ziggurats and massive arches, forest-like porticos reminiscent of Egyptian temples, huge brick-like warehouses along the city’s harbor and its complex of quays and jetties, and surrounding the stone mastodons lied warrens of smaller constructions that O’Neill assumed to be houses and shops and everything a city needed. His analytical eye noticed a discrepancy between the city projected before his eyes and what he’d learnt about those in Ancient history. There was none of the anarchy usually shown among the latter, the result of unplanned and unchecked urban sprawl creating twisted mazes of narrow streets. In the present case, there appeared to be a clear plan at work, built around orthogonal streets and large radiating avenues leading to the cyclopean fortress gates piercing the city’s curtain wall. Roads disappeared further away in the countryside, past defensive bastions that appeared to sport anti-orbital cannons as well as old-style crenellations in a fantastic mish-mash of technology and eras.
“How many people live there?” O’Neill enquired, staring at the projected map.
“About half a million according to the latest census,” the Tok’ra operative answered easily. His cover job in Baal’s administrative apparatus had allowed him to learn everything there was to know about the System Lord’s domains. “That’s not counting temporary troop concentrations, naturally.”
A whistle came from the Earther’s lips. “That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”
“Indeed, and in most Goa’uld domains it would be a very large city.” He paused, as if reluctant to add “For all his faults, Baal is a good administrator. For a Goa’uld, of course. He has to, because his empire is smaller than most his rivals’. Only Yu’s empire has anything like the bureaucratic efficiency needed to accommodate such population densities, with planetary populations reaching in the billion figure. Such massive populations are rare among System Lord space,” he explained “the stagnant and backward societies they keep their subjects in are hardly compatible with very large populations.” Another shrug. “Though, System Lords own many worlds. Individually, they’re not much, but they add up to large numbers of subjects.” There was a grimace on Selmak’s face as he ended his impromptu expose. “That’s how they can afford to lose millions of Jaffas every year in their pointless wars across the galaxy.”
O’Neill’s answer was summation enough. “This is really fucked up.”
With barely a buffet the ship broke out of the lowest cloud layer and into thick rainy twilight, right over the bay and the choppy slate grey sea. Wind-borne water streamed past the windscreen, diverted by the low power field hugging the transparent material, and O’Neill saw the city with his own eyes at last. No golden hues anymore but shades of grey, the buildings’ colorful markings dulled by the raging rainstorm, and those cyclopean shapes emerged sullenly from the soaked gloom as the Tel’tak crossed the protective jetty’s stone works and overflew the harbor.
Once again the Earther’s mind was assaulted by the incredible contrast between the Goa’ulds’ advanced technology, as shown on the very spacecraft he was riding, and the life they forced on their subjects. The Tel’tak was a marvel of advanced engineering and scientific principles capable of traveling between stars and yet the ships moored below, swaying in the wind despite the thick lines fastening them to the piers, these ships wouldn’t have looked out of place in the ancient Mediterranean. Fat ungainly merchantmen, their masts bare and rope-bound and fast transport galleys whose oars were raised and secured along their flanks made up the bulk of the fleet, dozens of wooden boats whose shapes would have appeared familiar to Themistocles and Scipio. A smattering of naval dust and fishermen rowboats were dispersed among their larger brethren, all of them deserted as the sailors sheltered behind walls and covered decks.
Thoughts invaded the agent’s mind. These people below, they had lives, jobs, families, they ate and drank and loved, certainly. And they, in all likelihood, worshipped that Baal thing as a god. Some of them were probably praying and asking for clear weather, he reflected in passing. It was all so trivial after a fashion, a city full of humans who lived ordinary industrious lives… and yet it was stupendous to bear in mind the setting.
And he had to kill them. Not that they were directly targeted, but he doubted that a high-yield bomb going off inside the Jaffa quarters would leave the surrounding neighborhoods unscathed.
Kill Baal’s subjects. Like Domination serfs. Collateral damage. For all his ruminations the mind of the Alliance operative was clear of moral quandary. He’d kill every living being on this planet of that meant his people’s salvation. Without regret. As the realization reached his conscious mind, his features hardened into the stone mask of cold resolution. He would kill the Jaffas, kill Baal, kill Kheshmet even if that meant killing Carter. It would be a mercy anyway. And he’d kill Selmak too, if it came to that, if the Tok’ra’s interests went against his own. He hoped not. The alien was rather likable after a fashion.
Deftly, Selmak flew the small transport ship over the defensive rim of the Jaffa quarters, allowing his passenger to glimpse open courtyards and covered passageways interspersed between the squat cantonments and picture in his mind the mail-clad warriors training and drilling in the open plazas during fairer weather. The outside view was then obscured as the Tel’tak reached one of the ziggurat-shaped buildings and threaded through the gaping maw at the top and down a vertical shaft. Its circular walls slid by rapidly, covered in multicolored ceramic tiles arranged in spiraling geometrical motifs that looked vaguely Babylonian, and after a few seconds O’Neill estimated that they had to be past ground level, right before they emerged into the cavernous ship bay at the bottom.
It appeared to be hemispherical in shape and large enough to contain one of the New America’s cruisers – assuming it could be squeezed down the access shaft. Sparse lighting left many patches and corners in the dark, but the internal layout was easy to comprehend, with the larger ships – other Tel’taks, and the larger type involved in the attack on the island planet – sitting on raised plots over the floor, and four rows of the predatory bird shaped fighters held in docking cradles around the curving walls with connecting gantries and ladders. There appeared to be a single main access at ground level, with a pair of Jaffas standing guard nearby, too far to discern their features, and roving four-man patrols scattered across the vast expanse.
As the spacecraft slowly lowered itself over one of the empty plots, the nearest patrol moved in at a leisurely jogging pace, enough to cover the distance with time to spare as the ship settled down and powered off. The four warriors stood motionless as the two operatives exited their transport, their stance non-hostile enough, yet their alertness was easy to see. Garrison troops or not, these ones didn’t seem to take their job sloppily.
The four straightened a bit as they caught sight of Selmak in his Goa’uld dignitary appearance, bearing himself as erect as the golden filigree rod he carried as a symbol of his office. The Tok’ra was making a very good approximation of the sniffing, disdainful official, impatient to finish dealing with the rabble’s pesky formalities in order to carry on with the Very Important Business he was after.
His eyes glowed balefully as he spoke to them.
“Jaffa ! Kree !”
Once again, O’Neill wondered just how many meanings the monosyllable word had or whether he was missing subtle, particular inflections that gave it context. In any case, it seemed to function more or less as a general “you there, do whatever you’re supposed to do, pronto, before I kick your sorry ass”, he chuckled inwardly.
Outwardly, he very much kept his sudden burst mirth, one he attributed to his mind reacting to the mission-jitters he was otherwise feeling, to himself. After all… he had to look his part, therefore his own face remained fixed in a constipated scowl. It helped that he felt his forehead itching – or was he merely imagining it ? – right on the spot where Selmak had drawn a temporary Jaffa tattoo in the shape of Baal’s sigil. It, and the metallic armor he wore over his Alliance-issue kit, were the visible part of his disguise. The other one was invisible but just as important, or even more so. A Tok’ra-made special compound that mimicked the chemical and bioelectrical signature of the juvenile symbiote every true Jaffa carried in his belly pouch. It would fool even a true Goa’uld, Selmak said.
The welcome party saluted in response, fist over chest, and their leader answered.
“My Lord” he said formally, and pointed to the sturdy fabric bag O’Neill was carrying in one hand, his other one busy holding a staff weapon. “I have to inspect the contents of this bag” he ended deferentially but firmly.
Selmak had anticipated this, but he nonetheless made a point of appearing slightly offended at the inferior Jaffa making demands to the minor god he was impersonating.
“What impudence is this ? I am on a mission to bring special magical artifacts to aid Lady Kheshmet in her valiant battle against the blasphemers. I doubt that she will take a delay lightly, Jaffa !” he ended with an appropriate burst of indignant spittle.
His little display nevertheless didn’t appear to faze the warrior, who kept pointing at the bag and repeated.
“Pardon me, my Lord, but we have to follow the orders given by the Garrison Master. Maybe your exalted being would like to complain with him…?” he finished with a small bow of respect that O’Neill suspected was not entirely sincere. Apparently, while the Goa’uld enforced a rigid pecking order, the people in it were still human enough to test its bounds occasionally. He filed the observation away for the future.
Selmak’s frown deepened in a very accurate pretense of exasperation, and then he barked another “Kree”, but this time over the shoulder and addressed at his “bodyguard”. On cue, the disguised human stepped forward ponderously and dropped the heavy sack at the other Jaffa’s feet. Literally. And made a mocking grin as the other one gasped in surprise more than pain. A few tense seconds ensued as both men glared daggers at each other, the genuine Jaffa’s eyes saying something like “you bastard, I’d really kill you if you didn’t belong to that stuck-up asshole there” while the imposter’s underlined his mocking smirk.
And it was a sincere one too. The OSS man was enjoying it, no more hiding and waiting but thrust into action and danger where he belonged, with a chance to pay the bastards back. He just hoped that he wasn’t overdoing it. Selmak had briefed him as well as time allowed : a certain level of antagonism was normal and expected among Jaffas belonging to different units. It was guard dog-like behavior, and Jaffas were guard dogs when all was said and done.
Eventually the Jaffa broke away from the staring contest, letting O’Neill enjoy the small victory, and bent to open the bag and rummage the contents. He apparently didn’t see anything he could tag as abnormal or dangerous with certitude – the objects inside were indeed magic to his ignorant mind and Selmak had taken care to avoid anything that could look suspicious. Even the high-yield naquadah-potassium bomb was disguised as a portable computer terminal, far beyond the reach of a Jaffa’s technical analysis skill.
Nor would the cursory inspection, sure to be performed by the patrol aboard the empty ship after the newcomers had left, reveal anything suspicious.
Almost reluctantly, the Jaffa leader straightened up again and took a step backwards.
“My Lord. You may pass now.”
With an upturned nose Selmak pranced forward, not even sparing a glance at the four warriors who’d parted to allow passage. O’Neill followed, having picked the bag up and won a last battle of egos at the patrol leader’s expense by rubbing armored shoulders on the way. A petty little contest between lackeys, he reasoned, that went unseen by the exalted being forging ahead in apparent obliviousness. For the intelligence officer, it was yet another little detail helping build a picture of Goa’uld-ruled society.
There were so many questions raised by Selmak’s revelation and not enough time to answer them all. To begin with, the discovery that Earth’s ancient pantheons were apparently inspired by the Goa’uld, who had enslaved its inhabitants. And the mystery that came along – what had become of Ra ? How could such a powerful being suddenly disappear and why had Earth remained untouched for millennia ? At least the matter of Earth’s stargate was not entirely obscure : somehow, the Draka came ahold of it. The sheer thought that the Snakes were out in the galaxy was horrendous, but a part of O’Neill’s mind felt strangely gleeful, picturing the Domination under fire from Goa’uld motherships. Not exactly a consolation, but still soothing in a distorted way.
Nevertheless, the immediate matter at hand was Freedom Station. The task was difficult enough, and mental distractions would not help, he reasoned.
The ship was plunging towards the cottony cloud carpet hanging lazily far below. Holes in the cover revealed blue water shimmering. Again, the similarity with Earth was surreal.
Selmak was silent, his fingers dancing on through the holographic interface as he performed checked and scans of the continent ahead, still invisible beyond the horizon.
They flew lower and lower, their speed merely supersonic now, leaving a trailing shockwave as they skimmed the highest clouds and tore apart the diaphanous cirrus layer. A lazy banking turn and then the metal wedge dropped to the level of towering thunderclouds, their blackened heads flashing here and there with contained lightning.
There was something disquieting for a Terran pilot, flying so close to storm clouds. Even the sleek powerful scramjets did not, as a rule, fly through that kind of weather during approach, and he made the remark to Selmak, who shrugged.
“A few lightning strikes aren’t going to threaten a ship that flies through hyperspace routinely”, the Tok’ra explained. “At worst, the energy would go straight to the capacitors.”
He flipped a finger at a projected image. “Our destination’s straight ahead, near the river mouth you see there. Rain isn’t going to matter” he zoomed the tridimensional map with a gesture. It reminded O’Neill of a high resolution radar map, except in the golden hues favored by the Goa’uld in every little thing.
An’chokwit, or rather its capital, was a sprawling collection of geometrical shaped buildings. O’Neill recognized ziggurats and massive arches, forest-like porticos reminiscent of Egyptian temples, huge brick-like warehouses along the city’s harbor and its complex of quays and jetties, and surrounding the stone mastodons lied warrens of smaller constructions that O’Neill assumed to be houses and shops and everything a city needed. His analytical eye noticed a discrepancy between the city projected before his eyes and what he’d learnt about those in Ancient history. There was none of the anarchy usually shown among the latter, the result of unplanned and unchecked urban sprawl creating twisted mazes of narrow streets. In the present case, there appeared to be a clear plan at work, built around orthogonal streets and large radiating avenues leading to the cyclopean fortress gates piercing the city’s curtain wall. Roads disappeared further away in the countryside, past defensive bastions that appeared to sport anti-orbital cannons as well as old-style crenellations in a fantastic mish-mash of technology and eras.
“How many people live there?” O’Neill enquired, staring at the projected map.
“About half a million according to the latest census,” the Tok’ra operative answered easily. His cover job in Baal’s administrative apparatus had allowed him to learn everything there was to know about the System Lord’s domains. “That’s not counting temporary troop concentrations, naturally.”
A whistle came from the Earther’s lips. “That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”
“Indeed, and in most Goa’uld domains it would be a very large city.” He paused, as if reluctant to add “For all his faults, Baal is a good administrator. For a Goa’uld, of course. He has to, because his empire is smaller than most his rivals’. Only Yu’s empire has anything like the bureaucratic efficiency needed to accommodate such population densities, with planetary populations reaching in the billion figure. Such massive populations are rare among System Lord space,” he explained “the stagnant and backward societies they keep their subjects in are hardly compatible with very large populations.” Another shrug. “Though, System Lords own many worlds. Individually, they’re not much, but they add up to large numbers of subjects.” There was a grimace on Selmak’s face as he ended his impromptu expose. “That’s how they can afford to lose millions of Jaffas every year in their pointless wars across the galaxy.”
O’Neill’s answer was summation enough. “This is really fucked up.”
With barely a buffet the ship broke out of the lowest cloud layer and into thick rainy twilight, right over the bay and the choppy slate grey sea. Wind-borne water streamed past the windscreen, diverted by the low power field hugging the transparent material, and O’Neill saw the city with his own eyes at last. No golden hues anymore but shades of grey, the buildings’ colorful markings dulled by the raging rainstorm, and those cyclopean shapes emerged sullenly from the soaked gloom as the Tel’tak crossed the protective jetty’s stone works and overflew the harbor.
Once again the Earther’s mind was assaulted by the incredible contrast between the Goa’ulds’ advanced technology, as shown on the very spacecraft he was riding, and the life they forced on their subjects. The Tel’tak was a marvel of advanced engineering and scientific principles capable of traveling between stars and yet the ships moored below, swaying in the wind despite the thick lines fastening them to the piers, these ships wouldn’t have looked out of place in the ancient Mediterranean. Fat ungainly merchantmen, their masts bare and rope-bound and fast transport galleys whose oars were raised and secured along their flanks made up the bulk of the fleet, dozens of wooden boats whose shapes would have appeared familiar to Themistocles and Scipio. A smattering of naval dust and fishermen rowboats were dispersed among their larger brethren, all of them deserted as the sailors sheltered behind walls and covered decks.
Thoughts invaded the agent’s mind. These people below, they had lives, jobs, families, they ate and drank and loved, certainly. And they, in all likelihood, worshipped that Baal thing as a god. Some of them were probably praying and asking for clear weather, he reflected in passing. It was all so trivial after a fashion, a city full of humans who lived ordinary industrious lives… and yet it was stupendous to bear in mind the setting.
And he had to kill them. Not that they were directly targeted, but he doubted that a high-yield bomb going off inside the Jaffa quarters would leave the surrounding neighborhoods unscathed.
Kill Baal’s subjects. Like Domination serfs. Collateral damage. For all his ruminations the mind of the Alliance operative was clear of moral quandary. He’d kill every living being on this planet of that meant his people’s salvation. Without regret. As the realization reached his conscious mind, his features hardened into the stone mask of cold resolution. He would kill the Jaffas, kill Baal, kill Kheshmet even if that meant killing Carter. It would be a mercy anyway. And he’d kill Selmak too, if it came to that, if the Tok’ra’s interests went against his own. He hoped not. The alien was rather likable after a fashion.
Deftly, Selmak flew the small transport ship over the defensive rim of the Jaffa quarters, allowing his passenger to glimpse open courtyards and covered passageways interspersed between the squat cantonments and picture in his mind the mail-clad warriors training and drilling in the open plazas during fairer weather. The outside view was then obscured as the Tel’tak reached one of the ziggurat-shaped buildings and threaded through the gaping maw at the top and down a vertical shaft. Its circular walls slid by rapidly, covered in multicolored ceramic tiles arranged in spiraling geometrical motifs that looked vaguely Babylonian, and after a few seconds O’Neill estimated that they had to be past ground level, right before they emerged into the cavernous ship bay at the bottom.
It appeared to be hemispherical in shape and large enough to contain one of the New America’s cruisers – assuming it could be squeezed down the access shaft. Sparse lighting left many patches and corners in the dark, but the internal layout was easy to comprehend, with the larger ships – other Tel’taks, and the larger type involved in the attack on the island planet – sitting on raised plots over the floor, and four rows of the predatory bird shaped fighters held in docking cradles around the curving walls with connecting gantries and ladders. There appeared to be a single main access at ground level, with a pair of Jaffas standing guard nearby, too far to discern their features, and roving four-man patrols scattered across the vast expanse.
As the spacecraft slowly lowered itself over one of the empty plots, the nearest patrol moved in at a leisurely jogging pace, enough to cover the distance with time to spare as the ship settled down and powered off. The four warriors stood motionless as the two operatives exited their transport, their stance non-hostile enough, yet their alertness was easy to see. Garrison troops or not, these ones didn’t seem to take their job sloppily.
The four straightened a bit as they caught sight of Selmak in his Goa’uld dignitary appearance, bearing himself as erect as the golden filigree rod he carried as a symbol of his office. The Tok’ra was making a very good approximation of the sniffing, disdainful official, impatient to finish dealing with the rabble’s pesky formalities in order to carry on with the Very Important Business he was after.
His eyes glowed balefully as he spoke to them.
“Jaffa ! Kree !”
Once again, O’Neill wondered just how many meanings the monosyllable word had or whether he was missing subtle, particular inflections that gave it context. In any case, it seemed to function more or less as a general “you there, do whatever you’re supposed to do, pronto, before I kick your sorry ass”, he chuckled inwardly.
Outwardly, he very much kept his sudden burst mirth, one he attributed to his mind reacting to the mission-jitters he was otherwise feeling, to himself. After all… he had to look his part, therefore his own face remained fixed in a constipated scowl. It helped that he felt his forehead itching – or was he merely imagining it ? – right on the spot where Selmak had drawn a temporary Jaffa tattoo in the shape of Baal’s sigil. It, and the metallic armor he wore over his Alliance-issue kit, were the visible part of his disguise. The other one was invisible but just as important, or even more so. A Tok’ra-made special compound that mimicked the chemical and bioelectrical signature of the juvenile symbiote every true Jaffa carried in his belly pouch. It would fool even a true Goa’uld, Selmak said.
The welcome party saluted in response, fist over chest, and their leader answered.
“My Lord” he said formally, and pointed to the sturdy fabric bag O’Neill was carrying in one hand, his other one busy holding a staff weapon. “I have to inspect the contents of this bag” he ended deferentially but firmly.
Selmak had anticipated this, but he nonetheless made a point of appearing slightly offended at the inferior Jaffa making demands to the minor god he was impersonating.
“What impudence is this ? I am on a mission to bring special magical artifacts to aid Lady Kheshmet in her valiant battle against the blasphemers. I doubt that she will take a delay lightly, Jaffa !” he ended with an appropriate burst of indignant spittle.
His little display nevertheless didn’t appear to faze the warrior, who kept pointing at the bag and repeated.
“Pardon me, my Lord, but we have to follow the orders given by the Garrison Master. Maybe your exalted being would like to complain with him…?” he finished with a small bow of respect that O’Neill suspected was not entirely sincere. Apparently, while the Goa’uld enforced a rigid pecking order, the people in it were still human enough to test its bounds occasionally. He filed the observation away for the future.
Selmak’s frown deepened in a very accurate pretense of exasperation, and then he barked another “Kree”, but this time over the shoulder and addressed at his “bodyguard”. On cue, the disguised human stepped forward ponderously and dropped the heavy sack at the other Jaffa’s feet. Literally. And made a mocking grin as the other one gasped in surprise more than pain. A few tense seconds ensued as both men glared daggers at each other, the genuine Jaffa’s eyes saying something like “you bastard, I’d really kill you if you didn’t belong to that stuck-up asshole there” while the imposter’s underlined his mocking smirk.
And it was a sincere one too. The OSS man was enjoying it, no more hiding and waiting but thrust into action and danger where he belonged, with a chance to pay the bastards back. He just hoped that he wasn’t overdoing it. Selmak had briefed him as well as time allowed : a certain level of antagonism was normal and expected among Jaffas belonging to different units. It was guard dog-like behavior, and Jaffas were guard dogs when all was said and done.
Eventually the Jaffa broke away from the staring contest, letting O’Neill enjoy the small victory, and bent to open the bag and rummage the contents. He apparently didn’t see anything he could tag as abnormal or dangerous with certitude – the objects inside were indeed magic to his ignorant mind and Selmak had taken care to avoid anything that could look suspicious. Even the high-yield naquadah-potassium bomb was disguised as a portable computer terminal, far beyond the reach of a Jaffa’s technical analysis skill.
Nor would the cursory inspection, sure to be performed by the patrol aboard the empty ship after the newcomers had left, reveal anything suspicious.
Almost reluctantly, the Jaffa leader straightened up again and took a step backwards.
“My Lord. You may pass now.”
With an upturned nose Selmak pranced forward, not even sparing a glance at the four warriors who’d parted to allow passage. O’Neill followed, having picked the bag up and won a last battle of egos at the patrol leader’s expense by rubbing armored shoulders on the way. A petty little contest between lackeys, he reasoned, that went unseen by the exalted being forging ahead in apparent obliviousness. For the intelligence officer, it was yet another little detail helping build a picture of Goa’uld-ruled society.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Freedom Station, Samothrace System
The answer wasn’t exactly what the arrogant Goa’uld commander had expected. Those humans were helpless. Their warriors were all dead, or scattered and unable to fight back. Their families, women and children were at her mercy, and of those women many were even now being used by the late-arriving Jaffas as warrior’s relief, their cries and pleas sweet to her ears. Maybe she ought to have made them wait until the station was fully secured for that, a small part of her mind objected, but she didn’t really care.
Her shock troops had fought valiantly. Losses were acceptable, not crippling. The only remaining opposition was locked up in the Core, behind thick safety bulkheads and armored doors, and they could not operate whatever defensive systems the station may have. Primitive and foolish to defy her will.
And yet they did – this general Lefarge did. Oh, she understood fully well. With her host’s memories an open book to read, the man’s motivation was easy to comprehend. But understanding wasn’t acceptation, and she bristled in contained anger at the human’s impudent resistance. The glow in her eyes and the arrogance in her features were matched by the hardness of the uniformed human’s eyes and the hateful set of his jaw.
She’d offered a reasonable bargain, too. One that she even intended to follow honestly. But once the short delay had ticked out and the time had come to receive the Alliance commander’s answer… it was a short, steadfast, defiant “No.”
“No?” Kheshmet took a second to digest the unwelcome response. “No?” she repeated, incredulous, eyes flashing almost reflexively. “I’m offering you your life, and the lives of your people – and you dare say no?” she added, switching to her Goa’uld voice.
“No” Lefarge answered again, each subsequent word delivered with scalpel-cut precision. “No, these lives are not yours to offer. They’re only yours to take. But there is one thing you cannot take,” he paused. “And that’s our freedom. The choice you offered? Life for servitude? We rejected it once already.” His voice became more passionate, more animated as he went on. “If the choice is between slavery or death, then we’ll choose death. Liberty or death! We will never be anyone’s slaves!” he growled through the intercom screen.
“Then you will die” Kheshmet interjected, “all of you!”
A sinister smirk answered.
“We’ll die, but it will be a death of our own choosing. The last free humans are not going to die meekly under your butcher’s knife, you flesh-wearing abomination” Lefarge spat venomously, “whoever, whatever you really are under this stolen skin, you will not,” his voice rose, “have us BOW BEFORE YOU!” he roared away, red with fury, and Kheshmet recoiled almost without realizing, her face expressing shock and disbelief.
Before she could summon a retort, Lefarge went on, gleeful almost.
“I have ordered the New America on a collision course with this station,” malice glinted in his eyes. “There is less than thirty minutes before impact, and strong as this hull can be, I doubt it can withstand several thousand tons of antimatter crashing through.” He laughed, a short, mocking laugh. “Freedom Station will never be yours, abomination!”
Then the link was cut, and Kheshmet stood wordless at the blank screen, her mind churning to process what the rebellious human had just said. Especially the last part. The parasitic being delved into the memories of its unwilling host, ignoring the faint repressed personality still lingering there powerless, and dug out its knowledge on the interstellar spacecraft aboard which those humans had made the journey from their distant world to the present system. Ramp up times and acceleration figures popped up and checked against orbital parameters, going by the position of the New America as Carter remembered it. The thirty minutes delay was making sense, and there was no way to avoid it – she had no assets outside the damn facility, not even a single Deathglider, and the damned human parasite cruisers inside the hangar bay were preventing her Jaffas from approaching the station’s small ships, assuming she could even operate some of them.
She couldn’t count on Baal’s own Ha’tak arriving in time to prevent the collision either. It was scheduled to arrive soon – but how soon was that? It could be five minutes away, or an hour. She couldn’t afford to wait!
Hypothetical outcomes and avenues of action flashed through the Goa’uld commander’s mind. In truth there weren’t many options, nor were there any certainties – that impudent human general had well and truly blindsided her with his irrational death wish, his refusal to accept his fate. A small detached part of her approved the display of ruthlessness, but that was no consolation nor solution to her immediate conundrum.
No, the only hope to salvage her mission… was the mission itself. If she could gain access to the station’s control room and directly interface with the systems… the construct had to possess defenses, and if she could activate them she could deal with the colony ship’s suicide charge. If. If. But those “if” were the best cards she was left with. And there was no question at all whether the General was bluffing. He was not, she could see it and hear it. That was a man with nothing left to lose.
So she had to take action.
Orders snapped out of her mouth as she set herself in motion. Her words were relayed to her officers helmets throughout the construct and the troops they were leading burst into action together as sharp commands were bellowed across halls and chambers, a flurry of movement that rapidly set itself into order despite the apparent haste.
Inside the occupied habitats helpless captives were hurried on their feet by motioning and gesturing Jaffas, the urgent prodding and beating if they didn’t move fast enough bringing an understanding that the alien words didn’t. Disarmed men, women and children became a mass of stampeding cattle as whips and plasma bolts lashed at their heels, corralled into the vast station’s passageways with a unique destination, the outlying room containing the stargate. As the warrior flood had gone the prisoner crowd went in reverse, clogging the station’s arteries and capillaries to burst – but not all had a remote chance of making through. The vast Ancient construct was simply too vast, and the distances too far especially with the internal transport network down, for those furthermost groups of captives and Jaffas to reach the stargate before the coming impact.
But many could, those who were captured the earliest, or who were picked out to be transferred the soonest. These ones, fortunate in their misfortune, were already on the way under escort. Children among them formed the largest proportion, part of the reason being their value as potential slaves, and also a measure of mercy by certain Jaffa officers who wished to spare them the cruel spectacle of their abused kindred. Officers like Kejar of Ladnarn, rough men with decades of war and rapine under their belt yet tempered by their own familial duties and a lingering sense of compassion that even Goa’uld rule couldn’t completely stamp out in human minds.
But mercy was in short supply on Freedom Station as Cristina Brackman would have acquiesced, had her mind not been shattered by the slaying of her unique son and the revelation of her husband’s death, immediately followed by her own degradation at the hands of Jaffas who did not exhibit a single trait of kindness. She was the first, but in the time she’d remained conscious, when the first rough men lowered their breeches between her splayed thighs and forced themselves inside her she heard and glimpsed the same thing happening to more of the women around the plaza, and the staff weapons used as clubs to make room for the gang rapes. Her mind slipped away among the screams and yelps and whimpers and the grotesque sucking and sloshing noises of violent intercourse, her last conscious sight, through the tears blurring her vision, was the leering face of the warrior – was it the third ? the fourth ? she couldn’t count – tearing her insides apart and the hungry drool coming from the foul-breathing face over her.
She was too far gone to notice when her last rapist hurriedly pulled away with a wet slurping sound, cursing in frustration, and left her laying like a corpse in a puddle of blood and sperm. It didn’t matter to her anymore. Nothing did.
Nor did the civilians’ fate really mattered to Kheshmet. If some of them made it through the gate, so much the better, but it would be scant consolation if the station was blown up – with her inside. And there was absolutely no chance of a timely escape for her and her spearhead troops.
But they weren’t far from the prize. Only one last manned line of defense remained ahead, and then they would be facing the armored doors separating the control center from the rest of the station. But it was a fairly defensible position, as the Ancient designers had maybe intended.
Making her way forward in hurried strides, Kheshmet brought up the schematics of the Core on her ocular display, the ghostly X-ray like vision provided by the exquisitely sophisticated portable subspace scanner built into her war gear. There was no dampening field in activity, and the entire core sector was laid out before her eyes, bulkhead and decks and internal spaces. Yet the peeled open structure didn’t reveal any obvious bypass, and she knew from Carter’s memories that the classic air vent method of infiltration was closed as well, the core being its own self-contained life support cell.
The only way was the obvious way – barring drilling though meters of the ultra strong hull material, which wasn’t an option in such narrow a timeframe.
Whatever the reasoning behind it - defensibility or aesthetics - the designers of the station had followed the “core” metaphor closely, and suspended the nervous center of the construct at its very heart, a metallic kernel nested inside its own hollowed, cavern-like husk, its diameter equivalent to the length of a football field. Thick anchoring pillars crossed the void between the vast seed and its envelope, providing support and damping through complex piston-mounted attachment points as well as a convenient pathway for the redundant bundles of cabling providing connectivity to and from the control center to the rest of the station. These attachment points were apparently capable of unplugging from the core according to the Alliance techs who had rappelled down to observe them closely, leading them to speculate that maybe the control center also doubled as an escape capsule of some sort – but no confirmation could be obtained for that in the time they had before the attack, this mystery just one of the numerous riddles they were struggling to answer when disaster struck.
Access to the center was through a single blast door on the equator, large enough to bring a car through into the lobby beyond, right before the standard sliding doors with their centrally-mounted, sunburst design locking mechanism that led to the Control room itself.
A tubular framed bridge spanned the distance between gate and outer shell, its open sides overlaid with various holographic notices and status displays hovering above the slender safety railing. Environmental conditions and transportation schedules seemed to make up most of those, and the latter were blinking interruptions of service in dreary amber tones, a testament to the disruption brought about by the Jaffa assault.
The straight open path was channeling any attack into a single killing ground, and the last defenders were sheltering behind makeshift barricades hastily welded to the metal floor, using their deported sights to shoot at the Jaffas poking their heads and staff weapons around the corners of the distant T-shaped intersection. Shock grenades could not be used effectively as the defenders could, and did, shoot them before they rolled close enough, blowing up the little metallic spheres in great geysers of sparks – those that didn’t fall overboard anyway; and too far also for the Jaffas to rush through – the number of mail-clad corpses laying across the contested ground marked it in letters of blood.
The Goa’uld leader sighed inwardly. At least, she reflected with relief, the primitive defenders hadn’t been able to activate whatever technological barriers might otherwise have impaired an attack – force fields or auto tracking energy weapons, she imagined – and this meant that a determined assault had a chance to succeed.
But she would have to do it herself. Well, she smiled hungrily, violence was what she lived for, wasn’t it ?
Outside Freedom Station
Far above the desolate planet’s surface and opposite the moon-sized construct looming over it for past eons, another artificial object hung in the void’s eternal silence. Mankind’s greatest achievement it was once thought, the last hope if its creators, a weapon and a shield together. Immensely strong load structures cradling cryovaults and cargo pods, vast radiation screen stretched like sails between those and the titanic engines at the ship’s tail end, and dark wings extended along its cylindrical length, cold and dark now that the fantastic waste heat from the annihilation of matter and antimatter had had months to radiate away.
But if the passengers had left, the vast ship was still alive. It had been left slumbering for a while, its vast power unneeded, but still manned and maintained by a rotation of crews. Someone was always maintaining the watch inside the command deck, ready to answer a call from the newly established colony or one of the smaller ships surveying the system for exploitable resources, and monitoring the other crewmen scattered across the giant’s frame.
It was, all in all, a dull job, far from the main source of excitement, and the duty officer spent hours staring at status displays that were self-monitoring anyway. And there was a limit to how long one could passively gape at the external camera repeaters. Even the grandiose parade of the pristine planet below grew old after a while.
And as the saying went, boredom was the mother of all vices, or so thought Rose O’Hare whenever she was stuck in the duty couch. Boredom was of course a staple of life as a Space Force lieutenant, and long rotations spent alone with her own mind as sole companion could lead even a properly reared American gal to bottomless pits of personal depravation, a fact that she’d long learnt to live with and deal with the occasional bouts of shame as she looked herself in a mirror after a particularly vivid fantasizing session.
After all, it wasn’t her fault if the solitude and quiet of the flight deck was just so auspicious to the kind of self-play the young spacer had grown to fancy ; and so it was that she was deeply ensconced in the delightful process of pleasuring herself, writhing inside the couch’s zero-gee restraints, her flight suit unzipped and half-discarded, one hand busy fondling her breast while the other slipped and thrust between her legs in cadence with the animated pictures on her personal compslate – the unfolded flat screen floating above her and showing one of her private (and so very encrypted) collection of bootlegged Draka-porn movies in fabulous high resolution, when the distress call from Freedom Station came and abruptly cut down her building climax, the high-priority tag barely allowing her to hastily mute the moaning and grunting soundtrack and draw up the flapping halves of her flight suit before the video link opened automatically.
Fortunately perhaps, the wild-eyed rating at the other end was in such a state of disarray himself that he didn’t pick up on Rose’s own disheveled and flushed appearance.
Since then, the New America’s skeleton crew had stayed at high alert. No more frolicking for Lt O’Hare either, and a somber anxious mood fell upon the vast ship as the dozen men and women gathered on the command deck and took turns manning the stations with scattered and increasingly dire reports from the colony as the sole distraction in their vigil.
Until at last the order came from the General, the one order they’d dreaded receiving for it meant all hope was lost and nothing was left but a blazing last act of defiance.
The New America was to ram Freedom Station at full thrust and therefore ensure its complete destruction. Samothrace would not fall in servitude, were the words that came across the carrier waves, hard-edged and hate-filled.
And so they prepared to carry out their duty with the mixture of gravity and solemn resignation that befit such a moment. Engineering began the steady and deliberate process of bringing up the enormous engines up to operating status while Navigation went over orbital charts and plotted a least-time collision vector. Alone in the dark, the colossal mothership corrected its orientation with almost agonizing slowness as house-sized flying wheels fought the inertia of hundreds of thousand tons, and structural frames as strong as anything ever built before them groaned soundlessly as carbon nanotube-infused metallic-ceramic compounds fought against enormous shear loads.
Finally, as all the preparations were completed, a man-made sun lit up inside the main engine’s magnetic containment fields, an oversized torch whose output could sterilize entire regions at the height of its power, and the New America became for the second time the second most brilliant object in the sky.
Inside Freedom Station – The Core
The lull was the longest so far. Almost fifteen minutes without a tattooed warrior poking his head around and getting shot – maybe they’d learnt the lesson the last time they’d tried assaulting the bridge. Or maybe they were running out of bodies. The Marine – one of the last surviving ones – snorted behind his face shield, crouched behind the panel of metal improvising as a makeshift crenellation and kept the muzzle of his rifle, along with the computerized sight attachment, pointing towards the far side, where the enemy hid even now.
These bastards must have an inexhaustible supply of cannon fodder unlike his own side. He shook his head nervously. Sooner or later ammunition would run out, and the handful of men defending the path to the control center would be dead. But then the station would be destroyed and the bastards would be denied their prize. He only had to hold until then. Not too long. Soon. The harassed soldier licked his lips without thinking, his mind unwilling, unable, to think beyond the next minutes that were all that remained.
Across the disputed gulf, beyond the scorched and pitted arch leading to the rest of the station, waited the thirty hand picked Jaffas left under Kejar’s tactical command. Not a single one was left without a mark of the fighting they’d been through. Rents in the mail they wore, streaks of blood and gore matting their armor, cuts and superficial wounds already clotting on their exposed flesh. Sweat and grime and other body fluids – theirs and others’. The ones who’d died, either alongside or facing them, and they made a long list already. The names of fallen warriors would be honored by their comrades and their family, or barring that, in the afterlife they were promised, basking in the glorious light of the gods who walked the mortal plane in bodies of eternal flesh. As to the fallen adversaries, who knew, maybe they’d find forgiveness in time.
Kejar stood with a slight hunch, gripping his staff weapon and using it as support. He was weary despite his enhanced constitution, tired and weary, but this didn’t worry him. He knew he’d find a surge of strength whenever called for, a certainty borne of experience. He didn’t say a word. His men were arrayed around the murderous gate, keeping out of sight but weapons ready. All of them were echoing his own mood on their faces – tense, tired but eager to end this battle – though not to the point of rushing headlong into waiting gunfire. That, they’d rather leave to the young and hot-headed, the ones who were keen to reap glory in battle and ended up more often than not dead with a smoking hole in their chest. There was enough of those on the bridge. Fools, a part of Kejar’s mind scolded. Their group leaders had sneered at him as they walked past, and he’d happily obliged. He knew their type, and he was still alive after all those years.
What he needed was a shielded staff cannon. Alas, these were ungainly and had to be wheeled along. He’d asked for one, and was told that one was on the way from An’chokwit. But it would take hours to arrive. And apparently there was a new urgency, judging by the tone in Kheshmet’s voice when she’d spoken to him through the talk-magic.
Whatever was the problem, he’d know soon, he reasoned. Hopefully, he’d even survive this.
The first thing that something was about to happen was the noise coming from the far side. Or, more accurately, the chanting that started and grew louder in seconds, loud enough that the sheltering Marine didn’t need to strain to discern the words.
Thirty coarse throats were chanting and thirty metal rods were striking the floor in cadence.
KREE KREE! KHESHMET, KREE!
The humans’ blood froze as they recognized the name of their hateful enemy, the alien thing masquerading as one of theirs and claiming to be some kind of god – a demon, more like, a hell-spawned succubus thirsting for the blood of innocents ; and they readied their rifles once more.
Kheshmet strutted down the connecting passage between her warriors, projecting an outward appearance of serene confidence for their benefit. Their display of awe and loyalty a song to her ears, flattering her species’ vanity even though she affected not to value their lives other than as mere tools to be expended in pursuit of her goals – which were first and foremost to please her own lord and master, of course, for despite her being a Goa’uld and thus being no stranger to her kind’s ravenous hunger for power she was above all a product of her master’s shaping, the offspring of Baal’s most unique trait of genius among his peers : that he was, of all the System Lords, the one most dedicated and accomplished at distilling a genuine sense of steadfast loyalty among his close lieutenants, beginning with the precious and jealously guarded queen that provided him with the supply of juvenile symbiotes that were destined to become his realm’s guardians and enforcers.
Of those, Kheshmet prided herself in being the very best. She would not fail, not so close to winning, and a handful of pathetic humans were not to stop her, she thought in bloodlust. Her fingers closed on the hilt of her ceremonial blade, the thin dagger of finest trinium alloy enhanced by its own powered cutting field, perfectly balanced despite the ornate pattern of golden filigree and ruby gems embellishing its lethal elegance. An assassin’s weapon, torn from the bloody hand of its previous owner as befitted its deathly nature.
The blade and the Kara’kesh in her left palm were all she needed in the restricted battlefield. Her shield would protect against the enemy’s projectile weapons until she was in their midst – then she would slaughter them.
She took a deeper breath just before the portal, and then she stepped in sight of the waiting defenders. The first bullets struck her protective energy bubble in ripples of golden light and she neglected them, her focus intent on the path laying ahead, plotting her footsteps among treacherous piled corpses and slick bloody floor plates in the span of a single heartbeat. And then she entered her dance, from sedate walk to bounding run, feet barely touching ground as she went from one unobstructed patch of ground to another, a huntress’ grin on her lips. She felt invulnerable, she felt like Death incarnate, and she reached the first barricade and the human cowering behind, trying to raise his weapon against her – this could be dangerous in close proximity, inside the perimeter of the shield bubble.
But there was no chance for that. Her host body, fortified and enhanced by her symbiotic powers, was too fast, too attuned to her will, and she kicked the rifle away in the middle of her leap, opening the soldier’s guard an allowing her to land right onto him. Her left hand pushed forward, her open palm snapping against the top of his helmet and uncovering his throat, in time for her right to thrust the dagger deep into the man’s neck, piercing the ballistic fabric effortlessly.
She rolled away from the already-dead man and rose again, left hand extended. A burst of kinetic force speared towards her next target and slammed its body like a giant’s fist. He fell dead, his internal organs reduced to pulp, a dislocated sack of meat and broken bones tumbling down the void over the bridge without a single cry. She laughed, standing in place arrogantly, contemptuous of the fire still coming at her without effect, and flashed her eyes at the remaining defenders, unable to resist the urge to gloat and taunt.
“WATCH YOUR DOOM COMING!” she called out mockingly.
It was at this moment that the last figment of hope left the last defenders, but they poured in fire nonetheless, emptying their last magazines without consideration of the future – for they knew it was futile, but there was nothing else to do. And Kheshmet stood as bullet after bullet turned to crystalline dust against her shield, until the last rifle fell silent.
There was complete quiet as crystal dust settled down in the acrid reek of propellant fumes, the warrior Goa’uld facing her remaining opponents, mirrored in immobility. Then it was time for her to end their lives, and she did so with relish and efficiency, allowing a minimum of flourish to her lethal motions. Air turned into moving masses of concrete, smashing faces and limbs as her kara’kesh unleashed its destructive energies, and blood arced away from her blade as she moved through them, striking fast and hard like an angry snake.
At last she stood before the entrance of the Core, covered in the blood of her fallen victims, her chest heaving under the clingy material of her suit, her Jaffas standing ready behind.
Ten minutes remained in the countdown to the station’s destruction, and inside the Core the Lefarge’s last men and women felt their stomachs turn to lead as the first overcharged bolts of plasma began to batter the gates.
The answer wasn’t exactly what the arrogant Goa’uld commander had expected. Those humans were helpless. Their warriors were all dead, or scattered and unable to fight back. Their families, women and children were at her mercy, and of those women many were even now being used by the late-arriving Jaffas as warrior’s relief, their cries and pleas sweet to her ears. Maybe she ought to have made them wait until the station was fully secured for that, a small part of her mind objected, but she didn’t really care.
Her shock troops had fought valiantly. Losses were acceptable, not crippling. The only remaining opposition was locked up in the Core, behind thick safety bulkheads and armored doors, and they could not operate whatever defensive systems the station may have. Primitive and foolish to defy her will.
And yet they did – this general Lefarge did. Oh, she understood fully well. With her host’s memories an open book to read, the man’s motivation was easy to comprehend. But understanding wasn’t acceptation, and she bristled in contained anger at the human’s impudent resistance. The glow in her eyes and the arrogance in her features were matched by the hardness of the uniformed human’s eyes and the hateful set of his jaw.
She’d offered a reasonable bargain, too. One that she even intended to follow honestly. But once the short delay had ticked out and the time had come to receive the Alliance commander’s answer… it was a short, steadfast, defiant “No.”
“No?” Kheshmet took a second to digest the unwelcome response. “No?” she repeated, incredulous, eyes flashing almost reflexively. “I’m offering you your life, and the lives of your people – and you dare say no?” she added, switching to her Goa’uld voice.
“No” Lefarge answered again, each subsequent word delivered with scalpel-cut precision. “No, these lives are not yours to offer. They’re only yours to take. But there is one thing you cannot take,” he paused. “And that’s our freedom. The choice you offered? Life for servitude? We rejected it once already.” His voice became more passionate, more animated as he went on. “If the choice is between slavery or death, then we’ll choose death. Liberty or death! We will never be anyone’s slaves!” he growled through the intercom screen.
“Then you will die” Kheshmet interjected, “all of you!”
A sinister smirk answered.
“We’ll die, but it will be a death of our own choosing. The last free humans are not going to die meekly under your butcher’s knife, you flesh-wearing abomination” Lefarge spat venomously, “whoever, whatever you really are under this stolen skin, you will not,” his voice rose, “have us BOW BEFORE YOU!” he roared away, red with fury, and Kheshmet recoiled almost without realizing, her face expressing shock and disbelief.
Before she could summon a retort, Lefarge went on, gleeful almost.
“I have ordered the New America on a collision course with this station,” malice glinted in his eyes. “There is less than thirty minutes before impact, and strong as this hull can be, I doubt it can withstand several thousand tons of antimatter crashing through.” He laughed, a short, mocking laugh. “Freedom Station will never be yours, abomination!”
Then the link was cut, and Kheshmet stood wordless at the blank screen, her mind churning to process what the rebellious human had just said. Especially the last part. The parasitic being delved into the memories of its unwilling host, ignoring the faint repressed personality still lingering there powerless, and dug out its knowledge on the interstellar spacecraft aboard which those humans had made the journey from their distant world to the present system. Ramp up times and acceleration figures popped up and checked against orbital parameters, going by the position of the New America as Carter remembered it. The thirty minutes delay was making sense, and there was no way to avoid it – she had no assets outside the damn facility, not even a single Deathglider, and the damned human parasite cruisers inside the hangar bay were preventing her Jaffas from approaching the station’s small ships, assuming she could even operate some of them.
She couldn’t count on Baal’s own Ha’tak arriving in time to prevent the collision either. It was scheduled to arrive soon – but how soon was that? It could be five minutes away, or an hour. She couldn’t afford to wait!
Hypothetical outcomes and avenues of action flashed through the Goa’uld commander’s mind. In truth there weren’t many options, nor were there any certainties – that impudent human general had well and truly blindsided her with his irrational death wish, his refusal to accept his fate. A small detached part of her approved the display of ruthlessness, but that was no consolation nor solution to her immediate conundrum.
No, the only hope to salvage her mission… was the mission itself. If she could gain access to the station’s control room and directly interface with the systems… the construct had to possess defenses, and if she could activate them she could deal with the colony ship’s suicide charge. If. If. But those “if” were the best cards she was left with. And there was no question at all whether the General was bluffing. He was not, she could see it and hear it. That was a man with nothing left to lose.
So she had to take action.
Orders snapped out of her mouth as she set herself in motion. Her words were relayed to her officers helmets throughout the construct and the troops they were leading burst into action together as sharp commands were bellowed across halls and chambers, a flurry of movement that rapidly set itself into order despite the apparent haste.
Inside the occupied habitats helpless captives were hurried on their feet by motioning and gesturing Jaffas, the urgent prodding and beating if they didn’t move fast enough bringing an understanding that the alien words didn’t. Disarmed men, women and children became a mass of stampeding cattle as whips and plasma bolts lashed at their heels, corralled into the vast station’s passageways with a unique destination, the outlying room containing the stargate. As the warrior flood had gone the prisoner crowd went in reverse, clogging the station’s arteries and capillaries to burst – but not all had a remote chance of making through. The vast Ancient construct was simply too vast, and the distances too far especially with the internal transport network down, for those furthermost groups of captives and Jaffas to reach the stargate before the coming impact.
But many could, those who were captured the earliest, or who were picked out to be transferred the soonest. These ones, fortunate in their misfortune, were already on the way under escort. Children among them formed the largest proportion, part of the reason being their value as potential slaves, and also a measure of mercy by certain Jaffa officers who wished to spare them the cruel spectacle of their abused kindred. Officers like Kejar of Ladnarn, rough men with decades of war and rapine under their belt yet tempered by their own familial duties and a lingering sense of compassion that even Goa’uld rule couldn’t completely stamp out in human minds.
But mercy was in short supply on Freedom Station as Cristina Brackman would have acquiesced, had her mind not been shattered by the slaying of her unique son and the revelation of her husband’s death, immediately followed by her own degradation at the hands of Jaffas who did not exhibit a single trait of kindness. She was the first, but in the time she’d remained conscious, when the first rough men lowered their breeches between her splayed thighs and forced themselves inside her she heard and glimpsed the same thing happening to more of the women around the plaza, and the staff weapons used as clubs to make room for the gang rapes. Her mind slipped away among the screams and yelps and whimpers and the grotesque sucking and sloshing noises of violent intercourse, her last conscious sight, through the tears blurring her vision, was the leering face of the warrior – was it the third ? the fourth ? she couldn’t count – tearing her insides apart and the hungry drool coming from the foul-breathing face over her.
She was too far gone to notice when her last rapist hurriedly pulled away with a wet slurping sound, cursing in frustration, and left her laying like a corpse in a puddle of blood and sperm. It didn’t matter to her anymore. Nothing did.
Nor did the civilians’ fate really mattered to Kheshmet. If some of them made it through the gate, so much the better, but it would be scant consolation if the station was blown up – with her inside. And there was absolutely no chance of a timely escape for her and her spearhead troops.
But they weren’t far from the prize. Only one last manned line of defense remained ahead, and then they would be facing the armored doors separating the control center from the rest of the station. But it was a fairly defensible position, as the Ancient designers had maybe intended.
Making her way forward in hurried strides, Kheshmet brought up the schematics of the Core on her ocular display, the ghostly X-ray like vision provided by the exquisitely sophisticated portable subspace scanner built into her war gear. There was no dampening field in activity, and the entire core sector was laid out before her eyes, bulkhead and decks and internal spaces. Yet the peeled open structure didn’t reveal any obvious bypass, and she knew from Carter’s memories that the classic air vent method of infiltration was closed as well, the core being its own self-contained life support cell.
The only way was the obvious way – barring drilling though meters of the ultra strong hull material, which wasn’t an option in such narrow a timeframe.
Whatever the reasoning behind it - defensibility or aesthetics - the designers of the station had followed the “core” metaphor closely, and suspended the nervous center of the construct at its very heart, a metallic kernel nested inside its own hollowed, cavern-like husk, its diameter equivalent to the length of a football field. Thick anchoring pillars crossed the void between the vast seed and its envelope, providing support and damping through complex piston-mounted attachment points as well as a convenient pathway for the redundant bundles of cabling providing connectivity to and from the control center to the rest of the station. These attachment points were apparently capable of unplugging from the core according to the Alliance techs who had rappelled down to observe them closely, leading them to speculate that maybe the control center also doubled as an escape capsule of some sort – but no confirmation could be obtained for that in the time they had before the attack, this mystery just one of the numerous riddles they were struggling to answer when disaster struck.
Access to the center was through a single blast door on the equator, large enough to bring a car through into the lobby beyond, right before the standard sliding doors with their centrally-mounted, sunburst design locking mechanism that led to the Control room itself.
A tubular framed bridge spanned the distance between gate and outer shell, its open sides overlaid with various holographic notices and status displays hovering above the slender safety railing. Environmental conditions and transportation schedules seemed to make up most of those, and the latter were blinking interruptions of service in dreary amber tones, a testament to the disruption brought about by the Jaffa assault.
The straight open path was channeling any attack into a single killing ground, and the last defenders were sheltering behind makeshift barricades hastily welded to the metal floor, using their deported sights to shoot at the Jaffas poking their heads and staff weapons around the corners of the distant T-shaped intersection. Shock grenades could not be used effectively as the defenders could, and did, shoot them before they rolled close enough, blowing up the little metallic spheres in great geysers of sparks – those that didn’t fall overboard anyway; and too far also for the Jaffas to rush through – the number of mail-clad corpses laying across the contested ground marked it in letters of blood.
The Goa’uld leader sighed inwardly. At least, she reflected with relief, the primitive defenders hadn’t been able to activate whatever technological barriers might otherwise have impaired an attack – force fields or auto tracking energy weapons, she imagined – and this meant that a determined assault had a chance to succeed.
But she would have to do it herself. Well, she smiled hungrily, violence was what she lived for, wasn’t it ?
Outside Freedom Station
Far above the desolate planet’s surface and opposite the moon-sized construct looming over it for past eons, another artificial object hung in the void’s eternal silence. Mankind’s greatest achievement it was once thought, the last hope if its creators, a weapon and a shield together. Immensely strong load structures cradling cryovaults and cargo pods, vast radiation screen stretched like sails between those and the titanic engines at the ship’s tail end, and dark wings extended along its cylindrical length, cold and dark now that the fantastic waste heat from the annihilation of matter and antimatter had had months to radiate away.
But if the passengers had left, the vast ship was still alive. It had been left slumbering for a while, its vast power unneeded, but still manned and maintained by a rotation of crews. Someone was always maintaining the watch inside the command deck, ready to answer a call from the newly established colony or one of the smaller ships surveying the system for exploitable resources, and monitoring the other crewmen scattered across the giant’s frame.
It was, all in all, a dull job, far from the main source of excitement, and the duty officer spent hours staring at status displays that were self-monitoring anyway. And there was a limit to how long one could passively gape at the external camera repeaters. Even the grandiose parade of the pristine planet below grew old after a while.
And as the saying went, boredom was the mother of all vices, or so thought Rose O’Hare whenever she was stuck in the duty couch. Boredom was of course a staple of life as a Space Force lieutenant, and long rotations spent alone with her own mind as sole companion could lead even a properly reared American gal to bottomless pits of personal depravation, a fact that she’d long learnt to live with and deal with the occasional bouts of shame as she looked herself in a mirror after a particularly vivid fantasizing session.
After all, it wasn’t her fault if the solitude and quiet of the flight deck was just so auspicious to the kind of self-play the young spacer had grown to fancy ; and so it was that she was deeply ensconced in the delightful process of pleasuring herself, writhing inside the couch’s zero-gee restraints, her flight suit unzipped and half-discarded, one hand busy fondling her breast while the other slipped and thrust between her legs in cadence with the animated pictures on her personal compslate – the unfolded flat screen floating above her and showing one of her private (and so very encrypted) collection of bootlegged Draka-porn movies in fabulous high resolution, when the distress call from Freedom Station came and abruptly cut down her building climax, the high-priority tag barely allowing her to hastily mute the moaning and grunting soundtrack and draw up the flapping halves of her flight suit before the video link opened automatically.
Fortunately perhaps, the wild-eyed rating at the other end was in such a state of disarray himself that he didn’t pick up on Rose’s own disheveled and flushed appearance.
Since then, the New America’s skeleton crew had stayed at high alert. No more frolicking for Lt O’Hare either, and a somber anxious mood fell upon the vast ship as the dozen men and women gathered on the command deck and took turns manning the stations with scattered and increasingly dire reports from the colony as the sole distraction in their vigil.
Until at last the order came from the General, the one order they’d dreaded receiving for it meant all hope was lost and nothing was left but a blazing last act of defiance.
The New America was to ram Freedom Station at full thrust and therefore ensure its complete destruction. Samothrace would not fall in servitude, were the words that came across the carrier waves, hard-edged and hate-filled.
And so they prepared to carry out their duty with the mixture of gravity and solemn resignation that befit such a moment. Engineering began the steady and deliberate process of bringing up the enormous engines up to operating status while Navigation went over orbital charts and plotted a least-time collision vector. Alone in the dark, the colossal mothership corrected its orientation with almost agonizing slowness as house-sized flying wheels fought the inertia of hundreds of thousand tons, and structural frames as strong as anything ever built before them groaned soundlessly as carbon nanotube-infused metallic-ceramic compounds fought against enormous shear loads.
Finally, as all the preparations were completed, a man-made sun lit up inside the main engine’s magnetic containment fields, an oversized torch whose output could sterilize entire regions at the height of its power, and the New America became for the second time the second most brilliant object in the sky.
Inside Freedom Station – The Core
The lull was the longest so far. Almost fifteen minutes without a tattooed warrior poking his head around and getting shot – maybe they’d learnt the lesson the last time they’d tried assaulting the bridge. Or maybe they were running out of bodies. The Marine – one of the last surviving ones – snorted behind his face shield, crouched behind the panel of metal improvising as a makeshift crenellation and kept the muzzle of his rifle, along with the computerized sight attachment, pointing towards the far side, where the enemy hid even now.
These bastards must have an inexhaustible supply of cannon fodder unlike his own side. He shook his head nervously. Sooner or later ammunition would run out, and the handful of men defending the path to the control center would be dead. But then the station would be destroyed and the bastards would be denied their prize. He only had to hold until then. Not too long. Soon. The harassed soldier licked his lips without thinking, his mind unwilling, unable, to think beyond the next minutes that were all that remained.
Across the disputed gulf, beyond the scorched and pitted arch leading to the rest of the station, waited the thirty hand picked Jaffas left under Kejar’s tactical command. Not a single one was left without a mark of the fighting they’d been through. Rents in the mail they wore, streaks of blood and gore matting their armor, cuts and superficial wounds already clotting on their exposed flesh. Sweat and grime and other body fluids – theirs and others’. The ones who’d died, either alongside or facing them, and they made a long list already. The names of fallen warriors would be honored by their comrades and their family, or barring that, in the afterlife they were promised, basking in the glorious light of the gods who walked the mortal plane in bodies of eternal flesh. As to the fallen adversaries, who knew, maybe they’d find forgiveness in time.
Kejar stood with a slight hunch, gripping his staff weapon and using it as support. He was weary despite his enhanced constitution, tired and weary, but this didn’t worry him. He knew he’d find a surge of strength whenever called for, a certainty borne of experience. He didn’t say a word. His men were arrayed around the murderous gate, keeping out of sight but weapons ready. All of them were echoing his own mood on their faces – tense, tired but eager to end this battle – though not to the point of rushing headlong into waiting gunfire. That, they’d rather leave to the young and hot-headed, the ones who were keen to reap glory in battle and ended up more often than not dead with a smoking hole in their chest. There was enough of those on the bridge. Fools, a part of Kejar’s mind scolded. Their group leaders had sneered at him as they walked past, and he’d happily obliged. He knew their type, and he was still alive after all those years.
What he needed was a shielded staff cannon. Alas, these were ungainly and had to be wheeled along. He’d asked for one, and was told that one was on the way from An’chokwit. But it would take hours to arrive. And apparently there was a new urgency, judging by the tone in Kheshmet’s voice when she’d spoken to him through the talk-magic.
Whatever was the problem, he’d know soon, he reasoned. Hopefully, he’d even survive this.
The first thing that something was about to happen was the noise coming from the far side. Or, more accurately, the chanting that started and grew louder in seconds, loud enough that the sheltering Marine didn’t need to strain to discern the words.
Thirty coarse throats were chanting and thirty metal rods were striking the floor in cadence.
KREE KREE! KHESHMET, KREE!
The humans’ blood froze as they recognized the name of their hateful enemy, the alien thing masquerading as one of theirs and claiming to be some kind of god – a demon, more like, a hell-spawned succubus thirsting for the blood of innocents ; and they readied their rifles once more.
Kheshmet strutted down the connecting passage between her warriors, projecting an outward appearance of serene confidence for their benefit. Their display of awe and loyalty a song to her ears, flattering her species’ vanity even though she affected not to value their lives other than as mere tools to be expended in pursuit of her goals – which were first and foremost to please her own lord and master, of course, for despite her being a Goa’uld and thus being no stranger to her kind’s ravenous hunger for power she was above all a product of her master’s shaping, the offspring of Baal’s most unique trait of genius among his peers : that he was, of all the System Lords, the one most dedicated and accomplished at distilling a genuine sense of steadfast loyalty among his close lieutenants, beginning with the precious and jealously guarded queen that provided him with the supply of juvenile symbiotes that were destined to become his realm’s guardians and enforcers.
Of those, Kheshmet prided herself in being the very best. She would not fail, not so close to winning, and a handful of pathetic humans were not to stop her, she thought in bloodlust. Her fingers closed on the hilt of her ceremonial blade, the thin dagger of finest trinium alloy enhanced by its own powered cutting field, perfectly balanced despite the ornate pattern of golden filigree and ruby gems embellishing its lethal elegance. An assassin’s weapon, torn from the bloody hand of its previous owner as befitted its deathly nature.
The blade and the Kara’kesh in her left palm were all she needed in the restricted battlefield. Her shield would protect against the enemy’s projectile weapons until she was in their midst – then she would slaughter them.
She took a deeper breath just before the portal, and then she stepped in sight of the waiting defenders. The first bullets struck her protective energy bubble in ripples of golden light and she neglected them, her focus intent on the path laying ahead, plotting her footsteps among treacherous piled corpses and slick bloody floor plates in the span of a single heartbeat. And then she entered her dance, from sedate walk to bounding run, feet barely touching ground as she went from one unobstructed patch of ground to another, a huntress’ grin on her lips. She felt invulnerable, she felt like Death incarnate, and she reached the first barricade and the human cowering behind, trying to raise his weapon against her – this could be dangerous in close proximity, inside the perimeter of the shield bubble.
But there was no chance for that. Her host body, fortified and enhanced by her symbiotic powers, was too fast, too attuned to her will, and she kicked the rifle away in the middle of her leap, opening the soldier’s guard an allowing her to land right onto him. Her left hand pushed forward, her open palm snapping against the top of his helmet and uncovering his throat, in time for her right to thrust the dagger deep into the man’s neck, piercing the ballistic fabric effortlessly.
She rolled away from the already-dead man and rose again, left hand extended. A burst of kinetic force speared towards her next target and slammed its body like a giant’s fist. He fell dead, his internal organs reduced to pulp, a dislocated sack of meat and broken bones tumbling down the void over the bridge without a single cry. She laughed, standing in place arrogantly, contemptuous of the fire still coming at her without effect, and flashed her eyes at the remaining defenders, unable to resist the urge to gloat and taunt.
“WATCH YOUR DOOM COMING!” she called out mockingly.
It was at this moment that the last figment of hope left the last defenders, but they poured in fire nonetheless, emptying their last magazines without consideration of the future – for they knew it was futile, but there was nothing else to do. And Kheshmet stood as bullet after bullet turned to crystalline dust against her shield, until the last rifle fell silent.
There was complete quiet as crystal dust settled down in the acrid reek of propellant fumes, the warrior Goa’uld facing her remaining opponents, mirrored in immobility. Then it was time for her to end their lives, and she did so with relish and efficiency, allowing a minimum of flourish to her lethal motions. Air turned into moving masses of concrete, smashing faces and limbs as her kara’kesh unleashed its destructive energies, and blood arced away from her blade as she moved through them, striking fast and hard like an angry snake.
At last she stood before the entrance of the Core, covered in the blood of her fallen victims, her chest heaving under the clingy material of her suit, her Jaffas standing ready behind.
Ten minutes remained in the countdown to the station’s destruction, and inside the Core the Lefarge’s last men and women felt their stomachs turn to lead as the first overcharged bolts of plasma began to batter the gates.
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spartasman
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 314
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Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
It's a good story, But I can't help but hate you for what your doing to the Samothracians.
Don't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first.
- Samuel Clemens
- Samuel Clemens
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Yeah... I'm giving them a really shitty treatment, I know. But the worst part is almost over, and then it will improve... back to "almost normal".
An’chokwit, meantime
A medieval fortress with bits of space-age technology thrown around : this was how O’Neill saw the place as he “escorted” Selmak from the ship bay to the part of the compound where the stargate, or chap’pai as the locals called it, was situated. For obvious reasons it was located in the most central and fortified part of the fortress, but the path was straight enough. The Earther was relieved too as the way seemed to circle around the barracks and their concentrations of genuine Jaffas. He wasn’t sure that he could fool a large number of them if left to his own devices, but fortunately Selmak’s presence meant he did all the talking with a smattering of “Kree!” thrown around for good measure.
There was just one tense and awkward time in the journey when the duo had to pass through one of the guarded gates separating sections of the fortress. Selmak made his best to hasten the process, acting arrogant and flashing his eyes to the clerk on duty in best Goa’uld style, yet a trio of passing Jaffas who seemed to be on their way back from training judging fro the strong reek of sweat coming from them, tried to strike a conversation with the lone fellow tailing the stuck-up official.
And O’Neill could not understand a damn word of what they said. For all intents and purposes they could be asking what the weather was like on the planet he came from of when was the last time he had fucked a wench, he thought with trepidation, hiding his nascent panic under an impassive façade and furrowed brows.
Better look like an unfriendly jerk than betray his true identity, he reasoned, praying frantically for Selmak to finish with the paperwork and release him from those fellows’ attention as the Jaffas, puzzled by his lack of response, began to eye him curiously, with expressions whose tone came uncomfortably across as “who’s this moron, did he lose his tongue or what?”.
Sweat was starting to bead on his temples when the Tok’ra came to his rescue, at last, and shooed the nagging warriors away with a few choice words, naturally ending in Kree.
A very relieved O’Neill later asked his companion just what he’d told these Jaffas.
“Simple enough. I told them you were mentally damaged in battle and couldn’t form sentences anymore.”
“Oh. Thank you” the Earther didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice and the Tok’ra shrugged. “Well, it’s a plausible explanation.”
“But aren’t these Jaffas supposed to heal from anything thanks to their implanted symbiote ?”
“Almost anything. Some injuries can’t be repaired, especially those of the central nervous system.”
“So they’re like zombies, shoot ‘em in the head to be sure?”
“Zombies? What are those? Some kind of dangerous animal from your world?”
“Noo… they’re people who come back from the dead and shamble around for all eternity, trying to eat the brains of the living” O’Neill explained happily, although this little piece of Terran lore apparently didn’t impress Selmak.
“That’s the stupidest belief I’ve heard in centuries, and trust me I’ve seen a lot under the System Lords.”
“Hey, we’re not actually believing it!” the Alliance officer interjected defensively. “They’re stories, for fun and entertainment-” the Tok’ra raised a skeptical eyebrow “-it’s movie stuff, to watch while eating popcorn –but you wouldn’t know what popcorn is, right”.
“Your people’s customs are strange, O’Neill” the alien spy observed. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing one of those movies. Novel entertainment is hard to come by, nowadays.”
“Tell you what, if we manage to save Freedom Station I’ll make sure that you see Attack of the Janissary Zombies. It’s the best classic ever!”
“I’ll look forward to that, O’Neill.”
But all sense of levity left the duo soon afterwards when they finally entered the hall of the chap’pai. Far from the open-air stargates found on most planets in Goa’uld domains, this one was adequately sheltered and protected as befitted the status of its world. In a cathedral-sized hall it stood on a raised dais of black stone, at the end of a parallel alignment of man-sized marble pillars flanking the path from entrance to stargate. A floor of black stone, polished by generations of iron-shod warriors, and narrow windows of blood-red stained glass were the other major features, the combination intended to strike fear and awe undoubtedly in the eyes of those who walked down the grand hall, an effect that the storm raging outside complemented, howling wind barely dulled by the massive stonework and lightning coming through the glass in stroboscopic crimson.
The vast space wasn’t empty. Blocks of Jaffa infantry were arrayed on the sides, their armor glistening under the blood light as if already covered in gore, and O’Neill quick estimation counted at least two thousand of them in the hall alone, ready to cross the star portal to kill, slaughter and pillage his people. There were other implements of war, things that looked like the gun carriages of Earth’s past history when muskets were still the primary weapon of the infantry, but the guns themselves were not things of milled iron, their shapes too reminiscent of the Jaffas’ energy weapons, only larger in scale.
The two operatives stood on the edge of the three-story tall entrance arch for a brief moment, taking in the sight of Baal’s arrayed army and O’Neill made a quiet whistle, too low for any nearby guard to hear, and deliberately refrained from gawking around the vast hall. Still, sideway glances brought more details to observation, such as the various stalls hugging the walls either side of the entrance. Merchant stalls, it seemed, most of them offering various steaming dishes for the Jaffas’ nourishment – those who weren’t standing in formation and ready to transit through the stargate at least, seemed to trump boredom by lapping up bowls of soups or stews or tea analogues and chatting in clumps of threes and fours.
It was a contrast between the back of the hall where Jaffas and locals seemed to mingle and trade wares, and the areas closer to the stargate itself where strict martial order was apparently maintained, without a physical separation between the two. To the Alliance officer it was definitely an alien way of proceeding, but it felt strangely in keeping with the otherwise ancient-medieval ways of the place. At least the aromas wafting about from the food stalls weren’t too unpleasant.
Nor was the sight of injured and inanimate warriors carried in makeshift slings by their comrades down up the aisle. There seemed to be some kind of rough triage going on, the obviously dead being carried through one of the smaller sideway doors and the merely injured and walking wounded going through another – probably to another section of the complex, an infirmary if such a thing existed here.
At least the bastards were paying for this, he thought.
He followed Selmak as the Tok’ra spy threaded a path through the milling crowd, the golden rod of officialdom held at shoulder level being enough of a “get out of the way” sign. To O’Neill’s respite they weren’t drawing too many stares – evidently such a sight as a Goa’uld mid-level official and his Jaffa escort wasn’t uncommon, especially on the staging grounds of an invasion.
They walked up the basilica-sized building, keeping to the side, behind the waiting blocks of infantry, past rank after rank of close-cropped or shaved heads, immobile warriors statuesque in the shifting light cast by flickering torches and lightning strobes, until at last they reached the vicinity of the star portal.
Another Goa’uld was standing there at the dialing pedestal. The mushroom shaped apparatus was offset from the stargate itself, stationed upon its own raised cubicle on the right of the central alley, a location that not only afforded an elevated vantage point on the rest of the hall’s expanse but also shielded the precious device from any direct fire coming from the stargate thanks to its thick waist-height stone sides.
Selmak went up the short stairs, ignoring the pair of guards stationed at the bottom, who didn’t tried to interfere despite the minute, but noticeable to an attentive eye, stiffening of their posture. No doubt they trusted their nearby superior to warn them if something was amiss, but O’Neill ‘s instinct warned him to stay back. It probably wouldn’t be in character to follow his “master” up the dialing platform, and so he elected to stay put and just enough out of reach of the guards to defuse any attempt at conversation.
There he waited, slouching a little on his staff weapon in the nonchalant waiting posture he’d seen the other warriors use, and projected an appearance of utter disinterest that belied his heightened awareness of the sights and sounds around him. He was in the heart of the enemy machine, an intelligence operative’s professional dream and his senses were running at peak performance, leaving nothing out. Later, he knew, he would be able to revisit the scene in detail from memory alone.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched the exchange taking place between his ally and the Goa’uld in charge of controlling the transit through the stargate. This particular one evidently subscribed to the species’ more exuberant fashion camp, or maybe it was a general attitude among the female-hosted ones, going by Kheshmet’s own style. Not that he could really formulate a general theory on Goa’uld attire based on such a limited number of examples, but still, they sure seemed to enjoy flaunting their physical perfection.
This one was a brunette with a mix of features that couldn’t really be linked to any single race of old Earth, but would have been consistent with a mostly Eurasian lineage, for the delicate traits and barely noticeable epicanthic fold, spiced with a dash of Latin American, for the duskier skin tone of light caramel.
A model’s figure and narrow waist, legs appropriately long and slender and breasts impossibly firm under a short tunic of supple iridescent leather – the material of which O’Neill surmised to have come from some sea-dwelling beast, maybe related to the present world’s oceans – that clung to her curves in a very risqué manner, together made for a sight that could have jumped straight from a pre-War cutting edge fashion show – and likely one taking place in Archona.
The comparison struck O’Neill’s mind just as he made it. Just how similar those Goa’uld were to the Draka, in their ways, was mind-numbingly eerie. A shared evilness, and propensity towards showing off without a single ounce of shame. If God was real, the skeptical Earther reflected one more time in his career, his Creation was displaying a rather sadistic sense of humor at work.
The female Goa’uld frowned as she took the passport and fake travel orders presented by Selmak. Fortunately, it seemed to be a display of mild impatience rather than suspicion, probably for disrupting her neat schedule, and she handed the document back shortly. More words followed along with some arm gestures that encompassed the mass of troops waiting beyond, as if to say “just look at the stuff I have to deal with already!”, but whatever token argument she made for the sake of appearing busy didn’t last long before she agreed on Selmak’s demand, and the Tok’ra left her with a small bow of courtesy.
His back facing the pedestal and its occupant to ensure that she couldn’t read his lips, and speaking just loud enough to be understood by his apparent escort but not the nearest Jaffas, he rapidly explained.
“I checked with the gate master back there” he referred to the Goa’uld minion “we’re going to follow the next reinforcements to the station in a couple minutes.” A nod of understanding came back, and both then stood silent in anticipation.
The wait wasn’t long. Following a cue from the gate master’s, the Jaffa signalman standing next to the stargate raised an unadorned horn and blew powerfully, briefly filling the entire hall with a deep brass note that reverberated between the stone walls and eclipsed every other sound. Immediately, the warriors forming the block closest to the blue-grey ring moved forward in lockstep onto the central path, where in a textbook display of formation marching they faced left and tightened their ranks to form a column, six men abreast, without so much as a shout other than the initial “Kree!” that spurred them into motion.
As the warriors reformed their lines the gate master pressed the combination on the dialing board, and the wormhole rushed into being right as the martial choreography ended, prompting the Alliance soldier to wonder if the synchronization was deliberate. Probably, he surmised. These people did seem to take the basics seriously, whatever their other shortcomings – especially for men who were otherwise kept in a pseudo-medieval state of superstition.
A second call of the horn, a variation on the first note, rose in the air, and the company started forward in quick step, almost a jog, in order to clear the path for the following troops already moving in position behind.
The fourth company was making its transit, and after it a pair of the wheeled gun carriages were being manhandled forward, when something happened to break the orderly process.
Outside of the duo’s attention, the Goa’uld in control of the transit stiffened and raised her hand to her ear, the one containing the minuscule communication bead that kept her in touch with the far side assault force’s commanders. An unconscious, automatic gesture, followed by a sudden widening of her eyes in surprise and then alarm, immediately suppressed as her self-control reasserted itself.
An instant later her voice boomed across the section of the hall and froze the Jaffas in their tracks, then sent them back with a direct command, away from the gate and running back to the side they came from, their former marching discipline temporarily forgotten in favor of maximum swiftness.
As they did so the connection to the distant stargate shut down – only to reappear seconds later as an incoming wormhole and allow the recently departed Jaffas to pour through, in the reverse order and in noticeably less orderly fashion.
Hope burst in O’Neill’s heart – the bastards were fleeing! – only to be crushed a moment later. For among the retreating warriors were being dragged and carried clumps of bedraggled inhabitants of Freedom Station – none of them military. Children, he realized with horror, screaming and beating their captors with their fists to little effect, and then women, no… young women, barely out of teen age, the torn clothing and marks of abuse visible on their bodies evidence enough of their fate.
Decades of military experience and dangerous special assignments suddenly slipped out of the Earther’s mind. The sight was perhaps too much, his own mental scars too fresh ; a hate-filled growl came through gritted teeth, foot lifting in a forward step – on the verge of making an irreparable, and deadly mistake the Alliance man was saved by his ally. A hand pressed on his arm firmly, the urgent grip bringing reality back to a mind that was almost too far gone.
Words, urgently whispered to his ear.
“O’Neill! O’Neill! Control yourself, for both our sakes’, you can’t do anything now! Something’s happening, we have to wait!”
Selmak’s near-frantic murmurs broke the spell at last, before anyone else could have remarked anything untoward in the false Jaffa’s attitude – thankfully the present sight was dragging everyone’s attention to the stargate and the crowd passing through, until the flow ebbed to a mere trickle as the freshly arrived troops and the captives already gathered near Freedom Station’s stargate were through.
Minutes went past without so much as an explanation being provided to the duo as the gate master and her aides struggled to control and orient the fresh arrivals, and those minutes felt like the longest in the Major’s life.
An’chokwit, meantime
A medieval fortress with bits of space-age technology thrown around : this was how O’Neill saw the place as he “escorted” Selmak from the ship bay to the part of the compound where the stargate, or chap’pai as the locals called it, was situated. For obvious reasons it was located in the most central and fortified part of the fortress, but the path was straight enough. The Earther was relieved too as the way seemed to circle around the barracks and their concentrations of genuine Jaffas. He wasn’t sure that he could fool a large number of them if left to his own devices, but fortunately Selmak’s presence meant he did all the talking with a smattering of “Kree!” thrown around for good measure.
There was just one tense and awkward time in the journey when the duo had to pass through one of the guarded gates separating sections of the fortress. Selmak made his best to hasten the process, acting arrogant and flashing his eyes to the clerk on duty in best Goa’uld style, yet a trio of passing Jaffas who seemed to be on their way back from training judging fro the strong reek of sweat coming from them, tried to strike a conversation with the lone fellow tailing the stuck-up official.
And O’Neill could not understand a damn word of what they said. For all intents and purposes they could be asking what the weather was like on the planet he came from of when was the last time he had fucked a wench, he thought with trepidation, hiding his nascent panic under an impassive façade and furrowed brows.
Better look like an unfriendly jerk than betray his true identity, he reasoned, praying frantically for Selmak to finish with the paperwork and release him from those fellows’ attention as the Jaffas, puzzled by his lack of response, began to eye him curiously, with expressions whose tone came uncomfortably across as “who’s this moron, did he lose his tongue or what?”.
Sweat was starting to bead on his temples when the Tok’ra came to his rescue, at last, and shooed the nagging warriors away with a few choice words, naturally ending in Kree.
A very relieved O’Neill later asked his companion just what he’d told these Jaffas.
“Simple enough. I told them you were mentally damaged in battle and couldn’t form sentences anymore.”
“Oh. Thank you” the Earther didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice and the Tok’ra shrugged. “Well, it’s a plausible explanation.”
“But aren’t these Jaffas supposed to heal from anything thanks to their implanted symbiote ?”
“Almost anything. Some injuries can’t be repaired, especially those of the central nervous system.”
“So they’re like zombies, shoot ‘em in the head to be sure?”
“Zombies? What are those? Some kind of dangerous animal from your world?”
“Noo… they’re people who come back from the dead and shamble around for all eternity, trying to eat the brains of the living” O’Neill explained happily, although this little piece of Terran lore apparently didn’t impress Selmak.
“That’s the stupidest belief I’ve heard in centuries, and trust me I’ve seen a lot under the System Lords.”
“Hey, we’re not actually believing it!” the Alliance officer interjected defensively. “They’re stories, for fun and entertainment-” the Tok’ra raised a skeptical eyebrow “-it’s movie stuff, to watch while eating popcorn –but you wouldn’t know what popcorn is, right”.
“Your people’s customs are strange, O’Neill” the alien spy observed. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing one of those movies. Novel entertainment is hard to come by, nowadays.”
“Tell you what, if we manage to save Freedom Station I’ll make sure that you see Attack of the Janissary Zombies. It’s the best classic ever!”
“I’ll look forward to that, O’Neill.”
But all sense of levity left the duo soon afterwards when they finally entered the hall of the chap’pai. Far from the open-air stargates found on most planets in Goa’uld domains, this one was adequately sheltered and protected as befitted the status of its world. In a cathedral-sized hall it stood on a raised dais of black stone, at the end of a parallel alignment of man-sized marble pillars flanking the path from entrance to stargate. A floor of black stone, polished by generations of iron-shod warriors, and narrow windows of blood-red stained glass were the other major features, the combination intended to strike fear and awe undoubtedly in the eyes of those who walked down the grand hall, an effect that the storm raging outside complemented, howling wind barely dulled by the massive stonework and lightning coming through the glass in stroboscopic crimson.
The vast space wasn’t empty. Blocks of Jaffa infantry were arrayed on the sides, their armor glistening under the blood light as if already covered in gore, and O’Neill quick estimation counted at least two thousand of them in the hall alone, ready to cross the star portal to kill, slaughter and pillage his people. There were other implements of war, things that looked like the gun carriages of Earth’s past history when muskets were still the primary weapon of the infantry, but the guns themselves were not things of milled iron, their shapes too reminiscent of the Jaffas’ energy weapons, only larger in scale.
The two operatives stood on the edge of the three-story tall entrance arch for a brief moment, taking in the sight of Baal’s arrayed army and O’Neill made a quiet whistle, too low for any nearby guard to hear, and deliberately refrained from gawking around the vast hall. Still, sideway glances brought more details to observation, such as the various stalls hugging the walls either side of the entrance. Merchant stalls, it seemed, most of them offering various steaming dishes for the Jaffas’ nourishment – those who weren’t standing in formation and ready to transit through the stargate at least, seemed to trump boredom by lapping up bowls of soups or stews or tea analogues and chatting in clumps of threes and fours.
It was a contrast between the back of the hall where Jaffas and locals seemed to mingle and trade wares, and the areas closer to the stargate itself where strict martial order was apparently maintained, without a physical separation between the two. To the Alliance officer it was definitely an alien way of proceeding, but it felt strangely in keeping with the otherwise ancient-medieval ways of the place. At least the aromas wafting about from the food stalls weren’t too unpleasant.
Nor was the sight of injured and inanimate warriors carried in makeshift slings by their comrades down up the aisle. There seemed to be some kind of rough triage going on, the obviously dead being carried through one of the smaller sideway doors and the merely injured and walking wounded going through another – probably to another section of the complex, an infirmary if such a thing existed here.
At least the bastards were paying for this, he thought.
He followed Selmak as the Tok’ra spy threaded a path through the milling crowd, the golden rod of officialdom held at shoulder level being enough of a “get out of the way” sign. To O’Neill’s respite they weren’t drawing too many stares – evidently such a sight as a Goa’uld mid-level official and his Jaffa escort wasn’t uncommon, especially on the staging grounds of an invasion.
They walked up the basilica-sized building, keeping to the side, behind the waiting blocks of infantry, past rank after rank of close-cropped or shaved heads, immobile warriors statuesque in the shifting light cast by flickering torches and lightning strobes, until at last they reached the vicinity of the star portal.
Another Goa’uld was standing there at the dialing pedestal. The mushroom shaped apparatus was offset from the stargate itself, stationed upon its own raised cubicle on the right of the central alley, a location that not only afforded an elevated vantage point on the rest of the hall’s expanse but also shielded the precious device from any direct fire coming from the stargate thanks to its thick waist-height stone sides.
Selmak went up the short stairs, ignoring the pair of guards stationed at the bottom, who didn’t tried to interfere despite the minute, but noticeable to an attentive eye, stiffening of their posture. No doubt they trusted their nearby superior to warn them if something was amiss, but O’Neill ‘s instinct warned him to stay back. It probably wouldn’t be in character to follow his “master” up the dialing platform, and so he elected to stay put and just enough out of reach of the guards to defuse any attempt at conversation.
There he waited, slouching a little on his staff weapon in the nonchalant waiting posture he’d seen the other warriors use, and projected an appearance of utter disinterest that belied his heightened awareness of the sights and sounds around him. He was in the heart of the enemy machine, an intelligence operative’s professional dream and his senses were running at peak performance, leaving nothing out. Later, he knew, he would be able to revisit the scene in detail from memory alone.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched the exchange taking place between his ally and the Goa’uld in charge of controlling the transit through the stargate. This particular one evidently subscribed to the species’ more exuberant fashion camp, or maybe it was a general attitude among the female-hosted ones, going by Kheshmet’s own style. Not that he could really formulate a general theory on Goa’uld attire based on such a limited number of examples, but still, they sure seemed to enjoy flaunting their physical perfection.
This one was a brunette with a mix of features that couldn’t really be linked to any single race of old Earth, but would have been consistent with a mostly Eurasian lineage, for the delicate traits and barely noticeable epicanthic fold, spiced with a dash of Latin American, for the duskier skin tone of light caramel.
A model’s figure and narrow waist, legs appropriately long and slender and breasts impossibly firm under a short tunic of supple iridescent leather – the material of which O’Neill surmised to have come from some sea-dwelling beast, maybe related to the present world’s oceans – that clung to her curves in a very risqué manner, together made for a sight that could have jumped straight from a pre-War cutting edge fashion show – and likely one taking place in Archona.
The comparison struck O’Neill’s mind just as he made it. Just how similar those Goa’uld were to the Draka, in their ways, was mind-numbingly eerie. A shared evilness, and propensity towards showing off without a single ounce of shame. If God was real, the skeptical Earther reflected one more time in his career, his Creation was displaying a rather sadistic sense of humor at work.
The female Goa’uld frowned as she took the passport and fake travel orders presented by Selmak. Fortunately, it seemed to be a display of mild impatience rather than suspicion, probably for disrupting her neat schedule, and she handed the document back shortly. More words followed along with some arm gestures that encompassed the mass of troops waiting beyond, as if to say “just look at the stuff I have to deal with already!”, but whatever token argument she made for the sake of appearing busy didn’t last long before she agreed on Selmak’s demand, and the Tok’ra left her with a small bow of courtesy.
His back facing the pedestal and its occupant to ensure that she couldn’t read his lips, and speaking just loud enough to be understood by his apparent escort but not the nearest Jaffas, he rapidly explained.
“I checked with the gate master back there” he referred to the Goa’uld minion “we’re going to follow the next reinforcements to the station in a couple minutes.” A nod of understanding came back, and both then stood silent in anticipation.
The wait wasn’t long. Following a cue from the gate master’s, the Jaffa signalman standing next to the stargate raised an unadorned horn and blew powerfully, briefly filling the entire hall with a deep brass note that reverberated between the stone walls and eclipsed every other sound. Immediately, the warriors forming the block closest to the blue-grey ring moved forward in lockstep onto the central path, where in a textbook display of formation marching they faced left and tightened their ranks to form a column, six men abreast, without so much as a shout other than the initial “Kree!” that spurred them into motion.
As the warriors reformed their lines the gate master pressed the combination on the dialing board, and the wormhole rushed into being right as the martial choreography ended, prompting the Alliance soldier to wonder if the synchronization was deliberate. Probably, he surmised. These people did seem to take the basics seriously, whatever their other shortcomings – especially for men who were otherwise kept in a pseudo-medieval state of superstition.
A second call of the horn, a variation on the first note, rose in the air, and the company started forward in quick step, almost a jog, in order to clear the path for the following troops already moving in position behind.
The fourth company was making its transit, and after it a pair of the wheeled gun carriages were being manhandled forward, when something happened to break the orderly process.
Outside of the duo’s attention, the Goa’uld in control of the transit stiffened and raised her hand to her ear, the one containing the minuscule communication bead that kept her in touch with the far side assault force’s commanders. An unconscious, automatic gesture, followed by a sudden widening of her eyes in surprise and then alarm, immediately suppressed as her self-control reasserted itself.
An instant later her voice boomed across the section of the hall and froze the Jaffas in their tracks, then sent them back with a direct command, away from the gate and running back to the side they came from, their former marching discipline temporarily forgotten in favor of maximum swiftness.
As they did so the connection to the distant stargate shut down – only to reappear seconds later as an incoming wormhole and allow the recently departed Jaffas to pour through, in the reverse order and in noticeably less orderly fashion.
Hope burst in O’Neill’s heart – the bastards were fleeing! – only to be crushed a moment later. For among the retreating warriors were being dragged and carried clumps of bedraggled inhabitants of Freedom Station – none of them military. Children, he realized with horror, screaming and beating their captors with their fists to little effect, and then women, no… young women, barely out of teen age, the torn clothing and marks of abuse visible on their bodies evidence enough of their fate.
Decades of military experience and dangerous special assignments suddenly slipped out of the Earther’s mind. The sight was perhaps too much, his own mental scars too fresh ; a hate-filled growl came through gritted teeth, foot lifting in a forward step – on the verge of making an irreparable, and deadly mistake the Alliance man was saved by his ally. A hand pressed on his arm firmly, the urgent grip bringing reality back to a mind that was almost too far gone.
Words, urgently whispered to his ear.
“O’Neill! O’Neill! Control yourself, for both our sakes’, you can’t do anything now! Something’s happening, we have to wait!”
Selmak’s near-frantic murmurs broke the spell at last, before anyone else could have remarked anything untoward in the false Jaffa’s attitude – thankfully the present sight was dragging everyone’s attention to the stargate and the crowd passing through, until the flow ebbed to a mere trickle as the freshly arrived troops and the captives already gathered near Freedom Station’s stargate were through.
Minutes went past without so much as an explanation being provided to the duo as the gate master and her aides struggled to control and orient the fresh arrivals, and those minutes felt like the longest in the Major’s life.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Freedom Station, the Core
Only seven minutes to go, Lefarge thought. Death was on its way – whether it came through the New America crashing against the station, or administered by the twisted thing that wore Carter’s skin, it didn’t matter any more.
And to be true, he told himself, death would almost be welcome. Maybe it would free him from the crushing burden of failure, utter failure at saving his people. Their escape from Sol was only a temporary respite afforded by the uncaring universe, a gnawing voice whispered to his mind. He didn’t prevent the Draka from winning the war. And he doomed the survivors by allowing Carter onboard. No, he couldn’t have known! He countered the voice. How was he supposed to know? How?
It didn’t matter! His men were dead, those who tried to defend the station while he cowered inside the control center. Children and women, left defenseless to capture and servitude. He might as well have tattooed a serf barcode on their neck ten years ago!
Standing alone in front of the inner doors, the gun in his hand feeling far heavier more than it should, there was nothing more to do but await the end. A futile gesture of defiance, he knew – but what else was a leader to do in defeat? He’d told the others to keep to the back, behind the rows of consoles. Not out of hope – in fact, he didn’t exactly know why. He just felt that way. It was his own fight now, at last.
The worst thing, not knowing if his family was even still alive or already dead. Or worse, enslaved. The locator beacons had become useless as the radio relays were destroyed by the fighting inside the station, deliberately targeted by the attackers it seemed, and radio waves didn’t exactly travel well through metal bulkheads.
Regret. Such marvels they were only able to glimpse, so many possibilities. Freedom Station could have been the new start they all needed… maybe a way to bring the fight back to Sol, to pay the Snakes back.
A louder impact, and a crash that was felt through the deck soles, followed by a strong reek of burnt metal and plastic. They were in.
The gun rose, fingers tightened around the well-worn grip. Aiming right where the first intruder’s head ought to appear… soon…
The familiar click-whirl of the lock. Ancient panels slid apart with a hiss.
The gunshot rang, almost deafening inside the enclosed space, and another, and another, as the General emptied his magazine.
For nothing. Bullet after bullet plowed into the immaterial barrier of Kheshmet’s protective shield, golden light rippling in thin air. Almost unnoticed, the small dinging of flattened slugs dropping to the floor out of momentum.
More hideous than ever, the cruel smirk of triumph on Kheshmet’s face. Carter’s lips, betraying her people with promises of pain and death. Walking with the sureness of one who expects no possible resistance, the Goa’uld commander entered, her Jaffas quick on her heels to fan around, weapons ready to cover every corner of the room.
“It’s over, General Lefarge” she simply said.
“Oh no it’s not,” he spat back “You’re going to die here with us, freak!”.
“I don’t think so.” She smiled coolly. “But you are.”
The strike was swift, quicker than the Earther could realize. One second he was standing in front of her, the next… she was inside his reach, her face only inches apart from his eyes, and her left hand gripped his the back of his neck as in a lover’s embrace. A cruel perversion of one, for there was neither love nor tenderness in the glowing stare drilling into his own eyes. It was the touch of Death instead, and he felt almost belatedly a keen stabbing pain in his chest as her right hand drove the dagger fully into his heart, past body armor and ballistic fabric.
Kheshmet kept him locked in place, supporting the man with her own strength as his departed, drinking his expression of shock and betrayal like a divine elixir, her own face mocking and triumphant, her murderous delight made even more intense by the mental screams of Samantha Carter faintly echoing in her mind.
Her latest victim’s eyes glazed at last, locked in the same expression forever, and she released her grip, letting the body collapse at her feet.
Then she took in the surroundings fully, noting how her Jaffas were already subduing the shell-shocked Alliance survivors, but her true attention wasn’t focused on the struggles and cries of the vanquished. She strode forward, eyes locked on the true goal, the thing that justified everything. The command chair on its vantage platform, the true nerve center of the station, her instinct screamed. It was more than intuition, more than a deduction made from her vast technological knowledge. It was as if something else, something deeper drove her towards the device, a primal call that came from her species most atavistic compulsions, beyond conscious analysis.
She paused right before the throne-like seat. It was curiously unadorned, far from the ornate chairs her race favored as expressions of their rule. Padding and metal, utilitarian if comfortable, framed with various repeaters that were currently folded in their stowage positions. She ran a finger on the armrest and felt the ancient leather-like material’s grain against her tips.
Then, almost religiously, she sat down, noting how the chair automatically adapted to the shape of her body with a faint whirring of servos. She relaxed in the hugging caress of the chair and let her head lean against the cushioned rest. A faint hum came from the surrounding mechanism, and blue light glowed soothingly around her.
She saw the metal-covered ends of the armrest slide away under her hands, revealing twin pads made of a soft gel-like substance. She took the invitation and pushed her fingers onto the warm yielding surface, welcoming the electric tingle that ran from it into her nerves. Her face relaxed into a placidly content expression as the station’s nervous system began to merge with hers, and she didn’t remark the metal fingers that extruded from the seat frame to lock her other limbs in place.
Her attention was already swallowed by the process commencing, and her mind only distantly felt the cold touch of the metal tips against her temples completing the physical connection between flesh and machine.
Her eyes closed on their own accord, but it didn’t matter anyway. She saw through another medium now, and her mind seemed to float upwards as it was gathered and expanded into the ancient computer mainframe that responded to her neural impulses, those same impulses she’d used to interact with Goa’uld technology for all her life. She didn’t think of wondering why it happened so smoothly – maybe, if she had, things would have happened otherwise – she let it click inside her mind.
It took less than a second in the outside world, but inside the new world she entered time didn’t have the same meaning.
Sector after sector, system after system, data node after data node, her mind merged with the station’s long-dormant one, and she felt the vast construct come alive around her. Systems and capabilities that no one among the Alliance crew had suspected were laid out as extensions of herself. She was the station, its systems were talking to her. She was no longer a being of flesh and bone, she was metal and crystal and arcane fields of energy, and the station’s Voice spoke to her like a twin.
[FONT="Courier New"]Organic interface and transfer modes adjusted for new user. Neural merge complete. Command link active.
Status ?[/FONT] Kheshmet's disembodied persona inquired in manner that was neither talk not written word.[FONT="Courier New"]
Preliminary systems diagnostic completed.
Minor damage found inside inhabited volume. Time to complete repair : 178 hours, 23 seconds, barring additional damage.
All primary systems fully operational. Maintenance schedule unchanged. Secondary diagnostics in progress-
Priority warning, external threat detected. Starship of unregistered design on a collision course. Impact in 1 minutes 8 seconds. Defensive measures will be taken in the absence of an immediate course change.
It won’t change course, take defensive measures now!
Command input accepted. Analysis… [/FONT]
Optical signals and electrical impulses ran through Freedom Station’s internal data paths from the Core and its commanding intelligence to the periphery. Active scanning instruments came to life inside the vast construct’s skin, subspace-based arrays powered up and began to send their great waves of energy rippling away in the immaterial boundary skein between the visible, tangible universe and the parallel and separate, yet inextricably entwined dimensional mirror image of exotic energies and particles that was hyperspace, focusing on the infinitesimal – at this scale – volume where the New America flew headlong towards self-destruction.
The sensors probed through multidimensional geometries, unimpeded by the simple alloys and shielding of the Earth-built starship, and the station’s intelligence established the magnitude of the threat to its integrity.
[FONT="Courier New"]Scan complete. Target composition includes contained stabilized antimatter in a quantity sufficient to catastrophically disrupt hull integrity even at full protective shield strength.
Fuck!
Unable to comply. Organic reproductive intercourse is not a part of my functions. User command interpreted as indicative of frustration. [/FONT]
Had she not been neutrally linked to the computer, Kheshmet would have rolled her eyes in annoyance. As it was, she couldn’t even think of herself as a self-contained entity, engrossed as she was in the system. In fact, and she didn’t even realize it, her own consciousness was, at the moment, residing more inside the Core’s voluminous crystalline processing substrates than inside the cells of her own body and host.
There was no time to dwell on self-analysis, though, even in this accelerated state of consciousness.
She was a soldier and a commander, and her mind tackled the situation at hand, calling up data and figures and seamlessly meshing them into simulated scenarii of action, noting the predicted outcomes. And she smiled, or at least the disincarnate projection of herself in the machine did the equivalent.
[FONT="Courier New"]Raise the shield and concentrate field strength to cover the side exposed to the threat.
It won’t be enough to block a localized energy release of this magnitude,[/FONT] the station’s gestalt echoed in return.
[FONT="Courier New"]It won’t have to. Not if this energy’s released before it’s directly touching us.[/FONT]
She felt the understanding of the machine mind engulf her.
[FONT="Courier New"]Energy armament charging. Opening firing apertures for heavy plasma batteries. Targeting arrays calibrated, firing solution set. Ready to fire. [/FONT]
Outside, massive shutters, built into the geometrical motifs adorning the city-sized expanses of alloy that made up the station’s hull, opened themselves with a smooth celerity that belied their titanic size. Out of those artificial caverns came the cylindrical shapes of the Ancient colony’s heavy energy cannons, dark and austere, as their long dead designers had elected to eschew any embellishment that could have softened and lessened the terrible nature of their purpose.
They were huge things, sized in proportion with the mighty bulk of the construction they were intended to protect, and were fed by reactors that dwarfed anything aboard mere starships. Their power was intended by their peace-loving creators to deter an aggression, but these and their ideals were long past, and Freedom Station’s new directing mind was only too content to find such lethal instruments at her call.
Kheshmet willed them to fire. It was no mere word spoken in virtuality, but the purest expression of her fusion with the machine. In a brief instant, Freedom Station was her and she was Freedom Station, and she felt orgasmic release feeding back to her consciousness when the titanic energy was unleashed.
Three of the guns fired at once in perfect synchronization and three projectiles made of the matter found at the heart of a star, pockets of plasma brought to staggering high density and temperature and encased in volatile self-stabilized containment fields, streaked towards their target at a high fraction of the speed of light.
Their goal was so close – relative to the vast scale of space – that it was struck almost instantaneously. The spidery frame and the fragile structures it supported were obliterated, their size inconsequential in the face of such power. Whole sections evaporated instantly, rows of empty cryotubes and storage banks and life support machinery vanishing in the devouring maelstrom. But even this was almost inconsequential, when a fraction of a second later the racing tide of destruction reached the engine section of the New America and its antimatter storage.
A new star lit up in Samothrace’s sky, expanding and swallowing even the fiery wake left by the destroyed ship’s engine beforehand. Matter and its exotic nemesis annihilated each other in one single orgiastic release of hard radiation and searing radiance that expanded outwards at the speed of light.
Its waves slammed into Freedom Station’s shield like a tsunami battering a stone bulwark and mad ripples of iridescent light danced across its surface, bright and colorful enough to blot out the structure sheltering behind for several seconds.
And then, as suddenly as it came, it was over, and space returned to its cold dark state again. Of the New America, there was not a trace, not even a drifting atom. It was as is it had never existed, swallowed in ultimate entropy.
Inside the Core, astonished Jaffas stood mouth agape at the curving walls of the control center, where they had just witnessed the titanic event taking place outside. Their minds, though deliberately kept in ignorance of the true nature of things, guessed anyway that their leader had to have invoked such powerful magic, of the kind that made the gods’ great palaces of metal fly between worlds and throw fire and lightning at their enemies.
They also knew that they were still alive, and that it meant victory, certainly. And so, like a man, they cheered thunderously, oblivious to the tears of despair shed by their captives who knew exactly what the great flash in the sky meant.
[FONT="Courier New"]Target destroyed. No threat remaining. Shutting down shield and weapons.
No damage.
Resuming standard operations.[/FONT]
Kheshmet pulled back from the fascinating sensory experience – senses she could never have felt with her organic body – back to the gestalt intelligence’s dwelling space, back to her own place in the merged consciousness, like twin beings operating in near-perfect synchronization rather than the fully incarnate state she had just experienced. She still felt the station around her, like an extended and vast body, but it was no longer like being it, it was more like wearing it, the conscious realization reached to her. Still, she marveled at the experience and its fullness – nothing of her past existence came close to it, and she became aware of just how crude and limited the works of her race were, pale imitations of the Gatebuilders’ true glory.
And she didn’t even mind that realization, as mesmerized as she was by the new world of possibilities at her fingertips. Abruptly, the very temptation she had so efficiently repressed in all her past existence flared into the forefront of her thoughts.
With that much power and knowledge, what and who could stop her ? She could become more than any one of the System Lords, more than Baal himself, she could carve herself an empire greater than Ra’s mythical glory – it was possible, she knew it now.
With the genetic memory of the Goa’uld in her and the vast untapped data in the ancient station’s memory banks, she could –
[FONT="Courier New"]Anomaly detected. Full user bioscan required.
Bioscan in progress.[/FONT]
With a cold stab of surprise and dread, Kheshmet felt the intimate link between the station’s gestalt and herself dissolve without warning. She was still inside the virtual world, still connected to the virtual space, but reduced to something that was far less than what she’d just been, just her own mind and senses that were provided for by a foreign machine.
It was as if she was a prisoner thrust inside a blank featureless cell, and in this white fog of nothingness the only thing remaining was the station’s not-quite-voice, distant and uncaring.
[FONT="Courier New"]Anomalous reading confirmed, analyzing.
Foreign tissue detected. Nature : unregistered Menta Auxilia type symbiotic organism.
Warning, symbiotic neuro-enhancement subsystem found operating substantially outside safe parameters. Severe impairment of central nervous system. Presence of parasitic processes inside host mindspace.
Analysis.
Removal of symbiotic organism following standard established procedure : impossible with available facilities.
Alternate : recalibration of symbiotic processes to baseline operating parameters and restoration of normal user functionality.
Preparing interface for recalibration.[/FONT]
[FONT="Courier New"]Wait! Wait! What do you mean, what are you- No, NOOOOOOOOO-[/FONT]
The thing that was Kheshmet understood too late. It was, in a way, ironic that she, alone of all her species - save one very peculiar one whose hate was fueled by this very knowledge - understood the true nature of her kind right as the consequence caught up with her.
She was, in any case, unable to do anything to escape her fate as Freedom Station’s caretaking intelligence, acting on instructions left by its creators millions of years ago, thrust its own questing tendrils through her host body’s skin and bones and interfaced with the hijacked nervous system inside Samantha Carter’s skull.
A buzzing sensation, and – like a candle in the wind, Kheshmet’s consciousness dissolved as the system overwrote its neural pathways, releasing the kidnapped soul it had suppressed so far.
With a sudden jolt, Samantha Carter opened her eyes and her mouth, at last, released her long bottled-up scream.
Only seven minutes to go, Lefarge thought. Death was on its way – whether it came through the New America crashing against the station, or administered by the twisted thing that wore Carter’s skin, it didn’t matter any more.
And to be true, he told himself, death would almost be welcome. Maybe it would free him from the crushing burden of failure, utter failure at saving his people. Their escape from Sol was only a temporary respite afforded by the uncaring universe, a gnawing voice whispered to his mind. He didn’t prevent the Draka from winning the war. And he doomed the survivors by allowing Carter onboard. No, he couldn’t have known! He countered the voice. How was he supposed to know? How?
It didn’t matter! His men were dead, those who tried to defend the station while he cowered inside the control center. Children and women, left defenseless to capture and servitude. He might as well have tattooed a serf barcode on their neck ten years ago!
Standing alone in front of the inner doors, the gun in his hand feeling far heavier more than it should, there was nothing more to do but await the end. A futile gesture of defiance, he knew – but what else was a leader to do in defeat? He’d told the others to keep to the back, behind the rows of consoles. Not out of hope – in fact, he didn’t exactly know why. He just felt that way. It was his own fight now, at last.
The worst thing, not knowing if his family was even still alive or already dead. Or worse, enslaved. The locator beacons had become useless as the radio relays were destroyed by the fighting inside the station, deliberately targeted by the attackers it seemed, and radio waves didn’t exactly travel well through metal bulkheads.
Regret. Such marvels they were only able to glimpse, so many possibilities. Freedom Station could have been the new start they all needed… maybe a way to bring the fight back to Sol, to pay the Snakes back.
A louder impact, and a crash that was felt through the deck soles, followed by a strong reek of burnt metal and plastic. They were in.
The gun rose, fingers tightened around the well-worn grip. Aiming right where the first intruder’s head ought to appear… soon…
The familiar click-whirl of the lock. Ancient panels slid apart with a hiss.
The gunshot rang, almost deafening inside the enclosed space, and another, and another, as the General emptied his magazine.
For nothing. Bullet after bullet plowed into the immaterial barrier of Kheshmet’s protective shield, golden light rippling in thin air. Almost unnoticed, the small dinging of flattened slugs dropping to the floor out of momentum.
More hideous than ever, the cruel smirk of triumph on Kheshmet’s face. Carter’s lips, betraying her people with promises of pain and death. Walking with the sureness of one who expects no possible resistance, the Goa’uld commander entered, her Jaffas quick on her heels to fan around, weapons ready to cover every corner of the room.
“It’s over, General Lefarge” she simply said.
“Oh no it’s not,” he spat back “You’re going to die here with us, freak!”.
“I don’t think so.” She smiled coolly. “But you are.”
The strike was swift, quicker than the Earther could realize. One second he was standing in front of her, the next… she was inside his reach, her face only inches apart from his eyes, and her left hand gripped his the back of his neck as in a lover’s embrace. A cruel perversion of one, for there was neither love nor tenderness in the glowing stare drilling into his own eyes. It was the touch of Death instead, and he felt almost belatedly a keen stabbing pain in his chest as her right hand drove the dagger fully into his heart, past body armor and ballistic fabric.
Kheshmet kept him locked in place, supporting the man with her own strength as his departed, drinking his expression of shock and betrayal like a divine elixir, her own face mocking and triumphant, her murderous delight made even more intense by the mental screams of Samantha Carter faintly echoing in her mind.
Her latest victim’s eyes glazed at last, locked in the same expression forever, and she released her grip, letting the body collapse at her feet.
Then she took in the surroundings fully, noting how her Jaffas were already subduing the shell-shocked Alliance survivors, but her true attention wasn’t focused on the struggles and cries of the vanquished. She strode forward, eyes locked on the true goal, the thing that justified everything. The command chair on its vantage platform, the true nerve center of the station, her instinct screamed. It was more than intuition, more than a deduction made from her vast technological knowledge. It was as if something else, something deeper drove her towards the device, a primal call that came from her species most atavistic compulsions, beyond conscious analysis.
She paused right before the throne-like seat. It was curiously unadorned, far from the ornate chairs her race favored as expressions of their rule. Padding and metal, utilitarian if comfortable, framed with various repeaters that were currently folded in their stowage positions. She ran a finger on the armrest and felt the ancient leather-like material’s grain against her tips.
Then, almost religiously, she sat down, noting how the chair automatically adapted to the shape of her body with a faint whirring of servos. She relaxed in the hugging caress of the chair and let her head lean against the cushioned rest. A faint hum came from the surrounding mechanism, and blue light glowed soothingly around her.
She saw the metal-covered ends of the armrest slide away under her hands, revealing twin pads made of a soft gel-like substance. She took the invitation and pushed her fingers onto the warm yielding surface, welcoming the electric tingle that ran from it into her nerves. Her face relaxed into a placidly content expression as the station’s nervous system began to merge with hers, and she didn’t remark the metal fingers that extruded from the seat frame to lock her other limbs in place.
Her attention was already swallowed by the process commencing, and her mind only distantly felt the cold touch of the metal tips against her temples completing the physical connection between flesh and machine.
Her eyes closed on their own accord, but it didn’t matter anyway. She saw through another medium now, and her mind seemed to float upwards as it was gathered and expanded into the ancient computer mainframe that responded to her neural impulses, those same impulses she’d used to interact with Goa’uld technology for all her life. She didn’t think of wondering why it happened so smoothly – maybe, if she had, things would have happened otherwise – she let it click inside her mind.
It took less than a second in the outside world, but inside the new world she entered time didn’t have the same meaning.
Sector after sector, system after system, data node after data node, her mind merged with the station’s long-dormant one, and she felt the vast construct come alive around her. Systems and capabilities that no one among the Alliance crew had suspected were laid out as extensions of herself. She was the station, its systems were talking to her. She was no longer a being of flesh and bone, she was metal and crystal and arcane fields of energy, and the station’s Voice spoke to her like a twin.
[FONT="Courier New"]Organic interface and transfer modes adjusted for new user. Neural merge complete. Command link active.
Status ?[/FONT] Kheshmet's disembodied persona inquired in manner that was neither talk not written word.[FONT="Courier New"]
Preliminary systems diagnostic completed.
Minor damage found inside inhabited volume. Time to complete repair : 178 hours, 23 seconds, barring additional damage.
All primary systems fully operational. Maintenance schedule unchanged. Secondary diagnostics in progress-
Priority warning, external threat detected. Starship of unregistered design on a collision course. Impact in 1 minutes 8 seconds. Defensive measures will be taken in the absence of an immediate course change.
It won’t change course, take defensive measures now!
Command input accepted. Analysis… [/FONT]
Optical signals and electrical impulses ran through Freedom Station’s internal data paths from the Core and its commanding intelligence to the periphery. Active scanning instruments came to life inside the vast construct’s skin, subspace-based arrays powered up and began to send their great waves of energy rippling away in the immaterial boundary skein between the visible, tangible universe and the parallel and separate, yet inextricably entwined dimensional mirror image of exotic energies and particles that was hyperspace, focusing on the infinitesimal – at this scale – volume where the New America flew headlong towards self-destruction.
The sensors probed through multidimensional geometries, unimpeded by the simple alloys and shielding of the Earth-built starship, and the station’s intelligence established the magnitude of the threat to its integrity.
[FONT="Courier New"]Scan complete. Target composition includes contained stabilized antimatter in a quantity sufficient to catastrophically disrupt hull integrity even at full protective shield strength.
Fuck!
Unable to comply. Organic reproductive intercourse is not a part of my functions. User command interpreted as indicative of frustration. [/FONT]
Had she not been neutrally linked to the computer, Kheshmet would have rolled her eyes in annoyance. As it was, she couldn’t even think of herself as a self-contained entity, engrossed as she was in the system. In fact, and she didn’t even realize it, her own consciousness was, at the moment, residing more inside the Core’s voluminous crystalline processing substrates than inside the cells of her own body and host.
There was no time to dwell on self-analysis, though, even in this accelerated state of consciousness.
She was a soldier and a commander, and her mind tackled the situation at hand, calling up data and figures and seamlessly meshing them into simulated scenarii of action, noting the predicted outcomes. And she smiled, or at least the disincarnate projection of herself in the machine did the equivalent.
[FONT="Courier New"]Raise the shield and concentrate field strength to cover the side exposed to the threat.
It won’t be enough to block a localized energy release of this magnitude,[/FONT] the station’s gestalt echoed in return.
[FONT="Courier New"]It won’t have to. Not if this energy’s released before it’s directly touching us.[/FONT]
She felt the understanding of the machine mind engulf her.
[FONT="Courier New"]Energy armament charging. Opening firing apertures for heavy plasma batteries. Targeting arrays calibrated, firing solution set. Ready to fire. [/FONT]
Outside, massive shutters, built into the geometrical motifs adorning the city-sized expanses of alloy that made up the station’s hull, opened themselves with a smooth celerity that belied their titanic size. Out of those artificial caverns came the cylindrical shapes of the Ancient colony’s heavy energy cannons, dark and austere, as their long dead designers had elected to eschew any embellishment that could have softened and lessened the terrible nature of their purpose.
They were huge things, sized in proportion with the mighty bulk of the construction they were intended to protect, and were fed by reactors that dwarfed anything aboard mere starships. Their power was intended by their peace-loving creators to deter an aggression, but these and their ideals were long past, and Freedom Station’s new directing mind was only too content to find such lethal instruments at her call.
Kheshmet willed them to fire. It was no mere word spoken in virtuality, but the purest expression of her fusion with the machine. In a brief instant, Freedom Station was her and she was Freedom Station, and she felt orgasmic release feeding back to her consciousness when the titanic energy was unleashed.
Three of the guns fired at once in perfect synchronization and three projectiles made of the matter found at the heart of a star, pockets of plasma brought to staggering high density and temperature and encased in volatile self-stabilized containment fields, streaked towards their target at a high fraction of the speed of light.
Their goal was so close – relative to the vast scale of space – that it was struck almost instantaneously. The spidery frame and the fragile structures it supported were obliterated, their size inconsequential in the face of such power. Whole sections evaporated instantly, rows of empty cryotubes and storage banks and life support machinery vanishing in the devouring maelstrom. But even this was almost inconsequential, when a fraction of a second later the racing tide of destruction reached the engine section of the New America and its antimatter storage.
A new star lit up in Samothrace’s sky, expanding and swallowing even the fiery wake left by the destroyed ship’s engine beforehand. Matter and its exotic nemesis annihilated each other in one single orgiastic release of hard radiation and searing radiance that expanded outwards at the speed of light.
Its waves slammed into Freedom Station’s shield like a tsunami battering a stone bulwark and mad ripples of iridescent light danced across its surface, bright and colorful enough to blot out the structure sheltering behind for several seconds.
And then, as suddenly as it came, it was over, and space returned to its cold dark state again. Of the New America, there was not a trace, not even a drifting atom. It was as is it had never existed, swallowed in ultimate entropy.
Inside the Core, astonished Jaffas stood mouth agape at the curving walls of the control center, where they had just witnessed the titanic event taking place outside. Their minds, though deliberately kept in ignorance of the true nature of things, guessed anyway that their leader had to have invoked such powerful magic, of the kind that made the gods’ great palaces of metal fly between worlds and throw fire and lightning at their enemies.
They also knew that they were still alive, and that it meant victory, certainly. And so, like a man, they cheered thunderously, oblivious to the tears of despair shed by their captives who knew exactly what the great flash in the sky meant.
[FONT="Courier New"]Target destroyed. No threat remaining. Shutting down shield and weapons.
No damage.
Resuming standard operations.[/FONT]
Kheshmet pulled back from the fascinating sensory experience – senses she could never have felt with her organic body – back to the gestalt intelligence’s dwelling space, back to her own place in the merged consciousness, like twin beings operating in near-perfect synchronization rather than the fully incarnate state she had just experienced. She still felt the station around her, like an extended and vast body, but it was no longer like being it, it was more like wearing it, the conscious realization reached to her. Still, she marveled at the experience and its fullness – nothing of her past existence came close to it, and she became aware of just how crude and limited the works of her race were, pale imitations of the Gatebuilders’ true glory.
And she didn’t even mind that realization, as mesmerized as she was by the new world of possibilities at her fingertips. Abruptly, the very temptation she had so efficiently repressed in all her past existence flared into the forefront of her thoughts.
With that much power and knowledge, what and who could stop her ? She could become more than any one of the System Lords, more than Baal himself, she could carve herself an empire greater than Ra’s mythical glory – it was possible, she knew it now.
With the genetic memory of the Goa’uld in her and the vast untapped data in the ancient station’s memory banks, she could –
[FONT="Courier New"]Anomaly detected. Full user bioscan required.
Bioscan in progress.[/FONT]
With a cold stab of surprise and dread, Kheshmet felt the intimate link between the station’s gestalt and herself dissolve without warning. She was still inside the virtual world, still connected to the virtual space, but reduced to something that was far less than what she’d just been, just her own mind and senses that were provided for by a foreign machine.
It was as if she was a prisoner thrust inside a blank featureless cell, and in this white fog of nothingness the only thing remaining was the station’s not-quite-voice, distant and uncaring.
[FONT="Courier New"]Anomalous reading confirmed, analyzing.
Foreign tissue detected. Nature : unregistered Menta Auxilia type symbiotic organism.
Warning, symbiotic neuro-enhancement subsystem found operating substantially outside safe parameters. Severe impairment of central nervous system. Presence of parasitic processes inside host mindspace.
Analysis.
Removal of symbiotic organism following standard established procedure : impossible with available facilities.
Alternate : recalibration of symbiotic processes to baseline operating parameters and restoration of normal user functionality.
Preparing interface for recalibration.[/FONT]
[FONT="Courier New"]Wait! Wait! What do you mean, what are you- No, NOOOOOOOOO-[/FONT]
The thing that was Kheshmet understood too late. It was, in a way, ironic that she, alone of all her species - save one very peculiar one whose hate was fueled by this very knowledge - understood the true nature of her kind right as the consequence caught up with her.
She was, in any case, unable to do anything to escape her fate as Freedom Station’s caretaking intelligence, acting on instructions left by its creators millions of years ago, thrust its own questing tendrils through her host body’s skin and bones and interfaced with the hijacked nervous system inside Samantha Carter’s skull.
A buzzing sensation, and – like a candle in the wind, Kheshmet’s consciousness dissolved as the system overwrote its neural pathways, releasing the kidnapped soul it had suppressed so far.
With a sudden jolt, Samantha Carter opened her eyes and her mouth, at last, released her long bottled-up scream.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Well, fuck, how do I put text in another font ?
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
I don't think we can. Sorry.
[line 2]
[line 2]
DPDarkPrimus is my boyfriend!
SDNW4 Nation: The Refuge And, on Nova Terra, Al-Stan the Totally and Completely Honest and Legitimate Weapons Dealer and Used Starship Salesman slept on a bed made of money, with a blaster under his pillow and his sombrero pulled over his face. This is to say, he slept very well indeed.
SDNW4 Nation: The Refuge And, on Nova Terra, Al-Stan the Totally and Completely Honest and Legitimate Weapons Dealer and Used Starship Salesman slept on a bed made of money, with a blaster under his pillow and his sombrero pulled over his face. This is to say, he slept very well indeed.
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Oh well, you'll have to picture the formatting in your head then 
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
could change the color a smidgen, and shame on you blowing up the eath ship, hope most people were off.
"There are very few problems that cannot be solved by the suitable application of photon torpedoes
Re: Stars of Iron, a Stargate-Draka X-over, vol. 2
Yeah, I'll have to come up with a distinct formatting for the computer voice.dragon wrote:could change the color a smidgen, and shame on you blowing up the eath ship, hope most people were off.
The NA was evacuated. What exploded was an empty husk (ok, there was still all the big hardware and antimatter fuel, but the people and the data and the seeds were already off).