STARGATE REBELLION
by
BILL MCCAY

 CHAPTER 1

THREE AWAKENINGS

Dawn was still hours away, but a subtle lightening of the shadows in the
suburban bedroom foretold that sunrise, inevitably, would come. Bit by
tiny bit, Sarah O'Neil could distinguish more and more details on the
dresser and bureaus. She lay propped on one elbow, silently studying her
bedmate in the indistinct gloom.  Soon Colonel Jack O'Neil would be up,
shaved, starched, and off to the nearby Marine base.  Sarah was glad
that his classified tasks now involved deskwork instead of killing
people in the field-for the time being, at least. She'd feared his most
recent mission was to have been his last.  Jack had fallen apart when
their son, Jack Junior, died in a gun accident. Their all-American boy
had joined the casualty lists in a case of friendly fire-from jack's own
pistol.  In the months that followed, Jack had either avoided this bed
or lain beside her, his entire body tight as a clenched fist.  For hours
he'd sat alone in his den, playing with a 1911 Army Colt automatic, an
old-line officer's sidearm, .45 caliber-capable of spattering his brains
all over the wall if he finally decided to swallow the gun barrel. When
the orders came, sending Jack away on another mission, Sarah believed
his superiors were merely aiming him like a piece of ordnance-a
combination suicide bomb and detonator. But Jack had come back.  And she
had been surprised by joy when, even more inexplicably, Jack returned a
healing man.  Their son's death wasn't completely behind him, but
somewhere on this mission he never spoke about, he'd come to terms with
Jack junior's loss.  Jack returned neither as the walking wreckage he'd
been right after the funeral, nor the near parody of the spit-andPolish
officer he'd transformed into upon getting his orders. He'd been-himself
again.  And on his return from wherever, they'd made love for the first
time in too, too long.  As soon as he'd undressed, Sarah saw he had not
had an easy mission.  Technicolor bruises marred Jack's ribs and the pit
of his stomach-souvenirs of brutal hand-to-hand combat. She'd tried to
be gentle.  And the usually gungho colonel had been almost shy, as if he
wasn't sure the pieces would fit together again. They certainly had, and
that had helped the healing. Silently, Sarah examined the familiar
features. From the moment she'd met the cocky young combat corporal,
she'd been struck by the contradiction implicit in his go-to-hell eyes
and his set, determined jaw.  Now the eyes were closed, the jaw
softened.  In the vulnerability of sleep, the elder Jack looked almost
like his lost son. Sarah slid across the bed, wrapping her arms around
her husband as if trying to shield him with her body.  After months of
quiet, she knew that today one of those shadowy superiors Jack answered
to would be coming to the base. He's had so little time to be a human
being-so little practice, she thought as she clung to her husband.  I
hope they won't send him somewhere that will turn him back into a robot
again. On the planet Abydos, Daniel Jackson looked up at the ceiling and
surreptitiously flexed his fingers in an attempt to bring circulation
back to his right arm.  Not that he minded the reason for the lost blood
supply.  Sha'uri's head lay across his biceps as she cuddled against
him, the fine features of her face burrowing into his chest. Daniel had
followed a strange road to get here. Fellow Egyptologists had dismissed
him as a crank for arguing that the sudden flowering of Nile
civilization must have its roots in an earlier culture. But he'd found
an artifact of that predecessor civilization on a hush-hush government
project. He'd christened it a StarGate from hieroglyphics connected with
the find. Then he'd been put to work deciphering cryptic signs on the
StarGate itself, which turned out to represent star constellations.  His
key had allowed government scientists to unlock the StarGate. And,
accompanying a team of recon Marines, Daniel had been hurtled to this
strange planet to find Nagada, Sha'uri-and a vengeful semi-human
creature who ruled Abydos and other worlds as the sun god Ra. Daniel
helped rouse rebellion among the human slaves while the Marines and a
few young rebels battled Ra's guardsmen.  Both Daniel and Sha'uri were
mortally wounded, only to be resurrected by Ra's extraterrestrial
technology-a strange quartz-crystal sarcophagus. Ra explained that his
technology had been the base of later Egyptian civilization, but his
earthly slaves had revolted, burying the StarGate.  Now, millennia
later, he would punish the human homeworld through the reopened gate. He
would send an atomic bomb back to Colorado, amplifying its power with
his mysterious quartz-crystal. Revolt and the efforts of the Marines
forestalled that plan.  In the end, the nuclear blast had destroyed Ra
himself. Daniel decided to stay on Abydos.  The local population had not
only been used shamelessly, they'd been kept illiterate and ignorant of
their past.  Daniel could teach them-while at the same time learning the
roots of Egyptian culture.  Besides, he was living out an adventure of
the sort he'd only expected to see on movie screens.  He'd even wed the
local chief's daughter. Daniel stared up at the cracked adobe-style
ceiling.  There was much to be fixed here.  He'd started by trying to
get the local population literate.  In the past months, he had taught
hieroglyphics to a basic cadre-Sha'uri, several of the local Elders, and
a number of interested townsfolk.  This first generation was now
teaching basic classes while Daniel gave advanced instruction. Today,
his postgrad workshop had met in the secret archives of Nagada.
Generations of secret scribes had filled the walls of a hidden room with
the true history of Ra's infamy, despite the sungod's proscription on
writing.  One of Daniel's first actions was to copy these hieroglyphics.
He remembered Sha'uri's halting translation of one section.  "When those
on Ombos rebelled, Hathor went forth as the Eye of Ra.  She covered that
world in blood, till, wounded, she entered the vault of Ra to sleep ever
since." Daniel was reminded of an Egyptian myth.  To foil a human
revolt, Ra sent cat-headed Hathor, goddess of lust and quick vengeance,
to slaughter the conspirators.  But she developed a taste for blood,
planning to kill all of humanity.  The gods, concerned at the loss of
worshipers, created a lake of beer stained with berry juice.  The
bloodthirsty goddess drank it up, fell into a drunken sleep, and awoke
as her usual light-hearted and sexy self. Now we have the history behind
the myth, Daniel thought.  Thanks to hieroglyphics.  But a voice nagged
from the back of his head.  Maybe you should be teaching these people
English instead. Nagada depended on agriculture and handicrafts-a
subsistence economy, but most of the work force had been miners.  The
city was near a deposit of that quartz-like crystal used in so much of
Ra's technology. It had been a major export, even if the people had
gotten nothing back. it might become a paying export after the
scientists on Earth saw some of the items O'Neil brought back through
the StarGate.  Daniel tried to caution Sha'uri's father Kasuf and other
city

Elders about terrestrial business ethics.  But it was hard even to
explain what a corporation was.  For Kasuf and the others, visitors
through the StarGate were friends, and perhaps heroes. Daniel could only
hope it would stay that way. Sha'uri shifted and sighed.  She opened her
eyes, giving him a sleepy smile.  "Dan-yer," she whispered, pronouncing
his name in her local tongue. Smiling back, Daniel decided to put his
worries on the back burner. The marble halls on the moonlet of Tuat were
not made for raised voices.  Especially this hall, with its pyramidal
dome of crystal rising to a point far overhead.  Not for the first time,
Thoth wondered why Ra had topped this particular structure with a dome
of viewing. Outside was merely airless rock, unblinking stars, and,
hanging in the sable sky, the grayish-blue bulk of the world this
moonlet circled. Even after ten millennia, the planet had yet to recover
from ecological catastrophe.  According to the secret records, this is
where Ra had found his first servants, the hands that had built the
StarGates, the exoskeletal helmets, and the weapons that marked godhood
for Ra's human servants. The records hinted of a bargain being struck,
that Ra would take the inhabitants from their ruined planet to a new
ore.  However, that world had turned out to be Ombos, the world of
blood. Thoth raised his eyes to consider the planet above.  Whoever
those first servants had been, they'd built well.  Even from this
distance he could make out the regular lines of their ruined
habitations. "Look at me, Ammit devour you!"  Sebek's voice boomed and
echoed in the enclosed space. Sighing, Thoth redirected his regard to
the man prowling the pillared central aisle.  He didn't know why Sebek
kept glancing around.  He'd picked this spot for their clandestine
meeting.  Thoth didn't mention that THREE other godlets-who-would-beRa
had chosen the same place. It was hard to believe that he and Sebek had
long ago been part of the same brood of tribute children sent to serve
Ra-pretty boys and girls. They'd grown up very differently.  Thoth had
risen to head Ra's bureaucracy, becoming the accountant of the gods.
Physically, he resembled the headdress-creature that marked his godhood.
Thoth was the This-headed god-and the This was a stork-like bird.
Spindly of arms and legs, with an incipient potbelly, Thoth was not an
impressive sight in his white linen kilt. Sebek, on the other hand, was
the crocodile god, renowned for cruelty, one of Ra's planetary viceroys,
an overseer of overseers.  He had the thick, muscular body of a warrior.
And if he didn't have the grace of lost Anubis, foremost of Ra's
fighters, he certainly had strength to spare. Right now he looked as if
he was just barely restraining himself from using that strength to break
Thoth's arms and legs. Thoth kept his eyes on the prowling warrior. He
was reasonably sure that Sebek would not descend to the use of such
forceful expedients-at least, not yet.  But Thoth had learned to keep an
eye on adversaries, even those courting his support. For that was what
all these skulking colloquies were about-on whose side would the
machinery of administration fall? "Several of Khnum's people died in a
set-to with some Horus guards serving Apis," Sebek said. "The Ram has
been pushing the Bull hard of late. He turned cold, shrewd eyes to
Thoth.  "Not that I'm telling you anything.  Your scribes make excellent
spies.  I saw it often enough on Wefen. Ra seemed to know my secrets
almost as soon as I knew them." Sebek swerved in his prowling course to
confront Thoth.  "But," he said, his voice dropping, "such a system can
work only if there is strength at the head.  I'm sure you know many
things.  But whom can you tell now?" Thoth said nothing.  In truth, the
scribes had provided much useful intelligence for Ra.  But now Ra was
gone, vanished for months after what was supposed to be a short voyage
and visit at the backwater world of Abydos. From all over Ra's compact
empire, warrior gods came by StarGate to Tuat-the-world and flew up to
Tuat-the-moon-for Ra never allowed Star Gate access to his personal
sanctum. And on a moonlet where Thoth had once enjoyed a position as
second after Ra-as chief administrator-warriors and viceroys now jostled
one another, their servants testing the aggressiveness and resolution of
other factions.  Predators all, they had been held in check because Ra
had culled the pack.  But now it seemed more and more evident that Ra
was no more.  The warriors' minds turned naturally to calculations of
succession.  And for the more thoughtful minority such as Sebek and a
few others-those calculations went beyond quantifying the number of
available bodies and the tally of blast-lances those bodies could use.
"You could choose worse to back than me," Sebek went on.  "We ate at the
same table as boys-served Him together." Throughout this talk, Thoth
realized, Sebek had never mentioned Ra by name.  The warrior's voice
dropped to a whisper.  "I remember how you dreaded it whenever you
displeased Him-how you feared the punishment He might mete out." Sebek
speared his old mate with cold eyes.  "Think what punishment I'm capable
of.  And if you won't serve me for old affection's sake-then fear me!"
He turned and left Thoth alone in the hall. Raising his eyes again,
Thoth studied the pitiless stars.  Trust Sebek to issue the most direct
offer and to couch it as a threat.  Certainly, there were worse
candidates for the place of power.  Sebek could field a sufficient force
to seize the prize. But even with Thoth behind him, could Sebekcould any
of the would-be successors-retain power in the face of resistance from
the other contenders?  Or would the battering of the warriors destroy
the prize? Shatter the irreplacable mechanical and human gears that
allowed the empire to function? Not to mention that backing the wrong
aspirant could get Thoth killed. If Anubis was amongst them, a fighter
of such proven ferocity that the pack could be curbed ... But Anubis had
gone with Ra.  No comparable warrior walked the halls of Tuat.  Unless
Thoth resolved on a far more dangerous gamble. He had to decide soon,
before hand-to-hand brawls became pitched battles with energy weapons. A
dubious prospect, with hard vacuum beyond the walls of Ra's pleasure
domes.  Still worse, there would be no room to maneuver, no chance to
temporize with Sebek and the others who wanted Thoth's support. Thoth
activated his headgear, allowing the aspect of the This to cover his
face.  His gangling frame moved smoothly, imbued with sudden purpose. He
headed for the lower levels of the pyramid, domain of machinery and the
occasional mechanic.  But building plans existed, and these had to be
recorded, filed, and thus passed into the hands of the scribes. Thanks
to the plans, Thoth had found the airlock, and thanks to other records
he had learned of the necessities for workers to wear on their
infrequent maintenance jobs outside.  The suit accommodated his kilt but
tightly gripped his chest and extremities in a sensation unfamiliar on
skin that usually went bare.  Hookups ran to his helmet so he could
breathe. He cycled through the lock and set off across the bare rock.
Mere yards from the pyramid, the field of artificial gravity died away.
That was all to the good.  Thoth set off on huge, exaggerated bounding
steps for a horizon that seemed unnaturally close. His destination was
far enough from the complex of pyramidal construction which housed Ra's
palace.  It was beyond the view even of the crystal summit of the
tallest one the place where he'd just met with Sebek. Thoth was gasping
by the time he scaled the wall of the small craterlet.  Even with the
lower gravity this represented unfamiliar exertion.  At least this time
he had nothing to carry. The crater floor was of blackish rock, and if
the secret records hadn't told Thoth exactly where to look, he'd have
dismissed his destination as a shadow or a chance rock formation.  Even
close by, the contours were irregular enough-and spalled by 8,500 years
of micrometeorite impacts-to be dismissed as natural. One had to look
down into the murky hole in the ground to identify the entrance to the
mastaba, or underground tomb. Thoth manipulated the entrance controls
and slipped inside.  A pile of gear, brought by him piece by piece, lay
right at the access.  He picked up a small hand light, then turned to
seal the tomb's portal. Only when he was sure it wouldn't be seen on the
surface did he activate his torch. The interior of the mastaba had
gotten far less attention than its artfully concealed entrance.  The
chamber had apparently been chopped into existence with energy beams.
Its walls were crude and out of true, the blackish stone melted and
stagged in places.  In one corner lay the burned and blasted remains of
the workers who'd done the excavating. Their twisted forms made a
striking contrast to the sarcophagus resting on the bumpy floor.
Exquisitely carved from the quartzose material reserved for the most
splendid of Ra's technological wonders, the stone box bulked large in
the crude quarters, seeming to glow with a muted golden radiance as
Thoth's light flashed on it.  A sun disk decorated the head of the
funerary bier, which was twice as long as a man was tall.  Hieroglyphs
ran across the waist-high covering stone-a hymn to eternal life. Thoth
turned to the other materials he'd cached in the tomb.  He opened
canisters of pressurized air, bringing atmosphere back to the room for
the first time in millennia.  At last Thoth opened his this mask and
took a deep breath. Then he turned to the sarcophagus, tapping several
of the hieroglyphics in a certain pattern. The crystal walls of the box
shifted as if they were live things.  A seemingly solid cover stone
split into THREE sections.  The sun disk rose head high, another section
of the cover stone moving with it, sliding out in two pieces to give the
disk wings. A pearlescent light flooded the room, coming from inside the
box. Thoth stepped forward, his face tight with excitement.  The head of
the sarcophagus interior was shaped like a pharaonic headdress, forming
a sort of halo for the beautiful female face lying in repose there.  The
woman had an olive complexion, dark but not tanned.  Her aquiline
features were perfectly formed.  With her eyes closed, she looked like a
beautifully crafted statue. Then Thoth noticed the slight rise and fall
of the lithe breasts under the pectoral necklace of her chest piece. The
eyes opened. Hathor lived.

 CHAPTEr 2

INTELLIGENCE ASSESSMENT

Pain had not merely tinged, but had been Hathor's last conscious memory.
The battle for Ombos had no longer been in doubt.  Step by ruthless step
she'd turned the situation on the revolting planet around until the
rebels didn't merely face defeat, they faced extermination. Even her own
troops feared her as the goddess who had covered a planet in blood.
Hathor had been directing operations against one of the few remaining
rebel strongholds, hidden in an inaccessible mountain range.  The
udajeets, single-man gliders, had flown repeated missions, their paired
blasters firing incessantly to clear a landing area literally down to
scorched earth.  But no sooner had she set foot to terra firma than one
of those red-haired devils burst out of a pit in the ground.  The poor
bastard hadn't carried an energy weapon.  Apparently, the rebels had
learned that the Horus guards could scan for such armament. But even as
Hathor aimed her own blast-lance, the rebel had hurled some sort of
metal implement.  Spikes of white-hot agony radiated from her stomach.
But this was no mere stab wound.  Her nerves first seemed dipped in
acid, then went terrifyingly numb. "Poison-" she slurred to one of the
Horus guards blasting the now unarmed assassin.  Then paralysis set
in-and with it, searing pain. Every move on the way back to the StarGate
was etched in anguish.  She could smell the rot emanating from her
stomach even during the brief udajeet ride.  Whatever had been smeared
on that damnable blade was turning her flesh into a necrotic mess. If
she survived this, Hathor promised herself, she'd track that poison
down.  A new weapon for her arsenal ... Even the flesh on her face was
black and splitting by the time she finally reached Tuat.  Ra himself
was on hand to greet her, and Hathor's heart died a little at his
reaction to her appearance. There was only one hope for her survival.
That was internment in Ra's sarcophagus of wonder. Certain others of
Ra's servants-the irreplaceable ones-had been placed inside that
crystalline box, suffering from a variety of ills.  They'd all emerged
fit and cured. So as Hathor came to consciousness, she opened her eyes
full of hope. Her strength and looks would be restored.  And, of course,
Ra would be there to greet her.  At the very least, her own servants
would be on hand.  Instead of Ra's throne room, she found herself in a
mean little chamber, more like a cave or a dungeon.  And she had no idea
who the single man staring down at her was. Hathor's muscles screamed in
protest as she forced herself upright, reaching -for the gawker. What
should have been a seamless, easy movement took an extra second enough
time for the man to take a step backward before she was out of the stone
coffin and grasping him by the throat. A pair of strides, and she
smashed the intruder against the crude wall. His face turned an
interesting mottled color before she released pressure on his airway.
With one hand cocked to deliver body blows if necessary, Hathor
activated his headdress.  She expected to find a renegade Horus guard
engaged in a bit of voyeurism.  Instead, she found ... Thoth. "This
cannot be," she muttered, pressing again to unmask the man. "Thoth is an
older man, but not so old that he would die before I-" The	room
threatened to revolve around her. "Where am I?" Thoth sucked air through
a bruised throat.  "On Tuat."  He managed a soothing tone, at least. "In
a mastaba several miles from Ra's palace. "A tomb!"  She gestured
wordlessly, indicating that her body was whole. "You slept, o Champion."
Thoth struggled to find the right words. "The records I studied
indicated that perhaps you had succeeded in your mission too well." "I
crushed the rebels as ordered, showing no mercy," Hathor responded. Her
lips twisted.  "And in so doing, I caused even Ra some unease.  So he
buried me away, for retrieval in case of some worse disaster.  Is that
the case?"  Hathor's eyes narrowed.  "Or ... you mentioned records that
you had studied.  If you thought to waken me to use against Ra ." Her
lips quirked again.  "You've made a serious blunder, conspirator." Her
whole career, pushing her way into the circle of warriors who surrounded
the sun god, had been based on a strategy ancient even in her
time-seduction and dynasty.  Even her husband, engineer of the gods,
hadn't dared reprove her for her "friendship" with Ra.  And she knew,
knew that the ever young body of her liege responded to her wiles.  But
the alien soul inhabiting that flesh had proven resistant. Yes, Ra's
alien ka was doubtless responsible for having her put away. Even so, it
would be unwise of this interloper to expect that she would nurse a
grudge.  What had been done could be done again.  She was awakened now.
And the surest way to Ra's favor would be to bring him the head of a
traitor. Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Thoth pressed
himself against the wall, quickly putting up a hand.  "I brought you
forth because it seems that Ra is no more." Now it was Hathor's turn to
step back, staggered.  For a second she was silent.  Then, "How-" She
bit off the question she'd been about to ask: "How could this be
possible?" Instead, Hathor turned to practicalities.  "How long have I
been immured here?" When Thoth gave her the answer, her eyes went round
with dismay.  Eight thousand years was more than enough time to have
wrapped her actions in the trappings of legend.  Her next question was
purely political.  "Who now wears the cat's head?" Thoth looked
surprised.  "There has never been another Hathor." A certain grim
satisfaction filled Hathor at this news.  She had been deemed
irreplaceable.  But it also meant problems. With a successor, she could
have challenged for her position-and with a single murder doubtless not
only won back her office, but gained a staff of servants and warriors as
well.  Having no successor closed off that path to getting aid. She
stared at this Thoth, so many generations removed from the First Time.
What did he think her capable of?  The Thoth of her days had been a
scribe and an intriguer-his weapon of choice the pen rather than the
sword.  She doubted that this soft-bodied Thoth could offer her much in
the way of backup-his servants would not be skilled in physical force.
Did he count on her to take on the entire warrior caste single-handed?
She turned to him and put her question into words.  "What do you expect
of meRa it seems, is gone," he said.  "Someone must put his house in
order." Ah, Hathor thought, the dangers of legend.  He does expect me to
vanquish these would-be successors alone and unaided. Still, she felt
the promptings of her own ambition.  She had thought to create the House
of Ra by way of the path of love.  Would it be so different to create
the House of Hathor by way of the paths of war? "We have much to speak
of."  She sniffed and frowned.  "And already the air here grows stale."
Thoth gestured to the pile of gear at the entrance to the mastaba.  "I
have here another suit for traversing the airless plain.  And I have
arranged apartments-" he made a self-disparaging gesture.  "Humble
apartments for one of your stature. But they're secure, and in a
little-traveled area of the old palace." Hathor nodded.  After more than
eight millennia in a stone box, her physical needs were modest enough.
And it would certainly be better to retain the element of surprise.
"Speak to me of leaders," she said. "What factions contend for Ra's
throne? Which of the viceroys has the greatest personal strength?  Which
the largest following?  Is there yet an Anubis?  Or did he follow Ra
into the void?" Thoth began the briefing even as he presented the
atmosphere suit. Hathor had worn these suits before.  She knew their
limits.  And, of course, in the timeless workings of Ra's empire,
technology did not change. She was ready to leave by the time Thoth had
sketched out the short list of candidates most likely to achieve
ultimate power.  Hathor was most interested in his description of his
old criche mate, Sebek.  She had never liked the crocodile god of her
days.  And this Sebek not only had a reputation as a fierce fighter, he
had a strong and well-trained entourage. In Hathor's eyes that made him
a prime target. "Enough," she finally said.  "Let us be out of here."
She activated her own headdress, and for the first time in eight
thousand years, the face of the Cat was seen once again. It was well,
Hathor thought.  The cat, with its supple body and soft purr, was
dismissed by many as a creature of mere sensual pleasure.  So it had
been in her career.  Too late, those dismissing her had discovered that
this cat had much in common with her cousin the lion. Perhaps it would
be so for this Sebek, and the other godlets who would be Ra. On the
other hand, they might be like this Thoth, believing in legends that
gave her an overblown reputation.  That could be useful as well. She
could make an example of a front-runner, this Sebek perhaps-and
terrorize the rest into submission. Kill one, frighten a thousand.  She
had learned that equation on Ombos, extirpating the rebels there.  Now
she would bring this same equation to Tuat.  Although, she realized, it
had already been instituted there by no less a personage than Ra
himself. From the very beginning of the First Days on Earth, Ra had kept
a mastery of the tools of terror.  Thus had he bent the slave
populations to his will.  And, if truth were to be told, terror had also
been part of the carrot and the stick which he'd used in leading the
gods. The carrot had been power, of course, and a lifetime extending far
beyond that of an average mortal.  But if one should fail the sun god,
if one should displease Rathe punishment was death. And Ra could offer
death in so many unpleasant guises, like a session with his gem that
could turn bones to water. Like it or not, Ra had shepherded his
attendant gods with fear. Hathor smiled.  She could do that. On Earth, a
military transport plane took off from Washington.  Its interior was not
exactly spartan-after all, there was a senior officer aboard.  But
General West was smart enough to fly only on regularly scheduled
jets-and not the only passenger. Other officers of similar rank had
never bothered to learn that simple lesson, and had managed to blight
their careers.  A colleague of West's, a head honcho of a European
operation, had once flown from Rome to the U.S. in a huge, unscheduled
Starlifter with only his female aide on board. After being roasted in
newspapers across the country, that unfortunate general had wound up in
charge of counting penguins down in Antarctica. But if he flew by the
rules, nonetheless the general had plenty of room to spread out as the
plane reached its cruising altitude.  Which was just as well-his
briefcase was full of reports to be read, and he had to come to a
decision on those contents before the plane landed. West's slightly
jowly face took on the stony aspect of the veteran poker player as he
reviewed the first of a succession of documents stamped TOP SECRET. This
was a technology assessment from the Pentagon big-domes who had
attempted to take one of those blast-lances apart and put it back
together again.  Of course, they were careful to cover their scientific
butts, but they were reasonably optimistic.  While they did not promise
production-line manufacturing of the weapons in two weeks, they did
offer the opinion that the technology was accessible. West frowned.  The
only bottleneck was that the lances, like all the alien high technology
Jack O'Neil and the survivors of the Abydos recon team had reported on,
depended on that quartz-like crystal to work. And the only source of
that crystal on Earth was the StarGate.  West idly speculated on how
many blasters they could make if they broke the matter transmitter, or
whatever it was, into small pieces.... That would solve two problems-the
weapons would permanently tilt the balance of power in favor of the U.S.
here on Earth, while dismemberment of the StarGate would close a
profoundly disturbing door on a hostile universe. He went back to
reading, this time switching to the survivors' after-action reports.
Energy weapons, matter transmission, a working starship. Those were just
a few of the technological goodies the recon team had observed on the
other side of the StarGate. On the other hand ... West shuddered as he
went back over Colonel Jack O'Neil's classified report.  The StarGate
had almost been used as a delivery system for an amplified atomic bomb,
with a blast big enough to end civilization on this planet.  Were the
possible advantages worth the all-too-concrete risks? Of course, O'Neil
had succeeded in using the matter transmitter to plant the bomb on the
starship, blowing it up and ending the career of the alien which had
styled itself as a god. But since the THREE surviving Marines had
returned to Earth, no one had gone through the StarGate.  West had not
only secured the missile silo that housed the artifact, he'd posted the
toughest combat Marines he could find for roundthe-clock guard duty.
Nothing was to go in or out of that alien dingus without his say-so.
Managing the threat factors on Earth gave him difficulty enough.  He was
unwilling to throw an entire new world into his risk calculations.
However ... O'Neil's report also stated that among the resources of the
planet Abydos was a sizable deposit of Ra's magic quartz-crystal.  Much
as West would like to decline the proffered invitation to the universe,
he had to consider the strategic implications. With a ready supply of
the quartz element, Earth's technical base specifically, that of the
United States-could advance by a quantum jump.  Even better, the U.S.
would have an absolute lock on this new technology.  The Japanese
wouldn't be able to horn in and usurp production, because the raw
material that was the bedrock for the technological wonders would be
available only from America.  It would come out of a hole in an American
mountain.  So what if it had to traverse a million light-years to get
there? According to O'Neil's report, the natives of Abydos conducted
their mining operation in an inefficient-in fact, downright
primitive-manner. Apparently, that was due to the alien god's strangling
grip on the people.  All well and good, but the situation would have to
change.  If this brave new technology were to go into production, the
factories would require regular shipments-in bulk.  That would be the
only economic reason for keeping this portal to the unknown open.
Large-scale mining would require machinery and, of course, the people to
operate it.  And those operators would have to be people General West
could control.  At first he had thought of the Army Corps of Engineers.
They certainly had the knowhow, and they were Military, by God. But he'd
quickly identified a drawback to using the military's construction arm.
The requirement was secrecy.  Could they depend on some shorttimer
driving a bulldozer not to come home and talk about his building job on
another planet? Once again West wished that O'Neil had blown up the
StarGate on the Abydos side and removed this problem before it landed in
the general's lap. If nobody knew this stuff existed ... But the
technology and the crystal did exist, and in the Pentagon's need-to-know
culture, it was up to West to make a decision about it. He hadn't
reached his rank by passing the buck.  He had a reputation for making
the right choices in clutch situations. The decision he was leaning
toward was the mining option-with a sizable security complement in case
any more unpleasant surprises came down out of the sky.  But the miners
wouldn't be soldiers.  They'd come from the United Mining Consortium.
UMC had done lots of government work in the past-including a number of
sensitive overseas operations in conjunction with representatives of the
intelligence community. West had done his homework, assuring himself
that UMC not only had the resources but the right kind of people to do
this job-people who could keep their mouths shut.  Even better, the
company was used to working in the Third World, which would be a plus in
dealing with the primitives on Abydos.  And UMC was quite resourceful in
keeping up production of whatever ore was being excavated, despite
piddling complaints by the natives or annoying shifts in their
governments. The general referred briefly to the newspaper clippings in
his UMC file.  A native potentate toppled, a separatist movement in the
area of richest mining, a recalcitrant president supplanted by a more
accommodating military junta ... Yes, UMC was certainly a company that
could handle itself in the clinch.  And for civilians, they would do
exactly the sort of job he wanted done. He had the names and numbers he
needed to start the ball rolling.  No doubt UMC would want to send over
some prospectors, advance men, people to do a feasibility study.  All
under the deepest shrouds of national security, of course. Well, he had
just the man to bird-dog them. Someone who had experience on the far
side of the StarGate.  A military man who knew how to follow orders and
keep his mouth shut.

Colonel Jack O'Neil.

West smiled.  Perhaps someday O'Neil would thank the general for putting
him in touch with the right people.  Certainly, West expected to be
thanked ... by UMC. Not immediately, of course. But a person who puts a
company in the way of making a handsome profit-a monopoly position on a
scarce resource with many valuable uses.  Well, such a person deserves a
reward.  Lucrative consulting opportunities, perhaps a seat on the board
of directors. West leaned back in his seat.  After all, the military
would expect him to retire one of these days.  The military-industrial
complex just wasn't what it used to be. Even a general had to think
about his future.

CHAPTER 3

INFILTRATION

Shielding his eyes from the brutal desert suns of Abydos, Skaara
conducted a quick head count on the mastadge herd he and his friends
were watching.  Sha'uri's brother had to admit that after his brief
stint as a freedom fighter, the shepherd's trade was even more boring
than before. He and his friends had become boy commandos almost by
accident, rescuing the otherworldly visitors from Ra's wrath.  Indeed,
Skaara had learned most of his soldiering by observing the man he called
Black Hat-after the black beret worn by Colonel Jack O'Neil.  There was
a warrior, despite the dull green clothes he wore.  The man had a sharp
temper, exacerbated by the language difficulties-the only visitor who
spoke the local language was Daniel, his sister's husband. But Skaara
had admired O'Neil, and a certain friendship had grown between them.
He'd been vastly disappointed when his idol had disappeared into the
StarGate, returning to whatever unguessable world he had come from. It
wasn't merely a wish for action that fueled Skaara's discontent. He'd
quickly learned that war did not necessarily mean glory-his mates had
suffered casualties, and his friend Nabeh had nearly been killed. Still
worse had been the innocent civilians butchered as the flying udajeet
had blasted the city of Nagada from the air. Between his days of labor
and his work at night learning hieroglyphics, he had more than enough
activity to take up even the energies of youth. Yet even his studies
spurred restlessness.  Translating the wall paintings of Nagada's hidden
archives gave more tales of Ra's tyranny, and tantalizing clues about
other worlds ruled over by the false god. What, for instance, had
happened on Ombos after cat-headed Hathor had covered that planet in
blood? Even the wise Daniel could offer no information. Slowly as his
studies progressed, Skaara also developed a desire to see these worlds
on the other side of the StarGate, to tell their peoples that Ra was no
more-to join with these star-brothers and fight for freedom as the
inhabitants of Abydos had done. He hadn't discussed these inchoate
aspirations with his father, the Elder Kasuf, with Sha'uri, or with
Daniel.  But when he'd sounded out his shepherd friends, his fellow
veterans of the war against Rathe response was resoundingly affirmative.
So a new activity had been added to his schedule.  In whatever spare
time remained after shepherding and studying, Skaara and his mates
practiced the arts of war. They drilled themselves in the arts of
concealment, in quick, darting movement under simulated fire.  They
experimented with various weapons, and zealously worked to maintain the
few rifles and pistols the visitors from Earth had left behind. Skaara
had organized a careful scavenging operation in the ruins of the
visitors' base camp.  The search had been rewarded when several boxes of
rifle ammunition turned up. And night and day, as an exercise in war and
discipline, Skaara detailed a few members from his shepherds' complement
to keep watch on the pyramid that housed the StarGate. Thus, when the
sudden chatter of a rifle on automatic echoed over the dunes, Skaara
wasn't exactly surprised.  A gunshot was supposed to be the signal that
new visitors had arrived.  But Skaara wasn't pleased. The signal was
supposed to be a single gunshot.  He would have some choice words for
the watchers about wasting ammunition. Unless ... what if the visitors
weren't friendly and the watchers were defending themselves? Skaara had
a sickening vision of Horus guards pouring from the carved entrance arch
of the pyramid.  He'd dreamed of taking freedom out to the other planets
of Ra's empire.  Suppose one of Ra's lieutenants had come to Abydos with
the intention of restoring despotism? He snapped an order to the others,
and in an instant shepherd boys became warriors.  They all carried
whatever weapons they could.  Now, abandoning the mastadges, they formed
a rough skirmish line and headed for the watch point, a tall sand dune
that commanded a view of the rocky outcrop that supported the pyramid.
Skaara carefully deployed his men, rifles at the flanks, as they climbed
to the crest of the dune. They might be able to get a few shots at the
invaders. But when they reached the watchers, they found a pair of madly
capering boys. "Skaara!"  shouted Nabeh, pointing into the distance
beyond the dune's face.  "They're back! They've come back!" Skaara threw
himself on his belly, slipping another treasure from Earth out of his
cloak.  O'Neil had given him the pair of black, compact binoculars
before leaving Abydos.  As Skaara focused on the THREE figures sliding
down the escarpment to the sands below, he saw that Nabeh's eyesight and
words were true.  The visitors were dressed as people from Earth.  And
one of them wore a black beret.  Fixing his gaze, Skaara saw this was
indeed Jack O'Neil. The black-hatted man wore a different suit: not
green this time, but mottled in tans and yellows-the colors of the
sands.  The camouflage made it more difficult to spot the newcomers. But
Skaara had gotten a good look at the colonel's face.  That was all he
needed to see to tell him that these were friends. Turning, he
reorganized his little command from an ambush party to an honor guard.
But, like any good officer, he still took a moment to lash into Nabeh
for wasting their precious ammunition. Walter Draven, UMC's advance man
on Abydos, threw his long, thin body to the sand as the noise of
rattling discharges echoed against the face of the pyramid. "That sounds
like gunshots," he said.  The hard eyes in his hatchet-like face turned
almost angrily to their military liaison. "At least a clip on an M-16
firing at full auto," Colonel Jack O'Neil agreed. "You said these people
were primitives-that they barely had metal tools when you met them!"
Draven's legal background broke out at the oddest moments, like this
accusatory speech. "Well, it sounds as if the locals got themselves some
hardware," Martin Preston, the engineering side of the scouting party,
pointed out.  He was short and stocky, with a round red face and bandy
legs.  But he was supposed to know everything there was to know about
mining in primitive conditions. "A group of kids helped us," O'Neil
explained, a brief smile coming to his lips at the memory of Skaara and
his friends.  "They used some of our guns.  Although," he admitted, "I'm
surprised by this date that they'd have any bullets left." "Maybe they
salvaged some from your supplies," Preston's practical voice pointed
out.  "According to your report, you chose to abandon most of the
equipment at your base camp." O'Neil barely hid his surprise that
General West had given classified reports to a mining engineer.  He
glanced toward the growing mound of sand that entombed most of the cases
of supplies left behind.  "If so, they showed more initiative than I'd
have expected."  His face became grim. "More discipline, too." "How so?"
Draven demanded. "Kids and guns are a dangerous combination. Put a gun
in a kid's hand, and it may well go off." The UMC men glanced at each
other, then followed silently as O'Neil led the way down the rocky face
of escarpment.  No other shots rang out. "Could it have been target
practice?"  Preston suggested a trifle breathlessly as he swung down,
his foot scrabbling for a foothold. "I'd say it was more in the nature
of a signal," O'Neil opined.  He was breathing as easily as if he were
on a stroll across the parade ground. "So these people have someone
watching the StarGate."  The sharp-faced Draven managed to make it sound
like a hostile act. "Well, they would have a vested interest in knowing
if anyone appeared," O'Neil pointed out. "You think this could be due to
that professor who took up with the local girl and went native? What was
his name-Jackson?"  Draven asked. O'Neil had to chuckle at the idea.
"Daniel?  I think he'd be too busy translating hieroglyphics and
enjoying married life to organize any sort of civil defense." "Then who
has people out there spying on us?" Draven wanted to know. "There's an
easy enough way to find out," O'Neil responded.  "We'll go out there and
ask them." He reached the base of the stony outcrop and set off for the
highest dune in sight.  Draven and Preston scrambled down and trailed
after the colonel.  The sand seemed to suck at their feet, making their
steps slow and clumsy.  O'Neil, in contrast, seemed to glide along, his
Desert Storm surplus uniform blurring his movements as he forged ahead.
Draven cursed under his breath as he slogged along in pursuit.  He'd
reached a point in his UMC career where he expected to jet in to trouble
spots and be met by an armored limo and a few bodyguards.  A week
ago-even a day ago-he'd have laughed at the notion of traipsing through
the boonies with a technical staff of one and depending on a smart-ass
Marine for protection. Yet here he was, preparing for the negotiations
of his life.  Far better than the military, it seemed, UMC realized the
possibilities in opening up an entire world for development.  They
wanted the best contact man they had for the job. And that man was Walt
Draven. He mopped sweat off his forehead, glancing up to see how far
ahead that damned Marine had gotten. Surprisingly, they'd reached the
foot of the large dune.  O'Neil was working his way diagonally up the
crusted sand face. Then Draven noticed movement at the crest. "Colonel!"
he yelled, the warning coming almost unbidden from his throat.  "Above
you!" O'Neil had already heard the commotion overhead.  He stepped up
his pace as he scaled his way to the top, a grin stretching his face.
Lined up at the crest were Skaara and his ragtag band of shepherds. When
they spotted O'Neil, their right arms moved in unison to give him a
snappy salute. "What the hell-" Draven muttered as he stared up. The
boys' discipline wavered and broke as O'Neil finally reached them. They
gathered around their hero, and Skaara forgot himself sufficiently to
give the thoroughly embarrassed colonel a welcome hug and kiss. "Seems
like a very demonstrative culture," Preston remarked dryly. The young
men were jabbering away, eager to demonstrate their soldiering skills,
but the handsome young fellow with the curly hair and earrings quickly
restored order with a few sharp if incomprehensible commands. "That's
one to keep an eye on," Draven said in a low voice.  "A leader." The
pair of earthlings painfully essayed the climb, to be met by a dozen
helping hands to make their way over the crest.  O'Neil made
introductions.  "This is Skaara, and the group of young men who helped
us put an end to RaThe boy commandos couldn't understand what he was
saying, but they caught the reference to Ra.  Almost to a man, they spat
at the mention of his name. Again, it was up to Skaara to restore order.
Draven was not much impressed with the young men.  They had no uniforms,
all of them clad in dull, ill-fitting homespun.  Their equipment was
laughable-the handful of rifles not enough to outfit even half their
company.  The only other sign of martial equipment was the plastic
compound helmet on Nabeh's head. But Skaara-there, Draven had to admit,
there were possibilities. People followed the young man. He had looks.
He had leadership potential. He could either be dangerous, or, as Draven
automatically classified him, Skaara could be used to destabilize the
present regime-whatever that turned out to be.

 CHAPTER 4

ALARMS AND INTRUSIONS

It was just as well that the Horus guards stationed outside the entrance
to Sebek's apartments were masked.  If Hathor had seen the expressions
on their naked faces, she'd probably have felt obliged to kill them
all-and that wasn't part of her plan. The guards' reaction was only to
be expected under the circumstances. Hathor was clad in a shift composed
of about ten percent linen and ninety percent air-for all intents and
purposes, a transparent wrapping for her abundant charms. Ra's servants
were, of course, chosen almost from infancy on the basis of physical
beauty.  Some, like Thoth, grew up to be ugly ducklings in reverse.
Hathor, on the other hand, had matured into a beautiful swan, far
outstripping her childhood prettiness.  The sinuous perfection of her
body offered all the attributes one might expect of a goddess of sex and
love. And Hathor was wise enough not to gild the lily.  Glass bangles
and a pair of thick-soled sandals made up the rest of her seduction
ensemble. One of the guards moved to block her path-he'd happily have
rubbed against her-while ogling her with his eagle eyes.  "What brings
you here?"  he demanded. She set her eyes demurely on the floor.  "My
master Thoth sent me hither." The guard grunted, then turned in
communication with someone inside the apartment.  "Got a girl out here-a
peace offering from Thoth." A couple of coarse interpretations on that
phrase came from within-and then an order. Outside, the guard gave out
with a loud guffaw. "Search her?"  he laughed.  "She's got no place to
hide anything!" Hathor was then ushered into a large marble chamber
filled with warriors of Sebek's faction, obviously at play.  The place
stunk from a pungent combination of beer and sweat.  Men shouted at the
tops of their lungs, boasting, arguing, placing bets, all in
counterpoint to the incessant rattling of dried knucklebones being
tossed on the polished stone floor. As the crowd slowly became aware of
Hathor's presence, the din subsided until finally the room was near dead
silence, the men eating Hathor up with their eyes.  One of Sebek's
lieutenants reached him and whispered in his ear. The crocodile god's
broad body lurched upright, his heavy face flushed from an excess of
beer.  "So, Thoth sent you, did he?" Hathor nodded. "And did he send a
message with you?" Hathor shrugged, knowing it was a good effect. "Only
that he sends me as a token of his high regard." "Well, he certainly
knows how to choose a good ... gift.  And he's wise in the choice of
recipients as well."  He turned to his followers with a coarse laugh.
"He certainly wouldn't have enough woman-stuff of this quality to send
to all contenders, would he, men?" A loud, boozy chorus of assent rose
from the assembled warriors. "So perhaps you'll excuse me while I enjoy
Thoth's offering ... alone." Sebek hooked a finger to her and set off
across the room.  Hathor trailed behind, her eyes still modestly
downcast.  She was impressed by the discipline evident in the troops.
Although they hooted and howled, not a man of them moved to put a hand
on the woman destined for their leader. Hathor left the large common
room and followed Sebek to a more secluded chamber.  The viceroy dropped
onto a heavy divan and surveyed her with hot eyes.  "Stay there," he
said, gesturing for her to stop.  "And turn around.  I like to see what
I'm getting." With a slow, sinuous movement she revolved before him,
displaying herself beneath the wisp of linen she wore.  Sebek's
breathing was already heavy as he beckoned her forward.  Hathor could
feel his body heat as she came to a stop inches from the seated man.
Sebek's hands darted out with the eagerness of a two-year-old unwrapping
a present.  One fist wrapped itself in the exiguous linen of her shift
and yanked downward.  As her only covering tore and pooled at her feet,
Sebek's left hand curved around her hip to grasp a buttock and drag her
forward those last few inches.  His breath was hot on her belly as he
crushed her to him. Even as Sebek pulled her forward, Hathor's hands
were in motion.  Her right hand lashed down at the arm holding her while
her left slashed upward against Sebek's face.  The razor-sharp glass
bangles did their work.  The viceroy's gashed arm slacked its grip,
allowing Hathor to slip free.  Her other attack opened Sebek's left
cheek from the jawline almost to his eye. For a long count he sat frozen
on the divan, staring at the blood. Then his face contorted with rage.
"Bitch!"  he muttered, starting to rise. Hathor's kick caught Sebek in
the midsection, driving the air from his body.  Long ago, when she had
decided to compete in the ranks of the warriors, she sought out the best
trainers available. And she had paid them well, in gold or in the coin
of love.  Her experts explained that Hathor could never develop the
strength of arms and shoulders to match a male warrior.  Her legs,
however, were stronger than any man's arms-not to mention having longer
reach.  And the delicate looking sandals she wore boasted a heavy metal
plate in the built-up sole. Sebek's glare seemed to ask, who is this
devil woman, as he wheezed, trying to get some air into his lungs.  A
difficult feat, given his bruised stomach muscles, Hathor knew.  She
could read his dilemma clearly.  One call, and the room would be full of
warriors.  But what effect would it have on his faction if he needed
warriors to protect him from a lone, naked woman? Hathor feinted a low
kick with her left foot. When Sebek committed himself to trying to grab
her ankle, she shifted to a roundhouse kick Coming from the right.  The
weighted sole caught Sebek in the temple, toppling him to crash
halfconscious on the stone floor. He lay there for a moment, unmoving.
Then he tried to prop himself up on hands and knees.  A kick to his left
elbow nearly wrecked that joint, collapsing Sebek on his side.  Hathor
followed up with a kick to his kidneys, then hooked a toe under Sebek's
ribs, turning him over to expose his more vulnerable underbelly. The
crocodile god tried to huddle into himself and protect his already
bruised stomach, only to have one of Hathor's heavy soles come crushing
down on his testicles.  In a moan of agony, his breath went whooshing
out again. Sebek tried to turn turtle, but Hathor kicked him out flat on
his back again.  At this point Sebek wanted to scream for help, but
didn't have enough air in his lungs to do it. Hathor didn't help the
situation.  With a cold smile she moved her right foot toward Sebek's
throat.  The only response the helpless, gasping man could make was to
scrunch his jaw down, trying to protect the soft tissue now at risk. One
more kick from the warrior woman twisted Sebek's head back while tearing
the wound on his cheek even wider. Blood gushed down onto the crocodile
god's throat as Hathor's foot descended relentlessly.  A strangled croak
whispered out of his mouth. "Who-" That was all he could manage.
Hathor's smile became twisted.  The question might have been "Who sent
you?"  Sebek probably suspected one of his rivals in the succession.
Thoth, he was sure, didn't have the resources-human or testicular-to set
an assassin on him, much less a trained female killer. But if Sebek's
lieutenant had checked with Thoth, as Hathor had fully expected, he'd
have gotten wholehearted confirmation of the "gift." Because Thoth
wasn't a free agent anymore.  He was acting in support of-indeed, at the
orders of-the champion who was going to save and restore Ra's empire. So
Hathor took Sebek's unfinished question as "Who are you?" She thought it
was only fair to let him know. So Hathor stepped away for a moment,
removing a package from under the divan.  Apparently, these warrior
types had yet to realize that Tuat's housekeeping staff were part of the
administrative staff-and owed fealty to Thoth. Hathor removed one of the
pectoral necklaces that converted into god heads.  As she resumed her
position, one foot on Sebek's throat, she settled the necklace around
her neck and activated the smart metal mask.  The faintly glowing
goldflecked material formed itself into the semblance of a cat's
head-the ancient sign of Hathor. Sebek's eyes bulged in shocked
recognition as he stared up at her. The mask was the last thing he saw.
Hathor bore down with her foot, crushing his trachea. As Sebek writhed
in his death throes, Hathor returned to the package she'd arranged to be
preset, removing a warrior's kilt and donning it. She waited until the
crocodile god was truly and irretrievably dead before she headed to the
chamber entrance. Hathor had never doubted her ability to murder Sebek.
That had been the easy part of this incursion.  Now she faced the real
challenge-stepping back into the room where the men-at-arms were taking
their recreation, and uniting all there in fealty to her. Her breath
sounded very loud in her helmet as she pressed the tab to unmask.  She
wanted the warriors to see her face-to recognize the face of the woman
Sebek had taken off for his pleasure returning as the warrior who had
killed him. There remained only one final touch.  She reached into the
satchel and removed the knife. The blade was of a miracle alloy,
sharpened down to the thickness of a molecule.  A razor would seem
hopelessly clumsy beside it. Hathor hefted the blade.  If she didn't
succeed in overawing the crowd out there, she'd need the weapon to slash
at attackers, perhaps to use on herself if the beasts tried to use her
as Sebek had. But she had a more practical use for the knife right now.
She rested the heel of one hand under the corpse's jaw, forcing his head
back. Then she began slicing through the flesh and cartilage of the
throat. Ignoring the gore that billowed forth, she worked with the same
practical moves as a housewife preparing a chicken.  The only problem
was the neck bones.  Thrusting the tip of the knife between two of the
cervical vertebrae, she twisted until they popped apart.  Then all she
had to do was saw away at the flap of skin that still held Sebek's head
to his body. Hathor wiped her knife on the corpse's kilt, then held up
the head at arm's length to assess her handiwork.  The slash was a bit
ragged, and it was still dripping blood.  Luckily, like most warriors
Sebek affected the long side-lock of youth. The hair provided a
convenient handle. Knife in one hand, Sebek's head in the other, Hathor
kicked open the door and strode down the short hallway to the main
chamber.  The revels again halted as the warriors realized what she was
carrying. Hathor hurled her bloody burden into their midst.  "I and I
alone killed this one," she chanted in a loud voice, invoking the
ceremony of assassination and offering a tacit challenge to all in the
room. "There can be but one Sebek, and I have proven my worth by the
severest of means." Still keeping her knife at the cuard position, she
moved her free hand up to the tumbler switch on her pectoral necklace.
"But I will not take Sebek's place," she went on, diverging from the
ancient ceremonial.  "For my own worth and position are greater than
Sebek's. I am legend. I am Hathor." She triggered the transformation of
the biomorphic metal, the cat's head forming over her features.  The
gleaming mask panned back and forth over the assemblage of fighting men,
its eyes glowing green as Hathor intently studied them for any trace of
hostile action. Sebek's followers sat in stunned silence.  Their leader
had stepped away to enjoy a ripe handmaid. But the maid had returned as
a warrior woman bearing Sebek's head.  She laid claim to a name
legendary even in their ferocious community. But the grisly proof of
that claim had been thrown almost contemptuously to bounce among them.
Hathor could almost follow their thoughts from the looks on the
warriors' faces.  Sebek had been a deadly master of arms and tactics.
That was why this assemblage of fighting men had chosen to follow him.
But Sebek's strength and craft had obviously been overcome by this
interloper. A grizzled warrior came to the obvious conclusion.  He
slowly sank to his knees and made obeisance to Hathor.  Others followed,
until at last the whole room had abased itself in fealty. Beneath her
cat mask Hathor's lips stretched in a fierce grin as she tossed away her
knife.  A legend can be a useful thing, she thought.  A sharper weapon
than the best-forged blade. Hathor emerged from her ablutions clad only
in a towel draped over her shoulders.  As a member of a society based on
beauty and used to scant clothing, she had no problem.  But she noticed
that Thoth turned away from her displayed body. After what had happened
to Sebek, almost all of her new followers had become very careful with
their eyes. She felt very good, her muscles reacting at their accustomed
capabilities.  And certainly she had worked up a sweat this morning.
Hathor was, of course, not taking over Sebek's position in the godhead.
But she had decreed that her followers would not be allowed the
traditional round of assassinations to determine who the new Sebek would
be.  Her faction couldn't afford the waste of good warriors. Instead,
Hathor had invited all those interested in becoming the crocodile god to
meet her in single combat.  Her practical response to the problem had
had several useful results.  Considerably fewer candidates had come
forward to battle for the Sebek position.  And her success in handling
them-in a non-lethal way-had greatly increased her standing among her
own warriors.  Besides, when the stories of the single combats got
out-men being the gossips they are-her skill at the martial arts would
spread among the other factions as well. Having consolidated her
factional position and arranged a fresh influx of propaganda for her
legend, Hathor prepared to reach out to another group that could help
her establish supremacy over Ra's empire. Thoth had brought her the
administrative mass of Ra's empire.  While the present military men
might deride Thoth's people as mere bean counters, they had no
experience at large-scale operations. Hathor knew the value of good
logistics from her time on Ombos. But there was another non-military
component to Ra's power-the masters of technology led by Ptah, engineer
of the gods.  These were the ones who tuned the spacecraft engines,
built the udajeet gliders, who fashioned raw quartz-crystal into Ra's
instruments of wonder-including the blastlances the guards were so fond
of using. To gain control of the empire's technicians, Hathor was going
to meet Ptah.  The engineer tended to wander the empire, constructing
and repairing whatever was needed.  The scribe spy system, however, had
reported that Ptah had arrived on Tuatthe-world and would visit the
palace on Tuatthe-moon. As Thoth stood with averted eyes, Hathor arrayed
herself in the regalia of a warrior.  "I am ready," she finally
pronounced.  "Have your people succeeded in locating him?" Thoth nodded.
"He's in the maintenance section of one of the older pyramids." "Lead
the way." The two moved off with a small cadre of Horus guards.  Thoth
led them on a circuitous route, both to avoid strongholds of other
factions and to disguise their final destination. Ra would never have
been expected in the maintenance levels of his pyramid palace, as was
shown by the spartan decor.  Instead of polished marble and wide spaces
with columns, Hathor's party marched through dark, narrow corridors of
raw stone.  The air grew warm and stuffier, with a faint ozone smell, as
if the very stuff they breathed had been subtly charged, ionized by
great energies at work. Hathor knew this atmosphere only too well. Long
ago the first triumph of her career had been to marry the Ptah of the
First Time.  The move had elevated her status and brought her under the
eye of Ra.  She and the head god had consorted together, and there was
nothing that Ptah could say.  He had suffered his divine cuckolding in
cold silence, not even commenting on the brilliant military career
Hathor had carved out on the basis of her own competence.  When she left
for Ombos, Ra had been present ... but Ptah had not. Following her
guards down the Stygian passageway, Hathor banished her thoughts.
Ancient history, she told herself.  The Ptah of the First Time must have
perished thousands of years ago, as had Thoth, Sebek, and all the others
... except for Ra.  And, of course, herself, suspended somewhere between
life and death. Ahead, Hathor discerned light at the end of the tunnel,
not the murky, directionless luminescence that Ra favored but a harsh
actinic glare. "His workshop," Thoth whispered. They entered to find
technicians frantically shifting around some mysterious machinery while
a masked man wielded an arc welder.  The mask was made of smoked glass,
unlike the animal heads surmounting most of the gods.  The first Ptah
had disdained the practice, and had gone into history depicted as a
bearded human. This Ptah had apparently encountered physical disaster of
cataclysmic proportions.  The arm holding the welding device was
mechanical, composed of golden-glistening quartz.  In fact, more than
half of Ptah's body seemed artificial, the joints between machinery and
meat hidden in mummylike linen wrappings.  The few patches of flesh
Hathor saw were dead white, seeming to glow with the decaying
luminescence of fungus on a swamp tree. The welding device clicked off
as Ptah became aware of his guests, and the protective eye mask morphed
into a decorative torc around his neck. "Ah," said a dry, whispery voice
with its own metallic tang.  "So the rumors were correct.  My journey
here is not for nothing.  Welcome back, my dear." For a second Hathor
stood frozen, her face almost as pale as the one that confronted her.
Once Ptah's face had been reasonably handsome, but now it was a wreck.
Half the features, including one eye, were constructed of Ra's
biomorphic quartzose material.  The flesh that showed was beyond dead
white.  It had a waxen greenish tinge. Even more shocking, however, was
the fact that Hathor recognized the ruined countenance.  The man
standing before her was the first Ptah-her erstwhile husband. Stark
incomprehension stiffened her features. Then she turned in rage on
Thoth. "He couldn't have told you, my dear," Ptah spoke up, forestalling
her. "Information is only as good as the system that houses it.  And
certain facts have been ... removed from the chronicles over the years."
A half smile tugged at the human side of Ptah's face.  "My own origins,
for instance, were known only by Ra.  Our relationship was expunged,
while your connection with our leader took on nearly mythological
dimensions." "How-" Hathor began, gesturing at his cyborg shell. "What-"
"A mishap in correcting a drive flaw in one of the warships you wheedled
out of Ra."  Ptah strove for suavity, but Hathor could detect a more
metallic note in his whispering voice.  "You were already occupying Ra's
backup sarcophagus, and he was unwilling to forgo his primary unit for
the amount of time it would take to cure me.  What if he should
unexpectedly need it?  So he took a more mechanical approach to
repairing my ills.  Unfortunately, that meant I could never use the
sarcophagus again." Ptah ran a metallic hand down the mechanical side of
his face.  "But I've managed to survive with these expedients.  How
ironic that I, who eschewed the use of a mask, now wear one
permanently." What Hathor needed to know, however, was what lurked
beneath Ptah's mask.  Obviously, he blamed her for his disfigured
existence.  But she could overlook personal enmity in a political
alliance. "You, more than any other, must know what I intend," Hathor
said. "Will you support me?" Ptah spread his arms, one dull-burnished
metal, one wizened flesh. "I've examined your rivals," he said candidly.
"Left to themselves, they'll destroy everything unless curbed.  Yes,
dear Hathor, I support you.."

But the unsaid words "for now" hung in the air between them.

CHAPTER 5

BUYING IN

Jack O'Neil was wryly amused-and grudgingly impressed-by Skaara's boy
soldiers as they accompanied the visitors to the city of Nagada. Skaara
had a point man, rear guard, and flankers out as they marched through
the dunes.  It was perfect Marine recon patrol doctrine-and a testament
to Skaara's powers of observation.  His order of march was obviously
lifted from the way O'Neil had done things on his last visit to Abydos.
The colonel glanced toward the toiling figure of Walter Draven.  Maybe
UMC's hotshot negotiator was unwise in equating primitive with stupid.
The moment they came in sight of the city walls, Skaara snapped off an
order.  Nabeh raised his rifle, this time being careful to fire only one
shot.  As soon as the strangers were spotted, people in the watchtowers
began sounding trumpets that looked like gigantic mutated ram's horns.
The low-pitched, penetrating mooing sound brought the inhabitants out
into the streets. O'Neil was reminded of his first visit to this city,
of the people's almost instinctive courtesy and hospitality.  They'd
been somewhat frightened of strangers then, thinking they came from Ra.
This time the huge, heavy gates opened to reveal a smiling, cheering
throng. It struck O'Neil almost as a physical blow when he realized this
hero's welcome was for him.  The Nagadans were turning out in force to
hail the man who had destroyed Ra and won their freedom. The colonel
felt an acid pain in the pit of his stomach as he glanced from the
cheering multitudes to his earthly companions.  The people will take
these snakes to their hearts-just because they're with me, he thought.
This is why he was here, not to act as a guide-a bitter fact for O'Neil
to swallow. A familiar face appeared in the crowd.  Sha'uri beckoned to
Skaara, then whispered in her brother's ear.  Skaara led the way to a
central square. Kasuf and the city Elders stood gathered outside one of
the adobe buildings.  As the visitors arrived, Daniel Jackson pushed his
way out of the crowd to join them. "We were expecting visitors by and
by.  So I'll be acting as translator." Draven stared.  "You mean you
haven't been teaching those people English)" "We've been more busy
trying to recapture this people's history, stolen from them by Ra,"
Daniel replied.  "Abydos has been kept illiterate for generations."
Draven's smile indicated that he thought this was an excellent notion.
"But in the past few months, more and more people are learning to write
. . . in their own language." "You had to know that sooner or later,
contact with Earth would be reestablished.  We are here to inquire into
the export of this world's unique mineral wealth."  Draven's gesture
took in the dilapidated mud structures around the square. "Let's face
it, this world could use a generous infusion of American capital and
modern conveniences." "This isn't Disneyland," Daniel angrily retorted.
"These people have a culture thousands of years old.  They aren't going
to roll over for flush toilets and fast food." "How about modern
building materials and medical supplies?"  Draven purred.  He nodded to
the Elders.  "And shouldn't these local leaders make the choice for
their people?" O'Neil shook his head.  Watching the unworldly academic
go up against the corporate shark was the worst mismatch since Godzilla
versus Bambi. As the negotiations began, the Elders drove a better
bargain than Daniel.  Unless, perhaps, he'd given them some advance
warning. Grudgingly, Daniel offered to start classes in English. "I
don't think it's necessary to divert you from your studies," Draven said
smoothly.  "My company will take on that job." And control who can work
with UMC and who can't, O'Neil added silently. "Perhaps our first order
of business is to set wages for those who work in the mine," Draven
suggested. "Daniel has mentioned this," Kasuf said, earning the
translator a black look. "We wish you to explain how the system works,"
the Elder went on. Draven started.  "Don't you pay your miners?" As
Kasuf went into a long, detailed explaination, Daniel looked over at
Draven.  "Do you want this word for word, or short and sweet?  He's
going back to the beginning of the mines, about eight thousand years
ago." "You might want to keep to the high points," Draven said, looking
a little dazed. "Okay," Daniel said.  "Under Ra's rule the mine was a
civic obligation-consider it sort of a sweaty local version of jury
duty. The whole community worked whenever they were needed.  In return,
the Elders here provided food and drink, and shelter from the suns. When
you go to the mines, you'll see that the largest construction
there-other than the nine million ladders to get up and down-is
something the people here call the Tent of Rest.  And after you've been
down in the heat and the dust of the mine itself, you'll see why it's
needed." "Please tell Kasuf that my company will gladly take over the
expense for this rest tent," Draven said.  "In fact, I was going to
suggest some such arrangement."  He gave a sidewise glance toward the
Elders. "So you're saying that they have no idea of how to pay for
labor?" "No, they pay wages, but when it came to the mine, people didn't
get paid because Ra didn't pay.  He just demanded the ore, and if they
didn't deliver enough and on time, they died." "Sounds like an
interesting character," Draven said. Daniel nodded.  "I'm sure you'd
have loved his labor-management style." The UMC negotiator's lips
twitched.  "Anyway, to payment.  From the sounds of it, there probably
won't be enough local coinage to allow us to pay the workforce we'll
need." Daniel translated, and after some discussion with his colleagues,
Kasuf agreed. "Perhaps we can agree on some sort of interim coinage,"
Draven suggested. O'Neil's face tightened.  Certainly.  UMC could
probably provide company coins at a huge profit. They could even
manipulate the value of the company currency. Daniel and the Elders went
back and forth several times on this point. "I'm explaining about scrip
and company stores," Daniel told Draven with a grim smile. So much for
that proposal.  In the end, Draven had to agree on paying American
money.  But that agreement led to new problems.  The Elders-for that
matter, no one on Abydos-had ever seen paper money. When Draven provided
some samples, they fiddled unhappily with the bills. "They say they want
coins," a frustrated Daniel translated. "That may not be a problem,"
Draven said. "Suppose we offer one of these an hour."  He pulled a
quarter Out of his pocket. Daniel stared.  "You've got to be kidding!"
he sputtered.  "You want those people to do that back-breaking labor for
two dollars a day?" "Do you want to flood this city's economy with
American dollars?" Draven shot back.  "I've seen what happens to local
industries when people start buying foreign goods." He extended a
placating hand.  "Besides, this is merely a token payment.  I think a
fair arrangement would be to offer the government here a percentage of
the ore's value on the world-our world-market.  A royalty, if you will."
A royalty calculated by UMC.  O'Neil wondered how much that would be
worth. From that point the discussion went back and forth, but the basic
payment structure had been set.  Royalty payments would allow the Elders
to buy modern conveniences the city really neededa hospital, for
instance.  Clean water.  Plumbing. The burghers of Nagada fought hard
for their people, but they had no idea of the scale of resources UMC
represented. Daniel's one victory came when he dug a Susan B. Anthony
dollar out of his pocket.  "I got stuck with one of these, and now I
carry it for a good luck charm.  Lucky for these people, at least.  This
should be the coin you pay the workers." So Daniel at least had
quadrupled the miner's take-home pay. The first round of negotiations
ended with effusive compliments on both sides.  Daniel wanted the
agreement in writing, but Draven avoided that Pitfall with easy
facility.  "I'm sure the Elders would see no need for a written
document," he said. "Certainly a bond of honor is sufficient between men
of good will." Daniel doubted that, and argued the point fiercely with
Kasuf and his circle.  But Nagada's illiterate civic leaders had done
business verbally all their lives.  Draven won the point, and Jackson
looked too disgusted to enjoy the obligatory feast for the visitors.
O'Neil left the UMC men to enjoy the lizardly monster that tasted like
chicken. Instead, he sought out Daniel. "Watch these guys," he warned
quietly.  "Their company is connected with the CIA-and they're very used
to manipulating things in the Third World." "Well, this is the Fourth
World," Daniel responded, but his voice sounded a little hollow. "Why
are you acting as great white hunter for these characters?" O'Neil
didn't meet Daniel's eyes.  "Orders," he replied briefly. The next
morning, it was Martin Preston's time to take center stage. "I want to
examine the mine workings," the UMC engineer said.  "It's hard enough
translating the expected tonnage of material from the ancient Egyptian
system of weights and measures.  How do we know these estimates are on
the money?" "They are reduced somewhat from what the locals delivered
for Ra," Daniel admitted.  "But then, he was liable to kill them if he
didn't get enough of the stuff." The UMC men set off with an escort that
included O'Neil, Daniel, Kasuf, some other Elders, and Skaara. "I
understand this is a pit mine," Preston said as they made their way
across the desert into an already scorching morning. "I suppose you'd
call it that," Daniel replied. "They bring the ore up from a deep hole
in the ground."  Ahead of them rose a large, billowing shape-a homespun
tent erected on posts as tall as telephone poles. "That's the Tent of
Rest," Daniel said.  "The workers need both shade and water under these
suns." Beyond the tent were the works themselves.  A thin line of men
and women waited to descend one ladder while a matching line rose from
the deep, dust-streaming ravine.  The members of the climbing line each
carried satchels full of quartzose ore.  The satchels on those waiting
to descend were empty. Kasuf spoke, and Daniel translated.  "They're
working with a skeleton crew right now.  Most of the miners have been
diverted to crop planting and irrigation work."  Daniel gave the advance
man a lopsided smile. "That's something else they couldn't do in the
face of Ra's slave driving." Preston stood at the lip of the ravine, his
mouth wide open as he took in the mining operation. The walls of the
ravine extended downward for hundreds of feet, with rough ledges carved
out at irregular intervals.  The only access between levels was by
sturdy but crude ladders, built with two lanes for climbing or descent.
The structural members were trunks of whole saplings with the bark
removed.  The rungs were peeled tree branches. Bearers moved in an
antlike stream up and down the ladders, picking up chunks of ore.  On
the ledges, but often on ladders themselves, workers swung rough picks
or mattocks, physically chopping the ore out of the surrounding rock.
"My God," Preston breathed, staring downward. "They told me it was crude
... but this is downright primitive." Sure, O'Neil thought, he's used to
seeing Third World mines run on leftover nineteenth-century European
technology.  This is more like the technical level of sixty centuries
B.C. The mining engineer frowned, still staring downward. "Something
wrong?"  O'Neil asked. "This isn't natural," Preston said. "Of course
not," the colonel responded. "They've been digging here for about eight
thousand years." "That wouldn't account for this ravine."  Preston
leaned farther out, making O'Neil hope the man had good balance. "Okay,"
the colonel said, "so there was a fissure here in the first place, and
the locals have just enlarged it." But Preston gave him a negative head
shake. "There's no natural reason there should be a canyon here in the
first place-no water, and this couldn't be done by wind erosion."  He
exchanged glances with Draven and O'Neil.  "Look, I know enough about
geology-I'm a mining engineer, for heaven's sake." Preston's eyes
returned to the abyss.  "It's as though the hand of God gouged a chasm
in the rock right where the ore would be.  And these folks have been
digging and enlarging it ever since." "Not God, but an alien with the
powers of a god," O'Neil said somberly. If Ra had weapons to gouge a
planet's crust, maybe they'd been lucky that he hadn't expected much
trouble on Abydos. The terrestrial visitors had considered Ra's
pyramidal spaceship damned huge and impressive. What if that turned out
to be a mere yacht? In that case, what would a space battleship look
like? "What do you mean, the warships aren't available anymore?" The
honeymoon was definitely over in the alliance between Hathor and Ptah.
She was crouched over a worktable in his shop, her clenched fists
resting on scarred stone. The creation of a space fleet had been the
crowning glory of her influence over Ra.  He preferred to exert force
through his StarGates, and was reluctant to allow spacecraft even to
trusted subordinates. With the StarGates, rebels had nowhere to run.
Even in the back of Hathor's mind was the possibility that in case of
defeat, she could take off with her flotilla and establish herself as
ruler in some other corner of the universe. Ra did not take kindly to
argument, but Hathor had stuck to her point. The Ombos rebels had
considerable technology-and they would doubtless have the StarGate
targeted.  A spaceborne STRIKE proved much less expensive-and it had
been successful. Catching up on history since her internment, Hathor had
been baffled that the fleet hadn't been used to put down the revolt on
Earth.  Now she knew why. "Where are the ships?"  Hathor demanded. "I'll
show you."  Ptah turned to a panel and flipped some controls.  A
holographic image swam into existence.  Thoth gave a nervous start when
he recognized the scene.  It was a supposedly secure crystal-domed
gallery where so many clandestine meetings had taken place. Ptah
manipulated more controls, and the viewpoint shifted.  They now appeared
to be looking through the dome at the surface of the moon outside.
Hathor frowned.  "What happened to the spaceport?"  she demanded. She
saw only a single docking station, a rawlooking pyramid of medium size.
Where the others had stood, there were now two pyramid-domes, obviously
representing permanent installations. "Look more closely at the
additions to the palace," Ptah advised. Hathor examined the image more
carefully and realized that despite accretions at their bases, the two
new edifices were based on the superstructures of a pair of her old
battleships. "After leaving you to your rest, Ra briefly utilized the
ships as escorts for his flying palace," Ptah explained.  "The only
practical purpose he put them to was on Abydos.  Ra used the main
batteries to gain access to a deposit of the crystal-element." Ptah gave
his erstwhile wife a sidelong glance. "But your toys, like your
ambitions, troubled Ra. While you slept, he finally decommissioned the
vessels." Hathor nodded in silence, well understanding the head god's
purpose. Demolishing the ships would deny malcontents any viable chance
of escape.  "How long would it take to make those vessels spaceworthy
again?" "One of them was completely gutted," Ptah said.  "The other at
least retains a command deck." He glanced at the technicians in the
workshop. "We use it as a training center, preparing backup crews for
Ra's yacht." "How long?"  Hathor persisted. "We could probably refit the
drives on one ship. There's also the question of hull integrity.  Many
access ways were cut in the inner hull, connecting passages within the
stone pyramid with companionways in the ship.  It would mean a serious
patching job.  We'd have to remount the offensive batteries, reconnect
the fire-control computers, restore life support ... it wouldn't take as
long as building a ship from scratch, but a recommissioning effort would
require considerable time." They stood in silence for a moment, until
Ptah finally gave in to the pressure of the dark eyes on him.  "The
better part of a year," he said at last. "THREE months," Hathor told him
flatly.  "It should take me that long to establish my position here.  I
sincerely hope you can manage your work as swiftly.  Your immortality
depends upon it."  She gave Ptah a smile as artificial as most of his
body. "How unfortunate, after surviving as long as you have, that I
should lose you over so trivial a matter, husband."

 CHAPTER 6

PrEPARATIONS

The task of turning a pleasure dome back into a battleship was difficult
enough, given the lack of dock-construction facilities.  Ra had done
away with them millennia ago, and Ptah wasn't one to cry over spilled
milk.  Still worse from the engineer god's point were the delays
attributable to political obstacles. Several of Hathor's rivals
maintained suites of apartments in the former battlewagons, or housed
their troops in barracks within the construction. These warrior gods
were not about to move merely to oblige a strange woman they considered
an enemy and an upstart.  They'd doubtless become more hostile when they
learned the aim of the alterations. In a couple of cases Hathor managed
to achieve her aims by negotiation. She even managed to foment a brief
internecine war between two wouldbe successors by intermingling their
troops in the same barracks. Other faction leaders were more astute or
intransigent.  They wouldn't move, forcing Hathor to come to blows with
them.  She was still husbanding her faction's resources and trying to
avoid large-scale combat, so she engineered arguments and duels.  The
net result was several new openings in the godly hierarchy, an attendant
swelling of forces in fealty to Hathor, deeper enmity from the surviving
warlords, and a clearance of tenants from the old battlewagon. Briskly
done, Ptah had to admit.  His former wife had lost none of her skills
during her long sleep.  She was, in fact, well on the way to achieving
supremacy on Tuat well within the threemonth timetable she'd established
for herself. The job of battleship reconstruction was not going as
smoothly.  Ptah's efforts suffered from shortages of trained personnel.
Even by stripping all other projects in the empire, he had little more
than a skeleton crew available for refitting. He hated to admit it, but
the lack of technicians was perhaps a sign that Ra's empire was running
down.  Certainly of late, the sun god had paid more attention to his
warriors than to the constructive side of his governmental
establishment. Perhaps it was past time for a successor. But Ptah might
have wished for a leader a bit more flexible than Hathor.  She'd have no
problem making an example of him, in the expectation of encouraging the
next Ptah to meet the deadlines she set. The fact that she'd be losing
an invaluable technical resource, trained by Ra himself, would not
matter at all to her.  At least not in the short term. So Ptah was
forced for the first time in a few thousand years to devote himself to
short-term planning.  His technicians worked twelve-hour shifts.  He
himself got his hands dirty, performing

manual labor while simultaneously managing everyone else's work.  When
he bothered to check into it, he realized he was getting by on only a
couple of hours' sleep each day-one of the advantages of a mechanically
assisted body. Even so, the project fell inexorably behind schedule.
Ptah stood in the ruins of an arcaded hall, welding a steel plate across
what had been a delicately fashioned archway.  Rough welds stood out
like scar tissue against the inlaid metalwork of the arch.  The
craftsman in Ptah cried out against the quick and dirty job. But the
plate, ugly as it was, did serve to seal off yet another passageway
entrance.  While the ship's structural integrity hadn't been compromised
by all this peacetime construction, the multifarious openings to adits
in the former docking station had turned the vessel's inner hull into a
sieve.  All such orifices had to be closed. Ptah put down his arc
welder.  Well, at least that joint should hold against hard vacuum.
Although they wouldn't be able to test for leaks until the engines were
up and calibrated.  Then there'd be the navigation tests and, finally,
physical disengagement from this rock. The odly engineer shrugged that
prospect aside as being far distant in the future.  He was consulting a
holographic plan to see which leak next needed caulking when one of his
foremen came down the companionway. "What are my people to do when
they're scheduled for two jobs at the same time?"  the man complained,
pressed beyond tact by exhaustion and the exigency of work. "We can
either install those new secondary weapons mounts, or test the fire
control for the main batteries," he said bluntly, "We simply can't do
both." "Install the new weapons," Ptah replied after a moment's thought.
The foreman stared.  "Half those fire-control circuits are original with
the ship," he reminded Ptah.  "We just patched them into new consoles.
And there aren't any backups."  This was unlike his usually
perfectionist master.  Ptah insisted on redundant systems and extensive
cross-testing. But the engineer of the gods only shrugged.  "I tried to
get a year, expecting to finish the job in half that time," Ptah said.
"But I have only a quarter of a year, which I estimate to be half the
time I really need." His ghastly face gave the foreman an even ghastlier
smile.  "Under those constraints I am expected to present Hathor with a
ship that can fly and shoot.  I will do so.  We must do so." He sent his
dubious craftsman off to execute a mass-production job. Given Ptah's
already papery voice, the foreman wouldn't be expected to catch his
master's muttered comment: "I simply won't warrant how long it will do
both." Eugene Lockwood had made himself a reputation in UMC as a site
manager who got things done. He prided himself on being equally at home
in an office or on the bottom of a mine shaft.  But though he tried to
keep it off his almost handsome, boy-next-door face, Lockwood found it
vaguely off-putting to be working in an office at the bottom of a mine
shaft.  Or, to be more specific, in the bottom of the missile silo that
housed the StarGate to Abydos. He was eager to establish himself on this
new planet, to get hands-on. But there were a few million administrative
details to be settled on Earth before he could get to work on his new
assignment.  A major annoyance was dealing with UMC's technical advance
man, Martin Preston. Because of his expertise in primitive mining
techniques, Preston had been moved to Lockwood's management team as a
consultant. Lockwood just hoped the old boy didn't expect his advice to
be taken seriously. "You've got to see these people at work to believe
it," Preston was saying for about the dozenth time. "I've looked at
photos," the manager said dismissively, depriving the engineer of eye
contact by looking through some reports. Preston didn't get the hint.
"Pictures don't give any real hint of the scale of the operation," he
went on.  "And they're doing it all by brute-labor methods.  No steam
hoists.  Not even tracks and ore cars." "Right, right, you've pointed
this out."  Forgetting himself, Lockwood directed an impatient glare at
the engineer.  "The people at corporate level tasked me with THREE
directives.  One, i'm supposed to get this mine up and modernized. Two,
I'm to handle any disruptions from outside sources-that means
marginalizing this Daniel Jackson character." He shrugged.  "I don't see
any problem there. He's offered to teach the locals English.  But we'll
offer English classes that will knock the natives' socks off.
Audio-visual. Multimedia.  We've already hired an educational TV company
to make it as slick as possible.  I'm figuring how many portable
generators we'll need to run the video screens." Lockwood brought
himself back to the task at hand.  "And finally, I'm supposed to do all
this while managing a profitable production of ore from the mine
operation as it exists now." "But you're holding to production figures
that I told you are too high."  Preston's pudgy face was tight with
disapproval.  "I thought the figures cited by the Elders at Nagada were
excessive, and you've inflated them." "It's a level of production that
this mine has achieved in the past, according to our military sources."
"Yes.  I was there with one of those military sources.  He told me the
only way those figures were achieved was by using the whole city's
population as slave labor.  This great god Ra or whatever was working
them with guns to their heads. How do you expect to match that?"
Annoyed, Lockwood went back to riffling through reports.  "My mandate is
to achieve the highest production possible from the get-go.  You copy?
This quartz stuff is apparently very valuable, judging from its price
per ton.  It's also very versatile, because research centers all over
the country are screaming for it.  And we've got to provide the stuff-in
bulk." He tried to sweeten this annoying subordinate. "So I'll have to
ask you and the local labor force to sweat a little until we get modern
methods in to pick up some of the slack-" "'Pick up the slack?"' Preston
echoed.  "There's no way we can modernize part of that operation without
disrupting the rest of it. These people have been working that deposit
in the same manner for thousands of years.  There's no way you're going
to come in with hoists and ore conveyors and not joggle their elbows.
You're not even considering a training curve for using your new
technology.  Production at that mine is going to go down-perhaps
steeply-before it heads up." "Thank you for your consultation," Lockwood
said.  "I think you're wrong.  Why don't you let me worry about
modernizing the place while you do the job I need you to do.  You just
keep these Abydos people as productive as possible during our teething
pains."  Lockwood gave Preston a wintry smile.  "Until we have the
machines in and can afford to get rid of most of them." "Meals, Ready to
Eat."  The bald supply officer looked dubiously at the amount O'Neil was
requisitioning.  "For the number of men you're taking, this will be a
six-month supply." "We don't know if reinforcements will be needed,"
O'Neil replied. "I thought you were expecting to get supplies from the
local people." "We expect to," O'Neil said.  "But I want to make sure we
don't strain their resources-and I want a reserve." It's just a case of
trucking the stuff here and getting it through that StarGate thingie,"
the supply man said. O'Neil hid a smile.  There spoke a man who'd never
been through the StarGate.  He wondered how the man would feel about the
"StarGate thingie" after it tore him down to atoms and squirted them a
million light-years through a tunnel that didn't obey THREE-dimensional
geometry. The bald officer moved on, his hand scratching in puzzlement
through the fringe of hair around his vast expanse of scalp.  "Now,
about all this ammunition."  He squinted at the quantity requested. "You
intend to run a whole lot of livefire exercises?" "I don't know who or
what we may end up shooting at," O'Neil said. "But I don't want the
balloon to go up and have us stuck without enough ordnance to handle
whatever happens. Besides, we may get reinforcements, and I want bullets
for them as well as food." "Um-hmmm," the bald man said.  "A chicken in
every pot, and a Stinger missile for every man." He tapped another
figure on the requisition list. "You want more Stingers than we sent to
Afghanistan for their entire holy war.  And the towel heads on this-um,
Abydos-are so backward they'd probably think a bow and arrow was
hopelessly high-tech.  Why do you think you'll need so many hand-held
missiles?" O'Neil restrained himself with difficulty.  "I need the
Stingers because General West turned me down on building some hardened
SAM sites." The officer stared at O'Neil in disbelief.  "You wanted to
set up fortified surface-to-air missile sites on this planet?  What for?
You think the Russkis are going to sell the towelheads-" This time he
caught O'Neil's disapproving look. "Ah, the natives have a couple of
AirForce surplus MiGs that we'll have to defend ourselves against?" Then
understanding dawned on the officer's face.  "Oh, maybe you're concerned
about flybys from the people who built the StarGate." He tried a joke.
"Are you sure Stingers are effective against flying saucers?" O'Neil
didn't laugh at the man's heavy humor. "I could give a rat's ass about
flying saucers."  His face grew more somber as he remembered the combat
gliders his second in command, Lieutenant Kawalski, had had to dodge.
Not to mention Ra's own spacegoing palace. "It's the big flying pyramids
that worry the crap out of me."

CHAPTER 7

LEARNING THE MOVES

On the Abydos side of the StarGate, a sudden wash of energy spurted
outward from the toroidal quartzose ring, then formed itself in a vortex
pointing in the opposite direction.  Then the energy flux stabilized
into a shimmering lens shape, like a glowing liquid jewel in a golden
quartz bezel.  An instant later, that jewel-like illusion was destroyed
as a ripple disturbed the shimmering surface, and a human figure formed
and was spat out. Eugene Lockwood's first step on an alien planet was
more like a humiliating belly flop.  From his briefing, he knew he was
inside a giant pyramid, in a good-sized hall.  What he didn't expect was
the godawful racket of a gasoline-powered generator powering a temporary
light system.  The explosions of the machine's internal combustion
engine echoed off the dressed-stone walls. Lockwood moved from the
StarGate chamber down a hallway to a wider room set with what appeared
to be beaten-copper disks vertically arranged on the floor and ceiling.
His briefing described this room as the site of some sort of shortrange
matter transmitter.  Beyond was a rising ramp, a huge stone gallery,
which then widened into a pillared entrance hall. Here he caught up with
the people he'd come to see-the UMC blasting team assembling demolition
charges around the narrow exit to the outside world.  In contrast to the
generous proportions of the inside passages, the entrance itself was a
virtual bottleneck, barely as wide as the height of a tall man. Lockwood
cast an anxious glance at the planted explosives as the team wired up
the detonators. "You're sure this will work?"  he asked the head
blaster, a short, red-faced man who worked with a slightly soggy, unlit
cigar clamped between his teeth. The look the explosives expert gave his
boss was almost hot enough to set off the blasting charges. "We've
checked the load-bearing limits of the stones, and we know how to site a
blast.  All our shaped charges will do is widen that doorwayunless you
want to bring all the equipment you send to this joint in small pieces."
"But it won't harm the StarGate?"  the nervous Lockwood pressed. "That
doodad is about as far from the discharge as you can get," the
demolitions expert replied. "But we're gonna set up some blast shields
just in case." He ran an experienced eye over his subordinates' work.
"Perfect," he declared, his cigar at a jaunty angle.  "When this blows
out, we'll use the rubble to help widen the ramp leading up to the
door." They unspooled detonator wires backward to the StarGate chamber.
More men and materials were arriving from Earth.  Heavy steel shields
and braces moved forward to block the entrances to the StarGate and
transporter rooms. "We're ready to go," the blaster announced.  So
Lockwood did, heading back to Earth. It seemed that no sooner had he
arrived and pulled himself together than the blaster came hurtling out
of the StarGate. "Crank 'em up, boys!"  he cried to the other workers in
the converted missile silo. If the noise in the StarGate chamber had
been loud, the roar that filled the converted missile silo was
deafening.  The heavy engines of the earthmovers stationed in front of
the StarGate throbbed with power, a low counterpart to the cycling of
the gate itself.  Lockwood felt a moment's sympathy for the Army
sentries permanently posted at the transition point.  The tumult was
like a physical blow.  Those poor grunts must be practically numb. THREE
bulldozers stood ready to move to Abydos.  The first ground its way up
the expanded and strengthened ramp to the rippling energy lens, moved
through, and disappeared.  Remembering his own disorientation, Lockwood
fervently hoped that the driver remembered to cut the engine as he hit
the threshold. The StarGate cycled down, giving the first machine time
to move out.  A few minutes later, power was fed again to the alien
construction, and the second earthmover passed through. Lockwood waited
until the third construction digger had arrived on Abydos before risking
the

StarGate again.  He arrived to find that the bulldozers had already
cleared the blast-shields from the passageway.  Following gingerly after
the throbbing mechanisms, Lockwood and the blasting chief retraced their
steps through the chambers and up the ramp. As they reached the entrance
hall, the executive could see that there was much more light coming in.
The slit-like gap in the wall was no more.  Instead, a much wider
opening allowed the glare of Abydos's THREE suns to pour in through a
cloud of rock dust. The new, improved portal would require some
work-broken stone at the ragged ends of the blast needed to be shorn
straight, perhaps a concrete arch would have to go in place.  But the
new adit was more than wide enough to accommodate an earthmover, as one
of the bulldozer operators demonstrated as he jockeyed his machine
forward to push away the first load of rubble. "It's a start," Lockwood
conceded. And we didn't bring the roof down on ourselves, he silently
added. The outward-directed force of the blast, combined with the long,
tube-like set of chambers behind it, had the same effect as the crack!
of a rifle shot-except on a much more massive scale.  And this "rifle"
was aimed directly at the city of Nagada. The blast wave didn't hurt
anything-the explosion was too far away and the city too sturdily built.
But the sound struck the inhabitants like a sonic boom, a more
impressive experience, since only one of them-Daniel Jackson-had any
experience of jet planes. Daniel abruptly declared an end to his
advanced hieroglyphics class when the dull booming sound pulsated
through the air. "What the hell could that be?"  he muttered as he set
off through the streets in search of Kasuf. Daniel found the town leader
in consultation with several of the other Elders.  They adjourned to one
of the spidery watchtowers, hoping to get a long-range glimpse of
whatever was going on. Kasuf's face was stiff with dread, and Daniel
could understand his concern.  The last things to come from the great
pyramid had been udajeet gliders lancing down out of the sky on a terror
mission, lancing bolts of destruction into the helpless city. A couple
of Skaara's home-guard members came into view, running madly up the
dunes.  One fired off a rifle shot into the sky while the other
gesticulated in the direction of the pyramid. Kasuf drew himself up.
Whatever was going on out there, it would have to be met and dealt with.
He called an order, and several howdah-equipped mastadges came
galumphing down the crooked streets.  Well, Daniel thought, they'd ride
out in comfort and the best possible local speed to investigate events.
The massive gates of the city opened, and the eavalcader was that
mastadgecade?  a bemused Daniel wondered-set off. Skaara had turned up
from somewhere to join them as they careened their way over the brownish
dunes. Soon enough they reached the young watchers, who accorded Skaara
snappy military-style salutes. Their report, however, was less precise.
Apparently, there had been a tremendous explosion at the pyramid where
Ra's spacecraft had docked. Afterward, a roaring yellow machine
appeared. Seeing this, the boy commandos had fled to spread the word.
Daniel frowned.  Could something have gone wrong with the StarGate? For
a second an unworthy part of him hoped so.  Better that he lose his
connection with Earth than see the culture of Abydos torn apart by
corporate wolves. They topped a dune and came into sight of the pyramid.
Daniel saw bulldozers and wreckage, and a red haze descended over his
vision. The front face of the pyramid was no longer a perfect sweep of
limestone.  The base had been blasted, and a huge rent had been torn in
the stone.  Instead of the severe, tight arch of the old entrance,
rubble was now being shoved to either side of the old entrance ramp.
Among the wreckage were the pair of stone obelisks which had once
flanked the ramp. Kasuf and his compatriots sucked air between their
teeth in shock. More workers marched out of the violently expanded
gateway.  Some went to work shoring up the breach they'd created. Others
began laying gravel over the stony rubble and mixing cement. Apparently,
they intended to expand the rampway to THREE times its original width.
That would allow heavy machinery like the bulldozers to roll down
without problems-not to mention big trucks. Daniel was so angry, he
flung himself out of the howdah before the mastadge stopped moving-and
nearly got himself stomped on. After managing the avoid the
mastadon-like beast's huge, klutzy feet, Daniel began running for the
ramp.  "What the hell are you guys do-" He skidded to a stop after
confronting something he hadn't noticed in his anger.  There was a
military presence around the pyramid.  Marine troopers in desert
camouflage were aiming rifles at him. Slowly, Daniel spread his arms to
show that his hands were empty. "Hey, guys.  No gun, see?  I speak the
same language you do, right? You can't shoot me.  I'm the translator."
An all-American civilian type with the word executive written all over
him came storming down the ramp.  "What are you people playing
at-Lawrence of Arabia on mutated camels?  You could have gotten hurt,
wandering into a construction zone." "Yeah, well, we didn't see any
warning signs up about getting crushed or shot," Daniel retorted. "Our
only clue was the explosion when you blasted our pyramid." "Your
pyramid?  I believe our Mr. Draven made it clear that we required
unlimited access to the StarGate." "But we didn't know unlimited access'
meant blowing holes in an eight thousand-year-old monument so your
bulldozers could roll.  The least you might have done is given us some
warning." The executive looked at Daniel as if the Egyptologist were
something extremely unpleasant he'd scraped off his shoe.  "You must be
Jackson." "Daniel Jackson, Ph.D. And you?" "Eugene Lockwood.  I'm the
UMC site manager. And right now we're preparing the site." "Way to go,
Lockwood.  You've got a start on your truck route, and all it cost you
was any goodwill Draven built up among the people who live here.  Take a
look at them." Daniel gestured to Kasuf and the other Elders, who stared
at the wreckage Lockwood's plans had created.  Their expressions were
critical, to say the least. "On the other hand, the sooner we get into
production on the mine, the sooner UMC can offer things this world
needs."  Lockwood nodded toward Kasuf and the Elders.  "You might tell
them that." "I'll tell them that-it's about time you turned up!"  Daniel
was looking over Lockwood's shoulder at a newcomer to the confrontation.
Jack O'Neil was not in a good mood.  "I got here as soon as I heard that
UMC requested a security team for their ... alterations." "Your guys
nearly shot us when we came to investigate the blast," Daniel accused.
"A calm, laid-back investigator like you?"  O'Neil raised an eyebrow.
"How could that be?" One week later, Skaara took his seat for Daniel's
third English class. Actually, it was a joint teaching effort, with
Daniel and Sha'uri at the front of the room. What concerned Skaara was
the growing number of empty seats.  He counted only half as many
students as had appeared at the first class. Daniel noticed it, too. "Is
it something I said?" he asked, trying to make a joke of his misgivings.
"I may not have the world's greatest accent in your language.  That's
why I asked Sha'uri to join me." "It's not your teaching-or your
accent," one of the students apologized.  "It's the classes those others
are giving at their camp." "The camp" had quickly crept into the
vocabulary of everyone in Nagada. In mere days, Lockwood had created a
tent city on the rocky plateau that supported the StarGate pyramid.  A
constant stream of material seemed to be transiting over from Earth.  In
addition, the security force of Marines commanded by Jack O'Neil had
taken up defensive positions. Although the Marines offered far more
protection than his home guard unit, Skaara had maintained the watch on
the pyramid.  It was more of an exercise for the young men, but Skaara
had gotten reports of a continuing trickle of Nagadans visiting the
encampment. "So what have they got that we don't?"  Daniel asked.
"Prettier teachers?  Or are they grading on the curve?"  He waved his
hand.  "I'm sorry.  I'm making bad jokes-and nobody here even
understands what I'm joking about." Daniel glanced at Sha'uri.  "So
let's start working on some things we can understand."  He started to
work on the lesson. When the class ended, Skaara set off from Nagada's
gates and across the dunes.  He stopped briefly at his watch point, then
went on to the UMC camp.  He looked for a Marine uniform and put his
fledgling English into use.  "Koronel O'Near-O'Neil," he corrected
himself. Surprised, the Marine pointed the way to the command tent. Jack
O'Neil was surprised to see Skaara.  But he was even more surprised when
the young man spoke to him.  "Hello, Colonel." "Hello, Skaara." "My
sister teaches me.  Daniel, too." O'Neil smiled.  "They're doing a very
good job." "They teach here, too."  Skaara frowned, trying to get his
point across with a limited vocabulary. "People Daniel teaches.  They
come here .  . ." "You want to know why?"  O'Neil had to smile at
Skaara's eager nod. "Good idea, General." The young man looked confused.
"General," O'Neil repeated, snapping a salute.  "You General, I salute."
Skaara touched his chest.  "General." "You're scouting."  O'Neil shaded
his eyes with his hand, miming the action of scoping things out. "We
call that intelligence." Poor Skaara looked totally lost.  O'Neil toned
down his conversation. "I'll show you the classes. You look around."
UMC's English classes were being conducted in a large, airy tent.
Skaara's eyes were big as he took in the banks of computer and video
monitors. Some showed incredible machines, like the earthmovers he'd
seen at the pyramid.  There were other pictures of great, boxy wagons
that moved on many wheels, but had no mastadges to pull them. There were
also brightly animated figures on other screens moving to cheerful
music.  The young man had wondered how people who didn't speak his
language could teach theirs.  The flashing figures explained how. The
UMC teachers were using hieroglyphics-and besides deserters from his
English class, Skaara also saw faces he recognized from Daniel's
literacy courses. The strangers were using Daniel's own work to lure
away his students! It certainly wasn't perfect.  Skaara saw several
signs he didn't understand, and some that were just plain wrong. One of
the teaching staff approached him.  "You want to learn my tongue?"  he
asked in a broken, fumbling sort of dialect.  "You must help teach me
yours." "The teacher in the city speaks my tongue better," Skaara
replied. "Why shouldn't I learn from him?" "That one is not .  . ."  The
teacher tapped the side of his head.  "In my place, he is a failure."
Skaara kept his face noncommittal.  But when he returned home, he'd have
much to discuss with Daniel and Sha'uri.

CHAPTEr 8

HArSH EDUCATION

Daniel couldn't believe what Skaara had to tell him.  "Televisions.
Computers.  All the bells and whistles."  He saw the incomprehension on
Skaara's and Sha'uri's faces and apologized. "Sorry.  An expression from
back home." Listening to the content of what Skaara had seen, he
scowled.  "So. Part of this show is to impress people with the wonderful
machines Lockwood intends to bring here.  He may even be looking for
people with an aptitude to run them. They'd be a lot cheaper to pay than
bringing people from Earth.  Most of that can be done with pictures. But
how can they talk to people?  I can't believe the Marines picked up
enough words When Skaara explained about the dancing hieroglyphics,
Daniel's eyes went big behind his glasses.  "They're trying to learn
ancient Egyptian from the people I taught how to write?  Using
hieroglyphics?" "Some didn't make any sense," Skaara said. Using chalk
on a piece of slate, he drew one of the odd figures he'd seen on the
glowing screens. "I can't get the colors, of course," Skaara apologized.
Daniel, however, was staring at the glyph

Skaara had drawn.  He began to laugh.  "No wonder you couldn't
understand what this means. Those idiots are using Budge's work-and it's
full of mistakes." His good humor restored, he turned to Sha'uri. "Looks
like we'll have to reopen enrollment for our English classes," he said.
"This time we choose people we didn't teach how to write. You'll handle
the spoken word, and I'll teach them the English alphabet."  He frowned
and muttered in English, "Wonder if I could send away for that phonics
course I always used to hear advertised." The strangers made great
progress in a very short time.  A road now stretched from the pyramid
housing the StarGate to the mining site. Trucks roared back and forth.
Work began on the first mechanical hoist system to carry the ore from
the depths to the surface.  But in the meantime the quartz material
still had to be dug and transported by hand. Lockwood made several
visits to Nagada, bargaining with the Elders for more workers and harder
effort.  He wasn't meeting his production estimates.  He brought staff
members along, and as his teachers became more proficient in the local
idiom, some of them accompanied the manager as well.  At least they
verified that Daniel Jackson was translating Lockwood's requests fairly
and accurately. The UMC man was not happy to hear this.  He had a
sizable gap developing between what he'd promised his superiors and the
amount of ore being loaded.  And Lockwood wanted someone to blame.  He
tried incentives, raising the rates of workers who produced more than
usual. It didn't represent that much of a monetary drain.  The elders
had agreed on daily wages that would produce coronaries in most
mineworkers' unions.  The only problem was that the locals demanded
payment in coin.  They didn't mind if it was U.S. coin. But a lot of
American banks were wondering why the demand for Susan B. Anthony dollar
coins was rising. Production rose slightly, but not enough to reach
Lockwood's goals. Having failed with the carrot, he next decided to try
the stick.  He began by arranging private meetings with his field
foremen-a much more corporate title than overseer. "They're lazy,"
foreman Tony DiBlasi complained.  "No discipline.  I don't know how they
managed to produce as much as you say they did. just a few trips up and
down those ladders, and half of them are off to that refreshment tent of
theirs.  Especially the women and old men." DiBlasi didn't mention that
just one trip up the ladders was enough to put him out of commission for
a good half hour. Lockwood smiled.  "So what we need to do is set
standards.  These people can't declare breaks on their own.  Let's try
for a minimum of five round trips before they can take a rest.  Does
that sound reasonable?" Sitting in the boss's air-conditioned trailer,
out of the broiling heat of Abydos's THREE suns, any  thing sounded
reasonable to DiBlasi. "But how do we enforce it?"  he asked. Lockwood's
face looked as if he'd suddenly bitten into a sour persimmon.  "I'll
apply to headquarters for some security people. Knowing what a soft
heart this O'Neil guy has, we'll never get the Marines to back us up on
this." "And what about the Abydos people?  What if they complain?"
DiBlasi wanted to know. "The Abbadabbas?"  Lockwood smiled derisively,
speaking aloud for the first the name he'd privately been using for the
natives.  "What are they going to do?  File a grievance with the union?"
DiBlasi chuckled.  "Abbadabbas," he repeated. "I like that." "I want you
and the other management people to monitor the workers," Lockwood said.
"Identify the weak links-the ones who don't produce. As we mechanize the
operation, those will be the first we'll get rid of." His clean-cut
features twisted into a smirking wink.  "Just don't work them to death,
all right? For the time being, we need these people." Perhaps Lockwood
considered himself clever dubbing people "Abbadabbas" and calling them
dirty and lazy.  But he underestimated one of his listeners.  While
Lockwood and DiBlasi had been talking, one of the locals had been
cleaning Lockwood's trailer.  She was a older woman, who reminded one of
the foremen of his own mother, so he'd secured this light duty for her.
What neither the foreman nor Lockwood knew was that the woman was also a
student in Daniel jackson's English classes. The voices coming through
the paper-thin partitions of the trailer had been clear enough.  And
although her English wasn't up to translating the whole interview, the
woman had an illiterate's facility for remembering sounds. When she
recited the conversation at class that evening, Daniel felt as though he
were listening to a human tape recorder.  Some of those more fluent in
English, like Sha'uri and Skaara, were angered and offended. The
ill-will grew as the less fluent got translations from more advanced
students. Daniel merely felt sick.  Abbadabbas, he thought.  The bastard
has come up with a perfect demeaning name for us. But he had other
concerns at the moment, heading off a ground swell of anti-UMC feeling
in his classroom. "Who does this Lockwood think he is?"  an angry
student demanded.  "Ra himself.  He at least had the excuse of being a
god-not human.  But Lockwood is as mortal as the rest of us." Daniel
picked his words carefully.  "On my world," he said, "when big jobs must
be done, large groups are organized, called corporations." "Large
jobs-like mining?"  another student asked. "The bigger the job, the
bigger the corporation. Some of them begin to take on lives of their
own. Those who work for the corporation-especially those near the
top-begin to think only of the good of the company.  For them the
corporation becomes a god to be worshiped-like Ra." "And with their
power, they begin to act like Ra," Skaara said shrewdly. "But how do the
people on your world protect themselves against arrogant corporations?"
a young man in the back row wanted to know. "There are different ways,"
Daniel said slowly. "In some cases the people ask our leaders to make
laws protecting them. Other times the workers organize to bargain with
the corporation." "Little good that would have done us with Ra," an
older woman scoffed. "If we had protested mistreatment, the Horus guards
would have beaten us more severely." There was a moment of silence as
the class considered her words.  Ra's followers had treated the people
badly-until the people had finally risen up.  When they were finished,
Ra and his people were dead. Daniel didn't like the obvious train of
thought he could read on his students' faces.  "We've gotten very far
from the point," he said abruptly, turning back to his slateboard.  "We
were talking about why some words are spelled one way but sound another
The next day, Daniel, Sha'uri, and Skaara were called to meet with Kasuf
and the Elders.  The older men were frankly baffled. "We hear of strange
things in the camp of this man Lockwood," a white-bearded leader said
almost peevishly.  "Those who go to learn the Strangers' language are
shown pictures of great machines that can do the work of a hundred men.
Some are offered the chance to learn more than the language-how to ride
these great devices themselves.  They are told this will make them
valuable workers.  And there are hints that others may lose their jobs."
"Not hints," another Elder put in angrily.  "I have heard a report that
Lockwood was saying as much to his overseers." "I, too, have heard
this," Kasuf said, turning to Daniel.  "And I have heard that it was
said in your class.  Is this true?" "A woman who cleans for Lockwood
heard it," Sha'uri spoke up.  "He laughs at us, calls us silly names.
But he wants his overseers to keep track of who brings up more ore and
who brings up less." "Well, of course some can carry more than others,"
an Elder said.  "In my day-in the days of Ra-" he amended, "everyone dug
for ore when it was demanded.  The children, the elderly, women-they
could not carry as much up the ladders as a strong man.  But they could
bring something." "They carried their loads for fear of Ra and his
warriors," Skaara pointed out.  "The people now working in the mines do
so freely, for the coins the strangers offer." "And Lockwood complains
they do not work hard enough."  Kasuf looked baffled.  "If they do not
work hard enough, why does he want less workers?" "He will get rid of
them as he brings the machines in," Skaara declared.  "Until then he
needs many laborers-and he intends to work them hard.  None will be
allowed into the tent of rest until they have made five circuits of the
ladders." The Elders muttered among themselves. "Five circuits-that is
difficult enough for a strong man under the suns at this time of year."
"What does Lockwood know of the suns?" Whitebeard demanded angrily.  "I
am told he spends most of his days in a box where it is always cold." As
good a description of an air-conditioned trailer as I ever heard, Daniel
thought. "Let him and his overseers stagger under the suns before they
set such conditions," another oldster angrily declared.  "Even under
Rathe tent of rest was open to all who needed it-whenever they needed
it." Daniel frowned.  The Elders were obviously talking about a
tradition that had survived for thousands of years.  But Lockwood
apparently felt the tradition was insufficiently businesslike, and
intended to change it. His attempt might blow up in his face even worse
than the blasting at the pyramid.  There he had merely destroyed an
artifact of the people's past.  Here he was attacking an institution
that affected the health and welfare of every Abydan who worked in the
mines.  The Elders, all of whom had spent time in the pit, were getting
worked up.  And understandably so.  As older men working under the
broiling suns, they had probably needed the amenities of the tent of
rest. "Tell them how it is on your world, Daniel," Skaara suddenly
urged. "About the corporations, and the laws, and the workers protecting
themselves." Daniel Jackson suddenly found every eye in the room on him.
It was an uncomfortable feeling. He'd experienced it other
times-standing in front of a horde of skeptical Egyptologists when he'd
presented the theories that got him branded as a crackpot.  He'd
experienced the near adulation of the people of Nagada on the first day
he'd come to Abydos.  Back then these people had thought he was some
sort of messenger from Ra. But now, after he had finally convinced them
that he was just a man, the leaders of Abydos were turning to him for
advice.  After ignoring so many of his warnings, Kasuf and the Elders
were beginning to suspect they were out of their depth in dealing with
Eugene Lockwood. What could Daniel tell them?  He wasn't a lawyer, or a
labor consultant.  He was a scholar, an ivory-tower type who'd made some
right guesses about history but couldn't get a job.  By dumb luck his
theories and knowledge of hieroglyphics had gotten him into the StarGate
project, and he'd managed to parlay that knowledge into a chance at the
greatest adventure in his life. Daniel gulped, looking around at the
expectant faces. I'm only an expert on the dead past, not current
events, he thought. this is a hell of a situation for an Egyptologist to
get himself into.

 CHAPTER 9

TROUBLE IN MIND

"Colonel O'Neil?  Vernon Ballard.  I've been brought in as head of
security for the mining operation." Jack O'Neil smelled problems the
moment this latest newcomer from Earth entered his command tent. The
stranger was a big, beefy man, holding himself ramrod straight but with
the beginnings of a beer belly ruining the line of his uniform. It was
the gray-brown of the camouflage suit that caught O'Neil's eye. One
glance told that it was definitely government issue-but the uniform
didn't come from the U.S. government. Ballard removed his matching
combat cap, revealing balding brown hair cut so close, it was hard to
tell where haircut ended and five o'clock shadow began.  The line of
Ballard's chin was also slightly softened by excess flesh, as if he'd
spent more time recently at a desk than out in the field. The security
man caught O'Neil's speculative gaze on his uniform.  "I thought it
would be best to differentiate between our forces.  UMC was able to pick
up a shipment of old Rhodesian uniforms-most suitable, I think, for dry
bush operations. O'Neil responded with a noncommittal grunt. Lockwood
had been whining for some time about the need for company police.  Trust
UMC to outfit them with relics from a twenty-year-old blackwhite African
war. "Well, I trust you do better than the soldiers who last wore that
uniform," O'Neil said dryly. "Rhodesia, after all, is now Zimbabwe." He
gestured for Ballard to sit, but the man remained standing at parade
rest.  O'Neil's distaste deepened.  Civilians who played soldier made
his teeth itch.  If, on the other hand, this guy was a pro taking UMC's
pay, that made him a mercenary.  And the Universal Mining Consortium's
record with mercenary troops in the Third World was scarcely what one
would call exemplary. "So, how many people are you bringing in,
Ballard?"  O'Neil inquired. "Does this mean I can send some of my
Marines home?" "I'll be transshipping approximately a hundred security
consultants." A fine euphemism for hired guns, O'Neil thought. Ballard's
face stiffened when he caught the soldier's expression.  "I expected
you'd be bringing in reinforcements as well, Colonel.  I mean,
considering the uncertain temper of the mine workers." "The people who
delve into that mine have been working at it since time out of mind,"
O'Neil said, trying to keep his voice even.  "UMC is stirring up its own
problems, trying to change things overnight. Besides, I'm tasked with
external security." "But surely your troops must be prepared to
safeguard American interests." O'Neil gave Ballard the look of a man
finding something stinking and sticky on the sole of his shoe.  "I've
yet to be convinced that the national interest and UMC's are exactly
concurrent."  He nodded at the security man.  "That's why you and your
bully boys are being imported. Your pay probably costs Lockwood as much
again as the wages he's offering the people doing the real work down in
the pit." Ballard pulled himself to full attention again, his pale face
going red.  "Perhaps you doubt our professionalism, Colonel.  But I
assure you.  my people know their jobs-as do I. You may be Marine recon,
Colonel, but I trained as a Navy SEAL." O'Neil's expression was flat,
unimpressed as he gazed up at Ballard. "A SEAL, huh?  What happened? You
get skinned?" The flush in Ballard's face deepened.  "Excuse me,
Colonel?" O'Neil jerked a thumb toward the entrance of his tent.  "Take
a good look outside, Navy boy.  I'll bet you were trained in underwater
demolitions and wetlands operations.  But this is a goddamned desert
planet, bucko.  Your areas of expertise mean nothing out here except
one.  So you can talk about security, but you've been brought in here as
UMC's leg breaker.  And I wish you joy of it." Ballard was already
storming his way out of the tent as O'Neil finished: "When they got sick
of being mistreated, the people here went up against gods and killed
them.  I don't think they're going to be scared of an ex-SEAL and a
hundred guns for hire." The atmosphere was equally hot in Eugene
Lockwood's air-conditioned trailer, where Martin Preston had barged in
on the site manager's privacy. "You're going to put guards around the
rest tent?"  Preston exploded. The UMC engineer had just heard of
Lockwood's latest edict from one of the supervisors.  Although Preston
was supposed to be consulting on the project, the new system had been
implemented without any input from him. "We'll be able to tighten things
up with our own security people on-site."  Lockwood sat behind his desk,
completely unmoved by the headquarters man's ire.  "We're going to
impose our standard of five round trips before the ore carriers are
allowed to take a break.  After the fifth trip, our supervisors will
issue a chit to the worker.  The guards will be on hand to ensure no
chit, no entrance to that tent." "From the lowest part of that mine, the
trip to the surface is the equivalent of an eleven-story climb on those
ladders."  Preston had tried to make it on an uninterrupted climb-once.
Since then he had carefully paced himself and took frequent rests on
various levels. Lockwood, who monitored progress only from his office on
the surface, merely shrugged.  "The local workers must surely be used to
the climb." He turned to more serious matters.  "These people have
ignored our supervisors when we tried to establish the standard on a
voluntary basis.  Even when they're docked in pay, they still take
unauthorized rest breaks." The site manager thumped the desk with his
fist.  "I will not allow a bunch of rag heads to flout management's
authority.  We're still operating below our production projections-"
"Below your projections," Preston challenged. "You severely
underestimated the logistical impact of having a single-lane road for a
supply line.  It's not easy scheduling the movements of ore and
supplies.  I hear you've had to start buying food in the city." "That
damned O'Neil puts his supplies at a higher priority than ours,"
Lockwood growled. "He ties up the StarGate when he's got huge stockpiles
already on the ground here." "You can't blame O'Neil for your delays in
upgrading the technology in the mine.  It's taken weeks-plural-to get
the first elevator installed in the pit, because of the difficulty in
getting the pieces to the bottom of a missile silo and then over here."
"All the more reason to get better work out of the locals," Lockwood
snarled back. "Define 'better' when your work rules will result in
people dropping from heat prostration."  Preston unearthed a copy of his
latest report, which lay unconsidered under a pile of dead-item papers.
"You're ignoring the most elementary safety concerns which I outlined-"
"I can't be bothered with your baseless complaints," Lockwood cut him
off.  "I've got a mine to run." "I think you mean an ass to cover,"
Preston accused.  "You were going to be a corporate hero, offering the
board of directors profit estimates grossly in excess of the projections
I made." The mining expert favored his superior with a mirthless smile.
"But now the mine's actual production falls laughably short of your
inflated guarantees.  You're falling behind on construction.  You tell
me you can't afford to implement anything in the way of safety, but you
bring in a small army of thugs and call it 'security." " Preston jabbed
an angry finger at Lockwood. "You're not an engineer anymore-just a
lousy bean counter!" "A bean counter who happens to be your boss,"
Lockwood emphasized. "And there's a good reason for that.  You
engineering types are supposed to find practical answers to problems.
But do you? No.  You have no conception of the bottom line." "We're
talking about human lives here," Preston said desperately, "not beans.
Don't you worry "There's nothing to make me worry," Lockwood cut him
off.  "No unions, no OSHA-no feds. We're on another planet, for
chrissake.  So who's going to worry about a few Abbadabbas more or
less?" Azar was one of those whom Lockwood had mockingly christened
Abbadabbas, a humble member of the fellahin, the thousands of simple
laborers who toiled in the deep, stony gash that was Abydos's quartzite
mine. Leaning on one of the myriad ladders that climbed the ravine
walls, Azar wiped stinging sweat from his eyes with the tail of his head
rag. The triple suns of his world had seemed to align themselves with
diabolical accuracy to beat down mercilessly into this deep crack in the
planet's crust.  Shade was nonexistent, coolness a forgotten memory.
Sucking on a pebble to generate some sort of moisture within his parched
mouth, Azar leaned far between the rungs of the ladder he occupied,
hacking into a surface vein of quartzite with a crude copper mattock.
One, two, THREE times his digging tool chopped into the bright ore with
dull chunk.  At last a fragment of ore about half the size of a man's
head broke loose to fall to the floor of the terrace below. Azar paused
for a moment while a collector stepped beneath the ladder to grab the
piece of gleaming rock and pack it into the bag he carried. "Come on,
Gaden," the miner jested to his workmate.  "Gather that up and get out
of there before I drop another piece on your head." "Ah, no, I've enough
to carry to the top now," Gaden replied.  "Perhaps I'll even stop by the
tent of rest-while it's still allowed." Azar glanced over at the lines
of fellahin toiling their way up the multiple ladders that led to the
surface.  "Why not take your load to the box-that-flies?  It stops right
over there " he gestured two ladder lines over.  "A lot closer than the
top of the gorge." "I hope you haven't been doing that while you're
collecting," Gaden said.  "I hear the overseers, the
soo-pah-vai-sas-have been noting the names of the workers who deliver to
the box.  They're marked as weak-and they'll be the first to be
discharged as more of the boxes are built." "That will take a long
time," Azar scoffed. "Have you seen the strangers building the frames to
hold the boxes?  I don't even know their language, but I know they're
cursing.  They keep starting and stopping their work." "But someday they
will finish their work.  The parts will come.  The boxes will fly up and
down. And many, many of us will no longer have work." Gaden cast a sharp
look toward his friend.  "No more of those odd, shiny coins.  They'll
only be for the ones who run the machines-and perhaps for a few others."
"But none who'd be listed as weak," Azar said in a meditative voice. The
flying box whoosked past on its way to the surface, shaking slightly in
the cage that held it.  The ladders shook more. Azar climbed down the
smooth-worn rungs and headed over to the ladder rising right beside the
framework that enclosed the box that flew. When the hoisting machine had
gone into operation, Azar had examined it with interest.  A great rope
made of metal wires wrapped around each other was attached to the top of
the box, pulling it up or letting it down.  The open-sided car also ran
on tracks. Gaden stood, watching, as Azar waited for the box to come
back down, pretending to hew at rock where there was no ore.  They heard
the whoosh of the approaching box and glanced upward. Azar's eyes
narrowed, gauging distances.  The bottom of the square receptacle
reached their level. Abruptly, Azar suddenly heaved his mattock to
intersect with the joint of track and box. The elevator was empty except
for the bulk of a heavyset young man leaning against one corner of the
cage. Charlie Morris had been known in his Texas high school for two
things: being a formidable linebacker and having the largest collar size
in town.  Unfortunately, college had not brought another growth spurt,
so his dream of playing in the pros had faded.  He'd taken a number of
jobs that generally depended more on brawn than brains. Like this one,
keeping an eye on a bunch of rag heads to make sure they didn't screw up
too much on the ore. How could they screw up digging in the ground?
Charlie's head naturally thrust forward in a simian manner off his thick
neck.  In school it had earned him the nickname "Vanilla Gorilla."  On
Abydos his posture left him suffering from what felt like terminal
sunburn on the back of his neck. No way was he climbing down with those
suns blazing like the hinges of hell. Not when he could ride. Charlie
leaned forward into the air flow coming around the dropping elevator
car.  It would be the last breeze he'd enjoy for the next four hours,
down on the floor of this crack deep between the cheeks of Mother
Abydos. Instead, it nearly turned into the last breeze he ever enjoyed.
From the corner of his eye Charlie caught the gleam of copper.  He
glanced around to see one of the miners' primitive digging tools fly
outward to jam the elevator's tracks. Beyond he caught a glimpse of a
miner-a burnt-dark face like a thousand others, registering shock as he
realized that what they called "the flying box" was occupied. A clang, a
screech, and the open-sided elevator jolted to a stop, flinging Charlie
into the air.  His frantic hands managed to catch hold of the framework
he'd been leaning against a moment before. For one horrible moment it
looked as though he'd be flying down the last five floors worth of
shaftway without benefit of the elevator. But with a wrenching twist he
managed to throw himself back into the cage of the now stalled car.
Charlie landed on the floor with a brutal thump.  He pushed himself up
dazedly on hands and knees, then glared over toward the ladder that had
been occupied by the towel head who'd just tried to kill him. Of course,
the rungs were vacant now. "Sabotage," Lockwood muttered as he raged
around the UMC encampment, trying to track down Colonel Jack O'Neil.
He'd repeatedly asked the local military commander to post Marine guards
to protect UMC's improvements to the mine.  But O'Neil had laughed him
off. Now, just as the site manager was about to move in his own security
people, the damned Abbadabbas had wrecked the elevator-the one bit of
modern technology he'd gotten up and running in their primitive cess
pit. Still worse, his construction people told him it would take days
before the blasted machine would be running again.  They'd have to
replace part of the track, importing it from Earth, and then getting it
down those Stone Age ladders to the spot where the sabotage had taken
place. His supervisors had no clue as to what had happened.  The cause
of the elevator wreck had been one of those local digging tools,
something that by all rights should be in a museum of ancient Egyptian
artifacts. The wooden handle of the mattock had been ground to
splinters.  But the soft metal head of the implement had smeared itself
between the elevator car and its tracks.  The havoc wreaked by some
illiterate digger with dirt under his fingernails was as bad as the most
sophisticated hightech saboteur. There was no way to trace the mattock,
of course.  Thousands of them were scattered across the mine workings.
And asking any of the workers in the area was equally futile.  Lockwood
moved in the best of his language teachers, the ones who had picked up
the most of the local lingo.  He might as well have sent in his dullest
grease monkeys fresh from Earth.  The Abbadabbas not only suffered
memory loss, but apparently they'd lost all their language skills as
well. Lockwood himself had engaged in a long, sweaty climb down the
crudely built ladders to the sabotage site.  He'd always considered
himself to be in excellent shape, but after climbing five stories down
and THREE stories up, Lockwood had been left panting on one of the mine
terraces. Vernon Ballard, the new security chief who'd accompanied
Lockwood, had been forced to climb to the rest tent and bring back water
and salt tablets for the weak and sweating site manager. After Lockwood
recovered, he'd climbed back to the surface, rested a bit in his
air-conditioned office, then set off to complain to O'Neil. To his fury,
the Marine commandant seemed nowhere to be found. Lockwood had covered
the Marine encampment and his own establishment. No O'Neil.  The UMC man
was on the verge of setting off for the city of Nagada when one of his
people reported that the colonel had been spotted driving a Humvee into
the desert. The mine executive requisitioned one of the all-terrain
vehicles and set off in the same direction. Moving through the deep
desert was like riding a small boat across the heavy swells of a large
ocean.  The Humvee topped the crest of one sandy rise to reveal a vista
of seemingly identical dunes stretching to the horizon.

"Where the hell could he have gone?"  a frustrated Lockwood demanded of
his Marine driver. "Uh, sir," the rattled grunt replied, "maybe they've
gone to Hogan's Alley." Lockwood rounded on the man.  "Take me there.
Now!" Hogan's Alley turned out to be a valley inconspicuously tucked
between two dunes.  Part of it was a firing range, using one of the sand
mountains as a backstop.  The rest of the valley had been transformed
into an obstacle course. Lockwood stared down from the summit of a sand
hill.  "What is this place?  Some sort of training ground for your
people?" "Well-" the gyrene began, but he didn't need to answer. The ATV
was suddenly surrounded by a squad of homespun-clad young warriors who
seemed to erupt from the sand itself, aiming an assortment of weapons.
Lockwood had a moment of terror before he realized that the guns had no
ammunition clips, the crossbows no bolts. "Abba-" Lockwood quickly
revised his terminology.  "Abydos natives?" The squad leader, an
intense-looking young man with the dark skin of someone continually
outdoors, growled a brief, disgusted word in the native language.  "You
not in ex-uh-size!"  He pronounced the English words carefully.
"Exercise?"  Lockwood repeated in bafflement. "What's going on here?"
His answer came as another squad of young native men appeared to engage
the first group in mock combat.  Suddenly, the dunes seemed to be
covered with struggling figures.  A platoon-sized war game was underway,
the two teams of Abydos natives battling not merely with zeal but
obviously with well-trained skill. The first ambush team was taken down
with a speed and adroitness that took Lockwood's breath away.  Still
more astonishing, however, was the referee who appeared to listen to the
first squad leader's complaints. Lockwood had studied his files
carefully before taking over the Abydos operation.  He immediately
recognized Lieutenant Adam Kawalsky, O'Neil's second-in-command on the
initial Abydos reconnaissance, from photos in those files. The
lieutenant was serving as a junior officer in the present expeditionary
force.  He patiently listened as the intense young man who'd led the
first group of Abbadabbas complained in broken English about the
accidental triggering of his ambush.  "Not in ex-uh-size!" he
complained. "Sorry, Skaara," Kawalsky said.  "You should have seen that
before committing your forces, um, before you moved in." This young
Skaara character showed not only spirit but discipline.  He accepted
Kawalsky's ruling with a smart salute. Lockwood turned to view the rest
of the battle and spotted another referee-Feretti, the other survivor of
the reconnaissance team. And standing on another dune, binoculars in
hand, stood Colonel Jack O'Neil, observing the whole training exercise.

 CHAPTER 10

DEPARTMENT OF COMPLAINTS

General West maintained a small office in the Pentagon, a working space
whose size grossly undervalued his true influence in the military
establishment.  For the general, however, this seemed to be
S.O.P.-standard operating procedure.  Eugene Lockwood could appreciate
the appearance of being only a small cog in the large Pentagon machine
as useful camouflage for West's true, if somewhat shadowy, power. The
pokey little room didn't even boast a window.  But West kept a
formidably dragonish WAC posted at a desk outside his door to discourage
unwanted visitors. Lockwood had traversed a million light-years by
StarGate from Earth to Abydos.  He'd moved forward in terms of
civilization eight thousand years, from ancient Egypt to an ultramodern
missile silo in Colorado. He'd survived a jet trip to Washington.  But
as he drove through the Virginia countryside to the Pentagon, he glanced
at his gold watch, hoping he'd budgeted enough time to make his official
appointment. Lockwood negotiated his way through the Pentagon labyrinth
with the ease of a true bureaucrat, arriving at West's office precisely
on time. The female Cerebus led him in with a growl.  But Lockwood faced
far worse attack after the WAC had closed West's door. "Problems on
Abydos?"  the general asked, riffling through some papers on his desk.
Lockwood noticed the UMC logo atop the sheets.  The military man had
been going over his supposedly secret progress reports! "We've had some
setbacks," Lockwood chose to admit.  "Our language-acquisition program
has not progressed as quickly as we'd hoped, in part due to native
antagonism generated by Daniel Jackson, your former expert who remained
behind on Abydos." West nodded, his slightly fleshy face carefully
blank.  A bureaucratic in-fighter from way back, he wasn't about to
accept responsibility for someone else's snafu. "I was more concerned
about your failure to install more modern mechanisms in the mine
workings."  West riffled through more reports, penetrating Lockwood's
careful wording.  "On this side of the StarGate we're gearing up for
serious use of that quartzose material.  But your actual production is
far below the estimates that UMC presented us at the beginning of the
project." He's trying to hang me with my own projections, Lockwood
thought, trying to keep his own poker face.  But he hadn't come to
Washington to defend himself from this general's annoying questions. He
was launching an attack of his own-not to mention setting up a scapegoat
for the mine's production problems. "We have more serious problems than
supply bottlenecks and delivery delays.  The locals have started a
campaign of sabotage."  Lockwood paused for a second.  "And I personally
have seen them engaged in paramilitary training-apparently with the
approval and aid of Colonel O'Neil." West shuffled a new set of papers.
"Yes, I've received a report from the colonel." Covering his ass,
Lockwood thought.  But it won't help him. "O'Neil has just become aware
that two, ah, alumni of the Abydos reconnaissance have offered some help
to the young locals who helped them escape the alien forces.  The young
men had organized a sort of militia, as the colonel had earlier
reported-along with Messrs.  Draven and Preston of your company." West
shrugged.  "Lieutenant Kawalsky and Corporal Feretti believed that
organized activities would help release some of the young men's high
spirits.  It would also allow them to keep an eye on what this group got
up to." "According to my briefing, there were barely a dozen of those
shepherd boys," Lockwood objected.  "I saw considerably more than that
number engaged in war games." He leaned over the general's desk,
pressing his advantage.  "The colonel has consistently refused to guard
the new mining machinery from the locals.  Now he allows them to train
and become more dangerous to my people." The mining man glanced sidewise
at West.  "I know you initially appointed O'Neil to the expeditionary
force because of his experience on Abydos. Perhaps, though, he's had too
much experience there-too many contacts. O'Neil is blind to any danger
that doesn't come from outside the planet. With this Ra person dead, the
possibility of an outside attack seems remote to me.  The real problems
on Abydos come from disaffected elements in Nagada, not from some
bogeymen beyond the StarGate." Again General West nodded, his face still
revealing nothing of the thought processes going on behind his
bureaucratic mask.  "It is true that O'Neil was sent to Abydos because
of his familiarity with local conditions."  The general's voice held a
considering note.  "But you raise a reasonable concern.  Perhaps he's
grown too familiar with the autochthones." "So what are you going to do
about him?"  Lockwood wanted to know. "I still need someone on site who
knows the terrain and the people," West finally said.  "But it behooves
me to recognize your own requests for an additional military presence on
Abydos.  If we add counterinsurgency forces to our troop strength on
Abydos, we'll need an officer of sufficient rank to take command."
Lockwood nodded as if he were hearing the judgment of Solomon.  Behind
this respectful facade, however, he nearly quaked with fiendish glee. Do
it, West, he silently urged the general, kick the bastard downstairs!

On Abydos, Daniel Jackson finished another

lecture for his English class.  As the students left the room, he
beckoned Skaara over. "What's this I hear about some kind of fighting
out in the desert?"  he asked.  Rumors were flying around Nagada about
the perfidy of UMC, about destruction of mining equipment.  If he hoped
to be useful in his new position of adviser to the Elders, Daniel had to
listen to them all and boil out the truth.  After a week of fantastic
stories the young academic was prepared to take anything he heard with a
grain of salt. When Skaara began telling of the training ground in the
desert, of the war games, Daniel's eyes went wide.  This story went far
beyond any of the apocalyptic tales he'd heard in the city. "You had
maybe five friends who survived the fighting against Ra," Daniel said.
"How could you "A lot of other young men joined us," Skaara interrupted.
"More and more keep joining every day.  By now we have more than a
hundred training regularly.  Some of your friends have helped us-the
tall one who yells-" "Not O'Neil," Daniel protested. "No, the other
one-Kawalsky."  Even with his English lessons, Skaara had tough going
with the lieutenant's name.  "And the quick one-Feretti. They set
problems out for us and judge how we fight one another." Daniel shook
his head in disbelief.  "You've got a pair of combat Marines training
you?" "Even the one in the black hat came to watch us fight-O'Neil
himself," Skaara said proudly. "But that snake Lockwood turned up.  I
think he hopes to make trouble for the colonel." When he saw Daniel's
surprise at his use of the title, Skaara explained.  "That's what the
other two call him." Daniel tried to get the conversation back on track.
He'd just discovered that his brother-in-law had organized an
army-however small, this was a first for the natives of Abydos.  They
might not have much in the way of modern equipment, but knowing Skaara,
they certainly had spirit.  They'd also benefited from the training of
two Marines who'd fought shoulder to shoulder with them against Ra.
"Okay," Daniel finally said.  "You've answered two of my questions-what
and how.  But that leaves one that may be the most important.  Why are
you getting ready for a war?" He was almost afraid he'd get a speech of
the "kill the foreign devils" variety.  Although, he privately admitted,
some of it might be justified.  In mere months UMC had generated more
hatred than Ra had managed to stir up across the millennia. But Skaara
surprised him again.  "In the days of Ra, we had only rumors-vague
traditions of other worlds beyond the StarGate.  When you arrived, you
made those traditions real-and you helped us destroy the god who sucked
our blood for so long.  We were free." "So what is it?  Are you afraid
some of Ra's stooges will come back through the StarGate? That's what
O'Neil and all the soldiers are guarding against." Skaara nodded, a
little shamefaced.  "At first we were like boys playing at warriors.  I
did establish a watch on the great pyramid. But we had a dream-a larger
hope.  When you taught us to read the hidden writings, we learned more
about those other worlds." He spread his hands, trying to communicate
his feelings instead of just the words.  "We have brothers out there,
Daniel.  They're still slaves to Ra, or the vultures who served him. Our
brothers don't even know that the monster is dead.  But we hope to
change that." Daniel stared, wondering when Skaara's almost delicate
features had hardened and matured with such purpose.  "Change?"  he
echoed.  "How?" "I didn't want to approach you until we were ready,"
Skaara said. "You're the one who knows the StarGate best.  We know you
could find the keys to other worlds-Ombos, Wefen-perhaps even Tuat, the
home of the gods.  Then we could take the struggle to those living
enslaved-and bring them freedom!" Daniel stood almost slack-jawed in
dismay.  This is what happens when you get the reputation as the local
wise man, he thought.  Often enough before the advent of UMC, he'd
stolen off to the pyramid and the hall of the StarGate.  In daydreams
he'd manipulated the enigmatic twentyfoot-tall torus. The face of the
Abydos gate was carved with completely alien figures, representing
constellations as seen in the local sky.  Some Sha-'uri had taught him.
Others had been lost in the tides of local history. Nonetheless, Daniel
had fantasized about shifting the chiseled figures into new
configurations, opening the doorway to unknown worlds. But it had been
mere fancy.  Daniel hadn't even experimented.  And with the coming of
the Earthlings he had avoided the portal.  O'Neil would have had a
stroke at the idea of opening the window of Earth's vulnerability any
wider.  And, of course, UMC would want no interruption on its
EarthAbydos lifeline. Even if he had experimented, there was the problem
of finding the right constellation configurations out of the
quadrillions of possible combinations.  Daniel's probability math was a
bit rusty, but he quickly figured that he'd have better luck guessing
the numbers for a multimillion-dollar lottery. "Skaara."  Daniel took a
moment, trying to let the young man down as gently as possible.  "You
were there when we found the pillar engraved with the cartouche holding
the coordinates for Earth.  From our troubles then you must know how
hard it is to find the routes between StarGates." Skaara's face fell.
"But, Daniel," he said, "your wisdom-" "I'm merely a scholar," Daniel
quickly interrupted.  "I'm not Ra.  And I'll tell you honestly, I could
spend all the rest of my life trying to find

StarGate coordinates for somewhere, anywhere, and not find the key to
another world." Bitter disappointment showed on Skaara's downcast face.
Daniel uncomfortably cleared his throat.  The people here should know
better than to bestow him with infallibility.  Surely they'd seen enough
of his klutziness in dealing with the real world.  Children still did
imitations of his chicken impersonation from his first meal with Kasuf.
The people of Abydos had had no knowledge of barnyard fowl.  Their feast
food of choice was a pigsized lizard, broiled whole in its skin. To
Daniel the delicacy had tasted like chicken.  In trying to convey that
message to Kasuf, he'd resorted to pantomime.  Even today kids flapped
their arms and called "Bwark!  Bwark!"  when he walked by. So why, with
such knowledge of his shortcomings, did Kasuf, the Elders ... and now
Skaaraexpect him to be unerring in his answers? The answer left a cold
hollow in the pit of Daniel's stomach.  They're facing greater unknowns
than their culture has ever dealt with before. They need to believe.
"Besides," Daniel finally said, "you may not need to take your struggle
to other worlds.  We may have more than enough struggle around here
before too long." Beneath the base of the renovated battleship, Ptah
watched his vacuum-suited technicians moving like a flock of ungainly
storks.  He had cut local gravity control to facilitate the installation
of the ship's drive units.  The minuscule pull of Tuat the-moon had
allowed his skeleton crew to hoist and maneuver the huge
instrumentalities for lift and stardrive.  But they weren't used to
movement in near zero G, and gladly fled when he announced that he was
personally taking on the job of tuning the drives. Ptah turned in
annoyance to find his head technician still standing beside him.  "I
realize my idiom is sometimes antique," the godly engineer said.  "What
part of my instructions did you fail to comprehend?" "Lord," the
technician replied, "I know that it was in a test such as this that your
corporeal form was almost destroyed.  I thought"-he swallowed his
words-"I wish to serve you by attending to this task myself." "Ah."
Ptah's voice was almost gentle as he inquired, And how many times have
you calibrated stardrive units of this size, worthy servant?" "I-"
Again, the technician's voice failed him. "Never have I done the
operation, sire.  But I have studied the relevant instructions-" "There
will be numerous guards aboard this conveyance when it sets off for
Abydos, not to mention their leader, the great goddess Hathor.  I do not
think we should risk their lives on inexperience, even inexperience that
has studied the relevant instructions.  Go.  Enter the docking station,
proceed to the next dome, and continue with the fabrication of the
external controls.  I wish all to be in readiness when I return." With a
bow and a worried frown, Ptah's lieutenant made his exit. The
calibration of the drives was a grueling chore, best undertaken in
minimal gravity and near-vacuum.  Perversely, Ptah found his cyborg body
was far better suited to the labor.  His mechanical arm could control
tool movements to millionths of an arc.  His flesh body had failed in a
minute adjustment, triggering a flawed circuit that should have been
inert.  The drive unit had blasted for a nanosecond-with Ptah and his
crew deep within the killing radius. Ptah made his final connections in
each of the four corners of the empty pyramid.  Then he entered the
docking station, making his way to the external control center.  His
servant had done well. The center was already in operation, a
holographic image of the docked battleship hovering over the heads of
the operations crew. "Disengage from the docking station," Ptah ordered.
On the image above, close-ups appeared of the clamps that had anchored
the battleship to the stone structure for millennia.  The refurbished
mechanisms retracted smoothly. "Energize drive."  Ptah's voice sounded
almost dry as he gave the order. Hands danced across control panels.  An
eerie glow lit the golden quartzose sides of the pyramid ship.  It
seemed to leak from within. "Lift!"  Ptah commanded. The glow from the
ship intensified as the vast bulk of the vessel rose gracefully into the
air.  Lethal radiation reflected off the polished stone of the docking
station.  Thanks to the lack of atmosphere, there was no thunder to
accompany the drive's operation.  But dust and debris from the
renovation project blew away at the dreamlike speeds of low gravity. And
even from the distance of the next pyramid dome over, Ptah and his
technicians could feel the shaking transmitted through the moonlet's
stony crust. Its glow almost too intense for human eyes, the resurrected
battleship climbed smoothly into space until even the holographic
imaging system recorded it as one more star in the black satin
sky-albeit a balefully glaring star. "At this point stardrive
translation would be effected," Ptah announced.  "But that test will
await the arrival of the ship's full crew.  Bring the barque back to
station and dock." He cast a glare around at his jubilant navigation
trainees.  "And try to be careful not to scratch anything." Ra's empire
had never been a participatory democracy.  But in the absence of a head
god, the warrior godlings had taken to the expedient of council.  Hathor
arrived at the meeting chamber with a small retinue-and last, as
befitted the leader of the most powerful faction on Tuat. In the
intervening months, she had expanded her power by co-opting rivals or
killing them in single combat, and elevating members of her clique to
fill the vacancies.  Some dangerous adversaries abandoned the cockpit of
Tuat's politics, retreating to the safety of their home fiefs.  They had
not been eliminated, but they had been  neutralized as long as Hathor
kept tight control of the StarGate on the surface of Tuat-the-world.
Success had left Hathor with a host of restless allies ready to turn on
her at the slightest misstep, as well as one major enemy.  Ram-headed
Khnum had fought a rear-guard action against Hathor's march to power.
With Hathor's every victory, Khnum's ranks swelled as frightened lesser
gods joined his confederates.  And when Hathor killed a great god, there
were always some members of the conquered god's factions-favorites of
the deceased leader, or very loyal followers-who turned to Hathor's main
rival to gain their revenge. Hathor didn't mind having all her enemies
in one camp.  Her last duel had delivered her a majority on the council.
That fact, and the report of the successful drive test, impelled her to
make public her plans. Hathor didn't kid herself.  She knew that a
couple of godlings had established effective intelligence operations. At
least two of Khnum's followers-and THREE of her own-were merely waiting
for her to leave for Abydos.  Then they would make their own snatches
for Tuat. Such opponents didn't worry Hathor.  The best of the would-be
overlords' troops would accompany her to Abydos.  No, the real problem
was Khnum, and how he would react.... "My lords," she addressed the
assemblage, "I have important news. Today at the third hour my people
successfully demonstrated the refurbished drives on Dome Five, formerly
the battleship Ra's Eye." A hologram filled the room, showing details of
the liftoff. "Ah," commented ape-headed Hapi, one of the minor gods who
knew of the work in progress on the old vessel.  "And here we all
thought it was a Tuat-quake, or a meteor impact." Khnum, however, surged
through the THREE-dimensional representation, eyes wild with fury.  He
was a slender, handsome man, with whipcord muscles. They bunched across
his chest and arms as he confronted Hathor. "I thought perhaps you were
establishing your own fortress in that dome when you dispossessed the
others who lived there," he began. Hathor smiled at the notion of
pinning herself down on an airless moon under a dome vulnerable even to
blast-lances.  What could Khnum be thinking of "But to reactivate
devices forbidden by Ra-" Here was the true problem among the wouldbe
successors.  Even as they fought to assume Ra's throne, they could not
escape the playing field where the former head god had penned them. Oh,
she understood Khnum's agitation.  With a working spaceship at her
command, the godlings' fief defenses-a watch or even a mine at the
StarGate-had been sidestepped.  Khnum might have the cream of his forces
at his side, but the planet that formed his power base was now
vulnerable to attack. Hathor ground on over Khnum's objections. "The
battleship has been recommissioned to search for Ra and discover his
fate.  Although I will command the expedition to Abydos, I call upon all
here to provide detachments of your best warriors for the effort.  In
that way we can field the largest possible force-and, of course, each of
the gods here present will have observers on the scene." "Enough!" Khnum
burst out.  "Not only does the demon goddess threaten us all with her
forbidden warship, she expects us, her rivals, to provide forces for our
own undoing!" The ram god's hand went to his pectoral necklace, plucking
loose one of the hanging decorations.  The seeming doodad pulled free to
reveal itself as the gold and jewel-encrusted handle of a throwing
knife.  The thin blade, however, was plain utilitarian steel. "Die, you
usurping bitch!"  Khnum howled, hurling the blade. Hathor moved with
economical violence.  She seized Hapi, the too wise godling who'd
commented on her ship tests, and spun him into the path of the knife. It
sank into his heart. Even as Hathor's human shield sagged, Khnum plucked
a new jeweled dagger. Hathor raised her right hand palm out, almost in a
warding gesture. But the move revealed that she, too, wore dangerous
jewelry.  A tracery of gold "ires ran around the back of her hand.  They
came together in her palm, creating the setting for a marble-sized
mottled black jewel that glowed with a baleful light. Before Khnum could
hurl his second blade, Hathor unleashed a rush of energy that hit the
ramgod like a blast of cyclonic wind.  He hurtled backward until he
struck a wall, then oozed downward to a seated position. Hathor was on
him before Khnum could even exert some semblance of control over his
stunned muscles.  He could only look helplessly upward as the hand with
that damnable jewel came down in contact with his shaven head. Every one
of Ra's servants knew of his punishment jewels, bizarre offshots of the
technology from the StarGates themselves.  But rather than reassembling
one's component molecules across space,- the black gem rearranged body
molecules. Ra had used the glowing stone to turn failed servants' bones
to water. Of course, the process killed the recipient. Khnum was a
strong man, but his whole body began to shudder and spasm as the
gemstone exerted its awful effect.  His eyes bulged as his very brain
began to boil off.  His arms, no longer under his own control, made
little spastic motions.  Air rushed from his lungs through a constricted
throat in a bubbling, coughing rattle. As Hathor pressed the deadly
stone ever harder into Khnum, the ram god's head became spongy under her
hand.  He drooped to the floor. Hathor dropped to one knee, maintaining
the contact until at last the once great Khnum lay still and literally
boneless at her feet. "I will name a successor at my earliest
convenience," the goddess announced to the silenced assemblage.  Her
hand rose to give them one last glimpse of the deadly stone.  Then she
curved her fingers over what had been Ra's personal weapon. "See to the
preparations for your guard detachments." There was not even a whisper
of dissent as she left the chamber.

CHAPTER 11

NEWCOMERS

Jack O'Neil's first warning that a new commander had even been
contemplated for the Abydos expeditionary force was the appearance of an
Army one-star general in his command tent.  "At ease, Colonel."  The
officer drew a thick envelope from the breast pocket of his olive drab
battle dress. "Francis Keogh, brigadier general, U.S. Army." Keogh
slapped the papers with more than necessary force on O'Neil's desk.  The
movement brought prominence to the West Point ring on the general's
hand, its heavy gold sounding a muted timpani against the wood. "These
orders second your troops to my command," Keogh went on briskly. "You
will remain as second-in-command, under my orders."  He glanced around
the tent.  "I believe we can leave the paperwork-signing for stores and
all that for later." Keogh finally looked O'Neil in the eye-his own eyes
were a surprisingly bright blue, set deep under massive orbital ridges
on either side of a sharp, beak-like nose.  In the intensity of their
gaze Keogh's eyes were like a pair of lasers mounted in twin caves-with
the jut of his nose acting as range finder.  The general's face was
craggy more than handsome, and his expression was not a pretty one.  "I
want two of your men-Kawalsky and Feretti-here.  Now!" With a sick
feeling in his gut O'Neil passed the call to the guard outside the tent.
In moments, the lieutenant and the corporal arrived. Spotting the
strange general, they immediately saluted and stepped into the brace
position. "Kawalsky and Feretti, sir," O'Neil said with a crisp salute
of his own.  -"Present as requested "Gentlemen," Keogh said, though his
tone of voice made the honorific doubtful.  "You see in me the new
commander of this force.  Sizable reinforcements are arriving even as I
speak. The new troops will present a major logistical drain on our
stockpiles. Because of this, Lieutenant, I am appointing you supply
officer.  And you, Corporal, will assist him." Supply duty was a slap in
the face to a pair of combat Marines.  But Keogh wasn't finished. "To
insure your full and undivided attention to these great and serious
duties, I am confining you to this base.  Departure, even going into the
desert-will be construed as desertion.  In addition, your sensitive
employment will preclude all fraternization with the natives of this
planet.  Is this understood?" Faces blank, Kawalsky and Feretti both
snapped salutes like a pair of automatons, their eyes not focusing on
the general.  "Yes, sir!"  they chorused. "Excellent.  Dismissed, the
pair of you." As Kawalsky left, his hard-bitten features lost their
rigid cast as he glanced at O'Neil.  Damn! his eyes seemed to say, we
dropped you right in it! O'Neil carefully schooled his own face into
mask-like blankness.  He shouldn't have let Kawalsky talk him into
seeing what progress Skaara and his boy warriors had achieved.  The
colonel had been expecting some fallout from Lockwood's discovery.  But
he'd hoped for more support from General West. Keogh waited until the
tent was empty before he addressed O'Neil again. "In studying the supply
situation for this base, Colonel, I noticed an excessive stock of
hand-held surface-to-air missiles. These seem unnecessary given local
conditions. Perhaps you can put Kawalsky in charge of shipping them
back." "Sir, when we were fighting Ra's guards, our greatest problem was
their air mobility.  Their udajeets-flying gliders-and blasters pinned
Lieutenant Kawalsky and a group of native ancilaries-" Keogh interrupted
with an aphorism: "'The military mind,"' he quoted, "'is always prepared
to fight the last war."  What you're talking about is ancient history,
Colonel.  Our concern should not be with incursions from the air, but
with counterinsurgency preparations."  He glared at his subordinate.
"You not only ignored such a danger, you actually allowed the training
of an insurgent cadre." Keogh's body was long and lanky, and he made
himself taller by drawing himself up stiffly.  "I'll continue to use
you, O'Neil, as local liaison.  But you are to limit yourself to formal
contacts with the local government.  I am not happy about this
home-grown militia you fostered.  Neither is General West." The general
turned to more mundane matters, demanding a map of the plateau that
served as home for the base camp and UMC's local presence. "We'll need
to expand the camp significantly to accommodate the new troops.  In
addition, we'll require a maintenance area for the armor I'm bringing
in-" "Tanks, sir?"  O'Neil said. "Best weapons available for projecting
strength in a desert environment," Keogh replied.  "North Africa in
World War II.  The Arab-Israeli wars. Desert Storm.  By my calculations
the StarGate's size should accommodate both Abrams heavy tanks and the
lighter Sheridan units.  We will, however, need assembly areas for the
helicopter gunships. They'll have to come through in pieces." Although
O'Neil struggled to retain his military mask, Keogh trained keen eyes on
his second-in-command's face.  "You don't believe all this is necessary,
do you?  Well, I think it's required to undo the damage you've caused.
Heavy ground strength-so we'll have lots of rifles in case the worst
happens.  But I'm still betting we can over-awe these Abbadabbas when
they see our technological edge.  The tanks and helicopters are key to
that strategy." "Yes, sir," O'Neil said tonelessly. These people fought
anti-gravity gliden and energy weapons, he thought, and this clown
thinks he's going to caw them with a few helicopters and a demeaning
name. Keogh was again examining O'Neil's force dispositions on the map.
"I'm not impressed with your defensive arrangements, Colonel.  These
strong points and guard posts wouldn't stand up to a human wave
assault-which is, I think, the only tactic the locals could conceivably
use.  Almost all of their weapons are hand-to-hand, are they not?" "Yes,
sir," O'Neil replied again. "Starting immediately, I want a defensive
wall around this entire plateau.  An earthen berm should do-reinforced
with strong points-perhaps some defense towers.  We'll leave that to the
engineers. Requisition materials and earth-moving equipment from the UMC
people as necessary." Lockwood will love this, O'Neil thought. "You can
also tell Mr. Lockwood that effective immediately, I am dispatching
troops to support the UMC security personnel in the mine." O'Neil's mask
slipped as he saluted again. Keogh caught the shift in expression.
"Look, O'Neil, I don't need you to like me to get this job done."  Scorn
poured from the general's voice. "That's the problem with you
short-timers.  You don't really understand the military mystique."
"Sir," O'Neil replied, "I've been in the service for more than twenty
years." "My family have been officers in this man's army for
generations," Keogh snarled.  "Since the Civil War!" "Of course, sir."
O'Neil gave him another salute as he left the tent. "There was a Keogh
with Custer, wasn't there?" Lockwood waited until O'Neil left his office
before he indulged himself in a full-scale gloat.  In almost frosty-cold
air-conditioned comfort, the mine manager rubbed his palms together as a
show of satisfaction. How the mighty are fallen, he thought.  One
hot-shot Marine Colonel reduced to the level of messenger boy! Turning
from the clutter on his desk, Lockwood picked up the radio communicator
he used to keep in contact with his subordinates.  "Get me Ballard," he
said into the receiver. A moment later, Vernon Ballard's static-fuzz
came out of the box.  "Mr. Lockwood?" "Get over to the military camp and
introduce yourself to the new commander there.  He's detaching men for
pit security, so it's up to you to figure how they'll work with your
people.  One thing-I want a complete cordon around the rest tent.  Got
it?" "Yes, sir!"  Ballard happily signed off. Lockwood's lips stretched
off his teeth in a hard grin.  Now they could get down to business, he
promised himself. "Here's another one that needs explaining."  The
company security guard, clad in gray camo fatigues, turned to Charlie
Morris. The image of an ice-cold beer vanished like a pricked thought
balloon as the mine supervisor moved to deal with the latest
recalcitrant. "Hey!  Underwood!"  Morris yelled to the language expert
hiding from the noonday suns under the shade of the rest tent. Today
they had finally implemented the rule of five round trips before a rest,
no exceptions.  A cordon of gray-clad UMC security guards and newly
arrived Army men in olive drab cut all access to the rest tent. The
baffled worker whose way was being barred was pure fellahin.  His skin
had been broiled to the color and consistency of dark leather by at
least forty years of exposure to the THREE suns of Abydos. But there was
an ugly grayish tinge to his complexion, his white beard was matted with
sweat, and he wobbled slightly on his feet.  The worker seemed unable
even to summon the strength to protest as Morris raised a hand before
his face. "Five times," the supervisor said loudly, as if volume could
push his meaning into the man's mind.  He spread his fingers wide. "Five
times around before you can come in here." The worker spouted a brief
string of gibberish. Morris turned to Underwood, one of the UMC language
specialists.  "You tell him." In halting ancient Egyptian, Underwood
tried to explain the situation. The workman protested again, seizing
Underwood's hand and trying to draw it to his head. With brisk economy
of movement the UMC guard swung his rifle butt and knocked the hand
away.  "Don't know what diseases they got," he said laconically.
Underwood shot Morris a nervous look.  "This fellow says the suns are
getting to him.  He needs water and salt." "Bastard's probably faking."
A grim expression settled over Morris's simian features.  On closer
examination, this Abbadabba looked remarkably like the one who'd screwed
around with the elevator.  "If we let him in, we'll have a whole parade
of 'em, all claiming to be sick. Underwood, you tell him to get back to
work and not come back here till he's got a chit." "I dunno," said an
Army pfc who'd been standing off to the side.  "This guy looks pretty
much out of it.  Are you sure?" "How long you been on this planet,
soldier?" Morris loved using that comeback.  He'd been waiting for
someone with even less experience than he had. Since the soldier had
only been on Abydos for hours, and the alternative to guard duty was
shoveling sand to make a defensive wall for his camp, he subsided.
Underwood again set off on a limping speech. The elderly worker gave a
vehement negative, pointing toward the rest tent. "He's not listening,
Sullivan," Morris said to the guard. In a single jerking move the
security man rammed the butt of his gun into the pit of the workman's
stomach. Argument ceased as the older man folded in half, clutching
himself and gasping. "Now go.  Imshi!"  Sullivan yelled, using some
Arabic he'd picked up in the Middle East.  He had a hard time
distinguishing the natives from the Muslims he'd guarded UMC executives
from. The man was down on his knees.  Sullivan yanked him upright and
sent him tottering back to the ladders that led down to the pit. They
watched the man's slow progress as he joined the line of carriers, half
leaning on the man in front of him.  He reached the ladders and
disappeared below the lip of the gorge. "See?"  Morris said harshly.
"You gotta show 'em who's boss or they'll-" A cry came from the mine
pit, a wordless yell of terror that was obliterated yet amplified by the
shouts of many voices.  The line of carriers abruptly stopped. Leaving
his place in the cordon by the rest tent, the Army pfc walked to the
edge of the slash in the earth.  He shuddered, then headed back. "What?"
Morris asked, his mouth suddenly very dry. "That guy you turned away-he
fell off the ladder."  The soldier's face was pale under his incipient
sunburn.  "He fell all the way down-ten, eleven stories?  And it looks
like he bounced off a couple of those terraces." He glared at Morris. "I
guess you showed 'em good-huh?" Azar and Gaden were both on the
carriers' line when their fellow worker died.  They heard the scream.
Then something flashed past their places on the ladder and struck a
glancing blow to the terrace below them. They heard a sound like a ripe
melon smashing open after a fall.  When they looked down, they saw a
smear of blood and a limp, twisted human figure growing steadily smaller
as it fell into the depths of the pit. First came shock and horror as
the men slowly learned the identity of the accident victim.  Old Zaid
lived in the same neighborhood as Gaden. He was a widower with a sickly
daughter.  Every coin he got for his mine work went to doctors and
medicines for his girl. Then the mood turned to anger as various
versions of the events before Zaid fell began to filter down the pit.
"The gray-clothes beat him with sticks because he fell on the line and
couldn't get up!" "Whelps of mastadges!"  one man swore.  "I heard the
gray ones threw him into the pit." "They're worse than the Horus
guards!"  Another worker contributed the story he'd heard. "But bad as
they are, the ones in green are worse. I hear that they shot Zaid as he
begged for mercy." "The green ones can't be that bad," Gaden objected.
"Black Hat and the ones who followed him wore green.  So did Daniel.
Most of them died helping us defeat Ra." "Well, the new ones in green
must not be the same," the first worker said.  "They stand around the
tent of rest drinking water and not letting anyone in." "Yes," said his
friend, who'd propounded the green men as murderers story.  "Besides,
the ones friendly to us now wear the colors of the sands he added, as if
that were a clinching argument. "One thing is certain," Azar finally
said, turning to the ladders. "Someone must carry word to Kasuf and the
Elders." Daniel was not at his best after a wildly bounding journey by
mastadge across the dunes. Kasuf had acted as quickly as possible when
reports of trouble at the mine had reached town.  He'd gotten the Elders
mounted and riding, along with Daniel and Sha'uri to act as translators.
Skaara had disappeared at the news.  Daniel sincerely hoped he wasn't
out activating his militia. The jouncing ride ended just as motion
sickness was about to set in. Daniel's legs were rubbery as he made his
way down from the mastadge howdah. How I know I am not a hero?  Proof
#999, he thought.  Heroes do not have an urge to vomit right at their
big entrances.  I do. The light of the suns was striking him like a
physical blow, not merely blinding him but accentuating the churning in
his gut.  Daniel blinked, gulped, and tried to concentrate. A dead body
lay on the sands in front of the rest tent.  The late Zaid, Daniel
figured. Behind the dead man stretched a vast crescent of angry miners.
It looked as if all work had ceased by the time the Elders arrived.  The
workers looked like a sea of humanity at a low boil.  Angry muttering
from thousands of throats struck Daniel's ears, nothing that he could
make intelligible-except as proof that the workmen were in a fury. He
could tell that by the way some of the men handled their picks and
mattocks.  From the expressions on their faces, they wanted to hew more
than stone. The Abydans had come a long way from the time when a blow
from one Horus guard could make the whole workforce lower its head and
scurry. That had been before one of Ra's guardsmen had made the mistake
of striking Jack O'Neil-and gotten his guts blasted in return.  Before
Daniel Jackson had removed the Horus mask to reveal that Ra's slave
masters were human, after all. This was history that UMC and its
overseers had apparently never heard. The cordon around the rest tent
had now extended itself into a rough skirmish line.  Lockwood's
gray-clad company police readied their assault rifles.  Beside them,
fingering their weapons much more nervously, stood regular Army troops
in green fatigues.  Skaara's watchers had sent word of the arrival of
reinforcements.  The fresh troops must have come with a new commander if
they were being deployed beside UMC's bully boys.  Jack O'Neil would
never had allowed his people to get dirty by such associations. Daniel
looked from one group of men to the other.  The miners were nerving
themselves for an assault, First Dynasty digging tools versus top-of
the-line assault weapons.  The guards, both corporate and government,
prepared to drive the Abbadabbas back into the pit with a storm of lead.
Cool heads would have to prevail, or else there'd be a slaughter.
"Daniel.  Come."  Kasuf beckoned him over to kneel by the dead man's
body.  The old man gently probed.  "He is broken from the fall and his
flesh is torn, but I see no effects of the strangers' weapons on him."
Daniel breathed a sigh of relief.  The messenger who'd arrived, a miner
named Azar, had reported several conflicting stories on how Zaid had
fallen. At least now one of the most damning versions had been
disproved. As Kasuf announced his findings to the crowd, Daniel noticed
a small knot of men rubbing themselves with sand to remove the blood
clinging to their arms and torsos. "We helped bring Zaid up from the
pit," one of them, a brawny young fellow, told Daniel in decent English.
Noting the teacher's surprise, the young man explained, "I was learning
the strangers's tongue from ... those."  He gestured to the UMC battle
line.  "Now, no more." They had to get this settled, and quickly. Daniel
spotted plumes of dust coming their way from the base camp.  With
reinforcements, who knows what the UMC people might do? He raised his
voice.  "We need to speak with those who saw what happened to Zaid
before he went into the pit."  Daniel was surprised at the authority in
his voice.  "Not those who heard things, or think they saw.  We need men
who were on the line to go down, or who were in the tent of rest." It
took precious moments to separate the wheat from the chaff, but at last
Kasuf and his associate Elders had eyewitnesses to Zaid's last minutes.
Armed at last with an accurate story, Daniel headed for what appeared to
be the UMC man in charge, a supervisor in white shirt and khaki pants.
The guy looked like a gorilla who had undergone a body shave and a blond
hair-dye job. Daniel hoped that looks were deceiving. "You," the
supervisor said, "you're that Jackson guy.  You speak the local lingo.
Certainly better than Underwood here."  He gestured to an obvious
academic type cringing behind the battle line. "I came to see what the
problem was," Daniel said. The Vanilla Gorilla scowled.  "The problem is
that these Abbadabbas are taking one guy's accident and making it an
excuse to screw around.  So if you'd just tell them to get back to
work-" "We'll have to wait on that," Daniel interrupted. "The
Elders-that's the local government around here-are questioning
eyewitnesses.  And from what I'm hearing, they're saying that one of
your guards roughed Zaid up." The supervisor glanced for a moment at one
of the gray-clad men, then said pugnaciously, "Well, who the hell are
you going to listen to?  Us or a bunch of savages?" "Those savages, as
you call them, welcomed me to this world and saved my life."  Daniel
couldn't keep the anger out of his voice.  "What have you and UMC done
for me lately?" He returned to Kasuf, who was worriedly conferring with
his fellow Elders.  "We can keep the men from attacking these warriors,"
Kasuf began. "Which is just as well.  Their weapons would slaughter the
miners," Daniel told him. "But we must have justice," Kasuf insisted.
"The warrior who beat Zaid and the overseer who allowed the beating must
be punished." "They're not even admitting that their people touched
Zaid," Daniel reported.  "But I think I know who did it, and if we can
keep things from getting out of hand here-" His voice faded as he saw
truckloads of Army soldiers and marines rolling up.  Inspiration struck.
"Right now we have to get our people out of here without getting them
shot.  We have to do it nonviolently." "Nonviolently?"  Kasuf echoed.
"Just follow my lead," Daniel said, turning to the crowd.  "In my world,
we have ways of showing those who run things the errors of their ways.
If you would make this mine safe, if you would have it run better, you
must withdraw your work!" "Right!"  Azar shouted, catching on quickly.
"How much ore could the strangers dig out without us?" "So throw down
your tools!  Leave the pit right now!"  Daniel cried, carried on by his
own oratory. The earth seemed to rattle with the sound of tools being
abandoned to drop to the earth. "What the hell is he telling them?"
Daniel heard the Vanilla Gorilla mutter behind him. "I don't know, but
at least he's disarmed the bastards," one of the guards answered. The
people of Nagada needed something quicker to squeeze UMC than a STRIKE.
Daniel was suddenly struck by a memory from his college days. A protest
... "Friends!"  he cried.  "The strangers come to the city to buy their
food, don't they?" "Yes, they do!"  shouted the crowd. "Well from now
on, no one in the city must sell them food," Daniel shouted.  "If anyone
does, no one must buy or sell with them.  This is a very powerful weapon
from my world.  It's called the boycott!" "BOIK-ODD," the enthusiastic
miners took up the cry, mangling the pronunciation.  "BOIKODD!
BOIK-ODD!" "Take the word to the city!  We'll march now!" Daniel led the
miners past the line of gunmen stretched before the rest tent, away from
the arriving troops. "BOIK-ODD!"  his enthusiastic new followers
chanted. At least I stopped them all from getting shot, Daniel thought.
Then he remembered what the great college protest had been over.  The
students had boycotted the cafeteria, trying to get better food. Daniel
also remembered that the protest had been a complete failure. Except for
the fact that Froot Loops had been added to the cafeteria breakfast.

CHAPTER 12

A QUESTION OF BLAME

Walter Draven was not in a forgiving frame of mind.  He had been
enjoying a lobbyist's luncheon in one of the finest Washington
restaurants when his office called him with the new emergency.  He
refused to eat airline food, and landed in Colorado hungry.  Stepping
through the StarGate, he found UMC's Abydos operation under a local
boycott and with no food at all. "Dam-nation!"  he exploded at Eugene
Lockwood.  "How could things have gone so badly in so short a space of
time?" The site man looked on the verge of peeing his pants.  "We've had
growing problems from a variety of different sources," he began. "But-"
"Oh, I know the next line," Draven sourly assured him.  "But it's not
your fault.  Where are the geniuses responsible for the incident?"
Lockwood got on his radio.  A moment later, Morris and Sullivan, the
supervisor and the guard, marched into the office.  Draven noticed that
both had shaved and apparently spiffed up as much as possible, given the
frontier conditions on Abydos. "I want to hear what happened," Draven
told them, "from the horse's mouth, so to speak." At least from one end
of the horse, Draven thought, taking in Morris's almost simian features.
The pair exchanged a glance.  So.  They'd decided to collaborate on
telling their story.  But the report they gave seemed reasonably
straightforward-as did the defense Morris offered. "I was only carrying
out company policy," the supervisor said.  "As of that date, no workers
were to be allowed into the rest tent unless they had proof of making
five round trips carrying ore.  This Zaid guy didn't have a chit.  So we
made him go back to the line." "Nice try, Morris," Draven told him. "The
Eichmann defense-'I was only following orders."  But the witnesses say
that Zaid had been complaining he felt unwell.  Shouldn't that have
changed your mind?" "Sir Morris faltered to a stop, looking now at
Lockwood, who of course was perfectly willing to let his subordinate
hang in the wind.  "We thought he was faking-malingering.  If we let him
in, we'd have to let anyone in who complained about the heat.  And, well
he rubbed his arms in the almost arctic comfort of the office
trailer"it's brutal out there.  Our translator couldn't stand the
suns-he'd gotten under the shade of the tent. Both the Army guys and our
own people were out in the sun, but they were drinking from canteens."
"So you were upholding a company policy you yourself could not have
lived with," Dravan finished.  "And you," he demanded, turning to
Sullivan, "I'm told you struck the dead man-twice." "I broke the guy's
hold on Mr. Underwoodthe translator," Sullivan specified.  "This Zaid
guy grabbed his hand.  I made him let go.  If he really was sick, I
didn't want him spreading germs.  Besides, the guy looked as if he
already had fleas." "You've described one alleged blow," Draven said,
shifting well into prosecutorial mode.  "What about the other?" "That
was more a move-along kind of thing," Sullivan explained.  "Mr. Morris
told him to go. So did Underwood, the translator.  Me, too.  When the
wog didn't move, I gave him, well ... a poke, like." "With the butt of
your rifle, apparently in the solar plexus," Draven amplified.  "So, we
have a man who seemed to be suffering from heat stroke having the wind
knocked out of him.  Then he was ordered to climb down eleven
floors'worth of ladder."  The engineer shook his head in disgust. "What
a surprise that he wound up on the express route down." He raked the
pair with glaring eyes.  "It's too bad neither of you came up through
the mining business," Draven finally- said.  "If you had, I'd have you,
Morris, drilling blast holes in the lousiest mine in Zambia.  And you,
Sullivan, would be right beside him, setting charges with the most
chancy, deteriorated, volatile blasting compounds I could find." The
troubleshooter jammed his hands in his pockets.  "But then, you're used
to playing around with volatile mixtures, aren't you?  These people were
virtually slaves less than a year ago.  They were working for somebody
whom they considered a god."  He glared again at Morris and Sullivan.
"Maybe that makes them sound primitive to you. But if you'd been working
for a god and told him where to get off, how much crap would you take
from a mere man?  Even a man with an assault rifle?" The pair was
silent. Draven's lips twisted.  "But you pushed this new policy like
good corporate minions.  Didn't you see that was like juggling
nitroglycerine?  You're very lucky, damn you-lucky your stupidity didn't
result in things blowing up in your face.  Instead, you've apparently
caused the first STRIKE in the eight-thousand-year history of Abydos.
Congratulations." Lockwood spoke up.  "It was that damned Jackson's
fault.  He's been a thorn in our side ever since I arrived here." "I was
wondering when we'd get around to the 'outside agitators' plea," Draven
said.  "Frankly, Dr. Jackson was a pain in my ass when I arrived here.
That's why I wanted him marginalized which apparently didn't happen."
For a long moment Draven surveyed the THREE men.  "Besides, Jackson did
you a favor, though you don't realize it.  He managed to get the miners
away without bloodshed.  If they'd tried to storm your line, there'd be
a hundred dead tonight instead of one." His comment took another moment
to sink in, so Draven pressed a little harder.  "And you, Lockwood,
would be inside the Army compound walls, watching this lovely office
burn." He flung himself into a chair.  "I guess my next stop is the
city, to see if I can sweet-talk those

Elders.  I'd prefer not to go outt on an empty stomach.  So, Lockwood,
you might make yourself useful and order something-" "Ah," Lockwood said
quietly. "What?"  Draven demanded. "When Jackson led the miners off, he
was already organizing a boycott against us.  For supplies as well as
labor.  We, ah, haven't been able to get any food from the natives.  And
with all the traffic through the StarGate to bring the military
reinforcements in-" Draven had seen the military build-up, the men and
machinery still waiting to get to Abydos.  He himself had transited the
StarGate at the end of a marching infantry platoon. "Perfect," the
troubleshooter muttered, rising from his chair.  "Just bloody perfect."
"Mister Draven?"  Lockwood asked as the troubleshooter left the office.
"Where are you going?" "Change in plans.  I'm going to see the local
military commander before I see your friends in the city.  I've got to
see how far he'll back us. "And maybe," Draven added, "I'll get
something to eat." General Francis Keogh was a disappointment. Oh, he
looked every inch the model of a military man, even in the bustle of
making the command tent his instead of Jack O'Neil's.  A cot had been
moved in so the general could catnap if necessary while conducting
operations.  O'Neil had seemingly never needed that.  The Marine colonel
had impressed Draven as more of a machine than a man-a machine that
would keep going until it broke down or blew up. Keogh was all too
human, Draven decided.  It showed in the touches he was adding to the
tent-a regimental flag, a photo of a younger Keogh shaking hands with
the president-two incumbents had held the Oval Office since.  It
especially showed in the ring that gleamed on the general's right hand.
Certain men went to West Point and emerged superlative officers.  Others
attended the academy and came out convinced they were God's gift to the
military-whether they were or not.  An officer who took along his battle
flags and West Point class ring for a million light-years probably fell
into category number two. That didn't mean the general was stupid,
however.  Stupid officers didn't get chosen by General West for
sensitive postings.  O'Neil, for instance, had been nobody's fool. But
O'Neil had been the commando type, flexible in his approach to tactics
and life.  Draven sensed a rigidity in Keogh.  Lockwood had complained
about O'Neil, and West had obliged by sending Keogh-a by-the-book type
who would be more likely to view the natives as potential threat than
O'Neil, who had fought beside the Abydans. Frankly, Keogh was an
administrator, a bean counter of battle, the military equivalent of
Eugene Lockwood. They'd have deserved each other, but for the crisis
caused by the cessation of ore flowing from the mine.  Back on Earth,
research facilities were already screaming for their rations of this
magic quartz stuff.  If politics began entering the equation, unraveling
the curtain of secrecy West had placed over the StarGate, the result
would be a scandal worse than Iran-Contra. A political general like
Keogh had to sense the powder keg he was sitting on.  But even as Draven
introduced himself, he could see there'd be no help forthcoming. "My
orders are clear," Keogh said.  "I'm supposed to protect the StarGate
and defend American interests here on Abydos." "Well, this STRIKE is
imperiling those American interests you're supposed to defend," Draven
snapped.  "And I don't merely mean UMC, although I work for the company.
This mineral we're mining has strategic purposes.  Important research is
going on-but now it's hampered by a lack of supply." He decided on the
patriotic pitch.  "Are you going to let a bunch of towel-head primitives
hold up the military research of the United States of -America?" "My
orders say nothing about compelling the natives to go out and work for
you," Keogh demurred.  "As I understand it, forced labor is what caused
the last rebellion here.  With paramilitary groups arising in the
population, surely the last thing you want is to foment trouble." "I
hope to negotiate a settlement," Draven said smoothly.  "But my
negotiating position will be much stronger if I know I can depend on
your support.  This entire project is of special interest to General
West.  Failure will look bad on all our records." "I have my orders,"
Keogh repeated. "But you do stand ready to protect American rights and
citizens?" Draven worded his question carefully.  The natives would no
doubt be demanding Morris and Sullivan for scalping or some such
punishment.  If he could get an undertaking from Keogh to protect them
... "I don't know about individuals," Keogh said, stepping around the
verbal land mine.  "I'm to protect American interests.  UMC personnel
will of course be welcome inside this fortified camp in case of attack.
But I do not intend to undertake offensive or inflammatory action."
Draven suddenly switched battlefields.  "Then how about some
humanitarian aid?  Professor Jackson has apparently taught the locals
the principles of the boycott.  Native merchants are no longer selling
food to my people.  The StarGate is being tied up with your
reinforcements and their logistical tail.  Perhaps you could share your
rations-" "My own people are living on what Colonel O'Neil stockpiled,"
Keogh said.  "Until our own supply situation is stabilized, I think
sharing our food would be ... unwise." Draven's empty stomach rumbled in
unhappiness.  Still, he attempted to put the best face on the situation.
"Thanks very much for your input, General.  I guess I'll go and talk to
the city Elders.  Perhaps you could lend me an all-terrain vehicle and
escort?" Keogh gave him the smile of a man who has just discovered
vinegar in his wineglass.  "I'm sure UMC has transport available-and
security people to provide an escort." Draven shrugged.  It had been
worth a try.  Arriving at Nagada in an Army truck with a military guard
could have given him the appearance of enjoying Keogh's support.  But
the general had seen through his stratagem. No, Francis Keogh was
definitely not a stupid man. Rigid, yes.  Draven tried to push away
hunger pangs.  But stupid, no. UMC's Abydos operation used jeeps instead
of the government Humvees. When Draven announced his intention of going
to Nagada, Lockwood immediately offered him a jeep and driver, plus a
THREE-man security detail. "Fine," Draven had replied, "just get those
boys out of their camouflage suits and into civvies."  If the locals had
developed a hatred for gray suits, it did not behoove UMC's negotiator
to turn up surrounded by those uniforms. From the looks of his escort,
some of the mercs hadn't bothered to bring civilian clothes with them.
One had a gaudily patterned Hawaiian shirt that hung around him like a
tent.  Another wore a white shirt that strained over his shoulders and
had to be left unbuttoned because it wouldn't stretch across his beefy
chest. Between their guns and the expressions on their faces, they
looked more like a lynch mob than a guard of honor. Well, a lynch mob
might well be what Draven would encounter inside Nagada. They fired up
the jeep and headed out of the camp.  Draven enjoyed the smooth ride as
far as the mining pit.  Whatever Lockwood's shortcomings, he'd planned
and executed a well-graded road. "Does the native militia still maintain
a watch post?"  Draven asked his driver. The mercenary shrugged.  "Sure
do.  We usually find a couple of slopes peeping at us up top of the next
sand dune." "Then pull up the jeep," Draven ordered. "Hello!"  he
called, feeling like a perfect fool. "We're going to Nagada.  Will one
of you come with us?" A voice came out of the shadows, replying in
passable English.  "You're going to Nagada?  I'll come." A young man
seemed to flick into existence about halfway down the face of the dune,
riding the hard-packed sand as if it were a slide.  He was slim but
sturdy-looking, and he seemed to notice neither the hostile looks nor
the weapons of Draven's bodyguards. The young militiaman enjoyed riding
on the jeep, much more so after they'd passed the mine and the road for
all practical purposes seemed to disappear.  Draven's jeep shifted and
swooped over what seemed to be the best path for a mastadge to take
through the shifting dunes. Draven noticed that their local guide didn't
bother to fire a warning shot for the keepers of the gate.  Then he
realized that the sound of the jeep's engine obviated the necessity.
Trumpets mooed, but when they arrived before the great gates, they
remained closed. "My name is Draven.  I've come through the StarGate-all
the way from Earth-to speak with Kasuf and the Elders." "Thought so,"
the youthful militiaman said.  He called up to one of the adobe towers
flanking the gates.  After an exchange of shouts the portals grudgingly
swung open. "You know where are the Elders?"  the selfsufficient young
man asked. "Ah, no," Draven admitted. "I'll take you," the boy soldier
offered. Following their youthful guide's directions, the driver
jockeyed the jeep through the hodgepodge city's twisting streets. Draven
had paranoid visions of ambush, of the young militia seizing the jeep
and his guard detail's weapons. Certainly, Draven didn't remember this
part of town from his first visit.  But then he'd been on foot,
surrounded by cheering crowds.  Now the streets were empty.  The evening
meal was either just on the stove or just ended, because smells of
cooking filled the air. Yet again Draven's stomach rumbled, more deeply
and despairingly. Draven noticed something else.  Most of the mud-brick
structures in this area showed signs of recent repair.  The patch jobs
didn't stand out ostentatiously.  The new walls were already bleached by
the desert suns and scoured by sandy winds. "This was all built over?"
Draven asked their guide. The young man nodded.  "Blasted by RaThe
houses we fixed, but many died." He abruptly shoved back part of the
homespun cloak he wore, revealing the scars of a huge burn that had
seared his arm.  "Also blasted by Ra. I fought where your camp is.  At
the pyramid." Draven nodded, catching the unspoken message.  These
people had suffered destruction and death for their freedom.  They
wouldn't be pushed around. A few more twists and turns, and Draven found
himself in familiar territory-the large square fronting the building
where he'd met with the Elders. The jeep coasted to a stop, and the
young man vaulted out. "Thank you," Draven said. "Glad to help," the boy
soldier said.  "Maybe you can help us." "Maybe," Draven said almost to
himself. The Elders had obviously been alerted.  Kasuf and his conferees
sat in a large room.  At their side was Daniel Jackson to act as
interpreter. Draven took a shot at grabbing the initiative. "You've been
busy making a lot of trouble, Jackson," he accused. The academic gone
native gave him a look of pure disgust.  "I wondered how you were going
to start," he said, "but that has to be the biggest load of crap I've
ever heard from you.  This afternoon there were a few thousand miners
who were just aching for a piece of your so-called company police.
Compared to the trouble you could have had, this STRIKE is a walk in the
park." "So, you admit it's a STRIKE."  Draven made his voice as
portentous as possible. "Yes, the people here won't work for that clown
Lockwood and his idiot flunkies.  But you don't have to take my word for
it."  He turned to the Elders and spoke in the local dialect.  All
Draven got was the name Lockwood and the expressions of anger and
dislike that appeared on the leaders' faces. "We made an agreement,"
Draven threatened. "Yeah," Jackson retorted, "and it's worth the
nonexistent paper it was written on.  Remember your wonderful words back
then?  These people do-that's the wonderful thing about folks who grow
up in illiteracy: they've got a real memory for the spoken word.  That's
how Homer's poetry survived for thousands of years-and how the lies of
Draven come back to haunt you.  You didn't want a contract because, and
let me quote: 'Certainly a bond of honor is sufficient between men of
goodwill."' Draven stood with his mouth open as Jackson pressed on. "The
only problem is that UMC has shown neither honor nor goodwill. Remember
your last visit here?  The Elders greeted you with a feast. Well, you
don't see any food for you here now. When it comes to boycotts, these
people catch on quickly." Draven pressed a hand to his empty stomach,
"Some might consider this action precipitate." "Your boy Lockwood has
taken all sorts of precipitate actions unilaterally, too.  He blew up
part of a pyramid that's been here for thousands of years.  He set up
work rules that don't seem to have any connection to conditions in the
mine. And he hired guns to enforce them.  Not once has he come to the
Elders, even to discuss situations with them.  They might have explained
why that rest tent was set up-and how difficult it is to lug stuff up
and down those ladders." He glared at the UMC man.  "I tried that climb
when the Marines and I took on Ra's overseers. And I can say it was no
picnic.  Have you tried it? I know Lockwood hasn't." "Oh, I'm sure you'd
like to put all the blame on Lockwood," Draven shot back.  "But the
locals haven't exactly been angels.  Some of them are responsible for
sabotaging the new equipment my company is installing in the mines."
"I've heard rumors," Jackson replied.  "But that's all anyone here has
heard-because Lockwood never came to the Elders.  If he'd given Kasuf
and the others something to go on, they might have been able to get to
the bottom of things.  But Lockwood has treated his plans for the
workforce as top secret.  He's excluded the Elders, and when he had a
real reason to turn to them for help, he went to Earth to get hired
guns-like your bodyguards over there-and a new commander for the
military forces on Abydos.  Lockwood obviously doesn't trust the Elders,
so why should the Elders trust him?" "Couldn't you have done something?"
Draven burst out. "Since when did I start working for UMC?" Jackson
shouted back.  "You guys didn't even want me in the business of teaching
English!" The renegade Earther calmed a little.  "I've tried to explain
to the Elders about corporations.  It doesn't make much sense to them.
But they understood about the STRIKE and the boycott.  Your people got a
man killed today-a man named Zaid who worked his guts out in a
back-breaking jobbecause he had a sick daughter.  And what did he get? A
handful of Susan B. Anthony dollars.  Or perhaps you'd like me to
translate while you explain UMC's death-benefits policy?" "Perhaps we
can come up with something," Draven carefully allowed. "Like the
medicine you promised for the local clinics here?"  Jackson asked. "That
was a big incentive to allow your company in-and we haven't seen squat."
"Well, we were actually thinking of a company clinic when the operation
expanded a bit more," Draven retired to lawyerspeak.  "After all,
dispensing drugs would require appropriately trained personnel." "It's
nice to hear that UMC is so finicky about the law when it comes to
health-care issues," Jackson said sarcastically.  "Because you've been
downright illegal when it comes to pay and safety." Draven's complexion
went ruddy.  "You've had a lot to say, Jackson, but I'm not hearing much
from the Elders.  Kasuf," he said, turning to the town's leader, "are
you sure it's a good thing for your people to turn away from the mine?"
Jackson carefully translated the speech.  But Kasuf turned to the young
man as he began answering.  Jackson nodded.  "Draven, you've never
understood about the mine here.  It's valuable to you, and it was
valuable to Ra.  But for the people who lived here, it's been a
centuries-long drain on the economy.  They've broken their backs and
gotten nothing in return.  If the people sweating in the mine were out
digging irrigation ditches instead, agriculture would boom.  The mine
stayed open because of the goodwill of the Abydan people.  Their friends
from Earth wanted the quartz mineral, and they were happy to provide."
Kasuf's bearded face grew angry.  Jackson continued to translate.  "But
now our friends feel belittled.  Strangers tell us how much we should
work, people die.  And what do we get?" The leader of the city tossed
down a handful of American coins. Draven sat in a moment of silence.
Then Jackson spoke again.  "You don't have the economic clout you
imagined.  UMC needs the people to work that mine.  But Nagada can
survive without it."

The renegade stared hard at the troubleshooter. "If you want the miners
back at work, you've got to give them justice-and give the government
here a voice in planning for the future."

 CHAPTER 13

BACKDOOR POLITICS Draven returned to the UMC camp in thoughtful silence.
His guards, however, were more vocal. "You going to let that blond
poofter and a gaggle of wogs tell you off like that?"  an obviously
British merc complained. "I only went into the city to see how much give
there was to the local government," Draven said. "Not bloody much," the
mercenary observed. "They are a tough bunch of old men." "So we'll have
to change that," Draven replied. "But first I think I'll rip a patch or
two of skin off the THREE who got me into this." The gang of THREE was
still in Lockwood's office, waiting like little children for Daddy to
come in and tell them all was well. Needless to say, Daddy was not in a
good mood. "You fool!"  he raged at Lockwood.  "I walked in to try
pushing that council of Elders, and what do I find?  We have absolutely
no leverage. Zero. Zilch.  Nada." "But sir, I assure you-" Lockwood
began. "Don't you assure me of anything!"  Draven shouted.  "Thanks to
your mishandling of affairs, we've got a mine that's far behind on
production,

a STRIKE and a boycott, and a military commander who won't stick his
neck out to help us." He rammed a finger hard into Lockwood's chest.
"The end result?  These 'Abbadabbas' you've been so busily laughing at
have you right where it hurts.  They have UMC right where it hurts.
We're not a penny-ante outfit, Lockwood.  Are we?" "Of course not, sir,"
the sweating manager replied. "Are we, Morris?" "No, sir." "Are we,
Sullivan?" "You've always paid me a good buck," the mercenary responded.
Draven's empty gut began to hurt.  THREE people he'd have to save, and
the only one with a hint of spirit was the hired gunman. "We're a major
multinational corporation, gentlemen.  We have resources.  And this is
the biggest undertaking we've ever been offered.  I came to this planet,
to this city, to make the arrangements with the locals.  I'll admit
something here.  In my first contact I underestimated the natives.  I
thought they were primitives, that the problem would be the leftover
American, Jackson." The thin man's eyes began to glare.  "But as I spoke
with the Elders tonight, Kasuf was throwing my own words at me.  How
could this be?  I left this world with considerable goodwill from the
people here.  What went wrong?  The answer is you THREE.  The locals
want justice-that means you, Morris and Sullivan." Lockwood's voice was
wobbly as he spoke. "Maybe-" "Shut up," Draven said briefly.  "Don't
even think of turning them over to the natives." The two subordinates
glanced at each other in alarm. "If it would restore the workforce-"
Lockwood was almost whining. Draven glared at the manager in complete
disgust.  It was only luck that Sullivan didn't have a sidearm.  Or
perhaps it was bad luck. Lockwood's removal-even with a bullet in the
head would only be a benefit. "We don't turn over our personnel to local
justice," Draven said flatly.  "That's company policy. And I think it's
a good policy when you consider some of the rather primitive notions of
justice that obtain in some of the places where we operate." His voice
was flat and dispassionate.  "I've seen cultures where hands get cut off
for minor infractions.  For all we know, the Abbadabbas might feel that
the proper recompense for this Zaid person's death is to throw those
responsible into the pit." Charlie Morris's gorilla-like countenance
began to show the realization that he was in real trouble. Sullivan's
face looked a bit pinched. "We have practical reasons for not backing
down and giving our people away," Draven added. "The Elders are
demanding more of a voice in running the mine, thanks to what they call
your precipitate actions, Lockwood." "Mr. Draven, I can't believe you're
paying any attention to these people."  Lockwood sounded really
desperate. "Oh, attention must be paid," Draven replied. "The company
has a policy for dealing with recalcitrant governments." He smiled
thinly.  "We replace them.  And since such operations involve military
action, you may want to call for that SEAL you hired as security
chief-Ballard, I believe his name is?"  Draven glared at the other two
men in the office.  "I'm hoping you could recruit one capable
subordinate. Daniel Jackson found himself still full of energy after the
meeting of the Elders.  Kasuf took the wired academic back to his house,
where they were joined by Sha'uri. "Your husband did well," Kasuf told
his daughter. "I expected no less," she said with a smile. "I'll judge
my performance by its results," Daniel replied, still so full of nervous
energy that his body quivered.  "I think I hit Mr. Draven with my best
shot.  But did I convince him?  That's the big question." Pushing his
blond hair out of his face, Daniel began walking jerkily back and forth.
"What I had hoped-what we hoped-is that our STRIKE would force UMC to
send someone to negotiate." "And it did," Kasuf said.  "This Draven
arrived." "Yes, but I was hoping he'd offer us a deal. Instead, all he
did was attack us." "In our markets, the merchants never make an offer
until they have listened to the customers and judged what they'll pay.
You gave the stranger much to think about, Daniel.  Do not be surprised
if he takes time for that thinking," Daniel raised his hand and bit the
cuticle of his left thumb-a nervous habit he thought he'd conquered
years ago.  He winced as blood flowed. "I just wish we knew what Draven
is thinking." Sha'uri shook her head in gentle incomprehension.  "Why
all this worry about one man's opinion?" "Draven represents much more
than a single man.  He's a troubleshooter-" Daniel went on quickly to
explain the unfamiliar English idiom. "Draven acts as an agent for his
company.  His word can bind UMC-as it did when he arranged for the use
of the mine.  But his words to his superiors can also make things
happen."  He glanced at Kasuf.  "I've told you often enough I paid
little attention to the doings of corporations on my world.  But even I
had heard of UMC.  They wield great power-more than some governments on
my world."  Daniel frowned unhappily.  "And here they're not even
hampered by considerations of public opinion.  Only a handful of people
on Earth know that Abydos even exists.  And they're all bound to
secrecy." One look, and Daniel could see that he'd lost his audience.
"Let me put it this way.  Draven's relation to Lockwood is the same asRa
to a Horus guard." Comprehension dawned for the Abydans.  Powerful as a
Horus guard might appear to a run-of-the-mill human, Ra represented
infinitely more might-and danger. Kasuf gave Daniel a thoughtful frown.
"This Draven is king of the company?" "No," Daniel explained, "but he
has the ear of the kings of the company.  That's why it was so important
for us to talk to him-to go over Lockwood's head." He sighed, realizing
he had used another Englishism.  "Imagine that the Elders had to make a
decision on a matter of arbitration.  But one side of the argument had
arranged that only their case would be heard. That's the situation
Lockwood had us in." "But now Draven has heard our side," Sha'uri said.
Daniel nodded.  "The only other way would have been for me to go back to
Earth." He glanced away from his wife's shocked face. "To plead our case
we'd need someone who knew both English and the ways of my planet.  The
others who might be willing to help-O'Neil, Kawalsky, or Feretti-while
they're our friends, they're also in the military.  Their superiors have
bound them by orders to stay here on Abydos." Daniel gave Sha'uri a
lopsided grin.  "I, on the other hand-well, their superiors know that
I'm not one to take orders." Sha'uri had to smile.  "Only too true,
husband. Why, you wouldn't even take orders from Ra." "I can't take much
credit for that," he replied. "Ra ordered me to kill my friends.  It's
lucky that you and Skaara were on hand to get me out of that
situation-by helping us all to escape." He glanced around.  "By the way,
where is Skaara?  I thought he'd be there for the fireworks at the
council meeting." Kasuf shook his head.  "My son is off practicing to be
a warrior again. Something called 'night operations,' whatever they may
be." "I hear that he's done great things with those boys," Daniel said.
"They may not have uniforms like Lockwood's or Keogh's men, but he seems
to have turned them into an effective force."  Daniel hesitated for a
moment.  "Maybe we should ask to see them in action.  It might be time
for the Elders to take formal notice of Skaara's militia." "You think
we'll need warriors?"  Kasuf asked in concern. "It's just that I've been
talking with Skaara about his ambitions. They're bigger than this
planet." "How so?"  Kasuf asked. Dubiously, Daniel described his
conversation with Skaara about the StarGates.  Surprisingly, he found
Kasuf in agreement with his son's proposed crusade. "I have often of
late found myself thinking about our brothers in the stars," Kasuf
admitted, 44 and what a great thing it would be to let them know that Ra
was no more.  How strange that my son has taken those thoughts and tried
to put them to action." "Well, there won't be any action unless we find
more StarGate coordinates, as I told him," Daniel said.  "I don't see
that happening unless we stumble across another treasure trove of
ancient records." He still strode back and forth, as if he were
lecturing a class. "Maybe it's just as well we don't have coordinates.
Because then Skaara would face the same problem I would if I wanted to
go to Earth and plead our cause.  The StarGate isn't ours anymore.  It's
in the hands of the military who are no longer led by our friend
O'Neil." Daniel's hands bunched in his pockets.  "Maybe I should have
seen that coming.  But with Keogh taking charge, it means for all
practical purposes that the StarGate is now controlled by UMC." "They
have a need for it," Kasuf said.  "To what use would we put the
StarGate?" "Suppose Draven hadn't come," Daniel pointed out.  "If I
wanted to go to UMC and tell them of Lockwood's misdeeds, do you think
he'd give me free passage?  Most likely, he'd refuse."  He frowned. "Or,
being the rat he is, Lockwood would allow me into the pyramid, where I
would disappear.  An 'accident' in transit."  Daniel's face twisted.
"Even if I got to Earth, whom could I tell?  I've explained how my
colleagues thought I was too eccentric, to say the least.  If I went
public with a story about going to another world, I'd be put away as
insane." He smiled gently as his wife began to protest. "Remember, to my
people Ra is nothing but an ancient myth." Then Daniel's smile faded. "I
don't know anyone at UMC.  If I wanted to complain about Lockwood, I'd
have to go to General West.  You haven't met him.  But my impression of
this guy is that he's so twisty, he'd make Draven and Lockwood look
straightforward.  On this side of the StarGate, I learned that he uses
people like tools.  I was his translating tool.  O'Neil was chosen to
lead our expedition because he'd be West's wrecking tool, if necessary.
Should the StarGate seem dangerous, O'Neil was willing to blow it up."
Daniel glanced at Sha'uri again.  "To tell you the truth, I wouldn't
like to put us-or myself in West's hands.  What if he's finished with
this tool?  If I went to talk to him, he might not let me back." "Don't
worry yourself so much about possibilities," Kasuf said. "I feel that
I've got to weigh them," Daniel protested.  "It seems that, step by
step, I've been leading you down a path to-I don't know what.  I'm not a
leader by nature, Kasuf.  It worries me." "We can do no more until we
hear a counter offer from Draven.  Perhaps he will see the rightness of
our concerns.  We will get more of a voice in the running of the
mine-and those who caused Zaid's death will be turned over for
judgment." "I meant to ask about that," Daniel admitted. "What sort of
punishment would those two guys face?" "It's not a question of
punishment," Kasuf said. "Rather, it's a question of recompense.  Zaid
had a sick daughter. That girl no longer has a father to support her.
Were I to judge the case-which I can't, because I fear my dislike of
Lockwood would cloud my faculties-I would have the men whose negligence
caused Zaid's death take responsibility for his daughter.  If they could
have her cured, they should do so.  If not, they should arrange that she
be cared for." Daniel's eyebrows rose.  "Your system of law sounds quite
pragmatic.  I was afraid that the penalty would be boiling in
oil-something like that." Kasuf gave him a bitter smile.  "The law of
Ra-well, he did not rule by law but by whim.  We could not live so."
Sha'uri saw her father smother a yawn.  "It grows late," she said.
"Come, husband." As they walked the silent streets of Nagada, Daniel's
nervous energy sent him striding ahead of his wife.  Sha'uri took his
arm, then looked at him in surprise.  "Clashing with this Draven fellow
has left you on edge.  You're quivering like a mastadge sensing a sand
storm." " I'm not afraid of the guy-just concerned," Daniel said. She
gave him a teasing smile.  "I didn't say you were trembling.  Just that
you're a-quiver like the difference between the night we were wed and-"
"That's not fair," Daniel complained.  "With the language barrier, I
didn't realize that was a wedding.  When I did-" Sha'uri's smile grew
broader.  "Exactly." The two of them extended their strides to reach
their quarters all the more quickly. The next day, Draven took over
Lockwood's office, banishing him from his precious air conditioning.
Seated behind the manager's desk, the troubleshooter met with Vernon
Ballard. "I'm extending feelers toward our counter force through the
language teachers," Draven told the security man.  "If all goes well,
we'll contact them tomorrow evening."  Night was always best for
plotting, especially when one was plotting the downfall of a government.
Darkness brought out the best qualities in coup leaders. "You're sure
these guys will overthrow the old men?"  Ballard asked. "They're young.
I'm sure we can depend on them to be ... impetuous." The mercenary chief
shook his head.  "Just a matter of business for you, isn't it?  If you
can't get in from the front, you'll take the back door." "But we'll
still need a key," Draven said.  "And I expect you to provide it." "My
great-grandad, he used to trade with the Indians," Ballard said. "There
were two prime trade goods-whiskey and rifles."  He smiled.  "I don't
see as how these folk are much in the way of drinkers.  But those boys
sure do love guns." Draven nodded.  "But we don't want them getting
their hands on guns that are too good." "Like Great-grandad and the
Indians.  These guys'll need something that will give them an edge over
the local competition-but my boys will still have an edge over them." He
squinted, thinking.  "I might be able to get my hands on a couple of
cases of Garand rifles.

1942 vintage-adapted for the Marines during Double-ya Double-ya Two.
Bolt-action guns, five rounds in the clip." "And fifty years behind
today's technology," Draven said.  "I like it." "Garand's a workhorse
gun.  They were using them back in 1903," Ballard said. "All the
better," Draven smiled. "I didn't mention the best thing of all,"
Ballard said.  "The Garand takes a .30-caliber bullet. Ammo for later
guns is a lot smaller-more on the order of a .22, to fit more in the
clip." "So they can't use our stocks-or the military's-for supply." "So,
sir," Vernon Ballard drawled.  "These boys want bullets, they'll have to
go through us." "Head back through the StarGate and do your deal,"
Draven ordered.  "I don't imagine it will cost us much.  And I want a
sample on hand for our meeting with our new friends-to-be." His smile
was absolutely without mirth.  "These primitives do love a big bang."
The THREE visitors from the mining camp entered Nagada disguised in
homespun robes. Skaara was amused by the cloak-and-dagger aspect.  What
did the strangers think they were plotting at? Several of his followers
had approached him the day before.  Students from UMC's English classes
had sought them out.  The important man who'd arrived to speak with the
Elders also wanted to speak with Skaara.  But he wanted to do so in
private. Skaara was unwilling to meet until one of his
lieutenants-another former shepherd who'd proven himself fighting the
Horus guards-spoke to him about Draven. "He was smart enough to ask at
our watch post for a guide to the city," the young man said. "Whatever
he has to say, it might be interesting to hear. So, a rendezvous was set
for tonight, starting with the entrance of the THREE disguised
strangers-badly disguised, at least in Skaara's eyes. One of them simply
towered over the average height of the city folk. When O'Neil and
Kawalsky had pretended to be from Nagada, the tall lieutenant at least
had had the sense to hunch a little. This tall man stood erect and
almost strutting as he came through the gate.  And what was in the long
package he handled so carefully? The strangers had specified that the
meeting place be secluded and noise-proof.  Skaara had chosen a
warehouse built against the walls. It had thick walls, but had been
blasted by Ra's udajeets and not yet repaired. A couple of oil lamps
provided wavering illumination as the strangers were ushered into an
inner room.  They threw back their cloaks to reveal the faces of Draven,
Lockwood, and the head of Lockwood's guards-Ballard. "You lead the boy
soldiers?"  Lockwood spoke a mangled version of the local idiom. ...
What is it you want?"  Skaara asked them in English. "I thought you'd
speak our tongue," Draven said.  "Your man who guided me last night was
quite understandable." To Skaara, he sounded like one of the-merchants
in the marketplace, flattering the customer before setting up a sale.
"You wanted to see me," he said.

"I came to see what it is you want."  Draven smiled.  "The company I
represent is large and powerful, give you weapons. We could Ith,
women-and power here on Abydos."  The negotiator leaned forward.  "So I
ask again.  What do you want?" Skaara gave him a whimsical smile.  "I
want the stars.  Can you give them to me?" Draven was shocked out of his
smooth manner. "What do you mean?" "You and the new soldiers-the
greencoatscontrol the StarGate," Skaara said.  "I want our scholar,
Daniel, to have access to the gate.  There are other worlds besides
yours and mine out there. Our people have brothers still under the yoke
of Ra.  Shouldn't we at least try to search them out?" Draven was so
taken aback, he sought time by pretending to consult with his
companions. "The kid thinks big," Ballard whispered.  "Who'd have
thought he'd want to stake a claim on other worlds?" "We have a
profitable setup now."  Lockwood's voice was almost a whine of
complaint.  "Do we really want to waste time allowing Jackson to tinker
with our lifeline?  Every moment the StarGate is off-line means lost
shipments of ore-or missed deliveries of supplies needed on this side."
"We're getting neither ore nor supplies unless we get a more complaisant
government," Draven whispered.  He sized Skaara up. Despite his
idealistic pose, this young man might go for the breadand-butter pitch.
"I don't know if I can give you the stars," he said frankly.  "Our wise
men say it would be very difficult to find other worlds." Skaara nodded.
"That's what Daniel says.  There are many combinations. But surely we
might make some attempts." "Perhaps," Draven said smoothly.  "What I can
offer you is a better position here on Abydos.  Supplies for your
militia, uniforms ... weapons."  He turned to Ballard.  "Show him." The
hired warrior unwrapped the bundle he'd carried.  Inside was a rifle,
longer than the sort Skaara was used to.  Ballard took a clip of long
bullets, slapping it into a hole in the belly of the weapon. With a
klick-chak!  he operated some sort of bolt atop the gun.  Then he fired
into one of the adobe walls, creating a huge pockmark.  The blast was
deafening, even in the large-sized room.  Militia members came boiling
in, fearing their leader was in danger. Ballard, carefully keeping the
muzzle away from Skaara, operated the mechanism again and fired. "A fine
weapon, isn't it?"  Draven said. "it seems slower than the weapons we
saved from Colonel O'Neil's camp," Skaara observed. "More to do before
it can be fired .  . . and the bullets are larger than the ones we use
in our guns now." Draven's smiled curdled.  Apparently, the UMC man
hadn't expected him to notice these things. "The guns are of simple
design because, well, things are simpler on this world.  But they're
also easier to repair.  And if they don't fire so quickly, they also
won't jam so easily in the sand." "All right.  As you say, they seem to
be fine weapons.  How are we to earn them?  Do you expect us to work in
the mines for you?" "We'll give you the guns to help you take your
rightful place here in Nagada.  Use them to overthrow the old men who
hold you-and your citydown.  The mine can bring you riches.  just send
the people back to work for us." "So, we can have guns, and I can have
riches, if only we will overthrow the old fools who rule us." Draven
nodded eagerly. "I have advice for you, Mr.  Draven."  Skaara pointed at
Lockwood. "Fire that man.  He's been here for months, now, and he never
discovered that I am the son of Kasuf, the head old fool." Draven aimed
a lambent glare at the manager. Ballard began desperately manipulating
the bolt on his rifle again. Skaara snatched up a long pole with what
looked like a stylized lotus flower at its top.  Draven had dismissed it
as some sort of torch or decoration.  Swinging the pole like a
quarterstaff, the young man knocked the rifle from Ballard's hands. Then
he worked some hidden control, and flanges sprang out at the head of the
staff.  Skaara aimed, and a bolt of energy leapt from the staff. The
rifle's stock burned, the metal bolt vanished. The barrel melted. "I
don't think we need your ... simple weapons, either."  The young man was
every inch the leader as he aimed the blast-lance at them. "Now go-be
out of here before I show you how this works on flesh!"

CHAPTER 14

EVEN THE GODS ARE MORTAL

To an exterior observer, the battleship Ra's Eye made the transition
from stardrive to normal space in a soundless blaze of glory.  Vacuum,
of course, does not transmit sound.  But it does convey light, and at
the moment of its appearance, incandescent sheets of luminescence
emanated from each face of the starship's pyramidal structure. On the
bridge, Hathor felt the familiar queasy sensation of shifting from the
unreal hyper-realm back to reality.  Starship jumps were different from
transiting the StarGates-they seemed curiously unfocused.  One had a
sense of rushing through the void with no destination. One of Ptah's
technicians ran her hands over the lit panels that made up the
navigation controls.  A holographic screen flashed in front of her face.
"We have arrived in the star system Amentet," she announced, "precisely
as calculated." Ptah himself roved the bridge, checking readouts at all
stations.  At Engineering, he activated the communications system.
"Engines!  I'm reading a power fluctuation from the drive.  Modulate!"
Hathor beckoned the engineer god over.  "If you keep doing their jobs,
they're never going to learn," she said in a whisper. His own voice was
rough.  "They're only trainees, with a surface indoctrination in
shipboard systems.  A skeleton crew able to move Ra's flying palace in
small jumps-that's very different from handling this behemoth." Hathor
knew all too well.  Ra's ship, for all its apparent size and majesty,
was a mere yacht, a toy, next to the grim bulk of the warship. In
addition, most of the royal starcraft ran on automatic systems. That
wasn't possible on a ship going into combat. Ra's ship had power in
abundance.  But even with the quartz wonder stone, power was precious,
being juggled between the stardrive and the weapons systems.  It didn't
help that in spite of months of refurbishing, most of the power
connections were millennia old. Hathor felt a sense of edginess as she
paced. Feeling the bridge under her feet awoke uncomfortable
memories-mere months old for her, but dating to the age of legend for
almost everyone else aboard. She turned to Ptah, "How do you deal with
it?" she asked. "With what?"  her erstwhile husband returned. "How do
you manage your status as legend? The reactions of today's ones to the
fact that you lived in the First Time?" "Simple," he replied with a
shrug.  "I don't let them know." Ptah's solution wouldn't work for her,
she thought.  And it certainly wouldn't help her fit into what she
considered a degenerate age.  The engineering crew was not the only
skeleton complement aboard Ra's Eye. Resources and manpower were being
hoarded on godlings' distant fiefs. Even some of Ptah's technicians were
being kept against their god commander's orders. Worst of all, however,
was the shortage of warriors.  The ground force attached to Ra's Eye was
seriously under-strength.  Far more than on Ombos, Hathor would have to
depend on slashing attacks by the udajeets to project firepower.  There
simply weren't enough dependable warriors to use as foot soldiers,
except as a tiny reserve.  She even lacked warriors for the battleship's
fire-control posts.  Whole batteries had been slaved together and would
be fired by conscripts from the ranks of Thoth's administrators. Still,
the ship's shake-down cruise had taken them as far as the star system
nearest to Tuat. Hathor remembered doing the same with her new fleet
before moving to quell the Ombos rebellion. The Amentet system was
barren of planets that could sustain life.  But there was a sizable band
of space debris where the third planet should have been. Hathor proposed
to use the rocky asteroids for target practice. "Activate the system
drive," she ordered her female navigation officer. "Set course for one
of the thicker meteor swarms." The eerie glow of normal-space drive
illuminated the base of the pyramid ship.  It accelerated toward a
collection of space junk. "Closing, Lady Captain," the nav officer
reported. "Sensor nets at maximum gain!"  Ptah called. The ceiling of
the bridge disappeared as a holographic representation of nearby space
appeared. A stylized pyramid in the center of the projection showed the
location of the ship.  Glowing multifaceted shapes depicted the
asteroids. "Gunnery!"  Hathor called, opening a new communications line.
"Secondary batteries, engage and fire!" In seconds, the holo-projection
began showing the breakup, and in some cases disappearance, of the
orbiting rocks.  The margins of the representation began to crawl with
hieroglyphic information scoring accuracy and fire-to-hit ratios.
"Satisfactory," Hathor said to Ptah.  "It seems that time on the
simulators imparted a fair degree of skill, even to Thoth's
accountants." She turned to the Nav station.  "Sensors, find me a
good-sized chunk out there.  Something about the order of
Tuat-the-moon." A scan of nearby space turned up a piece of cosmic
debris that an Earth astronomer would have classed as similar to Ceres.
The pyramid shape on the holographic projection shrank to represent the
larger scale. Minor space junk appeared in dimmer shades.  The worldlet
became a glaring orange. "Gunnery!  Main batteries target-and fire!" The
designated target blazed brighter in the holographic view, expanding as
if it were a cloud of gas, then vanishing. Which is pretty much what
happened.  Blastbolts of enormous energy had vaporized the planetoid.
During the Ombos campaign these batteries had obliterated entire cities
from orbit. In the present, however, the single barrage led to disaster.
Instants after showing the devastation of the moonlet, the holographic
projection winked out.  So did most of the light on the bridge.
Essential stations were represented by the fox-fire glows of emergency
illumination.  Warning sirens howled. "Engines!  What did I tell you
about that fluctuation?"  Ptah shouted in fury. "Lord, the energy drain
for the main batteries caused a power cascade!" A panicked voice
replied.  "We are now trying-" Screams echoed over the communications
link. "Report!  Report, Ammit; cat you!"  Ptah swore. Hathor aimed a
glare that would have made the ship's main battery look like a birthday
candle.  "If your people strand us here, I swear I'll feed you to Ammit
myself!" "I'm sorry, lord."  The voice from the engine room sounded
harassed but no longer panicked. "Some of the ancient circuitry could
not handle the load.  We'll have to bridge and reroute, but I assure you
the drive will be on-line shortly.  Life support is operational, and
passive sensors show us to be in no danger." "I thought there was
supposed to be redundant circuitry for all drive and navigation
equipment," Hathor hissed at her husband. "In the normal course of
events," Ptah said smoothly.  "But in a rush job .  . ."  He shrugged.
"I suppose we should be glad we discovered the defect.  My people will
have to learn to be more careful." Hathor preferred not to know how long
they drifted almost helplessly. At last, however, power returned. "Take
us back to Tuat," she briefly ordered. She stood looking calm and
unflappable asRa's Eye transited into stardrive.  But the muscles in
Hathor's stomach were clenched. They arrived at the edge of the system,
and proceeded on systemic drive to Tuat-the-world. "I want a runthrough
on a planetary landing," Hathor said to Ptah quietly.  "Unless you think
it's too ... dangerous." "No more hazardous than any of the other
maneuvers we've undertaken," Ptah replied. The glow from the drive
flared as the battleship swung majestically into the atmosphere of the
derelict planet.  With peculiar delicacy for all its bulk, Ra's Eye
settled onto the ruinous docking station in the midst of a huge, decayed
cityscape. "Launch the udajeets," Hathor commanded. "Our warriors come
from six different factions. They have to learn how to fly-and fight-as
a team." With a brusque gesture she then beckoned Ptah aside.  "And
while our fighters get themselves together, you will get every
technician in or on Tuat and make absolutely positive that there will be
no more embarrassing systems failures."  Hathor glared.  "If that had
happened during a combat situation-" She throttled back her voice.  "You
would be the first casualty." "Are you so sure you'll be taking Ra's Eye
into combat?"  Ptah asked. "Ra's ship could have failed somehow between
here and Tuat.  He had no technicians aboard-just the children and a few
warriors." "What has happened to the empire?"  Hathor burst out.  "You
can't gather together enough technicians to refurbish one ship.  Lack of
warriors-they're little more than a ceremonial guard." "This isn't the
First Days anymore," Ptah said. "The empire isn't expanding-we're no
longer dealing with the active threat of revolt from the fellahin." "And
the result is that our expedition to Abydos has been pared down to
something more like a scouting mission," Hathor said bitterly. "And what
if your scouting expedition discovers Ra?"  Ptah asked. Hathor's face
stiffened.  "We will serve him, of course." The pallid flesh on Ptah's
cyborg face twitched into a smile.  "And if he turns out to be
helpless?" Hathor remembered those uncannily glowing eyes that always
seemed to know her thoughts. Whatever secrets she kept here, he would
know. "You haven't answered my question," Ptah mocked. "And I don't
intend to."  Hathor strode off.  "I'll be taking the shuttle up to
Tuat-the-moon." Hathor elected to pilot the shuttle up to the royal
palace by herself. She could operate the small spacecraft, and frankly,
she wanted some time to herself.  Her performance on the bridge of Ra's
Eye had been more draining than she expected.  Besides, she had flown
shuttles and udajeets in the days of the First Time.  And the controls
hadn't changed. The shuttle itself had the same pyramidal construction
that marked all spacegoing vehicles in Ra's empire.  But it only
accommodated ten people and a pilot.  Its small, gleaming, golden-quartz
contours added an incongruous note as it perched atop the cracked and
weather-worn pyramid that housed the StarGate to Tuat-the-world.
Attempts had been made to patch the irregular stone bulk, but they were
almost hidden under a coating of hardy lichen that had climbed almost to
the apex of the pyramid.  To a passing Earthling the docking station
would have looked like a squat Christmas tree with but one ornament-the
star at the top. For Hathor, the sad state of the spaceport seemed a
metaphor for the slapdash attitude afflicting all of Ra's empire.  In
her day the pyramids had been flawlessly maintained, although the city
they once served had already fallen into ruin. Two stations over, the
bulk of Ra's Eye had settled, looking like a mountain of glassy gold.
Even as Hathor glanced that way, heavy face plates retracted to reveal
the launching decks and the firing slits for the blaster batteries.  The
battleship seemed the grimly purposeful artifact it had been in the days
of the First Time-at least from the outside. As Hathor prepared for
liftoff, a pair of udajeets launched.  The graceful, rakishly designed
antigravity gliders had the sharply curved wings of a striking falcon.
The white wings even had stylized pinions picked out in gold. The
atmospheric craft banked into a sharp turn, shrinking in the distance as
they set off on a strafing run down one of the empty boulevards of the
dead metropolis.  Hathor could see only the flash of the twin
blast-cannons as a twinkle in the distance.  But from experience she
knew the destruction that must be raining on the underbrush now clogging
the empty streets. As if in imitation of the passing fliers, Hathor
activated her own craft's lifting drive.  A deceptively gentle radiance
bathed the top of the docking station as the shuttle rose.  But the
lichen blackened and died about a sixth of the way down from the top.
The shuttle moved with all the speed and flair of an elevator-definitely
a case of "slow and steady wins the race."  But it was the only means of
admission to Ra's planetoid palace.  The head god's paranoid search for
security had placed the Tuat StarGate on the planet's surface.  He'd
even banned the short-range matter transmitters from the palace. So, if
one wished to visit Tuat-the-moon, one came by way of slow, tubby,
easily scanned shuttles.  The damned things didn't even have the room to
transport a decent STRIKE team. The shuttle's slow rise had taken it
about fifty feet above the docking station when another pair of uda
fleets launched.  Too bad they were atmosphere craft, without the range
to reach the moonlet.  Hathor smiled.  Now, there would be the means for
an impressive entrance. She'd have to talk to Ptah about supercharging
one of the gliders. The udajeets streaked straight for the shuttle,
spreading out slightly to bracket it.  Hathor's smile grew broader with
reminiscence.  Hot pilots were still the same, always ready to pull a
stunt.  Besides, she knew these two.  The second-wave udajeets came from
her own faction, her first followers. The gliders had passed almost
before Hathor realized they'd fired on her.  Her shuttle yawed as
blast-bolts tore at its golden fabric.  The slowmoving, wobbling craft
had only doubled its altitude as the udajeets banked around for a second
pass. Hathor thrust out a hand, running it over a newly installed panel.
Control surfaces glowed to life.  With a lifetime's facility she
controlled the shuttle's lift with one hand while setting up parameters
with the other. A large red dot appeared on her navigation image.  The
udajeets were almost on top of her again.  With their frail, airy
construction they looked like a pair of butterflies attacking a brick.
But they could wheel and fire, wheel and fire, while the brick was
trapped on a single, slow-moving course.  Sooner or later the attackers
would hit something vital, and the brick would fall and crash. Unless
... The udajeets were firing.  Hathor moved her left hand over a large,
glowing control surface.  The red dot on her nav display followed her
hand's movement.  The dot touched one of the udajeets, moved ahead of it
Hathor brought down her finger on the glassy plate.  Bolts of blaster
fire ripped from each apex of the pyramid.  THREE blasts struck the
glider she'd targeted.  The more aerodynamic but flimsier craft came
apart like a butterfly with its wings torn off. The other fighter
flashed past, banked ... and hesitated before coming around for another
attack.  They were much higher now, nearly at the limit of the
atmosphere craft's performance range. If the warrior didn't score a
crucial hit, Hathor would get away. But the shuttle was quaking as it
flew.  One more hit could mean a long, fatal fall.  Still, the attacking
pilot hesitated as he came around. Hathor's right hand flew across the
flight controls, svanging the shuttle at right angles to its upward
trajectory.  Without the lift of the drive, the pyramidal vessel flew
about as well as a cobblestone. Hathor lurched as the shuttle pushed
slightly forward-and very quickly down. But Hathor had aimed the craft
so her attacker would have to pass the fields of fire of all five of her
blasters.  The udajeet came on, committed to its attack.  Twin blasters
flashed under the rakish wings. Five blasters lashed out from each
corner of Hathor's craft. The shuttle staggered again as a hole was torn
in its nose.  The udajeet shattered as five bolts concentrated on its
pilot's cabin. Hathor fought her half-crippled craft, bringing it around
so the drive surfaces pointed toward the planet again, engaging maximum
lift, stopping her plummeting descent just in time.  Throughout that
struggle a grim smile curved her lips.  She hadn't been able to get Ptah
to increase the performance of the shuttles.  But he had made sure her
personal craft was armed. Using the matter transporter inside the stone
pyramid, Hathor transferred directly to the bridge on Rha's Eye.  Ptah
stood at the captain's place. Hathor noticed that all of his technician
crew people carried blast-lances. "Mutiny or assassination attempt?" she
asked her erstwhile husband. Ptah's mechanical shoulder rose in a shrug.
"We're not completely sure yet, but the latter appears more likely. Most
of our warrior complement seems shocked at the attack on you. They've
been disarmed, and the udajeets have stood down. First flight was
ordered to land." "I wondered why no one was flying to my aid," Hathor
said pointedly. Ptah's waxy flesh looked as hard as his metal side.  "No
one was flying until I was sure they wouldn't be attacking you, too."
His mechanical shoulder rose again.  "Besides, I knew you could handle
two udajeets with the equipment you had. And I was proven correct." "I
suppose we should be glad that the assassins weren't in Gunnery," Hathor
finally said.  "Those pilots-they were from my faction, weren't they?"
"Perhaps the better description is that they were from the late Sebek's
faction," Ptah said. "Although they had seemed quite devoted to your
cause." "We'll have to hope the rest of the warriors Will follow me."
Hathor turned to the navigation officer.  "Lift us.  We're heading for
Tuat-the-moon.  I want a continuous scan on the palace's defensive
batteries.  If they give a hint of energizing, I want Gunnery to blow
them away." The marble walls of the central palace dome were scarred and
spalled from repeated exchanges of blast-bolts.  The pile of furniture
at one end of the hall-including a golden throne-marked the position of
the last rebels.  Hathor watched a holographic image from one of Ptah's
spy-eyes as one of her squad of Horus guards-recruited from THREE
separate factions-brought his blast-lance to bear from around a corner
and fired.  The bolt of energy slashed through the makeshift barrier and
caught one of the rebel guardsmen in the chest. "One down, five
electives left," she counted. "And the two leaders in the chamber
beyondwith Thoth." "I can't show you what's transpiring in there," Ptah
apologized. "They've destroyed my observation modules." "I'm surprised
they haven't tried the hostage gambit," Hathor said. "Not with your
reputation," her one-time husband pointed out.  He frowned.  "You're
sure you want to go alone?" She nodded grimly.  "At this point I'm
unwilling to have anyone at my back." The attempted coup had recruited a
surprising range of support because it had proceeded not in the name of
Apis, the ringleader, but of Ra. "Who'd have imagined the Bull could be
so clever?  Hathor thought.  He tapped into the anger against me as an
usurper-rebuildingwhat Ra had decommissioned.  And, of course, all of us
have a lively fear of how Ra would react if he did return. She had left
Troth as master of the palace for the duration of the test voyage.  And
it was only her unexpectedly quick return that had foiled the plotters.
They had only begun, seizing Thoth and the palace armory, when Ra's Eye
had reappeared in the system. The assassins aboard the battleship had
been forced to rush.  And there was still too much resistance to the
coup on Tuat-the-moon.  The conspirators hadn't even gotten close to the
defense batteries. With Hathor's return the putsch died-as did many of
Apis's followers. Now only this bare handful remained, trapped.
Ironically, Ptah reported that the seemingly deadend chamber where the
leaders had taken sanctuary actually connected with a secret passage
he'd built for Ra. Hathor proposed to use the hidden entrance in an
attempt to save Thoth. "You could just as easily send a squad of
guards," Ptah protested. "Thoth is the one who revived me-I owe him my
best effort," Hathor replied. Grudgingly, Ptah showed her the nearest
entrance.  The secret way was dimly lit and surprisingly clean-in better
shape, say, than the shuttle docking facilities. Moving quietly, Hathor
reached the panel which Ptah had assured her led to Apis's last redoubt.
She stepped back, arming her blast-lance. Her first bolt blew in the
secret entrance.  The second took off Apis's head, blowing his bull
mask-and its contents-halfway across the room. The other occupant was a
muscular man who still wore the side-lock of youth.  The dye on the Eye
of Ra tattooed around the young man's own right eye was still raw, He'd
just recently entered the warrior caste, and had risen to the rank of
god commandeer quite quickly. Hathor knew his face.  She had promoted
him to take Sebek's place when she had taken over the crocodile god's
faction. The new Sebek was good-he had his own blast-lance armed and
aimed at her chest.  But Hathor had both aimed and triggered her weapon.
Sebek went down, his midsection charred, cooked meat.  He sank to the
marble floor, still alive as Hathor kicked his weapon from his nerveless
hands.  She knocked her appointee flat.  His eyes were glazed but still
conscious as Hathor aimed her blast-lance at his face. "Thoth!"  she
called. Sebek's eyes trailed off to his right. Hathor turned.  Thoth lay
cold and stark on the floor.  Several blaster burns had seared his body,
wounds which hadn't been treated.  There were also marks of torture, as
if the plotters had tried to force him to come in on their coup. Thoth
had been unconscious when they'd finished him off.  The top of his head
was simply gone.  It was the easiest way to deny the rescue of Ra's
sarcophagus.  Humans might be easily repaired.  But even Ra's technology
could not rebuild a brain from scratch. Hathor's lips skinned over her
teeth in a rictus as she returned to Sebek.  His eyes met hers in terror
as she positioned her blast-lance over his head.  Hathor triggered her
weapon, then triggered it again and yet again.  By the time she was
finished, not only was Sebek's head gone, there was a bowl-sized
depression in the marble floor receiving the thin trickle of blood from
the nearly cauterized stump of his neck. Hathor then went to kneel by
Thoth, closing his bulging, distorted eyes.  If she had been one to heed
omens, this would definitely be a bad one. The revolt was definitely
over.  Hathor had appeared from the sanctum chamber of the coup leaders
to take the last rebel guardsmen from behind.  But the Cat's face was
not happy as she rejoined Ptah.

repairs you can to Ra's Eye," she said.  "Then I set "You have two days
to do whatever additional off for Abydos.  We can't stand any more
incertitude about Ra's fate.  It seems I daren't leave for fear of
revolt.  Yet I daren't stay for the same reason.  When I know how the
situation standswhether we need a successor-then I will know how the
deal with the others." She stepped up to Ptah.  "I name you master of
the palace in my absence.  May you succeed better than my last nominee."
"Speaking of nominees, shall I name a new Sebek?"  Ptah asked lightly.
Hathor stared into his eyes.  "You can do as you will," she said.
"Always bearing in mind that I will come back." In two days, losses
among the crew had been fleshed out and the troublesome circuits on Ra's
Eye replaced. Surrounded by a full retinue of guards, Hathor marched
through the docking station to board her ship.  But someone stood
waiting at the end of a hall attached to one of the ship's internal
airlocks. Hathor gestured for the guards to stop and stepped out of the
open box they formed.  Standing by the lock was the ghastly
machine-human parody who had once been her husband. "What are you doing
here?"  Hathor asked. The waxy-pale flesh side of Ptah's mouth turned up
in a grin.  "The last time you set off from Tuat, I was notable for my
absence," he said.  "I thought this time I'd be notable for my
presence."  He raised his human arm.  "Merely to wish you farewell-and
good luck." Hathor nodded, then continued onward.  Beyond the hall the
ship's heavy airlock door closed and cycled. And even as the docking
station shook from the force of liftoff from Ra's Eye, Ptah held his
place, still smiling his eerie half smile.

CHAPTER 15

INTO THE FLAME

Jack O'Neil stretched out as best he could, considering the narrow
confines of his camp cot.  If his sleeping arrangements were on the
small side, the tent he was sharing was more cramped still. A far cry
from his quarters as head officer on Abydos. At least he had some
friendly company.  When Adam Kawalsky had realized his old commander was
out of a tent as well as a post, he'd offered his own billet.  "With all
the people they're pouring in here, I'll have to double up anyway,"
Kawalsky said.  "And, begging the colonel's pardon, I'd rather have you
than some snot-nosed Army firstloot right out of the Point.  Half of
Keogh's officers look like teenagers." "It's the security angle," O'Neil
said sourly. "West is getting people right out of training because
they've been vetted pretty thoroughly-and they don't have any
connections in the service. Less chance of any of these guys getting
drunk with his buddies and leaking info on this operation." Kawalsky
frowned.  "Yeah, but if the cow flop hits the fan .  . ." O'Neil just
shrugged.  "We'll just have to hope these boy soldiers will treat it as
a training exercise with live fire." The colonel's mood was not as
flippant as his words.  Most of Keogh's command were troops one step up
from raw recruits.  If trouble really erupted here on Abydos, the Army
brats would be facing Skaara's boy commandos.  They'd balance out pretty
even in terms of training-and Skaara's boys had some combat experience,
albeit brief. The Abydans would weigh up way short on the technology
front, but Skaara and his followers had proven themselves very
resourceful at getting weapons. No, the deciding force in any armed
confrontation would be the original nucleus of the Abydos expeditionary
force-the combat Marines commanded by Jack O'Neil. The colonel glanced
at his lanky lieutenant. How would Kawalsky feel about fighting his
recent comrades-in-arms? O'Neil shifted uneasily on his bunk.  Hell, he
didn't even know how he felt about it. " so, " he said aloud, "how are
you and Feretti settling in over in Supplies?" "It's like we've died and
gone to hell," Kawalsky replied promptly. "Just from looking around and
counting heads, I figure we've got maybe THREE battalions here.  From
the supply picture you'd think we were trying to equip D-Day." O'Neil
grinned.  "Remember what Napoleon said about armies traveling on their
stomachs." Kawalsky gave a disgusted grunt.  "That's the only way our
boys could move if they had to carry all the crap we're stockpiling."
"Speaking of stockpiles, Keogh wants to send back all the hand-held
missiles I managed to assemble." "The anti-udajeet armory?"  Kawalsky
frowned. "He's convinced that if we end up fighting, it will be our
friends in Nagada," O'Neil said.  "And they, of course, won't have air
support." He glanced at his lieutenant.  "Now, I can't countermand a
direct order from a superior.  But I don't have to tell you to hurry.
I'm sure you have lots of priorities.  just don't move stripping our air
defense to the top of the list." Kawalsky's frown deepened.  "That's not
as easy as it sounds.  Those crates of missiles take up a lot of space.
We're having a hard time keeping all our food supplies under canvas
right now.  There's just so much space on this plateau.  We've got guys
trying to set up a regular motor pool.  That means maintenance bays, and
they're going to start digging storage tanks for fuel.  Keogh doesn't
want to depend on tanker trucks out in the open." O'Neil's lips
twitched.  "Great.  All the inconveniences of home." "The other problem
is that there are a lot of truckloads of stuff coming out of the
StarGate, but nothing much is going in-back to Earth." The lieutenant
paused for a second.  "I mean, not since the STRIKE at the mine." "So
you think some conscientious supply sergeant will truck off our air
defense to accommodate a few more boxes of Meals, Ready to Eat?" "'Fraid
so, sir."  Kawalsky, however, suddenly grinned as a thought struck him.
"If they could find them.  There's going to be a lot of earth moved. Who
knows, maybe some of it will cover those rocket crates." O'Neil laughed
out loud.  "Just as long as you remember where they're buried.  If we
end up needing them, we'll probably need them in a hurry." Further
conversation was interrupted when a young lieutenant wearing an
orderly's armband burst into the tent.  He executed a salute with the
robotic precision of a recent cadet.  "Colonel O'Neil, sir!  General
Keogh's compliments.  Your presence is requested in the command tent.
Immediately." "Hope that means I'm allowed to pull on my boots first,"
O'Neil said, sitting up on the cot and returning the green soldier's
salute.  "The sun may have gone down, but I'll bet the sand is still
pretty hot out there." He tied his boots, then slipped a field jacket
over the T-shirt and fatigue pants he was wearing. "Lead away,
Lieutenant." Gas lamps lit up the command tent like a Christmas tree.
O'Neil hid a frown.  He'd preferred to keep the amount of illumination
down, a habit from his commando days out in the field.  No sense turning
the camp's brain center into a beacon for snipers. Keogh had wrought
other changes besides the lighting, his battle flag, and the
presidential picture.  An honest-to-god desk had been shipped over, teak
by the look of it, with a matching tallback leather chair complete with
hydraulic suspension.  O'Neil had gotten by with a camp table and
folding chair. Still, perhaps the trappings of authority helped the
general as he half crouched behind his teak barricade, listening to the
protestations of two UMC executives. "I tell you, I saw it."  Lockwood
was almost gobbling as he spoke. "That Skaara character blasted a hole
in the warehouse wall!" Walter Draven presented a calmer front, but his
face was grave.  A good poker player facing a very dubious hand.  "We
both saw it, General. Frankly, I was shocked to find such a weapon in
native hands." Keogh swung in his chair and returned O'Neil's salute.
"What do you know about this, Colonel?" "I'm not sure what you're
referring to, sir," O'Neil said carefully. "We're talking about
weapons-terror weapons-in the hands of the native militia!"  Lockwood
cried. O'Neil frowned.  "I don't know how that could be.  Blasting a
hole in a wall, you say?  Maybe he stumbled across a couple of blocks of
C-4 and det cord in our old base camp-" "Negative, Colonel," Keogh
snapped. "These two gentlemen are reporting that the natives have energy
weapons like the ones you recovered after the fighting here on Abydos."
O'Neil shrugged.  "I suppose it's possible.  We recovered one of the
cannons and some of the innards from one of the landed udajeets.  They
were in almost as bad shape as the one that had crashed after the crowd
was done.  Anything that represented Ra's authority got pretty well
trashed that day.  We also had two of those spear-like blasters-"
"That's what we saw!" Lockwood interjected. Even Draven gave the man a
look of disgust. "Were there others that weren't accounted for?" Keogh
demanded. O'Neil tried a quick mental count.  "There was the one lance
that I took from Daniel, when Ra ordered him to execute us.  We picked
up another at the mine, when I zipped one of Ra's guards. There were
four armed guards in the pyramid when we tried to sneak into the
StarGate.  And Anubis was carrying one when I faced him "That's at least
six," Draven said.  "And you only brought back two." "Plus there were at
least two Horus guards who landed their udajeets and got caught on the
ground when Kasuf led the people of the city to our rescue, " O'Neil
added. "So there are a minimum of six of these energy weapons
unaccounted for."  Keogh swung to O'Neil.  "Good lord, man!  Why didn't
you confiscate them?" "At the time I had only two surviving subordinates
and a civilian volunteer-Jackson," O'Neil pointed out.  "Not enough to
argue with the several thousand people who live here." "All right, not
then," the general conceded. "But you could have initiated a search
mission when you returned with the expeditionary force." "You think I
should have started turning the city upside-down for some weapons which
theoretically existed?"  O'Neil said.  "Besides being high-handed, I
think such an action would only stir up a hornet's nest of trouble."
"Nonetheless, for the safety of the mine and the UMC personnel here,
that's exactly what these gentlemen have been asking me to do."  Keogh
gestured toward Draven and Lockwood. "And what were these gentlemen
doing in the city that they saw this demonstration of firepower?" O'Neil
asked. Draven's poker face broke for a second-just the merest tic under
his eye.  "We were attempting to ... negotiate an end to this insane
STRIKE." It had started as a hunch but turned to solid certainty as
O'Neil looked into the UMC man's eyes.  Draven was indeed showing a bad
hand! "You tried to bribe Skaara into overthrowing Kasuf and the
elders." O'Neil's voice was quiet, his tone almost wondering.  "How
could you do something so stupid?  You had to know that Skaara is
Kasuf's son-" His voice cut off as he watched Draven aim an acid look at
Lockwood. "Well, obviously, you didn't."  O'Neil turned from Draven to
Keogh. "It would seem that Draven has gotten his foot-and UMC's-caught
in the honey bucket.  And now he wants us to pull him free." Keogh sat
very still, digesting this new information. "Skaara is sure to tell
Kasuf about Draven's approach, and when he does, UMC will be finished on
this planet.  The Elders will conclude quite rightly, I think-that
Draven and company can't be trusted." "General, you are here to insure
that our operation at the mine isn't disturbed," Draven said. "What's
disturbed your operation is the fact that you shot yourself in the
foot," an angry O'Neil pointed out. "The question is whether or not you
can allow a potentially hostile population to retain those energy
weapons," Draven pushed. O'Neil bit back his first angry words.  "The
only reason they'd use those weapons-however many working versions they
may have-is because you pressed them into hostility in the first place!"
"Nonetheless," Keogh broke in, "they are hostile .  . . now."  The
general looked around, his craggy face suddenly haggard.  "Initiating a
search and-seizure mission may just present additional provocation,
but-" "But I don't see how you can avoid it," Draven said in cold
triumph. "By the way, that's the message I've already sent to General
West." In keeping with his theories on protective camouflage, the West
household occuped snug but not ostentatious housing in Officers'
Quarters. Mrs.  West had been asleep for several hours already. But the
general was still up, going over reports. A ringing telephone in his den
cum office, even at this hour, was not out of the ordinary. "General
West," the voice on the other end of the connection said, "is this a
secure line?" "Yes," the general answered. "My name is Vernon Ballard,
sir.  I'm security coordinator for UMC's operation in Ab-" "I
understand," West interrupted.  No matter how secure the line, it was
better not to mention too many details. "I'm calling from Creek
Mountain." So, Ballard must have just stepped out of the StarGate-he was
actually calling from inside the missile silo complex. "Perhaps you
could get to the point," West said. "Mr. Draven-Walter Draven-sent me to
tell you about the situation on-you know where. He's got a request, and
a message.  The message first.  It's payback time for Chile." "Ah," West
said.  In the shadowy intelligence world he worked in, favors were the
coin of the realm.  Favors given, favors gotten-markers called in. Chile
was many years ago, one of his early successes-achieved with the aid of
UMC resources.  Whatever Draven wanted, it would not be small change.
"Suppose you explain the situation," West said. "Then I'll decide on the
favor." On Abydos, Jack O'Neil hurried through the armed camp for the
motor pool.  Even as he walked through the tented streets, soldiers were
stirring, hours before reveille.  General Keogh had not decided on a
response to Draven and Lockwood's report.  He was passing the buck up to
West. But just in case action was ordered, preparations had to be
undertaken. The general had also given O'Neil orders ertain unalterable
demands that he'd have to pass on to the Elders of Nagada. When O'Neil
arrived at the motor pool, mechanics were already at work on the tanks
that had come through the StarGate.  The colonel stared at the 120-mm
cannon, which seemed almost stubby compared to the massive turret.
Nonetheless, it would take only a couple of rounds from that gun to
batter in the gates of Nagada.  Hell, between the tank's gun and huge
treads, it wouldn't take much more to get through the walls of the city.
He wondered, however, how the Chobham armor would deal with energy
bolts. O'Neil shook himself out of his reverie.  He was here to
requisition a Humvee and get over to the city in the hopes of avoiding
such combat experiments. Keogh had been unwilling to lose his second
in-command, but O'Neil had argued passionately. Such government as the
city had knew him and, hopefully, still trusted him.  He also had the
friendship of the leader of the suddenly much feared Abydos militia.  If
there was a peaceful solution to be negotiated, he had to try. O'Neil
declined the use of a driver.  Setting off down UMC's mining road, he
relentlessly pressed the vehicle to its highest speed.  When he reached
the dune that marked Skaara's watch station, he braked the vehicle and
honked the horn. No one answered. O'Neil hopped out of the Humvee and
stepped into the glare of his own headlights.  "It's me, O'Neil!"  he
called up to continued silence. "Black Hat!"  he added in Abydan. After
turning around in the light to show he was unarmed, O'Neil began
climbing the face of the dune. I'm going to feel really stupid if
somebody shoots me for this, he thought. The watch station was empty,
although it showed signs of recent occupation.  Prolonged use had
brought some of the comforts of home. O'Neil saw the masked embers of a
small fireapparently with dried mastadge dung as the fuel. There were
water skins and some neatly folded sand-colored blankets. They could
offer shade from the suns by day and warmth by night. The scanty gear
had just been left where it was, but there was no sign of violence.
Apparently, the militia members had simply been recalled. O'Neil
frowned.  It seemed that Skaara took it for granted that some sort of
force would be coming from the camp, and didn't want his people in a
known position. The colonel skidded down the hard-packed sand and
returned to his vehicle.  Next stop, Nagada. Impatience flayed O'Neil's
nerves as he jockeyed the vehicle beyond the mine pit.  He felt torn
between the need to get as much speed as possible and the danger of
flipping the vehicle and killing himself. At last the bulk of the
sleeping city rose before him.  No giant trumpet mooed a warning of his
arrival.  O'Neil had wondered if there was a curfew for the oversized
noise maker.  In the silence that followed when he turned off the
engine, however, O'Neil caught a much less welcoming sound. It was the
metallic rattle of a round being jacked into firing position in an
automatic pistol. Hands out, O'Neil again stepped into the twin cones of
illumination thrown by his headlights. A voice cried out in recognition,
"Black hat!" But the doors didn't open. O'Neil stood for what felt like
forever, trying to keep still, to act unthreatening.  What he really
wanted to do was run in place and hug himself against the desert cold,
which seemed to be leaching the very life out of him through his field
jacket. He had almost decided to sit on the still warm hood of his
vehicle when a voice called, "O'Neil! Thank God it's you!" It was Daniel
Jackson. The gates swung open. O'Neil sipped at a bowl full of water.
His throat was raw from hours of talking.  He handed the bowl to Daniel
Jackson, who had to be even more parched.  Not only had he translated
O'Neil's words to Kasuf and the Elders, but then he'd had to convey
their words to the colonel. And the upshot of this conversational
marathon?  Nothing. Kasuf and his colleagues wanted UMC off Abydos. They
hated Ballard, the company's security man, distrusted Draven, and
actively despised Lockwood.  General Francis Keogh didn't get high marks
from the local government members, either.  Everyone remembered that his
green-clad soldier had been helping to guard the rest tent when Zaid
fell to his death. O'Neil had tried to be as diplomatic as possible, but
Keogh's demand had been emphatic.  All blastlances in the city had to be
turned over to U.S. forces. Skaara, who was sitting to one side of the
assembled Elders, broke into loud argument.  At least he was able to
offer his view directly in English.  "Those spears-we captured them.
They are our best weapons, next to your guns.  See what Draven and his
friends would have given us!" He beckoned, and one of his militia
lieutenants appeared from the darkness of the sidelines.  He bore the
burned and melted remains of a rifle. One glance told O'Neil that this
was an antique Garand, the sort generally used by National Guard units
in parades. "What comes next?  Will Keogh demand the return of your
guns-the ones we dug out of the sands to use against Ra?  If the Horus
guards come again, are we to resist them with stones and walking staffs?
"If Keogh comes looking for those blasters with troops and tanks, that's
about all you'll have to resist him," O'Neil pointed out.  "I can count
on two hands the amount of government-issue weapons you have. I can
estimate that you have maybe six blast-lances at most.  That's if your
people didn't break any of them because they were toys of Ra's or if the
energy charge on the weapons didn't all run out." He turned to Jackson.
"You've got to convince them that Draven and Keogh won't be kidding
around.  Draven seems to think he's got a lock on General West giving
the okay.  And if the orders come through, this isn't going to be like a
nice student protest from your college days. Those tanks have real
cannons, and Keogh's soldiers Will have real guns-not to mention nervous
trigger fingers.  If shots are exchanged, well, I'll just remind
you-we're a long way from government oversight." A sheen of sweat
appeared on Daniel's upper lip as he argued the ways of earthly
realpolitik with the Elders.  But in the end Kasuf and the others would
not give in. "They might have turned the weapons over to you, as a
commander they know and trust," Daniel said, defeated.  "They just have
too many doubts about Keogh." The light of one of the suns was just
about to break over the horizon when the desultory argument was
interrupted by a prolonged MOOOOOOOOOOO. O'Neil, Daniel, Skaara, and a
couple of the more spry Elders climbed onto the rope bridges that
stretched over the gates. From this height O'Neil could see the vast
cloud heading toward the city.  This wasn't a windstorm, it was merely
dust thrown up by treads and wheels-the signs of tanks, armored
personnel carriers, and Humvees plowing through the roadless wastes of
Abydos to present an ultimatum to Nagada. "I guess the orders finally
came from General West," O'Neil said quietly. "I guess Draven-and maybe
Keogh-feel all the better that you're trapped in here while this goes
down," Daniel said bitterly. "Nothing has to happen!"  O'Neil turned
directly to Skaara.  "You don't have to fight!  Can't you turn over
those weapons?" Skaara shook his head.  In the predawn murk, O'Neil
could see young men-militia warriors taking their places on the walls
and on the taller buildings. "It is not for them to ask." A pair of
helicopter gunships came whining ahead of the advancing cloud. Skaara
tugged O'Neil's sleeve.  "Could you truly attack friends you fought
beside?"  His voice was nearly a whisper. O'Neil's throat felt like
stone.  "If he coughed, then tried again. "if those were my orders."
Overhead, the giant horn mooed again. "Do they think we haven't
noticed?"  O'Neil said to Daniel. But the Abydos natives around him were
turning away from the oncoming force, looking in the opposite direction.
Another cloud was rolling toward Nagada, huge and roiling, its upper
layers crackling with lightning high in the atmosphere. Mutters of
consternation and fear ran through the observers. "Wonderful. Keogh's
sending his force right into the teeth of a sandstorm," O'Neil gritted.
Daniel jackson's face was tight with apprehension.  "They're saying this
isn't natural." "Then what can it be?"  O'Neil wanted to know. The
answer came a moment later, as Cloud Number Two thundered closer. The
flickering bolts of lightning high in the air resolved themselves into a
coherent shape-the form of a titanic pyramid. Skaara gasped.  Several of
the elders moaned. Daniel just stared, white-faced. As O'Neil gazed
upward, he whispered, "Goddamn!" It was half a curse and half a prayer.

CHAPTER 16

MEETING ENGAGEMENT

On the bridge of Ra's Eye, Hathor still shook in a cold rage.  The
scanner technicians had been quite clear.  Their subspace readings had
allowed them to follow the track of Ra's stardrive.  He had arrived at
Abydos.  There were no drive-traces of him leaving. But more physical
scans had shown a dispersed, invisible-to-the-human-eye ring of matter
surrounding Abydos.  The ring was composed of irradiated quartzose
crystal.  It was not a natural phenomenon.  Even months after the fact,
Hathor's technicians were able to identify the particles as remnants of
Ra's flying palace. At last Hathor had to confront the fact that Ra was
truly dead.  Had he met some sort of navigational disaster?  Her
technical underlings were baffled by the irradiation of the crystal
fragments. Could it have been some sort of repair that hadn't worked?
The cat goddess found it impossible to credit the fellahin of Abydos
with Ra's passing.  Where could they have obtained the wherewithal to
harm a starcraft? Nonetheless, whether they knew it or not, they had
witnessed the death of Ra.  If they had correctly interpreted the flash
in the sky, there would be whispers of freedom.  Hathor would have to
Put those whispers down-and she would do so in her own name, as the new
empress.  Plans quickly resolved through her mind.  Abydos was a
backwater world, uninviting.  But it did possess the quartzite mine. As
her other rivals had fief worlds, Abydos could become her base.  She
could bring Ptah here, set him to fashioning weapons. Perhaps she could
even recruit strength from among the fellahin.  They couldn't become
Horus guards, of course, but they could make useful blaster fodder.  Ra
had done the same when he first appeared on Earth. The first order of
business was to make an impressive arrival.  Her scanner technicians had
found perfect meteorological conditions. Hathor had brought Ra's Eye
into the upper atmosphere, seeded the clouds of an insignificant storm
front, used a few blasts from the secondary batteries to ionize the
area, and rode down in a thunderstorm. Impressive, yes.  But the energy
discharges around her had blinded the ships scanners until they were
almost on top of the city. Lieutenant Peter Collier bit off a curse as
his helicopter jinked in a sudden gust of wind from the oncoming
thunderstorm. "Trust the brass to order us out onto a desert into the
teeth of a sandstorm," he muttered.  "I just hope they got this thing
put together right." The jet turbine overhead whined as he fed more
power to the rotors. Collier was another newly minted lieutenant, fresh
out of training.  He toggled the radio in his helmet, trying to contact
the other chopper. "Foxtrot Victor," Collier called. The pilot in the
other craft was Captain Ralph Vance, a grizzled veteran who had a little
experience in these oversized egg beaters. "What?"  the captain demanded
as Collier called in. "Sir, shouldn't we be trying to get some altitude
with those clouds coming our way?" "We're supposed to be flying
reconnaissance making sure there aren't any rag heads preparing
surprises for our line of march."  The older officer stopped chewing out
the green lieutenant, apparently checking his controls.  "What the hell
is with this radar?" Then in a voice of true shock the captain cried,
"Ohmigod!" A bolt of lightning shot from the dark, advancing cloud.  The
rotors flew off the lead chopper, and its engine spewed flame as raw
aviation fuel squirted out and ignited.  It made Foxtrot Victor look as
if a rocket were pushing it downward as the copter plummeted to the
ground. The radio link was dead silent. Collier tore his eyes from his
crashing companion, looking upward to see an impossible apparition seem
to congeal out of the clouds. It was a flying pyramid, and it seemed to
be the size of a young mountain.  But it was obviously a lot more
dangerous than any mountain. The damned thing had zapped Captain Vance
and his crew.  "Yo! Gunner!"  he cried into his intercom mike.  "Light
up everything we got in the way of rockets.  We got a big mother of a
target out there! He jockeyed his joystick, trying to swing around to an
attack vector. All the time Collier felt like a house fly buzzing around
a cow turd. How much damage could his rockets do to this thing? Only one
way to find out.  "Fire!" The copter was equipped with air-to-ground
missiles, tank killers, although the locals weren't supposed to have any
tanks.  Collier's first two shots scored without making any appreciable
dent in the golden-glowing facet where they landed. But farther toward
the apex, well above where the rockets had hit, a slit appeared in the
pyramid craft.  Collier didn't notice it until a bolt of ravening energy
flashed from the opening toward his chopper. And then, of course, it was
too late. Hathor stood silent on the bridge of Ra's Eye, her eyes
devouring the holographic image of the sky before her starcraft.
"Scanners!"  she ordered, "I want a close-up of that aircraft!" A new
image appeared, a little smaller than the reach of her outstretched
arms, giving better detail on the remaining flying machine.  To Hathor's
eye, used to the trim lines of the udajeet, this craft had a gangling
look.  It reminded her of the big, buzzing insects that flew over the
Nile's waters in the swampy Faiyoum. A pair of bright trails erupted
from under the big craft.  Hathor didn't know if the weapons hit or
missed.  Ra's Eye pressed on without missing a beat.  Nor were there any
damage reports. "Gunnery," she ordered, "train one of the secondary
batteries on that thing and eliminate it." According to Ra's computer
records, Abydos had been visited within the decade for collection of
another shipment of energy quartz.  There was no way in the universe
that the local fellahin could progress from copper pickaxes to flying
machines-even such primitive fliers as these-in that amount of time. If
these things were not built on Abydos ... A chill tingled down Hathor's
bare back.  Ra himself was a hybrid creature, as he'd once admitted in a
moment of intimacy.  His human form was-well, id possessed" was too
strong a term.  Perhaps id shared" came closer.  In any event, an
intelligent creature from beyond Earth lived in the beautiful boy god's
body. Hathor knew such alien creatures existed.  She had seen the almost
human (but not quite) beings who had served Ra before he arrived on
Earth. And, of course, she had slaughtered them probably by the millions
on Ombos.  Their only monument was the ruins on dead Tuat. Could it be
that another set of aliens had blundered on Ra's empire? Aliens powerful
enough to destroy Ra himself; But if the enemy had such powers, why did
they fly on contraptions that seemed barely able to stay in the air? A
bolt from one of the secondary batteries licked out to consume the crude
contrivance.  It fell to pieces in midair.  "That seems to be the
pilot!"  Hathor cried as a form tumbled out of what appeared to be a
shattered cockpit.  "Focus on it and enlarge again!" The pilot appeared
to have two arms and legs, most of the body configuration being muffled
in a loose-fitting, blotched suit.  But the head!  So large and bulbous,
and the eyes appeared to bulge out like a bubble of crystal ... Hathor
thought the aliens must be insectoid. A piece of wreckage smashed into
the limply falling body, shearing off part of the head-no, it was a
helmet!  What she had thought were eyes turned out to be a face
plate-and the features behind it were definitely human. But how could
this be possible?  None of Ra's minions would allow mere fellahin to
build such machines.  And Ra himself would never allow the development
of such weapons on any of the fiefs. Where could non-divine humans
progress so far without being put down? The answer came to her almost in
a blaze of revelation.  Her lips drew back in an incredulous smile.
"They come from the First World-they're descendants of the humans who
revolted after the First Time." All those years, alone, unsupervised)
they'd built up their own technology.  And then they must have
rediscovered the StarGate. Somehow they had found their way to
Abydos-right asRa came to collect the tribute of quartz-crystal. And
even more incredibly, despite their primitive technology, these invaders
had somehow destroyed Ra. She should be grateful to these rogue humans.
But, of course, she'd have to destroy them. The scanners expanded their
range to the ground below, revealing a column of ground vehicles
streaming toward Nagada. "Ammit eat my soul," Hathor muttered.  "There
must be a thousand warriors down there-more!" If she had the resources
of the homeworld behind her while facing the rebellious minions ...
Hathor pushed the inviting notion away.  These %old humans were invaders
here.  They would have to feel the wrath of the empire.  And even a
thousand warriors couldn't stand against the weaponry of Ra's Eye.
"Gunnery!  Prepare all secondary batteries."  The cat goddess stared
down at a line of lightly armored vehicles acting as the advance guard.
Then came boxier vehicles churning sand with some sort of endless
tracks. The column was spreading out, apparently moving into some sort
of line of battle.  Not that it would do them much good. Farther back,
four heavier armored vehicles advanced in a diamond pattern around
another of the boxy vehicles.  Hathor's eyes narrowed. She could think
of only one reason for such a strong escort. Thrusting a hand into the
image, she indicated her first chosen target. "Scanners, transmit this
location to all secondary batteries that can bring their blasters to
bear. "Gunnery, at my command-fire!" Francis Keogh did not believe in
general officers attempting to lead attacks from the front.  On the
other hand, he was not going to sit in a fortified camp while two
battalions engaged a rabble of natives armed with six science-fiction
weapons, perhaps twice as many state-of-the-art assault weapons, and a
few thousand copper pickaxes. He had converted an armored personnel
carrier to serve as his mobile command post, surrounded it with four
Abrams tanks, and headed for the front.  The security arrangements had
seemed more than adequate-until a pyramid that looked more like a flying
mountain had appeared out of a thundercloud. Keogh had discovered this
apparition when the driver of the APC had gone into a wild skid, staring
out the vision slits in the front of the armored vehicle.  Flinging
himself out of his seat, Keogh leapt to the open hatch on the roof of
the boxy troop carrier-they hadn't bothered to run in buttoned-down
mode. The general clung to the ladder leading to the hatch as the APC
lurched again.  He finally managed to climb up just in time to see the
last of the reconnaissance gunships blown out of the sky. Keogh screamed
down to his radio man.  "To all units!  Disperse!  We're too bunched up
in column! That damned thing will blow us to kingdom come! Fall back on
the camp!" Damnation, he thought, why hadn't O'Neil managed to get a
couple of SAM units out here? Although he did have to admit, the
missiles would probably require nuclear warheads to make any impression
on that awesome bulk. The vehicle under his feet yawed again, nearly
flinging Keogh out of the hatch he clung to.  The general swung around
to see his command attempting to scatter.  Vehicles peeled off,
desperately attempting to climb the faces of the dunes. Keogh's tank
escorts elevated their guns, firing anti-armor missiles up at the
pyramid, which seemed to hover over them like the shadow of doom. For a
wild moment Keogh considered dropping back into the troop carrier and
closing the hatch. But what good was an inch and a half of aluminum
armor against the might of a goddamned starship? He stared upward,
open-mouthed.  The blasted thing was hovering-and it seemed to be
shifting around, to bring one of its titanic faces to bear. Keogh could
see dark lines against the glowing gold-quartz wall. Firing slits for
whatever unimaginable weapons they possessed. He felt much the same
emotions as the ant who sees a human foot descending his way. But like
all good generals, Keogh's last thought was of history. Now they will
lump me with that other Keogh, the one with Custer. A glare of
incredible brilliance seemed to fill the sky above. And we aren't even
distantly related.

Hathor grinned in satisfaction.  The commanders transport and its four
armored escorts had disappeared under the radiation of dozens of heavy
blasters.  Heat shimmers rose from the five hulks surrounded by
vitrified sand. "Cut off the enemy's head, and the rest of the body is
rendered harmless," she said. The rest of the military caravan was not
forming a line abreast, as she had first thought.  Instead, its
component vehicles slewed round, plunging helter-skelter across the
sands. Although they zigzagged and tried to spread out, offering targets
as dispersed as possible, the invaders' destination was obvious from the
altitude maintained by Ra's Eye. They were heading for the great pyramid
in the deep desert, the docking station-the Abydos terminal for the
StarGate network. "If they hope to retreat to their homeworld, they're
doomed to disappointment," she murmured. But then, the invaders were
doomed in any event. "Full thrust to the docking station," she ordered
her navigation officer.  Like some sort of mythical desert being, Ra's
Eye raced over the sands, dragging its own wind with it. The ship
quickly outdistanced the ground vehicles.  In seconds it was skimming
across the plateau that accommodated the docking station. Hathor quickly
saw that the rocky shelf was also apparently serving as the invaders'
home away from home.  Ra's Eye passed over a good acre's worth of tents,
blowing most of them down.  She spotted human figures running for their
lives. And then the gleaming limestone of the pyramid lined up beneath
her craft. "Commence docking," she ordered. In spite of its size, Ra's
Eye shuddered slightly as it lowered itself on the station.  The heavy
drives caused great turbulence.  The unfortunate humans outside would
have been better off in a sandstorm. The ship settled. When Ra's yacht
had landed, it seemed to cling to the sides of the pyramid, as if the
stones had been gilded with a magically appeared flying palace. For Ra's
Eye, the monolithic docking station was more like a mere pimple beneath
its bulk. The landed battlecraft's vast footprint effectively doubled
the ground-level area of the original construction. The roadway UMC had
blasted and bulldozed out of the pyramid was crushed out of existence.
The entrance hall had disappeared, lost behind a gleaming quartzose
crystal wall. Hathor nodded in satisfaction. The invaders had nowhere to
retreat to.  They were trapped on Abydos to be dealt with at leisure.
All access to the StarGate was literally sealed beneath the bulk of Ra's
Eye.

 CHAPTER 17

EARLY INNINGS

Lieutenant Adam Kawalsky and Corporal Feretti stood in one of the base
camp supply tents, inventorying ammunition.  From the rumors they'd
heard of Keogh's plans, the lieutenant figured there'd soon be a need
for more bullets.  He thought they might as well beat the
rush-especially since they, like most of the Marine complement, had been
left behind in camp. Feretti was almost climbing over the stacked cases
of bullets under the tent, offering a moving definition of the word
hyper. Kawalsky felt a certain sympathy for the noncommissioned officer.
Men who desired a quiet, peaceful life didn't join the Marines, much
less end up in this particular outfit.  On the other hand "Feretti,"
Kawalsky finally said, "you can't be wishing you were out there on the
sharp end.  I mean, Keogh's soldier boys may well end up shooting at
kids we helped train." "You got it, sir."  Feretti halted in his
scramble to the top of the mountain of cases.  "I don't want to fight
with the locals.  Hell, I like those kids.  But it burns my butt that we
get demoted to company clerk-and the rest of our outfit ends up guarding
the supplies."

"Remember the halls of Montezuma," Kawalsky said with a smile. Feretti
gave him a blank look.  He'd always thought the halls of Montezuma was a
latrine where you went when hit with Montezuma's revenge. Kawalsky
sighed.  "Mexican war-back in 1847, Winfield Scott landed in Veracruz
with twelve thousand men and marched for Mexico City.  For a year's
worth of campaigning, the Marine contingent with him guarded the supply
wagons.  They reached the capital, but to crack the city's defenses,
Scott had to take the fortress of Chapultepec.  Guess who got the job of
storming the joint?" Feretti threw him a snappy salute. "Marines, front
and center." Kawalsky nodded.  "So, we may be guarding supplies now, but
soon enough we may end up pulling Keogh's ass out of a crack." His words
were obscured by a rumble of thunder.  And no sooner did he stop
speaking than the tent was blown down on their heads.  From outside they
heard sudden cries and shouts of alarm. "Oh, man," Feretti complained,
wrestling against canvas gone suddenly balky with a strong wind.  "If
this is another one of those sandstorms, we've got trouble by the ton.
These tents won't stand up to it, and there's too many of us to take
shelter inside the pyramid." "Not to mention Keogh's two platoons out
thataway-right in the teeth of the storm."  Kawalsky dropped to his
knees under the canvas, crawling along the floor until he reached the
edge of the collapsed tent.  "I still don't understand how this thing "
came straight down instead of being blown away. Out in the open at last,
he stared up into the sky at the golden-glowing apparition, unmindful of
the gale-force wind tugging at him. "Oh."  That was all Kawalsky had to
say. When Feretti snaked his way out from under the canvas, he offered
additional comments. "Holy jumping Jesus Christ!"  he breathed.  "Ra's
back!" "O'Neil is pretty sure the nuke he beamed aboard Ra's flying
palace did that freak in," Kawalsky said, taking in the mass of the
settling pyramid.  "This looks like Ra's big brother." He turned to his
old teammate.  "Back into the tent." "Begging the lieutenant's pardon,"
Feretti replied, "but I don't think a millimeter's worth of canvas will
give us much in the way of cover." "I'm not looking for cover, I'm
looking for crowbars," Kawalsky replied. The corporal yanked up the
fallen canvas cover. From the look on his face, it was the halls of
Montezuma all over again.  Feretti had no idea what Kawalsky was up to.
But he was ready to follow orders. Before they plunged into the ruined
tent, Kawalsky took a second to explain.  "We need the crowbars to open
those cases to Stinger missiles the colonel stockpiled." Feretti still
held the tent edge, his eyes involuntarily going to the vastness
clamping down over the StarGate pyramid.  "Hand-held missiles .  . .
against that, sir?" Kawalsky shook his head.  "The missiles aren't for
that," he said. "They're for what comes next." Aboard Ra's Eye, Hathor
found herself caught on the horns of a tactical dilemma.  Her
battlecraft was the single most powerful war machine on Abydos-anywhere
in Ra's empire, for that matter. But her strongest weapon had just lost
much of its utility-because it no longer had mobility. She had torn
through the enemy's troops and flattened their camp in her first
passage.  But she'd had to land to cut the Earthlings's StarGate
connection.  And Ra's Eye would have to stay in this position to keep
the enemy cut off. Back on Ombos, she'd simply have left a contingent of
Horus guards to seize the StarGate and hold the pyramid.  But Ra's Eye
didn't have a sufficient infantry complement to allow for a blocking
force. In the meantime the Earthling vehicles continued to scatter,
along with the vast majority of the invading warriors. They had to be
harried-to be hammered. "Scanners!"  she barked.  "Report on the wind
situation outside.  Has the disturbance from our passage moderated yet?"
The responsible technician frantically stroked control surfaces and
examined readouts.  "Lady Captain, the storm is abating." "Excellent.
Open the launching decks." The thick deck plates under Hathor's feet
shuddered as massive sections in the outer hull of Ra's Eye slipped away
to reveal the ranks of massed gliders. "Udajeet pilots, take your
places," Hathor ordered.  "Launch immediately." From over the gates of
Nagada, Colonel Jack O'Neil watched the fate of Keogh's battalions as
the colossal pyramid passed over the column. This thing is jumbo-sized
trouble, he thought as the pyramid swatted Keogh's air elements out of
the sky.  It's not only much bigger than Ra's flying palace, but it's
also obviously designed for military purposes.  The blast-cannon aboard
that thing make the weapons mounted on the eagle-gliders look like
cigarette lighters. O'Neil focused his binoculars on what had to be the
force's mobile command post, just in time to see a searing whip of
energy smash the armored vehicles like toys.  He continued to observe,
acid roiling in his stomach, as the force disintegrated. It was
incredible-and horrible to see.  One second the Army STRIKE group was
moving like a machine with the highest of tolerances-say, a Swiss watch.
The next moment it was as though that watch had dropped to the pavement
from a second-story window. All that was left were a few swiftly
bouncing, broken components. The two battalions, composed mainly of
halfraw soldiers just out of training, ceased being military units and
was turned into a cloud of fugitives.

it was as though by blasting Keogh in his APC, Ra's minions had
vaporized the general's entire command. In a way, O'Neil could
sympathize with the Soldiers' dilemma.  It was manifestly no good to
stand and fight with that flying mountain blasting away at them. However
.  . . "It won't do them any good to run," O'Neil muttered.  "Where do
they think that monster is heading?" "I thought it was headed straight
here," said a shaken voice at O'Neil's elbow.  Daniel Jackson turned a
pale face to his former comrade. "Maybe it was, before the crew spotted
Keogh's people.  But with those tanks and helicopters, it's obvious we
don't belong here.  So that big mother is heading for the pyramid-with
the added benefit of joy-riding right through what's left of Keogh's
force." O'Neil saw the incomprehension on Daniel's face.  "Look, it's
simple strategy.  If possible, get astride your enemy's supply line.  In
this case, that's pretty simple." He put his eyes back to the
binoculars.  The killer pyramid was far in the distance now-about the
location of the base camp.  O'Neil refocused the lenses.  Yes, the
damned thing was settling. "Now it's official," he announced.  "They're
not just astride our communications line, they're sitting on it.  We've
got however many tons it takes to make up that behemoth between us and
the StarGate.  We can't get out-and I for one don't expect much help to
be coming in." O'Neil repacked his binoculars and started across the
rope bridge toward the nearest tower. "Where are you going?"  Daniel
asked. "Where do you think?"  O'Neil nodded toward the fleeing fragments
of the Army STRIKE force. "I'm the only commander those poor bastards
have got." Daniel stared.  "You can't seriously consider going out there
alone." From beyond the Egyptologist, Skaara entered the conversation.
"My people will come," he said. O'Neil darted him a sharp look.  "You
were just ready to fight those guys.  But now you'll come and help
rescue them?" Skaara pointed toward the dull glow on the horizon-the
golden gleam of the pyramid ship. "That was before they came.  We don't
know what your people will do to us, Colonel.  But we know what Ra's
people will want.  And we will not be slaves-not anymore.  We will fight
them-and if you will lead us, we will follow you." "Considering that
you're the closest thing I've got to an organized force-excepting
whatever my Marines are doing out at the base-I accept." O'Neil turned
to Daniel.  "Translate for me to Kasuf.  He'll have to evacuate the
city-get all the noncombatants into the desert and under cover." The
colonel turned a speculative eye in the direction of the grounded
pyramid.  "Remember the damage those glider-jets caused when they
strafed the city?  I'm sure that behemoth out there comes equipped with
a lot more." O'Neil reached the tower and started down. The young
soldiers were already swarming down Skaara shouted orders to his militia
lieutenants. from the walls, gathering around the Humvee behind the city
gates. The Marine climbed into the vehicle, followed by Skaara.  Then
Daniel scrambled aboard. O'Neil gave him a surprised glance. Jackson
returned his look with a lopsided grin. "I think I'm crazy, too," he
said.  "But after you've fought for something you believe in, it's hard
to go back to teaching-especially when other people may be out there
dying." But when Sha'uri went to board the Humvee, Daniel started
raising objections.  She favored her academic husband with a loving but
impatient smile. "You can talk about fighting," she said.  "But I'm the
one who came prepared." From under her cloak Sha'uri produced a 9mm
Beretta pistol-one of the government-issue sidearms left behind from the
first Abydos expedition. Daniel could only shrug in defeat. Most of
Skaara's troops were assembled now. Some of them opened the gates.
O'Neil started the Humvee's engine.  Behind him, the city was just
beginning to awaken-and to learn of the new danger.  He drove out,
covered by the long shadows thrown by the walls in the light of the
first rising sun. "We need a rally point," the professional warrior told
his amateur aides.  "I suggest the watch point Skaara set up outside our
camps. The militia kids know it-and so do our people." He turned to
Skaara.  "You can't ride with me. That will be putting all our command
eggs in one basket." Skaara nodded, apparently understanding the earthly
idiom.  "I'll ride with you a little way," he said, pointing at a pillar
of smoke rising in the near distance.  It marked the resting place of
one of the oncoming Army vehicles.  "From there I'll lead my people to
the watch point." O'Neil shrugged.  It wasn't too far.  He waited while
Skaara conveyed his decision to his lieutenants in Abydan.  They looked
toward the smoke and nodded. Then O'Neil sent the Humvee jouncing
forward.  They quickly outdistanced the young militia members, even
though the Abydans were advancing at a ground-eating trot. The Humvee's
motor whined as it jounced and jostled the passengers, seeming at points
merely to graze the sand below its wheels.  O'Neil tried to avoid dune
crest lines, where he'd be silhouetted against the rising suns.  His
twisting course did its best to stay in the shadows. They swung around a
swale of sand to confront the source of Skaara's pillar of smoke.  It
was a gutted armored personnel carrier.  Part of its aluminum armor roof
was completely gone, vaporized.  The troop carrier had rolled on its
side, and the engine had evidently blown up, igniting the fuel tank. Two
of the four-man crew had nearly made it away.  They lay scorched and
unmoving a little distance from the wreck. O'Neil pulled his vehicle up.
"You sure you want to wait here?"  he asked Skaara. The young man nodded
his head.  "It's as good a place to start as any other." He lightly
hopped out of the vehicle. O'Neil started off again, but he glanced back
to a wordless cry from Daniel. Skaara was kneeling by the dead men,
collecting their guns and ammunition. The recon Marine gave a curt,
approving nod. "Sorry, professor, but this is no time to be squeamish.
Before this fight is over, we're going to need every gun we can get."
Walter Draven had never really admitted his slight tendency to
claustrophobia.  "Who's afraid of Santa?"  he'd joke.  That was much
more easily done in a large, airy Washington apartment, however.  On
Abydos, in the room that housed the StarGate, it was harder to laugh off
the feeling that one was in the bowels of a pyramid surrounded by a huge
weight of dressed stone.  Stone underneath, stone to either side, tons
and -tons of it overhead, pressing down ... Martin Preston had once
explained how the ancient Egyptians had built their huge constructions,
with angled stone blocks so that the massive weights involved pressed
against each other rather than straight downward.  An interesting
theory, but Draven was sure the ceilings in the dark high overhead were
just waiting to buckle and fall. Only the most urgent of reasons would
keep him in here-especially since he was trapped with Eugene Lockwood
for a companion. The mine manager now stood beside him in sulky silence.
Draven's overstretched nerves had been unable to stand listening to any
more of Lockwood's justifications and idiot plans for dealing with the
locals once UMC got the "whip hand."  Lockwood had used the phrase at
least five times in almost as many sentences.  Finally, Draven told the
silly idiot to shut his mouth and keep it that way.  Lockwood first
looked shocked, then angry.  But at least the stream of nervous mouth
noise had ended. Draven looked around the room.  In one corner stood a
trio of UMC security people in gray camouflage suits.  They huddled
together, deep in conversation, their weapons either dangling
negligently in hands or propped nearby within easy reach. By the
StarGate itself stood the local security chief, Vernon Ballard. He'd
returned by military jet to Colorado.  And the first thing he'd done
after returning to Abydos had been to place an armed guard on the
StarGate.  Ostensibly, this was to prevent infiltration of any local
terrorists to Earth. In cold fact, however, the armed guard was against
two troublemakers-Daniel Jackson and Jack O'Neil.  Luckily, the orders
from General West had come through while O'Neil was still in Nagada.
Draven was just as glad that the start of hostilities would catch the
Marine colonel behind enemy lines.  With luck, he might even be taken
hostage and expended. For all his faults, however, O'Neil had been
willing to take orders and keep quiet.  Jackson was a more dangerous
type, an idealist-and as Keogh's troops moved against his precious
Abbadabba, he became even more dangerous-a frustrated idealist. Draven
would not put it past the Egyptologist to try to get to Earth, either to
get a conflicting report to West-one they'd prefer not to get outor even
to try spilling the story to the press. "Do you really think he'd desert
his native wife to do that?"  Lockwood asked.  He sounded like something
out of a bad Western movie, talking about a squaw man. If left with no
other option, any man might try something desperate. And if Ballard's
people didn't seem much worried over an errant professor, the security
chief certainly took his duty seriously. Ballard stood on the ramp
leading up to the StarGate, his camos pressed and an assault rifle at
the ready in his hands. The two UMC executives also had an ostensible
security purpose.  They were there to be on hand to identify Jackson.
But there was an entirely different reason why they-and the heavy truck
taking up most of the chamber-were standing by the StarGate. Keogh had
two battalions of troops, tanks, and even a couple of helicopters.  His
available force should be enough to cow the locals and their uppity
Elders into toeing the line.  If not, then there'd be fighting.  Too
many losses among the

Army personnel, and questions would be asked. And what if some
unsuspected disaster struck? Draven had arranged for a truck to be
loaded with Lockwood's most damaging files, which were then buried under
their remaining supply of quartz.  If necessary, he proposed to abandon
Abydos, then smuggle the whole load past the military people at Creek
Mountain. Not, he assured himself, that such extreme measures would be
necessary. But it was best to be prepared for all eventualities. He
glanced at his watch.  "They should almost be there." A low rumbling
came from the distance.  Draven glanced toward the entrance to the
pyramid, uncomfortably far away and out of sight. Thunder? "Is that the
guns on the tanks?"  Lockwood asked nervously. Ballard and the
mercenaries cocked their heads. "Doesn't sound like artillery to me,"
the security chief said. The room seemed to get colder.  There was a
positive draft coming from the entrance.  Some kind of storm?  Draven
wondered. "Hope this isn't a sandstorm," Ballard said. "That would foul
Keogh's approach on the city." Another of the mercenaries spoke up.  "I
hear a sandstorm is what set up the first party here to get their butts
kicked." Ballard silenced his man with a glare. That wind is getting
stronger, Draven thought. Then the very rock around them began to
shudder. "Earthquake!"  Lockwood yelped.  He sounded as if he were
announcing the end of the world. Whatever was going on, it didn't seem
natural. Draven turned to Ballard.  "Activate the StarGate." Ballard
abandoned his position.  He didn't want to be in the way of the sudden
wash of energy that extended from the arcanely carved torus ring of the
gateway.  When Draven had first seen the effect, he'd been reminded of a
scene from his childhood, gently blowing into a soap-filled ring. He
hadn't quite created a bubble, but the film of soapy water had billowed
outward in an amazing display of surface tension. Except, in the case of
the StarGate, it would require a god's lips to create the same effect.
Draven shrank against the wall.  The hired gunmen seemed unaffected. One
leaned into the cab of the truck, awakening the driver, who'd been
dozing in the cab. The StarGate cycled into operation.  All eyes were
drawn to the incredible show of light and energy.  So they missed the
four Horus guards materializing with a bluish glare in the matter
transmitter. Draven's first hint of danger came as the mercenary
security men were blown to gobbets of flesh by blast-bolts fired at
close range.  He stood frozen as the falcon-headed warriors wiped his
soldiers out. Draven had seen pictures of the strange helmet-masks.  But
that was far different from having a falcon's head turn, scan you with
greenish eyes, dismiss you as unimportant because you had no weapon, and
turn to the next target. Ballard opened fire and downed one of the
attackers.  The combined fire of the other THREE, however, left him a
smoking ruin. And the matter transmitter flashed to deliver four more of
the unearthly assailants.  As they advanced, blast-lances at the ready,
one of the first wave moved to cover the terrified truck driver. Draven
sidled toward the operational StarGate. THREE-maybe two steps, and he
could dive into the rippling energy interface, warn the people on Earth
... get out of here. He'd taken another step when Eugene Lockwood came
out of his semi-coma. "D-don't shoot!" His voice sounded more like the
squealings of a stuck pig.  "We're civilians!" The StarGate was still
tantalizingly out of reach as the hawk heads-and blasters-turned their
way. Before the Hare of energy that did him in, Draven had half a second
to curse boneheaded subordinates.

CHAPTER 18

STRIKE AND COUNTERSTRIKE

Hathor observed the holographic display on the ceiling of the bridge.
The technicians had expanded the scale to serve as a tactical display.
The fighting forces were exhibited as various colored sparks-red for her
people, green for the enemy. At the center was the StarGate pyramid,
surrounded by a square of red representing Ra's Eye. A cloud of red
sparks radiated from the battlecraft, pursuing madly darting green
sparks-udajeets on search-and-destroy missions against the invaders'
ground vehicles.  Within the red walls around the pyramid, red sparks
flashed into existence-and green ones disappeared. "Lady Captain," one
of the technicians reported, "the Horus guards have just reported.  The
chamber of the StarGate is now in our hands." Hathor nodded in
satisfaction. "One loss." That wiped away Hathor's smile.  "Split the
force.  Half will search the rest of the chambers for any other enemy
troops."  She paused. "The other half will secure the far side of the
StarGate, with the search force acting as reserve." Her eyes returned to
the tactical display. "What's that concentration over by the city?" A
clump of green sparks had appeared, moving slowly across the desert
toward Ra's Eye. Another technician ran her fingers over glowing control
surfaces, achieving a local focus."  Infantry, Lady Captain," she
reported. "We can afford to ignore them," Hathor decided.  "All udajeets
are to concentrate on destroying vehicles first." She'd learned her
lessons well on Ombos.  Destroy the enemy's technology first.  Mopping
up foot soldiers becomes much easier when they can't transport
themselves or any heavy weapons. Mop-up, however, would have to wait
until the enemy was first smashed. On this world ... and then on the
world they came from. An udajeet flashed over O'Neil's Humvee, and all
aboard ducked.  But the antigravity glider was after bigger game.  Its
blast-cannon flashed and something exploded from beyond the next dune.
O'Neil kept the little all-terrain vehicle in the shallows of the
sand-and the shadows. "They've certainly got control of the air," Daniel
said. "For the time being," O'Neil responded.  "But if Kawalsky and
Feretti are on the job, we should be able to make the sky much hotter
for them." The vehicle's short-wave radio crackled to life. "All units,
listen up!"  a voice shouted.  "This is First Base!" O'Neil, Daniel, and
Sha'uri all had to grin.  Even over the radio they recognized the
staccato speech rhythms of Corporal Feretti. "There are antiaircraft
missiles available," Feretti went on.  "We're going to use some to try
to set up a safe area at the base of the plateau-by Firebase THREE.  We
think that Big Mama up there won't be able to depress her guns enough to
take pot-shots at us.  The rest we're loading into trucks, and we'll try
to get them out to you." O'Neil picked up the microphone from the little
set.  "First Base," he said.  "Feretti, this is O'Neil. Do you copy?"
"Thank God, Colonel!  The lieutenant was afraid you'd gotten smeared."
"Not yet," O'Neil responded, watching another glider swoop up.  "What's
the situation there?" "In a word, nuts," the radioman replied.  "That
big mother starship is overlapping about half of the UMC encampment. I'm
afraid Mr. Lockwood's air-conditioned office has been knocked flat." "We
already knew it was hot around here," O'Neil sent back.  "Now it's time
to let these guys know."  He frowned.  "You remember the watch point
Skaara's militia used?  Send a truckload of missiles that way. We've got
some infantry reinforcements arriving." "Reading you five by five, sir,"
Feretti said. "I'll try to rendezvous at the base of the
plateau-Firebase THREE," O'Neil said.  "ASAP. O'Neil out." He tromped on
the accelerator, speeding up, but still taking the route with most
cover. "Daniel!"  Sha'uri cried, pointing off to one side.  "There!" In
the distance, rising like a mountain of gold, they could see the top of
the pyramid ship. O'Neil jockeyed the wheel.  "Give us something to aim
for," he said. In the remains of the military camp, Adam Kawalsky helped
to heave another case of Stinger missiles out from under the collapsed
supply tent. Colonel O'Neil had been insistent on securing the weapons.
So there had been a tent on top-the weapons were actually in an
underground bunker. And thanks to the storm and the gales of the
starship's passage, considerable digging was required to get the cases
out. Additional eager hands appeared to pull the case out of the hole.
One guy wore a sweatencrusted shirt with the UMC logo on it, one of the
mine overseers.  The other had the gray camo fatigues of the company's
security guards. They could have had tails and horns for all Kawalsky
cared.  He needed volunteers, and would take all he could get.  "Hump
that over to the edge of the plateau-there's a sort of trail down that
way."  He pointed, and the two new additions to the workforce staggered
away. More and more of the surviving gray-clad mercenaries were
gravitating toward his operation. Kawalsky thought he understood.  They
were soldiers of a sort, after all.  Strongly self-motivated, perhaps,
to take a job like this.  But they needed officers and orders.  And this
was one of the few corners of the camp where orders were still being
given. A picket line of Marines guarded the rocket dump, some armed with
rifles, others with the green tubes that held the ground-to-air
missiles. Kawalsky had also established a firing party in one of the
dug-in strong points that O'Neil had established at the edge of the
camp.  The firebase also covered one of the trails that led off the
plateau. People were bringing in the damnedest things. Keogh's thrust
had virtually stripped the base of military transport. But some of the
UMC people had managed to rescue wheeled and tracked vehicles from the
surviving portions of their camp. Kawalsky now had several trucks and a
bulldozer at the edge of the rocky rises.  The earthmover was pushing
down part of Keogh's encircling wall in an attempt to create an exit
ramp for the wheeled vehicles. As the lieutenant directed two more men
in manhandling a crate, Feretti came running up, carting a radio set
with him.  "I broadcast what you said, sir, to all units.  And I got an
answer from Colonel O'Neil!" Kawalsky felt a smile stretch the skin on
his gritty face.  "Excellent news!" Feretti nodded.  "He said he's
heading here to join us ASAP." Kawalsky's shoulders rose a little
higher, as if a burden had been lifted.  He was a military man, too,
after all.  Maybe he'd feel better with someone around to give the
orders, too. Tense figures stood around the truck, all of them armed
with Stinger missiles.  The vehicle was half full of cased missiles,
about as many eggs as Kawalsky wanted to risk in one basket. It was time
for this shipment of antiaircraft missiles to head out to the forces
being pounded by the attack gliders.  The problem was, who was going to
take it?  The truck was a soft, unarmored target, and if it went up, its
precious cargo would probably explode as well.  Which would, as
Kawalsky's volunteer force now began to realize, cut down the driver's
already slim chances of survival. "Look, somebody's got to drive the
damned thing," a Marine noncommissioned officer growled.  "We can't send
it out on automatic pilot." The scattering of Marines and UMC mercs
couldn't meet his eyes.  The noncom wiped his sweaty face.  In a second
he'd have to order somebody, not the best answer to a suicide mission
when you're dealing with desperate men with guns. "I'll drive it," a
voice came from overhead.  A new team of two men were laboring down the
steep slope, carrying another crate of missiles. The noncom examined the
volunteer carefully. He was a UMC supervisor rather than a fighting man,
and frankly, he looked like a blond, shaved gorilla.  Well, half shaved.
The guy had pale stubble all over his face, and salt stains were crusted
under the armpits of his shirt, "You sure you know how to handle a truck
this size?"  the Marine asked dubiously. "Call me Charlie," the
volunteer said as he and his partner manhandled their crate down to the
level.  Flexing big but sloping shoulders, Charlie advanced to the
Marine.  "Drove a rig like this for a coupla years back home in Texas,"
he said.  "I can handle it." "And I'll go along-ride shotgun."  The
gray-clad with him stepped over to an open crate and removed one of the
missile tubes.  "If you don't mind." Charlie turned abruptly to his
companion.  "You don't have to do this, Sullivan." Sullivan merely
shrugged.  "I figure I can't screw things up much worse," he replied.
"I'm coming along for the ride." Charlie Morris swore as he tromped on
the clutch, downshifting as sand sleeted from under the wheels of the
truck.  Yes, he had driven one of these pigs, but back in Texas they'd
had paved roads, not dunes and wadis that curved crazily and had
treacherous surfaces. The only thing like a real road on this planet was
the truck route that UMC had bulldozed and planed.  And that, as both
Morris and Sullivan knew, already looked like a war-surplus graveyard
after the enemy's attack gliders had gotten through with the vehicles
fleeing along it. "I still think you're crazy to come along," he told
Sullivan. The mercenary only shrugged.  "What the hell. You want to live
forever?" His flippancy faded.  "That fella needed volunteers if they
were going to get these rockets out where they'll do some good.  You saw
what happened to those poor Army bastards by dawn's early light." The
two of them had gone to the plateau's edge with binoculars to try to
track the progress of the Army caravan.  Instead, they'd been treated to
a high-tech version of Custer's.  Last Stand. At least their interest
had probably saved their lives.  They were well outside the confines of
the UMC camp when the enormous pyramid ship had landed.  Both Morris's
tent and Sullivan's lay under the acreage crushed by the spacecraft's
bulk. Morris shrugged.  "I just felt I had to do something.  I mean,
Lord knows I was busy enough helping to make this mess.  Figured the
time had come to try to pull things out of the crapper." "Well, you
broke the ice back there.  After you came forward, other guys began to
volunteer to take trucks out."  Sullivan glanced over at the driver.
"I'd say you were a big help." Morris scowled in embarrassment.  "I
ain't no hero, you know.  I just did what I thought had to be done."
"Understood," Sullivan said.  "You just drive, and I'll shoot anything
that looks hostile."  They'd given him a gun-Marine issue-and he'd kept
the missile he'd taken from the crate. If that wasn't enough, His
thoughts were interrupted as something large and white flashed overhead.
It looked like a giant moth, or-no.  It was one of those hawkshaped
fighter-bombers that had flown out from the spaceship to target the Army
vehicles. There was a flash that left dazzling afterimages in Sullivan's
eyes, and the sand ahead of the truck exploded in a pyrotechnic display.
Morris stared upward through the windshield, trying to catch sight of
their attacker.  "He's whipped around and he's coming back at us," he
reported. Sullivan gripped the tube containing the rocket and wondered
how much good he'd do with it, trying to shoot out the side window of a
jouncing heavy truck. Morris brought his foot down heavily on the gas,
the truck's wheels flinging sheets of dust as he sent the truck bearing
straight for the oncoming glider.  It was as though he was playing
chicken with the attacking aircraft. "Get ready to hop off," he told
Sullivan. "Why?"  the merc asked.  "You going to crash into him?" Morris
hit the gas again and twisted the wheel. The truck seemed to leap aside
from the spot where it had been-the spot that the flier's blasters
turned to smoking glass an instant later. "You really are a hell of a
driver," Sullivan began. "Open your door-you're getting out in a
second," Morris interrupted. He dropped speed, sending the truck into a
slewing circle.  "Now!" he yelled. Sullivan had taken harder falls from
faster vehicles.  He skidded lightly over a surface that felt like
sandpaper.  There'd probably be some scrapes to tend tomorrow-if he
survived that long. He rose on one knee, still holding the firing tube
for the missile. Again, Morris had swung the truck around so it was
charging straight for the approaching war glider.  The two machines
seemed to rush toward each other.  Sullivan raised the weapon to his
shoulder. At the last moment Morris made the truck zigzag.  The glider
didn't even fire.  It overflew the truck-then the blast-cannon that hung
like engine nacelles under its wings suddenly shifted position, tracked
the truck from behind, and hit it. The twin-energy bolts must have both
landed in the payload compartment, because the vehicle exploded with a
force that even Sullivan felt, hundreds of feet away. He had already
triggered his missile.  It lanced upward, hitting the udajeet right in
the central body where the pilot sat.  The shock wave from the new blast
buffeted Sullivan, nearly knocking him flat. The glider veered off in a
graceless curve that intersected explosively with the top of a sand
dune. Sullivan pulled himself to his feet and started back in the
direction of the plateau and the pyramid. "One down," he said. Not to
put too fine a point on it, Gunnery Sergeant Rob Hilliard was bored out
of his mind.  It was bad enough being a road-block guard. But when the
road block you were manning had no traffice passing ... Hilliard's
brother was with the Border Patrol, working on the checkpoint on the
main highway just north of San Diego.  He checked the occasional truck
or car for illegal cargo or passengers. But at least he was in the
outdoors, with a chance to improve his tan. Hilliard was stationed at
the bottom of a hole in the ground where not too long ago, some bigass
rocket had been pointed at Moscow or some such city.  The only
illumination came from fluorescent strip lamps which gave everything and
everybody an off-green tinge. The hairs on the back of Hilliard's neck
stood up as energy seemed to permeate the big chamber.  "Incoming," he
called, gesturing his six-man security team to the far wall by the blast
doors. Countless repetition had reduced this to a drill like any other.
They no longer hid behind the heavy steel door, but just stood there out
of the way. A gout of energy splurted from the ring of the StarGate,
then sucked back in a sort of liquid vortex, as if the gate were a giant
plug hole in somebody's bath.  Then the energy field stabilized to a
rippling glow bounded by the quartz ring. "Kinda early for anyone to be
coming through," one of the guards said, glancing at his watch. Hilliard
shrugged.  "Maybe they ended the STRIKE or whatever was going on over
there, and are rolling early to make up for lost time." The nose of a
truck poked out of the gateway, seemingly covered in iridescence.  Then
it snapped into reality, nearly running into the far wall. "Watch it
there, buddy," Hilliard called.  The driver's face was pop-eyed and
gray-fleshed.  He must have had one hell of a ride. Hilliard's squad
stood in line abreast, facing one side of the truck. "You okay?"
Hilliard asked. His answer came as a totaly inhuman head rose in the cab
beside the driver.  It seemed to be a sort of blackish-gold bird's head
that swiveled to look at him with greenish eyes.  The olive-drab canvas
that covered the cargo end of the truck was torn loose to reveal kilted
men with similar helmet heads.  They began leveling what appeared to be
spears at the security team. Damnation, Hilliard thought as he brought
up his rifle.  A quick head count told him he was already outnumbered,
and his force was under the enemy s guns rather than defilading the Star
Gate. As the shooting began, the sergeant was already falling back
toward the blast doors.  Bullets whined and ricocheted off the truck's
body as what seemed to be miniature bolts of lightning 'struck the
Marine guards. Hilliard flung himself through the doorway and slapped
the electronic control.  The ponderous door began closing.  Even as that
happened, the monster-headed guards were leaping from the truck.  The
StarGate flashed, vomiting forth more figures.  Hilliard aimed his gun
at the opening and fired rounds one-handed while snatching up a phone.
It immediately connected him to the officer of the day. "Intruder
alert!"  Hilliard yelled into the receiver.  "StarGate-" Then a flash of
intolerable brilliance lanced through the still open blast door and took
him. Hilliard's security team was not the sole defense of the StarGate
complex.  There were perimeter guards, and a whole platoon that slept in
uniform with its boots on.  This ready team was now roused, and, wiping
sleep from their eyes, the defenders clutched their rifles and headed
down the hall toward the missile silo that housed the interworld
gateway. Then figures out of legend appeared in the doorways lining the
hall, and the firefight was on, bullets against energy gouts.  The
Marines had the advantage of numbers; the invaders had superior
technology.  In the end it was the Marines who gave ground, their
officer screaming into his walkie-talkie for backup. The intruder's
weapons gave them a tremendous edge over the defense. A closed, locked
steel door was little more than a delay to them, to be blasted out at
the lock or the hinges. But as the defenders pulled back, their numbers
were augmented as off-duty guards came into the fight.  They might not
be perfect in uniformsome merely wore fatigue pants and T-shirts-but
they all brought rifles to the party. The incursion was held before the
intruders could reach the elevators to other levels.  More bullets were
flying, and there really weren't that many blast-lances to meet them.
The invaders from ancient Egypt began to pull back, concentrating their
defenses on the access ways to the StarGate. A lieutenant intercepted a
detail of half-dressed Marines as they left their quarters.  "You bunch,
come with me," he curtly ordered. The noncom who'd been in charge of the
group glanced at the officer as the elevator stopped. "Sir?  I thought
the fighting was on the floor below." The lieutenant gestured for
silence as he led the men down a corridor, checking each room along the
way.  Then he kicked open the door to what looked like a conference
room, ducking back as a lightning bolt snapped out at him. "Figured
they'd have somebody in here-there's a direct access to the StarGate
from this room", he said. The noncom detailed THREE men to clear the
room.  One got fried, the other two succeeded in shooting down the
hawk-headed guard who had barricaded himself behind the long desk that
made up most of the room's furniture. More blast-bolts came from through
a doorway marked EXIT, which gave onto a stairway. "That's how our
friend got up here," the lieutenant said, pulling a grenade from the
front of his combat suit.  He tossed it down the stairs. "Gunney, I want
everybody back to the doorway." The lieutenant stepped to the far wall
of the room, a whiteboard setup surprisingly only dimpled by the
firefight that had gone on a minute ago.  Beside the board was a large
button.  When the lieutenant pressed it, the writing surface rolled up
with a whine of heavy machinery.  It was backed by a thick steel plate,
and as it moved upward, it revealed a window. The gunnery sergeant
backed his people to the door, and the lieutenant took out another
grenade.  A second later, he was running out of the room, slamming the
door.  A dull boom marked the grenade's explosion, then they headed back
in. The room was smoky and much the worse for wear.  But the window was
out. And overlooking the StarGate room as it did, it allowed the
sergeant and his men to catch the Egyptian defenders in the rear.
General West was in the air, flying to Creek Mountain, when he received
word of the attack via the StarGate.  "Lieutenant Jorgenson remembered
that the conference room overlooked the StarGate complex, and led a
squad up there to take the intruders in the rear.  Those who survived
have retreated through the gate." "How about our own men?"  the general
inquired. "Heavy casualties, sir." The general's lips became a thin line
under his mustache.  "As soon as you get things reorganized there, I
want you to send a team through the StarGate," he ordered.  "We've got
to find out what's happening on Abydos." By the time he arrived, the
report dead line for the team had passed. There was no word from the
people who'd passed through the gateway.

CHAPTER 19

TURKEY SHOOT

The suns of Abydos had risen higher, and shadows had grown scarce.  It
seemed as though the driver of the Sheridan tank that clanked to the
crest of the dune had given up trying to hide.  The tank's turret kept
revolving as if on the lookout for hostile fliers, and the fighting
vehicle's cannon tube was at maximum elevation. The gun tracked to the
right, and, as if on cue, one of the udajeet attackers came streaking in
from the left. Suddenly, human figures erupted from the sand, most
aiming rifles at the low-flying glider. But two of the men had stubby
green tubes which they raised and fired. The Stinger missiles
disintegrated the udajeet in midair. Sergeant Oliver Eakins dusted
himself off with a grin.  He was a large, powerful-looking black man
with closely cropped hair.  "Got another one," he said.  "That makes
THREE so far.  Guess it's time to move this show somewhere else." The
tank unbuttoned, and the sergeant in charge poked his head out of the
hatch.  "Easy enough for you to say," he grumbled.  "You're not the one
who has to sit out as bait for those buzz-boys." Even as both of the men
talked, their eyes kept scanning the sky. They had met only a couple of
hours ago.  The sergeant's squad had managed to escape their APC alive
after one of the gliders blasted the treads off one side of the vehicle.
They'd been marching back to the base camp when the tank had encountered
them, and they'd decided to pool their resources.  The squad spread out
to offer warning of approaching gliders, and the tank would try to shoot
them down using the pintlemounted .50-caliber machine gun mounted on the
turret roof. Their survival had been precarious at best.  One udajeet
had strafed them, though it had flown off after being damaged by
machine-gun fire. Still, neither sergeant would have bet on them making
it through the day until the mining truck had appeared out of nowhere.
It was driven by a Marine who frantically waved some of the infantrymen
over. "We're loaded with antiaircraft missiles," the driver had called.
Two men in the back of the truck manhandled a crate off the tailboard.
The canvas cover had been removed from the cargo area, and a third man
stood braced, scanning the sky, a rocket tube in his hands.  He wore the
gray camouflage fatigues of UMC's mining police. "Follow the
instructions on the tube, and don't waste your shots," the driver
admonished.  "Head for the plateau, but don't go for the camp. Colonel
O'Neil is trying to reorganize us at the foot of the rise." "Colonel
O'Neil?" Eakins knew the Marine Colonel was supposed to be the
second-in-command of the Abydos Expeditionary Force.  "Last we heard, he
was inside Nagada."  Eakins had refused to follow the Earthling practice
of calling the city Abbadabbaville. The Marine driver nodded.  "Folks in
there let him out, and are sending help, too." Eakins looked surprised.
"The guys we were supposed to fight?" The Marine shrugged.  "Hey, they
hate the people inside that pyramid more than they hate umc." The case
of missiles thumped to the sand.  One of the loaders tossed down a
crowbar.  Eager soldiers broke the box open and began distributing the
contents among the members of the squad. "Good hunting," the Marine said
as his men retrieved the crowbar. "Reports from First Base say there are
a good fifty udajeets-that's what the locals call those glider
things-flying search-and-destroy on all vehicles." He glanced at the
tank pulled up in the shadow of a dune.  "It's not healthy to hang
around armor right now." Eakins patted the olive-drab tube in his hands.
"Maybe.  Or maybe we can make it unhealthy for any flying buzz-bomb to
mess with them." He smiled, a harsh, tight grin.  "You tell your Colonel
O'Neil we'll be coming in. Eakins hefted the Stinger missile again. "And
we'll be loaded for bear." Moving at the pace of a marching man didn't
give them a whole lot of speed-especially since every good dune they
found, they'd stopped in, and play "Little Lost Tank and the Troopers
with Teeth." After their third kill, however, Eakins said, "We've got to
be close to First Base by now." They crested the next rise to spot UMC's
mining road-and farther out, Eakins saw the eroded rock of the plateau
rising out of the sands. Topping that was the bulk of the hostile
spaceship, gleaming in the sun where the StarGate pyramid had been. "So
that's where they went," the tank commander said grimly. "And there's
where we want to be," Eakins said, pointing to activity on the sands
almost at the base of the ridge of rock, almost directly below where the
ship had landed. "Damn it, but I think this Colonel O'Neil wants to try
a counterattack," Eakins said.  The pyramid ship had made him run; its
unearthly blasts and its udajeets had made him scared.  For the chance
to get back at them, Ollie Eakins would cheerfully march across hot sand
and a dangerous road. Besides, he wanted to see if any other of the
scratch outfits developing on this battlefield had done better than
blowing away THREE udajeets. After a brief consultation, the leaders of
the war band decided on a straight rush down the dune, across the road,
skirting the burned-out wreckage of yet another dead APC, then up to the
crest of the next tall dune they could find.  By then they should at
least be in visual contact with O'Neil's force. The foot soldiers broke
into a trot, pounding down the face of the dune, then out onto the road.
With a clank of gears, the tank followed. They were out in the open,
completely naked, when one of the infantrymen stared up into the sky and
cried, "Udajeet!" Eakins whirled, trying to unship the missile tube he
carried.  Other men were doing the same, fumbling their weapons into
firing position. The udajeet slashed down at them from out of the sky.
Then, from the top of the dune they were aiming for, came a blast of
energy and a rush of a missile.  Both struck the oncoming glider, which
flipped in midair, skimmed the dune that Eakins and company had just
vacated, then crashed and exploded in the sands beyond. Incredulous
soldiers stared as boys in Abydan homespun waved them on. More of the
young men dashed across the sands, apparently going to investigate the
crash site.  "You're inside the defense perimeter," the kid who'd waved
said in careful English. "Why are you going to check the crash?"  Eakins
asked. The young militiaman waved a spear-like weapon.  Eakins realized
that it must be a less powerful version of the blaster-nacelles on the
gliders.  "Many of the pilots carry these," he said. With a smile the
young man glanced at the tank churning its way up the hill.  "But I
think Colonel O'Neil will be very glad to see your weapons, too." On the
bridge of Ra's Eye, Hathor scowled at the tactical display.  Yet another
of the far-ranging red sparks representing her udajeets had disappeared.
"The invaders were dying like ants under our feet," she muttered,
glaring at the shifting troop distributions.  "How could they so
suddenly be smashing our gliders from the skies?" "Lady Captain, our
pilots report that the groundlings are firing some sort of
rocket-weapons," one of the bridge crew said. "Our pilots have supremely
maneuverable, extremely fast aircraft," Hathor snapped.  "Surely they
can stay out of the way of a few primitive rockets!" "The enemy targets
them as they come in on blaster runs," the crewman said. "Then our
people should attack at higher altitudes instead of dropping on top of
their targets and into the sights of these rocket-weapons." The crewman
paused.  "Lady Captain," he said, our pilots are not used-" "The fools
aren't used to dealing with any opponents who might shoot back!"  Hathor
cut him off in a rage.  "What they are used to is flying low over
fellahin, scaring the ka out of them, and herding them for their
masters." Hathor's fists were clenched so tightly, her short nails were
tearing holes in her palms.  If she just had a few of her veterans from
the Ombos campaign!  They'd flown against more sophisticated weapons
than these, and defeated the warriors who carried them.  She grimaced.
But that training, that skill-those numbers-had been dust for eight
thousand years. Now the Cat had to fight this battle with the resources
she had available.  She turned in concern to the hologram again.  "How
many of our udajeets are still in action?"  she asked. "Lady Captain-"
This time the unwilling answer came from one of the scanner operators.
"From our reports and scans, I'd estimate we've lost fifty percent of
our air forces." "Half of our udajeets?"  Hathor said in shock. She'd
allowed herself to be distracted by the fighting at the StarGates-both
here and on Earth.  The thrust to the homeworld of the invaders had been
an overreaching move, she had to admit to herself. She'd hoped for more
information about this planet of wild fellahin, but it seemed that those
studying the StarGate had consigned it to a hole deep within the ground.
In the end she'd recalled her attack force, and was appalled at the
losses they'd taken on their reconnaissance.  If not for the fact that
the Horus guards who'd searched the rest of the pyramid were available
as a reserve, they might not have been able to destroy the counterthrust
that arrived from Earth. Even so, the losses to her scanty ground forces
merely underscored her problems.  Hathor lacked the strength in Warriors
even to sweep the plateau free of invaders.  And the enemy was taking
advantage of that weakness. She looked long and hard at the steadily
coalessing collection of green sparks at the foot of the docking
plateau.  The rocky cliff protected them from direct observation, and as
she'd already discovered, the weapons of the secondary batteries could
not be depressed far enough to bring them into their field of fire. But
what could whoever was assembling these forces hope to accomplish? Ra's
Eye was invulnerable to attacks mounted with such weapons as they might
have.  They might as easily hope for a sandstorm to help wear the
battlecraft's quartz armor away. The situation was degenerating into a
stalemate.  The Earthlings' primitive arsenal precluded the expectation
of serious attack.  But Hathor could STRIKE at the invaders only by
exposing the udajeets to primitive weapons which had proven surprisingly
effective. Of course, she could recall her gliders, button up, and leave
the invaders to their own devices. She had cut their communications with
Earth by seizing the StarGate. But if those on Earth were willing to
accept the high casualties resulting from a really determined push, they
might recapture the Abydos side of the gate and discover just how weak
Hathor was when it came to manpower. Also, her hopes of inflicting a
blockade on the enemy had dimmed as she'd digested the reports of a
large force of infantry joining the invaders. Udajeet pilots had also
reported that Nagada seemed to be in the midst of an evacuation. The
invaders wouldn't starve if the locals could feed them.  That meant
camping over the StarGate until the Earthlings' machinery gave out-too
long a wait, given the volatile situation on Tuat and the fief worlds.
Hathor had to get back quickly with the definitive news that Ra was
dead. Unhappily, she contemplated the possibility of leaving Abydos but
keeping the planet out of the Earthlings' hands.  She could lift off,
arm the main battery, and turn that weaponry loose on the plateau.  The
very heavy blasters could slag the pyramid and destroy the StarGate.
With luck, the main battery salvos would even encompass the destruction
of that worrisome force at the base of the plateau. Hathor could then
return to establish herself over the rival godlings on Tuat, and then,
at some unspecified time, deploy sufficient force to bring Abydos to
heel.  With Abydos quelled, there would then be time to restore StarGate
communications. Then it would be Earth's turn.  A possible scenario, but
very ... extreme.  Too many variables arose.  Could Ptah and the
technicians available today restore an entire StarGate connection? From
the work she'd seen on the refitting of Ra's Eye, the answer to that
question was dubious at best.  How long could she devote to establishing
her position as empress?  THREE months hadn't been enough to ensure her
leadership asRa's regent.  Let the fellahin of Abydos live wild for too
long, and she'd be forced to exterminate the population of the whole
planet. Hathor forced her hands to relax, considering with dismay the
bloody half moons created by her fingernails digging into the flesh. She
had not come up with a solution to her problems.  She'd needed time to
think, to seek other options. Before that, however ... Hathor turned to
her bridge crew.  "Recall the udajeets," she ordered. Adam Kawalsky and
a picked company of Marines lay low in the dug-in emplacements of
Firebase THREE, waiting for a target worth shooting at. He and Colonel
O'Neil had both suspected that the firebase and the edge of the plateau
were safe from the flying pyramid's energy weapons. From their
examination of both the spear-blasters and the blast-cannon, they saw
that a barrel was necessary for these weapons.  Such a requirement would
doubtless apply to the heavier weapons aboard the ship from Ra's empire.
But the very shape of the battlecraft, with its receding walls, would
argue against the ability to direct fire to the very foot of the
pyramid. That was almost where Firebase THREE was. Then, too, both
Kawalsky and O'Neil remembered how the udajeets had been handled during
their first battle against a spaceship.  The attack gliders had not
operated independently, but had docked on the mother ship.  Sooner or
later, they believed, the same would happen with this heavier flight of
gliders. When they returned, they would be Kawalsky's target of
opportunity. Till then Kawalsky and his chosen few remained hidden
beneath sand, camouflage netting, and broiling heat, waiting.
"Lieutenant," Feretti asked, "you think they'll come back by evening? I
mean, you wouldn't think it would do much good, trying to chase people
in the dark." "Feretti, I have no idea what will happen by evening,"
Kawalsky admitted.  "Although I do hope it gets a little cooler around
here." He wiped sweat off his face and took a sip of tepid water from
his canteen.  Even the plastic his lips touched seemed warmed by the
sun. "I'm not saying I want them to come by night," Feretti quickly
said. "That would just make our job harder, right, Sir?  No, I wish they
would come sooner instead of later.  To tell you the truth, Sir, I got a
problem with waiting for things." Kawalsky hid a grin.  "Really,
Corporal?  You couldn't tell it by talking to you." "Well, Sir, you
know, I try not to advertise," Feretti went on, completely unaware of
the officer's "But if it's a case of sooner or later" sarcasm. later-"
His monologue was interrupted by a series of shots into the air from the
dune crests that marked the outer perimeter of O'Neil's force. "That's
from Skaara's boys, warning us that the udajeets are incoming," Feretti
said. "Right," Kawalsky replied laconically.  "Looks like you get your
wish, Corporal-sooner rather than later." In moments the flight of
udajeets came close enough that the hidden men could see its approach.
The gliders moved in a large, ragged formation, as if the pilots were
unused to flying together-or too many wingmen had been shot down. To
Kawalsky they looked like a big, sloppy flock of homing pigeons
returning to their coops instead of the hawk-like killing machines
they'd been earlier this morning.  There was something tentative,
nervous about their flying.  The lieutenant realized they were keeping a
much higher altitude, trying to stay above Stinger range. His usually
good-natured face took on a wolfish cast as he grinned. They'd have to
come down close if they wanted to dock. On his first visit to Abydos,
Kawalsky had been forced to endure repeated aerial attacks from udajeets
while trapped outside the StarGate pyramid. Half of Skaara's friends,
the original boy commandos, had died in that slaughter. Kawalsky had
promised himself that would never happen to troops under his command
again. Now he was going to make that promise stick. The udajeets
smoothly lost altitude, aiming for the starship's open launch decks.
Kawalsky's people were aiming, too.  He'd carefully detailed sections of
the ambush party.  Some would go for the vanguard, others for the wings.
Kawalsky himself was aiming dead center. Stepping into the open, he
tracked his first target with his missile tube, moved slightly ahead,
and ... "Fire!"  he shouted, triggering his own missile. Stingers
slashed up into the bellies of the docking craft, wreaking havoc among
the unsuspecting pilots.  Wings blew off, bodies went flying, gliders
crashed into each other as they attempted to peel out of formation.
Kawalsky calmly picked up his second tube and aimed. Above, some of the
glider pilots attempted to maintain their vectors and land.  Those were
probably the wise ones-wise to get out of the way. Other udajeet pilots,
stung by the attack, went into wide, banking turns to overfly the ambush
site and return fire.  Instead, they ran into a virtual hedgehog of
missile fire from the troops concentrated at the base of the plateau.
Several of the would-be counterattackers were knocked out of the sky.
Others swung wide, hoping to come to the docking bays from a safer
direction. And one unfortunate pilot, the body of his glider burning in
hellish colors, swept over the ambush site at speed, trying to bring his
dying bird into the sanctuary of the pyramid ship. "Hold your fire!"
Kawalsky ordered crisply.  "I think that sucker will make more trouble
for them inside than if we bring it down." The pilot must have been one
of the better udajeet fliers.  Despite the flames, the trailing smoke,
and the wavering of his craft, he steered straight for one of the open
bay doors.  It was almost a perfect landing.  Almost. At the very last
second, just as the pilot was braking the glider, one wing dipped.  The
wingtip caught about a foot below the opening, and the

udajeet cartwheeled across the launching deck.  It was as if the
Earthlings had sent a killer rocket with a twenty-foot wingspan-and it
had penetrated the ship's armor. A godawful explosion shuddered the
entirety of the huge pyramid.  A gout of flame vomited from the deck's
open hatchway, along with pieces of udajeet silural.  In its final
throes their dying swan had taken along a couple of other gliders for
company. "Down and cover your asses, men!"  Kawalsky yelled.  He himself
jumped into the earthworks in case some of the burning wreckage tumbling
down the front of the golden starship should come ricocheting this way.
But as he burrowed in the dirt, there was a smile on Adam Kawalsky's
face.  Death might come at any time today, in many ways.  But Kawalsky
would die happy. He'd made a promise to himself, and he'd kept it.  He'd
made the udajeets pay.

CHAPTER 20

ALTERCATIONS AND REPAIRS

Not all the udajeets caught in the fusilade of Stinger missiles crashed
and burned.  Several pilots came down in landings that were hard for
their craft but successful in that most personal of criteria-they
survived.  They staggered to the base of Ra's Eye, screaming into the
communicators built into their Horus masks. Some were burned, some were
bleeding.  A few lucky, uninjured pilots had the presence of mind to
take their blast-lances along.  Not that their weapons would leave
anything but scratches on the adamantine golden quartzose material that
made up the hull.  But at least they could protect themselves in the
case of ground attack. Kawalsky had dug himself out again and was on the
radio to O'Neil with the main body of troops below.  "There are maybe a
half-dozen pilots who managed to walk away after bringing their gliders
down," he said. "They seem to be congregated at the front of the ship,
around about the centerline.  Around about where the entrance hall would
be on the stone pyramid inside." "Are they trying to make some sort of
stand?" O'Neil asked. "From the way they're banging on the wall with
their spear butts," Kawalsky said, excitement quickening his voice, "I'd
say they were expecting to be let in." "Kawalsky, we're coming with
everything we can push up this slope." O'Neil's voice sounded pretty
excited, too.  "if they open a door up there, you do everything you can
to keep it open till we arrive." In one of the lowest passages aboard
Ra's Eye, a female crew-technician named Naila stared fearfully at the
warrior confronting her.  He had not activated his helmet mask, but his
naked face, grim and coldly furious, frightened her more than any
rendition of the Horus hawk.  The man's eyes seemed almost as deadly as
the tip of the blastlance he aimed at her. "The the lady captain, she
has given orders that none of the ground-side hatches are to be opened,"
Naila said, faltering. The warrior's control slipped.  "Ammit eat your
soul!  That's my brother out there!  We were both taken into Ra's
service-and we both pledged our fealty to Apis.  That's who I swore my
oath to, not some bitch who doesn't care about her own people!" He
glared at Naila.  "What about you?  Did you swear fealty to Ptah or to
bloody-handed Hathor? Think hard-because if you didn't swear yourself to
her, you wouldn't want to die for her, would you?" The tip of the
blast-lance poked painfully into

Naila's midriff.  She stepped back, eyes wide, mouth dry. "Now open that
door!  I may not know how to operate it, but I know how to operate
this."  He gave her another painful prod. "Last warning," the warrior
growled, tightening his grip on the trigger mechanism. Her face a
grayish-pale color, Naila turned to the bank of photosensitive controls
where the door would form.  Her fingers stumbled for a second, and she
had to start over. The second time around, however, the correct code was
entered.  The biomorphic system of the quartz-crystal shifted to a new
lattice structure. And where a wall had once stood there was now a
doorway. "It's happened!  It's happened!"  Kawalsky called into his
radio.  "A door has opened in the enemy ship!" He and his picked band
burst from Firebase THREE, assault rifles at the ready.  Most of the
stranded pilots were too busy gaining entrance to the ship to pay
attention to anything else. But a couple of the healthier escapees
turned around, leveling their blast-lances.  Bullets met energy-bolts,
and fighters from both sides went down. "Don't let them close the damned
door!"  Kawalsky yelled to his men. One of them still carried a Stinger.
He primed the missile and sent it through the opening.  Sparks and flame
glittered in the interior. Kawalsky turned at the racket of a heavy
internal-combustion engine behind him.  One of his men had climbed
aboard an abandoned bulldozer. "Let's see 'em close it with this stuck
in the way," the Marine howled over the roar of the engine.  Swinging
jerkily around, the earthmover lurched toward the portal in the quartz.
The surviving Horus guards concentrated their fire on the advancing
machine, but the Marine driver kept the bulldozer's blade interposed
between himself and the guards' blast-bolts.  The heavy-duty steel
glowed and fused as flares of energy hit it, but nothing came through.
Ra's blastlances were designed more for man-killing than demolition
work. The bulldozer hit the thin, tall doorway with a crash, slewing
around as its blade caught on one side.  The Marine who'd been
controlling the machine jumped from the driver's seat as the defenders
inside the pyramid ship finally got shots at him.  judging from the
choked screams inside, the earthmover had managed to nail someone
against a wall. Kawalsky and his team swarmed over the bulldozer like
monkeys-heavily armed monkeys-firing away.  The defense melted.  One or
two blastlances were still in action against them, then one ... then
none. When Kawalsky finally led the way inside the spaceship, however,
he did find a single Horus guard.  At least, he figured the man was a
guard. He was sturdily built but had no hawk mask.  Instead his face
showed terror as he supported a pale-faced girl beside a panel of
glowing lights. The man held up her hand to the panel, shouting at her,
pleading with her, in a language that Kawalsky didn't understand. But it
didn't matter what he said, unless this ship was equipped with one of
those magic coffins Daniel Jackson had mentioned. The girl was quite
obviously dead. Hathor was still reeling from the enormity of their
losses in the air war when news of the latest disaster came in. Barely
twenty-five percent of her udajeets had survived after the Earthlings'
ambush.  The air forces she'd tried to conserve with her call-back order
had been slashed in half again within sight of safety. Not only that,
but the better part of one of the pyramid's upper decks had been
devastated thanks to the crashing glider.  Control circuitry had been
damaged, and her technicians weren't even sure they'd be able to get the
cover panels to seal off the launching bays. She shuddered.  If that
happened, it would mean cruising space with an entire deck open to
vacuum.  The bridge, higher up toward the apex of the pyramid, would be
effectively cut off from the rest of the ship. Then had come the news
that they had another problem with openings in the ship. "Lady Captain,"
one of the scanner crew reported in a tight, frightened voice, "we have
a hull breach at ground level." "What?!"  Hathor's voice was deadly as
she questioned the unfortunate technician.  "How could that be?  The
invaders haven't the weapons to tear holes in our hull.  And anything
that could damage us so badly would have been felt." Unless, she
thought, the udajeet crash was merely a cover for some sort of mine
operation. She pushed that thought aside.  Who could plan for an
accidental crash like that? The scanner technician's voice became more
choked.  "The breach wasn't caused by action from without, Lady Captain.
It appears the main portal was opened-" "I gave orders that all
ground-side apertures were to remain closed."  Hathor's voice was quiet
but charged with fury. "Who was down there to open the portal?" "Naila,
one of the damage-control crew, was checking some circuits down on the
lowest levels."  The technician drew a deep breath.  "There were
surviving udajeet pilots outside-" "I'm aware of that," Hathor said
coldly.  "But I'm also aware that an open portal is like an open
invitation to the scum down on the sands to come and make a try for the
StarGate.  Have you been able to seal the portal?" Sweat beads appeared
on the technician's upper lip.  "We've been attempting, Lady Captain,
but there appears to be something caught in the opening-something
substantial." "You're saying the portal is blocked?"  Hathor demanded.
"Have you checked for boarders?" As she watched the results of the
technician's scan, both of them went pale.  Hathor activated the
communicator.  "All warriors," she said. "This includes all udajeet
pilots.  Collect small arms and prepare to repel boarders.  I repeat,
repel boarders. Boarders detected in lowest level of the ship.  StarGate
guards, retain your positions.  Beware of possible attacks." At the same
moment the external scan technician called out, "Lady Captain, the enemy
forces at the base of the plateau-they're climbing up." Hathor swung
around to the tactical display.  If that mass of manpower got aboard,
her available foot soldiers would not be able to handle them. "Gunnery!"
she called in desperation.  "Secondary batteries, full depression.
Continuous fire." "Lady Captain," a thin, precise voice returned over
the communications link, "our calculations showed that we could not
target the enemy host." "I want interdiction fire," Hathor said.  "Your
salvos should come close enough to the lip of the ridge to discourage
that rabble from climbing up here." I hope, she said in her heart.
"Secondary batteries, firing," her gunnery officer replied. Streaks of
light appeared on the tactical display, indicating where the batteries
had fired.  But the coverage was weak, spotty, as if only half the
available blasters were firing. "Gunn-" she began, but the precise voice
of Thoth's former servant was already reporting. "Lady Captain," the
gunnery officer said, "it appears our fire-control circuitry is
defective.  All batteries above Launching Deck Four are not responding."
Launching Deck Four-where the udajeet had crashed. "Damage Control,
switch to backup circuits," Hathor barked. "Lady Captain," a fearful
voice came over the communicator, "there is no backup.  In the press of
refitting-" In the press of refitting, Ptah thought he'd have me one
last time-in a metaphorical sense. The look on Hathor's face made
several of her crew members flinch. "Damage Control, see if you can
repair the damaged fire-control circuits.  Gunnery, you'll have to cover
twice as much space with half as many guns." Hathor was torn between a
wish to retch and a desire to smash something-anything.  But she could
do neither.  As captain of the ship, she was stuck on the bridge. Ah,
Ptah, she thought, if-when-I get back, I will deal with you personally,
painfully, and for a long, long time. Here and there discharges of
energy tore at the ridgeline that marked the stony plateau's descent
into the sands below.  For the most part, however, the huge
battlecraft's blaster batteries could not aim at a steep enough angle to
interdict the ways up-or even reach them. Still, the pyrotechnic effect
was enough to quell even the most ardent spirits, much less men whose
units had already been drubbed and shattered. O'Neil came up with a
force of volunteers-a large smattering of Skaara's boy militia,
stiffened with Marines.  Daniel Jackson accompanied him, as did Sha'uri.
As they reached the top of the plateau, the very air seemed ionized.
Ozone tore at O'Neil's nose.  He walked across the dead zone in the
ship's killing field to a portal blocked open by a still running
bulldozer. One of the Marines ran up to turn the machine off.  Then they
were inside the spaceship.  The walls were of the same golden quartz,
but it seemed rougher in texture, dull. "I think we've found ourselves
down in steerage class," Daniel said. "The decor was so much nicer in
Ra's flying palace." "Of course," O'Neil replied, "we never saw the
engine room down there, either.  I can tell you for sure the dungeons
were on the unpleasant side." A sand-colored figure stepped out from
against one of the rough walls. "I'm on your side," Kawalsky said.
"What's the situation, Lieutenant?"  O'Neil asked. "We've made a quick
reconnaissance against growing resistance," Kawalsky reported.  "This
main hall leads straight to the entrance hall for the StarGate, but
there's a good-sized force of Horus guards dug in there.  We've also
discovered access to the next level up.  As for the rest of this deck,
it's cut up like a maze.  And the other side knows the ground better
than we do.  The guards don't seem to be making direct assaults.
Instead, some try to deny access to certain areas, while infiltrating
behind us to ambush small grouPs. "Let's see what we can see," O'Neil
decided. The assault party nosed its way down the main hall, checking
every side corridor. Daniel hung behind when he saw a plate inscribed
with hieroglyphyics seemingly set into a wall.  Sha'uri stayed with him,
as did a pair of Skaara's militia boys. "I barely understand a word of
this," Sha'uri said. "That's because these are some kind of techtalk
hieroglyphics," Daniel finally concluded.  "It appears to be
instructions for electrical circuitry supposedly inside the wall-" His
scholarly disquisition abruptly ended with the sound of a death rattle
from behind.  Husband and wife turned to find one of their erstwhile
guards already dead, the other expiring in the death grip of a Horus
guard. Sha'uri whipped out her pistol.  The guard dropped the murdered
boy and whipped up his blast-lance. It had all happened to Daniel
before.  Sha'uri had tried to defend him with her gun; the Horus guard
had blasted her.  But here there was no sarcophagus of quick healing. Or
if there was, Daniel had no idea where it was. He launched himself into
a wild tackle, smashing the lance aside. Energy gouted out in a wild
shot, and the echoing blast of the pistol filled Daniel's ears. He was
going down, knocking the Horus guard to the floor.  Daniel wrenched the
blast-lance free. There was no resistance.  As Daniel rose, he saw why.
There was a bullet hole in the guardsman's chest. Daniel turned to
Sha'uri.  She was frowning at him.  "You could have gotten killed!" "I
knocked his spear away. "Not from him," Sha'uri said, looking
frightened.  "From me!  My bullet must have gone just past your head!"
"Did it?"  Daniel frowned, trying to remember. "I guess I didn't notice.
There were other things on my mind." When the couple caught up with the
main group, Daniel was carrying the blast-lance and a rifle slung over
his shoulder.  Sha'uri carried the other boy's rifle and her pistol. The
procession had stopped because yet another Horus guard had ambushed the
point men. A black man in Army fatigues with sergeant's stripes lay dead
on the floor.  So did another of Skaara's militia.  The main group had
come up in time to riddle the guardsman with bullets. "I think whoever's
commanding this tub has personnel problems," O'Neil finally said. "That
guy seemed to be fighting just fine," Kawalsky objected. "So did the guy
who nearly killed Sha'uri and me," Daniel added. "Individually, these
guys are formidable," O'Neil agreed.  "But there don't seem to be many
of them.  I began to suspect it when there wasn't an infantry sweep to
clear out our base camp." "That would have been standard operating
procedure Kawalsky admitted.""Instead, we were allowed to save equipment
and reconcentrate some of our forces, while the enemy tried to harry us
with airpower." O'Neil frowned.  "I'll bet most of the ground pounders
on this ship went to take the StarGate-and they're still holding it."
"And the rest are playing guerrilla war with us, trying to pick us off
one by one."  Kawalsky looked disgusted. "That's only if we play their
game," O'Neil said. "Or, we could make them play ours." "How?"  Daniel
wanted to know. "We head someplace where they have to stand and fight
us," O'Neil replied.  "We've seen that things at the bottom of this ship
seem on the grungy side.  That leads me to believe that the bridge is
probably up near the top."  He checked his rifle.  "Shall we go and find
out?" They'd risen more levels than Daniel wanted to count.  Kawalsky
and O'Neil climbed like machines.  Skaara scampered up with a boy's
boundless energy.  Daniel grimly forced himself up a step at a time. And
Sha'uri wasn't about to be left behind. Some more members of the assault
team had been lost, but several surviving members had picked up
Ra-technology blaster weapons from dead crew warriors. O'Neil had been
right about two things.  The accommodations had gotten nicer the higher
they went.  And the defense mounted by the Horus guards had grown
fiercer. The attackers had just passed through a deck with inhabited
crew's quarters, after climbing through several floors where the
apartments had been empty, neglected, and dusty. Daniel could smell
destruction wafting down the stairs from the deck above.  He caught the
stench of smoke, seared metal, and a pungent chemical odor.  They
mounted the stairs to find a flight deck in ruin. Burned-out hulks of
udajeets stood stranded in slimy pools of chemical foam. The flames must
have been fierce enough to affect the quartz-crystal that made up the
walls, ceiling, and floors.  In parts it was discolored, even cracked.
One wall showed discoloration around the spreadeagled silhouette of a
human figure. "This must be where the glider crashed," Daniel said. "At
least it's pretty much open space except for the structural supports,"
Kawalsky joked.  "Sort of like a municipal parking lot." But even as he
spoke, Horus guards materialized from behind several of the wrecks,
aiming blast-lances at the intruders. "Damn!"  Kawalsky complained, "I
hate when they do that!" The hawk-headed guards had set up their ambush
well.  They'd caught the raiders away from the stairs, out in the open.
And there were more of the Horus guards.  As O'Neil had predicted, the
enemy was assembling more and more warriors to stand and fight. But
there still weren't enough to stand before the numbers of the invaders.
O'Neil and Kawalsky led Marines and militia kids in flanking movements,
their bullets and blast-bolts driving the masked warriors back. Even in
victory, however, Daniel noticed that O'Neil looked puzzled. "Why were
these guys fighting so hard over a wrecked deck?"  he asked. "Maybe
we've been using this particular stairway too long," Kawalsky suggested.
"So they've been getting prepared for us." "Let's find a new way up,"
O'Neil'said. They set off more carefully across the open, scorched
deck-point guard, flankers, the main body following with their guns
ready. The Horus guards fell back sullenly, sniping with their
blast-lances. O'Neil frowned.  "They're trying to draw us in that
direction."  He nodded after the retreating warriors. "Straight into
another ambush," Kawalsky said. "Which way do we go instead?" O'Neil
chose a direction at random, and.  the raiders set off.  But Daniel
lagged behind, his attention caught by another of those plaques with
hieroglyphic technical notes.  But this one was on the floor, cracked
and half-incinerated by one of the larger structural members, Did this
mean that the circuits which had been behind it were now revealed?
Daniel stepped around the thick pillar-to encounter an equally surprised
Horus guard standing with his blast-lance grounded. The masked warrior
raised his weapon, but Daniel fumbled his into place and fired.  The
guard fell back, blasted. Then Daniel noticed a diminutive female
technician working on the open circuitry.  She whirled around,
screaming.  The tool in her hand, a biomorphic piece of quartz-crystal,
cycled through several changes as she faced him. Daniel felt he had no
choice.  He fired his blastlance again, and the technician was gone.
Then he turned the energy weapon on the exposed circuits. I don't know
what these do, Daniel thought as he triggered blast after blast into the
incomprehensible circuitry.  But whatever hurts this ship helps us. On
the bridge of Ra's Eye, Hathor came to a decision.  Her guards couldn't
stop the incursion of the boarders.  But there was another way to handle
the problem.  The enemy was already on the deck that wouldn't seal
against vacuum. "Recall all warriors from Launch Deck Four," she
ordered. "Lady Captain, there is also a technician-" "Notify all
personnel!" Hathor said shortly. "Damage-control crews will seal the
area." Then Ra's Eye would lift off, rise high enough, and the boarders
would cease to encumber the ship-because they would cease to be able to
breathe. At the same time the ship's main batteries would vaporize the
plateau supporting the StarGate pyramid, the invaders sheltering there,
and, of course, the StarGate itself. The situation had become
sufficiently extreme to merit the extreme solution. "Engines, prepare
lifting drive." Ra's Eye began to shudder as the landing clamps unlocked
from the stone pyramid below them. "Gunnery, start energizing main
batteries." "Damage control, prepare to seal off the deck." Hathor stood
very straight.  "On my order, she said. Energy and information hummed
through the ship.  But at a critical junction about halfway between the
bridge and the engine room, the control circuitry had been blasted and
scrambled.  Machine-language orders were lost or misrouted.  Energy
jumped circuits. On the bridge, indicators began showing threatening
fluctuations. Warning sirens began their howl.  The ship was no longer
shuddering but bucking wildly. "Lady Captain," the navigation crewman
said, her face going pale.  "The engines-they're attempting to respond
to extraordinary power drains. Energy is being routed to systems with no
power needs." Her hands fluttered over the photosensitive controls,
which began dimming, then increasing to glaring with apparently no
logic.  "The systems won't-I can't-" The young woman shouted into her
communicator: "Engines, shunt all power from SB-291 Do it now, before we
have-" The lights in the bridge died, as did the holographic tactical
display. Hathor finished the sentence: "-A power cascade." The hologram
was gone, and there was only the dim phosphorescence of the emergency
bridge controls. Yet somehow Hathor saw an image, half a face that had
an unhealthy glow, giving her an eerie half smile and a farewell. It was
the last face she'd seen on Tuat. It was Ptah.

 CHAPTER 21

TO THE VICTOR ... The sound of Daniel's blaster-bolts brought the main
body of the boarding party back at a run, weapons at the ready.  They
found him standing over two corpses, firing into an opening in the
usually seamless crystalline quartz that formed the decks, walls, and
ceilings of the enormous spacecraft they'd invaded. Within the opening,
the crystal lattice showed a complex pattern of veins.  At least it had
before Daniel's blast-lance had gotten to work. Now the tracery of veins
was spalled and fused. "We thought you'd gotten ambushed," Kawalsky
said.  "But it looks like the other way around." Sha'uri stared from the
sprawled guard to the fried technician.  "You shot her?"  she asked.
Colonel Jack O'Neil nudged the dead woman's hand with the toe of his
boot, and the tool she'd been clutching dropped to the deck.  It was a
piece of the biomorphic crystal that supported so much of Ra's
technology.  But the recombinant lattice structure had taken the shape
of a cutter, its blade vibrating at nearly hypersonic speed. The colonel
picked up the implement and scored a line in the usually impenetrable
crystal of the floor.  "Imagine what it would have done

to flesh and bone," he said.  After a moment's searching, he located the
controls and stilled the blade, slipping it into his pocket. "Show's
over," he said.  "Let's find-" The deck beneath their feet began to
quiver. And inside the circuit board, junction box-whatever it was-veins
in the golden tracery began to glow.  It was like watching a microscopic
light show as energy impulses rippled and flashed through the tiny
filaments. But as the energy pulses encountered the bubbled and fused
mess that Daniel had created, they cycled madly, diverted from their
proper paths. The fairy lights flashed and blinked as circuits began to
overload. Some of the veins went from gold to red, looking like the
heating filaments inside a toaster. The whole construction they stood
within began to shake harder.  Heat began wafting out of the circuit
box.  Almost unconsciously the members of the raiding party stepped
back. The glimmering of the wrecked circuits took on a glaring hue.
Sparks began to fly.  An irregular rhythm punctuated the trembling of
the pyramid ship, as if the floor beneath them were trying to buck them
off.  The boarders stumbled away, and just in time.  An arc of energy
spat out of the opening with almost the force of a blast-bolt. Kawalsky
glared at Daniel.  "What did you do?" he demanded. Daniel was trying to
put as much space between him and the flaring circuits as he could.  "A
little sabotage-I thought."

The arhythmic tremor in the deck and walls had reached almost earthquake
proportions.  The whole construction seemed to heave up for a second.
Then it slumped back down, hard enough to make everyone stumble.  The
sourceless illumination that usually lit the decks cut off and died. At
least on this particular level, light from the suns of Abydos filtered
in through the vast openings of the launch decks. "I think," O'Neil
said, "that the ship was preparing for liftoff, which would have been
very unhealthy for us on an open deck if we'd gone high enough.  Let's
get out of here." They took the first upward-leading staircase they
could find.  At the top, they found the way half blocked by a thick
panel of quartz-crystal. "Like a blast-door," Kawalsky murmured. "More
likely an airtight seal," O'Neil said as he ducked under.  The slab was
poised to come down, as if the power that had actuated its movement had
abruptly been cut off. Away from the open hatches of the launching deck,
the corridors of the ship were pitch dark. The ever prepared Colonel
O'Neil produced some flares.  "I hope some of the rest of you brought a
few," he said.  "These aren't going to last us all the way to the
bridge." The bridge of Ra's Eye was a scene of controlled turmoil as
Ptah's technicians strove mightily to overcome the effects of their
leader's scrimping and the damage done to one of the main junction
circuits. "There are no backups," one of the crew cried, almost wailing.
"We can't reroute those circuits. The transmission net won't stand it.
If we try, we'll blow out other junctions!" "Lady Captain," a voice came
from the engine room, "I fear that has happened already." "Damage
Control," Hathor said, trying to come to grips with the situation, "how
long will repairs take?" A brief silence answered her. "Lady Captain, it
will require at least as long as we took after the last mishap."  The
crew person's voice halted another moment.  "Perhaps longer." There was
a brassy, burning sensation in the back of Hathor's mouth, as if someone
had poured molten metal in there while she hadn't been looking.  With a
start she realized this must be the taste of defeat. "Scanners," she
said, trying to keep her voice level.  "What's the situation outside?"
The interdiction fire from the secondary batteries had been halted asRa
Eye attempted to lift off.  And, of course, there was no power to resume
firing now. "Lady Captain."  It was the voice of a frightened underling
delivering more bad news.  "Enemy forces are climbing the plateau.  More
are boarding us." For a second Hathor felt as though the whole weight of
the battlecraft were pressing against her shoulders. Not enough crew to
resist, not enough power to escape.  Balked by ancient machinery and her
erstwhile husband's malice. He never understood what there was between
Ra and me, she thought. Hathor jerked her chin up. Perhaps she might
explain-when she came back to kill him. "Engines," she said crisply.
"Can we divert enough emergency power to run the matter transmitters?" A
moment's silence as technicians frantically calculated. "Yes, Lady
Captain." "Then do so.  All inessential crew will be withdrawn to the
StarGate. All warriors will continue to assemble on the upper decks,
concentrating on slowing, if not destroying the first group of
boarders." She hesitated.  "I will consider volunteers for a udajeet
mission to discourage the enemy forces on the plateau from boarding." A
forlorn hope, she thought. Hathor turned to her bridge crew, nervous
technicians all.  "I'll require all Engines, Power, Communications, and
Damage Control personnel," she said.  "Navigation, the rest of you-you
can go as soon as we power up the matter transmitter." The crew members
other than the ones she had chosen immediately made their way to stand
on what appeared to be a huge medallion of beaten copper set in the
quartz of the deck.  A similar disk stood vertically aligned overhead in
the ceiling. "Engines!"  Hathor called.  "Has power been diverted to the
matter transmitter?" "Yes, Lady Captain." "Then prepare for the beaming
of the first party."  She stepped to the statue of Khnum that loomed
over the transmitter circle.  A golden necklace hung around the figure's
neck, with a milky bluish gem set in the middle.  Hathor pressed her
fingers against the jewel. From the medallion overhead, a brilliant blue
radiance covered the crew members.  Four metal rings seemed to float
down to encircle them.  And a pulse of blue light, intense as a laser,
swept around the circumference of both copper medallions until the
escaping crew members seemed encased in a tube of shimmering blueness.
An instant later, they were gone. The battle to reach the bridge finally
resolved itself into alternate slogging and slugging matches.  The
raiding party would haul itself up another flight of stairs to engage in
increasingly more desperate battles with increasingly more frantic Horus
guards. Daniel was panting, his legs were numb, and he suspected he was
developing a blister on his thumb from triggering his blast-lance.  The
numbers of the boarding party had dropped as more of their members had
fallen.  They were down to the core group of original adventurers:
O'Neil, Kawalsky, Daniel, Sha'uri, and Skaara, plus a scattering of
Skaara's boy militia members. The ranks of the Horuses had thinned as
well. Both attackers and defenders were now armed with blast-lances,
though the practical-minded O'Neil wasn't averse to using home-grown
technology-like hand grenades-when the enemy was too well barricaded.
They were encountering breastworks on every level now, as the numbers of
upward-leading stairways decreased.  There was also less room for the
Horus guards to run, as floor space became measurably more and more
constricted. Daniel dazedly realized that they must be near the top. The
deck they were on was essentially only a large room with a few
structural members. Four stairways, one in each corner, gave access from
the level below. But this floor's version of the Alamo was constructed
in the center of the room, a square bastion comprising furniture,
equipment cases, and what appeared to be control consoles torn from the
floor. Less than a half-dozen hawk-masked guards fired blast-lances at
the intruders, who were shooting back from each of the four stairwells.
"What are they defending so hard in there?" Daniel muttered as he sent
THREE consecutive pulses through a gap in the wreckage which one of the
guards had been using as a firing slit. "The last way out," Kawalsky
replied.  "I think it's a circular staircase there in the middle of the
room." Two of the guards fell, then THREE.  Their remaining fellows were
firing almost wildly, attempting to keep the intruders' heads down.
"There should be more of them."  O'Neil almost seemed to be complaining.
"Unless they're preparing a real greeting upstairs." A muffled cry came
from the deck above, and the guards still on their feet bolted up the
circular stairs.  All THREE were cut down as soon as they rose above the
level of their concealing barricade. O'Neil advanced with care-they'd
had experience of guardsmen playing possum to leap up and drill the
unwary.  But the THREE masked figures in the square of furniture were
definitely dead. The Marine colonel cautiously reconnoitered the
circular stairs. Nobody shot down at him. "Everybody stay in your
corners," he warned. Then he took their last two grenades and tossed
them up.  Daniel watched as O'Neil leapt for cover on the far side of
the barricade. Then the grenades went off with a flash, a bang, and a
spray of shrapnel that would have diced anybody on the deck above.
"Now!"  O'Neil yelled. He was the first up the stairs.  Kawalsky was
second, but somehow Daniel moved his numb legs quickly enough to be
third onto the starship's bridge. The place was empty-except for a
gorgeously formed female standing in the cyclinder of blue radiance that
indicated a matter transmitter in action.  The woman's lithe body was
clad in a warrior's kilt and pectoral necklace, and her face was masked
in a gold-crystal helmet in the shape of a cat. It was over.  The last
udajeet of her forlorn hope attack had been blown from the sky.  The
last crew person evacuated-those in the engine room had their own matter
transmitter.  Even the last Horus guards had disappeared for the
StarGate in a rush

of blue radiance-except for the small blocking force below, who probably
wouldn't be able to disengage in time anyway. Hathor called to them, and
saw the THREE cut to ribbons before they could reach the top of the
stairs.  Now she was the last aboard Ra's Eye.  She pressed the gem
control on Khnum's necklace, and was bathed in azure radiation. Outside
her blue cocoon, flashes erupted on the bridge as the invaders prepared
their way with some sort of bombs.  Still Hathor held off her transit
until the raiders actually confronted her.  They stared, which was only
to be expected. But Hathor was staring as well.  The third invader to
enter the bridge was a kind of man she'd never seen before. When Ra's
telepathic call for subjects had gone out, it had drawn most heavily on
the populations nearest to the site of his proposed capital.
ProtoEgyptians, Berbers, Nubians, and the inhabitants of Arabia and the
Near East heeded his summoning. It never reached northern Europe. So,
despite her travels to other worlds of Ra's empire, her brushes with
alien races who had also served Ra ... Hathor had never met a man with
fair skin and blond hair. "Who-?"  This unlikely vision spoke in a
language close enough for her to understand.  He stared at her cat mask.
"Hathor?"  he finally said. She tapped the tumbler switch on her
necklace, and her helmet mask disappeared. "Know, Golden Man, that I am
Hathor," she said.  "We shall meet again. And you and yours shall suffer
for this humiliation you have given me. The matter transmitter finally
cycled, and she was pulled downward to the StarGate room, down below the
surface of Abydos, faster than the speed of light. "Who the hell was
that?"  Kawalsky said, slackjawed. "Hathor," Daniel said.  "Depending on
which legends you follow, she's either the goddess of love or
slaughter." "Well," Kawalsky said judiciously, "I guess she's got the
build for either job." The matter transmitter was silent. "I want as
many people on that medallion as can fit safely," O'Neil said, stepping
over to the Khnum statue.  "I guess this is the Down button." He glanced
at the group crowding the beaten copper plate.  "And leave room for me."
They arrived in the room of the stone pyramid devoted to the matter
transmitter just moments after Hathor had vanished. But as they marched
on the room of the StarGate, Daniel heard male voices raised in
argument.  "The bitch has left us here to die!"  one man cried. "Destroy
the StarGate, and we're trapped here.  If the invaders don't kill us,
thefellahin will tear us limb from limb!" "And if we follow Hathor-well,
that's suicide, too," another voice replied.  "And it may be more
unpleasant than a soldier's death." The Horus guards didn't have time
for any more argument.  The raiders stormed the room and blew them away.
Then Kawalsky moved to cut the power leads for the light blast-cannon
aimed at the StarGate's base. "I guess they were supposed to trigger
this when we arrived," O'Neil said. Daniel nodded.  "Except they got too
involved in arguing about their own survival." The colonel checked his
blast-lance.  "Jackson, you and Sha'uri stay here to direct the next
wave. Kawalsky, myself, and the others will be going right through.  If
we come out right on the bad guys' asses, they won't be able to do too
much damage at Creek Mountain." Daniel grabbed O'Neil's arm.  "If you
step through there, you won't be going to Creek Mountain.  You won't end
up on Earth at all." He pointed at the carved symbols clamped in the
seven chevrons which dotted the outer ring of the gate.  "Trust me, I
know the coordinates for Earth.  And that's not what the gate is now set
for." Daniel began patting himself down.  "Anybody got a pen and paper?"
he asked.  "We've got to get a record of this combination.  Then I'll
set the gate for home."  He glanced around at the Abydans in the
room-the vast majority.  "I mean, planet Earth." Jack O'Neil stepped
through the StarGate to deliver his report, and nearly got his head
blown off by a platoon of Marines with nervous trigger fingers. On the
other side of the silo blast doors, General West had a regular crisis
center going.  "You beat the invaders?"  he demanded. "I'd say they
didn't have enough numbers or machines to rate as an invasion," O'Neil
said.  "A scouting force maybe.  Although if we hadn't been there, what
they had would have been enough to reduce Nagada to rubble." "But you
beat them," West repeated. "I regret to report that General Keogh died
in action," O'Neil said formally.  "We took heavy losses-especially in
our armor and vehicles. But in the end the enemy was forced to abandon
their position and retreat through the StarGate." "Through the
StarGate?"  West frowned.  "But they didn't come here." "No, sir."
O'Neil held out a scrap of paper, hastily scrawled upon. "This is
important intelligence, sir.  The coordinates for a new StarGate
location."  He hid a grin.  "Jackson says we have to stop thinking of
the StarGate as an intercom and remember that it's attached to a whole
network. This is a new number we can dial." "If we don't disconnect the
phone," West growled. O'Neil glanced around the room and finally saw the
traces of fighting. Bullet holes pocked one wall, and the ceiling was
fused from the discharge of a blast-lance. "But if we disconnect now,
sir, we'll lose the chance to examine the starship the enemy left behind
on Abydos." West's eyes tracked his like a pair of antiaircraft cannon.
"A working starship?"  he demanded. "Temporarily incapacitated," O'Neil
admitted. "Certainly beyond the capacity of an Egyptologist or combat
Marine to figure out.  You may have to reorganize the StarGate
investigation team to make sense of it.  And they'll probably need more
physicists-and maybe some people from NASA." He allowed a little
excitement into his voice. "But think about what we could find,
sir-technology a quantum leap ahead of ours.  There's a deck full of
those antigravity gliders-undamaged. Incredible computers-and just
imagine the data they've got stored. Technological processes,
information on other star systems-" "Heavy weapons," West interrupted.
O'Neil nodded.  To each his own. "How soon can we start moving this ship
over here?"  West wanted to know. "Ah, sir," O'Neil replied, "maybe
you'd better inspect the site before you make plans." West frowned but
nodded.  "Maybe I should make an on-site evaluation." Then you'll see
that the spoils of war won't fit in a truck, O'Neil thought. The
problem, he saw, was that the general was still thinking in planetary
terms. Once you've been out through the StarGate, your scale of
reference changes forever, O'Neil realized. Like it or not, you see a
bigger picture.