“Then who am I to stand in the way of such an ad-mirable quest?” Aha laid it on thick. “Go forth! And if you fail, I shall try-for the honor of Abydos!”
“I like that,” Perre said. “ ‘For the honor of Abydos.’ “
Their chuckling was abruptly cut off by the sound of gunfire-from within the hall.
Aha whipped around, ordering his second in com-mand to hold the front of the building while detailing a section to accompany him inside. Perre was doing the same.
The mixed group burst inside, rifles at the ready. Aha’s hands were sweaty on his weapon as he led the way to the feasting room, where the two leaders had intended to breakfast and discuss strategy.
Nakeer lay facedown on a pile of pillows, blood and brains soaking into the rich fabrics. Kasuf sat up amid a sort of throne of pillows. Aha’s heart leapt, thinking his leader might be all right. Then he saw the wet stain across the chest of Kasuf’s red robe.
The clatter of a door latch tore the attention of the two squad leaders from the still figures to the far end of the large room. A cowled figure in drab Aby-dan homespun leapt through the doorway into the darkness beyond. As he did, however, the escaping man’s hood fell down ... to reveal a shock of brilliant yellow hair.
Aha swore by several highly indecorous parts of Ra’s anatomy.
“Urt-man bastard!” Perre roared. “He’s killed Nakeer!” Automatic fire from both men’s rifles tore the heavy wooden portal as it swung shut.
With the hood of his robe up, Daniel Jackson hur-ried along through the streets of Nagada, tugged along by the clutch of a firm, warm hand. His mind was full of misgivings. The careful campaign to keep his relations with Faizah formal and public had crashed and burned this morning. She’d appeared in his office, literally rousted him out of his makeshift bed, and hauled him off to this unfamiliar quarter of the city.
Daniel’s attempts to stop their headlong rush had gained him an incoherent, fragmentary story. If he understood the breathless tale, Faizah had overheard some compatriots of the Freedom party planning to disrupt the Convention. “It’s the extremists,” she panted. ‘They say you’re behind it all-we’ll wind up with an Earth government.”
‘They’ll have a chance to make their comments, like anyone else,” Daniel said stupidly as they darted down a narrow, crooked alleyway. “Our moderates have already signed up for that.” Faizah’s reply was overshadowed by the rattle of gun-fire in the distance. “But these ones-I’m afraid they’ll try to stop things before they even begin!”
Daniel grew more worried. Something was up. The gunfire was a dead giveaway. Maybe he shouldn’t be stumbling into this situation weaponless, with only a girl to back him up. A company of Skaara’s militiamen would be handy. The headquarters of the Freedom faction lay in a ru-inous adobe dump that made Daniel and Sha’uri’s hole in the wall look palatial by comparison. A trio of young men sat on threadbare pillows, eat-ing dried fruit and bread as they conversed tensely. If they were into mayhem, they seemed only in the planning stages. Daniel noticed no weapons or guards present. Seeing the food, however, reminded him that he’d been shanghaied without even a taste of breakfast.
The tallest of the three conferees leapt up when Faizah burst through the door, yanked Daniel in, then latched the portal closed.
“Faizah!” the young fellow exclaimed, brushing spilled pillow stuffing off the rear of his robe. “What are you doing here?”
The guy looked like a younger, bearded, less nour-ished version of Gary Meyers.
His eyes got wider as Daniel let down his hood, revealing his blond hair. “And what in Ra’s name are you doing here-with him?” the horrified leader of Freedom demanded.
“Djutmose, I had to bring him.” Faizah was almost sobbing. “Look, Djutmose,” Daniel said, “I’ve worked too hard planning things for you to crash in and start wrecking it all.”
He leaned in hard, thrusting his face nose to nose with the young man. Djutmose recoiled as if Daniel were radioactive. “Crash in?” he gobbled. “Wreck it all?” With a visible effort he pulled himself together.
“Earthman, I want no part of your plans.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for Abydos,” Daniel said. “Can you guarantee you won’t go near Kasuf and Nakeer?”
“Why should I want to do that?” Djutmose stared at him, obviously afraid.
“Especially after what you did to them!”
Daniel finally realized they seemed to be engaged in two different conversations. “Ammit eat you!” he swore in Abydan, “what are you talking about?”
A pale-faced Djutmose pointed to one of his com-panions. “Kasara just came in with the news.”
Kasara ducked as if he expected to be shot.
Djutmose spoke in very gentle tones, the way one would talk to a raging psychopath. “Nakeer and Kasuf have both been killed. And you’re being hunted as the murderer!”
The guard station was a minor one-just two men sta-tioned in a small side street off the market square.
That didn’t stop Skaara from turning up for inspec-tion. He intended to keep every security person on his toes for the Convention. Too much was riding on the meetings to allow some fool even to disturb, much less disrupt the deliberations.
The pair of slouching guards-one miner, one farmer-snapped erect when he came down the street.
Skaara stopped with them for a moment. “Keep your eyes open,” he said. “I don’t want a sandfly getting in-“ Gunfire erupted. It seemed to come from the direc-tion of the council hall. Both guards took a step toward the disturbance, their rifles leveled. “No!” Skaara snapped. “Stay here. No one comes in or out through this street.
Wait for orders. I’ll check this out.”
He hadn’t brought a rifle because, like everything in his improvised army, they were in short supply. But he had tucked one of the smaller weapons-a pistol- into his belt.
Skaara waited until he reached the square before he broke into a run. A crowd was gathering-he’d have to use the honor guard at the door to break them up. But his sentries were bunched in the doorway as some of the council servants tried to push their way out.
“It’s the Urt-man!” a cook screamed, her voice hys-terical. “He’s killed Kasuf and Nakeer!”
A low moan shook through the assemblage. Some crowded closer, hoping for a show.
Others began to break away, to pass the news.
Skaara cursed. He’d have to send out runners to all the guard posts. If word of this got out, with the city in its present mood, it would be like setting a torch to tinder.
He pushed his way to the entrance and took com-mand. “Where are the squad leaders?” he demanded.
One of the second-line commanders answered. “Aha and Perre went in at the first shooting.”
Skaara frowned. He hadn’t heard that. “Guard the door,” he ordered. No one goes in or out until I say otherwise. That includes them.” He directed a bully-ing glare at the bawling servants. “And send a runner to the other guard posts. I don’t want wild rumors circulating.”
“It’s the truth!” the cook yelled. “I came in after the warriors! There was blood all over!”
He whirled on the woman. “Shut up!” he snapped.
Then Skaara pushed inside. A few of the servants pointed the way to the feasting chamber, as if he’d never been there before. He pushed open the main door-and found himself looking down a rifle barrel.
“Sir!” The warrior, a farmer recruit named Perre, raised his weapon. “Aha took most of the men to chase the assassin. I figured I’d do more good here, on guard.”
The damned cook had been right with most of her screaming. Nakeer was indeed dead, his head blasted with several bullets. There was indeed blood around, most of it leaking from his father. But Kasuf was still alive, although his face was gray.
“Father.” Skaara reached out to Kasuf, only to real-ize that while his father’s eyes were open, they were unseeing.
A couple of the more level-headed servants were striving to stanch his wound.
Skaara couldn’t tell if their fussing was actually doing any good. Steeling himself, he turned to other problems. “What’s this I hear about an Earthman making the attack?” he demanded.
Perre shrugged. “I saw the yellow-hair running away. He left this behind.”
The squad leader held up a pistol, nearly the twin to the one Skaara carried. A chill invaded Skaara’s spine. Sha’uri had used a weapon like that, both in the fighting against Ra and in the disabled starcraft.
He pushed the thought away. “Which way did Aha give chase?” Perre pointed at a side exit, the door chewed up by rifle bullets. That must have been the gunfire that attracted him.
First things first. Leaving Perre on guard, Skaara re-turned to the front door. The secondary squad leaders were getting nervous as the crowd got larger. The more their numbers grew, the uglier the group’s mood became. “Let us in there!” a fat farmer shouted. From the green he was wearing, he was probably one of the farm clan Elders. “We want to see for ourselves.” Skaara pushed into the rank of militiamen screening • the door. In a loud, clear voice he said, “If this mob tries to push its way in, I want that man shot first!” He pointed at the fat bellower.
“Do you know who I am?” the Elder blustered. But the color was leaving his reddish face.
“Right now you’re a troublemaker-and a target,” Skaara told him. “There’s nothing very pleasant to see inside. Nakeer has been killed, but Kasuf lives. The one who attacked them is being pursued.”
The crowd had remained silent, stunned, for that much. Now a madness of questions burst forth.
The only one Skaara dealt with was the cry from the targeted Elder. “Is it true that the Urt-man did it?”
Skaara shook his head. “I don’t know who fired the shots,” he said. “And I won’t until the assassin is caught.”
He pushed off into the crowd. People plucked at him, hoping for more details or explanations. Skaara had time to give neither. He pushed ruthlessly for the open space at the end of the square, with an important destination in mind. Displaced from the market square by the political hoorah going on there, Dr. Terrance Destin sat under an awning, his Humvee filled with medical supplies, waiting for patients.
The inoculation business was slow today. Maybe there was a parade or something.
Destin heard gunshots in the distance, but paid them little heed. He’d served in the Gulf, where the lo-cals celebrated everything from military victories to weddings by emptying a magazine into the air.
Maybe he ought to get set up to treat victims of Stray Bullet Syndrome...
A young guy-a kid, really-came racing down the street. With his youth and the dreadlocks streaming back from his face, Destin would have taken him for some sort of gangbanger back home. On beautiful Abydos, however, the kid could turn out to be a com-pany officer in the home guard they’d erected for themselves. In a swirl of robes the kid skidded to a stop when he spotted Destin’s Humvee. “You’re a medic?” he said in surprisingly passable English. This must be one of Daniel Jackson’s graduate students.
The young doctor nodded, glad he didn’t have to use his fractured Abydan phrases like “where does it hurt?”
“You’ve got to come with me.”
Looking more closely, Destin realized the kid was under a lot of stress. The morning heat had yet to come, and he already had a sheen of sweat on his face. “Look, I can’t leave this.” Destin nodded toward the Humvee. The locals had started getting very light-fingered as hunger raised its ugly head. Destin didn’t want to be known as the founder of the Abydos drug trade. The kid produced a Beretta 9mm pistol from his belt and pointed it at Destin’s nose. “Bring the Humvee. You come. Now,” he demanded, losing his English. Directing the Navy doctor through the streets at gunpoint, Skaara could feel the sweat dripping be-tween his shoulder blades. They had to be in time! The closer they came to the market square and the council building, the more the streets were clogged with onlookers. A nasty buzz ran through the Abydans when they saw the Earthman. Destin went pale.
Skaara waved his pistol and shouted. The people recognized their militia leader and grudgingly parted.
They’d almost reached the hall when Skaara heard the distant explosion of a hand grenade. It came from the opposite direction of the assassin’s escape path. Skaara grew cold. The outbreak he feared was already beginning. There was so, so much to do.
But he had to handle this first. He ordered the doc-tor to get his medical bag and marched him past the guards and into the feasting chamber. From the look on Destin’s face, he recognized the departed Nakeer and the wounded Kasuf.
‘This is bad,” the doctor muttered.
“Can you help my father?” Skaara tightly demanded. Destin gave him a grim smile. “Hey, kid, I learned my trade in a shoot-and-stab emergency room. I’ll get your dad patched up so we can get him to some real help.”
The doctor knelt beside Kasuf, ordering the kitchen people in broken Abydan to start boiling water.
Skaara turned back toward the door. He’d just have to hope.... In the hall of the StarGate, located in the midst of the Marine base camp, Sergeant Ernest Brubaker was getting a little bored of the scenery.
There were only so many times you could watch the expression on a truck driver’s face as they came out of the rippling lens and discovered themselves in a kill zone. Since those Horus guys had come through the gate, security around the StarGate had been enhanced by a couple of orders of magnitude. The technicians had been moved into improved positions, and so had the gate guards. The area in front of the gate, which meant the ramp leading directly up to the glittering golden torus, was enclosed in four rings of claymore mines. With one squeeze on a handle, the innocent-looking little plastic boxes could spew a hail of ball bearings through an arc of sixty degrees. Being on the receiving end would be like taking the mother of all shotgun blasts. At first it had been interesting to see which drivers had encountered claymores in the past. They would generally blanch when they realized what they were facing. Then those in the know would gingerly drive their way out of the death trap. There had been lots of complaints from the Earth side of the StarGate that Colonel O’Neil was slowing the flow of quartz crystal to a crawl, but the Old Man was adamant. No transgressors were coming through the StarGate ever again. So, when the sound-and-light show in the big gold donut started up again, Brubaker just stifled a yawn. But the silhouette that finally appeared in the rippling gossamer energy field was no truck. It was people-a hell of a lot of people, taller than normal humans be-cause they were wearing oversized hawk-masks.