Retaliation by Bill McCay Page B

the heat here?” the colonel inquired.
    “Sir, I doubt the motor pool will ever live that one down.” Charlton smiled. Some people were still being called “desert cherries” because they had thought they were under attack.
    “The news couldn’t have come at a better time,” O’Neil announced, holding up a piece of paper.
    “We’ve just gotten a note from Daniel Jackson, who’s the closest thing we have to an Abydan Department of State. All the parties-Kasuf, Skaara, and Nakeer- have agreed to extended mechanized patrols.” “Everybody agreed?” Charlton said, impressed.
    “They’re all having enough of a problem maintain-ing order where the population is heavy,” O’Neil said.
    “None of them can spare people for the high desert. Besides, Humvees can travel farther and faster than any mastadge-and carry more firepower.”
    His face hardened as he spoke to his aide. “I want to put maximum destruction on the sand lice preying on the caravans,” he said. “But I also want something else. We still haven’t found a trace of those Horus guards who came though the StarGate-except, per-haps, for all hell breaking loose off in the desert. If there’s anything to be found out there, I want it found.” Charlton responded with an enthusiastic salute.
    “Not a problem, sir.” “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” Daniel Jackson miserably called to Faizah as he clung to the howdah of his riding mastadge. He’d traveled on the backs of the odd beasts for short distances. It was sort of like riding a giant, animated dust mop with a weird gait. Prolonged traveling, however, brought aches and pains to his thighs and butt.
    But there was worse. Since the death of his parents in a horrible plane crash, Daniel had suffered from hodophobia, a psychosomatic disorder also called “the traveling allergy.” Even considering a journey set his nose running. He’d had a miserable, drippy adjust-ment to Abydos-since just the thought of being on a strange planet had been enough to set off his allergy. This cross-country mastadge jaunt was bringing out his hodophobia in full force. Daniel’s nose was run-ning like a faucet. His handkerchief had been soaked hours ago, and it had picked up a fine film of grit stirred up by the caravan’s progress. Whenever he wiped his nose, he also felt as though he was sand-papering it.
    And now, to add insult to injury, the mastadge’s galumphing, stilt-legged progress was beginning to give him motion sickness. Sure-barf all over the place-that should really impress Faizah, he thought. How had he let her talk him into a field trip, of all things? Faizah couldn’t believe that he’d never been to a farming enclave. With typical efficiency she had made arrangements for a quick tour. She’d wished she could show him her own hometown, but that was just too far away. Instead, they’d set off for the farm area nearest Nagada. That had been the better part of two days ago, and Daniel was nearly at the end of his rope.
    Astride her own mastadge, Faizah looked as fresh as when she’d mounted the hairy beast two mornings ago. “Oh, come on, Daniel. We’re almost there. See how the mastadges are acting.”
    Indeed, both their mounts had raised their bearded, stumpy heads, expanding their nostrils and blearing like air horns.
    “They smell water,” Faizah explained.
    The caravan crested the next dune-and the desert abruptly stopped. It was as though some titan had drawn a line. On one side was lifeless sand. On the other side was a riot of green, growing things amid the glint of irrigation ditches. The abrupt transition struck Daniel almost like a blow. Even his nose turned off.
    At an order from the caravan leader, the file of beasts veered off to parallel the fields. Apparently, mastadges couldn’t be trusted among the crops. Daniel jounced along, watching the farmer folk at work.
    Some would pause in their labors to wave to the strangers. Feeling like a tourist, Daniel