Zap

A weapon of terror. Meant to intimidate the enemy.

Dylan couldn't remember who'd made that comment on the ma'tok staff – it had been some name, made at some point in time, on some flexi, read at some point when he'd trained on Tarn-Vedra. But nonetheless, he recognised the weapon. The same weapon that he was holding in his hands.

"It's so pretty!"

Dylan frowned – yes, he supposed it could be called pretty. The staff had a style to it, there was no doubt about that. It was a shame that they'd been used as they had been.

"Do you think they'll like it?" Trance asked, cradling one of the weapons herself – a dangerous thing even at the best of times. "Do you think they'll look good in the armoury?"

"They might," Dylan said, putting his own staff down, and hoping Trance would do the same. "Though the armoury is mainly equipped for smaller weapons."

"Oh. A shame. They'd look quite pretty."

Pretty. There was that word again. He supposed one could find beauty in anything if they looked hard enough. But as ornate as the staff was, he was finding that difficult.

Abydos was a dead world. It had been dead for millennia, the results of a long forgotten war that the Commonwealth had waged against the goa'uld – a now extinct species consigned to the annuals of history. They'd heard rumours of a group of humans having taken refuge amongst the ruins after the Fall, and had headed for the world. An early signatory to a new Commonwealth, a stepping stone on the road to its restoration. Something to convince other worlds that they wouldn't be alone in being signatories. And something to convince himself that it was possible to actually convince people to join. Besides himself, Rommie, a magog Wayist, a freight captain, a womanizing technician, a Nietzschean whom he wouldn't be surprised if he tried to cut his throat in his sleep, and…whatever the heck Trance was.

"Well, I like them," the alien girl said. She twirled the staff around in her hands. "You think they still work?"

"Um, probably," Dylan said. "Naquadah has a long half-life so-"

The staff let out a blast, hitting the ceiling of the pyramid-like structure. Trance looked at him sheepishly.

"So I think we might want to stop playing with them."

"Oh," Trance said, looking sheepish. She put the staff aside. "Right."

Dylan nodded and headed outside. He needed a breather. His uniform was ill suited to the desert conditions, but while the pyramid was much more pleasant in terms of temperature, it was unpleasant in every other regards. It was a reminder of past brutalities. A reminder of pleasant brutalities. Magog killed. Nietzscheans enslaved. The Commonwealth was gone, and civilization had fallen into a tri-galactic dark age.

And yet, he reflected as he drank some water from a hip flask, he'd likely end up taking the weapons. The Andromeda wasn't short of them, but he had no means of re-supplying the armoury – not through legal means at least, and he couldn't count on another High Guard station being salvaged anytime soon. As distasteful as he found the weapons, there was no good reason not to include them.

"Harper, you there?" he asked, using his throat mike.

"Loud and clear boss. Getting a nice tan here. Shame about the lack of ladies."

"I'm sure they're waiting for you in the next star system. Anyway, meet me at my location. I've got some salvage for you."

"What kind of salvage?"

"The explosive, projectile kind."

"Oh, why didn't you say so?" the engineer exclaimed, and Dylan could swear he saw his grinning mug in the desert heat. "On my way!"

Dylan sighed. Harper had called him "boss," so he supposed that was a good start. It wasn't "Captain," or "Sir," but it was at least a sign of authority.

"Hey Dylan."

Authority that Trance wasn't giving him as she walked up beside him. But he wasn't counting on her showing it.

"You don't like those staffs do you?"

"Really?" he murmured, looking out over the desert, wondering how many trips it would take to load the staves onto the Maru, and subsequently into the ship's armoury as well. "What gave you the hint?"

"Oh, well, the way you acted." She smiled. "It's a bit funny, isn't it? I mean, they're staves. Isn't your force lance like that?"

"It…well…sort of."

"Why 'sort of?'"

"Trance, the force lance, the ma'tok staves…they're symbols," Dylan said. "The goa'uld used the ma'tok as a symbol of terror. Their authority."

"And the force lance?" she asked. "Isn't that a symbol of your authority?"

"I…my authority is…" Dylan sighed. He had no idea what Trance was, or what she wanted – he could understand the motives of the rest of his crew, but her sole reason for being on the ship was seemingly for the fun of it. "It's…complicated."

"Why?" she asked. "I mean, they're weapons. They don't mean anything bad. I mean, I'd rather they not be used, but they're tools in the end."

Tools. How the goa'uld had regarded humanity once. He drew out his own force lance, spinning it between his fingers. Luckily with the safety on. It was poor etiquette for a High Guard officer, but he had to remind himself, the High Guard didn't exist anymore.

"And hey, no-one's making you use the staves," Trance said. "I mean, take your ship's nova bombs. You only used them when you had to, right? They weren't your weapon of first resort."

Nova bombs. For a moment he thought of the one he'd salvaged. The weapon he'd kept a secret. He knew he didn't really owe his new crew anything yet per se, but seeing Trance, her innocent eyes…it was guilt he didn't really want right now.

"You're right," he said. "They're just weapons."

Another lie. Because there was the chance that they would be used. That someone in the three galaxies would recognise them. Spread the word that Captain Dylan Hunt was using weapons once used by one of the most remorseless civilizations in galactic history.

A last resort, he reminded himself as Harper showed up. One he'd never have to use.

Hopefully.