The sarcophagus lid slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss, bathing Sobek in the dim golden light of the chamber. He lay still for a moment, eyes closed, feeling the familiar surge of vitality flood his body. Every muscle thrummed with renewed strength, his senses sharpened as if the world had been painted in crisper lines. The technology was a marvel, a gift of the Ancients repurposed by the Goa’uld to defy time itself. Yet, as he exhaled and sat up, the faint fog creeping at the edges of his mind reminded him of its cost. Each awakening brought clarity and power, but also a subtle dulling—a numbing of the sharper edges of his intellect, a whisper of detachment that grew louder with every use. It was no mystery why the Goa’uld had become what they were: arrogant, stagnant, their minds eroded by centuries of reliance on this gilded crutch.

  Sobek swung his legs over the edge, his bare feet touching the cold stone floor. The chamber was silent save for the faint hum of machinery, its walls adorned with faded glyphs that spoke of a lineage he now claimed as his own. He flexed his hands, claws glinting in the torchlight, and frowned. At some point, he would need to test this technology—dissect its mechanisms, refine it. Could he mitigate its mental toll, preserve his cunning while retaining its rejuvenating gifts?

  The thought lingered, a puzzle to unravel when time allowed. For now, greater battles loomed.

  He dressed swiftly, donning a lightweight tunic and armor for the morning’s sparring session, the bronze plates cool against his skin. The training compound awaited, a sprawling courtyard carved from the heart of Jakkan’s former stronghold. As Sobek stepped into the morning light, the air carried the sharp tang of sweat and metal, mingling with the dust kicked up by hundreds of boots. Jaffa warriors moved in precise formations, their serpent and jackal helms gleaming under the twin suns, while slave battalions trained alongside them, their movements less polished but growing steadier with each passing day.

  Sobek took his place on a raised platform, gripping a staff weapon as two Jaffa approached for the spar. The first lunged, his strike a blur of controlled force. Sobek parried with a twist of his wrist, the clash of metal ringing out, then countered with a swift jab that sent the warrior staggering. The second attacked from the side, aiming low, but Sobek sidestepped, driving the blunt end of his staff into the Jaffa’s ribs. The warrior grunted, bowing out with a salute, and Sobek waved them off, his breath steady despite the exertion.

  His gaze shifted to the slave battalions training below. They wore basic armor—dark steel plates that hugged the torso and shoulders, unadorned but functional. It wasn’t enough to withstand a direct staff weapon blast; the searing energy would punch through like a spear through cloth. But it offered protection against the shrapnel and debris that erupted from nearby strikes, a practical concession to their expendable role. Sobek watched as a Jaffa instructor barked orders, guiding a squad through a defensive maneuver. Their plasma rifles flashed with red bolts, striking targets with improving accuracy. Progress, he noted, though not perfection. These were not warriors born—they were tools being forged, and time would tell if they held their edge.

  The session ended with a sharp whistle, and as Sobek wiped the sweat from his brow, a messenger approached, his gait hurried. The young Jaffa bowed low, his hawk helm tucked under his arm. “My Lord, we’ve received word from Wu Ren,” he said, voice steady but tinged with excitement. “She agrees to meet—one ship each, on a neutral space station between our territories.”

  Sobek’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, a spark of triumph flashing in his golden eyes. It was falling into place, just as he’d planned. He snapped his fingers, the sound crisp in the morning air. “Respond immediately,” he ordered. “Accept her terms and prepare my mothership for departure. I want every detail in order—now.”

  The messenger saluted and darted off, leaving Sobek to savor the moment. Wu Ren’s willingness to negotiate was a crack in her armor, a chance to avoid the bloody slog of a full-scale war. He turned back to the compound, barking orders to his Jaffa commanders to maintain training in his absence, then strode toward the pyramid’s core, where his chief engineer and scientist awaited.

  Over the next few days, Sobek immersed himself in preparations. In the weapons lab, Haakja hunched over a disassembled blaster, his golden eyes glinting with focus as he tweaked its power cell design. “We’re close, my lord,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion. “The gas yields are improving—another week, and we’ll double the shot capacity.” Sobek nodded, clapping a hand on Haakja’s shoulder. “Detailed reports when I return,” he instructed. “No shortcuts.”

  In the genetics chamber, Jayaar’s enthusiasm was near-palpable, his hands darting over a console as he monitored a writhing larva in a containment field. “The splicing is stabilizing, my lord,” he reported, grinning wickedly. “The next batch of hosts will be ready for testing soon.” Sobek’s gaze lingered on the larva, its translucent form pulsing faintly. “Good,” he said. “Document everything—every change, every failure. I expect a full analysis upon my return.”

  Three days, he estimated, for the negotiations with Wu Ren—perhaps more, if she proved stubborn. But he hoped for efficiency, a swift resolution that would spare his forces and secure his foothold. As the preparations concluded, Sobek stood on the observation platform of his mothership, a sleek behemoth of obsidian and gold that loomed over Jakkan’s capital. The engines rumbled to life, a deep vibration that shook the stone beneath his feet. He looked down, and his smile widened.

  Millions of subjects poured into the streets below, a sea of bowed heads stretching to the horizon. Their voices rose in unison, a chant of “Sobek! Sobek!” that thundered through the city like a hymn to a living god. Crimson banners emblazoned with his sigil fluttered in the breeze, and children waved from rooftops, their faces alight with awe. The ship lifted off, its shadow sweeping over the masses as it ascended, and Sobek felt a surge of pride—not just Goa’uld arrogance, but something deeper, a flicker of Milton Yeager’s old satisfaction at a job well done.

  The planet’s atmosphere faded, its amber-and-violet hues giving way to the void of space. Stars glittered in all directions, a vast tapestry of light that stretched into infinity. Three moons hung in the distance, their cratered surfaces glowing faintly against the black—silent sentinels of Jakkan’s fallen domain, now his to command. Sobek’s gaze lingered on them, a quiet appreciation breaking through his usual calculation.

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  In two days, they would reach the neutral station. Wu Ren awaited, and with her, a chance to reshape the galaxy’s tides. Sobek turned from the platform, his smile fading into resolve.

  The mothership shuddered faintly as it dropped out of hyperspace, the hum of its engines fading into a low, steady drone. Sobek stood on the observation deck, hands clasped behind his back, his golden eyes fixed on the void beyond. The transition was always a marvel—32 times the speed of light, a feat that bent the laws of physics into submission. Only the Stargates surpassed it, their instantaneous leaps across galaxies a testament to a technology even the Goa’uld couldn’t fully replicate. He allowed himself a moment of awe, a flicker of Milton Yeager’s old fascination with the impossible, before his Goa’uld pragmatism reasserted itself. Speed was power, and power was everything.

  The station loomed into view, a colossal structure orbiting a barren, gray moon. Its silhouette dominated the starfield, a testament to Goa’uld ambition cast in gleaming gold and obsidian. Sobek tilted his head, studying it with a mix of admiration and calculation. It belonged to a minor System Lord—Lord Khemset, a name he vaguely recalled from Hathor’s briefings. Not a council member, nor an enemy of Hathor or the fractured remnants of Ra’s loyalists who’d turned rogue after his fall. A neutral player, then, content to profit from the galaxy’s chaos without picking a side. Sobek filed the detail away; neutrality could be leveraged.

  Wu Ren’s Ha’tak mothership was already docked, its triangular form nestled against one of the station’s ten pyramid-shaped ports. Despite its size—a leviathan of war capable of leveling cities—it looked almost diminutive beside the station’s sprawling architecture. The docking ring was a marvel of design, its ten pyramid ports extending outward like a crown, each angled to cradle standard Ha’tak models as effortlessly as the planetary docks Sobek knew so well. Below this ring, smaller docking tiers spiraled downward in concentric circles, narrowing to a pointed base that gleamed faintly against the void. Every Goa’uld ship, from troop transports to flagships, had a berth here, a testament to the station’s utilitarian grandeur.

  Sobek’s gaze drifted to the other docked vessels, and his brow furrowed slightly. Several designs caught his eye—ships he didn’t recognize from the fragmented memories of Stargate SG-1, a show he’d watched only sporadically in his past life. Ship design had always fascinated him, and the Goa’uld’s penchant for blending elegance with menace had never disappointed. Yet these were wholly unfamiliar, sparking a nerdy curiosity he hadn’t indulged in a while. One was a sleek, compact vessel, its hull a polished silver that curved into a crescent shape, adorned with jagged, claw-like protrusions along its spine. It was smaller than a Ha’tak, likely built for a crew of a hundred or so, its agility suggesting a scout or skirmisher role. Another stood out starkly—a towering carrier that evoked an Egyptian obelisk, its rectangular form tapering to a blunt peak. Unlike a true obelisk, its base flared outward into wide, curved stabilizers, bristling with hangar bays that hinted at a swarm of fighters within. It wasn’t massive like a Ha’tak, but its purposeful design suggested a specialized function—perhaps troop deployment or rapid strikes. Sobek made a mental note to investigate further; such ships could hold secrets worth acquiring.

  His own mothership glided into its assigned dock with a graceful precision, the pyramid port locking into place with a resonant clang. Sobek turned from the viewport as the main hangar doors hissed open, revealing the station’s interior. His guards flanked him instantly—four Jaffa in bronze-and-emerald armor, their serpent helms gleaming, staff weapons held at the ready. He stepped forward, the clack of his boots echoing in the cavernous bay.

  A figure awaited him on the other side: the station’s Goa’uld administrator, a wiry man named Veshar. His robes were a muted gold, less ostentatious than a System Lord’s, and his glowing eyes flickered with deference as he bowed low. “Lord Sobek,” he intoned, his voice smooth but tinged with the practiced humility of a subordinate. “Your presence graces this humble station. I am Veshar, tasked with its stewardship.”

  Sobek inclined his head, offering a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Veshar. Your station’s reputation precedes it—a fine hub for diplomacy. I trust it will serve us well.”

  Veshar straightened, gesturing toward the station’s core. “It is my honor to ensure it, my lord. Please, allow me to escort you.”

  They moved through the hangar, Sobek’s guards maintaining a tight formation behind him. The station bustled with activity—Jaffa patrolled in disciplined pairs, their armor clanking softly, while slaves scurried about, hauling crates or tending to machinery. Sobek noted the hierarchy even here: some slaves wore cleaner tunics, their movements less harried, their eyes less hollow. A caste system persisted, it seemed, even among the laborers. Those privileged to work in this technological marvel—surrounded by humming consoles and glowing conduits—were a step above the field hands of lesser worlds. The Goa’uld needed skilled hands as much as brute strength, and this station was a microcosm of that delicate balance.

  Veshar led him through winding corridors, the walls adorned with glyphs and murals of forgotten victories, until they reached the central chamber. The doors slid open with a low hum, revealing a circular room dominated by a polished obsidian table. And there, standing with an air of quiet authority, was Wu Ren.

  She was striking—a female Goa’uld in an Asian host, her beauty understated yet undeniable. Her features were sharp and elegant, framed by jet-black hair that fell in a sleek cascade over her shoulders. Unlike the heavy makeup favored by many Goa’uld, she wore only a trace of it, a subtle enhancement that let her natural allure shine through. Her attire was a departure from the Egyptian motifs Sobek knew so well: a flowing robe of deep blue silk, embroidered with silver cranes and lotus blossoms, its cut reminiscent of ancient Chinese nobility. The aesthetic intrigued him—did she adopt it from her host, or had her host’s culture shaped her over time?

  The Goa’uld were parasites, yes, but their hosts left echoes, subtle threads woven into the tapestry of their rule.

  Sobek stepped forward, cupping his hands in a traditional gesture of respect and bowing slightly—a calculated nod to her heritage. “Lady Wu Ren,” he said, his voice smooth and measured. “It is an honor to meet you under such… neutral circumstances.”

  Wu Ren returned the gesture, her bow graceful and precise, her golden eyes meeting his with a flicker of curiosity. “Lord Sobek,” she replied, her tone cool but not hostile, carrying a faint accent that echoed her host’s origins. “The honor is mutual. Your rise has not gone unnoticed.”

  As he approached the table, the heavy doors behind him slid shut with a definitive thud, sealing the chamber. His guards remained outside, their presence a silent reassurance beyond the threshold. Wu Ren’s own escort—two Jackal Troops in sleek, dark armor—stood sentinel by the opposite exit, their glowing eyes fixed on him. The room was theirs alone now, a space charged with the weight of unspoken stakes.

  Sobek gestured to the table, his smile polite but guarded. “Shall we begin?”

  Wu Ren inclined her head, mirroring his courtesy. “Indeed. Let us speak plainly.”