Sobek sat on his throne, the weight of his position pressing upon him as heavily as the ornate golden headdress that crowned his head. His temples throbbed, a dull, rhythmic pulse that echoed the storm of frustration and calculation raging in his mind. The throne room was dimly lit, torches casting flickering shadows across the stone walls, making the intricate carvings of serpents and jackals seem to writhe in the low light.
At the base of the dais knelt Hana and Karri, their heads bowed low, the torchlight reflecting off their dark hair. Sobek’s golden eyes narrowed as he studied them. They had taken bold action—unauthorized action—placing him in a position where he had to make an example of them. He understood their motivations, even respected their initiative, but allowing them to act without consequence would set a dangerous precedent.
“Do you understand why you are being punished?” Sobek’s voice was calm, devoid of rage, yet carrying the weight of absolute authority.
Hana lifted her gaze just enough to meet his for a fleeting moment before dropping it again. “Yes, my lord. We acted outside of your command, overstepping the boundaries you have set.” Her voice was steady, though he could detect the faint tremor beneath her controlled tone.
Karri, though visibly more shaken, was equally resolute. “We wished only to serve you, my lord. To prove our worth and loyalty.”
Sobek inhaled deeply. Their loyalty was not in question; it was their discipline. The Goa’uld empire had endured for millennia not merely because of strength but because of order. If he allowed deviation, if he permitted personal ambition to override his command, then all he sought to build would be compromised.
“Seven lashes,” Sobek declared, his tone final. “You will endure them in silence and learn from this.”
There was no protest, no plea for mercy. They had expected this.
The throne room fell into a hush as the guards stepped forward, whips uncoiling like serpents from their belts. The first strike split the air with a sharp crack, followed by the barely audible hiss of pain from Hana. Sobek did not flinch, nor did he revel in their suffering. Each lash was a lesson in discipline, a reaffirmation of the chain of command.
By the seventh stroke, both women trembled, their bodies marked but their spirits unbroken. Sobek allowed himself the briefest flicker of admiration. They were strong.
“Take them to their quarters,” he ordered, his voice softer now. “See that their wounds are tended.”
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As the guards helped the two to their feet, Sobek leaned back in his throne, exhaling slowly. He had no doubt they would emerge from this more devoted than before, but his mind was already shifting to greater concerns.
His military.
The gears of war were turning, and time was short. If he was to challenge the established order of the galaxy, he needed an army—not merely his Jaffa warriors but a true force, an empire built from the ground up.
Already, the Jaffa were training able-bodied slaves into soldiers. Factories churned day and night, one producing basic armor, another crafting the new weapons from Haakja’s designs. Progress was steady, but there remained a crucial question: Would the weapon function as theorized?
“Milord!” A voice interrupted his thoughts. A Jaffa warrior stood at attention, his massive frame blocking part of the torchlight. “The harvested resources you requested have been obtained.”
Sobek nodded. “Take them to the chief engineer.”
Haakja already had his instructions; the tests would soon begin. That matter settled, Sobek turned his thoughts to another pressing issue: the advancements in genetic research.
As he strode through the corridors of his stronghold, his mind drifted to Hathor. The Hathor he recalled from the television series had been arrogant, her plans undone by hubris and underestimation of her enemies. But this Hathor was different. Sharper. More calculating. More dangerous.
Her agreement to supply him with Al’kesh ships was both a blessing and a warning. It meant she saw value in him, but it also meant she was watching. Weighing. Measuring his potential as either an ally or a rival.
He would need to move carefully.
The laboratory was a stark contrast to the grandeur of his throne room. Here, cold steel and sterile efficiency replaced gold and fire-lit opulence. Cells lined the walls, each occupied by a test subject—slaves altered, modified, prepared for experimentation. The sight unsettled him in a way he could not fully explain. He was Goa’uld now, and yet…
“Lord Sobek.” A voice pulled him from his thoughts. Jayaar, his chief scientist, stood hunched over a table, his hands deftly working on a squirming female subject.
Sobek stepped forward. “Report.”
Jayaar grinned, his excitement barely contained. “I have been examining the interaction between Goa’uld larvae and their hosts. As expected, the older and more developed the larva, the greater its control. A weak or immature larva struggles to assert dominance, sometimes resulting in… complications.”
Sobek folded his arms. “Have you made progress in ensuring more consistent control?”
Jayaar’s grin widened. “Indeed. I have begun splicing Goa’uld genetic markers into human test subjects before implantation. Theoretically, this should create a host more naturally receptive to symbiosis, eliminating resistance.”
Sobek’s gaze flickered to the woman on the table. The implications were vast. If successful, this process could ensure absolute loyalty from his hosts. Perhaps even allow him to create a new class of enhanced warriors.
“This is promising,” Sobek admitted, allowing a rare note of approval into his voice. “Continue your work.”
Jayaar bowed. “As you command, my lord.”
Sobek turned, his mind already calculating the next steps. His army was forming. His fleet was growing. His understanding of the Goa’uld had expanded beyond the caricatures of fiction into something far more tangible, far more dangerous.
The old empire had become complacent. That would be their downfall.
