Mirror, Mirror

by Sabine C. Bauer

  Then she'd conceived some foolhardy notion about exploring the city. After all, that was what had brought her here in the first place, wasn't it? She'd drifted around, climbed to the tops of Atlantis's spires, poked into nooks and crannies. She'd discovered rooms of all descriptions and countless strange devices-none of which she could get to work, because she possessed neither the ATA gene that allowed a select few humans to operate Ancient technology, nor the skill and electronic gear needed to access Atlantis's mainframe. In other words, it'd been like being eight years old and gawking through the window of the candy store without a nickel to your name. What it boiled down to was that she would grow old here, with nothing to do and no-one to talk to.

  Perhaps it had been this very prospect that had pushed her over the edge. Her mind was slipping, folding in on itself, no longer able to suffer the lack of human contact and stimuli. She knew enough psychology to have expected it, and mostly she welcomed it. There were times when she'd suddenly come to in some remote part of the city, unable to say how she'd gotten there or what she'd been doing. It meant she'd lost an hour or five-more recently it was days-and every hour lost was a precious sixty minutes she didn't have to live in this place.

  Like now.

  Well, it was one source of interest, she supposed. You never knew where you'd find yourself next. Perhaps she should start a betting pool.

  The idea struck her as uproarious, and she slid halfway down the wall again, shaking with hysterics. Then the laughter broke off, as suddenly as it had come. She straightened up, gingerly started moving toward the door, skirting the worst of the shards. She'd have to act now, while she was still capable of doing it. The only thing that had stopped her so far was the hope of somehow still achieving what she'd meant to achieve. Save lives.

  Hope springs eternal.

  Not if you messed with time itself, apparently. There was no changing the outcome: some four and a half thousand years from now another version of herself would lead the expedition to Atlantis, the city's shields would fail, and everybody would die, including her. She'd just die a little later than the others.

  Out in the hallway, lights activated as she went and shut down again behind her. For a while-who knew how long ago now?-she'd spent days wandering up and down the corridors, making lights come on and off, pretending she was arriving home from work and Simon had heard her car and was switching on the lights in the driveway for her. And she'd go inside, and they'd have dinner and a glass of wine by the fireplace, and they'd talk... That game, too, had palled.

  The hallway took her to the control center. The enormous room with its sweeping gallery and staircase seemed to belong to a dead person, every item in it shrouded in white dustsheets, as if waiting for a realtor to drop in and sell the place on behalf of the heirs. Every item, that was, except the console that con trolled the Stargate. She'd uncovered that one, left it open, because occasionally she needed a glimpse of salvation. Now she hesitantly stepped in front of the console, one finger tracing the edge of a dialing pad.

  She'd thought about it, of course. God only knew how often she'd thought about it. Dial Earth, go back... and end up in the middle of Egypt during the Old Kingdom, where people had yet to rise against a Goa'uld called Ra. Sometimes she fantasized about how she really had gone back and had, in fact, been the driving force behind the revolt. Another, less glorious, scenario was the one where she got taken as host and revealed the coordinates for Atlantis to the Goa'uld. Which probably would spell the end of mankind and countless other races across any number of galaxies.

  The only real option she had was to randomly dial an address in the Pegasus galaxy. Suicide by Stargate. She didn't fool herself into believing that there was any other likely outcome. The Wraith had won, after all.

  End it right here.

  The thought of it was tempting beyond words.

  Her fingers continued to caress the pads. It'd be so easy, so-

  A pad lit up, then a second and a third.

  "My God.. .

  Elizabeth knew she hadn't activated anything. The gate wasn't dialing; it was receiving an incoming wormhole. She took a slow step back from the console, unsure of what to do. Run and hide in the city? But what if it wasn't the Wraith? What if it was someone... human? Her craving for companionship became so strong it left her shaking, sobbing with tears.

  No, she couldn't run. She'd wait and see, and never mind the consequences.

  The sequence completed, the last chevron locked-the seventh, so the wormhole was coming from a gate within the Pegasus galaxy-and the event horizon burst into life, bathed the room in shimmering blue light and retracted.

  "It's Jumper One." Precise, British tones, and Peter Grodin sat at the console, smiling up at her. "About time, too. They were supposed to be back an hour ago."

  She spun away, blood thudding in her ears. Peter was dead. He had drowned four and half thousand years from now, like all the others.

  "Elizabeth... Grodin was aboard the satellite," said Dr. McKay's grief-stricken, disembodied voice.

  Rodney couldn't have spoken. He lay sprawled in front of the gate, unconscious or dead, and morphed into a tall, uniformed man she'd never seen before, flung backward into the gate by a gunshot.

  "Will someone tell me what's going on?" she yelled, knowing even then that she had to be hallucinating.

  Another, vaguely familiar voice burst into the control center. "Ma'am, Jumper One is lodged in the Stargate. Teyla, Doctor McKay and myself are in the rear compartment with the major. He's in bad shape "

  "Lieutenant Ford?" she whispered. "Lieutenant?"

  He stood right in front of her, terrifyingly alien, his left eye suffused with blackness. Past him she could see a small ship emerge from the event horizon. It was ungainly, of the same type as the ships stored in the hangar upstairs.

  Abruptly the Stargate shut down.

  And the silence was back.

  Of course.

  She was alone.

  Gasping for breath, she absently noted that the delusion had been so intense she'd responded physically. Her eyes, bleared by the glare of an imaginary event horizon, squinted in the gloom now. When her vision returned, the ship was still there, slowly rising toward the ceiling and an opening into the hangar. It was piloted by a dead man yet unborn.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Charybdis +32

  -ow!"

  Pima, sweating and bawling and thrashing for the past eighteen hours, focused every fiber of her body and bore down.

  "Good girl," the witch praised her. "Again!"

  "No!" yelled the midwife. "You will be killing her and the babe!"

  Murmurs of consent rose from the other women gathered in the tent. The witch ignored them. She'd fully intended to remain in the background and let the village women do as they'd always done, provided all went well. It hadn't. Several hours into the labor she'd stepped in, unwelcome as her help was to everyone but Pima. Deft fingers, trained by decades of substituting for an old woman's sight, had felt the breech and pushed and palpated until the babe was turned at last.

  "Don't listen to them," she whispered soothingly. "Nobody will be killed, least of all you and your babe. Do it!"

  Letting out a deafening scream, Pima obeyed. Moments later shouting and outraged squeals erupted from the women, suggesting that a man had entered the tent. Most likely Jinto, half mad with worry. The old woman refused to let the breach of tradition distract her. To her mind, a father had every right to witness the birth of his offspring. And he'd arrived just in time. A damp, kicking little life was slipping between her hands and began to squall lustily.

  Relieved to the core of her soul, she gave a rusty chuckle. "There! Didn't I tell you, Pirna?"

  Then someone manhandled her out of the way. No matter. Let the midwife take over. From here on out the woman could do no harm.

  "It is a girl!" hollered Jinto's deep voice. "Pima, do you hear? It is a girl!"

  "I'm not deaf, husband," Pima replied hoarsely. "And I
'm sure the hunters in the mountains heard you, too."

  Laughter flooded the tent, warm and easy and good-natured. It drowned out even the little girl's protests at a world so different from what she'd known these past nine moons and more and dispelled the last remnants of the tension that had built among folk expecting the worst. A pair of hands gently grasped the old woman's arm and guided her to sit on a stool. She was grateful for the kindness, realizing for the first time that she must have been up for a day and a night. Slowly, commotion melted into quiet a contentment that tolerated even Jinto's unheard-of presence in the birthing tent.

  Before long she heard hushed conversations, some appraising the merits of the child, agreeing that the little one looked strong and healthy and possessed the requisite number of fingers and toes; others reminiscing about how Sirvin's labor had kept the village awake for a full two days when she'd had her twins, or how young Lila, friendly enough but not very bright, had never even known she was with child until the babe had arrived, quite unceremoniously, halfway down to the beach. The surprised mother, who until that moment had been convinced she was suffering from indigestion, had carried her son home in a clam basket.

  Underneath the babble, the old woman could make out the soft, greedy gulps of the little girl who had been given to her mother to suckle. All was as it should be. She rolled her head a little, loosening stiff muscles in her neck, and wondered if and when somebody would think to offer her food. They would, eventually, because they expected it would keep the witch favorably inclined. They were right, at least on this occasion. By her count, she hadn't eaten since noontime the day before, and she felt ravenous.

  "What will you call her?" one of the women asked.

  "We haven't thought on it yet," replied Jinto. "Pima was sure it would be another boy, so we've got a name for him, but we can't very well call a girl Tallan."

  "Speak for yourself," Pima said over the titters that rose. "I have a name for her, and a very good one. We shall call her Teyla. Provided you give your consent, Mother."

  The tent fell utterly silent. Though unable to see, the old woman could feel the stares prickling on her skin. She was startled into speechlessness, a rare thing for her, as nothing much surprised her anymore, but this request had been entirely unforeseen. An honor, to be sure, and what little vanity she had left urged her to give permission. Still...

  "I-" she began but never got to finish.

  From outside the tent came a yell. "Jinto! Jinto, you are needed!"

  The voice belonged to Wex, Jinto's friend from childhood, and it was accompanied by running footsteps. Wex and his men had been out fishing, so he couldn't possibly realize that Jinto had cause to be preoccupied. A moment later and among the resigned giggles of the women, Wex burst into the tent.

  "Jinto! Why don't you-" He stopped abruptly. "Oh..."

  The witch fancied she could hear him blush.

  "So the lad has decided to arrive?" He sounded gruff with embarrassment.

  "He hasn't," Jinto pointed out. "She has. What is it? Can it wait?"

  "It can, until I have greeted your daughter."

  Upon which Wex broke into such cooing, it would have made him a laughing stock had anyone dared to poke fun at him. Once a burly boy, he'd grown into a bear of a man, much respected and trusted advisor to Jinto who, after his father's passing, had stepped in as leader of his people-although, as he never ceased to remind the old woman, he didn't feel it was his place. She disregarded his protests with the same regularity. Jinto was a caring and capable leader, which was all that mattered.

  Now, it seemed, curiosity and concern had gotten the better of him. He knew well enough that his friend didn't get excited over nothing. "So, what is it?" Jinto asked again.

  Clearly, Wex didn't consider the matter suitable for all ears. He lowered his voice to a whisper, and much as the old woman strained, she couldn't make out a word.

  "You have done well," Jinto said at last and paused briefly. Then, "Will you go with Wex? There is someone in need of your skills."

  Not until a strong hand clasped her shoulder, did the witch understand that Jinto was talking to her. In truth, she would have preferred sleep to tending the wounded or sick, but she knew that he wouldn't ask lightly, especially after what she'd done for Pima and the babe. "Very well. Take my hand, Wex."

  "I have been waiting to hear you say that all my life " He gently helped her to her feet.

  "Fool!" she groused, biting back a smile. "You can carry my basket for that."

  He led her from the birthing tent and, as soon as they were out of earshot, began to explain. "My men discovered him washed up on the beach, and I thought it best if nobody else found out for now. You know how edgy folk are around strangers since the famine. They'll say we have taken in enough refugees and leave him to die."

  "At the beach?" she asked. "Where did you bring him?"

  "My tent," replied Wex. "It is past the edge of the village and nobody has much cause to come that way. Which probably is for the best."

  "I should think so."

  For the rest of the way he kept quiet, leaving her to her thoughts, which wasn't an altogether good thing. She had to force herself not to get excited, though excitement would offset her exhaustion at least. Still, it might mean nothing, most likely did. There'd been other occurrences. Rare, it was true, but it lay in the nature of the sea to bring flotsam, including a body now and again, some poor soul washed overboard from another village's boat. In all the years only one of those foundlings had survived to live out his days wild-eyed and crazed by what he'd suffered. For a brief while she'd thought he might be the one, but she wouldn't go down that road again. And yet, on no other occasion had there been flaming things tumbling from the sky only days before...

  "We are here," Wex said abruptly, startling her.

  She heard a tent flap being thrown back and rushed footsteps scurrying toward, around, and past her. One of Wex's men ordered to watch the foundling and now dismissed, either by Wex's silent order or by his own misgivings at the sight of the witch. A tug at her arm, and she followed it into the tent. The heat of a roaring fire leaped at her and wrapped her in a blanket of smells; the faint mustiness that seemed inherent to a bachelor's tent, remnants of stew she would no longer feed to a pig, much less to a person, the pungent scent of salt and seaweed-a blessing, given the other aromas-and the stench of a burning that had nothing to do with the fire in the tent. If she hadn't injured her hand the other day, she might not have recognized it so readily.

  "He has bum wounds?" She didn't bother to conceal her surprise. Those were hard to come by on a fishing boat.

  Wex let out a startled hiss of breath. "By the Ancestors! I hope you aren't wondering why people walk in fear of you," he growled. "His hands are burned. How could you possibly have known that?"

  "I may be unable to see, but my nose works just fine."

  His only reply was another growl. It hung, finely balanced, in the void between amusement and doubt. Then he tugged her on, eased her to a seat at the edge of his cot.

  "I have put your basket right by your feet. See what you can do for him," Wex muttered. "He is unconscious and barely alive, and there's nothing much else I can tell you, except that we found a sheet of metal nearby. It seems he was smart enough to use it as a float, but I couldn't say how long he has been in the water."

  Too long, likely as not. She nodded absently, no longer listening to Wex. Now it was her fingers she listened to, carefully heeding everything they said. Some of it was obvious, like the fact that the men had either stripped the foundling or he'd lost his clothes in whatever accident had caused him to end up in the sea. Other things were far more subtle, such as the distinction between the blistering caused by sun and saltwater-mild, all things considered, for it was early in the year yet-and the deeper burns that must have been caused by some other agent. Or the signs of starvation, which this one didn't show. True, he hadn't eaten in some time, and she could feel ribs, sharp and fragile, standi
ng out from taut skin, but she also felt strong, well developed muscles, far from the hollowness that would have told her his body, in a doomed bid to stave off death, had begun to devour itself.

  Even so, he was lucky to be alive. He was burning with fever, its heat rising from clammy skin. He had also broken two bones in his left leg, though she couldn't begin to imagine how he might have achieved that by falling from a fishing boat.

  Then she realized what she was doing-gathering reasons to hope-and shrank back. This foolishness would have to be stopped and stopped now, and there was one sure way of bringing an end to it. Her hands reached up, found his face and started to explore-to look. Sunken cheeks under a rough beard. A high forehead, plastered with thick, damp hair, evenly arched eyebrows, straight nose, well-formed lips, now chapped and swollen from thirst. He was handsome, no doubt, and yes, much as she'd wanted to deny it, there was indeed a chance, but-curse her blindness! -she had too little to go on. She needed to know the color of his hair and eyes, needed to see him...

  Her hands drifted from the foundling's face to his neck, chased a thready whisper of a pulse-too shallow and too fast, but that would improve once she got some water into him. And maybe a stimulant, to be-

  The tip of her left index finger retraced its path. Low on the neck, just beneath the pulse point, it had noted a spot of unevenness where the skin had thickened. The old woman felt her heart begin to race, fast enough and hard enough to hurt within her chest.

  It couldn't be. After all these years, after endless waiting, he couldn't simply come falling from the sky and be brought to her at death's door. Then again, it seemed just the thing the man she'd known would do. But surely Wex would have recognized him, wouldn't he?