Trying to persuade herself that none of them had ever been meant to exist didn't help. If she truly believed it, why had she helped to safely deliver her tiny namesake? Why, over the years, had she healed countless injuries, saved lives even? Pima's, for one, and the thought of what would happened to the woman who had befriended her made her ache.
Had she truly had the right to set Major Sheppard on this course? If he succeeded... If he succeeded, every single person in this galaxy, in an infinite number of galaxies in all the timelines Charybdis had created, would wink out quietly without even knowing and be spared the horror that was inevitable if he failed. Those who had survived the cataclysmic birth of those timelines more than thirty years ago could tell of unimaginable destruction and loss of lives. But as terrible as it had been, what was to come if Major Sheppard failed would be infinitely worse. It had already begun. She could feel it in her bones. Perhaps even the doubts she was having were part of it.
And loitering here, wondering, fishing for reasons not to act, wouldn't improve the outcome. On the contrary. She-everybody-was running out of time. Charybdis was becoming unstable, a by-product of the entropy it had caused. The outward indicators seemed almost accidental; tremors like the one that had caused the rockslide in her cave, the unusual number of storms this past winter, even Pirna's pregnancy at a time when she should no longer have been able to bear a child. Internally, the signs were less inconspicuous; she felt, hour by hour and day by day, the erosion of the barriers between herself and her alternate versions. Holding on to herself and her sanity was getting increasingly difficult, as a myriad other consciousnesses pressed in on her mind like the weight of water onto a crumbling dam. When-not if-the dam burst, they'd all be swept away in a torrent of chaos. She'd seen all her futures, and too many of her alternates were already dying, while the original was about to face grave danger. Teyla couldn't be completely certain, but she became more and more convinced that, if any of the originals died, there would be no righting this.
Reaching out, her fingertips encountered the top of what had to be the city monitoring consoles. There would be a chair ahead, occupied by a dead technician. Another nameless memory, he; in fact, she couldn't even say who'd been on duty the day they all died. She gingerly made her way past the body. Then she was out in the hallway and crept along the wall, toes brushing the floor ahead so she wouldn't trip. At one point she stubbed against something soft, heard a whisper of fab- ric-somebody's clothes. A crane's step carried her over their owner. After that she encountered no more obstacles all the way to where the corridor opened out into a lounge where she had nearly fallen earlier.
He would be somewhere around here.
Bracing herself against the wall she got down on all fours and began to crawl, moving her hands in slow searching sweeps just above the floor. Suddenly she realized what it reminded her of, and she laughed-they'd played this when they were children; one of them would be blindfolded, the others would hide a treat or toy under a pot, and the blindfolded kid would have to find the pot by batting the ground witha cooking spoon.
Her laughter died abruptly when her fingers caught in a shock of matted hair. Holding her breath, she held on to one of the tresses, examined it carefully. It was a braid or rather, a tightly intertwined strand.
"Greetings, old friend," she whispered. "And I hope you'll forgive me for doing this."
From the pouch attached to her belt, she fished a hunting knife. A gift from her father, it had been hers for as long as she could remember, though it never had seen use such as this. Respect for the dead was something Athosian children were taught from early childhood, and what she was about to do went against everything Teyla believed in. The knife clutched in her right, she felt with her left: a shoulder, upper arm, forearm covered in threadbare material that was rotting away around the corpse. Dust and the peculiar musty odor of ancient death rose from it and made her sneeze. She found the cuff of the shirt and then the shriveled, leathery skin of a hand. It lay palm up and open, almost relaxed, its fingers curled slightly from dehydration. Clasping the knife even tighter and gritting her teeth, she grabbed one finger, hesitated briefly, and then cut it off, half expecting to hear a sudden scream of pain. There wasn't a sound, of course, apart from a gentle thud when the dead hand fell back to the floor. Only then she realized that, absurdly, she had kept her eyes scrunched shut. - - -- - - - - --- -- - - - - - -
Teyla blew out the breath she'd held, gently patted the body's chest. "Forgive me," she murmured again, stowed the knife and finger safely in the pouch, and returned to the control center.
At the dialing console she stopped, again wondering about the wisdom of this idea. What swayed her in the end was the certainty that she couldn't possibly make things worse. Her hand slid over the smooth surface of the console. In her mind's eye, she tried to picture the order of the glyphs, which was much harder than she'd have liked to admit. After all, she'd looked at it hundreds of times in the past, but all that wanted to materialize now was a confusing jumble of symbols.
Why hadn't she memorized their precise position?
Because she'd never seen the need, it was as stupidly simple as that.
Her fingers traced the layout of the console, struggling to remember. The glyphs weren't raised, as they were on a DHD, and all she felt were the smooth edges of the of the dialing panels. She only needed the one symbol. Only the point of origin, for if she was right, it wouldn't matter which Stargate she dialed, she'd always be taken to the place and timeline where her original was. If she was wrong-well, it wouldn't matter. Not that much, in the grander scheme of things. Her left hand hovered over one panel, and she was almost completely certain that this had to be the one. Nothing left but to try.
With her right, she dialed a random sequence of six symbols, listened to the reassuring noise of engaging chevrons as she went, and then pushed the seventh with her left. The seventh chevron failed to lock. It could mean one of two things. Either she was wrong about the point of origin, or the six coordinates she'd dialed before were not a valid Stargate address. Given the infinite number of possible combinations, the second option was more than likely, and it was unreasonable to expect that she would accidentally hit an address on the first attempt. She'd just have to keep trying, however-long-it took.
Hours later she felt a little less determined, but she doggedly dialed again. Eventually she was bound to find a viable address. When it happened at last it took several seconds to sink in. She'd pushed the six coordinates, heard the chevrons engage, pushed the point of origin, and moved to dial again so mechanically that she barely noticed the seventh chevron locking. It was the whoosh of the event horizon cascading out toward her that drove it home; she'd found her place to go.
And she'd have to hurry now.
Hand over hand, she guided herself along the console, onto the handrail along the gallery and down the stairs. As she reached the last step and ran out of rail, she hesitated for a moment, then caught the whisper of the event horizon and used it as a beacon to orient herself. Mere steps into that no-man'sland between the stairway and the Stargate she tripped over a piece of metal she'd never considered might be there. She pitched forward without time to brace herself and came down hard on more debris, pinning her right arm under her body. The snap of breaking bone was audible even muffled by her body and clothes.
Old women's bones! Curse them!
For a few seconds she lay there, panting against the agony in her wrist, half tempted to just quit fighting, wait for death, and have it over with. Except, she'd never quit anything in her life. She didn't have it in her. With a furious cry she pushed herself to her knees and carefully tucked the injured hand into her jacket. Then she started crawling forward, scrabbling across rubble and bodies, no longer caring if the departed might feel desecrated. She had to make it before the gate shut down. If she didn't, she knew she wouldn't have the strength to try again. Once she stopped to listen out for the soft gurgle coming from the Stargate, found she was
still on track and closer, much closer now.
Without warning the pile of rubble gave under her weight. She curled up as best she could to protect her broken wrist and, in a small avalanche of debris, she tumbled downhill and into the wormhole, which swallowed her shout of triumph.
Charybdis + 13
By fall of dusk the town of Iraklia on Paphos III was well and truly decimated. An honest day's work, Ronon thought with a surge of disgust he didn't bother to hide. Nobody cared, because it didn't matter. You could be disgusted all you liked, you'd still do the bidding of the Behemoth. Same as the Commander, who even now was strutting across what had been the town's market square, scratching his nether regions and adjusting his pants before sending a one-eyed glare at a handful of survivors. Bruised and battered and bloodied- likely as not half of them wouldn't live through the night-the townspeople huddled between a detachment of hulking, grinning guards. The Commander hawked up a gob of phlegm, spat at them, and strode on toward a hastily erected tent where he'd take his supper.
A lazy southerly breeze lifted wads of smoke from smoldering houses and still burning piles of corpses. As the smoke rose, it dropped flakes of oily ash, gummy like glue, that stuck to your skin and hair and clothes as a constant reminder of what you'd done that day. It also dropped a blanket of smell, the uniquely terrible stench of roasting flesh that seemed too heavy with sin to be carried off on mere air.
The spoils of war.-
Maybe he'd simply chosen wrong, once upon a time.
No , that wasn't fair. Not fair to himself. Not fair to his calling. Not fair to people like John Sheppard and Teyla Emmagan-or Dr. Weir who had been a warrior of words rather than the sword.
Ronon made a conscious effort to rein in the well of grief the memory had unleashed. The Behemoth would sense it and turn it against him. It always did, exploiting any scrap of emotion its components could offer. Some enjoyed feeding it; Ronon didn't. It wasn't what he'd signed up for.
Maybe it was.
He'd stopped caring by then.
Except, he looked at the wholesale slaughter and devastation around him and found he still cared.
Get beyond it. You haven't got a choice.
A few houses over, a couple of soldiers dragged another townsman-hardly more than a boy, this one-from the blazing ruin that had been his home. He was blackened by smoke, coughing and spluttering, his clothes literally burned off his back, but he was still kicking at the soldiers. Brave but stupid, as the boy should know. This was by no means their first visit to Paphos III, and word tended to get out quickly. After this, Ronon very much doubted that any town on the planet would ever fall behind on its tithe again, no matter how severe the summer drought or how lousy the harvest.
Without apparent reason, the two soldiers changed course, dragging their captive toward him. Ronon knew what was to come as soon as he sensed the will of the Behemoth stirring. After all, he'd asked for it. Their faces expressionless, the men stopped before him and dropped their captive like a sack of garbage. The youngster sagged to his knees, eyes raised and defiantly staring at Ronon. Tears-of fury rather than of pain or fear-had tattooed pale patterns onto soot-stained skin. This one wouldn't beg, which was a relief.
Against his will Ronon's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. This must be what it felt like to be possessed by one of those Goa'uld Sheppard and the others had told him about. He didn't even begin to fight it. He'd tried before, countless times, failed countless times. One thing he had learned, though; the quicker he smothered his own volition, the more merciful the victim's death would be. So he pretended to be a specta tor, somewhere outside his body, uninvolved and emotionless, there only to judge the neatness of the kill.
It was swift and it was fast, and Ronon spun away as soon as it was done to avoid the accusation staring from dead eyes. The setting sun, dyed crimson by the haze of smoke above the town, caught on the edge of Ronon's blade and triggered an explosion of reds. Struggling to contain his rage, he wiped the blade on his pants and sheathed it. Then, in a back corner of his mind, hopefully safe from the Behemoth's prying, Ronon offered a brief prayer for forgiveness to the youngster and whatever deities the boy might have believed in.
He'd never have thought that, one day, he'd wish for the Wraith back. Much as he'd hated being a runner, at least they'd left his will alone. Had he chosen to do so, he could have killed himself and ended it at any time. He'd willed himself to survive instead. But this was different. The tiny assembly of metal and silicone the Wraith had implanted in his back to track his movements had never been part of him. The Behemoth was, and by his own choice. The fact that he'd been lied to didn't matter. Not to him. Experience should have taught him better.
After the screaming confusion of Charybdis had chewed him up and spat him out, he'd woken on the shores of an Atlantis radically different from anything he'd known. A patrol had found him and brought him before the Ancestors.
Teyla's saintly Ancestors.
Suave and slick, as silky as their robes and wavy locks, and so persuasive you could talk to them for days without getting a single straight answer and never even notice it.
Oh, they'd been kind enough at first. They'd fed him and clothed him and, while they were at it, healed his injuries with gadgetry Dr. Beckett would probably have given his right arm just to clap eyes on. They'd instructed him in Wraith-free Ancient history, and a what a tale of miracles it was; unheard of achievements in culture and science, up to and including nearimmortality. Somehow they managed to make you believe you were blessed just by having the privilege of hearing the fairytale.
Only, they left out a few salient details. Or, if they didn't sin by omission, they embellished the facts.
Like the one about how they'd picked up where the Wraith had never had a chance to leave off. Ronon had seen it with animals; if there was no predator-and there was none strong enough or advanced enough to defy the Ancestors-they'd spread like wildfire and wreak havoc on everything and everyone that got in their way. Naturally all was done with the best interest of the Pegasus galaxy at heart. Lesser races had to be put in their place at regular intervals, lest they developed the gall to resent their slavery. So much for this whole ascension and non-interference thing-if these Ancestors here had ever toyed with the idea of ascension, they didn't mention it. They liked their current plane of existence just fine.
Lucky for all the other planes.
Shame he couldn't have ended up on one of those.
Behind him a group of laborers arrived to remove the corpse. They looked all but identical, barrel-chested with short, sturdy legs and long, muscular arms; they communicated in grunts-a marginally functional crew of hominids, bred for menial labor. Watching them at their task worked Ronon's nerves raw. He clenched his fists, unclenched them. Inside his consciousness the Behemoth snarled, then went quiescent, sated and content.
After a thorough assessment of Ronon's health and physical parameters, the Ancestors had determined he was suited to join their army, should he wish to do so. He had wished. It was something he knew, after all, perhaps even companionship and a place to belong. Besides, where else could he have gone? A million miles in the opposite direction might have been a good idea, but at the time nobody had told him that he'd be signing his soul away.
A low infrasonic rumble sent a bone-deep tremor through him, set his teeth on edge, and scattered the pointless what-ifs he'd been wallowing in.
"Hey!" One of the soldiers who'd led the boy to execution slapped Ronon's shoulder. "Wake up! Change of plans." The man pointed upward at a troop transporter.
Rapidly descending through the atmosphere, it slowed only when it seemed to skim the peaks of the mountain range beyond and pushed itself in front of the sinking sun, a massive night-black bulk outlined in blood-red. The vessel came to a halt directly above the town, some sixty feet up, plumes of smoke catching under its glistening belly. No lofty speeches on the subject of crime and retribution from on high this time. Given that the t
own was all but dead, it would have been a waste of cliches. Instead, three explosive metallic clangs signaled the unbolting of the loading hatch as soon as the vessel had come to a complete standstill.
As the twenty feet wide ramp began reaching for the ground beneath, Ronon sensed the call of the Behemoth, forcing the troops to assemble. He quickly scanned the crowd closing in around him. Only about a thousand men. Half the number that had been brought here. So the rest would be left behind to secure the town and its surroundings. Not that any of this mattered, but he liked to be aware of these things.
The bottom edge of the ramp touched the ground, surprisingly gently, chasing up tiny swirls of dust. Across the square the flap of the tent flew back and the Commander emerged, picking bits of food from his teeth. Knowing what the man had been dining on, Ronon choked back a bout of revulsion and pulled his attention elsewhere.
Just as well, for ahead of him the men had started to fall into formation to move up the ramp, shoulder to shoulder, six to a line. He joined them, grateful to be leaving this place-although he was quite aware of the fact that, wherever they were deployed, it'd only be more of the same. Always would be, but at least he got a chance to switch off in the meantime. His original assignment had been to remain planetside and instill terror in the denizens of the neighboring towns and villages.
"Move out!" bellowed the Commander. Going by the bleariness of his remaining eye-a cat's eye, yellow and cold-he was half drunk.
Ronon's bleak mood darkened further when he realized that the Commander would be joining them. In real terms nothing could be more terrifying than the Behemoth, which made the half-blind bastard pretty much redundant, but Ronon still was careful around him. The man was a sadist, and needlessly invit ing grief never did anybody any good.
The line in front started heading up the ramp, and he fell into step. A few minutes later he was inside the familiar dark bowels of the transporter, and a synthetic voice from somewhere above allocated him to A39-D. The man to his left gave a jealous grunt, while Ronon himself stood frozen for a moment, blinking in surprise. He'd realized early on that the allocation of bunks couldn't possibly be random. Probability dictated that, if it were, he should have ended up with the same neighbor at least once in all those years. Instead there'd always been unfamiliar faces in the surrounding bunks. Friendship, even camaraderie, among the men was discouraged, because closeness among the rank and file might encourage mutiny. As long as the soldiers believed they were each on their own, they would protect themselves by obeying absolutely. It made you wonder whether the Ancestors fully trusted the power of the Behemoth.
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