Mirror, Mirror

by Sabine C. Bauer

  All of which meant that there was a reason why Ronon Dex had been assigned a prime bunk. Perhaps some perverse punishment for his mildly seditious thoughts earlier. This trip might last just long enough to acquaint him with comfort, and the three-week jaunt immediately following would see him banished to a hole above the latrine.

  In the meantime, however, he might as well make the best of it.

  His mind made up, Ronon jogged down the corridor leading off to the right. First advantage ofA39-D, it was on the lowest deck, closest to the ramp, meaning you could sleep nearly an hour after the guys on the upper decks had their reveille and got ready to move out.

  The corridor branched out into several others, and the air lost the modicum of freshness it had had nearer the hatch. But the stench of burning flesh was gone, too, replaced by a subtle aroma of ozone and lubricant that spelled recycled oxygen. His serial number lit up on the wall of a hallway to the left, and Ronon followed the marker down two more corridors. When the glowing number came to a halt and winked out, he knew that the A39-D was better than good. It was the top bunk right at the back of a dead end. There'd be absolutely no traffic past him during the trip.

  No longer bothering to hide a grin, Ronon climbed up into the bunk. Overhead gleamed another figure: 7. He acknowledged and grabbed the rations tube that sat on the blanket. McKay had constantly complained about what they'd called MREs, but Ronon would have killed for one of those. The taste might be odd, but at least they had some kind of taste and texture, unlike the perfectly balanced, perfectly flavorless paste contained in the rations tube.

  By the time he'd eaten and disposed of the tube, the overhead counter stood at 1. He rolled out of the bunk again and made it to the section's cleansing cubicle just as Number Six's cycle was up. The inside of the cubicle was just large enough to accommodate one man. Carefully filtered radiation dissolved his filthy combat overalls and burned blood and dirt off his skin and hair. Not quite the same luxury as a hot shower, but the troop transporters didn't have the storage capacity to carry anything other than drinking water. The cycle lasted two minutes, at the end of which the cubicle released a fresh set of coveralls. Grateful to have shed the stink of death at least for a little while, Ronon returned to his bunk.

  Chasing sleep, he lay on his back and listened to the scuttlebutt drifting from other bunks. Mostly idle gossip, but sometimes you could catch a nugget of real information. Tonight the conversation centered on the nature of the deployment.

  "I overheard a communications specialist," one of the voices, a very young one, stated importantly. "We're going back to Atlantis."

  It raised a couple of snorts. "Sure. That's why they're in such a hurry."

  "They should be." The young voice sounded indignant now. "The guy said someone came through the Stargate"

  In the roar of laughter that followed nobody heard the hissing breath Ronon sucked in.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Charybdis +4

  treamers," said John's junior twin, something between bafflement and exasperation in his voice, and nosed the jumper clear of the Stargate.

  "Pretty!" chirped Elizabeth. It made a change from her trying to shoot people or bash their brains out and generally reenacting Stephen King's Misery.

  Behind them the wormhole disengaged. In front of them opened the control center-a control center-or what was left of it; a clamshell grotto, dappled with sunlight spearing through a shattered ceiling and wreathed in honeysuckle and a whole bunch of other creepers that clung to anything that would hold them. Woven in among them were strips of cloth, dyed in all colors of the rainbow and fluttering in a gentle breeze. They were the only thing that moved beyond the view port; of the people who must have put them up there wasn't a hair in sight.

  The jumper glided from the grotto, through a stand of giant cedars, and out onto a sheltered clearing, hovering to a stop right at the edge. If Sheppard Junior's debriefing was anything to go by, this landing was a heck of a lot softer than the one before last. John was still trying to wrap his head around the information and figure out whether or not to believe even half of it. Then again, he found he didn't actually care all that much. Not after having woken up in a locked storeroom with his head hammering and his nose in a plateful of thin air a la mode, which was what Elizabeth had expected him to survive on. On the upside, you puked a lot less on an empty stomach. It had taken hours until he was clearheaded enough to assess his situation and realize that, before long, he'd be too weak to move and claw his way out of there through a ventilation duct. The one thing he'd never anticipated in the days of hide and seek that followed was that he'd end up saving himself. So to speak.

  Of course, the entire notion of the doppelganger and having to rescue the galaxy could have been brought on by massive frontal lobe damage, but if that was the case, he'd go with the hallucination. It was preferable to reality.

  "You coming... sir?"

  A generous dash of irony in his own voice yanked him out of the reverie. Then again, if you couldn't take mockery from yourself, who could you take it from? That aside, it might be a good idea to try and stay focused.

  As John shoved himself from his seat, the vertigo struck again and he took a couple of deep breaths. "Coming," he murmured and hoped the process wouldn't entail pitching forward and flat on his face.

  The rear compartment did a wild shimmy and snapped to a halt, abruptly enough to make him stumble and reach for a handhold. He grabbed his own arm. So to speak.

  "It's alright," his double said. "I've got Elizabeth."

  Meaning, Let's not embarrass one another by mentioning our slightly-worse-than-mint condition. They could be tactful if necessary.

  John gave a grateful nod and gingerly walked down the ramp behind Major Sheppard and whatever version of Dr. Weir this supposedly was. They'd decided to take her through the gate to find the original who, with any kind of luck, might just have a fix on the location of one of the McKays. Because one thing was certain: without Rodney they-he-wouldn't stand a snowflake's chance in hell of making Charybdis un-happen. And that, apparently, was the name of the game.

  Unfortunately, there was no welcoming committee made up of originals, doubles, or third parties. The clearing was as deserted as the grotto had been, and they'd have to go look for whomever had put up the carnival decorations around the Stargate. A hike was just what he needed, John thought grimly. What both of them needed, he amended with a glance at his twin's awkward limp.

  Behind them, the hatch of the jumper closed, and the cloaked ship vanished from view. Out here the air was warm and pregnant with the scent of flowers and something else... incense? It smelled good enough to eat. From somewhere among that green, fragrant screen of plant life drifted birdsong and the rustle of small animals going about their small animal business. Elizabeth drifted off into the glade and began picking the pink and purple flowers that grew in abundance.

  Peaceful.

  John harbored a deep distrust of all things peaceful. They usually weren't.

  He exchanged a quick look with his alter ego who, going by his frown, was on the same page-surprise! -and checked the life-signs detector. "There's twenty-odd readings southeast of our position."

  "How many?"

  "I'm concussed. I could be seeing double."

  "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not rely on that." Sheppard Junior pulled out the Beretta they'd taken from Elizabeth; the only weapon they had between them. He hesitated a moment, then held out the gun. "You want it?"

  It was tempting, but John shook his head. "Like I said, I could be seeing double."

  "Fair enough. What do you want to do?"

  "Sneak in, see what we can see " Which would be a tall order with Elizabeth in tow, but leaving her behind was out of the question. John thought for a moment. "It's a surprise, Elizabeth. We have to be very quiet." She was so wrapped up in her hunt for flowers that she didn't listen. A shaft of brilliant sunlight breaking through the branches spun a halo around her head, and for
the first time in what seemed like ages she looked serene. Despite his reservations against things peaceful, John hated the idea of shattering that serenity. "Elizabeth`? Do you hear?"

  As if to prove him right, the sunbeam vanished without warning, dulling colors and casting the glade into murky shadows that were deepening by the second.

  "I don't like this," she murmured, looking up at a sky that was rapidly turning ink black above the canopy.

  She'd barely said it when a bolt of lightning struck the ground mere yards away from them. Instantly the air was filled with the amp-laden stench of ozone, and a roar of static electricity drowned out Elizabeth's scream. A quick glance at Junior assured John that it also worked wonders for his cowlick. Above, the clouds spun into a giant charcoal swirl; its dark core glowering down at them like a malevolent eye.

  It was gut instinct rather than meteorology that made him yell, "Take cover!"

  The next bolt exploded where they'd been standing mere seconds ago. A jumble of limbs, they lay in the underbrush at the edge of the forest, and Junior gasped, "Damn, that was close! Call me paranoid, but it feels like somebody's taking potshots."

  "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you," intoned Elizabeth, making the Johns look at each other in surprise.

  While they were still staring, something crashed through the canopy and struck the ground near them with a solid crack. A second missile followed, then a third and fourth and tenth, in quick succession and picking up speed, until a whole barrage of fist-sized hailstones shattered branches and chewed up foliage and piled heaps of icy baseballs into the clearing. But louder than the rest of the infernal racket was the constant clang of ice on metal.

  "Crap!" Junior hollered over the barrage and pointed in the direction of their cloaked ship. Not so cloaked anymore. There was a squarish, ice-free patch of fern and moss, above which more baseballs were bouncing in midair. Kinda obvious... "We've got to get the jumper out of here."

  "Too late!" Tapping the screen, John thrust the life signs detector at his alter ego. "The natives are heading for shelter. Our way."

  .'Crap!"

  Yeah. He'd got it the first time. The best they could hope for was that the abovementioned natives would be too preoccupied with getting out of the storm to pay much attention to any oddities in their front yard.

  Dragging Elizabeth with them, they backed deeper into the trees. As if on cue, the intensity of the hailstorm doubled. Apparently the local weather gods were intent on pounding them into the ground. Huddled against a massive fir, they tried to get as much protection as they could. It wasn't much, though it hardly mattered, because through a gap in the bushes John now watched the first of the natives stagger onto the clearing and toward the grotto.

  Above and beyond the rustic fantasy fashions that matched the color scheme of the streamers in the glade, you really couldn't make out all that much. They all ran with shoulders hunched and arms wrapped over some pretty impressive hairstyles to protect their heads. Where faces weren't hidden by jutting elbows, they were obscured by beards as impressive as the coiffs. John had counted seventeen people when, suddenly, Elizabeth slipped from his grasp and shot forward.

  He thought he heard her say, "They need me!"-yes, at least as much as they needed a hole in the head- and then she was out in the clearing, grabbing the arm of a woman who promptly stumbled in shock and attempting to haul her off to the grotto. Predictably, the woman started screaming, audible even over the roar of the storm. It drew a threesome of men who tried to pry their companion from Elizabeth. Oblivious to hail and lightning, she hung on like a limpet.

  While John swallowed a blue streak, Junior slid him a Now what? look.

  John shrugged. You had to be as nuts as Elizabeth to expect her to keep their presence to herself for any length of time; she'd try and arrange a dinner party at the earliest opportunity. The best they could do was retrieve her before she hurt somebody, accidentally or otherwise. Patting Junior's shoulder, he pushed himself up-the head-rush was getting worse, he noted-and stepped from cover and out into the clearing. The next thing he heard was a shout, then Junior slammed into him in a ferocious tackle, tearing him to the ground. The lightning struck inches from his head.

  "Now we're even," Junior grunted into his ear and proceeded to pull him to his feet. "I suggest we stay under the trees."

  "Just what I'd been thinking."

  "You okay?" Junior frowned.

  "Little dizzy. Thanks."

  One of the men who'd been busy peeling Elizabeth off the woman had broken from the group in the clearing and came running toward them, one arm folded over his head, the other waving furiously. "Back!" he shouted. "Go back! Go away! You're upsetting the balance!"

  They were what?

  Pointlessly trying to dodge the hail, the man shambled closer, shoved through the undergrowth, and finally sought shelter under the same tree as they. Not overly tall and a little on the scrawny side, he stood there, panting hard, squinting through fogged-up spectacles barely held together by copious amounts of twine. Thinning hair hung to his shoulders, dripping wet, and his beard was similarly soaked and scraggly.

  "Hair meets the Exodus," muttered Junior.

  Their one-man welcoming committee either hadn't heard him or ignored the remark. "You must leave. You're upsetting the balance, can't you see?" The neo-biblical look might have been misleading, the accent wasn't.

  "Radek."

  "Zelenka."

  They'd spoken in unison, and Zelenka blinked in surprise. "How do you-?" He ripped off his glasses and smeared the condensation around with a dirty sleeve. Then he put them back on and blinked some more before gasping, "Colonel Sheppard!"

  "That'd be him." Junior cocked a thumb at John. "I'm Major Sheppard."

  "Hovno!" Under that beard Zelenka, or whatever version of the above this was, turned white as a sheet.

  "That sounded rude," observed Junior.

  "It was." In his timeline, John had received some instruction in basic Czech swearwords.

  "You shouldn't be here," Zelenka hissed. "You-"

  "For God's sake, Radek, don't-"

  "I no longer go by that name. After the disaster you caused, we-the survivors-radically changed our lifestyles. And ourselves. I now am Brother Moon."

  "Alright. Brother Moon." John resisted an overwhelming urge to roll his eyes, less from diplomatic considerations than because it would aggravate his headache. As chirpily as anyone could in a thundering hailstorm when confronted with Brother Throwback-To-The-Sixties, he asked, "You wouldn't happen to know where Dr. Weir is?"

  "That's none of your business. Leave. Haven't you done enough damage?"

  "We'll leave as soon as we've spoken to Elizabeth."

  "Sister Rainbow doesn't want to speak to you."

  "How about we ask Sister Rainbow"-John managed it with only a tiny beat -"ourselves?"

  "She doesn't want to-"

  Three more men scurried across the clearing now and closed ranks behind Zelenka who drew himself up to his full height and announced, "These people have to leave, Brothers. They don't belong here. If they don't go voluntarily, we shall have to... persuade them."

  "Persuade us?" Junior arched an eyebrow. "So this pacifism thing isn't part-of the playbook, is it?"

  John shot him a warning glance. Antagonizing the ashram, for want of a better word, wouldn't get them anywhere. Then again, any further antagonizing seemed impossible. By the looks of it, they were well and truly there already. Unfazed by such petty considerations as chain of command, the Brothers moved in-in a decidedly non-pacifist kind of way. On a good day, he'd have had no problem taking on each of them individually, but all three of them was a bit much. Not to mention the fact that this wasn't a good day by any stretch of the imagination. Junior seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion, looking meekly cooperative all of a sudden.

  Clearly uncomfortable with the situation, the tallest of them murmured, "I really regret this, but-" His gaze snapped
to somewhere behind John's shoulder, and his eyes went wide. As a matter of fact, his whole demeanor gave an impression of huge relief.

  Moments later John realized why. A group of stragglers came stumbling down a narrow forest trail behind them, lugging along a basket heaped with those pink and purple blossoms they'd rescued from the hail. A gust whipped a handful of flowers from the top, plastered one of them across his nose and mouth, half drowning him in that same siren fragrance he'd noticed stepping off the jumper. Maybe that explained why these folks were rescuing flowers rather than food crops. Soaking wet and windblown, they were herded on by Dr. Elizabeth Weir. Peeling the blossom off his face, he wondered whether she was the original version, prayed that, if so, she was compos mentis-though she herself obviously doubted it right now. She'd frozen in her tracks and stood staring from John to Junior and back. Finally she forced herself to take a few steps forward and very carefully touched his arm, then Junior's.

  "You're real," she rasped. "You're both... real. And alive... How..." Suddenly she broke into a huge smile. "God, it's good to see you! You must-"

  "They must leave!" Zelenka cut in. "I doubt either one of them is who he seems to be, and they're putting us all at risk. It's the doing of Charybdis. We can't trust them, Sister Rainbow."