02 - Reliquary

by Martha Wells

  John had seen enough, anyway. It was human, or close enough to make no difference. He stepped back out and pulled the door shut again. The blue emergency lights showed him Rodney’s expression, his mouth twisted down, his eyes grim. Rodney said, “This was not a hospital.”

  Kavanagh was leaning over the gallery rail above, demanding, “What did you find?”

  They found corridors, and rooms with more broken equipment and blasted consoles, floors littered with glass and broken ceramics, giant pipes emerging from the ceilings and disappearing into the floors, sealed chambers filled with empty racks for little containers, other rooms that might have been frozen storage. There were also what looked like living quarters, or at least rooms with the stark remnants of metal furniture and no locks on the doors. And there were lots of little cells with monitoring equipment outside; after the first few, they stopped checking for bodies. As Rodney pointed out, it wasn’t like they were going to find anybody alive and waiting to be rescued. The ones they saw that were empty, the doors standing open, were a relief. Imagining what was behind the closed doors was in some ways worse than actually seeing it. “We should be finding bones out in these corridors, too,” Kavanagh had said at one point, “But there’s nothing. That’s anomalous.”

  “Everybody who wasn’t in a cell could have escaped,” John had suggested. “Or the people who were locked up were already dead when the attack started. Like the World War II concentration camps, where they’d start trying to gas the prisoners faster when the Allies—”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that practice, Major, and thanks so much for the image.” McKay had glared at him. “Why don’t you just hold the flashlight up under your chin and make spooky noises while you’re at it?”

  And Kavanagh had said sharply that they didn’t know these were cells, they could have been quarantine rooms for plague victims, and Teyla had said “World War two!” in an appalled and incredulous voice, and the discussion had veered off into unproductive areas.

  They had also found stairwells leading down to even lower levels, telling John that the place was far more complex than they had hoped. The first hour stretched into four, then six, then eight, and John returned to the shaft periodically to check in and let the others know they were still alive. He could tell from Ford’s voice that the younger man no longer regretted being left behind.

  That intermittent odor of rot and decay was starting to get on John’s nerves, especially since, in the few cells they had opened, the remains had been too desiccated to have much of an odor at all. It made him wonder just what the hell they hadn’t found yet. John had firmly banished all thoughts of zombie movies, and McKay didn’t bring the subject up either. Kavanagh was too intent on the search, and just didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have been into cheap horror flicks. Teyla was culturally immune. Though she admitted that she would rather be doing just about anything else, including helping Hailing and the other Athosians build latrines in their new village on Atlantica’s mainland.

  Now she and Kavanagh were checking out the lower part of a large room full of equipment that looked like it was for synthesizing something. John and McKay, having finished their section, waited on the gallery above.

  Groaning under his breath, McKay sat down on the metal floor to consult his PDA. He was making a map as they went along, trying to deduce where the main power generator, whatever it was, might be. McKay and Kavanagh had told each other at least ten times that nothing except a big naquadah generator array or a ZPM could have kept these emergency lights powered for so many years. They had been trying to identify main power conduits, testing them to see which were still hot, and trying to figure out where the cables were coming from. It allowed them to mostly skip the areas where the emergency lights weren’t working, except when one of their flashlights caught something Kavanagh or McKay found fascinating and they just had to go explore.

  John sat on his heels beside McKay, rolling his head to ease the tension in his neck. The air still wasn’t stale, but the smell was getting steadily worse. It made him wonder how many people had been down here when the surface bombing started, if the shielding had protected them or just delayed the inevitable. From the peculiar taint in the air, he figured it was the latter. Of course, considering what they could have been doing to the people in those locked cells, that might have been no loss.

  And your imagination is out of control, John told himself grimly, trying to shake off his mood. He was beginning to think it was time to call it a night. According to his watch, it should be getting dark up on the surface. The MALP’s telemetry data had told them that it was summer in this hemisphere and that the night should only last about seven hours. Besides, his stomach was starting to grumble, and McKay, who had hypoglycemia, had bummed the last power bar a half-hour ago.

  McKay put the PDA away in his pack and sat back with a sigh, looking at the others below. “Kavanagh might just get a gold star for working and playing well with others today after all.”

  John eyed Kavanagh. Once they had gotten down here, the man had settled down and concentrated on the task. At the moment he was examining something deep inside the remains of a dead work station, addressing an occasional remark to Teyla, who was holding the light for him. They seemed to be getting on well enough, probably because Teyla didn’t fall into any of the normal categories of military, civilian scientist, or technical support personnel that Kavanagh was used to dealing with. He treated her like a respected professional in another field. “He gives Elizabeth enough trouble.”

  “Yes, that, of course, but he’s usually very cautious when it comes to risking lives,” Rodney said. “His own, true, but also everyone else’s. Especially stupid unnecessary risks, like climbing down that ladder without a safety rope. And triggering that power surge that opened the shaft. He had no idea what that was. Never mind the possibility of electrocution, he didn’t know what it was going to do. It could have been an intruder destruction sequence. Elizabeth could be sending somebody with a bag to collect what was left of us right now.”

  John pretended to consider it. “I don’t think they’d use a bag. I think they’d be more respectful than that.”

  Rodney gave him a withering look. John relented and added seriously, “Maybe he’s overcompensating. From what Grodin said, Elizabeth did practically hand him his ass.” John and Rodney hadn’t been there to see it. That had been during the infamous bug-neck incident, when their puddlejumper had been stuck halfway through a Stargate and they had only had the thirty-eight minute duration of the active wormhole to figure out a solution. Kavanagh had thought the jumper would explode, and the force would be transferred through the wormhole and take out the ’gate room. Somehow, in all the tension of the moment, this had led to a public dressing down from Weir.

  Whatever Kavanagh had been on about, John didn’t think Elizabeth should have lowered the boom in public. John had had more than his share of public dressing downs, and it wasn’t a command style he preferred. It was only going to cause more problems, but when it had happened Elizabeth must have been feeling the time pressure intensely. Apparently she had been stiff with Hailing about something too, and he was easy-going to a fault.

  But whatever had happened, John wasn’t sure he felt comfortable pointing fingers about it. He wasn’t exactly the sterling example of good chain-of-command relationships at the best of times, and he had made more than his share of mistakes. Big mistakes. “You know Kavanagh’s still chafing. He’s just going to have to get over it.”

  Rodney was frowning thoughtfully. “Yes. But the man did a stint in the SGC, I can’t believe he never had his ass handed to him before. That place is practically the ass-handing capital of the world.”

  “I got that impression.” Ford and many of the others had been part of the SGC, but John had first found out about the Stargate program in Antarctica, about fifteen minutes after nearly crashing a helicopter with General O’Neill as a passenger while being chased by a stray energy drone accidentall
y launched from the Earth Atlantis outpost. His military career had been fraught enough that he really hadn’t been all that surprised by it. He also thought the SGC needed a sign outside that said You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps. Of course, as someone who was for the moment permanently stationed in Atlantis, he wasn’t in any position to criticize.

  Below, Kavanagh finally extracted himself from the tangle of wrecked equipment. John pushed to his feet to call down, “Hey, we need to pack it in for tonight. It’s getting dark up top.”

  Kavanagh stared up at him for a moment, squinting in the dim blue light, his expression blank. Then he said, “Oh, yes, of course.”

  They made camp outside the repository, in a half-ruined structure facing the plaza where the cloaked puddlejumper rested. It was made out of cut stone blocks, its roof one big still-stable slab. There was a little crumbling around where the door had originally been, but otherwise it was mostly intact.

  Corrigan was saying, “I found some indications that part of the city might have been in place before construction started on the repository, but most of it is about the same age. We’re not looking at an intrusion into a long-term occupation site.” He had found writing carved into some of the buildings, some in Ancient and some that was completely unfamiliar. Teyla hadn’t recognized it, either. There had also been some decorative carving, mostly worn down to nothing by the weather, just a few ghostly traces of leaves and vines. Corrigan continued, “I think the Ancients were building this place with the help of another group. Whether they were humans or not, whether they were native to this planet or not, I have no idea.”

  They were sitting around a battery lamp, the bedrolls and other supplies for the night stacked against the wall, the life sign detector out to make sure nothing crept up on them in the dark. John would have preferred a campfire, but it was really too warm for one, and the lamp was an adequate if less comforting substitute. They could hear the sea from here, the distant roar of the waves rolling up the rocky beach; after months of living in Atlantis, it was a deceptively homey sound.

  Listening to Corrigan, Kolesnikova had been drawing patterns in the dirt with a finger. “I think we are all hoping, after what our friends found down in the bunker, that the people who did that were not the Ancients.” She looked up, regarding them all seriously. “Are we not?”

  “Yeah. We are. At least I am.” John looked at Teyla, who just nodded soberly.

  Kavanagh’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I still believe what we found was part of a hospital. And considering that, there may have been a pressing need for it, which explains why it was built inside the repository.”

  John had settled across the battery lamp from Rodney, so he had a good view of the elaborate eye roll, the rubbing the hands over the face, and the exasperated gesture to whatever deity might be listening to grant something, possibly patience or strength, to deal with Kavanagh’s boneheaded stupidity. At least, that was John’s interpretation of what Rodney was doing over there.

  “But with the Stargate, this place is only moments away from Atlantis,” Teyla said pointedly. “If these people needed medical help, why not take them back there?”

  “Whether it was built by the Ancients or not, the underground was not a hospital, or not just a hospital,” Kolesnikova told her. “There are devices similar to the quarantine system in Atlantis, rooms that must have been laboratories, also the remains of defensive capabilities, of weapons manufacture.”

  With a snort, McKay picked up the pack of MREs, digging through it and holding the bags up to read the labels by the lamplight. “A hospital, quarantine laboratories, and weapons development. What does that sound like to everybody, dead people in little cells aside?”

  “Biological warfare,” John said, setting a water bottle aside. He saw Ford exchange a troubled expression with Teyla, and Kinjo gazed out the empty doorway toward the repository. The others just looked grim.

  Kavanagh frowned. “Not necessarily.”

  “Oh, please.” Still flipping through the MREs, McKay threw him a sour look. “You’ve been theorizing in advance of your data since we got here.”

  “Atlantis has literally miles of laboratory space,” Kavanagh said, his voice acidic. “Why would they need to put a biological weapons development laboratory out here, in a structure meant to house a meeting place for other races or other human civilizations?”

  “They didn’t,” McKay told him. He had finally selected an MRE and proceeded to rip the package open. “True, the working laboratory space on Atlantis is phenomenal. If they were pursuing a bioagent to use against the Wraith, we’ll find it there. This just supports my point that the lower levels were not built by the Ancients, or at least not the Atlantean Ancients.”

  It was Kavanagh’s turn to roll his eyes. Kolesnikova rescued the supply pack from Rodney and briskly started to pass out the bagged meals, putting an end to the conversation with, “Let’s speak of something else while we eat, shall we?”

  John thought that was the best idea he had heard all evening, and cut off Kavanagh’s attempt at a rebuttal by turning to Teyla and explaining loudly what chicken tetrazzini was and why she probably wouldn’t like it.

  Earlier, John had taken the puddlejumper up to dial the Stargate back to Atlantis and transmit his report, updating Elizabeth on what they had found, their inconclusive conclusions so far, and what Rodney and Kavanagh had said about the possibility of finding a ZPM. He had practically heard her reserving judgment over the suggestion of an Ancient facility that might have experimented on humans. And she must have read more in John’s voice than he had intended, because she had asked, “How much more time do you think we should devote to this?”

  John had let his breath out. “At least another couple of days. Seriously, from what McKay and the others are turning up, there’s every chance there is a ZPM down there somewhere. What state it’s in is another story. But if we can’t find it in the next couple of days, I’d recommend bringing in another team for a longer stay. We just can’t pass up this opportunity.”

  “Yes, I agree. We’ll reevaluate in twenty-four hours, if anything happens to change your opinion.” There was a pause. “You sound resigned, rather than enthusiastic.”

  John hesitated, considering asking her if she had ever seen Dawn of the Dead, or read The Stand. No, probably not. “Well, you haven’t seen the working conditions. I’m going to complain to my union rep.”

  “I see.” She had sounded amused, which was good.

  Now people were digging into their food with the usual range of reactions from disgust to dogged tolerance. McKay actually claimed to like MREs and never complained about them; it was one of the things about him that made him an unexpectedly low-maintenance companion on field missions.

  Kolesnikova was asking Corrigan about Earth’s Atlantis myths. “How did the stories of Atlantis come to center on the Greek islands, when the actual city landed in the Antarctic region? Or was the word carried to Plato somehow, and he set his version of the story in the land he was familiar with?”

  “That’s always been my theory,” Corrigan told her, warming to the subject. “Now, the island of Thera was always associated with Atlantis, usually because of a volcanic eruption that destroyed the Greek settlement there. Part of the island still exists today, with a giant hole in the center where the eruption occurred.” He looked absent for a moment. “There’s a huge number of myths about Greek vampires—Vrykolakas—associated with the modern island, which is called Santorini. I hadn’t really given that any thought until we came here and encountered the Wraith, but the association with Atlantis, and vampires, is a little…indicative, if you think about it.”

  Kolesnikova sighed. “Perhaps the Atlanteans visited Thera, and left some warning about the Wraith there, that was perhaps destroyed by the eruption. Cretan civilization was also thought to be very advanced, was it not?”

  McKay was listening skeptically. “It’s probably a coincidence.” He turned to John ab
ruptly, asking, “Do you still find this place incredibly disturbing? Again, dead bodies in little cells aside.”

  John lifted his brows, surprised at the abrupt turn. “Yes. It’s creepier during the day than Atlantis ever has been at night, including during the time the Darkness creature was drifting around eating power sources and attacking people.”

  McKay nodded. “Right. I’ve got a theory about that.”

  “A theory?” John stared at him, brows drawing together. “Earlier today you said I was insane.”

  “That’s beside the point.” McKay shifted forward, explaining intently, “We know the Ancient technology responds to humans who have the Ancient gene, either naturally or artificially with the ATA therapy. We know the receptors must emit some kind of field that allows them to interact with the human nervous system, even though we can’t isolate it yet. And though it often seems to work best when the operator is in physical contact with the device, it’s not always necessary. So that field must be broadcast continually all over Atlantis, from the lights to the stations in the operations tower. You’ve gotten used to the presence of that field, even though you’re not consciously aware of it. The lack of it is affecting you here because parts of this place are built with the same type of materials that were used to build Atlantis, even if the construction is inferior. Those materials may be affecting your perceptions, making you expect to experience the field when it isn’t there, causing a cognitive dissonance. Or—” McKay interrupted himself, staring distractedly into the distance. “Maybe these people tried to duplicate the field for their own purposes, and it’s broadcasting in a different range, causing us—you—to—”

  “Hold it.” John put that Freudian slip of “us” together with the way McKay had shut down the conversation about Corrigan’s vampire theory, which, if you had to pick one or the other, went a lot better with dinner than the hospital versus biological warfare development lab argument. He said accusingly, “Dammit, Rodney, you feel it too. Why didn’t you say something about it when I asked you earlier?”