by Jo Graham
“Jennifer!” Teyla’s voice was sharp with fear, but Jennifer’s teeth were gritted too tightly to reply.
And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the pain stopped, leaving only a vague tingle in its wake. Still panting slightly, Jennifer straightened, one hand splayed on the edge of the workbench for support.
“Are you all right?” Teyla asked. “What happened?”
“That just…ahh, really hurt,” Jennifer said, trying to breathe. “We’ll have to see if we can do something about that little side effect.” She looked up at Guide with a sudden unexpected feeling of power. If this had worked, he couldn’t harm her.
“Come,” he said, stepping back into the center of the room, beneath the place where the ribs of the ship met and tangled, like branches in the woods. She was going to have to cross the room to him, she realized. He wouldn’t come to her.
“I will be here, watching,” Teyla said, and Jennifer couldn’t tell if that was threat for Guide or reassurance for her.
“I know.” Jennifer drew in a breath and made herself look at Guide as she walked toward him. He was standing rigid, his eyes on her, his feeding hand tensed at his side. “I trust him.”
He reached out as she approached, and she flinched before she realized he was reaching for her with his off hand. He traced a finger along the curve of her cheek. “You should not trust so easily, Fair One,” he said, very quietly.
“I don’t,” she said. She found herself studying his face. Even this close, he really did look like some older gentleman. Someone’s father. She could imagine Rodney like this, with amber eyes and green-pale skin. Surely his exasperated look would still be the same. “But I trust you.”
He shook his head, and then bowed it as he had to Teyla, silver hair falling over his shoulders. When he straightened, his eyes found hers. “Your faith is not misplaced. I promise it.” He lifted his feeding hand, unbearably slowly.
“You can’t hold back,” she said. “You have to really feed on me, like any other human, or this will all be for nothing.” Guide’s jaw tensed, his hand arched with the effort of holding it still. Her knees were trembling, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. “You know that, right?”
“I do,” he said finally, his voice rough as stone. His hand inched closer to her chest. “Are you prepared?”
Jennifer took a deep breath and nodded, unable to speak.
“Know that I would not do this if it were not necessary,” Guide murmured. He gripped her shoulder with his off hand, holding her in place, and pressed his feeding hand to her chest.
His sharp nails bit deep, and a gasp at the shock turned to an involuntary shriek. She’d thought she was ready, thought she understood what was coming, but nothing could have prepared her for this.
Fire. Fire worse than the drug, worse than boiling oil, seared through her veins, blooming out from her chest in a burst of pain so intense she couldn’t even draw breath to scream again, tears flooding her eyes. It built unbearably, and then blossomed into even more intense agony.
Then the pulling started. It spread from her solar plexus to her toes, to her fingers, her face, her back, ripping something out of her, tearing it from her no matter how hard she fought, and now she could hear herself screaming again, every muscle in her body cramped and rigid, fighting the endless pain.
Her knees gave out, and only Guide’s hand on her shoulder was keeping her upright, his claws digging into her skin. Her throat was raw, and the world was reduced to ripping and burning and wave after wave of pain. There was a heartbeat pounding in her ears, a frenzied drum, and she could hear a high-pitched, keening wail like something dying.
There were knives in her veins, razor blades, shredding her from the inside, and the world was only pain. There was nothing else, would never be anything else —
The screaming grew strangled; weak. Trailed off.
The drum was slowing. One heartbeat, and then another, her chest clenching, and then nothing but silence.
Oh, God. Help me, she thought, quiet and startlingly clear.
The pain stopped.
Then there was nothing at all.
*Stop!* Steelflower’s shout echoed through Guide’s mind, compelling and insistent. Almost, almost he would have stopped. The draw was slowing to a trickle, life flowing into him faint and pure, the rattle in her chest telling him that the end was close. *Stop!* she shouted again, and this time there was her knife at his throat, claws against his wrist.
Guide lifted his head, his eyes opening, and he felt her blade then against his hand, ready to plunge into the wrist of his feeding hand to make his claws open. *I must not,* he said.
*It is not working. You are killing her!* The point digging in, her mind voice harsh.
*I know,* he said.
The woman beneath his hand looked ninety, her hair pale as milk, her eyes rolled up in their sockets, agony beginning to leave her face for slackness, her pulse slowing to twenty beats a minute.
The point of the knife dug in, drawing blood.
*If I withdraw now it will kill her,* Guide said, and his eyes met the Queen’s. *She cannot take the shock again. She is not as strong as Sheppard.* He saw him in his mind’s eye, Sheppard shriveled like this, lying helpless on the grass, borrowed life to heal. Borrowed, and then returned.
Steelflower recoiled in horror, and in that moment he showed her what he would do, let her feel as he felt, the draw, the intimacy of it. What it was to feed, what it was to feel life flowing into his hand. Slower. Her heartbeat slowing. And now the reverse. It was not pain to return life. It was ecstasy.
To feel it wash from him, pure and sweet and true, flowing into the Fair One like light… No, nothing so simple as light. Life was not so fragile. It was darker and messier, emerald and a thousand other shades, rich and complex, to take and to give, salt and dark. The knife in the back of his wrist was a spur, and he put his head back, feeling the Fair One’s body arch as she took a shuddering breath. Air rushed into her lungs, and her face flushed, wrinkles smoothing as Sheppard’s had, as though years erased themselves, as though time ran backwards.
Steelflower felt it through him, mind to mind, her hand on him. To mingle life was a primal intimacy. So had the First Queens fed, mind to mind and heart to heart. So might any demand the life of their blades, life given back to favorites as profound sharing. So might brothers in spirit.
That was what he had given Sheppard — full life taken and restored, as brother to brother. That was what he gave the Fair One.
She coughed, and her body shook. Hair like ripe grain again, her cheeks full and pink. Her eyes opened. The memory of pain was in them even as life flowed through her veins, even as he withdrew his claws, skin closing to faint white lines against her flesh.
“Jennifer! Jennifer, can you hear me?” Steelflower’s voice was low and urgent, her other hand rising to rest against the Fair One’s neck, checking the pulse there. “Jennifer?”
And then knowledge flooded through her. She turned her head and coughed, sweat breaking out on her forehead, her face against Steelflower’s hand. “It didn’t work,” she whispered.
“It did not,” Guide said, and his voice was heavy.
“Jennifer?” Steelflower turned her face gently. “Can you see me?”
“Yes.” Her voice was thready, but her eyes fastened upon Steelflower readily enough. “It didn’t work.”
“That is not important right now,” the queen said, and there was anger in her voice. “What is important is that you live.”
“I…”
“I fed your life back to you,” Guide explained. “As I did for Colonel Sheppard, time and ago. Like him, you will live. And in time it will trouble you as little as it does him.”
“It didn’t work.” She closed her eyes.
“It did not,” Steelflower said. She turned her eyes to Guide. “What does she need?”
“Rest,” Guide said. “It is shock. Nothing more. All the life that was hers has been restored to her, ev
ery year. I have kept nothing.”
Steelflower’s eyes were hard. “I see that you did not.”
Guide spread his hands and let her see the truth in his mind. He had held nothing back, no more than with Sheppard. And yet this defeat was bitterness in his throat. He reached down again and saw the Fair One flinch.
*What do you do?* Steelflower demanded in his mind.
“I would merely carry her to her chamber,” he said aloud. “So that she may lie down in comfort and rest.” His eyes went to Steelflower. “Unless you would rather carry her.” Queen she might be, but she had only a human’s strength, and the Fair One was taller and heavier.
“Carry her,” Steelflower said. “Come, Jennifer. We will put you to bed. You will lie down and sleep to regain your strength.”
He half expected the Fair One to argue, but she did not, only closed her eyes like a tired child and he lifted her up as though she were one in truth. Steelflower went ahead of them through the halls, doors opening before her, to the rooms they shared as though they were sisters. He laid her on the bed and she curled into a knot, her face tight.
“Sleep,” Steelflower said, and laid her hand against her hair. “I will not go away.”
The Fair One nodded, but she did not speak, her eyes closed.
*Come,* Steelflower said mind to mind, and she drew him away, to the other side of a fall of cloth that screened the sleeping chamber, her hand on his wrist.
*I did as I promised,* Guide said, for he did not like the anger he felt in her. *You know that I have not played you false.*
*I know,* she said, and her eyes slid away from his. *It is not that.* Her head dipped, and for a moment she looked like a young queen in truth, faced with first darkness as anyone will be.
*What then?* Guide asked more gently.
*It is only that I had stopped hating you.*
*Only that.* Guide turned his hand in hers, palm to palm. *That is a small thing.*
*It does not work,* she said.
*It does not work this time,* he replied. *It would be unusual if it did. These things take much work. Next time…*
“There will not be a next time,* Steelflower said, and her voice was sharp. *Is that what you propose? To do this to her again and again?*
*I had suggested some other…* he began.
*You sicken me.*
*Yes.* He willed her to meet his eyes and she did. *But tell me you have never killed, Teyla Emmagan.*
She turned her face away, and he knew it was not he she hated. *There will be no second trial,* she said. *I will not be a party to this. I will not let you kill her and revive her again and again, as though you were her torturer. I am taking her back to Atlantis to Dr. Beckett’s care.*
He felt the diamond-hard edges of her mind and he nodded slowly, knowing there was no challenge that would persuade her. *As you will, My Queen.*
Chapter Twenty-two
The Things You Leave Behind
Ronon Dex was a tough guy. Mel had watched him knock down three Marines in the gym, and she was impressed. She thought pretty much everyone was. And so the last place she expected to find him was sticking out from under a couch in one of Atlantis’ TV lounges, muttering and grumbling. She’d been looking for a place that wasn’t in use to watch a DVD, seeing as how the poker game had lost its luster. She would have just moved along if it hadn’t been for the muffled yelp. What in the hell was he doing?
“Is there a problem?” Mel asked.
Ronon righted himself, or at least looked up scowling. “It’s Keller’s cat,” he said. “I told her I’d feed the thing while she was gone, but it got away from me. I can’t get it out from under there.”
“Keller’s cat?” She hadn’t known pets were allowed in Atlantis, and they probably weren’t. But everywhere people went in the service they found pets. Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, Kosovo — there was always a stray dog sleeping under somebody’s cot, a guy with a couple of raggedy kittens that he fussed over. Anywhere they were settled for very long there were pets, babies, or both.
“Yeah.” Ronon glared at the couch. “It’s name is Newton.” There were deep scratches on his left forearm, evidence of previous attempts to extract the cat. Probably some rough old mouser Keller had started feeding, mostly feral and untrusting.
Mel put down her DVD. “Let me have a try,” she said. “I’m kind of a cat person.”
“Watch it,” Ronon said, stepping back. “It goes for the eyes.”
Mel lay down on her stomach, turning her head sideways to glance under the low couch. Right in the middle, unreachable from both sides, a half grown Siamese kitten looked at her appraisingly, sitting like a tiny sphinx with its paws neatly folded.
Ok, not an old mouser. A kitten with too much energy to stay shut up all day.
“Hi Newton,” Mel said. “You about ready to come out from under there and play?”
The kitten meowed back discontentedly. Yep, a Siamese all right. Ready to talk about its woes.
Mel fished in her pocket and produced a ball point pen. “Hey Newton. Look. Shiny thing!” She wiggled it back and forth in front of Newton, just out of reach of its paws. “Shiny, shiny, shiny thing!”
Newton looked at her with an expression that stated louder than words that he was much too smart to fall for a trick like that. And then did anyway. He batted at the pen, missing as Mel pulled it back.
“Not quite. Try again.”
Four or five tries, four or five times the pen retreated, and then she had her hand on the scruff of its neck and backed out, standing up with Newton dangling from one hand. “Got him.”
Ronon looked astonished. Even more so when she grabbed him with the other hand, holding him against her chest while he chewed on the end of the pen, which didn’t turn out to taste good at all. “How’d you do that?”
“I always had cats,” Mel said. She sat down on the couch, stroking Newton’s silky fur. Sleek and healthy, the muscles in his shoulders sharply defined. Dr. Keller was taking nice care of a good cat.
Newton rolled over purring in ecstasy, displaying furry white belly to be scritched in an undignified way.
Ronon shook his head, the kind of admiration in his eyes that she’d expect for shooting something really important, or maybe kicking a guy twice her size, as she rubbed Newton’s tummy, all four sets of claws flailing in the air, some of them sticking on her flight suit cuffs as he writhed. “I figured you had guts since you were a friend of Sheppard’s.”
Mel shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve known John a long time. Since we were teenagers, actually. He’s a good guy.”
Ronon sat down on the other end of the couch, keeping a wide space between him and Newton, who he eyed suspiciously. “Was he always like this?”
“Sheppard?” Mel looked down at the purring kitten, now chewing playfully on her cuff with all four legs wrapped around her arm. She rubbed it under the chin, and it yawned, displaying a full set of nice clean needle sharp teeth. “He was a really sweet kid. A nice guy, kind of awkward.” She shook her head, remembering. “Trusting. Kind. The guy you go to when you have a problem because you know he’ll be there for you. He always had his heart on his sleeve.”
“Sheppard?”
“Yeah. Kind of a prep, but not snobby. He could have rushed, but I don’t think he cared about it. And then his dad messed his mom up over the divorce, and he had to work really hard to stay in school.” Mel stroked the cat’s little flat head. It had the long Siamese nose alright. “That’s why he joined the service. He took his mom’s part, and he had to have a way to pay for school. So no frat for him after that.” She gave Ronon a quick smile. “The detachment’s better than any frat.”
Ronon probably didn’t know what a frat was, but he nodded all the same. The concept worked, even if the exact words didn’t. “He’s not like that now.”
“Who is?” Mel shrugged. “I bet you’re not the guy you were when you were eighteen either.”
Ronon looked startled, then his face relaxed.
“No,” he said.
“John said you were former military?”
Ronon nodded. “Yeah. When I was eighteen I was in my second year in examination school, getting ready to join the Immortals after the third year. I’d do three years there enlisted, then get my commission.”
“Did everybody have to do a tour as enlisted first?” Mel thought that sounded like a pretty fair idea.
“Yeah. You learn everything from the basics up. How can you command troops if you’ve never been commanded?”
“Makes sense.” Mel looked around at the lounge, at the windows opening onto night. “I’ve been in nineteen years. I might retire next summer. I don’t know.” She hadn’t said anything about it to John, or to anybody else yet. Saying it to someone Air Force would be like promising to do it.
Ronon’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t like it?”
Mel shrugged. “If I didn’t like it I wouldn’t have stayed in nineteen years. But I’ve got some other stuff I want to do in my life, stuff I’ve put on hold for a long time. I don’t see any way to do it without getting out.” The kitten purred, writhing on her lap. “For a long time the scale balanced the other way, either/or. But now it’s not.” She gently extracted a stuck claw from her flight suit. “I’ve done a lot of things that I really wanted to do, a lot of amazing things that I’ll never be able to tell anybody about. But I’ve done it. And now I’m wondering if it’s time to do something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know yet.” Mel shook her head. “I’m not sure a commercial airline job would cut it for me. I like training. I like teaching kids how to stay alive and make their kills. I like being somewhere new, dealing with different people.” She glanced up. “That’s one way John and I are just alike.”
Ronon put his head to the side. “So stay here.”
“That simple?” Mel frowned. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure the Air Force isn’t going to let me stay here if I retire.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, it’s classified all to hell,” Mel said.