SG1-17 Sunrise

by Crane, J. F.

  “Wait up,” she called, hurrying after the woman.

  Glancing back over her shoulder, Sorcha waved a bony hand toward the horizon. “There. Do you see? We must hurry.”

  The distant flash of sheet lightning left no doubt of what was approaching.

  “The storm,” Teal’c said from close behind her.

  “Will it have reached the Cove yet?”

  Sorcha shrugged. “Let us hope not. But hurry. You will know for sure when we communicate with your friends. Let us hope that the storm does not render the blue star ineffectual.”

  “The blue star?”

  “If not for the clouds, it would be visible by now,” Sorcha said, looking at the sky. “But it is there. A bright star that appears with regularity. Without it the device would not work.”

  “A satellite,” Sam guessed, casting a glance at Teal’c. “A communication satellite.”

  “Satellite?” Sorcha repeated, taking care with each syllable. Tasting the word. “You must tell me more as we walk. Come, there is not much time.”

  They scrambled down the scrubby hillside and into the noisome alleyways of the Badlands. Sorcha lifted an eyebrow at Sam’s assertion that, in the past, her people might have possessed space technology, but she did not speak up until Sam was finished.

  “There are those,” she said, “who would scoff at such a notion. But they do not know all that I know about the Time Before; perhaps you are right Samantha Carter.” She paused. “It would be a wonderful thing if you were.”

  The Badlands were not as dark as Sam had expected, nor as crowded. In fact, the place seemed deserted. Although warm light leaked from behind canvas and between the wooden planks of crude shacks, they met no one as they crossed the shantytown. And there was another light abroad in the streets, an all-encompassing white glow, which emanated from a block of huge screens that rose up at the heart of the settlement. Even from a distance, Sam could hear the saccharine music.

  Sorcha grunted when she saw the direction of Sam’s gaze. “The Elect seek to proselytize, even here among the damned. They bring us food to dull our hunger and Sunrise to dull our minds; prison walls could not be so effective.” She poked a finger into Teal’c’s arm. “We need more of your sort, eh? To smash the screens upon the ground and wake the people up.”

  Teal’c looked over at the massive screens, their light a glint in his eyes. “You speak of revolution, Sorcha Caratauc.”

  “A man such as you could lead us.”

  He shook his head, and when he spoke there was a weight in his voice that Sam well understood. “None can lead those who do not wish to follow.”

  He wasn’t talking about Sorcha’s people. At least, not only. “A revolution isn’t born in a day,” she reminded him, “it takes time for ideas to filter through a population.”

  Teal’c inclined his head. “Perhaps. But time is not on our side.”

  Sorcha’s penetrating gaze cut between them, but all she said was, “You speak true. The blue star is overhead. We must hurry.”

  Her tatty clothes flapped as she hurried through the rabbit warren of alleyways. With a final glance at Teal’c, Sam followed, staying close and keeping one hand on the butt of the alien weapon. She wished it was a Beretta.

  At length Sorcha slowed, coming to a halt before a heap of refuse. It took Sam a moment to realize that it was, in fact, the remains of Sorcha’s home. The whole thing had been destroyed, burned and trampled into the dirt. Whatever kind of communication device she’d been hiding, it couldn’t have survived this assault. Sam swallowed a mouthful of bitter disappointment. “I’m sorry,” she said, touching the woman’s shoulder. And she was sorry, but her mind was swamped by her own problems and a dreadful realization: we can’t contact Daniel and the Colonel.

  “Ennis’s men have done this,” Sorcha said with a sniff. She crouched and picked up a scrap of burned paper, turning it over and letting it crumble between her fingers. “I am not surprised.”

  “You’re not?” Sam clenched her jaw. “But you said—”

  Sorcha rose, picking her way through the debris with her eyes fixed on the ground. In the bland light of the vast screens the wreckage looked colorless, a trampled mess of dirt. With the toe of her sandal, Sorcha turned over an old piece of board, beneath it the blackened remains of her hearth lay scattered. She crouched again, tested its heat with her finger, then swept away the rest of the soot and ash and began digging into the dirt.

  Curious, Sam stepped closer. Something beneath her boots crunched, but Sorcha didn’t look up from the hearth where her excavation had begun outlining a stone square, a large metal ring in its center. She grasped it tight, then looked up at Sam. Her lined face was bright and wary. “Take care that we are unwatched,” she said.

  Teal’c moved to join them, walking backward with his gaze turned out into the city. “I see no one.”

  “Me neither,” said Sam.

  Sorcha grunted. “Some are at the screens, others sleep while it is cool.”

  “Good for us, then.”

  She heaved on the iron ring and, with a rasp of stone on stone, the square opened up to reveal a lightless hole. A grin cut across Sorcha’s leathery face. “Be quick,” she said. “There is a ladder. All that we need lies below.”

  * * *

  The Chambers were lit by lamplight, casting the hallowed hall into shadow deeper than usual.

  As he entered, Ennis smoothed his hands over his robes and composed his features. He would not allow Tynan Camus to blame him for this disaster and refused to be cowed.

  The rest of the Elect were already assembled; he suspected he’d been the last to be alerted. Petty gamesmanship, which only was to be expected of Tynan Camus. “Sister Nevin,” Ennis said, bowing slightly as he came to stand before them. “Council.”

  “Pastor Channon.” Nevin’s thin face was frosty. “This situation grows increasingly intolerable. What have you to say on the matter?”

  “Only this.” He cast a look at Tynan, who lounged in his usual position at the end of the table. “As we speak, our guards are moving into the Badlands to root out the outsiders and their accomplice.”

  Nevin lifted an eyebrow. “Accomplice?”

  “Sorcha Caratauc.”

  Nevin grimaced. “Ah, the old crone.”

  “The old crone,” Tynan interrupted, waving a languid hand, “can read. We found books in her hovel, scribblings about Sciath Dé.”

  A gasp of shock went up from the other council members.

  “Sciath Dé?” Nevin’s eyes were like ice. “Is this true, Pastor?”

  “Her writings have been destroyed,” he said. His palms were clammy. “They have been burned.”

  “Why did you not seek to bring this to the Council? If she has Knowledge…”

  Ennis flung a look at Tynan. “Brother Camus and I believed—”

  “She is like a prattling child who knows nothing of what she speaks,” Tynan said. “If she has lured these outsiders with fairytales and nonsense, why should we care? Sciath Dé is anathema to the Lord’s will; He will not permit its existence.” He met Ennis’s gaze. “Will He?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I see no reason for this panic.” Tynan yawned. “The matter is in the Lord’s hands and to be dragged from one’s bed at such an hour, for such a reason, is most unreasonable.”

  Nevin frowned. “The Council of the Elect is not called at your convenience, Brother Camus. These are grave matters; heresy can never be ignored, for fear it will spread like disease among the ignorant.”

  Tynan sat up, adopting a more reverential tone. “You misunderstand. I meant no disrespect to the Council, Sister Nevin. But, if I may, I would like to make one further point.” When Nevin didn’t stop him, Tynan continued. He waved a hand towards the Chamber doors. “Two centuries ago, the Lord punished our world for its sin—he sent the Great Flood to drown the heathens, the sinners, and those who rejected his Light. But sin has returned. I have seen it with my own eyes.
I have walked in the filth of the Badlands, among people blind to the Light. I have seen how they live, like animals, their souls as black as their feet. And now, Council, I see storm clouds upon the horizon, and in them I see the hand of the Lord.”

  He rose to his feet, walking around the table to stand before the Council as if he were the Pastor! Ennis ground his teeth, but held his silence, finding himself lost in the shadow of the man.

  “Two hundred years ago, the Elect brought the righteous into the Ark and saved them from the Lord’s vengeance.” Tynan spread his hands. “Brothers and Sisters, it is time for us to do so again. It is time to close the doors to sin, to cut off the water and the food, to let the seas rise and the Sun burn. It is time to let those beyond His protection suffer the Lord’s wrath. For I will execute vengeance in anger and fury upon the heathen, sayeth the Lord. And He shall wash away sin and, with it, the heresy brought here from Acarsaid Dorch.”

  In the silence that followed, heightened and fervent, Ennis Channon felt the ground begin to shift like sand beneath his feet.

  * * *

  At least the soldiers at the Ark hadn’t taken her MagLite. Stepping off the bottom of the short ladder, Sam swept the small flashlight across room. The place looked like a hoarder’s paradise, racks of shelves holding piles of papers and books. Actual books!

  “Wow,” she breathed, moving deeper into the chamber. Behind her, she heard other footsteps on the ladder. “Where did you find all this stuff?”

  “Here and there,” Sorcha said. There was a rattle, a hiss, and yellow lamplight bloomed. Sorcha hung the lamp onto a hook in the low ceiling. “The collection was begun by another man, Eoin Madoc. He taught me to read and to question, to learn of the Time Before.”

  “The Time Before,” Sam repeated, turning her attention back to the books. She picked one up, studying the alien words on the front. If only Daniel were here! Flashlight wedged under her chin, she flicked through the pages. They were thin and old, water damaged, but nonetheless her breath caught. Alien as it was, she recognized the book for what it was—she’d seen hundreds of them. She looked at Sorcha. “It’s an instruction manual.”

  Sorcha blinked at her, uncomprehending.

  “It tells you how to operate a machine—a technology.”

  “Ah!” The woman nodded, smiling. “Yes, yes. This I know—in the Time Before there was great Knowledge, great machines, but now the Elect hoard it like misers, doling out only what they deem necessary. And here,” she said, moving into a shadowy corner, “here is all I have learned about Sciath Dé; many writings, many arguments I think.” Carrying a large pile of papers, topped by a notebook, Sorcha returned into the halo of light beneath the lamp. She sat down on the floor, placing the papers next to her, and offered the book to Sam. “Look inside. It is all laid down as I have found it.”

  Curious, and not a little in awe of Sorcha’s tenacity, Sam opened the book. It had a hard cover, mildewed in places, and its lined pages were filled with precise handwriting. “This is your work?” Sam said, looking up.

  Sorcha’s pride was evident. “I have spent many years gathering evidence about Sciath Dé, but I have more questions than answers. The truth lies at the Cove; it was there, I believe, that the shield was constructed. But the Seachráni…” She shook her head. “They have no need for Knowledge, they say it has no worth in this world. It is of the Time Before and cannot help us.”

  “But you think otherwise?” She flicked through the pages as she spoke, wishing she could understand the language. Wishing Daniel were with her.

  “I think otherwise,” Sorcha confirmed. “The Elect tell us that Knowledge brought ruin to our world, but I say that Knowledge can save our world. We were not always as we are now, clinging to the shore and burning beneath the Sun. Once we understood the world better than we do now. We were greater than we are now. And I do not see why we cannot be so again, I do not see why we should fear Knowledge.”

  Sam turned the book over in her hands. “In my experience,” she said, “it’s not the knowledge that’s dangerous, but the people who wield it. Something happened to your world, Sorcha. A disaster. Maybe it was technology—knowledge—that caused it, maybe it wasn’t, but you’re right, knowledge could help your people too. And, perhaps, ours. If we can find the shield it could protect us all from—”

  “Yes,” Sorcha nodded, taking the book and clutching it tight. “The shield is the answer—and that we must seek at the Cove.”

  “Talking of which—”

  “Major Carter.” Teal’c called down through the trapdoor, his voice low but not urgent.

  Scrambling to her feet, she moved to the foot of the ladder. “Teal’c, it’s amazing down here, she’s collected a whole archive.”

  “I shall remain here,” he said. “It is not possible to close and disguise this doorway from below. We must remain undetected.”

  “Right.” Sam curbed her enthusiasm, returning to the practical. “Good idea.”

  Sorcha pushed close to her, craning her neck to see Teal’c. “And you must find shelter before dawn,” she said. “You cannot withstand the Burn.”

  “I shall find shelter,” he confirmed, addressing the words to Sam. “And remain within eyesight of the door.”

  She nodded. “Any sign of trouble…”

  His hand touched the weapon in his belt. “I shall be vigilant.”

  With that, let the stone hatch drop into place. Dust sifted down beneath its weight, settling in Sam’s hair. She sucked in stale air and tried not to think about being trapped underground in the suffocating, endless dark.

  “Come.” Sorcha touched her arm. “We must try to contact your friends while we can; the answers we both seek are at the Cove.”

  Shaking off her claustrophobia, Sam nodded. A distraction was exactly what she needed.

  The device itself evidently was a satellite phone, or had been. Judging from the tangle of wires it had been substantially jerry-rigged over the years, which didn’t come as a surprise. “How is it powered?” she asked, sitting down on the floor next to the device.

  “There is a panel above,” Sorcha said. “It converts the Sun’s heat into power.”

  “Right, solar technology of course.” Smiling, Sam picked up the handset, which looked to her like an early cell phone. There was a keypad, but she didn’t recognize any of the symbols. “You touch these buttons?”

  Sorcha took the handset from her with a proprietorial air. “It is delicate,” she said. “The sequence must be offered in the correct order.” Saying no more, she began to dial.

  It was somewhat surreal, sitting in this secret underground chamber, surrounded by user manuals for long-lost technology, watching Sorcha dial a phone number with the same reverence Sam had seen in the eyes of Jaffa kneeling before their false gods.

  Silence followed, and Sam found herself counting the seconds; to Sorcha, she supposed, this wait had to almost seem magical. Then the phone crackled, and there was a hiss of communication—a data burst, Sam thought—and a tinny voice said, “Dia dhuit, Sorcha Caratauc.”

  “Go mbeannaí Dia dhuit,” she answered, and then continued to speak in the same fluid language. Sam recognized only a few words—Faelan, O’Neill, and Daniel Jackson—and then the line went dead.

  “What happened?”

  Sorcha’s brow pinched into a frown. “O’Neill is not there,” she said. “He has left the Cove with Faelan Garret.”

  “What?” Sam felt a lurch of unease. “Why?”

  “To evacuate the Cove and warn those at the Tearmann of the storm to come.” Judging by the shake of her head, Sorcha didn’t think it was a great idea.

  Sam concurred. “What about Daniel?” she asked, shoving away her concern for the Colonel. “Is he okay?”

  “Yes, he is at work in the archives of the Cove. A vast and wonderful place, Samantha.” Sorcha waved a hand around them. “This is nothing to it, nothing at all.”

  Daniel having his nose in a book, with a deadly storm
on the way, didn’t sound like such a great idea either. He’d be up to his knees in water before he even looked up. “And the weather?” Sam pressed. “Has the storm reached them?”

  “No,” Sorcha said. “But it is closing in; they are preparing.”

  “Damnit,” she hissed. “I need to speak to Daniel.”

  “He is being fetched.” Sorcha folded her arms across her chest.

  “Fetched?”

  “To the radio.” She turned her gaze back to the phone. “When he is ready, it will alert us.”

  Sam schooled herself to patience. “Right,” she said, glaring at the hotchpotch of failing technology. “I guess we wait for him to call.”

  She just hoped Daniel hadn’t found a particularly riveting book; waiting never was her strong suit.

  Chapter Twelve

  Few things could distract Daniel Jackson from his research once he was in the zone. Strong coffee was one, wind slamming into the side of the building and making the whole structure sway like a drunk was another.

  He lifted his head from the files scattered across the old desk and glanced out the window. The horizon was definitely skewed, tipped to the right at an unlikely angle. “Okay, so that’s not looking good,” he decided.

  “What isn’t?”

  Rhionna’s voice just about made him jump out of his skin; he’d been so lost in his work that he’d forgotten she was still there, sitting silently in the shadows. He blinked at her, taking in the tanned face and pinched features; she was pretty, he thought, or would have been if she weren’t always scowling. He jerked his head toward the window and the darkening horizon, just as another gust of wind battered the tower. “We’re swaying.”

  Rhionna rose to her feet, her attention shifting to the scene outside. “I know. Faelan thinks these towers were designed that way—designed to move with the seas.”

  Daniel considered his answer. He was no architect, but in his opinion it was a miracle the towers were still standing at all. “Faelan may be right,” he said at length. “That is, these towers would have been built to flex in the wind but…”