Stargate Atlantis: The Chosen (Stargate Atlantis)

by Whitelaw, Sonny

  “Good thinking.” John readied his weapon while the warriors began clambering over the twisted hunks of metal. “A little thing like a missing arm isn’t going to stop a Wraith.” How anything could have survived that crash was beyond him, but underestimating the general stubbornness of the Wraith always was a losing proposition.

  “Here,” a warrior called out. He was standing behind the canopy. “The monster lives!” He raised his axe.

  “No!” John yelled, running around the remains of the fountain. “Maybe he can tell us something.”

  With the raised axe paused above his head, the warrior looked past John’s shoulder.

  Ushat, who was right on John’s six, replied, “Major Sheppard speaks true. Stand aside.”

  John had seen a lot of less-than-pleasant sights in his time. Hell, the entire square was littered with bodies and unattached pieces. The horror here was that the Dart’s pilot was still alive. That is, what was left of him. With both of his arms severed, the Wraith had been unable to reach the self-destruct device on his chest. And he wasn’t exactly able to wander off anywhere, what with having no legs, and not much of a pelvis to speak of. Despite his loathing of the things, John’s instinct was to put it out of its misery with a bullet to the head.

  Seemingly oblivious to its injuries, the Wraith, still strapped to the remains of the seat, hissed at him. “Come closer and let me feed upon you.”

  “Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but you’re kind of missing a few vital parts. Or are those big teeth for something more than show?”

  Snarling in disgust, the Wraith flung his head from side to side, trying to dislodge himself. “Your puny defenses will not stop us.”

  “Stopped you, didn’t it? Darts are pretty much falling out of the sky all over the place.”

  Abruptly, his thrashing ceased, and his head slumped forward onto his chest.

  “Remove its head,” said Ushat, nodding to the warrior.

  “Looks dead to me, sir,” Ford said, wincing.

  “Can’t say as I blame them for wanting to make certain.” John turned aside before the axe slammed down. The absence of Darts now flying around the city didn’t reassure him nearly as much it should have. With that thought, he turned back and crouched down to stare at the inside of the Dart’s canopy.

  “Sir?” Ford squatted next to him.

  Something like a HUD flickered intermittently, almost as if it was stuck on a recycle mode. John was about to call Rodney to come check it out when the display sputtered and died—but not before he’d caught sight of a gut-wrenching image.

  Beside him, he heard Ford inhale sharply. “Was that what I think it was?”

  “What is it that you saw?” Ushat demanded.

  “Unless I’m mistaken,” John replied, standing and stepping down off the wreckage, “there are two hive ships inbound.”

  “That bodes ill, but it is no surprise.” Ushat turned and looked around at the scattered bodies of rebels and Gat’s minions. Spitting in disgust, or maybe to get the bitter taste of defeat out of his mouth, he added, “Kesun told me that when this day came, the Wraith would feed upon the souls of the damned at night, and then, having acquired the strength of their life, attack the Citadel at dawn.”

  Rodney, still supporting Lisera, had joined Teyla, whose face was drawn and thoughtful. “Okay. All right,” said Rodney. “We should rethink our escape plan.”

  John slowly turned to face him. “Five minutes ago, you wanted to stay and broker a peace deal between everyone.”

  “Yes, well, I think it’s fairly obvious by now that my ideals can easily be swayed when faced with a vanishingly small probability of survival.”

  Teyla exhaled heavily. “I doubt that escape is now possible. Frustrated by their inability to cull those within the Citadel, the Wraith will most likely spend the night scouring the areas unprotected by the Shields.”

  “The villages,” Ford said.

  “I think the jumper option’s off the table. Even assuming we could negotiate our way through a city in the throes of anarchy—” John gestured toward what sounded like more street fighting headed their way. “—and fight through the Wraith to get to the jumper, we can’t fly it while we’re carrying the Shields.”

  Rodney’s face slumped in resigned frustration. “And the chances of surviving a gauntlet of Dart sweeps are next to non-existent.”

  Clearly troubled by the conversation, Ushat asked, “You wish to leave us?”

  Offering up what he hoped was a reassuring smile, John replied. “Just figuring out if we could go for help.”

  “From Atlantis?” Ushat’s eyes turned hopeful.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not going to be possible.” John addressed his team. “The only way through this is to help these people defend the Citadel against the Wraith. And we’re going to have to hope we can do that before Dr Weir sends in the backup teams, or they’ll be getting our first look at a hive ship—and probably not live long enough to tell anyone about it.”

  The sounds of street fighting drew closer. John glanced at the ruined Enclave. “Is there anything—anyone left?”

  Ushat’s lips curled in regret. John recognized the look in the man’s eyes. The Daleran had seen a lot of people die in the last few hours, people he’d been charged to protect. “Knowing that the Wraith would strike in large numbers,” Ushat explained, “Kesun this morning ordered every one of Dalera’s warriors to assist with repairs to our weakest point, the old eastern wall. Gat and the other barbarian chiefs chose that moment to make their move against the Chosen, whom they have besmirched.” His face hardened in anger. “Gat has long demanded payment from villagers before allowing them to enter the transports. Many times I told Kesun that we must stamp out this abhorrent practice, for Dalera charged her warriors and priests to accept only gifts and to never demand payment. But…” He paused and looked at his men. “It was our most sacred law, never to turn our hands against the people. Only against the Wraith.”

  John was certain he could see the big man’s lips tremble behind his blond beard. “Until now, fear of the Wraith had checked their hands,” Ushat continued. “But somehow, Gat’s followers managed to penetrate the Enclave. They butchered most of the Chosen in their sleep, after which they set the rooms ablaze, fueling the flames with blackwater. Ah!” He slammed the head of his axe into the ground in frustrated rage. “How they could have done this only Dalera knows, for none but the Chosen have the divine power to enter the Enclave.”

  Rodney’s face had adopted that ‘guilty-as-charged’ look that he was so good at. It was a moot point, though. The servants—or slaves—that they’d seen stashing the food away had obviously belonged to Gat, but Rodney had been right about the condition of the temple. Someone had been doing the cleaning and polishing. Then there was the little matter of that additional control panel in the transport.

  Examining the Enclave, John noted that while it was mounted on a plateau, there were probably countless ways in. This wasn’t the time or the place to get into a philosophical discussion about divinity, so he opted for the less problematic suggestion. “Even if they couldn’t use the transports, couldn’t Gat’s men have just walked in the front doors?”

  As if the thought had never occurred to him, Ushat blinked rapidly. “It is forbidden. Dalera would not allow it.” But his words had lost the conviction they might have had, oh, say, twenty-four hours ago.

  Teyla had found a third Shield, and after wiping off most of the gore, handed it to Lisera.

  Ushat’s eyes widened, and John followed his gaze to the now glowing Shield in the girl’s hand. “Then it is true!” An expression of hope broke across the warrior’s face. “Some amongst the people do indeed carry the divine power. Kesun spoke of this after you departed.”

  “Of what else did he speak?” Teyla asked with a speculative look at Rodney.

  “That it was not only the barbarian rulers and the people who must return to Dalera’s teachings, but also the Chosen. Kesun was cert
ain that many Chosen would be found among the people. The children’s children of Chosen, born in secret during the times when barbarians ruled, as they did until this day. He had intended to test his beliefs as soon as you returned with Lisera.” Glancing up at the still-smoking remains of the Enclave, Ushat’s expression crumpled. “Now it is too late, for the mindless horde knows only revenge. By killing Gat and ordering my men to defend themselves against the rabble, I too have broken our most sacred law, that we should never turn our hand against Dalerans.”

  John clamped his jaw shut. Rodney’s face was also crumpling. The scientist’s depressive funk while they’d been imprisoned was descending to a new level of self-recrimination. But remorse was an indulgence they didn’t have time for. It was getting dark. Assuming Kesun was right about a Wraith ground assault, they had until morning to implement a defensive strategy.

  A bloody-faced man with torn clothing ran into the square. The warriors turned and raised their weapons. Panicked, the man took one look at the warriors, pulled a glowing Shield from his pocket, and held it aloft with a scream. “Save me. I am of the Chosen!”

  The mob on his heels was brandishing torches, howling for his blood. “Quarter him. Quarter the Chosen and take off his head!”

  Ushat snarled and pointed his halberd at the man that John barely recognized in the fading light. “You.”

  “Yann!” Lisera cried.

  “My, how the tables have turned,” Rodney remarked, his features stony.

  Yann stumbled to a stop, his face screwed up against his appalling choices. Behind him, a mob wanted to hack him to pieces—literally. In front, warriors were already spreading out, cutting off any chance of his escaping down some rat hole. “I…didn’t mean for this to happen. This is not what I planned!” he cried.

  “Oh, spare me the echo,” Rodney snapped. He rounded on Ushat. “If you kill him—”

  “I know,” Ushat growled. “Protect the murderous rebel. Do not harm him—yet.”

  Despite the warriors’ obvious anger, they were too well disciplined to disobey an order, and they formed a protective phalanx around Yann. ÒI went back to the village, to try and save everyone, as is the Chosen’s duty,Ó the merchant babbled. ÒBut none remained. The village is overrun with Wraith!Ó

  Which meant the jumper option was definitely out. They were left with only one choice: stand with the Dalerans to repel the Wraith, preferably before the Marines arrived in—John glanced at his watch—less then forty hours.

  Confronted by the business end of fifty or more halberds, the crowd hesitated. Someone from behind cried out, “The Chosen and the warriors have failed to protect us. Kill them all!”

  More shouts followed, grim cries from people who had lost wives, husbands, children, their homes and livelihoods. With nothing left to lose, these people wanted vengeance, and they wanted it in spades.

  Someone must have spotted the glowing Shields in John and Rodney’s hands, because the mob’s attention suddenly deflected to them. John was getting awfully tired of fickle villagers. He was about to yell something, when Ushat announced, “They are not Chosen. They are from Atlantis!”

  That took the wind out of the mob’s sails long enough for a loud voice at the rear to cry, “This way. I have heard there are more Chosen hiding in their Stations in the north.”

  Rodney shook his head. “Somebody had better explain to them that unless they stop killing Chosen—”

  “I think we get the picture, doc,” Ford muttered.

  “Wait!” called a decently dressed guy from the front of the pack. “What if the Atlanteans have come to help us?”

  “Risk your own neck to find out, but you will not risk mine.”

  Scuffles began to break out. As darkness fell, the smoke that curled around the city had been replaced by the angry glow of fires. John recognized the signs. For some, the blood lust was fading and reality was beginning to set in. Their leaders had slaughtered the only people who could protect them from the Wraith and then had themselves been slaughtered. The city was in flames, and now the Wraith were on top of them. It had to have been the worst timed revolution in the history of any world.

  In an aside to John, Ushat said quietly, “Can you help us?”

  “Maybe. First, I need to find a map, preferably like the one Kesun showed me.”

  “Excuse me?” Rodney demanded, having bounced out of depression into indignation. “You want to go sightseeing?”

  “If I’m gonna have to defend this city from a Wraith attack in—” He glanced at two large planets rising over the eastern horizon. “How long until dawn?”

  “Twelve hours,” Ushat replied.

  “For that, I need a map.” John glanced at the squabbling crowd. “And a lot of cooperation.”

  Ushat’s eyes narrowed, and he focused on someone in the rabble. “That man is one of the Citadel’s engineers. He has access to maps and plans.”

  A movement caught John’s attention. He looked up to see Teyla climbing over the wreckage of the Dart. “With your help,” she called down to everyone, “we might yet defend the Citadel against the Wraith. Their winged beasts fall from the sky even though the Chosen are all dead. But you must do as Dalera intended, and work together, for having vanquished this Wraith just moments ago—” She gestured at the wreckage. A sudden hush fell over the square. “We now know that a great cull will take place at dawn. The choice is yours. Surrender to the madness of the Wraith, or work through the night to save what we can.”

  It seemed to Rodney that no place in the Citadel provided an an escape from the eye-watering odors. Currently his senses were battling against the stench of charred… Actually, it was something that he didn’t want to consider all that carefully. Unfortunately the public works building to which they’d been led was directly downwind from the ruined Enclave. A dank chamber with little open space and even less light, he had to admit that the building’s ambiance was a considerable improvement over their prior lodgings.

  Spread out before them on a worktable was a detailed map, hand drawn on some massive animal’s skin. Against his will, Rodney’s mind catalogued the unknown smell as rancid, oily, and possibly related to aforementioned hide. Oh, for the salt-laden air of a balconied room in Atlantis.

  Sheppard was talking tactics and strategies with Ushat, along with a handful of men whom the warrior had identified as city engineers.

  When he’d first met the Major, Rodney had assumed the man’s ever-present composure to be a sign that not much was going on upstairs, so to speak. He’d long since learned better. In a situation such as this, a calm Major was a very good thing.

  After a moment of studying the map, Sheppard said to Ushat, “Do you have any way of signaling the rest of your men inside the Citadel?”

  “We have a system of signals using the Wraith horn,” replied the warrior leader.

  “Assuming that most, if not all of the Chosen are dead, our first priority is to locate and protect everyone who has the ATA gene, or who’s received the gene therapy.”

  The Dalerans’ faces blanked. Rodney suddenly had the urge to be ill. If Ushat learned that it had been Rodney’s idea to introduce the gene to all and sundry, he was a dead man. Of course, given their current situation, he was a dead man anyway. On the bright side, decapitation by axe would likely be less prolonged than having his life sucked out slowly by a Wraith. “Major,” Rodney uttered a warning through clenched teeth.

  Chewing the inside of his lip, Sheppard glanced expectantly at Teyla. Great, now he was definitely a dead man.

  “Kesun was correct,” Teyla explained. “Many of your people have inside of them what is called a gene, a small part of Dalera carried down through the generations. We brought with us from Atlantis a potion that when given to all would allow those who carry the gene to activate the Shields and the transport where once they could not.”

  Could that woman talk, or what? The Dalerans crowded in the room murmured among themselves, greeting Teyla’s words with a sense o
f renewed purpose. Rodney was just about ready to kiss the Athosian’s graceful feet in gratitude—until Ushat’s gaze turned deadly. Fortunately, the warrior’s anger was directed elsewhere. “You stole this potion?” he snapped at Yann.

  “Gat and Balzar decided that they deserved a place amidst the Chosen, and took it from us before we could use it,” Yann spat back.

  Were they trying to give him a coronary? “How many times do I have to tell you? They’re not Chosen!”

  “Rodney?” John fixed him with a murderous stare. “Shut up.”

  “No! There’s a principle here. It’s a gene, not some divine gift that confers them with special privileges. The very name ‘Chosen’ inspires exactly the sort of pogroms that have pretty much guaranteed that everyone here is a dead—”

  “We shall call ourselves Genes,” Yann announced.

  He didn’t even know how to react to that. Genes? They were going to call themselves Genes? The men around him were nodding in agreement, muttering things like, “’Tis a good name.” Rodney opened his mouth to object, when Sheppard shot him a warning look. Well, he supposed it was better than Chosen.

  “Now that’s settled,” said Sheppard. “Can we focus on saving everyone?”

  “How many were given this potion?” Ushat asked.

  “We carried enough for eighty,” replied Teyla.

  “The gene therapy only works on forty-eight percent of the recipients,” Rodney began. “That’s—”

  “Thirty-eight point four people,” Sheppard replied. “Unlike the Wraith, people need most of their body parts to operate, so let’s be conservative and say thirty-five.”

  “Funny.”

  “It will be less,” Ushat declared. “For I and my men killed Gat and many of the ruling chiefs.” He tossed an appraising eye at Yann. “If you did not receive this potion, how is it that the Shield glows for you?”

  Meeting the warrior’s gaze, he replied, “When Kesun was struck down, his body fell atop mine. When I pushed him aside, I brushed the Shield, and it began to glow.”

  The look in Ushat’s eyes changed. “Then you are indeed of the Chosen.”