Stargate Atlantis: The Chosen (Stargate Atlantis)

by Whitelaw, Sonny

  In a perverse way, the team’s arrival from Atlantis really had been the answer to Kesun’s prayers, because their mere existence had substantiated the man’s belief in what he’d done. Unfortunately, it had also triggered a revolution. Faith in divine guidance versus free will. John wondered how many times Kesun had flipped the proverbial coin before deciding to take control of his people’s fate, relying on faith as his guide.

  John caught Teyla’s eye. He wasn’t entirely certain what was going through her mind, but he suspected that her thoughts and his were running along the same lines. “You know,” he said to Ushat. “This confirms that Kesun was right. Everyone, beginning with the warriors and their family members, needs to touch the Shields to find out if they have the gene.”

  “Why begin with the warriors?” Yann’s face took on a dubious look. He was obviously worried that a new form of imperialism could grow in place of the old regime. Tough to blame him.

  Not about to explain that Kesun had doubtless been smart enough to sow his wild oats close to home, John replied, “Because they’ll take orders, which saves you and Lieutenant Ford from having to persuade Genes to run evacuation missions to the villages.”

  “Do not feel the need to be circumspect on my account, Major,” Ushat said with a sad smile. “The mirror tells me much.”

  That acknowledgment surprised John. But then, Ushat was no fool. Having seen Kesun’s likeness in himself, he’d clearly figured out where the additional Genes had come from. Now he was doing his best to assimilate that knowledge into his long-held beliefs.

  Before Yann could come up with another objection, John pointed to the map and added, “Ford, Teyla, get the word out that every man, woman and child in the Citadel needs to be tested. Anyone with the active gene should transport here so that we can slot them into the grid, and maximize the distribution of the EM fields. Lieutenant Ford will be in charge of designating who goes where.” He picked up his P-90 and headed for the transport, glancing over his shoulder at Yann and Ushat. “Meanwhile, you two pair up and assist with evacuating villages.”

  His own faith, such as it was, still lay in Rodney’s plan, because even if Kesun really had salted away a few Gene offspring, by morning the Wraith would be grounded, and pounding their frustrated claws at the gates. Without the oil fire, given what the engineers had said about the state of the eastern wall, it wouldn’t take long for everything to hit the fan.

  At least this time he was up to his eyeballs in something other than human effluent. Instead of methane and other less than pleasant organic waste molecules, Rodney was instead breathing in doubtless lethal quantities of considerably more volatile organic compounds, like benzene—a known human carcinogen—toluene, xylene, hexane, and…and…hell, he couldn’t remember the entire list, which meant his faculties were already being affected. That he was pushing the tree stump ahead of him with splinter-coated fingers, staying upwind of the worst of the oil, was beside the point. The chances of finding a decent oil-stripping detergent in this hellhole that didn’t scour off most of his skin with caustic compounds were remote to nonexistent. How any rational person could classify crude oil as ‘sweet’ or ‘light’ like some vintage wine was beyond him.

  In formulating this aspect of the plan, Rodney had assumed that the prevailing wind would help push him across the channel. However, he hadn’t banked on how effective the boom would be. The current, fed by the force of the oil, was instead pushing the entire kit and caboodle downstream until it was now almost parallel to the shore that he’d stepped from. There was absolutely no way he would be able to swim the end of the boom across the channel.

  Rodney glanced back at the shore. The men were chopping down more trees—breaking more of Dalera’s damned laws—in order to extend the boom. The very fact that he could see them working meant the shadow cast by the Citadel was retreating. The twin planets were almost directly overhead, from which he concluded that they had perhaps six hours until dawn.

  The crunch of gravel underfoot amplified Rodney’s complete and utter failure. He staggered up the beach, dropping the end of the boom in the thick black goo that covered absolutely everything. While he’d made more than his fair share of errors when it came to dealing with people, he’d never failed at actually doing anything in his life. This was a maddeningly inopportune moment for a first time.

  Teyla’s words to Lisera, that releasing her and Lieutenant Ford had been the only way to save the Dalerans, had not been entirely true. And the hollowness of that assurance had greatly disturbed Teyla. Yet as she had stood atop the wreckage of the Dart and called the mob to set aside their arguments and work together, her appeal had not been directed exclusively at the crowd. She wondered if her team had realized this. They were her team, above all else. Despite their differences, they shared a common goal, and their foundation of common experiences grew with each day that dawned.

  Her emergence as a leader of those Dalerans who would fight the Wraith face to face had first been met with uncertainty. She was not their blessed goddess, Dalera, and she was neither of the Chosen nor one of Dalera’s warriors. Acceptance had come quickly, though, for the two warriors whom she had disarmed in the Sanctuary Hall had requested to be assigned to her and given her the title of Atlantean warrior.

  With these men’s assistance, Teyla had quickly discovered that the Dalerans’ skills with nets and bolas were not limited to warriors and hunters. One-on-one, few could match the fighting skills of a Wraith. But the nets were an effective way to disable the Wraith long enough to kill the creatures with axes.

  As the night wore on and their ranks had been swelled by more and more arrivals, the large square at the base of Lisera’s Station, which had become their new Command Center, filled with the sounds of clanking steel. In their shops, blacksmiths were working overtime to fashion or adjust chest armor, while their apprentices sat without rest at grinding wheels, sharpening axes and other blades. Women brought pots of soup and jugs of weak ale to everyone, or sat around fires braiding nets and fashioning bolas. Every so often, someone would break into song: haunting melodies and sad love songs, including ballads that tolf of Dalera, who had been cast aside by the Ancestors for loving a man.

  Amid all of it, there was a sense of renewed hope, for the Shields had been passed around and word was spreading fast. More and more Genes were being discovered each hour. Perhaps they would be enough.

  Before long, though, the mood began to shift. In a gathering of this type, any information, good or bad, diffused quickly. Teyla could sense the tone of this news before it reached her. “What is it?” she asked one of the two warriors who now stayed faithfully by her side.

  “Reports from the northwest wall,” the young man replied. “The lookouts there have seen the blackwater flowing downstream in unimaginable amounts.”

  “That is what we wished to happen.” She was already anticipating the fall of the ‘other shoe,’ as the Major might have said.

  The warrior bowed his head. “The blackwater flows down the wrong channel.”

  Really, there was no excuse for not having seen the solution sooner. It had to have been all the xylene fumes. Or maybe the toluene.

  “Almost there,” came the reassuring voice of the warrior.

  “We had better damn well be,” Rodney growled. They’d half-dragged and half-floated the entire boom contraption upstream past the truly obnoxious cascade of oil, which fortunately had the grace to spurt out far enough for them to walk between it and the base of the cliff. Supposedly the water across the shallowest part of the river, a short rapid, had only been waist deep. Because of the spring melt, it had turned out to be chest deep but between them, they’d managed to get the boom across the river, then down the northern bank to where the channels divided.

  Rodney released his end of the oil-slicked timber pole, flexed his aching shoulders, and looked out. The men began walking the other end of the boom across the now shallow neck of the North Channel to the beach on the outside of the Citad
el’s walls. Then they carried it a few meters south along the embankment to the point that Rodney had been trying to reach an hour earlier. Once the men had tied off their end, the current should grab the end that Rodney held, and push it at an angle across the entrance to the other side of the South Channel, just like shutting a gate. Unless his luck changed drastically, though, there was a chance that the chain of logs was too flexible and would need help. The men waiting on the southern shore couldn’t swim out to retrieve his end if it didn’t quite reach. Rodney glanced up at the planets. They had maybe five hours until dawn.

  He had to do this. It wasn’t about self-absolution or self-survival. Well, okay, maybe that was a part of it, because if this failed the chances of him—any of them—surviving… On second thought, what good would come from knowing the odds? Forget it. This was about the fact that the arrogance he’d carried around with him most of his life really wasn’t based on some deep-seated insecurity. He was right, dammit! And the sheer frustration that resulted from people’s inability to see that he was right tended to aggravate the small but persistent kernel of doubt that had dogged him ever since his father had made very certain he understood the depths of his worthlessness.

  “If he’d just told me that he’d never wanted me to have a dog in the first place—”

  “What?”

  “Cats are better, anyway. Here, take this.” Rodney handed the engineer—Artos? Amos? Whatever—his backpack, which was somehow still marginally free of oil. “Meet me on the other side.”

  However unwittingly, he’d made some sort of emotional investment in these people, and he’d be damned if he was going to write them off just because the odds against them were so low that they no longer factored into the equation. That had never stopped Sam Carter. “If you could see me now, Colonel,” he muttered, and with a grim smile, grabbed his end of the boom and stepped out with into the river of oil.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “So far,” Ford reported to John, “more than a hundred Genes, including a lot of women and children, have turned up at the Command Center.”

  Over a hundred, huh? Either Kesun had been a busy guy, or alternatively—and given the ages of some of those testing positive, this seemed more likely—some of the other Chosen had also been busy over the generations. Regardless, the gene was considerably more common here than on Earth. “That’s… great,” John replied distractedly, staring at the hive of activity along the eastern wall. Or, rather, where the wall used to be.

  “I’ve been implementing the plan,” Ford added. “We’ve been sending pairs of Genes into villages. When one of them returns with the first transport full of evacuees, the second Gene hands his Shield to a warrior for a couple of seconds to blink it on and off. In the first two villages, the Darts started thinking they had the run of the place, and we took down a bunch of them. The Wraith can’t tell when or where the fields are going to activate, or for how long, and it’s confusing the hell out of them. For the moment, at least, they’ve backed off entirely.” Grinning with obvious enthusiasm, he added, “That means they have to assault the Citadel on foot.”

  “Yeah, we got ‘em exactly where we want them.”

  The tone of his voice must have alerted Ford, whose smile faded. “Sir? You don’t think they’ll strike the eastern wall?”

  “Oh, that’s exactly where they’ll attack. Take a look down there.”

  Peering through the smoky haze from hundreds of workmen’s torches, Ford said, “I can’t…” His voice trailed off, and he sucked his breath in. “I can see the channel!”

  “Yep. What we have, Lieutenant, is a mile long wide open access to the Citadel. And there are two more sections of the wall at least as bad as this.”

  Ford’s eyes widened in alarm. “What happened?”

  “Another classic case of Murphy’s Law.” John kicked at a loose stone, irritated with himself for not having checked the wall earlier. He could not recall seeing any major breaches when he’d flown over the Citadel, but then it had been difficult to distinguish between the jumbled black rock of the buildings and the surrounding fortifications. Although he had anticipated some damage, it was not until seeing it from ground level that he had understood the extent.

  The Lieutenant offered a weak facsimile of his previous grin. “Guess it’s not just the Marines they warn about that law, huh, sir?”

  “Murphy was an Air Force captain.”

  “Really?”

  “I kid you not.” John gestured toward the scene below. “In terms of the Citadel, this is kind of the wrong side of the tracks. The area’s been neglected for years, probably centuries. The Dalerans have been looting the fortifications for building materials. That’s why Kesun gave an order for the engineers and warriors to rebuild this wall, which isn’t something we can finish in the—” He glanced at his watch to check the countdown. “Two hours we have left until dawn. So unless our resident genius pulls off a minor miracle, we’re in trouble.”

  The stuff was surprisingly good. It even had a slight…Oh, fantastic. Of course. It would have to be lemon essence. Rodney glared at the clay jar of shampoo. Maybe his allergies to citrus fruits didn’t extent to alien citrus. Lemongrass, perhaps?

  “Those who collected the blackwater and pitch developed the soapwater generations ago,” Artos explained. Rodney was almost sure his name was Artos. “Some say that it is Wraithcraft.” Even in the darkness Rodney caught his cautious look.

  “I can’t imagine that there’s anything too complex or forbidden about producing a decent quality shampoo. There are only a few basic ingredients required—” He could have elaborated further, but decided that rinsing his hair for the third time would be more productive.

  The river at Nemst could not, by even the most charitable description, be called warm. In fact it was turning him into a soprano, but he’d suffer through it in order to be oil-free. In a few hours he’d be standing very close to a rather large fire, and being covered in oil at that point would not be advisable. The boom contraption had of course worked brilliantly. By now, the team they’d left on the Citadel side of the river should have gotten word to the rest of the city’s engineers. They still had to deal with the oil that had been misdirected down the South Channel, but he’d already sent word for the East Bridge weir to be raised, allowing water to flow through the submerged tunnels while retaining the oil. The cold westerly winds would blow the fumes around the southeastern end of the Citadel, not across it.

  He’d considered allowing the oil in the South Channel to flow down to the point where the two waterways rejoined, to build up against the dam with the oil that was now pouring down the North Channel. However, in an oddly strategic line of thought that betrayed Sheppard’s growing influence on him, he recalled a previously mentioned theory about the Wraith regrouping and attacking from a different direction. Keeping some oil in reserve in the South Channel wouldn’t hurt for the moment.

  As he climbed out of the river, he felt something slip against his chilled skin. The Shield! The cord had come loose. Spurred by a sense of dread, he lunged after it, chattering, “Please, please, please…”

  Too late. The Shield had vanished in an instant, sliding under the dark surface. He splashed around for a few seconds, trying vainly to propel it back into view, but the visibility and the current made such an effort hopeless.

  This was beyond bad. This was going to throw a king-sized wrench into the proceedings. Without a protective EM field, they were Dart fodder.

  He scrambled back onto the shore and grabbed the clothes that Artos had procured for him. “We need to get back to the transport now,” he said curtly, struggling into a pair of pants that was three sizes too big while attempting to shuffle in the right direction.

  The engineer looked puzzled until his gaze fell upon the broken cord that hung limply around Rodney’s neck. He paled and called to the others to follow.

  Dressing while walking at a rapid clip was not a skill Rodney had ever had an opportunity to perfec
t, but he was faring better than he would have expected. As they hurried into the town square, heading for the transport, something flitted through his peripheral vision. One of the men behind them screamed, prompting him to whirl around.

  Despite the fact that he couldn’t see them, he was immediately certain that there was a Wraith nearby. Maybe he couldn’t sense them the way Teyla could, but the damned things were distinctly unsettling even when not visible.

  Something swooped over their heads, and somewhere behind them a second cry pierced the air, then was abruptly cut off. Rodney turned back to look. The last thing he saw before being jerked off his feet was a shimmering beam, like liquid plastic bathed in a weird, blue light, racing toward him.

  John was helping Ford maneuver another block onto a shorter section of the wall when a series of notes blew from a distant horn. The notes were repeated as the message was passed down the line. Spontaneous cheers erupted from the workmen below. One of the engineers ran up to John and, grinning through a now filthy face, slapped his shoulder. “North Bridge reports a great wave of blackwater flowing swiftly down North Channel!”

  Why the Wraith were even planning a ground assault if they knew that their weapons were useless had been just one more unknown to add to the ever-growing list of things that had bugged John—until he’d seen the condition of the eastern wall. Scrubbing a trickle of sweat from his eyes, he nodded. For the first time that night, he believed that they might really have a crack at making this work. “Tell your men to keep rebuilding the wall, and make sure they blanket the entire slope with sand, stones, anything that will retard the fire. And keep evacuating this part of the Citadel.” Most of the flames and smoke would blow east, but the shape of the Citadel’s structures would create pockets of still air. While there was little in the way of flammables to carry the fire into the city, he didn’t want to take any chances.