Stargate Atlantis: The Chosen (Stargate Atlantis)

by Whitelaw, Sonny

  The thick, iron doors burst open wide, but before he could feel more than an additional spike in his permanently elevated sense of incipient panic, several trainee warriors staggered inside, along with a dozen injured combatants. The noise of the battle outside wasn’t exactly offering Rodney inspiration. Ignoring the new arrivals, he demanded, “The pumps?”

  “You can observe from up there.” The engineer pointed to an an area at the top of another set of steps. Presumably they led to one of the Stations that serviced the mechanism attached to the portcullis. Leaving Yann and the children to deal with wounded, Rodney ran up the rough stairs and stared out through a wide gap in the stonework.

  Although he was separated from the blazing channel by a thick wall, the heat was nevertheless rolling across the square in waves. The air between him and the battle on the streets below seemed to jump and dance in the sienna light. Apparently the engineer hadn’t needed to do much to get the pumps operational. From the fountain in the center of the courtyard gushed a massive volume of oil. Seconds later, a nearby bugler blew a series of notes.

  Rodney fingered his weapon. By the light of the outside fire, he could clearly see the transport doors. He’d heard about what Sheppard had done to—or perhaps for—Colonel Sumner. Maybe when he got back to Atlantis he should actually learn to shoot the gun at something more than a paper target. Not that he particularly wanted to use a gun at all, but there were some circumstances in which he conceded that it could prove necessary. Of course, whether he’d actually be capable of putting a bullet through a child’s head—

  “Buglers are spreading the word,” Yann announced, joining him. “Everyone who can do so will evacuate the area around the transport and storehouses, while the warriors will stay and fight until the last.”

  Wincing, Rodney nodded. Whatever antiquated system the Dalerans employed to keep the pumps operational was now working overtime. Oil spilled from the small pond at the base of the fountain and onto the ground. While the first few rivulets were diverted by bodies, the direction of flow was definitely toward the transport—which had just opened to reveal yet more incoming Wraith. He could hear the quaver in Yann’s voice as the man said, “I do not know for how long the warriors will be able to hold them.”

  Rodney glanced back at Yann, and noticed that he was carrying a warrior’s bola. In the square, attackers and defenders alike were slipping and skidding through the oil. Using his field glasses, Rodney noted that many of the Wraith had a somewhat singed look. Eyes flashing in the light of the Channel fire, they now diverted their efforts from merely random havoc, destruction, and a clear desire to break into the pump-house to getting well clear of the cascading oil. They had obviously intuited what was coming.

  The doors of the transport closed before any oil could flow inside, which Rodney counted as a good thing. The next group of inbound Wraith wouldn’t have a clue what was waiting for them. Moments later, the entire area around the low-lying transport began filling with oil.

  Yann pulled a metallic stick from his pocket. With a thin-lipped grin at Rodney, he said, “Wraithcraft.” The object, not unlike that which Rodney had seen Teyla and several Athosians use, sent a spidery red beam at the bola’s balls. The wadding immediately ignited. Yann waited until both balls were burning well before swinging the weapon slowly around his head.

  The thumps on the iron doors below increased, and the children clambered up the steps. This time, their cries were genuine. Rodney had no idea why they were running to him. He couldn’t offer them any protection, and even if this did work, there was no guarantee that the Wraith now swarming across the square wouldn’t overrun them.

  “Get back!” Yann yelled at the children. “Hide your faces behind the walls. When the blackpowder blows, it may well destroy this part of the bridge.”

  Teyla did not hesitate. Even so, Lieutenant Ford proved somewhat faster in firing his weapon at the solitary Wraith emerging from the transport and into the inn.

  Seemingly oblivious to its wounds, the Wraith released his grip on Peryn and charged them. Although Teyla could not make out her teammate’s words, she understood the Lieutenant’s intent. Quickly circling the Wraith, she darted into the transport, ducking low to avoid the hail of bullets now punching through their attacker’s head.

  Face bleeding from a deep slice along his cheek, Peryn pulled himself to his feet and lunged at the panel inside the transport. Teyla cried out to wait, but Lieutenant Ford was on her heels, shouting for Peryn to close the doors. A quick glance out, and she saw the wounded Wraith harshly knocked aside by those now storming into the inn. Before she could direct him to do otherwise, Peryn stabbed at the light on the panel, and the doors opened to the sight of a tremendous battle—and a gush of blackwater.

  “That won’t happen,” Rodney declared confidently. “A blast through the air is a woefully inefficient coupling mechanism against heavy stonework—Now!” he yelled at Yann. Across the square, several lights indicated that the transport was opening. Calling downstairs, he added, “Stop pumping and close off the valves!”

  The heavy bola flew from Yann’s grasp, a pinwheel of flame arcing across the heads of the combatants. Rodney noticed that the transport doors folded back—to reveal only three people, two of whom were knocked off their feet by the flood of oil. The flaming bola landed with a gut-punching whoomp in the oil-filled fountain. The last thing that he saw before fire engulfed the transport was the surprised look on Teyla’s face.

  “No!” The cry ripped uselessly from his throat and spilled out into the searing wave of heat. Something grabbed him by the jacket and roughly jerked him to the floor, a fraction of a second before a massive explosion sent a shudder through the stone bridge and spattered them with chunks of debris.

  Jerking himself free of the children’s hands, Rodney grasped the edge of the window and peered out. It took several minutes before the smoke cleared enough to see the substantial crater where the transport and adjoining storehouse had once been.

  The pain in Rodney’s throat, and indeed all of his many injuries, evaporated in the face of this new reality. He’d blown things up before. He was incredibly good at blowing things up. That there might have been people in those things—buildings, aircraft and whatever else the Air Force had seen fit to destroy—could be dismissed because they had been The Enemy. That’s the way it was in war. Things got broken, and blown up, and casualties resulted.

  But not your…friends. You didn’t blow up your friends. Well done, McKay.

  His breath hitched and his eyes stung and there seemed to be a great deal of moisture on his cheeks. The sound of someone sobbing seemed unreasonably loud in the silence. Rodney was only grateful that it wasn’t coming from him, but from one of the children. What little consolation he could draw from the situation was that being blown up had provided a more humane death than being trapped inside a room of burning oil.

  Yann grasped his shoulder. “The Wraith may have captured more Genes and entered the Citadel through other transports.”

  Swallowing, Rodney nodded. “We need to get back to the Command Center and assess the situation.” Which, loosely translated, meant that he hoped the Major was finally awake. Between the clouds of smoke, he noticed, the sky was definitely getting lighter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lisera was drying Major Sheppard’s feet with a soft cloth when she felt him move.

  “Cut it out,” he mumbled, batting away the object that Dr McKay had gruffly informed her was a pen flashlight. The Major’s face expressed his displeasure and pain.

  “Didn’t know you were awake.” His face expressing extreme relief, McKay pulled the flashlight aside. “How’s the head?”

  Only half listening to the conversation between the visitors from Atlantis, Lisera sat back. While their arrival had altered her life in wondrous ways, the world was still fraught with dangers and death. Those with her in the Station now protected her from the likes of Balzar, but only because their survival depended on her
newfound abilities. She felt their resentment and began to understand why the Chosen had retreated to the Enclave.

  She glanced at Yann, who was quietly talking in the corner to the other children from Quickweed Lake, trying to console them over the death of Peryn.

  When learning earlier of the failed ambush at the Lake, Lisera had been surprised to find herself grieving for the young merchant. While they now called themselves Genes, like her, Yann was nonetheless the blessed of Dalera, chosen to protect her people. Even Aiden had not been of such status. Had he not gone against the wishes of Dr McKay, Peryn would not have been captured and the attack at North Bridge would never have resulted. Although she could not find it in her heart to like Dr McKay, she did not blame him for the deaths of Peryn, Aiden, and Teyla. As a Gene, she knew now that choices had to be made, often painful ones. In order to save the Citadel, Dr McKay could not have acted any differently.

  “…most likely as a result of that concoction served up by the local Juju man,” McKay was saying. “Fortunately, you have a particularly thick skull. However, the general consensus is that you also have a concussion.”

  “I’ll be fine. Out of curiosity, what the hell hit me?” The Major eased himself upright, wincing with each movement.

  Looking discomfited, Dr McKay replied, “How was I to know that whoever makes the ropes around here has lousy quality control? Anyway, as I said before, you’re heavier than you look. Combined with the sucking potential of that tar, I suppose it was—”

  “Sucking potential?” Major Sheppard paused in his movements and regarded Dr McKay.

  The scientist’s expression flattened and he replied, “In your current state, I didn’t want to confuse you with big words like ‘viscosity’.”

  “What do you mean, my current state?” The covering on Major Sheppard’s body slipped low, and, realizing he was naked beneath, he grabbed the edges. “What the…?” In an effort to clear his eyes, he opened and closed them several times.

  Lisera stood and placed a cloth with warm soapwater into the Major’s hands. “Here, use this to wash the oil from your eyes.”

  Now that the Major was awake, Yann, trailed by the children, came to join them.

  “Oil?” The Major sat back and brought the cloth to his face.

  “We used vegetable oil to remove the tar,” she explained. “But I fear your fine uniform is no longer useable.” She glanced at the pile of blackened clothes on the floor.

  “This is all adorably domestic.” Dr McKay crossed his arms and glared at her. “But we’ve got a few pressing issues to discuss, so if you will excuse us—”

  “Hold up, Rodney. How long have I been out?”

  Under Major Sheppard’s gaze, Lisera replied, “It is dawn. You have slept through the night.”

  “Okay.” Still attempting to focus, he asked Dr McKay, “What’s happening?”

  “The Wraith mounted an assault from the south. Fortunately,” Dr McKay added with an expression Lisera had grown to dislike, “I had the foresight to maintain a reserve of oil in the eastern end of South Channel for just such an eventuality. We upped the volume and set it alight.”

  “You mean the Wraith are still hanging around? Haven’t they already taken hundreds of people from the outlying villages?”

  “Several thousand, including the far-flung barbarian towns,” Yann corrected. “I have spoken to many Genes. They tell of villages empty of life, some destroyed before the arrival of the transport.”

  Behind him, the children nodded in sage agreement. None shed tears, for the horrors they had witnessed had withered their capacity to do so.

  “Since when have those been operating again?” McKay snapped at Yann. “Didn’t we definitively establish that using the transports outside of the Citadel while the Wraith are attacking is a huge mistake?”

  A knowing smile crossed Yann’s face. “Not if each transport is filled with armed warriors, and the Gene within does not release his Shield before establishing the area is safe.”

  “This is hardly a suitable time to get cocky!”

  Lisera did not wish to speak out of turn, but with a pacifying gesture toward both men, she attempted to redirect the conversation. “Yann and Dr McKay heroically defended against a Wraith invasion at North Bridge.”

  Looking momentarily pleased with himself, Dr McKay said, “Yes, I suppose it was rather heroic, wasn’t it?” But the pride fell from his voice even as he spoke, and his eyes were masked by sorrow.

  Major Sheppard’s gaze quickly took in the room. “Where are Ford and Teyla?”

  Swallowing once, Dr McKay avoided the Major’s piercing look. “If the Lieutenant hadn’t been obstinate enough to ignore my warning about ill-conceived reconnaissance missions—”

  “McKay! Where are they?”

  When Dr McKay explained what had transpired during the evening, the Major was silent for a long moment, his expression revealing little. Although his gaze was laden with repressed grief, his only reply was, “After all that, the Wraith are still attacking?” He placed the cloth on a side table, and went to toss back the cover, but paused.

  As a Chosen—this new term, Gene, did not seem fitting—Lisera was now a leader of her people, and she was curious. “The teaching windows tell us that—”

  Dr McKay waved his hand dismissively. “Parables for the illiterate. The Ancient texts explained that the length of the sieges varied, depending on how many generations passed between culls.” He shared a look with Major Sheppard; a secret, perhaps, one that Lisera could not divine.

  A gentle touch on her arm drew her attention to Yann. “Perhaps it would be best if you take the young ones to the top of the Station where they may find something to eat.”

  The children were also beginning to crowd around the bed. Although she would have preferred to stay, Lisera sensed the Major’s unease and recalled Dr McKay’s earlier comment about clothing. She decided to accept Yann’s counsel and gestured to the young ones, guiding them out of the room. There was much still for these Chosen to do, and many things still uncertain.

  Having learned the hard way once or twice that a spare uniform could come in handy, John was satisfied that his practice of stashing one in his pack had once again paid off. He leaned down to secure his not-quite-ruined leg holster and immediately reconsidered the motion as a rush of nausea sideswiped him. Whether it was from the knock on the head or the figurative sucker punch of what he’d just learned, he didn’t know, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  They were your people, under your command. Not just your friends but your responsibility as well. And this time, there was no question of maybe. McKay and Yann had seen the transport explode.

  He’d be able to function, even if he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this lousy. Someone had bandaged his head and he’d fumbled through the medical pack until he found some Tylenol but he would have sold his soul for an ice pack. Even so, he recognized that he ought to be grateful for escaping asphyxiation.

  Teyla and Ford… He swallowed, trying to control the churning in his stomach. He’d deal with their loss in his own way, the only way he knew. Burying grief wasn’t terribly beneficial to one’s mental health, but it would get him through the day. It always had before.

  Right now, he had to concern himself with those who were still alive. Atlantis would be sending the cavalry by nightfall, and he didn’t want Markham and Stackhouse’s teams having to contend with a Wraith armada.

  What the hell was driving the Wraith to mount a ground assault on a highly defensible Citadel, when they’d already culled thousands? Sure, maybe they had woken early and were a little on the hungry side, but from what he’d seen thus far in the Pegasus Galaxy, few people had the capacity to fight back. And any who did got themselves annihilated. By inflicting too many casualties on the Wraith, the Dalerans were just asking for one of those hive ships to start firing on the Citadel. The network of of Shields might knock out most weapons, but not all. Something else was going on here. “Rodney
, I need more to go on. Explain to me the exact sequence of the Wraith attacks.”

  When the scientist had finished, John’s first instinct was to lay into him for failing to see the obvious, but the look of grief and desperation in McKay’s eyes stopped him. The man wasn’t a military tactician. Still, John was too frayed to keep the edge out of his voice when he said, “It didn’t occur to you that the Wraith might have lured you into releasing more oil into South Channel and igniting it?”

  “What are you talking about? Why…” Rodney’s voice trailed off and his eyes opened wide with comprehension. “Of course! Damn it!” Balling his fists in frustration, he ranted, “I was working through all this earlier and wanted to ask you about why they’d fall for the same trap twice. Then that voodoo-looking healer insisted on knocking you out, and—just…Damn it!”

  Looking confused, Yann asked, “Why would the Wraith wish to do such a thing?”

  “To force the population of the Citadel to evacuate,” John replied, walking across to the chart table. Each step sent a stabbing pain through the top of his head. Hoping no one would notice that he needed the support in order to keep standing, he placed his hands on the edge of the table and examined the large animal hide map. The smell of the thing normally wouldn’t have bothered him, but at the moment there weren’t really any sensations that didn’t bother him.

  “Evacuate where?” Yann moved to join him. The merchant’s face fell the moment the words were out of his mouth. “Into the unprotected villages! But then why have the Wraith themselves not set fire to the oil that is flowing from Black Hill?”

  “As I have explained repeatedly to any number of engineers,” Rodney retorted impatiently, “this particular brand of crude oil needs to be several millimeters thick in order to ignite. Only by backing it up against a raised weir did we have sufficient volume to make that work. Having said that, once ignited, by lowering the weirs, the flames traveled upstream faster than the oil could move down. The converse also applies. Backing up the oil flow again behind raised weirs and dams will starve the fires downstream and extinguish them.”