“So which one of you did I push into the crevice?” Sheppard couldn’t resist asking. The one with the gun stepped forward slightly, the barrel poking him in the chest. “Yeah, sorry about that.” He shrugged. “Can’t really blame me, right?”
They still didn’t answer. Instead the one who had bound his wrists nodded to the others, and they turned toward the hills. The gunbearer shifted behind Sheppard and prodded him in the back, forcing him into motion. Teyla was ahead of him, the two of them kept ten paces apart. These guys were well-trained, Sheppard had to admit. Well-trained and well-equipped, and clearly after something.
The question was, what?
He only hoped Rodney was making headway on the Jumper. And that Ronon had heard the shots. Right now, that was all he could ask.
Time would tell if it was enough.
Chapter Three
“Did you hear that?”
Rodney glanced up. “Did I hear what?”
“That.” Ronon wasn’t even looking at him — the big muscle-bound Satedan was staring off into the surrounding hills, his whole body tensed, head up, nostrils flared. He looked like a hunting dog and any second he expected the big man to go bounding off and return with a duck hanging from his mouth.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“There!” Now Ronon did glance at him, more of a glare really from beneath those heavy brows. “That! That was gunfire!”
Rodney frowned. Had he heard something just then? It was hard to be sure. He thought he might have, but maybe it was just because Ronon had told him there was something to hear. Sounds — or the absence thereof — could work that way. You could hear things just because you were listening for them. Especially if they were already supposed to be faint.
“I don’t know,” he admitted finally, much as he hated that particular phrase. “Maybe.” He glanced around. “You think Sheppard and Teyla are in trouble?” Ronon wasn’t listening to him. He had gone back to gaze toward the horizon. “Ronon?” Rodney didn’t care for it when the big oaf stared at him, but he liked being ignored even less. “Are they in trouble?”
“Yes, they’re in trouble,” Ronon replied after a minute. He shook himself and turned his attention fully upon Rodney, making him squirm. “And so are we. We need to leave here. Now.”
“I’ve only just started isolating the damaged areas,” Rodney protested. “It’ll take me another few hours to get the Jumper operational again — at the least!”
But Ronon wasn’t listening. He simply grabbed Rodney’s arm and began hauling him away from the ship. “We can’t stay here,” he explained softly as he moved toward the hills.
“What? Wait!” Rodney tried to free his arm, but it was like a fly struggling against a vise grip. “We can’t just leave the ship here!”
“That’s exactly what we can do,” Ronon retorted. “We’re too vulnerable here.”
“Then we should get it up and running as soon as possible,” Rodney argued. “The sooner we’re off this world the better.”
Ronon was already shaking his head, and he hadn’t stopped moving. “Too late for that,” he said. “There’s no time.”
“Are we going after Sheppard and Teyla, then?” That did make some strategic sense, Rodney admitted to himself — three guards instead of one would afford him more protection while he worked. He could get the comm link up and running first, and let Sheppard or Teyla call in to Atlantis while he moved on to the navigation and propulsion systems. But his self-appointed shepherd was shaking his head again.
“We can’t go after them.”
“What? Why not?” Rodney struggled against the Satedan’s grip again. “Come on, you said they were in trouble!”
“They are.”
“So we need to help them!”
“It’s too late for that,” Ronon replied. He still hadn’t slowed down. The Jumper was almost completely lost in the shadows behind them now, because this world’s sun was already drifting down toward the horizon.
“Too late?” Rodney felt a chill wash over him. “You mean they’re — ?”
“I don’t know,” Ronon admitted. “Either they’ve won free, in which case they’ll find us later, or they’ve been captured, in which case we will need to plan their rescue.”
“You don’t think they’re dead?” That was a relief! Rodney might enjoy busting Sheppard’s chops from time to time — okay, so most of the time — but he actually respected the commander. And Teyla was one of the few people in Atlantis he actually liked.
“Not dead, no. They’re bait.”
“Bait? For what?” The chill grew worse. “For us?” He yanked on his arm again. “I can walk on my own, you know — I’m not an infant!”
Ronon released him suddenly, making him stumble and barely catch himself. “Then keep up.” The Satedan drew his sword with his newly freed hand — the other already held his pistol — and lengthened his stride. Rodney had to jog to keep pace.
“So you think they’ve been captured?” Rodney asked again a few minutes later. They were in the hills proper now, and it was getting dark enough that he barely caught Ronon’s answering nod. “And whoever did it is using them as bait to lure us in?” Another faint nod. “Why?”
“They know we’re still out here,” Ronon answered absently. “They need to take care of that. This is how they do it.”
Rodney studied the bigger man’s back. “You seem awfully sure of that,” he noted. “What’s going on here?”
“I’m trying to keep us alive,” was the answering growl.
That kept Rodney quiet for a minute — but only a minute. “No, really,” he started again as they clambered over some rocks and up a small cliff face. “You know something. Don’t you?” He felt as much as saw Ronon tense. “I’m right, aren’t I? Of course I am. You do know something! I thought so! You’ve been acting strange ever since that ship.” He grabbed Ronon by the shoulder, but quickly let go as the bigger man swung back to face him. “Tell me!”
“I recognized the trap,” Ronon admitted softly. “The ‘ship in distress’ gambit. I’ve seen it before.” He shook his head, his long braids whipping about. “It took me too long, though. I should have noticed it at once.”
“You saved our lives,” Rodney pointed out.
“But not our ship,” Ronon snapped. “And we’re still stuck here. Still being hunted. I was sloppy.”
“Okay, so you were sloppy. You still saved us. Again.” Rodney glanced around, not sure what he expected to see — the sun had set completely now, and it was dark enough that he could barely make out his companion’s glare in the deepening night. “But that’s not all of it, is it?”
Even without being able to see it fully he knew Ronon was glaring at him — he’d come to recognize the feel of that particular response. “No,” the Satedan ground out after a long pause. “I know who’s after us.”
“You do?” That didn’t exactly make Rodney feel better. “By reputation, or personally?”
Again the hesitation before Ronon answered. “Personally. And we have to watch our every step from here on out.”
“Who is it?” Rodney wanted to know. Well, no, deep down he didn’t want to know at all. But he needed to know.
The answer was one he hadn’t expected. “Runners.”
“Other runners?” Rodney stared at him. “Like you?”
He felt the air move as Ronon shook his head. “No. Not like me. Not any more.”
“Then like what? Who are they? How do you know them? What do they want?” Rodney was both horrified and fascinated. Before they’d met Ronon they’d never even heard of a Runner, but apparently the concept was legendary among all the worlds touched by the Wraith — a lone individual, caught by the Wraith but released and then hunted down. For sport. Most Runners didn’t last very long, a week or two at most — they were said to be chosen for their cunning and their skills but the Wraith had been hunting and killing for centuries.
Ronon had been a Runner for seven years.
If these others were even half as good at hunting and fighting as he was, they had a serious problem on their hands.
“Not now,” Ronon answered shortly. “Not here. We’re not safe.”
Rodney took that in. “Okay, yes. Safe. Safe would be good,” he agreed. He was babbling, he realized, and forced himself not to say another word. Instead he followed as Ronon continued into the mountains, taking a winding path Rodney knew was meant to throw off anyone trying to track them. At last they paused, and Ronon knelt, brushing dirt and small rocks and dead brush back from the stone wall beside them. Behind the debris was a small dark opening.
“Get in,” he told Rodney. His tone made it clear this wasn’t a request.
Rodney’s first impulse was to argue. He didn’t like small dark spaces, and he didn’t like being ordered around, and he didn’t like not being told everything at once. But he also didn’t like being shot at or taken captive, and he was fairly sure he would like being killed even less, so he held his tongue, dropped to his knees, and crawled through the opening.
It widened slightly about twenty paces in, and the ceiling rose enough that he could sit up without bashing his head on the rocks above. Beyond that it narrowed again. Far enough, Rodney decided, and leaned back against the cool stone. He heard rustling from the opening.
A moment later Ronon joined him. “I covered the opening again,” he explained quietly, his voice little more than a gruff whisper. “They won’t find us here.”
“Good.” Rodney closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he opened them again and fixed Ronon with the sternest glare he could muster, especially considering he could barely see the big lug. “Now talk. Who are these Runners, how do you know them, and why are they doing this to us?”
For a second he thought Ronon was going to refuse. But then the big Satedan seemed to reach a decision. He nodded slightly, and grimaced as if in pain. Then he began to speak.
“It was seven years ago,” he started, his voice soft and his eyes somewhere far away. “I had just been captured by the Wraith . . . .”
Chapter Four
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”
Ronon lashed out blindly, tears still stinging his cheeks and blurring his vision. But his fists did not connect and he spun around from the force of his empty blows, toppling himself to the ground. He lay there for several seconds, groaning, just letting the pain and rage and grief overwhelm him.
“Melena,” he sobbed. He could still picture her face, still see her when he closed his eyes — and still gape in horror as she died inches from him, torn apart by one of the many explosions that had wracked their planet. Melena was gone. So was Sateda. He was all that remained.
Why hadn’t the Wraith killed him as well? That was the question that tore at him. It was one of the few things that had kept him going, burning inside him throughout the torture and the taunts and the waiting. Why was he still alive?
The Wraith were hardly known for their mercy. Nor could it even be called mercy, taking a man and sparing his life after slaughtering his entire world and killing the woman he loved. That was the worst kind of torture. But that didn’t explain why they had let him go.
Because they had let him go. Ronon was under no illusions about that — they hadn’t allowed it. He hadn’t escaped, hadn’t outsmarted or outmaneuvered or outfought them. He had been caught, he had been toyed with, and he had been released.
But not unscathed.
He rolled over, gritting his teeth at the pain as the rocks and dirt rubbed against the raw skin of his lower back. The Wraith who had tormented him had done something there, something that had pierced Ronon with a sharp agony beyond any he’d previously experienced. It was a purely physical pain, however, and so he had tightened his jaw and endured. That was what Satedans did. That was what Ronon Dex did.
Not that the Wraith had been fooled. “It hurts, does it not?” it had inquired, leaning in close and leering, showing all its sharp teeth. Ronon had struggled against the bonds that clamped him to the table, but of course they had been fastened tight. No one could say the Wraith were stupid.
“The pain must be extreme,” it had continued. “Good.” Its grin widened even as its eyes narrowed. “Shall I tell you what I have done?” And then it did.
The incision point was still raw now, a day or so later, but most of the pain had fallen to a dull throb. It was a pain Ronon could live with. Not that he expected to live much longer.
After all, he was now the object of a Wraith hunt. The tracking device imbedded in his spine would reveal his precise location to any Wraith equipped with the appropriate frequency. They would be coming for him even now.
So be it. Ronon bit back a scream as he pushed himself onto his stomach, got his hands under his chest, and heaved himself back to his feet. He swayed there a second, almost falling again, before straightening into a half-crouch. He would die on his feet, like a man. Like a warrior. Like a Satedan. And then he would be with Melena again.
But that didn’t mean he was planning to go without a fight. No, the Wraith that came for him would know they had fought Ronon Dex. And the ones who survived would remember his name.
He glanced around. They had stripped away his Specialist armor when he had been captured, and his weapons, his sword and his pistol, were likewise gone. All he had were his fists, and they would not be enough. Not against the Wraith.
They had dropped him on some planet, he had no idea which one, but there was dirt beneath his feet and trees and bushes nearby. No rocks big enough to function as weapons, nor any flint or slate he could chip into a spearhead — not that he would necessarily have time for such a venture anyway. No doubt the Wraith were already on their way. He would need to find a weapon quickly.
Ronon’s eyes wandered to the trees again. They were deciduous, with wide trunks and curving branches and thick clusters of broad leaves. The branches began perhaps ten feet above his head, and he studied the possibilities before selecting one that looked sturdy. Then he leaped for it.
He missed, and fell to the ground again, cursing under his breath as the impact jarred his bones and sent fresh lancets of pain radiating from his back. But after a few seconds he picked himself up, took a deep breath, and tried again.
This time his fingers brushed the branch before he dropped back to earth.
A third time. Ronon was gasping for breath, his chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes, pain coursing up and down his spine. He doubted he would be able to make a fourth attempt. He shook his head, flinging the sweat from him, and snarled. He would not fail! He was Satedan! Using all his remaining strength he crouched and then uncoiled, hurling himself upward. His hands, fully extended, wrapped around the branch and clamped on, digging into the rough bark. Yes!
Now he was hanging from a tree, his feet dangling several feet above the ground. If a Wraith came upon him now, he would be helpless.
But Ronon did not intend to stay this way for long. Instead he tightened his grip and then swiveled his body sideways, legs scissoring in the air. He had judged the distance well, and his feet slammed into the tree’s trunk, almost jolting him from his precarious perch. But the branch shook as well.
Again. His feet hit the trunk hard, his fingers clung to the branch, and everything shook. But through the pain and the fatigue Ronon thought he heard a faint creak above him and to the side.
He hung for a second, catching his breath, and then kicked the tree a third time. Yes, this time he heard a definite sound. It came from the juncture of the trunk and the branch. And it was growing louder.
A fourth kick, and the creak became a groan and then something akin to a scream. The branch, unable to withstand the constant abuse of both Ronon’s weight and his attacks on the trunk, shrieked and tore loose, the wood at its base splintering away from the tree and showering the area with a flurry of small splinters. Ronon dropped to the ground, the branch plummeting with him. Only his tight grip on it, and his flinging his arms
over his head as he fell, kept it from smashing in his skull.
Ronon lay on the ground for a good minute after that. He could barely breathe, choked by sweat and tears and possibly blood and flecks of tree bark. He could barely see, his thick braids matted and covering his face like a shroud. His entire body ached, the aches turning to twinges of pain as he moved.
But he had a weapon.
Groaning, he forced himself to his feet and hefted the branch. It was good solid length of wood, heavy enough to do real damage, rough enough for a secure grip. An excellent club. He swung it a few times, getting its weight and balance. Not perfect, but it would cave in a head or shatter a limb nicely. He couldn’t bite back the grin that tugged at his lips. Now let them come for him. He would take at least one of them with him before he fell.
“Nice club.” The voice startled Ronon and he dropped into a crouch, raising his new weapon and gripping it tightly with both hands. “Won’t do you much good, though.”
A figure stepped from the trees. Ronon stared — he had not heard anyone, had not seen anyone, yet the man moved casually, comfortably, as if he were in no hurry and at no risk. He did keep well enough back that Ronon would not be able to reach him, however. Not a fool, then.
And not a Wraith, either. The man was human, shorter and more solidly built than Ronon, with skin of a redder hue and short hair the color of a deepening sunset. He wore clothes rather than armor, though the way he moved suggested they were reinforced in strategic locations. At his side were a long knife and a pistol, but his hands were empty.
“It’ll crush the first Wraith foolish enough to charge me!” Ronon snapped in reply, his words fading to a growl as he thought about the joy he would take in breaking at least one Wraith before they got him. But the stranger shook his head.
SGA-13 Hunt and Run Page 3