“Red Sands” (5/15)
Jun. 19th, 2010 09:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999Title: “Red Sands” (5/15)
Author:Kristen999
Word Count: 125,000~
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Gen, Drama, Action, H/C
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, OCs
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Violence and coarse language
Summary: Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.
Notes: This is not a WIP. A chapter will be posted every other day until complete.
I wanted to thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
d_odyssey for her amazing support and advice during the writing of this. I also wanted to thank my awesome betas wildcat88 and everybetty for their time, patience, and bucket-loads of red ink. It was their honesty and willingness to tear this story apart that allowed it to finally come together.
“Previous Chapters”
Feedback is always appreciated.
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John remembered all too well, carrying eighty pounds of gear on his back in the middle of nowhere with only the sun to go by. Training in the Mojave and getting shot down over Bosnia seemed like postcard perfect vacations compared to the grueling trip back to the cave.
“Buck up, John. It’s only a few of gallons,” he berated himself.
The containers slung over his shoulders were trying to pop his joints out of place, but his hands were occupied with a burlap sack of supplies that he couldn’t let drag on the ground. The bad guys probably had a vague idea where he and Ronon were hiding out but there was no need to draw a map in the sand for them. The necklace around his neck was down to a single stone after his shopping spree, but meager amount left or not, there was probably someone who would figure it was worth killing for.
The foothills finally grew closer, signaling the end of the day’s journey. Only fifty-one steps left. His new home was a crack in the mountain, a hole created by millions of years of wear and tear. John laughed at the similarities between it and his aching body.
John was barely standing when he reached the opening, but he yanked the supplies through. Tremors wracked his muscles and his legs twitched beneath him. “Ronon?” he called, coughing into the ground. “Buddy?”
No answer.
His heart began pumping so hard his chest hurt. John untangled himself from various straps and crawled over to the lifeless body of his friend. “Ronon!”
Mercifully, he found a weak, rapid pulse and buried his face into his friend’s shoulder. Not too late. Not too late.
“Hold on,” John whispered.
Sunburned fingers struggled with leather straps and with the cork stopper in the water container. John, you gotta stop and think first. Knee jerk reactions were not going to help.
Treat the fever. Then the source of the infection.
“Get your act together,” John mumbled as he poured water into some of the smaller, more manageable containers.
Dragging all the things from the market together, he did a quick inventory in his head. The herbs were wrapped in thin layers of cloth and he gathered the dried-up plant material. “How am I going to get you to swallow this crap?”
John looked from Ronon to the shriveled up brown pieces in his hands. His friend needed a massive dose that would hit the fever hard. John grabbed the strip of cloth they’d been using to eat meals off of and crushed the herb into a fine powder with a stone. Using one of the empty dunka pouches, he mixed up the medicine with a small amount of water, doubting Ronon would be able to swallow much.
Moving Ronon without his help was grueling, but John got his friend up and against the wall so he could give him the herbal drink. It took a lot of time and even more patience to trickle the mixture into Ronon’s mouth.
“Come on, buddy.”
Ronon smacked his lips without waking, and John dribbled the medicine in one drop at a time. Exhaustion tempted him, but he resisted the urge to curl up and sleep.
It was his job to look after his people.
There was enough medicine for two smaller doses, so he saved them for later. John needed to tackle the cause of the problem and treat the skin rash. Even if the Jad denied the need for it…they knew all about the illness John had described. And how to treat it.
“Since I’m not a hot nurse, I think we’ll both be glad you won’t be awake for this.”
John shifted and wrestled with limbs that were dead, useless weights. It was like undressing a puppet. By the time he finished, John was panting.
The easiest way to lower Ronon’s temperature was to cool him off with water. John didn’t have a ton of that, although he'd picked up the soap flakes from Tobias, the trader Misha had mentioned.
The merchant had promised the cleaning powder would last for cycles. It seemed people rarely bathed, if ever, but used these flake to keep illness from spreading. John had bartered for a small clay pot that was badly chipped and looked like a third grader had made it. He sprinkled the soap shavings into the pot and poured a tiny amount of water from a dunka pouch like the trader had instructed him.
“Whoa. You should see this,” he spoke to Ronon. “It’s foaming.”
The flakes reacted to even the smallest amount of water, creating an odd lather. Ronon’s skin was dry and hot, and the suds did an amazing job of washing away the grit and grime, cleansing away the breeding ground for the infection.
With that completed, John began the task of creating the topical application. He pulled several plant stems from his bag and squeezed out a sticky substance to use over the infected sores.
It would sting like a bitch, but according to the conversation he’d had with Ziffka at the depository, it’d help.
John spread the paste over the sores, glad that Ronon was unconscious. Then he found the strips of cloth from earlier and used them to cover his friend’s forearms to protect them.
“Now it’s your turn. I expect you up and awake after I take a quick nap.”
Ronon never stirred but John wouldn’t listen to the inner voice warning him to prepare for the worst. “I’ll settle for you opening your eyes later on, okay?”
John slumped to his side, digging his fingers into his temples. His head was killing him and his body demanded more attention. He wasn’t stupid. Days, maybe even weeks of constant dehydration had accumulated effects.
And in two cycles he faced the transports again.
He’d been lucky and traded for fruit and the caterpillar things, even grabbing more bland roots since those were filling. But there were hard facts to face. He'd used up almost all the water on the medicine, food, the clay pot and soap flakes and they only had about four to five days worth of food before it was back to square one. John gave Ronon larger portions because he hadn’t been lying about the Satedan being a bigger guy. Ronon had fifty pounds on John and the man needed to eat more. It was biology, pure and simple.
But their rations were small and John couldn’t afford to cut down anymore. He was the only one mobile and thus expended more energy. The only chance they had was Lyle. John had to convince the merchant to hook him up with some of the farmer-gathers to show him how to find their own food.
John needed to stay strong, maintaining muscle strength to forage and fight when needed. Energy demanded calories. If he got any weaker, then they were both as good as dead. The rations were keeping him going, but couldn’t stop the constant hunger pangs.
Storing away the various herbs, he pulled out the orris, counting out five needles. John had taken some the last few days when things had gotten really bad and still had some left from the first ‘gift’. Rationing Ziffka's donation would have to do until food supplies got streamlined.
He stored away the various herbs, inventorying them in his head. His eyes fell on the swatch of cloth protecting the orris needles, trying to decide where to hide them. His attention strayed to the food provisions, fighting the urge to snack on a few extra roots and cursing himself for thinking about skimming their supplies.
Mind over matter was easier said than done when trapped in a hole in the ground. His health wasn’t in immediate danger, but his stomach rumbled and John cursed his inability to stay focused. He simply couldn’t afford the distraction. Five needles should do the trick.
Chewing them, he swallowed grimly past the bitter taste and kept his eye on Ronon.
He couldn’t let their supplies get so low again; his resourcefulness had to improve. Locating new food sources and bartering tools were top priorities. Life in the days ahead would only get harder; John had to toughen up. Pulling out Ronon’s knife, he stared at the metal but there wasn’t enough light and the steel was too dull to make out his features. Maybe it was a good thing. John didn’t think he’d like the image of the man he needed to become staring back at him.
He’d seen that reflection once a lifetime ago and prayed he’d never see it again. John closed his eyes and chewed on three more orris needles, knowing he couldn‘t avoid being that man.
Ronon was cold; his body shivered so hard his bones ached. He was sick of fatigued muscles that didn’t obey or being so low on energy that all he could do was lie on the ground, unable to even open his eyes.
He’d only been this ill once before when he was six and his mother had stayed by his bedside all day and all night. She’d held his hand, forced him to eat and drink and cradled him when he wanted to die. The Braven Flu had almost won, but his grandfather had ordered him to fight and Ronon had never disobeyed. His mother had cried and he’d never seen her shed tears before.
And not again until the day he turned down the life she had wanted for him for a life Ronon had desired for himself. The ability to draw the world around him flowed through his veins, but so did the desire to protect it.
Now there was only fire and ice. His body was caught between two extremes, two choices.
He’d chosen his path despite the pain it had caused his mother. A path riddled with failure.
“It was my fault,” Ronon muttered.
“No, it wasn’t.”
Ronon forced his eyes open when all they wanted was to snap back closed. “Sheppard?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Just go to sleep. I got some medicine and things to make you feel better.”
Ronon read a little Wraith, but not the whole language. When you spent most of your life fighting an enemy, you learned some of their written word. The Wraith language was long and complicated; they had symbols for sounds and others for concepts.
Taking three steps back from the wall, he allowed his eyes to focus on the swirling patterns. No wonder he and Teyla had never noticed it. The Saurin had stripped all the straight lines out of the lettering, merging curves and dots into artwork.
“What’s it say?” Sheppard asked, watching the halls.
“Don’t know.”
“I’ll get McKay,” Sheppard replied, reaching for his com.
“Don’t.”
Sheppard’s fingers froze inches from his radio. “Why?”
“What are you going to say?”
“That we found artwork that looks like Wraith.”
“Then what?”
Sheppard considered things for a moment. “I’ll have to pull Woolsey out of his meeting with the Saurin head honcho. And he’ll wanna know why.”
“And the Saurin will get suspicious.”
“You want to find proof that the Saurin are hiding something first?”
“Yep.”
“McKay didn’t find anything unusual in his readings when he scanned the city during the security sweep.”
“The Saurin have a cloak like Atlantis.”
“They also have a lot of Ancient technology that McKay’s having kittens over,” Sheppard retorted.
“If we hadn’t seen one of their ships, we wouldn’t have known about them.” That had always bothered Ronon.
“Yeah, don’t think Lorne expected to find another invisible city when he spotted one of their ships in low orbit over the planet and followed it.”
Ronon had never believed in dumb luck. Maybe the Saurin had wanted to be seen. “If the cloak has kept their city a secret and they‘re so smart…”
“Then why do they need us?”
“Exactly.”
Sheppard had that look. The one where he got pissed when people deceived them. “And they just happen to have the Wraith language as decorations. If the Saurin were Wraith worshippers, I doubt they would have been allowed to have this level of technology.”
“They’re not worshippers.”
“I don’t see them collaborating with each other. The Wraith would’ve culled this place and stolen anything that interested them before leveling the city.”
“Yeah,” Ronon replied.
Sheppard looked around the empty halls. “Teyla’s taking a tour of the southern section and McKay’s with the head science guy. If we radio them, it might tip the Saurin off. I‘m supposed to sit with their head of the military in an hour.”
“We have the time.” Ronon checked his blaster and made sure it was set on stun. “They’re hiding something. We should find it.”
“Because people with advanced technology are gonna leave all their secrets out for us to uncover,” Sheppard said sarcastically. But he was checking the clip in his gun.
“It’s a small city; I doubt they have a thousand people living here. They gave us the big tour."
Sheppard grinned. “Then we’ll go find the stuff not printed in the guide.”
Ronon remembered dreaming of the ocean. Of serving a city and her people and finding his path again.
A strong breeze floated over the waves and washed over him. The pain had faded and his arms were nice and numb. He was swimming in the sea, nothing between him and the vast depths below. He dove deeper and deeper.
He was free. A fine mist cooled his body and ran down his face. He licked at the droplets of seawater at his lips, wanting more.
“A little at a time,” the voice of Sheppard said.
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Ronon didn’t feel like he was dying of thirst.
Ronon had wanted to peel the skin off his bones for days. He’d chewed his fingernails down and clawed the ground to keep from gouging at his flesh. Still the rash had spread and itched and boiled over into blisters. And finally he’d drawn blood.
Now he hovered between waking and sleeping, longing to stay there. Because for the first time in days his body felt cooler, like lazy days spent under the Yukka trees near his childhood home. He could almost taste the juice of its plump yellow fruit. His mouth flooded with a tart flavor, like that of the lemons McKay was deathly afraid of.
“Tastes pretty good, huh?”
Ronon forced eyes stuck together with grit and glue open. “Yeah,” he answered hoarsely.
“You with me this time?”
Sheppard’s worried face swam into focus, his hand poised above Ronon’s mouth. “What’s that?”
“It’s called romari,” Sheppard said, holding up a small round thing that looked like an Earth grape with fuzz. “They taste like sour cherries. Grows on this planet’s cactus-things.”
Ronon pushed up with his hands. Sheppard quickly grabbed his shoulders and helped him sit up against the wall. Being slightly vertical made him want to lie back down, but his brain was starting to clear a little and his stomach growled loudly.
Sheppard smiled. “I think you might actually want to eat these rather than drink the juice I’ve been pouring down your throat.”
Ronon wasted no time eating the fruit, not caring how the orange-yellow juice stained his fingers. His mind was fragmented, pieces of nightmares and odd visions blending together. There was a pile of romari on a piece of cloth and Sheppard ate quietly next to him. Ronon felt wrung out, his strength drained like the days after his withdrawal from the enzyme.
There were so many questions, but his body demanded food and that was all it would allow him to think about at the moment. After devouring twelve of the fruit things, Ronon’s fingers froze over the next bunch.
“We’ve got plenty. Didn’t expect you to be awake enough to eat them,” Sheppard said, pulling out a sack filled to the top.
“Where--”
“I’ll explain everything later. This is fruit. We’ll see about the caterpi--um...we’ll see about stuff that used to be alive tomorrow.”
Ronon gave a token resistance, but Sheppard was eating too, sucking at the drops on his fingertips and digging for more. Hunger won over and Ronon relished the skin, the pulp, every last bite. By the time he was done, his eyes were heavy with sleep even though he’d been up for less than an hour.
Sheppard busied himself with another sack, this one filled with white powder. In a clay bowl that’d seen better days he began mixing the substance with water.
He looked up at Ronon, his tanned face fatigued and worn. “You’re tired. Go to sleep. It’s actually easier to do this when you’re not awake to notice.”
Ronon’s skin started to itch and the rest of him was warm and sticky. The rash over his chest looked better and even his clothes smelled fresher than before. He was already asleep before contemplating anything else.
The Saurin possessed the Ancestor gene, causing McKay to get all worked up where he talked too fast and spoke with his hands more than his mouth. On the third day of talks, it’d been the Saurin who were all excited when they learned that members of the expedition also had the Ancestor gene.
The arrogance in their superiority was reflected in the security measures of the city. Since they never worried about a breach because of their shield and cloak, the only systems in place to keep people away from high clearance levels was requiring the Ancestor gene to get anywhere.
Sheppard swiped his hand over sensors or doors opened before he reached them. They started their search in a sector that was off limits during the various tours. It was a long shot that they were near anything of importance until they spotted a security patrol.
“Think we’re getting warm,” Sheppard whispered.
They hung back, ghosting the soldiers to determine their route. When they almost ran into a second one, Ronon knew they were near something worth guarding. They were going deeper and deeper, and evading more and more patrols. Neither of them spoke, using hand signals to weave in and out of the halls. The corridors appeared all the same, but Ronon memorized the Wraith designs just in case they had to make a quick escape. Time was ticking down before Sheppard’s meeting and then their impromptu mission would be blown.
Ronon knew they had found something important before he saw the double doors and the soldiers outside of them. He pointed to the large border of Wraith ‘artwork’ over the entrance.
'Jackpot,' Sheppard mouthed.
They needed a plan. Ronon considered his weapon, but Sheppard shook his head. They couldn’t attack without provocation. They couldn’t even blow up anything as a distraction.
“I’ve got an idea,” Sheppard whispered.
Ronon followed him several corridors down to one of the doors they had entered. Sheppard pulled open a panel and started manipulating the crystals. “If I do this right, I’ll short the controls and the doors won’t open.”
“One of the patrols will see it.”
“That’s the plan.”
“They’ll radio the problem.”
“Yeah, hopefully our pals guarding the door will go investigate it.”
“Or they’ll stay at their post and the patrols will call for reinforcements,” Ronon warned.
Sheppard held up one of the crystals. “That’s another possibility.”
“Either way they’re going to know someone sabotaged the doors.”
“It’ll burn out the crystal array. That’ll require a tech to investigate it and by that time we would have already gotten our peek. We’ll either have just cause, or I’ll have to come with a really good story and have my ass chewed out by Woolsey for compromising the negotiations.”
“You almost done?" Ronon asked impatiently.
Sheppard rolled his eyes. After a minute sparks flew and metal burned. “That should do it.”
They doubled back and waited around the opposite corner from where the guards were stationed. Sheppard glanced at his watch and nodded to Ronon. The patrol should have discovered the doors. If the Saurin military trained their men properly, this would backfire.
The soldiers’ expressions changed then hands were lifted to earpieces. After a short discussion, both of them cautiously left their post to check things out.
“If any of our guys ever did that, I’d kick their asses from here 'til Sunday.”
Ronon glanced at Sheppard. “Our men wouldn’t. Come on.”
They approached the door, each studying their side of the hall for security. Sheppard swiped his hand over the sensor and the door opened. It was dark and Ronon had his blaster out, Sheppard his .45. They kept to the back wall, slowly inching their way inside a room filled with humming machinery.
There were no signs of people, but it was hard to tell with such little light. Large pieces of equipment reached the ceiling, taking up most of the space. Ronon didn’t know what any of it did; there were dozens of glowing green buttons. They all looked like large generators with glass panels of readouts that he couldn’t decipher.
The temperature was lower and Ronon could see his breath in clouds of mist. He was tense, the noise of all this stuff able to mask any footsteps. They wandered further and finally the machines thinned out and in the center of the room was a row of pods.
“Feels like déjà vu,” Sheppard whispered, eying the domed covers. He peered down at one of them and his eyes went wide. “Crap.”
Ronon stood next to him, glanced at the insides of the pod, and saw a Wraith sleeping inside it. Sheppard walked briskly around all of them. “There’s got to be about twenty Wraith in here.”
Ronon ignored the slumbering Wraith and started toward something very familiar. “John.”
Sheppard ran over, his weapon trained in front of him. “What the hell? Is that what I think it is?”
Ronon felt his muscles tense and he gripped his gun. “The Saurin have their own Wraith cocoons.”
Ronon dreamed of cocoons and stasis pods. Then he imagined people hooked up to tubes and wires. When he tried to set them free they started hissing and screaming, their screeching inhuman.
Waking up from a nightmare wasn’t unusual. Ronon simply reached for the weapon under his pillow. Except there was no pillow. Or bed. It took a few stuttering breaths before he realized he was in a cave… a cave with Sheppard and not one of the hundred he’d slept in during his life as a runner.
Assessing his situation, he noticed the strange faint chemical scent of his skin and clothes. His body still burned with a temperature, but it was lower. He’d been bathed and his throat wasn’t dried out and scratchy. Sheppard sat across from him, lost in his own little world. Seeing his normally alert CO staring vacantly at nothing was unsettling.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Sheppard replied.
Ronon brushed his fingers over his clothes. “These are clean.”
Sheppard pulled out a small sack. “I used these soap flakes. They suds up real good with a little water. Now we don’t smell so bad.”
“How did you get ‘em?” Ronon asked and watched his friend’s expression. They both knew what Ronon was really driving at.
Sheppard folded the bag back up. “During one of the times I was robbed at the transports I injured this guy. He died. The Shan‘ka saw it. Deemed it a clean death or whatever.” He pulled out a necklace; a stone dangled from it. “I got all his water.”
Ronon breathed a sigh of relief. “Glad it was him and not you.”
Sheppard looked up sharply.
Ronon shrugged. “He attacked. You defended yourself. It’s not complicated.”
“I know. Kill or be killed. I did what needed to be done,” Sheppard replied, searching through a new collection of items. “I got this clay pot real cheap. Filled it with some water, stuck these caterpillar things in it and set it outside like a crock pot. I think they slowly roasted enough out there. Should be safe to eat.”
Sheppard wasn’t too torn up by the guy’s death. Ronon thought that was a good thing, but it doubled his earlier uneasiness. Sheppard didn’t kill easily.
Things were too smooth. Too simple. Ronon had been out of the loop and he didn’t intend for it to stay that way. “Tell me about the Shan’ka,” and listened to the strategic analysis of the Shan’ka’s lair. About their laws. “They control all the water?”
“Seems like it.”
“How do they do it?”
“That’s the mystery. I mean it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out how you could extract water from living things. But the equipment and the storage facilities needed…”
“Sounds like they have a lot to hide.”
“Makes you wonder how much.” Sheppard poured the water out of the clay pot into another pouch, not wasting the precious liquid. He pulled out pieces of the meaty insect and set them on the same strip of fabric from his shirt. “I think the key to getting off this rock is with the Shan’ka.” Sheppard made a face after biting into dinner. “This is gross.”
Ronon didn’t care how they tasted. “And you used the water from the guy you killed to buy stuff?”
“Yeah. Medicine for your fever. Sap from plants I used on the rash. And I’ve taken care of some sanitary needs.”
The soap baths. Ronon wasn’t embarrassed; he was just sick of being incapacitated. “How did you get the medicine?”
“I traded for it.”
“Why would merchants have things for the sick?” There was no reason to. If you were ill you didn’t contribute.
“Some people will deal anything for the right price.”
Ronon’s sluggish mind thought about it. The gangs that had jumped Sheppard. Who else would have access to herbs and plants? “You shouldn’t mess with those drug peddlers. People like that can’t be trusted.”
“Who said I trusted them?”
Ronon sat propped up like a useless lump while Sheppard spread the sticky plant sap over the worst of the lesions; there wasn’t enough of it left to cover the rest of his skin. It stung but he savored that over the lethargic feelings of late.
Sheppard thought it best to use the last of the sap on Ronon’s arms where he’d scratched open the abscesses. They’d use the soap suds to treat the rest of the rash over his body. That was good. The sooner he got over this illness, the sooner he could work on his leg. Sheppard didn’t comment on his broken bones. There was no need to. It hurt like hell, but it was a muted roar since he hadn’t moved the limb in days. If he could only find a way to splint it.
Sheppard still had the rash; blotches of pink irritated skin covered his arms, neck and chest. “Don’t forget to treat yourself,” Ronon reminded him.
“I’m using the soap flakes. You’re just never awake to see.”
Sheppard made a show of spreading the suds over his most affected areas before sitting in silence for a while.
“You have to go out to the transports.” It wasn’t a question. Sheppard got quieter the day he went for water.
“I’m going out earlier this time.”
“Why?”
“Old strategy’s not working.”
“You’ve brought back some each time.”
“That’s not enough. I plan on getting both containers filled.”
“How are you going to fill both by yourself?”
Sheppard didn’t say anything.
It only pissed Ronon off. “Do you think I don’t know what it’s like? I’ve been where you are, John. There’s the battlefield and there’s what’s out there. You have to treat it like any other war or it’ll eat you up inside.”
“I’m fine, no need to go Freudian on me.”
Ronon didn’t know what that meant but he knew when someone was hiding something. Then again, so was he. “I saw someone. While you were gone.”
“Who?”
“The guy people are afraid of. The demon from the Void.”
“Malvick? Why? And when were you going to tell me?”
Malvick. That was his name. “Didn’t know if he was a dream.” Sheppard was still mad; Ronon could feel the anger coming off him in waves, but it wasn’t all directed outward. “You can’t be here all the time.”
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know. He’s been watching both of us. He’s after something. Haven’t figured out his game. But if he wanted to kill us, we’d be dead already.”
“You learn anything about this Void?”
“To stay away from it.” Ronon didn’t mention anything else, not wanting Sheppard to investigate the place by himself. Not that it sounded like he could without guidance. If anyone was going into the Void it was him. He was going to pull his own weight.
“I bet you there’s something there. It’s on my list of things to check out after we have a constant source of supplies. There are too many questions about this planet and not enough answers.” Sheppard pulled out more of the romari and handed Ronon the first half of the day’s food rations. “You should’ve told me earlier.”
“You should have told me what you did for water before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you killed that guy.”
“I don‘t know what you‘re talking about.”
Ronon grabbed Sheppard’s arm and pulled up the sleeve. “Where did you get those burns?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“You gave up blood.”
Sheppard jerked his arm away, his harsh breathing giving away his anger. “How did you--”
“He told me. Like I said, Malvick’s been watchin’ us.” Nothing shocked Ronon these days. Except maybe the image of his friend trading his life’s blood for water.
“You would’ve done the same for me,” Sheppard said.
Ronon would. No doubt about it. “Don’t do it again.”
“Don’t plan on failing again.”
“This wasn’t your failure.”
Sheppard didn’t argue, but his silence spoke volumes.
Joining the Air Force had been John’s ticket away from his father’s visions of a family empire with him at the helm. He’d passed on taking the penthouse office and the boardroom battles. All John wanted to do was fly. To experience the only sense of freedom he’d ever known.
In the sky.
John excelled at being a pilot. What started off as thrill-seeking escapism became an invaluable skill for his country. It stopped being about the fast, super cool aircraft and more about the missions.
He went wherever they asked. Took pictures above places it was illegal to be over and even destroyed things that didn’t exist on any maps. When he started his tour in Afghanistan, John thought he’d seen and done it all.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Air support. The occasional search and rescue. More 'special' assignments. He volunteered for it all and saw more action on the ground than the average pilot, learning one of the hardest taught lessons of any soldier--how to dehumanize the enemy.
In the air it’d been easier. Flashing dots or specks on radar had been the targets. Air combat was a test of ability, the other pilots the ultimate opponents, but taking out a person face to face was another matter.
“It’s kill or be killed, Sheppard. You can‘t put a face to the enemy,” Colonel Lebronski had told him.
There was no applying personalities to those you fought. No thinking in human terms. You wore the uniform and dismissed all civilian rules. The people you killed didn’t have a family or normal lives during the few seconds of combat. Humanity didn’t exist in war.
This fight for water was just another battle to win.
John sought only the best position, ignoring those around him, never seeking to see behind the fabric and goggles. It helped that everyone was hidden by false layers. It made it easier to dismiss them as obstacles.
Hanging back from the fight had cost him too much before. This time, he needed to be in the fray. Blood, piss, and filth stewing in the sun overwhelmed the air and he swallowed past the gagging it triggered. The god-awful noise of too many voices followed; nearly the whole wretched population of this hellhole waited for water.
The tanker arrived and the masses gathered around the landing zone. John surveyed the crowd. The Spraza were easy to spot, their faces covered in heavy streaks of red paint; several held pieces of bones as clubs. Ten men carried huge containers with a couple dozen surrounding them like destroyers protecting the convoy.
There was no need to take them on.
The others, however, were fair game. He inched closer to the front of the circle, searching for the smallest and weakest of the bunch. Others used his strategy, healthier people pushing their way through. John took a mental note to avoid the guys with the large rocks in their hands.
The transport landed and the crowd surged, and John raced to keep ahead of it. He wasn’t the first one to reach the taps and it was like a twenty car pile-up. He was smashed on all sides and for a few seconds it was impossible to breathe. Then people sought thinner areas and shorter lines and there was an inch here and there to jockey for a better place.
As soon as there was a slight opening John pulled out the knife and the world went in slow motion. This had to be done. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate.
Complete the mission.
John drove the handle into the base of people's skulls and worked a path towards a faucet. Some fell unconscious immediately, others staggered and he muscled past them.
Some prisoners scrambled away in fear; others fought back, striking back at John in any way they could. But he just reacted more brutally.
He smashed jaws and caught people on the side of the head with the knife handle. It was impossible avoiding the shots to his ribs and back, but they bounced off him. All that mattered was the faucet and the flowing water.
John reached the tap and drained the liquid into his container, holding on with one hand and defending his spot with the threat of the blade. He finished with the first container and switched to the second.
“You got your fill!”
“Move outta the way!”
Fingers tried displacing his own but John held on like a wild animal with one hand and sliced the knife with the other. His blade met flesh over and over again while he blocked out all the screaming.
Finally, multiple hands dug into his shoulders, yanking him away. John wasn’t moving of his own accord, but both containers were full and heavy across his back, the tide sending him to the outskirts of all the fighting bodies.
Masses continued to beat one another over at the transport, but he was done. Time to leave.
This was the final leg of his mission, the noise of the melee roaring behind him. It was the first time he’d noticed the sounds since he‘d arrived. A glint in the corner of his eye had him turning to see blue robes in the distance. The Shan’ka overseeing the rule of their law.
John marched on, aware of those staging an ambush meters across from him, waiting to strike. Their target was behind John but he didn’t warn the poor soul. Just one less thief for him to deal with later.
Rolling sore shoulders, he adjusted the water packs pulling on his back. When the gang jumped the other guy, he forced the sounds out of his head.
Arriving and leaving early had cut down on the amount of thugs and scavengers, many waiting to prey on the weakest, especially those who left the tanker last.
“Six hundred and thirty-two more steps,” John mumbled.
Then it became six hundred and thirty-one.
The tanker took off when he reached two hundred and seventy.
John allowed his body to experience the pain from the punches and the elbows at ninety-four steps.
His breathing was ragged when he reached outside the cave. Pushing his goggles down, he blinked away the brightness, easing the heavy containers to the ground. He studied the newest blood staining his shirt; at least this time there were fewer smudges. Wiping his sticky fingers over them, he did his best to clean the reminders away.
Hands cupped over his face, John released a shuddering breath.
Mission complete.
Then he fell to his knees and heaved into the dirt.
----
“Chapter Six”
Author:Kristen999
Word Count: 125,000~
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Gen, Drama, Action, H/C
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, OCs
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Violence and coarse language
Summary: Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.
Notes: This is not a WIP. A chapter will be posted every other day until complete.
I wanted to thank
d_odyssey for her amazing support and advice during the writing of this. I also wanted to thank my awesome betas wildcat88 and everybetty for their time, patience, and bucket-loads of red ink. It was their honesty and willingness to tear this story apart that allowed it to finally come together. “Previous Chapters”
Feedback is always appreciated.
-------------
John remembered all too well, carrying eighty pounds of gear on his back in the middle of nowhere with only the sun to go by. Training in the Mojave and getting shot down over Bosnia seemed like postcard perfect vacations compared to the grueling trip back to the cave.
“Buck up, John. It’s only a few of gallons,” he berated himself.
The containers slung over his shoulders were trying to pop his joints out of place, but his hands were occupied with a burlap sack of supplies that he couldn’t let drag on the ground. The bad guys probably had a vague idea where he and Ronon were hiding out but there was no need to draw a map in the sand for them. The necklace around his neck was down to a single stone after his shopping spree, but meager amount left or not, there was probably someone who would figure it was worth killing for.
The foothills finally grew closer, signaling the end of the day’s journey. Only fifty-one steps left. His new home was a crack in the mountain, a hole created by millions of years of wear and tear. John laughed at the similarities between it and his aching body.
John was barely standing when he reached the opening, but he yanked the supplies through. Tremors wracked his muscles and his legs twitched beneath him. “Ronon?” he called, coughing into the ground. “Buddy?”
No answer.
His heart began pumping so hard his chest hurt. John untangled himself from various straps and crawled over to the lifeless body of his friend. “Ronon!”
Mercifully, he found a weak, rapid pulse and buried his face into his friend’s shoulder. Not too late. Not too late.
“Hold on,” John whispered.
Sunburned fingers struggled with leather straps and with the cork stopper in the water container. John, you gotta stop and think first. Knee jerk reactions were not going to help.
Treat the fever. Then the source of the infection.
“Get your act together,” John mumbled as he poured water into some of the smaller, more manageable containers.
Dragging all the things from the market together, he did a quick inventory in his head. The herbs were wrapped in thin layers of cloth and he gathered the dried-up plant material. “How am I going to get you to swallow this crap?”
John looked from Ronon to the shriveled up brown pieces in his hands. His friend needed a massive dose that would hit the fever hard. John grabbed the strip of cloth they’d been using to eat meals off of and crushed the herb into a fine powder with a stone. Using one of the empty dunka pouches, he mixed up the medicine with a small amount of water, doubting Ronon would be able to swallow much.
Moving Ronon without his help was grueling, but John got his friend up and against the wall so he could give him the herbal drink. It took a lot of time and even more patience to trickle the mixture into Ronon’s mouth.
“Come on, buddy.”
Ronon smacked his lips without waking, and John dribbled the medicine in one drop at a time. Exhaustion tempted him, but he resisted the urge to curl up and sleep.
It was his job to look after his people.
There was enough medicine for two smaller doses, so he saved them for later. John needed to tackle the cause of the problem and treat the skin rash. Even if the Jad denied the need for it…they knew all about the illness John had described. And how to treat it.
“Since I’m not a hot nurse, I think we’ll both be glad you won’t be awake for this.”
John shifted and wrestled with limbs that were dead, useless weights. It was like undressing a puppet. By the time he finished, John was panting.
The easiest way to lower Ronon’s temperature was to cool him off with water. John didn’t have a ton of that, although he'd picked up the soap flakes from Tobias, the trader Misha had mentioned.
The merchant had promised the cleaning powder would last for cycles. It seemed people rarely bathed, if ever, but used these flake to keep illness from spreading. John had bartered for a small clay pot that was badly chipped and looked like a third grader had made it. He sprinkled the soap shavings into the pot and poured a tiny amount of water from a dunka pouch like the trader had instructed him.
“Whoa. You should see this,” he spoke to Ronon. “It’s foaming.”
The flakes reacted to even the smallest amount of water, creating an odd lather. Ronon’s skin was dry and hot, and the suds did an amazing job of washing away the grit and grime, cleansing away the breeding ground for the infection.
With that completed, John began the task of creating the topical application. He pulled several plant stems from his bag and squeezed out a sticky substance to use over the infected sores.
It would sting like a bitch, but according to the conversation he’d had with Ziffka at the depository, it’d help.
John spread the paste over the sores, glad that Ronon was unconscious. Then he found the strips of cloth from earlier and used them to cover his friend’s forearms to protect them.
“Now it’s your turn. I expect you up and awake after I take a quick nap.”
Ronon never stirred but John wouldn’t listen to the inner voice warning him to prepare for the worst. “I’ll settle for you opening your eyes later on, okay?”
John slumped to his side, digging his fingers into his temples. His head was killing him and his body demanded more attention. He wasn’t stupid. Days, maybe even weeks of constant dehydration had accumulated effects.
And in two cycles he faced the transports again.
He’d been lucky and traded for fruit and the caterpillar things, even grabbing more bland roots since those were filling. But there were hard facts to face. He'd used up almost all the water on the medicine, food, the clay pot and soap flakes and they only had about four to five days worth of food before it was back to square one. John gave Ronon larger portions because he hadn’t been lying about the Satedan being a bigger guy. Ronon had fifty pounds on John and the man needed to eat more. It was biology, pure and simple.
But their rations were small and John couldn’t afford to cut down anymore. He was the only one mobile and thus expended more energy. The only chance they had was Lyle. John had to convince the merchant to hook him up with some of the farmer-gathers to show him how to find their own food.
John needed to stay strong, maintaining muscle strength to forage and fight when needed. Energy demanded calories. If he got any weaker, then they were both as good as dead. The rations were keeping him going, but couldn’t stop the constant hunger pangs.
Storing away the various herbs, he pulled out the orris, counting out five needles. John had taken some the last few days when things had gotten really bad and still had some left from the first ‘gift’. Rationing Ziffka's donation would have to do until food supplies got streamlined.
He stored away the various herbs, inventorying them in his head. His eyes fell on the swatch of cloth protecting the orris needles, trying to decide where to hide them. His attention strayed to the food provisions, fighting the urge to snack on a few extra roots and cursing himself for thinking about skimming their supplies.
Mind over matter was easier said than done when trapped in a hole in the ground. His health wasn’t in immediate danger, but his stomach rumbled and John cursed his inability to stay focused. He simply couldn’t afford the distraction. Five needles should do the trick.
Chewing them, he swallowed grimly past the bitter taste and kept his eye on Ronon.
He couldn’t let their supplies get so low again; his resourcefulness had to improve. Locating new food sources and bartering tools were top priorities. Life in the days ahead would only get harder; John had to toughen up. Pulling out Ronon’s knife, he stared at the metal but there wasn’t enough light and the steel was too dull to make out his features. Maybe it was a good thing. John didn’t think he’d like the image of the man he needed to become staring back at him.
He’d seen that reflection once a lifetime ago and prayed he’d never see it again. John closed his eyes and chewed on three more orris needles, knowing he couldn‘t avoid being that man.
Ronon was cold; his body shivered so hard his bones ached. He was sick of fatigued muscles that didn’t obey or being so low on energy that all he could do was lie on the ground, unable to even open his eyes.
He’d only been this ill once before when he was six and his mother had stayed by his bedside all day and all night. She’d held his hand, forced him to eat and drink and cradled him when he wanted to die. The Braven Flu had almost won, but his grandfather had ordered him to fight and Ronon had never disobeyed. His mother had cried and he’d never seen her shed tears before.
And not again until the day he turned down the life she had wanted for him for a life Ronon had desired for himself. The ability to draw the world around him flowed through his veins, but so did the desire to protect it.
Now there was only fire and ice. His body was caught between two extremes, two choices.
He’d chosen his path despite the pain it had caused his mother. A path riddled with failure.
“It was my fault,” Ronon muttered.
“No, it wasn’t.”
Ronon forced his eyes open when all they wanted was to snap back closed. “Sheppard?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Just go to sleep. I got some medicine and things to make you feel better.”
Ronon read a little Wraith, but not the whole language. When you spent most of your life fighting an enemy, you learned some of their written word. The Wraith language was long and complicated; they had symbols for sounds and others for concepts.
Taking three steps back from the wall, he allowed his eyes to focus on the swirling patterns. No wonder he and Teyla had never noticed it. The Saurin had stripped all the straight lines out of the lettering, merging curves and dots into artwork.
“What’s it say?” Sheppard asked, watching the halls.
“Don’t know.”
“I’ll get McKay,” Sheppard replied, reaching for his com.
“Don’t.”
Sheppard’s fingers froze inches from his radio. “Why?”
“What are you going to say?”
“That we found artwork that looks like Wraith.”
“Then what?”
Sheppard considered things for a moment. “I’ll have to pull Woolsey out of his meeting with the Saurin head honcho. And he’ll wanna know why.”
“And the Saurin will get suspicious.”
“You want to find proof that the Saurin are hiding something first?”
“Yep.”
“McKay didn’t find anything unusual in his readings when he scanned the city during the security sweep.”
“The Saurin have a cloak like Atlantis.”
“They also have a lot of Ancient technology that McKay’s having kittens over,” Sheppard retorted.
“If we hadn’t seen one of their ships, we wouldn’t have known about them.” That had always bothered Ronon.
“Yeah, don’t think Lorne expected to find another invisible city when he spotted one of their ships in low orbit over the planet and followed it.”
Ronon had never believed in dumb luck. Maybe the Saurin had wanted to be seen. “If the cloak has kept their city a secret and they‘re so smart…”
“Then why do they need us?”
“Exactly.”
Sheppard had that look. The one where he got pissed when people deceived them. “And they just happen to have the Wraith language as decorations. If the Saurin were Wraith worshippers, I doubt they would have been allowed to have this level of technology.”
“They’re not worshippers.”
“I don’t see them collaborating with each other. The Wraith would’ve culled this place and stolen anything that interested them before leveling the city.”
“Yeah,” Ronon replied.
Sheppard looked around the empty halls. “Teyla’s taking a tour of the southern section and McKay’s with the head science guy. If we radio them, it might tip the Saurin off. I‘m supposed to sit with their head of the military in an hour.”
“We have the time.” Ronon checked his blaster and made sure it was set on stun. “They’re hiding something. We should find it.”
“Because people with advanced technology are gonna leave all their secrets out for us to uncover,” Sheppard said sarcastically. But he was checking the clip in his gun.
“It’s a small city; I doubt they have a thousand people living here. They gave us the big tour."
Sheppard grinned. “Then we’ll go find the stuff not printed in the guide.”
Ronon remembered dreaming of the ocean. Of serving a city and her people and finding his path again.
A strong breeze floated over the waves and washed over him. The pain had faded and his arms were nice and numb. He was swimming in the sea, nothing between him and the vast depths below. He dove deeper and deeper.
He was free. A fine mist cooled his body and ran down his face. He licked at the droplets of seawater at his lips, wanting more.
“A little at a time,” the voice of Sheppard said.
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Ronon didn’t feel like he was dying of thirst.
Ronon had wanted to peel the skin off his bones for days. He’d chewed his fingernails down and clawed the ground to keep from gouging at his flesh. Still the rash had spread and itched and boiled over into blisters. And finally he’d drawn blood.
Now he hovered between waking and sleeping, longing to stay there. Because for the first time in days his body felt cooler, like lazy days spent under the Yukka trees near his childhood home. He could almost taste the juice of its plump yellow fruit. His mouth flooded with a tart flavor, like that of the lemons McKay was deathly afraid of.
“Tastes pretty good, huh?”
Ronon forced eyes stuck together with grit and glue open. “Yeah,” he answered hoarsely.
“You with me this time?”
Sheppard’s worried face swam into focus, his hand poised above Ronon’s mouth. “What’s that?”
“It’s called romari,” Sheppard said, holding up a small round thing that looked like an Earth grape with fuzz. “They taste like sour cherries. Grows on this planet’s cactus-things.”
Ronon pushed up with his hands. Sheppard quickly grabbed his shoulders and helped him sit up against the wall. Being slightly vertical made him want to lie back down, but his brain was starting to clear a little and his stomach growled loudly.
Sheppard smiled. “I think you might actually want to eat these rather than drink the juice I’ve been pouring down your throat.”
Ronon wasted no time eating the fruit, not caring how the orange-yellow juice stained his fingers. His mind was fragmented, pieces of nightmares and odd visions blending together. There was a pile of romari on a piece of cloth and Sheppard ate quietly next to him. Ronon felt wrung out, his strength drained like the days after his withdrawal from the enzyme.
There were so many questions, but his body demanded food and that was all it would allow him to think about at the moment. After devouring twelve of the fruit things, Ronon’s fingers froze over the next bunch.
“We’ve got plenty. Didn’t expect you to be awake enough to eat them,” Sheppard said, pulling out a sack filled to the top.
“Where--”
“I’ll explain everything later. This is fruit. We’ll see about the caterpi--um...we’ll see about stuff that used to be alive tomorrow.”
Ronon gave a token resistance, but Sheppard was eating too, sucking at the drops on his fingertips and digging for more. Hunger won over and Ronon relished the skin, the pulp, every last bite. By the time he was done, his eyes were heavy with sleep even though he’d been up for less than an hour.
Sheppard busied himself with another sack, this one filled with white powder. In a clay bowl that’d seen better days he began mixing the substance with water.
He looked up at Ronon, his tanned face fatigued and worn. “You’re tired. Go to sleep. It’s actually easier to do this when you’re not awake to notice.”
Ronon’s skin started to itch and the rest of him was warm and sticky. The rash over his chest looked better and even his clothes smelled fresher than before. He was already asleep before contemplating anything else.
The Saurin possessed the Ancestor gene, causing McKay to get all worked up where he talked too fast and spoke with his hands more than his mouth. On the third day of talks, it’d been the Saurin who were all excited when they learned that members of the expedition also had the Ancestor gene.
The arrogance in their superiority was reflected in the security measures of the city. Since they never worried about a breach because of their shield and cloak, the only systems in place to keep people away from high clearance levels was requiring the Ancestor gene to get anywhere.
Sheppard swiped his hand over sensors or doors opened before he reached them. They started their search in a sector that was off limits during the various tours. It was a long shot that they were near anything of importance until they spotted a security patrol.
“Think we’re getting warm,” Sheppard whispered.
They hung back, ghosting the soldiers to determine their route. When they almost ran into a second one, Ronon knew they were near something worth guarding. They were going deeper and deeper, and evading more and more patrols. Neither of them spoke, using hand signals to weave in and out of the halls. The corridors appeared all the same, but Ronon memorized the Wraith designs just in case they had to make a quick escape. Time was ticking down before Sheppard’s meeting and then their impromptu mission would be blown.
Ronon knew they had found something important before he saw the double doors and the soldiers outside of them. He pointed to the large border of Wraith ‘artwork’ over the entrance.
'Jackpot,' Sheppard mouthed.
They needed a plan. Ronon considered his weapon, but Sheppard shook his head. They couldn’t attack without provocation. They couldn’t even blow up anything as a distraction.
“I’ve got an idea,” Sheppard whispered.
Ronon followed him several corridors down to one of the doors they had entered. Sheppard pulled open a panel and started manipulating the crystals. “If I do this right, I’ll short the controls and the doors won’t open.”
“One of the patrols will see it.”
“That’s the plan.”
“They’ll radio the problem.”
“Yeah, hopefully our pals guarding the door will go investigate it.”
“Or they’ll stay at their post and the patrols will call for reinforcements,” Ronon warned.
Sheppard held up one of the crystals. “That’s another possibility.”
“Either way they’re going to know someone sabotaged the doors.”
“It’ll burn out the crystal array. That’ll require a tech to investigate it and by that time we would have already gotten our peek. We’ll either have just cause, or I’ll have to come with a really good story and have my ass chewed out by Woolsey for compromising the negotiations.”
“You almost done?" Ronon asked impatiently.
Sheppard rolled his eyes. After a minute sparks flew and metal burned. “That should do it.”
They doubled back and waited around the opposite corner from where the guards were stationed. Sheppard glanced at his watch and nodded to Ronon. The patrol should have discovered the doors. If the Saurin military trained their men properly, this would backfire.
The soldiers’ expressions changed then hands were lifted to earpieces. After a short discussion, both of them cautiously left their post to check things out.
“If any of our guys ever did that, I’d kick their asses from here 'til Sunday.”
Ronon glanced at Sheppard. “Our men wouldn’t. Come on.”
They approached the door, each studying their side of the hall for security. Sheppard swiped his hand over the sensor and the door opened. It was dark and Ronon had his blaster out, Sheppard his .45. They kept to the back wall, slowly inching their way inside a room filled with humming machinery.
There were no signs of people, but it was hard to tell with such little light. Large pieces of equipment reached the ceiling, taking up most of the space. Ronon didn’t know what any of it did; there were dozens of glowing green buttons. They all looked like large generators with glass panels of readouts that he couldn’t decipher.
The temperature was lower and Ronon could see his breath in clouds of mist. He was tense, the noise of all this stuff able to mask any footsteps. They wandered further and finally the machines thinned out and in the center of the room was a row of pods.
“Feels like déjà vu,” Sheppard whispered, eying the domed covers. He peered down at one of them and his eyes went wide. “Crap.”
Ronon stood next to him, glanced at the insides of the pod, and saw a Wraith sleeping inside it. Sheppard walked briskly around all of them. “There’s got to be about twenty Wraith in here.”
Ronon ignored the slumbering Wraith and started toward something very familiar. “John.”
Sheppard ran over, his weapon trained in front of him. “What the hell? Is that what I think it is?”
Ronon felt his muscles tense and he gripped his gun. “The Saurin have their own Wraith cocoons.”
Ronon dreamed of cocoons and stasis pods. Then he imagined people hooked up to tubes and wires. When he tried to set them free they started hissing and screaming, their screeching inhuman.
Waking up from a nightmare wasn’t unusual. Ronon simply reached for the weapon under his pillow. Except there was no pillow. Or bed. It took a few stuttering breaths before he realized he was in a cave… a cave with Sheppard and not one of the hundred he’d slept in during his life as a runner.
Assessing his situation, he noticed the strange faint chemical scent of his skin and clothes. His body still burned with a temperature, but it was lower. He’d been bathed and his throat wasn’t dried out and scratchy. Sheppard sat across from him, lost in his own little world. Seeing his normally alert CO staring vacantly at nothing was unsettling.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Sheppard replied.
Ronon brushed his fingers over his clothes. “These are clean.”
Sheppard pulled out a small sack. “I used these soap flakes. They suds up real good with a little water. Now we don’t smell so bad.”
“How did you get ‘em?” Ronon asked and watched his friend’s expression. They both knew what Ronon was really driving at.
Sheppard folded the bag back up. “During one of the times I was robbed at the transports I injured this guy. He died. The Shan‘ka saw it. Deemed it a clean death or whatever.” He pulled out a necklace; a stone dangled from it. “I got all his water.”
Ronon breathed a sigh of relief. “Glad it was him and not you.”
Sheppard looked up sharply.
Ronon shrugged. “He attacked. You defended yourself. It’s not complicated.”
“I know. Kill or be killed. I did what needed to be done,” Sheppard replied, searching through a new collection of items. “I got this clay pot real cheap. Filled it with some water, stuck these caterpillar things in it and set it outside like a crock pot. I think they slowly roasted enough out there. Should be safe to eat.”
Sheppard wasn’t too torn up by the guy’s death. Ronon thought that was a good thing, but it doubled his earlier uneasiness. Sheppard didn’t kill easily.
Things were too smooth. Too simple. Ronon had been out of the loop and he didn’t intend for it to stay that way. “Tell me about the Shan’ka,” and listened to the strategic analysis of the Shan’ka’s lair. About their laws. “They control all the water?”
“Seems like it.”
“How do they do it?”
“That’s the mystery. I mean it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out how you could extract water from living things. But the equipment and the storage facilities needed…”
“Sounds like they have a lot to hide.”
“Makes you wonder how much.” Sheppard poured the water out of the clay pot into another pouch, not wasting the precious liquid. He pulled out pieces of the meaty insect and set them on the same strip of fabric from his shirt. “I think the key to getting off this rock is with the Shan’ka.” Sheppard made a face after biting into dinner. “This is gross.”
Ronon didn’t care how they tasted. “And you used the water from the guy you killed to buy stuff?”
“Yeah. Medicine for your fever. Sap from plants I used on the rash. And I’ve taken care of some sanitary needs.”
The soap baths. Ronon wasn’t embarrassed; he was just sick of being incapacitated. “How did you get the medicine?”
“I traded for it.”
“Why would merchants have things for the sick?” There was no reason to. If you were ill you didn’t contribute.
“Some people will deal anything for the right price.”
Ronon’s sluggish mind thought about it. The gangs that had jumped Sheppard. Who else would have access to herbs and plants? “You shouldn’t mess with those drug peddlers. People like that can’t be trusted.”
“Who said I trusted them?”
Ronon sat propped up like a useless lump while Sheppard spread the sticky plant sap over the worst of the lesions; there wasn’t enough of it left to cover the rest of his skin. It stung but he savored that over the lethargic feelings of late.
Sheppard thought it best to use the last of the sap on Ronon’s arms where he’d scratched open the abscesses. They’d use the soap suds to treat the rest of the rash over his body. That was good. The sooner he got over this illness, the sooner he could work on his leg. Sheppard didn’t comment on his broken bones. There was no need to. It hurt like hell, but it was a muted roar since he hadn’t moved the limb in days. If he could only find a way to splint it.
Sheppard still had the rash; blotches of pink irritated skin covered his arms, neck and chest. “Don’t forget to treat yourself,” Ronon reminded him.
“I’m using the soap flakes. You’re just never awake to see.”
Sheppard made a show of spreading the suds over his most affected areas before sitting in silence for a while.
“You have to go out to the transports.” It wasn’t a question. Sheppard got quieter the day he went for water.
“I’m going out earlier this time.”
“Why?”
“Old strategy’s not working.”
“You’ve brought back some each time.”
“That’s not enough. I plan on getting both containers filled.”
“How are you going to fill both by yourself?”
Sheppard didn’t say anything.
It only pissed Ronon off. “Do you think I don’t know what it’s like? I’ve been where you are, John. There’s the battlefield and there’s what’s out there. You have to treat it like any other war or it’ll eat you up inside.”
“I’m fine, no need to go Freudian on me.”
Ronon didn’t know what that meant but he knew when someone was hiding something. Then again, so was he. “I saw someone. While you were gone.”
“Who?”
“The guy people are afraid of. The demon from the Void.”
“Malvick? Why? And when were you going to tell me?”
Malvick. That was his name. “Didn’t know if he was a dream.” Sheppard was still mad; Ronon could feel the anger coming off him in waves, but it wasn’t all directed outward. “You can’t be here all the time.”
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know. He’s been watching both of us. He’s after something. Haven’t figured out his game. But if he wanted to kill us, we’d be dead already.”
“You learn anything about this Void?”
“To stay away from it.” Ronon didn’t mention anything else, not wanting Sheppard to investigate the place by himself. Not that it sounded like he could without guidance. If anyone was going into the Void it was him. He was going to pull his own weight.
“I bet you there’s something there. It’s on my list of things to check out after we have a constant source of supplies. There are too many questions about this planet and not enough answers.” Sheppard pulled out more of the romari and handed Ronon the first half of the day’s food rations. “You should’ve told me earlier.”
“You should have told me what you did for water before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you killed that guy.”
“I don‘t know what you‘re talking about.”
Ronon grabbed Sheppard’s arm and pulled up the sleeve. “Where did you get those burns?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“You gave up blood.”
Sheppard jerked his arm away, his harsh breathing giving away his anger. “How did you--”
“He told me. Like I said, Malvick’s been watchin’ us.” Nothing shocked Ronon these days. Except maybe the image of his friend trading his life’s blood for water.
“You would’ve done the same for me,” Sheppard said.
Ronon would. No doubt about it. “Don’t do it again.”
“Don’t plan on failing again.”
“This wasn’t your failure.”
Sheppard didn’t argue, but his silence spoke volumes.
Joining the Air Force had been John’s ticket away from his father’s visions of a family empire with him at the helm. He’d passed on taking the penthouse office and the boardroom battles. All John wanted to do was fly. To experience the only sense of freedom he’d ever known.
In the sky.
John excelled at being a pilot. What started off as thrill-seeking escapism became an invaluable skill for his country. It stopped being about the fast, super cool aircraft and more about the missions.
He went wherever they asked. Took pictures above places it was illegal to be over and even destroyed things that didn’t exist on any maps. When he started his tour in Afghanistan, John thought he’d seen and done it all.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Air support. The occasional search and rescue. More 'special' assignments. He volunteered for it all and saw more action on the ground than the average pilot, learning one of the hardest taught lessons of any soldier--how to dehumanize the enemy.
In the air it’d been easier. Flashing dots or specks on radar had been the targets. Air combat was a test of ability, the other pilots the ultimate opponents, but taking out a person face to face was another matter.
“It’s kill or be killed, Sheppard. You can‘t put a face to the enemy,” Colonel Lebronski had told him.
There was no applying personalities to those you fought. No thinking in human terms. You wore the uniform and dismissed all civilian rules. The people you killed didn’t have a family or normal lives during the few seconds of combat. Humanity didn’t exist in war.
This fight for water was just another battle to win.
John sought only the best position, ignoring those around him, never seeking to see behind the fabric and goggles. It helped that everyone was hidden by false layers. It made it easier to dismiss them as obstacles.
Hanging back from the fight had cost him too much before. This time, he needed to be in the fray. Blood, piss, and filth stewing in the sun overwhelmed the air and he swallowed past the gagging it triggered. The god-awful noise of too many voices followed; nearly the whole wretched population of this hellhole waited for water.
The tanker arrived and the masses gathered around the landing zone. John surveyed the crowd. The Spraza were easy to spot, their faces covered in heavy streaks of red paint; several held pieces of bones as clubs. Ten men carried huge containers with a couple dozen surrounding them like destroyers protecting the convoy.
There was no need to take them on.
The others, however, were fair game. He inched closer to the front of the circle, searching for the smallest and weakest of the bunch. Others used his strategy, healthier people pushing their way through. John took a mental note to avoid the guys with the large rocks in their hands.
The transport landed and the crowd surged, and John raced to keep ahead of it. He wasn’t the first one to reach the taps and it was like a twenty car pile-up. He was smashed on all sides and for a few seconds it was impossible to breathe. Then people sought thinner areas and shorter lines and there was an inch here and there to jockey for a better place.
As soon as there was a slight opening John pulled out the knife and the world went in slow motion. This had to be done. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate.
Complete the mission.
John drove the handle into the base of people's skulls and worked a path towards a faucet. Some fell unconscious immediately, others staggered and he muscled past them.
Some prisoners scrambled away in fear; others fought back, striking back at John in any way they could. But he just reacted more brutally.
He smashed jaws and caught people on the side of the head with the knife handle. It was impossible avoiding the shots to his ribs and back, but they bounced off him. All that mattered was the faucet and the flowing water.
John reached the tap and drained the liquid into his container, holding on with one hand and defending his spot with the threat of the blade. He finished with the first container and switched to the second.
“You got your fill!”
“Move outta the way!”
Fingers tried displacing his own but John held on like a wild animal with one hand and sliced the knife with the other. His blade met flesh over and over again while he blocked out all the screaming.
Finally, multiple hands dug into his shoulders, yanking him away. John wasn’t moving of his own accord, but both containers were full and heavy across his back, the tide sending him to the outskirts of all the fighting bodies.
Masses continued to beat one another over at the transport, but he was done. Time to leave.
This was the final leg of his mission, the noise of the melee roaring behind him. It was the first time he’d noticed the sounds since he‘d arrived. A glint in the corner of his eye had him turning to see blue robes in the distance. The Shan’ka overseeing the rule of their law.
John marched on, aware of those staging an ambush meters across from him, waiting to strike. Their target was behind John but he didn’t warn the poor soul. Just one less thief for him to deal with later.
Rolling sore shoulders, he adjusted the water packs pulling on his back. When the gang jumped the other guy, he forced the sounds out of his head.
Arriving and leaving early had cut down on the amount of thugs and scavengers, many waiting to prey on the weakest, especially those who left the tanker last.
“Six hundred and thirty-two more steps,” John mumbled.
Then it became six hundred and thirty-one.
The tanker took off when he reached two hundred and seventy.
John allowed his body to experience the pain from the punches and the elbows at ninety-four steps.
His breathing was ragged when he reached outside the cave. Pushing his goggles down, he blinked away the brightness, easing the heavy containers to the ground. He studied the newest blood staining his shirt; at least this time there were fewer smudges. Wiping his sticky fingers over them, he did his best to clean the reminders away.
Hands cupped over his face, John released a shuddering breath.
Mission complete.
Then he fell to his knees and heaved into the dirt.
----
“Chapter Six”
