“Red Sands” (6/15)
Jun. 21st, 2010 10:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999Title: “Red Sands” (6/15)
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.
----
Ronon contemplated the squares, picking a box. Then changing his mind. He did this three or four times, going over all the options before growling in frustration. His finger finally drew a quick X in the center and he sat back. “This is stupid.”
Sheppard put a circle in the far right box. “We could play hangman.”
“In Satedan?”
“We only have twenty-six letters in our alphabet.”
Ronon marked the bottom right corner of the grid. “You use the same letters for different sounds. Having thirty-nine makes more sense.”
Sheppard countered with the opposite square without thinking about it. “Simpler can be better.”
This was the sixth round and it was bound to end in a tie again. They all did. “Like this game?” Ronon huffed.
Sheppard missed an obvious spot to block Ronon’s line of Xs, sticking his circle in the wrong square. Ronon countered with another X then drew a line connecting them across the grid. “You gave up.”
“No, I didn’t.”
It was a half-hearted denial but neither was inclined to offer more. Hours-long silences had often fallen between them. Ronon never had the energy to do more than lie around despite fierce instincts not to. Sheppard had slept a lot the last couple of days as well and had been restless when he was awake, moving about the cave like a caged animal.
Sheppard wiped away the tic-tac-toe game and started rearranging their supplies for the fourth time in a few hours.
“You should work out again,” Ronon encouraged.
Sheppard had been exercising in the back when he woke up since that’s when he had the most energy. His friend considered the idea, running his hand through his longer hair and grooming it the best he could with his fingers. “Nah. Gonna run out today. See if I can find Lyle, ask about letting me in on harvesting for food.”
“What makes you think he’ll help?”
“Because we still owe him. He’ll help if it means getting paid back.”
Ronon wasn’t sure about that. He didn’t trust the merchant; there was no such thing as a free handout. “What are you going to offer him?”
“See if he bites at a thirty-seventy split of what I can gather.”
“Why does he need you? He’s a trader. Probably has a better deal with the people who work for him.”
“I’ll match whatever arrangement he has with his own people.”
“Don’t expect much. Telling you his source of food gives away his power.”
“You got a better idea?” Sheppard snapped.
“Follow him and do it yourself.” It’s what Ronon would do.
“I don’t think double crossing the only guy who’s helped out is a good idea.”
“Double cross him before he does you.”
“We’ve got this…” Sheppard bobbed his head back and forth in search of his words. “This understanding. I don‘t think you need to worry.”
“I’m just--”
“I said, I’ve got it covered.”
“John.”
“Don’t!” Sheppard growled. His jaw was clenched, both hands balled into fists. He took two short rapid breaths and clawed at his beard before visibly reining his anger in. “Think I’ll do a few push-ups.”
Ronon watched him crawl away, his own jaw equally clenched. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, if it was more than frayed nerves and tight spaces. Part of him knew what it was about. He was the tracker. Animal or plant, it didn’t matter. And he wanted to be the one out there, in the thick of things.
Sweat beaded at his forehead, the droplets a symbol of conflict. Perspiration was a sign of hydration and of the low-grade fever that he couldn’t kick.
He pounded his hand into the ground. When that didn’t alleviate his frustration, he took a whack at a stone protruding from the ceiling. Part of the rock broke away in his fingers and he crushed it against the ground, pulverizing it. The mineral left a reddish smear behind.
The smudge was streaked with tiny crystal flakes. He took the nub of rock and drew a small red circle that sparkled softly in the dark. Were there more? The roof of the cave was composed of a substance analogous to coarse sandstone with a few odd discolorations. He wasn’t a scientist, but he knew that caves were created by fire or water. Elements got mixed up and maybe there were other pieces of this rock. It’d been a long time since he had something to do and Ronon looked forward to the search.
He heard Sheppard clamber back, his demeanor appearing less agitated. “Hey.”
Ronon readjusted himself against the wall, unable to hide the grimace of pain. “Hey.”
Sheppard rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck. “Look about--”
“Don’t worry about it.” But Ronon did worry, for other reasons. Ones he couldn’t place.
“Yeah. Okay. Well…I’ve gotta…ya know.”
Ronon forgot about the rocks. “Be careful out there.”
Sheppard didn’t look right and it was more than worry and stress. There was something beneath the growing beard and healing rash. His eyes, even in this light, lacked their usual glint.
“I’ll see what it’ll take to get more stuff for your fever.”
“It’s a lot better.”
“We’ve got to break it, or it could gain ground and get worse.” Sheppard put on his boots. “Besides, once you kick this thing you can get off your lazy ass and hunt down some real food.”
“Count on it,” Ronon replied.
“Good. Cuz I’m tired of eating bugs.”
The cave grew silent in Sheppard’s absence and Ronon was determined not to dawdle. A pair of BDUs was the only thing keeping his leg stable, so he scooted across the ground, careful not to jostle it. There was a small boulder Sheppard used to grind up the medicine and he wrapped his hands around it and set it on his lap.
Strengthening his leg was out of the question, but that didn’t mean the rest of him should get out of shape. He began curling the stone to work on his biceps and forearms. A hundred would be a good start. After those reps, he’d lift the weight above his head to build up his shoulders.
He’d heard the Earthers say ‘no pain, no gain’. It was a motto he lived by every day.
Keeping an ear out for outside noise, he concentrated on muscles weakened by disuse. Working out got his blood pumping and put his brain on alert. By the time that was done, his body was down for the count, but the exercise left him invigorated. More rehab was out of the question since the annoying fever clung to him.
That left him with more time on his hands. Like hell would he go back to sleep. He glanced down at the disregarded rock he’d discovered earlier. Grabbing the mineral, he scratched it against the wall.
Maybe he’d found something to do with his time after all.
Ronon sketched out the design of a new tattoo, starting with the Satedan symbol for loyalty, a symbol he’d drawn for the first time when he was five years old. The quilo, Kosk's symbol. His grandfather used to recite all of Kosk’s greatest battles before Ronon had learned to read. Ronon still kept the book on his hero at his bedside, absorbed in the artistic renditions of glory on the battlefield.
His favorite picture in the entire book was of Kosk sharpening his knife after tattooing the quilo onto his arm. Kosk had created the design after one of the bloodiest battles for the union of Sateda and he’d carved it into his own bicep as a permanent symbol of inspiration for his army. Kosk’s men soon took their own blades, carving the quilo into their own arms in a sign of solidarity.
The symbol was the centerpiece of Ronon’s design, standing out in a shimmering red. He planned to overlap each side of the quilo with the symbols for friendship and service. They were the three pillars of his personal code and he wanted them to be a permanent part of him.
Originally he’d wanted them tattooed between his shoulder blades, despite the fact his scars were no longer there after McKay had healed them. He didn’t want to cover up the area where they’d once been. Maybe his chest.
He’d found, by pure luck, another piece of rock that left behind orange-brown streaks. It had hardly stood out; the tiny glints of mineral were nearly impossible to see in the dark. It wasn’t until they were crushed against something that they softly reflected their color.
Ronon stared at the quilo, imagining how to intertwine the other two symbols with it. As his thoughts focused on the significance of such a piece he dropped the shard of rock.
Would he ever be worthy of wearing symbols of such importance? Should a warrior have allowed himself to be captured? Should he have allowed one of his most trusted friends to be taken as well?
Ronon’s blood burned with a warrior’s fire, but the flames raged out of control sometimes. Shoot first, ask questions later worked most of the time. But great warriors didn’t allow emotion to overwhelm strategy. He’d used to have a cool head in battle, but years of being reduced to an animal had almost destroyed such training.
Going to Atlantis-- fighting for her, fighting alongside his team had gone a long ways to restoring who he used to be. But the Wraith had transformed him and Ronon was still reinventing himself.
He stared at the quilo and vowed that he would earn the right to wear it. To right what had gone so wrong.
Ronon stared at the Wraith cocoon, wanting nothing more than to destroy it. He raised his blaster but Sheppard grabbed his wrist.
“Stand down!”
“Why?” Ronon growled.
“We don’t need the whole Saurin security force on top of us.”
“Then what? Don’t think they’ll be our allies now.”
“We regroup. Our people are scattered across this city.”
Ronon backed down, knowing his CO was right. They needed to ensure their people’s safety first.
Sheppard glanced at his watch. “Crap. The meeting I had has started. I‘m going to be missed.”
“We’ve already missed you, Colonel.”
Ronon and Sheppard spun around at once, but they were surrounded by six armed Saurin. How had they snuck up on them like that?
The head of security stepped forward; Ronon had forgotten his name. “Please lower your weapons. You’re outnumbered and it would be foolish to resist.”
Sheppard was armed with a handgun. Ronon had his blaster. It wouldn’t be much of a stand, not with the Saurin’ firepower. Sheppard nodded at him to do what the guy said. It was a lose-lose situation.
“Good, now if you would follow me,” the security guy said.
They were escorted a different way and went deeper into the lab and toward another room. The doors opened for Sheppard and they were greeted by the head guy. Ronon waited to be restrained or patted down and was confused that the Saurin hadn’t disarmed them yet.
“Colonel Sheppard. Mr. Dex. It seems you discovered our research facility before we’d planned.”
“It was conveniently left off the tour,” Sheppard replied.
“Yes, a highly debated decision. It makes no difference now. You saw our work. Now we’ll show you everything.”
“Since you’re gonna give us the five star treatment, Mr. Dumma, you mind if I contact the rest of our team? Save you from giving the tour twice,” Sheppard inquired in that deadpan tone of his.
Dumma was a politician. A blaster hung in a holster on his hip, but Ronon doubted he had ever fired the thing. He was short with a perfectly trimmed dark beard that matched his perfectly trimmed hair. Everything about him was immaculate. A spotless long flowing blue jacket and shirt topped ironed and starched gray pants. He had smiled the most during the negotiations which wasn’t saying much. “No. I’d rather have your opinion. You are the head of your military. I have no doubt that your doctor of science would approve, but it is you we need to win over.”
“Win over?” Sheppard questioned.
“So we may join forces and combine our knowledge, of course,” Dumma replied with a smile. “I think you’ll realize that our work here will benefit us all.”
The Saurin leader waved his hand over a sensor, and a panel opened and revealed a large window overlooking a basement to the lab. Sheppard and Ronon stepped closer and peered down at the massive facility below. It was filled with enough consoles and computer equipment to make McKay drool over himself. Scientists with masks and goggles worked diligently over their machines, some bustling about even more stasis pods. The entire eastern side of the room was made up of a wall of Wraith cocoons.
“What did you do? Create your own mini Hive?” Sheppard growled.
“In a way.” Dumma beamed. “We discovered a decayed Hive ship very long ago and were able to bring part of it back. Our scientists have been able to keep and grow the genetic material with the right balance of chemicals and nourishment.”
It took everything in Ronon’s power to keep from breaking the Saurin’s neck. But he waited, knowing that the rest of their people would be put in danger. They were probably in a holding cell right now.
No, he’d wait for Sheppard’s signal. The colonel always had a plan.
“You’re growing cocoons.” Sheppard glared at Dumma. “Why?”
“Why? To keep the Wraith we have alive,” Dumma responded.
Ronon fumed. Sheppard’s whole body tensed. “You’re experimenting on the Wraith?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Do you think you are the only people to conduct this type of research?” Dumma questioned.
“And what kind of research is that?” Sheppard demanded.
“On their superior genetic makeup.”
Ronon’s chest heaved with his cracking restraint. “Superior?”
“Why, yes. They have the ability to regenerate their bodies. To covert energy in ways that allows them to live for tens of thousands of years. Look at the bio-chemical structure of their Hive ships. Their telepathic abilities. There is so much to study.”
“You admire them,” Sheppard said, disgusted by Dumma’s glee.
“Of course we do. We admire their advancements. Like we admire the Ancients or anyone else who possesses technology and research to better Saurin society. But the Wraith....they are special. So special that we surround ourselves with their symbols throughout our city. ”
Sheppard looked at Ronon and back through the window. “You want to be allies to get your hands on our research.”
“We are aware of your collaborations with the Wraith and your own experiments.” Dumma’s face broke out in a rare display of excitement. “Between our two peoples, we might be able to harness the power of the Wraith.”
Sheppard stepped away, his eyes darting about, verifying the positions of the guards and all possible exits. “The power of the Wraith,” he repeated. “Forgive me if that sounds a little insane.”
The Saurin security forces slowly closed in and Dumma waved a hand over another sensor, his face hard. “We’re not insane, Colonel Sheppard. Once you see how close we are, you’ll change your mind.”
John had been a ball of raw nerves earlier. Too many hours inside a cramped, dark space with nothing to do. His thoughts either drifted randomly or they overanalyzed the most current crisis to the point of invading his dreams, making sleep as stressful as being awake. Playing games barely kept his focus and Ronon’s questions had been like thousands of jabbing sticks.
“Get your shit together,” he muttered. This wasn’t the time to come undone.
He walked against a strong breeze, the empty space between the caves and the settlement a giant wind tunnel. He kept his head down while grains of sand scraped at the nape of his neck and snuck in where his sleeves billowed open. What he’d give for a couple of rubber bands around his wrists to protect his arms.
Visibility was only a few inches as he hiked over the hard bedrock, his hands tucked under his armpits for protection. The sudden sandstorm had corralled others inside the shelter of the subterranean market, cramming the area with people and their sweltering body heat. John removed both handkerchiefs and goggles before taking a long swig from his dunka pouch.
The market bustled with wandering people trying to take refuge from outside and barterers competing over the noise of the crowd. Loud shouting caught John’s attention; the sharp, angry voices attracted people in a large growing circle. Heat, tension, the threat of violence. It was like honey to those with nothing to do. John brushed a hand over his knife, his eyes following the source of the disturbance. He remained vigilant and walked around the outside of the crowd before finding an open spot to observe.
It wasn’t a surprise to see six Spraza at the source of the problem. The gang surrounded a man who clung to a pole tacked with fernandi. John recognized the seller from the first day he’d explored the market. The guy’s eyes darted between his ‘protectors’ and the men encroaching on his space, three members of the Jad who made up the other side of the battle line, each gripping bone-carved knives.
“Great,” John muttered.
He identified Pullo as the loudmouth he’d tangled with in the Jad’s lair. A shabby robe covered him like a giant Jawa costume; his rolled-back hood revealed a head completely bald save for little spikes of green dyed hair. Pullo wasn’t much for artwork; his gang colors looked like they’d been applied by dipping his fingers in paint and smearing them messily over his face without a mirror.
Pullo huffed like a bull. “Chargin’ a dunka for a fernandi is brocha!”
One of the Spraza stepped forward; two streaks of red paint framed his crooked nose. It was Rull, the guy whose face John had smashed when they first arrived. This was going to be an exceptionally crappy day. That’s all he needed: a couple of hot-headed guys both wanting to be the big kahuna.
“Price’s gone up.” Rull shrugged.
“We won’t stand for this!” Pullo hissed.
“And we won’t stand for higher orris prices,” Rull growled, stepping closer to his rival.
Ouch. This was a trade war. Drugs vs a major food source. John’s sampling of the planet’s provisions was limited, but he knew the fernandi lizard things were a source of real meat and tasted good as well. On the other hand, jacking up the price of orris was bound to piss people off.
Never screw with people’s vices.
Pullo scanned the rapt crowd, using his two inch height advantage to stare Rull down. “The Spraza do not own the Tharsqin Sands. You can’t control all the fernandi! It’s a neutral territory.”
Rull smirked, sharing a smile with his buddies. “Not for long.”
The Spraza pulled sharpened shards of rock out of their pockets and John started inching backwards, not wanting to get caught in a brawl.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” Pullo taunted unoriginally.
The other five Spraza fanned out around their second in command. They outnumbered the drug gang, but the Jad were bigger and had larger weapons. “Really?” Rull mocked. “I thought you needed permission just to take a piss. Breaking our truce seems too big for you.”
Pullo’s entire body shook in untapped rage. “Ziffka's great plan is snash. Besides, he ain‘t here.”
John saw it– the moment when both men lost control.
But suddenly people scrambled in all directions and three blue-robed Shan’ka forged a path through those fleeing away. Silence descended over the market, and people huddled in dozens of groups, all nervously eying the conflict. The rival Spraza and Jad backed down and let their hands drop to their sides.
John maneuvered around, gathering intel. The Shan’ka surveyed the crowds, ensuring they had everyone’s attention. The middle one stepped forward, his entourage flanking him. It was Misha and he looked to his masters before addressing the crowd. “The waste of life fluids will not be tolerated. Those who kill people of able body will be punished. The Shan’ka will not issue any more warnings.”
Declaration made, the Shan’ka didn’t waste time leaving, turning their backs on those they controlled and returning to their lair. Misha paused, gazing at the sights and sounds of the outside world before one of the Shan’ka turned his head in scrutiny and Misha hurried to take his place with them.
The gangs remained, sneering at each other to save face before backing away. Once the Shan’ka were gone, commerce continued as people returned to bargaining. John kept his eye on Rull and his cohorts, moving in the opposite direction. Running into a bunch of humiliated Spraza wouldn’t end well for him.
Lyle was nowhere in the sea of faces so John shouldered his way past others, searching for him in the next trading area.
A random merchant grabbed John’s elbow, almost earning him a sharp jab in return. “I have something special for you,” the man said, tugging him toward the end of the market in a corner away from everyone.
John jerked his arm away, scanning the area. “Maybe another time.”
“Don’t you want fresh fruit?”
John’s blood pounded in his ears, his paranoia running rampant. “Sorry, no money.”
“I was thinking of something else.”
John noticed two people coming at him from each side and he didn’t wait for the first blow. He slammed his elbow into the right guy’s sternum and punched the guy on his left in the face hard enough to pop his knuckles. John swung back for another jab, but the merchant jumped in front of his cronies.
“Stop!”
John only saw a target and clocked the merchant in the jaw.
“Enough!” the merchant growled, holding his mouth. “I’m offering you a deal! This isn’t an ambush.”
Right Guy recovered from the blow to the chest, but didn’t make a move. Left Guy’s mouth was bleeding and he looked at his boss for orders. John’s heart pumped wildly; adrenaline poured through him, making it hard to catch his breath.
“I need someone like you. We can help one another out,” the merchant implored, holding his hands out in placation.
It took a moment for John’s brain to catch up to the fact that no one was attacking him. “Help one another?” he repeated, wrapping his mind around the sentence.
“Yes.” The merchant put his hands down. “I require your service.”
The merchant looked like all the others save for what seemed better stitched clothes that actually seemed the proper size. His frame was bigger than John’s, his head scarf was a faded blue and he had dark, bushy eyebrows and a well-trimmed beard.
“Didn‘t know I had a service to offer,” John said in genuine doubt.
The merchant laughed. “You have skills I need.”
John nodded at the other two men. “Really? What about them?”
The merchant snorted. “They‘re a pair of broken backs and feeble minds.”
Both men bowed their heads and John noticed how little of a threat they were. Left Guy was older looking, the oldest person he’d seen on this planet. He could have been in his sixties, deep wrinkles and hours in the sun aging him more. His left eye was black and blue, his bottom lip swelling up from John‘s punch.
Right Guy stared at John with a burning intensity, a slow boil of anger that the rest of him was incapable of acting upon. He was a small thing, with thinning wisps of hair and a scraggly beard that barely covered signs of prickly heat. He held his arm close to his chest and winced when he moved.
The merchant scowled at them. “They’ve been unproductive of late and couldn’t even hold their own at the transports. When they returned with empty pouches, they told me all about you.”
John’s stomach coiled. He studied the two laborers, but he didn’t recognize them. He never looked at anyone’s faces on the transport missions, couldn’t afford the weight of empathy on his shoulders.
It was hard not to look at them now. Humanizing them. Seeing the results of his fists and elbows. John turned away quickly and focused on the merchant. “What do you want?” he asked tersely.
“You to go out with them and find romari.”
This was the exact opportunity he’d been seeking, but there was always a caveat. “I prefer working solo.”
The merchant shook his head and gestured at his men. “Hemma and Juka will go with you. Show you where and how to harvest. Then we’ll see about going on your own.”
“What else?”
“What do you mean?”
John smiled. “You can get anyone to pick berries. You said you needed someone like me. Who is that exactly?”
The merchant appraised John‘s clothes and gruff appearance with a crooked grin. “I need someone who can take care of problems and not worry about how bloody their hands get.”
John kept his expression neutral. “Describes a lot of people around here.”
“I don’t care about alliances. I only care about me. You’re loyal to no one.”
John had become a thug for hire. “What’s the split?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“Don’t think so. Not unless you plan on helping.”
“Sixty-forty.”
“Seventy-thirty,” John countered, ignoring the fact that he was negotiating a payment on his ability to kill.
The merchant waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need you that badly.”
John called the bluff. “You sure about that? Sixty-five. Thirty-five. Final offer.”
“Deal.” The merchant beamed. “The Spraza and Jad will be too busy planning on how to stab each other in the back. And with the price of fernandi, people will need more romari.” He jerked his head at his two men who had stood by during the deal making. “What are you waiting for?”
The merchant’s men hopped to and suddenly the three of them were going.
John wrapped both handkerchiefs around his face and head and pulled on his goggles. The merchant’s men did the same, covering up any distinguishable features that made them stand out against the rest.
They set out in silence, three people without faces, on a mission for someone whose name John hadn’t asked.
John followed the other two through the community section of caves, noting the various identification marks on the alcoves. He wondered if they all varied in size, if the more water you owned, the more spacious the living arrangements. Perhaps the deeper caves had slits carved out for light, allowing better use of space. The planet demanded survival of the fittest; the select few controlled all the resources and ruled through brute strength.
“Go in; I’ll wait,” the older guy instructed his pal.
John stood outside a shaft while the younger guy gave his friend a look before disappearing within the shelter.
“Got to stop for supplies,” the older man explained.
“This your place?” John asked before realizing he’d opened his mouth. Keep your distance , an internal voice told him.
The man chuckled. “Juka and I live in the back of Ketra’s shelter in exchange for work.”
That made this guy Hemma. John scolded himself for learning who was who. “Sounds like a good trade.”
“It works,” Hemma said. John avoided looking at the man’s battered face and instead stared at the old guy’s sandals. The shoes were little more than flat pieces of leather with twine over his toes.
Juka returned with an armful of stuff and dropped a knapsack at John’s boots and started to walk away. Hemma snagged his shoulder. “Give him a sun cover.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
The young hothead shoved a bundle of fabric and plastic-like rods into John’s hands. “I’m not putting it together for you.”
It was difficult to see items through tinted goggles, but John watched Hemma assemble his gear into a type of umbrella. Ah. Sun cover. Got it. John did the same and opened up the primitive umbrella.
“Where’d you get these handles?”
“Ketra provided it so we don‘t keel over in the heat. I don’t like touchin’ them. They were scavenged from The Void.” Hemma waved a leathery hand toward the sliver of gray sky near where John and Ronon lived.
So there were resources to be found in the Void.
It was the first time John actually studied it from here, noticing the faint outline of something in the sky above the Void. Whatever it was eclipsed by the sun. Normally he'd try to figure out angles and locations. The why and where. But he didn't really care.
“Let’s go,” Juka snapped.
The tension between the laborers was thick. John tried not to let it bother him and just kept his eyes and ears attuned to any threat. The umbrella shielded him from the never-ending sun, extending the stamina needed to cross the cracked brittle ground. They’d walked two klicks or more in temperatures hotter than the worst days in Afghanistan.
His mind was at an impasse. Instinctually, John kept protectively ahead of the other two, until he realized he wasn’t leading, that he didn’t have a clue where to go. It was surprising how well Hemma kept the strenuous pace, never voicing a complaint. Juka grunted from time to time, walking slightly hunched over as if protecting his ribcage.
John clenched his jaw, pushing back emotions and recently buried memories.
This could all be a trap. It’d be easy to walk out here and never return. The desert wasn’t always sand; it could be endless dry terrain like an over-baked moon, filled with odd rock formations, the last remnants of an eroded mountain.
“Over here.” Hemma pointed.
John squinted at a row of rocks large enough for two or three people to take cover behind or stage an ambush. Hemma and Juka hurried over to the orange colored boulders. John was vigilant, searching for movement behind the dozens of boulders in the rough landscape.
It was Kabul all over again. Waiting for the Taliban to appear out of nowhere.
“You just gonna stand there?” Juka growled.
Juka was young. Twenty-two. Twenty three? His life sucked and he’d probably eat John’s boots if they were edible. Not to mention the fact that John had probably beat on the kid recently. A bad attitude was to be expected.
“Show me what to do,” he replied, kneeling down.
“Got that knife handy?” Hemma asked.
“Yeah,” John said, peering over the old guy’s shoulder.
Cacti grew under the shade of rocks. Tiny yellow flowers bloomed on the outside of hardened shells lined with hundreds of thorns. Hemma held onto the bottom of the plant, careful of the sharp spines. “How about slicin’ this open?”
There were scars all over Hemma’s fingers from the cacti and John carefully dug his blade into the outer layer that was tough as old shoe leather. He had to stab the damn thing, the spines giving him tiny razor cuts as he sliced. The plant split open, revealing tiny pieces of fruit on the inside.
“Cool,” John said.
“Yeah. We’ll see how great they are after you do this forever,” Hemma snorted, plucking the romari and filling his knapsack.
Juka wasn’t having much luck with his homemade knife, a piece of sharpened stone with a fairly dull edge. “I’ll get that,” John offered.
Juka smacked John’s knuckles with his tool. “I don’t want your help.”
Hemma hit the kid in the back of the head. “Enough! You have one job. Harvest romari.”
Juka simmered, slicing open the cactus by sheer will. He looked up at John, his voice brimming with hatred. “Cut your own and keep an eye out for thieves.”
John preferred it that way. He stuck the umbrella in the ground to give him shade and worked his way through the patch of cacti. He cut and mangled eighteen plants; little rivulets of blood coated his fingers. Hemma and Juka sucked at their cuts and John did the same.
They’d barely put a dent in their knapsacks and John wondered how many it took to fill them. “How do you know where they grow?” he asked casually, hoping to pick up a few tips for spotting the cacti in the future.
“We planted these,” Hemma replied, wiping at his brow.
“And you hope that no one finds them?”
The older man shrugged. “Yeah.”
Talk about gambling.
They walked to the next hidden cache of plants. There were only six cacti; the rest were dried and shriveled from growing outside the protection of shade. It didn’t take long to harvest those and then it was on to the next set. And the next. And the next after that.
It was hit and miss. Like fishing. They wandered from rock formation to rock formation, going deeper and deeper into the desert, sipping water from time to time. John’s hands were sliced and diced, but if the odd couple didn’t complain, neither would he. If it wasn’t for the sun covers they would have roasted alive. In Kabul they had worked under tarps since rock and sand stored conductive heat from direct sunlight; the ground was thirty to forty degrees hotter than the air. Even working under the umbrella, his clothes were hot to the touch.
They headed to their final location when John saw movement about half a klick away and raised his fist, the other two halting at the universal signal.
“What is it?” Hemma asked.
“People. A lot,” John replied, pointing at a large cropping of rocks twenty to thirty meters away and dozens of sun covers sticking out of the ground. “Over there.”
The three of them ducked behind a nearby boulder. John peered above the rock, trying to distinguish the rising glare from the number of bodies. “I count ten, maybe fourteen people.”
“It’s a Spraza farming party,” Juka said.
“Farming party?”
Juka pulled off his goggles, wiping his eye gear clean. “Yeah. We’re close to their territory. They stack rows of rock and plant whole areas under the shade. When the romari flowers bloom, they know it’s time to harvest.”
“Why not do it closer to the settlement? Easier to guard.”
“And easier for mobs to take over when too many are hungry. The Shan’ka don’t want a slaughter.” Hemma rolled onto his back to rest. “The Spraza claim most of the land out here, but they don’t have the numbers to guard it all. Plus, wars can‘t be fought under the watchful eyes of the Shan‘ka. Out here, though.” He waved.
“So, you guys farm renegade style,” John concluded. “Plant enough here and there and see what happens.”
Hemma had one bony arm draped over his eyes like he’d fallen asleep.
“We have one more spot,” Juka urged.
“I think we’ve gathered e--”
“We don’t have full packs. And now we have to split it three ways.”
John glared at the kid. “And you have triple the bounty. I say we go before we run into trouble.”
“What do you think you’re here for?” Juka accused. “People like you don’t care about such things.”
People like him.
John had forgotten.
Hemma and Juka harvested the last of the romari while he took watch. If things got bad, it’d be what? Five to one if only part of the Spraza out there were guards overseeing their workers.
“What do you think you’re here for?”
John wondered about the reputation he’d earned. He recalled snapshots of returning from the transports in bloodstained clothes and John didn’t need to think too hard. The Spraza were intent on their tasks, but he searched for patrols that could outflank them.
“We’re done; let’s go,” Juka said, hefting his knapsack.
Hemma struggled with his while John eased his pack over his shoulders. He stepped in front of his charges then berated himself for thinking of them in those terms. “I’ll lead the way this time.”
“I’m not going to--
“Shut up!” John snarled, whirling on the kid. “Don’t talk unless I tell you to.”
Juka stumbled a step back, an arm close to his chest.
John quickly turned away and set a demanding pace back. The mission was only half-way complete and there was a hell of a lot of desert ahead. They still had to worry about bandits and any Spraza wandering around.
He scanned for hidey-holes, steering them away from possible ambush points which meant avoiding all rock formations and keeping them out in the open. The return trip was longer, the three of them in less than stellar health. Who knew holding a damn umbrella could throw one so completely off balance. Oddly enough all John wanted to do was remove his heavy boots and burn the socks that had fused to his feet.
Endless silence, sun, and dirt. It messed with your head. Half the time he kept expecting the sounds of rotor blades, his gaze drifting from desert sands to desert skies. John gripped his knife harder and harder, reminding himself that he wasn’t carrying an automatic rifle.
They marched onward and after what seemed forever the settlement loomed ahead.
Ketra waited for them at his cave with various scales and measures. John watched and waited in silence, drinking the last of the water from his dunka pouch. The second leg of the mission had felt more familiar, had put him in the proper head space.
“I expected more,” Ketra bitched after weighing the items. “You should’ve hauled in better returns. If that many seedlings died, then you didn’t plant ‘em right.” The merchant handed out their shares in disgust. “You’ll need to do double next time or don’t bother coming back.”
John was glad he was still up for hire. He could return there alone, but he didn’t know where the romari were planted.
Hemma cracked his back and looked to Juka. “Be useful and take these in and separate what we’ll need for trade.” The older man snagged a piece of fruit, sucking on the juice and looked at John expectantly. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”
“We don’t need him!” Juka snarled.
“You don’t make the decisions!” Hemma snapped back.
Juka was furious. “And what about Teem?”
“What’s done is done. We can’t live in the past,” Hemma lectured, his voice resigned.
For the second time a person spat at John’s boots and stormed away. Hemma exhaled loudly and gingerly sat on the ground. “You’ll have to forgive my son. He lets his emotions cloud his judgment.”
“Your son?” John said, bewildered, all the verbal sparring falling in place. He guessed imprisoning a family wasn’t unheard of.
“Yes, he has many hard lessons to learn. What you did… what you do at the transports.” Hemma shrugged nonchalantly. “He doesn’t understand about survival. There’s no right or wrong.” He looked up at John. “You’re a soldier. I know the signs. We all have our ways.”
John didn’t understand and didn’t want to. He had romari. He had food and enough left over for trade. He needed to get back to Ronon. But part of him, the voice that couldn’t be completely silenced, won out.
“Who’s Teem?”
Hemma’s wrinkles doubled as he stared at the ground. “He was my other son.”
All of John’s walls weren’t as rock solid as he thought. His legs got wobbly and he had to sit down. He stared at the same vacant spot on the ground, unable to look Hemma in the eye. “How?”
“It was a deep knife wound. It got infected. It happened three transports ago.”
Nine days? This was the reason for not breaking the rules in war. John could never remember that. He’d killed a stranger without knowing and it hadn’t hurt.
Now he had two faces with names and the loss he’d caused was a hole in his gut.
Hemma looked at him with an unfathomable expression of pity, not knowing how wasted it was. “I save my hate for those who exiled my family here for my moral beliefs. Hold onto yours. It‘s our only show of defiance.”
That was the problem. John burned with self-hatred when all he wanted was to be numb. Numb and hard and able to resist whatever was thrown at him.
Numbness would spare him from pain so raw and unfiltered that he found himself drowning in the middle of a desert.
“Chapter Seven”
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.
----
Ronon contemplated the squares, picking a box. Then changing his mind. He did this three or four times, going over all the options before growling in frustration. His finger finally drew a quick X in the center and he sat back. “This is stupid.”
Sheppard put a circle in the far right box. “We could play hangman.”
“In Satedan?”
“We only have twenty-six letters in our alphabet.”
Ronon marked the bottom right corner of the grid. “You use the same letters for different sounds. Having thirty-nine makes more sense.”
Sheppard countered with the opposite square without thinking about it. “Simpler can be better.”
This was the sixth round and it was bound to end in a tie again. They all did. “Like this game?” Ronon huffed.
Sheppard missed an obvious spot to block Ronon’s line of Xs, sticking his circle in the wrong square. Ronon countered with another X then drew a line connecting them across the grid. “You gave up.”
“No, I didn’t.”
It was a half-hearted denial but neither was inclined to offer more. Hours-long silences had often fallen between them. Ronon never had the energy to do more than lie around despite fierce instincts not to. Sheppard had slept a lot the last couple of days as well and had been restless when he was awake, moving about the cave like a caged animal.
Sheppard wiped away the tic-tac-toe game and started rearranging their supplies for the fourth time in a few hours.
“You should work out again,” Ronon encouraged.
Sheppard had been exercising in the back when he woke up since that’s when he had the most energy. His friend considered the idea, running his hand through his longer hair and grooming it the best he could with his fingers. “Nah. Gonna run out today. See if I can find Lyle, ask about letting me in on harvesting for food.”
“What makes you think he’ll help?”
“Because we still owe him. He’ll help if it means getting paid back.”
Ronon wasn’t sure about that. He didn’t trust the merchant; there was no such thing as a free handout. “What are you going to offer him?”
“See if he bites at a thirty-seventy split of what I can gather.”
“Why does he need you? He’s a trader. Probably has a better deal with the people who work for him.”
“I’ll match whatever arrangement he has with his own people.”
“Don’t expect much. Telling you his source of food gives away his power.”
“You got a better idea?” Sheppard snapped.
“Follow him and do it yourself.” It’s what Ronon would do.
“I don’t think double crossing the only guy who’s helped out is a good idea.”
“Double cross him before he does you.”
“We’ve got this…” Sheppard bobbed his head back and forth in search of his words. “This understanding. I don‘t think you need to worry.”
“I’m just--”
“I said, I’ve got it covered.”
“John.”
“Don’t!” Sheppard growled. His jaw was clenched, both hands balled into fists. He took two short rapid breaths and clawed at his beard before visibly reining his anger in. “Think I’ll do a few push-ups.”
Ronon watched him crawl away, his own jaw equally clenched. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, if it was more than frayed nerves and tight spaces. Part of him knew what it was about. He was the tracker. Animal or plant, it didn’t matter. And he wanted to be the one out there, in the thick of things.
Sweat beaded at his forehead, the droplets a symbol of conflict. Perspiration was a sign of hydration and of the low-grade fever that he couldn’t kick.
He pounded his hand into the ground. When that didn’t alleviate his frustration, he took a whack at a stone protruding from the ceiling. Part of the rock broke away in his fingers and he crushed it against the ground, pulverizing it. The mineral left a reddish smear behind.
The smudge was streaked with tiny crystal flakes. He took the nub of rock and drew a small red circle that sparkled softly in the dark. Were there more? The roof of the cave was composed of a substance analogous to coarse sandstone with a few odd discolorations. He wasn’t a scientist, but he knew that caves were created by fire or water. Elements got mixed up and maybe there were other pieces of this rock. It’d been a long time since he had something to do and Ronon looked forward to the search.
He heard Sheppard clamber back, his demeanor appearing less agitated. “Hey.”
Ronon readjusted himself against the wall, unable to hide the grimace of pain. “Hey.”
Sheppard rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck. “Look about--”
“Don’t worry about it.” But Ronon did worry, for other reasons. Ones he couldn’t place.
“Yeah. Okay. Well…I’ve gotta…ya know.”
Ronon forgot about the rocks. “Be careful out there.”
Sheppard didn’t look right and it was more than worry and stress. There was something beneath the growing beard and healing rash. His eyes, even in this light, lacked their usual glint.
“I’ll see what it’ll take to get more stuff for your fever.”
“It’s a lot better.”
“We’ve got to break it, or it could gain ground and get worse.” Sheppard put on his boots. “Besides, once you kick this thing you can get off your lazy ass and hunt down some real food.”
“Count on it,” Ronon replied.
“Good. Cuz I’m tired of eating bugs.”
The cave grew silent in Sheppard’s absence and Ronon was determined not to dawdle. A pair of BDUs was the only thing keeping his leg stable, so he scooted across the ground, careful not to jostle it. There was a small boulder Sheppard used to grind up the medicine and he wrapped his hands around it and set it on his lap.
Strengthening his leg was out of the question, but that didn’t mean the rest of him should get out of shape. He began curling the stone to work on his biceps and forearms. A hundred would be a good start. After those reps, he’d lift the weight above his head to build up his shoulders.
He’d heard the Earthers say ‘no pain, no gain’. It was a motto he lived by every day.
Keeping an ear out for outside noise, he concentrated on muscles weakened by disuse. Working out got his blood pumping and put his brain on alert. By the time that was done, his body was down for the count, but the exercise left him invigorated. More rehab was out of the question since the annoying fever clung to him.
That left him with more time on his hands. Like hell would he go back to sleep. He glanced down at the disregarded rock he’d discovered earlier. Grabbing the mineral, he scratched it against the wall.
Maybe he’d found something to do with his time after all.
Ronon sketched out the design of a new tattoo, starting with the Satedan symbol for loyalty, a symbol he’d drawn for the first time when he was five years old. The quilo, Kosk's symbol. His grandfather used to recite all of Kosk’s greatest battles before Ronon had learned to read. Ronon still kept the book on his hero at his bedside, absorbed in the artistic renditions of glory on the battlefield.
His favorite picture in the entire book was of Kosk sharpening his knife after tattooing the quilo onto his arm. Kosk had created the design after one of the bloodiest battles for the union of Sateda and he’d carved it into his own bicep as a permanent symbol of inspiration for his army. Kosk’s men soon took their own blades, carving the quilo into their own arms in a sign of solidarity.
The symbol was the centerpiece of Ronon’s design, standing out in a shimmering red. He planned to overlap each side of the quilo with the symbols for friendship and service. They were the three pillars of his personal code and he wanted them to be a permanent part of him.
Originally he’d wanted them tattooed between his shoulder blades, despite the fact his scars were no longer there after McKay had healed them. He didn’t want to cover up the area where they’d once been. Maybe his chest.
He’d found, by pure luck, another piece of rock that left behind orange-brown streaks. It had hardly stood out; the tiny glints of mineral were nearly impossible to see in the dark. It wasn’t until they were crushed against something that they softly reflected their color.
Ronon stared at the quilo, imagining how to intertwine the other two symbols with it. As his thoughts focused on the significance of such a piece he dropped the shard of rock.
Would he ever be worthy of wearing symbols of such importance? Should a warrior have allowed himself to be captured? Should he have allowed one of his most trusted friends to be taken as well?
Ronon’s blood burned with a warrior’s fire, but the flames raged out of control sometimes. Shoot first, ask questions later worked most of the time. But great warriors didn’t allow emotion to overwhelm strategy. He’d used to have a cool head in battle, but years of being reduced to an animal had almost destroyed such training.
Going to Atlantis-- fighting for her, fighting alongside his team had gone a long ways to restoring who he used to be. But the Wraith had transformed him and Ronon was still reinventing himself.
He stared at the quilo and vowed that he would earn the right to wear it. To right what had gone so wrong.
Ronon stared at the Wraith cocoon, wanting nothing more than to destroy it. He raised his blaster but Sheppard grabbed his wrist.
“Stand down!”
“Why?” Ronon growled.
“We don’t need the whole Saurin security force on top of us.”
“Then what? Don’t think they’ll be our allies now.”
“We regroup. Our people are scattered across this city.”
Ronon backed down, knowing his CO was right. They needed to ensure their people’s safety first.
Sheppard glanced at his watch. “Crap. The meeting I had has started. I‘m going to be missed.”
“We’ve already missed you, Colonel.”
Ronon and Sheppard spun around at once, but they were surrounded by six armed Saurin. How had they snuck up on them like that?
The head of security stepped forward; Ronon had forgotten his name. “Please lower your weapons. You’re outnumbered and it would be foolish to resist.”
Sheppard was armed with a handgun. Ronon had his blaster. It wouldn’t be much of a stand, not with the Saurin’ firepower. Sheppard nodded at him to do what the guy said. It was a lose-lose situation.
“Good, now if you would follow me,” the security guy said.
They were escorted a different way and went deeper into the lab and toward another room. The doors opened for Sheppard and they were greeted by the head guy. Ronon waited to be restrained or patted down and was confused that the Saurin hadn’t disarmed them yet.
“Colonel Sheppard. Mr. Dex. It seems you discovered our research facility before we’d planned.”
“It was conveniently left off the tour,” Sheppard replied.
“Yes, a highly debated decision. It makes no difference now. You saw our work. Now we’ll show you everything.”
“Since you’re gonna give us the five star treatment, Mr. Dumma, you mind if I contact the rest of our team? Save you from giving the tour twice,” Sheppard inquired in that deadpan tone of his.
Dumma was a politician. A blaster hung in a holster on his hip, but Ronon doubted he had ever fired the thing. He was short with a perfectly trimmed dark beard that matched his perfectly trimmed hair. Everything about him was immaculate. A spotless long flowing blue jacket and shirt topped ironed and starched gray pants. He had smiled the most during the negotiations which wasn’t saying much. “No. I’d rather have your opinion. You are the head of your military. I have no doubt that your doctor of science would approve, but it is you we need to win over.”
“Win over?” Sheppard questioned.
“So we may join forces and combine our knowledge, of course,” Dumma replied with a smile. “I think you’ll realize that our work here will benefit us all.”
The Saurin leader waved his hand over a sensor, and a panel opened and revealed a large window overlooking a basement to the lab. Sheppard and Ronon stepped closer and peered down at the massive facility below. It was filled with enough consoles and computer equipment to make McKay drool over himself. Scientists with masks and goggles worked diligently over their machines, some bustling about even more stasis pods. The entire eastern side of the room was made up of a wall of Wraith cocoons.
“What did you do? Create your own mini Hive?” Sheppard growled.
“In a way.” Dumma beamed. “We discovered a decayed Hive ship very long ago and were able to bring part of it back. Our scientists have been able to keep and grow the genetic material with the right balance of chemicals and nourishment.”
It took everything in Ronon’s power to keep from breaking the Saurin’s neck. But he waited, knowing that the rest of their people would be put in danger. They were probably in a holding cell right now.
No, he’d wait for Sheppard’s signal. The colonel always had a plan.
“You’re growing cocoons.” Sheppard glared at Dumma. “Why?”
“Why? To keep the Wraith we have alive,” Dumma responded.
Ronon fumed. Sheppard’s whole body tensed. “You’re experimenting on the Wraith?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Do you think you are the only people to conduct this type of research?” Dumma questioned.
“And what kind of research is that?” Sheppard demanded.
“On their superior genetic makeup.”
Ronon’s chest heaved with his cracking restraint. “Superior?”
“Why, yes. They have the ability to regenerate their bodies. To covert energy in ways that allows them to live for tens of thousands of years. Look at the bio-chemical structure of their Hive ships. Their telepathic abilities. There is so much to study.”
“You admire them,” Sheppard said, disgusted by Dumma’s glee.
“Of course we do. We admire their advancements. Like we admire the Ancients or anyone else who possesses technology and research to better Saurin society. But the Wraith....they are special. So special that we surround ourselves with their symbols throughout our city. ”
Sheppard looked at Ronon and back through the window. “You want to be allies to get your hands on our research.”
“We are aware of your collaborations with the Wraith and your own experiments.” Dumma’s face broke out in a rare display of excitement. “Between our two peoples, we might be able to harness the power of the Wraith.”
Sheppard stepped away, his eyes darting about, verifying the positions of the guards and all possible exits. “The power of the Wraith,” he repeated. “Forgive me if that sounds a little insane.”
The Saurin security forces slowly closed in and Dumma waved a hand over another sensor, his face hard. “We’re not insane, Colonel Sheppard. Once you see how close we are, you’ll change your mind.”
John had been a ball of raw nerves earlier. Too many hours inside a cramped, dark space with nothing to do. His thoughts either drifted randomly or they overanalyzed the most current crisis to the point of invading his dreams, making sleep as stressful as being awake. Playing games barely kept his focus and Ronon’s questions had been like thousands of jabbing sticks.
“Get your shit together,” he muttered. This wasn’t the time to come undone.
He walked against a strong breeze, the empty space between the caves and the settlement a giant wind tunnel. He kept his head down while grains of sand scraped at the nape of his neck and snuck in where his sleeves billowed open. What he’d give for a couple of rubber bands around his wrists to protect his arms.
Visibility was only a few inches as he hiked over the hard bedrock, his hands tucked under his armpits for protection. The sudden sandstorm had corralled others inside the shelter of the subterranean market, cramming the area with people and their sweltering body heat. John removed both handkerchiefs and goggles before taking a long swig from his dunka pouch.
The market bustled with wandering people trying to take refuge from outside and barterers competing over the noise of the crowd. Loud shouting caught John’s attention; the sharp, angry voices attracted people in a large growing circle. Heat, tension, the threat of violence. It was like honey to those with nothing to do. John brushed a hand over his knife, his eyes following the source of the disturbance. He remained vigilant and walked around the outside of the crowd before finding an open spot to observe.
It wasn’t a surprise to see six Spraza at the source of the problem. The gang surrounded a man who clung to a pole tacked with fernandi. John recognized the seller from the first day he’d explored the market. The guy’s eyes darted between his ‘protectors’ and the men encroaching on his space, three members of the Jad who made up the other side of the battle line, each gripping bone-carved knives.
“Great,” John muttered.
He identified Pullo as the loudmouth he’d tangled with in the Jad’s lair. A shabby robe covered him like a giant Jawa costume; his rolled-back hood revealed a head completely bald save for little spikes of green dyed hair. Pullo wasn’t much for artwork; his gang colors looked like they’d been applied by dipping his fingers in paint and smearing them messily over his face without a mirror.
Pullo huffed like a bull. “Chargin’ a dunka for a fernandi is brocha!”
One of the Spraza stepped forward; two streaks of red paint framed his crooked nose. It was Rull, the guy whose face John had smashed when they first arrived. This was going to be an exceptionally crappy day. That’s all he needed: a couple of hot-headed guys both wanting to be the big kahuna.
“Price’s gone up.” Rull shrugged.
“We won’t stand for this!” Pullo hissed.
“And we won’t stand for higher orris prices,” Rull growled, stepping closer to his rival.
Ouch. This was a trade war. Drugs vs a major food source. John’s sampling of the planet’s provisions was limited, but he knew the fernandi lizard things were a source of real meat and tasted good as well. On the other hand, jacking up the price of orris was bound to piss people off.
Never screw with people’s vices.
Pullo scanned the rapt crowd, using his two inch height advantage to stare Rull down. “The Spraza do not own the Tharsqin Sands. You can’t control all the fernandi! It’s a neutral territory.”
Rull smirked, sharing a smile with his buddies. “Not for long.”
The Spraza pulled sharpened shards of rock out of their pockets and John started inching backwards, not wanting to get caught in a brawl.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” Pullo taunted unoriginally.
The other five Spraza fanned out around their second in command. They outnumbered the drug gang, but the Jad were bigger and had larger weapons. “Really?” Rull mocked. “I thought you needed permission just to take a piss. Breaking our truce seems too big for you.”
Pullo’s entire body shook in untapped rage. “Ziffka's great plan is snash. Besides, he ain‘t here.”
John saw it– the moment when both men lost control.
But suddenly people scrambled in all directions and three blue-robed Shan’ka forged a path through those fleeing away. Silence descended over the market, and people huddled in dozens of groups, all nervously eying the conflict. The rival Spraza and Jad backed down and let their hands drop to their sides.
John maneuvered around, gathering intel. The Shan’ka surveyed the crowds, ensuring they had everyone’s attention. The middle one stepped forward, his entourage flanking him. It was Misha and he looked to his masters before addressing the crowd. “The waste of life fluids will not be tolerated. Those who kill people of able body will be punished. The Shan’ka will not issue any more warnings.”
Declaration made, the Shan’ka didn’t waste time leaving, turning their backs on those they controlled and returning to their lair. Misha paused, gazing at the sights and sounds of the outside world before one of the Shan’ka turned his head in scrutiny and Misha hurried to take his place with them.
The gangs remained, sneering at each other to save face before backing away. Once the Shan’ka were gone, commerce continued as people returned to bargaining. John kept his eye on Rull and his cohorts, moving in the opposite direction. Running into a bunch of humiliated Spraza wouldn’t end well for him.
Lyle was nowhere in the sea of faces so John shouldered his way past others, searching for him in the next trading area.
A random merchant grabbed John’s elbow, almost earning him a sharp jab in return. “I have something special for you,” the man said, tugging him toward the end of the market in a corner away from everyone.
John jerked his arm away, scanning the area. “Maybe another time.”
“Don’t you want fresh fruit?”
John’s blood pounded in his ears, his paranoia running rampant. “Sorry, no money.”
“I was thinking of something else.”
John noticed two people coming at him from each side and he didn’t wait for the first blow. He slammed his elbow into the right guy’s sternum and punched the guy on his left in the face hard enough to pop his knuckles. John swung back for another jab, but the merchant jumped in front of his cronies.
“Stop!”
John only saw a target and clocked the merchant in the jaw.
“Enough!” the merchant growled, holding his mouth. “I’m offering you a deal! This isn’t an ambush.”
Right Guy recovered from the blow to the chest, but didn’t make a move. Left Guy’s mouth was bleeding and he looked at his boss for orders. John’s heart pumped wildly; adrenaline poured through him, making it hard to catch his breath.
“I need someone like you. We can help one another out,” the merchant implored, holding his hands out in placation.
It took a moment for John’s brain to catch up to the fact that no one was attacking him. “Help one another?” he repeated, wrapping his mind around the sentence.
“Yes.” The merchant put his hands down. “I require your service.”
The merchant looked like all the others save for what seemed better stitched clothes that actually seemed the proper size. His frame was bigger than John’s, his head scarf was a faded blue and he had dark, bushy eyebrows and a well-trimmed beard.
“Didn‘t know I had a service to offer,” John said in genuine doubt.
The merchant laughed. “You have skills I need.”
John nodded at the other two men. “Really? What about them?”
The merchant snorted. “They‘re a pair of broken backs and feeble minds.”
Both men bowed their heads and John noticed how little of a threat they were. Left Guy was older looking, the oldest person he’d seen on this planet. He could have been in his sixties, deep wrinkles and hours in the sun aging him more. His left eye was black and blue, his bottom lip swelling up from John‘s punch.
Right Guy stared at John with a burning intensity, a slow boil of anger that the rest of him was incapable of acting upon. He was a small thing, with thinning wisps of hair and a scraggly beard that barely covered signs of prickly heat. He held his arm close to his chest and winced when he moved.
The merchant scowled at them. “They’ve been unproductive of late and couldn’t even hold their own at the transports. When they returned with empty pouches, they told me all about you.”
John’s stomach coiled. He studied the two laborers, but he didn’t recognize them. He never looked at anyone’s faces on the transport missions, couldn’t afford the weight of empathy on his shoulders.
It was hard not to look at them now. Humanizing them. Seeing the results of his fists and elbows. John turned away quickly and focused on the merchant. “What do you want?” he asked tersely.
“You to go out with them and find romari.”
This was the exact opportunity he’d been seeking, but there was always a caveat. “I prefer working solo.”
The merchant shook his head and gestured at his men. “Hemma and Juka will go with you. Show you where and how to harvest. Then we’ll see about going on your own.”
“What else?”
“What do you mean?”
John smiled. “You can get anyone to pick berries. You said you needed someone like me. Who is that exactly?”
The merchant appraised John‘s clothes and gruff appearance with a crooked grin. “I need someone who can take care of problems and not worry about how bloody their hands get.”
John kept his expression neutral. “Describes a lot of people around here.”
“I don’t care about alliances. I only care about me. You’re loyal to no one.”
John had become a thug for hire. “What’s the split?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“Don’t think so. Not unless you plan on helping.”
“Sixty-forty.”
“Seventy-thirty,” John countered, ignoring the fact that he was negotiating a payment on his ability to kill.
The merchant waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need you that badly.”
John called the bluff. “You sure about that? Sixty-five. Thirty-five. Final offer.”
“Deal.” The merchant beamed. “The Spraza and Jad will be too busy planning on how to stab each other in the back. And with the price of fernandi, people will need more romari.” He jerked his head at his two men who had stood by during the deal making. “What are you waiting for?”
The merchant’s men hopped to and suddenly the three of them were going.
John wrapped both handkerchiefs around his face and head and pulled on his goggles. The merchant’s men did the same, covering up any distinguishable features that made them stand out against the rest.
They set out in silence, three people without faces, on a mission for someone whose name John hadn’t asked.
John followed the other two through the community section of caves, noting the various identification marks on the alcoves. He wondered if they all varied in size, if the more water you owned, the more spacious the living arrangements. Perhaps the deeper caves had slits carved out for light, allowing better use of space. The planet demanded survival of the fittest; the select few controlled all the resources and ruled through brute strength.
“Go in; I’ll wait,” the older guy instructed his pal.
John stood outside a shaft while the younger guy gave his friend a look before disappearing within the shelter.
“Got to stop for supplies,” the older man explained.
“This your place?” John asked before realizing he’d opened his mouth. Keep your distance , an internal voice told him.
The man chuckled. “Juka and I live in the back of Ketra’s shelter in exchange for work.”
That made this guy Hemma. John scolded himself for learning who was who. “Sounds like a good trade.”
“It works,” Hemma said. John avoided looking at the man’s battered face and instead stared at the old guy’s sandals. The shoes were little more than flat pieces of leather with twine over his toes.
Juka returned with an armful of stuff and dropped a knapsack at John’s boots and started to walk away. Hemma snagged his shoulder. “Give him a sun cover.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
The young hothead shoved a bundle of fabric and plastic-like rods into John’s hands. “I’m not putting it together for you.”
It was difficult to see items through tinted goggles, but John watched Hemma assemble his gear into a type of umbrella. Ah. Sun cover. Got it. John did the same and opened up the primitive umbrella.
“Where’d you get these handles?”
“Ketra provided it so we don‘t keel over in the heat. I don’t like touchin’ them. They were scavenged from The Void.” Hemma waved a leathery hand toward the sliver of gray sky near where John and Ronon lived.
So there were resources to be found in the Void.
It was the first time John actually studied it from here, noticing the faint outline of something in the sky above the Void. Whatever it was eclipsed by the sun. Normally he'd try to figure out angles and locations. The why and where. But he didn't really care.
“Let’s go,” Juka snapped.
The tension between the laborers was thick. John tried not to let it bother him and just kept his eyes and ears attuned to any threat. The umbrella shielded him from the never-ending sun, extending the stamina needed to cross the cracked brittle ground. They’d walked two klicks or more in temperatures hotter than the worst days in Afghanistan.
His mind was at an impasse. Instinctually, John kept protectively ahead of the other two, until he realized he wasn’t leading, that he didn’t have a clue where to go. It was surprising how well Hemma kept the strenuous pace, never voicing a complaint. Juka grunted from time to time, walking slightly hunched over as if protecting his ribcage.
John clenched his jaw, pushing back emotions and recently buried memories.
This could all be a trap. It’d be easy to walk out here and never return. The desert wasn’t always sand; it could be endless dry terrain like an over-baked moon, filled with odd rock formations, the last remnants of an eroded mountain.
“Over here.” Hemma pointed.
John squinted at a row of rocks large enough for two or three people to take cover behind or stage an ambush. Hemma and Juka hurried over to the orange colored boulders. John was vigilant, searching for movement behind the dozens of boulders in the rough landscape.
It was Kabul all over again. Waiting for the Taliban to appear out of nowhere.
“You just gonna stand there?” Juka growled.
Juka was young. Twenty-two. Twenty three? His life sucked and he’d probably eat John’s boots if they were edible. Not to mention the fact that John had probably beat on the kid recently. A bad attitude was to be expected.
“Show me what to do,” he replied, kneeling down.
“Got that knife handy?” Hemma asked.
“Yeah,” John said, peering over the old guy’s shoulder.
Cacti grew under the shade of rocks. Tiny yellow flowers bloomed on the outside of hardened shells lined with hundreds of thorns. Hemma held onto the bottom of the plant, careful of the sharp spines. “How about slicin’ this open?”
There were scars all over Hemma’s fingers from the cacti and John carefully dug his blade into the outer layer that was tough as old shoe leather. He had to stab the damn thing, the spines giving him tiny razor cuts as he sliced. The plant split open, revealing tiny pieces of fruit on the inside.
“Cool,” John said.
“Yeah. We’ll see how great they are after you do this forever,” Hemma snorted, plucking the romari and filling his knapsack.
Juka wasn’t having much luck with his homemade knife, a piece of sharpened stone with a fairly dull edge. “I’ll get that,” John offered.
Juka smacked John’s knuckles with his tool. “I don’t want your help.”
Hemma hit the kid in the back of the head. “Enough! You have one job. Harvest romari.”
Juka simmered, slicing open the cactus by sheer will. He looked up at John, his voice brimming with hatred. “Cut your own and keep an eye out for thieves.”
John preferred it that way. He stuck the umbrella in the ground to give him shade and worked his way through the patch of cacti. He cut and mangled eighteen plants; little rivulets of blood coated his fingers. Hemma and Juka sucked at their cuts and John did the same.
They’d barely put a dent in their knapsacks and John wondered how many it took to fill them. “How do you know where they grow?” he asked casually, hoping to pick up a few tips for spotting the cacti in the future.
“We planted these,” Hemma replied, wiping at his brow.
“And you hope that no one finds them?”
The older man shrugged. “Yeah.”
Talk about gambling.
They walked to the next hidden cache of plants. There were only six cacti; the rest were dried and shriveled from growing outside the protection of shade. It didn’t take long to harvest those and then it was on to the next set. And the next. And the next after that.
It was hit and miss. Like fishing. They wandered from rock formation to rock formation, going deeper and deeper into the desert, sipping water from time to time. John’s hands were sliced and diced, but if the odd couple didn’t complain, neither would he. If it wasn’t for the sun covers they would have roasted alive. In Kabul they had worked under tarps since rock and sand stored conductive heat from direct sunlight; the ground was thirty to forty degrees hotter than the air. Even working under the umbrella, his clothes were hot to the touch.
They headed to their final location when John saw movement about half a klick away and raised his fist, the other two halting at the universal signal.
“What is it?” Hemma asked.
“People. A lot,” John replied, pointing at a large cropping of rocks twenty to thirty meters away and dozens of sun covers sticking out of the ground. “Over there.”
The three of them ducked behind a nearby boulder. John peered above the rock, trying to distinguish the rising glare from the number of bodies. “I count ten, maybe fourteen people.”
“It’s a Spraza farming party,” Juka said.
“Farming party?”
Juka pulled off his goggles, wiping his eye gear clean. “Yeah. We’re close to their territory. They stack rows of rock and plant whole areas under the shade. When the romari flowers bloom, they know it’s time to harvest.”
“Why not do it closer to the settlement? Easier to guard.”
“And easier for mobs to take over when too many are hungry. The Shan’ka don’t want a slaughter.” Hemma rolled onto his back to rest. “The Spraza claim most of the land out here, but they don’t have the numbers to guard it all. Plus, wars can‘t be fought under the watchful eyes of the Shan‘ka. Out here, though.” He waved.
“So, you guys farm renegade style,” John concluded. “Plant enough here and there and see what happens.”
Hemma had one bony arm draped over his eyes like he’d fallen asleep.
“We have one more spot,” Juka urged.
“I think we’ve gathered e--”
“We don’t have full packs. And now we have to split it three ways.”
John glared at the kid. “And you have triple the bounty. I say we go before we run into trouble.”
“What do you think you’re here for?” Juka accused. “People like you don’t care about such things.”
People like him.
John had forgotten.
Hemma and Juka harvested the last of the romari while he took watch. If things got bad, it’d be what? Five to one if only part of the Spraza out there were guards overseeing their workers.
“What do you think you’re here for?”
John wondered about the reputation he’d earned. He recalled snapshots of returning from the transports in bloodstained clothes and John didn’t need to think too hard. The Spraza were intent on their tasks, but he searched for patrols that could outflank them.
“We’re done; let’s go,” Juka said, hefting his knapsack.
Hemma struggled with his while John eased his pack over his shoulders. He stepped in front of his charges then berated himself for thinking of them in those terms. “I’ll lead the way this time.”
“I’m not going to--
“Shut up!” John snarled, whirling on the kid. “Don’t talk unless I tell you to.”
Juka stumbled a step back, an arm close to his chest.
John quickly turned away and set a demanding pace back. The mission was only half-way complete and there was a hell of a lot of desert ahead. They still had to worry about bandits and any Spraza wandering around.
He scanned for hidey-holes, steering them away from possible ambush points which meant avoiding all rock formations and keeping them out in the open. The return trip was longer, the three of them in less than stellar health. Who knew holding a damn umbrella could throw one so completely off balance. Oddly enough all John wanted to do was remove his heavy boots and burn the socks that had fused to his feet.
Endless silence, sun, and dirt. It messed with your head. Half the time he kept expecting the sounds of rotor blades, his gaze drifting from desert sands to desert skies. John gripped his knife harder and harder, reminding himself that he wasn’t carrying an automatic rifle.
They marched onward and after what seemed forever the settlement loomed ahead.
Ketra waited for them at his cave with various scales and measures. John watched and waited in silence, drinking the last of the water from his dunka pouch. The second leg of the mission had felt more familiar, had put him in the proper head space.
“I expected more,” Ketra bitched after weighing the items. “You should’ve hauled in better returns. If that many seedlings died, then you didn’t plant ‘em right.” The merchant handed out their shares in disgust. “You’ll need to do double next time or don’t bother coming back.”
John was glad he was still up for hire. He could return there alone, but he didn’t know where the romari were planted.
Hemma cracked his back and looked to Juka. “Be useful and take these in and separate what we’ll need for trade.” The older man snagged a piece of fruit, sucking on the juice and looked at John expectantly. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”
“We don’t need him!” Juka snarled.
“You don’t make the decisions!” Hemma snapped back.
Juka was furious. “And what about Teem?”
“What’s done is done. We can’t live in the past,” Hemma lectured, his voice resigned.
For the second time a person spat at John’s boots and stormed away. Hemma exhaled loudly and gingerly sat on the ground. “You’ll have to forgive my son. He lets his emotions cloud his judgment.”
“Your son?” John said, bewildered, all the verbal sparring falling in place. He guessed imprisoning a family wasn’t unheard of.
“Yes, he has many hard lessons to learn. What you did… what you do at the transports.” Hemma shrugged nonchalantly. “He doesn’t understand about survival. There’s no right or wrong.” He looked up at John. “You’re a soldier. I know the signs. We all have our ways.”
John didn’t understand and didn’t want to. He had romari. He had food and enough left over for trade. He needed to get back to Ronon. But part of him, the voice that couldn’t be completely silenced, won out.
“Who’s Teem?”
Hemma’s wrinkles doubled as he stared at the ground. “He was my other son.”
All of John’s walls weren’t as rock solid as he thought. His legs got wobbly and he had to sit down. He stared at the same vacant spot on the ground, unable to look Hemma in the eye. “How?”
“It was a deep knife wound. It got infected. It happened three transports ago.”
Nine days? This was the reason for not breaking the rules in war. John could never remember that. He’d killed a stranger without knowing and it hadn’t hurt.
Now he had two faces with names and the loss he’d caused was a hole in his gut.
Hemma looked at him with an unfathomable expression of pity, not knowing how wasted it was. “I save my hate for those who exiled my family here for my moral beliefs. Hold onto yours. It‘s our only show of defiance.”
That was the problem. John burned with self-hatred when all he wanted was to be numb. Numb and hard and able to resist whatever was thrown at him.
Numbness would spare him from pain so raw and unfiltered that he found himself drowning in the middle of a desert.
“Chapter Seven”
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Date: 2010-06-22 03:46 pm (UTC)I'm beginning to think Sheppard will need more time to recover from his time on the planet than the time he spends there. There's all kinds of dark happenings. Thank you for such an interesting tale and I look forward to more.
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Date: 2010-06-23 12:30 am (UTC)