“Red Sands” (11/15)
Jul. 1st, 2010 10:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999Title: “Red Sands” (11/15)
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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“How much longer?”
“Til Visser and the others return.”
“Why do we hafta wait?”
“Ya think the two of us can carry this guy? We'll get our payment then see what Visser wants to do.”
Ronon remained deathly still, locating his enemies by voice, testing the strength of the bindings around his wrists. His hands were tied behind his back and based on the position of the conversation going on, his kidnappers were in front of him. Opening his eyelids to razor-thin slits, he allowed his pupils to acclimate to the sunlight, verifying his situation, searching for Sheppard.
“What if the Shan'ka find out we were involved with the other one's death?”
“Shudup! Don't talk about it. All we did was knock out two people with the topra the Jad gave us. What Ziffka does with his enemy is his business. Our hands are clean.”
No!
Ronon struggled to quash the scream built up in his lungs and did everything in his power to keep still. John wasn't dead. Not now, not after they'd been through all this. Not until Ronon saw his friend's body with his own eyes.
Ronon tested muscles without giving it away; being held prisoner countless times had taught him well. Rubbing his wrists against the rough surface below caused friction that quickly sawed through the fibrous twine. He purposely let out a small moan and his two targets scrambled over.
“He waking up?” a voice questioned, bending over.
“You asking me?”
Ronon lashed out with his good leg, boot connecting with bone and muscle. There was a yelp and he lunged, sending his fist into the startled face above him. He knocked the guy out and struggled to stand. The other bandit was too busy clutching his shin to react when Ronon grabbed him by his shoulder and planted a fist into his gut. His foe writhed on the ground and Ronon searched with hooded eyes for his cane. Luckily it was perched atop a small boulder and he hobbled on limbs with little circulation, grabbing the precious aid.
Using it more than he wanted, Ronon limped over to the piece of drenk flailing about, and pressed his cane into the man's chest. “Stop crying and listen.” When that didn't have the desired effect, he brought it down on the guy's wrist.
“Ahhhh, please stop!”
“Pay attention,” Ronon ordered.
Whimpering, the man took several rapid calming breaths.
Satisfied he had his attention, Ronon went on. “Where are my goggles?”
There was a groan and more thrashing about and Ronon brought the cane down on a knee. “Answer me.”
“Here, ya tok!” The guy dug through layers of frayed robe and tossed them to the ground.
Watching his enemy, Ronon snagged the eye gear, backed up a step, and slid them on with one quick motion. With a visual check on the other unconscious thug, he loomed over his prey. “You'll answer my questions. If I have to repeat myself, I'll start breaking bones.”
The bandit held his wrist close, satisfied to sit on the ground under the shade of rock. He was a young, scrawny thing with a pointed, narrow chin. “Okay.”
“Where's my friend?”
“My pals took him to the Jad.”
“Where?”
“I can't say.”
Ronon slammed the cane onto the other knee and the bandit screamed. “I don't know how to tell you!”
Thinking, Ronon scanned the newly formed landscape. “Can you show me?”
“Yes.”
The other goon came to with a curse, his head-wrap unrolling to reveal knotty blond hair streaked with dirt, and he rolled over to snarl at his pal. “You idiot!” he hissed with a slight whistle from two missing front teeth.
Ronon thought about knocking the guy out, but he might need them both. “How many took my friend?”
“Don't tell him anything, Limbu.”
Not wanting to drag either of them across the desert, Ronon backhanded the loudmouth who fell silent. “Do I have to repeat myself?”
“There are four!” Limbu yelled. “We're the ones who got you from behind, but the others needed to take turns carrying your friend. Visser didn't want them to waste energy.”
That actually made sense. “What about me?”
“We don't know, but we couldn't move both of ya.”
“You're going to take me to him.”
Limbu looked to his pal, who shook his head in disgust. “I... We could, but if the Jad...I mean...”
“You're alive now. If you don't do what I say, I'll kill you.”
“Murder's against the law,” Limbu's pal argued.
Ronon swung the cane menacingly, the stick making an ominous swooshing noise. “I don't care about dying. You're going to take me or I'll bash your brains in.”
Both men gingerly stood up, eying him in unease.
“Hand over the water you stole.”
“Visser has your packs,” Limbu said, testing out his knee.
“Then give me yours,” Ronon demanded and gestured at Loud Mouth's. “You can share his.”
He took a swallow to rinse away the animal that died in his mouth then secured the dunka pouch. “You got more rope?”
“Yes,” Loud Mouth replied with that odd whistle-lisp.
Ronon stepped close, cane raised to strike, and Loud Mouth fumbled with a thin length a few meters long.
“Tie your hands together in front of you with one end.” Turning to face the more submissive Limbu, Ronon gestured at his wrists. “When he's done, take the other part and tie up your hands.”
The bindings were worn and weak, but they'd give Ronon a few seconds notice if either foe tried anything. The two bandits would be chained to one another and Ronon planned to keep them in check the entire time. Once they were done, Ronon gestured ahead, prepared to walk until his legs collapsed.
“Do something stupid and I'll fuck you up,” Ronon said, repeating his favorite earth phrase, secretly wishing they'd give him the excuse.
Memorizing patterns of sand, Ronon plotted their hike, thinking how the wind deposited dirt and sculpted out the terrain like brush strokes and fingers of a potter. He studied the results in order to find his way back. His prisoners didn't speak and he kept them on a short leash, knowing they could be leading him into a trap. A rendezvous point wouldn't be far to keep from expending energy, but it'd be just far enough away from prying eyes.
Newly crested ridges provided bits of shade and they walked under them, every crook and fold a possible ambush. Coasting the upcoming curve, Ronon spotted four figures in the distance. “Stop.”
“Why?” Loud Mouth hissed, bending at his knees. “This is what ya wanted.”
“Let them come to us.” When both men kept walking, Ronon whacked Loud Mouth behind his kneecaps. “I said, wait till they get closer.”
“What are ya gonna do? We outnumber you,” Loud Mouth taunted while trying to stand.
Ronon let the guy waste air, biding his time, watching for extra numbers. Only the four approached, their pace slowing as they closed the distance. “Move very slowly.”
Both men obeyed and Ronon stayed behind them, anticipating, planning. “Wave at them.”
The four other bandits went from blobs to human figures, close enough to see the ploy, to be solicitous in their movements. Ambush or not, there was no place to run. Keeping his quarry only steps away, the other players in the game spread out in a half circle.
“Wasn't our prisoner supposed to be wearing the rope?” the leader inquired.
“He surprised us,” was Loud Mouth's reply.
Ronon wasn't in the mood to screw around. “You Visser?”
“I am.” Visser unwrapped a cloth of jumbled scraps, revealing an older, scarred face, shorn dark hair, and an obscenely large forehead. “And you are?”
“Doesn't matter.” Ronon studied the three taking a few steps closer but waiting for a signal from their leader. “You're going to take me to my friend.”
“Are we?” With a nasal laugh, Visser gestured at his crew. “Six against one?”
Limbu and his buddy turned around to form a single line, bony fingers working on the ropes. Fronts were vulnerable with weak spots, especially when the men were not lined up perfectly.
Ronon struck Limbu across the head, catching his buddy on the back swing. Both men crumpled and in two seconds he'd evened the odds.
Puffing out his chest, he got into an attack position. “Now it's four.” Even after weeks of shedding weight and muscle tone, he was still taller, stronger, and more imposing than any of these fools combined. “I'll allow you to keep most of the water you stole. Even let all your men go free. But you're going to take me to my friend.”
“Your friend is dead; no way I'm wasting my time,” Visser said with a dismissive gesture. “I'm sure Ziffka's had his fun by now.” With a sleazy chuckle, he added. “Or maybe your friend's on his knees, begging for mercy. Willing to --”
Visser's throat crushed like any other, windpipe snapping along with his neck. By the time his body dropped to the ground, the others ran for their lives, and Ronon snagged a rock and threw it, the stone knocking the nearest bandit off his feet.
His body vibrated with raw hate, a hungry kind of energy, the type that allowed him to kill without thought, to see through a person, uncorked and boiling over into the very fingers that lifted up the dazed man before him.
He could squeeze this guy's head hard enough to make both eyes pop out and enjoy it. But that wasn't his mission, so Ronon shook the piece of garbage by the shoulders. “Take me now. Or I'll remove your skin.”
“Okay, just don't kill me,” the man pleaded.
Ronon dropped him; the man crumpled to the dirt, wiping the red smear from his temple. It took Teyla's face and the distant noise of McKay's nattering to crush the desire to spill more blood. “Move.”
The man stumbled, letting out a cry, and picked himself back up, wrapping his robe tightly around a frame of bone. Ronon saw nothing beyond the layers of old cloth and gave this animal no quarter, granting him only life until he led him to Sheppard.
“We're wastin' energy,” the bandit wheezed.
Ronon said nothing, eyes and ears like radar picking apart the land.
“I told ya. We met the Jad over by the rocks that formed this arch.” The prisoner stopped, wavering on his feet. “My head's killing me.”
Tons of practice fine-tuned Ronon's filters for white noise. Constant wind ate away most track marks, scattering footprints into nothing, but not completely. Not enough to hide all its secrets. There'd been twelve or more people, steps on top of steps, arriving and leaving as a group. There was no burying a body out here, no dumping it under shelter for others to stumble upon. No, Sheppard was out there, in any multitude of directions.
He followed a path away from the settlement, where no one would bother going. His leg was being gnawed on by a set of invisible jaws, the cane a part of his healing bone and it didn't matter if the drenk saw his dependency. His body quivered with promised violence and the bandit didn't dare test Ronon's wrath.
At four hundred paces, his heart surged through his chest and he ran, snagging the bandit by the robe.
“Hey! Stop!”
But Ronon bodily dragged his only source of labor with him, blood thrumming in his ears. “John!”
He tossed the bandit aside and dropped to his knees next to the lifeless body. Sheppard was curled on his side, an arm draped over his unprotected eyes. Ronon's hands shook as they touched Sheppard's throat, his head spinning at finding the weak, racing pulse beneath his fingertips. “You stayed alive,” he whispered.
He tugged his goggles down, squinting against the glare. Once his eyes adjusted, it was like gas to the fire raging in his belly. A noise escaped in the back of his throat at how bad they'd beaten him, bruised flesh nothing but dried paper wrapped around a body abandoned to wither under the sun. He cradled Sheppard's head against his thigh and dripped water from his dunka over a set of parched lips.
“Yer wastin' it,” the bandit complained. “If you really cared, you'd kill him.”
Refusing to squander his breath, Ronon continued dribbling the liquid. Sheppard swallowed some of it, although he was mostly, thankfully unconscious. “Give me your dunka pouch,” Ronon demanded of the bandit who defied him with silence. “Hand it over!”
Ronon took the pouch and poured a little water over Sheppard's face and neck, the skin bright red, his chest flushed pink from the slit of his robe. The only thing he could do was get Sheppard to the cave where it was cool and they had any real amount of water. He did a quick check for open wounds, and was left with little choice but to move him without knowing the extent of his injuries.
“You're going to carry him,” Ronon told the bandit.
“What?”
Ronon couldn't hold Sheppard's weight the whole time. “Do it or die.”
The bandit had no choice and Ronon instructed him in the fireman's carry that would jar Sheppard the least and allow a weak person to handle the weight for a small amount of time. “You do anything to hurt him, and I promise your last hours will be pain-filled.”
It was agony entrusting his charge to another, but the bandit lifted Sheppard and Ronon adjusted the robe to protect any exposed skin. Ripping the bottom part of his clothes with his teeth, Ronon soaked a piece of fabric with water and wrapped it around Sheppard's neck. Then he tore another swatch and with a bit of rope, covered Sheppard's head to control heat.
“Let's go.”
It didn't take long to return to the rock formation a few minutes later, the bandit dropping to his knees, gasping for air. Ronon lifted Sheppard and sat under the shade, allowing his friend's head to loll on his lap. The bandit, Ronon refused to give him a name, was a limp practice dummy sprawled out on his back. Knowing his beast of burden wouldn't be running away, Ronon tried coaxing more sips of water into Sheppard.
“John.” Removing the cloth from his battered face, he tried again. “Sheppard, can you hear me, buddy?”
Nothing. With careful balancing, he poured more water from the container to the dunka pouch and dribbled it onto Sheppard's face and torso. He squeezed a few drops along the corners of Sheppard's mouth where the colonel semiconsciously licked his split lips. Sheppard was a mess. Two black eyes framed a battered face surrounded by contusions, a swollen jaw, and a right hand that had ballooned to twice its size. They had to get away from the sun, but Sheppard needed the shade and the bandit time to recover.
Ronon sipped more water and re-soaked the homemade bandana around Sheppard's neck to help cool him. When the bandit started to moan and bitch, Ronon knew it was the best time to head out again.
Visser's corpse was stripped of all his clothes when they passed and it was a strange not to see insects or animals picking at the leftover bones. The bandit bowed in the face of adversity, his back unable to maintain Sheppard's weight, swaying and nearly falling. Ronon threatened and cursed, gave a shoulder to balance them all, both pairs of legs supporting a third. By the time they reached the water tanker site, Ronon took over his burden to bear.
“Leave,” he ordered. The bandit made all kinds of raspy breathing noises and all Ronon wanted to do was make them stop with his fists. “I said, go!”
He took a moment to recharge one last time, cooling Sheppard's skin with water, re-wetting the cloth and carefully wrapping it around the fluttering pulse points. “Almost home,” he told his friend, hiking him over his back and setting off on a leg that could not bend.
Each step was a spike through his heel, up his femur, and into the small of his back. Heat radiated from Sheppard and into Ronon, leaching every drop of water out of his skin. Dark spots clouded his vision, joining an imaginary pool of blues and greens sparkling far ahead. He lost the count toward home, starting and stopping again.
Was it three hundred or four hundred and seven steps left?
Snarling, he imagined the most vicious, vile ways to crush and break any Jad he came across to power him on. When that failed, and his knees wobbled and his tongue swelled, he imagined the Saurin, memorized Dumma's face and the last time he saw the man responsible for his and Sheppard's imprisonment.
Ronon allowed Dumma and the Saurin security force to escort him and Sheppard into some lab, his hand itchy over the blaster they'd foolishly let him keep. Men and women in blue coats were hunched over control consoles and computers, the wall aligned with dozens of screens, codes and science stuff scrolling down them in dizzying speed.
“These are our finest scientists, interpreting all our data and searching for breakthroughs.” Dumma beamed.
Sheppard scanned the monitors, unimpressed. “Kind of hard to read when it's on fast-forward.”
“That's because you don't have the proper interface.” Dumma stood before a slender woman seated in front of five smaller screens and pulled back her thick strands of blond hair, displaying a set of noodles sticking out of her temples. “She has a direct connection to the system, a piece of technology gained from another of our allies.” He grinned. “All our knowledge is stored right here for only our brightest minds.”
Ronon thought she looked like Fran, eyes unblinking at her work.
“What, no servers?”
Dumma glared at Sheppard like he was the dirt under his nails. “Why would we risk access to just anyone? There is always someone analyzing, someone working on enhancing our great people.”
“Fascinating,” Sheppard mumbled.
Dumma didn't understand the sarcasm and his smile widened. “Understanding the complexity of Wraith physiology requires only the brightest minds. In just the last cycle we've mapped their neurological pathways, identifying which parts of the brain control mental abilities and how they interpret sensory information. And just recently we had a major breakthrough in cellular repair.”
“And the Wraith? Why haven't they culled you yet?” Sheppard asked.
“Because they have no idea we existed. We stay hidden until we want to be found. Like we did, when our sensors spotted your first ship in orbit.” Dumma held his head high. “You'd be surprised how many other races are out there. Biding their time for the right moment.”
Ronon didn't care about words and presentations when they were being held and separated from the rest of their people. Sheppard hid his emotions behind his normal, relaxed facade, but the lines of tension were there.
“Ah, but you are military men. Who cares about this stuff? You are results oriented.” Dumma urged them onward, unable to keep his hands still. “You will love this.”
The guards closed in and Ronon and Sheppard were forced down halls, away from darkened guarded areas, and funneled toward another lab of sorts, this one made of all thick glass.
“This is one of many observations rooms.”
It was like the Atlantis gym, men and women ran around a track, jumping hurdles, climbing over walls, swinging on ropes. The only difference was the people in blue coats observing them around more computer screens.
“Looks like a strenuous workout,” Sheppard dead-panned.
“They started these laps when we met for breakfast today,” Dumma said with that same smug expression.
Breakfast had been six hours ago.
“Nonstop?” Ronon couldn't help asking.
“Yes.” Dumma clapped Sheppard on the back. “This way.”
“So, you learned how to harvest the Wraith enzyme? If all those people get regular injections I'm sure you're aware that withdrawal is a bitch,” Sheppard mocked.
Dumma's steps increased in annoyance. “All the enzyme does is keep a victim alive so the Wraith may feed. It has nothing to do with the advanced physiology of their central nervous system. We've isolated what controls the increase of hormone and neurotransmitters in their blood cells and have applied it our citizens.”
“You injected Wraith DNA cocktails into your people to make them stronger?” Sheppard stopped. “Gave them Wraith steroids?”
“I am unfamiliar with some of your words, but we have successfully sequenced part of the Wraith genetic code with our own.”
Sheppard shot Ronon a look of absolute horror and schooled it quickly. He gestured to keep following, to gather the needed recon. Dumma was oblivious to their revulsion, walking down the hall unaware that Sheppard had wandered toward a small corner window. Ronon followed behind him, their security escorts looking to one another as to what to do.
“What is it?” Ronon whispered.
“I don't know,” Sheppard replied, peering into the low-lit room.
Ronon scanned inside, noting the outlines of a man rocking in the middle. Sheppard placed his hand on the thick glass and the figure lunged, fists smacking the window. There was a flash of teeth and yellow eyes. Sheppard jumped back when the man hurled himself against the window, over and over and over again.
Ronon pulled his blaster and there were hands pulling them both away, Dumma's voice nattering above the ruckus. “That observation room was off-limits.”
“Why? That where you store the failures?” Sheppard snarled, shaking off the guards.
“Not all research has a hundred percent success rate; ask your head scientist,” Dumma retorted, smoothing his shirt. “Now, come with me.” The politician nodded at security, who formed a tighter circle around them.
Sheppard gestured at Ronon's weapon and he holstered it unhappily and followed behind. This time they stopped in front of a small room similar to the infirmary. There was a man on a gurney with wires and tubes snaking under a thin white gown, which was nothing new with sick people. Except this person was restrained by his legs and chest, his right arm strapped to a metal table in front of him with some doctor talking to him.
“Here we are,” Dumma said, tapping a button on the wall. “We have important guests, Dr. Uruh Do you think you could conduct your trial now?”
Ronon paid half attention to the chatter between the two, searching for an exit point, determining the locations of the security force only meters away. It wasn't until Sheppard stiffened, his hand nearly drawing his weapon, that Ronon was alert to the situation.
“You're going to cut this guy's fingers off?” Sheppard yelled, outraged.
“Why, yes. To see our progress in tissue regeneration. The experiment is voluntary,” Dumma explained.
“Is that why your patient is shackled to the bed?”
“There are always unexpected consequences to any procedure, Colonel.”
Before Sheppard could respond, the doctor pulled out a metal instrument that fired a small laser. He severed all five fingers with a single stoke, the man's mouth wide open in silent scream behind the glass. Dumma hastily spoke during the experiment. “I promise his hand is numb. He can't feel a thing.”
“But he's awake to see it,” Ronon snarled.
“We must monitor all biological reactions; the subject cannot be unconscious for accurate results,” Dumma retorted with a wave of his hand.
“Subject? Thought he was a volunteer?” Sheppard stepped closer to the window.
Dumma pointed at the monitor focused on the operation. “Yes, of course, and our volunteer's fingers are already regenerating. As you can tell, it took only minutes for the cells to reproduce themselves.”
“How many times did people’s fingers not re-grow?”
Dumma ignored Sheppard's question and motioned the guards to guide them away. “I want to show you our reason for our alliance.”
“How long have you've been conducting these experiments?” Sheppard asked.
“Research. For thousands of cycles.”
“That's a long time on a single project.”
“This is the most significant research ever conducted, Colonel Sheppard. Don't you see the potential? Soldiers with the strength of a Wraith. Physically superior to any enemy, able to heal from wounds. Once we've mastered the mental component, we'll have an army under the direct command of its commanders.” Dumma glanced at Sheppard. “We've heard you work closely with a people who have a version of this ability already. Could you imagine the leaps we could make if we could map out their genomes?”
Ronon growled, and Sheppard placed a restraining hand on his shoulder as they were corralled to the far end of the hallway.
Dumma paused by the doors. “I'm about to share with you our most precious resource. As an act of good faith.”
They entered another observation level; a large bay window overlooked an expansive room below filled with stasis pods similar to those in Atlantis. Ronon counted rows upon rows that disappeared into the depths.
“This is our cloning and housing facility. It is the key to our research and our largest need of assistance,” Dumma admitted.
“Cloning facility? All those pods. They're filled with clones?” Sheppard asked, unable to cover his shock.
“Yes.”
Sheppard spun to face Dumma. “How many?”
“Thousands.”
“You experiment on them?” Ronon snarled.
Dumma looked at both of them perplexed. “We insert altered DNA into their cells to test our advancement. It is the only way.”
“Without their permission,” Sheppard snapped.
“Permission?” Dumma shook his head in irritation. “They have no free will. We use copies of our citizens to further advances for our people.”
Sheppard's face was a chiseled mask. “And what is it that you need from us?”
“Your Wraith research. The data conducted in your city and from information taken from the one called Michael. Do not deny it; we have many sources that say this information is accurate. Not only could your data advance our own research, but it could solve the deterioration rate in our cloned subjects. We are experiencing too many molecular defects from duplicating them over the cycles and they are unable to provide us with accurate responses when their DNA is corrupted.”
“Don't you...just you know. Get new DNA from...” Sheppard clamped his jaw shut, unwilling to finish his sentence.
“We have already extracted DNA from our children and from their future children. Our population is small and hard to regrow. No, we need more raw sources. We cannot accept any from inferior stock.”
Sheppard stared out at the stasis pods, hands fisted at his sides, voice ice. “I don't think my people would agree to help with your breeding program.”
“But you must,” Dumma insisted, grabbing Sheppard's arm.
Sheppard jerked out of the man's grasp. “Sounds like you've made plenty of progress in other areas without our help.”
“No!” Dumma shouted. “We're so close to filling the gaps from hundreds of thousands of cycles of lost research. Hundreds! Can you imagine losing that much work? The older ones were cycles beyond us and we've just begun to touch what was destroyed.”
“What was destroyed?” Sheppard asked.
“Nothing,” Dumma said, straightening. “Your people might hold the key to what we're missing. Without your help, more and more Saurin patriots will sacrifice themselves to the cause.”
“What patriots?” Ronon questioned, wanting nothing more than to tear the place apart.
“As I said, our clones are no longer viable. We've started converting this area to house volunteers so our work may continue without loss of time.”
“Volunteers? Like the man whose fingers were cut off? Your subject?” Sheppard snapped. “How many? How many of your people do you plan to turn into patriots?”
Dumma stood defiantly. “However many it takes.”
Ronon almost lost himself in the memories; that day on the Saurin home world added to times as a runner, or endless nights in a cave.
Their cave! Had he already walked that far?
It had to be one of those mirage things, a trick of the eye, to be replaced by sand. Except there was really rock in front of him, the mouth of their home steps away, the beckoning of darkness he'd come to despise. No sooner did he allow himself a second's reprieve than the scent of old metal set him on alert.
“Malvick?” Ronon questioned the air, unsure if he wanted a reply.
“What have you two done?”
Ronon blinked and Malvick was there, a phantom of power and control.
“I...” Ronon's thoughts abandoned him in a crossfire of wills. “I need help.” He bit off the foul-tasting words.
“Help? I'm not sure I know the meaning.”
But once again Malvick's words contradicted his actions and he helped ease Sheppard to the ground before Ronon toppled over. “We...we need to get him inside.”
“Why? You want to bury him there?”
Ronon clutched Malvick's wrist, bending the man's hand away from Sheppard. “If you don't want to help, then leave.”
“If I'm helping, you're listening. And when I say listen, I mean do what you're told.” Malvick broke from the hold with a simple twist, pulling back Sheppard's robe, massive hands ghosting over his battered body. “If you pray to any gods, you might want to talk to them.”
Again, despite what was said, Malvick ripped the robe all the way down. “Hand me your container.” Ronon gave him the satchel and Malvick shook it in disgust. “A quarter full ain't gonna cut it.” He poured the contents over Sheppard's chest and soaked his hair. “If you got anything to drink, do it. Got a long walk ahead.”
“We're not moving him anymore. He might have--”
“This isn't a discussion. If you’d looked, you would’ve seen the search party heading this way.”
Ronon stared out at the desert behind him, noting the tiny dot formations. Damn it! He'd led the bastards right here.
“Guess you did something you shouldn't have.”
He'd screwed up, but Ronon would have to pay for that later. “We've got supplies in the cave--”
“Then get 'em. But don't overload yourself.”
Ronon almost didn't, caught between a tug of war of fear, allowing one to dominate the other. He fumbled inside, grabbing a full container of water, stuffing dried roots, a small thing of burning oil and soap flakes in another small satchel. He flung the heavy pack over his back; the other lighter one swung from his shoulder. As soon as he popped out of the cave, it was go-time.
Malvick effortlessly picked up Sheppard in a fireman's carry without the need of instructions. He didn't wait for him, and Ronon dug deep in his reserves to find a way to keep up. To follow the demon into his lair.
Where everyone else was too afraid to go.
The path into parts unknown was on a constant incline under cliffs and sheer walls and twists and turns. Even with his skills, Ronon was sure it would have taken him a long time to have located the barely noticeable opening that lead through the mountain. With the sun partially hidden by rock, the wind blowing across his face was cooler, not cold, lacking the brittle dry bite of the desert. His brain was frozen by the new pallet of grays, speckled blacks, and brown minerals.
Ronon used every handhold and piece of jutting rocky shelf to keep himself up, push his body forward and support what wasn't meant to handle distance this soon. Malvick never spoke or turned to monitor his progress, which was fine; Sheppard's body draped over the man's back was all the motivation needed to keep up. The Void had neither monster nor spirit hunting them and nothing pinged on his radar, only emptiness. Despite the absence of predators, there was a lingering odor of death. Stale blood, rotted flesh underneath the soil, and the telltale hints of seared metal.
Rugged terrain tempered to flat spreads of rock framed by even higher peaks and summits that disappeared into clouds of heavy gray mist. Ronon's skin had peeled and burned dozens of times over and eagerly soaked up the newfound dampness in the air. While the desert had been an endless swatch of bright white, the Void was a slow descent into monochromes of every shade. It was like time and distance tripled, and with growing darkness came dropping temperatures. They couldn't have gone more steps than the settlement, yet the difference in the environment was profound.
Drawing air into his lungs, he recognized the sweet aesthesis of moisture, eyes enlarging at the small pool of liquid meters away. Giving his head a shake didn't dispel the illusion and Malvick stood before the glistening beauty of gallons and gallons of heavenly water.
“Is that--?” Ronon's throat got stuck, his head dizzy with fatigue and wonder.
“Best way to beat heat sickness is to cool down,” Malvick explained, wading into the shallow pool.
Dropping his supplies at the edge of the drink, Ronon rushed in, cutting in front of Malvick. “He's my responsibility.”
“Is that so? He save your life or did you save his?”
“Both,” Ronon replied, reaching for his CO.
Malvick handed over Sheppard and Ronon shed his friend's tangle of robe and laid him in the shallow end, propping him on a natural shelf of rock. Ronon slid his lower body into the water, propping his friend on his chest, securing Sheppard's head and neck above the surface. “Hand me some water,” he said, ignoring the pry for information.
“Going to drown his lungs?” Malvick drawled, giving him a dunka.
Emerging the body in cooler temperatures only accomplished so much. Ronon needed Sheppard to take in fluids and hoped the water would jar him awake. “John. Come on, drink some of this.”
Sheppard didn't stir and Ronon removed his goggles, getting a clearer view of the damage. Most of the Jad had been right handed based on the amount of black and blue on one side of Sheppard's face. “This water drinkable?” he asked the man shadowing them.
“Yep.”
Ronon took a long gulp of the precious liquid and poured the rest over Sheppard's face and watched the erratic rise and fall of his chest. Even under water, the dark bruising peppered his torso and abdomen. “Sheppard, wake up,” he encouraged, refilling the dunka pouch and pouring it over his CO's hair. “You can sleep later. Do you want me to tell McKay I gave you a bath?” Then he dipped down to his friend's ear and whispered, “Don't leave me alone out here. Fight, John.”
Nothing. Sheppard ignored him, like he'd been ignoring him for days if not weeks, closed off in his thick shell. Ronon wouldn't quit and continued showering water for what seemed like hours, the dark red flush fading to pink, unveiling more and more purple knuckled-shaped patterns.
Finally Sheppard's left eye fluttered open, his right one swelled shut, and he stared up in a daze. “Wh'a?”
“Take it easy,” Ronon said.
But Sheppard was Sheppard, responding the complete opposite, and went from limp to coiled, bolting up with a wheezing gasp, immediately slumping, hands curled into Ronon's arms in desperation.
“Easy, don't thrash.” Wrapping an arm around Sheppard's shoulders, Ronon held him still. “John!”
“R'no?” Sheppard slurred, complexion blanching.
“Yeah, buddy.”
“No,” Sheppard panted. ”No.” And he squeezed his one eye shut, face screwed up in pain.
“John, look at me,” Ronon ordered, but Sheppard's body spasmed and Ronon lifted him out of the water to dry heave on the rocks. He held him until the cramps ended and Sheppard went slack again. “John?”
“It's the heat sickness,” Malvick commented from the sidelines. “Get him back in the water. It's the only way to cool him down before his blood turns to sludge.”
Ronon dunked Sheppard's body in the pool, before easing him onto the ledge again, the two of them leaning back against the slate. “Please John, drink,” he begged, dribbling water on his friend's lips. This time he was rewarded by a few swallows in the mists of semiconsciousness. “There you go,” Ronon encouraged.
He didn't mind languishing in the water until all his skin puckered into wrinkles, using one hand to slowly rid layers of soil and sweat, drenching his dreads, wishing for a blade to cut them at the roots. He coaxed water down Sheppard's throat whenever he could, until the brimming pulse beneath his finger slowed to something steadier and rosy pink hues faded to reveal more ugly contusions.
“There's shelter behind here. Good place to hole up for a while.”
Ronon momentarily had forgotten about Malvick; he'd become nothing but a backdrop. Lifting Sheppard out of the pond served to remind him of all his own aches and pains, his stockpiles beyond vapor. He followed Malvick's smooth strides under an overhanging of stone, the temperature comfortable under the shade. He placed Sheppard down, and plopped beside him, allowing his legs to stretch out, surrounded by open cool air beneath a dark sky. Malvick had gone somewhere and Ronon didn't really care, his limbs melting into the stone.
For this second, for this moment, there was no running, no fighting, no wanting to rip away his skin.
“Ronon?” a harsh whisper came.
“I'm here,” Ronon said in a hush, leaning over his friend. “Can you understand me?”
A slit of hazel peered in disbelief. “But...you're dead.”
“No, I'm not.”
“You're...just in my head...”
Ronon took Sheppard's uninjured hand and squeezed it. “This feel dead to you?”
Sheppard stared unbelieving and Ronon pressed his friend's fingers against the beating pulse below his tattoo. “Trust what you feel.”
Something broke and Sheppard weakly pulled Ronon closer, burying his face into his shoulder with a quiet sob. The sound broke Ronon's heart and he held onto his friend until the shudders ended and the reality of pain and injury took over. Sheppard's sob broke into a loud cry and Ronon lowered him flat on his back to keep him still.
“Sheppard, listen to me. Are you listening?” His friend tried to curl into a ball, but Ronon gently held him still. “John, don't. Moving will only make it worse.”
Sheppard responded by panting for breath, but that only exacerbated the pain and he squeezed his eye closed, slowing his gasps for air. “R'n,” he moaned.
“Yeah, buddy.”
“Oh, God...” Sheppard hiccupped. “Make it stop.”
Ronon fumed in helplessness, hands flat on his friend's shoulders. “Just breathe through it, Sheppard. Breathe slowly. In and out.”
Sheppard struggled, deep breaths, shallow breaths. Each expansion of his chest pulled on unknown broken bones and abused muscles. Behind every bruise had been multiple fists and shoes.
“Close your eyes, John. Ride it out.”
Sheppard balled his fists, accidentally curling his busted hand. He screamed which erupted into a dry choke. Ronon eased Sheppard to his side as he dry heaved again. Pass out, pass out, Ronon prayed, but Sheppard sagged in his arms, totally spent, and he rolled him onto his back.
“Shoulda...shoulda left me...out there,” Sheppard rasped.
“Don't say that!”
“I...got...got...what was coming.”
“You're sick; you don't know what you're talking about,” Ronon whispered, laying his hand on Sheppard's shoulder.
“I failed… I…,” Sheppard uttered, tearing a hole in his bottom lip.
“No, you didn't!” Ronon yelled, wanting to shake him. “You hear me? You're stronger than them. You've never given up, John. Look at me. You're not going to give up on me. Not after all we've been through.”
Sheppard's eye puffed up. “I... I'm sorry... I gave up a long time ago.”
Ronon wouldn't listen and laid his head on Sheppard's shoulder, feeling like the one who had failed.
“Chapter Twelve”
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.
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“How much longer?”
“Til Visser and the others return.”
“Why do we hafta wait?”
“Ya think the two of us can carry this guy? We'll get our payment then see what Visser wants to do.”
Ronon remained deathly still, locating his enemies by voice, testing the strength of the bindings around his wrists. His hands were tied behind his back and based on the position of the conversation going on, his kidnappers were in front of him. Opening his eyelids to razor-thin slits, he allowed his pupils to acclimate to the sunlight, verifying his situation, searching for Sheppard.
“What if the Shan'ka find out we were involved with the other one's death?”
“Shudup! Don't talk about it. All we did was knock out two people with the topra the Jad gave us. What Ziffka does with his enemy is his business. Our hands are clean.”
No!
Ronon struggled to quash the scream built up in his lungs and did everything in his power to keep still. John wasn't dead. Not now, not after they'd been through all this. Not until Ronon saw his friend's body with his own eyes.
Ronon tested muscles without giving it away; being held prisoner countless times had taught him well. Rubbing his wrists against the rough surface below caused friction that quickly sawed through the fibrous twine. He purposely let out a small moan and his two targets scrambled over.
“He waking up?” a voice questioned, bending over.
“You asking me?”
Ronon lashed out with his good leg, boot connecting with bone and muscle. There was a yelp and he lunged, sending his fist into the startled face above him. He knocked the guy out and struggled to stand. The other bandit was too busy clutching his shin to react when Ronon grabbed him by his shoulder and planted a fist into his gut. His foe writhed on the ground and Ronon searched with hooded eyes for his cane. Luckily it was perched atop a small boulder and he hobbled on limbs with little circulation, grabbing the precious aid.
Using it more than he wanted, Ronon limped over to the piece of drenk flailing about, and pressed his cane into the man's chest. “Stop crying and listen.” When that didn't have the desired effect, he brought it down on the guy's wrist.
“Ahhhh, please stop!”
“Pay attention,” Ronon ordered.
Whimpering, the man took several rapid calming breaths.
Satisfied he had his attention, Ronon went on. “Where are my goggles?”
There was a groan and more thrashing about and Ronon brought the cane down on a knee. “Answer me.”
“Here, ya tok!” The guy dug through layers of frayed robe and tossed them to the ground.
Watching his enemy, Ronon snagged the eye gear, backed up a step, and slid them on with one quick motion. With a visual check on the other unconscious thug, he loomed over his prey. “You'll answer my questions. If I have to repeat myself, I'll start breaking bones.”
The bandit held his wrist close, satisfied to sit on the ground under the shade of rock. He was a young, scrawny thing with a pointed, narrow chin. “Okay.”
“Where's my friend?”
“My pals took him to the Jad.”
“Where?”
“I can't say.”
Ronon slammed the cane onto the other knee and the bandit screamed. “I don't know how to tell you!”
Thinking, Ronon scanned the newly formed landscape. “Can you show me?”
“Yes.”
The other goon came to with a curse, his head-wrap unrolling to reveal knotty blond hair streaked with dirt, and he rolled over to snarl at his pal. “You idiot!” he hissed with a slight whistle from two missing front teeth.
Ronon thought about knocking the guy out, but he might need them both. “How many took my friend?”
“Don't tell him anything, Limbu.”
Not wanting to drag either of them across the desert, Ronon backhanded the loudmouth who fell silent. “Do I have to repeat myself?”
“There are four!” Limbu yelled. “We're the ones who got you from behind, but the others needed to take turns carrying your friend. Visser didn't want them to waste energy.”
That actually made sense. “What about me?”
“We don't know, but we couldn't move both of ya.”
“You're going to take me to him.”
Limbu looked to his pal, who shook his head in disgust. “I... We could, but if the Jad...I mean...”
“You're alive now. If you don't do what I say, I'll kill you.”
“Murder's against the law,” Limbu's pal argued.
Ronon swung the cane menacingly, the stick making an ominous swooshing noise. “I don't care about dying. You're going to take me or I'll bash your brains in.”
Both men gingerly stood up, eying him in unease.
“Hand over the water you stole.”
“Visser has your packs,” Limbu said, testing out his knee.
“Then give me yours,” Ronon demanded and gestured at Loud Mouth's. “You can share his.”
He took a swallow to rinse away the animal that died in his mouth then secured the dunka pouch. “You got more rope?”
“Yes,” Loud Mouth replied with that odd whistle-lisp.
Ronon stepped close, cane raised to strike, and Loud Mouth fumbled with a thin length a few meters long.
“Tie your hands together in front of you with one end.” Turning to face the more submissive Limbu, Ronon gestured at his wrists. “When he's done, take the other part and tie up your hands.”
The bindings were worn and weak, but they'd give Ronon a few seconds notice if either foe tried anything. The two bandits would be chained to one another and Ronon planned to keep them in check the entire time. Once they were done, Ronon gestured ahead, prepared to walk until his legs collapsed.
“Do something stupid and I'll fuck you up,” Ronon said, repeating his favorite earth phrase, secretly wishing they'd give him the excuse.
Memorizing patterns of sand, Ronon plotted their hike, thinking how the wind deposited dirt and sculpted out the terrain like brush strokes and fingers of a potter. He studied the results in order to find his way back. His prisoners didn't speak and he kept them on a short leash, knowing they could be leading him into a trap. A rendezvous point wouldn't be far to keep from expending energy, but it'd be just far enough away from prying eyes.
Newly crested ridges provided bits of shade and they walked under them, every crook and fold a possible ambush. Coasting the upcoming curve, Ronon spotted four figures in the distance. “Stop.”
“Why?” Loud Mouth hissed, bending at his knees. “This is what ya wanted.”
“Let them come to us.” When both men kept walking, Ronon whacked Loud Mouth behind his kneecaps. “I said, wait till they get closer.”
“What are ya gonna do? We outnumber you,” Loud Mouth taunted while trying to stand.
Ronon let the guy waste air, biding his time, watching for extra numbers. Only the four approached, their pace slowing as they closed the distance. “Move very slowly.”
Both men obeyed and Ronon stayed behind them, anticipating, planning. “Wave at them.”
The four other bandits went from blobs to human figures, close enough to see the ploy, to be solicitous in their movements. Ambush or not, there was no place to run. Keeping his quarry only steps away, the other players in the game spread out in a half circle.
“Wasn't our prisoner supposed to be wearing the rope?” the leader inquired.
“He surprised us,” was Loud Mouth's reply.
Ronon wasn't in the mood to screw around. “You Visser?”
“I am.” Visser unwrapped a cloth of jumbled scraps, revealing an older, scarred face, shorn dark hair, and an obscenely large forehead. “And you are?”
“Doesn't matter.” Ronon studied the three taking a few steps closer but waiting for a signal from their leader. “You're going to take me to my friend.”
“Are we?” With a nasal laugh, Visser gestured at his crew. “Six against one?”
Limbu and his buddy turned around to form a single line, bony fingers working on the ropes. Fronts were vulnerable with weak spots, especially when the men were not lined up perfectly.
Ronon struck Limbu across the head, catching his buddy on the back swing. Both men crumpled and in two seconds he'd evened the odds.
Puffing out his chest, he got into an attack position. “Now it's four.” Even after weeks of shedding weight and muscle tone, he was still taller, stronger, and more imposing than any of these fools combined. “I'll allow you to keep most of the water you stole. Even let all your men go free. But you're going to take me to my friend.”
“Your friend is dead; no way I'm wasting my time,” Visser said with a dismissive gesture. “I'm sure Ziffka's had his fun by now.” With a sleazy chuckle, he added. “Or maybe your friend's on his knees, begging for mercy. Willing to --”
Visser's throat crushed like any other, windpipe snapping along with his neck. By the time his body dropped to the ground, the others ran for their lives, and Ronon snagged a rock and threw it, the stone knocking the nearest bandit off his feet.
His body vibrated with raw hate, a hungry kind of energy, the type that allowed him to kill without thought, to see through a person, uncorked and boiling over into the very fingers that lifted up the dazed man before him.
He could squeeze this guy's head hard enough to make both eyes pop out and enjoy it. But that wasn't his mission, so Ronon shook the piece of garbage by the shoulders. “Take me now. Or I'll remove your skin.”
“Okay, just don't kill me,” the man pleaded.
Ronon dropped him; the man crumpled to the dirt, wiping the red smear from his temple. It took Teyla's face and the distant noise of McKay's nattering to crush the desire to spill more blood. “Move.”
The man stumbled, letting out a cry, and picked himself back up, wrapping his robe tightly around a frame of bone. Ronon saw nothing beyond the layers of old cloth and gave this animal no quarter, granting him only life until he led him to Sheppard.
“We're wastin' energy,” the bandit wheezed.
Ronon said nothing, eyes and ears like radar picking apart the land.
“I told ya. We met the Jad over by the rocks that formed this arch.” The prisoner stopped, wavering on his feet. “My head's killing me.”
Tons of practice fine-tuned Ronon's filters for white noise. Constant wind ate away most track marks, scattering footprints into nothing, but not completely. Not enough to hide all its secrets. There'd been twelve or more people, steps on top of steps, arriving and leaving as a group. There was no burying a body out here, no dumping it under shelter for others to stumble upon. No, Sheppard was out there, in any multitude of directions.
He followed a path away from the settlement, where no one would bother going. His leg was being gnawed on by a set of invisible jaws, the cane a part of his healing bone and it didn't matter if the drenk saw his dependency. His body quivered with promised violence and the bandit didn't dare test Ronon's wrath.
At four hundred paces, his heart surged through his chest and he ran, snagging the bandit by the robe.
“Hey! Stop!”
But Ronon bodily dragged his only source of labor with him, blood thrumming in his ears. “John!”
He tossed the bandit aside and dropped to his knees next to the lifeless body. Sheppard was curled on his side, an arm draped over his unprotected eyes. Ronon's hands shook as they touched Sheppard's throat, his head spinning at finding the weak, racing pulse beneath his fingertips. “You stayed alive,” he whispered.
He tugged his goggles down, squinting against the glare. Once his eyes adjusted, it was like gas to the fire raging in his belly. A noise escaped in the back of his throat at how bad they'd beaten him, bruised flesh nothing but dried paper wrapped around a body abandoned to wither under the sun. He cradled Sheppard's head against his thigh and dripped water from his dunka over a set of parched lips.
“Yer wastin' it,” the bandit complained. “If you really cared, you'd kill him.”
Refusing to squander his breath, Ronon continued dribbling the liquid. Sheppard swallowed some of it, although he was mostly, thankfully unconscious. “Give me your dunka pouch,” Ronon demanded of the bandit who defied him with silence. “Hand it over!”
Ronon took the pouch and poured a little water over Sheppard's face and neck, the skin bright red, his chest flushed pink from the slit of his robe. The only thing he could do was get Sheppard to the cave where it was cool and they had any real amount of water. He did a quick check for open wounds, and was left with little choice but to move him without knowing the extent of his injuries.
“You're going to carry him,” Ronon told the bandit.
“What?”
Ronon couldn't hold Sheppard's weight the whole time. “Do it or die.”
The bandit had no choice and Ronon instructed him in the fireman's carry that would jar Sheppard the least and allow a weak person to handle the weight for a small amount of time. “You do anything to hurt him, and I promise your last hours will be pain-filled.”
It was agony entrusting his charge to another, but the bandit lifted Sheppard and Ronon adjusted the robe to protect any exposed skin. Ripping the bottom part of his clothes with his teeth, Ronon soaked a piece of fabric with water and wrapped it around Sheppard's neck. Then he tore another swatch and with a bit of rope, covered Sheppard's head to control heat.
“Let's go.”
It didn't take long to return to the rock formation a few minutes later, the bandit dropping to his knees, gasping for air. Ronon lifted Sheppard and sat under the shade, allowing his friend's head to loll on his lap. The bandit, Ronon refused to give him a name, was a limp practice dummy sprawled out on his back. Knowing his beast of burden wouldn't be running away, Ronon tried coaxing more sips of water into Sheppard.
“John.” Removing the cloth from his battered face, he tried again. “Sheppard, can you hear me, buddy?”
Nothing. With careful balancing, he poured more water from the container to the dunka pouch and dribbled it onto Sheppard's face and torso. He squeezed a few drops along the corners of Sheppard's mouth where the colonel semiconsciously licked his split lips. Sheppard was a mess. Two black eyes framed a battered face surrounded by contusions, a swollen jaw, and a right hand that had ballooned to twice its size. They had to get away from the sun, but Sheppard needed the shade and the bandit time to recover.
Ronon sipped more water and re-soaked the homemade bandana around Sheppard's neck to help cool him. When the bandit started to moan and bitch, Ronon knew it was the best time to head out again.
Visser's corpse was stripped of all his clothes when they passed and it was a strange not to see insects or animals picking at the leftover bones. The bandit bowed in the face of adversity, his back unable to maintain Sheppard's weight, swaying and nearly falling. Ronon threatened and cursed, gave a shoulder to balance them all, both pairs of legs supporting a third. By the time they reached the water tanker site, Ronon took over his burden to bear.
“Leave,” he ordered. The bandit made all kinds of raspy breathing noises and all Ronon wanted to do was make them stop with his fists. “I said, go!”
He took a moment to recharge one last time, cooling Sheppard's skin with water, re-wetting the cloth and carefully wrapping it around the fluttering pulse points. “Almost home,” he told his friend, hiking him over his back and setting off on a leg that could not bend.
Each step was a spike through his heel, up his femur, and into the small of his back. Heat radiated from Sheppard and into Ronon, leaching every drop of water out of his skin. Dark spots clouded his vision, joining an imaginary pool of blues and greens sparkling far ahead. He lost the count toward home, starting and stopping again.
Was it three hundred or four hundred and seven steps left?
Snarling, he imagined the most vicious, vile ways to crush and break any Jad he came across to power him on. When that failed, and his knees wobbled and his tongue swelled, he imagined the Saurin, memorized Dumma's face and the last time he saw the man responsible for his and Sheppard's imprisonment.
Ronon allowed Dumma and the Saurin security force to escort him and Sheppard into some lab, his hand itchy over the blaster they'd foolishly let him keep. Men and women in blue coats were hunched over control consoles and computers, the wall aligned with dozens of screens, codes and science stuff scrolling down them in dizzying speed.
“These are our finest scientists, interpreting all our data and searching for breakthroughs.” Dumma beamed.
Sheppard scanned the monitors, unimpressed. “Kind of hard to read when it's on fast-forward.”
“That's because you don't have the proper interface.” Dumma stood before a slender woman seated in front of five smaller screens and pulled back her thick strands of blond hair, displaying a set of noodles sticking out of her temples. “She has a direct connection to the system, a piece of technology gained from another of our allies.” He grinned. “All our knowledge is stored right here for only our brightest minds.”
Ronon thought she looked like Fran, eyes unblinking at her work.
“What, no servers?”
Dumma glared at Sheppard like he was the dirt under his nails. “Why would we risk access to just anyone? There is always someone analyzing, someone working on enhancing our great people.”
“Fascinating,” Sheppard mumbled.
Dumma didn't understand the sarcasm and his smile widened. “Understanding the complexity of Wraith physiology requires only the brightest minds. In just the last cycle we've mapped their neurological pathways, identifying which parts of the brain control mental abilities and how they interpret sensory information. And just recently we had a major breakthrough in cellular repair.”
“And the Wraith? Why haven't they culled you yet?” Sheppard asked.
“Because they have no idea we existed. We stay hidden until we want to be found. Like we did, when our sensors spotted your first ship in orbit.” Dumma held his head high. “You'd be surprised how many other races are out there. Biding their time for the right moment.”
Ronon didn't care about words and presentations when they were being held and separated from the rest of their people. Sheppard hid his emotions behind his normal, relaxed facade, but the lines of tension were there.
“Ah, but you are military men. Who cares about this stuff? You are results oriented.” Dumma urged them onward, unable to keep his hands still. “You will love this.”
The guards closed in and Ronon and Sheppard were forced down halls, away from darkened guarded areas, and funneled toward another lab of sorts, this one made of all thick glass.
“This is one of many observations rooms.”
It was like the Atlantis gym, men and women ran around a track, jumping hurdles, climbing over walls, swinging on ropes. The only difference was the people in blue coats observing them around more computer screens.
“Looks like a strenuous workout,” Sheppard dead-panned.
“They started these laps when we met for breakfast today,” Dumma said with that same smug expression.
Breakfast had been six hours ago.
“Nonstop?” Ronon couldn't help asking.
“Yes.” Dumma clapped Sheppard on the back. “This way.”
“So, you learned how to harvest the Wraith enzyme? If all those people get regular injections I'm sure you're aware that withdrawal is a bitch,” Sheppard mocked.
Dumma's steps increased in annoyance. “All the enzyme does is keep a victim alive so the Wraith may feed. It has nothing to do with the advanced physiology of their central nervous system. We've isolated what controls the increase of hormone and neurotransmitters in their blood cells and have applied it our citizens.”
“You injected Wraith DNA cocktails into your people to make them stronger?” Sheppard stopped. “Gave them Wraith steroids?”
“I am unfamiliar with some of your words, but we have successfully sequenced part of the Wraith genetic code with our own.”
Sheppard shot Ronon a look of absolute horror and schooled it quickly. He gestured to keep following, to gather the needed recon. Dumma was oblivious to their revulsion, walking down the hall unaware that Sheppard had wandered toward a small corner window. Ronon followed behind him, their security escorts looking to one another as to what to do.
“What is it?” Ronon whispered.
“I don't know,” Sheppard replied, peering into the low-lit room.
Ronon scanned inside, noting the outlines of a man rocking in the middle. Sheppard placed his hand on the thick glass and the figure lunged, fists smacking the window. There was a flash of teeth and yellow eyes. Sheppard jumped back when the man hurled himself against the window, over and over and over again.
Ronon pulled his blaster and there were hands pulling them both away, Dumma's voice nattering above the ruckus. “That observation room was off-limits.”
“Why? That where you store the failures?” Sheppard snarled, shaking off the guards.
“Not all research has a hundred percent success rate; ask your head scientist,” Dumma retorted, smoothing his shirt. “Now, come with me.” The politician nodded at security, who formed a tighter circle around them.
Sheppard gestured at Ronon's weapon and he holstered it unhappily and followed behind. This time they stopped in front of a small room similar to the infirmary. There was a man on a gurney with wires and tubes snaking under a thin white gown, which was nothing new with sick people. Except this person was restrained by his legs and chest, his right arm strapped to a metal table in front of him with some doctor talking to him.
“Here we are,” Dumma said, tapping a button on the wall. “We have important guests, Dr. Uruh Do you think you could conduct your trial now?”
Ronon paid half attention to the chatter between the two, searching for an exit point, determining the locations of the security force only meters away. It wasn't until Sheppard stiffened, his hand nearly drawing his weapon, that Ronon was alert to the situation.
“You're going to cut this guy's fingers off?” Sheppard yelled, outraged.
“Why, yes. To see our progress in tissue regeneration. The experiment is voluntary,” Dumma explained.
“Is that why your patient is shackled to the bed?”
“There are always unexpected consequences to any procedure, Colonel.”
Before Sheppard could respond, the doctor pulled out a metal instrument that fired a small laser. He severed all five fingers with a single stoke, the man's mouth wide open in silent scream behind the glass. Dumma hastily spoke during the experiment. “I promise his hand is numb. He can't feel a thing.”
“But he's awake to see it,” Ronon snarled.
“We must monitor all biological reactions; the subject cannot be unconscious for accurate results,” Dumma retorted with a wave of his hand.
“Subject? Thought he was a volunteer?” Sheppard stepped closer to the window.
Dumma pointed at the monitor focused on the operation. “Yes, of course, and our volunteer's fingers are already regenerating. As you can tell, it took only minutes for the cells to reproduce themselves.”
“How many times did people’s fingers not re-grow?”
Dumma ignored Sheppard's question and motioned the guards to guide them away. “I want to show you our reason for our alliance.”
“How long have you've been conducting these experiments?” Sheppard asked.
“Research. For thousands of cycles.”
“That's a long time on a single project.”
“This is the most significant research ever conducted, Colonel Sheppard. Don't you see the potential? Soldiers with the strength of a Wraith. Physically superior to any enemy, able to heal from wounds. Once we've mastered the mental component, we'll have an army under the direct command of its commanders.” Dumma glanced at Sheppard. “We've heard you work closely with a people who have a version of this ability already. Could you imagine the leaps we could make if we could map out their genomes?”
Ronon growled, and Sheppard placed a restraining hand on his shoulder as they were corralled to the far end of the hallway.
Dumma paused by the doors. “I'm about to share with you our most precious resource. As an act of good faith.”
They entered another observation level; a large bay window overlooked an expansive room below filled with stasis pods similar to those in Atlantis. Ronon counted rows upon rows that disappeared into the depths.
“This is our cloning and housing facility. It is the key to our research and our largest need of assistance,” Dumma admitted.
“Cloning facility? All those pods. They're filled with clones?” Sheppard asked, unable to cover his shock.
“Yes.”
Sheppard spun to face Dumma. “How many?”
“Thousands.”
“You experiment on them?” Ronon snarled.
Dumma looked at both of them perplexed. “We insert altered DNA into their cells to test our advancement. It is the only way.”
“Without their permission,” Sheppard snapped.
“Permission?” Dumma shook his head in irritation. “They have no free will. We use copies of our citizens to further advances for our people.”
Sheppard's face was a chiseled mask. “And what is it that you need from us?”
“Your Wraith research. The data conducted in your city and from information taken from the one called Michael. Do not deny it; we have many sources that say this information is accurate. Not only could your data advance our own research, but it could solve the deterioration rate in our cloned subjects. We are experiencing too many molecular defects from duplicating them over the cycles and they are unable to provide us with accurate responses when their DNA is corrupted.”
“Don't you...just you know. Get new DNA from...” Sheppard clamped his jaw shut, unwilling to finish his sentence.
“We have already extracted DNA from our children and from their future children. Our population is small and hard to regrow. No, we need more raw sources. We cannot accept any from inferior stock.”
Sheppard stared out at the stasis pods, hands fisted at his sides, voice ice. “I don't think my people would agree to help with your breeding program.”
“But you must,” Dumma insisted, grabbing Sheppard's arm.
Sheppard jerked out of the man's grasp. “Sounds like you've made plenty of progress in other areas without our help.”
“No!” Dumma shouted. “We're so close to filling the gaps from hundreds of thousands of cycles of lost research. Hundreds! Can you imagine losing that much work? The older ones were cycles beyond us and we've just begun to touch what was destroyed.”
“What was destroyed?” Sheppard asked.
“Nothing,” Dumma said, straightening. “Your people might hold the key to what we're missing. Without your help, more and more Saurin patriots will sacrifice themselves to the cause.”
“What patriots?” Ronon questioned, wanting nothing more than to tear the place apart.
“As I said, our clones are no longer viable. We've started converting this area to house volunteers so our work may continue without loss of time.”
“Volunteers? Like the man whose fingers were cut off? Your subject?” Sheppard snapped. “How many? How many of your people do you plan to turn into patriots?”
Dumma stood defiantly. “However many it takes.”
Ronon almost lost himself in the memories; that day on the Saurin home world added to times as a runner, or endless nights in a cave.
Their cave! Had he already walked that far?
It had to be one of those mirage things, a trick of the eye, to be replaced by sand. Except there was really rock in front of him, the mouth of their home steps away, the beckoning of darkness he'd come to despise. No sooner did he allow himself a second's reprieve than the scent of old metal set him on alert.
“Malvick?” Ronon questioned the air, unsure if he wanted a reply.
“What have you two done?”
Ronon blinked and Malvick was there, a phantom of power and control.
“I...” Ronon's thoughts abandoned him in a crossfire of wills. “I need help.” He bit off the foul-tasting words.
“Help? I'm not sure I know the meaning.”
But once again Malvick's words contradicted his actions and he helped ease Sheppard to the ground before Ronon toppled over. “We...we need to get him inside.”
“Why? You want to bury him there?”
Ronon clutched Malvick's wrist, bending the man's hand away from Sheppard. “If you don't want to help, then leave.”
“If I'm helping, you're listening. And when I say listen, I mean do what you're told.” Malvick broke from the hold with a simple twist, pulling back Sheppard's robe, massive hands ghosting over his battered body. “If you pray to any gods, you might want to talk to them.”
Again, despite what was said, Malvick ripped the robe all the way down. “Hand me your container.” Ronon gave him the satchel and Malvick shook it in disgust. “A quarter full ain't gonna cut it.” He poured the contents over Sheppard's chest and soaked his hair. “If you got anything to drink, do it. Got a long walk ahead.”
“We're not moving him anymore. He might have--”
“This isn't a discussion. If you’d looked, you would’ve seen the search party heading this way.”
Ronon stared out at the desert behind him, noting the tiny dot formations. Damn it! He'd led the bastards right here.
“Guess you did something you shouldn't have.”
He'd screwed up, but Ronon would have to pay for that later. “We've got supplies in the cave--”
“Then get 'em. But don't overload yourself.”
Ronon almost didn't, caught between a tug of war of fear, allowing one to dominate the other. He fumbled inside, grabbing a full container of water, stuffing dried roots, a small thing of burning oil and soap flakes in another small satchel. He flung the heavy pack over his back; the other lighter one swung from his shoulder. As soon as he popped out of the cave, it was go-time.
Malvick effortlessly picked up Sheppard in a fireman's carry without the need of instructions. He didn't wait for him, and Ronon dug deep in his reserves to find a way to keep up. To follow the demon into his lair.
Where everyone else was too afraid to go.
The path into parts unknown was on a constant incline under cliffs and sheer walls and twists and turns. Even with his skills, Ronon was sure it would have taken him a long time to have located the barely noticeable opening that lead through the mountain. With the sun partially hidden by rock, the wind blowing across his face was cooler, not cold, lacking the brittle dry bite of the desert. His brain was frozen by the new pallet of grays, speckled blacks, and brown minerals.
Ronon used every handhold and piece of jutting rocky shelf to keep himself up, push his body forward and support what wasn't meant to handle distance this soon. Malvick never spoke or turned to monitor his progress, which was fine; Sheppard's body draped over the man's back was all the motivation needed to keep up. The Void had neither monster nor spirit hunting them and nothing pinged on his radar, only emptiness. Despite the absence of predators, there was a lingering odor of death. Stale blood, rotted flesh underneath the soil, and the telltale hints of seared metal.
Rugged terrain tempered to flat spreads of rock framed by even higher peaks and summits that disappeared into clouds of heavy gray mist. Ronon's skin had peeled and burned dozens of times over and eagerly soaked up the newfound dampness in the air. While the desert had been an endless swatch of bright white, the Void was a slow descent into monochromes of every shade. It was like time and distance tripled, and with growing darkness came dropping temperatures. They couldn't have gone more steps than the settlement, yet the difference in the environment was profound.
Drawing air into his lungs, he recognized the sweet aesthesis of moisture, eyes enlarging at the small pool of liquid meters away. Giving his head a shake didn't dispel the illusion and Malvick stood before the glistening beauty of gallons and gallons of heavenly water.
“Is that--?” Ronon's throat got stuck, his head dizzy with fatigue and wonder.
“Best way to beat heat sickness is to cool down,” Malvick explained, wading into the shallow pool.
Dropping his supplies at the edge of the drink, Ronon rushed in, cutting in front of Malvick. “He's my responsibility.”
“Is that so? He save your life or did you save his?”
“Both,” Ronon replied, reaching for his CO.
Malvick handed over Sheppard and Ronon shed his friend's tangle of robe and laid him in the shallow end, propping him on a natural shelf of rock. Ronon slid his lower body into the water, propping his friend on his chest, securing Sheppard's head and neck above the surface. “Hand me some water,” he said, ignoring the pry for information.
“Going to drown his lungs?” Malvick drawled, giving him a dunka.
Emerging the body in cooler temperatures only accomplished so much. Ronon needed Sheppard to take in fluids and hoped the water would jar him awake. “John. Come on, drink some of this.”
Sheppard didn't stir and Ronon removed his goggles, getting a clearer view of the damage. Most of the Jad had been right handed based on the amount of black and blue on one side of Sheppard's face. “This water drinkable?” he asked the man shadowing them.
“Yep.”
Ronon took a long gulp of the precious liquid and poured the rest over Sheppard's face and watched the erratic rise and fall of his chest. Even under water, the dark bruising peppered his torso and abdomen. “Sheppard, wake up,” he encouraged, refilling the dunka pouch and pouring it over his CO's hair. “You can sleep later. Do you want me to tell McKay I gave you a bath?” Then he dipped down to his friend's ear and whispered, “Don't leave me alone out here. Fight, John.”
Nothing. Sheppard ignored him, like he'd been ignoring him for days if not weeks, closed off in his thick shell. Ronon wouldn't quit and continued showering water for what seemed like hours, the dark red flush fading to pink, unveiling more and more purple knuckled-shaped patterns.
Finally Sheppard's left eye fluttered open, his right one swelled shut, and he stared up in a daze. “Wh'a?”
“Take it easy,” Ronon said.
But Sheppard was Sheppard, responding the complete opposite, and went from limp to coiled, bolting up with a wheezing gasp, immediately slumping, hands curled into Ronon's arms in desperation.
“Easy, don't thrash.” Wrapping an arm around Sheppard's shoulders, Ronon held him still. “John!”
“R'no?” Sheppard slurred, complexion blanching.
“Yeah, buddy.”
“No,” Sheppard panted. ”No.” And he squeezed his one eye shut, face screwed up in pain.
“John, look at me,” Ronon ordered, but Sheppard's body spasmed and Ronon lifted him out of the water to dry heave on the rocks. He held him until the cramps ended and Sheppard went slack again. “John?”
“It's the heat sickness,” Malvick commented from the sidelines. “Get him back in the water. It's the only way to cool him down before his blood turns to sludge.”
Ronon dunked Sheppard's body in the pool, before easing him onto the ledge again, the two of them leaning back against the slate. “Please John, drink,” he begged, dribbling water on his friend's lips. This time he was rewarded by a few swallows in the mists of semiconsciousness. “There you go,” Ronon encouraged.
He didn't mind languishing in the water until all his skin puckered into wrinkles, using one hand to slowly rid layers of soil and sweat, drenching his dreads, wishing for a blade to cut them at the roots. He coaxed water down Sheppard's throat whenever he could, until the brimming pulse beneath his finger slowed to something steadier and rosy pink hues faded to reveal more ugly contusions.
“There's shelter behind here. Good place to hole up for a while.”
Ronon momentarily had forgotten about Malvick; he'd become nothing but a backdrop. Lifting Sheppard out of the pond served to remind him of all his own aches and pains, his stockpiles beyond vapor. He followed Malvick's smooth strides under an overhanging of stone, the temperature comfortable under the shade. He placed Sheppard down, and plopped beside him, allowing his legs to stretch out, surrounded by open cool air beneath a dark sky. Malvick had gone somewhere and Ronon didn't really care, his limbs melting into the stone.
For this second, for this moment, there was no running, no fighting, no wanting to rip away his skin.
“Ronon?” a harsh whisper came.
“I'm here,” Ronon said in a hush, leaning over his friend. “Can you understand me?”
A slit of hazel peered in disbelief. “But...you're dead.”
“No, I'm not.”
“You're...just in my head...”
Ronon took Sheppard's uninjured hand and squeezed it. “This feel dead to you?”
Sheppard stared unbelieving and Ronon pressed his friend's fingers against the beating pulse below his tattoo. “Trust what you feel.”
Something broke and Sheppard weakly pulled Ronon closer, burying his face into his shoulder with a quiet sob. The sound broke Ronon's heart and he held onto his friend until the shudders ended and the reality of pain and injury took over. Sheppard's sob broke into a loud cry and Ronon lowered him flat on his back to keep him still.
“Sheppard, listen to me. Are you listening?” His friend tried to curl into a ball, but Ronon gently held him still. “John, don't. Moving will only make it worse.”
Sheppard responded by panting for breath, but that only exacerbated the pain and he squeezed his eye closed, slowing his gasps for air. “R'n,” he moaned.
“Yeah, buddy.”
“Oh, God...” Sheppard hiccupped. “Make it stop.”
Ronon fumed in helplessness, hands flat on his friend's shoulders. “Just breathe through it, Sheppard. Breathe slowly. In and out.”
Sheppard struggled, deep breaths, shallow breaths. Each expansion of his chest pulled on unknown broken bones and abused muscles. Behind every bruise had been multiple fists and shoes.
“Close your eyes, John. Ride it out.”
Sheppard balled his fists, accidentally curling his busted hand. He screamed which erupted into a dry choke. Ronon eased Sheppard to his side as he dry heaved again. Pass out, pass out, Ronon prayed, but Sheppard sagged in his arms, totally spent, and he rolled him onto his back.
“Shoulda...shoulda left me...out there,” Sheppard rasped.
“Don't say that!”
“I...got...got...what was coming.”
“You're sick; you don't know what you're talking about,” Ronon whispered, laying his hand on Sheppard's shoulder.
“I failed… I…,” Sheppard uttered, tearing a hole in his bottom lip.
“No, you didn't!” Ronon yelled, wanting to shake him. “You hear me? You're stronger than them. You've never given up, John. Look at me. You're not going to give up on me. Not after all we've been through.”
Sheppard's eye puffed up. “I... I'm sorry... I gave up a long time ago.”
Ronon wouldn't listen and laid his head on Sheppard's shoulder, feeling like the one who had failed.
“Chapter Twelve”
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no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 02:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 03:16 pm (UTC)Now I am left wondering what is so very bad about The Void that people dying of thirst will not partake of the water.
I am going to have to read this over more than once today. It's just soooo good.
Edited to add:
Yes, I have read it over again. And again. I need to add a bit here about the cool plot with the Saurin running through all this. I think they are much to driven by their quest for knowledge to just waste potentially useful bodies by dumping them on a death sentence of a planet. I have a few theories but am still not quite sure... I am really enjoying the unfolding of that part of the plot. I especially love the way the threads of the tale twist around one another like braiding - one strand emerges and then loops in behind another again, but in the end it is all one braid.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 04:05 pm (UTC)I need to read more!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 04:34 pm (UTC)Saurin experiments, however disgusting they may be, they are also very interesting. I can’t wait to read about what actually had happened there. And what about the rest of the team?
Thank you for taking us to the Void finally. I was waiting to get in there. So far it doesn’t seem scary but I’m sure you will surprise us all with something very unexpected…:)
no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 04:56 pm (UTC)Like Tridget, I wait for every chapter desperately wishing it to appear on the screen, then I read quickly and then start the wait and search again. So, here I go til Saturday, waiting and watching.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 05:04 pm (UTC)The Void is interesting...Looking forward to what they find there. I knew Malvick would come along eventually and I'm intensely curious about what he's planning. There's still a part of me that's wondering where Malvick came from, and how much he knew of John and Ronon (if anything) before he was thrown onto the prisoner planet. Ah, the wait is killing me!! And I'm wondering if the search party will break through their own fears and come after John and Ronon into the void anyway.
Hmmm...those Saurin scientists were wearing blue? Would this be the same shade blue as the Shan'ka? The descriptions of their experiments were just brutal, though not shocking given the prisoner world they toss their enemies onto, and that whole liquifying people thing - that knowledge had to have come from the Saurin in the first place, right? You can really feel the pace of the story picking up - can't wait for the next chapter!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 09:17 pm (UTC)The Saurin are just plain creepy (and you know I can always help if you have bio or genetics questions) and I'm beginning to wonder if this planet is a dumping ground for more than just prisoners... and I really want to know who Melvick is.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 10:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-02 03:53 am (UTC)OMG!
Date: 2010-07-02 04:55 am (UTC)AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! You mean I have to wait for the next chapter to see what happens???
*head desk*
no subject
Date: 2010-07-02 03:45 pm (UTC)And to get some more info on the Saurin was nice. Just what the hell are those guys up to?
I anxiously await more, but at least this part didn't leave us with a cliffhanger. ;)
no subject
Date: 2010-07-02 11:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 01:20 am (UTC)I'm glad weaving in and out the Saurin plot line has worked at building up tension. This whole fic is filled with parallels and hopefully there will be a decent pay off at the end.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 01:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 01:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 01:33 am (UTC)It's impossible to read this story and not get drawn into the emotional side of it.
*beams*
no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 01:46 am (UTC)Hmmm...those Saurin scientists were wearing blue? Would this be the same shade blue as the Shan'ka? The descriptions of their experiments were just brutal, though not shocking given the prisoner world they toss their enemies onto, and that whole liquifying people thing - that knowledge had to have come from the Saurin in the first place, right?
They were wearing blue, weren't they? Funny thing that.
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 01:56 am (UTC)You ask some very interesting questions and I hope to have a few answers later.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 02:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 02:10 am (UTC)Re: OMG!
Date: 2010-07-03 02:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 02:14 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 03:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-03 05:19 am (UTC)Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-04 07:44 pm (UTC)I'm so relieved that Ronon found John - I hoped he would! When Visser was killed, I thought they were in such trouble! Malvick? Hmmm, he saves the day again - but he worries me. I could be wrong here, but I just don't trust him. He makes me suspicious and I worry for John and Ronon when he's around. You've done an incredibly well to build such a sense of suspense around him here, but I can't help but ask who is this person and what does he really want from John and Ronon? I just can't help but think it can't be good for them. But maybe it's my suspicious nature? I can't wait for more! Oh, I see there is more! HEHE! :D
no subject
Date: 2010-07-04 11:52 pm (UTC)Should we trust Malvick? Hmmm, don't know. s he good, bad, indifferent? We'll have to see, but, Ronon and John don't trust him, so that says a lot. :D
Thank you hon!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-09 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-11 03:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-13 06:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-20 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 04:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 05:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-02 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-02 06:14 pm (UTC)