Stargate Atlantis: Halcyon

by James Swallow

  Weir tapped the pad with a finger and left the balcony behind.

  "So," said Sheppard, rubbing his thumb over his chin, "either of you two got an inkling about this place we're going to?"

  Ronon Dex shook his head without looking up from unfolding his greatcoat. "Never been there."

  The tawny-skinned woman standing across from Dex cocked her head. "I too have never visited the colony, but there were some of my people who did." Teyla Emmagan paused as she zipped up her uniform tunic. "As I recall, the planet has only a handful of settlements quite close to the Stargate. They trade furs and cured meats harvested from the local wildlife."

  "So, kinda low-tech, then?"

  "No more than Athos," she said, with a hint of a smile, "but if you are asking if they might have relics of the Ancients, then your question may be in vain."

  Off to one side, the fourth member of Sheppard's core team made a comment under his breath about `wild goose chases' and returned to lacing up his boots. The colonel gave Dr. McKay a sideways look. "Thanks for the input, Rodney." Sheppard turned his attention back to Teyla. "What about any, uh, hostiles?"

  "The Wraith are active in that part of the galaxy, but I do not believe the settlement has experienced a culling in many years, certainly not since I was a child."

  "Some good news, then. Maybe this place is too far off the beaten track for them to bother with."

  Dex pulled on his coat. "Or maybe they're just overdue for a feeding frenzy."

  Sheppard gave a tight, humorless smile. "That's what I like about you, Ronon, you're such a ray of sunshine." He crossed the prep room to where the other half of his unit was gathering themselves together. "Sergeant Mason, right?" he asked, picking out the most senior-looking man in the group.

  "Staff Sergeant Mason, sir," said the soldier, his pug-face creasing.

  "Oh yeah," nodded Sheppard, "different ranks for you guys, right?" The four men were relatively new to Atlantis, one of two squads of British Special Air Service troopers brought in to serve in areas of Stargate Command. As part of a rotation that would put the men on front-line duty in the Pegasus Galaxy, it fell to the colonel to take them with him on a few missions, to show them the lay of the land. This was the first time he'd had to deal with the Brits face-to-face; until now he'd only seen them around and about in the city, laughing in rough humor or playing in animated poker games with the Marine Corps contingent. "You've been off world before, right?"

  Mason nodded. "Did a tour at Cheyenne Mountain, sir. Dealt with some of them growlers while we were there."

  "Growlers?"

  "Goa'uld, sir," said one of the other men, a stocky guy with dirty blond hair, "that's what we call them, on account of the way they talk. Y'know, all that puny humans, you will die stuff-"

  "Clarke, shut it," said Mason, with curt finality.

  Sheppard gave a small smile. "Lance Corporal Clarke, right? And these two other gentlemen would be Privates Bishop and Hill?"

  "Sir," chorused the men. Both the privates had the watchful look of career soldiers.

  "Well, listen, I'm not expecting any trouble but you never can tell. The Wraith aren't like the Goa'uld, they don't waste time bragging, they just go straight for the jugular."

  "Actually, it's the heart," McKay chipped in. "That's where they prefer to feed from."

  "Whatever," Sheppard met Mason's gaze. "The point is, don't be stingy with your ammo. You got one in range, take it down."

  Mason nodded. "That we can do."

  The colonel patted him on the arm. "Welcome to the team. We don't have a secret handshake or anything..."

  "We'll manage," said the soldier.

  Sheppard left Mason's men to their preparations, catching a whispered comment from Clarke as he walked away. "He seems all right for a Rupert."

  Rupert? John had a feeling serving with these Brits was going to be a whole new learning experience for him.

  The doors to the prep room hummed open before Weir to reveal Sheppard's team in varying states of readiness. McKay appeared to be the least organized person there, in the middle of attempting to don a webbing vest festooned with equipment packs, and trying secure a pistol in his thigh holster at the same time. He was contorting himself in the process, much to the amusement of the military contingent. Ronon, Teyla and the rest of the squad were at their gear racks, making last minute checks and loading their weapons.

  Sheppard looked up from the open breech of his P90 submachinegun. "Elizabeth. Come to see us off? Don't worry, I remembered to pack my mittens."

  Weir raised an eyebrow and gestured with the data pad in her hand. "I'm glad I caught you before you left, John. There was something I meant to query you on." She extended the pad to him and he took it.

  An involuntary wince crossed his face as he read the file displayed there. "Oh yeah. Riley." Behind him, she saw McKay make a similarly pinched expression.

  As part of the paperwork that was required each time Daedalus arrived at Atlantis with supplies and new staff, as the director of the outpost Weir was required to provide full reports for the ship to carry back to Earth, on everything from Ancient archaeological finds and Wraith force intelligence to personnel dispositions and equipment requisition forms. Dealing with the paperwork also meant that it was her ultimate responsibility to handle one of the worst parts of the job-the casualty reports. Every time they lost someone, Elizabeth was required sign off on their death certificate, and if there were remains, it was her responsibility to ensure they were ready to go home on the next hyperspace flight.

  But it wasn't always possible to return the dead, however. Sometimes-as was the case with the late Master Sergeant Riley, USAF-there was nothing but a cloud of free atoms left behind. The unlucky soldier had been caught in the nimbus of an Ancient plasma generator, which had shorted out explosively during a venture into the city's lower levels; there one moment, vapor the next.

  Sheppard held out the data screen to her. "I signed off on him. What's the problem?"

  Weir didn't take the screen back straight away. "I reviewed the Sergeant's records, Colonel. It made for some interesting reading."

  "Really?" replied Sheppard warily. "Well, he was an, uh, interesting guy."

  "Did you know that during his entire tour on Atlantis, Sergeant Riley never once took part in any hazardous off world excursions? As far as I can determine, he hardly ever left the quartermaster's stores where he worked."

  Sheppard's expression turned a little sheepish. "Well. He probably had a lot of... Boxes to move. And stuff."

  She tapped the screen with a finger. "It's remarkable. It seems every time Riley's name came up on off world rotation, someone swapped duties with him, or he was otherwise excused. I wonder why that was."

  The Colonel said nothing. He gave McKay a sidelong look and the scientist blinked back at him.

  Weir leaned closer. "I did a little digging. Do you know what Riley brought with him as his personal gear allocation when we first came through the Stargate from Colorado?"

  "No?"

  In her diplomatic career, Elizabeth had spent time in the presence of liars of all kinds-including a few non-human ones-and she knew the untruth on Sheppard's lips automatically. "Eleven high-density data storage devices. Capable of storing thousands of hours of video. It says here that they contained `instructional films'. Is that an accurate description, Colonel?"

  Sheppard returned to loading his P90. "I guess so."

  "Some of them..." McKay added, a slightly wistful tone in his voice; then he blinked. "I mean. That is, so I was lead to believe."

  "They were entertainments," said Ronon, without preamble.

  McKay rounded on the bigger man. "You saw them too?"

  Weir's eyes narrowed. She hadn't once taken her gaze off Sheppard. "Am I correct in thinking that Master Sergeant Riley was in fact running a video library for the crew aboard Atlantis?"

  "I found the romantic comedies to be very informative," offered Teyla.

  "And there's als
o the matter of the floating crap game. And the glassware and medical boiler that went missing from Dr. Beckett's infirmary."

  "You couldn't hide a still on Atlantis," blurted McKay, "the internal sensors would register any heat build-up -"

  "Rodney," growled Sheppard, silencing the other man.

  "If Colonel Caldwell sees this, he won't be happy." Weir took the data screen and weighed it in her hand. "He runs a tight ship, John."

  Sheppard met her gaze. "You know, when the Wraith invaded the city last year, Riley put down two of their bruisers and kept them out of the lower levels. Okay, so he bent the rules a little, but we're the farthest men from home out here. Riley was a good guy. I turned a blind eye because I thought people could stand to blow off a little steam. You know I'd never let anything go so far that it would compromise Atlantis."

  After a moment, Elizabeth found herself nodding. "That's all I wanted to hear." She leaned in and lowered her voice. "I know people think of me like I'm some kind of school principal, watching everyone from up there in the gallery, but I'm not. I live here too, John. I know what homesickness can feel like."

  "Oh, good," he smirked. "No detention then?"

  McKay gestured at the air. "What, uh, happened to the data devices?"

  Weir eyed him. "Oddly, Dr. McKay, they don't appear to be among the Sergeant's personal effects. I can only assume some enterprising soul has appropriated them."

  Rodney gave a solemn nod. "Ah. It's what he would have wanted."

  "The rest of his belongings will be loaded on the Daedalus when she arrives. Colonel Caldwell is bringing a new rotation of staff and troops."

  "Any washouts?" said Sheppard. Generally, the turnover of people on Atlantis was small, with only a few voluntary transfers every now and then. For the most part, psychological evaluations made sure that anyone coming to serve a tour in the Pegasus Galaxy was mentally able to deal with the isolation, but there were still the occasional one or two who found the impossible distance and alien environment just too much.

  "A couple of transfers from the civilian contingent. Doctors Walton and Ming. They're both taking reassignments to the Daedalus science team."

  McKay rolled his eyes. "Ming. That figures. Do you know, he had the nerve to call this assignment boring? Good riddance to him. He's been bleating about getting a posting on the Battlestar Galactica ever since we got here..."

  "You know Caldwell hates it when you call the Daedalus that?" said Sheppard.

  Rodney gave an arch sniff. "Yes, I am fully aware of how much it annoys him."

  "Well," broke in Weir, "while you're enjoying the crisp subzero wonderland of M3Y-465, I'll be sure to give the Colonel your best regards when he arrives." She gave the group a nod and left them to their preparations. "Be safe, people."

  "Sure thing, Teach," said Sheppard.

  Having finally negotiated the pistol holster, McKay approached Sheppard with a grimace on his face. "One moment. Sub-zero? She said `sub-zero'?"

  Sheppard nodded. "She did."

  Rodney shook his head. "No. M3Y-465 is a temperate planet. I saw the MALP reports, cool, a bit cloudy, lots of trees..."

  "Nope," Sheppard replied. "You're thinking of M3Y-565. Captain Paterson and his team lit out for there this morning. He got the trees, we get the ice and snow."

  "Snow," McKay repeated in a leaden voice. "I don't perform well in the cold, Colonel. I get the, ah-" He pointed at his nose. "The sniffles."

  "Then take a scarf."

  McKay squinted. "Why don't you take Zelenka? He's from above the Arctic Circle, or something. He'd be in his element."

  Sheppard secured his weapon and threw a nod to Staff Sergeant Mason. "Let's move." The other man nodded and barked out orders to his troopers.

  "John?" prodded McKay, as they entered the Gate Room, the shimmering disc of blue energy already open before them.

  Sheppard halted as the others filed across the atrium. "Rodney, I don't want to appear like I'm uncaring or disinterested in your complaints, but I am, so that's how it comes out."

  McKay made a face. "Fine."

  The Colonel pointed at the SAS soldiers and as one Mason and his men moved in ahead of them, crossing the event horizon of the wormhole.

  Four more figures came through the Circlet after the first group. They seemed different from the men in the uniforms of strange gray-white camouflage who had moved on ahead, all but one wearing heavy-weather gear in mid-blue. They were most definitely not Wraith, and their kit matched no known pattern, not even the most basic element of the sanctioned army standards. They had weapons-it was an assumption, albeit a logical one-but the firearms seemed small and spindly, doubtless of inferior power and range. The eight figures moved away from the Circlet as the shimmering gateway folded in on itself and vanished. These people paid it no mind; clearly, they were seasoned travelers. In a loose spread they walked on, picking their way through the snows.

  It was peculiar; some of them moved with the vigilant air of military training, while others-one most notably-stomped across the drifts with little concern for protocol. The two figures that watched them exchanged glances and fingered their rifles, weighing their options.

  Then one of the new arrivals looked up, directly at them, the wind flickering long auburn hair out from under her hood.

  "Teyla?" Sheppard drew close. "What is it?"

  The Athosian woman was silent for a moment. "I... Am not sure, Colonel. I thought I saw a..."

  John's gloved fingers tightened around the grip of his P90. "Wraith?"

  "No." She shook her head. "I was mistaken. The play of the light from the Stargate on the snow, perhaps."

  "You don't sound convinced." He eyed her. "If that spidersense of yours is tingling, I want to know about it."

  Teyla looked away. "I'm sorry, John. My... Gift is not predictable. It is not like a lamp I can simply switch on or off."

  Sheppard nodded. The genetic kinks in Teyla's DNA, the dubious donation of years of Wraith experimentation on her bloodline, had left her with a preternatural instinct that the colonel had quickly learned to trust. "Okay. Let's keep our eyes open, huh?"

  Corporal Clarke approached them. "Sir? Staff Mason spotted what looks like a village farther down the valley." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "No lights, though. Seems dead."

  "Feeding frenzy," said Ronon.

  Sheppard made a face. "There you go with that upbeat attitude again." He nodded to Clarke. "Let's move in."

  Trudging up behind them, McKay's face peered from the woolly oval of an arctic parka. He waved a handheld scanner at them. "I'm not picking up any energy traces." He sniffed wetly. "You know, this would have been a lot easier if we'd taken a Puddle Jumper."

  Sheppard ignored him. "Teyla, Ronon, watch our backs. Let's go pay a house call."

  "Oh, good," McKay sneered, "and while we're there, we can ask Santa to let us borrow Rudolph and his sled."

  The settlement was as silent as the snowy landscape. The highest structure in the hamlet was a watchtower growing from the center, tall enough so an observer atop it could sight out to the Gate and alert the inhabitants to any new arrivals. The buildings clustered around it, fanning off short alleyways in radial spokes. The construction was a mix of stone and heavy, dense wood, the lodge-like domiciles low to the ground like they were drawn tight against the chill. There were no footprints, no signs that there had been any life in this grim little ghost town. No lights burned anywhere, just as Clarke had reported, and the fans of illumination from the torches on the team's guns cast peculiar shadows. The only sounds were the crunch of snow beneath their boots and the thin howls of the bitter breeze.

  Ronon chose a house at random and pulled open the door, peering inside. He saw a bed and a stove, desk and chairs. The bed was rumbled, slept in. A book was open on the table. A thin rime of frost covered everything, making it twinkle in the torchlight.

  Sheppard glanced at McKay. "Anything on the scanner?"

  Rodney shook his head. "Eight
thermal blooms inside the settlement boundary and nothing else. I'm not reading anything further out, just static. Might be something in the local rock strata interfering with the scanner."

  They drew slowly into the middle of the township, and at the foot of the watchtower lay the largest building they had yet encountered. "Is it a town hall, maybe?" suggested Private Hill.

  "Could be," agreed the colonel. "Let's take a look-see."

  Mason spoke up. "Sir, we should form a perimeter around the hall, just in case." Off Sheppard's nod of agreement, he snapped out orders to the rest of his unit and they fanned out. "Hill, go with them."

  Teyla entered first, holding her weapon close to her chest, the fire select set to three-round bursts. The inside of the hall was open, studded with thick wooden pillars to hold up the roof. There were dead oil lanterns dangling from beams, but faint illumination came from a long, low counter set along one of the walls. "What is that?"

  McKay pointed at a series of dull yellow-green bowls made of glass fitted to the walls. Liquid was visible inside, glowing faintly. "It looks like bioluminescence. Probably extracted from plants or insects. Cheap lighting, if a little gloomy-looking."

  They spread out through the room, their eyes adjusting to the dimness, and abruptly Teyla realized the function of the building. "This is a tavern." On a round table before her there were a couple of flagons and a discarded clay pipe. The faint whiff of stale beer was still detectable in the air.

  Sheppard swept his P90 around the hall. "No bodies anywhere."

  Ronon fingered a fan of oval playing cards on a long bench. There were other hands here and there, and a pile of stamped metal rings in a clay bowl before them. "Someone left their win pings behind."

  Hill crouched by a larger table. "Look here, sir. These chairs are knocked over, like maybe the person sitting there got up quickly."

  "Whatever happened, they had little or no warning," ventured Teyla, "there are no signs they had time to prepare an adequate defense."

  The soldier frowned. "But there's no indications of any weapons fire, ma'am, no burns or bullet holes. Did the blokes who lived here just put down their pints and give up without a fight?"