SG1-17 Sunrise

by Crane, J. F.

  She tried not to hear the steam-hiss of boilers.

  “We’ll go down here,” their guide said, stopping before what looked like a cage. It took a moment for Sam to interpret the shadows well enough to realize it was an elevator. Of sorts. Rhionna rattled open the door and stepped inside, lifting her lamp high. “It’s not far once we get down.”

  “How deep does it go?” Daniel asked as they all piled in.

  “Almost to sea-level.”

  The ride down was teeth-rattling and very fast; Sam had to brace herself against the side of the cage to keep her balance. Daniel’s eyes were wide, but the colonel just grinned.

  “Cool,” he said, as they juddered to a halt.

  “Indeed.” Even Teal’c had cracked a small smile.

  They followed Rhionna through another long tunnel, at the end of which, finally, crouched a heavy, barred door. It looked like an airlock and Sam couldn’t help wondering what it was designed to keep out.

  Rhionna slung the lamp’s handle over a peg on the wall, its light dancing wildly in the tunnel. From her pocket she fished a scarlet bandana, tied it low across her brow, then she tugged out a pair of makeshift sunglasses. “You have sunwear?” she asked, gesturing toward SG-1. “I noticed that you wore it when you first arrived here.”

  The colonel pulled out his shades. “Bright out there?”

  “Fierce,” she said. “Dawn has broken and we are beyond the dome. Cover what you can.”

  Despite her unease, Sam’s interest was piqued. “The dome acts as a UV filter?”

  Rhionna’s quick gaze fixed on her, assessing. “If you mean it protects the people inside from sun damage, then yes, that is what it does.” She turned toward the door and began to spin the wheel that kept it locked. “The Ark protects them from many harsh realities.”

  The first thing Sam noticed as the door swung open was the stark light. The second was a dry wash of heat, permeated by an unbearable stench. She put her hand to her nose. “God, what’s that?”

  “Come, in a moment you will understand.” Rhionna picked up a rock from outside, wedging it into the doorway to keep the door from closing behind them. Then she slipped on her sunglasses, hiding her bright, intelligent eyes. “My father would have his people bend their knee in worship to the Sun, but they are ignorant of their god’s ferocious nature. And he is happy to keep them so.”

  “Interesting,” Daniel said, pulling a hat out of his vest, apparently oblivious to the smell. “Maybe Ra wasn’t the only ferocious sun god around these parts.”

  “Perhaps.” Teal’c watched Rhionna as she walked away. “But the Goa’uld wear many guises. We must proceed with caution.”

  “Always,” the colonel agreed, donning his own glasses and tugging down the brim of his cap.

  Sam couldn’t see his eyes through the reflective lenses, only her own distorted mirror image. The flash of Thera looking back at her was disconcerting and she turned away, slipping on her own sunglasses. “We’re probably looking at UV levels way above those we’re used to on Earth—we should take care to minimize our exposure,” she said. “That includes you, Teal’c.”

  He eyed her hat, then Daniel’s, and said, “My symbiote will protect me against any damage caused by the sun’s radiation.”

  The colonel bit back a grin, heading out after Rhionna. “He’s just too cool for school, Carter.”

  “Whereas I,” Daniel said, settling his ubiquitous boonie onto his head, “never was.”

  With a smile, Sam followed Daniel through the entrance of the tunnel. She was squinting even before she reached the spot where Rhionna stood, gazing out.

  “Holy crap,” breathed the colonel, as he came to stand at her side.

  Sam couldn’t have put it better herself.

  They were on an island, a hillside of scrubby grass sloping down toward a wide and glittering ocean. Above and behind them the opalescent glaze of the city’s dome was perched atop high walls, and beyond it a copper-blue sky went on forever, devoid of a single cloud. Heat shimmered up from the ground, despite the sun’s low angle, and everything was bathed in milky shades of indigo. Sam could already feel her lips drying out. She took a sip from her canteen, then looked again.

  But it wasn’t the sparkling water or the picture-perfect sky that drew her attention, it was something else entirely. Crouched between the foot of the hill and the sea, huddled beneath the punishing sun, sprawled a vast and ugly shanty town. Sheets of rusty iron, canvas, plastic—anything—had been used to construct the makeshift shelters that spread out along the coast in both directions. Even from this distance Sam could see people swarming through the narrow streets, making the most, she assumed, of the morning’s relative cool. Noise drifted up on the hot wind, and with it the stench of poverty and despair.

  “Okay,” Daniel said, his tone balanced between disbelief and outrage, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Kinda spoils the view,” Jack agreed, turning his gaze on Rhionna. “Wanna explain?”

  “These,” she replied, “are the Badlands. And here you will find the history my father hides from his people; here, you will find the information that you seek.” She pulled off her glasses, eyes hard as diamonds in the sunlight. “For a price, of course.”

  Chapter Five

  Sorcha Caratauc had been birthed with her toes in the sea, so the saying went.

  Her mother had died of fever before she was five, and the rat-holes and alleys of the Badlands had become her childhood home. There she’d scavenged for water and food, found shade beneath the rotting timbers of the docks, and learned to catch fish with her hands.

  There too she’d learned to listen—to the women around the pumps, and to the old men telling tales they’d gleaned from other old men, long dead. She’d learned of the Time Before, a mythical place when a man could walk across oceans of grass, when bellies were full, and when ships had taken to the air like the birds.

  When her friends had stopped believing in such tales, Sorcha had not. Each night, she’d crept closer to the old men, until one day she’d met the steady eye of Eoin Madoc and he had opened to her a new world.

  “It’s writing,” he’d whispered that night, in the secret light of a flickering lantern. “It’s words, put down upon a page. Its stories and remembrances, eh? More’n a man can keep right in his head.”

  The scratched marks across the paper had seemed to creep and crawl, and she had to slam down her hand to keep them still. “How does it work?”

  He had shown her, that night and every night, until the creeping, crawling words gave up their secrets. Sorcha had always been a fast learner.

  Less than a year later, the soldiers came from the Ark. Madoc was taken away, his shack trampled into the dust. They got one book, and Sorcha had watched from behind the sullen crowd as Eoin Madoc was pulled away. His glance had caught hers but once, the glint in his eye telling her what she already knew.

  They got one book; the others were still safe. And now they were hers.

  She never saw Madoc alive again. But she saw his body, staked out beneath the Burn, lips and skin blistered by the sun. Purified, so said the young man upon the hill, his white face like a ghost’s against the black robes that proclaimed him Pastor. Purified by the fire of the Lord, his sins burned away—the sins of learning and of gathering forbidden Knowledge. That was why he had suffered and died. That was why everyone in the Badlands suffered and died, blemished by the mark of God, because sin was in their very bones and the Lord chose to punish them with every sunrise.

  So said Pastor Ennis Channon.

  But Sorcha’s anger burned fiercer even than the sun. And that day she swore vengeance against the milk-skinned pastor of the Ark—and against the cruel God he worshipped.

  And so her work began. Though Madoc was gone, Sorcha had his books and she rebuilt his shack over the secret place where they were hidden. It became her home—and hers alone. What use had she for men and brats when she had writing and books? Besides, it was a dangero
us knowledge, too dangerous to share with any who might seek to share her bed.

  And soon it became her obsession.

  She found words all through the Badlands, peeking out from the walls and roofs of the flotsam city—bargain, emergency, sale, sanitation, cargo, re-hydration. Hundreds of disembodied words, floating through the city, hinting at what once had been, before the waters had come. Sorcha gathered them all, piecing together the fragmented story of her people.

  And then, one day, when she was still no more than a girl, though thought herself full grown, she traveled with the Seachrání to the Cove.

  There, for the second time in her life, a new world opened.

  There, she first learned of the Sungate, of Acarsaid Dorch, of Sciath Dé—and of what truly happened to those who had tried to save Ierna.

  Now, with her creaky bones and sun-leathered skin, the proof of a lifetime’s obsession had appeared before her in the flesh. She cocked her head and squinted at the four strangers standing brazen in the morning glare.

  “They came through the Sungate, Sorcha.” Rhionna Channon spoke in a low voice, but her excitement was obvious. “And not from Acarsaid Dorch, though they have been there. It must also lead to other worlds.”

  “Many other worlds,” said one of the strangers, a man. He had removed his sunwear and squinted at her through the brightness. “My name’s Daniel Jackson,” he said. “This is Jack O’Neill, Sam Carter, and Teal’c. We’re explorers.”

  “We’re looking for something called Sciath Dé,” the one named as O’Neill said. He did not look like an explorer.

  “You are soldiers,” Sorcha said, eying the weapons across their chests.

  O’Neill inclined his head. “Yes, we are.”

  Honest, at least.

  Rhionna turned an eye to the burning sky. “We should talk inside.”

  “Aye, for many reasons,” Sorcha agreed. She stepped back and gestured with her arm for the strangers to enter.

  It was crowded, with them all inside, and late enough in the morning for the air to quickly stifle. She folded her legs beneath her to sit and watched as the others struggled to emulate her. Their limbs were stiff as they lowered themselves to the floor, and they appeared awkward and uncomfortable.

  “Rhionna,” she said. “Fetch water.”

  With a nod, Rhionna did as she was bid and handed a cup to the woman called Carter. Carter had taken off her sunwear and beneath it her skin was fair and soft as the skin of those in the Ark. She did not even sip the water and failed to mask her distaste. Neither did she pass on the cup, as courtesy dictated, until the one named Daniel Jackson coughed and held out his hand. He was sharp, Sorcha noted and wondered if he read books.

  “There is no fresh water in the Badlands,” Rhionna said as she too sat, crossing her legs. “It has to be carried down from the pumps at the desalination plant. As a result, there is much sickness here.”

  O’Neill made a show of drinking, but Sorcha expected he did not let the liquid touch his lips. The one named Teal’c, with skin the color of tarred wood, drank a mouthful and passed the cup to her with a gracious nod. “My thanks, Sorcha Caratauc,” he said.

  “You are my guests.” Her gaze moved across them. “Many say the Sungate is a myth, a legend no more real than flying boats.”

  “Many legends,” Daniel Jackson said, “have their origins in truth.”

  “So I’ve always believed, though few would agree.” She rubbed her hands across her face, swiping at the sweat. “Have you come to help us?”

  A look passed between Daniel Jackson and O’Neill. He had not removed his sunwear, his face inscrutable beneath the shade across his eyes. “We’re looking for the shield,” he said. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “I do.”

  There was a pause, then he said, “And can you tell us anything about it?”

  “I can. Whether I will, however, is less certain.”

  A smile darted across Daniel Jackson’s lips. The woman, Carter, shifted. “If we can help you,” she said, “we will. It’s just—”

  “We can’t make any promises,” O’Neill cut in. He was used to having the last word, Sorcha decided. Probably the leader of the group. Shame. She liked the other one, Daniel Jackson, better.

  “We think Sciath Dé might be able to help both our peoples,” Jackson said. “It could protect us all from the Goa’uld.”

  “I do not know the word Goa’uld.” She smiled; she liked new words, new knowledge. “Explain.”

  It was Teal’c who answered, and with feeling. “They are a parasitic life form,” he said, “who inhabit a human body and rule as tyrants over their people in the guise of false gods.”

  Sorcha snorted a laugh. “Does that not describe your father, Rhionna?”

  “Tynan Camus is the only god in the Ark,” she replied through tight lips. “At least, in his own mind.”

  “Then your father is his High Priest?” Sorcha smiled to soften the words, and Rhionna did not deny their truth.

  “Tynan Camus is no Goa’uld,” Teal’c said, a note of chastisement in his voice. “If he were, all upon this world would suffer beneath his tyranny.”

  Sorcha spread a hand before her. “Do we not suffer?”

  “But you are free,” Teal’c said. “A free people may end their suffering if they choose.”

  O’Neill cleared his throat. “The point is, this shield thing can protect us against the Goa’uld. It can protect all of us.”

  “Um, also,” Daniel Jackson said, rummaging in the bag he carried upon his back. “We found this…”

  “For crying out loud, Daniel!” O’Neill growled the words, anger in his voice and in the tight set of his jaw.

  “We have to trust someone,” Daniel Jackson said, and in his hands he held something black and square that looked alien to Sorcha’s eyes. “We found this,” he explained, “at Acarsaid Dorch. We think it could help fix the shield—make it work.”

  Sorcha felt her heart race, blood pounding like waves in her ears. Across the room, Rhionna sucked air through her teeth. Sorcha closed her fingers into fists, endeavoring to hide the thudding of her heart from the strangers. With a careful nod, she said, “You have brought us a gift, Daniel Jackson. We would be fools to ignore that.”

  “Then you’ll help us?”

  Sorcha inclined her head. “Yes. O’Neill is correct. Finding Sciath Dé will protect all of us from our enemies, by whichever name we know them.” Across the shack she caught Rhionna’s eye. “Finding it is more important than anything else.”

  “Sorcha!” A head appeared around the canvas door, a midday scarf protecting his face; it was Maor, one of her runners. When the lad saw the strangers in her shack his voice faded, but she encouraged him to continue with a brief nod. In a quieter voice, half a glance lingering on Rhionna, Maor said, “The Seachrání have been sighted, coming around Dubh Carraig. Closing fast.”

  In the shaded light, Rhionna Channon hissed a curse.

  * * *

  Sunlight ricocheted off the water, and even with her shades it was difficult to look at the sea for long. Besides, the ships were too far off the coast for Sam to see them clearly. From what she could make out, they resembled tall ships of old, majestic and proud. Every so often, their sails would flash in the sunlight, as if they were made of mirrors. It was so bright she had to look away, back up to the cobalt sky. And for an instant she saw something, an ephemeral arc of color—like a translucent rainbow—then another and another, all across the sky. Some kind of aurora, she guessed, photons dancing in a fierce solar wind. She smiled, entranced as always by the beauty of the cosmos, and was about to comment when the colonel spoke.

  “Looks like you’ve got company, Sorcha.” He was squinting through his monocular, sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead.

  A handful of small boats, fishing dories and dinghies, were cutting rapidly through the waves, heading for the shore. No, not through the waves, Sam noted, but on top of them, the vessels utilizin
g some form of hover technology. Sam’s curiosity twitched, especially when she saw that the sails were made of the same reflective material that was used on the ships. Solar panels, she was sure. The largest dory sailed in front, crewed by a lone boatman.

  Rhionna stepped forward, as if to better make out the figure, and Sam noticed the tense set of her jaw. By her side, her hands had balled into fists.

  “Is it him?” asked Sorcha.

  “I don’t know,” replied Rhionna, her voice hoarse. Then a pause. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Is it who?” asked Colonel O’Neill. “Someone we need to worry about?”

  Rhionna shook her head. “He’s no one. A scavenger. A beggar. He’s not important.”

  From the expression on her face, Sam suspected that the opposite was true. The colonel apparently shared her sentiments. “That’s quite an armada he’s got out there, for a beggar.”

  Rhionna ignored him. “What’s he doing here, Sorcha?”

  The older woman shrugged. “I have not the slightest idea. But if your friends here are in search of Sciath Dé then it is fortunate that he has come, is it not?”

  Sam caught the colonel’s eye; definitely important then.

  “No one wants him here, Sorcha. No one trusts him.” Rhionna’s sharp words sounded almost like a reprimand.

  “Remember what is important, Rhionna,” Sorcha replied. “We must all make sacrifices.”

  Rhionna’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry.” Then she turned away without another word and strode back into Sorcha’s hut.

  “Someone mind telling me who the hell this guy is? And whether or not I’ll have to shoot him?”

  Sam could hear the thread of impatience running through the colonel’s words. It spoke to a new anxiety within herself that she was reluctant to acknowledge, one that made her want to turn tail and run at even the slightest hint of a threat, one that kept her on edge, constantly suspecting, never trusting. The fallout, she supposed, of having your own mind used as a weapon against you. A P90 was nothing compared to that.