SG1-17 Sunrise

by Crane, J. F.

  O’Neill’s face twisted and he scrubbed a hand through graying hair. It was strange to see such a shade, for most men of the Badlands were dead long before their hair turned silver, victims of disease or the Burn. “What do you want from us?” he asked, turning away and lifting the door flap to peer outside. “Sure, we could send medicine and food, but the gate’s inside the city and I’m betting Ennis isn’t going to deliver.”

  “Pastor Ennis,” she spat onto the floor, “would see us all burn, if he had his way.”

  Where O’Neill had lifted the door flap the sun cut a harsh line into her shack. Sorcha edged away from it. “We don’t need your food or medicine; there is plenty within the Ark.”

  He dropped the flap, and the shack fell back into shadow. “Then go get it. There’s got to be thousands of people here. Just go into the city and take what you need.”

  She barked a dry laugh. “So easy as that?”

  “Why not?”

  “My people are already defeated, O’Neill. They need someone to show them that the battle is worth fighting. They need a leader.”

  In the gloom she could make out only half his face. Just enough to see him frown. “Rhionna?”

  Sorcha shrugged. “Rhionna has done her best, but the Badlanders can be prejudiced too. Sometimes they see only a woman of rank and privilege who will one day become Pastor, just like her father. When that day comes, she says she will bring change, but even then she shall have the Elect to deal with. She cannot help us on her own.”

  “And what is it you think we can do to help?”

  She looked up at him, searching for the dark glint of his eyes. “Find Sciath Dé , and make it work.”

  He regarded her in silence. From outside she could hear the calls of people at the dock, the clink of rigging on the ships moored there, the thud of skins of whale oil being unloaded. The Seachrání had come to trade, then, as well as warn.

  “This shield,” O’Neill said at last, “what is it?”

  “It is the last hope for our world,” she admitted, her heart pattering at the risk she was taking.

  “Last hope how?”

  “Sciath Dé was made in the time Time Before, to protect Ierna from the power of our sun.”

  A flash of recognition crossed O’Neill’s face, swiftly followed by suspicion. “Shield of the Gods,” he said, low, as if he spoke to himself. “Let me guess, it was given to you by your ‘Lord’?”

  Sorcha shook her head. “Pastor Channon will tell you it was made by apostates to thwart the Lord’s will.” She gave a sour smile. “Since His will is that the damned succumb to the Burn I cannot be sorry for that.” Narrowing her eyes, she endeavored to read O’Neill’s expression. “But I think you have seen such a thing before?”

  “Something like it,” he said, evasive now. “You wanna tell me what it looks like? Big column of orange light shooting up into the sky? That kinda thing?”

  “Sciath Dé failed, Jack O’Neill. No one now living has seen it, few even believe in its existence.”

  “And what about the Goa’uld? You believe in them?”

  “I know nothing of your enemies,” Sorcha said, spreading her hands to show the truth. “All I know is that the seas rose and all of Ierna was lost. All but the Ark and the fanatics who stole our refuge for themselves.”

  O’Neill’s shoulders rose and fell, as though he were sighing in resignation. “That’s why the Ark is half empty then?”

  “Those who have,” Sorcha said, “fear those who have not. In our faces, they see their own fate and dread it. So we must build a future for ourselves, here beyond the Ark—once Sciath Dé can shield us from the sun.”

  “And what makes you think we can help you?”

  “Because you have been to Acarsaid Dorch, because you have brought from there the Knowledge that we have lost.”

  O’Neill shook his head. “I’m sorry, we’re not here to—”

  “Would you turn your back?” Desperation made her angry, but she strove to hide her temper as she scrambled to her feet. Though O’Neill towered over her she was not afraid. Let him kill her if he would, it mattered not; she knew in her bones that, if these strangers did not help, no other chance would come in her lifetime. “Would you return to your world and leave us here, O’Neill, as those in the Ark do? Would you close the gates to us and let us die?”

  “There are thousands of you out here,” he said, “why don’t you storm the Ark? Make them let you in?”

  “You have seen their soldiers. Would we fight them with our bare hands?”

  “Yes!”

  “Folly,” she spat. “As you well know, O’Neill.”

  He glared at her, then turned away. His back was stiff and she could hear him suck in a breath and let it out. “This isn’t our fight,” he said. “This isn’t why we came here.”

  “You came here to find Sciath Dé,” Sorcha said. “And that is all that I ask of you now.”

  Without turning around he said, “I take it you know where it is?”

  In silence, she moved to her sleeping pallet. From beneath it she withdraw the small book in which she wrote the truths she had learned. It was her most precious possession, and she had no intention of giving it to this man. Nursing it as she sat, she said to him, “First, you must know of the Cove. There our secrets are hidden. Rooms upon rooms of secrets, most lost to the sea. But some are still dry and from them I have woven my theories. Faelan thinks those the wild ramblings of an old woman, but he is a child of the sea and takes no interest in past times. But I… I would know more, Jack O’Neill. I would know more of a world where land spread to the far horizon and people roamed it, as the moil mór roam the sea.”

  O’Neill looked back at her, a slight grimace crossing his face as he moved; his knee, she suspected, carried an old wound. “That’s what it was like here then, back in the day?”

  “Does it sound farfetched? Have you ever seen such vast stretches of land?”

  He paused for a moment, and Sorcha realized she was holding her breath. Then, with a curt nod, he said, “Yeah, pretty much every place I’ve been.”

  “Oh…” She sighed, grief and joy combined. “Then it is true—the legends of the Time Before are real.”

  “Do you know what caused it, this flood?”

  Sorcha lifted her face to the ceiling. “Ennis believes the Lord sent his Sun to rid the world of sin.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  She smoothed her hand over the cover of her book. “I believe…” Her heart thumped loud in her chest; she had never spoken of this to anyone other than the Seachrání. Speaking of it now put them at risk, but she had waited so long and perhaps it was these very people for whom she had been waiting. Sorcha met his gaze and in a low voice said, “I believe the shield was constructed at the Cove, and that there you will find the answers we seek.”

  “The Cove.”

  “You must persuade Faelan to take you there; you and the object you brought from Acarsaid Dorch.”

  O’Neill rubbed a hand across his chin. “I’m sorry. That’s not why we—”

  A loud rat-tat-tat ricocheted through the Badlands, followed by shouting and a terrified scream. O’Neill was on his feet in an instant. “That was gunfire.”

  “Soldiers,” Sorcha hissed, lifting the heavy stone beneath her hearth and dropping her book into the space below. “Ennis has sent his men.”

  A slick click drew her eyes to O’Neill’s weapon; he held it ready for use. “Stay here,” he said, and ducked out beneath the canvas.

  * * *

  Chaos descended on them with the thunder of boots and the sharp report of warning fire, turning the chatter of children into screams of terror. Teal’c readied his staff weapon, crouching into a defensive stance. By his side, Major Carter adopted a similar position. The Seachrání too were arming themselves, withdrawing mean looking blades from the folds of their ragged garments. Such weapons would be ineffectual, of course, against the automatic weapons of the Elect
Guard.

  Guns raised, the soldiers came to a halt just yards away, disciplined and determined; warriors then, despite the Ark’s benign façade. For if there had been any doubt that this was the city’s militia, it was dispelled by the man who stalked through their ranks. Tynan Camus stared at them with steely-eyed fury, and in his wake Ennis Channon cowered, milk-faced.

  “You would disobey the will of the Elect, Rhionna Channon?” Tynan’s voice was calm, as it always was, but there was an edge to it that signaled danger.

  “You brought an army here just because I disobeyed you?”

  “I brought an army here to deal with these… Seawolves.” He spat the last word. “They are a pollution. A danger not only to our way of life, but to these people to whom you so desperately wish to provide salvation.”

  “How dare you! How dare you feign sympathy for their plight when you would have them washed into the sea if you could.” Rhionna’s face was rigid with anger, while the Seachrání, poised and ready for battle, awaited the command of their leader. Teal’c did not dare to lower his weapon; the air crackled with tension, and he knew blood would be shed unless matters were diffused quickly. As always, Daniel Jackson was the one to take the task of arbitration upon himself.

  “There’s no need for violence. The Seachrání haven’t come here with hostile intentions, Brother Camus. They only came to warn these people that a storm’s headed this way.” His voice was calm and reassuring, but neither side moved. “In fact, Tynan, your coming here today may prove useful. We need to find a safe place for these people during the storm, and Rhionna tells us that the Ark has plenty of space...”

  Tynan let out a bark of laughter. “You expect us to shelter these… sinners? The Ark is a sanctuary for those chosen by God. It is a hallowed place. I would not sully it with the stench of these wretched creatures.”

  This provoked a torrent of angry shouts from the Seachrání and the crowd who had gathered nearby to watch the drama unfold.

  “Please!” called Daniel, raising his hands, palms outward. “Please listen.” He moved towards the nearest member of the Seachrání, the bull-faced man Faelan had called Pádraig. His second in command, Teal’c supposed.

  “Daniel…” Major Carter’s caution was low but firm, her P90 still held tight to her shoulder.

  “It’s ok, Sam.” He turned to the man with a placating gesture. “Lower your weapons and we can discuss this with the Pastor. Ennis — surely you won’t hurt these people. They’ve done no harm and they need your help. After all,” he added, nodding towards Faelan, “this man is already your daughter’s friend.”

  Immediately, Teal’c knew it was the wrong thing to say. Tynan Camus’s expression turned to one of cold contempt while Ennis, who had been pensive and wary, suddenly turned thunderous.

  “Friend?” he snarled.

  “Father, please!”

  But Rhionna Channon’s plea went unheard. “This Seawolf scum defiled my daughter! He turned her away from the Light and cast her into shadow. He stole her from me, Dr. Jackson. And he will Burn for it! Seize him!” As soon as the order was given, the soldiers moved. Major Carter cried out a warning, but there were too many of them for one P90 and a staff weapon. The Seachrání raised their blades to fight, despite the odds, and Teal’c admired their tenacity. Then Faelan Garret charged with a yell.

  From the corner of his eye, Teal’c saw a blur of dark hair as Rhionna Channon ran forward. “Faelan! No!” Then all was motion, all was madness, and with a flash of steel Faelan made his move. “Stop where you are or I’ll cut her damn throat!”

  Everything slammed to a halt, teetering on a knife edge.

  “You would not,” hissed Ennis, his eyes wide, gaze fixed like everyone else’s on the man who held a blade to his daughter’s jugular. In Faelan’s arms Rhionna Channon moved not a muscle.

  “Believe me, Pastor, I would.”

  “Faelan, what are you doing?” Rhionna’s voice contained the barest tremor; she was afraid but seeking to conceal it. “This is lunacy.”

  “Always had a bit of madness about me, wouldn’t you say?” he muttered in her ear, before turning back to Ennis. “Tell your men to back off, Pastor.”

  “You are a fool,” Tynan Camus said, “if you think to threaten us with the life of one woman who has already fallen into darkness.”

  Faelan pulled her head backward, exposing more of her throat. “What say you, Pastor? Will you see her die here, now?”

  Ennis Channon appeared frozen. But as Tynan opened his mouth to speak once more, the Pastor grabbed his arm and said, “In the name of the Lord, Tynan, she is my daughter.”

  “Is she?”

  That question remained unanswered, but after a pause Ennis Channon gestured to the soldiers to lower their guns.

  “You will answer for this,” Tynan said, icy beneath the beating sun. “You will answer before the Council.”

  Ennis did not reply, and Teal’c kept his staff weapon leveled at the soldiers, in case any of them chose to act against the Pastor.

  “Now you, Faelan.” Major Carter had her P90 aimed at Faelan. “Lower the knife and let her go. I have a shot, Garret, and I swear I’ll take it.”

  But Faelan only grinned, and it was then that Teal’c saw the reason why.

  “Uh, Sam…” Stock still and looking more than a little chagrined, Daniel Jackson stood off to one side, the fierce sunlight reflecting like fire upon the blade that Pádraig held to his throat.

  * * *

  The old woman ignored his order to stay in her shack—no surprise there. Tugging a thin veil across her eyes, she scurried after him as Jack stalked through the rat’s nest of alleyways and toward the sounds of commotion.

  He could hear shouting—a man’s voice raised in desperation, his words lost in a thick accent that Jack found difficult to penetrate. He had no difficulty, however, making out Daniel’s placating tones.

  “It’s okay, everyone just…calm down.”

  Jack slowed at a corner where the wall of a shack—it might once have been the side of a packing crate—stuck out awkwardly into the alley and provided enough cover for him to peer around.

  Behind him, Sorcha moved on silent feet; nimble for an old bird. He waved her back and put his finger to his lips. She ignored his order with a toss of her head and crowded close, peering with him around the corner.

  Jack muttered a curse. Through the narrow gap between the shacks, he could make out the glitter of the sea, the ragged dock. Standing to one side, half obscured by the makeshift structures, was Faelan. With one arm, he held Rhionna pinned against his chest, the free hand pressed a knife to her throat. His second in command stood next to him—and he had Daniel. Opposite stood Sam and Teal’c, weapons raised, and behind them Ennis’s soldiers were arrayed in attack formation. It was simply a question of who killed whom first.

  “Crap.”

  Sorcha grunted her agreement. “Now,” she said, “things are more complicated.”

  “Ya think?” Jack tried to draw a bead, but couldn’t get a clear shot at the guy holding Daniel. Besides, firing first would be like throwing a spark into a tinder box.

  “Back off!” Faelan shouted. “Y’hear me? I’ll cut her throat, and don’t think I won’t!”

  Jack didn’t miss the tremor in that knife-hand, but wasn’t convinced the man was lying. Faelan looked desperate enough to do anything as he backed toward his boat.

  “Listen to him, Father! He means it!” Rhionna’s fingers clutched at her captor’s arm, pulling it back from her throat.

  His only choice, Jack decided, was to circle around behind them. He figured he had two, maybe three, minutes before Faelan reached the boat and got away. But it was going to be tight, and there was every chance the whole thing would blow up in his face—with Carter, Daniel, and Teal’c the sitting ducks in the middle. Lowering his gun, Jack pulled back around the corner.

  “Don’t follow,” he ordered Sorcha. “I mean it.”

  Despite the sun, s
he lifted the ragged gauze from her face and pinned him with a beady eye. “Once Faelan has gone, he’ll not be back. Not for a long time.”

  He drew his Beretta and chambered a round. “Exactly why he’s not gonna be taking Daniel with him.”

  The old woman put her hand on the gun. “Do you think you can end this with violence?”

  “Can you think of a better way?”

  She jerked her head toward the docks. “There are many ships, and you seem like a resourceful man. Travel with the Seachrání to the Cove and you will have an opportunity to free your friend without risking the lives of so many.”

  “And while we’re at it we can find your shield?”

  Her lined face was impassive. “Perhaps fate has conspired to join our interests together, Jack O’Neill.”

  “Convenient,” he said with a sigh. “You know, if it wasn’t crazy, I might think you’d planned this all along.”

  Sorcha said nothing. She didn’t have to. She knew he had no choice.

  * * *

  There was a chance, Sam knew, that she could take aim and fire before the man holding Daniel had time to inflict a fatal wound with his knife. There was a chance that Teal’c could dispatch any of the soldiers who might decide to take matters into their own hands. And there was an above-average chance that Faelan was bluffing and that he had no intention of hurting Rhionna. In fact Sam was more certain of that than of anything else.

  But Sam Carter didn’t deal in chances. She dealt in fact and hard evidence, and the evidence told her that, with one P90 and a staff weapon against two warring factions, the odds were not in their favor. She didn’t take the shot. Nor did she lower her gun.

  “You’re making a mistake, Faelan. Tell your men to stand down and release your hostages.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Ennis Channon strode forward, jowly face white with fear and rage. “I swear I shall send you to perdition, Garret!”

  Faelan barked a hard laugh and looked around him. “Your kind sent us all there long ago, Pastor.” He started moving backwards, dragging Rhionna with him, and Pádraig followed suit, leading Daniel back towards the boats. Their knives sat snug against their hostages’ necks.