by Crane, J. F.
“I said the judgment has been passed!” he cried. “There will be no reversal. Now I will ask you again. Where is Colonel O’Neill?”
But Sam could only shake her head in dismay.
Channon took a breath and when he spoke again his voice was calmer. “Very well. You will remain here and face the consequences of your lack of cooperation. But trust me, Major Carter, I will find O’Neill. I will not allow him to spread blasphemous lies about Sciath Dé.”
He turned to leave, but before he reached the door Teal’c spoke again. “Your daughter, Pastor Channon. How is it you can so readily abandon a child of your blood?”
Channon stopped, but didn’t look around. “If God chooses to smite the wicked,” he whispered, “then who am I to question His will?”
Then the door hissed open and, flanked by his guards, he was gone.
* * *
It was the stench that got to him first, that and the heat and the need for a breath of clean air. So he moved before he should, taking a chance that the dusky light would be enough to mask any untoward movement in the little boat.
He’d slipped underneath the tarp just as everything kicked off back on the docks, and had spent the best part of the day sweltering beneath the heavy fabric that covered the stern of the boat. He’d probably lost a couple of pounds in sweat, and only surreptitious swallows from his canteen had kept him going in the devastating heat. Not that he hadn’t endured worse. Jack O’Neill had suffered his fair share of stifling hell holes—some figurative, others more literal—and, by comparison, bivouacking under a stinking tarp for a few hours was a walk in the park.
He could have done without the stench, though. Whatever these people used to waterproof their gear reeked of dead fish.
It was that, in the end, which provoked him to risk lifting a corner of the tarp before night had truly fallen. The sun was a golden dazzle on the horizon and he had to blink until his eyes adjusted enough to let him assess the situation.
It didn’t come as a surprise.
Twenty minutes out from the docks, shouting had started. The language was obscure, but the meaning had been clear; they were docking with one of the ships. He’d heard the clank of chains and a few moments later the whine of winches—and then they’d taken flight. Slowly. The longboat had swung side-to-side in the davits and then been manhandled onto the deck.
That had been the most dangerous time, and his hands had been tight on his weapon as he waited, every moment, for the tarp to be whisked away and the stowaway revealed. It hadn’t happened. Clearly, something else was going down. More shouting, then the hum of servos far above him.
And then the ship had started moving. Really moving. Jack knew a thing or two about speed, and he’d never felt that kind of acceleration on anything that wasn’t airborne.
Now, peering out from beneath the tarp, he realized why. The damn boat was flying! Not in the air, not really, but damn close. He felt the familiar pump of flyboy adrenaline and suppressed a smile. Shuffling to the other side of the longboat, he lifted another corner of the tarp and this time found himself looking out across the deck of a large ship. Patches of it gleamed in the golden light, but others were dull and rusted and the whole thing looked too damn old to be traveling so fast. A couple of low cabins ran the length of the foredeck, with heavy doors shut tight against both sun and sea. They might once have been painted red, but the peeling remnants were a dull brown and dotted the steel surface like a scabrous pox. Only a few thick-glassed windows protruded along the length of the cabins, misty with salt-spray, and Jack doubted anyone inside would be able to see through.
He shifted again, his knee protesting, and made the decision to move out. He needed more information and, frankly, he needed to get away from the dead-fish stink. Glancing up and down the deck, he slid out from beneath the tarp, slipped over the side of the longboat, and dropped into a crouch on the deck below.
His knee was unimpressed and he bit back a curse. Moving silently, he darted between the cabins and stopped with his back pressed against the wall of one, his gun leveled at the door of the other. It didn’t open, and he heard no alarm sounding—which didn’t mean it hadn’t gone off.
He paused a moment and took stock of his position. The deck was about fifty feet wide and surrounded by a high, curved shield made of what looked like scratched plastic—a windshield, he guessed, given their velocity. Without it, no one would be able to come on deck while the ship was in motion. Clever, but it was the sight looming above him that really caught his eye.
Sails were the best description, though these were no canvas sheets. A half dozen vast metallic solar cells positioned so that they caught the dying rays of the sun, and they glittered so bright in the twilight that he had to shield his eyes.
Carter would have been fascinated. He wondered briefly where she was, then pushed the resulting coil of anxiety out of his mind. With luck, she and Teal’c had hightailed it back to the gate and were, even now, debriefing Hammond on the whole mess and planning to return with a platoon of marines at their backs. Daniel, on the other hand…
Keeping low beneath the windows, Jack made his way along the side of the superstructure until he reached its end. In front of him rose the mast, its massive trunk rooted into the deck. Behind it a shambles of cargo stretched back across the rest of the deck. Crates, barrels, and bundles of tarp-covered goods lay in a haphazard pile, as if flung there in careless haste. A heist, Jack wondered, or an evacuation?
In the distance, something glinted, drawing his attention to the sea. Sails gleamed on a dozen other ships of various sizes, all keeping pace with the sleek, predatory ship that flew out ahead of the Seachráni fleet. No prizes for guessing who captained that one—or where Daniel and the woman were being held.
On the upside, Faelan’s ship was close enough; Jack toggled his radio and murmured, “Daniel, do you copy?” The only reply was a hiss of static. Not that he’d really expected anything else, but still… “Daniel, do you—?”
A door slammed. He heard voices, indistinct beneath the rush of the wind but getting closer. Jack ran across the deck, launched himself up and over a tarp-covered bale and wiggled into the gap between that and a wooden crate. He stilled, evening out his breathing, and noted the words, in very faded print, on the side of the crate.
Emergency Re-hydration Salts.
English, not the gobbledygook the Seachráni chose to converse in.
He had no time to ponder it, however. Two men swung around the side of the cabin. Like Faelan’s, their skin was tanned dark, and they wore tatty but sturdy clothes, with wide-brimmed hats pushed back on their heads now that the sun had almost set. They were talking, loud so as to be heard over the wind, but Jack couldn’t understand a word of their language. He watched instead, taking note as they opened a hatch at the base of the mast and began to haul on a number of huge levers. Above them, one of the sails began to move, folding in on itself like a shutter.
Immediately, the ship began to slow, the rush of wind diminishing, and the voices of the men grew louder. Jack still couldn’t understand what they were saying, but their mood was clear enough; they were pissed. He heard Faelan’s name mentioned a number of times, with much shaking of heads.
Far above, another sail began to furl. The ship slowed further.
Then a third man, little more than a lanky kid, appeared from around the cabin, less tanned than the others and with the look of the Badlands about him. When he spoke it was without the Seachrání lilt, and Jack caught every word.
“We’re to keep moving on reserves,” he said, hands buried in deep pockets and a scarf tied low over his forehead. “Captain said we’re to keep traveling ’til sunup, then unfurl.”
One of the other men grunted and spat on the deck. “Aye, with no thought for the crew.”
“T’ain’t the captain’s fault,” the kid said, squinting up at the sails. “He got orders, is all.”
“Ain’t blaming the captain, am I? We all know what’s go
ing on. We all heard what Faelan Garret done, stealing the Pastor’s daughter again. Bloody dùr, what’s he thinkin’?”
The other man snorted a laugh. “He ain’t thinkin’ with his head, right enough.”
“Aye,” said the first. “Well, the Cove isn’t needing a leader that’s thinking with his bleedin’ slat. Not now, not with what’s comin’.”
“Garret’ll see us right,” said the other man. “He’s never failed us before.”
Conversation ground to a halt, all three men chasing their own thoughts. Then one of the Seachráni slapped the kid on the shoulder. “Get back to your supper, Geran. No point in blatherin’ on, eh?”
The boy nodded and turned away, but before he left he looked back and said, “Storm’s not gonna be so bad, eh?”
Jack felt his stomach twist. He’d seen that same look on the faces of men in his own command; kids themselves too, looking for certainty where none existed. Looking for hope.
“Sure, it won’t,” the older man said, casting a glance at his dour friend who just contemplated the sail levers in silence. “No worse’n we’ve seen before.”
It was a lie. But the kid nodded, determined to believe, and walked away with his hands still buried deep in his pockets.
The other man slammed down hard on the remaining lever, and the final sail began to furl. “Mac an donais,” he growled.
Jack didn’t need to speak their language to know it was a curse.
Chapter Seven
The ship was old, patched and ramshackle, as if repairs were done on the hop with whatever materials could be scavenged. From what Daniel had gathered before he and Rhionna were escorted down into the brig, the rest of the Seachráni fleet was in a similar condition. The dazzling sails they’d sighted in the distance had offered a small glimpse of a technology that would have Sam as excited as a kid at Christmas, but beneath that technological dazzle the fleet was battered and worn. A strange hybrid. How advanced had this society been before disaster struck, how far had it fallen?
Old though the vessel was, no ominous creak or groan rose from its metal bones. Only the faint but constant vibration of the planks beneath him and an almost inaudible hum gave any indication that they were moving at all. But moving they were, and fast.
“They must look after their boats well,” he said to Rhionna, who sat against the bulkhead, head tilted back and eyes closed. He thought she might be asleep, then decided he didn’t care if he woke her. They’d been stuck down here too long and he itched with the inactivity. He wanted to know, to find, to ask, and Rhionna was the only one around. Besides, he suspected that she had more answers than she was letting on.
“Ships, not boats,” she muttered, not opening her eyes.
“Hmm?”
Rhionna shook her head and sighed. “Doesn’t matter.” She looked around the small cell. “Yeah, they take care of them. The ships are their lives. They couldn’t survive without them.”
“You’ve been on one before?”
She smiled at that. “A few times. I’ve even been in this brig before.” She frowned then and looked away, as if mired in a memory. Daniel hesitated, remembering her reaction to Faelan back at the docks, and his to her—what was the story there? After a brief, silent debate on whether to push the matter or not, he decided to proceed with care.
“How is it they do it? Survive, I mean. What are they?”
“Scavengers mostly. Sometimes hunters.”
“Ah…hunters of what?”
“Anything they can find.” She smiled when she said it, but the expression had a hard edge, as if she were trying to provoke him, or scare him. It didn’t quite work.
“Why don’t they live with the others? In the Badlands?”
“Would you want to live there?”
Daniel shrugged his concession to the point. “Then where are they taking us?”
“You ask me a lot of questions, Dr. Jackson. What makes you think I have the answers?”
“Because you’ve been on this ship before. You know the Seachráni.”
But Rhionna just laughed and pushed herself to her feet, wincing a little as she unfolded limbs that had been in the same position for too long. “The more someone knows of the Seachráni, the more questions they have. They are a very guarded people, Dr. Jackson.”
“It’s Daniel, and I suspect they’re not the only ones who are guarded.” That earned him a sharp look, but he was undaunted. “You don’t believe they will harm us.”
“I believe they are scared and desperate. Those are powerful motivators.”
“Yes, they are, but I also know that you tried to protect them back at the Badlands. You wouldn’t have done that without reason.”
Rather than reply, Rhionna crossed over to lean against the door and stare through the bars, evidently having decided that the conversation was over. Daniel thought it was time to try a different tack, no matter how personal it might be.
“This Faelan…” Her shoulders tensed at the mention of the name. “He’s their leader. Can’t you talk to him? Reason with him to take us back to the docks?”
“He won’t listen to me.”
Daniel remembered the looks that had passed between them and said, “Oh, I think he will.”
She rounded on him, anger flashing. “If you are so observant, Daniel, so intuitive, then surely you saw how much attention Faelan pays to my opinion. He’s stubborn and foolhardy, and the Seachráni won’t move a muscle without him. He is their leader, and they are loyal to a fault. If he wants to take us to the Cove, then that’s where we’re going. There is nothing I could say to him that would make any difference. If anything it would only make matters worse.”
“Worse than us dying along with his people when the storm hits this Cove of his?” She flinched at that, but he persisted. “Can’t you reason with him?”
She turned away, leaning on the cell door, gazing out through the bars once more. “I don’t think there’s anyone alive who’d know how to reason with Faelan Garret.”
“But you knew him.”
Rhionna shook her head and said quietly, “Not nearly so well as I thought.”
* * *
The ninth episode of Sunrise crawled to a close. Outside, Sam calculated, it had to be dark. They had most likely missed their scheduled report by hours, which meant SG-1 were officially overdue. She could picture General Hammond, grim-faced in the control room, arms crossed, glaring at the empty Stargate. That gave her some comfort, although she couldn’t imagine what he might do to help. One thing was certain though—he wouldn’t let Ennis spin him a line, not after enduring weeks of Caulder’s barefaced lies. And he wouldn’t give up. Not ever.
But the truth was, when it came right down to it, SG-1 were on their own. They had to take care of themselves—and each other.
She glanced across at Teal’c. He’d not said a word since Ennis had left, withdrawing into meditation. Preparing. He’d be rested when the time came for action. And that time would come, she’d make sure of it.
The Sunrise theme started again, a jangle of sound that scratched across her nerves like fingernails across a chalkboard. It was a peculiar kind of torture, at once soporific and enervating. Deliberately, she refused to cup her hands over her ears, refused to pace the cell—she refused to acknowledge that it was having any effect. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the screen and let them blur until all she saw were swimming colors and—
And that’s when she noticed it; a brief dimming of the image. Then again. She looked up at the lights, unsure if she’d been imagining it, and felt a little surge of anticipation as their white, featureless glare flickered.
Teal’c opened his eyes. “Their power supply does not appear to be reliable.”
“No.” Sam scrambled to her feet. “It doesn’t.” The lights flickered again. “When it’s dark out, there must be a surge in demand. All those lights. Their grid can’t handle it.” Circling the cell, she wound up at the door and pressed her hand against the smooth metal.
The subtle hum of the electronic lock tingled against her palm. She glanced at the TV. “And if more people are home, tuning in…”
The lights dipped and, for half a second, the cell was lit only by the screen. Beneath her palm something clicked off and on again. Sam caught her breath.
“Major Carter?” Teal’c was on his feet, scrutinizing her.
She lifted her hand from the door, flexing her fingers. “Teal’c,” she smiled. “I have a plan.”
* * *
Without daylight for reference, time lost meaning, and the journey seemed endless. Daniel dozed in fits and starts, unsure if Rhionna slept at all. At one point, he tugged out the device they’d brought from Acarsaid Dorch and, in the gloomy light, tried for the umpteenth time to make sense of it. But its use was no clearer here than it had been back at the SGC and he quickly gave up, stuffing it back into his vest before any of the Seachrání noticed. Sam wouldn’t thank him if he lost it and, until he understood his current situation, he planned to keep his powder dry. Jack, he thought, would be proud of his circumspection—even if he was pissed that Daniel had managed to get himself captured.
Time meandered on, listless and without definition. The monotony was broken only by the stern-faced man who brought them food, the same man who’d grabbed him back at the docks, Faelan’s second in command.
Rhionna darted to her feet when he approached the cell. “Pádraig,” she said, in a greeting that was far from friendly.
Pádraig’s frown deepened, as if the acknowledgment troubled him. “Stand back from the door, Rhionna,” he said, not looking at her. “Both of you.”
“Why is he doing this, Pádraig?” she asked, ignoring his instruction.
“’Twas little choice you gave him. Now stand back from the door.”
“I gave him little choice?” She barked an incredulous laugh. “Did I put the knife to my own throat and drag myself onboard this ship?”
“Sure, it was your father, was it not, who brought his armed guard and had them waving their guns at innocent folks? Now stand back from the bloody door if you want this meal, or else starve.”
