by Crane, J. F.
She set her jaw and complied. “That wasn’t my doing, and don’t tell me you think it was. Don’t tell me he thinks it was.”
Pádraig looked uncertain and busied himself with unlocking the door. “And how is it you’d explain these folks then?” he said, nodding at Daniel. “Where’d they come from if not the Ark? They’ve got the look of Channon’s people about them.”
“I can vouch for what Rhionna says,” said Daniel. “We’re not from the Ark. In fact, we’re from somewhere much further away. And I can assure you that Rhionna knew nothing about her father’s actions. She took us to the docks to help the people of the Badlands.”
Pádraig smirked. “And how might you be able to help those poor souls?” he asked, and shook his head when it was clear Daniel had no answer. “Ah, it makes no difference. The deed is done and here you are.”
“Here we are,” Daniel agreed. “Um…so, what do you intend to do with us now?”
“The decision isn’t mine,” replied Pádraig, and there was a disapproval in his voice that, as Daniel suspected, was aimed neither at himself nor at Rhionna. Pádraig set the tray on the floor, then turned to leave.
“Let me speak to him,” said Rhionna, the words coming in a rush as if she had to force them from her mouth.
Pádraig paused in the doorway and turned back. “And what would you be hoping to speak to him about?”
“I want to make him see sense. This will not end well for any of us. Surely you can understand that. ”
“I can, and don’t you think I’ve told him as much?” The man’s manner had changed somewhat, and Daniel thought there was even a trace of amity in the way he spoke to Rhionna, a glimpse perhaps of an old camaraderie. “You know how the boy is.”
“Then perhaps if I can-”
“I’ll not have any of that old business rearing its head again, Rhionna,” he said, sharply. “It caused more trouble than you’ll ever know.”
Daniel was tempted to ask what business he meant, curious about the history between the two peoples of the planet, but he sensed there was a far more human story beneath it all, one that was none of his concern, so he held his tongue.
“I only want to resolve this situation, Pádraig,” Rhionna said. “Let me speak to him. Please.”
His only reply was to leave the cell, locking the door behind him. “Eat your food,” he recommended from outside. “We’ll be at the Cove in a couple of hours.”
“Pádraig!” cried Rhionna through the bars, but the clang of the hatch told them that he was already gone.
* * *
Like anywhere else in the universe, nighttime on Ierna was when folks came out to play. Under clear and balmy skies the crew of the Seachráni ship spilled from the cabins and onto the deck, some bringing food and drink, others trying their luck at the usual games of chance. The ship cruised along at a leisurely speed and sound traveled easily without the buffeting wind to snatch it away. Conversation seemed animated, but most of it was spoken in the Seachráni language and Jack could only guess at the meaning. Faelan’s name cropped up a lot, however, accompanied by much shaking of heads and grumbling under the breath. Kidnap, it seemed, wasn’t these guys’ usual MO and they were pissed. Which was good news for Daniel, if not for Faelan Garret.
The atmosphere wasn’t exactly mutinous, but Jack was beginning to wonder exactly what kind of position Garret really held with these people. The old woman, Sorcha, had spoken of him as a leader, but Jack knew a leader when he saw one and Garret wasn’t it. He had charisma, no doubt, but no steel in his spine. People wanted to follow him, but he didn’t want to lead. He refused the burden of command. That made him weak and his people afraid. That made him resort to kidnap instead of standing his ground.
And Jack had no patience for that kind of cowardice.
Hunkering lower, he squirmed to get comfortable between the crate and the tarp-covered bale. He had just enough room to stretch his aching knee, and could prop his back against the tarp. Ignoring the dead-fish aroma of the ship, he pulled a power bar out of his vest and began to eat. He still had a few swallows of water left in his canteen which would be enough for now. Tough luck if wasn’t, though, because he was going nowhere with the whole damn crew taking their R&R right on his doorstep. As hiding places went, he’d had better.
When he’d finished eating, he drank a mouthful of water and tucked the canteen back into his vest. His P90 rested comfortably against his chest and he held it there as he settled back against a bale, closed his eyes and let himself slip into a light soldier’s sleep.
* * *
George Hammond supposed that the handsome features and plausible smile of the man on the screen before him might be considered attractive, but he remembered Administrator Caulder’s smooth platitudes all too well and he wasn’t in the mood to play nice. Not this time. Besides, there was a sharpness in the man’s eyes, even filtered through the camera of the MALP, that instantly set Hammond on edge. No, Tynan Camus was a man to watch like a snake in the grass, and George Hammond didn’t intend to give him an inch.
“They have broken our laws, General Hammond,” Camus said, with a regretful spread of his hands. “We must deal with them as our law dictates.”
George took in the two armed guards who flanked the man. “And what exactly does your law dictate?”
“They will be brought before our council of the Elect tomorrow and a decision will made as to their fate.”
“Their fate? Now listen here, if my team have transgressed your law I can assure you, sir, it was done by accident and—”
“Hardly by accident, General Hammond. They left the city when it was expressly forbidden for them to do so. They have consorted with known criminals whose declared intent is to destabilize our government. The facts are clear. There is no need for prevarication.”
He wouldn’t put it past Jack to have done any of those things, of course, but that was hardly the point. “I appreciate what you’re saying, Brother Camus, and I assure you that we will conduct our own investigation and take necessary steps if we find that our team have breached any—”
“Unacceptable. The Lord demands that justice be done and His punishment meted out to those who transgress; and there is only one punishment for their heresy.”
Hammond felt a cold fist grasp his heart, but he kept his face impassive. “And that would be?”
“The Burn.”
Whatever the devil that was, it didn’t sound good. “I’m sorry, Brother Camus, but that is not acceptable.”
Camus spread his hands again. “Acceptable or not, it is how matters stand.” Then he smiled, a practiced baring of white teeth. “And I advise you not to send anyone through the Sungate against my instructions.” He gestured to the men on either side of him. “As you can see, General, we are not without defensive capabilities.”
Hammond frowned, realizing that one avenue of rescue had just been cut off. Fighting your way through a gate was all but impossible without a huge amount of firepower and all the attendant collateral damage. He wasn’t at that point. Yet. Folding his hands behind his back, he said, “I have no wish to use any force or aggression, but you must understand that I cannot wash my hands of the matter. I assure you that SG-1 would not knowingly break your laws. If you would let me send people through to better determine the circumstances behind this–”
“There will be no further discussion on this matter. I will not allow any more of your heretical people to set foot in the Ark.”
Biting back a sigh of frustration, Hammond said, “Then at least let me speak to Colonel O’Neill.”
Camus paused, as if considering his request, then said, “I will allow you to speak with Major Carter for a short time.”
It seemed a strange compromise, and for a second George considered pushing the matter and demanding that he speak to the colonel. But then he wondered whether Camus was willing let Major Carter talk to him because she was a woman; perhaps he underestimated her ability to provide a full and accurate
report? If that was the case, then they might manipulate his prejudice to their advantage. “Agreed,” he said, and without another word Camus disappeared from the screen gesturing for his men to follow.
Sometime later Samantha Carter appeared in his place. Before she spoke, her gaze slid to the side, telling him that Camus’s heavies were just off-screen. He was relieved to note that she looked unharmed. “Major Carter, are you ok?”
“I’m fine, sir. Just a little anxious to get out of here.”
“And the others?”
She gave another sideways glance and Hammond could hear a low voice in the background; was Camus restricting what she could and couldn’t say? What did the man have to hide?
“To my knowledge, the others are fine, sir.”
To her knowledge.
“Can you give me a SITREP, Major?”
“Sir, Pastor Channon’s daughter asked for our help and led us to a settlement outside the Ark. There was a skirmish, and we were caught in the middle.”
“Brother Camus says that you broke the law.”
She gave a chagrined grimace. “Yes, sir. We were aware that leaving the Ark was probably prohibited.”
“Yet you went ahead anyway.”
Carter shrugged. “She asked for our help, sir.”
And it really was as simple as that. SG-1’s MO; help those who cannot help themselves. It wasn’t the first time they’d taken such rash action and he suspected—in fact, hoped—it wouldn’t be the last. But though this version of events seemed to make sense, Hammond couldn’t help thinking there was something she wasn’t saying. But unlike Tynan Camus, she clearly had something she wanted to say.
“So how do you suggest we proceed, Major?”
“Nothing much we can do about it at present, sir. I think we just have to ride this one out.”
Definitely something she wasn’t saying.
“Brother Camus has refused permission for anyone else to visit Ierna. However, SG-3 are on standby.” And she would know exactly what that meant; the Marine Combat Unit was the SGC’s primary search and rescue team.
But Major Carter was already shaking her head. “I wouldn’t advise it, sir. They’d have a hostile reception, and there’s a pretty big storm headed this way. I’m not sure how hard it’s going to hit, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to send any SGC personnel through right now.”
Her gaze flicked to the side once more. Hammond frowned. “Then I suppose we do as you say and ride this one out?”
“Don’t worry about us, General. We’ll be fine. Everything’s under control.” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, a slight smile on her lips. “You should just focus on something else for now. Like Thera and Tor coming home real soon.”
George took a moment before he answered. “Yes, I’m looking forward to that,” he said carefully. “And I hope they’ll be bringing Jonah and Karlan with them?”
The major hesitated, then said, “I’m sure they’ll do everything possible to make that happen, sir.”
A grim smile spread across Hammond’s face, and he was glad there was no visual on the MALP. As usual, SG-1 had it under control—more or less. “I’m very much looking forward to her arrival, Major,” he said. “And I hope her journey isn’t too difficult.”
“I’m confident it’ll be trouble-free, sir.”
He nodded and ended the transmission, uttering a silent prayer that Sam Carter’s confidence was not misplaced.
Chapter Eight
They’d picked up speed again, accompanied by a clanging from above and more pronounced vibrations that thrummed through the hull.
“We’re almost there,” said Rhionna with certainty.
“How many times have you made this journey?”
“Enough.”
“So is the Cove—?”
His question was cut off by the clatter of the hatch and the thud of boots descending the ladder. Pádraig’s face appeared at the bars of the brig and an instant later the door swung open. “Come on,” he said to Daniel, but when Rhionna got to her feet he added, “No, child, not you. Only him.” She backed away into the darkness of the cell, silent, but radiating anger.
The deck above was alive with activity, the Seachráni taking advantage of the remaining dark before temperatures soared. Daniel saw that a thin line of purple had appeared on the horizon; dawn promised to be beautiful, a harsh lie considering how savage the day would be. Right now, however, night chill still hung in the air, cooled further by the cloud of spray that flew past the massive glass screen at the bow and swirled across the deck. In seconds, Daniel’s hair and clothes were coated in a fine film of moisture.
“This way,” said Pádraig, heading aforeships. Looks of both curiosity and distrust were flung at Daniel as he followed, but the Seachráni’s attention to their work never faltered. Then he spotted the man who walked among them, throwing out instructions with quiet authority. Faelan glanced up and gestured towards the bow as he saw them.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Pádraig, and retreated.
“I owe you an apology, I think, Daniel Jackson,” said Faelan. It was not the conversation opener Daniel had expected.
“Um, you do? I mean, yes, you do, but I’m surprised to hear you say so.”
Faelan ran a hand over his face and into his hair, wiping away a layer of spray. “You were caught in the middle of something that was none of your concern. It’s regrettable how it all unfolded, but Pádraig was only following my lead.”
“And by ‘your lead’ you mean taking Pastor Channon’s daughter hostage?”
Faelan’s expression was inscrutable. “Desperate situations call for desperate measures. How else was I supposed to get my people out of there?”
“You could have tried reasoning with Tynan Camus, or the Pastor. My team was there. We’ve dealt with situations like this before.”
Faelan leaned back on the ship’s railing and regarded Daniel carefully. “You strike me as a man who relies on words to solve his problems, Daniel Jackson, but I don’t think you’re a fool. Don’t tell me you think we could’ve talked our way out of trouble back there.”
To push the point would’ve been to lie, so instead Daniel settled back on the railing beside him and said, “I’m surprised you’ve taken time to talk to me now.”
“Pádraig said you were quite insistent.”
“I’d say Rhionna was more insistent. Why didn’t you speak to her?”
Faelan’s eyes flashed and he turned away, looking aft, towards the rising sun. “Rhionna isn’t— I can’t…” He shook his head, as if hoping the rest of the sentence would fall into place, then with a sigh he said, “Speaking with her would only create more problems than it’d solve.”
“Old business, huh?” said Daniel. But not old enough that it didn’t matter, it seemed.
Faelan didn’t reply, looking lost in thought as he stared at the horizon, but then his eyes took on a keener aspect and he walked away, brow furrowed in harsh lines. Daniel followed his gaze, but could see only daylight beginning to burn the sky.
“It’s getting closer,” he muttered, and by his tone, Daniel knew he was talking about the storm.
“How long?”
“Two days. Probably less.”
“Faelan, we have to get out of here. We have to get your people to safety.” But Daniel’s words fell on deaf ears; Faelan was already calling for Pádraig to take him back down to the brig. “What are you going to do with us?” demanded Daniel, as the first mate appeared and took his arm.
Faelan stared at him with an expression that gave nothing away.
Desperate situations call for desperate measures, thought Daniel, but refused to believe that this was a man who would act rashly without reason. He could only hope that there would be no need to dispose of two hostages.
“I’ll decide that once we get to the Cove,” said Faelan.
“And how long will that take?”
Even as Daniel asked the question, Faelan’s gaze drifted to a
point over his shoulder and a rare smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Not long, Daniel Jackson. Not long at all.”
When Daniel turned to look, the sight that greeted him made his breath stop.
* * *
A mournful wail startled Jack awake.
Before the sound faded he was in a low crouch, finger tight on the trigger, and for a disorienting moment he felt lost.
Fog sat heavy over the ship, damp and cold. He could taste its tang on his lips, grateful for the moisture after so much sun and heat. It wouldn’t last long, though, because a white glare already rose on the horizon. Backlit by daybreak, figures moved about in the mist. Words were shouted and the foghorn blared again, echoed a moment later by another. Then another.
Taking advantage of the cover, Jack crept out of his hiding place. The motion of the ship had changed, now it rocked from side to side instead of pushing steadily ahead. He was no sailor, but he had the definite impression that they were stopping.
Keeping low, he made his way toward the bow. The horn sounded again, and he realized it wasn’t coming from the ship at all, but from somewhere out in the fog. He peered ahead, straining his eyes and trying to make out shapes in the haze. Then a door slammed open, right in front of him.
Jack froze.
Light flooded from the cabin, a warm flickering glow, and a woman stepped out onto the deck. Like all the Seachráni, she wore a wide-brimmed hat, pushed back to hang from a cord around her neck, and a coat down below her knees. She coughed and pulled the coat tight around her, muttering something in her language. Jack loosely interpreted it as ‘Goddamn, it’s cold’.
She heaved the door shut, the clang resonating through the fog, then, head down and no more than two meters away, she stalked past him and aft.
Silently, Jack moved on.
“Sé bhur mbeatha!” The cry came from above—a lookout, Jack guessed. It sounded like a hail and, after a moment, he heard a reply. Squinting, he tried again to discern details. As he did so, a breeze stirred his hair and the mist eddied. He glimpsed a light, close but high up. Then another, then—
