by Crane, J. F.
“Then they have already destroyed the shield!” Sorcha snapped. “For it is either hidden or destroyed, and either way it is unreachable to us.”
With another shake of the head, Sam began to climb the ladder. “I think you’re wrong. Either way I am going back to the Ark. Stay here if you want, but Teal’c and I are leaving.”
Sorcha remained quiet until Sam had reached the top and was pushing at the trapdoor. “Take care,” she said, looking up. “It is past sunrise.”
Wedging her hat onto her head and fishing out her sunglasses, Sam gave it one last try. “Come with us. What do you have to lose?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed in her lined face. “Hope,” she replied. “Which is all I’ve ever had.”
Sam studied her in the flickering lamplight. Spare and worn—maybe ten years her senior, but looking a generation older. This was the end, Sam realized, of a lifetime’s work, and if it ended in disaster, if the shield had been destroyed… Maybe, in Sorcha’s position, she too would want to stay buried in this little hole in the ground, covering her eyes as the last hope for her people sank. Maybe. But that didn’t mean it was right. “You can’t give up now,” she said at last. “Whatever’s happened to the shield, Sorcha, you have to see this through to the end. You have to discover the truth.”
Sorcha stayed still for a long moment, then, with a curt nod, her decision was made. “Very well.”
Bracing herself for the heat and the glare, Sam put her shoulder against the trapdoor. It was heavy and took some effort to lift. When it eventually cracked open she got a face-full of mud instead of dust. “What the—?”
Something powerful tore the hatch from her grip, whipped it back on its hinge and slammed it into the dirt. Debris hurtled past as Sam clambered out of the cellar, yelling down for Sorcha to stay put. Everywhere she looked she saw devastation.
The storm had hit hard and was laying waste to the flotsam city of the Badlands; the makeshift shelters were strewn like garbage in the wind, and the dock was being thrashed to splinters by the raging sea.
No more than ten feet away, Teal’c lay face down in the mud, a gash across the back of his head, rain washing his blood into the dirt.
* * *
“It was the translation,” said Daniel, as he and Jack made their way down into Faelan’s cabin and the few remaining crew members readied the ship for what might be its last voyage.
“The final hope, or rather, the lasting hope… logic would dictate that it’s a short leap from that to last hope—phonetically speaking—and so when I heard what they called this place, I thought it must be here. But it turns out that it’s not just a linguistic quirk. It was Rhionna who pointed it out.”
“Daniel, is this going to be one of those times when I wave my hands in the air and make loud noises just so you’ll stop talking?”
Daniel frowned. “Possibly.”
“Okay, and you say Rhionna knows what the hell you’re talking about?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Then why don’t we let her tell it to keep my brain from exploding?”
Daniel shrugged. “You can try, but I’m not sure she’s coming.”
“God, what is it with Romeo and Juliet?”
“What?”
Jack shook his head. “Never mind, let’s just—”
Suddenly the noise of the rain grew louder, and Daniel turned to find Rhionna standing in the open doorway.
“You’ve decided to come back with us?” he asked carefully.
She smiled, a tight expression. “I’ve decided there’s a little more fight left in me.” Then she looked around the cabin. “Where’s Faelan?”
“I hope you haven’t forgotten anything, Daniel,” said Jack ignoring her. “It’s time to go.” His frown at the mention of the Seachráni’s name was impossible to miss.
“Where is Faelan?” repeated Rhionna, louder this time, a note of desperation in her voice. “We can’t leave without him.”
Jack rounded on her. “I don’t know where the hell Faelan is. Probably at the top of that tower waiting for it to drop out from under him.”
“What?” The word was a frayed at the end, like a broken thread.
Apparently it tweaked whatever sympathy Jack had left in him, because his voice softened when he spoke again. “He’s not coming, Rhionna. I’m sorry. I tried.”
But Jack was talking to a slamming door. Rhionna had turned on her heel and fled into the rain.
Chapter Fifteen
His long robes almost tripped him as Ennis scurried after Sister Nevin. He picked them up, hurrying down the Chapel steps.
Outside, the light was murky and Ennis stumbled to a halt in momentary confusion. Far above the dome the sky was boiling black, blotting out the Sun. The portent of such imagery was not lost on Pastor Channon. With a shiver, he hurried after Nevin.
“Sister!” he called, lungs burning with the effort of running. “Please, I beg a word with you, Sister Nevin.”
He knew the older woman had heard him, even though it took a good few steps before she stopped and turned around. The storm-light cast her face in shadows, and Ennis couldn’t see her eyes or fathom her mood. “What is there to say, Pastor, that was not said in Council?”
Ennis drew closer, using the scant time to draw a breath and gather his thoughts. He lowered his voice. “Sister Nevin, surely you are not swayed by Tynan Camus’s words? We cannot abandon the heathens of the Badlands; it would be utter folly!”
“Brother Tynan speaks of the Lord’s Will, Pastor. Was it folly when the Lord brought the Elect to an Dóchas a Mhaireann and, in so doing, saved us?”
Ennis winced at the heathen word, its coarse syllables falling from Nevin’s cultured lips. But he ignored the deliberate provocation and said, “Without food in their bellies and Sunrise to distract their minds, do you think the people of the Badlands will remain content? Do you think they will submit to Tynan’s will—”
“It is the Lord’s will.”
“Tynan does not speak with the Lord’s voice!”
Nevin’s eyes narrowed. “All of the Elect speak with the Lord’s voice, Pastor. It is heresy to say otherwise.”
Ennis clamped his jaw shut. Outside, thunder rumbled and rain lashed against the Ark, running down the dome in silver-gleaming waterfalls. “I beg you, Sister Nevin, to see reason. I know the Badlands, I know what they suffer. My daughter—”
“Your daughter!” Nevin spat. “Yes, I fear it is her voice with which you speak, Pastor. A harlot’s whisperings.”
“They will revolt!” he cried. “They will swarm through the access tunnels, they will take what we refuse to give! They are men, even if they are heathen; they will not sit by idle and wait to starve. Do you not see that?”
Nevin gathered her robe of office around her, tilted her head toward the sky. “It is you who fails to see, Pastor. It is you who fails to see the hand of the Lord.” She lifted an arm and pointed to the storm clouds. “Behold! As He has done before, so He will once more wash away those who would threaten the Lasting Hope of the Lord!”
“No,” Ennis backed off a step. “No. This is madness, this will destroy us!”
“Have a care, Pastor.” Nevin drew closer, eyes glinting in the shadow. “Your lack of faith is troubling, and at times like these we cannot permit any but the most faithful to remain under the protection of the Lord.”
“I do not question the Lord—”
“Then do not question His Council.” Lightning flashed, and for a moment Nevin’s face appeared clear and hard before him. Then the shadows fell again. “Return to your home Ennis Channon, and pray for your daughter’s soul. Tomorrow will see a new dawn for the faithful.”
With those words, Sister Nevin strode away into the gloomy morning, leaving Ennis alone outside the silent Chapel. Beyond the dome the storm hunched closer, and in his mind’s eye he saw Rhionna at its heart, a ragged strip of color brazen against the raging seas.
But he did not pray for her; he could no
t find the words.
“Teal’c!” Sam slipped and slid through the mud toward him, rolling him onto his side. “Teal’c!”
Sorcha was close behind, ducking low in the howling wind. “Was he shot?” she shouted, looking around for soldiers. “We must get out of sight.”
Ignoring her, Sam tapped Teal’c’s cheek. “Hey, wake up. Come on.”
It took a moment, but at last his eyes fluttered open, blinking against the driving rain. “Major Carter?”
“Teal’c, we gotta move. Can you walk?”
He considered for a moment, then sat up. His wince was barely a flicker, but enough to tell Sam that he had to be in pain; she made a note to check for concussion as soon as they could stop. Teal’c felt the back of his head, examining his bloodied fingers. “I believe I was struck by a piece of flying debris.”
“Ennis’s men?” Sorcha said.
“They have retreated into the Ark.” Teal’c rose to his feet, swayed slightly, then found his balance. “Perhaps they feared the storm?”
“Maybe,” Sam said, also rising, shoulders drawn up against the buffeting wind. “Looks like they were right.”
“We must find shelter,” Teal’c said, his gaze traveling to the trap door over Sorcha’s hidden room. “Perhaps—”
“No,” Sam said. “We have to get back into the Ark.”
Teal’c quirked an eyebrow. “What of O’Neill and Daniel Jackson?”
With a frown, Sam said, “They’re on their way.”
“I see.” His gaze drifted out toward the white-capped, raging sea. “I do not wish to leave this planet without them.”
“We won’t. We’re not going back to leave.”
Teal’c looked at her, a question in his eyes.
“The shield interface is in the Ark. Daniel figured it out. It was there all along, we just have to find it.”
Rain ran in streams over Teal’c’s head and face as his gaze returned to the sea.
“We can’t help them, Teal’c,” Sam said. “They’re on their own. All we can do is try to find the shield so that, when Daniel shows up with the device, we can patch it in.”
He released a breath and nodded. “You are correct, Major Carter.”
Sorcha’s gaze flickered away from Teal’c to Sam. “Come,” she said, “there is still much to be done.”
Faelan Garret did not consider himself a thinking man. It was not the Seachráni way to debate lofty principles or philosophize on whether or not a deity watched over them from the heavens. If such a being did exist, then at best it was indifferent to the trials of Faelan and his people; it was fitting therefore that the Seachráni returned the sentiment.
There had been an occasion, in his early youth, when he had asked Muirne whether it was true, what the people of the Ark said about the Seachráni—that the Lord had sent the Sun to punish them for their wickedness. Muirne had smiled and hugged him close, as he had hoped she would. “If God exists, then he is within you, my Finn.” Thinking back now on his mother’s answer, Faelan realized how little comfort there was to be had in her words. For if God was within, then He had been lost long ago, and Faelan was not disposed to go looking for him.
He avoided, as much as he could, quiet moments of solitude. He worked, he moved, he fought. Every day, he fought. There was nothing else to be done if his people were to survive, and there was no point in asking why life was so. Life just was.
At night however, in his sleep, his mind was allowed free rein. And it took full advantage of that freedom, letting loose with dark and twisted dreams that spoke in the voices of those who had died in the Tearmann so long ago. Insidious whispers of hopelessness and grief and failure. Above all else, failure.
It had not always been so. Once, there had been a time when he questioned everything, when could see something other than this desperate existence, something richer, better. And he had known without doubt that it was his duty to bring it to pass. Rhionna had come then, with her promises and her hope and her ideals, letting him believe in the worth of such a goal. Infectious, she was; something golden, he’d thought. But even that had proven a lie.
He couldn’t have her near him after that, making him believe that their lives could be better, telling him that he was something noble, when in truth he was just one piece of a less than functioning whole. A man, no more and no less than those who stood next to him. There is nothing other than this, he’d told her. There is no more. And he’d forced himself to endure the look in her eye. What had that been? Anger? Confusion? Disappointment? It didn’t matter. She didn’t know him truly, and he owed her nothing. Let her think what she would.
Only now she had returned and that look was still there, but it was tempered with something else, with that other hateful idea; hope. And in her eyes, it wasn’t a perverse joke.
It was only right that he make her realize how foolish the word was. Surely now, with this final act, he would accomplish that much.
When he reached the roof, the door was jammed, and Faelan wondered if the building had begun to buckle already, leaving everything skewed at odd angles. He put his shoulder to the door and the wind did the rest, throwing it back against the outer wall. Outside, the maelstrom howled in earnest, but Faelan knew that it was only the edges of the storm grazing the Cove so far. What was to come would be much worse. He closed his eyes and let the wind buffet him, let the rain soak him to the skin. He held fast to the parapet, knowing with a certain sense of calm that, if he let go, the force of the storm would just suck him away.
“What are you doing, Faelan?”
He whirled at the voice, though it barely carried over the roar of the hurricane, and when he saw Rhionna making her way towards him, alarm burned in his chest. The building tilted suddenly, and she staggered. His grip on the rail tightened, but this time it was not the storm that lured him.
“Why aren’t you on the ship?” he cried, angry that she could confuse matters so, even now. “You have to go! They’ll leave without you.”
“Then they’ll leave without me.” She was sodden, her hair plastered to her head, her bright scarf darkened by the rain. “What are you doing, Faelan?”
“You know what I’m doing.”
Her eyes flashed, the set of her mouth fixed and determined, but when she spoke her voice was level, as if it she were approaching a wounded animal. “No, Faelan. I won’t allow it.”
He laughed, desperate and helpless. “You have no say in how I die.”
“Maybe not.” She was closer now, and he could see how she shivered with cold, her clothes more suited to the heat of the Badlands. “But I have a say in how I die. If you stay, then I stay with you.”
“No!”
“I won’t let you turn coward on me.”
“Don’t, Rhionna,” he growled, but he could not meet her eye. Her words echoed Colonel O’Neill’s, and though Pádraig often spoke of a noble Seachráni death, Faelan considered that perhaps there was cowardice in such an end after all.
Rhionna grabbed his arm and pulled him round to face her fully, letting her anger show. “Why are you so afraid to hope? You never were before.”
“It’s not about fear!” he lied. “It’s about facing the truth! It’s about accepting what can and can’t be done, and knowing when it’s time to stop fighting. Your father was right all along! We’re all damned. And if this is Divine Judgment, then who am I to claim otherwise?”
His words only riled her further. “You’re Faelan Garret,” she cried. “Since when do you believe what my father says? He and his kind have long claimed the sky will fall on anyone who doesn’t bow down to God’s Will.”
“Look up, Rhionna! The sky is falling.”
She shook her head, refusing to concede. “Don’t use God as your reason for giving up. I won’t accept such a pitiful excuse.”
And there it was again; that disappointment in her eyes. Once more he was letting her down and didn’t know how to stop himself. Seething with frustration, he wiped the raindrops from
his face as though they were tears. “You have no choice.”
“There’s always a choice! I won’t stand by and watch my world drown.”
He faltered at that, and for a moment he wanted to ask what she meant, whether this was about something other than ideals, but there was no time. A shudder coursed through the building beneath them.
She snatched at him as she fell forward, grabbing hold of the sodden fabric of his shirt. “Faelan, please!”
“No, Rhionna.”
“I won’t let you do this, Faelan. I won’t…” Her voice broke and she pressed her lips together, jaw set.
Through the water on her face, Faelan couldn’t tell if she wept. All he knew was that he felt a sting in his own eyes. He clutched her shoulders. “What is it you want from me?”
“What I want? God, Faelan, you know what I want.” She let her hands fall to curl round his forearms. “You know what I want. But that’s nothing—nothing—to what your people want.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The wind whipped at them both, flinging his hair into his eyes, the needles of rain cutting into his hands, his neck, his face. “My people want nothing I can give them.”
“They want a leader, Faelan!”
“I called myself their leader before and people died!”
“And people lived.” She was crying now, the rain doing nothing to disguise it. She reached out and brushed his hair from his eyes. “People lived, Faelan. Because of you and what you did.”
Such determination she had, such faith as he didn’t deserve. “I can’t save everyone, Rhionna.”
She smiled, and there was sadness in the expression, but still that look of hope, the one that made his heart turn traitor. “I’m not asking you to. Why do you always dwell on what can’t be done, Faelan, when there is so much you can do?”
People lived.
Too much of what she said resonated within him. Her words fed that voice that spoke from the depths of his soul.
There is more than this, it said. Of course there is more.
