by Crane, J. F.
She was closer now, her hand still on his cheek, and when the building shook again he barely noticed the movement.
God is within you.
“Choose, Faelan,” she said. “Please choose.”
Closing his eyes, he dropped his forehead against hers. “Infectious, you are,” he whispered. “Golden.” And by the time he kissed her, his choice had already been made.
Chapter Sixteen
Sam knew they were in trouble as soon as she saw the rainwater sluicing down the bone-dry hillside, turning dust into a mudslide that threatened to swamp the landward side of the Badlands.
Rocky outcrops to the east were dotted with crouched, desperate figures who had scrambled up from the disintegrating shanty and clung to the hillside, and to each other, in the face of the storm.
“These people need shelter!” Teal’c bellowed through the wind, bracing himself against its force.
She couldn’t argue with that. “Sorcha, can we take them into the tunnels?”
But the brittle old woman shook her head. “The three of us might slip past the soldiers’ notice, yes. But with these poor wretches upon our heels? Impossible.”
“We can’t leave them out here!”
Gray hair plastered to her head, Sorcha’s eyes flashed. She grabbed Sam’s shirt in her fist, yanking her face close to her own. “These are my people, Samantha Carter. Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” She paused, snatched a breath. “If some are washed away in this storm, then so be it. They will not be the first. But if we fail to activate Sciath Dé then neither will they be the last. Do you not understand? We must succeed.”
“Whatever the cost?”
“The cost of failure will be higher.” She released her hold on Sam and turned to squint up the mountainside. “Follow, I know a route that will avoid the mudslip.”
Exchanging a look with Teal’c, Sam followed. Sorcha had a point, and she suspected that the colonel would have agreed—in principle, if not in practice. She understood about the mission objective, but it was hard to ignore the shivering, frightened people—men, women, and children—clinging to the very edges of survival. Ahead she saw a woman, crouched with two small children clutched to her skinny body, trying to shelter them from the pitiless storm with a ragged sheet of canvas. It was pathetic, and despite her years of training, despite everything she had seen in a brutal galaxy, Sam felt her throat close. She couldn’t walk by.
While Sorcha powered ahead on wiry legs, Sam slowed. She sensed Teal’c at her shoulder and took his silence as approval. Holding out her hand to the woman she said, “Come on, follow us. We’ll take you to safety.”
A moment’s hesitation, then Sam saw her words spread like a ripple on a pond across all those desperate faces that peered at them through the rain. The woman rose to her feet, picking up the smaller child. The older one seemed lost until Teal’c reached down and swung the scrap of a boy onto his hip.
His gaze met Sam’s. “We must hurry.”
When they started walking again, the people of the Badlands followed.
* * *
Inside the Ark, Ennis Channon could hear the mighty doors to the service tunnels swing shut. The noise reverberated through his feet, clanging against the walls of empty buildings and echoing through the city.
They were alone now, while outside the storm raged. Some of the Ark’s inhabitants had come to watch the spectacle, standing atop the wall, close to the edge of the dome, and looking out at the inky clouds and at the rain slanting sideways in the wind.
Ennis asked himself what it would feel like to be unprotected in so much water. To feel it on your skin, soaking your clothes. Rainstorms were not unheard of outside, but they were not common. He had seen five in his lifetime, three of which had occurred in the past year—each one more ferocious than the last. Still, he had never experienced the power of such a storm, and as he pressed his hand against the dome, he felt an uncomfortable desire to tear apart its protective shield and stand with his face to the wind and have the rain beat against his skin.
Rhionna, he supposed, knew what such things felt like. She had gone in search of them her whole life—different experiences, new adventure, old Knowledge. Now the very things she had sought would claim that life.
At the sound of a soldier’s step he turned to see the first of his men climbing out of the service tunnel. Others followed, all wet from the rain. The commander acknowledged him and walked over, stopping with a salute.
“Pastor Channon,” he said. “The tunnels have been closed, all services discontinued. The Ark is secure.”
Breathing in the strange, tangy scent of rain and mud, Ennis nodded. “Tell me, Commander,” he said. “What does the rain feel like?”
“Cold, sir,” came the reply, with a slight, curious crease of the brow. “And wet.”
“And the Sun does not burn today?”
The soldier shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Its light cannot penetrate the clouds,” Ennis said, considering the notion. “The clouds stand between the Sun and the people. They…shield them.”
The commander looked at him but did not answer. Behind the man’s shoulder one of the public screens came to life. Sunrise began to play and everyone turned to look, even the commander. It was much too early for a new chapter to air; Tynan Camus, it seemed, had been busy.
Ennis observed as the people of the Ark drifted away from watching the storm, gathering in excited groups beneath the screen or rushing home for a private viewing. He looked at their faces, alight with pleasure and devoid of anything else, and for the first time in his life saw them as Rhionna had always seen them.
Glutted and lazy and unable to think for themselves.
The last of the soldiers returned from sealing the tunnels, dropped the heavy hatch and, catching sight of the screen, joined the other spectators. Alone, Ennis returned his gaze to the rain and let his wandering thoughts drift back to the fate of the Seachráni. And to Rhionna, lost among them.
* * *
The fall of the Cove came and went without the drama Jack had anticipated. When it happened, the Fánaí na Mara was already far enough away that the Cove had become simply a small cluster of lights at the edge of the world, there one second and gone the next. They didn’t witness any cataclysmic explosion; just a surge of water beneath them some minutes later, barely noticeable compared to the already towering waves. If the Cove made a sound as it was swallowed by the sea, no one heard it over the roar of the storm. Hardly impressive at all.
Of course, the true impact of the Cove’s collapse had nothing to do with spectacle. The man standing aft was proof of that.
Faelan watched the destruction of his home without comment or expression, though Jack didn’t miss how his hand curled into Rhionna’s at the final moment. The crew, few though they were, had paused in their labors to watch their old life wink out of existence, silent and motionless as if there were no storm trying to pound each of them from the deck. Faelan allowed them those moments, but when he spun around his face was steely and the orders he threw out were not those of a man with a death wish; Jack even thought he caught a grin on the captain’s lips.
What had happened between him and Rhionna, Jack didn’t want to know. All he cared about was that Faelan Garret had turned into a man with a corner to fight.
The game was most definitely on.
* * *
The weight of the child he carried was insignificant; Teal’c could feel the boy’s bones through his skin, thin fingers gripping his jacket, and a tiny face buried at his neck to hide from the wind and the rain.
Teal’c had carried his own son thus, though Rya’c had been strong and vigorous his whole life, a solid weight of muscle and energy. It offended him that this child, this nameless boy, should have been starved to skin and bone while the people of the Ark grew fat and lazy. This planet offended him deeply. It was time for it to change.
Ahead, Sorcha Caratauc had turned to watch their shabby parade, fists
on her hips and her lips pressed tight. She too had been worn down to her bones, but in her flinty expression Teal’c saw evidence that more than her flesh had been gnarled by the suffering of her people. There was no pity there, only anger and determination.
“This will not serve us,” she snapped as soon as Teal’c was close enough to hear. “Bringing these people is folly. If we fail—”
“We shall not fail.” Even as he spoke, a fist of wind pummeled his back and he stumbled forward. The child gripped tighter, and he gentled his hand against the boy’s wet hair while struggling to regain his balance. At the foot of the hill devastation spread out like a blanket. What had once been the Badlands was little more than a refuse heap, swamped by mudslides and battered by a raging sea. Wave upon wave crashed against the shore, tearing at the docks, flooding the streets. The boom-crash of its fury was the roar of a wounded beast, and Teal’c felt a twist of fear; this was an enemy that no weapon could stay.
Not far behind him, Major Carter fought her way up the hill. She still clutched the hand of the child’s mother, whose hand in turn held that of another child. The ragged procession struggled against the force of the wind and behind them followed the survivors of the Badlands, scrambling up toward the Ark, desperate for hope. Once more Teal’c told himself what he had told Sorcha: we shall not fail.
“Teal’c!” Major Carter called, waving with her free hand toward the sea. “I thought I saw something. A ship.”
He turned his gaze back to the ocean. Among the lashing rain and the waves breaking out to sea, it was difficult to distinguish anything.
“There,” Major Carter said, coming to stand with him and pointing.
He followed the line of her gaze and after a moment saw a silver flash, quickly swallowed by the rolling sea. But then it was back, dipping up and down, and he realized Major Carter was correct. “It is a ship,” he confirmed.
“Faelan’s. Has to be.” She sucked a breath through her teeth. “I hope Daniel brought some Dramamine.”
Sorcha Caratauc’s sinewy hand grabbed his arm. Supporting herself, she pushed forward to look. “Seachráni, yes,” she nodded. “But not Faelan. Nothing would make him abandon the Cove. Not even Sciath Dé.”
Major Carter swiped rain water from her eyes. “Whoever it is, they’ll have a hell of a time docking.”
Teal’c’s gaze fell on the waterfront where the dock had once stood. Now there was nothing left but crashing waves.
Grunting, Sorcha Caratauc turned back toward the tunnels. “They’re Seachráni,” she said. “They’ll get ashore. Even without Faelan Garret at the helm.”
“Then we had better find shelter and await their arrival,” Teal’c said, shifting the shivering child on his hip.
Major Carter nodded. “It’s not far now.”
She was correct. Above the next rise of the hill Teal’c could see the arch of the concrete tunnel. Without further comment, he resumed the climb. Sorcha trailed a few steps behind, seeking shelter from the fury of the storm in his bulk. And so it was that Teal’c crested the rise first, stepping down toward the tunnel through which they’d left the Ark. There he stopped, a hard knot of fury freezing him in his tracks.
“Crap,” Major Carter observed behind him.
His thought precisely.
“They’ve locked the doors. They’ve sealed themselves in, the bastards.”
Teal’c looked back at the frightened, desperate people following them, then at Major Carter. “We shall find a way.”
She nodded, eyes alight with fury. “Damn right we shall.”
* * *
It was past dawn when the lookout called landfall near the Badlands. According to Faelan at least. As far as Jack was concerned you couldn’t possibly tell day from night in the roiling black of the storm. The same principle applied to the deck and hull of the Fánaí na Mara, as the ship stomped and swayed with no proper regard for which way was up. Jack couldn’t wait to put his feet on solid ground.
With land sighted, Faelan ordered the engines powered down, which gave Jack a chance to venture on deck for a little recon.
While he still pondered the prospect of heading into the Badlands blindly, the captain clambered down the rigging, slinging his binoculars around his neck. Faelan dropped the last few feet to the deck and hardly missed a beat as he strode towards the helm. Jack followed him, considerably less surefooted.
“How are we going to get your boats into the docks?” he yelled above the storm’s wail.
“We’re not,” Faelan shouted back.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Look at this sea, Colonel. Surely even someone like you can see that a dory or longboat would be crushed in seconds.”
“Hey! What do you mean, someone like me?”
Grinning at Jack’s insulted pride, Faelan beckoned over a crewman, with whom he exchanged a few words in their own tongue. Despite the language barrier, it was hard to misinterpret the curse that the other man muttered before he walked off. “Besides,” Faelan continued to Jack, “we have another problem.”
“Oh yeah?” A wave slammed over the side of the ship, knocking Jack hard into the side of one of the cabins. He swallowed a mouthful of seawater, coughed, and spat. “Sonofabitch!”
While he struggled to regain his feet, Faelan looked as if he’d barely moved. Smug bastard.
“We can’t take the boats into the dock because there are no docks,” Faelan explained. “Sea’s already took them.”
“Then how the hell do we get over there? And don’t say swim.” But Faelan didn’t need to say a word; the Fánaí na Mara’s engines roared into life once more.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” said Jack.
The Seachráni captain’s grin broadened, “I suggest you get below, Colonel. And hold on to something that’s tied down tight.”
* * *
“Storm doors,” Sorcha snarled, the wind snatching her words away. “We should have moved faster.”
Sam didn’t miss the accusation, but was unrepentant. All around them the people of the Badlands were gathering, crouched against the storm, pressing up to the scant shelter of the doorway. She couldn’t have left them behind.
Running her hands over the heavy door, she muttered, “If we just had some C4.” It would be a piece of cake to blow the tunnel right open if she had more to hand than the peashooter she’d snatched from their prison guard. Still, there had to be a way.
“Major Carter!” Teal’c was standing lookout on the low rise they’d climbed, his attention turned out to sea. She knew what he was watching for and scrambled up to join him, Sorcha following in recriminating silence.
“Holy…” Sam breathed as she joined Teal’c to stare down at the ravaged Badlands. The Seachráni ship was close now, clearly visible despite the rain and driving spray. It was huge, long and sleek, with a couple of tall masts and tightly furled sails, and it barreled across the waves with a speed she’d rarely seen on water. “It must use some kind of aerodynamic levitation technology to diminish the hydrodynamic drag.”
“The docks are gone,” Sorcha said. “They will have to anchor and come ashore in longboats.”
“In those seas?” Sam shook her head. “That’s impossible.”
Sorcha pushed wet hair from her eyes. “Watch,” she said. “There is a reason the Seachrání are called Seawolves.”
She did watch, trying not to think about the fact that the colonel and Daniel were probably aboard, trying not to imagine what it would be like to make land in a tiny longboat in thirty-foot seas. But Sorcha was right, the Seachráni knew what they were doing. All she could do was put faith in their skills.
Except, the ship wasn’t slowing. If anything it was speeding up, making a graceful turn as it aligned itself with the sideways sweep of the waves that sliced across the Badlands. And still it didn’t slow.
“They’re not stopping,” she said aloud, glancing at Teal’c.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Indeed.”
<
br /> “Oh my God,” she said, realization dawning, “they’re going to beach the ship!”
“Impossible!” Sorcha clenched her fists. “Madness.”
Madness maybe, but true. Sam figured the ship was surfing the waves, using them to give it more lift and to keep the keel from snagging for a little longer. Although she didn’t understand how a ship that tall, with a corresponding draft, could hope to get anywhere close to shore. But it definitely wasn’t slowing, in fact it seemed to increase its speed as it rode the breakers, and for a second she thought it was flying. Then it struck ground, the screech of rending metal drowning out the roar of the storm as the hull tore across the jagged rocks and impaled itself on the debris of the Badlands.
For a moment it stopped, at rest, and then with a slow, inevitable grace it toppled and crunched onto its side.
“Huh,” Sorcha grunted. “Perhaps Faelan is at the helm after all.”
* * *
Daniel’s first thought when he came to was that the ceiling looked different; it took him a few seconds to realize that he was actually flat on his back and staring up at the bulkhead. There was no sound save the ringing in his ears, and the violent pitch and roll of the ship was notably absent. Apart from the buffeting by the storm, the vessel had come to a total standstill—and apparently on its side.
He tried to lever himself up, but found his elbow sinking into something soft.
“Ow! Watch it!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, as Jack dug Daniel’s elbow from his stomach and sat up. “What happened? Did we crash?”
There’d been little warning before the ship’s sudden burst of speed, apart from Jack tearing into the cabin and yelling for Daniel to grab on to something. That had been followed by a gut-whipping lurch, and then they’d both been thrown backward, sliding up against the bulkhead as the ship accelerated. But the worst of it came in the last few moments, as they were tossed around the cabin like dice in a cup.
“Faelan and his harebrained scheme to get us on dry land is what happened,” growled Jack, rolling his neck until it clicked. “I think we’ve run aground.”
