by Crane, J. F.
Daniel pushed himself to his feet, attempting to figure out how they were going to get through a door that was now located halfway up the wall. Suddenly that same door flew open and a head poked through. “Need a hand?” asked Faelan.
“I need Tylenol and a chiropractor thanks to you,” muttered Jack, but he grasped Faelan’s outstretched arm all the same and let himself be pulled up through the door. Moments later Daniel followed suit.
They clambered down the sloping deck, trying in vain to hide from the worst of the storm, and found themselves in a disaster zone. It was the Badlands, but they were devastated beyond recognition, torn up by the vicious wind and sea until nothing but fragments was left. In the middle of it all, like a defeated leviathan, sat the Fánaí na Mara. Faelan wandered through the wreckage, heedless of the debris that the wind hurled at his head. Daniel and the others tagged along.
“Who could survive this?” whispered Daniel, thinking of the people they’d left here just days before. By the look on his face, Faelan was asking himself the same question.
“They did survive,” said Jack, picking up on Faelan’s questioning glance. “There’s no bodies,” he added. “They couldn’t have been here when this happened.”
True enough. Despite the devastation, there was no sign of any human casualties; by all appearances, the Badlands had been abandoned. Shielding his eyes from the lash of the storm, Daniel scanned the bleak landscape.
“Then where –?” began Faelan.
“I think someone’s trying to get our attention, Captain.” The Seachráni who had spoken pointed toward the nearby mountain. High on the ridge, a light blinked on and off.
* * *
The tiny figures that had spilled from the beached ship now moved toward them, up the hill and away from the teeth of the storm. They had seen his signal. Satisfied, Teal’c tucked Major Carter’s flashlight back into his pocket.
Through the rain it was difficult to distinguish one man from another, but he kept his eyes fixed on the group until, halfway up the hill, two of the amorphous shapes resolved into Colonel O’Neill and Daniel Jackson.
Permitting himself a small smile of relief, he turned to where Major Carter was once more studying the storm doors. “O’Neill and Daniel Jackson are among the Seachráni,” he called down.
She spun around in a flash, a broad grin lighting her face. “Thank God.”
Teal’c kept his thoughts about divine involvement to himself, and merely said, “Let us hope that O’Neill still carries his C4.”
“You got that right.” Squinting up at the Ark, whose vast walls rose high above them, she said, “If we can’t get in this way, we may have to knock on the front door.”
Sorcha Caratauc, squatting with her back to the tunnel wall, cast a baleful glance at the major. “You’re a fool if you think they will ever open their door, to you or to anyone else. Sciath Dé is the only hope for my people.”
“Your people,” Major Carter said, and Teal’c recognized the bite in her words, “will die if they don’t find shelter. The shield—even if we get it working—can’t protect them from this storm. Or from the sea, or from the flooding. You have to understand, it’s a long term project.”
“Do not lecture me about perspective, Samantha Carter. Have I not devoted my life to this cause?” Sorcha Caratauc shifted, drawing her ragged clothes about her. “This is not the first storm we have endured. These are not the first people I have seen die. Sciath Dé is all that matters.”
Teal’c met Major Carter’s eyes and shrugged; it was futile to argue with such single-minded resolve. Sorcha Caratauc, in her own way, was as blind as the leaders of the Ark.
“What? No beer?”
The voice propelled Teal’c around to the sight of the colonel cresting the hill. “O’Neill,” he said, glad to see his old friend.
“Teal’c.” O’Neill’s gaze moved to the major. “Carter. Good you see you’re all in one piece.”
“You too, sir.” Her smile lingered, then she said, “Where’s Daniel?”
O’Neill jerked his head back over his shoulder. “Rabble rousing with the pirates.”
“Pirates?”
“Rum, parrots, pieces of eight. You wouldn’t believe it.”
She swallowed a smile. “No, sir.”
Sauntering toward the tunnel, O’Neill took in the shivering refugees and the decidedly closed storm doors. “Hit a dead end here, Carter?”
“Actually, yes.” She bumped her fist against the door. “Ennis locked us out. We were hoping you’d have the key, sir.”
Only the glitter in his eyes betrayed O’Neill’s amusement. “Shoo these people to a safe distance, Carter. It’s time to get out of the rain.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Pastor Channon?”
The hesitant voice came from further down the city wall, and Ennis realized he was not alone in watching the progress of the storm. Walking toward him, stoop-shouldered and vague against the gray skies beyond the Ark, was their chief Archivist. He gestured toward the storm. “I did not expect to see you here, Pastor, when a new chapter of Sunrise is on the screens.”
“Nor I you,” Ennis said. They stopped some distance apart, and he found himself wary. There was something unspoken between them. “What brings you from the Library, Liam?”
“I come here sometimes,” he said.
“I rarely do,” Ennis confessed. “But…” Above them the dome was momentarily lit by a flash amid the clouds, a distant rumble of thunder following.
Liam’s eyes were flinty. “I heard that your daughter was outside.”
“I have no—” He stopped himself, unable to tell the lie again. Water ran in sheets down the dome, hammered against it by the relentless gale. In a low voice he said, “Yes. My daughter is outside, among the condemned.”
A pause stretched, seemingly endless, then Liam asked in a conversational tone, “Did you know, Pastor, that the word Ark has two meanings? One, as we are aware, means a place of refuge. More spiritually, however, it means the inmost heaven—the dwelling place of divine truth.”
The subtle emphasis on that last word was hard to miss. “Truth,” Ennis said, taking a step closer, “is often more complex than it appears.”
Liam smiled. “Truth is always simple, Pastor. The complexity comes in the telling of it.”
“Especially,” Ennis added, “when the truth is unpalatable.”
“Indeed.”
Another pause filled with thunder and a flash of lightning, one atop the other. The archivist glanced out at the storm. “I am glad,” he said, “to be inside the Ark. But there are those who would benefit from being brought within.” He smiled again, his meaning clear. “Within the Ark of Divine Truth, of course.”
Ennis let his own gaze stray toward the people gathered before the screens, faces upturned. The players’ earnest expressions suddenly looked like beautiful lies, and he realized that no word of truth had ever passed their lips. Sunrise was a thing of artifice, not truth. And somehow Rhionna, his child, had seen that—she had seen that to which he had been blind. “You spoke to her,” he said, suddenly understanding. “You spoke to Rhionna of this, of truth and what lies beyond our walls.”
Less sanguine but not afraid, Liam lifted his chin. Quietly he said, “There are truths hidden here, truths I have not seen save in the footprints they left upon the Library—words that once held meaning and now do not. What is a ‘scientist’ and why are they condemned? What is a ‘satellite’ and what danger does it pose? And what is the ‘Sungate’?”
“Knowledge,” Ennis said. “They are words of Knowledge.”
“Truths denied to us, like the truth of the condemned and the world outside.”
Hearing the accusation in his tone, Ennis asked, “What would you have me do? I am but one man.”
“Tell us the truth.” Liam’s arm swept into a circle, encompassing the men and women enrapt in Sunrise. “Tell us the truth of what lies outside and of the Time Before.”
“But I do not know it!”
“Then find it out!” Liam seized his shoulder, fingers biting. “Do you think Tynan Camus does not know the truth?”
Above them the studio building loomed, the word Sunrise emblazoned across its façade. Once Ennis had regarded this place as hallowed ground, now its golden gleam appeared sickly and oppressive.
“You can find it out,” Liam said. “And if you speak it, the people must listen; you are their Pastor.”
“And what if they do? What then?”
Liam only shrugged. “To that I have no answer.”
* * *
The smoke cleared quickly, beaten down by the unrelenting rain. Daniel shook his head, waiting for his hearing to return to normal; he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the force of a C4 blast.
With Jack leading the way, the long file of refugees snaked past the remnants of the tunnel doors, half starved, thirsty, and eager for shelter. Soaked and battered though they were, Daniel sensed that they were far from dispirited. A new energy was being created here, as they marched deeper into the tunnel. A sense of purpose that he hadn’t anticipated. He wasn’t imagining the looks sent in the direction of Faelan and Rhionna; expectant looks, from a people awaiting guidance. He only hoped they weren’t expecting too much; they still had to find their way into the Ark, which wasn’t going to be easy. The plan for now was simply to distribute water and what little rations they’d brought with them.
Easier said than done, as it turned out.
“The bastards have turned off the pump.” In vain, Faelan spun the metal valve that controlled the Badlands’ water; the outlet pipe remained dry.
“Okay.” Jack shrugged. “So we go to plan B.” To the best of Daniel’s knowledge, plan B hadn’t existed until about thirty seconds ago. Not that Jack was fazed by this minor inconvenience. “Carter and I go topside and get this water back on. Then we take it from there.”
But Faelan shook his head, striding towards the blackened and buckled remains of the storm doors and staring out into the maelstrom beyond. “We don’t have time for that. This isn’t the worst of it, Colonel. Something’s coming. Something big, and when it hits, it’ll hit hard. This tunnel will be no protection at all.” He cursed and slapped the wall. “Do they think they can play God here? Do they think they can hand out judgment and decide who is damned and who is worthy to enter their bloody Ark?”
Rhionna stepped up and placed her hand on his arm, but said nothing. It appeared she didn’t need to.
“I’m not giving up, if that’s what you think,” he said, so softly that Daniel barely heard the words.
She smiled. “That’s not what I think.”
He nodded, as if satisfied by her faith in him, then looked over at Jack. “Colonel, we need a new plan, and we have about five minutes to come up with it.”
As Jack, Sam, Faelan and Rhionna discussed their options, and Teal’c handed out rations, Daniel dug in his pack for his camera—now was the ideal time to document just how harshly these people were treated by the Elect. It extended beyond benign indifference now; this was an active attempt at genocide. He spooled through his existing footage, trying to find the end of the timeline, more sickened than ever by the images he’d captured. Given what he knew of human cruelty, the question might be naïve, but still he found himself asking how any decent person could see such suffering and turn a blind eye?
Then he hit the ‘pause’ button, the spark of an idea suddenly kindling in his mind.
“Uh, guys?” The others stopped what they were doing and turned to him. “I think I might have a solution.”
* * *
The tunnel was narrow and smelled bad, and Sam really didn’t want to know what kind of things populated the puddle of water they were crawling through. Good job it was dark.
“I’m gonna take a guess,” the colonel grunted behind her. “This isn’t exactly the front door.”
Rhionna’s voice drifted back to them from the darkness ahead. “It’s not exactly the back door, either. But sometimes I come this way if I really don’t want to be seen. It won’t be locked, the soldiers don’t know about it.”
“Can’t imagine why not.”
Puddle or no, Sam had to smile; it felt good to have Colonel O’Neill back. Not Jonah, but the colonel with his dark humor and unwavering moral compass. Yeah, it felt right. “How are your knees, sir?”
“Terrible. Thanks for asking, Carter.”
“Not far now,” Rhionna promised them softly. Then a beam of light appeared, all but blinding Sam as it sliced across her face.
“Hey!” she protested, screwing her eyes shut against dancing red blobs.
“Sorry,” Rhionna whispered, lowering the flashlight. “I just need to find the— There it is, we’re here.”
Struggling to get her feet under her in the confined space, Sam crouched and peered up at the ceiling of the tunnel. Above them the underside of a manhole punched a black circle. The colonel crowded in at her side, solid and familiar, and behind him Sorcha’s pinched face appeared. Clearly she was no more happy with the plan now than she’d been when Daniel first suggested it.
It was a risk, Sam had to admit. Daniel’s backpack, containing the Acarsaid Dorch device, felt heavy across her shoulder; a lot was riding on the success of this mission.
“We just push this up and climb out in the middle of the street?” O’Neill said, shifting to get a better look. “If anyone’s up there, it’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel. Literally.”
“It’s in one of the disused parts of the city,” Rhionna assured him. “We won’t be seen.”
Sam readied her P90. O’Neill cast her a look. “You and Sorcha stay back. Carter and I’ll check what’s going on topside.”
Squeezing past him, Rhionna grabbed Sorcha’s arm and pulled her away into the shadows. A couple of muttered words in Sorcha’s native language drifted through the narrow tunnel, then a sharp retort from Rhionna. Sam hid a grin and turned to face O’Neill.
“Here goes, Major,” he said, bracing his hands against the cover. “On three. Three.”
He lifted it an inch, enough for her to get an ant’s-eye view of a deserted street. Moving around him in an awkward three-sixty, she checked out the limited visual. “I’m not seeing anything.”
“Good.” His voice was tight with the strain of holding the metal cover, but he lifted it another inch and said. “Now?”
“Still clear.”
“Okay, go.” With a grunt, he pushed the cover off to one side.
Sam scrambled out, rolled to her feet. Vaguely grateful that she’d managed to persuade Daniel to trade his P90 for the prison guard’s popgun, she spot-welded the weapon to her cheek and turned a careful circle.
“Clear,” she said, straightening though not relaxing. Sentry-like buildings surrounded her, pristine and silent. It was eerie. And the light was different from last time she’d been in the Ark. The glistening opalescence was gone. In its place, a storm-dark sky painted everything in shifting shades of menace.
O’Neill was next, pushing himself up without much effort. Behind him came Rhionna, who stopped at the rim of the manhole to give Sorcha a hand. The old woman didn’t seem to need much help. Or appreciate the offer.
“Over here,” O’Neill said, before anyone else could speak. He herded them into the doorway of a building. Eyes roving across the blind, black windows, he asked, “Which way?”
“The Sunrise building is not far.” A strand of Rhionna’s hair had slipped from under her headscarf. She tucked it away without apparent concern, oblivious to the danger that might be hiding behind those dark windows. “I will take you.”
Sorcha spat on the ground, mumbling a curse. “Foolish nonsense,” she said. “There will be time for that once we have found Sciath Dé!”
“Didn’t we have this discussion already?” Colonel O’Neill’s gaze still scanned the street. “You know what the plan is.”
“Aye, foolish is what it is.”
“We don’t even know where to start looking for the shield,” Sam explained, for what felt like the hundredth time. “Once the people from the Badlands are safe we can—”
“Save it, Carter.” O’Neill turned to glare at Sorcha. “We’re doing you a favor, lady. Remember that.”
Her eyes narrowed. “A favor.”
“Yeah. We’ve got enough troubles of our own. We don’t need yours too.”
Lips pressed tight, eyes hard as granite, Sorcha said nothing and tried to stare him down instead. But she was no match for Jack O’Neill on a bad day—and this had been a very, very bad day.
“Carter, take point,” he said, never interrupting the staring contest. “Rhionna, show her the way.” With his handgun, he gestured for Sorcha to follow. “Ladies first.”
Sam didn’t wait to hear her answer, and she headed out into the empty streets.
* * *
Teal’c kept within the shadows and watched with no little admiration as Faelan Garrett addressed the people of the Badlands. Flashes of lightning illuminated faces hardened by suffering, but now raptly attentive and suffused with burgeoning hope. What Faelan Garret said, Teal’c did not know; his language was unfamiliar. But the meaning was clear. He rallied these people to arms, one hand jabbing repeatedly up toward the city above.
“Kalach shal tek,” Teal’c vowed quietly, fist to his heart.
“Victory or death?” A dry smile was audible in Daniel Jackson’s voice. “I’m hoping for a more peaceful solution.”
“As am I.” Teal’c turned to see him leaning against the tunnel wall some distance away, also watching Faelan. What little light there was reflected on the lenses of his spectacles and masked his eyes. “But you place great faith in humanity, Daniel Jackson.”
“Too much, maybe?” Another fork of lightning rent the sky and for a split-second his earnest face flashed pale in the darkness. Daniel Jackson looked very young, even by human standards; unlike many, grief and loss had not tarnished his inherent optimism.
It was a confidence Teal’c respected, but could not share. “Do you believe the people of the Ark will divide their wealth among these kresh’taa simply because charity demands it?” he asked. “They have not done so before.”
