by Crane, J. F.
“Because they didn’t really know was going on out here.”
“If they wished to know, they could have found out,” Teal’c insisted. “As Rhionna Channon did.”
Hands plunged into his jacket pocket, Daniel Jackson moved closer. “Those people up there, they aren’t so different from people at home. Most of the time they’re happy to go to work, take the kids to school, watch a little TV at night. And that’s okay, you know? Most people just want to live their lives. But sometimes…” He turned to look at Faelan Garrett, at the people he rallied. “Sometimes people have to see what’s going on out in the big wide world, and when they do—then they don’t want to just sit at home and watch TV. Then they want to do something.”
“Has Rhionna Channon not already attempted to alert her people to the injustices of her world?”
“Yes, and the Elect have done everything they could to silence her and make sure everyone else is fixated on Sunrise.”
“And so the people of the Ark are complicit in their own deception.” Teal’c shook his head. “I cannot share your faith, Daniel Jackson. Perhaps I have witnessed too much indifference to the suffering of others, but I believe Faelan Garrett and his people must fight for their rightful share of this world. It will not be freely given.”
“Maybe,” Daniel Jackson admitted. “Maybe you’re right. But sometimes I think people just have to see for themselves.” He gave a bleak smile. “You know what they say—a picture’s worth a thousand words.”
Teal’c considered the adage. “But a weapon,” he decided, hand resting on the P90 O’Neill had given him, “is more valuable still.”
To that, Daniel Jackson made no answer.
Chapter Eighteen
Flattened against the wall, Jack signaled Carter to keep the others back and peered around the corner and out on the plaza ahead. Given the way the crowd sat like spellbound toddlers before the giant TV screen in the center of the square, his caution was probably unnecessary. Still, he wasn’t going to take any chances. The damn TV was loud though, blaring out its melodrama as if in competition with the rumbling storm clouds outside. Glancing up it occurred to him that that was exactly what Sunrise was doing—drowning out, quite literally, everything beyond these folks’ sweet little snow globe home.
Across the street stood the building from which Sunrise was broadcast. Sleek and ostentatiously affluent and difficult to reconcile with the hovels of the Badlands or the drowned city of the Seachráni. Perhaps the whole world had looked like this once, but now the Ark was all that remained; a living museum to a dead culture. Time to change things around a little.
He fell back to where Carter had Rhionna and the old woman were waiting. Sorcha was increasingly sour faced, so he blanked her—no time or energy for another argument—and said, “It’s right across the square, Major. If you’re lucky you’ll catch the ten o’clock tour.”
Carter did her best to swallow a smile, but it was in her eyes all the same. “I’ll bring you back a t-shirt, sir.”
“Extra large. I like ’em roomy.”
Rhionna glanced between them with a look of sudden revelation, but before she could say anything stupid Jack cut her off. “You’re with me,” he said. “We’ve got a little errand to run.”
Her “What do you mean?” clashed with Carter’s “Sir?”
Jack pulled his cap down further onto his forehead and drew his Beretta. He missed the weight of the P90 and briefly wished he hadn’t given it to Teal’c. He felt kind of naked being so lightly armed. Not that he’d let anyone see that. “Carter, once you’ve finished in the studio, take Sorcha and go look for the shield.”
“And what are you going to do?” An edge of irritated concern laced Carter’s voice. Not entirely appropriate for an officer talking to her CO.
He shot her a warning look. “What I’m gonna do,” he said, “is pay a visit to the leader of this outfit.”
Rhionna’s eyes widened. “To my father?”
“Nope.” Jack shook his head. “Tynan Camus. No offence, but I think we all know where the real power lies. And when Daniel and Teal’c come banging at the front door, I want to make sure Camus is right where I want him.” He lifted his weapon. “On the wrong end of this.”
* * *
There came a time, Teal’c knew, when all arduous endeavors were reduced to one simple ability, that of putting one foot in front of the other. So it was for the people of the Badlands, from the oldest to the youngest. With all other options removed, it was now a question of stamina—keep going, keep walking, do not stop because, in this storm, with Ierna’s earth, sea and air fighting a battle for dominance, to stop would be to die.
They had walked for what felt like hours, but Teal’c knew from his watch that barely forty minutes had passed. The rain stabbed at his head, icy needles that slashed and numbed in equal measure, but he forced away the pain, focusing instead on his feet. One in front of the other, keep going, keep moving, do not stop. Around him, the refugees did the same, each of them pushing themselves onwards without a sound. Even the children had stopped crying.
Their caravan had reached the wall now, a huge and daunting structure, a monument to intimidation and inequality, yet people huddled against it as if seeking the shelter of oppression. Daniel Jackson walked somewhere behind, and Teal’c wondered how his friend was faring.
Faelan Garret led the procession, turning frequently to check on his battered brigade, frequently halting to assist those who stumbled or fell. A determined man, Teal’c thought, an unwilling leader, reluctant to realize the command he might wield. In Teal’c’s experience, such men were invariably possessed of more honor than those whose objective was the quest for power. Faelan Garret and Rhionna Channon would make a formidable partnership.
But this partnership would be for naught if the refugees did not survive this apocalyptic weather. Here and now it seemed that sheer determination to survive might not be enough. By Teal’c’s side, one of the older men broke to his hands and knees, his head hanging in rain-sodden defeat. When Teal’c bent to help him up, the man weakly shrugged off his aid.
“Leave me. I can go no further.” The man’s voice was ragged, barely audible above the clamor of the wind. Others shuffled around him, but their steps slowed, their eyes shifting from his hunched form to the long path ahead; his collapse spoke to the part of them that wanted to give in. Teal’c recognized how precarious this moment was. If one fell, they all might.
“You must rise, my friend. You must not succumb.”
“I can’t,” sobbed the man, dragging himself over to slump against the gray stone of the wall. “I can’t. What’s the point?”
“We do not have much further to go,” said Teal’c. “Soon we shall find shelter inside the Ark.”
“You fool. You think this plan will come to aught? We will never be permitted inside the Ark. They would rather see us swallowed by the sea than share their luxury. Why should they open their doors to us?”
Teal’c refrained from arguing. It would be enough to get the man back on his feet. “You must rise,” he repeated. “Do not give in.”
The man threw up his hands, a weak, defeated gesture, and simply closed his eyes.
Teal’c was unsure what else he could say; in truth, he had the same doubts, but refused to heed them. Where no options were left, doubts became futile. As it turned out however, a reply was unnecessary. A hand reached past him and grabbed the man’s sodden coat, hauling him to his feet.
“You would die here, Abbán Ó Braoin? You would allow them this victory?” Faelan Garret’s face showed no compassion, and Teal’c understood the root of his anger. It was the Seachráni’s duty to deliver these people, every last one of them, to safety.
Abbán Ó Braoin gave a weak laugh and rested his head against the wall. “Hardly a victory, Faelan, when they barely realize we exist.”
“The Elect know we exist, Abbán, and we shan’t let them win. As for the others, they are not our enemy. If they don’t
know we exist, then we let them know. And if we have to ask for their help, we shall ask.”
“And what makes you think they will help the likes of us?” said Abbán Ó Braoin, though his voice was harder now, challenging, as if he were genuinely seeking an answer.
“Belief,” replied Faelan Garret. “I’ll no longer live in fear of believing in others, Abbán. And I’ll not accept such cowardice in you either. Now keep walking, if not for your sake then for the sake of the others.” He let go of the man’s coat. “Believe, Abbán. And walk.”
And so they did, into the teeth of the storm.
* * *
The wide windows of Tynan Camus’s rooms looked out across Sunrise Plaza and toward the city’s largest view screen. Halfway through the evening’s extended broadcast—he had worked the players hard in order to produce so much in one day, but it had been necessary in order to distract the people from the storm—he was pleased to see the crowd growing, settled in their seats as food sellers plied their wares up and down the aisles. With luck, the worst of the storm would have passed before the chapter ended.
He glanced up at the dome above. It had dulled to a murky gray instead of glowing with its customary brightness. But soon this trial would be over, and once the storm had passed, the land beyond would be washed clean of its blight and the strangers from the Sungate would have perished together with Ennis Channon’s troublesome—if comely—daughter.
It was a shame that Rhionna had not been more pliant. Her spirit would have been a challenge, and an alliance between his family and hers would have been expedient. But marriage was certainly not the only way to rise to the position of Pastor. With Rhionna and her Seawolf lover dead, Channon had no heir. Tynan smiled at the thought, smoothing his hands across his velvet robes of office. It was only a matter of time before the position was his.
Behind him, a door opened and soft footsteps approached. Below, in the plaza, the chapter was unfolding, and through the glass window he heard the gasps of the audience as the drama reached its climax. He felt a presence at his shoulder, but did not turn around. There was no need. “What is it, Aidan?”
“Pastor Ennis Channon wishes to speak with you, Brother Camus. He is most insistent.”
Tynan did not bother to suppress his sigh. “Tell him I am in the Sunrise building and not to be disturbed.”
“He appears…agitated. He asks to speak to you about his daughter.”
At this, Tynan turned around. Aidan looked worried and refused to meet his gaze. “About his daughter?”
“Yes, Brother.”
Could it be that the crab had discovered its claws? The influence of the strangers appeared to be more damaging than Tynan had anticipated. Yet he was not blind to the opportunity this might present. Folding his hands, he thought for a moment. “Tell Pastor Channon that I will meet him in the broadcast room in one hour, to hear what he wishes to say about his disgraced daughter. When you have given him the message, return here immediately.”
Aidan bowed and retreated in silence. Tynan smiled to himself. Yes, an opportunity indeed. Rhionna was cast out. To mention her name defied the will of the Elect. It would be a matter of great ease to record the Pastor’s heretical words in the broadcast room, and thus to condemn him before the Elect. Channon would soon be the last of his family to bear the noble title of ‘Pastor.’
As the door clicked shut, Tynan turned back to the window.
“Nice apartment.” The accented voice was close to his ear, and something cold and metallic was pressed to the side of his head. “Shame about the view.”
“O’Neill.” Tynan let his lip curl. “I thought you were dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Not.” Keeping the gun leveled, O’Neill circled around to stand in front of him. “You and I are going for a little walk.”
“Is that so?” Any minute now, Aidan would be back. Tynan offered a smile. “Tell me, how did you elude my men in the Badlands?”
“I took a little ride with some friends.”
“Ah, the Seawolves.” He wrinkled his nose. “I hope you didn’t bring back anything contagious.”
“Highly contagious,” O’Neill said. “Freedom, justice, and apple pie on Sunday.”
Secretly amused by the prospect of Aidan’s imminent return and its inevitable consequences, Tynan played along. “Pie?”
Then the door opened and Aidan fell through, inert and face-first on the floor, with blue energy dancing across his limbs. Behind him stood Rhionna Channon, brandishing one of the outsider’s weapons, a grim smile on her face. “Hello Tynan,” she said, aiming the gun at him. “Surprise.”
Fury shredded any fear he might have felt. “You dare to raise arms against the Elect? To return here when even your father has disowned you as a Seawolf whore?”
She never even flinched as she stepped over Aidan’s prone body. “We should go now,” she advised O’Neill. “I saw my father leave, but everyone else is watching tonight’s chapter.” Eyes alive with rage, she turned on Tynan and he drew back despite himself. The woman was wild, crazed as the Seachráni. How had he ever desired to bed her? “There is irony in that, is there not, Tynan Camus?” she crowed. “Sunrise—your great distraction—will distract your men tonight.”
“You will pay with your life for this,” he hissed. “All of you.”
Gun still raised, O’Neill moved in beside Rhionna. “If I had a dime for every bad guy who told me that…” He glanced at her. “We need to get to the top of the wall, close to the gates.”
She nodded. “There is a way, but we must hurry. The worst of the storm will soon be upon them, and they cannot last long against it.”
“What do you intend?” Glancing at their sun-coarsened faces, Tynan felt a new beat of fear, a new unease. “What do you intend to do?”
O’Neill smiled, a brief quirk of his lips. “Like I said—freedom, justice and apple pie. Highly contagious.” With his weapon, he prodded Tynan to move. “And you’re gonna get a front row seat at the show.”
* * *
Gaining entry to the Sunrise building was less difficult than Sam had anticipated. Unlike any other city she’d visited, the streets here were deserted at the best of times, but now, with the Ark’s tiny population clustered around the TV screens, she half expected to see tumbleweed blowing past.
At the back of the building, she found a door whose lock was no match for a swift kick. The noise was a calculated risk, but she figured it was worth taking. Sorcha watched her in silence, her wiry frame growing tenser by the moment. Sam waited for a slow count of one hundred. When she didn’t hear any sounds of alarm being raised, she gestured for Sorcha to follow her inside.
The power supply seemed to be selective, and on these lower floors the only illumination consisted of filtered daylight that crept out of disused offices. With the tip of her gun she pushed open several doors until she found what she was looking for: a stairwell.
“Rhionna said the studio is on the tenth floor.”
“This plan will fail.” Trailing Sam like a grumpy shadow, Sorcha continued her doomsaying. “We will be captured and executed and Sciath Dé will never be activated; you toy with the fate of this world, Samantha Carter.”
“We can’t just let those people die out there.” Sam looked up the stairwell as high as she could see. Nothing. With a nod, she gestured for Sorcha to follow and began to climb the stairs. “Once they’re inside, there’ll be plenty of time to figure out how to get the shield working. Trust me.”
Sorcha snorted. “Trust is a luxury.”
“Maybe, but—” A sound above. Her hand gripped Sorcha’s thin arm, squeezing hard to ensure silence. A door closed, the noise bouncing down the stairs until it faded away to nothing. Sam let out a quiet sigh. “Come on, let’s just get this done.”
Sorcha on her heels, she continued up the staircase.
* * *
Ennis Channon crossed Sunrise Plaza as if it were the first time that he had walked beneath the golden sign or stared up
at the vast screen. He suddenly felt alien in his own city, and the feeling was profoundly disturbing. Everywhere he looked he saw faces consumed by an appetite he no longer shared.
Did they not understand the emptiness they worshiped—the vacuous content of what he had once considered the Message, but now saw as no more than entertainment? Did they not see that they were being manipulated by the Elect, that they were complicit in their own ignorance? Ennis suspected that he had known this truth for some time but, through cowardice, had chosen to pretend otherwise. Until, for his child, his blood, it was too late. That Rhionna was out there, perhaps already lost to the raging sea, made him sick to his core. Made him brittle with anger.
He stalked past the rows of oblivious faces, all lifted to the screen and ignoring the storm gathering above them. Ignoring the world. He hated their mindless indifference, the lure of Sunrise’s complaisant hypocrisy—all will be well, all is well, do not worry.
It was time to do what he had never dared do before; stand up to Tynan Camus. Stand up to the Elect and speak truth to the people. And if he was banished to the Badlands for his efforts or, worse, to Acarsaid Dorch, then so be it. He knew he could live within the Ark no longer. Not without Rhionna—not with the guilt he bore for her exile and death.
Sweeping into the Sunrise building, he pushed past the startled guards, torn away from their screens by his arrival. They dared not stop him, and were, he supposed, only too glad to return to their entertainment.
In the elevator, he closed his eyes so that he would not see the strip-screen above the door, but he could not block the players’ voices from his mind. While his daughter was dying outside, these players feigned tears over fictitious sorrows and the people of the Ark looked on in avid delight.
The doors slid open, and as he stepped out into the empty corridor of Floor Ten, his footsteps echoed, empty in an empty world.
It made him want to weep with regret and shame.
