Stargate Atlantis: The Chosen (Stargate Atlantis)

by Whitelaw, Sonny

  Lisera whimpered and clutched Ford a little tighter. Easier game. The outlying farms and villages unprotected by the patchy EM fields definitely fit that category.

  Teyla looked less certain. “I do not believe the Wraith have yet arrived on this world.”

  “Which probably means that a hive ship is bearing down on us right now, coming from somewhere in not-so deep space,” Rodney snapped. “I won’t know for certain until I get a look at their warning system. Either way, the Wraith will have to land outside the EM fields, which means they’ll attack on foot. And that brings me back to my earlier point. We came here to see the transport, and while we’re on the subject, I’ll need to take a look at those shields.”

  Leave it to Rodney to have such a universal sense of entitlement.

  Balzar’s expression turned thoughtful, which could only mean that he’d missed Rodney’s demands entirely. Addressing John, he said, “Only last week the Wraith attacked as you say. They arrived on foot and stole the lives of many of our people. We were fortunate in that there were only two of the monsters.”

  “Did the Chosen kill them?” John asked.

  “The Chosen wouldn’t dare risk their almighty, overfed hides,” scoffed the applecart owner. “That is why they have not come and opened the transport—”

  “Yann!” Balzar snatched up a wicked looking double-bladed axe and brandished it. John dodged sideways, bumping into Rodney. Most of the men, none of whom were exactly tiny, raised equally deadly-looking swords and axes. Okey-dokey. That answered the question of how they’d managed to kill a Wraith.

  “Time, people. We’re running out of time here!” Despite the oversized pack on his back, Rodney was all but jumping up and down. “Transport? Shields?”

  “Cool it, Rodney.”

  “Cool it?” he cried, still hopping. “The Wraith are coming, probably in one of those hive ships we’ve all heard so much about, and you’ve now broken my toe, which means that even if we leave these good people to their little Stephen King-style Wagnerian opera, the chances of us reaching the jumper and thus the ‘gate in time are approaching statistical insignificance!”

  “The Shields and transport are forbidden to all but the Chosen,” snapped Balzar. Not much doubt how he felt about that.

  “Well, can we at least take a look? We may have something similar on our world.” The transport sounded to John like those on Atlantis, which meant it might just operate on the same principles.

  “What harm can the strangers do, Balzar?” Yann the applecart man cast an appraising eye at John’s P-90. “The horn from the Citadel still blows, and the Chosen do not come.”

  “It is a test of our faith,” Balzar replied belligerently.

  “More a question of payment,” Yann muttered.

  Balzar curled one of his ham-sized fists and stared at Yann with narrowed eyes.

  “I promise I won’t touch anything,” John added with a reassuring smile.

  Lisera moaned again. Ford was looking more than a little worried. “Sir, I really need to take another look at her leg.”

  Yann abruptly pushed past Balzar. “If I am to die this day, let me at least die with ale in my belly. Innkeeper!” he called, motioning with his head for John to follow. “Five of your finest, against my coin.”

  The inside of the tavern smelled of spilled beer laced with the stench of mortal fear. Somewhat better dressed people clutching armfuls of bags reluctantly moved aside to let them through. John nodded and smiled politely as they made their way to the bar, well aware that they might as well be wearing neon signs blazing ‘Not from around here.’

  It wasn’t until he glanced toward the far left side of the inn that he saw the distinctive geometric glass doors. Aha. “Oh, Rodney?”

  “I see it.”

  “Thought so. Just…take it easy, all right? We don’t want to upset these nice folk.”

  “What makes you think that I upset people? I’m the epitome of reason and composure at the moment, in spite of what I’d call an increasingly hostile atmosphere. Notice also that I’m not even complaining about my mangled toe, so you’re welcome. I would like to state for the record, however, that you’re heavier than you look.”

  Outside, another argument—or maybe it was the same one—got underway. Those in the inn eyed them, silent and suspicious, unwilling to give up their place by the transport doors. Judging by their dress, it seemed merchants and townspeople had first crack at gaining entry to the Citadel. Although John was sorely tempted to push his way past the bar and through the crowd to the transport, Teyla’s expression told him that the Wraith were still a ways off. In his experience, giving people a little time to get used to strangers invariably resulted in fewer misunderstandings and lower body counts.

  “You risk much, Yann,” growled the innkeeper, a wizened old man with a potbelly and arthritic, misshapen fingers. He filled a copper tankard with something that frothed like beer and set it on the wooden bar with a thud, spilling half the contents in the process.

  The distant horn sounded again, and the argument outside spread into the tavern. People began muttering among themselves. They’d been primed to expect a Wraith attack, or a rescue, or both, and now nothing was happening except a bunch of out-of-towners dropping in for a surprisingly good beer.

  Man, how long had it been since he’d had a beer? And it was real this time, which was a bonus. Too bad they were on a tight schedule. John licked the froth off his lips and smiled winningly at the innkeeper. “Mighty fine brew you make here. I’m just gonna go take a look around, okay?” With a meaningful glance at Ford, he tried to edge his way between a couple of farmer types who smelled like the animal dung that Rodney had discovered. They refused to budge, deliberately blocking his path.

  Ford tensed, but the young Lieutenant’s eyes were resolute. There wasn’t a whole lot he could do at the moment with Lisera clinging to him, but if things went to hell, he’d drop the girl. For once, even Rodney seemed to pick up on the tenuous situation, and wisely channeled his energy into observing rather than commenting.

  The farmer types glanced past John’s shoulder, presumably at Yann, and then, with a surly growl, separated. The rest of the crowd also shuffled back, letting the team through. A buxom, well-dressed woman with apple-pink cheeks and an amazingly hideous hairdo blocked the wall where the control panel was generally mounted. John turned on his most charming grin when Yann, who was now bringing up the rear, said, “The newcomer will not take your place in line. He just wishes to see.”

  “Love what you’ve done with the—” John waved his hand in the direction of the woman’s tangled braids and added a few more degrees of curvature to his smile.

  Uttering something between a simper and a huff, she edged aside. Without a second thought, John brought his hand to the plate. The glass doors opened—and kept opening until the entire side of the inn seemed to fold back.

  The effect was instant and profound. The woman visibly paled. Gasps filled the inn, and a cry went up. “He is of the Chosen. They are all of the Chosen!”

  Instead of the small, elevator-sized room he’d been expecting, the floor angled down beneath ground level and widened out into a room large enough to take several hundred people.

  John was finally getting used to the idea of expecting the unexpected on these missions. And this was mild on the unexpectedness scale, at least so far. Which could only mean that there were a number of proverbial other shoes still waiting to clonk him on the head.

  “Whoever these Chosen are, they must have the Ancient gene,” Ford reasoned.

  McKay rubbed his forehead, grimacing as if that comment had physically caused him pain. “Another brilliant deduction, Lieutenant.”

  A horde of people surged forward and down the ramp, tripping and sliding as they went. “The Chosen will save us.” The call rolled across the mob, bringing with it a palpable wave of relief.

  “Whoa! Slow down,” John yelled, barely managing to get out of the way.

  Ever
yone froze and stared fearfully at him. Well, that was an improvement over his first couple of attempts.

  A florid-faced woman near the inn’s doors called, “Forgive us for our doubts.”

  “We beseech you,” implored someone else. “It was only fear that drove us to speak as we did. We beg of you to save us!”

  “Oh, please,” Rodney said with disdain. “Major Sheppard wasn’t ‘chosen’ for anything besides iceberg duty back home. How many times do I have to explain that the gene doesn’t—?”

  John slammed the heel of his boot down on Rodney’s toe, trying not to take any satisfaction in the affronted yelp that resulted. “I didn’t say stop,” he called out, directing a threatening glare toward the scientist. “Just take it easy.” Ignoring Rodney’s theatrics as the scientist grasped hold of the bar and massaged his foot, John turned to Teyla. “Still no Wraith, huh?”

  The villagers and fishermen kept pouring past them and down into the transport, although their pace was somewhat less frantic than before. Balzar, and then Yann walked past, ducking as he went, as if trying to hide.

  “Hey, Yann?”

  The man froze, and then turned a wary head in John’s direction, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “I owe you a beer, pal.”

  If anything, Yann looked even more confused, but he nodded and kept walking.

  “I still do not sense the Wraith,” Teyla said. “Nor do I understand how it is that anyone on this world carries the blood of the Ancestors within them.”

  “Gene,” corrected Rodney through clenched teeth. “And did you absolutely have to injure me? A simple ‘shut up, Rodney’ would have sufficed. Although why it is—”

  “Rodney? Shut up.”

  “Maybe they’re straight-up, no-kidding Ancients, sir,” Ford said. “Just think, we might finally get to meet one.”

  The crowds began to pile up, until it was clear that no one else could fit in the transport. “Looks like we’d better save that thought for later. Ford, go with Rodney and these people into the Citadel. Teyla and I will hang out here and bring up the rear.”

  An imminent objection was visible in Rodney’s eyes even before he voiced it. “What’s the rationale behind this division of labor? I’m all for leaving, but we don’t have the first clue what we’ll stumble into when this thing dumps us out into the Citadel.”

  John’s discomfort with the unstable situation was growing, and his teammate’s commentary wasn’t helping, so he wasted no time with his rebuttal. “The alternative is for you to stay behind and risk facing one of those Wraith ground assaults you spoke so highly of. We can’t be sure that whoever takes the transport will be able to send it back here in time or at all, and one of us with the gene has to go, so you tell me who it’s going to be.”

  Rodney’s jaw clicked shut. “Point taken.”

  It wasn’t the scientist’s fault that strategic thinking wasn’t exactly second nature to him. John let go of the edge in his tone when he added, “Wait inside the Citadel for us. We should be able to move everyone in two trips, three at most.”

  “All right.” Rodney sent him a quick, hard stare. “Don’t take long.”

  “We won’t. Go.”

  Once Ford had taken his place inside the transport with Lisera, Rodney squeezed in behind him, which wasn’t easy, considering the girth of his pack. The expression on the scientist’s face clearly said that he wasn’t enjoying the proximity of so many people. He squinted at what John presumed to be a control panel, then raised his hand to touch it. The wall slammed back into place with a forceful, metallic clang. Not exactly the smooth, relatively silent operation of the transport on Atlantis. A locally manufactured copy, maybe?

  “Okay, then,” John said, exhaling a long breath. “Now we wait for the next train.”

  Teyla kept a watchful eye on the remainder of the crowd, which was still large by any measure. They were calmer now that a rescue operation was underway, but the undercurrent of fear persisted.

  “How long does it usually take between transports?” John asked someone who, based on the smell, was a fisherman. The young man was nearly bent double with the weight of the bag he carried. Apparently he subscribed to the McKay style of packing.

  The man stared at him oddly for a moment before replying, “It is only the time needed to unload everyone inside the Citadel. A matter of minutes.”

  “Minutes that we may not have if the Wraith are upon us!” wailed a woman’s voice from somewhere near the inn’s front door.

  “Well, they’re not here yet, so let’s try to keep a positive attitude, all right?” Once the words were out, John winced inwardly at how trite they sounded. He wasn’t cut out for this reassurance thing. “Hey, Teyla?”

  The Athosian turned toward him, eyebrows arched inquiringly.

  “I’m sure this is a dumb question, but this connection you have to the Wraith…Is there any way you can describe how it manifests itself? How do you tell the difference between general anxiety and an honest-to-God alert?”

  “If I could explain that, Major, we would have already solved more problems than this one.”

  “I figured as much. Let’s check the situation outside.”

  The jostling and shoving in the square abruptly stopped when the newcomers stepped from the inn. John scanned the sky with a trained gaze. Still no sign of the Wraith. He wanted to be reassured by that, but he knew better. The longer it took those bastards to show up, the better the chances that this would end up less like a fast-food run courtesy of a handful of Darts and more like a major harvest involving hive ships.

  A fleet of at least sixty ships was out there somewhere, each filled to the brim with scores of repulsive creatures who wanted nothing more than to make a meal out of them. Every time John thought about it, a sick feeling reached in with icy fingers and twisted his gut. He’d been a military man for a long time and understood that people offered many reasons for killing: for duty, for faith, for mercy, even for sport. The idea of a race that killed for its very existence, though, was still barely fathomable to him. It left him with some serious doubts about the overall state of justice in this galaxy.

  Having some kind of sensor equipment available would have made him feel a lot more secure right now. The EM shields were definitely worthwhile, but they left him functionally blind. Possibly in more ways than one, since he couldn’t be sure that the shields weren’t preventing Teyla from sensing the Wraith’s approach.

  Something was pressed into his hand, and he glanced down to find a stooped older woman averting her repentant gaze. “I… I did not pay as much as I should have the last time I used the transport,” she confessed. “I beg forgiveness.”

  John glanced inside the badly cured leather bag she’d given him. A handful of rough gold coins glinted in the morning light. Huh. This was a side effect of being Chosen that hadn’t occurred to him. He was tempted to make some lighthearted comment to Teyla about flipping her for the loot, but the entire situation was taking on a desperate edge that precluded that kind of levity.

  Others began clambering around them, trying to press upon them everything from baskets of shellfish to furs. He started to say something, but Teyla already had it covered. “We have come to trade with you, not take from you,” she called into the encroaching throng.

  “But you are of the Chosen. We must give payment so that you will transport us into the Citadel and protect us!”

  A child tugged at Teyla’s hand. Wide-eyed, but more out of curiosity than fear, he asked, “Where is your Shield of Dalera?”

  Teyla hesitated, looking to John. Still trying to convince the old woman to take her money back, he could only toss a helpless shrug in his teammate’s direction. If Teyla of all people couldn’t come up with a smooth answer, did she really expect him to be able to pull it off? Before she could attempt a response, the crowd surged forward and into the inn.

  Moments later, Rodney’s voice cut through the low, anxious conversations. “Excuse me, excuse me, coming thr
ough.”

  A flare of anger erupted in John, overshadowing his relief that the transport had returned. There was a lot that he didn’t love about the Air Force, but at least there, people listened. Usually. “McKay, what part of ‘wait with Ford’ wasn’t clear to you?”

  “He seemed perfectly all right with the others. The chief, what’s his name? Balzar? And Yann. Would you cross those two? They’re gargantuan.”

  “Dammit, Rodney!” John pushed his way through the villagers toward the unapologetic scientist. “Did you even poke your head out of the transport and look at what they were walking into?”

  “I didn’t see any point, given that both our options and our time were limited, and I couldn’t be sure that the transport would immediately return here without someone to command it. Would you rather I left you out here a while longer to soak up the ambiance?” He pivoted away, already moving on.

  There was truth under that layer of perpetual impatience, John realized. For all his overdeveloped tendencies toward self-preservation, Rodney had been concerned enough about the rest of his team to override both his instincts and his instructions. Tough to argue with that.

  The sea of people parted to let them pass, recognizing that deliverance was near. Once inside the inn, John shouldered his way through the crowd by the transport entrance and activated the panel. As before, the walls folded back, and as before, the villagers rushed inside.

  The room filled to capacity in minutes, and for the first time, all the panicked shoving ceased. “Is that everybody?” John quickly moved through the now-empty inn and ducked out into the square to check. Sure enough, there was no evidence of life remaining in the village or along the beach—which, he noted for future reference, had a nice wave break near the point. He hustled back into the packed transport and scrutinized the control panel. The expected map was absent, and only one light glowed on the plasma screen.

  “A single point of egress, apparently,” Rodney declared unnecessarily, smacking his hand down on the light.

  Just like the transports on Atlantis, all right. The doors opened almost immediately, spilling filtered light into the chamber. Before any other sensations could make themselves known, they were assaulted by a pungent odor. John crinkled his nose in disgust and leaned closer to Rodney, sniffing experimentally.