Stargate Atlantis: The Chosen (Stargate Atlantis)

by Whitelaw, Sonny

  His teammate jumped away, looking at him like he’d lost his mind. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Just checking. You did shower after your little encounter with the waste storage tanks, right?”

  Glowering, the scientist chose not to dignify the question with an answer. “Thank you oh so much for that reminder. I certainly couldn’t have done without ever thinking of that incident again.”

  “The smell is…pervasive,” Teyla observed, her features carefully schooled against any reaction.

  “Maybe they’ve got a busted pipe somewhere.” John stepped out of the transport and took a look around. They’d been deposited in some kind of huge, enclosed marketplace. The villagers, moving with far less haste now, began to disperse into an already large gathering.

  “Merchants,” groused one of the new arrivals to another. “There are more of them each time.”

  “Of all the places in the Citadel to do their peddling, must they take over the one set aside for our shelter?”

  “They know this is our place of refuge, but that doesn’t put coinage in their hands. It seems to matter not to them that without us, they would have no goods to sell.”

  So capitalism was alive and well, maybe at the expense of other things. John continued to mentally catalogue the area, filing details away. He wasn’t convinced that all was okay just yet.

  The market stalls were mobile and arranged in no particular pattern, complicating the flow of foot traffic around them. Most likely it was an every-man-for-himself setup, with each merchant claiming whatever space he or she could find in the vast building. The upper walls of the structure were lined with a venerable display of medieval-style stained glass windows, which explained the dingy, filtered light. Above it all were ornately carved, cross-vaulted cathedral ceilings. Except for the fact that it was just one wide expanse of semi-organized commerce broken up by stone support columns, the whole place had a distinctly church-like feel to it. Completing the effect were massive, crouched gargoyles that were, oddly, positoned over the inside entrances at each corner of the building. John did a double take when he realized the larger than life statues weren’t gargoyles, but Wraith.

  In general, the sellers seemed to be a better-dressed bunch than the villagers, which probably shouldn’t have surprised him. Nearby, in a stall featuring what looked like herbs and medicinal items, Balzar stood watching Ford and a middle-aged woman tend to Lisera’s leg. Some of the merchants eyed the kid periodically, casting glances of appraisal that tweaked John’s nerves. Where he came from, looking at a teenage girl like that typically earned a guy an introduction to her father’s shotgun.

  Of course, Lisera didn’t have a father standing by. She had them instead.

  “Begone from here, you village rabble! You’re disturbing my customers.”

  John turned to see an irritated merchant shooing away a pair of village children who’d made the mistake of lingering near his fruit stall. The kids’ mother protested hotly. “You have no right to call us such—this is our place of safety. The Chosen have decreed it to be so. We paid to come, and you should have long since departed!”

  Similar quarrels had broken out in other areas. All in all, these merchants were a very different crew from the villagers. When one of the farmers gestured toward John in an obvious attempt to explain his Chosen status, the merchants displayed none of the obsequiousness that he’d witnessed at the inn. In fact, he was getting a definite vibe of resentment from them.

  “I’m thinking that maybe we don’t want to advertise ourselves too loudly around here,” he suggested to Rodney, who blinked, unaware of the tension.

  “Not quite as impressed by the Chosen as the villagers were?”

  “Something like that.”

  Any further conversation was cut off as the underlying noise level in the marketplace increased sharply. Storming in from all four entrances were men outfitted in leather uniforms, reminiscent of Wraith soldiers. The metal breastplate was an innovative addition, and the animal horns on the men’s helmets added a distinctly Norse twist. More attention-grabbing was the fact that each warrior carried a leather bola in one hand and a double-bladed axe with a long handle in the other.

  John had three thoughts in response to this dramatic display. The first was that those axes looked damn heavy, and that the men wielding them were even more muscular than the villagers. The second was that unless the Wraith had brought can-openers with them, the chest armor was likely an effective deterrent to snacking. And the third was the vain hope that these guys hadn’t shown up because of his team.

  Behind them, a sound signaled the reactivation of the transport, and an imperious but oddly pitched voice shouted above the clanking of metal. “Wraithcraft. There are Wraith objects among us!”

  The pathways between the stalls cleared rapidly to let the warriors through. John turned back toward the opening doors of the transport and got a look at the person doing the yelling. Despite the gravity of the situation, he had to bite down hard to keep a smirk off his face. The guy, walking out of the transport ahead of an incoming bunch of yet more villagers, was the walking definition of ‘overdressed.’ The cape of striped fur fastened at his shoulder with an elaborate gold pin contrasted sharply with their generally grimy surroundings. On his head was a winged helmet and around his neck hung a thick gold chain, from which dangled a familiar looking pendant about the size of a child’s fist.

  “Oh, man,” Ford said. “This guy dresses worse than a Goa’uld.”

  Not having had the pleasure of a Goa’uld encounter, John didn’t have much of a basis for comparison, but it sounded good. There was a fair amount of déjà vu involved here. The thing around the guy’s neck looked remarkably like the personal shield device that Rodney had discovered their first week in Atlantis. Then, almost as an afterthought, it hit him: the crystal inside the pendant was glowing. Not green this time, but the same hue as the ‘gate chevrons.

  There weren’t all that many coincidences in this galaxy, so this was yet another avenue they’d need to investigate. Later, though, for a whole new wave of panic was now sweeping across the marketplace.

  “Wraithcraft!” bellowed the robed man, his hands waving furiously in the air. The timbre of his voice carried easily above the murmurs of the crowd, even as they grew in intensity. “Who defiles Dalera’s Citadel by bringing Wraith objects here?”

  “They tricked us!” That shrill cry came from the same woman who had given John her gold coins only minutes before. The cynical part of his brain knew what was coming even before she stabbed one gaunt finger in his direction. “They are not Chosen. They do not wear the Shields of Dalera.”

  “They must be Wraith disguised to walk among us,” accused another voice. “They have used Wraith trickery to penetrate the Citadel!”

  Terrific. Help a few hundred people avoid a culling, and this is the thanks you get.

  Ford sprang up from his position near Lisera to join his teammates, and John appreciated his instincts. Getting separated would definitely not help matters. “Hey, hold up a minute,” he tried to yell over the din, but that turned out to be a fairly useless effort.

  People and voices swarmed accusingly around them. The Valkyrie-helmeted guy advanced, his features distorted into a snarl of rage. His axe-wielding buddies formed a barricade around John and his teammates that effectively pinned them against the nearby wall. Behind the row of axes, the merchants egged the warriors on, joined enthusiastically by some of the villagers.

  “Did we or did we not just save those guys’ asses?” John demanded, tightening his grip on his weapon.

  “Preaching to the converted, Major.” Rodney’s glib remark was belied by the unrestrained dread in his eyes. “A little on the mercurial side, these folks.”

  “Kill them!” shouted a fisherman.

  “Quarter them!”

  Lesson learned, John thought as the axe-men edged closer to his team. Next time you come upon an Ancient device, assuming there is a next time, k
eep your hands to yourself.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Comprehension struck, and Rodney fumbled with the switch on his radio. “Turn off everything!” He yanked the sensor from his jacket.

  “What?” Sheppard called back, raising his P-90. “Okay, everyone, we don’t want any trouble here.”

  Was it courage or idiocy that allowed the Major to sound so reasonable when they were about to be hacked to pieces by a crazed mob? Had to be the latter, right? “Turn off every piece of technology that you have. Life sign detectors, radios, everything.” Rodney cursed under his breath. He should have seen this coming. Hell, he halfway did see it coming, but halfway didn’t count, and where in blazes was the switch to this thing?

  “Take care, Kesun,” shouted Balzar, backing away from the prostrate Lisera and the P-90 that Lieutenant Ford was pointing into his face. “Their weapons spit fire that passes through even hardened metal.”

  “Blasphemy!” cried a cowering merchant. “Kesun is of the Chosen. He will protect us.”

  Face screwed up in obvious confusion, Ford shot a swift glance at Rodney. “What’s the point in turning off our radios? They’re not working, anyway.”

  “Turn off everything or we’re dead!” Rodney ripped out the tiny power pack of the sensor, and then, pulling off his backpack, scrambled through the contents. What else had he switched on, and what had possessed him to drag around all this equipment in the first place?

  “Kill them!” A woman’s screeches spurred the warriors on. “Before they kill us as they killed my children.”

  From the corner of his eye, Rodney could see the armed men advancing. This was not good. In fact, this was very, very bad.

  “Do it.” Sheppard switched off his radio and the life sign detector with one hand, the other still aiming his weapon. The shouting increased. “We’re not Wraith, but we will defend ourselves,” he announced, his tone a deadly matter-of-fact.

  Rodney was too busy ripping power packs and batteries from assorted equipment, Ancient and Earth related, to see exactly what happened next, but someone must have decided Teyla appeared the easiest target. That was an incredibly big mistake. The next moment, her legs and arms were flailing. An ornate blade passed mere inches above his head to bury itself with a solid ‘thunk’ into one of the timber columns. Then his ears were being hammered by the staccato noise of a P-90. Muzzle flashes lit the dank interior of the marketplace. He ducked low, crouching protectively over his pack. Maybe the instruments were currently useless, but they were valuable nonetheless. With access to Earth impossible until they found a ZPM, he wouldn’t be able to replace them any time soon.

  When the firing stopped, Rodney raised his head and chanced a look around. A Wraith carving, doubtless serving the same ridiculously superstitious and utterly pointless function as a medieval gargoyle, smashed down into a market stall, scattering assorted pots and pans.

  He welcomed the aroma of spent cordite, even if it failed to mask the obnoxious scent of poorly maintained sewers. In a brief moment of detachment, Rodney realized that he didn’t entirely like what that said about him. He’d had a much clearer viewpoint on weapons, and perhaps the military mindset as a whole, up until a few days ago. Kolya’s cold-blooded tactics had altered his perspective. Now, he viewed the weapon at his side not as a necessary evil, but as necessary.

  In any case, the automatic fire had halted the warriors in their tracks, and provoked a mass evacuation of the markets. Not a bad start.

  Unlike everyone else, the Hagar type, Kesun, hadn’t ducked for cover, but was instead directing troops to run off and do whatever it was that troops like these did. No doubt it would involve reinforcements and considerably more lethal weapons than the Viking-inspired battleaxes and halberds currently being wielded. On the plus side, around the official’s neck, the pendant which looked suspiciously like a personal shield device had now faded from its formerly brilliant glowing aquamarine to a flat, somewhat dull turquoise. Hopefully, that would put an end to this absurd situation.

  “They’re not Wraith, Kesun!” called a newly familiar voice. “They come from a far away land.”

  “Yann’s right,” Sheppard replied, not relaxing his weapon’s aim. “The Wraith are just as much an enemy to us as they are to you.”

  “Yet you carry Wraithcraft,” Kesun rasped.

  “Yes, but we’ve turned them off,” Rodney declared with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He glanced at Sheppard, and pointed to the bluestone accessory hanging from Kesun’s neck. “Those aren’t personal shield devices. I’m certain they’re the source of the EM fields we saw from the jumper. They must automatically detect and deactivate all electromagnetic devices, except the transport and themselves, of course.” Belatedly, he recognized the implications of that idea. “Well, that’s not going to make it any easier to figure out how they work. How am I supposed to take any readings when they turn off everything?”

  If anything, Kesun’s glower deepened.

  “What? Now what did I say?”

  “The penalty for Wraithcraft is death!”

  “You mean this?” Rodney lifted his sensor. A dozen warriors immediately raised their axes. He rolled his eyes, getting tired of this game. Dealing with ignorance was complicated enough. Ignorance combined with threats of violence was just plain irritating. “You have got to be kidding me. Not only is this equipment completely unrelated to the Wraith, some of it’s not even original to this galaxy.”

  “I don’t think these guys are likely to appreciate the distinction.” Sheppard lifted the muzzle of his P-90 higher. “Look, this is not a Wraith weapon. Watch.” He fired a single round into the ceiling before Rodney could comment about this being the traditional military solution to everything. A few splintered chips of timber rained down. The bluish crystal around the official’s neck remained obligingly dull. “See? Not a blink.”

  Kesun’s gaze was still deeply suspicious. “From whence do you come?” he demanded, edging closer and eyeing their clothes.

  “Atlantis,” replied the Major.

  If discovering that Sheppard could operate the transport had come as a shock to the villagers, that little announcement more or less turned the place on its ear. The troops instantly fell to their knees, while Kesun’s face displayed an impressive range of emotions, beginning with horror and ending with delirious happiness. “Dalera!” he breathed, turning to Teyla with his hands upraised. “You have returned to us!”

  Good grief. All this vacillation was giving Rodney vertigo. And apparently raising one’s hands to give thanks to some mythical being was a universal trait no matter what galaxy one inhabited. He made a note to let the anthropology team know about that, assuming they made it safely off this planet before being classified as hostile yet again.

  Teyla had barely worked up a sweat after having dispatched the two warriors who now groveled at her feet. Casting a cautious glance around her, she stepped forward and said, “My name is Teyla.”

  Dropping his hands, Kesun’s eyes fell to Lisera, then returned to the Athosian. “You are not Dalera? And yet you are a healer, and you are from Atlantis.” His smile turned curious. “You are a sister to Dalera, perhaps?”

  “We come from Atlantis, yes,” Teyla replied, apparently going for the simple and honest approach. “However, we are not the Ancestors.”

  “Then how can this be?” Kesun examined the now-closed transport doors, his face a mask of confusion. “Only the Chosen have the divine power.”

  And there they went again. Divine? This construct of ATA ability as some kind of holy gift was grating on Rodney’s nerves. He considered saying something, but a glance toward Sheppard’s heavy boots made his toes throb, and he thought better of it.

  Behind his carrot-colored beard, Kesun’s face went through another contorted set of emotions. “Which of you operated the transport?” he demanded.

  “They used Wraith trickery,” called Balzar. “Kill them all!”

  “Wraithcraft cannot deceive Dalera,” Ke
sun announced, and from somewhere deep inside of his pelt robe, he pulled out another one of the shield devices and handed it to Sheppard.

  “The Shield of Dalera,” came the mutters of various villagers and merchants who were slowly lifting their heads above the market stalls. “Kesun is allowing the newcomers to touch one of the Shields!”

  Rodney accepted the Shield from the Major and inspected it for similarities to the personal shield device. Superficially, it appeared almost identical, except, of course, for the color.

  “Pass it to the others,” Kesun ordered him.

  Reluctantly handing the device to Ford, Rodney muttered, “Hurry up. I need to take another look at it.”

  The aquamarine crystal within abruptly changed from a lifeless turquoise to black. In Teyla’s hands, it remained black, until she handed it back to Rodney. The color returned, although it did not glow. No surprise there, since the devices had obviously been programmed to work only in the presence of the ATA gene. However, unlike the personal shields, these apparently did not encode themselves to a user’s unique DNA. Interesting concept. Activating only in the presence of Wraith Darts and stun weapons was certainly an efficient way to conserve power, but it seemed the things blocked all EM radiation, Ancient and human.

  Turning to Rodney and Sheppard, Kesun gave a respectful but no longer ingratiating bow, and said, “As Chosen, you are most welcome to Dalera.”

  “Dalera?” Rodney said, fingering the device. “I’m confused. Isn’t that what you just called Teyla?”

  “I believe it is also the name of their world,” Teyla ventured.

  “Come.” Kesun headed to the transport. “I shall take you to meet the other Chosen.”

  Ford hesitated. “Sir? What about Lisera?”

  “You are not of the Chosen.” Kesun glanced down at the girl, then up at Teyla and Ford. “You may not enter the Enclave.”