“You’ll have to forgive me for not shaking your hand.” John gave a sarcastic tug on his bindings.
“I regret that this was necessary, but we were desperate. There is much you should see before returning to the Enclave.” The merchant spoke in a measured, even tone. “When the Great Plague visited us two generations past, countless Dalerans, perhaps as many as three quarters of our number, were stuck down.”
Rodney’s head snapped up at that, but Yann ignored him and continued. “In the years hence, fewer and fewer Chosen ventured beyond the Enclave to operate the village transports. Today, when the Shields glow and the alarm is raised, Kesun alone evacuates but a handful of villages.
“Many of us have long suspected that the Plague struck the Chosen even harder, and as a result, they are now few in number. It is the only explanation for the way they failed in fulfilling their duty to the people of Dalera. The teaching windows tell us that these last weeks have been but a small taste of the great culling to come. And yet with so few Chosen, even the Citadel cannot provide safe haven.”
“So you’re not overly enchanted with the Chosen right now,” John summed up. “We can empathize with that. But—”
A young voice full of idealistic determination broke in. “Release them. The Chosen command it!”
The assembled merchants turned to where Lisera stood, leaning unsteadily on one of the crutches. John shut his eyes with a wince. Although he appreciated the effort, it probably wasn’t the best idea.
“Lisera, we can handle this.” Ford attempted to dissuade her.
Ignoring the chuckles and jeers from the crowd, the girl reached for Rodney’s Shield and yanked it free.
“What? You couldn’t possibly have taken his instead?” Rodney jerked his restrained hands in John’s direction. Being unable to gesture was definitely putting a crimp in the scientist’s style.
No one was listening to him, though, because all eyes were on the Shield that had changed from black to a dull turquoise in Lisera’s hand. Through the murmurs, Yann remained unmoved. He cocked an eyebrow at Rodney. John wasn’t sure if it was a good poker face, or if they were about to be even more screwed than they already were.
“I knew you when you could not yet speak, Lisera,” the merchant said. “When your mother first moved from the Citadel to the village.”
Alarmed by the look on Rodney’s face, which was beginning to adopt a ‘eureka’ expression, John was about to explain, but Yann added, “You were not of the Chosen.” He turned a calculating eye to his captives. “What has changed between then and now?” John opened his mouth to reply, but again, Yann beat him to the punch. Staring wide-eyed at Lisera, he added, “You were made Chosen in Atlantis!”
That revelation was met with gasps of wonder and loud mutters that spread across the nearby crowd like a tidal wave. “The medicine of which you spoke.” Yann pointed an accusing finger at Rodney. “You gave her the genetherapy!”
“What? Me?” Rodney retorted in a voice that was just short of a squeal. “Don’t be ridiculous, I hate needles—Wait, you were actually listening to me about all that?”
While the word genetherapy was whispered from person to person, Yann merely met Rodney’s gaze with sage understanding. “You are of the Chosen, yet you do not approve of their laws. You have made no secret of it.”
“That may well be, but I’d be the last person to administer the gene therapy to anyone. Besides, there was no need. Lisera is a natural carrier.”
Or maybe they’d just go with the truth and see how that went.
“Dr McKay!” Teyla hissed.
“What?” Rodney snapped indignantly. “I’m just clarifying the situation. And I’m getting incredibly tired of having to repeat myself. The gene doesn’t make anyone Chosen. It simply allows them to operate the same technology as the Chosen, which we’re going to have to rename because I think we’ve effectively proven the term ‘Chosen’ to be inaccurate.”
The sour feeling in John’s stomach abruptly turned into full-blown heartburn. He whipped around to glare at Rodney while the muttering in the crowd swelled in volume. Rodney blinked back at him. “What? Did you have a better story to tell? Something about magic fairy dust?”
It was a reasonable point, but John was getting tired of McKay’s bull-in-a-china-shop diplomacy. “So help me, Rodney, if I could move my hands right now…”
With confusion and a hint of betrayal, Lisera stared at them. Yann quieted the murmurs, took the Shield from her hand and reattached it to Rodney’s belt. “This potion you have, this genetherapy can make anyone Chosen?”
“The evidence speaks for itself, doesn’t it?” Rodney looked somewhat mollified that his Shield had been returned. “I’m a textbook case.”
Although Yann might not have entirely understood McKay’s explanation, he must have gotten the drift, because his eyes narrowed and he turned to John. “You also received this potion?”
Not much point in hiding the truth now. Still glaring at McKay, John replied, “No, like Lisera, I’m a natural carrier.”
If this gang of rebels-in-waiting had a leader, Yann had to be it, because everyone seemed to be looking to him for guidance. “What say you of the Chosen?” he asked, his gaze fixing on John. “Do you believe their rule is just?”
This time there was no way in hell John was going to let Rodney speak for them. “We don’t take sides,” he said firmly. “How you choose to live is your business. We just don’t want to see the Wraith come in and tear the place apart.”
Yann regarded him with cold eyes. “You do not ‘take sides,’” he repeated, his voice filled with enough contempt to make John wince. “Come.” He gave a sharp gesture to the quartet of merchants who had taken their weapons. The men took up positions around the team and prodded them forward.
“Now what?” Rodney said under his breath.
They were led out of the Sanctuary Hall and through a series of alleys. Within moments, John realized that they’d been painfully ignorant of the truth of this place, and he wanted his ignorance back.
In the backstreets, they found a degree of poverty and destitution that rivaled any on Earth. Beggars staked out their territory, shoving off emaciated children with festering eyes and open sores. He’d been involved in humanitarian missions in Africa, and had seen some truly appalling conditions, but this was far beyond anything he’d ever witnessed.
Holy— He jerked back in shock as the analytical part of his mind identified a lump lying on top of a garbage heap as a corpse, obviously a victim of gross malnutrition. The gasp that came from somewhere behind him sounded like Teyla.
“It is the same in much of the Citadel,” Yann said. He kept his gaze trained on the cobblestone path, deftly navigating his way through the worst of the filth. “Those who rule have no interest in anything but taking payment in return for protection that they cannot provide.” He didn’t need to explain how hunger, squalid living conditions, and the resultant explosion of infectious diseases had created fertile ground for social anarchy.
Ford jumped when a beggar clawed at his arm. One of their guards swiftly pushed the babbling old woman aside. John flinched at the sight, but understood that the guards were acting out of necessity rather than a lack of compassion. If they stopped moving, anything they had of value, up to and including the clothes on their back, would be stripped in seconds. Probably not gently, either.
Yann continued to lead them deeper into the Citadel, cautioning them to watch their feet when he stepped over a nearly overflowing gutter. One whiff of its contents had John silently vowing never again to complain about the plumbing on Atlantis.
“There is no way to be sure, but we believe that dozens perish each day—far more than have yet been taken by the Wraith.” Yann wordlessly sidestepped a load of garbage being tossed from a third-floor window, and pointed to an even narrower side-alley. “The entrance is near.”
They walked down a set of uneven steps made all the more treacherous by a slick coating that Jo
hn had no desire to identify. Fortunately, the stairs soon ended, depositing them in a winding tunnel lit by torches. Yann moved decisively, apparently familiar with the route.
A solid thud sounded in the dim light, and Rodney stumbled into John’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he muttered. “There’s something on the floor—oh.”
There was someone on the floor, actually. At least, that limp bundle of rags had been a someone not so long ago. A pair of rodents, roused by the commotion, scurried out from under the body to disappear into the darkness.
“Can I assume,” Rodney asked the team at large, “that none of us are clinging to the fantasy of the Chosen as enlightened despots anymore? I don’t require any kind of apology, but let’s make sure we’re all finally on the same page here.”
“Not helpful right now,” John told him shortly, glancing back at Teyla. The Athosian had remained silent throughout this tour from Hell, but despite her outward control, he was fairly certain he’d never seen her so shaken. Having been more or less on her side when it came to not getting involved in the Dalerans’ business, he wasn’t feeling too great at the moment, either.
“Be silent,” Yann ordered. He guided them into another tunnel, this one outfitted with a thick iron door and several armed men acting as guards.
The men greeted him with relief. “It is well that you have returned,” one guard said. “I do not know for how much longer we can keep word from spreading.”
“Word of what?” Rodney demanded.
Rather than reply, Yann led them further into the tunnel. The passage got progressively smaller until everyone but Teyla had to duck low to continue. They soon came upon a small section of rock that had fallen away to reveal a cavern beyond the tunnel wall. The smell of salted fish and something more wafted out from the hole. “What is this?” he asked in a low voice.
Yann gestured. “Look for yourself.” His tone was edged with bitterness.
Through the hole, John saw a bunch of flickering torches illuminating a huge chamber. He counted five double doors, presumably leading into other rooms, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. As he watched, men carrying square baskets of dried meat walked down a set of narrow steps and carefully stacked them along wooden racks. Then it hit him. Why was so much food being squirreled away, when the Citadel’s residents were starving? He moved away so that Rodney could see.
Yann explained, “There are many such places containing dried fish and fruits, cheeses and preserves, all of it payment demanded from us for use of the transport.”
“Who are these people?” Rodney demanded in a voice John wished was a few decibels short of a holler.
“We believe they are servants bonded to the Chosen at birth,” Yann said. “Until recently, their existence has only been guessed at.”
“Oh, come on,” Rodney declared, moving aside so that Teyla could see. “That’s not servitude, it’s slavery. Which explains why the Enclave and the Chosen still have their upscale look. Without this subculture running around looking after them, that temple would be buried under a layer of dust.”
“What’s it for?” Ford asked, taking his turn at the hole.
“Provisions,” John answered before Yann could speak. “The Chosen knew they couldn’t protect everyone, so they’re stashing as much away as they can in preparation for the next culling.”
“Only those who can pay the most have been offered a place inside the Enclave,” spat Yann. “It is the one location that has never been breached by the Wraith.”
John looked around at the faces of his teammates. Ford’s held shock, while Rodney was obviously disgusted. Teyla stared back at him, her features shadowed by anger and a hint of betrayal. “It is unconscionable,” she said, the words laced with venom. “Food is stored in these secret halls while children starve in the streets. This deception…”Unable to continue, she fell silent.
The return trip through the tunnels was subdued. John recalled Kesun’s seemingly earnest claims with a sick feeling. Even if the man truly believed that the Chosen were following Dalera’s will, there was no conceivable justification for such an atrocity.
Once they were back outside, Yann stood with folded arms, impassive. “So,” he said simply. “Now you have seen.”
Trying to get a handle on the implications, John could only nod. “We’ve seen,” he agreed. “And we recognize that this can’t go on. I’m just not sure what the best course of action is yet.”
“The Sanctuary Halls are filled with fresh foodstuffs,” Teyla said, recovering her composure. “Why do you not share them with the poor?”
“It’s not that simple,” John found himself answering. He understood the complex and conflicting economic and sociopolitical aspects of the situation. “With a regime this powerful and the corruption so widespread, even the best intentions can get hijacked.” He looked at Yann, who nodded once, satisfied that they understood each other.
“The potion you possess,” the merchant said. “If it could be given to sufficient people, I believe we would have the capacity to both defend the Citadel and operate the transports. We could achieve that which Dalera commanded, to protect all against the Wraith, showing favor no more or less to one or another.”
“Without meaning to say I told you so,” Rodney piped up, “I believe this is exactly what I suggested at the outset.”
John shot him a glare. “Hadn’t we established that since Lisera has the gene, so might a lot of other people? The gene therapy probably isn’t necessary.”
Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Yann said, “You would refuse us this potion when you know it will save us?”
Behind him, two of the guards looked at one another, and their scowls deepened.
“I didn’t say that. I just think it’d save everyone a lot of time and trouble if you tested everyone first.”
“And what if only people the likes of Balzar have this gene? Will they use it as Dalera intended? I think not.”
“To whom would you give the genetherapy?” Teyla inquired.
“The poorest among us, so that their lives are made precious to all.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, but John was still hearing more warning bells even as he mentally raced through the possibilities. “I don’t know how much of this…potion we have to spare,” he pointed out. “Besides, I can’t promise you anything until we talk to our leader.”
“You are not the leader of your people?”
He clamped down on the automatic Hell, no, that came to his lips. Already he had far more responsibility than he’d bargained for. “No. So it’s not my decision to make.”
Yann nodded. “Then two of you may return to Atlantis in your Ancient craft, to confer with your leader. The other two must remain here until you bring us the potion.”
“That sounds a lot like—” Rodney tensed as his fisherman buddies took up positions around them, this time clutching their axes with more serious intent. “Taking hostages,” he finished, his annoyance colored by a twinge of worry.
John instinctively took a step forward and found himself blocked by a heavy staff across the chest. “This is not the best way to get cooperation from us,” he warned.
“I regret once again that it has become necessary. But our people are desperate, in all ways.” There was no malice in Yann’s expression, but his earnestness almost seemed more dangerous. “Two will remain. They will not be harmed, but they cannot leave.”
“One stays,” John countered. “Me. The rest go back.”
A snort came from Rodney. “Think it through before you fall on your proverbial sword, Major. Thanks to your reluctance to let me take the controls on the way down, you’re the only one with any experience navigating the jumper in space.”
Damn it. This was one decision he was not going to make for them. “Where we come from, our warriors have a code: leave no one behind.”
“Then you will return for them. With the potion.”
Frustration boiling just under the surface, John knew he was in no positi
on to intimidate these people. The fact that he halfway sympathized with them didn’t help matters.
“I will stay,” Teyla offered, her dark eyes hooded. “I spoke before of appreciating all viewpoints. Clearly there is more left to understand.”
“I’ll stay too, sir,” Ford volunteered. “I mean, I should keep an eye on Lisera.”
John hated this with a ferocity that physically burned. He didn’t want Teyla punishing herself for her misjudgment, and although he preferred having a military person stick around, leaving a subordinate in a hostile situation while he himself slunk home with his tail between his legs was intolerable.
Some sign of the conflict must have shown on his face, because Teyla stepped closer and forced him to look at her. “We will be all right,” she told him. “They have no wish to harm us, and they are in need of help we can provide.”
He set his jaw and nodded. “All right. We’ll back by morning at the latest.” Every ounce of conviction he possessed was funneled into that vow, in the hope that his teammates would take some assurance in it.
They were separated almost immediately, Ford and Teyla pulled toward a soot-stained doorway while he and Rodney were escorted back to the Sanctuary Hall. At the entrance to the transport, their Shields were confiscated and given to a confused and upset Lisera. The ropes were untied, and then they were on their own.
After negotiating their way through an increasingly surly bunch of villagers on the way back to the clearing where they’d parked the jumper, John was ready to snap. No matter which way he spun the situation, there were very few options available, and exactly none that would let him sleep at night. To make matters worse, Rodney hadn’t uttered a word since this hideous ‘deal’ had been struck. Somehow that was worse than the crowing he’d come to expect from the scientist.
At last, the conversational void got the better of him, and he growled, “What, no victory march? Or did you run out of creative ways to say ‘I told you so’?”
To his dismay, Rodney looked hurt for a split-second, before his expression hardened. “What kind of sociopath do you take me for, to think I’d be happy about what we just saw?”
Stargate Atlantis: The Chosen (Stargate Atlantis) Page 14
