STARGATE ATLANTIS: Dead End

by Chris Wraight

  Sheppard nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “No unnecessary risks.”

  Decision made. Now he’d just have to ensure that something useful came out of it.

  McKay picked at his collar nervously. The Jumper was fully loaded, the bulkheads stuffed with cold-weather gear. Like the rest of the team, he was decked out in ECWCS versions of their standard fatigues. In Atlantis’s controlled atmosphere they felt close and restrictive, but he knew they’d be needed as soon as they emerged from the other end of the wormhole. It was little comfort. He didn’t like the cold any more than he liked the heat, or the damp, or the dry.

  He still wasn’t sure he’d made the right choice in coming. It was either him or Zelenka, and the battle between his natural fear of the unknown and the chance of his colleague discovering something about the Ancients he didn’t know had been close. In the end, his thirst for knowledge had won. But only just. Now the nerves had returned and he felt terrible.

  Up in the cockpit, Sheppard ran through the final pre-flight checks, the translucent screens of the Ancient head-up display floating before him. Teyla sat in the co-pilot’s seat, Ronon next to McKay in the rear compartment. He seemed to take up all the spare space.

  “This damn thing’s too tight!” Rodney mumbled, trying to pull the insulated fabric from his neck.

  “Don’t pull it, then,” said Ronon.

  Sheppard spoke into the comm link. “Jumper’s good to go.”

  “Very good,” came Weir’s voice from the Operations Center. “You’re clear to leave when ready.”

  Sheppard ran his fingers over the Jumper’s control mechanism and McKay felt vaguely resentful of the man’s easy familiarity with Ancient technology. He didn’t seem to realize quite how lucky he was.

  “Here we go, boys and girls,” Sheppard said, casting a final watchful eye over the diagnostic readings streaming across the lower half of the HUD. “Watch yourselves on the other side. There’s a storm blowing.”

  “Oh, that’s just great,” muttered McKay. “We had to take off when there’s a storm blowing. Would it have been so hard to pick a clear window?”

  “From what I can tell, there’s always a storm blowing,” said Sheppard, maneuvering the Jumper into position. “Quit complaining. You’re the one that started all of this.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here to point these things out,” McKay grumbled.

  Sheppard ignored him and continued nudging the Jumper round.

  The ship hovered for a moment before powering the thrusters. Ahead, the surface of the Stargate shimmered with the vast energies of the contained event horizon.

  “Good luck,” Weir said. “Bring back something good.”

  McKay almost responded with a ‘like frostbite’ quip, but bit his tongue. Sheppard gave the necessary command and the Jumper responded with the strange, inertia-less movement so typical of Ancient technology. The sleek craft shot forward, the gate room blurring into the familiar split-second of wild disorientation before they were spat out.

  Except they weren’t. Something had gone wrong. Instead of emerging into a new world, they were hurtling along a snaking, whirling tube of energy.

  “This isn’t good,” Sheppard growled. “Oh, this is really not good…”

  The HUD ran with strange figures. The Jumper lurched sideways, scraping along the edge of the wormhole limits. McKay was thrown roughly against Ronon as the Jumper listed crazily.

  “What is happening?” Teyla yelled.

  “Ask McKay!” Sheppard snapped, battling for control of the Jumper.

  “What? This isn’t my fault!” McKay protested, heart thumping with alarm. “This didn’t happen to the MALP!”

  Unbuckling himself with fumbling fingers, he stumbled over to a control panel in the rear of the Jumper — and was nearly hurled straight into it by a fresh yaw sideways. “Keep this thing on the road, will you?”

  “You wanna fly?” Sheppard looked like he was struggling to maintain control.

  “We’ve got massive power loss,” shouted McKay, desperately flicking a series of controls. “We’ll need to use the Jumper’s own supply to get us out.”

  Teyla gave him a sharp look. “Can you do it?”

  “If I can’t, we’re beyond screwed!”

  “Any time you’re ready…” Sheppard ground out.

  John pulled the Jumper into a long, tight arc that rolled waves of nausea around McKay’s stomach. He swallowed hard.

  “OK, OK! I’m there. Are you getting anything now?” The Jumper swooped dizzyingly and McKay clamped his jaw shut, making a mental note to check the inertial dampeners.

  “I’ve routed all power to navigation,” Sheppard barked. “Something’s picking up on the display. I think we’re on the way out.”

  McKay slumped back in his seat and attempted to buckle up. “This didn’t happen to the MALP,” he muttered. “Zelenka must have gotten something wrong with the calculations. I should have run a final check myself. If you want something done…”

  He stole a quick glance at Ronon and Teyla. The huge Satedan was untroubled. Nothing seemed to faze him. Teyla was similarly stoic. They were both far too calm. God, he hated that.

  The Jumper lurched again. The readings suddenly changed, and a stream of data cascaded across the screen.

  “OK, we’re getting out of this,” announced Sheppard. “Get ready. We’ll be coming in hot.”

  McKay closed his eyes. “Ironic.”

  The swirling mass of energy in the forward viewscreen coalesced into the more familiar shape of a bubbling event horizon. The Jumper gave a final, bone-shaking shudder, slamming Rodney hard against the hull. A microsecond later, and they were through the gate.

  Sheppard felt like whooping.

  But it wasn’t over yet. Everything skewed, bounced and jumped as the gravitational forces suddenly changed. He compensated. Too late. The Jumper skidded, grazing something jagged and hard, before careering back into the air. The whole ship rolled around like a drunkard.

  “For God’s sake!” cried McKay, hanging precariously on to his seat. “Land the damn thing already!”

  Sheppard ignored him. The atmospheric readings were crazy, the Jumper’s power near zero. Sixty percent of the primary systems were damaged and they’d emerged into the mother of all storms. Perfect.

  “I’m gonna have to put her down now!” he cried. “Keep it tight. This is gonna be bumpy.”

  Flying on little more than gut instinct, Sheppard dipped the nose of the Jumper five degrees. The thick cloud rushing past them got thicker and the Jumper’s entire hull began to judder. The shielding was critically weak.

  Suddenly, a gap appeared in the cloud ahead. For a split-second Sheppard had sight of an ice field. It was enough to mentally calculate the angle of descent. The Jumper responded instantly and they plummeted downwards, the viewscreen white and useless. Somewhere below, the land was rushing up to meet them.

  With a heavy crunch, they hit the ice. Plumes of loose snow billowed up, momentum plowing them onwards, grinding and churning across the ice field. Metal twisted and shrieked, equipment shook loose and crashed into the cabin. Sheppard thought his teeth might rattle loose from his skull. And then the power failed, plunging them into darkness.

  It took an eternity, but at last the Jumper slowed to a painful halt. The viewscreen was still obscured by the white-out and they sat for a moment in a shadowy stillness.

  Ronon broke it. “Good job, Sheppard.”

  John just nodded in the dark, not trusting himself to speak; his hands were still shaking.

  “That was expert flying,” agreed Teyla, unbuckling herself and climbing to her feet. “But I do not believe we are safe here. With power supplies so low, this storm is a danger.”

  “Reckon you’re right.” With effort, Sheppard brought his breathing under control. “Break out the survival suits. If we have to bail, I want something warm and orange to wear.”

  “Now?” said McKay. “You’re kidding me. I’m not heading out
there until this storm has blown over. Who knows, it might be a short one.”

  “Or a long one,” said Ronon bleakly. “Or maybe it’s always like this.”

  Sheppard nodded. “Can’t stay here without power,” he said. “No light, no heat, no air. I don’t like this any more than you do, but we’re gonna suit up now while we have the chance.”

  McKay looked briefly rebellious, but then a huge surge of wind buffeted the Jumper and the entire ship rocked. From beneath them, came an ominous, echoing sound of ice cracking.

  Rodney swallowed nervously. Even Sheppard felt his heart miss a beat. That sounded pretty bad. Jumpers were robust things, but you still didn’t want to be inside one, without power, halfway down a crevasse.

  McKay began to rummage for his gear. “Having considered the options further, perhaps you’re right.”

  It didn’t take long to suit-up, and soon they were ready to evacuate the stricken Jumper.

  “Take as many rations as you can carry,” Sheppard ordered.

  “We’re going to freeze,” McKay muttered. “More importantly, that gate’ll be fried. Fried closed.”

  There was another long, echoing crack from beneath the Jumper. The cabin shifted slightly to the left and Teyla had to brace in order to keep her footing.

  “OK, time’s up,” said Sheppard sharply. “Let’s move.”

  The rear door opened with a whine. Immediately the interior of the craft was filled with swirling, buffeting snow and sleet. The temperature plummeted. Even inside his suit Sheppard could feel the sudden chill. It was like a shard of ice right in the guts.

  “Out!” he barked.

  Ronon produced a line of rope.

  “Use this,” he said, looping it around his waist and passing the cord to Teyla.

  “Nice thinking,” said Sheppard, leaning into the wind. Getting separated out there didn’t bear thinking about. “Any Eagle Scouts on Sateda?”

  Once they were all connected, Ronon strode out into the open. He was followed by McKay and Teyla. Bringing up the rear, Sheppard ducked under the lintel of the Jumper exit. He tried to close the rear door, and failed. No power. It would have to stay open.

  He quickly took in the situation. The sky was heavy, low and gray. Visibility was about twenty meters, the air thick with gusting snow. There was no let-up in the gale, and no means of getting oriented. The power of the wind was massive — he had to push hard into the gust to stay on his feet — and there was no chance of being heard over the storm, so he was glad of the comm link built into the hood of his suit and facemask.

  For a moment, he wondered if leaving the Jumper was such a good idea. Even without much life support, it was at least shelter from the wind. But then there was another crack and a few meters away a whole tranche of snow sank into the ground. The rocks — or whatever — under his feet tangibly shifted. This was no place to linger.

  “OK, guys,” he barked. “Let’s keep moving and find some shelter.”

  “What a great idea,” came McKay’s sarcastic voice. “I mean, I’d never have thought of it. Goddamn it, I can’t feel my toes.”

  “Wrap it up, Rodney,” warned Sheppard.

  The team began to wade through the knee-deep snow away from the stranded Jumper. Before the machine was lost to view, Sheppard noticed the last lights flicker and die along its flanks. With the Jumper down and the wormhole status unknown, the mission was in danger of degenerating into a deadly farce. He needed some luck, and needed it fast.

  Even walking in a straight line was hard. Once they were a few paces from the lee of the Jumper the wind screamed across the ice, throwing the snow up in gusts. The cold was incredible. The USAF cold weather gear was designed for extreme conditions, but it seemed like it was barely there. Sheppard felt himself begin to succumb to shivering. He kept his breathing shallow.

  Once away from the landing site, making any sense of their location soon became impossible. Footprints were scoured from the snow almost as soon as they were made. Sheppard looked at the compass built into his wrist-strap — as long as they maintained a constant direction, they wouldn’t lose the ship. But that was scant comfort. They needed to get out of the storm.

  They plowed on. Only Ronon was strong enough to keep his posture. McKay was bent nearly double into the wind, cursing under this breath as he went, the expletives crackling over the intercom; Sheppard knew he’d be in trouble after too much punishment. Already, he felt his own fingers begin to ache from the cold.

  Then, just as Sheppard began to wonder if they’d better head back to the Jumper, Ronon stopped trudging and turned around. He obviously thought the same.

  “See anything, Sheppard?” he yelled.

  Sheppard shook his head. “Nothing! We’ve got to go back!”

  “Hail, strangers!” came a dim voice from the howling storm.

  Sheppard adjusted the comm link in his hood and wiped the visor of his mask with a snow-encrusted glove. “Who said that?”

  “He did,” said Ronon.

  Sheppard peered into the white-out as figures emerged from the murk. They were massive and furry, and he immediately thought of the abominable snowman. Only as they came closer did Sheppard see that they were human, but clothed in many layers of thick, white fur. Each of them had a hood over their head and masks over their faces, their voices muffled and indistinct but just audible over the screaming wind.

  “After so long!” said one of them, his voice cracking with emotion. “The portal has opened again!”

  “You have come back,” came another voice, addressing Sheppard. “I knew this day would come.”

  Sheppard looked at Teyla, then Ronon, then back to the newcomers. Even within the suit he was beginning to shake uncontrollably, the Jumper was wrecked, and the gate inoperable — the situation could hardly have been more desperate. There wasn’t really a whole lot of choice. “That’s right,” he said. “We’re back. And right now, we could really use some shelter.”

  The man’s eyes smiled. “Come with us,” he said. “We’ll lead you to safety.” He beckoned the team to follow and turned back the way he’d come.

  “Oh good job,” sniped McKay. “Make first contact with the locals and impersonate their long lost friends. There’s no way that can go wrong. After all, it’s never gotten us in trouble before.”

  “Button it, Rodney, we’ve got no choice.” Sheppard peered through the snow at his team. “But stay sharp, we don’t know what we’re getting into here.”

  “Oh I think we do,” McKay grumbled as he stomped after the strangers. “And it begins with a capital T.”

  As the fire did its work, feeling gradually returned to Teyla’s feet.

  She sat with the others in a chamber set deep underground. A healthy blaze crackled and spat in the central hearth and torches flickered against the rock walls, bathing the room in a gentle ambient light. The surroundings were simple, but clean and warm. A few tapestries hung from the walls and woven mats blunted the worst of the harsh rock floor. Many of the hangings had stylized pictures of animals and hunting scenes. The familiar images reminded Teyla of home.

  Around her shoulders Teyla now wore a lavish fur cloak — a gift from their hosts. It was beautifully warm, and it had not taken long for the effects of her brief foray into the storm to abate.

  It hadn’t been a long trek from the gate to their rescuers’ settlement, but they would never have stumbled across the entrance by themselves. The people of the place appeared to live deep within a series of caves and fissures, the entrance to which had been obscured by heaped snowdrifts. The team’s attempts to find shelter had in fact taken them some distance in the wrong direction — the underground dwellings were very close to the Stargate, and there’d been a painful trek back the way they’d come before being led out of the wind.

  Once through the main gates of the settlement, they had been taken down a series of winding tunnels towards the main living chambers. Fur-clad children had come to gape at them as the team passed the open do
orways and halls, still dressed in their snow-covered environment suits. Fires burned in the deep places, keeping the tunnels and rough-hewn chambers both warm and well-lit.

  Having given them food and a place to recover, their hosts had left them alone to regain their strength. It was a courteous gesture and one Teyla appreciated. In some ways, their manner reminded her of her own people, as if a splinter group of Athosians had found itself flung across the galactic plane and isolated for many thousands of years. The thought intrigued her; there was no telling what wonders the Ancestors had performed in the days of their hegemony.

  With a satisfied sigh, McKay finished the last of his second bowl of soup and sat back against the wall. “This situation is improving,” he said. “Definitely improving. I’m almost glad I came. I wonder if we can get more of this soup?”

  Sheppard looked less certain. “Enough to keep you happy?” he said. “I doubt it. Any idea what happened back there?”

  Rodney shook his head. “Not until I can take a proper look. And, frankly, until that storm blows over I’ve no intention of finding out.”

  “The storms must lift,” said Ronon. “These people eat, they hunt. They can’t hunt in that.”

  From outside the small chamber came the sound of footsteps.

  “Remember, we need these guys,” whispered Sheppard. He shot McKay a hard look. “So let’s all be on our best behavior.”

  Teyla turned to face the low doorway as two men and a woman entered and bowed low. Lean and hardy-looking, they were dressed from head to foot in the pale furs all their people wore. Their skin was milky and their hair dark and straight. The leader, a man, wore a brightly colored torque around his neck and, though clearly old, appeared lively and vigorous.

  “Greetings, honored guests,” he said, his voice quiet and measured. “I am Aralen Gefal, Foremost of the Forgotten People. This is my daughter, Miruva, and my chief of hunters, Orand Ressalin. You are most welcome here. We have waited long for your coming.”