Halcyon

Chapter Five

The setting sun threw a golden glow through the hexagonal windows of the Sword Gallery. The light glittered off the aged steel of a hundred ceremonial blades where they hung in glass cabinets, suspended on spun wires so thin that from a distance the weapons appeared to be floating in the air.

The Magnate glanced up at the sound of Erony's footsteps on the marble flooring and he gave her the slightest of frowns. Her father was taking a schooner of blackbrandy and a pipe while Vekken and one of the senior generals talked him through the day's conflict results. The Magnate liked to have his briefings held here, in the museum quiet of the colonnade. Erony imagined her father thought it a subtle way of reinforcing his own reputation with a blade; but in all honesty, he hadn't used a weapon in anger for years. She recalled the last time with exact clarity; Lord Daus had run through an assassin disguised as a wine waiter. Vekken's agents later determined the interloper was some sort of dissident from the farmlands. She didn't remember the details of the dead man, just the slam of the falling body echoing through the Chamber of Audiences. Vekken stepped back to allow her to approach her parent. Yes, with Vekken never beyond arm's reach, she doubted the Magnate would ever need to touch the hilt of his sword again. The Wraithkin adjutant was as swift as he was disquieting.

Despite herself, Erony's gaze flicked to the largest of the cabinets, just behind her father, just for an instant. Inside there was a curved scimitar broken around two thirds of the way down the length of the blade. She knew the runes and tracery along it like she knew the lines across her own palm. Her mother had perished with that sword in her hand, cut down in some nameless forest on some nameless planet. The body that had returned was of an elderly, frail lady, not the vibrant and imposing woman that had left her daughter waving goodbye at the lip of the Circlet. In darker moments, Erony wondered what manner of death her mother had delivered to the Wraith that took her life force. She hoped it had been a painful one.

"Daughter," Daus inclined his head.

"Father," she returned. "A moment, if you please?"

The Magnate nodded, the implied order sending Vekken and the general away, off toward the windows and out of earshot. "What is it, child? Speak to me."

"Today's display…" Erony began haltingly, "the outcome raises conflicts in my thoughts."

"You doubt my wisdom in this matter?" Her father's voice held a faint note of reproach.

"I question the presence of the Atlanteans there. Was it necessary? It brought only discontent, among our own cadres as well as in theirs. The incident with the Runner… It might have been avoided."

Daus drew on the pipe. "You are your mother's daughter, Erony. You have so little artifice." He chuckled. "It pleases and saddens me in equal measure to see her reflected in you."

Her lips thinned at the attempt to deflect her. "Father," she said again, "I would know your thoughts if I am to understand the reasoning behind today's events."

He placed the pipe on a stand and sipped the blackbrandy. "To rule, one must know the color of a man's heart, one must understand the truth behind the pretty words that would-be allies bring to our table. These outworlders take the measure of us and we must do the same. I brought Sheppard and his party to the war to watch their reactions. How they view us shades how we will deal with them."

"What did you learn?"

Another dry chuckle. "That the gallant Lieutenant Colonel is, under all his weapons and wargear, just a commoner at heart. And too, that he and his splinter think us too harsh and ruthless."

"What value is there in that? Surely we should court them, make Sheppard think well of us."

Daus waved her into silence. "No. We are Halcyons, we do not hide what we are. Let them understand the truth of our society. There is no point in obfuscation."

Erony was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, it was difficult to keep the taint of accusation from her words. "Is that why you sanctioned Palfrun's petition for the Hounds?"

"He made the request in good order. What would you have had me do?"

"Deny it," she retorted. "In such a small skirmish, over so trivial a matter as an argument over, what was it? A gambling debt, or some such? In other conflicts, on other days you would have dismissed Palfrun's petition out of hand. Why not today?" She shook her head. "It was unwarranted."

"So you challenge my interpretation of the codes of conduct, is that it? You wonder if allowing the use of the Hounds was a fair ruling?" He shifted and sipped more drink from the schooner. "I am Lord Magnate, my dear. The codes are mine to direct as I see fit. I make the rules, Erony. Never forget that."

She colored. "I have not. But I must ask you why. Please explain it to me."

"If any other made that demand of me, I would have them dispossessed on the spot and flogged in the square." Daus put down the glass. "But to you, I will give an answer. It is simply this; today it was my desire to test the mettle of these Atlanteans, to cut to the core of them. Are they worthy of Halcyon's friendship? Have they the same steel in their bones as we do?" He looked away. "I believe I found them wanting."

"If that is so, then why are they still here?"

The Magnate gave his daughter a heavy-lidded glare. "Because they may be of some use to us. Kelfer has searched his records for any scraps of intelligence on these men from Atlantis. He has found reports to corroborate their claims about the Precursor City, of conflicts with the Genii and their many battles against the Wraith. It is possible they have knowledge that can be of use to the Fourth Dynast."

"Knowledge," Erony repeated bleakly. "You refer to…"

"Our `problem'," said Daus. "Sheppard's people may be able to assist us."

She frowned. "Why not simply ask them, father? Sheppard spoke of making formal treaty between us, would not this be a firm step toward such a partnership?"

"Halcyon has no partners, my dear, only equals or lessers, and these Atlanteans do not appear to be the former. I will not reveal our dilemma openly! That would be tantamount to bearing an open throat to a wildcat. No." He shook his head. "For now we watch and appraise them. I expect you to be most prudent in this." The Magnate took her hand and held it. "Our Dynast keeps Halcyon stable, Erony, it always has. We must maintain our dominion for the good of our world, our people. You know that to be true."

"I do," she replied.

Her father smiled. "Good. Your mother would be so proud to see you now, strong and regal, doing what is right for our planet. It fills me with joy to know you stand at my side in this."

"I do," Erony repeated the words, her eyes focused on the broken sword.

"Can we discard these cloaks yet?" said Ronon. "This cloth irritates me."

Sheppard resisted the urge to scratch his neck where the rough-hewn robes rubbed at his skin. "Just drop the hood. We can't chance being seen by one of the nobles or their men. Not yet, anyhow."

Ronon looked around. "I don't think we're going to run into any high class types down here, do you?"

The colonel followed Dex's gaze. He had a point, Sheppard had to admit. The narrow streets of the lower city were grim and more than a little stinky. It was a far cry from the perfumed halls and elaborate decor of the High Palace. John glanced up over his shoulder and saw the tall towers and minarets of the Magnate's complex rising over the roof slates of the tumbledown apartment blocks and factory shacks of the metropolis. The palace looked even larger from down here, and he didn't doubt that was the way the nobles wanted it, casting a subtle oppression on the common folk just through the size and shape of the massive building.

Sheppard had expected it to be a lot harder to get down to the lower levels than it actually was; in fact, there were several poorly-guarded funicular railways leading into the wide city sprawl, and it had been relatively easy for Dex and the colonel to sneak aboard a carriage full of soiled laundry on its way downward. Ronon noted that the defenses on the outer walls of the palace were more geared toward keeping people from getting in, than they were for keeping people getting out. The return trip would be a tougher prospect, but for now Sheppard wasn't thinking about that. He pulled the brown robes closer as a gust of cold wind fluttered past them. The two servants they'd encouraged to lend them the garments were currently guests of Mason and his men, and would remain so until this little covert operation was dealt with. John patted the Beretta pistol concealed in his hip holster in an unconscious gesture of self-protection. To Ronon's displeasure, he had insisted they go lightly armed, and Sheppard had made doubly sure that both of them were carrying the paper dockets Erony had provided on the monorail, just in case things went south and they had to reveal themselves to someone in authority. He hoped it wouldn't come to that, though.

They kept walking, leaving the district where they had disembarked behind, moving on the edges of crowds, keeping to the shadows. Sputtering gas lamps with oily flames were popping on all along the streets, and now and then raucous hooters sounded as heavy steam trucks growled past over the cobbled road.

The lower city was busy with people moving back and forth, and it had the cold and impersonal edge that John remembered from some urban centers back on Earth. It was similar enough to make him uncomfortable, different enough to make him realize how far from home he was. The city was a mixture of shantytown barrios, red stone buildings and archaic industrial constructions that were better suited as the backdrop to a lurid, turn-of-thecentury Jack the Ripper movie than a modern metropolis.

Ronon looked up as a wide blimp droned overhead, low enough that they could see the shapes of men moving around inside the control gondola. "Bigger than Daus's warship," noted the Satedan, "slower too. Cargo carrier, maybe?"

"Could be." John's gaze shifted as they passed an alleyway. He caught sight of a huddled group of figures, sheltering in doorways or under old, torn awnings. They were dirty and hollow-faced, eyes blank. He caught the scent of sickness from them.

Another truck rolled past in the direction of the funicular railway station, laden with tones of oval, greenish fruits. Sheppard had seen the same things on the dinner plates of noblemen in the palace. "Food for the Dynast," Dex opined. "Daus likes to live big."

Sheppard jerked a thumb at the vagrants in the alley. "They don't live so big down here."

Ronon nodded. "Ghettos are ghettos, no matter where you go.

"Yeah." The two men kept in the flow of people, and ahead of them the crowds grew thicker as the radial streets fed out into a wide-open plaza, walled on all sides by more sheer-faced tenements. Many of the buildings were covered with scaffolds or giant billboards dominated by artwork of Halcyon soldiers or portraits of a smiling Lord Daus. Sheppard's lip curled at one particular image, which showed the Magnate rendered in heroic proportions, dispatching a horde of demonic Wraith. He didn't need McKay to read the accompanying banners for him; he knew propaganda when he saw it.

"Look there." Dex tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. Across the plaza, past the thronging crowds, one billboard-sized panel shifted and stuttered as black-and-white images rolled over it. Immediately, John realized they were looking at a massive film screen being fed from a concealed projector. Whoops and cheers went up across the people in a wave of noise as crackly organ music played from speaker horns arranged on towers dotted across the square. A broad regimental crest appeared on the screen and martial music blared. The image changed to scenes of battle, men with steam-rifles rushing over trenches, rolling tanks, biplanes and blimps.

"It's a newsreel," said Sheppard. "Hey, maybe we'll get a cartoon as well."

"Halcyon on the March!" A cultured voice brayed from the speakers. "In battle against the Wraith, our brave soldiers lead the fight!" More cheers greeted footage of Fourth Dynast troopers milling around a downed Dart on an arid sand dune, and then a slow pan over a dozen dead Wraiths piled like cordwood. "Halcyon's supremacy remains unassailed! Forward to victory, says the Lord Magnate, and forward to glory!"

Sheppard watched as footage unfurled of Daus, heavy with his regalia, advancing down the steps of the High Palace with Vekken and his other adjutants behind. The camera lingered for a second on Erony, who forced a smile for the lens. A few young men standing close by made lecherous catcalls and whistled.

"She's popular," noted Ronon.

Daus's voice boomed from the speakers, a speech made up of platitudes and belligerent rhetoric; but Sheppard wasn't paying attention. He was watching a gangly youth with a red headband shouting to be heard over the sounds of the speakers. The agitator was thrusting pamphlets into the hands of anyone who looked his way. The colonel caught the odd word here and there, something about "Magnate", "unfair", "traitor". When Daus's face filled the screen again, the youth booed and spat. As Sheppard looked, he saw a few other figures with the headbands dotted amongst the crowd, reds moving in the tide of gray.

John thought about Dex's comment. "Guess we can't say the same for her dad, though."

The tone of the newsreel changed; the propagandist opening segued to something that reminded Sheppard of Sunday night NFL score round-ups on ESPN. The narrator was calling out kill tallies and battle reports. Blocky strings of text marched up across the bottom of the screen in a teletype.

A bearded, middle-aged man in a leather jerkin next to John patted his pockets frantically and cursed. He turned to Sheppard and thrust the bag in his hand at him. "Here, be a gentleman and hold on to this for me a trice, would you? I can't find me slip!"

"Uh, okay." John took the bag. It was full of ugly-looking vegetables, dark red like sweet potatoes. They smelled a little off and his nose wrinkled.

The man produced a piece of paper from a pocket and held it up, comparing the numbers on it to those on the screen. Sheppard saw other people doing the same. The man's face twisted in annoyance. "Ah, for wound's sake!" He tore the slip into confetti and brushed it from his hands. "Never the score, hey? Never the blade-forsaken score for old Rifko!"

The colonel had seen enough horse races to recognize the face of a losing bettor when he saw one. "Bad luck?"

"Bad? Bad? Ah, laddie, it's been a dozen cycles since I've had a win, if it's a day. I'm in for a change of fate, I know it, but when it will strike me, that's unknown." He blew out a breath and sighed. "Ah well. There's always a war tomorrow."

"Yeah…" Sheppard noted. "So you bet on the outcome of the skirmishes, then?" He handed back the bag.

The man gave him an odd look. "Well, don't everyone?" He studied Sheppard and Dex. "Ah, but you're from the country, are you? I seen the way you looked about, like your necks are on a swivel. Don't get the tickers out there in the fields, right?" He gestured at the film screen.

"That's right," nodded John. "We're both from out of town."

The other man smirked and spread his hands. "Well, then. Welcome to the capital, lads. Don't let the tall buildings scare you!"

"We'll try not to," said Ronon.

"I'm Rifko Tenk," he said, "a kitesmith."

"He's Ronon Dex, I'm John Sheppard."

Rifko laughed. "John the Shepherd, you say? Sorry to tell you, you won't get much work hereabouts! No herd beasts in these neighborhoods! Men would eat them soon as look at them!"

"Food's in short supply here, then?" asked Dex.

Tenk shrugged. "When isn't it? Ah, you scoff what you can." He hugged the bag closer to him. "Bit o' meat when you can find it."

Sheppard smiled, trying to keep the man at his ease. "That right? We thought that things in the, ah, capital would be different. Plenty of food and wine, servants and shiny silverware…"

Rifko laughed even harder than before. "What's that you say? Oh, maybe that's so up yonder in the palace, but down here…" He pointed at the cobbled street. "Down here, laddie, a man is lucky if he sees clean water and a fruit without a speck of mould on it once a month!"

"And that's no wonder!" came a new voice, high and strident with agitation. Sheppard turned to see the gangly youth with the headband coming closer, stabbing a fistful of papers at Rifko's chest. "Nobles take it all, every fig from our lips! What they throw to the pigs after a feast could feed a downcity family for a week!"

"Here, now!" snapped Rifko. "We don't want none o' your red-talk!"

"How many have to die from the bone-rot before we stand up and say no more?" The youth thrust a leaflet at Sheppard and John took it on reflex. The paper was rough and poorly cut, printed with bright red ink that came off on his fingers. The Ancient text was a mystery to him, but the presentation was clearly angry about something. The kid's fierce demeanor made it clear what that was. "Poverty and disease run in our streets! Daus is a traitor to Halcyon who feathers his nest while we all starve-"

"Enough of that!" snarled the older man, shoving the agitator away. "Be off with you, before the peace officers come and strip us all for just being near you!" Rifko shook his head, turning away. "Blathering fool!"

Ronon watched the youth stumble away, a thunderous look on his face. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Too much these days," noted Rifko. "Fair gives me a headache it does." He nodded in the direction of a doorway. "I feel the need for an ale to settle my nerves. Care to join me, country lads?"

"Sure," said Sheppard, "lead the way."

They found a table in the corner of the room where they could get a good look at the comings and goings inside the decrepit pub. Rifko was clearly a regular, evidenced by the way the barkeep greeted him and the nods that came from other drinkers as they wandered through.

"Bet this is a new sight to you, eh?" said the man, pointing at the gas lamps dangling from a ceiling brown with tobacco smoke. "I hear there's only candles and lanterns to be had in the country."

"Nice place," said Sheppard, surveying the room. "The last tavern we went to was kinda dead."

"Literally," said Ronon, taking a seat.

Rifko brought a battered steel jug and three metal mugs to the table and poured out a dark, bitter brew. "On me," he grinned. "Consider that a proper greeting from the Magnate himself."

Sheppard contented himself with a sip, but Dex downed the tankard in one. "It's good," noted the Satedan, pouring out some more.

Rifko blinked, and studied Ronon as if noticing him for the first time. "They breed you lads big out on the farms, don't they?"

John took in the men and women around them. They had the look about them of people who were used to a life of hardship, the kind of beaten-down faces that accepted their lot with grim determination and dogged tolerance; but beneath it all there was a faint, directionless tension, the ghost of unspent anger. The same expression was reflected in the kitesmith's eyes. "Rifko," he began, "let me ask you something. These battles that the nobles are always fighting. Do you think it's right?"

"Right?" The man sipped from his mug. "War is war. If we didn't put up a fight, the Wraith would cull us all, wouldn't they?"

"I'm not talking about fighting the Wraith. I'm talking about the Dynasts fighting each other."

Rifko eyed him. "What do you mean?"

"Wouldn't life be better if the nobles didn't spend all that time killing each other's troopers? I mean, how much does it cost to feed and arm all those soldiers? Wouldn't it be better if they spent some of that money on keeping people housed, or with food on their tables?"

Sheppard saw a moment of indecision in Rifko's eyes, but he covered it with another swig of beer. "Look, that's how it goes. It's the way it's always been. The nobles have their little tussles and men like thee and me are always open for paid service to `em, should we want it. Keeps things stable."

"Peace is more stable than war," said Ronon in a low, intense voice. "The Magnate could have that if he wanted it."

"Aye, well…" Rifko gave a mirthless chuckle. "His Lordship likes to keep the little pups nipping at each other, so they say. Stops them from biting the big dog, if you catch my meaning."

"Daus makes the barons fight among themselves so they can't threaten him. Yeah, we've seen that," noted Sheppard.

"What was all that about `bone-rot'?" added Ronon.

The man frowned. "You not have the bane out in the hills, eh? Count yourself lucky, then. I don't reckon there's a single family in the city that hasn't lost one of their number to that accursed sickness. Comes up on the weak, it does. Not a fair way to die, oh no."

"And your government doesn't do anything about it?"

Rifko leaned closer and spoke quietly. "See here. Now there's barely a man who wouldn't want a better life… What kind of fool would say no to that? But there's not a jot a kitesmith or a countryman can do about the set of things. I hear talk now and then of lower echelon barons with thoughts turned to moderate ways, of elections, public works and democratic votary, but nothing comes of it!" He shook his head. "And I doubt anything ever will. So we live our lives, try to make the best of it."

"One thing is certain," said Dex, "there'll be no change while Daus is on the throne."

"Aye." Rifko looked into his beer.

Sheppard produced the leaflet the youth had forced upon him. "But what about all this? Someone's clearly not taking things lying down."

The other man's face went pale and he snatched at the paper, tearing it from the colonel's hands and knocking over his beer mug. "You shouldn't be showing that in a place like this!" He crumpled the leaflet in his fist, squeezing it into a roll and jerked a thumb at a grand portrait of the Magnate over the bar. "This isn't a basement smoke-den for mouthy kids and fire starters! Them noisy red-bands out there just make things worse for all of us!" Rifko's face colored and his voice rose. "Maybe you two oughta head back to the countryside-"

"What's all this ruckus?" said the barkeep, approaching with a hard glint in his eye. "Rifko Tenk, what is that you've got in your greasy mitt there?"

"It's nothing," began Sheppard, but the burly tavern owner slammed a fat hand down on the table and trapped the errant pamphlet beneath it.

"Red paper." His voice was a growl. "In all my years, Rifko, after you've been warned not to talk out of turn about his Lordship, you brought a red paper into my pub?"

"It's not like that," said the kitesmith.

The barkeep stabbed a thick finger at Rifko's face. "I let you off the other times, seeing as how you had a skin-full then. But you're sober now and you're bringing this filth into my establishment!" Before anyone could react, the tavern owner backhanded Rifko on to the floor.

Sheppard and Ronon were on their feet in an instant. "Hey!" snarled the colonel, "there's no need for that! The paper is mine, I didn't know what it was."

"I don't recognize you!" barked the barkeep. "You got the look of a troublemaker on you, though! Betcha both bomb chuckers and sneak thieves too!"

"No, no…" Rifko was saying thickly, struggling to get up. "No trouble…"

But they were past the point of no return now. In his peripheral vision, Sheppard saw other figures moving from their tables, ready violence in their tense poses. Voices were rising around them

"So what if he's a red-band? They're right, what they say -

"Scum! The Magnate's made this planet what it is-"

"Unseat the lot of them snobs if we could-"

"Children on the streets begging and starving-"

"You oughta be grateful for them-"

"Dying of the rot and no-one cares-"

"Saved us all from the Wraith, and for that alone they-"

Something glass shattered, and the fight erupted. The barkeep swung a ponderous haymaker that narrowly missed Sheppard's head, the wind of its passing tickling his cheek. Ronon belted the big man with the beer jug and sent him reeling backward, but the tavern owner did not go down. On other tables, shouts and punches were flying thick and fast as quietly-held viewpoints that had long been silent now came alive.

Ronon's hand went for his particle magnum, but the colonel stopped him. "No guns," he snapped, "let's just get the hell out of here."

Sheppard pulled Rifko to his feet amid the melee. "Sorry about all this."

"Woulda happened sooner or later," he mumbled through swelling lips.

Dex batted away a thrown mug with one hand and pushed a chair aside. "Sheppard, come on!"

They were making for the door when it slammed open and four figures entered. The first three wore uniforms similar to the soldiers of the Dynasts, but these were dark green and accented with silver badges. They had high hats with a bronze shield upon them. Something in the back of John Sheppard's mind instantly threw the word Police to the front of his thoughts.

But it was the fourth member of the group that made the brawl in the tavern die away. The colonel's gut tightened as a Hound followed the men into the pub, and in the sudden silence following their arrival, he found he could hear the enslaved Wraith panting inside the canine mask of its helmet.

"Peace Officer," said the leading greencoat. "You people know the punishment for affray." He looked to the barkeep. "I want an explanation."

Here it comes, Sheppard thought, glancing at Ronon. He was starting to regret not drawing his pistol while he'd had the chance.

The tavern owner thrust the leaflet at the officer and pointed at Rifko. "He brought this trash into my establishment." Not a single soul was moving now, all of them staring at the Wraith with naked fear. For all intents and purposes, it was as if the fight had never broken out.

"That's not true," said Sheppard.

"You'll get your chance." The peace officer didn't look at the colonel as he approached Rifko. "You there, show me your hands."

"He has nothing to do with this," Ronon growled.

One of the other greencoats produced a blunderbuss-pistol and brandished it at Dex. "Shut up, vassal. You'll speak when you're told to, or else."

"Your hands, man," repeated the first officer. Rifko reluctantly turned his palms upward; and there on his skin were smears of red ink. "Well, well. Why don't you dissidents ever think about wearing gloves, eh?"

"I…" Rifko blinked. "S'not what it looks like."

"It never is," said the peace officer. He turned to address the tavern. "We live in a society of rules and codes, thanks to the honorable leadership of our great Magnate. But there are always some who think they know better than he does. My job is to show them the error of their ways." He turned back toward Rifko. "The best means for that is an object lesson."

"You're not going to kill him," snarled Sheppard.

"Of course not," said the greencoat, and he drew a thin whistle from a chain around his neck. He blew into it, and on the very edge of hearing, there was a reedy squeal of noise.

It happened so fast; the Hound threw itself forward, the swiftness of its movement raising cries of surprise and fear from the other people in the pub. The Wraith snatched at Rifko and pulled him into an embrace, one hand ripping through his jerkin.

"No!" Sheppard and Ronon went after him, but the armed officer had the gun at the ready, blocking them. John watched, sickened, as the Wraith fed on the kitesmith, dragging years off his life. Rifko's cheeks became sunken and hollow, his hair thinning and turning white. Sheppard felt ill, for one moment recalling the face of Colonel Sumner trapped in the belly of a Wraith Hive Ship, the look of pleading on the Marine's face as his life force was drawn out of him.

After a moment, the lead peace officer tugged on a dangling lanyard from a collar around the Hound's neck and metallic cogs in the mechanism whirred. The Wraith choked and stumbled backward, releasing Rifko. The kitesmith sagged, holding his newly wrinkled hands up before his face.

"The Lord Magnate does not tolerate dissent. Halcyon is a society of laws." The peace officer pointed at Rifko. "If any of you doubt that, look to this man. His punishment is your warning."

"He was innocent!" spat the colonel, advancing, daring the man with the gun to shoot him. "You took twenty years off him for nothing!"

The greencoat nodded. "And now I'm wondering how much I should take from you."

"You can't!" The voice came from the corner of the room, and Sheppard turned to see a young boy in a brown cloak similar in cut to the ones he and Ronon had appropriated. With a start he recognized the youth; it was the servant boy from the monorail conveyor who had stumbled and broken a cup. John hadn't seen him there, hidden in a corner. "Those men are guests of the Lady Erony."

"Really?" The peace officer nodded to one of his men. "Search them."

Sheppard and Ronon grudgingly allowed the rough checking. He took a moment of dark satisfaction from the look of surprise when the greencoat discovered their guns. Finally, the search turned up the dockets that Erony had given them on their arrival.

The senior officer studied the papers in silence, his expression rigid. "These appear to be in order," he said, after a long moment. "You shouldn't be down in the lower city. Lucky for you the boy was here."

"Lucky for you," retorted Ronon.

"Come with us," continued the greencoat officer, "you may consider yourself now within our protective custody."

"I'm not done sightseeing yet," said Sheppard.

"You are," said the other man, "unless you'd like to stay a while and watch the Hound dispense another lesson?"

The peace officers took them to a special funicular tram that in turn had them back in the grounds of the High Palace in a few minutes. Sheppard half-expected to be clapped in irons or slammed in some dingy stone dungeon, but the greencoated men simply handed them over to a cohort of the Magnate's soldiers, weapons and all, and descended back into the city with their Hound trailing at their heels. The troopers escorted them to one of the citadel's larger terraces where a garden was open to the night sky. The contrast of the garden's elegant fragrance to the sour taint of the smoggy lower city was stark and jarring.

Daus was waiting for them, with First Minister Muruw and Vekken. The Magnate had a conflicted expression on his face. He was trying to pretend he was amused, but Sheppard could see the annoyance just beneath the surface in the way he gestured with his smoking pipe. "Lieutenant Colonel. I must apologize. I had thought that the quarters we provided to you and your party were more than adequate. Imagine my surprise when the telekrypter brought us a report that you had been seen in the lower city." He tapped the bowl of the pipe on a stone pot, emptying spent ashes into an ornamental fishpond. "If you wished something a little more coarse and unrefined, you had but to ask. I could have placed you in the cellars."

"I'm not much for taking the package tour," said Sheppard. "I like to get my own view of things."

"What were you doing down there?" demanded Muruw. "We would be within our laws to have shot you!"

"From what I've seen, you've got worse punishments than that," Sheppard replied, working to keep his voice level.

Daus nodded. "Hmph. It is regrettable that you had to witness such a thing, but our justice must always be swift and terrible to behold, or else it has no power."

"Your thugs attacked an innocent man," growled Ronon. "What kind of justice is there in that?"

"Innocent?" Daus said lightly. "How can you hope to know that, Ronon Dex? How long were you in the man's company for? Have you known him all his life? Were you aware of his numerous transgressions against the nobility?" The Magnate shook his head. "I understand your indignation, but you must trust that my peace officers did what was right for the people."

Sheppard's hands were tightening into fists. "So, no trial, then? No due process or appeal, just step up and let a Wraith suck the life outta you? I guess it saves on building prisons, huh? Why lock up a man for ten years when you can just drain the time from him on the spot?" He resisted the urge to spit. "Bad enough you use those creatures on the battlefield, but on the streets of your own city? As a deterrent? Is life that cheap to you people?" John shot an acidic glare at Vekken, but the adjutant remained silent, content to hover like a shadow at the Magnate's side.

"Life is nothing if not lived in strength," retorted Muruw. "The Hounds remind us all that to survive we must be strong."

"What is it with this `only the strong survive' stuff you keep spouting?" John's mouth twisted in a humorless sneer. "You live a life of luxury up here but you talk like you're an inch away from death-and meanwhile, all the poor saps who really are living on the poverty line are barely holding on! Destitution and disease… I bet it's the same in every damn city on this planet!"

Daus smirked. "You are a conundrum, Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard. You and your Atlanteans, you show courage, strength and martial prowess, and yet, you are so weak inside. You gnash and cry at the wounding of inferiors, you encourage vulnerability and you glory in your failings. You look like soldiers but you talk like commoners. I cannot even begin to understand the kind of society that breeds a man like you."

"Yeah, well, we're complicated that way."

"The bone-rot only strikes the infirm or the frail," noted the nobleman, "people whose contribution to our culture is negligible at best. They are not missed."

"Have you even tried to find a cure?" snapped Ronon.

"We have other, more important endeavors to occupy our scientists."

"You think you are better than us because you show cornpas- sion," broke in Muruw, making the last word a mocking insult. "But what has your empathy earned you? The Precursor City obliterated, your people scattered and so desperate for help that it takes a mere slip of a woman and her cadre to rescue you from the Wraith?"

Daus stepped closer to the colonel. "Our hearts are harder than yours, Atlantean, because Halcyon is cruel." He spread his hands. "You do not see it now, but in the time before my Dynast came to rule this world, the hardest winters and the worst famines in our recorded history swept the planet. Millions perished. Wars raged out of control. Life here was pitiless and brutal. Only though sacrifice, through determination and spirit, were my forefathers able to bring Halcyon under control and into this golden age. Our people are colored by that experience, Lieutenant Colonel. Perhaps if we had lived on a world no doubt as soft and pleasant as your distant Earth, then we too might share your flaws of character."

"Compassion isn't a flaw," Sheppard locked gazes with the Magnate, "cruelty is."

The other man ignored his interruption. "We are not afraid to take the hard road. We do not shy away from making choices that you might consider to be ruthless or callous. Until the last Wraith dies, we are at war!" Daus's voice became a snarl. "Like every living human in this galaxy, we are fighting for our lives each day. One moment of inattention, one instant of weakness and the Wraith will strike at us! Halcyon must be ever strong, always ready!"

Ronon snorted. "And what happens along the way? You give up what it is to be a human being? You become killers and predators, you become like them?"

Daus turned and walked away, refilling his pipe. His moment of ire faded, his calm and condescending demeanor returning. "It has come to me now," he said, "I think I see the root of your problem, Lieutenant Colonel. You Atlanteans, you are naive. Oh, yes, you fight hard when your backs are to the wall, and in those moments perhaps you touch the iron will that hides deep inside you… But I warrant there is a part of you that hopes one day to end the war without bloodshed, yes? Peace. You want peace."

"Every soldier wants peace," said Sheppard, "it's why we fight."

"Perhaps. But we have been fighting the Wraith for centuries, and we know them better than you ever could. And one day-perhaps within your lifetime, I truly hope-one day you will understand that to defeat them you will have to take the hard road." He gave the colonel a level, flinty stare. "You hate the Wraith as much as I do, I see it in your eyes… But how far are you willing to go to vanquish them?"

Sheppard found his throat turning dry. "Not as far as you," he managed, after a moment.

Daus smiled and lit the pipe, the flare of the match giving his face a brief demonic cast in the twilight. "Mark those words well, my friend, because you will remember them. On the day the Wraith swarm across your Earth, you will remember them, and you will know that I am right." The Magnate turned, dismissing them, and walked away into the darkness with Muruw.

When the other men were out of earshot, Vekken spoke for the first time since they had arrived in the garden. "Ah, Sheppard, you would be wise not to test the Magnate's munificence any further. Muruw counseled him to have you put to the Hounds for daring to leave the palace environs. His Highness may not be so quick to disagree the next time you try him."

"I'll take that under advisement." The colonel frowned. "It's been a big day. I think we've had enough excitement for now." Sheppard and Ronon began to walk off in the direction of the guest quarters.

"I've doubled the guard," Vekken called after them. "Do not attempt any unescorted sojourns again. I have left orders to have any man who allows you to escape to be executed."

Sheppard froze and threw Vekken a hard glare. "You wouldn't do that."

"I would," said the adjutant. "Cruelty has its uses, Sheppard, and right now I am using it on you."

John turned on his heel and walked away.

Ronon gave Sheppard a sideways look. He hadn't often seen the man angry, but he was seeing it now, the cold fury burning in the colonel's eyes and the set of his jaw. "Where do we go from here?" he asked, watching Sheppard's expression.

"If I had to call it, I'd scrub this whole mess right now, Zero Point Module or no Zero Point Module. Everything's a game to these people, us included, and I'm getting pretty damn sick of it."

Dex's head bobbed in agreement. "You'll get no argument from me."

Sheppard blew out a breath. "But McKay's champing at the bit to take a peek inside that dolmen, and if there is a ZPM…"

"…It might serve them right if we just helped ourselves to it." Ronon finished.

"The thought had crossed my mind." Sheppard hesitated. "But I'm not going to shut this down without talking to Weir first. Like it or not, this is still technically a diplomatic mission, and she gets the last word on those."

The two men walked in silence for a few moments before Dex spoke again. "Sheppard. I hate to give him any credit, but Daus was right about something. One day we might have to go places we don't want to… to beat the Wraith."

John didn't look at him. "We'll cross that bridge if we come to it. But not before."