The Chosen

Chapter Nineteen

The transports near the bridges differed from their more common counterparts. Instead of being located in an inn or one of the Sanctuary Halls, each opened directly into the street leading to the bridge itself. “It is for the purpose of moving goods,” Yann explained when Rodney expressed surprise at their destination. “This way, carts may enter the Citadel from the bridges and be transported into the Sanctuary Halls to unload.”

Recalling something of that nature in the initial briefing, Rodney’s interest was quickly diverted to the sight through the closed portcullis of the West Bridge. Flames crawling up into the night sky cast an orange glow over the entire North Wall. Although the wind had dropped with the fall of night, the hot air generated by the blaze and the sheer cliff face leading up to the Enclave seemed to propel most of the oil-laden smoke away. The force of the heat surprised him — it felt like a physical presence. Despite nearly burning his hand on the heavy iron of the portcullis, he would, if pressed, have admitted to a certain fascination. People who battled massive forest fires and oil blazes spoke of fire as a living entity. Watching the way the flames curled and danced across the waters of North Channel, he was beginning to understand the analogy.

Glancing west, Rodney was pleased to note that the oil was flowing at a satisfactory pace.

“It is good that you survived.” Turning, he met the grim faces of the men who had dragged the boom across the channel the previous evening. The warrior added, “We heard that the Wraith culled all those who had remained behind.”

The unspoken question hung between them like an embarrassing smell. “Yes, well, the Shield fell off when I was in the river.” Rodney saw no reason to elaborate on exactly when that unfortunate event had occurred.

A hand clasped his shoulder and he was reluctantly drawn into a display of male bonding that involved embraces and back thumping. Moving past the moment as quickly as possible, he explained what needed to be done, adding, “Once again, we’re a little pressed for time. And we’ll need rope, lots of rope.”

The men, supported by a gaggle of chattering children, led the way to a subterranean passage, claiming it allowed access outside the Citadel near where the end of the boom was secured.

“Are there many more of these tunnels?” Rodney asked, stooping to pass through the low entrance.

“Thousands,” the lead man, another of the engineers, replied. “They provide access for workers to service the sewers and the pumps that supply the Citadel with water.”

Given the sophistication of their weirs, it made sense that a place this big would have a decent wastewater system. Except of course that it wasn’t exactly operating as designed. Aside from the fact that Gat’s crew had evidently used part of the system to stash their food, there was the little matter of raw effluent in the streets. “And how much service actually gets performed?” Rodney’s breath hitched as the septic smell hit him again. At street level, the oil fire had actually masked the stench for a while, but down here it was another story.

“To allow the home of Dalera to fall into such a state is unconscionable,” Yann spat.

The engineers rounded on him. “There were too few of us to more than maintain the water supply coming into the city.”

“I do not blame you,” Yann elaborated. “This is but further proof that the barbarians failed in their leadership. When this culling is passed, never again shall those who blaspheme against Dalera be allowed into our city, except to take temporary refuge from the Wraith.”

Apparently speaking ill of the dead wasn’t a concern around here. All Rodney could think was that he’d be damned before he got involved in sorting out this world’s plumbing issues.

“The sewerage should be the least of our worries,” grumbled another engineer, clutching a torch to light the increasingly claustrophobic passages. “The blackwater has discouraged the Wraith, but it has also made its way into every pump in the city. For the foreseeable future, freshwater will have to be brought in from Nemst.”

Yet another shortcoming in Dalera’s design, to Rodney’s way of thinking. If the water intakes had only been placed at different levels in the Channels, the ‘blackwater ’ problem would have been entirely avoided. Of course, it was probable that Dalera had never envisioned this particular situation. “Assuming that there will be a foreseeable future,” he muttered, sidestepping a putrid mess that, he was certain, had passed through someone’s intestines.

The engineer’s complaints continued. Too tired to voice any kind of objection, Rodney concentrated on watching his step, but after a while the droning conversation had a soporific effect. He began to wonder if he was sleepwalking through a particularly tedious nightmare involving children and alimentary canals.

“Agh!” The engineer kicked out at a rat-sized animal. With a flash of green fur, the creature scuttled down a side tunnel.

One of the children, whom Rodney conceded had been unnaturally quiet during this particular part of their excursion, bent low to follow.

“What are you doing?” Rodney snapped, repulsed by the frothy muck splashing onto his boots.

“This way,” the engineer said, getting down on all fours in the sludge and following her.

“What? Are you kidding me?” He could already feel himself hyperventilating. Not a pleasant thought, because it meant that he was inhaling even more of the rank air than previously.

“The passage is short, and leads directly outside.”

The wound on Rodney’s arm began to ache. He’d forgotten about it during his immersion in the oil, but now every injury he’d sustained, from the goose egg-sized lump on his head to the splinters in his fingers, throbbed unmercifully. Hell, in the last week he’d fallen into a waste tank and swum through a river of oil. What were a few rat droppings, a little stagnant…water…and a very, very tight black hole?

Reluctantly crouching on all fours, he pretended to ignore the slimy sensation beneath his hands, squeezed his eyes shut, thought of wide-open meadows, and followed. Spurred on by the brush of a breeze against his cheek, he increased his pace, as much as that was possible when crawling. Of course, nobody had considered warning him that the tunnel came to an end at least two feet above ground level, a fact that resulted in him tumbling down a sand dune and into a shallow pool of sludge.

The children, naturally, found this highly entertaining. Rodney was slightly mollified by the fact that Yann followed suit, and arrived in the mess face-down.

By the time Rodney had managed to scrub off the worst of the filth in the questionably cleaner sand, the engineers had fastened the thick rope to the end of the boom and were easing it out into the channel. He suffered a moment’s panic because, unlike polypropylene, the fibrous braid was not entirely buoyant. However, it was soon apparent that, while the rope sunk beneath the oil, it floated on the water. This proved to be ideal, and within a surprisingly short space of time they had ascertained the exact amount they needed to adjust the length of the rope and, hence, the shape of the boom, in order to control the volume of oil flowing down both channels.

While all of that was gratifying, it also meant that he had endured these past hours for absolutely no reason. He could have been lying down in a nice warm bed someplace, sleeping. Preferably after a hot meal. Which reminded him that he wasn’t entirely certain when he’d last eaten, and that his blood sugar was unquestionably approaching dangerously low levels.

While the engineers and warriors worked out a system of signals with the buglers, Rodney made himself moderately comfortable on the oily beach and reached into his pocket for a powerbar. He’d chewed through almost the entire thing before he realized that the children were clustered around him, staring at him. Okay, he couldn’t state with unqualified certainty that they were all staring, because half of them were in shadow, but he could feel their eyes boring into him — or maybe it was the powerbar.

“What?” he demanded around a mouthful. “Am I the only one who thought to bring some food?”

Their gazes remained fixed and a little hollow. Comprehension, when it finally came, hit him hard and turned the food to stone in his stomach. Not one of the children had an ounce of fat anywhere on them. Images of the squalid conditions in the Citadel, the bodies discarded like garbage, assaulted him.

Rodney’s initial indignation about the Daleran culture had been largely theoretical. But that recollection, and the expression on the children’s faces, now drove home an unexpected insight. His own childhood, while less than ideal, had at least come with parents, food and a roof over his head. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly, without the annoyance of his earlier brush-off. “I mean, you’re kids—you should be in bed. Where are your parents?”

The children traded tentative, sorrowful glances that sliced into his soul. He never should have asked. None of them had parents, or beds. Their village had surely been destroyed by now.

“Who’s going to look after you?” A delayed realization had him backpedaling almost before the words were out of his mouth. “I’m not volunteering, mind you. I just…”

“Peryn is a Gene,” ventured the little girl, the quiet one. “He has promised to look out for us.”

Well, that was something, even if it was depressingly little. And it wouldn’t matter much if they didn’t hold off the Wraith. Every muscle in his body was begging to lie down on the beach and sleep, but Rodney pushed himself up and nodded toward Yann and one of the engineers. Together with the children and the buglers, they trudged back up the passageway.

Even before they emerged from the tunnel, they could hear the sounds of utter pandemonium. A street battle had gotten underway in their absence. The incipient panic, which Rodney had been keeping just barely contained since landing this role in Survivor Dalera, instantly escalated to an entirely new level.

The townspeople, along with many of the warriors who had been their enemy just twenty-four hours previously, were engaged in vicious hand-to-hand combat with the Wraith. How the hell had the creatures managed to get inside the Citadel? And why were so many people fighting? “Aren’t they supposed to have evacuated to higher ground?” he called to Yann. And right at that moment, he didn’t care much that his voice had cracked.

“They have no choice!” Yann declared. “We have no choice. We fight and die, or we cower and die!” He ran into the throng, battleaxe in hand, apparently determined to slog it out until the bitter end. Noble of him, to be sure, but not exactly what Rodney had in mind.

Swept up in the crowd, he dodged and ducked, weaving his way through axe-wielding men and warriors alike. Even a few women, their faces contorted with rage, were getting the drop on the Wraith swarming out of the transport near the West Bridge — a fact that answered his earlier question and chilled him to the core.

Forgetting the weapon strapped to his hip, Rodney desperately tried to work his way against the crowd, but he was forced along with the throng. He stumbled and was elbowed aside, landing heavily against a set of steps. The pounding in his skull double-timed it, setting up a jarring cadence that seemed out of synch with the throbbing wound on his arm. Then he lifted his head and realized that the fall had actually managed to pull him out of the mass of humanity. Scrambling up a few more steps to see above the chaos, he turned — and saw inside the opening doors of the transport. While Wraith poured out, into the gingery light cast by the burning river, he caught a glimpse of a familiar blond head: Peryn. The boy’s face was bruised and bloodied, and he looked like a rag doll in the grip of a Wraith.

The idea that he’d predicted the Wraith’s tactics so accurately was more than a little disturbing to Rodney. Ford and Teyla would have done everything in their power to protect Peryn, which made the boy’s capture a near-certain sign that they both were now dead.

By the look of things, the Wraith’s fury at having been thwarted had overwhelmed their interest in taking prisoners. They were storming up and out of the transport in a bloody rampage. While most were intent on moving uphill in the direction of the now burned out Enclave, one group had veered toward West Bridge. Once in Wraith hands, the weir would likely be lowered, allowing the fire to spread upstream. This was no longer a culling; it was annihilation.

Sickened by the carnage and frozen with despair, Rodney thought again of his teammates. Ford and Teyla had thrown themselves into defending these people and had paid the price for it. By now Major Sheppard probably was also dead, thanks to that quack healer. When the Marines came looking for them, the Wraith would obliterate the jumpers the moment they came through the ‘gate.

Rodney was completely, utterly alone. Alone, and about to become Wraithmeat.

It seemed so incredibly wasteful that he should die like this. There was so much he had yet to contribute to the galaxy, either this one or his own. All his work, all the half-finished theories, cut short by this insanity.

Something grabbed his ankle, and pulled him off his feet. He looked up into the grotesque mask of a huge Wraith. Closing his eyes, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”

Waking to a foul smell, Aiden battled the telltale after-effects of being hit with a Wraith stunner. Which was kind of weird. He hadn’t been expecting to wake at all, or at least not in any sort of condition that didn’t come with retirement benefits.

“Lieutenant Ford.”

Determinedly pushing aside the grating pins and needles sensation, Aiden looked around in the darkness. “Teyla? What happened? Where are we?” He tried to move, but realized he was wrapped in some sort of bandages, or netting maybe, which partially covered his mouth.

A sense of revulsion stronger than anything he’d ever experienced hit him like a physical blow. He was wrapped in a Wraith cocoon.

“Here, to your left. I believe we are still inside the inn of the village into which we transported.”

Anger, all of it directed squarely at himself, quickly replaced Aiden’s loathing. “Where’s everyone else?” He tried moving his face up and down to dislodge the stuff.

There was silence for a moment, then Teyla replied, “I believe that Peryn at least is still alive.”

The sticky bonds were more elastic than he’d first thought, and he managed to get his nose and mouth clear. Maybe the Wraith that had wrapped him hadn’t been focused on the job. There was a lot going on, after all. “How do you know?” He tried shifting his hands around to tear through the binding. Not so easy. But then, he conceded that the Wraith had had at least ten thousand years to perfect their methods of storing food supplies.

“I was not rendered entirely unconscious by their stunners.”

Possibly it was the darkness, or his own sense of failure in carrying out what should have been a straightforward reconnaissance mission, but Aiden was sure that he could hear self-recrimination in Teyla’s voice. McKay’s parting shot now hit him, and he said, “You think they used Peryn to transport into the Citadel?” So why were he and Teyla still in one piece? Twisting his hands around, he was determined to get free. No way was he letting his mission turn into a complete snafu.

“Yes, but not immediately. I am not entirely certain of what occurred, but I sensed…confusion. I believe that the Wraith were uncertain which of us was responsible for operating the transport.”

“So they kept us alive just in case.” The residual stickiness that had plagued Aiden’s senses was clearing, and he could make out a pallid shape in the direction of Teyla’s voice. She was only a few feet away. “What about—?” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The stark light cast by the overhead planets shone through the open windows of the inn. He spotted four desiccated bodies, slumped against one wall. Their chest armor had been ripped off and tossed in a separate pile — which Teyla, or the cocooned shape of Teyla, was currently up against.

Rocking back and forth in an attempt to loosen the rubbery netting, Aiden bumped into her.

“Do not waste your energy, Lieutenant. You will not escape the bindings so easily.”

“Well, I’m not just going to lie here and wait for more Wraith to turn up,” he retorted. “Unless you can pull another one of those Houdini tricks of yours.”

“If you will hold still,” she said with a touch of exasperation, “I have located a shard of metal. But I can only grasp it with my mouth.”

Several minutes passed while he felt Teyla squirming beside him, and then abruptly, he felt a hole in the netting large enough to stick his hand through. That gave him sufficient leverage to tear away more of the binding until he could reach his knife and cut away the rest.

Once Teyla was free, Aiden searched the inn for their packs and weapons. He barely glanced at the dead men on the floor, but his teammate seemed to be taking an unhealthy interest in them. Although two of them were the warriors who had stuck with Teyla from the start, it wasn’t like the Athosian to be morbid, so he said, “It’s not your fault that they’re dead. It could just as easily have been you and me lying there.”

“That is what disturbs me. Why did they let us live, and instead feed on these men?”

“You said it yourself.” Aiden found his P-90 and checked the weapon. He’d fired several rounds into the nearest Wraith before being hit with the stunner. “They must have thought that we would be more useful to them alive, at least for now. Major Sheppard said that when he was held captive by the Wraith, they tried to pull something from his mind.”

Teyla rounded on her heel and stared at him. “What did you say?”

Not sure what button he’d just pressed, Aiden shrugged. “Some sort of interrogation, I guess. Although I can’t say I believe in the mind reading thing, that queen or caretaker or whatever she was sure did something to the Major on the hive ship. The guys who captured us were probably ordered to keep us on ice until someone up the chain of command could get here.”

“And leave us unguarded?”

“Hey, I’m not the Wraith expert around here. That’s your department.” He glanced through the window and up at the sky. “All I do know is that we’ve got about six hours until dawn. And since we’re not going to be able to get back into the Citadel without Peryn, I say we carry out the original mission, and then find some other way back inside.”

Teyla’s eyes dropped. “Perhaps not.”

Following the direction of her gaze, Aiden swore. Outside, dozens, maybe hundreds of Wraith were making a beeline for the inn. “Is there a back way out of this place?” Before he’d even gotten the words out of his mouth, a light from behind signaled the returning transport.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Outside, the crunch of boots grew louder. Beside him, Teyla lifted her P-90 and readied her aim at the opening transport doors. This time, he doubted that the Wraith would bother to gift-wrap them before feeding.