AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies for any confusion over the triple posting of Chapter One of Madacran, but I can't seem to get it to appear on the front page somehow. Perhaps third time lucky?
PLEASE NOTE: AUTHOR'S WARNING It's always my aim to try and be original with my stories, and in so doing, with Madacran, I pushed out the boundaries a little: there is an element of non-con fic here that may offend. It's my plot bunny and my bad guy that are naughty, not me! There are references too, to homosexuality (only a little and not Shep's! And no slash.) and nekkidness (mostly Shep's!) And much swearing of one character.
However, my beta, Sterenyk Strey, says that this is 'an interesting tale'. So, please read, and let me know what you think.
Future stories I have planned will be more 'normal'!
Further Author Notes: And many thanks to Strey for her time and assistance on this. It is to her merit that she persevered with me and my ellipses for so long! Even if she did fail in her attempts to persuade me to eradicate them and other grammatical errors entirely...
This story is complete at just under 89,000 words and I plan to carry on posting at regular intervals if anyone is still interested in reading.
PS. Jan. 24th: Oh, and I forgot to say, this probably takes place somewhere in Season 5 or after. There are references to the episode 'Travellers,' Season 4, but nothing to give the story details of that ep away. Oh, and Epiphany, Season 2, is also mentioned.
Madacran
Chapter One - Prologue
He was a dot in the desert.
Somehow, probably during that late night drunken trade in a bar in a back street of Razachan when Olfas, its owner, (though the rate he was going he was never going to be owner for much longer), who couldn't tell left from right, up from down, (though probably could tell down because he was down on the floor most of the time, sick as a taros bird, and was getting a real good look at the underside of one of his filthy tables, that's if he could focus, but he had the chance, to focus, that is, and it would have been a good idea to focus because if he didn't soon, he was going to end up in his own vomit), was persuaded to exchange the object for a glass eye, because he said he might need one, one day, eventually, (probably to help focus when he next drank his own bar's entire stock of ivis liquor) and so, because the deal was so ludicrous, and because Seldric had sorta felt sorry for him and had thrown in the wooden leg too for good measure, they had acquired... a Life Signs Detector.
And (and this was the good part) it had once belonged to a Traveller (no questions asked, but there's a whole load of new graves at Seismo,) who'd fixed it with a brand new interface so they didn't need the goddamned ATA gene to work it.
Seldric was the proverbial trowsy cow let loose in the proverbial haystack.
"You know, with this, With This, with this, I could find out if my wife is cheating on me."
Well, he did find out.
One big fat dot one night. And she was. Cheating on him. With that Pickieton, or some name like that. Though they could never fathom out why she'd fancied him. He just wasn't a nice guy. And he had a sort of a squint too. Clada said he didn't mind him, but then Clada liked all the dark haired guys and thought it a sorta shame when Seldric shot the pair through the head while they slept in Seldric's ownbed, so yeah, perhaps Seldric was right to be kinda pissed about that? Though he complained all week about having to do his own laundry and how difficult it was to get blood stains out and how it'd rained and how he could get nothing dry. Toplon said he should've just thrown the sheets out, but hey, these weren't just crap cloth from the Madacran market, these were Socan silk, in a deep purple too, and didn't Toplon know how difficult it was to get stuff like that? And Seldric was keen to hold onto them now, because, hey, the fairer sex just loved Socan silk. In fact, sex just loved Socan silk.
Anyway.
The dot on the LSD became a cross in the desert.
Someone had staked the guy out in the blazing sun.
Not the nicest of things to do to someone. Seldric said even hewouldn't do that as he shot two of the secrid birds that had flocked round to feed on the poor bugger. Oh yeah. No kidding said Horrie as Horrie shot another three. Horrie had been with Seldric the longest and knew everything there was to know about Seldric. No. It wasn't a myth that Seldric had killed forty nine men. But Horrie had sorta lost count. It was probably a lot more…
Toplon, always a good shot, took off another six of the birds. Clada, who never was, just took a chunk out of the guy's boots.
"Damn you, Clada! I needed those! Damn! Can you not be more careful! You'll take off your very own head one day!" And Clada knew he was in Toplon's bad books because Toplon never usually said more than six words in a day, and they were always sorta high brow and in a best-academy voice.
Toplon walked forward as the last of the birds flapped away, crawing in protest, and he roughly pulled the boots off the man's feet, paying little attention to the groans coming from said man, and ruefully fingered the gaping hole. But they were still better than his own which were two sizes too big anyhow and hey, how about that, the guy had those stocking things too? So he slumped down onto the dust, to don his new foot gear, throwing his own into the near-by scrub.
It was then that he noticed the grave.
The secrids had already been there disturbing the rocks piled up, and had pecked at what appeared to be a human hand. The blue bugs were finishing it off thank you very much thank you. And probably the rest of the corpse too judging from the numbers crawling through the crevices in the stones.
"The secrids obviously prefer fresh meat," said Horrie, who'd also come over to look, seeing that the birds had gone for the stranger. He'd spoken with a sniff, sniffing because it was kinda sad and sniffing because of the goddamned awful smell.
"Was a woman," said Toplon simply, gazing down mournfully at a mangled upper limb now exposed.
"It was, was it?" Toplon knew stuff like that because Toplon had been a doctor once but had done something bad, so very bad but no one had ever dared ask him what exactly. It was why he said so little. Well, they guessed that was why, because no one really knew for sure, or even if it were true that he'd done something so very bad, but they all had, hadn't they? That's why they were a team.
Seldric called because he needed help to strip out the abandoned space craft. Horrie and Toplon ignored him.
"There were two others. They went that way." Toplon pointed to the east, but whoever 'they' were, were long gone because they would've picked them up on the 'Tector otherwise.
"Then they took stuff with them?"asked Horrie, wondering if they should give chase.
"Doubt it. On foot. Would've just been food and water and guns and a blanket." If they'd had any sense. But it'd been the guns that Horrie was concerned about.
Seldric used some sentences then, that scarcely had one good word in them so they thought they'd better go and help.
Because Clada wasn't.
"I wish you'd keep your sexual proclivities to the confines of your quarters," Toplon murmured as he stooped down to take a blood sample from the stranger's one good unfed-upon arm.
"My sex wha?" asked Clada with his hands down the poor wretch's leggings. "Why is he moving like that?" Shuddering. Nearly like a convulsion. "He's not having an or-"
"Lack of salt," cut in Toplon, quickly and matter-of-factly. He always carried salt pills with him whenever they ventured out into the desert. And fully intended to give the stranger some later if it was worth their while. "Muscle cramps," he added. "He really is in excruciating pain." And Clada found that more of a turn on than ever…
"Clada! Clada, you're fucking disgusting! Leave him alone!" yelled Seldric from the large, open, back door thing of the space craft, as he started throwing out stuff to be loaded on to the four trowsy beasts they'd brought with them. Clada had lifted the stranger's shirt now, rubbing a hand like the lecher he was, across the guy's stomach, eyes lusting on the moment, before moving on...
And then Seldric started fouling off at Horrie too, who was gathering the remains of some of the more intact secrid birds and shoving them into a couple of sacks.
"Have you ever fucking eaten fucking secrid?!! They're fucking so tough they'll take your fucking teeth out! And we haven't the fucking room anyway!"
"Better than salted trowsy," muttered Horrie, remembering they'd lived on nothing else for the past six months. "Anyway, the feathers make a good price at Madacran."
But Seldric wasn't listening. He'd turned on Clada again.
"Clada! Just fucking stop that! We're not taking him either!"
"But if he works all right, you know Slaver Smo will take him. And he's pretty." He had dark hair. And a guy tied up by the ankles and wrists was a sort of a turn on too, well, hethought so when Paltron did it to him…
Horrie snorted in derision. "Half his face is a mess! How can you tell?"
"He's fucking damaged, Clada! Just like your fucking brain! How you ever gonna get him to 'work' when he's in that state?! For Godsake, just slit his throat and put him out his misery!"
"I need the leggings off anyway, before all the blood gets on them. I've always liked black," sulked Clada, from his place astride the man's hips.
"And you, Toplon, you quit that too, I repeat, we're not taking him!" He'd seen Toplon studying his blood sampler, waiting for the results to come through on its screen.
"Seldric, you know it makes sense." And Toplon shrugged. "You're dealing in spare parts. As do I. You know what a premium organs on Dolcros make if you can find blood group D. We need only keep him alive as far as Madacran. Until this happened, he seems to have been a very healthy specimen. I imagine his kidneys might be a bit iffy at the moment though…"
The staked out guy groaned at this, or maybe at Clada...
Seldric threw up his arms in despair, cursed loudly and disappeared inside the ship, banging as he continued the search for more salvage.
But yeah, they'd hit good here. Though he hadn't a clue what half the stuff was for. He'd gotten his lever out and he was pulling at a metallic panel marked with some indecipherable script that included some letter that looked like a triangle. But he'd never been schooled - it might as well have been trowsy talk for all he knew. And he hadn't even gotten to the front, yet, where there were loads of dials and screens and things. Even four comfy chairs. They were going to have to do two trips. In this fucking heat? But it'd be worth it. The sackful of crystals alone… well, they wouldn't have to eat fucking secrid, would they? Selemon's agent always paid good money for this tech kit.
When he came back out with his arms full, Clada had managed to unfasten both the stranger's and his own leggings and Seldric caught a glimpse, in all Clada's thrusting, of the stranger's pelvis. And yeah, it was good if you were in to all that like Clada was...
"Clada! I swear I'm soon gonna fucking stake you out alongside him-"
Then the guy bit Clada. And Clada leapt up, yelping, sucking at a finger on one hand and trying to pull his leggings up with the other. When he had, he kicked the guy. Hard. In the ribs.
"You shit-turd! To think we saved your ass!" And hard again. In the ribs. So hard, that even the nearby shaggy trowsy beasts flinched from grazing on shrub and moved their stinking hides away.
And all the guy could do was sort of whimper in the back of his throat. Because his lips were so dry and cracked and swollen. How the hell had he actually managed to biteClada? So now the guy's lips were bleeding too. Along with his right arm, half his chest and half his face. The secrids had been going for his eyes. They did that. Always went for your eyes first. Must be a kinda delicacy for them.
"Serve you fucking right! And if the secrids are carrying disease, you've got it too!"
And Horrie looked down doubtfully at his two sacks full of the birds, and promptly tipped them out.
"Now perhaps someone will help me out in here! We've got to be making tracks before that sun gets full up."
It was already like an oven inside the little space craft. Hot. Hot and airless. But a good likeness. Oven. With its strange lift up back door. And it was stubby and squarish, like an oven. Nothing like the Travellers' ships they'd seen before. And this had gotten guys through space? Perhaps it wasn't so good. Perhaps that's why it'd ended up here in the desert. Broken down.
"Actually, Seldric," spoke up Toplon, leaning at the craft's entrance, real casual like... like he was never going to fucking help, "have you not thought that this vessel is in remarkably good condition considering it has crashed in the desert?"
Yeah. He had. "Well, that means, don't it, we get more things to salvage and ain't gotta scrape fucking bits of Traveller off everything, don't it?" Sometimes you just have to explain fucking everything, even to Toplon.
"It also suggests it may still be viable and... correspondingly more valuable... "
"And how are we ever going to fucking fix it?"
"Well, our recent acquaintance may also still be... viable..." and he looked back to the staked out guy.
"I said we're not fucking taking him! That's final!"
"Oh, but I suggest you reconsider that decision, Seldric, that and the stripping out of the ship. For the two are most definitely connected, as it would appear that our friend here, is in possession of… the ATA gene."
-oAo-
Docky's mistress's husband was a Senator, an occupation only attainable through bribery and corruption. This was a fact. Pure and simple. And bribery and corruption required money. A second immutable fact. So it followed that Dochelimar Selemon the VIth, having none of the fortune required but all of the aspirations, had been compelled to marry for money.
Of course, Meria, hadn't married him for love either. Status and breeding had been her connubial prerequisites, and you didn't get to be called Dochelimar Selemon VI for nothing. As well as the long line of Dochelimar Selemons, Selemon could further trace his descent from an equally long line of reputable and honourable Dochelimar Tiarder's, right up to the XIIth. Though one had regrettably disgraced himself and had became a monk. Who thought, that if you sat out in the desert and prayed long enough, the Wraith wouldn't descend upon you and take your life force. And who was buried where he had died as a shrivelled husk. It would have been far more sensible to take to the caves of the northern hills as was the usual custom of Madacran City.
No. His family were pure stock Madacrans. And often that fact could be worth more than money.
Not that his family had been entirely bereft of funds. There washalf an estate lying to the north of Madacran that grew ivis in abundance on its rich sunny aspect slopes. But it was never enough. Bribery aside, there were other costly expenditures that faced Senators with ambition. Entertainment on grand lavish scales in a elegant house on the rightstreet of Madacran, Lokom Street to be precise, were essential requirements to climbing the political ladder. To rub shoulders with the right people. To be seen to rub shoulders with the right people.
It was all so costly. The banquets with connoisseur vintage ivis and food prepared by the foremost chef of Madacran. All the more impressive if you actually ownedhim as did Selemon. The expensive blends of narcotics... hiotus, mynia, moton... and cer moton (if it could be had) to be inhaled or imbibed. The live 'shows', the more depraved the better, the more extravagant of slave lives the better. And they dared call themselves nobility? Once he had even created an actual dungeon with all the trimmings, though on reflection, it hadn't been that difficult... but he rather rued the day as he had lost his favourite slave, Rammian, to a bad case of flagellation. Rammian would do anything to please his master, but... he was expendable, and an agreeable exchange for an influential vote in the Senate.
But it had not always been so with Dochelimar Selemon VI. It was a case of if you can't beat them, join them. As a student, he'd been something of a radical. Something of an anarchist even. Certainly an idealist. He so wanted to change the system. To put right all the wrongs. To change the whole wide universe. He'd been on all the demos. Had been arrested on numerous occasions. Once for letting off gas bombs in the foyer of Government House. In fact, his father had despaired of him to such a degree that he had signed him up as a junior officer on the next Travellers' ship out of Madacran, to learn the ways of the universe. Though that action might have also been attributable to the deaths of his mother and brother. And it was also probable that Selemon senior hoped never to see him again.
But what were the waysof the universe that he had learned? His interlude from Madacran had simply reinforced his view that change is only effected by power and force, and that the strength of that power is intensified if it lies in the hands of one individual person. Say, for example, Dochelimar Selemon VI. And not was diluted across the many minds that, say, make up a Senate. And that the strength of that force is determined by correct timing. You had only to see the Travellers laying in wait for an unsuspecting Wraith ship to realise that. So... he was biding his time, and that time might be about now, with the appearance of Docky.
Docky was returning from an errand to the Madacran market. Judging from the scent of him, for Meria's favourite bars of swuido soap. The market was generally considered cheap and nasty, partly because its principle trade was in flesh, after all, but here and there were artisan's stalls of quite remarkable quality that the ladies of Lokom Street were partial to frequenting, especially if they were passing by with a freshly acquired slave or two.
Docky was crossing the courtyard from the main front gate of the Selemon villa to Meria's quarters. Selemon called him over. He winced at being forced to use the name Docky. It had once been his own term of endearment in the early days of his marriage to Meria when he'd been permitted a few jabs at procreation in order, unsuccessfully, to produce an heir. And tiresomely, Meria had demonstrated her lack of intellect once more. When the slave had first reeled off what seemed like half a dozen different names, she had immediately assumed the first to bea name and not his title or his office and had instantly turned Doctor into the pet form, Docky. Selemon imagined that Meria also thought Peeaitchdee was actually his last name.
As the slave approached, Selemon wondered why Meria found herself so particularly attracted to him. He wasn't exactly an Adonis. Too pale for Selemon's liking. Some red blotches where he'd spent rather too long out in the sun lately. A hairline that threatened to recede. And he was rather flabby round the shoulders, chest and paunch. Though good strong legs revealed themselves below the short tunic tied off at the waist. Perhaps with the advancement of middle age, Meria, no longer wished to surround herself with younger men who would only remind her of her lost youth. Perhaps she like his alien novelty. Blue eyes, the colour of a non-Madacran. Perhaps he was just good with his hands…
"Docky…"
"Hmmm?" Well, some manners wouldn't go amiss. Selemon knew that he was well down the pecking order of things as regards anything to do with his wife, but his wife's current favourite really should learn to say, 'Yes, master,' like all the others.
"Docky… my wife…"
"Meria?"
"Yes. You know, one day she will tire of you."
"Oh." And Docky seemed suddenly downhearted at this news. (The fellow was actually in love?) Though this was replaced immediately with defiance. Jutting out his chin.
"You're only saying that because you're jealous!"
Selemon was a little taken aback. Him jealous of this slave? Goodness, he was more than used to his wife's long list of boyfriends, lovers, paramours. And it was a long list. She'd slept with half the Senate for heaven's sake. And sometimes because he'd asked her to.
"No. No. No. It is nothing like that. I only wished to warn you. Truly. When she tires of you, it will be back to the Madacran market for you."
"It will?" Docky didn't seem to like the sound of that.
Selemon nodded gravely. "I have no say. She is your lawful mistress, not I. But I have seen how able you are in matters of figure work." As well as bed duties, the slave was sorting out Meria's complicated accounts of the heruska oil company, inherited from her father, and Selemon knew what Peeaitchdee really stood for, and he had a vague recollection of a certain scientist who'd blown up an entire planet. He had seen that from the bridge of a Travellers' ship. "I would like to take you to into my own personal household but lack of funds…" And he shrugged.
Docky's slow nod demonstrated that he understood completely.
"If you could persuade Meria, while you were still in her good books, so to speak, to turn you over to me, it would be much appreciated."
The slave was nodding again. In agreement.
Of course, Selemon had funds for this one slave. And his wife's property was his own. But manipulation was far more satisfying. And this slave would feel eternally grateful for the warning. And the timing was perfect now for Docky to be working for Selemon... for Selemon had, shall he say... a 'show' to create? To impress the universe...
-oAo-
Private Dominic Kelsoe had been fed upon by the Wraith. A partial feeding. Major (his rank at the time) Sheppard had saved him. Sometimes he wished that the Major had shot him dead instead. Like he'd shot Colonel Sumner once.
It had aged Kelsoe fifteen years. He'd been twenty at the time. (The youngest marine on Atlantis ever.) So he was middle aged to look at. Though his internal organs had aged much more. They doubted he'd ever see thirty five.
So it was an honourable discharge.
It sure felt like a discharge. It never felt very honourable. Honourable was when they pinned medals to your chest. There was none of that. And if he'd left then, he doubted if anyone would have noticed he'd even gone. So much for honour.
He couldn't bear the thought of returning home. There wasn't much, or anyone to return home to. That's why he'd joined up in the first place. But since he'd spent his youth earning dollars as cleaner in a shopping mall, they allowed him to stay on, working as utility staff. It saved them a lot of work and there was a vacancy anyhow. Checking out security for new personnel was something of a nightmare in paperclips, etc, etc.
And it was while working, cleaning in the kitchens that he met Rosie Murphy, chef.
"That sounds Irish?"
"Yeah, but I'm Puerto Rican extract. Don't I just hate it when they say extract? It makes you sound like-"
"Meat flavouring?"
"Yeah!"
"So, how come the name?"
"Don't ask!" Though he did. And loads of other questions too. Because he liked her. And she liked him in return. And they were soon an item. And she laughed and said she didn't mind older men. And it was never pity talking.
But life sucks.
She became ill. And the bloods showed leukaemia. And Dom had had a cousin with that. And he hadn't lived long. So they sat on an Lantean balcony one night and cried and talked over the future (which didn't take very long and was nearly all medical stuff) and cried some more. Talked again and looked at the night sky.
"So you have a list?" he asked her.
"A list?"
"Yeah, you know… a thousand things to do before I die." Because he was damn well sure he was gonna make every dream come true for her.
And when asked, you can never think of anything. Of course, top of the list was to marry Dom. No question about that. And then there were so many places that she'd heard of but had never seen and would like to visit. All the usual. Back on Earth. Grand Canyon. Hawaii. Paris. London. The Taj Mahal. And then… and then there were the stars… She'd spent two years in a mess hall listening to all the stories. She longed (and she guessed that's why she'd come to Atlantis in the first place) to just… get out there… space…
-oAo-
"Here let me do it!" insisted Seldric, snatching hold of the skin water bottle.
But it didn't seem to matter who tried it, attempting to get water down the man's swollen throat was damned impossible. Like a large funnel with a narrow hole. Half ended up in the sand. But the man, for his part, was really trying his hardest to desperately gulp the stuff down. Good on him!
"Actually, it would be as well to simply pour it over his head. He needs to be cooled down," instructed Toplon. They'd already untied the poor bastard and pulled him over to the meagre shade of the space craft. And Clada was madly fanning him with a smallish sheet of metal thrown out of the ship.
"But we'll never get back. We need the water for the trowsies," complained Horrie, who couldn't see what all the fuss was about. So what if the stranger had an ATA gene? It sounded like some sort of secrid disease to him.
"You think he's the pilot?" Seldric asked.
Toplon shrugged. "There is the possibility. Or he might be able to get the craft going again. Or it might not even be broken. He might have just been attacked." Though whoever had attacked him, had to have been fellow travellers. There was only the one set of tracks going out. None coming in.
Toplon was trying to force a couple of salt pills into the man's mouth with little success. The stranger was madly objecting, craving only for the water. Toplon then noticed the chain round the man's neck and lifted up the thin medallions that hung there.
"It's his name?" offered Clada, who could read a few words, having been taught mainly by Slaver Smo, who'd ran the brothel where he'd grown up. A lot of strangers passed through that place too. So he'd picked up more.
"What is it then?" asked Seldric.
But Clada, however hard he squinted, couldn't make the silver lettering out.
"He would not be able to recognise it," spoke up Toplon, considering. "It is a script that I have encountered only once before whilst scanning through Traveller data files. They were corrupted but I was able to ascertain that whereas it is not a form of Ancient, there was still a connection with the long lost city of Atlantis."
"Fucking hell..." breathed out Seldric.
"I could try perhaps something of a phonetic rendering of the lettering, though I would be loath to guarantee its accuracy."
"Ph... Ph... would be good, " invited Seldric, nodding.
And Toplon took a deep breath. "Jo…Her... Ner... One word. Joherner. Pee. One word."
"Pee?" queried Seldric, pulling a face.
"Yes. Pee."
"You sure those are his names? Could be his fucking history of toilet training for all we know," doubted Seldric.
But Toplon continued sounding out the syllables carefully. "Sh…Ep…Pard…One word. Sheppard. Ler…Ter… One word. Lerter. Col. One word. There. Joherner Pee Sheppard Lerter Col," he announced on reaching the end. Five names. They were all suitably impressed. They had, after all, only four names between them all.
"Joherner? Sounds like a girl's name. We'll call him Jo," announced Seldric. Though Clada couldn't see what was wrong with having a name that sounded girlie.
And Jo promptly showed his approval of his pet name by choking on a salt pill and by going rigid with the muscle cramp out of hell.
-oAo-