Rogue
By Leesa Perrie
Tell me what I'm supposed to do,
With all these leftover feelings of you…
…And tell me how I'm supposed to feel,
When all these nightmares become real,
'Cause I don't know…
Lyrics from 'Roadside' by Rise Again
Chapter One – Runners
Ronon had been running from the Wraith for seven years and could see no end to it, except by his death. But he had no intention of making his death easy and would kill as many Wraith as he could in the meantime. His record of Wraith kills was impressive, and it pleased him that the hunted was also the hunter. He'd added another one to his list, leaving the planet before they sent their darts after him.
The new planet that the Ring of the Ancestors took him to had been culled, a few months ago by the looks of things. Terrible for the inhabitants, but at least it offered him a place to rest for a short while, before the Wraith caught up with him. He could set a few traps here and not have to worry about bringing death down onto unwary locals.
The town was made of brick and most of the dwellings were two storied, a couple even with a third. It huddled up against a mountainside, as if the huge rock could shelter it from the coming Wraith.
He walked along, noting suitable places to set traps, and spotted a ship in the middle of the town square. Stopping, he moved into a building and watched carefully from a window. He had believed such ships as this destroyed. He recognised it from the drawings of his mother's; representations of drawings found in the Old Caves on his home world, Sateda, of Ancestral ships thought to be forever gone. He remembered that his mother had been interested in the study of the past. It was something he had never understood, neither had his father.
He pushed down the old familiar pain, muted only slightly over time, that these memories brought him and concentrated on the ship. Who would own a ship like this, if it was of Ancestral design? The Ancestors had not been heard of for many, many generations and unlike some, Sateda held no belief that they would ever return. A dead race, the historians had decreed.
Had they been wrong? Or had the ship been found by humans and turned to their own use? The latter he could accept, and he watched and waited, intending to take it, as well as one who could pilot it, captive. The ship would increase his chances of survival; never having to worry that he was about to randomly hit one of the space gates he'd heard tales of, being able to outrun the darts, maybe even weaponry with which to shoot them down.
He watched from the shadows, and it wasn't long before he saw a man, pale and sweating, leave the ship's interior and stagger to a wall, collapsing to his knees and vomiting for several long minutes. The man then staggered back towards the ship, but fell to the ground with a groan, curling his arm about his stomach. He lay there moaning for several minutes more, before heaving himself to his feet and returning to the wall to vomit again.
Ronon smiled, recognising that the man was alone and would be easy prey. He moved out of the dwelling and glided on silent feet towards the man, who had managed to regain his feet but only remained standing by leaning heavily on the wall for support.
Rodney was sure he was dying, as his stomach rebelled a second time. Dying, right here, right now. No need to worry about where his next trade would be found, where his next meal would come from or that Atlantis had made contact with yet another of his trading partners, forcing him to retreat from that planet and not return for fear of capture. Or even worse, Jefla, where he was always assured of a warm welcome and could rest for days, sometimes weeks, before feeling the need to move on, not wanting to impinge on their hospitality or their gratitude for too long.
No, no need to worry about any of that, he was clearly dying.
He staggered back to his feet, clinging to the wall and trying to summon the energy to return to the jumper, when his bad day got worse as he felt the unmistakable feeling of a gun being pressed into the back of his head, as well as a strong arm being looped around his neck.
"Oh crap," he squawked, ashamed of the fear in his voice.
"Do as I say and you live."
"Okay, okay," he stuttered. "What…what do you want?"
"You will show me how to fly your ship."
"Oh, um, that won't…" he stopped as the arm increased the pressure on his windpipe. "Okay, I get it…" he managed to rasp out.
"Good."
"Um, I might need some help…I don't think I can walk…" he swallowed against the bile he could feel wanting to come out. "I think I'm gonna be sick…"
The man released him.
"Better get it done then."
He knelt again, vomiting and trying not to be intimidated by the scary Neanderthal man behind him. When he was finished, he peeked a look at his captor. Tall, feral and mean, a veritable wild man, with a lethal looking weapon pointed at him. He tried to stand again, but the dizziness increased and he almost fell into his vomit, would have if the wild man hadn't grabbed and steadied him. It wasn't enough, though, and he felt himself falling, vaguely aware of being caught before he slipped into unconsciousness.
Ronon grunted as the man fell, though he wasn't surprised by the collapse; he had felt the fever rolling off the man. He could only hope that whatever ailed him wasn't infectious or that he would be immune to it, but either way he'd have to take the risk. Seven years on the run had taught him that sometimes risks were necessary; sometimes they paid off, other times they didn't. If you were lucky, you'd survive the times they didn't.
Shifting the lax form, he was able to swing the man over his shoulder and carry him into the ship. There was a bench seat on each side of the ship in what he soon worked out was its rear compartment, and one of them had been turned into a bed. He placed the man there and checked out the rest of the ship.
The front section held four seats along with what he took to be the ship's flying controls, which he briefly sat down in front of but soon realised were beyond his ability to understand easily.
He returned to the back section, noticing many storage compartments, which he searched, finding crystals and technology that meant little to him, as well as clothing and what looked like a bag of medicine, as well as food and various trinkets.
One of the storage containers held tava beans. He smelt them, detecting the distinctive smell of tava bean mould. At least now he knew what was wrong with his captive. Had no one warned him about tava sickness caused by mouldy beans? Obviously not, either that or the man was stupid or reckless. He sighed. The sickness could last several days and without help, the man would die from lack of water.
Turning his attention back to his prisoner, he knew there was a chance the man wouldn't be conscious enough to fly the ship out of here before the Wraith came. If that was the case, then the ship would be lost to him, and he found it didn't sit well with him to leave anyone, especially someone ill, to the mercy of the Wraith; ones that had followed him here in the first place.
If worst came to worst, he knew he would bring the man with him, and that meant he would need to concentrate solely on running until he could rid himself of the burden; he couldn't fight back with an ill person to protect.
He found a bottle filled with water and resigned himself to caring for this unknown person. Three hours was all he could risk to wait for him to wake up and possibly fly the ship, not knowing for certain how quickly the Wraith would arrive.
Finding a suitable cloth, he tried to remember what Melena had taught him about treating fevers such as this, and wished not for the first time that he had taken more notice of his dead lover's medical advice. This pain was not so dulled, but he pushed it to one side, as with his parents; he had no time for grief.
When Rodney surfaced again he was disorientated. Someone had stripped him to the waist, thankfully not removing his pants, though he wriggled his bare toes bemusedly. Someone was also wiping him with a cool, blessedly cool cloth across his burningly hot brow, chest, arms… Was he back on Jefla? Maybe Keelie, the herbalist and medicine woman there, was looking after him. But that wasn't right, was it? He hadn't been on Jefla…
He opened his eyes, panic returning with the memories and pushed upwards, trying to escape the wild man, but failing miserably as the caveman easily pushed him back onto the…bench…bed. They were in the back of the jumper.
"Stay down," the man ordered, before turning to grab one of Rodney's canteens and then gently raising his head, before bringing it to his lips. "Drink."
He felt the water slop down his chin a little and reached up a hand to hold the canteen, but damn, he felt so weak and his hand flopped back down.
"Drink," the man repeated, sounding almost gentle, which puzzled him.
He drank, slow sips giving way to larger gulps, but the man removed the canteen for a moment, only returning it to his lips after telling him to slow down. He made himself drink more slowly, but even so he'd soon drained the canteen.
"Can you fly this ship out of here?"
"What…crap, I don't think I could…" Rodney faltered, closing his eyes against the dizziness and swallowing down the threatening nausea.
"Wraith are coming."
"What….what? How could you possibly know that?"
"Tracker. In my back."
"What?" He thoughts felt sluggish.
"The Wraith put a tracker in my back," Ronon repeated. "They hunt me, I hunt them back."
"Oh…" Rodney said, before the implications hit him. "Oh crap, they'll be coming here…you're, I mean the tracker, is sending out a signal…" He pushed himself up, trying to ignore the dizziness this caused. "Gotta get out of here…"
"Yeah."
"And you…" he stopped, thinking. "I could probably jam the signal…maybe… Help me up, get me into the cockpit." At the man's blank look at that term, Rodney added, "The front part of the ship, with the controls…"
Thankfully the mountain man got the idea and helped pull him to his feet, supporting him as he made his way to the pilot's seat. He sank down in relief, pushing back the blackness at the edges of his vision and concentrating on the controls in front of him. It didn't take long for the jumper's systems to identify the frequency of the Wraith transmitter, nor for Rodney to jam the signal.
"Okay, the signal is jammed so long as you stay on the jumper," he said, trying not to think about tying the dangerous person who wanted the ship to the very thing he wanted. "I'll try and fly us out of here. You got an address to dial?"
"Yeah." Ronon thought about Sateda. "Yeah, I got one." He could go home, at least for a while. He was sure someone there would be able to remove the tracker for him, and now he wouldn't be risking bringing the Wraith down on his home world, so long as he stayed on this…jumper? What sort of name was that for a ship?
Of course, that was assuming that some of his people had survived the Wraith attack that had taken him.
The ship moved, slipping from side to side drunkenly, the view screen showing the movement he couldn't feel. He found it very disconcerting and he wondered if letting the feverishly sick man fly was such a good idea, but what choice was there? This was his chance to be free of running and there was no denying that the Wraith were on there way here.
Despite the obvious wobbling that the ship was doing, not to mention the few treetops that the ship clipped, they reached the Ring in one piece.
"Okay, dial the address," the man said, pointing to what Ronon had already figured out to be a dialling device.
He punched in Sateda's address and they left the culled world behind them, only to appear on another one...
The man flew the ship for a short distance before landing with a thud that this time he did feel, though only slightly. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere as he looked at the ruins of a once great city; the ruins of a once great world.
"This is nice," there was more than a touch of sarcasm in the man's voice. "Yeah, I really love these culled worlds. So full of the joy of living. Damn, who even knows what this place was called."
"Sateda. My home."
He didn't know why he added that last bit, but it was worth it to see the guy blanch even more.
"Sorry, that…really sucks…" the guy said, before his eyes rolled upwards and he slipped from the seat to the floor in one fluid motion, passing out.
"Yeah, it sucks," he said, not truly understanding the man's term but guessing at its meaning. Forcing himself not to look at what remained of his home world, he gathered the guy up and placed him back onto the bed. He hoped that tending him would act as a distraction from the destruction outside.
It didn't.
Several days passed as the man sunk into the illness. He slept most of the time and when awake was barely aware of his surroundings, only drinking or eating when water or food was offered to him and making no moves to help himself. Ronon did his best to take care of him, recognising that this man might still be able to help him, and feeling responsible in some way he couldn't explain for the man's survival.
Occasionally, there were names murmured in his fever dreams that Ronon had difficulty working out; Shep, Carzon, Lizbeth, Teya, Ford. Sometimes the man was agitated, repeating he was sorry over and over, but mostly his dreams were empty, silent.
Ronon slept badly too; the ruins bringing back the memories he'd tried to push aside, bury in his past and forget. There was no hiding from the grief here, and he mourned, truly mourned, for the first time in seven years.
Part of him hated the man for giving him the chance to come here, to see what he had feared but never truly believed and for collapsing before they could leave. He knew, though, that the only ones to blame for this were not here, but elsewhere in their hive ships. He'd thought he'd hated them before, but now he felt a new level of hatred, a rage he feared would burn him up.
And a pain so deep he felt would never heal.
McKay drifted through shadows of darkness and light. He pondered that for a moment. Weren't all shadows made of darkness and light? When had he started stating the obvious? Did it matter? Probably not.
He drifted a while longer before slowly awakening, his eyes blinking sleepily a few times. Distantly, he was aware that he was feeling better than he had for… some time.
Minutes passed and then he remembered the caveman, the tracker, the ruined planet that was the caveman's home, the illness…
He sat up, relieved when there was no dizziness or nausea accompanying the move. Cautiously he stretched, easing cramped muscles, and looked around. Where was his captor? Oh, there. Sprawled asleep in one of the cockpit chairs, closest to the door and him.
Okay, he had two choices; abandon the jumper and slip away before the behemoth woke up, which really wasn't much of an option considering how much he depended on the jumper to survive, or dump the behemoth and leave. He had the Gra'an stun gun hidden away and hopefully the guy hadn't found it. He could stun him and drag him outside… and leave him for the Wraith to find… and he couldn't do that to anyone.
So, a third option was needed. Make the guy a portable jamming device. Okay, find the stunner, stun him, make a portable jammer, which wouldn't be very hard, and then dump him and leave.
Stealthily he slipped his feet to the floor and stood, moving silently towards his secret stash, hidden behind a false panel, and grabbed the gun. He turned to aim, only to find the sleeping giant wasn't sleeping anymore, but was watching him from a few steps away.
He panicked, shooting the stunner but missing as the caveman ducked his shot and tackled him, pinning and disarming him as easily as a child.
"No, no, no, no, come on, you can't blame me for trying…" he petered out at the look of feral amusement in the wild man's eyes. "Don't hurt me…" he whimpered, ashamed of the fear in his voice.
The guy manhandled him into the cockpit and pushed him down into one of the back chairs. Using some rope from one of his storage units, and damn it, the mountain man must have been prepared in case he tried anything he realised, he was secured to the chair.
Then his captor retook the seat he'd just vacated.
"Okay, so that was a dumb move on my part," he acknowledged dispiritedly.
"Yeah, it was."
He tugged on the rope in vain and sighed in defeat.
"Right. So, what now?"
"You show me how to fly this."
"No point, you can't fly it."
"Think I'm too stupid?"
Judging from the look on Conan the barbarian's face that was not a good thing to insinuate.
"No, no, look I'm sure with the right teaching you could, in theory, learn to fly it but that doesn't alter the fact that you can't. It's not a knowledge thing, it's a gene thing."
"Gene?" The man was clearly puzzled by the term.
"Yes, in your blood. Everybody has genes, it's what makes a person. Erm, okay, in simple terms, if you don't have a certain gene, a…a…" he stumbled. Crap, how do you explain DNA to a caveman?
"The building blocks," said caveman answered. "They make up a person's body, determine eye, hair colour, that sort of thing."
"Yes," he said, truly amazed. "Some…some people have a gene, a building block, that allows them to use certain Ancient technology, like the jumpers. If you don't have that gene you can't. Not all Ancient tech is like that, but the jumper is one of those that is. You don't have the gene, you can't fly it."
"Ancients, as in the Ancestors?"
"Yes, yes, the Ancestors," he said impatiently.
"How do you know I don't have this…gene?"
"Well…I haven't met anyone other than…I mean, anyone from this galaxy that has it…" He considered it for a moment. "Okay, sit in the pilot's chair and put your hands on the controls, like I did."
The man did as he was told.
"Okay, so nothing has happened. Um, try thinking it on, sometimes that works."
Although looking sceptical, the guy did it and again, nothing happened.
"See? You don't have the gene."
"Then I need you to fly it."
"Um." He swallowed in fear. "Um, that would be a yes."
"What's your name?"
"What? Oh, McKay. Dr Rodney McKay."
"Specialist Ronon Dex."
"Oh, that's you?"
"Rank and name."
The guy, Dex, turned the chair until he was facing him, studying him intently. He squirmed under the gaze, dropping his eyes in an effort to hide his fear.
"I untie you, you don't try anything."
"Um, yeah…whatever you say, um, Specialist Dex," he stuttered in surprise.
"Call me Ronon," he said as he untied McKay, watching him in case he decided to do something stupid.
"Oh, okay."
He indicated the pilot seat, and McKay slipped into it, trying to hide his nervousness and failing miserably.
"So, where to?"
He didn't know. He thought of some of the places he had visited and tried to think of one that might be safe, at least until they could work something out. There was little point in trying to keep McKay as a prisoner for the long term, not when he needed him to fly the ship, but he wasn't ready to trust this stranger yet either.
"You don't have anywhere in mind, do you?" McKay challenged.
"No," he reluctantly admitted.
"You know, this isn't going to work. Sooner or later I'm going to get the better of you." He ignored Ronon's huff of disbelief and carried on, "And I can't imagine you want to be tied to this ship. Maybe…we could strike a deal? I mean, I'm sure I could make a jamming device that you could carry. In return, you let me take the ship and leave. It's my ship after all, not yours…" McKay spat out that last bit before trailing off, obviously realising that snapping at his captor might not be such a good idea.
He ignored McKay's tone and considered what he was offering. A jamming device he could carry with him so that he didn't have to remain onboard the jumper sounded good, but was he ready to give up the jumper and all its advantages? And how far could he trust McKay?
"Look, there is another possibility as well," McKay said cautiously. "I know some people, good people, who could remove that tracker from you. Then you never have to worry about the jamming device breaking down or anything."
"What would they want in return?" he asked suspiciously.
"Nothing. Well, not much, probably just information on me, but it's not like you could tell them much…"
"You running from them?"
"Maybe," McKay hedged and Ronon took that to mean yes.
"What you do?" he pressed.
"Doesn't matter. They're good people and they'd help you. And you might like them, might even decide to stay and help them. Lots more of these jumpers on Atlantis."
He could tell whatever had happened was painful; there was a deep sadness in McKay's eyes.
Life was risk. He knew that, he'd taken many risks before now. Some good, some bad. So far he'd been lucky enough to survive the bad.
Less than a day later, Ronon had a portable jamming device and McKay left him on a planet of, "kids, kids, lots and lots of kids," which had been said with a visible shudder, but an assurance that Keras, one of the elders, would contact Atlantis for him.
He'd also heard a little about Jefla, though he didn't recognise the planet's name and McKay didn't share with him the Ring address.
McKay, he had discovered, could be very talkative while at the same time giving very little about himself away, and nothing about what had happened between him and his people, who apparently weren't even from this galaxy.
