Taken On Trust
By Ann3
Writer's Note: I must be going yampy in my old age !! I've just been transferring my fanfic from floppies to DVD on my new 'putie - and I found this lonely, unsubmitted little thing moping around in its folder.
For my regular readers and reviewers, this is the one which inspired I Suppose This Means I've Failed (although you need to wait for chapter six to find out how !)
So I thought I'd put it out of its misery and get it uploaded - eight chapters in all, hopefully through this weekend.
Speaking of misery - who's up for some good old fashioned Beckett whumping ? You are ? Oh good - hopefully you won't be disappointed... ;o)
Reviews, comments and suggestions, as always, very much welcomed !
Chapter One
Deadly Deceptions
It was the situation he always dreaded. One that John Sheppard still couldn't believe was happening.
A simple goodwill mission to the people of Vora had now become his worst private nightmare. From an act of betrayal which, if truth be told, he now kicked himself for not suspecting sooner, a member of his team was now in trouble. Serious trouble.
All the help and firepower he needed to end that nightmare was just a click on his headset away. But with that means of contact also still in hostile hands, that option, for now, wasn't open to him. The Vorans were holding enough aces as it was, without being privy to any retaliation against them.
Through no fault of his own, Carson Beckett topped that potentially disastrous list of advantages - his life now held at the point of a knife, its blade pressed, with deadly accuracy, against his neck.
Along with his mounting anger and frustration, John Sheppard now silently kicked himself for not spotting the warning signs of trouble. He really should have learned by now - missions of mercy to seemingly helpless communities tended to go belly up, big time.
This latest one, to cure a plague which threatened to wipe out the people of Vora, was no exception. And, in time honoured tradition, none of them had seen it coming.
As soon as their distress call had reached Atlantis, Carson Beckett hadn't needed to hear any more - his medical brilliance promised to them, for as long as they needed it, without a second's hesitation.
Watching his friend wince, in helpless pain at how roughly his captors now controlled him, John felt a further swell of bile rise in his throat. How deeply Carson must be regretting that decision now. How sorely he must be cursing that part of his nature which had been so cruelly exploited - the compassionate trust in human goodness which, yet again, had been savagely turned against him.
Less than an hour ago, that compassion had been unbreakably intact. Now it had been brutally shattered.
Damn it, John now silently railed at himself, how the hell had he missed such an obvious set up for an ambush...?
As they'd walked through the Voran camp, Carson had been covertly separated from the rest of the team. Circling their saviour, pressing ever closer against him, they had timed his taking to perfection
Shyly flattered by all their hugging, handshaking gratitude, Carson Beckett hadn't known what hit him. Gagged with painful abruptness across his mouth, he'd not even had time to cry out in protest.
By the time John Sheppard spun around in response, realized what had happened, it was all over – the deadly glint of metal lodged at Carson's throat instantly ending all thoughts of protesting reprisal.
Held in this truly deadly embrace by his captors, Carson Beckett hadn't moved a muscle since – especially when the Voran leader had, in quietly brutal menace, warned him what would happen if he did.
"I do not wish to kill you, Dr Beckett, you are too valuable for that. But I will not tolerate resistance..."
To prove his point, he'd then pressed his knife, with clinical slowness, against Carson's collar bone – deep enough to leave yet another stain on his prisoner's shirt, forcing out another helpless gasp of pain
And it was this needless torture of his friend that grated on John Sheppard's already outraged nerves. Carson Beckett, their gently trusting CMO, was the last person in the world to deserve such treatment.
He knew, in silent fury, that it was this very compassion which had made Carson such an easy target. He knew, too, from bitter experience, that the longer this standoff went on, the worse things would get.
Carson's thoughts had clearly followed the same track, and come to the same terrifying conclusion – his wide, terrified eyes still pleadingly locked on the only person who could stop it from happening.
But John Sheppard's hands were tied as tightly as his own. Carson knew that, all too despairingly well. All the time his captors had that damn knife at his throat, John Sheppard simply dared not intervene.
His captor knew it too, gloatingly revelling in the power and control that now rested within his hands – savouring the rush of power at this ability to hold another defenceless life completely at his mercy.
He wasn't going to kill his captive, of course. He was too valuable, much too rarely valuable, for that. And to injure him, to mark him too severely, would lessen his potentially ground-breaking return.
But at the same time, he had to be shown, left in no doubt whatsoever, as to where his life now lay. Heard only by one helpless, utterly terrified mind, he continued to brutally break his captive's spirit.
"Your life is mine now, Dr Beckett. I own you now, body and soul, and I will do with you as I please. I have complete control over you, doctor. Whether you live, or whether you die, rests in my hands…"
Pressing his spare hand, with sickening thoroughness, along Carson's shoulders, he then nodded – this apparent sign of approval carrying an undercurrent of debasing, unthinkable horror.
"You are impressively strong, doctor. And gifted most generously with the powers of the Ancestors. Yes, I have many clients who will handsomely pay for such a unique, healthily productive body as this. And with your medical skills, you will fetch me the very best price for my trouble in acquiring you…"
A voice that had just so cruelly praised him now dropped to a tone determined to inflict pure terror.
"But until I can guarantee a price that justifies my efforts, your body and your mind belong to me. I own you. And as you have learned, doctor, I do not tolerate resistance from my… merchandise…"
Through a mind already frozen in terror, that last phrase now caused Carson's blood to run even colder. If not for the perverse irony of his captor keeping him upright, he would have collapsed in sheer shock
Yes, he was immeasurably valuable to the people of Vora. Just never in ways that he'd ever imagined
'Oh, dear God… they're bloody slave traders…!'
More thoughts swam through his mind now, breaking his spirit where his captor had so far failed.
'Laura… oh, dear God, lass… thank – thank God ye canna see me like this…'
She'd know by now, of course, that he'd been taken prisoner by the very people he'd gone to help. And knowing his 'feisty wee lassie', Laura Cadman would be straining at the leash to get him back.
He could almost picture her face now, its beauty transformed by pure fury at this debasing torment – hear that outrage alongside him, urging him to fight for the life which they both cherished so much.
'Come on, baby, fight…! Damn it, if anyone round here has dibs on your body, it's me. Now, fight…!'
God, yes, he wanted to fight. More than anything, Carson wanted to regain his brutally abused dignity. He wanted, more than anything in the world, to be back on Atlantis, lovingly wrapped in Laura's arms
How, though…? Tied so savagely tightly, how the hell was he supposed to get himself free…?
They were dragging him back through the camp now, forcing him towards their means of escape. And however basic those means were, Carson Beckett still knew one brutally unavoidable fact. Once his captors got him tied up on one of those horses… well, Carson knew he was as good as dead.
Even with Ronon's tracking skills, once they got him into such dense woodland, the chances of being found – no, whatever the risk, whatever the dangers, Carson Beckett knew he simply couldn't let that happen. However high the likelihood of being seriously hurt, even killed, in the attempt, he had to get away.
Carson's only comfort, albeit a tenuous one, was the outraged fury on John Sheppard's face – the promise it silently conveyed lending him vital strength for the make-or-break battle to come.
'We're not gonna leave you here, Carson… one way or another, we're gonna get you back…'
Carson Beckett had needed that promise to hold onto, just to assure him that all was not yet lost. He'd needed that precious flicker of hope that, against all odds, he would see his 'lovely wee lass' again
Now all that was cruelly snatched away from him as he was lifted onto one of the waiting horses – a flurry of hands roughly hoisting his frantically struggling body to lie face-down across its back.
Perhaps as punishment for his defiance, they'd positioned him across the high hub of its saddle – its deep grating into his stomach causing him to gasp, in helpless pain, as he tried to wriggle clear.
He was on the verge of succeeding when those inescapable hands pulled him roughly back again – deadly metal against his neck, a soft hiss of warning, instantly crushing both his strength and his spirit
"I will not warn you again, Dr Beckett. Your life is mine now, and I will not tolerate your resistance..."
Leaning closer, his tormentor then drove the tip of that metal, and his point, slowly and savagely home
"Do not test my patience, Dr Beckett, or you will pay the price of defying me… do not struggle…"
Too dazed with fear and pain to even try, Carson struggled instead to hold back a sob of frustration as his wrists and ankles were bound in chafing cords to the saddle's girth-strap.
With his captor's knee now jammed against his shoulder, Carson couldn't have moved now anyway. And the blade of that knife still rested ominously against his neck, quashing all hopes of resistance.
Another thankfully unpunished moan of pain escaped him as the horse beneath him began to move – the trotting movement of its shoulders, carried through its saddle, driving relentlessly into his stomach
If this was the Voran way of breaking their prisoners' resistance… well, it was bloody effective. God, it was agony. Each and every movement sent rock hard leather slamming ever deeper into him. And despite his captor's threats of punishment, at an all out gallop his cries rose to an all out scream
The doctor in him could feel the damage which that unyielding hub was inflicting inside his body. Both his spleen and his colon, in agonizing turn, were taking one hell of a potentially deadly battering. If either were to tear or rupture… well, he wouldn't need to worry about being sold into slavery. He would be dead long before his new owners could make use of their latest acquisition.
And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that Carson could do to either stop it or escape from it.
Through a haze of pain and galloping hooves, he could hear his captors gloating over his capture – the humiliation of being so cruelly duped igniting a fuse that led straight to pure Scottish dynamite. Damn it, he was so tired, so bloody sick and tired, of his trusting compassion being exploited like this.
Resentment silently festered into anger, working ironic wonders in clearing Carson Beckett's head. Was he really going to let these barbarians control him like this…? Enslave him…? Kill him…?
Like hell he was. And he'd bet his threatened life that John Sheppard felt exactly the same way.
In contrast, his captors had allowed victory to cloud theirs, making them careless. Unwisely negligent. Unseen, unfelt, Carson now used the most brutal means of their control over him to his own benefit.
From his own horse's movements, the Voran leader's knife had shaken loose from his belt. Its already tainted blade now swung tantalisingly against his boot, just inches from his captive's face. And there was just enough slackness in the ropes around his wrists for Carson's fingers to reach it.
Gritting his teeth, Carson pulled the source of both his suffering and salvation into sweat-slick hands – venting its resultant pain, all his fear and anger, in a single cry as he drove its point deep into his palm.
The jarring knee against his cheekbone made his senses swim even more, but Carson didn't care. All he cared about was the precious flow of blood, his blood, as it ran freely onto the ground below.
He'd done all he could, even managing to wipe dripping finger-tips against a thick mass of bushes. Now it was up to Ronon's unique skills, John Sheppard's equally famous tenacity, to follow its trail.
His senses were sliding now, pain and pure terror taking their toll on the little strength he had to spare. As darkness rushed inexorably over him, Carson closed his eyes and silently welcomed its blessing.