Chapter 7
THE ROOM WAS warm. Shafts of red and yellow light permeated the entire space, the former thanks to the stained glass windows and the latter thanks to the bright New Lantean sun. Air bubbles in one of the gas exchange pillars floated upwards as they always did, refracting and reflecting the red light, causing small spots to shimmer and dance across the room.
On one side of the room, facing the door, was a large bed covered in white and beige sheets- chosen for their 'rustic appearance', apparently. Adjacent to the bed was a small wooden bedside-table complete with lamp, a copy of Catcher in the Rye and a silver, old-fashioned analogue alarm clock. The alarm had half a post-it note adhered to the back, the words 'Jennifer Keller' scribbled on in black biro. At 6:30 AM (an average start for the infirmary) the alarm sounded, prompting Keller to make a quiet moan before clumsily smacking the stop button. She lay face-down and above the covers, her bare feet dangling over the edge of the bed. These were soon swung over the bed to the side and made contact with the floor, the heated tiles sending a slight shiver up her spine as she made her way over to the sink. It was there that she heard the strangest of sounds:
'That's the most clothes I've seen you wear in a while,'
Jennifer's heart nearly skipped a beat and she almost dropped her towel. The expression of alarm on her face quickly turned to a blush as she spun round, seeing McKay sitting up in bed, wide-awake.
'You startled me. Although I think it has something to do with the fact that you usually aren't conscious for at least another three hours.'
'Yeah... I suppose this isn't my normal waking hour.' McKay replied, staring at the ceiling.
'You can certainly say that again,' murmured Keller, squirting out some toothpaste. She smiled. 'I am going to pretend that you just can't bear to spend a moment without me.'
'Plus, I get to see you half-naked in the light...' McKay was facing Jennifer now, most of his attention focused on her Agent Provocateur lingerie. In fact, so much of his attention was thus diverted that he nearly forgot the entire reason for his early rise. 'So I was thinking, maybe for once we could have breakfast together, you know, before you start the daily grind as opposed to when you've practically finished.' McKay had his signature cheeky smile in place.
'Dat woo bwee lovewy,' gargled Jennifer, mouth full of toothpaste. She promptly spat it out, rinsed and walked over to McKay, planting a big kiss on his mouth before giggling and saying, 'I mean, that would be lovely.'
Just before Rodney could reply she added,
'So long as you can get your big butt outta bed.'
As she made that little insult she shoved Rodney to the side with her arms and before she could retreat, McKay grabbed hold of her, entangling the two in an epic tickle fight.
There was a real reason for McKay's recent laziness, which Keller was all too wary of. The past month or so had been relatively peaceful, giving McKay much more time to sleep, and boy did that man like his sleep. Keller learned to deal with this by extracting promises from him to do little things for her, such as taking her to breakfast some mornings and dinner some evenings (which would usually end rather like last night).
McKay didn't mind at all- or rather he had learned not to mind. Over the past year he had learned that relationships are two-way streets and must be treated as such, the 'rocks and the gold', as Sheppard put it. This idea was a basic theory that the man must provide the woman with the rocks, be it gifts, nights out, time together or whatever. In return, the woman must provide the gold- the bedroom activities, so to speak.
McKay's previous ignorance to this fact nearly once nearly proved fatal to their relationship. Were it not for his ability to take the advice of others on at least a few levels, he would have been single months ago.
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'I've always preferred these.'
James Forrest was dressed in a blue tracksuit and trainers, clutching a wooden bō (a six-foot, two-handed fighting stick) and gently throwing it from hand to hand. His opponent was in loose-fitting beige trousers and vest and wielding two wooden Japanese shortswords. He moved quickly around the sparring mat, getting ready, twirling the swords around his wrists with elegant technique. Ronon.
'You ever sparred before?' Ronon asked, not taking his eyes off Forrest.
'Why do you ask?'
'Just wondering if I should go easy on you or not.'
Forrest stood up straight, striking the mat with his bō before holding it straight up, parallel to his body. 'If I told you I hadn't, would it make a difference?'
Ronon grinned, seeing that Forrest was hiding something.
'Probably not.'
'Then let's go.'
Ronon immediately charged forward, lunging with one arm and preparing to parry with the other, just as he had done a thousand times before. If Forrest was even remotely experienced in close combat, Ronon was ready- although what he soon faced nearly overwhelmed him. Forrest parried every blow, twisted and maneuvered his staff with machine-like precision and struck with strength that totally surpassed what his not-quite-Ronon muscle build would suggest.
The fight seemed almost choreographed and went on for what seemed like hours, neither of the two preparing to give any ground to the other. Every one of Ronon's swings sent a shock up his arm as every one smacked into the scratched, dented wood of Forrest's bō. The constant concentration and application of strength eventually started to take its toll; beads of sweat crested Ronon's eyebrows and began to trickle their way down his chin. He looked strained.
Forrest, however... didn't. He was sweating and breathing heavily, but maintained the same facial expression and composure as he had right from the word go. From this ordeal he could definitely admit that Ronon was a very competent fighter, a match for many other marines and agents that Forrest knew. Still, he was beginning to feel fatigued and decided to end this, quickly.
Taking a step back from Ronon's onslaught of attacks, Forrest turned away and leaned forwards, rotating his body to bring his right leg up and straight towards Ronon's head in a well-aimed roundhouse kick. Ronon promptly evaded this but failed to keep up with Forrest's bō, which immediately followed. One end of the bō struck Ronon in the thigh, whilst the other end came round and connected with his head, bringing the big Satedan crashing down on the mat. He managed to drop one of his swords before clutching his head. He was bleeding.
'You OK?' Forrest asked, dropping his own weapon. He was slightly out of breath but not nearly as much as he should have been.
'I'll be fine.' Ronon grunted as he heaved himself up. He didn't get his ass handed to him often when sparring, so needless to say he didn't look too happy about anything.
'That's gonna need stitches,' Forrest gestured at Ronon's still-bleeding forehead.
'Who are you, a doctor?' barked back Ronon, walking out of the door of the gym. Forrest followed, not hoping to console the man but rather to get to know Ronon better, to figure out why he was pissed.
'Well, my father's a surgeon and I got a lot of medical training when I was a marine.'
'That doesn't make you a doctor.' Ronon didn't even look at Forrest as he strode down the corridor.
'You're right, it doesn't, and I never said it did. But that still needs stitches.'
Ronon said nothing; he kept walking.
'If you want, I could take a look at it myself, perhaps-'
'Look. I don't want your charity or your sympathy, so why don't you just stop following me and let me go to the infirmary on my own.'
Ronon had stopped and had turned to look Forrest straight in the eye. There was suppressed anger in his voice, but this wouldn't deter Forrest. Not yet.
'You don't have my charity or my sympathy, I was simply-'
'Isn't there somewhere else you have to be right now?'
Once again Ronon cut Forrest short, leaving the latter momentarily lost for words. With the two warriors facing each other down, cutting the tension would require nothing short of an axe. Both felt like another fight was about to break out, but they were spared as the city's intercom started up:
'James Forrest to test lab four, James Forrest report to test lab four asap, please.'
'Apparently so.'
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Test Laboratory Four was, naturally, on the complete opposite side of the city. It took a good ten minutes for Forrest to get there, and when he did, he wasn't particularly impressed.
In short, the place was a mess- the tables were cluttered with old electronic components, power cables for the computer servers lay tangled across the floor and heavily stained whiteboards blocked the access to practically anything in the room. Forrest was sat on an office-style chair, staring at his arm-computer.
'Ok, if you could bring up the calibration screen again,' said Zelenka who, on a nearby workbench, was tapping away at his tablet PC.
'Just bring up the calibration screen one more time, please... uh, Forrest?'
The Czech rotated round on his stool, seeing the alien visitor gazing blankly down at his arm.
'Hey-'
Zelenka prodded Forrest for good measure.
'Oh, sorry. I'm just a little... just a little distracted.' Forrest was rather grey in his tone, making little hand signals around his head, almost as if he forgot what he was saying and had to make a sorry attempt at charades to get it across. Radek felt the need to say something.
'It's not your fault, you know.'
'I beg to differ.'
'You couldn't have possibly known what the Wraith would do. I'm sure anyone else here would've made the same call.'
'Really?'
Though English was not Zelenka's first language, he did know sarcasm when he saw it.
'Well no-one else here would have even had the option to do what you did, but if they did, then I'm sure they would have.'
Forrest lent back, putting his hands behind his head. He inhaled deeply and spoke as he exhaled.
'So they say.'
After a brief pause, Radek wheeled his stool round with a respectful 'Hmph' and got back to work. Forrest was far from finished.
'Someone once told me, "The first genocide is always the hardest."'
Radek looked puzzled, he couldn't imagine someone on the base saying something like that. Not exactly a comforting statement.
'Did someone in the city tell you that?'
Forrest's reply was a simple 'No.'
'... Then who?'
Forrest reclined even further, propping his legs up on the desk. His work on helping Zelenka decipher his combat gear had all but ceased.
'A scientist, actually. One of the greatest minds the galaxy had ever seen, his work on nanotechnology in some places outstripped even that of the Ancients. Without him, our medicine, communications, weaponry- they'd be vastly inferior. I sure as hell wouldn't be here.'
Radek listened intently to every word. He considered himself lucky that this stranger would indulge even a little information about his own world. To Zelenka, it sounded like a better world.
'Wow. He sounds like a great man.'
'He was evil.'
Now Forrest really had Radek's attention.
'A terrorist, of the worst kind. He figured his intellect was his best weapon, so he put it too good use. It took a lot of sacrifice to bring him down. Perhaps too much.'
Zelenka's mind was on fire with questions. He was so intrigued that he could only muster a meek 'What happened?' as a response.
'It was an op gone bad, but I won't bore you with the details,
'Oh, please do...'
...and said the genocide thing right before he died.'
Throughout this nostalgia, Forrest narrated the story in just the same voice as he had done the whole time he was in the lab. He still reclined on his chair. Radek, though, needed some answers.
'He wasn't talking about you, presumably.'
'At the time I thought just that. I realized a few hours later, that he wasn't talking about himself but something that I'd done. Or rather, something I'd do.'
'What did you do?'
This Zelenka fellow got straight to the point. Forrest paused before answering; he looked a little frustrated. Radek could see that he had some trouble with this topic.
'I initiated the deployment of the first ever vacuum bomb. Annihilated the whole system, and everyone in it. Worst part is, I made the call, not the generals or admirals.'
'My god.' Radek was lost for words, save for those few. He wondered what other secrets Forrest held about his past, his life and his time.
Forrest then got up out of his chair and walked towards the lab door. He turned to Radek before he left.
'That was almost exactly ten years ago. I don't believe in fate, but some things do make you think.'
'What, were you fighting terrorists when you were twelve?' said Radek, dismissively. Forrest smiled
'I'm not as young as I look.'
A second later he was gone, leaving Radek to ponder the story. There was certainly a lot to this man.
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Space is vast. Millions upon millions of miles of emptiness, void and darkness, sometimes where not even subatomic particles can exist. It so happens, however, that God decided to provide a respite from the deadness and thus came about matter. Hard, physical matter, the stuff from which stars, planets, trees and men are made of.
In a distant corner of the galaxy, far away from any noticeable celestial bodies was a small star, burning its way through its younger years. It's children, or rather brothers (having been born from a previous star) numbered only four- four planets, engaged in an aeon-long cosmic dance. This year, one of countless thousands, proved to be one of the more profound one in the systems history. It was the first time organic life had visited, choosing one barren, dusty planet to conduct whatever it is that organics do.
There were four organics on the surface of the planet, shielded from the harsh atmosphere by capsules of alien design. Arranged around the capsule were strange devices implanted into the ground; some spaced close together, others were many miles apart. Over time the capsules began to grow. Thick, purple tendrils flowed out in all directions, burrowing into the ground and engulfing and leaching off the energy of the implanted machines. The more the machines were enveloped by the purple tide of matter, the faster it grew and the larger it became. It would be months and weeks until the structure was ready, at which point it's size and splendor distinguished it from any other landmark, much to the delight of the aliens. They called them Hives.
Two of these hives orbited the planet, their curved hull stretching on for miles. They were difficult to see in the dead of space, though; their hulls reflected the sun's rays poorly. Deep within one of these behemoths, a female alien paces quickly through the halls. She is distressed, angry. Upon reaching a moderate sized room, she barks commands at her minions who are busying themselves monitoring some control panels. She places her hands into a pedestal, and is immediately rewarded with control of the whole ship. Every system, piece of knowledge and technology is at her disposal. She feels the engine cores spinning, the sensor circuits pulsating and the life-force of the thousands of on-board crew. It is a powerful sensation, and she has one particular system in mind.
She orders her men to lock the ship's sensors onto the other hive. As this is done (and she can always tell) she wills vast amounts of energy towards the ventral weapon batteries. She senses the other hive doing the same and knows that whomever shoots first will win. Without hesitation the weapons discharge, propelling powerful pulses of energy across the stern of the enemy ship. All hit their mark, incinerating the hull of the enemy vessel and creating large explosions that catapult fragments of burning organic debris into the dead space between the ships.
The enemy hive fires up their engines and slowly accelerates away from the attacking ship, firing wildly. The queen feels every impact on her hull, but relentlessly pursues her prey and the two ships soon find themselves in a long event that will lead to the destruction of both parties.
She knows this and has a plan. A thousand miles away, the vacuum that has remained for many years is disturbed. The very fabric of reality itself begins to fade away as three more hive ships emerge from the resulting hyperspace window, lining up to start their assault. The escaping hive soon finds itself hopelessly outnumbered and makes the decision to flee, its battered hull on the point of failing. The queen sees this and smiles- her coup is now almost complete- but her satisfaction is cut short. The enemy hive ceases fire and accelerates faster, narrowly evading a stream of weapons fire that would have put it down for good and makes the jump to hyperspace.
The queen is furious, snarling and hitting the pedestal. She comes to her senses quickly however, realizing that her coup is all but complete save for the lone hive of the former leader. No doubt he will inform the humans about this, as he has done for years now. No doubt the humans will find a way to undermine her superiority, as they have been allowed to do so for far too many years.
It is time to end this pathetic charade.
