A tuning fork vibrated against his eardrums, whirring a hole into his brain. John's muscles twitched; nerves rerouted through the slow circuitry of his body. Around him, moans and grunts jumbled with sounds of heaving in the dirt, the noise nearly triggering a similar bout of sickness. Eyes rolling in their sockets, he pushed himself up, his arms giving out from the strain.
"R'non?"
"It feels like my stomach's been pulled inside out."
"Too much information," John groaned, the ground spinning beneath him. "What happened?"
"Stun grenade."
"A what?" Belly churning, John forced his legs to work so he was sitting. "Did you see a stun grenade?"
Ronon held on to his head, already semi-upright on the ground. "No, but it felt like one."
"We should…" It was difficult to talk with the dentist drill in his head. John massaged his temples and took a deep breath to calm the nausea. Opening his eyes, he noticed everyone else was either still unconscious or in various states of disarray. They were completely vulnerable. "Let's get the hell out of here."
"Don't think they'll let us."
John followed Ronon's line of sight, heart thumping against his ribcage. "Fuck."
Grabbing his cane, Ronon brought the weapon closer. "Those the Shan'ka?"
"Yeah, but I never knew there were that many."
A couple dozen blue robed sons of bitches stood at a distance, surrounding them in a circle. Those not throwing up were too scared to move. Ronon looked at John for orders, but he shook his head. "I think we're about to witness desert law in action."
Ronon eagerly gripped his cane. "We just gonna wait?"
All John wanted was for his head to stop pounding, but more people were coming around, the Shan'ka hanging back, allowing them all to bake in the sun. The Jad's dead body had disappeared and that's when John noticed the metal equipment where the water tanker used to be. How the hell did those get out here?
"Someone's coming." Ronon glanced John's way. "Still have the knife?"
Nodding, John kept the weapon hidden, recognizing the figure taking the stage. "Looks like we're about to find out what's going on. He's the local spokesperson."
Misha appeared in layers of blue that swallowed him whole, waiting for the full attention of the others. "The laws of Medena have been violated. The shedding of life's water is unacceptable and is a violation of law. The Shan'ka will not allow strife to wreck the balance." Searching his masters for some hidden signal, he wet his lips. "The Shan'ka will remind you of the consequences of your transgressions."
"Rise," a chorus of voices ordered them.
John gave Ronon a hand to his feet and nearly lost his balance. Ronon steadied him in turn and the two of them leaned on one another until they were both surefooted. The rest of the groups took longer getting up, still shaking off the effects of weakness and the stunning.
"We outnumber them twenty to one," Ronon whispered.
"Left my P-90 in my other robe. Besides," John looked around, "don't think anyone's in shape to fight."
Misha strolled through the bedraggled, many fearfully making room for him. He stopped in the center, where the eye of the storm had once been. "Who is responsible for breaking the rule of law?"
"The Jad tok started it!" Rull yelled, his weapon tucked away. "And attacked us from behind."
"Topra is not outlawed. It was the Spraza who used stones and knives," Pullo countered.
"What of the blood staining your fingers?" Rull grabbed Pullo's wrist and bent it for all to see.
"And what of the blood on your shirt?" Pullo demanded, jerking away.
"There were seven unclean deaths," Misha announced, both leaders backing off. "Who spilled life's water?" A giant murmur swept across the masses, many taking steps back. The Spraza closed ranks, halting the backwards movement and Misha swept a hand around. "How many of you are injured? And of unable body?'
"I am not Spraza or Jad! I obey the rules. Do not punish me!"
"I came for water and was stepped on by the others!"
"We only want to wet our mouths? How is this fair?"
The downtrodden rose up for the first time, their anger triggering something familiar, visceral deep inside John. The defiance energized Ronon, his muscles tensing.
"Enough!" booming voices commanded.
Again Misha paused and John wondered if the Shan'ka used their telepathy to communicate with him, their collective authority, ringing through his voice. "Who is responsible?" He glared at the nearest man not painted in colors, who shrank away. "Did you not see?"
"I saw nothing," the man replied.
Misha demanded answers from those around him, the same replies echoing.
"I don't know."
"There was too much fighting."
Tension radiated from both gangs; Pullo and Rull stared down any witness. The dentist drill was behind John's right eye when Misha stopped before him. "What did you see?" The Shan'ka drew closer, forcing the masses into each other's space, sweat and fear rank in the air. "One of the bodies was only paces away from where you stood. To lie to the Shan'ka is also punishable."
Picking either side would bring down the wrath of the other. Pullo glared at him and Rull couldn't wait to stick a knife in John's back. Well, he was sick of playing their games. "They both did," he replied.
Both men screamed, lunging toward him. Ronon took a step in front of John, but it wasn't necessary. John felt the wind first, saw the rush of blue seconds later. A pair of Shan'ka flanked Rull and Pullo, picking them up, feet kicking uselessly off the ground as they were hauled toward the others.
"How'd they move that fast?" Ronon demanded.
John's words were lost when the other Shan'ka herded them all forward, using steel rods pulled from their sleeves. He remembered the strong-armed goon squad, but the rods were new. They had to hurt based on the cries of those who didn't move fast enough. John kept a hand on Ronon's shoulder as they were crushed against others, hoping the big guy's leg would hold up. It took seconds to corral them around the strange metal equipment, Pullo and Rull struggling in the iron grip of their captors.
The jam of people filtered out as the crowds were forced into a circle around the two large metal objects. Ronon leaned on his cane nonchalantly next to John, both their bodies tightly wound up. The Spraza and Jad huddled together, and a small group of men smacked into John, Ziffka marking his first appearance with a daggered glare. "You are no longer a friend of the Jad," he snarled.
"Where did he come from?" John asked, following his position toward his men.
"Saw him off to the side observing the fights before we were stunned. Didn't know who he was. Goggles and hoods obscure too many faces," Ronon complained, then placed a hand on John's shoulder. "You made the right choice."
John massaged his left bicep. "We'll see. Stupid to think the answer would somehow cancel each other out."
Misha followed his masters to the front and addressed the crowds. "The Shan'ka regret this demonstration of law, but feel a reminder is necessary."
For the first time, John saw terror reflected in the faces of the loudest, cruelest members of this barren rock. The equipment was moved closer on an automotive track wheel and the two prisoners fought to escape their captors. The equipment was more like two giant steel barrels, each a little over six meters in height. Pullo whimpered and Rull sank his teeth into the arms holding him place without effect.
Two Shan'ka opened the doors to each metal drum and Rull and Pullo were manhandled inside, fighting tooth and nail, their wrists and ankles shackled to chains. They screamed, for mercy, for death.
"The prisoners are secured inside the units and the door sealed closed," Misha narrated.
"Thank God," John mumbled as the screams were muffled.
Misha never looked behind as he spoke. "The units will fill with recycled water."
The Shan'ka connected thick tubes to the top lids and started pumping water from tanks connected in the back.
"They being drowned?" Ronon wondered.
"That would be less painful," a man muttered.
John wanted to bug-out and skip the tutorial on this new form of execution. He dug his nails into his palms and closed his eyes, but his imagination was a far scarier place. He could still hear them, under the sounds of gushing water and a layer of metal. Among the throngs, he saw the dividing line between the resigned veterans and the newbies crapping themselves.
The pumping ended, the tubes removed, and another set attached. Misha spared a quick glance at the process and continued. "The purification solution will be added."
Both prisoners banged on the inside of their tombs, still alive, still screaming. The new tubes were thinner and opaque in color, the solution yellowish as it was poured inside, the base of the tanks glowing hot.
"The heat mechanism at the bottom will activate the chemical reaction," Misha explained.
Nothing happened for a precious twenty seconds, then something worse than screaming cracked the air. John's mind flashed to his first time seeking out water, at a bandit shoving John's knife into his chest instead of being taken alive.
The cries, while only lasting seconds, were heart-stopping, worse than Kadar's wails of pain, and it seemed to go on forever.
Then there was nothing.
The Shan'ka rolled out a set of smaller tanks, connected yet another set of tubes just above the heating element of the base. Ronon fidgeted; standing in a single spot had to be agony, but it was more than his leg getting to him.
Misha spoke again, explaining the last phase. "Now the bodies will be separated into basic parts."
Salts and sugars, skin, bones and fat. All a big slushy; that was until the Shan'ka filtered out the solid. John fought back the bile as two men were liquefied as a fucking lesson.
One of the Shan'ka nodded at their spokesperson, and Misha was unable to hide a shudder. "Thirty sumas of water will be added to the reserves. And now... seven of you will be randomly chosen to be purified as a deterrent."
The crowd erupted in horror, fleeing in all directions, seven into the arms of the Shan'ka goons, Misha yelling over the ruckus. "It is your duty to maintain the law. To make sure others adhere to it."
With seven carted off, everyone else was allowed to flee to their caves, the water transformation tanks wheeled back to the Shan'ka lair. The deterrents were dragged away to be murdered out of sight.
John flinched when a hand landed on his shoulder. Ronon gave it a squeeze and gently guided him home; both walked silently the whole trip back.
Food was shoved into his hands and John ate without thought. He was hot and sweaty and sick of smelling and feeling like a barn animal rolled in shit. Of being treated and viewed as fodder for about everyone on this hellhole.
"Those two deserved to die," Ronon said. John didn't bother replying to such an absurd statement and Ronon cleared his throat. "Maybe not like that."
"Let's not forget about the other seven."
"They grabbed those already injured."
"Noticed that, did you?"
"Yeah."
"Guess that makes it all better?"
"No."
John had nothing left in the fuel tank; his wheels spun uselessly and he banged the back of his head against the wall.
Ronon didn't wait a beat before plowing on. "The real question is, where'd they get that equipment?"
"Haven't figured that out yet. I mean who or what are they?"
"You were inside their lair. They have anything we could use?"
"Use? Like a water processing machine?"
Ronon gave him a dirty look. "Communication devices? Weapons? Anything to get us out of here?"
"I saw cave walls and spooky lights. Their filtration system and holding tanks are hidden by rock. And there are these guys in robes who have the ability to stun hundreds of people guarding the place."
"At least I'm trying to think of a way home!" Ronon's face fell as soon as he uttered the words, but what was done was done. "My leg's better. I'm more mobile. If the Shan'ka aren't the way, what about the Void?"
"I wouldn't call you travel ready," John mumbled.
"Malvick said he'd show us a way inside."
"Oh, Malvick said he would?"
"I think he knows something that'll help us."
"And when is he planning to reveal these secrets?"
"Soon."
"Yeah, I'll mark it on my calendar."
"He brought you back from the balick match and didn't have to," Ronon growled.
"Because he wants something from us!"
"What?"
"I don't know. He did something, or said something...I don't remember," John snapped, frustrated. "He's not trustworthy."
"Didn't say we should trust him. Just use him. We're not pawns if we're playing the same game."
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, John's fingers got tangled up in the knots and he yanked them through, pulling out tufts in the process. "Fine. We'll wait." Tired and hurting from a pounding migraine, he stared off, Ronon's eyes watching him. "What?"
"I think we should help at the water tanks."
"Help?"
Ronon chewed on a dry root. "There's no reason why everyone can't get a share."
Not believing his ears, John dug his knuckles into his eyes, "We're not talking about a rowdy line in the mess hall. Gangs make their living off those tanks."
"You saw it out there. Just as many people aren't in a gang. All they have to do is band together."
"You want to organize a bunch of criminals into a unit?"
"I want to show them that they don't have to bow down like that. They stood up for themselves against the Shan'ka."
"We're not here to lead a rebellion. Or start our own gang."
"You'd rather fight it out every time? Watch the weak be beaten down by those thugs?"
John's body trembled, voice dangerously low. "No, I wouldn't. Do you think I enjoy myself out there?"
Inching closer, Ronon bent over, fixing his eyes on John's. "I wasn't lying before. We do what it takes to survive. But things are different. The Spraza lost their leader. They'll be disorganized. We might be able to use this. They might listen to you, John."
"Because I killed a bunch of people?"
"Yes."
The answer hurt him to the core. "No. No more drawing attention. No more rocking the boat or bring turned into some mercenary. No. More," John muttered, and crawled away into his refuge in the back.
Ronon didn't follow him, he rarely ever did, which was good because John wasn't in the arguing mood. He allowed the inky blackness to swallow him whole and paced back and forth, tendrils of anger boiling in the pit of his belly.
Ronon was right about not sitting back while the weak were trampled, allowing tyranny to rule over the broken. It was his duty. Libertatem Defendimus. But you had to pick your battles and this was one war they couldn't win.
Since when has that ever stopped you?
It did. When he allowed an old man to be murdered in the middle of some tent so he could fight another day. To help those who could be saved.
And how many have you rescued, John? How many slipped through your fingers? Do you even remember all their names?
Balling his fist, he punched the wall, the pain ricocheting through his fingers, his body quaking. Pressing his forehead against the stone, he punched it again halfheartedly.
Those he saved were supposed to make up the balance of those he killed. And it was never going to happen. No matter how hard he tried.
Sliding to his knees, he dug into the hidden pocket sewn into his pants and pulled out the tiny strip of cloth. Counting out the needles by touch, he pinched twenty, and hesitated. In for a penny, in for a pound, and he chewed the awful bitterness. Swallowing, he prayed it'd help bury all the crap spinning in his head. Force it back into the darkness of his mind, and keep it at bay just a little longer.
The sandstorm had begun when he'd fallen asleep, and had blown nonstop ever since. Time was meaningless, most of their waking hours spent in the dark to conserve oil. They blocked the entrance with their old uniforms and bedrolls, pulling back further from the opening.
It was the Sistan Basin all over again, dust storms gobbling up half of Afghanistan. John had been grounded a half dozen times, his unit huddled in a tent playing D&D to pass the time. Except they had generators and light, cards and radios. He'd kill for a flashlight and sheet of paper. Ronon couldn't tire himself out by walking outside, or draw and weave, and John's only means to burn up the growing dark pall bearing down on his soul was blocked by a wind tunnel of cut glass.
"Watch it," he snapped when Ronon elbowed him in the face by accident.
"Don't be in the way," Ronon snarled, crawling around.
There was no playing prime/not prime, trivia, or word games. The air was as thin as their tempers, the whirling dust storm making it hotter. To make matters worse, he had to take a piss and that meant fumbling for the torch, pouring the oil without spilling it, using this place's version of flint rock.
"What are you doing?"
"Gotta take a leak; that all right with you?"
"Can't do it without wasting the light?"
Ronon was gearing for a fight; he knew damn well that pissing on the walls was not an option. "Keep jawin' and I'll make burying the contents of the pot your regular duty," John snapped.
"You think you could make me?"
"Do I think I could slug you in the dark? Sure. But I'm not in the mood to play a violent version of Marco Polo."
The sound of flesh smashing stone was a familiar one. Telling Ronon to stop was fuel to the fire and after a third time, the big guy cursed, followed by a smack. "Hey, don't break your crutch!" John yelled.
There was a frustrated snarl and shuffling. John finished his business and wandered in the back, dropping down to another set of push-ups. Maybe he'd do three hundred this time, or maybe four. Yeah, four hundred.
Food and water, once at a surplus, were dwindling as the sandstorm raged on. Without knowing the weather patterns of this world, John assumed the worst, chewing on several needles in thought.
"We have ten sumas left. About five days worth of food at two rations a day."
John lay on his back, staring upwards at shadow puppets.
"Think we should cut back? … … … … Sheppard?"
"I wonder," John drawled. "You think time stops in here? I mean look at all the things we've encountered. Six months in the middle of a dilation field, days flew by in seconds." Reaching out, he tried catching a floating kite of smoke. "Keller says I lost a couple years sleeping in that stasis pod in the future. McKay thought Todd gave me a few extra. Guess I evened out."
"We're talking about today."
"I think we missed Teyla's birthday," John mumbled.
"If this thing doesn't let up in a few days, we could wrap up head to toe in cloth, see about going outside. See how far we could go."
"Makes you wonder about the others in the settlement. If they don't have the same supplies..." John was going to say more, then forgot these were the very thoughts he was chasing away.
Something touched his arm, patting upwards toward his shoulder. "John, I'm talking about going outside. You've seen this type of storm. Do we have a chance?"
John pressed his palm flat against the flesh lingering on his shoulder, on warm dirt-crusted fingers, and he squeezed, feeling the life there. "Ronon?"
"Yeah."
John squeezed his eyes, the shadows swirling into his brain. "Didn't know you were there."
He crushed the soap flakes between the pad of his thumb and forefinger, the greasy smear like flaky candle wax. It took two or three drops, enough for John to hesitate squeezing the splash at the bottom of his dunka pouch into the clay pot. But hygiene such as it was, still required a scrub week to week. If it'd been a week. Could have been a month since that rainfall, but their supplies told a better story. Sitting in ratty shorts, he dipped his fingers into the foam, spreading the lather over his arms and chest, leaving a soft burn across his skin.
Using his shirt as a washcloth helped scrub the grime and simultaneously laundered the fabric. Spreading the fizzing bubbles over his neck, he dipped his fingers into the pot, dispersing it over his cheek, rubbing the soap in circles.
John grabbed his knife and brought the blade toward his face, and scraped it along his jaw line. That burned too, stripping away the beard, sheering off a layer of skin as well. Repeating the motion, he followed the contours of his face, around his nose, over his upper lip. Then he began on the other side, ignoring the blood dripping down his chin and the tremors through his fingers.
Breathing through his nostrils, he didn't stop there; fingers dug through his hair, snagging the tips and hacking them off. He remembered boot camp, the clippers buzzing over his scalp, the physical transformation all part of the military way. To leave the person you once were behind, shedding the undisciplined layers.
He wiped at his smooth face and didn't feel any differently. Slapping his cheeks didn't help. God, where was he? Shouldn't this work?
"Sheppard?"
John knew if he didn't answer he'd be poked and prodded by worried fingers, Ronon convinced he was injured or ill. "Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
Did it matter?
"I'm taking a shower," John answered, knife splitting the air.
"Why don't you..."
"I'll be done in a little while. You can start teaching more Satedan."
All the words poured through John's head like a leaky hose, but it kept Ronon from going stir crazy. Kept John from crawling out of his skin, caught between spaces in his mind.
There were his push-ups. He'd reached four thirty last time.
John was inside silence, drifting, floating, with no points in between. Everywhere and nothing. Yet, the boundless had a shape, an edge of sound. He didn't want a part of it, avoiding the noise, but the edge grew into a more refined pattern with words and emotion.
He didn't want to feel, or hear, or remember the things that tried cutting through the silence.
The edge became a solid wall, punching him in the face with his name.
"Damn it, John! Wake up! What's wrong with you? And don't tell me nothing!" Ronon demanded, shaking him.
"You can let go of me," John said, despite the feeling of free fall.
"I'll hit you again if you go back to sleep."
John touched his cheek. "You hit me?"
"Yeah. Now, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"Wrong?" John parroted, the void around him luring him back inside its embrace.
Hands gripped his biceps and John was being dragged away, the shadow puppets following him. "What are you doing?" There was no controlling his momentum, and he was forced into the open, light streaming in blinding fractals of too bright. Too hot. "Crap."
"The dust storm ended and the water tanker flew overhead."
At the mention of the tanker, John physically flinched and he slowly removed the fingers covering his eyes. "I'll put on my boots." Finding them was a problem; that and forward motion. Eyes adjusting to the light, he located his kicks, tied his laces with phantom fingers. Ronon's eyes bored holes through him, and John glanced up. "What?"
"What did you do to yourself?"
John stared back, blinking away a layer of cobwebs, wiping his face in a nervous habit, understanding sinking in. "Oh. I needed a trim."
"Looks..."
"Like I didn't have a mirror."
"You gonna stop lying to me?"
"About?"
"What's going on inside your head."
"Ronon..."
"Do you think I'm blind or just dumb?"
Running his hands through his shortened hair, John scraped his nails across his scalp. "How about we talk about this after we get water?"
"When we get back are you going to talk or run away and hide?"
John stopped inches from Ronon's face. "Don't. Ever. Say. That."
"Don't do it, and I won't," Ronon gritted out, not backing down.
"Let's go," John snapped, wrapping the keffiyeh around his face. The sudden flush he concealed had nothing to do with the temperature.
Outside was a page torn out of "Mad Max", like someone had dumped the contents of a giant hourglass onto the terrain, and John turned around to look back at their cave to orient himself.
"Sand did all this?" Ronon stood there, gazing out.
"They can move entire dunes. Dump meters of dust for miles," John explained, gazing out at the once flat basin that was now an uneven orange sea of mounds and valleys. "The cave will be our compass."
Turning behind him, Ronon mumbled, "Until we lose sight of it."
Bristling, John marched on, feet sinking into newly minted powder. The water tanker flew in sweeps overhead, obviously trying to find a new drop zone not covered by hills of sand. "Come on."
John's legs moved, the rest of him floating somewhere above, detaching in segments. They navigated around deep rising slopes, struggled for footing, Ronon waving off John's help when he stumbled. And that bristled, too.
Counting steps got lost in the rhythm of breathing and gusting hot winds, the fucking blob in the air taunting him. Did it think he'd just pack it up because it kept moving around? Casting a look at Ronon, John knew that was what his friend thought.
They reached the Mecca of wandering souls and aimless cloth-wrapped zombies. Ronon elbowed him. "The knife?" John grabbed it protectively, not wanting to give it up. Ronon glowered. "Weapon's more useful if people see it."
Brandishing the blade, the two of them scouted out a position near the familiar throngs. The parties were all here, both Spraza and Jad. The ship above hovered, the area before them a stretch of untamed rocky beach. This would be the best landing site.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a flash of a blue and orange turban and he was drawn toward the person. "Lyle?"
"There you are. Wondered if the dust storm blew you away," he chuckled. It was like he'd shrunk two sizes, all his bluster whittled away. His beard wasn't trimmed and his clothes had seen better days. Lyle clutched an empty container between his fingers. Looking down at it, his laugh deepened. "Guess we're all at the mercy of the Saurin."
"Thought you had plenty of stockpiles?"
"I did. Until the last balick match." Lyle patted a sunburned hand on John's back. "Told you. Always bet on the guy they think won't win. Nothing personal."
"You lost everything?"
"I do have one thing, but its looks like I won't be collecting on that anytime soon."
Ronon was looking on curiously and John shifted his feet in unease. "Yeah, well, I'll repay the rest of my debt soon."
"There you go, reaching for things you can't grasp. Look around. We'll all be dead soon, Sheppard."
Lyle took his container and waded through the crowd, and smack dab into a row of stronger backs, forced to find another path. There were more mouths to fill than gallons of water, and John's face grew hotter. Ronon was next to him, watching both Jad and Spraza split sides without a fight, their bulk outnumbering everyone else.
"You got a plan?" Ronon asked.
John gripped the knife, one eye on the tanker, the other on the crowds. He remembered exiting outside that tent in Dai Chopan, the scream of an old man as it took more than one attempt to remove his head. He remembered his justifications, his fear, and his anger at walking away.
Looking out at the madness before them, Ronon's words washed over him.
"I think we should help at the water tanks."
"You'd rather fight it out every time? Watch the weak be beaten down by those thugs?"
John was always supposed to do the right thing. He rubbed at the healed wound in his arm, squeezing it, seeking out the pain through the numbness. He was trying so hard.
"Sheppard?" Ronon growled.
Pushing down his keffiyeh, he rubbed his hand over his beardless face, tracing the nicks and cuts. These were people damn it! He didn't want to be the guy with the beard, the guy he'd become to survive. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard." Ronon grabbed an elbow and John pulled away. "I'm not running."
"Hey!" he yelled, waving at anyone not sporting colors. "Listen!"
Screaming over a set of engines, John hollered louder, spinning around to see if he had people's attention. He wasn't a speech maker, never big about displays of bravado, and here he was, directing the spotlight on him. At a loss for big important words.
"Why are we doing this? Letting them," he pointed at the gangs, "beat us into submission?"
Ronon was beside him, cane a baton and John met the goggles staring at him. "If we act as a group, we can all get water. It doesn't matter what we are afterwards, but here. Where it counts. We won't let these assholes use their numbers against us. We'll have our own."
"I don't want to be part of a gang."
"No one cares what you say!"
"Leave us alone!"
"He killed Kadar!
"Shut up!"
It was a tango of rebukes and shouts, the grind of metal overtaking all sound. The hordes turned toward the quench of their thirst, lemmings to chaos and violence. Like a pinball bouncing from person to person, John was swept up by the swell of adrenaline and slammed ashore onto the populous of Medena.
He elbowed and kicked, blocked fists and rocks to the face. But John couldn't use the sharp end of the blade, couldn't bash their skulls with the knife handle. Not when he'd been forced to recognize them as human again and he cursed Ronon for shattering his wall. Dozens wrestled over faucets, the crowd thinning after the armies of red and green took their fill, leaving the backwash for the weak.
Four men competed for the same sprocket, and John hesitated, knife wavering in his hand.
A blur of cloth and the swing of a club, and Ronon was there, knocking the four to the ground. He smacked any kneecaps of those who got back up and tried to get close. Then he snatched one of their containers and filled it partway and handed it back to one of the shocked men, taking the second guy's jug and doing the same. The stunned four quit attacking him and kept anyone else away. Filling all four water satchels with something, Ronon took his own and replenished what he could and waved John over.
"Think I can squeeze out a bit more," he said.
John handed him his container, staring at all those banging their hands on the hollow tanker walls when nothing poured out.
"You okay?" Ronon asked, shouldering the strap.
"Fine. Why?"
"You're breathing really hard."
Licking dry lips, John realized how fast he gulped down air, his heart a chisel inside his chest. Pulling the cloth to cover his face, he nodded. "Good. Let's get out of here."
The walk back was surreal, the route an Etch-a-sketch that someone had shaken viciously, redrawing his mental map. Ronon was right, without the cave, they'd lost their north star. The big guy led the way, silent save for intakes of breath, through and over dunes like frozen waves of sand eight meters high.
Ronon kept glancing back at John, heavy boots digging into dry slush. John was glad one of them knew where they were going, a strange buzzing noise inducing a newfound headache. It was slow going, John strangely exhausted, and Ronon's pace hampered by the heavy use of his cane. They followed a lazy bend in the sand and Ronon froze. "Sheppard!"
Knife out, John spotted the four bandits heading their way. There was a 'fiiift' and something stung John in the arm, three more darts missing. "Fuck, behind us!" he yelled, legs folding underneath him.
"R'non," John slurred and a warmth flooded his system and he was out instantly.
That annoying buzz from earlier became a swarm of hornets, their collective venom a warm flush in his veins. Memory tingled across his brain, and John peeled away gummy eyes to slits, a dozen sets of sandals before him. He'd been drugged enough by topra to recognize its lingering side effects.
"Haul him to his feet."
The connection between mind and body was loose a few circuits, and the world twirled when two hands pulled him onto rubbery legs. John blinked, surprised when Ziffka and his merry men fuzzed into shape instead of bandits.
"Whatz going on?" John growled, searching for Ronon.
Ziffka reeked of an orris den and he gave John a light pat on the shoulder. "You sold out a member of the Jad to the Shan'ka and for that, we were going to bide our time. Find the right moment to right a wrong."
John's mind was on slow mo, eyes drifting from person to person. "Right a wrong? You're kidding?"
"But today's actions," Ziffka nodded and the two goons yanked John's arms high between his shoulder blades, "required swift action."
"You mean when I killed people for you in the balick matches? Or when I mowed through crowds at the water tanks? I forget."
Ziffka smashed a fist into John's face, snapping his head back. "You always think me a fool."
Ears ringing, John glared. "Talk to me like I've just been drugged."
Taking John's chin between his fingers, Ziffka snarled, "You will not tip the balance of power we've taken. Did you think I'd stand by while you seized control?"
John snorted, and it turned into crazed manic laughter. Because didn't that really just take the cake? Ziffka didn't appreciate John's response, and planted a fist into his belly, the laugh wrenched into a strangled choke.
Ziffka shook out the sting in his fingers. "You were a tool and now you're no longer needed."
John allowed his body to sag within his captors' grip. He was sick of fighting. "Guess that whole not murdering demonstration didn't work with you guys?"
"We have no plans of shedding your water, but you will pay for your transgressions. The desert will clean up the mess and you'll be another victim of Medena's sun."
The thugs straightened John out, the circle of Jad closing in. "What about Ronon? What did you do with him?"
With a raise of Ziffka's hand, the Jad waited. "Your big friend is already dead. He fought against the bandits we hired, and his leg was injured. They took him to the Shan'ka to be claimed, bringing you here for your punishment."
"He's dead?" John's voice was a whisper. No way was Ronon dead. Not when he was healing, not when he'd showed John his mistakes. If anyone was going to survive this hellhole, it was going to be his friend. "No," he muttered.
"Funny. The reason you originally came to us was for him. Pity. Such a waste. But thank you for the wonderful knife."
Staring at Ronon's blade in a stranger's hands injured John more than anything these morons could do to him physically. "You're too dumb to appreciate the art of that weapon."
"Remove his goggles."
John closed his eyes and didn't have to wait long. The first blows rearranged his jaw, the ones after that gave him whiplash. The hornets were gone, replaced by white noise, a single hiss breaking through in his left ear.
"Pullo was my friend. I'm glad yours is dead."
Something jabbed John in the small of back. Not a fist, maybe the end of a knife handle. It was a stunning blow, sending pain all the way down his spine. After the third time, his back was a mass of agony.
Like the balick matches, this was a release of pressure and rage and he was the object once again. Two, three, four fists punched him at once, smashing his face so hard and fast, he thought they'd knocked his head right off his shoulders. A copper taste filled his mouth, his ears rang.
When he could no longer feel his face except the warm blood that dripped down his chin, they pounded away at the rest of him, and he lost his ability to breathe, his mid-section caving in.
By then he'd stopped caring.
They pummeled him until the goons could no longer hold him up. Then they stomped on him when he fell, not even sparing his arms and legs. Something heavy ground his right hand into the dirt and he heard the cracking of bones and still John didn't care.
He'd failed Ronon. Failed as a military officer. Failed as a human being.
Time as always went on forever. They were done with him it seemed, rolling him onto his back, his body having gone numb a while ago. Fingers pulled off John's keffiyeh and removed his socks and boots.
"Keep his clothes on. Can't let it be too obvious, but it'll help things along."
There was the distinct sound of footfalls followed by lingering silence. John closed his eyes against the blaring sun, unable and unwilling to move onto his stomach.
Let it finish him off.
He wished for a single bullet, but maybe that was too good, too forgiving. Part of him, deep inside, a fading voice ordered him up, to find shadow, to fight. But it was weak, a whisper in the overwhelming din in his head. Moisture welled up in the corners of his eyes, and John allowed the tears to fall. Not for himself, but for Ronon. Hoping his last act expressed the honor and grief for letting down his friend.
