STARGATE ATLANTIS
PRIMIS : THE HURTING
SGA SGA SGA
Santana stared into the black of space his generous sized window on the bridge afforded. Fast white lines competed with an orange and purple haze showing the measure of space travel. His ship was fast: it made him smile to know he had this technology where so many others in this galaxy didn't. Yes, he had the upper hand, and he relished it.
"We are here."
Santana looked at his Second in Command. He didn't acknowledge the announcement: no, he had felt it in his bones before the man had even looked his way. He knew exactly when he had arrived home. The pull of his home world's atmosphere being so different from any other planet he visited once his ship had settled into its rhythm.
The landing was, as ever, smooth and unremarkable. Santana's Second hurriedly arranged for guards to walk their latest 'prisoners' to the containment area to be assessed for their suitability to remain with them. Out of them all, Santana was particularly interested with their leader. The stance of this Colonel John Sheppard had been like nothing he had come up against for a while: indeed he could have said that about all the men they had captured with him, but he, particularly, seemed to ooze authority; and they all seemed to hang on his every word…his every action; including the bigger man, whom Santana thought could have easily lead his own team without being under the other man's command. The leader was also wounded; ill even, although he tried not to let it be shown as a weakness, even as blood pooled about his face and neck. Commendable. Santana admired that in a person. Never show your weakness to your enemy, seemed to be how this man lived his life as well as him.
Santana donned his heavy coat and adjusted the hood to take his goggles over the top. Gloves were pulled over his thick fingers and he nodded for his Second to stay on the bridge and overlook its housekeeping.
Even through the thick black lenses of the necessary goggles, Santana shirked back from the bright light the white rock projected that could burn retinas if unprotected. The shifting blue sand could fall a walking person if you stared at it too long, so Santana kept his protected head up and strolled gently behind the anguished prisoners stumbling along, unprotected, to the underground caverns that would be their home for the next few days until he received a full report of their capabilities and uses. The amount of exposure would not harm them for this short journey, but give them a taste of what to expect should they have thoughts of escaping.
The Carakan's were a centuries old race who had one thing going for them – they were strong, able to adjust to their situation, and powerful in mind and body – and resistant to Wraith feedings.
They didn't know how the feedings had no effect on them; they didn't care. They only knew that if they stayed far enough away from them, and not cause the Wraith to want to kill them by any other means; they could almost co-exist in their small galaxy – almost!
The Carakan's, when things in their galaxy had got tougher, had taken to following the wraith around and claiming what spoils they had left behind. Recent wars with other Carakan Clan's, however, who despised their wealth and strength …and space ships, had left their families and armies on the ground at times almost completely depleted. Santana, as his Clan's current Senior Chief, had been sent out to 'acquire' some fighting stock to join the war amongst their naturally heavier built soldiers. Today, Santana was bringing back seven new hopefuls – and if not for fighting, they might have other uses not known yet.
The wind whipped the blue sand up into a frenzy in places as he continued to walk his slow, but observant, path behind the others. Santana noticed blue plumes being swept along the icy rocks before crashing into the tall stalagmites; some of over ten feet tall. His clan had lived here in seclusion for most of the time he had lived. It was all he knew, and yet he wondered at his fore-fathers choosing to live on the barren land.
The leader of the men in front of him stumbled suddenly, and Santana noticed that he was not short of men rushing up to aid him; the largest one looked like he wanted to carry him: Santana smirked when the wounded man obviously refused his help with gestures, not known to him, but obvious in their translation.
Walking behind a new group was always enlightening to Santana. It was from being at the rear that he really got a measure of their captives and how they managed with their first trial. He was annoyed at the one who had almost killed this lot's leader, though. He had asked for a warning shot, plain and simple. The bullet had scraped his head and almost took out the man's eye; something Santana would have to address with this useless sharp shooter. He would not be relied upon for that job again.
Santana stopped walking when he saw the leader now bat away the obvious attention of another man; slightly shorter than him, but no less demanding of his attention. Could he be a physician? That would be useful. Perhaps he would ask him to be brought for assessment first. They could always use a healer in the field. The physician, if he was one, finally shrugged, Santana noticed. There was nothing he could have done anyway; marched as they were with no protective clothing through the ice-white outer air, and until they would reach the caverns, where it became naturally humid from the warm water pools within that kept the temperature just this side of comfortable.
No need there for the large coats and goggles.
Entering the cave system, Santana took a moment to readjust before taking off his goggles and handing them to one of the guards on the door. The dim light was necessary at this stage and he blinked a few times to take in the warm glow and shuddered. Walking at a slower pace, no matter how protected against the weather, was always a risk against your health, and Santana thought he was getting too old now to stay out there for any longer than was advised. The same guard took his heavy outer coat also, and Santana was left with his heavy brown jacket and trousers that had seen better days, but had just the right amount of protection against knives and fists, and had pockets to stash weapons that Santana always chose to wear.
The prisoners could be heard protesting as they were led further down the flame lit channels. Correction –one prisoner. He had learned a lot about this latest batch of prisoners, but one thing stood out that puzzled him. The one who was doing most of the protesting, and even as he listened; still did, was that nobody seemed strangely bothered with the constant buzzing complains that came from the stockier man. He must be important for their leader to not even reprimand him or tell him to be quiet; he would have done it ages ago.
Very interesting indeed.
There were another four men that seemed to hover on the outskirts of interesting, but no more. Santana would also question them to figure out their worth soon enough, but for now he would have them settled in their assigned spaces.
Santana made his way to his quarters and informed the High Command of his findings. They would want his full report in a matter of days, but they left him to manage as they always did; secure in the knowledge he always got good results.
Left alone for a few hours, Santana cleaned up and accepted the full tray of food and ale brought to him by one of the pantry staff, before moving to his desk. He withdrew from around his neck, the leather strip he always wore that held the key to the drawer which held his private papers. Santana raised his head when there was a knock on the door and held back from opening the drawer.
"Enter." He growled.
A man called Stron; larger than he, but mute and deaf from birth; therefore impossible to soldier, but handy to use for menial work, walked quickly towards him with a metal coffer containing the prisoner's weapons and belongings. Santana nodded once and the larger man plodded away, leaving him with his thoughts and a box of spoils to rummage through before he would interrogate each of his prisoners by turn.
Weapons, knives – lots of knives! Strange clothing that was hard and stiff in places, were quickly placed on the floor and were given a once over before he would allow others to inspect more thoroughly. An interesting blaster felt snug in his hand. This he pocketed, along with a couple of the larger knives. He suspected he knew who these belonged to. Another bag, filled with strange sealed bottles and wrappings of cloth got his interest. What looked like surgical equipment, and also encased in the same strange coverings, were plenty and not of his eye before. Santana's earlier presumption was correct; this was a physician's bag.
He idly picked up a long, thin silver coloured flask of the like he had not touched before. It felt like the ice of the planet's outer floor and the section at the top spun so that it came apart to reveal some thin white things inside he could find no word to describe; having seen nothing like it in all his travels. This he put back together and pocketed also.
He made his way down to the lower channels, meditative over his ways to get the best out of his new 'recruits.' He had already informed the guards that he wanted the physician to be brought to see him first. He knew that this Colonel Sheppard, as their leader, would be furious that he had not been brought forward first – a tactic he always rather enjoyed - to scatter the ideal of order and diplomacy. Their leader would instantly feel unsettled and become demanding. Depending on how he managed his temper with the healer gone, Santana might not even speak to him until last.
Already, Santana relished the challenges ahead. This was why he was good at his job and had kept the position for so long – he got results. Good results. The kind that usually remained steadfast and have new recruits dedicated to joining them in no time. Carakan's were not unkind to each other in the same Clan generally, although men were men and sometimes fights broke out – that was fine, that could be short lived and instantly forgotten about. But, if you continually rebuffed what was offered, then you became fodder in a war that held no supporting hand for your return wounded – if you survived.
Santana entered the low beamed entrance, just ducking his head slightly as two guards bowed as he passed, before closing the heavy wooden door behind him, until he was left alone in the room with no guards.
"What do y'want?" A strange accented man asked, looking angry and confused.
"Your name for starters?" Santana took on a bored disposition although he was eager to get going.
"Carson Beckett – DOCTOR Carson Beckett, to you!" He shouted.
"I know not of this exaggerated word you spit at me…explain?"
"Doctor? Um, physician, healer…I FIX BODIES!"
Santana's laugh bellowed around the warm, stone walled room.
"Do you now?"
"Yes." Came the quieter reply, as if spooked.
"Then, you are going to come in very handy. Welcome to my Clan – Healer Carson Beckett."
With him no questions were needed.
SGA SGA SGA
To be continued…
A/N Thank you to all who have reviewed etc.
