FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE
CHAPTER FOUR: MIDNIGHT NEGOTIATIONS
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Fifteen minutes later, Sheppard was kneeling next to where McKay was now sleeping on one side of the camp, his legs elevated—the scientist had finally, mercifully passed out. Sheppard laid a hand on the man's head, telling himself that he was doing it just to check on McKay's temperature, even if the hand lingered for longer than was necessary.
On the other side of the camp, Connam ladled some soup into a bowl and watched the ministrations with a curious eye, wondering a little at the underlying tension he sensed in both men. He honestly couldn't tell if they were friends...or enemies.
Sheppard stood, picking up the green bottle Connam had given him from where he'd placed it next to McKay's leg, and tucked it inside McKay's pack with the newly acquired bandages. The "medicine" Connam carried seemed to be no more than a strong alcohol, despite the other man's promises of its abilities. Sheppard had done what he could to clean McKay's wounds with it, but while staving off infection was important, he knew McKay had lost a lot of blood, making it all seem rather pointless. At least the bleeding had stopped now that they weren't moving any more, but soon enough, he'd have to get McKay walking again and...
Like he said, pointless.
For now, he'd rebound the wounds as best he could, using the fresh bandages Connam supplied, but part of him couldn't help thinking he was only delaying the inevitable.
Wiping his hands off on his uniform, the colonel turned around to find Connam standing a few feet away, a bowl of soup in his hands. The trader held it out.
"Your food, colonel? You're going to need it, I think."
Sheppard stared at it a moment, then nodded a quick thanks. He took it and sat himself down cross-legged next to McKay, trying to eat it quickly. It was thick and filled with vegetables—tasted like heaven to the starving colonel. After he had downed about half of it, he looked up to find Connam holding out a tin cup to him. Sheppard took it, and, sniffing the contents, was pleased to find it was just water. Connam smiled genteelly at him and walked over to ladle out a bowl of the soup for himself.
"So," Sheppard said, watching the other man settle down himself to eat, "you're a trader? What, between the different towns?"
"The towns? What, here? Ah, no, not exactly." Connam smiled, shifting a little on the log he'd picked to sit on and peering at the soup in his bowl as if looking for something, "I trade among the different worlds. This is just one of 'em."
Sheppard stopped mid swallow, surprised by the information, then finished quickly. "Really? How many worlds do you trade on?"
"I don't know. Twenty? Thirty?" Connam shrugged, blowing on his soup to cool it.
"Then this," Sheppard looked around at the now black forest, "is not your home."
"Ah, no. Not even close. Pretty though, especially during this planet's Autumn."
"Oh, so you know it well?"
"Well enough. Been coming here since I was a lad, when my mum and dad were in the business. Now it's just me and Dodge there," he indicated the massive horned draft horse, who was feasting on a young tree now.
"In that case, do you know any, uh," Sheppard paused, pursing his lips, then plunged on, "safe places to stay nearby? Where someone might be willing to help—"
"No. There's nothing nearby, not up here."
"Oh," Sheppard said, frowning a little, glancing again at McKay. Connam watched him, frowning slightly.
"So," the trader took another sup of his soup, "why were you in Garillion?"
"Hunh," Sheppard grimaced, looking back at Connam. He took another spoonful of soup before answering, noting it was almost gone now. "We came to this world to work out a trade agreement with the Governor—we only came through the gate yesterday."
"What kind of trade agreement?"
"We were to get food and supplies from the Governor in return for medicines, defense weapons to be used against the Wraith, that sort of thing."
"Weapons?"
"For defense. Things to gain anyone fleeing a Wraith dart a little extra time to do so." He tilted the bowl to catch the last few drops of the soup onto his spoon.
"Like what?"
Sheppard hesitated and his eyes lifted, suddenly not liking the scrutinizing tone the trader was using. But what he saw on the man's face didn't appear mercenary—more curious. He shrugged, swallowed the last of the soup, then placed his now finished bowl on the ground with the spoon. Leaning forward, he wrapped his hands together and balanced his arms on his knees.
"Stun and flash weaponry. Bright lights, big noises, that sort of thing."
"Not guns or explosives," Connam stated.
Sheppard frowned, "No."
"Hmm," Connam waved a hand at him, "so what happened? How did he get hurt?"
Sheppard turned once more to McKay, watching the other man breathe as he spoke. "We were in the midst of finishing the agreement when everything went to hell. The Governor yelled something about rebels trying to take the city and...my companions and I decided the best course of action would be to get the hell out of there."
"A prudent course."
"Yeah, well, we ran into some...complications. We literally got caught in the crossfire, for one thing." Sheppard grimaced, the sound of the gunfire echoing in his ears again, along with Teyla's call that she, Elizabeth and Travis had been caught crackling over the radio in his ear, and McKay's swear as he fell and cut his stomach, then his cry of pain as he got shot, Ronan yelling at him to get McKay out of there...Swallowing, he drove the memories from his head and turned to face the trader again. "Fact is, Connam, four of my people are still back there. I need to get back there, to help them."
Connam's eyes narrowed, and he indicated McKay with his head, lowering his voice even though it wasn't necessary, "You taking him with you? Because, there's no way that on foot, he—"
"I know," Sheppard cut him off with a raised hand. "I need to find a safe place to hole him up while I go back for the others. Then we'll come back for him, and make a break for the gate. That's why I asked you that question before."
Connam's eyebrows lifted, and he looked at McKay, as if assessing, as Sheppard had done, McKay's likelihood for survival should he be left on his own.
Sheppard cleared his throat, "Speaking of which, I paid you for some information." He licked his lips when Connam turned his attention to him again, and plunged on. "I need to know where I am, exactly. How far from the gate; how far from the city. I also need to know if you know of any farms around here who might be able to sell me some horses, or other means of transportation."
Connam frowned at the word, "Horses?"
"Four legged beasts, like your rhino-horse there," Sheppard indicated the huge creature, "except faster. Taller."
"Rhino-horse?" Connam shook his head, turning to look at his animal, "I don't know that word. That there is called a dram, colonel, and, like I said, her name is Dodge. And, if I'm getting your meaning right, what you call horses are meeners."
"Yes," Sheppard nodded, remembering that's what the Governor had called them, "meeners."
Connam watched him a moment, then placed his own bowl on the ground.
The trader smiled at that, "Well, as you say, you paid for information. Here's your answers, to the best that I can give them. You are, as you may have guessed, about a half day's walk to the citadel. You are also about a day's walk to the Gate. In the morning I will show you the direction—"
"I can't wait until morning."
Connam frowned, "You can't traverse these woods in the dark, colonel. You'll get lost."
"I'll find a way. But, speaking of morning, how long until the sun rises?"
Connam frowned, but did not try to deny him again. "Depends on how you measure time, sir."
"By the clocks of the Ancestors."
Connam arched an eyebrow, then shrugged, and, digging into a pocket of his waistcoat, pulled out a pocket watch. He flipped it open, tilted his head and nodded. "In that case, about seven hours. Sun will rise around," he seemed to think for a moment, "six in the morning?"
Sheppard looked at his own watch, then glanced at McKay again. The scientist hadn't moved, but he was deathly pale. The orange, dancing firelight seemed to deepen the shadows under the closed lids, and the sheen of sweat on his forehead was not from the flames' heat.
Damn it, McKay.
"You do realize," Connam said, his voice softening again, "that he'll be lucky to survive long enough for you to return for him, not if you force him to move much farther with that leg wound." Connam stood then, moving closer in order to see McKay better from his side of the camp. "If you have good surgeons where you come from, which, based on your equipment, I assume you must, it'd be best to take him back to the gate now. He needs a transfusion. For a price, I'd be willing to take you to a place where you can get a cart..."
"I have to rescue the others," Sheppard replied softly, still watching McKay. Connam tilted his head, eyes trying to read to the colonel's angled profile in the low light as Sheppard continued to talk. "I don't know if they're dead or hurt or...There are four of my people back in that Citadel still in Garillion, and I have to get them out of there. I can't afford...," he paused, swallowing almost convulsively, "...I can't afford to wait."
"But," Connam frowned, "he..." he trailed off, not wanting to state the obvious. He frowned as the colonel reached out to touch the doctor's head lightly again, just resting his knuckles on the broad forehead, lightly brushing away a little of the hair stuck to it.
Finally, Sheppard sucked in a breath, steeled his emotions, and turned away from McKay to meet Connam's eyes, his hand falling back to his side. He stood up to face the trader, clasping his hands behind his back, an expressionless mask on his face. Connam had to admit, the transformation was impressive.
"Now, about the horses...?" Sheppard raised his eyebrows in question.
Connam grimaced and sighed heavily, "Meeners."
"Yeah," Sheppard nodded, "them. Where can I get some and what will their owners take in exchange?"
Connam watched him for a moment, then sat down again. A moment later, Sheppard followed suit, watching the other man curiously. Connam leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, rubbing his hands together.
"Colonel, look, before I tell you anything further, I should warn you," his eyes met Sheppard's straight on, "the Citadel was not attacked by rebels."
That got Sheppard's attention, "What?"
"The Governor...by whom I assume you mean Medved, yes?" He took Sheppard's single nod as a yes and continued, "Governor Medved is not the leader of the people on this world, Colonel. King Stewart is. Governor Medved is a small, petty man who has been looking for means to oust Stewart from power. The arms you were selling to Medved were undoubtedly meant to supply the means for him to attempt a coup."
Sheppard closed his eyes tightly, swearing softly under his breath. "Then the 'rebels' were..."
"The king's private guard, my guess, camouflaged to look like peasants. The Citadel and the rest of Garillion, if not the whole valley, is probably under martial law now—and I'm sure they're looking for you. The roads, the gate, everything will be heavily guarded. Arms dealers are not treated well here. If your people are lucky, they may be tried first, and, if any among them has a silver tongue, the sentencing may be commuted in favor of some sort of deal—perhaps selling the arms to the King instead. If, however, they are not afforded that trial, then they are either going to be hanged as criminal war profiteers, hanged as spies, or hanged for just being there." He shook his head, "In any event, you are correct in assuming they are in grave danger, if they are not already dead."
Sheppard's eyes narrowed, "They hang people here?"
"Yes. And believe me, that's a better way to die than most. There are some planets where..." He stopped talking when he realized Sheppard was still squinting at him. "Er, never mind."
Sheppard looked away, then back again. "Do they have any," he waved his hand, "usual time that they perform hangings?"
"Sure. Mid-morning. By the Ancestor's clock, about 10:00."
Sheppard had lowered his head, staring down at the dead leaves on the ground. They were wet with the cooling air of night, and seemed to shimmer slightly, reflecting the fire. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and looked up again at Connam.
"As I said, about those horses...?"
"Do you have anything else you can trade?"
Sheppard tilted his head at the question, thinking it a strange non-sequitor. "What?"
"What else have you to trade?"
"What do you mean?"
Connam rolled his eyes, then pointed to Sheppard's clothes. "Your vest, and that of your friend, as well as his pack, appear to be filled with various items. What else have you got?"
"Why?" The colonel did not bother hiding his suspicious tone.
"Technology can always be traded. I may be able to help you out more than I have done. I can get you your meeners, for example. So," Connam's eyebrows lifted, "what have you got?"
Sheppard was physically tired and mentally running on fumes, but he was also feeling the sharp edge of desperation. He had one fr...man...with him who was dying, and four others who needed his help. So far, Connam seemed honest. He had a feeling the trader would sell his own grandmother for profit, but he was on a strange planet, lost, and his options seemed awfully limited...
He grimaced, "Well, I should start by saying but I won't give you our weapons..."
"The guns? Oh no, I don't want those. What good are they to me when they run out of ammunition? Can I get more? I'm thinking not. Besides, you'll be needing them, I think, if you're going back to Garillion. No," Connam leaned forward on his knees, the firelight giving his face an almost demonic pallor, "what else have you got?"
Sheppard looked down, thinking about what was in his vest. After a moment, he reached down and pulled out the binoculars. Staring at them a moment, he looked at Connam...then tossed them over. Connam turned them over in his hands for a moment, then put them up to his eyes. His mouth fell open.
"Now we're talkin'!" he exclaimed joyfully, lowering them. "What else? And does the doctor have a set of these as well?"
Sheppard sighed, but nodded. He started taking things out of his pockets, leaving only a few things—such as the ordinance he carried. Everything else, including a bottle of Tylenol, were tossed to Connam. He explained as he did so what each item was, and Connam got more and more excited. The lighter was not that interesting to the man, but he liked the sunglasses, the efficiency of the canteen and appreciated the multi-use knife. The two MRE's puzzled him, so he tossed those back. He grew more impressed by the little things than any of the arms Sheppard carried, which, oddly, made a strange sort of sense. If Connam traded with farmers, ranchers and the like, they would probably be more excited by the binocs and night-vision goggles than a grenade. In the end, Connam asked to take McKay's whole vest, liking the tough, light material. When Sheppard handed it over, he divested it only of a few items Sheppard knew he could not lose—such as the Atlantian equipment, the laptop and the radios. Connam didn't ask when Sheppard shifted those things to his now much lighter vest, though he clearly wasn't blind.
The colonel realized he was placing an enormous amount of faith on the man's word that he wasn't a thief.
Throughout it all, Sheppard kept an eye on McKay, watching the scientist breathe, always watching for some change in his demeanor, to be prepared in case the scientist suddenly worsened—not that there was much he could do if McKay did. When he started going through McKay's vest, the scientist had muttered and moaned a little, but he didn't wake, barely aware as he was gently lifted and the weight taken from him. As Connam went through the pockets, the colonel checked the bandage on the scientist's stomach. It appeared clean still. A flare of anger touched him when he remembered how McKay had run into the metal edge of that cart—damn his clumsiness! If McKay had been looking where he was going, he wouldn't have been hurt, Sheppard wouldn't have been separated from the others trying to help him and they wouldn't have acted to try and protect them...resulting in his and McKay's escape but the other's capture.
Sheppard found his hands winding into McKay's jacket, gripping tightly, half tempted to shake him awake, to yell at him, berate him for putting him in this position...
He screwed his eyes shut. What was he doing? It wasn't McKay's fault. None of this was any of his team's fault. The Governor was to blame for putting them in this position, and he was to blame for not having learned enough intel to know they were being duped. McKay tripping on a basket while they ran down unfamiliar streets and alleyways and that cart having sharp metal edges, then getting hit in the leg...that was just bad luck.
They'd seemed to have a lot of bad luck lately.
The fingers unwound, and he lowered McKay back down gently. With a shaking hand, he smoothed out the wrinkled material and sat back.
"I hate this, McKay," he whispered, though he knew the other man couldn't hear him. "I really hate this."
"Well alright then," Connam suddenly said, drawing Sheppard's attention back to the other man. The trader was grinning, surrounded by his goodies where he sat near the fire. The whole "shopping trip" had taken less than half an hour, but, by Sheppard's reckoning, it was now close to midnight on this world.
"This will be sufficient," Connam said, still smiling and indicating the goods with his hands.
"For what?" Sheppard asked, wiping the tiredness from his eyes. "The hor...the meeners?"
"Those and more," Connam replied. He leaned forward on his knees to better regard the other man. "Colonel, there's a place I use not far from here when I'm on this planet. It's safe and fairly hidden. I've used it myself to escape heated tempers from time to time. I'll take your friend there. He can stay until mid-morning on this planet, at which point I will expect you to return for him."
Sheppard's eyes narrowed, "But, I thought—"
"You need a place to hide; I have a place. I'm not going to sell out you or your friend, colonel. You paid me. I stick to my bargains. I've survived this long by being a...mostly honest...trader, and I'm not about to change that."
Sheppard couldn't resist a wry smile as he thought about the "medicine" Connam had given him for McKay's wounds. "Mostly honest?"
"Yes, well, I may have to exaggerate sometimes." Connam shrugged, and smiled again in return.
Sheppard met the smile, then looked down, the smile fading as he listened to the deal again in his head. "Wait...you'll only let him stay until mid-morning? From what you've told me, It'll probably take me all night just to get back to Garillion. I doubt I will make it back in time."
"I am aware of that," Connam shrugged. "But, I also have something in the back of my wagon which should also help you meet that deadline. I was going to try and sell it on Hoff, but the people there...," Connam suddenly grimaced, his eyes taking in a haunted quality, and he had to shake it off before continuing, "Anyway, point is, I can only sell it to someone in a more advanced civilization, very few of which are left, and so you'd make a great vendee. I think, bartered against all of this," he gestured to the goods on the ground, "that the bargain is sound." He smiled again at Sheppard.
The colonel's eyebrows narrowed, "What is it?"
"A speedwheel." Connam grinned, "I bought it from a Harlean about six months ago. Now it's yours."
"A...what?"
"You don't know what a speedwheel is?" Connam looked surprised. "I would have thought...No matter. Here," Connam stood up and walked to the back of his wagon. "Come and have a look."
Throwing up the heavy cotton flap covering the back, the trader climbed up and into the wagon with a practiced ease. It was a large wagon, about the length of a small moving truck, and filled with junk. On closer look, Sheppard also realized it was made partly of metal--it had just been cleverly made up to look like wood. He watched as Connam wound around reams of stacked cloths, climbed over bags and small pieces of wooden furniture, ducked under hanging lanterns and utensils, until he finally disappeared completely from sight. Sheppard checked one more time on McKay, then stood and headed over to stand at the back of the wagon, trying to see within the shadowed interior. He managed to catch site of Connam as he rooted around, moving things like pillows, clothing and other bits and pieces from one side of the wagon to the other, then the trader suddenly smiled. He'd obviously found what he was looking for.
"Hey," the trader suddenly called back to Sheppard. "Come around the side and untie the flaps on the canvas, will you? You'll be able to see it better."
Sheppard did as instructed, going around the side and, where Connam tapped the inside of the canvas, he undid the ties holding it down. When he had most of them undone, he started lifting it up. Connam helped from the inside, grabbing and shoving it the rest of the way up, allowing the colonel to see what the trader was so proud of.
Sheppard's jaw dropped.
"See?" Connam was clearly pleased with the reaction, "A speedwheel. It'll get you back to the city in record time, I should think."
Sheppard reached forward and touched the thick rubber tire on the front, as if not quite believing it. Then he grinned.
It was a motorcycle.
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TBC...yeah...a motorcycle. Mmmmm.