FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE
CHAPTER ELEVEN: REPAIRS AND RESCUES
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McKay fought back another wave of dizziness, trying to stay upright as he leaned over the dark engine, his bad leg propped up as high as possible. It wasn't helping much. Connam had placed about six lanterns around him to shed light on the contraption, and, though they provided the much needed light, they also made McKay feel like he was in an oven. Sweat poured down his face, his mouth felt as dry as Death Valley, and when he wiped his dirty, oil encrusted arm across his forehead and face for the third time in so many minutes, he was reminded of the futility of trying to walk up a down escalator.
Connam watched him from the other side, his eyes unreadable. McKay couldn't tell if there was concern there, or simple curiosity.
"You find you what's wrong with it yet?" the trader asked.
"In a way," the scientist answered huskily, swallowing back some of the bile on his tongue in an attempt to clear his mind. It was a mostly dry swallow, making his already damaged throat hurt more. The glass of water Connam kept refilling was once more empty by his side—it was if he couldn't get enough. He really wasn't feeling well. With a shaking hand, he started pointing to different parts of the engine. "Your fuel valve is faulty, causing raw fuel to leak into the engine, which would make it run rough and speed up the overheating. Your fan belt is broken, your radiator is cracked and you're missing whatever was used to cap it off. The pipes leading to the exhaust system are blocked up and," he gave a long sigh, rubbing his arm over his forehead again, "the intake valve is also blocked, because your filtering system is a joke." He leaned forward, exhausted by the litany of problems. Black streaks marked his face now, the sallow skin underneath looking even paler and sicklier as a result.
Connam tilted his head, studying him. "I see," he said, not really seeing anything at all. "Can you fix it?"
"Not exactly, no."
"Why not?"
"Well, for one thing, you don't have the parts needed to replace them," McKay replied snippily, "and they need replacing. In fact, almost everything in here needs to be replaced. If they're not busted now, they soon will be—this engine's so far past its prime it's not even funny. Plus, even if we could replace the parts, it still wouldn't start."
Connam grimaced, "Why not?"
"See that?" McKay pointed to a black box near Connam's hand, "Do you know what that is?"
"Sure, the generator box."
"I call it a battery. It's dead. You need a new one."
Connam stared at it a moment, then frowned. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"What can we do?"
McKay continued to stare at the battery, trying to get his sluggish brain to move. He needed to sit down. He really did. Better yet, he needed to sleep, and to get away from this heat, and to go home. He put his head on his arms again.
"You know," Connam said softly to the bowed head, "Perhaps this is for the best. It was a long shot in any event, was it not? At this point, even if I left now, I would be unlikely to make it to the gate in time to get a message to your people." He paused a moment, and McKay imagined he could see the trader shrug, "I'm sure your friends will be all right. Colonel Sheppard seemed particularly steadfast in his devotion to rescue them."
Yes, McKay thought, he would. Whereas I can't even fix a god damned jalopy!
Come on! he hissed angrily at himself. Wake up! It's just an engine. A plain, simple, engine. Piece of cake! If you were home, you'd have this fixed in an hour!
"We should return inside. You need some rest."
McKay lifted his head up, blinking at the engine, then across it to the older man. Connam's eyebrows arched curiously.
"Tar," the scientist whispered.
"What?"
"Tar. Sealant. Some kind of sticky, viscous substance. Duct tape. You got any?"
Connam frowned, then shrugged, "Sure. Tar. I have tar. What is duck tape?"
"And we'll need jugs," McKay swallowed again, valiantly ignoring the spinning world, "for water."
"For you?"
"For the wagon."
"Ah. Wait…really?"
"I can patch it all up temporarily. At least until you're through the Gate and," McKay paused, swaying a little drunkenly before shaking his head, "back home. My people can fix it properly there." He heaved a sigh, "And…I need my pack. In it should be a small beige scanner. Can you get it?"
Connam leaned back, eyes bright, "Of course! I'll be right back!"
McKay snorted a little, not wanting to admit he was amused by the other man's new found enthusiasm, and leaned forward over the engine again. His eyes scanned the major problem areas, but, in particular, he inspected the battery's connections.
A noise behind him proved that Connam had moved quickly, and when McKay turned, he found his pack being thrust towards him.
McKay nodded in gratitude and took it. It was much, much lighter than it used to be, but at least Sheppard hadn't traded away the Ancient scanner device. Pulling it out, McKay looked at it for a second, before pointing towards the toolbox Connam had pulled out before they'd even started looking into the engine.
"There a screwdriver in there?" he asked.
Connam nodded and bounded to the toolbox, then rummaged for a couple of minutes. With a crow of delight, he pulled out a long handled screwdriver and held it up for inspection. McKay nodded, extending a hand, and Connam literally slapped it down on his palm, earning a wince from the scientist.
"Thanks," McKay muttered, returning his attention to the scanner. Connam watched curiously as the scientist regarded the small device with something akin to sadness.
"For what I am about to do," McKay whispered, "Please forgive me."
And with that, McKay used the screwdriver to break the scanner open and apart.
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Sheppard and Ronon slid down a hallway, the colonel trying to remember the layout of the Citadel in his head. They had managed to find one guard who was willing to talk...in return for not having his throat slit...who told him where Weir was likely to be. Apparently, the chief officer in charge of the King's guards, Commander Chanee, was holding his own court in the Governor's former private rooms. A few directions from the guard and they were on their way...but they weren't great directions. "Turn right at the suit of armor" turned out to be pretty unhelpful when there was a suit of armor on every corner. Sheppard figured, as long as they kept moving up, they'd get there eventually. Hell—that was how he found the dungeons. He just kept going down.
Slowly, they moved soundlessly around a corner and into an alcove recessed within a side hallway about ten feet from a large wrought-iron door. Two guards stood at full attention in front of it, staring straight forward down a different hallway leading directly to the entrance.
"This looks to be the place," Sheppard whispered.
"Could be," came the simple response.
The colonel flexed his eyebrows at Ronon, then looked back at the guards. He was glad they were so steadfast...meaning, they didn't look to the left and right. Apparently, they only feared attacks from straight ahead.
Good thing.
Softly, he pulled a smoke canister from his vest, gave Ronon a smirk, then popped the top and tossed it towards the two men.
The guards both jumped at the small can, then started coughing and gasping for air, completely unused to this form of attack. Sheppard and Ronon were on them in seconds, knocking the guards down and into unconscious heaps before either even saw their attackers' faces.
Turning, Sheppard grabbed the handles of the door...and smiled to find it unlocked. How careless can you get?
With a shove, he pushed it open...
And walked in on a contingent of guards twenty men deep. They turned towards him, mouths open.
"Ooops," he grinned, raising a hand, "Sorry about that. Wrong room."
He and Ronon took off running, the sound of gunfire from the guards' revolvers echoing off the walls behind them.
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TBC...hee...