FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE
CHAPTER TWELVE: LESS THAN IDEAL
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Connam busily tried to patch everything McKay had asked him too, including pulling out a type of tape very, very similar to duct tape, and wrapping all the hoses and pipes inside the engine with it. He spent the bulk of his time on the radiator, slathering it with sealent and tar, watching as cracks he hadn't seen or hadn't thought important filled in and closed. He'd already cleaned out the valves and pipes that McKay had said were blocked, and, he had to admit, if these were his bowels, he wouldn't be running well either.
McKay, meanwhile, had completely disconnected the battery and was attaching what appeared to be an incredibly tiny power cell from his scanner to the engine, using thin wires that seemed as delicate the threads of a spiderweb. He sat on the bench for the driver, completely still except for his hands, focused only on what he was doing and nothing else. He didn't even look like he was blinking, the pale blue eyes fixed and impossibly steady.
Finally, Connam leaned back from his work, wiping away the sweat from his face, and looked over at McKay.
They'd been working at this for nearly an hour—it was almost six in the morning, and the sun was just beginning to streak the sky above, pink lines among the indigo blue. It looked to be a clear, beautiful day. Small favors.
"This should dry pretty quickly," Connam told the scientist, watching McKay fiddle. "This sealant has properties that make it very fast acting. Probably ready to try it in forty five minutes or so."
McKay didn't look up. The trader licked his lips, sighed, and started moving things out of the way, then went inside to get them some more water. Maybe ten minutes later, when he emerged again from the shack with a full pitcher of water, he found McKay slumped over on the driver's seat, his eyes closed, hands and arms limply hanging over the engine.
Connam hissed, put the pitcher down, water sloshing over the sides and onto his hands, and jogged quickly over to the wagon.
The scientist was beyond pale beneath the dark smudges, and the dirty blue shirt covering the bandage on his stomach was spotting dark patches of red. The thick bandage on his leg was also soaked through, desperately needing to be replaced. It had still be white when Connam had dragged McKay out here to look at the engine, but too much movement and too little care had clearly started the wound bleeding again. Damn.
Connam shook off his worry and grimaced. Clambering up onto the wagon, he sat down and slid along the bench until he was next to the scientist, leaning over to see him better.
"Doctor McKay?" he asked softly.
No response.
"Doctor?" the trader reached out, touching his hand lightly to the broad shoulder. Still nothing. Was he breathing? Reaching a little further, he pressed his wet fingers to McKay's neck.
The scientist flinched at the cold touch, and his eyelids fluttered. He coughed a few times, then half-heartedly tried to swipe at the touch on his neck, unaware that Connam had already taken his hand away.
Connam released a heavy sigh. "Doctor," he said, gratitude thick on his voice, "thank the stars. Are you all right?"
McKay turned his head, peering up at Connam with half hooded eyes. The dirty look he gave the trader answered the question.
Well, Connam had to admit, it was a pretty stupid question.
To avoid saying that out loud, he looked to the dead battery, and at the small power cell that McKay had taped to the top and attached a mess of wires to. It was like replacing an elephant with a mouse.
"Is it done?" he asked, not hiding his suspicion about the efficacy of what he was looking at.
"Yeah," the word was more breathed than spoken.
"It's so small. Is it really going to work?"
"It's about ten times more powerful than that black monstrosity, and it's lasted over ten thousand years," came the croaked answer. McKay pushed himself up on the seat, grunting a little as he did so, then looked at Connam. "It'll do just fine."
"Provided you were able to hook it up effectively," the trader noted. "Those wires look sort of thin. I know they're from your device but…." He stopped when he saw the look McKay was giving him.
This time, it was more angry than irritated, and seemed to galvanize the scientist enough to sit up straighter in order to answer Connam's unspoken question.
"Of course it isn't ideal," the scientist spat, "but it'll work. It's not the means, but the ends that matter right now, and I know what I'm doing." He looked at the rest of the engine, squinting a little as he examined it. "Did you patch up everything I pointed out?"
Connam tried not to take his attitude personally. "I think so. Should dry in the next half hour or so."
McKay nodded, then put his head down, closing his eyes again. The anger suddenly seemed to leak from him, like a popped balloon. "Good," he said tiredly.
Connam watched him for another minute, then gave a wry smile and looked over at Dodge. If this worked, he'd have to set up space for her in the back. It would probably take him the same amount of time as it would for the sealant to dry to reorganize and secure the items in the wagon.
"I need to sort out the wagon," Connam said, moving to climb down off the seat. When he hit the ground, he looked over at the dram, then back at McKay. "Of course, doctor, you realize that, if this works, you'll have to share your space back there with Dodge?"
McKay's eyes cracked open slightly, then closed again. "Wonderful," he muttered.
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Sheppard ducked after Ronon into a dark side room, shutting the door behind them and sitting down with their backs to the door. The colonel panted, trying to get his breath back after the mad dash to this place…wherever they were. The Citadel was large—half a dozen stories and more rooms, passageways and back-staircases than he could count.
He just hoped Teyla and Travis had made it out.
Ronon listened at the door, head tilted slightly, eyes unfocused. Sheppard calmed his erratic breathing down and waited for the verdict.
"We've lost them," the runner finally stated, straightening.
Sheppard nodded, "I think that was the wrong room."
Ronon frowned slightly, as if not quite sure if Sheppard was serious or not. "Yes, it was," he agreed solemnly.
The tiniest twinge of disappointment touched Sheppard at the plain reply, but he shook it off. Standing, he turned to look at the closed door, then turned and regarded the room they'd hidden in. Flipping on the flashlight on the P90, he found they were in what appeared to be library. Books upon books lined the shelves on all sides, and several comfortable chairs were spaced strategically around the room under tall, thin, church-like windows. He grimaced when he realized the sky outside was growing pink with the approaching dawn. It must be about 6:00 by now.
His eyes narrowed, remembering seeing these windows from below. As was typical of every fortified structure he'd ever seen, whether they be castles or prisons, they only had windows of this size on the uppermost floors. So, they were very likely very close to the governor's former suite—where Weir should be.
"What now?" Ronon asked, eyeing him.
Sheppard gave a wry smirk. How odd that a man as fiercely independent as Ronon Dex would so easily fall back into the habit of taking orders. Almost as if he had missed it.
"Well, we're on the right floor. We just need to find the right rooms," Sheppard said. He walked over to one of the tall windows and looked out and the lightening countryside. They appeared to swing inwards. Turning his flashlight off, he attached the weapon to the front of his utility vest and reached up to unhook the latches of the window.
"What are you doing?" Ronon asked.
Sheppard didn't answer as he opened the windows, letting in the crisp morning air. The valley spread out below them. At the opposite end, he realized he could just make out the ornate clearing in which the Stargate sat. From this distance, it was tiny, like a tiny gray dot on the landscape. His eyes involuntarily shifted to the right, to the granite cleft where Connam said he was taking McKay. It looked an insurmountable distance from here.
Shaking his head, he leaned out the window and looked down...and smiled to see the ledge there he'd spotted earlier from below. It was at least ten inches deep. Dangerous, but not impossible.
"Well," he said, "roaming the halls and knocking on doors is probably going to be pretty difficult right now so..." He looked back at Ronon, his cheekiness in full force. "She can't be far from this room. What say we try the back door in?"
Ronon stepped up next to Sheppard and leaned out the window, seeing the same ledge. He nodded.
"Lead the way," he replied.
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TBC...