THIEVES IN ATLANTIS
BY TIPPER
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE WALLS CLOSE IN
A strange sort of silence descended on the busy Jumper Bay, and both Garron and Ren stood up slightly in the pilot and co-pilot seats of their hidden Jumper, watching as the medical personnel and smattering of marines on the Bay's floor all tipped their heads back to look up.
Leaning forward more over the console, Garron and Ren followed their gaze.
Slowly, as if it were carrying the finest crystal, a jumper descended into the bay. In an almost hushed manner, it leveled out smoothly and came to a rest in the middle of the floor, touching the ground as if settling on a bed of pillows. Garron grimaced, catching sight of Lieutenant Cadman's taut expression through the window as she landed Jumper Two—she looked like she was about to break.
Like exhaling a held breath, the back hatch opened and, the moment it touched the floor, the room exploded in noise.
A black doctor, tall and thin, stormed into the Jumper, yelling orders in a voice that belied his frame. They had seen him before—a quiet, reserved man with a kind smile, always in the background—but with Beckett as the patient and most of the other physicians sick by Neera's poison—he had become the one in charge.
And he did it well. There was no hesitation among his crew as demands for medicines and oxygen and braces were called for, no questioning as monitors beeped and whined when hooked up, no confusion as people swirled like eddies in and out of the small ship following his orders. One thing about the people in Atlantis, Garron realized, they all knew their stuff.
They could still see Cadman through the front window of the Jumper, stuck in the front while they worked on the man she cared for more than anyone else in the City in the rear compartment. The lieutenant stood up straight, not moving a muscle in her black military outfit, while white clad people framed her in the background through the window, flittering around like clouds of smoke.
At some point, Colonel Sheppard jogged into the Bay, asking quick, insistent questions and being answered with head shaking. The Colonel's face tried to hide it, but the concern and anger filling him was pretty visible, especially when he got the chance to see Beckett's condition for himself. He backed off for a little while, just watching, then seemed to shake out of his reverie. They heard him bark an order about being informed when Beckett was moved to the Infirmary, then he was gone again.
"Commander Cowen was right," Garron said quietly, watching all this with an impressed air, "Doctor Beckett is beloved by these people. There's multiple crises going on, and yet this one clearly dominates them all." He tilted his head a little, "He was the right choice to use as the decoy."
The coldness of these words seeped into the already shivering Ren. The boy looked over at his older brother, eyes almost too big.
"I think," he said, his voice almost tentative, "that these people who do the same for any one of their own. They protect each other above all. I don't think it would have mattered who it was."
Garron frowned a little, eyes narrowing as he looked at the younger boy. "Like the Genii, you mean," he said, sneering a little. "You think they care about their people as much as we do ours."
"No," Ren said, "not like the Genii." The Atlantians care more, he added in his head.
Garron stared at him a moment longer, as if he could hear the traitorous words in Ren's head, then looked back out the window.
A now burdened gurney was being wheeled rapidly down the jumper's ramp to the floor, white clad personnel still swarming around it like bees stuck to honey. They ran with the cart as it was pushed and pulled swiftly out of the Jumper Bay, heading towards the large transporter to take it to the Infirmary several floors below.
And, when it disappeared, once again, silence descended on the Jumper Bay.
Where there had been a couple dozen people, now there were just three. Two of those were orderlies, from the looks of it. They set about cleaning up the chaos left by Beckett's return and departure, moving efficiently and without words.
The other was Lieutenant Cadman.
She had remained rooted in the front of her jumper, waiting for release. Now that she had it, she seemed hesitant. With an almost dazed air, she watched as the two orderlies cleaned around her and in the area outside in the Bay.
Slowly, she walked between them to the back hatch and down to the edge of the ramp.
"She needs to move that Jumper before we can leave," Garron noted callously. "It's sitting right on top of the opening to the Gate Room."
Ren didn't say a word in reply. His eyes just watched as the blonde marine took off her cap and sat down on the bottom of the ramp…and rested her head on her knees.
And started to cry.
The two orderlies never stopped cleaning around her.
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Hiding several floors above the infirmary floor, Freya and Neera watched through the holes in the metal grating as Beckett was wheeled swiftly through the halls below towards the already burgeoning infirmary. She caught sight of his pale, blood streaked face and some sort of tube down his throat before he was gone, disappearing almost as quickly as he had arrived.
"He's still alive," Freya said, her tone despondent.
"It's a good thing," Neera replied, shrugging as she watched the people milling about down below. She caught sight of what she thought was Colonel Sheppard with Elizabeth Weir's arm around his shoulder a moment later, supporting the woman as they approached and entered the infirmary after Beckett.
"It's a good thing?" Freya asked, her tone a cold sneer. "How?"
"Just means they're even more distracted, fighting to keep him alive."
"But I want him dead!" Freya whined, loud enough for Neera to wince.
The older woman grabbed the girl's arm, drawing her close. "Are you trying to get us caught? Keep quiet!"
"Let go of my arm," Freya replied frostily, staring up hard at the older woman. Neera grimaced, and gripped the arm even more tightly, getting nose to nose with the child.
"Listen to me, little girl," the Genii commander stated, "There is a time and a place for revenge, and a time and a place for following orders. Right now, whether Carson Beckett or anyone else in this fetid swamp of a City lives or dies is not our concern. Our mission is to get up to the Bay and escape with the gene therapy, the information we've gathered, the Jumper and McKay. Everything else is secondary. Do you understand?"
Freya didn't answer, her eyes narrowed to almost slits.
"Do you understand?" Neera repeated, practically spitting out the words.
"I understand," Freya replied tersely.
"Good," Neera said, finally letting go the girl's thin arm. "Now, I saw a set of stairs at the end of this corridor which will probably be fairly empty right now. We make it to those stairs, we have a good chance of getting all the way up to the top and the Jumper Bay with no one the wiser. Are you ready for that?"
Freya gave a single nod, and Neera smiled, resting a hand lightly atop the blonde head. "Good girl. Now," the older woman stood up, glanced around, then back at Freya, "Follow me." And she took of at a steady jog.
And Freya followed…for about two feet. Then she stopped.
Already halfway down the corridor, Neera paused, realizing she was the only one running, and turned around, her face darkened in a frown. Freya stood at the end of the corridor, watching her, golden hair glittering in the half-light of the shadowed alcove.
"Freya!" Neera hissed, "What are you doing? We need to go."
The young girl arched an eyebrow, then, unclipping the belt of her knapsack, let it fall to the floor.
"I understand, Commander," Freya said then, pulling out what looked like an Atlantian 9MM from her belt, "But I don't agree. I didn't come here to just steal from the Atlantians. I came here to make them pay."
And, like a ghost, she turned and disappeared, leaving Neera staring wide-eyed at the discarded pack.
"Damn it," she whispered. Lifting up her wrist, she tapped the bracelet there, "Garron. I have another problem. I need Ren down here. Now."
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Sheppard rested Elizabeth gently into a chair out in the already over-crowded "waiting room," and watched as she slumped forward, breathing hard to keep herself awake just a little longer. He then pushed through the doors into the heart of the infirmary, and was immediately assaulted by noise.
People covered every inch of space, some two to a bed, some on the floors or resting on gurneys in the middle hall. Sheppard grimaced, stepping over what looked like Doctor Bryce sleeping on a pallet, and made his way over to Doctor Biro. The pathologist, sometimes surgeon, was studying the chart over someone's bed. As he got closer, he realized it was Ronon.
Sheppard grimaced, seeing the normally unstoppable Satedan lying motionless on the cot, his face an unhealthy shade of pale. It made the dark of his hair and eyebrows stand out in stark relief.
Sliding quietly up alongside, he rested a hand on the cold arm, then looked up at Biro.
The physician ignored him for a minute, muttering to herself as she scribbled something on to the chart. Finally, she lifted her eyes, peering at him over her glasses. Lifting her head, she sighed and pushed the spectacles higher up on her nose.
"Colonel," she greeted, her usual snip in her voice.
"Biro," he answered back. "How is he?"
"Not well. We're still working on isolating the poison, but while we have some good ideas, we haven't nailed it down yet. Until we do, there isn't much we can do for him except try to keep him comfortable." She shrugged, "It would help if you could locate Neera and get a sample of what she used. It would be much easier to find an antidote that way." There was no accusation in her voice, or demand, and yet, Sheppard felt one anyway.
Frowning, he looked down again at Ronon. Teyla had said the Satedan had thought there was something wrong with Neera and her children. He should have trusted the man's instincts. But then…Ronon hadn't come to him with it. He had told Teyla. Why hadn't he come to him?
"Should have come to me," he whispered, partly as a chastisement, partly as a censure of his own conduct. Ronon needed to feel comfortable coming to him, and yet, apparently, he didn't. It was something they would have to work on.
When Ronon got better.
When everyone got better.
He looked up again, to see Biro still watching him, her eyes reminding him a little of a hawk's eyes when they are studying a mouse skittering across the landscape.
"So you're fine, right?" she asked, her tone curious. "You didn't eat any of the breakfast?"
"I only had a tiny amount," he admitted. "I had other things on my mind at the time."
She snorted, "Well, for once, your poor eating habits paid off. How badly people have been affected is directly related to how much food they ate. Most are just sleeping, like Teyla." She nodded behind her at the next infirmary bed, on which Teyla was sleeping. "Others are more serious." And she looked at Ronon again.
"Doctor Weir is outside," Sheppard said then. "She's fighting it. I don't know how much she had, but she's struggling to stay awake. I tricked her to come here by telling her she needed to be here for Beckett."
"Hmm," Biro said, looking vaguely off in the direction of another room, "no one will be seeing Carson for a while. The new surgeon, Doctor Donovan, is doing his best for him in there, but…" Briefly, she let her true fears show on her face—the woman who deeply cared for her CMO as all who worked with Beckett did—before her 'professional' expression snapped back into place. "I'm sure he'll be fine," she finished quickly, returning her attention to Ronon's chart.
"I know Beckett's condition," Sheppard said quietly. "I saw him upstairs in the Bay."
Biro stared at him a moment, then nodded.
"In any event, about Doctor Weir," Biro shrugged again, "it's good you brought her down. She should be sleeping, like the others. At this point, we're fairly certain the poison was really just a strong sedative. Most of the indicators have pointed in that direction. Fighting it is just going to harm her."
"If it's just a sedative," Sheppard frowned, "then why's it killing Ronon?"
She rolled her eyes a little, "Because too much of anything is an overdose, Colonel, no matter what it is. And overdoses are bad things." Her patronizing tone was rude, but not unusual for the woman. It sort of reminded him of McKay.
Which was a nice punch in the gut.
He nodded to her, and stepped away. He had to find Rodney. "I have to go," he informed her, "Can you take care of Elizabeth? And keep me up to date on Carson and Ronon and…everyone else. Just," he frowned, "out of curiosity, have we got a head count on how many were affected?"
Biro grimaced, looking around the crowded room. Fact was, most of the affected were in their own rooms, simply because they didn't have the space.
"At least half the City, by my estimation," she replied. She turned back to him, her eyes dark. "Luckily for you, most of those are civilian. It would appear most of your men are still fine."
Sheppard nodded—he'd just about worked that out for himself, but confirmation was a good thing.
"Thanks, Doc," he said, backing away some more.
"Good luck, Colonel," Biro replied. Sheppard grimaced, glancing at Ronon.
"You too," he answered. "For all our sakes."
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Pins and needles. Head to toe, pins and needles.
McKay groaned, grimacing at the now all too familiar sensation of feeling his body wake up from being numbed from a stunner. It was like having your funny bone whacked, except your whole body was your funny bone.
Damned stunners.
How did he get hit again? Oh…yes….
Garron.
Sheppard was going to be pissed.
They'd fallen for a bunch of cute kids. Frikkin' "Village of the Damned" all over again. Of all people, he should have known: the cuter they are, the more evil they are.
And he was the biggest sucker of them all. And he didn't even like kids!
And yet…he'd come to like Ren. Sort of.
He sighed. Then frowned a little. The air was stuffy—it tasted almost dead on his tongue. And it was warm, almost uncomfortably so.
Where…?
Slowly, licking his dry lips, he managed to open tired eyes…and saw nothing. Just black. Complete and total black. He frowned, confused. Surely he was still on Atlantis—where else could they be? They couldn't have gotten through the Gate…He lifted an arm, to reach out for a light or a switch…
And hit something.
His heart skipped a beat as his hand splayed against a metal surface only about a foot over his head.
He tried to move his bent legs, to stretch them out, but his knees hit the same metal ceiling and…and he couldn't straighten his legs. His feet hit an unyielding end wall.
Oh…God no….
His heart started to beat rapidly, filling his ears, and his breathing grew increasingly fast and shallow. Desperately, he felt around his head and sides, shifted up and down inside the coffin…for he was sure it was a coffin…that he had been placed in.
"Hey," he called, thumping against the metal over his head with his fist. "Hey! HEY!"
He was scrambling now, kicking at the end, punching the roof, dragging his fingers between the edges and corners of the metal box seeking a latch, any kind of latch...and finding none.
"Help! Help! HELP!"
His feet slammed against the foot of the coffin, he pushed with his arms against the head, his elbows hitting the sides. The pins and needles disappeared, replaced by the dull pain of bruises and the racing pain of high blood pressure.
"Let me out!" he screamed, banging at the walls. "Let me out!"
Oh God…Oh God…how much air was there in here? Why was it so hot? Was it getting hotter? OhGodohGodohGod…
"LET ME OUT! HELP ME! SOMEONE!"
He screamed then at the top of his lungs, his senses feeling the oxygen fading in the enclosed space, feeling the heat rising to suffocating levels….
NO!
"SHEPPARD!" he yelled, banging away again. "SHEPPARD! HELP ME! HELP ME!"
Gotta get out! Gotta get out! Gotta get out!
"GOD, SOMEONE, PLEASE! HELP ME!"
He wedged his almost non-existent nails into what felt like the lid edge, trying to pry it up, not caring when he felt them tear. His feet banged against the metal end, knees slammed into the walls, and he screamed some more.
Some very tiny part of him knew what was happening, knew that this was his claustrophobia taking over, but most of him had no control at all. He couldn't stop, couldn't think, couldn't rationalize, couldn't BREATHE!
"Let me out! Let me OUT! LET ME OUT!"
His hands felt sticky, his back was on fire, his head was soaked with sweat. Tears ran down his face, though he didn't feel them. All he could feel was the tightness of the coffin, the crushing weight of the walls, the oppressiveness of the silence and the dark...
And he screamed against it all.
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TBC...
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