Rodney fiddled absently with the handheld as he waited. The energy readings were stronger here than they had been on the surface, and he would have liked to track them further. Perhaps the Information-Exchange-Trader would be able to arrange a tour of the engineering section.
A couple of other Traders, a woman and a tall man, stood at the port-side wall. (Port side? Did he think he was on a ship?) They were deep in hushed conversation, but seemed to sense Rodney's interest. The woman looked up and smiled. The man did not. His face was marked by a scar running down his left cheek. I guess weapons trading isn't a particularly safe occupation, Rodney thought as he waved.
The other people scattered around seemed to be hard at work, researching. He approved of that. Most of the computer terminals had Traders sitting in front of them scrolling through or inputting information. He glanced around once more for the Information-Exchange-Trader, but there was no sign of him.
No-one seemed to be paying Rodney any attention at all.
Sheppard was still on the firing range. He was looking at the walls, of all things, and seemed to have lost all interest in the weapon in his hand. The excitable Trader at his side had put all his merchandise down and was waving animatedly and pointing at the big doors. Rodney had no idea what they could be discussing.
He debated going to join them, but another opportunity presented itself. A white haired Trader stepped away from the nearest computer. Thankfully he ignored Rodney. Despite his despair of Sheppard's "How to flirt your way into the good books of a new culture"-techniques he knew that the McKay method of meeting new people wouldn't be any more successful. After all, he didn't understand half the things his own people did.
However, he did understand computers.
The white haired fellow walked towards the hideous cushions in the far corner of the room. He left the computer unattended.
Rodney glanced at it. His fingers twitched, and he stuck them firmly into his pockets. He checked on Sheppard again – firing guns at a target on the wall.
His fingers were itching even inside his pockets.
Even as he edged closer to the computer, he pretended interest in the rest of the room. The scar-faced Trader and his companion were speaking animatedly now. The man with the scar seemed to be saying something that the other disagreed with. Rodney hoped it was just coincidence that every time they pointed it seemed to be in his direction.
As he leaned against the table top closer to the computer, he checked a last time on Sheppard. He was deep in discussion, probably of how to cart those guns back to Atlantis.
Rodney looked at the computer. He took his hands out of his pockets. After all, why did John bring him on missions, if not to liaise with the technology? He pulled up a stool, and pressed a button.
It was inevitable, really. Like presenting Adam and Eve with a bag of Granny Smiths and telling them not to eat.
-
The computer flashed from the darkened screen to a page of Ancient script. A graphic twirled lazily in the top right corner. It was the picture that caught his attention first. It was familiar, but Rodney couldn't think where he had seen it before. It seemed to be an undulating set of random lines. No hard corners anywhere, and he knew that meant some kind of fuzzy science. He had turned on a computer in a foreign database and discovered medical research! Carson would find that very amusing.
He understood some Ancient through trying to decipher the Atlantis systems. It wasn't worth bringing out the translation matrix for medical research, but he scrolled through the pages nevertheless.
And words jumped out at him from months looking for warnings on Ancient Tech systems. It translated as "Illness of War."
The graphic was stationary as he scrolled the text. He recognized it at last – "the damned funny virus" that Carson had found in the village. It was on this computer, identical to the image that Ronon had sent in the data-stream.
Damn.
He touched the keypad, and the data scrolled past. He scanned through, and found the phrase repeated again and again: "Illness of War".
"Oh my god," he whispered.
The scar-faced man appeared at his side.
"Are you interested in this product?" he said smoothly, and indicated the computer screen. "It is still in the testing process, but we are already having good results with our test subjects."
Rodney was aware of his jaw dropping.
The man continued on without pause. "It is a water based viral agent that our science staff have synthesized from the local DNA on this planet. The technique was described in our database by a scientist called Tobiass, and we have named it the Tobiass Technique. We have high hopes that it can be developed to be specific enough to affect only a target population. At the moment, I am afraid there is some cross contamination among groups of humans and our delivery methods are somewhat crude, but the research is showing some promise."
Rodney found his voice. "You made a viral agent and you've been testing it on the people in the villages." He felt ill.
The man nodded and smiled easily. "The agents always require testing." He indicated Sheppard on the firing range.
"But you've been using people for your tests!"
"One must always move onto human experimentation eventually."
"I don't believe this," Rodney began, then realized that he did.
John must have sensed that something was wrong. He put down the weapon and strode over to the computer, followed by the short Trader.
"Is there something wrong?" John asked.
"Congratulations on noticing the blindingly obvious again, Sheppard! Do you take classes in understatement? No, no problem here," Rodney answered, and then waved his hand at the computer. "Oh, except these kind people leading us around are a bunch of arms dealers who've branched out into genocide."
"Rodney," John said warningly.
"Do you remember the nice little village we visited with the plague upon its doorstep? All those people getting sick and dying? Well, I've just done Carson's work for him. I've traced his viral agent, and worked out what's so damn odd about it. Here!" He twirled the computer so that John had a better view of the diagram in the corner.
"Rodney…" John said again.
There was no stopping now. "Oh yes, and here we are getting a sales pitch from the murderers of those children. Don't worry though; they haven't got it quite right yet. But I'm sure once they get their data back from the village they'll have made enormous leaps forward…"
"McKay. Stop talking."
At last the tone got through. Rodney let the next part of the tirade die on his lips as he looked around at the Traders. They had gathered from the nearby computers. There were no more pleasant smiles. They all frowned. The scar-faced man had narrowed his eyes and looked furious.
Very rarely, maybe once or twice in his life, Rodney got the feeling that he'd said too much.
The scarred Trader asked in a low voice, "Do you have a problem with the application of our products?"
Rodney started to say "Yes," then thought again. "No."
John moved to stand at his side. "I think what Dr McKay was trying to say was…" he stalled.
Rodney cringed. It had been perfectly clear what he had been trying to say. However, he tried to fill the gap. "I was trying to say how interesting this Tobiass technique is."
John nodded. "Very interesting."
None of the assembled Traders looked convinced.
"Perhaps you could show us more data," John waved his arm at the computer.
The scarred man said to the woman he had been talking to earlier, "I told you we were foolish to try this."
She seemed resigned, but her face was hard. She nodded, and Rodney had a dreadful sense that some doom had been signaled.
"We had planned for this part of the tour later," the man said, "but it seems that circumstances have overtaken us. There is a great deal more we would like to show you."
For a second Rodney thought that they might have got away with it. That was before the hiss of gas registered.
The world began fading to blackness as soon as the acrid smell hit. He had a moment to realize that the Traders didn't seem affected at all, before he lost consciousness.
-
SGA
-
"I do not understand why anyone would choose to target these people," Teyla said as she gazed across the room.
"Who knows why anyone chooses to do anything," Ronon said.
Carson sensed that for Ronon, everyone's motivations were an acceptable mystery.
"No idea," Carson shrugged. For this kind of crime, he had no clue to offer. It was a bloody good question.
"We need to contact Atlantis. Dr Weir should be informed, and we will need a Jumper if we are to reach Colonel Sheppard.," Teyla said.
"Agreed." He was glad she was here.
"Ronon and I shall contact them from the Gate. You should stay here, Doctor, and continue to work on helping these people."
Carson nodded. There didn't seem to be anything else to do.
Ronon shouldered his weapon and Teyla picked up the handheld. He led the way out through the crush of bodies and ignored the sick. Teyla followed with graceful steps. She touched a boy's mussed up hair.
Carson watched them go, and then emptied out another tray of failed samples. That anti-viral had been ineffective as well. He was running out of medications to try. He loaded up the last one, without much hope.
-
Teyla jogged through the village. She had a sense of urgency that couldn't be wholly explained. They had to reach the gate, dial Atlantis and call for at least one Puddle Jumper to go to the co-ordinates on the far island.
Yet, despite the simplicity of the task, she was running because she had a sense that she was already too late.
No-one interrupted them, or followed, probably because of imposing figure that trotted at her side. He did not question why she felt the need to hurry, and she was grateful.
The stargate came into sight between two huts.
She pulled out the handheld to enter her IDC at the same moment Ronon shoved her hard enough to make her trip down to her knees.
"Ronon!" she said and turned to chastise him, when the reason for his reaction became clear.
The sky was pierced by two bright lights from what seemed to be an empty point twenty feet above them. They streaked across her vision towards the ground.
She flung her hands over her ears.
Something up ahead exploded in a burst of light and smoke.
The compression wave hit at the same moment as the sound. She was sprayed with debris and dust. She shifted her hands to protect her eyes.
In less time than one heartbeat to another, the sound was gone. Utter silence filled its vacuum. Before she had gathered her wits she was aware of Ronon on his feet again and firing into the dusty air.
He fired unerringly at the spot the light had come from (lasers, some part of her mind supplied), but stunner blasts disappeared into the sky. Whatever had fired was gone.
She climbed to her feet, slower than Ronon had. She stood at his side as he gazed around for any sign of the weapon's source.
"Cloaked ship," was all he said.
When she was convinced that there was not going to be a repeat, she turned her attention to the ground. The dust hung heavy in the air. At first she couldn't see any change; she was still standing in a smooth clearing and the huts at the periphery of the clearing were undamaged. The Gate loomed just as imposingly as they always did.
Then the faint tendrils of smoke swirling in the dust caught her eye and she realized what the target had been. It was so efficiently destroyed that there was nothing left but smoke.
The DHD was gone.
Ronon followed her gaze. "That is not good," he said simply.