52: Backroom Brawl
It was time to cut his losses. Conrad Holt had been loyal to the Old Man and to the Seven in general for many years, and in return they had granted him various privileges, a sizeable salary being chief among them. He had an estate in the Bahamas, numerous shares worth millions in a variety of corporations (mostly biomedicals) and he also had a smattering of properties dotted across the United States and Canada. He was worth a good few hundred million dollars, at the very least, although it had been some time since he had last checked on the size of his portfolio. Chances are it had only grown. With that money in the bank, he could quit whenever he wanted. Of course, his superiors would not let him 'quit'. Joining up with them was a lifetime thing and one did not often 'quit' unless they were dead.
However, with the situation falling to pieces around him, Holt saw no other option but to run. Atlantis was lost, he knew it the instant it started to take off from the lunar surface. With Sheppard and the others now in control of the operations centre and the control chair room, just what was the point in hanging around here any longer? The Old Man was lost, that much was sure. Either he was dead or captured, and if it was the latter then Holt knew he would never be safe, no matter where he went on the Earth. So, better he get out now before the Old Man spilled the beans on his involvement. If that happened, then just about every asset under his name would likely get frozen and confiscated. He needed to pull as much of that money out now, put it into something solid such as gold or silver and then bug out of civilised society in general.
Firstly, he had to get off of Atlantis. Having become separated from the security officers who had been escorting him, Holt worked his way down through the control tower and into one of the more outlying buildings. Escape craft were dotted about the city, intended for use in such an emergency. The one he found sitting upon the rooftop of a subsidiary building was a puddle jumper, its security protocols disengaged as to allow anyone bereft of the ATA gene the ability to fly it. Holt climbed on board, offering a lingering look at the blackness that surrounded the city now as it propelled itself ever nearer to Earth. Something was going on, and when he settled himself down in the craft's pilot seat and switched on its various systems, he was immediately hit by unfiltered radio chatter. Normally out here it was little more than white noise, with the odd smattering of some Earth-originated signal that could be something as innocent as a music station, but this time around it was a full-blown cacophony of chatter. Starship crews were barking instructions and warnings to each other and judging from how frantic some of those voices sounded, things were not going so well. They were under attack, brought on by an 'unidentified' vessel of some significant power. And, as Holt expected, the ships within Earth's burgeoning fleet were being annihilated.
He had figured something like this might happen, eventually. The Old Man's associates wanted nothing in their way, and a heavily armed and defended Earth was a definite threat. After all, they had defeated the Goa'uld, the Replicators and the Ori with far less at their disposal. Holt had not been privy to all of the Old Man's plans. However, he did know that arranging the destruction of Earth's fleet had been part of them, a change brought on after the loss of the Broadsword. Holt had simply not been aware of the 'how' and the 'when' such a scheme would be carried out, or even the 'what' that would be used to perform such a task. Just that it would happen, sooner or later. And now it seemed he no longer had to wait for it.
Holt started the puddle jumper's engines, its side-mounted engine pods extending before it ascended quickly off of the rooftop. He did not waste any time, hitting the throttle hard as to propel it headlong away from the city, the small craft nimble enough to outpace the vast city-ship. Earth was a large blue-white sphere ahead, now taking up much of the puddle jumper's forward viewport. And even from here, he could see the flashes of blue and orange that hinted at some kind of battle taking place in orbit. A definite spot to avoid, and so Holt veered the ship far off to the left, looking to swing far around the battle before starting on an Earthbound descent. He made sure to switch off the onboard communications system as well, putting an end to the chatter pouring through the airwaves. He was a hard man, but he had no desire to hear the cries of the dying during the trip home.
What must it be like, to be on board a ship that was then torn open and gutted like some kind of cheap tin can? To be launched out into the vacuum of space, to suffer through that agonizing death? Not good thoughts to have while flying a spacecraft, and so Holt shoved them aside and focussed solely upon the task at hand. That is, finding his way down to Earth in one piece without being dragged into the free-for-all currently in progress around Anchorpoint station.
Coincidentally, the botanical laboratory was located within the same building on which Holt's puddle jumper had been parked. However, no one within that laboratory was even aware that Holt was making his getaway, instead becoming preoccupied with something else.
Aithris and Natalia bounded into the laboratory, weapons raised, the light from the UV fittings about the beds of lush plant-life casting things in a bright and slightly blue-tinted glow. Some of the plants here had been left to grow out to some extent, spilling over the edges of their planter boxes. The hum of the UV fittings above provided a quiet, if droning background noise. Little else could be heard, and Aithris was quick to pause partway into the room, feeling right away that all was not quite as it should be. He did not exactly know just how things should be, yet deep down something about this place seemed off in a way he could not properly discern.
In fact, it was a similar feeling to what he had had prior to entering the conference room and coming face-to-face with the Old Man. It was the same feeling he had felt when he had encountered that creature, that mysterious entity contained within its fearsome biomechanical suit. When he had faced that creature, the feeling had amplified tremendously and every fibre of his being had told him to fight it, or simply flee. Even now, he stumbled slightly as the claw marks across his chest stung with renewed ferocity. Natalia had tended to them as best she could, using whatever she could scavenge out of her first aid kit. Aithris pushed on, doing his best to ignore the pain. Such a thing had been trained into him from a young age, but ignoring pain did not often work as well as he had hoped it would. Certainly not as well as his father had told him it would.
"Something wrong?" Natalia's voice sounded from his right-hand side then, laced with concern. Aithris turned to her, giving the woman a short nod.
"I'll be fine," he said. "There's just something here. I can feel it."
Natalia tensed up immediately. She had come to trust his 'feelings', and she scanned the surrounding laboratory carefully, taking in every detail in sight. Nothing leapt out at her, at least not right away. She caught Aithris' eyes again, and she nodded towards a set of tall metal cabinets at the far end. They were set against a wall, positioned next to a workbench. There were two of them, each a couple of feet wide and about two metres in height. Aithris sensed that maybe Natalia was onto something, and so he took the lead, moving quietly for the pair of cabinets. They each had flat metal fronts, coloured a plain grey.
As Aithris neared, he thought he could hear the sound of someone breathing. It was quiet, much quieter than Natalia's own breaths whom he could keep track of easily. Instead, these were quieter, more controlled breaths, as if whoever was making them was trying desperately to conceal themselves. Aithris stopped at the right-hand cabinet, turning to Natalia to whom he gave a nod. She moved a few steps back, raising her gun and aiming it at the centre of the cabinet. Aithris grabbed the handle, setting his fingers around it before turning to Natalia. She nodded in return, ready for whatever awaited them inside.
Aithris pulled the handle down in a flash and tore the cabinet open. Right away a man stumbled out, hands up in front of him, eyes squinting in the sudden change of light. He was a middle-aged man, his hair carrying some flecks of grey about the sides. Aithris recognized him right away as Doctor Rodney McKay, courtesy of the photos he had committed to memory prior to departing for Atlantis.
"Hey, hey, whoa, I'm unarmed!" McKay flinched when he saw Natalia's gun pointed at him. His eyes went to Aithris, whereupon they widened slightly. He had never seen a Nomad before, so his reaction did not surprise Aithris. "Who, who are you?" He must have realised he was among friends, for he slowly lowered his hands. Natalia lowered her gun, quirking one eyebrow at the sight of the dishevelled doctor. He was sweating profusely and his clothes were dirty, marked with black streaks that Aithris assumed were from crawling about somewhere especially dusty.
"Your help. I'm Aithris." The Nomad offered McKay a nod, before he motioned to Natalia. "That is Staff Sergeant Natalia Tarasovna. We're part of SG-1."
"You're on SG-1?" McKay looked a little bemused by this, and he quickly gave the Nomad a onceover, from top to bottom. "So, is it regulation that they need at least one alien on the team at any time?"
"You said you were being pursued," Aithris said, pushing on with the matter at hand. John had mentioned that McKay could 'talk one's ear off', and so the Nomad intended to try and keep the physicist on track without any unnecessary tangents.
"Oh, yeah, he was here a minute ago." McKay spoke this like an afterthought. From the way his eyes were darting around, Aithris figured that something had him distracted. More than that, actually: the man was terrified.
"Who was here?"
"The big guy with the deep voice and the horns." McKay frowned, meeting eyes with Aithris. "What, you don't know him?"
"I do, actually." Aithris knew what a Herald was. He had seen one on Sanctuary shortly before the Nomad city had been obliterated. He had been informed of their existence when he had first become a proper 'acolyte' to Sanctuary's ruling council, when he had undergone the initiation that had seen him altered with nanotechnology. A number of the council's secrets had been revealed to him then, only some of which had proven helpful. Had they still been around, chances are they would still be advocating a 'non-interference' policy, so terrified had they been of drawing the attention of the old enemy.
"You do?" McKay nodded eagerly. "That's good, because he's been chasing me all over the city."
"Why?" It was Natalia who asked this question. McKay turned to her and shrugged.
"I don't know, maybe because he's an evil bastard? He didn't exactly tell me his plans, you know, like villains do in the cartoons." His voice became increasingly hostile then, anger rising at the apparent inactivity of his two saviours. He did not have to wait long for something to happen, however.
Suddenly, the lights about the laboratory switched off all at once. That included the UV fittings, and in seconds the entire room was cast in near pitch-darkness. Immediately Aithris swivelled about, searching the room for any sign of an intruder, or of the Herald. McKay let out a panicked yelp at the cessation of the lights. He reached out with one hand, finding a grasp upon Aithris' left shoulder. The Nomad did not complain, it made sense that they keep close in this gloom.
His own eyes glowed dimly in the dark, and they picked out details much better amongst it than the eyes of his two human compatriots. He sighted Natalia off to his left. She had pulled a small tactical light from her pack, and with a subdued click she had fixed it to the under-barrel section of her rifle. The beam of light swept through the darkness in a tight cone, and she moved it from left to right, trailing it over the planter boxes and benches lined up around them. Nothing unusual was caught in the light.
"Natalia, keep to my nine o'clock. Move with me." Aithris kept his voice low, and he started forwards, going down one aisle between rows of planter boxes and lush plants, the leaves of which brushed by his sides. Natalia went down a neighbouring aisle, with the pair slowly working their way for the exit. Aithris made sure he could feel McKay's hand at his shoulder, guaranteeing that the physicist would not get separated. They had come out here to rescue him, no use letting him get away now.
Aithris came upon the door. The corridor outside was cast in a similar darkness. It was as if someone had shut off the power for this entire building. He paused at the doorway, sighting down either end of the corridor outside. He then glanced to Natalia, who hung back a few paces.
"We'll head for the operations centre," Aithris said. "But we'll do it slow. Keep your eyes open."
He took a step forward into the corridor when something collided with his left side, sending him stumbling. McKay fell backwards into the room and Natalia opened fire on impulse, the rifle sounding like rapid thunder within the corridor. The gun suddenly fell silent as she herself was knocked off of her feet, the dark shadow even harder to discern within the gloom.
Aithris picked himself up quickly, practically rolling back upon his feet and turning around in the process. His SCAR-H came up, and he fired a volley at the bulky shadow in the corridor, yet it moved with a swiftness that caught him off-guard. The creature barrelled into him, knocking him backwards and sending him sliding several feet, partially winded. His rifle fell from his grasp and the gashes on his chest and thigh were suddenly screaming at him, blood seeping forth through the dressings that Natalia had placed upon them earlier.
"Shut the door!" He shouted, as he came to a stop partway down the darkened corridor. Natalia would want to help him, but she was safer locked away. Of course, if Aithris could not stop this creature, then there would be little stopping it from getting in to where Natalia and McKay were. He had to kill it, this much was certain; if not for himself, then for her.
McKay appeared at the doorway, sighting the hulking shape in the corridor now moving for Aithris. Eyes wide, he wasted no time in locking the door shut from the inside. Was Natalia even conscious? Aithris did not even want to exercise the possibility that she might have been killed, and instead distracted himself with the opponent he now found himself faced with. He knew it was a Herald before he even saw the malicious red eyes leering at him in the dark.
The Herald stood over him as Aithris attempted to regain his breath. One of its powerful, clawed hands reached down and grabbed him by the neck, its grip like that of a vice as it pulled him back upon his feet. His dark, vaguely bestial features regarded him with a sneer, red eyes meeting Aithris' own violet ones. The Nomad struggled against the grip, startled by the strength this creature brought with it. Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted off of his feet, putting them a few inches above the floor.
"You were there on Sanctuary, weren't you?" The Herald's voice was deep and raspy, laced with venom. "I was there too, while your people burned."
Aithris did not pay too much attention, figuring it was simply trying to taunt him. Instead, he reached down and pulled his combat knife from its sheath, before he spun it about in his hand and plunged it into the Herald's chest. It was wearing some kind of dark cloak and vest underneath, yet it was not sturdy enough to stop the blade. The Herald let out a pained hiss, the grip he had upon Aithris failing as he stepped back. Aithris landed upon his feet, darting for the nearest open door and searching the dark for any kind of weapon. His rifle was several metres away, sitting in the open. Between it and him was the Herald, so rushing to it was not likely to succeed.
As for the Herald, he used one hand to pull the intruding blade from his chest, the knife coming out of him slick with deep red blood. The Herald scowled at Aithris, his eyes filled with a contempt brought on by the insult such a wound offered. With a quick movement of his fingers, the Herald spun the knife around in his grasp and threw it. The blade travelled in a barely visible streak that missed Aithris by little more than an inch, and it only missed because the Nomad's own reaction time was well beyond most. He threw himself into the nearby room, the blade passing through the space he had just occupied before it slammed into the metal walls and clanked off of them, bouncing harmlessly and landing behind a desk somewhere inside the room.
Aithris was on his feet now, and he stumbled through the large, workshop space. There were crates stacked about, cases containing equipment that was seldom used. A door ahead offered a way into the next room, and Aithris followed it, now illuminated by a dim blue glow emanating from the odd fitting on the wall. The main power was still off, but some of the emergency fittings had activated instead.
The Herald was hot on his heels, practically striding after him, moving with a grim, malevolent purpose. Aithris found himself in a storage room of sorts, lined with metal shelves that were dotted with various odds and ends, among them cleaning products, circuit boards and computer hardware. Aithris saw little in here that might be of use, not that he had much time to think of a plan for the Herald was upon him almost as soon as he had gained his bearings. He lunged for Aithris, eyes blazing, and he sent the Nomad falling against one set of shelves that toppled over after him, spilling out the boxes and spare parts that had been situated upon them.
Aithris, slightly dazed, spun out of the way of a follow-up blow. The Herald followed him, and Aithris saw in his hand was clasped some form of dark, shimmering blade, made from something that seemed to ripple under the low light. The Herald swept it before him in a threatening gesture, allowing the blue-tinted light around them to catch upon its dark, swirling surface. It was a 'blade' lined with jagged teeth, each no doubt razor sharp. It looked like no conventional metal knife, and instead appeared almost like a bone, albeit one much darker and presumably sturdier than any human (or Nomad) bone. Aithris realised with some revulsion that the weapon was organic in nature, and it may very well have come off of the Herald himself.
All the more reason not to get stabbed by it. Aithris swatted aside an attempted thrust of the weapon by the Nomad, before he punched his opponent with a strong uppercut to the jaw. The Herald barely flinched, and instead swept a leg against Aithris' own in an attempt to trip him. It did not succeed, not entirely, and instead Aithris reversed the attempted sweep with one of his own, causing the pair to lock legs for a moment before they both fell upon the overturned shelves. Aithris pushed the Herald's blade-wielding arm away with all the strength he could muster, his other hand desperately searching around for anything that could be used as a weapon.
Suddenly, the Herald sent his own free hand hard into the bleeding gashes across Aithris' chest. A surge of agonizing pain tore through him and for a precious, fleeting moment Aithris' coordination was interrupted. The Herald's jagged, bone-like weapon came down, only for Aithris to roll out of the way of it with barely a second to spare. The weapon instead embedded itself into the carpeted floor, and for several seconds the Herald had to wriggle it in an effort to pry it free.
Aithris' hand fell around something solid and so he brought it up, seeing that it was one of several items that had fallen out of a toolbox that had been sitting upon the now toppled shelves. A claw hammer, and with the handle firmly in his grasp Aithris brought it down hard upon the Herald's forearm, hearing a satisfying crack on impact as something there gave way, however slightly. The Herald let out a pained yelp, one fuelled by rising anger as his opponent inflicted yet another painful wound upon him.
The Herald jumped back to his feet, his bone weapon in hand. Aithris did the same, scrambling into a ready position with the hammer held high in a threatening manner. With only a few paces between the pair of them, they each weighed the other up carefully, gauging for any potential weaknesses. The Herald was the first to break this brief pause in the fight, charging forwards at lightning speed with his weapon held high.
Aithris swatted aside the blade-wielding arm, and this time he brought the hammer down hard against the back of the Herald's hand. The weapon fell from his grasp, yet still the Herald charged for him. He collided with Aithris head-on, sending him into the wall behind him, once again almost knocking the wind from him. Aithris' hammer-wielding arm was pushed back against the wall with him, and the Herald slammed it a few times against the wall, each time sending pain shooting through the limb. The hammer fell away from his grasp, leaving the pair disarmed.
Aithris could feel his heart pounding, his mind filled with little else but the desire to see this monster dead. It was a fight or die situation, with Aithris just as determined to kill the Herald as the Herald was to see him die. There was no 'honour' here, no rules to abide by; it was simply the raw, primal desire to kill off a threat no matter what it took, and Aithris was just about ready to try anything to get an edge on his opponent.
And so, he committed his next act without any real thought, just that it seemed like the best way to get an edge in the brawl. He reached up with his other hand whilst the Herald attempted to throttle him again. He could feel the Herald's grasp tightening around his neck, harder and harder, each breath a struggle to take in. Aithris pushed a thumb against one of those malicious red eyes, pushing it hard into the socket, hearing the Herald let out an agonized howl as blood rushed out and the eye was practically flattened, pushed up against the brain and reduced to mush by Aithris' exertion.
The Herald released him, stumbling backwards and almost falling over the toppled shelves. Aithris scrambled about the floor for something else, anything that could help him. He was about to settle on simply throwing a few old computer circuit-boards at his foe when his gaze fell upon a typical Phillips-head screwdriver amongst the mess. He picked it up in his right hand, fingers tight around its hilt. The Herald turned to him with renewed ferocity, blood rushing out of the socket where his left eye had been. He would have made a move against Aithris, were it not for the Nomad throwing himself at the Herald instead.
Aithris stabbed the Herald in the chest with the screwdriver, again and again, pulling it out and plunging it in at a rapid, frightening pace. His violet eyes were wide with bloodlust, his actions driven by raw emotion rather than any rational thought. The Herald let out a pained, choking noise, startled by this assault as blood started to gush out of the new holes that had been poked into him. And then, as the Herald stumbled back on receiving what must have been the eighth or ninth stab-wound, Aithris adjusted his aim with the common household tool and stuck the screwdriver into the Herald's neck, pushing it into what he assumed was an important artery.
His assumption seemed to have been correct, for a startling rush of blood followed as he pulled the implement free. The Herald released a moan that soon turned into a gargle, and he finally fell backwards, landing on the floor with his vest and cloak bloody, his one remaining eye wide and his hands scrambling for his neck in an effort to stem the blood-flow.
Aithris jumped upon him then, stabbing him again with the blood-soaked screwdriver, his own hands and sleeves now red with the Herald's blood. His rush of anger and bloodlust faded as he stuck the Herald a few more times, brought on by the fact that the Herald did not seem to be in much shape to fight back anymore.
His entire front was soaked with blood, and his one eye stared up at the ceiling absently. Aithris looked down at the carnage, taken aback somewhat by what he had done. He threw aside the screwdriver and instead slowly rose off of the Herald's bloodied corpse, violence-fuelled haze disappearing from his vision only to be replaced by the clarity of normal thought. And it was these more normal thoughts that suggested that, although the Herald was not visibly breathing, he was still in fact 'alive'. Did this creature even need air to get by, really? A question for another time, Aithris figured. His focus was instead set firmly upon the Herald's face, as the one remaining eye moved to fix its gaze to the Nomad.
The creature smiled the kind of cruel smile that Aithris would have expected from it, albeit not when it was bloodied and dying. Slowly, a croaking, rollicking noise escaped its mouth, and it took Aithris only a few seconds to realise that the creature was laughing at him. It was actually laughing, even though it lay in a pool of its own blood and was in no shape to fight back.
"Who are you loyal to, really?" The Herald said, as soon as its laughter died down. "You do not even know your true place in it all. You go on in ignorance, fighting against those who could save you."
Aithris did not reply. He would have preferred to simply finish the Herald then and there, yet something stayed his hand. Curiosity, perhaps, caused him to pause and listen to what the monster had to say.
"Your place, Nomad," the Herald said, although his voice lowered in volume. Aithris knelt down beside him, leaning his head closer as to catch his words. "Your placeā¦" And then the Herald's voice dropped into a frail whisper, and Aithris found himself leaning in closer to hear it all. What was said only brought the anger racing back in bounds, and as soon as the Herald was done, Aithris grabbed the nearest blunt object and proceeded to pound the Herald's head into a pulp with it. He did so ferociously, screaming the whole time, all his pent-up frustrations being driven into the Herald's skull with each blow delivered by the claw hammer he had retrieved. Blood splattered, fragments of bone followed them, and finally the fleshy pink-grey brain matter underneath it all, which Aithris dashed across the floor of the innocuous storeroom with little more than a basic DIY tool.
He barely registered Natalia's arrival, and it was her who stopped him. By that point, the Herald's head was little more than pulp and Aithris' hands were absolutely sticky with it. Natalia pulled the hammer from his grasp, allowing it to fall to the floor, before she knelt beside him and pulled him in close. For the first time in years, Aithris wept, and he did so against Natalia's uniform, finding some solace in her warmth and her scent.
McKay was there as well, looking on at the bloody mess with some revulsion. However, there was some relief to be found in the fact that the Herald was dead. It did not end their problems, but it was one less monster in the world.
Time was running out. The sensor systems on Atlantis were some of the most advanced ever found by humanity, and as the one in control, John was attuned to them as he was to the rest of the city. He could see the battle taking place in Earth's orbit, all he had to do was concentrate, focus on what he wanted to see and the city would show him to the best of its ability. He saw entire cruisers being laid to waste, and he saw a space-station that stood alone against a threat that was in excess of anything they had encountered before. And Atlantis was still too far away to properly intervene. It was close, but not close enough. Not yet.
The city-ship's hyperdrive was unresponsive, and from what he had learned from the city's systems, the hyperspace capabilities of Atlantis had been compromised after a particularly botched arrival from the Pegasus galaxy. The wormhole drive had burned out and taken the hyperdrive with it. Those running things since then had not bothered to fix either one, instead electing to turn Atlantis into their off-world base. There were plenty of puddle jumpers to use in case of emergency, and John had detected one of those shooting off for Earth earlier. He had not bothered to stop it; his focus having been set entirely upon getting Atlantis to Earth. It had likely been little more than some of the resident guards making a run for it, and if that was the case then good riddance to them.
John had to push the city hard, and he already sensed through the control chair that the sub-light engines were starting to get hot. They always ran hot, of course, that was normal; however, they were getting far hotter than was the general 'safe margin' for them, and he felt that they were going to burn out by the time he reached Earth. The city had been through a lot, and the punishment it had received since the first expedition to the Pegasus galaxy had left its mark. Now, it seemed Atlantis was running on fumes and John Sheppard was to be the one who saw those fumes finally extinguish. Still, he had no choice. Earth was under attack, and once that mystery ship was finished with Anchorpoint station, then it would turn its weapons upon Earth itself.
Several cruisers were already gone. It was hard to get a proper gauge on just what ones had been lost so far, as the sensors at this range did not tell him too much, but the losses taken were certainly substantial. The nearer they came to Earth, the clearer it became: wrecks floated about what was left of the space station, internal fires burning where atmosphere still remained. Debris floated like a cloud about the station, all while the mystery ship calmly picked off another cruiser with its devastating beam. Its smaller attack craft were picking away at the station, pursued by handfuls of Earth-made fighters. Mostly F-302s, along with small numbers of prototype XF-306 fighters, those ones armed with energy weapons instead of the usual rail guns and missile armaments. It was not enough, however. They were vastly outnumbered, and as John furthered his concentration upon the battle, he could hear the layers upon layers of radio chatter. The calls for help, the calm announcements made before firing, the screams as ships were torn apart and blasted out of space; it was all hard to sift through, layered as it was, and John already had far too much to focus upon. And still the battle raged, with the central structure of Anchorpoint taking further damage, with the hull compromised in multiple locations.
All he could do was watch. He simply needed to get a little closer, to put himself in weapons range of the sleek, mystery ship. Atlantis still had a sizeable complement of drones, so that was one thing in the city that worked in his favour. Just another minute was all he needed, and yet he knew as well as anyone with combat experience that an awful lot could happen in a minute.
