Time Immemorial
Chapter 34: Bitter Mortality
July 17th
1004 Hours
Rodney stepped out into the hallway from the Power Room. Though the thunder of the battle boomed in the distance, here in Atlantis' interior the sounds were muted by layers of stone and tile. Rodney tried not to dwell on the fact that he needed to forge his way toward those sounds in order to get to the Control Room.
With a deep breath, he clicked on his P-90-mounted flashlight and aimed it forward. His feet followed the path it laid before him without hesitation. He was beyond fear now. He had witnessed such horrors over the past 24 hours that nothing laid in store for him on his trek back could faze him. This was the home stretch. With the ZPM in place, all he had to do was flick on the shield's on switch. Personal emotion would not deter him from that goal.
As he ascended several floors, transversing the levels from stairwell to stairwell, he noticed the marked difference in the areas on the periphery of Atlantis' central spier. With every step upward and outward, the amount of structural damage increased, the perimeter of the tower an easy target for the circling Wraith Darts. Rubble clogged the hallways. One exterior wall was completely blown out, revealing the sea below.
He huffed as he labored up another round of stairs. The beam of his flashlight caught a body ahead, draped across the steps. It was charred so badly he couldn't tell if it was Wraith or human. The surrounding area was equally scorched. Rodney guessed a grenade - human or Wraith he couldn't tell - had ignited a secondary explosion, immersing the immediate area in flames. The air reeked of burnt flesh. Suppressing his gag reflex, he continued upward.
Finally, Rodney reached a level with windows. He clicked off his flashlight, allowing the mid-morning sun to illuminate his surroundings.
More bodies littered the floor. These, however, he could identify. A mix of Wraith and human corpses, fifteen total, lay strewn across the tile of the large hall, forever locked in the final positure of their skirmish. Most laid with their weapons still grasped tightly in a death grip. Some bore brutal wounds, their innards spilled to the floor; others, indiscernible deathblows. All were abandoned, their bodies left to waste by both sides.
Thankfully, Rodney noticed with a relieved exhale, none were those of expedition members.
He had no choice but to forge through the carnage. He stepped gingerly over the deceased and the debris. McKay placed his footsteps carefully, trying to remain quiet as he traversed the open floor. He focused on his feet, not daring to let his eyes stray to either side of his path.
"This way!" shouted a voice suddenly. Rodney froze in his tracks.
It had come from the chamber ahead. He didn't recognize it.
"It matters not that the commander has not made contact," the same voice said tersely, answering some inaudible question, "his last order still holds! Now onward, you insubordinate whelp!"
Lacedami, Rodney realized. And they're coming this way.
Feeling his pulse quicken, Rodney looked about himself. He was exactly halfway between the stairway he had just exited and the room ahead, the room from which the Lacedami unit was about to burst. He spun around, his feet unable to commit to a direction, before he finally shook himself free of his cataleptic shuffle.
He hit the deck. Almost instantly he felt a warm liquid soaking into his jacket. Risking a glance to his left, he locked gaze with the wide open eyes of a Lacedami corpse, frozen in silent agony, cheek plastered to the floor. Rodney realized the blood seeping into his uniform was his. He cringed in disgust. But combined with his own dirt, grime, and bandaged wounds, he hoped he looked macabre enough to pass as just another dead body.
Face down on the ground, he peeked out from under his arm and saw three pairs of Greco-Roman style sandals halt in the middle of the room. No! Rodney screamed in his head. I do not have time for this!
He listened to them chatter. He knew that every second they remained rooted there increased the risk of his exposure - and more importantly was another second the shield remained down.
"Our slain comrades lie here," he heard one of them say.
So they do respect their dead, McKay regarded.
"We should scavenge their bodies for ordinance," said another.
Or not. Not good. Not good, not good, not good...
"Very well," the first voice said. "Gather what you can but do not linger."
Watching as the trio fanned out across the slaughter, the physicist tried to make himself as small as possible. He tried to shallow his breathing, listening to the sounds of their ransacking. The Lacedami vultures made no attempt at reverence, but rather treated the affair like a rummage sale. Bodies were picked up, hefted over, rifled through, then cast aside. He prayed his wasn't next.
Suddenly a pair of feet cut across his vision, close — not more than two feet from him. They pivoted slowly, their owner canvassing the room for plunder like a vulture hunting for carrion. They faced Rodney and stopped.
McKay held his breath, willing the Lacedami to move on. But instead the man stepped closer. Something had caught his eye.
No, no, no, no, no... Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad...
McKay heard the Lacedami, now standing only inches from his outstretched arm, make a perplexed noise before he saw a pair of calves crouch into view. But his toes were angled ever so slightly away. The man was reaching for something on the ground in front of McKay.
"A rifle, from the Earth soldiers…" the Lacedami pondered quietly to himself.
My P-90, Rodney realized with dread. In his haste he hadn't had thought to conceal it. It stood out like a sore thumb amongst the Wraith and Lacedami bodies.
Seeing the legs straighten to vertical, then take a curious step astride him, Rodney knew he had been discovered. He squeezed his eyes shut.
He felt his own P-90 prod him in his shoulder — his injured shoulder.
He flinched.
The Lacedami took a surprised step backward. "There is a live—!"
His warning was cut off by the roar of a P-90 — not McKay's own but one from further away, from the direction he had come. Rodney's eyes snapped open in time to see the enemy soldier topple onto the floor in a bloody mess.
As the remaining pair of Lacedami scattered for cover, Rodney began to belly crawl away from the apparent barrage. Immediately his radio lit up.
"Doctor McKay, is that you?" came a tense call over his radio.
"Who's calling, please?" Rodney answered tersely, not daring to halt his escape.
"Doctor McKay, it's Corporal Rogers!" the youthful voice radioed back. "I've been looking all over for you!" McKay could hear the barrage of P-90 fire through his earpiece. He heard the same rat-tat-tat pattern echo in the surrounding space from his free ear.
Rodney rolled over and glanced backward. He spied a lone marine in cover, occasionally popping out to let loose on the two advancing Lacedami.
"Well, you found me and your timing's impeccable!" Rodney radioed back. He conjured up a mental image of the babyfaced corporal.
"Captain Ford's been trying to reach you! Then I heard your radio calls to Teyla, and thought maybe you could use an escort to the Control Room—" Any further words were drowned out by the Lacedami's return fire. They'd finally spotted Rogers behind an overturned couch and were regrouping tactically. His element of surprise had waned.
"Only if you insist, Corporal!"
It was a few beats before Rogers could answer. He was getting pummeled from two directions.
"An escort was the plan, Doctor! Now you might have to settle for a distraction!"
McKay watched as the pair of ruthless warriors closed in on Rogers' position in a perfect pincer move. No doubt Rogers saw it, too. The corporal gamely let a few rounds fly at each, temporarily driving both back into cover, but it only delayed the inevitable. He was outnumbered, two to one, and cornered.
"Doctor, I'm not sure if you know what the term 'distraction' means..."
"Right," Rodney said quietly, swallowing back the rising bile is his throat. He watched as electrified bullets ripped through the couch's cushions like tissue paper, sending white feathers flying in their wake. It wouldn't last much longer. Neither would Rogers. "Thank you, Corporal. Good luck."
"Just get that shield up, Doctor," the marine said sincerely. His sober tone indicated he knew what was likely to befall him.
With that, Rodney stood and ran for the next passageway. The motion drew the attention of one of the Lacedami, but Rogers was all over it. Before the Lacedami could draw a bead on the scientist, the corporal stood and fired. The shots were hasty and off mark but it did the trick, sending the aggressor back into cover.
Rounding the nearest corner, Rodney risked a glance back. He saw the second Lacedami step completely out of cover, so sure of his shot was he, and fire twice at the now exposed Rogers. Rodney didn't see where the rounds hit. He only saw the young marine get knocked from his feet and fall behind cover. The opposing pair wasted no time, closing on their downed target with weapons drawn.
The scene disappeared from view, replaced by the next hallway, then the next, then the next. McKay clenched his fists in frustration as he ran. Another teammate, down on his account. How many more would it take before the job was done?
Before long he found himself on the final staircase, rounding the final corner before bursting gloriously into the empty Control Room. Rays of morning sun beamed through the magnificent windows beyond the Stargate and the opposing grand staircase, the only light brightening the otherwise gloomy space. A palpable hush filled the area. Bullet holes pockmarked the consoles, while scorch marks still marred the walls of Elizabeth's office - scars from the opening volley that already seemed like ages ago.
Rodney's boots crunched on broken glass. He paid no mind as he sat at a console in the back row and hastily got to work.
"Come on, come on, come on..." he muttered under his breath as he initiated the Control Room's power up routine. Slowly, one by one, workstations lit up. Wall-mounted displays flickered on. Lights in the Control Room and Gate Room both came to life.
"Yes!" the physicist exclaimed as his console presented him with its home screen. His foot began to tap excitedly-
"Rodney!" a voice called from nearby.
He nearly jumped out of his skin. "Teyla!" He stood in surprise before elation overtook him. For a moment, he forgot all about the Lacedami, the Wraith, and the ZPM. How good it was to see a friend alive and well. "Teyla, you made it!"
"It is good to see you as well, Rodney," the Athosian greeted as she limped over, her relief matching his own. "The ZPM?"
"Locked and loaded," he explained, sitting once again. "All that's left-"
"You are injured," she interjected, noting the blood on his jacket.
McKay shook his head. "It's not mine," was all he offered as he deftly navigated through the console's menus to the screen he was looking for. "Now," he announced decisively, "let's crank this thing to 11, shall we?"
With the triumphant click of a button, McKay commanded Atlantis' shield to raise.
Teyla watched the icons on Rodney's screen morph in real time as the ten shield generators around Atlantis' perimeter came to life. Then, slowly, gloriously, City's shield materialized on the display.
It was working. They had fought and lost so much to reach this exact moment, and now, blissfully, it had arrived. She could scarcely believe it.
Following on Rodney's heals, Teyla hurried over to the window atop the staircase, the need to see it with their own eyes too strong a pull. Like a shimmering cloak, there it was - growing from the ocean's surface in a full 360 degree circle and climbing in an elegant arc over top the City. Its ascent was a gradual one, the single ZPM taxed to maximum output.
A half dozen low flying Darts were caught off guard by the sudden appearance of a wall dead ahead. The unlucky two nearest to the shield smashed directly into it, too close to maneuver clear in time. The ships disintegrated in twin fireballs. Three others escaped vertically through the shrinking hole at the shield's apex.
The shield accelerated its growth upward and inward; its curvature shallowed with every inch of height gained. Then, the hole closed. The dome was complete. The shield was now fully formed, the City fully protected from the threats above.
All at once the world was quiet. With an impenetrable energy barrier between them and their target below, the Dart fleet's strafing of the City had ceased. A single remaining Dart buzzed within, cut off from its hive mates, searching futilely for a means of escape like a bee trapped in a glass jar.
Though she had seen the shield of her Ancestors once before, never was it a more welcome sight than now. For the first time in hours, Teyla allowed herself to smile.
"You did it, Rodney," she praised, unable to tear her eyes from the radiant scene.
"Not just me," was the solemn reply.
The Athosian understood. But now was not the time to grieve for those they had lost, those whom, if not for their sacrifice, she would not be alive to witness the occasion. Soon, but not now.
"Come," she encouraged. "We are close, but there is still much to do. There are still enemy Wraith and Lacedami within the City walls, and by now the three Wrath cruisers-"
The scuff of feet on tile spun both Rodney and Teyla's heads round.
In the Control Room, a lone figure shuffled weakly toward them. Her ghostly frame leaned heavily against the wall for support. Her hair was knotted, skin pale and lips icy blue. Dark circles underscored bloodshot eyes that darted about, adrift. She visibly shivered with cold. An emergency blanket she had obtained from somewhere was clutched tightly around her, the red expedition shirt beneath it torn down the front.
"Oh my god..." breathed McKay.
Elizabeth's eyes met those of McKay, and found Teyla's next. She spoke, her voice shaky and frail, a single question. Her fearful expression, her red-rimmed eyes that threatened to let loose a torrent of tears, indicated that somehow, somewhere deep in her heart she already knew the answer.
"Where's John?"
Sheppard flew down the corridors.
McKay must have encountered some sort of trouble while transporting the ZPM to the City's Power Room. He could have been held up on his way to the Control Room, or injured. Or worse.
Whatever had happened, John intended to help however he could.
His peripheral vision latched onto something as he ran. The major's legs locked up, his feet skidding to a halt, his arms swaying waywardly in an attempt to keep upright. John stood before an obliterated window. His feet crunched on broken glass, but he barely noticed as he was drawn to the majestic sight outside.
Atlantis' shield shimmered above him. The major craned his neck skyward, taking in the full breadth of the City's new cloak as it spanned from horizon to horizon. The sight buoyed his spirits.
"Way to go, McKay," John beamed.
The Darts swarmed outside the barrier, uncoordinated, unsure of what to do. The occasional burst of Dart fire from a brazen Wraith pilot tested the shield's strength, but their shots were easily absorbed and diffused. The single remaining Dart trapped within buzzed angrily, stymied.
Suddenly the side of its fuselage was bombarded by white hot tracer rounds, knocking it off course before it erupted into a thousand fiery pieces.
John spun toward the source of the anti-aircraft fire. Far to his right, a small band of three marines cheered at their victory. One, sitting behind a M119 howitzer, raised his fists triumphantly in the air. The light cannon was one of only two the expedition had wheeled through the Gate from Earth.
"All right!" John couldn't stop himself from cheering. This was it. This was the turning point, the moment at which they finally gained the upper hand. He could feel it.
With McKay clearly in no need of his assistance, the major changed course for the mess hall. If events had played out as planned, the civilians were still hunkered down there with a contingent of armed marine guards standing watch.
Cautiously, he approached the mess hall's east entrance. Through the gaping double doors he could see the mayhem that had erupted. It was far worse than he had imagined. It looked like a scene from a Kandahar war zone. Tables and benches were littered everywhere and shattered glass covered the floor tiles. Chairs were splintered. Bullets and plasma rounds alike had embedded themselves into the walls.
Worst of all, the expedition members struggled in a fight for their lives. The Wraith had pushed through one hastily erected barricade and were now positioned within the room's perimeter. The only thing standing between them and the civilian population was another quick-and-dirty barricade of dining tables and chairs. Major Sheppard watched as marines traded fire from behind the barrier with the Wraith across the room. Even as he stood there, that barrier was eroding away, a piece of it dislodging with every absorbed shot.
So far his presence had escaped notice. He intended to use that to his advantage.
Crouching low and drawing his Lacedami pistol, John clambered over to the wall of seven marines, their backs against one of the grand windows. He spotted Captain Ford down the line. As he made his way over, he witnessed Dr. Nicolas Perrot, the old French historian, positioned in the thick of the fray, unafraid and unwilling to sit idly by. He, along with a handful of other civilians, fired his handgun right alongside the marines like a seasoned veteran. Good for him, John mused with an appreciative nod.
"Ford!" yelled John above the clamor.
Aiden finished firing off a short burst and retuned behind cover. He tugged at the brim of his cap, plainly grappling for a plan.
"Ford!" John tried again, careful to remain low to the ground. "What's our status?"
But his 2IC didn't answer. Instead he popped out his rifle's magazine, visually inventoried the quantity, and reinserted it. From the look on the young captain's face, Sheppard could tell he hadn't liked what he'd seen.
"Hey!" the major shouted at Ford, letting his indignation show through. "What is with everybody? Have I done something to offend the whole damn base?" He pivoted in his stooped position, intending to see if anyone had heard him, when he was blindsided from the right.
But instead of being bowled over, the oncoming teammate passed right through the major, just as the Wraith had done before.
Still, John fell onto his backside, unnerved. He lied awkwardly on his elbows, staring dumbfounded up at Ford and the newly arrived Corporal Kirkland. Sheppard listened to them converse like he wasn't even there. As they talked, it dawned on him: Kirkland was no Wraith projection.
"Happy you could make it, Corporal!" Ford shouted.
"Came as quickly as I could! I got held up by one of those Lacedami blokes! Pesky buggers, that lot."
"All the same, we could use your firepower! There are only seven of us plus a few armed civvies, so every man helps!"
"I'm afraid all I've got left is a few rounds in my M9 and a couple mags for my sniper rifle - not exactly my first choice for close quarter combat!"
John could see Aiden's face fall. "I take it you didn't make it to the armory on your way!" the captain surmised.
The Aussie shook his head. "The Wraith were swarming like bees all over! I barely got my ass through the door before getting it zapped by one of them stunners!"
For a moment John dropped all the unanswered questions rattling about his head. He appraised the young sharpshooter. The man had little ammo left and knew he was walking into a shitstorm, yet he had come anyway. He could have remained at large, found some quieter part of Atlantis to hole up in, but instead he had chosen to put his life on the line defending his City and his people in what was almost certainly a losing battle. Looking down the line with pride, John couldn't spot a man or woman about whom he could say anything contrary.
His team was the best. They didn't deserve to go out like this. No one deserved to go out like this.
Aiden must have felt the same gratitude. He extended Kirkland his hand. "Glad to have you here, Corporal."
Kirkland clasped it and shook. "Glad to be here, Captain. Now let's see what sort of damage we can do to these wankers, yeah?"
As he watched them trade rounds with the Wraith, every thought, every question, every twinge of doubt, remorse, and fear John had about whatever was happening to him surfaced again - though it wasn't on account of his own mortality.
In a moment of crystal clarity it had been made readily apparent to him that he could do nothing to help his friends. Any thought he'd had about staying in the fight, about figuring out a way to save the City, had been dashed as soon as Kirkland had walked right through him. No, he still didn't know if he was dead, sentenced to some sort of purgatory, or a botched result of an Ancient experiment.
But whatever he was, he was useless to them.
TBC