"Burn…!" An unfamiliar voice squealed out over the radio; the pitch and volume sufficiently jarring that John yanked the earwig out with a startled yelp.
After it landed on the floor, he stared at it suspiciously for a moment, before reluctantly picking it up and putting it close enough to his ear to hear the menacing hiss of static, which sounded unlike any static he'd ever heard in his life. It was an alien sound. A hostile sound.
Though he didn't know it, John's rapid conclusion matched Rodney's. He was also quick enough to realize that he needed to get to Operations, and hope the sensors were functional enough to detect any fire or hot spot developing in the city.
John went for the transporter first. Though he would never have dreamed of getting near an elevator in an emergency, the Ancient tech was much more reliable as a rule, especially the tech meant to get a person out of an area quickly should the need arise. But the transporter didn't respond to him, so he turned and at once made a run for the stairs. It was several flights up, but he figured it was worth the run, though his body, weary from a night of patrolling the city, disagreed with his assessment. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was gasping quite shamefully.
Elizabeth had apparently also heard the declaration over the radio, and she had determined a course of action at some point before John reached the top of the stairs, for he was just in time to hear Chuck (didn't that guy ever sleep?) report, "We've got a hot spot in the transporter outside the jumper bay."
"That's Rodney!" John wheezed loudly, drawing several startled looks, "It's got to be. He… he went to the transporter… right before..." John waved his hand, giving up on detailing the rest, considering that everyone else knew as much as he did right now.
He didn't wait a moment more, turning back to the stairs and, despite the complaints registered by every muscle in his body, began to climb. He didn't really understand what was happening or how, but the single word spoken by that thing over the radio pinging back and forth in his brain, especially when taken in tandem with his and Rodney's collective conclusion about the wicked intentions of these home invaders, was enough to tell him that Rodney was in trouble.
John felt guilt seeping in. He should've known that the creatures would eventually target Rodney. They had to. Not only did Rodney have the ATA gene, he was the most likely one to figure out how to fix what they'd done to the computer systems of Atlantis. Even if they couldn't figure it out by mere observation, John had to assume they had access to the information stored in every computer in Atlantis, which included the personnel files. That would tell them all they needed to know about Rodney. They had to take him out before he found a way to take back the city.
It didn't make him feel any better that Rodney seemed not to have suspected this himself. Though one would think otherwise what with the way Rodney tended to go on about needing to be protected, it was not actually his job to look after his own safety, it was his job to understand and repair technology. Rodney's safety was actually John's job, if Rodney would only trust him with it. John was the chief of security, after all, his duties included protecting every member of the Atlantis Expedition. But that went double his own team, because he was their leader, and who would look out for a team if not its leader? But he'd clearly been remiss in his duty. He'd been so focused on wanting those creatures gone that he didn't stop and think about what they were planning next.
And then the realization hit, bringing with it a sudden flood of understanding, so startling that John almost tripped and fell down the stairs. It was so obvious, he should've seen it much sooner. They were not merely taking advantage of his distraction. This had been their intention all along. The chaos itself was the plan he and Rodney couldn't figure out, the purpose behind their every action.
There was a saying about snipers, "one shot, one kill." But John had seen enough in the field to know that wasn't really accurate. More often, snipers were there for recon work, not for shooting purposes. But when they did take up shooting, it was frequently not about eliminating a particular target. In fact, they might not be taking shots at people at all. Sometimes they were shooting vehicles, or something similar, with the express purpose of generating chaos. That might mean causing explosions, taking out communications or eliminating key persons such as commanders, radio operators and so on. But the point was, the enemy usually did a lot more damage to themselves in reacting to whatever the sniper did than the sniper's initial shot ever could. This could include a loss of will, a loss of unit cohesion, outright panicking and running away, getting caught up in an explosion, perhaps driving vehicles into ditches… the consequences of one little bullet could be varied and far reaching.
Now it came to him that they couldn't figure the creatures out specifically because the creatures were performing a similar activity, albeit not with bullets. They weren't picking the obvious or biggest targets, or even sticking to any one particular form of attack. They were like jackals nipping at a lion, attempting to annoy and confuse their enemy into a mistake, giving them the opportunity to take the prize… whatever that prize might ultimately be.
You couldn't win a war with only a sniper, but you sure could soften up a target for an assault force to follow, keep a target busy with the sniper while an attack took place elsewhere, or have the target looking for the sniper instead of someone else coming in to retrieve objects, intel or make a kill of their own, like a jackal snatching meat from under a lion's paw while its back was turned. The devil was in the details, and even something as small as a distracting fly could turn the tide in a fight.
Now he was given to wonder, had these things come from M6S-868? If so, Major Lorne and his team might be in real trouble, especially if they were the actual target for whoever or whatever had sent the creatures here to begin with. It didn't seem as though the creatures could have come from anywhere else, but John didn't remember anything too concerning in the briefing for M6S-868 when it was proposed that they send a team there. It was included in the Ancient database, but by all intel gathered, the planet was currently uninhabited, which had been good enough for John's purposes. Now he wasn't so convinced. What if there had been inhabitants, ones hostile to the Ancients? And what if they were still there, in hiding, just waiting for someone to be dumb enough to give them a shot at finishing Atlantis off for good? Some of the people out in the galaxy had waited a lot longer for a lot less.
As he topped the stairs leading to the jumper bay, John winced at the mocking, alien laughter that filled the air, coming over the main PA system of Atlantis at a volume that made his teeth rattle.
Zelenka's team had already abandoned whatever other tasks they were involved in and concentrated their attention on the doors of the transporter, which they seemed unable to pry open. In fact, they seemed to be having trouble touching the doors. As John approached, he became aware of furnace like heat emanating from the doors, and he understood their difficulty.
"Rodney!" John shouted, just to reassure himself Rodney was in there and, more importantly, alive.
"Sheppard!" Rodney yelled back, and John closed his eyes briefly with relief while Rodney continued, "Oh it's good to hear your voice!"
"We'll have you out in a minute, Rodney," John informed him confidently, though he wasn't sure how they were going to do that exactly.
"I should hope so!" Rodney replied, anger unsuccessfully trying to mask fear, "I've had nightmares about dying in an oven and I really don't want to go that way, thank you very much!"
Having looked around wildly without seeing what he wanted, John turned on Zelenka, "Don't you guys believe in crowbars? What the hell?"
"Crowbars?" Zelenka repeated, squinting through his glasses at John, then his expression cleared, "Ah. Yes. We have crowbars," he turned around and gestured to a member of his team, "You, give Colonel Sheppard your crowbar."
One of the geek squad stepped forward and presented John with the requested article. Without pausing to thank the man, John set to work on the door. It seemed to actively be resisting him.
"I do not understand," Zelenka said, clearly flustered, "The transporter is meant to be opened in case of emergency. The Ancients designed it that-"
Suddenly, the door popped open. Rodney, tumbled out, coughing and shuddering, probably as much from shock and fear as any real harm. He was bleached sheet white, soaked with sweat and more than a bit warm to the touch. A blast of searing heat followed him out.
As Lorne had been told, the ruins were actually built into the side of the cliff. He could almost feel the instability of the rock beneath his boots as he approached, and the age of the ruins was visible in their every aspect. What remained of the walls was smooth, polished stone of a deep blue reminiscent of the sky at night. Limestone surroundings and ruin alike were half-consumed by a dark green vine which had crimson blooms the size of a button.
Stepping into the ruins was like stepping into a cave, plunging suddenly into deep shadow, and even colder air. Lorne briefly noticed his breath frosting, but thought little enough of it.
Great stone columns had once held up the rose-quartz ceiling, but were crumbling now, and the azure-toned paint that had once coated them was faded and chipped. The marbled cobalt and slate flagstones of the floor were dirt-covered and cracked; verdant and seemingly reckless grass had forced its way up between the stones, its thick leaves drawing in the light that siphoned from the holes in the ceiling.
In the center of the aged structure stood a massive plinth, three times the height of a man, once the matching the support columns in color, but now washed so that it was the same hue as the Stargate itself, though Lorne didn't think it was made of naquadah. The ceiling hole directly above the plinth had allowed the elements to enter, cleansing it of nearly all color except for where sharply-edged patterns had been etched into the stone. As if all the vibrancy of the paint had collected there, the central etched spiral fairly glowed with the blue shade that had once adorned the columns. Behind the plinth, there were the skeletal remains of a stone staircase which had once led to some second level, of which no trace now remained. All that awaited at the top of the stairs now was solid rock.
Somehow, it was hard to imagine that this had been built by human hands, or that men had once stood in this silent and empty space. The only indication of what their purpose might have been was left by the hushed and sacred feel of it. It felt as if all were welcome, and yet all were trespassers.
Whoever the designers had been, they were not the Ancients. Or the Wraith.
Lorne didn't like dealing with unknowns as were being presented to him here. A place of unknown purpose, a people of unknown type, the implication of a technology of unknown design.
"It's a map," Souci announced, her voice echoing hollowly in the tremendous space.
"What?" Lorne inquired, moving away from one of the columns and towards the plinth where she had come to stand, "What do you mean?"
"Look at it," Souci pointed, "That line there, that's the river we saw. These markings represent the cliffs where we are now. The landscape has changed some, but not too much to recognize it."
Before Lorne could say he hadn't seen any river or reminded her that he hadn't been with the recon team yesterday, George came forward, "She's right, it is a map. Anyone can see that if they're standing close enough," he gave a significant look at Coughlin, who pretended not to notice the implication.
"Great," Helton muttered sarcastically, "A map in the middle of a pile of painted rocks. I'm glad we took the time to look at this."
"You're the one who insisted on coming, Dr. Helton," Lorne reminded him absently, stepping closer to the plinth to get a better look at what little remained of a formerly very detailed map.
Though Lorne wasn't about to say so aloud, Helton had a point; there didn't seem to be anything in the way of technology in these ruins. And yet, normally people didn't go to all the trouble of making a map for nothing. Certainly not one as elaborately built as this one had been. It was hundreds or maybe thousands of years old, yet still enough of it remained to be recognizable, because it had been built of such strong stuff, and with such care. That indicated it was a map of something important.
"Does that look like a settlement to you? Maybe even a city?" Lorne inquired, pointing to a section of the plinth on the right side.
Janella sprang to look before anyone else could, "Yeah. Maybe."
"Oh good, a city. So what?" Helton asked.
Exasperated, Lorne exhaled sharply, then said in as level a voice as he could manage, "A city means technology. And that means a good place to look for our anti-Ancient tech device."
Helton looked properly chastised, but said nothing.
"AATD doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, does it?" Souci remarked, but the only response she got was Janella shaking her head, less in agreement and more indicating now was not the time.
"If I'm looking at this map right, that's a day's hike," Coughlin said, "Assuming we don't get slowed down or run into any trouble. That's a long way to go on a maybe, Major."
"You got any better ideas?" Lorne asked.
Coughlin's silence on that point was answer enough.
The sound of hideous laughter made John swing around, drawing his sidearm. Atop one of the jumpers was the creature. Or a creature at any rate. It had the pointed ears and sharp teeth, but the fur was patchy, the ashen skin tinged a sickly red, and the naked tail seemed to have an almost club-like tip that he didn't remember seeing previously. The creature sat upright on its haunches like a monkey and its black eyes sparkled with fiendish delight.
"Kill it," Rodney begged in a whisper, still kneeling on the floor, not having gathered the wherewithal to stand as of yet. Heat continued to pour out from the open transporter behind him in waves.
Without hesitation, John drew, aimed, fired, shot it in the head. It tumbled over the side of the jumper, but didn't land. When John ran to see, it had disappeared, not even leaving a drop of blood behind.
He swung around to look at the others, and found himself meeting Rodney's rather unsteady gaze.
"Well that's not good," John breathed. Rodney merely whimpered in response.