Chapter 1

It wasn't what he had expected. An underground city, Major Jordan had reported, and John had pictured rolling metal blast doors, a vast, cavernous space and the rigid military control of the Genii. That, at least, might have felt familiar, and although he had never felt comfortable with the 'rigid control' aspect of any military force, it was something he could readily understand. So far, however, they had passed unchallenged, the locals apparently assuming that the situation of the Gate itself precluded the sudden arrival of a large invasion force; it was set at the end of a tunnel dug in solid rock, the walls only just wide enough for its installation, its orientation such that the event horizon had carved out a dent in the end wall. No room for darts, and little room for infantry, so that Ronon and Rodney had bumped into each other as they passed around the edge of the great circle, and had exchanged growls and snarls, which was at least partly their way of rebonding at the beginning of a mission.

At the end of the tunnel, ill-lit by a sparse sodium-orange glow, was no vista of buried grandeur, but simply an alley, running at right angles; metal underfoot, rock-cut entrances in the nearer side, the opposite wall a bare three yards distant, composed of mixed, patched materials, piled in a vertical, haphazard shantytown of random, organic chaos. There were no guards, no officials, not even a face at one of the many windows, or a movement on any precarious balcony. A warm wind blew, and brought with it the poison-rich scent of hydrocarbons and memories of subway stations. Water dripped everywhere; John realised that his hair was wet and moisture beaded and ran down the sleeves of his jacket.

"Oh, well, this is nice!"

"It doesn't have to be nice, McKay," John said, tension making his words short and clipped. "We're just here to find Major Jordan and his team."

"Oh, really?" Rodney's nerves found their usual outlet in sarcasm. "I wish I'd paid attention in the briefing now... Oh, wait, I did!"

Nobody responded, each knowing to allow Rodney his needed release.

"You getting anything on that?"

"No," said Rodney, using his sleeve to wipe waterdrops from the screen of his scanner. "As I said in the briefing, if you'd been listening, what with interference from the surrounding rock, and all this packed-in, let's call it 'infrastructure', you're unlikely to get a clear signal from a sub-q, if any, which, in fact has proven to be the case!"

"John." Teyla's face looked grey in the orange lighting. She nodded toward a doorway, deeply shaded, on the rock-cut side of the alley.

"Ronon, watch our six," John said. He and Teyla approached the doorway, Rodney trailing behind, the useless scanner shoved roughly away into a pocket. A large drip landed on John's head; he could see droplets running down the walls, and lintels were fringed with the beginnings of stalactites.

"Buy a hat, mister? Ma'am?" The voice came out of the shadows and John could faintly make out the man's silhouette, the streetlight eerily highlighting his eyes and a flash of metal in his mouth. "Buy a smoke?"

"We are not here to trade," said Teyla. She introduced herself and the team, but the man didn't reciprocate. "We are looking for some friends of ours."

"Friends, you say?" His voice was guarded. "You'll be needing hats. Run-off don't get no better than this and many-a-time she's a good bit worse." He picked up a hat from the stack that leant against the wall. "See? Keep you dry. Well, drier anyway."

"No, thank you. Have you seen strangers, dressed like us? Weapons like these?"

"Can I see that?" Rodney interrupted. He took the proffered hat. "What is this? Trilby? Fedora?" He looked at John.

John shrugged. "There were four of them. Came from the Gate, like us. Did you see them?"

Rodney put the hat on and looked around, as if he expected a mirror to appear.

"Not many come through the Gate," the man evaded. "It don't usually work. The Getters see to that."

Rodney adjusted the hat without the benefit of a mirror, pulling the brim down slightly over one eye.

"Getters?" asked John.

The man nodded, took something from his pocket and light flared briefly, illuminating deeply lined features and dark, bird-like eyes beneath ragged, jutting brows. The bowl of a long, narrow pipe glowed red several times and bitter smoke tingled in John's nostrils.

"Those that Get, from Above, mostly, 'n' sometimes through the Gate."

"These Getters, are they in authority here? Should we speak to them about our friends?" Teyla asked.

The man wheezed a creaky laugh. "Authority? There's a few might think they have some say and fewer still that actually do."

John was beginning to think the man's evasion deliberate and Teyla's sidelong glance showed her agreement.

"How much for this?" asked Rodney.

"What're you offering?"

A rip of velcro and Rodney drew out an energy bar from his tac vest. He held it out, but the man looked wary.

"What's that, then?"

"Food. An energy bar. Full of sugary goodness," Rodney encouraged.

The man leant forward slightly, his rickety chair creaking as his head darted from side to side, checking up and down the alley. His voice low, he said, "There any sun in it?"

"What?"

"Sun," he repeated, impatiently. "Stops your bones going soft!"

"Oh, vitamin D! Er..." Rodney angled the bar to catch the light. "Yes. This thing's fortified with everything but the kitchen sink."

"Give it to me!" A gnarled hand, palm uppermost, trembled in the slanting light, the arm remaining in shadow. Rodney warily passed over the bar and the hand hastily withdrew.

"We've got more of those, for the right information," said John. He began to open one of his pockets slowly, the tear of velcro loud in the silent alley.

"I saw them," the man said abruptly. "Came through the Gate. Wanted to know about trading. They were back, coupla times. I heard the Gate and they were talking through it, somehow."

"What did you tell them? About trading?" John asked. "Where'd they go?"

"Sent 'em to Zanta's. Told 'em to ask for Mened or Angaray of the Getters. Don't know if they'd trade, though."

John took an energy bar from his pocket; it was accepted, eagerly.

"What kind of place is Zanta's? Is it far?"

"Not far. People meet there; drink, eat, if they're not fussy, which none of us can afford to be. Just follow the alley," he pointed to his left. "Take the first turn, then down the stairs, then next left. You'll see the light from there. Blue light from the sign. If it ain't broke."

"Thank you," Teyla said.

"The name's Brant," he said, suddenly garrulous. "Brant the hat-seller, everyone knows me!"

"Thanks, Brant, see you around," said John, moving away.

"Sure you will, if you come back this way! I'm always here!"

The voice faded behind them as they passed along the narrow way, through dark pools of shadow where balconies nearly met overhead, and grey-orange patches lit by the occasional street lights.

Ronon's voice rumbled from behind John: "He's a spy."

"I think it's safe to say he knows more than he's telling," John said.

"He watches the Gate. There is no living to be made merely selling hats in such a deserted place," said Teyla.

"Who's paying him to watch?" Ronon said.

"The Getters?" John wondered. "Whoever they are. There must be other groups, gangs maybe. He saw Jordan checking in."

"I didn't like what he said about the Gate not usually working." Rodney adjusted his hat again. "There's nothing wrong with the Gate, so why wouldn't it?"

"Hmm... I don't like it either."

"Great hat, though. How does it look?"

John glanced at Rodney, who had the brim of the hat pulled low, his eyes gleaming beneath, in its shadow, his mouth a mysterious line.

"Looks good! Very Bogart! It'll cut down your field of view, though."

"Well, you can carry on getting wet and having a great view while I stay dry with style."

oOo

The argon blue light cut the night like a laser, and Rodney might have thought himself a moth drawn to a candle flame, but instead pondered on a society that had the wherewithal to manufacture vacuum-sealed, curlicued glass tubes and fill them with just a smidgen of an inert gas: in this unknown, unmapped world, 'here be scientists,' he thought.

A few steep steps down and a swing door brought them to a lobby; a hubbub of noise and bright light beckoned at the end of a short passage, but the way was barred by a hulking form of brick-wall solidity.

"Check your weapons, sirs, ma'am?"

"No, thanks, I think we'll hang on to them," John drawled, with a false smile.

Rodney felt a nervous laugh try to escape as the doorman stepped closer, his leather-clad shoulder topping John's by a good four inches.

"All weapons have to be checked. Please. Sir." The thug seemed to enjoy his sarcastic courtesy. Ronon moved up alongside John, but two more men appeared from nowhere to flank the team.

"We don't give up our weapons." Ronon glared at the man eye-to-eye.

"You give them up, or we ask you to leave," the doorman replied, with a suggestive crack of his knuckles.

John opened his mouth to speak, and Rodney had the distinct impression that his words would not be conciliatory.

"Is there a problem here, Dennet?"

"No, Ma'am."

The woman who sauntered toward them was tall; as tall as John, and richly clad in a deep blue dress which contrasted sharply with her pale skin, but brought out the matching colour of her eyes. Her hair, which she wore loose in cascading waves was, Rodney thought, an unlikely red-gold. Delicate she was not; the sleeveless gown revealed well-developed muscles in her shoulders and arms, and the aquiline cast of her countenance gave the impression of strength, of a woman used to getting what she wanted by force of character, keeping her not inconsiderable attractiveness in reserve.

"These people were just leaving," the doorman continued.

"But these aren't just 'people', Dennet. These are customers." Her voice was rich; calculatingly seductive. Her gaze travelled over the four team-mates, lingering most on the three men, but also regarding Teyla with frank appraisal. Rodney felt his face grow hot as she stared at him and he tried not to look away; one carefully-shaped eyebrow rose slightly in amusement. "I'm afraid I can't make any exceptions, however, even for such... unusual visitors."

"We don't want any trouble, Ma'am," said John. "Our weapons are just for self-defence."

"That's what they all say," she replied. "Zanta's the name," she continued, with a sultry curl of her lip. "Just like it says above the door."

"Lieutenant-Colonel John Sheppard," he replied, meeting her gaze. "Dr Rodney McKay, Teyla Emmagan, Ronon Dex. We're looking for some friends. Would you happen to know their whereabouts?"

She ignored his question.

"How about we just look after the big, powerful ones for you?" she asked suggestively, with a sidelong glance at Ronon. "Leave the concealed weaponry til later?" Her gaze flicked down John's body then up again. John swallowed, uncomfortably, and the tips of his ears turned red. Rodney stifled another nervous giggle and Teyla rolled her eyes.

"That is an acceptable solution," said Teyla, briskly, unclipping her P90. "Is it not, John?"

"Huh, yeah," he said, visibly pulling his mind back on track.

Teyla squared up to the doorman. "You must take great care of these," she said, with a narrow-eyed glare that suggested that damage to their weapons would result in matching injuries to his person.

Rodney unclipped his P90 and handed it over, copying John in unholstering his sidearm, but simply slipping it into a pocket. Zanta's hips swayed with deliberate provocation as she led them through to the main bar area. The light, the noise, the smoke and the heat were an assault on Rodney's senses after the silent dark of the network of alleys. Bright, white strip-lights hung on long leads from far above, giving the patrons no shady corners to hide in on the crowded floor, but leaving an upper-level shrouded in darkness and a rising pall of pipe-smoke. The bar ran along the wall to their left and stairs climbed to their right. All the tables were full, but one miraculously became free as Zanta steamed through the room, a magnificent figurehead, cleaving the waves ahead of them.

They sat and she joined them, a brief glance toward the bar bringing a waiter, a slew of tiny glasses and a drop of colourless liquid in each. He left the bottle and retreated discreetly. Zanta drained her glass. Rodney took a sip and tried to remain impassive as the raw alcohol burnt a hole in his tongue. He sneezed several times in succession. Zanta gave him an indulgent smile.

"Your friends were here," she said, without preamble. "Two men, two women. About this time, and then two of them again, late, last dark."

"Dark? It's dark all the time here!" said Rodney.

"Darks and lights, days and nights-that-were... the streetlights go out," she explained. "All apart from the main routes. Zanta's is always lit, though. Always a welcome here for a lonely traveller." She played with a chain around her neck, its pendant jewel shifting and sparkling in the valley between her breasts. Rodney pulled his eyes away, and looked around at the other tables, seeing pale skin and hat-brims pulled low.

"Did they speak to anyone?"

Zanta snapped her fingers and the waiter reappeared.

"The four strangers," Zanta said, curtly. "Who'd they talk to?"

"They asked for Mened and Angaray." The waiter played the rim of his circular tray through his hands. "Spoke to Mened. Went off with him. Then later, the black man and one of the women were back, asked me about rooms. I sent 'em to Tilda's place."

A nod dismissed him and Zanta said, "Mened's a good man and they'd be safe enough at Tilda's."

"They weren't," said Ronon bluntly, an edge of impatience in his voice. He pushed his chair back, rose and slouched away to loom over the bar. Zanta regarded Ronon's back view with a speculative tilt of her head.

John leant forward, his elbows on the table, his fingers curled around his glass.

"Listen, we're no threat to you, to this place. Major Jordan and his team were here to establish trade links, see if you'd be useful allies against the Wraith. But if they don't show up... We'd be forced to take some kind of action."

"That sounds like a threat to me," she said.

John drained his glass and said nothing.

Zanta dropped her mocking expression and her voice became crisp and direct. "Mened's not been here since, nor Angaray, nor any of the Getters. And you came through the Gate, which means it's still active." She poured herself another shot, but didn't drink it straight away. "That's not normal. We don't live down here because we like the dark; we call ourselves the Forgotten, the remnants of Pereyne-that-was, and forgotten remnants are what we'd like to stay. The Gate shouldn't have been active long enough for your team to come through; not them, nor you, nor anyone that's not one of us." She threw back her glass, downing the drink in one.

"We just wish to find our friends," said Teyla, earnestly, "and then we need never come here again. We will keep your secret."

"Maybe you will," said Zanta. She rose and stood, one hand resting on the back of her chair, the light glinting on the copper lights in her hair. "I'll do what I can."

"How do we get to this... Tilda's was it?" John asked.

"I'll have one of the boys show you," she said, over her shoulder as she retreated through the tightly packed tables, bestowing a smile here, a roguish wink there, spending her allure in small change to keep her clientele happy.

John blew out a long breath and ran his hands through his damp hair.

"An interesting woman," Teyla commented neutrally. "The price of her dress alone could clothe the whole room."

"Really?" asked Rodney.

Teyla nodded. "Few societies have the resources to produce such fabric, and it commands a great price. My people rarely traded for such."

"Wonder what this place turns over?" said John.

"Not enough!" Rodney discreetly viewed the surrounding customers, their shabby clothes, the careful guarding of their drinks. "Zanta has some wealthy connections," he speculated.

"Or some criminal ones," John said. "Or both."

oOo

There was always one, thought Ronon. In any crowded bar on any planet, there was the busybody, the know-it-all, the disempowered drinker, ready and eager to raise their status by playing guru to the new guy; such people could be useful, their information often accurate, their irritating manner a given. Ronon, who knew what it was to be lonely, had a high tolerance for irritation in such cases, and, in this instance, a pressing need for information.

He spoke to the barman, asking about the various bottles and casks, selecting a light ale, making his newcomer status obvious, although he thought his bronze skin tone would give that away anyway, as he looked around at all the pallid faces of those who never saw the sun. As expected, a presence sidled up, and a voice spoke at his elbow.

"You're new, arncha? Yeah?"

"Sure," replied Ronon, staring at his glass impassively.

"You're not from Below, nor from out by the Filters, no?" The man spoke in a high-pitched, furtive rapid-fire, eyes darting to Ronon's face and away to either side. "You'n' your friends? You off-worlders?"

"Sure."

"I knew you were, see, I can tell." He drew closer, turning his body to face Ronon, the sour tang of old sweat and mildew rising from his clothes. "You're lucky! Lucky I'm here today!"

Ronon grunted non-commitally and sipped his drink, which was bland, with a slight tinge of ammonia.

"I coulda been down round the Filters, or out Ventwards on business, see? A businessman, that's me!"

Ronon doubted this assertion, but remained silent. He glanced sideways at the pale, unshaven face and lank hair; either damp or greasy, Ronan couldn't tell. The man was small and had an underfed look, his eyes too large in his face, his lips standing out in a loose, red line. His gaze lingered on Ronon's drink and his tongue flickered over his lips. Ronan caught the barman's eye and jerked his head at his companion. The barman drew another glass of the light ale.

"That's... that's real friendly of you," stammered the man, reaching out a wary hand as if afraid the drink would be snatched away. "The name's Friegar. I'm always around. Except when I'm away. On business."

"Ronon," he offered. And then, "You said about Filters and Ventwards. What're they?"

Friegar, delighted to be asked, sat up straight on his stool and crossed his arms.

"Best way of 'splaining that is to give you a rundown of the clans," he nodded his head in self-affirmation, held out one hand and began counting off on his fingers. "You've got the Getters, who control the Gate and trade-off world sometimes, but mostly they get stuff from Above; they know the secret ways, see?"

Ronon nodded.

"Then there's the Venters, that keep the air flowing through, maintain the fans and such. Make sure hot air escapes so that it just looks natural-like from Up There." He took a drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "The Miners, that's obvious, they keep us in coal; the Fishers, they work the ocean filters and get what the Growers need from the sea. Then the Growers, they grow food down in the Labs." He paused, thoughtfully. "Meant to be different flavours, but it's kinda all the same. Then there's the Makers who, well that's obvious too, isn't it? They make what they can out of what the Getters sell'em."

Friegar's gestures had become more expansive as he warmed to his subject and he held his drink in one hand and attempted to sketch in the air a layout of the underground world with the other. A party of men passed close to the bar; miners, Ronon thought, by the dirt-stained clothes, and the skin darkened by ingrained coal-dust. Friegar flung out his hand to show the distance to the main vent, and Ronon lurched forward to grasp his wrist, with the unfortunate consequence of stopping Friegar's hand, but not the contents of his glass.

The inundated miner stopped, blinked, took a deliberate breath and then slowly turned to face Friegar and Ronon. The ale had created a pattern of splashes in the black grit on the man's face, and streaks had already run down his cheeks in mockery of the tears that he would decidedly not shed were violence to be, as he considered it, necessary. Ronon took his hand away from Friegar's wrist and lowered it, his palm flattened in what he fully recognised to be futile pacification.

The man's eyes flickered over Friegar, dismissing him as an unworthy opponent, and settled on Ronon. Ronon's hand strayed to his empty holster and then slipped inside his coat to find a familiar hilt, and he was aware of a sudden stillness, spreading like a ripple outward through the room. Behind the miners, chairs scraped as John and Teyla rose to their feet. The miner looked pointedly at Ronon's hand, the flat, grey gleam of the knife emerging from between the folds of leather. A grimy eyebrow made its way upward to hide under the hard hat that looked welded to his head.

"You ain't gonna draw that there blade, off-worlder."

It was a statement, rather than a question, and one, moreover, that Ronon knew to be correct. If he drew a knife, he paved the way for all the other hidden blades in the room and that path led onward further to the concealed firearms and the carnage that would result from their use in a small, crowded space. The knife slipped easily back into its sheath and Ronon's hand withdrew. He glanced at the offended miner's companions; a glimpse of white teeth, a readying shake of broad shoulders told him all he needed to know. These men hadn't come to Zanta's for the ale, and, feeling the crackle of anticipation running around the room, he realised that the same could be said of most, if not all of the occupants.

He met the miner's still-raised eyebrow with one of his own.

"Are we talkin' or are we fightin'?"