Chapter 2
Like a stalked animal poised to run, a nocked arrow drawn back and ready to fly, the room froze, and Teyla could feel the cusp approaching; the brink, beyond which lay chaos.
John spoke.
"Hey, guys, maybe we can..."
A fist impacting his jaw effectively halted this attempt at diplomacy and the predicted chaos erupted. Teyla pulled Rodney down and, ignoring his protests, shoved him under the table. Feeling movement behind her, she smoothly grasped the back of her chair and brought it swinging round in an upward, curving arc, to smash against the generous jawline of the woman that had picked Teyla as her target. Another swing floored the woman and left the chair a loose collection of pieces. Teyla broke off two legs and scanned the room; Ronon was holding his own against three miners, his back to the bar, but John was surrounded and looked like he was in trouble. Teyla, small, female, and therefore often underestimated, used her advantage to carve a path through the melee, ducked under John's savagely wielded weapon of choice, a table leg, caught a brief glance of his lopsided grin and took up position back-to-back with her team leader. Her thoughts calmed, her awareness focussed on the one hundred and eighty degrees that were hers to defend, and her world narrowed to this one place and time, so that parries and thrusts, kicks and jabs were made, not with anger or desperation, but with meditative accuracy and a flow of strength and energy that felt as if they were drawn from the natural forces that moved through all things.
A fist came from the right, a sweeping kick from the left, a body barrelled powerfully from straight ahead; without thinking, Teyla reacted. One stick cracked on a wrist bone and she leapt, a foot extended, its impact delivered with precision to a solar plexus, then let her momentum carry her round to give a one-two of sharp hits to a skull. At Teyla's back, swift movements of air, grunts and thuds, told of John's fight, but she didn't let it distract her, continuing to deal out discrete packets of pain to her opponents, her blows carefully judged, to hurt when she could have maimed, to stun where she could have killed.
The attacks faltered; an efficient kick dampened one man's ardour for the fight, a smash with both chair legs ended another's hopes, then it was done. Teyla became aware of her heaving breaths, her sweat-dampened hair, the ache in her arms and legs from the jarring impacts, and the heat of John's body behind her. She turned. He, too, was breathing hard, the table leg dangling limply from one hand. His jaw was beginning to swell on one side, his nose was dripping blood, and his eyes were slightly unfocussed. As she watched, he allowed the table leg to drop to the floor with a clatter, and one hand felt around his ribs, as if checking everything was still where it should be. He started to speak, spat out some blood and then tried again.
"Thanks for the back-up. You okay?"
"I am unhurt," Teyla said, dropping her chair legs on the floor and handing him a handkerchief. John mopped at the blood running down his chin and then held the handkerchief to his nose. Groans sounded from around the room, figures limped here and there, some supporting others, some heading for the exit, many to the bar or righting tables and chairs to carry on with their evening. Voices were raised in laughter, and John and Teyla turned in time to catch Ronon and the original, offended miner, sitting on two of the few remaining intact bar stools, raising glasses to each other and downing them thirstily. Ale overflowed the edge of Ronon's glass and ran down his chin and throat to blend with his sweat and the blood that had dripped from a cut on his eyebrow.
Teyla narrowed her eyes, resolving to impart the complete and unabridged contents of her mind to both men, with a particular focus on the foolishness of those who considered gratuitous violence to be an acceptable form of recreational activity.
Then John said, "Where's McKay?"
oOo
Rodney had felt very foolish and rather cowardly, crouching under the table, while around him the entire bar transformed into some kind of Pegasus-style Fight Club. He knew he wasn't a coward and could have submitted written evidence of his bravery on numerous occasions, signed by several reliable witnesses. Hand-to-hand fighting, however, just wasn't his thing, and he wondered, briefly, if he should stand up and fire his Beretta in the air, thereby bringing the entire room to their senses. He came to his own senses, luckily, before enacting this rather heroic plan, realising that, instead of silence, shame-faced looks and muttered apologies from the crowd, more than likely they'd simply return fire and his heroism would be of the sadly perforated, ultimately fatal kind.
He was saved from his ignominious crouch by a hand, grasping his wrist and tugging, and he found himself looking into the laughing blue eyes of his hostess. She tugged harder.
"Dr McKay! Come with me!"
Neither Zanta's words nor her tugging had nearly as much effect on Rodney as the expanse of decolletage revealed to his widening eyes as she bent to look beneath the table, so that he felt he could claim legitimately that he had been hypnotised and had no choice in the matter. He found himself being led through the chaos, the melee parting before Zanta like the Red Sea before Moses. He followed her up the stairs and along a walkway and, below him, saw John and Teyla fighting back-to-back and Ronon launching himself off the bar, before he was pushed into a dark room.
A key clicked in a lock, a bolt slid; he turned to see Zanta, the blue light from the window glinting off her eyes and the jewel she wore on its chain. He caught a glitter of white teeth as she smiled. Rodney shuffled nervously, his heart pounding, sweat trickling down the centre of his back.
"Just a precaution," she said. "When things get a little lively, I lock my door, leave them to it... and add a surcharge to the drinks tariff to cover the damage."
"Very practical," he said, backing away slightly as she advanced toward him. She came closer until he felt something solid at the back of his thighs, but Zanta merely reached around him to turn on a desk lamp, flooding the room with a soft, yellow glow. She smiled again, her face close to his, and then moved away, to open a cabinet set against one wall.
"Drink?" she asked, and, without waiting for his answer, poured him a large measure of a peach-coloured liquid. "Sit," she directed, gesturing toward a seating area where two small couches faced each other across a low table. Zanta set the drinks down. Rodney sat. She sat next to him, the warmth of her velvet-clad thigh pressing against his. She picked up her drink and sipped it slowly, watching him, the gentle yellow light highlighting the curve of one bare shoulder and glimmering through the fall of her hair.
"Dr McKay..." she began, her voice low and soft.
"I'm not a medical doctor!" he burst out, keen to suppress any intimate details she might decide to share. "Ph-physics! M-mechanical engineering!" He huffed a nervous laugh.
"A man of science," she purred, putting down her glass and trailing her fingertips up and down his leg. "I like a man who knows his way around ... an equation." She leant closer, so that the pendant dangled tantalisingly between them. "Hot in here, isn't it?" she said, unzipping his tac vest and pushing it off over his shoulders.
"Oh! Um, I don't think..."
"Very hot," she continued, pulling down the zipper on his jacket.
"You see, Dr McKay... Rodney... a lot of people, they look at me and they'd pair me up with your big, strong wildman or your lean and hungry leader..."
"I d-don't think he is that hungry! That's why he's lean!"
"But they'd be wrong about that."
She gave his t-shirt a sharp upward tug so that it came untucked from his pants and then slid her hand underneath the fabric to rest it warmly on his stomach. Rodney thought hard about the theory behind Asgard beaming technology.
"What I like in a man is a certain, how shall I say it? A certain solidity." Her hand slid slowly higher, moving back and forth, exploring, and he forced his mind to consider the recycling of waste water on intergalactic starships. "A certain vulnerability... and... eyes the colour of unknown skies." She leant forward and her warm breath caressed his cheek. Rodney pressed himself back into the corner of the couch, but her lips pursued him and met with his in a demanding, breath-stealing kiss. Rodney knew several impulses at once: to push Zanta away, which seemed rude and also he thought she'd probably be able to subdue him quite easily; to dive over the back of the couch, which, again, would be likely to result in forcible restraint; and, finally, to respond in kind. After all, she was a woman, he was (apparently) a desirable man; why not? He let his mouth yield to hers and was just (with amazement at his daring) raising a tentative hand to touch whatever might be within reach (he wasn't fussy), when there was a pounding at the door.
"McKay! You in there?" John.
Zanta pulled back.
"Are you in there?" she asked, with a gently mocking smile.
"Yes," he croaked, huskily. Then louder, "Yes! It's... I'm... I'm okay!"
"Open up, then!"
"I'd better let your friends in before they break down the door," Zanta said, not moving, her face still close to his. Rodney's lips quirked in a self-deprecating grimace.
"Rodney?" Teyla's voice.
Zanta rose and regarded him, her hands on her hips.
"What do I have to do to assault your virtue?" she asked. "Apply ten darks in advance? Submit the correct forms in triplicate?"
"Something like that," he squeaked.
oOo
John followed the hulking form of the doorman, Dennet, through the dripping streets. His hair was wet again and moisture ran down his neck beneath his collar. He wondered if he should have traded for a hat after all, although the cold water was at least soothing on his throbbing nose and aching jaw. He caught Rodney giving him a sidelong look.
"You should see the other guy," he said, then corrected himself. "Guys. And women. Some really big, strong women. You know, I don't think I'd survive another evening's entertainment in that place."
"Good fight. Made some friends."
"I do not see why you have to make friends with your fists, Ronon."
John looked at Rodney and mouthed, "Still pissed!" He could almost feel the waves of Teyla's disapproval and glanced over his shoulder to see Ronon trying to repress a smirk beneath her piercing glare. Dennet led them up a flight of rusty stairs and round a corner into another narrow passage between overhanging buildings. John wondered how big the underground city was and thought about Ronon's intel, about the clans and how the place worked. He hoped they'd find some solid leads on the missing team soon.
"Okay, sitrep," he said, as he walked. "We know Jordan's team met their two-hour check-in. And then their four-hour, when they'd made contact..."
"With the Getters," said Rodney.
"Jordan just said possible trade contacts. Anyway, he said the city's cycle was coming round to night, so they'd decided to stay over and said they'd check-in in what passes for the morning round here."
"But they didn't."
"No. Four hours later, which'd be the middle of the night here, the Gate activates, there's a garbled message, which cuts out, then nothing."
"The hat guy saw them checking in."
"But did he see what happened at their last dial-up?"
"Oh, yes, 'I saw your team set upon and murdered!' He's not likely to tell us, is he?"
John frowned.
"What?"
"We're gonna find them, McKay," said John. "Alive."
"I hope so too, but I just think that hat and smoke man..."
"Brant," said Teyla.
"Brant," continued Rodney, "isn't likely to tell us if he witnessed any 'foul play'."
"He might for the right incentive," said Ronon.
"Always with the violence, Conan!"
"I was thinking power bars."
"Oh. Yes. Well, anyways, to continue the summary of our findings..."
John picked up Rodney's sentence. "We can place them at Zanta's early evening and then Major Jordan and either Captain Franks or Sergeant Bell at Zanta's again, late."
"An exact time would be good," said Rodney. "And there must be more locals who noticed them, especially Jordan. He'd stick out like a sore thumb in this sea of troglodyte grey."
"I think that might be racist, McKay."
"No, it's not! They're cave-dwellers, so the term troglodyte applies, and they have an unhealthy pallor brought on by lack of sunlight, therefore grey is accurate!"
"Oh, I think Zanta's skin is more a kind of peaches 'n' cream," said John, mischievously. "But you'd know more about that than me."
Rodney puffed out his chest and his walk took on a suggestion of a swagger.
"Can I help it if Zanta's a discerning female who appreciates the scientific mind?"
"Yeah, cos it was your erudite conversation she was after," said John. "From the progress she'd made, I'd say she expected to find a few hypotheses in your..."
"Yes, well, never mind that! We should be focussing on our search. Dr Griffin is a close and valued colleague of mine!"
John snorted. "You mean you wrote him up as 'not totally useless' in the last round of appraisals? Anyway, Jordan's a good man and Franks and Bell are no rookies. We'll find them."
"Good fighters, Beans and Taco," contributed Ronon.
"What? Who?"
"Captain Helen Franks, therefore, 'Beans'," explained John, "and Sergeant Erin Bell, so... 'Taco'."
Rodney was silent for a few strides and John could hear his mind working.
"Have you ever had a...?"
"Don't go there, McKay," John cut him off, with finality.
oOo
With a gesture and a grunt, Dennet indicated a grimy frontage and then, duty discharged to his satisfaction, sloped away, muttering to himself. Tilda's, made of bolted together sheets of metal, adorned with peeling patches of green paint, extended upward for at least five storeys and then, faint and far above, Ronon thought he could see a network of girders, presumably supporting another level in this underground world. He could see no sign above the door and wondered if Dennet had led them deep into the maze of alleys and left them to their fate. But no, in the small, filthy front window was a sign that read, simply 'rooms'; and a badly-painted addendum, which read 'no miners'. This rule had been compromised, Ronon knew, as his new friend Herrick had said he was staying at Tilda's, together with his buddies, all of them on a few days' leave; perhaps Tilda was desperate enough to risk the effects of coal dust on her sheets and furnishings.
Ronon hovered on the threshold as the other three went in, and was vaguely aware of Teyla's mellow 'first contact' tones and a quavering response. A shadow shifted at the far end of the alley and his instincts were confirmed; they had been followed. Possibly the slippery Friegar, who had distinguished himself only by the subtlety of his disappearance as soon as the fighting had started.
He turned away from the street at the clumping of boots on uneven wooden stairs, and followed his team. The rooms were on the fourth floor; two, connected, with a large bed in each. Ronon wondered who would've shared with who. Neither of the beds seemed to have been slept in.
"Booked them out for five darks, all paid up." Tilda, a small, wizened form wreathed in a cobweb-drapery of shawls, studied the team with a myopic gaze. "Bathroom's down the hall. Four darks left, all paid for, if you want 'em."
John strode to the window and looked out. Rodney started opening drawers.
"It's lights out soon, all apart from the goldways, 'n' you don't want to be wand'ring round out there in the full dark."
She seems keen for us to stay, thought Ronon. Why?
"Goldways?" queried John.
"The main routes, where the lights stay on. All the rest go full dark, so's you can't see your feet to fall."
Ronon tried to work out this expression and decided, like many sayings, it didn't really make sense.
"Sheppard!" Rodney was standing in front of an open cupboard. "Their packs are here. All four of them!"
There was a sudden crackle of static in Ronon's ear and John took out his radio handset and began adjusting the settings.
"Atlantis, this is Sheppard," he said, then waited. "Atlantis?"
Another crackle of static and then nothing.
"There's too much interference," Rodney said, squatting by one of the packs. "You've got solid rock almost completely surrounding the Gate, then a rat's nest of junk, between here and there. No offence," he said to Tilda. "I mean, I'm sure you do what you can with very limited means down here, and I wouldn't want to imply..."
"McKay!" John cut him off. "I guess that explains why Jordan went back to the Gate to check in." He ran his hand through his hair, brows furrowed, lower lip held between his teeth. "What've you got there, Rodney? Any weapons?"
"No, just the basic three-day mission standard packs."
"They booked for five darks," Tilda said, helpfully.
"Shall we return to the Gate to check in, John?" Teyla asked.
"I'll go back," said John. "Chewie, you're with me. Teyla, you'n McKay search the rooms, check the packs, see if there's anything that'll give us a lead on the team."
"Lights go out any minute," Tilda said. "You boys'll surely find trouble if you set out now."
"We are trouble," Ronon said and John's lips twitched slightly.
"We'll take the rooms, thank you, Ma'am. And we'll stick to the goldways, like you say."
"Won't be able to, not all the way to the Gate." The quavering voice faded as Tilda shuffled out and Ronon thought perhaps she was just an old lady, concerned for her guests.
oOo
"Sorry, John, you want what?" Standing right next to the Gate, Elizabeth's voice came through loud and clear.
"Vitamin D tablets. People here never see the sun. Seems like vitamin D would be a good thing for... incentives."
"You mean bribes?"
"Yeah, maybe."
"I'll ask Carson and get back to you. Anything else?"
"That's all for now."
"Alright, wait by the Gate and I'll see what I can do. Atlantis out."
The event horizon disappeared with a shimmer and John followed the orange glow to the end of the tunnel and Ronon's silhouette.
"Anything out there?"
"The old guy stuck his head out when you dialled up. Nothing else."
"Hmm... I think I'll have another word with Brant." John approached the man's alcove, and wondered whether he actually lived there.
"You ready to buy a hat yet, Mister? Looking pretty wet there!"
John was tempted, but shook his head.
"You said Major Jordan came back here and spoke through the Gate. D'you remember how many times he came back? Who was with him?"
"I might." The old man sucked on his pipe and a thin tendril of smoke drifted out into the alley.
John took a power bar from his tac vest, thinking he should have asked Elizabeth for more of those too. Brant accepted it, eagerly.
"First time it was all of them came back, then a while later, just the leader and one other."
"Man or woman?"
"Woman."
"Did you speak to them?"
Brant shook his head. "Heard the Gate go, then voices, then they headed off that way." He pointed down the alley in the opposite direction to Zanta's.
"Where would that take them?"
"Most anywhere, if you know the way."
"Do the Getters have a place that way?"
"Sure, you can get to their clan house that way, but there's Maker places down there too and ways down and up to other clans. Couldn't say, for sure."
"And later, middle of the night?"
"Most folks are sleepin' in the middle dark," said Brant.
"Were you?"
"Maybe."
"If you saw anything..."
"I've got nothing to tell about that," the old man said, impatiently. A stained finger crept out into the light and wagged tremulously. "But if you're thinking of asking questions at the Getter house, you'd be as well asking this wall!"
"Why's that?"
Brant leant forward, so that the orange light just touched the tips of his eyebrows and nose. "There's trouble! Clan leader, Galta Kethron... he's missing. And his wife and son. And a couple others, from what I heard tell."
"Since when?"
"Since round about the time your folks were last seen."
John eased his fingers, that had suddenly gripped his P90 more tightly. Locals missing as well as Jordan and his team; the information had to be significant. John itched for action and was tempted to tackle the Getter Clan House immediately, but common sense prevailed. They'd go as soon as the lights went up.
The Gate activated and John left Brant to his smouldering pipe.
oOo
"They should be back by now."
"We do not know how long it would take to walk to the Gate from here," said Teyla calmly, from beneath the bed. "I see no reason to worry unduly."
"I'm not worrying unduly, I'm worrying a perfectly acceptable amount," Rodney replied. "Look, there's nothing here and I'm hungry; d'you think Whistler's mother might have something to eat?"
Teyla ignored what she assumed to be an Earth cultural reference and squirmed toward the head of the bed, trying to avoid the metal springs that would catch on her hair. She reached out to grasp a small scrap of something, barely visible against the bare floorboards. "There is something here!"
"Well of course there is! I should think the cleaning routine is sketchy, at best!"
Teyla's fingers closed around the scrap and she wriggled out from beneath the bed and stood up, dusting herself down.
"What've you got? A matchbook from the local speakeasy?"
"A scrap of some kind of paper." Teyla held her find in the meagre light of the bedside lamp. It was just a torn-off strip, onto which had been drawn some very precise parallel lines.
"Looks like nothing," said Rodney, dismissively.
"The paper reminds me of the pictures that the Genii circulated."
"Genii?"
"I said that it reminds me, Rodney, not that it is." She slipped the clue into a pocket. "I will show it to Tilda. Perhaps she will recognise where it might come from."
"Probably someone rolling joints," said Rodney. "But let's see if she's offering anything remotely edible! Come on, Velma!"
Teyla rolled her eyes, wondering whether she should begin lacing her conversation with Athosian cultural references, so that Rodney might realise how mystifying it was. She could even incite Ronon to introduce Satedan slang to his speech. But no, Rodney wouldn't notice, and John would delight in Ronon's no doubt dubious offerings, and probably appropriate the worst of them for use when insulting Rodney. She was reminded of an Athosian saying, 'A small knife is enough for young hunters.'
Rodney clumped eagerly down the staircase ahead of her, following the scent trail of something else which, Teyla believed, may turn out to be a dubious offering, as far as Rodney was concerned. She herself was happy to eat virtually anything with nutritional value, and she doubted whether food of a palatable nature could be produced in an entirely subterranean environment.
Rodney hung over the greasy-surfaced counter at the foot of the stairs and called out.
"Halloo, service, please!"
"Rodney!"
"What?"
"Tilda is old and probably has to manage alone! And it is late!"
"And I'm on the verge of hypoglycaemia!"
"Can I help you?"
The old lady emerged from a back room, together with a strong waft of the unappetising cooking smell.
"Food!"
"Rodney!"
"I mean, please! You do serve food, right?"
Tilda looked blankly astonished, even her drooping shawls reflecting her bewilderment.
"What Dr McKay means to say, is, we would very much appreciate an evening meal, if it is not too much trouble," interpreted Teyla.
"Oh, well, it's late..." Teyla heard a suppressed whimper coming from Rodney's direction. "But there's the stew I was making for tomorrow. It's about ready."
"Excellent!" Rodney rubbed his hands together. "Which way to the dining room?"
Tilda's blank look returned.
"Is it for two? Or four?" she asked Teyla.
"Four, please."
She shuffled out and returned with a pail of brown, greasy liquid, which she heaved onto the counter, drawing out four spoons from somewhere within her drapery and setting them down next to it.
"Stew for four," she muttered, vaguely.
"Thank you," said Teyla, brightly, ignoring Rodney's look of distaste.
"Please, have you any idea what this might be?" She held out the torn strip and Tilda leant forward and brought her face so close to it that her nose almost touched the surface. She turned her head this way and that, mumbling to herself, then grasped Teyla's hand and pulled it toward her so that a little more light fell on it. Finally, she straightened up and twitched her shawls back into place.
"No." She turned and trailed away, the door closing softly behind her.
"Our genial hostess!" announced Rodney. "Known throughout the land for her culinary delights and sparkling conversation!"
"Ssh! She will hear you!"
Rodney, unchastened, sniffed at the stew. "We would've been better sticking to MREs."
The front door swung wide and Ronon and John entered, their hair, skin and clothes gleaming wetly in the dim lobby.
"What the hell is that, McKay?" said John, spotting the stew.
"Dinner," said Ronon, prosaically, grabbing the pail's handle and making for the stairs.
oOo
"You enjoying that, big guy?"
Ronon shook his head, still chewing, swallowed, and gave his verdict.
"'S pretty bad." He took another spoonful, and continued to eat, with the indiscriminate attitude of a man who'd been on the verge of starvation more times than he could count. He glanced up. Sheppard leant back against the bed, twirling his spoon between his fingers. Teyla sat, cross-legged, calmly chewing. Rodney leant against the wall, a pack balanced between his knees, fishing out MREs and sorting through them, probably to find the cake, Ronon thought.
"D'you think everyone eats like this here?" said Sheppard, throwing up his spoon and catching it neatly.
"What, squatting round a communal trough, forcing down lumps of gristly meat? Yes. Yes, I do. This place is barbaric!" Rodney tore open a packet and bit into a piece of cake with a look of ecstasy. "'S be-ah," he said, indistinctly.
Ronon shook his head. "Isn't meat. They grow it, in labs."
"Huh," said Rodney. "Interesting... but still disgusting."
"Ronon, when you were at the bar, Zanta referred to her people as 'the remnants of Pereyne-that-was.'"
Ronon's spoon halted in its progress toward the pail. He sat back and looked at Teyla.
"Pereyne?" he repeated. She nodded.
"You guys heard of the place?"
"Everyone's heard of Pereyne," said Ronon. He recalled listening to tales of the almost mythical world as a schoolboy, hearing about its wonders and delights, learning about its fall at the hands of the Wraith. "On Sateda, there was a group called themselves 'Remember Pereyne.' Campaigned for ways of protecting us against the Wraith, limiting population growth, stuff like that. Didn't work."
He dipped his spoon back in the pail and carried on eating, feeling an ache in his jaw and a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the tough chunks of meat.
"The fall of Pereyne is a story everybody knows," murmured Teyla, sadly. "I never thought that I would come here myself. And to find a population still living is... miraculous."
"If you call this living," Rodney grumbled.