Chapter 3
John regarded the bloodshot, shadowed eyes, in the unshaven face, in the cracked bathroom mirror. He touched his bruised jaw, scowled at himself and decided not to bother shaving; just like he'd decided not to bother with a shower, when rusty water spluttered reluctantly from the showerhead. The basin faucets both gave out thin streams of lukewarm water, even though, presumably, one was meant to be cold and one hot. John shrugged, and washed as best he could, yawning and grumbling to himself.
Nobody had slept well. John had been on watch when Ronon's miner friends had returned, with much shouting, slamming of doors and, as far as he could tell, rearranging of furniture. He'd been sitting on the broad windowsill, leaning back against the side of the embrasure, when the noise started, but every time a door had been slammed (which was often), the whole house had shuddered, so that it vibrated painfully against the back of his head. He'd got up and prowled silently between his and Rodney's room and next door, where Teyla had been sprawled luxuriously across most of the bed and Ronon perched precariously on the brink. He knows his place, John had thought. The furniture-moving party directly above their rooms had continued, so that Rodney had tossed, turned, squeaked complaints and pulled both pillows over his head, Teyla had done likewise, but without the complaining and Ronon had got up and offered to relieve John early.
So then it had been John tossing and turning and swearing at the racket going on above them, until it had subsided and he had snatched a couple of hours of dead-to-the-world sleep, which had left him feeling dopey and irritable. Arriving back at the room, he put one foot against the bedframe and gave it a violent shove.
"McKay! Get up!"
"Still dark."
"It's always dark here," said John, shortly. "Street lights are on, so that means morning. Get up."
Rodney sat up and rubbed both hands over his face and then through his hair.
"God, I feel like crap."
John, sorting through MREs, glanced up at him, but said nothing.
"Guess I look like crap, too. There coffee in that lot?"
John shrugged.
Rodney fought back the blankets, grabbed some clothes and padded, barefoot, in the direction of the bathroom, grumbling.
oOo
The morning's plan: Teyla and Ronon to ask around, door-to-door, near the Gate to see if they could find any witnesses to the events surrounding the missing team's final, broken communication. John and Rodney would go to the Getters' Clan House in the first instance and follow any leads from there.
Rodney pulled his hat lower as they made their way Gatewards, wondering if the constant dripping moisture was rainwater making its way down from the outside world, or was it condensation from the warm breath and industry of so many people, living in an enclosed space. It was a miserable place to live, he thought, although this morning the narrow ways were livelier and the inhabitants didn't look any more miserable than many he'd seen in this galaxy. Tiny stores and businesses lined the way, awnings extended to protect their wares and customers from the damp, lights shining out into the darkness. From somewhere above came the sound of small feet running on metal, the laughter of children, the roar of an enraged adult. Normal life was happening here; hidden deep underground, but normal, nevertheless.
"There is a way up here, John," Teyla said. "Ronon and I will ask at the dwellings that overlook the Gate."
"Okay." He looked at his watch. "Check in in two hours, but if you can't raise us on the comms, go to Zanta's and wait. C'mon, McKay."
Rodney followed, and they emerged into the alley adjacent to the Gate, which was as gloomy and deserted as ever. They stopped for a brief check-in with Atlantis and to ask the ubiquitous Brant for directions, which he happily gave, in exchange for another power bar.
"You gonna buy a hat, yet? Looking pretty damp there, 'n' your friend's all nice and dry!"
"I wouldn't say dry, exactly," said Rodney. "But at least there's no water running down my neck."
"I'll pass, thanks," John said to Brant.
"Oh, well, on your head be it!" The hat-seller went into paroxysms of wheezing amusement at his own wit, which faded behind them and disappeared as they turned a corner.
The Getter Clan House was on a street wider than most, a large, sprawling construction of what looked like concrete and iron girders, the main door having a bolted-together portico and a brick surround, in an attempt at grandeur. John pulled a handle to one side of the door and a bell chimed within. They waited. John's boots shifted on the rusty metal surface. Rodney sighed. He reached out and gave the handle a succession of sharp tugs.
"Don't break it, Rodney!"
"It might get their attention, at least!"
The sharp clanging of the bell resulted in the sound of bolts being drawn back, and the huge iron door opened a crack. Suspicious eyes looked up and down.
"What do you want?"
John introduced himself and Rodney and explained their business.
"There's no-one here. The family are away."
The door began to close. John put his weight against it.
"We heard they were missing, like our friends."
Rodney added his weight to John's and the door began to open.
"I can't help you. There's no-one here!"
"You're here!"
The door gave suddenly, revealing a dimly lit corridor and a man sprawled on the floor.
"Please don't hurt me!"
"We're not gonna hurt you." John pulled the man to his feet, but retained a tight grip on his arm. "We just want to talk. Now, why don't you take us somewhere we can do that, nice and civilised?"
"And you can rustle up some snacks while you're at it! Man suffering from an inadequate breakfast here!"
"McKay!"
Watery blue eyes in a thin, pale face flickered between John and Rodney. The man raised a hand and rubbed his forehead.
"I don't know what to do! The master gone, nobody giving orders..."
"Well, you can start by talking to us," said John with friendly persuasion. "If we find our people, maybe we'll find yours too."
"Oh. Yes. Yes, yes, come then."
"And that was yes to snacks too, right? Right?"
They followed the servant deep into the building. Rodney wasn't, in general, interested in furnishings, but couldn't help noting the richness of the dark red patterned flock wallpaper, which would have been expensive even on Earth. There were also curlicued golden light fittings, which he thought rather tasteless and other luxuries such as dark wood side tables and ornaments of china and glass. These Getters keep the best of their finds for themselves, thought Rodney.
After several turns and descents, the passageways became plain and functional, and several servants in drab attire turned startled glances their way. They came to a large, high-ceilinged room which smelt of coal-smoke and vegetables.
"The kitchen," they were informed, apologetically. "It wouldn't be right to use any of the family rooms, with the master away."
"Of course not," said John. "Now, why don't you tell us who you are, for a start?"
"Oh, yes, of course. Please, sit." Rodney sat next to John at the sturdy wooden table that dominated the room. He drummed his fingers impatiently, sniffing in vain for scent-traces of baking or coffee. "My name is Hanto. I run the household for the family." Hanto snapped his fingers and called and three girls appeared, bobbing respectfully, but with barely suppressed lurking smiles. "Yashna! Tea and refreshments for my guests. You two can make yourselves scarce! And no listening at the door!" The two girls exited, giggling. Yashna set a large kettle on to boil and disappeared into a larder.
"Our friends went missing two ni... er, darks ago. We think they came here that evening," John said. "Maybe with two of your clan, Mened and Angaray?"
Hanto sat down, looking troubled. "Yes, yes, there were guests that night, and they must have been brought here by at least one of our own or they would have had to come in through the main door." He looked at John and Rodney apologetically. "This home might as well be a maze, for the uninitiated. There are many sides doors and we servants are not always called to attend to guests, so sometimes we don't know who is in the house. They wait on themselves," he said, as if such a thing were slightly improper.
Yashna set a tray on the table, which held not only tea, but a variety of cookie-like items. Rodney's hand hovered briefly over the plate, selected the largest cookie and he began to nibble, busily. It had a slight cinnamon-like flavour. The servant girl stood awkwardly, twisting her apron between her fingers.
"Off you go, girl! I'll pour the tea!"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought I should say..."
"Yes, yes, spit it out, girl!"
"Master Angaray came to the kitchen that night!" She looked down and blushed.
"Did he now? I won't ask what for!"
Yashna giggled. "He had me make a tray of tea, and said there were two special guests, and that maybe the Getters'd be in charge from now on."
"Special guests?" barked Rodney. "Did he tell you their names? What they looked like?"
"No. But..." She hesitated. "And I know it was wrong, Sir, but I followed the master, cos I wanted a look for myself."
"And?" Rodney demanded.
"They were dressed same as you. A man with dark skin and a woman."
"And the family was there?" asked Hanto. "What else did you see? Why haven't you come to me earlier, foolish girl?"
"I didn't see nothing else, Sir! I had my duties and I went away!"
"Well, you can take yourself off now, if you've nothing else useful to say. Go on! Off with you!" Hanto took a gulp of his tea, and the cup rattled, as he replaced it on its saucer. "I'm sorry. I'm... we're all very worried. About the family."
"Didn't seem like she was that bothered," Rodney muttered.
"Of course you are," said John. "And at least now we know our friends were here."
Rodney took a rectangular cookie and bit into it. It was slightly salty and had a nice, crisp crunch. "But what happened then? Where did they go next?" he asked, taking a mouthful of tea and looking speculatively at the cookie plate.
"Well, that I don't know, I'm afraid," said Hanto. "All I know is, in the morning the family was gone, and with the Kethrons gone, who will lead the clan now?"
"So, that's Galta Kethron?" asked John.
"Yes, and his wife, Tythia and son Jerret."
"And was there any sign of a disturbance?" asked Rodney, taking a large, round cookie.
"No..." Hanto said, doubtfully. "But when we came to clean the meeting room, I noticed a vase was missing and I found some shards of pottery."
"A vase?"
"Blue and white. From above. None of your rough Maker ware. Valuable. None of the girls will admit to knowing anything about it. But who's to pay for it, that's what I'd like to know?"
John took a cookie and munched, thoughtfully. He swallowed, sipped his tea and said, "I was told there was a Maker place round here. Would they have been open late? Could our friends have gone there?"
"The factory? Yes, they'd be open late. Or working, anyway. Maybe not open to visitors. I can tell you how to get there."
oOo
"This is useless," said Ronon. "None of them saw anything. Or if they did, they're not telling."
He looked out over the inner courtyard of the apartment block, rubbish-strewn and partially flooded; a breeding ground for disease.
"We must keep trying, Ronon. There are still several apartments on this side."
Teyla knocked at the next door and, after a few seconds, it opened a little way and a very small girl peered round the edge. She looked at Ronon's knees, and as her gaze travelled upward, her eyes grew big, a hand clutched at a strand of her pale blonde hair, and she put it in her mouth and chewed it. Her head tipped back to look at the towering heights above her. Ronon hid behind his hair.
"Hello," said Teyla. "Is your mother at home? Or your father?"
The girl said nothing, but continued to stare at Ronon. He stared back between his dreadlocks, then let them fall, retaining just one. He put it in his mouth and chewed it. The girl smiled. Teyla crouched.
"My name is Teyla, and this is Ronon. What is your name?"
"Hennie," she said, still gazing at Ronon, who wiggled his eyebrows at her.
"Hennie, is there an adult at home? A grown-up?"
"Mommy's here."
"Can you get her for us?"
Hennie shook her head. "Mommy can't walk."
"Do you think we could come in?"
Hennie shook her head again, but then a voice called out, "Henneta, who's that? Who's at the door?"
The little girl ran off. Ronon spat his hair out of his mouth.
"We should just go in."
"I do not want to scare them."
"We're not scary. We're the good guys."
"Ronon..." Teyla raised her P90 and nodded her head at his weapon.
"Huh. See what you mean."
Hennie appeared once more.
"Mommy says what do you want and she's paid the rent and she doesn't want to buy if you're selling," she babbled, looking pleased with her powers of remembrance.
"We would just like to ask your mother some questions."
Hennie looked thoughtful. She turned to scuttle off again.
"Wait!" Teyla holding out a small container of the multivitamins that Carson had sent through the gate.
"What's that?"
"It's got sun in it," said Ronon.
Hennie snatched the pot and ran. She returned swiftly.
"Mommy says come in."
The apartment was tiny, dark and smelled of damp and mildew. There was a door on the right as they entered and, looking in, Ronon saw a dirty kitchen, its minimal floor space taken up by a box and a high stool next to it; it looked like Hennie was the cook. The narrow corridor passed one more door, closed, and at the far end was a room lit by an unshaded bedside lamp. There was a small table and two chairs, a rumpled cot and a bed next to the window. The bed was occupied.
"Is it true? These got sun in?" The pill bottle was held out in a trembling hand.
"Yes, and other things too, to promote good health," replied Teyla.
"Sit. Sit down. What do you want to know?"
The woman had a good view of the window, Ronon thought, and it didn't look like she moved much. Her face was greyly shadowed, her hair wispy and her arms thin and brittle-looking. The shape of her legs beneath the blankets looked wrong and he thought her spine was twisted oddly.
"You'll be here about those two that were taken," she said abruptly.
"You saw them?" asked Teyla.
"I saw them, I saw you, I see everything from here. Ain't going nowhere, that's for sure." She smiled, ruefully. "The name's Alsa."
Teyla introduced herself and Ronon. "You are unable to walk?"
"Never been above, and my folks couldn't afford food with sun in it when I was growing." She rattled the pills again. "Too late for me, but these might save my Hennie. Anyhow, you wanted to know 'bout your friends?"
"Yes. You said they were taken?"
"Two of them. The other two weren't there, that time. When they first came through, there were four. The leader, the black-skinned man, and two women, soldiers I guess - they looked comfortable with their weapons. Like yours." She gestured toward Teyla's P90. "Then another man. He seemed a bit awkward, nervous maybe. It was him and one of the women I saw. Late. They went into the Gate tunnel, but they were followed."
"Who followed them?" asked Ronon. "Did you know them?"
"Four men. I don't know... it was pretty dark. I think they were Makers."
"Why do you say that?" asked Teyla.
"Well, they mostly wear dark red, which I couldn't say for sure these folks did, but Getters, they wear hats with peaks at the front, see? And these had round hats like Makers."
"Did you see what happened to our friends?"
"I heard the Gate, then, not long after, the four came out, carrying your two between them. Went off toward the Maker place, down that way." She pointed in the opposite direction to Zanta's.
"Were they alive?"
"I reckon they must've been, even though they let themselves be carried." She shrugged. "Why take 'em if they were dead? Why not leave 'em or dial up and let the splash take 'em?"
Teyla looked at Ronon. They'd learned all they could.
"Give her some more," Ronon muttered, his eyes going to the little girl.
Teyla nodded and drew out another pill bottle. She held it out and Alsa took it with pitifully grateful thanks.
"We sent our team here to trade," said Teyla. "We would like to help your people. I hope we still can."
oOo
"So, not just a quick 'in-and-out', fire off a few rounds and grab our team kind of mission, then."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Bet you wish it was. This questioning thing? Slow, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"The cookies are good, though. Unusual flavours."
"Did you steal the cookies, McKay?"
"I just slipped a few into a convenient pocket. You wouldn't want me to go hypoglycaemic would you?"
John didn't think there was any danger of that, but, wisely, didn't comment. And Rodney was right; he'd feel much more at ease if he knew Jordan's team were being held somewhere. Then he could just break them out, go home and scrub the address from the dialling system: job done. All this hoofing it around searching for clues just wasn't John's kind of thing. And Rodney wasn't his ideal interrogation partner either; John would have been happy playing either the good cop or the bad cop element of the usual pairing, but he wasn't sure how to pitch it when his opposite number was rude, impatient, greedy cop. Did he have to remain polite and refuse all snacks? Because that didn't seem fair.
"Is that it?"
A white light shone out from high on the side of a large warehouse. There were double height doors that looked like they'd roll out to either side, and a small door, labelled 'Visitors'.
"Visitors. That's us!"
"Why so eager, McKay?"
"People that make things? There have to be some scientists in there!"
"I doubt there'll be anyone on your level."
"Well, no, of course not. Who is? But even so... Come on! Chop-chop! In you go!"
John turned the handle. The door was unlocked. He went in. There was a woman behind a counter, protected by a thick transparent barrier.
"Can I help you?" she asked, glaring at John's P90 disapprovingly.
"Yes! We need to see whoever's in charge!" Rodney said, before John could get a word out.
"Do you mean the factory foreman or Mr Breckna?"
"Who's more important?"
The receptionist sneered slightly, even while her voice still retained a tenuous hold on politeness. "Mr Breckna's the Clan Leader."
"Oh, really? Him then!"
"What names shall I give?"
John got in first. "Please tell Mr Breckna that Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard and Dr Rodney McKay would like to speak to him, if it's convenient." His ingratiating smile won him an appreciative look and a slight simper.
"I'll be right back." She disappeared through a door to one side of her booth.
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"The whole intergalactic Joey Tribbiani thing? 'How you doin'?'"
"I was just being polite, McKay! You might want to try it sometime!"
Rodney drew himself up. "I gave up on politeness after the time a certain meat-headed thug made me ask politely for my lunch bag and then emptied it into the trash, thereby ensuring my descent into hypoglycaemia during the course of an already traumatic Phys. Ed. lesson."
John, not sure what to say, shoulder-bumped him roughly. "I'd'a beat him up for you, McKay!"
"Well, of course you would! I suppose," he said, withdrawing another cookie from his pocket, "That what you really mean by 'being polite', is 'being polite up to a certain point, after which violence will ensue'."
John considered this. "Yeah, sounds about right."
"Please, come this way." The receptionist ushered them through into the inner recesses of the factory. John felt Rodney sag with disappointment; clothes were being made, some furniture, and over in the far corner some kind of machinery.
"There must be more to it than this," Rodney muttered. "Hey, Mrs Reception person! Where do they make those street signs?"
"Rodney!"
"I'm sure Mr Breckna will be happy to answer any of your questions, Sir!" she said, through gritted teeth, with the implication that she hoped her boss would, at the very least, sling him into the street.
"Tone it down, Rodney!" John admonished and received a grunt in return, which was almost certainly a negative.
They were led up a flight of stairs to a comparatively luxurious office. A large, well-fed man with a pink complexion sat behind a heavy desk of lustrous wood; the big boss, presumably. Another man stood; he was tall, but stooped and carried an armful of rolled papers, which John assumed were designs. He turned suddenly when they entered and dropped the rolls on the floor. John helped him pick them up.
"Thank you, um... clumsy of me."
"Yes, it was," said Mr Breckna. "But still not as clumsy as those designs! See that they are done again!"
"Yes, Sir, Mr Breckna!" The man left, bobbing his head obsequiously.
"Gresden, the factory foreman," Breckna informed them dismissively. "I may have to replace him." The round face seemed to take on a sinister aspect for a moment, but then he stood up and was suddenly wreathed in cheer.
"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard and Dr Rodney McKay, do I have that right? Welcome to my humble manufactory! Please, pull up a chair!"
John and Rodney did so. The chairs were highly padded and upholstered in dark brown leather, matching the luxury of the rest of the furnishings. It seemed that this was a distinctly unequal society.
"Now, what can I do for you... off-worlders? I am correct in making that assumption, am I not?"
"Yeah, that's right," answered John. "We're trying to track down a missing team. Four of our people came through the Gate three darks ago and we've traced two of them as far as the Getter Clan House that night. We were wondering if they came here?"
Breckna sat back in his chair, his hands raised expansively. "That, my friends, is easily ascertained! I will have my receptionist bring up her register and we will go through it together!"
"You weren't here that night?" asked John.
"Regrettably, no," he smiled, and then his face broke into a broad beam. "Although, I certainly have no reason to regret the little matter that occupied my full attention that evening!" He lowered his voice and leant forward, conspiratorially. "A certain lady was involved," he informed them, with a knowing leer. He got up, abruptly. "I will send for the register and perhaps... a little refreshment?"
He left the office and Rodney immediately gave a dramatic shudder.
"Eesh! What a sleaze-bag!"
"You don't like him?"
"Do you?"
"He's kinda..." John searched for an appropriate description. "Oily. I think that covers it. And, those designs? The paper they were drawn on. It's like that scrap Teyla found!"
"Really?" Rodney didn't have time to say more. Breckna entered the room, followed by the receptionist, who was carrying a large ledger.
"Put it on my desk!" Breckna directed. She did so and he leafed through the pages, running his finger down the close-written columns. "Ah, here we are. Major Jordan and Sergeant Bell. Whose hand is this, Copsen?" he barked.
"It isn't mine, Sir. I don't work that late. The men sometimes sign in guests for themselves after hours. They're not supposed to, I know."
"No. They're not. Find out who let them in and send them to me."
"Yes, Sir."
"And bring some food and drink! Quick, now!"
The unfortunate Copsen scurried away and Breckna's manner returned to its former false charm.
"You have to be firm with staff, you understand?"
"Yes, I do understand," said John neutrally and thought he detected a brief, hard gleam in Breckna's eyes.
oOo
Rodney nearly choked. He reached for his glass, spluttering a spray of fine crumbs and took a large gulp, then felt his eyes involuntarily squint and his nose tingle at the taste of the drink.
"What the...!" he broke off and began coughing again.
"McKay!"
"They're revolting!"
"Our homegrown sustenance is, perhaps, an acquired taste!" Breckna commented, unperturbed.
"What's in those things? Seaweed?"
"Amongst other things. Very nutritious, I assure you!"
"Well, you can keep your nutrition!" Rodney took out the last of the Getter cookies from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth, desperate to lose the harsh, chemical taste.
"Look, Mr Breckna, maybe we should come back later," said John.
"I am sure Copsen will be back soon. I can't think what's keeping her!"
A knock came at the office door and the receptionist entered, timidly.
"Well? Where are they?" Breckna snapped.
"I'm sorry, Sir, I've been all over the factory, and nobody will tell me who signed those visitors in."
"That's just not good enough, woman! Do I have to remind you of your position?"
"Now hold on a minute," John intervened. "There's no need for threats!"
Breckna turned his cold gaze on John.
"I think perhaps you are right, Colonel Sheppard. You should leave, and return only when you feel able to respect my authority to do as I see fit on my own premises."
For a moment, Rodney thought John would say something rash, but he merely gave a sharp jerk of his head and narrowed his eyes, then got up, thrusting his chair back with a little too much force.
"C'mon, McKay."
Rodney followed him out, along the walkway overlooking the factory floor, and down the stairs. A figure lurked in the shadows at the foot of the stairs.
"I saw your friends." It was the foreman, Gresden. "That night. I saw them."
"Who did they meet?" John asked. "Did you see them leave?"
"One of the boys showed them up to the office. I don't know who was up there. I was on my way out."
"You didn't see them leave?"
"No." He looked around, furtively. "I have to go!" He hurried away, and soon Rodney was outside, tugging his hat down over his ears once more, against the perpetual drip of rust-tinted water.
"That went well!" he commented.
John sighed and rubbed a hand round the back of his neck, as if to ease tense muscles. "At least we know Jordan and Bell were there. But not if they were allowed to leave. And there's that scrap of paper Teyla found that links the Makers with their rooms at Tilda's. We'll check in with Atlantis on our way to Zanta's, tell them what we found."
They began retracing their steps in the direction of the Gate.
"The only thing we know for sure is that Breckna's a nasty piece of work! Jordan and Bell may have been there, if you trust Gresden's word; nobody else saw them. And the paper? Something and nothing! Anyone could have dropped that! Are you listening?"
"Yeah, sure."
"No, you're not! What? What's wrong?" Rodney stopped and glared at John, but was nudged into motion again.
"Just keep moving. Be ready to run."
"What? Why?"
"Just a feeling."
"Oh, God! Your feelings always end in running or shooting, or running and shooting!"
A shot rang out from his left and Rodney heard a metallic ricochet and saw a spark struck at his feet. Another quickly followed from his right and struck the ground behind him.
"Run!"