Chapter 6

"So where is it, then?"

Herrick smiled and took a strangely shaped metal tool from his pocket. He tapped his foot on the rusted metal surface of the alleyway.

"Down there. Budge over a bit."

Ronon shifted to one side, looked at Teyla and shrugged his shoulders. The miner rubbed away a couple of flakes of rust with his work-hardened fingers, inserted the tool into a hole in the metal plate and turned it.

"Give us a hand, then!"

He began working his fingertips under the panel that had lifted slightly. Ronon and Teyla crouched down and did likewise and they raised the heavy panel and swung it up vertically on its hinge. Herrick held it up.

"Don't want to let it fall and let the whole neighbourhood know what we're up to!"

Teyla looked down at the utterly black rectangular pit at her feet. "You said that the Mining clan commonly use these trucks for transport," she said. "Would those in authority not allow this?"

"Well, strictly speaking, we should've gone to one of the depots and filled in permits and all that. This is easier, though."

"How do we get on? Will it stop?" Ronon asked.

"Stop?" Herrick laughed. "No, you don't want to stop it! See, down there," he pointed, "the gradient's nice and shallow, so the trains are slow and you can just wait til you hear one coming and drop in." He wagged an imperative finger. "Further along, though, it'll be steep, so you'll want to keep your heads down and hold on."

"Cool," said Ronon.

"And how exactly do we climb out?" Teyla enquired.

Herrick scratched his chin. "You're both pretty fit, I take it? Pretty agile? Yes? Well, no problem, then! So there's a long stretch out in the open which will be the best place for you to get off. She'll have slowed down a bit by then, so you just grab one of the overheads, tuck yourself up and wait for the train to go by, then drop down onto the track. Then you get off the track sharpish in case there's another one coming! Ah, that's one coming now. Hear that? You ready?"

Teyla did not feel particularly enthusiastic about this mode of transport. She suspected that John, however, would have loved it, and would feel he had missed out on a rare treat. Ronon was bouncing with eagerness. Herrick took out a flashlight and shone it down into the underfloor passage. There was a growing rumble and Teyla could feel tremors through the soles of her boots.

"Who's going first?" asked Herrick.

"I will go," said Teyla, never one to back away from a challenge.

"Right, then. You'll be able to see the edges of the trucks as they go by. You get the rhythm of them, then you jump, see? Simple!"

Simple indeed, thought Teyla, but not necessarily easy. She watched the beam of Herrick's flashlight as it illuminated the track below. The rumbling and grinding increased and then there was movement. Flash, flash, flash: she jumped.

The fall was short and the landing brutal and Teyla was immediately flung hard to the back of the truck and all was darkness and noise and bitter grit between her teeth and in her eyes and nose. She coughed and sneezed and felt her eyes water. She thought she had heard a thud following her own landing and hoped Ronon had made it too. Teyla could see nothing and her ears were filled with the grinding rattle of the trucks' progress. The darkness and the side-to-side rhythmic swaying were disorienting so that she could barely tell if she was upright, but she wedged herself against the rear end of the truck, her arms stretched out to either side, hands in firm contact with the cold, dusty walls. The gradient increased, the rhythmic chatter and sway sped up and Teyla felt the wind of their passing reach down into her shelter, stirring up the coal dust and blowing her hair into a tangle. There was a sharp right turn, then a left and then the slope was steeper still so that the train seemed to plummet into the centre of the planet. From behind her there came a series of wild, exhilarated whoops.

oOo

Rodney was damp, hungry and irritable. He was damp because he had helped John shower, which had involved lots of being leant on and trying to pass things with his head averted and his eyes closed. There had also been a fair bit of bad-tempered swearing on both sides, an incident where soapy foam had found its way onto Rodney's forehead and run down to sting his eyes (he was fairly sure it had been deliberate), and the whole shaving debacle, which had involved Sheppard's insistence on being clean-shaven right here and now and Rodney's prediction that he would cut himself and/or fall over. Having narrowly averted both events, Rodney had unfortunately let slip that he and all of the team who weren't John had lunched on delicious crispy battered fish the previous day. His comment, "You can't expect to have all the 'getting shot attention' and not miss a few meals," hadn't gone down well and he had departed under a hail of rapidly weakening abuse, promising to return with sustenance, 'asap'. He wouldn't though, because a combination of post-shower exhaustion and judiciously administered painkiller would, he believed, give him a good few hours' peace. Or not, thought Rodney as he perched on a barstool mulling over a plate of grey things and a repellently yellow drink of dubious provenance.

"All alone?"

Zanta leant an elbow on the bar next to him, her Eastern-promise scent and assertively alluring bosom both invading Rodney's space.

"As you see," he replied, shortly. Out of the corner of his eye, Rodney observed Zanta's mocking pout and laughing brows.

"Half your team out on an errand and your Colonel languishing in his sickbed; I thought we might steal a little time for ourselves!

"Sheppard doesn't languish," he said, determinedly forcing down one of the spongy grey items. "He just swears then falls asleep."

"But your other two protectors have gone out, haven't they?"

Fishing for information, thought Rodney. To pass to... whom? Perhaps he might try dangling a little bait of his own. He shrugged, unconcernedly.

"Ronon and Teyla can take care of themselves. Although I suppose in this place, most people need extra protection."

"You're safe enough with me, Dr McKay! I won't let anything bad happen to you!"

"With the implication that something good might?" He turned on his stool to face her directly.

"If you want it to."

"Well, I don't know." Rodney, impatient with fencing, decided to cut to the chase. "I'm quite particular when it comes to who I trust with my life."

"Have I given you any reason to doubt my good faith?" Zanta's playful mockery slipped a little.

"Let's just say I developed a healthy scepticism before I started grade school," snapped Rodney. "And I'm wondering which organ grinder's playing your tune?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean that, grateful though we may be for your help and protection, under whose protection do you fall? Who's keeping you in the luxury to which you've so clearly become accustomed?"

Zanta flinched visibly and colour spread from her cheeks and down over her throat and chest.

"This is my world, Dr McKay, and I've had to make my way in it as best I can. I don't see that it's any business of yours what alliances I may have had to form along the way!"

"Alliances. Really. And what might these alliances entail, exactly?"

"I said it's not your business!"

"It is when the cost of your sheltered life involves spying for your protector, whoever that may be!"

Zanta's flaming colour receded rapidly and her eyes narrowed.

"Spying? So, we come to the heart of the matter! I take it your wounded leader wasn't as sick as he made out last night? Perhaps the accusation works both ways!"

Rodney slumped on his stool and shook his head.

"No. No... this is..." He floundered. "Look, you said this is your world. Well, yes, of course it is, and we're stranded here and you've helped us. And, for the record, Sheppard wasn't trying to spy on you last night! He's a blow-em-up action hero and not so much with the subtleties of espionage."

"But he did hear me on the speaker."

"You admit it then?"

"Admit what? That I'm part of my community? That I have people who make my life easier?"

"Actually, it's just the passing information that I have a problem with!"

"So, I keep a certain party informed! Where's the harm in that?"

"Where's the harm? Where's the harm in information? Information is power! Information brings down governments, wins or loses wars, leads to peace or destruction or a million states in between! Never doubt the importance, the danger of information!"

Rodney's accusing finger vibrated between them. The bar was silent and he felt his heart pounding and sweat prickling on his forehead. He looked into Zanta's eyes and she looked back, with a heated mix of anger, fascination and possibly guilt. Rodney dropped his hand and sat back on his stool, suddenly feeling exposed. Zanta said nothing, but a slight smile flickered over her lips and was gone.

"What? Are you laughing at me? Yes, why not, laugh at the funny doom-saying clown!"

"No!" Her hand was on his arm, her expression open, unguarded. "No, I was just..." She smiled again. "All that intensity, that energy! I was wondering what it'd feel like if you put it to a different use."

"Oh." Rodney swallowed and ran a hand round his collar. "You mean...?"

She nodded. "It's a shame my bed's occupied."

To Rodney's dismay, a nervous giggle escaped. "There's always mine!" he squeaked.

"There is, isn't there?" She slid off her stool.

"Okay, so, we're, um... we're doing this?"

She turned and headed for the stairs, looking over her shoulder to say, "Well I am, and I've heard it's more fun with a friend!"

Rodney jumped off his stool and hurried after her, tripping over a chair and knocking into a table.

"I've heard that too!" he said. "Of course, this doesn't mean I've forgotten the whole information thing!"

"We'll talk about it," she said, with a proprietary hand on the small of his back, "later."

oOo

Ronon crouched in the centre of his truck, legs spread fore and aft, arms out to either side. The truck lurched to the right and he compensated, then it plunged forward and he shifted his weight back to counter the gradient. He ignored the burning in his thighs and kept his knees loose and flexible so that they easily took in the up and down motion. Sheppard would love this, Ronon thought. They'd been surfing together once and that had been great, but Ronon thought riding the mining truck must be a cross between surfing and snowboarding. And the pitch darkness just added an extra thrill. The gradient eased, swerved suddenly to the left and plunged once more.

"Woo hoo!"

He grinned, imagining one of Teyla's eye-rolls coming at him through the darkness. It wasn't quite so dark, though, he thought, as his peripheral vision began to register the flicker of his outstretched hands. The gradient became much more shallow, some of the speed dropped away and suddenly white light burst around him. Ronon stood, fully upright, and saw that the train was out in the open, or as open as it got in this place. They were above street level, and the now familiar narrow alleys and makeshift, scrapheap construction flashed past, lit here by more frequent, brighter street lights.

Ronon looked up at the ironwork passing above him, finding the rhythm of its structure. He crouched, counted, leapt up and grasped with both hands, feeling a stinging smack as they met the metal strut. His legs tucked up and his body curled, he swung wildly with the force of his momentum as the train rumbled beneath. The last truck passed and Ronon dropped and landed lightly on the track. Ahead of him, he saw Teyla do the same and, mindful of Herrick's words, he swiftly vaulted the side barrier and clambered down to ground level. Teyla descended a few metres away. She turned and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Ronon bit his lip hard, but it made no difference; his laughter rang out.

"You look like a taska imp!"

Teyla's eyes narrowed in her coal-blackened face and she strode toward him.

"A taska imp," she stated, as if reciting from a book of Satedan mythology. "A small, messy, dirty creature, said to inhabit abandoned mine workings!"

Ronon wondered whether he should be planning a defensive strategy.

"And you," her accusing finger poked him in the chest, "look like a k'narr goblin!"

Ronon fingered his blackened hair, shrugged and grinned in acknowledgement. "Jinto told me about those guys. Live in fallen tree trunks with their hair camouflaged amongst the roots."

"So it is said," nodded Teyla, seriously. Then she smiled and they both laughed. "Perhaps there is somewhere we could wash," Teyla said. "At least we could use some of the water in our canteens."

"No, leave it, you'll just make it worse. C'mon."

oOo

Teyla tried to resist scratching her scalp; it itched, and her hair felt thick and greasy with coal dust. The dust had penetrated her clothes too, and her skin chafed under her arms where her jacket bunched up beneath her vest.

"What's that noise?" Ronon asked their guide.

"Fans!" This stated with an incredulous sneer at their ignorance. They had come across a group of children playing in the street, or playing above the street would be more accurate, Teyla thought, as their game involved a scrambling, swinging, daredevil chase up and down the sides of the buildings. Asking where they might find those in authority amongst the Venters, one of the gang, a pallid, gangling youth by the name of Talek, had offered to take them, chiefly, it seemed, for the purpose of showing off his local knowledge and bringing them to full awareness of their sadly uneducated status.

"Fans pull the air through, see? That's why things is always blowing about round here. You'll see 'em soon - can't miss 'em really!" he laughed. "'Course there's other fans; up by the factories and down by the mines," he said dismissively, as if these inferior specimens were of little account. "But ours are the biggest, and there's six of 'em!"

The deep, throbbing hum increased and, rounding a corner, Talek stopped and gestured proudly, grinning. The fans were an impressive sight indeed, Teyla thought; set into the rocky wall of the cavern, they towered above their gloomy surroundings, like six gigantic, spinning, four-petalled flowers.

"Stinks," Ronon said, bluntly.

"Yeah, well, that's the run-off, ain't it?" said Talek. He led them to a railing, which guarded a sheer drop to six wide channels, leading toward and beneath the fans. The channels rushed and boiled with a turbulent and pungent mass of water and waste.

"Run-off comes through the drains and out through the tunnels, see? Normally it's pretty tame and just goes beneath the fans, but, I dunno, there must have been a big storm Above, cos, look, it comes up high so the blades are wet!" Talek stood on the bottom rung of the railings, leaning over, his scruffy hair whipped by the strong, steady breeze. Teyla watched the huge blades dipping into the rushing water, turning it into flying streamers of foam. It was fascinating, but she shivered suddenly and looked over her shoulder.

"Something wrong?" Ronon asked.

Teyla shook her head, but scanned the buildings behind her, which were fewer here, and shorter in construction, and overshadowed by the lowering cavern roof. A group of Venters stood around a dismantled sluice-gate mechanism nearer to the fans.

"I am not sure."

"There was bodies washed out the other day and the Venters hooked 'em up before they was chopped to bits by the fans!" Talek informed them, with enjoyment. "Hey, are you here about the bodies?"

"Did you see them?" asked Teyla, without answering his question.

"Yeah, and I wished I hadn't! All naked and bloated and bashed! My Da said someone up Gatewards must've shoved them in the drains, and normally that'd be that! Only there must've been a storm which wash 'em out. Da said."

Ronon had wandered along toward the fans. The group of Venters had dispersed, all but one, and Teyla saw the man beckon to Ronon and point down into the water. She peered over the railings into the frothing maelstrom, but couldn't see what the man had noticed. A shout rose above the churn of the water and the deep hum of the fans, and Teyla looked up to see Ronon struggling, his head and body over the railing, hands clinging on, legs kicking, as the man tried to tip him over.

Teyla ran, bringing up her P90. Ronon would not fall; he was strong. He had moved his body sideways and up, and hit out at his opponent, but then a flicker of light plunged down. Teyla fired. She hit the stranger, definitely; she couldn't miss, not at that range. It made no difference. They were gone.

"Ronon!" She leant far out over the railing. "Ronon!" Teyla searched the turbulent surface, but saw nothing; not a head, not a hand, not a splash that might be made by her teammate, her friend.

"He knifed him! That man! He knifed him and he let go!"

"How do I get down there?" Teyla demanded.

"You don't! I mean, there's no point!" Talek's eyes grew huge and shocked as he looked at the base of the fan where it met the water and Teyla echoed his cry of horror.

"No! Ronon!" But the water, which had briefly frothed red, continue to flow, and the great fans continued to turn regardless.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Miss. He's gone."

Teyla turned and met Talek's shocked, tear-filled eyes. Almost, she gave in. Almost, she dropped to her knees and clung to the half-grown man, who had suddenly reverted to a child; she could give and take comfort and let her bitter tears fall. But, no; she was Teyla Emmagan, of the Athosians and she had grown to maturity alongside the sudden, tearing pain of her own and others' loss. She lifted her chin and drew back her shoulders.

The Venters, alerted by their shouts, had re-emerged from the surrounding buildings. Teyla spoke, her voice strong and clear above the constant roar of water and the beat of the fans.

"Who was that man?"

The Venters looked at each other and heads shook.

"He just turned up," said a woman. "A bit before you and your friend."

"He was not of your clan?"

Heads shook again. "He wanted to know about the bodies. Who they were, if anyone'd looked at them."

"What did you tell him?"

"We don't know who they were. And no-one's seen them or claimed them yet."

Teyla considered. The unknown man's motive in attacking Ronon must surely have been to prevent his seeing the bodies. Why? If they were the missing team, what would be the purpose in preventing their discovery? And if they weren't the missing team? Either way, where there was one attacker, there could be more. Teyla explain her mission to the Venters, whose compassionate gazes she worked hard to return with neutrality, and she soon found herself the centre of a large escort, indignant that violence had occurred on their territory, and protective of one who they had decided to adopt as an honoured guest. One of the women said she would take Talek home, and Teyla thanked him for his help with quiet dignity and pressed a pot of multivitamins into his chilled hands.

Her escort took her to the far end of the row of fans and a man and a woman led her into a small, rock-cut chamber, while the rest waited outside. The chamber was cold and lit by harsh, white electric light. Four shapes lay on the floor, draped with coarse, grey sheeting, and, despite the chill, there was a sickly scent of decay.

"They're not a nice sight, Miss," the woman said. "Are you sure you want to see them?"

"In a moment." Teyla drew a small scanner from her tac vest and looked at the display. There was no signal, which could mean that these were not the team, or simply that their transmitters were missing or damaged. She looked up. "I am ready."

The first sheet was lifted and folded back. Teyla detached herself from her normal human instincts of revulsion and horror and studied the corpse with cold, dispassionate eyes. This was no dried-up, Wraith-fed husk, nor yet the lovingly tended remains of a family member. Or close friend. Teyla closed her eyes, swallowed and narrowed the focus of her mind to the task she must perform. The body had been in water for several days. The water had been warm and, apparently inhabited by small, carnivorous creatures. There was also extensive damage caused by the body's travelling through narrow pipes, forced by the rise of flood water. It had been a woman, and Teyla knelt by her side, her hand hovering over the ravaged face, and spoke the brief words of an Athosian funeral benediction.

This could not have been either Helen Franks or Erin Bell. The frame was small and fine boned; not a member of the military. Teyla drew the sheet back over her and moved to the next in line. It had been a man, and she knew that, even allowing for discolouration, his skin could never have been black. She looked for more clues and realised that the body had neither Dr Griffin's height nor, as far as she could tell, his receding hairline. She uttered her ritual words and moved on. The next, also a man, had been much older, the remaining skin more distorted and damaged, the ragged threads of hair grey. She prayed for his peace and replaced the sheet.

"You might want to leave the last one. Got caught in the fans before we got a hold on it."

Teyla nodded her acknowledgement, lifted a corner of the sheet and immediately lowered it gently back down again. She wished the covered form 'sweet peace at the end of life's journey,' and then stood slowly and faced her guides, who huddled, close together, watching her with solemn, sorrowful faces.

"These people were not my friends."