Chapter 8

Clinging to the debris of the stream bed, his lungs straining, Ronon could hear the beat of the fans. He had no time to think who, or why, or even what had become of his attacker. He concentrated furiously, knowing his time was short and his chance slim; beat, beat, beat, like the flash of the railtrucks before he jumped. Beat, beat, beat: he let go. The current took him, and there was battering noise and churning froth and a heavy blow to his left thigh, then, from brown murkiness, he plunged into black. He fought and kicked and gasped in a lungful of air, but his next mouthful was water and he choked and thrashed, realised he was falling, filled his lungs once more with air, and then gasped in shock, inhaling more water, this time icy cold. He felt himself forced down by a pummelling, thrusting weight and Ronon fought; he fought hard, and he kept fighting and felt no pain, even though his left leg and right arm wouldn't respond as they should. Over and over he tumbled in the churning current until suddenly his head was above water and he heaved in great gasping breaths of freezing air. The powerful flow took him, on and on into darkness; he could see nothing, and his numbness and exhaustion tricked his senses so that he felt motionless, suspended in a void. He tried to feel the current and swim with it, but his limbs were heavy and dragging, so he focussed on staying afloat, keeping his mouth and nose out of the water.

Then, at last, he could see: grey, indeterminate points and highlights at first, faint, silvery outlines of rocky walls and shimmering water, then glaring brightness that became stronger and more luminous and impossibly brighter, until he screwed his eyes shut in pain.

His feet dragged and he lifted them up. They dragged again and he felt, not harsh, skin-tearing rock, but soft, forgiving sand. The current slackened. His legs grounded again; he thrust down and his body surged out of the water. He fell, weak with cold and exhaustion, but he tried again, pushing himself out of the clinging current, opening his eyes a tiny crack and squinting at the blinding yellow-white expanse, as he forced his legs forward; wading, thigh-deep, calf-deep, ankle-deep.

Ronon collapsed. He lay on his back, unable to move, drained and heavy with shock, weary to his bones. And now he felt his pain; pain in his thigh and his arm and a multitude of bruises. But, slowly, with a heartfelt, soulfelt sense of rightness, a smile spread across his face; the smile became a grin and the grin became a laugh. Because, beneath his battered frame there was warm, welcoming sand, and on his chilled skin was the heat of life-giving rays, and his eyes, tight shut after days of twilit, half-lit gloom, would soon open to a world bathed in sunlight. So Ronon lay and laughed, and was filled with thankfulness for the wonders of his life.

He smiled again as he poked at his fire with a bit of driftwood, stirring up the flames, watching sparks drift into the clear night sky; the sky, filled with stars, a small crescent moon high above and a larger one, rising out over the ocean. To be buried beneath rock, trapped in the darkness, that was no life for anyone, and certainly not for Ronon.

Teyla would think him dead, his body destroyed and washed away. She'd have told Sheppard and McKay and maybe they'd believe it, maybe they wouldn't; there wasn't a lot they could do either way. They'd hope, they'd grieve, because they were team, because they were family.

If his team were here, McKay would be describing s'mores and bananas stuffed with chocolate and other campfire treats, Teyla would smile gently, while studying abstract shapes in the flames, and Sheppard would be lying on his back, head resting on his hands, watching the stars and dreaming about flight.

Ronon poked the fire again, threw on a couple more sticks, and edged closer. Driftwood burnt hot, fierce and quick, and his back felt cold while his face was near scorching. He put on a thicker branch, picked up in the woodlands behind the beach, and lay down on the soft sand, sheltered in the hollow of grass-topped dunes. He'd get back to them, to his team. There were ways down into the city and he'd find them. The vents probably weren't an option; there'd be poison gas and fumes or whatever, but he'd find caves, passages, the ways the Getters used.

His leg throbbed and he sat up and peeled back the poultice of bashed-up leaves and roots. It looked okay, even though it was badly bruised, with a broad, ugly scrape. It had been a glancing blow from the fan blade - anything more and he'd have lost a leg. The wound would slow him down, but its broadness made it easier to clean and he knew the plants, common to many worlds, which would draw out infection; the types that grew here, on the seashore, and the different ones he'd find further inland. The knife wound in his bicep could be more of a problem. It wasn't as painful and was a simple stab, with no twisting or tearing, but it was deep, and deep, narrow wounds tended to trap dirt inside. He'd done what he could for now, though, and survival was about doing what you could do at the time.

He'd get back to his team, no matter the obstacles; he'd just keep going and keep going and somehow he'd to do it. McKay was right, though; s'mores would have been pretty nice.

oOo

Everybody was annoyed with Rodney, and that simple word 'annoyed' encompassed a whole spectrum of irritation, from mildly pissed to incandescent with rage. Zanta was right up there at the extreme end, because they knew she'd told Breckna about their eyewitness to the kidnapping and now Brant was dead. "Do the math!" he'd spat, and she'd done the math and thrown it back in his face with a hefty shovelful of bitter sarcasm and white-hot fury. Teyla was openly displeased, which actually amounted to a whole lot more with Teyla; but he'd had to ask, hadn't he? Because how many revolutions per minute was important when you didn't want your friend to have been chopped into mincemeat. So he'd wanted details - how big were the blades, how many, how fast, did they appear blurred? And then she'd fixed him with one of those 'stern disapproval' looks and John had snapped, 'Leave it, Rodney!' So that had completed the set of people who were thoroughly, moderately or mildly pissed at Dr M R McKay.

Rodney shifted restlessly and his piled sleeping bags rustled. Above him, John turned over, groaning. He listened for Teyla's breathing: determinedly deep and even, meditating her way toward sleep.

"I'm sorry, Teyla."

Soft, blankety noises as she turned toward him. "I am sorry too, Rodney. You were trying to help, I know." He felt a touch on his shoulder as she reached down to him in his narrow space between the beds. "The fan blades were not blurred."

"Oh. Then maybe..."

"He's out there, somewhere," said John, his voice rasping with tiredness.

"And we can find out what's behind the fans, where it goes..."

"In the morning, Rodney!"

"Yes. Of course. Sleep." He shuffled back down in the sleeping bags and closed his eyes. Teyla's breathing evened out again; a long, slow in and a long, slow out. John twitched, shifted, his breath hitched. "Except none of us are sleeping, are we?" Rodney reached up and flailed around the nightstand, knocking over the lamp, righting it and switching it on. John grunted and buried his face in the blankets. Teyla shaded her eyes and blinked at Rodney.

"Anyone hungry?"

A negative grumble came from beneath John's blankets.

"I am, a little," Teyla said.

Rodney sat up, searched beneath the head of his sleeping bags and drew out some energy bars. He gave one to Teyla and propped himself up to sit cross-legged against the side of her bed, tearing his wrapper open.

"You sure you don't want one, Sheppard?"

A corner of the blankets flipped back.

"Yeah, okay, why not. I'm not getting to sleep any time soon." John sat up carefully and leant back against the headboard with a wince.

"When did you last have a pain pill?" Rodney asked, handing him an opened energy bar.

John scowled taking the bar with a grunt of thanks.

"John has refused to take Zanta's pills," Teyla said, disapprovingly.

"They make me loopy!"

"So?" said Rodney. "We could all do with some entertainment!"

"Rodney! That is not helping!"

"Seriously, Sheppard, take the pills. What difference does it make if you're loopy overnight? Or are you afraid that you'll imagine boogeymen creeping up on you? Because it'll only be Teyla going to the bathroom!"

"Boogeymen!" John snorted, scornfully.

"Hmm, I suppose your drug-induced imaginings might be a little worse than an average childhood nightmare."

"Yeah, boogeymen can dance round me in a ring wearing tutus!"

There should have been a deep-chested rumble of laughter and for a moment Rodney thought his energy bar was on its way up again. "So tomorrow, or today rather, what's our action plan? Missing Ronon, missing team, missing Gate crystals; where do we start?"

John crumpled his wrapper and half-heartedly aimed it at Rodney; it rolled under the bed. "You two go to the Getter house, find out if they know about the bodies, see if you can shake that Hanto guy for more intel. Talk to the other servants, anyone. Bribe, threaten; we need to know what's going on around here."

"Shall we visit Breckna as well?" asked Teyla.

"No. No, leave him alone." John rubbed his left shoulder and eased his arm, with a frown. "I was thinking we might have a look round his place later on."

"What, break in? And by 'we', you mean 'we'?" Rodney gestured between himself and Teyla.

"Is that wise, John? It will be guarded well!"

"C'mon, Teyla, you can get round any guards. We need to know what this guy's up to!"

"And we need the Gate crystals," Rodney added. "What about Ronon?"

"I'll deal with that."

oOo

"Probably have to hammer on the door for half an hour before we get an answer. Or not!"

The Getter Clan House was busy; groups entering and groups leaving, knots of men and women talking earnestly before dispersing into the dark streets. The maid, Yashna, stood at the door.

"What's happening here?" Rodney asked.

"Oh, Sir! The young Master's returned!"

"What? The son? I thought he was dead!"

The girl's face crumpled and she began to sob into a handkerchief.

"Oh God, I'm not dealing with this! Teyla!"

"You said the young Master has returned?" Teyla asked. "Jerret Kethron is alive? Is that right?"

"Yes, Miss, but they're saying Master Galta and my mistress are dead." Tears continued to roll down her face. "My poor lady, that was always so kind and so pretty!"

"You didn't seem that upset last time we were here," Rodney pointed out.

The girl fixed him with an angry glare. "I loved my mistress!"

"No doubt you were her most loyal servant!" said Rodney, dryly.

"That I was, Sir, to be sure!"

"Perhaps we may speak to Master Jerret?" Teyla suggested.

"Yes, I'm sure loyal servants shouldn't keep guests hanging around on the doorstep."

Yashna drew herself up with a haughty glare. "I don't know as if he's receiving, but I'll find out. Please come this way!" She walked ahead of them with great dignity and the occasional congested sniff, and showed them into a small antechamber.

"Rodney, please, if you cannot be polite, let me speak for both of us!"

"Politeness is over-rated."

"Nevertheless, you must try! We must find out how this man is still alive. He may have much to tell!"

Rodney grunted an acknowledgement. The maid returned.

"The Master will see you."

"Honoured, I'm sure!"

"Rodney!"

They were shown up a flight of stairs with carved wooden bannisters and thick carpet, and then into a large bedchamber, well-lit from gold wall-sconces and a real fire in a marble surround. Rodney's jaw tightened; the old hat-seller had lived, and died in a filthy doorway.

The occupant of the bed had a large bandage wrapped around his head, but his shadowed eyes were sharply assessing in his youthful face.

"Miss Emmagan! Dr McKay! I am glad to meet more of our friends from Atlantis. I only wish it were under happier circumstances."

"What? Do you know what happened to our team? Are they dead?"

Jerret shook his head at Rodney's peremptory demands. "I am sorry, I don't know. I was referring to the deaths of my honoured father and mother."

"I am sorry for your loss," said Teyla. "We would be very interested to learn how this happened."

"Yes, of course. Please, sit. That evening, that dreadful evening, a family meeting was held - just the usual business, you understand - and two of our men arrived, bringing with them your team members. Major Jordan and Sergeant Bell, do I have that right? Yes. We talked and learnt of their mission to seek trade and allies, but Major Jordan expressed an interest in meeting other local business leaders, and so I directed him to the Maker Clan. They left the house with that in mind, but, I'm sorry, I don't know if they contacted the Makers. And now I am told they are missing together with two others?"

"Sadly, yes," said Teyla. "We were sent to this world to find them."

"And also to seek allies and trade, as was your original intent?"

"Well, I suppose that depends on whether we get our team back and what condition they're in!" said Rodney. "What happened after Jordan and Bell left?"

"The meeting proceeded late into the night," said Jerret. He stopped and placed a hand on his brow, his eyes closed. "And then we were invaded! Attacked in our own home! My father... my father was killed in front of me and I, to my shame, I ran. I ran and was pursued. Relentless, murderous pursuit, high into the upper levels of the city and into the cave network above. At last I eluded them, but fell and hit my head and did not regain my full senses until last night, when I finally made my way home. And now I learn that my mother was killed too, while I ran, too scared to defend her."

"You would probably be dead too if you had stayed," said Teyla. "I do not want to distress you, but I saw their bodies. I blessed their passing, after the manner of my people."

"Thank you."

"There were two others with them," Teyla prompted.

"Mened and Angaray, that brought your compatriots to us, although my people tell me that only Mened was identifiable. Such an awful fate!"

"I don't expect they minded at that point," Rodney mumbled.

Teyla shot him a glare. "Could you identify your attackers?"

"Yes. Yes, Makers, every one!"

"You are sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! And I'm sure they are going to pay! Breckna's been after our territory for years, wanting to go Above and off-world to Get for himself, but he's gone too far. You see that, don't you? You won't want to be allies with the likes of him, will you? The Getters will be much better partners! Especially if you can help us stabilise the situation here." He leant forward eagerly.

"Stabilise? What does that mean?" said Rodney sharply.

"Just that the world Above has great resources, and that to take advantage of them you would need to help us to suppress any dissenting factions."

"We do not usually involve ourselves in political situations," said Teyla, firmly.

"But Breckna has to go. He killed my father! And my mother!"

"Our leader, Dr Elizabeth Weir, is a great diplomat. I am sure she would be very glad to set up some kind of mediation."

Jerret subsided against his bank of pillows, a red spot of colour high on each cheek.

"You superior, Colonel Sheppard? Colonel is a high rank, is it not? Why did he not come today? Perhaps he would have a different view!"

Rodney bristled at being considered John's subordinate, but Teyla replied, "Colonel Sheppard was wounded in an attack."

"An attack? By whom?"

"We do not know."

"The Makers, no doubt! You see why they must be stopped! Was he badly hurt?"

"He was shot in the arm," said Rodney, impatiently. "And his views would be the same as ours. We avoid interfering in off-world politics."

Jerret plucked irritably at the bedspread. "I am tired now. You should go," he said, weakly.

"Of course. We hope you recover from your ordeal soon."

A hand waved dismissal and they were ushered out by the once again tearful Yashna, snivelling about her 'poor mistress'. Teyla attempted to comfort her, to no avail. "And me sure to have been chosen to nurse the little one when it arrived!"

Outside, Rodney said, "What do you think?"

"I think he is a man of ambition."

"I think he's a coward, running off and hiding. I bet he didn't hit his head at all, just too scared to come out of the hole he'd tucked himself into."

Teyla looked troubled. "If what he says is true, he has a legitimate grievance. To be attacked in one's own home..."

"If what he says is true. We've only his word to go on."

oOo

"Ronon's outside, on the surface." John met Teyla's eyes and then Rodney's and ignored the reflected doubt. "He got through, and that guy Friegar said the drain meets up with a river. Rivers always come to the sea eventually."

"Yes." Rodney agreed, hesitantly. "Okay, yes, let's say he made it."

"He did!"

"Yes, okay, trying to be positive, here! Where does that leave us?"

"It leaves us still needing the Gate crystals, so we can get help from Atlantis, organise S and R, divert the Daedalus."

"Which is still, what, a week out from Pegasus?"

John thumped his fist on the table. "Stop seeing negatives, McKay! We need to focus on what we can do!" John's arm twinged and he felt a headache building behind his eyes. "Sorry. I'm frustrated, I guess."

"That is understandable, John." Teyla poured him some more tea, adding several pinches of sweetener.

"Thanks, Teyla."

"I think you're right, Sheppard. We should raid the Maker joint!" said Rodney.

"I didn't say anything about a raid!"

"Okay, a break-in, then!" conceded Rodney. "Look, I'm not sure if I believe that Jerret character and I'm not about to suggest we take his side in some petty clan war, but there's too much evidence that points to the Makers to just ignore it!"

"Alsa said she thought Makers kidnapped Dr Griffin and Captain Franks," said Teyla. "And the last known location of Major Jordan and Sergeant Bell was the Maker factory."

"Jerret says Makers attacked him, and we were attacked on our way back from their place," John added.

"And Zanta tells her boyfriend about our eyewitness and Brant pays the price! Plus the fact that their snacks are really bad!" said Rodney. "I just think that should be taken into consideration!"

"And I think you don't know this world as well as you think you do!"

Zanta stood behind Rodney's chair and he screwed around to face her, his expression half guilt, half defiance.

"You're right, Zanta," John said. "We're on the back foot, here, but we have to do what we can to find our missing team, and now Ronon too."

"And our evidence points to the Makers!" said Rodney.

"You search hard enough, you'll dig up dirt on any of the Clans!" said Zanta. "They all squabble with each other and amongst themselves. They always have! And the Makers have never been the worst for that! There's plenty of rumours about the Getters, if you listen in the right places!"

"Yes, you probably start them on Breckna's orders!" snapped Rodney.

"Believe what you like, Dr McKay! I'm just trying to help you, because we need your help."

"I thought you were happy with the whole forgotten world deal!"

"Maybe I was wrong about that. I can admit it when I'm wrong, you know!" She glared at Rodney. "I've been thinking maybe our secrecy comes at too high a price, and that price is being paid by the ordinary folk round here. So, say what you like to me, I'm going to get these people what they need!" She stalked up the stairs and slammed her office door.

"Nicely handled, McKay." John smirked.

"She is a strong woman," said Teyla.

"Yes, she is." Rodney's mouth drooped unhappily.

"Cheer up, Rodney," said John. "I've got a great plan for your raid!"

"I thought you said it wasn't a raid. Okay, how do we get in?"

John grinned. "I've been talking to Ronon's miner friends."