Chapter 12

"I haven't got time for this!"

Rodney slammed the controls into reverse again and gave it a quick burst of power, feeling the Waffle rock in place. Forward, then another burst, reverse then another; Rodney felt like a truck driver, trying to get his rig out of the mud. He was still shivering, cold down to his soul, but even so, better than the popsicle he'd been not long ago, he thought. Another cycle of forward and reverse and then there was a massive lurch (inefficient inertial dampeners, he wrote, in the margin of his mind) and the waffle overcame the sediment's suction and heaved its enormous form off the ocean bed.

"Aha!"

"Are you free to take this now, Rodney?" Teyla had been heating MREs and Rodney desperately wanted to say yes and swallow down whatever was cooking in as few enormous gulps as possible.

"No! Not yet. I need to get it to the surface and align the array vertically; make sure its going to work." He glanced at Teyla, sidelong. "I don't suppose...?"

She scooped up a generous sporkful and posted it into his mouth. Bliss, whatever it was supposed to be. Rodney opened the vents to the water tanks, filling them to capacity, then converted Ancient units to Earth standard, to assess exactly what that capacity was. He raised his eyebrows at the total, impressed. Teyla inserted another sporkful and the Waffle began to breach the surface of the waves. Rodney felt and heard the change in the beat of the thrusters as the resistance lessened and, as the far edge of the circular Waffle emerged, he saw, through the viewscreen of the control pod, a line of light shine out in the darkness. Rodney raised the pod higher, away from the leaping waves and then triggered the pivot, so that the lit edge gradually fell away out of view and the giant array was vertical. Rodney allowed his tense muscles to relax and his mouth curved into a smile.

"Set course for the forest," he said, his hands flicking over the controls briefly, "and, it's time to feed that physicist!" He pushed at the base of the console with one sock-clad toe and the pilot's seat spun smoothly round bringing his hands within convenient range of the MRE and spork. Teyla smiled and sat down in the co-pilot's chair with her own meal.

"Are you getting warmer, Rodney?"

"Hmm," he said, nodding and chewing. "Still shivery, though."

"I will make some hot drinks. We have enough fresh water."

"Yes. Fresh. Huh," Rodney said, tapping his spork on the edge of his pouch, his enthusiasm waning.

"It is the best we can do, Rodney," Teyla said softly. "There is no sufficiently large body of fresh water within range. And it will put out the fire."

"Yes. And 'sow the earth with salt'. Very biblical," he said bitterly.

Teyla sighed. "The land will recover. They will understand it was the only way."

"Yes. I know," said Rodney. He wondered what other ravages the land and the people would have to cope with and hoped John's plan had worked.

oOo

The small creature lay, unmoving, and an appendage was formed to investigate. It touched the dark outer layer that covered the creature and it tasted complexity, unlike any substance it had yet encountered; fine strands and filaments of delicate chemicals arranged and bound, with apparent intention, in a dense matrix almost like rock, but able to flex and bend. Yet it was not a precious thing; it did not have a flow of liquid running through it or the ability to change or grow. The material was taken and the pattern stored within, to be pondered and replicated and yes, enjoyed.

This little creature before it, that trembled under its scrutiny; this small thing through which liquid rushed and rhythm pulsed - what was it? It had met this creature before and suddenly there had been interesting samples; strange convolutions of the simple building blocks of the world, with interesting properties. So, it had sought the creature once more, allowed itself to be pulled from its work of studying and cataloguing this strange place to which it had felt such a strong vocation.

The creature's rhythm hastened and some of its liquid seemed to be leaking. The appendage pressed and felt more fine filaments, but these were not made; they had grown. It pushed further, easing its presence between the molecules of the creature's being, and the creature began to cause the air around it to vibrate strongly.

This, the Guardian realised, as it felt the life within, was a Precious Thing. This was one that it must protect. It felt the creature struggle and the air vibrations increased. Another appendage was needed; one was swiftly produced and employed to still the creature while order was being restored, because it had quickly understood the pattern of this little thing and that the pattern was quite seriously disrupted. It worked efficiently and then withdrew. The creature was now limp and unresponsive, although its flow and pulse were as good as they might be, considering it had suffered damage. And, now that the Precious Thing had been identified, the knowledge that there were more of them, and that the state of this place was not one of acceptable equilibrium, was swiftly borne in upon the Guardian's newly-awakened consciousness. This little one would have to manage. The Guardian left, full of new knowledge of what must be done.

oOo

There was softness in his face and warmth and heaviness over and around him, and for a while John lay, with no idea where he was, or why, and no desire to find out. He lay and breathed and simply existed in sweet lethargy, his mind a placid place of cloudy acceptance. Inevitably, this peaceful time was not to last. He became aware of a dull ache in his chest and a metallic taste in his mouth, the clouds in his mind suddenly dissipated and he shot to his feet, heart pounding, pressing himself into the rock at his back in fear and dizziness, shaking hands reaching automatically for his P90; it wasn't there.

John looked down and saw a small, jagged lump of metal dangling from his sling. Beneath it, most of the front of his tac vest was missing, and a ragged circle of his t-shirt, and beneath that, his skin, unbruised, unmarked and, he realised, as he rubbed it with his fingertips, wonderingly, free of all but a faint ghost of pain. Boudicca looked up at him, her golden eyes reflecting his wonder and projecting a certain amount of shame.

"I thought..." he began, his voice raw and shaky. "I thought it..." He rubbed his chest again, and closed his eyes, remembering the tentacle-like projection coming toward him, remembering pain that was like being fed on by a Wraith, his life force being ripped from his chest. His legs felt weak and he dropped to his knees and then his arms were full of warmth and comfort, and he clung on and allowed a few shuddering, relief-laden sobs to escape.

He pulled away, sat back against the rock and felt for his canteen, which, mercifully, hadn't been dissolved or eaten or absorbed, or whatever. He took a mouthful of water, spat out the taste of blood, drank and then gave some water to Boudicca.

"I don't blame you," he said. "I would've hid if I could."

She blinked.

"Yeah." He rubbed his chest again. "I thought so too. End of the line, for sure. I wonder..." He patted at the remains of his tac vest, and fished out a mangled power bar, which he unwrapped and broke in half, offering a piece to Boudicca. She sniffed, sneezed, then took it delicately from his hand and swallowed it whole. "That desperate?" John asked, consuming his piece with almost as much eagerness and far less elegance.

"Okay," he said, swallowing, "here's the sitrep."

Boudicca sat up, in regal pose, a commanding officer ready to take his report. John smiled. He looked up the slope that he had tumbled down and could see only starry night through the trees. The sky glowed red further west, but the glade where he sat was lit only by the brightness of the full moon.

"No present danger from wildfire," he reported. "Enemy force... turned out not to be an enemy at all. In fact, I think maybe the Ancients got it right this time." John paused, and couldn't meet the golden eyes. "I think, maybe, this time, I got it right too," he said, softly, with emotion that he couldn't quite suppress. "Instead of releasing a whole pack of devils, this thing might turn out to be one of the good guys." He'd been going to say 'an angel' but didn't want to sound too sappy. "It's gonna need a new name, that's for sure."

The priss nodded her approval, but John shook himself slightly and made an effort to return to dispassionate, military efficiency.

"Uh... available firepower." He regarded the stump of his P90 with annoyance. "Another one bites the dust. But the Para's still hanging in there," he said, patting his thigh holster. "Only one clip, though." John turned his thoughts, reluctantly, to his own condition. "Not that I'm not grateful, or anything," he said, easing himself painfully to his feet,"but it woulda been nice if my Guardian Angel did a full service. Although..." He recalled the excruciating pain involved in the process of repairing his broken ribs and punctured lung, "maybe not."

John felt the lump on his brow and the crusted, dried blood from where his late lamented P90 had swung up and hit him. He flexed his arms and legs, feeling the sting of cuts, the throb of bruises and the tight pull of various strained muscles. There was nothing that was in itself serious, but they all added up to irritatingly relentless discomfort and, apart from this, was the dragging, batteries-dry, tank-drained exhaustion which made staying awake, let alone staying upright and moving, almost impossible.

"Good to go, then," said John, with bleary-eyed optimism. He yawned.

oOo

Ronon had emptied his canteen on Maddy's hair and clothes to try to protect her from sparks. His own skin was marked with scattered burns and it was only Maddy shrieking and dragging him down to bat at his head that had saved his hair from catching fire. The flames were closing in on either side and, looking over his shoulder, Ronon saw that there was no safety behind them either. A flaming branch fell in their path and Ronon picked Maddy up and jumped over it. The wildfire was too fast; they weren't going to make it. He would cover her; he would cover Maddy with his body and maybe, just maybe the flames would pass over quickly, so that she, at least, would survive.

"Get down!"

"What? No!"

He forced her to the ground and used his weight to hold her there, while she cried out and struggled.

"Ronon, no, you can't! You can't! We'll keep running!"

"No! It's too late! Keep still and tuck your arms and legs in!"

"No!" Maddy worked her arms free and hit out at Ronon, fought and bit and scratched like a wild thing.

"Keep still or I'll stun you!" Ronon's desperate glare bored into Maddy's tear-filled, heartbroken eyes. She kept still, sniffing and gulping as the flames roared and crackled and death surrounded them. "Curl up tight and I'll cover you," he said, trying to steady his voice. "You wait, until the fire's passed and then wait some more cos everything'll be hot. Got it?"

Maddy nodded and then threw her arms around Ronon's neck and, clinging tightly, whispered in his ear. Then she let go and curled herself up; like a tiny mouse, he thought, and closed his eyes and curled his body over the little girl, spending his life, he hoped, to buy hers.

The heat grew and Ronon tried not to gasp in pain as he felt his skin scorch and his clothes begin to smoulder. He held himself still, rigid, and it flashed into his mind that this passive death was the hardest he could have imagined; many times, he thought he'd die fighting, killing the enemy, making them pay. The fire wouldn't pay; it would take his life and use it to fuel its destruction and then, heedless, it would rage on. Ronon squeezed his eyes tight shut and tried to remember a long-forgotten prayer.

And then there was silence and darkness and the searing heat was gone and he thought: Is this death?

"Ronon?"

Maddy's small voice came from beneath him.

"Ronon? What's happening?"

He didn't answer because he didn't know.

"Ronon! Has the fire gone? Are you...? Are you...?" She couldn't finish and he felt her body begin to heave with sobs.

"No! Maddy, I'm here!" He sat up and, feeling about him in the darkness, drew her close to him and they clung together, blinking and confused; no roar of flame, no pain, their farewell to each other and Ronon's to life, derailed and diverted into this strange, quiet limbo.

He felt Maddy's trembling ease, her small, rapid breaths slow and, he thought, for just a minute or two, she slept, in the manner of a child whose mind and body has been pushed too far. Then she stirred and wriggled.

"Where are we?"

Ronon drew his blaster and by its very dim light, he could see that they were entirely enclosed, as if a shell or a dome had suddenly grown over them. The forest floor around them was still hot, but seemed to be cooling fast and Ronon felt the air cooling too and his sweat drying on his seared skin.

Maddy looked around and then stood. She reached up and, even on her tiptoes her fingers only just brushed the underside of the dome. The grey, rock-like surface shimmered briefly and Ronon had a brief, and quite grotesque, impression of fluid skin, tiny brown hairs and pieces of bone, before the surface became rock-like once more. Maddy shrieked and then gasped and laughed and did it again, with the same result.

Ronon aimed his blaster at the area and Maddy, seeing this, said: "Don't shoot it! It's saying hello!"

"What?"

"It's the thing that was in the woods and I was silly and ran away. It's a friend and it rescued us!"

Ronon regarded her, brows beetling, deeply sceptical. "Why do you think that was it saying hello?" He flicked his blaster at the rounded ceiling.

"Well... I s'pose because it's not like us, and, it can't talk, but it's worked out what we are... so, it's saying, 'I know you!'" She jumped up and down and yelled, "Hello! Hello! Hello! Thank you!"

Her voice was deafening in the confined space and Ronon put his hands over his ears. Then, the shell slowly withdrew and warm air rushed over them, and around them the charred, blackened forest smouldered and glowed, but no longer burned. Their rescuer was a moving, swirling shadow of smooth and rough, dark and light, so that where your eyes fell on a particular feature, suddenly it was no longer there.

"Uh... Thanks," said Ronon. The creature flickered once like lightning running through a storm cloud, then it was gone.

oOo

"I believe there is an area still burning, Rodney," said Teyla.

"Yes, yes, I know, I'm coming round for another pass." Rodney muttered under his breath, "Missed a bit, missed a bit... What am I? A painter and decorator? Here comes the roller." He vented the water tanks once more and imagined the cascade hurtling down from the sky and dowsing the relentless flames below. "That's the lot," he said. "Tanks are empty."

They both studied the HUD, which had been set to display infra-red. The steep temperature gradients of advancing wildfire were all gone, the display more stable, with many slowly altering patches of colour which indicated cooling ground

"Will it be enough?" Teyla asked.

Rodney shrugged, massaged his brow over a well-established headache, and made a small, unhappy, indeterminate sound.

"Probably not. The ground's absorbed a lot of heat; there's a nice, helpful little breeze going on down there. Tiny spark? Meet friendly breeze! Then, whoosh! Up it goes again." Rodney slumped, elbows on the console, face in hands.

"There is a song my people sing to bring rain in dry years," said Teyla, softly.

Rodney didn't move, but his muffled voice forced its way out between his palms. "I'm up for anything, at this stage, tuneless caterwauling not excepted. Mine, that is, I'm sure your cater-, er, singing, would be beautiful."

Teyla did not sing, however. "If only the Ancients had thought to build a rain-making machine," she said.

Rodney didn't reply, but her words lit a small, hopeful lightbulb in his weary mind. He sat up.

"Rain-making," he said. Then, with increasing excitement, "Cloud-seeding!" He stood up, his fingers snapping, his tiredness forgotten, optimism springing to life. "What do we need?" he snapped at Teyla.

"Water, Rodney. Rain!"

"And what do we have?" He didn't wait for her answer. "Carbon dioxide! We have CO2 as a product of methane oxidation! And what can you do with solid CO2?" Rodney's words continued to tumble out as he sat back in the pilot's seat and brought the Waffle into a steep, spiralling ascent. "Seed clouds, Teyla! You can seed clouds and make it rain!"

"Seed clouds? There are seeds that grow rain?"

"No, it's just called seeding, because you need something to start the process; in our case, solid CO2, commonly known as dry ice! If we take her up to the edge of the troposphere, say ten kilometres, the temperature should be cold enough for CO2 to form as a solid, then we just have to find a suitable cloud. Please, let there be a cloud!"

He slapped at the console and brought up a different display. "Atmospheric water vapour! Keep an eye on that, Teyla; we want a cumulonimbus cloud. One of the big puffy ones, preferably a big one with a flat top!"

"Yes, Rodney," said Teyla, eagerly. Their eyes met, both shadowed with toil and weariness, but both now alive with reviving hope. "If you can do this, it will be a miracle."

"Yes, well, it will, but... You know I probably would have drowned down there without you, so... I think we can say that today the miracles are on us!"