A/N: This chapter may be a tad disturbing for some readers as it involves a wee bit of violence directed toward one of our boys, so don't say I didn't provide a bit of warning. On this world, there is no such thing as human rights, decency, or the Geneva Convention.

Colonel Sheppard languidly limped across the length of the pier, favoring his right leg as he walked. One of the pirates had clipped him by the knee with a sword, and the wound had bled copiously, but he'd managed to stop the bleeding with a tourniquet from a medical kit. Ronon had nearly managed to fight his way the entire length of the ship before the sails had been raised high enough for the ship to begin moving, but had been forced to leap back to the pier before reaching the compartment that Lt. Cadman had attempted to show them.

They'd been forced to wait nearly an hour while the port-master summoned a force of men large enough to successfully raid the pirate ship, it was all too obvious that they'd waited too long. The pirates had seemed to know that they were coming and were preparing to shove off even before the fighting had begun. John had cursed under his breath at his foolishness in trusting that the port-master knew what he was doing as they struggled to fight their way to the ship before it was too late, but its crew had been far too well-prepared, almost as if they'd known that soldiers had been coming to arrest them.

Nearly the entire band of conscripted men had died at the hands of the pirates anyway, though. The uniformed bodies of soldiers floated in the water and lay at their feet, and the port-master himself seethed at the humiliating failure. The port-master, having delegated the task of tending to the dead to one of his assistants, promptly spun on his heels and began to walk away, barking orders to his men to summon every available ship captain in Gulran's fleet now present in the docks.

When Lt. Cadman had told him of Captain Te'Lan's plan to join a fleet that would attack a place called Port Legacy, his eyes had gone wide with shock and disbelief, and he'd then rushed in a panic to mobilize every officer and soldier in the port that he could find. To John, the effort had been pathetic at best; without a reliable means of communications, such efforts were disorganized and uncoordinated at best. As far as he could tell, these people hadn't even developed a municipal system of mail yet and still relied on personally hired carriers and messengers, or even scuttlebutt, to deliver their news.

Amazingly enough, though, John was surprised at how quickly a fleet of dozens of ships had been formed, with dozens more still waiting to send acknowledgements. John had quietly followed the port-master onto the deck of the ship that would be under his command, which was small, light-weight, and built for speed, while he waited for the final acknowledgements from the rest of the fleet of now over eighty ships to depart. John stood by patiently on the deck, dodging rushed crewmen, ducking under ropes, and instructed the rest of his team to get some more help from Atlantis while the port-master did his best to reassure John that they would leave as soon as humanly possible.

Doing a double take as he glanced back at John, the port-master frowned, somehow only just then having noticed that Colonel Sheppard and Henry were the only two of their group that remained on the ship. "Where are the others?"

John's reply was vague and he knew it would annoy the port-master, but he was unwilling to reveal the existence of the Puddle-Jumper to him quite yet. "They're staying behind to summon more help."

"How foolish," he harrumphed with displeasure, turning his attention back to his checklist of preparations. "We need all the men and weaponry we can get, and you go and send your people off somewhere else?"

"That pirate's deadline was up this morning," John argued, scowling impatiently at the port-master as they continued to wait. "Each hour that we wait puts our friends in even more danger, and I don't intend to leave them just sitting around and waiting."

The port-master scowled right back at him. "I did ya a favor last night despite my better judgment, but seein' as though I can still use yer help, I'll enlighten ya. Port Legacy is Gulran's central port, an' if we lost it ta the enemy, it'd cripple our navy. There's no way that Te'Lan could possibly raid it with less than three-hundred ships, so I'm takin' command o' the eastern fleet to intercept Te'Lan an' defend the port. An' don't think I won't hesitate to gut all of ya on the spot if yer lyin' about this."

John said no more, desiring not to push his luck lest the port-master decide to remove them from the ship. He and his team could do no more except to sit and wait until the port-master was ready to make chase. He still couldn't help wondering if maybe it'd be better to try to find Carson and Rodney using the Puddle-Jumper, but memories of being shot down some time back on that world with the penal colony by the Stargate were too fresh in his mind. He wasn't fond of the prospect of crashing and sinking into the water, either, especially without McKay.

No, they would just have to rely on the port-master for now, as foolish as that might seem. John sat down and settled back against the ledge of the gunwalls. It had been too long since he'd had a chance to get some rest.

Carson dozed lightly in the shade of the shadow cast by the ship's forecastle, or rather in what little shade remained of its shadow. The sun of that world had risen quite high in the sky, and its rays were beating down mercilessly on the ship and its occupants. The air was thick with the taste of salty seawater, making it difficult to breathe because the sheer amount of moisture. The day had grown unusually hot, and the crew had remained atypically quiet over the course of the morning. They'd lost a number of good men to the enemy attack at the port that morning, and no one was really in the mood for any more conversation than was necessary.

Rodney slept next to him, his bare back striped with black lines from the tar that sealed the hull of the ship, and his face was buried deep within the depths of his arms as the sun beat down on him. The sun had been burning his back for days now, turning it, his arms, and his face a darker complexion as the skin began to peel. The crew cabin had been far too hot to rest in, so they'd sought shade on the main deck in the cooler breeze that blew over the water.

Jess and the crew had only been obliging enough to give them a few hours of rest before waking them, though. Captain Te'Lan had bellowed an order from the privacy of his quarters and then Jess and two others were hauling Carson and Rodney to their feet. Dragging them to the front of the ship and up a short set of steps to meet the captain, the two crewmen bound their wrists behind them once more. They were brought into the captain's quarters and forced to sit in chairs facing the captain.

It was a relatively spartan room by the standards Rodney and Carson were used to, but unlike the crew cabin, it actually had a few pieces of furniture and was scattered with papers and maps. A spyglass and a large nautical map sat on the desk between them and the Captain, but he was looking at them. Te'Lan's eyes were securely fixed on Rodney and did not waver. Rodney squirmed under the scrutinizing gaze, and Carson tried not to be intimidated.

"You lads already know about the attack this mornin'," Te'Lan began impassively. "If ya haven't already guessed, yer friends are late payin' yer ransom. An' if I'm ta remain a man o' my word, I'm now obligated ta kill ya both."

Rodney stopped squirming, and neither he nor Carson made a move or sound to acknowledge what had just been stated.

Te'Lan continued unabated by their lack of reaction. "However, I may be convinced ta forego that obligation fer the time bein' if ya cooperate in the manner that I require. What I'll be requirin' of ya first is information. Yer friends were fightin' along side our enemy this mornin', an' I'll not allow their weapons ta fall into enemy hands without havin' their secrets. So yer going ta tell me everythin' ya know. I'll wager that you, McKay, know enough ta satisfy me for the moment."

Rodney looked up curiously, meeting his interrogator's eyes. It was the first time that Te'Lan had ever used his name. "You can't possibly believe that I'm going tell you anything that you could use against our friends."

"Don't be foolish, lad," Te'Lan said with a hint of annoyance. "I'm a man who gets what he wants, an' if yer of no use ta me, there's no reason for me ta keep ya alive now, is there?"

Te'Lan waited a moment to gauge their reactions as Rodney scoffed and shut his mouth, seeming genuinely surprised that they would even dare to think he was bluffing. But he waited for only a moment, and with a motion of his finger, one of the crewmen who'd brought the prisoners inside stepped forward. "Keilin, take out yer knife an' make the good doctor here scream."

Rodney's eyes went wide, his lips began to tremble, and his face blanched with dread, but he said nothing as the sailor drew a long, razor-sharp knife from his belt and pressed it against Carson's neck without hesitation. Carson drew a sharp breath.

"Rodney," Carson began softly, "ye cannae give 'im what he wants. I want ye tae turn yer face an' ignore anythin' they do tae me."

Te'Lan offered a terse nod to the crewman's questioning look, then sat back in his chair and folded his arms, remaining reserved and patient despite the show of resistance.

He tried to do as Carson asked. He even clenched his eyes shut and feigned ignorance, but he couldn't ignore the grunts of pain that echoed in his ears with the telltale sounds of the scraping of flesh, which were followed by a painful yelp. Then another… and another… until Carson screamed.

Rodney tried to think of something, anything, to blot out the images that flooded his mind and would've done almost anything to be anywhere else at that very moment. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he pulled at the rope binding his wrists in an effort to cover his ears, he couldn't block out the sound of Carson's suffering.

Carson's painful cries filled the cabin and his ears, and Rodney didn't dare open his eyes, no matter how hard he flinched at the sound. There had to be something that he could do, something that his genius could come up with to stop this. Should he lie? Would the captain know if he lied? Should he let Carson die? Was it really worth it?

Minutes stretched on, and then there was suddenly silence. Rodney still didn't dare open his eyes to look at Carson, and he still felt Te'Lan's gaze boring into his skull.

The captain's voice resounded solidly through the small space of the room, unfazed and unperturbed by the violence directed at Carson. "I'd like ta know first why the lead shots in yer weapons aren't round like ours are."

Rodney couldn't let his friend down, and kept his eyes and mouth firmly clenched shut. Nearly a full minute passed before he heard Te'Lan shift in his chair, the first real sign of impatience he exhibited.

"Keilin here was a friend o' Sonnal an' Nerry," Te'Lan said flatly and unemotionally, nodding to the crewman again. "He's a good lad, but I think he's rather enjoyin' the task o' makin' yer friend suffer."

Carson cried out with pain again. It continued until Rodney just couldn't take it any more. These pirates didn't care about either of them – what difference would it make to Te'Lan if he had his henchmen continue slicing up Carson's flesh until an artery or vein was struck and finally caused him to bleed to death? All Te'Lan cared about was having his way, and if Rodney couldn't give him something, anything, Carson was going to die.

"Aerodynamics…"

Te'Lan leaned forward, holing up a hand to hold the crewman's knife. "What was that, lad? Explain."

Rodney inhaled sharply, eyes still closed; despite every effort, he failed to completely keep his voice from cracking. "Aerodynamics – the bullet's shape increases the weapon's accuracy."

"I see," the captain said softly; his eyes were still fixed on Rodney. "Keilin, ya may return ta yer duties."

Slowly opening his eyes to make sure that the offending crewman was really leaving, Rodney could not help staring at the cuts. Carson panted heavily with exertion, his forehead creased with the pain of the dozens of deep cuts on his chest and both his shoulders. More than pain was in his eyes, though. Shame at being used to manipulate Rodney filled him, making him tremble with exhaustion and anger. Blood ran in streaks down his arms and dripped carelessly on the floor.

"Don't," Carson urged weakly, his head lolling forward with strain.

The captain had to respect Rodney's apparent resolve, which seemed to be renewed a bit by Carson's insistence, but he simply sighed, as if bored, and opened a drawer. Pulling out one of the two pistols that he'd confiscated from them, he flipped off the safety and placed it on the desk.

"No more games," Te'Lan stated matter-of-factly. "Start talkin' or I kill ya both, yer friend first."

There was nothing else to be done.

"What else do you want to know?"