A/N: Now for what you've all been waiting for... Ice cream! Oh, and you get to find out what Rodney and Sherbet have been up to.
On an entirely unrelated note, I will admit that watched Ice Pirates for the unicorns (yeah, all of that two minutes or however long there were unicorns). Yes, I was one of those little girls - though I never asked Santa for a pony unless it was a My Little Pony. Now on with the story.
Ch. 5
Rodney checked his pulse for the third time after five minutes. He checked his own temperature by pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. He then looked over his arms for any discoloration that might have popped up since the last time he checked.
"Rodney," Beckett sighed, digging the heel of his hand into his temple. "Would you relax? If there were any bloody side effects beyond these bloody headaches then you'd bloody well know it by now."
Rodney checked his pulse – again – at the throat. "Does your mom know what kind of potty mouth you have?"
Carson's eyebrows shot down severely. "Sod off!"
Rodney remained where he was – right next to Carson – just out of spite. The other reason being that there weren't many other places to sit. The storage room, for all its spacious size when one person was in it, was verging on claustrophobic with the majority of the Daedalus male population stuffed into it. The only one not sitting was Ronon pacing like a caged tiger – or lion. More like lion with that hair. Rodney would have bet good money that Ronon had been the first out of all of them to wake up.
"Rodney," Carson said, and he sounded tired, which was no surprise since he was the last to wake up. "Why don't you occupy yourself with fixing the door."
"Because, like I told the good Colonel," he gestured nonchalantly toward Caldwell seated on a crate on the other side of the room, having some kind of mini conference with his deck hands. "The panel's too fried for me to hot wire anything."
"And there's nothing in here you can use?"
"Keep off my hypoglycemia and that's it. These crates are full of MREs – emergency rations. Whoever put us in here knew exactly what they were doing, or had incredibly dumb luck on their side."
Carson heaved another sigh, this one melancholy. "I'd go for the former. Why else separate us?" Carson shifted enough until he was facing Rodney. The look on the doctor's features was tight, almost panicked, but trying to keep himself from reaching that point. "Do you think they have all the wounded together?" Carson shook his head and looked away. "I bet they do, probably in a smaller room than this. Cpl. Stiles, he's got a nasty case of the flu and I've been concerned about it spreading. And I never did get to X-ray Col. Sheppard's ribs."
"Sheppard's ribs won't be the only bones you'll have to worry about if he's pissed... whoever or whatever these people – or not people – are... off."
Carson glowered at Rodney. "Rodney, the only person or being the Colonel intentionally riles up is you. The lad's not stupid. But he is susceptible. If he catches the Corporal's flu it's going to set him back. Then there were those two with concussions that needed to be monitored... "
Carson's medical ramblings faded into background noise when Rodney's attention honed against his will onto Ronon's agitated pacing. The constant motion and ambiance of anger rippling off the Satedan like heat waves was making Rodney both nervous and a little motion sick. Motion sickness won out. Rodney couldn't afford to lose his lunch.
"Will you sit down already Conan! Walking may be good for the body but it doesn't get us out of locked storage rooms."
"Makes be feel better," Ronon literally growled.
"Well it doesn't help the rest of us so why don't you take a breather."
Ronon halted abruptly and shot Rodney a look that could have melted mountains and frozen oceans. Rodney held out against it for all of two seconds before wilting against the wall and looking away.
"Forget I said anything," he squeaked.
"Ronon, lad," Carson said. "Rodney has a wee bit of a point. I'm pretty sure the majority of the lads in here are wrung to the snapping point, and pacing like yours isn't helping. If we're to think straight then we need at least a granule of calm. I agree motion has it's uses but if you could just slow it down a bit it would be appreciated."
Carson didn't get the laser eyes from Ronon, he actually got a considerate look before the Satedan moved to park himself on a crate right-adjacent from Carson and Rodney. Rodney gaped.
"What the hell!"
"That's why it pays to be polite, Rodney," Carson said. He was sounding less exhausted and more like he did when cajoled mercilessly into going off world.
Lesson learned, for now. Rodney wouldn't deny that any lessons concerning social graces never lasted with him. Point in fact, Ronon was jerking his leg up and down to maintain some kind of motion, and it was already beginning to drive Rodney nuts. But he decided in advance to keep his mouth shut about it, because he completely, utterly, painfully understood Ronon's current state.
They'd taken Ronon's death-dealing baby away. Ronon could be hanging by his wrists in a dungeon ten feet underground, and still remain all smiles knowing that his weapon was still strapped to his side. Ronon without his gun was like Rodney without is PC tablet and a miniature tool kit. Rodney was feeling naked without them and a little vulnerable. Ronon would never fess up to the vulnerable part but Rodney was pretty sure it was there.
Rodney's eyes drifted to the scorched door panel. It was a hopeless cause but that didn't stop Rodney's brain from nit-picking it to death, scrounging like a starved rat for some overlooked solution toward fixing it. Just like Ronon needed motion, Rodney needed something to do, something to occupy both his hands and his brain. Sitting around and waiting for the unknown was birthing tiny little insects beneath Rodney's skin that were tap-dancing on his nerves. He drummed his fingers on the metal floor, then shifted his feet fighting the urge to crawl over and gut the panel for that tid-bit of unseen solution.
Rodney wasn't a patient man; never had been. He couldn't take it anymore, and shifted his legs around to crawl toward the door. He was on all fours, ready to go, when the door slid open. Rodney quickly scrambled back to his original position a second before three men entered. The leader – some bald guy with grimy goggles – surveyed the room as the two brutes beside him swept the sights of their rifles over the prisoners. Baldy planted his hands on his hips and sniffed wetly.
"All right, then," he said with an oddly southern-touched accent. "This is how it's gonna be. We need the ones who know how to patch this mound of space debris up to come with us. The rest wait patiently and quietly, and this'll be over before you can blink. So how about some cooperation?"
Rodney was ready to rise, but another withering look from Ronon forced Rodney to stay put. Baldy tapped a meaty finger against his hip. "All right, then," he said, and stepped out. He stepped back in dragging a female corpse trailing blood behind, and dumped the tech's body in the middle of the floor for everyone to see. There were gasps, curses, and Ronon was on his feet with fists clenched and eyes smoldering like the fires of hell. With a snarl on his lips, he took a step toward baldy. The rifles swung his way, but what stopped him was Carson grabbing the end of his coat.
"Don't lad!" Beckett hissed. "You're no good to any of us dead."
Baldy smiled. "Glad to see the severity of the situation sinking in. Understand this – the more you refuse our request, the more bodies to join this one, starting with your wounded. So don't make me ask again."
This time, Ronon kept his gaze to the floor as Rodney – along with the majority of the Daedalus' technical crew – rose gathering at the door in front of baldy and the goon-twins.
"Careful," Ronon growled when Rodney walked past. That one word could have crushed Rodney with all its quadruple meanings. Translated – don't do anything stupid that'll get you killed. Rodney internally bristled at the implied 'stupid' - being far from. However, he was suddenly, painfully aware of his little foible of thinking ahead of himself, and believing all his plans infallible. Second translation – if you manage to come up with a plan to get us out, make sure it doesn't involve all of us getting killed.
When they were all at the door, Baldy turned to begin leading the way out. Rodney stopped the procession when he cleared his throat and lifted a finger. "Um... Not to be demanding, but we'll probably be needing the services of a gray little naked alien. I think you've seen him, kind of hard to miss. The bald guy with the big eyes and skinny arms..."
Rodney didn't see the butt end of a rifle coming at his head until it impacted with his skull. He did hear the hollow, almost resounding crack, then suffered both the world spinning and the sickening sensation of falling. Several hands caught him before he impacted with the floor, and held him while everything tilted and swayed.
"What did you do that for!" Ronon's roaring voice tried to split Rodney's skull.
"If you want this ship running," said Caldwell, "then you're going to need every technician available, especially the guy whose head you just dented."
"He'll be fine," baldy drawled. "But let that be a lesson. You make requests when the time is right. If you come across a situation that requires the aid of your little creature friend, then you ask for it. Not before then. Now get him on his feet."
"Just let me check him over..."Carson protested.
"Now!" Baldy barked. The many hands helped Rodney to stand back upright and keep him upright as he was hustled out the door. He glanced back over his and someone else's shoulder to see Ronon looking like Mt. Vesuvius at its erupting point, and Carson white enough to vanish in snow if there had been any. The world wouldn't stop shimmying. Rodney lifted one shaking hand to his head, touching something wet, and so coming away with red-tipped fingers.
SGA
If John's ribs hadn't earned a few more cracks (which would be a miracle) they would after one more poke and prod. He let one of the Daedalus nurses do the poking and prodding after incessantly nagging how passing one's hand down one's flank didn't do squat in finding broken bones. It did, at least, make him aware that his ribs were now twice as tender as before. The nurse's verdict was that nothing was broken. There might be new cracks, but there was definitely bruises on bruises, which was going to hurt like hell for a while.
With the torment of a quick assessment done, the nurse loosened and re-tightened John's pressure bandages, which – according to the nurse – had probably kept things from becoming more worse off than they already were. The entire three minute long check had him suffering a sudden minor bout of self-consciousness no amount of 'suck it up, soldier' would assuage, and it wasn't because he was trapped in a room full of women and bare chested for all those women to see. Women, men – humans in general – had a tendency to gawk first then go polite later. John's body was like a car wreck people couldn't help but do a double take at: Protruding bones, scabs on their way to being scars (especially the one running almost perpendicular to his spine from shoulder blade to hip that no longer required stitches two days ago) and of course brand spankin' new bruises. A brief glance showed him a few faces staring wide-eyed his way. When the nurse finished wrapping, John couldn't get his shirt back on fast enough.
John settled back in his spot against the wall next to Elizabeth, drawing his legs up to drape one arm over a knee. The other arm he wrapped around his chest.
"Still in one piece?" Elizabeth asked. She had a slight smile on her lips, but her eyes oozed concern as they looked him over.
"As far as can be told without the use of an X-ray. Nothing shifted, so that's good."
Elizabeth breathed out slowly. She looked tired, but also on edge. Her face was slack in weariness while her body was stiff and twitchy. "John, they could have..."
"I know," he inserted quickly. If Elizabeth was building up toward a reprimand, he didn't want to hear it. If she was stating the obvious because she was still reeling over what might have been, then he wanted her to know he understood. He'd panicked, jumping in to save a life while certain it wouldn't have done any good. He'd been ready to take a bullet – was always ready to take a bullet – but always with an equally strong desire to live. Rodney called it a hero complex. John, however, considered it more along the lines of being selfish, preferring to die himself rather than watch others die around him. An odd attitude to have, but he had it, and didn't question it for the sake of mental health. More than that, his job was to protect people and he didn't take that in stride, he took it at a full run, putting himself last and everyone else first – no second guessing, no second thoughts.
But when all was said and done, when the crisis was passed and whether or not a life had been saved, the near-misses always left him shaken. Nothing blatantly obvious except for a sudden weariness. If a life was lost after all, like now, the weariness took on a weight that could sometimes leave him trembling depending on his physical state.
He could feel the muscle tremors now, and his heart still pounding. The chemical cocktail was one of relief, lingering fear, and white-hot rage. That bald SOB had killed that woman in cold blood and dragged her off like a carcass to the slaughter house. John's eyes widened. He hoped to high Heaven that isn't why they'd dragged her off. It would have explained why they hadn't shot him; he wasn't even a snack let alone a meal. John almost chuckled. He was being ridiculous. Stiles had been the initial target and he wasn't exactly appetizing either.
John was snapped from his rather morbid reverie by several women trying to clean up the blood using clothes pulled from one of the crates, probably spares since there was no luggage in this room. Except for a tear or two on a few faces, their expressions were blank, hallow, almost numb. Maybe they couldn't stand the smell of blood, or maybe saw it as the only ritual they could come up with to honor the dead. Then he realized – the only spot they were cleaning was by the door. When the blood was as wiped as it was going to get, the women who'd been working on the panel returned gathering around it, one kneeling where the blood had been. John heard muffled sobs from far back in the room. He lifted his hand away from his knee to rub the back of his stiffening neck.
"Sorry," John muttered.
Elizabeth's head turned to him. "For what?"
"For doing what I told you not to do."
Elizabeth studied him for a moment. "You mean standing up and trying to reason with them?"
John nodded. "Although I still stand by keeping you from doing that. I don't think they would have listened."
"No, they probably wouldn't have. And I probably would have been shot." Then she smiled, more sad than wry. " But, yes, that was a little hypocritical of you."
"Well, I didn't do it because I have a death wish, contrary to popular belief."
Elizabeth bumped him lightly in the shoulder. "McKay's belief. I know you don't. You're just trying to do your job. But it does tend to put a few too many gray hairs in my head."
John gave her an abashed as well as sweetly innocent look. "My bad."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and bumped him again, then quickly sobered. "I won't deny that I was terrified."
John squinted thoughtfully as he thought back, recalling the look on baldy's face. Crap, if could have just seen the man's eyes. Eyes told so much more than facial expressions. Still...
"I think... I think I knew he wasn't going to shoot me. The bald guy. Not the other two, I mean they did try to shoot me. The bald guy... I don't know. Something about him – the way he talked and acted – he didn't strike me as dumb or a hot head. He seemed more..." John shook his head. "I don't know what he seemed, other than pissed, of course."
Elizabeth arched her head back, looking at John as though his hair had just turned purple, and she didn't like it. "So, you thought, based on that secondary assumption, that it would be okay for you to run at him?"
John narrowed his eyes at her. "No. That had been heat of the moment. I think it was after he tried to crush the life out of me. I've... Been in prison situations before." He cleared his throat uneasily. "I've seen men gunned down for doing nothing more then yelling 'no' right before someone else was about to be shot. Far be it from me to question good fortune, but in similar situations, I'd be the one dragged from this room leaving a blood trail." And for all he knew, he could be next, but wasn't going to say that out loud. "The ones perceived as trouble makers aren't normally allowed to continue breathing."
John shivered minutely. Yes, it had been foolish jumping between Stiles and the gun. Foolish and yet he'd do it again in a heartbeat. What he hadn't told Elizabeth was that sometimes, in rare occasions, it wasn't the troublemaker who was shot but the guy they'd been trying to defend. This wasn't the first time John had defended. He'd also been on the receiving end of defense.
Sometimes, no one was shot, just beaten within an inch of their lives. But, yeah, mostly someone was shot. Something about baldy had struck John as the type to kill the one being defended, not the one defending. But by then, someone else entirely had died.
John yanked his thoughts back to the present. "I knew he wasn't going to shoot me. I didn't know he would shoot someone other than Stiles. I was focused on saving the corporal."
Elizabeth rubbed her right arm as though she were cold on one side. "That still may happen, whatever the reasoning behind it in the first place."
John nodded. "My thoughts exactly." He looked up at the women at the panel. "We need to get out of here."
"And then what?" Elizabeth wasn't being skeptical, she actually sounded sincere. It might have been premature to plan that far in advance, but in truth it never hurt to plan ahead.
"Easy. Get weapons, LSDs, find the rest of the guys and get them in on the breakout. Of course all easier said than done if we can't get out of this damn room."
"Maybe we could jump them," someone said, someone off to John's left.
John eyed the crates scattered throughout the room. "Maybe. We should see if there's stuff in these boxes we can use. Heavy stuff preferably. The kind of stuff that'll leave a dent in someone's skull."
People were already moving, taking down crates and clicking them open. John felt a little reluctant about jumping anyone. Baldy and his goons had seemed a bit overly confident about walking into a nearly packed room with just three rifles. Either they were exceedingly cocky, or back up had been waiting right outside the door.
At least they knew the bad guys had human skulls to crack, which was a far cry from where they had been before the baddies entered.
The crates, for the most part, were full of spare uniforms, MRE packages, coils of wire which someone suggested would be good to strangle someone with (too much morbid thinking going around in John's opinion) and spare blankets. The crates' contents were all listed on the outside, which was why a search hadn't been suggested earlier, but unexpected things tended to end up in crates, whether by accident or forgotten. Case in point, someone found a miniature welder in one of the pockets of a used spare uniform. It wasn't big enough to cut through the door, but would do fine melting a few eyes out. One of the techs uncoiled several loops of cable, then used the miniature torch to melt off the plastic insulation. After that, they cut the coils into hand-length pieces, bunched the pieces together using smaller wires to tie them, and handed them out. The wires were perfectly stiff and sharp at the ends – hand made daggers; a geek-designed shank.
"Keep them hidden," John said, slipping his cable shiv up his sleeve. Elizabeth stuck hers into her boot, and everyone else either mimicked John or slipped the shivs into their belts.
"What'll we use to take down those three when they come back, sir?" A woman, Lt. Jorgansen, asked as she tucked her cable into her boot.
"The smallest crates we have," John said. "Small enough to lift but heavy enough to damage. Once we get out, we should head to quarters."
The marines gave him uncertain looks. The techs just seemed confused.
John sighed. "I know, I know, I said weapons locker first but I've had time to think about it. Some people aren't fit to fight and some don't know how to, and the less casualties on our end the better. We get them to quarters so they can lock themselves in. I'm also pretty sure I'm not the only soldier who has at least a gun or a knife hidden somewhere in their room."
At this, the marines grinned knowingly. John smirked back.
"Exactly. I also keep a spare LSD with me. We go to our quarters, grab our gear, then head to the weapons locker. Grab some radios, any LSDs lying around, split up, and find the guys. Sound like a plan?"
Everyone nodded. John pushed himself to his feet. "Good. Whoever's good at throwing things, take a crate and get into position. As many as possible for a full assault, keep 'em too disoriented and overwhelmed to shoot."
Everyone rose but it was mostly the marines grabbing the smallest crates they could find.
Suddenly, the women at the panel scurried back.
"We heard the lock beep!"
"Damn it!" John snarled. "Get into position!"
The marines took up stance on either side of the door with crates raised while everyone else pressed against the walls. The door slid open. A kitten sized ball of blazing fluff with a ribbony tail trailing a nylon leash bounded yeeping inside, turning straight toward John and leaping into his arms, effectively causing every gaze to lock on him in muted disbelief.
John twisted his mouth wryly. "Or we can just let Sherbet open the door. All right then, folks, time to go."
SGA
Elizabeth's mind kept replaying John's near death and the female tech's actual death over and over in her mind, making it slow to catch up to the fact that no guard had come rushing inside to stop the escape, or take off shrieking for backup. John poked his head out the door, looking up and down the hall, doing a double take when he looked left. He snorted, shaking his head.
"You gotta be kidding me," he muttered. John pointed to one of the female marines still handling a crate, then pointed out the door. The marine peered out and arched both eyebrows. Elizabeth couldn't take it anymore, and leaned forward until her chin brushed the bony knot of John's shoulder. Their guard was several feet down the hall, on all fours trying to see into a small vent in the wall an inch above the floor. She could hear the man muttering about 'little mangy monsters' under his breath as he manipulated his neck in uncomfortable ways trying to look for said little monster.
Elizabeth looked down at Sherbet nestled in John's arm. It was almost ridiculously easy to believe the mir'ka had planned this all out, since the look on the tiny face could only be described as contentedly smug.
The marine with the crate walked heel to toe without a sound down the hall toward the guard. Another followed to provide backup. The gaurd's preoccupation with finding Sherbet kept him well distracted until the marine was right over him with the crate coming down. The man didn't even have time to so much as widen his eyes when the crate hit with a loud cracking smack and his body crumpled. The second marine grabbed up the rifle while the first bound the guard by the wrists and ankles using wire.
John set Sherbet back on the floor. "Let's go." He led the way out, the marines spreading enough to have the techs and injured surrounded. It was funny in a non-comical way that it was one of the injured leading the way; one-armed, limping, dressed in civilian clothes that looked like over-sized hand-me-downs on him. The image of John being slammed to the floor as easily as though he were a child's toy flitted in and out of Elizabeth's brain like something creeping in the darkness. He'd looked undeniably fragile in the shadow of the monolithic bald man. That man could have stepped on John and crushed him into dust, ground him into the floor like an insect. Even with it over, the prospect of what could have been was still scaring the hell out of her. No matter the number of times they'd almost lost Sheppard, there was no growing jaded of the close calls. There would be serious questioning of the psyche if it ever came to that.
The soldier with the rifle took the lead walking fast but silent. Everyone else followed several feet behind, and even with all the softly padding footfalls there was an unsettling quiet to the corridors that was verging on unnatural. Someone whispered that the quarters sector wasn't that far from storage, yet Elizabeth didn't have to be combat trained to know that they should have encountered resistance by now. She'd survived enough sieges to fully appreciate that once invaders managed to burrow their way in, they spread like parasites covering every vital inch of a place they could.
Someone should have been trying to stop them by now. Elizabeth didn't count it as a blessing. Instead she found it disconcerting. This wasn't how such situations usually went down, so obviously something was wrong.
They made it to the living sector without a hitch and refused to breathe a sigh of relief about it. John's plan was followed through with each soldier darting off into their room when they came to it, emerging armed with either a 9-mil or a wicked looking knife. They came to John's room about the middle of their supply run. He and two others ended up having LSDs. John also had been hiding a hand-held stunner that he passed off to Elizabeth.
"You're going to need this," John said. Elizabeth looked from the weapon to Sheppard.
"What, why?"
He didn't answer, just moved everyone out down the hall to the rec room that was slightly smaller than the mess. Everyone was hustled inside – except for Sheppard and the marines. An electric shock of realization shot up Elizabeth's spine.
"Whoa, John! Wait, what do you think you're doing? You're in no condition to fight."
Elizabeth was ready for a maelstrom of protests. John would argue out of a sense of duty more than common sense, but Elizabeth refused to back down this time. John's injuries weren't just a risk to himself but the rest of the soldiers if they were forced to drop what they were doing in order to protect him. Simple enough logic.
So Elizabeth was taken back by the complete look of understanding – even hesitation, and was that worry? – on Sheppard's face. She didn't have to say anything. John new damn well he was a probable liability.
"I think I realize that more than anybody," he said. "But we're a little under-manned if you hadn't noticed."
She hadn't, actually, until now. The soldiers, including Sheppard and those not so badly wounded they couldn't be useful, added up to eight in all. These were combat soldiers, not pilots and technicians who – though probably combat trained like all military – were too vital to risk.
"Once we get the rest out," John said. "I promise to lay low. In the meantime, you lock this door. Only open it for either me, Caldwell, McKay, Carson or Ronon, and make sure you ask them a question only they can answer before opening, got it?"
Elizabeth nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She was close to begging John to stay. He looked tired, pale, and his limp and been growing pronouncedly worse since they'd stepped out of that storage room.
All she managed to get out was a tight, "Be careful."
John nodded, resigned and ready because he had to be, but not exactly liking it. Elizabeth felt a sharp stab of guilt. No, she hadn't called these space pirates down on them, but she had insisted on them all taking a vacation. A ridiculous reason to take the blame, yes, but she went with it. John was supposed to be resting, near to oblivious of his aches and pains, and now he was earning new aches and pains.
He didn't need this crap. He'd been through enough.
Elizabeth felt she should say as much, she didn't know why, but before she could John had shut the door. Elizabeth reached out and initiated the lock, then stepped back, gripping the stunner tight.
---------------------------------
TBC...
A/N: Now you know, and more to come. Thank you to everyone who have been reviewing. No My Little Ponys were harmed or even involved in the making of this fic.