A/N: Even more answers to come, and more frustrations. The muses are rolling in the reviews, and toss chocolate coins in thanks. Jack Sparrow's just happy it's not the rum being tossed.

Ch. 8

"Elizabeth, it's Rodney, you there?"

Rodney exchanged a nervous look with John. He was really starting to hate all the silence. The Daedalus wasn't supposed to be this quiet. It was supposed to be loud with people walking, talking, and the low and nearly imperceptible hum of working technology. It was supposed to be alive, literally and figuratively. Instead, it was starting to feel a little like an abandoned, metal mausoleum, and regular stone mausoleums were spooky enough. Rodney drummed his fingers on the console top, siphoning his agitated need to move into that one hand.

"Rodney?"

Rodney jumped. The voice over the com wasn't female, and wasn't American.

"Beckett! Where the hell is Elizabeth!"

"I don't know. Half the bloody crew seems to be missing. We only found five people plus Hermiod in the rec room, and you're the first to call over the radio. What the hell is going on?"

Rodney had his mouth open for a response when John bolted from the room, shouting over his shoulder to the female marine, Carlyle, and Rodney, "Stay here!"

The marine had to take orders and Carlyle was too nervous to do anything but obey. Rodney, on the other hand, was neither, and took off after John. He didn't have to go far when he heard John cry out, and exited the room in time to see John sprawled on the floor with Sherbet pawing at his hand. He was trying to rise with an effort that looked painful, grunting and gasping as he struggled shakily up onto his elbows.

Rodney's gut constricted, and for a moment he couldn't move. There was a brief, but heart slamming second where he thought Sheppard had been shot, and it shocked him enough to freeze him to the spot. When shock flipped into urgency, Rodney found motion and dropped to his knees beside Sheppard, taking him by one shoulder and one arm to help ease him up and back against the wall.

No blood, no bullet holes. Sheppard was fine – relatively. His face was pinched with pain and wet with sweat at the temples.

"What happened?" Rodney asked.

"My feet, my damn feet!" John snarled.

That explained the pain, but Rodney suspected it was more than that. Now that he was off his feet John's breaths continued heavy in its course, and Rodney felt a slight tremor in the shoulder he was still gripping. Sheppard attempted to get up only to have Rodney push him back down.

"Whoa, hold up there. Just take a minute and catch your breath or you're going to just drop again. Face facts, Sheppard, you're exhausted. And even if you weren't, running to the rec room isn't going to solve anything."

John nodded, then tilted his head back, focusing on steadying his breathing. He looked ill, but that was most likely due to the pain from his feet and a rapid heart making him pale, combined with him being so thin. Rodney slid his fingers over the pulse-point on John's wrist and pressed. He didn't know why. He didn't even know what it was he was supposed to be looking out for. He just knew it was something Carson would have done if he was here, and Rodney didn't know what else to do.

John's pulse was fast, but Rodney could feel it also starting to slow as Sheppard rested. That is until John slammed the heel of his fist into the floor with a fleshy smack.

"Damn it!" he hissed. He brought his shaking hand up and rubbed his face. "We should have gone straight to them after getting you."

Rodney scowled. "Don't even start with the should haves and what ifs. Being here or being there probably wouldn't have changed anything. These people have transporter technology advanced enough to let them pop in and out of here like weasels. They still would have come no matter who was where, and probably would have shot you just for the fun of it."

John gave him a heavy-lidded look. "You don't know that."

"No, I don't, I'm just trying to make you feel better."

"By telling me they would have shot me?"

"Exactly."

John snorted, but it was more an amused snort than skeptical by the smile trying to curve his lips. It was a failed attempt, and John was frowning again, looking away down the hall. Sherbet crawled into his lap, curling up against Sheppard's stomach.

"I am right about one thing," Rodney said after a moment, when John's pulse finally returned to what he supposed was normalcy. "They would have dropped in anyways, probably taken you along with everyone else."

"Then I could have helped from their end."

"Probably not. Trust me, I think you're more use here since we're the ones with the ancient gadgets that need lit up, like the LSDs. Try not to be shocked by my attempt at optimism, but we will get everyone back. Look, we know they want the Daedalus repaired so they're not going to take everyone. And they're not going to kill anyone so long as we cooperate. So, I think that for now, we're safe – not to jinx the situation or anything. And not that I believe in jinxes but life in general seems to get its kicks from proving us wrong, and irony sucks."

John actually managed a smile this time around. Rodney didn't know why, but it made him feel better, like proof that John was just tired and hadn't hit rock bottom. Up until now, except for being several pounds under weight and out of uniform, Rodney had been seeing nothing but the old Sheppard; the Sheppard who could handle anything, the Sheppard who could pull a plan out of thin air that would save their collective butts at the last second.

The Sheppard so persistent about never giving up that he never had to say 'everything's going to be all right'. It was stated loud and clear every time he so much as walked into a room.

Then John had dropped thanks to the pain in his feet, and suddenly he was back to being frail and damaged. It was hard not to take that as a sign that they were screwed. It was also a little unfair to Sheppard. He was physically worn out, not mentally worn out. Most of the tension lines on his face weren't from pain alone.

Rodney gave John's shoulder an awkward but hopefully reassuring pat. "Carson's gonna kick my ass."

"Only after he kicks mine."

"Dr. McKay?"

Rodney looked up and to the right at Carlyle hovering between the door and the hall, his thumb crooked over his shoulder. "Dr. Beckett's on the line. I tried to explain to him what's going on but he wants to talk to you."

"Tell him to stay put, we'll meet him at the rec room." Epiphany struck, and Rodney snapped his fingers. "Strike that. Tell him to take everyone into the infirmary, we'll meet him there."

"Rodney," John growled.

"The infirmary's such a lovely place this time of year I thought we'd have a tea party there. Indulge me, Colonel. You know that's where he's going to hustle your stick figure once we show up."

Carlyle nodded and backed up through the door. Rodney doubled over to get John's arm across his shoulder, and slipped his own arm around John's waist. They both grunted as they scrambled and heaved to their feet. John grimaced hard, his legs already starting to buckle, making Rodney's arm slide up from being stabbed by John's hipbone to bruised by his floating rib.

"Yes," Rodney grunted. "There will definitely be unnecessary inoculations in our future. Right in the butt too."

They didn't start hobbling until John finally got his knees to lock. Sherbet trotted along beside them with his leash hissing over the metal floor. Rodney was dreading the hell-raising Beckett was going to instigate on seeing Sheppard unable to stand on his own two feet. Why his voodoo highness always had to involve Rodney in the blame-game over John's physical condition was beyond him. It wasn't like he forced John at gunpoint to run all over the blasted ship. That had been the bad guy's fault. Then, of course, there was Rodney's own little head injury, but he was looking forward to having at least a couple of Tylenol slapped into his hand. His skull felt like it was splitting into a miniature version of the San Andreas fault. Keeping Sheppard upright was making it worse, and if Rodney recalled correctly, the infirmary was at the other end of the ship from where they were.

A flash of silver-white light brought both men to a halt, and Sherbet to a halt with his tail shooting straight up into the air, bristling.

Rodney gulped audibly and cringed back. "Oh crap."

Double oh crap. The bubble contracted out of existence, leaving a very poised and unconcerned baldy standing in their path, pudgy hands clasped to the front, and X-ray LSD dangling from one hand. Rodney almost dropped Sheppard when the Colonel twisted trying to go for the gun he'd tucked in his waist band.

"I'd advise against that, little beast. You kill me and they'll be a mess of dead on your conscience."

John stopped wriggling and stilled. Rodney saw his lip curl in pure revulsion and fury out of the corner of his eye. "What do you want?"

Baldy turned his goggled gaze on Rodney. "To let you know the last threat still stands. You fix this ship, or people die. You hear? When it's fixed, you get your people back. Shields first, remember." He lifted the X-ray LSD, waggling it back and forth, and looked at Sheppard. "We'll be watching, now, so no trouble from you, little beast." He gave John a blank once over, then a smile split his features like a knife-slit through a melon. "Never thought I'd have to make threats to a cripple."

John lunged forward, but Rodney held him back – a little too easily for comfort in Rodney's opinion.

"Why the shields?" Rodney asked. "Why not the engines?"

Baldy didn't answer, he vanished when the bubble expanded then shrank away.

"Oh for crying out loud," Rodney snarled. He shifted his shoulders to adjust John's arm more comfortably.

"Why the obsession with the shields?" Sheppard asked.

"I asked. Apparently, vanishing into thin air means he didn't want to answer."

They started moving again since standing around was only going to do to make things worse when John couldn't take the pain in his feet anymore. Carson was so going to kill them, very, very dead.

"Control tactic," John said. "They'll answer when they feel like it, or not at all. Keeps us in our place."

"Well, it's making me nervous. I mean for all we know they're expecting some kind of an attack. Either that or they're closet OCDs who want repairs done in a certain order. In which case, I should do repairs out of order, but I'd rather not take the chance."

Sheppard smiled. "You really are a smart man, McKay."

Rodney snorted. "Glad to see you finally noticed."

SGA

Beckett's eyes nearly popped out of his head when McKay stumbled in supporting a pale and sweaty Sheppard.

"You've got to be kidding me! Colonel, lad...!"

Rodney deposited the Colonel onto the nearest gurney, then dragged his feet to the next nearest gurney and pulled himself up into sitting.

"Carson," John said, scooting backward then swinging around to lie back. Sherbet made one massive leap onto the bed, circling before curling up against John's hip. "You can chew me up and spit me out when we're back in space with everyone accounted for." He didn't stay lying for long when he propped himself up by his elbows. "So who's all here?"

They'd run into Ronon and Anderson while heading toward the infirmary, along with two more teams. Cpl. Stiles was tucked in a bed, hooked to an I.V. of fluids. Everyone else was milling around, either sitting on gurneys or in the nearest chair, or – in the case of Hermiod – standing around as though waiting. About twenty people in all more or less, most of them technicians, a smattering of marines, two nurses, one Asgard, and one Satedan.

Beckett had a nurse check on Rodney while he handled Sheppard's feet. The lad hadn't even been wearing any shoes, just the thick socks. Carson pulled the right sock off first, and pursed his lips at the bruising splotching the heel. "Seems these hostiles as you military have been calling 'em have nigh picked us clean. Oh, bleedin' fires of hell, lad... I think you've officially set yourself back."

"I know," John said. He was staring off a little to the left, glaring at nothing in particular. He was pissed, and not just because he was very likely to end up back in a wheelchair for another week. Carson should have been giving him a lecture heated enough to flay skin from bone, except he couldn't. This wasn't Sheppard's fault. Well, it was in that Sheppard could have literally sat this one out in the nearest chair. A quick glance around kept Beckett's mouth shut about it. There were marines with bandages on their arms, some on their heads, brandishing weapons and standing guard. There'd been few of them able to take action in the beginning when they'd been locked up, and there were even fewer now that most had been taken. None of them could afford to sit this one out – except Stiles who probably didn't even have a clue as to what was going on.

Carson replaced the sock and moved on to the other foot.

"Hey McKay," John said. "Think these guys are listening in along with watching?"

Beckett glanced over his shoulder. The nurse had removed the cloth and was cleaning the small laceration on Rodney's forehead.

"Well, since baldy didn't say anything about listening, and those X-ray things didn't have anything resembling a speaker – nor were making any sounds – I would say no. Then again, with the way they've been zapping in and out, they could have left devices, or are listening in over the coms." He tried to turned his head, only to have the nurse grab his chin and pull it back. "Ow! Hey! Injured here! Anyone got a PC? PDA? Anything?"

A short, squat, balding man with coke-bottle glasses raised a nervous hand. "I do, Dr. McKay."

Rodney snapped his fingers then held them open. "Fork it over."

The little man pulled a laptop from the satchel he had hanging over his shoulder and passed it over to Rodney. Rodney opened the lid and began filling the infirmary with the sounds of clacking. The nurse had finished cleaning so was now applying butterfly bandages to the cut.

"There was an energy spike I noticed while the intergalactic Captain Kidd was having me do repairs," Rodney said. "I ignored it but it may have been when one of baldy's thugs materialized or vanished or whatever. So whatever these guys are using, it can be detected, so I should know if the walls have ears."

Beckett replaced John's left sock. "What is it these buggers want, anyways?" He moved over to the bed side, placing a hand on John's shoulder to help him sit up.

"They want the ship," Rodney said. "And they want us to fix it. And they took everyone else as hostages to make us."

Carson began pulling John's shirt up. John, however, tugged it back down, wearing a suddenly uneasy expression.

"Ribs are fine, doc."

Carson tried again. "I'll be the judge of that."

John stopped him, and glanced at Beckett imploringly. "Can't it wait?"

Beckett was ready to respond 'like hell it could' but Sheppard's discomfort finally registered. People were staring at him. Actually, they were staring at both him and Rodney, the two with the most answers. Beckett had suffered a momentary lapse in memory concerning John's self-conscious streak over the state of his own body. Beckett didn't blame him. John could have been crushed under the weight of sympathetic stares tossed his way since the day he'd been brought home.

Fortunately for John, all the beds had privacy curtains. Carson did him the favor of pulling it closed just enough to block him from everyone's sights. John finally relented to Carson pulling up his shirt and removing the pressure bandages.

There was new bruising, large and dark, from the end of Johns sternum to his stomach, as well as a little bruising around his throat. Carson's heart thudded hard in a surge of anger.

"They do this to you, lad?" he asked softly, keeping the fury internal as he felt each of John's ribs for any new breaks.

John smiled a little sadly. "Small price to pay to keep them from putting a bullet in Cpl. Stile's head." Then the smile vanished. "They went ahead and put a bullet in someone else."

"Aye," Carson growled. "We saw the aftermath of that. They called it 'incentive', though it bloody well worked... the bastards."

"If they have the means to get on this ship through that beaming thing," said Ronon from the other side of the curtain. "Why don't they just do that?"

In other words, why weren't there any guards? Carson had been wondering that himself. So far, these pirates had come and gone, rather than swarmed the ship taking it all at once.

"No listening devices in here," Rodney announced.

"I'm starting to suspect there aren't that many of them," John said.

"But that guy said there were many?" Rodney countered.

John furrowed his brow and rolled his eyes toward Rodney. "And you believed him? Come on, Rodney, no one's going to tell the enemy 'there's five of us, be afraid' when there's twenty of the enemy. They left twenty of us so how much you wanna bet there's twenty of them? Or less. Popping in and out like they did made their numbers seem more. For that same reason, they're relying on us playing nice to keep our people safe rather than risking any of their men and lowering their numbers. These guys are smart. However, they're also paranoid, which could work to our advantage as soon as we figure out how."

"Right now I'd just be happy keeping them from popping in and out," said Rodney, still clacking away. "That would be a nice advantage to start with. I don't even see how they can do it, not without being in close proximity to continually scan our ships. It would have to be one continuous scan to see what was where and who was where to keep from materializing into anything... or one," Rodney's face scrunched in disgust and he shivered. "Lovely mental image right there. Moving on. They've been right on the money every time they've beamed in so they have to be near, probably right smack above us."

Carson felt John's ribs spread when the pilot straightened. "So a little reconnaissance is in order."

"Not on those feet, Colonel," Carson quickly warned.

"I could go check it out," Ronon said.

"Actually," said Sheppard, "I've got a better idea. I'm just as curious as to why they want the shields up so bad. I say we force their hand, make them give a little info for better cooperation."

"How," Rodney countered, "without any hostages getting killed?"

"I take an F-302 out. Seeing that, they're probably going to beam in asking what the hell I'm up to. You, Rodney, tell them that I'm patrolling the area because you think these pirates had an enemy on their tail, and that's why they want the shields up, because another group of bad guys are coming. By the time they start demanding you call me back in, I'll have had enough time to see where they're positioned. Plus, we might be able to find out why they want the shields up. They'll be more inclined to tell us if they think it'll keep us in line."

Rodney balked. "That's a terrible plan! They might decide to shoot you down instead."

"No, they won't. I don't even think they're up in the air. You said it yourself that they're engines are probably depleted. I don't think they're going to waste power hovering over us. Besides, like I said, they're smart and paranoid. They're going to see some kind of a trick and ask questions first before firing."

"Still a bad idea."

"Then I'll move out of firing range. I'm just going for a quick look see."

Carson rewrapped John's chest. "I agree with Rodney. It's risky."

"So is standing around doing nothing," said Ronon. "And giving into their demands. Once they're through with us, they'll either ditch us on some other world or kill us all."

John adjusted his shirt back over his body. He then moved Sherbet aside in order to swing his legs around to hang over the edge of the bed. "Help me out, Ronon."

Ronon didn't hesitate to head over to John, which Carson was ready for, placing himself between the two and planting a hand on the big man's chest. He turned his head to face John and pointed at him. "I can't stop you from doing what you need to do, but you can at least humor me enough to do most of it in a wheelchair."

Sheppard made his eyes go heavy lidded in annoyance. "You drive a hard bargain, doc."

Carson lowered his hand when Ronon moved away to fetch the chair, and smiled. Sheppard was usually, actually, less recalcitrant during a crisis so long as Carson didn't try to confine him to an infirmary bed. "Just looking out for your feet, lad. You put the poor buggers through enough."

John smiled back on that one – tired, not quite reaching his eyes, but Beckett would take it. There would be no end to fretting over John until he finally did have the Colonel confined to an infirmary bed. The man looked like he was running on adrenaline fumes rather than the actual stuff. And he was going to take a ship into the air? It all screamed bad, bad, bad and more bad. Carson would have suggested someone else go, but he had the sneaking suspicion that the reason John had automatically volunteered himself was because he was currently the only functional pilot in the room. Colonel Sheppard was a take-charge kind of leader, sometimes a little reckless, but no fool, and he wasn't looking particularly excited at the moment.

In fact, after Ronon brought the chair over and aided Sheppard from the bed into the seat (and after the winces and hisses of pain passed) the Colonel's look of grim determination was a little marred by trepidation.

"Good luck, lad," Carson said, since it was all he really could say. John tossed him a thankful smile over his shoulder that was short lived.

"Don't use ships one to four on the right hand side," Rodney called. "We sort of, kind of, had to cannibalize their power."

With one patient beyond his care, Carson turned his attention to his other. The creature, Sherbet, hopped off the bed to go bounding over to Rodney's side and hop up next to him, curling up against his thigh. The nurse voiced her concerns quietly about a possible concussion, and Carson couldn't dispute her. Rodney was focused on what he was doing, but pale and going a little green around the gills.

Carson stepped up to Rodney and gave him a light pat on the arm. "I need you to set that aside, lad. It's scan time."

"Not now," McKay snapped.

"Yes now, before your brain decides to leak out of your ears."

Rodney's sardonic exhale was hissing and sharp. "My brain is perfectly intact. Just give some Aspirin and let me work."

Carson twisted his mouth in mild vexation. It was a rather ironic streak of Rodney's how neurotically in tune he was to his own health up until he was immersed in something deemed more important than himself – either because it could win him the Nobel prize or because it involved saving his and everyone else's collective hides. Irony after irony. Carson just stood there, waiting.

The inevitable finally hit Rodney. The green in his face became more pronounced, the clacking stopped, and Carson thought he had never seen Rodney move faster when he set the PC aside to lurch forward.

"I think I'm gonna..."

The nurse already had the basin under his mouth just as he started to heave. Sherbet's little head perked, and his body jerked in a tiny yeep.

SGA

As a kid, John had snagged every opportunity he could to go barreling down the food aisle standing on the shopping cart while his mom's back was turned. When he was a little older, he and a friend had found an abandoned shopping cart, and took turns pushing each other around at the highest speed young, human legs were capable of. Flashing back to those memories helped against the twang of humiliation at being escorted to a high-tech space jet in a wheel chair. In a moment of ironic humor, John tried to talk Ronon into giving the chair a massive shove and release to send John flying down the corridors.

"I don't think Beckett would like that," Ronon said.

"Beckett doesn't have to know."

"He will if you end up running into a wall."

John grinned wryly. "Spoil sport." He didn't mean it. He was feeling rebellious toward the universe in general since it was so blatantly out to get him, and he needed to vent. He was pretty much going cripple in a crisis, all after already having survived another crisis that had nearly killed him. He had every right to be pissed but settled on ornery since it was more amusing.

He was also scared. It was a productive fear, pumping him full of adrenaline, but also keeping his heart rate a little above normal. He didn't trust too much in his plan because he didn't trust these pirates. Rodney was right; they could just as soon shoot him down and ask questions later rather than risking doing the reverse. But that was only if they hadn't landed or weren't staying above orbit. The F-302s knew when they were being targeted, and John knew the tricks that would make him a hard target, such as keeping close to the Daedalus. The pirates wouldn't risk hurting their ticket out of here just to disintegrate one little fighter. He was confident, just not pridefully so. Like he'd told the others, this was to be a quick look see, in and out before the pirate captain had a chance to bellow fire.

They came to the hanger bay sooner than John realized, and he was wheeled to the nearest F-302. Ronon took him by the arm, pulling him up then supporting him from the chair to the metal access ladder. John felt like a Geriatric being loaded onto a tour bus about the leave the rest home, made all the more unpleasantly real by his brief stint as an elderly man. The joint pains were still fresh in his mind as they had hurt like hell.

John felt a little more his younger self as soon as he climbed into the cock-pit and settled in the seat. He tugged the already present helmet onto his head as Ronon climbed down then moved the chair out of the way. John waited until Ronon was out of the bay, then started flipping switches, booting systems and checking them over. John adjusted the com frequency to keep all conversations isolated to the Daedalus medbay only.

"Hey Rodney," John said. "Think you can get the bay doors open form your end or do I have to wait for someone to hightail it to the bridge?"

There was a moment of static, followed by Beckett's voice and an odd background noise that sounded vaguely like retching.

"Rodney's a bit preoccupied at the moment..." There was mumbling – Rodney's strained voice, then Hermiod's flat, crisp tone and words.

"Rodney says Carlyle can do it from his end, give it a moment."

John went through another quick systems check until emergency lights flashed in his peripheral and he heard the clunk and thud of the bay doors starting toward sliding open, along with the mechanical warning klaxons. The doors moaned open to a sunny sky and waving ocean of tawny grass like the wide-open wheat fields of Kansas. John powered up the engines, then pushed the controls forward and sideways steering the agile F-302 from the bay into the wide open world. He pulled up until the view screen was filled with sky, arched in a loop, then flipped the ship right-side up to speed over the grounded Daedalus. The back flip had shown him no pirate vessel hovering uncomfortably above.

John risked moving away from the Daedalus to climb a little higher for a broader view. He loved these ships – their agility, easy handling, and the ability to pull of any move stopping short of hovering like a chopper. John saw the labyrinth-like field of rocks off to his right, and something metallic flashing in the sunlight. John steered toward it, and smiled when it came into view.

There it was – the pirate ship, keeping the maze of rocks between it and the Daedalus. Even had the Daedalus been turned facing the rocks, the pirate ship would have remained nicely hidden and incapable of being shot at.

Something dark stretching across the horizon on the other side of the ship pulled John's attention upward. He squinted curiously at the mass he automatically took to be rain clouds. They were darker than any storm clouds he had ever seen, almost pitch black, fading to smoky gray higher up. John steered higher to shoot over the pirate ship before it had a chance to lock onto him. He closed the distance between him and the clouds.

And realized they weren't clouds.

Clouds don't roil and billow in oily undulation like that. John's eyes popped wide.

"Holy freakin' crap," he breathed, then flipped on the radio. "Hey guys? I think I know why the pirates want the shields up so damn bad."

John angled around to head back, turning his head, unable to pull his eyes from the writhing claws of flames licking up the dry grass as though it were soaked in kerosene.

-----------------------------

TBC...

A/N: And now you know. Break out the marshmallows, the hotdogs, and the oxygen masks 'cause we're gonna have an all natural cook out!