Chapter Two: Initial Conditions
Arlen Crane wouldn't stop screaming. It had become almost like breathing. He could barely recall a time when his throat hadn't been so raw, when there had been more to life than this. His entire existence had narrowed focused upon a single undeniable truth…pain. Oh the pain. The unceasing, uncaring purity of pain. Wave after wave flowed through his limbs deeper and deeper. Like liquid fire it coursed through his veins, pricked at his skin. Never stopping, never ever stopping.
Sometimes the pain dimmed slightly, just enough. For those brief moments, he found he could think again. He could remember through a haze of lingering anguish. He had a name, a wife, a life. But there was one thing he could not recall, not matter how hard he tried. What had he done to earn this orgy of torment? What was his crime? Arlen knew without doubt that he was guilty. Only those guilty of truly serious crimes were subjected to the stocks. Displayed in the street, open to the people's scorn and their eyes.
Oh their eyes! Eyes watching, devouring his suffering, rejoicing in his pain. He shut his eyes, unable to bare the terrible eyes of strangers. He longed for the darkness to take him, for sleep, nature's sweet restorer to take him away. He could escape in dreams, be free of the pain and all consuming fatigue. But his tormentors had taken that into account. The gift of pain had been turned into an art, perfected and refined. Chemicals kept him conscious; it would not end until his sentence was carried out. Only then could he collapse. Another wave of pain racked his body. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of four Spirituals in somber gray, watching him. Then he was lost in a sea of pain, and he screamed, and screamed.
Teyla placed a restraining hand on John's shoulder. She knew he wanted to run and tear that poor man down, but they couldn't give themselves away, not yet. She shivered. His screams, she'd never imagined a more terrible sound, a guttural inhuman cry, a plea for help that she dared not answer. Not with the guards flanking their prisoner. The stock was built into the side of the building, the platform just big enough to stand on, encased in glass. Pain inducers in the floor and the ceiling. The screams were fainter now, as if someone had turned down the volume.
It made her sick to see such suffering. But there was worse to come. The people, the Tannisians, were not warm and friendly, as the stories had claimed. No. Some had gathered around to…enjoy the show. Even the children seemed hungry, taking a perverse enjoyment in the torture of one of their own. "Name: Arlen Crane," a sign proclaimed. "Charge: Assault. Sentence: Two Days in the stocks." Two days, 48 hours behind the glass for all to see. 48 hours of screams. Teyla couldn't imagine such cruelty, but the children clapped gaily, but what was worse, was the others—the steady stream of people who didn't stop, who passed on by like they saw it everyday, like it didn't matter. After all, there was one on every other block. She look at her teammates, could see her horror reflected in their eyes.
The Citadel wasn't what they had expected. Behind its black gates rose mighty skyscrapers of dull grey metal. People trudged to and fro, unafraid of the possibility of a Wraith attack. So many people. Dressed in drab colors to match the buildings, they slowly made their way about their business. They filed behind each other, walking almost in synchronization. Their faces were expressionless, their eyes cold and guarded, but they moved with purpose, with confidence. Above in the sky, hover drones buzzed about, their electronic eyes trained on the people below.
The Atlantis team had shuffled in with the others. Hidden beneath their borrowed monks robes, they seemed to fit in. They passed a fading poster: "Unity through Obedience," it read. "Strength through Unity," proclaimed another. "Victory through Strength!" Soldiers were posted on every sidewalk. A never-ending column of troops marched around the corner, their weapons at the ready. Step, step, step, STEP. They marched in time to a strange drumbeat. Step, step, step, STEP. Their faces hidden from view by dark helmets.
Shepard led them away from the others. "I'm getting a very bad feeling about this," he whispered.
"No…you think," McKay said. "We should leave now."
"Hate to say it sir," said Ford. "But I agree. This could get ugly." He glanced at Arlen.
"Yeah," Shepard said. "But what about the ZPM?"
"If there is one," McKay said. Shepard glared. "What?! I made a guess based on a religious fable. Not exactly the best proof ever. And even if there is one, what are we going to do—ask the friendly neighborhood dictator if we could borrow it?"
"Well that's a plan," Shepard said.
"A very bad one," McKay muttered.
"Dr. McKay is right," Teyla said. "I believe that we should leave immediately. The citadel is large. Finding a ZPM would be almost impossible and retrieving it even more so."
"I know," Shepard said. "And I don't think we'd have much luck trading with them either. From the looks of things we haven't get much to offer. It almost feels like Earth."
"Earth is like this then," Teyla frowned.
"What?" Shepard said. "No! Well, not exactly...we certainly don't have anything like," he glanced at Arlen's screaming figure. McKay shifted uncomfortably.
Suddenly everyone around them looked up at the giant screens fixed onto the sides of the buildings. A news anchor had been droning on, but now inexplicably everyone was interested. Shepard had tuned it out almost immediately, disgusted at the blatant propaganda. He frowned softly. How did everyone know to turn to watch? It had been eerie, done in near perfect synchronization. "In related news," the anchor said. "our Lord & Master has recently completed his tour of Patrexes and Arcalian. He met with the Viceroys and even found time to visit Elettaria's Crater. His visit culminated this morning in the public execution of Olin Doi, whose terrorist attack six months ago disrupted the Archangel Network and isolated Arcalian for almost 3 weeks. Our Master saw to it personally that justice was enacted. Rejoice and observe…"
The screen showed what appeared to be an arena, filled to capacity. A man was half dragged in and taken up onto a raised platform. The crowd jeered, calling angrily, but he didn't seem to hear them. Olin didn't seem to hear anything. His eyes were hollow. He seemed more like an empty shell then a man. Then the crowd went wild, as another man entered. He strode confidently toward the platform, and gave his subjects a wave. He was younger than Sheppard had expected, assuming that this was the so-called Lord and Master. Judging by the awe in the people around him, he thought it was a safe bet. Still he looked about Sheppard's age, perhaps even a little younger. He didn't seem imposing enough, John had been expecting something…more.
The Master lifted Olin's face and looked into his eyes as if searching for something. Then the Master took a step back. He drew his weapon with a flourish and smiled softly at Olin, before casually aiming and firing. There before everyone's eyes Olin began to glow and shrink, smaller and smaller. It was over in a matter of seconds and all that remained of Olin Doi was one corpse in miniature.
"He will be returning to the Citadel this evening and is expected to make the annual commencement address at the Academy tomorrow. Praise be to our Lord & Master," the newswoman said.
"Praise be," everyone repeated.
Sheppard glanced around nervously. "Ok," he said. "We need to go…now!"
-The Master's Flagship Kasterborus: In route to Tannis Prime-The Master rested his head in his hand and massaged his temple gently. "Convey my deepest gratitude to Coordinator Graven," he said at last. "His information is most helpful."
"Yes Master," the young attaché said.
The Master glanced up at him. "Contact the Chancellery Guard, have them place the Citadel on lockdown immediately."
"By your command."
"Yes," the Master agreed. "That will be all for now." The attaché bowed and left quickly silently. The Master frowned at his retreating back. So young and ambitious. There had been hundreds like him over the years, all dead now and the Master did not mourn their passing. He'd even helped some of them along. They'd all thought it a great honor to serve him. The Master chuckled softly. Pitiful. Five hundred years living among the muck, surrounded by the stench of humanity. He rose quickly and poured himself a drink. The last few decades had been the worst. All that waiting, waiting for the right moment to strike. It was hard to be patient. He needed action. The drums demanded it, and would not be denied. He swirled his glass around watching the ripples form. Ripples, yes coming to ruin his maticulate plans.
Outsiders had come though the Gate. That should have been impossible. Tannis had been erased, removed from prying eyes. Safe behind a perception filter. There was only one hardcopy of the address left in the galaxy, but no one could have…The Master frowned. Could it be? Were the intruders from Atlantis? But that was impossible, the Alterans were gone, dead or ascended. Unless some of them had survived, but why come here now? He crossed over to the window and gazed out into the black. Tannis Prime was growing steadily as the Kasterborus approached. The space around was swarming with activity. Satellites, orbital weapons platforms, and half a dozen starships performing war games. Well if the Alterans had truly returned, then let them come. The Master downed his drink in one gulp. He was ready. War was coming one way or the other.