Orsus Comitas
AN: Sigh. I should clone myself so I can write more fanfiction, more steadily…
Chapter Five
-
Moya, Tier Three (16 arns, 3391 microts after contact)
Crichton knew for sure that they were screwed. Oh, ho, ho…were they ever screwed. The Wraith intruders had a decent head start on them to Pilot's den. Aside from that, they somehow seemed to know the most direct route from the hangar to the den. He really didn't like that.
"Pilot, talk to me!" he called into the comm badge as he ran.
"I am here, Commander. The DRDs have managed to temp—"
The transmission cut off. John didn't break stride, but tapped at the badge on his chest a few times angrily. "Pilot!" he growled. No response. "What happened?"
"They must have brought a jamming device of some kind," Aeryn supplied with an edge of vehemence. Together, they flew down Moya's corridors, avoiding the scattered DRDs as they scuttled to and fro in confusion. "And it feels like they know what they're doing," she added darkly.
"Yeah, funny how it always works that way," he shot back. And then, "Aw, damn it! Wrong way! Wrong, wrong, wrong!"
The corridor in front of them was completely and utterly sealed shut. A few stray DRDs were futilely bumping into the door over and over, as though their infinitesimal combined strength might force it open. There was definitely something wrong with Moya when her little yellow drones started going kamikaze on Moya's doors. This was so helping Crichton feel any better about the situation.
"We can still get in from overhead," said his wife briskly, turning a sharp left towards another tier.
Baffled as to what else they could do, John began to follow her. He was stopped cold in his tracks by the callous voice of the invading Wraith commander as it came through over Pilot's comm.
"Commander John Crichton," it hissed gently. "As you are currently racing towards your death, I feel inclined to entertain you with this fact: I am now in possession of your offspring."
Everything froze. Crichton's world moved like molasses, slowing down to the point where he couldn't move. He was dimly aware that Aeryn had come to a dead standstill beside him. Her arms slid to her sides, fingers going slack. The pulse rifle she'd been carrying clattered to the floor.
"In exchange for the safe return of the boy, you and your female counterpart will peacefully surrender the living ship and abandon this futile struggle."
Half of him screamed "Like HELL I will!" Another, much stronger and more painful part of him agreed to the Wraith's conditions without hesitation. A glance towards Aeryn told him that she was suffering the same dilemma. There was no doubt the Wraith was true to his claim. It hadn't even known D'Argo existed when they arrived on Moya. He wasn't willing to risk the chance it was bluffing, anyway. Not with his son's life.
"John," Aeryn said quietly, looking at him with the first helpless look he'd seen on her face since…damn, it had been a long time. "They have D'Argo."
"I know," he said hoarsely, grabbing his head in frustration, his pulse pistol raking across his skull. "I know, I know, I know, Aeryn! But they want Moya. We can't give them Moya!"
"They have our son!" she shot back. Real tears were forming in her eyes. "I am not letting them hurt D'Argo!"
"Your concern with the ship's well-being is admirable," the Wraith informed them without a trace of sincerity. "But you see, whether or not you choose to accept my offer, your ship and its symbiote will eventually die. Perhaps…I can assist you in making your decision easier."
Crichton almost opened his mouth to shout back an insult, but his words and his balance were thrown to the great metaphorical wind when Moya suddenly went nuts.
He was sent crashing into the side of the corridor at the mercy of inertia, staggering to the ground, rolling onto his back and trying to find something to hold onto all at once. Aeryn seized his arm and together, they managed to steady their feet and somehow remained upright as their Leviathan trembled mercilessly. Moya swayed and pitched to and fro in a silent dance of anguish.
When it ended, the lights in Tier Four faded. Crichton stood splayed-legged and gingerly let go of his wife's hand. They shared a look of flushed anger and panic.
"What the frell was that?"
-
Moya, Tier Four (16 arns, 3371 microts after contact)
"What the hell?"
McKay's panicked jibber wasn't helping Sheppard's concentration in the slightest. Holding tightly to the awkward shape of the pulse rifle, he grimaced at their resident scientist and replied with a sarcastic quip.
"I don't know Rodney—maybe it doesn't like you sticking your hand inside of it."
The astrophysicist jerked his head up from his task—trying to open the door manually by cutting into the wall of the ship. But this was nothing even remotely like the Wraith ship doors—there was no panels, no wires or even fibers…just organic mush under that thick, leathery shell that acted as a wall.
"Well, I'm open to any other suggestions," McKay shot back, showing off a slick, goo-covered hand with a rather nasty expression. He delicately put his hand back inside the wall and even John had to wince a little. It was really gross.
"Just let me blast it open," Ronon finally growled, losing his patience.
"Hold on," the colonel ordered briskly. "Just keep your damn pants on. Rodney, is this going to take much longer?"
"Hard to say." A pause. "This is more like shoving your hand inside a huge pumpkin and feeling around than it is—aha! Found something."
Sheppard tensed. "Is it somethinggood?"
In return, the scientist's face twisted horribly. "You want me to tell you that just by feeling? What else could it possibly—
Naturally, this was interrupted by an impulsive, violent rock of the ship. The team was thrown off balance for a few moments. Then, before they could exchange so much as a glance, Moya began to pitch and lurch from one side to another. Not a single member of the expedition was left standing—Sheppard quickly found himself flat on the floor with a sizeable lump on his head and he heard, rather than saw, Ronon collide with McKay as they both went skidding across the tilting floor. It wasn't until the shaking had completely stopped that Sheppard could form a straight thought and climb to his elbows.
"McKay!" he snapped angrily.
"I didn't do anything!" the scientist half-roared back. "It just…just…it did that on its own!"
Ronon grabbed Rodney by the front of his uniform and dragged his face down to glower. "Don't…do that again."
Wide-eyed, McKay simply mumbled a few, quieter protests and dropped the issue in favor of his mental health. With an irritated flicker of his eyes, he shot Teyla a look that half-expected some sympathy…but her face was as impassive as always. So now he had strange, alien goo all over his arm and everyone was mad at him for something he didn't do. Just great.
Sheppard's patience was wearing thin. The soldier in him wanted to go back to the bay where he parked the Jumper and just leave the damn place alone—but John Crichton was a guy he just couldn't leave behind. He needed to know how the hell someone from Earth got here, and he most certainly as hell couldn't allow the Wraith to get their slimy hands on a ship like this. They might as well just roll out the red carpet and invite them to the home planet.
"Colonel." Teyla's voice got to him. "Look."
He looked. The door—which had been tightly shut before—had somehow opened a foot or two in the giant ship's spasm. The two little robots that had been trying to get through were already gone and probably for good…looks like they'd have to find this 'den' on their own. Now, if he could only remember what way they'd gone before…
"I'll take lead," Ronon volunteered, approaching the opening. "When we run into the Wraith, I wanna be the first to welcome them."
Usually, Sheppard didn't argue with this. Not that he'd ever admit it, but the man wasa lot quicker when it came to shooting down Wraith, not to mention the fact that he was armed to the teeth. It was unbearable to think about what would've happened if Ronon had never joined the team.
With only a little difficulty (on McKay's part), they squeezed through the door and into the adjacent corridor. Instantly, Sheppard felt like he knew this place. All of the walls and hallways looked the same, but the corridor outside the big alien's room was just a little bit different. Scarcely a glance around told him that the door they needed would be just a couple of dozen yards ahead.
Luckily, Sheppard was not an idiot.
"This is way too easy," he remarked, rounding on his team. "I get the feeling the Wraith want us to find them. And I love traps just as much as the next guy, but…"
"John…"
His attention suddenly snapped to Teyla. Her eyes had a distinct, cloudy look that could only mean one thing—Wraith. And obviously…something else. "Teyla, what is it?
She didn't look at him, and instead stared into nothingness with only the barest squinting of her eyes. "The Wraith have…done something terrible. It is almost as if…I can feel her suffering…everything she feels is…" Her voice cracked. Then she looked directly at the colonel. "We cannot let them do this. We must do something."
The vehemence of her words scared him out of his wits. Teyla was never as worked up about something like this, unless it meant more to her than good 'ol life itself. Whatever this was, it probably wasn't a good idea to piss her off.
Sheppard looked long and hard into that resolute, Athosian expression and narrowed his eyes. "One way or another, we can't let the Wraith have this ship. If we go in there, Teyla, we might have no choice but to destroy it. Is that understood?"
At first, he thought she was going to strike him—but her face slackened slightly, and though it obviously pained her to obey his command, she stepped away with clenched fists. "We must try."
It took a moment for Sheppard to remember the boy D'Argo's expression, the obvious closeness of his family and their attachment to the ship and its symbiote. He didn't want to resort to blowing up a living ship, but if it jeopardized the safety of Earth, then they had no choice.
It was times like these that he really, really hated the Wraith.
-
Pilot's Den (16 arns, 3305 microts after contact)
The scorched remains of a dozen or so DRDs littered the walkway in front of the door. It was obvious that they tried to do their best to weld it shut—D'Argo noticed the melted edges around the large, rotating frame. But no fifty-microt fusing job could have held against the three, brutish aliens with masks. D'Argo had been right there, watching them bash away at the panel until it burst open. He'd never felt so sick, frightened and angry all at once. His mom and dad, Rygel, Gala, Moya and Pilot were all in dead serious trouble, and he was useless!
One of the big monsters picked him up by his shirt and half-dragged him forward, through the broken door to the den and onto the bridge. This was where he watched the Wraith shoot all of the DRDs until nothing moved inside the enormous chamber…save the aliens.
Pilot had stopped his multitasking to focus on the intruders. The look of rage on his face was so unlike him, and that made D'Argo even more scared.
"What do you want?" Pilot demanded harshly of the Wraith as they approached.
The six Wraith split in half—two of the brutes circled around to the left, and one to the right, while the two unmasked aliens stood in confrontation with the ship's pilot. The larger of the two bared its teeth in a very callous grin. "That is hardly the way I expect to be addressed by my prisoners, much less one with such an…unfortunate position."
There was no answer from Pilot.
"You will open a channel to Commander John Crichton," the male Wraith ordered airily. "Do this and no harm will come to you for some time."
In response, the shadowed face of Moya's pilot tightened and he remained as silent as the walls of his basin.
The Wraith sighed heavily. Then, without and further warning, the brute holding onto D'Argo shoved him forward and under the looming presence of the leader. D'Argo felt the Wraith grab the back of his neck and was instantly paralyzed with trepidation, staring in absolute fear at Pilot and wishing over a thousand times that he could just go back to his nice, safe spaceship in the hangar…
"Perhaps," said his captor, "the life of this child will convince you to do as I request. This is, after all, the offspring off the man you are trying to safeguard, is it not?"
At the moment D'Argo heard this and saw Pilot's reaction, he knew that they'd both lost to these stupid-smelling aliens. He wanted to yell at him, and get angry for betraying his dad and mom by listening to invaders…but his body was frozen. It didn't make any sense—it was just that he couldn't move, or say anything. He had to stand there and watch the bad guys win. It wasn't fair!
Solemnly, Moya's symbiotic partner reached out with a tentative claw and tapped on of the comm buttons. Clearly satisfied, the Wraith clutched D'Argo even tighter and chuckled.
"Commander John Crichton," it hissed gently. "As you are currently racing towards your death, I feel inclined to entertain you with this fact: I am now in possession of your offspring."
More than anything, D'Argo wanted to jump out and scream at his dad to not listen to the ugly Wraith, but nothing could convince his limbs to work anymore.
"In exchange for the safe return of the boy, you and your female counterpart will peacefully surrender the living ship and abandon this futile struggle."
Maybe his dad couldn't hear it? Or maybe he wasn't paying any attention? D'Argo didn't know what would be worse—getting rescued, or not getting rescued. He just didn't want these stupid aliens setting a trap for his family! Who gave them permission to start messing around with them in the first place? Didn't they know who his dad was? Or what he'd done to save the whole entire galaxy?
And to his dismay, he heard his father reply from the other end of the channel. His mom was there, too. They were both looking for him. They weren't going to let him get hurt. No, no, no…they were going to give up Moya! They couldn't do that!
But nothing—nothing at all would compare to what the Wraith said next.
"Your concern with the ship's well-being is admirable," it informed them bluntly. "But you see, whether or not you choose to accept my offer, your ship and its symbiote will eventually die. Perhaps…I can assist you in making your decision easier."
The Wraith's grasp on his neck became so tight that D'Argo had to stifle a cry. Then, all at once, it let him go and twisted its white-haired head to the other alien standing on its left. Not a single word was exchanged, but there were already stones sinking to the bottom of the boy's stomach. Churning and boiling, they kicked up a storm in his abdomen that practically cramped with dread.
Glassy-eyed, D'Argo watched the second, stringy-haired Wraith step closer to Pilot's basin. Tongue-tied, he saw the alien lean closer as Pilot, transfixed by some unseen force, sat there with the same numbness that the boy felt.
Horrified, D'Argo saw the Wraith draw its hand back and slam it down underneath Pilot's chin. For the smallest second, he couldn't figure out why—
And then Pilot started to scream. Terribly.
And while Moya began to shudder and quake, sway and groan in response to her Pilot's agony, D'Argo felt a surge inside of him growing.
Pilot was screaming.
Suddenly, D'Argo was screaming, too.