JUSTICE.

CHAPTER 8

Carson was furious. He didn't know who he was angriest at. His friends for hiding this from him. The Talunans for imposing such a barbaric sentence, or the Colonel for accepting his fate without a fight.

It was just like Sheppard to be so bloody self-sacrificing. The man had been living a guilt trip ever since he'd awoken the Wraith. He hid it well, but Carson could see through the act. It was written all over his face when he thought no one was looking. It also showed in his actions. John put himself in harm's way far too often to be a coincidence. He was constantly trying to make amends. This time, he'd gone a step too far.

Carson believed in the rule of law. If a man was guilty the people were entitled to justice, but it should be fair, measured and appropriate to the crime. From what he'd heard this had been an accident. It was tragic to be sure but even if Sheppard was due some kind of retribution, this punishment far exceeded his offence.

Rodney was sitting on Carson's bunk waiting for him to unpack. The scientist was clearly depressed. He was slumped with his elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the floor.

"So…you're telling me Ronon doesn't know where this place is?"

Rodney didn't even look up. "No…and the guy who'd been there died when the Wraith destroyed Sateda."

Carson put the last of his things away and accidentally slammed the drawer shut. He winced at the sound and expected McKay to complain about the noise. Rodney just looked up, but didn't say a word.

"Surely someone must know where this bloody prison is? It can't just have disappeared into thin air." Carson ranted. "What about Radim? Has anyone asked him? I'm sure the Genii must have sent quite a few of their soldiers there."

Carson saw Rodney begin rubbing his arm where the Genii had tortured him. He cursed himself for opening his mouth without thinking.

There was an uncomfortable silence before the scientist answered in a distracted fashion. "He was the first person Woolsey asked, but the Genii have their own stockade."

Carson was feeling a growing sense of frustration, and he'd just heard the news. He could only imagine how the others felt. They'd been living with the knowledge of Sheppard's situation for well over a week now. It was hardly surprising Rodney was disheartened. John's team weren't the only ones. There was an air of despondency pervading the whole base.

Rodney looked hellish. He'd been the picture of misery when he'd walked in, but now a haunted look replaced it. Carson blamed himself. It was his fault for bringing up the thorny topic of the Genii. Even though it had been five years since Kolya led the invasion into the city, in many ways it felt like yesterday. It didn't matter that the Genii were now allies. The physical wounds of that awful day had healed, but the painful memories lingered raw and tender under the surface. He hadn't been immune from the nightmares either.

The Scot walked over to the window and looked outside. It was a beautiful day. The cloudless sky was blue, the sun shining. Its golden reflection glinted off the towering spires bathing the city in a shimmering light. He knew Sheppard loved the view from the balcony, and wondered what the view was like from his cell - if he had a view.

"You never said who it was John killed." Carson said quietly. "Was it one of the farmers?"

Rodney looked at him bemused. It took a moment before he seemed to understand the question "What? Yes…yes it was."

Carson could see the normally sharp scientist was in a fugue, so pressed the issue. "Well…what was his name?"

"Does it matter?" Rodney sounded incredulous, and he rolled his eyes. "Sheppard shot the guy. It was an accident, now he…he's paying for it with the next fifteen years of his life, not to mention the skin off his back!"

He could see Rodney was upset, but couldn't let the comment go. "It matters to the man's family, Rodney. I'm not saying what happened to Colonel Sheppard is right, but those people have lost someone they love."

Rodney had been storming towards the door, when he stopped, and looked back with remorse "I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." He looked thoughtful and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I don't know what his first name was, but his second name was Celindann…Clindam – something like that. He was an old guy."

"Could it have been Cleamund by any chance?"

"Yeah – I think that's it. Do you…did you know him?" Rodney folded his arms and peered at Carson through half closed lids.

"I might. I do a surgery there every six weeks, and the name rings a bell. I think he was a patient of mine." Carson sat down at his computer and entered his password. "Okay…let's see what we have."

Carson carried out a lot of surgeries, saw a lot of patients, and initially couldn't recall what this man's complaint was. When he started reading the case file not only could he confirm the man had indeed come to him for treatment, but a very loud penny dropped. He immediately realized the man's condition could have a significant bearing on John's case. Carson just wished he'd been around when the accident had happened.

"Well…"

Carson could feel Rodney breathing down his neck. For once it didn't annoy him. "I need to speak to Mr Woolsey. It's imperative I visit Taluna." He jumped off the seat, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

Rodney caught up with him before he reached the corridor. "Why? This isn't something you can fix. I know your voodoo works in the infirmary, but Sheppard isn't tucked up in the corner bed under your claustrophobic care. Woolsey couldn't change their minds. So as much it would be great it if you could stick a Band-Aid and make this stinking situation all better. What makes you think you can save Sheppard's stubborn ass?"

Carson let out a long sigh. "I don't, but the facts just might. Erlemm Cleamund was suffering from stage four lymphoma. I did what I could for the poor bugger but by the time he came to me, he was already dying. Even if Sheppard's bullet hadn't killed him, the man would still be dead by now."

ooooOoooo

Pain was coursing through his body but oblivion had been denied him. They had made sure he'd remained conscious through the whole agonizing ordeal. John was acutely aware of the last excruciating lash as the whip ripped into his flesh.

He jerked back, his abused muscles convulsing in agony, but didn't make a sound. He couldn't. His mouth was almost as torn as the skin on his back from trying to suppress his screams. His throat hoarse, from all the times he hadn't been able to succeed. At least it was over. All he could do was hang there until his persecutors deemed fit to cut him down.

Every part of his body screamed as they cut the rope securing his wrists and lifted him off the frame. Still the darkness wouldn't claim him. He didn't know how long he'd hung there. How long he'd had to endure the torture inflicted upon him. Now he felt too wretched to care.

The skin on his back was in pieces, torn to shreds by the whip. His arms, legs and face were on fire, when they'd left him to burn in the sun. His breath hitched as the sharp, piercing pain threatened to take his breath away. Every movement was a new adventure in suffering.

His strength was gone and he couldn't even raise his head as he was dragged, his feet scuffing along the ground. They were scarlet, covered in blood that had dried and congealed in the sun. At first his fuzzy brain wondered how they'd got that way. Then it slowly dawned on him. They looked weird. Like a sick twisted version of Dorothy's slippers in Oz. Except unlike Dorothy his feet were in chains. There was no lion, scarecrow or tin man - no friends there to help him, and he couldn't click his heels three times and go home.

The world was spinning and the nausea he'd been holding back forced its way to the surface. Someone cursed as he threw up all over the ground. It was Jalune's voice, and John was vaguely aware of him shaking his boot. He reckoned he'd be made to pay for that later.

By the time he arrived at his destination he just wanted someone to shoot him. He didn't even care if he was back in the hole. He just wanted to lie down.

His vision was blurred, but it looked like a long narrow room that was wavering in and out of his consciousness. The world was turning grey at the edges, but he was jolted back to painful awareness as he was dumped onto a hard wooden bunk. Fiery pain exploded, rippling through his body and he choked on a cry.

"See you around…Sheppard."

Jalune's mocking voice disappeared into the distance and he was left blissfully alone. John wondered if he'd been left there to die, then realized that would spoil their fun. They couldn't beat him if he was dead. After all there were still places left to whip. His chest, his legs, and when the skin grew back, they could start all over again from the beginning.

Still, he was in a bad way and knew if he didn't get help soon, he might ruin their plans. The thought made him smile. Except he wasn't a quitter, and he would get through this. He had a future to plan, a business to build from scratch. All he had to do was survive.

ooooOoooo

"Argh…mnnghnn…"

"Quiet…I know this hurts, but you have to try and keep the noise down."

John groaned, and his hands balled into fists by his side. Someone was cleaning his wounds. It felt like he was being tortured all over again as the cloth ground into his ripped and bloody flesh.

"Who…who are you? John gasped, and struggled to peel back his gritty eyes. He saw a man. It wasn't a guard this time. This guy was a prisoner. He looked young, but the hollows in his cheeks and the dead looking eyes told him he'd been there a while. It was hard to tell if he was blonde or dark as his hair was matted to his head, and his face was covered in grime and sweat.

"Dulane…but you must stop talking or we'll both get punished."

"Somehow, Dulane, I don't think they could do much more to me at the moment…Nnnnghnn… Crap - that hurts."

John squeezed his eyes shut to try and get a handle on the pain. It didn't work. He was in agony. The searing pain throbbed incessantly. It felt like someone had set light to his back and was fanning the flames.

He understood what Dulane had told him, talking was bad news. Unfortunately, right now it was the only thing that could distract him from the pain.

"Tell you what…" John panted as the intense burning threatened to take his breath away. "I'll talk…you…you can listen. My name's John…John Sheppard - it's good to meet you, Dulane. Thanks for helping me… "

The man's face went pale under his dirty tan, and he looked over his shoulder. "There's no doctor here, so the prisoners help each other. They leave us supplies. Disinfectant, bandages, liniment so we can heal ourselves. Recover from the wounds they inflict. I'm sorry…but there is nothing I can do for the pain."

John yelped as Dulane dabbed into a deep laceration. It felt like a knife was being stabbed into the wound. For a moment he couldn't speak. When he did his voice was barely a whisper.

"That figures." He chuckled slightly, before wincing and moaning softly.

There were sounds in the distance. Dulane's eyes went wide, and he put a hand over John's mouth giving him a warning look.

He was a talker. He couldn't help himself, even when his big mouth got him into trouble. How he was going to keep these rules, John didn't have a freaking clue. Yet he would have to try or pay the consequences. Dulane looked terrified. John didn't want to cause the guy any trouble, so took the hint and nodded.

The frightened man removed his hand, gave him a grateful smile, then carried on treating his wounds.

It hurt so bad, John couldn't stop the tears falling down his cheeks. If Dulane saw them, he didn't appear to notice. He hated sharing his pain with anyone, and pulled in one stuttering breath after another trying to try and ride it out.

The agonizing process of cleaning his wounds seemed to take forever. John knew it was necessary, knew it would save his life. Right now it didn't make him feel any better. The darkness was creeping in on his vision, and John didn't resist. With a thankful sigh he surrendered to it…

ooooOoooo

TBC

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