Wing and a Prayer pt 1 - SGA J/R first time fic (NC-17) by Madison & the_cephalopod
Title: Wing and a Prayer
Authors: sgamadison and the_cephalopod
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Torture
Spoilers: None for anything recent; set during season 2.
Word count: ~48,000
Acknowledgments: We'd like to express our sincerest thanks to lisas_secret and zinfic for their fabulous beta-ing skills. This story is much better as a result of their efforts and all remaining mistakes are our own. Thanks also to our wonderful team captain, thegrrrl2002, and to all the other members of Team Home. Finally, thanks to fluffyllama and trobadora for their hard work on this wonderful challenge. We've had a blast taking part!
Authors’ Notes: Written for Team Home of mcshep_match for the prompt ‘wing and a prayer’.
Summary: It was going to take more than a pair of ruby slippers to get them home this time. It was going to take all his ingenuity, a lot of careful plotting and some of John's infamous luck...
Wing and a Prayer
Part one
Rodney looked over the contents of the merchant’s stand with a practiced eye, so familiar by now with Ancient technology that all it took was the briefest of glances for him to identify whether a specific stall was worthy of further investigation. Rodney sighed to himself and shook his head as nothing noteworthy caught his attention. This entire mission was quickly turning into a complete and utter waste of time, he thought with a frown.
“Is there nothing here, Rodney?” Teyla asked.
“Not a thing,” he replied in annoyance as they moved together to explore the next stand.
“I have to confess that I am surprised,” Teyla said as they reached the next table. “The annual market of Tebex is renowned for the variety of its offerings.”
Rodney sighed and picked up the broken shard of a DHD control crystal from amongst the bric-a-brac. He regarded it with disgust and then held it up towards Teyla. “Yes, well, it would seem that they’re having an off year,” he retorted sarcastically.
Teyla looked at the blacked crystal and then back up at Rodney. “It would appear you are correct,” she admitted and Rodney snorted. “But perhaps Ronon and the Colonel are having better luck.”
“Ha,” Rodney replied. “Like either of them would know a useful piece of Ancient equipment if it came up and bit them on the ass. Honestly, I don’t know what Sheppard was thinking splitting us up like this; all those two are going to come back with are things with the sole purpose of making the biggest bang.”
Teyla regarded him silently for a moment, her eyes serious and tinged with sadness. “I believe that John is merely trying to make the most of our time here,” she finally said quietly. “It is a very large market and we have only one more day until it is finished.”
Rodney felt himself start to flush, all too aware of what Teyla wasn’t saying; the real reason behind the unusual split in their pairings whilst off-world. Not that he minded being with Teyla, of course, it was just that not being with Sheppard was a stark reminder of things he would much rather forget. They were all aware that it would have made far more sense for Sheppard to be paired with him in the search for Ancient devices and for Ronon and Teyla to make use of their local knowledge in the look out for other sources of food, weapons and allies. With his own experience of Ancient technology and the Colonel’s powerful ATA gene, they would have been able to ascertain the worth of remaining at the market for the scheduled duration of their mission far quicker if they were working together than doing so separately. However, things between himself and Sheppard had been strained of late, to say the least.
SGA-1 was currently on a mission to P2T-594, attending a large gathering of, what looked to Rodney, at least half the populated planets with stargates in the quadrant. It was an annual event, which Teyla recalled from her childhood, at which pretty much everything under the sun could be acquired - except for Ancient artifacts, it would seem. As Rodney stared across the market, taking in the throngs of people milling about the vast field with its multi-colored assortment of stalls, tents and marquees, he wondered how much longer such an event could occur. In light of the constant threat of the now-awakened Wraith, he couldn’t help but believe that a gathering this large would be deemed too great a risk in future years.
Although the arrival of the Daedalus and their new Zed-PM had considerably increased Atlantis’ chances of survival against the Wraith, the siege of the city and how close they’d all come to total annihilation was still fresh in everyone’s minds. So, their mission dictates had remained unchanged despite their reconnection with Earth - an unending search for knowledge, supplies and allies.
Rodney winced as he recalled at what cost their survival had come. He knew that Landry, Caldwell, the rest of the IOA people back on Earth had considered the final outcome to be a great success. Objectively, Rodney was forced to admit that it had been; after all, they had successfully destroyed the Wraith armada, the Daedalus was now making regular supply runs to the city from Earth and their home once again shone with the power of a Zed-PM. Nevertheless, Rodney’s dreams were still colored by the terror he’d felt during those few frantic days - the long hours he’d spent with his science team searching desperately for a solution, the pain of watching his friends and colleagues fall in battle, his own terror at having to face a Wraith alone with nothing but a broken handgun, the crippling guilt at having built the bomb which would end the life of his best friend…
Although, he supposed he should say his former best friend. Because that was what was really behind the unusual segregation of the team - Rodney’s fractured relationship with Sheppard, Teyla’s kindly spoken excuses notwithstanding. The Colonel hadn't paired himself with Rodney during any of their recent missions if there had been the slightest chance that he could possibly avoid it. The realization hurt Rodney far more than he would ever admit. The strength of his reaction to Sheppard’s avoidance of him in the aftermath of Doranda had surprised Rodney. He’d grown used to being disliked; to being envied, despised, and avoided by pretty much everyone with whom he had ever worked. He knew that professional jealousy had a lot to with it, but he also knew that his own attitude and his behavior towards his colleagues certainly didn’t exactly engender their friendship. He’d learned not to care - it was a skill he had developed many years prior, while he was still at school, when being skipped far ahead of his peers and realizing that he was smarter than all of his teachers, had taught him that he would always be different and alone.
To his surprise, on Atlantis he did care, very much so in fact. During the first few months of the expedition, Rodney had come to realize that his team mates and colleagues actually meant something to him and that, perhaps more importantly, what they thought of him meant something too. He’d done his best, throwing himself fully into his new role. He’d spent countless hours working on Atlantis when he was supposed to be off-duty, trying to ensure that their new home was as operational as their naquadah generators could possibly make her. He’d trained hard, becoming proficient with his Berretta and a P-90 so he wouldn’t let his team down in the field. He’d studied the Ancient database at length, pouring over endless schematics, treatises, and data entries in the effort to uncover anything which might help to ensure their survival. With Arcturus, Rodney had finally thought he’d found it. He had never been more wrong.
With the benefit of hindsight, Rodney now accepted that he'd screwed up over Doranda, but he had just been so caught up in the possibilities the project offered. He'd thought that here, finally, was a way for him to make a major difference in their fight against the Wraith. If only he could have found a way to make Project Arcturus work, they could have completely turned the tide of the war - there would be no more sieges of Atlantis, no more culling of innocent planets, and no more need for Sheppard to ride roughshod to his own death out of some misplaced sense of responsibility for everyone and everything. Rodney had been entirely blinded by his vision, thoroughly seduced by the promise of the weapon's power, and elated by Sheppard's trust in him even in the face of Elizabeth's objections.
Ultimately it had all been for nothing. To this day he still didn't understand what had happened; he probably never would. The math still supported his conclusions, just as it had when he'd first run the calculations which had indicated that Arcturus was salvageable. Yet, despite his carefully crafted equations, the theory had not held up in practice and it had been Sheppard's urgent insistence that had finally managed to get through to him. Instead of saving lives, Rodney had ended up risking both his own and that of his closest friend - his life had been spared, but his friendship, it would appear, had not.
“Come on, Rodney,” Teyla said, providing a welcome interruption to his meandering thoughts as she placed a hand on his arm to steer him to the next stand. “We do not have all that long before we are due to rendezvous with Ronon and the Colonel, and I believe you wanted to finish your inspection of this section of the market before then.”
Rodney nodded in agreement and tried to shake off the worst of his mood. He’d spent far too much time dwelling upon things he could not change. Sheppard had said that it might take a while for Rodney to regain his trust, not that such a task was impossible. The Colonel was a man of his word, so Rodney had to believe that he was speaking truthfully and that, with time and determination, their friendship was something he could fix - something he would fix.
Turning his mind back to the task at hand, Rodney allowed Teyla to tow him through the rest of the remaining stalls in the so-called ‘technology’ portion of the market. He felt a wry smile pull at his lips as they paused at each stand to examine its offerings, ‘useless junk’ would be far more accurate description for it he thought as he surveyed each bewildering selection of damaged, broken, or useless in some other way.
“It’s odd,” he mused aloud. “Very few of these things are Ancient in origin. You’d have thought, given the lack of technological advancement in this galaxy as a result of the presence of the Wraith, that what little was available would mostly be from the ruins of Ancient outposts and ships like the Aurora.”
Teyla looked out around the rest of the market, a mass of tents and stands spreading out into the distance. “Well, there is still much to explore,” she said, gesturing across the field.
Rodney rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, there certainly is,” he replied with a groan. “You don’t suppose there’s a coffee shop amongst all that, do you?”
Teyla laughed. “The sooner we get finished here, Rodney,” she said with a smile. “The sooner we can get home and you can get your coffee.”
****
Three hours later and the search had proven no more fruitful than before for Rodney. Teyla had picked up some supplies for the Athosians, cloth and material for weaving mostly, but Rodney had still found nothing of use. They were due to meet up with Sheppard and Ronon at the west entrance to the market, the entrance nearest the stargate, and so were making their way there through the wide dirt tracks that served as streets for the its duration. Rodney grimaced as he endeavored to skirt around a large muddy puddle in the centre of the path, juggling the bags in his arms as he tried to evade it without dumping Teyla’s purchases in the mud.
“If they hold this event every year, I don’t see why they don’t bother to at least pave the walkways,” he groused, casting an envious eye at Teyla’s spotless uniform and wondering why it was he seemed unable to keep himself equally clean.
Teyla stopped walking and waited for him to catch up with her. “The location changes each year,” she explained, “to help avoid the possibility of a Wraith culling. As I am sure you can understand, Rodney, there is very little that can be permanent here.”
“Oh,” Rodney replied. “I… I’m sorry… I should have thought of that - did in fact, but then I… forgot.”
Teyla shook her head, dismissing his apology. “It is alright,” she said. “We know no different.”
Rodney nodded, thinking about Teyla’s life and that of the other Athosians since the Wraith had destroyed their village forcing them to abandon everything they owned. He frowned when his thoughts turned to Ronon, who had survived the total destruction of his entire civilization only to be forced to run for years while the Wraith chased him down like a dumb animal, existing purely for their sport. His hands clenched around the rolls of cloth in his arms - they all deserved so much better. “I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like,” he said.
Teyla shot him an odd look. “Of course you can, Rodney,” she replied seriously. “It is what you do every day - it is your fight too now. Pegasus and Atlantis are your home - our home - and together we will defend it.”
Rodney blinked as he digested Teyla’s words. She was right, he realized; this galaxy, the Ancient city and her people were his home and his family. They were the reason he fought so hard and why he hurt so deeply when he failed.
“Yes, you’re right,” he said to Teyla and watched her face break into a smile.
“I am glad you agree, Rodney,” she said, then, gesturing ahead. “Come on, they’re waiting for us.”
Rodney looked along the path to see the familiar figures of Ronon and Sheppard up in front of them, standing to the right of the large wooden posts of the entrance to the marketplace. They were surrounded by numerous packages indicating that they, unlike Rodney, had made some purchases that afternoon.
“You have had some success, I see,” Teyla said with a laugh as they approached their team mates and she took in all the bags piled at Ronon’s feet. Most of them appeared to be packed almost full to bursting with various alien vegetables. Great, Rodney thought to himself as he rolled his eyes, more potentially lethal alien food to try, just what he needed.
“Yeah, we didn’t do too badly,” Sheppard replied with a grin. “As you can see, we got a really great deal on some vegetables. Ronon’s got this really effective… ah… negotiating style, especially when it comes to food.”
Rodney snorted as Teyla replied dryly, “I can imagine.”
“How about you?” Sheppard asked Teyla, his eyes running over the rolls of cloth she carried.
“I was successful as well,” Teyla replied with a smile. “The quality of the cloth this year is very high, I am sure everyone will be pleased with my purchases.”
“What about you, McKay?” Sheppard asked, at last turning to Rodney. His tone was smoothly professional and his eyes cool, with none of the latent humor that had shone in them when addressing Teyla. Rodney swallowed heavily and tried not to be hurt by the sharp contrast.
“There's absolutely nothing of interest to me here, Colonel,” he replied shortly, trying to imitate Sheppard's colorless intonation despite the blush he could feel heating his cheeks. “Their so-called 'technology' amounts to nothing more exciting that a handful of burnt out control crystals.”
John tilted his head at Rodney and frowned in confusion. “You're sure about that, McKay?” he asked.
“Of course I'm sure, Colonel,” Rodney snapped, angry and humiliated that Sheppard would question him in this manner. “Teyla and I have just spent the last four hours trawling stall after stall of useless junk. Do you really imagine that I would purposefully neglect to notice the something that would make this abominable field of mud even slightly more interesting?”
“Rodney is correct, Colonel,” Teyla interjected quickly, before Rodney could continue his rant. “There was nothing of technological value in any of the stands we visited this afternoon. Indeed, Rodney remarked on how unusual he found it.”
Sheppard shook his head and he and Ronon exchanged a puzzled glance. “It's not that I doubt you, McKay,” he told Rodney steadily. “It's just that Ronon and I noticed a bunch of guys here with what looked like a whole load of Ancient tech.”
“What?” Rodney asked. “Where? When? Why didn't you contact me?” He dropped his armful of cloth onto one of the vegetable sacks and shouldered out of his mission pack to retrieve his scanner. He hadn’t been using it in the market at Teyla's recommendation that they be discreet about their valuable possessions lest they attract the attention of thieves. Nevertheless, after a long day of encountering nothing but worthless rubbish, the prospect of some real Ancient technology was too tempting for him to pass up. “Just let me see if I can pick up a reading,” he said, mostly to himself, as he ran a quick scan of the surrounding area.
As he concentrated on his scanner, Rodney was vaguely aware of Sheppard ordering Ronon and Teyla to start heading up to the gate with their supplies. “Ah-ha!” Rodney said triumphantly a few moments later. “I've got something; it's faint, but it's definitely the energy signature of Ancient technology. Hmm, maybe a scanner of some sort...” he mused to himself. He looked up to see the Colonel observing him quietly. “Umm,” he began warily, wondering how Sheppard would take his absorption.
“Is it worth exploring, McKay?” Sheppard asked and Rodney felt the weight of the question.
He looked down at his scanner again, trying to work out the correct response, and then back up at Sheppard. “It's not a large reading,” he admitted slowly. “But...”
“But you want to check it out anyway,” Sheppard finished for him with a nod. “Come on then; which way?” he asked as he started striding quickly back into the market.
Rodney blinked at Sheppard's easy capitulation and then hurried forward to catch up to him. “Um, this way,” he stuttered out quickly, catching hold of the Colonel's arm intending to pull him back in the right direction. Sheppard froze at the first touch of Rodney's hand around his bicep, the muscle clenching so hard it felt like stone under Rodney's fingers. Rodney dropped his hand in an instant and looked up into Sheppard's cold and equally hard eyes. “Sorry, I'm sorry,” he babbled nervously. “It's... um... this way,” he said, waving a hand towards one of the quieter pathways. Sheppard nodded shortly and set off in the direction Rodney had indicated, leaving Rodney once again hurrying to catch up.
They traveled for a few minutes down the well-trodden dirt track in silence and Rodney's eyes kept darting between his scanner and Sheppard's stony profile. They were entering one of the more deserted areas of the market, the name of which Rodney was unable to recall. The stalls that lined either side of the path were mostly empty and unattended with no wares on display. Rodney was suddenly grateful for Sheppard's presence at this side, even if the Colonel demonstrably felt the exact opposite.
“That's them,” Sheppard said quietly, grinding to a sudden halt and gesturing with his head to a small band of men clustered around a stand up ahead of them. “The men Ronon and I saw earlier.”
Rodney looked at the group nervously, noting that they all carried some sort of energy weapon, albeit not ones of Ancient origin. He lowered his head quickly to consult his scanner. He was just about to tell Sheppard that they did indeed seem to have some sort of Ancient technology about their persons and that perhaps Sheppard would like to take the lead in this particular trade negotiation when the men spotted them. One of the men broke away from the group and started to approach them, his hand reaching for his energy weapon as he did so. Rodney felt Sheppard freeze at his side for a moment before he adopted a visibly relaxed air, his hands coming to rest, apparently idly, on his P-90.
“Hello,” Sheppard said amiably, stepping in front of Rodney as he moved forward to meet the other man's approach.
The man stopped and glared at Sheppard. “What do you want?” he asked menacingly, his hand tightening on his weapon.
“Not a thing,” Sheppard replied casually, adjusting his grip on his P-90. “Just being friendly, but we don't want to disturb you, so we'll just be on our way.” Sheppard started to turn then, only partially, never letting the man out of his sight, but just enough so that he could reach out with one hand to grip Rodney's elbow and propel Rodney away from the group and in front of him.
“Wait!” a voice from the group of men suddenly shouted. “That one's got something, stop them!”
“Fuck, Rodney, run!” Sheppard shouted as he pushed Rodney out ahead of him, turning back to face the group and raising his weapon. Part of Rodney wanted to run, to get as far away from danger as possible, but a larger part of him froze, unable to leave Sheppard so outnumbered. Mind made up, he spun in place, his hand reaching to grab his Berretta from his thigh-holster, his scanner falling forgotten to the ground.
“Damn it, Rodney!” Sheppard shouted as the group opened fire, shoving Rodney hard as he dove for cover behind one of the stalls. “I told you to get out of here.”
“I couldn't just leave you here outnumbered,” Rodney shouted back as John edged to the corner of the booth and then turned into the pathway to let loose burst of return fire.
“You should do what I damn well order you to do, McKay,” Sheppard growled as he slammed back into the cover of the stall. “Now, I'm going to cover you, so you better run this time.”
“But-”
“That's a fucking order, McKay, and you will follow it! Now run!”
Rodney ran. He tried his best to block out the sounds of weapons fire echoing behind him, keeping his head down and sprinting away as fast as his legs could take him. He was vaguely aware of the shots from the men's energy weapons exploding around him, but miraculously he managed to avoid being hit. Despite the galloping of his heart and his ragged, panting breaths, he was vividly aware of Sheppard's footsteps running behind him, knowing immediately whenever the Colonel paused and fired off a few more rounds to keep their attackers at bay.
He knew, as well, the exact moment Sheppard was shot - his grunt of pain and the sound of his body falling heavily to the ground behind Rodney, followed by the plummeting of Rodney’s own heart. Rodney didn't even think, turning back immediately and firing his Berretta constantly as he made his way back to Sheppard's side - never leave a man behind, it might once have been the Colonel's mantra, but it was their team's now.
“John,” Rodney choked as he knelt over the fallen man, wrapping his arms around John’s body in an attempt to lift him in the faint hope that they still could both escape.
When it came, the sound of the blast that took him out didn't surprise him. What did, as the ground rushed up to meet him and his vision blacked over, was how much more terrified he had been when he heard the shot that had felled John.
****
The first thing Rodney became aware of was the incredibly painful pounding in his temples. He groaned and tried to convince himself that he was just imagining the pain; that in reality he was tucked up safe in his bed in Atlantis and all he needed to do was drift off back to sleep and when he woke up next the pain would be gone.
“He's awake,” Rodney heard a sharp voice say and felt dread pool in his stomach - so, not on Atlantis then. He cautiously opened his eyes and tried to take note of his surroundings, despite the pain in his head which was making the world spin and tilt disconcertingly. It felt like he was lying on a cold, hard floor and he was able to discern the legs and booted feet of two men standing over him. The men's boots were strong and sturdy, much like the military issue footwear all of the Atlantis off-world teams wore, and the light-blue piping on each man's trousers seemed to indicate that they were both wearing some kind of uniform. Oh shit, Rodney thought to himself, some Genii-wannabes; this was not going to be fun.
Suddenly one of the booted feet moved back and Rodney was kicked hard, the boot slamming into his ribs with a sickening crunch and causing him to cry out in agony as the pain spread from his ribs and radiated throughout his entire body. He squirmed helplessly on the floor, curling up into a ball in a futile attempt to protect himself, his body already tensing in anticipation of another blow. He tried desperately to catch his breath, panting loudly as he tried to form the words to demand where he was and what was happening. Before he could do so much as open his mouth, he heard the scrape of feet as the men moved again and rough hands seized him by his arms and dragged him forcibly to his feet.
Rodney blinked the tears out of his eyes and tried to clear his head, willing the pain to abate for long enough to allow him to try to work out what was going on. He had just enough time to make out the figure of a man standing in front of him before both his arms were pinned behind his back by one of the men holding him while the other struck him hard across the face with his fist. Rodney's head snapped to one side with the force of the blow and he cried out, his skull feeling like it was about to split open from the pain.
“Enough!” a harsh voice shouted. Rodney was relieved when the man who struck him obeyed at once, pulling his second punch so it missed Rodney's face entirely. “We need this one alive and ready to work.”
“What do you want? Where am I?” Rodney gasped out in between painful breaths, tears running freely down his cheeks and the sharp tang of blood filling his mouth. His brain was slow and his memory hazy, like he'd been drugged for a prolonged period of time. The last thing he could remember clearly was the marketplace and the group of men who... oh, god, they'd been attacked and John had...
“Where is the man I was with?” he asked frantically, starting to struggle against the hard hands that held him. He could just about make out the man in front of him sneer at him in disgust before he stepped forward. He caught Rodney's face painfully with one hand, his fingers digging viciously into Rodney's swollen jaw and his cold grey eyes showing no pity as he regarded Rodney with barely concealed contempt.
“Ah, yes, him. You will soon see,” the man said ominously, squeezing his fingers mercilessly, causing Rodney to whimper in his grip. “And then it will be our questions that you will be answering.” He let go of Rodney abruptly, shoving Rodney's face to the side roughly as he did so. “Bring him!” he ordered sharply as he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
Rodney was dragged bodily out behind him by the two guards. He felt nauseous and dizzy, hardly able to stay on his feet and mere moments away from being physically sick. He was only vaguely aware of his surroundings as the guards continued to haul him along, just conscious enough to put one foot in front of the other. He knew that he should probably be trying to gather information as to where he was - could almost hear Sheppard's voice in his head ordering him to threat-assess the situation and examine his options - but he could only manage to get a very vague impression of a long corridor with sterile grey walls and bright lights that hurt his eyes.
The guards eventually came to a stop and pushed Rodney through another door. He landed heavily, sprawled on his hands and knees, his aching ribs protesting at the strain. Compared to the corridor, the room was very dark, lit only by a pale beam of light coming from a high window. The floor under his hands was cold and damp and the air was rancid with the stench of rot and decay. It took Rodney long moments before he was able to make any detail out. He managed to push himself up onto his knees, quaking internally in the expectation of more physical abuse, but the sight that greeted him was far worse than any blow.
Directly in front of him was John Sheppard, bound by his outstretched arms to a hook hanging from the ceiling. His feet just barely touched the ground and his shirt had been cut open and his dog-tags removed. To Rodney's horror, there were lash marks cutting deep into the skin of his chest and blood pooling thickly on the floor at his feet. He didn't appear to be conscious; Rodney couldn't even be certain he was still alive.
Faced with the obvious torture and suffering of his team mate, Rodney vomited violently onto the floor, his stomach revolting at last against the pain and terror of the situation.
“Now,” the cold voice of the grey-eyed man said as Rodney was hauled to his feet once more by the two guards. “You will tell us everything we want to know and, if we are pleased with your answers, your companion will be spared further... unpleasantness.”
****
When John heard the booted footsteps approaching him from down the corridor, he quickly feigned unconsciousness. Not all that hard to do, he acknowledged grimly as his head was still pounding from whatever had been used to subdue him. His mouth felt sticky and dry; he vaguely recalled the swaying movement of a caravan and being forced to drink a bitter liquid that made him gag and sputter. His ribs were throbbing too; he suspected his captors took advantage of his down time to render a corporal opinion of being shot at by him. He dimly remembered once opening his fly to urinate in the hay surrounding him in the wagon and getting beaten soundly for it as well. He had already assessed his situation when he first regained consciousness: held in a locked room by captors with an odd mix of technology as Pegasus went, no indication as to the whereabouts or well-being of his team, a suspicion that he was dealing with tech-thieves judging by their interest in Rodney’s scanner. He had a split second to decide-attempt escape or not? He had no idea where he was or how he would get out of where he was currently being held, but on the other hand, this might be his best chance at taking his captors by surprise.
In the end, the choice was taken from him. As he lay on his side, eyes closed, listening to the footfalls, determining that there were only two men and deciding how best to take them, a booted foot made abrupt contact with his side, forcing his air out in a painful huff, causing him to curl up involuntarily to protect his ribs.
“See?” One man spoke with an amused ‘I told you so’ tone in his voice, sounding horribly reminiscent of Rodney at his worst. “I knew he would be faking it.” He released another kick, John barely able to deflect the worst of it away from his kidney. He met the contact with a grunt, drawing a leg into his body. He squinted up at his captors, biting back a grimace of pain, marking the kicker for death at the earliest convenience.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t just kill him and leave him at the Circle with the others.” The second voice was higher-pitched, sounding younger. John focused briefly on him, one of the men from the market, scarcely older than Ford. Like many of the people of Pegasus, his hair and eyes were dark, his skin bronzed.
“Just goes to show what you know.” The smug voice preened a little. It belonged to a thick-necked, red-faced man, the kind of grizzled soldier that drank a little too much in the evenings and was starting to go to seed. “I brought him because he was dressed like the other one, the one using the scanner. The other people with them were not. So whoever these people are, they’re from the same place. The others must have been guides they hired.”
“Fought pretty hard for guides.” The younger man didn’t seem impressed with argument. “And I know this type. He won’t tell you anything and he’ll be nothing but trouble.”
“He may not have to say anything at all.” The smug man spoke cryptically. “Besides, you know the orders. Bring back the tech. Bonus for bringing someone actually using the tech. If this one gives us any trouble, we can always kill him. Might make a nice incentive for the other one to be more cooperative too. Stick with me, kid. You might learn something about managing prisoners.”
Like maybe not revealing too much in front of them? John wondered at the overt stupidity of his captors, but only briefly as he was hauled roughly to his feet. At least he knew now that Rodney was here somewhere, still alive and in the same mess with him. He was not so sanguine about the rest of his team. It was unthinkable to imagine that these people had tangled with Ronon and Teyla and still managed to spirit Rodney and himself away unless something bad had happened to them. You’ve really fucked up this time, Sheppard, he thought bitterly as he was half-dragged, half-marched down the corridor.
The walls had the sensation of closing in on him as he was shuffled along, and he realized he probably had a concussion. The institution-grey paint and brightly lit corridors spoke to him of some sort of prison or military compound and all his little internal warning bells were ringing. He struggled to clear his thoughts, to stay sharp, but either the blow to his head or the drugs during his transfer proved to be too much for his ability to focus.
They stopped at a closed door. The older man stepped forward and inserted a key in the doorknob. John could hear the click of the lock being turned as the door opened out into the hall. He was roughly forced through the opening into the much darker room. It stank with the stale odors of sweat, fear and blood, as well as something more visceral and fetid. The stink of bowels being released, John thought. Oh shit.
The only immediate light came from a small, high, barred window above-an anemic beam of half-grey sunlight spilling down into the room, creating a rectangle around a hook that hung suspended from the ceiling. A table sat off to one side, some items dimly visible laid out upon it. Suspecting he might not get out of this room alive, John made a concentrated bid for freedom. He snapped his right fist up into the face of the older soldier, mind registering only briefly the satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone as the older man’s nose was smashed before dropping into a tucking turn and punching the younger guard in the solar plexus. A kick back with his left leg took out the older man as he was still moaning and clutching his face. John dropped down beside the young guard who was gasping, open-mouthed on the floor, unable to draw a breath. John snatched up the guard’s gun and stood up, only to find himself face to face with an unsmiling man about his own age, standing in the open doorway and steadily holding a weapon pointed at his head. Recognizing defeat, John carefully raised his hands and let the stolen gun dangle from his thumb.
Cool grey eyes assessed him, ignoring the groaning and gasping men on the floor to either side. “Interesting,” the man said, tilting his head slightly, and John felt a little shiver run down to the small of his back. This was a dangerous man.
The man before him was dressed in the same dark blue uniform as the two guards, but his uniform was crisp, the light blue piping was clean. His skin was lighter in color than the other men, his hair nearly black but shot through with silver that caught in the light from above. He held out a hand patiently for the gun, and with a small sigh, John passed it towards him, still in a neutral position. There was a small moment of tension between them as the gun was handed off and a tiny smile appeared at the corner of the man’s mouth once the weapon was secured in his holster. With his own weapon, he motioned for John to step back.
“Get up,” he said harshly to the two guards, who abruptly stifled their noises of pain and struggled to their feet. “Secure him.”
The two men shuffled over to John and jerked his hands down from their overhead position, the older man snarling with bloodstained teeth as he bound John’s hands in front of him tightly with some sort of leather strap. The younger man looked faintly sick, shooting an odd look at John that he was unable to interpret. Together the guards pulled John’s hands back up over his head again, lowering the hook to attach his hands and then hoisting it back into position so that he was forced to stretch down to maintain tenuous contact with the ground.
“So,” John drawled into the sudden silence as the two guards stepped back. “What do you want to talk about?”
The man with the gun walked over to the table in the shadows and laid his weapon down. He turned to face John, lightly touching an emblem on his left breast before he began speaking. “Subject is a male, dressed in an unknown uniform, representing a military group with which I am not familiar, but matching the descriptions of the people said to occupy the city of the Ancestors.” He smiled pleasantly at John. “I am Base Leader Torquin. I am the commander of this facility. You will answer my questions or you will die. That is what we will talk about.”
“Well, that seems a little harsh.” John could already feel the pull of the weight of his body against his arm muscles and the pounding of blood in his tied-off fists. He recognized that if he remained in this position long enough, the effects would be much the same as that of crucifixion-his blood would start to pool in his extremities, being unable to pump back up to his heart. His chest muscles would start to seize up, his lungs would fill with fluid and he would eventually drown where he stood. Of course, this would take several agonizing days. Torquin seemed perfectly capable of leaving him tied in this fashion and simply walking away, yet John somehow doubted he would be that patient.
He was right.
“I don’t believe you know the meaning of the word harsh…yet.” Torquin smiled. The expression was still superficially pleasant, but John could feel the menace behind it, reminding him suddenly of the look his father would get on running into the CEO of another company at the country club. He wished he hadn’t thought of that.
Torquin walked over to John, removing a knife from a sheath at his belt. Taking hold of the hem of John’s tee shirt, Torquin used the blade to split John’s shirt to the collar, letting it hang around his shoulders like a jacket. With the point of the knife, he lifted John’s dog tags off his chest by their chain. John tried not to flinch as the sharp blade nicked his skin in passing, the slight movement causing him to sway around his bound hands.
Torquin frowned as he grasped the tags in his other hand, turning them over carefully but unable to read the foreign language. He looked up abruptly from the tags and John could read a sense of appreciation in those cold grey eyes, but he doubted it would help him here. The tags were suddenly pulled away from his neck, chain biting into his skin, forcing him to swivel and spin on the toes of his boots to avoid losing his footing altogether.
Torquin walked back to the table, tossing the tags on the surface with a small whisper of sound. He picked up a coiled whip from the table and returned to John’s side, caressing the leather with his hand as he spoke.
“Where is the City of the Ancestors?” Torquin’s voice was still calm and serene, as though he were asking about the weather outside.
“The what?” John said, knowing full well what was coming next.
“The City of the Ancestors. Perhaps you call it Atlantis. Where is it?” Torquin let the whip uncoil to the floor by his side.
“Well, I don’t exactly know…” John didn’t even have time to finish his sentence before Torquin’s arm raised and his wrist and elbow snapped down, the whip slashing across John’s body before he could even take a deep breath. He sucked air in sharply at the contact, dropping his eyes to look down at his abdomen where a line of fire burned across his skin before thin drops of blood began to bead even as he stared. Holy fuck.
“Where is Atlantis?” Torquin asked again.
“Seriously, I don’t know,” John said as calmly as he could manage. The whip whistled through the air again, landing in a diagonal line across his chest, the tip flicking up and biting his chin. His pectoral muscles contracted in protest, and a hiss of pain escaped him. He bucked backwards with the contact, and gradually came to a swaying stop. The lash bit deeper this time, the blood that welled up trickling down in a thin line towards his navel.
“Atlantis.” Torquin said once more.
“See, everyone’s always telling me I have a really bad sense of direction,” John began, only to gasp at the double lash that struck him-the forehand and backhand strokes coming so quickly that the second one was bleeding before he felt the first one start to burn. Tears began to stream out of the corner of his eyes and he discovered that he’d bitten through his lower lip when it started to throb. He had a sudden, terrible vision of Rodney undergoing the same treatment, his mind supplying images of the broken bodies of Teyla and Ronon lying by the Gate as well. This is all your fault, asshole. Suck it up and take it.
“Give me the Gate address.”
“Fuck you.”
The whip came at him again, but John pulled himself up by his hands, kicking out with his feet at Torquin and managing to take the worst of the blow across his legs, the tough fabric of the BDU’s holding up to the strike. The two guards leapt in from the sides with a roar, pummeling John with their fists until Torquin commanded them to cease. John hung from his hands, gasping for air, a film of sweat breaking out over his body, his shirt hanging in tatters from one shoulder.
Torquin stepped in and began to lash him methodically with the whip, asking no questions, merely delivering punishment. John grunted with each blow, his head hanging, watching in fascination as the blood mixed with his sweat and ran in rivulets down his skin. He almost didn’t notice when the blows stopped.
“Subject has ceased to be responsive,” Torquin’s voice said in that odd, dispassionate tone as he spoke into his recording device. “He has withdrawn mentally from the situation after his initial attempts at deflection through pretending ignorance and then a show of defiance. A different approach is needed.”
There followed after that a long period of silence, during which John became increasingly aware of the pounding of blood in his wrists and the ache of numbness creeping down his arms towards his chest, where it clashed with the vivid fire of his torn skin. He was only vaguely aware of noise and movement in the room, and then there was the sound of someone retching and the smell of vomit in the air.
“Now,” Torquin was saying as John tuned in, “You will tell us everything we want to know, and if we are pleased with your answers, your companion will be spared further…unpleasantness.”
He looked up and saw Rodney standing between the two guards, almost as though he were being held up by their grip on his arms. The side of his face showed the beginnings of a darkening bruise; he looked utterly miserable. John had to quash down a sense of relief that Rodney appeared to have no more serious injuries than that, though he could tell by the way Rodney clutched his side that his ribs hurt too. Don’t let anything show, he thought, willing Rodney to understand him telepathically, the way they sometimes seemed to be able to communicate.
He made eye contact with Rodney, acknowledging the suddenly relieved expression in his worried blue eyes, but bracing himself against it as well. “Tell them nothing, McKay,” he ground out.
“Kill him,” Torquin calmly ordered, indicating John with the whip.
“No, no, wait!” Rodney burst out, hands held out in front of him in entreaty. “What do you want? What do you need? I can help you-I’m a genius. If it’s broken, I can fix it. You need a weapon? I can build it. You need answers? I can supply them. I’m your man.”
“Shut the fuck up, McKay!” John’s voice shook when he spoke, and Rodney shot him a startled look before turning back to face Torquin again.
Torquin was surveying Rodney with that head tilt thing again. “Where is Atlantis?”
Rodney’s face fell. “Oh crap, I can’t help you with that.”
Quick as a striking cobra, Torquin lashed out with the whip. John flung his head back and swayed on his feet with the sudden contact, but it was Rodney who cried out as though in pain. “Stop! I can’t help you because it was destroyed! The Wraith attacked en masse earlier this year and drained our shield. We knew they were coming, we could see them on the long-range sensors, which is why a handful of us got away. But Atlantis is gone.” The despair in Rodney’s voice rang convincingly true.
Torquin stood watching Rodney silently for a moment, weighing what he had said, fingering the whip in his hand. “Long range sensors,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Can you build them?”
Amazingly, Rodney straightened and rolled his eyes. “The answer to that is, ‘it depends’. Without a sophisticated computer network to process the data, or the proper components, including the means of creating an orbital satellite array, the answer is no. I can’t make bricks without straw.”
An unpleasant smile twisted at Torquin’s lips. “I thought you said you could fix anything.”
“And so you’ve never heard of hyperbole? Anything within reason.” Rodney’s response was astonishingly tart for a man being held prisoner.
Fortunately, Torquin seemed to find this amusing. “Good. Then we don’t need both of you,” he smiled, teeth flashing whitely in the dimly lit room. He let the whip fall to the floor, pulling his weapon out and aiming it at John.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Rodney waved his hands again. “I saw your people in the market. They had Ancient tech, right? You’re looking for Ancient tech, same as us. Only it’s useless to you if you don’t have the gene. Well, he’s got the gene in spades. The stuff practically rolls over and begs for him. You want the advantages the Ancients had? Then you need him. You need both of us.”
“Goddamn it, Rodney, will you just shut up!” John made a last desperate bid for Rodney’s silence before one of the guards stepped over to him and punched him hard in the ribs. Rodney’s mouth formed a little ‘oh!’ of shock and surprise.
Torquin turned a speculative eye on Rodney without lowering the gun. “Explain this ‘gene’.”
Rodney went with the Reader’s Digest version. “He’s a descendent of the Ancients. He’s inherited the skill, the gift, the talent, whatever. We both have, but it runs stronger in him. He can make the Ancient tech work better than anyone I know. And I can fix it.”
The two guards exchanged a look, recognizing the ‘gift’ that Rodney had described. The gun in Torquin’s hand finally lowered and Rodney heaved a too visible sigh of relief.
Torquin turned to the guards, indicating first Rodney, then John. “Take him to the equipment room. Cut this one down and place him in a holding cell.” He faced Rodney again. “You will review the technology we have acquired and build us suitable weapons and shields. He will help you as you need or be killed. You will succeed or be killed. Our ruler will expect results. He will arrive on this world at the end of this lunar cycle. Do not disappoint us.”
Rodney swallowed hard and shot another glance over at John as he was marched away at the direction of the younger guard. The older man cut John down with his knife, not caring that he sliced the sides of John’s wrist in the process. John collapsed to his knees, struggling not to fall over to his side, his hands swollen and useless, as though he were wearing boxer’s gloves. John was forced to his feet by a hand fisted into his hair. “Come along, my pretty,” the old soldier crooned, his smile promising retribution.
****
Read Wing and a Prayer part 2
Authors: sgamadison and the_cephalopod
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Torture
Spoilers: None for anything recent; set during season 2.
Word count: ~48,000
Acknowledgments: We'd like to express our sincerest thanks to lisas_secret and zinfic for their fabulous beta-ing skills. This story is much better as a result of their efforts and all remaining mistakes are our own. Thanks also to our wonderful team captain, thegrrrl2002, and to all the other members of Team Home. Finally, thanks to fluffyllama and trobadora for their hard work on this wonderful challenge. We've had a blast taking part!
Authors’ Notes: Written for Team Home of mcshep_match for the prompt ‘wing and a prayer’.
Summary: It was going to take more than a pair of ruby slippers to get them home this time. It was going to take all his ingenuity, a lot of careful plotting and some of John's infamous luck...
Wing and a Prayer
Part one
Rodney looked over the contents of the merchant’s stand with a practiced eye, so familiar by now with Ancient technology that all it took was the briefest of glances for him to identify whether a specific stall was worthy of further investigation. Rodney sighed to himself and shook his head as nothing noteworthy caught his attention. This entire mission was quickly turning into a complete and utter waste of time, he thought with a frown.
“Is there nothing here, Rodney?” Teyla asked.
“Not a thing,” he replied in annoyance as they moved together to explore the next stand.
“I have to confess that I am surprised,” Teyla said as they reached the next table. “The annual market of Tebex is renowned for the variety of its offerings.”
Rodney sighed and picked up the broken shard of a DHD control crystal from amongst the bric-a-brac. He regarded it with disgust and then held it up towards Teyla. “Yes, well, it would seem that they’re having an off year,” he retorted sarcastically.
Teyla looked at the blacked crystal and then back up at Rodney. “It would appear you are correct,” she admitted and Rodney snorted. “But perhaps Ronon and the Colonel are having better luck.”
“Ha,” Rodney replied. “Like either of them would know a useful piece of Ancient equipment if it came up and bit them on the ass. Honestly, I don’t know what Sheppard was thinking splitting us up like this; all those two are going to come back with are things with the sole purpose of making the biggest bang.”
Teyla regarded him silently for a moment, her eyes serious and tinged with sadness. “I believe that John is merely trying to make the most of our time here,” she finally said quietly. “It is a very large market and we have only one more day until it is finished.”
Rodney felt himself start to flush, all too aware of what Teyla wasn’t saying; the real reason behind the unusual split in their pairings whilst off-world. Not that he minded being with Teyla, of course, it was just that not being with Sheppard was a stark reminder of things he would much rather forget. They were all aware that it would have made far more sense for Sheppard to be paired with him in the search for Ancient devices and for Ronon and Teyla to make use of their local knowledge in the look out for other sources of food, weapons and allies. With his own experience of Ancient technology and the Colonel’s powerful ATA gene, they would have been able to ascertain the worth of remaining at the market for the scheduled duration of their mission far quicker if they were working together than doing so separately. However, things between himself and Sheppard had been strained of late, to say the least.
SGA-1 was currently on a mission to P2T-594, attending a large gathering of, what looked to Rodney, at least half the populated planets with stargates in the quadrant. It was an annual event, which Teyla recalled from her childhood, at which pretty much everything under the sun could be acquired - except for Ancient artifacts, it would seem. As Rodney stared across the market, taking in the throngs of people milling about the vast field with its multi-colored assortment of stalls, tents and marquees, he wondered how much longer such an event could occur. In light of the constant threat of the now-awakened Wraith, he couldn’t help but believe that a gathering this large would be deemed too great a risk in future years.
Although the arrival of the Daedalus and their new Zed-PM had considerably increased Atlantis’ chances of survival against the Wraith, the siege of the city and how close they’d all come to total annihilation was still fresh in everyone’s minds. So, their mission dictates had remained unchanged despite their reconnection with Earth - an unending search for knowledge, supplies and allies.
Rodney winced as he recalled at what cost their survival had come. He knew that Landry, Caldwell, the rest of the IOA people back on Earth had considered the final outcome to be a great success. Objectively, Rodney was forced to admit that it had been; after all, they had successfully destroyed the Wraith armada, the Daedalus was now making regular supply runs to the city from Earth and their home once again shone with the power of a Zed-PM. Nevertheless, Rodney’s dreams were still colored by the terror he’d felt during those few frantic days - the long hours he’d spent with his science team searching desperately for a solution, the pain of watching his friends and colleagues fall in battle, his own terror at having to face a Wraith alone with nothing but a broken handgun, the crippling guilt at having built the bomb which would end the life of his best friend…
Although, he supposed he should say his former best friend. Because that was what was really behind the unusual segregation of the team - Rodney’s fractured relationship with Sheppard, Teyla’s kindly spoken excuses notwithstanding. The Colonel hadn't paired himself with Rodney during any of their recent missions if there had been the slightest chance that he could possibly avoid it. The realization hurt Rodney far more than he would ever admit. The strength of his reaction to Sheppard’s avoidance of him in the aftermath of Doranda had surprised Rodney. He’d grown used to being disliked; to being envied, despised, and avoided by pretty much everyone with whom he had ever worked. He knew that professional jealousy had a lot to with it, but he also knew that his own attitude and his behavior towards his colleagues certainly didn’t exactly engender their friendship. He’d learned not to care - it was a skill he had developed many years prior, while he was still at school, when being skipped far ahead of his peers and realizing that he was smarter than all of his teachers, had taught him that he would always be different and alone.
To his surprise, on Atlantis he did care, very much so in fact. During the first few months of the expedition, Rodney had come to realize that his team mates and colleagues actually meant something to him and that, perhaps more importantly, what they thought of him meant something too. He’d done his best, throwing himself fully into his new role. He’d spent countless hours working on Atlantis when he was supposed to be off-duty, trying to ensure that their new home was as operational as their naquadah generators could possibly make her. He’d trained hard, becoming proficient with his Berretta and a P-90 so he wouldn’t let his team down in the field. He’d studied the Ancient database at length, pouring over endless schematics, treatises, and data entries in the effort to uncover anything which might help to ensure their survival. With Arcturus, Rodney had finally thought he’d found it. He had never been more wrong.
With the benefit of hindsight, Rodney now accepted that he'd screwed up over Doranda, but he had just been so caught up in the possibilities the project offered. He'd thought that here, finally, was a way for him to make a major difference in their fight against the Wraith. If only he could have found a way to make Project Arcturus work, they could have completely turned the tide of the war - there would be no more sieges of Atlantis, no more culling of innocent planets, and no more need for Sheppard to ride roughshod to his own death out of some misplaced sense of responsibility for everyone and everything. Rodney had been entirely blinded by his vision, thoroughly seduced by the promise of the weapon's power, and elated by Sheppard's trust in him even in the face of Elizabeth's objections.
Ultimately it had all been for nothing. To this day he still didn't understand what had happened; he probably never would. The math still supported his conclusions, just as it had when he'd first run the calculations which had indicated that Arcturus was salvageable. Yet, despite his carefully crafted equations, the theory had not held up in practice and it had been Sheppard's urgent insistence that had finally managed to get through to him. Instead of saving lives, Rodney had ended up risking both his own and that of his closest friend - his life had been spared, but his friendship, it would appear, had not.
“Come on, Rodney,” Teyla said, providing a welcome interruption to his meandering thoughts as she placed a hand on his arm to steer him to the next stand. “We do not have all that long before we are due to rendezvous with Ronon and the Colonel, and I believe you wanted to finish your inspection of this section of the market before then.”
Rodney nodded in agreement and tried to shake off the worst of his mood. He’d spent far too much time dwelling upon things he could not change. Sheppard had said that it might take a while for Rodney to regain his trust, not that such a task was impossible. The Colonel was a man of his word, so Rodney had to believe that he was speaking truthfully and that, with time and determination, their friendship was something he could fix - something he would fix.
Turning his mind back to the task at hand, Rodney allowed Teyla to tow him through the rest of the remaining stalls in the so-called ‘technology’ portion of the market. He felt a wry smile pull at his lips as they paused at each stand to examine its offerings, ‘useless junk’ would be far more accurate description for it he thought as he surveyed each bewildering selection of damaged, broken, or useless in some other way.
“It’s odd,” he mused aloud. “Very few of these things are Ancient in origin. You’d have thought, given the lack of technological advancement in this galaxy as a result of the presence of the Wraith, that what little was available would mostly be from the ruins of Ancient outposts and ships like the Aurora.”
Teyla looked out around the rest of the market, a mass of tents and stands spreading out into the distance. “Well, there is still much to explore,” she said, gesturing across the field.
Rodney rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, there certainly is,” he replied with a groan. “You don’t suppose there’s a coffee shop amongst all that, do you?”
Teyla laughed. “The sooner we get finished here, Rodney,” she said with a smile. “The sooner we can get home and you can get your coffee.”
****
Three hours later and the search had proven no more fruitful than before for Rodney. Teyla had picked up some supplies for the Athosians, cloth and material for weaving mostly, but Rodney had still found nothing of use. They were due to meet up with Sheppard and Ronon at the west entrance to the market, the entrance nearest the stargate, and so were making their way there through the wide dirt tracks that served as streets for the its duration. Rodney grimaced as he endeavored to skirt around a large muddy puddle in the centre of the path, juggling the bags in his arms as he tried to evade it without dumping Teyla’s purchases in the mud.
“If they hold this event every year, I don’t see why they don’t bother to at least pave the walkways,” he groused, casting an envious eye at Teyla’s spotless uniform and wondering why it was he seemed unable to keep himself equally clean.
Teyla stopped walking and waited for him to catch up with her. “The location changes each year,” she explained, “to help avoid the possibility of a Wraith culling. As I am sure you can understand, Rodney, there is very little that can be permanent here.”
“Oh,” Rodney replied. “I… I’m sorry… I should have thought of that - did in fact, but then I… forgot.”
Teyla shook her head, dismissing his apology. “It is alright,” she said. “We know no different.”
Rodney nodded, thinking about Teyla’s life and that of the other Athosians since the Wraith had destroyed their village forcing them to abandon everything they owned. He frowned when his thoughts turned to Ronon, who had survived the total destruction of his entire civilization only to be forced to run for years while the Wraith chased him down like a dumb animal, existing purely for their sport. His hands clenched around the rolls of cloth in his arms - they all deserved so much better. “I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like,” he said.
Teyla shot him an odd look. “Of course you can, Rodney,” she replied seriously. “It is what you do every day - it is your fight too now. Pegasus and Atlantis are your home - our home - and together we will defend it.”
Rodney blinked as he digested Teyla’s words. She was right, he realized; this galaxy, the Ancient city and her people were his home and his family. They were the reason he fought so hard and why he hurt so deeply when he failed.
“Yes, you’re right,” he said to Teyla and watched her face break into a smile.
“I am glad you agree, Rodney,” she said, then, gesturing ahead. “Come on, they’re waiting for us.”
Rodney looked along the path to see the familiar figures of Ronon and Sheppard up in front of them, standing to the right of the large wooden posts of the entrance to the marketplace. They were surrounded by numerous packages indicating that they, unlike Rodney, had made some purchases that afternoon.
“You have had some success, I see,” Teyla said with a laugh as they approached their team mates and she took in all the bags piled at Ronon’s feet. Most of them appeared to be packed almost full to bursting with various alien vegetables. Great, Rodney thought to himself as he rolled his eyes, more potentially lethal alien food to try, just what he needed.
“Yeah, we didn’t do too badly,” Sheppard replied with a grin. “As you can see, we got a really great deal on some vegetables. Ronon’s got this really effective… ah… negotiating style, especially when it comes to food.”
Rodney snorted as Teyla replied dryly, “I can imagine.”
“How about you?” Sheppard asked Teyla, his eyes running over the rolls of cloth she carried.
“I was successful as well,” Teyla replied with a smile. “The quality of the cloth this year is very high, I am sure everyone will be pleased with my purchases.”
“What about you, McKay?” Sheppard asked, at last turning to Rodney. His tone was smoothly professional and his eyes cool, with none of the latent humor that had shone in them when addressing Teyla. Rodney swallowed heavily and tried not to be hurt by the sharp contrast.
“There's absolutely nothing of interest to me here, Colonel,” he replied shortly, trying to imitate Sheppard's colorless intonation despite the blush he could feel heating his cheeks. “Their so-called 'technology' amounts to nothing more exciting that a handful of burnt out control crystals.”
John tilted his head at Rodney and frowned in confusion. “You're sure about that, McKay?” he asked.
“Of course I'm sure, Colonel,” Rodney snapped, angry and humiliated that Sheppard would question him in this manner. “Teyla and I have just spent the last four hours trawling stall after stall of useless junk. Do you really imagine that I would purposefully neglect to notice the something that would make this abominable field of mud even slightly more interesting?”
“Rodney is correct, Colonel,” Teyla interjected quickly, before Rodney could continue his rant. “There was nothing of technological value in any of the stands we visited this afternoon. Indeed, Rodney remarked on how unusual he found it.”
Sheppard shook his head and he and Ronon exchanged a puzzled glance. “It's not that I doubt you, McKay,” he told Rodney steadily. “It's just that Ronon and I noticed a bunch of guys here with what looked like a whole load of Ancient tech.”
“What?” Rodney asked. “Where? When? Why didn't you contact me?” He dropped his armful of cloth onto one of the vegetable sacks and shouldered out of his mission pack to retrieve his scanner. He hadn’t been using it in the market at Teyla's recommendation that they be discreet about their valuable possessions lest they attract the attention of thieves. Nevertheless, after a long day of encountering nothing but worthless rubbish, the prospect of some real Ancient technology was too tempting for him to pass up. “Just let me see if I can pick up a reading,” he said, mostly to himself, as he ran a quick scan of the surrounding area.
As he concentrated on his scanner, Rodney was vaguely aware of Sheppard ordering Ronon and Teyla to start heading up to the gate with their supplies. “Ah-ha!” Rodney said triumphantly a few moments later. “I've got something; it's faint, but it's definitely the energy signature of Ancient technology. Hmm, maybe a scanner of some sort...” he mused to himself. He looked up to see the Colonel observing him quietly. “Umm,” he began warily, wondering how Sheppard would take his absorption.
“Is it worth exploring, McKay?” Sheppard asked and Rodney felt the weight of the question.
He looked down at his scanner again, trying to work out the correct response, and then back up at Sheppard. “It's not a large reading,” he admitted slowly. “But...”
“But you want to check it out anyway,” Sheppard finished for him with a nod. “Come on then; which way?” he asked as he started striding quickly back into the market.
Rodney blinked at Sheppard's easy capitulation and then hurried forward to catch up to him. “Um, this way,” he stuttered out quickly, catching hold of the Colonel's arm intending to pull him back in the right direction. Sheppard froze at the first touch of Rodney's hand around his bicep, the muscle clenching so hard it felt like stone under Rodney's fingers. Rodney dropped his hand in an instant and looked up into Sheppard's cold and equally hard eyes. “Sorry, I'm sorry,” he babbled nervously. “It's... um... this way,” he said, waving a hand towards one of the quieter pathways. Sheppard nodded shortly and set off in the direction Rodney had indicated, leaving Rodney once again hurrying to catch up.
They traveled for a few minutes down the well-trodden dirt track in silence and Rodney's eyes kept darting between his scanner and Sheppard's stony profile. They were entering one of the more deserted areas of the market, the name of which Rodney was unable to recall. The stalls that lined either side of the path were mostly empty and unattended with no wares on display. Rodney was suddenly grateful for Sheppard's presence at this side, even if the Colonel demonstrably felt the exact opposite.
“That's them,” Sheppard said quietly, grinding to a sudden halt and gesturing with his head to a small band of men clustered around a stand up ahead of them. “The men Ronon and I saw earlier.”
Rodney looked at the group nervously, noting that they all carried some sort of energy weapon, albeit not ones of Ancient origin. He lowered his head quickly to consult his scanner. He was just about to tell Sheppard that they did indeed seem to have some sort of Ancient technology about their persons and that perhaps Sheppard would like to take the lead in this particular trade negotiation when the men spotted them. One of the men broke away from the group and started to approach them, his hand reaching for his energy weapon as he did so. Rodney felt Sheppard freeze at his side for a moment before he adopted a visibly relaxed air, his hands coming to rest, apparently idly, on his P-90.
“Hello,” Sheppard said amiably, stepping in front of Rodney as he moved forward to meet the other man's approach.
The man stopped and glared at Sheppard. “What do you want?” he asked menacingly, his hand tightening on his weapon.
“Not a thing,” Sheppard replied casually, adjusting his grip on his P-90. “Just being friendly, but we don't want to disturb you, so we'll just be on our way.” Sheppard started to turn then, only partially, never letting the man out of his sight, but just enough so that he could reach out with one hand to grip Rodney's elbow and propel Rodney away from the group and in front of him.
“Wait!” a voice from the group of men suddenly shouted. “That one's got something, stop them!”
“Fuck, Rodney, run!” Sheppard shouted as he pushed Rodney out ahead of him, turning back to face the group and raising his weapon. Part of Rodney wanted to run, to get as far away from danger as possible, but a larger part of him froze, unable to leave Sheppard so outnumbered. Mind made up, he spun in place, his hand reaching to grab his Berretta from his thigh-holster, his scanner falling forgotten to the ground.
“Damn it, Rodney!” Sheppard shouted as the group opened fire, shoving Rodney hard as he dove for cover behind one of the stalls. “I told you to get out of here.”
“I couldn't just leave you here outnumbered,” Rodney shouted back as John edged to the corner of the booth and then turned into the pathway to let loose burst of return fire.
“You should do what I damn well order you to do, McKay,” Sheppard growled as he slammed back into the cover of the stall. “Now, I'm going to cover you, so you better run this time.”
“But-”
“That's a fucking order, McKay, and you will follow it! Now run!”
Rodney ran. He tried his best to block out the sounds of weapons fire echoing behind him, keeping his head down and sprinting away as fast as his legs could take him. He was vaguely aware of the shots from the men's energy weapons exploding around him, but miraculously he managed to avoid being hit. Despite the galloping of his heart and his ragged, panting breaths, he was vividly aware of Sheppard's footsteps running behind him, knowing immediately whenever the Colonel paused and fired off a few more rounds to keep their attackers at bay.
He knew, as well, the exact moment Sheppard was shot - his grunt of pain and the sound of his body falling heavily to the ground behind Rodney, followed by the plummeting of Rodney’s own heart. Rodney didn't even think, turning back immediately and firing his Berretta constantly as he made his way back to Sheppard's side - never leave a man behind, it might once have been the Colonel's mantra, but it was their team's now.
“John,” Rodney choked as he knelt over the fallen man, wrapping his arms around John’s body in an attempt to lift him in the faint hope that they still could both escape.
When it came, the sound of the blast that took him out didn't surprise him. What did, as the ground rushed up to meet him and his vision blacked over, was how much more terrified he had been when he heard the shot that had felled John.
****
The first thing Rodney became aware of was the incredibly painful pounding in his temples. He groaned and tried to convince himself that he was just imagining the pain; that in reality he was tucked up safe in his bed in Atlantis and all he needed to do was drift off back to sleep and when he woke up next the pain would be gone.
“He's awake,” Rodney heard a sharp voice say and felt dread pool in his stomach - so, not on Atlantis then. He cautiously opened his eyes and tried to take note of his surroundings, despite the pain in his head which was making the world spin and tilt disconcertingly. It felt like he was lying on a cold, hard floor and he was able to discern the legs and booted feet of two men standing over him. The men's boots were strong and sturdy, much like the military issue footwear all of the Atlantis off-world teams wore, and the light-blue piping on each man's trousers seemed to indicate that they were both wearing some kind of uniform. Oh shit, Rodney thought to himself, some Genii-wannabes; this was not going to be fun.
Suddenly one of the booted feet moved back and Rodney was kicked hard, the boot slamming into his ribs with a sickening crunch and causing him to cry out in agony as the pain spread from his ribs and radiated throughout his entire body. He squirmed helplessly on the floor, curling up into a ball in a futile attempt to protect himself, his body already tensing in anticipation of another blow. He tried desperately to catch his breath, panting loudly as he tried to form the words to demand where he was and what was happening. Before he could do so much as open his mouth, he heard the scrape of feet as the men moved again and rough hands seized him by his arms and dragged him forcibly to his feet.
Rodney blinked the tears out of his eyes and tried to clear his head, willing the pain to abate for long enough to allow him to try to work out what was going on. He had just enough time to make out the figure of a man standing in front of him before both his arms were pinned behind his back by one of the men holding him while the other struck him hard across the face with his fist. Rodney's head snapped to one side with the force of the blow and he cried out, his skull feeling like it was about to split open from the pain.
“Enough!” a harsh voice shouted. Rodney was relieved when the man who struck him obeyed at once, pulling his second punch so it missed Rodney's face entirely. “We need this one alive and ready to work.”
“What do you want? Where am I?” Rodney gasped out in between painful breaths, tears running freely down his cheeks and the sharp tang of blood filling his mouth. His brain was slow and his memory hazy, like he'd been drugged for a prolonged period of time. The last thing he could remember clearly was the marketplace and the group of men who... oh, god, they'd been attacked and John had...
“Where is the man I was with?” he asked frantically, starting to struggle against the hard hands that held him. He could just about make out the man in front of him sneer at him in disgust before he stepped forward. He caught Rodney's face painfully with one hand, his fingers digging viciously into Rodney's swollen jaw and his cold grey eyes showing no pity as he regarded Rodney with barely concealed contempt.
“Ah, yes, him. You will soon see,” the man said ominously, squeezing his fingers mercilessly, causing Rodney to whimper in his grip. “And then it will be our questions that you will be answering.” He let go of Rodney abruptly, shoving Rodney's face to the side roughly as he did so. “Bring him!” he ordered sharply as he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
Rodney was dragged bodily out behind him by the two guards. He felt nauseous and dizzy, hardly able to stay on his feet and mere moments away from being physically sick. He was only vaguely aware of his surroundings as the guards continued to haul him along, just conscious enough to put one foot in front of the other. He knew that he should probably be trying to gather information as to where he was - could almost hear Sheppard's voice in his head ordering him to threat-assess the situation and examine his options - but he could only manage to get a very vague impression of a long corridor with sterile grey walls and bright lights that hurt his eyes.
The guards eventually came to a stop and pushed Rodney through another door. He landed heavily, sprawled on his hands and knees, his aching ribs protesting at the strain. Compared to the corridor, the room was very dark, lit only by a pale beam of light coming from a high window. The floor under his hands was cold and damp and the air was rancid with the stench of rot and decay. It took Rodney long moments before he was able to make any detail out. He managed to push himself up onto his knees, quaking internally in the expectation of more physical abuse, but the sight that greeted him was far worse than any blow.
Directly in front of him was John Sheppard, bound by his outstretched arms to a hook hanging from the ceiling. His feet just barely touched the ground and his shirt had been cut open and his dog-tags removed. To Rodney's horror, there were lash marks cutting deep into the skin of his chest and blood pooling thickly on the floor at his feet. He didn't appear to be conscious; Rodney couldn't even be certain he was still alive.
Faced with the obvious torture and suffering of his team mate, Rodney vomited violently onto the floor, his stomach revolting at last against the pain and terror of the situation.
“Now,” the cold voice of the grey-eyed man said as Rodney was hauled to his feet once more by the two guards. “You will tell us everything we want to know and, if we are pleased with your answers, your companion will be spared further... unpleasantness.”
****
When John heard the booted footsteps approaching him from down the corridor, he quickly feigned unconsciousness. Not all that hard to do, he acknowledged grimly as his head was still pounding from whatever had been used to subdue him. His mouth felt sticky and dry; he vaguely recalled the swaying movement of a caravan and being forced to drink a bitter liquid that made him gag and sputter. His ribs were throbbing too; he suspected his captors took advantage of his down time to render a corporal opinion of being shot at by him. He dimly remembered once opening his fly to urinate in the hay surrounding him in the wagon and getting beaten soundly for it as well. He had already assessed his situation when he first regained consciousness: held in a locked room by captors with an odd mix of technology as Pegasus went, no indication as to the whereabouts or well-being of his team, a suspicion that he was dealing with tech-thieves judging by their interest in Rodney’s scanner. He had a split second to decide-attempt escape or not? He had no idea where he was or how he would get out of where he was currently being held, but on the other hand, this might be his best chance at taking his captors by surprise.
In the end, the choice was taken from him. As he lay on his side, eyes closed, listening to the footfalls, determining that there were only two men and deciding how best to take them, a booted foot made abrupt contact with his side, forcing his air out in a painful huff, causing him to curl up involuntarily to protect his ribs.
“See?” One man spoke with an amused ‘I told you so’ tone in his voice, sounding horribly reminiscent of Rodney at his worst. “I knew he would be faking it.” He released another kick, John barely able to deflect the worst of it away from his kidney. He met the contact with a grunt, drawing a leg into his body. He squinted up at his captors, biting back a grimace of pain, marking the kicker for death at the earliest convenience.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t just kill him and leave him at the Circle with the others.” The second voice was higher-pitched, sounding younger. John focused briefly on him, one of the men from the market, scarcely older than Ford. Like many of the people of Pegasus, his hair and eyes were dark, his skin bronzed.
“Just goes to show what you know.” The smug voice preened a little. It belonged to a thick-necked, red-faced man, the kind of grizzled soldier that drank a little too much in the evenings and was starting to go to seed. “I brought him because he was dressed like the other one, the one using the scanner. The other people with them were not. So whoever these people are, they’re from the same place. The others must have been guides they hired.”
“Fought pretty hard for guides.” The younger man didn’t seem impressed with argument. “And I know this type. He won’t tell you anything and he’ll be nothing but trouble.”
“He may not have to say anything at all.” The smug man spoke cryptically. “Besides, you know the orders. Bring back the tech. Bonus for bringing someone actually using the tech. If this one gives us any trouble, we can always kill him. Might make a nice incentive for the other one to be more cooperative too. Stick with me, kid. You might learn something about managing prisoners.”
Like maybe not revealing too much in front of them? John wondered at the overt stupidity of his captors, but only briefly as he was hauled roughly to his feet. At least he knew now that Rodney was here somewhere, still alive and in the same mess with him. He was not so sanguine about the rest of his team. It was unthinkable to imagine that these people had tangled with Ronon and Teyla and still managed to spirit Rodney and himself away unless something bad had happened to them. You’ve really fucked up this time, Sheppard, he thought bitterly as he was half-dragged, half-marched down the corridor.
The walls had the sensation of closing in on him as he was shuffled along, and he realized he probably had a concussion. The institution-grey paint and brightly lit corridors spoke to him of some sort of prison or military compound and all his little internal warning bells were ringing. He struggled to clear his thoughts, to stay sharp, but either the blow to his head or the drugs during his transfer proved to be too much for his ability to focus.
They stopped at a closed door. The older man stepped forward and inserted a key in the doorknob. John could hear the click of the lock being turned as the door opened out into the hall. He was roughly forced through the opening into the much darker room. It stank with the stale odors of sweat, fear and blood, as well as something more visceral and fetid. The stink of bowels being released, John thought. Oh shit.
The only immediate light came from a small, high, barred window above-an anemic beam of half-grey sunlight spilling down into the room, creating a rectangle around a hook that hung suspended from the ceiling. A table sat off to one side, some items dimly visible laid out upon it. Suspecting he might not get out of this room alive, John made a concentrated bid for freedom. He snapped his right fist up into the face of the older soldier, mind registering only briefly the satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone as the older man’s nose was smashed before dropping into a tucking turn and punching the younger guard in the solar plexus. A kick back with his left leg took out the older man as he was still moaning and clutching his face. John dropped down beside the young guard who was gasping, open-mouthed on the floor, unable to draw a breath. John snatched up the guard’s gun and stood up, only to find himself face to face with an unsmiling man about his own age, standing in the open doorway and steadily holding a weapon pointed at his head. Recognizing defeat, John carefully raised his hands and let the stolen gun dangle from his thumb.
Cool grey eyes assessed him, ignoring the groaning and gasping men on the floor to either side. “Interesting,” the man said, tilting his head slightly, and John felt a little shiver run down to the small of his back. This was a dangerous man.
The man before him was dressed in the same dark blue uniform as the two guards, but his uniform was crisp, the light blue piping was clean. His skin was lighter in color than the other men, his hair nearly black but shot through with silver that caught in the light from above. He held out a hand patiently for the gun, and with a small sigh, John passed it towards him, still in a neutral position. There was a small moment of tension between them as the gun was handed off and a tiny smile appeared at the corner of the man’s mouth once the weapon was secured in his holster. With his own weapon, he motioned for John to step back.
“Get up,” he said harshly to the two guards, who abruptly stifled their noises of pain and struggled to their feet. “Secure him.”
The two men shuffled over to John and jerked his hands down from their overhead position, the older man snarling with bloodstained teeth as he bound John’s hands in front of him tightly with some sort of leather strap. The younger man looked faintly sick, shooting an odd look at John that he was unable to interpret. Together the guards pulled John’s hands back up over his head again, lowering the hook to attach his hands and then hoisting it back into position so that he was forced to stretch down to maintain tenuous contact with the ground.
“So,” John drawled into the sudden silence as the two guards stepped back. “What do you want to talk about?”
The man with the gun walked over to the table in the shadows and laid his weapon down. He turned to face John, lightly touching an emblem on his left breast before he began speaking. “Subject is a male, dressed in an unknown uniform, representing a military group with which I am not familiar, but matching the descriptions of the people said to occupy the city of the Ancestors.” He smiled pleasantly at John. “I am Base Leader Torquin. I am the commander of this facility. You will answer my questions or you will die. That is what we will talk about.”
“Well, that seems a little harsh.” John could already feel the pull of the weight of his body against his arm muscles and the pounding of blood in his tied-off fists. He recognized that if he remained in this position long enough, the effects would be much the same as that of crucifixion-his blood would start to pool in his extremities, being unable to pump back up to his heart. His chest muscles would start to seize up, his lungs would fill with fluid and he would eventually drown where he stood. Of course, this would take several agonizing days. Torquin seemed perfectly capable of leaving him tied in this fashion and simply walking away, yet John somehow doubted he would be that patient.
He was right.
“I don’t believe you know the meaning of the word harsh…yet.” Torquin smiled. The expression was still superficially pleasant, but John could feel the menace behind it, reminding him suddenly of the look his father would get on running into the CEO of another company at the country club. He wished he hadn’t thought of that.
Torquin walked over to John, removing a knife from a sheath at his belt. Taking hold of the hem of John’s tee shirt, Torquin used the blade to split John’s shirt to the collar, letting it hang around his shoulders like a jacket. With the point of the knife, he lifted John’s dog tags off his chest by their chain. John tried not to flinch as the sharp blade nicked his skin in passing, the slight movement causing him to sway around his bound hands.
Torquin frowned as he grasped the tags in his other hand, turning them over carefully but unable to read the foreign language. He looked up abruptly from the tags and John could read a sense of appreciation in those cold grey eyes, but he doubted it would help him here. The tags were suddenly pulled away from his neck, chain biting into his skin, forcing him to swivel and spin on the toes of his boots to avoid losing his footing altogether.
Torquin walked back to the table, tossing the tags on the surface with a small whisper of sound. He picked up a coiled whip from the table and returned to John’s side, caressing the leather with his hand as he spoke.
“Where is the City of the Ancestors?” Torquin’s voice was still calm and serene, as though he were asking about the weather outside.
“The what?” John said, knowing full well what was coming next.
“The City of the Ancestors. Perhaps you call it Atlantis. Where is it?” Torquin let the whip uncoil to the floor by his side.
“Well, I don’t exactly know…” John didn’t even have time to finish his sentence before Torquin’s arm raised and his wrist and elbow snapped down, the whip slashing across John’s body before he could even take a deep breath. He sucked air in sharply at the contact, dropping his eyes to look down at his abdomen where a line of fire burned across his skin before thin drops of blood began to bead even as he stared. Holy fuck.
“Where is Atlantis?” Torquin asked again.
“Seriously, I don’t know,” John said as calmly as he could manage. The whip whistled through the air again, landing in a diagonal line across his chest, the tip flicking up and biting his chin. His pectoral muscles contracted in protest, and a hiss of pain escaped him. He bucked backwards with the contact, and gradually came to a swaying stop. The lash bit deeper this time, the blood that welled up trickling down in a thin line towards his navel.
“Atlantis.” Torquin said once more.
“See, everyone’s always telling me I have a really bad sense of direction,” John began, only to gasp at the double lash that struck him-the forehand and backhand strokes coming so quickly that the second one was bleeding before he felt the first one start to burn. Tears began to stream out of the corner of his eyes and he discovered that he’d bitten through his lower lip when it started to throb. He had a sudden, terrible vision of Rodney undergoing the same treatment, his mind supplying images of the broken bodies of Teyla and Ronon lying by the Gate as well. This is all your fault, asshole. Suck it up and take it.
“Give me the Gate address.”
“Fuck you.”
The whip came at him again, but John pulled himself up by his hands, kicking out with his feet at Torquin and managing to take the worst of the blow across his legs, the tough fabric of the BDU’s holding up to the strike. The two guards leapt in from the sides with a roar, pummeling John with their fists until Torquin commanded them to cease. John hung from his hands, gasping for air, a film of sweat breaking out over his body, his shirt hanging in tatters from one shoulder.
Torquin stepped in and began to lash him methodically with the whip, asking no questions, merely delivering punishment. John grunted with each blow, his head hanging, watching in fascination as the blood mixed with his sweat and ran in rivulets down his skin. He almost didn’t notice when the blows stopped.
“Subject has ceased to be responsive,” Torquin’s voice said in that odd, dispassionate tone as he spoke into his recording device. “He has withdrawn mentally from the situation after his initial attempts at deflection through pretending ignorance and then a show of defiance. A different approach is needed.”
There followed after that a long period of silence, during which John became increasingly aware of the pounding of blood in his wrists and the ache of numbness creeping down his arms towards his chest, where it clashed with the vivid fire of his torn skin. He was only vaguely aware of noise and movement in the room, and then there was the sound of someone retching and the smell of vomit in the air.
“Now,” Torquin was saying as John tuned in, “You will tell us everything we want to know, and if we are pleased with your answers, your companion will be spared further…unpleasantness.”
He looked up and saw Rodney standing between the two guards, almost as though he were being held up by their grip on his arms. The side of his face showed the beginnings of a darkening bruise; he looked utterly miserable. John had to quash down a sense of relief that Rodney appeared to have no more serious injuries than that, though he could tell by the way Rodney clutched his side that his ribs hurt too. Don’t let anything show, he thought, willing Rodney to understand him telepathically, the way they sometimes seemed to be able to communicate.
He made eye contact with Rodney, acknowledging the suddenly relieved expression in his worried blue eyes, but bracing himself against it as well. “Tell them nothing, McKay,” he ground out.
“Kill him,” Torquin calmly ordered, indicating John with the whip.
“No, no, wait!” Rodney burst out, hands held out in front of him in entreaty. “What do you want? What do you need? I can help you-I’m a genius. If it’s broken, I can fix it. You need a weapon? I can build it. You need answers? I can supply them. I’m your man.”
“Shut the fuck up, McKay!” John’s voice shook when he spoke, and Rodney shot him a startled look before turning back to face Torquin again.
Torquin was surveying Rodney with that head tilt thing again. “Where is Atlantis?”
Rodney’s face fell. “Oh crap, I can’t help you with that.”
Quick as a striking cobra, Torquin lashed out with the whip. John flung his head back and swayed on his feet with the sudden contact, but it was Rodney who cried out as though in pain. “Stop! I can’t help you because it was destroyed! The Wraith attacked en masse earlier this year and drained our shield. We knew they were coming, we could see them on the long-range sensors, which is why a handful of us got away. But Atlantis is gone.” The despair in Rodney’s voice rang convincingly true.
Torquin stood watching Rodney silently for a moment, weighing what he had said, fingering the whip in his hand. “Long range sensors,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Can you build them?”
Amazingly, Rodney straightened and rolled his eyes. “The answer to that is, ‘it depends’. Without a sophisticated computer network to process the data, or the proper components, including the means of creating an orbital satellite array, the answer is no. I can’t make bricks without straw.”
An unpleasant smile twisted at Torquin’s lips. “I thought you said you could fix anything.”
“And so you’ve never heard of hyperbole? Anything within reason.” Rodney’s response was astonishingly tart for a man being held prisoner.
Fortunately, Torquin seemed to find this amusing. “Good. Then we don’t need both of you,” he smiled, teeth flashing whitely in the dimly lit room. He let the whip fall to the floor, pulling his weapon out and aiming it at John.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Rodney waved his hands again. “I saw your people in the market. They had Ancient tech, right? You’re looking for Ancient tech, same as us. Only it’s useless to you if you don’t have the gene. Well, he’s got the gene in spades. The stuff practically rolls over and begs for him. You want the advantages the Ancients had? Then you need him. You need both of us.”
“Goddamn it, Rodney, will you just shut up!” John made a last desperate bid for Rodney’s silence before one of the guards stepped over to him and punched him hard in the ribs. Rodney’s mouth formed a little ‘oh!’ of shock and surprise.
Torquin turned a speculative eye on Rodney without lowering the gun. “Explain this ‘gene’.”
Rodney went with the Reader’s Digest version. “He’s a descendent of the Ancients. He’s inherited the skill, the gift, the talent, whatever. We both have, but it runs stronger in him. He can make the Ancient tech work better than anyone I know. And I can fix it.”
The two guards exchanged a look, recognizing the ‘gift’ that Rodney had described. The gun in Torquin’s hand finally lowered and Rodney heaved a too visible sigh of relief.
Torquin turned to the guards, indicating first Rodney, then John. “Take him to the equipment room. Cut this one down and place him in a holding cell.” He faced Rodney again. “You will review the technology we have acquired and build us suitable weapons and shields. He will help you as you need or be killed. You will succeed or be killed. Our ruler will expect results. He will arrive on this world at the end of this lunar cycle. Do not disappoint us.”
Rodney swallowed hard and shot another glance over at John as he was marched away at the direction of the younger guard. The older man cut John down with his knife, not caring that he sliced the sides of John’s wrist in the process. John collapsed to his knees, struggling not to fall over to his side, his hands swollen and useless, as though he were wearing boxer’s gloves. John was forced to his feet by a hand fisted into his hair. “Come along, my pretty,” the old soldier crooned, his smile promising retribution.
****
Read Wing and a Prayer part 2