Fic: Spirits of the Dead, 1a *complete*
Wow, been a long time since I've written a story of this length! It's three chapters but chapter one and three are too long for one post so there'll be a total of five posts. They'll be 1a, 1b, 2, 3a, and 3b. And now, on with the fic!
Challenge: Fall 2008 Fic Exchange
Title: Spirits of the Dead
Author: kodiak_bear
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 28,000 +
Characters: Sheppard [H/C], Rodney [H/C], Teyla [H/C]], Ronon [H/C], Lorne [H/C], misc OCs (Well, yes, I hurt them all, I'm evil, but the 'C' part is probably debatable for the others)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, drama, action/adventure
Disclaimer: MGM owns the show and not me and blah blah blah (yes, this says it all)
Spoilers: This was written to take place shortly after Whispers so season 5 spoilers abound.
Writing for: wildcat88
Assignment: Sheppard missing/kidnapped; Ronon and Lorne team up to find
him. Lots of Shep whump, lots of angst, lots of comfort.
Author Notes: Well, wildcat88, you had the misfortune to be my assigned prompt! I've had the bug to write another longish story, but seriously lacked the motivation and time. So of course, I sign up for a ficathon! Though I'm late, I hope this story proves worthy. Big thanks to my betas friendshipper and linzi5. I dropped these huge files in your laps, in worse shape than usual, and you got them back to me with lightning speed. Also, because they were in a fairly rough state, my final editing will probably lend to new mistakes, ones that they will have never seen. I've tried to be vigilant but if you find a mistake, feel free to let me know. And finally, I used four specific fonts. The title and chapter titles are earwig factory, the chapter subtitles are baveuse, story text in verdana, and one special note in the middle written with boopee (I know, I know, what a stupid name for a font!) If you don't have these on your system, you might want to get them. They're kind of fun!
GLOSSARY * the native language for the various OCs are, in fact, various words butchered and maimed from various languages on Earth. (I like the word various, is it too obvious?) They are used for the sole reason of making it seem more 'alien' so if it grates, toss rotten tomatoes at me, I can take it... (ducks).
mesu - mercy
non - no, or an expression of negativity
Vita u nes, nes u vita - life to death, death to life
amo - love
mi - my
peta - a form of currency on most trading worlds
Spirits of the Dead
by kodiak bear
Chapter One
The Dead
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
-Edgar Allan Poe
Major Lorne was starting to get jaded. It was a sad state of affairs when stepping through a Stargate, traveling almost instantaneously to an alien world, was getting old. Yet, here he was, feeling anything but excitement.
“Major, the leader, uh-” Momentarily stumped, he tried to fish for the elusive name caught somewhere in his memory. Samuels shifted to his left, unconsciously hoping to ease the weight on his back; the pack was heavier than usual, burdened down with extra relief supplies.
Lorne lifted his cap and wiped at the sweat gathering along his hairline; it made his scalp itch. God, what a long day. “Bruma,” he supplied, tired.
Samuels nodded, sheepish. “Yes, sir, their leader, Bruma, states the outlying villages haven't reported in with a head count.” A dark look crossed the young Marine's face. “The council's sending some scouts, but they're worried--”
“--that there's no survivors,” Lorne nodded. Damn. He looked away from Samuels and watched a dust devil rise and spin across the fallow field. Unlike other worlds where the death rate had been tragic, here it'd been devastating. A slight difference in biology had caused the mutated version of the virus to be fatal in almost ninety percent of the population. Yet, this planet was just another victim of Michael's machinations.
Atlantis still struggled to help affected worlds recover from the loss of life.
The problem with pandemics, though, often stretched beyond the initial death tolls. When the survivors managed to stand afterwards, they found themselves with a pile of dead bodies and a workload of ten men to every one. Farms had no farmers, stores had no storekeepers. Entire towns were collapsing in the aftermath. And how could one planet in another galaxy provide relief aid on this kind of a scale?
~*~
Jaf huddled in his seat, nursing his ale. Noise from patrons washed over him, around him. He ignored it. He'd picked a table by the central hearth, luxuriating in the heat radiating from the comforting fire. Outside, winter gripped Rumson. He was back, but keeping as low a profile as he could. He wasn't here for a job or to cause trouble; he just needed to unwind, relax. After Jaf had told Drannit he'd need some more time between the next job, Drannit had given him a couple of days; he hadn't really had a choice. If he'd tried to tell him no, Jaf would've melted away, but he wouldn't have gone without leaving a message. The day when Drannit, or anyone else he took a job for, tried to rule him, would be the day that man was never heard from again. Jaf knew a lot of ways to kill a man, and Jaf knew how to watch his back.
With a muffled groan, he stretched, easing old aches and pains. He knew the day was coming soon when he left a job and never came back, good working relationship or not. This whole business, stealing people, selling them. It gave Jaf the creeps. The slave trade was the one business he tended to stay out of. But the people he was taking for Drannit were going to homes, to families. They were losing one life but gaining another, and for most people, it was probably a step up in the world. If the family they were being gathered for was rich enough to afford Drannit's prices, they wouldn't have to scratch and scrape out a living, venturing to trade pits on different worlds to hawk food and cloth. Still, it was disconcerting. Knowing the person was being changed somehow, in a process he didn't totally understand, into someone else. Someone that had died.
“Stranger,” a man greeted, sliding into the empty chair across from him. “Cold night.”
Jaf nodded, tossing back what was left in his glass. “Cold night,” he agreed.
“I be Mat,” the man grunted.
“I'm not here for conversation,” Jaf replied.
“Then the next round's on me.” Mat gestured for the server. “Two of your darkest ales.”
Jaf smiled humorlessly. “You like your ale to be a meal, stranger?”
“I'm here for more than a meal.” Mat gazed at Jaf, stone cold sober, a rarity in this pit. “I'm here for life.”
~*~
John stuffed his foot into his boot, wincing at the pull of healing skin on his shoulder. Another close call escaping some native animals on MX9-999 had left him with twenty-eight stitches and a week of light duty.
The prep room was noisy, crowded. Lorne's team incoming, Sheppard's team outgoing, and Woolsey had decided now had been the perfect time for a surprise inspection.
“Major, I understand your reasoning, however, it's against regulation to store any type of an object that could be considered a weapon, especially a class C, outside of weapons' storage.” Woolsey rubbed his fingers forcefully against his eyebrow and John sympathized with the building headache.
“I realize that, Sir, but if you had read the addendum --”
Now Woolsey just looked irritated. “What addendum?” he snapped. His attention shifted to John. “Colonel Sheppard, I wasn't aware of any addendums to SSFW?”
SSFW - safe storage of firearms and weapons. Been a long time since John had altered that one. “Yeah, well,” John slid off the bench and pulled his vest from the locker, “it's been around so long I just assumed you knew.” He shrugged. Hell, it'd been ever since the Genii invaded. It wasn't like it was old news, or even buried news; it wasn't 'news' at all.
“I see.” His response was stiff. Woolsey straightened and had to willfully stop massaging his forehead. He made a couple of hasty notes on his clipboard and started to leave, but hesitated; he turned to look pensively at John. “Colonel, a word, please, before you leave?”
John clipped his P90 to his vest and picked up the 9 mil from the bench. He caught his teammates' eyes and gestured towards the door with a quick jerk of his head. “Go on, I'll meet you in the Jumper bay.”
Funny how fast the bodies filtered out; in less than a minute, John stood alone with Woolsey.
Woolsey nodded to himself, palmed the door shut, and faced John. “Colonel, let me preface this by saying I understand that losing first Elizabeth, then Colonel Carter, has been difficult.”
John slid his pistol into the holster on his thigh.
“And with the recent...adventure --”
“Adventure?” John scowled. “Elizabeth is floating in outer space. She committed suicide and we let her do it.”
“She never should have come here in the first place.” Woolsey grew quiet. “Not like that.”
Maybe, John agreed, but that was all water under a very tall bridge.
“Look, I realize with the crisis concerning Doctor McKay's illness, this issue was pushed aside, but if you are harboring any resentment --”
“I'm not.”
“--then we should...” Woolsey squared his shoulders. “We should work this out. It's important that we present a united front, as much as possible, to those who depend upon us, to keep them safe.”
John cocked his head. “I'm not altering the 'FW.”
Woolsey adjusted his glasses.
John made a face. All right, maybe he was being a little...whatever. Maybe Woolsey was partially right; the thing with Rodney, there hadn't been any space to deal with the fallout from Elizabeth's disastrous return, and possibly, there was some resentment brewing. The thing was, John was trying to figure out just who he was pissed at. Himself, Woolsey, Elizabeth? It was hard to maintain his anger at Elizabeth, what with where she was now, and Woolsey hadn't been the one that had guilted Elizabeth into making her decision - John's brain slid to a freezing stop. Guilted?
“You know what,” John said, pressing past Woolsey, “I'm not dealing with this right now. I've got a mission and my team is waiting.”
Maybe it was a measure of the man that Woolsey let him go without a word.
~*~
Boon hated the Death Stones. She'd always hated them, even before she'd truly understood what death meant. “Ninya, mi amo, I'm so sorry,” she whispered, bending just enough to lightly run her fingers across the death portrait etched into the cold granite.
A light freezing mist fell, just enough to halo light around the hanging Ever-Brights, staked by the iron fence all around the Sacred Field. Boon had missed the watchman when he had come by and lit them.
She knew of two others in her village who had done this. It wasn't a secret one could keep hidden, and so it was acknowledged with a look and a nod, but you didn't ask questions. And you didn't say out loud what had been done to the spirits. Boon also knew of at least a couple more families considering this; she knew they would be watching her. She had seen it in their eyes, recognized the familiar emotion. She had watched and waited, given it time to see how well it truly worked. Maybe she would have waited longer, but according to Samon, you couldn't take all the time in the world because the longer from death to life, the more likely the blending would go wrong.
Samon hadn't explained 'wrong' but the shorter man by his side had paled and said, “Two months.” He'd pulled a thin object from his coat. “This is our adjuster. You're one of the more fortunate worlds. There are those that had only one month and many could not be saved.” With a pudgy hand and dirt-encrusted fingernails, he'd handed her both the orb and a flimsy sheet of paper that bore the contact address. “It changes weekly, don't wait too long to make up your mind, ma'am.”
“I can't save you both,” Boon explained sadly to her baby's. She reluctantly pulled her hand away from the stone and thrust it back into her coat. Her fingers trembled and found the orb in her pocket; the heavy Auga-hide was barely warm enough to ward off the cold tonight, and she told herself the shaking coursing through her limbs belonged to the chill and nothing else. “I have...” her throat closed, grief choking her into silence. Ninya, her baby, a late-in-life miracle from the Ancestors, and all she wanted was just one more day to hold her close.
But the cost for two lives was more than she could afford and even then, infants were hard to come by. And who would help Boon care for the farm? A babe? It'd just make survival more impossible, more precarious. Besides, could she have even visited that grief upon another? The loss of a child was unexplainable. Unbearable, on the worst days. And she had lost both of her dear children.
Swallowing back the lingering bitterness, Boon pulled away from Ninya's grave. As she moved on, she allowed herself a longing look at the larger stone by Ninya's, but bypassed it as well. Jamal had been one of the first to pass in their town and Boon had never had to agonize over choosing him. Child over husband, could she have chosen? She stopped at the final stone in the row of three and smiled tremulously, pushing away her regrets. For all she lost, for all the pain and sorrow, she would have him home again. Her first born; he'd barely stepped into the bloom of adulthood before he had been mercilessly struck down by the suffocating sickness.
Boon pulled the orb from her coat and knelt over the earth. With one hand on the stone, she leaned forward in the dark, and pressed the orb to the ground. “Vita u nes, nes u vita.”
When nothing happened, when the orb remained the calm, pale blue it had always been, Boon felt a queasy punch in her stomach and pressed it even harder into the frozen ground, imploring again, “Vita u nes, nes u vita!”
Then, a light flickered, deep inside the crystal. Faint and failing. She cried again, “Vita u nes, nes u vita!”
Fire bloomed within, wisps feathering to the very edges of the orb. Boon yanked her hand away, suddenly fearful to touch. Within moments, the steady, peaceful blue was completely gone, replaced by a pulsating orange that glowed so bright, the Sacred Field was lit with an unholy light. She scrambled to pick up the orb, tucking it back in her pocket. When she stood, her knees ached from even the short time kneeling. Still, there was no time to wait for the pain to recede. Soon, the address would do her no good.
As she walked through the entrance and passed underneath a guttering Ever-Bright, she pulled the paper from her other pocket and hastily glanced at the scribbled symbols. Just long enough to make sure her memory was solid. When a gust of wind ripped the small scrap from her numb fingers, Boon let it go. She was sure of the pattern. Now it was time. Time to go to the Ancestral Ring and deliver his essence.
Boon strode across the marshes that separated the Sacred Field from the Ring. She didn't need light now, and there were no Ever-Brights in this forsaken place; there never had been and there never would be, for nothing grew at the place where once the heart of their world had stood. She didn't falter. She didn't look to the sky for guidance. Boon knew the way.
...behind her, the slip of paper tumbled to the ground. It spun unhappily across the frozen surface until the damp and the stone caught it and held it.
~*~
Jaf hated this part. The waiting. Mesu! The drop had been delivered in the early morning, two days ago, and here he still sat, waiting, waiting, endlessly waiting as time crawled by...
Young adult male
72 hours
The address was written on the back of the paper. Always changing. Sometimes Jaf wondered how long before they ran out of worlds to hide on. But that wasn't his problem, he thought, rolling onto his belly and pointing the far glasses at the Ancestral Ring in the valley. All he had to worry about was that he had a deadline to meet and it wasn't looking good. Drannit wouldn't be happy if Jaf failed to deliver, not even after he'd completed their largest job yet last week. It wasn't that Jaf was afraid of Drannit, he just hated to ruin a good thing before he was ready.
The frustrating thing was, anywhere else and he would've already finished this job. One of the other trading towns could've netted him a target within hours, but he had to move around or he risked being caught; mining one trading planet for too long created trouble, and trouble was something Jaf preferred to create, not endure. A disappearance here and there went unnoticed. Typically, people coming to the world for trade weren't missed by those they left behind. Not for a while, at least, sometimes days, sometimes longer, and when they did show up, asking questions, the locals shrugged and said that everyone had their own problems. Usually they were too busy trying to maintain order. Investigating a missing person was so far down on their list of priorities, that Jaf was always surprised when the families and friends that came looking did manage to get a report filed.
The key was to keep the numbers down, take a few, then move on. Even the most overworked justice-keeper would take notice if too many cases were brought to him, in a short span of time.
He hadn't tried La Zun before; it was a newer port, and so far, Jaf was regretting ever choosing it. Maybe he should go back to Rumson. He'd taken three there, too close to one another, in the last month, and he'd overheard a relative of the missing talking to authorities. The missing man's father had done enough digging on his own to have concluded that the disappearances were the same for all three. The missing man had last been seen eating dinner at the Ale and Stew; He'd been helped to his room by a kind patron when he'd apparently became drunk or sick, and then never seen again. The father even had accounts of rumors of other young men and women going missing on two other large trading worlds.
When Rumson's chief had started taking notes, Jaf had noticed that subtle shift from humoring someone to actually listening; he'd quietly slipped out, got his bag from his room, and disappeared through the Ring. The fate of those three went with him.
But non, Rumson had been bustling. Families, singles, old and young -- if you needed it, you could find it, and Jaf waited for the day when he could go back to fill orders.
And in another four hours, Jaf figured, he might just have to go before it was probably safe. One way or another, he had to deliver a live body to that address.
~*~
“Welcome! Welcome!” Ardin gestured with open arms as John and his team walked into the quiet city-center. “Welcome to La Zun Trading Port! If you need it, we have it, and if we don't, we can get it --”
John grimaced, flashes of Lucius creeping him out. Anyone that eager...
Teyla nudged him in the ribs. She pasted on a pleasant smile. “Hello, Ardin. I have brought my friends, as promised. Halling spoke very highly of what you are creating here.”
“Hi, John Sheppard,” he said, extending his hand. Ardin took it, awkwardly, obviously not big on the handshaking, and John straightened, waving his hand vaguely at Rodney and Ronon. “That's Doctor McKay and Ronon Dex. Pleased to meet you.”
Ardin was an older guy, bordering on plump, a little bit gray, and a lot of laugh lines. He wore a suit similar to the Hoffans, nice, but old-fashioned. Then again, it wasn't similar to the Genii or Michael's goons or the Asurans so that was already a step in the right direction.
“I am pleased you could come,” he enthused. “I know it looks quiet, but give us time, John Sheppard, and we will grow!”
John caught Rodney's snort and shot him a warning look. Behave.
Ronon looked bored. His thumbs hooked in his holster and he studied the buildings, taking in the same lively painting murals as John. They buildings had been cleaned up, refinished where necessary, decorated. It did look good. There was definitely potential, here and if Atlantis threw in with La Zun like Ardin was hoping, they could create something big.
“Teyla tells me you've staked out a landing pad for ships?” With the Travelers, the Atlantis crews, and a few other space-faring planets, it was an important aspect. If they could have a neutral meeting zone, one that was a little bit more reliable than a hastily-arranged spot that had the potential for a trap, they could accomplish a lot more. And rebuilding Pegasus was under way. Plus, they could create a net to feel out more information on Michael's activities without officially pursuing him, which Woolsey had axed.
“We have.” Ardin started down the street. “This way, John Sheppard,” he called. “All we wait for now is the materials to create the hard, smooth surface you call concrete. Our xillape is too soft to support the weight of such ships; it is only good for feet, I'm afraid.”
“Hey, Sheppard, it okay if I go check out the local?” Ronon had hung behind. His worn leather duster only accentuated how tall the man really was. He squinted at John and his body language telegraphed just how much he'd rather do anything other than go inspect a landing site.
“And I would like to visit the market,” Teyla added.
Ardin paused, glancing back at John. “They are more than welcome to tour the port, John Sheppard. In fact, I imagine the barkeep would be honored to have Ronon Dex stop in for ale, and Hasos has met you before, Teyla, and was hoping to see you again.”
Teyla smiled. “Hasos is here?”
“She joined our community at the second meeting; it was she who led us to contact Halling with the invitation for the Lanteans.”
John looked around, assessing the town. In the center there was a lush park, benches and trees, thickly growing bright blue grass. It was an oasis in a barren land. In fact, La Zun was built in a desert. According to Teyla, it had taken them years to run the aqueducts that fed the port with fresh water. There were broad stretches of paved road that must be made this Xillape Ardin had mentioned. It was slightly orange and, as Ardin had said, soft. The streets ran parallel with the buildings, which weren't made from wood or even mud daub bricks like you'd expect, but instead from massive carved stone, stacked and fitted on top of one another, harvested from the quarry just north of the port; John had parked the Jumper there.
He picked out the bar in the middle of a row of a buildings across from the park. The bright painting on the front displayed a red mug with a frothy top. GORAN arced over top of the mug while BREW cupped the bottom; kind of made it hard to miss. He kept sweeping his eyes along the boardwalk until he found the market, which was actually a series of five buildings. Foodstuffs, trinkets, clothing and there was even an ODDITIES shop.
So Teyla wouldn't be that far from Ronon. “Maintain radio contact,” he said, assured enough to let his team split. “Every half-hour.”
“Yes, Mom,” Ronon drawled, before slipping away.
Teyla's lips curved and she dipped her head towards John, wandering after Ronon.
John frowned, watching them disappear; he turned back and poked Rodney. “Why not Dad?”
~*~
The Goran Brew wasn't the best bar Ronon had ever been to, and it wasn't the worst. The ale was too new, kind of like the entire place. It hadn't aged enough to have character. The atmosphere was good, though. Heavy iron lights hung from a low ceiling, offering dim light in the smoky room. The tables were broad, polished squares, placed around the bar, and the only order to them was disorder. Ronon liked it.
Music creaked from a machine in the back and when Ronon leaned across the counter and ordered a drink, he asked the woman, “Where'd you get that?”
The woman, pretty and young, followed his gaze and smiled. “That, my friend, was an expensive buy from Oddities, just down the street.” She wiped her hands on a towel and pulled a ceramic mug from under the counter, serving from a tapped keg behind her. She thunked the drink down in front of Ronon. “You should be sure to check them out.”
“How much?”
“On the house. You're Ronon Dex, right?”
Ronon took a sip. “And if I'm not?”
She grinned. “Then it'll cost you five zuns.”
He shrugged. “Good thing I'm your guy. Don't have any zuns.”
“There's a money exchange next to Oddities. You'd be fine. However for you, and your companions, drinks are paid for courtesy of Operator Ardin.”
The music was kind of soothing; it almost sounded like that stuff Sheppard had gotten from Earth. They'd given them out to all the leaders on Atlantis. Woolsey, Sheppard, McKay, and he'd overheard the message from Caldwell. They'd joked it was Earth's reply to Atlantis' request for a new psychologist. Celtic or Gaelic music; it was supposed to be soothing or something like that. Sheppard had tossed it in his jacket and looked irritated, but later when Ronon had dropped by for a beer, he'd found him listening to it.
Ronon took another drink, enjoying the relief. This place was so dry he was surprised the people's skin hadn't turned to leather yet. “So, you know where I can find Goran?”
The woman looked amused. She leaned over the counter and folded her arms under her. “I might.”
“He here?” Ronon puzzled.
“Right here.”
Understanding smoothed Ronon's forehead. “You're Goran?” He laughed. “I pictured a fat guy in an apron.” The bar wasn't empty; everywhere around him Ronon heard the clink of glasses and the buzz of conversation. But he tuned out the unimportant and enjoyed the situation he found himself tumbled into. She had a dimple in her chin and she flirted freely, though Ronon was aware that Goran wasn't shallow or stupid. She had Teyla's catlike energy, bundled up, simmering below the surface...and yet he sensed in her Melana's free spirit. She wasn't holding back that she was attracted to Ronon.
“And is that a disappointment, Ronon Dex?” she asked playfully.
He grinned. “Not in the least.”
“Hey, Goran! Mam sent me for a keg; got anything older than this swill?”
Swiveling, Ronon saw a boy, on the cusp of being a man. He had come through the door and playfully nudged another kid that hovered protectively over his mug. Goran straightened, letting the towel remain on the counter, and had a tolerant nod for the newcomer. “Aye, Max, I've got two kegs in the cellar that have aged an extra six months.” She swung the wooden, waist-high door and came out from behind the counter. “But they'll cost your mam dearly. She having another party?”
Max shrugged. “It's what she does. Next week, I hear. She'll pay, just put it on her tab, she says.”
Heading towards a door in the back, she told Ronon, “Don't go anywhere, Ronon Dex, we were just getting started.” The boy grabbed a hanging light from the wall and scowled at Ronon before following her down.
Doesn't like the competition, Ronon mused. He grabbed his mug and swung around, keeping his eye on the room.
A newcomer walked in, his manner wary. Old but not old; Ronon figured maybe he was just dirty and tired; wasn't much different than the bulk of the galaxy. The man took in the occupants then headed over for the bar and dropped on a seat next to Ronon. “Where's the bartender?” he grated, sounding hoarse. “If I don't get a drink soon, I'll turn to dust.” He coughed and leaned over to peer down below. “Building a trading town in a desert. Mesu!”
“She'll be back,” Ronon said.
When the man pulled back, he bumped Ronon hard enough that his drink spilled. “Hey,” Ronon warned, “watch...it...” his world suddenly tilted, looking fuzzy and distant.
“Sorry,” the guy said. Then he peered at Ronon. “You okay?”
Ronon cleared his throat, shook his head, but it only swam worse. “I think...Sheppard,” he slurred, reaching for his radio.
The man tugged Ronon's hand away, effortless. “That's not a good idea.” He pulled the radio from Ronon's duster and dropped it on the ground. “I'll take you to your friends.” He slid an arm around Ronon's shoulder and when people started to look, he just smiled calmly and assured them, “just feeling a little sick everyone, he'll be fine. Might want to stay back though, looks like Deluvian Fever.”
Ronon's mouth didn't want to work. He tried to tell someone he didn't know who this guy was. He wanted to tell them to get Sheppard, Teyla, McKay, but all that came out was a soft moan. Deluvian Fever - harmless, but very contagious, and if you wanted to be laid up in bed for a month, that was the way to do it. But Ronon hadn't been to Deluvius and no one he knew had, and this guy was lying. Even as his mind screamed it, his body failed. His legs were rubber. He had just enough strength to avoid being completely dragged from the bar.
He never saw Goran come up from the cellar and stare worriedly at his back, as Ronon was hauled through the front door.
~*~
Goran went to follow Ronon; Kavlan stood, pressed a hand against her shoulder. “He's got Deluvian Fever, Gorie. Don't worry, his friend is taking care of him.”
“Who's his friend?” Ronon Dex had come alone. Had one of his companions joined him when she was helping Max?
Kavlan shook his head. “Don't know, didn't ask. But he joined him at the bar right after you went into the cellar.” Kavlan sat down. “He'll be fine, but the last thing you need is to catch the fever. The last thing any of us need in this place. We've just got things up and running.”
That was the truth. Deluvian Fever was contagious. It was propably better to let Ronon's people get him home, than it was to go after him and risk being exposed. Besides, he'd probably be back. She hoped he'd be back. Goran hadn't imagined the heat between them.
Sighing, she trudged back to her bar, pushing the swing-door open; a crackling sound made her pause. What was that?
She looked across to the music box and realized it was playing just fine, and for what she'd paid, it'd better be...then what? She tilted her head, straining to hear. More static, and she looked down. On the floor, underneath the stool, was a small black object.
Ronon's? Had he dropped it?
She stooped and picked it up. As soon as she lifted it, the static stopped. Then a voice demanded, “Ronon, did you realize you've had your radio transmitting for the last five minutes!”
Transmitting? Goran stared at it, perplexed. The button! It'd been laying against the frame of the stool, the button stuck down. She pressed it and said, “Hello?” before quickly letting it go.
“Hello? Who the hell is this?”
“Rodney, give me that!” There was a scuffling noise. “This is Colonel Sheppard, who am I talking to?”
Goran frowned. She pressed it again. “Goran,” she stated, “and I'd appreciate if attitude boy over there put a cork in it. I just found this thing on my floor.”
“Goran?”
“Attitude boy, who does she --”
“Goran Brew, the bar, right? Where's Ronon?”
“He just left.” Goran stared at the doorway. “One of your people helped him out when he became sick.”
“One of our people?” The voice sounded confused. Then it got worried. “Look, Goran, none of us were with Ronon. Did you see where they were heading?”
A sick spike of fear hit Goran. She had been worried for good reason. She should've listened to her gut and gone after him. Everyone knew the four members of Colonel Sheppard's team, but she also knew sometimes the Lanteans went places in larger groups; thing was, though, Ronon hadn't mentioned he was expecting anyone. And he had seemed perfectly healthy just minutes ago.
“Goran, please, which way did they go?”
“I'm sorry. I don't. I don't know.” She wiped her hand across her forehead. “I didn't see.”
“Damn it!” The man swore. Then the other one said, “Teyla's there, have her look.”
“I know, just...gimme a second to think. Rodney, you get to the Jumper, do an aerial search, I'll get Teyla --
“I am here, John. I do not see any sign of Ronon or this man.”
“There's only so many places they could've gone. We'll find him.” A pause and the voice giving orders said, “Goran, just...hang on to the radio, we'll get it. Eventually.” And she could hear harsh breaths; he was running, she realized.
Numbly, she nodded, then realized, he can't see me, and said, “Yes. I understand.”
She found herself standing by the counter, holding the strange object that spoke, echoes of her patrons milling about and talking as usual, yet she was left with a hollow, odd feeling in her belly. Something very wrong had just gone down, and she wasn't even sure what it was.
Spirits of the Dead 1b
Challenge: Fall 2008 Fic Exchange
Title: Spirits of the Dead
Author: kodiak_bear
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 28,000 +
Characters: Sheppard [H/C], Rodney [H/C], Teyla [H/C]], Ronon [H/C], Lorne [H/C], misc OCs (Well, yes, I hurt them all, I'm evil, but the 'C' part is probably debatable for the others)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, drama, action/adventure
Disclaimer: MGM owns the show and not me and blah blah blah (yes, this says it all)
Spoilers: This was written to take place shortly after Whispers so season 5 spoilers abound.
Writing for: wildcat88
Assignment: Sheppard missing/kidnapped; Ronon and Lorne team up to find
him. Lots of Shep whump, lots of angst, lots of comfort.
Author Notes: Well, wildcat88, you had the misfortune to be my assigned prompt! I've had the bug to write another longish story, but seriously lacked the motivation and time. So of course, I sign up for a ficathon! Though I'm late, I hope this story proves worthy. Big thanks to my betas friendshipper and linzi5. I dropped these huge files in your laps, in worse shape than usual, and you got them back to me with lightning speed. Also, because they were in a fairly rough state, my final editing will probably lend to new mistakes, ones that they will have never seen. I've tried to be vigilant but if you find a mistake, feel free to let me know. And finally, I used four specific fonts. The title and chapter titles are earwig factory, the chapter subtitles are baveuse, story text in verdana, and one special note in the middle written with boopee (I know, I know, what a stupid name for a font!) If you don't have these on your system, you might want to get them. They're kind of fun!
GLOSSARY * the native language for the various OCs are, in fact, various words butchered and maimed from various languages on Earth. (I like the word various, is it too obvious?) They are used for the sole reason of making it seem more 'alien' so if it grates, toss rotten tomatoes at me, I can take it... (ducks).
mesu - mercy
non - no, or an expression of negativity
Vita u nes, nes u vita - life to death, death to life
amo - love
mi - my
peta - a form of currency on most trading worlds
Spirits of the Dead
by kodiak bear
Chapter One
The Dead
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
-Edgar Allan Poe
Major Lorne was starting to get jaded. It was a sad state of affairs when stepping through a Stargate, traveling almost instantaneously to an alien world, was getting old. Yet, here he was, feeling anything but excitement.
“Major, the leader, uh-” Momentarily stumped, he tried to fish for the elusive name caught somewhere in his memory. Samuels shifted to his left, unconsciously hoping to ease the weight on his back; the pack was heavier than usual, burdened down with extra relief supplies.
Lorne lifted his cap and wiped at the sweat gathering along his hairline; it made his scalp itch. God, what a long day. “Bruma,” he supplied, tired.
Samuels nodded, sheepish. “Yes, sir, their leader, Bruma, states the outlying villages haven't reported in with a head count.” A dark look crossed the young Marine's face. “The council's sending some scouts, but they're worried--”
“--that there's no survivors,” Lorne nodded. Damn. He looked away from Samuels and watched a dust devil rise and spin across the fallow field. Unlike other worlds where the death rate had been tragic, here it'd been devastating. A slight difference in biology had caused the mutated version of the virus to be fatal in almost ninety percent of the population. Yet, this planet was just another victim of Michael's machinations.
Atlantis still struggled to help affected worlds recover from the loss of life.
The problem with pandemics, though, often stretched beyond the initial death tolls. When the survivors managed to stand afterwards, they found themselves with a pile of dead bodies and a workload of ten men to every one. Farms had no farmers, stores had no storekeepers. Entire towns were collapsing in the aftermath. And how could one planet in another galaxy provide relief aid on this kind of a scale?
~*~
Jaf huddled in his seat, nursing his ale. Noise from patrons washed over him, around him. He ignored it. He'd picked a table by the central hearth, luxuriating in the heat radiating from the comforting fire. Outside, winter gripped Rumson. He was back, but keeping as low a profile as he could. He wasn't here for a job or to cause trouble; he just needed to unwind, relax. After Jaf had told Drannit he'd need some more time between the next job, Drannit had given him a couple of days; he hadn't really had a choice. If he'd tried to tell him no, Jaf would've melted away, but he wouldn't have gone without leaving a message. The day when Drannit, or anyone else he took a job for, tried to rule him, would be the day that man was never heard from again. Jaf knew a lot of ways to kill a man, and Jaf knew how to watch his back.
With a muffled groan, he stretched, easing old aches and pains. He knew the day was coming soon when he left a job and never came back, good working relationship or not. This whole business, stealing people, selling them. It gave Jaf the creeps. The slave trade was the one business he tended to stay out of. But the people he was taking for Drannit were going to homes, to families. They were losing one life but gaining another, and for most people, it was probably a step up in the world. If the family they were being gathered for was rich enough to afford Drannit's prices, they wouldn't have to scratch and scrape out a living, venturing to trade pits on different worlds to hawk food and cloth. Still, it was disconcerting. Knowing the person was being changed somehow, in a process he didn't totally understand, into someone else. Someone that had died.
“Stranger,” a man greeted, sliding into the empty chair across from him. “Cold night.”
Jaf nodded, tossing back what was left in his glass. “Cold night,” he agreed.
“I be Mat,” the man grunted.
“I'm not here for conversation,” Jaf replied.
“Then the next round's on me.” Mat gestured for the server. “Two of your darkest ales.”
Jaf smiled humorlessly. “You like your ale to be a meal, stranger?”
“I'm here for more than a meal.” Mat gazed at Jaf, stone cold sober, a rarity in this pit. “I'm here for life.”
~*~
John stuffed his foot into his boot, wincing at the pull of healing skin on his shoulder. Another close call escaping some native animals on MX9-999 had left him with twenty-eight stitches and a week of light duty.
The prep room was noisy, crowded. Lorne's team incoming, Sheppard's team outgoing, and Woolsey had decided now had been the perfect time for a surprise inspection.
“Major, I understand your reasoning, however, it's against regulation to store any type of an object that could be considered a weapon, especially a class C, outside of weapons' storage.” Woolsey rubbed his fingers forcefully against his eyebrow and John sympathized with the building headache.
“I realize that, Sir, but if you had read the addendum --”
Now Woolsey just looked irritated. “What addendum?” he snapped. His attention shifted to John. “Colonel Sheppard, I wasn't aware of any addendums to SSFW?”
SSFW - safe storage of firearms and weapons. Been a long time since John had altered that one. “Yeah, well,” John slid off the bench and pulled his vest from the locker, “it's been around so long I just assumed you knew.” He shrugged. Hell, it'd been ever since the Genii invaded. It wasn't like it was old news, or even buried news; it wasn't 'news' at all.
“I see.” His response was stiff. Woolsey straightened and had to willfully stop massaging his forehead. He made a couple of hasty notes on his clipboard and started to leave, but hesitated; he turned to look pensively at John. “Colonel, a word, please, before you leave?”
John clipped his P90 to his vest and picked up the 9 mil from the bench. He caught his teammates' eyes and gestured towards the door with a quick jerk of his head. “Go on, I'll meet you in the Jumper bay.”
Funny how fast the bodies filtered out; in less than a minute, John stood alone with Woolsey.
Woolsey nodded to himself, palmed the door shut, and faced John. “Colonel, let me preface this by saying I understand that losing first Elizabeth, then Colonel Carter, has been difficult.”
John slid his pistol into the holster on his thigh.
“And with the recent...adventure --”
“Adventure?” John scowled. “Elizabeth is floating in outer space. She committed suicide and we let her do it.”
“She never should have come here in the first place.” Woolsey grew quiet. “Not like that.”
Maybe, John agreed, but that was all water under a very tall bridge.
“Look, I realize with the crisis concerning Doctor McKay's illness, this issue was pushed aside, but if you are harboring any resentment --”
“I'm not.”
“--then we should...” Woolsey squared his shoulders. “We should work this out. It's important that we present a united front, as much as possible, to those who depend upon us, to keep them safe.”
John cocked his head. “I'm not altering the 'FW.”
Woolsey adjusted his glasses.
John made a face. All right, maybe he was being a little...whatever. Maybe Woolsey was partially right; the thing with Rodney, there hadn't been any space to deal with the fallout from Elizabeth's disastrous return, and possibly, there was some resentment brewing. The thing was, John was trying to figure out just who he was pissed at. Himself, Woolsey, Elizabeth? It was hard to maintain his anger at Elizabeth, what with where she was now, and Woolsey hadn't been the one that had guilted Elizabeth into making her decision - John's brain slid to a freezing stop. Guilted?
“You know what,” John said, pressing past Woolsey, “I'm not dealing with this right now. I've got a mission and my team is waiting.”
Maybe it was a measure of the man that Woolsey let him go without a word.
~*~
Boon hated the Death Stones. She'd always hated them, even before she'd truly understood what death meant. “Ninya, mi amo, I'm so sorry,” she whispered, bending just enough to lightly run her fingers across the death portrait etched into the cold granite.
A light freezing mist fell, just enough to halo light around the hanging Ever-Brights, staked by the iron fence all around the Sacred Field. Boon had missed the watchman when he had come by and lit them.
She knew of two others in her village who had done this. It wasn't a secret one could keep hidden, and so it was acknowledged with a look and a nod, but you didn't ask questions. And you didn't say out loud what had been done to the spirits. Boon also knew of at least a couple more families considering this; she knew they would be watching her. She had seen it in their eyes, recognized the familiar emotion. She had watched and waited, given it time to see how well it truly worked. Maybe she would have waited longer, but according to Samon, you couldn't take all the time in the world because the longer from death to life, the more likely the blending would go wrong.
Samon hadn't explained 'wrong' but the shorter man by his side had paled and said, “Two months.” He'd pulled a thin object from his coat. “This is our adjuster. You're one of the more fortunate worlds. There are those that had only one month and many could not be saved.” With a pudgy hand and dirt-encrusted fingernails, he'd handed her both the orb and a flimsy sheet of paper that bore the contact address. “It changes weekly, don't wait too long to make up your mind, ma'am.”
“I can't save you both,” Boon explained sadly to her baby's. She reluctantly pulled her hand away from the stone and thrust it back into her coat. Her fingers trembled and found the orb in her pocket; the heavy Auga-hide was barely warm enough to ward off the cold tonight, and she told herself the shaking coursing through her limbs belonged to the chill and nothing else. “I have...” her throat closed, grief choking her into silence. Ninya, her baby, a late-in-life miracle from the Ancestors, and all she wanted was just one more day to hold her close.
But the cost for two lives was more than she could afford and even then, infants were hard to come by. And who would help Boon care for the farm? A babe? It'd just make survival more impossible, more precarious. Besides, could she have even visited that grief upon another? The loss of a child was unexplainable. Unbearable, on the worst days. And she had lost both of her dear children.
Swallowing back the lingering bitterness, Boon pulled away from Ninya's grave. As she moved on, she allowed herself a longing look at the larger stone by Ninya's, but bypassed it as well. Jamal had been one of the first to pass in their town and Boon had never had to agonize over choosing him. Child over husband, could she have chosen? She stopped at the final stone in the row of three and smiled tremulously, pushing away her regrets. For all she lost, for all the pain and sorrow, she would have him home again. Her first born; he'd barely stepped into the bloom of adulthood before he had been mercilessly struck down by the suffocating sickness.
Boon pulled the orb from her coat and knelt over the earth. With one hand on the stone, she leaned forward in the dark, and pressed the orb to the ground. “Vita u nes, nes u vita.”
When nothing happened, when the orb remained the calm, pale blue it had always been, Boon felt a queasy punch in her stomach and pressed it even harder into the frozen ground, imploring again, “Vita u nes, nes u vita!”
Then, a light flickered, deep inside the crystal. Faint and failing. She cried again, “Vita u nes, nes u vita!”
Fire bloomed within, wisps feathering to the very edges of the orb. Boon yanked her hand away, suddenly fearful to touch. Within moments, the steady, peaceful blue was completely gone, replaced by a pulsating orange that glowed so bright, the Sacred Field was lit with an unholy light. She scrambled to pick up the orb, tucking it back in her pocket. When she stood, her knees ached from even the short time kneeling. Still, there was no time to wait for the pain to recede. Soon, the address would do her no good.
As she walked through the entrance and passed underneath a guttering Ever-Bright, she pulled the paper from her other pocket and hastily glanced at the scribbled symbols. Just long enough to make sure her memory was solid. When a gust of wind ripped the small scrap from her numb fingers, Boon let it go. She was sure of the pattern. Now it was time. Time to go to the Ancestral Ring and deliver his essence.
Boon strode across the marshes that separated the Sacred Field from the Ring. She didn't need light now, and there were no Ever-Brights in this forsaken place; there never had been and there never would be, for nothing grew at the place where once the heart of their world had stood. She didn't falter. She didn't look to the sky for guidance. Boon knew the way.
...behind her, the slip of paper tumbled to the ground. It spun unhappily across the frozen surface until the damp and the stone caught it and held it.
~*~
Jaf hated this part. The waiting. Mesu! The drop had been delivered in the early morning, two days ago, and here he still sat, waiting, waiting, endlessly waiting as time crawled by...
Young adult male
72 hours
The address was written on the back of the paper. Always changing. Sometimes Jaf wondered how long before they ran out of worlds to hide on. But that wasn't his problem, he thought, rolling onto his belly and pointing the far glasses at the Ancestral Ring in the valley. All he had to worry about was that he had a deadline to meet and it wasn't looking good. Drannit wouldn't be happy if Jaf failed to deliver, not even after he'd completed their largest job yet last week. It wasn't that Jaf was afraid of Drannit, he just hated to ruin a good thing before he was ready.
The frustrating thing was, anywhere else and he would've already finished this job. One of the other trading towns could've netted him a target within hours, but he had to move around or he risked being caught; mining one trading planet for too long created trouble, and trouble was something Jaf preferred to create, not endure. A disappearance here and there went unnoticed. Typically, people coming to the world for trade weren't missed by those they left behind. Not for a while, at least, sometimes days, sometimes longer, and when they did show up, asking questions, the locals shrugged and said that everyone had their own problems. Usually they were too busy trying to maintain order. Investigating a missing person was so far down on their list of priorities, that Jaf was always surprised when the families and friends that came looking did manage to get a report filed.
The key was to keep the numbers down, take a few, then move on. Even the most overworked justice-keeper would take notice if too many cases were brought to him, in a short span of time.
He hadn't tried La Zun before; it was a newer port, and so far, Jaf was regretting ever choosing it. Maybe he should go back to Rumson. He'd taken three there, too close to one another, in the last month, and he'd overheard a relative of the missing talking to authorities. The missing man's father had done enough digging on his own to have concluded that the disappearances were the same for all three. The missing man had last been seen eating dinner at the Ale and Stew; He'd been helped to his room by a kind patron when he'd apparently became drunk or sick, and then never seen again. The father even had accounts of rumors of other young men and women going missing on two other large trading worlds.
When Rumson's chief had started taking notes, Jaf had noticed that subtle shift from humoring someone to actually listening; he'd quietly slipped out, got his bag from his room, and disappeared through the Ring. The fate of those three went with him.
But non, Rumson had been bustling. Families, singles, old and young -- if you needed it, you could find it, and Jaf waited for the day when he could go back to fill orders.
And in another four hours, Jaf figured, he might just have to go before it was probably safe. One way or another, he had to deliver a live body to that address.
~*~
“Welcome! Welcome!” Ardin gestured with open arms as John and his team walked into the quiet city-center. “Welcome to La Zun Trading Port! If you need it, we have it, and if we don't, we can get it --”
John grimaced, flashes of Lucius creeping him out. Anyone that eager...
Teyla nudged him in the ribs. She pasted on a pleasant smile. “Hello, Ardin. I have brought my friends, as promised. Halling spoke very highly of what you are creating here.”
“Hi, John Sheppard,” he said, extending his hand. Ardin took it, awkwardly, obviously not big on the handshaking, and John straightened, waving his hand vaguely at Rodney and Ronon. “That's Doctor McKay and Ronon Dex. Pleased to meet you.”
Ardin was an older guy, bordering on plump, a little bit gray, and a lot of laugh lines. He wore a suit similar to the Hoffans, nice, but old-fashioned. Then again, it wasn't similar to the Genii or Michael's goons or the Asurans so that was already a step in the right direction.
“I am pleased you could come,” he enthused. “I know it looks quiet, but give us time, John Sheppard, and we will grow!”
John caught Rodney's snort and shot him a warning look. Behave.
Ronon looked bored. His thumbs hooked in his holster and he studied the buildings, taking in the same lively painting murals as John. They buildings had been cleaned up, refinished where necessary, decorated. It did look good. There was definitely potential, here and if Atlantis threw in with La Zun like Ardin was hoping, they could create something big.
“Teyla tells me you've staked out a landing pad for ships?” With the Travelers, the Atlantis crews, and a few other space-faring planets, it was an important aspect. If they could have a neutral meeting zone, one that was a little bit more reliable than a hastily-arranged spot that had the potential for a trap, they could accomplish a lot more. And rebuilding Pegasus was under way. Plus, they could create a net to feel out more information on Michael's activities without officially pursuing him, which Woolsey had axed.
“We have.” Ardin started down the street. “This way, John Sheppard,” he called. “All we wait for now is the materials to create the hard, smooth surface you call concrete. Our xillape is too soft to support the weight of such ships; it is only good for feet, I'm afraid.”
“Hey, Sheppard, it okay if I go check out the local?” Ronon had hung behind. His worn leather duster only accentuated how tall the man really was. He squinted at John and his body language telegraphed just how much he'd rather do anything other than go inspect a landing site.
“And I would like to visit the market,” Teyla added.
Ardin paused, glancing back at John. “They are more than welcome to tour the port, John Sheppard. In fact, I imagine the barkeep would be honored to have Ronon Dex stop in for ale, and Hasos has met you before, Teyla, and was hoping to see you again.”
Teyla smiled. “Hasos is here?”
“She joined our community at the second meeting; it was she who led us to contact Halling with the invitation for the Lanteans.”
John looked around, assessing the town. In the center there was a lush park, benches and trees, thickly growing bright blue grass. It was an oasis in a barren land. In fact, La Zun was built in a desert. According to Teyla, it had taken them years to run the aqueducts that fed the port with fresh water. There were broad stretches of paved road that must be made this Xillape Ardin had mentioned. It was slightly orange and, as Ardin had said, soft. The streets ran parallel with the buildings, which weren't made from wood or even mud daub bricks like you'd expect, but instead from massive carved stone, stacked and fitted on top of one another, harvested from the quarry just north of the port; John had parked the Jumper there.
He picked out the bar in the middle of a row of a buildings across from the park. The bright painting on the front displayed a red mug with a frothy top. GORAN arced over top of the mug while BREW cupped the bottom; kind of made it hard to miss. He kept sweeping his eyes along the boardwalk until he found the market, which was actually a series of five buildings. Foodstuffs, trinkets, clothing and there was even an ODDITIES shop.
So Teyla wouldn't be that far from Ronon. “Maintain radio contact,” he said, assured enough to let his team split. “Every half-hour.”
“Yes, Mom,” Ronon drawled, before slipping away.
Teyla's lips curved and she dipped her head towards John, wandering after Ronon.
John frowned, watching them disappear; he turned back and poked Rodney. “Why not Dad?”
~*~
The Goran Brew wasn't the best bar Ronon had ever been to, and it wasn't the worst. The ale was too new, kind of like the entire place. It hadn't aged enough to have character. The atmosphere was good, though. Heavy iron lights hung from a low ceiling, offering dim light in the smoky room. The tables were broad, polished squares, placed around the bar, and the only order to them was disorder. Ronon liked it.
Music creaked from a machine in the back and when Ronon leaned across the counter and ordered a drink, he asked the woman, “Where'd you get that?”
The woman, pretty and young, followed his gaze and smiled. “That, my friend, was an expensive buy from Oddities, just down the street.” She wiped her hands on a towel and pulled a ceramic mug from under the counter, serving from a tapped keg behind her. She thunked the drink down in front of Ronon. “You should be sure to check them out.”
“How much?”
“On the house. You're Ronon Dex, right?”
Ronon took a sip. “And if I'm not?”
She grinned. “Then it'll cost you five zuns.”
He shrugged. “Good thing I'm your guy. Don't have any zuns.”
“There's a money exchange next to Oddities. You'd be fine. However for you, and your companions, drinks are paid for courtesy of Operator Ardin.”
The music was kind of soothing; it almost sounded like that stuff Sheppard had gotten from Earth. They'd given them out to all the leaders on Atlantis. Woolsey, Sheppard, McKay, and he'd overheard the message from Caldwell. They'd joked it was Earth's reply to Atlantis' request for a new psychologist. Celtic or Gaelic music; it was supposed to be soothing or something like that. Sheppard had tossed it in his jacket and looked irritated, but later when Ronon had dropped by for a beer, he'd found him listening to it.
Ronon took another drink, enjoying the relief. This place was so dry he was surprised the people's skin hadn't turned to leather yet. “So, you know where I can find Goran?”
The woman looked amused. She leaned over the counter and folded her arms under her. “I might.”
“He here?” Ronon puzzled.
“Right here.”
Understanding smoothed Ronon's forehead. “You're Goran?” He laughed. “I pictured a fat guy in an apron.” The bar wasn't empty; everywhere around him Ronon heard the clink of glasses and the buzz of conversation. But he tuned out the unimportant and enjoyed the situation he found himself tumbled into. She had a dimple in her chin and she flirted freely, though Ronon was aware that Goran wasn't shallow or stupid. She had Teyla's catlike energy, bundled up, simmering below the surface...and yet he sensed in her Melana's free spirit. She wasn't holding back that she was attracted to Ronon.
“And is that a disappointment, Ronon Dex?” she asked playfully.
He grinned. “Not in the least.”
“Hey, Goran! Mam sent me for a keg; got anything older than this swill?”
Swiveling, Ronon saw a boy, on the cusp of being a man. He had come through the door and playfully nudged another kid that hovered protectively over his mug. Goran straightened, letting the towel remain on the counter, and had a tolerant nod for the newcomer. “Aye, Max, I've got two kegs in the cellar that have aged an extra six months.” She swung the wooden, waist-high door and came out from behind the counter. “But they'll cost your mam dearly. She having another party?”
Max shrugged. “It's what she does. Next week, I hear. She'll pay, just put it on her tab, she says.”
Heading towards a door in the back, she told Ronon, “Don't go anywhere, Ronon Dex, we were just getting started.” The boy grabbed a hanging light from the wall and scowled at Ronon before following her down.
Doesn't like the competition, Ronon mused. He grabbed his mug and swung around, keeping his eye on the room.
A newcomer walked in, his manner wary. Old but not old; Ronon figured maybe he was just dirty and tired; wasn't much different than the bulk of the galaxy. The man took in the occupants then headed over for the bar and dropped on a seat next to Ronon. “Where's the bartender?” he grated, sounding hoarse. “If I don't get a drink soon, I'll turn to dust.” He coughed and leaned over to peer down below. “Building a trading town in a desert. Mesu!”
“She'll be back,” Ronon said.
When the man pulled back, he bumped Ronon hard enough that his drink spilled. “Hey,” Ronon warned, “watch...it...” his world suddenly tilted, looking fuzzy and distant.
“Sorry,” the guy said. Then he peered at Ronon. “You okay?”
Ronon cleared his throat, shook his head, but it only swam worse. “I think...Sheppard,” he slurred, reaching for his radio.
The man tugged Ronon's hand away, effortless. “That's not a good idea.” He pulled the radio from Ronon's duster and dropped it on the ground. “I'll take you to your friends.” He slid an arm around Ronon's shoulder and when people started to look, he just smiled calmly and assured them, “just feeling a little sick everyone, he'll be fine. Might want to stay back though, looks like Deluvian Fever.”
Ronon's mouth didn't want to work. He tried to tell someone he didn't know who this guy was. He wanted to tell them to get Sheppard, Teyla, McKay, but all that came out was a soft moan. Deluvian Fever - harmless, but very contagious, and if you wanted to be laid up in bed for a month, that was the way to do it. But Ronon hadn't been to Deluvius and no one he knew had, and this guy was lying. Even as his mind screamed it, his body failed. His legs were rubber. He had just enough strength to avoid being completely dragged from the bar.
He never saw Goran come up from the cellar and stare worriedly at his back, as Ronon was hauled through the front door.
~*~
Goran went to follow Ronon; Kavlan stood, pressed a hand against her shoulder. “He's got Deluvian Fever, Gorie. Don't worry, his friend is taking care of him.”
“Who's his friend?” Ronon Dex had come alone. Had one of his companions joined him when she was helping Max?
Kavlan shook his head. “Don't know, didn't ask. But he joined him at the bar right after you went into the cellar.” Kavlan sat down. “He'll be fine, but the last thing you need is to catch the fever. The last thing any of us need in this place. We've just got things up and running.”
That was the truth. Deluvian Fever was contagious. It was propably better to let Ronon's people get him home, than it was to go after him and risk being exposed. Besides, he'd probably be back. She hoped he'd be back. Goran hadn't imagined the heat between them.
Sighing, she trudged back to her bar, pushing the swing-door open; a crackling sound made her pause. What was that?
She looked across to the music box and realized it was playing just fine, and for what she'd paid, it'd better be...then what? She tilted her head, straining to hear. More static, and she looked down. On the floor, underneath the stool, was a small black object.
Ronon's? Had he dropped it?
She stooped and picked it up. As soon as she lifted it, the static stopped. Then a voice demanded, “Ronon, did you realize you've had your radio transmitting for the last five minutes!”
Transmitting? Goran stared at it, perplexed. The button! It'd been laying against the frame of the stool, the button stuck down. She pressed it and said, “Hello?” before quickly letting it go.
“Hello? Who the hell is this?”
“Rodney, give me that!” There was a scuffling noise. “This is Colonel Sheppard, who am I talking to?”
Goran frowned. She pressed it again. “Goran,” she stated, “and I'd appreciate if attitude boy over there put a cork in it. I just found this thing on my floor.”
“Goran?”
“Attitude boy, who does she --”
“Goran Brew, the bar, right? Where's Ronon?”
“He just left.” Goran stared at the doorway. “One of your people helped him out when he became sick.”
“One of our people?” The voice sounded confused. Then it got worried. “Look, Goran, none of us were with Ronon. Did you see where they were heading?”
A sick spike of fear hit Goran. She had been worried for good reason. She should've listened to her gut and gone after him. Everyone knew the four members of Colonel Sheppard's team, but she also knew sometimes the Lanteans went places in larger groups; thing was, though, Ronon hadn't mentioned he was expecting anyone. And he had seemed perfectly healthy just minutes ago.
“Goran, please, which way did they go?”
“I'm sorry. I don't. I don't know.” She wiped her hand across her forehead. “I didn't see.”
“Damn it!” The man swore. Then the other one said, “Teyla's there, have her look.”
“I know, just...gimme a second to think. Rodney, you get to the Jumper, do an aerial search, I'll get Teyla --
“I am here, John. I do not see any sign of Ronon or this man.”
“There's only so many places they could've gone. We'll find him.” A pause and the voice giving orders said, “Goran, just...hang on to the radio, we'll get it. Eventually.” And she could hear harsh breaths; he was running, she realized.
Numbly, she nodded, then realized, he can't see me, and said, “Yes. I understand.”
She found herself standing by the counter, holding the strange object that spoke, echoes of her patrons milling about and talking as usual, yet she was left with a hollow, odd feeling in her belly. Something very wrong had just gone down, and she wasn't even sure what it was.
Spirits of the Dead 1b