Aaron Rosenberg - Hunt and run

And that meant she was coming their way. And hopefully leading the Wraith behind her.

After a few seconds Ronon heard a sound again, followed quickly by another. Footsteps. Someone running — and the gait was rapid, meaning someone with short legs moving quickly. Definitely Turen. Then he picked up other noises behind those, slower and heavier. More footsteps, larger and longer and less hurried.

Wraith.

Moving slowly and carefully to avoid making any noise, Ronon eased his pistol from its holster. He raised it in one smooth arc, keeping it close to the tree trunk he was nestled against so its barrel wouldn’t gleam or protrude. The copse was right before him, and he would have a clear line of sight on anyone moving into or through it. He held his breath and tensed his trigger finger as the footsteps drew closer.

A second later a slight figure burst into the copse, white hair gleaming in the comparatively bright light. Turen. She got a little more than halfway across the space before she stumbled and dropped to one knee. But Ronon wasn’t fooled. Not after sparring with her. He couldn’t imagine the agile little woman tripping on anything.

But her pursuers didn’t know that. They came into view a few seconds later, slowing as they spotted their prey apparently downed by a stray root or rock. There were three of them again, one commander and two warriors, as before — Ronon suspected that was their standard configuration, at least when hunting. He sighted down his barrel, targeting the commander’s head. Then he waited, tracking the Wraith as it moved in for the kill. Shooting now would risk them turning and fleeing back into the forest if they didn’t go down with the first barrage. Better to wait until they were dead center, then gun them all down.

Of course, that meant the Wraith were getting closer to Turen. She was still on the ground, hunched over, hands against her stomach, as if she’d injured herself when she fell. Ronon couldn’t see the Wraith warriors’ faces through their masks, but the commander was openly gloating.

“Well, well,” he was saying softly, his words a snakelike hiss through his pointed teeth. “Turen Masaglia of the Hiñati. We’ve been hunting for you for quite some time, my dear. You’ve certainly led us on a merry chase. But it ends now.” He extended one hand, the life-sucking organ in his palm clearly visible and took another step closer. He was almost near enough to reach her now.

“Yes, it does,” Ronon heard Turen say quietly. Then she had turned, rising to her feet as she moved, her blades flashing out and around and down. They were little more than a flicker in the light, but the Wraith commander stumbled backward, a cry on his lips as he stared at the bloody stump where his hand had been.

Before he could voice that cry, Ronon shot him. The red bolt struck the Wraith in the right temple just as another shot caught him in the throat, and the commander convulsed as his body fell backward, a third shot striking him even as he toppled. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The others had opened fire on the two warriors, and Ronon quickly switched to them as well. It was difficult to tell who hit whom, but within seconds both warriors were also dead, and Turen was standing alone in the copse.

She knelt quickly and checked all three bodies before nodding. The others emerged from their cover and converged on her and on their fallen prey.

“You all right?” Nekai asked her, and Turen nodded quickly. She wiped her blades — two long, wicked-looking daggers — on the commander’s torso before replacing them in sheaths strapped to her thighs. Then she flashed Ronon a brilliant smile as if to say “See? Told you you should see me with blades in my hands.”

Banje had dropped to a crouch beside the commander and was checking not his body but his wrist, the one that still had a hand attached. “Damn,” he muttered quietly, holding up the limb for the others to see. “Shattered. Must have caught a stray bolt.”

There was a device on the dead Wraith’s wrist, a familiar-looking screen though this one was cracked and blackened and smoking. A tracking monitor.

“We only have two,” Banje explained to Ronon, rising to his feet again after appropriating the commander’s stun-pistol. “Nekai has one and I have the other.” He raised his right arm to show the tracking monitor strapped there. “They tend to damage easily, and we haven’t been able to recover any others intact.”

Out of the corner of his eye Ronon saw Nekai’s brow furrow and his mouth turn down at the edges. When he glanced over, however, the Retemite was as stone-faced as ever. Odd. He’d seemed displeased about Banje’s statement. But was it because they hadn’t been able to acquire more than two of the monitors — or because someone besides him had one?

The others had checked over the warriors’ bodies, and collected their stun rifles and knives. “We should get moving,” Nekai instructed. “Best not to linger by the bodies. Back to base.” He nodded at Ronon. “Good job on your first mission. You fit in just fine.”

Setien clapped Ronon on the back, staggering him slightly from the force of the blow. “Absolutely!” she agreed cheerfully. “You are now truly one of us!”

Turen and Adarr both smiled their assent, and Banje nodded. Even Frayne grunted what might have been approval, or at least wary acceptance. Ronon allowed himself to smile as well. He felt like one of them, to be honest, and it was a good feeling. It had been too long since he had been part of a team, with comrades he could count on. Not that he was ready to trust them completely yet, but that would come in time. For now it was good to know someone else had his back in a fight — and to know they trusted him to have theirs.

They had almost reached the ancestral ring when Banje motioned the others to stop. They did at once, freezing as the Desedan cocked his head to one side, listening intently. Then he gestured to the sides and they all dove for cover.

“What is it?” Frayne whispered as they wriggled behind trees and rocks and bushes. “More hunters?”

Banje shook his head and gestured up toward the canopy and beyond. Then Ronon heard it. A faint droning sound that quickly grew to a high-pitched scream that made his head pound.

A ship.

And he recognized that particular pitch, which cut into his thoughts and his ears alike. This wasn’t just any ship.

It was a Wraith Dart.

“Is it after us?” Adarr asked from behind a tree trunk. “Are they hunting us with ships now?”

“Unlikely,” Nekai answered softly, almost invisible within a scraggly bush. “It’s probably just on its way to somewhere else.”

Ronon considered that for only a second. “Does it have a tracking monitor?” he asked, his words little more than a whisper through clenched teeth.

“It might,” Nekai admitted. “We don’t know — so far we’ve only seen hunters with them, and they’ve all been on foot. Why?”

Ronon was thinking fast. “If it doesn’t have one, it won’t know about us,” he answered. “But it may know about the hunters we just killed. And it may realize they’re dead.”

“It may,” Banje agreed. “They’re telepathic, and if it knows other Wraith are on this world it may call out to them as a matter of course.” The scream had faded now, and Ronon found he could think straight again. The Dart had moved on.

“Which means it may track them down when they don’t answer,” Ronon continued his thought. He rose from his crouch.

“Where are you going?” Nekai demanded sharply, half-rising as well.

Ronon glanced at him but didn’t stop. “To kill a Dart,” he replied as he passed. “Anyone care to join me?”

To his credit, Nekai considered for only a second before abandoning his cover completely. “You’re insane,” he pointed out as he closed the distance between himself and Ronon. “We don’t have anything that can take down a Dart.” But he was grinning as he said it.