Aaron Rosenberg - Hunt and run

“Ancestors!” one of them swore, his hand going to a waterskin at his side. “Are you all right?”

“Did you fall?” Another asked, also moving closer. “Are you hurt?”

There were five of them in all, Ronon saw. They wore loose shirts and thin baggy pants and sturdy studded sandals that laced up their legs, with cloths over their heads and necks and faces to protect them from the sun. The jangling had come from the packs they wore, from which hung a variety of small metal and wood and what looked like bone items. Ronon spotted cups, bowls, serving spoons, small lanterns, and other household items. These men were merchants, or peddlers. He guessed they moved from village to village, selling or trading items they’d made and repairing others.

Each of them had a sword, long and thin and curved, stuck through the sash they wore for belts, plus a long knife and a pistol. But none of them were reaching for those, or even turning to check the area for possible dangers. They were clearly not trained for combat, and not expecting any trouble. They saw in Turen only a woman in trouble, and their first impulse was to help.

Ronon started to rise again, knowing he was right and determined to move these men along before the Wraith spotted them and saw through the planned ambush.

He was halfway out from behind his boulder when a pistol shot sizzled through the air. It took the first peddler through the throat. He crumpled, surprise registering just before his face went slack. The waterskin fell to the ground with a dull clatter, water spilling out across the rock.

Stunned, Ronon turned and glanced behind him. Nekai’s pistol was still extended, and he was switching his focus to one of the other men, who were now starting to cry out as they realized their friend was dead.

“Take them down!” Nekai shouted. Turen rose from her stooped position, knives flashing out and forward and across, and the second man dropped with a gurgling shriek, thin cloth and flesh alike sliced clean through. His blood mingled with the water as his body joined the first on the ground.

Then the other V’rdai were shooting as well. The three remaining peddlers never had a chance. One of them had shown enough presence of mind to drop down, but Nekai had chosen this ambush site well and Lanara caught the man through the throat, his ducking motion becoming a stumble and then a facedown splat upon the rough terrain. The other two had simply frozen at the sudden violence, and were picked off just as easily.

Within seconds the only people standing were Turen and Ronon. She was wiping her blades clean and returning them to their sheaths. Ronon thought he saw her hands shake slightly, but wasn’t sure. He was too busy turning to glare at Nekai, who was finally rising and stepping toward the carnage as well.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nekai said, finally lowering his own pistol. “This hunt’s ruined.”

“Ruined?” Ronon stared at him. “The hunt? What about them?” He gestured at the bodies.

“What about them?” Nekai squinted up at the sun. “Scavengers will find them soon enough. The sun will finish whatever they don’t. But no way the Wraith won’t notice the stench, or the blood. We’ll have to retreat, try again another time.”

“Never mind the hunt,” Ronon shouted, stepping closer to the other man. “You just murdered five people!”

Nekai met his glare, the Retemite’s scowl showing he was starting to grow angry as well. “‘You’?” he repeated softly. “We’re a team, Ronon. A unit. You’re one of us. Don’t go thinking you’re not.”

Ronon brushed the distinction aside. “Fine — we just murdered five people!”

“We did what we had to do,” Nekai answered. “That’s all. Now let’s go.”

He turned away, but Ronon wasn’t finished. “We didn’t have to do this!” he insisted. “They weren’t a threat to us!”

“Of course they were,” Nekai replied. “They interrupted our hunt. They could have attacked Turen.” The look of gratitude and hero worship she shot him almost turned Ronon’s stomach, especially after the violence he’d just witnessed. War was one thing, but slaughter was another. And this hadn’t been war.

“They didn’t draw a single weapon,” he pointed out. “They were offering her water! They were asking if she was hurt!”

“You’re going soft,” Lanara sneered, stepping close to Nekai. Turen’s happiness vanished instantly, replaced by the scowl she often wore these days. “They’re sympathizers. Sympathizers deserve to die.”

“Sympathizers?” Ronon glanced around at the others. Frayne and Adarr wouldn’t meet his eyes. Banje did, but his expression was unreadable. Turen was still scowling, as were Lanara and Nekai — he thought Turen was more annoyed at Lanara than at him but it was hard to tell. “What did you see that could possibly suggest they were sympathizers? They didn’t mention the Wraith, they aren’t carrying Wraith weapons, and they didn’t look like they were trying to hurt or capture Turen. They were going to help her! How does that make them sympathizers?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Nekai answered brusquely. “They weren’t part of this unit. That makes them the enemy.”

Ronon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What?”

“Look,” his mentor said, stepping a little closer to him. “You know the Wraith as well as I do. You know what they can do. They can get to anyone. They could turn them, or torture them, or simply bribe them. The point is, if we’d let them live, the Wraith could have used them to get information about us — and that would put all of us at risk. It would put our mission at risk.” He laid a hand on Ronon’s shoulder. “We couldn’t trust them not to turn on us, or to be turned against us. We can’t trust anyone except ourselves. It’s us against the Wraith, and with their influence that means we have to treat it as us against the rest of the galaxy. Everyone else has to be considered hostile. It’s the only way we can survive. The only way we can continue our hunt.”

Ronon shrugged free of Nekai’s grip. “I don’t believe that,” he responded. “Treat anyone we don’t know as a potential threat, yes, but actively hostile? What, do you just want us to kill anyone who crosses our path, no matter what?” He glared at their leader, but the glare turned to a stare of disbelief when the Retemite didn’t even try to deny the accusation. “You would!” Ronon said softly, the words hissing between clenched teeth. “You want us to wage war on the entire galaxy, and everyone in it.”

“We’re already at war,” Nekai shot back. “I want us to win.”

“We’re at war with the Wraith,” Ronon corrected. “Not everyone else. They’re not involved. They’re not soldiers. If we start killing them, we’re just murderers, not warriors. And that makes us no better than the Wraith!”

Lanara’s gasp warned him just in time as she lunged for him, a knife already in her hand. “How dare you?” she cried, slashing at his throat. He blocked the thrust and trapped her arm to keep her from trying again, but the look she gave him was almost sharp enough to kill all on its own. “How dare you compare us to them? They’re monsters!”

“So are we,” Ronon told her, taking the knife away and then pushing her back, not hard but forcefully enough that she couldn’t prevent it. “If we start killing innocents, we’re just as bad as they are.” He shook his head. “Worse. The Wraith kill to survive. You want us to kill just because it’s less complicated — killing everyone takes less effort than figuring out who we can trust.”

He turned and looked at the others. His teammates. His friends. “Are you all okay with this?” he demanded of them. “Are you fine with being told to murder people who’ve never done anything to you? Really?”