Aaron Rosenberg: Hunt and run

But not unscathed.

He rolled over, gritting his teeth at the pain as the rocks and dirt rubbed against the raw skin of his lower back. The Wraith who had tormented him had done something there, something that had pierced Ronon with a sharp agony beyond any he’d previously experienced. It was a purely physical pain, however, and so he had tightened his jaw and endured. That was what Satedans did. That was what Ronon Dex did.

Not that the Wraith had been fooled. “It hurts, does it not?” it had inquired, leaning in close and leering, showing all its sharp teeth. Ronon had struggled against the bonds that clamped him to the table, but of course they had been fastened tight. No one could say the Wraith were stupid.

“The pain must be extreme,” it had continued. “Good.” Its grin widened even as its eyes narrowed. “Shall I tell you what I have done?” And then it did.

The incision point was still raw now, a day or so later, but most of the pain had fallen to a dull throb. It was a pain Ronon could live with. Not that he expected to live much longer.

After all, he was now the object of a Wraith hunt. The tracking device imbedded in his spine would reveal his precise location to any Wraith equipped with the appropriate frequency. They would be coming for him even now.

So be it. Ronon bit back a scream as he pushed himself onto his stomach, got his hands under his chest, and heaved himself back to his feet. He swayed there a second, almost falling again, before straightening into a half-crouch. He would die on his feet, like a man. Like a warrior. Like a Satedan. And then he would be with Melena again.

But that didn’t mean he was planning to go without a fight. No, the Wraith that came for him would know they had fought Ronon Dex. And the ones who survived would remember his name.

He glanced around. They had stripped away his Specialist armor when he had been captured, and his weapons, his sword and his pistol, were likewise gone. All he had were his fists, and they would not be enough. Not against the Wraith.

They had dropped him on some planet, he had no idea which one, but there was dirt beneath his feet and trees and bushes nearby. No rocks big enough to function as weapons, nor any flint or slate he could chip into a spearhead — not that he would necessarily have time for such a venture anyway. No doubt the Wraith were already on their way. He would need to find a weapon quickly.

Ronon’s eyes wandered to the trees again. They were deciduous, with wide trunks and curving branches and thick clusters of broad leaves. The branches began perhaps ten feet above his head, and he studied the possibilities before selecting one that looked sturdy. Then he leaped for it.

He missed, and fell to the ground again, cursing under his breath as the impact jarred his bones and sent fresh lancets of pain radiating from his back. But after a few seconds he picked himself up, took a deep breath, and tried again.

This time his fingers brushed the branch before he dropped back to earth.

A third time. Ronon was gasping for breath, his chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes, pain coursing up and down his spine. He doubted he would be able to make a fourth attempt. He shook his head, flinging the sweat from him, and snarled. He would not fail! He was Satedan! Using all his remaining strength he crouched and then uncoiled, hurling himself upward. His hands, fully extended, wrapped around the branch and clamped on, digging into the rough bark. Yes!

Now he was hanging from a tree, his feet dangling several feet above the ground. If a Wraith came upon him now, he would be helpless.

But Ronon did not intend to stay this way for long. Instead he tightened his grip and then swiveled his body sideways, legs scissoring in the air. He had judged the distance well, and his feet slammed into the tree’s trunk, almost jolting him from his precarious perch. But the branch shook as well.

Again. His feet hit the trunk hard, his fingers clung to the branch, and everything shook. But through the pain and the fatigue Ronon thought he heard a faint creak above him and to the side.

He hung for a second, catching his breath, and then kicked the tree a third time. Yes, this time he heard a definite sound. It came from the juncture of the trunk and the branch. And it was growing louder.

A fourth kick, and the creak became a groan and then something akin to a scream. The branch, unable to withstand the constant abuse of both Ronon’s weight and his attacks on the trunk, shrieked and tore loose, the wood at its base splintering away from the tree and showering the area with a flurry of small splinters. Ronon dropped to the ground, the branch plummeting with him. Only his tight grip on it, and his flinging his arms over his head as he fell, kept it from smashing in his skull.

Ronon lay on the ground for a good minute after that. He could barely breathe, choked by sweat and tears and possibly blood and flecks of tree bark. He could barely see, his thick braids matted and covering his face like a shroud. His entire body ached, the aches turning to twinges of pain as he moved.

But he had a weapon.

Groaning, he forced himself to his feet and hefted the branch. It was good solid length of wood, heavy enough to do real damage, rough enough for a secure grip. An excellent club. He swung it a few times, getting its weight and balance. Not perfect, but it would cave in a head or shatter a limb nicely. He couldn’t bite back the grin that tugged at his lips. Now let them come for him. He would take at least one of them with him before he fell.

“Nice club.” The voice startled Ronon and he dropped into a crouch, raising his new weapon and gripping it tightly with both hands. “Won’t do you much good, though.”

A figure stepped from the trees. Ronon stared — he had not heard anyone, had not seen anyone, yet the man moved casually, comfortably, as if he were in no hurry and at no risk. He did keep well enough back that Ronon would not be able to reach him, however. Not a fool, then.

And not a Wraith, either. The man was human, shorter and more solidly built than Ronon, with skin of a redder hue and short hair the color of a deepening sunset. He wore clothes rather than armor, though the way he moved suggested they were reinforced in strategic locations. At his side were a long knife and a pistol, but his hands were empty.

“It’ll crush the first Wraith foolish enough to charge me!” Ronon snapped in reply, his words fading to a growl as he thought about the joy he would take in breaking at least one Wraith before they got him. But the stranger shook his head.

“They’re not stupid enough to get that close,” he answered. “Not right away. They’ll shoot you first, most likely in the leg — bring you to your knees, both so you can’t run and because it amuses them to break their victims first. Then the shoulder — no way you can wield that branch with only one arm, so you’ll drop it. That’ll leave you defenseless.” He shrugged. “Then they can pick you off at their leisure.”

“You have a gun — give it to me!” Ronon demanded. “With that I can kill several before they can close! Or I’ll wait, lure them in, and then shoot them!”

The man shook his head again. “They’d still kill you, in the end,” he pointed out. “You might get a few of them, but not enough. Not enough to make a difference.”

“It would make a difference to me!” Ronon roared back. “They killed my world! They killed my wife! I have nothing left to live for!”

“I can give you something to live for.”

Ronon turned his back on him. He was almost out of time, he knew. The Wraith would be here soon. He refused to let himself be distracted.

“Will you listen?” the stranger called from behind him. “Please?”