Chris Wraight - Dead end

“ We think ?” said Weir. “It’s likely ? These aren’t very helpful words, Dr Zelenka.”

“I know,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I believe they got out at the far end. My working hypothesis is this: the Stargate on the other side has suffered a catastrophic failure and lost a key component. Maybe the power drain was too much, and some critical circuit failed. Normally, it would be able to draw on the gate at this end to compensate, but for some reason it didn’t. If we’re going to get the team back, we’ll need to find a way to power up the gate remotely. Or they’ll have to find a way. Until then, we can’t establish a wormhole, and neither can they.”

Weir took a deep breath. “No other options?”

Zelenka shrugged. “We’ll keep working on the numbers. If that gate can’t power up or take power from us, it can’t maintain a wormhole. End of story. But there might be some means of making contact with it. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, you could get some more people working on excavating that chamber Dr McKay discovered. Get through that shielding, and we might be able to find some more clues. Something very odd is happening here.”

Weir nodded. “I’ll do that. God, if only the Daedalus were here…”

Zelenka looked up at her, feeling a flicker of hope. “How long before it’s back?”

Weir shook her head. “Two weeks. If we’re still talking about this by then, I’m afraid we’ll be looking at recovering bodies rather than personnel.”

Zelenka’s heart sank. Every avenue seemed to be closing down on them.

“You never know,” he said. “There may be shelter there. Even people. This was an Ancient world, after all.”

“I hope you’re right, Radek,” said Weir. “In the meantime, find me some better numbers. We’re working in the warm here. They’re not.”

The sun burned coldly. Ice wastes stretched away in every direction, bleak and harsh. Ronon had to shade his eyes against the glare, even with his hood pulled far down over his face. The sky was clear and almost unbroken, the palest blue he had ever seen. Faint streaks of bright white cloud marked the eastern horizon, but otherwise there was no sign at all of the storm which had kept them locked underground for the night.

“Tough country,” he said to himself.

Orand came up to him, grinning. In the fine weather, the hunters eschewed the face masks they usually wore and their pale features were exposed. Each of the hunting party wore carefully bleached outer furs, and looked almost like they were carved from ice themselves. There were a dozen of them in the party, all young men, all eager to be off.

“Not too cold for you, big man?” said Orand, good-naturedly.

If Ronon had been honest, it was crushingly cold. Despite several layers of fur cladding, the chill sank deep into his bones. With difficulty, he had managed to suppress any visible shivers, but he longed to get underway and moving. Standing around waiting for the hunting party to assemble had been difficult, even for him.

“No problem,” he lied.

Orand grinned again, clearly skeptical.

“Good,” he said. “But don’t worry, it’ll warm up once we’re underway. The sun’s strong, and the light on your back will heat you soon enough.”

Ronon looked up into the washed-out sky, covering his eyes with his palm. If this was strong sunlight, he wondered what weak was. Even though the sky was clear, the light was oddly diffuse. He had traveled on a hundred worlds, and this was the palest light he had ever seen. There was something strangely ineffective about Khost’s sun.

Orand offered him a weapon. It was a long wooden shaft, tipped with an ornately carved blade. Ronon took it in both hands. It was light, but felt strong and well-made. He hefted it powerfully, noting the way the wood of the shaft flexed.

“This is a jar’hram ,” said Orand, proudly. “My father’s. He no longer joins the hunt so, as our guest, you shall use it.”

Ronon looked at the young man carefully. “You sure?” As a warrior himself, he knew the importance of an ancestral weapon. He wouldn’t have parted with his own Traveler gun for all the ZPMs in the galaxy.

Orand studied the blade with a pinched expression. “He has no use for it any more,” he said. “Say no more about it.”

Ronon nodded. “Thanks.”

There was a long leather strap attached to the base of the shaft and tethered to the point at which the wood gave way to steel. Seeing how the other hunters were arrayed, Ronon strapped the spear to his back. As he did so, he felt the reassuring weight of his pistol against his thigh, buried in layers of fur. Swords and sticks were all very well, but it was good to know he had a force weapon available if need be.

“When do we go?” he said, still trying to hide his sensitivity to the cold.

Orand looked around at the party, fully clad for the conditions and standing expectantly.

“No time like the present,” he said. “There was a time when my people used to ride across the plains. But the horses couldn’t take the cold and there are none left. Now it’s just us and the Buffalo. That alright with you?”

The Satedan shrugged. “Sounds ’bout right,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

Ronon pulled the radio from his furs. “You picking me up, Sheppard?”

“Loud and clear, Ronon. Stay in contact.”

Orand gave a signal, and the hunters began to move off towards the wasteland ahead. They didn’t assume any particular formation, but walked easily in ones and twos. Ronon cast a look over his shoulder. The barely-visible entrance to the cave complex was several yards distant. Beyond that was the snowfield where the Jumper had landed, and past that stood the Stargate. It all looked very insubstantial compared to the endless expanse of ice and snow around them.

“You’ll be able to get us back?” he said to Orand.

The hunter laughed. “I’ve pursued the White Buffalo on dozens of hunts. I’ve not lost my way yet.”

Orand was young and fresh-faced, but he had an air of calm confidence about him.

“Good,” said the Satedan, grimly. “If we get lost out here, I’ll never hear the last of it from McKay.”

Teyla looked across at Miruva as the young woman stripped dried grass stems into narrow ribbons. The Forgotten worked quickly and surely. Her fingers danced in the firelight, weaving the strands into ever more complicated patterns.

Teyla appreciated Miruva’s art. Her own people back on Athos had been more used to the skills of farming and craft-making than high technology. Teyla even thought she recognized some of the Forgotten girl’s techniques from her homeworld. Though older members of her village had retained many of the Athosian ancestral skills, and no doubt still did so on Atlantis, she had never had the patience or the time to learn. Hers had always been the way of the warrior, the leader. Perhaps the presence of Wraith DNA in her body had driven her that way, to a rootless existence, trading where possible, fighting where necessary. Now, looking at Miruva contently working, she saw a vision of a different life, one that she might have had. That is, if the Wraith had never existed.

She shook herself free of her introspection. It did no good to speculate on what might have been.

Teyla looked around the chamber. It was much like all the other Forgotten dwelling places: clean, basic, well-kept. Even though it was now mid-morning, the torches still burned. They seemed never to be extinguished. Every so often, she saw attendants pour a little more of the mysterious oil into the base of the lamps. When this was done, there was a faint acrid smell, but otherwise the fuel burned with remarkably little residue.