Chris Wraight - Dead end

Aside from the ever-present torches, the room was lit with trapped sunlight filtered down from the sky above. They burned as brightly as any of the synthetic lighting on Atlantis, and did much to relieve the feeling of closeness engendered by the subterranean environment.

“The sun-traps,” said Teyla to Miruva. “They are artfully made. How did your people construct such things?”

Miruva sighed. “The secret to making them is lost,” she said. “We have legends amongst us, about the first attempts to carve out a life in the caves. This was in the days when the winters were short. Back then, the secrets of the Ancestors were better known. The tale is told of the master glassmaker, who constructed the shafts of light in the underground places. We benefit from his foresight, but we cannot replicate it.”

“That is a shame,” Teyla said. “You could make your living quarters more comfortable with more such devices.”

Miruva put down her weaving and looked at the twinkling points of light herself. “You’re right,” she said, as if considering the possibility for the first time. “But where would we get the glass? We can still delve the tunnels, but many of the materials our people once used have left us. We make use of what we have, repairing what is broken, but we do not create new things.”

Teyla found this idea disturbing. The galaxy was torn by war and conflict. There was no place for such gentle people, stuck in their ways and reluctant to try new things. If they didn’t find some way of moving forward, they would surely be swept aside. Even if the Wraith didn’t know they were there yet, there was no hiding from them forever.

“The changing climate has no doubt limited what your people can do,” she said, anxious not to offend. “But are you not concerned that if you stick to your traditions, then you may be at risk? The Tauri are not perfect, but you have seen that they are restlessly curious. Where there is a problem, they try and solve it. That is why they are so strong.”

Miruva looked puzzled. “The Tauri?” she said. “Is that the name you give to your men?”

Teyla smiled. It was easy to forget how isolated these people were. “No,” she said. “It is the name of their people, the ones I travel with. And you must put aside the notion that only the menfolk are responsible for our achievements. Our commander is a woman, and I am as much a part of the team as my colleagues.”

Miruva looked at her with admiration. “It is not like that with us,” she said. “I wish it were. But while our men have the honor of hunting the Buffalo, we have little to do but tend the dwellings and ensure that all is kept in order for their return.”

“Such things are important, to be sure,” Teyla said. “But you are an intelligent woman, you can see the problems your people face. Can you not help them do something about them? I’ve seen the way Orand looks at you. You have a follower there, at least.”

Teyla smiled as Miruva blushed deeply. “It’s not that easy. My father…”

“He seems like a good man,” Teyla said, not wanting to cause a family rift.

“Oh, he is,” Miruva said, with feeling. “But perhaps age has not been kind to him. My mother was taken many years ago…”

A note of grief marked her voice, and she trailed into silence. Teyla felt awkward. She had no business interfering. “I am sorry,” she said. “I have been discourteous.”

“No, you haven’t,” said Miruva. “You’re making me think, Teyla.”

She looked up at the Athosian, and her smile returned. Her face was lit by the sunlight coming from above and, despite her slender features, she looked strong and determined. Like all the Forgotten, she clearly possessed resilience.

“Maybe we should be looking to make changes,” she said. “But for now, there are tapestries to be woven. Let us keep talking. Your ideas will find their ways into the designs, if nothing else.”

Teyla smiled. “I would like that.”

It studied the two subjects. One was outside the parameters, and no analysis had yielded any helpful results. The delay had caused problems. There was chatter over the data-streams.

You are wasting resources. Act.

It hung, immobile, invisible. Not yet. Information was invaluable. There were fragments, snatches. Some of them reminded it of events a long time ago. Some words were…

So much had been lost. Something like anger coursed through its cortex. Not real anger, of course. Even when things had been better, they had only been a sham set of emotions. The program couldn’t change that.

The time was coming. Power levels had fallen again, and the recovery had to commence. With every passing hour, the chatter grew.

What do I do about the newcomer?

There was no answer. They didn’t know any more than it did. The days of being able to process creatively were long gone. It was all blind interpretation now. Cold and blind, like the planet itself.

I have set the sequence in motion .

That finally shut them up. They would be getting what they wanted.

It gazed down at the scene, half regretfully. Only a matter of time now. They wouldn’t like it, of course. But it had to do it. It had to come for them.

It had to perform the cull.

McKay was cold. Seriously cold. It didn’t seem to matter how many layers of furs he had on, the freezing air took his breath away. He stood in front of the stricken Jumper, slapping his hands together in a vain attempt to keep them warm.

“Looks pretty bad,” said Sheppard.

McKay fixed him with his most withering stare. “Well, that’s an astute comment, if ever I heard one,” he said, acidly. “Why don’t you take over the repairs? Perhaps I could hand you a wrench from time to time and make the coffee?”

“Maybe you should,” Sheppard said, dryly. “Might get this thing fixed a damn sight quicker.”

The Jumper looked as if it had been through an inferno. The curved sides were blackened and scored. Many of the Ancient-designed patterns on the flanks had been razed from the superstructure. There were several places where it seemed as if explosions or heat had nearly penetrated the shielding. The windscreen, remarkably, had remained relatively unscathed. Clearly, the damage had been done as the Jumper had careered into the edges of the wormhole anomaly. There were no lights working. The vessel lay nose-first in a snowdrift, its cockpit buried deep. Fresh snow from the storm had piled up around the open rear bay, obscuring any footprints from their hasty exit. The door had been frozen in place, leaving the innards of the vessel open to the elements.

The Stargate had been the same. It looked like had been burned, and badly. There hadn’t been a flicker of life from the chevrons, and some of the inner panels were cracked. That alone was worrying. It was naquadah, for God’s sake. That stuff didn’t crack easy. What was worse, there was no sign of a DHD, nor the MALP. If a dial home device had existed in the past, it sure didn’t now. As for the MALP, there was no telling where it had ended up — probably destroyed, or buried deep in a snowdrift.

McKay sighed; once again, the entire galaxy had conspired against him.

“Well, I suppose we’d better make a start,” he said.

The two men ducked into the Jumper. Soon McKay had pulled out an array of transparent panels. He looked at them in disgust, tutting to himself as he carried out basic diagnostic tests. “Well, this is shot. So’s this. That’s totally zeroed, and I don’t even know what that does.”

Irritation began to boil inside him. The cold was part of it. Having to exist on a diet of pure meat was another factor. It seemed that whatever situation the team got itself into, it was always he who had to perform the necessary magic to get them out. And yet, who emerged with the plaudits? Most likely Sheppard, or perhaps Weir. Without McKay’s in-depth knowledge of Ancient artifacts and power systems, virtually every mission they had ever been on would have ended in failure. And the few times he got it wrong, such as the unfortunate business on Doranda, were never quite forgotten. It was unjust, and irritating, and constant.