Chris Wraight - Dead end

“Nope,” he said, hefting the blade in his hand and looking over the growing mine-head. “So why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

Miruva looked up at the form hovering above her. “So these Banshees are the Avatars,” she said, looking up at EX-567 with a renewed appreciation. “They are the work of the Ancestors.”

“So it seems,” said Teyla. “But why do they have such an aura of fear? If the Ancestors intended them to lead you to safety here, why do they sweep through the settlement and abduct you?”

Miruva frowned and let her mind link with that of the Avatar again. “I do not fully understand,” said Miruva slowly, clearly working hard to decipher what the Avatar was telling her. “But one thing keeps being repeated — there is no power. The Avatars are frustrated. They wish to bring all of the Inhabitants to Sanctuary, but there’s not enough energy. Something has gone wrong.”

Teyla pursed her lips, pondering the implications. “It is clear that the Banshees are malfunctioning. Their programming has been corrupted by a lack of power and their functions are distorted. Presumably, if it were otherwise, they could have explained Telion’s great work to your people and you would have come willingly to Sanctuary.”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. “It’s a strange idea — our mortal enemies being our one means for salvation. Should we get out of here, I’ll have trouble making anyone believe it.”

The Banshee hung before them, as implacable as ever. It seemed perfectly oblivious to their discussion.

“Can you instruct the Banshee to teleport us back to the surface?” said Teyla. “While it’s good to know that Sanctuary exists for your people, I am not one of them. I need to get back to my team.”

Miruva shook her head. “I am sorry,” she said. “The Banshee won’t do it. It uses up all their power and they’re worried about where more will come from.”

Teyla felt her heart sink. “That is unwelcome news. Is there no way back to the surface?”

Miruva sank back into her trance-like state.

“There were access tunnels to the surface once,” she said at length. “Perhaps the Avatars waited too long to begin their mission, and the tunnels were filled with ice. That would explain why they have to teleport our people in small groups. There is no power for anything more.”

“That sounds plausible, but it does not help find a way out.”

Miruva’s brow furrowed as she interrogated the mind of the Avatar again. “There may be exits still in operation,” she said. “I can see the plan of this place in the Banshee’s mind. We are in a control room near the perimeter of the cave complex. There is a passage leading back towards the settlement and the Stargate. It must have been used in the past by the Ancestors. It is long, and the Avatar tells me it is no longer complete. But we could try it.”

She opened her eyes, and looked at Teyla. The Athosian could see that the young woman was only half willing to go; now that she had discovered the true nature of Sanctuary, it was clear that some part of her wished to head back down to the fertile plains and forget about Khost’s troubles.

“You do not need to come with me,” said Teyla. “Your destiny lies here, in discovering how to use the machinery of the Ancestors.”

But Miruva smiled. “Of course I’m coming with you,” she said. “We need to get you back to the surface, and find a way to bring the rest of my people down here.”

“Very well,” she said. “We must go quickly. If what the Avatar has told us is correct, then the situation on the surface will only get worse.”

Miruva gave a significant look to the Avatar, and it winked out of existence.

“Even being present drains their power,” she explained. “I believe I can summon it at will now. Once the link has been established, it remains with me.”

Teyla pulled her furs closely around her, guessing the journey ahead would be a cold one.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said. “We may have need of it later.”

“Not too close,” Ronon warned as he carefully stepped on to the rock bridge. Testing his weight on it he felt the solidity of the stone beneath him. He stamped a little harder, and the echoes of the muffled blows rang across the yawning gap. The bridge felt solid.

Ronon pulled his furs close around him and began to walk. He could hear Orand follow him a few yards behind, but concentrated solely on what he was doing. The bridge continued, perfectly straight and rigid, until it dissolved into the gloom and haze ahead. It was like walking along a road in the mist with the horizon just out of view. Except that, in this case, stepping off the trail would result in a long, long fall.

He paused and turned to look behind him. The hunting party had made their way on to the pier, one by one, a few yards apart. Each shuffled forward carefully, knowing the price of a slip. Thankfully, the stone surface was smooth and well-made. The surface was shiny with ancient ice, but the thick leather of the Forgotten boots did much to maintain a secure footing.

Ronon turned back and inched further along the narrow way. His heart thumped powerfully; the need to concentrate was paramount, and he kept his eyes securely fixed on the hazy passage before him. If a Banshee came now… He didn’t want to think about that.

Time was hard to measure. Gradually, the cliff-edge behind him shrank back into shadow and it felt like they were marooned on a tiny rock of stability within a void. For a terrifying second, Ronon was consumed by the urge to leap out into the darkness, to fall into its seductive embrace. He shook his head, angry with himself. Such flights of fancy, even in his tired state, were unworthy of him. He took a breath and his concentration returned.

After what may have been just a few minutes, or maybe much longer, Ronon began to see something solidify from the haze in front of him. He crept forward, his eyes flicking back and forth between the bridge and whatever he was approaching. The darkness gave way, hardening into another vast wall of rock — they had reached the other side.

As before, the towering cliffs extended incredibly far both upwards and down into the abyss. There was a stone shelf with a circular doorway carved into the rock-face.

Taking care not to slip at the last minute, Ronon negotiated the last few yards of the bridge. With enormous relief he stepped on to the shelf at the other side. Despite the endless chill of the subterranean passage, he felt his palms slick with sweat.

He turned and watched the rest of the party carefully file from the bridge and on to the safety of the cliff-face.

“I don’t want to do that again,” said Orand, looking shaky. “Ever.” His earlier ebullience had clearly deserted him.

“Know what you mean,” said Ronon, turning to the circular doorway before them. It was as black as ink, but it was the only way they could go. “We’ll need candles.”

Ronon ducked under the narrow gap. Orand didn’t object to him taking the lead. His eyes took a moment to get used to the gloomy candle flame again and he waited, watching the little column of tallow as it glowed softly in his hand. It was nearly burned through. If they were going to get out, they had better do so quickly.

Gradually, the dim outline of the tunnel began to resolve itself and he pushed on. From behind, he could hear the uncertain progress of the others as they followed him. Some of the candles must have failed and there were muttered curses as the hunters stumbled in the dark.

The journey continued much as it had done before. After a few minutes, Ronon began to wonder if the bridge over the chasm was some kind of cruel joke. For all he knew, the passages could lead on like this for miles. Once the candles went out, they would be entirely in the dark and then the game would be up. His earlier morbid thoughts about death underground came back. With a low growl of frustration, he shook them off.