Chris Wraight - Dead end

“Hey,” Sheppard growled. “Even by your standards, Rodney, that’s a pretty low shot. Maybe we shouldn’t have come here, but we did, and now we gotta help out. We’ve got one shot. We’re gonna get these folks safely underground, and then we’ll power-up the Jumper. That’s it. No debate.”

McKay glared at him for a moment. He didn’t like it, but he’d seen Sheppard in these moods before. They didn’t have the time to fight it out, and he didn’t have the strength. “How long do you need?”

“Same as before. You’ll hardly miss us.”

“A matter of hours?” said Rodney. “A lot can happen in that time. You’ve seen the gate. You know what the ice is doing round here. My God, this is crazy.”

Sheppard drew the proximity meter from his furs and handed it to Rodney.

“Take this,” he said. “It’s got the coordinates of Sanctuary in it. If you can’t get the Jumper started, or something happens to the gate, you’ll know where we’ve headed.”

McKay took the device and looked at it miserably. “That doesn’t make me feel a lot better,” he said. “When that storm hits, all bets are off.”

“You got it,” said Sheppard. “And you know the drill. If we’re not back when you need to get out, don’t wait. That Jumper’s going back to Atlantis, whether we’re on it or not.”

Even after so long on Khost, the cold was astonishing. It seeped into every pore, probed under every flap of fur and leather. Once in the bones, it stayed there.

Sheppard shuddered, pulled his furs more tightly around him, and looked over his shoulder. The entire population of the settlement stretched out behind him, huddling under glowering skies. Once Aralen had given the order, the Forgotten had acted quickly. Many of them had been waiting all their lives for this day. None had been left behind. Years of living in such an unpredictable environment had made them quick to respect the destructive power of the storms, and they followed Aralen’s orders without question.

Sheppard pulled his arms tight around his chest and checked to see if there were any stragglers. The column of people stretched back a long way. He was reminded of the aftermath of combat he’d seen before in the Gulf: lines of refugees leaving their homes, fleeing the destruction of their lives. The situation was not so different. The planet itself was at war with them. What they were doing was the only possible solution.

A gust of wind snagged against his hood and Sheppard shook himself out of his thoughts. He set off again and it took him a few moments to realize that Miruva was walking alongside.

“You OK?” he asked, his voice muffled against the leather facemask.

“They are all here,” she replied. “All that is left of us. You have done a great thing for our people. If you had not arrived when you did…”

“Oh, you’d have found a way outta there in the end,” he said, but not with conviction. The truth was that things were far too tight for comfort. The storm was on their shoulder already. He wondered if it would have been better to have waited it out. But then, according to McKay, there wouldn’t be another chance. This was it. They had to leave before surface travel became impossible.

A sudden gust buffeted him, and Sheppard staggered forward. He almost lost his footing. “I’m getting the hint,” he said. “This place really doesn’t like us,”

Black clouds crouched above them and, in the far distance, flickers of lightning scored the horizon. The wind was growing stronger and the incessant moan of the highlands was being replaced by a higher-pitched whine.

Miruva scanned the sky with practiced eyes. “It’s coming up quickly,” she said. “I’ve not seen one come so fast. I thought we had time to get everyone in before it hit. But these winds…”

She tailed off, looking at the piled clouds with concern.

“We’ll make it,” said Sheppard. “You people are pretty tough.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But we need to pick up the pace. A lot.”

Sheppard looked along the column of trudging figures and winced. Some were children, many were old.

“I hear you,” he said. “But some of those guys are struggling. I’ll go back and help out.”

Miruva nodded. “Take care,” she said, and struggled onwards.

Ahead of them, the wind screamed. Behind, the darkness deepened, and thunder growled in the distance. The end would not be long in coming.

McKay wrapped his arms around his chest and stamped hard. The Jumper’s life support was now within operational limits, but it was still damned cold. He plugged the proximity meter into the console in the cockpit. The Ancient computer picked up Sheppard’s encoded instructions and the coordinates of Sanctuary flashed up on the screen. A stream of figures, most of them incomprehensible, ran down the HUD.

“Well, that’s a lot of use to me,” he muttered, and turned his attention to the long-range scanners.

Nothing had changed. In every direction, the weather was closing in. It was the same on every monitor. The few patches of open sky were disappearing, almost as he watched. It had a strange attraction, a macabre beauty. But it didn’t improve his mood. It wasn’t much fun watching a planet die.

He shivered, and flicked the display to the rear, back toward the Stargate. Getting the ailing ZPM hooked up had been one the worst experiences of his life. But it was ready. The gate would open, if only for a millisecond. He didn’t expect much more than that, but once the wormhole had formed, the Zelenka module should do the rest. In theory.

“John?” he said into the radio, hoping he’d still get a signal. There was nothing but static from the other end. Just as he’d expected. These weren’t ordinary storms.

The visual feed was almost as bad. Snow was everywhere and the light was failing fast. It was still early, but the weak light of the sun was already being blotted by the clouds.

“At least it’s still intact,” said McKay, before realizing he was talking to himself again. “Dammit. This isn’t healthy. They’ve got to stop leaving me on my own like this.”

The image rocked as the Jumper was buffeted by a heavy gust. McKay studied the screen intently. Had the Stargate moved? Surely not. It couldn’t have. That would be just unfair .

It moved. Gently, almost imperceptibly, it shifted down into the ice.

“No!” growled McKay, leaping out of his seat. “Not again. It was looking so much better .”

He fumbled for the rear door release mechanism, knowing that opening the Jumper up now would hurt. But the gate was their only route out and if it was going down, he needed to know about it.

The rear door swung upwards, and the wind tore into the cabin. Gritting his teeth, McKay staggered into the rear bay and out into the howling gale. The short journey to the Stargate was agonizing. Every step was like dipping his feet into liquid nitrogen. The weather was worse than it had ever been. The horizon was black on three sides, and the light from up ahead was running out fast. He swore under his breath.

“If we’ve missed our window to get off this God-forsaken rock,” he growled, “then I’ll kill him. Sanctuary or not.”

Sheppard grimaced. Behind him, the long snake of Forgotten refugees — men, women and children — toiled in the snow.

From the lowlands of the settlement area, they had passed quickly up on to the high plateau where the White Buffalo roamed. The wind continued to pick up. It became difficult to walk against it, and Sheppard found himself leaning hard into the gale. The powdery snow was churned-up from the surface in writhing curls and flew through the air in thick, cold gouts. It felt like night was falling, even though dusk was hours away.