James Swallow - Halcyon

He heard the noise and it brought him up short. The nerves in limbs went tight with anticipation, a reaction so ingrained in his physiology that it happened without conscious thought. The others with him snarled and yowled at one another, spooked by their pack leader's sudden change in manner. He turned his face to them and showed a mouth full of fangs, hissing sibilantly. They quieted, retreating, cowed into submission like the animals that they had become.

He looked up; yes, his senses had not deceived him. The sound that reached through the forest canopy was not the rhyth mic thrum of a propeller, not the noise from the human air vessels that came and went, dropping off fresh prey. This sound touched a chord inside him, it flashed on a memory from before. From the war. Before the long sleep.

Movement above. It appeared and disappeared through a gap in the trees, just the quickest flash of dark green metal, antigravity drives whining like insects to keep it up in the sky. Feral hate ran hot through him in a wave of recognition. An enemy ship. It was one of their craft, undoubtedly. A machine that belonged to the old adversary, the prey-race that had dared to defy the mastery of his species. So long ago.

Thoughts wheeled and turned in his mind, base desires to kill and feed warring with higher questions of how and why. He dismissed them all with a wave of his clawed hand, as if he were swatting at a nagging insect. Focus. He had to have focus.

His iron hard self-control flexed but did not break; on days such as these it was difficult to drive the haze from his mind, to concentrate on keeping his thoughts whole and alert. It would be easy to slip into the madness of the beast, just like these pitiful wretches around him. Not all of his kindred had the strength of will to fight off the static in their psyche for hour after hour, every single day. Many fell quickly, subsumed by their own animal natures, some too crazed even to recognize him for what he was, as their superior. Those they fed upon, as they were fit for nothing else. They kept his pack alive when the human prey was thin on the ground.

The ache of hunger came upon him. This was the hardest call to resist, the most basic desire of his species. He felt the tremble of the need in his arm, the fleshy gray petals of the feeding maw in his palm opening on their own.

The others backed away, whimpering. They were afraid that he would take one of them to sate himself. Instead he cocked his head, letting the white tails of his mane fall forward.

The Wraith blinked his one good eye and ran a casual finger over the ruined socket of the other, tracing a broad line of ruined tissue down his cheek. His kind healed fast, but the sword cut that had left that mark upon him had been deep and nearly fatal. He sometimes imagined that it was only his hate that had allowed him to survive such an injury; and now the same emotion propelled him forward, into the trees and after the noise of the aerial vessel.

His pack snarled and spat, loping after their scar-faced leader, picking up on his eagerness for a new kill.

The Jumper sealed behind them, the two teams split off from the landing site and made their way into the trees. Ronon's last glimpse of Teyla Emmagan was a curt nod of her head before she followed Private Bishop into the foliage. Dex gripped his particle magnum firmly in one hand, the hilt of his short sword in the other. Ahead of him, Sheppard made himself a compact silhouette, moving quickly but carefully with his P90 at his shoulder.

"Is there some kind of plan I should know about?" asked the Satedan. "Or are we just going to wander around aimlessly until we trip over some Wraith?"

"That is the plan," said the colonel, "although without the `aimless' part. We find the mark, we bag him. Simple."

"Simple," repeated Ronon, in a tone that make it clear he thought this was anything but. "I don't like following that fat aristo's orders."

"Oh, and I do?" Sheppard shook his head. "Believe me, this wasn't my first choice for getting McKay rescued either. Putting more people in harm's way…"

"Say we do this thing. What if Daus doesn't turn McKay over to us? What do we do then?"

The other man halted. "If that happens, I might revise my opinion on that airlock suggestion of yours. Until then, though, we play the hand we got."

Dex dropped into a crouch and fingered a broken plant stem protruding from the forest floor. He moved windblown leaves to uncover prints in the earth. "Wraith. These are recent. Less than a day old." Ronon pointed with his pistol. "Four of them, moving that way."

Sheppard toggled his radio. "Teyla, Bishop. We got tracks here. Four Wraith, heading in a northerly direction."

The Athosian woman halted in the shade of a tree. "I hear you, Colonel. Private Bishop has also discovered traces of Wraith activity. There are human bones here." She glanced at the ditch where the SAS soldier was standing. "It appears to be a midden."

"Copy that," came the reply. "Are you, uh, sensing anything?"

Teyla gave a slight shudder. "Yes," she said, at length. In truth, the buzz of Wraith telepathy had been slowly strengthening in her mind as they approached the enclosure, and now they were here on the ground, her preternatural sense of the predatory creatures was a constant companion. "I… I think he's watching us. There are several of them out there, but one… Just one…" She shook the thoughts away. "Be on your guard, Colonel. Scar must be close."

"Same goes for you. Shoot first if you make contact. Remember, we don't need this creep alive. Sheppard out."

Bishop moved forward. "You all right, miss?"

She nodded and set off again. "I will be."

The soldier gave her a wary look. "Can you, like, turn that off?" He tapped a finger on his temple. "I'm just thinking that if you can hear the bozos, they maybe they can hear you too."

Teyla shook her head. "I control it as best I can. Believe me, it is a `gift' I wish I was not forced to endure." She threw him a questioning look. "What is the meaning of that word you use for the Wraith?"

"What, you mean Bozo?" Teyla nodded and Bishop smirked. "Well, y'know, it's `cos of their faces. They're all pasty and white, aren't they? Like clowns." The smirk faded. "Never liked clowns, even when I was a nipper."

She was none the wiser. "The men in your cadre seem to have their own names for many things."

Bishop shrugged. "Well, it's tradition, isn't it? Psychological, yeah? Helps you to keep detached, eyes on the ball, that sorta thing. We got slang for lots of stuff."

Teyla eyed him. "Do you have names for people from Athos or Sateda? For Ronon and myself?"

"Uh." The way the soldier blinked told Teyla that the answer was yes. "It, uh. It's a gesture of respect, miss. We all got nicknames."

"What do you call us?"

Bishop looked sheepish. "Tina. And, uh, Bob. On account of how you look a bit like the singers, see." He gave a weak smile. "I'm not a big fan of the reggae bloke, but I do like that song she does, the one about the dancer-" He broke off.

Teyla heard it too; something moving in the undergrowth.

"Target," growled the soldier, all humor forgotten, bringing his L85 up to sight down the barrel. A gray shape detached itself from the shadow of a fallen tree trunk and threw itself at them. Bishop's rifle snarled and his shots caught the Wraith at the start of a leap, slamming it back down into the dirt.

"More!" snapped the woman, as other aliens burst from cover and came at them. Teyla had her P90 set in burst-fire mode and she unleashed ripping discharges of bullets into the Wraiths that raced at them. Glancing hits twisted one about and she was forced to hit him again just to put the creature out for good. She sensed Bishop draw closer to her, bringing their corridors of fire together.