It was dark, so it was late; no, it was always dark here, buried beneath the rock and the earth and the stifling weight of secrecy. But again, no, the rock and earth were a solid, sheltering roof, far, far above his head and the stifling, smothering weight was some kind of satiny, quilted comforter. John threw it off sharply and then tightened his jaw and breathed through the pain his movement had awoken. He lay still, letting the throb even out and assessing his surroundings and his condition.
The room was dark, but was faintly illuminated by a narrow strip of light at ground level; presumably a door to a room with a wakeful occupant. Zanta, John thought. I'm in Zanta's bedroom, which explained the satiny bedding and the heavy-sweet amber scent that drifted up whenever he moved and made him want to sneeze. He wouldn't sneeze, though, because it would hurt. Which led John's wandering thoughts to his own condition. Hot, he decided. Naked, he worried? No, thank God; underwear in place. Thirsty, definitely. Pain level? Not brilliant, but he wouldn't put a number on it. Medics always wanted a number, he mused, between zero and ten, when surely if you were cursing through gritted teeth, that was all they needed to know? Anyway, it was his arm; he didn't think 'only his arm' exactly, because, well, arms were pretty essential, weren't they? But it wasn't an internal, organs-doing-what-they-shouldn't kind of injury; or not-doing-what-they-should. So, in that case, pain that he could safely ignore, he argued, determinedly. And he was especially determined because his self-assessment had resulted in awareness of a need that was rapidly becoming acute: the bathroom.
John formulated a plan of campaign: he would grasp his left elbow firmly with his right hand, and then he would swing his legs over the side of the bed while simultaneously sitting up. He would then stand and track the strip of light to its source, in the hopes that he would also find somebody with the appropriate local bathroom knowledge. At this point, it occurred to John to wonder why he was in Zanta's bedroom, rather than the Atlantis infirmary, and then he remembered McKay telling him that the DHD crystals were gone and nobody would admit to taking them, so that they were all stranded; and it was interesting that John couldn't seem to bring himself to care that much. He cared a bit more when he got as far as the sitting-up part of his plan and his head began to swim, because he knew that coping with blood loss would have been much easier with Beckett and his IVs on hand. He realised also that Zanta's painkillers were of the type that messed with your head so that you didn't notice the pain so much, rather than actually killing it. His arm felt hot and tight and he knew that there would be bruising and swelling as the outraged tissues reacted to the bullet's shockwave. The needs of his body pulling his mind back to his goal, John stood carefully, focussed on the line of light, and padded toward it across the soft floor covering. He felt his balance waver, but was close enough to the door to lurch his right shoulder conveniently against the frame. It was smooth and cool; he leant his forehead against it too and decided to give it a minute before he banged on the door with whichever part of his body seemed expedient.
An intermittent buzzing surprised John and he realised that his eyes had closed and he had dozed where he stood. His eyelashes flicked against the doorframe as he blinked, drowsily.
"Hello?... Yes, they were, they're here... Yes, I thought... Yes, the Colonel was shot... No, it's not too bad."
John frowned, his mind slow to make sense of the one-sided conversation. It continued.
"Yes, I'm afraid it does. And also they have an eyewitness who says that Makers carried off two of their lost team!"
Zanta was speaking to someone, passing information. She had a radio? No, radio wouldn't work here; too much conductive metal in this maze of streets, McKay had said. A telephone? She was still speaking.
"What shall I do? Do we stick to the same plan? Yes... Yes, I'll do that... Goodbye."
There was a rattle and the sound of a cupboard door shutting. John staggered backward, his legs hit the end of the bed and he sat down heavily, jarring his wounded arm and gasping in pain, feeling sweat gather on his brow. The pain pills must be wearing off, he thought, because his arm was beginning to force him to pay attention to its condition. But Zanta was passing information. To whom? Could he trust her now? Was she genuinely helping him or subtly poisoning him? What was the plan she had mentioned? And where was his team? John's head spun with pain and confusion. He pushed his fingers through his damp hair and realised he felt chilled and was starting to shiver.
The door opened and he snapped his eyes shut against the glare.
"Colonel!"
"Uh... bathroom?"
"Oh, yes, here, take my arm."
There was a door in the corner of the room. Zanta turned on the light.
"Do you need any help?"
"No. Thanks."
John shut the door and used the facilities and he was glad the room was tiny so that the walls weren't far away for the purposes of leaning against. He felt freezing cold and his arm hurt and he didn't know what to do. Then there were voices outside the door and one of them was Teyla's. He shook harder with relief; he'd make her stay and nothing would happen if Teyla was here.
"John? Are you alright in there?"
"Yeah, coming out now."
He opened the door and Teyla supported him over to the bed. He sat on the edge, shivering.
"Do not lie down yet, John. Zanta has some medicine for you."
What to do? Should he take it? Should he trust her? Could he actually afford not to take it? Zanta held out the cup containing liquid that was supposedly the local equivalent of antibiotics. He hesitated.
"John?"
"Uh... Not sure I should. Carson wouldn't like it."
Teyla knelt down and looked at him.
"I do not think you have any choice, John. You already have a fever. If your wound becomes badly infected, you could die."
"Oh. Well, when you put it like that..." He took the cup and drank. Teyla passed him two tablets.
"For the pain," she said.
"Maybe I don't need..." An eyebrow was raised. He took the pills, deciding he'd wait til Zanta had gone and then tell Teyla, and if she was suspicious, he'd just have to make himself sick or something. Which was perfectly plausible anyway; he really didn't feel that great. He swallowed the pills and then Teyla helped him lie down and pulled the satiny bedding up over him. He wanted to tell her to stay but his mouth didn't seem connected to his thoughts and then he couldn't see her and realised his eyes were closed. He tried to call out to Teyla, but knew that it was hopeless when he caught Zanta's whispered words: "...sedative in the medicine..." Teyla's answer became a muffled buzz. He slept.
oOo
Ronon sat at the bar, shovelling in his breakfast, which he wasn't going to think about too much, because thinking was to be avoided with food as bad as this. He'd asked if there was any fish left, but the barman had looked at him as if he'd asked for the moon, if this planet had one.
Ronon had spent the previous evening making friends and talking to people, in his own inimitable way, which consisted mainly of looming, drink in hand and grunting neutrally at appropriate conversational junctures, so that people felt safe to share any and all opinions, gossip and speculation. Sifting through the slew of information, Ronon had learnt that the Getters and Makers had recently been vying for overall political control and that the Getter clan was still in disarray, nobody having come forward to claim leadership. There was speculation that Clan Leader Breckna would step in and simply absorb the whole Clan into his own. Ronon wondered whether Breckna was hoping to strengthen his position by allying with Atlantis; not a chance, if Ronon had anything to do with it.
"Hey, have you heard?"
Friegar, his pale eyes bulging with excitement, perched himself on the stool next to Ronon.
"Heard what?"
"'Bout the bodies! Four of 'em! Out by the fans! I'm thinking they could be your friends!"
Ronon took a sip of his tea and said nothing.
"Or not." Friegar tittered nervously. "Could be anyone. Plenty of folks dying every day."
"You hear a description? Are they men? Women?"
"I just heard four bodies. Maybe they couldn't tell."
"What'll happen to them?"
"The Venters'll put 'em somewhere cold for a coupla days. See if anyone makes a claim. Then if not..." He shrugged. "Take 'em to the furnace, I guess."
"Is it far?"
Friegar shrugged again. "It'd take me a day to walk. But you made friends with Herrick and his crew, didn't you?"
"So?
"Miners use the railtrucks." He laughed at Ronon's ignorance. "They got rails here, there and everywhere if you know where to look. Bring the coal up from the mines to depots, for factories and folks that can afford to buy. Trucks travel back empty, see?"
"We could ride in them?"
"You could, if you ask. Part of the way, at least."
oOo
Rodney was woken by the rough opening of the door, the stomp of heavy footsteps and the thud of various heavy items dropping on the floor. He pushed his face further into the pillow and yelled.
"Go away!"
The door slammed, indicating the intruder's withdrawal. Rodney grumbled into the pillow in a half-hearted way, rolled over and sat up. It would have been nice to see morning light streaming in through the window, Rodney thought, but, with a sigh, he recalled that he was not likely to be seeing any kind of daylight in the near future. The room, instead, was lit by the usual combination of dull orange streetlighting, with a faint tinge of blue from Zanta's argon sign, several floors below. Rodney switched on the bedside lamp. The other bed was empty and there was no sleeping bag on the floor, where Ronon had spent part of the night, and then moved into Teyla's bed when she got up to check on John and didn't return. He wondered how Sheppard was doing. He also wondered how he was supposed to move around the room at all with all four of his team's packs and Major Jordan's team's packs dumped in a heap. And, while there was wondering in progress, Rodney wondered why all the packs had been brought here; he didn't remember a team decision to abandon Tilda's place, and although neither accommodation nor cuisine had been inspiring, they had at least had more room there. Maybe John was really ill and Teyla had decided they'd have to make this their permanent base! This thought had Rodney scrambling into his clothes and setting off for Zanta's rooms, stopping only to snatch a couple of MREs. And a few power bars, just in case.
Rodney peered round the door into Zanta's lounge area. She wasn't there and there was no sound coming from the bedroom beyond. He crossed the room and pushed open the bedroom door. There was an unmoving lump in the bed, with a few tufts of hair sticking out above the comforter. Teyla sat cross-legged on the floor, a P90 and two handguns next to her, another P90 disassembled on her lap. She had moved the bedside lamp onto the floor to light her work so that she sat in a pool of brightness. She looked up.
"Rodney!" she smiled. "Good morning!"
He relaxed. Sheppard must be okay.
"How is he?"
Teyla's smile took on a brittle tension and in a rush of split-second thoughts, Rodney examined his conscience. No, he concluded, her displeasure wasn't aimed in his direction, thank God.
"He is still sleeping because Zanta thought it best to put a sedative in his anti-infective medicine during the night!"
"Oh. Why?"
"She said," Teyla continued, checking the action on the P90 with frightening briskness, "because the pain medication is not very effective."
Rodney sat on the floor and began laying out the contents of the MREs. "You think she had another reason?"
Teyla put the P90 down and pressed the tips of her fingers to her brow. "I do not know. My instincts tell me that her overtures of friendship are genuine, but..."
"But?"
"She has such luxury!" said Teyla, sweeping a hand round the soft comfort of the room. "And, moreover, she is respected and... has a certain protected status. She was so sure that Ronon would be safe with her man, Dennet, yesterday, when you and John had just been attacked."
"She's had our stuff brought here. From Tilda's. Did you ask her to do that?"
"No," said Teyla, her voice hard. "I did not. And while it is possible her actions are made out of genuine concern, I do not appreciate having no choice in the matter." She looked round at John, who lay motionless, breathing deeply. "I am sure it was the wrong choice to sedate John. We have no access to IV fluids which means he needs to drink."
"Shall I try waking him?"
"I have tried, several times. But, yes, we should try again."
Teyla put the weapons carefully to one side and set the lamp back on the nightstand. John's face was turned toward them, his skin pale and clammy-looking, his bruises from the bar-fight standing out yellow and purple amongst the two days' growth of beard.
"Jeez, look at the state of him! Are you sure he's okay?"
"Yes, Rodney, his fever is down now. So at least we know Zanta's medicine is effective."
"So, um... How do you want to do this? Because I'm guessing that giving him a good old shake wouldn't be the best idea!"
"No, it would not, Rodney!"
"Hey, I know! I'll tickle his feet!"
"Is John ticklish?"
"Like you wouldn't believe!"
Rodney folded back the comforter. John's arm looked bruised and swollen either side of the bandage. Rodney's nose twitched and he grimaced.
"That's a bathroom there in the corner, right?"
"Yes."
"With a shower?"
"Rodney!"
"Right, sorry, yes, tickling duties to perform!"
He ran a finger down John's instep, producing exactly zero response. He did it harder and the foot twitched slightly. Tickling then began in earnest. Rodney crouched down at the foot of the bed, his fingers jiggling and scrabbling as he made himself ignore the not altogether pleasant sensation of warm, moist skin. John's feet twitched repeatedly, his breathing sped up and changed into a series of annoyed huffs, which became grumbling, which ended with one bent leg thrusting out sharply, catching Rodney forcefully in the chest and toppling him to the floor.
"Gerroff, McKay!"
oOo
"You didn't have to kick me!"
"John! John, do not go back to sleep!"
"Typical! I come up with a solution and get kicked for my pains!"
"We should sit him up!"
The voices assaulted John's ears and for a moment he wanted to plunge back into blissful, peaceful darkness. But then, as he reached to find something to cover his head, a sharp flare of pain brought him further toward wakefulness, and he remembered.
"Zantasspy."
"What did he say?"
"Something about pie. Yes, breakfast, Sheppard! But there isn't any pie."
John prised open his sluggish eyes and saw two blurred faces in front of him.
"Sheesspy!" he said, more urgently, annoyed that his mouth was slurring words that were perfectly formed in his head.
"There's no pie at all, Sheppard, and definitely no cheese pie! God, the man's raving!"
John managed a pretty convincing growl, judging by the way Rodney's face retreated quite sharply.
"Up!" he managed to say, and began to squirm, caterpillar-like, up the bed. He made it to a halfway upright reclining position, further bolstered by an extra pillow shoved behind him by Teyla, who then put a glass of water into his hand. He drank, suddenly aware of his thirst and a throbbing headache which, he guessed was the result of dehydration.
"How do you feel, John?" Teyla asked.
John flicked a finger, dismissively. "Fine. Zanta. She's passing intel."
He saw Rodney's mind processing.
"You weren't saying pie."
"Spy."
"How do you know this?"
"Heard her. In there." He nodded toward the lounge. "She has a radio? Phone? In a cupboard." John took another drink of water. "Heard it click shut."
Rodney and Teyla looked at each other.
"Watch the door for me," Rodney said.
They hurried into the lounge. John heard Teyla report, "There is nobody there, Rodney," and then there was the sound of cupboards and cabinets opening and closing.
"Here! Hmm... primitive. There's a wire going into the wall. There can't be a network, can there? We would have noticed a telephone exchange! Although, in this place, who knows? Maybe a direct line, though..."
John heard the cabinet close. Teyla and Rodney came back in and sat either side of the bed.
"Who'd she talk to?"
"Couldn't tell." John told them what he could remember of the conversation. It seemed blurred and distant and he still couldn't get his mind and voice to coordinate properly. "Feel like I've been drugged. Like bad drugs."
"Zanta put a sedative in the anti-infective medicine."
"Oh. Oh, yeah."
Teyla sighed and shook her head. "I believe she was doing what she thought best. I do not think she wants to harm us."
"Well, I don't think she can be trusted!" said Rodney. "We don't know who she's in league with!"
John sniggered.
"What?"
"'In league with'. Very cloak-and-dagger, McKay."
"You know what I mean!"
"I do not think she is entirely to be trusted either," said Teyla. "But, at the same time, it is natural that her loyalties should lie with some one or other of the main factions of this world."
"Yeah, well I don't like being drugged."
"No, but her medicine has helped, has it not? You feel better now?"
"Yeah, better than last night."
"I should change the dressing on your wound and then you should have another dose."
"Not the sedative!"
"No."
"Cos I need to get up soon."
"No, you do not."
John grumbled under his breath.
"You could get up to shower, though, because, I have to tell you, Sheppard..."
"Rodney!"
"Hey, Sheppard!"
"Ronon."
Ronon stood at the end of the bed, looking down at him.
"You look like crap."
"Thanks."
"Four bodies've been found."
John's heart lurched and he felt his head spin. He sagged further back into the pillows.
"Way to break it gently, Conan!"
"They might not be our team."
"And they might be!"
"Where were they found, Ronon?"
John closed his eyes and let the voices of his team blend together. Four bodies. A coincidence? His head throbbed in concert with his arm. They'd failed. And they were stranded. And he was effectively immobilised. Nice work, John, he thought. Mission accomplished.
"Sheppard! Hey, Sheppard!" Fingers snapped in front of his face. He opened his eyes, reluctantly. "Thought we'd lost you again!" Rodney said.
"John, Ronon and I will go and find out who these people were."
John frowned, his thoughts coming slowly. "Yeah... But, see if there's a back door out of this place. Go when no-one's looking. Do you know the way?"
"Yeah," Ronon grinned.
"What?"
"Herrick's gonna take us in the Miners' railtrucks. Sounds like fun!"
"It sounds extremely dangerous," said Rodney, "but I suppose those two things are the same to you!"
Ronon grinned.