STARGATE ATLANTIS: Dead End Read online

  “Oh, great,” said McKay, glancing towards the heavens. “Now we’re on thin ice. And I mean that, of course, entirely literally.”

  “Sure puts a new spin on things,” Sheppard agreed, clearly uneasy. “If this thing disappears beneath the ice, then I start getting worried. We’re gonna have to work quicker.”

  McKay shook his head bitterly. “And by we, you mean me, I take it?”

  “Just get working, Rodney. If we lose the Jumper, you’ll be eating buffalo for a lot longer than you’re gonna like.”

  The wind tore from the east. It was unrelenting. Despite the heavy furs, Ronon felt his legs begin to go numb. He had pulled his hood down as far as it would go, and still the chill air found its way under his collar. His fingers had long since lost most of their feeling. He wondered how useful he would be once the hunting party reached its destination. He stamped as he walked, trying to generate some blood flow. He was tightening up, and if that continued he would be worse than useless once the action began.

  They’d been walking for over an hour. In the clear daylight, Ronon could see that the Forgotten settlement had been built in the center of a wide, near-circular depression. The land was broken and rocky, ideal for delving their subterranean dwellings. The going was treacherous, and would have been near-impossible had it not been for the experienced guides. Pristine snow-drifts hid knife-sharp rows of rocks or bottomless crevasses. Orand had pointed these out to Ronon as they had passed them, regaling him with stories of lost travelers blundering to their deaths in the unforgiving wastes. That had, of course, been in the days when there had been travelers abroad in Khost. Now, none went across the snowfields unless they had important business. The conditions had just become too dangerous.

  From those lower regions, the hunting party had ascended narrow and winding paths and emerged on to a high plateau. The effort of climbing up to the highlands had restored much of Ronon’s body warmth, but once out on to the exposed terrain the true meaning of cold had become apparent. The wind moaned and rolled across the flat, featureless plains with no interruptions. In the far distance, Ronon could see the low outline of what might have been mountains. Otherwise, there was nothing. Just a huge, flat, empty field of dazzling white ice stretching in every direction. It looked like a vision of some frigid hell. As he trudged along, willing his body to cope with the frozen temperatures, he wondered how anything could possibly survive in such a place.

  Orand walked by his side. He had long since lost his smile. Even the hunters, used to such conditions, were finding the going tough. They had wrapped leather masks around their faces and only their eyes remained exposed. Just as they had been when rescuing the crew of the Jumper, they looked like pale ghosts toiling across the harsh landscape.

  “How’re you doing?” said Orand to Ronon. His voice was muffled by the facemask and the wind.

  “Fine,” said Ronon. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Orand nodded. “You’ve done well,” he said. “Lapraik and Fai thought you’d have turned back by now. You’re made of strong stuff. Not like the others, I’m guessing.”

  “I dunno,” Ronon shrugged. “Colonel Sheppard’s hard to wear down. And I’d trust Teyla with my life.”

  “And the fat one? The one who eats all the time?”

  Ronon smiled under his facemask. “He’s OK,” he said. “Maybe not the toughest.”

  Orand pulled the top of his facemask down a little and peered ahead. The flat ice yawned away into the distance. Then, suddenly, there was a whistle from one of the hunters up ahead. Orand immediately pulled his facemask down again and screwed up his narrow eyes at the horizon.

  Ronon did likewise, but could see little. Nothing appeared to have changed. The weak sun was still high in the sky, the landscape bathed in its pale light. The ice shimmered coldly and the wind continued its endless bluster. Aside from some jagged cracks in the surface of the ice, there was almost no break in the flat landscape.

  “What did you see, Lapraik?” hissed Orand to one of his companions.

  “Northwest,” came a voice from up ahead. “A big herd. They’re heading west. We can catch them.”

  Orand nodded sharply. He cupped his hands to his mouth, and gave a low call through them. The hunting party immediately broke into a loping run. Ronon joined them, feeling his stiff limbs gradually respond. His blood began to pump a little more strongly. This was good. With the prospect of action, the cold was easier to bear.

  “You came looking for excitement,” said Orand, sounding much happier. “I think we’ll find it for you.”

  The team went quickly but stealthily, keeping their hunched bodies as low to the ice as possible. Ronon couldn’t match their stooping gait, but was nearly as invisible against the ice, covered as he was in the bleached furs. As they ran, the hunters slid their spears from their backs, and carried them in both hands, swaying as they went. Ronon did likewise, nearly losing the shaft in his frost-numbed hands.

  They began to pick up speed. The outlying hunters drew together, and soon the dozen young men were running in a tight pack, guided by the instincts of the one called Lapraik. The snow crunched under their fur-lined boots, flying in little spurts behind them as they closed in on the distant prey.

  Ronon still struggled with the light. It was near-blinding if he looked directly at the shimmering horizon. But as he ran, the objective began to become apparent. In the far distance, there did seem to be a break in the flawless sheets of ice. At first it looked like a rocky outcrop, a narrow fringe of dark against the glass-like terrain. But soon there was no mistaking it. There were huge objects, and they were moving. From such a range Ronon couldn’t make out much detail, but it was clear that they were big.

  He kept running, determined not to fall behind the more experienced hunters. Now that they were on the move, his longer legs gave him an advantage. The jar’hram felt light and supple in his hands. Just as it had done many times when hunting Wraith in far-flung worlds across the galaxy, the thrill of the chase began to take control of him. He felt his heart beating, his lungs working powerfully. The last of the chill left him and a savage heat kindled in his heart.

  The Buffalo had seen them and the nearest of them began to break into a lumbering run. They were still some distance away.

  Orand looked over at Ronon as he ran. He had a feral expression of joy in his eyes.

  “This is it, big man!” he cried, whirling the jar’hram loosely around him as he loped. “Are you prepared?”

  “Believe it,” growled Ronon, picking up the pace.

  The hunt had begun.

  Unlike Ronon, Teyla had no trouble slipping under the low doorways and between the various chambers of the settlement. The big Satedan had taken several bruises with him on the hunt. Teyla found herself wondering how he was fairing. With any luck, he was enjoying the sun on his skin. She was glad to be in the relative warmth for once, not chasing around and having to use her own considerable martial skills. The chance to immerse herself in an alien culture, to take some time to try and understand how the people of another world ordered themselves, was a rare privilege. She intended to exploit it to the full.

  “Where are we taking this?” she said to Miruva.

  The Forgotten woman carried the product of her labor, a circular mat made from the dried plains grass. It was much smaller than others Teyla had seen. She guessed that the scarcity of materials forced compromises to be made.

  “This is to be placed in the Hall of the Artisans,” said Miruva, proud of her creation. “There will be many other items there. In due course, the Elders will come to judge their merit. Those deemed worthy will grace the dwellings of our leaders. I am hoping that mine will be chosen.” She slid Teyla a rueful smile. “My position is somewhat difficult, of course. My father heads the ruling council, and is a fair-minded man. As a result, he has never used his vote in my favor, and others have taken the prize. But I’m proud of this one. You never know.”

  Teyla looked at the woven disk a
gain. Miruva had created a ring of geometric shapes around the rim, all of which tessellated with each other wonderfully. In the center of the mat, there was a depiction of a hunting scene, as there seemed to be in all the Forgotten artwork. The White Buffalo was woven using a series of swirls to indicate movement. The diminutive figures of hunters surrounded the great animal in heavily stylized form. The colors Miruva had chosen were muted and subtle. Each hunter was a different shade, though it was difficult to make out in the flickering torchlight.

  “Look carefully,” she said to Teyla, her eyes shining. “What do you make of the blue hunter?”

  Teyla took the mat from Miruva and held it up to the light. The figure was almost the same as the others, except that it had a female shape. The Athosian smiled, and handed the mat back. “Will you get in trouble for that?”

  Miruva shrugged. “What if I do? I told you your ideas were beginning to have an effect on me. For the time being, women hunters will only exist in tapestries and weaving. Maybe one day they’ll take their places in the real world.”

  Teyla wondered if Miruva herself could make such a leap. Though outwardly shy and deferential, there seemed to be a core of steel to the young woman.

  “I hope that is so, Miruva,” she said, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  “We are here,” Miruva said, and pulled aside a hanging from the entrance in front of them.

  They entered a wide hall, somewhat like the assembly chamber, but smaller and lower. Elaborate drapes covered every wall, and the floor was strewn with mats and weavings of many shapes. Miruva’s wasn’t the smallest, but it wasn’t far off. Many of the other items seemed to use grass recycled from previous artifacts. The hall could have held twice the number assembled there with room to spare.

  Miruva looked confident as she placed her mat near the center of the chamber.

  “This is all new grass,” she said, proudly. “I walked long and far to find it before the snow came for good. The key to this competition is detail. A larger object will not necessarily win the prize.”

  Teyla nodded in appreciation. She cast her gaze across the panoply of woven artifacts, admiring the consistent skill. As she did so, she noticed something strange, high up on the bare rock walls.

  “What is that?” she said to Miruva, pointing at an ornate shape engraved on the surface.

  The Forgotten looked at it casually. It looked like it had once been carved deep into the unyielding rock, but was now faint and indistinct. The shape was complex. It could have been an inscription, or maybe a diagram.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “There are marks of this kind scattered throughout the settlement. I have always assumed they were placed there by the builders of this place.”

  Teyla strained her eyes to see more clearly. “Maybe so,” she said. “But I have seen such marks elsewhere. On my home planet, there is a place where engravings are commonplace. Dr McKay has studied the technology of the Ancients, perhaps he will be able to decipher it.”

  For some reason, as she spoke, a chill passed through her. The glyph had an unsettling aura. She turned her gaze from it. Something to raise with Aralen, perhaps.

  Miruva smiled at the mention of Rodney. “Is that the angry man?” she said, suppressing a laugh. “He is very popular here amongst the young people. They are calling him the Greedy One. He finished twice the normal portion of stew in his first night here.”

  “I am sure he will appreciate the gesture,” Teyla said, knowing full well he wouldn’t. “He is an interesting man. Despite his… foibles, he is steeped in the ways of the Ancestors. If any of us are able to decipher it, it is he.”

  Miruva paused, and looked at Teyla with a searching expression. “You speak of the Ancestors as if they were far away, and yet as if you were intimately connected with them.”

  Teyla felt a little uncomfortable. The fiction that Atlantis was destroyed would one day surely come out into the open. For now, however, the Wraith had still to discover their error. Until that day came, they all had to be careful.

  “We have traveled widely,” said Teyla, choosing her words carefully. “The Ancestors left their mark in many places, and we have learned much of their ways. There are some of us capable of using their technology with the power of the mind alone. Colonel Sheppard is one such man. Even those without the gift can now be helped to understand the Ancestor’s technology. We are not the Ancestors, Miruva. But we are moving closer to understanding their secrets.”

  Miruva looked thoughtful.

  “To use the Ancestor’s machines using only your mind…” she murmured, clearly pondering the possibilities. “That would be marvelous indeed.”

  The young woman lapsed into thoughtfulness. Teyla regarded her carefully. It was entirely possible that some of the Forgotten possessed the ATA gene. If there were any descendants of the Ancestors among them, then such a thing should have been possible. However, as the only Ancient artifact they knew about — the Stargate — had been lifeless for generations, they could have had no way of knowing.

  “I will leave this here until the judging session,” said Miruva, looking carefully at the rival artworks. “Where would you like to go now?”

  Teyla paused, taking in her surroundings, pondering what she wanted to know most about the Forgotten and their ways. As she thought, the sound of children laughing filtered down the maze of tunnels. It came from far off, but was as unmistakable as the sound of falling rain. It warmed her heart to hear it.

  “Show me your young people,” she said to Miruva. “It has been too long since I heard laughter — our travels have been too full of danger and loss. It would be good to be reminded that there is still hope in the galaxy.”

  They left the room. Above them, the symbol gazed down on the empty room, impassive and cold.

  Chapter Six

  The White Buffalo were magnificent animals. They were entirely covered in thick fur which hung down from their flanks in straggling tresses. Their massive shoulders were easily twice the height of a man. Even draped in such thick layers of insulating fat, their powerful muscles were evident. As they galloped, huge plumes of ice and slush were thrown up behind them. The giant bulls had long, wickedly-curved horns, which they used to plough through the top layers of snow and throw waves of it over themselves.

  As their hooves thundered against the terrain, Ronon felt the earth vibrate like a drum. The noise of their bellows was deafening. These indeed were worthy foes. As he ran to keep up with the herd, he realized just how brave Orand and his fellow hunters were to take on such beasts. Despite himself, he felt a sliver of fear. He would have to be at the very top of his game.

  The herd numbered perhaps twenty animals. All of them were now lumbering through the ice fields, startled by the near-invisible hunters around them. There were calves among them, protected by a ring of the bulky adult animals. Most of the bulls were juveniles, but there was one truly huge creature at the head of the herd who must have been the patriarch. Every so often, it would issue a great bellow of rage. The noise was incredible.

  “Stay close to me!” yelled Orand. “If we get charged, run as fast as you can! They move quick when they’re angry!”

  Ronon nodded. It was as much as he could do to just keep up with the sprinting pack of hunters. Despite their heavy furs and the layers of snow they waded through, they seemed able to go on forever. They were now within a spear’s throw of the nearest animals. The pursuers had spread out around the lumbering herd. Their objective was to separate the animals from each other. Some of the giant creatures looked in better condition than others. Ronon guessed that the hunters would keep forcing them to run until one of the weaker or older animals fell behind. Then the killing would start. He just hoped it was the hunters who did it, and not the buffalo.

  He looked up ahead. The featureless plains rolled into the distance. The ground had become more broken. They were heading for what looked like a low range of hills. The peaks were flat and snowbound, but at least they p
rovided some break from the endless ice plains.

  “Watch that one!” cried Orand.

  One of the buffalo veered suddenly to the left. As if aware that he was the weak link, the vast creature headed straight for Ronon. Hooves thundered, and snow shook from the creature’s flanks. The gap between them narrowed frighteningly quickly. For a brief instant, the Satedan looked directly into its eyes. They were tiny and red with rage. Its huge shaggy flanks shook as it plowed heavily through the snow, throwing up torrents of ice. It was coming straight for him.

  His legs feeling like lead, Ronon turned and ran. He powered clumsily through the snow, following Orand’s course as best he could. The buffalo bore down on him and Ronon could feel the spatters of snow as they were thrown against his back. Despite the cold, sweat pooled against his back. His heart hammered, and his lungs strained. This was too close.

  Suddenly, there was an echoing cry of distress from the charging beast. Ronon risked a look over his shoulder. A spear had been thrown. The buffalo listed to its right, limping suddenly on its forelegs. The shaft of a jar’hram protruded from its shoulder. The spear must have been thrown with amazing force to penetrate the hide of the beast.

  Ronon stumbled, trying to get his bearings. The rest of the herd was still close, but their formation had become confused. The wounded buffalo was separated from the others, but not by very much. Everything was still in motion. Hunters darted around the fringes of the herd. The animals themselves still lumbered onwards, desperate to escape the pack of predators in their midst.

  “This is the one!” shouted Orand, gesturing towards the buffalo with the spear in its flank.

  The other animals seemed to sense it. The juveniles headed away from the stricken creature as quickly as they could. The herd was still determined to get away. Some of the hunters ran between the body of the herd and the separated animal, waving their spears and whooping wildly. It looked insanely dangerous, but their daring runs did the trick; the herd was splintering, losing its cohesion and allowing the other hunters to have a free run at the isolated buffalo.