The Chosen

Chapter Twelve

Well, that answered one question. The EM fields couldn’t block Teyla’s sensitivity to the Wraith. Of course, if the Chosen had mostly been hunted down and killed — which was entirely possible now that they couldn’t sequester themselves in the Enclave — there was no telling how many of the Shields were still in use.

In the near distance, John could hear the sounds of pitched hand-to-hand combat drawing closer. The heavy clomp of boots pounding the cobblestones rounded the corner of a narrow lane, and six people spilled out into the square. There was a momentary pause before the wild-eyed front-runner pointed to the team and screamed, “Kill them! They are of the Chosen!”

“What?” Rodney squealed. “No! We’re not Chosen. See?” He pulled his now filthy jacket aside to show that he wasn’t wearing a Shield.

The rabble, insane with bloodlust, weren’t about to enter into a discussion. Fortunately, some of them were armed with the team’s P-90s and sidearms. Since they brandished the weapons like clubs, John could only conclude that Gat and Balzar’s goon squad had been overrun, and, having taken the guns as spoils of of the infighting, their new owners apparently had no idea how to use them.

One of the men, an overweight and bulbous-nosed guy who looked like he’d spent most of his life propped up against some bar, made the by-now common mistake of thinking that Teyla was easy game. As he bent low to tackle her, she dispatched him with a sickening kick to his head, and wrenched the P-90 from his grasp before he’d even hit the ground. John took out a further two in quick succession, while Ford disarmed a fourth, breaking the guy’s arm in the process.

During the scuffle, the last two had managed to herd Rodney and Lisera to the far side of the square. Hampered by her leg cast, Lisera fell. Rodney dove on top of her, screaming something unintelligible, trying to protect her and drag her out of the way at the same time. Breaking into a run, John raised his now reacquired P-90—and cursed. The magazine was empty. Ford must have been having the same problem, because he was pulling off his pack, scrambling for a new magazine. Neither of them was going to reload in time, and it was doubtful that John would reach Rodney before the men, but he had to try.

A ghostly image caught the edge of his vision, along with that creeped-out sensation that the Wraith used to confuse their prey. “No, Major!” With the reflexes of a cat, Teyla knocked him to the ground — just out of the path of a Wraith beam, which scooped up McKay’s axe-wielding attackers.

“God! That was close.” Half carrying Lisera, Rodney staggered upright and stared up at the sky. “The Darts can only mean that nobody’s deploying the defensive fields.”

Accepting Teyla’s outstretched hand, John swung to his feet, caught the spare magazine that Ford tossed him, and reloaded his weapon. “Which means the Chosen are probably all dead.”

“What about Yann’s rebels, and Balzar, and whoever-the-hell else received the gene therapy?” asked Rodney, his eyes wide in desperation.

A good question, with a not-so-good answer. “Anyone carrying around one of those activated Shields is painting a bulls-eye on his chest.”

Rodney’s face scrunched in disbelief. “You mean nobody’s protecting this place?”

“Not quite no one.” Teyla pointed to the east, where a Dart plummeted into the ground. They couldn’t see where it hit, but the explosion was more than satisfactory.

“We need to find—” John’s words were cut off when more people ran screaming through the square, trying, and failing, to outpace another Wraith beam. In the distance, he heard several more explosions as Darts encountered EM fields. The once blue sky was filled with plumes of smoke. “More Shields,” he finished, shouting above the noise.

Dozens, possibly hundreds of people were now streaming into the square. From the opposite direction, a smaller band of warriors emerged and met them head-on in a furious assault. After a moment, John realized that the warriors were not actually attacking, but instead were determinedly heading in the team’s direction, defending themselves as they came. Defensive tactics or not, the disciplined warriors, better armed and better protected, were methodically cutting the disorganized rabble to pieces when another Wraith Dart sped overhead. The emerging blue beam carved a path through both groups alike, sucking up bodies like an airborne harvester.

“This is insane!” Rodney yelled as the team backed into what looked like a blacksmith’s shop. “Absolutely, unquestionably nuts!”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of urban warfare,” John called back. “Lisera, do you know where there are any Shields?”

White-faced with terror, Lisera nodded jerkily, and pointed to the mangled and limbless torsos now scattered about the square. Battle-axes made for decisive work in close combat. “When the Enclave was destroyed and the cache of Shields ransacked, many claimed the Shields for themselves, and wear them as proof that they are not of the Chosen.”

That kind of ass-backward reasoning was another thing he probably should have expected. “Okay. Rodney, stay here with Lisera. Ford, Teyla?”

“On it, sir.” Ford was already outside, turning over the first body.

“Major?” Teyla found a Shield on her first attempt, and tossed it to him just as another Dart came bearing down on them. With all the grace of a grand piano — which was surprising, given its aerodynamic shape — the Dart abruptly lost altitude and clipped the edge of a tall building. It tumbled end over end through a narrow street, mowing down a dozen rebels — or maybe they were Gat’s bully boys, it was hard to be sure from this angle — and came to a halt in a spectacular heap against the stone fountain in the middle of the square.

The crash seemed to have quenched the rabble’s desire for fighting. Like cockroaches, they vanished back into the dark, narrow-gutted alleyways. The warriors reformed into ranks, while the tallest of them, sporting a large blue chevron on his breastplate, pointed to John and called, “The Chosen from Atlantis!”

Muttering in relief and surprise, the warriors ran across the square to join them. The guy with the chevron removed his horned helmet, tucked it under one arm, and, stepping over a smoking chunk of the crashed Dart, slapped a bloodied fist across his chest. Presumably it was some sort of salute, because he dropped to one knee before John, and added, “By your will, Chosen one. We heard you were here and, praying to Dalera that you had been spared, came to release you.”

Great, now he had an army. “Okay, well, where I come from a salute is enough. We’re not into the kneeling thing. What’s your name?”

“Ushat,” he replied, standing and replacing his helmet. “I am the leader of Dalera’s warriors.”

“I’m Major John Sheppard.” He pointed to Ford and Teyla, and introduced them.

One of the warriors abruptly cried out. Jumping back like he’d been scalded, the man swung his axe down onto the ground, again and again, scattering pieces of wreckage. His companions laughed uneasily at him, until Ushat called out, “Enough.”

Poking his head from the blacksmith’s door, Rodney called, “Did you find—?”

Ford tossed him another Shield. An expression of disgust on his face, Rodney gingerly held the device between his fingers. “What is this stuff all over…”His voice trailed off.

John followed Ushat across to where a few chunks of Wraith arm still twitched on the ground. The warrior who’d been doing the chopping was still looking around nervously.

“Search the wreckage,” Ushat ordered his men.

“Good thinking.” John readied his weapon while the warriors began clambering over the twisted hunks of metal. “A little thing like a missing arm isn’t going to stop a Wraith.” How anything could have survived that crash was beyond him, but underestimating the general stubbornness of the Wraith always was a losing proposition.

“Here,” a warrior called out. He was standing behind the canopy. “The monster lives!” He raised his axe.

“No!” John yelled, running around the remains of the fountain. “Maybe he can tell us something.”

With the raised axe paused above his head, the warrior looked past John’s shoulder.

Ushat, who was right on John’s six, replied, “Major Sheppard speaks true. Stand aside.”

John had seen a lot of less-than-pleasant sights in his time. Hell, the entire square was littered with bodies and unattached pieces. The horror here was that the Dart’s pilot was still alive. That is, what was left of him. With both of his arms severed, the Wraith had been unable to reach the self-destruct device on his chest. And he wasn’t exactly able to wander off anywhere, what with having no legs, and not much of a pelvis to speak of. Despite his loathing of the things, John’s instinct was to put it out of its misery with a bullet to the head.

Seemingly oblivious to its injuries, the Wraith, still strapped to the remains of the seat, hissed at him. “Come closer and let me feed upon you.”

“Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but you’re kind of missing a few vital parts. Or are those big teeth for something more than show?”

Snarling in disgust, the Wraith flung his head from side to side, trying to dislodge himself. “Your puny defenses will not stop us.”

“Stopped you, didn’t it? Darts are pretty much falling out of the sky all over the place.”

Abruptly, his thrashing ceased, and his head slumped forward onto his chest.

“Remove its head,” said Ushat, nodding to the warrior.

“Looks dead to me, sir,” Ford said, wincing.

“Can’t say as I blame them for wanting to make certain.” John turned aside before the axe slammed down. The absence of Darts now flying around the city didn’t reassure him nearly as much it should have. With that thought, he turned back and crouched down to stare at the inside of the Dart’s canopy.

“Sir?” Ford squatted next to him.

Something like a HUD flickered intermittently, almost as if it was stuck on a recycle mode. John was about to call Rodney to come check it out when the display sputtered and died — but not before he’d caught sight of a gut-wrenching image.

Beside him, he heard Ford inhale sharply. “Was that what I think it was?”

“What is it that you saw?” Ushat demanded.

“Unless I’m mistaken,” John replied, standing and stepping down off the wreckage, “there are two hive ships inbound.”

“That bodes ill, but it is no surprise.” Ushat turned and looked around at the scattered bodies of rebels and Gat’s minions. Spitting in disgust, or maybe to get the bitter taste of defeat out of his mouth, he added, “Kesun told me that when this day came, the Wraith would feed upon the souls of the damned at night, and then, having acquired the strength of their life, attack the Citadel at dawn.”

Rodney, still supporting Lisera, had joined Teyla, whose face was drawn and thoughtful. “Okay. All right,” said Rodney. “We should rethink our escape plan.”

John slowly turned to face him. “Five minutes ago, you wanted to stay and broker a peace deal between everyone.”

“Yes, well, I think it’s fairly obvious by now that my ideals can easily be swayed when faced with a vanishingly small probability of survival.”

Teyla exhaled heavily. “I doubt that escape is now possible. Frustrated by their inability to cull those within the Citadel, the Wraith will most likely spend the night scouring the areas unprotected by the Shields.”

“The villages,” Ford said.

“I think the jumper option’s off the table. Even assuming we could negotiate our way through a city in the throes of anarchy—” John gestured toward what sounded like more street fighting headed their way. “—and fight through the Wraith to get to the jumper, we can’t fly it while we’re carrying the Shields.”

Rodney’s face slumped in resigned frustration. “And the chances of surviving a gauntlet of Dart sweeps are next to non-existent.”

Clearly troubled by the conversation, Ushat asked, “You wish to leave us?”

Offering up what he hoped was a reassuring smile, John replied. “Just figuring out if we could go for help.”

“From Atlantis?” Ushat’s eyes turned hopeful.

“Unfortunately, that’s not going to be possible.” John addressed his team. “The only way through this is to help these people defend the Citadel against the Wraith. And we’re going to have to hope we can do that before Dr Weir sends in the backup teams, or they’ll be getting our first look at a hive ship — and probably not live long enough to tell anyone about it.”

The sounds of street fighting drew closer. John glanced at the ruined Enclave. “Is there anything — anyone left?”

Ushat’s lips curled in regret. John recognized the look in the man’s eyes. The Daleran had seen a lot of people die in the last few hours, people he’d been charged to protect. “Knowing that the Wraith would strike in large numbers,” Ushat explained, “Kesun this morning ordered every one of Dalera’s warriors to assist with repairs to our weakest point, the old eastern wall. Gat and the other barbarian chiefs chose that moment to make their move against the Chosen, whom they have besmirched.” His face hardened in anger. “Gat has long demanded payment from villagers before allowing them to enter the transports. Many times I told Kesun that we must stamp out this abhorrent practice, for Dalera charged her warriors and priests to accept only gifts and to never demand payment. But…” He paused and looked at his men. “It was our most sacred law, never to turn our hands against the people. Only against the Wraith.”

John was certain he could see the big man’s lips tremble behind his blond beard. “Until now, fear of the Wraith had checked their hands,” Ushat continued. “But somehow, Gat’s followers managed to penetrate the Enclave. They butchered most of the Chosen in their sleep, after which they set the rooms ablaze, fueling the flames with blackwater. Ah!” He slammed the head of his axe into the ground in frustrated rage. “How they could have done this only Dalera knows, for none but the Chosen have the divine power to enter the Enclave.”

Rodney’s face had adopted that ‘guilty-as-charged’ look that he was so good at. It was a moot point, though. The servants — or slaves — that they’d seen stashing the food away had obviously belonged to Gat, but Rodney had been right about the condition of the temple. Someone had been doing the cleaning and polishing. Then there was the little matter of that additional control panel in the transport.

Examining the Enclave, John noted that while it was mounted on a plateau, there were probably countless ways in. This wasn’t the time or the place to get into a philosophical discussion about divinity, so he opted for the less problematic suggestion. “Even if they couldn’t use the transports, couldn’t Gat’s men have just walked in the front doors?”

As if the thought had never occurred to him, Ushat blinked rapidly. “It is forbidden. Dalera would not allow it.” But his words had lost the conviction they might have had, oh, say, twenty-four hours ago.

Teyla had found a third Shield, and after wiping off most of the gore, handed it to Lisera.

Ushat’s eyes widened, and John followed his gaze to the now glowing Shield in the girl’s hand. “Then it is true!” An expression of hope broke across the warrior’s face. “Some amongst the people do indeed carry the divine power. Kesun spoke of this after you departed.”

“Of what else did he speak?” Teyla asked with a speculative look at Rodney.

“That it was not only the barbarian rulers and the people who must return to Dalera’s teachings, but also the Chosen. Kesun was certain that many Chosen would be found among the people. The children’s children of Chosen, born in secret during the times when barbarians ruled, as they did until this day. He had intended to test his beliefs as soon as you returned with Lisera.” Glancing up at the still-smoking remains of the Enclave, Ushat’s expression crumpled. “Now it is too late, for the mindless horde knows only revenge. By killing Gat and ordering my men to defend themselves against the rabble, I too have broken our most sacred law, that we should never turn our hand against Dalerans.”

John clamped his jaw shut. Rodney’s face was also crumpling. The scientist’s depressive funk while they’d been imprisoned was descending to a new level of self-recrimination. But remorse was an indulgence they didn’t have time for. It was getting dark. Assuming Kesun was right about a Wraith ground assault, they had until morning to implement a defensive strategy.

A bloody-faced man with torn clothing ran into the square. The warriors turned and raised their weapons. Panicked, the man took one look at the warriors, pulled a glowing Shield from his pocket, and held it aloft with a scream. “Save me. I am of the Chosen!”

The mob on his heels was brandishing torches, howling for his blood. “Quarter him. Quarter the Chosen and take off his head!”

Ushat snarled and pointed his halberd at the man that John barely recognized in the fading light. “You.”

“Yann!” Lisera cried.

“My, how the tables have turned,” Rodney remarked, his features stony.

Yann stumbled to a stop, his face screwed up against his appalling choices. Behind him, a mob wanted to hack him to pieces — literally. In front, warriors were already spreading out, cutting off any chance of his escaping down some rat hole. “I…didn’t mean for this to happen. This is not what I planned!” he cried.

“Oh, spare me the echo,” Rodney snapped. He rounded on Ushat. “If you kill him—”

“I know,” Ushat growled. “Protect the murderous rebel. Do not harm him — yet.”

Despite the warriors’ obvious anger, they were too well disciplined to disobey an order, and they formed a protective phalanx around Yann. ÒI went back to the village, to try and save everyone, as is the Chosen’s duty,Ó the merchant babbled. ÒBut none remained. The village is overrun with Wraith!Ó

Which meant the jumper option was definitely out. They were left with only one choice: stand with the Dalerans to repel the Wraith, preferably before the Marines arrived in — John glanced at his watch — less then forty hours.

Confronted by the business end of fifty or more halberds, the crowd hesitated. Someone from behind cried out, “The Chosen and the warriors have failed to protect us. Kill them all!”

More shouts followed, grim cries from people who had lost wives, husbands, children, their homes and livelihoods. With nothing left to lose, these people wanted vengeance, and they wanted it in spades.

Someone must have spotted the glowing Shields in John and Rodney’s hands, because the mob’s attention suddenly deflected to them. John was getting awfully tired of fickle villagers. He was about to yell something, when Ushat announced, “They are not Chosen. They are from Atlantis!”

That took the wind out of the mob’s sails long enough for a loud voice at the rear to cry, “This way. I have heard there are more Chosen hiding in their Stations in the north.”

Rodney shook his head. “Somebody had better explain to them that unless they stop killing Chosen—”

“I think we get the picture, doc,” Ford muttered.

“Wait!” called a decently dressed guy from the front of the pack. “What if the Atlanteans have come to help us?”

“Risk your own neck to find out, but you will not risk mine.”

Scuffles began to break out. As darkness fell, the smoke that curled around the city had been replaced by the angry glow of fires. John recognized the signs. For some, the blood lust was fading and reality was beginning to set in. Their leaders had slaughtered the only people who could protect them from the Wraith and then had themselves been slaughtered. The city was in flames, and now the Wraith were on top of them. It had to have been the worst timed revolution in the history of any world.

In an aside to John, Ushat said quietly, “Can you help us?”

“Maybe. First, I need to find a map, preferably like the one Kesun showed me.”

“Excuse me?” Rodney demanded, having bounced out of depression into indignation. “You want to go sightseeing?”

“If I’m gonna have to defend this city from a Wraith attack in—” He glanced at two large planets rising over the eastern horizon. “How long until dawn?”

“Twelve hours,” Ushat replied.

“For that, I need a map.” John glanced at the squabbling crowd. “And a lot of cooperation.”

Ushat’s eyes narrowed, and he focused on someone in the rabble. “That man is one of the Citadel’s engineers. He has access to maps and plans.”

A movement caught John’s attention. He looked up to see Teyla climbing over the wreckage of the Dart. “With your help,” she called down to everyone, “we might yet defend the Citadel against the Wraith. Their winged beasts fall from the sky even though the Chosen are all dead. But you must do as Dalera intended, and work together, for having vanquished this Wraith just moments ago—” She gestured at the wreckage. A sudden hush fell over the square. “We now know that a great cull will take place at dawn. The choice is yours. Surrender to the madness of the Wraith, or work through the night to save what we can.”

It seemed to Rodney that no place in the Citadel provided an an escape from the eye-watering odors. Currently his senses were battling against the stench of charred… Actually, it was something that he didn’t want to consider all that carefully. Unfortunately the public works building to which they’d been led was directly downwind from the ruined Enclave. A dank chamber with little open space and even less light, he had to admit that the building’s ambiance was a considerable improvement over their prior lodgings.

Spread out before them on a worktable was a detailed map, hand drawn on some massive animal’s skin. Against his will, Rodney’s mind catalogued the unknown smell as rancid, oily, and possibly related to aforementioned hide. Oh, for the salt-laden air of a balconied room in Atlantis.

Sheppard was talking tactics and strategies with Ushat, along with a handful of men whom the warrior had identified as city engineers.

When he’d first met the Major, Rodney had assumed the man’s ever-present composure to be a sign that not much was going on upstairs, so to speak. He’d long since learned better. In a situation such as this, a calm Major was a very good thing.

After a moment of studying the map, Sheppard said to Ushat, “Do you have any way of signaling the rest of your men inside the Citadel?”

“We have a system of signals using the Wraith horn,” replied the warrior leader.

“Assuming that most, if not all of the Chosen are dead, our first priority is to locate and protect everyone who has the ATA gene, or who’s received the gene therapy.”

The Dalerans’ faces blanked. Rodney suddenly had the urge to be ill. If Ushat learned that it had been Rodney’s idea to introduce the gene to all and sundry, he was a dead man. Of course, given their current situation, he was a dead man anyway. On the bright side, decapitation by axe would likely be less prolonged than having his life sucked out slowly by a Wraith. “Major,” Rodney uttered a warning through clenched teeth.

Chewing the inside of his lip, Sheppard glanced expectantly at Teyla. Great, now he was definitely a dead man.

“Kesun was correct,” Teyla explained. “Many of your people have inside of them what is called a gene, a small part of Dalera carried down through the generations. We brought with us from Atlantis a potion that when given to all would allow those who carry the gene to activate the Shields and the transport where once they could not.”

Could that woman talk, or what? The Dalerans crowded in the room murmured among themselves, greeting Teyla’s words with a sense of renewed purpose. Rodney was just about ready to kiss the Athosian’s graceful feet in gratitude — until Ushat’s gaze turned deadly. Fortunately, the warrior’s anger was directed elsewhere. “You stole this potion?” he snapped at Yann.

“Gat and Balzar decided that they deserved a place amidst the Chosen, and took it from us before we could use it,” Yann spat back.

Were they trying to give him a coronary? “How many times do I have to tell you? They’re not Chosen!”

“Rodney?” John fixed him with a murderous stare. “Shut up.”

“No! There’s a principle here. It’s a gene, not some divine gift that confers them with special privileges. The very name ‘Chosen’ inspires exactly the sort of pogroms that have pretty much guaranteed that everyone here is a dead—”

“We shall call ourselves Genes,” Yann announced.

He didn’t even know how to react to that. Genes? They were going to call themselves Genes? The men around him were nodding in agreement, muttering things like, “’Tis a good name.” Rodney opened his mouth to object, when Sheppard shot him a warning look. Well, he supposed it was better than Chosen.

“Now that’s settled,” said Sheppard. “Can we focus on saving everyone?”

“How many were given this potion?” Ushat asked.

“We carried enough for eighty,” replied Teyla.

“The gene therapy only works on forty-eight percent of the recipients,” Rodney began. “That’s—”

“Thirty-eight point four people,” Sheppard replied. “Unlike the Wraith, people need most of their body parts to operate, so let’s be conservative and say thirty-five.”

“Funny.”

“It will be less,” Ushat declared. “For I and my men killed Gat and many of the ruling chiefs.” He tossed an appraising eye at Yann. “If you did not receive this potion, how is it that the Shield glows for you?”

Meeting the warrior’s gaze, he replied, “When Kesun was struck down, his body fell atop mine. When I pushed him aside, I brushed the Shield, and it began to glow.”

The look in Ushat’s eyes changed. “Then you are indeed of the Chosen.”

A small smile crossed Yann’s lips. “Gene.”

“Okay, fine,” Rodney said impatiently, “now that we’ve all bonded, can we please get on with the plan?”

His head nodding in sage acquiescence, Ushat turned his attention back to the Major.

“See where these Stations are located?” Sheppard pointed to the specially marked buildings around the Citadel. “I’m betting that their height would extend the range of the EM fields.” He glanced at Rodney for confirmation.

“That would be true up to a point.”

“The Chosen once lived in all of the Stations,” Ushat said. “But it has not been that way since the time of the Great Plague.”

Well, that confirmed it. “If we can get people with Shields up in, say, these fifteen Stations—” Sheppard pointed to the marked buildings on the map. “I think we’d have a darned good coverage. It won’t be perfect, but given the low-level flight performance of those Darts, once they hit an EM field, they drop out of the sky fast. I don’t know that it would take too many crashes before they get the picture and back off entirely.”

“I could go to a Station,” Lisera offered. “There is one close by and I know the way.”

Ford went to object, but Rodney got in first. “The girl’s right. Those in the Stations don’t have to do anything except keep hold of the Shields and stay put.”

“I believe I know where most of the other Genes are hiding,” Yann said.

“In those areas where the Wraith Darts crashed?” Ford suggested.

“Not necessarily.” The Major shook his head. “Anyone holding an activated Shield is more or less marked for death, right?”

Yann nodded curtly and pointed to the map. “Here, inside the transports around the city, is the only place where the Genes are safe.”

Sheppard’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “We need eight Chosen—” He cast a quick, apologetic smile at Rodney. “Genes, to man the tallest, outer Stations first. That will cover a good portion of the perimeter.”

“The five transports near each of the bridges are somewhat smaller, and open to the market squares,” Yann added.

“To facilitate movement of goods coming into the Citadel by foot.” Teyla nodded in understanding.

“I believe it is where the other Genes have hidden.”

“Okay.” John turned to Lisera. “Let’s have you man this Station here, and as Yann locates more Genes, they can take the others. Next, and before we man these inner Stations, we need to deploy Genes to the outlying towns and villages, to evacuate everyone — and I do mean everyone — into the Citadel.”

“What?” One of the engineer’s faces hardened. “We do not have time to concern ourselves with the lives of those outside.”

“Particularly barbarians,” growled Yann in agreement.

“Well, you better start making time,” snapped the Major.

“He’s right,” added Rodney. “You lose all your farmers and fishermen, what are you going to eat once this is over?”

Sheppard waved his hand dismissively. “That’s the least of their problems. It’s like Kesun told Ushat. For every person you leave outside the Citadel, that’s one more meal for a Wraith. That’s why Dalera didn’t want anyone farming or settling outside of the protected areas. The people who live in unprotected lands, the ones you call barbarians, endanger everyone, because they become sustenance for the enemy. And it’s for that very reason that you can’t leave them behind. I’m betting that in the days when warriors lived outside the Citadel, the whole purpose of this—” He gently rapped a knuckle against Ushat’s chest armor. “—was designed to prevent a little Wraith snacking on the run. The more people we leave outside for the Wraith to harvest during the night, the more we’re potentially aiding the enemy. That could make a difference when the main assault force hits us at dawn.

“Now.” Sheppard turned to Yann. “I know Gat set up those food storage areas purely for himself and his cronies, but we can still use them. Depending on how long this siege is likely to last, we’ll also need to bring as much fresh food as possible, including livestock, inside the Citadel.”

“We will also need water from the village of Nemst.” Another engineer type pointed to a village sitting on the river northwest of the Citadel.

“Why?” Rodney demanded. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re surrounded by two perfectly good river channels.”

The man’s fingers moved across the map to the western mountains. “During the spring melt, which is upon us now, the waters rise, bringing with them a sheen of colored rainbow lights. The fish die in great numbers. We cannot drink from the rivers when the lights appear.”

“Rainbow lights?” What the hell was that supposed to indicate?

“It lasts but a short time. The children are fascinated by the colors, but when they look close, they, too, see that the rainbows hide black clouds in the water. Where it rests in the rocks and hollows by the shore, the destitute collect every drop of this blackwater and sell it in the markets. The quality is poor, for the people of Nemst also collect blackwater from the vast pools within Black Hill.”

Yann’s humorless laugh was laced with scorn. “Nemst thrives not because of its iron, but because Gat led us to believe the Chosen demanded blackwater to keep their lights and ovens burning in winter.”

That was the second time someone had mentioned blackwater. Rodney was struck with a flash of comprehension. “Oil!”

“I do not know this word,” said the engineer.

“Nor do I,” Ushat added.

“A black liquid that floats on water and burns when you light it?”

The Dalerans exchanged looks, the animosity between them apparently forgotten. “It is as you describe,” Yann said.

Rodney’s mind was racing ten steps ahead of his ability to articulate his ideas. This answered the question of why most of the fountains he’d seen around the city looked well used, but were currently dry. Once again, Ford decided to contribute the obvious. “The high water level during spring floods must wash over an exposed oilfield.”

“Another astounding observation by the Lieutenant. Give the man a brownie.” Rodney ignored Ford’s indignant expression and turned to the engineer. “Where’s this Black Hill?”

The man’s finger barely moved. “It lies between the Citadel and Nemst.”

There was nothing even vaguely like a scale on the map. Impatiently, Rodney snapped, “Yes, of course it lies between them, otherwise Nemst wouldn’t have untainted water. But how far away? One mile? Ten? A hundred?”

“What does it matter?” Yann shrugged. “A transport will bring us there within moments.”

“So that’s your grand plan?” Ford’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “Pour boiling oil on the Wraith when they storm the battlements?”

“How stunningly medieval of you.” Rodney began pacing. Rapid thinking was always easier when he was active. So was scoffing at unhelpful teammates. “They teach you that in field training? Of course we’re not going to just pour boiling oil on them. If, on the other hand, we can release enough oil to cover the river—”

Suddenly, Sheppard’s interest was tweaked. “We can set it on fire.”

As soon as the plan was verbalized, a potential roadblock occurred to Rodney. He let out a frustrated bark. “No, no, that’s not good. Assuming this ‘blackwater’ is crude oil, up to half of it would evaporate.”

“So?”

“We’d blanket the entire Citadel with a host of volatiles even more toxic than the polyaromatic hydrocarbons and assorted carcinogenic particulates that would erupt even before we set a match to it. And once ignited, the smoke would make the Citadel and probably the surrounding area completely uninhabitable. The ecological consequences would make the Exxon Valdez incident look like a bottle of spilled ink. I’d probably suffocate. Then you’d have no one to save your over-coiffed ass.”

Sheppard’s eyes narrowed at the concept rather than the jibe. “What about just part of the river?”

Running a hand across his jaw, Rodney examined the map. “What direction does the wind normally blow?”

“From the mountains,” replied Ushat.

“The west,” Rodney affirmed.

“I thought a compass was useless in an EM field?” remarked Ford.

“It’s purely a point of geographical reference.”

Looking at the engineer, Sheppard asked, “What’s the weakest part of the Citadel’s walls?”

The Daleran pointed to the wall on the opposite side of the Citadel, the east. “With enough men, if we work through the night, we could strengthen the fortifications.”

“No, that’s the perfect location,” said Sheppard. “The weaker, the better.”

Teyla frowned. “I do not understand.”

“The Wraith pilot said that the main force was coming at dawn,” explained the Major, his gaze focused on a point far distant. “Since it has to be a ground attack — they won’t risk Darts after the first few crashes — they’d go for the weakest point, preferably with the sun behind them. That’s the eastern side. If we could set fire to just that quadrant of the river, the prevailing westerly winds will drive the smoke directly back over the attacking forces.”

The Dalerans’ enthusiasm for the idea was obvious, and mutters of approval circulated the room.

“The transport in Nemst is close to Black Hill,” said Yann. “For the barrels of blackwater are heavy.”

“We’re going to need considerably more than a few barrels for a sustained blaze,” Rodney warned, trying not to be irritated by the fact that no one seemed to be locking on to the plan. “The entire point of my original question was to establish how long it would take for a large quantity of oil to travel down the length of the channels either side of the Citadel.”

A second engineer slapped Rodney’s back with enough force to herniate several discs. “Of course! An ambitious but achievable strategy. From Black Hill, you can see the river’s divide. The North Channel travels at a fast walking pace — four hours to reach the far end of the Citadel, and rejoin the South Channel.”

Yann scratched a bloody scab on his cheek. “I have seen myself the great pools of blackwater.”

“You have?” Rodney’s head shot up. “How big are they?”

“It is hard to say, for they are underground, but they are not nearly as large as Quickweed Lake.”

“Lake?” Sheppard said. “I didn’t see any lake, black or otherwise, when we flew over. Just farms and meadows.”

“Quickweed Lake lies close to the northeast face of the Citadel,” said Ushat with an understanding nod. “Strange mosses grow across its surface, giving it the appearance of a pasture. When the unwary tread upon its surface, they do not progress far before they begin to sink within a sticky black mud.”

“Mud?”

“It is used in our boats and buildings. Many a farmer’s animal has been lost to Quickweed Lake, and not a few wayfarers, for the ground appears solid until it is too late.”

All but dancing in excitement, Rodney shouted, “Tar pits!” He ignored the Major’s raised eyebrows, and demanded, “Where?”

“Here.” The warrior pointed to a long, inverted C-shaped patch not far from the northern bridge leading into the Citadel. It extended down past the area that would be blanketed in smoke.

“With the prevailing wind, once the river is burning,” Sheppard said, “the Wraith will either fall back the way they came.” His finger pointed east. “Or they’ll be forced to head north—”

“Directly into Quickweed Lake!” Ushat gave an approving nod to Sheppard and Rodney.

“I can’t see them going home hungry,” Ford declared.

Rodney nodded. “On that point we agree, Lieutenant.”

“Which is why we concentrate our forces right here, in this narrow section between the tip of Quickweed Lake and the North Channel.” Sheppard tapped the location on the map.

“You wish us to confront the Wraith outside the Citadel?” Ushat looked at him in horror.

Yann’s expression turned sour, and he took a step toward the other Daleran. “We have been forced to confront them in our homes and our villages, while your warriors remained hiding behind these walls—”

“Okay, okay,” the Major interrupted. “I thought we’d agreed to get past the finger-pointing stage. This is not going to be an unplanned confrontation. Even better, we’ll entice them in that direction by deliberately keeping this side of the Citadel free of the EM fields and leaving the bridge unprotected. They probably won’t risk using their Darts this close to the walls, but they’ll assume they can use their stun weapons to capture people.”

The look in Ushat’s eyes did not exactly reflect boundless enthusiasm.

“Listen,” Sheppard added, making short, firm gestures for emphasis. “The Wraith have absolutely no intention of killing anyone — at least not at the outset. They’re interested only in harvesting live food, preferably in good condition.”

“Still, to go unprotected—”

“Not unprotected. This is where we concentrate all the warriors, and anyone else who can: A, fit into that chest armor; B, wield those nets and bolas your men carry around; and,” he added, glancing around at the Dalerans, “C, take orders. The idea is not to engage in hand-to-hand combat, but to set up a trap. The Wraith will see a bunch of people, presumably villagers, running around trying to get to the undefended bridge near Quickweed Lake. They’ll also see that the EM fields aren’t covering much of the wall, especially in the area of North Bridge.”

Ford was nodding, warming to the plan. “When the Wraith get close enough, we activate an EM field to disable their stun rifles, and then counterattack with nets, driving them either into the flames or the lake.”

“This is a good strategy,” Teyla said, placing a gentle hand on Ushat’s arm. “I will go with you and stand by your side as we fight the Wraith.”

Rodney was watching Ushat’s eyes. The engineers were crowding in behind, pointing to the map and suggesting refinements to the plan. They were buying it. He had to admit, it wasn’t a bad idea, even if he did so say himself.

“If we have to withdraw, we retreat to this village.” Sheppard’s fingers moved to a small hamlet about half a mile northwest. “From there we can use a transport to escape back into the Citadel. Then the rest of the North Channel can be set on fire. The winds will still blow most of the smoke away from the Citadel. Again, the Wraith will be unable to see. Hopefully a few more will end up in Quickweed Lake.”

“How can one set an entire river ablaze?” Teyla wondered.

“It’s been done before — not deliberately, but it happened several times to the Cuyahoga River,” Rodney said.

“Then how is it that you intend to contain the blaze to this section, between North Bridge and the eastern end of the Citadel, and not have it spread back up the entire length of North Channel and thence to the river?”

“We can do that with little difficulty,” another engineer said, stepping forward. “The stone bridges that span the channels into the Citadel also have weirs. When blackwater flows in the spring melt, we raise the weirs. This allows only clean water to travel down the channels through submerged tunnels, which can be opened or closed at will.”

“While the oil pools on the surface behind it. Excellent!” Rodney was a little surprised at the engineering skills demonstrated by such an archaic society. Still, he mused, the principles of weirs and canal locks had been used throughout Europe for hundreds, if not thousands of years.

“The system is not perfect,” the engineer continued. “Especially now, at the peak of the spring melt, some blackwater finds its way through. This is why we cut the flow of water to public fountains, and why Nemst must supply us with drinking water at this time of year.”

“I believe we can achieve more,” another man said. “Past the Citadel, where the North and South Channels rejoin, there is a dam. The southwestern bank of the river is a high cliff at this point, while the northeastern shore is low. We sometimes force the level of the water to greater heights, flooding the eastern fields, in order to grow certain crops. My men can control the flow so that the fields can be flooded with blackwater, while the freshwater is allowed to drain through the pipes beneath the dam.”

The Dalerans gripped each other’s arms in a fraternal gesture, their murmurs growing stronger and more confident. For the first time, Rodney was certain they’d hit upon a plan that could work. “If the fire jumps upstream, the smoke coming off it will still be driven away from the city.”

“Either way,” Sheppard reasoned, “the Wraith are going to be stumbling around blind. They’ll have to withdraw and regroup in order to attack from another direction, presumably with a number of their comrades doing a good impression of a woolly mammoth.”

“I doubt they would reattack, Major,” said Teyla. “The Wraith are unaccustomed to defeat. Once they see that they will not have such easy access to the Citadel as they assume, I believe they will withdraw entirely. There are other worlds out there whose inhabitants will be easier to cull.”

“If we timed it just right,” he replied with a dark grin, “we could wait until they’re climbing the walls and toast a few.”

Rodney closed his eyes. As if he hadn’t already seen enough trauma-inducing things to last a lifetime. “Thank you, Major. I really needed the image of a greenish marshmallow with bad hair forever etched in my mind.”

“Once again, it was your idea, Rodney. Even if it doesn’t kill them, it’s sure gonna make a mess of their attack plan.”

“Just one question, sir,” Ford began.

“Only one, Lieutenant?”

“How can you be certain you’ll be able to release enough oil?”

One of the engineers fielded the query. “The people of Nemst have had long battles to prevent the blackwater from flowing into the river. Even what little escapes during the spring melt finds its ways to the hands of those who sell it in the market.”

“Which reduces their profit,” said another. “Each year the Nemst engineers shore up the cliffs of Black Hill, praying to Dalera that little will escape. And when it does, the Chosen…” He paused and corrected himself. “Gat and the leaders of the Citadel told us that it was the Chosen who demanded that Nemst deliver fresh water to the city, until the blackwater passes. The villagers of Nemst are embittered by this demand. There has been much talk amongst them of releasing the fortifications that hold the blackwater in place.”

Rodney exchanged a glance with the Major, who tilted his head fractionally toward him, seemingly asking for one last confirmation. Upon receiving a brief nod, Sheppard crossed his arms. “Okay, folks, I think we have ourselves a plan. Now all we have to do is carry it out.” He glanced at his watch. “In a little under ten hours.”