Lucky for all the other planes.
Shame he couldn't have ended up on one of those.
Behind him a group of laborers arrived to remove the corpse. They looked all but identical, barrel-chested with short, sturdy legs and long, muscular arms; they communicated in grunts-a marginally functional crew of hominids, bred for menial labor. Watching them at their task worked Ronon's nerves raw. He clenched his fists, unclenched them. Inside his consciousness the Behemoth snarled, then went quiescent, sated and content.
After a thorough assessment of Ronon's health and physical parameters, the Ancestors had determined he was suited to join their army, should he wish to do so. He had wished. It was something he knew, after all, perhaps even companionship and a place to belong. Besides, where else could he have gone? A million miles in the opposite direction might have been a good idea, but at the time nobody had told him that he'd be signing his soul away.
A low infrasonic rumble sent a bone-deep tremor through him, set his teeth on edge, and scattered the pointless what-ifs he'd been wallowing in.
"Hey!" One of the soldiers who'd led the boy to execution slapped Ronon's shoulder. "Wake up! Change of plans." The man pointed upward at a troop transporter.
Rapidly descending through the atmosphere, it slowed only when it seemed to skim the peaks of the mountain range beyond and pushed itself in front of the sinking sun, a massive night-black bulk outlined in blood-red. The vessel came to a halt directly above the town, some sixty feet up, plumes of smoke catching under its glistening belly. No lofty speeches on the subject of crime and retribution from on high this time. Given that the town was all but dead, it would have been a waste of cliches. Instead, three explosive metallic clangs signaled the unbolting of the loading hatch as soon as the vessel had come to a complete standstill.
As the twenty feet wide ramp began reaching for the ground beneath, Ronon sensed the call of the Behemoth, forcing the troops to assemble. He quickly scanned the crowd closing in around him. Only about a thousand men. Half the number that had been brought here. So the rest would be left behind to secure the town and its surroundings. Not that any of this mattered, but he liked to be aware of these things.
The bottom edge of the ramp touched the ground, surprisingly gently, chasing up tiny swirls of dust. Across the square the flap of the tent flew back and the Commander emerged, picking bits of food from his teeth. Knowing what the man had been dining on, Ronon choked back a bout of revulsion and pulled his attention elsewhere.
Just as well, for ahead of him the men had started to fall into formation to move up the ramp, shoulder to shoulder, six to a line. He joined them, grateful to be leaving this place-although he was quite aware of the fact that, wherever they were deployed, it'd only be more of the same. Always would be, but at least he got a chance to switch off in the meantime. His original assignment had been to remain planetside and instill terror in the denizens of the neighboring towns and villages.
"Move out!" bellowed the Commander. Going by the bleariness of his remaining eye-a cat's eye, yellow and cold-he was half drunk.
Ronon's bleak mood darkened further when he realized that the Commander would be joining them. In real terms nothing could be more terrifying than the Behemoth, which made the half-blind bastard pretty much redundant, but Ronon still was careful around him. The man was a sadist, and needlessly invit ing grief never did anybody any good.
The line in front started heading up the ramp, and he fell into step. A few minutes later he was inside the familiar dark bowels of the transporter, and a synthetic voice from somewhere above allocated him to A39-D. The man to his left gave a jealous grunt, while Ronon himself stood frozen for a moment, blinking in surprise. He'd realized early on that the allocation of bunks couldn't possibly be random. Probability dictated that, if it were, he should have ended up with the same neighbor at least once in all those years. Instead there'd always been unfamiliar faces in the surrounding bunks. Friendship, even camaraderie, among the men was discouraged, because closeness among the rank and file might encourage mutiny. As long as the soldiers believed they were each on their own, they would protect themselves by obeying absolutely. It made you wonder whether the Ancestors fully trusted the power of the Behemoth.
All of which meant that there was a reason why Ronon Dex had been assigned a prime bunk. Perhaps some perverse punishment for his mildly seditious thoughts earlier. This trip might last just long enough to acquaint him with comfort, and the three-week jaunt immediately following would see him banished to a hole above the latrine.
In the meantime, however, he might as well make the best of it.
His mind made up, Ronon jogged down the corridor leading off to the right. First advantage ofA39-D, it was on the lowest deck, closest to the ramp, meaning you could sleep nearly an hour after the guys on the upper decks had their reveille and got ready to move out.
The corridor branched out into several others, and the air lost the modicum of freshness it had had nearer the hatch. But the stench of burning flesh was gone, too, replaced by a subtle aroma of ozone and lubricant that spelled recycled oxygen. His serial number lit up on the wall of a hallway to the left, and Ronon followed the marker down two more corridors. When the glowing number came to a halt and winked out, he knew that the A39-D was better than good. It was the top bunk right at the back of a dead end. There'd be absolutely no traffic past him during the trip.
No longer bothering to hide a grin, Ronon climbed up into the bunk. Overhead gleamed another figure: 7. He acknowledged and grabbed the rations tube that sat on the blanket. McKay had constantly complained about what they'd called MREs, but Ronon would have killed for one of those. The taste might be odd, but at least they had some kind of taste and texture, unlike the perfectly balanced, perfectly flavorless paste contained in the rations tube.
By the time he'd eaten and disposed of the tube, the overhead counter stood at 1. He rolled out of the bunk again and made it to the section's cleansing cubicle just as Number Six's cycle was up. The inside of the cubicle was just large enough to accommodate one man. Carefully filtered radiation dissolved his filthy combat overalls and burned blood and dirt off his skin and hair. Not quite the same luxury as a hot shower, but the troop transporters didn't have the storage capacity to carry anything other than drinking water. The cycle lasted two minutes, at the end of which the cubicle released a fresh set of coveralls. Grateful to have shed the stink of death at least for a little while, Ronon returned to his bunk.
Chasing sleep, he lay on his back and listened to the scuttlebutt drifting from other bunks. Mostly idle gossip, but sometimes you could catch a nugget of real information. Tonight the conversation centered on the nature of the deployment.
"I overheard a communications specialist," one of the voices, a very young one, stated importantly. "We're going back to Atlantis."
It raised a couple of snorts. "Sure. That's why they're in such a hurry."
"They should be." The young voice sounded indignant now. "The guy said someone came through the Stargate"
In the roar of laughter that followed nobody heard the hissing breath Ronon sucked in.