His immediate impulse was to clamp both hands over his mouth. He hadn't just said that, had he? He couldn't have. So who? Rodney felt a dizzy bout of disorientation and it was all he could do not to scream.
The bureaucrat scowled at him through another stream of smoke from the braziers. "You may try to pretend to be insane, but you will confess quickly enough, and we shall apprehend your fellow heretics. I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but alas…"
Insane.
Maybe that's what it was. Maybe he wasn't pretending. Maybe he'd snapped.
The air that filled Rodney's lungs was nowhere near coinciding with his actual need for breath. Lightheaded, with limbs heavy as lead, he focused to squeeze out whomever or whatever seemed to have invaded his mind, hijacked his body. Insanity wasn't an option. His mind was all he had, all he'd ever had.
He saw himself discovering the ruins of Atlantis, saw his hand-his hand? — scratch a name onto a worktop.
Ikaros.
No!
Dr Meredith Rodney McKay.
That's who he was, and he wasn't going nuts!
Oblivious to the silent battle, the bureaucrat heaved himself from the chair and rose to his full height of five foot two and a half "Men wiser and less patient than I shall question you, and you shall not be able to thwart them. Take him to the city," he snapped at the militiamen.
Rodney barely registered the guards grabbing his arms-his arms? — and yanking him in the direction of the door. Either side the crowd parted, silent now, too busy shrinking from him to come up with witticisms like heretic or disciple of Maros. Here and there rose a murmur of disappointment from someone who'd been hoping for a companionable stoning to break up the tedium of the workday.
Outside it was still pouring, and the cold splashes of rain on his face helped him to regain some sense of reality. Maybe it had been the smoke inside the barn. Nothing fresh air couldn't fix, right?
As the guards dragged him across the yard, it suddenly occurred to him that Rilla and all the other interfering fools hadn't found the site where he'd buried Colonel Sheppard's remains. The thought cheered him up to a surprising degree.
Chapter ten
The steady background hum of the transporter's engines abruptly changed in pitch, telling Ronon that the ship had dropped out of hyperspace. At last. The night had been endless. Ever since that kid a few bunks down had mentioned the possibility of someone activating the Stargate, he been unable to stop his thoughts from churning.
Every child knew that the Stargate system no longer worked. Not reliably, anyway. At regular intervals some genius or other would dial up some gate address or other and vanish never to be seen again. Nobody had ever heard of anyone actually arriving through a gate.
Which was precisely the point that had kept him awake.
If someone had arrived, then who? And what did it mean`?
Not that he was overestimating his own importance, but there had to be a reason why they wanted him there. He could think of one-could but didn't, so as not to alert the Behemoth that kept slinking along the fringes of his mind like a panther, ready to pounce on any morsel Ronon might accidentally toss its way. Naturally, trying not to think of that particular reason was like trying not to think of pink Wraith after someone had expressly forbidden you to do so. The notion recurred again and again, wearing a different face each time, but in the end it always came back to another Charybdis survivor trying to find him.
And maybe this was just his longing for the only companionship he'd known since the Wraith had stuck a transmitter in his back and made him a runner, and he was giving himself away for nothing.
He slapped down the image of salvation and evacuated every thought from his mind, until he was completely focused on his body, regulating his heartbeat and breathing and relaxing one muscle after the other. Beneath his consciousness hovered a sense of the noises around him-men yawning, grunting, stirring in anticipation of the ship's arrival at its destination, wherever that was-and of the Behemoth hissing in annoyance at Ronon's refusal to offer up any information.
About an hour later and without warning, all sounds ceased. The transporter had come to a standstill, and the men momentarily stopped their rustling to listen to the silence. Then new noises erupted; soldiers throwing their gear or themselves off the bunks, slapping of shoulders, last-minute jostling for the latrine, excitement or frustration at having to move out again.
Still keeping his mind a blank, Ronon sat up, swung his legs off the bunk, strapped his sword to his back, and leaped to the ground. The current of soldiers engulfed him, and he let it, figuring that it was safest not to think and simply allow himself to drift. For however long it would last… He had a feeling that his period of grace was expiring fast.
The usual blockage at the top of the ramp, caused by men scrambling to line up for an orderly descent, seemed to be non-existent today. Within minutes he found himself squinting into harsh morning light barely tamped down by the shadows beneath the transporter's belly. When his eyes had adjusted, he saw that they were indeed back on Atlantis.
He could smell it, too. Crime and filth and poverty, seasoned with the heady scent of war. The transporter was stationary above one of the countless military embarkation areas. The area was surrounded by squat, ugly buildings in all shades of gray imaginable; barracks. Windowless, because the soldiers were so feared and hated by the general population that you could always find an eager soul willing to take out a man or two with one of those antiquated firearms people hid in seemingly inexhaustible stashes. Behind the barracks rose the black and silver towers of this city of Atlantis, stranded on dry land and nothing like the Atlantis he remembered. The cold orgy in metal and glass struck him as even more sinister than the eerily organic, half-digested design the Wraith had favored. The buildings loomed over you as if to remind you that you were being watched. Constantly and by unfriendly eyes. It was the same everywhere on the planet.
What set this landing site apart from all the others was the fact that it lay right at the edge of the government district of Atlantis. This was his first time back here since he'd been initiated to the Behemoth. He couldn't say he'd missed the place.
Ahead of him, soldiers filed down the ramp and toward the barracks-past a detachment of armed-to-the-teeth government security troops that had arranged themselves snugly around the Commander. For once in his life he looked distinctly uncomfortable. Ronon bit back a smile, thinking that this almost made the return worth it. His smile died a swift death when he noticed the ST officer's stare on him. The man turned to the Commander, mumbled something. This wasn't good. Couldn't be. Ronon wanted to shrink into the flooring of the ramp.
Instead he stepped onto the stained concrete of the parade ground, eyes front, trying to blend in. It didn't work, of course.
"Hey! You!" barked the Commander.
Never breaking his stride, Ronon turned his head. "Me, Excellency?"
"Yes, you! And you damn well know it! Step over here!"
Grimacing, Ronon fell out and crossed over to the ST unit and his commanding officer.
"Is this the man?" the ST officer asked. "Former Specialist Ronon Dex?"
The surprise just about tripped Ronon. In almost ten years, ever since he'd joined the Behemoth, he hadn't heard his name spoken aloud. Usually it was either Hey! You! or his serial number. But more than the simple acoustics of the thing, it proved that his suspicion had been correct. Somehow this was connected to his past, and he had to work hard to keep his elation at bay. So he stood quietly and let the fat, one-eyed bastard do the answering.
"That's him," the Commander grunted. "I'd like him back, though."