"Come," he said again, a hint of something other than unctuousness in his tone… respect? Probably not. "I promise you will find this interesting."
The two younger men-Marcon's aides-followed at a polite distance, apparently accepting without question that the Chairman of the Defense Council would take a common soldier into his confidence. Marcon led the way into a narrow corridor that branched off the room where the Stargate was kept and ended in a laboratory. In the middle of the lab sat a large examination chair, its backrest to the corridor, and around the fringes of the room ran an extensive array of computers and diagnostic equipment and synthesizers that would produce anything from drugs to man-made enzymes.
A duo of technicians practically jumped when Marcon strode into the room. Smiling again, he raised a placating hand. "Please, don't let me interrupt your work." After which he proceeded to interrupt their work. "Do you have any further insights?"
One of the technicians spoke up. "There was a broken wrist, which we mended. We also found evidence of recent, spontaneous cell rejuvenation on a massive scale. The only part of the body unaffected is an area of the posterior cortex, which shows an impairment that is resistant to treatment."
Something at the back of someone's brain was broke and couldn't be fixed, Ronon translated silently. It was of vague interest, as he'd never heard of any disease or injury-barring old age and death itself-the Ancestors couldn't heal, but somehow he doubted they'd brought him here because they wanted him to give it a try.
"Are there any similarities to him?" asked Marcon.
To whom?
Marcon's bony finger pointed at a transparent cubicle set into the wall. It was filled with a clear fluid and suspended inside swam a body. The skin was pale, doughy, looked as if it wanted to slough off in places, and parts of the corpse were badly decayed, but there was no mistaking it: McKay.
Ronon drew in a sharp breath, sucking back the nausea that threatened to race up his throat. Inside his mind the Behemoth uncoiled, wakened by this jolt of emotion. Fists balled, he fought for control harder than he'd ever done. After all, what was there to get upset about? It was a corpse, dead and pickled for years, and it no longer had anything to do with the person who'd inhabited it. Ronon's grief for the annoying loudmouth wouldn't change a thing, least of all the fact that his best hope of getting out of this had died with Rodney McKay.
their genetic profiles are subtly diverse." The technician's lecture had rolled on as though nothing had happened. "I would assume they're not from the same planet, possibly not even from the same galaxy. The woman's profile closely corresponds to those of various remains we've discovered on a planet called Athos. Except, there is a strand of non-human DNA spliced-"
"What woman?" Ronon started at the sound of his own voice and the sharpness in it; he hadn't meant to say it out loud, let alone invest it with such urgency.
"Ah." Marcon turned to him, the smile back in place, broad enough for Ronon to want to slap it off the man's face. It had been a ploy to get a reaction. "Of course. The woman. Please show him," he added to the technician.
The man activated a control, and the examination chair swiveled around, revealing its occupant. Oddly enough, the first thing that struck Ronon was that she hadn't changed at all, making him keenly aware of his own graying hair and the lines that thirteen years of killing had scored in his face. The clothes were different, not the utilitarian garb of the warrior he was used to seeing her wear, but a rough skirt and blouse, woven from plant fiber and well-worn. Her eyes were closed, and she didn't move.
"What-?"
"She is sedated," the technician answered before Ronon could ask. "The examination would have caused too much discomfort otherwise. She'll wake up in a little while."
"You recognize her." It wasn't a question, and Marcon stared at him intently.
The Behemoth blossomed in Ronon's mind like a poisonous flower, tendrils wrapping around neurons, sapping all resistance from them. "Her name is Teyla Emmagan," he ground out, hating himself.
Finally something had deadened Marcon's smile. "You're lying."
"You know I can't. Your lies made sure of it "
"Such venom, my friend. You amaze me. The pain must be quite unbearable."
It was, but Ronon didn't care right now. "I'm telling you the truth."
"Then why, after coming through the Stargate, which by the way nobody has done in recorded history, would she ask for Teyla Emmagan? She also had this on her," added Marcon, holding up something that looked like a shriveled chunk of leather.
"It's a finger." Squinting at it, Ronon felt faintly disgusted. "Mummified, I'd say."
"Quite right." Marcon sounded pleased. "Normally, it wouldn't be remarkable; after all, who knows what kind of bizarre rites her people practice. However, this diligent young man here"-he patted the technician's shoulder-"thought it wise to test the relic. Imagine his surprise-and mine-when it turned out that, apparently, the digit belongs to you."
"Then he made a mistake." By ways of illustration, Ronon wiggled a complete set of ten non-mummified fingers.
"He did not," said Marcon before the technician could vent his indignation. "In fact, he repeated the tests three times, always with the same result. I want to know the meaning of this, that's why you are here. She knows you; she will trust you. When she wakes up, you will question her. Once I am satisfied that she has told you everything, you will deal with her as I see fit."
The Behemoth started laughing.
Chapter eleven
The camps were well and truly divided now, something Elizabeth had been trying to prevent for a long time. Feeling increasingly out of step with everyone else hadn't helped because, much as she tried not to let it show, her sense of alienation had a way of communicating itself to the others. And while she truly believed that their survival depended on the group remaining cohesive, this latest development might well be the wedge that would drive them all apart. Radek had formed convictions that were all but religious in their fervor, and religion appealed to people, shaken and uprooted as they were. So they followed him.
Well, she'd deal with it later. Now she had other priorities, three of whom sat in a corner of the grotto behind her, huddled around a small campfire and looked after by the handful of people who remained in Elizabeth's camp. Outside the unseasonable storm raged on, showing no sign of abating. The crops were destroyed already, and what little they'd managed to store wouldn't last them for a week. Four years of back-breaking labor, cultivating the flower, had been wiped out in minutes by the hail. They were back to square one, worse off perhaps, because of the friction among them.
Elizabeth shivered, pulled the sodden cloak tighter around her, and turned back into the scant protection of the grotto. In the corner across from the Sheppards and that heartbreaking alternate outcome of Janus's proposal, her double, burned another fire, and gathered around that were Radek-Brother Moon-and his followers. They'd been carrying on a hushed debate, but now things had mellowed down. She knew why and, inhaling the sweet scent of the blossoms, was tempted herself, because it would calm her.
The meeting broke up, and several people disappeared into the tunnel-once a corridor-that led to their storage chamber. Presumably they were going to take stock of their supplies. Good point. Elizabeth supposed she should have suggested it straightaway, but with everything else that had happened the oversight was excusable. Besides, she had a pretty good idea of what the tally would be, even without literally counting the beans.