A few minutes ago they'd emerged at a subterranean crossroads from which eight other corridors branched off. He'd had no idea how far they'd come or where exactly beneath the gov- ermnent district they were, and there'd been no time to scratch his head and wonder. So he'd taken nearest turn — and led them straight into a dead end.
Behind him the footfalls and shouts of the STs were approaching far more quickly than he would have liked.
Beside him Teyla's breath came in harsh gasps, as loud as a bellows to his ears. "What is it?" she rasped.
"Trouble."
He whirled around, stared back into the tunnel where the STs' flashlights slashed crisscross beams over walls and ceiling. Some fifty yards back in the direction where they'd come from gaped a dark opening, a niche or, if he was undeservedly lucky, another corridor.
No luck, deserved or not. It was a niche, just large enough for him and Teyla to flatten themselves into the shadows and quit breathing. Ronon was under no illusion that the STs wouldn't find them in here, but it would buy them a minute or two. A lot could happen in a minute or two. At the very least they'd have time to prepare to die.
Shouts firmed into snatches of words.
"Along there!"
"They're trapped!"
"Careful! At least one of them is armed!"
The STs ran past, still keeping an orderly rank and file despite the excitement of the hunt, until they realized that the cul-desac was empty and surged to a halt like a wave breaking on the cliffs. A moment's silence gave way to rumbles of confusion as the men in front turned, searching. The murmurs were stilled by a cultivated baritone drifting along the corridor.
"Well, where are they?"
Ronon recognized it instantly, the siren song of betrayal. Marcon. Marcon was down here.
"They're gone," an ST shouted back.
"They can't be! Are you sure they took this corridor?"
"Yes, Excellency. We're positive."
"Then they must be here. There is no way out." The voice was coming closer, at a measured pace, as though Marcon had all the time in the world. And he had, of course, because he was right. There was no way out. He laughed, softly, mockingly. "Ronon, my friend! You know which quality I've always admired most in you? Your refusal to acknowledge defeat, even when it's staring you in the face. But you had best break the habit, amusing as it is. Give yourself up now, and I promise you the end will be swift-and as painless as I can make it."
Ronon's fist clenched around the grip of the sword. The voice was close, so close. He could picture it easily; burst from cover, with one slice of the blade cut the lying excuse for a man in half, and never mind what happened after. Death and oblivion didn't sound too bad. He would have done it if he'd been alone. But he wasn't alone, and he owed it to Teyla to go down fighting for their escape.
Then the beam of a flashlight made the decision for him. It fingered along the wall, found the niche, found Ronon's chest. At the other end of it, an ST's eyes went wide, his mouth opened, about to shout out his discovery. Ronon wasn't going to wait for it.
He propelled himself out into the corridor the same instant as Marcon came abreast of the niche. The blade snapped across the man's throat, while Ronon's left arm clamped around his chest, pulling him in front of his body like a shield. Startled outcries from a few STs exploded through the tunnel and rolled away into silence.
"Anyone tries to follow us and he is dead," Ronon said and threw a quick glance over his shoulder. "Teyla. Hang on to me."
She slipped from the niche, one hand searching until it caught the fabric of Ronon's sleeve, held tight. Slowly, never losing sight of the STs, Ronon began to back away toward the open end of the corridor, dragging Marcon with him. Gawking and immobile, the STs let them go. He had suspected as much. At least for the time being the Behemoth wouldn't allow them to endanger the chairman of the Defense Council who, ripe with sweat and fear, trembled in Ronon's grip. Suavity had fled Marcon with a vengeance, revealing him for what he was: a coward. Ronon allowed himself to enjoy it just a little.
They reached the main tunnel without incident, turned the comer, lost sight of the STs. "The quickest way to the surface?" he hissed in Marcon's ear. "And don't lie to me."
"You won't get away with this!" Marcon whimpered. "It's only a matter of minutes until the Behemoth orders them to disregard my safety and-"
"I know. So we'd better hurry up." Ronon let the blade bite a fraction of an inch deeper into Marcon's throat. "Answer my question."
The man groaned. "Continue along here. The third cross corridor to the right leads to a flight of stairs and straight to the surface."
"He's telling the truth," Teyla whispered.
Ronon shot her a look, realizing too late that a gesture she couldn't see would hardly get him an answer. "How do you know?" he asked.
"I can feel it "
Ah. That explained it…
"Keep moving. We haven't got much time." She gave him a gentle shove.
True enough. And Marcon seemed to share their desire to put distance between them and the STs.
The corridor narrowed and began to lead uphill. Promising, but Ronon wasn't going to let his hopes rise just yet. They were buying added lifespan in two-minute increments, was all. He lengthened his stride, forcing Marcon into a jog. Teyla kept pace behind him. The first cross tunnel flashed past, unlit and dusty, burrowing into black, then the second, not much more inviting. Just before they reached the third corridor, the STs shouts caught up with them, driven on by the flicker of flashlights in the distance. The Behemoth had made up its mind. Marcon yelped, tripped, ran on, stinking with fear now.
Ahead and to their right the third corridor yawned. Barely wider than Ronon's shoulders, the tunnel seemed to predate the rest. It meandered wildly and was showing signs of decay-in places, groundwater was seeping up through cracks in the floor, and the lighting, dim and desultory, looked to be on its last legs. Finally they came up against a spiral staircase that disappeared in pitch darkness after ten steps or so-no way of telling what was lying in wait up there. Then again, it still beat the certainty of what lay behind.
Ronon stopped.
"What?" hissed Teyla.
"Take the lead. There's no lighting up there, and you've got more practice with this than I have."
Chuckling softly she slipped past to take point. "Hold on to me," she ordered Marcon and started up the stairs.
An eternity later-by now Ronon figured they'd probably come out a the top of the Flight Surveillance Tower-she froze. "There's something ahead. A door or some other kind of barrier. Can you sense it?"
Sense it?
Though now that he focused, he thought he could feel something; the air seemed denser, packed more tightly up here. "I guess so. I-"
He'd heard it almost the same time as she. When he turned around he could just about make out a faint, unsteady graying of the pervasive black; reflected brightness from the flashlights the STs were carrying. "Go!" he hissed.
Some ten or fifteen steps further up, Teyla stopped again. "It's metal," she whispered. "Probably a door. I don't hear anything on the other side."
Another dead end. Maybe. Unless Teyla was right. Unless…
Letting go of Marcon who was nothing but a wheezing bundle of fear now, Ronon pushed past her. His fingertips played over cool steel. No hinges, no lock. He grimaced, then felt for the wrist control he'd taken from the lab technician. The red button was the second from the left in the bottom row, he remembered that. Fumbling across the small keyboard, counting, he thought he'd found it, pushed.
Nothing.
And there would be no time for a second attempt. Below, the bootfalls and shouts of the STs were getting louder rapidly.
Marcon whimpered, suddenly lunged forward and grabbed Ronon's arm. "It's her they want," he hissed. "You understand, Ronon? They want the woman. She's the one who came through the Stargate. All you have to do is give her to them. A push will do. At the very least it'll buy you and me time to escape."