“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.