“Balzar withdrew the inactive Shield from his pocket,” Teyla continued, “and threw it at Yann.”
“Who ducked,” Ford finished with a broad grin. “It was just a natural reflex that Ushat caught it. And that’s when it started glowing.”
Looking at the warrior, John could sympathize. He remembered exactly how he’d felt when he’d sat in that screwball chair in Antarctica. Except he’d understood that it was a random gene. Ushat’s entire belief structure had already undergone a severe pounding in the last few days, but this latest incident took a left turn into the bizarre.
For once, the bizarre was a good thing. Every minute John spent playing General was another minute that he couldn’t be operating the transport. Currently they had only six people, himself included, to help evacuate villages. It was also fast becoming obvious that they needed a lot more than eight Genes in the Stations to deter the Darts from all sections of the Citadel. The damned Wraith seemed to almost enjoy playing aerial dodgem in order to make their culling runs across the city. Come morning, or when the Wraith attacks took a sharp upturn, presumably signaling the arrival of the hive ship, he’d have to order the villages abandoned and all Genes to man the Stations and perimeter of the Citadel. That would force the Wraith to cull only the outlying villages, or to attack the fortified walls on foot. Or both. Either way, an awful lot of people were going to die.
“This could explain why some Darts were crashing in the Citadel even after Yann’s rebel Genes ditched their Shields,” ventured Ford.
“People were ransacking the supplies of Shields when the Enclave was destroyed,” Teyla added. “Then many people do indeed possess the gene.”
That was when the penny dropped. John took a good look at Ushat. He could have been Lisera’s big brother. The familial connection to Kesun, who probably had been in his fifties, was now obvious. It seemed Kesun had been doing a little gene therapy of his own. He must have realized years earlier that the Chosen were a dying breed. Caught between an entrenched set of religious laws and a genuine desire to help his people, Kesun had depended on his absolute faith in Dalera, and taken the same path that the Ancient had forged ten thousand years earlier. He’d no doubt been waiting for the elderly Chosen to die off before reintroducing the ritual of touching the Shields. Then Ushat, Lisera, and who knew how many others could be revealed as long-lost descendants. It must have sorely tested Kesun’s faith when the Wraith turned up fifty years ahead of schedule.
In a perverse way, the team’s arrival from Atlantis really had been the answer to Kesun’s prayers, because their mere existence had substantiated the man’s belief in what he’d done. Unfortunately, it had also triggered a revolution. Faith in divine guidance versus free will. John wondered how many times Kesun had flipped the proverbial coin before deciding to take control of his people’s fate, relying on faith as his guide.
John caught Teyla’s eye. He wasn’t entirely certain what was going through her mind, but he suspected that her thoughts and his were running along the same lines. “You know,” he said to Ushat. “This confirms that Kesun was right. Everyone, beginning with the warriors and their family members, needs to touch the Shields to find out if they have the gene.”
“Why begin with the warriors?” Yann’s face took on a dubious look. He was obviously worried that a new form of imperialism could grow in place of the old regime. Tough to blame him.
Not about to explain that Kesun had doubtless been smart enough to sow his wild oats close to home, John replied, “Because they’ll take orders, which saves you and Lieutenant Ford from having to persuade Genes to run evacuation missions to the villages.”
“Do not feel the need to be circumspect on my account, Major,” Ushat said with a sad smile. “The mirror tells me much.”
That acknowledgment surprised John. But then, Ushat was no fool. Having seen Kesun’s likeness in himself, he’d clearly figured out where the additional Genes had come from. Now he was doing his best to assimilate that knowledge into his long-held beliefs.
Before Yann could come up with another objection, John pointed to the map and added, “Ford, Teyla, get the word out that every man, woman and child in the Citadel needs to be tested. Anyone with the active gene should transport here so that we can slot them into the grid, and maximize the distribution of the EM fields. Lieutenant Ford will be in charge of designating who goes where.” He picked up his P-90 and headed for the transport, glancing over his shoulder at Yann and Ushat. “Meanwhile, you two pair up and assist with evacuating villages.”
His own faith, such as it was, still lay in Rodney’s plan, because even if Kesun really had salted away a few Gene offspring, by morning the Wraith would be grounded, and pounding their frustrated claws at the gates. Without the oil fire, given what the engineers had said about the state of the eastern wall, it wouldn’t take long for everything to hit the fan.
At least this time he was up to his eyeballs in something other than human effluent. Instead of methane and other less than pleasant organic waste molecules, Rodney was instead breathing in doubtless lethal quantities of considerably more volatile organic compounds, like benzene — a known human carcinogen — toluene, xylene, hexane, and…and…hell, he couldn’t remember the entire list, which meant his faculties were already being affected. That he was pushing the tree stump ahead of him with splinter-coated fingers, staying upwind of the worst of the oil, was beside the point. The chances of finding a decent oil-stripping detergent in this hellhole that didn’t scour off most of his skin with caustic compounds were remote to nonexistent. How any rational person could classify crude oil as ‘sweet’ or ‘light’ like some vintage wine was beyond him.
In formulating this aspect of the plan, Rodney had assumed that the prevailing wind would help push him across the channel. However, he hadn’t banked on how effective the boom would be. The current, fed by the force of the oil, was instead pushing the entire kit and caboodle downstream until it was now almost parallel to the shore that he’d stepped from. There was absolutely no way he would be able to swim the end of the boom across the channel.
Rodney glanced back at the shore. The men were chopping down more trees — breaking more of Dalera’s damned laws — in order to extend the boom. The very fact that he could see them working meant the shadow cast by the Citadel was retreating. The twin planets were almost directly overhead, from which he concluded that they had perhaps six hours until dawn.
The crunch of gravel underfoot amplified Rodney’s complete and utter failure. He staggered up the beach, dropping the end of the boom in the thick black goo that covered absolutely everything. While he’d made more than his fair share of errors when it came to dealing with people, he’d never failed at actually doing anything in his life. This was a maddeningly inopportune moment for a first time.
Teyla’s words to Lisera, that releasing her and Lieutenant Ford had been the only way to save the Dalerans, had not been entirely true. And the hollowness of that assurance had greatly disturbed Teyla. Yet as she had stood atop the wreckage of the Dart and called the mob to set aside their arguments and work together, her appeal had not been directed exclusively at the crowd. She wondered if her team had realized this. They were her team, above all else. Despite their differences, they shared a common goal, and their foundation of common experiences grew with each day that dawned.
Her emergence as a leader of those Dalerans who would fight the Wraith face to face had first been met with uncertainty. She was not their blessed goddess, Dalera, and she was neither of the Chosen nor one of Dalera’s warriors. Acceptance had come quickly, though, for the two warriors whom she had disarmed in the Sanctuary Hall had requested to be assigned to her and given her the title of Atlantean warrior.