The stuff was surprisingly good. It even had a slight…Oh, fantastic. Of course. It would have to be lemon essence. Rodney glared at the clay jar of shampoo. Maybe his allergies to citrus fruits didn’t extent to alien citrus. Lemongrass, perhaps?
“Those who collected the blackwater and pitch developed the soapwater generations ago,” Artos explained. Rodney was almost sure his name was Artos. “Some say that it is Wraithcraft.” Even in the darkness Rodney caught his cautious look.
“I can’t imagine that there’s anything too complex or forbidden about producing a decent quality shampoo. There are only a few basic ingredients required—” He could have elaborated further, but decided that rinsing his hair for the third time would be more productive.
The river at Nemst could not, by even the most charitable description, be called warm. In fact it was turning him into a soprano, but he’d suffer through it in order to be oil-free. In a few hours he’d be standing very close to a rather large fire, and being covered in oil at that point would not be advisable. The boom contraption had of course worked brilliantly. By now, the team they’d left on the Citadel side of the river should have gotten word to the rest of the city’s engineers. They still had to deal with the oil that had been misdirected down the South Channel, but he’d already sent word for the East Bridge weir to be raised, allowing water to flow through the submerged tunnels while retaining the oil. The cold westerly winds would blow the fumes around the southeastern end of the Citadel, not across it.
He’d considered allowing the oil in the South Channel to flow down to the point where the two waterways rejoined, to build up against the dam with the oil that was now pouring down the North Channel. However, in an oddly strategic line of thought that betrayed Sheppard’s growing influence on him, he recalled a previously mentioned theory about the Wraith regrouping and attacking from a different direction. Keeping some oil in reserve in the South Channel wouldn’t hurt for the moment.
As he climbed out of the river, he felt something slip against his chilled skin. The Shield! The cord had come loose. Spurred by a sense of dread, he lunged after it, chattering, “Please, please, please…”
Too late. The Shield had vanished in an instant, sliding under the dark surface. He splashed around for a few seconds, trying vainly to propel it back into view, but the visibility and the current made such an effort hopeless.
This was beyond bad. This was going to throw a king-sized wrench into the proceedings. Without a protective EM field, they were Dart fodder.
He scrambled back onto the shore and grabbed the clothes that Artos had procured for him. “We need to get back to the transport now,” he said curtly, struggling into a pair of pants that was three sizes too big while attempting to shuffle in the right direction.
The engineer looked puzzled until his gaze fell upon the broken cord that hung limply around Rodney’s neck. He paled and called to the others to follow.
Dressing while walking at a rapid clip was not a skill Rodney had ever had an opportunity to perfect, but he was faring better than he would have expected. As they hurried into the town square, heading for the transport, something flitted through his peripheral vision. One of the men behind them screamed, prompting him to whirl around.
Despite the fact that he couldn’t see them, he was immediately certain that there was a Wraith nearby. Maybe he couldn’t sense them the way Teyla could, but the damned things were distinctly unsettling even when not visible.
Something swooped over their heads, and somewhere behind them a second cry pierced the air, then was abruptly cut off. Rodney turned back to look. The last thing he saw before being jerked off his feet was a shimmering beam, like liquid plastic bathed in a weird, blue light, racing toward him.
John was helping Ford maneuver another block onto a shorter section of the wall when a series of notes blew from a distant horn. The notes were repeated as the message was passed down the line. Spontaneous cheers erupted from the workmen below. One of the engineers ran up to John and, grinning through a now filthy face, slapped his shoulder. “North Bridge reports a great wave of blackwater flowing swiftly down North Channel!”
Why the Wraith were even planning a ground assault if they knew that their weapons were useless had been just one more unknown to add to the ever-growing list of things that had bugged John — until he’d seen the condition of the eastern wall. Scrubbing a trickle of sweat from his eyes, he nodded. For the first time that night, he believed that they might really have a crack at making this work. “Tell your men to keep rebuilding the wall, and make sure they blanket the entire slope with sand, stones, anything that will retard the fire. And keep evacuating this part of the Citadel.” Most of the flames and smoke would blow east, but the shape of the Citadel’s structures would create pockets of still air. While there was little in the way of flammables to carry the fire into the city, he didn’t want to take any chances.
“Why keep repairing the wall now that we know the oil’s coming?” asked Ford.
“Given the fact that they’ve had weeks to check the place out, the Wraith must have known that they could just walk into the Citadel once they crossed the Channel.” He pulled his jacket back on. Even away from the wind, the night air was cold.
Nodding, Ford said, “I got it. You want the Wraith to think the Dalerans are trying to rebuild the wall before they hit.” His grin turned into a grimace. “McKay’ll hold this over our heads for weeks. We’ll never hear the end of it.”
That triggered a query in John’s mind, and he scanned the area. “Yeah, where is Rodney? If the oil has reached North Bridge, he should have been back from Nemst by now.”
“Maybe he’s at the Command Center.” Ford also pulled on his jacket and cap.
This whole situation contained far too many ‘maybes’ for John’s taste. He snatched up his P-90. “C’mon. McKay wouldn’t have wasted any time treating us to a full color commentary.”
They jogged along the alleys and into the now-deserted Sanctuary Hall that serviced this side of the city. Instead of the usual clutter, a wide path stretched from the transport to the entrance in order to facilitate the ongoing evacuations from outlying villages. John had ordered any incoming evacuees to move into safer sections of the city. If the Wraith breached the eastern wall, he didn’t want them supplied with a marketplace full of defenseless MREs.
Using the lights on their P-90s to show the way, they failed to notice a bunch of goons lurking in the shadows until it was too late.
“Wraithcraft!” cried half a dozen voices. “Kill them. Their evil lamps will surely bring the Wraith upon us!”
John could see Ford roll his eyes through the dim light. In a truly bizarre way, this situation was starting to feel almost routine. Unfortunately, that didn’t make it any less deadly.
Instead of his P-90, it was the transport doors opening that managed to scatter their attackers. Yann and Ushat stepped out ahead of a bunch of refugees. “What’s it like out there?” John said, taking the two men aside.
“While there is much desperation, there is also much hope,” replied the warrior. “With each new group we pass around several of the Shields. Always, there is at least one among them who is a Gene.” He looked past John’s shoulder to a teenage kid who was lingering near the entrance of the transport and gestured for the boy to join them. “This is Peryn. He comes from a village near Quickweed Lake. He will go with Yann to help transport the others from nearby villages, while I—”
“Will come with Ford and me to find McKay.” John nodded for Yann to leave with the boy.
Ushat’s eyes narrowed. “He has not yet returned from Nemst?”