The children, naturally, found this highly entertaining. Rodney was slightly mollified by the fact that Yann followed suit, and arrived in the mess face-down.
By the time Rodney had managed to scrub off the worst of the filth in the questionably cleaner sand, the engineers had fastened the thick rope to the end of the boom and were easing it out into the channel. He suffered a moment’s panic because, unlike polypropylene, the fibrous braid was not entirely buoyant. However, it was soon apparent that, while the rope sunk beneath the oil, it floated on the water. This proved to be ideal, and within a surprisingly short space of time they had ascertained the exact amount they needed to adjust the length of the rope and, hence, the shape of the boom, in order to control the volume of oil flowing down both channels.
While all of that was gratifying, it also meant that he had endured these past hours for absolutely no reason. He could have been lying down in a nice warm bed someplace, sleeping. Preferably after a hot meal. Which reminded him that he wasn’t entirely certain when he’d last eaten, and that his blood sugar was unquestionably approaching dangerously low levels.
While the engineers and warriors worked out a system of signals with the buglers, Rodney made himself moderately comfortable on the oily beach and reached into his pocket for a powerbar. He’d chewed through almost the entire thing before he realized that the children were clustered around him, staring at him. Okay, he couldn’t state with unqualified certainty that they were all staring, because half of them were in shadow, but he could feel their eyes boring into him — or maybe it was the powerbar.
“What?” he demanded around a mouthful. “Am I the only one who thought to bring some food?”
Their gazes remained fixed and a little hollow. Comprehension, when it finally came, hit him hard and turned the food to stone in his stomach. Not one of the children had an ounce of fat anywhere on them. Images of the squalid conditions in the Citadel, the bodies discarded like garbage, assaulted him.
Rodney’s initial indignation about the Daleran culture had been largely theoretical. But that recollection, and the expression on the children’s faces, now drove home an unexpected insight. His own childhood, while less than ideal, had at least come with parents, food and a roof over his head. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly, without the annoyance of his earlier brush-off. “I mean, you’re kids—you should be in bed. Where are your parents?”
The children traded tentative, sorrowful glances that sliced into his soul. He never should have asked. None of them had parents, or beds. Their village had surely been destroyed by now.
“Who’s going to look after you?” A delayed realization had him backpedaling almost before the words were out of his mouth. “I’m not volunteering, mind you. I just…”
“Peryn is a Gene,” ventured the little girl, the quiet one. “He has promised to look out for us.”
Well, that was something, even if it was depressingly little. And it wouldn’t matter much if they didn’t hold off the Wraith. Every muscle in his body was begging to lie down on the beach and sleep, but Rodney pushed himself up and nodded toward Yann and one of the engineers. Together with the children and the buglers, they trudged back up the passageway.
Even before they emerged from the tunnel, they could hear the sounds of utter pandemonium. A street battle had gotten underway in their absence. The incipient panic, which Rodney had been keeping just barely contained since landing this role in Survivor Dalera, instantly escalated to an entirely new level.
The townspeople, along with many of the warriors who had been their enemy just twenty-four hours previously, were engaged in vicious hand-to-hand combat with the Wraith. How the hell had the creatures managed to get inside the Citadel? And why were so many people fighting? “Aren’t they supposed to have evacuated to higher ground?” he called to Yann. And right at that moment, he didn’t care much that his voice had cracked.
“They have no choice!” Yann declared. “We have no choice. We fight and die, or we cower and die!” He ran into the throng, battleaxe in hand, apparently determined to slog it out until the bitter end. Noble of him, to be sure, but not exactly what Rodney had in mind.
Swept up in the crowd, he dodged and ducked, weaving his way through axe-wielding men and warriors alike. Even a few women, their faces contorted with rage, were getting the drop on the Wraith swarming out of the transport near the West Bridge — a fact that answered his earlier question and chilled him to the core.
Forgetting the weapon strapped to his hip, Rodney desperately tried to work his way against the crowd, but he was forced along with the throng. He stumbled and was elbowed aside, landing heavily against a set of steps. The pounding in his skull double-timed it, setting up a jarring cadence that seemed out of synch with the throbbing wound on his arm. Then he lifted his head and realized that the fall had actually managed to pull him out of the mass of humanity. Scrambling up a few more steps to see above the chaos, he turned — and saw inside the opening doors of the transport. While Wraith poured out, into the gingery light cast by the burning river, he caught a glimpse of a familiar blond head: Peryn. The boy’s face was bruised and bloodied, and he looked like a rag doll in the grip of a Wraith.
The idea that he’d predicted the Wraith’s tactics so accurately was more than a little disturbing to Rodney. Ford and Teyla would have done everything in their power to protect Peryn, which made the boy’s capture a near-certain sign that they both were now dead.
By the look of things, the Wraith’s fury at having been thwarted had overwhelmed their interest in taking prisoners. They were storming up and out of the transport in a bloody rampage. While most were intent on moving uphill in the direction of the now burned out Enclave, one group had veered toward West Bridge. Once in Wraith hands, the weir would likely be lowered, allowing the fire to spread upstream. This was no longer a culling; it was annihilation.
Sickened by the carnage and frozen with despair, Rodney thought again of his teammates. Ford and Teyla had thrown themselves into defending these people and had paid the price for it. By now Major Sheppard probably was also dead, thanks to that quack healer. When the Marines came looking for them, the Wraith would obliterate the jumpers the moment they came through the ‘gate.
Rodney was completely, utterly alone. Alone, and about to become Wraithmeat.
It seemed so incredibly wasteful that he should die like this. There was so much he had yet to contribute to the galaxy, either this one or his own. All his work, all the half-finished theories, cut short by this insanity.
Something grabbed his ankle, and pulled him off his feet. He looked up into the grotesque mask of a huge Wraith. Closing his eyes, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”
Waking to a foul smell, Aiden battled the telltale after-effects of being hit with a Wraith stunner. Which was kind of weird. He hadn’t been expecting to wake at all, or at least not in any sort of condition that didn’t come with retirement benefits.
“Lieutenant Ford.”
Determinedly pushing aside the grating pins and needles sensation, Aiden looked around in the darkness. “Teyla? What happened? Where are we?” He tried to move, but realized he was wrapped in some sort of bandages, or netting maybe, which partially covered his mouth.
A sense of revulsion stronger than anything he’d ever experienced hit him like a physical blow. He was wrapped in a Wraith cocoon.
“Here, to your left. I believe we are still inside the inn of the village into which we transported.”
Anger, all of it directed squarely at himself, quickly replaced Aiden’s loathing. “Where’s everyone else?” He tried moving his face up and down to dislodge the stuff.