“That won’t happen,” Rodney declared confidently. “A blast through the air is a woefully inefficient coupling mechanism against heavy stonework—Now!” he yelled at Yann. Across the square, several lights indicated that the transport was opening. Calling downstairs, he added, “Stop pumping and close off the valves!”
The heavy bola flew from Yann’s grasp, a pinwheel of flame arcing across the heads of the combatants. Rodney noticed that the transport doors folded back — to reveal only three people, two of whom were knocked off their feet by the flood of oil. The flaming bola landed with a gut-punching whoomp in the oil-filled fountain. The last thing that he saw before fire engulfed the transport was the surprised look on Teyla’s face.
“No!” The cry ripped uselessly from his throat and spilled out into the searing wave of heat. Something grabbed him by the jacket and roughly jerked him to the floor, a fraction of a second before a massive explosion sent a shudder through the stone bridge and spattered them with chunks of debris.
Jerking himself free of the children’s hands, Rodney grasped the edge of the window and peered out. It took several minutes before the smoke cleared enough to see the substantial crater where the transport and adjoining storehouse had once been.
The pain in Rodney’s throat, and indeed all of his many injuries, evaporated in the face of this new reality. He’d blown things up before. He was incredibly good at blowing things up. That there might have been people in those things — buildings, aircraft and whatever else the Air Force had seen fit to destroy — could be dismissed because they had been The Enemy. That’s the way it was in war. Things got broken, and blown up, and casualties resulted.
But not your…friends. You didn’t blow up your friends. Well done, McKay.
His breath hitched and his eyes stung and there seemed to be a great deal of moisture on his cheeks. The sound of someone sobbing seemed unreasonably loud in the silence. Rodney was only grateful that it wasn’t coming from him, but from one of the children. What little consolation he could draw from the situation was that being blown up had provided a more humane death than being trapped inside a room of burning oil.
Yann grasped his shoulder. “The Wraith may have captured more Genes and entered the Citadel through other transports.”
Swallowing, Rodney nodded. “We need to get back to the Command Center and assess the situation.” Which, loosely translated, meant that he hoped the Major was finally awake. Between the clouds of smoke, he noticed, the sky was definitely getting lighter.
Chapter Twenty-one
Lisera was drying Major Sheppard’s feet with a soft cloth when she felt him move.
“Cut it out,” he mumbled, batting away the object that Dr McKay had gruffly informed her was a pen flashlight. The Major’s face expressed his displeasure and pain.
“Didn’t know you were awake.” His face expressing extreme relief, McKay pulled the flashlight aside. “How’s the head?”
Only half listening to the conversation between the visitors from Atlantis, Lisera sat back. While their arrival had altered her life in wondrous ways, the world was still fraught with dangers and death. Those with her in the Station now protected her from the likes of Balzar, but only because their survival depended on her newfound abilities. She felt their resentment and began to understand why the Chosen had retreated to the Enclave.
She glanced at Yann, who was quietly talking in the corner to the other children from Quickweed Lake, trying to console them over the death of Peryn.
When learning earlier of the failed ambush at the Lake, Lisera had been surprised to find herself grieving for the young merchant. While they now called themselves Genes, like her, Yann was nonetheless the blessed of Dalera, chosen to protect her people. Even Aiden had not been of such status. Had he not gone against the wishes of Dr McKay, Peryn would not have been captured and the attack at North Bridge would never have resulted. Although she could not find it in her heart to like Dr McKay, she did not blame him for the deaths of Peryn, Aiden, and Teyla. As a Gene, she knew now that choices had to be made, often painful ones. In order to save the Citadel, Dr McKay could not have acted any differently.
“…most likely as a result of that concoction served up by the local Juju man,” McKay was saying. “Fortunately, you have a particularly thick skull. However, the general consensus is that you also have a concussion.”
“I’ll be fine. Out of curiosity, what the hell hit me?” The Major eased himself upright, wincing with each movement.
Looking discomfited, Dr McKay replied, “How was I to know that whoever makes the ropes around here has lousy quality control? Anyway, as I said before, you’re heavier than you look. Combined with the sucking potential of that tar, I suppose it was—”
“Sucking potential?” Major Sheppard paused in his movements and regarded Dr McKay.
The scientist’s expression flattened and he replied, “In your current state, I didn’t want to confuse you with big words like ‘viscosity’.”
“What do you mean, my current state?” The covering on Major Sheppard’s body slipped low, and, realizing he was naked beneath, he grabbed the edges. “What the…?” In an effort to clear his eyes, he opened and closed them several times.
Lisera stood and placed a cloth with warm soapwater into the Major’s hands. “Here, use this to wash the oil from your eyes.”
Now that the Major was awake, Yann, trailed by the children, came to join them.
“Oil?” The Major sat back and brought the cloth to his face.
“We used vegetable oil to remove the tar,” she explained. “But I fear your fine uniform is no longer useable.” She glanced at the pile of blackened clothes on the floor.
“This is all adorably domestic.” Dr McKay crossed his arms and glared at her. “But we’ve got a few pressing issues to discuss, so if you will excuse us—”
“Hold up, Rodney. How long have I been out?”
Under Major Sheppard’s gaze, Lisera replied, “It is dawn. You have slept through the night.”
“Okay.” Still attempting to focus, he asked Dr McKay, “What’s happening?”
“The Wraith mounted an assault from the south. Fortunately,” Dr McKay added with an expression Lisera had grown to dislike, “I had the foresight to maintain a reserve of oil in the eastern end of South Channel for just such an eventuality. We upped the volume and set it alight.”
“You mean the Wraith are still hanging around? Haven’t they already taken hundreds of people from the outlying villages?”
“Several thousand, including the far-flung barbarian towns,” Yann corrected. “I have spoken to many Genes. They tell of villages empty of life, some destroyed before the arrival of the transport.”
Behind him, the children nodded in sage agreement. None shed tears, for the horrors they had witnessed had withered their capacity to do so.
“Since when have those been operating again?” McKay snapped at Yann. “Didn’t we definitively establish that using the transports outside of the Citadel while the Wraith are attacking is a huge mistake?”
A knowing smile crossed Yann’s face. “Not if each transport is filled with armed warriors, and the Gene within does not release his Shield before establishing the area is safe.”
“This is hardly a suitable time to get cocky!”
Lisera did not wish to speak out of turn, but with a pacifying gesture toward both men, she attempted to redirect the conversation. “Yann and Dr McKay heroically defended against a Wraith invasion at North Bridge.”
Looking momentarily pleased with himself, Dr McKay said, “Yes, I suppose it was rather heroic, wasn’t it?” But the pride fell from his voice even as he spoke, and his eyes were masked by sorrow.