Exigencies

By Rivier

Words: 9462

Category: Gen (with Sheppard/McKay subtext)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic violence, torture

Notes: POV outsider

Before suppertime, Malcon calls from the office to say he'll be late, again. Lanni can't keep the pout out of her voice. She'd already told Jonnit to prepare that dish of roasted sweet-chard, his favourite.

“But this is the third time this week. Don't you love me anymore?”

“Silly girl! It's just business. We're under a lot of pressure – the Genii want us to process some unscheduled material for them, soon as we can. And the sooner it's done, the sooner I can be back home with you. Now, don't stay up!”

She understands. Her husband is Director of the Institute. Malcon has a position of great responsibility. But the Genii are not, in her view, terribly nice people, though it's said that their races were once much closer, and they've been reliable and occasionally quite generous allies in the last few years.

Times are difficult, she hears Malcon saying often enough. It's been reported that the Wraith may be returning before time, though it's been nearly two centuries since they last came here: Prion's isolated location, and the Prion Gate's shield, combine to form a priceless defence.

Nonetheless, everyone is making preparations for migrating back to the State or private bunkers. Lanni had been down there only that morning, overseeing stock-takes. So tedious. But it's her duty to support Malcon, of course, to make sure his home is a safe, comfortable haven at the end of each working day.

She sighs, and goes back to the bedroom to mope in the company of a good camfile.

The file turns out to be better than she'd expected. It's some time later when she notices that Heike hasn't been up yapping and pestering her for petting and treats. Maybe she slipped out again when Jonnit left that evening? It didn't seem to matter how many times she'd told the housekeeper to watch that side door...

She goes downstairs to check. From behind the sofa she can see the back of Calmoore's head, silhouetted against the light of the big screen in the lounge. Slacking again. Why Malcon thinks this man's any sort of competent bodyguard is beyond her.

He doesn't even look up at the sound of her heels tapping purposefully across the wooden floor. She moves to obstruct his view of the screen, but it isn't until she's a yard away that she realises the dark crescent below his chin isn't a shadow but blood, and her feet are in a pool of the same shadow and finally she sees his eyes, staring and blank and dull.

As her mouth drops open, a hand on her shoulder spins her around and pain explodes over her face. The world goes black and orange, with flashes of light that make no sense. Her head is erupting.

She understands, dimly, that she's being moved, dragged or carried. Her body belongs to someone else. She can hear herself, the splutter of her choked breathing, tiny sounds under that. She might be pleading or whimpering.

There's an arm locked tight round her throat, half-pulling, half-strangling her. She can't see right, only the livid fireworks in her head, but there's the rush of cold night air, then grass under the backs of her heels, her feet scraping uselessly along the ground.

Every muscle has shut down with the shock. Malcon had hired trainers for her, the best – self-defence and Confronting Confrontation. There'd been fitness sessions at the local Stadium, three times a week, with Cal supervising her regime.

She'd thought she was strong and fearless and capable. None of it had prepared her for the reality, being dragged choking and helpless through a world of black, blood roaring in her ears.

She's seen Calmoore punch holes in wooden planks, take on five men in exhibition fights and beat them all. The unseen monster dragging her away now had walked into their house, hunted her bodyguard down and sliced his throat wide open...

The thought makes her choke, retching, but the grip on her neck doesn't shift even a fraction.

Suddenly, they stop. The arm loosens for a moment, and Lanni tries to struggle, to croak something, Help, or Please, maybe. The arm locks tight again at the sound, crushing into her windpipe.

There's a strange flurry in the air around them, and suddenly she's in a small, bright space. The arm lets go again and she's shoved, hard, into a metal wall. She slides to the ground and curls up and can't do anything but lie there, shaking, unravelling with shock and pain and confusion.

Her arms are yanked in front of her. She keeps her eyes tightly shut as her wrists are bound together, then her feet. The hands pulling and turning her are fast: she tries to tense herself against them, but it's pointless. Her assailant is incredibly strong. She waits, drenched in horror, for him to start to do something, say something, start to maul her.

But she's dropped back to the floor. There are footsteps, then an engine hum, and the grill plate under her vibrates with the resonance. She's in some sort of transport vessel.

She opens her eyes, very slowly.

Nothing makes sense at first. She identifies a padded bench opposite her, against a wall. She risks raising her head, as slowly as possible. A few yards away, the backs of more seats, either side of a large window and a control console. Finally, she sees an arm reaching out, the console under it glowing as the hand moves.

There's blood smeared over the moving wrist. Lanni gasps, and the man in the chair turns to stare at her.

Her first shocked thought is that he's handsome. In her mind's eye, her attacker had to be someone like Calmoore, all bulk and razored skull and scarred, broken features. But this man is younger than her bodyguard, younger even than Malcon, his face unmarked, lean jawline and long nose and clear hazel eyes, under a messy thatch of black hair. He looks athletic and almost dashing, like a star player on one of the national tri-ball teams.

He stares at her, but without the slightest expression on his face. His eyes are so dead, they're almost hollow. It's the face of a madman and it makes her whimper. His expression doesn't change: he simply ignores her and turns back to the controls.

She has to do something. She's well-born, and marriage to Malcon Cantrel puts her under certain obligations, to behave appropriately, to bear herself well whatever the circumstances. Time to put Chapter Five into practice – Command Your Assailant – well, as much as she can.

“What is this? What do you want?” she says loudly, trying to make herself sound all the things she isn't: bored, scornful, indifferent.

He doesn't even glance at her. That helps. Lanni isn't used to being ignored.

“Didn't you hear me? You – answer me, coward! Don't you know who I am? My husband will have you – ”

He cuts across her. “I know who you are.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. “And who your husband is. What time will Director Cantrel be getting home this evening?”

An extortionist? If this is about money, maybe he won't murder her...

“He'll be there now. He'll have the National Guard out looking for you already!”

“Oh, I don't think so.” He reaches out a hand, still not looking back. There's a small black box in it. “Comm link. I left one for him, next to your housekeeper. In the kitchen. I'm figuring a nice smart man like your husband the Director will try contacting me before he does anything else.”

Next to... “Jonnit? But he'll just...” And it dawns on her. “You – Jonnit is dead?”

“Housekeeper, security, noisy… dog? Everything between me and you.”

Her little Heike! He sounds like he's reading out a shopping list. Fear sends more adrenaline rushing through her. She feels herself shake, close to hysteria, her voice cracking. “Who are you? What do you want? Tell me!”

There's a change in the machine's engine. She hears a sound like compression gears shifting, then silence. She didn't feel any movement, and the window is dark, but she guesses they've stopped moving.

The kidnapper stands up. Murderer. Walks over to her, crouches down, grabs her chin with his bloodstained hand and pulls her to face him.

“This is how it is. Your husband took something of mine. I want it back. You're my bargaining chip. Personally, I don't care if you're alive or dead, but I'm guessing he will, even if you're not all in one piece by the time I'm through.”

His fingers are digging savagely into her cheek and jaw, already aching from the punch he'd landed on her in the house. She thinks he could crush her face with very little difficulty, and the thought makes her tremble.

“Now, I've had a really bad couple of days, so you need to sit here, stay quiet, and don't do anything unless I tell you. I won't have any difficulty maiming you, so try not to give me an excuse. Any more questions?”

His voice is almost pleasant in its relaxed indifference, but his eyes are still blank, looking straight through her. Drugged, perhaps. She shakes her head as much as she can, terrified again, and he grunts and releases her, moving back to the opposite bench. He waves the communicator in his hand.

“Let's hope he isn't planning on working too late.”

He leans back, looking up at the ceiling, ignoring her. He hasn't the slightest concern she's going to do anything to threaten him, and his certainty is even more effective than his threats. After a while, he even closes his eyes.

Lanni studies him as his breathing slows down. Is he a mercenary? Everything about him is hard, pared-down efficiency. A holster around one thigh, a knife in the utility vest with its square pockets hanging heavy, more weapons, perhaps. In the overhead light, she can see him more clearly: his face is darkened with stubble and grime, and there are blue-black smudges under his eyes.

He's half the bulk of Calmoore, but something about this man makes her bodyguard look like an amateur, a fake. He smells of sweat and blood and metal and dirt, and a static crackle of nervous energy. He's lean, and handsome, and she's never met anyone so frightening in her life.

The radio beeps, and he doesn't even jump. Just brings it up slowly and presses a button. “Cantrel. That you?”

She hears Malcon's voice, and relief floods through her.

“Major Sheppard? Where's my wife?”

Lanni opens her mouth but her captor holds up a hand, glaring at her, and she subsides.

“Little, blonde ringlets, turquoise dress? She's right here. Would you like her to say hello?”

“Lanni?”

“Malcon!” Tears fill her eyes. “Oh God, Malcon, help me!”

“Darling, are you all right? What has he done to you?”

The kidnapper is leaning over, obligingly pressing the comm button. She looks at him fearfully, and he nods. “Tell him.”

“He hasn't – I'm fine, I'm – scared, you have to get me out of here, please – Malcon, he killed them – Cal, Jonnit – please, help me!”

Her captor holds up his hand. “Okay. As you can hear, she's fine. Scared, though. She doesn't have to be scared – if McKay's still alive.”

There's a momentary silence. Through her tears, she sees her captor's expression change. His eyes are screwed shut for a second. She realises that he's holding his breath.

Then Malcon's voice comes out of the transmitter again. “Yes, yes of course. Dr McKay is fine, we were only – ”

“Well, I know that's a lie, or are you forgetting? I was in the room when you started with him. I just didn't get to see where you ended it. So stick to the truth. Is he alive?”

“Yes. On my word, I promise you!”

She sees him blink and breathe out then, though he's careful not to make a noise.

“All right. This is what you have to do. Get him out of the Institute and bring him to your house. Call me when you've done it. I'll tell you what to do then.”

Another silence. Lanni realises they're both holding their breath this time.

“Major, what you ask – I don't think I can do that. My government are in discussions with the Genii, they've agreed a trade – ”

“Shut up!” The man's face was composed a moment before: now it's blazing. “You run that place. I don't care what you have to do – you get McKay out and you get him here, and you do it in the next hour. Is that understood?”

“Look, you have to understand! Even if I could do it, it'll take me time – I'd need to get my people to – ”

One moment, her captor is still. The next, he's lunged at Lanni, a blur, and there's a sharp tug: he's slashed the front of her dress open to the waist. She screams then, a long piercing cry of fear, and it takes her a moment to realise that the knife hasn't touched her skin, even as she's trying to clamp down on the scream reflex, twisting to hide her nudity. She can hear Malcon shouting frantically in the background.

The kidnapper isn't even looking at her. He's turning the knife quickly between his fingers, over and over. He speaks carefully into the comm.

“Shut up. Cantrel – listen! Now, I know McKay's not exactly the silent type, but I spent half a day locked in that cell, imagining what you were doing to get him to yell like that. Should I start trying out some of my theories on your wife? I’d be happy to.”

There's a sound from Malcon, almost a sob. She's never heard that before. When he speaks again, his voice is small. “All right, one hour, I'll have him here. Please – please don't – ”

“Inside the hour,” her captor says crisply, and shuts the transmitter off.

With her hands tied behind her back, her dress gapes open, exposing her shamefully. For some reason it's this that makes her cry, even though the psychopath opposite her isn't even looking at her, just using the blade of the knife to inspect his own face. After a while, he gets up, fetches a blanket, and drapes it over her quickly, not touching her, then takes his seat again, with a sigh. “Stop crying. Trust me, you're the last thing I'm interested in.”

It's the most compassionate thing he's done for her so far. Lanni dares to feel the faint flicker of hope that she might get out of this alive. Maybe if she can make a connection...?

“My husband – he called you Major... Major Sheppard, was that right?”

He glances up at her, then back to the knife.

“And – before, you told me he'd taken something from you. But it wasn't a something, it was a – someone. McKay?”

The green-gold eyes glance up again, but now he doesn't look away. “That's right.”

“Who is he? Are you – terrorists? I mean, I heard what you said but, but it's not – My husband is a scientist... an administrator. Not a torturer! That's insane!”

“Insane?” Major Sheppard's voice sounds so mild, but his fingers are pressed hard on the knife-hilt. “You want to hear insane? This whole thing is insane. We're not terrorists, we're from the city of the Ancients – ”

“You're the Lanteans?” Suddenly, some of it makes sense. “The ones who returned? Who came here to raise up the Wraith against all the planets? I've heard all about you! No wonder you were, well, arrested! You are terrorists!”

He's staring at her. “Just like the Genii told you, right? So I guess it must all be true.”

She nods, and he gives a short, bitter laugh.

“Take it from me. The Genii can't be trusted. They attacked Atlantis and tried to steal it from us. They killed my people, nearly destroyed the city. We went to them in peace, just like we came here. Whatever they've told you about us are lies. All we've ever wanted are allies against the Wraith, to help us all survive...”

He trails off, and she watches him putting the knife away, carefully, then taking out a gun and checking that over, breaking the chamber out and emptying the clip, then reloading, quick and assured.

“At least it makes sense now: one minute, tea and negotiations with your husband: the next, I have a taser in my face, and McKay's – ”

Lanni shakes her head, careful not to dislodge the blanket. “There must have been something! You must have done something – Major, we're an honourable people. The Wraith are our enemies too!”

“And the Genii are your equally honourable friends, right?”

She's silent, thinking. He snorts with contempt.

“Yeah, right. Well, maybe you want to rethink who you're getting into bed with. Like your husband, the harmless administrator – who tied my friend to a table and made me watch while he shot him with a nail gun?”

Lanni gapes. He's mad, he has to be.

“He wouldn't! He's my husband, I know him – you don't! Why would he do something like that, for no reason?”

“It's trade. The Genii will be offering your people something – nukes, I'd guess – in return for the chance to get Rodney in a room and extract every last thought from his head. They already know how useful he could be. Maybe your husband wanted to skim off some of that for himself first. Which makes him a greedy little scientist, as well as a torturer. Would you say he was greedy?”

She doesn't know what to say. Malcon doesn't know quite how often she's looked through the classified camfiles on some of the more – extreme – research at the Institute. Some of it had shocked her, of course, but that was what happened in troubled times. Malcon had shown her old journals, from the last time the Wraith were abroad in the galaxy. What had he called it? Exigencies of war, Lanni...

“No, Major. He's a patriot, like all Prions. The Wraith are awake again. Even for a planet as well-protected as ours, these are difficult days. We need to defend ourselves!”

She tries to imagine Malcon – torturing a man? It's ridiculous. Malcon couldn't even drown that nest of mice Heike had found in the scullery.

The stranger opposite her, with the knife and the blood-stained fist he'd slammed in her face, he'd killed her poor harmless Heike. And Calmoore. And Jonnit. A liar, or deranged, or both.

She's exhausted. There's no reasoning with the mad.

The man called Sheppard sighs, then says quietly, “Want to know what really bugs me? This is so stupid. You wanted knowledge, technical information? The biggest problem your people would ever have had with McKay would have been getting him to shut up. All your husband had to do was sit him down in front of an open mike. Why couldn't you just trust us?”

He sounds tired: for a moment, she almost pities him.

“Major, how long have your people been in Atlantis? Five months? Six? You don't understand what it's like to survive in the shadow of the Wraith. Prion's population is small... we only learned how to use the Gate shield in the last century. We have to look to our own safety first. That's common sense, surely?”

“No. That's greed. God, and I insisted we came here... McKay's really gonna kick my ass when we get back.”

Clearly, it was some kind of joke for him: she sees his lips curving slightly at the thought. You didn't joke, if you really though one of your people had been – what had he been spouting? – tied up and tortured? Rubbish, of course. Whoever these new Atlanteans were, they were obviously a most duplicitous race.

Lanni smiles, certain in her heart that Malcon has been doing the right thing with these infiltrators.

She looks around. The pod-vessel is silent, and there's nothing she recognises as a chronograph, though the madman sitting opposite her has something on his wrist that might be for time-keeping.

Whose time, though? His people were said to be from a different galaxy. Oh, he looked just like any man she might see on the street, but the Prion were, on the whole, not mentally unstable, and even when the Wraith awakened they hadn't lost their sense of social order, the respect due for rank or gender. Then again, the only offworlders she'd met before now were Genii and Hoffan. The Hoffans were well-mannered, but technologically quite retarded. The Genii had clocks, but the Genii day was only nineteen hours long. No wonder they were all so frantic and angry and paranoid and martial...

She stares at Sheppard, as he checks and re-orders the various weapons in his vest. “You should have talked to the Genii more, Major,” she says, trying for a politician's reasonable, conciliatory voice. “I think you and they would actually have a great deal in common.”

He looks up at her and through her and back again. “I think it's a shame Rodney isn't here now. He'd love to poke a few holes in your stupidity.”

“He sounds – delightful,” she says, sneering, and he grins at her then, the first really genuine smile she's seen on that lean, mad face.

“Oh yeah. Only one Rodney McKay. He's an acquired taste.”

And you've got it, she thinks, but keeps that thought to herself. There's no telling what kind of perversity these Lanteans are capable of.

She watches the steady movement of his hands, unloading and reloading ammunition clips, and after a while, the comm chirps again and he puts away the gun he was holding. “Cantrel. What's your status?”

“Major, they're just arriving. We have Dr McKay here. I'm outside my house.”

“Good. Let me talk to him.”

Another pause: Lanni feels a shiver run through her. “Um... Major, we had to give him a mild sedative, to get him out of the facility quickly without being detected. We told him it was at your request, but...”

“But he didn't trust you? I can't imagine why.” Sheppard is frowning, but his voice is still almost playful. “Okay. There's a field at the end of the lane that runs past your house, with a stream at the far end. Your wife will be standing in the middle of the field, with a light, and I'll have a gun on her the whole time. One man brings McKay to her, and that's all. No tricks. I won't kill her with the first bullet, or the second. Questions?”

There's a nervous tremor in Malcon's hesitation, so unlike his usual commanding efficiency. “Ask her – is it – are you in the quarter field?”

Sheppard hits a switch somewhere on the wall, and the back of the vessel drops open into the darkness. “Tell him. Are we?”

She peers out, but the outside world is a black void: she can't make out anything beyond the walls.

“I don't know... I think so, from what you said.”

“Fine. Just bring him there,” Sheppard says, and flicks the comm off. He's on his feet, focused and moving fast. He pulls the blanket away, but he's so obviously not interested in staring at her exposed body that she doesn't even blush. He cuts her feet and hands free, then reaches over and hooks something over her ear and hands her a small black cylinder.

He points at the earpiece, then at an identical one on his own ear. “Radio,” and then at the cylinder, pressing a button on the top. “Flashlight. Now, get out there, stay still, and shine the beam toward where they'll be coming from.”

“I don't understand!” Lanni tries to massage the blood quickly back into her hands as Sheppard hustles her forward. He's moving too fast. “Where will you be?”

“Right here. Right behind you. I promise you, at two yards I really, literally can't miss you. Even shooting in the dark.”

“Why didn't you tell Malcon just to come to this vessel?”

He nods his head at the open hatch. “Go see.”

She walks carefully down the ramp, and out, and – darkness. One second, she's bathed in the vessel's light: the next, nothing. She spins round, aiming the flashlight, and there's nothing there anymore, just grass and the distant hedge.

Sheppard's voice is clear in her ear. “Cloaking device. Now, stand exactly where you are. I can still see you perfectly. You move, and I'll take my chances that your husband will still want you with a bullet through your back.”

She knows he must still be there, right where she's staring, but there's nothing but the flashlight beam cutting into the darkness of the field. When he'd spoken, the only sound came from that earpiece.

He doesn't have to explain what this is. For weeks now, the Genii have been raving about cloaking technology... She reads most of Malcon's papers, and pays attention to the working conversations at the dinner table. There may, after all, come a day when her husband needs a trustworthy confidante, someone he can share his most difficult dilemmas with.

“Turn around,” Sheppard's voice in her ear is hard. “Keep that light towards the end of the field. Don't say anything unless I tell you to. And remember, if McKay's still alive, you might stay that way too.”

The night air is cold and damp, but that's not what makes her shiver. She stands very still, one hand holding the flashlight, the other clutching the front of her dress together, and waits.

In the distance, she hears the old barred gate opening with its distinctive creak. From the darkness, a voice she doesn't recognise calls out, “Mistress Cantrel? Is that you?”

The icy voice in her ear whispers, “Tell him yes. Don't move. Tell him to come to you.”

Lanni obeys. At the far edge of the torch-light a man appears, walking slowly. He's carrying something over his shoulder... a black sack, like a mortuary body bag. She gasps, unable to stop herself, and Sheppard's voice says sharply “What is it?”

“Nothing! There's someone coming, he startled me. What do I do?”

“Stand still! Is he alone?”

She moves the light around, her hand shaking horribly.

“I think so... I can't see anyone else.”

There's no response from her captor. The man with the big black sack is close enough now for her to hear his rasping breathing. He's wearing an Institute security uniform. She doesn't recognise him, but he bobs his head at her as he gets close.

“Mistress. Do you know what we're supposed to do now?”

“Come back inside, and tell him to follow you,” the voice in her ear commands, and she sees the man jump and look around him at the darkness.

“You need to follow me,” she says, turning. She has to tread carefully, because even with the torch pointed at the ground, there's only the slight line of flattened grass to tell her where the ramp starts. She steps onto it and flinches as the vessel re-materialises around her and her world is suddenly flooded with light.

“Keep walking,” Sheppard orders her, and Lanni obeys, her heart racing. He's at the cockpit end of the vessel, pointing a gun right at her. Behind her, she hears the security man's stunned gasp as he steps into the vessel.

“Both of you, don't move.” The blood's drained from Sheppard's face. He gestures at the man. “Put him down there, and open the bag, very slowly.”

The security man eases his burden onto the deck of the vessel, and reaches carefully to unpeel the seal, pushing the edges back.

She sees the faint blue phosphorescence first. As the bag opens wider, it reveals a man's face, paler even than Sheppard's, covered in myemetic gel. There's a small air-mask and breathing canister over his nose and mouth, and his eyes are shut. He looks like a corpse. Lanni feels her stomach lurch with a terrible fear.

“That's enough.” Sheppard's voice is very quiet. He gestures at the man. “Turn around and get out.”

The man must be brave, or more in fear of Malcon than of the gun pointing at his head. “What about the Mistress? She's supposed to come with me?”

“Not a chance. Tell Cantrel I'll need him to get the Stargate unlocked and dialled out for me. I don't care where. As soon as we're safely off this planet, I'll send his wife back. Now, move!”

Brave, but not a fool. The man doesn't argue, just rises and walks away, backwards, carefully, and the moment he reaches the edge of the ramp Sheppard moves in a blur, hitting a lever on the wall. The door closes and he's on his knees, pushing the sack further open and reaching for the neck of the man inside.

There's silence... then she hears him sigh and he's muttering something she can't catch. He unfastens the breathing mask, pulling it clear, then shakes the still body gently. “Rodney? Rodney, wake up. Come on...”

The man in the sack doesn't move, but she hears him moaning quietly as he breathes. Sheppard watches him, then moves quickly, rolling the whole sack over, so that the man is on his side with his head clear of the black material. The myegel runs out of the opening, forming a glowing puddle on the floor around the unconscious man's cheek. There are bruises on his cheek, under the stubble on his jaw.

He stirs, twitching, and Lanni thinks she sees a dull silver glitter through the slick of gel over his temple. It makes bile rise in her throat.

Sheppard stands up abruptly, grabbing Lanni's arm as he passes, pulling her along and shoving her into the seat on the right in the front of the vessel. The console lights up even before he's seated.

Without looking round, he says, “Do I need to tie you up again, or are you going to be smart and stay still?”

She glances behind her, at the black sack curled on the floor, with gel still leaking out. She can't see the man's face from here.

“Your friend – don't you want to get him out of there?”

“I want to get us out of this place first. For all I know, your husband's got half his security forces trying to creep up on us right now.”

The engines are humming softly again. She can't take her eyes off the black body bag, or the small fortune's worth of myegel that's slowly pooling on the floor around it.

“If – if he's hurt, I could help him while you drove us away...?”

He looks at her then, with pure disgust.

“Whatever state he's in, your husband did that. You even try moving towards him, I'll send you back to your people in that bag. Now shut up!”

He turns to the controls as Lanni shrinks back into her seat.

He'll have to drive out the same way the security guard came in: there's no other gate big enough in the quarter field. Malcon will have something set up, a roadblock, more men waiting... and even as she's thinking this, she sees small lights in the blackness of the window, and they move towards the vessel and then – vanish beneath the window. They were road-spots, she realises with a shock.

“Oh God, we're flying?” She hadn't meant to say anything aloud.

Sheppard laughs humourlessly. “Imagine that, yeah. Cloaked and flying alien tech. Your husband really should have guarded it better. I imagine the Genii would have given him even more than they were offering for McKay.”

From behind them, a voice says, hoarsely, “I heard that...” and Lanni catches the smile again on Sheppard's face, the flood of relief. “Hang on, Rodney,” he calls out, and she sees lights dancing over the console without Sheppard even moving a hand, before the engines fall silent again and her captor is out of his chair.

The man in the sack – McKay – is awake, eyes screwed shut, shaking his head and trying to scrape his face clumsily against the floor.

She watches, fascinated, as Sheppard drops to his knees, right in the pool of blood-streaked gel, one hand on the other man's head as he unseals the rest of the bag.

“It's okay, Rodney. Lie still. I'm getting you out of it.”

“Stuff in my eyes is stinging,” McKay mutters, sounding dry-mouthed yet slurred, but he stays still as Sheppard pushes the bag away and more myegel sloshes everywhere. Sheppard half-lifts, half-drags McKay out, and Lanni suddenly remembers watching a heifer being born on one of her father's farms, when she was only a child: slime and blood, the folds of the sack like the birth-membrane, and the pale, inert body within.

She can see that Sheppard is trying to be careful, but McKay groans and gasps as he's propped against one of the side benches. He's wearing a vest and shorts, soaked with the myegel, and Lanni can see marks on his arms and shoulders and hands, grazes and bruises, as if he's been fighting.

Sheppard is rummaging in a locker as McKay slumps against the bench. “Please, please tell me we're back home,” he whispers.

Sheppard has bottles, cloth, blankets. He wraps McKay up briskly, then sits down next to him. “Sorry. Still on Prion. But the good news is, we're back in the jumper. So, how're you feeling?”

Sheppard's voice is so light and chatty. He's holding McKay's face still with one hand, and using a cloth soaked in water to clean the myegel away from McKay's eyes, his movements slow and painstakingly careful. Lanni's jaw is still aching where he'd grasped it earlier, but he's holding McKay as if he were made out of crystal.

“Terrible, I feel terrible...” McKay tries to shake his head again, but Sheppard's grip must be tighter than it looks. “Think they gave me something, before they stuck me in that thing. Head full of cotton. Thought they were packing me for the Genii, damn it. Why are we still here? Did Elizabeth spring -?”

“- No Elizabeth. I'm sure she's trying every protocol in Diplomacy 101 on these guys, but with a shield on the gate, there's not much she can do.”

“So you thought you'd do it yourself, hmm?” McKay frowns. “Are my eyes clean yet?”

“Well, I was kind of getting bored sitting around listening to you using all that un-Canadian language next door...” McKay shivers, and Sheppard adds, quietly, “Listen, I had to get out and get the jumper, to get you – I don't think I could've gotten us both out of there at the same time... Try opening your eyes.”

McKay squints, blinking furiously, eyes watering. Then he reaches for Sheppard's wrist with one myegel-slimed hand, smearing the blood that had dried on it.

“You okay? Didn't let anyone shoot you this time?”

“Rodney, I'm fine. Come on. Let me see if I can get some more of this stuff off.”

McKay watches, still squinting, as Sheppard continues to work the wet cloth over his face and neck.

“It's all right. I knew you'd think of something. Unless you were still pissy about getting your ass kicked at Risk the other night, and even you can't possibly hold a – Ow, ow, careful!”

He scrabbles for Sheppard's hand, trying to pull the cloth away. Where the myegel has been wiped from his face, now Lanni can see the first little glistening silver stud clearly, embedded in his temple, and her whole body goes cold. She stares at McKay's neck and hands, trying to spot the other nodes, as Sheppard peers closely.

“Sorry! Oh Jesus... This is what they were doing with that nail-gun thing?”

McKay nods, frowning. “Like push-pins... Bastards shot the damned things into me all over. I can't remember what they called them – neural nodes, neurogens, something like that. Maybe some kind of engram scanning? These idiots are just mad enough to think that'd work. Look, I don't see why we're still here?”

“We have to wait until Cantrel can get the gate unshielded for us – Sorry, sorry...” Sheppard is examining McKay carefully: Lanni sees him checking off the studs buried under McKay's ears, one in each shoulder, his wrists. She knows there will be others.

“Please stop saying that. Look, these things hurt like hell going in, and they're hurting like hell freezing over now. Feels like chicken-pox or ants or something, like getting bitten all over. It's worse if you touch one. Where's the first-aid kit? Morphine, that's what I need right now. A nice shot of morphine and then we go home, okay?”

Sheppard shakes his head. “They hit you with some kind of narcotic. I can't risk giving you anything else. Beckett was clear about that, remember? No head trauma, avoid interactions – ”

“Screw Carson, he's not here!” McKay's voice is stronger now, an almost petulant edge to it. He doesn't sound like a man who's been tortured, Lanni thinks sullenly. He sounds like an angry merchant at a Guild-day, obstinate and determined.

She watches him push restlessly away from Sheppard, flinching as he touches the node in his wrist. “Look, just, just get this stuff off my fingers. If I can get my nails under, stop losing purchase, I can pull them out myself.”

Before she can stop, Lanni hears herself saying, “That's not a good idea.”

Both of them look back at her. McKay's eyes are reddened, but his irises are blue, the vivid shade of cereflowers, fringed with dark lashes. Prions don't have blue eyes. She stares, sees McKay's lips curl up for a moment, a strange off-balance grin, smothered as he turns to Sheppard. “Major, who's this?”

“Cantrel's wife. I needed some, uh, leverage with him.”

“Ah, yes, right, good thinking, makes sense. I was wondering how you – wait a minute. Why is her dress ripped like that?”

Sheppard actually rolls his eyes. “Calm down, Rodney. It's not Chaya Mark Two. I needed to get her to yell a little, to speed Cantrel up. What was I supposed to do – tie her down and shoot her with a nail-gun?”

McKay waves his hands, grimacing.

“Fine, I get the picture. Can't you just cover her up or something? I mean, give her some tape to, I don't know, stick the dress back together. That looks indecent.”

“Okay, quit whining!” Sheppard eases McKay back against the seat and makes his way over, sighing theatrically as he tears off a strip of the dull silver tape he'd bound her wrists with before. “Go ahead, patch it up, keep Rodney happy. Now you see why I was ready to leave him snoring in that damned body bag?”

Lanni tugs the cut edges of her dress together with the tape, trying not to stick it to her skin. Behind them, McKay calls out, “And get me the toolkit while you're up, I need pliers. And something to drink.”

Sheppard hands her another piece of tape. He's grinning. She can feel the happiness rolling off him, now he has his whiny friend back and their little escape plan is succeeding. Of course, if they start trying to pull the neurogens out without shutting them down, he'll stop smiling quickly enough.

She studies McKay. There's some colour back in his face now, though he still looks dreadful, unshaven and haggard, scowling and muttering to himself. He and his handsome Major make an odd couple. He can't stop running his fingers over his skin, finding each node and then twitching as his fingers make contact.

Suddenly, he stares right back at her, those strange eyes narrowing.

“Why isn't it a good idea?” he says sharply.

She should tell him. On the camfile Malcon definitely doesn't know she's seen, the research director had said that three of the test subjects had eventually died of shock. Not counting the one whose heart gave out on the spot.

Dalvin Apasail, that was the research head's name. Deputy Director of Bio-Engineering. Malcon's age. Unable to hide his jealousy of her husband's superior rank. God only knew what kind of trouble Malcon would be in, for letting these terrorists escape.

She watches Sheppard, who killed her poor Heike, and her bodyguard, and her housekeeper, and Malcon's employees too, no doubt. He's kneeling again in the gel on the floor, unscrewing the lid on a flask and handing it to McKay, watching him intently as the other man drinks.

She feels hatred curling through her, pure and warming, beyond Sheppard's reach. In her haughtiest, most oblivious voice, Lanni snaps, “If my husband did that to you, clearly he had a good reason. Who do you think you are, trying to tamper with his work? He's Executive Director at the Institute!”

McKay's face creases with contempt. “Oh well, that all makes sense now. Major, please fly us to the Gate immediately and turn us both over to the Genii. I understand that was part of Director Cantrel's great plan too.”

He makes a grab for the tool-box, but Sheppard catches his wrist, without taking his eyes off Lanni.

“Rodney, hold on. I don't think she's such a – ”

“No, you hold on! For all I know, these things are poisoning me or eating my nervous system or, or, I have no idea what, but if you think I'm going to sit here and wait while they do – Look, I'm tired, I'm covered in slime, everything itches and my skin is ready to crawl off all by itself. I just want to go home and forget we ever came here. So would you just give me the toolkit and go find out what's taking Cantrel so long, okay?”

Sheppard doesn't react for a moment. Then he says, “All right. But let me take them out. I can use both hands.”

“Fine, fine. Just do it!”

Lanni sneers as hard as she can, to cover her glee. It's a good thing: Sheppard turns once more, staring at her. Then McKay snaps “Major!” and he turns back, pulling McKay's arm over and gripping his wrist between his knees.

She watches, fists clenched. Sheppard has a small pair of pliers in his hand. He closes them around the neural node in McKay's wrist, says, “Are you ready? One, two – ” and pulls.

She's expecting a scream. The men on the camfile all screamed, apart from the one whose heart stopped.

So the moment of silence is unexpectedly long, or so it seems, before McKay takes one horrendous, shuddering gasp of breath and then convulses, smashing against Sheppard. And yes, he screams too, an inhuman howl, again and again. In the small space of the flying vessel, it's a terrible sound, far worse than seeing and hearing it on a flatscreen.

Any sensible man would have retreated to a safe distance and let the fit play out, but Major Sheppard is clearly quite demented. He's fighting to trap McKay's arms and legs, pin him down, still him, and he shouldn't be able to manage it. McKay is broader and more solid, and his whole body flails as he yells. But Sheppard perseveres, even when McKay snaps his head back, oblivious, into Sheppard's face, cracking his nose.

She shouldn't really want her captor to succeed in anything. But the vessel they're in is so small, and the sound is everywhere, and the sight of a stranger – an enemy, even – but in such agony... It's far more horribly disturbing than Lanni could have imagined.

And it's working. Maybe McKay's already too exhausted to keep struggling. After a while, his screaming subsides into moans and shuddering gasps of breath, and Sheppard has him gripped tightly, arms and legs entwined in a mad embrace, crushed against his chest.

He's talking, too quietly at first for Lanni to make out the words, his lips close to McKay's ear. An endless stream of nonsense, shushing and soothing, even as he struggles to get his own breathing under control.

McKay is trembling violently all over, his face buried in Sheppard's chest. He mumbles something, between sobbing short breaths. Sheppard leans even closer, blood dripping from his nose. “It's okay. Say it again, Rodney, I didn't hear you.”

She can hear McKay's clotted whisper now, but not the words. Sheppard says “...burning?” and McKay nods, still shuddering.

“Burning. Hand, my arm... skin burning through. Make it stop.”

They'd given one of the test subjects a knife. He'd hacked off his own hand. Lanni had stopped watching the file at that point.

“Let me see.” McKay shakes his head, but he's too weak to resist as Sheppard loosens his grip slightly, reaching between them to unfold the arm he'd pulled the node out of.

The skin on McKay's wrist is smooth and unblemished, of course. Just a little pinkish around the nodal point where the implant had been.

“Rodney, it's fine. Your hand's fine.” McKay won't look, but he's growing quieter, shaking less. “Please, just see for yourself. It's tricking your brain. I promise you, you’re fine. Trust me. Look.”

McKay finally lifts his head, staring in confusion at his hand.

“I can still feel it. Down to the bone. Like nothing, nothing I've...”

He tries to spit: blood drools over his chin, and Sheppard says “Bit your tongue? Let me see.”

McKay is passive, eyes dark with shock. Sheppard peers into his mouth, reaching a finger in, then strokes McKay's cheek as if he were a child. “It's just a nip. Carson'll close that before you even notice.”

McKay doesn't respond. He's still staring at his hand, but he looks unfocused and confused. He doesn't make a sound as Sheppard slowly releases his grip.

“Okay, I need to sort things out. I'm going to leave you here for a minute, then we can go back home, I promise. You understand?”

No answer. Sheppard eases him down, dragging the blankets back around him and resting McKay on his side. One minute, he's down there. The next, he's on top of Lanni, yanking her out of her seat, through the vessel, then hurling her against the far bulkhead. Lanni shrieks as her head cracks into the wall, and Sheppard lunges in and closes on her throat, dragging her back upright.

“Talk fast,” he says. “What are those things?”

Lanni's breathless. Her head and her back hurt terribly. “I don't know! You need me alive! You told him! I'm your leverage!”

“Fine.” There's a knife in his other hand. He brings it up to her face. “Which eye first?”

She'd thought maybe he was mad before. No doubting it anymore. He places the point against her lower lid, resting the blade on her cheekbone and digging into the crease: she feels it gouge in, and the tiny grain of defiance she thought she'd managed to dredge up vanishes.

“No! I'm sorry! I'll tell you, please!”

He doesn't move: the knife-point continues to prick cruelly into her eyelid. She can't tell if it's blood or tears running down her cheek.

“They're neurogens, like he said. They're for, for... They're military. For intelligence. Other worlds, other races – ”

“Engrams? A memory scan?”

She can't get the words out. The pressure increases sharply: this time, she knows the knife-point has broken the skin. She feels the sharp sting under her eye, unmistakeable, and whimpers.

“They help us, our people can gather intelligence – With questioning, you can make someone feel... Heat, or cold, or an electrical current maybe. That's all you need. Sensations, but no real damage. It hurt him much more because you pulled one out without de-activating it. They have a defence mechanism, you see, it stops a subject trying to...”

She's babbling. Her other eye is blurring, but she sees Sheppard frown, as the idea sinks in.

“Intelligence... Oh, God. You mean interrogation, right? Those things are torture devices!”

“We need information, all of us!” If she can make him understand, maybe he'll spare her. Maybe he won't maim her. “Prions, Genii, Hoffans, Deterian. Your people too! We all need knowledge, to advance. To help us survive, defeat our enemy!”

“You leech your knowledge from other races? Through torture?”

“And so do the Genii, and – and many others, I'm certain! Why did you come here? Weren't you trying to do the same thing – take our technology, our advances, use them for yourselves?”

“We would have traded!” he spits back. “We wouldn't have tortured you for it! That's insane!”

“It's war!” She's always known this. Malcon never had to persuade her. It's how Prions have managed to survive and flourish, under the Wraith, as other great races have crumbled and shrivelled and died. They have the true desire to survive, at any cost.

This madman with a knife cutting her eyelid, he should be able to understand that. She understands Sheppard, at some level, yes. It's all about the exigencies. He has no right to look at her with such contempt.

She waits for some sign of understanding on his face, but all he can do is scowl. “You're sick. How do I remove them without killing him?”

“They're photosensitive. Clear the myegel off, use an ultraviolet lamp, low-end of the spectrum. It deactivates the nanites.”

“Good.” Sheppard steps back: she feels the stinging pressure under her eye vanish, though the pain is still there, sharp and throbbing. She puts a hand up to her wounded eye, terrified to open it in case she can't see.

There's a loud click. Lanni blinks the uninjured eye. Sheppard has swapped the knife for his gun. He raises it and takes aim at her head. She wails in terror.

“You need me alive!”

“Maybe. But I think I'll take my chances with your husband from now on. I'm sure he'll want to live just as much as he wanted you to. Maybe more.”

He presses the wall lever, and the ramp behind her drops open again, into the blackness. She stares, paralysed, as Sheppard points the gun at her forehead again.

From the floor behind him, McKay says “Don't!” in a cracked voice.

The gun doesn't waver. “She knew that would happen, if we took that thing out,” Sheppard says, without looking back. “She knew exactly how bad it would be for you.”

“I know. This won't help.” McKay's voice is a fading whisper. As Lanni watches, he closes his eyes, dropping his head back to the floor.

Sheppard does nothing, just stands and stares at her with the gun straight in his hand. Then McKay whispers “John...”, and Sheppard flinches, and the look on his face is unreadable.

Then he shrugs, clicks the catch back on the gun and holsters it. He shuts the ramp again, and Lanni sinks down against it, unable to stay on her feet anymore.

He binds her again, hands and legs, and leaves her lying down there against the ramp wall. On the other side of the floor McKay isn't moving, just breathing shallowly, too fast, his face blanched and wet with tears and sweat, blood on his lips.

She wants to catch his eye, to nod at him, thank him, but he won't take his eyes off Sheppard, who has the radio in his hand. “Cantrel!”

A long silence, then Malcon's voice, rushed. “Please, Major, not now! I'm trying to organise – ”

“Time's up. We're coming now. Get that shield open!”

“I can't – there are guards – ”

“Deal with them,” Sheppard snaps, cutting the link. He takes off his jacket and puts it over McKay, then touches the other man's cheek. “Hey, hang in there. We're going home now, yeah. You still with me?”

McKay's sounds tired, distant. “Mmm... thinking about that beach on the mainland.”

“The one with the seal-head cliff?” He gets a tiny nod. “Yeah, I remember. It was nice there.”

“Warm...” McKay frowns. “Too cold here.”

“Carson will sort that out for you. Not long now. You said you'd build me a glider, remember? I'm still waiting.”

“Can't find a big enough elastic band,” McKay mumbles, and there's a tiny, weak smile before his eyes close again. Sheppard rests a hand on his forehead, then goes back to the pilot's chair and Lanni hears the vessel powering up once more.

McKay opens his eyes. She wants to say something to him, but she's terrified that Sheppard will hit her or cut her again. McKay frowns when he coughs, spitting blood, then whispers, “Tell me about them... I need to understand. You said nanites. How did your people develop them?”

She should say nothing. But she'd stripped him of whatever composure he'd had left, after Malcon's people had finished tagging him, and yet he'd still argued for her life. It's hard not to feel that she owes him.

“It was Lantean research,” she says softly. “From the time of the Old Ones. Centuries ago. In my grandfather's day, we found three labs at an archaeological site, the same place where we rediscovered the Gate shield. The nodes form bio-electric links at the contact point. They seemed to be some kind of medical experiment, to re-grow damaged nerves, maybe. No-one was sure. Our scientists carried on, where the Old Ones had left off.”

He's thinking, or fading. His breathing is slower. “Okay.... but wait. So many nodes, why so many? For what, what your people turned it into...”

“They work with the myegel. It's conductive, like an external nervous system, almost. You feel the same neural impulse all over, from just one nodal point. Amplified. That's what speeded up the healing process.”

“I see that, yeah, that would work.” He spits again, dark blood, and stares at her with his unnerving blue eyes. “It sounds – so many possibilities. The Major was right. You people are incredibly sick.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but the engines are shutting down again. There's pre-dawn light through the cockpit window, streamers of pale silver cloud across the sky. Sheppard walks back through the vessel, pulls her to her feet, and opens the hatch.

“Let's see how the administrator has managed,” he says.

Malcon is standing by the dialling plinth, alone. In the pale light, she can see a body at his feet, three more on the steps to the gate. All in National Guard uniforms. He's used a gun.

Sheppard holds the radio comm to her face. “Say hello,” he says.

She says “Malcon...” and it's surreal, to see him five yards away, looking up as her voice comes out of the comm in his hand.

“Lanni, where are you?”

“I'm right here, I can see you – ”

At her side, Sheppard interrupts. “Cantrel, is the shield off?” She sees him nod. “Then dial Atlantis!”

Malcon's hands move over the dialling disc. No blood on him, but how will they ever be able to convince the military that these Lanteans did all this by themselves?

As if reading her thoughts, Malcon grabs the comm again as the shimmering disc of light fills the Gate. “Take us with you!” he says, desperately, and Sheppard laughs.

“Back to Atlantis? Forget it. If you're worried, gate somewhere else. Your wife speaks very highly of the Genii...”

Malcon's still staring around, fear in his eyes.

“They'll crucify us for this – our own people. Me for certain, Lanni too. As an example. You have to help us!”

“No I don't,” Sheppard says blithely. He twists Lanni and pushes her towards the open back of the sky-vessel.

McKay, McKay will help... She ducks out of Sheppard's grip and tries to dodge back to him.

“Please! Malcon's right. You made him listen before, your Major. You wouldn't let him kill me!”

McKay looks up, blinking, confused for a moment. Then his expression clears. “I didn't do that for your sake,” he whispers.

They're the last things she sees as Sheppard pushes her backwards. Her kidnapper's grim, blood-smeared face and McKay's cere-blue eyes, ice-cold.

She tumbles to the ground and the ramp and ship vanish from her sight.

There's a long moment when nothing seems to happen. Then she feels it, the rush of turbulence in the air, and suddenly the event horizon starts to ripple, though the vessel never reappears.

Behind her, Malcon races up the steps, ignoring her completely. Lanni screams, but he's just a second too late. As he lunges for the portal, the event horizon shivers, a last cool ripple of blue, before it shuts down and they're alone in the dim morning light, with the first beams of sunrise sparking on the Lantean symbols at the top of the Gate.