“Looks like you’ve got company, Sorcha.” He was squinting through his monocular, sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead.
A handful of small boats, fishing dories and dinghies, were cutting rapidly through the waves, heading for the shore. No, not through the waves, Sam noted, but on top of them, the vessels utilizing some form of hover technology. Sam’s curiosity twitched, especially when she saw that the sails were made of the same reflective material that was used on the ships. Solar panels, she was sure. The largest dory sailed in front, crewed by a lone boatman.
Rhionna stepped forward, as if to better make out the figure, and Sam noticed the tense set of her jaw. By her side, her hands had balled into fists.
“Is it him?” asked Sorcha.
“I don’t know,” replied Rhionna, her voice hoarse. Then a pause. “Yes, I think so.”
“Is it who?” asked Colonel O’Neill. “Someone we need to worry about?”
Rhionna shook her head. “He’s no one. A scavenger. A beggar. He’s not important.”
From the expression on her face, Sam suspected that the opposite was true. The colonel apparently shared her sentiments. “That’s quite an armada he’s got out there, for a beggar.”
Rhionna ignored him. “What’s he doing here, Sorcha?”
The older woman shrugged. “I have not the slightest idea. But if your friends here are in search of
Sciath Dé
then it is fortunate that he has come, is it not?”
Sam caught the colonel’s eye; definitely important then.
“No one wants him here, Sorcha. No one trusts him.” Rhionna’s sharp words sounded almost like a reprimand.
“Remember what is important, Rhionna,” Sorcha replied. “We must all make sacrifices.”
Rhionna’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry.” Then she turned away without another word and strode back into Sorcha’s hut.
“Someone mind telling me who the hell this guy is? And whether or not I’ll have to shoot him?”
Sam could hear the thread of impatience running through the colonel’s words. It spoke to a new anxiety within herself that she was reluctant to acknowledge, one that made her want to turn tail and run at even the slightest hint of a threat, one that kept her on edge, constantly suspecting, never trusting. The fallout, she supposed, of having your own mind used as a weapon against you. A P90 was nothing compared to that.
“The
Seachrání
are no threat to you, O’Neill,” said Sorcha. She seemed relaxed enough, and Sam tried to take comfort in that. “They are a people who simply choose to live by their own rules.”
“Oh goody,” said the colonel, “pirates.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “And what about this guy?” The boats were almost at the rickety docks. In the lead vessel, the lone figure seated in its stern was more visible now, but his face was obscured by black goggles and a faded scarf tied around his mouth, a wide brimmed hat pulled low on his head.
“That is Faelan Garret,” replied Sorcha. “An intriguing individual.” She turned to look in the direction Rhionna had gone. “He is a man who inspires strong reactions in many people.”
Sam cast her eye over the shanty town. “It looks like Rhionna’s not the only one who isn’t exactly pleased to see him.” People had gathered there, at the edge of the dilapidated shacks. They clustered in groups, watching the arrival of the newcomers, every nuance of their body language radiating caution.
Sorcha just shrugged. “The
Seachrání
do not give much of themselves away. Their ways are strange, and people fear that which they do not understand, eh? Fear and fascination mixed in equal measure. They live far from here and allow very few outsiders within their Cove. But they keep us supplied with oil, with water when they can spare it, and with food when they can catch it. Many from the Badlands, I think, would join them, but they are a reclusive band. Too many secrets, perhaps.”
“And how does he fit in?” asked the colonel, watching the stranger.
“I suppose you’d call Faelan Garret their leader, though he’d dispute the claim.”
“Rhionna doesn’t seem to like him,” Daniel observed, glancing up at the hut.
Sorcha chuckled. “Dislike isn’t quite how I’d describe it. As I said, strong reactions.”
“Not so unimportant as she’d have us believe then?”
“Daniel Jackson, the only person who would truly believe Faelan Garret unimportant is Faelan himself. Come, I’ll introduce you to him. You could be useful to each other, I think.”
She led them down to the quay while Garret’s dory glided in to dock, the other boats following. With a graceful leap, he landed on the wooden planking and began mooring his boat, an antiquated looking vessel at odds with the intriguing technology it employed. Sam itched to ask him about it, but she knew this was not the time. Judging by what Sorcha had said, she doubted she would get any answers anyway.
The man turned, his long gray duster flapping round his ankles, then pulled off his hat, glasses and scarf to reveal dark hair that hung over his forehead, and a face which, despite its weather-hardened skin, was younger than Sam had expected. His eyes, though, suggested he had lived three lifetimes, none of them good. It was those eyes that now narrowed as they took in SG-1, becoming guarded and uncertain. Without looking back, he tossed the line of his boat to one of the sailors. The man caught it and finished the task of securing it to the dock.
“
Dia dhuit
, Sorcha,” said Faelan, though he didn’t look at her, his gaze scanning the team instead. The other
Seachrání
drew in behind him, their stance far from casual. This was a defense formation, Sam suspected, one they knew by rote, geared for fight or flight.
“
Dia dhuit
, Faelan.
Céad míle fáilte
.” Sorcha stepped forward, between Faelan and SG-1, as if providing a barrier, though Sam could not guess whom she was protecting. “Faelan, these people are visitors from another world. They came through the Sungate.”
His sharp eyes flicked towards her, disbelief written on his face. “But that’s –”
“I always told you it was true.”
“They’re from
Acarsaid Dorch
then?”
Sorcha laughed. “No, the Sungate opens to other places too. Not just there. Can you imagine, Faelan? Can you conceive of the possibilities?”
“Of course he can’t,” said a brittle voice. “He can barely conceive of anything beyond himself.”
Faelan’s jaw tensed, his dark features turning stormy, while Sam and the others spun around to find Rhionna standing behind them. Her arms were crossed and, though her expression was hard to read behind her dark glasses, tension radiated from her.
“Rhionna,” said Faelan, dispensing with the warm greeting he had offered Sorcha. “Not seen you in quite a while. Still doing your bit for needy causes, I see. The folk of the Badlands must thank their lucky stars to have the condescension of so… fashionable a patroness.” His words were mocking, but Sam thought she could detect something raw beneath them.
“It’s not condescension, it’s called caring. Not that you’d be familiar with that concept.”
“I’m familiar with the concept of a losing battle.”
“Ever the defeatist, Faelan.”
“Ever the dreamer, Rhionna.”
She shrugged, as if conceding the point. “But not so much as I used to be, eh?”
For some reason, that halted him in his tracks, and he didn’t reply.
“Must we go through this every time?” The exasperation was not hard to hear in Sorcha’s tone, but both Faelan and Rhionna seemed oblivious to anything but each other.
Colonel O’Neill cleared his throat. “Not that this situation is at all awkward or uncomfortable, but is there a chance we could get out of this sun? I’m crisping here.”
Faelan glanced at the sky and brushed his hair back from his eyes, before pushing his hat back on. “The Burn will start soon. We should get inside. And I’ve news you might want to hear.”
“A storm?” The worry in Sorcha’s voice told Jack this was likely to be more than just a little thunder and lightning.
Faelan nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Outside the midday sun scorched everything it touched, and in the stuffy half-light of Sorcha’s shack the heat was unbearable, especially with an extra couple of bodies now crowding inside. The Burn could not have been a more fitting name for this time of day. Jack pulled the collar of his t-shirt away from his neck and wished they’d landed on a planet where nudity was acceptable.
“We’ve endured storms before,” said Sorcha. “Why the need for such a dire warning, Faelan?”
“There’s never been a storm like this before. The readings from our data buoys are off the scale.”
Carter leaned forward, perspiration darkening the ends of her hair. “What readings?” Jack knew it was curiosity that made her ask the question, but Faelan frowned as if she were doubting him. “Salinity, wave height, water temperature. But it’s more than that. I can just feel it. I can smell it. It’s going to hit fast, and it’s going to be big.”
“How fast?” asked Jack.
“Three days. Maybe a little longer, but not much.” He turned to Sorcha. “You’ve got to get the people out of the Badlands. Get them to safety.”
“But the shelters–”
“A few pits in the hillside aren’t going to be good enough. They have to get to higher ground.”
With a bark of laughter, Rhionna pushed herself away from the wall. “And where do you propose we take them? You pride yourself on being such a realist, but are you actually listening to yourself?”
Faelan rose to face her.
“Oh, here we go again,” muttered Jack.
“You know for a fact that there is more than enough space in the Ark to harbor them.”
“Yes, I’m sure that the Elect will just throw the doors wide open when I show up and tell them I’ve brought some guests for dinner.”
Faelan shrugged, but the gesture looked forced and deliberate. “You asked me for a solution, and I gave you one. I only came to pass on fair warning about the storm. What you do now is none of my business.”
“None of your –? God, Faelan, how can you be so ignorant? You’ve shut yourself away in the Cove for so long that you’ve become blind to the plight of these people.”
“Don’t you dare, Rhionna,” he said in a low voice.
“Um,” said Daniel, with half a glance at Jack, “maybe we can help? Perhaps if we spoke to your father. Explained the situation –?”
And this was how it began. Always. “Daniel.”
“What? Are we just going to do nothing?”
“Speaking to my father is futile,” Rhionna said, before Jack could answer. She offered Daniel a weak smile. “Thank you, though. But I’m afraid that, in my father’s eyes, these people are already damned. Besides, he is not the one who wields the power in the Elect.”
Jack didn’t have to ask to know that she was referring to Camus. He looked at Faelan, who was still glaring at Rhionna. “What about this Cove? Can’t you take them there?”
But Faelan just shook his head and looked away.
“Why not?”
“Because these people are not my concern! The Cove is for the
Seachrání
.”
“So, what?” Daniel snapped, “You’re just going to let them die here?”
“It’s no business of yours,” Faelan retorted. “I’ve come here to warn them, and that’s all I can do.”
A sudden silence dropped, hot and stifling. Into it, Rhionna spoke in a low voice full of apprehension. “Because the Cove’s not safe either, is it?”
“We’ll be fine,” he said “The Cove is protected.”
Jack doubted it, and he wasn’t the only one. Rhionna grabbed hold of Faelan’s sleeve, forcing him to turn and face her.
“Faelan, the Cove is crumbling into the sea. It won’t survive this kind of storm. Tell me you have somewhere else to go.” Beneath a thin veneer of anger, you could hear what almost sounded like a plea.
Faelan took hold of her arm and loosened her grip on him. He didn’t let go of her wrist. “We’ll be fine, Rhionna. Muirne is helping us.”
“You’re not serious! That place can barely support those already living there. It will never hold all of the
Seachrání
.”
There was a moment of silence that spoke volumes. “It will take most of us,” said Faelan, though he didn’t look Rhionna in the eye.
She pulled away, freeing herself from Faelan’s grip with an impatient jerk of her arm. “But not you.”
“What is it you want me to tell you, Rhionna?” The man’s voice thickened with a weariness familiar to Jack. It was the voice of an old soldier who’d suffered through too many battles and knew when the last stand was about to be fought. It was the voice of a guy with one final bullet in the clip. It didn’t belong on someone so young.
“I want you to tell me you’ll figure it out.”
He shook his head. “Rhionna.”
Reluctant as he was to encroach on what was becoming an increasingly private moment, Jack spoke up. “Why don’t you bring them here? There’s room in the Ark for these folks as well as your own—take the lead, make them let you in.”
“The
Seachrání
are hardly welcome in the Badlands, never mind up there,” growled an old man who sat in the corner. Jack was pretty sure the phrase ‘sea dog’ had been invented to describe him. “They won’t open their doors to the likes of us.”