The evacuation of the Cove had begun. In the gray pre-dawn light, a steady stream of people wound their way along the docks and onto the ships, while Jack O’Neill watched from his perch on what might have been a balcony once, but was now just a jagged, jutting jaw of granite propped up by unstable scaffolding. He’d seen operations like this before, of course, but here there was something missing.
In his experience, with a mass migration of people, there was always an undercurrent of barely checked panic, a desperation to escape whatever disaster was on their heels. The
Seachrání
did not panic, and any desperation was buried under a bone-hard shell of stoicism. Survival for them was not just instinct; it was habit, honed throughout their lives. They didn’t know how
not
to do it.
There was another characteristic of the
Seachrání
, however, that Jack found especially noteworthy: their strength as a unit. He had witnessed it on the ship, the devotion they had to one another and the bond that glued them together. It came from shared experience—hard experience—and it couldn’t be forced. Recently Jack had worried that it could be broken beyond repair. One thing he did know for sure; such a bond required one element that kept the parts of the whole together and stopped it from flying apart at the first gust of an ill wind. Down on the docks, that element walked among his people.
Faelan Garret was a conundrum to Jack. More bitter and hardened than any jaded veteran Jack had known, with a hair-trigger temper, the man was a liability; Jack still hadn’t
entirely ruled out shooting him so that he and Daniel could get
the hell out of here. But an irritating inner voice insisted that this guy was so much more than what he claimed to be. Jack hated the wasted potential and hated even more that he found himself unable to dismiss it as someone else’s problem.
He watched the captain make his way through the crowd, confident and assured, betraying none of the fears or doubts that might be brewing in his chest. With just a touch or a smile, he sowed encouragement.
“No matter what he thinks, he
is
their leader,” said Jack to the man who had appeared at his elbow.
“I won’t be arguing with you,” said Pádraig, scratching a thumb across the gray stubble of his beard.
“Why is he so reluctant to accept that fact?”
“Faelan does what needs to be done. Doesn’t matter what he tells himself.”
“Sorry, Pádraig, but that sounds like bullshit to me.”
Pádraig’s brow drew down, landing him the look of a man waiting to see whether a right hook might be called for. “And what would you be meaning by that?”
“The way I see it, there’s a lot that needs to be done on this planet beyond running and hiding.”
Pádraig faced him fully. “Now you listen to me, Jack O’Neill. I’ve known Faelan Garret since he first came wailing from his mother’s belly. His da was my brother in all but blood. That boy is
Seachrání
in his very marrow, and whatever he does, he does for his people.”
“And what about those other people back at the Badlands?”
Pádraig just turned back to glower down at the docks.
“Yeah, I get it,” said Jack. “Not your problem.”
“We take care of ours, O’Neill. We stand firm against the wind until it blows us over. It’s the way it’s always been.”
Jack bit back a sigh of frustration at the old sailor’s mulishness. “Y’know, sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures.”
But Pádraig just gave a chuckle like the rasp of a match. “Times are always desperate, O’Neill.”
“Don’t try and tell me you’ve faced something as big as this before.”
For a moment, Pádraig was silent, watching the activity below. After a while, he said, “Every
Seachrání
must face his final storm one day, O’Neill. Maybe this is ours.”
“And you plan to go down with your ship, is that it?”
But Pádraig didn’t answer, just turned and strode back into the lamp-lit building.
Jack watched him go until the rattle of scaffolding against the ledge drew his attention. Peering over the edge, he saw Faelan swinging his way upwards on nimble hands and feet.
“Jackson is still in the library?” asked the captain, as he pulled himself onto the balcony.
“Yeah. Once Daniel has his nose in a book, he makes a terrible conversationalist. Rhionna’s helping him with the translations. I got bored and thought I’d take a look around. Hope that’s okay.”
Faelan shrugged. Apparently they weren’t prisoners anymore. “Do you think he’ll find what he’s looking for?”
“If anyone can sniff out a needle in a haystack, Daniel can. Though, in general, it has to be a really old needle. With weird writing on it. He loves weird writing.”
The captain glanced over Jack’s shoulder and into the building beyond. “What did Pádraig have to say to you?” he asked with a jerk of his chin.
“Oh, nothing much. We were just shooting the breeze.”
Faelan didn’t look convinced, but said nothing more.
“Where are you taking them?” asked Jack, scanning the docks again. The ships were filling rapidly, and men and women swarmed across the yards and lines, readying them for the voyage. On the quay, a few of the more hardened
Seachrání
remained, showing no intention to board.
“Somewhere I hope is safer than here.”
“And what about us?” he asked, hoping that his take on the guy wasn’t wrong, and that he wasn’t going to leave him, Daniel and Rhionna here for the storm to get them.
“I’ll make sure you get back to the Ark.”
“You realize that’s not what you’re supposed to do with hostages?”
“That was a poor decision I made, Colonel. And not the first one either. I apologize for it.”
Jack nodded. “Sometimes we all make decisions we regret.”
A pained, fleeting expression crossed Faelan’s face; Jack suspected it had little to do with what had happened in the Badlands.
“So you’re not coming back here then,” he guessed.
“What makes you say that?”
“I just figured…” Jack trailed off, something Pádraig had said scratching at the edges of his thoughts. He looked down again at the people still standing on the quay.
“You’ll need a ship. I’ll bring one back,” said Faelan.
There was a question that needed to be asked there, Jack knew, but it wasn’t the right time, so instead he nodded in the direction of the harbor. “Can I come with you?”
Faelan looked surprised. “You want to join us on the voyage?”
“Not especially, but considering these buildings aren’t much steadier than those boats—sorry, ships—then I figure I might as well stick to you like glue and make sure you keep your word about getting us home.” It wasn’t the truth; he had no doubt that Faelan would keep his promise. But there was that voice again, telling him that he just needed a little more time to talk this guy out of his bitter shell and persuade him that he could, in fact, make a difference.
Apparently, Faelan wasn’t convinced by his explanation. He folded his arms across his chest and said, “What is it you hope to achieve here, O’Neill?”
“Maybe nothing. Humor me all the same, huh?”
After a brief pause, Faelan sighed in resignation. A flick of his head invited Jack to follow him down the scaffold. Feeling his way from pole to pole, trying in vain to keep pace with Faelan and not betray the ache in his knee, Jack questioned the wisdom of his plan.
Perhaps there was no hope for these people. Perhaps memories were influencing his actions, memories of bread rations and fear, and days colored by the furnace’s glare, when the only respite was a head resting on his shoulder. Perhaps this time, there was no hidden door to escape through.
But perhaps, if there was a door, then Captain Faelan Garret would be the one to open it.
Faelan’s
vessel, the
Fánaí na Mara
, set sail upon a too-calm sea. The sun had burned away the fog and now shone like vengeance on the mirror-flat surface. Even through sunglasses the glare was blinding. It was like nothing Jack had ever seen before, and from the look on Faelan’s face when they left the Cove, neither had he. The air felt heavy, expectant, and smelled of scorched metal. But if that hadn’t told him something big was coming, then the fat clot of black clouds squatting far off on the horizon certainly did.
“They aren’t moving,” Faelan had muttered, almost to himself. “Why aren’t they moving?” The words, which turned those clouds into sentient creatures priming themselves to attack, had sent cold fingers walking up Jack’s spine.
Now he sat in Faelan’s cabin, waiting out the Burn, which was harsher and lasted longer this far out to sea. The captain himself was off dealing with whatever matters needed to be dealt with on a ship like this. Eventually the door opened and Jack’s host entered, shucking off his coat and removing his hat and sun-visor.
“So you gonna tell me where we’re headed?” said Jack, impatient beyond the point of small talk.
Faelan ignored him. “Thirsty?” he asked, rubbing a hand over unkempt hair.
Though he didn’t appreciate how the man avoided his question, Jack couldn’t deny the rasp in his throat and nodded. Faelan pulled a metal canteen and two cups from a chest on the floor. He filled both cups, handing one to Jack, who took a sip and pursed his lips in appreciation. It was just water, but cleaner and less bitter than the stuff he’d drunk back at Sorcha’s shack. He had to resist gulping it back.
“We have more efficient desalination plants at the Cove,” explained Faelan. “What water we can spare we take to the people of the Badlands, but it’s never enough.”
“For a man of no consequence, you seem to put great effort into helping people.”
Faelan sat back, drank. “You seem fixated on my word choice, Colonel.”
“I’m just wondering why bother? You seem convinced this planet is going to hell in a handbasket. Surely a few barrels of water won’t make that much of a difference.”
“We have resources to spare. We’d be Seawolves indeed, eh, not to share what we can, when we can?”
Jack thought of the empty buildings he’d seen within the Ark, and shook his head. “So what else do you share? Food?”
“Sometimes. Mostly we give them fuel.”
“Oil,” said Jack, remembering the barrels being unloaded on the shore. “So you drill. Is that where we’re going?”
“We don’t drill. Those deposits were depleted long ago. No, Colonel, we hunt for our oil.”
“Hunt?”
“Yes. Do you have
moil mór
on your planet?”
Jack shrugged, perplexed.
“Oil fish,” explained Faelan. “We hunt them for fuel, for meat, for their hides.”
Jack drew back in disgust. “I’m on a whaling ship? And I was thinking you people were some kind of hippies.”
“You’re shocked,” said Faelan. “Your world doesn’t utilize animals for such purposes then?”
“No! Well, yeah, but we’re… selective. Jeez, next you’ll be telling me you cook dolphin stew.”
“No, of course not,” replied Faelan. “Dolphin meat tastes disgusting.” He laughed at Jack’s expression and said, “Why is the idea so appalling, Colonel? You’ve already told me that your people hunt and farm.”
“Yeah, but the whale thing is definitely frowned upon, on account of them being almost extinct. Or something.”
At that, Faelan threw his head back and laughed out loud, before glancing at the grimy face of the clock on the wall. Then he stood and opened the hatch of a porthole. “Burn’s over,” he said with a small grin. “Come with me, Colonel. There’s a sight outside that may interest you.”
They donned their protective gear and headed above deck, where Jack was greeted with a view that could only be called awe-inspiring. As far as the eye could see, the ocean churned with whales, dipping in and out of the water, tails flipping, sending liquid gems into the air to be caught by the sunlight. He’d watched enough Discovery Channel to recognize blue and sperm, but there were other species that he couldn’t name, blowing great plumes like a thousand fountains.
“Wow,” he said. “It’s where motivational posters come to die.”
“We hunt to live, Colonel O’Neill,” said Faelan. “These are our natural resources. Without them…” He shrugged, but his meaning was clear. Faelan and his people were engaged in a constant struggle for survival. Their environment was harsh and unforgiving, and the odds were stacked against them. Yet here they were, defiant and resolute, and Jack didn’t doubt that was down to their reluctant leader.
“So how else do you take care of your people, Faelan? What else do you do to survive?”
The captain’s smile faded. “You’ll see soon enough, Colonel.”
* * *
“I could have overpowered him with ease.” Teal’c sat cross legged and ramrod-straight, his eyes closed. Sam had assumed he was meditating, but apparently not.
She sighed and let her head knock back against the wall. “I know, but there had to be other guards outside and it’s broad daylight. Besides, if we can get out of here without force I’d prefer to do it that way.”