She eyed the desk, trying to calculate its weight. If that tipped over, it might distract Sorcha long enough to overpower her. She was only an old woman, after all. An old woman with a submachine gun—
her
submachine gun. Sorcha moved, her footsteps tentative. “The Guard will be here soon,” she said, frustration rising. “Give me the—”
A man rushed into the annex, swinging something solid-looking at Sorcha’s head. She cried out—anger and fear—and Sam flung her arms over her head when a burst from the P90 shattered the glass window and showered her in fragments. Someone fell hard, toppling over a chair, and then the only sounds were her own harsh breathing and the monotonous drone of
Sunrise
still oozing from the studio’s computer.
The walk
was over, but standing in the shadow of the great metal doors, bearing the brunt of the planet’s climate, Daniel knew that the really hard part hadn’t even begun yet.
Never had he been so cold or so tired. Never had so much depended on a single act of compassion from one people to another.
The refugees huddled together, shielding each other as best they could, but the wind and rain were merciless. Behind him, the sea pounded at what was left of the shore, its waves like unrelenting fists. This high up the hill, they were safe from the ocean, but that wouldn’t last; he was reluctant to ask Faelan how long it would take for the waters to reach them.
Right now the captain was making his way through the throng of battered people, handing out rations of water, words of encouragement, whatever would hold this fragile band together and keep them standing. Daniel figured that, somewhere along the line, Jack must have made an impression; he almost smiled to see Faelan so committed to SG-1’s pledge that no one got left behind.
As if sensing the scrutiny, Faelan turned and caught Daniel’s eye. His jerk of the chin was a summons, and Daniel pushed his way towards him. Together, they walked a short distance from the group.
“We can’t last out here much longer, Dr. Jackson.”
Reluctantly giving voice to his own anxieties, Daniel replied, “Are you worried that they didn’t make it?”
Faelan wiped a hand over his face, pushing back his soaked hair in a futile gesture. “I trust in your friends, and I trust in Rhionna.” It was an affirmation of sorts, but the doubt was still there.
“And Sorcha?”
“Sorcha Caratauc is single-minded, Daniel, and she does not like this plan.”
“The plan doesn’t hinge on her. They’ll make it with or without her.”
“There’s still the Elect Guard to contend with. They’re slow and lazy, but they are everywhere and they are armed.”
“So are Jack and Sam,” replied Daniel.
Looking somewhat reassured, Faelan nodded, but anything he might have said was cut off when the huge screens mounted outside the gates sputtered to life. As one, the refugees raised their heads, as if awaiting salvation; in a way, it was an appropriate notion.
Daniel couldn’t contain his grin and clapped Faelan on the shoulder. “I knew it. I knew that they’d make it.” But his relief was short-lived; in grainy images that spiked and flickered on damaged screens,
Sunrise
began to play. He turned back to Faelan, who was now staring out across the sea. “It doesn’t mean anything, Faelan. They can still make it.”
“Perhaps they can, Daniel. But the question now is: can we?” He pointed out into the very teeth of the storm, and with sick dread, Daniel realized what he was talking about. Where the horizon used to be, there was now a thick line, a slash of deep gray cutting through the tumultuous seascape.
“It’s a wave.” Faelan’s voice was leaden. “In a little while everything—everyone—that isn’t inside the dome will swept into the sea. Rhionna and your friends
must
succeed. If those gates don’t open, Daniel, then nothing in Ierna can save us.”
* * *
Carefully, Sam lowered her arms. Biting off a curse at the pain in her left bicep, she watched her sleeve darkening with blood. Her fingers still moved alright, though, so it probably was just a scratch. It hurt like hell, even so. Clamping her hand over the wound, she got to her feet and cautiously peered over the desk. Sorcha lay sprawled on her back, the gun flung free of her grip. Next to her lay her assailant, curled up and clearly in pain. Though she could hardly believe her eyes, she recognized the long robes and the fleshy face—now pale and clammy—of Pastor Ennis Channon. He’d been shot, at least once, his robes blooming crimson over his chest.
Treading across the broken glass, one eye on the studio door because she expected the Elect Guard to burst through any moment now, Sam snatched up her weapon and clipped it to her vest. Better. Then she turned to Ennis.
He was looking up at her, his breathing fast and shallow. “Rhionna,” he whispered. Blood foamed pink on his lips.
Sam darted a glance out into the studio, listened for footsteps. “She’s alive,” she said. “She’s trying to help bring the people of the Badlands inside.”
Ennis nodded. “As she always has.”
“But the Elect Guard will be here any second so I can’t—”
“No.” The word was a wheezing sigh.
Sam frowned. “They will have heard the gunfire.”
Lifting a heavy hand, Ennis gestured toward the studio door. Sam craned her neck to see. It was closed, Ennis himself must have shut it. Still, it was hardly enough to keep the soldiers out.
Smiling, Ennis bared blood-stained teeth. “No noise,” he breathed. “For
Sunrise
.”
It took a moment for Sam to get it. “The studio is soundproof. Of course it is. They didn’t hear anything?”
Ennis shook his head. “Show them the truth,” he said. “Show them.”
Behind her, Sorcha stirred. Keeping her good hand on her weapon, Sam crouched before Ennis. He was dying, the wound in his chest pumping out blood with each beat of his heart. She fished out one of the dressings she carried, knowing it would do little good but unable to just sit there and do nothing. Ignoring her own pain, she tore open the packet and pressed the bandage against the wound. “I can contact Rhionna,” she said. “Bring her here. She would want to see you before—”
“No.” Ennis’s hand covered her own where she was holding the dressing against his chest. “She will be Pastor now—let her lead the people. Let her open their eyes to the truth before it is too late.”
“But—”
“Please.” His face was waxen, lips turning blue. Sam Carter had seen death before and recognized its approach. “Rhionna must be my redemption now,” Ennis whispered. “Let her lead them.”
With a nod, Sam withdrew her hand. “Then I have a job to do.”
Ennis closed his eyes, his breath coming in a wet, wheezing rattle now.
Stepping over Sorcha’s prone body, Sam paused to press her fingers to the woman’s neck. Her pulse was steady. With no time to do more, she reached for another dressing and using her good hand and her teeth tied it as best she could around the wound in her own arm. Then, hunkering down before the alien computer, she got to work. Outside the storm was worsening, and the people of the Badlands didn’t have long.
Daniel and Teal’c didn’t have long.
* * *
“It has been many years since our last execution within the Ark. But I have long thought that it was time the practice was reintroduced—the people are becoming sloppy in their devotions, their respect for the Elect is faltering.” Tynan Camus peered down the length of his nose. “I should thank you, Colonel O’Neill, for providing me with the opportunity to restore one of our old customs. The death of the outlander heretic will demonstrate the power of the Elect most effectively.”
Jack didn’t bother to reply; smarter men than Camus had tried to goad him into a hasty response, and he was way too seasoned to fall for anything so amateurish. Instead he spoke to Rhionna, whose white face said more about her fears than any words could express. “Keep that on him,” he said, nodding toward her gun.
“What do you think’s happened?” Her gaze darted to the
Sunrise
building.
“Nothing. Carter’s on the case. Just give her a few more minutes.” He said it with confidence, partly to quell his own unease. No one was more capable than Carter, no one was more likely to get the job done. Unless…
No point in going there.
A flicker of light caught his eye, and he glanced out through the water-drenched dome. One of the giant screens outside glimmered through the slashing rain. “Watch him,” he told Rhionna and trotted over to the far side of the wall for a closer look.
The rain was blowing in horizontal blades, and it was difficult to make out anything through the sheets of water. But in the cold light of the screen he saw movement—a shifting, swaying mass ducking beneath the onslaught of the storm. The screen flickered again, brightness glancing off sodden hair plastered to thin, terrified faces. Faelan’s people had arrived, and he could almost feel their desperation pressing against the impassive gates of the Ark.
His hope hardened into anger. Two steps propelled him back to Camus, and he dragged the man across the wall and toward the edge of the dome. “Look!” he shouted, shoving him up close. “Look at them.”
Camus’s face remained impassive. “Folly, to bring them here. If it’s the Lord’s will that they perish, perish they shall.”
“The
Lord’s
will?” Jack yanked him around, jamming his pistol beneath the man’s chin and forcing him back hard against the railing. This close, he could see the contempt in Camus’s eyes. He could smell it. “It’s
your
will, you arrogant son of a—”
“Jack!”
He turned at Rhionna’s startled shout. Weapon raised, she was aiming it with a steady hand at the half dozen Elect Guard stalking the length of the wall toward her. Knowing what he’d see, Jack looked the other way and saw another group of soldiers, guns readied, closing in on them.
“Did you really believe you could take me captive without anyone noticing?”
Jack kept his Beretta pressed beneath Camus’s chin, forcing his head up. “Don’t think I won’t enjoy shutting that smart mouth of yours.” The barrel of the gun rose a little, fell again, as Camus swallowed hard. “Back off!” Jack hollered at the guards. “Back off
now
!”
“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” Rhionna called—a point on which Jack didn’t exactly agree, but he let it slide. “We just want to show you the truth! We want you to know what the Elect are doing in your name!”
“This woman is depraved!” Camus screamed, glaring at Jack and daring him to do his worst. “The Lord has damned her and all the visitors from
Acarsaid Dorch
! They must be set Outside to face His wrath!”
Sonofabitch was calling his bluff.
“Please,” Rhionna shouted as the Guardsmen glanced at each other and took a hesitant step forward. One man broke from their ranks, and Jack recognized the soldier who had let them go on the night they’d left the city. “Captain Tanner,” said Rhionna, the zat in her hand shaking. “I don’t want to hurt you. Please, you must listen. There are people outside. If we don’t open the Ark and let them in—”
The captain shook his head, approaching her slowly. “Rhionna, this is unwise –”
“You hear her madness!” Tynan crowed. “Open the Ark? She is crazed!”
“Enough from you!” shouted Tanner, shocking Tynan into silence.
“There’s still time, Tanner!” pleaded Rhionna.
As she spoke lightning flashed overhead, thunder cracked, and all at once the screens went black. From the plaza below rose a fearful gasp, a chatter of uncertainty. Jack turned his head a fraction to see what was happening and felt a sharp crack across his jaw; Tynan Camus was stronger than he looked. Reeling from the blow, Jack staggered back, whirling to keep his weapon trained on the Guardsmen. But without Camus, he was out of cards to play. There were twelve of them and one of him; they could shoot him where he stood. He worked his jaw. “Crap.”
“Disarm them,” Tynan ordered, retreating behind the line of soldiers. “And secure them in the cells. I shall speak with the Elect about their execution.”
“Please, look out there!” Rhionna said, her voice was ragged with grief. Jack could feel it too, jagged in his chest. “There are children and women.”
Tanner actually risked a glances, but the storm was so violent that the man couldn’t possibly see anything.
“For crying out loud,” Jack shouted. “She’s telling the truth. There are people out there who—”
His words were drowned out by the
Sunrise
theme, blaring triumphant from the screens as they booted up again. Rhionna visibly sagged, her gun drooping to point uselessly at the floor. “No,” she breathed, staring up at their failure. “He’ll die out there…”
Jack knew whom she meant, but said nothing. Daniel and Teal’c were out there too.
He raised his weapon, looking for a shot. Camus was hiding behind the soldiers, but Jack was an expert marksman, and if he could just—
A loud hiss of static burst from the screen. The image juddered, pixilated, then froze. A moment later it was gone, replaced by something entirely different. “My name is Faelan Garret,” said a familiar voice. “These are my people and this is how we live.”