SHRIKE - Tales From The Black - SNOW

Shrike

-SNOW- The large man put one leg ahead of the other in exhausted, single-minded determinationand each cycle of his legs brought him closer to the small village, bright and warm in the

winter night’s deep chill darkness.His long legs were like columns in the snow, even in his near-dead state, the snow that

came to his knees yielded in small explosions as he made his way through it.He made it to the edge of the village, starting up the central road where the snow had

been packed by wagons, carts, and feet. People stared--apprehensive, afraid andunwilling to approach a man his size with a rough-hewn sword strapped across his back

and a darkly-dire expression set on his frost-browed face especially around his eyes.He staggered now, running on scant and fading reserves of a strength that had kept him

alive and brought him across long miles of frozen winter wilderness, glaring at those whowatched him apprehensively, obviously in desperate trouble…half-frozen, plainly

exhausted, starved.Not a word of begging came from him.

A young woman wrapped heavily in a thick cloak came forward, holding her hand up in auniversal gesture of halting, and he did, as she approached with more confidence than she

felt stopping just in front of him, flanked by two men with modern crossbows. Standing on his columnar legs, the man was shaking, shivering even within his long

duster-like coat, green eyes burning beneath lowered brows with fever and determinationto survive, continue on, but not so far gone as to be riddled with dementia.

He opened his mouth to speak, faltered, and that last bit of effort cost him what last wasleft of his reserves. He fell, rolling somewhat as he did so and landing on his side,

struggling even as he fought unconsciously to stand again and continue with a body thathad finally been pushed just too far.

The woman spoke with others, then argued, finally issued orders in a crisp voice that theman be taken inside to warmth. She was obeyed quickly, and the man was collected on a

makeshift litter, and carried in to the woman’s selfmade hut. Warmth, the sound of wind through a thin wall, the smell and sound of a small, tamed

fire nearby and the color of it’s warm light when he cracked his eyes open, seeing ablurry, shadowed figure in the same firelight.

Something moved towards his face. He smelled tea, hot and sweetened with somethingthat smelled like honey, and tried to move an arm to take the approaching vessel and gave

up when it responded like a piece of lead. “Take it slowly, you shouldn’t even be awake yet by any normal standards…hell, youshould be dead.” He heard a woman’s voice counsel him. He took the advice, sippingfrom the clay mug she held for him, hot and sweetened green tea cutting through the

webs clouding his mind. “H-how…long?” He managed weakly, his voice rasping with a rumble to it still, a

strength underlying it. “Almost a full day since you collapsed, our healer says you should rest for another day-

at least. You managed to avoid frostbite, but you were seriously hypothermic and shewasn’t sure you’d make it. You proved him wrong quickly enough. You’re not the type ofman to go down without being killed outright.” She said, making conversation and trying

for some mild humor. He smiled at her words, sipped more offered tea, his throat feeling better and voice

responding better now. “Yeah,that’s me.” He said,smirking, eyes still only barely open.

“Are people looking for you, missing you…or, are you running from someone?” “Maybe to both, I’m looking for my crew.” His voice was weak in volume but the

strength under it was coming back. Along with thoughts, faces, names. “What happened? How did you get separated from them all the way out here?” She

asked. He started, then decided against a long story for the time being.

“Trouble.” He said simply. “Okay, that’ll stand for now. What do I call you? ’Half-Frozen Man’ isn’t much of a

name.” She joked mildly,getting a weak,but credible smile in response. “Ronon. Ronon Dexyevson”

Her name was Marileigh, and she watched him devour a third bowl of stew with thesame voraciousness as he had the first, and was halfway through a loaf of bread as well.He’d slept and recuperated for another day since giving his name, seeming to recovercompletely in that time. Now he was awake, dressed,and figuring out what to do next.

“Well, you seem to appreciate my cooking.” Marileigh commented with an entertained-raised eyebrow at his appetite.

“It’s good, reminds me of Sin’s cooking, ’cept you can’t do an open wood fire on a ship,it adds…something good.” He said in response, barely slowing down long enough to

reply. “Sin?” Marileigh asked dubiously.

“Sinjihnn Du’Maur. Captain of the Shrike, one of the people I’m looking for.” Rononexplained, smiling at the look on her face when he’d first said his friend’s name. The

name of his friend and Captain usually got that response. “Huh. A ship Captain who cooks, that’s a first…” Marileigh commented, surprised that

any Captain would do such based on her experience. “So, about finding them and how you lost them?” Marileigh hinted, refilling his tea.

Ronon looked at her, finished chewing, and began…

He’d been driving the HoverMule,coming back from dropping off a delivery of grainstock and nutritional supplements. He’d contacted the ship, getting King, their pilot, and

had just asked about rendezvous…King had been just about to speak when the commflashed a burst of static, and King’s expression changed to one far more worried and no

longer his usual cheerful self.“King!?” He’d yelled at the now static-filled screen, running the throttles to maximum,following the last nav-trace the system had recorded from the now ominously silent ship

he called home, it’s crew were people he called family. Sometime later, the Mule had lurched, and had thrown him out of the driver’s seat, toland a couple-dozen feet away rolling and getting quick flashes of the bent and brokenvehicle, the back end having been blasted into shrapnel along with the engine nacellesunderneath. “That’s all I know, been walking since to their last location.” He told her.

Marileigh nodded to herself, acquainted with loss herself. “I hate to mention this, but…”

“They’re alive.” Ronon said, cutting her off with a definite growl in his voice. Pressing her point,Marileigh continued.

“And, if you find they’re not?” The area around his eyes and his eyes darkened as his brows drew down.

“Then I’ll find who killed them.” “And after that?”

Ronon thought about the unthinkable…his crew, his found-family, dead on thisbackwater, the ship thrown down and broken never to soar again…the fury that welled up

was an explosion, barely contained. “They’re alive, trust me. You don’t know them like I do.” His voice was subdued,

warning and angry. He believed in his friends, the crew he’d come to be more to than justa hired-gun. He stood, finished the contents of the bowl by handling it like an oversized

cup, drinking and chewing the contents. After that, he drew his gun, checking it over.Satisfied it was in good working order he re-holstered it and glared at his hostess.

Yes, she’d saved his life…but the crew of the Shrike needed him to find them. If needed,he could call on some of the friends he’d met through Sin…the Bayernne and the

Pandora. He wasn’t going to just give up on people he knew, had allowed himself to growclose to…loved as if they were blood-relations.

If it weren’t for them, he’d be dead by now, or wishing he was. Doc Smyth, Selina, Sin, King, and Sharie…he’d either find them and save them, or die

alongside them. “Ronon! Please reconsider, we could use a man like you here, to help us against raiders,

local thugs…I could…” Marileigh trailed off, looking sidelong at him, head lowered. “No.“ He said flat, ending the discussion. “But these people, once I find them, we’ll beback to help you. I can’t stay right now. They’re in trouble and they need me. More than

you do.” He said, gathered up his coat, slipping into it and adjusting his sword beforeheading back into the snowy wastes of St. Alverson‘s northern climes.

Marileigh knew she’d lost the argument, and gave in with good graces. “Alright, I’ll take your word you’ll be back, but at least let me get you some additionalclothing and a mount. You don’t need to freeze while wearing out your feet.” She said

with a smile more for form’s sake than actually felt.

The extra layers of life-saving clothing did well against the famous winters of St.Alverson. He wasn’t concerned about the horse, easily the size of a large Clydesdale andbearing a heavy coat that spoke of some obvious tinkering to adapt them better to the lifeon the cold backwater world. The horse seemed perfectly content with the bone-breaking

cold and had no trouble with the snow whatsoever.Cold weather and horsemanship were things he was quite used to, as his homeworld of

Sarhedena had weather extremes that rivalled that of Antarctice on Earth in the histories.Barely habitable, it’d been settled by colonists of Russian and Norwegian descent, andthey’d faced the harshly extreme weather with boldness, respect and ingenuity. He’dnever known his Father, but his Grandfather and his Mother had done a good job of

raising him to survive and prosper well enough.He remembered nights like this, when he was ten, hunting with his Grandfather. Caribou

were plentiful across the semi-frozen world and hunting was mostly done with ancientweapons, handmade as part of growing up and becoming an adult. Male or female. Thetraditional weapons were a spear and a bow, all made by hand, from natural materials

such as bone, hair, wood, stone and antler horn taken from various animals and the land.The rationale was simple.

Technology failed, things broke, and a man or woman had to be able to rely onthemselves first and always to survive.

Sarhedenans didn’t eschew technology, but they kept it in it’s place and only had whathigh-tech they needed for solid reasons. Practicality was the byword of life on

Sarhedena. Intelligence counted for as much as physical strength and prowess, oftenmore as stupidity would kill even the strongest man in quick fashion.

His Mother and Grandfather had taught him to hunt, track, skin and dress game animals,how to preserve the meat and everything else a person needed to know to survive on thatworld. His Mother, a Captain in the Militia, had worked with his natural inclinations andtalents for violence and athletics, honing his skills and abilities, teaching him everything

she knew personally and asking in people of her acquaintance who possessed betterskills to impart.

He’d learned discipline and self-control on the hunts with his Grandfather and thecombination of skills and knowledge had forged him into a fearsome survivor and hunter

who’d signed on with the Militia at sixteen. He sensed it before he heard or felt it.

A ‘not rightness’ tremoring his perception… Ronon was the kind of man who knew his instincts well and quickly wung down fromthe saddle and brought the horse down flat on it’s side, holding it’s head to keep it from

rising as he drew the large gun that was almost as much a part of him as his hands or legs. A minute passed as he muffled the misty exhalations of himself and horse to eliminate

any easy tells to the potential threat lurking out there in the snowswept dark. The ‘not-rightness’ steadily increased and he felt the vibrations in the ground under the

thin snow on the side of the low hill long before he heard the sound of a vehicle. Baring his teeth in an expression that most people who’d seen it had lived to regret the

witnessing off, he slowly turned his head, zeroing the source of the sound’s location. He slowly raised his head just enough to see the glow of headlights and from that was

able to roughly guess the size of the vehicle. It wasn’t any bigger than the Military-surplus Bushhog all-terrain scout-service vehicle Shrike had. Four to six people

maximum. The weather, time of night, and location made a random encounter with wandering

travellers unlikely in the utmost. He knew in his gut this vehicle’s occupants were tiedinto whoever had blown the Mule away with a missile launcher, nearly killing him in the

process and further up the scale were tied into whatever had happened to his crew.

He thumbed the selector on his gun off ‘Safe’ past the click of the Stun function setting,and then the click of the Standard function setting. He noted the direction of travel, and

then brought the selector down to the final click. A setting that was powerful enough to penetrate just over an inch of face-hardened

rolled homogenous steel plate armor. The vehicle was coming pretty much right towards him and he aimed carefully, naturally,

from long experience and superlative knowledge of his weapon. Then squeezed the trigger.

The front tire exploded in a burst of flame and ragged pieces and sent the vehiclelurching to the left, it skewed sharply, then rolled because the exposed wheel rim caught

in the frozen ground and the speed was too much for the driver to compensate for. It rolled once, twice, and a third time, ending up on it’s side.

He waited, breathing slowly, easily, watching. A minute, two…

…movement. He continued to wait as the occupants that could, pulled themselves out of the vehicle,

the diffused backscatter of the headlights allowing him to see them well enough. Shaken, bruised, one cradled a visibly badly-broken arm.

Three in all, swearing and sounding in pain, angry and they started in on each other. He drew a careful aim on the one that seemed to be the lowest on the pecking-order, then

shifted to the obvious ‘Boss’.

A setting powerful enough to punch a pulse of laser energy clean through an inch ofarmor plate was overkill on most people and creatures. In this case, it was a deliberate

choice of brutal expediency. He wanted to kill the others off and leave a badly-shaken survivor to interrogate.

The shot took the 'Boss' right through the middle of his chest and blew large sparks,charred bone fragments, vapor and pieces of the man's own body out of his back. Heart

vaporized, he died before he fell.

The two remaining men stood, staring at the body in stunned shock, and he took theopportunity to shoot the second man through the chest as well, with the same results.

The sole survivor was standing, mouth and eyes gaping but making not a sound. Rononrecongnized shock when he saw it, and knew that it could be dangerously unpredictable.

If shock 'snapped' the right way it could turn the meekest of people into a Berserker. Resetting with the flick of a thumb, he kept his breathing steady, aimed precisely at the

trembling, statue-still man, and shot him through his left knee. The knee joint fairly exploded and the man collapsed as that leg simply could not

support weight anymore and he collapsed into the snow with a startled yelp.

After waiting a few very quiet minutes, listening carefully, he got up and raised thehorse. Looking around, he watched carefully for any signs there were others around, gun

at his side and ready. nothing gave any indication of it's presence, and he walked over to the wrecked Bushhog

and the man he intended to get some answers from. He covered the side-fallen body as he approached, ready against a sudden attempt at asurprise maneuver. Drawing close, he noted the man was completely unconscious, andquickly, expertly, searched for and relieved him of his weapons; A cheap and commonmodel of semiautomatic pistol and a knife he wouldn't rely on even to cut food with.

That done, he toed the man roughly in the ribs a few times, rousing him. "Get up." He rumbled irritatedly, toeing the man again as he started to wake. The manwas much younger than Ronon had first thought, and his eyes opened slowly, then wentwide. One reddish from a burst capillary. "You killed them! You-You killed them!" He

started yelling, and made as if to get up and try running. A bad idea given what hadhappened to his leg. Ronon let him babble for a bit, running it out of his system, andwhen he'd had enough pointed his gun plainly at the man's face. "You done? There's

questions y' need t' answer." Ronon told him, just as the man noticed his boot and lowerleg still standing where he had been before the shot had burned the leg in half at the knee. "Th-that's...m-m-my leg? But, it can't be, cause mine is..." His victim said in a daze, thenupon noticing the blackened-ended stup started screaming like a lost soul. Ronon stood,got nuzzle-bumped by the horse and comforted the animal casuall while never taking hiseyes off the man. "Shoulda maybe kept the boss alive..." He said in hindsight speculationas the horse whickered almost as if agreeing. He examined the vehicle's cargo bed whilethe man continued to scream and insanely try to stick his leg back on, swearing a steady

run at Ronon, and the horse, when he wasn't screaming incoherently. Sorting through themixed-together contents of the cargo bed, he found a long tubular device flanged withsights and a grip with trigger. Snatching it up he came back around the Bushhog and

smacked the screaming one-legged man across the head with the poly-composite tube ofthe RPG launcher to get his attention, and dropped it onto his lap then snapping his gun

muzzle straight-armed directly into the man's face. "You idiots tried t' kill me, and Iknow that's got somethin t' do with what happened to my crew...WHERE ARE THEY!!"He roared, teeth bared in a look of pure fury barely contained and controlled, the gun-muzzle wavering not a bit and holding the man's terrified gaze crosseyed in transfixed

and terrified attention. The man's mouth worked as he tried to form words, frightened to the point of being

temporarily mute. Needing answers and not interested in wasting time Ronon stepped on the man's stump

and applied some weight, the pain cut through the shock-haze and he screamed. He eased up, but still kept his boot where it was.

"Talk." He said in a low, dangerous voice that matched his feral expression perfectly, thebreath-frost caught on his moustache and beard along with the snow settled into his

dreadlocks making him seem like a demon of the arctic wastes from Man's dimprehistory tales.

The injured and terrified man babbled, then began to slow and start speaking morecoherently when it began to sink in that death might be avoided or at least delayed by

telling the man holding the gun in his face everything he knew.

Ronon listened stoic-faced and keeping the muzzle of his weapon scant inches from theman's face as a continual reminder that if he even blinked wrong, his life would end

immediately if Ronon chose to do so. The man went on at length about the job, how they were all gonna get rich by taking out

one of the few Tramp freighters that visited this backwater, then taking it's cargo andbreaking the ship up for it's parts or taking it to another world where intact and functional

it would be worth a lot.

Ronon cut in with a demand for an explanation on how Shrike was brought down."Modified deep-strike EMP device snuck in aboard a cargo container and connected to apower cable inside the hold to get past any shielding." The man babbled in a controlled

panic, his eyes fixed on the muzzle of the gun in his face.The snarl on Ronon's face would have impressed and intimidated any of the big jungle-

prowling cats found on some worlds, but he refrained from pulling the trigger."Aside from you and your dead friends here, how many others? Names? Where do I find

them?" He growled out in a thickly-rumbled voice that spoke volumes of thinningpatience.

The man hesitated, slipping into a more useless form of shock, so Ronon snapped him toreality by again pressuring the ugly stump where his knee once was.

After the screaming died away, the sobbing, broken man told his tormentor everything heknew and threw in his speculations as a bonus.

Ronon finished listening, holstered his gun as he turned and swung agilely up onto thesaddle of his horse and started guiding it away in the direction the wounded man had

specified."Y-You can't leave me here!!!" He screamed, and Ronon brought the horse to a brief stop,

glaring down like an angry god of war, blood and fire."There's a village that way." He said, and gestured generally in the direction he'd comefrom. "There's foodpaks in the cargo bed of that wreck your leaning on and you've got a

better set of odds than I did. Y' wanna live, it's your call." He told the man plainly, bluntlyand coldly-furious before setting out to find his crew and leaving the wounded man to his

own choice of fate without any further thought.

PART TWO

By eighteen, he'd become a Sergeant in the Militia and not only had his own Squad ofseven men and women, he was also on the Rotation to teach close-combat, and was

requested for it often. His first assignment as a Sergeant had been tracking down someoffworld poachers who'd been creating havoc with Caribou and Musk Ox migrations

with mindless slaughter for the sheer pleasure of it and taking some racks of antlers astrophies. Two Squads had tried and been shot up badly, both ambushed. taking this intoaccount, he'd looked at maps showing where they'd been slaughering, and picked the

most likely next spot based on the reliable concept that it was on a flat plain, and easy forthe unfit offworlders to get to with a minimum of fuss and inconvenience. There, they'd

waited, dug into carefully hidden and thermally blocked blinds using double snow-blockwalls with a solid foot of air space between them. Sure enough, along came the

offworlders. they set themselves up, using fences and sonic devices to force the animalsinto a 'shooting gallery' and then retired until the game showed up. The night had beenmoonless but clear, and starlight on virgin snow gave experienced eyes enough light tosee by. They'd positiond themselves just outside the entrances of each self-erecting tent,and then one of their number who had a better grasp of fancy tech went and set off thealert. The offworlders had been taken down, hard, when they emerged and yellingly-eager to kill pointlessly. The orders had been absolutely clear. A warning was to bemade. How was left to Ronon. Looking them over, facedown in the snow with spear-

wielding Militia soldiers ready to take their lives at the first sign of trouble, he made hisdecision quickly and easily. The two women were spared. The men were each speared

instantly through the back and clean through their hearts. the women were told to neverreturn, and to tell everyone they knew that Sarhedena had no use for offworld

slaughterers, the same would happen again if any others came and did the same. Asidefrom the usual few transports that dropped by a few times during the year, offworld

visitors dropped to zero, aside from some Wildlife Biologists out on a study, and as they'dhired Militia as guards and guides that had gone well enough.

He drove his mount as hard as he dared, riding the arctic night as a man possessed. Theman he'd let have a chance to live had given his compatriots up totally. He had names,places, directions and even fairly decent descriptions. They were all a bunch of locals

who'd been recruited by some local tech-type who was sick of being stuck on St.Alverson‘s and not only wanted off-world but wanted a good chunk of coin in the bargainas well. A Deep-Strike EMP device wasn't too hard to build, he knew Sharie built them

all the time as 'Dazzlers'. Every once in a while it was handy to have something thatcould be dropped and blind an enemy vessel while they got set to run and max-burn orblow into Warp. That much he understood about them, and that the insides were full ofbig coils and rotating things Sharie needed his help to lift into position. What he knewabout Shrike was that externally her shielding against EMP was very heavy and more

comprehensive than even found on Military vessels...which fit Sin's way of thinking likea glove. But a device like that, with a direct feed into the ship's power system?? He

didn't need Sharie to tell him that was just plain 'Bad'. His knowledge of Shrike's engineering and such things was limited mainly due to a lack

of interest which was slowly changing as he learned just by helping Sharie around the

ship with a variety of tasks where his size and strength just made things easier. So, he hada practical hands-on knowledge of the ship's functions and systems.

The auxiliary and emergency reserve power systems were good examples of where he'dlearned a lot without even trying.

At the time, though he wasn't thinking about the mysteries of the ship's engines. His mind was filled with images and memories of familiar smells, sounds and voices that

over time had come to mean one thing; 'Home'.

To the burly, dreadlocked and frost-rimed merc storming the night on a mission of farmore importance to him than any he'd ever taken on before there was no higher

consideration and nothing of more intrinsic importance than the five people in his mindand the ship they relied on.

He'd had a home once before, long ago and far away. A place he would never return to asthere was simply no reason to and no one left alive there to concern himself over.

Before tackling a final rise in the land that was more like a small mountain range thananything else, he guided his mount to a lee against the side of a large cliff face where theywere both out of the wind with some spruce trees of varying sizes close by. He didn't likethe idea of stopping, but he had to yield to the harsh realties that animals and men could

only go so far, so fast, and for so long without rest. Rubbing the horse's muzzle with casual affection, he set about getting it's feed ready andseeing to his own dinner with a relaxed ease of a man who was long accustomed to living

wild. The fire was matter of relatively quick work, small and hot with banked sods cut from

under the thin surface snow to bank it. That done, he packed snow into a coffeepot and set it where the snow would melt intowater for man and horse. His own dinner was dried strips of fat-rich meat, sliced and

dried thin, threaded onto skewers and roasted over the fire as well as a mixture ofpounded fat and berries long ago known as a version of 'Pemmican'. As he ate, listening

to the cold, life-stealing night winds, his thoughts drifted back...

The alert klaxons and bells were going like it was the end of the world, and although theydidn't know it, such was at hand. Sarhedena was a quiet and harshly-Tundral world withlittle to offer most people so the consideration of attack from offworld had always been a

spectre of no great concern while always being acknowledged as a possibility. Now itcame. But it wasn't some offworld band of Pirates, or even a rival world looking for landor resources. The Reivers had come. The living bogeymen of the dark between the stars.

The 'Nightmare Men'. Their ships descended directly, brutally shoving through anti-ship fire from the defense

installations, and as they lost ships in explosions and falling, crippled wrecks otherscame down and began their horrors. For whatever reason, the Reivers had decided tocome in-force to Sarhedena, dozens of ships and thousands upon thousands of Reivers

scattering from the landing zones and going berserk in slaughter and murder of any andevery living thing they encountered aside from those they caught and took back withthem. The luckiest were the ones who suffered instantly-fatal woundings. The battle

lasted days, the skies of Sarduvik City lit with the flashes and thunder of open combatand a pitched contest for survival versus something darker than death. While life on

Sarhedena called mainly on reliance of what one could make and maintain on one's ownmodern technology and weapons had their places. He and his squad, armored and ready

to die for the people under their protection engaged the Reivers. First with rifles, thenpistols, and finally in hand-to-hand combat with knives, swords, fists and even teeth...so

hard-pressed by the relentless assault there was simply no chance to resupply onammunition. His last memories of the battle had been a Reiver he was stabbing

repeatedly in the chest, taking out heart and lungs, and glancing motion out of the cornerof his eye behind the three remaining members of his squad. A ship, tumbling and

wreathed in flames was coming towards them, out of control and then a flash and whatfelt like a solid wall hit him. He'd come back from the blankness of deep

unconsciousness, hurting everywhere. Cold, hungry and covered in long-dried blood anda fine sifting of dust and ice powder. The blast had thrown him into a warehouse

building, and then brought it down on top of him, the rubble had kept the roof sectionfrom crushing the life out of him.

He recalled only one thought;Get out.

Get back into the fight.

He didn't know how long it took him to brute-force his way into open air, but he didremember what greeted his eyes.

The city of Sarduvik was gone. Every building and structure flattened. The defensetowers had been toppled, broken ships and pieces of ships were everywhere. There'd been

a stillness, just the cold unmoving air over the devastation where not even the smallestfire burned any longer.

He'd staggered out into it all, in the midst of clean afternoon light through the cloudswhich showed the past horror in clear and unforgiving detail...bloodstains and firescarseverywhere evenly mixed with blast-points from various weapons and random debris of

every kind.No bodies.

In that instant, he knew with a solidly comprehensive awareness he was alone....until he heard the inhuman, psychotically-driven howling.

He ate, holding the strips of cooked meat woven between his fingers, taking up amouthful and expertly slicing it off a little ways away from his lips. The meal was

completed with a half dozen scoops of pemmican from the rawhide bag containing itusing the tip of his knife and washing it all down with water from his freshly re-filledwaterskin. One thing he knew that most didn't, death from dehydration could come

swiftly in the deep cold as humidity plummeted, the body naturally lost more water. Thehorse drank all the water he provided, and allayed his concerns about how well adapted it

was to the world's climate by preferring to stand in the wind. Something... He spunsmooth-fast with his longcoat flaring out, dropping slightly to lower himself against any

incoming fire, drawing his gun and leveling it as it came on-target, finger smoothlytensed on the trigger as the thumb clicked it off 'Safe', ready to hurl a gift of instantaneous

death at the speed of light. The white-furred fox twitched an ear, looking at him, bracedto run or fight. The moment passed, and as he relaxed, so did the fox, and turned awaybefore it ambled away into the darkness beyond the fire's light, keeping a wary eye on

him over it's shoulder as it disappeared into the night. He had no interest in killing an animal that wasn't bothering him, and after a slit-eyedsurvey of the darkness, holstered his gun with a slightly amused smirk at the encounter

between man and curious fox. He doused the fire with generous handfuls of snow, burying it and making evidence ofhis existence as hard to spot as he could. A quick check to make sure he hadn't forgotten

anything and he swung up into the saddle and was off again, his mind once againconjuring images of the past...

Two years, alone and stuck on a world scoured by the Reivers. He'd quickly becomeaware that more than a few of them had been left behind when their ships had been shotdown, and now roamed the Sarhedenan plains, ruined townships and cities. He'd hiddenfrom them, hunted them, fought them and generally managed to co-exist with them in aknife's-edge balance of predator-prey for the time it took him to find a Warp-capable

starshuttle on an outlying Caribou-Musk Ox farm. Small, short-ranged, and his only realchance for escape. He'd heard there were a few small ships held by private owners across

the world, especially amongst the recent immigrants who weren't sure they'd be able totough it out on the harshly semi-Arctic world. He hadn't hesitated, he carried everythinghe owned, and had nothing to stay for except memories. The autopilot had been morethan capable of offsetting his crudely-basic piloting skills and he'd launched into theblack, knowing there was a better chance of dying alone in the depths of interstellar

space than in making it to even the nearest system with the fuel and life-support reservesonboard, but compared to death at the hands of Reivers, there was no contest. It had

been cold, slow, and he'd done everything he could think of to minimize energy and fueluse to maximize the small vessel's range...still, it hadn't been enough and he'd drifted into

hypothermia thinking it ironic to freeze to death in space when he'd been brought upsurviving just such challenges on the world he'd left behind.

He raced the cold, arctic night. The horse hadn't any trouble with the cold and he didn'tcare--thus they were well matched in eating miles of distance very quickly. Tiredness

never entered the equation, his anger propped his awareness solidly and his determinationto find and save his crew overrode everything else. Mile after mile slammed past underthe hooves of the mount. Bred and adapted for this world, it could run almost non-stop.More efficient lungs and circulatory system took care of fatigue toxins and the cold air

took care of cooling. Miles away yet, one of his crew fought to not cross distance--the distance between oneworld and the next. Doverson King, Shrike's pilot, lay on his back with his Captain'sjacket bundled under his head as a pillow against cold, hard concrete. The problem he

faced was a simple one... Remaining alive. The complication was the bullet he'd taken inthe abdomen. The wound had been treated with torn sections of shirts and what

drinkinging water had been supplied. Three of them worried over the rest, and did allthey could to keep the spectre of death away from one of their own. Selina examined the

door and lock for the Nth time, testing the lock with a talon, trying to slip it so the doorcould be opened. Sinjihnn Du'Maur, the Captain and her husband watched her trying tofind a way out for them knowing she was holding back an apocalyptic fury simply by

trying to distract herself. He gave an inquiring look to the older man tending the youngpilot, noting the grim set of the Dr.'s mouth. "It's...problematic." Was all he said, but his

eyes told Sin what he needed to know. "Get the gorramn engines running, you little whore, or I'm going to drag one of yourfriends up here and cover you in their brains!!" The thug yelled at Sharie, cuffing her

angrily across the head and making her duck against the access panel's components she'dbeen working on. She blinked, looking angrily up at the much larger man standing over

her. At just over five-feet tall she knew what the realities were; He could throw heraround like a rag doll. The thug worked for the mastermind that had laid claim to their

ship, and had the massive vessel hauled to the docks for the repairs necessary before shecould fly again.

"I'm working as fast as I can..." Sharie started to say. The backhand strike knocked her to the floor and sent her glasses flying.

"Mister say; Get ship flying. You do that, or we have quality time with this...." The thugsaid, and held up a prod, the kind used on the thick-hided Ryhnth...

Sharie blinked, terrified, knowing exactly what the prod was and how much electricalpower was needed to get a Ryhnth's attention.

"Please...I'll do what you want, but I need time or help..." The backhand drove her to the floor and split her lower lip.

"Bitch get ship fixed or bitch get fried." The thug said, and stabbed the prod into herabdomen...

Sharie cowered, holding her hands raised in the ancient gesture of harmless submissionand appeasement, staring wide-eyed at the thug and his patchwork face. She hadn't reallynoticed it before, but his face was a collection of skin grafts; Caucasian, African, Latino

and parts were syntheskin that were beginning to flake. One eye was brown and the otherhad a blown-white iris, the brown eye bloodshot. He was built with a lanky but muscularframe that could do a lot of damage to her if he had a mind to and she wasn't a fighter.

"Okay,okay...alright. I'll get the ship fixed!" She said, scared-bad, feeling blood runningdown her chin, memories of her parents drug-fuelled rages skittering at the edges of

memory. "Smart bitch. Work! Work now!" The thug said commandingly, grinning, and she noted

some of his teeth were plainly artificial as the real ones were stained, chipped and neededa lot of work. She watched his eyes roam over her, and had a sinking feeling in her gut. "Later, I's gonn' have you if Mister-mister says 'Yes'. You be my pet." He said, as she

started to pick herself up, keeping a wary on him, and feeling the prod digging into herbelly.

There was only one dockyard on the whole world that a ship the size that Shrike wascould be serviced at, Ronon knew. He went straight for it, he'd find the ship, then he'd be

that much closer to finding the ones who'd tried to take her. He deliberately didn't think about his crewmates, focussing instead on first-things-first;

Find the ship.

Shrike tended to stick out no matter she was, aside from bing in the midst of a wreckagefield or a pack of Reiver craft. At two-hundred and forty-metres long, she was big, and

even the biggest dockyard on the world wouldn't be large enough to hide her. His plan was simple after finding the ship; He'd ghost through her, and get what

information he needed as opportunity handed him the thieves. If they'd gone after theship, then they would stick close, they planned on using it...like a spider in a web, he'd

hunt the corridors he knew blindfolded and asleep.

In an hour, he came on the outskirts of Townsend's Reach, at the edge of the NorthernOcean. The large town relied on the dockyards for everything, a single-industry service-

town like so many in the Borders and Hinterlands. He stabled the horse, then began to walk the midnight, snowswept streets under the

sparse and weak streetlights noting few passenger-only vehilces but plenty of work-typevehicles designed for harsh terrain and environs. His first stop on his way to the yard wasthe pubhouse. At worst, he figured he'd have a chance to maybe overhear something andwarm-up a bit before continuing on. In any event, he'd be able to get a good sense of how

the twon 'worked' and who the major players in things locally were. The pub was like many others he'd seen across space. A central, rectangular counter-barwith all the drinks and taps in the middle and each side serving either a specific part of

the place and/or specific menu items. His nose picked up the smell of food, which didn'tsurprise him. The lighting was dim, and the entirety of the place was dark, with rustic

durably-built wood constrction. Pictures covered the walls, as did a few hunting trophies,including the head of what he suspected was a local animal type but one he didn't

recognize, looking as it did like a sabre-toother lizard twice the size of a man. He took a place at the bar, getting an 'I see you' nod from a busy tender and waited while

others were served. While he waited, he listened to the general susurrus of chatter and noise, filtering out this

and that, using his ears like his Grandfather had taught him to track game.

Donovan Brandenatti was pissed to the high-heavens, but refrained from shooting hishenchman because it wasn't the man's fault he had to bring bad news.

"Get your overpaid and under-brained ass back there and make sure he understands this;Hands off the little bitch until that gorramn ship's flying out of atmo." He narrowed his

eyes and the much larger man seemed to shrink a bit. "Got that? I don't care if you have to swat the bastard with a torque-wrench, just makesure he understands. If I have to speak with him about this, you and Chuckles will be

wiping him off the walls." He told his worthy in a hushed and hissing voice. The larger man, nodded his balding head, unwilling to test his employer's patience anyfurther than he had to, and backed away from the booth, his boss watching like a hungry

snake. Outside, the henchman drew his longcoat closer about himself, lowered his head into the

collar and settled into a rapid walk back to the docks. "Stupid jackhole backbirth. He knows what the boss is like, and wants off this rock right

now. But no, he's gotta play tough-guy and scare the mechanic every chance he gets.Should shoot him myself, save the boss trouble cause that's what's gonna happen

anyways..." He muttered to himself as he walked.

Soon, but not soon enough for his tastes, he got to the yard and the ugly, Reiver-esqueship. He boarded the groundcrew lift and rode it up to the connector walkway to the port-side airlock. Now-familiar with the controls, he keyed it open and went inside the ship.

Inside it was cold, but not as cold as outside, and the only lighting came from emergencylights and status displays here and there if you happened to be in their areas.

The EMP had blown out a lot of the ship's primary overload regulators, which haddisabled the ship but otherwise left it unharmed. Once those were replaced or re-set, he

wasn't sure which, they'd be good to go. He hated the ship, it was dark, oddly-made, and just didn't fit any ship design scheme

he'd ever seen. It had been together from junkyard parts by someone who seemed smartenough to know how to make them all work with each other. He hadn't been part of thr

group that had rounded up the crew after the ship had fallen out of the skies, and he didn'tcare about them. They'd be dead soon, once the boss had what he wanted and was sure hedidn't need them for any possible info on the ship, they'd be blown out the airlocks or left

to starve in a welded-shut cell.

Making his way down to where he'd left the mechanic and her tormentor, he came upbehind the man and slapped him across the back of the head, instantly getting his

attention. "Boss is not happy. He tells you; 'Leave her be til we're blackward.' Or he'll kill you."

The patchwork-faced spectre of a man stood, grinning losidedly, and put his handpossessively on the young female mechanic's head possessively.

"You tell...Huh?" The patchwork thug said, his grin just started to fade as a small, brightexplosion flashed in the middle of his face and the back of his head blew out in a

detonation of steam, brain matter and bone fragments and his corpse dropped straightdown as the legs folded limply.

The remaining henchman and bringer of news had a distinctly bad feeling, and raised hishands on spec as the young female mechanic smiled, getting to her feet and fanning the

air from the odor of half-cooked and burnt body tissues. "Don't move." The voice that growled into the air behind him said, and given the

example freshly made, he held as still as he could, fighting not to choke and retch on thesmell.

Sharie was so happy she felt light-headed and the smell of the laser-evacuated skulldidn't really bother her in her somewhat euphoric state.

"About time you showed up!" She teased her dreadlocked and lethal saviour, then spoketo the man with his arms up, searching his clothes for weapons and other items of

interest. "My friend there isn't much for talking, especially to folks like y'all. In fact, the onlyreason you aren't in the same shape as your buddy is we need to know something, and

that is; 'Where's our crew?'." She said, removing the small semiautomatic pistol from hisbeltclip holster, his wallet, keys and phone before continuing.

"Now, you can play tough-guy, and Ronon there is gonna go about getting us what wewant to know by stringing you up by your toes and cutting off your..."

"Okay, okay!!...I get it!!" The henchman said, his voice shaky with fear. Sharie opened the phone, looking through the contacts list.

" 'Boss'. Huh, well I guess that keeps life simple and organized." She said, then poppedthe clip out and cycled the action of the man's gun, then looked up sharp-eyed at the man.

"Sometime today...? It'd be a good idea to start before Ronon gets grouchy."

Selina kept fishing at the locking mechanism and probing along the edges of the door,looking for any tiny point that could be exploited, enlarged.

She became aware of a presence behind her, and didn't need tolook to know who it was. "Yes, Alistair?" She said in a voice so calm it was frightening.

"Selina, I have an unusual favor to ask of you regarding our Mr. King." Smythe said. Abandoning the door, Selina turned and faced him, brushing dust off her palms, looking

expectantly for him to continue. "Chimeran biochemistry being what it is, the extreme Ph level of Chimeran blood, is the

only thing I have available right now that has even a chance of buying him some moretime. I'd like to, well, use some of yours to stifle the internal blleding as much as we can."

He explained, calmly, unapologetically, matter-of-factly.

Alistair Smythe knew Human and Chimeran physiological sciences thoroughly, and oneaspect of the genetically engineered Chimerans that made them so devastating in combatwas the highly potent Ph of their blood, which made the Oxygen-CO2 exchange so muchmore efficient than what was found in Humana physiology. This had been known sincethe latter part of the 20th Century, and indeed some athletes had experimented throughsports medicine to boost their Blood Ph to gain that crucial advantage in competition.

Chimerans had been built for it, and their blood was very aggressively corrosive. It wasalso laden with fibrin and other clotting factors, that had likewise been re-engineered long

ago to enable them to survive horrifying wounds on the battlefields. In short, right now, her blood would be an effective bloodstopper and de-facto 'bandage'

for the young and ill-fortuned Doverson King.

"I don't mean to second-guess you, Alistair..." Selina said, sounding dubious. "I've given it all the thought we have time for and it comes to this; If we try and fail, he'll

be no worse off than he'll be in roughly thirty minutes. There's nothing to lose, but wemight save his life." he said, assuring her as best he could.

"Okay. How much d'ya need and how are we doing this?" She asked. "Yes, I'll also have to ask that you allow me to use your index finger talon." He said, then

proceeded in quick point-form to explain what would be done and how.

Sharie was warm enough in her habitual longcoat, one she wore almost at all times,coming down to her ankles and possessing dozens of pockets in it's lining, outside andmore than a few hidden ones. Filled with high-dithermal insulation it also had it's ownbuilt-in heating and cooling units as well. Wearing it gave people the vague but definiteimpression of a baby owl, and with the collar pulled up against the wind, the effect was

even more pronounced. "Sooooo, the plan is what, again? I mean aside from freezing our respective dreads andtoes off." Sharie inquired in a low voice as the two of them remaining in the shadows of

an alleyway crammed with snow covered trash containers and broken machinery. "We wait until it's close to or just past closing time, less people around and we can still

get in. Then, we go in and ask some questions." Ronon said tersely. Sharie tapped the corner of her glasses right eyepiece, and a time display flashed into her

field of vision. "Well, if this place is like any others in the..." She started, then shut-up and hunkered

down along with her much larger companion behind a low-level dumpster. "Closing early tonight." Sharie said in a whisper as people began leaving en-masse,

happily-drunk, tired and generally parting company as they all began heading off towardstheir homes. When the crowd had broken up and the last stragglers had gotten a good

distance from the doors, the two came out of hiding and moved quick-like to the doorsbefore they were locked.

Sharie went ahead first, opening and entering with Ronon a deliberate two secondsbehind, a trick Ronon knew to 'spoof' people's reactions. Give them them something

unexpected but harmless as a mild surprise, then while their systems were re-setting andwould be sure to 'stumble' if trying to go on alert again so soon.

Sure enough, Sharie was the focus of immediate attention, but was just as quicklydismissed near-instantly on her height and total lack of threatening appearance.

When Ronon stepped in, gun raised and aimed dead-at Brandenatti's chest with his backto the wall by virtue of a simple and smoothly-execute sidestep, the fight was over before

it began. Ronon didn't bother saying a word of warning, to his way of thinking the raised gun saidit all and if anyone doubted his resolve he didn't have any compunction in demonstrating

it on someone stupid enough to volunteer. Sharie looked around, as Ronon kept the table of men they were interested in covered.

The bartenders looked alarmed, and one sank below the bar, the other held up his handsat chest height, shaking his head to signal his unwillingness to get mixed up in things. "Sorry for the hassle, guys. We'll just need a few minutes with the slit-eyed and angry-

looking gent my friend here is aiming at." She told them, then walked toward'sBrandenatti's table, stoppng out of grabbing-range and out of Ronon's line of fire.

"Why the hell aren't you on my ship getting the engines running you little cow?!"Brandenatti snarled, eyeing the scary-looking and intimidatingly-large man at the door

aiming a large gun at him. "Wrong way to start this off, you've got it all crabbed. Shrike is our ship, you null-wit,and that conversation is closed. The new one is about what you've done with our crew."

Sharie said calmly. "Little girl, you have no idea the depths of shit you're stirring up here." Brandenatti

snarled again, showing teeth this time. "Y'know, my dad used to say almost the exact same thing to me, then he'd start in on me

with slaps and then his fists." Sharie said, in a tone perfectly still and quiet...infinitelythreatening for being so. She smiled sweetly, but there was nothing genuinely sweet

about it. "Thing is, you like to believe it's all your way..." She said and casually took her hands

from her coat pockets, casually tossing something underhand onto the table, somethingoddly-shaped, taped-together, that beeped once, loudly when it landed and LEDs began

flashing. "Don't move, or it blows." She quietly said in a flat voice just as Brendenatti and his

lieutenants began trying to stand. Brendanatti stared at her, studying her face and eyes.

"You're bluffing, there's no way you'd kill yourself and that gorilla that cam in with youjust to get us." He said, nearly spitting it.

Sharie rolled her eyes, looking at them with her head tilted a little to one side. "Seriously for reals? Do you really wanna roll the dice on that and find out just how biga grudge someone a small as I am can actually carry? How's about you boys? You wannaget your insides blown out through your seatbacks because this svoluch has more mouthand balls than common-sense?" She said to the men at the table, who had listened and

were now looking with various degrees of supplication to the boss. Sharie continued.

"I hate dealing with stupid people..." She said with a sigh and stepped fully clear of thetable off to the side.

Ronon had been waiting for just that moment, and Sharie knew it. In less than two seconds, Brendanatti's assembled henchmen and lieutnants were all

either dead or a final gasp away from such. Head shots had killed two and center-chestshots had taken the rest.

Brendanatti sat in stunned immobility, covered in various bits of scorched, smolderinghalf-raw body tissues and semi-heat-coagulated blood from his men that the dreadlocked

gunman had killed with a cold and rapid efficiency. Sharie raised her hand, waved it slightly, using the motion to gain Brendanatti's attentionfrom the fugue-state he was in. Having to do it for a few long seconds until the would-be

crimelord looked at her. "Yeah, Hello there again. Now, one more time and you better get this right; 'Where are

you keeping our people' ?" Brendanatti's face crumpled into a snarl of pure hate. His shoulders slumped and he

glowered at her under his brows, wanting nothing more than to get his hands around herneck. The posture and look of an animal that knows it's trapped. The man the troublesome

little mechanic had come with shifted his aim, slightly, and Brendanatti knew withcertainty that he was aiming directly at his face, and a trigger pull would end his lifeinstantly. He knew about lasers, and having been grazed by one once had no desire to

ever be hit by one again. "Hello? Drift off again, did we? Bad habit, that. Could have some nasty impact on your

health." Sharie said, glancing casually at Ronon.

Ronon waited, he'd picked out where he'd shoot the man, and it wouldn't be a kill-shot,but he'd lose his arm at the shoulder.

But,this was taking too long, and he'd run out of patience. He shifted his aim, slightly...

The impact-blast as the high-energy pulse of energy was centered less than four inchesfrom his head and blew a better than fist-sized hole in the wall cushioning of the booth,sparks and pieces of carbonized material sprayed back out along with a good amount of

obnoxious-smelling smoke from incinerated materials. Brendanatti ducked sideways reflexively, then looked up in wide-eyed alarm, seeing the

gunman raise his eyebrows in expectation of proper answers. "Talk." The man growled, his voice having a distinct, low rumble that told Donovan that

the time for stalling was over.

Selina gently checked the twenty-something pilot's pulse at his carotid artery, crouchedover him as Smythe carefully examined the bullet wound they'd enlarged using the three-

inch talon of her right index finger as a scalpel, and probe. The bullet and it's presumed fragments were too deep to go after, and mercifully King

had passed out from pain and blood loss. Smythe had delicately cut, using sheer skill andexperience to cut flesh in such a way as to minimize trauma and additonal loss of the

precious red fluid that couldn't be replaced. When the time came, Selina had used her thumb talon on her left hand to cut into her

own finger so her blood would run down the length, and be delivered in as controlled amanner as possible where Smythe wanted to apply it.

Smythe had been absolutely focussed on the work, and she'd allowed him to use her asthe only thing he had for surgery, her talons and his knowledge.

Wisps of steam and smoke had risen as her blood had reacted with blood and fragilehuman tissue deep inside King's abdomen. Sseconds had ticked past like eternities until

he'd finally guided her talon out of the wound, and then bandaged it as best he could witha clean section torn from his crisply-white expensive shirt.

Fifteen minutes had passed since, and King hadn't gotten any worse, although he hadn'tseemed to improve--something that in their situation was more than they'd have felt they

could hope for.

Sinjihnn Du'Maur looked on from a distance, unwilling to come closer and do anythingto risk the delicate balance keeping his pilot alive.

He was the Captain of his little band of misfits, and more than that. His little crew werethe people he was closest to, personally. King, as ennervating as the loquacious young

pilot could be, he was a good man with a strong and decent character--albeit morecourage and bravery than brains.

Which was why he'd ended up in the bad way he was, stepping in front of them all andtaking a bullet for it from their captors as a 'warning'.

He'd taken the bullet meant for Smythe. Selina stood and came over to him, looking frustrated and angry. A state he could fully

sympathize with. "As far as we can tell, he's stable. How long that'll last..." She said quietly, sighing and

running a hand through her black hair then looking at the door again. "I've got an idea as to how we can get a chance." She said, no preamble.

"Like what?" He asked, a bit apprehensive about hearing it.

"Like offering the droolers out there a chance to take some rides on me..." She said, thengot cut off by her husband.

"No. Just...No!" Sin said, voice low and harsh, looking her straight in the eyes. "Sin, we're hung for choices. King's going to die if we don't out of here." She said,

bluntly. They stood, staring at each other in a silent argument, until eventually Sin looked away,

face set in a vicious snarl. "I'm not looking forward to being pawed over and used as a party favor, Sin. But I'm notgoing to let King, or Alistair or You die in this roach-trap if there's a slight chance I canget us an advantage to use." She said, trying to console her husband's outraged sense of

perspective. Sin bit back his temper, looked her again in the eyes.

"Okay, tell me what your idea is though..."

Molrhubh hated working for Brandenatti, but it was only chance to get off the frozenworld of his birth. He was pulling sentry duty at the deserted old furrier's building at the

edge of town, just in case someone came nosing about regarding the crew of the ship he'dacquired for himself and his group.

He hated the cold, the snow, the wind that would steal your breath now and then. Hewanted to see the worlds where there was greenery as far as the eye could see, warm

weather, and all the rest of it. A local feral cat wandered past, eyeing him warily. Thick-coated, heavyset and purelyfeline predator the local ferals were generally not a problem if left alon, but as they'd

adapted to this cold rock of a world, they'd fallen into Prides. A Pride of ferals could teara man apart in quick-fashion.

The feral slid around a corner and was gone, and he decided that he wouldn't miss themeither...

...just as a hand grabbed his chin and the back of his head from behind, and turned hishead forcefully around with a loud 'Crack!' he felt thunder through his bones and

reverberate down his spine from his neck where there'd been a sharp, bright, spark of painthen nothing--so he was looking behind himself, even though his feet were still solidly

planted on the ground. The last thing he felt was a disoriented puzzlment and curiosity about why he could thetall and scary-looking man with snow-covered dreadlocks behind him when he hadn't

turned around, then darkness swept up in a wave from the base of his brain and Molrhubhdeparted the world of his birth forever.

Ronon dragged the heavyset and over-dressed body back into the shadows and laid itclose to the building's wall, then drew his gun and crept back to the door the man had

been guarding, listening carefully for short span. Voices, all male. He counted them, then again, and a third time to arrive at a fairly-solidcertainty there were six men inside. All talking big, discussing what they were planning

when off world, praising their boss for his genius in getting them all a ship, and thentalking about the fates planned for the two female members of his crew.

He crept around the building, listening here and there, getting a sense of the interior fromhow well he could hear things inside. Along the way, at a window that had sheet steel

welded over it, he'd heard voices he knew very well, although in hushed tones so all hecould make out was voices and not what they were saying...but he did catch a bad tension

in them. Working his way around the building and back to the door, he found no further sentries,

took a few deep breaths to load his system with fresh oxygen, and yanked the door open...

"Well, they'll think they can handle me because I'm just a woman, right? They'll bethinking about raping me, Sin, not that I'm setting a trap and using myself as bait." Selina

said. "I get that, but what if something goes wrong?" He said, working to help her

troubleshoot her plan. "If I behave like a properly obedient femme as they likely toss-off to, I can manipulateand control them a good degree, and they won't kill me unless they get orders from that

deckstain of a boss they have. He made it clear, remember. He wants us alive to help himlearn how to run the ship...and they're afraid of him, Sin. I smelled it coming off them."

She said. Sin nodded, going over her logic, and looking for holes, finding none he could help with.

The whole plan hinged on many unknowns, and there was nothing to be done aboutthem.

"I still don't like it." He groused. "I know, and I don't want to do it, but we don't..." Selina said, then stopped in mild alarm

and surprise, then smiled widely. "What?" Sin asked, curious as to the sudden change in her attitude.

"Oh, wait for it..." She said with a full grin, then the sounds of a small war startedcoming through the door.

Ronon had yanked open the door and stayed off to the side so the men inside wouldthink it was the wind, he listened to the reactions he'd been expecting to hear, the

grousing as one was selected to close the door, and waited until he saw the man's armreaching out for the handle.

In a brutally-fast move, he snagged the arm, and spun the man into him, the arm heldhigh up behind his back so he squealed in pain as Ronon used the man as a shield.

Bracing his gun arm over the man's right shoulder and firing steadily as he entered theroom, the hostage he'd taken was absorbing the bullets sent at him by the luckless man's

cohorts. He killed two immediately, and then sent a fusillade of rapidly-fired shots tospook the rest, forcing them to dive to the floor.

On the floor, they had a lot less mobility, and he followed up with better-placed shots intaking ruthless advantage of the reflexive blunder the men had made.

When the shooting stopped, he let the dead man he'd been using as a shield drop, andlooked over the bodies on the floor, noting one man was still alive, clutching the air overhis lower abdomen where his belt buckle would be, Ronon knew that feeling, it hurt so

much but you didn't want to touch it. "Hey, where's my crew?" He asked, looking around quickly for any other survivors who

might still be looking to fight. The man's groans were tight-throated in agony, the slight sizzle sound of the residual

heat from the laser blast cooking the man's flesh reached his ears. "Y' wanna live, speak. One'a them's a Doc. Last chance." He told the man, who managed

to unclamp his eyes and look up. "L-Locked...D-D-door." He managed to gasp out. Ronon looked around, spotting it

easily and walked to it, re-setting his gun as he did so.

The first blast formed a dull, red-glowing circle centered on where the bolt met thestriker plate and shot heavy sparks into the room as the door's blue paint bubbled andsmoked. The second blast sent a plume of vaporized metal and a thick spray of sparks

from between the door and jamb where the bolt had been, just before it was kicked openin a cloud of smoke.

Ronon aimed his gun into the gloom, and waited, ready to kill but equally ready to makesure of his targets.

A shape appeared in the gloom of smoke and low-lighting, but he recognized the way itmoved and it's general look without a second look.

Smythe stepped forward, actually smiling at the sight of the swarthy-skinned Merc. "Ronon, we need you're help..." He said, as Ronon noticed the blood pool around theyoung pilot he often enjoyed needling and teasing, His Captain and Executive Officer

crouched by the quiet and still form, covered against the chill by their jackets, oneserving as a crude pillow. He noticed just as his chest tesed up that King's face wasn't

covered, and relaxed just a little from that--but otherwise ready to do whatever the Docasked of him.

King felt like he should feel beyond the ability of language to describe 'Bad', but thereseemed to a 'membrane' that kept the discomfort and pain from his awareness.

He decided to try opening his eyes. Light, moving darker shapes against it, and little detail. He noticed things also sounded

like he was underwater. He let his eyelids crash shut. One voice cut through.

"Wake up." Low-toned, with a slight rumble. He knew the voice, and the commandingtone in it did get one's attention.

"Ronon...!" A woman's voice, and a name...but he needed more to work with and wasn'ttoo interested in testing the limits of whatever was shrouding him from pain.

"What? Doc said he's okay." The same masculine deep-rumble voice, it reminded him ofa Lion.

"What I said was that he will be 'okay' soon enough. And what are you doing here? Youhad a pretty rough time out there and need to recover too." A different voice, well-

articulated and precise, with an accent. He knew these voices, but couldn't connect thingsas chatter came up among them.

"King...Doverson...time to rejoin the living." Another male voice, one he knew and felt adeep trust for. It had the same accent as the other male voice...and knew his name.

He made an effort of will and forced his eyes to open. His eyelids feeling like they were

made of lead, but they opened...and he held them open, feeling like he was swimmingtowards the surface of a swimming pool.

Focus came, and faces resolved into more than just abstract blobs. Things began to click into place. First, he was warm, and comfortable. Second, he was in

a medical-kind-of-place he knew but couldn't identify yet. Third, he knew the peoplebehind the faces, but not their names yet. They all seemed happy that he opened his eyes.

One face, the closest, had short, black hair with a forelock that curled down andthreatened an eye. Dark eyes, ruggedly handsome, with a day's growth of beard and a

casual smile. A face he wished he had. Another face, female, pretty and dark-haired with glasses.

"Hiya flyboy. Ship's fixed like Doc fixed you. Ready to fly whenever you are." She said,smiling and reminding him of baby owls he'd seen once in a barn long ago.

Flying...flashes of a bridge, controls, displays and actions he knew so well they wereintuitive and effortless. With that touchstone, more and more came back. Names, faces

matching to them, who he was and what he did...the life he had and it seemed had nearlylost.

"Captain..." He managed. "Nice to have you back with us, King." Sin told him, smiling in a mix of relief and

gladness that his young pilot was that little bit closer to being back on his feet. "Gave us a good cause of worry, but that's all done now. We'll be lifting soon's were done

making sure you'll stay amongst the living, leave this frozen bit of rock in our wake." King listened, and many things surfaced and sank in his mind as to what he wanted to

say. His Captain seemed to know this, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Rest, son. You've got a very grateful Doc looking to you, We'll all be here next you open

your eyes, and we'll talk more then. Heal first, talk later." Sin told him. King managed a slight nod, glad of the respite, and let exhaustion drag him down again,

but this time it was in the knowledge that he was where he belonged.

On the bridge, Sin gor himself settled at the pilot's station, and although he hadn't flownthe ship he'd built much since hiring on King, familiarity came back easily.

Selina watched from her own console, slightly amused at the small show happening asher husband got himself ready.

"You're sure you remember how to fly this beast?" She teased. "It's all coming back, yes." He said, running the automated pre-start diagnostic test and

the telltales coming up all green. "You know where the launch key goes?" She teased again, getting a dirty look in

response and chuckling at it in reply herself. Sin keyed the start-up sequence, the displays showing the reactor cores coming off stand-

by and rolling up to flight-power. He tripped the controls for the outboard engines,brought them online and set the flight systems for VTOL as the ship's inertial-grav rotor

came to full and he eased back on the flight throttles, then took hold of the collectivewhile single-handing the control yoke. In many ways it was like lifting a helicopter fromages past, and the name for the control responsible for direct vertical motion had kept it'sname. He moved the collective back, and flight control systems adjusted engine power

and managed the dozens of factors and variables that a single pilot would beoverwhelmed by.

Outside, the massive Shelby-Turmansky multi-mode engines rotated so their thrustoutlets aimed into the ground and a circlet of 'turkey-feathers' opened, allowing the

engines to generate thrust by heating atmosphere that was taken in, compressed, and usedfor thrust blasting snow into a hurricane storm of half-melted slurry around the ship as itbegan to lift, the massive landing claws leaving the ferrocrete and the landing legs theywere attached to swinging up and storing away in their recesses before plates closeed

over them, sealing the hull.

On the bridge, Selina watched without comment the smooth competence of her husbandas he lifted the ship off the ground and seamlessly brought her into forward flight andclimbing rapidly towards the black where she belonged, a plainly happy and relaxedsmile on his face as every instant left the world further behind. He console showed

navigation data, and the destination he'd selected. Beaumont. She brought thenavigational computer into it, and mapped out the best course for speed and fuel

consumption, confirmed it and loaded it into flight control. In seconds, the murk of storm-tossed and overcast skies broke suddenly into the clean

expanse of deep blackness and stars. Seconds after that, she watched as his hand adjustedthe flight throttle slightly as the outboard engines switched from atmo-breathing to direct-thrust, he tripped a few very specific controls, and rested his hand on a smaller, but very

important throttle beside the primaries, then pushed it smoothly and fully forward. Shrike's engine systems began to alter functions as some machinery shut down, otherscame online and the reactors changed function slightly. Plasma flowed into different

channels and conduits, phantasmal-vaporous energy plumed out of the two uppermostrear main engines as the lowermost of the three and the largest began building quickly toan eye-searingly bright white incandescent blaze of power at it's exhaust as testament tothe awe-inspiring interactions of energy and exotic matter happening deep within it. The

outboard engines shut-down automatically and the ship vanished in a sudden explosion offorward velocity as the Vectorwarp engine fully engaged, leaving the frozen world behind

to continue it's chilly orbit around it's star.

Ronon sat in a roller-base chair he'd dragged in, beside the slumbering pilot, still andwatchful.

Smythe entered the infirmary, noted the Merc's presence, and approached. "I doubt telling you to go back to bed and let yourself recover would be any use

whatsoever." He said quietly, checking King's vital signs, and hanging a fresh IV bag ofsaline with an assortment of various ingredients a healing body needed.

"No." Was the simple reply. Smythe sighed, accustomed to Ronon's views on medicine and Doctor's orders.

"He's a brave young man, and I owe him my life." He said to Ronon, offhandedly,continued as he caught Ronon's look of inquiry.

"If he hadn't stepped in front of us, I'd have been the one with a bullet in me, and I'm notas young and resilient as he is. No hesitation, no regrets after when the pain really got

bad." Ronon nodded, then spoke.

"I kinda figured. I give him a hard time, but he's crew." That small collection of wordsspeaking volumes.

Smythe looked Ronon over, noting the man had left the bandages where he'd beenfrostbitten alone and intact.

"You don't need to watch over him, he's quite safe." Smythe said. "I know." Ronon replied, looking back at King.

"This is a Sarhedenan custom, right?" Smythe asked. "Yeah." Came the reply.

"Alright then, I'll leave you to it, an extra set of eyes watching won't harm a bit. Getsome rest when you can, though." Smythe said, not harping on things, merely stating it as

a kind of compassionate request, and got a nod in response. Smythe did understand, and left quietly, the infirmary dark, but not overly so. He had to

admit to himself as he walked down the corridors that he had a slight bit more faith inRonon watching over King's sleep than all the machines put together.

EPILOGUE Donovan Brendanatti held his breath as the two most tech-savvy peopleavailable poked and prodded the dangerous-looking device keeping him trapped at his

booth's table. He hadn't remained alive in the life he led by taking stupid chances, and wasn't about totest the resolve of Shrike's mechanic, who'd shown a side he'd found to be unexpected

and intimidating for the sheer hatred he'd sensed coming off her. They poked, prodded and looked at it, and he began to wonder if he wasn't better off

with a pair of shaved chimpanzees. One poked at it's underside with a screwdriver, and Donovan's heart nearly stopped when

the lights flashed twice, went crimson and the sound of a charging capacitor began. Everyone scattered, and Donovan Brendanatti saw his life flash before his eyes...then

heard the electronic voice-chip laughter coming from the device. And nearly had a stroke from the sudden flash of raw fury he felt for being suckered,swatting the device off his table, and ignoring the cuts on his knuckles from doing so.

"Somehow, someday...I'll gut that little bitch for this!!" He snarled, ignoring the bodiesof his dead men still in the booth, but now angrily brushing off the pieces and residue of

them he'd been splattered with earlier.

END