Cold Wind from Teksa'corani

Chapter 2

In John’s experience, two periods of unconsciousness within any twenty-four hour period were never a good thing.  His head pounded and the light hurt his eyes, even though his eyes, as far as his mashed-up senses could tell, were still closed.  That meant daylight.  So the teen-wraith playing at double agent had done his stuff. 

The ground felt gritty, uneven and, in places, sharp, digging into his chest and stomach.  There was sun on his back, but a cold breeze worked its way around and under him.  The air had a clean scent with a thin flavour that suggested mountains. 

He should open his eyes, get up, switch his military circuits back on.  But the circuits seemed to have developed a short.  John lay where he was.

“Uh, God, what the hell…?”  A series of coughs and curses came from next to him.

For the second time that day, John pushed himself up, wincing, and added a few curses to his friend’s.  “You okay?”

“No.  What did that moron do?  Use the combined beam and stun setting?”

John blinked, rubbed his eyes, cursed a bit more and looked at his friend: pale face, sunken eyes, rumpled, dusty clothes and a thoroughly pissed-off scowl.  Good enough.  The military circuits sparked to life and John scanned their surroundings.

Arid, he thought, looking at the rise and fall of sandy-yellow, rocky terrain.  There were a few scrubby bushes here and there, and further down, the slope was dotted with tall, thick-branched figures.  Space-cactuses, John dubbed them.  What a stupid name.  He was definitely off his game.

“So, people?  Transport?  Food?” demanded Rodney.

John climbed to his feet, breathed slowly in and out to give his spinning head time to settle and then turned in place, his boots crunching on the loose grit.  “That way,” he said, studying the sky.

“What?  Why?”

“Smoke trails.”

“Oh.”  Rodney huffed, scrubbed his hands over his face, and got up.  He wobbled and John caught his arm.  “I’m too old for this crap.  And my mouth feels like something’s died in it.  Or had a party.  Or had a party and then died.”

“Helluva party,” commented John.

“Hmm.  So, who do you think was in on it?  Who were the wraith-friends in the Coalition camp?”

“I don’t know.  Coulda been all of ‘em.”

“So much for telling Earth all about our peaceful relations.  What the hell is wrong with these people?  We were trying to help.  Offering them technology, freely, no-strings-attached.  So, they think ‘Friendly and helpful?  They obviously deserve to die!’”

“We’re not dead.”

“No, just stuck on a dried-up ball of rock, God knows how far from the Gate.  What are we going to do, Sheppard?”

The Coalition, the Wraith-worshippers, the rising new Wraith queen: they danced about the dried-up landscape, phantoms of John’s own helplessness and fear.  He dismissed them.  “We’re going to do one thing at a time.  And the first thing is to follow those smoke trails.  C’mon, McKay.” 

John led Rodney down the slope, then up a rise, following a ravine carved by runnels of water; dry now, and no prospect of rain on the horizon.  He looked up at the empty blue sky.  There was definitely a dark haze, and he let it guide him, circling a bluff, scrambling up a contorted ridge until there was a steep drop before them, and a narrow valley leading down to a wide, dusty plain.  John flattened himself on the ground and motioned Rodney to do the same.  No point presenting their silhouettes to anyone who might be watching.