“I regret that this was necessary, but we were desperate. There is much you should see before returning to the Enclave.” The merchant spoke in a measured, even tone. “When the Great Plague visited us two generations past, countless Dalerans, perhaps as many as three quarters of our number, were stuck down.”
Rodney’s head snapped up at that, but Yann ignored him and continued. “In the years hence, fewer and fewer Chosen ventured beyond the Enclave to operate the village transports. Today, when the Shields glow and the alarm is raised, Kesun alone evacuates but a handful of villages.
“Many of us have long suspected that the Plague struck the Chosen even harder, and as a result, they are now few in number. It is the only explanation for the way they failed in fulfilling their duty to the people of Dalera. The teaching windows tell us that these last weeks have been but a small taste of the great culling to come. And yet with so few Chosen, even the Citadel cannot provide safe haven.”
“So you’re not overly enchanted with the Chosen right now,” John summed up. “We can empathize with that. But—”
A young voice full of idealistic determination broke in. “Release them. The Chosen command it!”
The assembled merchants turned to where Lisera stood, leaning unsteadily on one of the crutches. John shut his eyes with a wince. Although he appreciated the effort, it probably wasn’t the best idea.
“Lisera, we can handle this.” Ford attempted to dissuade her.
Ignoring the chuckles and jeers from the crowd, the girl reached for Rodney’s Shield and yanked it free.
“What? You couldn’t possibly have taken his instead?” Rodney jerked his restrained hands in John’s direction. Being unable to gesture was definitely putting a crimp in the scientist’s style.
No one was listening to him, though, because all eyes were on the Shield that had changed from black to a dull turquoise in Lisera’s hand. Through the murmurs, Yann remained unmoved. He cocked an eyebrow at Rodney. John wasn’t sure if it was a good poker face, or if they were about to be even more screwed than they already were.
“I knew you when you could not yet speak, Lisera,” the merchant said. “When your mother first moved from the Citadel to the village.”
Alarmed by the look on Rodney’s face, which was beginning to adopt a ‘eureka’ expression, John was about to explain, but Yann added, “You were not of the Chosen.” He turned a calculating eye to his captives. “What has changed between then and now?” John opened his mouth to reply, but again, Yann beat him to the punch. Staring wide-eyed at Lisera, he added, “You were made Chosen in Atlantis!”
That revelation was met with gasps of wonder and loud mutters that spread across the nearby crowd like a tidal wave. “The medicine of which you spoke.” Yann pointed an accusing finger at Rodney. “You gave her the genetherapy!”
“What? Me?” Rodney retorted in a voice that was just short of a squeal. “Don’t be ridiculous, I hate needles — Wait, you were actually listening to me about all that?”
While the word genetherapy was whispered from person to person, Yann merely met Rodney’s gaze with sage understanding. “You are of the Chosen, yet you do not approve of their laws. You have made no secret of it.”
“That may well be, but I’d be the last person to administer the gene therapy to anyone. Besides, there was no need. Lisera is a natural carrier.”
Or maybe they’d just go with the truth and see how that went.
“Dr McKay!” Teyla hissed.
“What?” Rodney snapped indignantly. “I’m just clarifying the situation. And I’m getting incredibly tired of having to repeat myself. The gene doesn’t make anyone Chosen. It simply allows them to operate the same technology as the Chosen, which we’re going to have to rename because I think we’ve effectively proven the term ‘Chosen’ to be inaccurate.”
The sour feeling in John’s stomach abruptly turned into full-blown heartburn. He whipped around to glare at Rodney while the muttering in the crowd swelled in volume. Rodney blinked back at him. “What? Did you have a better story to tell? Something about magic fairy dust?”
It was a reasonable point, but John was getting tired of McKay’s bull-in-a-china-shop diplomacy. “So help me, Rodney, if I could move my hands right now…”
With confusion and a hint of betrayal, Lisera stared at them. Yann quieted the murmurs, took the Shield from her hand and reattached it to Rodney’s belt. “This potion you have, this genetherapy can make anyone Chosen?”
“The evidence speaks for itself, doesn’t it?” Rodney looked somewhat mollified that his Shield had been returned. “I’m a textbook case.”
Although Yann might not have entirely understood McKay’s explanation, he must have gotten the drift, because his eyes narrowed and he turned to John. “You also received this potion?”
Not much point in hiding the truth now. Still glaring at McKay, John replied, “No, like Lisera, I’m a natural carrier.”
If this gang of rebels-in-waiting had a leader, Yann had to be it, because everyone seemed to be looking to him for guidance. “What say you of the Chosen?” he asked, his gaze fixing on John. “Do you believe their rule is just?”
This time there was no way in hell John was going to let Rodney speak for them. “We don’t take sides,” he said firmly. “How you choose to live is your business. We just don’t want to see the Wraith come in and tear the place apart.”
Yann regarded him with cold eyes. “You do not ‘take sides,’” he repeated, his voice filled with enough contempt to make John wince. “Come.” He gave a sharp gesture to the quartet of merchants who had taken their weapons. The men took up positions around the team and prodded them forward.
“Now what?” Rodney said under his breath.
They were led out of the Sanctuary Hall and through a series of alleys. Within moments, John realized that they’d been painfully ignorant of the truth of this place, and he wanted his ignorance back.
In the backstreets, they found a degree of poverty and destitution that rivaled any on Earth. Beggars staked out their territory, shoving off emaciated children with festering eyes and open sores. He’d been involved in humanitarian missions in Africa, and had seen some truly appalling conditions, but this was far beyond anything he’d ever witnessed.
Holy— He jerked back in shock as the analytical part of his mind identified a lump lying on top of a garbage heap as a corpse, obviously a victim of gross malnutrition. The gasp that came from somewhere behind him sounded like Teyla.
“It is the same in much of the Citadel,” Yann said. He kept his gaze trained on the cobblestone path, deftly navigating his way through the worst of the filth. “Those who rule have no interest in anything but taking payment in return for protection that they cannot provide.” He didn’t need to explain how hunger, squalid living conditions, and the resultant explosion of infectious diseases had created fertile ground for social anarchy.
Ford jumped when a beggar clawed at his arm. One of their guards swiftly pushed the babbling old woman aside. John flinched at the sight, but understood that the guards were acting out of necessity rather than a lack of compassion. If they stopped moving, anything they had of value, up to and including the clothes on their back, would be stripped in seconds. Probably not gently, either.
Yann continued to lead them deeper into the Citadel, cautioning them to watch their feet when he stepped over a nearly overflowing gutter. One whiff of its contents had John silently vowing never again to complain about the plumbing on Atlantis.
“There is no way to be sure, but we believe that dozens perish each day — far more than have yet been taken by the Wraith.” Yann wordlessly sidestepped a load of garbage being tossed from a third-floor window, and pointed to an even narrower side-alley. “The entrance is near.”
They walked down a set of uneven steps made all the more treacherous by a slick coating that John had no desire to identify. Fortunately, the stairs soon ended, depositing them in a winding tunnel lit by torches. Yann moved decisively, apparently familiar with the route.