He replied with a shrug. In this instance, he was okay with the idea of the ends justifying the means. Around the square, more people began getting to their feet, eyes darting nervously between the sky and the newcomers.
“I am Teyla Emmagen, daughter of Tagan. These are my friends, Dr McKay, Lieutenant Ford and—” She glanced up at him. “Major Sheppard. Why is it that you believe the Wraith are coming?”
Several people started to reply, but the fish-scale guy silenced the crowd with a curt gesture, and spoke in a deep voice. “The alarm came from the Chosen within the Citadel. As chief of this village it is my duty to send the warning signal forth.” He lifted a half-spiral animal’s horn. “From whence do you come that you do not know this?”
Maybe it was time to jump down before he upset the entire applecart. At least, the red things John was crunching under his boots looked like whatever passed for apples on this world. The guy standing by the cart, considerably younger than the chief but just as barrel-chested, appeared none too pleased with him. Apparently even an imminent attack couldn’t deter some folks from keeping business foremost in mind.
“What is it with the introductions?” Rodney demanded. “We need to find this transport and get it operating. Where is it exactly?”
This time, there was nothing slight about the disapproving look Teyla sent in Rodney’s direction.
John opened his mouth to reply to the chief’s question, but Teyla got in first. “I am Athosian. How long before the Wraith appear do the Chosen raise the alarm?”
“They didn’t raise any alarm last week,” declared someone in the crowd.
“That’s because it was night,” barked the chief. “And the Shields of Dalera did not awaken the Chosen.”
“You mean the Chosen slept while the Wraith stole our children from their beds.” The woman’s voice was filled with acrimony.
“Now they have not come to the transport, dooming us all to die!” The disgust in the man’s voice wasn’t exactly subtle, and echoed that of many in the crowd.
“Silence! All of you,” demanded the chief. “You bring the Wraith upon us because of your barbarian ways. Little wonder the Chosen have abandoned you.”
“You are more guilty of trading in Wraithcraft than any of us.” The young applecart owner spat on the ground. “But now that the Wraith have returned, you have all suddenly reacquired your faith in the divine power of the Chosen.”
“Perhaps the Chosen are mistaken,” declared the runner who had come close to knocking John off the road.
“The Shields of Dalera are never mistaken,” retorted the chief.
“Shields?” piped up Rodney.
Ignoring him, the chief turned to Teyla and John. “My name is Balzar. The Chosen do not always give warning, but when they do the Wraith follow, of that there can be no doubt. Still—” He pulled at his beard. “The Chosen may not come to our village this time because we are protected by the Shields. Perhaps the Wraith have gone in search of easier game.”
Lisera whimpered and clutched Ford a little tighter. Easier game. The outlying farms and villages unprotected by the patchy EM fields definitely fit that category.
Teyla looked less certain. “I do not believe the Wraith have yet arrived on this world.”
“Which probably means that a hive ship is bearing down on us right now, coming from somewhere in not-so deep space,” Rodney snapped. “I won’t know for certain until I get a look at their warning system. Either way, the Wraith will have to land outside the EM fields, which means they’ll attack on foot. And that brings me back to my earlier point. We came here to see the transport, and while we’re on the subject, I’ll need to take a look at those shields.”
Leave it to Rodney to have such a universal sense of entitlement.
Balzar’s expression turned thoughtful, which could only mean that he’d missed Rodney’s demands entirely. Addressing John, he said, “Only last week the Wraith attacked as you say. They arrived on foot and stole the lives of many of our people. We were fortunate in that there were only two of the monsters.”
“Did the Chosen kill them?” John asked.
“The Chosen wouldn’t dare risk their almighty, overfed hides,” scoffed the applecart owner. “That is why they have not come and opened the transport—”
“Yann!” Balzar snatched up a wicked looking double-bladed axe and brandished it. John dodged sideways, bumping into Rodney. Most of the men, none of whom were exactly tiny, raised equally deadly-looking swords and axes. Okey-dokey. That answered the question of how they’d managed to kill a Wraith.
“Time, people. We’re running out of time here!” Despite the oversized pack on his back, Rodney was all but jumping up and down. “Transport? Shields?”
“Cool it, Rodney.”
“Cool it?” he cried, still hopping. “The Wraith are coming, probably in one of those hive ships we’ve all heard so much about, and you’ve now broken my toe, which means that even if we leave these good people to their little Stephen King-style Wagnerian opera, the chances of us reaching the jumper and thus the ‘gate in time are approaching statistical insignificance!”
“The Shields and transport are forbidden to all but the Chosen,” snapped Balzar. Not much doubt how he felt about that.
“Well, can we at least take a look? We may have something similar on our world.” The transport sounded to John like those on Atlantis, which meant it might just operate on the same principles.
“What harm can the strangers do, Balzar?” Yann the applecart man cast an appraising eye at John’s P-90. “The horn from the Citadel still blows, and the Chosen do not come.”
“It is a test of our faith,” Balzar replied belligerently.
“More a question of payment,” Yann muttered.
Balzar curled one of his ham-sized fists and stared at Yann with narrowed eyes.
“I promise I won’t touch anything,” John added with a reassuring smile.
Lisera moaned again. Ford was looking more than a little worried. “Sir, I really need to take another look at her leg.”
Yann abruptly pushed past Balzar. “If I am to die this day, let me at least die with ale in my belly. Innkeeper!” he called, motioning with his head for John to follow. “Five of your finest, against my coin.”
The inside of the tavern smelled of spilled beer laced with the stench of mortal fear. Somewhat better dressed people clutching armfuls of bags reluctantly moved aside to let them through. John nodded and smiled politely as they made their way to the bar, well aware that they might as well be wearing neon signs blazing ‘Not from around here.’
It wasn’t until he glanced toward the far left side of the inn that he saw the distinctive geometric glass doors. Aha. “Oh, Rodney?”
“I see it.”
“Thought so. Just…take it easy, all right? We don’t want to upset these nice folk.”
“What makes you think that I upset people? I’m the epitome of reason and composure at the moment, in spite of what I’d call an increasingly hostile atmosphere. Notice also that I’m not even complaining about my mangled toe, so you’re welcome. I would like to state for the record, however, that you’re heavier than you look.”
Outside, another argument — or maybe it was the same one — got underway. Those in the inn eyed them, silent and suspicious, unwilling to give up their place by the transport doors. Judging by their dress, it seemed merchants and townspeople had first crack at gaining entry to the Citadel. Although John was sorely tempted to push his way past the bar and through the crowd to the transport, Teyla’s expression told him that the Wraith were still a ways off. In his experience, giving people a little time to get used to strangers invariably resulted in fewer misunderstandings and lower body counts.
“You risk much, Yann,” growled the innkeeper, a wizened old man with a potbelly and arthritic, misshapen fingers. He filled a copper tankard with something that frothed like beer and set it on the wooden bar with a thud, spilling half the contents in the process.