STARGATE ATLANTIS: Dead End by Chris Wraight Read Free Book Online

or…”
    He tailed off, distraught.
    Weir took a deep breath. She was angry with him for having no answers, angry with Sheppard for talking her into the mission, and angry with herself for going along with him. But self-recrimination could come later, all that mattered now was getting her people home.
    “OK, what are our options?” she said. “Have we got anything from the planet at all?”
    Zelenka studied the screen, face creased into a frown. “No telemetry. Nothing. Wormhole has collapsed. And there are strange readings here. It looks like the gate at the other end has suffered some kind of malfunction. I can’t re-establish the wormhole. We need to study this.”
    “That isn’t very helpful, Radek,” she snapped. “I need options.
Fast
.”
    “I know,” Zelenka said, already on his feet. “I’m on it.”
     
    Ronon walked easily through the narrow corridors. Orand walked beside him, with Teyla and Miruva close behind. The group had separated. Sheppard and McKay had been taken in one direction by Aralen, while he and Teyla had been invited to see the lower levels of the settlement.
    As he walked, Ronon found himself enjoying the freedom afforded by the lack of a bulky environment suit. He never liked wearing the synthetic uniforms of the Tauri if he could help it, but felt very much at home in the furs and leather of the Forgotten. From what he had seen of these people, they were admirably strong and capable. With no fear of the Wraith, they had been forced to take on the elements of their homeworld instead. As an enemy, the endless cold of Khost was possibly just as formidable. The fact that the Forgotten refused to buckle and give-up impressed him.
    “These are our living areas,” said Orand, gesturing to either side of the party.
    Every few yards the walls of the corridor were broken by low entrances, the light was low and they looked dark and dingy. But when Orand pulled aside the tapestry hanging over one of the doorways, a cheery light escaped from the chamber beyond.
    “Please, enter,” he said. “These are my quarters.”
    Stooping, Ronon and Teyla stepped inside. Orand and Miruva followed them, walking with a supple grace. All of the Forgotten were lean, and despite their underground lifestyle there was little sign of sickness among them. Orand was tall and wiry, with dark hair and quick-moving brown eyes. His face seemed ready to crease into a smile at any moment. Miruva looked similar, though slimmer. If she was slightly less ready to talk than Orand, she seemed to weigh her words more carefully. Ronon thought he saw something of Weir in her calm demeanor.
    The space beyond the hanging was not large, but capable of comfortably accommodating a small family. The walls were bare rock, but everything was tidy and well-kept. There were obviously more rooms branching off from the main chamber. As ever, these were screened by the embroidered hangings. Mats covered the floor, decorated with images of massive beasts — the White Buffalo, he presumed. Ronon studied the handiwork. On many worlds, such fine artifacts would fetch a rare price.
    “How do you make these things?” he said, running the tapestry through his fingers.
    “Our women weave the patterns from the plains grass,” Orand said, motioning for them to sit on the mats. “The White Buffalo graze on the plains, and so it sustains everything. But the winters have been harsher lately. The snows linger nearly the whole year, and the grass dies. The Buffalo travel further to find it, and so do we. As a result, these things are increasingly valuable. We make fewer every year.”
    Miruva nodded. “They still provide meat for our tables, and fur to clothe our bodies. We use their bones and horn for our tools: an axe made from Buffalo horn can carve rock. In the summer season, their waste fertilizes our fields. We can cure their meat for the long winter months. They are everything for us.”
    “Some speculate that the Ancestors created the