Chapter Text
John dropped the Jumper’s cloak to fire a burrowing bomb into the last active Hiveship in the Pegasus Galaxy. A nasty final play, but the Wraith Queen inside had left him little choice. Most of her Sister Queens had converted to new food sources and left to spend some time far from humans.
Could this be the end of the Wraith War?
As John swooped back toward Atlantis, the Hive collapsed inward. Half a dozen remaining Darts converged on John’s tail. There was no sense cloaking with them so close. He fired the railgun he couldn’t activate in stealth mode. Then he scattered his remaining mines. He’d use every weapon the geeks had loaded on his Jumper, every trick they’d developed during ten years of war with the Wraith.
As the last Hiveship imploded, it left behind a soundless cloud of dust and debris. John sighed in relief.
His sigh came out half a moan, as a Dart blasted his starboard engine. Never mind that he’d taken out one of his pursuers with the railgun and another two with mines. That left three Darts gaining on him and at least five others still in play around Atlantis. John fired off two heat-seeking missiles, the best he could manage with one engine cutting in and out.
The Hive was gone. The remaining Dart pilots must be desperate to find a way past Atlantis’ shield. Their only chance at survival was to capture the city. John had ordered his forces not to open the shield for his return if there were any chance Wraith Darts could follow him in. Now he might die crashing into that shield if his starboard engine failed completely.
John banked his Jumper into a shallower dive, passing as close to the shield as he dared. One Dart followed too close behind him, expecting the shield to open for John. It flared into cinders as it struck the shield. The heat-seeking missile closest to that Jumper collided too, possibly weakening the shield, but the other missile took out a Dart. That left one on John’s tail.
With only one stable engine and his forward laser weapons left, John forced a tight turn and targeted his last pursuer. The Wraith fired back. Each of them hit the other.
The Dart exploded.
John didn’t know how badly he was hit. His readouts went blank. He’d lost all instruments and comms.
Only momentum kept him from crashing straight down. But gravity drew him closer to the shield. John could see another Dart closing on him. It was too far out for weapons fire, but close enough that it might follow him through if anyone below was fool enough to lower the shield.
Bracing himself, John counted down the seconds to impact. The deadly barrier remained invisible without working instruments. His final wish was that his city, his team, and especially Rodney would survive and thrive, free from the Wraith threat.
More seconds passed than John had counted on. Someone must have opened the shield for him not realizing he’d lost control of his Jumper. He had only a moment to fear he’d crash into the city. But its snowflake design left as much ocean surface area under the shield as city, and John’s pilot brain reckoned he’d crash between the East and Southeast Piers.
Was this the end? All John could do was brace for impact. He was coming in far too fast. He smashed against water like he’d crashed onto solid ground. Metal screeched as his damaged Jumper tore apart around him. Sharp pain stabbed his right side as salt water flooded in and everything went dark.
#
Searing white heat—like lightning shooting down his entire right side—forced John awake.
He struggled to control his breathing, to remain still. Later he’d appreciate not being dead. Strange to know that from experience. Strange that he wasn’t crushed inside his Jumper or being sucked dry by a Wraith.
But he couldn’t move, and this didn’t smell like the infirmary, although John sensed the faint buzz of Ancient tech nearby. With his eyes closed, he listened.
Water lapped against metal walls. Echoes suggested a room larger than his bedroom but smaller than the Gate room. The salty, fishy smell surrounding him was strong enough to taste.
Belatedly, John’s body registered more than the painful burn of his right leg, hip, and arm. He was naked. Restrained. Mostly underwater.
His head rested on pebbly sand above water. Warm air flowed from somewhere to his left, above his head, and his hair clung matted but dry around his forehead. Water lapped at his neck, chest, and groin. Both his right arm and leg were completely immobilized within a tight, clinging heat. His left arm and leg didn’t burn or ache, but were wrapped securely in lukewarm spirals of leathery rope, with slightly cooler salt water covering all exposed skin.
When one of the leathery ropes undulated along his leg, John realized it wasn’t rope. He wished he didn’t need to look but forced his eyes open a crack anyway.
Shadowy tentacles bound him in place.
Perhaps he was hallucinating. He hoped he was hallucinating.
John’s muscles tensed and his heart raced. The heat along his right side flared brighter. John realized he was encased from shoulder to toes on that side, covered in thick tentacles without an inch of skin visible. Neither the tentacles on that side nor the ones wound around his left arm and leg reacted when he struggled. They maintained the same unrelenting grip, allowing John at most to move his head and neck to look around.
The watery room was dim. It took John’s eyes several minutes to adjust and take in details. An eerie greenish-white glow rose from beneath the water. It emanated from white growths, like a stack of fist-sized barrels with a glowing star at one end of each. They lined the wall farthest from John, and he couldn’t decide if they resembled fungus or coral or something entirely alien.
This definitely wasn’t a memory, recreated by crystalline entities or Replicator mind probes. He’d never delved into tentacle porn or Cthulhu horror stories, so it wasn’t likely he’d dream this up.
As John’s eyes adjusted, the tentacles holding him took on a deep olive sheen, but that could have been a trick of the light. The walls closest to him were covered with tightly packed shells that resembled large oysters, if oyster shells were pink and slightly fuzzy.
Only a few feet near the top of the room were currently above water. John rested at a steep angle on an enormous pile of pebbles that sloped up toward a vent in one corner. The elongated diamonds formed from crisscrossing rust-free metal reminded John of vent covers in the underwater Jumper Bay he’d passed through before rescuing Atlantis from the Replicators.
He worried the Wraith that had followed him through the shield might be able to infiltrate Atlantis from these watery lower levels. Or maybe they’d be caught and eaten by tentacle monsters. John peered down at the dark mass that undulated beneath the nest of tentacles holding him. “Don’t suppose you ate any Wraith recently? Or saw any pass this way?” His throat was dry. His words came out raspy and thin. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t expecting an answer.
A glistening dome the size of a fire hydrant slowly rose from the water beside him. All at once, three eyes bulged outward and opened, glowing greenish-white, luminous like whatever grew on the far wall. At first, the eyes were equally spaced around the dome-shaped head. Then the far eye closed, flattened, and popped out between the two facing John. Each eye focused a vertical slit black pupil on John.
He recoiled against his will. The steady burn along his right side ramped up to searing pain.
Air hissed like a sigh through flaps covering small holes that were scattered like freckles across the alien head. The hiss resolved into language the way Gate translation always managed, although John could not make out any tonal variations or word-sounds beneath the soft hiss. “No Wraith.”
John forced himself to breathe, to meet the three luminous eyes as best he could with only two of his own. He worked his throat and tongue, trying to gather enough moisture to produce more than a croaking noise as he said, “If you’ll let me go, I’d like to make sure of that for myself.”
“Broken. Drink water.” A relatively slender tentacle rose to snake its way through one diamond-shaped opening on the vent cover. When it returned, very slowly, the tip reformed to resemble a straw with a spoon shape at the front. “Fresh water.”
John’s jaw clamped tight. No matter how thirsty he was, he didn’t want that thing’s tentacle touching his mouth. For all he knew, its skin could be toxic. That might be what caused the burning sensation all along his right side.
The tentacle holding water a few inches from his mouth didn’t waver or shake. The creature didn’t speak again.
The problem was, John wanted to drink the water. He was probably dehydrated already. If he wanted to live long enough to find a way to escape, he was going to need fresh water.
Also, the skin bound by tentacles on his left didn’t hurt. That suggested the burning sensation on his right didn’t result merely from skin to skin contact with his captor. So far, the creature hadn’t shown any intension to mistreat him, for whatever that was worth. While John was effectively bound, the sensation reminded him of reins wrapped around his hand when he used to ride horses, secure but relatively soft.
John risked opening his mouth to ask, “What if something on your tentacle or in the water makes me sick?”
“Won’t.”
“How do you know?” John rasped. His throat hurt with every word, but the tentacle offering water held still, not trying to force water on an already immobilized captive.
“Related species.”
That was not an answer John had expected. He assumed it meant the tentacle creature had experience with species related to John, not that this enormous marine organism was claiming to be related to him. But trying to order his thoughts to ask a series of reasonable follow-up questions proved beyond John’s capacity at that moment. He had no reason to believe this creature would know the answers anyway.
John was exhausted, in pain, and very thirsty. “Okay, I’ll drink it.”
The tentacle shifted forward until it barely rested on John’s lower lip. A trickle of water tipped in, and John swallowed a small mouthful. It tasted as clean and flavorless as the purified water on Atlantis. It slid like balm down his parched throat. Muscles in his neck relaxed even though he hadn’t shifted position or realized they were tense before.
John remembered back to his time in Afghanistan, when water sometimes mattered more than money or any Earthly possession. But John didn’t want to think about Earth or Afghanistan now. He focused his remaining attention on the present. The tentacles wrapped around him were solid and held him steady. If this was all real, his first objective should be to survive. His second, to escape.
After that first swallow of water, the spoon-tentacle raised slightly to deliver another mouthful, which John swallowed more eagerly than the first. The process repeated one mouthful at a time. The straw-shaped section of the tentacle held more water than John had imagined, and he wanted to suck it all down. But he knew the risks of drinking too fast. Perhaps the tentacle creature truly understood how to take care of someone like John, only pouring out one small sip at a time.
As John’s eyelids drooped and his attention drifted, the offerings of water ceased. John slept.
#
John woke with a million questions crowding his mind. He was still completely immobilized by tentacles, lying in the mostly water-filled room that he hoped was in the lower levels of Atlantis. If he was hidden within Atlantis, it wouldn’t take long for Rodney to find him.
While John’s thoughts came clearer than before, he was also in more pain. The fiery heat from before had subsided. But he ached everywhere, and his entire right side throbbed like his bones might explode.
The throbbing reminded John of times when he’d snuck out of the infirmary and refused meds for a broken wrist or forearm. Except now one entire arm, hip, and part of his right leg seemed to be pounding in time. “What did you mean by ‘broken’ before?”
“Brittle inside pieces broken.” The shadowy mound with three eyes poked barely above the water as the whispering language escaped through tiny blowholes. “Set straight. Hold tight.”
“So you’re using your tentacles as splints for broken bones?”
“Yes. Slow fix. Soft parts better.”
“You think it’s better not to have bones?” John could hardly disagree at the moment, as he wondered at the strength and adhesion of the limbs holding him.
“Fix soft parts better. Faster.”
“You mean you fixed other”—John hesitated, imagining how Rodney would tease if he heard this wording— “softer parts of me already? How?”
A thick olive-black tentacle rose from the bulbous body below the water until John had a clear view of the underside. It was covered in tiny buds, like bubble wrap with cups instead of bubbles. As John watched, the cups filled with viscous green liquid. “Put on ribs.”
It didn’t sound like a question, but when the tentacle didn’t move immediately to John’s exposed ribs, John said, “Go ahead.”
The tentacle quickly wrapped around John’s lower ribs from front to back. Unlike the fire he’d felt before, this reminded John of a traditional barbershop hot towel but with an added tingle. It was strangely soothing, and John realized the skin there had chafed a bit where salt water rubbed against it. “Is that medicated?”
“Know what body needs.”
“How? No offense, but my body is pretty different from yours.”
A vibration rose through the water and through every tentacle touching John that reminded him intensely of sitting in the control chair. He missed Atlantis even as the new humming sensation soothed him on a level he couldn’t explain. “Related species. Heal skin, fat, muscle. Faster. Sense brittle shapes to fit back together. Slower to heal own.”
John remembered crashing his Jumper. He hadn’t expected to survive. While it seemed improbable that this being he’d never seen before had whisked him to this protected space with breathable air, it defied belief that his rescuer had natural healing abilities that happened to work on humans. When circumstances in Pegasus defied belief, John had learned to be suspicious. “Why rescue me?”
“No more Wraith.”
That simple pronouncement raised more questions than it answered. “How do you know?”
“Heard.”
“What exactly did you hear and from whom?” John coughed. His throat was dry again. The slight motion made his head pound in time with his injuries.
“Drink water.” A thin tentacle, possibly the same one that had given John water before, was already rising like smoke into the vent.
“Only if you explain.”
“Will.” The tentacle returned and shaped itself into a straw with a spoon end by John’s mouth. He accepted a mouthful of fresh water, and was told, “Hear through vents, radios, Atlantis.” The creature paused until John took another sip. “Woke when ocean filled this room again. Waited. Listened.” As John continue to drink, the story emerged piece by piece. “Heard plans for Wraith…Chose to stay awake. Listen…Reports of Hives leaving peacefully…Battles won against other Wraith…Hoped safe to live in open again…Heard final battle won…Crashed Jumper. Shouting. Mourning…”
John nearly choked at that. The tentacle pulled away from his mouth.
“Risked open ocean to rescue.”
“Do my people think I’m dead?” John barely managed to ask around coughing.
“For now. Few days.” There was no intonation or body language to suggest how John’s rescuer felt about that.
Not that John wanted to dwell on his own feelings about being given up for dead. Or his friends mourning him. Or no one coming to save him, whatever intentions the creature holding him might have. “What happens in a few days?”
“Safe to leave.”
“If you’re just waiting for my bones to mend, you can take me up to the piers. Someone from medical will figure out how to move me safely to a gurney.”
Three narrow pupils narrowed further as the glow around them intensified. “Not. Safe. Yet.”
“I’m in charge of their military. I can order them not to hurt you.” John was fairly sure he could get those orders out before anyone acted rashly. If only he could convince his captor/rescuer to take him to the surface, this could all be over.
“Not yet. Eat food.”
Safety had never seemed so near and yet impossibly far at once. A medium-sized tentacle, wider than the one that held water but thinner than the one still wrapped around John’s ribs, yanked a fuzzy pink shell off the wall. The tentacle tip flattened and dug inside until the shell lay open. John was presented with something that looked exactly like oyster on the half shell.
It wasn’t a food John found appealing on Earth, let alone in this dubious circumstance.
“Please, let me contact my people. It’s safer for both of us.”
“Safer in a few days. Eat food.”
“No. I’m not eating. You need to take me back to my people.” John couldn’t manage a hunger strike if that tentacle forced food down his throat. But he hadn’t been forced to drink water before. The tentacles restraining him might even be for his medical benefit. While John wasn’t sure he trusted the story he’d been offered, he was willing to test the ethics of his captor.
The tentacle offering food remained still, as did the one still holding water and all the tentacles wrapped around John’s body. There was no answer or movement of any kind for what seemed like hours. Despite pulsing pain, growing hunger, and some renewed thirst, John eventually fell asleep.
#
John didn’t know if it was the same day or the next when he woke. He didn’t know if it was day at all, since no outside light reached him.
The tentacles offering food and water were gone. The ones binding him remained in place, although the ones holding his less injured limbs seemed to have shifted slightly, to cover different patches of skin. The wide tentacle across his chest had definitely drifted up a couple ribs, leaving the skin behind it refreshed. The new position felt more like being hugged.
Tears filled John’s eyes. He blinked them away, glad no one could see. It seemed ridiculous for that to matter now, except that he had no idea why he was crying. He didn’t hurt that much. But tears continued to seep from his eyes, silently joining the salty water that surrounded him.
John’s right side still throbbed. He felt lethargic and exhausted, even though he’d just woken up. Refusing to eat might not have been a good strategy, but being presumed dead sucked. It didn’t seem fair to put his friends or even coworkers though that. Again. But if he’d broken bones in multiple locations, as he was starting to believe, John wouldn’t be able to rescue himself any time soon. And whether he trusted the intel offered or not, as time passed rescue became less and less likely.
His stomach growled.
No head, or dome with eyes, was visible above the water. John tried speaking anyway. “Listen, I may have been a bit rude before.”
When nothing moved and no response came, John closed his eyes against a surge of helplessness and frustration. There was truly nothing he could do. He’d even run out of tears.
He tried to sleep but kept flashing back to other times he’d been imprisoned, screwed up diplomatically and been chased to the Gate, ended up trapped without sign of rescue for what seemed like forever… “Maybe we could start over. My name is John, and I appreciate you rescuing me.”
Three eyes rose just above the water and blinked at John. Then a whisper around them translated as, “Use Sal.”
“You mean I should call you Sal?”
“Yes.”
“Ooookay.” John didn’t know what to make of that but wasn’t going to question it at this juncture. “Anyway, I guess I owe you an apology, Sal. There’s a lot I don’t understand about this situation, but I am glad to be alive and appreciate your efforts to keep me that way.”
“Drink water.”
Only when John answered “yes” did the usual fine tentacle creep up into the vent and return to tip sip after careful sip into his mouth.
A couple minutes later, a medium-sized tentacle rose in front of John holding some sort of green algae or thin-leaved seaweed. “Eat this.”
John said, “I’ll try it.”
A small glob was pressed past his lips. It tasted incredibly salty and had the texture of slimy sawdust. John barely managed to swallow before saying, “Maybe the shellfish was a better idea. If you think it’s safe for me.” Hopefully Sal cared as much for John’s safety as his—John realized “its” didn’t sound right for someone who spoke and took care of John. “By the way Sal, are you a him or a her?”
“Don’t understand,” Sal answered as a tentacle similar to the one holding algae pulled a shell from the wall, cracked it open, and tipped the mollusk into John’s mouth.
John swallowed it down whole, remembering that was the best way to handle oysters and hoping to manage this meal with as little fuss as possible. He mostly still tasted salt from the algae. In the pause that followed, as three tentacles hovered around him—one holding water, one algae, and one a now empty shell—John realized he’d never heard pronouns in the translations of Sal’s speech.
“I wanted to know if you were male or female, if you don’t mind saying.”
“Male now,” Sal answered. Then he dropped the empty shell and pulled another from the wall. “More food.”
John ate until he was full and accepted a little more water. He wasn’t sure if Sal’s answer of “male now” suggested a miscommunication or a difference in biology. Then he wondered why his own language required him to ask about such things anyway. That train of thought did embolden John to ask about something else he just couldn’t let slide. “What happened to my clothes?” He didn’t ask directly about the sidearm that had been strapped to his leg, because he had learned a few shreds of diplomacy over the years.
“No blood in here.”
John remembered the movie Jaws and decades of overblown fears related to sharks on Earth. He didn’t know much about marine predators on their current planet, but he could believe chumming the waters while taking someone to a makeshift hospital wasn’t a good idea. “You think we’re safe here?”
“Safe for now.” The tip of the tentacle holding John’s uninjured arm began to pet the back of his hand. If Sal were human, John would assume the touch was meant to be reassuring. To his surprise, John found it comforting.
“If only the bones on my left side need to be held straight, could you let go of my right arm and leg?”
“Set straight. Keep whole body still.”
John wondered at Sal’s motives, why he’d rescued John in the first place. Even if Sal were right and the Wraith were all gone, which John didn’t trust, Sal could want John as a hostage or possibly even a food source. A glance at the wall filled with hundreds, no thousands of shellfish, suggested John would be a poor investment in that regard. If this were Sal’s lair, it stood to reason that those were his food source, so John was eating Sal’s food. “You said you woke when the ocean filled this room again. How long had you been on Atlantis?”
“Atlantis based on Sartreans.”
John didn’t know what to make of that, but found he’d recovered enough to ask questions he hadn’t thought about before. “Are Sartreans your species?”
“Yes,” Sal answered in a long hiss that might have been sad. Or not. John had no clue.
“Are you saying the Ancients designed the lower levels of Atlantis to give your species access?”
“Yes. Anquietas related to Sartreans. Admired beauty. Piers resembled tentacles.” Sal stretched several tentacles above the water and rippled them first in synchrony and then in complementary patterns that reminded John of musical harmonies.
The effect was stunning, even mesmerizing against the backdrop of glowing star plants, although John was glad their piers didn’t move that way. “I’m pretty sure you have more tentacles than the city has piers.”
“Limbs vary with lifecycles. Anquietas had four limbs. Sal, ten. Atlantis imitates six.”
John knew that the Ancients who built the Stargates and Atlantis had called themselves Anquietas. He wondered if Sal could have learned that term by monitoring communications while they were on this planet. That seemed more likely than any history where Sal’s species inspired and were somehow related to the Ancients millions of years ago. But John didn’t voice his doubts. “How long have you, personally, been on Atlantis?”
“Became large male after Atlantis rose from ocean floor.”
“So you were in here when we arrived and each time Atlantis flew between planets?”
Sal relaxed the tentacles that had been dancing in the air, returning them underwater without so much as a splash. Only the tentacle tip on John’s hand continued to move, stroking around and between his fingers in a pleasant, non-ticklish way. “Always here. Dormant sometimes.”
“Why come out of hiding to rescue me?”
“No more Wraith. Close to safe. Protect life.”
John wondered if it could be that simple. Once he’d done all he could to protect Atlantis, and inadvertently Sal. John doubted how his life could matter to this being he’d never known existed. He understood that his friends would care, would mourn him if Sal’s reporting were to be believed. But even John didn’t know how useful he might be to anyone going forward, especially injured as he was. If his life didn’t end along with the Wraith threat, a threat he’d inadvertently increased upon arrival in Pegasus, it wasn’t clear what more he could do. His mind shied away from predicting future tasks, future threats. Instead, he puzzled over Sam’s motives. “Did the Wraith feed on Sartreans?”
Sal’s head sank halfway below the water in what John interpreted as an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “Destroyed lifecycle. Related. Runners.”
John still wasn’t sure what Sal meant by “related” but doubted the Wraith created aquatic Runners. Sal definitely believed he was related to humans, or at least the Anquietas. “I’m sorry. A friend of mine was a Runner for seven years, and nearly all his people were killed by the Wraith. It took us years to end the Wraith threat”—and John really hoped it was over—“but you could have told my people you were here.”
“Distrust Tech.”
John blurted as if defending Rodney personally, “Tech keeps Atlantis running—I mean operating and flying. The tech here keeps us all safe.”
The tentacle petting John’s hand stilled. “Tech were Anquietas. Made Wraith. Set Tech activation to leave Sartreans out.”
John stilled within the tentacles that bound him. “Wait, what?”
“Sartreans communicate with touch. Activated original parts of Atlantis. Techs made new artificial activation. Stopped swimming. Destroyed lifecycle. Left Sartreans behind in effort to ascend.”
John instinctively wrapped his left hand around the now still tentacle tip resting beneath his fingers. “Are you saying some Ancient Tech faction used part of your genetics to produce the ATA gene and then locked you out?”
“Yes.”
“No wonder you didn’t trust us.”
“Yes.” The openings Sal spoke through produced something like a sigh without translation. “But mostly hid from Wraith.”
#
After Sal’s explanation the day before regarding the development of the ATA gene, John found it easier to be patient. More patient than he’d ever been in the Atlantis infirmary, where he felt obliged to protest excessive coddling or care. Propped up on his pile of sand, coarse but not scratchy, John remembered giant beanbag chairs from his college days. He doubted any hospital bed, or even the prescription mattress Rodney bragged about bringing to Atlantis, could mold to his body so well. Sal’s tentacles draped around him like a heavy, plush blanket that kept John pleasantly warm and oddly settled, if not pain free. The small sounds of water prevented the silence from building, and the fishy salty scents had faded with familiarity. The only real drawbacks to this non-infirmary were the lack of food and communication options.
Sal believed some faction of the Ancients had appropriated Sartrean forms and genetics, then locked them out. Not to mention whatever crime “destroyed lifecycle” implied. While John had no evidence to back the story up, it fit what he knew of the Ancients, their recklessness and presumption. John hoped he and the new Lanteans would do better. If waiting a few days made Sal feel safer, that seemed fair given he’d saved John’s life for whatever reasons.
But if a few days stretched beyond when John was physically capable of escape, all bets were off.
For the time being, John’s entire right side ached in a way that didn’t bode well for swimming or climbing. He’d make do with the local equivalent of oysters and the curative power of tentacles.
When the tentacle restraining his left arm started to explore his left hip, tracing the line of sensitive skin just within, John had to say, “That’s a little personal, you know?”
“Did not know. Will stop.” After moving that tentacle to cover John’s palm and thumb instead, Sal added, “Not suited to salt water.”
“Not really, but better than being exposed in a desert.”
A brief shudder ran though Sal’s body. Then he waggled the tentacle still wrapped around John’s ribs. “This good. Move up.”
John assumed it was a question. There was no questioning shift in tone, but the tentacle didn’t move until John said, “If you’re trying to keep my skin healthy, go ahead. Just nothing sexual.”
“Cannot reproduce together.” Sal shifted the tentacle on John’s ribs upward while the ones holding his uninjured arm and leg simultaneously rose to cover adjacent skin.
The coordinated movement gave the impression John was sinking. The tingly warmth enveloping so much new skin at once felt strangely intimate, especially given the conversation. John blurted the first words that came to mind, “You only use sex for reproduction?”
“Don’t understand.”
“Many humans engage in sex for pleasure, release, or control.”
“Touch for pleasure or restraint.” The tentacles around John rippled in a way he found pleasant but had to admit still counted as restraint. Sal added, “Release gametes to create different organisms. Fission or bud to reproduce same.”
“You can do that?”
“Not now. Male now. Experience huge joy when procreate more Sartreans. Missed touch differently.”
“Shit, and I thought I hadn’t been with anyone for too long. How long have you been alone?”
The silence stretched. John’s mind drifted back to nights he’d sat beside Rodney watching movies, even slept beside him on away missions. Occasional jostling, warmth shared through clothing, and one time when Rodney fell asleep on John’s shoulder all persisted in John’s memory. He’d never known how to ask for more with all he wasn’t interested in doing. Now he lay wrapped up in a sea creature who possibly hadn’t experienced even that level of friendly touch in millennia. “Do you enjoy being wrapped around me?”
“A little.”
The admission warmed John more than he’d expected. “Anything that would help?”
“Respect lack of interest.”
“As in my lack of interest? Hey, not wanting sex doesn’t mean I don’t want touch.” Those were words John never spoke. He’d never come close to telling another person. Somehow, saying them to a giant sea creature wasn’t half as troubling as he would have expected. Saying them to his would-be rescuer who might be holding him captive was a little more dubious.
“Say if like.” The tentacle on John’s left arm shimmied until it curled to outline the shape of each large muscle. John flexed and relaxed. The tentacle squeezed gently back.
“That’s nice.” John didn’t know how to express the reassurance that washed over him, reminding him of a hug, to a creature who wouldn’t know about hugs.
Then that tentacle’s tip stroked the thin skin inside John elbow and up to his armpit. John held back a laugh, not wanting to jolt his injured side. “A little firmer would be better there. That almost tickles.”
The firmer strokes that followed were soothing and more sensual. “Very nice.” John figured any human would read far too much into his tone of voice, but the Sartrean didn’t seem to notice. “Anything I can do for you?”
“Won’t risk further injury. Enjoy this.”
John let himself relax as the tentacle tip nearest his left foot explored each bone and muscle with solid strokes that came close to a foot massage. When the smaller tentacle that usually offered water instead stroked his neck and scalp, John closed his eyes and relaxed as if he were melting. “So good,” he said on a sigh.
The tentacle on his chest began exploring, being very careful of his chest hair and nipples. The sheer volume of sensation almost overwhelmed John. He noticed the water swishing like a softer touch behind each brush of tentacle. Warm tingly sensations that might be healing skin or might be nerves overreacting left John feeling hypersensitive in a pleasant way. Several minutes in, he realized the lingering pain from his injuries was completely drowned out by more pleasurable sensations. “Thank you,” was all John could think to say.
#
John woke on what he thought was the fifth day since his Jumper crashed to find himself almost encased in tentacles. He could breathe fine and his face and groin weren’t covered, but the steady pressure everywhere else was a little disconcerting. Or maybe too easy to accept. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d had no schedule, no responsibilities, no reason to move. He couldn’t let himself want that.
“I’m awake,” John said. “Could you let me move my head and neck at least?”
“Yes. Long sleep.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to conk out on you.”
“Good sleep. Healing.”
“Yeah. I feel better.” Only as he spoke did John realize how much better he felt. He’d grown accustomed to a blunt rasp on his skin that was gone now. His injuries barely hurt, although part of that might be not having tested them with so much as a twitch in hours. He was about to say his throat felt dry when the straw-spoon tentacle came into view.
“Drink water.” Sal offered with his usual lack of inflection. John settled in for a slow meal of water and shellfish. The glowing plants across the room held his gaze as fronds appeared to twitch independently. Probably the motions of Sal’s tentacles under the water stirred unpredictable undercurrents, but it made for quite an animated show.
Only after John had eaten all he could did he ask, “You mentioned you have ten limbs, but why do you have three eyes?”
“Two insufficient this lifecycle. Even three must move.”
Trying to ease into a potentially more delicate subject, John used his free left thumb to stroke the tentacle holding that hand. “How did you hear our communications before?”
“Sound travels through air vents. Atlantis vibrates through water. Amplifies Wraith news. Messages important to survival.”
“Is Atlantis sentient?” John had wondered from the moment he arrived on Atlantis but never known who or how to ask.
“Don’t understand.”
Neither did John. That was the problem. “Does Atlantis keep you informed on purpose?”
“Atlantis not part of lifecycle, but small parts Sartrean. Part always protects Sartreans.”
#
That ambiguous explanation sprang to the front of John’s mind as he woke to the amplified hum of Atlantis all around him. John couldn’t see images or interpret data the way he did in the control chair, but what he felt vibrating through the pebbled sand beneath him and the tentacles that still held him tight, sent John’s heart racing.
Sal responded by tearing fuzzy pink shells from the wall. Four large tentacles cracked the shells open and tore the meat inside free. Then they dumped both shells and meat into the water on the far side of the room. John had imagined the few he ate must be insignificant given the thousands of shells lining the wall. He’d suspected Sal consumed more underwater, but never enough to make a dent in such a large population of shellfish. Now Sal cleared a third of one wall in the time it took John to formulate a question.
“What’s going on?”
“Others coming for you. Make safe exit fast.” As Sal answered, John watched two massive tentacles twist open a round door in the floor of the room. The movement, or possibly some current from outside, produced a clear column of water rising through the mess of pink shells and Pegasus oysters.
A greenish-white glow no larger than John’s fist shot outward into the sea. Another glowing shape followed.
Only then did John realize, Sal wasn’t going to steal him away through that door.
What John had thought were glowing star-like plants were detaching from the white barrel-shaped growths on the far wall. Hand-sized tentacle creatures gobbled up the shellfish Sal continued to throw into the water. As soon as they’d fed, each one bolted out into the open ocean. One of Sal’s eyes watched them go as the other two focused on the remaining wall full of food.
“Are those baby Sartreans?” John asked.
Sal didn’t answer for several minutes. He denuded three quarters of the walls, although John noticed he left clumps of shellfish intact every few feet, as if to allow the colonies to regrow.
John tried to count how many tentacles each baby had before they shot away, but either some had six while others had eight or more, or the feeding frenzy and mess of shells in the water made it impossible to tell.
Whatever show they’d put on the day before when John had watched a few twitching independently couldn’t compare to the dance of hundreds of malleable bodies waving thousands of whip-fast tentacles. Even kids grubbing for food could appear graceful, although John imagined he was watching the water ballet version of a food fight. But none of the small tentacle creatures attacked each other. They might tug until another let go of a choice piece of food, but there was plenty for all, and in mere minutes, all were fed and gone. Only a faint glow remained from the emptied barrel-shapes on the wall, looking more like a luminescent fungus than ever.
“Safe now. Keep you safe.” None of the tentacles wrapped around John had moved during the excitement. The warning vibrations from Atlantis had faded to a menacing background hum.
“Is that what you meant when you said it would be safer in a few days? Were you waiting for them to hatch? What are you planning now? Do you know who’s coming?” John had underestimated the complexity of Sal’s plans and probably his intelligence. His two- or three-word answers might not have been intentional deceptions, but John had no doubt that Sal had intentionally kept this secret.
Two of Sal’s eyes met John’s, the other still focused on the open door in the floor. “Early, but lifecycle adapts. Hold steady. Rodney and Carson radio for Ronon and medic.”
“Let me talk to them. They might attack before I can explain that you rescued me.” John’s brain raced with plans. His body flushed with adrenaline. Whatever the future might bring, John found himself ready to face up to change.
“Techs made artificial activation. Left Sartreans out.”
“I have the ATA gene,” John admitted, hoping he wasn’t biting the limbs that fed him…and also immobilized him. His admission didn’t provoke so much as a twitch
“Parts of Atlantis only Sartrean. Can’t help. Can’t communicate back. Too late. Two minutes.”
John realized it might be Stockholm syndrome, but he worried Sal was planning to sacrifice himself to hold John’s broken bones steady. “Close the door. We’ll think of something.”
“Must not damage nursery. Better to use door. Prepared to blast wall.”
Frantic for a way to send a message underwater, John asked, “Is there anything white you could wave like a flag? A handkerchief or a scrap of white clothing you could wave outside the door?”
The idea sounded ridiculous even as John spoke it, but Sal raised a tentacle. It looked like the thin flexible one that had formed a straw with a spoon to provide John with water. Now the tip paled to nearly white.
“Can you make it flat and floppy?”
When it resembled a white spatula, Sal waved it back and forth. It flapped more like a fan or fin than a flag. Sal said, “Don’t understand.”
John was pretty sure their two minutes were up. “Try waving it outside the door. It means you’re offering peace or parley. Assuming they recognize it as a white flag.”
Sal stretched his most delicate tentacle out through the round door. The hiss of air through tiny holes on his head translated as, “Strange method for visual communication.”
John didn’t respond, only hoping no one shot off Sal’s most delicate tentacle.
A moment later, Ronon swam through the round door in a rush. He brandished a knife in each hand with his sword strapped to his back over a leather vest, but he didn’t slice at Sal’s tentacle. Yet.
A rush of relief filled John when his friend didn’t attack. On its heels flowed relief that Sal didn’t attack either.
Ronon’s head popped above water as naturally as if he were standing on dry land, despite the floor being several feet below. He shook his locs back as his eyes zeroed in on John. “You hurt?”
The familiar human voice reminded John to use his own. Knowing how fast the situation could go south, John chose his first word carefully. “Rescued. When my Jumper crashed, I evidently broke some bones.” Using his head to gesture toward the two of Sal’s eyes that had remained above water, John said, “Sal rescued me and is using his tentacles to help, like a splint or cast, I guess. And he can talk.”
Ronon raised an eyebrow then tilted his own head toward the hilt of his sword where it was strapped over his shoulder. It took John a moment to realize there was a camera mounted there as well, and Ronon was giving John a chance to acknowledge that or keep it secret from Sal. “I don’t think Sal’s a threat. He’s already heard plenty of our radio and other communications. So if someone’s listening in now, you can go ahead and speak.”
McKay’s voice came out first, tinny over what must be a tiny waterproof speaker. “What have you been doing down there with that sea monster for the last six days?”
John couldn’t help but smile.
McKay’s rant continued in the background as Carson took over saying, “Good to hear your voice, John. Is it safe to send in a medic with a portable scanner?”
“Sal, could one more person come in and maybe climb up on this mound of sand by me? They want to check on my broken bones using a small machine.”
“Understand scanner for brittle parts. Stay still.”
“Got that, Carson?”
“Yes, and thank you, Sal. If there’s anything you can tell us about John’s injuries or what you’ve done for them, I’m John’s regular doctor and would appreciate any information.” Carson addressed Sal the same as he would any colleague or healer from another world.
Daniela, a medic who John knew had also trained as a rescue swimmer, or what they called a PJ in the Air Force, emerged in full dive gear. She carefully climbed up beside John as Sal described John’s injuries.
“Gash near center bled and everted. Healed digestion, muscle, skin.”
John wasn’t sure what “everted” meant but was pretty sure Sal was describing a gut wound. He blanched. Anyone in the military knew how easily a gut wound could turn septic and kill you without proper care, but Sal dismissed that as healed and went on to the next issue.
Daniela smiled tightly and ran a waterproof scanner above the tentacles that still encased John.
Only when John looked down to verify that there was no sign of a gut wound or scar by his previously sore hip did he remember that he was completely naked. The mess from the fuzzy pink shells had settled enough to leave only clear water covering John’s chest and groin.
Daniela continued scanning as if seeing her commanding officer naked and wrapped in tentacles were an everyday occurrence. All in a day’s work on Atlantis. In Sal’s place, she probably would have swum out to save any lifeform she recognized as intelligent and in need of help that she could provide. Likewise, Ronon had swum in ready to fight but willing to follow John’s lead and Sal’s gestures of good will.
Sal’s choice to rescue John and the similarity of his choices to those of other Lanteans settled something in John, even as the Sartrean expounded on John’s other injuries. “Broken longer limb. Ends mostly tight. Held straight. Healed flesh. Broken smaller limb at bend, chipped. Broken again outward from bend. Put back to straight. Healed muscle, flesh, skin. Helped other skin and soft parts. Brittle parts slow. Still weak.”
When Sal stopped speaking, Daniela asked, “How did this heal so fast? Soft tissues usually take twice this long. His swelling has subsided, nearly completely. Even the bone has knitted better than expected six days after that much trauma.”
Sal raised a large tentacle from underwater. In an instant, Daniela recoiled and reached for something at her hip.
John raised his eyebrows since he couldn’t move much else and said, “Stand down.”
The tentacle flipped over and hovered a foot in front of Daniela, she hesitantly leaned in to examine the tiny cups filling with green liquid. “May I collect a sample?”
“No cutting,” Sal answered.
“Is it okay to run this probe across them?” Daniela displayed an attachment from her scanner with a clear flat tip like a thin glass tongue depressor. “It will help Doctor Carson determine further treatment.”
“Gift. Not use against Sartreans. Ever.”
Daniela quickly agreed, and Carson promised over the radio. The medic stowed her sample, but John zeroed in on Ronon’s reaction to the exchange. Even treading water, he’d tensed and given a small grunt. John had learned to interpret that grunt as Ronon having intel to offer or wondering if others had realized whatever he had. “Something you want to share with the class, Ronon?”
“The Satedans told stories about Sartreans.”
“Satedans.” Sal’s speech translated in a monotone, but John heard it as a question.
“Good stories? Bad stories? Anything about Anquietas Techs ripping off their DNA and designing this city to look like them?” John asked.
“More like legends.” Ronon stared into Sal’s two visible eyes as he spoke. “The most popular tales involved ideal lovers or orgies in the ocean. Others warned of retribution if offspring weren’t welcomed properly years later. Offspring who might use legs or tentacles.”
“Nereida,” Daniela whispered. John vaguely connected her word to the Nereid from Greek mythology but honestly remembered less about them than he did about mermaids, selkies, or Cthulhu.
The tentacle from which Daniela had collected green goo now reached across the water to Ronon. The move telegraphed a longing that hummed through John’s veins. Or maybe it carried over to John through Sal’s touch, the way Atlantis sometimes called to him, because Ronon didn’t seem to see it.
“Stop,” Ronon held up his knives in a manner that now looked to John a lot like waving tentacle tips. “What do you want?”
“Touch,” Sal answered.
“Return him safe to shore first.” Ronon thrust his chin in John’s direction.
Sal retracted that longing tentacle. “Agreed. Say where. Promise safe.”
Ronon lowered his knives.
Daniela asked, “Would you be able to transport him safely to the East Pier? We could hang a marker in the water where our medical team is already set up. Otherwise, I can swim him out with a backboard and an air tank.”
“Lead to East Pier. Mark with white flag.”
“Hey, I still get a say in this.” John was eager to go home but didn’t appreciate being treated like a package. “How long will I need to hold my breath?”
“Minute or two.” Ronon shrugged.
Daniela said, “I can give you my mask.”
Sal held up the tentacle that usually provided John with water. It was shaped like a straw again but with no spoon at the end. “Provide air.”
Before Daniela could protest, John said, “He’s been giving me water that way the whole time. I’m good to go.”
The look on Daniela’s face spoke volumes, but she didn’t put her protest into words. Instead, she waved at the nearest remaining patch of shellfish and asked, “Are these what you’ve been eating? Should I take one to test for parasites and bacteria?”
John asked in turn, “Is that okay, Sal?”
“Yes.”
When Daniela struggled to pry one from the wall, Sal raised a tentacle at a nonthreatening angle and plucked it off for her.
“We’re ready on the East Pier, with a pillowcase for a flag,” Carson said over the radio.
“I’ve got your six,” Ronon said to John.
“That means he’ll follow behind us,” John explained as Daniela adjusted her respirator and mask to lead them out. “And Sal, in case I didn’t say it before, thanks for rescuing me.”
“No Wraith.”
“Yeah, you might want to let some of my people check around down here, just in case. Some Wraith can hibernate for a long time.”
Sal answered, “No Wraith. Safe swimming.”
John thought of the young that Sal had hurried out before Ronon arrived. There’d have to be some mention in his debrief, but for now, John willingly kept that secret. He thought of all the times Sal had spoken about safety, how easily he’d tracked what John’s people were doing, and how much he knew about Atlantis and the parts he claimed as Sartrean. A sense of peace enveloped John as he finally let himself trust. “You’re probably right. No Wraith. Safe swimming.”
#