Title: "Red Sands"
Author:Kristen999
Word Count: 125,000~
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Gen, Drama, Action, H/C
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, OCs
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Violence and coarse language
Summary: Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.

Notes: This is not a WIP. A large chapter will be posted every day until complete.

This is the giant John and Ronon epic I've been working off and on for a year. I wanted to thank d_odyssey for her amazing support and advice during the writing of this. I also wanted to thank my awesome betas wildcat88 and everybetty for their time, patience, and bucket-loads of red ink. It was their honesty and willingness to tear this story apart that allowed it to finally come together.

Feedback is always appreciated.

The thrum of the transport ship's engines vibrated up the steel walls and through the floor of the eight by eight meter cells where prisoners were kept in separate, darkened holding areas. Meals were bowls of gruel and cups of water, no utensils, since those could be fashioned into a weapon, and served in total blackness.

Ronon massaged his wrists where the manacles had rubbed the skin raw and tested the strength of the chain hooked to his ankle while imagining wrapping it around the windpipe of a guard.

He had the layout of the ship memorized. Down, right, another right, left, then out the back. Guards changed shifts every nine hours and the fourth door on the second right turn was the armory. There were six prisoners, including him and Sheppard, and only ten other people on board. Escape wouldn't be too hard if the timing was right and they had the element of surprise. Planning it would be simple; their captors had locked his team leader in the cell next to him. McKay had taught him Morse code the year before so he and Sheppard tapped on the walls twice a day to check up on each other.

Ronon squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, fighting the urge to bang the back of his head against the bulkhead. They had all the pieces to make an escape but he had misjudged the force of the explosion and it had really done a number on his right leg. It throbbed relentlessly below the knee, broken, he'd known even before the prison doc had reset it.

It didn't matter. He and Sheppard knew there'd be no escape. They'd accepted the consequences of their actions when they were caught.

The Saurin were arrogant assholes. Their medicine and technological gadgets were superior to most of Pegasus, including Atlantis. Too bad prisoners were considered too low to waste resources on.

The normal ship's hum shifted pitch, instantly alerting him to the change. They powered down for the first time in three days which probably meant they had arrived at their destination. He listened to the tap, tap, tap beside him and rapped his knuckles back.

The door slid open, blinding him with bright outside light, three guards jerking him to his feet while he was disoriented. "Prisoner 54437, you will stand and follow us without resistance. Disobedience will be met with severe consequences."

He wanted to disobey, wanted to fight and punch and run. Instead he bit his bottom lip to keep from screaming. Pain shot through his leg, both knees buckling. Ronon clung to the fire, preferring the agony to the humiliation of sagging in the grip of the enemy. His ears perked up as two other guards spat their resistance dreck to Sheppard, but the escorts had pushed Ronon out of the hall and into another room by the time they dragged Sheppard out.

Smart move keeping them away from each other. He grunted, anger rising in sync with his spinning head. Run! his mind screamed. Break their necks and get out.

"This is your issued gear. Do not lose it if you want to survive," a guard said, slipping a bag around Ronon's neck.

Then he was shoved hard into a tiny room the size of a cage. "No!" The doors closed and the floor disappeared from below his feet. There was nothing but air, the ground rushing up too fast to prepare for the fall.

There was a crunch, white starbursts, and his breath was knocked out of his lungs. Intense sunlight scorched his retinas before he could slam his eyelids closed to protect his sight. He honed in on the sounds around him: curses in varying accents, moans and the sounds of flesh impacting solid ground. He noticed approaching footsteps in the distance, at least a dozen unknowns taking advantage of the chaotic 'dump and run', and estimated where the other prisoners were in relation to those closing in.

Splitting his attention wasn't difficult; planning a means of attack was second nature, but not his main priority. Finding Sheppard was. Even blind, Ronon could detect his friend's breathing pattern or tread on any terrain-there-six meters on his right side; he recognized those boots.

"Sheppard."

"Ronon?"

"Over here!" Ronon shouted, tracking his team leader's movements. Shielding his eyes, he squinted against the oppressive glare. "John!" he yelled when a blurry Sheppard-like shape was about to pass by him.

"There you are," Sheppard panted, kneeling down. "You okay?"

Ronon snorted, ignoring the question. "We're about to have company."

Right on cue, rough hands grabbed his wrists, but he twisted free, punching the nearest person.

"Freza! Help me with this guy!"

More fingers were on him, pushing his face down into the ground; hot sand scraped his cheek. Weakened by his impaired movements and the agony of his leg, Ronon's hands were quickly and too easily bound behind his back.

"His friend just broke my nose!"

"What? You can't handle him?"

Voices blurred in and out as he rolled onto his back. Someone blew fine powder in his face, blinding him at first. Within seconds, he started feeling its effects. Sheppard was wrestled to the ground next to him, taking a vicious shot to temple.

"Hey! You know the rules. No kicks to the head! You'll addle his brains."

"Not too badly," the voice laughed.

Ronon could only snarl, his limbs tingling and twitching uselessly. The throbbing in his leg became a distant memory and all his muscles relaxed as whatever the dust had contained continued to assault his system.

"Alright, let's line 'em up."

All the fight leaked out of Ronon's pores and he melted against the same hands that had subdued him, the simmering heat of the planet baking into his skin.

"What's the count?"

"Only six."

"Let's hope they're useful."

"If not, we'll give them to the Shan'ka and get their worth in water."

Ronon fought to stay awake, but staying alert for three nights on the ship had stolen his reserves and a drugged, sweet warmth lulled him into an overdue sleep.

His nasal passages burned with chemicals, sending his lungs into spasms and watering his eyes. Awareness jerked him out of his stupor and Ronon tried sitting up without success. Waves of severe lightheadedness swept over him and it took several seconds to orient himself.

"Got this one awake," a voice said, moving away.

It took several minutes for Ronon to get acclimated, the dizziness slowly dissipating. The rope restraining his hands wasn't very thick and he began working on the weak spots, flexing his wrists. They were under a tarp – crude poles held up the middle and the front two corners; the rest of the material hung loosely at the sides like a floppy tent. A guy walked by, passing a foul burning stick under the nose of each prisoner to rouse them, stopping at Sheppard's slumped form. Sheppard snapped his head up, but blood matted his hairline and he started to sag.

Over a dozen ragtag men huddled tightly under the flimsy tent, several using their arms to hold the material above them. It was painfully bright and Ronon kept his head low as he stared at all the gathered badly worn, handmade shoes. His nostrils flared at the overwhelming odor of so many unwashed bodies.

He cursed his lack of coordination, the dust still numbing all sensation including his busted leg. Sheppard was at least more alert now, trying to shake off the effects of being hit in the head, his shoulders tensing as he tested his bonds. The two of them communicated without talking.

Can't get loose.

Hold off til we know what's going on.

Ronon lolled his head, signaling that he'd take Sheppard's lead.

"Where the hell are we?" one of the prisoners demanded. "Who the fuck are you people?" It was the voice from the third cell on the ship, a guy who'd never stopped pissing and moaning about being detained illegally.

A figure emerged from the group, kneeling down for a cursory look at them. He wore a tan piece of cloth that fell loosely around his head on all sides, a thin rope holding it in place around his forehead. He peeled back the flap, revealing a face covered by several inches of long, dark braided beard. A red painted stripe ran down his deeply tanned brow and over his nose; tattooed lines ran across his cheeks. His broader shoulders and larger frame spoke of better health. "I am Kadar of the Spraza. I found you first and by our rules, I invoke my claim on your lives."

The prisoners exploded into outrage, many struggling to their feet and failing. The loudmouth from earlier even spat in the face of their captor. "This is an outrage! Do you know who I am? I belong to no one."

Kadar ran a hand across his upper lip, sucking at the spittle gathered at the fingertip. "You will learn about the rules against waste."

Ronon remained on his side, studying the leader who looked the same as many desert people except maybe a little poorer. The man's robe had been sewn together from various pieces of faded and dirty cream cloth that covered him all the way to his ankles. Long sleeves were stitched of mismatched fabrics and almost hid a primitive knife secured at his left wrist. His shoes were made of brown scaly animal skin and dark-tinted goggles hung around his neck and those of his men.

"You are imprisoned on Medena. For whatever reason, I do not care. Your past means nothing, so do not cling to it." Kadar stood up, pale blue eyes studying each prisoner. "We've given you something to keep you docile while we inspect your value. It will wear off soon. Be still and we will be quick. If you bite any of us, we will cut out your tongue."

Suddenly hands were on Ronon's face, fingers prodding his head, pulling on his eyelids. He twisted away, echoing the swearing around him.

"Stay put," one of his captors snapped, checking him over for injury. When dusty fingers touched his leg, Ronon jackknifed. "Ach, this looks bad," the man mumbled, pressing on the bone. Ronon couldn't hold onto the scream building in his throat.

"Leave him alone!" Sheppard yelled.

Ronon writhed back and forth as the man examining his leg bent it in ways it refused. Sheppard broke free of his captors after the second scream and unwisely tackled the guy. Two desert people yanked Sheppard away, pinning both shoulders down and trapping his bound hands to the ground.

"Told you this one was trouble," one of the men said, stepping on Sheppard's chest with a foot.

"Enough!" Kadar snarled. "You use up valuable energy."

The three men backed away and Sheppard scrambled into a sitting position, his uniform and BDUs covered in orange-brown dust. Breathing heavily, he squinted up at the leader. "What do you want?"

"Allegiance."

"You know, there are better ways of asking," Sheppard huffed.

"Ask?" Kadar leaned closer. Sheppard locked eyes with him in defiance; a bead of perspiration rolled down his temple. Kadar traced the trail of sweat on Sheppard's skin, grabbing his chin in a steel grip. "You will give me your obedience, or you will die."

Ronon tensed. His team leader remained silently obstinate.

Obviously not used to rejection, Kadar squeezed Sheppard's jaw painfully before rising. "Medena," he said, spreading his arms to encompass the desert. "She will kill you. As she has done to thousands. There is only death and we offer you life."

"How?" a beefy convict asked.

"We control most of the water. Without it, you will die and your body given to the rest of the Spraza." Kadar threw his arms around the shoulders of his men. "We outnumber all other prisoners. When we all arrived here we were individuals, scattered and weak. Now we are one. Strong and powerful. We offer you protection, barter deals for food, shelter, and clothes."

"In exchange for what?"

Ronon recognized the shrill voice from the cell across from him on the ship. It issued from a skinny thing with long, black hair.

Kadar smiled. "You will follow my every order and pledge half of all the water we gain in our raids."

"Half?"

"What water?"

"Where is everyone else?"

"All in good time. Those who sentenced you to this hole gave everyone two very important items in your packs to ease their consciences." He laughed bitterly, clasping his hands together. "The topra should be wearing off enough to discuss things further. Once you join us, you will be allowed to move about freely." Kadar nodded to his men. "But first, you will have to give up something as a sign of loyalty." He snapped his fingers and the one who'd tussled with Sheppard stepped forward. "Rull will collect the offers."

Rull had to be the right-hand man; the man's face was streaked with red paint as well, his recently smashed nose a swollen lump between his eyes. Tattered fabric from his desert headgear dangled in worn bits over his brow. He and three other men took items from the prisoners who pretended they had a choice with their hands tied behind their backs. The rest of the beanpole Spraza played their role of guards, watching and waiting for signs of trouble.

Kadar stepped over to Sheppard. "You will give me your boots," he said, crouching and admiring the tough black leather. "Very fine and rugged. They'll fit nicely."

"Sorry, don't recall saying you could have them," Sheppard shot back.

"You must be used to giving orders, but that will change." Kadar looked over at Ronon. "And you-"

"I'm not giving you anything," Ronon growled.

Four Spraza encircled them. Their skin stretched like leather across their faces and they sported matching tattoos over hollow cheeks and under sunken eyes. Kadar had a good game plan, using strength in numbers, if the rest of the inhabitants of the planet were all in this shape.

"You have a broken leg, my big friend. You cannot join us. It is a great loss. A man of such strength would have made a great enforcer." Kadar gestured at Sheppard. "Bring him. He'll realize that he belongs to us."

"Hang on," Sheppard said in alarm. "What about Ronon?"

Kadar held up his hand, his men pausing and waited until he had the attention of the rest of the group. "It is the rule of Medena. If you're not of able body then you cannot go to waste. His water will go to the Shan'ka."

Ronon's attentions were torn between the men surrounding him and those about to haul Sheppard away. Frustration boiled over when he became unbalanced by his bound hands and injured leg.

"Look, I'll pledge to you whatever you want. I'll give you my boots, but Ronon comes with me. We're a package deal," Sheppard offered, eyes darting over the sea of dusky faces.

"You do what I say!" Kadar hissed, grabbing Sheppard by the collar. "I am in control here."

Sheppard used the only weapon he had available, smacking his skull into the man's face, then his hands came out of nowhere, elbowing the two men behind him while Kadar reached for his hidden weapon.

"Knife!" Ronon yelled in warning, throwing himself in front of another Spraza and tripping him.

Sheppard grabbed Kadar's wrist, twisting it at a sharp angle until he dropped the blade. Rull snatched the knife where it fell just as Sheppard spun Kadar around and locked his head in a choke hold.

"Back away or I'll break his neck," Sheppard ordered.

All the Spraza froze, too unsure about what to do. The other prisoners seemed just as confused, the shift in power throwing things into chaos. Ronon grinned wolfishly at his CO's actions, but he was incapable of standing, his leg an electric bolt of pain that ran down to his ankle. Rull inched closer to Sheppard and his hostage with a manic glint in his eye.

Kadar snorted, noticing the glee. "Do something foolish, Rull, and see if you're able to control the whole gang. Or do you think you have the nunkas to deal with the Shan'ka?"

Rull gripped the weapon tighter, clearly at odds with himself. At a closer glance, Ronon could see that the knife was actually made from a piece of sharpened bone, the handle wrapped with the same scaly skin as Kadar's shoes. Ronon finally broke through the frayed ends of his ropes, releasing his burning wrists. Reaching into his dreads, he brought out a metal knife, attracting the attention of those around him and putting Rull on edge.

"Tell everyone to just back away and go to their homes or wherever you guys came from. After they're at a safe distance we'll all go our separate ways," Sheppard reasoned.

"The Shan'ka don't allow murder, stranger," one of the Spraza warned. "You will suffer greatly if you spill valuable blood."

"I'll let him go unharmed once you go. All I want to do is to leave." Sheppard adjusted his grip, speaking in Kadar's ear. "Deal?"

"I will stay behind to escort you back," Rull insisted.

Ronon kept his eye on Rull, the man's twitchy movements setting off alarms. The guy was an opportunist, trying to climb higher on the food chain. He was as big as Kadar, both men the size of Sheppard; both looked like they ate more than one square a day compared to the others.

"Go. We must welcome our newest members," Kadar ordered his men. "Don't worry. The sun will light our enemies on fire with her rays and give us our revenge."

The rest of the gang dispersed; a few remained until Kadar glared at them. Sheppard kept the guy's head immobile while his men became distant spots in the harsh backdrop of the desert.

"We will kill you, of course, if the heat doesn't," Kadar threatened.

"Maybe. But no one's gonna die today," Sheppard replied. "Wanna put that knife away?" he suggested to Rull.

The man sheathed the weapon in the waistband of his pants, wrapping a layer of dirty cloth around his face and adjusting his goggles. "I look forward to drinking your life."

Sheppard gestured for the guy to start walking then shoved Kadar forward. The leader didn't give him a second glance, talking instead to his second in command. "Hand it over."

"It'll cost you a dunka of water," Rull replied.

"Do not barter with me, fool. You cannot make a finder's claim on something I own."

The two men disappeared into the whiteness of desert light. Ronon tried to hobble up, and Sheppard was instantly at his side to shoulder his weight. "We better get a move on before they come back."

"You should've gone with them," Ronon chastised, even knowing Sheppard wouldn't have.

"Don't think I'd fit in very well. Kind of used to being the leader and all."

The air was very thin under the tarp, trapping all the sweltering heat. Ronon's face was slick with sweat; Sheppard's complexion was a deep shade of red. They needed to find real cover. But which way?

"Those instincts telling you where we should go?"

Ronon felt light-headed, his leg a throbbing mess, but he couldn't allow the pain to consume him and turn into a liability. "We'll head that way." He pointed behind them.

"Yeah, was thinking the opposite of the bad guys was a good choice, too." Sheppard reached for the pack slung over his shoulder. "Let's see what we have." Rummaging through the depths, he pulled out what looked like a gigantic saline bag the size of a knapsack. "Think our buddies stole the water this used to store. There's condensation on the inside. At least they were considerate thieves," Sheppard laughed, pulling out a pair of goggles and putting them on.

Ronon sifted through his, noting the equally empty water pouch. He found his own pair of goggles, slipping the eye protection on after a couple clumsy, one-handed attempts.

Sheppard removed his BDU shirt, leaving on his T-shirt underneath. "Hand me your knife."

Ronon slapped the handle into his friend's hand, watching him slit the shirt into separate pieces before giving the blade back. "We'll use the buttons to secure it around our foreheads."

"Good idea," Ronon said, allowing Sheppard to secure the shirt around his face. Ronon's dreads shielded the back of his head. Sheppard had to use two pieces, the second longer part protecting the back of his head and neck. The shirt was black and absorbed the sun's blistering rays, but the fabric would still trap the sweat on their skin and cool them slightly.

"Ready?"

They didn't have a choice. "Let's go."

The two of them set off into the desert, clueless where it would lead them. The wind blew sand into their faces; the pounding sun boiled their backs. It would take a miracle or blind luck to find a safe place to hide.

But that had never stopped them before.

John trudged ahead one foot at a time. The bedrock and the surrounding vast emptiness reminded him of his Death Valley survival training. The endless harsh soil went as far as the eye could see, heat rising from miles of silt and mica. The sun overhead was a giant blob of white hot light three times larger than Earth's.

His T-shirt clung to his back with sweat drenching it then evaporating in a nonstop cycle. He didn't dare speak, conserving the fading moisture remaining in his mouth. His head pounded, and only drawing gasping breaths kept the nausea at bay. A concussion was low on his list of worries, but it made walking in a straight line a challenge.

Ronon's weight seemed to double then triple as he leaned on John's shoulder. At one point the bigger guy dragged John down, leaving them both in a sprawled heap, panting on the ground.

"Leave me," Ronon rasped.

"No."

"Find shelter...come back."

"Sorry, can't."

John mustered every strained muscle, every overtaxed ligament, and rose on rubbery legs. The world spun around and he closed his eyes to ease the dizziness. He sucked in hot, dry air and heaved Ronon into a fireman's carry, nearly snapping his spine in the process.

His skin sizzled; the additional weight of his burden made him falter every few minutes.

Keep going.

The horizon simmered ahead without sign of shrub or cactus, or anything that could provide shade. At this rate, they'd both drop from dehydration. He blinked at his watch, unable to make out the bleary numbers from the glare. They'd been out here an hour, maybe two since being dropped off.

A breeze stirred up the top layer of sand, the dust like tiny razors against his forearms and exposed skin. Out in the distance he spotted a fuzzy glob of color against the haze. He hiked further, not caring who was approaching. He'd either beg for help or kill them, hopefully finding something useful on the body.

Two minutes later he sank to his knees. "Sorry, big guy."

Ronon didn't reply and John clawed his way out from under his larger bulk, blinking at the figure only a few meters away now and closing fast. His teammate had the knife and John was too slow and weak to grab it, only managing to sit up by the time a shadow lent him mercy.

"You're part of the new arrivals? Don't look like much."

The newcomer's robe was a cloak of faded blues and yellows and he held a primitive cloth umbrella of the same hues that blocked the sun and gave John a needed boost.

He held a hand over his eyes to look into their visitor's face. "We're looking for shelter."

"What do you have to trade for it?"

John swallowed, trying to water his mouth and speak with a bit of authority. "Just tell us where we can find some."

The guy snorted, clearly not seeing them as a threat. He twirled a tiny tuft of silver hair that dangled from a mustard turban woven of coarse ropes, a puffy handkerchief poking out from the top part. "Information has value. I don't give it out for free."

"Is trading the only means to buy things here?"

"Besides water and orris? All things have value. I deal in it all," the man chuckled, doubling the deep wrinkles of his forehead, his hand brushing a thick graying beard. "I am Lyle. If you want it, I can get it. For a price," he added.

"How about we don't kill you."

Ronon's voice surprised them both and despite being out of it for some time, he still looked like he could rip a person apart with his bare hands.

"Killing me isn't an option, friend. The Shan'ka would not be pleased."

That was the fourth time John had heard that name. "Who are they?"

Lyle shook his head. "People you don't wanna mess with. Water harvesters. Balancers of life and death."

John still didn't understand. "They harvest water? From where?"

"From anything. Including people," Lyle whispered. "The cycle of life."

It hit him then. The human body was seventy percent water. John felt his anger rise, thinking what the Spraza had wanted to do with Ronon. Extra adrenaline kicked in and he rose to his feet. "We need a place to sleep."

Lyle's casual mannerisms stilled and he wiped a finger methodically across his goggles. "We all need things." He did a half circle around John. "Doesn't appear that you have much to offer. Of course, someone with your looks could fetch a good price for just a few hours on his knees."

Ronon growled, but John held him back. "Easy. Just sit tight." He waited for his friend to calm down before turning. "As flattering as that is, I don't think so."

They couldn't give away Ronon's knife. It was their only means of defense. John mentally cataloged the clothes on his back, aware that a source of cloth could be worth a lot.

Lyle reached towards John's throat, and he snatched the trader's fingers, ready to break them.

"Take it easy. Just admiring the metal around your neck."

The man smiled when John let go, and tugged at the dog tags. "Yes, these will do."

"You can have one," John countered.

"Give me both and I'll take you personally to a set of caves not too far from here."

For all he knew the tags were worth much more. "How about adding some water for the trip there?"

"I could wait for you to keel over and claim whatever I wished."

Bargaining was not one of his skill sets and killing the trader wasn't an option. Did he bluff? "Maybe we'll wait for someone else to come along." John shrugged.

A hyena-like laugh pierced the air. "I like you. It takes nunkas to grasp at something so out of reach." Lyle scanned the horizon. "The Spraza roam here during prison drop-offs. How did you escape their clutches?" He brought his gaze over to Ronon, stepping closer to get a good look at him. "I see. Foolish choice, stranger."

John made himself a barrier, blocking the trader's view of his teammate. "How about sticking to our deal?"

"I'll guide you for the metal and for eluding those scum. If you were capable of such an act, perhaps you'll prove useful later." Lyle glanced at the two of them. "They'll be looking for you...I'll take both metal pieces and the chain in exchange for a place where the Spraza won't dare search. If you can keep up."

Ronon got to both feet, lines of pain breaking across his face, his body trembling with the effort of standing, even hunched over. "Lead the way."

The merchant ignored them both, turning his back. John slung Ronon's arm around his shoulder, knowing his friend and not pushing him to accept more help. Not until he'd have to carry him again.

"There is a place to hide very close by. Many don't go this far out from the transports."

John didn't reply, concentrating instead on breathing and keeping his feet moving through the cloying sand.

A half hour of toiling under the burning sun and John's body was buckling under the strain. Ten minutes after that and Lyle spoke up. "It'll take you a long time to gather water from here. No one is willing to wander away from the main settlement. Maybe you'll live long enough to find your way over there."

He'd wait for sunset and go out then. Ronon was too easy to pick off and distance didn't matter if the shelter was secure. John was roasting alive, the trek a march through hell.

"We're getting close to the borders of the Void. I dare not get any closer."

The temperature had dropped by a couple degrees, the blinding white now a subtler yellow overhead.

"We...we… getting close to nightfall?" John wheezed. Ronon had passed out again, becoming an anchor dragging him down.

Hands touched his shirt, pawed at his neck. "The sun never sets here, stranger. There is no relief."

"What?" John wanted to peel off his clothes. "I...don't understand."

His dog tags were removed, the metal pieces clanking together.

"There is no night. Only heat and death."

The unforgiving ground dug into John's knees. When had he fallen? "How... how do we get water?"

Lyle sighed. "You don't. The transports leave supplies every third working cycle near the settlement. If you don't die today you might be in good enough shape to fight the others for some."

No wonder there were mobs and gangs here. John had really screwed up strategically. He should have given up his boots, but then Ronon would have been killed.

"Of course there's the Shan'ka. You could get water from them, but most people just trade what they harvest for orris."

A hand slapped John's face, the sting rousing him, and he looked up at the trader in a haze.

"Your shelter is three hundred steps ahead. I cannot stay. We're in the shadow of the Void and your metal is worthless if I don't get to use it."

The Void? John's head spun. He saw a small mouth inside a hill at the foot of a mountain, the top hidden by shadows and shade.

"Just don't go any closer to the Void. Of course, if you want a quick death then run. Run as fast as you can towards it."

"Water?"

Lyle snorted. "Nothing's free."

"I'll owe you," John lied desperately.

"You're gonna die here. We all will. It's just a matter of time. When do you think I'd collect?"

"I'm..." John's boots melted into the ground, but he pushed and shoved and drew himself up. "...good for it."

Dots danced across his vision and he still had to drag Ronon to safety.

"You would have survived the walk if you hadn't wasted your energy on your pal."

John felt his fingers pried apart and something shoved between them.

"The fact that you're still fighting is interesting. I'll be back in two cycles to see if you're alive for payment."

John could smell the water from the pouch; his tongue tingled at the prospect of drinking the liquid. "Why?"

Lyle tapped John's face again. "Collecting debts is what I do. I'll gain something for very little. If you die I'll give your bodies to the Shan'ka. It's a win-win for me." The merchant adjusted the knapsack across his back. "Lucky for me that I was scouting for sherbage," he laughed, shaking John's tags between his fingers.

It took all his willpower not to snatch them back. John pulled out the cork from the pouch and took two small sips to clear the dried husk from his throat. "Yeah, real lucky."

A strong wind blew, stirring up the dust. Lyle froze, head jerking up at the hills. "They're here, watching us. It's best to head for cover. Or even the Shan'ka won't have anything left to harvest," he whispered.

Fear had a pungent smell, adrenaline mixed with sweat. Lyle reeked of it, fumbling with his umbrella. John didn't want to stick around to find out what could cause a hardened desert survivor to shake like he did but had to ask. "What are you scared of?"

"Evil. Many enter the Void, only a few have ever come back."

"Maybe it's nicer."

"No! The last person to return alive, died screaming in terror about the monsters there. They say if you listen close enough, you can hear their screams. Then there's Malvick. Lurking. Waiting to strike."

The words floated on the breeze and the merchant was gone, running when running was breaking the rules for survival in the desert.

Wild animals could be hunted for food, so it had to be something far worse. Were there Wraith here?

John looked up at the stark contrast between the beating sun and the darkness far off in the distance.

"The sun never sets here, stranger."

Yet, there was the cover of night over the hills. But for now, the mystery would have to wait.

Three hundred steps. Thirty paces times ten. John stared at Ronon, could feel his muscles wilt and shrivel away. He secured the tiny water pouch, grabbed his friend's tremendous weight and hefted him over his back. And felt his spine cave in.

"No," he growled. At the desert. At the sun.

"One," he whispered, taking a faltering step. Two. But his mind whispered it, conserving his failing strength.

He thought of a dark cave, of shade and cool air. It was the only thing keeping him going.

Ten.

John's arms trembled; his knees shook.

Sixteen.

He'd worry about getting more water. Of finding the settlement and things like food once he collapsed.

Twenty-eight.

He groaned, Ronon's body suffocating him.

Thirty.

He only had to do this nine more times.

The Saurin had really cool guns. They had a blaster like his, except it had two barrels and twice the firepower. Ronon had been promised a tour of the armory where he was told they had rows and rows of different types of weapons. He had grinned at the prospect, giddy at getting his hands on such things.

The city was made up of honeycombed rooms; every wall was etched with elaborate patterns. Something about them, something oddly familiar, caused his hackles to rise and his body to tense with unease.

They had spent too much time with the Saurin, too many days under the seduction of new technology and power. For every marvel on Atlantis, the Saurin had an improved version.

"I've never seen such advancements in Ancient technology," Rodney had whispered excitedly.

Things that were too good to be true, always were. And it was too good to find people eager to share and exchange information and ideas. People who allowed them to leave and return freely, and never threatened or raised a single gun.

The explosion had been Ronon's fault, a simple miscalculation, but he hadn't been alone.

He awoke to a mouth full of sand and inside a tunnel of black with light streaming from one end. Ronon couldn't depend on his eyes, so his ears had to tell him what his sight couldn't. This was a cave much like the hundreds scattered across other worlds he'd been on. They all felt and smelled of mineral and stone, and provided a little relief from the punishing outside elements. He was no longer inside an oven, but it was still oppressively hot.

He remembered a shoulder digging into his gut and being jostled about, seemingly for hours. Of falling and hurting and begging to allow the winds to scatter him across the sands.

"Sheppard?" Ronon held onto a scream of pain, biting his lip, and patting the space next to him. "Sheppard!" he growled, his voice bouncing off the walls as he found nothing on his other side.

He pushed up on his hands and shaking wrists, fighting the newest head rush. His dreads brushed up against the roof of the cave, confronting him with the suddenly tight area. Closing his eyes despite the darkness, he pushed the ceiling back in his mind. Sheppard would never dump him inside a tiny hole alone.

Where was he? Had he been captured?

"John?"

This was Michael's lair all over again; sunlight replaced heavy debris, gangs the hybrids. The panic was the same, fear fueling his need to drag his body in search of his friend.

"Hey, don't move," a voice whispered.

Ronon fell onto his back, gritting his teeth. "Where?" Simple questions gained simple answers.

"We're inside part of a foothill. I was seeing how far back the cave went."

"And?"

Sheppard's face appeared over his, hazel eyes glowing in the faint light that came through the entrance. "Um, far," he grunted, resting flat on his stomach, arms outstretched in front of him. "The cave opens up enough to stand and..." He let out a groan. "It's cooler in the back."

The thought of colder air and greater space made Ronon's skin itch but he resisted the urge to seek it out. He no longer boiled inside his own flesh, but the desert sands had stripped him of energy. He remembered precious water dribbled onto his lips, being coaxed to take slow sips and his mouth salivated at the prospect of more.

"Sheppard."

No reply.

"Sheppard?"

"Hmmmm?"

"You okay?"

"Gonna take a little nap."

Deep down Ronon knew that was bad. They didn't know where they were, had little in the way of defense or provisions. But Sheppard had carried him through the searing heat, taken Ronon's larger weight onto his back to safety.

He pulled out the last of the knives the Saurin hadn't found, the cold steel lending him strength. "I'll take first watch."

Sheppard slept for a long time and it made Ronon worry about that kick to his skull. People with head injuries were supposed to stay awake, which was a nice thought when a jumper or a gate was nearby. At some point the silence and pain lulled him to sleep then a noise startled him and his instincts took over.

"Whoa, buddy. That's my throat."

The knife rested against Sheppard's carotid and Ronon removed the blade as the words I fell asleep repeated accusingly in his head.

Sheppard was a voice and a moving outline. "I have to head out. I split up the water the trader gave me. We'll have to ration it the best we can."

Ronon picked up the water pouch; the entire thing was flat except for a splashing in the very bottom. "Do you know where you're going?"

"Back the way we came. I don't want to wait around two more days for water. I'm going to see what this settlement has to offer."

"Think that's wise?"

"We're seriously lacking intel about this place. I'm going to scout out the food situation and what can be done about finding something worth bartering with." Sheppard ran a hand through his hair. "We don't have anything to set your leg with and if it's going to heal, we need to keep it immobile."

"Think we're gonna be here a while?" It was a rhetorical question. Atlantis had no idea where they were. He was injured and there was no sign of technology that could be used to contact anyone. This was a barren world, the perfect prison to leave people to die.

"I know a little about deserts, how to obtain water from the environment. I think I can find things once I learn the layout." Sheppard cleared his throat. "Um, look. I need to borrow some of your clothes."

"Think my pants might be too big."

"That's the least of my worries."

With a nod and a grunt Ronon slipped his shirt off over his head, gently extricating his necklace as it snagged in the woven collar opening. The air felt good over his heated skin.

Sheppard peeled off his T-shirt while he spoke. "Good thing you've wearing the long-sleeved one, or I'd be sporting a permanent farmer's tan."

Protection from sunburn would be vital for going out for long periods of time. Exposure was the silent killer and Ronon's shirt would hang loose and baggy on Sheppard's frame, providing air pockets for insulation.

Sheppard must have been thinking the same thing. "The shirt will help. I can get by with -"

"No." He undid his belt buckle and lay fully on his back. "Just pull 'em off." His one leg was swollen and he'd have to lift both off the ground to make it work. Black BDUs would fry Sheppard alive and Ronon wouldn't allow his injury to become even more of a hindrance.

"Ronon, I'll find another way to-"

"You're wasting time."

"Fine. Just don't pass out on me."

There was no mincing words. Sheppard knew what was at stake, understood about swallowing pain and getting things done. They'd both sacrificed when needed. Bullet wounds, illness, walking around with a hole in your side. Sheppard removed Ronon's boots in silence.

"Ready?"

Ronon was going to tell him to get the hell on with it when Sheppard yanked without the counting to three crap. Of course, one tug wasn't enough. How many it took he couldn't say, because by the third he mercifully passed out.

Coming to an unknown time later, he grunted in annoyance at once again waking up and having to figure out what was going on. Although watching Sheppard struggle with pants that swallowed him whole was almost amusing. "Roll up the ends," he suggested.

Sheppard wrestled and fought. "I did that. Don't think there are enough holes in the belt to keep them from slipping down."

"You're lucky those aren't the leather pair." It actually felt good not to be weighed down by extra layers. Ronon didn't wear normal boxer shorts like most men on Atlantis; his were longer, more practical in bad weather. The thin breathable cloth almost touched his knees, offering more comfort, yet covered his skin which was essential in the desert.

"How are you feeling? I should check the break."

Ronon slapped Sheppard's hand away. "Don't! I'm good." It wasn't like they could do anything about it anyway. "What about you? How's the head?"

"It's fine. Told you it was too hard to crack."

As his eyes adjusted to the low light he found he could make out expressions now and read John's easily.

"Arms are bit overcooked, but I'll live," Sheppard lied again.

For how long? Ronon wrestled with their odds of survival, knowing his part of the equation could doom them both.

"We'll leave your boots off for now; it'll keep you cooler. You should put on my shirt."

The idea of anything on his skin was unimaginable. "Not right now."

"You'll cool down more after a few hours. If I'm not back, go ahead and wear them to reduce sweating. The BDUs too if you can wiggle into them."

Sheppard's vision must have gotten better too, catching Ronon's you've got to be kidding me expression because he got all commanding. "You need protection from dirt and insects. Look, I know you don't like resting, but less movement means less perspiration."

It was excruciating lying there. Lying there while Sheppard got ready to face an entire world without backup. They had pissed off people and had to hide because of him and now Sheppard needed to forage for two and search without Ronon's guidance.

Selfishness and fear tangled with each other, mixing with and compounding the agony he wouldn't show his team leader. Even if Sheppard knew. The man was anything but stupid.

"I don't know how long this is going to take."

Translation: Don't do anything reckless. Sheppard stayed by his side, not quite hovering, but he hadn't left. Ronon thought of the lack of water and desperate situation. "I'll be here," he deadpanned.

"Look, we've found shelter which reduces the temperature by twenty or thirty degrees. At least it's something," Sheppard reasoned. He searched for more encouraging words, but found none. "Right. Well then."

"Go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you come back with my clothes."

"Don't try to kill me when I return."

Sheppard put on his gear and crawled out of the cave, disappearing into the light.

Ronon found it strange to see his clothes on someone else. As if a part of him had walked into the desert and left a shell behind.

They may just be garments, stolen pieces sewn together on the run, trivial reminders of years in places worse than this. But it still bothered him and would in the countless hours in the dark to follow.

The human race on Earth had been cradled in arid lands for thousands of years. Learning to be part of the desert's ecosystem was the secret to surviving it. John kept his head down as he made his trek; the pieces of his BDU shirt covered the back of his neck and around his face. The goggles were pretty good at keeping out the light, but couldn't match his aviators' abilities to block UV rays. Then again, considering the amount of radiation he'd been exposed to over the past few years, it wasn't exactly his biggest concern.

Shelter, water, food. Those were the three components for surviving in desert landscapes. They had the cave, but the lack of nightfall seriously hampered any ability to obtain the last two tenets. Reconnaissance, scouting for resources were achieved easier after sundown when the body could sustain heavier activity without increased loss of water. Training could only do so much and it was his job to think outside the box and adapt to changes.

Ronon's pants hung low on his hips; the ends had long since unrolled and dragged along the ground. It reminded him of trying on his dad's clothes and sitting behind a desk in a mansion's office. Mom used to come in with lunch and he'd tell her to 'hold his calls'. Playing in his old man's expensive shoes had lasted only a year. When he got older, all he wanted to do was see him more. Then he 'grew up' and didn't want to see his father at all.

The shirt sleeves kept the sun from searing the flesh off his bones but the burns he already had on his arms did not enjoy their rough fabric covering.

At least it wasn't a completely new experience for him. A tour in Afghanistan had taught him that your body got used to the heat the more you went out in it and temperatures on the tarmac had risen to the low 120s, even the 130s for months at a time there.

This slice of hell was hotter than most worst days. Animals could lead to natural cisterns that collected rainwater and provided a source for food, but the lack of droppings or any birds circling the sky for prey scared him. Was this whole place lifeless? There were no dry creek beds or signs of runoff and since leaving the caves behind, he had seen no rock formations in sight to take cover in. Cover that would've been a blessed respite as the jackhammer on his skull worked up a notch under the blinding sun.

Did he pass the drop zone from the prison transport yet? It was hard to tell in such monotonous conditions. After half an hour, the beginnings of oblique rock replaced the endless lines of desert, and the ground became rugged; glints of shade were produce by piles of rocks. John made a mental note of a possible rest-point for later travels.

Slowly the slopes joined mounds of stone. Another thirty minutes later and he was surrounded by another set of low, rocky hills and more importantly the openings to dozens of caves. It had taken him hours to reach shelter with Ronon; it was good to know they were not too far away from resources.

The temptation to run towards civilization was strong but caution reined in his impulse. He felt for a knife and gun that weren't there, having left the only weapon behind with Ronon. The soldier part of him said approach the dwellings with forethought; the hungry and parched man wanted to hurry.

There were multiple entrances, of various sizes, scattered along the hillside, all of them marked by a different shade of paint or dye.

"Okay, let's avoid red," he said out loud, remembering which colors the Spraza wore. With his luck he'd run right into his pals from earlier. Or had it been it yesterday?

John counted to three with his back against the nearest slab of rock when a voice called out to him from the depths of the closest opening. A white set of markings had been daubed on the stone above it.

"What's your business?"

There was no real plan, and John found himself lost for words, standing there dumbly, stuck with a 'make it up as you go along' strategy.

"You been outside too long or what?" the voice prodded.

"I'm looking to trade," John ad-libbed.

A man stepped into the daylight, his body wrapped much like a Buddhist monk, head to toe in patches of dingy cloth. Guess this dude couldn't afford pants. "The desert's gone to your head. These are living quarters and all of them have been taken."

"Right. Of course."

"You new?"

John tensed, knowing that confirming it made him an easy mark. But he had thirty pounds on the guy so he wasn't too worried about a fight. Pointing at the markings on the alcove he asked, "Remind me again which are for business?"

"Dots are for bartering. Solid lines are for sleeping chambers."

John was in the residential section apparently. Okay, square lines around the blobs of paint were homes. The designs inside the squares were probably names of those who slept there. "Yeah, got turned around."

"Right. Just in case you forgot, the ones over there with the blue dots are the biggest area for trade around here."

The guy stepped back into his cave, leaving behind the scent of berries and strange incense. John ignored the ache in his gut. If he missed too many meals...well he'd cross one bridge at a time. Right now he relished the shade from the grottos, but he made himself stick to the outer edges so as not to risk getting close enough to alarm any of the occupants. He wasn't overheating like he had when carrying Ronon, but his black shirt amplified the sauna around his face.

The sounds of activity grew louder as he got closer to the large cavity ahead; the noise was enough cover for John to enter casually, as if he belonged. The change from day to night blinded him and he pulled down his goggles, letting his eyes slowly acclimate to the dark. The temperature difference was astoundingly cooler and he fought the temptation to curl up in a corner to rest. Pulling away the remains of his shirt, he breathed the stale air in deeply. The inside of the cave was the size of the jumper bay and he wandered around, trying not to stick out like a sore thumb.

Dozens of people milled about in small gatherings. Most of them were intent on their wares; a few smoked and talked off to the side. There was no furniture unless you counted large chunks of stone scattered about for people to sit on. Many stared at him when he walked by, his unruly hair out of place among the countless shaved heads. A guy cooked what looked like stringy bits of beef jerky spread out on a rock and another 'merchant' pulled out clumps of dead insects from a large cloth sack while a guy argued in wild gestures over it. John didn't get too close, unsure about the customs for such things.

Standing with his back against the wall he took in the sounds of bartering. The main currency was pouches of water and John observed a transaction with interest. One customer took a large pouch strapped to his shoulder and with a tube, transferred water into the merchant's empty one. The merchant hooked the container at one end of a hand scale, a weight dangled on the opposite, the two balancing each other out.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on John. There was nothing he could offer these people. Nothing at all. Maybe physical labor could be used in a trade.

Body language gave away who could be reasoned with or intimidated for information. Too bad he didn't have time to track anyone down. Four Spraza entered, the red tattoos across their cheeks a walking advertisement of their affiliation. They escorted a scrawny guy in tattered robes who carried three of the prison-issued knapsacks.

"Today's fernandi trade: three to one dunka," the newest trader announced.

A dunka must be the little pouches of water the merchants used as a standard of measurement. John wasn't an expert on fluid conversions or anything, but the dunka bags looked like they could hold sixteen ounces or so. Doing simple math shouldn't have been difficult, but his brain crunched the numbers slowly.

There were what? Four quarts to a gallon? Thirty-two ounces in a quart? He was supposed to drink that in a normal day in Afghanistan during Green temperature conditions and during those dog days of Red it went up to three or four.

One thing at a time. He had to get water first and worry about how much later.

The fernandi were thin scaly lizard things with narrow, snake-like bodies, their skin similar to the lining of Kadar's shoes. The raw meat hung on hooks against dunka bags and once the measures were figured out for each piece, reptile became the featured menu item for the day. The fernandi merchant stored all his water in a single heavy pouch that one of his Spraza buddies carried "for him." A fifth Spraza member showed up; he had wavy lines of red paint where his eyebrows should have been. He scanned the layout of the cave before his gaze turned in John's direction.

Uh-oh. Now all five of them were looking at him and John didn't want to stick around to see if they had been part of his welcoming committee from before or were just interested in the guy wearing the alien clothes. At least protecting their bag of water took precedence since only two started coming towards him. John stayed against the wall, creeping sideways then ducking into another corridor he'd scoped out earlier.

Cave systems could stretch for miles; this could be good for a quick escape, or he could wind up wandering around for days. But John took a twisty path leading away from his buddies. There were signs of light ahead and that's when he noticed openings carved out of the roof, material draped over them to diffuse the light as makeshift curtains over the 'windows'. Following the tunnel, he treaded carefully over the uneven footing in the narrow passage.

After a few minutes of walking he began to think about turning back when the passage opened up to another room. A burning smell hit him hard; it was singed hair mixed with sage or other spices. The odor stirred his empty belly and he grabbed part of the wall for leverage as a wave of dizziness rocked him on his feet.

Stress, anxiety, physical exhaustion pressed down on him. Not now. He'd succumbed to his massive headache earlier; this wasn't the time for it to gain the upper hand. The dizzy spell slowly dissipated though his steps were less certain. He used the wall for cover and support, the lower ceiling forcing him to hunch over.

The stench grew worse, unwashed bodies crammed in a tiny space mixing with burning herbs. John clamped his mouth shut just in case his stomach rebelled, and he almost tripped over a man sprawled on the ground.

"Watch it!" the guy snapped.

"Um, sorry," John said, sidestepping the man and almost stumbling over another.

The only illumination came from a tiny hole in the ceiling to his left. People drifted toward the sunbeam, using tiny bits of glass to focus the heat to light their hand-rolled cigarettes.

John clung to the shadows, keeping his eye out for more Spraza members and transfixed by what he saw in front of him. This was a smoking den of some sort, clouds of thick haze irritating his lungs. There were maybe twenty people spread about in various spots, a couple whispering back and forth, taking long drags from their cigs. Most everyone else rested on blankets, others on thin handmade bedrolls. There were no signs of any of his friends and John felt his body give in to exhaustion, the dark cool chamber inviting him to sleep in some faraway corner.

"You need anything?"

He startled at the voice. "Maybe," John replied.

"Why else would ya be here?" the guy hissed in his ear. "You're here for orris, of course." The man studied him with a single green eye, the other one a gaping socket. "I'll make ya a sweet offer."

John noticed the faded smears of green paint along the guy's brow and wondered if they were signs of another gang. Then he took in the lazy, contented sprawls of those surrounding him and put two and two together. "Orris's pretty popular I take it?"

The dealer licked his lips then the tips of his gapped teeth. "You must be a newbie to its wonders. I will gladly share with you."

John stepped back as the guy slithered closer. "Not interested," he growled, almost tripping over a leg of some random body.

"Doesn't matter. Orris will find you. When hunger calls, orris answers. Keeps you company when your belly twists and snarls."

"I'm good."

The dealer pulled out a few crushed needles from the folds of his dirty clothes. "I'll give you a taste for free. No need for water."

"I said, no, thank you," John snapped, jerking the man's bony wrist sharply until his eye almost popped out.

The dealer laughed, oblivious to how his brittle bones ground together. "You'll be back. When you shed and sweat out all of your precious water. Or when the hole in your stomach grows big enough. I'll be here waiting."

John held his breath to avoid the orris fumes and flung the dealer out of his way. He didn't wait for the body to smack the cave wall and wound his way through the den. Taking a left, he followed the path deeper into the cavern, the temperature continuing to drop to almost tolerable levels. This was the key to staying alive in arid environments, keeping inside and sleeping all day to conserve energy.

Much of the underground dwelling was a series of tight passages that narrowed to dead ends or crawl spaces where people slept. He found another chamber where part of the ceiling slanted to the ground and watched as scraps of fabric were bartered back and forth, the item of greatest interest a pile of bones, possibly human. John recoiled at the thought of their value then realized how easily they could be carved into tools.

The first main area was used to trade food and this place was for mainly raw materials. There had to be ways to scavenge this stuff. Areas to gather or farm what was needed. If people could lie around and get stoned, then he could figure out a way to get involved in what passed for the local economy.

"But where is all the water stored?" John mused out loud.

"The Shan'ka keep more than they could ever use."

"Lyle," John breathed, wondering where the hell the guy had come from.

"You made it here. Impressive."

Lyle was a short, square man, who might have been slightly heavy at one point. Before the desert. Whatever life he'd had, it was of one with an impressive pedigree. Only the Patrick Sheppards of the world carried themselves with such confidence.

He couldn't screw things up with the only person he could deal with. "The lizard things. Um, the fernandi? Where can I go to find them? If you show me I'll bring back enough to split with you," John said, hoping it sounded appealing.

"You've been here for two cycles and want to try digging for fernandi?" Lyle laughed, holding his hand to his chest. He stopped chuckling and stepped closer, sizing John up. "Maybe. There's still enough of you to last out there."

Two cycles? Had John really slept a day in his cave? "Where do you dig them up?"

"Out in the Tharsqin Sands the fernandi burrow. Many people go out to find them. Most don't return."

"Sounds like a challenge," John quipped.

Lyle pulled down the cloth over his chin, twisting the silver hairs of his beard. "Maybe."

"You help me and I'll share with you what I catch."

"Always grasping what's out of reach. If you could even make the trip, catching fernandi in the swimming sands is deadly work. And what would I gain if you were sucked away to your grave before you paid me your debt?"

His words were scornful but it was clear the merchant was interested. There was a glint in his eyes so John had to appeal to his greedy side. "You trade in food? If you don't, I'm providing something of value. Another thing to barter with."

"Maybe. It is useless to discuss. A great sandstorm is ripping through the Tharsqin. It'll be cycles before anyone can get near it. Haffa was lucky he left with his catch before it swept in."

"Who's Haffa?" John asked.

"He was the one with the Spraza, one of the few who've learned the ways to harvest fernandi."

John couldn't wait out a storm but tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, hoping they weren't similar to the ones in Afghanistan that lasted for weeks. "A little wind couldn't hurt," he lied.

"Winds here can tear at the hull of the prison transport. Sure enough to eat you away in seconds." Lyle leaned his back against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He pulled out a pinch of needles and started rolling them in a scrap of paper. "The sun's not yet dulled your eyes, stranger. There'll be no fernandi for several cycles. The sandstorms do not go swiftly."

John paced, gnawing his lower lip. "What else? There has to be animal life to eat. What about plants? I saw... I saw insects. I'll search for those. Until the storm blows over."

"You have to bribe the Spraza to get anywhere else. They use their numbers to bully others from the most fertile grounds."

Pacing sent spikes of pain through John's skull, and his legs threatened to give out from under him. There was no wasting energy like that. He half sat, half collapsed next to the merchant, watching as Lyle scraped a sliver of metal against a flint to light his smoke. "You use that stuff?"

"Orris is vital here. Like many useful things, it can be used too much." Lyle brought the drug to his lips and took a long drag, blowing the potent smoke out. "You'll use it. You'll have to. Keeps you from realizing how hungry you are."

"Like an appetite suppressant." John got it now. "Use the right amount and it tricks the brain; overdo it, and it becomes addictive."

"Your words are confusing, stranger. Orris dulls the ache in the belly. It can also make you forget what ails you in large amounts. It is a funny thing, can affect people differently, but is highly valued."

"Do the Spraza control the trade?"

"No, the Jad do."

"Let me guess. They use green markings to identify each other?" John didn't want to cross paths with a drug gang.

Lyle laughed, blowing little rings of smoke. "Yes, quick with a smile. And quick with a blade. They do not get along with the Spraza."

John pulled his knees up to rest his aching head on them. "One controls the water, the other the drugs. Got the makings of a little war." It was useful info.

"The Spraza beat and bully. You be good at keeping away. I heard scavengers took the desert cover they were forced to abandon after your stand-off. It cost them a great amount of cloth and the rare bones that held it up. They will be after your water."

John knew Lyle meant his life water. "This Jad gang..."

"They're dangerous people, doing dangerous things. Their dwellings are not far from here. But it'll take more than an offer of alliance to join them."

"Think I'll skip the fraternity brother thing."

"You have no water source. You have no food, no protection. You have no choice." Lyle took out a dunka pouch and swallowed a drink. "If you offer up your pal, the Spraza might only punish you for the debt."

"Not a chance."

"You have nothing to offer the Jad. There's no surviving alone."

John dragged himself to his feet, felt the cave tilt. "I'm not alone."

Lyle didn't stand, eyes watching those around them. "Most do not last long here. You have to fight for every drop of water, every morsel of food. Tell me. How will you do this for two?"

"By fighting harder."

"Can you be in two places at once? Because you'll need to be if your friend is alone so close to the Void."

John grabbed two handfuls of fabric, dragging the man up to meet face-to-face, legs struggling to stand. "I thought it was safe there!"

Lyle's face was unconcerned and his breath stank of orris. "From the Spraza. Even the Jad."

John was tired and filthy and feeling a little unhinged. "Who is it not safe from?"

"Him," Lyle whispered. And only then did the merchant's blue eyes show fear.

"Who?" When no answer came spilling out of Lyle's mouth, John smacked the guy's head hard against the wall. "Who? I'm not going to ask again."

"Malvick. He lives in the Void. Lives among the devils that rip anyone else apart. He's good at killing. Enjoys it. You and your pal are right in his play area."

"You took us there. Hell, I paid you to take us there!" John seethed.

"You wanted shelter and protection from the Spraza. I gave it to you. Figured you'd join with someone before he came down." Lyle must have sensed John's loss of control, saw something in his smoldering eyes. "He doesn't come around often. People leave him alone. He only trades with the Shan'ka or enters the seasonal fight rings."

"Why are you people afraid of this Void?" John asked, easing Lyle back down to his feet.

"I told you. Because people don't return. Only the scavengers dare get near it to look for scraps, but no one ever crosses where the darkness meets."

"But a few people do go into it?"

"If they can find their way. The terrain is treacherous, killing them before whatever lurks there can."

There was more to it, John could tell, but he couldn't afford to waste any more energy. He had to cross the desert to get back and still have enough in his fuel tank to get the water when the prison ship dropped off supplies.

"You are loyal. It will go away. It will go away when your tongue throbs and you want to cut the flesh from your bones. And if you really care about him then maybe you'll spare your pal and take him to the Void yourself instead of watching him go through the same thing."

"Never happen."

"We will see, stranger. We will see."