Death Game

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Lt. Colonel John Sheppard was sure he’d had better days. That he couldn’t remember any of them right now was just one disturbing thing. Another one was the great big crack in the puddle jumper’s front window. He was pretty sure that shouldn’t be there. He was almost sure that the view out the window shouldn’t be mostly dirt, with what looked like the trunks of several big trees in it. Also, the board of instruments under his chest shouldn’t be sputtering and smoking.

The latter seemed like a really bad thing, so he cautiously pulled himself off the panel and sat back in his seat. Moving hurt, but not as much as it would have if he’d broken ribs, which was something, but there was a long wet smear of blood across the docking indicators and the tactical controls, which couldn’t be good. Several droplets splashed against the board as he watched, and he put his hand to his head. It came away drenched in blood. Great. Holding his left hand to the general vicinity as tightly as possible, John looked around the jumper. What was he doing? Who was with him? He remembered the jumper descending into the gate room, the bright blue fire of the gate kindling. And after that… Nothing.

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