Author's Note: "Target" takes place in Season 4, between Spoils of War and The Kindred.

Target - by T'pring

"This is Mitchelson. East quadrant – negative."

"McConnell. North quadrant – also negative."

"Walker at the Gate, sir. South quadrant is quiet."

John sighed and gave Ronon a meaningful look. "West quadrant quiet, so far. Hold your positions. Walker, keep the path to the gate clear, no matter what."

"Yes, sir!" came the reassuring reply.

John dropped his hand from the radio in his vest pocket, then lifted his P-90 a little higher. "I knew we should have gone East," he muttered. He could just barely see Ronon's amused snarl in the dim forest light. The sun had set half an hour ago, leaving only the faint blush of pink against the highest westerly clouds to peek through the canopy of new, spring leaves.

"Only cowards attack under cover of nightfall," was Ronon's answer to the complaint.

"Only people with an agenda attack at all. I want to know why our people are being targeted."

"Pulo said that the singing bullets have flown through the marketplace five times in the last month. No one was hurt before…"

"Before Anderson came home with a hole in his leg," John spat. "I don't find that very much of a coincidence."

"Teyla talked to the shopkeepers. They say hundreds of people come to shop, every day. From every world. Even the Satedans used to trade at the Ahk-ho-lido Market."

"Well, I hope she's talking now. Someone has to know something." John slapped at his P-90, then waved towards the nothingness with an agitated jerk of his hand. "Keep walking."

"Don't worry. The wraith queen scared her bad enough. She won't take any chances," Ronon replied, correctly interpreting his unease, damn him. John wasn't comfortable with Teyla leaving Atlantis, despite her assurances that she no longer wished to join any combat maneuvers and only intended to act as liaison as she had when they'd first established their trade relationships on this world.

Ronon chuckled at John's non-committal grunt and they both returned their full attention to the gloomy forest. The scanner in his hand showed random shadows and blips of forest life, but nothing that seemed to look human. There was a life sign the size and weight of a deer to their South. He waved Ronon in that direction, following an impulse to check out the deer. They had only moved a few meters towards it, when the lifesign spooked and bounded off the screen in great hops. John sighed again. Definitely a deer. Or whatever they called them on this planet.

"I don't see anything out here," he groused.

"Then shut up and listen."

Their steps became even softer as they picked their way over roots and rocky soil. Winter had composted the fall leaves into nothing but scattered mulch and the occasional pile of soggy rotten vegetation. Here and there, a fragile new tree struggled out of the hard-packed earth. The light faded completely, but their eyes adjusted with the sky and they were able to creep along without flashlights. The eastern horizon was already brightening with what was probably a moon or other bright satellite.

Three days ago, Anderson had stumbled home with a deep graze in his leg from one of the 'singing bullets' that had been plaguing this world for several weeks. Anderson, in fact, had gone to answer a plea from Trade Master Pulo to check out the very phenomenon that hinted at technology beyond the Pegasus Usual. It all seemed very fishy to John. He'd left Teyla with Pulo to keep an eye on him. He'd left McKay to keep an eye on Teyla.

The rest of the Marine team he'd brought were spread around the village, looking for who, or what, had launched the barrage of whistling projectiles that had swarmed the market a few hours after they'd arrived. The tiny missiles had frightened the evening shoppers and impacted alarmingly against the walls of the administrative building they had been meeting within.

"This is Sheppard. Status," he ordered into the radio again after several quiet, uneventful minutes passed under the darkened branches.

"Northern quadrant – clear. No sign of -" came the first calm response just before a panicky voice interrupted.

"Sheppard! I'm picking up energy signatures that match the singing bullets. 100 meters on your 3 o'clock." Rodney was yelling like they might hear him from the village.

John felt his face flush with adrenaline and froze. "Can you get a lock on the origin?"

"Yes and no. They just appeared out of nowhere so I don't have any idea of what the source is, but I have the coordinates for where I first picked them up. The signatures are moving your direction. Fast!"

John shot a look at Ronon then turned to jog towards the village. "Mitchellson, McConnell, meet me at the Southwest corner of the village. Rodney, send my scanner the coordinates of the origin. We need to regroup and approach the source in force."

There was a chorus of acknowledgement before Rodney butted in again.

"Sheppard, the missiles are splitting up. Two groups. One heading towards town. The other straight at you."

John slapped at the flashlight on his P-90 and ran faster, the bright beam of the light glinting off gnarled roots and dead leaves.

"You sure these aren't mini drones?" he panted into the receiver.

"No. Wrong frequency. Wrong impact crater. Wrong… Take cover!"

Rodney's shout preceded a chilling whistle that drew shivers down John's spine. The villagers called them "singing bullets" and at that moment, he agreed with the name. They gave off no visible light, none of the usual sounds of propulsion, just the screaming whistle. A streak of energy in the "wtf-rodney-figure-it-out" spectrum painted a deadly line across the scanner's softly glowing face.

"Down!" John yelled, throwing himself into a pile of rotting leaves. He heard the satisfying thud of Ronon doing the same. The whistle became a piercing shriek and John could almost count the number of projectiles from the variation in pitch – a deadly four or five-part harmony zipped by overhead just as he was eating dirt.

Almost as soon as they were overhead, they were gone, the pitch sinking in a weird Doppler-shifted chord progression.

"Missed," Ronon grunted from the now almost pitch black ground at John's right elbow.

"Where are they going?" John ground out still on his belly in the dirt. He kept his eyes glued to the scanner.

"Sheppard! Are you OK? Come in!"

John became aware of the radio screaming for his attention and was about to answer when the whistle began to grow louder again.

"Oh…crap. They're turning! Wait. They're turning? Rodney! Are these things heat-seeking?"

"I don't know! They could be remote control."

"McKay!"

"I know! But I still don't see anyone but your team out in the woods. If it is remote control, I haven't found who's steering."

"Great. Mitchellson, change of plans. Take cover in the town until we figure out how these things work and if we can jam them first."

"And you, sir?" came Mitchellson's cool reply. Damn his guys for being mother-hen types.

"We're coming, now move!" This time the reply was simple affirmation. John allowed himself a bit of relief at knowing the rest of the team would be safe.

The screaming had been getting closer and John had his eye on the screen. A sudden jolt of anxiety sent him scrambling to his feet. The bullets were coming in fast from his left and John lunged behind a large, ancient tree trunk just as the pitch reached peak volume. Two thuds against the trunk at his back splatted with the crunchy sound of splintering wood. A third kicked up leaves at the spot where he'd been lying moments before. At least two more sang the minor third of Doppler shift and passed by.

"Ronon!"

"I'm good." Ronon joined him a moment later, his eyes gleaming in the faint light of the scanner screen. Their feet were illuminated in the bright puddle of the P-90's flashlight that dangled off John's chest.

"There are at least two more bullets. And…damn!...they're turning around again." John shook the scanner, annoyed. "They seem to be heat seeking, but I don't think they're remote control – their pattern is too consistent."

"So what do we do?" Ronon didn't sound alarmed, merely resigned. Just another obstacle to conquer. John stepped briefly around the tree trunk and swept the P-90's light over the gouges of raw wood in the tree trunk.

"They're not very maneuverable. If we can keep a large object between us and them, they'll hit something eventually. When they're all gone, we boogie back to town and make Rodney figure out a way to jam them."

"OK," Ronon grunted. "Should we split up?"

John hesitated, then jerked his head in a nod. "Find a big tree or rock nearby."

Ronon cocked his hip, looked at the flashlight and scanner in John's hands, then put his hand on the tree that had just sheltered John. "Found one."

John chuckled. He swept the flashlight's beam over the surrounding landscape. "I'll stay within hailing distance," he said then jogged south, his eyes never straying far from the scanner. The whistling bullets echoed spookily in the blackness beyond the reach of his light and he broke into a heavy jog, looking for another large tree or rock outcrop. This part of the forest was relatively open, with the broad oak-like trees scattered among taller and thinner aspen-like trunks.

When the shriek reached painful levels again, John threw himself to the ground as the trails and his dot intersected and again, they whizzed overhead.

"They're coming your way!" he shouted, his voice sounding hoarse. He scrambled upright once more and made it the last few feet to the rocky outcrop he'd spotted. He put the boulder between himself and the bullets and knelt into a crouch. The trails on the scanner led away and then curved in a sharp arc back towards…him.

"What the…?" John whispered. They'd ignored Ronon completely.

"Heads up, Sheppard!" Ronon bellowed from the north. "Headed your way again!"

"I know!" John bellowed back, bracing for the next pass. They'd also turned faster. When they shrieked overhead, John scrabbled around the rock, trying to keep it between him and the bullets. He made it only a quarter of the way around before the whistle, never fading below a dull scream, rushed at him again, making their fastest turn yet.

John flung himself to the side and a bullet smashed into the rock. A blast of pebbles and chips blew into the right side of John's face and neck. He yelped a curse, spun, and fell to his hands and knees, still trying to crawl around the rock. The final bullet screamed closer. John grabbed for the rock, heaved himself up and around, trying to fling himself behind the jagged edge.

A tremendous force slammed into his back and drove his chest into the ground. The forest went eerie quiet. John could hear Ronon calling his name, but couldn't draw breath to answer. When his stunned breathing reflex finally reset, he sucked in a gulp of air, then groaned a long growl of agony. He was wearing a Kevlar vest in lieu of the usual tactical vest and the singing bullet's impact had felt like a sledge hammer against his back – as it should have. But the sharp ache growing between his right shoulder blade and his spine didn't feel right.

He clawed at the ground, struggling to control the pain and realized something else: everything below his shoulders felt tingly and sluggish. "Crap…" he gasped, then bit his lip, telling himself he just needed to wait for Ronon to show up and knock him in the head so he could pass out. He buried his face in his hands, still on his stomach in the dirt, and concentrated on breathing. The thud of heavy footsteps vibrated through John's body and he gasped, swearing to hold it together for a little longer, anticipating Ronon's chuff of concern.

Instead, a metallic vice clamped around his ankle and heaved. John was lifted off the ground and flipped onto his back. A single cry was forced out of his lungs before he went limp, overwhelmed by the screaming, this time inside his head.

"Sheppard!" Ronon's call was a growl of frustration. The night sky was clear and growing brighter, but it was still impossible to see beyond a meter in any direction.

"Sheppard, damn you!"

Ronon stumbled towards the place where he'd last heard Sheppard speak…and then yelp. The singing bullets were ominously silent. Remembering the tools that Sheppard's people had given him at last, he finally tapped the radio in his ear.

"McKay! Tell me where Sheppard is!"

"What happened? There are no more missile signatures."

"I don't know! Just tell me how to get to Sheppard." Ronon roared, still working his way blindly through the bare roots, scouring the ground with eyes trained to look for the smallest impression…that he had no hope of seeing in the dim undergrowth.

"Sheppard's on the move. His signature is heading west at – this can't be right?"

Ronon froze, alarmed. Sheppard was moving? "What's not right?"

"He's moving at almost 15 KPH which is too fast even for Mr. Ninja jogger, especially in the dark. Are you sure you don't see anything? A vehicle? Beast of burden? Heli- Oh, no."

Ronon was peering even harder into the impenetrable gloom as McKay's yelp brought a flush of fear to his chest. "Oh, no what?"

"It's gone. Sheppard's transponder signal just went dark."

"Why? How was he moved?"

"How am I supposed to know? You're the one standing ten feet from where the missile signature faded out."

"This is where Sheppard was when the singing bullets went dark?"

"Yes. Can you see anything?" Rodney's voice was growing panicky which only twisted the fear in Ronon's own gut into tighter knots. McKay could figure more out with his machines from miles away than most men could with their own ears and eyes in person. If McKay was stumped…

Ronon strained his eyes and spun in a slow circle. An unusual outcropping of rock began to glow faintly in the brightening moonlight, its creamy, chalk grey surface reflecting the wan light. Sheppard had been looking for cover, so Ronon jogged to the rock and began to circle it. A twinkle of light caught his attention. Fighting back a snarl of fury, he dug in the pile of leaves and disturbed dust to pull out Sheppard's P-90, flashlight still glowing.

"Did you find anything?" Rodney repeated, but Ronon couldn't speak, yet.

He swept the beam over the ground and let the marks tell him the story.

"There's an impact crater against a boulder," he spoke into the radio at last. "One of the bullets smashed into the rock."

"That's reassuring," McKay quipped, but he wasn't being sarcastic and Ronon understood. If the bullet had hit the rock, it had not hit Sheppard.

"I can see where Sheppard lay in the dirt beside it."

"To avoid the missile," came a new, equally worried, voice. Ronon almost smiled. Teyla was listening in. Ronon crouched and concentrated the beam on the disturbed ground.

"There are drag marks. Someone pulled Sheppard away from here by his feet."

Ronon and Teyla exclaimed and spluttered at the comment, but Ronon tuned them out to hear what the earth was telling him. The drag marks continued as far as the flashlight beam could trace. He stood, intending to follow the marks, then crouched quickly again, dabbing at a small patch of damp dirt. He brought the mud to his face, then hung his head. His hands clenched into tight fists and a howl of frustration and fear found his voice.

When silence once again claimed the forest, Ronon lifted his hand to his radio, tapped the connection open.

"Sheppard's gone. I found blood at the place where he was dragged away and he's gone."

"I'm sending the rest of the Marine unit to your location. Stay put and we'll begin the search from there."

Ronon heard the words, but he wasn't listening. The curses in his head were too loud. He followed the drag marks until they, too, ended. There were two, deep, roughly foot-sized impressions at the spot, but they were unlike any prints Ronon had ever seen. Another splotch of wet blood stained a broadleaf weed beside the prints. Beyond that there was nothing.

"SHEPPARD!"

The dead, empty air swallowed up Ronon's shout. Only night-creekers replied.