Stargate Atlantis #24

by Melissa Scott

  Ladon grimaced, wishing he could pass the question back to security, but it was a political question at its heart. The people who could afford to rent those windows, with views almost as good as the one from the reviewing balcony were people of power and influence: better not to anger them if he could avoid it. “Tell Dorthan to go ahead as long as they agree to a weapons check.”

  “Yes, Chief.” Ambrus repeated the order, and listened again. “Colonel Lezar has established a checkpoint to ensure that no marchers’ weapons are loaded, but General Balas has objected.”

  “Tell him that it’s my direct order. He can choose not to accept the search, but he won’t be allowed to march.” Balas was the sort to complain for the sake of complaining, Ladon thought. He waited while Ambrus relayed the message, and was not surprised when Ambrus nodded.

  “General Balas says he complies under protest.”

  “Let him protest till he turns blue,” Ladon said, and sighed. “Tell him the Chief appreciates his cooperation.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “How long before the parade can begin?” Ladon glanced toward the sealed doors that led to the chamber where the Lanteans were waiting. The whole point of this exercise had been to remind the Lanteans that the Genii were very nearly their equals; they would have to work quickly to repair the damage.

  “The first units can move out in ten minutes,” Ambrus answered. “Major Dorthan reports that he’s letting people back into the buildings opposite the reviewing stand. There were only a few dozen of them, it shouldn’t take long to get them settled.”

  Ladon nodded, and lifted the edge of one of the heavy curtains that blocked the anteroom’s view of the plaza. The opening was covered with bulletproof glass as thick as his thumb, but he could see the building on the far side of the plaza, carved into the living stone like the one in which he stood. It was only two stories high, with six arched windows overlooking the open area, and already he could see lights moving behind the glass as the elite audience resumed their seats. In the arcade below the windows, the crowd had already returned, filling in the spaces in orderly groups, careful to stay an arm’s-length behind the soldiers who lined the plaza’s edge. A few children had been hoisted to their parents’ shoulders, but none were being passed forward through the crowd: after the assassination attempt, no responsible parent was going to let their child out of arms’ reach, Ladon thought, and felt another flash of anger. It was a little thing, but there were few enough holidays in the Genii calendar, and he was sorry to see it spoiled.

  “Let’s move on,” he said aloud, and worked his shoulders. “Take the Lanteans to the reviewing balcony. I’ll meet them there.”

  Benches had been set up at the front of the balcony, one just at the rail, the other on a riser behind it. Ladon took his place front and center, gesturing for Colonel Sheppard to sit at his left. Those members of the ruling council who were not marching with their units were taking their places as well, and he was pleased to see that Dahlia had been seated next to Dr. Beckett, the Marines and their young officer beside him. Sheppard said something to Lorne, and fixed Ladon with one of his least sincere smiles.

  “So are we likely to get shot at? Because I’m not really dressed for it.”

  “We’ve resolved the problem,” Ladon said. He took a deep breath, relieved that the air smelled only of the usual machine smells, not gunpowder. “I regret to say that there was an apparent assassination attempt, but the attackers have been dealt with.”

  “I just bet,” someone said, under his breath.

  Ladon couldn’t look around to see whether it was one of the Marines, or one of his own men. If it’s one of mine, let them worry, he thought, and allowed himself a thin smile. “One of them, unfortunately, was killed, but the other was taken alive. I expect we’ll be able to get answers from him eventually.”

  “Does this happen often?” Sheppard asked. “You seem to have it down to a routine.

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, Genii politics are not for the faint-hearted,” Ladon answered, and heard Lorne grunt in answer.

  “We’d noticed,” Sheppard said. “Have you considered something less… lethal?”

  “Lethality has been one of our greatest virtues,” Ladon said. “We have stood against the Wraith for far longer than you have been in Pegasus, Colonel. You can’t expect to rearrange everything to fit your preconceptions, not overnight.”

  “And yet,” Sheppard said, “we have a deal.”

  “We have an agreement,” Ladon said, “which will last as long as the Wraith decide to keep it. And I do not believe that will be very long at all.”

  “They’ve kept it so far.” Sheppard’s voice was mild, but Ladon thought he was perfectly aware of the other council members, listening with stretched ears.

  “They’ve kept it because they were worst damaged by the fight with Queen Death. As soon as they have recovered — and that may take two or more of our generations, they don’t care, they can wait — they’ll be back. They’ll push against the treaty, and eventually, when they think they can overwhelm us, they’ll break it completely. We intend to be ready when that happens.” Ladon took a careful breath, aiming his words not just at the Lanteans, but at his own council. “Atlantis may do as it pleases. We are happy to have you as an ally, but we will not allow you to interfere with our readiness.”

  “How you want to run things on your planet is absolutely your business,” Sheppard said. “We really don’t care. It just seems to me that you might eventually want to look into other ways of transferring power.”

  And that was a direct hit, Ladon thought, whether the Lantean fully meant it or not. He managed to keep his expression steady with an effort, and was grateful for the blast of trumpets that cut off his answer as the first military band entered the plaza.

  ~#~

  John let himself fall back onto the bed in his private room, wishing he could just curl up and go to sleep. The parade had taken four hours — and the Genii didn’t go in for much in the way of bright uniforms; it had been four hours of nearly indistinguishable units marching past in perfect step, like something out of an old newsreel — and then there had been the banquet after. That had been another several hours, and must have had a dozen courses; even the Marines had been groaning and playing with their food for the last couple of plates. At least he had had a chance to exchange a few words with Dahlia — compliments on the Pride, mostly, and for the first time he was glad Teyla hadn’t been there. It was bad enough that he’d criticized the Genii government; they didn’t need to be reminded that Teyla carried Wraith DNA. But there had to be a better way of becoming Chief of the Genii than by murdering your predecessor. Though of course that was exactly what Ladon had done, and it was just luck that he hadn’t ended up killing Lorne and his away team at the same time.

  He groaned and shoved himself upright, reaching for his radio, thumbed it to the frequency that would reach the waiting puddlejumper. He’d checked in earlier, after the assassination attempt, but it was time for the evening call. “Singh. This is Sheppard. Come in.”

  “Singh here, Colonel.” The response was gratifyingly prompt.

  “Everything all right where you are?”

  “Yes, sir.” Singh paused. “We’ve been monitoring local radio, sir, but there’s nothing new on the attack. Is everything still all right where you are?”

  “We’re good.” John smiled in spite of himself. “They’ve had a lot of practice. I wouldn’t say it was a daily occurrence, but it didn’t seem unexpected, either.”

  “The broadcasters didn’t seem all that upset by it, either,” Singh said. “Will you be coming back in the morning?”

  “Tomorrow night,” John said. “Late tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. The Genii want to show off some more of their fancy equipment.” And we want to see what they’ve got, even though what they’re willing to show us probably isn’t the best they have — unless they’re trying some kind of double-bluff, and want us to think that th
ey have better materiel than they actually do. That was the kind of diplomatic thinking that made his head hurt, and he rolled his head from side to side, easing his neck. “Tell Colonel Carter that someone tried to kill Radim at the ceremony today, but that I don’t think it’s any indication that his regime is particularly unstable. It’s just Genii politics. We weren’t in any danger —“ He stopped then, wondering. Radim was just twisted enough to stage something like an assassination attempt, except he couldn’t see what the point would be. “We weren’t exposed to any danger, and apparently the perpetrators were caught. It is going to delay our getting home, but tell her we’ll be back by tomorrow night.”

  “Very good, sir,” Singh answered, and John cut the connection.

  Just how tricky was Radim? he wondered again. He’d worked some pretty elaborate cons before, and if he was up to something like that again… Except he couldn’t see how fooling them about a possible assassination could benefit the Genii. He could hear voices faintly through the connecting door, and rose to tap on it.

  Lorne opened it instantly, faint frown relaxing. “Come in, Colonel. Dr. Beckett brought some tea.”

  “Because we all need something to help the digestion after that meal,” Beckett said frankly, “and I’ve got plenty.”

  “Thanks.” John let him make another cup of tea, and took the chair Lorne offered. “I’ve got a question for both of you. Do you think this assassination attempt was real?”

  “Now there’s a thought,” Beckett said.

  Lorne pursed his lips. “You think he might have been putting on a show?”

  “To what end?” Beckett shook his head. “Surely that’s a little baroque.”

  “That’s the Genii for you,” John said. “Their politics define ‘baroque.’”

  “Yeah, but I don’t see what it gets them,” Lorne said. “Everything else, there’s been an obvious goal.”

  John nodded. “The only thing it’s done is delay our departure by, what, twelve or fifteen hours. That doesn’t do much. Still…”

  “There’s a lot that can happen in twelve hours,” Lorne said, morosely.

  “I don’t think it was a plot,” Beckett said. “I spent the parade talking to Dahlia, and I’d lay money she was genuinely upset. And before you say it, I can’t imagine that Radim would keep a secret like this from her. She’s his highest-ranking civilian ally, after all.”

  “That’s good to know,” John said. “And helpful. Thanks, Doc.”

  “Our people already know to keep an eye out for anything unusual,” Lorne said

  “Let’s hope to heaven they don’t find anything,” Beckett said, and John could only nod.

  ~#~

  Bartolan slumped in the navigator’s chair, then roused himself enough to rub the grit from his eyes. He’d only been without sleep since the first wave of sickness swept through the crew, but in that time, he’d seen his bridge crew dwindle from fifteen, three full watches, to four. Two of them were manning the critical stations, while he filled in at whatever else was vital — navigation, at this moment, though for a wonder nothing seemed to be demanding their attention — and the other two tried to get some sleep in bedrolls in one of the two small compartments at the back of the control room. Food poisoning was nothing like this, Bartolan thought, too tired to curse. Innyes had gotten that diagnosis disastrously wrong.

  A chime sounded at the captain’s station, and he hauled himself upright, swearing, and transferred himself to the other chair. “Bartolan here.”

  “Captain.” Innyes sounded just as tired as Bartolan felt, and he felt a new fear wash through him. If there was more, if they lost any more people to the mystery illness — no one had died, yet, but no one had recovered, either, and they were rapidly approaching the point at which he wouldn’t have enough people to run the ship. “I have an update.”

  From her tone, it was more bad news, and Bartolan suppressed a groan. “One minute, doctor. Alters!”

  The sergeant turned from the pilot’s station. “Captain?”

  A dozen possible statements hovered on his lips. He said, “You have command. I’ll be back shortly.”

  He saw the sudden fear cross Alters’s expression, but the sergeant said only, “Yes, sir.”

  Bartolan retreated to the empty compartment, and let the door slide shut behind him. The lights brightened, revealing the workstation, and the central screen came to life. Innyes looked out at him, red-eyed with fatigue. “Are you alone?”

  No, I’m broadcasting this to everyone and their allies. He swallowed the words. “Yes, Doctor. You had an update?”

  “Yes, sir.” She straightened her shoulders. “The first patients to come down with this disease are showing signs of recovery. Their fever is down, and they’ve been able to eat without ill effects.”

  “That’s good news, surely,” Bartolan said.

  “Unfortunately, three of the four were recipients of the artificial ATA gene,” Innyes said, “and somehow the disease has deactivated it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s as if they never had the gene,” Innyes said. “The ship doesn’t recognize them.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. I’m working on that, but all I can be sure of is the result.”

  If the gene treatment failed… If they were stranded in hyperspace without enough crew to work the ship’s controls… There were only a handful of people on board the Pride who had a natural ATA gene, not nearly enough to fly the ship without assistance. “How many people have the gene naturally?”

  “Three.”

  “Three,” Bartolan repeated. That wasn’t enough, wasn’t even close to enough; he needed at least five — seven would be better, but it was just possible with five — “There must be more than that.”

  “We have three crewmembers with the natural gene fully expressed,” Innyes said. “We have six more who have the weak form of the gene, the recessive version. Unfortunately, this disease seems to inhibit the weak gene as well, though I haven’t been able to determine whether that’s due to the disease blocking the production of the neurotransmitters that communicate with the ship or if it’s actually changing their nature.”

  “Does it really matter?” Bartolan said, involuntarily.

  To his surprise, Innyes gave a twisted smile. “It does in the long run. If I’m right about the mechanism, and that’s a big if, that will be the difference between whether this is temporary or permanent.”

  “Can you give them the treatment again?”

  “I’ve tried. It’s only one volunteer, but —“ She shrugged. “The results were not promising. The technician relapsed, and has been returned to quarantine. We’ll know once the fever has run its course, but I’m not hopeful.”

  “No.” Bartolan took a deep breath, trying to sort out his options. “All right. Obviously, the quarantine must continue —“

  “It’s not going to be enough.” Innyes shook her head. “We were all on Teos, we’ve all been exposed, and it’s clear that the disease is highly contagious and is airborne. It’s already in the ventilation systems. We’re not going to be able to keep it from affecting everyone on board. Our only choice is to find a nearby planet with a Stargate. If we land before everyone is infected, at least we’ll be able to get home that way.”

  “No,” Bartolan said again. “Not a world with a Stargate.” He saw her expression change, and knew she’d understood, but went on nevertheless. “We don’t know what else this disease will do, what it can do. We don’t dare bring it back to the homeworld, not until we fully understand what it’s done.”

  “The Ring of the Ancestors cleanses many diseases,” Innyes began, and Bartolan interrupted her.

  “So we’ve always believed. But not all of them.”

  “Not all of them,” she agreed. “No, Captain, you’re right. But if we’re going to land, we’ll have to do it quickly.”

  I feel fine, Bartolan thought, but swallowed the words for fear of bringing mor
e bad luck. “Who has the natural gene?”

  “The chief systems engineer, and navigator second class Eszti. And myself.”

  Wonderful. Bartolan said, “I’m not sure how helpful you’ll be able to be.”

  “I was given emergency training as a technical back-up,” Innyes said, “but I agree, it would be better if I didn’t leave my patients. If nothing else, I’m a vector of infection. That’s another reason we need to act now.”

  “Quite. All right, Doctor. I’ll let you know what is decided.” Bartolan pressed the button that cut the connection before she could protest, and stood for a moment, swaying with fatigue. Surely it was only fatigue, he thought, with sudden alarm. He felt fine otherwise, just painfully tired. All right, he had a headache, but that was pure exhaustion, the result of being on duty since the crisis began.

  He seated himself at the workstation, and rested one hand on the soft gel that was the Pride’s direct interface. Ship.

  He could feel the Pride stirring at the back of his mind, sluggish at first, and then more responsive.

  Ship. I need coordinates for the nearest human-habitable worlds without Stargates.

  A picture formed in the back of his mind, the Pride as she flashed through hyperspace, and then a set of exit points, each with a scattering of systems highlighted.

  Ship. Choose the one that puts us closest to landing on a habitable planet, then identify the planet.

  The pictures vanished, and were replaced with data on a screen: three hours more in hyperspace, and then six hours to the planet. Surely they could manage that, Bartolan thought, and lifted his hand from the interface. He touched the intercom controls. “Agosten. Engineer Orsolya.”

  The screen split and windowed, Orsolya looking at him from her station in the engineering section. “Captain?”

  “Stand by.”

  The other screen lit, Agosten staring blearily into the camera. “Captain.”

  “We have a problem,” Bartolan said, and Orsolya dredged up an inappropriate laugh.