It had been a fairly solid shot, Radek thought, though the ship would have reported any immediate damage. He expected it would take more than steam-powered artillery to damage the jumper’s hull. Still, there was no point in taking chances, and he nodded. “I’ll get on it.”
~#~
Twilight was settling over the campsite, the sky purple in the west where the sun had set. There was no moon, but the stars of the galaxy’s center arched overhead, a ragged cloud of light that would brighten as the last light faded. Bartolan pulled his chair to the front of his tent — he had moved out of the ship while it was decontaminated, and most of the crew had been just as reluctant as he to return to its narrow spaces. On the homeworld, and in space, it had felt open enough; here, in this sweeping sky and seemingly endless grassland, it felt faintly claustrophobic. Only the technical crew seemed unaffected. Possibly he should encourage people to move back on board soon, Bartolan thought, easing muscles that still ached from the fever, but at the moment he was content to sip at his cylinder of tea and wait for night to fall. Lights were springing up across the campsite, drowning out the blue-toned lights that marked the camp’s perimeter, and he worked his shoulders again.
Something moved in the Pride’s open hatch, and he recognized Orsolya making her way down the ramp. Heading toward him, too, and he allowed himself a sigh before he straightened to greet her. “Systems Engineer.”
“Captain.” She was carrying a tea-flask of her own, which he hoped meant this wasn’t too serious, and he waved for her to take one of the extra chairs. She pulled one closer and seated herself, leaning forward with both elbows on her knees. “I have a preliminary report on the ship’s systems.”
They were out of earshot of any of the rest of the crew, and Bartolan nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Do you want the good news, or the bad news?”
“Let’s start with the good news.”
Orsolya smiled. “I’ve managed to create workarounds that will keep the Pride’s systems initialized without our having to check in more than once a day. The ship’s decontamination protocol worked perfectly, and Dr. Innyes followed with manual decontamination of sick bay and common quarters. Whatever that damn bug was, it should be dead now.”
Bartolan winced. “Don’t get cocky, Engineer.”
“Sorry, sir.” Orsolya took a swallow of her tea, not noticeably chastened. “Also, I’ve figured out how to cross-link the control and engineering systems so that we can fly the ship with only the three of us with the natural ATA gene.”
“Everyone told me that was impossible,” Bartolan said.
“It won’t be easy or efficient,” Orsolya said. “And — I may be overstating it when I say ‘fly the ship.’ But I can get her into orbit.”
“And from there we can use the orbital gate to contact the homeworld,” Bartolan said.
Orsolya winced. “Ah. That would be the bad news.”
Bartolan sighed. “Oh?”
“Yes, sir.” To her credit, Orsolya was just as unflinching delivering bad news. “I can’t get the communications systems to function at all. The primary crystal has a hairline fracture, and we have nothing we can replace it with.”
“Can you tell what caused the fracture?”
“No.”
“The stress of landing?”
“I don’t know. It’s — possible, I suppose.”
“But?”
Orsolya sighed. “I told you, I’d found — unusual — damage in the comm system before this. This… If I had been assigned to disable the system discreetly, that’s how I would have done it. I can’t help being suspicious. But I have no evidence at all.”
Trust no one. Bartolan made a face. “Can you tell when it was done?”
“Not with any certainty.” Orsolya paused. “My best guess — but it’s only a guess.”
“Nonetheless. I’ll take what I can get.”
“I think it had to have been done after our broadcast to the homeworld. There would have been too much risk of it failing before that and being discovered.” She shrugged. “Of course, the crystal could have been flawed from the start, and we were just lucky until now.”
“Keep both possibilities in mind,” Bartolan said, after a moment. “Make sure our vital systems are protected.”
“I’ve already done that. As best I can, anyway.”
Bartolan sighed, wishing for more reassurance. “That’s all anyone can do.”
There was a shout from the gun tower, and he looked up sharply. The blue lights of the fence still glowed, their line unbroken, but both the gunners were on their feet, pointing out into the dark.
“There!” One of the gun crew pointed, and Bartolan rose to his feet, staring into the dark beyond the campsite. He thought he saw movement, the twitch of a shadow, but couldn’t be sure.
Orsolya was on her feet beside him. “Are those eyes?”
“Where?” Bartolan started toward the gun tower, grateful for the lifetime of habit that kept his pistol at his belt at all times. He could see nothing beyond the fence line, could hear nothing but the noise of the disturbed camp.
“There!”
He looked where she was pointing, sighting along her outstretched hand. For a second, he thought he saw a flash of silver, the flat gleam of an eye reflecting the camp’s lights, but it was gone before he could be sure.
“There it is again!” one of the gun crew shouted, and the other one fired the Ancient cannon in the general direction of the movement. The bolt of blue fire split the darkness, blinding Bartolan, struck and exploded, a flash of flame and smoke.
“Cease firing!” Bartolan shouted. “Cease firing!”
The gun crew obeyed, the younger of the two looking down at him. “Sir, there was something out there, we saw its eyes!”
“Did you get a look at it?” Bartolan knew the answer, tipped back his head to sniff for smoke. If they’d set the grass on fire, the camp would be in serious trouble — but they seemed to have avoided that so far.
“Not a good look, sir,” the older gunner said. Pars, his name was, son of a scout captain, and a man Bartolan would have considered reliable. “We could see something moving back and forth.”
“Like it was watching the camp,” the younger one put in. “Like it was thinking.”
Pars elbowed him roughly. “I wouldn’t go that far, sir. But we did see eyes. Reflecting the light.”
“Do you think you hit it?”
“Not sure, sir.”
“So. An animal saw the camp and was curious.” Bartolan pitched his voice to be overheard, well aware that most of the able-bodied crew had gathered to listen. “That’s not worth the chance of setting the grass on fire, is it?”
“No, sir,” Pars said, and the younger man echoed him. “But, sir — Derson’s right, it did look like it was watching us. And it moved like a predator, sir.”
Bartolan nodded, swearing silently. That was all they needed, something else to worry about. “That doesn’t make us prey. Keep a good watch, then. And don’t use the Ancient weapons except as a last resort.”
“Yes, sir,” the gunners chorused, and Bartolan turned back toward his tent.
“There was something out there,” Orsolya said. “I saw something, I’m sure of it.”
“If you want to be helpful,” Bartolan said, “get the ship to scan for whatever it was.”
Orsolya scowled. “I would, if I could get the scanners working properly. But I’ll see what I can do.”
She stalked toward the ramp that led into the ship. Bartolan watched her go, then returned to his tent, aware that the crew was watching him. He settled himself comfortably in his chair, though what he really wanted to do was pace until Orsolya brought some new sensor reading or morning came and they could investigate the grassland beyond the perimeter fence. But until then, it was up to him to seem perfectly relaxed, and in doing so, calm the rest of the crew.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“WE SHOULD CLEAR the Plaza.” Balas slammed
his fist on the long table, rattling the cups nearest him. At the opposite end of the table, Ladon lifted his eyebrows, but Balas glared back at him. “It’s undisciplined. They should be at home, waiting in private. Standing out there in the Plaza is… it’s ostentatious. It’s pure attention-seeking. It’s against all our most basic tenets. It’s un-Genii.”
“They’re women who fear they’ve lost their men,” Vendel said. It was rare that he directly contradicted one of the military, and heads turned. “Husbands, sons, fathers. It would be cruel to send them away. At least here they can support each other.”
“But we shouldn’t be supporting them,” Balas snapped.
“At the very least,” Dolos said, “we shouldn’t be feeding them. I understand that they have been receiving meals from the government cafeteria?”
“Yes, at my orders,” Ladon said. “A public convenience is also being held open for them around the clock.”
“Cowen would never have encouraged such protestors,” Balas said.
“What Cowen might or might not have done is hardly relevant,” Ladon pointed out, and Karsci lifted his head.
“Well, but it is, Chief, and you know it. There’s a risk certain parties might take this as a sign of weakness.”
Ladon took a careful breath. Karsci had always been an ally; if he was having doubts, it was wise to walk carefully. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I am not Cowen. The things he did to secure his government — that he had to do, in many cases — are no longer necessary. We can afford to be generous.” He paused, decided on a quick smile. “There’s no evidence that these women are anything but what they say they are, worried kinswomen. If we’re not strong enough to comfort them, we’re weak indeed.”
“I’m more worried about who might be using them,” Karsci said. “I’ll be blunt, folk in the south are likely to take this as a sign that the government doesn’t have things under control.”
Ladon looked down the table to the head of his intelligence service. “Elek?”
“We’ve investigated already,” Elek answered promptly. “And found nothing. No individual political activity, no links to individuals with political agendas, no connections. We sent in an undercover agent to offer a connection to anti-government forces, and the offer was rejected.” His lips twitched, but he managed to suppress his smile. “Several of the women struck him with their handbags. We’ll continue to monitor the situation, but I don’t believe we’ll find anything.”
Karsci put a hand over his mouth, his eyebrows twitching, and Vendel smiled openly. Tivador and Dolos exchanged amused glances, and Dahlia looked down at her notes to gain time to control herself. Only Balas shook his head, still scowling.
“However,” Karsci said. “It still looks bad to have these women camped out in the Plaza.”
“You can tell your people that the women declined an offer of housing,” Ladon said mildly, “and accepted food only with reluctance. I know your people have been through enough suffering over the last decades that they can easily imagine themselves in the women’s shoes. You’ve said to me yourself, the whole point of having a government is to help its people in situations like this.”
Karsci sighed, and spread his hands in surrender. Tivador said, stubbornly, “It looks bad. Isn’t here a way we can make it look better?”
“These are civilians,” Vendel said. “What do you propose?”
“Maybe we should give them more, make it clear the government approves.”
“But then we’d be encouraging everyone who disagrees with anything we do to camp out in the Plaza at our expense until they get what they want,” Karsci said. “It’s a fine line you’re walking, Ladon.”
Ladon nodded. “It’s necessary. And I think we’ve reached the end of useful discussion.” He looked down the table. “Dahlia. Will you update us on the Lanteans’ efforts?”
“Of course.” She glanced once at her notes, and straightened her back again. “I regret to inform you that the Lanteans’ survey of Inhalt was no more fruitful than ours. Not that we expected it to be. In some ways, this is good news, as we can still hope that the Pride is intact, but we are going to have to widen our search area to account for the change in course.”
“And the Lanteans are still willing to cooperate?” Dolos asked.
“At what price?” Balas muttered.
“We are still allies,” Ladon said. “I don’t expect that will last forever, but we should take advantage of it while we can. They can search worlds we can’t reach, and that may make a difference.”
“And they will learn all our capabilities at the same time,” Balas said.
“We’re taking measures to conceal as much as we can,” Dahlia said. “But, realistically, General, they will already have a good idea of what we can do. Especially since the battle against Queen Death.”
“Just as we’ve got a pretty good idea of their abilities,” Karsci said. “Also thanks to that battle. I’m not so worried about that, I’m worried about losing our Ancient warship. Is there any indication that the Lanteans would try to take it back?”
“None,” Dahlia said.
“They have ships of their own that are in better shape than the Pride,” Tivador said. “And they don’t require the ATA gene to man them.”
“Maybe we should put more effort into obtaining one of those ships, then,” Balas said. “Instead of mucking around with gene therapies that barely work.”
“The Lanteans are our allies,” Ladon said again. “When and if that ceases to be true — yes, we can investigate that, though I’ll remind you that people have tried and failed.”
“We can do better than the Travelers.” Balas glared down the length of the table.
“But not now.” Ladon matched him stare for stare, and after a moment Balas looked away, throwing up his hands in theatrical despair.
“Not now, not yet, never! We’ll end up as the Lanteans’ pawns, mark my words.”
“Not while I live,” Ladon said, and the intensity in his voice silenced the room.
“In any case,” Dahlia said, after a moment, “the Lanteans are continuing to send their puddle jumpers to search planets along the Pride’s new most likely course, and will report back as soon as they find anything. And, of course, our own scouts are continuing their search as well. But this is likely to take some time, days rather than hours. We need to be prepared for that.”
“And these women will be camped in the Plaza that entire time.” Balas shook his head.
“No one will stop them from leaving if they want to,” Ladon said. “But otherwise — yes, they will be here, and they will be treated fairly.”
“We’re going to regret this,” Balas said. “Mark my words. We cannot survive without discipline.”
“Do we need a vote?” Karsci asked, and Balas glared at him.
“I can see I’m outnumbered.”
“Then let’s move on,” Ladon said, and put a note of steel into his voice.
~#~
It wasn’t hard to find the point where the cannon’s shot had struck the side of the jumper. Halfway down the jumper’s side, a little forward of the now-retracted engine pod, the hull was discolored and dented, though the Lantean metal had deformed rather than cracking under the impact. Radek ran his hand over the dent, feeling its depth: a good five centimeters at the center, nearly the length of his thumb. At least it hadn’t been an explosive shell; it still probably wouldn’t have penetrated the Ancient alloy, but he would have had to track down all the shrapnel and make sure none of that had damaged any external elements. It was also lucky that the shot had missed the engine pod. Extended in flight, some relatively delicate systems were unavoidably exposed; even solid shot could have done considerable damage.
Radek took a step down the borrowed ladder, bracing his knees against it so that he could consult his tablet. Conduits ran beneath the jumper’s skin, servicing any number of systems, and he frowned as he traced its path. Two lines ran close enough to the p
oint of impact that he should check to be sure they weren’t affected. And that was going to take time. He tucked the tablet under his arm, and climbed down again, crossing the field to where Lorne stood in conversation with the Gatekeeper. Lorne saw him coming and broke away.
“What’s it look like, Doc?”
“The hull is intact,” Radek answered. “As expected. But there is a sizable dent in the surface, and I would like to check the conduit nearest the impact site before we go too much farther. But we can do that from orbit if you think it would be better for us to leave quickly.”
Lorne hesitated, visibly restraining himself from looking back at Parabantha, who was now talking to one of the soldiers and a young woman in a knee-length smock. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said, after a moment. “But there’s something screwy about this. Parabatha’s been trying to hint that the Genii were behind the attack, which doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.”
“The attack doesn’t make much sense to me,” Radek said, lowering his voice. “First, what do you gain by ambushing the puddle jumper? Surely they didn’t think that a solid shot would damage our hull. Although…” He shook his head, unable to find words for the frustration. “Perhaps they didn’t know. Perhaps they are not very good at science, whoever they are. In any case, I would say that was a local weapon, not something brought from off world.”
Lorne rubbed his chin. “Local faction? The Genii using someone else’s gun to throw us off the track? Some new party? And can we trust what Parabantha tells us?”
“They seem very eager to develop a relationship with Atlantis,” Radek said.
“They’re allied with the Genii,” Lorne said, his voice neutral.
Radek shrugged. “Did they have a choice?”
Lorne sighed. “What an excellent question. But I think it’s outside my pay grade.” He paused. “Go ahead and look over the conduit on the ground, just to be safe. How long do you think it’ll take?”
Stargate Atlantis #24 Page 16
