Mel swallowed hard. “Take an ultralight out to scout. Go see who you can find. Use light planes to reestablish contact.” She nodded slowly, taking another sip of tea to cover where her throat had closed. “Light planes to ferry medicine and doctors, to tie the world back together.”
“Yes,” Cai said.
“The Satedan Air Force.”
Cai nodded. “Do you think it could be done?”
“Way too easily,” Mel said. “A couple of kit planes bought with your titanium, brought out on the Daedalus. Bring them through the Stargate disassembled and put them together here. I’m not enough of a mechanic to do it, but we’ve got plenty of people who are.” She looked at him. “But who would fly it? If your people didn’t have aircraft, you’d need to send some people to flight school.”
“Or hire an instructor,” Cai said. His eyes lingered on her face speculatively. “I wonder what that would cost.”
Mel swallowed again. “I’m sure with the right person you could work something out,” she said. “After all, Ronon is a contractor who works for us. You could hire someone as a contractor, someone to help you get your air program off the ground, no pun intended.”
Cai looked at her sideways. He must see the interest, the hunger. “Interested?”
“I could be,” Mel said. “I’ll have my twenty years in June, seven months from now. And if they haven’t repealed Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell… Well, that’s a long story, but let’s just say I’ve got some personal frustrations with certain regulations.” She straightened up, looking up into the bright, cool Satedan sky. It felt right. A new world, a new beginning, the start of something entirely different. No more lies, no more watching her back among her own people. “I could retire and come to Sateda. Yes.”
Ronon hauled himself slowly up the ladder to the Museum’s main floor, wondering what he should do. The Genii had lied, but that was hardly a surprise; the Genii generally found lies easier than truth, and he could see why Ladon Radim might not want to tell anyone that his brand-new Ancient warship wasn’t currently armed. But that still left the question of whether or not they ought to initialize the crystal. He wished there was a way he could call Sheppard — no, call Woolsey; if he was going to ask for help, he ought to ask the person who was actually in charge — but he couldn’t think of a way to do it that wouldn’t offend Dahlia Radim. And she already didn’t trust them. It wasn’t like Teyla to screw up anything that involved diplomacy — but that wasn’t the point. The point was, the Genii were still useful allies, and it was in his hands whether they stayed that way.
He came out into the sunlight, blinking, the smell of the settlement’s cooking fires drifting on the warm breeze. Dahlia was sitting on a low wall, her scientists one on each side like a Wraith queen’s warriors. She looked tired, her skin blanched, wrinkles showing in the strong light. The Marines had moved away, toward the edge of the little courtyard, and were talking quietly, P90s dangling; Hocken and Cai had their heads together, and the colonel was grinning as though he’d told her a particularly clever joke. Ronon had never seen her expression so unguarded, wondered if there was a place where his face changed like that. Once it had been Sateda, of course, but now — Atlantis, perhaps, where they’d taken him in, seen him at his worst, and still let him find his way. Which was another reason he had to do this right. Somehow.
He cleared his throat because he didn’t know how to address a Genii Chief of Sciences, and they all turned to look at him. Right. Give them the device Dahlia needed to make their only starship operational — to make it a battle cruiser, perhaps the equal of one of the Earth warships. He wished he knew more about their capabilities, wished he’d paid more attention, read more, studied more. Probably not their equal; the ship might be better, but the Earth people knew what they were doing, their crews were trained in a way the Genii couldn’t be. And they needed everybody, every human in Pegasus, who could fight to stand up against Queen Death. That had to be the bottom line, he thought. They couldn’t do anything unless they defeated Death. And that meant handing the Genii the weapons they needed, much as he hated the idea.
Dahlia rose to her feet, the sun bright on her fair hair. “Can you initialize it?”
Ronon nodded. “Yeah. But — you know there’s a problem.”
Dahlia hesitated for just an instant, then dipped her head in turn. “I am aware that the crystal has a hairline crack, yes. I believe it will hold, if power levels are strictly controlled.”
“Maybe,” Radek interjected. He moved to join them, giving Ronon one wary glance. Ronon nodded again, and the scientist’s mouth tightened for an instant.
“OK, then,” Radek said. He looked back at Dahlia. “It may hold for a while, yes, but not forever. You will blow it up eventually.”
“That’s possible, certainly,” Dahlia said. “But, unless you have a replacement to offer in trade, we have no choice if we are to get the Pride of the Genii into running order. Which, I hardly need mention, is to your advantage as much as it is to ours.”
“Yes, yes,” Radek said. “I am aware of the situation. But that’s not my concern here. The crystal is flawed, and it will eventually fail. Probably catastrophically. And I have no desire to be blamed for sabotaging it.”
Something like a smile flickered across Dahlia’s face. “I can assure you that will not happen.”
“No?” Radek tipped his head to one side, looking like an angry bird.
“The flaw is known,” Dahlia said. “I have taken full responsibility.”
Radek threw up his hands. “On your head be it, then.”
“Very likely,” Dahlia said. She looked at Ronon, frowning, and he shrugged.
“It’s a reasonable concern.”
Her eyes fell. “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “From your perspective, I do see that. But — as I said, the responsibility is mine.”
“OK, then,” Ronon said. He had to believe her, or say no. And they needed the Genii, at least for now. “Colonel?”
Hocken turned away from her conversation with Cai, came to join them. “Mr. Dex?”
“Go ahead and — turn this thing on.” Ronon waved toward the improvised bench where Radek had left the crystal cocooned in spongy padding.
“Sure thing.” She bent over the crystal, folding the padding away, and the crystal hummed softly at her touch. She frowned, concentrating, and the crystal lit with a flash that made them all jump.
“Hocken?”
“Holy crap.” She bit back whatever else she would have said. “Did I do that?”
“Let me see,” Radek said, hurrying over, and Dahlia was at his heels. Hocken backed away, and the two scientists bent over the crystal together.
“Great,” Hocken said, under her breath. “Way to go, Mel.”
Ronon glanced at her, and saw her blush. “Hey, it’s not your fault. Everybody said it was damaged.”
“Yeah, but.” Hocken shook her head.
“You heard her yourself,” Ronon said. “It’s her call, not ours. And they weren’t going to be able to manage without it.”
“I suppose,” Hocken said, but he thought she looked relieved.
“Oh, very good,” Radek said, straightening, and Dahlia gave a long sigh. “OK, yes, that was — interesting — but it has held, and it’s successfully initialized.”
“Thank you,” Dahlia said, and managed to remember, “Colonel. Gentlemen.”
And if it held under that stress, Ronon thought, it would probably hold up to the strain of the weapons system. At least for a while. And that had to be a good thing, or at least that was what he’d tell Woolsey.
It was a little harder to remember that conviction sitting in Woolsey’s office, his hands folded carefully on the desktop, copying Woolsey’s familiar pose. He felt like a schoolboy, like the overgrown fifteen-year-old he’d been, tripping over his feet and his tongue, often at the same time. But that was a very long time ago, and he straightened his spine, fighting for the words.
“So it se
emed to me that it was better to go ahead and give them the working crystal so that they could fight Queen Death. So I did.”
There was a little silence, Woolsey watching him steadily. “That’s it?” he said at last.
Ronon nodded. “Yeah.”
Woolsey nodded slowly. “I agree.”
“What?” Ronon had been braced to argue, to justify himself, felt as though he’d stepped on ice that cracked to let him fall through.
“I agree.” Woolsey smiled slightly. “It was a good call, Mr. Dex.”
“Thanks,” Ronon said after a moment, and pushed himself back from the desk. Woolsey looked up at him, his face abruptly serious.
“You’re welcome. It’s why we’re glad to have you here, you know.”
“Thanks,” Ronon said again, and let himself out into the gateroom.
Chapter Seventeen
The Old One’s Tale
The ship would not speak to him, despite his blandishments. Ember hauled himself to his feet, letting his fingers trail along the wall of the cell one last time. He thought this was a cruiser, but it was hard to be sure even of that much: the ship resisted him, blocked his thoughts, and if he pressed much further, it would send a warning jolt of electricity through its skin. He worked his shoulders, assessing his condition. He still felt the haze of the Culling beam, and he was weaker than he should be, the first pains of hunger starting in his palm. He had fed recently, though, so either he had been held for longer than seemed reasonable, or — He tugged open the neck of coat and shirt. There was no mark on his skin, but he was sure someone had fed on him. It was common enough, to weaken a prisoner so, but he wished whoever had done it would sicken. So he had been a prisoner, then, long enough for his body to heal itself, but not long enough for all the effects of the Culling beam to have worn off completely: a day, then, and no more than two.
It didn’t make sense. Why would he have been taken prisoner instead of being killed outright? Death might suspect that he had helped Quicksilver, but the point where that would have mattered was long past. Steelflower had set herself openly against Death, and both sides were gathering their allies and their fleets. The business with McKay had failed, and should be put aside, unless Death was feeling vindictive. That was a possibility that could not be ignored, either, and he grimaced at the thought. He remembered kneeling before her, her feeding hand against his skin, tugging the life from him. Or perhaps she thought he might be a useful bargaining counter: he was, after all, Steelflower’s chief cleverman. That thought was no more appealing.
The light shifted outside the webbed door, and he straightened, smoothing his hair to something like order. A pair of drones, and a tall blade — no, a blade he recognized, and Ember shuddered in spite of himself.
The Old One smiled from the far side of the grill. *Good. You have not forgotten.*
*How could I?* Ember dipped his head politely, and braced himself for whatever game was to come. He was not on Death’s flagship, he would have recognized it even if it refused contact; this was some smaller craft, a ship he had never visited.
*I am sorry it has come to this,* the Old One said, after a moment, and waved the drones to a distance, out of ordinary listening. *Your queen is reckless with your lives, to stand against our lady.*
Death was more reckless still. Ember let that show in his face, said only, *It is her right.*
The Old One gave a thin smile. *As it is my queen’s right to take your life in truth, rather than the taste she had earlier.*
Ember flinched, and knew the Old One saw.
*It is fortunate that she has another use for you.*
*Forgive me if that does not fill me with delight,* Ember said, and this time the Old One laughed aloud.
*No, no, this is truly your day of fortune, cleverman. I wish you to carry a message to Guide.*
*I will not act against my queen,* Ember said warily.
*I do not ask you to,* the Old One said. *I say this message is for Guide as one lord of the zenana speaks to another. It is not yet a matter for queens.*
Such messages were not unknown — Ember remembered such negotiations from childhood, when there had been more hives circling the galaxy in complex alliance. But now? He tipped his head to one side, considering. It would only be trickery, but surely there was no harm in carrying a message. Guide would be glad if he lived, and there was no shame in finding a way to survive. And yet why would the Old One bother, knowing that he would put the pieces together in the same way?
*Tell me this message,* he temporized. *And if I may do so with honor, I will carry it to Guide.*
*You are a cleverman, master of sciences biological,* the Old One said. *Have you never wondered how we came to be?”
*We?* Ember repeated.
*We Wraith,* the Old One said.
Ember paused. *We are not encouraged to pursue the matter.*
*You are a master, a cleverman of Gryphon,* the Old One said. *And the sons of Gryphon never leave well enough alone. What were your conclusions?*
*We are a hybrid of the Iratus insect and humans,* Ember said, after a moment. Anyone who made Sciences Biological their specialty learned that much, though it was not something blades spoke of, and even cleverman treated it with caution. But that much was no real secret.
*And?*
*Iratus abilities imposed on a human template,* Ember said. That was the dangerous piece, that they were close kin to the kine that fed them. No one wanted to hear that, even if it were true.
The Old One gave an approving nod. *By whom?*
Ember blinked. *By…no one, I would say. The Iratus drones are vicious and stealthy. I expect humans came through the Ring looking for a new homeworld, and found too late that a queen and hive were already in residence. Over the generations, the species merged.* His voice trailed off. No, that couldn’t be the right answer. The human settlers would simply have left the planet, gone back where they’d come from, long before the Iratus traits could become solidly established. Unless there had been some reason they couldn’t leave?
The Old One smiled again. *You already see the flaws in that hypothesis.*
*You have a better answer?*
*We were made,* the Old One said. *We were made by the Ancients for their own purposes, but we rebelled against them. What did you think caused the war between us? They knew we would kill them all for what they had done.*
Ember’s breath caught in his chest. Yes, that made sense. It smoothed out the impossible time line, eliminated a hundred problems that he and other clevermen had worried over — that generations of clevermen had worked to solve, but could not, unable to imagine that one possibility.
*You see it,* the Old One said, and Ember dipped his head again.
*Yes. But — why?*
*That I never knew,* the Old One said, and there was a bitter edge to his voice. *But that is the message I would have you take to Guide — and to Steelflower, if she has wit to hear. We cannot trust these humans, these new Lanteans. They are children of the Ancients, carrying their blood, their genes, and we cannot make peace with them. If we try, they will destroy us utterly.*
*That doesn’t follow,* Ember said.
The Old One bared his teeth. *They will have no choice. They made us too well.* He paused, extended his off hand through the unshielded bars of the holding cell. *As we had no choice in our day. Come, I will tell you a story, one no one has heard in a thousand years or more — if you dare listen.*
*What is your lineage?* Ember demanded. A man of Osprey could fill his mind with visions, Cloud’s children could compel —
*I have no lineage,* the Old One said. *I served Osprey in my day, but I am not of her kin, or any others’. I am the last of ninety-nine men who served the First Mothers. Will you hear my tale?*
Impossible, surely — but, no, it was all too possible. Even the Old One’s face testified to its probability, carved on lines no living queen, no queen in living memory, would choose. Slowly Ember held out his own off hand, let t
he Old One close fingers around his wrist.
*I will hear,* he said.
Their eyes were stung by the full light of day but the caves beneath Mount Sirris were cool and damp and welcoming. Ashes had hunted crystals there when he was younger, before he had sought the City of the Ancestors, and to his mild surprise he found that he remembered the network of tunnels as though he had searched there yesterday. There was a cave toward the eastern side of the mountain where the air was sweet and there was access to a cold spring. He led them there by the light of a single torch, amazed at how much better his night-sight had become, and as their band spread blankets and kindled a fire, he carried skins to the pool to fill them. Not that he was thirsty — none of them were; he’d asked, over and over, and no one admitted thirst — but he still could not entirely believe that they could live without drinking.
Without drinking water, in any case. He sat back on his heels, the first waterskin soft and plump at his side. The distant firelight caught the crystals that studded the rock behind the pool, flecks of light like stars, like his first glimpse of space from the Ancestors’ ships, when he had still been loved by them, when he had still believed… He looked away, fixing his eyes on the barely-rippling water. They had all drunk blood in plenty, in the escape, and after.
He looked down at his left hand, turned it palm up to study the new organ at its heart. He’d heard the uneasy jokes, first from the Ancestors themselves, when they hadn’t known he’d listened, and again from the younger men, though the women’s strength kept them from saying them too loudly, but he had no time to waste with that. He was a scientist; it was his task to decipher what it was that they had become.
STARGATE ATLANTIS: Secrets (Book 5 in the Legacy series) Page 18
