by Graham, Jo
“We can’t just ignore them—”
“Why not?” Ladon asked, mildly. “Let them fight the Wraith this time. We could use some breathing room.”
Sora’s mouth opened, then closed into a tight scowl. She was slightly flushed, the color brightening her porcelain skin, but Ladon was unmoved by the effect. He had worked with her far too long for that. Ambrus hadn’t known her then, but he was quick and clever—that was why Ladon had chosen him—and he was careful not to look at her when he spoke.
“They have been to Trictinia. And to Anava. That was after they were both Culled.”
“Have they, now?” Ladon said. It was not a surprise; Atlantis had always been short of food, would need trading partners. “Do we know what they made of the attacks?”
“What does it matter?” Sora demanded. “Ladon, we need to deal with them—”
“Deal with them how?” Ladon asked. “Do you really think it does us any good to declare Atlantis an enemy?”
“Does it do us any good to call them friend?” she responded.
“It worked better than attacking them,” Ladon answered. They had both been on that disastrous mission; she should know better.
“We can’t trust them,” Sora began, and Ladon shook his head.
“Let it go, Sora.” His voice was sharper than he had meant. He pretended he hadn’t noticed, and looked at Ambrus. “Do we know what they thought?”
The chief of staff shrugged. He had never been under Cowen’s discipline, and it showed. “The Tricti have refused to talk, but the Anavans… One of our teams spoke to the council there, while we were arranging aid. They said that the Lanteans were back—I identified Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay from their accounts. They offered medical help, which the Anavans accepted, and were looking to trade for food, as usual.”
“What about Teyla Emmagan?” Sora asked. “Was she with them?”
Ladon shook his head at Ambrus, who relaxed a fraction, clearly grateful not to have to answer. “Sora. I will tell you this once, and only once. Tyrus is dead. Whether or not it was Teyla’s fault no longer matters. Let it go, or you are no longer of use.”
He watched the color drain from her face, her expression blank and pretty as a doll’s. He could hear Cowen’s voice in his own, feel Cowen’s heavy hand in that threat, and a part of him was briefly ashamed. If she was banished from his service, she would have nothing to fall back on except her looks and her military training, and there wasn’t much demand for the latter. And there were plenty of pretty women with better temperaments, calmer manners… But Sora knew better, had to know better: they could not afford to antagonize the Lanteans. At least not until the current project was further advanced, he amended silently, but Sora, mercifully, knew nothing of that.
“Well?”
Sora blinked. “I will obey your orders. I always have! But you know there will have to be a reckoning with Atlantis someday.”
“Maybe,” Ladon said. “But when it comes, it will be on our terms. My terms. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Sora lifted her chin, the red curls bobbing. “Does this mean that our salvage teams will not continue?”
“Did I say that?” Ladon took a careful breath. Sora had always had a knack for finding his weak spots, for the kind of insolence that could drive a man to violence. She had done it to Kolya, too, and the thought steadied him. “The salvage work continues. And if you come across information about the Lanteans, you will report it. But you will not go looking for them, and if you find yourself on the same planet, you will not make contact. You will break off and return at once. Is that clear?”
This time, Sora looked away. “Yes. It’s clear.”
“Good.” Ladon wondered who he could trust to send as her second, to keep an eye on her, but dismissed the idea as soon as it formed. She would know what he was doing, and find a way to get rid of the informant. And in the long run she was too good to lose. “Get me a mission plan, then, and let’s see what we can recover,”
“Sir.” Sora didn’t quite manage a salute, but her tone was respectful enough. Ladon nodded, and reached for the broth again. It was cold; he held it until the door closed behind her, set it aside with a grimace.
“She’s trouble,” Ambrus said.
“Don’t I know it,” Ladon answered.
“It would be better if you sent someone else.”
“She’s the best I have,” Ladon said. “The discussion’s closed, Ambrus.”
The chief of staff grimaced, but knew better than to argue. “Very well. You said you wanted to see the Chief Scientist this morning?”
Ladon nodded. “If she’s available. It’s not urgent.”
Ambrus crossed the room to the bank of telephones on the sideboard. He dialed, waited, and then spoke softly. Ladon pushed himself away from his desk, suddenly impatient. They were getting close, and having Atlantis back was not exactly helpful—except, of course, that it might be. If they could be persuaded to help, that helping the Genii was in their best interests… He wandered toward the window, pressed his palm against the cold glass. He had chosen to live on the surface, trading one kind of safety for another: the Wraith might find him here, but he was free of the radiation that still threatened the tunnels. He had made increased shielding a priority, but the work had to continue. That was something else the Lanteans had given them, the key to the mysterious illnesses that had plagued the tunnels; more than that—most precious to him—they had saved Dahlia’s life. They had treated it casually, as though it was no more than the wave of a hand, but Ladon knew better.
And that was something he could not afford to share with anyone. Oh, his people understood well enough that it made him more secure to have appointed his sister Chief Scientist in his place; it was the kind of maneuver any Genii leader might have made, and there was at least no question that Dahlia was capable. But the Lanteans had done more than save a valuable scientist. They had saved the sister who had raised him, who had protected him when they were children, computers third-class conscripted into Cowen’s service. She had kept him quiet when he would have waked the barracks with his nightmares—they had been born in mining country; to live underground was like death itself those first few years—and they had tutored each other, each new level of understanding shared, so that they rose together through the ranks. When he knew she was going to die, he had planned his coup, because he had nothing left to lose. And then the Lantean doctor had saved her life, and left him with a debt he would never dare to pay.
“Excuse me, Chief Ladon?”
Ladon turned, eyebrows rising in question. Ambrus stood with his hand over the mouthpiece of the handset.
“The Chief Scientist asks if you could meet for lunch instead. You’re free then.”
Ladon nodded. “Lunch, then,” he said. They would talk about her latest project, he decided, and say nothing about Atlantis.
Chapter Sixteen
Manaria
They came through the gate into the wreck of a city, paving stones cracked and upended, walls shattered, gutted buildings scarred by flame. The carcass of a wagon lay on its side, half across the road; there were shattered barrels all around it, as though it had been overturned in mid-delivery. But, no, Sheppard realized, one quick blink enough to reassess what he was seeing, they’d been part of a barricade; there was another wagon there, nothing left but the iron axles, and beyond that the paving stones had been dragged into a pile.
“What the hell—?” he said, under his breath, and cocked the P90. “All right, people, stay alert.”
“This was not a Culling,” Teyla said, but her voice was uncertain. “At least, I do not think so—”
“No life signs in the immediate vicinity,” Rodney said, and then his face changed, as though he’d realized what he said. “No life signs…”
“Well, at least that means we’re not going to be attacked,” Sheppard said, but his voice rang hollow even to himself. This had been a tidy, thriving city, not as advanced as th
e cities on Hoff, but getting close, three- and four-story buildings of brick and stone, the most important ones faced in a pale gray stone that gleamed like marble, with tiny flecks of silver that caught the sun. There had been a square here, where a market was held, with big fountain to refresh the incoming traders… “Rodney, can you tell if anybody gated off?”
“I doubt it,” Rodney said, but started toward the DHD anyway.
The center of the fountain had been a weird grinning fish, water spouting from the tentacles that framed its head like petals on a flower. Sheppard reached one-handed into his pocket, came up with his binoculars, thumbing them to the highest magnification, and slowly scanned the ruin. The fighting had to have happened a while ago: he could see the marks of fire everywhere, but there was no sign of smoke, no live embers.
“This is weird,” Ronon said, moving up beside him, blaster drawn, and Sheppard could only nod.
“Rodney?”
“Give me—” There was a short sharp sound, the flat crack of an explosion, and the others whirled to see Rodney leaping back from the damaged DHD.
“Are you all right?” Teyla was closest; she had her arm around his shoulders as the others came up, but Rodney was already shaking her off, rubbing his hands as though they stung. All his fingers were there, Sheppard saw, with a quick gasp of relief, no obvious burns.
“Oh, I’m fine! People booby-trap DHDs that I’m working on every day!” Rodney paused. “Actually, that’s truer than I’d like.”
“I am glad that you are unharmed,” Teyla said, and there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.
Rodney snorted, and turned back to the DHD, poked gingerly at the still-smoking console.
“How bad is it?” Sheppard asked.
“Oh, it’s bad.” Rodney knelt to examine the underside of the console, sounding perversely pleased with the news. “It wasn’t a big charge, but it took out the control crystal. And most of the associated connections.”
“So we can’t dial out,” Ronon said.
“Can you fix it?” Sheppard asked. His muscles tightened, and he glanced back at the ruined city. Not a place he’d like to spend a whole lot more time, and if Rodney was going to piss and moan for an hour before he decided whether or not he could fix it, they might need to start looking for secure shelter—
“Yes.”
Sheppard turned, not quite sure if he’d heard what he thought he had. But Teyla had tipped her head to one side, her mouth slightly open as though she’d started to speak and thought better of it.
“What?” Rodney stared at them. “I figured we’d been stranded this way before, so I started bringing spares. I’ll get it working in no time.”
Sheppard felt his mouth open and close, and Rodney’s expression was momentarily smug. Sheppard swallowed hard. “Yeah, well, about time, McKay.” It wasn’t much, but it was the best he had. Unfortunately, Rodney knew it, and his smile widened for an instant before he turned his attention to the DHD.
“We should check out the ruins,” Ronon said, and Sheppard seized the excuse with relief.
“Yeah.”
“But carefully,” Teyla said, moving to join them. The P90 looked enormous tucked against her small frame. “I do not understand what has happened here.”
“Well, if you want my opinion, it was the Wraith,” Rodney called.
Sheppard glanced back at the DHD. “Is that just because you don’t like them, or do you have a reason?”
“Aside from the fact that they’re the people who do this sort of thing?” Rodney didn’t bother to look up from the console. “But, yes, actually. The device was definitely Wraith technology.”
“OK,” Sheppard said. “So it was the Wraith.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Ronon said.
“Ronon is right,” Teyla said. “The Wraith—they Cull to eat, to feed themselves. It does them no good to destroy everything.”
“They’re Wraith,” Ronon muttered, but the words lacked conviction.
Sheppard eyed the ruins, the shattered barricade and the broken buildings beyond. If he remembered correctly, the domed building beyond the square had been a customs house; there might be records there, if it survived the fires. It was impossible to tell at this distance, though the dome gleamed intact above the wreckage. “All right,” he said. “Let’s take a quick look. We’ll head for the dome—that was customs, right, Teyla?”
She nodded, eyes already scanning the ruins for the best path.
“And see what we find.” Sheppard settled the P90 more comfortably in his arms. “Move out.”
It didn’t take them long to find the first bodies, a tangle of skeletons pinned by a charred lintel. Sheppard winced, hoping they’d been dead before the flames reached them, and Ronon called from point.
“Over here!”
Sheppard moved to join him, Teyla hurrying from her place covering their backs, to find Ronon standing over a withered shape, so drained of life it was impossible to tell if it had been male or female.
“I told you it was the Wraith.”
“And still it does not make sense.” Teyla stooped to examine the body, and her eyes widened. “Back!”
Sheppard saw it in the same instant, the trace of a wire almost hidden in the dust, the flicker of a tiny light, and then they’d turned, running for the nearest block of stone. He shoved Teyla to the ground ahead of him, felt Ronon land hard against him, and then the world exploded. Debris pattered down around them, weirdly silent after the noise of the explosion, and he shoved himself upright against the protecting stone. Teyla rolled over beside him, clearly unharmed, and a moment later Ronon did the same, swearing under his breath.
Rodney’s voice crackled in the radio, dulled and distant. “Sheppard! Are you all right? Ronon, Teyla—”
Sheppard touched his earpiece. “We’re fine. Looks like the Wraith have left us a few presents.”
“Lovely.” There was relief in Rodney’s tone.
“That is also not like the Wraith,” Teyla said.
“There’s more.” Ronon was on his feet already, the blaster an extension of his hand as he scanned the wreckage. “See? There.”
Sheppard gave him a quick glance—it would be like Ronon not to mention something like a bleeding wound—then looked where he was pointing. Sure enough, there was another body under the rubble, and a trick of the shadows exposed the steadily flashing light.
“And here as well,” Teyla said. She pointed her chin, not taking her hands from her weapon. “Though it is not on a body this time.”
“No,” Sheppard said. He could see it, too, another twist of cable that looked random, just about where you’d want to step if you were going to investigate the half-collapsed building… There was probably another by the broken barricade further up what was left of the street. And if he could see that many, there was no telling how many were better hidden, more carefully concealed in the rubble. “All right,” he said aloud. “Fall back to the gate. There’s no point getting ourselves blown up.”
“We need to find out what happened here,” Teyla said, but she made no move to go further.
Sheppard nodded. “I agree. But this—we need combat engineers, and whatever sensors Rodney or Zelenka can rig. It’s too risky.”
“Sheppard!” Rodney’s voice sounded in his earpiece again, cutting off whatever Teyla might have said. “We’ve got visitors.”
“Wraith?” Ronon demanded.
“No. No, no, no, survivors,” Rodney said. “But you should get back here. They say there’s a lot more booby-traps in the city.”
“We noticed,” Sheppard said. He looked at the others, saw Ronon nod in agreement. “Back to the gate.”
The survivors were like survivors everywhere, exhausted, dirty, still trying to make sense of what had happened. Rodney had dug a handful of energy bars out of his pockets and handed them around with a bottle of water, and the strangers were eating as though they hadn’t been fed in days. Which was probably true, Sheppard thought,
and braced himself.
“Who’s in charge?”
“I am, I guess.” That was a short, gray-haired man in a coat that had probably been expensive once. It was dirty now, and torn, missing a collar—Sheppard guessed it had been the strip of fur now wound around the torso of the smallest child—but it had graced a man of substance. The speaker took a last bite of the energy bar, and handed it carefully to the older of the two women before coming forward, his hand outstretched. “We’re grateful to see you, especially since your colleague says you can repair the gate? When we saw, we were afraid we were trapped here—”
The woman cleared her throat, and the man managed a wincing smile. “I’m sorry. I’m Dalmas Rou, and these are my trading partners and family.”
There were six of them, four adults and two children, all in coats and jackets thrown on over whatever they’d been wearing when the Wraith attacked. The younger man had what looked like a party shirt under his coat, gray and shiny, and the older woman had wrapped a scarf around her untidy hair. The youngest child wasn’t much older than Torren, and there was a pale pink shirt like a pajama top under the fur wrapping.
“Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard.” He could see Teyla out of the corner of his eye, listening intently, and he shifted his weight so that he could see any subtle signals. She would let him know if anything sounded out of place. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Rou shrugged, and the younger of the women put her hand hard against her mouth. “We were out of the city,” Rou said. “Otherwise…”
His voice trailed off, but Sheppard could complete the sentence for himself: otherwise they wouldn’t have survived. It took some doing, but together he and Teyla got the story out of them. It wasn’t that different from what they’d heard before, on the other worlds they’d visited: it began like a simple Culling, the gate dialed to prevent escape, and the Darts arriving in waves, but then it had changed. The Darts had stopped scooping up the fleeing people, dropped soldier drones instead, and then the cruisers had come, attacking from the air and then landing to release more soldiers.
