“Problems?”
And that, of course, was Colonel Carter, though how she had heard that something was happening was outside Radek’s ability to guess. “A very good question,” he said loud, and she came down to the second tier of consoles to look over his shoulder.
“What have you got?”
“This,” Radek said. “This is Rodney’s work, I think.” He highlighted the lines of code, expanded them so that they filled the screen. “But we did not record him working on this part of the city’s programming, and I do not see — ” He stopped, exhaled sharply. “Except now I do.”
“What?” Woolsey asked.
Carter leaned closer, peering at the screen. “A back door?”
“Of a kind.” Radek glared at the symbols. “I have spent six hours already today removing one problematic routine from our systems, and now — this is what results. It is not progress.”
It was Woolsey who spoke first. “So this is definitely something of McKay’s.”
“Yes. Well, I am nearly certain. But yes. This is another iteration of the program I removed earlier, set to pop up again after a certain amount of time.” Radek pushed his glasses up again. “And it is now caught and contained, so — ”
“No harm, no foul?” Carter said. The words had a distinctly dubious tone.
“Yes. But there will be more. There are more.” Radek shrugged. “And I am running out of places that I think Rodney would think to look.”
“Mrs. Miller will be here on Daedalus,” Woolsey said. “In five days. That will help.”
Radek took a deep breath, and then another. He despaired sometimes of explaining anything technical to Woolsey — though perhaps the question was intended to remind the rest of the gateroom crew that help was on the way. That would be almost Machiavellian enough for Woolsey.
“We hope Mrs. Miller will be able to speed up the process,” he compromised. “And of course Colonel Carter’s help has been invaluable — ”
“Then we will carry on,” Woolsey said, firmly, and turned away.
Radek said something in Czech that he sincerely hoped no one would repeat and thrust his hands into his hair.
William Lynn found an empty table in the corner of the Daedalus’s messroom, and opened his laptop like a shield. The room was crowded, even after the hot food service had ended, airmen and officers gathering for a snack or a cold meal or quick cup of coffee as they went on and off duty, and the volume of conversation was not going to be overcome by the music he had on his computer. But it was better than the narrow cabin he shared with three other men. At least his age and seniority had gotten him a lower bunk — that and being both quick and politely determined — but the poor reservist who had the bunk above him snored, and the meteorologist opposite was an insomniac who lay awake for hours reading from his phone. The fourth man — a wormhole physicist — hadn’t said much of anything since offering to take the upper bunk, just lay there listening to his iPod with his forearm thrown across his eyes. Having second thoughts, William guessed: he was willing to bet all the civilians had signed their contracts before things started to go wrong in Pegasus.
Not that second thoughts were all that unreasonable; he’d had second thoughts himself. Any sane person would, confronted with a posting not to a well-defended Ancient city, nestled pleasantly into tropical seas, but a city newly vulnerable, and a climate that resembled a North Sea oil rig. Though at least on a rig, you were likely to be spared attacks by life-sucking aliens… He smiled to himself then. He’d thought he was pretty tough, able to cope with just about anything — after all, he’d grown up on dig sites all across the Middle East, and spent most of his working life either in the field or playing with the artifacts brought back by the SG teams, both of which had a rather high risk of unpleasant if unintended consequences. But being eaten by aliens was definitely in a different class from the risks he was used to. It had taken him a full twenty-four hours to decide that, when you came down to it, dead was dead.
And the crisis meant that his project was that much more valuable. His original proposal had been a survey of contemporary Pegasus-galaxy technologies with an eye to helping their allies take the next steps in their development. With the Wraith on the offensive, it was already clear that he’d be expected to dive straight into what had been Phase 2. Which was all right, it was a manageable task, but, as usual, scholarship would go by the board…
“Mind if I join you?”
He looked up at the voice, an automatic smile on his face. The speaker was one of the Daedalus’s officers, a good-looking, red-haired lieutenant colonel, and he shook his head. “Not at all, colonel. Please, make free.”
“Thanks.” She returned the smile. “Mel Hocken. I have the Daedalus’s 302 wing.”
“William Lynn.” There was no room to shake hands without risking everything on the little table, and her hands were busy with her tray in any case. William compromised with a wider smile and a nod, and shifted his laptop to make more room.
“Thanks, Dr. Lynn,” she said again, and settled herself in the opposite chair. “Physicist?”
“Archeologist, actually,” he answered, and her smile widened.
“Ah. Atlantis’s version of Dr. Jackson.”
“God, I hope not,” William said, and she laughed aloud.
“I mean, I’d rather not end up dead quite so many times,” William said. “Or Ascended. Or many of the things that have happened to him.”
“I can understand that,” Hocken said, and turned her attention to constructing a sandwich from the contents of her tray. She’d selected quite a lot of the pale orange ‘cheese’ that seemed to be a favorite of the Daedalus’s crew, and Lynn looked hastily back at his screen, touching the pad to call up the reports he’d uploaded in the last hours before he left Earth.
The trouble was, Jackson had been right the first time they’d discussed this mission. No one had ever done anything approaching a systematic survey of the cultures the Atlantis expedition had encountered. There were some solid facts — for example, it was a good bet that the Wraith were preferentially feeding on the more technologically advanced cultures — and some plausible theories, like the correlation between proximity to the Stargate and strategies for dealing with the Wraith, but there was so much more he would like to have known before he started making suggestions. And a part of him still felt guilty about that, too; he was supposed to study the dead past, not meddle with the living.
“Excuse me.”
William looked up again to see a tired-looking blonde in civilian clothes standing beside the remaining chair. He recognized her at once — Daedalus was too small for a story like hers not to have spread — and saw the same flash of sympathy on Hocken’s face.
“Is this seat taken?” Jeannie Miller asked.
“No,” William began, and in the same instant, Hocken said, “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Jeannie seated herself, set her mug carefully on the table in front of her. A tag dangled over the lip, yellow and green letters proclaiming it to be chamomile and caffeine free. Jeannie frowned at it, and began to dunk the bag up and down as though that would hasten the steeping process.
William looked at Hocken, saw the same embarrassed uncertainty in her face. You couldn’t pretend everything was normal, that Jeannie Miller was just another civilian contractor heading to Atlantis, not when everyone knew that her brother was Rodney McKay, and everyone also knew that McKay had been captured by the Wraith and was probably dead, and she was going to Atlantis to try to help protect the city from anything her brother might have betrayed. But at the same time, it was obvious from her stare, from the tilt of her head and the way she avoided their eyes, that she did not want a conversation. He cleared his throat nervously, and Jeannie looked up, her lips curving in something that wasn’t a smile.
“Please don’t,” she said. “I know — I appreciate it, but…”
Her voice trailed off, and William felt himself blush. “No, no, of course not.�
�� He sounded more English than ever, the Hooray-Henry voice of his childhood coming back at the worst possible time. But at least it was something to hide behind, along with the laptop screen. Across the table, Hocken was staring intently at her sandwich, a touch of color on her cheeks as well. William cleared his throat again, and tugged the laptop toward him, pretending to study the report. The last thing he wanted to do was add to her troubles.
“Sorry,” Jeannie said, to no one in particular, and pushed herself away from the table. For a second, William thought she was going to leave the tea, but she turned back to snag it, before working her way to the door.
“Well,” Hocken said, after a moment. “That was awkward.”
“Very,” William agreed, and looked back at the laptop.
Quicksilver did not know how long he had lain in his nest, wrapped in sorrow and the aching loss, the absence that left his mind empty. Long enough for the hive to be underway again, long enough for strangers to come, and go again when he would not respond, long enough that he felt empty, as dry as the touch of his brother’s mind. He should move, he knew, rise and be about his work, but that was lost to him, too, and so he waited, too drained to do more than wait for what would come next.
*Quicksilver?*
The voice in his mind was banked fire, a coal still warm at the core; not a man he knew, and Quicksilver rolled over, untangling himself from the quilts that filled his nest. It should have been Dust, standing there, and the sorrow broke over him like a wave, so that he ducked his head, covering his face with his off hand until he had mastered himself.
*I honor your grief,* Ember said, and there was compassion in his mind.
Quicksilver peered from between his fingers, seeing a blade standing there — no, a cleverman, but a cleverman in blade’s clothes, his long leather coat dulled and dark. He was fair, and passably handsome, his hair pulled up and back in a style Quicksilver hadn’t seen before. A stranger, then, not of the hive, and he lowered his hand, lips parting in a reflexive snarl.
*Who are you?*
Ember ducked his head. *I am chief cleverman of the Just Fortune — Queen Steelflower’s hive.*
That name was familiar in a way few things had been lately, and Quicksilver frowned. Where had he heard it — when had he seen her, small and fierce and young, hands closed on a weapon, her head barely topping his shoulder? But, no, that was wrong. Dust had mentioned her, that was it, and Quicksilver looked up. *She is missing, your queen.*
*She is.* Ember’s tone was even, betraying nothing. *Her consort speaks in her absence — Guide. He has made alliance in her name with Queen Death, and we were summoned to her aid.*
There was more to it than that, Quicksilver thought, but he couldn’t recall. Dust had been so patient, explaining everything that he needed to know — what would he do without that gentle guidance? He remembered the human sprawled on the floor of the lab, wished again that he had killed him, him and the others who had killed his brother. *How fares the hive?* he asked, shoving memory away. Ironic, that he should want to be free of the only thing he could remember clearly.
*Healing cleanly,* Ember answered. *Our queen has summoned the clevermen of half a dozen hives to help with the work, and it proceeds well.* He paused, showing teeth in something like a smile. *She believes it was a ruse to cover their attempt to steal you back. They must truly fear what you learned in Atlantis.*
*If I could just remember!* Quicksilver covered his face again. *And Dust is dead.*
Ember dipped his head. *I am sorry.*
Quicksilver did not answer, staring blindly at the chamber wall. He could not imagine his future any more than he could see his past; he was useless to his queen, and lost…
*The queen has need of you,* Ember said, after what seemed a very long time. *There is still much to be done, and you may — You must hold the key, if the Lanteans would try to kidnap you. And we must answer this attack as soon as we may.*
*Avenge Dust,* Quicksilver said, his voice bleak. Vengeance was hollow, would not repair his loss or ease his mind, but at least Dust would be remembered that little while longer.
*Yes.*
*I should go to my lab,* Quicksilver said. He looked at himself, at the disarray of his quarters, and shook his head, not knowing where to begin.
*I will help you,* Ember said. *If you wish.*
*Why you? You’re not even of our hive.* Quicksilver glared at him, though it wasn’t his fault.
*I can be spared,* Ember said, with wry amusement. *And I volunteered. My commander also has a score to settle with Atlantis.*
That, at least, Quicksilver understood. He looked around the chamber again, newly aware that some of Dust’s things were missing, his clothes and his games and the case of his jewelry. They could have left me that much, he thought, and Ember tipped his head to one side.
*I think they wished to spare you,* he said.
Quicksilver didn’t answer, closing his thoughts, and Ember sighed.
*Shall I help you make ready?*
*I suppose.* Quicksilver followed listlessly as Ember rummaged among the stores, choosing shirt and coat from among the clothing that remained. He pulled them on, allowed Ember to tug them into place and brush his hair. That last was kindness rather than necessity; there was still too little to dress properly, and he sighed, looking at Ember’s hair with envy.
*Your nails,* Ember said, and Quicksilver extended his hands, palms politely down. *They’ll do. Though we must tend them tomorrow.*
Quicksilver glanced down, saw chips in the flat blue glaze.
*Mine are worse,* Ember said, and showed his own off hand. Sure enough, the blood-black color had worn away at the tips, showing the dark horn beneath. *But for the labs, it will suffice.*
Quicksilver bared teeth in agreement — he really didn’t care, except that he would not disgrace his brother — and Ember reached into the pocket of his coat.
*And one thing more.*
He held out a physician’s dart, the short needle gleaming, and Quicksilver recoiled.
*What is that?*
Ember paused. *It’s your medicine.*
*What medicine?* Quicksilver lifted his feeding hand, flexing the claws. He had no stunner, not even a ceremonial dagger — and why he had reacted so, he could not have said. Except that Ember was a stranger, man of another hive, a cleverman in blade’s leather. It was only right to be cautious.
*For — * Ember blinked. *Didn’t Dust tell you?*
*My brother gave me no injections,* Quicksilver said. *Nor spoke of any.*
Ember lowered the dart, frowning slightly. *I don’t understand. His records say — He said that whatever was done to you left you hyperplastic. This was to control the cell division. From his notes, it was working well.*
Quicksilver stared at him. There had been no injections, he was sure of that, no drugs. But hyperplasty was real enough, frightening, a malfunction of the body’s normal healing ability, when the body went on remaking itself unnecessarily. It was treatable, controllable, but incurable —
*Why didn’t he tell me?* he asked, and Ember gave him a look of compassion.
*You’d been through so much,* he said. *Perhaps he wished to spare you this, one thing too many.*
Dust had been protective, Quicksilver thought. That was certainly true — and how he missed that steady, supportive mind — but it seemed unlike him to have kept something so important a secret. Maybe he had been waiting until more memory returned? Quicksilver had always been sickly anyway, that much he was sure he remembered. He started to push up his sleeve, searching for the marks of past injections, and stopped. Of course there would be none, and why had he bothered to look at all? Those pinpricks would heal in a breath, a heartbeat, and leave no sign.
*If you’d prefer,* Ember said. *It won’t hurt you to miss a dose. Then you can review Dust’s notes and see what he prescribed.*
*No.* The offer was reassuring, and Quicksilver shook his head, pushing back the loose sleeve. *No, it’s
all right.*
Ember stepped closer, cupping his feeding hand to steady the other man’s arm without the mouth touching his skin, and with the other hand drove home the dart. Quicksilver hissed — not the little stick he had somehow been expecting, but a jolt of pain, a thick needle driven deep into muscle — but there was not even a drop of blood, the skin closing almost as the needle was withdrawn.
*Done,* Ember said, and folded the dart back into its case. “Let us go.*
Chapter Four
New Arrivals
John looked out at the Daedalus nestled onto the South Pier — they’d pretty much given up worrying about the city’s actual orientation, went with the names everyone was used to. If Rodney was here, it would drive him crazy, and John winced, deflecting that thought with what was becoming practiced ease. When they got him back, he told himself, it would give him something to bitch about. He tried not to think about guys he’d seen who’d survived capture, survived the Taliban, made himself look back at Daedalus, her hatches open now to disgorge the latest batch of scientists. This wasn’t its usual spot, but that was taken by the Hammond, still under repair. And that was something that would annoy Colonel Caldwell, and John was still trying to work up a response that would convey just how much he didn’t care…
Except that this was also a distraction, one more way of putting off thinking about what he had to say to Jeannie Miller, and in what order he could say it that would be most reassuring when there wasn’t much reassurance to be had. He could see her now in the open hatch, a bright red hat covering her blonde hair — a red hat with a pompom and matching red mittens, just another Canadian housewife off to rescue her brother from life-sucking aliens — and he bit down hard on his lip, knowing the flippancy was just another form of avoidance.
Caldwell was with her, hand ready at her elbow in case she stumbled on the ice, but Jeannie moved as though she didn’t see him, striding across the pier toward the nearest tower. At his side, Woolsey squared his shoulders, one hand rising briefly as though he wanted to adjust the tie he wasn’t wearing, and John plastered a smile on his own face as the doors slid open. He exchanged salutes with Caldwell, seeing in memory Rodney’s outraged stare when he and Caldwell and Carter had greeted each other formally. Seriously? he’d said, looking from colonel to colonel, and John bit his lip to keep from flinching.
STARGATE ATLANTIS: Allegiance(Book three in the Legacy series) Page 4
