Daniel begged to differ. In his experience, paintball rarely got you dead. But he was starting to get a handle on the city’s topography as shown by the life signs detector. “Who’s that and where are they going?” He pointed at a small grouping of four dots, far inside of the position currently held by Ronon and his team.
“Probably SFs. No telling where exactly they’re headed, Doc.” The man shrugged. “We should go.”
Not until Daniel had gotten an answer. “Wait. What’s in the general area there?”
“Look, Doc, it doesn’t matter. This far inside the perimeter, those have to be personnel.”
“Perhaps not,” Teyla murmured. “Without the drones things would become a great deal easier for the Wraith, and the chair room is in this sector.”
“So? General O’Neill isn’t exactly a green recruit. If there’s a problem, he’ll do something about it.”
“Have you ever watched anyone operating the chair, Sergeant?” Daniel asked around an icy lump in his throat.
“Can’t say as I have. Why?”
“They’re so totally focused on what they’re doing, you could drop a bomb right next to them and they wouldn’t twitch. Jack would never notice until it’s too late.”
“He’s right,” Teyla said, with a hard stare at the Marine. “Sergeant, take your men and assist Ronon. Dr. Jackson and I will check on what is going on down there.”
“Ma’am—”
“Move out, Sergeant.” There was steel under the velvet now, a reminder that this woman was the leader of her people. “If it’s nothing we shall join you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Teyla was already running back in the direction they’d come from. Daniel headed after her, having to work at keeping pace.
“You think I’m right, don’t you?” he gasped.
“I think it makes perfect sense. And if we’re right, General O’Neill isn’t the only one in danger.”
John squirmed uncomfortably against the sodden fabric glued to his chest and, well, just about every part of his body. As if the scrubs hadn’t been bad enough dry. No, he and his— what? Assistant? Unknown quantity? Ticking bomb?— companion had gotten well and truly rained and sprayed on during their boat trip to the south pier where Rodney, in his infinite wisdom, had landed the Jumper.
He cast a sidelong glance at the woman riding shotgun. Wet hair slicked back she looked older, more frail. And she was working on suppressing a shiver, he could tell.
Yeah, well, outer space was cold, especially when you’re soaked. Oh, what the hell? John raised the temperature in the cockpit by five degrees. After all, it wasn’t like it would bump up their heat signature.
The woman looked at him. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You hate me, don’t you?”
“I hate what you’ve done.”
“So do I. But believe me, at the time all I meant to do was help.”
“Funny way of going about it.”
“Let’s just hope that this time my help will be more salutary.”
“Yeah.” He returned his attention to the scene beyond the viewport.
The hive-ship hung in orbit above Atlantis like some cancerous lump, dwarfing Daedalus, though the Earth vessel definitely was proving that size didn’t matter. Laval knew what he was doing and made the most of Daedalus’s maneuverability, scoring far more hits than he received. A glance at the Jumper’s sensors confirmed that the hive-ship’s shields were weakening.
Around the two larger vessels, in a brilliant crisscross of energy beams, buzzed a lethal ballet of Darts and F302s. For just a moment John was itching to join the dogfight.
Not today.
A pair of drones swished past, eerily silent and on course for the hive-ship. With a little luck they would be enough to knock out—
They could only have been yards from impact when both drones winked out. They struck the shield, setting off a pulsing soap-bubble of colors, and bounced off to drift away like so much space junk.
He opened a channel. “Daedalus, this is Jumper Four, inbound for your little get-together. What the hell was that?”
“That you, Colonel Sheppard?” asked Laval.
“Morning, Laval. I repeat, what happened there?”
“Beats me.”
Not what John had wanted to hear. “How about—” No, damn, they couldn’t contact Atlantis to find out about this sad waste of perfectly good drones. “Never mind. Listen up, I’m coming in cloaked, on course for the hive-ship’s starboard hangar bay. Have your sensors pick up my engine signature and notify your F302s. Be nice if they didn’t take me out accidentally.”
“So noted. The hangar bay? You got a death wish, sir?”
“No, a delivery for our friends. Oh, and you’d really be doing me a favor if their shields were down before I get there.”
“We’ll do our damndest. Anything else, sir? Box of chocolates? Pizza?”
“Yup, a low-profile escort if you can spare a fighter, and make that extra cheese and no anchovies on the pizza.” John grinned. “Appreciate it, Major. Sheppard out.”
Seconds later a single F302 swooped across their bow in a wide arc, looking for all the world as if its pilot had briefly left the fight to regroup. The communications console signaled an incoming message.
“Colonel Sheppard, this is Teal’c. I am tracking you on my sensors. We have cleared a corridor for you on your present course, and I shall accompany you to your destination.” There was a brief pause. “I am glad to see that you are fully recovered.”
“Thanks, Teal’c. On all counts. Sheppard out.”
In a graceful loop, the F302 swung onto a course parallel to the Jumper’s. Ahead, the Daedalus redoubled her barrage of the hive-ship’s shields. Several of the gliders concentrated their fire there, too, and John could see the shields weakening now. The rainbow bursts of color that greeted every hit were growing dull.
Then, in the wink of an eye, it happened. Space around the hive-ship contorted in a watery haze, like rain running off your windshield, and the force shield collapsed in on itself. The ship reappeared from behind it with the sharp-edged clarity of a high-resolution picture. Sharp-edged and unprotected. Just the way John Sheppard liked his hive-ships.
Payback was a bitch, of course. Now that the shield was down, there was nothing to stop the Wraith from scrambling every last Dart they had sitting in their hangar bays. It was as if you’d flung a stone at a hornet’s nest. But bigger, and played out in front of the breathtaking star-strewn canvas of space. They were swarming, well and truly swarming, at least two dozen Darts screaming from the hive-ship and doing the only sensible thing; they made straight for the main threat. Daedalus had every available fighter in the air, and now the F302s were outnumbered three to one. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure how long they’d be able to protect the Daedalus.
The good news was that John would be flying Jumper Four into an empty hangar bay, but still… He opened a com channel. “Teal’c, this is Sheppard.”
“This is Teal’c.”
“Make tracks. I’ll go the rest of the way on my own. Looks like you’re needed elsewhere.”
“Indeed. Teal’c out.”
The F302 zoomed toward the thick of the fight before he’d even finished speaking. The second the com channel was clear, Laval came back on. “Colonel, I—”
“Save your breath, Laval. I just cut him loose. If everything goes according to plan, you should get a break in, oh, about ten minutes. Just hang in there.”
“Counting on it. Thanks, sir, and good luck.”
“Yeah. You too.”
Goosing the engine, John shut out the battle, the odds, Daedalus, everything but the hive-ship that grew more enormous with every passing moment. Its outer shell showed charcoal craters where missiles had hit, energy still fizzing in some of them, others venting the dusty white condensation of a hull breach.
“Bless the Teacher,” whispered Amara. “It’s
huge.”
“It’s worse than huge, believe me.”
He finally reduced his speed to what seemed a mere crawl by comparison, tucked the Jumper in under the ship’s massive belly, a sucker fish having found its whale. If he remembered correctly— and by God, this sure was the wrong time to remember incorrectly— the hangar bay should be halfway along the length of the ship, protected by a large overhang. Hugging the hull as close as he dared, he zoomed around an indeterminate protrusion, promptly missed another by a coat of paint, and without warning sailed out into a large section of clear space.
Bingo!
He’d dropped right into the odd wasp’s waist that sheltered the opening of the bay. All but overshooting— easy on the throttle, flyboy!— he forced the Jumper into a tight turn and scraped into the haven, relatively speaking, of the hive-ship’s hangar bay.
And his guess had been correct. The place was deserted. Which didn’t make it any homier. The Wraith weren’t going to win any design prizes, not in John’s book, anyway.
“It looks… alive,” said Amara, her voice hitching. “As if it were about to digest us.”
Yeah. John was painfully aware of it, as always when he had the bad luck of paying a visit to the Wraith, but he really hadn’t needed the mental image of being stuck in somebody’s digestive tract. “Their technology is largely organic. That’s why it looks so—”
“Disgusting?”
“Disgusting,” he agreed with a small grin.
Disgusting was the word, he thought with a glance at the clear, viscous goop that dripped from various sections of the walls for no reason he could fathom. And they’d have to go in as far as they could, to minimize Amara’s exposure and to stay well clear of the landing path in case any of the Darts ran home to momma prematurely.
Of course, if the Wraith twigged on to his presence, the exit would be a long, looong way away…
Some you win, some you lose.
Speed reduced to a slow hover, he swiveled the Jumper and backed into a corner close to the doorway that led into the interior of the hive-ship. If nothing else, it would allow him to open the hatch without announcing their presence to everyone who happened to pass. He killed the engine, rose, and headed into the rear compartment, hit the hatch release.
“You know what you need to look for?”
Amara followed him. “Dr. McKay explained it quite exhaustively.”
Exhaustingly probably would be more accurate. John’s lips twitched. “Yeah. Rodney seems to believe that everything needs to be explained at least seven times in order for lesser mortals to understand it.”
“Lesser mortals?” She cocked an eyebrow.
“Figure of speech. You’ll have maybe five minutes before they get wise to us, so you need to hurry. Radio as soon as you’ve uploaded the program.” He paused, suddenly unsure of what to say. “Thanks for doing this.”
“You’re very welcome.” She unfastened the bracelet she wore and held it out to him. “Please, give this to Cassandra. With my best wishes. She’ll know how to use it.”
John knew what she was saying, knew that she was probably right, but still refused to take the bracelet. “You give her that yourself.” He winced when he realized how false it sounded.
“Please,” she pressed it into his hand, turned and walked down the ramp and toward the doorway.
“Good luck,” John murmured, watching her disappear.
Chapter 36
In one respect, Daniel had been wrong. Jack O’Neill did notice. Though in fairness, he’d have had to be comatose not to notice a backhanded blow that catapulted him over the armrest of the chair and onto the dais.
Mid-flight he nursed a mental image of two drones, bang on course for that hive-ship, winking out seconds before they hit their target. Which pissed him off to the nth degree, though that lasted only until his head connected with the edge of a step.
The pretty burst of white, sparkly stars he saw momentarily wiped his mind, though somewhere underneath it all instinct screamed that this wasn’t good and that he damn well better do something about it. Preferably before he was toast.
Dazed from the blow and the sudden severing of the interface with the chair, he groped around, struggling to push himself up on his hands and knees. His fingers brushed metal.
The gun.
Oh yes. Rule Number One: If you are going to vacate a chair at higher than manufacturer-recommended velocity, make sure you land on the side where your P90 is.
Somehow the familiar smoothness of the black steel in his hand helped to clear his head and trigger reflexes instilled by training and decades of experience. In one swift move he flipped off the safety, rolled on his back, gun tucked against his chest, and fired. Three rounds hit home, and the white-haired hippie vampire looming over him stumbled back in spastic little jerks, like a puppet that got its strings yanked.
The puppet straightened up, threw its head back, and hissed, pointy teeth bared. Andaman islanders used to go for this kind of dental fashion. They were cannibals. Which probably was preferable to this.
Hell, Goa’uld were preferable to this!
And that was General O’Neill’s considered opinion. Goa’uld didn’t have this unflattering green complexion and their dress sense was more adventurous. Also, they tended to slow down when shot, temporarily at least.
All in all, he was underwhelmed by his first live Wraith. It had serious personality flaws.
Jack fired again.
Jerk, straighten, hiss, and then the Wraith came back for thirds.
Tenacious little sucker.
On the other hand, Jack was happy to oblige. With any kind of luck, three was the charm. He needed to get back into that chair. Which meant getting rid of the irritant. Permanently this time.
This time he emptied the clip, and the continued fire finally brought the Wraith down.
“Stay!” Jack muttered, climbing to his feet.
Big mistake.
His friend had brought a pal.
The beam clipped Jack’s shoulder, not quite spinning him around, but enough to send him stumbling down the steps of the dais. The P90 slipped from numb fingers, clattering merrily on the floor tiles. His right arm was useless, which didn’t stop it from hurting like hell.
Note to O’Neill: Wraith stunners— he assumed that’s what it was— are nearly as fun as getting zatted.
A second blast narrowly missed his head, the energy charge making his hair stand on end. He rolled over, clumsily, and scrabbled for the cover of the chair, counting his blessings. If the first blast had hit, he’d be helpless now.
As opposed to pinned down behind a chair, with a limp sack of meat for a leading arm and nothing but a knife for a weapon.
At a guess, it wasn’t going to be a drawn-out fight.
He had one shot at this, he figured.
Keeping his head down, playing possum, Jack listened to the slow, measured boot falls as they circled the dais. These guys obviously liked to play with their food, else the first Wraith would have taken him down there and then.
The boot falls stopped, and he could sense the Wraith bending over him. It smelled of leather and, faintly, of Chinese takeout decomposing in the fridge. Bitchin’ aftershave. He forced himself to stay motionless, to keep his breathing slow and shallow. His next move hinged on the Wraith believing that the second blast had fully hit home.
A hand on his right shoulder— Jack guessed rather than felt it. And a slobbering kind of hiss. The last time he’d heard that one was when Hannibal Lecter had shared his recipe for human liver with Chianti and fava beans.
The hand started pulling, turning him over. Jack waited, waited, waited for leverage, for the moment when the Wraith supported a good part of his weight— and snapped around to face his attacker, his left hand holding the knife, slashing at the Wraith’s throat in a lightning motion.
It wasn’t fast enough.
The Wraith blocked the swipe, its fingers clamping around Jack’s wrist like a vise. Hydrau
lic vise. Nothing had the right to be that strong, dammit! He felt his grip open, whether he liked it or not, heard the knife go the way of the gun, clattering to the ground. Jack’s legs whipped up, both feet slamming into the creature’s midsection, and he pushed up, knees screaming. The Wraith did what it was supposed to do, sailed over Jack’s head, to land with a satisfying thump. But it didn’t let go.
Instead it squirmed around, got its legs sorted, and flipped back on its feet, damn near twisting Jack’s shoulder out of its socket in the process. “Don’t fight, human,” it hissed. “It’ll be easier on you if you don’t.”
“Bite me!”
With its free hand, the Wraith started clawing at Jack’s shirt, and from some recess of his memory a voice popped to the fore, warning Whatever you do, don’t let them get at your chest.
Uhuh.
Unfortunately the voice offered no handy hints on how to prevent the getting-at-the-chest part when you couldn’t move worth a damn.
The fabric of the shirt tore. Under the burning in his right arm Jack’s fingers were starting to tingle with returning sensation, which was just about the only bit of good news on the horizon. If he could conceal that from his playfellow, he might—
The Wraith pressed its palm to Jack’s skin. The effect was instant and terrifying, a sense of each and every cell in your body being ripped open and sucked dry, wilting and shriveling until, finally, it would die, and you along with it.
Through the roar of sheer terror a howl shredded the air, animal-like— had he screamed like that?— and a moment later fury itself landed on the Wraith’s back, one arm wrapped around its neck, one hand fisted in its hair, yanking and swearing. The creature’s palm lost contact, and with it disappeared that godawful draining feeling.
Another beam sizzled past Jack, aimed not at him but at the Wraith— who, obligingly, crumpled into oblivion, with Dr. Daniel Jackson still riding piggyback. At the foot of the dais stood a woman, holding a stun weapon she must have lifted from the specimen Jack had managed to shoot.
STARGATE SG-1: Transitions Page 29
