STARGATE SG-1: Transitions

by Sabine C. Bauer

  “Very brave, Daniel. And extremely foolish,” she said.

  Jack couldn’t have agreed more, but he figured that, given the circumstances, he’d let it slide. “Thanks,” he croaked. “That was nasty.”

  Shaking his head as if he himself couldn’t quite grasp what had happened there, Daniel finally dismounted from the Wraith and scrambled over on all fours. “You okay?

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Help me up. Left hand,” Jack added, when Daniel automatically started dragging on his right.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?”

  “Nothing. Got clipped by that stun beam.”

  “It will wear off shortly,” the woman assured him. “I’m Teyla. Sorry we were late.” Eyes narrow, she scrutinized him for several seconds. “Though not too late. And you were lucky. The Wraith never had a chance to start feeding properly.”

  Oh, really?

  Jack decided on the spot that he didn’t want to be around when one of those things did start feeding properly. “Daniel? Up.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Climbing to his feet, Daniel hauled Jack up after him. “What are we going to do with them?” he asked Teyla.

  “That one is dead.” She pointed at Jack’s initial visitor. “This one we’ll tie up. We don’t have time to deal with him now.” Head cocked, Teyla seemed to listen to something only she could hear. “There are two more. And they’re coming.”

  “Great.” Jack bent down, snatched his P90 from the floor and, still butterfingered, fished for the spare clip in his back pocket.

  “No.” Teyla placed a hand on his arm. “We’ll take care of them.” With a pointed look at the chair, she added, “You’re needed here. On her own Daedalus can’t stand against the hive-ship.”

  “She’s right, Jack,” Daniel chipped in.

  She was right. Which didn’t mean Jack had to like it. “Yeah, I guess,” he muttered, then frowned. “Why didn’t they destroy the chair when they had a chance? They must have known that—”

  “They needed feeding,” replied Teyla. “When a Wraith is hungry, he won’t think about anything else. As I said, you were lucky.”

  “Let’s hope my luck continues. And be careful, kids. It’s official now. Wraith suck.”

  The last, as planned, got a medal-worthy groan from Daniel. Jack climbed up the dais, settled back in the chair, and closed his eyes, mind already sifting through the real-time battle images the Ancient technology fed him.

  Teal’c snapped the F302 into a roll. Barely a foot under the right wing, the energy beam raced past and disappeared into infinity. But the Dart continued to edge closer, and this one he could not seem to shake.

  No less than he deserved, Teal’c thought grimly. He had allowed himself to indulge in the belief that, as far as battles went, this one would be easy. And up until a short while ago it had indeed been easy. Between the drones and the Daedalus, the Wraith had struggled and their Darts had been ill-matched against the F302s.

  Then things had changed in a heartbeat.

  The hive-ship’s shields had fallen, releasing a horde of Darts whose pilots now fought with the vicious abandon of those who strove to save their home. More ominously, the steady barrage of drones had ceased, and Teal’c, much against his will and training, found himself distracted with worry over O’Neill and the rest of SG-1.

  He knew there were Wraith in the city. He had seen them.

  If anything had befallen his friends, it would indeed be a good day to die.

  But not just yet.

  A second Dart had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and it attached itself to Teal’c’s wingman like a mak’tra moth to a honeycomb. Teal’c fired, missed when the Dart, at the very last moment, performed a maneuver not unlike the one he himself had flown mere seconds ago. The difference being, the Wraith pilot managed to launch another energy beam, and this one hit. Only just, but it was enough.

  His wingman’s glider lost its left wing tip in a burst of sparks and shrapnel and veered sharply to the right until its pilot succeeded in regaining control over the craft.

  “Teal’c, I’ve lost telemetry and weapons electronics. I’m going to try and head back to Daedalus,” the man’s voice came over the radio. He sounded shaken. “I should be… Damn!”

  Not content with merely having crippled the glider, the Dart had swung around for a second attack run and a certain kill. Or perhaps not so certain, if Teal’c had anything to do with it.

  Disregarding the threat from the Dart on his own tail, he veered onto an intercept course. The Wraith pilot either was caught up in the thrill of the hunt or seemed to rely on his cohort to take care of the potential disturbance. He did not react to Teal’c’s approach and maintained his course for the stricken F302. It was a mistake. In a way, the same mistake Teal’c himself was making, albeit knowingly. He realized well enough that he might not survive this chase. His own pursuer was almost within firing range again.

  “What are you doing, Teal’c?” his wingman shouted. “You’ve got a bogie on your six, and I can’t cover you. Get the hell out of here!”

  A melodic chirp from the weapons console announced that he had a lock.

  Now. Or never, as the Tauri liked to say.

  Teal’c released the missile.

  It streaked away from under the wing of his fighter, a bright flash in the black of space, and struck the Dart broadside just behind the cockpit. For a split-second nothing seemed to happen, then the craft exploded in a silent, spectacular shower of sparks and debris.

  There was no time to savor the show. Knowing even then that it would be too late, Teal’c flipped the glider into a tight loop. The Wraith pilot was learning. He had anticipated the maneuver, followed at top speed. Which, Teal’c had already noted to his dismay, was higher, by a considerable margin, than that of the F302.

  As it was impossible to outrun the Wraith, he would have to apply some creativity. He throttled the glider to a virtual standstill, tipped the nose sharply downward, and accelerated again to full speed as soon as he felt the craft take the turn. Belly-up he raced back in the direction he had come from, the Dart overshooting right over the top of him.

  It would buy him a few more seconds, he decided, as he forced the glider into yet another turn, now on a collision course with the Dart, which also had backtracked. His guidance system was attempting to establish a lock and failing continually because the distance to the target was changing too quickly in this game of chicken. There was, however, one certain way of destroying the Dart.

  Teal’c took a deep breath and prepared himself. Not merely a good day but a good way to die. And he would be dying free. He smiled.

  Was still smiling when the drone sang past him and reduced the Dart to very small components.

  He very rarely laughed out loud, but now he came close, close even to emulating General Hammond and emitting a Texan war cry. His brother, it appeared, had once more determined that, though a good day to die, it was a better day yet to live.

  “Welcome back, O’Neill,” he said softly, grateful to feel this worry lift from his soul.

  As he sliced through the cloud of debris, a second and third drone sailed past in quick succession, both destined for the hive-ship. The vessel sluggishly tried to evade, so as to avoid a direct hit near the bridge. The probable area of impact would be amidships now, and the realization instantly punctured Teal’c’s elation.

  He opened a com channel, praying that his warning would come in time. “Colonel Sheppard, this is Teal’c. Be advised there are two drones inbound for your location. I recommend you leave immediately.”

  Chapter 37

  “I repeat, there are two drones inbound for your location. Leave at once.”

  “Crap,” whispered John. Aloud he said, “Thanks, Teal’c. On my way.”

  He hoped.

  Amara had been gone for nearly ten minutes that had alternately raced by and trickled like treacle. About five minutes and twenty-nine seconds in, she’d radioed him saying that she’d found
a terminal and begun uploading the beacon program. So she should be on her way back.

  Right?

  Right.

  Cussing quietly, he keyed his radio. “Amara, this is Sheppard. What the hell is taking you so long? This isn’t the time to go sightseeing.”

  She came in immediately, her voice soft and rushed. “I’ve met with resistance on the way back, Sheppard. Right now I can’t return to the bay. I would be leading them straight to you. I’ll evade them and—”

  “No! Listen to me, Amara! Come back right now, and never mind if you’re leading them here. We’ve got to get out of here. Now. There are two drones on their way to us, which means that, any moment now, this whole place is gonna go up in a ball of fire.”

  “I understand, but there’s no chance for me to return in time. They’re blocking my escape route. Go.”

  “No way!” John was already out of his seat. “We don’t leave our people behind. I’m coming to get you!”

  “Don’t be a fool, Sheppard. Nothing is achieved by your death. And we both know it would be your death. I didn’t heal you for this.”

  “Amara—”

  “Go, Sheppard. I’ll be fine. I know that now. I’ll be just fine.” She sounded happy. More than that… elated. And peaceful at the same time. He could hear the smile in her voice. And then he heard her cry out; hit by a stunner or something worse. “Go!” she gasped one last time. “I’m fine.”

  The channel went dead.

  For a moment John stood there, frozen, nauseated by his own failure. Then the reality of the situation rushed back into his awareness. He leaped into the seat, fired up the engine, closed the hatch. The Jumper swiveled around obediently, as though nothing had happened. He could see the hangar bay opening now, shot forward, and—

  Despite the enormous size of the hive-ship the dual impact of the drones was noticeable. And then some. The hangar bay heaved and tilted around him like the floor of a funhouse. All of a sudden the opening zoomed up and more than ninety degrees to his right as the hive-ship yawed under the blast. Shaking off a slap of disorientation, John tried to dial back the Jumper’s speed, correct the course, and came too late. Only by a fraction of a second perhaps, but it wouldn’t matter in the grander scheme of things. The Jumper slammed into decking that hadn’t been there a heartbeat ago, bounded off like a rubber ball, and rammed the wall. It flipped over, tumbled, a toy tossed from the fist of a giant child pitching a tantrum.

  He sailed from the pilot seat and bounced through the cockpit much like the Jumper bounced through the hangar. Like one of those Russian dolls, he thought dizzily. A bounce within a bounce within a bounce. After what seemed like an eternity but couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds— inertia still applied— the Jumper rolled to a stop, tilted onto its side. All known and several unknown parts of his body aching, John unraveled himself from a twisted, upside-down heap in a corner, scrabbled for the seat and the navigation console, both of which were currently suspended over his head.

  The sight through the viewport made his breath hitch. The opening of the hangar bay was collapsing in on itself, in slow-motion for now, though it was bound to accelerate. Then again, it didn’t matter a blind damn. Between his Jumper and open space, the air was spinning with the white-hot plasma-strands of the drone. Anything they touched burned up like tinder.

  They can’t touch you, Sheppard. Start the engines.

  Oh sure. As far as wishful thinking was concerned, this probably would win prizes. But even his optimism had better acknowledge that this was it. He was trapped in a swirling mess of fire and moans from the hive-ship’s hull. The best— the last— thing he could do was figuring out a way to maximize the damage to the hive-ship. If he—

  Sheppard! Didn’t I tell you your death would achieve nothing? Listen to me. Trust me. Start the engines.

  With a jolt John realized that this wasn’t his optimistic streak talking after all. In fact, this was no thought he’d conceived. Panicked enough to hear voices, John?

  “Amara?” he whispered.

  At last. Are you always this slow or only when it matters?

  The chuckle rang like bells in his mind. John had no idea what was going on, quite possibly he was going nuts— Beckett had, after all, drilled a hole in his head— but he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

  Stretching to reach, he placed his palm on the Jumper’s interface panel. By some miracle the engines came online at once, apparently not caring which way was up. John did, though, and braced himself for yet another tumble when he flipped the Jumper right side up. Hanging on to the backrest of the pilot seat for dear life, he managed to turn himself upright without further damage to his anatomy. Unfortunately it didn’t improve the view.

  Hell was burning merrily between him and the exit. There was no way—

  Yes, there is! And hurry up. You’ll have to steer for the left hand side of the opening. It’ll be the last part to collapse.

  Okay. Fine. He’d play along. “And you know that how?”

  Elementary physics. Now stop prattling and go!

  Good Lord, she was worse than McKay!

  “Here goes…” Resisting the urge to shut his eyes, John revved the engines and raced straight for the section of the hangar bay port she— Amara?— had indicated. If nothing else, it would be over quickly.

  A tangle of those searing tentacles unfurled, reaching for him as if to caress his face. Inches from the viewport, it burst into a scintillating bloom of colors and slid harmlessly away. Others followed, reached, slid off, in a prismatic stream that enveloped the Jumper without ever touching it.

  He had a shield. And he’d better not spend time on wondering why or how.

  The hangar bay port was racing toward him, folding in on itself as he watched. John could have sworn he heard the groan of straining girders and plating. On the far left hand side the opening was still large enough to accommodate the Jumper. Just. If the pilot didn’t breathe…

  It wasn’t going to be enough. No way. No—

  The Jumper bucked as the port’s edges scraped along the hull, and the vicious shriek of metal on metal reverberated through the cockpit, setting John’s ears to ring. Under the noise he heard something like a scream, realized only belatedly that he was the one doing the screaming. And then, like the cork bursting from a bottle of champagne, he shot out into the blackness of space, trailing a wake of wreckage.

  Fly home, Sheppard. Fly home to Atlantis. Your journey has only just begun. But I won’t be allowed to interfere anymore.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, and did just what she’d told him to do.

  Chapter 38

  Rodney’s eyes were watering, but he refused to look away from the indicator screen on the laptop. The laptop was hooked up to the Asgard transporter target sensor, which still sat idle. The indicator screen was idle, too. Through the middle of it ran a flat green line, not unlike the EEG reading of a brain-dead patient.

  Wonderful metaphor, that. And so encouraging.

  He wiped a hand over his face, careful not to cover his eyes, in case he’d miss the moment.

  “Rodney?” said Carter.

  “What?”

  “Breathe. You’ll feel better.”

  “Ha. And ha again.” But he took a deep breath.

  The line on the screen spiked sharply, and for a moment he thought he’d finally gone and done it and was hallucinating. A second spike twitched across the screen, then a third, and then it settled into a steady pulse.

  The patient was alive and thinking.

  “Yes! Got it!” he hollered. “We’ve got the beacon signal, people!”

  Zelenka peered up from the mainframe console where he’d been riding guard on the remnants of Atlantis’s systems. “Ready to execute trap program.”

  “Synchronizing transporter,” announced Carter from her post by the Asgard array.

  Rodney slanted a glance at Elizabeth. “Good to go,” he said, making it sound like a request for permission to procee
d. Hey, he could be polite. And right now he was feeling rather generous.

  She hitched up an eyebrow, not bothering to mask her surprise. Then she grinned. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Just checking. On my mark!” He’d always wanted to say this. “Three, two, one, mark!”

  The transporter array hummed into readiness, and he heard the clacking of the key as Zelenka hit ‘Enter,’ activating the trap.

  Like all great ideas, the trap was fundamentally simple. Once uploaded into the mainframe, the program would mimic the malware’s primary target; a functioning quarantine system. Because it was written this way— and they’d verified this with Amara— the virus would abandon what ever else it was currently destroying and go after the mock quarantine program. Which would lure it to the jump-off point, so to speak. They’d tagged a precise location within the mainframe, and as soon as the virus reached that point, the transporter would activate. Bye-bye, virus.

  So far the theory.

  Whether practice would oblige by corresponding, well, they wouldn’t know until it was all done. Or not.

  He tried not to think about the or not part too much.

  “Oh, my God!” Carter breathed, staring at the transporter controls. “We’ve got a lock.”

  “Of course we have. What did you expect? I wrote the program.” Rodney, who’d just about jumped on hearing Oh, my God, tried to get his heart rate back under control. “And why are you whispering? The virus won’t hear you.”

  “Transporter is active.” She was still whispering. “Beaming to beacon coordinates.”

  Given the buildup, the actual event turned out to be fairly unspectacular. The Asgard transporter activated, and then it went idle again, indicator lights winking out.

  A trough of silence settled over the command center. People were staring, motionless, waiting for God knew what. Fireworks? Corks popping? An announcement of this year’s winner of the Nobel Prize in Physics? Which, coincidentally, should be Dr. Rodney McKay, if it weren’t for the pesky fact that all his research was classified.