SGA-21 - Inheritors - Book VI of the Legacy Series

by Melissa Scott

  "Understood," Ronon said after a momentary pause. "I'll look for McKay."

  "Please don't hesitate to stun him when you find him."

  "Believe me, I won't," Ronon said grimly.

  He wasn't going to think about one-way missions yet. There would be time to start thinking of John as dead later, and time to mourn. For now, all he could think about was that he had been right about McKay, right all along: Queen Death had broken him, and now if they weren't lucky, Rodney was on his way to gut the city from the inside so that Queen Death could kill them all.

  Atlantis's chair looked exactly like the one in Antarctica. Jack eyed it with disfavor as Carson Beckett detached himself from its embrace, wondering if it felt the same. But that wasn't something he could ask – wasn't something anyone else could answer, except Sheppard. The last time he'd sat in a chair like this, tried to take full control of its systems, he'd nearly died. Of course, he'd also had his head stuffed full of the Ancient database, which had probably been the real problem, not the chair itself.

  "– much better for you to fly the city under battle conditions," Beckett was saying. "Not only is it not exactly something for which I was trained, but I seem to have bad luck with the whole thing. I set off drones by mistake, the hyperdrive blows on my watch – I'm just much happier when someone else is driving."

  Jack forced a smile. "And I expect you're going to be needed in the infirmary anyway, Doctor."

  "Aye." Beckett gave him a shrewd look. "And I expect you wish I weren't, but, believe me, this is better." He was gone before Jack could decide how to answer.

  "Is it just me," Jack asked, "or are things weirder than usual?"

  There was no answer, and he'd expected none. The chair stared back at him, empty and waiting. He took a deep breath, and settled himself gingerly against the curved metal. It was warm beneath him, not as though it had been warmed by someone sitting there, but as though it was waiting for him, and he made himself lean back as though he were relaxed. He flexed both hands and laid them palm down against the connective gel. He winced as the familiar stabbing pains shot through his fingers and up his wrist, the city grabbing for control the way Ancient things always did, overloading nerves and synapses. He breathed through it, struggling to keep himself distinct, felt the first wave recede into something manageable.

  Come on, he thought. Give me a tac display.

  There was a perceptible lag, and then lines faded into view, a pale overlay on the walls of the chair room, hard to see against the dark walls. It wanted him to close his eyes, to see the patterns without distraction, but he refused.

  A 302's heads-up display's better than that.

  Grudgingly, the lines brightened, became legible, readouts floating in the air around him, closing him inside a sphere of data. There was the tactical display, Hammond and Pride of the Genii now fully engaged, Darts and 302s weaving deadly magic around them, and now the rest of Death's fleet was moving to close the gap. He stiffened, wondering if they were going to try the microjump, and the city whispered in his ear.

  Data suggests they are not drawing power for such a tactic.

  Well, that's something. Jack started to swing the chair, then remembered that, unlike a normal commander's chair, the thing was fixed in place. The city anticipated him, however, and the sphere of data revolved, the city's status display settling in front of his eyes. Everything looked good, drones ready – but not yet in range, the city murmured – the shield solid, maneuver and subspace and hyperdrive engines all on line, and Jack cleared his throat.

  "Woolsey."

  "Yes, General."

  "We're ready to go."

  "All personnel are standing by," Woolsey answered.

  "Right, then." Jack took a breath, imagined swinging the chair again, and the city spun the data, bringing the navigational display to the front. The tactical screen appeared beside it, Hammond and her 302s tangled with the Darts, Pride of the Genii exchanging fire with a cruiser, but he made himself concentrate on the city. We need to go, he thought, imagining the maneuver. We need to support our people.

  There was the briefest of hesitations, as though the city's heart skipped a beat, and then he felt the shift of vectors, the tug and rumble of maneuver engines firing. Atlantis shifted in her orbit, heading reluctantly into the fight.

  I know, Jack thought. You don't want me here, you want Sheppard. Well, I don't want to be here, so we're even. But I'm what you've got. Let's make this work.

  He could feel the power building, thrust released to send the city along the plane of the ecliptic, angle converging to a meeting point not too far distant, but still further than he would like. This was all the power there was, the city told him, firm resistance when he tried to push beyond that limit, and he made himself relax again. Surely it would be enough.

  Lorne's fingers tightened in the connective gel as he watched the ships wheel in the tactical display. The Hammond was trying to recover her 302s, but the big cruiser was pushing her hard. He felt a flicker of reaction, almost a wince, from the ship, and consciously relaxed his grip. Hammond needed a distraction, and he brought the Pride of the Genii up and around, trying to get a better shot at either of the cruisers pushing the Hammond.

  "Port batteries, fire if you get a shot," he said, and vaguely heard the acknowledgement. His world narrowed to lines of force, patterns in the deadly dance; he rolled the Pride as though she were a 302, stars spinning in the main screen, and came up behind and beneath one of the smaller cruiser.

  "Hit her with everything you have," Radim said, his voice tight and controlled, and every gun that would bear fired, a ragged rolling volley.

  "Cruiser behind us," someone shouted, but the Pride had already felt its presence, and Lorne rolled again, flinching as the new cruiser's shots slammed into the aft shields like a kick to the kidneys. He jinked left, then right, cutting the turns tighter than the cruiser could follow, and came out above and on its tail.

  "Forward guns," Radim said, before Lorne could speak, and he felt them fire, lines of blue stitching across the cruiser's stern. "Bring her around again, Major, we're hitting it hard!"

  Lorne could see the damage, too, could feel the Pride's shields still all at eighty percent or better, and for a moment he ignored the other cruiser to bring the Pride around for another pass.

  "Now!" Radim said, and the guns fired, less raggedly this time, shots converging on what was surely part of the engine. Something exploded on the surface, ripping a long hole in the tough hide, and that was followed by an internal explosion that split the hull, releasing a cloud of debris.

  "Again, Major!" Radim said, but Lorne shook his head.

  "She's out of it, sir. Power's dead, she's leaking atmosphere – looks like they're abandoning her."

  The Pride shrieked a warning, and he snatched his attention back to the ship just in time to roll away from the worst of the incoming fire. The third cruiser flashed past them – shields holding, the ship whispered, but dorsal shields are down 15 percent. Lorne could feel it, like a soft spot in a melon, and rolled again to put the good shields between them and the remaining cruisers.

  "Sir!" That was the Genii navigator, his voice echoing the Pride's sudden alarm. "The hives are moving in."

  "How far?" Lorne asked, and man and ship answered together, words and pictures flowing into a seamless whole.

  "Five minutes to firing range."

  Sometimes you just had to slug it out. Sam gripped the arms of her chair as the Hammond jerked, inertial dampeners compensating for the volume of fire from the cruiser. "Get us in closer," she said, and Chandler responded.

  It was counterintuitive, but correct. The cruiser's dorsal and ventral weapons emplacements couldn't depress or rise far enough to track them because of the shape of the hull, while the Hammond's rail guns were laterally mounted. Close enough, and the fire volume would go their way.

  A 302 slipped between, narrowly missing friendly fire, but the Dart pursuing didn't. It incandesced for a mome
nt and was gone, caught in the point blank fire from the rail gun.

  The cruiser began pulling back, turning to present undamaged hull and the dorsal array.

  "Stay with them," Sam said. "Stay close. But not too close," she amended. If they were overloading the cruiser's power plant...

  A flight of Darts skimmed in, and for a moment the viewscreen flashed blue, the forward shield darkening with the energy absorbed. The cruiser was dropping back, trying to dive between two of Death's hives, and the Darts provided a screen. The rail guns would destroy a Dart instantly of course, but their tracking was far too slow to provide an effective cover.

  Mel pulled wide, trying to get a good look at the bigger picture for a moment. That was the squadron commander's job. The second cruiser was venting atmosphere, pulling back at an uneven pace, obviously damaged, but the hives still packed a full punch, and the Darts still outnumbered them. More importantly, the Hammond was in too tight to retrieve 302s.

  It had been six minutes.

  In the rest of the world that was barely time to get through a fast food line, but in space combat that was forever.

  Mitchell's voice, calm on the line. "I've got one on my tail. Assist."

  "Coming," Mel said, and banked hard right to follow.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fatal Choices

  "What can I do?" Vala asked, stepping back out of the way of the pandemonium in the gate room. She didn't really have an excuse to be there, but no one had told her to leave yet.

  Woolsey looked at her as if aware for the first time that she was there. "Find McKay," he said. He didn't sound as if he really expected her to, but she nodded brightly and then gave the matter her most serious consideration.

  Everyone was busily looking for McKay all over the city, assuming that he was planning to sabotage some essential system. But he'd had every opportunity to do that for days, and the only thing he'd shown a seemingly unnatural interest in was stealing Hyperion's weapon.

  All right, then. Assume what Daniel swore was a maxim of Earth philosophy, that the simplest explanation was most likely to be correct. Vala could think of a lot of complicated explanations that had turned out to be correct, but it seemed worth a try. McKay had stolen Hyperion's weapon because he was under Queen Death's control, and he wanted to make sure the weapon wasn't destroyed.

  If she'd stolen something vitally important, the first thing she'd have been looking for was a means of escape. There was really only one means of escape from Atlantis while it was in orbit, and that was a puddlejumper. One puddlejumper had launched without authorization, contents assumed to be John Sheppard plus Ancient device, but in reality unknown.

  "I'm just going to go look in the jumper bay," Vala said. She didn't think Woolsey heard her, or at least he affected not to hear her. She slipped out and made her way down to the puddlejumper bay.

  She tried to work her way backwards through what might have happened as she went. If McKay had stolen the weapon and left Atlantis with it, he'd stolen it from Sheppard. Sheppard had left the control room, probably on his way to the jumper bay to make a brave and suicidal gesture. But if he'd run into McKay there ...

  She nearly stepped on Sheppard, and had to flail to keep from tripping over him where he lay sprawled on the deck of the jumper bay, unmoving. "What do you know, philosophy works," she said, and bent down to see if he was still breathing.

  One cruiser disabled – abandoned, according to the Pride: it was a start, but there was no time to enjoy the victory. The Darts and 302s still wove a glittering net, flashing into Lorne's awareness as they came in range, vanishing as soon as their danger was past. Radim was handling fire control, and they were his problem, if and when he thought he had a chance to hit them. The remaining cruisers were the problem, the cruisers and the hives.

  Comm, he thought at the ship, and a light flicked on, followed by a hollow emptiness in his ear. "Colonel Carter. We can cover if you want to try to get the 302s back in –"

  "Thanks, Major." Carter's voice was calm, but the Pride was sensing weak spots in the Hammond's shields, the remaining cruisers moving to catch her in crossfire. "That would be a help."

  The Hammond dived out of the trap, shields flaring, and Lorne heeled the Pride to come up beneath the larger of the two cruisers. He heard Radim give the order, and saw blue fire blaze across the cruiser's belly. No real damage, though, and the second cruiser was on him at once, spinning to catch him broadside. He caught his breath as the shots hit home, heavy blows along the starboard shield. There was a distant bang somewhere, and Radim swore.

  "We've lost a gun emplacement."

  "Get a technical crew down there," Lorne said, to Radim, to the ship, not caring who obeyed, and spun the Pride, trying to take advantage of the tighter turning radius to come up behind the cruiser again. Its commander wasn't fooled this time, and peeled off at an angle, trying to draw the Pride into its sister's fire.

  Shields at 60 percent, the ship murmured. Lorne could feel them softening like cardboard in the rain, pulled up and around to present a narrow target. The first cruiser swept after him, but the other turned its attention back to the Hammond. Lorne's eyes narrowed as he judged relative positions, lines of force relative to the ships' twisting courses. Yes, just there – he brought the Pride up in a sweeping loop, freeing himself from the cruiser. There was time for one good shot – he heard Radim talking, urging his people on – and then they were past, bearing down on the cruiser attacking the Hammond. Lorne saw a handful of their shots strike home, and then they were wheeling away again, but the cruiser didn't follow. He shook his head, lining up for another pass, but Carter spoke in his ear.

  "Negative, Major, it's not going to work. They're not being distracted."

  "Copy that," Lorne said. The Pride rocked as the first cruiser swung past, firing, and he turned to chase it.

  John Sheppard struggled up from unconsciousness to the sound of footsteps. Hands seized him roughly, flipping him over onto his back in the perfect feeding position, his head lolling, a black leather boot against his face. Any moment now the Wraith would bend to open his tac vest.

  John flailed out uncoordinatedly, rewarded by a very human sounding "Ow!" He opened his eyes.

  Vala Mal Doran looked down at him rubbing her chin. "That wasn't nice," she said. "And what happened to you?"

  He was lying on the jumper bay floor, and it came back to him in a rush.

  "Rodney stole the weapon back," he said. "He stunned me and he stole a jumper." He sat up, reeling. "How long have I been out?"

  Vala steadied him. "How should I know?"

  "He's still working for Queen Death." John hated to say it out loud, but it was true and now they were all screwed. If only he hadn't trusted Rodney so much! He grabbed Vala's arm, scrambling to his feet. "I've got to get down to the chair."

  The civilians had been ordered to a set of windowless rooms on the lowest level of the central tower. The lights were on, there were chairs and couches and cots, and there was even a coffee urn and hot water and baskets of cold sandwiches. It all seemed incongruous, William thought, but he made himself a mug of tea all the same. A number of people had their laptops going, monitoring the battle, but William didn't really know how to tap into the city systems, and wasn't sure he wanted to know. Winning or losing, there wasn't anything he could do about it; the best he could manage was to keep out of people's way.

  With that in mind, he edged toward a quiet corner, but stopped short as he saw that one of the three chairs was occupied. "Oh. I'm sorry, Dr. Robinson."

  "Eva," she said. "I won't be offended if you want to be alone, but I'm not averse to company."

  William considered the idea, and gave a fleeting smile. "Actually, neither am I." He seated himself carefully in the chair opposite her, the Ancient padding adjusting itself instantly to his body, and took a careful sip of his tea. "I rather thought you'd have been gone by now."

  "I could say the same for you," Eva answered, with a smile of her ow
n. "But I have the ATA gene, and Mr. Woolsey asked for those of us who had it to stay if we could, so...."

  William nodded. "I wish I had it. I'd feel more useful." He hadn't meant to say that, and winced, but Eva seemed to take the words at face value.

  "If I understand correctly, you're here to be useful if we have to abandon the city. So I kind of hope you're not going to be useful."

  "Thanks," William said, and looked up as a shadow fell across his chair.

  "Oh." Daniel Jackson stood there, cup of coffee in one hand. "Mind if I join you?"

  "Be my guest," Eva said, and Daniel took the third chair.

  "I'm surprised you're not in the control room," William said.

  "No, uh – actually, Jack, General O'Neill, kicked me out," Daniel said. "And then I was getting the impression that I was in the way in the infirmary."

  "There's not much call for archeology right now, I suppose," Eva said. "Or psychology."

  There wasn't anything to say to that. William wrapped both hands around his travel mug, wishing it was over. It was the waiting that was hard – they'd be safe here through anything short of the city's destruction, safe and comfortable and even well-fed, but it was impossible to believe it entirely. He looked past Daniel's shoulder to see the rest of the group, maybe two dozen people, one group clustered around a laptop, others with iPod headphones jammed in their ears, books and tablets raised like barricades. He was reminded sharply of his grandfather's stories of the Blitz, of trying to behave normally – properly – jammed down a Tube tunnel with a thousand strangers. This was entirely different, and yet somehow the same. He only hoped he'd make the old man proud.

  John Sheppard swam through space. At least that was how it seemed, as though it were he who moved through vacuum easily, skin accustomed to the cold. His skin was the forcefield, and his eyes were the city's, ten thousand sensors feeding a pattern to his brain. To know anything the city knew was easy. It was nothing so complex as examining instruments or reading screens, or even glancing at a heads up display. It was like using his own eyes and ears, like seeing what was right in front of him.