“He was willing to die to save all of us,” Ronon said. He still didn’t understand why the Lanteans felt they had to pretend that hadn’t happened, or to treat it as either a joke or something that didn’t actually matter. On Sateda, at least, they had words to describe heroes, and they weren’t afraid to use them.
“I know.” Jackson’s face changed, as though he understood some of the things Ronon was thinking. “Yeah, I know.” He shrugged. “But, back to the Asgard. From everything we’ve seen, they’re looking for Ancient ascension technology, and I think they want to use it to force this Ascended Asgard — who from Elizabeth’s description has to be from before they started screwing around with their DNA — to un-ascend so that they can take genetic samples and use them to recreate their species.”
“Can they actually do that?” Sheppard asked.
“Probably.” Jackson spread his hands. “We never did figure out if there were any limits to what they could do, except that they couldn’t keep cloning themselves. Everything else — maybe they couldn’t do it, or maybe they just didn’t think they should? They didn’t want to share too much of their technology with us lesser races.”
Ronon looked back at the creature lying helpless under the Mylar blanket, its enormous eyes closed. It looked uncomfortably tiny, no larger than a child, every bone thin and sharp beneath the gray skin. It was hard to believe that such a thing could be as wise as the Ancestors, as advanced as the Wraith — but then, he reminded himself, the Ancestors had been far from perfect, too.
The top of the hill was bare of everything but the fine pale grass that seemed to be ubiquitous on PGX-239. Atlantis botanist Nick Parrish stopped, hands on hips, and turned slowly to survey the scene, considering how to prioritize the various pieces of his mission. To the northwest, back the way they’d come, he could see the Stargate sitting in the center of another clearing, DHD set back at the usual distance: nothing odd there, except that there was no sign of non-insect life, and usually when they found an uninhabited planet, the reasons were pretty clear, like hostile wildlife or immense deserts. To the north and northeast, the hill sloped away to more of the low-lying forest that surrounded the Stargate, twisted conifers that grew in tangles that ranged from waist-high to almost as tall as he was. The bark was jagged, fissured, and he hadn’t wanted to risk trying to push through it, not when there were more promising targets to the southeast.
He shaded his eyes, peering down the steeper slope to the vegetation that rose from what looked like the banks of a dry stream. PGX-239 had a particularly long day/night cycle, nearly fifty hours from one dawn to the next, and the sun was hot enough to cause most shallow water to evaporate. It was beating down on his shoulders now, scorching his neck in spite of his broad-brimmed hat, and his shirt clung damply to his back. He tugged the cloth free, and pulled out his binoculars, focusing on the stream line. The plants that rose on the opposite bank were succulents, with thick, fleshy leaves clearly intended to store moisture through the long hot day; he was willing to bet that the outer skin was thick enough to protect the moisture-retaining tissue from freezing through the long night. They were large, though, bigger than any similar plant he’d seen in Pegasus or in the Milky Way, notched ovals nearly as long as his arm along their central axis. They seemed to grow singly, surrounding what looked like a central bud or pod that was set deep within the foliage.
He put down the binoculars and turned back to the west, wincing at the brilliant sunlight. One of the planet’s fist-sized flying insects bumbled past him, double wings making a palpable breeze; a shadow flickered above him and he looked up to see something like an enormous dragonfly, easily half a meter long from bulging eyes to skinny tail. There was another stand of succulents along the western edge of the clearing, running into and blending with the line of conifers. Not very far into the conifers, he thought he saw a gap, and lifted the binoculars again. Yes, there was a ragged clearing several meters into the stand of trees. It looked like the aftermath of a brush fire — yes, he thought, almost certainly so. The ground was gray with old ash, and a few charred branches still poked up out of the rubble.
“Interesting,” he said, and lowered the binoculars as Gina Hunt came scrambling up the hill.
“We’ve got the preliminary samples you wanted, boss, and Doctor — sorry, Captain Aulich’s got her instruments just about set up. What’s next?”
“I want a look at those succulents by the stream bed,” Parrish answered. “Why don’t you take the corporal and get some samples of the conifers?”
Hunt grimaced. “Thanks a lot.”
“Be grateful they don’t have thorns.”
“They might as well,” Hunt said, shading her eyes to scan the clearing’s western edge. “That bark’s almost as nasty. Is that a break there?” She raised her own binoculars.
“It looked to me as though there’d been a brush fire,” Parrish said. “I was thinking it might be possible to cut through there.”
“Maybe.” Hunt slid her binoculars back into their case. “Ok, Sammy and I will take on the conifers.”
She started down the hill and Parrish touched his radio. “Sergeant Joseph.”
The sergeant looked up from the meteorological equipment she had hauled to an open space next to the DHD, and touched her own radio. “Sir?”
“If Captain Aulich can spare you, I’d like to take a look at the succulents on the other side of this hill.” They were under strict orders not to allow anyone, even the team leader, to head off on his or her own, and Joseph nodded.
“Just about done here, sir. Can you give me ten?”
“Absolutely.” Parrish sank to his haunches, not sorry of a few minutes just to survey this new world. In the distance, the horizon was blurred in haze, the sky pale behind thin sweeps of cloud. All the colors seemed to be blurred as well, from the dusty brown of the conifers and the gray-green leaves of the succulents to the pale yellow-green grass. He touched it idly, and then more purposefully: the strands were thicker and tougher than he had expected, and there were some old brown marks on some of the stalks, rather like scorch marks. In fact, there were small circular gaps in the growth patterns, and all the stalks around the gaps showed those marks —
There was a flash of light from the western edge of the clearing, and the sharp snap of an energy weapon. Parrish threw himself flat on the ground, scrambling to draw his pistol, and crawled forward on knees and elbows to get a better look. Hunt and Corporal Samara were prone, caught in the open without cover; even as Parrish watched, Joseph rose from behind the meteorological equipment and fired a burst from her P90. There were more flashes in answer, short blue-white bolts lancing out from among the succulents. One struck a conifer branch, which bloomed into flame; more went into the air or into the ground, mercifully nowhere near Hunt and Samara. More shots came from behind him; he wormed around, pistol ready, but there was no sign of movement beyond the dry stream. The open ground and the slope of the hill were utterly empty.
The Stargate lit, its energy ballooning out before it stabilized, and Parrish touched his radio. “Atlantis, this is Dr. Parrish. We’re coming through.”
“Negative, Doctor,” Banks said, her voice tight. “Atlantis is under quarantine, divert to Sateda or PVX-993.”
“We’re under attack,” Aulich said, crouching in the shelter of the DHD, her own P90 at the ready.
“Are you in imminent danger?” That was Lorne, and Parrish rose slowly to his knees, ready to drop again at the first sign of an attack. Nothing happened, and he swiveled cautiously. There were no more shots and nothing moved.
“Hang on,” he said, generally. “I’m not — this may be a natural phenomenon.”
“Are you —?” Aulich bit back what was likely to have been an impolitic remark. “Someone’s shooting at us, Doc.”
“I don’t think so.” Parrish paused. “Hunt, Samara, see if you can get back to the DHD.”
Even at a distance Samara looked doubtful, but Hunt pushed herself up onto
hands and knees and scrabbled backward. Nothing happened, and Aulich said, “Sammy.”
Samara did the same, still without drawing fire, collapsed into the shelter of the meteorological equipment.
“Dr. Parrish,” Lorne said. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not completely sure,” Parrish answered. “We saw bolts of energy — like shots — but there’s no sign of any attacker, no sign of any people at all except us. And the bolts don’t seem to have been directed at any of us; it’s more as though they were a response to some other stimulus.”
“Ok,” Lorne said. “We’ve got a problem here at the moment — we’ve picked up a bacteria that eats plastic — and we’re closing down gate travel until we can get it under control. I’m not letting anyone back through the Atlantis gate unless their lives are in danger, and if you do, you’ll be quarantined here with us. Do you need to come through?”
“Hang on,” Parrish said again. He stood up, bracing himself to drop if he’d gotten it horribly wrong. When nothing happened, he holstered his pistol and dragged out the binoculars again, surveying the empty ground. “I don’t see a thing. Anyone picking up anything different?”
There was a generally negative murmur in answer, and Parrish scowled. “Somebody fire a shot.”
He saw Samara and Aulich exchange glances, and then Aulich said, “Go ahead, Sammy.”
Samara flipped the P90 off automatic, and pointed the muzzle high. He fired twice, arcing the shots well away into the mixed underbrush, and a moment later there was another flash of energy further away from the clearing, the bolts clearly not aimed at anything in particular.
“Captain?” Parrish said.
Aulich pulled herself to her feet. “Ok, that’s one of the weirder things I’ve seen. I think you’re right, Doctor.”
“I think we’re all right for now, Major,” Parrish said. “It seems to be — natural, and not directed at us. We’ll evacuate to Sateda if we have any further problems.”
“Roger that,” Lorne said, and sounded relieved. “We’ll let you know as soon as the problem is under control.”
“Excuse me, Major,” Aulich said. “I think Dr. Parrish is right, but just in case — is there any chance we could get a few more Marines here?”
“We can’t risk this spreading, Captain,” Lorne said. “But if there’s anyone to spare who’s already off-world, I’ll send them your way. Atlantis out.”
“Well, that’s not very helpful,” Hunt said.
Parrish came cautiously down the hill. “What do you mean?”
“Most of the teams currently off-world are civilian,” Aulich answered. She had re-slung her P90, but she was still watching the vegetation warily. “Not a lot of back-up available.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need it, then,” Parrish said. “All right, people, let’s see if we can figure out what was letting off those energy bolts. But — carefully, please.”
CHAPTER THREE
GENERAL Jack O’Neill stuck his head around the corner of the door to Richard Woolsey’s new office in Homeworld Security. “Knock, knock,” he said.
“Come in,” Woolsey said.
O’Neill grimaced. “You’re supposed to say ‘who’s there?’”
“I can already see you,” Woolsey replied perplexedly.
“That’s beside the point.” O’Neill came in and sat down in one of the two visitor chairs, lounging back in the seat.
“Why is that beside the point?” Woolsey asked. “Why would I ask who was there when I can already see that it’s you?”
“It’s a joke,” O’Neill said. “Never mind.” He looked around the bare office. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you were settling in. Nice office. Very beige. Taupe.”
“It doesn’t have Atlantis’ view, no,” Woolsey said, feeling unaccountably irritated by that. “But it’s a perfectly nice office. Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
O’Neill shrugged. “Sure. Would you say that the Satedans are our allies? Are American allies?”
Woolsey considered. “Well, not in the strictest meaning of the word, no. There are no treaties ratified by Congress as only members of the Select Committee know that Sateda exists. So in that sense, we are not party to a formal treaty of alliance.” He held up a hand as O’Neill started to speak. “However, that’s often the case with unrecognized governments, sympathetic factions, friendly leaders, that sort of thing.”
“Ah yes,” O’Neill said. “That sort of thing. Contras. Militias.”
“Er,” Woolsey said. “There is some considerable diplomatic latitude for friendly yet unrecognized governments, which I would say Sateda certainly is. Certainly friendly. And we have provided them aid, which is often a hallmark of an unofficial…” He broke off. O’Neill appeared to be checking his teeth with his tongue.
“Aid,” the general said. “We do give lots of aid to friendly yet unrecognized governments. Medicine. Generators. Surface to air missiles.”
“I’m not aware that we’ve given the Satedans surface to air missiles,” Woolsey said. Not that it was impossible. Sheppard might have handed over a MANPAD quietly, or some other missile system. If that’s what this was about…
“Civilian advisors?”
“We often have civilian advisors with friendly factions, yes,” Woolsey said. “After all, American civilians are free to work wherever they want as long as no laws are broken. Certainly there are plenty of NGOs who are active in troubled zones, and there are always individuals…” He broke off. “Exactly who are we talking about here?”
“I’m just considering a notion,” O’Neill said. “If a retired Air Force officer were to take a job flying civilian aircraft for a ‘friendly faction’…” He made air quotes to emphasize the words. “That would be pretty much 100 per cent kosher and A-OK, right?”
“You’re not talking about a security firm, are you?” Woolsey asked sharply.
“I’m talking about an individual working on Sateda as a commercial pilot. Is there a problem with that?”
“I can’t think so, no.” Woolsey frowned. “Leaving aside the question as to how such an individual would get to Sateda, since the Air Force is controlling gate travel and space on the ships is limited.”
“If some kind of arrangement were made,” O’Neill said. “You know. As a gesture of friendship to a friendly faction. Colonel Caldwell could make room for one more warm body.”
“Who are we talking about?” Woolsey asked. “This isn’t hypothetical. You have someone in mind.”
“Lt. Colonel Melissa Hocken — she’s in command of Daedalus’s 302 wing, just in case you’ve forgotten — is planning to retire as soon as her twenty years are up. She’s entertaining an offer to be a commercial pilot on Sateda. It seems that the Satedans want to purchase a couple of light planes to help them reestablish contact with settlements that are some distance from their Stargate. Hocken’s interested in working for them. Medical flights, supplies, and of course being a flight instructor.”
Woolsey looked at O’Neill keenly. “What’s your interest in this?”
“The precedent.” O’Neill shrugged. “Where one goes, many shall follow. That which is done may not be undone. One good turn leads to another.”
Sometimes he wanted to strangle O’Neill, especially when he wouldn’t stop making light of something eminently serious. “If Hocken can stay in Pegasus, then anyone can,” Woolsey said.
“That would be the issue.”
“And you want her to stay.”
“I do.” O’Neill sat up straight in his chair, humor falling away. “It’s going to happen. I’d like some control over who sets the precedents and how.”
“You mean not somebody going AWOL.”
“That has occurred to me,” O’Neill said.
“But you think the IOA won’t like it.”
The general shrugged. “I think the IOA will want to control it. And I’d rather…”
“Normalize?” Woolsey raised an eyebrow.<
br />
“How is it different than going off to work in South America or the former Soviet Republics?”
“Other than being on another planet?” Woolsey took a deep breath. “Your argument is that it’s not?”
“My argument is that it shouldn’t be. And I’d rather cross that bridge with Hocken and Sateda than later with somebody else. She’s an exemplary officer, and many, many Air Force retirees have taken jobs flying commercially all over the world. If we say it’s no different than if she were flying in the Balkans or Guatemala…”
“You’re thinking about Sheppard,” Woolsey said.
“I never said a word about Sheppard.” O’Neill leaned back in his chair. “As far as I know, Sheppard is staying in. There’s nothing to say about Sheppard.”
Woolsey twitched. “But there will be someday.”
“I don’t believe in borrowing trouble.” O’Neill got up. “The question is about Hocken. Yes? No?”
“I don’t see any problem with Colonel Hocken working for the Satedans,” Woolsey said slowly. “Nor do I see any reason why the IOA should micromanage that. The decisions of individuals are of course up to them.”
“I thought you might see it that way.” O’Neill gave him a jaunty smile and headed out of the office whistling.
What have I gotten myself into? Richard Woolsey wondered.
It didn’t take as long as Rodney had expected for Dekaas to collect what equipment he had and to transfer the aid kit to the Travelers. Even so, as he dialed the Stargate for Sateda, Rodney couldn’t help being aware that nearly three hours had passed since they’d left the injured Vanir. They’d done the best they could, and Sheppard would be doing everything he could to keep the Vanir alive, but — that wasn’t much, and it had been a long wait. They had to find out why the Vanir wanted Elizabeth if they were going to keep her safe, and he wasn’t about to let anything happen to her, not after everything they’d been through. And there was no knowing how good a doctor Dekaas really was. Admittedly, the Wraith knew a lot about human biology, but there was always the question of how much Dekaas’s Wraith — captor? teacher? — had chosen to share with him. Rodney made himself focus on the controls, closing his mind tightly. Dekaas probably felt as ambivalent about Seeker as Rodney did about Dust and Ember, the two Wraith who had been both his closest friends and assistants and the agents maintaining his transformation into a Wraith.
Stargate Atlantis: Third Path: Book 8 in the Legacy series Page 5
