“We do,” Beckett said, unexpectedly. “The British, I mean. But I suppose that’s because we’re still a monarchy.”
Ladon lifted his head at that — it was the first time he’d heard the Lanteans talk about the specifics of their different governments — and swallowed a curse as Ambrus touched his sleeve.
“It’s time, Chief.”
“Right, thank you.” He straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height, and heard the drum major in charge of the brass quintet tap the stones lightly. An instant later, the finger of sunlight touched the dial, and the band burst into the fanfare specially composed for the occasion. He stepped out, automatically falling into step with the drummers behind the quintet, walking toward the shaft of sun. Behind him came the trumpets, and the drums, and the heavy tramp of boots on stone, and he was its head, its heart, the fulcrum on which the Genii power turned. It was a thought as dazzling as the sunlight, and one that he did not often indulge for that very reason; this once, though, he could allow himself to feel it, to know what he had done. He had been nothing, no one, one of hundreds of children born in the mountain fastness, a quarter of whom did not live to see their fifth birthdays. But he had lived, he and Dahlia, and together they had parlayed a talent for mathematics and his cold-headed realism into advancement that had brought them here, to the very pinnacle of Genii society. He could feel that sun’s warmth on his head and shoulders, and lifted his face to the dazzle, grateful for the skill and luck and timing that had brought him here.
And it would take more of the same to keep control of the system, he reminded himself as he climbed the short flight of stairs to the entranceway. No Chief of the Genii could ever call themselves secure. He turned to face the approach hall, aware of the stewards nearly shunting his escort and the Lanteans into their places behind him, and lifted his hand in greeting. There was an answering cheer from the marchers filling the side aisles, and a flourish from the drummers, and he settled himself to acknowledge the salutes of the military units as they wheeled at the base of the steps and marched away again down the side aisles.
For Remembrance Day, it was a short parade, only a dozen units, but as the last one passed and they turned to enter the Hall, he saw Beckett roll his eyes and Sheppard’s half-suppressed smirk in answer. How did the Lanteans keep their people together if they disdained communal display? Ladon wondered. Everyone needed to see the state in action, to see the might and the promise it possessed. But there was no time to consider that question. The audience in the Hall rose to their feet as they entered, and he let the applause carry him down the center aisle and onto the stage where a row of chairs had been set for the most important visitors. A second military band began to play, a familiar, cheerful march, and under its cover Ambrus leaned forward to say, “Everything is in order. We have preliminary contact with the Pride, and Captain Bartolan is prepared to speak as soon as the introductions and your speech are finished.”
“Excellent,” Ladon answered, and gestured for the others to seat themselves.
The first speeches were given to the city regent and the oldest survivor of the Ettin mining project, which had brought them the ore from which they had extracted the isotopes that allowed them to stand on almost even footing with the Lanteans. He looked older than his years, and walked with a cane; there were scars on his face where tumors had been cut away, and out of the corner of his eye, Ladon saw Beckett say something to Sheppard. Sheppard shook his head, looking uneasy, and Ladon made himself pay attention to the speeches. The miner finished at last, and Ambrus leaned forward again.
“Sarika says they will cut in Captain Bartolan on your signal. Everything’s ready to go.”
“Thank you.” Ladon took a deep breath, and stepped to the podium, assessing the quality of the cheers even as he smiled and lifted his hand in answer. His speech had been carefully prepared, a brief summary of how they had come to have the Pride, with full credit to the Lanteans — Sheppard would not be expecting that — and then praise for the Pride’s role in the victory over Queen Death. All of this his audience knew; he could feel them happy to cheer at the right points, but he could also feel their anticipation, and let his own smile widen in answer. He glanced down at the screen set into the podium, ready to display the ship’s transmission, and looked up again. “And now that we have brought a moment of peace to ourselves and our allies, the Pride of the Genii is ready to assume a new mission, one that will open a new day for all our peoples. A month ago, the Pride lifted from our homeworld, carrying a crew capable of using all her systems to their full capacity. We owe the Science Services a great debt of gratitude for their tireless work in deciphering the mysteries of the Ancient gene, and figuring out a way for our people to use it as it was meant to be used.”
On cue, the audience applauded, cheers and sharp whistles of approval coming from the balcony where the younger, more enthusiastic members of the government had been seated. Ladon waited them out, still smiling, and went on, “For this past month, the Pride has been touring the worlds of our allies, bringing our greetings and offers of goodwill to their governments. I am pleased to report that the response has been overwhelmingly positive, and that we can expect to see more than mere talk to come out of this mission. The Pride and her crew have laid the groundwork for new trade agreements, and for increased contact between our worlds, opening us up to greater cooperation and collaboration as is fitting for allies. And now, on Foundation Day, when we look back to our ancestors to know who we are, let us also look forward and see what we may become. I call upon Captain Bartolan of the Pride of the Genii to offer the invocation of the ancestors.”
The screen lit, filled with bright static. Ladon kept his expression calm, though he could feel his heart racing. This had to work. If it failed, if they couldn’t make the connection, he would look incompetent in front of everyone on the planet, and his competence was the main thing that kept him in office. Sarika had promised it would work, he had diverted every resource she required —
The static shimmered, took on shape and weight, and resolved at last into a view of the Pride’s control room. Bartolan stood between two senior officers — the civilian was his systems engineer, Ladon knew, and the other was the Pride’s second-in-command — his eyes fixed forward as though he could see into the Hall itself. And of course he could, Ladon reminded himself, Sarika had promised that this was a two-way link, and he turned to face the display screen himself.
“Captain Bartolan. If you would begin the offering.”
“Chief Ladon.” Bartolan drew a deep breath, clearly audible in the hall. And that was a good thing, Ladon thought, proof both of how good our connection is and that Bartolan was a man of the people, a normal person called on to speak for the polity. “And all Genii, and our guests and allies. We stand in the Hall of Remembrance on the Day of Our Founding, looking back as we hope to look forward, honoring our dead as we acknowledge the living. We stand against our enemies, against Culling and feeding and death, as our ancestors also stood against them, and we swear by the ground on which we stand that we will go down into the dark to join them rather than betray the heritage, the pride, of the Genii.” He slowly lifted a closed fist, stopping when it reached chest height. “Let us be blown by the wind, worthless as ashes, should we fail.” He turned his fist, letting a thin stream of sand fall glittering in the camera’s light, and as the cheers began, Ladon offered his salute.
“Captain Bartolan.”
Bartolan and his companions returned the salute, and the picture slowly faded. Ladon turned back to face the cheering crowd, giddiness filling him. Until that moment, he hadn’t been sure that they could pull it off, and a part of him wanted to seize Sarika in an embrace and dance her around the stage. But that would never do, not today of all days, and he rested both hands on the podium, waiting out the applause until he could conclude the ritual.
~#~
The Pride’s central viewing screen went dark, and Orsolya heaved a sigh of reli
ef, for once not caring who saw it. There had been a moment at the beginning of the transmission when the main array had faltered. She had brought the backup array on line, hoping there had been no time to sabotage her repairs, and then the main array had flashed back to life. Sabotage there? she wondered. If she hadn’t spotted the damaged relay, would the main array have stayed down? It was not a question she could ask directly, and she leaned over the shoulder of the communications technician.
“Marton. What happened there?”
“With the main array?” Marton shook his head, already calling up secondary screens. “I’m not sure, ma’am. Pulling the readouts now.”
It was a good sign that he hadn’t tried to pretend nothing had happened, Orsolya thought. She leaned closer, watching the numbers scroll past. There was nothing obvious; there had been more background noise than originally anticipated, with greater fluctuation, which might have been enough to upset the sensitive equipment. “What did you do to bring it back on line?”
“Widened our band,” Marton answered.
That was the textbook answer, insofar as they had such things, and it was also what you’d do if your attempt at sabotage had failed. “Good work,” she said, and looked up to see the executive officer moving toward them. Behind him, one of the junior technicians was sweeping up the sand that Bartolan had dropped during the ritual: not only was it a relic, but they could hardly afford to let it get into the Pride’s delicate systems.
“Systems Engineer,” Agosten said, and Orsolya straightened.
“First Officer.”
“What was the problem with the transmission?”
“It looks as though there was more background interference than originally calculated,” Orsolya said. “Technician Marton overrode it by widening our transmission bandwidth. That would be the standard procedure.”
“A wider bandwidth means that someone else might intercept the transmission,” Agosten said.
“It increases the chance slightly,” Orsolya said. She could feel her temper rising, and controlled herself with an effort. “But only by between eight and twelve percent. And in this neighborhood, there’s no one we would mind seeing it, anyway.”
“We can’t know that,” Agosten said. “Both the Lanteans and the Wraith have shields —“
“The Lanteans were invited to attend the ceremony, the last I saw,” Orsolya said. “And if there are Wraith in our sector of the galaxy, we have far greater problems than an intercepted transmission. I repeat, the increase was small, and it ensured that the transmission was successful. Marton did the right thing.” Assuming he hadn’t been the original saboteur, of course, but she was not going to say that in front of Agosten.
Bartolan moved toward them, hands clasped behind his back. “Problem, First Officer?”
“We were discussing the momentary glitch in the transmission,” Orsolya said, before Agosten could answer. “Which the duty technician ably covered.”
Agosten opened his mouth, but Bartolan spoke first. “I noticed that. Well handled, both of you. The technical section deserves praise for making the broadcast go seamlessly.”
Broadcast, Orsolya thought. See? Not narrowcast. “Thank you, sir,” she said, demurely, and saw the color rise in Agosten’s cheeks. “I’ll pass that on to my team.”
“Excellent,” Bartolan said, and turned away as the junior technician brought him the vial of recovered sand. Agosten followed him, and Orsolya looked down at the screen again. If only she could be certain. It was so little to go on — even the smudge on the relay could have been an accident, though she found that hard to believe.
“Dump your data to my console,” she said, to Marton. “I wonder if there’s not a better way we can tune the beam.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Marton typed a string of commands, frowning slightly as he worked.
Orsolya returned to her duty station and seated herself in front of the screens, one eye on the captain as he made his way from station to station. Bartolan at least was a reasonable man, not like some of the others, who could be relied on to start a witch hunt if she raised even the shadow of a traitor on board. He wouldn’t make too much of it if she took her concerns to him, and if her fears were accurate, he needed to know. She just needed the chance to speak with him discreetly.
She spent the next hour poking at the data, finding nothing to suggest that this was anything more than a known interference problem, and kept one eye on the captain. When he finally left the control room, she logged out, timing her own departure to catch up with him at the end of the short corridor that led to the crew’s quarters.
“Excuse me, Captain —“
Bartolan turned to face her, the movement quick enough that she rocked back on her heels. He gave her an apologetic look. “Systems Engineer.”
“I wondered if I might have a brief word?”
For just an instant, Bartolan’s expression was bleak, but then he’d recovered his usual equanimity. “Certainly. If you’d join me in my cabin?”
“Thank you.”
Orsolya followed him into the narrow space, and seated herself in the nearest chair. It was bigger than her own cabin, of course, but no more luxuriously furnished, with only a small framed photograph of a woman and a child to give any hint of the person living there. Bartolan rested his hips against the edge of the built-in desk.
“Well?”
Orsolya knotted her fingers together to keep them from trembling. “Sir. About that glitch we had…”
“Not a glitch after all?” Bartolan’s tone was almost resigned.
Orsolya looked up sharply, wondering what he knew that she didn’t. “There’s a chance it may not have been. Yesterday while we were completing the preparations, Technician Denzo and I found a problem in the backup system. One of the relays had been damaged.”
“And you suspect sabotage.”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far, sir,” Orsolya said. “The relays have an inner parabolic surface that has to be spotless; this one had what looked like a finger-mark on it. It was enough to trigger a warning when we ran the diagnostics, and it certainly would have prevented us from using the back-up system. It should have been spotted before the relay was installed.”
“But we didn’t use the back-up system,” Bartolan said.
“No. But we almost had to.”
“From what you said to Agosten, I understood that this was a known issue.”
“Yes, sir. The Ancients may have used some other method that we don’t know to tune their transmissions, but we’re still vulnerable to background clutter. On the other hand, because everyone knows it, it’s an obvious way to force us to go to the backup.”
“And there was a smudge on the relay?” Bartolan’s eyebrows rose.
“A finger mark.”
“But not one you can identify, or I presume you would have done so.”
“Yes, sir.” Orsolya spread her hands. “I know it’s nebulous. If this wasn’t the Pride’s first voyage, I wouldn’t be as suspicious. But there’s so much at stake here that I don’t think we can afford to take chances.”
“Very true.” Bartolan’s smile was wary. “Systems Engineer, I appreciate the warning, and I assure you I will take it very seriously.”
For a moment, Orsolya wanted to protest, to demand that he do more. The Pride’s safety depended on it — except what more could he do? She had no real evidence of sabotage, never mind a suspect. All any of them could do was watch for further trouble. She rose to her feet, accepting the dismissal. “Thank you, captain,” she said, meekly, and let herself out.
~#~
Bartolan waited until the door had closed securely behind the systems engineer, and then sank onto his bunk. This was what he had been dreading since lift-off, since he’d read Ladon’s cryptic message. He had allowed himself to hope, as the days ticked by, that it had been a false alarm, an overreaction — and perhaps it still was, Orsolya’s evidence was hardly overwhelming — but he couldn’t afford to take that chanc
e. Though exactly what he could do was something of an open question.
He turned to the ship’s internal system, paged the mess hall, and ordered tea service. It arrived with pleasing promptness, and the steward set the tray on the desk and poured the hot water with a flourish that could have been found in a district chief’s dining hall. The steaming liquid smelled of spices, and the pot of jam and single slice of sugared orange stood waiting. He dismissed the steward with thanks, and began methodically to prepare his cup. Only when the jam had melted into the cup and the orange slice floated prettily on the tea’s surface did he hesitate again. It was, after all, no secret how he preferred his tea; there would rarely be a better chance to poison him. Genii leaders had died through such carelessness.
He shook himself then, annoyed at his own paranoia. The food came from the common stores — except that it had been prepared for him and carried from the mess hall to his cabin, leaving plenty of chances for someone to tamper with it. The strong spices and the sweetness of the jam and the orange would help hide any strange flavors. He glared at the tray annoyed with himself but unable to refute his own arguments, then took a cautious sip. It tasted perfectly normal, the same thick beverage he had always drunk. He took another, deeper swallow, and glanced at the time display above his door. He would wait fifteen minutes and then, if there were no ill effects, he would finish his tea. No poison he knew took longer than that to manifest.
The clock had ticked off twelve minutes without his having felt the slightest twinge of discomfort when the door buzzed. Bartolan frowned and touched the button that opened the local intercom. “Captain here.”
“It’s Agosten, sir. May I have a word?”
Bartolan felt a chill envelope him. “Come in.” He worked the door controls as he spoke, and Agosten ducked inside. “Tea? I have a second cup.” He found it beside a stack of data blocks and held it out.
Stargate Atlantis #24 Page 6