SGA-16 Homecoming - Book 1 of the Legacy Series

by Graham, Jo

  “What is this?” Ronon pointed to the top of one of the chairs, and Rodney felt his shoulders sag with relief.

  “It’s a cat. My cat.”

  Ronon looked at him, and looked back at the half-grown Siamese digging his claws into the pale gold padding, eyes half-closed in something between delight and malice.

  “A pet,” Rodney said. “You know. A domestic animal kept for companionship. You had pets on Sateda, right?”

  “Yes.” Ronon’s expression was more than usually grim, though Rodney didn’t see any actual injuries. “Pets don’t usually snarl at you.”

  “He doesn’t snarl,” Rodney said, indignantly. “He’s very sweet-tempered. Not like some people,” he added, thinking of the captain, and Ronon’s jaw dropped.

  “It snarled at me, McKay.” He pointed accusingly toward the cat. As if to prove the point, Schrodinger arched his back and hissed at the waving fingers. “And it did that. It sounds like a Wraith.”

  “He does not,” Rodney said, and scooped Newton into his arms. The cat wriggled, giving a muted yowl, and Rodney automatically adjusted his hold. “Cats are nothing like the Wraith. They’re mammals, they’re furry, useful mammals who hunt mice and other rodents… I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “Me neither,” Ronon said. He paused. “Are you supposed to be sleeping?”

  “Brilliant! Yes, of course, I’m supposed to be getting some rest, which does in fact mean sleep, but instead I’m out hunting for my cat that somehow got loose—”

  “McKay.”

  Rodney stopped, the last of the adrenaline fading from his blood. He was painfully tired, and even though he’d survived worse, this was not a good situation. The cat wriggled again, purring as it made itself comfortable, and he made himself take a deep breath.

  “Go to bed,” Ronon said.

  “Yes.” McKay settled the cat, turned back toward the door, hoping he’d make it back to his quarters before he fell over. “I’ll—do that.”

  It was morning. Or as close to morning as you could get, lost in the space between galaxies. Richard Woolsey tugged the uniform jacket into shape, fingers itching to adjust his nonexistent tie. For thirty years, nearly, he’d worn another uniform, plain black suit, white shirt, respectable tie; it had made him invisible, an apparent nonentity, and he’d used that camouflage expertly, rising through the ranks of the US government and the IOA, until he’d been offered this entirely different opportunity. He knew perfectly well what the IOA expected of him, knew, too, that it was going to be impossible more times than not, and accepted that this post might be the end of his career. It had seemed worth it at the time—still was, he told himself firmly. Bringing Atlantis home was worth all the risks. It just seemed a little unfair that his first major crisis should be so purely technical.

  He shook himself, annoyed at the lapse into self-pity. He had known what he was getting into, had known perfectly well that any problem on Atlantis was as likely to need nuclear weapons or an Ascended being as diplomatic skills. He had been so sure he could cope.

  His eyes fell on the row of books he had set in one of the long narrow niches, bookended by a pair of iridescent glass sculptures. Before he left Earth, he had bought himself an expensive electronic reader and filled it to its limits with every recent thriller and series mystery he could think of—that was one of the advantages of having nowhere to spend a generous salary—but these were different, books that he had carried with him in many different places, stories that had shaped his dreams of who he could be. The shabby covers mocked him: The Knights of the Round Table, Robin Hood, Kipling’s Kim—he’d played the Great Game in his day, and in many of the same places, a secret thrill in his heart as he scurried from meeting to meeting, or sat wedged in a HUMVee between genially contemptuous soldiers. Others, too, from college and later, but today he wasn’t sure what those old dreams held for him. They were hero stories, all of them, and he had long known that he was no hero.

  And if ever there were circumstances that called for a hero… He smiled in spite of himself, in spite of everything. Yes, being trapped in a giant alien city-ship with an inoperative hyperdrive and no guarantee that they could land even if they did find a suitable planet—that would seem to be a good moment for one. He owed them a hero, all these people who had come back to the city on short notice, owed the people of Pegasus, too, who needed Atlantis if they were to have any chance to survive the Wraith. And instead they got him, an aging, fussy bureaucrat who had been chosen in part because the IOA thought he was controllable.

  At least that last one was no longer true. From the moment he’d walked into the President’s office to plead Atlantis’s case, he’d known that he was choosing sides, would probably end up forced into retirement no matter what happened. It had seemed worthwhile—it was worthwhile, he told himself fiercely. It had just—perhaps it had been a bit presumptuous to think he was the man for the job.

  But. He squared his shoulders, fingers reaching again for the tie that wasn’t there. It was his job. His responsibility. If he was not a hero, he could make room for others to be heroes—yes, that felt possible. Keep everyone on track, make sure nothing, no one, was overlooked, and McKay would find an answer. Colonel Sheppard would bring the city down in one piece. They would make it happen; his job was was merely to… facilitate.

  His eyes fell again on the line of books, the familiar titles both reassurance and reproach, and his earpiece crackled.

  “Mr. Woolsey.”

  “Dr. McKay.”

  “I think we’ve got something.”

  I knew you would. Woolsey swallowed the words, the relief. “Very well. All senior staff will meet in the briefing room in half an hour.”

  The briefing room was more crowded than usual, as though every senior staff member had brought an assistant just in case. Woolsey approved the idea, but not the numbers: it wasn’t efficient to have people leaning against the walls, laptops and tablets precariously balanced in their arms. He said nothing, though, merely leaned back in his chair as McKay ran through the data.

  “So. It’s not terrible. I’m not saying it’s good, but it’s not terrible, either.”

  Woolsey frowned. He had been expecting a more—definitive—summation, after the twenty minutes of what was to him mostly incomprehensible information. “What does that mean? You did say that the solar radiation was not a problem.”

  “Yes.” McKay paused. “I mean, no, it’s not. But that’s not the only factor to consider.”

  “The planet is too far out from its sun for optimal conditions,” Radek Zelenka said. “It is marginal for human habitation due to its climate. However, in the equatorial regions it is temperate enough to support human life.”

  McKay cut him off. “What Dr. Zelenka is trying to say is that the planet is cold. Much colder than we’d like. However, there is a narrow band around the equator that should be warm enough to be useful. The planet’s surface is ninety percent ocean, so we shouldn’t have any trouble finding a place to land.”

  “What about native life?” someone asked—Woolsey couldn’t quite see who it was—and Lt. Colonel Sheppard spoke at the same moment.

  “If it’s that cold, and there’s that much water, isn’t there a problem with—”

  “Sea ice?” Zelenka said. “Yes, yes, that is a problem. However, in the equatorial region—”

  “No,” McKay said. “There isn’t any native life big enough to see from here. So it shouldn’t be a problem. And no, ice is not a problem, either. Not if you land at the equator the way you’re supposed to. If you land somewhere else—”

  “It will be very cold,” Zelenka said.

  Sheppard put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, ignoring the babble of voices rising around him as everyone began to digest the information. “How cold? Antarctica cold?”

  “In some places, yes, of course,” Zelenka began.

  “In the equatorial zone it’s not nearly that cold,” McKay said.

>   Zelenka looked at him. “More comparable to Northern Europe, wouldn’t you say, Rodney? Scandinavia, perhaps, or Canada? It is certainly not uninhabitable.”

  “No, obviously not uninhabitable,” McKay said. He jammed his hands into his pocket. “People live in Canada. They live in Norway. But it’s a lot colder than we’re used to.”

  Woolsey folded his hands, rested them on the sheaf of notes in front of him. It was time to take control of the meeting, before people started repeating themselves, and McKay did or said something outrageous that would need to be smoothed over with the people who hadn’t worked with him before. And in any case, there really wasn’t a decision to be made. This was the only planet that could support human life: cold or not, it was where they had to go.

  “Our last home was subtropical,” he said. “But we can certainly deal with a climate more comparable to…”

  He let his voice trail off, and Zelenka responded obligingly. “The North Sea.”

  “The North Sea,” Woolsey repeated. It was not the analogy he had hoped for, but he recognized certainty when he heard it. They were all looking at him, waiting for his decision, and he blinked, wondering who they thought he was. But he knew the answer: he was the commander of Atlantis, and it was his word to give, however inadequate he might feel.

  “Well. It will be different.” He straightened his back, looking at the circle of faces. One of his books had offered the right advice, he realized. Be what you wish to seem. That was his only option now. “Dr. McKay. How long will it take us to reach the planet?”

  “Five days. That’s assuming no further power drain, and optimum use of the sublight engines.” McKay paused. “And leaving us plenty of power for the landing. Or—maybe not plenty, but enough.”

  “Enough?” Sheppard asked.

  “Yes. Enough. No unnecessary maneuvering, but—enough.”

  Sheppard was looking distinctly dubious, and Woolsey couldn’t blame him. “Very well,” he said aloud. “Colonel Sheppard, you and Dr. Beckett set a course for this planet—does it have a designation?”

  Zelenka shook his head. “It’s not in the Ancient database.”

  Woolsey grimaced—one more thing for McKay to argue about. “Set a course for the planet,” he said again. “It seems we have found our new home.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Landing

  The planet without a name turned serenely in space, wide cloud bands circling its southern hemisphere, a storm as large as a continent blowing across uncharted seas. From a high orbit it looked like a blue and white marble, one of the special shooters made of crazed glass. Those were always the ones that looked really pretty, but they shattered if you used them very much. They were fragile.

  Like Atlantis.

  The Ancients had centuries to perfect their city, and it was only after more than five years here that John was beginning to realize what a work of art it was. Even the smallest and most insignificant spaces were meant to be lovely. The frames of his windows were tinted titanium, shaded to look like weathered bronze. The small window in his bath had a tracery of gold glass around the edges that caught the morning sunlight with a bright glow. The stones in the bathroom floor were set so that they felt level, and yet splashed water drained effortlessly away. Each miniature perfection contributed to the whole. The City of the Ancients was breathtaking.

  Nothing was stranger than standing on an outside balcony, protected from the void of space only by Atlantis’ shield. It was like standing in space without a space suit, a 360 degree breathtaking view without even a pane of glass between you and the universe.

  Behind him the door swished open. “Oh my God.”

  He looked around. Dr. Robinson stood in the doorway of the control room, her hands raised involuntarily to grasp at the frame as though she might fall.

  “Come on out,” John said. “It’s perfectly safe.” He looked as though he were standing on the edge of infinity, the endless drop off the balcony to the planet’s surface far below, or past it into the endlessness of space, standing on the edge of infinity in jacket and pants and a lopsided smile.

  “Safe?” She let go of the door but didn’t step out.

  “We’re under the shield,” he said reassuringly. “It’s as safe out here as it is in there. Those doors are just glass. If the shield failed, they wouldn’t hold. So you might as well be out here.”

  Dr. Robinson stepped out cautiously, looking down at the vertiginous depths beneath her. “I don’t see anybody else out here.”

  John shrugged. “Some people find it a little creepy. But you’ll never find a better view.” He gestured to the railing. “Come over and have a look.”

  Very deliberately she walked over to the rail, and if her hands tightened about it, she didn’t cling as she looked out into the endless night. He waited, letting her look her fill. After a while she nodded. “So that’s our new planet?”

  “Yeah.” They were in high orbit, the planet the size of a beach ball, not filling the sky, taking last readings before their approach.

  “Big ice caps,” she said.

  He nodded. “Really big ice caps. They’re coming down to fifty degrees above the equator. Our viable landing area is only within twenty degrees of the equator either way.”

  “Do me a favor and spell that out for me,” she said with a smile. “Not a scientist, remember?”

  “The seas are frozen, and just south of the ice caps there’s significant sea ice,” John said. “We need to stay close to the equator, what would be, say, roughly the area between South Florida and Rio de Janeiro.”

  “Tropical,” she said.

  “What would be tropical on Earth. Here it’s just about inhabitable.” John looked down at the planet turning slowly beneath them. “Going to be interesting.”

  “Not even two weeks and already an emergency,” she said thoughtfully, her face creased in consideration. She was still wearing lipstick. Heightmeyer never gave up makeup, though a lot of the female scientists did. Maybe it was a professional thing, kind of a uniform. If you look put together it makes people think you’re handling it.

  John glanced at her sideways. “Regretting coming?”

  Robinson shook her head slowly. “Not on your life. To see something like this…”

  “It’s pretty cool,” John said. “I told you there was stuff that was worth it.” Like standing out on a balcony in the middle of space.

  * * *

  At least it had not happened 24 hours earlier. That was what Radek kept telling himself. If the hyperdrive had failed 24 hours earlier, then they would be in trouble. This was not trouble. At least, this was not trouble by Atlantis standards.

  As far as he was concerned, the standard had been set nearly five years ago, when he had spent all night trying to figure out how to destroy the city, had sat down with Elizabeth Weir and showed her his simulation. He was insufficiently destructive. Too much of the wonder that was Atlantis would survive Radek Zelenka.

  The Wraith had not had them then, and the Replicators had not two years later. Though they had had Elizabeth. She was dead, something that still seemed as unthinkable to him as it had then.

  And yet those days did not seem quite as dark to him in memory as the siege. Perhaps it was because he had been older, become used to it. He had not been so afraid. Or perhaps it was that he had not had time to be, between all things. There had been the repair spacewalk that had nearly cost him his life, a micro meteorite through his leg like a bullet while he was in deep vacuum. He had completed the repairs, and Sheppard had hauled him in, so death had waited for them all.

  That leg still bothered him, how not? But he did not like to say anything about it while they were on Earth. Someone might decide he was not fit. He did not tell Dr. Keller, of course, and when O’Neill had caught him stumbling on the gateroom steps when it cramped up, Sheppard ran interference very neatly. Nothing was ever said, so perhaps O’Neill had not noticed.

  So this was not really trouble. Not by Atlan
tis standards.

  If the hyperdrive had failed in the void between galaxies—that would have been bad. If it had gone out before they reached the first spiraling tendrils of the Pegasus Galaxy, they would have real trouble. This was five days to reach a marginal planet, not years. Five years, fifty, a hundred, a thousand? It would not matter. The shield would fail long before Atlantis could reach any world at all, and they would die in the drifting void.

  He was not worried so much about the landing. Sheppard would bring them in. It might get a little challenging, but all would be well. Rodney would take the landing from the control room, where he might toggle the power most efficiently. He would be in the chair room with Sheppard, in case of any technical problems with the chair itself.

  Radek watched Sheppard lean back, his eyes closing as the handpads cradled his fingers, the conductive gel in them making the microscopic electrical connections of the interface. It came to him that Carson always looked stressed when he flew. Sheppard looked at peace. He looked like the face of a knight on a tomb that Radek had seen in a cathedral crypt somewhere, serene yet intent, as though the next world held battles still that awaited the crusader’s sword.

  “We are ready,” Radek said into his radio.

  “We’re green up here,” Rodney responded. “All power is well within safe parameters.”

  “Taking us down,” Sheppard said. His voice was slow, as though he were half asleep. Not for the last time Radek wished that he had the ATA gene, or at least a recessive that could be activated. He would like to know that, that oneness with the city. He should like to know her that way.

  There was no sense of change in motion. There would not be, with the inertial dampeners. But on the screen before him Radek saw the scene shift, the city pitching up so that the stars were overhead, the great counter thrusters of the drive on the bottom of the city down so that their engines would slow the city. The shield flared opaque for a moment, then compensated. They brushed the top of the atmosphere.