by Graham, Jo
“Then I’ll see you in a month,” Caldwell said, getting to his feet. “And hopefully you won’t need me sooner.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Compromises
Why in the name of all the ancestors could the army not attempt its coups at a reasonable hour? Ladon Radim eyed the barely lightening horizon beyond his window with disfavor, looked back at the flickering screen on his desk. Green letters crawled across black, spelling out the failure of another attempt to depose him. At least I managed mine in full daylight, he thought. Much easier for everyone. Ambrus had brought a flask of tea, but after a moment’s hesitation, Ladon went to the narrow bathroom, drew water from the tap instead. He trusted Ambrus, but there was no point in taking chances.
On the sideboard, the middle telephone rang: his private line. He picked it up quickly, said, “Ladon.”
“The labs are secure.” It was Dahlia’s voice, and Ladon gave a sigh of relief. “The whole Warren is on alert, and remains loyal. There’s no support for Miklies outside the army.”
“And not much inside it,” Ladon said. “That’s good news.”
“Shall I come to you?”
“No.” Ladon shook his head, even though he knew she couldn’t see. “Wait until daylight, it’ll be safer then.”
“All right.” Dahlia hesitated. “Be careful, brother.”
“And you,” Ladon said, softly, and set the headset back in its cradle.
“Chief Ladon.” Ambrus appeared in the doorway, and the look on his face set Ladon’s heart racing again. “We have a situation.”
“Who else has joined him?” Ladon moved back behind his desk, where he could reach the pistol in the top drawer.
“No—no, it’s not that, Miklies is arrested and in a security cell in Center,” Ambrus said. “This—it’s Sora, Chief.”
Ladon swore. “What’s she done this time?”
“Attacked the Lanteans.”
“Right.” I will kill her, Ladon thought. This time, she is dead. “Arrest her.”
“It’s not that simple,” Ambrus said. “She ambushed a medical mission, managed to get away with all their supplies. She brought them to Faber.”
“Oh.” Ladon reached for the flask of tea after all. He needed the stimulant, and if it were poisoned it would at least resolve a few of his problems. He sipped gingerly at the scalding liquid, buying time. Faber was his most loyal supporter in the army, the man who’d warned him of Miklies’s coup; more than that, he was someone that Ladon thought actually shared his plans about what needed to happen in the galaxy. He’d suspected for a while that Faber had a weakness for Sora, and of course it was being revealed at the least convenient moment. But at least it was something to negotiate with: give me back the Lanteans’ supplies, and I won’t have your lover shot. It was a fair deal under the circumstances. “What does he say about it?”
“He reported the action,” Ambrus said.
“Damn it,” Ladon said. “What did she get?”
Ambrus held out a sheet of paper, half covered with his rounded handwriting. Ladon studied it sourly—too many things they needed, things they couldn’t make, things that at another time might be worth risking a break with the Lanteans. But not now. Not with the project nowhere near completion, and the Wraith attacking in force. They couldn’t afford to alienate the Lanteans yet.
“Get me a line to Faber. And, Ambrus, when the Lanteans contact us, be very polite.”
The Genii arrived on schedule, the small party emerging from the wormhole with empty hands on display. Seeing that, Sheppard hoped the Marines ranged on either side of the gate room could at least pass for an honor guard, but the small, tight smile on Ladon Radim’s face suggested otherwise. He had brought his sister, Sheppard saw with some surprise—she was looking at lot better than the last time, better color, a healthier weight—and a blond man he didn’t recognize, plus a couple of obvious guards, who looked distinctly unhappy at the situation. They had Beckett’s supplies with them, a handcart piled with the familiar cases, and Sheppard suppressed the urge to grab it right away. Instead, he nodded to Lorne, who stepped forward with a security wand. That had been agreed to in advance; the Genii stood patiently for the search, and Lorne stepped back with a nod.
“Clean, sir.”
Sheppard nodded. “Stand the men down.”
At the top of the stairs, Woolsey cleared his throat. “Chief Ladon. Welcome back to Atlantis.”
“Mr. Woolsey.”
They met at the foot of the broad staircase, clasped hands formally, and Ladon gestured to the handcart still waiting beneath the empty gate.
“As you see, we have returned the stolen goods, and I add my personal apologies. We have no desire to be at odds with Atlantis. Particularly when the situation has been so unstable.”
And that, Sheppard thought, could be construed as a jab at us. He looked at Lorne, who stood behind the Genii with his P90 carefully not pointed anywhere in particular, and saw the major roll his eyes.
“And we, of course, appreciate your quick response,” Woolsey answered. “Under the circumstances. Major Lorne, if your men would be so good—?”
“Sir,” Lorne said, and a couple of the Marines tugged the handcart out of the way, began to check the cases for booby-traps. They were being reasonably discreet, but Sheppard knew Ladon saw.
Woolsey said, “I know you know Colonel Sheppard, commander of Atlantis’s military. And Dr. McKay, our head of sciences.”
Ladon inclined his head. “And I believe you know my Chief Scientist, Dahlia Radim. And my leading aide, Ambrus Tol.”
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Woolsey said, in a tone that somewhat belied the words. They did not, Sheppard saw, offer to shake hands.
“In the meantime,” Woolsey went on, “if you and your party would care to join us in the conference, room, we can continue our discussion in comfort.”
“Certainly,” Ladon answered.
He was doing a pretty fair job of treating this like any other negotiation, Sheppard thought, following them up the stairs. Especially when his people screwed up royally. He found himself next to Dahlia Radim, and gave her a careful smile. “Glad to see you doing well.”
Her smile in return looked almost genuine. “I’m not unaware of the debt I still owe Dr. Beckett. His work has saved many lives besides my own. That’s what makes this whole incident so regrettable.”
Incident, Sheppard thought. Regrettable. He said, “Yeah. It was.”
He was sounding like Ronon—he felt like Ronon—and her smile widened for an instant. “Very much so, I assure you.”
They had reached the conference room, and there was the usual flurry of activity as the Genii guards took up positions outside, each with a Marine to match him, and the others found places at the long table. It was almost funny, Sheppard thought, folding his hands carefully on the polished wood. Two little men at opposite ends of one big table.
“I would like to say again that this was not in any way an official action by my government,” Ladon said. “And it is being dealt with as we speak.”
“Atlantis and the Genii have had friendly relations for some years,” Woolsey said. “I couldn’t imagine that you would choose to jeopardise that for something that you could so easily acquire by—less aggressive—means.”
“I appreciate your trust,” Ladon said. “And your candor. I do hope that will not prevent our peoples from continuing a beneficial relationship.”
“No one can predict the appearance of a rogue actor,” Woolsey said. “I assume that Sora Tyrus has been—I believe you said, dealt with?”
“She is under arrest,” Ladon answered blandly.
Sheppard sat up at that. “That’s—” Not very Genii, he had been going to say, but at Woolsey’s frown he substituted, “—very patient of you.”
“Of course she’s been stripped of all rank,” Ladon answered. “And no longer holds any official position in my government. But, Colonel Sheppard, we prefer not to shoot peopl
e out of hand. She will stand trial.”
Sheppard bit his lip to keep from saying anything more inappropriate, and Woolsey smiled. “I hope you’ll keep us informed as to the outcome, Chief Ladon. In the meantime, I hope we can discuss the resumption of friendly relations between our peoples. It’s clear that we have much each other needs.”
“Indeed,” Ladon said.
They were enjoying this, Sheppard realized. Both of them were actually getting off on the exchange, on the polite barbs and the chess game of the negotiations. He glanced at McKay, saw the look of impatience and incredulity that meant Rodney had realized the same thing, and resigned himself to a long morning.
By the time they broke for the lunch that had been so carefully planned, Sheppard was both bored and hungry. He supposed he should be pleased that he hadn’t managed to say anything to spoil Woolsey’s fun, but he was beginning to wish that the diplomats didn’t seem to need an audience. The buffet had been set up in one of the side rooms, not the mess hall, and through the long windows the view of sea and sky and city was startlingly beautiful. It was a clear day, if painfully cold, and the towers glittered with the streamers of wind-sculpted ice that formed anywhere that wasn’t heated. A selection of the senior staff had been invited to help make things seem more social, and he wasn’t surprised to see Dahlia Radim make a beeline for Beckett.
“This is a total waste of time,” McKay said at his side, and Sheppard slanted a glance at him.
“I don’t know, seems like a good idea to try to be friends with the Genii—”
“I mean a waste of my time,” McKay said. “I could be doing something useful, not hanging around trying to be polite to people who would prefer to shoot us.”
He’d acquired a plate already, Sheppard noticed, and all the best choices. He said, “You should be nice. Be like their Chief Scientist.”
“What, blonde and busty? I don’t think I could manage that.”
“She’s not that stacked,” Sheppard said. To his surprise, she had moved on, was talking to Ronon, who was listening with what for him was remarkable politeness. “But, no, blonde and pretty are both out. You could hit on Ronon, though.”
“What? She’s not—” McKay paused. “That’s really not funny, Sheppard. On so many levels.”
Sheppard smirked into his coffee, and headed for the buffet, hoping to snag some of the little pastry things the cooks had come up with. They’d tested the menu on the regular mess for the last week, and some of it was pretty good. Unfortunately, that tray was nearly empty; he took one anyway, and filled the rest of his plate with a selection of little sandwiches.
Turning away, he nearly ran into Zelenka, who looked slightly abashed. “I feel as though I’m in graduate school again,” he said. “Quick, grab the free food before it goes away! But this is very good.”
“Rodney did the same,” Sheppard said, and Teyla appeared at his side.
“Ah, there you are, John. I saved some of the tava cakes for you.”
“Thanks,” Sheppard said, slipping them onto his plate along with a couple more of the little tarts, and they moved together toward the windows. The sunlight fell in long stripes and Sheppard relaxed a little at the warmth on his shoulders. “It’s going well. Isn’t it?”
She smiled. “I think so. Dick is very skilled at these negotiations, and Ladon is in the wrong. I believe we will come out of this very well.”
“You sound pretty happy,” Sheppard said, his mouth full of pastry.
“I do not like how the Genii deceived us, all those years,” Teyla said. “We trusted them with many things that I would not—” She broke off, shaking her head. “But that is done with. Over long ago.”
“I wish I knew for sure that they were going to lock Sora up,” Sheppard said. “I’m a little surprised Ladon hasn’t had her shot.”
“If he has not, it is because he cannot,” Teyla said. “Tyrus was not without influence.”
Sheppard looked at her, small and lovely and implacable. “Did you tell Woolsey that?”
“Of course.”
“You like this just as much as Woolsey does,” Sheppard said.
Teyla laughed. “Perhaps not quite so much.”
“I hate it,” Sheppard said.
Teyla shook her head, and he thought her smile was fond. “It would not hurt you to learn.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Guide
The situation was worse than Guide had expected. The hiveship was faltering, slow to heal damage taken in the last battle, so at last he followed Bonewhite into the edges of the hull, behind the medial weapons array, where a trio of clevermen labored stripped to the waist in the oozing wound. Their leader freed himself at Guide’s approach, folding himself into a respectable bow. He was one of the new men, Ember, refugee from another hive: the flavor of his mind was young and bold, banked fire at its heart, and Guide hoped he was as clever as Bonewhite claimed.
"Well?"
It was Bonewhite who addressed him, and Ember dipped his head again. His hair was bound into a tight knot for working, and there were streaks of fluid as dark as the veins across his chest and arms. He had slipped a protective glove over his feeding hand, a sure sign that they were engaged in manipulations that were both complex and painful to the ship. The other clevermen had stopped work, too, crouched at the access point breathing hard, wary of the interruption. Guide watched them as the others spoke, reading the message of their bodies.
"We’ve made progress, sir."
It was not the answer anyone had hoped for. Guide saw the other clevermen brace themselves, hunching shoulders and turning heads, fractional movements that spoke volumes about Bonewhite’s habit of command.
"It is not enough," Bonewhite said, teeth bared, and Guide lifted his off hand.
"What—exactly—is the problem?"
Ember flicked a glance in his direction, lowered eyes and head again. "We took damage to the outer hull here when we Culled on Irrin. It was a long fight, and I believe the heat of the guns, of the power conduits, further damaged the structural members. As you can see, it isn’t healing. We’ve transplanted healthy tissue from the lower hull, and we’ve grafted in the seed of a new bracing web, but—the ship is old. It doesn’t heal as well as it used to."
Guide studied the damage, a raw-edged break in the smooth surface of the corridor wall. He could see where they had used cautery, and thought he recognized the paler tint of at least one graft, but the hull still looked ugly, the surface swollen ready to split, oil shimmering on the edges of the break. "Will it hold?" He had been on a badly damaged ship before, seen it split in two—another thing to lay to the Lanteans’ account, when it came time to settle it, a hundred deaths and more…
"This is a weak point," Ember answered. "In every hull. But I believe we’ve caught it in time."
"You had better," Bonewhite said.
Guide laid his feeding hand gently on a healthy stretch of hull, letting the life of the ship tremble against his handmouth. It was willing, responsive; it ached to be whole, but it was old, as Ember had said. Its reactions were no longer as quick as they had had been. He stroked the smooth surface, hand tingling, wishing it well, and felt the tremor of an answer. It would heal, he thought, but it would take time.
"How long?" he asked, and Ember tipped his head to one side.
"I don’t know."
An honest answer, at least, Guide thought, and ignored Bonewhite’s snarl.
The second cleverman shifted awkwardly, pulled himself to his feet. He was paler than Ember, his hair bound in a club of matted braids, and his mind had the taste of the sea. "Our best guess is about one hundred hours. Assuming that we place no more stress on the repairs, and that we spend no more than ten hours in hyperdrive at any one time."
"That is reasonable," Guide said, and looked at Bonewhite. "We arrive at Korria in two hours. Put us in orbit, and prepare the Darts for a Culling."
Bonewhite bowed his head in acknowledgement. "As you command."
<
br /> The hiveship dropped from hyperspace smoothly enough. Guide, watching at the commander’s post, was pleased to see the transition indicators flutter only a little as the window opened and released the ship. The strain gauges showed no significant changes, and the sensors showed a system empty of danger.
"We’re beginning the planetary check," Bonewhite said. "And the Darts are ready for launch."
"Hold them until we know where the best Culling ground will be," Guide said. The screen lit, showing absence, emptiness where there had been human settlements, and he snarled aloud. "Close the bay doors! Ready a hyperspace window—"
Alarms sounded, drowning the order, and blue fire split the screen as another hiveship emerged from hyperspace. They had the advantage, broadside on so that guns and Darts could come to bear, and Guide snarled again. He was caught, they were trapped, and the hive would not easily withstand another attack.
"Open communications," he said, and a blade jumped to obey, broadcasting an image to accompany the mental voice. "Stranger! You are trespassing—"
"Guide."
Guide knew that mind in an instant: Farseer, who had been part of the alliance when he was only the commander of a cruiser. "Whose hive is that?" he said quietly, to Bonewhite, who looked over his shoulder, teeth bared.
"Wind’s. I didn’t know Farseer had been made Hivemaster, though."
Under Death as queen, Guide thought. An awkward bargain at best. He reached out again, tuning his mental voice so that it was bland and harmless. "Farseer. A pleasure to see you again. But you are still trespassing."
"Incoming image," a cleverman said, and Guide nodded. The screen shifted, the planet vanishing to be replaced by Farseer’s shaven head, a single braid falling to his chest, silver glinting from the points of his beard.
"The old alliances are void," he said. "Or had you not heard?"
"I’ve heard many things," Guide said. "And seen others."
"You disapprove?" There was a definite note of contempt in Farseer’s mind, and Guide’s answer was sharper than he had meant.