by Graham, Jo
“This was way too easy,” Rodney said.
“Yeah.” Ronon looked like he wanted to kick something, but there weren’t even any stones underfoot.
“I know,” Sheppard said, and Teyla gave him a wry smile.
“Yes. Something has been left unsaid. But—what else can we do?”
* * *
There had been a lot of changes since the last time Ronon had been on Levanna. That had been a training mission, his unit sent as escort for a diplomatic mission to an old and friendly trading partner, where they couldn’t do much harm even if they did get drunk and forget discipline. Which they hadn’t done, because their sergeant had threatened them with disembowelment if they’d so much as put a toe out of line… But then the gate had been well outside the capital, in a barren field a good mile from the crumbling city wall. Now a well-traveled road cut through the field, and the city’s buildings had crept outside the walls, the nearest no more then three hundred yards from the gate. There was a building by the gate, too, a guard post and what looked like an inn, and there were half a dozen soldiers waiting at the base of the gate platform. They had different uniforms, narrow coats in a serviceable shade of indigo with tall plumed hats, and they each had an effective-looking musket lowered at the ready. Ronon’s fingers itched, seeing that, but you couldn’t really blame them, these days.
“Whoa,” Sheppard said, his hands twitching on the stock of his P90, and Teyla hastily stitched her best smile onto her face.
“I am Teyla Emmagan, of Athos. I have traded here before—”
“Dex? Is that you?”
Ronon looked up sharply, to see a woman emerging from the guardpost. She was wearing the new Levannan uniform, with the most gold lace he’d seen so far, but she was unmistakable. “Sergeant Daileass?”
“My God! Ronon Dex!” She stopped, hands on hips, shaking her head, but there was a big grin on her face. “So these must be the Lanteans.”
“Yeah.”
Sheppard gave him a pointed look. “Ronon. Why don’t you introduce us?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” Ronon straightened, trying to drag his mind back to the present. He’d assumed Daileass was long dead—the last he’d heard, she was still with the training battalions, and they’d been pretty much wiped out. “Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, Dr. Rodney McKay, Teyla Emmagan.” He paused. “I’m guessing you’re not a sergeant any more.”
Daileass grinned. “Major Imbra Daileass. Satedan Guard of the Royal Republican Army.”
Satedan Guard? Ronon thought. Royal Republican Army? There had been a lot more changes than just the landscape, then. He glanced at Teyla and saw the same realization in her eyes.
Daileass’s smile faded. “But I’m guessing you’re not here to talk about old times.”
“Afraid not.” Sheppard shook his head for emphasis. “We’ve received some intel, Major, that suggests the Wraith are planning an attack here.”
“A Culling, or an attack?” Daileass asked, and Ronon nodded to himself. She’d always been quick to see the essentials.
“More than a Culling,” Teyla said. “We believe that what is intended is like the attack on Manaria.”
“Damn.” Daileass gestured to one of her men, who produced a small whistle. “Then you’d better speak to the general.”
“The king no longer reigns, then?” Teyla asked cautiously.
“There’s been a change of regime,” Daileass said. “General Valles is in command.”
Sheppard said, “Thanks. We’d like to talk to him.”
The signal whistle summoned a horse-drawn carriage, and Daileass dispatched a rider to warn the general of their impending arrival. McKay jibed for a moment at the carriage door, complaining about the effect of the suspension, or lack of suspension, on his back, and it was all Ronon could do not to pick him up bodily and deposit him into the closest seat. From the look on Sheppard’s face, he was thinking the same thing, and Ronon could see Daileass trying to smother a grin. He scowled at her—McKay was annoying sometimes, but he was pretty much as indispensable as he said—and she looked away. Then they were all inside, and the carriage lurched into motion with only the smallest of complaints from McKay.
Ronon wedged himself into the corner of the seat across from Daileass, who banged on the ceiling in signal, and settled back herself. He was aware of Sheppard’s stare, and saw the colonel mouth talk to her when he thought he was out of Daileass’s line of sight.
Right, Ronon thought. It was logical, it was what he should be doing, helping get information, and he cleared his throat. “So,” he said. “Lot of changes, huh?”
“Yeah.” Daileass laughed. “But you’re talking about here, right?”
Ronon nodded. “Satedan Guard?”
“Of the Royal Republican Army,” Daileass said again. “We’re what’s left of the Ninth, the ones who were off-world when the Wraith hit Sateda, plus the rag ends of a few other units. When we saw what had happened—there was nothing to go back to. The king offered us a place in the royal army, but come the revolution, we went with General Valles.”
“Big change,” Ronon said. “He’s good?”
Daileass nodded. “He’s got a brain, and then some. Lucky as hell. Took the capital without a fight—talked the parliament into opening the gates to him.”
“What happened to the king?” Ronon asked.
Daileass made a face. “Dead. Parliament shot him. Don’t ask anybody for details, it’s a sensitive subject.”
“I bet it is,” Rodney said, under his breath, and Sheppard punched him in the shoulder, hard enough to draw an exclamation.
“We’ll be discreet,” Ronon said.
“That would be smart,” Daileass answered, and leaned back in her place.
* * *
The royal palace was pretty much everything Sheppard had expected from the uniforms, a huge, white-painted building whose upper stories were festooned with leaves and what looked like bunches of grapes, all carved from some pale peach-colored stone. The stairs that led to the main entrance were almost as wide as the facade, and the first wide hall was lined with tapestries and footmen in stiff black-and-white wigs that looked as though a skunk had died on their heads. There were plenty of non-footmen there, too, men in tight pants and gaudy coats with lots of gold lace and embroidery and women in long high-waisted dresses with bodices that looked much too small to actually conceal anything. He tried not to be too obvious about looking, but he could see Teyla smirking at him.
And then they had reached a door that was almost hidden among the painted panels—it would have been invisible if there hadn’t been a pair of uniformed guards standing beside it. They came to attention at Daileass’s approach, and one hastily swung the door open for her.
“General,” she said. “The Lanteans are here.”
Sheppard followed her into a room that very definitely wasn’t what he’d expected. It wasn’t very big, for a start, and one of the long windows was propped open to let in some cooler air. Most of the space was taken up by two long tables, one piled with books and papers, the other with what looked like the remnants of a war game and a sandwich platter; there were a few chairs, none of them matching, but the only people sitting were a pair of secretaries at each end of the books-and-papers table. The rest of them, half a dozen men, were standing around the tables, some with glasses in their hands, the oldest still frowning over a sheaf of papers. They were all in uniform, more of the narrow coats and the tight pants, some gaudier than others—the slightly pudgy man with the dark curls was pretty much covered in gold braid—but he wasn’t that surprised when the man in the plain green coat was the one to step forward. He was short, maybe even shorter than Zelenka, with ordinary brown hair that fell loose to his collar, and a long, clean-shaven chin.
“Welcome,” he said. “I’m Safren Valless.”
“Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard.” Sheppard took the hand that was held out to him, remotely surprised that Valless didn’t give a testing grip, and nod
ded to the others. “Dr. Rodney McKay, Teyla Emmagan, Ronon Dex. We’re from Atlantis.”
“My council,” Valless said. “General Freyne, General Chacier, General Kolbyr, Colonel Olin, and Colonel Laecat.”
Sheppard nodded and smiled, knowing he hadn’t matched faces to names, and Valless went on, “I suppose it’s too much to hope it’s commerce that brings you to Levanna?”
“I’m afraid not,” Sheppard said. “General, I’m sorry to say, we’ve received intelligence that says that Levanna is the next target for Queen Death.”
“Damn it.” That was the oldest man—one of the colonels, Sheppard thought. The big red-head said something under his breath that was definitely not fit for polite company, but Valless only grimaced.
“We knew it might happen,” he said, half to himself, and shook his head. “Tell me what you know.”
Sheppard took a deep breath, ordering his thoughts. He ran through what they knew—pitifully little, laid out like this—and when he’d finished, Valless shook his head again, but said nothing.
“We’re not ready,” the oldest colonel said. “We don’t have the guns, or the ammunition.”
“The men are ready,” the curly-haired man with all the braid said, sounding vaguely indignant, and the big red-head rolled his eyes.
“Which doesn’t do us a damn bit of good if they don’t have the right weapons.” He looked at Valles. “Do we believe it?”
“We can’t afford not to,” the general answered. He tugged at his lower lip. “Will Atlantis help us?”
“Our commander has authorized me to offer assistance,” Sheppard said. “A couple of our Marine units to support your troops.”
The red-head gave him the look that deserved, and Valless smiled. “We’ll take what we can get, Colonel.”
“Mr. Woolsey is concerned that this may be a feint,” Teyla said. “A diversion for an attack elsewhere.”
“Reasonable enough,” a third general said. He lowered himself into one of the chairs, stretching out his left leg as though it pained him. “But Kolbyr’s right, we don’t have the guns.”
“Can we accelerate our planned purchases from the Genii?” Valles asked, and the oldest man looked up from his notes.
“We can try.”
“We could also ask them for help,” the red-head, Kolbyr, said. “See if they’ll loan us a battalion or two—machine gunners for preference.” He glanced at Sheppard. “After all, Atlantis and the Genii are allies. Or were.”
“Are,” Sheppard said, with more conviction than he felt. “We’d be happy to work with the Genii. Our concern is to protect this world.”
“Right,” Valles said. “Three days, your—source—said. Freyne, can we evacuate the city by then?”
The balding man who hadn’t yet spoken nodded slowly. “Yes. The caverns are stocked, and everyone should know their destination. But, sir. We’d better be sure this is right, or the royalists will use it against you.”
Valles waved the words away. “Heliograph the caverns, make sure they’re prepared, then sound Evacuation. Olen, contact the Genii, see if we can get more guns. And any men they’re willing to loan us. Colonel Sheppard, I would appreciate your speaking with Atlantis. Even if this is a feint—if we can damage Queen Death here, we’ll help more worlds than ours.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Making Ready
Woolsey looked at the double screens, Ladon Radim on his right, John Sheppard on the left, wishing briefly that it was Teyla who was speaking from Levanna. But that was pointless—more to the point, it would disrupt the chain of command, and he knew better than to interfere with that. It would also have been nice to conduct this discussion in private, but the gate room was the only place where they could maintain the three-way contact.
“So, Colonel Sheppard,” he said, “the Levannans are heeding our warning.”
“That’s right.” Sheppard was in public, too, standing in a field by the Levannan gate’s DHD. Woolsey could see people in uniform bustling past in the background, and guessed from Sheppard’s expression that he wasn’t exactly happy about it. “Their leader, General Valless, had a plan in place for the next Culling, and he’s implementing it as we speak. They’re evacuating their capital city, the civilian population, and they’re planning to make a stand here by the gate. Which is why they’ve asked us and the Genii for help.”
“Help that we’re more than happy to give,” Ladon said. “But not at the expense of our own people. You’ve said yourself that this could be a feint.”
“We don’t know our source’s motives in giving us this information,” Woolsey admitted. “But your own intelligence network should be able to give you more details.”
Ladon gave a tight smile. “My people haven’t seen any unexplained activity. And there has been a whisper or two about Levanna, though that may only be the result of General Valless’s decision to increase the speed of their technical development. Nonetheless, I can’t risk too many men on what may be a diversionary attack.”
“Anything you send will make a difference,” Sheppard said. “And the same goes for us.”
Woolsey hid a sigh. “As I’ve said to General Valless—and to Chief Ladon—we will send a Marine unit. General O’Neill has also arranged for us to receive an early resupply.” He hoped that would tell Sheppard more than it told Ladon—O’Neill had been adamant that he would not be able to divert ammunition and weapons again any time soon—and from the way Sheppard bit his lip, he thought the message had been received. “But, of course, Genii assistance would be invaluable.”
“I am prepared to send Colonel Faber and a machine gun squadron to assist General Valless,” Ladon said. “He will have orders to coordinate his defense with Colonel Sheppard.”
Sheppard looked briefly startled, and Woolsey nodded, hoping his own surprise didn’t show. That had to mean that Ladon’s intelligence was pointing to Levanna as the location of the main attack… And probably also that he’d prefer Atlantis to take the blame if the joint action failed. “Thank you, Chief Ladon. I’m sure that together we can defend Levanna.”
The low shed was nearly filled with a series of glass bubbles like giant retorts, each with a lead pipe leading from it to larger tube—also lead, Rodney assumed—that ran the length of the ceiling and terminated in a valve-and-nozzle arrangement. The air stank of acid, and the man at his side held a stained handkerchief to his face. Rodney covered his own mouth and nose, wondering just how much damage this was doing to his lungs, and tried to pay attention.
“—successful distillation of hydrogen,” Voisen said. “Which we hoped to use to inflate a series of balloons with which we would lift cables to interfere with the Wraith Darts. Unfortunately, though we have been able to produce envelopes that will contain the lifting gas—thanks to my wife,” he said, with a sudden smile, and a woman in a heavy waxed-looking overcoat turned away from a workbench, stripping off the long gauntlets that covered her hands. “She invented the process that made the silk impermeable. My dear, this is Dr. Rodney McKay, of Atlantis. My wife, Illona.”
The woman smiled—she had surprisingly good teeth in an otherwise homely face—and held out a hand spotted with dozens of tiny acid scars. “An honor, Dr. McKay.”
“Charmed,” Rodney said, without much attention. He looked around the apparatus again. “OK. Barrage balloons. Which actually make a lot of sense, I’m surprised nobody else has thought of it. So you’re making hydrogen—scrap iron and sulphuric acid?”
Illona nodded. “Essentially. Though Henner has developed an acid that produces a stronger reaction, more gas in a shorter amount of time.”
“Right.” Rodney frowned. Everything looked good, seals right, pipes as short as they could be. “So what’s the problem?”
Henner Voisen ducked his head, looking more like a lanky schoolboy than the head of Valless’s Science Institute. “Um. We promised General Kolbyr that we’d have a balloon ready to test, but… It didn’t go well. General Kolbyr was not hap
py.” Color stained his sallow cheeks.
“We weren’t able fully to inflate the envelope,” Illona said. “We were producing the maximum outflow of the gas, but—the envelope just wouldn’t fill. We were hoping you might be able to help us figure out why.” She smiled again. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Oh,” Rodney said, drawing himself up, and gave her his most dashing smile in return.
“And anyway,” Henner said, “General Kolbyr wants another—an effective—demonstration. Soon.”
“Oh.” Rodney looked around. “You’re certain the envelope is air-tight?”
“Yes.”
“This is the material,” Illona said. She held out a strip of heavy cloth, and Rodney took it, dubiously. It felt like rubber, probably was some form of rubber, so that wasn’t likely to be the problem. Unless…
“The seams? Connections, valves?”
“Triple-stitched and then coated inside and out with the same material,” Illona answered. “And the connections are sealed, too.”
“Hm.” Rodney studied the apparatus. It was huge—oversized, by his reckoning, but that was only to be expected, they’d have to make up in size what they were almost certainly losing in efficiency. But the principle was certainly correct, acid and iron would react to produce hydrogen, and there was no reason scrap iron wouldn’t do the job. He moved closer to the glass domes, frowning down into the chambers. He could feel heat coming off the glass, as warm as a fireplace, and he snapped his fingers. “Got it! You’re feeding the gas straight into your balloons, right?”
Husband and wife exchanged glances. “Yes…”
“This is an exothermic reaction, the gas coming off the iron is hot. It contracts as it cools, of course you’re not filling the balloon as quickly as you thought.” Rodney looked around, searching for the materials he needed. “You need to cool it down before it goes into the envelope—if you wet down the pipe, maybe, or add a length of hose that you can run through a tub of cold water—”