STARGATE ATLANTIS: Allegiance(Book three in the Legacy series)

by Scott, Melissa

  “You want me to say I’m going to be around when you get old? I’m going to be around when you get old,” Ronon said. “Unless one of us gets killed first. If I end up living on Sateda and you don’t come visit, I’ll get Teyla to make you.”

  “She can be pretty scary,” John said with a sideways smile. “So that would probably work.”

  It wasn’t either an apology or a promise, not by Satedan standards, but Ronon suspected it might be by John’s standards, and those were the ones he’d made up his mind to live with.

  “If you don’t want this job, fine,” Ronon said. “But don’t be stupid.”

  “Okay,” John said. Behind the bathroom door, the angry yowling rose in pitch. “You think he wants water or something?”

  “I think it wants blood,” Ronon said. “You really let kids on Earth have these things as pets?”

  “It can’t really hurt you,” John said. Ronon glanced down pointedly at John’s wrist striped with deep scratches. “Much.”

  “We had dogs,” Ronon said. “They were domesticated. They didn’t attack anybody. Or if they did…” His fingers lingered on the stock of his pistol.

  “You can’t shoot McKay’s cat,” John said.

  “I could stun it,” Ronon offered. “Then you could get some sleep.”

  John shrugged. “I was going to just…”

  “Go sleep in Teyla’s room?”

  “I didn’t say that,” John said, but he was smiling. “I should probably put water in there for the cat first, though.”

  “Yeah, have fun with that,” Ronon said, standing up.

  “You could help,” John said.

  “Or I could not.”

  “Some friend you are.”

  “Let me know if you want me to come back and stun it,” Ronon said, and left smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Divided Loyalties

  Quicksilver rolled himself in the quilts that filled his nest, turning his back to the light so that it would seem as though he slept. Soon enough, Ember would be stirring, slipping away either to the lab where his team of clevermen were still working to create a stable interface for the ZPM, or, more likely, to confer with his commander. Quicksilver grudged neither, and only hoped it would be soon. He had managed to ignore Ember’s story, Guide’s hints, but the disastrous attack on Atlantis — and it was a disaster, no matter how good a face Guide tried to put on it — and the queen’s reaction had wakened his fear again. Not that he could be McKay, that was impossible. The transformation had not worked with Lastlight, with Michael, and it was even less likely that the process could be made to work in reverse, from human to Wraith. Suppress Wraith DNA, yes, that made sense. If, as he suspected, there were connections between Wraith and human DNA somewhere in the distant past, then, yes, suppressing the genetic material that differed from the human norm would produce something more or less human — less, if one went by Michael. But to add genes, to change an unwilling human — that should be far too difficult.

  Except that biology was not his specialty. Ember had spoken as though it was unthinkable: something immoral, disgusting, not something impossible. And the queen’s reaction, the reaction of the entire zenana, had been profoundly wrong. When he added that to the hostility he still felt throughout the hive, Ardent’s insults and the accusation of taint that dogged him — the possibilities were unsettling, to say the least. It was, surely, impossible. But he needed to be sure.

  To distract himself, he began naming prime numbers, had reached 1531 before he heard the gentle stirring in the outer chamber. He kept still, heard the door open and close, and counted two hundred heartbeats before he unwound the quilts form his shoulders.

  The lights brightened as he moved into the main room and settled himself at the computer console. Data spilled down the screen, updating the current experiments. He banished that with a gesture, and touched the keys to open Ember’s accounts. If he was lucky, the other cleverman wouldn’t enter the system at all, would be in Guide’s quarters rather than the labs; even if he was going to the lab, it would take him time to get there, and Quicksilver only needed the account for a moment, a springboard to reach the ghost he had planted some time ago

  He activated it, closing Ember’s account behind him, and watched the subroutine leverage its privileges until it had wormed its way into the closed database where Dust had kept his data. The layers unfolded before him, data parting like curtains, and he touched keys to enter the search he had so carefully prepared. He would have time to let it run, Ember wouldn’t be back for hours, no matter where he’d gone.

  But the screen was already flashing results at him, a torrent of data that he scanned, scowling, and brought back to review more slowly. Yes, this was his own record, the care that Dust had taken of him since his rescue: injuries, surgery, notation spelling out a drug — the drug Ember still made for him — chemical names that meant very little to him. A tailored drug for hyperplasia, Ember had said, and he couldn’t tell otherwise.

  That was a dead end, unless he could somehow persuade one of the biologists to explain it to him. He tipped his head to one side — Nighthaze owed him a favor, certainly — but discarded the idea as too dangerous. But here was the record of his progress, from waking amnesiac from surgery, which had disappointed Dust, to the last entry two days before Dust’s death. He winced at that memory, and the brief note of good progress and high expectation, and went back to the beginning. Maybe the reference to surgery would tell him more.

  That file was shorter than he had expected, obviously edited down from something larger, perhaps notes dictated during the procedure itself. He frowned again, set a search to locate the original file, and focused his attention on the summary. Most of it had to do with work on his feeding hand, repairs and adjustments to the handmouth, and at the thought his fingers curled protectively. The Lanteans must have tried to change him, despite what Ember said, must have tried to keep him from feeding — no wonder any attempt to feed left him shaking, if the Lanteans had tried to maim him.

  Except that wasn’t what the file said. These were repairs to an earlier surgery, the one that wasn’t recorded in this database — his search program flashed at him, confirming the lack of data. Surgery that had not been completely successful, that had required repair, rebuilding…

  No. He would not, could not accept that. He had been injured — the Lanteans had tortured him, that was what had to have happened. He turned his feeding hand over slowly, studying the neat mouth that creased the palm. Were those scars, there at the corners? They couldn’t be. Wraith did not bear such marks. He turned his hand palm down, seeing his ordinary, unremarkable claws, in need of tending, but otherwise perfectly normal. The heavy veins that carried the enzyme were taut to the touch, ready to serve. He turned his hand over again, laid his finger gently between the lips, and felt the feeding membrane pulse and swell, tugging at his own life. He was whole. It was just what Ember had said, he had suffered an injury of the mind — and perhaps more, perhaps Dust’s surgery was to mend some further damage, perhaps not even from the Lanteans, but suffered in the escape he could not remember. He was Wraith, Dust’s brother, Quicksilver.

  And if he was not, if that were a lie… He made himself take a breath, his chest aching with something that was neither fear nor grief but some strange mixture of the two. If he were human, somehow transformed — he could not make himself go further.

  The dark-haired queen of his dreams seemed to stand before him — a human queen, he realized for the first time, and there was a tired smile on her face. Rodney, she had called him — all the Lanteans had called him that, and tried to help him; they wouldn’t keep up a pretense as long as they had, wouldn’t try that lie when he stood before them armed, leading armed drones into their city. McKay, they had said. Rodney, we can help you…

  *No,* he said, and hit the keys that would back him out of the database. *It isn’t true. I am Quicksilver, chief among clevermen, Quicksilver, Dust’s brother…* Th
e words rang hollow.

  Teyla stepped through the Stargate out into a warm morning on New Athos. She couldn’t help feeling her fingers tightening around the grip of her P90, and wondered if she would ever be able to step out onto New Athos again without remembering the day they lost Rodney to the Wraith.

  Beside her, Ronon seemed untroubled, although he had his pistol in his hand. He paced her as they walked toward the settlement, his feet crunching on the dry grass.

  “You know, you’re not going to be able to keep Sheppard and Kanaan from being in the same place forever,” Ronon said.

  “I cannot imagine what you mean,” Teyla said.

  Ronon shook his head. “Sure.”

  She had to admit to herself that she wasn’t eager to bring John to New Athos yet, and told herself it was only because this thing between them was so new. Kanaan had teased her for that, back when they were friends, before they were lovers or whatever it was they were now. Our Teyla, cautious only in love. But now she supposed he would not call her “our Teyla” at all.

  She tried not to let that sting, and to pretend that she had no doubts about how she would be received in the Athosian settlement. Probably better than she would have if she’d brought John, for all that he got along well with Halling and the others. She couldn’t pretend it was for John’s sake that she had asked Ronon to accompany her instead. It was for her own sake, selfishly, because she was not yet ready to hear “so this is the man of the Lanteans Teyla left us for.”

  It was untrue and unfair; she had left Athos to defend her people from the Wraith, and she hated the idea that people might think otherwise. It was also something no one had yet said. It was unfair to be angry at people for what she only feared they were thinking, and unfair to arrange always to visit without John as if she were ashamed of him, and unfair to drag Ronon into the tangled mess she had created.

  “I am sorry for dragging you back here again,” Teyla said, as that was the only part of the matter she felt she could remedy.

  “It’s not a problem,” Ronon said. “I just think eventually they’re going to run into each other. It’s not like Sheppard’s going to start a fight.”

  “No,” Teyla said. “He will more likely be awkward and say nothing. And Kanaan will say nothing that would cause a scene.” If she had been living in the settlement, they would have had to deal with this already. It would have been understood that both of them would find other partners eventually after they separated, and that they would both have to live with that or move on permanently. There was no room in such a small community for any other choice.

  “So, there’s no problem.”

  “There is not a problem,” Teyla said. “I just… am not ready.”

  “Suit yourself,” Ronon said.

  She could see the settlement now, see people working and a couple of small children playing a game of tag at the outskirts of the camp. She heard Torren call “Mama!” before she saw him dashing toward her, and bent swiftly to gather him up in her arms when he reached her.

  “Torren,” she said, holding him close. “Come here and let me see you.”

  “We playing chase,” he said, pointing to a pair of children who hung back, watching her. The older girl was Jaidie, her hair now grown out from a cropped baby cut into long braids down her back, but for a moment she couldn’t call the younger boy’s name to mind, until she realized she’d last seen him as a baby at the breast.

  She smoothed Torren’s unruly hair and touched his forehead, fighting the temptation to keep him caught tight in her arms so he could not run away. “Finish your game,” she said. “I will be here all afternoon.”

  “Promise?” Torren said.

  “I promise,” Teyla said, and watched him return to his game, running giggling after the older children, who kept just ahead of him and called for him to come catch them.

  “Teyla,” Kanaan said, coming out to meet her. She braced herself and smiled.

  “It is good to see you,” she said.

  “And you,” Kanaan said. He looked awkward as well, as if not sure how they were to begin after the way they had last parted.

  “Ronon, would you mind going to tell Halling we are here?” Teyla said. “And perhaps he will want to show you how the autumn plowing is coming along.”

  “Right,” Ronon said, although he didn’t look all that enthusiastic at the prospect of being proudly shown long rows of tilled earth. It was John who had always seemed surprisingly happy to be shown gardens or half-done weaving, John who had always been surrounded at once by a crowd of children who he didn’t seem to have any real desire to fend off. She wished now that she had brought him, despite her defensiveness at what people might think; it would have been good to see John smile.

  “Have you come to take Torren back to Atlantis?” Kanaan said. “You will have to give us some time for that. His things are spread all over the settlement.”

  “Not yet,” Teyla said. “We do have a new iris now, a mechanical defense against the Wraith if they open a wormhole to Atlantis. It is good that we have it, because the Wraith have already attacked, attempting to lower our defenses as they did before.” Her eyes were on Torren, who stumbled on the uneven furrows of the fallow field and then picked himself up again without crying. “If it is not too much trouble for you to keep him a few days longer…”

  “It is no trouble,” Kanaan said. “I would have him safe.”

  “So would I,” Teyla said a little sharply. “But you know as well as do I that New Athos is not perfectly safe either.”

  “I do know it,” Kanaan said. He hesitated, and then went on. “I think I have been unfair, when I know this must be a difficult time for you. I… admit I have been jealous, but that is a small matter beside what you must feel at such a time.”

  “It is true that we are very worried,” Teyla said, feeling that was an easier topic than their feelings for each other. “I still hope that we will find Rodney soon.”

  “I do not know Dr. McKay well, but he is well-respected among the Lanteans, and has been your hunting partner for many years,” Kanaan said. He smiled a little ruefully. “I can hardly object on the grounds that he is not good enough for you.”

  “What?” Teyla found herself momentarily at a loss for words.

  “I spoke with him briefly, before he was captured. He did not speak of your love in so many words, but he gave me to understand…”

  “Oh, no,” Teyla said. “No, no. I think there has been some great misunderstanding. Rodney is a good friend. I care for him as if he were my own kinsman, but…”

  “I must have misunderstood,” Kanaan said after a moment. He looked as though he were at a loss for words now, and as if he would give anything not to have just made himself look like a fool. It was a way that they were alike, both of them all too conscious of their dignity.

  “Kanaan,” Teyla said. For a moment she was tempted to embrace him, relieved by how silly and normal this all was, two parted lovers making a great fuss over who they loved next as if it were of great consequence to everyone. She still held back, remembering against her will what actually was important. “The things you said when I was last here were not a misunderstanding.”

  “They were not,” Kanaan said, reluctantly but without apology.

  “It is not easy for me to come among my people and wonder if I will be seen as a stranger,” Teyla said.

  “You will never be a stranger,” Kanaan said. “Believe me, if you had said to me five years ago that I would challenge your place as leader…”

  “Is that what you want?” Teyla asked. He had never been an ambitious man in the time she had known him, content with his work and his family. But then she supposed he might have changed as much as she had in nearly six years, when they had spent most of that time apart.

  “It may not matter what I want,” Kanaan said. “The people look to me to protect them from the Wraith because I have the Gift. It does not matter how many times I say that I am not you.”

&nb
sp; “They have been content with Halling as leader in my place,” Teyla said.

  “Halling is a good man,” Kanaan said. “But he has stood in your place these six years, and he is not sorry to have another strong voice to speak beside him in council. And more than that…” He hesitated. “He is a good man,” he went on finally. “But he would like our lives to return to what they were when we lived on Athos.”

  “I think many people would like that,” Teyla said.

  “Wishing will not stop things from changing,” Kanaan said. “How can we go back to a time before the Lanteans came? Or, for that matter, before the Ancestors themselves returned, only to turn their backs on us?” He shook his head. “Those things happened. Just as generations ago the cities of Athos fell. The survivors could not go on living as if they had not been destroyed.”

  “We chose not to try,” Teyla said.

  “And now we must make new choices,” Kanaan said. “We must talk of what bargains we wish to make with the Lanteans, not just for a season but for many generations, and we must talk of what it means that the Ancestors were not as we had hoped.”

  “Many people do not want to talk about difficult things,” Teyla said. “Or so Charin told me often enough when I was a child.”

  “You never held back from asking hard questions,” Kanaan said. “But now you are gone, and someone else must ask them instead.” He shook his head. “You know how few we are,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, with an old familiar stab of grief for their childhood, when the questions had all seemed easier.

  “We will have to find more people who wish to be Athosian, or we will be absorbed into someone else’s people and disappear,” Kanaan said. “It would be easy to be absorbed by the Lanteans. They are a generous people, and we have made ties of friendship with them. But the easy path is not always the best one.”

  “When we are so few, will you really say I am not one of you?” Teyla said.

  “You are my kin,” Kanaan said. “We will always be kin, now that we are bound by blood.” He watched Torren, who had abandoned the game of chase and was making his way back toward them, dragging a stick behind him.