“Suppose we call Daedalus and ask?” Landry shot him a smile that showed at least five teeth more than he actually possessed. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Woolsey. I’m not an eighth-grader and you’re not my principal.”
On second thought, Woolsey looked like he was about to whip out a paddle… “Don’t push me, General Landry. All it takes is one word from me and—”
Woolsey’s no doubt impressive list of horrors about to befall Hank Landry was interrupted by a stormy knock on the door.
“Hold that thought, Mr. Woolsey.” Landry grinned. “Come in!”
Sergeant Harriman scooted into the room with the busyness and implacability of one of those little windup toy cars. He cast an unenthusiastic “Sir” in Woolsey’s direction— some personal experience there, Landry figured— and looped around the desk to come to a precise halt. “General! Apologies, sir, but this couldn’t wait.” He placed a post-it on the desk, deftly keeping the monitor of Landry’s laptop between the note and Woolsey’s nosy stare. “An immediate reply would be appreciated.”
Oh yeah. Landry was positive that Jack had phrased it just like that. The message read Wheels-down at 1400. Request transport to SGC.
“Okay. Can you arrange for that, Walter?”
“Okey-dokey!” Harriman’s baby-face dilated in a huge grin. “I mean, yessir!”
“That’s what I thought I heard.” Landry grinned back. “Get out of here, Sergeant, and make it happen.”
Completely ignoring Woolsey on the way out, the sergeant roared from the room like the windup version of a Formula 1 race car. Clearly, somebody was looking forward to hanging with the old guard. Landry could only hope that, one day, he’d be received with the same excitement when he returned to his old stomping grounds.
His brief melancholy bout was blown out of the water by Mr. Woolsey who, far from causing melancholia, was more apt to trigger a bad case of acid reflux. “Anything I should know about?” he asked, still trying to catch a glimpse of the note.
“No.” Deliberately making a meal of it, Landry scrunched up the post-it, tossed it into the trash can, smiled. “Just a minor administrative hitch.”
“Which couldn’t wait.”
“Well, you know how it is, Mr. Woolsey. When left unattended, minor administrative hitches have this ugly tendency to develop into major bureaucratic messes, and the IOA wouldn’t like that at all, would it now?”
At least Woolsey recognized a stonewall when he ran into it headlong. He folded. On this subject. “About the Daedalus—”
The phone rang. Landry snatched up the receiver with the urgency of a man possessed. He really didn’t want to continue flogging that particular dead horse. “Landry.”
The message was brief enough, and it might just solve the impasse.
“I’ll be down right away.” He hung up, glanced at Woolsey. “Daedalus has just made contact. You may want to tag along.”
He rose without waiting for a reply and headed through the briefing room and down the stairs into the dimly lit cavern of the control room. At least this route didn’t leave any room for navigational errors.
“What have you got?” he asked coming off the last step.
One of the technicians gestured at a screen. “It’s the Korolev again, sir. They’ve got another transmission from Daedalus.”
“Korolev?” Woolsey’s frown was audible. “Why would they be relaying messages to Stargate Command?”
“Because Daedalus is still in the Pegasus Galaxy.” Landry tried not to sound smug and failed. Then again, he hadn’t been trying terribly hard. After all, this had to be the first time since his arrival that he actually knew more than the next guy. “Our subspace transmitters don’t reach that far. The Russians, on the other hand, developed an IST.”
“Excuse me?”
“Intergalactic subspace transmitter. It’s a prototype, and it’s got its fair share of teething problems, but currently it seems to be working.”
“And why aren’t they sharing the technology?” Woolsey actually sounded peeved. “After all, we gave them the Korolev in the first place.”
He had Landry there, but Sergeant Harriman jumped in before his CO was forced to give up that pleasant smug factor by confessing lack of knowledge. “It’s a power issue, sir,” supplied the sergeant and quickly added, “I don’t mean politics. Korolev had the luck of the draw. Out of those three ZPMs we recently recovered, they got the factory new one, so to speak. It’s the only one with sufficient output, seeing as, every time they want to talk to us, they’ve got to punch a wormhole. Small one, but still.”
“I see,” muttered Woolsey, not sounding convinced.
Any further comments were cut off when Colonel Chekov’s face appeared on the monitor, looking ruddy and bilious as ever. “You realize that I did not sign on to be telephone operator for American Air Force?” he growled without preamble.
Hank Landry didn’t think so either. For starters, his notion of telephone operators was largely influenced by fifties movies. Chekov, tubby and ruddy and bilious, didn’t really correspond to either the nosy old bat in the rhinestone-studded butterfly specs or the sweet young thing with the peroxide hairdo. Knowing that bluster was part of the man’s leadership style, Landry refused to take it personal.
“We really appreciate your help, Colonel.” He beamed at the Russian. “And please make sure to convey our thanks to your superiors as well.”
It prompted a huff and a sputter, and Chekov said, “Here’s Major Laval for you.”
The image snapped, jumped to the bridge of the Daedalus. Laval, according to one of the nine dozen or so top secret files Landry had plowed through over the past few days, was in temporary command of the Daedalus. His CO, Colonel Caldwell, was still being assessed and reassessed after a Goa’uld— how did you pronounce these things, anyway?— implanted in his brain by an organization called ‘the Trust,’ had been removed. Sounded almost as much fun as a root canal. Maybe even worse.
Apparently Harriman’s remark about the IST’s teething problems was on the money. The picture on the monitor was snowy with static and rippling with scratchy lines that reminded Landry of the long-gone joys of terrestrial TV. He briefly wondered whether the picture would improve if he slapped the monitor. It had worked for his dad…
Shivering under the interference was the image of a clean-cut twelve-year-old on the bridge. At least that was what Laval looked like to Landry. How come these guys were getting younger and younger?
“General Landry?” Laval’s voice crackled over the speaker. “I’m Major Laval. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Same here, son. What’s—”
Woolsey, who until this moment had shown the good sense to remain in the background, pounced. That was the only word for it. In one, surprisingly deft, move he inserted himself between Landry and the monitor, leaving the general to blink at his worsted-wool-clad shoulder blades.
“My name is Richard Woolsey, and I’m the representative of the International Oversight Advisory. I order you to resume course to Earth immediately, Major.”
Laval showed admirable self-control. Instead of Up yours, which would have been the only appropriate response in Landry’s book, he calmly said, “With all due respect, Mister Woolsey, that ain’t gonna happen.”
Good!
The reply instantly relieved that overwhelming urge to place a solid kick in Mr. Woolsey’s ass. Giving in to it might have caused more problems than Landry was ready to handle just now. Instead, and with a little more emphasis than absolutely necessary, he shoved Woolsey aside and addressed Laval again. “Sorry about that, Major. We’re getting a lot of interference here.”
Laval’s lips twitched. “Yeah, I noticed, sir. We’re kinda hiding out near a sun whose corona’s going through a pretty active cycle.”
“Hiding out?”
“Uhm, yessir. Looks like your gut was right. Half an hour ago, a Wraith hive-ship dropped out of hyperspace. Not quite sure yet what they’re up to, but chances ar
e it won’t be good.”
Landry had read about the Wraith, too, and though he could actually pronounce them, he potentially liked them even less than the Goa’uld. “Have you been able to make contact with Atlantis yet?”
“No, sir. We’ve been trying, but they still don’t respond. If it’s only their communications that are down, well, that’s just annoying. But it might also mean they’re experiencing some sort of global systems failure, and if that’s the case—”
“They could be sitting ducks if the Wraith decide to pay a visit,” Landry finished for him.
“Yessir. That’s about the size of it, sir.”
He liked this kid, Landry decided. Laval was to the point and he knew how to weigh a situation. Unlike the nemesis currently breathing down everybody’s neck.
“That settles it,” Woolsey hissed. “Now will you see reason and order them back, General?”
Don’t kill him, Hank. Just count to ten. Nice and easy.
He did, slowly turned to face Woolsey. “Mr. Woolsey, have you got any idea of what will happen to the Pegasus Galaxy if the Wraith take Atlantis and get their paws on the technology there?”
“As regrettable and troublesome as this might be for the populace of the Pegasus Galaxy, I fail to see how it affects the security of Earth. Whereas the loss of the Daedalus most certainly would affect us.”
“And if the Wraith take Atlantis, they’ll find Earth. You can bet your sweet… whatever that they’ll drop in for chow. How would you like to have one of them on your doorstep?”
Finally, finally that façade of absolute certainty and righteousness sprang a good-size crack. Woolsey looked terrified, which suggested that, contrary to the evidence so far, he actually did possess an ounce or two of imagination. “You’re overestimating their capabilities. Surely—”
“I think not. As you said, that settles it.” Landry turned back to the monitor. From the corner of his eye he caught glimpses of the control room crew all but vibrating with suppressed grins. Evidently he’d scored a point or two. Hell, maybe they would roll out the welcome carpet when he returned some day down the line… “Major, here’s what I want you to do,” he addressed Laval again, whose grin was marginally less suppressed. “Hold your position, keep your head down and an eye on that nest-ship. Don’t—”
“Hive-ship, sir.”
“Hive-ship. Don’t engage them unless they make the first move or show an unhealthy interest in Atlantis. And keep trying to contact the expedition. I want you to check in with me the second anything happens. Clear?”
“Crystal, sir. Laval out.”
The image on the screen fizzed to black and was replaced by the SGC logo.
So far, so bad. Now all that remained to be done was to compliment Woolsey out the door before Jack O’Neill and his eclectic entourage turned up. Though he judged himself able to fudge with the best of them, Landry harbored considerable doubts as to his ability to explain that one to the IOA’s satisfaction. Then again, it stood to reason that nothing could ever be explained to the IOA’s satisfaction. This much he’d learned in the first five minutes of Mr. Woolsey’s acquaintance.
“Uh, yes, I expect this concludes my business here,” Woolsey said, remarkably subdued all of a sudden.
So this had been easy. Never say that dreams didn’t come true. Landry swung around, thinking that the occasion really deserved a whoop. “I’ll arrange transport to Petersen for you.”
“You’ll receive a copy of my report, General. We shall meet again in due course.”
“I’m sure of that.”
For a moment Woolsey just stood there indecisively. “Good luck,” he said at last and actually seemed to mean it.
“Thanks,” replied Landry. He had a feeling they might need it.
Chapter 27
He’d chosen Jumper Four. Two and Three were off-world, and Jumper One…
Okay, call him sentimental.
Jumper One was John Sheppard’s baby.
The tech crew who’d been in charge of fumigation or whatever it was they did to make the ship germ-free— probably rattle their beads— had automatically assumed that Dr. McKay would fly Jumper One. They’d not been best pleased when they had to repeat the entire procedure with Jumper Four.
Tough tittie.
That would teach them to ask first.
Or think first.
They couldn’t seriously expect him to fly another man’s ship, especially when that man was lying in the infirmary and nobody knew if he’d pull through. Which wasn’t fair. After all, Rodney didn’t have that many friends and couldn’t really afford to lose one. Not to mention the minor detail that he wouldn’t be in this ridiculous position if Colonel Sheppard hadn’t insisted on getting himself bitten— bitten!— by one of those maniacs.
Who was going to talk Rodney McKay through a safe landing if anything went wrong, huh?
In those godawful seventies aircraft disaster movies it usually had been Charlton Heston, but apparently he wasn’t available.
The hatch closed, and Rodney eased himself into the pilot’s seat, realizing that it was his first time alone in a sealed Jumper since that unfortunate incident at the bottom of the Lantean ocean.
Oh yeah. Congratulations, McKay! Just the memory you needed.
He shoved it to the back of his mind— where it no doubt would lie and fester until it decided to pounce again.
After a moment’s hesitation he closed his fingers around the stick and stared dumbly at the instrument panel. Panic uncurled somewhere in his belly, and he felt himself go blank. Completely blank. He was supposed to know how to start up the Jumper, he’d done it before, but the fear gnawing at his gut chased it all away.
He couldn’t do this alone.
He’d never done this alone.
Of course he could try to do what he’d done way too many leagues under the sea… Rodney closed his eyes, took a deep steadying breath and summoned up an image of Colonel Carter.
Something in the cockpit gave a soft hum.
His eyes popped open at the sound, and he found himself gawking at an image of Samantha Carter displayed in Technicolor on the HUD. An image the colonel in question would not appreciate.
Rodney’s throat went dry, and he swallowed. “No,” he croaked. “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant.”
God forbid Sam ever found out about that one. She’d reacted badly enough to being envisioned in her underwear.
Mercifully, the image disappeared.
On the upside, he’d gotten the Jumper to respond to his thoughts. That always was the hardest part. All he’d have to do was try again. Maybe if it worked with Carter, it would work with Sheppard? If he managed that, then the Sheppard image could help him fly the Jumper.
He went through the same routine again, eyes closed, concentrating hard. The hum came back, and he cautiously cranked one eyelid open to peer at the HUD.
“What?”
The image wavered for a moment but stabilized as soon as he managed to regain his focus. Which wasn’t the easiest thing to do, under the circumstances. Charlton Heston looked as though he was about to receive the Ten Commandments, scarily hirsute and all. Talk about ending up in the wrong movie… If this was how accurately Rodney communicated with the Jumper, perhaps he should get the hell out while he still had a chance.
Moses/Heston forsook the stone tablets and sternly peered at Rodney, recommending in John Sheppard’s voice, “You might wanna concentrate on firing up the engine. I find it helps.”
Oh, really?
Rodney concentrated hard enough to bust something. Just before his brain started smoking, the lid over a small compartment to his left slid open to reveal a slice of lemon meringue pie with whipped cream.
“Thanks!” he hissed. “Just what I need!”
Okay, so he was hungry, starving in fact, but that still didn’t explain how his fear of allergies had managed to turn that Hershey’s bar dancing through the back of his mind into a lethal weapon.
; “The engine, dammit!” roared Moses/Sheppard. “For once in your life, stop thinking about food!”
“Easy for you to say!”
Taking a deep breath, he tried again. For what seemed like an eternity nothing at all happened. But then, suddenly, there was a whole new kind of hum, louder, and he could feel a familiar vibration traveling through the small ship.
“Yes!”
The Jumper lurched forward.
“Whoa!” Moses/Sheppard hollered from the HUD. “Are you crazy? Up!”
Smoke, kites, dough— Rodney thought of anything at all that could rise. At the last possible moment before slamming head-on into Jumper One, the ship abandoned its hopscotch routine to shoot twenty feet straight in the air. There it stopped and hovered, likely as not taking time to think up the next surprise. Rodney was soaked with sweat.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered. “There’s no way I can fly this thing.”
The Jumper responded by dropping three feet.
“Sure you can.” The image on the HUD had morphed into something that actually resembled John Sheppard. In a very large beard. Facial hair notwithstanding, he looked and sounded encouraging. “If you can dream up this, you can fly the ship. Just don’t get distracted. Oh, and by the way, you’ll want to open up the ceiling before leaving the Jumper bay.”
Excellent point.
As the Jumper began to rise at a remarkably reasonable pace and in the correct direction, Rodney visualized the large metal hatch sliding back and opening the vista onto a round cutout of Lantean sky. Above, the door started moving.
“Hey, not too bad,” he murmured to himself.
About a third of the way open, the ceiling ground to a halt.
“No, no, no! All the way! Dammit, all the way!”
The Jumper continued gliding upward.
“Not you!” Rodney yelped. “The ceiling.”
Neither listened.
As if things weren’t bad enough already, Zelenka’s voice crackled from his headset. “Rodney, the virus went straight for the hatch systems as soon as you activated them. It’s almost as if it’s trying to stop people from leaving. I’m attempting to reroute, but I’m not sure I can. Tech crews are working on retracting the hatch manually, but you have to give them a few minutes.”
STARGATE SG-1: Transitions Page 20