“It’ll grow back,” the girl said. “The alternative would have been shaving just a patch. You’d have looked like a monk.”
“As opposed to Yul Brynner wearing a circus tent. That’s solace, really.”
“Who’s Yul Brynner?”
“Never mind.” He snatched the cap, rammed it over his head. “Where’s Beckett now?”
Cassie waved toward the infirmary lab. “Somewhere back there, cooking up a new batch of vaccine, just in case. Everybody’s had their shots, and he’s sent most of the staff to get some sleep.”
From which they might not wake up, John thought grimly. Aloud he said, “Sit down in that chair and pretend I’ve knocked you senseless, or something. Better than Carson realizing you aided and abetted. Thanks again.”
With that he slipped out of the isolation unit and toward the door. Lights were set to low everywhere, and the gloom helped. Through a door at the back of the room, he could see Carson huddled over the synthesizer. The set of his shoulders said the man was ready to drop. Maybe he actually was asleep. He never even twitched.
In barefooted silence, John disappeared into the darkness of the corridor. Lighting seemed to be an issue everywhere. The infirmary’s power supply was independent, but all over the rest of Atlantis the computer virus seemed to have wreaked havoc while he wasn’t looking. Heating was down as well, if his toes were anything to go by. Basically he was waiting for the clack-clack sound that would indicate they’d frozen solid.
It would provide some kind of noise at least. He’d never known the place to be so quiet. Spooky enough to invite a guy to imagine Wraith hiding in every crevice. Though if the snippets of information he’d picked up in the infirmary were true, it might not be a case of merely imagining things. Sucking in a silent breath, John decided to ignore the icy streak that began to crawl down his spine. Hey, heating was bust, so a guy could be forgiven for feeling a little cold.
He tiptoed along the corridor, squinting in the darkness. A couple dozen meters on, the hallway opened out into a lobby. John cautiously ventured out, sneaked past the— currently defunct— transporter station, and came to a dead halt. He’d definitely heard something. Soft breathing, maybe the rustle of fabric.
The cabin! Somebody was hiding in the transporter cabin.
His scramble for cover ended when a massive weight landed on his back and toppled him flat on his face. The scent of leather and sweat filled his nostrils, thick strands of hair tickled his cheek and neck. Except there was no sucky paw fighting to get to his chest…
“Get the hell off me!” he grunted. “I can’t breathe!”
The mountain that had dropped on him lifted with remarkable speed. Next thing John knew, the beam of a flashlight blinded him. Which clinched it. Last time he’d looked, the Wraith weren’t using MagLites.
The beam crawled over him in stunned silence, then Ronon said, “Wow.”
“Help me up, for God’s sake!”
The Satedan extended a hand, and pulled John back to his feet. “Bored of lying around on your back?” he asked.
“You could say that.” Behind Ronon, John spotted a motley crew of scientists and sundry other civilians, all armed, most looking somewhere between confused and terrified. “What are you up to?”
“Wraith are trying to get in from the west pier. Gonna smoke them out.”
With the help of a Sunday school class? John didn’t say it, but Ronon must have read it in his eyes. He shrugged and muttered, “Military personnel’s kinda thin on the ground.”
“So I hear. I’ll see that you get reinforcements. I’m on my way to the command center.”
“Good,” Ronon said dryly. “Bet they’ll love to see you. Especially Dr. Weir.”
“Your idea has merit, but this part of the program requires revision,” Amara said, pointing at the monitor.
“Revision?” Going by the way Rodney masticated on the word, it had to taste like an old hiking boot.
Sam decided to take a look herself. She clipped the small connector to one of the few crystals in the mainframe that were still fully functional, and on her hands and knees scrambled over to where Rodney McKay had set up camp, surrounded by bits of mainframe and with his laptop between his legs. Twenty minutes into configuring the Asgard transporter and Atlantis’s computer so they’d talk to each other, the place looked as if a bomb had gone off at Radio Shack— admittedly they’d had help with some of the mess, because the Wraith had landed another hit or two.
Peering over Rodney’s shoulder, she scanned the lines of code. “That’s elegant, really elegant—”
“Thank you.”
“— but Amara is right.” Sam’s forefinger stabbed at a variable. “There’s your problem. To the virus that’ll look like somebody hopping up and down and waving their arms.”
Amara nodded. “I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, but yes. It will induce a state shift in the virus. You’ll lose it as soon as you approach it.”
“Hmph,” said Rodney, not sounding convinced.
“Listen to her.” Sam levered herself off the ground and started to rub at aching back muscles. “She wrote the virus program.”
“Yes. I got that. And I can’t begin to adequately express my admiration for her work,” Rodney groused. Then he heaved a sigh and set about rewriting the code.
Across from them, in a patch of clear space by the stairs, Radek Zelenka was dancing around the transporter array like a shaman praying for rain. Every few seconds he stopped to adjust a reading or check a connection. The beat for the rain dance was delivered by himself, in the form of steady mutterings in Czech.
A few feet away Dr. Weir was circling in a holding pattern, watching and waiting, and Sam wondered how the expedition leader could stand it. As far as Sam Carter was concerned, this kind of limbo was, well, Limbo— purgatory. Weir caught her gaze and rustled up a wry smile. “I’m the cheering section,” she said. “At least I try to be. You get used to it after a while.”
“I guess.” In fact, Sam very much doubted it. This had to be the hardest job ever, and she didn’t think anyone could pay her enough to do it.
“You’re going to locate the virus and beam it out of the computer, right?” Weir asked. “To where?”
Good question, actually. The transporter needed viable target coordinates, else it wouldn’t work. It was a failsafe the Asgard had installed in order to prevent anyone— or anything for that matter— from accidentally materializing, say, inside a wall or in deep space.
“Rodney?” Sam saw his shoulders stiffen slightly, a giveaway; he’d heard the question well enough but for some reason was currently disinclined to answer. Never a good sign where Rodney McKay was concerned. “Rodney?” she asked again.
“What?”
Yup. There had to be a problem somewhere.
“You heard.” Clearly, Dr. Weir also knew the signs.
“We’re going to give the Wraith a little present,” he replied at last. “Should take that hive-ship right out of commission. Which, among a wide variety of other advantages, such as our continued survival, also means that the Wraith won’t be able to pass on our location.”
“Wouldn’t they have done that already?” Amara cut in.
Weir shook her head. “It’s very unlikely. They’re in constant competition with each other for feeding grounds. Having found Atlantis puts this hive in a very good position, one they wouldn’t want to compromise. They won’t share their find unless they absolutely have to.” Then she remembered the original question. “Where’s the snag, Rodney?”
“Why does there have to be a snag?”
“Because this would be the first snag-free plan you’ve ever hatched.”
With the abruptness of a jab to the chin, the snag, in all its insane glory, jumped out at Sam. Of course! In order to do what Rodney promised it would do, the virus would have to be inserted at a very specific point within the hive-ship’s onboard system. It was all she could do not to groan. “He’s talking about the
electronics equivalent of microsurgery. Someone needs to sneak aboard that ship and install a beacon in their computer so that the transporter can lock on.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily call that a snag,” Rodney offered, his head retracting between his shoulders as if he expected to be smacked. A wise precaution.
Lucky for him, Drs. Weir and Zelenka just stared in disbelief. Eventually Radek recovered his ability to speak. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”
“Have you ever known me to joke about my work?”
“Just who do you suggest should fly a Jumper up there?” Weir snapped. “For the moment we’ll just disregard the fact that the Jumper bay hatch is stuck, shall we?”
“Jumper Four’s on the south pier,” Rodney said hopefully. “I landed there, remember?”
“Unless it’s been blown to bits in the meantime. And you haven’t answered my question.”
“You looking for a pilot?” a new voice injected itself into the debate.
Zelenka gawked past Sam, blinked. “Oh boy…”
Weir, who’d spun around as though she’d been stung by a hornet, dropped back into speechlessness. Rodney snorted, loudly, and then started to look distinctly worried. “You sure you’re not infectious?”
“Nice to see you, too, McKay,” retorted the apparition that came strolling out onto the gallery and regarded the chaos with polite interest.
As far as entrances went, this was set to become a classic. Sam felt fairly certain that it couldn’t possibly be Bobo the Clown, though it had to be the closest living relative. Still, the guy, shaven-headed and swaddled in a set of surgical scrubs at least three sizes too large for him, looked very familiar. While she was still trying to put a name to the face, he tripped over a pant leg, yanked it back up impatiently to reveal bare feet, and then decided that it might be safer to simply quit moving.
When the penny dropped for Sam, she didn’t bother to suppress a grin. Last time they’d met he’d looked a little different… “Colonel Sheppard, I presume?”
Elizabeth Weir seemed torn between fury and plain laughter. The corners of her mouth twitched, and she panned a long, deliberate gaze from the tips of his toes to that bald head. “I take it Carson doesn’t know you’re here.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “And you need all hands on deck.”
“John—”
“He speaks the truth, Dr. Weir. He’s perfectly well,” Amara said and smiled. “Apart from his sense of fashion perhaps.”
“That’s normal,” Rodney quipped. “Though the hairdo adds a certain je ne sais quoi…”
Sheppard sent him a narrow-eyed glare. “Given that you came up with another genius plan— which also is normal, by the way— maybe you’ll want to be real careful.”
“Can we get back to the point, gentlemen?” Weir crossed her arms in front of her chest and almost managed to come across stern. She also desperately avoided looking at John Sheppard. “Flying a Jumper into the hangar bay of a hive-ship isn’t an option.”
“It is, if we can stay cloaked.” Sheppard rested one hip on a console and started laying out the plan. Which could just work. “Daedalus has taken off again, right? Between her fire power and the drones, the Wraith should be busy enough not to pay too close attention to their sensors. And if Daedalus manages to take down the hive-ship’s shields, we can slip into the hangar bay.”
“And then what?” Weir asked pointedly. “You need to get to a computer port, inside a hive-ship crawling with Wraith. It’s a suicide mission.”
“So is sitting here and waiting to be steamrollered by them.” Sheppard shrugged and settled into silence.
As if hoping he might change his mind, Weir let it drag on for half a minute. Finally she cracked. “Chances are they’ll catch you long before you get anywhere near a port. It would be nothing but a waste of life, and if you think I’m going to authorize that, think again.”
“They won’t be able to catch me, Dr. Weir. At least not before I have done what needs doing.” Amara had risen from her crouch by Rodney’s side and faced Elizabeth Weir. “Dr. Jackson suggested I should not mention this, but I feel I need to now. It isn’t just the failure of your systems that was my doing. I also brought the disease. It was never intended as an act against you and your people, but this is how it turned out. Please, allow me an opportunity to made amends. I know that nothing I can do will bring back those who have died already, but I can at least try to prevent further deaths.”
Rodney, Zelenka, Weir, Sheppard— they all looked shell-shocked, and who was to blame them? A barely banked rage glinted in Sheppard’s eyes, but Elizabeth Weir, who somehow managed to force herself into inhuman calm, put a hand on his arm. “She saved your life, John. She saved many lives today.”
“She wouldn’t have had to if—”
“I know. But if she can help now, maybe we should listen.”
Sheppard drew a harsh breath and turned to Sam. “You trust her, Colonel?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Sam surprised herself by saying it. She’d been in two minds about the Ancient woman ever since they’d found her— common sense dictated not to trust anyone who wielded that kind of power. But Amara hadn’t set a foot wrong. And one of the lives she’d saved had been Jack O’Neill’s. “Look,” she said, “I know this is difficult for you and, God knows, I understand why, but what choice do you have?”
“Good point,” Sheppard murmured, then he glanced up at Amara. “You’re willing to risk this? You know we might not come back.”
She smiled wryly. “I owe you this much.”
Chapter 35
By the time Daniel finally, and despite Dr. Beckett’s valiant efforts, discovered the mess, it had been deserted. He’d just been debating whether to grab one of the stale sandwiches sitting on the food counter, when Xena the Warrior Princess had come running in, accompanied by six Marines. She’d introduced herself as Teyla Emmagan, and it had quickly transpired that she and the Marines also were looking for this Ronon guy. Seeing that he wasn’t around, she’d proposed to take the party to the nearest armory, which was where they were now.
One of the Marines, a sergeant, tossed Daniel a P90. “You know how to point and shoot one of these, Doc?” The tone clearly indicated that, McKay aside, scientists who knew one end of a gun from the other were outside his range of experience.
Without bothering to reply, Dr. Jackson grabbed a clip from the open ammo box, slapped it into the gun, flicked off the safety and set the selector switch to burst for good measure. Then he proceeded to stare a hole in the Marine. “You were saying?”
The sergeant gave a crooked grin. “I stand corrected. Sir.” He and his five pals had been released from the infirmary with Dr. Beckett’s blessing less than half an hour ago. Largely because they’d made enough of a nuisance of themselves that everybody was glad to see them leave.
“You are aware of what the Wraith are?” asked Teyla.
He liked her voice, Daniel had decided the moment she’d introduced herself to him. Its dark gentleness suited her, and it was one of the countless things about Atlantis and its people that couldn’t possibly have been conveyed by the mission reports he’d read over and over again in preparation for coming here. Of course, nothing could have prepared him for this— nothing, apart from eight years on SG-1. Had to count for something, right?
“On Earth we call that kind of thing vampire,” he replied. “Sucks you dry, likes darkness, and is next to impossible to kill. Of course, ours don’t exist, and as far as I could gather yours don’t sleep in coffins.”
“They don’t,” she said earnestly. “But it’s near enough. They sleep in pods.”
“And you can actually sense them?”
“Yes. I share some genetic material with them. If they are nearby I am even able to establish telepathic contact.” Her face tightened, its expression impenetrable while she spoke. Even her voice had taken on an edge, as if she were throwing out this information half expecting him to react with fear and r
evulsion.
“Handy,” Daniel said lightly, grinning.
“Unpleasant,” she corrected, but the smile was back. It had been a test alright, and apparently he’d passed.
“All done here,” the sergeant announced. “Want to pick up a couple of life signs detectors, too?”
Teyla cocked her head. “Take one, but I doubt it’ll be of much use.”
“Can’t tell the difference between Wraith and humans?” Daniel guessed.
“No.” She slid him a glance. “But I can. Let’s go.”
Getting out of the armory was as awkward as getting in. The door mechanism didn’t work, and the panel had to be forced open. Then again, it might make things a little more difficult for the Wraith, too. The corridor outside was quiet, bathed in the strange tangerine glow from the emergency lighting.
Teyla hung a right, and he jogged after her. Another corridor— he had never really visualized the sheer size of Atlantis for himself and now was getting the crash course. One hallway after another, dotted with pillared lobbies where several corridors would join, endless stretches of ornate walls and ceilings, rooms upon rooms upon rooms; all of them deserted right now. The whole layout was vast and confusing. And this was only one level. Of one building. You could spend a lifetime here, exploring it all.
And perhaps he would, Daniel thought with a smile.
The sergeant had taken point, clutching that life signs detector. Suddenly his balled fist flew up. Daniel and Teyla caught up to him, peered over his shoulder at the tiny monitor. Dots. Lots of dots, and nothing much else. Or maybe there was. If you could read the thing. As far as Daniel was concerned, it was next door to reading tea leaves or coffee grinds; eighty percent fantasy and twenty percent storytelling.
“That’s got to be Dex’s team and a bunch of the intruders.” The sergeant poked a meaty forefinger at two neighboring assemblies of freckles in the upper left quadrant of the monitor. “Movement patterns say there’s a fight going on. No telling who’s who of course, but we’ll find out when we get there. They’re just this side of the breezeway out to the west tower, in that empty storage building. It’s gonna be like playing paintball,” he added, grinning.
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