SGA-21 - Inheritors - Book VI of the Legacy Series

by Melissa Scott

  Woolsey looked skeptical. "I know Alabaster has the ability to read human minds, but I don't see how we could possibly trust her."

  "I'm not talking about Alabaster," John said. "I'm talking about Teyla."

  Another break from another interminable meeting, this time ostensibly for lunch, though Teyla doubted anyone would actually eat. Certainly the Wraith would not, and she had no appetite, too tense from four hours at the conference table. Instead, Teyla walked out on the balcony. She would stand for a moment in the wind and sun and hope to find balance.

  The bright sun caught the white caps of the waves breaking against the piers below, glittered off windows scrubbed by rain. The wind was cold, but she could feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, turning her face toward it like a dayflower.

  The door opened again behind her and she knew without turning that it was Alabaster, and knew just as clearly that two Marines stood behind just inside the door, technically guarding the door, not the young queen. The thought lay on the surface of Alabaster's mind, a sardonic aside – as though what? She might suddenly leap from a forty story building? Why?

  “It is their job to guard,” Teyla said, mind to mind. “You would not rebuke any blade for doing his duty.”

  “To guard you?”

  “I do not need guarding,” Teyla said, but there was no heat in it. Alabaster knew it well enough.

  Instead she rested her elbows on the railing, looking out over city and sea. Her red hair caught the sun brighter than any hue natural to humans, and she stretched out her hands, palms downwards, as though the warmth felt good to her too. For a long moment she stood thus, watching the shadows of clouds on the sea and across the City of the Ancients.

  “It is beautiful,” Alabaster said contemplatively. “I have never seen anything like it, and Osprey had no memories of Atlantis.”

  “No,” Teyla agreed. “Osprey was never in Atlantis.” The only memories of the City of the Ancients were her own – her own life, her own path, her own choices – not those of a woman dead ten thousand years.

  “It is beautiful,” Alabaster said again. “One of many beautiful things they wrought. So much that was wrong, and yet so many things that are beautiful.” She turned to Teyla, her hands at her sides and she smiled in a way that no doubt disconcerted the Marines just within. “And can you say that we are not beautiful, you and I?”

  Odd and strange, yes, but beautiful still, the turnings of the hive, the light on the towers of Atlantis. “All of the daughters of the Ancients are beautiful,” Teyla said, and a strange peace opened in her heart. “All of the daughters, whether the daughters of Amytas in Pegasus, or the daughters of the women of Earth, or Osprey and her kind. We are all the heirs of the Ancients.” Towers reflected sun and sea or each other, dazzling brightness. “This belongs to all of us. We are all their children.”

  “Yes,” Alabaster said. She looked away, toward the sea again, and her face seemed very young, a girl of eighteen or so, which perhaps she was in Wraith years, a woman young for her service. “I do not believe you would use this weapon. I do not think it is in your heart to do so. But that is not true of everyone here, and you know it.”

  “I do,” Teyla said. “But we will prevail. I have known all these people for years, and I put my trust in Mr. Woolsey and General O'Neill.”

  “Then why is it not done?”

  “I do not know,” Teyla said. “But it shall be. I give you my word.”

  Alabaster's eyes searched her face, as though looking for some sign there which it would be improper to seek mind to mind. “And then what? Once we have defeated Queen Death, then what will we do? Shall I try to kill you, or you me?”

  “I hope that the retrovirus Dr. Keller and Guide have made will give us another option,” Teyla said.

  “My men are eager to try it,” Alabaster agreed. “Each of them has pledged already to give of their lives to save others who are gravely injured or ill, a heroes' pledge among their people, just as they pledge to give their lives as warriors or rescuers for those lost at sea. It is an honor among them. Do you understand this?”

  “Yes,” Teyla said.

  “If they must die for others they shall, or be gravely injured or lose years of their lives. They know this. But if it is possible to save others and not die, it is better. If they may save others without the sacrifice of their lives or health, they would prefer it. Are not your people the same?”

  “Yes,” Teyla said again, and an ache stirred in her. “It would be better if they did not have to die, even though they are pledged to the sacrifice.”

  “That is what I think too,” Alabaster said. “Life must come from somewhere. We must eat if we aren't to starve. But if we could feed without causing death, and if those who have promised to pay the price did not have to pay with their lives, but only with pain that lasts a few days, perhaps....”

  “...perhaps in time there might be peace,” Teyla said. “I do not know if this can be. But I know what lies in the other direction.” The pictures were there in her mind, the ruined city of Emege, the drawings of the Athosians on the walls of their refuge, Osprey burning with the pain of starvation.

  “So do I,” Alabaster said.

  Teyla's radio clicked. "Teyla?" John's voice was sharp. "I need you in the brig now."

  "What has happened?" she asked, putting her hand to the headset.

  "I'll tell you when you get down here."

  Alabaster did not seem alarmed. "I shall wait for your Mr. Woolsey to open the session again. It seems your Consort needs you greatly."

  "It seems so," Teyla said. She opened the channel again. "I am on my way," she said.

  Chapter Six

  Mind to Mind

  John was waiting for her just outside, four Marines on guard at the entrance to the brig, two looking outward and two inward. Through the door she could see Rodney pacing the cell, an expression of intense irritation on his face.

  "Why is Rodney in the brig?" she demanded.

  John looked harried. "Rodney stole Hyperion's weapon," he said shortly. "He said he wanted to keep it safe. He says he told us where he put it, but when we looked it wasn't there. So either somebody found it and stole it, or...."

  "Or Rodney is lying," Teyla said. "And he is Queen Death's agent." It was clear in an instant how that might be. And why.

  John nodded grimly. "I need you to find out which it is. Can you get in his head?"

  "Yes." She looked past him at Rodney, who had stopped pacing and was watching them. "I can take that from his mind. I do not think he will be able to resist me." No blade or cleverman could. Not even when what she ordered was for them to fall on their own knife, though John had not seen that, only Guide. She didn't know what he would think of that. Probably that it was necessary.

  "I'm sorry to ask you to do this," John said. In the chaos this morning he hadn't shaved, and the stubble on his jaw made him look older somehow.

  "You do not need to apologize," she said, and lifting her chin went in. "Turn off the force field."

  Rodney put his hands in his pockets as the door slid open, bars parting as she stepped through. "What, you're going to interrogate me now?"

  "Yes," Teyla said. She stopped a few feet from him, aware that if he were Death's agent this would be the point of no return, the moment at which the deception would be done and he would have nothing to lose. "Rodney, we must know if you are telling the truth or not. If you are, you have nothing to fear. And if you are not...."

  He gave her a lopsided smile that was very Rodney. "If I'm not, then you're going to kill me?"

  "If you are not, you will remain in custody until this is over," Teyla said firmly. "And then we will find a way to return you fully to yourself." She took a step closer, aware of John just behind her, of the way his hand moved involuntarily to his pistol. Would he shoot Rodney if he resisted? He should not have to.

  She raised her right hand, the palm crossed with the healing scar from the handmouth, the gesture of a W
raith queen who expected obedience, and she bent her will to him. “Rodney,” she said with her mind voice, “there is no choice. You will do as I ask.”

  She saw the set of his shoulders change, his expression relax infinitesimally. There was enough of Quicksilver in him still. He could not resist a queen, not face to face and mind to mind. And in that case how much more of Quicksilver remained, Queen Death's cleverman? Teyla took another step forward, her hand rising toward his cheek. He shivered as she touched him, her palm flat against his face, the scar of the handmouth against his skin.

  “Rodney,” she said. "Open your mind to me.”

  Fear. The surface of his mind was riddled with fear. What if he were turned? What if he had stolen the device because of some deeply hidden order? What if he were truly not to be trusted, broken in ways beneath the surface that even he didn't know about? That was the thing that terrified him most – the memory of those days when he had acted as Quicksilver, serving the Wraith, attacking Atlantis –

  Radek, lying crumpled on the floor of the ZPM room, a Wraith bending over to feed...

  He had not known him, had nearly let Ember kill his friend.

  “But you did not,” Teyla said. “Enough of you remained.”

  Jennifer, her face changing in pain and terror as he drew life from her, her fear and anguish a spur to his hunger, life flowing into him sweet and bright even as her muscles clenched in pain....

  She had felt it before, through Guide as he fed, the same dark wonder but tempered by control. Rodney had fed starving, in desperation, while Guide had sipped as a man will at an unfamiliar drink he is offered in a strange village, staving off intoxication with will.

  “You could not help it,” she said. “A starving man will eat, no matter what the cost.”

  And that was memory again, hers rather than his, Osprey's memory long buried within her, and she lifted it up like a gem from a case to give to him, the horror of those first days when they fled world to world, the first Wraith pursued by all. They had learned to feed because they must. Those who did not, those who would not, died.

  “It is that simple,” Teyla said. “You are too strong to die, Rodney. So you do what you must.”

  She felt his assent, as though she had given him some blessing, a thing that had never been hers to give.

  “Show me,” she said. “Show me who you serve.”

  Death was there, yes, but it was skin deep, an allegiance shed with the scraps of the drugs they had given him, as illusory as their control of Michael. And beyond that, no one. At the heart, at the core, there was no one in that place where true allegiance lies, no parent or friend, no lover, no child. No Jennifer. In the end, Rodney followed his own heart. He had taken the weapon because he thought it best, because he thought he was most able to guard it, most qualified to decide its fate. And beyond that he truly did not know its fate.

  Relief, his and hers, washed over Teyla. He truly did not know. And he did not belong to Death.

  She opened her eyes. "Rodney is telling the truth," she said. Teyla dropped her hand, turning to John, certainty in her voice. "He does not obey Queen Death, and he has no idea where Hyperion's weapon is."

  John nodded gravely. "Ok. That's what we needed to know."

  "I thought you needed to know where the weapon was," Rodney said sharply. "Which I told you I didn't know."

  "That too," John said. "But at least now we've got one possibility off the table."

  "So I can go?" Rodney asked.

  John shook his head. "As soon as Mr. Woolsey says it's okay."

  "Oh come on!" Rodney exclaimed. "I'm not Queen Death's secret agent. Teyla says so. Let me out of here!"

  "As soon as Woolsey says it's okay," John stepped back, letting Teyla proceed him out of the cell. "Just hang in there a few more minutes, Rodney."

  The door closed behind them, and she walked ahead of him out of the brig and around the corner before he stopped, dropping his voice. "You're sure?"

  "I am sure he does not know where the weapon is," Teyla said. "And I do not think he consciously obeys Queen Death."

  "Consciously?"

  "Yes," she said. "He does not know of any loyalty or allegiance to her."

  "But?" John met her eyes directly.

  Teyla shook her head. "I cannot say whether there is something at work that even Rodney is not aware of. I do not know enough about what is possible, John! Rodney knows of no such imperative, and as far as he is aware he is in control of himself and his actions. But I cannot promise that there is no hidden imperative left below the surface."

  "Okay." He nodded. "Then it's better if Rodney just stays where he is until we deal with this. If we're all still here tomorrow, then we can sort Rodney out."

  "I think that is best," Teyla said.

  Proud Journey's clevermen had done their best and more, but Farseer's hive was not yet ready to stand the stress of combat. Ember examined the temporary lattice of steel and skin that spanned the gap in the hull, glowing at the edge of sight with the forcefields that braced the repair and encouraged healing. Blackiron, Farseer's Master of Sciences Biological, gave him a wary look.

  “We've done all we can for now,” he said.

  Ember nodded his agreement, feeling the other's relief wash through him. “I am amazed you have coaxed it as far as you have. But, no, you cannot fight. I will tell the Commander so.”

  “We will do whatever we can in support,” Blackiron said. “Our cells are full, and we have worshippers as well who would be glad to serve in any way – from Tenassa, remember, trained and willing.”

  Tenassa was one of the few depot worlds, supposedly neutral and served by tame humans taught to serve the Wraith, and Queen Death had destroyed it, breaking the covenants of generations. Ember's lips curled back at the thought. It would be another century before they could repair the damage, and hive and cruiser alike would suffer for it. He realized that Blackiron was watching him uneasily, and made himself relax.

  “We are grateful for the offer. My thought was to leave them here in safety until after we have faced Queen Death's fleet. We will need their skills then, their hands alongside ours – if you have supplies enough to maintain them.”

  “They brought foodstuffs aboard,” Blackiron said. “Their Lady is managing it.”

  “She's competent?”

  “Entirely.”

  Ember nodded. “Then that is what I will recommend to Guide on his return.”

  Blackiron paused. “He has not returned?”

  “No.” Ember made his tone deliberately discouraging. Exactly what Guide was doing on Atlantis, what bargain he would make in the Queen's name to gain allies against Queen Death – that was a matter for commanders and blades to deal with, not clevermen. And especially not clevermen of Farseer's hive, Farseer who had been Death's loyal ally until very recently.

  Blackiron hesitated again, his thoughts close-held, unreadable. Ember watched him, a thread of fear winding through him.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, I think.” Blackiron's tone was less certain even than the wavering words, and Ember frowned.

  “Even so, if it disturbs you – a burden shared is a burden eased.”

  “So they say.” Blackiron turned abruptly. “I will show you something, but – I'll deny it came from me.”

  Ember suppressed a shudder. “I'll follow.”

  Blackiron waved his hand at the door controls, and the lattice slid back. Ember followed him down the healing corridors, out of their soft light into the normal paths of the ship. Corridors and compartments alike were crowded, and here and there a human moved freely among the Wraith, each badged with the mark of Tenassa's storeyards. They came at last to a smaller laboratory, set off from the main sections of the ship, the sort of space the masters of sciences tended to claim for themselves. Certainly Ember had his own space on Just Fortune, workspace and sleeping niche and hiding place all in one. Blackiron let the door close behind them both, and the lights brightened and
warmed around them, puffs of mist rising from the floor. There were two workstations against the far bulkhead, but the majority of space was given over to pleasant-looking seats and an elaborately inlaid game table stood at the center of their rough circle. Ember gave the nearest chair a regretful glance – they were the comfortable sort that let you curl into their padding as though you were held in a giant hand – but followed Blackiron to the nearest console. Blackiron touched controls, not bothering to hide his access codes: a cheap gesture of good faith, since those codes could and would be changed, but worth noting.

  The central screen lit, a familiar image coalescing: Just Fortune, hanging still against the starscape, the curve of the planet the fleet orbited a thread of blue at the bottom of the screen. Ember cocked his head to one side, waiting, and Blackiron adjusted the controls, moving the image into another part of the electromagnetic spectrum.

  “I wished a comparison,” Blackiron said. “A healthy hive, one similar in age to Proud Journey, that had suffered damage, but was healed. Steelflower's hive seemed an obvious choice.”

  Ember nodded. It was reasonable enough, though some commanders were more wary of such analysis than others. “And?”

  “There is this.” Blackiron touched the controls again, calling up a cascade of data. Ember frowned as the data whirled to form a schematic, thin lines of gold tracing communications patterns over Just Fortune's skin. Familiar, normal – and then not, a brighter node where none should have been. It brightened, flared white, and then was gone.

  “Were you able to capture it?” he asked, and Blackiron shook his head.

  “It was very narrowly directional, and, as you saw, short. It was luck I saw it at all. I assumed it was a communication with the Commander.”

  Ember glanced at the automatic timestamp, and his mouth tightened. No, not Guide, not unless there had been a message to which he himself was not privy – and in any case it had been an outgoing transmission. Possibly it was Bonewhite replying to some message, but he doubted it. He studied the schematic, fixing the particular node in memory: the seventh dorsal node, linked to Just Fortune's communications web in ways that would make the transmission almost impossible to trace.