"Pity you were so busy you didn't read that before we locked down the gate," O'Neill said.
"You mean the part where the IOA says to on no account lift the city and instead to evacuate completely and set the self-destruct?" Dick said. "The part where it's an absolute, clear direct order to destroy Atlantis rather than risk it falling into the hands of the Wraith? That part?"
O'Neill gave him a perky, irritating smile. "That part," he said. "The part you didn't read. Until after it was all over, of course. And then why would you do it after the Wraith are defeated?"
"And what if they aren't?"
The smile disappeared. "If they aren't, you won't be alive to face the music."
"Is that usually how you handle these things?"
"More or less," O'Neill said.
Below on the floor the gate to Earth was open, things coming through for the last time from the SGC. Landry obviously hadn't gotten the IOA's orders. Or perhaps, like O'Neill, he was ignoring them for the moment.
"I expect to be alive to face the music," Dick snapped. "And there is no way in hell that they're going to believe that I didn't disobey a direct order. If I do this and we're not all killed, it's the end of my career. They'll have me out of Atlantis by the end of the week. This will be the last thing I ever do."
"Then you'd better make it good," O'Neill said.
Dick took a deep breath. That was the bottom line. Win or lose, he'd pay the price, and that's what it meant to be in charge. He took another breath, looking out over the gateroom floor, at the stained glass windows darkening as night overtook this corner of this icy world in the middle of nowhere. Atlantis, the City of the Ancients. For a little while this had been his home. Maybe he would die defending it and maybe not, but either way he would lose Atlantis. For a moment he thought he heard Elizabeth Weir's voice behind him, but surely that was memory. "That's how it works, Richard."
He blinked. O'Neill was watching him, and surely he'd heard nothing. He cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "It's a shame I didn't get this before we shut the gate down."
"Then let's shut it down," O'Neill said.
Together they went out into the control room. Dick stood beside Airman Salawi's console. "Airman," Dick said, "it's time to close the gate down." The longer they waited, the more chance someone at the SGC would get the IOA's orders and feel like they had to heed them.
Salawi looked up. "I can't at the moment. We have inbound travelers."
"Well, as soon as they get here, tell the SGC not to send anybody else, and then shut it down," Dick said.
"Crap," O'Neill said, and Dick looked up from Salawi's screen.
The rippling surface of the wormhole parted, three figures stepping through, a fourth slighter figure coming behind the others, incongruous with a P90 and double pony tails like a four-year-old.
O'Neill came around the console, bellowing. "Daniel! What in the hell? What part of SG-1 is not coming to Atlantis did you not understand?"
Dick refrained from mentioning that it seemed to be about the same part as the IOA's order to evacuate and destroy the city. Apparently complete insubordination was one of the venerable traditions of the SGC. He followed the sputtering O'Neill down the steps to the gateroom floor as the wormhole died behind them.
"I told you no," O'Neill shouted. "I told Landry I needed Marines, not you!"
Dr. Daniel Jackson looked cheerful under the onslaught. "Sam had some questions about a problem she was having with an Ancient artifact, and as the foremost expert on Ancient artifacts on Earth, it seemed like I could help."
O'Neill's voice dropped to a low conversational tone. "The problem we're having with the Ancient artifact right now is that somebody's stolen it and we don't know where it is." He gave Colonel Cameron Mitchell a glare, who at least had the good grace to look solemn and attentive. "The last thing I need is SG-1 cluttering up the place."
Teal'c cleared his throat. "General Landry said that Colonel Carter required three additional 302 pilots. Colonel Mitchell and I were present and volunteered."
It was an unassailable fact that Carter had indeed asked for 302 pilots. O'Neill swore, rounding on Vala Mal Doran. "And you! What's your excuse?"
She shrugged perkily. "I'm decorative?"
O'Neill provided several more words not appropriate to the gateroom floor. "Do you realize that there is a giant Wraith fleet about to arrive, plus our allies aren't going to help unless we destroy an Ancient artifact that we can't destroy because first of all we don't know how, and second of all we can't find it?"
Mitchell turned to Vala Mal Doran. "It's an incredibly valuable Ancient artifact worth millions on the black market. Go find it!"
"And that's what I'm here for!" She gave Woolsey a brilliant and patently insincere smile and trotted off in the direction of the infirmary.
O'Neill shook his head, looking back at Teal'c and Mitchell. "Okay, you two report to Carter. And Daniel?"
"Yes?" Jackson looked smug.
"Go help Carter do whatever she needs to do to figure out how to get rid of this thing once we find it. Let's just assume we do before the Wraith arrive." He waited until Jackson had gone, then glanced up at the control center above, crew bending over their work again now that the excitement was over. "I've got no idea how we're getting out of this one," he said.
"All in a day's work," said Dick Woolsey.
The problem, Sam reflected, was that the Hammond's crawl spaces sometimes required crawling. Apparently that crawling was best done by someone five foot two with shoulders no more than twenty four inches wide. How many actual people in the Air Force fit those specifications was a very good question. One would think, she considered as she leaned forward over a strut and attempted to work on something eighteen inches beneath her while dangling, that the average service member was a tiny little woman or a preteen child. Teyla would have trouble getting in here, and for Sam it was right out of the question. If she inched forward just a little more....
...she would fall on her nose into a pile of circuits and steel beams six feet down. This became apparent an instant past the point of no return.
Fortunately at that moment a very strong hand seized the back of her pants at the waistband, hauling her abruptly backwards with her middle over the strut and her feet on firm deck. Sam twisted around.
Teal'c let go with a broad grin. "Good afternoon, Colonel Carter."
"Teal'c!" Sam bounced up with something like her old buoyancy. Behind him Cameron Mitchell and Daniel were both beaming as she threw her arms around Teal'c. "What are you doing here?"
"We happened to be in the neighborhood," Daniel said, his hands in his pockets.
"And Landry said something about you needing 302 pilots," Cam said.
"It seemed that we could make ourselves useful," Teal'c said as she let go of him and hugged Daniel.
"Besides," Daniel said. "Do you think we'd let you and Jack get yourselves killed by a million Wraith while we sat in Colorado?"
"Hopefully we won't be killed by a million Wraith," Sam said. "Do you guys have any idea how glad I am to see you?"
"Yeah," Daniel said. "We kind of do. Now what's this about a missing Ancient artifact?"
Cam and Teal'c went to go suit up while Sam explained her missing artifact problem to Daniel; that wasn't Cam's problem, and he let it go, trusting that the people still in Atlantis would handle that. His job was to fly. He'd been one of the best, although he was all too aware of how long it had been since he'd climbed into the cockpit of a 302.
He stepped out onto the flight deck of Hammond with an insistent feeling of déjà vu. He'd borrowed a flight suit, and, helmet in hand, he half expected to find himself back on the good old Prometheus, with his own Blue Squadron waiting for him. Instead, Teal'c fell into place beside him, a steadying presence.
Across the deck, Sam and Lt. Colonel Hocken had their heads together, going over some last minute point of strategy. They looked up as he and Teal'c approached.
Hocken grinned
at him. "If it isn't Shaft."
Sam's mouth twitched, but she refrained from comment.
"Hi, Mel," he said. "I thought I'd come lend a hand."
Hocken cocked her head. "You still remember how to fly these things?"
"Remember, sure," Cam said. "But it's been a while."
"We'll be sure to start you off nice and easy."
"I believe I remember how to pilot these craft as well," Teal'c said, looking amused.
"Teal'c," Hocken said more seriously. "It's an honor."
"The honor is mine," Teal'c said, inclining his head.
"This isn't social hour," Sam said. "Be honored later. Let's get this show on the road."
"Yes, ma'am," Hocken said.
"Yes, ma'am," Cam echoed.
"I'll show you your 302s," Hocken said. "They both took a beating, but we've glued them back together for you."
"As long as you used quality glue."
"Only the best on this ship." She sobered. "If you've never mixed it up with Wraith Darts before, they're faster than death gliders, but not as sturdy. A solid hit will take them out. It's getting the solid hit."
"Copy that."
"Not that I need to tell you your business."
"You're the expert here," Cam said. "I'm just visiting."
"You can drop in any time. We'll try to have a huge nasty battle waiting for you."
"Makes it feel just like home."
"I thought it might." Hocken stopped by a 302, putting her hand on the wing with easy familiarity. "Up you go." Her eyes swept the flight deck as he clambered up, confident in her people but scanning for any sign of anything out of place.
For a moment he felt a twinge of jealousy. He'd been senior to her in the old days, in overall command of the Prometheus's 302s before the crash that had left him out of it for a year, wondering if he'd ever walk again. He'd gotten it back together, come a lot further than anyone had said he would in those first months. But he'd never have a fighter command again. His next step up was one of the big ships like Hammond where he could command from a chair.
But he'd had SG-1 for five years, and he'd never regret that.
He started running through the pre-flight checklist, still right there in his head as if he'd never stopped living and breathing flying, and stopped worrying about anything but the job at hand.
John glanced uneasily around the conference room. He was feeling distinctly outnumbered – Teyla with Alabaster's people, Ronon stuck watching McKay, McKay not to be trusted, even Lorne off flying the Genii ship – and the wary courtesy with which Woolsey was treating O'Neill didn't exactly make him feel any better. Not that he didn't trust O'Neill; he did, mostly. O'Neill had managed to get them sent back to Pegasus, after all. It was just.... He glanced sideways down the length of the table, where Daniel Jackson was still typing furiously on a laptop. It was just he really wished he knew what O'Neill was up to.
"Colonel Sheppard," O'Neill said, and John hastily collected his thoughts.
"Sir."
"How close is Atlantis to being ready to lift?"
John suppressed a shrug as being more insubordinate than he actually wanted to be. "Dr. Zelenka says they're tweaking the last few systems now. We could lift if it was an emergency, but they're getting things optimized."
"Did he say how long?"
"By nine."
"That's good," Woolsey observed.
O'Neill nodded. "The Genii should be here by then, and the Hammond's just about ready to go, too."
"I don't think we should factor out Guide's fleet," Woolsey said. "I believe Teyla will persuade Alabaster to at least make the jump here."
"We can't count on that," O'Neill said.
"I wouldn't underestimate Teyla," John said.
"I'm not," O'Neill said. "But do you think Guide is going to cave on this?"
No. John bit his lip. He didn't really want to get into the details of his conversation with Guide – was it only a few hours ago? "We may still find the damn weapon before then."
"I'm really kind of worried about that thing," O'Neill said. "I don't like weird Ancient devices running around loose, especially when nobody really knows that the damn thing does."
Woolsey looked as though he wanted to agree, but was too diplomatic to say so.
"And I really don't like that we don't know what's going on with McKay," O'Neill went on.
"McKay," Jackson said, not looking up from his laptop. "Jack, Queen Death's going to be in range in three, maybe four hours."
"In range?" O'Neill asked.
"As best I can figure out, anyway," Jackson said.
John glanced at his own tablet, touched the cool surface to bring up the ever-present sensor display. "It looks to me as though it'll be at least five hours before they get into Dart range," he said. "More than that before the hives can open fire. Assuming we meet them in orbit, of course."
"And the 302s can hit them sooner than that anyway," Jackson said. O'Neill turned to stare at him, and Jackson spread his hands. "Because they have greater range than than the Darts. Mitchell was saying, before we came through the gate. I do pay attention, sometimes – and anyway, that wasn't my point."
"What is your point?" O'Neill said.
"I've been looking over what information we have about the Wraith," Jackson said.
He sounded uncomfortable, John thought, and his attention sharpened.
"It looks to me as though the Wraith can exert mental influence for quite some distance," Jackson said. "From a hive in orbit to the surface of a planet, even from a planet to a hiveship or cruiser in the same solar system, though I'm not entirely clear on whether that's achieved by using an external communications system to supplement their normal telepathy or not."
"Go on," O'Neill said. He didn't sound any more enthusiastic than John felt, which wasn't a good sign.
"Yeah. Um. Well, putting all those reports together, including the various times that Teyla was able to influence the Wraith long distance –" Jackson paused, then plunged on. "Presumably the Wraith themselves can do the same thing, in reverse, which is to say, their queens could theoretically influence someone on Atlantis itself."
"You're talking McKay," John said. His voice was flat, and he clenched his fists out of sight under the tabletop.
Jackson made an awkward, shrugging motion, spreading his hands. "We have to consider it, Colonel."
"They've never done it before," John said.
"Possibly they've never had cause," Jackson answered. "I mean, they haven't had anyone in the city before – or, actually, they could have been in contact with the various Wraith who've been dropped into the city, only you wouldn't have any way of knowing if they had."
"There have been single Wraith in the city who were killed before they could get word back to their hives," Woolsey said.
"Presumably the hive was out of range?" Jackson shook his head. "I don't like it either, but –"
"Look, Dr. Jackson," John interrupted. "I may be out of line here –" And I don't much care if I am. "– but you and McKay have a bit of a history. Are you sure that's not affecting your recommendation here?"
"Rodney and I –" Jackson began, and O'Neill gave an almost soundless laugh.
"Daniel doesn't hold nearly getting electrocuted against anybody. It's not like he was dead. Again."
"Thanks," Jackson muttered.
"Don't mention it." O'Neill's expression hardened. "So what are you suggesting?"
"I don't think McKay should be part of the team flying the city," Jackson said.
And that was it, John thought. That was where they ended up, not able to trust Rodney just when they needed him most. "You're talking McKay," he said. "The best scientist we have, the guy who knows more about the city than just about anybody. We can't afford not to have him."
"Dr. Zelenka can handle repairs," Woolsey said. "He's been a great success as head of sciences."
"McKay stole Hyperion's weapon," O'Neill said. "And it's not where he said he put it."
He shook his head. "If Queen Death still has some hold on him, he could do more damage than anybody else on the city. We can't risk it, Sheppard."
John bit his lip, knowing O'Neill was right, and hating it. Right as far as it went, he amended, because it was Rodney, for God's sake, and Rodney would never – except he could remember all too well a Wraith with Rodney's face, yelling about revenge for his brother, all the drones turning at once to point their weapons, ready for a killing shot.
"It's my decision," O'Neill said. "I'll tell him myself."
"No," John said, and added, "sir." O'Neill lifted an eyebrow, and John plowed on. "I'd rather talk to him, General. If you don't mind."
"I figured you might," O'Neill said. "You don't have to, John."
"I know." John made himself meet the other man's gaze, pleased that his voice was still steady. "But I kind of owe him that much."
"Okay," O'Neill said. "It's your team."
John nodded, remembering tardily that O'Neill had been SG-1. He understood about gate teams. "Thank you, sir."
Chapter Fifteen
Alabaster's Gamble
Almost done. Rodney looked around the ZPM room with satisfaction, trying to ignore Ronon leaning against the nearest pillar. Even though he hadn't been allowed to touch anything, he'd managed to make his ideas clear to Zelenka and the lanky German who was currently working with him, and he thought the systems were about as solid as they could be.
"One more thing. You should set up a phased fallback for if we lose a ZPM, or if there's a massive drain on the shields. Which there's likely to be, considering there's a Wraith fleet waiting out there. The city's already programmed to narrow the shield and abandon the city perimeter –"
"Yes, I do know that," Zelenka said.
"But if you set up a phased pullback –" Rodney stopped, the words registering. "Oh. Right, yes, you were there. Anyway, I think if you manage the powerdown so that no one sector has a decrease of more than 18.8 percent, you could avoid triggering that protocol. And that means you can shape the shield to protect more than just the tower."
Zelenka was nodding. "Yes. Yes, I see what you mean, and perhaps –" He reached for his laptop and began typing in numbers. "Yes, you're right, and I think with some finessing of the system we could maybe even stand a decrease at around twenty percent."
SGA-21 - Inheritors - Book VI of the Legacy Series Page 17