by Jo Graham
But no. This guy would probably just pin his arms or punch him. He was built like a brick wall, and wouldn’t actually need to stun him to assure his compliance.
To his surprise they went to an ordinary holding cell, the twin of the ones he’d been in before, a bleak little room in semi-darkness, the front wall a sliding grate of irregularly shaped bars. On the floor on one side was a metal dish piled with four or five pieces of fruit, while a metal pitcher held water. John looked at them dubiously.
The young one was already preparing to leave. “What’s with the fruit, Frank?” he asked. “Can I call you Frank?”
The Wraith ignored him and stalked off, not even glancing back.
“Ok.” John sat down next to the pitcher, glad to at least to be in a different position. “Planning to keep me a while then.” He wasn’t sure whether that thought was reassuring or not.
*It may be,* Thorn said grudgingly, studying the likeness of their prisoner against the one circulated by the Genii long ago. The man who called himself Han Solo did not waste time pacing his small cell. Instead he leaned against the wall, his face upturned and his eyes closed, apparently hibernating. This one had been a prisoner before. He did not waste energy weeping or pleading, or throwing himself against things that would not yield.
*And if it is the Consort of Atlantis?* Waterlight asked. She looked up at Thorn, her head to the side. *What then?*
*Then we have a worthy trade,* Thorn said, and though he did not wish it she could see the shape of the fears in his mind. Queen Death had little tolerance for lesser queens unless they brought her something of surpassing worth, and Waterlight had nothing. She was nothing by Queen Death’s reckoning. A few tens of men, a battered ship — she would be dead already, had it even been worth the time to send men to kill her. The day would come, inevitably, when their poaching trespassed upon a greater hive, or when Promised Return chanced upon one of Queen Death’s ships. There was no need for Death to seek out Waterlight. In the end, it would all be the same.
*I am not afraid,* Waterlight said, and hoped that it did not show that she was.
It was there in the mind of the one she called Father — the Consort of Atlantis might be worth her life in trade. If this human were he, perhaps Death would take him as gift, and leave Promised Return alone. Perhaps his life might buy a few more years for Waterlight.
*And if it is not?* Waterlight asked. *Will we not then look foolish? And moreover call her attention to us?*
*It is a gamble,* Thorn admitted. *But perhaps we may first speak to one of her counselors who has seen the Consort before. If this is some other who only resembles him, we will know before Queen Death ever hears of it. Be still, and I shall contact those blades I know who might study this likeness and tell me if it is or not. I think there are those who can tell me with little risk.* He looked at Waterlight, his teeth bared in a mirthless smile. *I am not entirely friendless yet.*
*I did not say you were,* Waterlight said, trying to keep the color of her mind from shifting with embarrassment. In truth she did not blame him for their predicament, much as some might. He had been Consort. It had been his duty to protect the hive, to protect his Queen with his very life. To have lost her and survived was not something a man might live down. He should have died for her, rather than live for their daughter, even if his Queen had wished it otherwise.
*Then with your permission, My Queen,* Thorn said sharply. *I will contact those blades I know now in her orbit who may be able to identify the Consort of Atlantis. If we have that one, then perhaps our fortunes will change.*
Chapter Two
Holding the Fort
A cold wind scoured the whitecaps crashing against the piers, but Sam Carter thought it wasn’t as cold as it had been. Atlantis was beautiful in the weak winter sunshine, as always. They were a week past the winter solstice here, and soon the days would lengthen noticeably. They might even get warmer. Sam could appreciate the astronomical elegance of the seasons, even while nearly freezing to death in her flightsuit, waiting for Steven Caldwell on this chilly balcony.
“Sorry about that.” He came out through the glass doors to the control room and rubbed his hands together. “Cold out here.”
“Yes,” Sam said. There wasn’t really any other reply to stating the obvious.
“We’ve got a problem,” Caldwell said.
Which was again stating the obvious. Sam settled for looking attentive. She’d had plenty of practice at that.
“With Sheppard missing and Woolsey stuck on Earth, that means the Chief of Sciences is in charge in Atlantis. Dr. Zelenka.” Caldwell leaned forward on his elbows, looking out over the sea.
“While McKay is gone,” Sam agreed.
Caldwell shot her a sharp look. “You know we’re never getting McKay back. Let’s be practical. Sheppard may turn up, may actually survive whatever crazy scheme he’s playing, but McKay? And who the hell knows what’s going on with Woolsey.”
“The IOA,” Sam said. There was a wealth of information in that statement of fact. She knew Caldwell had rarely seen eye to eye with the IOA, and he knew how she’d been relieved in Atlantis.
“They might send him back. They might send God knows who.” Caldwell spread his hands, the light around the corner of the building just touching them.
“Or they might take three months to make up their minds,” Sam said. She leaned forward on her elbows beside him. “We’ve been off the grid for nineteen days. General O’Neill will have recalled Odyssey by now. It will probably take Odyssey weeks to get back to Earth with its ZPM, but the minute it does we’ll have Colonel Mitchell and SG-1 blowing in here locked and loaded.” There was a good deal of comfort in thinking of that. It might look like she and Caldwell were hanging out to dry, but Sam knew they weren’t. Millions of lightyears away Jack and Cam were moving heaven and earth.
Caldwell nodded as though he found that thought comforting too. “Look, Sam, we know there’s nothing here we can’t handle. But they don’t know that. If it looks like there’s too much of a crisis the IOA is going to panic.”
“And what? Order Atlantis back to Earth? We haven’t got the power to go around the block, much less back to the Milky Way.”
Caldwell looked at her sideways. “And scrap the project.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” she said.
“They wouldn’t?” Caldwell’s eyebrows rose. “In case you didn’t notice while you were fitting out the Hammond, there’s a global economic crisis at home. How much do you think this expedition costs? And how much do you think they’re recouping?”
“It’s not about immediate cash,” Sam said. “It’s about the long term opportunities. The scientific advances. The technologies we’re discovering are priceless.”
“Right now what they are is expensive and useless,” Caldwell said. He shook his head. “You scientists get all hot and bothered about things that might pan out sometime, but the math on Earth is this — is it worth any money?”
“We’re not a bunch of conquistadores out looking for treasure,” Sam said. “This isn’t about finding nifty stuff that can go on EBay.”
“Or opening new markets?” Caldwell snorted. “Not a lot of new markets here, Carter. Just a lot of people needing humanitarian aid and a whole ton of Wraith. It’s costing a lot of money and a lot of lives for a lot of nothing.”
“What are you saying?” Sam straightened up. “We can’t just pack up and go home.”
“And we won’t,” Caldwell said. “The Air Force has a big investment in ships and we’re getting our money’s worth in technology that gives us superiority at home. We’re not going anywhere. But the Atlantis expedition isn’t cost effective. If it starts looking like a liability, the IOA will pull the plug.”
“If we don’t have a base, we’re screwed,” Sam said bluntly. “Right now. Today. The kind of damage the Hammond took…”
Caldwell looked at her sideways. “How much did you massage the report?”
“I mass
aged the summary,” Sam said, reaching up to push an errant lock of hair back behind her ear. “The devil’s in the details, but the IOA won’t read them unless O’Neill gives them the full version. Which I doubt.” Which she’d stake good money on. The Hammond didn’t belong to the IOA. They’d never know how close she’d been to losing it with all hands.
Caldwell shrugged. “Mine too,” he said. He straightened up. “We can’t stay out of communication like this until Odyssey gets back to Earth. If the IOA has two solid months or so to stew, they’ll eat Woolsey alive and pull the plug on the whole thing. I need to get back to a Milky Way gate and dial in. Those reports aren’t doing any good sitting on our hard drives.” He let out a deep breath. “The Hammond is still under repair. That last series of shots took the Asgard drive out. Daedalus needs to make the run. And I feel better about leaving the station with you here to hold Zelenka’s hand. He’s an ok guy, but not who I’d want in charge in Atlantis.”
“I’m sure he feels the same way,” Sam said. Something about Zelenka clinging to her arm and expostulating had clued her in.
“You know the ropes and you’re better qualified to hold the fort than anybody,” Caldwell said. “I’ll leave Hocken and the 302 wing here with you. I don’t need it to run six days down to the first Milky Way gate and you might need it here.”
“I hope not,” Sam said. Which was an understatement. With the Hammond severely damaged and Atlantis with no shield, Lt. Colonel Mel Hocken’s 302 wing was the only defense they had if the Wraith showed up while Daedalus was gone.
“I hope not too.” Caldwell gave her a grim smile. “I may turn around and come back or proceed to Earth, depending on orders.” He plunged his hands into his pockets against the cold. “Give me six hours to get Daedalus squared away and we’ll get a move on. I’ll take your severely wounded aboard and send them through to the SGC at the first gate.”
“That follows,” Sam said. There were a couple, especially Joyner’s third degree burns, that she’d like out of here if possible. Keller and Beckett weren’t a burn center, try as they might.
“Find Sheppard,” Caldwell said. “He does this crap. Sheppard’s been missing more times than any guy I know and always turns up again.”
“Not more times than Dr. Jackson,” Sam said.
“I don’t think Sheppard’s actually been dead,” Caldwell said.
Sam couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, we see some weird things in our profession.”
Caldwell grinned. “Never a dull moment. Except the six days in hyperspace.”
“Except for that,” Sam said. “I’ve got the easy part, holding Atlantis. You’ve got the hard part.”
“The IOA,” Caldwell said.
September 20, 2009
Dear Jack…
Sam paused, staring down at the email form in front of her, then frowned and started typing again.
The Daedalus is leaving in two hours, so this is my last chance to put another letter in the databurst that they’ll send six days from now from PX1-152, the first Stargate on the edge of the Milky Way. It will be full night in Colorado Springs then, but I imagine Walter will be there. He’ll sort out all the personal emails and send them on, so on Sunday morning, September 27, you will wake up in your apartment on Massachusetts Avenue to see twenty emails from me, everything I’ve sent in the last twenty three days, since as far as you’re concerned I vanished completely.
She could see just how he would look, unshaved and muzzy with sleep, sloshing the hot coffee over his hand as he bent over his secure laptop open on the dinette table in the alcove with all the windows, a golden morning view eastward toward the Capitol dome just visible over the offices between from his eighth floor apartment. He’d spill the coffee and swear, but he wouldn’t clean it up, not until he’d opened the last one, this one.
I’m ok.
That was the thing he’d look for first.
I’m fine. Not a scratch on me. The Hammond has a few dings, but she’s in one piece too. You’ve got all the reports. They’re probably sitting in your email right now. Walter’s good that way.
No need to tell him that. He would have the reports, pages and pages of them. Hers. Caldwell’s. Sheppard’s. He’d have a hundred pages of reports. So no need to rehearse everything in them. No need to even hit the highlights. He would read them all, know every word in them by noon, drinking cup after cup of coffee, sitting there in boxers and a t shirt while the sun rose high, slanting stripes of gold across the carpet, visualizing the endless dark of space, the flare of shields in the void.
I wish I was there.
He would read that, one eyebrow quirking, say out loud in the quiet apartment, “Carter, that’s a lie.” And it was. She didn’t really wish she were there, not for more than a moment really, imagining a quiet Sunday morning at home.
I wish you were here.
Yes, kind of. And not. Or only a little. He’d smile at that. “No, you don’t, Carter,” he’d say. He knew her way too well. And he’d take that for all the things she wouldn’t say, all the things she wouldn’t put in a databurst that would go through Caldwell and Walter and Hank Landry and God knows who else before he read it.
I don’t know when I’ll be back, needless to say. Caldwell made the call that Daedalus was making the run because we’re still under repair. Since I have no idea what the situation there is…
How to phrase this bit? With Woolsey and the IOA, with the politics, with the movements of other ships… How long would Daedalus stay on Earth? Who would it bring back? When would it come? She had no way to know. She just knew that she’d keep it together until whenever.
…I’ll be here.
Maybe they’d get their hands on another ZPM and they could call Earth any time they wanted. Or maybe not. If a hive ship showed up it was going to get very interesting.
Caldwell is leaving his 302 wing with me, as he details in his report. Hocken is good, and they did an exemplary job in our last engagement. I’ve included commendation paperwork for Captain Dwaine Grant, whose conduct was above and beyond the call of duty.
There was no need to reiterate that. But he’d know that she meant it, would take a closer look and remember Grant’s name, read over it carefully seeing the crippled 302 in his mind’s eye, a plume of oxygen venting from his wing tank as he dove between the hive ship and the Hammond, taking the burst on his shields instead of the now unshielded bridge windows. Jack would read the formal, stilted words that Hocken and Caldwell had written, her formulaic endorsement, and he would see.
Anyhow, I’ve got to go. The taxi’s waiting. He’s blowing his horn.
He’d fill in the rest of the lyrics. Peter, Paul and Mary was his cup of tea.
Chapter Three
Guide’s Play
The moment Guide saw Ember, in the pilot’s lounge just off the dart bay, he knew there was something wrong. His face was smooth and well-fed, his dark blue silks immaculate, embroidered in copper with their pattern of whirling atomic particles, but tension showed in every line of his body. He radiated it.
It was enough that Guide let the rest of the party go ahead, allowed himself to be drawn aside as though on personal business that would not wait, his hand on Ember’s wrist so that they might speak mind to mind without being overheard.
“Is it McKay?” he said.
“No.” Ember’s voice was bright and rueful. “That one… I do not know. Sometimes I think there is a spark there, that he remembers. And then I do not. All is the same. Nothing has changed with him, and so we continue.”
“Then what is wrong?”
“You may recall Thorn, he who was Consort to Firebeauty?”
“I do, but she is gone,” Guide snapped. “Come to the point, Ember.”
Ember would not be hurried. “He stands now as guardian to Waterlight, who calls him Father. She is young, she is nothing, and the Queen has not seen her. But now Thorn has contacted us and said that they have captured the Consort of Atlantis!”
Guide took a long breath. “Have you seen the transmission?”
“I have,” Ember said. “It is John Sheppard.”
Guide did not ask if he were certain. That was useless. Of course Ember was certain. “And you said?”
Ember’s eyes shifted. “I said I did not know. I did not think it was he.” He shook his head. “It was Ardent who had the watch, and he did not take it to the Queen, saying that he would not waste her time on trifles.”
“Still,” Guide said contemplatively, “Thorn will call again. He must hope to make a trade, and he will call if his words are not responded to in due time. I take it he left coordinates so that the Queen may speak with him of this if she wishes?”
“He did,” Ember said. Fear was bright within him. Sheppard knew too much. He knew too many plots within plots, and most of all that Guide had told him where to find Bright Venture. The damage to the Queen’s favorite ship still rankled within her. The example she would make of Ember and Guide…
“Coldly,” Guide said, his mind working furiously. “Be cold, Ember. He is not in her hands. You have done well to throw doubt upon Thorn’s words.”
“He will call again,” Ember replied.
“Yes. But it will be some time.” He turned about in a swirl of leathers. “I must return to our ship. Say that I have urgent business, for I do.”
“What do you go to do?” Ember asked.
Guide shook his head. “If you do not know, it cannot lie uppermost in your mind. Stay your thoughts, Ember. And know I will manage.”
“I do,” Ember said, and there was no doubt in his eyes.
“Colonel Carter.” Todd’s face was slightly distorted by the poor transmission, but she thought he was taken aback. “What an unexpected surprise.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” Sam said, leaning over Zelenka’s shoulder to the camera above the viewscreen in the control room.