“One of the exploration teams reported a problem. Sheppard wanted me to check it out.”
“Do you want help?”
Ronon considered the question. Sheppard hadn’t told him to take anyone else — hadn’t told him not to, either. Given that the Lanteans only had a couple of Marines currently on Sateda along with half a dozen civilians, he was inclined not to take them. They’d just had a lesson about how crazy random outsiders like Sora could be, and Sateda was starting to make itself a target again, if not for the Wraith, assuming they kept their promises, then for other aggressive human cultures. Nobody trusted the Genii further than they could throw them. Cai could probably spare a couple of the scavengers, all of whom were well used to fighting, but from what Sheppard had said, Parrish didn’t think whatever was going on was an active attack. And Parrish’s judgment was usually pretty good. He shook his head. “Thanks, but I think we’re all right. I don’t want to take your people away from their work.”
Cai relaxed a little, and Ronon was glad he’d thought to add the explanation. The last thing he wanted to do was to insult Ushan Cai. “What about supplies? I notice they didn’t leave you any.”
“That I’ll take,” Ronon said, gratefully. He’d probably end up with a couple of Lantean energy bars anyway, but he’d missed the dried meat and vegetable leathers that had been Sateda’s military rations. Well, along with the canned meals, but he’d bet no one was sorry they couldn’t make those any more. “Thanks.”
“Bri!” Cai waved at the scavenger. “Can you round up a few day’s rations for Dex?”
“Atlantis will pay you back,” Ronon said, and Cai nodded.
“We’ll take it, particularly those MREs. We’re starting to explore outside the city, it’s nice to have something that light to pack with us.”
“Bri told me you just found some people from — Escavera, was it?”
“Yes. There are half a dozen families up there, hiding out near the mines.” Cai grinned. “And I’ll bet there are more out there. The Wraith can’t have Culled every single farm. If we can just get that light aircraft Hocken was talking about…”
“Her word’s good,” Ronon said. She was Sheppard’s friend, and he’d gotten to like her as well as to respect her.
Cai nodded. “I want her to come here. Someone not just to fly for us, but to train a new group of pilots —” He stopped, his smile wry. “And we could use you, too. But I’ve said that before.”
“Yeah.” Ronon looked away, past the Stargate to the mended buildings. Not much, compared to a lot of other worlds — not much at all, compared to Atlantis — but more than any of them had ever imagined would be possible. “There’s — there are still some things I need to do. Stuff I need to take care of.” Things he needed to forget, but he didn’t need to say that, not to another survivor. “But, yeah, eventually.”
“You’ll always be welcome,” Cai said. He looked over his shoulder, nodding as he saw Bri returning with one of the vine-woven carriers.
“Three days’ rations,” she said, holding it out, and Ronon took it gratefully.
“Thanks,” he said, and hoped it would cover both parts of the conversation.
One of Cai’s gate guards dialed PGX-239 — it was a good thing he didn’t recognize everyone anymore, Ronon told himself, it meant that the settlement was growing — and Ronon touched his radio. “Dr. Parrish. It’s Ronon Dex.”
There was a pause, and then Parrish answered, his voice crackling in Ronon’s earpiece. “Ronon?”
“Yeah. Sheppard said you needed backup.”
“Yes. Yes, we could probably use the help.” Parrish sounded more than a bit worn, and Ronon wondered what exactly was going on. “Come on through.”
“Roger.” Ronon loosened his energy pistol in its holster and slung the ration-carrier over his shoulder, then took a deep breath and walked up into the shimmering blue of the wormhole.
He emerged in what looked like the planet’s mid-afternoon, the pinpoint sun halfway down the western sky, shadows lengthening. There was no sign of habitation other than the Stargate, just a low hill rising to his left and a tangle of low-growing vegetation surrounding the open space that held the Stargate. Someone had set up a stack of equipment in the clearing beyond the DHD, but there were no tents in sight. He glanced at the sky again, hoping they’d either brought shelter or were planning to evacuate to somewhere like Sateda after it got dark, and Parrish came forward to meet him, holding out his hand.
“Ronon. Thanks for coming.”
Ronon nodded. “Want to fill me in on what’s going on?”
Parrish gave a sharp smile, showing teeth. “That’s an interesting question. Something on this planet shoots bolts of energy, but as far as we can tell, there’s no intelligent life here — no life at all any bigger than those insects.”
Ronon ducked as a flight of half a dozen multi-winged creatures the size of his thumb darted past his face. “But something is shooting — at you, or just shooting?”
“Just shooting, we think,” Parrish answered. “But it’s — disconcerting.”
The rest of the team had moved to join them, two Marines, a white-blonde Air Force captain, and another scientist, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun.
“Dr. Parrish is right,” the captain said. “Sorry, I’m Isabella Aulich. Meteorology.”
Ronon nodded, grateful that he didn’t have to worry about reading her name tape. He was getting better at Lantean writing, but it still took him more time than he liked to admit. “Tell me what happened.”
“We can show you,” Parrish said, with another of his sharp smiles. “Sammy, would you do the honors?”
“Yes, sir!” The corporal — Ronon remembered his actual name was Samara — unslung his weapon and took a few steps to the side. He snapped the machine off automatic and fired a couple of shots into the air. An instant later, a bolt of light shot out of the underbrush, followed by three more at increasing intervals. None of them came anywhere near the clearing, and Ronon slid his energy pistol back into its holster.
“What’s the trigger, the shot or the noise?”
“That’s an excellent question,” Parrish said. “I think it’s the sound, because Sammy’s shots have to be hitting further away from us than the source of those bolts. Dr. Hunt agrees.”
The other scientist nodded.
“What is it? Some device of the Ancestors?” That was a thoroughly unpleasant thought, and Ronon couldn’t hide a grimace.
“God, I hope not,” Parrish said, and the sergeant gave an involuntary grunt of agreement.
“It could be, though,” Aulich said, wiping her sweat-damped hair off her forehead. “We’ve seen weirder.”
“Damn straight,” the sergeant said. She was a short, broad-shouldered woman with dark skin and hair braided close to her scalp. Ronon squinted at her name tape, and made out the word “Joseph.”
“We’ve been a little wary of looking too closely,” Parrish said, “but there’s no sign of any non-vegetal infrastructure beneath either the conifers or the succulents, nor is there a visible power source.”
“In other words, no guns?” Ronon asked.
“Pretty much,” Hunt said.
Ronon looked around the clearing. Everything was quiet now, nothing moving in the underbrush. A few of the big insects swung in lazy circles over the twisted plants with the jagged bark, but there was nothing else in sight, not even a cloud in the pale sky. “What do you want to do, Doc? You can always pull back to Sateda, come back another day when Atlantis is open.”
Parrish spread his hands. “I’d like to stay. Whatever this is, it doesn’t seem that interested in actually shooting at us, and I’d like to know whether this is some man-made device or if it’s a natural phenomenon. We’ve got another, what, eight, nine hours before dark?”
“Nine hours, forty-one minutes,” Aulich said. “It’ll be twilight for a couple of hours before that, though.” She paused. “I’d like to stay, too. I’m ge
tting some unusual readings from my equipment, and I’d like to try to lock them down.”
“I agree,” Hunt said.
The two Marines exchanged glances, and then Joseph gave Ronon an almost imperceptible shrug. He knew what that meant — it was their job to stay, and so they’d stay — and nodded back.
“I think we kind of over-reacted,” Parrish said, his voice apologetic. “But —”
“It looked like something was shooting at you,” Ronon said. For a minute, he wanted to yell at them — wanted to have gone with Sheppard and the others, where there almost certainly was real danger, but stopped himself, knowing it was pointless. “Ok, Doc, what’s the plan?”
“It looked to me as though most of the shots — energy bolts, whatever — were coming from among the inner rank of succulents,” Parrish said. “Dr. Hunt?”
She nodded. “I — yes, I’d agree, and maybe on a line running straight back from the gate?”
Ronon squinted, then pointed toward a particularly juicy-looking plant that stood about a hand’s-breadth above its neighbors. One thing for being a Runner, it taught you to locate the source of fire quickly and accurately. “At least one shot came from there.”
Parrish sighted along the same line, and nodded. “All right. Let’s take a look.”
“A careful look,” Ronon said, and Parrish grinned.
“Always.”
Ember frowned at the screen, squinting as he tried to make sense of the Lanteans’ unfamiliar notation. There was the odd spiked shape that represented the Wraith solvent, the various receptor sites turned to red and orange as Beckett added the model of the neutralizer. And there were the numbers that spelled out the success rate: about eighty-five percent completely blocked, which was lower than he would have expected.
“Not bad for a first try,” Beckett said.
Ember’s feeding hand twitched, another sharp reminder that he had not fed in days. “I think we can adjust the —” He tried again to think of a verbal translation that would convey the way that the molecule flashed hot as it joined with its target — its unique quality — but again the problem defeated him, and instead he touched the screen. “This, here. If we increase its presence by 0.08 percent, I think we will improve the rate of uptake, and thus the ultimate success rate.”
“That’s not so much of a change,” Beckett said.
“No, and too much will only spoil things,” Ember answered. He reached for the keyboard, and stopped as he felt the Marines at the door shift and startle. “If I may?”
“Go ahead, let’s try it.”
Beckett stepped out of the way, and Ember began entering the new parameters. Once again, he wished for his own lab, the familiar tactile interface that let him feel how the new compound would come together, but he put that thought aside. He was on Atlantis; he would have to work with the Lanteans’ tools, no matter how strange. He checked the results, then touched keys to restart the simulation. The image flickered crazily for a few seconds, then steadied to the new result: more than 95 per cent of the receptor sites showed red, and the rest glowed deep orange.
“That looks good,” Beckett said, moving closer again.
“I would like to do better,” Ember said. “Perhaps a touch more of this?” He touched another symbol.
Beckett gave him a sidelong glance. “Are you seriously thinking you can get one hundred percent response?”
“It would be best if we did,” Ember answered. “Otherwise some will still be effective, and if those survive to breed, you will have the same problem all over again.”
“You’re right, of course, but we need to take action now.” Beckett studied the screen, pursing his lips. “It’ll be close to 96 per cent effective, which is damn good, and the remaining bacteria will be severely weakened. Even if they can affect plastics, they’re going to be a lot less efficient about it — they’re going to lack a strong copy of the plastic-dissolving enzyme.”
Ember rubbed his fingers together. If he could just touch the model, turn it and feel it — He put the thought aside. “That’s so. And an effective quarantine should eliminate the rest.”
“Let’s try it, then.” Beckett turned toward his console.
It took some hours to persuade the Lanteans’ equipment to produce even a meager amount of the compound, long enough that Beckett had to return to his quarters to sleep, and the last of the manufacture had to be completed under the supervision of a nervous technician. The result was dead matter, not the living organism that Ember would have preferred to use, but it seemed to do its job well enough, at least in simulation, and Ember looked up from his screen as Beckett reappeared.
“Doctor. I think we’re ready to try this.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Beckett settled himself at the station next to Ember’s, squinting slightly as he pulled up the final analysis on his own screen.
“Not quite as you do.” Ember suppressed the thought of hibernation, decades, even a century or two of stasis, held secure in the hive’s embrace. That was not what the human had meant. “Certainly not as often.”
“That was true with Michael,” Beckett said quietly. “He worked all hours, kept going until the job was done, mostly, and then he’d crash. Do you tell me that’s a Wraith pattern?”
Ember tipped his head to one side. “We are capable of sustained effort, yes. Though most clevermen learn that it can be counter-productive to push themselves too hard, particularly if there is any shortage of food —”
He stopped, aware that his own hunger had led him into an unguarded statement, and Beckett gave him an unreadable glance.
“Aye. And how hungry are you, I wonder?”
“I do not need to feed for some time yet,” Ember said, stiffly. His feeding hand throbbed, but he closed his fingers over the handmouth. “Let us proceed.”
Radek stared at the test bench he and Dr. Sindye had improvised in one of the smaller rooms which were still inside the quarantine line. At least Sindye was a chemist, the only one who’d been unlucky enough to be in the gate room when the quarantine was imposed. They really needed a biologist, Radek thought, or perhaps a botanist, but he and Sindye would have to do. Unless, of course, things got markedly worse, in which case they’d need every scientist in the city working on the problem. He picked up the sealed cylinder that had been passed through the quarantine — literally rolled across the corridor that marked the boundary — and turned it carefully in his hand.
“So this is the compound?”
Sindye didn’t look up from her microscope. “Yes. Dr. Beckett says that it was nearly 96 per cent effective in simulation, so it’s time to try it on the actual bacteria.”
“Which we have no equipment capable of isolating.”
“No, but we do have exposed equipment and unexposed plastic.” Sindye straightened. She was very tall and thin, with close-cropped graying hair, her borrowed lab coat very white against her dark skin. It was too short, and the sleeves rode up to expose several centimeters of wrist. A risk, Radek thought, but there was nothing they could do about it. “And a couple of nice metal boxes to put them in. I think that’s our best protocol.”
Radek nodded. “A test and a control, yes?”
“That’s the plan.” Sindye reached for her radio. “Dr. Beckett. We’re ready to begin the test. I have two metal containers of identical volume, a contaminated object which I have cut in half —”
“You weren’t able to isolate the actual bacteria?” Beckett interrupted.
“I can see it and identify it under the microscope,” Sindye said, patiently, “but I have no way to collect a separate sample. Dr. Zelenka and I think it would be more accurate simply to use the item in question.”
“What is it?”
“A travel mug,” Radek said. He refrained from mentioning that it was a souvenir of an important sports event — something to do with American football, he thought — and that Spec. Kirkpatrick had been very unhappy to sacrifice it.
“I’m worried about
contamination,” Beckett said. “Food particles, that sort of thing.”
“It was well rinsed before the problem started,” Sindye said. “At the moment, we’re just seeing the first signs of erosion along the rim.”
“If it doesn’t work, we can revisit the question,” a second voice said, and it was a moment before Radek recognized it as Ember’s. “For now, though —”
“Aye, best to get on with it,” Beckett agreed.
“All right,” Sindye said. “I have the travel mug, one half for each box, and some uncontaminated plastic. And I have the compound you sent. My thought was to place it and the uncontaminated plastic in one box, and just uncontaminated plastic in the other, make sure the plastic was well and truly covered with the compound, and then add the halves of the travel mug.”
“Simple and elegant,” Radek said, half under his breath, and she grinned.
“That’ll work,” Beckett said.
“Then we’re starting now.” Sindye used a pair of metal tongs to move the pieces of plastic into each of the boxes. “Dr. Zelenka, if you’ll do the honors?”
“Of course.” Radek unscrewed the lid of the cylinder and poured about 250 milliliters of clear liquid over one piece of plastic. It looked like plain water, though as he used the tongs to swish the plastic through box, he caught of whiff of spoiled apples.
Sindye grimaced as well. “That’s kind of nasty.”
“Yes.” Radek looked at the box, now awash in the liquid. “Do you think that’s enough?”
“As good as it’s going to be,” Sindye answered. “I’m adding the contaminated material.” She suited her actions to the words, using a second pair of tongs to place each half of the travel mug into a separate box. “And now —”
“And now we wait,” Radek agreed.
She pulled a stool away from the bench, brought it to one side so that she could rest her back against the wall. “So this is supposed to be a Wraith tool, huh?”
“That is what Ember said. Or at least that it may have begun as such.”
“I mean, I more or less understand what he’s doing, what they’re doing, using bacteria and viruses like wrenches and hammers, only on a cellular level.” Sindye shook her head. “It’s very weird.”
Stargate Atlantis: Third Path: Book 8 in the Legacy series Page 8