“We know very little about the Wraith, about your people and your culture.” Daniel spread his hands. “I’d like to know more.”
Ember showed teeth in what Daniel hoped was a smile. “You should be careful, you may find out things you do not wish to know.” He shrugged, and waved toward one of the benches that were the room’s main furniture. “But, certainly, you may ask. I will not promise to answer anything that might compromise my queen or my people.”
“Fair enough.” Daniel seated himself, and Ember circled him to take a seat opposite him. Just out of reach, Daniel noticed. Was that courtesy, and was the circling an expression of social dominance? Ember’s eyes were hard yellow-green, the pupils contracted to hairline slits, the sensor pits bracketing his nose starkly visible in the harsh light. “Doesn’t the sunlight bother you?”
Ember tilted his head to one side. “I, too, am trying to learn things.”
“About humans?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll put yourself through a certain amount of discomfort in order to do so?”
“Would you not do the same?”
Daniel paused. “Well, yes. But probably not when there’s no one else around, unless I’m missing your reason.”
“This place, Atlantis.” Ember waved his hand — not his feeding hand, Daniel noticed — in a circle that encompassed the room and the view beyond the enormous windows. More flecks of rainbow fell across him, bright against the dark leather. “It is to you what our hives are to us: home, yes, but also a living symbol of what you desire a home to be. I am trying to understand it, as well.”
There was some truth to that, Daniel thought. Atlantis contained much of the best, and some of the worst, of the Ancients’ aspirations; the towers reached to the stars, but there were labs and hidden chambers that contained some very bad ideas. “I would like to see a hiveship myself. Now that things are more — settled — between our people.”
“You would not like most of them,” Ember said. “The feeding cells are… utilitarian. For us to use.”
Daniel ignored the chill that ran up his spine. “I thought some hives had humans on board, as worshippers?”
“That’s what other humans call them. They do not think us gods, nor would we wish them to.”
Which makes a change from the Goa’uld. Daniel swallowed those words as too revealing of things the SGC would probably prefer to keep obscured. “What do you call them, you Wraith, I mean?”
“Pets.”
That had been the term the Wraith had used in the alternate universe, though Daniel suspected that the relationships were a bit more complicated. And probably were more complicated here, too. “Have you… kept pets?”
“I have not!” Ember’s voice was sharp, and Daniel spread his hands.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I don’t understand.”
Ember took a breath. “It is a matter of some disagreement among us. Some lineages accept the practice, and some do not. My first queen did not, nor did Guide after I joined him. I do not yet know what Alabaster will do.”
“Why did they disapprove?”
Ember’s mouth curved into another teeth-baring smile. “It’s never wise to become too friendly with one’s food.”
Fair enough, Daniel thought. “All right, why do other people, other queens, approve of it?”
“I don’t know.”
That was not entirely true, Daniel thought, looking at the sudden stiffness in Ember’s stance, but he didn’t know how to pursue the question without offending further.
Ember said, into the silence, “We all know that humans are intelligent beings. Most people prefer not to think about it too closely.”
Most humans didn’t like to think too hard about where their food came from, either. But there was more to it than that. Daniel nodded slowly. “Among humans, to eat together, to share a meal, is a particular kind of intimacy. It joins people together — among our ancestors, to break bread, to share food, was to create a truce even between the bitterest enemies; sharing food, sharing a meal, is part of our ceremonies of marriage and birth and death. Even today, diplomacy is accompanied by state dinners, a meal between heads of state to show that they are meeting in friendship. On the individual level, nearly every human culture on Earth and off it has some rule that says you must offer food to a guest — when you go to somebody’s room even here on Atlantis, they’re probably going to offer you a cookie or some chips or a cup of tea. It’s not just about nourishment, but about connection. And it’s even more about that with the Wraith, isn’t it? Because the same process that nourishes you can be reversed — you can take the life from humans, or you can give it back. That has to have tremendous meaning.”
Ember blinked once, then made a sound that might have been laughter. “You are indeed a clever man. No wonder Carter values you.”
“So to feed from a human and restore him or her —”
“That is the Gift,” Ember said. “And the Gift may be made between Wraith as well — any blade, any cleverman, would gladly bare his chest for the queen’s hand. In old-fashioned hives, the queen tastes the life of any man she allows to serve her — Death did so — but she always has the right, in any hive anywhere. Our lives are hers. And so it is, to a lesser degree, with the lords of the zenana, the officers of the hive. In an emergency, the superior may claim the life of the inferior, and the inferior should give it gladly, though that’s not always the case. I am Master of Sciences Biological, and I would think it shameful to feed from my men when I should have prevented the emergency in the first place.”
Daniel nodded again. “And is the Gift ever given between equals?”
“Between the closest of friends,” Ember said. “Between brothers. Between lovers. And that — this is why the retrovirus frightens me. We must go from thinking of humans as kine to people worthy of our most intimate attentions.”
“That’s why some queens don’t allow pets,” Daniel said. “Your biology’s not that different.”
“That intimacy is forbidden,” Ember said flatly. “Clevermen are killed for that.”
But not always, Daniel thought. Or maybe they’re just not all caught. Or maybe some queens care less. “Not blades?”
Ember hissed. “I have never heard of a blade choosing to do so. It’s us clevermen who have access to humans anyway.”
“It’s not actually the same,” Daniel began, and Ember laughed again, his feeding hand clenching tight.
“The act is exactly the same, and if it is not to be mere food, then —” He shook his head, the pale hair bright in the sun. “I have fed on Zelenka, who is a colleague and a comrade, we shared the experience of working with Quicksilver — with McKay. That wasn’t so strange. But this young woman, Salawi — she is brave and generous as any blade and therefore I, in honor, owe her what I would owe a blade who had rescued me. And I am not ready for such a bond.”
Daniel let out his breath in a silent whistle. That was complicated, all right. If Ember was right, the Wraith were having to change not merely from hunter to herder but to accept humans into their closest and most complicated relationships. And that was a hell of a change, for both sides. On the other hand… It was a new path for both, and there would be a chance to make new rules.
Ember nodded as though he had read the thought. “I think this is what Guide knew would happen. And somehow —somehow we must find our way through.” He lifted his head, the alien lines of his face suddenly very marked. “But we are Wraith. We will survive.”
“I believe you will,” Daniel said.
Radek made his way to the mess hall for an early dinner, enjoying the feeling of having nothing more to worry about than Atlantis’s routine maintenance and an interesting theoretical problem involving the aurora. Rodney had declined to get involved with the latter, too, which left him with research he enjoyed and no pressing reason to solve the problem immediately. No one would die — nothing would even break if he and Sommer and Joyce Han didn’t come
up with a provable theory about the observed color shifts. When you added that to almost a week of sleeping in his own bed, with as many showers as he wanted, he felt definitely content with the world.
There was fresh food back on the buffet line, local legumes and new-picked vegetables and cutlets of a Behranin bird that tasted like chicken, and he filled his tray contentedly. The only thing missing was a nice glass of wine — perhaps a vino verdhe? But if he wanted alcohol, he was restricted to the brandy he’d brought from Earth, or the moonshine the Marines brewed in the depths of the South Tower. He fixed himself a cup of coffee instead, and turned toward the tables.
It was early evening, and the sky beyond the long windows had hazed to twilight purple, the first threads of the aurora flickering on the horizon. They seemed to be blue tonight, and he steered for a table where he would have a decent view, only to have to stop short to keep from colliding with Elizabeth.
“I’m sorry,” he said, checking his tray to be sure he hadn’t spilled his coffee, and she gave an apologetic smile.
“No, I should apologize. Is this your table?”
“Not at all.” Radek shook his head to emphasize the words. “Perhaps you would join me?”
“I’d like that.”
They settled themselves, laying out silverware and plates and adjusting the trays, and Elizabeth gestured at her plate. “I see Sergeant Pollard is still the expert at getting local supplies.”
“He is a genius,” Radek said, with perfect sincerity. “He had the idea of trading Tupperware to the Athosians, and the Athosians connected him with all their suppliers.”
“I guess the IOA relaxed some of the strictures on trading after I was gone?”
“After we returned,” Radek said. “When we were forced to land here, we lost all possibility of getting supplies from the local planet. And we have a lot of things that people here need.”
“Including Tupperware.” Elizabeth smiled.
Radek shrugged. “Lightweight, waterproof, and hard to crush. For a nomadic people, it has some obvious advantages.”
“True enough.”
“Speaking of trade with other worlds, however…” Radek gave her a sidelong glance. “There’s a rumor that Colonel Hocken will be retiring, and that she’s planning to take a job on Sateda. Bringing an airplane kit with her.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t know that it’s a secret. She’s discussed it with the Air Force, anyway, but I don’t know if she’s decided to take the job yet.”
“She will,” Radek said. “Or at least I think so.”
“Have you thought about staying? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I don’t mind.” Radek smiled, buying time to consider just how honest he wanted his answer to be. It was not that he didn’t trust her, but that there were so many contingencies, so many possibilities still to consider. And he had time, of course, plenty of time to work out exactly what it was he wanted. “I’ve thought about it, yes. Atlantis is — amazing. Impossible. I am — I have been, in spite of everything, very happy here. If things could be worked out, I would certainly consider it.” He paused, but there was something about the mess hall, the way it was communal and yet private enough, that invited confidences. “And you? When you came back, when we saw you, we all —” He shook his head, unwilling to go further. “You could certainly stay.”
“That’s kind,” she said, “and I do thank you. But — I expect I’ll go home eventually? Probably sooner, rather than later. I needed to come back, to say goodbye properly, but now — someone else should have my old job, and there are things I want to do back on Earth.”
That made sense. Radek nodded, but before he could say anything more, Ronon loomed over the table, his tray piled high with the leaf-wrapped chopped chicken-and-vegetables that Pollard had adapted from a Satedan recipe. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth said, warmly. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to sit down with you. I’m so amazed at everything that’s being done on Sateda.”
“Yeah.” Ronon settled himself, began to eat with quick, neat movements. He never spilled the filling out the end of the rolled leaf, Radek thought, and allowed himself a sigh. “Cai’s done a good job.”
“He has,” Elizabeth agreed.
“He’s asked me to come back,” Ronon said, and Radek realized that this was no chance conversation. “Maybe not right away, but in time. Once they start having elections again, and a real government.”
“It would be our loss,” Elizabeth said, “but you’d be excellent for them.”
“I don’t want to be a figurehead,” Ronon said. “Not just the guy who was a Runner and lived.”
“You’ve already moved far beyond that,” Elizabeth said. “You’d proved you were more than that before I died.”
“And I can’t be Lantean — can’t be your representative. Not the way things are with the Wraith. I mean, I’m going to put up with it. Do what I have to, and, yeah, I’m glad Sateda’s in the protected sphere for as long as that lasts.” Ronon shook his head. “I just think it’s going to come back to bite us in the end. And we have to be ready for that.”
Elizabeth gave a slow nod. “That’s not unreasonable. You may even be right. There may be a break later between us and Sateda. But let’s hold on to what we have for as long as we can.”
“Fair enough.” Ronon nodded in turn, tension leaving his shoulders. “What’s this I hear about Colonel Hocken retiring to Sateda?”
“That seems to be everywhere,” Radek said. “I heard the Marines have a pool on when she’s going to get here.”
“I’d forgotten about the Atlantis grapevine.” Elizabeth looked faintly dismayed.
“Working better than ever,” Ronon said.
“Radek!”
Radek turned to see William Lynn and Eva Robinson coming toward them with laden trays.
“Mind if we join you?”
“Not at all.” Radek shifted his chair to make room, and then made the introductions, letting the conversation turn to more general things.
EPILOGUE
“DELTA 2538 arriving from Denver, bags on carousel D,” John said, pointing at the overhead sign.
Ford glanced back at him, a smile replacing the worried look he’d worn the entire flight. “I know my way around Hartsfield pretty well, Colonel. Remember, I’m from Atlanta. I can find the baggage claim.”
John shrugged. “I figure it’s been a long time.”
Ford’s smile faded. “Yeah. It has.”
“Where is…” Atelia began. Her brow was furrowed, Jordan riding high on her shoulder, a black baseball cap with a yellowjacket on it proclaiming that he was a Georgia Tech fan.
“It’s this way,” Ford said, and put his arm around her back, steering her through the press of passengers crowding into the atrium. John and Teyla followed with carryon bags. John figured they had enough to handle with the baby and diaper bag.
At least Jordan wasn’t crying. He’d been good through the whole flight, too little to understand the momentous step he was making. Atelia did. She looked scared. Teyla was good moral support, though, explaining how she’d found Earth intimidating at first too, when Atlantis had been grounded in San Francisco a year ago. Two weeks of debriefing in Colorado Springs hadn’t prepared her for the crowds, for the sheer number of new things all over the place all at once. But since her cover story was that she’d grown up in a remote, war torn country, hopefully people would cut her some slack. And Jordan – Jordan would never remember a time when he lived in another galaxy.
The Atrium was crowded. People hurried to make their flights or stopped to get something to eat on their way out. Visitors got their bearings. Arrivals looked for ground transportation or directions to the parking lots. And people waited.
There – out of the corner of his eye John saw the movement, a young woman putting her hands to her mouth suddenly – Ford’s cousin Sheri. Behind her was an old couple, the man in a brown cardigan, t
he woman leaning on a cane. John caught the moment when they saw.
The old woman took one heaving breath, and then Ford turned. He crossed the patterned floor in three steps, and then she was in his arms, her head on his shoulder, her hands clenching on his jacket. “Grandma,” he said. “Grandma.” And again, disbelievingly. “Grandma.” He bent his head over hers.
Sheri put her arms around him from behind, holding him tight between them. Atelia stopped uncertainly just behind.
The old man looked at her, his face as solemn as the baby’s, tears running down his still face. He reached one hand out, touching the baby’s hand. “You must be Jordan.” Jordan looked back, held high on his mother’s shoulder. “And you must be Atelia.”
“I am,” Atelia said, and her voice faltered a little.
“I hear you’ve taken good care of the boy.”
“I have tried to, sir,” she said.
Ford turned, pulling away and reaching back for her hand. “Grandma, I want you to meet Atelia. And Jordan.” Sheri pressed her hands to her lips again as Ford’s grandmother drew them into her embrace.
Teyla made a noise suspiciously like a sniffle, and John looked at her sideways. “There is something in my eye,” Teyla said sharply.
“Mine too,” John said.
Sheri ducked around the hug and came toward him. “Colonel Sheppard,” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you. When we talked a few years ago and you said you hadn’t given up…” She stopped, then began again. “I thought you were just giving our grandparents false hope. I thought it would be kinder to just say that Aiden was dead rather than to keep listing him missing in action and saying that he might be found. I never thought… I never thought he’d come home.”
“He’s home,” John said, and found he couldn’t say anymore.
Sheri smiled at Teyla. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“This is Teyla Emmagen,” John said. “She’s one of our civilian contractors who has been instrumental in hunting for Ford.”
“Then I should thank you too,” Sheri said. “You have no idea how much this means to us.”
Stargate Atlantis: Third Path: Book 8 in the Legacy series Page 31