Cumby hunched over the DHD, closed his eyes and concentrated. He saw the symbols in their proper order, opened his eyes, and began to press buttons. He tried not to pay attention to the firefight just beyond the gate. He ignored the fact the charge was being led by a medieval knight on a mechanical horse. The symbols on the gate began to illuminate, and his fingers flew over the Ancient glyphs.
“Hurry!” Sheppard called.
Cumby pressed the final glyph. The gate lit up, the glowing space inside the giant ring pressed out as if something was rushing through from within, then snapped back and settled.
* * *
Lorne barked a command, and Ronon, Gravel, Verdino and the others began to slowly backpedal toward the gate. Within moments, Rodney found himself alone in front. He tried to order the horse to retreat, but apparently it was programmed for one thing, and one thing only. To do battle. There were still enemies faced off against him, and the visor sighted in on them, one after another. He slashed out with the sword again, dropping a Wraith warrior, and then sheathed it, reaching once more for the lance.
The whine of incoming darts filled the air and the stallion reared. Rodney leaned into it, gripped with his knees, and leveled the lance at the tree line. Two darts soared up into sight, and he fired. He hit the first one directly and it spun out of control, but the second returned fire. The blast struck the front of the horse and it reared again, this time too fast and too hard. As it went up and over, Rodney spun, aimed, and fired. He caught the rear of the dart as it passed overhead and it burst into flames, canted crazily to the right and dove into the trees. It met the ground with a scream of tortured metal. Rodney let go of the lance and tried to hold his balance, but it was no use. The horse was not meant for the angle it had reached, and it toppled. He dove clear, crashed to the ground, and bounced hard.
“Get through the gate!” Sheppard cried. He ran to where Rodney had fallen, reaching out to grab him by the arm. He stopped, stunned, when Rodney bounced to his feet, brushed himself off, and turned.
The Wraith realized that the advantage had shifted and surged forward. Rodney glanced up and saw that they were only yards away.
Then there was a sudden roar of engines, and the front line of Wraith were nearly cut in half by a sudden blast from above. Cover fire drove the advancing Wraith quickly into the woods.
Sheppard screamed, “Rodney! Run! The gate!”
Rodney nodded, and the two sprinted after the others. Ronon and Lorne stood, one to each side of the gate, offering covering fire. The others had gone through. Behind them, the Wraith were still in retreat, firing randomly after Sheppard and Rodney.
“Go!” Sheppard cried to the others. “Get through and close the gate!”
He dove, and Rodney dove beside him. Ronon and Lorne let loose a final burst of fire and spun through after them.
As they passed through, the gate shimmered and closed.
* * *
The room was as silent as a tomb for about ten seconds, and then everyone seemed to talk at once. Rodney stood, and Sheppard stared at him. His jacket had come open, and a small device glowed on his chest. Sheppard recognized it immediately. It was the small personal force-field Rodney had nearly trapped himself in shortly after reporting to Atlantis. He’d wondered what happened to the thing.
“When were you planning on mentioning you were wearing that?” Irritated, he pushed Rodney so hard he fell over backward — and bounced right back to his feet with a grin. Sheppard shook his head, not amused. “We thought you were dead, Rodney. We nearly left you behind.”
“Sorry, the time never seemed quite right,” McKay said. “I just figured that it might come in handy.” He grinned, and then deactivated the device. “You never can tell.”
Sheppard let out a breath and turned away, just in time to see the medical team lifting Teyla onto a gurney. She was conscious and, despite her pain, she smiled at him. “We made it.”
“Yeah.” He stepped over and put his hand on her arm, feeling her solid and real beneath his touch. Thank God. A sudden rush of emotion caught him by surprise, choking him, and he had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could say anymore. “I thought…”
“I know,” she said, covering his hand with her own. “I am sorry to have given you cause for concern.”
“Concern?” He half laughed, a bark of giddy emotion. “Yeah, ‘concern’ is exactly what it was.” Then he squeezed her arm again and jammed his hands into his pockets; after the relief came the guilt. “Listen, I’m sorry. I should have gone back for you. I shouldn’t have left without — ”
“Had you done so,” she said, her voice strong despite her injuries, “we would not have survived.”
He looked at her from beneath his brow. “You don’t know — ”
“Rodney could not have carried us all on his horse,” she said with a smile. “And without it, we could not have reached the gate in time. Of that, I am certain.”
“Still…”
“You did what was right, John,” she said. “And what I would have done, had the situation been reversed.”
For a moment he held her gaze and there was honesty there, like there always was with Teyla. She wouldn’t lie to him, not about this or anything else. And then she was wheeled away and he watched her until she was out of sight.
He turned to Woolsey, who stood to one side looking uncomfortable, and offered a tired salute. “Thank you,” he said. “Thanks for getting us home. And if you get a chance, thank Caldwell for that cover fire. He cut it pretty close, but Rodney and I wouldn’t have gotten out without his help.”
“Of course,” Woolsey said, awkward as he often was, but sincere nonetheless. “And thank you, Colonel, for bringing them back.”
Sheppard smiled. “Any time, sir,” he said. “Any time.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Both teams had gathered around the conference table for the debriefing. Woolsey sat at the head of the table. As usual, he had papers and a folder before him, and he shuffled through them as he gathered his thoughts. Teyla’s leg was in a cast, and several others appeared a bit the worse for wear. Still, they were back, and they were safe.
“So,” Woolsey said, glancing up at last. “This Saul has been imprisoning travelers in his city for a very long time. I find myself wondering how many of those creatures in the entertainment started life as simple visitors — how much blood was spilled.”
“For what it’s worth,” Sheppard said, “I saw no indication that they modified actual living beings. The ‘adversary’s’ seem to have been created from genetic material, blended from Wraith and races we’ve never even encountered.”
“That dragon, for one,” Rodney said. “I mean, who grows something like that?”
Woolsey stared at Rodney for a moment, and Rodney fell silent, looking a bit sheepish. “Well,” he said, “it was big.”
“Yes, Rodney,” Sheppard cut in. “We were all proud of the way you stood up to the dragon, and that charge out of the gate, I won’t forget that any time soon. But you were wearing a force field that literally removed you from any real danger.”
“You mean other than being left behind to be burned to a crisp by a sun? Or maybe you’re talking about how I got Teyla out of there? Sort of like Lancelot and Guinevere, wasn’t it? None of that was too risky; I mean, on a scale of one to ten…”
Ronon laughed. “You did a good job. You killed a dragon. Isn’t that enough?”
Rodney tilted his head to the side, as if caught halfway between two thoughts, clamped his lips together, and nodded. “I think that will be…fine.”
“If we could get back to the debriefing?” Woolsey said, clearing his throat. “We gained little from this excursion, other than information.”
“We have the lance,” Rodney said quickly, “and the visor. We’re analyzing them to see if any of the weapons technology can be adapted. I think we might be near some real breakthroughs.”
“That’s fine,” Woolsey said, “but
we have storerooms full of artifacts and an entire Ancient database we’ve only begun to delve into. The last thing we needed was more to investigate.”
“But…” Rodney started.
Woolsey held up his hand. “Be that as it may,” he said, “I am going to consider this mission a success. We actually learned some things about the interface of the gates and the DHD, and thanks to Mr. Cumby, we have identified at least one warning message that — previously,” he glanced at Rodney pointedly, “we have overlooked.”
“I think we learned something about the Ancestors, as well,” Teyla said. “We’ve encountered them at their finest, and we’ve encountered them when they were so detached that nothing mattered but their ascension. These were very — human. They were flawed, and selfish, violent and in love with their own warped form of entertainment. They were far from perfect, despite their age, and the knowledge they’ve accumulated over the centuries. No matter how well a civilization starts out…its ending is determined by the culture that is shared.”
“They aren’t Gods,” Sheppard said. “They are beings, just like we are. They’ve been around a lot longer, they’ve learned things we haven’t, but they’re as prone to mistakes and flaws as any of us. Some of them found their way — others found…”
The door opened, and a young man stepped into the room.
“Sir, you asked me to call you when it was time.”
Woolsey nodded. He stood slowly. “If you will all join me in the control room?”
The others glanced at one another, then rose slowly and filed out. Woolsey came last. He still carried his papers, but he no longer pretended to be worrying about reports or paperwork.
As he entered the room, Woolsey said, “Go ahead, Colonel Caldwell, put it on screen.”
The screen flickered to life and the image of the city of Admah came into focus, relayed back to them via the long-range sensors of the Daedalus. The surface of the moon rippled with heat haze. The light from the star, very close, licked at the walls of the city and the air shimmered. Smoke rolled over the stones.
“It won’t be long now,” Woolsey said.
“Do you think anyone in there could still be alive?” Cumby said. “I mean, the city was built by the Ancients. Surely they have ways to seal themselves off — shields or some sort of — ”
“Nothing is going to save them,” Sheppard said. “They might still be alive, and they might even remain alive a little bit longer, but nothing survives that. Saul knew what he was doing when he chose his final act.”
“He never got to see it,” Rodney said.
They all turned to him.
“He was at the gate when I passed through. I fired at him with the lance. I don’t know if it killed him, but I’m sure he never made it back to the city. I think I also damaged the gate. It was closing when we leaped through. They really were trapped.”
“Nothing you could have done would have changed that,” Woolsey said. “They would have kept you there too if they could. They would have kept all of you. ”
Rodney nodded, but he turned back to the screen. They all watched as Admah and its moon reached the point of no return. The surface began to glow and then to crumble. Its descent toward the center of the sun sped up, and as they watched it began to melt, slowly at first, and then running like lava, until finally, in a flash of fire that filled the screen, it disappeared forever.
Sheppard stood very still. He thought of Mara, and remembered the last few moments they’d spent — the look in her eyes as she turned away and returned to Saul.
“Goodbye,” he said. “If there’s a better place, I hope you find it.”
The screen went dark. No one spoke as they turned and disappeared into the city. The gate stood large and empty, and Woolsey stared into that giant eye as if it had secrets he could read. Finally, he shook his head and walked away. As if noticing it for the first time, he turned to the paperwork in his hand. Somehow he thought he’d better get it finished soon. There was no telling when the next disaster might strike and he knew he had to be ready.
Sneak Preview
Stargate Atlantis: Homecoming
Book one of the Legacy series
by Jo Graham & Melissa Scott
Azure streaks flashed and danced, blue shifted stars shapeless blurs in the speed of her passage. Atlantis cruised through hyperspace with the majesty of Earth’s old ocean liners, her size impossible to guess in the infinity of space. Her towering spires and thousands of rooms were nothing compared to the vast distances around her. Atlantis glided through hyperspace, her massive engines firing white behind her, shields protecting fragile buildings and occupants from the vacuum.
Behind, the Milky Way galaxy spun like a giant pinwheel, millions of brilliant stars stabbing points of light in the darkness. Atlantis traversed the enormous distance between galaxies, hundreds of thousands of light years vanishing swifter than thought. Even with her enormous hyperdrive, the journey was the work of many days.
It was nine days, Dr. McKay had predicted, from Earth to Lantea, Atlantis’ original home in the Pegasus Galaxy, deserted these two and a half years since they had fled from the Replicator attack. Of all the places their enemies might seek them, they were least likely to look where they were certain Atlantis wasn’t.
Of course, no one person could stay in the command chair that controlled the city’s flight for nine days, not even lost in the piloting trance that the Ancient interfaces fostered. Not even John Sheppard could do that. Lt. Colonel Sheppard had come to Atlantis five and a half years ago at the beginning of the expedition, and the city had come to life at his touch. The City of the Ancients awoke, long-dormant systems coming on slowly when someone with the ATA gene, a descendant of the original builders, came through the Stargate. Atlantis had been left waiting. Though it had waited ten thousand years, humans had returned.
But even Sheppard could not spend nine days in the chair. The Ancients would have designated three pilots, each watching in eight hour shifts, but the humans from Earth did not have that luxury. Sheppard was First Pilot, and Dr. Carson Beckett, a medical doctor originally from Scotland, was Second. Twelve hour shifts were grueling, but at least allowed both men time to eat and sleep.
Five days of the journey gone, 20:00 hours, and Dr. Beckett was in the chair. His eyes were closed, his forehead creased in a faint frown, his arms relaxed on the arms of the chair, his fingers resting lightly on the interfaces. Nearly six years of practice had made him a competent, if reluctant, pilot. And so it was Dr. Beckett who noticed it first.
It was one tiny detail, one anomaly in a datastream of thousands of points, all fed through the chair’s controls and interpreted by the neural interfaces that fed data straight into Beckett’s body, as though all of Atlantis’ enormous bulk was nothing more than the extension of himself.
It felt like…a wobble. Just a very faint wobble, as when driving an auto along the highway you wonder if one of the tires is just a little off. It might be that, or it might be the surface of the road. Nothing is wrong on the dashboard, so you listen but don’t hear anything, and just when you’ve convinced yourself you imagined it entirely, there it is again. A wobble. A very small movement that is wrong.
Perhaps, Beckett thought, if you were borrowing a friend’s car you wouldn’t notice it at all. You’d just think that was how it was. But when it’s your own car, lovingly cared for and maintained every 5,000 km, you know something is not quite right. Perhaps one tire is a little low. Perhaps you’ve dinted the rim just a tad, and the balance is not entirely even. It’s probably not important. But if you’re the kind of man who keeps your car that way, you know. You notice.
Beneath the blue lights of the control room, Beckett’s eyes opened. The young technician monitoring the power output looked around, surprised. It was very quiet, watching someone fly Atlantis.
His tongue flicked over his lips, moistening them, reminding himself of his own physical body, and then he spoke into the headset he wore. “Control,
this is Beckett. I’ve got a wobble.”
There was a long moment of silence, then his radio crackled. “Say it again. You’ve got a what?”
“A wobble,” Beckett said. “I don’t know a better word for it.”
“A wobble.” The voice was that of Dr. Radek Zelenka, the Czech scientist who was, with Dr. McKay, one of the foremost experts on Ancient technology. Certainly he was one of the foremost experts on Atlantis, having spent most of the last five and a half years repairing her systems.
“It doesn’t feel right,” Beckett said. “I don’t know how to put it better, Radek. It feels like a tire about to go off.”
“Atlantis does not have tires, Carson,” Zelenka replied.
“I know it doesn’t.” Beckett looked up toward the ceiling, as though he could see Zelenka in the gateroom many stories above, no doubt bent worriedly over a console, his glasses askew. “That’s what it feels like. That’s how my mind interprets it.”
“He says we have a wobble. Like a flat tire.” Zelenka was talking to someone else. “I do not know. That is what Carson says.”
“A wobble?” That was McKay, the Canadian Chief of Science. “What’s a wobble, Carson?”
“It feels wrong,” Beckett said. “I don’t know how to explain the bloody thing! It feels like there’s something wrong.”
“I am seeing nothing with propulsion,” Zelenka said. Beckett could see how he would say it, his hands roving over the control board, data reflected in his glasses. “Everything is well within the normal operating parameters.”
“I think I would interpret a propulsion problem as an engine light,” Beckett said slowly.
“And a tire is what?” McKay would be putting his head to the side impatiently. “Do you think you can give me engineering, not voodoo? Your vague analogy is next to worthless.”
Lying back in the chair, Beckett rolled his eyes. Five and a half years he’d put up with Rodney bullying him over this damned interface. “Something to do with the hyperdrive?” he ventured.
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