STARGATE UNIVERSE: Air

by James Swallow

  “Time,” insisted Rush. “To find a way to survive.” He looked over to Tamara. “Do we have our list yet?”

  Scott saw a hollowness in T.J.’s face as she handed Rush a sheet of paper with a hasty roll-call scribbled across it. “I marked the names of anyone injured,” she said softly.

  Rush scanned the paper. “We need to know their background, experience, skills—”

  Scott broke in before he could go on. “It doesn’t take any special skills to die from asphyxiation, Doctor.”

  Rush eyed him. “I’m saying it shouldn’t be someone who has potentially valuable knowledge, or abilities we might need to survive beyond this.”

  Eli’s reaction to the man’s statement was everything that Scott was keeping inside; incredulous, aghast and disgusted all at once. Rush’s callous criteria meant that, of course, he would automatically be exempt from being a candidate. Scott wondered how he would have felt about things if he was just one of the line grunts and not a goddamn genius; but part of him could also see he had a valid point.

  Chloe didn’t hide her revulsion either. “Are you really suggesting what I think you are?”

  Scott glanced at the scientist. “Half the people on this ship already want to kill you. This won’t win you any friends.”

  Rush dismissed his comments. “I don’t care what people think of me.”

  “So that means you get to decide the value of one person’s life over another?” said Scott. The question was as much for him as it was for Rush, however.

  “You can’t ask someone to sacrifice themselves,” Chloe broke in. “Period.”

  Rush gave the girl a cold, level stare. “Politicians ask military personnel to sacrifice themselves for the good of others all the time.” He didn’t look away, pressing his point home. “If someone doesn’t close the door to that shuttle, we are all going to die…period.”

  And then all eyes were on Scott again.

  “Lieutenant?” said Tamara. “How do you want to proceed?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t find the words. Finally, he looked away. “I need to talk to the colonel.”

  Young listened and said nothing as Scott and Johansen brought him up to speed. As he let them talk, he saw the burdens of the last few hectic hours showing heavily on both of his junior officers, and felt a pang of sympathy. T.J. wasn’t even supposed to be here, and Matt Scott was still green in a lot of ways; but today they’d both been forced to dig deep and face challenges neither of them had been trained for. They were dealing with it all as best they could, and that would have to be enough.

  “Franklin is still working at the airlock controls locally,” said Scott, “but it doesn’t look good, sir.”

  “Camile’s explaining the situation to everyone else on board,” added Tamara. “Someone may come forward to—”

  “I’ll do it.” Young said the words automatically, without questioning himself.

  Scott shook his head. “Sir…”

  “This isn’t the kind of thing I can ask somebody else to volunteer for,” he continued.

  “If we’re going to make it past this, we’re going to need you,” Scott insisted.

  “I don’t know about that.” He looked to Tamara and then back to Scott. “I just don’t know.”

  “Sir,” repeated the young man, and there was a plea hidden deep in the word.

  “I’m not sure anyone should do it,” Tamara broke in before either man could say more. “I don’t want someone sacrificing their life for me. I say we either figure this out together while we still have time, or we all die trying.”

  Young shook his head. “It needs to be done, and I’m doing it.” He put his weight forward on his legs and tried to stand, but his muscles wouldn’t respond.

  “You can barely stand up,” said Tamara, “let alone—”

  “Help me,” he grated.

  She went on, ignoring him. “Sir, the paralysis is not permanent, you know that now. You are going to recover…”

  He tried again to stand and fell forward, stumbling to his knees. Young shot a look at Scott. “Help me, Lieutenant.”

  Scott stood, impassive. “No, sir, I will not.” In that moment, something changed behind the young man’s eyes.

  “I gave you an order,” said the colonel.

  Scott nodded once. “I know. You can have me court martialed when we get home, sir, but I will not help you kill yourself.”

  Young heard the steel behind the words, and he knew that not even the commander-in-chief would shift Scott once he’d dug in his heels. The lieutenant could be stubborn that way; in fact, it was one of the reasons Young had selected him for Icarus Base. “Then at least help me get on my feet.”

  Scott threw Tamara a nod, and she reached down to give Young a hand.

  Without warning, there was a pounding on the hatch and Scott opened it to find Chloe Armstrong standing in the corridor outside. She was distraught, her hands fluttering in front of her face like panicked birds. “What’s wrong?” asked the lieutenant.

  “My father’s not in his room!”

  Tamara shared a loaded look with Scott. “In his condition, he shouldn’t be up and around.”

  Scott placed a hand on Chloe’s arm. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him.” He turned to Tamara, nodding toward the colonel. “In the meantime, you make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “I don’t understand…” said Chloe. “He wouldn’t just leave me…”

  “He’s injured. He can’t have gotten far.” Scott reached for his radio.

  Young saw a sudden realization dawn on the girl, and she went pale. “I… I told him what was going on…”

  “Greer, this is Scott,” said the lieutenant. “Come in. Greer, do you read, over?”

  “You’d better get down there,” Young told him.

  Scott nodded and broke into a run, with Chloe racing a few steps behind him.

  Greer had his radio set to hands-free, and Scott’s voice issued out from the walkie’s speaker grille. “Senator Armstrong is missing. He may be headed your way.” The lieutenant’s words were coming in hard chugs of breath; he was running. “Greer, do you read me, over?”

  At the Marine’s side, bent low near the open panel beneath the video screen, Franklin had his hands raised, still grasping the tools he’d been using to delve into the guts of the door control mechanism. Greer moved slowly and carefully, taking great pains not to move his hands anywhere near the butt of the G36 rifle slung over his shoulder.

  His fingers reached the push-to-talk button on the radio and he keyed it. “He’s here,” he reported.

  A few feet away down the corridor, Armstrong stood, his face pale, patches of sweat blooming through the material of his five thousand dollar suit. He had one hand clamped to his side, in obvious agony. The other was held out before him, and in its shaky grip was a Beretta automatic.

  “He’s got a gun,” Greer continued, his eyes never leaving those of the other man. Scott didn’t respond; if the lieutenant wasn’t already double-timing it down to the shuttles, then he surely was now. The Marine released the radio and moved his hand slowly away. “Where’d you get that, sir?” he asked. “You know how to use it?”

  “I know,” Armstrong said, through gritted teeth.

  Greer kept his voice neutral and calm, but he made it clear he was reaching slowly for his weapon. “Look, I don’t want to shoot you. I don’t think you want to shoot me.” His fingers reached the grip of the G36 and he took hold of it.

  “Get out of the way.” Armstrong ground out each word like it was broken glass. The man had to be hurting, putting all he’d got into standing up.

  “Just give me a little more time,” said Franklin. “Let me try and fix this.”

  “I don’t have much,” Armstrong gasped, forcing a brittle smile.

  The senator’s gun hand was twitching, and Greer was afraid the man might let off a shot without intending to. The problem was, if he shot Armstrong, even giving him a glan
cing round in the leg or the arm, the shock might be enough to kill the senator then and there.

  Over Franklin’s radio, Eli Wallace called out, clearly oblivious to the unfolding drama in the corridor. “Guys? Did you stop what you’re doing? I’m not seeing any change. Whatever you just tried, it’s not working.”

  Then Greer heard Rush say something in the background. “The problem is obviously mechanical.”

  Armstrong walked slowly, painfully toward them. “That’s it?” he said, gesturing with the gun toward the open panel where Franklin had been working.

  The scientist nodded, shooting Greer a questioning look. “Uh, yes. It looks like some kind of hydraulic system. I’m still trying to backtrack all the conduits…” He trailed off, eyes flicking to the pistol aimed toward him.

  The Marine watched Armstrong as he swayed on his feet. The senator was getting worse by the moment. Greer had seen death coming up on people before, and he saw it again now, in the gray pallor across Armstrong’s face, the distant glitter in his eyes. He had no doubts he was looking at a dead man walking. Greer released his grip on the G36; no threat he could make with the gun was going to have any impact on Armstrong. The senator briefly met his gaze and an unspoken communication passed between them. He could see the need in the man’s eyes, the need for his end to mean something.

  Greer looked toward Franklin. “You can’t fix it.” It was a statement of fact, and with that the scientist slowly shook his head.

  Armstrong looked at Greer and he understood. He released his grip on the pistol and handed it over. Taking a shuddering breath, he nodded toward the shuttle. “Tell me what to do.”

  Scott rounded the corner into the corridor at full tilt, his boots pounding down the metal decking toward the bulkhead hatch and the shuttle beyond. Chloe was with him every single step of the way, her hair flying back from her head, her body propelled forward by the sheer hysterical energy of her panic.

  He saw Greer and Franklin at the hatchway, both men sullen and silent. And as he came close, there on the video screen the live feed from the interior of the damaged shuttlecraft. A figure was settling into the command chair, a pale face ghost-like on the digital screen.

  Chloe screamed. “Dad! No!” She was reaching out to him as she ran. “Wait!”

  Armstrong moved, and from inside the shuttle, Scott heard the groan and crunch of the inner hatch as it closed.

  His daughter threw herself against the iron door, banging her fists on the metal. She pressed her face to the tiny window in the hatch and screamed louder. “Dad! No!”

  Panting hard, Scott rounded on Greer. Breathless, he couldn’t find the words to demand an answer. Why did you let him do this?

  Greer met his gaze. “He was dead on his feet.” The simple truth of the sergeant’s words shut down all of Scott’s momentum, his every question.

  The lieutenant’s gaze slipped to the video screen, and on it he saw the man settle back in the seat as the air faded all around him. There was no sound, but Scott saw Armstrong’s lips move, and knew the shape of the words. I love you.

  Chloe’s face was streaked with tears. “Open it!” she cried. “Please, open it!”

  Franklin shook his head. “I can’t.”

  Before Scott could stop her, she was on him, tearing his radio from his gear vest. “Eli, help him!” She yelled into the pickup. “Not him, please, not him! Open the door, please!”

  Eli sounded stricken as he told her the hard, unforgiving truth. “I’m sorry, I can’t! There’s no way to do it from here.”

  “Chloe…”

  Her pretty face, marred by fear and dread, seemed to crumble as at last she understood that nothing would stop this from happening. The radio fell from her nerveless fingers and the girl burst into wracking sobs. She staggered forward, desperate for support, and Scott took her and held her as Chloe Armstrong’s world came crashing down around her.

  Alone in the dark, silent shuttle, her father surrendered his life for his daughter’s.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rush watched the display on the deck plan change. The schematic showing the area around the shuttles was alight with warning symbols, and the zone that indicated the damaged shuttle itself flashed red, showing the incidence of air loss. As he studied it, the glyphs blinked out one by one, and the red zone changed color to a solid blue, matching that of the airtight corridors all around it.

  He felt the ball of tension in his chest relax — but only a little. This was just the solution to the most immediate problem; the question of how to repair the air scrubbers was still hanging over them.

  “Well… He bought us a day.” Rush looked up and saw Eli’s stunned expression. The young man was having trouble dealing with what had just happened, but Rush didn’t have the luxury of that. He needed to remain pragmatic and concentrate on making sure that no one else died. He had to—

  There was a flash of movement at the corner of his eye and Rush turned. Armstrong’s daughter thundered into the control room and flew at him, her expression twisted in furious anger, her hands coming up to grab at him.

  He barely had time to defend himself before Chloe was raining down blows on him, kicking and scratching and punching, fuelled by distress, turning it all on him. Rush hesitated, seeing Scott coming in a few steps after the girl; if he defended himself, there was no telling how the situation would escalate.

  “You did this!” she screamed, throwing vicious, heedless punches at his face. “You killed him! You’ve killed all of us!”

  He tasted blood on his tongue, but then Chloe was reeling away, dragged backward by Scott. She relaxed in his arms, and he loosened his grip; then a heartbeat later she tried to lunge back at Rush, swiping at air.

  “Chloe, stop!” said the lieutenant, but his words fell on deaf ears. Johansen entered the control room and Scott called to her. “Little help here?”

  The medic reached out to the girl. “Chloe…”

  The anger still hard in her eyes, the violence in Chloe’s manner finally ebbed and she shrugged herself free of Scott’s grip. Breathless and crack-throated, she glared at the two officers. “Get away from me.” She turned back toward Rush and Eli. “All of you.”

  He’d expected a reaction to Armstrong’s death, of course, but not something so extreme. The girl’s bright, politic manner clearly concealed a fierce spirit. Rush filed that thought away for later consideration. For now, he had to stamp down on any suggestion that the senator’s choice could be laid at his feet. “Miss Armstrong…” he began, attempting a soothing tone. “You’re in shock. I understand. Everyone deals with tragedy in different ways. You’re looking for someone to blame.”

  Chloe’s glare was icy. “I’m not looking,” she told him.

  “I am sorry about your father,” he continued. “He certainly would not have been my choice, he was a good man…” Rush paused, feeling for the right words. “But this is not my fault. I didn’t create the situation that forced us here. There was no other way.”

  His statement had the opposite effect he wanted it to, and for a moment it seemed as if the girl was going to take another run at him. Johansen saw the flash of anger in her expression and moved to where she could intercept Chloe if the need arose.

  Rush pressed on, trying to make her understand. “It may not matter to you right now, but this ship may be the most important discovery mankind has made since the Stargate itself. You know that the Icarus Project was something your father believed in, enough to risk his career to support it.”

  Chloe was silent for a long moment; her father’s advocacy for the project had not been without its problems, and it was an open secret in the upper echelons of the SGC that Alan Armstrong had used up a lot of his political capital getting Icarus the funding it needed. “What difference does it make if we all die?” she said, at length.

  He tried a different tack. “A number of people died in the attack on the base.” Faces drifted through his thoughts; good thinkers, highly competent scientists, col
leagues whose insights Rush had respected; many were not among the escapees and he assumed the worse. “People I worked with closely for the last few years, people I knew well.”

  “I’m sure some had more value than others,” Chloe shot back.

  That gave him pause, but he kept talking. “As human beings, all of them were invaluable. I promise you, I am going to do everything I can to make sure no one gave their life in vain.” He took a step toward her. “Please, just give me a chance.”

  She didn’t say another word. Instead, Chloe turned, swallowing her anger and pain, and left the room. Rush reached up to wipe a comma of blood from his lip, and watched her go.

  Camile Wray looked down at her hands and stared at them as if they belonged to someone else. It was a small thing, a silly thing really, but she’d always worked hard to keep her hands looking good. Manicures and skin creams. A careful daily regimen. It was true what they said, that a woman’s hands were the first to betray her age, faster then her eyes, her face. She managed a wistful smile; Sharon always made fun of her for thinking that way, gently mocking her vanity, always reminding her that it was quite acceptable for women like them to grow old, as long as they did it disgracefully…

  The smile became brittle, broke apart. Camile’s hands were dirty, the nails cracked, the skin torn in places; and with a deep sigh, she wondered when she would ever feel Sharon’s touch on them again. She looked up at the metal walls around her, at the small knot of people taking refuge in the storage space. We are so far from home, she thought. We’re all lost together.

  Camile thought on that for a moment. What would her part in all this be? Back on Icarus, she was a functionary at best, and if she was honest, a paper-pusher with ideas above her station. Right from the start, she’d felt as if her posting to the isolated research base was a make-weight assignment, far from the center of things, away from the corridors of power where the policy of the International Oversight Advisory was shaped. But if a man such as Richard Woolsey could be promoted to command of a facility like the city of Atlantis, then Camile Wray believed she could do the same, if not better.