The Inheritors

Chapter Eighteen The Willing Sacrifice

The Marine guards were gone at last. Presumably with Atlantis under attack by the Wraith they had better things to do than watch Rodney McKay sit in a cell. He'd felt the city lift, a low rumble of subsonics in his bones. They'd done it without him. Presumably Zelenka had handled the technical end and Sheppard had been in the chair.

And he was still here in the cage, unable to give vital help because they wouldn't trust him even though they needed him.

But the Marines were gone now. Everyone was busy. So it was time.

Rodney sauntered casually over to the corner pillar that had the control box on the outside, out of reach of course, and on the other side of the force field. After that time with the Replicators, did they seriously think he'd ever again put himself in a position where he couldn't get the cell open in two seconds flat?

The brig control boxes weren't part of the city's systems, a security feature intended to prevent someone from seizing a control terminal somewhere and being able to release prisoners remotely. No, you had to go to each cell and use the self-contained unit. Definitely safer, and also highly unlikely that Zelenka and Jeannie had checked them when they cleared all his code out of the system.

Rodney leaned over, speaking clearly and distinctly. Sometimes simple was best. "Two, three, five, thirteen, eighty-nine." The force field died and the door bars slid open.

Rodney McKay was back in business.

They finally had the weapon, just a little too late. John Sheppard leaned over Zelenka's shoulder in the control room. Data streamed in from Atlantis' sensors, much more simplistic than the data feeds to the chair but clear enough. Those distant points of light were the 302s engaging Queen Death's Darts, while the Hammond and the Pride of the Genii evaded the hive ships' fire, trying to take shots and back off. But it wasn't going to work. They were outnumbered, and the cruisers were herding them, closing in in three dimensions, boxing them in a translucent cube of fields of fire from which there would be no escape.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the system, Guide's fleet waited. And they would wait until the weapon was destroyed. Or they would wait until it was too late.

Sam had thought she could dump it in the sun, but Sam was engaged, her life and her ship on the line with no margin for error. Sam wasn't going to be able to do anything about the weapon, not now and maybe not ever.

Okay. Dumping it in the sun would destroy it. And the only way to do that was with a puddle jumper. Yeah, that would mean taking a puddle jumper through the edges of the battle zone, but it could be cloaked. He could do that.

He could. And nobody else. John looked around the control room. O'Neill bent over a console on the lower tier, no doubt giving Airman Salawi hives by rubbernecking over her shoulder. He could fly the city in a pinch. Or Carson. But neither of them could take a puddle jumper smoothly through incidental fire, and besides it was his job, not the general's, not the doctor's.

John straightened up, walking purposefully toward the stairs. Woolsey was in his office but didn't look up, his head bent over data screens. Dump it in the sun. He'd have to get in pretty close to make sure the weapon was destroyed quickly, but the jumper's shields could handle it. The cloak couldn't. Once he got into the coronasphere the level of radiation would render the cloak useless. Anybody could see him. Including Queen Death's Darts. Not that they could dip into the coronasphere, but they could sure as hell shoot at him. And he couldn't exactly dodge.

He stopped on the stairs, turning back to look, Atlantis in her hubbub, the gateroom filled with everyone about their work. No one looked up, not even Radek, pushing his glasses back up on his nose as he toggled power around, talking in his headset at the same time. He thought he'd seen a flash of red by the console, the place where Elizabeth had stood before, the first time he'd taken out a puddle jumper to stop a Wraith fleet, but of course there was no one there. It was memory.

He turned and bounded up the stairs to the jumper bay.

John Sheppard's hands were quick and confident on the controls of the puddle jumper, putting it through the preflight warm-up. They didn't hesitate at all. After all, he'd done this hundreds of times. It wasn't any different because it was the last time.

This time it was truly the last.

How many times had he done this before expecting to die, even courting death? Each time he'd figured it was fair. Someone had to do it and it ought to be him, the marked man. Borrowed time ran out.

The first time had been with the Genii's improvised nuke, a desperate Hail Mary pass, the last chance to take out a hive ship. He'd figured he'd had two years, more than Holland or Mitch or Dex got — two years when he'd sometimes felt like it would have been better if he'd gone with them, paid the price in full. He hadn't resented it. He'd looked Elizabeth full in the face and run up the stairs to the jumper bay and she hadn't called him back. She knew. And she knew it had to be.

The last time he'd had more time to think, waiting for his target over Earth sleeping below, cities stretching like chains of light across continents. He'd drifted in low orbit, his 302 inert, watching oceans and continents beneath him, watching a last sunrise over the Pacific Rim, swift and sudden and so beautiful that a lump came in his throat. And it was still fair. Him, not Ronon. Him, not Rodney who had Jennifer now and a whole life ahead of him. Him, not Teyla, who had Torren who needed her…. It was his job, his life for his team's, his life for everyone on Earth. He was the marked man, and it was fair. It had to be, and he was at peace with that.

And now. John's eyes flickered shut for one moment, feeling the jumper's engines warming beneath him.

This time it was hard. He couldn't help but imagine all the mornings he might wake up beside someone who loved him, all the days that might be spent in the city of his dreams, all the years of watching Torren grow from baby to boy to man. John Sheppard didn't want to die.

And maybe that was how it worked, he thought. Maybe that was part of the price. You had to want to live to die. You had to want to live for it to be worth something.

But it still had to be done.

John checked the power indicators one last time. Show time. He heard a faint noise behind him as his hand slid to the button to close the tailgate….

…a blue flash enveloped Sheppard and he sprawled sideways, dropping out of the chair half in the middle of his turn, hand open against the deck plates unmoving.

"Sorry, John," Rodney said, stepping over him. He grabbed him by both wrists and dragged, hauling him through the back and out the tailgate, his white hair gleaming blue in the jumper's running lights.

He left him lying on the deck just behind the tailgate and went forward, the back gate rising obediently. The jumper was already warmed up, the controls ready under his hands. Rodney eased the jumper forward, lifting up as the ceiling above opened to the starry sky.

Jack glared at the tactical display as though he could somehow change what he was seeing. Three of Queen Death's cruisers had made their own microjump to engage the Hammond and the Pride of the Genii, and now his ships were fully engaged. A light flashed, became a swarm of tiny dots, and he swore: the biggest of the cruisers had just launched Darts. Hammond launched 302s to counter, but that was going to delay them even further. He pushed himself away from the display.

"Colonel Sheppard!"

There was no answer, and he looked around the control room. "Where's Sheppard?"

"He was here," Woolsey began, and a new light began to flash on the console in front of the young airman — Salawi, her name badge read.

"What's that?" Jack demanded.

"Someone's launching a puddlejumper, sir," Salawi answered, her hands busy on the board. "I can't shut it down."

Jack swore again, loudly and with greater feeling. "Sheppard."

"What?" Woolsey looked up sharply, shock replaced with comprehension as he made the same calculation. "No, that would be suicide —"

"Yeah." Jack glared at the screen. "Salawi, open a channel."

"Sorry, sir," she answered. "They're not answering."

"Damn it, Sheppard," Jack said. He could do the same math, though: take the jumper, drop the weapon into the sun so Todd could see it, and just maybe save the day for everyone. He might even, if he was very lucky, actually survive, though the odds against were astronomical. All of which paled when weighed against the lives he might save. Trust Sheppard to see it first, and to act. I ought to bust him back to airman for that — except if he survives, he'll have saved us all, and if he doesn't…. Well, he may still have saved us all, but even if he hasn't, even if Atlantis has to cut and run, it won't matter in the slightest. And maybe I'm just jealous because I didn't think of it first.

But that wasn't a general's job — wasn't really a colonel's job, either, but it really wasn't a general's. He took a deep breath. "Can you track him?"

"Negative," Salawi said. "He's cloaked. The jumper's off our sensors entirely."

And that was that. Jack took a breath, put Sheppard and his suicide mission firmly out of his mind. "All right," he said aloud. "Dr. Beckett, I'm going to take the chair. We're going after Queen Death's fleet."

Ronon made his way down to the detention cells, wanting to look in on Rodney. He'd been trying not to think of the man as his friend while he was considering using Hyperion's weapon, trying to think of him as already dead. But he wasn't dead, and it must have been driving him crazy to be locked up with the city in flight and a battle about to begin.

John and Carter would find some way to destroy the weapon, he was sure, and then Todd's Wraith would jump in on their side. They'd beat Queen Death, and then… they'd go on fighting the Wraith. He wasn't sure whether he hated himself for letting the weapon that would have ended that fight out of his hands, or whether he felt a deep sense of relief. Maybe both, as little sense as that made.

If he told Rodney that he'd been planning to use the weapon, Rodney would tell him he was crazy. He could already hear him yelling: What were you thinking? You would have killed me! There are enough things in this galaxy that want to kill me without having to worry about you!

But Rodney would forgive him. He wasn't sure if Teyla ever would, if he ever told her. Not when Torren's life had hung in the same balance. But Rodney would, in his own strange way, understand. Maybe he should tell him, and give him a chance to shout about something and wave his hands around. It would only be fair, and it might make Rodney feel better.

He palmed open the door, and stopped stock-still. The force-field that should have surrounded the cell was down, and the cell was empty.

"McKay," he snarled, and reached up to turn his radio on. "Sheppard, this is Ronon. McKay's loose." There was no answer. "Sheppard. Do you read me?"

Still no answer. Maybe he was heading out to the Hammond with the weapon. "Woolsey, this is Ronon. You read me?"

"Yes, Ronon," Woolsey said, sounding distracted.

"McKay's gone," Ronon said. "I just checked his cell. There's no one here."

"Damn," Woolsey said shortly. "All right. We'll send out security teams looking for him. Hopefully we can find him before he does too much damage."

"Where's Sheppard?"

"On his way to drop the weapon into the sun," Woolsey said. His voice was strained. "Which is probably a one-way mission."

"Understood," Ronon said after a momentary pause. "I'll look for McKay."

"Please don't hesitate to stun him when you find him."

"Believe me, I won't," Ronon said grimly.

He wasn't going to think about one-way missions yet. There would be time to start thinking of John as dead later, and time to mourn. For now, all he could think about was that he had been right about McKay, right all along: Queen Death had broken him, and now if they weren't lucky, Rodney was on his way to gut the city from the inside so that Queen Death could kill them all.

Atlantis's chair looked exactly like the one in Antarctica. Jack eyed it with disfavor as Carson Beckett detached himself from its embrace, wondering if it felt the same. But that wasn't something he could ask — wasn't something anyone else could answer, except Sheppard. The last time he'd sat in a chair like this, tried to take full control of its systems, he'd nearly died. Of course, he'd also had his head stuffed full of the Ancient database, which had probably been the real problem, not the chair itself.

"— much better for you to fly the city under battle conditions," Beckett was saying. "Not only is it not exactly something for which I was trained, but I seem to have bad luck with the whole thing. I set off drones by mistake, the hyperdrive blows on my watch — I'm just much happier when someone else is driving."

Jack forced a smile. "And I expect you're going to be needed in the infirmary anyway, Doctor."

"Aye." Beckett gave him a shrewd look. "And I expect you wish I weren't, but, believe me, this is better." He was gone before Jack could decide how to answer.

"Is it just me," Jack asked, "or are things weirder than usual?"

There was no answer, and he'd expected none. The chair stared back at him, empty and waiting. He took a deep breath, and settled himself gingerly against the curved metal. It was warm beneath him, not as though it had been warmed by someone sitting there, but as though it was waiting for him, and he made himself lean back as though he were relaxed. He flexed both hands and laid them palm down against the connective gel. He winced as the familiar stabbing pains shot through his fingers and up his wrist, the city grabbing for control the way Ancient things always did, overloading nerves and synapses. He breathed through it, struggling to keep himself distinct, felt the first wave recede into something manageable.

Come on, he thought. Give me a tac display.

There was a perceptible lag, and then lines faded into view, a pale overlay on the walls of the chair room, hard to see against the dark walls. It wanted him to close his eyes, to see the patterns without distraction, but he refused.

A 302's heads-up display's better than that.

Grudgingly, the lines brightened, became legible, readouts floating in the air around him, closing him inside a sphere of data. There was the tactical display, Hammond and Pride of the Genii now fully engaged, Darts and 302s weaving deadly magic around them, and now the rest of Death's fleet was moving to close the gap. He stiffened, wondering if they were going to try the microjump, and the city whispered in his ear.

Data suggests they are not drawing power for such a tactic.

Well, that's something. Jack started to swing the chair, then remembered that, unlike a normal commander's chair, the thing was fixed in place. The city anticipated him, however, and the sphere of data revolved, the city's status display settling in front of his eyes. Everything looked good, drones ready — but not yet in range, the city murmured — the shield solid, maneuver and subspace and hyperdrive engines all on line, and Jack cleared his throat.

"Woolsey."

"Yes, General."

"We're ready to go."

"All personnel are standing by," Woolsey answered.

"Right, then." Jack took a breath, imagined swinging the chair again, and the city spun the data, bringing the navigational display to the front. The tactical screen appeared beside it, Hammond and her 302s tangled with the Darts, Pride of the Genii exchanging fire with a cruiser, but he made himself concentrate on the city. We need to go, he thought, imagining the maneuver. We need to support our people.

There was the briefest of hesitations, as though the city's heart skipped a beat, and then he felt the shift of vectors, the tug and rumble of maneuver engines firing. Atlantis shifted in her orbit, heading reluctantly into the fight.

I know, Jack thought. You don't want me here, you want Sheppard. Well, I don't want to be here, so we're even. But I'm what you've got. Let's make this work.

He could feel the power building, thrust released to send the city along the plane of the ecliptic, angle converging to a meeting point not too far distant, but still further than he would like. This was all the power there was, the city told him, firm resistance when he tried to push beyond that limit, and he made himself relax again. Surely it would be enough.

Lorne's fingers tightened in the connective gel as he watched the ships wheel in the tactical display. The Hammond was trying to recover her 302s, but the big cruiser was pushing her hard. He felt a flicker of reaction, almost a wince, from the ship, and consciously relaxed his grip. Hammond needed a distraction, and he brought the Pride of the Genii up and around, trying to get a better shot at either of the cruisers pushing the Hammond.

"Port batteries, fire if you get a shot," he said, and vaguely heard the acknowledgement. His world narrowed to lines of force, patterns in the deadly dance; he rolled the Pride as though she were a 302, stars spinning in the main screen, and came up behind and beneath one of the smaller cruiser.

"Hit her with everything you have," Radim said, his voice tight and controlled, and every gun that would bear fired, a ragged rolling volley.

"Cruiser behind us," someone shouted, but the Pride had already felt its presence, and Lorne rolled again, flinching as the new cruiser's shots slammed into the aft shields like a kick to the kidneys. He jinked left, then right, cutting the turns tighter than the cruiser could follow, and came out above and on its tail.

"Forward guns," Radim said, before Lorne could speak, and he felt them fire, lines of blue stitching across the cruiser's stern. "Bring her around again, Major, we're hitting it hard!"

Lorne could see the damage, too, could feel the Pride's shields still all at eighty percent or better, and for a moment he ignored the other cruiser to bring the Pride around for another pass.

"Now!" Radim said, and the guns fired, less raggedly this time, shots converging on what was surely part of the engine. Something exploded on the surface, ripping a long hole in the tough hide, and that was followed by an internal explosion that split the hull, releasing a cloud of debris.

"Again, Major!" Radim said, but Lorne shook his head.

"She's out of it, sir. Power's dead, she's leaking atmosphere — looks like they're abandoning her."

The Pride shrieked a warning, and he snatched his attention back to the ship just in time to roll away from the worst of the incoming fire. The third cruiser flashed past them — shields holding, the ship whispered, but dorsal shields are down 15 percent. Lorne could feel it, like a soft spot in a melon, and rolled again to put the good shields between them and the remaining cruisers.

"Sir!" That was the Genii navigator, his voice echoing the Pride's sudden alarm. "The hives are moving in."

"How far?" Lorne asked, and man and ship answered together, words and pictures flowing into a seamless whole.

"Five minutes to firing range."

Sometimes you just had to slug it out. Sam gripped the arms of her chair as the Hammond jerked, inertial dampeners compensating for the volume of fire from the cruiser. "Get us in closer," she said, and Chandler responded.

It was counterintuitive, but correct. The cruiser's dorsal and ventral weapons emplacements couldn't depress or rise far enough to track them because of the shape of the hull, while the Hammond's rail guns were laterally mounted. Close enough, and the fire volume would go their way.

A 302 slipped between, narrowly missing friendly fire, but the Dart pursuing didn't. It incandesced for a moment and was gone, caught in the point blank fire from the rail gun.

The cruiser began pulling back, turning to present undamaged hull and the dorsal array.

"Stay with them," Sam said. "Stay close. But not too close," she amended. If they were overloading the cruiser's power plant…

A flight of Darts skimmed in, and for a moment the viewscreen flashed blue, the forward shield darkening with the energy absorbed. The cruiser was dropping back, trying to dive between two of Death's hives, and the Darts provided a screen. The rail guns would destroy a Dart instantly of course, but their tracking was far too slow to provide an effective cover.

Mel pulled wide, trying to get a good look at the bigger picture for a moment. That was the squadron commander's job. The second cruiser was venting atmosphere, pulling back at an uneven pace, obviously damaged, but the hives still packed a full punch, and the Darts still outnumbered them. More importantly, the Hammond was in too tight to retrieve 302s.

It had been six minutes.

In the rest of the world that was barely time to get through a fast food line, but in space combat that was forever.

Mitchell's voice, calm on the line. "I've got one on my tail. Assist."

"Coming," Mel said, and banked hard right to follow.