The Inheritors

Chapter Nineteen Fatal Choices

"What can I do?" Vala asked, stepping back out of the way of the pandemonium in the gate room. She didn't really have an excuse to be there, but no one had told her to leave yet.

Woolsey looked at her as if aware for the first time that she was there. "Find McKay," he said. He didn't sound as if he really expected her to, but she nodded brightly and then gave the matter her most serious consideration.

Everyone was busily looking for McKay all over the city, assuming that he was planning to sabotage some essential system. But he'd had every opportunity to do that for days, and the only thing he'd shown a seemingly unnatural interest in was stealing Hyperion's weapon.

All right, then. Assume what Daniel swore was a maxim of Earth philosophy, that the simplest explanation was most likely to be correct. Vala could think of a lot of complicated explanations that had turned out to be correct, but it seemed worth a try. McKay had stolen Hyperion's weapon because he was under Queen Death's control, and he wanted to make sure the weapon wasn't destroyed.

If she'd stolen something vitally important, the first thing she'd have been looking for was a means of escape. There was really only one means of escape from Atlantis while it was in orbit, and that was a puddlejumper. One puddlejumper had launched without authorization, contents assumed to be John Sheppard plus Ancient device, but in reality unknown.

"I'm just going to go look in the jumper bay," Vala said. She didn't think Woolsey heard her, or at least he affected not to hear her. She slipped out and made her way down to the puddlejumper bay.

She tried to work her way backwards through what might have happened as she went. If McKay had stolen the weapon and left Atlantis with it, he'd stolen it from Sheppard. Sheppard had left the control room, probably on his way to the jumper bay to make a brave and suicidal gesture. But if he'd run into McKay there…

She nearly stepped on Sheppard, and had to flail to keep from tripping over him where he lay sprawled on the deck of the jumper bay, unmoving. "What do you know, philosophy works," she said, and bent down to see if he was still breathing.

One cruiser disabled — abandoned, according to the Pride: it was a start, but there was no time to enjoy the victory. The Darts and 302s still wove a glittering net, flashing into Lorne's awareness as they came in range, vanishing as soon as their danger was past. Radim was handling fire control, and they were his problem, if and when he thought he had a chance to hit them. The remaining cruisers were the problem, the cruisers and the hives.

Comm, he thought at the ship, and a light flicked on, followed by a hollow emptiness in his ear. "Colonel Carter. We can cover if you want to try to get the 302s back in —"

"Thanks, Major." Carter's voice was calm, but the Pride was sensing weak spots in the Hammond's shields, the remaining cruisers moving to catch her in crossfire. "That would be a help."

The Hammond dived out of the trap, shields flaring, and Lorne heeled the Pride to come up beneath the larger of the two cruisers. He heard Radim give the order, and saw blue fire blaze across the cruiser's belly. No real damage, though, and the second cruiser was on him at once, spinning to catch him broadside. He caught his breath as the shots hit home, heavy blows along the starboard shield. There was a distant bang somewhere, and Radim swore.

"We've lost a gun emplacement."

"Get a technical crew down there," Lorne said, to Radim, to the ship, not caring who obeyed, and spun the Pride, trying to take advantage of the tighter turning radius to come up behind the cruiser again. Its commander wasn't fooled this time, and peeled off at an angle, trying to draw the Pride into its sister's fire.

Shields at 60 percent, the ship murmured. Lorne could feel them softening like cardboard in the rain, pulled up and around to present a narrow target. The first cruiser swept after him, but the other turned its attention back to the Hammond. Lorne's eyes narrowed as he judged relative positions, lines of force relative to the ships' twisting courses. Yes, just there — he brought the Pride up in a sweeping loop, freeing himself from the cruiser. There was time for one good shot — he heard Radim talking, urging his people on — and then they were past, bearing down on the cruiser attacking the Hammond. Lorne saw a handful of their shots strike home, and then they were wheeling away again, but the cruiser didn't follow. He shook his head, lining up for another pass, but Carter spoke in his ear.

"Negative, Major, it's not going to work. They're not being distracted."

"Copy that," Lorne said. The Pride rocked as the first cruiser swung past, firing, and he turned to chase it.

John Sheppard struggled up from unconsciousness to the sound of footsteps. Hands seized him roughly, flipping him over onto his back in the perfect feeding position, his head lolling, a black leather boot against his face. Any moment now the Wraith would bend to open his tac vest.

John flailed out uncoordinatedly, rewarded by a very human sounding "Ow!" He opened his eyes.

Vala Mal Doran looked down at him rubbing her chin. "That wasn't nice," she said. "And what happened to you?"

He was lying on the jumper bay floor, and it came back to him in a rush.

"Rodney stole the weapon back," he said. "He stunned me and he stole a jumper." He sat up, reeling. "How long have I been out?"

Vala steadied him. "How should I know?"

"He's still working for Queen Death." John hated to say it out loud, but it was true and now they were all screwed. If only he hadn't trusted Rodney so much! He grabbed Vala's arm, scrambling to his feet. "I've got to get down to the chair."

The civilians had been ordered to a set of windowless rooms on the lowest level of the central tower. The lights were on, there were chairs and couches and cots, and there was even a coffee urn and hot water and baskets of cold sandwiches. It all seemed incongruous, William thought, but he made himself a mug of tea all the same. A number of people had their laptops going, monitoring the battle, but William didn't really know how to tap into the city systems, and wasn't sure he wanted to know. Winning or losing, there wasn't anything he could do about it; the best he could manage was to keep out of people's way.

With that in mind, he edged toward a quiet corner, but stopped short as he saw that one of the three chairs was occupied. "Oh. I'm sorry, Dr. Robinson."

"Eva," she said. "I won't be offended if you want to be alone, but I'm not averse to company."

William considered the idea, and gave a fleeting smile. "Actually, neither am I." He seated himself carefully in the chair opposite her, the Ancient padding adjusting itself instantly to his body, and took a careful sip of his tea. "I rather thought you'd have been gone by now."

"I could say the same for you," Eva answered, with a smile of her own. "But I have the ATA gene, and Mr. Woolsey asked for those of us who had it to stay if we could, so…."

William nodded. "I wish I had it. I'd feel more useful." He hadn't meant to say that, and winced, but Eva seemed to take the words at face value.

"If I understand correctly, you're here to be useful if we have to abandon the city. So I kind of hope you're not going to be useful."

"Thanks," William said, and looked up as a shadow fell across his chair.

"Oh." Daniel Jackson stood there, cup of coffee in one hand. "Mind if I join you?"

"Be my guest," Eva said, and Daniel took the third chair.

"I'm surprised you're not in the control room," William said.

"No, uh — actually, Jack, General O'Neill, kicked me out," Daniel said. "And then I was getting the impression that I was in the way in the infirmary."

"There's not much call for archeology right now, I suppose," Eva said. "Or psychology."

There wasn't anything to say to that. William wrapped both hands around his travel mug, wishing it was over. It was the waiting that was hard — they'd be safe here through anything short of the city's destruction, safe and comfortable and even well-fed, but it was impossible to believe it entirely. He looked past Daniel's shoulder to see the rest of the group, maybe two dozen people, one group clustered around a laptop, others with iPod headphones jammed in their ears, books and tablets raised like barricades. He was reminded sharply of his grandfather's stories of the Blitz, of trying to behave normally — properly — jammed down a Tube tunnel with a thousand strangers. This was entirely different, and yet somehow the same. He only hoped he'd make the old man proud.

John Sheppard swam through space. At least that was how it seemed, as though it were he who moved through vacuum easily, skin accustomed to the cold. His skin was the forcefield, and his eyes were the city's, ten thousand sensors feeding a pattern to his brain. To know anything the city knew was easy. It was nothing so complex as examining instruments or reading screens, or even glancing at a heads up display. It was like using his own eyes and ears, like seeing what was right in front of him.

The battle was a tangled mess, the Hammond and the Pride of the Genii tangled with Queen Death's hive ships, while vertical to the elliptic Todd's fleet waited, stationary and uncommitted. Darts and 302s dove and fought, now and then one winking out, a life extinguished.

We are in range of the Darts, the city said. Trajectories and speeds slid past, each piece of data rendering a possibility.

But that wasn't what was happening. Two of the hives were accelerating, leaving the others to mix it up with the Hammond and the Pride, bearing for the city with all thrusters. One cruiser followed them, a half dozen 302s breaking off to stay on the cruiser's tail. Blue leader, the display provided. Mel. They were seriously burning fuel out there.

The city showed him drones ready to launch, targeting enabled.

Wait, John said. There were so few drones left. Every one had to count. None of them could be wasted on the Darts. They had to be for the hives, and the hives were not in optimal range. Wait.

Somewhere, a headset spoke in his ear, General O'Neill in the control room. "Hammond, you need to break off and get back here."

"Negative, we can't do that." Sam's voice, distant and tinny.

"Repeat, disengage," O'Neill said. "Carter, it's time to get out of there."

"Our 302s are not aboard."

"We're hanging in there, sir." Lorne's voice.

Come on, Lorne, John thought. Don't be a hero. Not today. But he wouldn't leave Carter, and she wasn't about to leave her 302s. Some of them must be getting close to the end of their fuel from so much close combat, and if they couldn't set down they'd be sitting ducks for the hives to pick off.

"Crap, Carter," O'Neill said quietly, as though he didn't realize the channel was still open.

John urged the city forward, massive thrusters firing. It was time to get in the action.

"Atlantis is engaging," Franklin said. Unnecessarily, as Sam could see the city moving.

"Stay with the cruiser," Sam said. "Keep us close and keep hitting it." The cruiser was trying to run, but it was too late. She could almost hear her father say, "Ride your kill, baby. Ride it right to the ground. You don't know it's out until you see it hit." He'd been talking about the F-102 Delta Dagger, not anything like the Hammond, but the principle was the same. Keep hitting it until it blows or you see a chute.

Forward rail guns spoke again, driving heated metal across the vacuum, and the cruiser twisted. For a moment it seemed that it would fire again, but then thrusters flamed irregularly, twisting to get away, accelerating sideways to starboard, surely not a move the crew intended. It collided with the next cruiser, side crumpling as the other cruiser veered away.

"That's it," Sam said. "Distance now."

Chandler hit the retro thrusters as fast as possible, but the shock wave still tossed the Hammond as the cruiser blew, a cable blowing overhead as Sam held on to her chair. The other cruiser's skin held, but it was pelted with a shockwave of debris, pitting the surface and sending it spinning out of control.

"One down, one damaged," Sam said. "Good work, people." She really wished Jacob had seen that.

The cruiser blew in a silent fireball, the Hammond streaking past unscathed while the second cruiser fell off to the side, hull bleeding air and volatiles. Lorne saw it out of the corner of his eye even as he locked onto the tail of the remaining cruiser. That commander must have seen it too, and was distracted for a fatal second. Lorne bore in on it, lining up perfectly on the port side, all guns ready.

"Now," Radim said, and the guns spoke, tearing through the cruiser's hull to release a burst of flame. A single gun spoke in answer, a kick beneath the Pride's belly, but the cruiser's pilot was diving away, trailing a plume of vapor. The cruiser heeled over further, too far, spinning toward the planet; lights flared irregularly along its sides, and the Pride assessed damage to the maneuver drives. It would spiral down to the planet unless its commander was very lucky or very good, and there were plenty of other things to do.

"Bogey four is down," Lorne said, on the all-ships channel, and brought the Pride back to the fight.

The city's sensors showed heavy damage to the second cruiser, external thrusters on one side crushed, adrift for all practical purposes. Okay, John thought. That evens it up a bit. The first hive was in range, the city eager to fire. Hang on, John thought. Wait for the shot. No need to hurry. Just take the best angle.

The drones would do that, the city replied. The drones will correct.

Which was true. All on that one hive, he said, and felt the drones stir in their cradles. Eight. Eight was optimal, all at once from four platforms, four and four 0.97 seconds behind.

Fire.

The drones streaked up, passing through Atlantis's shield and out, bright against the darkness, through the 302s without touching, their internal guidance systems golden.

Eight solid hits.

John felt the flare in the dark, the city's sensors registering up and down the electromagnetic spectrum. Critical hits, a plume of atmosphere, a plume of vapor. The hive dived vertical to the elliptic, falling out of the fight. Aboard, crew would be rushing to stabilize life support, the commander in ship trance overcome by a flood of pain.

"Bogey number four is down," someone said in a distant place. Lorne. That was Lorne's voice on the comm, he realized. He was so deep in the city that it seemed strange to even remember that someone named John Sheppard sat in the chair, a headset against his ear.

Jack paced from console to console, dividing his attention between the main tactical display and the individual systems, glaring at the screen as though he could move the numbers by sheer will. Light flared against the shield, a flash like a camera's across the control room, but the city barely shuddered: the Darts couldn't do a lot of damage on their own, but enough of them would eventually weaken even Atlantis's shields. One hive was falling back, still venting atmosphere and the occasional spurt of flame as something gave way inside the hull. The other hive was still coming, though, nosing left to curve around the base of the city, and the largest of the cruisers followed the Darts up and over the city. Sheppard launched drones, two for the cruiser, three for the hive; Jack counted three hits, but the others were decoyed away, confused by the swarming Darts. We need 302s, Jack thought, but they were back with Hammond and the Pride of the Genii, locked in close combat with Death's own hive. Carter was holding her own, but they needed to get out of there.

And she would if she could, but if she couldn't recover the 302s, it wouldn't do Atlantis any good anyway. Jack glanced at the shield readings again, reassuringly steady around ninety percent. It would take time and numbers for the Darts to make a difference, but the Wraith definitely had the numbers. In the screen, the hive rolled into a turn, surprisingly nimble for something of its bulk, evading a drone that crashed instead into a Dart. More Darts formed up ahead of the hive, diving under the city's base, weapons blazing. The hive followed, its bigger guns targeting the same points, and he heard Zelenka swear under his breath.

Atlantis shuddered, a heavy sustained rumble like an earthquake beneath his feet, and something exploded in the distance. Lights flared red on half a dozen consoles, and there was a sudden burst of chatter.

"Crap," Jack said, but he knew better than to interrupt.

"East Pier maneuver engine is off-line," someone said.

"Yes, yes, I see that," Zelenka said. "Cross-circuit, please, see if you can route around —"

"Not working, Doc."

"Shields?" someone else called, and it was Airman Salawi who answered, her voice high but steady.

"No breach. We were down to sixty percent, but the number's back up, eighty-nine and rising."

"Copy that."

"Patch into the secondaries," Zelenka said. "Yes, I know it won't take the full load, but it's better than nothing."

There was a voice missing, Jack realized, and his heart skipped a beat. He touched his radio. "Sheppard?"

"I'm here." Sheppard's answer was a hair slow, but otherwise he sounded all right. "Looks like we've lost a thruster."

"I am working on that," Zelenka said. "We will get it back on line."

"Sooner would be better," Sheppard said, his voice fading again.

Jack glanced back at the tac display. "Looks like they're trying again, Sheppard."

"I see it."

In the weapons display, half a dozen drones rotated toward their silos, flaring to life at Sheppard's order. He launched them in pairs, not at the Darts but directly at the hive, two pairs slamming home against its nose before its pilot wheeled away, running for room as the third pair pursued, to hit at last harmlessly on the left flank. Jack nodded.

"That ought to discourage them."

"One would hope so." That was Woolsey, standing bolt upright behind the environmental station. He'd been paler when he faced the IOA, Jack thought, and had to admit the man had more guts than he'd expected. "Dr. Zelenka, what's our status?"

Zelenka didn't answer for a moment, his head cocked to one side as he listened to something in his earpiece, but then he nodded. "Okay, keep trying. See if you can find a clear path from here." He swung in his chair so that he was facing Woolsey. "That last run overrode the shield or caused a superheated patch to form, we're not entirely sure which, but the result was an explosion in the East Pier maneuver drive. It's offline right now, and we are trying to reroute power to the system to see if we can restart it."

"And if you can't?" Woolsey asked.

Zelenka shrugged. "It's not good, but it's not terrible? We can compensate to some extent with the other engines, but we will not be making any fast course changes now. Not that we were that fast to begin with."

"What about the hyperdrive?"

"That is fine," Zelenka said. "We can still open a window, the city can still stand the stress, it's just — we're pretty much stuck on our current course." He put his hand to his ear again. "Ah. Okay, don't waste any more time, just get me the best diagnostic you can manage." He looked back at Woolsey. "It looks as though there is actual damage to the engine controller, not just to power conduits. It can be fixed, but we'll need to send a team down there to do it. Dr. Sommer has volunteered."

Jack pursed his lips. That was risky as hell, even with the transport chambers to get them there and back in a hurry — always assuming the transport chambers kept working, which he wouldn't like to bet on. The East Pier was well outside the area that would be covered if Sheppard had to collapse the shield to save power: Dr. Sommer, whoever he was, had to be thinking about that, too. From the look on his face, Woolsey was making the same calculations.

"All right," he said. "But —" He reached for his own radio. "Dr. Sommer, this is Woolsey. You have permission to attempt the East Pier repair, but if there is any problem here, we are going to pull you out. Is that clear?"

Jack couldn't hear the answer, but Woolsey nodded. "Good luck, Dr. Sommer."