The Inheritors

Chapter Six Mind to Mind

John was waiting for her just outside, four Marines on guard at the entrance to the brig, two looking outward and two inward. Through the door she could see Rodney pacing the cell, an expression of intense irritation on his face.

"Why is Rodney in the brig?" she demanded.

John looked harried. "Rodney stole Hyperion's weapon," he said shortly. "He said he wanted to keep it safe. He says he told us where he put it, but when we looked it wasn't there. So either somebody found it and stole it, or…."

"Or Rodney is lying," Teyla said. "And he is Queen Death's agent." It was clear in an instant how that might be. And why.

John nodded grimly. "I need you to find out which it is. Can you get in his head?"

"Yes." She looked past him at Rodney, who had stopped pacing and was watching them. "I can take that from his mind. I do not think he will be able to resist me." No blade or cleverman could. Not even when what she ordered was for them to fall on their own knife, though John had not seen that, only Guide. She didn't know what he would think of that. Probably that it was necessary.

"I'm sorry to ask you to do this," John said. In the chaos this morning he hadn't shaved, and the stubble on his jaw made him look older somehow.

"You do not need to apologize," she said, and lifting her chin went in. "Turn off the force field."

Rodney put his hands in his pockets as the door slid open, bars parting as she stepped through. "What, you're going to interrogate me now?"

"Yes," Teyla said. She stopped a few feet from him, aware that if he were Death's agent this would be the point of no return, the moment at which the deception would be done and he would have nothing to lose. "Rodney, we must know if you are telling the truth or not. If you are, you have nothing to fear. And if you are not…."

He gave her a lopsided smile that was very Rodney. "If I'm not, then you're going to kill me?"

"If you are not, you will remain in custody until this is over," Teyla said firmly. "And then we will find a way to return you fully to yourself." She took a step closer, aware of John just behind her, of the way his hand moved involuntarily to his pistol. Would he shoot Rodney if he resisted? He should not have to.

She raised her right hand, the palm crossed with the healing scar from the handmouth, the gesture of a Wraith queen who expected obedience, and she bent her will to him. “Rodney,” she said with her mind voice, “there is no choice. You will do as I ask.”

She saw the set of his shoulders change, his expression relax infinitesimally. There was enough of Quicksilver in him still. He could not resist a queen, not face to face and mind to mind. And in that case how much more of Quicksilver remained, Queen Death's cleverman? Teyla took another step forward, her hand rising toward his cheek. He shivered as she touched him, her palm flat against his face, the scar of the handmouth against his skin.

“Rodney,” she said. "Open your mind to me.”

Fear. The surface of his mind was riddled with fear. What if he were turned? What if he had stolen the device because of some deeply hidden order? What if he were truly not to be trusted, broken in ways beneath the surface that even he didn't know about? That was the thing that terrified him most — the memory of those days when he had acted as Quicksilver, serving the Wraith, attacking Atlantis –

Radek, lying crumpled on the floor of the ZPM room, a Wraith bending over to feed…

He had not known him, had nearly let Ember kill his friend.

“But you did not,” Teyla said. “Enough of you remained.”

Jennifer, her face changing in pain and terror as he drew life from her, her fear and anguish a spur to his hunger, life flowing into him sweet and bright even as her muscles clenched in pain….

She had felt it before, through Guide as he fed, the same dark wonder but tempered by control. Rodney had fed starving, in desperation, while Guide had sipped as a man will at an unfamiliar drink he is offered in a strange village, staving off intoxication with will.

“You could not help it,” she said. “A starving man will eat, no matter what the cost.”

And that was memory again, hers rather than his, Osprey's memory long buried within her, and she lifted it up like a gem from a case to give to him, the horror of those first days when they fled world to world, the first Wraith pursued by all. They had learned to feed because they must. Those who did not, those who would not, died.

“It is that simple,” Teyla said. “You are too strong to die, Rodney. So you do what you must.”

She felt his assent, as though she had given him some blessing, a thing that had never been hers to give.

“Show me,” she said. “Show me who you serve.”

Death was there, yes, but it was skin deep, an allegiance shed with the scraps of the drugs they had given him, as illusory as their control of Michael. And beyond that, no one. At the heart, at the core, there was no one in that place where true allegiance lies, no parent or friend, no lover, no child. No Jennifer. In the end, Rodney followed his own heart. He had taken the weapon because he thought it best, because he thought he was most able to guard it, most qualified to decide its fate. And beyond that he truly did not know its fate.

Relief, his and hers, washed over Teyla. He truly did not know. And he did not belong to Death.

She opened her eyes. "Rodney is telling the truth," she said. Teyla dropped her hand, turning to John, certainty in her voice. "He does not obey Queen Death, and he has no idea where Hyperion's weapon is."

John nodded gravely. "Ok. That's what we needed to know."

"I thought you needed to know where the weapon was," Rodney said sharply. "Which I told you I didn't know."

"That too," John said. "But at least now we've got one possibility off the table."

"So I can go?" Rodney asked.

John shook his head. "As soon as Mr. Woolsey says it's okay."

"Oh come on!" Rodney exclaimed. "I'm not Queen Death's secret agent. Teyla says so. Let me out of here!"

"As soon as Woolsey says it's okay," John stepped back, letting Teyla proceed him out of the cell. "Just hang in there a few more minutes, Rodney."

The door closed behind them, and she walked ahead of him out of the brig and around the corner before he stopped, dropping his voice. "You're sure?"

"I am sure he does not know where the weapon is," Teyla said. "And I do not think he consciously obeys Queen Death."

"Consciously?"

"Yes," she said. "He does not know of any loyalty or allegiance to her."

"But?" John met her eyes directly.

Teyla shook her head. "I cannot say whether there is something at work that even Rodney is not aware of. I do not know enough about what is possible, John! Rodney knows of no such imperative, and as far as he is aware he is in control of himself and his actions. But I cannot promise that there is no hidden imperative left below the surface."

"Okay." He nodded. "Then it's better if Rodney just stays where he is until we deal with this. If we're all still here tomorrow, then we can sort Rodney out."

"I think that is best," Teyla said.

Proud Journey's clevermen had done their best and more, but Farseer's hive was not yet ready to stand the stress of combat. Ember examined the temporary lattice of steel and skin that spanned the gap in the hull, glowing at the edge of sight with the forcefields that braced the repair and encouraged healing. Blackiron, Farseer's Master of Sciences Biological, gave him a wary look.

“We've done all we can for now,” he said.

Ember nodded his agreement, feeling the other's relief wash through him. “I am amazed you have coaxed it as far as you have. But, no, you cannot fight. I will tell the Commander so.”

“We will do whatever we can in support,” Blackiron said. “Our cells are full, and we have worshippers as well who would be glad to serve in any way — from Tenassa, remember, trained and willing.”

Tenassa was one of the few depot worlds, supposedly neutral and served by tame humans taught to serve the Wraith, and Queen Death had destroyed it, breaking the covenants of generations. Ember's lips curled back at the thought. It would be another century before they could repair the damage, and hive and cruiser alike would suffer for it. He realized that Blackiron was watching him uneasily, and made himself relax.

“We are grateful for the offer. My thought was to leave them here in safety until after we have faced Queen Death's fleet. We will need their skills then, their hands alongside ours — if you have supplies enough to maintain them.”

“They brought foodstuffs aboard,” Blackiron said. “Their Lady is managing it.”

“She's competent?”

“Entirely.”

Ember nodded. “Then that is what I will recommend to Guide on his return.”

Blackiron paused. “He has not returned?”

“No.” Ember made his tone deliberately discouraging. Exactly what Guide was doing on Atlantis, what bargain he would make in the Queen's name to gain allies against Queen Death — that was a matter for commanders and blades to deal with, not clevermen. And especially not clevermen of Farseer's hive, Farseer who had been Death's loyal ally until very recently.

Blackiron hesitated again, his thoughts close-held, unreadable. Ember watched him, a thread of fear winding through him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, I think.” Blackiron's tone was less certain even than the wavering words, and Ember frowned.

“Even so, if it disturbs you — a burden shared is a burden eased.”

“So they say.” Blackiron turned abruptly. “I will show you something, but — I'll deny it came from me.”

Ember suppressed a shudder. “I'll follow.”

Blackiron waved his hand at the door controls, and the lattice slid back. Ember followed him down the healing corridors, out of their soft light into the normal paths of the ship. Corridors and compartments alike were crowded, and here and there a human moved freely among the Wraith, each badged with the mark of Tenassa's storeyards. They came at last to a smaller laboratory, set off from the main sections of the ship, the sort of space the masters of sciences tended to claim for themselves. Certainly Ember had his own space on Just Fortune, workspace and sleeping niche and hiding place all in one. Blackiron let the door close behind them both, and the lights brightened and warmed around them, puffs of mist rising from the floor. There were two workstations against the far bulkhead, but the majority of space was given over to pleasant-looking seats and an elaborately inlaid game table stood at the center of their rough circle. Ember gave the nearest chair a regretful glance — they were the comfortable sort that let you curl into their padding as though you were held in a giant hand — but followed Blackiron to the nearest console. Blackiron touched controls, not bothering to hide his access codes: a cheap gesture of good faith, since those codes could and would be changed, but worth noting.

The central screen lit, a familiar image coalescing: Just Fortune, hanging still against the starscape, the curve of the planet the fleet orbited a thread of blue at the bottom of the screen. Ember cocked his head to one side, waiting, and Blackiron adjusted the controls, moving the image into another part of the electromagnetic spectrum.

“I wished a comparison,” Blackiron said. “A healthy hive, one similar in age to Proud Journey, that had suffered damage, but was healed. Steelflower's hive seemed an obvious choice.”

Ember nodded. It was reasonable enough, though some commanders were more wary of such analysis than others. “And?”

“There is this.” Blackiron touched the controls again, calling up a cascade of data. Ember frowned as the data whirled to form a schematic, thin lines of gold tracing communications patterns over Just Fortune's skin. Familiar, normal — and then not, a brighter node where none should have been. It brightened, flared white, and then was gone.

“Were you able to capture it?” he asked, and Blackiron shook his head.

“It was very narrowly directional, and, as you saw, short. It was luck I saw it at all. I assumed it was a communication with the Commander.”

Ember glanced at the automatic timestamp, and his mouth tightened. No, not Guide, not unless there had been a message to which he himself was not privy — and in any case it had been an outgoing transmission. Possibly it was Bonewhite replying to some message, but he doubted it. He studied the schematic, fixing the particular node in memory: the seventh dorsal node, linked to Just Fortune's communications web in ways that would make the transmission almost impossible to trace.

“I don't know what that was,” he said quietly. “But I'm grateful that you told me.”

Blackiron bowed, accepting the acknowledgement of debt between them.

“Keep this evidence safe for the Commander,” Ember said. “And I —” Will what? If this wasn't Bonewhite, wasn't the Commander, it was evidence of a possible spy on board. And if there was one spy, how was he to know who could be trusted? “I will deal with it,” he said, firmly, and hoped he could make it true.

Richard Woolsey let the door of his office close behind him, cutting off the murmur and hurry of the gateroom. He'd been meeting with Ladon Radim off and on since that morning, and he was beginning to feel the need for a moment's quiet thought. Radim was still politely adamant that he would not send for the Pride of the Genii without a sample of the ATA gene therapy, and now Hyperion's weapon was missing. The Wraith weren't happy about that, and Woolsey couldn't really blame them. If he were in Guide's place, he wouldn't believe them either.

But that was O'Neill's problem for the moment. Right now, he needed to get Radim off Atlantis and headed home to collect the Pride of the Genii before he heard anything about a missing weapon and figured out what that weapon did. In fact — Woolsey stopped abruptly. Surely it was impossible for the Genii to have had anything to do with the missing weapon. Radim himself had been in the conference room since he came through the Stargate, and the Marines had been watching his guards and the spy. Or at least they were supposed to have been. He glanced quickly at his watch, and touched his radio.

"Major Lorne."

"Sir?" Lorne's voice was wary, as well it might be.

"I need you to confirm for me that the rest of the Genii — Mr. Radim's escort and the messenger — have been under observation since they came through the gate."

"Yes, sir," Lorne said. "I'm still trying to coordinate the search of the city —"

"This needs to take priority," Woolsey said firmly, and could almost hear the snick of teeth as Lorne closed his mouth over further protest.

"Yes, sir," he said again. "I'll let you know as soon as possible."

"Thank you," Woolsey said. Unfortunately, it didn't entirely solve the problem. If the Genii had an agent in the city — it was admittedly unlikely, but couldn't entirely be ruled out — then someone could have gotten them the weapon, or be waiting to give it to them before they left. And that had to be prevented. He glanced again at the shelf of books he'd brought with him from Earth, the books that he had carried with him through hundreds of postings, stories of heroes to remind him that, while he himself was not a hero and never would be, nonetheless actions mattered. As did decisions. He needed Radim's cooperation, and he couldn't afford to let him get access to any Ancient technology, never mind Hyperion's weapon: how to arrange both?

The radio clicked, and he touched his earpiece. "Woolsey."

"Lorne here, sir. My men confirm that the Genii escort has been under direct observation the entire time they've been in the city. No one has seen anything out of the ordinary."

"Thank you, Major," Woolsey said, and Lorne cut the connection without further comment. Heading back to the search, Woolsey knew, but he would not feel guilty for distracting him. There was more to deal with here than just finding Hyperion's weapon.

He looked out into the control room again. If Radim and the Genii were somehow involved in the weapon's disappearance, they hadn't gotten it in hand yet. And that meant they probably weren't involved and had no idea the thing existed, and his job should be to get them out of Atlantis before they found out anything more. But he needed to be sure before they left that they weren't carrying the thing….

Naquadah. The weapon's casing was naquadah, and there was such a thing as a naquadah detector. The Genii party could be scanned in the gateroom before they went through — for that matter, they could be scanned now, in the conference room, and no one would be the wiser. He waved his hand at the door and walked back into into the control room.

"Dr. Zelenka."

Zelenka looked up sharply, and came out from behind his console. "More troubles?"

"Not exactly." Woolsey tipped his head toward the redundant stations at the end of the row of consoles, empty now while the scientists concentrated on the sensor suite, and Zelenka followed, his frown deepening. "I need a word with you."

"And I am here."

"I need you to scan the Genii party for traces of naquadah," Woolsey said. "I understand the limitations on the process, but surely that room doesn't contain undue amounts? And I need to be certain that — however unlikely it seems — Ladon Radim has not gotten his hands on the missing item."

Zelenka pursed his lips. "Yes. Yes, I think I can do that. There is always naquadah, of course, that's been our problem, but I believe I can discount that, at least in that volume." He paused. "And before you ask, that is why we cannot find this object by scanning the city. If we knew where to look, that would be different, but not knowing —"

"I understand," Woolsey said, and Zelenka adjusted his glasses.

"Yes, sorry. Give me moment." He turned back to the bank of screens, said something quiet to one of the airmen, who promptly gave up his seat. Woolsey moved quietly to look over his shoulder, though the images that flashed across the screen were mostly unfamiliar. He recognized a tower schematic, and then something that seemed to be the plan of the conference rooms, but most of the code was in Ancient. The schematic reappeared, a green dot swelling until it seemed to fill an entire section or corridor. A chime sounded, and the light vanished.

"Well," Zelenka said, swinging away from the console. "That is your answer. There is no more than a normal trace of naquadah in those rooms."

"Thank you, Dr. Zelenka," Woolsey said, and took a deep breath. This was the hard part, the judgment call, and regardless of advice, the decision was his alone. "General O'Neill, it's Woolsey. I need a quick word with you. In person."

There was a moment of silence, and then O'Neill said, "We were just about to take a break — not for snacks. I'll meet you."

Woolsey straightened his jacket, not for the first time wishing for the armor of a proper suit and tie, and made his way toward the main conference room. O'Neill was there ahead of him, of course, leaning one shoulder against the wall, head cocked to one side as he listened to Major Lorne. He looked up alertly at Woolsey's approach, and Lorne broke off.

"Any news?" Woolsey asked.

Lorne shook his head. "Sorry, sir." He looked back to O'Neill. "If you'll excuse me, sir?"

"Actually," Woolsey said, "this is something that concerns you, Major. If you don't mind."

"That doesn't sound good," O'Neill said. Lorne looked as though he wanted to agree, but regulations kept him silent.

"We are very nearly at an impasse with Mr. Radim," Woolsey said, "as well as with the Wraith. And I believe we need to remove the Genii from Atlantis as quickly as possible for — well, reasons that I know you both understand. Mr. Radim is demanding a sample of the gene therapy that activates a recessive copy of the ATA gene before he will order the Pride of the Genii to join our fight. And, although the ATA gene seems to be vanishingly rare in the Pegasus Galaxy, it does exist. Also — Mr. Radim has obtained a sample of the ATA gene in the past, though we don’t know if his technicians have been able to isolate it well enough to use in the gene therapy."

"He's bluffing," O'Neill said.

"Maybe," Woolsey said. "But we don't have the time to find out."

O'Neill grimaced. "You're not seriously proposing that we give them the therapy —"

"Neither Dr. Keller nor Dr. Beckett think the Genii will be able to rework our technique to allow them to insert an artificial ATA gene," Woolsey said. "Nor do they think the recessive is significantly more common than the expressed gene. I think it's more important to get them out of here and bringing a warship to our aid than to stonewall on this. I would like to offer them access to the therapy and a volunteer who could pilot the ship for them."

"That's a lot to ask," O'Neill said.

"I know." Woolsey met his gimlet stare squarely. "I don't believe we have another choice."

The silence stretched between them, and at last Lorne's cane scraped on the floor as he straightened further.

"General O'Neill. I volunteer, sir."

"That's not required, Major," O'Neill said. "I'm aware you have a history with the Genii —"

"Yes, sir." Lorne stood very straight. "But that's not going to matter at all if we can't get their ship to join us. And — I have flown an Ancient warship before. The Orion."

"All right," O'Neill said. "But you're not going alone. Pick a team, technicians, Marines in support, and I'll agree."

"Yes, sir," Lorne said again.

O'Neill glared at Woolsey. "And you can explain the situation to Mr. Radim."

"Yes," Woolsey said, his voice dry. "That would be my job."