The Inheritors

Chapter Seven Homeward Bound

They came through the gate into a cool and sunny afternoon, the sort of chill that Lorne associated with mid-spring or the middle of the autumn. The trees around the Stargate were tall and deep green, probably coniferous, unfamiliar and of no use in guessing the season. Not that it mattered, Lorne thought, but it would have been nice to know.

Radim had a heavy transport waiting, and they all climbed aboard, Cadman and her Marine contingent unobtrusively taking the controlling positions. Not that he really expected trouble, since he was fairly sure that the Genii weren't going to sacrifice the few scientists and military personnel who had trained to fly their warship, but it made him feel a little more secure. From the rigid lack of expression on Cadman's face, it made her feel better, too.

It took them just over an hour to reach the valley where the Ancient warship was waiting. It looked as though Radim's people had done a good job with the repairs, Lorne thought, surveying the solid mass of the hull. Yes, you could see where patches had been made, and probably the actual control elements were more jury-rigged than not, but at least it looked as though it would stand up to vacuum. He glanced at Dr. Campbell, and Campbell met his eyes with a smile and a tiny shrug. You didn't have to be a mind reader to know what that meant — we'll see once we get aboard — and Lorne concentrated on getting himself up the steep gangway to the ship's control room. His leg was better than it had been, but steep angles still caused the healing muscles to twinge painfully.

Radim's sister Dahlia was waiting in the control room, supervising a team of scientists who seemed to be activating the last of the ship's systems. She turned at their entrance, and Radim nodded a greeting.

"Dahlia. May I present Major Lorne, Captain Cadman, and Dr. Campbell? Mr. Woolsey has sent them to assist us with the Pride of the Genii."

"A pleasure, Major," Dahlia said. She was taller than her brother, and fair-haired, with deep shadows under her eyes. "I do not believe we met before —"

She stopped then, color flooding her face, and Lorne fought to keep his face impassive. No, they most certainly hadn't met, because she'd been sent to Atlantis as a hostage when her brother had kidnapped Lorne and the rest of his team — but there was no point in mentioning that. "I don't think so, ma'am," he said, in his most neutral voice, and Dr. Campbell cleared her throat.

"With all respect, ma'am, gentlemen, we don't have much time here."

"No," Dahlia said, and sounded faintly relieved. "We do not."

"Major Lorne is the one with the Ancient gene," Radim said, and she nodded.

"Then I will leave you here to accustom yourself to the controls, and I will take Dr. Campbell to the engine room so she can see what we have had to do to make the repairs."

"Excellent," Campbell answered.

"Sergeant Garces," Cadman said. "Go with Dr. Campbell."

Lorne nodded. "Sergeant Garces is a technical specialist," he said, to Radim.

The Genii leader nodded in turn, though Lorne doubted he was believed. "And in the meantime — I believe Dahlia is right, it would be well if you were to familiarize yourself with the controls."

"Yes, sir," Lorne said, wooden-faced, and settled himself in the control chair. Someone had already initialized the systems — Sheppard, presumably, when he retrieved the ship for them in the first place — and only a couple of boards remained dark. Lorne frowned, and a Genii technician looked over his shoulder.

"Those systems were damaged beyond our ability to repair them," he said. "If we had more time, or more of the proper equipment —"

"But we don't," Radim said. His voice was brisk, but not hostile, and the technician spread his hands in silent acceptance.

"What do those systems do?" Lorne asked.

"One is the monitoring system for the cargo space," the technician answered. "It seems to be redundant — we can get the same information on the general interior scan. That one is the manual override for the environmental system."

That didn't sound good. Only long service with the SGC kept Lorne from saying that aloud. Besides, as Radim had already pointed out, there wasn't much they could do about it anyway. He nodded instead, and turned his attention to the controls.

He had had basic training on several different types of Ancient ship, and the Avenger — Pride of the Genii, he reminded himself, though the ship itself was slow to answer to its new name — fell into familiar categories. By the time Campbell returned, talking a mile a minute while Dahlia nodded, Lorne was confident he could handle her under battle conditions. He said as much to Radim, who nodded.

"I'm glad to hear it, Major. How soon can you be ready to launch?"

Lorne glanced at the boards. All the essential systems were either green or dead, and he shrugged slightly. "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Radim."

Radim looked at his sister. "If you'd clear the noncombatants off the ship —"

"Yes." Dahlia moved to a device hanging from the nearest bulkhead and began speaking into it, ordering the technical staff to finish any last minute work and clear the ship.

Lorne tuned her out, concentrating on the controls. Avenger was coming to life under his hands, systems waking, power beginning to flow. Everything seemed normal, and he was aware suddenly of the two Radims standing close behind his chair.

"You'll go with them," Radim said quietly.

"And will you?" Dahlia asked.

"I'm staying with the ship."

"That's folly."

"I have no choice," Radim said. "But there's no need for you to be here. I had in mind to leave you in charge if anything happens."

"If we lose this fight," Dahlia said, "it's unlikely the Genii state will survive. And if it did, they will not follow a woman. I'm more use to you here. But you don't have to be here. Chief Cowan —"

"I'm not Cowan," Radim said. "Or Kolya. Or any of the other leaders we've seen in our lifetimes. But none of them were afraid to fight. I have to be here. You know that."

"Yes," Dahlia said, after a moment. "Well, it's simpler that way."

"That, too," Radim said, and turned away.

Well, Lorne thought, and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the controls. That — wasn't entirely encouraging, really. But he'd known the score when he volunteered. "Mr. Radim?"

"Yes, Major?" The Genii leader stood ramrod straight, fighting for every inch of height.

"We're ready to lift."

"Ground reports all nonessential personnel are off the ship and accounted for," another technician reported, one hand to his heavy earpiece.

"Very well." Radim drew a deep breath. "Raise ship, Major Lorne."

"Yes, sir." Lorne rested his hands on the controls, feeling the ship respond to the touch, sensing the genetic makeup of the Ancients. He could feel the ship's presence at the back of his mind, as though a sleeper woke, and he urged it on, rewarding each new evidence of awareness with as much attention as he could give. The engines rumbled, a sound too deep to be heard, felt through the floorplates and deep in the marrow of his bones; he felt the inertial dampeners establish their fields before the boards lit, pressed both hands gently into the yielding control surface. The Pride of the Genii groaned deep in her core, and rose.

"We have launch," a technician reported, somewhere in the distance, and the screens with the live feed from the hull-mounted cameras darkened rapidly from blue to black.

Lorne felt the moment they reached orbit, velocity and mass settling into a pressure he could feel tingling in the palms of his hands, and he made himself focus enough to look at Radim. "We're in orbit, Mr. Radim."

"Thank you, Major," Radim said. "Take us to Atlantis."

Atlantis. The ship knew that name, secondary and tertiary systems coming to singing life. Atlantis, Lorne agreed, watching the grid form and reform around him, hyperspace calculations streaming past as though blown by wind. He could feel the ship's memory banks calling up images of the towers, matched them with his own memories, tropical sky and snow, but always the towers shining against the sea: Atlantis. Home. They leaped into the dark.

Guide paced the length of the conference room, careful still to keep more than an arm's length from any of the humans. There was nothing to be gained by baiting them, though he was beginning to think that there was also nothing to be gained by remaining here. He couldn't blame Carter's consort for trying to keep Hyperion's weapon — Guide could make the calculations himself, and could see just how O'Neill would think it was worth the risk, because none of them could stand alone against Queen Death. But neither could he leave his people still facing the risk of the weapon, no matter how reluctant the Lanteans might be to use it now. They were short-lived, and their children and grandchildren might well see the problem in a different light.

He glanced at Alabaster, now curiously examining one of the small cakes with pink tops that the Lanteans had brought several hours ago. She sniffed it, then took a wary taste, her nose wrinkling as though she were trying to decide if she actually liked it. He remembered that expression from her childhood, when she had been fond of the sweetest fruits, and for a moment the memory threatened to overwhelm him, the favorites of the zenana at ease in the chamber behind the formal gathering place, leaning against Snow's chair while she and the Hivemaster played at tables, while her two favorite clevermen vied to offer treats to Alabaster. She'd just been walking then, so small that she ricocheted from chair to knee and back, giggling and tugging at sleeves and skirts of coats until blade or cleverman lifted her. Spark had brought a stalk of melos from the world where they had last Culled, and Alabaster crowed with delight as she sucked on them, her thoughts filled with the honey-sweet taste of the fruit. Seeker had brought snap-rose, and she stuck the blossoms solemnly in his beard, where they nipped at his chin and drove Snow to snorting undignified laughter…. Dead, all dead, except for himself and Alabaster, and Darling was older now than she had been then.

He closed his mind over that memory as though he closed his fist, looked up as the door slid back to admit O'Neill again. "General O'Neill. It is time that I spoke to my alliance."

"So it is." O'Neill contrived to look surprised. "I really hope you're ready to tell them to come join the party."

Guide smiled in spite of himself. "Sadly, this — party — is not yet ready to begin. Unless you bear good news?"

He saw with satisfaction that the shot had gone home. "No," O'Neill said shortly. "We don't have it yet."

Guide spread his hands. "Then you cannot expect us to join you. However, I will speak with my ships."

Properly speaking, it was not Ember's place to wait in the control room with the other lords of the council. Clevermen belonged in the bowels of the ship, in the laboratories and secret spaces, unless and until they were invited; this was for blades and commanders. Guide had never enforced that rule, and Bonewhite seemed disinclined to concern himself with it either, so Ember hovered by the environmental monitoring station, deeming it a plausible enough excuse should his presence draw comment. Guide was due to contact them, to confirm that they should continue to Atlantis, and Ember couldn't bear to wait for that news to filter through the ship, not after what Blackiron had shown him.

He kept his thoughts closed tight, his head bent over the perfectly ordinary readings. If Blackiron was right, someone among the men assembled here was a traitor, served Queen Death — he couldn't imagine it, except out of fear. And fear was reasonable enough, given everything she had done, but even if it was a hopeless cause, he could not bear to think of serving her. He remembered the feeling of her hand on his chest, the sting of her claws and the pain as she fed. If it had been Steelflower who demanded that service, that taste of his life, he would gladly have given it, and more than a taste…. But that was not to the point: queens rarely admitted clevermen to more than momentary favor. But if they were to survive — if they defeated Death, well, he'd had as much of a hand in that as any blade, and she was extraordinary, wise beyond her years, and no stickler for convention.

He curbed that thought as well, shaking his head at his own folly. The old proverb whispered through his mind: first find your humans…. First survive this war.

The main screen lit abruptly, and Bonewhite bared teeth as the cleverman on duty adjusted the system to receive the signal. Ember could feel the tension in the chamber, each one of the waiting blades eager to find out their fate. How soon would they reach Atlantis, how soon would they face Death? He let his gaze slide from one man to the next, trying to read their loyalty in the set of their shoulders, the way they held their hands and head, but he could see nothing more than the general wariness.

"Commander," Bonewhite said, and Guide's face appeared in the screen. Behind him was a fuzzy image of Atlantis's control room, a double handful of humans vague shapes in the background. Hairy stood at his shoulder, looking less than happy, and another gray-haired human stood behind him, frowning slightly, his eyes narrowed as though he looked into a bright light or a great distance. Ember had never seen him before, but didn't dare draw attention to himself by asking.

"Is all well?"

That was the prearranged signal, and Ember felt the tension ease a little. Guide was unharmed, and the Lanteans were negotiating: the rest was details.

"All is well," Bonewhite agreed. "We await your next orders."

"There will be a delay," Guide said.

Ember looked up sharply, felt his own surprise echoed around the control room.

"Hold the ships at your present position," Guide continued. "I will be in contact shortly with further orders."

"Very good, Commander," Bonewhite said. "Is there some — difficulty?"

Guide's smile showed too many teeth for true humor. "Let's say we've hit a sticking point. And if I were not confident in General O'Neill's — intentions — this deal would already be off."

"Understood," Bonewhite said, bowing.

"I will contact you again in three hours," Guide said. "If not sooner."

"Three —" Bonewhite broke off. "Very well, Commander."

"Until then," Guide said, and the screen went abruptly blank.

“Three hours!” That was Precision, the leader of the Darts. “Bonewhite, if we're not underway by then — we won't make Atlantis in time.”

“We're closer than that,” Hasten said, with some reluctance. Ember hadn't seen him there — another cleverman keeping out of sight until his word was needed. “We'll have to make our best speed, yes, but we can be there.”

“We should be there in good time to prepare,” Ease said. “And if the Lanteans go back on their word — well, there will be time to deal with them, and then with Queen Death.”

“Enough!” Bonewhite's mental voice was outraged, stunning them all into silence. “I put it to you, this is no place to discuss such matters. I will meet with any who wish to discuss the matter in one hour, and you may have your say. But for now — the Commander's word is clear.”

Ember bowed along with the others, and kept his head down as Bonewhite stalked from the control room. In an hour, he could ask for audience, and no one would think twice — no one would suspect that he knew something he shouldn't. But if Bonewhite didn't believe him — and Ember was well aware of how flimsy his evidence was — or, worse, if it were Bonewhite who was the traitor…. Ember slipped from the control room, once again aware that he was a stranger here, without kin. He didn't know if he dared take the risk, or if he dared avoid it.

"I believe we have little else to discuss." Guide did not move from his place at the table, but his tone of voice was underlaid by his mental dismissal. Teyla frowned. In the last two days she'd begun to wonder if anyone would ever get out of this conference room for more than an hour at a time. Certainly they had discussed everything there was to say. The only thing that signified now was action — an action they couldn't take — the destruction of Hyperion's weapon.

"Surely," Mr. Woolsey began, but Guide cut him off.

"My fleet was warned of possible treachery before I came here," Guide said sharply. "I assure you that my commanders will not move without my order."

"Or Steelflower's," Teyla said quietly.

He rounded on her, coming to his feet. "The medical procedures to transform you take many hours. Hours which you do not have. And no one will follow your orders as you are now." He rested his hands on the table before him, looking at Woolsey. "I came here in good faith, and you assured me that you would destroy this weapon. Now you either cannot or will not. My fleet will not move until it is destroyed. Is that clear?"

What was clear to Teyla was that Mr. Woolsey had also exhausted everything he might say. He had delayed and delayed and delayed, but they did not have the weapon and there was nothing that would convince Guide of their good faith.

"We are leaving," Guide said with a quick glance to the side at Alabaster. "Unless of course we are your prisoners. In which case you should consider that our fleet will never move."

Teyla made herself stay very still. Too much moving and pacing was a sign of weakness in a queen. She had learned that well. "If your fleet does not move soon, it will not get here in time no matter what your intentions or ours are."

Alabaster put her head to the side as though this were no more than a matter of scientific interest. "We are prepared to move as soon as the weapon is destroyed. I do accept that you are unable to do so at this time, but you must see our position. What is to stop you from using it as soon as you find it? If we are not your prisoners, then we shall return to our fleet and you will contact us when the weapon is found."

Our fleet, Teyla thought. Oh yes. Steelflower has become superfluous. Alabaster is queen, and so she will be.

"And if we do that," Woolsey said, "what guarantee do we have that you will come at all?"

"None," Guide said sharply. "Just as we have no guarantee that you will not use the weapon."

The alliance was unraveling before her eyes, collapsing under the weight of history. In a moment too many things would be said.

"I have a counterproposal," Teyla said, her eyes on Alabaster. Guide might think he ruled, as he had these many years, but Alabaster was more amenable to compromise, and ultimately he must learn once again what it was to serve a queen. She was not a child, and he would not rule her. "Let Guide remain here and oversee the destruction of the weapon when we find it, while you and Darling return to the fleet and await his word." He would be hostage for his daughter's behavior, but she and the child would be free, which was no doubt what he wished most.

Woolsey frowned. "I suppose that's possible." He looked at her as though he wished for a moment that he had Wraith telepathy.

"I am to be the hostage," Guide said. "And who is to be the hostage that Alabaster bears away? Who will guarantee your part of the bargain?"

"I will," Teyla said evenly. "I will go with Alabaster if she wishes it, not as Steelflower but as Teyla Emmagan, hostage for Atlantis' word."

Woolsey's frown deepened. "I don't think we can allow one of our people to be a hostage."

Teyla fixed a smile on her face. "You may call me a liaison then. I shall be Atlantis' liaison to the Wraith."

She saw him consider, saw the possibilities cross his face, and Woolsey nodded. "Our ambassador."

"Just so," Teyla said. She looked at Alabaster. "If that is agreeable to you?"

"It is," Alabaster said serenely, and if Guide disagreed he did not publicly rebuke his queen.