“That’s not a lot,” Ronon said.
“It’s what we’ve got,” John said. “The one thing we may have going for us is that Radim isn’t Sora’s biggest fan.”
Ronon frowned. “So why is she running this operation?”
“I don’t know, but I’m beginning to suspect,” John said. “You were military on Sateda. What would your people have done with an officer who’s too good at what she does to throw her out, but who has a problem following orders and drives her commanding officers crazy?”
“We called it ‘being posted to a coal town’,” Ronon said. “Somewhere out of the way where you couldn’t screw anything up too badly.” He smiled a little. “Like being sent to go fly scientists around in Antarctica.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” John said. “This way she’s out of Radim’s hair, and she isn’t in a position to make trouble by mixing it up with us. At least, that’s what Radim probably thought.”
“He thought wrong,” Ronon said.
John nodded. “I think he’s about to figure that out.”
It wasn’t easy to search the hive’s databases, particularly not for a human name that was hard to transliterate into proper symbols. It had taken him several days just to solve that problem — not the meaning of the word, which had seemed logical, nor had the clevermen used the usual way of transcribing human names, but a separate system, set apart, reserved for Lanteans and the Ancients — and then, of course, that search had led to the dead ends of denied access. Interestingly, though, they were all in the biological databases, and he had figured out Ember’s codes long ago. They were insufficient — Ember was not of this hive, did not have the full access — but at last he had figured out a work-around, and wormed his way in.
And all for this. He stared at the screen that glowed in the corner of his quarters, baring his teeth in a silent snarl. Page after page of notes on a virus this Michael had created, a variant of the Hoffan plague that left humans tainted, deadly fodder; someone had been working on a way to reverse the changes, but had gotten nowhere, and the research seemed to have been abandoned. Perhaps it had been Dust’s work, and that thought sent another pang of grief through him. One more thing he could not remember, one more thing gone wrong…
He pushed that aside, touched keys to re-sort his queries. Here was information on attacks — Michael had certainly been a thorn in their side, though it seemed he had held more malice toward Atlantis. It had been the Lanteans who had killed him in the end, hunted him down and destroyed his base — and that, he thought abruptly, wasn’t right. That wasn’t how it had happened. He frowned, but couldn’t bring up the rest of that memory, either. There was only the nagging certainty that there had been more to the tale.
But that made no sense, any more than it made sense for Guide to have given him the name. A name to conjure with, he had said, but Quicksilver couldn’t see the connection. Snarling again, he worked his way out of the database, careful to erase his tracks, launched another search on the name, excluding the virus this time. There were fewer connections, but still too many to review before Ember would return to their quarters. He hesitated, trying to decide, and finally chose the earliest reference. The data blossomed on the screen, unfolding to a cascade that settled to a slow and readable progress; it was a warning, Quicksilver saw, shared among all the hives. Michael had been Wraith, and had betrayed his hive — no, he had been changed by the Lanteans, made briefly human, and had been so warped, so twisted, that he had allied with them against the Queen who had rescued him. She was dead at his hands, and all Wraith were warned against him.
Quicksilver shuddered. Was that — could that have been what happened to him? Was that what Guide had been trying to tell him, that he had been made human in his captivity? Drained of his life, his true nature, everything that made him Wraith, recreated as one of the kine that existed only to be fed upon? Surely that could not be — it couldn’t be true, or the Queen and commanders would not, could not, trust him this far, could never have allowed him to lead the attack on Atlantis, to seize the ZPM for his Queen…
Yet the Lanteans had called him by a human name, said they would help him. A trick, to lure him back? The humans had killed Michael in the end, and he had been their most bitter enemy. Surely they would not try that experiment a second time —
He shook himself, entering new codes. The Lanteans would not repeat so drastic a failure, he was certain of it. McKay was smarter than that, and he was head of sciences. It was his job to be sure such things did not happen twice. There was little more, the same warnings repeated, an analysis of the retrovirus the humans has used, and the causes of its failure. He bared teeth at the screen again, but there was no time remaining. Ember would return soon, and he would need to have erased all signs of his presence by then.
By the time the door opened to admit the other cleverman, he was well away from the console, fiddling idly with a handful of game pieces. *Ember!* he said, and hoped he sounded welcoming.
Ember gave him a wary look. *What now?*
*Is that fair?* Quicksilver paused. He had been driving his technicians hard; perhaps it would be politic to admit it. *Well, maybe it is, but listen, I need you to tell me something. If you know it, that is — *
Ember lowered himself onto the low seat opposite him, his eyes automatically sweeping the board. *Are you planning to play that pattern among the blades?*
*What? No, probably not.* Quicksilver frowned.
*I would advise against it,* Ember murmured, his attention still on the stones. *Yes, definitely not workable — *
*Will you stop?* Quicksilver glared, and only then wondered if the other had been trying to distract him. *I’ve been hearing about this — about someone called Michael. Do you know anything?*
*What everyone does,* Ember said, wary again. *It’s not a pretty story, Quicksilver. It will not please you.*
*Tell me anyway,* Quicksilver said.
Ember picked up a pair of stones, rolling them between his fingers as though they were dice. *Death has forbidden us to speak of him.*
*In general, or just to me?*
Ember looked up sharply at that, as though he would deny it, and then his mouth curved into a wry smile. *If I speak, you must never say I told you.*
*I wouldn’t,* Quicksilver said, and Ember tossed the stones aside.
*Very well.*
Once before we slept — but this happened after we woke, after we were wakened and grew hungry. Once, then, there was a blade whose mind was the last flash of light at sunset, a blade with the heart of a cleverman, as they are often bred in the hives of the Stormdark queens. He was strong and brave, a leader risen to high trust over a hundred years and more. The Lanteans came to his queen’s feeding ground — she was the cloud that shrouds the highest hills, dead now a year and more — and she sent Lastlight to drive them away. It was a trap, of course, and Lastlight stayed with the rearguard to see his men safe away. The Lanteans shot him, wounded him near to dying, and the cruiser was forced to leave him there. The one who told me this wept then, for they were at fault for what happened after.
For Lastlight did not die. He had been badly wounded, yes, but he had fed recently, and he began to heal. The Lanteans examined him and decided he would do to make a trial of their latest weapon. They injected him with a retrovirus that suppressed much of his genetic code, and over time and with much pain he became like them. Everything that makes us Wraith withered and failed, and he was left without memory, trapped in a body that seemed human. And the Lanteans told him he was one of them, a human warrior injured in battle, and for a time he believed them.