But they were not as skilled in the workings of our biology as they thought they were, and Lastlight was strong, and his true self haunted his dreams. He deduced what had been done, and broke free of the drug, escaping through the Stargate to find our people.
And there he was unlucky a second time, for the hive that found him was of the queen whose mind was a wind of darkness. You do not remember her, I think, but she was a power in her day. Once she had daughters bound to her by oath and blood, once a thousand blades fought in her name, but in the War her blades were decimated, and her daughters fell away, until she had only her hive and her reputation to bargain with, and she resented the diminishment. Nightwind took him in, and in his story she saw a way to regain her former standing. She tricked the Lanteans into giving her the formula for the retrovirus they used on Lastlight, and then betrayed them, taking the knowledge they had given her to seek for Earth.
But she was of the old ways, and could not bring herself to treat Lastlight as anything but broken, tainted stock, and her men followed her lead. And Lastlight had been foremost among Highcloud’s blades, pallax, a man of standing in the zenana. Rather than endure such treatment, when the Lanteans came hunting them — as he had surely known they would — he allied with them, and it was his help that turned the tide in their favor. The hive was destroyed, and the queen herself was killed.
Of course the Lanteans did not keep their word. They drugged him again, along with the other survivors, and marooned them on a world without a Stargate, without any way to contact their own kind. But Lastlight was still determined — I think, perhaps, he was already a little mad by then, twice transformed against his will — and he managed to escape. He found his way back to Highcloud, to his own hive, and begged sanctuary, but he had killed Nightwind, and that was unforgivable. Highcloud banished him, branded him regicide. He became an enemy to Wraith and human alike, killing without thought or reason, and the Lanteans killed him in the end.
Quicksilver caught his breath. *Is that what was done to me, while I was captive? You have seen what Dust recorded, is that why I can’t remember?*
*You were not made human,* Ember said. *That I do know.*
There was something in his tone that made Quicksilver believe him, and he turned away, pacing like a man caged. If he had not been made human, what then? Why would the Lanteans pretend to know him, why did he dream of Atlantis? He stopped abruptly. If he had not been made human — if the Lanteans did know him, if Michael was the key, as Guide had said — was he himself somehow human? He turned his feeding hand palm up, seeing the mouth tightly closed: real, unmistakable, and yet — if he were not truly Wraith, it would explain too many things.
No. He closed his mind tight against the thought, hoping Ember had not sensed his doubt, this new fear that consumed him. If it were true, he could not betray that he had guessed; if it wasn’t, then he would be thought mad for conceiving of such a thing. There were things he could do to prove it — Dust’s records, for one; if he could find his way into those files, that would give an answer. That would be the next step. And surely, surely, it would not be true. He clutched his thoughts, his fear, tighter still, looked up to see Ember watching him, head tipped to one side. For an instant, there was something monstrous about him, teeth too sharp, eyes too hard, thoughts unreadable behind the pale mask that was his face.
*I said you would not like this story,* Ember said.
Chapter Seventeen
Negotiations
Ladon Radim clasped his hands more tightly behind his back as yet another militia unit made its way past the reviewing stand. Normally, the largest caverns were cold, but today, filled with marching men and the small, happy crowd, the pace was uncomfortably warm. He felt a trickle of sweat creep down his spine, felt his eyes and mind wandering. He made himself focus again on the parade of sweaty, half-trained farm boys marching eight abreast. That was to fit the dimensions of the cavern; what other multiples were possible? He conjured up alternate formations, calculated the number of men — standing perched impossibly on each other’s shoulders, and therefore discounting heads — that it would take to fill the cavern’s volume, calculated the height of the average men and then the dimensions of the parade ground in that unit of measurement. Still, he was afraid his boredom would show all too clearly on the television feed, and he composed his face to what he hoped would pass for thoughtful interest. At least his speech was done, carefully worked out and, he thought, well received, at least by the audience here. His intelligence operatives would brief him soon enough on the more general reaction, what the average Genii was saying in cavern and farmhouse, but he didn’t think he’d be surprised. He had always been good at the balancing act, nudging people toward the outcome he wanted while persuading them that nothing was really changing.
He glanced sideways at his sister Dahlia, tall and straight-backed in her severe uniform, the double spiral of the Chief of Sciences at her collar her only jewelry. There was the faintest of smiles on her face as she looked across at the Elite Guard in their tight trousers. She might as well enjoy the view, Ladon allowed, and stifled a yawn.
“Excuse me, Chief,” Ambrus said softly at his elbow, voice almost drowned in the tramp of feet.
That was never a good sign, and it took all of Ladon’s willpower to keep from turning toward his aide. “Yes?”
“The Sateda project has been compromised.”
Ladon bit back a curse that would have made even Dahlia raise an eyebrow. “Compromised how?”
“The Lanteans know we are on Sateda,” Ambrus said.
“Has anyone been shot?” Ladon asked.
“Not yet,” Ambrus answered. “Apparently there’s been no direct confrontation, but the Satedans weren’t going to conceal our presence.”
“And the current position?”
“The Lanteans have withdrawn,” Ambrus said. “And Sora has been ordered to stay in camp for now.”
The Lanteans wouldn’t attack without provocation, Ladon thought. He was reasonably sure he could count on that. Sora was, still and always, a loose cannon, but if the Lanteans had pulled out, all the reports suggested that the remaining Satedans would go out of their way not to start a fight. Not ‘remaining’, the returned Satedans: he was going to need to remember that phrasing. Not for the first time, he directed a vague breath of gratitude toward any supernatural being that might exist for the fact that Ushan Cai had been unable to persuade any of the surviving Satedan military units to return to their homeworld.
“Reiterate to Sora that she’s to keep her head down. No contact with the Lanteans — with anyone — unless it’s completely unavoidable.” Ladon kept his eyes fixed on the parade, mercifully drawing toward its end.
“Yes, Chief,” Ambrus said, backing away, and Dahlia glanced sideways.
“Trouble?”
“Later,” Ladon said, and she looked away, frowning.
They weren’t able to return to the Chieftain’s suite until well after dark, and by then Ladon’s head was buzzing from round after round of toasts. There was no way of avoiding them, no way of faking, either, without losing respect, and he tugged at the chain that opened the surface ventilator. The cold night air spilled down, smelling of rain and dead leaves, and he stood for a moment in the draft, letting it clear his thoughts. Ambrus was already brewing tea on the spirit burner, and Dahlia loosened the neck of her formal coat.