“Come on,” Lorne said under his breath, watching the Hammond trying to evade the hive ship as it rolled out from behind the cover of the cruiser, firing as it came.
Sam scowled at the engineering console, wishing she could will it into better readings. The ventral shield was fluctuating wildly, an emitter on the verge of blowing out; the other shields were all below thirty percent and falling. Hyperdrive was still good, not that it would be much help at the moment, and she touched keys, transferring its power to the maneuver engines and the weapons array. The duty engineer gave her a wild look — she was the junior, red flecks of burns on her face and neck from the same explosion that had sent Harting to the infirmary — but her voice was steady enough.
“Should I re-route power to the shields, too, ma’am?”
“No,” Sam answered. “You’ll blow the ventral emitter. When it goes — yes, do it then. But not before.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sergeant answered and Sam pushed past a repair team to take her place behind the chair. The air was hazed with smoke, life support starved for power and running at about forty percent, but that would hold them a little longer.
“Anything from Daedalus?” she asked quietly, and Franklin shook his head.
“No, ma’am. Atlantis reports the 302s are on the way — ”
Another explosion rocked the bridge, and lights flared red on the pilot’s console. Chandler winced, hands racing, and the lights faded. “Colonel, we’ve lost main controls. I’ve switched to auxiliary.”
“Understood,” Sam said. She did, that was the problem. They had to stop the hive, destroy it somehow, or it would come down on Atlantis like a ton of bricks, and that would be the end of everything. They had McKay, and were making use of his knowledge, and the next stop would be the Milky Way —
She shoved that thought back down into the box where she kept those things, focused on the immediate tactical problem. Daedalus was out of the picture; the 302s could harass, but they’d have to be beyond lucky to do the hive any serious damage. And the cruiser was no longer any real protection.
“Get me Atlantis,” she said, and Jarrett touched keys.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Atlantis, this is Hammond,” Sam said. “We’ll be in beaming range of the city in about four minutes. I’ll be sending off injured and non-essential personnel as soon as we’re in range.”
Franklin looked over his shoulder at that, but she ignored him. Lorne’s voice was perfectly calm, even though he must have understood the implications as well as Franklin had.
“Copy that, Hammond. The infirmary will be standing by.”
“Thank you, Atlantis,” Sam said. “Hammond out.” The ship rocked again, and another panel shorted out. Sam flinched as a spray of sparks hit her shoulder, slapped at her coveralls to be sure nothing caught. An airman came running, extinguisher in hand, and the air was thick with the hiss and stink of foam.
“Ma’am?” Franklin said, warily, and Sam forced a tired smile.
“You heard me, Major. As soon as we’re in range, start evacuating the wounded and any non-essentials.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Franklin said, and bent over his console. They’d had the procedure in place for a long time, though she’d hoped never to use it. A moment later, the three-toned klaxon began to sound, and she knew that the beam-out protocol was underway.
And that was all she could do for them, for now. She turned her attention back to the tactical display, where the hive was just rolling free of the cruiser. Chandler pitched Hammond up and away, and the hive’s beams went wide. A 302 zoomed past, and then another, diving toward the hive — heading for the damaged stern — but the hive’s gunners were good, and the 302s broke off, looking for another angle.
“We’re in range of the city, ma’am,” Franklin said.
Sam nodded. “Commence the beam-out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lights flickered on her console as the Asgard beams activated. At least there was still plenty of power for that, diverted from the unneeded hyperdrive. At the top of the screen, numbers flickered and changed — Daedalus, underway at last? She caught her breath, and then hope died. No, not yet; she could expect no help there.
“Damn it,” Chandler said, and she braced herself. In the screen, the hive had turned head on, forward guns flaring; an instant later, the forward screens flashed blue, and alarms sounded across her boards.
“Hull breach in A12,” Jarrett reported. “Bulkheads are holding.”
“We’ve lost the ventral emitter,” the engineer said.
“Reroute power to the rest of the shields,” Sam said, and ducked as an overhead cable blew in a shower of sparks. She ran her hands quickly over her head, not feeling any flame, and Chandler looked up from his console, fear naked in his face.
“We’ve lost main maneuvering.”
“Go to auxiliary,” Sam said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Chandler said. “Ma’am, they’re — OK, I’ve got auxiliary, but only sixty percent.”
“Forward shields are at twenty percent and falling,” Franklin said.
Sam took a deep breath. “Get our people off the ship,” she said. There was a protocol for that, too, though it was another one she’d hoped never to use. “Beam them to Atlantis.”
“Everyone?” Franklin asked warily, his hands poised above the controls.
“It’s time for Plan Z,” Sam said, and somehow achieved a smile. Franklin swallowed hard, but matched her.
“Yes, ma’am. Plan Z it is.”
Sam slid back into her seat, shutting out the noise of the alarms and the voices on the intercom. Plan Z was the act of last resort, the hail Mary pass, the absolute last chance — the sort of thing only the SGC would think of, she’d heard an engineer grumble, and at the time, she’d taken it as a compliment. Now it didn’t look so good, but it was all she had. Beam the crew away, that was step one, then aim the Hammond for the hive and set the engines to overload. As long as someone stayed with her to the last possible moment, matching the hive’s evasive maneuvers, the explosion should take out the hive.
Air shimmered in the control room, half the crew beamed away, and Franklin looked up from his console. “All but priority crew are safe in Atlantis, ma’am. Permission to stay aboard — ”
“Denied,” Sam said briskly. The ship rocked again.
“Forward shields at ten percent,” Chandler said.
“Go,” Sam said. “That’s an order, people.”
Franklin’s face tightened, and for a crazy instant she wanted to ruffle his hair and tell him that he was a good guy even if he was a gossip. Instead, she reached for the controls. “I’ll be right behind you, Major,” she said, and beamed them away.
The bridge stank of smoke and foam as she moved to Chandler’s console, typing in the commands that swung the Hammond stern-on to the hive, putting the best shield and the bulk of the ship between her and the hive. Autopilot was still working, more or less, and she engaged the docking system, overriding safeties to convince the system to home in on the hive. Satisfied it would hold for a little longer, she turned to the engineering console, and stopped short. The panels were blown, smoking; there was no way she could create an overload from there. She blinked once, then reached for an overhead panel, pulling down a tray of crystals. Maybe if she rearranged them here —
The first crystal exploded, showering her with sparks. It set off a chain reaction, a line of popping flames that ended at the beam controls. No way to set the overload — and no way to get off the ship now, either, but that wasn’t important. Sam took a deep breath, moved to check the tactical display. Hammond was still closing on the hive, sluggish but inexorable, and that would have to be enough. Sorry, Jack, she thought, and turned her attention to the pilot’s console. They were still closing, three minutes to impact. The hive was firing steadily, Hammond’s shields faltering, failing, alarms sounding as aft sections vented to space.