“The thing I thrive on the most is not being reduced to my component atoms,” he replied, his voice cracking. “which this thing will do, along with yours, this ship’s and anything else nearby when it implodes.”
“But that thing needs a star to make a black hole,” insisted Lorne. “Right?”
McKay bolted back up to his feet. “Yes, but even without one it will make a hell of a mess. Like, blowing a chunk out of a planet or the aforementioned reducing-to-atoms thing.” He paused, rubbing his hands together. “Oh no.”
“Stop saying that,” Sheppard snapped. “It’s not helping.”
The major winced. “How long until… Well, until it does what it does?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes, I think. These Asgard numerals all look the same.”
“What happens if this thing goes off in deep space?” Sheppard nudged it with his boot. “I mean, nowhere near any planets or stars or stuff?”
“Please do not kick the alien super weapon while it is counting down to gigadeath,” said McKay. “And in answer to your question, it would create a bubble of hyper-accelerated space-time around it that would instantly age everything inside a ten kilometer radius by a factor of several billion years.”
“Then what’s the problem?” said Lorne. “Let’s just use the Asgard transporter and beam it as far away as we can.”
“Great idea, brilliant solution, first class,” snarled McKay, “except for the one small detail that Colonel Trigger Happy here just destroyed the central teleportation matrix!”
“Oh no,” said Sheppard.
Like a hammer cast down by some mythic titan, the blunt bow of the starship Aegis slammed through the drifting halo of ice and dust surrounding the planet Heruun, the force field beyond the curved wall of grey steel smashing frozen shards the size of buildings into glittering pieces. Behind it, a trail of frigid gas and swirling particles spread in a sharp-edged wake. Energy cannons arrayed in omni directional turrets along the curved wings and towering fins of the Asgard vessel tracked to aim backward, and loosed a shower of lightning bolts at its pursuer.
The Wraith Hive Ship paced the Aegis, undeterred by the storm blazing around it, its defensive shields sparking where each hit landed. Random blasts penetrated the ethereal energy envelope and carved wounds in the bony hull, and gouts of blood-like processor fluid spat into the void where they instantly became ice. But the wounds seemed to do nothing but enrage the Wraith vessel, and it fell after the Asgard craft, vomiting back fat streaks of superheated plasma in furious retort.
In aspect, the Hive Ship’s profile was like that of the blade from a spear tip, a rounded petal with dagger-sharp edges; if it had been in battle with one of its own, as the Hives of this clan so often were, the conflict would have been ended by now. But the Asgard craft, a match for the Hive Ship’s speed and weaponry, was obdurate and durable. Even as it was now, injured by damage within and without, piloted only by mere humans instead of the Asgard themselves, it still resisted them.
Probing sensor scans read through the wash of radiation and discharge between the warring vessels, as the Wraith ship sniffed the void for the first sign of weakness just as an ocean predator would taste blood in the water. Thermal blooms deep inside the steely hull warned of power failures and broken conduits; there was a chance that the Asgard ship might destroy itself if the engagement went on too long. For the Wraith to have the victory they craved, obliteration was not their goal. The alien craft was to be brought to heel, not destroyed. And to achieve that, a swift and decisive blow was needed. A hard, punishing strike, enough to hobble the Aegis once and for all, before the humans ran it into the ground.
The Hive Ship received its command through the webs of neural fiber that coiled through the channels in the hollows of its bones, and reaction mass surged through its drives.
The Asgard vessel tried to turn away, using the fog of ice and dust as a screen, but the Wraith were too fast. The Hive came up from its position to the stern of its quarry, rolling hard to present its port edge to the dorsal surface of the Aegis. It powered ahead, cutting over the top of the other vessel on spikes of thruster fire. As they passed, the Wraith craft unleashed a series of pinpoint broadside shots from its cannons, targeting them at every power nexus its sensors could detect.
The Aegis, rendered sluggish by the damage it had suffered, shuddered and groaned. Across the top of the hull, brief spurts of flame and vented gasses signaled direct hit after direct hit.
Shredded metal forged in shipyards a galaxy away tumbled into the grip of Heruun’s atmosphere, becoming brief darts of fire.
“Damn it to hell!” said Carter, the rare curse escaping her lips as a blue crackle of static charge snapped around the console and caressed her outstretched fingers. She snatched back her hands in reflex and winced, the holographic screens around her blinking on and off as the backwash from the Wraith bombardment lashed the vessel.
“Colonel,” said Teyla, and her tone was enough for Sam to know what was coming next. “Power levels are dropping across all tiers. The autonomic weapons are not responding.”
Carter grabbed the control spheres on her panel and manipulated them, trying to access the ship’s offensive systems, but nothing seemed to work. If anything, the Athosian woman’s estimate of the problem was conservative. The semi-intelligent computer systems of the Aegis had already begun a vain attempt to repair the damage and prevent it worsening — and to do that, power had been channeled from the guns to shields. Sam hesitated for a split-second, ready to override the machine mind’s choices, but then left it to work. The energy cannons they still had operable were barely making a dent in the Hive Ship. Unlike the Aegis, a vessel that had only recently risen back into space and was still riven with damage from battles past, the Hive Ship was at the top of its game, fresh for the fight.
If the situation had been reversed, the Wraith craft would have already been ashes; but that wasn’t how it was playing out. Sam had been at the helm of ill-fated craft before, from a gut-shot F-15 Eagle during Desert Storm to a blast-damaged Goa’uld Death Glider, and more besides. She had a pilot’s innate feel for a wounded bird, and the Aegis was hurt bad, she could sense it.
The deck rocked and vibrated as another salvo slashed across the hull. Carter caught Teyla’s eye and saw her own grim expression mirrored on the face of the warrior woman.
Sam reached for the radio on her gear vest. “Carter to Sheppard, respond. What’s your situation, over?”
When the colonel replied, he sounded husky and fatigued. “Good and bad. The Wraith in the computer core have been eliminated. But they left us a gift.”
Carter felt her blood run cold. “They got to the matter converter?”
“That damned thing is like a doomsday weapon vending machine. We got a fully-armed collapsar device down here, and its ticking. Well, flashing, but you get the idea.”
“Can McKay —?”
He answered before the question left her lips. “He’s trying to disarm it, but I’m not hopeful. We need another solution.”
“The Asgard teleportation system…” ventured Teyla, but Sam shook her head and nodded at the power grid on the holo-screen. Among other less critical systems, the network of energy links feeding the transporters aboard Aegis were dark.
“We can’t beam anything off this ship,” she told her, “not us, not the collapsar.” Carter swallowed hard at the end of the statement, realizing that what she had just said was effectively a death sentence for them all.
There was a rattle from the radio as it changed hands and then Rodney McKay’s voice issued forth. “Sam, if you have any suggestions about how to deactivate this thing, they would be really appreciated.” His tone was tight with anxiety. “I mean really, really appreciated, because I got nothing.”