“I hoped it would.” Teyla retrieved her hands gently. “Now let us see if the ship will fly.”
“You cannot use the landing gear,” Radek said, following her toward the control room. “Because it is not there. And I have nothing to replace it with. So you must not land on a planet. Other than that, the unhealed breaches are in the port drive section, which hopefully you will not need to enter. If you do, there is a suit in the airlock with nearly six hours of air in the tank.”
“I hope I will not need to,” Teyla said. She stepped up to the command podium, its few lights blinking fitfully amber, sliding her hands into the grips, her eyes closing. For a moment Radek was forcibly reminded of John, of the way he looked in the chair interface. There was that same expression of concentration and transport.
The main viewscreen came to life, yellow letters scrolling up the side of a heads up display of curving lines that it took Radek a moment to interpret as a map of their solar system. Deep within the ship there was an almost subsonic purr, the main engines coming online. His hands flew over his laptop and its sensors. Yes, that was it. Main power. A mist was rising from vents near the floor, the ship’s ventilation systems restoring what they must interpret as a dangerously dry atmosphere.
Dr. Keller shivered.
“Are you all right?” Radek asked quietly, his eyes still on Teyla who swayed slightly, her head tilted back.
“I’m fine,” Keller said. She frowned. “But she shouldn’t be up yet. The cosmetic surgery is completed, but I’d be more comfortable if she waited a day before she exerted herself. She’s only been out of anesthesia about ten hours.”
Radek shrugged. “We have time constraints.”
“I know.” Keller pursed her lips. “That’s why I’m not putting a hold on this.” She let out a sigh. “It’s purely cosmetic. She can’t actually use that feeding mouth on her hand to feed. It doesn’t connect to anything. And any kind of careful examination will show that her lymphatic system isn’t Wraith.”
“If she is subject to that kind of examination, she will already be caught,” Radek said.
“I know that too.” Keller shook her head. “Fortunately, her telepathy is real and natural. She’s going to have to rely on that.”
“That, and sheer balls,” Radek said. He smiled, looking at the expression on Teyla’s face, the slight sway of her body in time with the ship’s rumble, skirts whispering. “Fortunately, she has plenty of that.”
Steelflower drifted in shiptrance, the cruiser ready and eager beneath her hands. It was relieved, soothed. It had been frightened, alone in space, injured, its people dead. Now there was a queen, and her hands were on it. Her mind was strong and clear, and she spoke to it. There and here, she said. Now and again. It would serve her. Masterless, it had limped in a decaying orbit, hardly caring to repair itself. Now it must. She willed it, and it would please her.
She gave it coordinates, her hands steady on the controls, asked if it were capable. Its eagerness was like a quiver through its systems. It would do as its queen desired. It was born to do so.
“I am ready to go,” Teyla said, sliding her hands out of the grips and turning around.
“If you are certain,” Radek began.
“I am certain,” she said, “Go on. All will be well.”
He looked as though he had other things he wanted to say, but he did not, just gave her a quirky sideways smile as he followed Dr. Keller out. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” she said, and turned back to the command console. A deep breath. It was not done yet, not too late to stop this. But if she did…
No, Teyla thought. It was too late. She was Steelflower, and now she must dig deep, find the core within her, the fragile, tangled strands of her ancestry that held the power. A Wraith Queen stood among her foremothers. Steelflower was of the lineage of Night, or so Guide had named her when he had given her the name and likeness of a young queen lost long ago. But it was not her real lineage, that precious link to the past that the Wraith so valued, kinship and genetic variation in one. For the first time she wondered who she had been, that queen whose son had done unspeakable experiments on humans, the one whose son created her Gift, mingling his own DNA with that of his captives.
Once, long ago, when she had first learned of her Gift, she had dreamed of an Atlantis overrun by Wraith who saluted her as their queen, and now, half caught in shiptrance, she saw it again, blades bending before her, hair flowing down like water. ‘Osprey queens are always the most beautiful.’ She had dreamed true before when she had dreamed of her Gift. Osprey, she thought. The white bird, the white ghost, drifting insubstantial as mist through the shadowed woods… Wraith. Was that what they had meant, once? Once, when long ago they were hunted? Was there one who moved like fog, hiding her presence in clouds that sent shivers running up the spine?
Beneath her hands the ship quivered, ready and waiting. *Go*, she said, and saw the hyperspace window open before them, needing no viewscreens or monitors. Her hands in the control grips, she could see what the ship saw, her touch giving her access to all its data, quick as thought. *Go*, she said, and they went.
Chapter Seven
A Game of Queens
“There is another ship.”
In the darkness, John Sheppard woke from a light doze, but he knew better than to move. One of the Wraith had paused outside his cell, the young one, speaking to another. Better to be still and have them assume he was still sleeping.
“What other ship?” The second Wraith was older, and John could hear the sound of irritation in his voice.
“It says it is the cruiser Eternal, bearing a queen aboard, and that she will speak to our queen immediately about the Consort of Atlantis.” The younger Wraith glanced toward John, and it took an act of will to be still. “You must come.”
“Of course,” the other said, and hurried off.
When they were gone John sat up cautiously. Not good. So very not good. He scrubbed his hands across his chin and looked around for the water pitcher. From his growth of beard he thought he’d been a prisoner of the Wraith for four or five days — certainly not more than that. They’d fed him. Well, raw fruit and nothing else, but he had the impression that they didn’t have much idea what humans ate, the way that a kid who’s just found an injured rabbit gives it three or four carrots. Not nutritious, exactly, but he wasn’t going to starve quickly that way.
Another queen. He could make his bets there. Queen Death had Rodney, and if she hadn’t been successful in getting everything she needed out of him, John would be the next best thing. He’d had a few days reprieve, but this was still going south as fast as it could.
In the last few days he’d had plenty of time to examine the cell and the door. Without tools or even a knife there were no opportunities there. But they’d have to transfer him. If Queen Death wanted to claim him, she’d have to have him moved to her ship. That would involve getting out of the cell and presumably being escorted to the dart bay or to a docking port.
John got up, stretching carefully. That was the moment. If he could stumble and seem sick, maybe he could get a weapon. One of the big stunners the masked Wraith had would be perfect. Let the guy get in close and shove him, then whip around. It might work.
He rinsed his mouth with water, took several small sips. Get ready. Be prepared.
It seemed like forever before he heard footsteps again. Too many. Not just the couple of guards he expected for a prisoner transfer, but six or eight. Maybe ten. Way too many.
Two masked ones. The young Wraith with his tattoos of vines, the one he’d called Frank. An old one with a sharp, bitter face. Another soldier in leathers, looking impatient. A girl, young as Ellia had been, small and slender, her steps quick and light between another two masked guards. Beside her another queen.