“We must turn the cruiser,” she said. “It will obey, but it is slow. Something holds it back. Find it, Ember, find it and fix it for me.”
Ember rose to obey, checked for an instant still in disbelief. This could not be his queen, and yet it was — and there was no time for that. In the main screen, Atlantis loomed, too near, too large. She had spoken truth there, whoever, whatever, she was: there was no time left. He turned on his heel, surveying the consoles. Yes, there, the engineering display looked off, and he moved quickly to call up its details. Someone had installed a governor, restricting power, restricting the use of the maneuver engines. He ran his hands across the boards, and was not surprised when they did not respond.
"Ms. Emmagan," one of the humans said. "Atlantis says it can't evade —"
"I'm trying," Steelflower answered, her frustration almost palpable. "Ember!"
He did not answer, but whirled to the next console. It would be easier to override the blockages from the Hivemaster's station, and he remembered codes from his time on Death's hive. He entered them, holding his breath, and a window lit, data cascading down the screen. There — there was the block, and there the codes that would release it; he punched in the numbers, reached for levers to control the shifting power. “Try now, Lady.”
"Yes." The word reached ears and mind alike, and he felt the old ship respond at last to her touch, grateful for the sure hand that steered it. In the main screen, Atlantis's image seemed to fall away, though it was they who moved, tilting ponderously out of its path.
“Well done,” Steelflower said, generous and proud, and in the same moment the human woman spoke. "Radek! What about the fuses?"
"The proximity fuses are disabled," a voice answered. "But the bombs are still live."
“How?" Ember asked again. “How can you be my queen?”
The woman turned to look at him, her mind brushing his with gentle regret. “I am Teyla Emmagan, Teyla of Athos, Teyla Who Walks Through Gates, and I am Steelflower, Osprey's many-times-great granddaughter. Long ago, a cleverman mingled his blood with that of humans, and the end result is me.”
The Old One had spoken truth. Ember shuddered, remembering the story shared with him when he was briefly the Old One's prisoner: the Wraith were the Ancients' mistake, their terrible creation, their doom. And Guide had known, he realized. Had known all along, and seized the weapon that came to hand, this woman with the mind of a queen, because without a queen, they could never have stood against Queen Death. He bowed his head, cleverman to queen, but spoke aloud, so that the other humans could hear his submission. "What should I do, Lady?"
Her gratitude washed over him, as much balm as it would have been had she in truth been the young queen she had seemed. "Help Radek defuse the bombs. We are still too much a danger, drifting like this. Corporal Ling, go with him, please."
"Yes, ma'am," one of the males said, and Ember turned to follow.
Rodney was surrounded by white light. What do you know, he thought. I guess there is something after death. It shone brightly in his face, blinding and pure, and his left wrist throbbed with pain. But shouldn't that be okay? If he was dead, how come his wrist still hurt? Rodney tried to sit up.
There was a shriek and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. And then he fell off whatever he'd been lying on, landing solidly on scuffed linoleum smelling like disinfectant.
Not an afterlife, Rodney thought, as his wrist hit the floor and he screamed.
"He just appeared there," someone said. "I didn't see the beam shimmer."
Another voice, also male, distracted. "Well, he must have been beamed aboard from one of the 302s." A shoulder under his right arm, an arm in scrubs. "Easy, there. You're okay. Just take deep breaths." The arm shifted. "McNair, help me get him up on the table. Probably hypoxia. That's what the 302 pilots usually have."
"He's not in a flight suit."
"I broke my wrist," Rodney said through gritted teeth. The pain was blinding, the overhead lights right in his eyes.
"I see." Even, medical voice. "Okay, just take deep breaths. Let's get an oxygen mask on you. McNair?"
"Where am I?" Rodney managed before the mask came over his face.
"You're safe aboard the George Hammond."
Chapter Twenty-four
Last Hopes
Lorne brought Pride of the Genii in on the tail of Death's hive, forward guns blazing. There were no more drones, hadn't been for what seemed like forever, but Radim's gunners couldn't miss at this range. The shots struck home, blasting metal and fittings from the hive's engines. The hive swerved, and Lorne let it go, putting his ship between it and Todd's other hive. It was drifting, damaged, but even as he watched a new light flared in the central engine bell. Powering up again, the Pride whispered, minimal maneuver engines and full power to the guns. The strange hive, though, the one that had jumped out of hyperspace at the last possible minute — it hadn't been in good shape to start with — was starting to show real damage, atmosphere leaking from a hull breach forward. The Hammond had her hands full, the last of her 302s on board but now surrounded by a swarm of Darts. Some of them were Todd's, Lorne thought, but there was nothing he could do about them, any more than there had been anything he could do for Rodney.
No, he thought, and felt the Pride gather herself before he'd even been able to articulate his commands. There was nothing anyone could have done for Rodney, not at that distance, and if there'd been any other way, McKay of all people would have found it. So that was the only option, and the only thing he could do now was make it count. Todd's hive was turning, driving Death's hive toward the Pride. Lorne calculated the angles in a glance, and dove on Death's hive.
Radek worked his way deeper into the crawlspace, pushing his flashlight ahead of him. Even he could barely fit between the heavy bundles that were the explosives, but he could see the fuse just ahead of him, a lumpy oval with half a dozen knotty cords reaching out along the crawlspace. It showed inert, unpowered, but he paused long enough to direct a scanner at it. There was still no sign of power, and he hauled himself another meter further, until he could reach the box.
It was a remote trigger, he thought, intended to take a signal from the pressure sensors on the hull or from a following hive. But the pressure sensors were disabled, he had destroyed the proximity fuses, and the jamming device should override any signal, so all he should have to do was disconnect the cables. Unfortunately, they seemed to grow organically from the box, not plug into a socket; he squirmed around to see how it connected to the nearest explosive, but the connection vanished behind the webbing that held the bomb in place, utterly inaccessible.
Fine, then, he thought, and wriggled himself back so that he could reach the box again. He had brought clippers — they were in fact modified garden shears, acquired from Botany when he was working on Teyla's cruiser — and now he worked them out of his pocket and positioned himself to cut the first cable. The blades bit through, releasing a spurt of unidentifiable liquid, and the cut end thrashed free of his grasp, twisting back as though it was trying to rejoin its other half. Radek caught it, flattened it against the floorplates with all his strength, and at last the flailing died away. He released it carefully, but it seemed to be inert.