SGA - 14 - Death Game (29 page)
Read SGA - 14 - Death Game Online
Authors: Jo Graham
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Media Tie-In, #General, #Adventure, #Fiction, #Space Opera, #Interplanetary Voyages, #Prisoners, #Fantasy, #Suspense, #Amnesia, #Radio and Television Novels
About the Author
Jo Graham is the author of three historical fantasy novels of the ancient world,
Black Ships
,
Hand of Isis
, and
Stealing Fire
. She lives in North Carolina with her partner, their daughter, and a spoiled Siamese cat.
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STARGATE ATLANTIS
Homecoming
Book one of the Legacy series
by Jo Graham & Melissa Scott
Azure streaks flashed and danced, blue shifted stars shapeless blurs in the speed of her passage. Atlantis cruised through hyperspace with the majesty of Earth’s old ocean liners, her size impossible to guess in the infinity of space. Her towering spires and thousands of rooms were nothing compared to the vast distances around her. Atlantis glided through hyperspace, her massive engines firing white behind her, shields protecting fragile buildings and occupants from the vacuum.
Behind, the Milky Way galaxy spun like a giant pinwheel, millions of brilliant stars stabbing points of light in the darkness. Atlantis traversed the enormous distance between galaxies, hundreds of thousands of light years vanishing swifter than thought. Even with her enormous hyperdrive, the journey was the work of many days.
It was nine days, Dr. McKay had predicted, from Earth to Lantea, Atlantis’ original home in the Pegasus Galaxy, deserted these two and a half years since they had fled from the Replicator attack. Of all the places their enemies might seek them, they were least likely to look where they were certain Atlantis wasn’t.
Of course, no one person could stay in the command chair that controlled the city’s flight for nine days, not even lost in the piloting trance that the Ancient interfaces fostered. Not even John Sheppard could do that. Lt. Colonel Sheppard had come to Atlantis five and a half years ago at the beginning of the expedition, and the city had come to life at his touch. The City of the Ancients awoke, long-dormant systems coming on slowly when someone with the ATA gene, a descendant of the original builders, came through the Stargate. Atlantis had been left waiting. Though it had waited ten thousand years, humans had returned.
But even Sheppard could not spend nine days in the chair. The Ancients would have designated three pilots, each watching in eight hour shifts, but the humans from Earth did not have that luxury. Sheppard was First Pilot, and Dr. Carson Beckett, a medical doctor originally from Scotland, was Second. Twelve hour shifts were grueling, but at least allowed both men time to eat and sleep.
Five days of the journey gone, 20:00 hours, and Dr. Beckett was in the chair. His eyes were closed, his forehead creased in a faint frown, his arms relaxed on the arms of the chair, his fingers resting lightly on the interfaces. Nearly six years of practice had made him a competent, if reluctant, pilot. And so it was Dr. Beckett who noticed it first.
It was one tiny detail, one anomaly in a datastream of thousands of points, all fed through the chair’s controls and interpreted by the neural interfaces that fed data straight into Beckett’s body, as though all of Atlantis’ enormous bulk was nothing more than the extension of himself.
It felt like…a wobble. Just a very faint wobble, as when driving an auto along the highway you wonder if one of the tires is just a little off. It might be that, or it might be the surface of the road. Nothing is wrong on the dashboard, so you listen but don’t hear anything, and just when you’ve convinced yourself you imagined it entirely, there it is again. A wobble. A very small movement that is wrong.
Perhaps, Beckett thought, if you were borrowing a friend’s car you wouldn’t notice it at all. You’d just think that was how it was. But when it’s your own car, lovingly cared for and maintained every 5,000 km, you know something is not quite right. Perhaps one tire is a little low. Perhaps you’ve dinted the rim just a tad, and the balance is not entirely even. It’s probably not important. But if you’re the kind of man who keeps your car that way, you know. You notice.
Beneath the blue lights of the control room, Beckett’s eyes opened. The young technician monitoring the power output looked around, surprised. It was very quiet, watching someone fly Atlantis.
His tongue flicked over his lips, moistening them, reminding himself of his own physical body, and then he spoke into the headset he wore. “Control, this is Beckett. I’ve got a wobble.”
There was a long moment of silence, then his radio crackled. “Say it again. You’ve got a what?”
“A wobble,” Beckett said. “I don’t know a better word for it.”
“A wobble.” The voice was that of Dr. Radek Zelenka, the Czech scientist who was, with Dr. McKay, one of the foremost experts on Ancient technology. Certainly he was one of the foremost experts on Atlantis, having spent most of the last five and a half years repairing her systems.
“It doesn’t feel right,” Beckett said. “I don’t know how to put it better, Radek. It feels like a tire about to go off.”
“Atlantis does not have tires, Carson,” Zelenka replied.
“I know it doesn’t.” Beckett looked up toward the ceiling, as though he could see Zelenka in the gateroom many stories above, no doubt bent worriedly over a console, his glasses askew. “That’s what it feels like. That’s how my mind interprets it.”
“He says we have a wobble. Like a flat tire.” Zelenka was talking to someone else. “I do not know. That is what Carson says.”
“A wobble?” That was McKay, the Canadian Chief of Science. “What’s a wobble, Carson?”
“It feels wrong,” Beckett said. “I don’t know how to explain the bloody thing! It feels like there’s something wrong.”
“I am seeing nothing with propulsion,” Zelenka said. Beckett could see how he would say it, his hands roving over the control board, data reflected in his glasses. “Everything is well within the normal operating parameters.”
“I think I would interpret a propulsion problem as an engine light,” Beckett said slowly.
“And a tire is what?” McKay would be putting his head to the side impatiently. “Do you think you can give me engineering, not voodoo? Your vague analogy is next to worthless.”
Lying back in the chair, Beckett rolled his eyes. Five and a half years he’d put up with Rodney bullying him over this damned interface. “Something to do with the hyperdrive?” he ventured.
“The hyperdrive. That’s very informative. The hyperdrive is a major system, Carson. It has literally tens of thousands of components.”
“I don’t know any more than that, all right?” Beckett snapped. “If you want a second opinion, get Sheppard down here and have him take a go at it.”
“He has only been off duty for two hours,” Zelenka said, presumably to McKay. “He is probably still in the mess hall. I can call him.” McKay must have nodded, because his next words were not addressed to Beckett. “Colonel Sheppard to the command chair room. Sheppard to the command chair room.”
He should love being pulled away from his dinner after a twelve hour shift. Beckett felt vaguely guilty about that. He sat up a bare ten minutes later as Sheppard barreled into the room, an open bottle of soft drink in his hand, his dark hair ruffled.
“What’s the problem?” Sheppard said. He couldn’t be too worried if he’d brought along his drink. Soft drinks were rare in Atlantis, since they had to be brought from Earth, and though they’d laid in a limited supply it could be expected to run out soon. Sheppard was unwilling to abandon his short of murder and mayhem.
Beckett smiled ruefully. For all their differences of background and skills, he had developed a considerable respect for Sheppard in their years of working together, a respect he thought was mutual. “Sorry to take you from your dinner. I’ve got an anomaly I can’t pin down.” He sat up, letting the chair come upright, the sticky interfaces disengaging from his fingertips. “It feels like a wobble. You know. When you’ve got a tire about to go.”
Sheppard frowned and put his drink down on the edge of the platform. “Ok. Let’s have a look,” he said with the air of a man about to look under a friend’s hood.
Beckett stood up, catching himself for a moment on the arm of the chair. It always felt very strange to settle back into his mere physical body after some time in the interface.
Sheppard slid into the chair and leaned back, his eyes closing as the interfaces engaged, the chair lighting around him as power flowed, a profound expression of peace on his face. Beckett knew better than to interrupt. Sheppard’s fingers twitched lightly in the interface, then stilled. He would be diving into it now, the pathways of the city’s circuits and cables mirroring the neural pathways of his mind. Done right, impulses flowed like thoughts, data streaming effortlessly into easy interpretations. Beckett usually did not find it quite that simple. Practice and diligence had made him a competent pilot for the city, but he had never quite gotten the knack of thinking in three dimensions, of visualizing so many moving points completely. He wasn’t a pilot. He was a medical doctor who through some trick of genetics had the particular piece of code that the city responded to. Sheppard was in his twentieth year in the Air Force, a man whose natural talents ran this way, honed by years of experience in high speed aircraft. He could get a lot more out of the interface than Beckett could.
It was nearly fifteen minutes before Sheppard surfaced, his eyes opening and the chair tilting halfway up. His glance fell on Beckett, but he spoke into his headset. “Control, this is Sheppard. We’ve got an anomaly in the number four induction array.”
“The east pier,” Zelenka said. “
Zatracen!
Will we ever get that piece of trash fixed?”
“Carson’s the one who tore it up fighting with the hive ship,” McKay said. “And I thought we had it. I ran a stress test on it the night before we left.”
“Well, you must have missed something,” Zelenka said. “Because here we go with it again.”
“It doesn’t look like it’s that bad,” Sheppard said, cupping the headset and straightening up completely in the chair. “It’s a wobble, like Carson said. It’s not a flat. It’s just a variance in output.”
“A crashingly small one,” McKay said. “I’ve got the power log in front of me now. Five one hundredths of one percent.”
“After running at full power for five days?” Zelenka was probably leaning over McKay’s shoulder, looking at the numbers. “No wonder you didn’t catch it. That is nothing. We cannot expect every system to run at optimal for days on end. It would not show up in a stress test.”
“Give me the summary.” That was a new voice, Richard Woolsey, Atlantis’ commander. “Should we drop out of hyperspace?” He was probably hovering over the two scientists by now.
It was McKay who spoke, of course. “And do what? We’re between the Milky Way and the Pegasus Galaxy, right in the middle of a whole lot of nothing. I’m not seeing any kind of damaged component that we can repair, or quite frankly anything that amounts to a problem. Carson, it’s nice of you to tell us about every little wobble, but this is just that. A little, tiny wobble.”
Sheppard looked at Beckett and shrugged. “That now we know about. So we can keep an eye on it. It’s just exactly like a tire. You may not need to run and do something about a little dent in the rim, but you keep an eye on it.”
Beckett unhunched his shoulders, putting his hands in his pockets.
“Yes, well. We will keep an eye on it,” McKay said. “But I think we can all take a deep breath and put this away.”
Sheppard stood up, flexing his hands as he withdrew them from the interface.
“I’m sorry to put you to trouble,” Beckett said. “I hope your dinner’s not cold.”
“It’s ok.” Sheppard picked his drink up off the floor. “Better safe than sorry. And we should keep an eye on that. You have a little wobble in your tire one minute, and the next thing you know you have a blowout doing eighty.”
“And that would be bad,” Beckett said, imagining what the analogy to a high speed blowout might be piloting a giant Ancient city through hyperspace between galaxies. It would put a pileup on the M25 to shame.
“Damn straight,” Sheppard said, taking a drink of his soda. “See you at 06:00, Carson.”
“This turn and turn again is getting old,” Beckett said. “What I’d give for another pilot!”
“We couldn’t exactly bring O’Neill with us under the circumstances,” Sheppard said.
“Four more days,” Beckett said. “Over the hump.” He slid back into the chair, feeling the interfaces clinging to his fingertips in preparation. “See you in the morning.” He closed his eyes, sinking into Atlantis’ embrace.
***
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Table of Contents
Homecoming
