Stargate Atlantis #24 Read online

  PRIDE OF THE GENII

  A Legacy series book

  Melissa Scott

  An original publication of Fandemonium Ltd, produced under license from MGM Consumer Products.

  Fandemonium Books

  PO Box 795A

  Surbiton

  Surrey KT5 8YB

  United Kingdom

  Visit our website: www.stargatenovels.com

  METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER Presents

  STARGATE ATLANTIS™

  JOE FLANIGAN RACHEL LUTTRELL JASON MOMOA JEWEL STAITE

  ROBERT PICARDO and DAVID HEWLETT as Dr. McKay

  Executive Producers BRAD WRIGHT & ROBERT C. COOPER

  Created by BRAD WRIGHT & ROBERT C. COOPER

  STARGATE ATLANTIS is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc.

  © 2004-2018 MGM Global Holdings Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Lion Corp. © 2018 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  Photography and cover art: Copyright © 2018 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

  Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press

  Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written consent of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  With thanks to the generous fan at Chicago Creation

  who stopped to chat about the Genii and started the

  train of thought that became this novel.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  THE PRIDE OF THE GENII hung in orbit above the barren plain that served as test-bed and launching site for the reclaimed Ancient warship. Captain Bartolan Fredek leaned back in the commander’s chair, careful to project only calm in spite of the part of him that was perpetually twelve years old, addicted to adventure novels and wanting to leap up and down in pure delight. The Genii had dreamed of space for generations, the ability to leap from world to world without the Stargates, to meet the Wraith and anyone else on their own terms, and now — now that long-held dream was about to come true. Not without price. They were indebted to the Lanteans for much of the repaired technology, though the Scientific Services were making great progress, and, worse, they had been forced into at least a temporary peace with the Wraith now that Queen Death and her fleets had been destroyed. But they had reached the stars at last, and someday maybe there would be more ships, lesser copies of the Pride, certainly but still capable of interstellar flight, ready to claim the Genii’s rightful place in the galaxy.

  The main screen showed only the stars, looking away from the sun along the course they would soon take. The smaller screens on his console showed that view, but also planetary views, one of the mountains where the Scientific Services had their headquarters and the other of the plain directly below the ship. There were no visible signs of human habitation in the mountains, though he knew that ten thousand scientists and their kin lived in the installations carved deep into the rock. He had spent several winters there himself, while they were outfitting the Pride and learning to use the artificial ATA gene that let him access most of the Ancient technology. It was bleak and dark, and he had always been too aware of the rock around him, no matter how many layers of bright tapestry or painted wallboard had been set up to hide the raw stone. But neither Wraith nor Lantean technology could penetrate those depths, and that was the Genii way, the choice that had saved their culture for millennia: hide, keep your secrets, and when you do fight, win.

  “Captain.” That was Orsolya Denes, the chief systems engineer, and a possible source of trouble. She wasn’t military — they had not been able to create an all-military crew, not when people first and foremost needed to possess the ATA gene in order to handle the Pride’s Ancient systems. She was, in fact, a scientist from the southern hemisphere, and rumor said she had belonged to General Karsci’s faction — but Karsci was allied with Chief Ladon now, and he was stuck with her as systems engineer. “The Ground Station says they’re ready to launch.”

  This was the final test of the Pride’s systems before they left orbit, one last canister of supplies and instrumentation tossed up at them to see if the Pride’s tractor beams could catch it. Or, more precisely, if the technicians who manned those stations could. “Sergeant?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sergeant Alters come to attention for an instant before he relaxed. ”Sir. All systems green. We’re ready when they are.”

  “Very good. Engineer, you may tell them we’re ready.”

  “Very good, sir.” Orsolya spoke quietly into her microphone, and glanced back at him again. “Countdown commenced.”

  Bartolan glanced at the third screen. Even with enhanced magnification, it was hard to make out the launch equipment, but he thought he could see a few unnaturally bright points in the sea of grass. Their equipment was mobile and well-camouflaged: no peace ever lasted long, and this latest truce was no exception, no matter what the Lanteans thought.

  “Launch detected,” the sensor technician announced, and Bartolan saw a point of flame blossom amid the grasses — the flames would be channeled to create the illusion of a natural burn, the Chief keeping as much hidden as possible.

  “We have it,” Alters said. “Tracking is green. Tractors, stand by.”

  The view in the main screen switched to focus on the rocket rising toward them, swelling from a pinpoint to a visible dot.

  “First stage burn complete,” Orsolya said. “First stage dropped.”

  “On target,” another technician said. “Trajectory nominal.”

  “Second stage dropped,” Orsolya said.

  “Tractors ready,” a junior technician said, and Alters leaned forward over his console.

  “On the line,” he announced. “In range in five… four… three… two… one — tractors on.”

  “Tractors on, aye,” the technician said, and Bartolan felt the Pride shudder lightly as both tractors came on line.

  “Oh, perfect catch!” Orsolya exclaimed, and there was a whoop of pleasure from a technician, instantly silenced.

  “We have the capsule,” Alters said. “Bringing it on board.”

  “Nicely done,” Bartolan said, and did nothing to stop the quick pattering of applause. The tractor crew had earned it.

  “Capsule is secure,” Alters reported. “All indicators show green — no damage to the cargo.”

  “Excellent.” If he knew Chief Ladon, Bartolan thought, there would be a jeroboam of aquavitae in that container, to toast their successes. “Open a channel to the field.”

  “Aye, sir.” One of the junior technicians bent over his console, frowning slightly. “Channel is open.”

  “Base, this is the Pride of the Genii,” Bartolan said. “Our last cargo container is safely on board. We are ready to begin our mission.”

  “Congratulations, Captain Bartolan.”

  The ship didn’t waste power or bandwidth on a visual transmission, but Bartolan recognized Ladon Radim’s voice, and had no trouble imag
ining the slightest of wry smiles almost hidden in the chief’s neatly trimmed beard. He, too, had been working for a long time to maneuver the Genii into their rightful position in the galaxy; this was as much a political triumph as scientific, and Bartolan grudged Ladon none of the credit.

  “We are standing on the brink of a historic venture for our people,” Ladon said. “For millennia, we have hidden ourselves and planned in secret, but now at last we will step into the light, and out among the stars themselves. Captain Bartolan, you have been authorized by myself and the Ruling Council to carry our good wishes to our allies throughout our sector of the galaxy — to demonstrate to them that we wish to work alongside them, as friends and benefactors. You carry our good will and the hope of the state, and we wish you all godspeed.”

  “Three cheers for the Chief!” Agoston Lavente, the first officer, called, and the cheers echoed throughout the ship, to be carried by the planetwide broadcast.

  “Stand by to get underway,” Bartolan said, and the pilot braced herself at her controls. It was unusual to have a woman pilot, but they were restricted to crew who either carried or could be given the Lanteans’ mysterious ATA gene, and she had proved worthy so far. “Base, we are ready to leave orbit.”

  “You may leave at will,” Base answered, and Bartolan nodded.

  “Pilot. Take us out of orbit. Plot your course for the programmed jump point.”

  “Aye, sir,” the pilot answered, and adjusted her controls. With the inertial dampeners in full effect, there was no sensation of movement, but in Bartolan’s screen the planet began to fall away. He caught a last glimpse of the mountains as they were suddenly crowned by flashes of gold and purple light — fireworks, he realized abruptly, a chain of light running along the peaks. The scientists had come out of their burrows, out onto the snowy slopes and ledges to set off fireworks in celebration and farewell.

  The crew quickly settled into their routine. No real surprise, Bartolan thought, they’d done enough test flights that everything felt thoroughly familiar. There was little conversation: everyone knew their jobs and could do them with the minimum of discussion. A runner brought a clipboard with a list of the last container’s contents; he skimmed through it — yes, there was the aquavitae; he would order it issued with tonight’s dinners, after they’d made their jump to hyperspace — and added his initials to the page. He handed it back, but the runner remained, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

  “Yes?” Bartolan raised an eyebrow.

  “Excuse me, sir, but there’s a sealed message for you. The Chief’s seal.”

  Bartolan stiffened, then made himself relax. Sealed messages were unlikely to be good news, but nothing good could come of being seen to worry. “Is it marked urgent?”

  “No, sir. Only—“ The runner stopped, flushing.

  “Take it to my cabin,” Bartolan said. “I’ll review it there.”

  “Yes, sir.” The runner backed away.

  Bartolan made himself relax into the captain’s chair, though the pleasure he had felt in the Pride’s smooth progress was considerably dimmed. Not urgent, he reminded himself, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t important. Anything the Chief wanted to convey privately was going to be bad news. And there were so many things that could go wrong… He had been lucky to be chosen as commander, particularly since the genetic therapy stolen from the Lanteans had only provided him with a weak version of the ATA gene. There were other officers — even other officers on board — who had a better connection with the ship, and who had seen themselves as candidates for the captaincy. Some of them might still be hoping to see him fail. But he had proved his loyalty to the Chief when they brought down Chief Cowen: he had earned this command, and he intended to keep it.

  At last the watch changed. He rose, stretching, handed over command to Joska Lorant, the ship’s navigation master, and made his way back to his cabin. He let the door slide shut behind him, staring at the packet lying in the center of his desk. The security film that wrapped it glinted where the light hit it, and Ladon’s seal glowed scarlet in the very center of the wrapped square. Bartolan locked the door behind him, and settled himself at the desk. The cabin was painfully small: there was barely room for anyone to walk between him and the bunk behind him, though that at least guaranteed that no assassin could attack him there. He took a deep breath, and worked his thumbnail under the seal. The security film’s tension relaxed with a snap, and he pried open a corner to free the contents.

  He had been expecting a data chip, or perhaps one of the various data drives that the scientists were now copying from the Lanteans. Instead, it was a piece of actual paper, folded six or seven times into a thick square. He unfolded it, frowning, to reveal a few lines of hand-written lettering.

  You have enemies on board. Trust no one.

  He stared at the message for a long moment, as though looking longer would make it turn into something more palatable. Of course he had enemies, no one who achieved any rank in the Genii military was without enemies, but he had thought most of his came from his loyalty to Ladon, not from anything personal. He had thought most of the military and the few civilians who held power in Ladon’s government had all agreed that this expedition was necessary. Even General Karsci had been persuaded to agree, and, more to the point, to allow some of his senior scientists to join the crew. Bartolan had been sure Karsci wouldn’t risk losing them.

  The writing was block printing, deliberately unidentifiable, but Ladon’s seal meant that the warning had come from within the Chief’s household, and possibly directly from the Chief himself. Or at least that was what someone wanted him to think: once you started questioning, you couldn’t stop, and the ground turned to quicksand beneath your feet. He would assume Ladon had sent it until proven otherwise.

  He reached for the message and began methodically to tear it into pieces, in half, in half again, and on and on until he had reduced it to confetti. He swept the pieces together and opened the door to the tiny toilet compartment, then dropped the pieces into the disposal and pressed the button that swirled them away into the reducing tanks. He would have to talk to Agosten, he thought; the first officer would need to know in case something happened to him. Orsolya was one of Karsci’s people, and she was an engineer; Joska was military, but had been part of General Dolos’s staff before he took the gene therapy. However, he would probably be wise to mention the threat to Hajnal Mista, the captain of the gun crew tasked with defending the ship. But not just yet. Not until he was sure which of them was loyal. Instead, he stretched out on his bunk, lifting one arm to cover his eyes. The words seemed to hover in the air before him.

  Trust no one.

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS SUNNY, for once, and technical teams were swarming over Atlantis’s occupied buildings, seizing the moment of good weather to do repairs that had been neglected through the planet’s long winter. It was, in fact, far too good a day to waste in yet another briefing, and John Sheppard was doing his best to get everyone through the agenda as efficiently as possible. He squinted at his tablet, displaying yet another set of schematics, and looked back at the main screen to see the same image projected there. Rodney McKay waved a hand at one of the structures beneath the North Tower.

  “— might be able to pull some nonessential parts from here to test our ability to duplicate parts of the Ancient technology.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Radek Zelenka roll his eyes, but the engineer made no objection. Beside him, Ronon Dex was staring into space, his mind visibly on whatever he was planning to do after the meeting ended. John tapped his tablet, shrinking the image and returning to the agenda. “OK, Rodney, go ahead.”

  “I also think—“McKay stopped. “Wait, what did you say?”

  “He said yes,” Zelenka said. “Take it while you can.”

  “Oh.” McKay sat down abruptly. “Well. Good then.”

  John glanced at his tablet again, confirming the list. “Right. If no one else has anythi
ng…”

  Ronon’s chair scraped against the floor as he pushed back from the table, then stopped abruptly as another voice spoke.

  “Actually, there is one piece of new business.” That was Teyla Emmagan, sitting at the far end of the table. She gave him an apologetic smile. “Atlantis has received an invitation from Ladon Radim. It seems that the Genii are celebrating one of their major holidays — Foundation Day — and they would welcome a delegation from Atlantis. The Ancient warship that we recovered for them is to be involved, and I think they would like us to see it.”

  “They’d like to show off, you mean,” John said. The Avenger — the Genii might have renamed it, but he couldn’t think of it as anything but its Ancient name — was something of a sore point. Ladon Radim had backed them into a corner, so that they had not only been forced to initialize the Ancient systems for him, but to let him keep the Ancient warship. At the time, it had seemed safe enough, but the Genii had figured out a way to create an artificial ATA gene, and the ship had taken part in the battle against Queen Death with a mixed Genii and Lantean crew to handle the systems. “I don’t suppose they said what they’re doing with the ship?”

  Teyla shook her head. “Unfortunately they did not. Though Chief Ladon was at his most persuasive.”

  “That’s never a good sign,” McKay said.

  “You can’t trust them,” Ronon said.

  “Shall I play the message?” Teyla tipped her head to one side, not quite hiding her smile.

  “Please.” John leaned forward as the screen lit, static resolving to a neatly-bearded face above a faultless olive-green uniform. The Chief of the Genii smiled out at them. It was an expression John had always mistrusted, and he felt a chill on the back of his neck. The Genii always had a hidden agenda.

  “We send greetings to Atlantis,” Ladon said, “and extend an invitation for you to join us to celebrate Foundation Day. This is our traditional holiday celebrating the unification of various warring tribes under our first Chief. This year we are also celebrating the first independent voyage of the Pride of the Genii. As Atlantis was instrumental in helping us retrieve and repair our ship, we would like to demonstrate the use we’ve made of your generous assistance. We would deeply regret it if you were unable to join us in affirming our alliance.”