Melissa Scott - The Inheritors

"Do you not?" Alabaster said, spreading her hands from her sides, one toward Waterlight and one toward Teyla. "Perhaps you should look again."

His regard shifted to Waterlight and then to Teyla.

“Do you not?” she said softly, mind to mind. “Do you not see me?”

The Old One stopped, his eyes narrowing, and in that moment she saw what he saw, a young woman, dark skinned and fine boned, her black clothes stained from battle and her weapon at her side, the tenor of her mind sharp as bone. She was Osprey and not Osprey, fresh from the mayhem of a boarding party as Osprey had been in those first days, and yet not. Her face, her eyes, were human and like Osprey's own, like Osprey grown up on Athos and never transformed, Osprey left whole, her memories intact and her body unchanged.

“Yes,” Teyla said. “I am Osprey's human daughter, and I stand with my sisters.”

His eyes searched her face. “You cannot exist,” he said.

“But I do.” Her words were as heavy as her implacable truth.

“You are Abomination,” he said.

“I?” Teyla took a step toward him, and anger sang through her, sweet and true. “You dare say that, who were Kairos? You, who killed your own wife and drank her life? Who have murdered again and again, from one end of the galaxy to the other? You, who incited Death to war against her own kind and who slaughtered the peoples of many worlds not for your hunger but for your sport? You call me Abomination? You dare do such when the blood of the Manarians and the Tricti and all the rest cry out in anguish for justice?” She raised her hand without thinking, as though there were a feeding slit there that could take his life.

Alabaster and Waterlight did not move. “When you killed my Father,” Waterlight said. “The last of your murders.”

He stood still. Even his eyes did not waver from Teyla's face. “I have done what must be done,” he said. “The Ancients must die for their crimes.”

Alabaster laughed. She shook her head, long red hair falling over her shoulders. “Old fool,” she said. “The Ancients are dead. They are gone thousands of years, every single one who harmed you. Yes, they were guilty. And they are dead. Their bones are dust and their names are gone. You are telling fables of a time that is no more, fighting shadows instead of living in the world that is.” She stepped forward, shaking her head. “Look at me. I am not Osprey. I do not live in Osprey's world. That past is done and gone. I am concerned with the world to come.”

His mental voice was stern. “We must never forget.”

“Yes,” Alabaster said. “We must.”

Teyla's hand was shaking. If she could feed, oh if she could, in that moment she would drink his life and it would be right. Every last broken body left amid the ruins of their homes on Manaria, every one of their people fallen in the attack on Atlantis….

“He is yours,” Alabaster said to her. “Your people have suffered most recently. His life is yours to take.”

“You give me to the Abomination?” the Old One snapped.

Waterlight's voice sounded choked, her face pale. “Will you not repent of your wrongs even now?”

“I am not wrong,” he said. “And you doom your people, little fool!” He raised his head, standing unflinching before Teyla. “Go on then, Abomination! Do what you wish.”

And like a tide it seeped out of her, all the vast anger that had risen, leaving only sorrow. “No,” Teyla said. “I will not. I will not have blood for blood. I will not take revenge. Let your hate end here, and may your anger become nothing but a sad relic of days that are past.” She took a deep breath, tears starting behind her eyes, but there was Waterlight at her side, a choking lump in her throat for her father, but clean and clear.

Waterlight's fingers brushed hers, a quiet comment aside. “I think you are right,” she said. “Let it end.”

“If I had a daughter,” Teyla Emmagan thought, “I would wish she were just like you.”

Waterlight smiled, quick and fleeting. “Perhaps you will,” she said.

“I remand you to the custody of my sisters,” Teyla said to the Old One. “May you face Queen's judgment. Do with him as you wish, sisters. I am done.”

I am done , she thought, and I will go home to Atlantis .

John opened his eyes, letting himself ride up and out of the city’s embrace. It let him go willingly enough, the data pooled and ready for any possible question, and he focused on the displays, the conversations surrounding him. Death’s hives were either destroyed or drifting, and somewhere in the background he thought he heard Alabaster’s calm voice accepting someone’s surrender, the transmission relayed to Atlantis for their benefit. O’Neill was talking to Lorne, the Pride of the Genii reporting its damage and its losses. Death was dead, and Teyla was safe and unharmed and Cadman with her; two Marines were dead and more injured, but that was better than he’d dared hope. The 302 losses were worse, a voice John didn’t recognize reciting the dead and injured. Guide’s voice, asking permission to remain in orbit while his people sorted out their ships. And now Carter, brisk and confident.

“— Picked up Dr. Zelenka and Dr. Robinson and the missing Wraith Guide was worried about. And we have Dr. McKay, though we’re not entirely sure how he got here —“

McKay? John sat up sharply. “McKay’s alive?”

The city found video feeds, presented him with a picture of Carter frowning through hazy air, the hair at her forehead damp with sweat. “That’s right, Colonel,” she said, with that familiar grin that said they’d gotten away with something. “He’s in my sickbay with a broken wrist, but otherwise he’s none the worse for wear.”

McKay wasn’t dead. John felt a grin of his own spreading across his face. He didn’t care how — didn’t really care about anything except the simple indisputable fact. Neither of them had paid the price this time. “That’s good,” he said, knowing the words were hopelessly inadequate. “That’s great.”

“Yeah.” Carter’s grin widened.

“What’s Atlantis’s status?” Woolsey asked, and John shook himself back to the business at hand, the readings jumping to present themselves.

“Shields are at about seventy percent. The East Pier maneuver engine is still out, but we have better control now that nobody’s shooting at us.”

“Can we land the city?” O’Neill asked.

John considered, the answer coming not from the displays but directly through the chair, as though he could feel the damage like bruises on his own skin. There would be work to be done, but the repulsors were all still intact, and there was plenty of power left in the ZPMs. The repaired conduit was fragile, but holding, and the city projected that it would not need to use more than those repairs could stand. In fact, the sooner they were down and could lower the shield, the sooner they could reroute power around the damaged areas. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Take her home,” O’Neill said.

John relaxed into the chair’s embrace, easing the city down through the layers of the atmosphere, bleeding speed against the night sky, the aurora leaping around them. If there had been anyone to see, Atlantis would have blazed like a comet, friction flaming bright against the shields, more massive than any meteor, trailing dark smoke across the stars. Now the aurora flashed cold around him, the shields trailing streamers of blue and green and scarlet. He held the city steady, balanced against gravity, the lines of force holding them safe, the fragile towers cradled at the still center where all the forces intersected.

And then they had slowed enough, dropped below the level of the aurora, and ahead the horizon glowed white as they rushed toward the dawn. This time, there was plenty of power, plenty of time to choose his line, to find his perfect landing spot, the city laying out the pattern as though he had all the time in the world. The sun was rising, the city sailing to meet it around the curve of the world, the ocean stretching clear and empty as he brought the city gently down to meet the waves. Atlantis struck, slowed and settled, the water heaving away from her blue and foam-streaked in the new light. Satisfaction filled him, his own, the city’s, mingled and indistinguishable, the job well done at last..