Jo Graham - Secrets

Rodney tucked it into his jacket and strode off down the hall. There were a lot better hiding places in Atlantis than the one Sheppard had picked, ones that were a lot less obvious. Of course it was at the top of one of his favorite towers! But if Sheppard didn’t know where it was, it wouldn’t matter if things went sour.

He had no illusions he’d be able to hide it from Alabaster, but she wouldn’t ask him. He was just a cleverman, not the Consort of Atlantis. For a moment he imagined how the touch of her mind on his would feel, not angry and prying, but alive with pleasure and admiration at his foresight and genius…

Rodney pushed the buttons for the transport chamber. He’d stow this somewhere safe, somewhere no one would ever find besides him. Yes, McKay would save the day again. That’s what it would all come down to as usual. The door slid shut, and Rodney smiled.

The Old One woke from a dream of Athos, of the city of Emege and its proud towers, its streets strewn with petals in the wake of a spring dance, laughter and song ringing in his ears. He had last seen it beneath the Ancients’ failing shield, had left with the fleet before the Culling began, and he sat for a moment, breathing hard, until his thoughts steadied again. This was what it meant to be old, to be eldest of an immortal people: the memories became endless, too, and there was no escaping them. Especially not in dream. Osprey had been of Athos, too, and her face was in his mind as he rose from his nest, summoned a young blade to comb and dress his hair. Highflight was neat-handed, effaced himself even as he worked, and the Old One nodded his approval.

*You may go.*

*Your pardon,” Highflight said. *But — a message has just arrived.*

The Old One glanced toward the nearest screen, waved his hand to light it. Sure enough, a strand of data glimmered in the depths, and he nodded. *Very well.*

Highflight bowed again, and backed away, letting the chamber door close behind him, and the Old One frowned at the glowing characters. The message had come by roundabout methods, though he thought he could guess the source. He touched keys, entering codes to unlock the first layer of encryption, then entered the next combinations one after the other. At last the message blossomed, gold text on a dark screen, and he caught his breath as he read.

Hyperion’s weapon. He closed his eyes, seeing again the ocean cliffs, the stone tower, the watery sheen of the naqadah as he turned it over and over in his hands. They had tried to destroy it, he had tried to destroy it, with increasing desperation, but nothing he had imagined had proved enough even to damage it. He had known when they sealed it away that it was not enough, that someday it would reappear to menace them. The Lanteans had it now, and eventually they would use it. Oh, they might hesitate for the moment, for the sake of those among them who shared some part of the Wraith DNA, but in the end, they were the Ancients’ children. They could not help but use it, not just to save themselves, that was Guide’s mistake, but because they were bound by their heritage as surely as were the Wraith themselves.

But at least that hesitation might save his people. He had not wanted to move so quickly, needed time to bring the wavering hives under Death’s sway, but if the Lanteans had the weapon… They must attack now, before the humans decided to betray their alliance with Guide.

He glanced at his reflection in the sliver of mirror the ship obligingly provided. He had never been a beauty, but he had his pride, and Highflight had done well by him, brought his thin hair into decent order. The cut of his coat was good, gave an illusion of height and strength that he no longer fully possessed. It was possible, he supposed, that he would eventually age further — but none of them would live that long, if he did not act. He snarled at his reflection, and turned back to the console to summon the master of Death’s household.

*Tell the queen that I request an audience, on a matter of great urgency. With her alone.*

Death admitted him at once, Mist shooing out a bevy of clevermen, and following them out without complaint when he was not invited to remain. The zenana was otherwise empty, just Death standing beside her throne, her back to the door, one hand resting on the high wing of bone that flanked her seat. In the moment, she looked as young as she was, barely out of her girlhood, bold and strong and desperately inexperienced. An older, wiser queen might have dissembled with her enemies, the Old One thought, might have drawn them in first, made sure she had them all, wrapped them up for the kill, but such a one could never have united so many disparate hives under her banner. Death was what she was, and there was no going back.

*My queen,* he said, and made his deepest bow.

Death turned, her head lifting, but he had seen the moment of exhaustion in her golden eyes. Still, her tone was light, almost caressing, and she relaxed gracefully into her throne. *My Old One. What is it that requires a private audience?*

*No good news, I fear.*

She was still for a moment, and then shook her head with a smile. *And when was it ever? Say on.*

And that was what he had loved in her from the moment he had met her, that willingness to face all dangers head on. *My queen,* he said again. *I asked to meet with you alone because this involves the history I have shared with you and no other, how we who are Wraith were made.*

*It is well, then, to discuss this privately,* Death said.

*Before we escaped, the First Mothers and their men, the Ancients had already begun to fear us,* the Old One said. *They had begun work on a weapon that would act against us and us alone, targeting those of us who carried the genetic markers they had used to change us. They had built a prototype, and that prototype — we stole it when we escaped.*

*And did not destroy it, or you would not be here now,* Death said. “Fool —*

*We could not,* the Old One said. *Believe me, I tried. I and all our clevermen, and nothing we did even scratched its surface. Nor could we open it, to destroy its works, and we did not dare abandon it, for fear the Ancients would find it again and turn it on us.*

*They could not rebuild it?* Death asked. Her anger had faded, he saw; she was listening with care.

*We killed Hyperion who built it,* the Old One answered. *And destroyed his records. There was no other who could duplicate his work.*

Death nodded. *Go on.*

The Old One took a breath. *My queen, the weapon has been found. It is in the hands of the Lanteans.*

Death snarled, showing all her teeth, her hands closing on the arms of her throne. *How has this been allowed to happen? Why did you not tell me of this, so we might recover it, protect it from the humans?*

*I believed we were safest with it lost and unknown,* the Old One answered. *What only one man knew to exist could not, I thought, be searched for.*

*You were wrong,* Death snapped. *And do you suggest we simply sit and await our destruction?*

*No, my queen,* the Old One said. *The Lanteans do not yet know how to use it, and I do not believe they will use it immediately. Thanks to — certain experiments in the past — there are humans who carry our DNA, and the Lanteans are tender of such. If nothing else, there is McKay to consider. They will wish to spare him if they can. It is my belief that if we act now, attack in strength and in concert, we can take them unaware, and destroy them before they have a chance to learn to use the weapon.*

Death leaned back in her throne again, her face like a mask of stone. *You said before we did not have the ships or the men for such a venture.*

*I don’t know if we do,* the Old One said. *But, my queen, we cannot wait. Our hand is forced.*