The device, resembling a compact computer, let out a short beep in Misha's hands. Alfar, pulling down his shirt to cover his exposed back, turned half-around. His inexperienced assistant stared at the device's screen, biting his lower lip.
"Is it bad?" Jensen asked.
"Let's just say it can't be removed without surgery. And I," he cracked his neck, "as you know, am not a surgeon."
"And also not a pilot, not a soldier, and I think that list doesn't end there," the Runner said with a twitch of his cheek. "How bad is it?"
"You can see for yourself." Misha turned the palmtop's screen toward him. The former soldier looked at the white schematic of structures resembling a human skeleton. And at the reddish matter that had grown like bush roots, entwining some parts of the bones.
"I'm not a medic either," the Runner admitted. "I know the beacon somehow attached itself to my body. The doctors I met said it couldn't be removed without killing me or crippling me."
"That's probably true," the guy agreed. "At least under our conditions."
"Then let's not waste time," Alvar decided. "We tried, it didn't work. We need to figure out an escape plan before the Wraith show up. Maybe your people can help me. I need to reach them."
"Slow down, my impulsive friend," Misha asked. "We," he emphasized the word, "aren't going anywhere — walking or flying — while that thing inside you is active."
"Afraid the Wraith will follow? Fair point."
"Going home with two Hives and a swarm of Wraiths on my tail isn't how I planned to finish this mission," Misha admitted. He shot a quick glance at the virtual screen. Confirmed that no red dots had appeared yet, and visibly relaxed.
His nervousness gave away his inexperience.
Not in terms of personality — in handling the technology available to him. He could shoot, and clearly wasn't bad at it. But it was like he hadn't held a weapon in a very long time. Or his pistol was unfamiliar to him.
The ship was the same — he could use it, but there was a hesitancy to his movements. Like he lacked practice. Or, worse, he had never operated a craft like this before.
Under other circumstances, Jensen would never have trusted a man like this. But apparently, his options were limited. He genuinely hoped that even a simpleton who owned a ship like this could find a new solution.
And it seemed one had already formed. Not in the "pilot's" mind, but in the Runner's own.
"How about we go straight through?" Jensen asked. "We get to the Ring of the Ancients, dial your world's address, call your comrades for help. If we had a dozen ships like this, we'd blast our way through. And if infantry with weapons like that backed us up," he nodded toward the energy pistol lying on the floor, "the Wraith wouldn't stand a chance."
"Won't work," Misha said.
"Why not?"
"Because we're not contacting anyone until we solve our problem and get off this planet."
"And if we can't?"
"Then I know a group of people who'll be very unhappy with my failure," Misha smirked.
"Could they help you?"
"No. We have... a complicated relationship. Let's call it that."
"I see," the former soldier summed up. "So we're at a dead end."
"I didn't say that," the guy objected. "We have an option."
"I suggested you leave and draw the Wraith away," Alvar reminded him. "You refused. Right now we're just wasting time when we could already be — "
"Listen, my hasty friend," his new acquaintance's voice took on a firm note. "I need to get off this planet just as badly as you do — and as far away as possible. And believe me, I have very serious reasons for that. But we're stuck until we deal with your transmitter. The only way we're leaving here is together. If you're in that much of a hurry, I'll drop you off on the first planet we come across — but only after we've left Sudaria."
"You mean Dagan," Alvar corrected him. "This planet is called Dagan."
He didn't dwell on why his companion was unwilling to take the risk. Everyone has their own reasons. Apparently, Misha wasn't about to leave him at the Wraith's mercy. Probably figuring that when the Runner was captured — and sooner or later, it would happen — he'd talk about him, his weapon, and his ship. Technology of this level wasn't just a threat to the Wraith — it was a direct call for the annihilation of the race that built it.
On Alvar's planet, people had learned to split the atom, built weapons factories, produced space fighters to resist the Wraith during the next harvest. But they couldn't do a thing against even a single Hive Ship when it started bombarding them from orbit.
They'd fought desperately, to the last drop of blood, the last pilot, the last gunner, the last fighter — and it hadn't stopped the Wraith. If they'd had more time, maybe there would have been more fighters, and the enemy's "arrows" wouldn't have rained down on them like fire from heaven.
"I'm not going to argue about planet names," Misha waved his hand, unwinding a bit of wire and trying to cut it with the blade. Predictably, it didn't work. The metal grade used in the wire made that impossible. "Uh... can you help?"
"Do you have another plan for getting rid of this thing in my back?"
"I planned to do it this way from the start, but I was hoping the device hadn't grown that much yet," the new acquaintance explained. "I need two pieces of wire about this long."
He spread his hands about twenty to twenty-five centimeters apart.
"Easy," Alvar agreed. "Give me the knife."
Gripping the weapon by the blade, Misha handed it back. Jensen twisted the bottom of the handle, lifted a small cover, and threaded the wire through the opening. He rotated the handle's end cap, and hidden sharp edges — concealed when the weapon was in one position — cut through the wire. Then he repeated the process.
"Done."
"Great. Now give the knife back."
Tossing the weapon in his hand so the handle faced forward, the Runner offered the blade.
"What are you doing?" he asked, watching Misha flip his compact computer over, pry off the back cover with the blade, and snap it off. Snapped it, not pried it open or lifted it.
Seems like he didn't understand much about the technology he was using.
"The transmitter they implanted in your back sends a signal through subspace."
"What's that?"
"Subspace?" Misha clarified without looking up from his work — he was pulling components out of the handheld and laying them out beside him.
"That's right. My people had chronicles saying the Ancients used to build ships that flew through hyperspace," Jensen explained, watching Misha scan the first device's parts with a second device. "My people hoped to uncover that secret, but we didn't have time."
"Seems like you were pretty well developed," Misha noted, smiling when the device beeped next to one of the components from the other handheld.
It looked like a rectangular battery — the kind used in his world to power small devices — with two protruding contacts on opposite sides. And to those contacts, clearly charged oppositely, Misha was now attaching the free ends of the wires.
"We made a lot of scientific breakthroughs since the last harvest," Jensen admitted. "They considered us a major threat."
"Your people were taken?"
"First they destroyed everything on my planet. They gathered whoever they could; the rest were killed during the capture."
"I thought the Wraith didn't kill people," Misha admitted. "No offense, but that's impractical for a species that feeds on humans."
"And it's dangerous to leave anyone alive. A civilization can rebuild its potential and become more dangerous after they go back into hibernation. Though hibernation didn't protect us. The chronicles claimed the Wraith don't visit our planet during hibernation, but they came."
"The Hive that was hunting you?"
"Apparently, yes."
"Was it just one Hive?" genuine interest crept into the guy's voice.
"They had a lot of 'arrows'."
"I get that. But you see, every Hive has a Queen who keeps at least a few cruisers to protect the Hive Ship. From what I know, they prefer to stick together. You saw it yourself when the second Hive arrived."
"Well, the first one didn't have those cruisers," the Runner repeated. "What you said about Queens matches our chronicles. But I never saw a Queen on board. A commander spoke on her behalf; he was the one running everything."
"I'm just making conversation," my companion shrugged. "You know, we've got a pretty tricky procedure ahead of us. I'd like us to trust each other at least a little. And talking is the best way to build understanding."
"Or to waste time on empty chatter."
"Also true. Done," Misha showed off his strange contraption. "I think with this we'll get rid of the tracker."
"What's that for?" Alvar tensed.
"If we can't cut out the transmitter, we can deactivate it by cooking it thoroughly," Misha said. After performing some manipulations on his compact computer, he displayed a small, relatively detailed image of a round disc with several tendrils. "This is the transmitter the Wraith implanted in your back. They positioned it so you couldn't cut it out yourself."
Wraith subspace transmitter.
"In the picture you showed before, it looked bigger," Alvar noted. "More... fleshy."
"Yes, it did," the guy shot a quick look at the control panel. Worried someone might have crept up on the ship and caught them off guard. "But that was its original version. After implantation, it starts growing throughout the body. I think it's designed so that even if the main part is removed or damaged, the rest of the transmitter can still broadcast the subspace signal. Maybe not as strong, but it won't throw them off the trail."
"The Wraith take everyone who helps me," Jensen said. "If I stop for even one night, one day, they show up."
"Always with the Hive?" Misha asked with interest.
"Only a few times. Mostly it's arrows with boarding parties. The Hive shows up a few days later if I manage to hold out on a planet that long."
"And how long were you here?"
"No longer than on other planets. I heard there used to be monks from the Brotherhood of Quindozium here. Rumor had it they had some kind of power."
"And you thought it might help you?"
"In my position, you have to use every opportunity."
"I agree," Misha nodded.
"So what about the transmitter? I get that you want to shock it. Why?"
"Wraith technology is bionic — a mix of biological and mechanical components. Their devices have batteries, like this," he pointed to his creation. "I think if we apply voltage to the tracker, we'll fry the power source and make the transmitter useless."
"So it'll stop broadcasting the signal?" Alvar perked up. What luck!
"In theory," Misha admitted.
"Meaning you've never done this in practice?" Jensen returned the knife to its original state and put it away.
"Do you think I travel to other planets every day, interfere with Wraith affairs, rescue fugitives with subspace beacons in their backs, and perform surgery on them?" the new acquaintance smirked.
Sarcasm practically oozed from his words.
"I'd feel better if that were the case," Jensen admitted. "I don't want to end up crippled."
"Risk is voluntary," Misha said. "It's either this, or you keep relying on luck. So?"
"What do I need to do?"
"Turn your back, give me the knife, and... pray to whatever gods your people have, if they have any."
Alvar simply turned his bare back in silence.
* * *
I'd cut into flesh before, of course.
And in most cases in my life, that flesh was already dead. Or I'd made it that way. There were plenty of times when I'd had to cut into fellow soldiers in the field to save their lives.
But those were different conditions. Field medicine in my time wasn't that advanced, sure, but with time served comes necessary experience. Interacting with more experienced comrades helped improve my survival skills.
Now I was about to perform a medical intervention on an alien human's body with a knife that had been disinfected with nothing more than water from a canteen. And all this on the floor of an alien aircraft millions and billions of kilometers from the planet I was born on.
My toolkit: a knife, a scanner. My anesthesia: sheer grit. An antiseptic prayer was hardly useful equipment either. And who knew when the Wraith would pick up our trail again.
Sure, what could be simpler?
Honestly, the ease with which Alvar decided to trust me with this grated on me. Baring his back to a complete stranger, putting his own knife in my hands...
You need a lot of courage for that.
Or recklessness. Who knows — maybe I'm the local equivalent of the "little grey men" and I've already got chloroform and an anal probe ready?
But something told me the Runner was simply taking a chance that didn't come often. In this galaxy, there's a direct, open threat — the Wraith. They're the enemy of all humans in the galaxy. And people know it. So, from what Jensen said, helping a human in trouble is common among the local people who are at least a little more developed than simple hunter-gatherers.
Thanks to the scanner, I knew to the millimeter where to make the incision. Cut through the flesh, go through the muscles to the spine, and use one alien technology to fry another. What could be simpler?
Why bother helping this man?
At first glance, I didn't need him at all. Just some random guy who happened to be nearby. It could turn out he wasn't even who he claimed to be. Maybe he was a Wraith trap, one of their servants or worshipers?
Maybe.
But that doesn't hold up.
The circumstances of our meeting were far from ideal, sure. But the very fact that I'd arrived on a planet where he was already being hunted spoke for itself. If the Wraith knew Atlantis wasn't abandoned, they wouldn't have put on a show like this. Especially on a planet I might not have even ended up on.
No, I think this guy is a real fugitive.
Which means he has a motive to hate the Wraith.
His planet is destroyed, its population turned into feed for the pale-faced cosplayers of early 2000s goths. He has no home, no friends, no support.
He's alone. And I'm alone.
But I can offer him shelter, weapons, and equipment. At the very least, the Ancient blaster interested him. No wonder — that kind of power. He didn't see through my little lie about all the technology requiring the Gene to work, so at the very least, we can exchange information in return for help.
Despite my stock of Jumpers, I couldn't give him one of those ships. He's supposedly a pilot, but he wouldn't be able to operate it without me. A blaster "with a few minor tweaks," though — he might appreciate that as a valuable gift.
In return, I could get the information I needed.
Gate addresses of worlds with peaceful farmers and agrarians who could supply me with food, for example. The Athosians, in the events I knew, practically worshipped the Ancients, hated the Wraith, and would readily make contact for the sake of safe shelter. And there could be dozens of peoples like that.
Atlantis's address database is ten thousand years out of date. I can't check who's living on those planets now without reconnaissance. And doing it myself, regularly leaving the city empty, isn't the best option.
If I had an ally who wouldn't betray me, things would go much faster.
And by "things," I mean the actual work I came here to do.
Ancient technology, even ships like Atlantis, can be operated by one person. Given a few years, I could learn their knowledge, repair the city on my own, find more ZPMs, head to the Milky Way, find out everything, and... I don't know what comes after "and" yet.
But that's not rational.
In the events I know, as soon as Atlantis surfaced on the planet, the Wraith landed a boarding party in the city during a raid. Hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers wandering through the city, feeding on people — that's one hell of a scenario.
I need allies.
I have a rough idea of how to secure help from advanced people in this galaxy, but it all comes down to resources and having assistance. I recall that the Expedition, even with help and information about the galaxy from the Athosians, regularly got into trouble. And barely got out of it. Sometimes it took an entire squad or the whole population of Atlantis to help.
If I'm alone, it's going to be rough. I can't stay under the protection of a personal shield all the time — my whole body is already itchy, and my hair is standing on end. That technology, like many others, isn't designed to work continuously.
So, I should at least try to recruit this guy as an ally. He's from an advanced world, a former military man who knows a lot. He could teach me to fly and introduce me to other inhabitants of the galaxy. Not to mention that something interesting might have survived on his world.
Take his weapon, for instance. The knife I was now driving into his skin. Effortlessly, like a surgical scalpel, it parted his flesh. A little blood wasn't going to be a problem for me.
At the same time, I noted that the knife wasn't just a crude "stamp." It was clearly factory-made. And not just any factory — they'd thought through almost every detail.
A comfortable handle, a sturdy blade, an edge sharp as a razor. Plus a wire cutter built into the handle. All this pointed to the creators having put real thought into their product.
And that was a very good sign.
Internet image. Let's say Alvar Jensen's knife looks something like this.
His assault rifle, meanwhile, was also a pretty interesting piece of weaponry. I'd only seen a few types of local firearms in the series. And what Alvar used didn't resemble any of them.
More like a hybrid of Earth's FAMAS made with composite materials. Which in itself was a very, very good sign in terms of their scientific development.
The series showed very few races that could match or surpass Earth in technological level. The Wraith never allowed it, because an advanced civilization is a threat.
And here...
Honestly, I didn't know if I'd find more Ancient weapons or ammunition for them on Atlantis, or if I'd be able to recharge the crystals once their power ran out. But if there was a source of more familiar firearms — ones I knew from my youth, even if only by appearance — that would be a great help to my plans.
Sure, you can't kill a Wraith with one or two bullets. But a short burst? Absolutely.
Jensen's assault rifle.
"What are you fiddling around with back there?" the Runner grumbled. "We don't have much time."
"Do you want to get rid of this thing, or spend the rest of your life as a bug-eyed paralyzed freak?" I asked, using the back of the blade to push the muscles aside. It didn't work very well.
I'd have to do it differently.
Concentrating, I activated the personal shield. I'd turned it off as soon as I got on the ship — I didn't have spares, and I didn't feel like empirically testing how long this one's charge would last. Not to mention I didn't know how to recharge it, or if it was even possible.
I slipped my fingers into the wound, straining to separate the back muscles from the material of the subspace transmitter. The Wraith had anchored it so the power source sat closer to the spine. A smart move if you don't want the device to fall out if the runner takes a tumble. Or protection against an easy way to disable the transmitter.
"Are you shoving wires into my back?" the Runner's voice came.
"I'm going to short-circuit the transmitter's power cell," I had to explain why I'd inserted one of the contacts into the wound. "The overload should fry it and make the device useless."
"Couldn't you just hand me the contacts?" Jensen asked. "If you need an electric shock..."
In the series, they'd performed a similar procedure with a defibrillator. But I didn't have that kind of equipment on hand. In the absence of the real thing... I'm disassembling a highly complex extraterrestrial handheld.
The Runner's suggestion was the most sensible, of course. But not knowing his physiology or the battery's charge, I could actually stop his heart. And according to the scanner data, there was a dielectric layer between the transmitter's power cell and the spine.
At least, if I understood the translation correctly.
"Everything will be fine," I lied.
Worst case, this guy could die. But if it worked...
The moment I connected the second contact to the tracker's power source, the Runner arched his back. There was a flash of a short circuit, the smell of burning, and my shield absorbed energy for an instant.
I pulled out the wires and, ignoring the man grinding his teeth, brought the scanner to his back.
The device read new data; an image of the spine and the enemy device appeared... But now it was highlighted in dark gray, not red. And the text in Ancient genuinely cheered me up.
"It worked," I exhaled. "The device is inactive."
"I thought you were trying to fry me," the Runner picked himself up off the floor and reached for his back. Predictably, he only succeeded in getting his hand bloody. "You didn't just temporarily disable it, did you?"
I didn't think Wraith technology was good enough to survive that and recover.
"We'll check in a little while," I promised. Looking at the virtual screen, I noticed several red dots nearby. "Wraith are close. Time to go."
"Agreed."
While the Runner tore his shirt into makeshift bandages for the wound, I returned to the pilot's seat. Not too gracefully, but I got the Jumper airborne, checked that the cloak was working, then shot off at maximum speed away from where the Wraith might have picked up the beacon's last signal.
At the same time, I launched the scanners and couldn't help but react to what I got.
"How bad is it?" Jensen asked, sitting down next to me.
"One of the Hives in orbit is gone," I explained. "There are way fewer 'arrows' only about ten. And they're scouting far from us. Looks like they're checking out the site where the dungeon roof collapsed."
"The one you climbed out of?" the now-former Runner clarified.
"Exactly. But we're not going there," I decided.
"Why? Maybe there's something useful there?"
"There's nothing there but dust and the mustiness of ages," I replied, steering the Jumper toward the Gate.
The plan, aside from meeting Jensen, had worked perfectly.
By scanning the ground and boosting the sensors with massive energy drain from the Jumper's power source, I'd detected cavities away from the stone structure. Quite a few cavities. But only one had a perfectly rectangular geometric shape, indicating it was artificial.
That was a sign.
Having blown open the roof so none of the wide walls were damaged, I descended through the resulting trench. And I almost immediately found what I was looking for. A room carved into the earth, its walls lined with clay bricks. In the center stood a pedestal with a platform on which you had to assemble tiles in a specific order. And the tiles themselves were scattered all over the area. I had absolutely no desire to search for them.
According to the Brotherhood's logic — or whoever created this trap for them — each tile had a number, from one to nine. You had to arrange them so that each side added up to a specific number. Only then would the ZPM hidden in the stucco on the wall reveal itself to the world.
A shot from the series. This is what the stucco looked like. Five circles around a central element looked like the end face of a ZPM.
Reasoning that it was unlikely the Ancients were involved in creating this trial, I recalled that the ZPM was behind one of those five circular covers. It immediately reminded me of the five ZPMs Janus had promised the expedition leader...
Five there, five here... A coincidence?
Honestly, I really hoped not. So, as I knocked off the circular covers, I hoped to find more than one power source there. No luck. Four of the decorative circles were just patterns with no cavities behind them to hide a ZPM.
But the fifth...
ZPM in a cell on the stucco.
A shame I didn't get all five, but even one would be enough for a while. About three thousand years or so. Of course, if I didn't use the city's systems.
Right now, one of the most powerful energy storage devices in this galaxy — and in the neighboring one, too — was sitting in a locker in the ship's cargo bay.
The closer I flew to the Gate, the more anxious I got. Now that the danger of being tracked was gone, I wanted nothing more than to get back to the city as fast as possible.
"No Wraith at the Gate," Alvar noted.
I didn't see any red dots on the ground or in the air either. What's more — the Gate was offline. Sure, there were two arrows a kilometer away, and about half a klick from them was a group of Wraith infantry. But there was no way they could intercept us.
"Your ship flies through the Ring of the Ancients, right?" the former Runner asked. "Looks like it should fit by size. And the dialing device here isn't just for decoration," he pointed at the console with symbols separating us.
"Not just for decoration," I agreed. "Do you know the addresses of any planets where there definitely aren't any Wraith?"
"I won't promise, but things seem quiet around the Jedi..."
The Runner reached for the keys, but I grabbed his hand.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Genii are out," I explained. "Any other places?"
"What, are you scared of farmers?" Jensen asked in surprise. "Genii are peaceful folks, they grow beans and..."
"Have you ever been to the planet Taranis?" I asked.
"First I've heard of it," the Runner admitted.
"Sateda?" I continued testing my luck.
"Heard of it, but never been."
"Hoff?"
I was running through known names in my memory.
"Never heard of it."
"Athos?"
The Runner looked at me with narrowed eyes.
Fine, it was worth a shot.
"You don't want me to fly with you to your world, right?" he asked.
"I'm not against allies, Alvar, but right now I have a few problems to solve," I said. "So I was planning to drop you off on a quiet planet, take care of things at home, and then come back. We'd work everything out then. A competent military man wouldn't hurt."
"Well, of course," Jensen snorted, touching his fingers to the first key on the Jumper's dialing device.
"Hey!" I tensed up. "What are you doing?"
By then, blue lights were already flaring on the angular keystones of the gate. The Jumper registered the growing energy volume the gate was accumulating.
"I'm dialing the Athosian address," he replied. "You know... I don't mind your plan. But keep this in mind, kid. If you intend to cooperate, I don't like secrets. Knowing the name of a planet but not its address — especially Athos, a well-known farming and trading spot... You'd have to try pretty hard for that. So if you want to work together, at least try to come up with a plausible story for your odd behavior. And yes, I'm curious what that crystalline thing was that made you crawl into a dungeon right under the Wraiths' noses."
The energy surge from the activated gate coincided with a warning that two Wraith darts were heading in our direction.
"I'll think about your terms," I said, steering the ship toward the gate. I noticed the cloak had dropped against my will. Looks like the Jumper can't fly through the gate while cloaked.
Emerging on the other side after a microscopic interval, I pulled the ship away from the gate. The puddle at its center collapsed, along with the hyper-tunnel connecting the night side of Athos to the Brotherhood planet.
"I'll be on the planet for three days," said Jensen, rising from behind the console. He walked to the cargo hold, grabbed his weapons, and stepped outside as soon as I lowered the ramp.
Without a word of farewell, he walked away from the Jumper.
Watching him go, I couldn't help but smirk as I sealed the Jumper, returning the ramp to its place.
The guy lived up to that old saying: "Cool guys don't look back."
I waited until he disappeared among the trees, then turned the ship around. The life-sign detection systems showed he'd moved more than two hundred meters from the Jumper and was continuing deeper into the forest.
Excellent. He wouldn't be able to see the gate symbols I'd entered, and he wouldn't learn the Atlantis address. No other life-forms were detected nearby. So there was a chance to keep my secret.
I dialed the gate address of the city-ship, waited for the energy vortex, and then with a light heart steered the Jumper into the wormhole.
The next moment, the familiar outlines of the Atlantis Gate Room hit my eyes. Letting out a breath at the fact that my first adventure in the Pegasus Galaxy hadn't been my last, I leaned back in the seat, letting the automatic landing program lift the Jumper to the upper hangar.
Only then, pulling the ZPM out of the locker, did I press the button to open the ship's hatch.
The moment the strip of metal cleared the opening, a painfully familiar, horrible sound cut into my ears. Repeating itself over a couple seconds, it kept tearing into my brain with its grating, alien noise, as if on a loop.
"Of course this day couldn't end without some extra crap thrown in, could it?" I gritted through my teeth, dashing for the exit.
I didn't know what happened, but I didn't like it. For one simple reason — the city's self-destruct alarm was blaring.