“Yes,” Radek said. He was missing something, he knew, but in the chaos he couldn’t see it. He looked around quickly, seeing who was still there, grateful it was the night shift and fewer people on duty. Salawi and Taggert and Mcmillan and Neumeier and Martinez, only there was no sign of Mcmillan, and he thought Martinez had grabbed a P90 as soon as the shooting started —
He risked a look over the edge of the console, ducked back down again, swearing. The gate room was full of Wraith, the gate shimmering blue, rippling as still more Wraith emerged from it and headed for the stairs. And that meant it was time to go, there was nothing they could do, no weapon they had, that would stop the Wraith. He reached across, tapped Salawi’s shoulder. “We must get out of here. Colonel Sheppard’s orders.”
She blinked, then nodded, and plucked at Neumeier’s sleeve. “Which way, doctor?”
Am I in charge? Radek bit back the words, knowing that, in fact, he was, and pointed toward the rear of the control room, toward the transport chamber that was their best hope of safety. “The back doors. Keep low.”
“That’s supposed to seal,” Neumeier said. “When we’re in lockdown — ”
“It did not,” Radek said. For which we should be grateful, he added silently. “Go!”
Neumeier moved, crouching low, scrambling awkwardly between the rows of consoles. Salawi followed, glancing over her shoulder as she went, face screwed up in determination and fear.
“Radek!” Sheppard again, shouting, painful in the earpiece. “Radek, pull the ZPM!”
“What — ” Radek began, then shook himself. “Yes, yes, I will do that.” Of course; if they couldn’t get the shield working again, there was no point in leaving the ZPM in place and vulnerable.
“Doc!” That was Taggert. She’d gotten a pistol from somewhere, though Radek didn’t remember her carrying one — most of the control room staff didn’t, they relied on the shield and the Marines — and she crouched now in the shelter of the lower console, pistol braced on the nearest board. Martinez was beside her, P90 in hand, slotting a new magazine into place. “Get moving, the Wraith are on the stairs — ”
A stun bolt knocked her backwards, sprawling bonelessly against the base of the upper consoles.
“Jesus, Mary — ” Radek started to reach for her, but another stunner blast slammed against the consoles.
“Go!” Martinez yelled, and fired a long burst.
Radek obeyed, scrambling without grace between the consoles, breath catching in his chest. He heard the sound of Martinez’s P90, found the door at last and laid his hand on the lock plate, praying it was still open, and to his relief it slid back a few inches. P90s faced him, and he fell back, lifting his hands, but someone grabbed his shirt and pulled him through. Martinez followed a second later, and the door slid shut again, locking solidly into place.
“Will it hold?” Radek blinked in startlement as he saw that it was Captain Cadman, P90 flat against her body, wearing the dark jumpsuit of the Hammond’s crew rather than an Atlantis uniform. She must have been already in the city when the raid began, perhaps catching up with friends from the days when she was stationed here. Possibly now she regretted it. Radek shrugged in answer to her question.
“Maybe. It is Rodney who is attacking us, so — ” He shook himself, looked around, counting heads. Salawi, Neumeier, Martinez — and yes, Mcmillan, but Taggert was left behind. He shook that thought away, too, knowing she was dead, fed upon by now, made himself focus on Sheppard’s last order. “We must pull the ZPM, Lieutenant. Rodney knows where it is, what it is. We must pull it first.”
Cadman hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Okay. Blais, take four men, go with Dr. Zelenka. There’s a team already at the ZPM room, rendezvous with them, tell them what’s happening. Go!”
“Yes,” Radek said. He turned on his heel, heading for the transport chamber. He only hoped they would get there in time.
Chapter Eight
Quicksilver in Atlantis
Ronon flattened himself against the wall of his transport chamber as the door opened, to be faced with the barrels of lowered P90s. “Don’t shoot!”
One of the young Marines he was facing waved the others back from the door, and they took up position tensely on either side of the hallway. PFC Washington, the man’s name patch said, one of the new ones. No officers or noncoms in sight, so he’d taken charge the way he should, but he wasn’t much more than a kid. “Why are the transport chambers still working?”
“Don’t know,” Ronon said. “Everything else is locked down.”
“Not on this level,” Washington said. “The security doors on this corridor aren’t closing. There’s still access to two stairwells.”
That made it possible to actually reach the gateroom, but also meant that if the Wraith came through them they’d be into the lower levels of the tower, including the infirmary. “Anybody know how to get the doors to close?”
Washington looked at the rest of the security team, and got nothing but shaking heads. “I’m thinking no.”
“Then we’d better stop the Wraith,” Ronon said. “They’re up the stairs.”
“Right,” Washington said, a little too loud, like he was trying to steel himself into motion.
“Then move.” Ronon made for the stairway, hoping they were behind him, wishing he had something to work with besides green soldiers who’d never faced the Wraith before. He felt for his radio. “Teyla, you want to get up here?” He flattened himself against the stairwell wall at the sound of pounding feet coming down the stairs. “We’re about to have Wraith on the mess hall level.”
“I cannot,” Teyla said in his ear in frustration. “The security doors in the residential areas have sealed. Colonel Carter says that all the exterior doors near the pier are sealed as well.”
“Can’t she beam people into the city?”
“She and Colonel Caldwell are trying,” Teyla said. “But some device within the city is now transmitting the Wraith jamming frequencies, and so far she has been unable to do so.”
“All right,” Ronon said. That wasn’t their problem to solve. “Try the transport chamber.”
“I will,” Teyla said.
“We’ll be here,” Ronon said. He thumbed his pistol to stun and fired up the stairs before he could see who was rounding the landing above him. If it was a Marine team, he’d apologize later.
He heard the pistol shots from beside him ricochet off the wall, started to call for the Marines to hold their fire, and then saw the sweep of a leather trenchcoat, high boots with no laces. He thumbed the setting over to kill instead and caught the Wraith in the legs, fired again as the Wraith tumbled down the stairs, rolling to try to get its balance, the leg wound already healing.
He could see the drones coming down behind the male, and ducked under the spitting stunner fire. “Get down!” he yelled, yanking the Marine next to him to one knee and grabbing the muzzle of the young man’s P90 to point it up the stairs instead of at them. “Don’t let them get close!”
“I hear you,” the man said, firing in quick bursts. The Wraith drones staggered, one of them falling heavily and fouling the shots of the ones around him. Ronon kept his own pistol trained on the male Wraith, shooting him again and then yet again until he went still at their feet.
“Is he —?” the Marine next to Ronon began, looking just on this side of panic.
“If he moves, shoot him,” Ronon said, and raised his pistol to cover the stairs. Eventually they’d get another Wraith captain up there who’d tell the drones to do something smarter than walk down the stairs into P90 fire. He hoped it wouldn’t be soon.