“Colonel Hocken?” Novak popped up from behind one of the consoles like a skinny, disheveled jack-in-the-box.
“Got a minute?” Mel asked, with her most disarming smile, but Novak’s wary expression didn’t change.
“Sure…”
“I’m hearing that they’re still short of titanium,” Mel said. “Since the Genii turned out to be on Sateda. Our — the 302s — armor is titanium alloy, right?”
“Yes,” Novak said. “But we don’t have enough spares to do any good. Dr. Zelenka and I already went over the numbers.”
“What if you took if off one of the 302s?” Mel asked. “The shields are our main defense, anyway, and the armor is a double layer by the tail. There’s one piece that overlaps both of the under plates. Suppose you took off that redundant part?”
Novak tipped her head to one side. “I don’t think I’d call that armor redundant.”
“Just suppose,” Mel said.
“Well…” Novak paused. “I don’t know exactly how much is still missing, so I don’t know…”
“Here’s what I was thinking,” Mel said, and held out the tablet.
Novak took it, frowned at the schematic of a 302, the plate Mel figured they could spare outlined in green. “Well,” she said again. “Colonel, I see what you’re saying, but I’m not comfortable removing armor. If you lose shields — and that always seems to happen — then you’re depending on a single layer of armor at a very vulnerable point.”
“A very small point,” Mel said. “And not that vulnerable. Hard to hit even if you knew to try for it. Look, Dr. Novak, we’re willing to take the risk if it means we can use the Stargate normally again.”
“Let me run some numbers,” Novak said, reluctantly, and set the tablet beside her laptop. She typed for a while, frowning to herself, then looked up. “It’s possible,” she said. “Which means that we’d harvest enough workable alloy to make it worthwhile — though I’d have to talk to Dr. Zelenka to find out what he still needs. But — Colonel, I can’t recommend this. The 302s will be too vulnerable.”
“That’s my call, Doctor,” Mel said, and softened it with a smile. “And Colonel Caldwell’s.”
Novak returned the smile. “I know how much trouble we’d be in if we lost Atlantis,” she said. “But relying on shields alone — I think it’s too big a risk.”
“Without Atlantis, we don’t have a base,” Mel said. Novak handed her the tablet with an unhappy nod, and Mel turned away.
She caught up with Caldwell in Atlantis, on his way back from the mess hall. He was looking relatively relaxed — at least as much as Caldwell ever looked relaxed — and she cleared her throat.
“I wonder if I might have a word, sir?”
He gave her an appraising glance, and Mel tried to remember the last time a good conversation had started with those words.
“OK,” he said. “What’s on your mind, Hocken?”
“It’s about the titanium for the iris, sir,” she said, and could have sworn he looked faintly relieved. “I’m hearing that they’re still a little short.”
“That was the last I’d heard, too,” Caldwell said. “What about it?”
“I’ve figured out a place we can get it,” Mel said. She took a breath. “Off the 302s.”
She could see him start to protest, hurried on before he could interrupt, holding out the tablet with the calculations. “And Dr. Novak says we could probably harvest enough plate to complete the job,” she finished.
Caldwell looked at her for a long moment. “Did Dr. Novak sign off on this?”
“No, sir.”
“Glad to hear it,” Caldwell said.
“Grant and I discussed it pretty thoroughly,” Mel said, stung. “We agreed that it barely makes a difference — I don’t think I could hit a target like that under battle conditions.”
“Shields alone aren’t enough,” Caldwell said. “And without 302s in top condition, Daedalus is at even more of a disadvantage against a hive ship. No way, Hocken.”
“With respect,” Mel said. “If we lose Atlantis — “
“I know,” Caldwell said. “Don’t think I don’t, I was one of the people General O’Neill had talking to the IOA until I was blue in the face, telling them how badly we needed a base in Pegasus if we were going to keep the Wraith out here and away from Earth. But taking armor off the 302s is too big a risk. We’re not doing it.”
“Yes, sir,” Mel said, and in spite of her best effort, she knew she sounded mulish.
Caldwell looked past her, at the long windows in their intricate frames, his face so stern that she looked with him, half expecting to see someone who had eavesdropped. But there was only the light midday snow, and the towers of the city against the pale sky, their edges softened by the swirling flakes. Lights glimmered here and there, points of gold, and the cornices of snow were sculpted into fantastic shapes. On the far pier, the Hammond sat parked, crewmen running pusher brooms along the path between her and the nearest tower. It was still enough to make the breath catch in her throat, and as she turned back, she caught a rueful smile on Caldwell’s face.
“Be careful, Hocken,” he said. “You don’t want Atlantis to seduce you, too.”
“Sir,” she said, and he turned his back on the towers, heading determinedly for Daedalus.
The discussion had gone about as well as Guide had expected — which merely meant, he thought, with a wry and inward smile, that he had survived to think about it. A rift was developing among the lords of the zenana, he could feel it, a breach between those who would follow the Old One, and those who would urge the Queen to a more moderate policy. There was no agreement yet among the latter, no plan or consensus beyond the fear that finding Earth and its feeding ground would not prove a permanent solution to their problems. The time was not yet ripe, Guide judged, to make suggestions.
Today it had been Noontide’s day to protest, to plead to keep the agreements he had made for his former queen that had kept a human world fat and fertile in exchange for tribute. Ripe for the harvest, the Old One had said, and so Death had decided in the end. She had a fleet to feed, blade and clevermen in the thousands: Guide could not entirely blame her.
He leaned against one of the ship’s pillars, feeling its life warm and strong against his shoulder; a good ship, Bright Venture, and nearly healed of all its damage. At the center table, Sky and another young blade were playing the stone-game, pieces clattering through their fingers. Farseer watched them, frowning slightly, and after a moment Guide caught the other commander’s eye. He straightened then, moved toward the door, and knew without looking back that Farseer would follow. He reached the center of the empty reception chamber before he was overtaken.
*I am — uneasy,* Farseer said, bluntly.
This was as safe a space as any, open enough that they could see anyone approaching, and by tradition, at least, there were no recording devices here. Guide allowed himself a small smile, not untouched with malice. *Ah, for the days of our alliance…*
Farseer snarled. *Foolish — dangerous! — to say such a thing.*
*But there is truth to it nonetheless,* Guide answered, sweetly.
*Of a sort.* Farseer kept his tone low and even, did not look over his shoulder toward the drones guarding the door, and Guide silently approved his control. *This is ill-done, Guide.*