*Because — I think because of the nature of the virus.* Ember’s fear was fading fast, replaced by a cleverman’s interest. *I believe that Dust wished to make him a willing party to this, to make him believe he was Wraith in truth. I spoke to one of the assistants, and he said McKay could be Dust’s brother, at least in looks. His hair is cropped and he bears no tattoos, but he is a man and whole.* He held up his feeding hand. *He feeds.*
It was possible. Michael had become human, or close to it, had lost the ability, the need to feed on the humans’ lifeforce. Guide himself had once accepted a similar transformation, the gift of another retrovirus, felt his body change and alter, becoming a child again — though that had ended badly. He had still not entirely decided if that had been deliberate betrayal, though if it had been, he did not think Sheppard had known. Or Keller, and if they had not, he could not think who to blame. His thoughts had chased themselves around that circle a hundred times before: old business, long past. He looked instead at Ember, young and eager in the gentle light.
*And he does not remember.*
*No more than we are told Michael did,* Ember answered. *Which is logical if one wishes him to cooperate. They have told him that he was captured and tortured by the Lanteans — and it worked well enough, Commander, that he fought back when the Consort would have rescued him.*
So, Guide thought. That explained much. And it gave him a little breathing room. *What do they plan now that Dust is dead?* With any luck, they would kill McKay as unmanageable, and that would keep him safe a little longer —
*The queen wants to destroy Atlantis,* Ember said.
*I knew that.*
Ember allowed himself a demure smile, acknowledging the joke. *She believes McKay — Quicksilver — holds the key, if he can be made to remember so much without also remembering who he is.*
Guide nodded. *Who now commands the project?*
*No one, as yet.* Ember lifted his head. *Propose me, lord, and I will assure that McKay does not betray you.*
Guide looked at him for a long moment: a young man, a cleverman, handsome and quick and ambitious. The last time he’d trusted such a one, he’d lost a cruiser and the man himself — but there was little choice.
*Very well,* he said. *I’ll put you forward. But, Ember. If McKay remembers too much — kill him.*
Ember bowed. *That was my intent, Commander.*
The lords of Queen Death’s zenana were well fed. That was clear in the instant Guide stepped past the waiting drones, clear in the lazy smiles and the full-fleshed faces. He felt instantly at a disadvantage, sharp and dusty in his plain leathers, while the zenana’s lords gleamed with dark jewels and silver glittered in hair and beards. Death reclined in her throne, sitting casually askew, her head resting against one of the great bone wings that curved above the center.
*Guide,* she said, and her voice was a caress. *Good. There is a matter for discussion.*
*As my queen wishes,* he answered, bowing, and glanced quickly at the others. Farseer was there, looking sleek, his braid bound with silver and the dark blossom of a new tattoo on his scalp. Sky, the youngest of the blades, leaned against Death’s throne, his hair and coat in artful disarray, while the Old One rested his back against the chamber wall, watching with an air of sardonic detachment. It had been a long time since Guide had moved in such company, and then he had stood in Sky’s place, Consort and companion, but he felt himself respond anyway, his body shifting to meet the rhythm of the once-familiar dance. He swept the others with a look, respect balanced against his own worth, and saw heads tip in grudging answer.
*My queen.* That was the cleverman who stood at the foot of Death’s throne, head bowed. He was not a man Guide knew, his mind pale and thin as sunlight in winter. *Forgive me if I press you, but I believe we must make a decision soon.*
*And so we shall,* Death said. She looked at Guide. *We speak of the one called Quicksilver.*
*Rodney McKay,* Guide said, and Farseer bared teeth.
*You know this?*
*Clearly.* Guide did not look at him, his attention focused instead on Death, watching carefully for signs of anger. *And I have heard, too, that you are considering abandoning the — project.*
*I am not Dust,* Wintersun said. *I cannot pretend that this — this creature, this creation — that it is a man and my brother, as Dust did. Better to end this farce, and take what information we can from him.*
*Dust said he could acquire McKay’s cooperation.* That was the Old One, his tone as stiff as unoiled metal. *That was the purpose of this charade. Not mere information.*
*But he cannot remember,* Death said. *No matter how willing he is to aid us, if he cannot remember Atlantis’s systems, he’s of little use to us.*
*Dust did say the drug could be changed.* That was another blade, voice sharp as a hook. *Wintersun could do more.*
*I am not Dust,* Wintersun said again. *And I can promise nothing.*
*If I may, my queen.* Guide bowed. It was a risk, he knew, but less of one than letting Death’s blades carve information indiscriminately from the human’s mind.
Death lifted a hand. *Say on.* She looked more amused than anything, as though she enjoyed the clash of words as much as any other combat.
*I have a cleverman of my own, the chief of my hive,* Guide said. *He is a master of sciences biological, wise beyond his years. And he is not so squeamish as some. Let him take over the project.*
*A stranger,* Wintersun said.
*An ally’s man,* Farseer corrected, but without emphasis.
Death tipped her head to one side, her hair gleaming in the shiplight. *And your cleverman is — clever?* She smiled.
*He is the best I have.* Guide bowed again, hiding the hope that rose in him. If he could get away with this, if he could place Ember in command, then he would have achieved at least some temporary safety.
*To take Atlantis from within,* the Old One said thoughtfully. *That would be a feat, indeed.*
*Dust’s work was promising,* Death said. *Very well. Let your man take his place, and you, Wintersun, will not need to work with the changeling. Let it be done.*
Guide lowered his head still further, aware of the envy at the edges of the chamber. *It shall be as you command, my queen.*
Chapter Three
Back Doors
It was a quiet afternoon, a steady snow falling beyond the gateroom windows, the kind of snow that made the younger airmen grin at each other and talk of Christmas, for all it was August by their calendar. It made Radek think of pastries in coffee houses and regrettable student love affairs, snow dotting his glasses on the walk back to his apartment, lamplight golden under the heavy sky, not hurrying because the anticipation was part of the pleasure. He sighed, remembering coffee rich with real cream, napoleons and little neapolitan biscuits. The cream was the thing he missed most, if he were honest with himself, and it was also the thing least likely to be supplied. Pegasus didn’t seem to run to dairy cattle.
He glanced at the boards below him, lovely monotonous rows of green lights and nominal readings. He had spent most of the morning closing one of Rodney’s back doors — a nice piece of code, designed to restore itself after deletion, but only after he had run certain checks — and he thought he’d earned a quiet afternoon. On the board below, Salawi had her laptop open and was looking at one of the tutorials, frowning over a set of diagrams. Taggert and another former SGC tech — Mcmillan, Radek remembered — were talking quietly, Taggert leaning over Mcmillan’s shoulder to look at something on his screen.
Radek’s attention sharpened abruptly. Something had changed, some miniscule shift in posture that meant they were no longer talking about baseball or football or whatever, and he had started down the steps even before Taggert looked over her shoulder.