Relief, his and hers, washed over Teyla. He truly did not know. And he did not belong to Death.
She opened her eyes. "Rodney is telling the truth," she said. Teyla dropped her hand, turning to John, certainty in her voice. "He does not obey Queen Death, and he has no idea where Hyperion's weapon is."
John nodded gravely. "Ok. That's what we needed to know."
"I thought you needed to know where the weapon was," Rodney said sharply. "Which I told you I didn't know."
"That too," John said. "But at least now we've got one possibility off the table."
"So I can go?" Rodney asked.
John shook his head. "As soon as Mr. Woolsey says it's okay."
"Oh come on!" Rodney exclaimed. "I'm not Queen Death's secret agent. Teyla says so. Let me out of here!"
"As soon as Woolsey says it's okay," John stepped back, letting Teyla proceed him out of the cell. "Just hang in there a few more minutes, Rodney."
The door closed behind them, and she walked ahead of him out of the brig and around the corner before he stopped, dropping his voice. "You're sure?"
"I am sure he does not know where the weapon is," Teyla said. "And I do not think he consciously obeys Queen Death."
"Consciously?"
"Yes," she said. "He does not know of any loyalty or allegiance to her."
"But?" John met her eyes directly.
Teyla shook her head. "I cannot say whether there is something at work that even Rodney is not aware of. I do not know enough about what is possible, John! Rodney knows of no such imperative, and as far as he is aware he is in control of himself and his actions. But I cannot promise that there is no hidden imperative left below the surface."
"Okay." He nodded. "Then it's better if Rodney just stays where he is until we deal with this. If we're all still here tomorrow, then we can sort Rodney out."
"I think that is best," Teyla said.
Proud Journey's clevermen had done their best and more, but Farseer's hive was not yet ready to stand the stress of combat. Ember examined the temporary lattice of steel and skin that spanned the gap in the hull, glowing at the edge of sight with the forcefields that braced the repair and encouraged healing. Blackiron, Farseer's Master of Sciences Biological, gave him a wary look.
“We've done all we can for now,” he said.
Ember nodded his agreement, feeling the other's relief wash through him. “I am amazed you have coaxed it as far as you have. But, no, you cannot fight. I will tell the Commander so.”
“We will do whatever we can in support,” Blackiron said. “Our cells are full, and we have worshippers as well who would be glad to serve in any way — from Tenassa, remember, trained and willing.”
Tenassa was one of the few depot worlds, supposedly neutral and served by tame humans taught to serve the Wraith, and Queen Death had destroyed it, breaking the covenants of generations. Ember's lips curled back at the thought. It would be another century before they could repair the damage, and hive and cruiser alike would suffer for it. He realized that Blackiron was watching him uneasily, and made himself relax.
“We are grateful for the offer. My thought was to leave them here in safety until after we have faced Queen Death's fleet. We will need their skills then, their hands alongside ours — if you have supplies enough to maintain them.”
“They brought foodstuffs aboard,” Blackiron said. “Their Lady is managing it.”
“She's competent?”
“Entirely.”
Ember nodded. “Then that is what I will recommend to Guide on his return.”
Blackiron paused. “He has not returned?”
“No.” Ember made his tone deliberately discouraging. Exactly what Guide was doing on Atlantis, what bargain he would make in the Queen's name to gain allies against Queen Death — that was a matter for commanders and blades to deal with, not clevermen. And especially not clevermen of Farseer's hive, Farseer who had been Death's loyal ally until very recently.
Blackiron hesitated again, his thoughts close-held, unreadable. Ember watched him, a thread of fear winding through him.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, I think.” Blackiron's tone was less certain even than the wavering words, and Ember frowned.
“Even so, if it disturbs you — a burden shared is a burden eased.”
“So they say.” Blackiron turned abruptly. “I will show you something, but — I'll deny it came from me.”
Ember suppressed a shudder. “I'll follow.”
Blackiron waved his hand at the door controls, and the lattice slid back. Ember followed him down the healing corridors, out of their soft light into the normal paths of the ship. Corridors and compartments alike were crowded, and here and there a human moved freely among the Wraith, each badged with the mark of Tenassa's storeyards. They came at last to a smaller laboratory, set off from the main sections of the ship, the sort of space the masters of sciences tended to claim for themselves. Certainly Ember had his own space on Just Fortune, workspace and sleeping niche and hiding place all in one. Blackiron let the door close behind them both, and the lights brightened and warmed around them, puffs of mist rising from the floor. There were two workstations against the far bulkhead, but the majority of space was given over to pleasant-looking seats and an elaborately inlaid game table stood at the center of their rough circle. Ember gave the nearest chair a regretful glance — they were the comfortable sort that let you curl into their padding as though you were held in a giant hand — but followed Blackiron to the nearest console. Blackiron touched controls, not bothering to hide his access codes: a cheap gesture of good faith, since those codes could and would be changed, but worth noting.
The central screen lit, a familiar image coalescing: Just Fortune, hanging still against the starscape, the curve of the planet the fleet orbited a thread of blue at the bottom of the screen. Ember cocked his head to one side, waiting, and Blackiron adjusted the controls, moving the image into another part of the electromagnetic spectrum.
“I wished a comparison,” Blackiron said. “A healthy hive, one similar in age to Proud Journey, that had suffered damage, but was healed. Steelflower's hive seemed an obvious choice.”
Ember nodded. It was reasonable enough, though some commanders were more wary of such analysis than others. “And?”
“There is this.” Blackiron touched the controls again, calling up a cascade of data. Ember frowned as the data whirled to form a schematic, thin lines of gold tracing communications patterns over Just Fortune's skin. Familiar, normal — and then not, a brighter node where none should have been. It brightened, flared white, and then was gone.
“Were you able to capture it?” he asked, and Blackiron shook his head.
“It was very narrowly directional, and, as you saw, short. It was luck I saw it at all. I assumed it was a communication with the Commander.”
Ember glanced at the automatic timestamp, and his mouth tightened. No, not Guide, not unless there had been a message to which he himself was not privy — and in any case it had been an outgoing transmission. Possibly it was Bonewhite replying to some message, but he doubted it. He studied the schematic, fixing the particular node in memory: the seventh dorsal node, linked to Just Fortune's communications web in ways that would make the transmission almost impossible to trace.
“I don't know what that was,” he said quietly. “But I'm grateful that you told me.”
Blackiron bowed, accepting the acknowledgement of debt between them.
“Keep this evidence safe for the Commander,” Ember said. “And I —” Will what? If this wasn't Bonewhite, wasn't the Commander, it was evidence of a possible spy on board. And if there was one spy, how was he to know who could be trusted? “I will deal with it,” he said, firmly, and hoped he could make it true.