"— much better for you to fly the city under battle conditions," Beckett was saying. "Not only is it not exactly something for which I was trained, but I seem to have bad luck with the whole thing. I set off drones by mistake, the hyperdrive blows on my watch — I'm just much happier when someone else is driving."
Jack forced a smile. "And I expect you're going to be needed in the infirmary anyway, Doctor."
"Aye." Beckett gave him a shrewd look. "And I expect you wish I weren't, but, believe me, this is better." He was gone before Jack could decide how to answer.
"Is it just me," Jack asked, "or are things weirder than usual?"
There was no answer, and he'd expected none. The chair stared back at him, empty and waiting. He took a deep breath, and settled himself gingerly against the curved metal. It was warm beneath him, not as though it had been warmed by someone sitting there, but as though it was waiting for him, and he made himself lean back as though he were relaxed. He flexed both hands and laid them palm down against the connective gel. He winced as the familiar stabbing pains shot through his fingers and up his wrist, the city grabbing for control the way Ancient things always did, overloading nerves and synapses. He breathed through it, struggling to keep himself distinct, felt the first wave recede into something manageable.
Come on, he thought. Give me a tac display.
There was a perceptible lag, and then lines faded into view, a pale overlay on the walls of the chair room, hard to see against the dark walls. It wanted him to close his eyes, to see the patterns without distraction, but he refused.
A 302's heads-up display's better than that.
Grudgingly, the lines brightened, became legible, readouts floating in the air around him, closing him inside a sphere of data. There was the tactical display, Hammond and Pride of the Genii now fully engaged, Darts and 302s weaving deadly magic around them, and now the rest of Death's fleet was moving to close the gap. He stiffened, wondering if they were going to try the microjump, and the city whispered in his ear.
Data suggests they are not drawing power for such a tactic.
Well, that's something. Jack started to swing the chair, then remembered that, unlike a normal commander's chair, the thing was fixed in place. The city anticipated him, however, and the sphere of data revolved, the city's status display settling in front of his eyes. Everything looked good, drones ready — but not yet in range, the city murmured — the shield solid, maneuver and subspace and hyperdrive engines all on line, and Jack cleared his throat.
"Woolsey."
"Yes, General."
"We're ready to go."
"All personnel are standing by," Woolsey answered.
"Right, then." Jack took a breath, imagined swinging the chair again, and the city spun the data, bringing the navigational display to the front. The tactical screen appeared beside it, Hammond and her 302s tangled with the Darts, Pride of the Genii exchanging fire with a cruiser, but he made himself concentrate on the city. We need to go, he thought, imagining the maneuver. We need to support our people.
There was the briefest of hesitations, as though the city's heart skipped a beat, and then he felt the shift of vectors, the tug and rumble of maneuver engines firing. Atlantis shifted in her orbit, heading reluctantly into the fight.
I know, Jack thought. You don't want me here, you want Sheppard. Well, I don't want to be here, so we're even. But I'm what you've got. Let's make this work.
He could feel the power building, thrust released to send the city along the plane of the ecliptic, angle converging to a meeting point not too far distant, but still further than he would like. This was all the power there was, the city told him, firm resistance when he tried to push beyond that limit, and he made himself relax again. Surely it would be enough.
Lorne's fingers tightened in the connective gel as he watched the ships wheel in the tactical display. The Hammond was trying to recover her 302s, but the big cruiser was pushing her hard. He felt a flicker of reaction, almost a wince, from the ship, and consciously relaxed his grip. Hammond needed a distraction, and he brought the Pride of the Genii up and around, trying to get a better shot at either of the cruisers pushing the Hammond.
"Port batteries, fire if you get a shot," he said, and vaguely heard the acknowledgement. His world narrowed to lines of force, patterns in the deadly dance; he rolled the Pride as though she were a 302, stars spinning in the main screen, and came up behind and beneath one of the smaller cruiser.
"Hit her with everything you have," Radim said, his voice tight and controlled, and every gun that would bear fired, a ragged rolling volley.
"Cruiser behind us," someone shouted, but the Pride had already felt its presence, and Lorne rolled again, flinching as the new cruiser's shots slammed into the aft shields like a kick to the kidneys. He jinked left, then right, cutting the turns tighter than the cruiser could follow, and came out above and on its tail.
"Forward guns," Radim said, before Lorne could speak, and he felt them fire, lines of blue stitching across the cruiser's stern. "Bring her around again, Major, we're hitting it hard!"
Lorne could see the damage, too, could feel the Pride's shields still all at eighty percent or better, and for a moment he ignored the other cruiser to bring the Pride around for another pass.
"Now!" Radim said, and the guns fired, less raggedly this time, shots converging on what was surely part of the engine. Something exploded on the surface, ripping a long hole in the tough hide, and that was followed by an internal explosion that split the hull, releasing a cloud of debris.
"Again, Major!" Radim said, but Lorne shook his head.
"She's out of it, sir. Power's dead, she's leaking atmosphere — looks like they're abandoning her."
The Pride shrieked a warning, and he snatched his attention back to the ship just in time to roll away from the worst of the incoming fire. The third cruiser flashed past them — shields holding, the ship whispered, but dorsal shields are down 15 percent. Lorne could feel it, like a soft spot in a melon, and rolled again to put the good shields between them and the remaining cruisers.
"Sir!" That was the Genii navigator, his voice echoing the Pride's sudden alarm. "The hives are moving in."
"How far?" Lorne asked, and man and ship answered together, words and pictures flowing into a seamless whole.
"Five minutes to firing range."
Sometimes you just had to slug it out. Sam gripped the arms of her chair as the Hammond jerked, inertial dampeners compensating for the volume of fire from the cruiser. "Get us in closer," she said, and Chandler responded.
It was counterintuitive, but correct. The cruiser's dorsal and ventral weapons emplacements couldn't depress or rise far enough to track them because of the shape of the hull, while the Hammond's rail guns were laterally mounted. Close enough, and the fire volume would go their way.
A 302 slipped between, narrowly missing friendly fire, but the Dart pursuing didn't. It incandesced for a moment and was gone, caught in the point blank fire from the rail gun.
The cruiser began pulling back, turning to present undamaged hull and the dorsal array.