"Eva," she said. "I won't be offended if you want to be alone, but I'm not averse to company."
William considered the idea, and gave a fleeting smile. "Actually, neither am I." He seated himself carefully in the chair opposite her, the Ancient padding adjusting itself instantly to his body, and took a careful sip of his tea. "I rather thought you'd have been gone by now."
"I could say the same for you," Eva answered, with a smile of her own. "But I have the ATA gene, and Mr. Woolsey asked for those of us who had it to stay if we could, so…."
William nodded. "I wish I had it. I'd feel more useful." He hadn't meant to say that, and winced, but Eva seemed to take the words at face value.
"If I understand correctly, you're here to be useful if we have to abandon the city. So I kind of hope you're not going to be useful."
"Thanks," William said, and looked up as a shadow fell across his chair.
"Oh." Daniel Jackson stood there, cup of coffee in one hand. "Mind if I join you?"
"Be my guest," Eva said, and Daniel took the third chair.
"I'm surprised you're not in the control room," William said.
"No, uh — actually, Jack, General O'Neill, kicked me out," Daniel said. "And then I was getting the impression that I was in the way in the infirmary."
"There's not much call for archeology right now, I suppose," Eva said. "Or psychology."
There wasn't anything to say to that. William wrapped both hands around his travel mug, wishing it was over. It was the waiting that was hard — they'd be safe here through anything short of the city's destruction, safe and comfortable and even well-fed, but it was impossible to believe it entirely. He looked past Daniel's shoulder to see the rest of the group, maybe two dozen people, one group clustered around a laptop, others with iPod headphones jammed in their ears, books and tablets raised like barricades. He was reminded sharply of his grandfather's stories of the Blitz, of trying to behave normally — properly — jammed down a Tube tunnel with a thousand strangers. This was entirely different, and yet somehow the same. He only hoped he'd make the old man proud.
John Sheppard swam through space. At least that was how it seemed, as though it were he who moved through vacuum easily, skin accustomed to the cold. His skin was the forcefield, and his eyes were the city's, ten thousand sensors feeding a pattern to his brain. To know anything the city knew was easy. It was nothing so complex as examining instruments or reading screens, or even glancing at a heads up display. It was like using his own eyes and ears, like seeing what was right in front of him.
The battle was a tangled mess, the Hammond and the Pride of the Genii tangled with Queen Death's hive ships, while vertical to the elliptic Todd's fleet waited, stationary and uncommitted. Darts and 302s dove and fought, now and then one winking out, a life extinguished.
We are in range of the Darts, the city said. Trajectories and speeds slid past, each piece of data rendering a possibility.
But that wasn't what was happening. Two of the hives were accelerating, leaving the others to mix it up with the Hammond and the Pride, bearing for the city with all thrusters. One cruiser followed them, a half dozen 302s breaking off to stay on the cruiser's tail. Blue leader, the display provided. Mel. They were seriously burning fuel out there.
The city showed him drones ready to launch, targeting enabled.
Wait, John said. There were so few drones left. Every one had to count. None of them could be wasted on the Darts. They had to be for the hives, and the hives were not in optimal range. Wait.
Somewhere, a headset spoke in his ear, General O'Neill in the control room. "Hammond, you need to break off and get back here."
"Negative, we can't do that." Sam's voice, distant and tinny.
"Repeat, disengage," O'Neill said. "Carter, it's time to get out of there."
"Our 302s are not aboard."
"We're hanging in there, sir." Lorne's voice.
Come on, Lorne, John thought. Don't be a hero. Not today. But he wouldn't leave Carter, and she wasn't about to leave her 302s. Some of them must be getting close to the end of their fuel from so much close combat, and if they couldn't set down they'd be sitting ducks for the hives to pick off.
"Crap, Carter," O'Neill said quietly, as though he didn't realize the channel was still open.
John urged the city forward, massive thrusters firing. It was time to get in the action.
"Atlantis is engaging," Franklin said. Unnecessarily, as Sam could see the city moving.
"Stay with the cruiser," Sam said. "Keep us close and keep hitting it." The cruiser was trying to run, but it was too late. She could almost hear her father say, "Ride your kill, baby. Ride it right to the ground. You don't know it's out until you see it hit." He'd been talking about the F-102 Delta Dagger, not anything like the Hammond, but the principle was the same. Keep hitting it until it blows or you see a chute.
Forward rail guns spoke again, driving heated metal across the vacuum, and the cruiser twisted. For a moment it seemed that it would fire again, but then thrusters flamed irregularly, twisting to get away, accelerating sideways to starboard, surely not a move the crew intended. It collided with the next cruiser, side crumpling as the other cruiser veered away.
"That's it," Sam said. "Distance now."
Chandler hit the retro thrusters as fast as possible, but the shock wave still tossed the Hammond as the cruiser blew, a cable blowing overhead as Sam held on to her chair. The other cruiser's skin held, but it was pelted with a shockwave of debris, pitting the surface and sending it spinning out of control.
"One down, one damaged," Sam said. "Good work, people." She really wished Jacob had seen that.
The cruiser blew in a silent fireball, the Hammond streaking past unscathed while the second cruiser fell off to the side, hull bleeding air and volatiles. Lorne saw it out of the corner of his eye even as he locked onto the tail of the remaining cruiser. That commander must have seen it too, and was distracted for a fatal second. Lorne bore in on it, lining up perfectly on the port side, all guns ready.
"Now," Radim said, and the guns spoke, tearing through the cruiser's hull to release a burst of flame. A single gun spoke in answer, a kick beneath the Pride's belly, but the cruiser's pilot was diving away, trailing a plume of vapor. The cruiser heeled over further, too far, spinning toward the planet; lights flared irregularly along its sides, and the Pride assessed damage to the maneuver drives. It would spiral down to the planet unless its commander was very lucky or very good, and there were plenty of other things to do.
"Bogey four is down," Lorne said, on the all-ships channel, and brought the Pride back to the fight.
The city's sensors showed heavy damage to the second cruiser, external thrusters on one side crushed, adrift for all practical purposes. Okay, John thought. That evens it up a bit. The first hive was in range, the city eager to fire. Hang on, John thought. Wait for the shot. No need to hurry. Just take the best angle.
The drones would do that, the city replied. The drones will correct.
Which was true. All on that one hive, he said, and felt the drones stir in their cradles. Eight. Eight was optimal, all at once from four platforms, four and four 0.97 seconds behind.
Fire.
The drones streaked up, passing through Atlantis's shield and out, bright against the darkness, through the 302s without touching, their internal guidance systems golden.