The cruiser looked old and dirty, even taking battle damage into account, but that made sense, Radek thought. Of course the Wraith wouldn't use a new, strong ship for this mission. The colors of the bulkheads were faded, the decks faintly uneven underfoot, as though worn by many years of use, and he wondered just how long one of these ships could last. How long it could live. Teyla said they were indeed somewhat alive –
"Lieutenant!" Teyla's voice was precisely pitched to carry to all their party and no farther. "Wraith — three of them, coming to us along this corridor."
Sheffield waved his men back against the bulkheads, and Radek copied them, flattening himself against the rough skin. Ahead, the corridor curved slightly, turning toward the bow, and a shadow moved, black coat and flowing white hair. The Marines opened fire, kept firing; the first Wraith fell, but the others dodged back into the limited protection of the curve. A moment later, a Wraith grenade bounced around the corner, flashing blue. Radek froze, but the boy next to him moved without thought, grabbed it and threw it away behind them. It exploded in a flat crack of light, the shock wave knocking Radek's glasses askew, and the remaining Wraith whirled roaring from cover, energy weapons blazing. A Marine fell, and another, but the rest concentrated their fire on the Wraith, knocked them back, staggering, until finally they fell.
"Thank you," Radek said, to the Marine, and the boy held up his hand with a rueful smile to show it trembling.
"They are dead," Teyla said. "But the other — he has locked himself in the control room. We must take it, quickly. I do not know what he can do from there."
"Yes, ma'am," Sheffield said. "Ramirez! Let's go!"
Radek hurried after them, fetching up at the closed hatch that led to the control room.
"Locked," Ramirez said. "C4!"
"Wait," Teyla said. She rested her hand on the bulkhead beside the locking mechanism, and closed her eyes for a moment. "I can open this."
"How many hostiles inside?" Sheffield asked.
"Just one. But he believes himself well armed."
"Right. Can we risk a grenade?"
"A stun grenade, perhaps," Teyla said. "But we must damage as little as possible."
"Right," Sheffield said again. "Ok, Stone, Jenks, Alavarez, when the door opens, throw a flashbang and go in after it. Take out the pilot — and you heard Ms. Emmagan, don't shoot up the consoles if you can help it."
There was a ragged chorus of affirmation, and Teyla laid her hand on the lock again. Radek saw her draw a deep breath, and then another, and then she opened her eyes. "Now."
The hatch slid open as she spoke, and a bolt of blue light blasted through after it. One of the Marines threw a stun grenade, and then the team barreled in after it, P90s firing. The Wraith fired again, and then there was silence. Teyla shed her weapon as the nearest Marines dragged the Wraith's body away from the commander's station, and settled herself at the controls. Radek turned in a circle, finally found the main environmental controls and began setting up his tablet.
He swore as the readings began to come through. The Wraith had used every kind of explosive they could find, their own and bombs taken from human settlements, so that things like dynamite lay wired to iron spheres filled with raw gunpowder and blocks of an unfamiliar compound that had to be the Wraith equivalent of C4. It ran in a long chain along the cruiser's spine, more than a ton of it, enough to vaporize most of the cruiser and overload Atlantis's shields. The wiring was complex and redundant, and there were pressure sensors on the outer hull.
"I am attempting to take control of the ship," Teyla said. "Radek, can you disconnect the pressure sensors?"
He looked at the schematics, spinning the images to find the access points. "Yes. Yes, I think so —"
"Ramirez, Kelly, go with Dr. Zelenka," Sheffield ordered. "Everybody else, we're with Ms. Emmagan."
Radek nodded, grabbing his pack. "This way," he said, and started down the long corridor.
"Atlantis is dropping her shield!" Franklin's voice was incredulous, and Sam quickly came around to look over his shoulder at his screen.
Not dropping, no, not quite. "They're reconfiguring," Sam said. "They're pulling the shield back to just the central area." She'd seen that before, two years ago and more, when they had been adrift and badly damaged. It conserved power. But now, with a cruiser on a collision course…. Well, maybe it was the best option, all things considered, to save the power for the critical moment.
"Hammond and Pride of the Genii, pull back to cover Atlantis." That was Jack's voice on the comm, Woolsey behind him saying something else into another microphone. Definitely a problem of some kind.
Another problem.
"Chandler, see if you can get us in to cover for the Pride," Sam said. "They're in tight and won't be able to disengage."
A swarm of Darts rotated around the Pride, twenty or so taking potshots. Each one did minimal damage, but the constant pinpricks to the Pride's shields cost power, and while surrounded by this screaming whirl of Darts it was impossible to disengage.
"Yes, ma'am."
The Hammond waded in like a whale through a school of fish, and was about equally as effective. The rail guns couldn't target the Darts — too fast, and too maneuverable, but her size at least screened the Pride somewhat.
And then the Darts were on them instead. It was like being surrounded by a cloud of biting flies, each one firing at a different spot, each prick drawing a drop of blood.
"Forward shield at 25 %," Davies said. "Ventral at 40 %. Ma'am?"
"Give it a minute," Sam said, watching the Pride twist trying to get free, the cruiser sticking to it, dogging it with shots, still tight on its course.
"Ventral at 35 %."
Crap, Sam thought. They were overloading the Hammond's shields with sheer volume. "Where are my 302s? Hocken?"
There was no reply.
Mel spun her 302, diving beneath Pride of the Genii on the tail of a Dart. The fuel warning light flashed yellow on her screen, three quarters of her fuel gone — 302s carried a light load, and they weren't meant for sustained combat. Fast and maneuverable, yes, but the cost of that was operational range. Her flight was fast coming to the end of it. They'd have to land and refuel before long, or simply become expensive paperweights with guns, continuing along their last course until they hit something or more optimistically were dragged in by the Pride of the Genii's tractor beam.
Two Darts dashed over the horizon of the Pride's stern, head on at incredible speed, like the fastest game of chicken ever invented. She fired, fingers tightening convulsively, and then pulled up.
So did one of the Darts. They hit wingtip to wingtip, a touch barely a few inches long, but with enough speed and force to send her 302 spinning out of control, rotating madly over and over.
Mel had half a second to swear, and then the other wingtip hit the Pride's shields at full force and the world went black.
Chapter Twenty-two
Grace
Lorne felt the pressure ease, most of the cloud of Darts drawn now to the Hammond, and he let his awareness expand from its tight focus on flying the Pride. The shields were dropping, all around 40 percent, but there was no serious damage beyond the gun they'd lost earlier. In the back of his mind, he could hear Dahlia Radim and Dr. Campbell directing technicians to shore up systems here and there, but the Pride could manage without them. He could hear the 302s' line chatter, too, voices sharp and high with stress — they'd be running out of fuel soon, he told the ship, be ready to tractor them aboard –