Something struck the rear shield, a heavy blow but not an energy weapon. Dart? he wondered, and the Pride answered instantly: 302. A 302 spinning uncontrolled, pilot dead or unconscious –
Tractor, he said, and felt the ship respond, faster than the technician at the console could ever answer. The beam leaped out, caught the spinning ship; he felt the Pride shudder under the inertial stress, and then the technicians took over, reeling the 302 back from the brink. He took in the pattern of ships and Darts, the volume of fire directed at the Hammond, and thought she'd hold just a moment longer.
"Open the port bay door," he said aloud. "Get that 302 on board fast as you can. Don't worry about damaging the bay, just don't smash up the pilot."
He heard the acknowledgement, his attention already elsewhere. Any other 302s in trouble? Not obviously, but the fuel shortage –
"Pride, I am out of fuel." A man's voice, no one he knew. "Can you take me?"
Yes, the ship said. The bay was clear, the first 302 in and secured.
"Come on aboard," Lorne said. "Blue Flight, Gold Flight, this is the Pride of the Genii. I can take two more, repeat, two more."
"Blue Four coming in," a voice answered, thick with relief.
Lorne steadied the Pride, making himself an easy target. The Darts were distracted for the moment, swarming on the Hammond; in the tactical display, he could see a 302 wobbling as it tried to line up on the bay.
"Teal'c, how's your fuel?" That was Mitchell, cool as ever.
"Adequate for now, Colonel."
"Ok, Linney, you're next."
"Negative. Negative, I am out of fuel. I'm not going to make it."
"Major Lorne," Mitchell said. "I've got a man down, can you grab him?:"
The third 302 was on its line, engine stuttering. As long as the Pride held her course, he'd be ok. Lorne turned his attention outward, looking for the other 302, Linney. Yes, there it was, engines dead, on a flat course to nowhere, except that a Dart was bound to see it first and finish it off. Tractors? he asked and the Pride answered instantly.
Too far. Just out of range.
But not for long. Lorne checked the bay — there was the third 302, too high, scraping through the opening to come in hard against the inner barriers — and the calculations presented themselves. Yes, there, just a touch of acceleration to close the gap, roll left to put the Pride between the mess of Darts and the drifting ship, and tractor on, to catch her, slow her down….
Tractor is secure. Bringing the craft on board.
"Darts," Radim said, and in the same moment the Pride's sensors screamed the alert. The Pride had been on the same course too long, the Wraith flight commander had been bound to notice.
"Take them if you can," Lorne answered. He could see the Darts shrieking toward them, heard Radim calling his shots. A Dart exploded, another sheered clear, nearly wrecking its neighbor, but the Pride shuddered under the force of the attack. The tractor beam dimmed, the Pride shunting power to the shields; the 302 wobbled, and then slid neatly into the bay.
"Close up!" Lorne said, and didn't care whether it was the ship or a technician who obeyed. "We're going back for the Hammond."
Rodney could hear the line chatter from the 302s, the pilots speaking their own gibberish as they spun and dodged, engaged with the darts and the cruisers. Occasionally Sam's voice cut across, warning of some threat. Was that Cameron Mitchell, he wondered, distracted a moment from the jumper's systems by surprise. What was he doing here?
The cloaked jumper sounded a warning — they were directly on course, too close to the system's sun.
"Acknowledged," Rodney said, turning it off. He knew precisely where they were — threading a course around the edges of the battle, staying between the tangle of ships and the sun. The jumper warned that the Hammond's shields were almost down, one of her thrusters responding awkwardly.
"Not looking good," Rodney said grimly. Sam couldn't see him. Nobody could. And it had to stay that way until the very end.
Collision alarms sounded and Rodney jerked the jumper around, a powered dive beneath a hive ship that had come out of hyperspace almost on top of him. It couldn't see him, of course, but he almost squeezed his eyes shut as he slid beneath it, point blank range for its guns.
Nothing happened. He was out the other side, the hive ship behind him, streaking unseen through the dark.
"Ma'am, we have another hive ship coming out of hyperspace."
Sam clutched the back of the helmsman's chair as the Hammond shook with another blow, Chandler trying to turn on a dime to present the ventral shield to the fire.
"Forward shield at 10 %," Franklin said. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow. "Ma'am?"
The new hive rotated, positioning guns to bear. It was smaller than most of the others, and even from here Sam could see that some of its guns weren't operative, but another hive ship was the last thing she needed right now.
"Try to put the cruiser between us," Sam said. Firefighting foam made the deck slippery beneath her feet. "We can't take a full forward barrage." The hive ship's guns were powering up, four of them at least.
Oh, not good, she thought. Their luck had run out.
The forward guns of Promised Return were charging, nearly ready to fire. Thorn stood at Waterlight's elbow, disapproving but silent, always at her back whether he disagreed or not, ready to guard her.
Bronze looked back from the weapons console, his face all keen elation.
Waterlight lifted her chin, visuals from her ship playing before her eyes with the touch of her fingers on the interfaces — the faltering vessel of She Who Carries Many Things locked in a fatal dance with Queen Death's ship and one of her cruisers, the swarm of Darts and other ships around.
"You may fire as you wish," Waterlight said.
Sam caught her breath, a sound stopped in her throat. The hive ship's main batteries discharged, graceful arcs of blue fire streaking toward Queen Death's ship.
"They're firing on the other hive!" Franklin said. "Oh, God!"
Sensors registered hits, the hive lurching under the unexpected fire. It spun slowly, retargeting.
"Who is it?" Franklin said.
"Teyla's work," Sam said. Whether Teyla was actually aboard that ship or not, it was her work. "Consider them an ally."
Queen Death's ship came about, returning fire from the other hive, momentarily distracted from the Hammond.
"Look for a gap," Sam said, scooting over behind the gunner's chair. "Look for a gap for the rail guns." She put her hand on the bulkhead steadyingly. Come on, baby, she thought, one good shot, and hoped the Hammond heard her.
The jumper shook, lights darkening, inertial dampeners blinking for a moment, and Rodney was thrown from his chair, plastered against the ceiling for one long moment as the gravity failed. Seven or eight G forces pressed against him, and then the Ancient systems righted themselves. Down became down again, and he fell forward, knees against the back of the pilot's chair and his head plunging toward the floor. He had the presence of mind to throw his arms up, catching his full weight on his left wrist.