The device, looking like a compact computer in Misha's hands, gave a short beep. Alvar, pulling down his T-shirt to cover his bare back, turned halfway around. His inexperienced assistant was staring at the device's screen, biting his lower lip.
"Is it all bad?" Jensen asked.
"Let's put it this way—it can't be removed without surgery. And I," he stretched his neck, "as you know, am not a surgeon."
"And you aren't a pilot either, nor a soldier, and I suspect the list doesn't end there," the Runner's cheek twitched. "Just how bad is it?"
"See for yourself," Misha turned the handheld's screen toward him. The former military man looked at the white schematic of structures resembling a human skeleton. And at the reddish matter, spreading like shrub roots, which had entwined parts of the bones.
"I'm not a medic either," the Runner admitted. "I understand that the beacon has somehow anchored itself to my body. The doctors I've encountered said it's impossible to remove it without killing me or making me a cripple."
"That is likely true," the guy agreed. "At least under our current conditions."
"Then let's not waste time," Alvar decided. "We tried, and it failed. We need to devise a withdrawal plan before the Wraith show up. Perhaps your people can help me. We need to reach them."
"Cool your heels, my spontaneous friend," Misha requested. "We," he emphasized the word with his voice, "aren't going anywhere or flying anywhere as long as this thing in you is active."
"Afraid the Wraith will follow? Reasonable."
"Returning home with two Hives and a bunch of Wraith on our tail is not how I envisioned ending this mission," Misha confessed. He cast a quick glance at the virtual screen. Satisfied that the red dots had not reappeared, the guy noticeably calmed down.
His nervousness betrayed his inexperience.
Not in terms of his personality, but in his handling of the available technologies. He knew how to shoot and clearly not badly. But it was as if he hadn't held a weapon in his hands for a very long time. Or his pistol was unfamiliar to him.
It was much the same with the ship—he knew how to use it but did so somewhat uncertainly. As if he lacked practice. Or, worse, as if he had never piloted such a craft before.
In other circumstances, Jensen would never have trusted such a person. But it seemed his choices were limited. He sincerely hoped that even a simpleton possessing such a ship would find a new solution.
And it seemed one had already matured. But not in the "pilot's" mind—rather, in the Runner's own.
"How about we just punch through?" Jensen asked. "We reach the Ancestors' Ring, dial your world's address, and call your comrades for help. If we had a dozen ships like this one, we'd break through with a fight. And if we're supported by infantry with weapons like that," he nodded toward the energy pistol lying on the floor, "the Wraith won't stand a chance."
"It won't work," Misha said.
"Why?"
"Because we won't be contacting anyone until we solve our problem and get off this planet."
"And if we can't?"
"Then I know a group of people who will be very unhappy with my failure," Misha smirked.
"Could they help you?"
"No. We have... complicated relations. Let's call it that."
"I see," the former military man summed up. "So we're at a dead end."
"I didn't say that," the guy countered. "We have an option."
"I suggested you leave and lead the Wraith away," Alvar reminded him. "You refused. Now we're just losing time when we could have already..."
"Listen, my hasty friend," a categorical note traced through his new acquaintance's voice. "I need to get off this planet as far away as possible no less than you do. And take my word for it, the reasons for that are very serious. But we're stuck until we solve the issue with your transmitter. We can only leave here together. If you're in such a hurry, I'll drop you off at the first planet we come across—but only after we leave Sudaria."
"You mean Dagan," Alvar corrected. "This planet is called Dagan."
He didn't dwell on the reasons why his companion wasn't willing to take risks. Everyone has their own motives. Apparently, Misha didn't intend to leave him to the mercy of the Wraith. Likely, he thought that when the Runner was caught (and sooner or later that would happen), he would tell them about him, his weapons, and his ship. Technology of such a level is not just a threat to the Wraith—it's a direct call for the destruction of the race that built it.
On Alvar's planet, people had learned to split the atom, built weapon factories, and manufactured space fighters to resist the Wraith during a cull. But they could do nothing against even a single Hive ship when it began to bombard them from orbit.
Even though they fought desperately, to the last drop of blood, to the last pilot, gunner, and fighter—it didn't stop the Wraith. If they'd had more time, perhaps there would have been more fighters and the enemy's Darts wouldn't have rained down on them like fire from the heavens.
"I won't argue about planet names," Misha waved him off, unwinding some wire and attempting to cut it with a blade. Logically, he failed. The grade of metal used in it precluded such a thing. "Um... Care to help?"
"Do you have another plan to get rid of this thing in my back?"
"I planned to do this from the start but hoped the device hadn't grown so much yet," his new acquaintance explained. "I need two pieces of wire about this long."
He spread his palms about twenty to twenty-five centimeters apart.
"Easy," Alvar agreed. "Give me the knife."
Grasping the weapon by the blade, Misha returned the requested item. Jensen, turning the lower part of the handle, lifted the cover slightly, then threaded the wire through the resulting through-hole. Turning the end part of the handle, he used the sharp edges, hidden when the weapon was in one position, to snap the wire. Then he repeated the process.
"Done."
"Excellent. Now give the knife back."
Tossing the weapon in his hand so the handle faced forward, the Runner shared the blade.
"What are you doing?" he asked, watching as Misha, flipping over his compact computer, pried up the back cover with the blade and snapped it off. He literally snapped it off rather than prying or opening it.
It seemed he generally understood very little about the technology he was using.
"The transmitter they implanted in your back sends a signal in subspace."
"What is that?"
"Subspace?" Misha clarified, without distracting himself from his work—he was taking parts out of the handheld and laying them out beside him.
"Exactly. Мои люди had chronicles about how the Ancestors used to build ships that flew in hyperspace," Jensen explained, watching as Misha used a second device to scan the parts of the first. "My people hoped to uncover that secret, but we didn't have time."
"It seems you were quite well-developed," Misha noted, smiling as the device beeped next to one of the parts of the other handheld.
Resembling a rectangular battery used in his world to power small devices, it had two protruding contacts on opposite sides. And to these contacts, which clearly had opposing charges, Misha was now twisting the free ends of the wires.
"We achieved many scientific discoveries since the last cull," Jensen admitted. "They considered us a great threat."
"Were your kin taken?"
"First, they destroyed everything on my planet. They gathered those they could; the rest were killed during the takeover."
"I thought the Wraith didn't kill humans," Misha admitted. "No offense, but that's impractical for those who feed on humans."
"It's also dangerous to leave anyone alive. After all, a civilization can restore its potential and become more dangerous after they return to hibernation. However, their hibernation didn't protect us. Though the chronicles claimed the Wraith don't come to our planet during their sleep, they came."
"That Hive that was hunting you?"
"In all likelihood, yes."
"Was there only one Hive?" genuine interest sounded in the guy's voice.
"They had many Darts."
"I understand that. Но, you see, every Hive has a Queen who keeps at least several cruisers to protect the Hive ship. As far as I know, they prefer to stay together. You saw it yourself when the second Hive arrived."
"Well, the first one didn't have those cruisers," the Runner repeated his words. "Your words about Queens match our chronicles. However, I didn't see a Queen on board. A commander spoke on her behalf, and he was the one in charge of everything there."
"I'm just making conversation," his companion spread his hands. "You know, we have a far from simple manipulation ahead of us. I'd like us to trust each other at least a little. And communication is the best way to establish understanding."
"Or waste time on idle chatter."
"Also true. Done," Misha demonstrated his strange contraption. "I think we'll rid you of the beacon with this."
"What is it for?" Alvar grew wary.
"If we can't cut out the transmitter, we can deactivate it by giving it a good frying," Misha said. After performing some manipulations on his compact computer, he demonstrated a small and relatively detailed image of a circular object with several offshoots. "This is the transmitter the Wraith implanted in your back. They placed it so you couldn't cut it out yourself."
Wraith subspace transmitter.
"In that image you showed before, it looked larger," Alvar noted. "More... fleshy."
"Yes, that's true," the guy cast a quick glance toward the instrument panel. He was worrying whether someone might sneak up on the ship and catch them by surprise. "But that is the original version. After it's implanted, it begins to grow throughout the body. I think it's done in case the main part is removed or damaged. Then, most likely, the rest of the transmitter will send the subspace signal. It might not be as strong, but it certainly won't throw them off the trail."
"The Wraith take everyone who helps me," Jensen said. "As soon as I stop for even a night or a day, they fly in."
"Always with a Hive?" Misha asked with interest.
"Only a few times. Mostly it's Darts with a landing party. A Hive arrives after a few days if I've managed to hold out on a planet that long."
"And have you been here long?"
"No longer than on other planets. I heard that monks from the Brotherhood of Quindozium once existed here. Rumor had it they had some kind of power."
"And you assumed it might help you?"
"In my position, one must use every opportunity."
"I agree," Misha nodded.
"So, what about the transmitter? I understand you want to hit it with a current. Why?"
"Wraith technology is bionics, a mix of biological and mechanical components. Their devices have batteries, like this one," he pointed to his handiwork. "I think if we apply voltage to the tracker, we'll burn out the power source and make the transmitter useless."
"You mean, it'll stop sending a signal?" Alvar became interested. What luck!
"In theory," Misha admitted.
"Meaning you haven't done this in practice?" Jensen returned the knife to its original state and tucked it away.
"Do you think I head to other planets every day, interfere in Wraith affairs, save Runners with subspace beacons in their backs, and perform surgery on them?" his new acquaintance smirked.
Sarcasm practically dripped from his words.
"I'd feel better if that were actually the case," Jensen confessed. "I don't want to end up a cripple."
"Risk is a voluntary matter," Misha said. "It's either this or continue hoping for luck. Well, so?"
"What do I need to do?"
"Turn your back, give me the knife, and... Pray to your gods, if your people have any."
Alvar chose simply to present his bare back in silence.
* * *
I had, of course, had to cut meat before.
And in most cases in my life, that meat was already dead. Or I was making it so. There were also enough instances when I had to cut comrades-in-arms in field conditions to save their lives.
Но conditions were different then. Field medicine in my time wasn't overly advanced, of course, but with time in service comes necessary experience. Interacting with more experienced fellow soldiers helped improve my knowledge of survival.
Now, I had to perform a medical intervention on an alien human's body with a knife that had been disinfected with nothing but water from a canteen. And all this on the floor of an alien flying craft millions and billions of kilometers from the planet where I was born.
For tools, only a knife and a scanner. For painkillers—only the strength of one's balls. An antiseptic in the form of a prayer was also unlikely to be useful equipment. Plus, it was unclear when the Wraith would be on our tail again.
Of course, what could be simpler?!
Truthfully, I was even rattled by the ease with which Alvar decided to trust me with this. To present his back to a complete stranger and even place his own knife in their hands...
One must possess great courage for such a thing.
Or recklessness. Who knows, maybe I'm a local version of the "little gray men" and have already prepared chloroform and an anal probe?
Но something told me the Runner was simply using a chance that doesn't come to everyone. In this galaxy, there is a direct and undisguised threat—the Wraith. They are the enemies of all people in the galaxy. And the people know it. Therefore, judging by Jensen's stories, helping a person in trouble is customary among local people who are developed even slightly more than simple hunters and gatherers.
Thanks to the scanner, I knew to the millimeter where the incision should be made. Slice the flesh, penetrate through the muscles to the spine, and use one alien technology to fry another. What could be simpler?
What was the point of helping this man?
Generally, at first glance, I don't need him at all. Just a random person who happened to be nearby. It could well turn out he isn't even who he claims to be. Maybe he's a Wraith trap, one of their servants and worshippers?
Maybe.
Но the latter doesn't hold up to criticism.
The circumstances of our meeting were far from ideal, of course. But the mere fact that I arrived on a planet where he was already being hunted spoke for itself. Had the Wraith known that Atlantis wasn't abandoned, they wouldn't have staged such performances. Especially on a planet I might not have reached in principle.
No, I think this guy is a Runner.
Which means he has a motive to hate the Wraith.
His planet is destroyed, its population has become fodder for pale-faced cosplayers of early-2000s outcasts. He has no home, no friends, no support.
He's a loner. And I'm a loner.
Except I can provide him with shelter, weapons, and equipment. At the very least, the Ancient blaster interested him. No wonder, with such power. He didn't see through my small deception about all technology working from the Gene, which means it'll be a simple matter of at least exchanging information for help.
Despite the stock of jumpers, I couldn't give him such a ship. He's supposedly a pilot but won't be able to operate it in my absence. But a blaster, "after some minor modifications," he might well appreciate as a valuable gift.
In return, I can get information of interest to me.
Gate addresses where peaceful farmers and agrarians live who can provide me with food, for example. Those same Athosians in the events I know of actually revered the Ancients, hated the Wraith, and easily established contact for the sake of a safe haven. And there could be dozens of such peoples.
Atlantis's address database is ten thousand years out of date. You can't check who lives on these planets now without reconnaissance. And conducting it personally, regularly leaving the city empty, isn't the best option.
If I had an ally who wouldn't betray me, things would go much faster.
And by "things," I mean the direct work for which I ended up here.
Ancient technologies, even ships like Atlantis, can be operated alone. If one has several years, one can even immerse oneself in their knowledge, repair the city personally, find more ZPMs, and head to the Milky Way to find everything out and... What happens after "and" I don't know yet.
Except that's impractical.
In the events I know, as soon as Atlantis was on a planet's surface, the Wraith landed a party in the city during a raid. Hundreds and hundreds of soldiers wandering through the city and feeding on people—that's quite a turn of events.
Allies are needed.
I roughly know how to secure the help of advanced people in this galaxy, but everything again hinges on resources and the presence of help. I recall the expedition, possessing even help and information about the galaxy from the Athosians, regularly got into trouble. And barely, barely got out of it. Sometimes, the help of an entire squad or the population of all Atlantis was required.
Should I remain alone, it will be far from easy for me. I can't constantly remain under the protection of a personal shield either—my whole body is itching already and my hair is standing on end. Such technologies, like many others, aren't adapted to work constantly.
Therefore, it's worth at least trying to recruit this guy as an ally. He's from an advanced world, a former military man who knows quite a bit. He can teach me to pilot and introduce me to other inhabitants of the galaxy. Not to mention that something interesting might have remained in his world.
Take his weapons, for instance. For example, the knife I was now driving into his skin. Easily and naturally, like a surgical scalpel, it sliced the skin. A little blood for me, naturally, won't be a problem.
At the same time, it must be noted that the knife really isn't just some clumsy "stamping." Yes, it was clearly manufactured at a factory. Furthermore, not just anyhow, but almost every detail was thought through.
A comfortable handle, a strong blade, a razor-sharp edge. Plus a likeness of wire cutters in the handle. All this indicates that the creators of this weapon clearly put thought into their product.
And that is a very good thing.
Image from the Internet. Let's say Alvar Jensen's knife looks roughly like this.
Furthermore, his assault rifle also represents a rather interesting weapon variant. In the series, I only saw a few types of local firearms. And what Alvar used didn't resemble any of them.
More like a hybrid of an earthly FAMAS with composite materials. Which in itself is very, very good from the standpoint of their science's development.
The series showed very few races that could match or exceed Earthlings in technology level. The Wraith never allowed such a thing because a developed civilization is a threat.
And here...
Truthfully, I didn't know if I'd find more Ancient weapons on Atlantis or ammunition for them, or if I could charge the crystals after they exhausted their supplies. But if there's a place to get firearms more familiar to me from my youth, and even relatively familiar at least in appearance... It will be a good support for my plans.
Yes, a Wraith can't be killed with one or two bullets. Но with short bursts—very much so.
Jensen's assault rifle.
"What are you poking around in there for?" the Runner grumbled. "We have very little time left."
"Do you want to get rid of this thing, or spend the rest of your life as a bug-eyed paralyzed freak?" I inquired, using the back of the blade to push the muscles aside slightly. It didn't turn out very well.
I'll have to act differently.
Concentrating, I activated the personal shield. I had turned it off as soon as I was on the ship—I have no spares, and I didn't want to empirically test how long the charge in this one would hold. Not to mention I don't know how to charge it or if it can be done in principle.
Thrusting my fingers into the wound, I strained, separating the back muscles from the material of the subspace transmitter. the Wraith had anchored it so the power source was closer to the spine. A smart move if you don't want to lose the device during a Runner's accidental fall. Or protection against an easy way to disable the transmitter.
"Are you sticking wires into my back or something?" the Runner spoke up.
"I'm going to short-circuit the transmitter's power cell," I had to explain the reason why I had inserted one of the contacts into the wound. "The overload should burn it out and make the device non-functional."
"Couldn't you just have given me the contacts in my hands?" Jensen asked. "If you need an electric shock..."
In the series, such an operation was performed using a defibrillator. Но I have no such equipment at hand. For lack of anything better... we're taking apart a complex extraterrestrial handheld.
the Runner's suggestion was, of course, the most sensible. Except that without knowing his physiology and the power of the battery's charge, I could really stop his heart. And, according to the scanner data, there is a dielectric layer between the transmitter's power cell and the spine.
At least if I understood the translation correctly.
"Everything will be fine," I lied.
In the worst case, this guy might die. Но if it works...
As soon as I connected the second contact to the tracker's power source, the Runner arched like a bow. A flash of a short circuit occurred, there was a smell of burning, and my shield absorbed the energy for a moment.
Pulling out the wires, I ignored the man gritting his teeth and held the scanner to his back.
The device read new data, and an image of the spine and the enemy device appeared... Only now it was highlighted in dark gray instead of red. And the text in Ancient made me genuinely happy.
"It worked," I exhaled. "The device is inactive."
"I thought you decided to fry me," the Runner rose from the floor, reaching a hand behind his back. Но, naturally, he achieved nothing except staining his hands in his own blood. "You didn't just disable it temporarily, right?"
I don't think Wraith technology is so magnificent that it's capable of surviving such a thing and recovering.
"We'll check in a while," I promised. Looking at the virtual screen, I noticed several red dots near us. "the Wraith are close. Time to leave."
"Agreed."
While the Runner tore his T-shirt, turning it into a likeness of a dressing material for the wound, I returned to the pilot's seat. Not very neatly, but nevertheless lifting the jumper into the air, I checked if the cloak was working, then headed at maximum speed away from the spot where the Wraith might have caught the beacon's last signal.
Simultaneously, having launched the scanners, I couldn't restrain myself when I received an answer.
"How bad is it?" Jensen asked, sitting down beside me.
"One Hive in orbit has vanished," I explained. "There are far fewer Darts—only a dozen. And they're searching far from us. It seems they're examining the site where the catacombs' roof was blown."
"The ones you crawled out of?" the former Runner clarified.
"Exactly. Но we aren't flying there," I decided.
"Why? What if there's something else useful there?"
"There's nothing else there but dust and the staleness of ages," I replied, steering the jumper toward the gate.
The plan, excluding the meeting with Jensen, had worked perfectly.
Scanning the soil, boosting the sensors through huge energy consumption from the jumper's power source, I was able to detect cavities at a distance from the stone structure. Many cavities. Но only one of them had the smooth geometric shape of a rectangle, which indicated its artificiality.
And that was a sign.
Blowing up the roof so that none of the wide walls were damaged, I descended down the resulting trench. And almost immediately discovered what I was looking for. A room carved into the earth, the walls of which were lined with clay bricks. In the center stood a pedestal with a platform on which plates had to be assembled in a certain order. And the plates were scattered all around. And I had absolutely no desire to search for them.
Judging by the logic of the Brotherhood or whoever created this trap for them, each of the plates had its own number—from one to nine. They had to be assembled in an order so that each side summed to a specific number. And only then would the ZPM hidden in the molding on the wall reveal itself to the world.
Frame from the series. This is what the molding looked like. Five circles around a central element look like the end side of a ZPM.
Reasonably concluding that the Ancients' participation in creating this test was unlikely, I recalled that the ZPM was behind one of the five circular covers. I immediately thought of the five ZPMs promised by Janus to the head of the expedition...
Five there, five here... A coincidence?
Truthfully, I very much hoped not. Therefore, knocking off the circular covers, I hoped to find more than one power source there. It didn't work. Four decorative circles were just patterns with no cavities behind them in which a ZPM could be hidden.
Но in the fifth...
ZPM in the slot on the molding.
A shame, of course, that there weren't all five, but even one will be quite sufficient for me for some time. For about three thousand years or so. Provided the city systems aren't used, of course.
Now, one of the highest-capacity energy storage devices in this and the neighboring galaxy lay in a locker in the ship's cargo section.
The closer I flew to the gate, the more nervous I became. Now that the danger of being tracked had vanished, I wanted nothing more than to return to the city as quickly as possible.
"There are no Wraith at the gate," Alvar noted.
I didn't see any red dots on the ground or in the air either. Furthermore—the gate is deactivated. Yes, two Darts were a kilometer away from us, and a group of Wraith infantry was half that distance away. Но there's no way they'll catch us in time.
"Your ship flies through the Ancestors' Ring, right?" the former Runner inquired. "It looks like it should fit the size. And the dialing device here clearly isn't for decoration," he pointed to the console with symbols separating us.
"Not for decoration," I agreed. "Do you know the addresses of any planets where there are definitely no Wraith?"
"I won't promise, but things seem quiet with the Genii..."
the Runner reached for the keys, but I intercepted his hand.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"The Genii are out," I explained. "Are there other places?"
"What, are you afraid of farmers?" Jensen was surprised. "The Genii are peaceful folks, growing beans and..."
"Have you been to the planet Taranis?" I asked.
"First time I've heard of it," the Runner admitted.
"Sateda?" I continued to test my luck.
"Heard of it, but never been."
"Hoff?" I sifted through known names in my memory.
"Never heard of it."
"Athos?"
the Runner looked at me with a squint.
Right, it was worth a try.
"You don't want me flying with you to your world, right?" he asked.
"I'm not against allies, Alvar, but now I have several problems to solve," I said. "So I planned to drop you off on a quiet planet, settle things at home, then return. And we'd agree on everything. I could use a competent military man."
"Well, naturally," Jensen smirked, touching the first key on the jumper's dialing device.
"Hey!" I grew wary. "What are you doing?"
Meanwhile, blue lights were already lighting up on the angular lock-stones of the gate. The jumper noted the increasing volume of energy accumulating in the gate.
"Dialing the Athosian address," he replied. "You know... I'm not against your plan. Но keep in mind, kid. If you intend to cooperate, I don't like secrets. And knowing a planet's name but not its address, especially Athos, a well-known spot for farmers and traders... You'd have to try hard for that, certainly. So if you want to cooperate, at least try to come up with a plausible story for your eccentric behavior. And yes, I'm curious what that crystal thing was that you went into the catacombs for right under the Wraith's noses."
The burst of energy from the activated gate coincided with a warning that two Wraith Darts were moving in our direction.
"I'll think about your conditions," I noted, steering the ship toward the gate, and realized the cloak had deactivated against my will. It seems the jumper is unable to fly through the gate while cloaked.
Emerging on the other side after a microscopic interval of time, I steered the ship away from the gate. The "puddle" at their center collapsed, as did the hyper-tunnel connecting night-time Athos with the Brotherhood's planet.
"I'll be on the planet for three days," Jensen said, rising from the console. He went into the cargo bay, took his weapon, and stepped outside as soon as I lowered the ramp.
Without saying goodbye, he headed away from the jumper.
Watching him go, I couldn't help but smirk while I sealed the jumper, returning the ramp to its place.
The guy matched the long-known parable: "Tough guys don't look back."
Waiting until he disappeared behind the trees, I turned the ship. The life-sign detection systems indicated he had moved more than two hundred meters away from the jumper and continued following a path deep into the forest.
Excellent. That means he won't see the gate symbols I dial and won't know Atlantis's address. And no other living organisms were observed nearby. So there's a chance to keep my secret.
Dialing the address of the city-ship's gate, I waited for the vortex of energy, then steered the jumper into the wormhole with a light heart.
The next moment, the familiar outlines of the Atlantis Gate Room hit my eyes. Exhaling because my first adventure in the Pegasus galaxy hadn't become my last, I leaned back in the seat, allowing the automatic landing program to personally lift the jumper into the upper hangar.
And only then, taking the ZPM out of the locker, did I press the button to open the ship's entrance hatch.
As soon as the metal strip moved away from the opening, an odiously familiar, disgusting sound grated on my ears. Repeating for a couple of seconds, it continued to tear at my brain with its strain and alien nature, as if looped.
"This day couldn't end without some thrown-in crap, could it?!" I hissed through my teeth, dashing for the exit.
I don't know what happened, but I don't like it. At least for one reason—the self-destruct siren was wailing in the city.