The Furies

Chapter Four Quicksilver

The visit to Gaffen had been delayed and delayed again after the loss of the queen’s cruiser, but finally Ember had managed to convince someone that it was a priority if they were to make use of the stolen ZPM. What had proven impossible was to convince anyone that Quicksilver should accompany them. Quicksilver snarled silently at the memory. Even Ember had refused — you are too important to risk, he had said, which was probably true, but not really an adequate excuse. Nighthaze had tipped his head to one side, perplexed — your men can’t handle this on their own? — and he had not dared take the matter further.

Which meant he was stuck here, on the hive, while Ember and the others were on Gaffen, and there was no way he could ask them to investigate the last few addresses in the DHD’s buffer to see if Atlantis had dialed there. He had almost convinced himself that he was mistaken, anyway, that he was truly Quicksilver, brother of Dust, senior cleverman in the hive of Queen Death, but the decision to send his men to Gaffen wakened all his previous doubts. And now he would never know.

He snarled again, pacing the length of the chamber he shared with Ember, as much at his own melodrama as at the situation itself. He would find another way to test his hypothesis, of course — if it was impossible, he was the man to do it — but that would mean starting over again. And there was no way to predict when the queen would order another attack on Atlantis’s blocked Stargate. If he were McKay in truth, that ought to please him, but at the moment, it was only more frustration.

At least Ember’s absence gave him a chance to search the other cleverman’s files. He had been through them before, but always in haste, always with one eye on the door, for fear that Ember would return and catch him at it. This time he would have time to work without fear of being interrupted.

He went to his own console, entered a query. The screen pulsed for an instant, then displayed his answer: Ember’s shuttle had left the hive. And that meant it was time to get to work. He turned to Ember’s console, entered the codes he had stolen, and watched as the system unlocked itself. He would need to be careful, do nothing that could not be erased, but he would at least have a chance to look at Ember’s files on him. He was typing the query even as he thought, scowled as the system returned a null result. All right, maybe Ember didn’t keep a file on him — that was a point in favor of his being Quicksilver — or maybe it was just better hidden.

At second search, there was a hidden portal, secure storage reached through a second set of codes. Quicksilver stared at the screen for a moment, then entered a code he knew Ember kept in reserve. The subsystem opened obediently, but the screen was blank. Quicksilver narrowed his eyes at the screen. That made no sense; he was sure there was something here, something hidden — the numbers didn’t match, there was something in the volume in spite of the void. He considered it for a moment, then entered another code. The screen shifted, and a gameboard swam into view.

“Oh, please,” he said, irritated. If he’d wasted time on Ember’s secret plan to win at towers… And then the pattern registered: not a plan, but a problem, and in the moment he identified it, he saw the solution. He moved the silver blade, and the image dissolved, revealed a tiny list of files.

None of them had anything to do with him, either. One was communication codes — Ember was more loyal to his commander than to his queen, it seemed — and the rest were short notations, work on the ZPM and the new hyperdrive, nothing to do with him. But the last…

He caught his breath. The last was a video file, captured from the hive’s communications system — perhaps even excised from it, from the codes, and that was worth seeing. He triggered it, leaning close to capture every nuance.

A stranger looked from the screen, an unfamiliar older blade. “Old friend, I seek to confirm or deny a — possibility. In culling Gaffen this last ten-day, my queen’s blades took one who greatly resembles the Consort of Atlantis. I know you have seen him yourself, and so I set his image before you. Is this the human himself, or merely one similar?” He paused. “If it should be so, we may wish to treat, my queen and I, that we may come to some agreement with your lady.”

The screen brightened, filled with a human shape: a man sitting against the wall of a holding cell, his eyes closed, head tipped back against the cell’s wall. The camera zoomed in, focusing on the face, shifting slightly to get the clearest view. The man opened his eyes as though he’d heard something, stared into the camera as though he sensed its presence: a dark-haired man, ordinary enough, a few days’ growth of beard on his chin, hazel eyes that stared defiance.

Quicksilver closed his own eyes, his stomach roiling as though he were in freefall. He knew the man — knew him with a certainty he had not felt since before he was captured, could put a name to him, a human name. John Sheppard — Consort of Atlantis, indeed, commander of the Lanteans; the man who had led the attack on the hive, who had tried to capture him. Tried to rescue him…

Tried to answer his message. The stranger had said Sheppard had been taken on Gaffen. And that meant that his own message had been received, and answered: Sheppard had come for him — had come for McKay, and he was McKay in truth. And, unwittingly, he’d led Sheppard into a trap.

His heart was racing, painful in his chest. He was Rodney McKay, except he’d been turned into a Wraith — but that wasn’t the important thing right now. Atlantis knew that, Sheppard knew that, and they’d come for him anyway. Except Sheppard had been taken prisoner.

“All right,” he whispered. “All right. Think.”

First of all, this message was old — for all he knew, the team might have rescued Sheppard already. At the worst, he wasn’t being held by Death, because everyone in the hive would have heard that news, so Sheppard was still with this other blade’s queen, whoever she was. And that made rescue or escape a whole lot easier. Sheppard would escape. He always did.

Second — the thought was a sharp as a knife to the heart, but he faced it anyway. Second, even if Sheppard was a prisoner, there was nothing he could do about it. He had to keep his counsel, hide what he knew, and wait, either for rescue — because Sheppard wouldn’t leave him behind — or for a chance to escape on his own. Sooner or later, there would be a chance. There had to be a chance. Sooner or later, someone would come.

He took a shuddering breath, feeling his heart steady a little, extended his hands to see them shaking. They looked alien, suddenly, frightening, with their heavy claws badly tended, and the thick vein that wound around his feeding hand. He curled his fingers to fists, and looked away. Ember had hidden this file, cut it from the ship’s record and concealed it: the cleverman was playing a double game, at least, or maybe even triple, and that was something he could use.

And in the meantime, he would back himself out of Ember’s systems, shut everything down very carefully. He frowned at the keys, suiting action to thought, watching the file fade, the empty subsystem reappear. He would pretend he had never found any of this, never doubted what he was told. And when Ember returned… His feeding hand flexed. He would get answers this time.