Unascended

Chapter Four

It was a long walk back to the site, made even longer for Daniel by his aching leg and the lack of coffee. Rodney complained about the lack of breakfast until Ronon pointed out that he was the one who’d decided it was too dangerous to use the heaters, at which point he switched to complaining about the length of the walk, until John elbowed him in the ribs and then claimed it was an accident.

Ronon supplemented his breakfast with the roasted remains of some unfortunate small animal that had been trapped in the fire. “Want some?” he said, holding out a charred leg.

“No, thank you, I’ve had my daily dose of deadly pathogens already from jumping in the river,” Rodney said.

“Tastes like chicken,” Ronon said, and offered it to Daniel instead.

“No, thanks.”

“I thought archaeologists were supposed to eat whatever people offer them,” Rodney couldn’t help saying.

“First, you’re thinking of anthropologists, which I’m actually not, and, second, yes, if I were trying to make cultural contact here, I would eat the… what is that?”

Ronon turned the leg around in his hand. “I have no idea.”

“Right. But I’m not, and I don’t think this is exactly traditional Satedan food we’re talking about here.”

“I would not eat that either,” Teyla said firmly.

“Your loss,” Ronon said. “At least we didn’t invent MREs.”

“It’s military rations,” John said. “You must have had military rations.”

“Sure, but ours don’t taste terrible.”

Once they neared the site, they proceeded more cautiously, weapons at the ready. As John pointed out, everything that could burn in a several-kilometer radius had already burned. The ground was still hot, smoke rising from the charred grass, and Rodney appeared to be trying unsuccessfully not to breathe.

“All right, then,” John said. “Now let’s check out the site.”

Every crackle of burned grass underfoot made everyone twitchy as the team made their way through the remains of the underbrush toward the door of the metal structure, but there were no signs of the bird-creatures, and with the grass burned to stubble, it would certainly have been easy enough to see them coming.

“They’ve probably moved off to butcher their catch,” he said. “I wonder if they were already using tools when the Ancients left, it hasn’t been very long, although they did refer to them as ‘wildlife’ rather than a native civilization.”

John looked skeptical. “You really think they invented tools since the Ancients were here?”

“Honestly, no,” Daniel said. “Wildlife or pre-agricultural tool-users, I don’t think the Ancients cared. They were specifically interested in seeding worlds with humans, because they knew humans had the potential to evolve into something like them. Putting humans here would have meant they’d have to compete with our friends back there. I expect that’s why they abandoned their outpost here. After all, they had a whole galaxy to choose from. They didn’t need to bother with worlds that turned out to be less than ideal. “

Rodney crouched down to examine the door, and Daniel ran his hand down one edge of it; it was warm toward the bottom but not hot, which meant there was a reasonable chance that opening it wouldn’t make everything inside burst into flame. He resisted the urge to elbow Rodney out of the way to get a better look, and instead squinted at a rectangular patch of bared connectors and sockets.

“It looks like the original control panel is gone,” he pointed out.

“I can see that,” Rodney said.

“I’m sorry, I’m just making an observation about my site.”

“All right, given that the control panel is gone, how do we get in there?” John said.

“Somebody may have figured out a way to get in there already,” Daniel said. “Those pry marks at the bottom of the door.”

“You would think that’s how they got in,” Rodney said. “If you didn’t notice that someone’s wired their own controls to the original fixture.” He finished digging the angular control box out of the dirt, and held it up.

“Please don’t actually dig things up before I even get a photograph,” Daniel said, snapping a picture.

“I’m sorry, I thought we were trying to get in.”

“We are, but… ” Daniel clenched his jaw. “All right, you’re right, we have limited time, and this isn’t the part that matters most. So if that box was wired to the door panel, where’s the wire?”

“Wires burn,” Rodney said. “Especially in a high-oxygen atmosphere, which, hello. Actually I’m impressed that our scavengers managed to wire this thing up and run current through it without setting themselves on fire. Either they knew what they were doing, or they got awfully lucky.”

“Many people who make their living scavenging culled worlds know something about technology,” Teyla said. “But few would have the ability to measure the oxygen level in the atmosphere.”

“Wraith?” Ronon asked.

Rodney shook his head. “This isn’t a Wraith design.”

“The Travelers could do it,” John said.

“This could be theirs,” Rodney said. “I mean, pretty much anything could be theirs. Still, this is… weird.” The control box was heavier than seemed reasonable in his hand. “If the Travelers scavenged this, I’d like to know where they got it.”

“Weird how?” John asked sharply. “Weird as in it’s going to blow up in our faces?”

“No, the interesting kind of weird.”

“Like I said.”

“It’s not going to blow up,” Rodney said, reconnecting it to the door panel with a twist of insulated wire. “All it’s going to do is… ” He pressed one of the two triangular buttons, and was rewarded by seeing the door slide jerkily open. “Open the door.”

“That’s what you always say,” John said. He shone a light inside cautiously, and then stepped inside. On the other side of the door, another of the angular door panels was connected in place of the original Ancient controls.

“They pried the door open first, and then they rigged these controls,” Daniel said.

Rodney nodded slowly. “I hate to say it, but he’s right.”

Daniel gave him a sideways look. “You mean you hate to say it because that suggests that the site was used as a base by scavengers long enough for it to be thoroughly stripped?”

“No, I… never mind.”

Daniel was already shining a flashlight around the entry room. Stairs descended from the rear of the room further down; at least part of the installation was underground, then. The stairs were typically Ancient in design, with decorative cutouts in the railings.

Rodney waved a hand at the nearest lighting fixture, but it remained stubbornly dark. “Sheppard, can you turn the lights on?”

“Nope,” John said after a minute.

“Or the light switch might work,” Daniel said, thumbing a control panel.

Rodney squinted at it in the abruptly bright light. “Okay, yes. Clearly that’s a later addition to the site, too.”

“Similar design.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“What are we thinking?” John said.

“Not Wraith,” Teyla said.

“Definitely not,” Daniel said. He shone his flashlight around the room and walked a slow circuit of it, stopping once or twice to brush dust away from markings on the wall, all of which proved to be geometric and probably entirely decorative in function. It was mildly interesting as an example of Ancient decorative arts, but they had enough of those. He stopped at the top of the stairs and shone his flashlight down them toward the still dark lower level. “If there was anything in this room but the walls, it’s gone now. Let’s go see if they left anything downstairs.”

The stairs led down into darkness. Rodney took them cautiously, listening for any sound that might have been something large and taloned preparing to launch itself out of the shadows. The only sounds were mechanical, the soft thrum of water running through pipes and the occasional clunk of metal on metal.

He shone his light toward the noise, intrigued, and revealed one end of a long bank of pipes and metal tanks. “What have we got here?”

“You tell me,” John said, as the rest of the team came down behind them. Daniel was already investigating the machinery.

“Don’t touch that,” Rodney said.

“You know, this isn’t my first rodeo,” Daniel said. “I know not to press buttons.”

“Everyone says that, and yet they always press buttons.”

“So do you,” John said. “Let’s focus. What is this thing?”

“I can tell you right now it’s not Ancient,” Rodney said.

“Janus’s records didn’t say anything about experimental machinery,” Daniel said. “He said this was an observation post for a settlement.”

“I told you, it’s not Ancient. Believe me, I have seen examples of just about everything they ever built, and they didn’t build this. Between this and the lighting controls upstairs, which I’m pretty sure are incorporating high levels of neutronium… ” Rodney looked the machinery up and down, and couldn’t come to any different conclusion. “I’m pretty sure this was built by the Asgard.”

“The fact that it has Asgard writing on it might be a clue,” Daniel said.

“I would have noticed that in a moment,” Rodney said, craning his neck over Daniel’s shoulder to read. “It’s, okay, something about the settings—”

“Do not alter settings without authorization,” Daniel said. “Basically, ‘don’t press buttons.’”

“I knew that.”

“I thought the Pegasus Asgard didn’t leave their own planet,” John said.

“Well, they haven’t for a long time,” Daniel said. “Not since the Wraith went after them and they retreated to a single world.”

“A single toxic and unpleasant world,” Rodney said.

“Before that, though, they were exploring the Pegasus galaxy just like we are now. I’d guess they found this installation abandoned by the Ancients, and moved in.”

“It’s a lot cooler down here,” Ronon said, leaning back against the metal wall.

Teyla nodded. “We are some distance underground.”

“All right,” John said. “You two check this thing out. We’re going to keep an eye out upstairs in case our friends come back.”

Rodney settled down to examining the machinery, while Daniel took pictures of the various inscriptions along its length, most of which seemed to be warnings not to tamper with the device. “Like we’re doing right now,” Daniel said warily, shining his flashlight into the depths of the machinery but carefully not touching it.

“I’m not tampering. I’m examining. This looks like the original power supply,” Rodney said.

“Original?”

“Yeah, it’s dead, but this thing is still doing something. Ronon’s right that it’s cooler down here than it ought to be, and that’s not just being underground or the water running through these pipes. Feel the air coming out of these vents.”

Daniel held his hand very gingerly six inches from the air vent. “It’s blowing cold air.”

“Some kind of air conditioning effect.”

“Is that possible without electricity?”

“You can build an evaporative cooler, but I think there’s a backup power source somewhere in here. Enough to run the air conditioner, but not to activate the other functions.”

“What other functions do we think this thing has?”

Rodney sat back on his heels, considering the long bank of machinery. “I think what we’re looking at is some kind of climate control device.”

Daniel shone his flashlight down the length of the machinery, illuminating its curves and angles. “It’s a lot more primitive than most of the Asgard equipment we’ve seen.”

“It’s a lot more basic. This isn’t their nuclear power plant, it’s their camping equipment. It beams down and—” He pointed out the locking seams between pieces of equipment. “—snaps together. Turn it on, plug it into a water source, and you get a comfortable atmosphere. There are probably some kind of controls for adjusting the temperature to suit you.”

“‘Do not adjust settings.’”

“You don’t have to tell me. But… okay, so I’ve worked in some places where people had fights over the thermostat.”

“The SGC, for one.”

“At Area 51 they ended up putting a lock on the air conditioning controls. Although you could open it with a paper clip if you really never mind that. My point is, does it make sense to build an air conditioner and then warn your end users not to adjust the temperature?”

“For the Asgard it might,” Daniel said. “They tend to be pretty sure that there are right ways and wrong ways to do things. The device might not need setting if it was already preset to adjust the temperature to whatever its designers felt was ideal for Asgard health and comfort.”

“So I wonder what the other settings do?”

“Adjust other aspects of the climate to some ideal? Either on a local level or… this power cell would have been serious overkill for running your basic window air conditioner. And this is the Asgard we’re talking about. They could probably affect the entire planet’s climate if they wanted to.”

“Yep,” Daniel said. He took another step back from the machine. “We’ve seen a device that could control the climate on a planetary scale before, although it wasn’t Asgard. The NID grabbed it and brought it back to Earth. That turned out… badly.”

“We can deactivate it,” Rodney said. “I’m pretty sure this is the auxiliary power pack.”

“How sure?”

“Considering the amount of time I’ve spent studying Asgard power generation systems, actually fairly sure.” He pulled the power pack out, and was rewarded by feeling the flow of air through the machine stop.

“So what have we got?” John said, coming halfway down the stairs and looking skeptically at the machine.

“Weather control device,” Rodney said.

“You think it might be a weather control device,” Daniel said.

“All right, it’s a local climate control device that, given it’s designed to have enough power run through it to air condition the Sahara Desert, looks to me a lot like a weather control device. I’ve deactivated it so we can take at least part of it home to study without any chance of making the rotten weather on our new planet any worse.”

“The weather’s not that bad.”

“Are you kidding? The city stays so cold these days that I have to wear three pairs of socks just to feel my feet.”

“My quarters aren’t cold,” John said.

“The city likes you.”

“There’s a small problem with taking this thing back to Atlantis,” John said. “If you’re sure you’ve deactivated it—”

“I’ve seen all that I want to see of attempts to control the weather gone very wrong,” Rodney said. “If I say it’s deactivated, it’s deactivated. Believe me when I say that working in the Pegasus galaxy has given me a lot of practice in how to turn things off.”

“It’s not going to fit in the jumper. In fact, I’m pretty sure the jumper would fit in that thing.”

“We’re going to have to take it apart. I’m pretty sure it’s designed to come apart in pieces. Maybe not exactly easy pieces to get up the stairs, but that’s what we have you and Ronon for, right?”

“Those pieces are the size of refrigerators,” John said.

“Hey, it’s not my fault that the Asgard probably beamed it down here.”

“You’re going to help carry it.”

“I’d like to finish documenting the find before you take the whole thing apart and start experimenting on it,” Daniel said.

“Finish up,” John said. “I’ll go get the jumper. At least we can park it close enough that we don’t have to hike.”

Rodney looked at Daniel as Sheppard’s footsteps receded upstairs. “Not going to argue that he shouldn’t land the jumper on the archaeological site?”

“I think the huge brush fire probably killed any chances of finding something just lying around on the surface,” Daniel said. He sat on his heels to investigate another panel covered in Asgard writing.

It grated on Rodney’s nerves. “You know, the brush fire wasn’t our fault. Blame that on the terrifying bird creatures that tried to set us on fire so they could roast us and eat us.”

Daniel looked up at him over the rim of his glasses. “Did I say that the brush fire was your fault?”

“No, of course you didn’t say that.” He examined the machinery, trying to identify a chunk of it that would be reasonably practical to remove. It was possible that they were going to have to leave the biggest pieces of the machinery in place, but the idea of not being able to study them without returning to a remote site full of homicidal ostriches who set things on fire was unattractive.

“I have to ask. What is your actual problem with me?” Daniel asked conversationally after a while.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah. Is it just… see, I don’t even actually know. Because being professionally jealous of me—”

“I am not professionally jealous of you.”

“See, I know you’re not, because what I do is so completely unrelated to what you do that it would be like me being jealous of Ronon. It’s not like you want to be the world’s best archaeologist.”

“Please, archaeology isn’t even a real science.”

“I’m not even touching that one right now. You’re not still bitter about the time Sam got you sent to Siberia, are you? Because that was her, you know well, her and General Hammond, not me.”

“I’m not still bitter. I was never bitter, it was a very productive opportunity to learn about naquadah power systems.”

“I just thought that since you don’t like the cold… ”

“And Sam has really come to appreciate me. You know, after her initial desperate crush turned into a more collegial respect.”

“Right.”

Rodney could hear the skepticism in his voice, and he didn’t think it was just for the idea that Sam was pining after Rodney. It stung unreasonably much. He’d put a lot of distance and time between him and the guy he’d been before he went to Atlantis. He understood all too well why people hadn’t liked that guy, but he’d also put distance and time between himself and most of the people who’d only ever known that guy.

“Let’s just figure out the best way to take this thing apart,” he said.

Daniel shook his head. “Fine, let’s do that.”

“Come in, Ms. Weir.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath and pushed open the door of the senator’s office in the Dirksen Building. It was very seventies, with orange carpet and bucket chairs, which seemed behind the times in this brave new world. The Cold War was over and even the New York Times had proclaimed the End of History.

But for her it was a beginning, a highly competitive internship on the Hill with the Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. In the first ten weeks she’d done the usual things — answering the phone when irate constituents called, stuffing envelopes, printing name tags for various events. She’d gone to committee hearings, standing among the other young people in their black suits listening to testimony which, for the most part, was unenlightening. She’d eaten in the Senate cafeteria and once she’d seen Senator Kennedy looking just like he did on TV. Oh, and she’d checked in Tipper Gore at a luncheon and had refrained from saying a word about rock music lyrics.

None of these things used her degree, but that wasn’t to be expected at this point. And then she’d been asked to write this white paper, an actual white paper to be read by Senator Nunn about the situation in the Former Yugoslav Republic! She’d put fifty hours into it in four days, and Elizabeth could say with all confidence it was her best work. It was the best thing she’d ever done. Now he wanted to talk to her about it. Her palms were sweating as she opened the office door.

“Come on in, Ms. Weir,” he said from behind his desk. He was middle aged, affable, looking more like a high school chemistry teacher than a senator. Mild-mannered, her mother would have said, meaning it as a compliment. He had an aww-shucks Georgia drawl and glasses. He gestured to one of the two visitors chairs, a nightmare in orange Naugahyde that must have been the height of fashion about twenty years ago.

“Senator Nunn. It’s a pleasure, sir.” She stuck out a hand with what she hoped was moxie and firmness.

He shook it, then sat back down. Her paper was open in front of him. “So how’s DC treating you?”

“It’s great,” Elizabeth said. “I like it very much. But since I went to Georgetown, I already know my way around.”

“Of course you do.” He glanced down at the typewritten pages. “An excellent school.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. The excellence of Georgetown was a nice, safe subject.

“I’d like to talk to you about this white paper,” he said slowly, turning one page. “Your analysis of the situation in Bosnia.”

“Yes, senator.” She caught herself before she added, that’s what it is, yes, you’ve correctly identified this white paper. That was smart ass. She was smart, not smart ass.

He touched his glasses, peering at the page. “You attribute the situation to militarism.”

And now was her chance to score, to make a mark. “Senator, disarmament is the only possible…”

He glanced up, his voice mild. “Ms. Weir, no one is a greater champion of disarmament than I am. In fact, if you’re familiar with my record, you know that I am one of the primary designers of the Nunn-Lugar Cooperative Threat Reduction Program to dismantle weapons of mass destruction.” He closed the white paper. “And this paper is a load of malarkey. If you’re attributing what’s going on in the Former Yugoslav Republic to militarism, you are missing about the last thousand years of European history. I suggest you dig a little deeper.” He tossed the paper back to her across the desk. “Ever been there? Ever met any Croats or Serbs or Bosnians? Ever read any Serbian poetry, any Croatian novels? Do you have any insights deeper than rehashing previous analysis?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth and then shut it again, her face burning.

“You’ve done just what they trained you to do in college, dig up some sources and cite them. But this is the real world. Anybody can look up some statistics. The point of writing white papers is to inform to provide new and insightful synthesis of what’s going on. It’s a big world, Ms. Weir. I rely on my staff to keep me informed of what’s going on all over the world independently of the US military and independent of what the State Department chooses to share with my committee. And that means actually telling me something I don’t know. Tell me why.”

“Why?”

“Tell me why, Ms. Weir. I can read what leaders say in the Washington Post. I want to know why. I want to know who’s thinking what, and what the cultural background behind it is. I want to know what buttons we’re punching, what narratives we’re stepping into, what stories we’re playing from their point of view. Do you understand?”

“Yes, senator.” And she did. She’d never in her life felt embarrassment so acute, but she knew what he meant. No one had ever asked it of her before. “Everyone has a narrative, a story that says what they think is going on, and that’s based on their culture and their heritage.”

“And we need to know what it is, and what role we’re playing in their story. We already know what role they play in ours.” He tapped on the edge of her paper. “You’ve got a fine mind, Ms. Weir. But I expect people have told you that.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Have you got a fine heart?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth and shut it again.

“The center of diplomacy is understanding, and understanding is built on compassion. You have to want to get the other guy. You have to put yourself in his shoes, no matter how unpleasant those shoes may be. You have to see where he’s coming from. We like to treat politics like it’s rational, but it’s not. Hell, anyone who’s ever worked for a campaign knows it’s not! People vote based on how they feel about the candidates and the issues. People go to war over how they feel, not over what’s rational. Rational self-interest is all very well, but don’t count on it to move things your way. Not when pride is involved. Pride, history, belief, prejudice, hope — those are a lot more powerful than rational self-interest.” He nodded down at the paper. “You’ve got some ideas. But you need more than that. You need to understand the data you’re looking at. You need to see what it means. What are you planning to do next year?”

Elizabeth blinked at the abrupt change of topic. “I’m planning to apply for graduate work at Yale,” she said.

“Don’t.” Senator Nunn smiled. “Get out in the field. Go to Bosnia. Go to Somalia. You’ve got all the academic credentials to come back later, but for now get out there. See what it’s really like, what refugees are really like, what war is. You can’t campaign for disarmament if you don’t know what war is. Get out of the box and have some experiences. See if your heart is as good as your mind.” He pushed his chair back from his desk. “This town is full of young people who think they know things. Be one who actually does.”

Elizabeth blinked awake. She had been nodding in a chair in the common room, but a jolt had shaken the ship and she started.

“It’s nothing,” Atelia said from where she stood by the window with her son. “Just docking. Come and see.”

Elizabeth got up and came to the window. She had been dreaming again, of an office and a man. The government of some world? Of her own world, wherever that might be? In her dream all those names and places had meant something.

“We’ve come up next to Durant,” Atelia explained. “They’ve just run the walk across. That bump was the latch on.”

Through the window Elizabeth could see another ship alongside them, larger but equally battered, as though parts of various ships had been welded together haphazardly into a conglomeration that should be barely spaceworthy. A long plastic tube, segmented like a child’s toy, extended from a hatch on the other ship’s side to some point on this one further forward, presumably to their own airlock.

“Now we can go back and forth,” Atelia said. “Trade goods, trade people back and forth between ships.”

“Is your husband coming aboard?” Elizabeth asked.

Her face fell. “I doubt he’s back yet. But they may have some word.” Atelia stepped back. “If you’re still looking for a ship that can take you to a Stargate quickly, I expect Durant can. And there’s a man there who may be able to help with your memories.”

“A doctor?” Elizabeth asked.

“I suppose you’d say so,” Atelia said grimly. “I’m not sure we’d have called him a doctor on Sateda, but he’s the best we have.”

“Then I’ll be glad to talk to him,” Elizabeth said. “Anything to help me remember.”

Crossing from one Traveler ship to another was a nerve wracking experience. Elizabeth did not consider herself especially fearful, but crossing through the plastic tubes was frightening. It wasn’t that it was confining. Yes, the tubes were less than her height in diameter and there was no gravity, meaning she had to swim through, using the ribbing of the walls to propel herself forward. It wasn’t that. It was that the plastic was clear.

It was like being in space, in free fall without a space suit.

For some reason that was the most utterly terrifying thing Elizabeth could imagine. She had to halt just outside the airlock for a long moment, her heart pounding. Crossing twenty feet of plastic tube seemed impossible.

Meanwhile, others passed her going in either direction, some of them trundling bulky packs of goods that weighed nothing in zero G.

Why was this so frightening? There was plenty of air. She could see people going to and fro breathing normally. No one even seemed stressed. This was no more extraordinary to the Travelers than… Than what? Than she would find it to cross a room? For a moment something else had presented itself, stepping into a tiny claustrophobic room without windows that took you very quickly between floors. Many people found that mode of transportation unnerving. Many aliens.

On Sateda? That didn’t seem right.

The intellectual puzzle was distracting. It had given her a moment to catch her breath. She could do this. She could cross twenty feet of space in a plastic tube. It didn’t feel like the worst thing she’d ever done. The key was not to look. Someone had told her that once. Don’t look. Just focus on the back of the person ahead of you.

A man brushed past her, an orange cloth duffel bag bulging at the seams as he dragged it behind him on its strap. Look at him. Look at the bag. Don’t look at the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the distant stars. She pushed off from the airlock following him. Watch the bag. Watch the man’s back.

A woman passed her going the other way. She was in the middle now. Keep watching the bag. The man had reached the far airlock, stopped and pulled it inside with him. He turned and waited for her, a friendly smile on his bearded face. Watch the man.

He reached out a hand and drew her the last few feet inside the dark aperture. “Here you go. Zero gravity takes some getting used to.”

“Thanks,” Elizabeth said. The airlock was small, the inner doors sealed. They waited until another person going their way came in. Then the man glanced down the tube to see if anyone else was coming. Elizabeth didn’t look that way. She studied the door panel.

“All clear,” he said cheerfully and reached past her to tap a yellow button.

“Doors closing,” a tinny voice announced, and the outer doors slowly slid shut. Elizabeth hoped she didn’t sigh with relief when she could no longer see the tube. “Airlock cycling,” the voice said.

“It does that just to be careful,” the man said. “There’s air all the way across but the ship has to equalize pressure as a matter of course.” He looked at her carefully. “You new around here?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said firmly, making sure her feet were on the marked floor. “I came aboard at Mazatla.”

“Where are you from?”

“Sateda,” Elizabeth said. “I was told you have a doctor aboard?”

“That would be Dekaas,” the man said. “And I’m Idrim Tollard. Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Elizabeth said.

“You can find him aft in the emergency ward, most likely,” Idrim said. “Follow the green signs. Green for health. You label that way on Sateda?”

“I don’t remember,” Elizabeth said.

“Door opening,” the tinny voice said, and the inner doors slid open into the corridor of a much larger ship. Two people with packages were waiting on the other side.

Idrim hauled his now-heavy bag inside. “Good luck to you,” he said.

“Thank you.” The green sign was on the opposite wall amid others, pointing down the hall to her left. She followed it down the long corridor, then right into a cross corridor that was broad enough for someone to pass with a gurney. Ahead there was a bulkhead door labeled with a large green dot, but it opened when she approached, sliding back into the wall jerkily. The owners of this ship had automatic doors, but they didn’t entirely work, an interesting thing to note.

The chamber beyond was brightly lit for a Traveler ship, the walls painted white to make it even lighter. There were three beds, all empty. Beside one of them a crewman was talking to an older man, his arm in a sling. The gray haired man put a small bottle into his free hand. “Take one of these every six hours to help with the swelling. It won’t do a lot for the pain, but it will bring the inflammation down and help some. The main thing is to not use that arm as much as possible.”

“I’ll do that,” the patient said. “Thanks, doc.”

“Come back day after tomorrow if we’re still here,” the doctor said, and turned to glance at Elizabeth. “What brings you here?” he asked easily. “Have a seat and tell me about it.” He gestured to two metal chairs by a table. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“My name is Elizabeth,” she said, and sat down. There was something about him that was reassuring, though he wore no white coat, whatever that was supposed to mean? He was sixty or so, clean shaven, with salt and pepper hair gone more white than dark, broad shoulders and a face that would have been exceptionally handsome in youth. He wore a brown tunic closed tight at the throat, and his expression was friendly. “I came aboard at Mazatla, and I was hoping you could help me.”

The doctor watched the man with his arm in a sling leave. “Tell me about it. My name is Dekaas, by the way.”

“It’s good to meet you, doctor,” she said politely.

He laughed. “Only by experience, not training. But I’ve had quite a lot of experience in my years.”

There was something about him that set her at ease, Elizabeth thought. Experience, yes. And experience of human nature.

“So what’s bothering you?”

“I’ve lost my memory.” Said like that it seemed crazy, but he only put his head to the side thoughtfully.

“All at once, or gradually over a period of time?”

“All at once, I think. I don’t really know.” Elizabeth shook her head. “The Mazatla found me lying in a field. I don’t remember anything before that. They thought I might have been attacked by criminals and left for dead, only I didn’t seem to have any injuries. I’m not Mazatla. The things that seem familiar — devices, technology. Suggested to them that I’m Satedan. But I don’t remember Sateda or anything about it.”

“So you do remember things.” His blue eyes were keen.

“A few things. Scenes.” Elizabeth hunted for the words. “Scattered memories. My parents, people I knew a long time ago. Nothing recent. Nothing since I was a young woman.”

“And are you old now?” Dekaas asked. “It seems to me that you aren’t so old. Mature, maybe. Not a young girl. But certainly not old.”

“I don’t know how old I am,” Elizabeth said. For some reason she thought she must appear younger than her actual age, or at least younger by several years than the span of her actual life. “Can’t you tell medically?”

“I could make a good guess if your life span has not been altered,” Dekaas said.

Elizabeth frowned. “How could that happen?”

“Any number of things.” Dekaas looked away, picking up a small notebook bound at the top of the page from the workbench, and a pen with it. “The Wraith.”

“Wouldn’t the Wraith have aged me?” She had heard that somewhere, knew it.

“Possibly. It’s also possible they would have extended your life.” Dekaas frowned thoughtfully. “But I’ve never heard of that erasing memory. Though I suppose the trauma…”

“How could they do that?” Elizabeth asked. Surely this was a secret, uncommon knowledge.

“It’s a gift reserved for favorite worshippers,” Dekaas said. “Or extraordinary circumstances. I can see that you might have been restored to life from near death, and that perhaps the trauma caused you to forget.”

“But why would I have been left on Mazatla?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t the Wraith have killed me or at least kept me prisoner?”

Dekaas took a deep breath. “There have been many upheavals among the Wraith recently. Queen Death. I suppose you’ve heard of her?”

“A man said she was dead.”

He nodded. “She built a grand alliance. And then she was killed by the Genii, or so they say. By the Genii, or some other alliance of hives against her. In any event, there was war between various hives. And sometimes…” He stopped, and for a moment his gaze faltered. “Sometimes when a hive is hard-pressed they will release their worshippers onto a nearby planet.”

“Why would they do that?” Elizabeth asked.

He shrugged elaborately, going to fetch another notebook from a different table. “If your house was on fire, would you let the dog out?”

“Of course.” A thought came to her, a flash of insight born of his evading eyes, his tunic buttoned up to the throat so that no hint of chest showed. “You were one, weren’t you? A worshipper who was released?”

He took a deep breath, turning back to her slowly, though the infirmary was empty except for them, the doors closed. “Yes. But it’s not something to speak of. There are those who will kill a former worshipper on sight. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Hunters want information, and if it is not given freely they will take it.” Dekaas shrugged. “Even if that information is decades old and of no use to anyone.”

“Hunters.”

“There are those who hunt the Wraith, Hunters rather than prey. Some people greatly revere them. Others dread their coming, for fear that they will bring the Wraith in pursuit where they go.” Dekaas walked restlessly about the room. “One famous Hunter makes his home aboard the ship that brought you, as much as any Hunter can. It’s said that the Wolf and two companions destroyed an entire hive ship once.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s true. Only that it’s said.”

“Atelia’s husband,” Elizabeth said.

“Just so.”

“And he would harm you?”

“I don’t plan to find out,” Dekaas said. There was a quirk of humor at the corner of his mouth. “So kindly do not repeat this to Atelia. And certainly do not repeat it if you think that you might have also been a worshipper much more recently.”

“I see,” she replied.

He looked at her keenly. “You don’t seem surprised that the Wraith can heal as well as kill.”

“No, I knew a man once…” She stopped.

“A man who…” he prompted.

“It’s gone.” Elizabeth got to her feet, rubbing her hands on her shoulders impatiently. “A man who was healed, I think. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember what it was I was going to say.”

“Then perhaps you were a worshipper,” he said. “Or lived for a time on a hive. That does happen.”

“To be a prisoner of the Wraith?”

“More like a pet.” Dekaas shook his head, though he was smiling. “I learned much from my time among the Wraith, and medicine not the least of it.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly.

“And if that doesn’t disturb you, I suspect that means something,” Dekaas said.

“There are many different peoples, and they have different experiences,” Elizabeth said. “Even when they’ve encountered the same cultures. There’s more than one story. One nation’s heroes are another’s devils.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe I was aboard a hive. I suppose that’s possible. Will you tell me what that’s like?”

Dekaas sat down heavily. “As different as there are different hives. We tend to think of the Wraith as all one thing, but there are nine lineages and constantly shifting alliances between hives. Each lineage has its own customs and culture, and those have mingled over the years. My experience may be nothing like yours.”

“You learned medicine.”

“For more than thirty years I was the assistant of a hive’s Master of Sciences Biological, something between a pet and a junior scientist as the years went.” Dekaas shook his head. “A doctor, I suppose you’d call him. Or a research biologist. He dug deep into genetics, into biotechnology, right to the edge of the forbidden. It was a hive with a queen who stretched the limits of the possible, a hive that had won renown fighting the Asurans long ago.” He glanced at her. “You know the Asurans?”

Elizabeth shook her head, fighting a sudden cold dread that gnawed inside. “No,” she said quickly.

“I learned many things from him, and he kept me young. Thirty years passed, and I was still a young man.” Dekaas glanced down at his hands, old and wrinkled now. “But it’s been twenty years since then, since I was cast adrift.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “What always does. War. The hive was badly damaged, the Queen dead, and the young queen sent away at the last moment for her safety. The Hivemaster was dead, the ship losing atmosphere. The Master of Sciences Physical was bonding with the ship, trying to keep it alive until we could evacuate. The Consort was with the last Darts, trying to keep a corridor open for the young queen’s escape. The Master of Sciences Biological shoved me and two others into an escape pod and launched us toward a planet with a Stargate. That was the last I saw of him.” Dekaas looked away, swallowing. “If your house was on fire, wouldn’t you let the dog out?” he asked softly.

Elizabeth said nothing, and in a moment he resumed. “After a bit we saw the explosion in the sky and we knew the hive was no more. They all died, unless some of the Darts were retrieved by our enemies. I wouldn’t like to imagine their fate if that happened.” He fell silent.

“And then?” Elizabeth asked at last.

“We dialed a gate address one of the others knew,” he said simply. “And I became a wanderer. The Travelers need my skills, and they don’t ask too many questions about where I got them.” He gathered himself up, smiling with effort. “There are many wanderers in the galaxy. It’s not remarkable. So it’s very possible you had a similar experience.”

“I wish I knew,” Elizabeth said. His story touched her, but only in the way a story of hardship does. It wakened nothing buried.

“You’re welcome to stay here for a bit,” Dekaas said. “I could use an assistant. You could see if anything comes back to you.”

“I was hoping to find my way to Sateda,” Elizabeth said. “Others have guessed I might be Satedan.”

“As you like,” he said. “We’re trading on Dhalo next. There’s a Stargate there. If you come to Dhalo with us, you can dial out to Sateda or wherever you want when we get there.”

“That sounds fair,” Elizabeth said. “And of course I’ll pay for my passage by helping you if I’m able.”

“I can always use a pair of agile hands,” Dekaas said. “Then let’s call it a deal.”