Stargate SG-1 & Atlantis - Far Horizons (13 page)

Ronon held out a hand and Radek took it, wincing in sympathy as Ronon tried to pull himself to his feet.

“Maybe not —” Radek began

Ronon gave a wincing grin and began scooting himself along the deck until he was positioned beneath the first aid kit. “Ok. On my shoulders.”

“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” Radek said.

“You got a better one?”

“I do not.”

“Just don’t step on my leg,” Ronon said, and held out his hands.

Radek took them, then put his right foot on Ronon’s shoulder.

“Go on. You can do it.”

“This is not precisely what I studied for,” Radek said, and pushed himself up. He got his left foot in place, and stood for a moment, wobbling, nerving himself to release Ronon’s hands.

“Doc…”

“Yes,” Radek said, and made himself let go. He wavered alarmingly, then found his balance by resting one hand flat against the bulkhead. Ok, he told himself, reach up. It wasn’t that far, but it took an effort to stretch for it, knowing that his boots were digging into Ronon’s shoulders, pressing him hard into the deck. He took a deep breath and got his hands on the corners of the first aid kit. It was an awkward grip, and not much leverage; his first tug nearly knocked him off Ronon’s shoulders. Ronon reached up, steadying him with a hand just above Radek’s knee, and Radek tried again. This time it came away easily. Ronon released him as he started to sway, and Radek jumped clear, landing awkwardly on the decking.

“Nice,” Ronon said, and held out his hand for the first aid kid.

Radek passed it over. “There should be splints, I think? And also anti-inflammatories for the pain.”

“Yeah.”

Ronon was sweating lightly, and Radek gave him a worried look. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be better when this is stabilized,” Ronon answered. He pulled out an object that looked like a much folded ladder and shook his head. “You’re going to have to help.”

“Yes.” Radek wished his first aid training had been more recent but together they got the splint unfolded and locked into the correct configuration. Ronon continued to claim that nothing was broken, and there was certainly no obvious break nor any sign of blood. By the time the straps were fastened, Ronon was leaning back against the bulkhead, his eyes flickering closed, and Radek rummaged in the kit for an injector. “Anti-shock,” he said. “You need it.”

For a second, he thought Ronon would protest, but then he nodded. “Go ahead.”

Radek jabbed the injector’s pointed end into Ronon’s bared forearm, wincing at Ronon’s grimace of pain. “Sorry —”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t sound it, but Radek wasn’t going to contradict him. Instead, he busied himself fitting everything back into the first aid kit, giving Ronon time to recover and the drugs time to work. After a moment, he heard Ronon take a deep breath.

“Ok. You said, the lifeboats?”

“They are still here and still intact,” Radek answered. “And I don’t trust the gravity field or the integrity of this hull. If we can get to one, and launch it, we can stand off and wait there for Teyla’s return. We might even be able to free the other lifeboats in case they are bringing the Traveler refugees —”

The sound of an alarm cut off his next word, and he snatched his laptop from its bag.

“What is it?”

“Hull breach,” Radek said, typing frantically. “One of our patches gave way; the gravity shift was too much for it. I’m trying — oh, no.”

Red lights flashed on the screen as a series of airtight bulkheads sealed, though the control room door mercifully remained open.

“What?”

“The emergency systems have sealed the ship’s core,” Radek said. “They operate automatically to close off any breached section. Unfortunately —” He poked the keys again as though he could force a better answer, but the image remained stubbornly the same. “We are cut off from the lifeboats.”

“There has to be a lifeboat for the control room crew,” Ronon said. He was feeling steadier now, and shifted his weight experimentally. Yes, he could stand, if Zelenka steadied him, and that meant they could move.

“Yes, and that station isn’t far,” Zelenka answered. “But that’s the one the Ancients used when they abandoned this ship.”

Of course it was. Ronon sighed. “Ok. You’re sure we can’t get to any of the others?”

“Every way I would try, there are at least two sealed doors between a lifeboat and us. Or a compartment open to space, plus a sealed door.”

“Can we just stay here?”

Zelenka shrugged. “We might be all right. But if the gravity field acts up again? The hull here is not very secure. And we are venting atmosphere.”

“How long do we have?” The ship breaking apart, spilling them out into cold space… The image lifted the hairs at the back of Ronon’s neck.

“I don’t know. There’s no way to tell.” Zelenka tapped his knuckles thoughtfully against his mouth. “There is — The forward drone compartment is empty now, but it was meant to be airtight and to stand up to the strain of launching the drones. And it is on our side of the sealed doors. That would be the safest place.”

“Can we get there?” Ronon felt his spirits lift. If they could just do something —  anything —  it would feel less as though they were just waiting for the ship to collapse around them.

“If you can walk,” Zelenka said. He tucked the laptop back into its carrier and held out his hands. “I will help as much as I can.”

“I can walk,” Ronon said. To prove it, he started to haul himself upright, but fell back as pain lanced through his knee. He breathed through it, assessing it the way he’d learned when he was a Runner: sharp and hot, but not the agony of an actual broken bone. He shouldn’t try to bend the joint, but there was a good chance that, with the splint in place, the leg would hold his weight.

“I’m not convinced,” Zelenka said, looking at him over the top of his glasses. “We would be safe to stay here as long as the gravity stays constant.”

“What are the odds of that?”

Zelenka shrugged. “Even?”

“Not good enough.”

“There is also no guarantee that the drone compartment will be safe.”

“But it’s more likely to hold together.”

“Yes,” Zelenka said. “But I can’t promise that, any more than I can promise that the power won’t fail again or that the gravity won’t go haywire. Or for that matter that it will. Also, I must point out, I can’t carry you.”

Ronon grinned in spite of himself at the image that conjured for him. “You don’t have to. Just help me up.”

Zelenka looked distinctly dubious, but held out both hands. Ronon took them, drawing his good leg under him, and heaved himself to his feet. Zelenka staggered, but held firm. Ronon caught his balance, resting one hand on the bulkhead, and Zelenka stooped to collect the first aid kit, adding it to the bag with his laptop.

“Well, this is progress,” he said.  “Can you walk?”

Ronon took a careful step. It hurt — damn, it hurt — but the splint kept his knee from collapsing under him. “Yeah.”

“That’s good,” Zelenka said. “Because, while I hate to mention it, the power levels are starting to drop.”

“How long?” Ronon took another step, wincing, and braced himself against the edge of the hatch.

“We are running under the emergency protocol,” Zelenka answered. “That means that power goes first to sustain life, for example, environmentals, and then gravity and then lights and communications. The program is supposed to sense when one of those components is off-line — like the ventilation system, in our case — and shunt power to the next priority instead. According to this computer, that’s what’s happening, but –” He shrugged. “That assumes the power is reaching the ship’s systems correctly, and that has been our problem all along.”

Ronon eyed the hatch. With the gravity reversed, he was going to have to lift his injured leg over the coaming, and that — was not going to be pleasant.  He took a deep breath, bracing himself. “Can we fix the generator?”

He lifted his injured leg, managed to get it up and over, and stuck there, unable to shift enough weight to that leg to bring his good leg through.

“Allow me,” Zelenka said, and flattened himself against the opposite side of the hatch so that he could slither through.  “Ok, put your weight on my shoulder –”

Ronon did as he was told. Zelenka staggered but recovered, and Ronon managed to drag his good leg through the hatch. Pain jolted through him like a bolt of electricity, and he fell back against the bulkhead, breathing heavily.

“You asked about the generator,” Zelenka said.

Ronon managed a nod. Any distraction would be welcome.

“Maybe we could fix it. My guess is that the connections have been compromised in some way — not disconnected, everything indicates that they’re physically intact, but they’re not putting through enough power to sustain the ship’s systems.” Zelenka stepped back through the hatch, still talking. “Unfortunately, however, the generator and the controls for the power supply are all on what is now our ceiling, and I do not think I can reverse the gravity again without doing even more damage to the hull.”

“So we wait for either Sheppard or Teyla to get back,” Ronon said. The pain was fading again, back to a manageable level, and he took an experimental step.  It hurt, but not so badly.

“That’s right,” Zelenka answered, popping through the hatch again, a second carryall slung across his body.

Ronon blinked, recognizing it as the thing he had been going to get — was it really less than an hour ago? “The oxygen candles?”

Zelenka nodded.  “Let us hope we won’t need them.”

“Yeah.” Ronon straightened. Was the faint whisper of air against his skin getting stronger? He put that thought aside and looked down at the little scientist. “Which way?”

Zelenka consulted his laptop. “Left.”

Ronon braced himself against the wall and took a halting step.  His leg throbbed, but the splint held his weight. He took another, and another, trying not to think about how much it hurt, and how far he had to go. He’d been through worse, he told himself.  He’d been hurt more badly, and he’d been in more danger. At the moment, no one was trying to feed on him, and that was an enormous improvement.

He ran out of wall then and ground to a halt, breathing as hard as if he’d been running. He could feel air moving against his skin, definitely stronger than before, almost a breeze, and for a second the breath caught in his throat.

“Left again,” Zelenka said.

Ronon straightened, flinching as the movement jarred his leg, but managed to make the turn into the next corridor. What had been a touch of air was now a solid breeze, and he lifted his head.  “Doc?”

“Yes, I feel it. We must hurry if you can.”

“I can.” Ronon made himself move faster, lurching forward heedless of his leg.  They crossed another corridor, and then a third, and finally turned left again, into a narrower corridor that ended abruptly in a sealed door. Zelenka said something under his breath and waved his hand at the sensor. The door didn’t move.

“Doc?” For a moment, Ronon wished this were the sort of problem he could solve with his gun. He understood about shooting Wraith, understood the subtle leverage of strength and firepower and intimidation that usually kept him from having to shoot humans, and none of that was the slightest bit of use to him now.

“This door sealed when the emergency bulkheads closed,” Zelenka said, hauling out his laptop.  “If Rodney was here, or Colonel Sheppard, they could just tell it to open again, but we don’t have that option.”

“Uh-huh.” Ronon blinked hard. His leg hurt worse than ever, spasms running along the muscles, and he was grateful for Zelenka’s voice distracting him.

“I should be able to enter the system here and override it,” Zelenka went on, fumbling one-handed with a length of fine cable. “Yes, good, there’s a port — Damn.”

“Trouble?” Ronon said, and closed his eyes. Just once, couldn’t things go right?

“The system isn’t acknowledging my codes — no, not my codes, it’s not acknowledging the port.  And that, in fact, is very bad.”

“Yeah.” You didn’t have to be a scientist to understand a problem this simple: if the port wasn’t working, there wasn’t any way to open the door. Moving air tickled his skin, more than there should be and in the wrong direction to be the ventilators starting up again. He stared at the control panel, bigger than usual, with an extra set of colored buttons above the sort of displays he was used to seeing on Atlantis.

“If I can just — Damn.” Zelenka shook a pinched finger. “Ok, that cable isn’t compatible.”

Ronon waved his hand at the sensor in turn, in the faint hope that somehow Zelenka hadn’t managed to set it off. The door stayed stubbornly shut. Zelenka ignored him, rummaging in the bag that held the computer, and finally came up with another cable that ended in a flat disk.

“What’s that?”

“An experiment.” Zelenka laid the disk flat against the control mechanism. “We were trying other ways to connect to Ancient devices besides having to tie ourselves to them with cables.”

“Does it work?”

Zelenka shrugged. “We’ll —   Ah.”

“Progress?” Ronon looked hopefully at the door, but it didn’t budge.

“Of a sort. The door mechanism is functional. I just can’t get it to accept my input.”

“Oh.”

Under their feet, the deck shivered, the barest hint of a vibration. Ronon shifted uneasily, trying to take more weight off his injured leg, and a low groan, metal on metal, came from the ship’s stern. Zelenka whispered a curse, checking his laptop, and shook his head.

“The change in internal pressure is putting more stress on the frame. I don’t know how much longer the hull is going to hold together. If I cannot make the lock recognize me — Maybe I can cut in and activate it manually?”

“No cutter,” Ronon said.

“No. That would be the problem.” Zelenka set down his laptop and reached for the bag that held the oxygen candles. “These burn hot, but if it’s hot enough? I don’t know.”

It made sense, Ronon thought. They’d had cutting torches on Sateda that burned bottled gases, and the Lanteans had smaller, stronger versions; if anyone could figure out how to do it, Zelenka would be the man. He stared at the lock, wishing he had the ATA gene. Without it, none of the Ancestors’ technology would respond to him, and he was absolutely useless. And that was so frustratingly typical of the Ancients, cutting themselves off from lesser beings —