Trebal looked at me with an attentive gaze. I'd say I felt like the prey of a falcon stooping from the sky, but...
"We must do this," she said.
"You know," looking around in the empty compartment, I forced out a bit of a smile. "I'm flattered, of course, that you brought me somewhere where there are no extra eyes..."
"Why are you hesitating?" she asked. "Didn't I promise you that everything would be fine?"
"No," I reminded her. "You said: 'You'll like it!'. And we apparently have different ideas about categories of pleasure..."
"You have advanced Lantean genetics," she said. "You said so yourself. So it will be simple. You don't need to do anything—I'll do everything myself. We both need this... It will help distract us, shed the accumulated stress... Switch from problems to something... more... interesting for both of us..."
"I'd like to hear that in other circumstances," I muttered. Why is it that in the company of a beautiful girl, we men sometimes lose our heads?
"In what?" she looked at me puzzled.
"You know..." I caught myself. What an idiot! What are you thinking? She just lost... a close person, with whom she clearly didn't just serve side by side. If she allowed herself such things, she was certainly closer to the late commander of the Aurora than the other three hundred and nineteen crew members. "I'm not feeling very well... And anyway, I think we'd be useful to fix a couple of burned-out relays, or replace some wiring... I was actually pretty good at it and..."
Trebal stepped almost right up to me.
She's half a head shorter, and so she looks from the bottom up... Quite... a suggestive look. I know what she wants, but I sort of don't want to...
"Fine," she said in a sultry voice, placing her right hand on my chest. "Let me play on your guilt then... Let's start with the latter."
"Let's not?"
We're in a part of the ship where, even if she were cutting me up with a pipe, no one would hear my screams.
"No, we're going to do this," she said. Why did her "intimate whisper" sound more like the hiss of a snake? "So... You violated my personal space..."
"It's not my fault I fell face-first into your... V-neck uniform," I found my voice. "You started the maneuver, I wasn't ready..."
"So you don't deny the guilt," she concluded, tracing her finger on my chest. "And before that, you hit my head against a bulkhead. You know, it still hurts. A lot."
"I apologized."
"I don't remember that moment very well."
"You were out cold."
"Right," she smiled. "And you also left me unconscious on a ship where a Wraith wasn't even locked in a cage yet."
"I don't think he was interested in your chest," I said. "Especially since he already... violated your personal space during the reverse feeding... On my orders, of course..."
Trebal looked me straight in the eye.
"Give you a chance and you'll drown yourself, won't you?" she clarified. "And no pressure is needed... I was starting to figure out how to force you, already thinking of threatening you... And then I realized—you're just a man."
"That sounded extremely offensive," I admitted. "You're not one of those feminists, are you?"
The girl thought for a moment...
"I'm not sure I understood the term correctly, but I think not... So, are we doing this?"
"How about another time?" I suggested.
"No, right now," she replied. Her fingers pressed into my sternum, then her hand became like the head of a king cobra...
And then I felt pain in my chest, the sensation of flight, and... pain in my back and the back of my head.
"Damn!" I cursed, purely by instinct placing my hands on the intended surfaces. My fingers touched silicone pads that felt like they were filled with jelly.
And a white-blue light glowed around my body. On the wall in front of me, a panel slid aside, revealing a control screen shaped like a slightly modified rhombus. Color markers flashed, labels appeared in the Ancient language...
"That hurts, by the way," I said, coughing.
"You shouldn't have tested my patience," she said dryly, walking over to the monitor and a small keyboard that slid out of the wall. "I wouldn't have had to use force."
"We won't build a relationship this way, you know," I warned. "You can't achieve much through intimidation and violence..."
"You can achieve much more from a man through flirting and hand-to-hand combat skills than through simple requests," she replied calmly, studying the readings on the monitor.
And there wasn't even a hint of anything that had been between us just a minute ago. If there was chemistry between us, it was clearly inorganic, artificial, false...
"And what's all this for?" I asked, still sitting in the Ancient Control Chair.
"I need the output data," Trebal said. "It can only be obtained when someone is in the chair."
"Then you should have sat in it yourself! It works based on the Ancient gene... You have it..."
"Yes, but not as strong as a Lantean organism has," the girl said. "The stronger the gene, the closer it is to Lantean, the more systems and functions are unlocked through the chair."
"Including...?" I asked meaningfully, looking at the monitor readings as Trebal stepped aside.
The Control Chair.
Trebal hid the console back into the wall, then went behind my back. Judging by the sound, she removed one of the panels...
"What do you know about this device?" she asked me.
"I know it consumes a ton of power," I recalled. "It's also installed at outposts and in Atlantis to control drones."
"Is that the limit of your knowledge as an alien from another universe?" Trebal asked.
"The Commander told you about that too?" I asked, becoming wary.
"We had no secrets from each other," she replied. A melodic sound rang out, usually accompanying the extraction of master crystals in Ancient systems. The white-blue backlight of the chair vanished. "And he told me who you are and what you represent."
"And... what do I represent?" I asked curiously.
"An empty shell that got an enhanced genetic casing," Trebal said. The crystal clicked back into place and everything returned to the way it was. "No knowledge, no skills, no aptitude for the higher sciences. Not even at our level..."
Ten years ago, being younger, I would have just stood up and left, not tolerating insults on my own ship. But Trebal clearly possessed some interesting information. And she understood Ancient technology. At the very least—the Control Chair.
"Tell me, were you born a bitch, or is it an acquired trait?" I asked, watching the readings on the monitor change.
Now a map of an entire sector of space opened before my eyes. In one part was our ship's marker, in another—the enemy Hive ship. And even further—another marker. And a more massive one than a standard Hive ship.
I don't like any of this...
"It's easier to live that way," she replied. "I'm finished."
"Good for you. Wipe down the machine."
The girl walked around the Control Chair, ignoring my words, and went back to the monitor.
"So, we have more data," she said. "The chair, as always, does its job perfectly."
"I'd also like to know what you're doing," I admitted. "Because I feel a bit redundant here..."
"The control chair functions by creating a neural interface between the mind of the subject-operator and the corresponding device, allowing the user to control any technology it's linked to with thought alone," the girl said. "The chair contains hardware that interprets the mental commands given by the user and executes them, then transmits information back to the user for confirmation. A closed-loop mental control. You've flown... what did you call them?"
"Puddle Jumpers," I explained.
"Puddle Jumpers," the girl repeated. "An interesting name... Why exactly that?"
"Because the event horizon of an active Stargate looks like a puddle of water," I explained. "And the ship 'jumps' into that very puddle..."
Trebal thought for a couple of seconds.
"A primitive analogy, but accurate enough," she concluded. "However, I expected nothing else from representatives of primitive races. Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Tell me, have you ever considered that calling people who haven't developed to your level—which, by the way, was provided by the Ancients—'primitive' is somewhat offensive?" I asked.
"It is a scientific term," she said. "You are primitive relative to us. Even to the junior races of the Ancients."
"I wonder, did the Ancients call your race primitive too?" I asked. No, really, where does this snobbism come from, after all?! Yes, she turns out to be quite the bitch, changing masks depending on the situation, but there must be a limit to everything?!
"I was born much later than when we crossed the threshold of primitivity," she replied calmly. "We became a junior race, part of the confederation of the Ancients."
"But compared to them, you were primitive, weren't you?" I continued to insist.
"Yes," she said impassively. "But less primitive than, for example, your friends from Athos. Or your base race."
"What makes you say that?"
"The fact that I know how to work with Ancient technology," Trebal countered. "And you couldn't even configure the ship's systems on your own. If not for my trained organism, you would have died under Wraith fire. Though, I suppose by now you'd already be crawling at the Queen's feet, spilling every secret she wanted to know."
A ruthless, absolutely tactless bitch. I'm starting to regret saving her. Maybe I should knock her out again and hit her with the other side of her head, harder this time? Would that help, or would everything just get worse?
"Let's continue our lecture on the chair?" I suggested. "For example, I'm curious why this particular method was chosen for controlling things like drones?"
"This control method prevents unauthorized access to the system by other means, serving as a security measure that prevents anyone who doesn't have the ability to use the chair from easily controlling the system without it," she explained. "Control chairs are specifically genetically keyed to a particular biological species to prevent unauthorized access. In our case—to the Ancients. Their descendants and their junior races."
"Why not just use good encryption?" I asked. "Passwords, retinal scans, biometrics, and all that?"
"The chair uses all of that," Trebal replied, puzzled. Then, as if catching herself, she answered. "Passwords can be found out, the bearer of biometrics can be forced, coerced, their mind subdued. But the chair... The chair cannot be fooled. It scans the one trying to control it, reacts to changes in the operator's sweat and oil secretions, analyzes brain frequencies, its radiation, the rhythms of internal organs... If the operator is affected by biological, chemical, mental, or other radiation or substances, if their will is broken or they are subdued in some other way—the chair will not work."
"So, it's not just about having the gene," I realized. "The person themselves is a kind of master key."
"An elegant solution, is it not?" Trebal smiled. "Now I can trust you."
"And before that?" I clarified.
"And before this moment, how should I have treated a person who arrived from another universe with unknown intentions, claiming that one of the most heroic Lanteans and Ascended went against every conceivable rule and placed Atlantis at your disposal?" she asked. "You and your people do not possess the knowledge of the Ancients, yet you restored the ship. You have a Wraith with you who is older than he might seem."
"What makes you say that?"
"By the end of the war, there was a stratification among the Wraith by Hive," Trebal said. "They began to break into collectives due to the destruction of their supreme commander—the Death Queen. A habit appeared among them—tattooing themselves in honor of their Hive's signs. This one has nothing of the sort. Either he is too young, or too old. He doesn't look young. From which I conclude that he is one of those we fought ten thousand years ago. I wonder how you were able to find and capture him? And why is he not in one of the Hives yet? Which Queen does he serve?"
The girl looked at me with interest, waiting for an answer.
"Let's continue our lecture on the chair," I suggested.
Realizing that no answer to her questions would be forthcoming, Trebal's expression didn't change. I bet she'll be fishing this information out of me later.
With her cunning tricks…
"As I have already said, the chair interacts with the brain," Trebal stated. "It is a wireless connection, and interference is impossible. The chair is merely the tip of the technological iceberg involved in the entire process." The girl approached the monitor and pressed several icons on it.
The image changed again.
An Ancient Control Chair.
"Though they all look similar externally, the internal mechanisms and peripheral systems of the chairs on Atlantis or on ships are different," she explained. "Before you is a chair from Atlantis. This is the base version for city-ships, outposts, and so on. The elements you see inside are the primary control system for the city or outpost, and they are also connected to every part of the settlement. On a ship, there is no point in using them, as they simply take up too much space and are redundant for a military starship. Only the chair itself and its platform are used"—she pointed to the dais on which the chair stood—"while the equipment is connected to the ship's systems."
"Is it all about saving space?" I clarified.
"And energy," the girl added. "By default, the chair must use a ZPM for its operation. But that power cell is not so easy to produce. And for some time during the war, just before the production of ships like this one, it became entirely impossible."
"Why?"
"The Lanteans did not explain the reasons for it," Trebal said. "And the lesser races do not ask questions."
"And there weren't even rumors?"
"Are they important?"
"Sometimes there is a grain of truth in rumors," I noted.
"In that case, you had better talk to someone else," Trebal said. "I did not engage in the collection of rumors."
"Fine, let's assume so. But the Hippaphoralkus has no ZPM. Yet the chair works," I observed.
"Because on this ship and subsequent ones, they began installing hyper-reactors as shipboard power plants," Trebal explained. "When they are running, they output enough energy to power the chair. But this significantly drains the ship's energy resources. Therefore, ships heading into battle tried to be equipped with a ZPM. On this ship, it seems it was taken during the evacuation. Or there wasn't one at all. That could happen if none were left by the end of the war."
"I see," I nodded, rising from the chair. No point in wasting energy for nothing. "So they put a simplified version on the ships, without all these"—I pointed to the monitor—"additional installations?"
"I didn't explain it quite correctly," Trebal grimaced. "The platform with the chair and the systems shown in the diagram are not a single unit. The platform with the chair can be disconnected and moved. That is what they did with the ships—they simply didn't build the 'lower' part, as it uses very rare resources and systems that are difficult to manufacture. And where a city or outpost has its own tracking and targeting systems for the chair, on more or less modern ships, they are effectively absent as separate technologies. Chairs on ships are, essentially, the gunner's and marksman's station."
And now Trebal had reconfigured it, connecting it to all the starship's systems. Meaning, besides the chair on the bridge, the ship could be controlled from here as well?
"Correct," Trebal said. "We conducted simulations of similar upgrades on the Aurora. But in virtuality, changing the crystal arrangement and gaining access to the main functions without a Lantean in the chair in reality would not have worked..."
"And... weren't you afraid it would blow up?"
"No," the girl answered confidently. "At worst, some of the circuits would have burned out. But we have spares—Ihaar pulled a full set from the Aurora. The main crystals, by the way, will fit Atlantis—the Aurora had the same chair as the city. But the spares are for the Hippaphoralkus's chair."
Fine... Let's assume so. But I'll keep it in mind—it's time to sort out the chain of command. I can't let the Ancients do whatever they want. It seems Trebal is simply testing my resolve, looking for the boundaries of what is permitted.
Well, two can play at that game.
Now much was becoming clear.
For example, the existence of the Atlantis control room. Why are terminals needed if the city can be managed from the chair? Exactly—energy conservation. Why consume it for routine procedures?
Therefore, despite having the base model rather than the truncated one, the city also has a set of all basic sensors and programs that can be managed from consoles. I think somewhere there is also a system for firing from a terminal rather than the chair—there was something like that in the series. The Replicators who seized Atlantis were shooting at the heroes then. And they didn't have the Ancient gene due to their lack of flesh.
"It's not the chair itself that uses a ton of energy, is it?" I voiced my guess.
"What makes you think that?" the Ancient woman frowned.
"Our reactors aren't in the best shape," I reminded her. "Yet, activating the chair didn't affect the ship's power supply. Not even the lights flickered. I don't think these reactors produce enough power to replace a ZPM—otherwise, they would have installed them in the city in unlimited quantities. And I didn't notice them there."
"You are right," Trebal replied with a hint of respect and surprise. "Such immense energy was needed to supply the entire complex of mechanisms connected to the base version of the chair."
Hmm... the pot is cooking the right porridge; that's good.
"Are these consoles?" I asked, pointing to the silicone gel panels located at the ends of the chair's armrests.
"Manual interface," Trebal explained. "It is used for those whose genetics aren't quite good enough. But at the same time, it allows for a reduction in the load on the brain when working with the chair. This is important during long-term operation. For example, piloting or conducting a prolonged battle—it's better to give a command with the press of a button than to strain the mind. From experience, I can say that even Lanteans did not disdain such an approach—after an hour or so of contact with the chair, a person could be sent to the infirmary for recovery. Mental exhaustion..."
So much for advanced technologies that suck out brains and thoughts.
"The chair can connect me directly to the ship's database now, can't it?" I asked.
"Why do you need this information?" Trebal asked suspiciously.
"Suppose I want to upload the necessary data from the database straight into my brain... That is possible, isn't it? The Ancients have such technology."
"Yes, I have heard of such things. They uploaded knowledge using such installations, and the feedback loop for brain interaction is analogous to what is in the chair. These are identical or related technologies. But Repositories of Knowledge are barbaric! They were created for teaching the lesser races and haven't been used since the flight from the Milky Way. At least, that's what the Commander said..."
Interesting. It turns out those things have a very practical purpose. Not just a breadcrumb trail for descendants.
"So, is it still possible to upload information directly from the database into the brain via the chair?"
"With your level of genetics and training, you do not need such dangerous paths," Trebal warned.
"Yes or no?"
"I will not say until you answer my question."
You've already said everything I was interested in.
I had no intention of saying anything. After all, switching gender and social roles isn't my style. And since she's playing the "tough guy"... would a punch to the jaw count as an answer?
I was saved from the necessity of answering in a caveman's strict interpretation of dialogue by Ihaar's voice.
"Mikhail, Trebal, do you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," the girl said into her transmitter brooch, not taking her eyes off me.
"We have inspected the external damage and begun repairs."
"How bad is it?" she asked.
"The main power bus has melted, and we don't have enough spare parts to restore it," Ihaar explained. "The secondary circuit isn't in great shape either after your trick with the jump to near-light speed, but there are decent chances to partially restore it and partially bypass the damaged sections using other systems. It will be cold in some parts of the ship, gravity will fail in others, and in some places, it's better not to open the doors at all, as we'll be cutting away part of the hull to pull out the necessary elements..."
"Will she fly?" I asked.
"Oh," Ihaar said, sounding puzzled. "I didn't know you were right there... There are decent chances."
"How many?"
"Fifty percent that we can accelerate using sublight and open a hyperspace window; fifty percent that the reactors will simply burn everything to the Ori, and the hull will start falling apart from the stress," the lead engineer shared.
"I hope those were the bad news?" I clarified.
"Actually, those were the good ones," the guy sighed. "The bad news is that the Wraith clearly know the ship's schematics—their hit damaged the drone launch bay. So, if we even think about fighting, well... we'll have to punch holes in our own hull. The problem is that the main control and power buses run very close to there... A meter to the side, and we lose control of the ship."
"Drones are very precise weapons, aren't they?" I clarified with Trebal.
"A margin of error of five to six meters is quite normal even for an experienced chair operator," she said. "That's why they are launched in swarms—to destroy the target with a guarantee."
"Let me guess—the drones that are launched but not destroyed against the target won't return to their cells?" I asked.
"If you are suicidal, try it," the Aurora's senior officer shuddered. "But without my people on board."
So, we can't win a fight. We simply have no weapons—pulse cannons won't protect us from a Hive ship's fire. And certainly not from the second one, which is larger.
It seems the secret of Atlantis's restoration won't stay a secret for long.
"Are you still there?" Ihaar's voice came through. "If I've interrupted something important..."
"I have connected the chair to long-range sensors," Trebal replied into the brooch. "They show that the approaching ship looks like a Hive modified with a ZPM."
"Oh, may the Ori not live long in the vacuum!" Ihaar cursed. "You think they have a ZPM?"
"Don't mind me," I interjected. "Keep talking as if I'm not here. Don't forget to describe this incident in your diary, Trebal the gossip."
The girl looked at me without the slightest hint of understanding.
Right... I need to fly to Earth if only to find people who understand my jokes. Though, perhaps I shouldn't.
"The key problem for the Wraith is a lack of energy."
"I am aware of that."
"Let me finish! During the War, they managed to capture several of our ships. And the ZPMs on them. After which their numbers increased thousands of times over in an unknown manner. They developed ships that could be called Super-Hives—I believe that is how your dialect denotes the overwhelming superiority of one subject over another. In short, such a ship dominates others. It has more weapons, more Darts, a larger crew, and it flies without short stops to allow the hull to recover from radiation. Oh, yes"—Trebal smiled mockingly—"and it also has super-armor that cannot be breached even by the full arsenal of a battleship like the Hippaphoralkus."
"Why?" I clarified. "Don't drones penetrate any barrier?"
"It's a matter of their number," Trebal said. "The Aurora and the next generation, which the Hippaphoralkus belongs to, only carry a thousand drones each. When the subsequent generations were created specifically for the war, they had three thousand drones. That was quite enough to destroy such a ship, even one developed to its maximum."
"And how many drones are on Atlantis?" I inquired.
"I don't know if they've been replenished, as the factory was destroyed," Trebal said. "When we were breaking through, the Aurora was given a set of drones from the city. And it was practically empty there."
"I meant, how many drones should there be in the city's arsenal in total?" I had to clarify.
"I never took an interest in the size of the arsenal of Atlantis or other city-ships."
Great... So she knows about other such cities. Excellent! I just need to get out of this mess, and life will improve.
"Do we have shields, Ihaar?" I asked.
"The emitters are burned out or cracked," he announced. "I'll give you five percent, maybe ten, but no more than that."
So our options are rapidly shrinking.
Trebal and I locked eyes.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked.
"If our thoughts are similar, then I don't know whether you should be happy or sad, since I am a primitive," I reminded her.
The girl silently swallowed the jab.
"We won't survive a fight."
"It's outright contraindicated for us," I noted. "We need to leave. And preferably in a way that the Wraith won't detect or track us."
Contacting Atlantis and asking Chaya to help us or raise the city to the surface, fly over, and pick us up would be a good idea. If not for the very limited time we had left before the arrival of the second ship. And there are no drones in the city.
"If there is no Wraith transmitter on the ship, they won't find us," Trebal stated confidently. "Tracking us in hyperspace is definitely beyond them."
"Then it's time to think about an escape," I summarized.
"Focus on repairing the engines," Trebal ordered into the transmitter brooch. "Sublight, hyperdrive..."
"What about the maneuvering thrusters?" Ihaar asked. "We've already started on the others."
Logical; a command wouldn't even be needed here—without sublight, we won't accelerate for a jump into a hyperspace window. And without a hyperdrive, we won't leave this part of space.
"Were the maneuvering thrusters damaged too?" Trebal clarified.
"Did you think passing ten times more power through them than their maximum absorption rating would leave them like new?" Ihaar exclaimed. "They're fried! They handled the deceleration after the acceleration, and even then, we only killed ninety-two percent of our velocity..."
"Work with what you have," I ordered, seeing that the girl was still holding the transmitter brooch down.
We had no other options anyway.
"Understood, continuing restoration," Ihaar said, disconnecting.
"This is bad," Trebal said, fiddling with the transmitter on her uniform. "Inactive maneuvering thrusters are a big problem. Fatal, I would say."
"Tell me about it," I agreed. "Because without them, we..."
"Maneuvering thrusters provide the ship's course deviation when moving on sublight engines," Trebal replied (surprisingly!). "They are needed for atmospheric entry. But most importantly—thanks to them, the momentum is neutralized after exiting a hyperspace window."
"And if they are burned out..."
"Then we will enter a celestial object in front of us at full speed, if there is one at the end of the path," Trebal added grimly. "If we exit the hyperjump in open space, the ship will simply continue moving by inertia."
"Can we flip the ship with the sublight engines forward, use them to kill the momentum, and drift?" I inquired.
"Not without maneuvering thrusters," Trebal said. "Without them, we fly in real space in a straight line..."
"And in hyperspace?" I asked, catching the tail of a dangerous idea. "We don't steer with them there, do we?"
"No," Trebal frowned. "It seems you have an idea?"
"I have a couple," I admitted. "But we'll need a damn good pilot. You wouldn't happen to know one?"
The girl gave me a piercing look.
"Sarcasm?" she clarified just in case.
"Heavens, no!" I waved it off. "How could we, the primitive species..."
"Sarcasm," the girl concluded. "Fine, let's assume I can pilot the ship at the required level. But I would like to know for what specific purposes..."
"And that's where you're going to hear something you won't like," I said, rising from the chair.
***
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