The device, resembling a compact computer, beeped briefly in Misha's hands. Alfar, tugging at his t-shirt, covering his bare back, turned halfway. His inexperienced assistant peered at the screen of the device, biting his lower lip.
"Is it bad?" Jensen asked.
"Let's just say – it can't be removed without surgery. And I," he stretched his neck, "as you know, am not a surgeon."
"And also not a pilot, not a soldier, and I think the list doesn't end there," the fugitive twitched his cheek. "How bad is it?"
"You can see for yourself," Misha turned the palmtop screen towards him. The former soldier looked at a white diagram of structures, resembling a human skeleton. And at a reddish matter that had grown like shrub roots, entwining some parts of the bones.
"I'm not a medic either," the fugitive admitted. "I understand that the tracker somehow attached itself to my body. The doctors I met said it couldn't be removed without killing me or crippling me."
"That's probably true," the guy agreed. "At least under our conditions."
"Then let's not waste time," Alvar decided. "We tried, it didn't work. We need to think about an escape plan before the Wraiths show up. Maybe your people can help me. I need to get to them."
"Cool down, my spontaneous friend," Misha asked. "We," he emphasized this word with his voice, "are not going anywhere or flying anywhere until this thing in you is active."
"Afraid the Wraiths will follow? Reasonable."
"Returning home with two hives and a bunch of Wraiths on our tail is not how I envisioned completing this mission," Misha admitted. He glanced quickly at the virtual screen. Making sure no red dots were appearing, the guy visibly calmed down.
His nervousness betrayed his inexperience.
Not in terms of personality, but in handling the available technologies. He knew how to shoot, and clearly well. But it was as if he hadn't held a weapon in his hands for a long time. Or his pistol was unfamiliar to him.
With the ship, it was about the same – he knew how to use it, but he did it somewhat uncertainly. As if he lacked practice. Or, worse, he had never operated such a craft before.
Under other circumstances, Jensen would never have trusted such a person. But it seemed he didn't have many choices. He sincerely hoped that even a simpleton with such a ship would find a new solution.
And it seemed it was already ripening. But not in the "pilot's" mind, but in the fugitive's own mind.
"How about going head-on?" Jensen asked. "We'll get to the Ring of the Ancients, dial the address of your world, call your comrades for help. If we had a dozen more ships like this, we would have broken through fighting. And if we were also supported by infantry with such weapons," he nodded towards the energy pistol lying on the floor, "then the Wraiths would have no chance."
"It won't work," Misha said.
"Why?"
"Because we won't contact 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 chuckled.
"Could they help you?"
"No. We... have a complicated relationship. Let's put it that way."
"I see," the former soldier summed up. "So we're at a dead end."
"I didn't say that," the guy objected. "We have an option."
"I suggested you leave and lead the Wraiths away," Alvar reminded him. "You refused. Now we're just wasting time when we could have already."
"Listen, my hasty friend," there were categorical notes in the new acquaintance's voice. "I, no less than you, need to get off this planet as far as possible. And, believe me, the reasons for this are quite serious. But we are stuck until we resolve the issue with your transmitter. We can only leave here together. If you're impatient, I'll drop you off on the first planet I find – but after we leave Sudaria."
"You meant Dagan," Alvar corrected him. "This planet is called Dagan."
He didn't dwell on the reasons why his interlocutor wasn't willing to take risks. Everyone has their own reasons. Apparently, Misha wasn't going to leave him to the mercy of the Wraiths. He probably thought that when the fugitive was caught (and sooner or later he would be), he would talk about him, his weapons, and his ship. Technologies of such a level are not just a threat to the Wraiths – they are a direct call for the destruction of the race that built them.
On Alvar's planet, people learned to split the atom, built weapons factories, and manufactured space fighters to counter the Wraiths during the next gathering. But they couldn't oppose even one 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, fighter – it didn't stop the Wraiths. If they had had more time, perhaps there would have been more fighters, and the enemy's "arrows" would not have rained down on them like fire from the heavens.
"I won't argue about planet names," Misha waved his hand, rewinding a bit of wire and trying to cut it with the blade. It was quite logical that he didn't succeed. The class of metal used in it precluded such a thing. "Um... Can you help?"
"Do you have another plan to get rid of this thing in my back?"
"I planned to do it from the beginning, but I hoped the device hadn't grown so much yet," the new acquaintance explained. "We 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."
Grabbing the weapon by the blade, Misha returned the required item. Jensen, turning the lower part of the handle, slightly lifted the lid, then inserted the wire through the open through-hole. Turning the end of the handle, he used the sharp edges, hidden when the weapon was in one position, to break the wire. Then he repeated the process.
"Done."
"Great. Now give me the knife back."
Tossing the weapon in his hand so that the handle pointed forward, the fugitive shared the blade.
"What are you doing?" he asked, watching Misha flip over his compact computer, pry off the back cover with the blade, and break it off. He broke it off, not pried it open or opened it.
It seemed he understood very little about the technologies he was using.
"The transmitter implanted in your back transmits a signal in subspace."
"What is that?"
"Subspace?" Misha clarified, not distracting himself from his work – he was removing parts from the palmtop and laying them out next to him.
"Exactly. My people had chronicles that the Ancients used to build ships that flew in hyperspace," Jensen explained, watching Misha scan the parts of the first device with a second device. "My people hoped to uncover this secret, but we didn't have time."
"It seems you were developed quite well," Misha remarked, smiling when the device beeped next to one of the parts of another palmtop.
Resembling a rectangular battery, which was used in his world to power small devices, it had two protruding contacts on opposite sides. And to these contacts, clearly having opposite charges, Misha was now screwing the free ends of the wires.
"We made many scientific discoveries since the last gathering," 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 by them during the capture."
"I thought the Wraiths didn't kill people," Misha admitted. "Don't judge me, but it's impractical for those who feed on people."
"And 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. Although the chronicles claimed that the Wraiths don't come to our planet during their hibernation, they came."
"The hive that was hunting you?"
"Apparently, yes."
"Was there only one hive?" the guy's voice sounded genuinely interested.
"They had many 'arrows'."
"I understand that. But, you see, each hive has a queen who keeps at least a few cruisers to protect the hive ship. As far as I know, they prefer to stay together. You saw yourself when the second hive arrived."
"Well, the first one didn't have those cruisers," the fugitive repeated his words. "Your words about queens align with our chronicles. However, I didn't see a queen on board. The commander spoke in her name, and he managed everything there."
"I'm just making conversation," his interlocutor spread his hands. "You know, we have a rather complicated manipulation ahead of us here. I'd like us to trust each other at least a little. And communication is the best way to establish mutual understanding."
"Or waste time on empty chatter."
"That's true too. Done," Misha demonstrated his strange contraption. "I think with this, we'll get rid of the tracker."
"What is this for?" Alvar became wary.
"If we can't cut out the transmitter, we can deactivate it by frying it well," Misha said. After performing some manipulations on his compact computer, he showed a small and relatively detailed picture of a circle with several outgrowths. "This is the transmitter that the Wraiths implanted in your back. They placed it so that you couldn't cut it out yourself."
Subspace transmitter of the Wraiths.
"In the picture you showed before, it looked bigger," Alvar noted. "More... fleshy."
"Yes, that's right," the guy glanced quickly at the control panel. He was worried someone might approach the ship and catch them off guard. "But this is its initial version. After it's implanted, it starts to grow throughout the body. I think this is done in case the main part is removed or damaged. Then, most likely, the rest of the transmitter will transmit the subspace signal. It might not be as strong, but it won't lose the trail."
"The Wraiths take everyone who helped me," Jensen said. "If you stop even for a night, for a day, they arrive."
"Always at the hive?" Misha became interested.
"Only a few times. Mostly it's arrows with landing parties. The hive arrives a few days later, if I managed to last on the planet that long."
"And did you stay here long?"
"No longer than on other planets. I heard that monks from the Brotherhood of Quinndozium once existed here. According to rumors, they had some kind of power."
"And you assumed it could help you?"
"In my situation, you have to use any opportunity."
"I agree," Misha nodded.
"So, what about the transmitter? I already understood that you want to shock it. Why?"
"Wraith technologies are bionics, a mix of biological and mechanical components. Their devices have batteries, like this one," he pointed to his creation. "I think if we apply voltage to the tracker, we can burn out the power source and make the transmitter useless."
"Meaning, it will stop sending a signal?" Alvar became interested. What luck!
"In theory," Misha admitted.
"Meaning, in practice, you haven't done this?" Jensen returned the knife to its original position and put it back.
"Do you think I go to other planets every day, interfere with the Wraiths' affairs, rescue fugitives with subspace trackers in their backs, and perform surgery on them?" the new acquaintance chuckled.
Sarcasm dripped from his words.
"I would be calmer if that were the case," Jensen admitted. "I don't want to be crippled."
"Risk is voluntary," Misha said. "Either this, or continue to hope for luck. So, what?"
"What do I need to do?"
"Turn around, give me the knife, and... Pray to your gods, if your people have them, of course."
Alvar preferred to simply silently offer his bare back.
* * *
I've had to cut meat, of course.
And in most cases of my life, this meat was already dead. Or I made it that way. There were also enough cases where I had to cut my comrades in the field to save their lives.
But then the conditions were different. Field medicine in my time was not very developed, of course, but with service comes the necessary experience. Interaction with more experienced colleagues helped to improve my knowledge in survival.
Now I had to perform a medical intervention on the body of an alien human with a knife that had been disinfected, at best, with water from a flask. And all this on the floor of an alien aircraft millions and billions of kilometers from the planet where I was born.
Only a knife and a scanner for tools. For painkillers – only the strength of one's balls. A prayer as an antiseptic is also unlikely to be useful equipment. And it's also unclear when the Wraiths will catch up with us again.
Of course, what could be easier!
Honestly, I was even disturbed by the ease with which Alvar decided to trust me with this. To expose his back to a complete stranger, and even put his own knife in his hands...
It requires great courage for such a thing.
Or recklessness. Who knows, maybe I'm the local equivalent of "little green men" and have already prepared chloroform and an anal probe?
But something told me that the fugitive simply used his chance, which doesn't happen to everyone. There is a direct and undisguised threat in this galaxy – the Wraiths. They are enemies of all people in the galaxy. And people know about it. Therefore, judging by Jensen's stories, it is customary among local people, who are developed at least a little more than simple hunters and gatherers, to help a person in trouble.
Thanks to the scanner, I knew the exact millimeter location where the incision should be made. To cut the flesh, penetrate through the muscles to the spine, and with the help of one alien technology, fry another. What could be simpler?
What was the point of helping this man?
At first glance, he was completely unnecessary to me. Just a random person who happened to be nearby. It's quite possible that he's not who he claims to be. Maybe he's a Wraith trap, one of their servants and admirers?
Maybe.
But the latter doesn't hold up to criticism.
The circumstances of our meeting are, of course, far from ideal. But the very fact that I arrived on a planet where he was already being hunted spoke for itself. If the Wraiths knew that Atlantis was not abandoned, they would not stage such performances. Especially on a planet where I might not have landed at all.
No, I think this guy is a fugitive.
And, therefore, he has a motive to hate the Wraiths.
His planet was destroyed, its population became food for pale-faced cosplayers of the early 2000s. He has no home, no friends, no support.
He's a loner. And I'm a loner.
Only I can provide him with shelter, weapons, and equipment. At least the Ancient's blaster interested him. Of course, such power. He didn't see through my little deception that all technologies run on Gene, and therefore he will at least exchange information for help.
Despite the reserve of jumpers, I couldn't give him such a ship. He seems to be a pilot, but he won't be able to fly it in my absence. But a blaster "after minor modifications" he can quite appreciate as a valuable gift.
In return, I can get the information I'm interested in.
Addresses of gates where peaceful farmers and agrarians live, who can provide me with food, for example. The same Atozians in the events known to me even revered the Ancients, hated the Wraiths, and easily made contact for a safe haven. And there can be dozens of such peoples.
The Atlantis address database is ten thousand years old. Who lives on these planets now cannot be checked without reconnaissance. And conducting it myself, regularly leaving the city empty, is not 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.
With the technologies of the Ancients, even ships like Atlantis, one can manage alone. If you have a few years, you can also learn their knowledge, repair the city yourself, find more MNT and go to the Milky Way, find out everything and... What will happen after "and" I don't know yet.
It's just not rational.
In the events known to me, as soon as Atlantis appeared on the surface of the planet, during an attack, the Wraiths landed troops in the city. Hundreds and hundreds of soldiers wandering around the city and feeding on people – that's quite a development.
Allies are needed.
I roughly know how to gain the help of advanced people in this galaxy, but everything again comes down to resources and the availability of help. I remember that the expedition, even with help and information about the galaxy from the Atozians, regularly got into trouble. And barely managed to get out of them. Sometimes, the help of an entire squad or the entire population of Atlantis was required.
If I remain alone, I will have a very hard time. I can't constantly be protected by a personal shield either – my whole body is already itching, and my hair is standing on end. Such technologies, like many others, are not designed to work constantly.
Therefore, it is at least worth trying to recruit this guy as an ally. He is from an advanced world, a former soldier who knows a lot. He can teach me piloting and introduce me to other inhabitants of the galaxy. Not to mention that there might be something interesting left in his world.
Take his weapon, for example. For instance, the knife I was now driving into his skin. Easily and effortlessly, like a surgical scalpel, it cut the skin. A little blood, of course, will not be a problem for me.
At the same time, it should be noted that the knife is indeed not just a crude "stamping." Yes, it was clearly manufactured in a factory. And not just any factory, but almost every detail was thought out.
A comfortable handle, a strong blade, sharpened to a razor's edge. Plus a wire cutter-like device in the handle. All this indicates that the creators of this weapon clearly thought through their product.
And that's very good.
Image from the Internet. Let's say, approximately, this is what Alvar Jensen's knife looks like.
However, his assault rifle is also a rather interesting weapon. In the series, I saw only a few types of local firearms. And what Alvar used did not resemble any of them.
More like a hybrid of the Earth FAMAS with composite materials. Which in itself is very, very good in terms of their scientific development.
The series showed very few races that could match or surpass Earthlings in technological level. The Wraiths never allowed this, because a developed civilization is a threat.
And here...
Honestly, I didn't know if I would find any more Ancient weapons or ammunition for them on Atlantis, if I could charge the crystals after they depleted their reserves. And if there's a place to get more familiar firearms from my youth, and even relatively familiar at least in appearance... It would be a good help for my plans.
Yes, a Wraith cannot be killed with one or two bullets. But with short bursts – very much so.
Jensen's assault rifle.
"What are you digging around for?" the fugitive grumbled. "We don't have much 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 asked, pushing the muscles aside slightly with the back of the blade. It didn't work very well.
I'll have to act differently.
Concentrating, I activated the personal shield. I turned it off as soon as I got on the ship – I don't have spares, and I didn't want to empirically check how long the charge would last. Not to mention that I don't know how to charge it and if it's possible at all.
Slipping my fingers into the wound, I tensed, separating the back muscles from the material of the subspace transmitter. The Wraiths secured it so that the power source was closer to the spine. A clever move if you don't want to lose the device during a fugitive's accidental fall. Or protection against an easy way to disable the transmitter.
"Are you shoving wires into my back?" the fugitive's voice sounded.
"I'm going to short-circuit the transmitter's power element," I had to explain the reason why I inserted one of the contacts into the wound. "The overload should burn it out and make the device inoperable."
"Couldn't you just give me the contacts in my hands?" Jensen asked. "If you need an electric shock..."
In the series, such an operation was performed with a defibrillator. But I don't have such equipment at hand. In the absence of the coat of arms... we are dismantling a complex extraterrestrial palmtop.
The fugitive's suggestion is, of course, the most reasonable. But not knowing his physiology and the power of the charge in the battery, I could actually stop his heart. And, according to the scanner data, there is a dielectric layer between the transmitter's power element 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. But if it works...
The moment the second contact was connected to the tracker's power source, the fugitive's body arched. A flash of short circuit, a smell of burning, and my shield was briefly charged with energy.
Pulling out the wires, I brought the scanner to his back, ignoring the man grinding his teeth.
The device read new data, a picture of the spine and the enemy device appeared… Only now it was highlighted in dark gray, not red. And the text in the Ancient language made me happy.
"It worked," I exhaled. "The device is not active."
"I thought you were going to fry me," the fugitive got up from the floor, reaching a hand behind his back. But, of course, he achieved nothing but smearing his hands in his own blood. "You didn't just disable it temporarily, did you?"
I don't think the wraiths' technology is so magnificent that it can survive such a thing and recover.
"We'll check in a while," I promised. Looking at the virtual screen, I noticed several red dots near us. "Wraiths are close. Time to get out."
"Agreed."
While the fugitive tore his T-shirt, turning it into a makeshift bandage for his wound, I returned to the pilot's seat. Not too neatly, but I still lifted the jumper into the air, checked if the cloaking was working, and then sped away at maximum speed from the place where the wraiths could have picked up the last beacon signal.
Simultaneously, launching the scanners, I couldn't help myself when I received the answer.
"How bad is it?" Jensen asked, sitting next to me.
"One hive in orbit is gone," I explained. "There are significantly fewer 'Arrows' – only a dozen. And they are searching far from us. It looks like they are examining the site of the explosion of the dungeon roof."
"The one you got out of?" the now former fugitive clarified.
"Exactly. But we won't fly there," I decided.
"Why? Maybe there's something else useful there?"
"There's nothing there but dust and the mustiness of ages," I replied, directing the jumper towards the gate.
The plan, not counting meeting Jensen, worked perfectly.
Scanning the soil, amplifying the sensors by consuming a huge amount of energy from the jumper's power source, I was able to detect cavities at a distance from the stone structure. Many cavities. But only one of them had a regular geometric shape of a rectangle, which indicated its artificiality.
And that's a sign.
Blowing up the roof so that none of the wide walls were damaged, I descended down the resulting chute. And almost immediately found what I was looking for. A room carved into the ground, its walls lined with clay bricks. In the center stood a pedestal with a platform, on which plates needed to be assembled in a specific order. And the latter were scattered all over the area. And I had absolutely no desire to look for them.
According to the logic of the Brotherhood or whoever created this trap for them, each plate had its own number – from one to nine. They had to be collected in order so that each side summed up to a certain number. And only then would the ZPM hidden in the stucco on the wall reveal itself to the world.
A frame from the series. This is what this stucco looked like. Five circles around the central element look like the end face of the ZPM.
Fairly reasoning that the Ancients were unlikely to be involved in creating this trial, I remembered that the ZPM was behind one of the five round lids. I immediately remembered the five ZPMs promised by Janus to the expedition leader…
There are five here, five there… Coincidence?
Honestly, I really hoped not. And therefore, knocking down the round lids, I hoped to find more than one power source there. It didn't work out. Four decorative circles were just patterns, with no cavities behind them where a ZPM could be hidden.
But in the fifth one…
The ZPM in the cell on the stucco.
It's a pity, of course, that it's not five pieces, but even one will be enough for me for a while. About three thousand years or so. Of course, if you don't use the city's systems.
Now one of the most capacious energy storage devices in this, and in the neighboring galaxy, lay in the locker in the cargo hold of the ship.
The closer I flew to the gate, the more nervous I became. Now that the danger of being tracked had disappeared, I wanted nothing more than to return to the city as quickly as possible.
"There are no wraiths at the gate," Alvar noted.
I also saw no red dots on the ground or in the air. Moreover, the gate was turned off. Yes, there were two "Arrows" a kilometer away, and half that distance away was a group of wraith infantry. But they wouldn't have time to intercept us.
"Does your ship fly through the Ring of the Ancients?" the former fugitive asked. "It should pass by size. And the dial-up device here is clearly not for show," he pointed to the console with symbols separating us.
"Not for show," I agreed. "Do you know the addresses of any planets where there are definitely no wraiths?"
"I won't promise, but it seems quiet with the Jedi…"
The fugitive reached for the keys, but I intercepted his hand.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Jenai are out," I explained. "Are there any other places?"
"What, are you afraid of farmers?" Jensen was surprised. "Jenai are peaceful guys, they grow beans and…"
"Have you been to the planet Taranis?" I asked.
"Never heard of it," the fugitive admitted.
"Sateda?" I continued to try my luck.
"I've heard of it, but I've never been there."
"Hoff?" I sifted through the known names.
"Never heard of it."
"Athos?"
The fugitive squinted at me.
Alright, it was worth a try.
"You don't want me to fly with you to your world, do you?" he asked.
"I don't mind allies, Alvar, but now I have to solve a few problems," I said. "So I planned to drop you off on a quiet planet, take care of things at home, and then come back. And we would have agreed on everything. I could use a good soldier."
"Well, of course," Jensen chuckled, touching the first key on the jumper's dial-up device with his fingers.
"Hey!" I became alert. "What are you doing?"
Meanwhile, blue lights lit up on the angular keystones of the gate. The jumper noted the increasing amount of energy being accumulated by the gate.
"I'm dialing the address of the Athosians," he replied. "You know… I don't mind your plan. But keep in mind, kid. If you intend to cooperate, I don't like secrets. And to know the name of the planet and not know its address, especially Athos, a well-known place for farmers and traders… You have to try hard, of course. So, if you want to cooperate, try to at least come up with a plausible story for your eccentric behavior. And yes, I'm interested in what that crystal thing was, for which you climbed into the dungeon under the nose of the wraiths."
The energy surge from the activated gate coincided with a warning that two wraith "Arrows" were moving in our direction.
"I'll think about your conditions," I said, directing the ship towards the gate, noting that the cloaking had been deactivated against my will. Apparently, the jumper cannot fly through the gate while cloaked.
Emerging on the other side after a microscopic interval, I moved the ship away from the gate. The "puddle" in its center dissolved, as did the hyper-tunnel connecting the night Athos with the Brotherhood's planet.
"I'll be on the planet for three days," Jensen said, getting up from the console. He went to the cargo hold, took his weapon, and went 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 smile as I sealed the jumper, returning the ramp to its place.
The guy fit the well-known parable: "Tough guys don't look back."
Waiting until he disappeared behind the trees, I turned the ship around. The life signal detection systems indicated that he had moved more than two hundred meters away from the jumper and continued to move somewhere deeper into the forest.
Excellent. So he won't see the symbols I dialed into the gate, and he won't find out the address of Atlantis. And there were no other living organisms nearby. So there's a chance to keep my secret.
Dialing the address of the city-ship's gate, I waited for the energy vortex, and then with a light heart directed the jumper into the wormhole.
The next moment, the familiar outlines of the Atlantis gate hall struck my eyes. Exhaling that my first adventure in the Pegasus galaxy was not my last, I leaned back in my seat, allowing the automatic landing program to lift the jumper into the upper hangar on its own.
And only then, taking the ZPM out of the locker, I pressed the button to open the ship's entrance hatch.
The moment the strip of metal moved away from the opening, a painfully familiar, disgusting sound cut through my ears. Repeating for a couple of seconds, it seemed to loop, tearing my brain with its strain and alienness.
"This day couldn't end without some thrown shit, could it?!" I gritted out through my teeth, rushing to the exit.
I don't know what happened, but I don't like it. At least for one reason – the city's self-destruct siren was blaring.