Huge thanks go out to eretria & auburnnothenna - without them, this story wouldn't be finished even now.
It seems only yesterday I seemed to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I would shine.
Billy Collins
Atlantis, 4 a.m.
Dec. 23rd
As a child he had been wary of his bedroom door at night. Often he lay awake and watched, believing that something waited outside. He imagined it lurking so close to the door that its breath misted the wood. It never made a sound, but he had always waited, knowing that some night it would.
A shadow of the same superstition stopped Carson from closing doors in Atlantis. It was, of course, irrational but his instincts told him to give into the habit. No need to invite old fears. The place was creepy enough.
Carson looked around the broom-closet that served as his office these days. The only sources of light were his desk-lamp and the tall Ancient glass-tube with its fluorescent liquid. He was alone, the laboratory next door was deserted. He'd told Dr. Biro to get some sleep about two hours ago. She'd been the last to go and only went because he promised her to finish soon, too. It was a promise he broke and she probably didn't expect him to keep.
Carson pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the heavy weight of exhaustion in every fibre of his body. Maybe the time had come to listen to good advice. He closed his files and decided to call it a night. Some precious hours until sunrise and hopefully they would give him rest. Sometimes, Carson thought he could sleep forever and still be tired.
In Atlantis, working the wee hours was the rule rather than the exception. There was always data to analyse, information to be archived, briefings to be held. Not to mention the wounded that came in with the off-world teams on a regular basis. And while Carson didn't need to be present for every minor surgery, he still had to orchestrate the shifts, supervise the progress of his team and, ideally, get on with his own research. He didn't stand alone, of course. His people were working just as hard. The place, the emergencies, the Wraith on their doorstep – it affected everyone. It was no help that the patients weren't anonymous anymore. If someone died on your table, he or she wasn't a stranger whose face you could make yourself forget. More often than not, the person who died was a friend, a part of a steadily dwindling group. Carson was well aware of the toll this took on his medics. Nurses, doctors, assistants . . . they needed time off, each and every one of them.
Soon, Carson thought. He closed his laptop and, with the screen out of the way, looked at the fresh candle on his desk. One of the nurses had placed it there, completely decorated with spiky alien leaves that looked almost like holly. Every time he saw it, the candle reminded Carson of his silent oath. Christmas would be the holiday they all needed. Of course he couldn't keep people from getting hurt or sick, he could only hope that the infirmary stayed as empty as it was at the moment. He could also influence the regular schedule. And he was determined that for his team, there would be no schedule on Christmas. No DNA analysis, no routine examinations, not even a scrap of laundry to wash. Plus, no gadgets to test. That he promised himself.
His eyes strayed to the small metal globe that Radek had left here earlier. It rested close to the candle, reflecting green flecks of almost-holly. Looking at it, Carson felt a mixture of fond exasperation and wariness seize him. He sighed. You should think that Rodney McKay went unsurpassed in the field of harassment. Carson, not-so-proud bearer of the ATA gene, knew better. Radek was no less a terrier than his colleague. In a way, he was even worse. He didn't argue like Rodney. He just pushed up his glasses and held up whatever doodat had caught his fancy. Held it right into your face. Looked at you. No, nyet, bugger off – nothing worked. In the end Carson had taken the globe and thought at it. Even as he had a mind to blow the dratted thing to smithereens he was full of apprehension lest it would indeed. Detonate, that is.
To Carson's immense relief, nothing had happened. He would've been more than happy to hand back the globe, but Radek just flapped a hand at him.
"You keep it," he said and shrugged. "Is nice paperweight."
Carson had watched him shuffle from the infirmary with an increasing bad conscience.
It wasn't that he didn't want to help. Telepathy just wasn't his province. Tracheotomy. Fine. Surgery on the open heart, also fine. But these tools tapped into his thoughts and Carson wasn't sure that he had much control over those. The fact that he'd almost killed Major Sheppard should prove his point, or so Carson thought. But good riddance arguing in that vein with either McKay or his minions.
A yawn interrupted Carson's thought-stream, reminding him that he'd meant to go to bed. He would go, too. As soon as he found the will to rise from his chair.
Carson buried his face in his palms for a moment, then rubbed his weary eyes before he looked up. Beyond the frame of his open door he could see the laboratory, lights out there dimmed to a minimum. Deserted . . . yes, it applied. Carson listened closely, but heard nothing, not even the sound of the ocean lapping against foundations of steel.
He tried to suppress the stirring of unease inside him without success. There was no denying it, the quiet did make him uncomfortable. Not because anything was there, but because the silence left too much room for imagination.
In the nocturnal city's stillness Carson always felt threatened by the sheer, glowering size of the place. It was easier when people were around during daytime, but at night the archaic emptiness became harder to ignore. It seemed to press in from outside the circle they had created with their bustle. Sometimes Carson felt they had come not to reclaim the city, but to haunt it like spirits from another tomb.
A shiver ran down his spine and Carson clasped his cold hands. God, if only there was a wee bit more light in here. Or at least a window, to let in some fresh air. Anything to make him feel less displaced or isolated. Instead there was only this stuffy pocket of a room, surrounded and topped by squares and squares of alien metal.
Carson turned in his chair, looking back at the empty range of his office. The corners were filled with shadows making the room seem larger than it was. It was stupid and illogical, but at the same time, perfectly easy to imagine some unseen thing lurking in the impenetrable gloom. Carson stared transfixed into the shadows, his faithless mind thinking of invisible watchers and pale faces surfacing from the dark.
Someone coughed behind his back and Carson nearly jumped out of his skin. He twisted around, knocking his elbow against the chair, pushing discs and globe clean off his desk.
On the doorstep, where the meagre light could barely reach him, stood Major Sheppard.
A surge relief washed over Carson. A split second later there was only pain, vibrating along his arm like fire.
"Crap!" Carson hissed and gripped his elbow. Swearing some more, he looked up to glare at the intruder. Rumour had it that John Sheppard could walk as silently as a cat on a carpet. Well, it was true. It was also enough to give a healthy man a heart attack.
"One of these days I'll strap a bell around your neck," Carson said, bowing low to scramble his scattered discs together.
"Sorry," Sheppard said, sounding not sorry at all. "Saw your light on."
"Did you now?" Carson marvelled. Sheppard's mouth slid into a lazy grin. He crossed the threshold, picked up the Ancient paperweight and palmed it casually.
At this late hour, the major seemed even more dishevelled than usual, which was saying something. His hair looked like a hedgehog who'd fraternised with a high-voltage fuse. As if he'd picked up on Carson's thoughts, the major lifted his hand and scrubbed the back of his head.
When the shadow of his arm fell, Carson got a good look on the major's bruise-of-the-day. A crimson cut ran smooth along his cheekbone. The skin around the area was still flushed, but the wound itself was neatly iced and taped. It really was a scratch compared to Ford's split lip and blackened jaw.
Try as he might, Carson couldn't imagine what drove them through the gate time and again. Where did they get the nerves, when it was clear they'd be in for at least one scrape or another? Did they think about the pain when they encountered another potential hostile people? More likely they didn't. Perhaps it was only him who wondered while he waited for their return.
"You had a rough day, Major," Carson said, sobered. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"
"Oh, I slept," Sheppard replied and sat down at Carson's desk. "A couple of hours anyway." Carson suspected that was true. He doubted the efficiency of those hours, though. Sleep to John was like an unpleasant necessity. Or wasn't it? Perhaps he craved rest and had forgotten how to find it.
"What's this?" Sheppard asked, turning the globe between his fingertips.
"Ancient Christmas bauble," Carson prompted, then smiled. "I've no idea, honestly."
John continued to eye the globe with mild curiosity. Carson suspected he was prodding mentally. The major had no qualms in that corner. Unlike Carson, he didn't mind being Rodney's (or Radek's) hamster. Most times he was the successful lab rodent, too. No this time, though. A little while passed, then Sheppard lowered his hand and Carson exhaled a secret breath.
"What's it supposed to do?"
"Radek couldn't say," Carson said.
"Could be a golf ball," Sheppard suggested.
"An air-refresher," Carson offered.
"A Tamagochi."
"A door-stopper."
Both grinned. Sheppard held out the globe and Carson took it from him. He put it in the pocket of his trousers, intending to pass it on to Dr. Aphron. She had print-outs galore and would surely welcome something to weigh them down with.
"You're in for one?" Sheppard asked, rocking back his chair until it balanced on two legs.
Carson spent one wistful thought on sleep, heavenly sleep, then said: "Sure." He reached beneath his desk, opening a drawer. "As long as I can plead lack of sleep as defence for my failing."
Sheppard grinned. "Don't worry. We'll go slow."
Uttering a sound that was meant to be a huff and turned into a chuckle, Carson pulled out his chessboard. Once he'd placed it on the desk, the major bent forward, chair clanking back to the ground, and they started to set up the men.
Carson had played before he switched galaxies, of course. You couldn't move in the circles he did and not play chess. When he joined the SGC it had become a habit to play against Rodney. And Rodney always won. After three dozen games Carson had resigned to losing in tremendous fashion. To his credit, Rodney tried to hide his smugness, but not very hard and not very successfully.
That was then. Now was Atlantis and among a couple of other things that had changed, Carson suddenly aced at chess. He might not win all the games, but he was still miles from his former history of failure. It was a development that mystified Rodney to no end. Being Rodney, he was also as suspicious as an old badger and needled every scientist for the secret of Carson's sudden success. So far he'd been needling in vain.
Only two people knew that Rodney was looking in the wrong place.
"I'll teach you a good one tonight," Sheppard said at present, moving a pawn. "We'll have Rodney blow his stack."
One hour and two games later Carson stood in the small kitchen opposite the infirmary. Watching as water ran into a measuring jar, he yawned into his palm. The new moves had spiked his concentration for a while, but even the prospect of flooring Rodney couldn't erase fatigue that was lodged as deeply as Carson's. If he wanted to keep Sheppard company he needed some stimulant which, for Carson, came in the form of tea. He placed the jar into the heating unit, then took two tea-bags out of the cabinet and threw them into the mugs he prepared. After a moment's consideration, he re-opened the cabinet, pulled out a green bottle and poured two shots in each mug.
Carson waved his hand in front of the heating unit's sensor panel and watched the niche glow red for a second. He felt reminded of his old kettle at home which had always sounded like an asthmatic hippopotamus. Oddly, Carson found he missed it. The Ancient heating unit boiled water before you could do so much as blink. No bubbling, no whistle – you didn't even burn your hand when you lifted the jar.
Taking the jar out of the niche, Carson finished preparing the tea. They'd run out of sugar a week ago, but the Athosians had provided them with enough honey to last a good while. Thank God for small favours.
Carson picked up the mugs and stepped into the corridor. Once he'd crossed the threshold, the lights in the room behind darkened.
It was unpleasantly chill in the hallway. Either the mechanics had tampered with the heating again or the sleep-deprivation did more to Carson's body than he wanted to admit. In any case he appreciated the warmth-trapping wool of his pullover. He had almost reached the door to his laboratory when he noticed that he was being watched. Carson stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze passed the empty hallway, the blue light on the floor and the dark reaches beyond.
Standing at the edge of darkness was a little boy, bare-footed, his pyjama bottoms and bare toes barely illuminated.
Carson stood motionless, eyes fixed on the child, mind not yet catching up with what he saw. A child? Down here? He closed his eyes, tried to focus and snap out of his haze. It worked. As soon as Carson was able to think straight, the answer was quite simple. It was, of course, an Athosian boy. Most likely the lad was lost. And you probably scared him half to death, popping out of nowhere like you did, Carson told himself. He opened his eyes with every intention of correcting his error, but as he looked again, the boy was gone.
Carson frowned. This was strange. Come to think of it, it couldn't possibly have been an Athosian. The last time any of them had visited Atlantis had been weeks ago. Teyla's people usually didn't wear pyjamas, either.
With a flutter of nervousness Carson peered down either side of the hallway. There was no glimpse of a child. Finally he concluded that he must have imagined the whole thing. That's what happened when you pushed your body over its limits. Your own fault, Carson thought. He really should know better. He cast another glance to his left. Nothing. Carson turned his head and moved into the laboratory, balancing a mug in each hand.
To imagine a boy of all things. He really needed that tea.
On his return to the office, Carson found John fast asleep on the little couch. A book had dropped from the Major's fingers and on picking it up, Carson recognised it to be his copy of 'The Name of the Rose'. To fall asleep reading this.
"Heretic," Carson whispered and smiled. He walked over to his cupboard, pulled out a blanket and returned to cover John. Before he left, he took up his mug once more. Crossing over into the laboratory, Carson off the lights behind him. He passed the tables, microscopes and test tubes, only to stop short before the exit.
The door was closed.
Carson frowned. He hadn't closed it, had he? Well, he must have. No big deal, then, just open it again. Carson stood motionless while the fingers that touched the mug warmed slowly. At last the heat from the ceramic grew painful and Carson jolted. Foolishness. Good grief, man, would you get a grip, he scolded himself. Reversing the mug from one hand to the other, he opened the door.
The boy stood right in front of it.
It was all Carson could do not to drop his tea. There. There he was again, clear as you please, small head turned to the side. Carson took two steps back, tea spilling over the rim of the mug and onto his cuff. There was no change of expression on the boy's face, no motion whatsoever on the pale features. He just cast a glance into the laboratory, then turned and walked away, disappearing from the doorframe. Carson remained, shaking.
"What the blazes . . ." His own voice sounded hoarse in the silence. His hand shot to his face, covering his eyes for a second. I'm going mad, Carson thought. That's it, I'm snapping. Too little sleep . . . brain functions shutting down . . . delusions. God.
He lowered his hand, fearing what he would see. The doorframe was still empty, though, the boy hadn't reappeared. Carson had wanted to go to his quarters, now he wondered whether he shouldn't stay at his office. Just for the night. He dismissed the idea almost the second it came to his mind. Hiding in his office – how old was he, ten? Besides, the only couch there was occupied by John Sheppard and to wake the major would mean to explain that he'd been scared out of his wits over . . . Nothing, he told himself. He would go to his room. Now. He would sleep and laugh about his folly in the morning.
He stepped out of the infirmary. On entering the hallway he knew at once that he wasn't alone and all the comfort of rational explanation fell from him. Instead he felt seized by a wave of cold that left him almost calm. He turned around one more time.
The boy stood in the corridor that led into the deeper recesses of Atlantis. There was no doubting it, he was waiting for Carson. For a delusion, Carson thought, the lad was quite persistent.
"All right," Carson said, every muscle in his body tensed. He forced himself to look at the child, measure him closely. He wasn't scary, actually. He was just a wee scrap of boy, wearing a tee-shirt that was at least two sizes too big for him. His eyes didn't glow or anything, they looked quite normal. A little sleepy, perhaps. In the looming darkness of the corridor, the lad looked quite lost.
Carson decided to give it a shot. "Hullo, there," he called softly. It felt strange, using his voice in the dormant corridor. The boy didn't answer either, he only retreated a step into the shadows.
Carson considered his options. If he wasn't hallucinating, and at this point he was almost sure he wasn't, then something was going on that needed figuring out. He first considered to get someone else, but then decided not to. By the time anyone got here, the boy could be gone. He'd stayed thus far, but who said that if Carson left, say, to fetch the Major, the child might not bolt? Carson decided to take this into his own hands. If the wee one wanted to show him something, it was probably worth a look. Carson would follow him, only for a little while, and stop as soon as they got too far from the inhabited areas. He could always turn around. Maybe he could even persuade the child to come with him to Elizabeth's quarters. He certainly couldn't leave the bairn out here, whoever he was.
It was settled. Carson placed his mug into a niche in the wall, then went to follow the child into the city.
Atlantis, 8:07 a.m.
Dec 23rd
John woke in Carson's shoebox of an office. Looking at an unfamiliar ceiling, it took him a while to sort out his surroundings. He turned on his side on the surprisingly comfortable sofa and surveyed the room. The doctor was gone, only the chess-board remained on the desk. John let his head sink back against the pillow, scratching his stubbled cheek and stalling the moment when he really had to move. His eyes fell on the blanket that covered him. It was tartan cloth, made of greens and blue. A smile tugged at the corners of John's mouth. Carson Beckett was a mother-hen if ever he'd seen one. A Scottish mother-hen, which probably meant that he'd go with an axe after anyone who threatened his flock.
John wanted to find it funny and couldn't. Pushing back the blanket, he slid off the sofa and walked over to the desk. Next to the chess-board sat a mug with some dark liquid that had to be tea. Judging from the colour, it was one of Beckett's special brews. The man made a tea that would wake the dead. John lifted the mug sceptically, sniffing. It was tea all right. Yet there was also a whiff of something other that tempted John to sip. He regretted the impulse as soon as the liquid touched his lips. Jesus, he'd had cough syrups that tasted better.
Placing the mug on the desk, John went about hiding the evidence of their game practice. Wouldn't want Rodney to walk in on the scene, he thought with a grin. At last he folded the blanket and placed it back on the couch before he left. The laboratory was already buzzing with people and John looked around for a glimpse of Carson, but no dice. The doctor was nowhere in sight.
Late morning found him going through the shopping list with Elizabeth. John had snitched a mug of precious coffee and at present scrolled through the items on the palm. Elizabeth watched him from across her desk.
"Laundry soap?" John read aloud and looked up.
Elizabeth shrugged. "We're running out," she said. "Just find some ersatz soap if you can."
"How are we on trade-able goods?"
"Short," Elizabeth said simply. "Knowledge is our best currency now. We could suggest the support of our engineers. That worked well on M2Z-744. If absolutely necessary, we can talk about hardware." She narrowed her eyes at him, signalling the whole amount of her trust. "Try not to offer our primary defences."
"I'll do my best," John promised and tried for his Sunday grin. Which Elizabeth didn't buy for a second.
"My point exactly," was all she said. But she smiled back, giving him that wry little quirk of her mouth that amused him to no end.
A soft knock issued from the door. John turned to see the short figure of Radek Zelenka standing in the door.
"Excuse me, Dr. Weir?"
On her yes he reluctantly entered the office. John noticed the minute flutter of the doctor's hands with a speck of amusement. Did he know that he'd begun to copy McKay?
"You know where Dr. Beckett is?" Zelenka asked.
"Not at the moment, no. Why?"
"There might be a problem."
And there I thought that phrase had gotten old, John reflected with a sinking feeling.
"Is someone hurt?" Elizabeth asked at once.
Zelenka shook his head, but seemed reluctant to continue. Elizabeth leaned forward and John watched her clasp both hands on the table-top. The playfulness had fallen off of her, leaving what he long since expected was a core of steel behind the gestures of calm interest.
"We translated some Ancient pads in one of the labs we're investigating," Zelenka began and John sensed he was struggling to speak slow so that his accent wouldn't show too much. "We learned they are transcripts of some operation, a description of . . . ah . . .devices we found the other day. One of them was a little metallic ball."
"I fail to see the problem," Elizabeth said, brows drawn down. John waited.
"I asked Carson to try make it work," Zelenka said and now the depth of his worry shone clear through. John's stomach did a lazy turn. "And he tried, but the ball didn't do anything. I left it with him. I thought it was broken, you understand."
"I still don't follow you . . ." Elizabeth said.
Zelenka was almost but not quite wringing his hands. "Is the pads. They explain what the ball does. We don't understand all yet, but it seems like some tool for meditation. It's . . ." He faltered, frowning harder as ever.
"Radek," Elizabeth addressed him calmly. "Keep it simple."
The scientist shot her a grateful look, then picked up his report in a much firmer voice. "The ball works like projector for the mind. Somehow it picks up images in the head and saves them in order to produce a visual reflection."
John raised his brows. "It turns thoughts into slides?"
"Not thoughts," Zelenka corrected. "Things from places below the mind."
"The subconscious?" Elizabeth supplied.
Zelenka jerked his head in an emphatic nod. "We know that the Ancients ascended, yes?"
Elizabeth nodded.
"The ball was practice, first facing demons, then letting go. To burn the bridges, you see." Zelenka clasped his hands until his knuckles cracked. "Thing is, none that comes out of ball is . . . how do you say . . . pleasant. Is all fear, is what the Ancients were interested in."
"How very Freudian of them," John muttered. He got a sidelong, pained glance from Zelenka.
"Things from the ball look like real beings," the scientist went on. "There is an Ancient name, but we couldn't translate. Dr. Holleran calls them Shadows."
"Are they dangerous?" John asked, already suspecting the answer. Sure enough Zelenka dropped his eyes, but Elizabeth cut in before he could speak.
"How can they be dangerous? If they are figments of the subconscious . . ."
"They're not just . . . figments," Zelenka admitted to his shoes. "The texts speak of wounds that had to be treated. Subjects hurt during the procedure."
"Are you telling me those apparitions manifest?" Elizabeth said sharply.
"We don't know."
"You have the pads!"
Zelenka looked up as if startled and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
"Is not so simple! If you have a manual for a toaster, it says what the toaster does but it doesn't explain what bread is. Because every child knows what bread is."
He paused, his eyes never leaving those of Elizabeth now.
"Every Ancient knew what Shadows are," he told her quietly.
"We don't."
"Exactly."
John leaned back in his chair, running through a gamut of options in his head. The Ancients were a high culture, extremely intelligent. They wouldn't fiddle with menace and leave it scattered about. They, okay, trapped man-eating energy. They also experimented with homicidal nanites. But their containment, their childproof safety catch, was faultless. Mostly. Generally. As long as the builders were around.
John briefly asked himself who of the two was more pretentious: the superhuman race courting death or the enthusiasts of the next generation, using lethal gadgets as paperweights. Lethal? But surely that was hasty. If the ball projected only the contents of a person's mind, how bad could it be?
Bad, John thought. Real bad. He didn't need Dr. Blonde-and-Inquisitive to tell him that no sane man would want to visit his subconscious. He certainly knew that if he were to produce any permutations of his fears, it sure wouldn't be squids. The way it seemed, Elizabeth had about the same ideas.
"You say it didn't activate when Carson touched it," she said at length.
"Well, we don't know that," Zelenka conceded.
Elizabeth's brows shot up but for once she refrained from speaking. John had a feeling it cost her a great deal.
"The device is very old and possibly used many times," Zelenka suggested with little conviction. "Could be depleted."
"Could be?" Elizabeth echoed.
The little Czech shrugged miserably.
John pushed back his chair and stood. Zelenka would have looked in Carson's room, but chances were he'd missed tracks. It made sense to start there, go were any hints might lead and go quickly. His mind politely reminded him of the city's size, the vast maze of corridors, but John refused to linger on the thought. He couldn't explain his sense of urgency. Call it instinct. Call it trust in their bad luck.
"You set up teams," he said. "Try the biometrical sensors. I'll look in the likely places."
He was out the door before Elizabeth had a chance to answer.
Atlantis, 5:30 a.m.
Dec 23rd
During their strange progression, he'd lost sight of the boy a couple of times. Yet anytime Carson even so much as considered turning around, the child appeared again, waiting by a door that needed opening. The boy himself seemed unable to do that. What was stranger still: even though the child seemed eager for Carson to keep up, they didn't walk side by side. Carson had tried, but every time he came near, the lad ducked and evaded him, as though he were afraid of Carson. Which was more than a little paradox to Carson's mind.
The boy didn't talk, either. Carson had tried to speak to him, but so far the only answers he'd got were curious glances. If even that. Carson had spent enough time in the children's ward to know how to react to that kind of behaviour. The premise was don't push, just wait. If children's psychology was worth a dime in the case of apparitions become flesh.
There was something about him, though. Something about the lad that was almost familiar. Indeed Carson had a sense that he'd met the child before. He racked his brain, but didn't know where to put him, though he did think of Lyon.* It was possible the child resembled one of the small patients there; Carson had locked away a lot of memories from that time. Too often had he looked into exhausted little faces, had told parents that his gene therapy did not yet work in the way they had hoped.
If the boy belonged to that league of forgotten souls, he'd stay anonymous. Carson didn't much care to open that particular box.
They had advanced deep into the belly of the city. Maybe they were already beneath one of the star-tips, the far-end piers. The only thing Carson was remotely sure of was that none of the expedition had set foot in these areas so far. The air was stuffy with the smell of oil and salt. Functioning light columns were rare, too, and shadows ruled the vaults. Sometimes orange light panels flickered to life when Carson passed, only to die down behind him.
At least tiredness was no longer an issue. Carson had overcome the zenith of exhaustion a while ago. Basically he could go on until he dropped. He tried not to think that this would be the conclusion of this walk, though. Whatever did lie at the end, he was resolved to see it. He had to admit he was curious. He knew the saying, of course. But on the other hand – curiosity had been at the bottom of his choice to join this expedition, so hang that.
Still. Deep down he knew that curiosity was the least of factors that had possessed him to come down here. Usually his reason and tendency to doubt kept any airs of emphatic interest in check. Carson might pride himself of a few attributes, but 'reckless' was not among them. 'Foolish' – well, that was another matter altogether. To venture into deserted and most likely dangerous parts of an alien city, acting merely after some foggy notion of worry – Carson supposed that was foolish enough. Yet the plain truth was that he could not leave the boy. The lad might be a delusion, a ghost in the system, some roguish hologram . . . he could be anything, really, but in the end it made no difference. He couldn't consign the child to the darkness of the deep city.
They came to yet another door and the boy slipped through after Carson touched it to give them passage. Once he'd crossed the threshold, Carson stepped out onto a meshed mezzanine. Looking down, he saw the floor was about ten feet beneath him. At least it wasn't dark. Artificial blue light spilled out from several columns at the bottom. Carson was about to join the boy on the stairs, when he heard a familiar swish-sound behind him. He whirled around, only to find that the door in his back had closed again. Not by his order, though, it had shut by itself. What was even more unsettling, when Carson tried to open the door again, it wouldn't obey. He palmed the opening device a couple of times, but nothing happened.
His first instinct was to reach for his headset. Only when he touched his empty ear did he remember that he forgot to put the damn thing on. It still lay on his desk.
All right, he told himself. Don't panic. They would come looking for him. Either that or he would find another way out. Of course, Carson mused, if he went looking for other doors he would have to mark his passage somehow. Leave some signs, or he'd get lost in no time. Never a thread when you need one.
He turned from the door. The boy had settled on the uppermost of the stairs. Carson walked up to him and sat down at his side.
"So." Carson said. "Are we there yet?"
The boy just looked at his toes or looked down through the meshed metal stairs. It was hard to decide which.
"Aren't you cold, lad?" Carson asked tentatively. The boy shook his head. For a split second, Carson was so surprised to see the boy actually react, that he failed to resume his questioning.
"What are you?" he asked eventually, careful not to sound eager or thrilled.
The boy looked at him sideways. Then he held up first ten fingers, then one.
Eleven. Eleven years old.
Carson sat dumbfounded, speechless under the boy's earnest gaze. Then, despite the strangeness of the whole situation, Carson grinned. If he wasn't mistaken, the lad's mouth quirked a little, too.
They had descended down the stairs continuing into a rabbit warren of chambers and winding passages. They'd crossed halls which led onto catwalks which led into yet another corridor. The temperature had dropped constantly. Carson suspected that for thousands of years the air down here had not been warmed by human bodies or heating. There was no sound other than his own footsteps and even those seemed muffled. Except . . .
Carson slowed and listened. There. There it was again. The dripping of water. He halted, lifting his gaze to look ahead. The corridor bent sharply some steps further on, effectively blocking his sight. The boy had already vanished around the corner. The way it sounded, the source of the dripping would also be there.
Carson continued warily. As he approached the bend, another strange detail came to his attention: There was water on the ground. A couple inches short of the bend, a large puddle reflected the aquamarine light of the columns. Frowning, Carson walked on. For the first time it came to him that most likely he'd descended below sea-level. More disturbing still, it seemed like Atlantis' walls weren't as waterproof as their resident engineers believed. The thought of one leak was unsettling enough. But the prospect that there might be many more all over the deeper levels was downright alarming. Carson made a mental note to tell Elizabeth. Someone had to take care of this and quick. Then he crossed the corner and saw that someone already had.
Beyond the bend, the puddle became a shallow pool in a hall surrounded by light rods. Not far from one of those columns, a man lay propped up against the wall. Carson's feet continued walking, his eyes took in the blue colour of a shirt and the awkward twist of a shoulder. As he came closer, more details registered. There were dark patches where water soaked the grey BDUs, an Ancient scanner lying by a limp hand . . .
Carson crossed the remaining distance and dropped to his knees, cold water splashing against his thighs. This close, the scene penetrated his mind with violent force, filling him with a storm of information. He still didn't comprehend.
Wires spilled out of the wall like nerves, touching Rodney's shoulder where his head had sunk to the side. There was a burn mark on his temple, right where a few frayed filaments coiled like some robotic vine. Racing along at top speed, Carson's mind was ticking off details, processing damage, following the emergency routine. Deep inside him, terror beat and fluttered like an army of moths, but the commotion was distant, muted.
Carson reached out, half expecting his hand to tremble, but of course it didn't, fingertips touching the cold skin beneath Rodney's jaw. No pulse. He waited. One, two, three seconds. No pulse. Four, Five. No pulse. Six. Seven.
Eight.
No pulse.
Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes was the proclaimed time that a human being could remain in cardiac arrest and still be resuscitated. Fifteen minutes until the brain suffered irreversible damage. Fifteen minutes, if air was moved through the body. Less, if there wasn't.
Rodney didn't breathe.
Carson moved swiftly. Voices escalated at the back of his mind and he let them, concentrating only on the succession of measures and surveys.
Too pale, too cold.
It's been more than fifteen minutes. Far more. Too long.
Carson clutched the front of Rodney's shirt and pulled him off the wall. Pain exploded in his knees as they took the increased weight and the sleek fabric of the shirt nearly slipped from Carson's fingers. Gripping harder, Carson managed to turn and drag Rodney with him.
Rodney's head slid sideways into the water as soon as he was lowered to the ground. Carson turned the unresisting face up again, closed Rodney's nose with one hand and pulled his chin with the other. He gave two insufflations, then turned for Rodney's chest.
Agonising. There's nothing to up his body-temperature!
Murmuring. Would make no difference if there was.
Carson pressed the heels of both hands on Rodney's chest, shifted his balance so that his shoulders became the centre of his strength, then pushed. Something moist, sweat or tears, ran down the side of his nose and dropped from his chin. He bowed forward, once more covered Rodney's mouth for respiration, then resumed the chest compressions. Minutes passed, and although Carson wanted nothing more than to ignore the elapsing time, his traitorous eyes strayed to his watch after each respiration. Twenty minutes now. His shoulders ached with the exertion and muscles stiffened painfully. Sweat coursed down his back while his mouth was parched to a point that made swallowing difficult. Twenty-five minutes and no knowing how long Rodney had been collapsed before the CPR. Carson continued, defying the significance of each second that slipped away. The longer he pushed, the quieter the crowd inside his head grew, until they became silent spectators of a grievous play. They watched as Carson breathed air into lungs that would never inhale on their own again.
Stop . . .
They'd had lunch together only a day ago. Rodney had tried to talk Ford out of his last muffin. Carson had teased him with his orange juice.
Stop . . .
They rarely had time to meet at the canteen; yesterday had been a precious exception. Each of them had been tired, nibbling at vegetables that had been cooked too long. Carson remembered Rodney, looking drained but grinning all the same as Ford tossed him the muffin.
– 'You owe me one, Doc.'
– 'Ah, I just might suffer some spontaneous memory loss.'
– 'Dr. Beckett?'
– 'I'd say chances for that are very small indeed.'
– 'Back-stabbing traitor.'
Stop . . .
Carson enjoyed their joint meals. They felt like home.
Stop.
On his last push, Carson felt another rib crack under the thrust of his hands. If the heart could've come around, it would have by now. Carson knew that, knew it with the certainty of year-long experience, and yet he waited once more for a flutter of pulse. It never came. Rodney didn't wake, there was nothing left in him to stir.
Carson uttered a sob that barely registered above a breath. He lowered his head, then forced himself to look up again, facing Rodney's closed eyes and pallid face. His fingertips lingered on Rodney's chest and Carson imagined the cracked ribs with growing despair. Turning his head, Carson looked across the hall, searching out doors that seemed endlessly far away.
He's gone. Rodney's gone.
The light of the columns was now too bright, blurring with the water's surface and hurting his eyes.
Thirty minutes. Too late.
Carson turned away and didn't look again. He touched Rodney's cheek and leaned forward until their foreheads touched. Weeping silently, he waited as though he could transfer his warmth into the dead body beneath him.
* a/n: The Centre León Bérard, Lyon, was among the first hospitals in Europe to try gene therapy on cancer patients.