Note: A special than you to my beta reader, wildcat88 over at LiveJournal. Her time, patience and awesome beta reading skills are greatly appreciated.
Terminal Velocity
Part One
Waking up was the toughest time of day for John. Sure, he could go from a deep sleep to feet on the ground, alert, and P-90 at the ready in a matter of seconds, no problem. What he struggled with were the mornings when nothing in particular woke him up. He hated the disorientation of that minute when he hadn't quite figured out where he was and why he was there. John hated the moment when he didn't have a plan, when he didn't feel as if he had the situation under control. Most of all, he hated the seemingly interminable seconds when he didn't know if his teammates were safe or not.
This morning was another one of those freefall mornings, and John hadn't yet determined if his parachute was about to open or if he was going to slam into the ground at terminal velocity. He fought to control his breathing as his heart began to race. He willed himself to remain relaxed, to suppress even the slightest twitch. On the off-chance that he was being held captive somewhere, he wasn't giving away any information, not even the fact that he was awake.
While John's body worked at maintaining the appearance of being asleep, his mind scrambled to gather the available scraps of information. He wasn't on Atlantis. The soothing hum of her workings, audible to John courtesy of his ATA gene, was absent. Offworld then. Underneath John, the clean-smelling, reasonably soft bed held some promise that he was with one of the Atlantean allies. At the very least, he wasn't on a hive ship or in a Genii prison. That was always a plus. John took stock of himself, stretching his senses for tactile cues while remaining motionless. No boots, no thigh holster, no uniform shirt or tac vest – just his pants and a T-shirt. Either he'd been stripped of half his gear or he'd been comfortable enough with the situation to remove the items voluntarily before bed. John was betting on voluntary removal because apart from a slight headache, his body didn't feel as if it had been through the types of events that would leave him deprived of essential equipment. And he'd been through them more than often enough to know.
Not too far away, John heard a gentle rustle of fabric followed by Rodney's familiar soft snoring. So, at least one member of his team was accounted for. John's heart no longer hammered quite so hard inside his chest.
John allowed himself to shift under the covers and take a deeper breath. No one yanked him up by the hair. No one kicked him in the stomach. No one threw a bucket of water over him. So far, so good. He cracked his eyelids open. Rodney lay asleep on a bed about twenty feet away across a neatly furnished room. The presence of a small table, two chairs, a couple of bedside storage chests, a water pitcher, linens and a few pieces of pottery that appeared to be decorative pretty much confirmed the hypothesis that they were guests…somewhere. John felt his chest tighten again with unease. His mind wasn't filling in the blanks this time.
With that thought, John switched to high-adrenaline mode. He pushed himself to a sitting position, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. Bad idea. He fought the overwhelming urge to lie down again as the room spun in circles and his head started to pound. Maybe the situation was a little less promising than he'd originally surmised. He scanned the room for the exit, swallowing against the queasiness produced by the motion. The door was wooden with a simple crossbar on the inside. It didn't look like they were locked in. Okay, that was a positive sign.
Next John searched for his gear, trying to ignore the hot spikes of pain that action set off behind his eyes. Relieved to see the items resting on the storage chest by his bed, John moved cautiously to check that his weaponry still held ammunition. The weapons were fine. His head…not so much.
"McKay?" John hissed, struggling to get to his feet and cross the room. Halfway to his teammate's side, he staggered and dropped onto one of the chairs. It was either that or drop onto the floor. "McKay!"
"Wha…?" McKay rolled over on the bed and swiped a trickle of saliva away from the side of his mouth.
"McKay, are you all right?"
"No. No, I'm not okay." McKay groaned and inched himself upward. "God, why can't we find a world that has progressed to the technological point of having therapeutic mattresses or even just one where the straw stuffing in the beds isn't too soft or too hard for my back?"
"Suck it up, Goldilocks." John grumbled, grabbing the table with one hand in an effort to keep himself upright. "Look, I—"
"What's your problem?" McKay glanced at John. "Did you get out of bed on the wrong side this morning? Although, you know, I never quite understood that phrase. When I was a kid, I kept a chart for a while, marking which side of the bed I got up on and how my day went. Unfortunately my study was hampered by the fact that most days were crappy and it took a really long time to get out of bed on the days I got up on the side against the wall. Still, I—"
"McKay!" John pressed one hand to his forehead, wishing he'd kept his voice down a few notches.
"What? I…" McKay took a closer look at his friend and drew in a sharp breath. "Did you…?" McKay's eyes widened. "You did!" he accused.
"Did what?" John feared he might have done whatever 'it' was because there had to be a reason the wooden planks on the floor were swirling so much that they looked as if they were being sucked into a vortex. There had to be a reason he felt like he might puke into the maelstrom.
McKay just shook his head and sighed.
"Did what?" John repeated through teeth that were clenched, partly because of the nausea and partly because McKay was pissing him off.
"Ronon said not to drink that stuff at the meet and eat last night or you'd be hungover for a week, but you probably thought you'd have another try at impressing the attractive hostess who was serving the stuff. You—"
"I didn't drink it." John refrained from shaking his head in denial.
"How do you know you didn't? If you drank it and it was as potent as Ronon claimed, it's pretty unlikely you'd remember drinking it."
"If Ronon said not to, I wouldn't." John tried to make it a statement but it came out sounding like a question because he thought that might explain the absence of any thoughts whatsoever about the previous day…and shit, he seemed to be missing the day before that, too. He pressed one arm against his stomach, wishing he could quell the churning that seemed to be growing worse by the second.
"Crap, it must have been the chair then. You said you were fine. Of course no one believed you after you toppled out of the thing and threw up, but you seemed okay after that." McKay paused and peered at John. "You're not going to be sick again are you?"
John gave a noncommittal mumble because he was starting to think maybe he should do just that and get it over with.
McKay stood up. "I'm going to get Teyla. She's better with these things."
John folded his arms on the table and groaned as he lowered his aching head to rest on them. He heard McKay's footsteps pause at the door and then head back toward him.
"Better take the T-shirt off. My T-shirt, actually, because you didn't bring a spare one with you. How you can remember to pack enough ammunition to take out an entire continent, but not remember a spare shirt is beyond me."
John tugged at the black material, complying readily. His head hurt way too much to argue now. But it proved to be surprisingly difficult to find his way out of the shirt when he couldn't tell up from down. The clothing became tangled somewhere around his head and upper arms until McKay yanked him free. Shivering as the cool morning air brushed across his skin, John wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed his eyes shut against the vertigo the movement had produced. Also a bad idea. He opened them again to see a fuzzy version of McKay exit their accommodation and disappear down the hallway.
The room continued to spin. John pressed his feet against the floor hoping to retain some sense of direction. He reminded himself that despite the way it appeared, his feet were on the floor. It didn't help. Knowing he couldn't stay balanced on the chair any longer, he opted to lower himself to the floor before he keeled over and smacked into it.
Splayed face-first on the ground, John tried to steady himself, gripping the floor with his fingers when he had the sudden sensation that the room had flipped upside down, leaving him suspended from the ceiling. The sensation made his gut roil with a vengeance. Crap. This was turning out to be one of those 'hit the ground with terminal velocity' days.
~~~~oooo~~~~
"John!" Teyla rushed through the door and dropped to her knees at his side.
John turned his head toward Teyla, unable to stifle a moan as it slid past his lips.
"McKay…" Ronon growled as he entered the room.
"It…it's not my fault" McKay protested. "I didn't do anything."
"You did not mention that John was this ill," Teyla admonished, lifting John's wrist to check his pulse.
"He wasn't…at least he wasn't a few minutes ago. Maybe it just looks worse now because he's half-naked and lying on the floor groaning."
Any inclination John had to downplay his predicament went out the window after hearing McKay's description, because he had to concede that it probably looked pretty bad.
Another shiver wracked his body.
"Where is his clothing?" Teyla demanded.
"It wasn't his shirt," McKay picked the dark fabric off his bed, clutching it to his chest. "It was mine. In fact, it's the only other clean tee we have and he looked like he was gonna puke again."
Ronon yanked the top out of McKay's hands and bent down in front of John as though he considered redressing him.
"N-no moving," John breathed. "Dizzy."
"Okay." Ronon tossed the shirt aside and grabbed a blanket from the stack of linens. He tucked the fabric around John with the least disturbance possible.
The blanket helped a bit. It was soft and warm and the weight made John feel a little more anchored to the floor.
"John." Teyla's voice was insistent.
John realized Teyla had been talking to him, asking how he was feeling, asking about symptoms. It was hard to think much beyond his effort to battle the vertigo. He thought he should mention the nausea and the headache from hell, but putting a sentence together was out of the question. And maybe he should mention the memory thing. John moaned and dug his fingers into the floor again. "M-my fingerssss h-hurt," he stammered out, surprised because he hadn't noticed before now that they felt so scraped and raw. He suspected that somewhere between his brain and his mouth the priority of the symptoms had been lost.
John felt a large, solid hand wrap around one of his own.
"He's got splinters from the floor," Ronon stated.
"I hate splinters," McKay muttered. "Where are my socks and boots?"
While McKay scrambled to cover his feet, John felt a sheet being eased between his hands and the rough planks. He curled his damaged fingertips into the cool material.
"So," McKay tugged at the laces on his boots, "Do you think he drank the local rotgut or the chair did something to him…or…or…" His voice rose a notch with anxiety. "Maybe it's an alien disease. Did anyone bring any hand sanitizer?"
"His symptoms appear most similar to when he finished using the chair yesterday. However, they were not this extreme. Rodney—" Teyla turned toward her teammate.
"Yes. Yes. I'm on it." John heard McKay open his laptop and start typing while muttering about the Ancients' inefficient system of cataloguing information.
Teyla moved toward the pitcher and began pouring water. "Ronon, perhaps you could—"
"Got it. Gonna see if they have a healer." He strode out of the room.
Teyla placed a cool, damp cloth on John's head. The cloth did little for the symptoms, but it felt nice anyway.
"I…I…n-need…" John made a small, vague gesture with one hand, searching for a succinct way to ask his question. Every word cost him a portion of the energy it took to manage the vertigo.
"What do you need?" McKay prompted.
"Give him a minute." Teyla began cleaning and bandaging one of John's hands.
"Up…update… God!" John gasped as the pain spike in his head.
"An update?" McKay squeaked. "I've barely powered up here let alone searched through the enormous stream of data I downloaded yesterday. This is gonna take hours even considering the fact that I'm motivated by your current condition."
"No… Wha'…h-happn'd?" John gagged and swallowed, hoping his words now clarified his need to know what they were up against, because talking again at the moment was not a good plan.
McKay grabbed some sort of ceramic bowl from the display shelf and deposited it in front of John. "Here. Try not to use this."
"We are not certain…" Teyla began, in answer to John's question. "Rodney alerted Ronon and me this morning when..."
The sounds of her words began to warp in John's ears, fading in and out. He tried to concentrate on the words, but the task divided his attention too much and his stomach seized the moment to stage its mutiny.
~~~~oooo~~~~
John's stomach called a truce after the second or maybe it was the third wave of its attack.
Teyla had turned John onto his side but it was a struggle to remain perched in what felt like a precarious position. He flopped onto his back, feeling the floor tilt from side to side beneath him.
"S'rry," he mumbled, feeling almost too wiped out to be embarrassed.
"Do not concern yourself with this." Teyla wiped John's face with another cool cloth and then went about tidying up the aftermath of the battle.
"Um," McKay paused in his typing. "I really hope they don't have some sort of policy here. You know the type. 'If you should drop it — or in this case puke in it…'" McKay scrunched up his face, "'…consider it sold.'"
John's mind couldn't even dredge up a retort.
The door to the room flung open. Ronon burst in with an elderly, grey-robed man in tow.
"Oh, great!" McKay tossed his hands in the air. "He dug up Gandalf."
Forgoing introductions, the healer flowed across the room to where John lay. "Oh, dear," he fretted as he hovered over John for a moment.
John thought that didn't bode well for the man's level of skill. He still felt way beyond crappy and just wished the man would go away. He thought he might mention that as soon as he gathered his strength.
"What are you planning on doing?" McKay demanded of the white-haired gentleman.
"An examination." The healer rummaged in the folds of his robes and pulled out an instrument similar to one of Keller's handheld scanners.
"And the examination will consist of what?" McKay pressed, coming to lurk over the proceedings.
The man frowned. "You are crowding the patient."
McKay didn't budge.
The scanner lit up like a Christmas tree as it was passed over John's body. John thought it ironic that the gadget should respond with such vigor when he felt so close to death.
Upon seeing the array of lights, the healer gasped, reaching out a wrinkled hand to place a reverent touch on John's forehead. "He is an Old One."
"He's not that old," McKay protested.
"I thought there were no more. I thought the Old Ones were gone." The healer's voice sounded almost mournful. He sighed, and then shook his head. The scanning device disappeared back into his robes. "Greatness comes at a cost," he proclaimed in a solemn tone.
"Did you get that out of a Chinese fortune cookie?" McKay demanded.
The man glared at McKay, huffing before resuming. "Like the few revered Old Ones who have come here to assist us, this one is also quite…fragile."
"Fragile?" Now it was Ronon who could not contain himself. "Sheppard's not fragile."
Despite Ronon's assertion, John figured that the healer might have a point at the moment.
"Do you wish to hear my findings or not?'
"We wish to hear them," Teyla stated. "I apologize if my friends have offended you. It is their way of showing concern."
The healer appeared to consider Teyla's words for a moment. "The Old Ones are not strong enough for the tasks before them. We ask too much of them." The healer leaned towards John's team, lowering his voice. "Has he been…working?" The last word was almost inaudible.
"Probably less than the rest of us," said McKay. "You have no idea how far behind he is in his paperwork."
The healer's brow wrinkled. "I know not of paper work." He lowered his voice again. "Is it done in a chair?"
McKay nodded. "And Sheppard usually does it with his feet on the desk, too."
"Did you mean a chair of the Ancestors?" Teyla asked.
"Shhhh." The man held a finger to his lips. "We do not speak of this aloud."
"Would it be a problem if he had been…working?" Teyla diplomatically whispered the question.
The healer looked at John once more. "Is that not obvious?"
John tried to think of the last time he'd been called upon to use the Atlantean device. It didn't seem that he had used it in recent weeks. The gaps in his memory felt almost as disorienting as the vertigo. "I don't...remem…remember," John ground out.
"That may be for the best." The healer turned to Ronon. "I have said too much already. I must go. Come with me. I will prepare some powders to ease the symptoms. Time is of the essence."
John wondered why his team didn't fetch the jumper…if they came in one, or why they didn't dial Atlantis for help. He didn't think a 'powder' was going to cut it against the way he felt. But darkness claimed him before he could ask.
~~~~oooo~~~~
John woke to the sound of Teyla humming as she removed a damp cloth from his forehead and combed his wet bangs with her fingers. For some reason, John figured that he really shouldn't like that so much. But he did. And he liked waking up knowing immediately that one of his team members was okay.
His memory of the day's events cascaded into place. Since the surface beneath him was now soft, John figured Ronon had come back from the healer's place and had moved him to the bed. The rhythmic clicking of a keyboard could be heard. That meant McKay was still busy with his research. All present and accounted for. John sighed with relief and opened his eyes.
Teyla smiled at him. "It is good to see you are awake now."
John had the uneasy feeling that Teyla knew he had been awake for a few minutes, but she'd never mention it if she did.
McKay jumped up from the table. "How are you feeling?"
John thought about it for a moment. His entire body ached as if he had the flu and then some. He'd been awake for three minutes at most and already he felt tired enough to go back to sleep. "Kinda like crap," he rasped.
"The medicine did not help?" Teyla looked at John, her brow furrowing with concern.
John had a vague memory of being given some bitter powder. "It helped. 'Kinda like crap' is better than before." It was at least good enough for John to think he should start figuring out what the hell was going on. He tried to push himself up on one arm but his elbow buckled and he pitched forward over the side of the bed.
Teyla caught John, and Ronon darted over to assist in depositing him back on the pillows.
"This sucks," John muttered before the sore, dry tickle in his throat turned into a fit of coughing.
Ronon helped John to sit up again so that he could he sip at the water Teyla offered.
John was grateful that his teammates pretended not to notice how badly the cup shook in his hands. Despite his thirst, John soon returned the cup to Teyla, not feeling sure what his stomach's response to the water was going to be. He took a few deep breaths. "Okay. Here's the thing… I seem to have forgotten what happened yesterday." John wondered if he might have been able to ease into that declaration a bit better.
"Crap. All of it?" McKay asked. "What's the last thing you remember?
John thought for a minute. One hand rubbed across his forehead, massaging a slight ache that was starting up again. The headache wasn't particularly bad, but he felt himself bracing for a repeat of the earlier onslaught. "I remember bits of a meeting with Woolsey…"
"See now, that's a problem right there because, seriously, who remembers meetings with Woolsey?"
John was saved from wasting his energy on deciding whether or not to let that remark pass when Ronon glanced at McKay with an expression that made his mouth snap shut.
"I remember something about a mission… The IOA wants us more involved with the Coalition and someone sent a request for us to look at an Ancient outpost. Latira maybe? Are we on Latira now?" John asked.
McKay looked at John for a minute, almost as though he were waiting for John to say he was joking. When John didn't confess to a prank, McKay's face fell. "Yeah… Latira… Crap, this is so not good."
"I think this is the part where we make a run for it and get the hell outta Dodge," John said.
His teammates exchanged looks.
"Okay, I may not be running very far right now, but we are planning on leaving, right?" John had the distinct feeling his friends were avoiding looking him in the eye. "Did we bring a jumper? Has anyone checked in with Atlantis yet?"
"You disabled the gate yesterday when you were using the Latiran's chair," Ronon said.
"We're stuck here," McKay added, "unless you want to risk life and limb, or at the very least a significant portion of grey matter, to try the chair again."
"They have a chair here? " The conversation that had swirled around him during his bout with vertigo began to fit together. John's stomach flipped. He wasn't sure if it was mounting a protest against the water he'd ingested or clenching in anxiety over exactly what sort of predicament they were in – a predicament which he might have contributed to. "I…I…I don't know why I did that."
McKay sighed, returning to his laptop. "I don't know why you did that either. You're not exactly communicative when you're using the chair. Of course, you're not exactly communicative the rest of the time either, but especially not when you're doing the neural interface thing… I suppose the gate screw-up will be up to me to figure out." The last remark was muttered to himself as he typed.
Teyla checked the bandages on John's fingers. "We did not think it was wise for you to use the chair again yesterday."
"So…go on," McKay prompted John, making a rolling motion with one hand while pecking at the keyboard with the other.
John frowned, recalling snatches of conversation and snippets of daily life. He shot a dark look at McKay. "Someone's out of coffee."
"It figures you'd remember that. I had a few bad moments. Maybe the healer was right. It's for the best that some things are forgotten… Anyway, the problem is that the Daedalus was delayed on some do-good mission—"
"They are assisting in rescue and relocation for the victims of a natural disaster on a planet at the edge of the Milky Way," Teyla supplied.
"The bottom line is no coffee and no rescue anytime soon," McKay groused.
"Not necessarily in that order." John scrubbed his hands tiredly over his face. He refused to give in to the pull of sleep until he knew where they stood and until he had a plan. He searched his memory for more information, but his mind hit a wall, turning the ache behind his eyes into a pulsating throb again. "That's…uh…that's about it."
"That's it? That's where your memories end?" Over the top of his screen, McKay gaped at John.
"So, fill me in already. How long ago was that?" John knew that he sounded irritated and didn't care that he did. He was fed up not knowing what had happened. And the room was starting to sway again.
"That was four days ago. Maybe you did hit your head."
As McKay spoke, Teyla reached out to examine John's head again, but he pulled away. He'd had enough of the patient routine for one day.
"I'd say you can rule out a concussion. Doesn't feel like one to me."
"Okay, so maybe the chair here works a bit differently. The healer — if you could call that quack a healer — didn't seem to think using it was such a good idea. I've been going through the database of information I downloaded while you were using the one in the Latiran outpost yesterday." McKay turned his laptop screen around to face his teammates.
When John sat up straighter to get a look at the screen, he felt the blood drain from his face as his vision grayed around the edges.
"A lot of it is a duplication of information we already have," McKay continued, "but… Sheppard? Sheppard! Oh, shit."
That was the last thing John heard before darkness descended again.
~~~~oooo~~~~
"Okay, what do we know about Latira?" John asked. Two more doses of the healer's concoction, a good night's sleep, and a lukewarm, local equivalent of a shower had resulted in him feeling almost human again.
"They are primarily agrarian," Teyla began. "They have some knowledge of the Ancestors or 'Old Ones' as they call them. Technology gained from offworld trading has allowed them to make more progress than might be expected at this point in their development. They are—"
"A bunch of farmers who know too much for their own good," McKay cut in.
Teyla arched one eyebrow and fixed McKay with a stare. "I was about to say that they are quite similar to the Athosians."
"Oh," McKay said in a small voice. "Sorry… Taking foot out of mouth now. Caffeine withdrawal's a bitch." He sighed, and then perked up, hefting a thick pottery mug from a tray of breakfast food. "But I'm about to try the sludge that the Latirans drink in the morning — although I doubt it will pack the same punch as coffee." He took a swig of the thick liquid and swallowed. His eyes bulged. "Oh, my God!" McKay gasped.
Teyla removed the mug and began mixing the brew with hot water. "I will see if I can dilute the 'sludge' for you."
The offer was kind, but John could hear tension in her voice that suggested she was still a bit touchy about the 'farmer' remark. Actually, she'd been a bit touchy about a number of things since the pregnancy. John had tried to say as much in the most delicate and understanding way he could think of. That conversation had not ended well.
John watched as McKay barely acknowledge Teyla's offer with an absentminded nod and started clacking away on his keyboard. Ronon grinned at them and then dug into the food. John gingerly picked at various items, making sure his body was in agreement with the meal choices. So, apart from the fact they were stranded, his team's morning routine seemed to be going about the same as always, John concluded.
There had been no indication of threat towards the Atlantean team. John was beginning to think that they could spend some time poking around the Ancient facility, giving the malfunctioning chair a wide berth until McKay figured out how to fix it or the Daedalus showed up in a few weeks.
Once breakfast was over, the team set about clearing up the plates and cups. Teyla carried them down the hallway to place outside the door for pick-up as they had been instructed. Room service of a sort. Not such a bad way to spend a few weeks. Between his team's run-in with the renegade Asgard, Michael's recent visit and his own time spent with the Sakari, John figured a little down time might not be a bad thing. Now, if they just had a beach, maybe a bit of surf…
John's reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. Despite the fact that they had expected Kelore to arrive, Ronon headed toward the door with his blaster drawn. John knew that as far as Ronon was concerned, his team leader had been taken down once and he wasn't about to let it happen again – even if the culprit had been a technological glitch. John smiled as a feeling of well-being descended upon him… Then he wiped the smile off his face and fumbled with bandaged fingers to at least strap on his sidearm while wondering just what the hell had been in the powder.
Kelore walked in – or maybe shuffled would be more accurate. The healer trailed close behind. Kelore looked gaunt and much paler than John remembered. Not quite Wraith-pale, but still… Wraith-pale…or maybe pale Wraith. John wondered if that might make a good name for a new crayon color or perhaps a paint color – as in 'I'd like to have my quarters painted Pale-Wraith.' He snickered and then covered it with a cough. He thought of standing to greet Kelore but wasn't quite sure if he was going to pull it off with as much dignity as he'd like, so he chose to stay seated. John considered trying to catch the attention of one of his teammates, but then what? It wasn't like they had a discreet hand signal for 'Help, I've been drugged.' Besides, he felt pretty good, all things considered.
John shook his head, trying to clear it, realizing Kelore was talking. He tried to focus on the words.
"It is imperative that you complete the necessary tasks and that you complete them immediately. To that end, I offer the services of our healer, Melkus. He will accompany you to the outpost today and provide any medical support needed in order to complete the requirements." Kelore pivoted to leave as though it were a done deal.
"No. No. No," McKay called Kelore back. "Your facility practically fried Sheppard's brain cells. And besides," McKay moved to stand protectively in front of John, "he's…he's…fragile." He turned toward the healer for confirmation. "You said so, yourself."
Kelore's eyes flashed. "Did you say that?" he demanded of Melkus.
"P-p-perhaps," Melkus stuttered. "I may have spoken words of that sort. But…but that was yesterday." The man seemed to brighten at the possibility that John's current state might erase his own ill-chosen words of the previous day. He turned to John. "How are you feeling today?"
John thought about the question. But, he got sidetracked for a moment by pretty ribbons of color that coalesced as they wafted by. "Hmmm?" His head felt heavy and it seemed to loll towards one shoulder as he tried to tackle the question again.
"John?" Teyla was kneeling in front of him. She grasped his head between her hands, trying to get him to look at her.
In the background, the healer was twittering about the difficulty in determining the correct dosage for the 'Old Ones.'
"John!" Teyla tried to catch his attention again. "What is wrong?"
John frowned. He knew he needed to answer Teyla. "Think I fell down the rabbit hole," he slurred.
~~~~oooo~~~~
John liked the sun's rays. They were warm and soothing, and they made a nice contrast with the cool breeze whispering across his skin. So, he passed a pleasant morning, while he lay on the bed humming to himself. At least he thought it was pleasant…until the effects of the powder wore off. Reconsidering his activities or lack of them for the last two hours, John groaned and flung one arm across his eyes.
"Are you feeling ill again?" Teyla was at his side in an instant.
"No. This is just…just so goddamn embarrassing. When we get home, I want the coordinates to this planet locked out of the computer."
"Consider it done," McKay assured. "And…uh…I promise never to mention this mission again…or…or hold it over you, or anything else I might normally do with a mission-gone-bad."
"Now, see, I don't know whether to be grateful for that or to feel worse because this fiasco is getting special consideration. But…thanks." John sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, relieved to find that nothing hurt and the room held steady as a rock. He looked at his watch. It was time for lunch and long past time for some action. "What say we have lunch while you all fill me in on the specifics of the mission and then we head over to the outpost and have a look around…or, uh, another look around?"
McKay opened his mouth, but John cut him off before he could launch a protest. "Avoiding the chair, of course."
"Sounds like a plan," Ronon agreed.
"Kelore insists that the healer accompany us," Teyla reminded them.
"That charlatan?" McKay squeaked. "We're not going to let him hang around are we?"
"His skills did appear to be…less than adequate." Teyla twisted her mouth wryly. "But his knowledge of Latira and of the Ancestors may be useful."
John considered that for a moment. "We'll take him." He turned to Ronon "But if he tries to give me any powder, shoot him."
~~~~oooo~~~~
At the outer edge of the village, Melkus led the team to a wagon. John welcomed the idea despite the less than domesticated-looking beasts of burden harnessed to the transport. He was more fatigued than he'd expected, but he'd be damned if he was going to allow the healer another chance to see him as being 'fragile.' The open cart gave John an acceptable excuse to sit down.
The floor of the wagon was well-covered with thick blankets which helped to absorb the shock of bouncing over the rutted, rock-strewn road. It was obvious that maintaining a path to and from the gate wasn't a priority. John wondered just how often the villagers actually traveled this road.
The blankets didn't do much to buffer the effects of the sharp swerves caused by the four oversized boar-like creatures not being in agreement as to which direction they should take. Ronon said the animals reminded him of the fanged, six-legged meefniks on Sateda. A lot of things reminded Ronon of Sateda, but John suspected his friend made up half the fearsome, mutant animals he recalled with such fondness. McKay asked whether or not Sateda had ever experienced high levels of radiation or problems with toxic waste. That was a mistake. Teyla opened her mouth as if she might be preparing to intervene in Ronon's response. But she was saved from having to do so when McKay turned green and dropped his head onto his knees, asking if any of them had brought along some Dramamine. Ronon just kicked McKay with his foot and said justice had been served. John figured he might try to walk back from the outpost after all.
Not a moment to soon, the cart rounded a hill revealing a decidedly Ancient-designed spire, thrusting upward out of the ground. One spire. And not quite four stories tall at that.
"This is like an iceberg, right?" John asked climbing out of the rickety contraption. "Eighty to ninety percent is below the surface?"
McKay gulped a few deep breaths of fresh air as he alighted. "No, it's more like eighty to ninety percent of the outpost is above the surface. Behold the broom closet of the Ancients."
"It is indeed quite small," Teyla frowned. "It is not nearly as imposing as many other Ancient structures that we have encountered."
John shook his head, puzzled. "It's hard to believe the Ancients equipped this place with a control chair."
"I thought size didn't matter," McKay smirked.
John reached out to cuff McKay across the side of the head, but was surprised when his friend anticipated his move and darted out of the way.
"Hello? Déjà vu, anyone? We had this conversation the last time." McKay gave John an insufferably smug smile.
"Then let me add something new—" John began. But he was cut off when Melkus approached.
"The wagon has been secured." The man rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm. "That was most invigorating. Would you believe it has been many years since I have driven a cart?"
"I believe you," Ronon deadpanned.
John glanced at the insubstantial post to which the animals were tethered. It seemed that the odds were slim that the frenzied pigs would still be there when the team came out of the structure. "Let's go," he said and headed towards the outpost.
~~~~oooo~~~~
It wasn't a broom closet. More like an Ancient bus terminal, John thought. A gate sat on a raised platform at the far end of the room. The other half of the room consisted of about two dozen chairs scattered around and a control room. The glass-walled portion could easily have been a ticket booth. All that was needed was a sign announcing arrivals and departures. Then again, that might have been exactly what the Ancient writing on one wall said.
McKay's impressions differed. "It looks like an IKEA warehouse. Same crappy Swedish chairs."
John walked past the stretch of familiar sea green and orange walls that led toward the gate. Figuring the ceiling was lower than might be expected based on the outside appearance of the structure, he gazed upwards. Faint lines in the ceiling created a spark of hope. "I don't suppose there's a Puddlejumper or two up there?"
"Puddlejumper?" Melkus' brows knit together.
"Uh…spaceship…one that flies through the gate?" John clarified.
"Ah! You mean the Gateships of the Old Ones?"
"Ha!" McKay pumped one fist in the air in triumph at the mention of the word 'Gateship.' "You see? Great minds think alike."
"Fools seldom differ," John muttered under his breath as he turned and strode past McKay.
"And you thought my caffeine withdrawal episodes were bad," McKay retorted. "You are such a sore loser."
John might have responded, but he was still too taken with the possibility of more Puddlejumpers. "Can we take a look around upstairs?"
"No." Melkus shook his head. "Kelore was quite clear to me on that point."
"Kelore? Why would he—"
"He said that an examination of activities in this galaxy indicated a history of damage to the precious Gateships."
"Was he referring to the Ancients — the Old Ones in general or the current Atlanteans, specifically?" John asked.
Melkus looked almost apologetic. "He meant you, specifically."
"Oh."
McKay snickered. John was going to plan a suitable payback once they returned to Atlantis.
John made a mental note to ask McKay to check the computer's database for a nearby planet with a gate. Maybe they could still convince the Latirans to at least loan them a jumper for the trip home. Of course, disabling the Latiran gate wasn't much of a selling point. And 'borrowing' one without permission wasn't very much in keeping with the IOA's plans to make sure they were in on the ground floor of the newly developing alliances in the galaxy. John turned his attention back to the more immediate task. "So, where's the other tenth of the facility?"
Melkus stiffened, his eyes darting about. He blew out a breath and his shoulders seemed to sag with relief. "It is safe to speak of this now."
Teyla returned from her examination of what appeared to be artwork upon the wall. "Why were we not to speak of this earlier?"
"We must let the people find their own path. Oh, they know of the occasional traveler who visits their land and they know their Guardian travels afar on their behalf when needed. We must not interfere in their lives."
"Who's the Guardian?" John asked, but his words were lost as the healer scurried toward the control room. He turned to his team. "We didn't ask that before, did we?"
Ronon shook his head. "Never heard about the path the last time either."
"Come," Melkus beckoned. "Time is still of the essence."
~~~~oooo~~~~
John followed Melkus into the control room with his team falling in behind him. He ran his fingers over one console while Melkus pushed buttons on another. The first console was dead as far as John could sense. It also failed the white glove test. In fact, the whole outpost had a dusty, abandoned air to it, reinforcing John's speculation that the villagers didn't pass this way often.
A panel in the wall behind the console sputtered open, revealing a narrow flight of stairs leading downward. John flipped on the light on his P90 and peered into the gloom. From what he could see, the stairs led to a corridor that looked just like the ones on the lower levels of Atlantis. He descended the staircase, sweeping the darkness with the beam from his weapon at each step. It didn't hurt to be cautious even though they'd passed this way once before. As he reached the bottom, several of the wall lights flickered on. The low level of intermittent lighting cast eerie shadows on the walls. John startled when the door panel clanged shut behind Melkus.
As the team proceeded along the hallway, the Ancient illumination waxed and waned, the flickering glow never quite reaching full power. John dropped back beside McKay who was busy taking readings of some sort. "So, the ZPM just didn't keep going and going and going?"
"It's low but it should still be able to power this breadbox. Believe it or not, the lights and doors are working a bit better than they did. Maybe you managed a few repairs. But the chair problem is more than that."
John nodded. "Yeah. I've used the chair when the power was low in Atlantis. It never did…whatever this chair did."
McKay glanced at John. "Is this bringing back any memories for you?"
"No. I… No." For a moment, John had thought there might be something — a thought that tickled at the back of his mind. No. Not tickled. Scratched. Something sharp and… It was gone. He gripped the P90 tighter.
The corridor terminated in a typical Atlantean door. For all their scientific innovations, the Ancients seemed stuck on a one-size-fits-all approach to interior design. The door opened in a series of erratic moves. John hesitated before stepping through, scanning the room and eyeing the automatic door. "No other exits? What happens if there's a complete power failure?"
"I can switch it to open manually." McKay's response was quick and confident. "I know because I checked that out the last time."
John felt the muscles in his jaw tighten and twitch. He hated sounding as if he were one step behind everyone – even if he was one step behind.
McKay tugged at the collar of his shirt as he followed John into the room. "Still doesn't help the fact that I feel like I'm in an underground tomb."
Ronon had an alternative solution. "If we get shut in here, I can always blast a hole in the door."
Melkus gasped. "It is an attitude such as yours that led to The Downfall."
"The Downfall?" Teyla queried. "Is that what is depicted in the paintings?"
"Yes, they are a reminder of the wrong path." Melkus ushered the team inside.
John saw McKay gulp as the door shut. Even John had to admit to a claustrophobic feeling about being closed in the subterranean room.
The chair room was just as much of a disappointment to John as the outpost itself. A standard issue control chair sat in a roughly eight hundred square foot room. There were a few control panels, an Ancient computer terminal and a couple of workbenches. That was it. Well, that and what might be the opening to a ventilation shaft.
John eyed the grating with suspicion. "No knock-out gas this time?"
Melkus paused in front of a workbench. "A most unfortunate necessity."
John narrowed his eyes, closing in on the man. "I don't suppose you know who was behind that do you?"
"It…it was the request of the Coalition. I thought you had been told that." He busied himself with placing his scanner and canvas satchel on the workbench, but his hands began to shake when John continued to stare at him. "I…I was merely was asked to prepare the chemical. It was quite harmless."
"Harmless?" McKay tossed various wires and clips from his pack onto one console. "I had a migraine for a week after that."
"Oh. Oh dear." Melkus frowned in consternation for a moment, and then his eyes lit up. He pulled out his scanner, extending it as he stepped toward McKay as though he were divining for water. "Are you also one of the Old Ones? When Kelore told me there were more who carried the blood of the Old Ones, I could hardly believe—"
John shoved the scanner aside with enough force to warn the man against further attempts to conduct a scan. "Watch him," he directed Ronon.
The healer fell silent.
McKay connected his laptop to the Ancient computer systems and set to work. He could make his laptop interface with any system almost as easily as John could interface with the chair. Speaking of which… John skirted around the chair, tipping his head to examine it from various angles.
"Don't you dare sit down," McKay called over his shoulder.
"I'm just looking." John backed away a few more feet. Maybe it was his imagination but he could feel…something. It was a bit like standing near power transmission lines. "This thing's off, right? Or, you know, on the usual sort of standby?"
"Why?" McKay's head shot up.
John shrugged. "Just asking." The tingling was gone. Maybe he had been imagining it.
John crossed back to Ronon and Teyla, eyeing the chair warily as he moved. "So, we're to evaluate the outpost's capacity for defense of the village and make repairs to the system?"
"Judicious repairs to the systems." Teyla turned her back to Melkus, keeping her voice low. "I believe Mr. Woolsey was using the words given to him by the IOA."
Ronon kept his eyes trained on Melkus as he, too, kept his voice low. "Meaning we decide what's good for everyone else." The dark look on Ronon's face spoke volumes about his opinion on that policy.
"They've got a point." While John had never been enamored with the IOA's tendency to want to be included in as much as possible while doing as little as possible, he felt himself becoming defensive. "If the Latirans are developing increasing ties with the Genii, any technological advantage our repairs give the Latirans might fall into the hands of the Genii. It could be—"
"There are no Genii," Ronon cut in.
"What?" Yet another point John thought he might have missed. "The intelligence reports—"
"Were wrong," Ronon cut him off again.
John ran one hand over the back of his neck, feeling a headache starting to creep its way up to the base of his skull. "When did we find that out?"
"We didn't. I'm saying it now. There isn't a trace of Genii influence in the village."
"I get the distinct impression most of the villagers are shielded from outsiders," John noted. "Maybe they don't know about the association."
"Ronon is right," Teyla spoke up. "The Genii have not been here."
"We committed ourselves to participating in the Coalition, trying to get a step ahead of the Genii. We took on this mission as the first step in that commitment. And now you're telling me that Genii were never even here?"
"It was merely our assumption that the Genii were behind the trial," Teyla observed. "Perhaps the purpose of the trial was to enlist our cooperation for another reason. Our assumption may have merely been used to advantage."
"I still say they coulda just asked." John re-gripped his P90. Something was about to go wrong. Very wrong. He could feel it in his gut. He scanned the room again.
McKay was still at work on the computer. The chair still sat dormant. The healer opened a drawer on the workbench and began to remove several small vials. Ronon was beside the man in an instant, the muzzle of his blaster inches from the pale face.
"I must prepare the medicines. You do not understand…" Melkus's eyes darted from Ronon to the small bottles of powder. He stepped away from the bench abandoning his task. "You will regret this." He stated without threat.
"You got anything, McKay?" John headed to McKay's work area and paused for a minute, casually leaning against the wall to steady himself.
"I said before that most of the information was a duplication of what we know. But I found some files that might relate to the problems with the chair. They're gonna take a long time to go through. I hope we brought enough snacks. I'm also trying to access more of the records relating to the defense system.
"New plan. Just focus on restoring the gate." John felt the tingling, bugs-crawling-on-the-skin sensation again. "And look for any information on nearby planets with…with…" The room started to tilt. He put his hand on the console to catch himself.
"Get your hands away. Didn't I tell you not to touch anything? You… Sheppard? Are you okay?"
John might have said he was and tried to ride it out a bit, except that he was desperate to do anything it took to avoid a repeat of yesterday. "R-r-room's spinnin'." He dragged in a breath as the nausea reared its head, too. "Don' feel s' good."
McKay's head whipped around to view the other side of the room. "Teyla?"
Teyla was already partway across the room. But she stopped and spun around when the door shuddered and creaked.
The panel inched its way open, closing, and then opening again.
John shoved McKay behind the side panel of the console as Teyla took cover at the other, hoisting her P90. Ronon flattened himself against the wall beside the door, blaster ready for action. John staggered forward and dropped into a crouch behind one side of the chair, his weapon trained on the door.
A shower of sparks shot out of the circuitry beside the door as it retracted with a surge of energy.
Kelore stepped into the room.
It took a few seconds for the team to stand down.
Ronon returned his vigilance to Melkus and the vials of who knew what. McKay scrambled out from his bunker.
And John… John remained where he was. He couldn't move. His muscles had given up accepting commands from his brain. And the scratching was back, growing from fingernails playing across the surface of his mind to claws, digging into the grey matter, ripping, tearing, and gaining access to every corner. Then the memory of his experience in the chair came flooding back. No! No! Stop! Oh, God, no!
"John? John! Listen to me!" There was a sharp edge to Teyla's command as she crouched in front of him. "Let go of the chair."
"T…Tey…" John's jaw quivered with the effort of prying his teeth apart. "Sssssstop." The trembling spread to his entire body and still he was trapped, fused to the chair. More of a neural prison than a neural interface.
Teyla reached a hand towards him.
"Don't!" McKay yelled. "We don't know what that could do to Sheppard or to you."
Teyla's hand pulled back. "Rodney, we must do something, now!"
John didn't know if he screamed out loud or if it was just in his head. He screamed when the chair's interface worked its way into the grooves in his mind. He screamed when he took off. Flying. Flying so fast that the air friction caused his skin to ignite, burn and fall away in charred lumps. He flew so high that his lungs worked overtime, trying to suck in non-existent oxygen. He flew past trees, their spiked branches like shards of glass, ripping away muscles, and he smashed against jagged cliffs walls that shattered his bones. The wind shrieked in his ears, or maybe he was still screaming. When the ground rushed up to meet him, he welcomed it.
~~~~oooo~~~~
On to Chapter Two
~~~~oooo~~~~