Title: Marathon of Moments
Author: cybersyd
Author's notes: Written for the sgagen ficathon. In present tense. If you spot an error in my grammar, keep it to yourself, mm'kay? Flames will be ridiculed, because they're just plain funny.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Set during the first few episodes of Season Four. No specific spoilers, other than cast changes.
Summary: An unintended exploration of his own life leaves Radek Zelenka less certain of who he is.
"Ready?" Keller asks.
"No."
The doctor's voice carries a note of warning. "Rodney…"
"Alright, alright. I'm ready."
I'm not, Radek thinks.
Pain.
Radek takes the stairs slowly. The concrete is crumbling. Cracks run the length of the wall, and the hand rail wobbles. A naked bulb hangs from the ceiling, but he is told that there has not been electricity in the hallway for over a year.
"These buildings don't have a landlord. The apartments are for sale, but no one has responsibility for the rest of the building. It means that property can be bought relatively cheaply, but the downside is if the plumbing fails it needs a group meeting before anything can be done about it."
This does not explain the outside of the building. The pocked wall, damaged by shell fire in a war that is not over in the minds of the people who live amidst the ruins.
The move was necessary, Radek tells himself. The university is prestigious, recipient of recent investment by a European partner. The salary is not enormous, but the cost of living is low, and he needs to start to save. To think about his future.
"This building is pretty old, so it means the walls are thick. You don't have to worry too much about noise. A family of four live next door, and they have a baby, but I haven't heard it cry."
Good, Radek thinks. He does not like children, and has no sympathy with the parents.
"Here." His new colleague stops at a battered wooden door, and pulls out a key from a back pocket.
They were teamed up by the university. Mirek arrived a month earlier, and now has the attitude of an old hand teaching a tourist. Radek finds it irritating, but he says nothing.
"You have to give it a little shove as you turn the key… it's a bit temperamental…" Mirek grunts, pressing his shoulder against the door. Then the key clicks in the lock and suddenly the door opens.
Despite having forewarning of the misleading nature of the apartment buildings, Radek is still surprised by the pleasant apartment which lies beyond the door. Large windows light a simple living space and kitchen area. Two couches face each other, a coffee table between them. Three doors lead out from the room. The first, Mirek explains, is the bathroom, opening the door briefly onto a small but clean and adequate room. The second is Mirek's own room.
"And this is yours." Mirek opens the third door, then steps back. "Need a hand with your things?"
"No, thank you. This is all I have brought with me."
Mirek raises an eyebrow at Radek's single black holdall. "Travelling light. Okay. Well, I'll leave you to get settled."
Radek steps into the room and closes the door behind him. Like the bathroom and living room, the space is basically furnished and meets requirements. A single bed, wardrobe, desk, and one shelf. He drops his bag onto the bed and walks across to the window.
The view is not as impressive as from his old apartment in Prague, or the room he briefly occupied while in Paris, seconded to a project there. But he can see the city. Church spires and red roofs, roads populated sparsely by puttering vehicles of the kind only made by the car industry of Eastern Europe. A park to his right, tall green trees reaching upwards. Some sort of factory to his left, the windows small and barred.
Directly opposite the apartment entrance is a bus stop. A young couple wait there. The man wears a long coat, and he holds it open, wrapping up the woman within it. She clings to him, face upturned, laughing in the cold air.
Radek looks away.
It is the first time he has allowed himself to think of her since she said goodbye. The woman in the street bears some slight resemblance to her. The same hair, cut to her shoulders. The same slight build.
He tells himself that the end of their relationship is not his reason for coming here. That he is stronger than that, that he is better able to make decisions based on the furthering of his career, and not an emotion he can survive without.
But four years is a long time. Long enough for her to expect a ring, and to tire of never being asked.
There is a knock on the door, and it opens to allow Mirek to peer around its edge. "If you're not going to unpack now, I thought we could head out for a drink. I can show you where the campus is from here."
"Yes, thank you. That would be good."
"Great. I'll just get my wallet." Mirek disappears.
Radek glances out through the window a second time. This, he tells himself, is the end of that part of his life. It will not make the transition easier to keep thinking of her.
A new country, a new city, a new life.
Outside the bus pulls up, hiding the couple from view. Radek closes his eyes, just for a moment.
"Hold still just one more moment."
Radek waits on the bed patiently. He can feel Carson tugging gently on the skin, although any pain is hidden by a local anaesthetic. He keeps his eyes closed, because that way he cannot see the needle.
"Your bedside manner is a lot different with Radek than you were with me," McKay grumbles, from the opposite bed.
"That's because you're in here every other day with a new complaint, whereas this is the first time Radek's sought my services."
"This is the first time I have been injured since joining the Atlantis mission," Radek admits.
"I find that hard to believe, given the way Rodney likes to run his experiments."
"I take precautions," McKay protests.
"Health and safety has never been one of your areas of expertise, Rodney. You're lucky that Radek here survived with little more than a bump on the head."
"I thought the structure could support the weight of the jumper," the Canadian retorts. "And it would have, if Kavanagh hadn't fired up the engines too early."
"It was only part of the casing," Radek says. At the time it had seemed more serious. The blow had knocked him to the floor, and he can still remember the sensation of blood dripping into his eyes.
"And it could have been the entire jumper! You could have been crushed!"
"Don't be ridiculous," McKay snaps. "Atlantis has safety protocols to prevent that from happening."
"Aye, but the fact that you rely on those protocols rather than adhering to basic rules of safety terrifies me, Rodney. Before long someone will get killed."
"Stop being so melodramatic. Radek's alright, isn't he?"
"Well…" Carson drops his hand. "Are you, Radek?"
"A headache, that is all." He opens his eyes, blinking in the light of the infirmary, and resists the urge to touch his forehead. "The stitches?"
"Only three. I doubt you'll have a scar."
"Thank you."
Beckett smiles. "No need to thank me, Radek. It's my job. Although it is nice to hear, every once in a while." He directs this last sentence pointedly at McKay.
"Yes, yes," McKay grumbles, slipping off the bed. His left arm is bound in a sling, though it is only a slight sprain, and the protection is there on McKay's demand, and not Beckett's recommendation. "Can we get back to work now?"
"You can. I'm recommending Radek has twenty four hours off duty to recover."
McKay scowls. Even Radek must admit to himself he feels this is a little excessive. "But…"
"He received a blow to the head which, although minor, might have been much more serious. Better to be on the safe side, Rodney." Carson turns to face Radek. "Go to your quarters, to the mess hall, the entertainment room. As long as it isn't a laboratory and doesn't involve a science experiment."
McKay pulls a face. "The mess hall? Have you eaten some of the stuff they serve up?"
"Don't exaggerate, Rodney," Carson scolds. "Besides, it doesn't seem to stop you from helping yourself to a double portion every evening."
With Beckett distracted, Radek gives in to the urge to touch his forehead. His fingers come away clean, not bloodied and sticky.
He stares at his fingertips. They waver in front of him, and at the back of his throat he tastes bile.
"Carson…"
His voice is weak, the warning unheard. Beckett is still in deep argument with McKay. It is strange, Radek muses, thoughts confused, what brought these two together. It makes their ultimate parting more painful.
There will be an explosion…
"Radek?"
Carson's hand is on his shoulder. Radek lifts his head, and the world tilts, and he faints.
The bar is smoky, air thick with cigarette trails and conversation. Couples huddle in corners, friends talking animatedly, groups of students debating politics, ethics, philosophy. Radek sits at the bar and orders - vodka and ice in a short glass - some habits are hard to break. He is late, but so is his friend, and Radek watches the entrance for several minutes, trying to recognise the faces coming in from the winter cold outside.
Soon his attention wanders to the other patrons of the bar. Most are students, the same age as he, others a little older. Radek, alone, feels self-conscious, and tries to hide in his drink. He sees his reflection in the mirror behind the bar - nineteen years old, unruly hair brushing his shoulders, shirt wrongly buttoned and stained with ink. He attempts to smooth some of the creases, wishing he had thought to check his appearance before leaving his apartment.
Someone catches his gaze, reflected in the mirror. His back is to a window, and in its front face a woman is sat alone. She sees Radek and smiles before ducking her head beneath dark curls.
Radek turns his head, embarrassed to be caught staring. He studies his drink, but after a moment feels compelled to lift his head and there - again, he pretends to be searching for his friend but again his gaze catches hers, reflections caught in the mirror.
He looks away, sipping vodka nervously. He wishes his friend were here to eliminate his conspicuousness. Out of curiosity, Radek's gaze is again drawn to the mirror - but the dark haired woman is gone, her chair empty. Disappointed, he turns to the barman, holding out a note in exchange for a refill - only for a pale, elegant hand to overtake his.
"Please." The woman has taken the seat beside Radek. She orders red wine in a soft, slightly husky voice. Her fingers are long but her nails are clipped short, Radek notices, and he can see fine silver in her hair.
"Let me," Radek says, playing the part of a hundred movies, a thousand novels. He pays for both drinks, though he can barely afford it. Chooses wine, as though he likes the taste.
The woman offers her hand in thanks. Her skin is smooth, and Radek relishes the touch. This close he can smell her perfume, a strong, heady scent.
They start to talking. She is a music teacher, and plays both piano and cello. She lives off campus, but close to her students. She has travelled - Paris, Athens, Istanbul. She can speak three languages, and for a short while they converse in French, Radek stuttering over some of the less familiar words and her waiting for him patiently to find his place. She asks questions about his studies, and seems to take an interest in his responses, listening quietly as he explains the exact nature of Professor Tabecki's lectures on Euclidean four space and why they are so fascinating.
When he feels the touch of her hand on his thigh, he remains outwardly calm, although a small voice inside his head is screaming at him.
This cannot be happening, he thinks.
It cannot happen, when they talk until the bar closes, and she suggests they walk to a nearby jazz club, the sort Radek has always known exists but was never able to find by himself. Cannot happen, when she pulls him to one side, and in the shadows of the basement nightclub presses her lips to his, and pulls his hand up to tangle in her hair.
Cannot happen, when he invites her back to his apartment, not thinking she will accept.
Laundry day. They have sex on the couch. It is not his first time, though in many ways it feels like it.
It has never felt quite like this.
The coffin is heavier than he expects.
Radek owns only one suit, for interviews. It is not quite black, but he cannot afford a new one, so he borrows a black tie from one of his classmates and makes do. He spent most of the morning ironing out invisible creases from a white shirt, and trying hard not to think about where he would spend the afternoon.
As one of the pallbearers, he has to endure the walk down the aisle under the scrutiny of friends and family. He feels conspicuous, in his not-entirely-black suit and his scruffy hair, which he has failed to tame.
The service is not long. No incense is burnt, and only one prayer is read. It is closed casket, for which he is grateful. Religious trappings are kept to a minimum. The whole affair feels entirely too sterile.
After the service has concluded he lingers in the church pews, not yet wanting to join the mourners outside. The building is old, but over the years large sections have been rebuilt, stained glass broken and replaced by plainer equivalents, giving the space a more modern feel.
Radek waits in the pews, feeling the hard wood of the bench against his back.
Someone shuffles behind him, taking a seat, the pew creaking under the weight.
"Janusz would hate this," Mariusz says, leaning forward and speaking softly into Radek's ear.
"I think you are right." Radek looks down at his hands. "But it is for his family. His mother is Catholic, I believe."
"When I go, I want a big party. Lots of wine, music."
Radek turns his head sharply to look at his friend. "Do not talk of that."
Mariusz shrugs. "Why not? This sort of event - it's bound to make you think about it."
"No," Radek whispers back, "It does not. It makes me think of Janusz."
"He'd agree with me," Mariusz says. There is a savagery to his words, a darkness underlying his initial casual tone. "If he could."
He backs down, recognising grief in Mariusz, although the other boy tries to hide it.
No, Radek thinks, sadly. They are not boys anymore. No longer children. Not when they have already lost one of their own.
A traffic accident. So stupid, he thinks, and clenches his hands into tight fists.
"Are you coming outside?"
"In a moment," he replies, looking up at the church altar. "In a moment."
Marius claps a hand on Radek's shoulder, squeezing briefly, then departs. Radek listens to him leave, the footsteps echoing around the walls.
He closes his eyes and tries to visualise his dead friend, without success. The image is fleeting, indistinct, like a poor photo fit. All Radek can remember is the phone call, the stifled tears of his sister, the way she sobbed into their mother's embrace.
He opens his eyes to find he is not alone in the church. There is a figure in the pew two rows in front, a striking silhouette. A tall man, dressed in a tattered coat, hair bound into long, dark dreadlocks.
He stares at the man for a moment, and then, as though able to sense being the object of scrutiny, the man turns round.
"Doc'," Ronon drawls, in greeting.
Radek closes his eyes again, and when he opens them the dreadlocked man has gone.
Outside the sun is shining brightly, casting light through the plain church windows onto the stone floor. Radek watches the shadows, the way dust motes glimmer in the air, and thinks about joining the other mourners.
Antarctica is cold, and Radek hugs the blanket a little tighter around his body, trapping in the warmth. Despite thermal socks, two sweaters and a woollen hat pulled over his ears, he still shivers.
The room is filled with the sounds of those who can sleep. The snores of Doctor Blake taunt him, mocking him with what he longs for and is denied.
Sleep. A dream of warmth.
A tropical island somewhere, he thinks. Fiji. Mauritius. Somewhere with beach towels and cocktails and slender women in bikinis.
If Atlantis is still underwater, Radek hopes that the ocean is warm.
He stares at the bunk above him. Space in the Antarctic base is limited, and the scientists are forced to share a dormitory room, the beds close together, allowing just enough space for one person to walk between them.
He remembers back to another cold night, back in Prague, and wishes for that someone to share his bed with.
He tries to remember her face, but her features remain indistinct. Strange, he thinks. Normally he can picture every detail of her.
As Radek's ears adjust to the sounds of the room around him, he begins to filter out the breathing and snores of his colleagues to hear something else. A familiar clicking noise..
Someone is awake, and typing.
Feeling curious, he gathers up the blanket around him and puts his socked feet on the floor, grimacing at the cold touch. There is enough dim light in the room for him to find his way around the beds without waking any of the occupants.
At the far end of the room a man is sitting up in bed, legs stretched out within a sleeping bag, a laptop balanced on top. He types furiously, fingers flying across the keyboard, gaze intent on the screen.
McKay, Zelenka remembers.
Their introduction, made by Doctor Weir, had been short and one-sided, McKay all but ignoring him. This suits Zelenka - he would rather work freely, without a department head monitoring his actions.
He knows of McKay, of course. Has read several of his papers, seen his name in journals. He was warned of the scientist's abrasive personality by several friends unlucky enough to encounter the Canadian at an international conference. The scientists here in Antarctica seem equally disgusted with McKay and his appointment as chief science officer - but none of them, Radek included, can deny the man's genius.
He watches the man type, fascinated by the intensity of his concentration, the way his gaze bores into the laptop screen, his shoulders knotted and frown engrained into his forehead.
"If you're going to watch me," McKay says suddenly, without looking up from the laptop, "then you had better pay admission."
"What?" Radek asks, flustered.
"Here." McKay breaks off from typing for a moment, just long enough to pick up a mug from beside him and thrust it at Radek. "Coffee. Black, four sugars."
Stunned, Radek takes the mug from McKay's outstretched hand, and finds himself walking through the dormitory door automatically. It is only when he stands in the building's makeshift kitchen, hand outstretched towards the tap, that he realises where he is and what he is doing.
He returns to the dormitory and waits beside McKay's bed, only handing the mug over when a hand reaches out blindly and snaps its fingers at him.
McKay goes to take a sip from the mug, then scowls. "It's empty. You brought me back an empty mug."
Radek takes a deep breath, then says in a low voice: "With all due respect, Doctor McKay, I have been employed on this project because of my abilities as a scientist, not to be a personal secretary."
McKay is silent for a moment, and Radek braces himself for a loud and angry backlash. He hopes the other, sleeping occupants of the room will forgive him.
"Hmm." McKay moves his laptop to one side, and starts to get up out of the bed. "You're the first person in the science team to have refused me." Leaving his work, McKay ducks out of the dormitory, and Radek feels compelled to follow.
The Canadian heads straight to the kitchen. Conditions in the concrete base are basic, but the military had prepared the outpost with enough supplies to suit the functionality of the science team. Apparently this is not enough to please McKay. The physicist picks up a jar of instant coffee and grimaces, before dumping a heaped spoonful into his mug. He follows this with four spoonfuls of sugar.
Radek eyes the concoction, revolted. "You have a sweet tooth."
"I have problems with my blood sugar," McKay retorts, flipping the kettle on. He pulls his sweater closer around his shoulders, and stomps toward the cupboard.
Radek walks up to the counter and whispers beneath his breath. "Would you like a drink, Doctor Zelenka? Why yes, Doctor McKay. That would be most kind." He fetches a second mug from the shelf and retrieves a tea bag from a large box beside the sink.
McKay returns, hand fisted around a Mars bar. He waits for the kettle to boil, humming tunelessly under his breath, clearly impatient.
This is the man Radek will have to work beneath for the next year, perhaps longer. The man he will have to, god help him, work with.
The kettle clicks, and Radek brushes his hand through the cloud of steam, feeling it burn against his skin. Then he pours out water into the two mugs.
McKay mumbles a curt thanks, picking up his coffee and heading towards one of the tables. All the furniture is collapsible, and as Radek lowers himself into the chair opposite McKay he can feel it wobble.
His breath mists in the air in front of him. "What are you working on?"
"Power consumption on the 'gate. Carter's made a good start but her work can be improved on."
"Colonel Carter?" Radek asks, curiously. The name causes a spark of recognition, but he struggles to recall a face.
"She probably interviewed you. Blonde. Attractive." McKay moves his hands around his chest in a vaguely lewd gesture.
Radek tries to remember his interview. Elizabeth was there. She makes a good leader, he thinks, better than she herself knows. A diplomat between human and aliens, between scientists and the military.
"It was some time ago," he excuses.
McKay talks around a mouthful of chocolate. "I've worked on the 'gate with her before. She needed my help. Shame she's not coming, but I suppose the SGC need her. Things will be easier when the doctor gets here."
Radek frowns, confused by the change in topic. "Who?"
"Doctor Beckett. Scottish. Leading on the gene therapy project."
"Oh." Again, he remembers the name, this time from paperwork. The pile had been huge, a lever arch file he had been forbidden to copy, or to remove from its home in Area 51. "There is so much to remember. I have never worked somewhere with this amount of security. Elizabeth warned me about the IOC but I still feel unprepared."
It is McKay's turn to frown. "Elizabeth? Elizabeth who?"
"Doctor Weir," Radek says, without thinking.
McKay's mouth quirks. "First name terms? Do you know her?"
"I…" Radek pauses, flustered. He can remember conversations in the mess hall, a shared love of languages, but when he tries to remember their first meeting his mind is blank.
He knows Doctor Weir, but cannot justify this knowledge with experience.
His hand suddenly shakes, spasmodically, and hot tea splashes over the table.
"Careful!" McKay yelps, although the drink has gone nowhere near him.
Radek apologises, rising to fetch a cloth. He jams his betraying hand under the other arm, and concentrates on mopping up the tea.
When he thinks back, he realises he only knows Doctor Weir from his interview, and the brief introductions made around the base.
He wonders why he was ever confused.
"So, doc', you ready for this?"
Radek cowers in the back of the jumper, feeling dwarfed by the machine around him, by the heavy bag on his back, by the guns carried nonchalantly by the four soldiers in the front seats.
"Doctor Zelenka?"
He lifts his head to meet Lorne's concerned gaze. The pilot grins.
"First time in a jumper, huh?"
He gulps, imagining that he can feel the inertia of the spacecraft's flight tug at his stomach contents. "Not the first time but… I am not a frequent flyer."
The words are carefully chosen but fail to hide the truth. Lorne's grin widens. "Scared of flying? You spend all day working on the engines of these things. I'm surprised it bothers you."
"That is precisely the problem," he explains, forcing himself to ignore the blue - very blue, oh dear god very blue - sky behind Lorne's shoulder. "Sh-should you not be concentrating on the flight?"
"Oh, no need to worry. It's on autopilot." Lorne pats the controls gently. "Just wait until we're on our way back from the mainland. I don't have to do anything - the computer handles the direction, speed, even lands the jumper without my lifting a finger."
"I would rather you do more than that."
There are sniggers from the other men, sounds that make something deep and old inside Radek's chest tighten.
Lorne, to his justice, ignores it. "You want to come up front?""I think not."
"Sure. Kennedy," he nods at one of his men, "offer the doc' your seat."
The sniggers are quashed. Kennedy gets up obediently, moving toward the back.
"No," Radek begins, "Thank you, Lieutenant, but it is really not necc…"
"Come on," Lorne encourages. "You can see your work in action."
With little choice, Radek gets up from his seat and walks to the front of the jumper, settling hesitantly into the co-pilot chair vacated by Kennedy. The array of controls before him are familiar - speed, altitude, weapons - but seeing them in use is intimidating.
Lorne looks away, and Radek sees the image on one of the holographic screens change. The autopilot has been turned off.
"I have no idea how this works," Lorne admits. "I mean, sure, I sat through the lessons Doctor McKay made all the pilots sit through, but I've got to be honest, I didn't really take in much." There is a note in Lorne's voice that Radek recognises, a slight hint of disgust that seems to colour every first impression of Rodney McKay. A hint that coloured his own first impression.
"Doctor Zelenka, let me introduce you to our head of science, Doctor Rodney…"
"McKay." A pale hand is waved at him from behind a laptop. "You're the one who almost got my job. Disappointed? I've no time for competition or politics so if you're bitter about the rejection then cry me a river, build me a bridge and get over it, you're here to work."
"Doc'?" Lorne is frowning at him, his voice sounding concerned. "Are you okay?"
Radek blinks. "Sorry?"
"Thought I'd lost you for a minute. Anyway," Lorne turns back to the console, "I thought you'd be able to tell me why when I sometimes increase the speed, altitude increases at the same time."
He pauses before responding, struggling to remember quite why he was so distracted. But the tendrils of the daydream have gone, and he dismisses the distraction, leaning across the console to demonstrate to Lorne.
"You need to adjust for the pressures of your outside environment - wind, gravity etc. When you switch from autopilot you do not need to go to complete manual control - there are different intermediary levels which allow for basic control while the computer continues to make other adjustments for you."
Lorne follows his instruction, touching several controls, resetting several instruments. "Hey, thanks, doc'." He experiments, and Radek sees the speed levels increase, and imagines he can feel the increase in g-force. "Perfectly level! I owe you one - that's been driving me nuts."
Radek shrugs. "It is quite simple. Have you experienced problems in the targeting mechanism of the drones?"
"Yeah," one of the other soldiers says, from behind. "It always seems to fire a fraction to the right of the target."
"That, too, is easily adjusted for. It relates to the velocity of the craft…" He explains the detail of the effect, the occasionally temperamental nature of a jumper's software. Lorne and the other soldiers listen intently, and there is a sense of increased respect.
Radek directs Lorne's hands to the correct controls, shows him on the display how to check that the system is performing correctly.
Lorne looks at him, a slight frown on his face. "The gene didn't take you with, doc'?"
"No, sadly," he admits. "It would make many things much easier. It is something Doctor McKay enjoys holding over my head."
Again there is that look of disgust, a grimace. "McKay sounds like a jerk."
"Perhaps." Radek holds his tongue. McKay does not need defending - he is responsible for the first impression he generates, and Radek will not make excuses for it.
"Shame I can't hand over control. I think you'd make a good pilot."
Radek flushes. He recognises the compliment. "Thank you, Lieutenant, but I believe you are best placed to sit in the pilot seat. I much prefer…"
"Digging around in the engines?" Lorne finishes.
"Yes."
"Well, at least stay up front. See the flight from the best view." Lorne increases the speed of the jumper, drops her closer to the ocean.
It is an impressive view, Radek admits. The blue of the ocean, the crystal clarity of the sky above them. He can see waves, but from this distance they appear frozen, their movement captured in time.
Then suddenly he is overcome by a sense of dread, as though a shadow has fallen across the scene, and he shivers.
Lorne is looking at him. "Pretty awe-inspiring, huh?"
"Yes." Even he can hear the uncertainty in his voice.
"You don't sound convinced? Is it heights?"
"No. Just, since Doctor McKay's jumper crashed into the ocean, I have been a little more… apprehensive of crossing the ocean than I used to be."
Lorne stares. "What are you talking about? I haven't heard about that?"
"Yes." Radek speaks without thinking. "Rodney was lucky to survive. And poor Captain Griffin…"
Lorne's eyes widen. "Griffin? You mean, the pilot, Captain Griffin?"
He remembers where he is, and flusters. "Apologies, Lieutenant - you and he were friends, I believe…"
"Yeah, we're friends - but you're talking like he's dead?"
It is Radek's turn to stare. "What?"
"Captain Griffin is on the Daedalus. He's taken some leave to visit his kids." Kennedy's voice is rough, dangerous. "It's considered bad luck to talk of fellow soldiers like that, Doctor Zelenka."
Radek looks away, out to the ocean. He struggles to think. There is a lack of clarity, a vague blurriness to his thoughts.
He is travelling to the mainland, his first time with Lorne. But Lieutenant Lorne arrived with the first batch of new troops, aboard the Daedalus, and the jumper crash…
The jumper crash…
There was water, he remembers, water all around him, but that is impossible because there is no way a jumper could withstand the pressure of the ocean.
And Griffin is alive, of course.
A dream.
"Doctor Zelenka, are you feeling okay?"
He swallows, and nods, focussing on Lorne's concerned expression. "I am fine. Apologies, Lieutenant. I was… distracted." Then he looks away, back down to the ocean.
There are whales below them.
Someone takes his arm…
"Doctor Zelenka, are you feeling okay?"
He looks down. Miko's hand is on his arm, a feather light touch, like a bird. It is a miracle, he thinks, that she has survived so long on Atlantis without a complete break down.
"I am fine."
"You seemed a little…" She says something in Japanese, a word he does not understand.
"Sorry?"
"As though in a dream."
"Oh." He frowns, trying to remember what had him so distracted. "Perhaps."
"The test results…"
She releases his arm and gestures across to the computer display, the holographic screen some five feet high above them.
"Yes, yes." Pushing his glasses further up his nose with one finger, Radek tilts his head back to take in the rows of scrolling data. "Quite interesting."
The lab is quiet. Miko is his only companion, the others having deserted their experiments for the day. Someone is having a birthday - Doctor Ross, all of fifty and looking sixty five, although no one dares tell her that. Radek intends to go, to eat cake and listen to music and remember a fraction of normal Earth life. But first there is the artefact, a puzzle to be solved.
"I put a section of the code through the Ancient translation programme I created for interfacing laptops with Atlantean equipment. There are gaps but I believe I have identified the basic operating system."
"I see it." Radek follows the line of code, a mix of binary data and Ancient symbols. Miko is a genius in her field, though it has taken several years of bullying from McKay and gentle praise from Radek before she would claim ownership of her success. "It appears similar to the programming of the Ancient library."
"Yes, yes, that is what I thought."
"But there are differences…"
She nods eagerly, and manipulates the controls of the display, highlighting several sections. "The output and input remits."
"Input relates to the user interface, but there appears to be no obvious output relay." He frowns. "There are notes on the device in the computer?"
"Yes, but we are still translating them."
"Hmm. Try narrowing the selection down to words relating to memory translation and imaging."
She glances at him, from behind oversized glasses. "You have a theory?"
"A hunch," he admits. "I have been working on a project related to the Ancients' search for Ascension methods. I believe this hardware may be involved."
Miko's eyes widen. "Oh. Does Doctor McKay know?"
Radek is unable to restrain his annoyance. Miko's crush is well known and long-standing, but the nature of her devotion is frustrating. "I am the support to the head of this department, Miko, but I am not his lackey. Rodney does not have a dictatorship over these laboratories, nor over my work."
She blushes, and ducks her head. "I just thought, after Doctor McKay's own near ascension, that he would be able to…"
"What?"
"I know he was working on the subject. Perhaps…"
"No," he interrupts, frowning. "What are you talking about? Rodney never ascended."
"No, of course, but the machine which affected him…"
"What machine?"
Miko stares at him. "Doctor Zelenka, are you alright?"
"Fine," he snaps, more irritably than he intended. "I just…"
"You're bleeding."
He stares at her. "What?"
Miko touches her forehead gently. Slowly Radek mimics her action, touching his forehead gingerly. His fingertips come away bloody.
"Oh," he says, faintly. Then suddenly he is on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
"Zelenka!"
Alarm. He frowns, and blood trickles into his eyes. Alarm in McKay's voice.
Why is McKay here?
"Idiot Kavanagh!" McKay hollers. Suddenly he is above Radek, face hovering above his own. "Are you alright? God, my arm - I think I might have broken it. Are you - you're bleeding!"
"Yes," he replies, struggling to sit up. "Where is Miko?"
"Miko?" Rodney stares at him. "You mean the mousey Japanese woman? What would she be doing here?"
"I thought…" He pauses, taking a slow breath. "She was here, yes?"
"No. Maybe you were hit harder than I thought." McKay lifts a hand to his radio, then swears, loud and blue. "Christ, my arm! Infirmary, Keller, this is McKay. We need a medical team."
"I feel fine," Radek says, although that is not true, that does not account for the pain behind his eyes and the blood on his fingers.
"The jumper bay. Part of the casing slipped, nearly wrenched my arm off. And Doctor Zelenka was hit. Yes, he's conscious. Can someone get here, please?"
Something is not right. Radek stares at his friend, fighting cloudy thoughts for clarity. Something was said, he thinks. Something not quite right.
"It wasn't my fault," Kavanagh says, from somewhere to the side.
McKay growls, a sound deep in the back of his throat. "I said to start the engines on the count of three, you idiot, not when you feel like it!"
"I gave ample warning…"
"Clearly you didn't, otherwise my arm wouldn't be broken!""
"Quite a hypochondriac," Kavanagh sniffs.
Radek ignores them, pushing himself upright, using the side of the jumper as support. "Perhaps we should go to the infirmary, McKay. A medical team is not necessary, I am quite able to walk."
"The team wasn't for you," McKay snaps.
"You can leave Doctor Kavanagh to repair the damage?"
The hint is unsubtle, but it still works on McKay. The physicist flashes a dark grin at Kavanagh.
"Sounds like an excellent idea."
The protests are immediate. "That's hardly fair, I have other work to do!"
"So do I!" McKay snarls, and then his hand is suddenly on Radek's arm, and Radek is being pulled towards the nearest transporter. He offers no resistance, recognising McKay's temper as volatile and savage.
The transporter doors open and they almost collide with the incoming medical team. Keller sighs deeply, hands on her hips.
"You couldn't wait?"
"If you didn't take hours to get there while we both bleed to death," McKay snaps.
One of the medics approach Radek, but he offers them a smile and a shrug. "I am fine, thank you."
"I'll be the judge of that," Keller says. "Let's get you to the infirmary."
She leads them to a set of beds, McKay gripping his arm tightly and complaining at every step. Radek remains quiet.
Something isn't right.
Keller sits him down on the bed, and instructs him to hold a piece of cloth to his forehead. The bleeding has mostly stopped, so he waits while she settles McKay down, instructing a nurse to perform an x-ray on the scientist's arm to appease him.
This has happened before, he thinks, only something is different. He studies the infirmary, as though he can find the answers in the detail of its walls, the equipment neatly stacked in glass cabinets, the open laptop screen.
He catches his own reflection in the glass of the window to Beckett's office. Pale and drawn, with circles around his eyes. The cloth pressed against his forehead is stained red.
Through the glass he can make out a photograph on the wall. Keller, with an unknown female figure.
"So, Doctor Zelenka." Keller touches his arm lightly. "How are you feeling?"
"A little dizzy," he admits.
"You've remained remarkably calm. Makes a nice change from Doctor McKay."
"This is the first time I have been injured since joining the Atlantis mission," Radek says. The words feel hollow, as though he is reading from a script.
"I find that hard to believe, given the way Doctor McKay likes to run his experiments. You're lucky that you survived with little more than a bump on the head."
"It was only part of the casing," Radek replies. "How is Miko?"
Keller frowns. "Miko Kusanagi? I wasn't aware that she was there?"
"She will have been startled." Radek lifts his hand slowly and stares at his fingers. They tremble, and he cannot hold them still.
"Are you sure Doctor Kusanagi was there? I understood from Doctor McKay's radio call that it was just him, yourself and Doctor Kavanagh?"
"I…" Radek pauses, uncertain. Miko was there, he remembers, he is sure - and yet why, why would a programmer be there when they were working on the jumper engines? "Perhaps you are right."
Keller's smile becomes fixed. She pats him on the shoulder, encouraging him to lean back into the pillows. "Let's have a look at your head, hmm? See just how hard that knock was."
Radek drops his hands into his laps. He feels tired, and it is more than the head wound. There is pain behind his eyes but it is not concussion.
"Just relax," Keller tells him.
He closes his eyes.
The sun is bright, a burst of pink against his retinas even with his eyes closed. Radek shades his face with his arm, then opens his eyes and sits up.
"I just don't see how you can dismiss religion so easily," his sister argues. She is sat with her legs curled beneath her body, and she leans forward, punctuating her words with gestures. "There must be more than this. More than your science."
Petrin Hill is busy, but they have found a secluded spot. A clearing amidst the trees, small hillocks providing ample backrests, the branches above providing shelter from the sun.
"The argument of those who have no other," Janusz argues. He has long, thick blonde hair which he allows to fall in front of his eyes. He thinks it makes him more mysterious to the opposite sex, despite Radek telling him repeatedly of his foolishness. "Just because you can't grasp the idea of there being no more to life than what science tells us, doesn't mean it isn't so."
"And just because your science cannot prove it, does not mean that it isn't so."
Mariusz throws up a hand idly, swatting at a fly. "I'm confused. Is anyone else confused?"
The group ignore him. Mariusz is the only one of their number with no aspirations, who claims his artistry will ensure he survives his adult years.
"The big bang theory explains the origin of the universe," Janusz says, emphatically. "Hubble's work shows that."
"And life?" Katerine asks, then holds up a finger. "I know, I know. Darwin."
"Evolution," Radek says, simply. He tilts his head back, and considers the trees behind them. "It accounts for all."
"Not all scientists agree with the theory of evolution," Katerine retorts. "You have argued with father enough times to know that, Radek."
"Argued yet never won," he admits, ruefully.
"What about beyond the big bang?" Katerine asks. "The guiding force of the universe?"
"There is no guiding force," Janusz replies. "Only chance and wishful thinking."
"Chance. Chance does not explain how you ended up with Ivania." She gestures to her friend and giggles.
Ivania has her legs crossed, and a serene, meditative expression on her face. "It was a crossing blessed by the fates."
"You can't say that," Janusz groans. "Not after the work I put in to wooing you."
A small smile creeps into Ivania's expression. "The flowers were not unappreciated."
"I don't know why you take such interest in the argument," Mariusz says, yawning widely. "It isn't as though you go to church."
"Not at the moment. But that doesn't mean I'm blind to the possibility."
Radek leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "What if we allow for the possibility you are right. That God created the big bang."
Katerine raises an eyebrow. "You don't normally agree with me."
"Just for the sake of argument. What happens when science develops a theory to explain the origin of the big bang? Then will God form some earlier function? To become some god of the gaps?"
"Richard Bube," Janusz notes, nodding sagely. "I read his 'Man Come of Age' article."
"Aargh!" Katerine grabs a clump of grass in one hand and throws it at Janusz. "There you both go, paraphrasing the work of other people. Is that what you will do at university? Or will you have the courage to form your own ideas?"
"It does not hurt," Radek says mildly, "to learn from the work of others."
"But it won't get you anywhere!"
He shakes his head, then turns to look at his friend. "Rodney, please, talk some sense into them."
McKay lies prostrate on the grass, arms folded behind his head. "You know what I think. Of course the work of others should be appreciated but the important thing is to ensure you become one of those people."
"Nobel prizes," Mariusz scoffs, "as though they really mean anything."
"And you would turn your nose up at an award for your art?"
"I'd accept the money," the teenager says, grinning.
"I fully plan to have a Nobel prize before I turn forty."
"You had better work quickly then," Janusz jokes. He looks strange, Radek thinks. Taller, and with dark eyes behind his blonde hair, eyes that are both familiar yet out of place in the young Czech's face.
"What about you, Radek?"
He turns. Ivania has gone, and Teyla sits in her place. The same clothes, the same serene expression as Ivania, but the figure is different. Teyla smiles at him, beautifully.
"Would you want awards for your work?"
He flushes. "I would be lying if I said I had never thought of it. To gain a measure of immortality - I do not think I could turn that down."
"Immortality." She folds her hands in her lap. "My people believe that a person is given eternal life through the impact they make on the world around them."
"Ripples on a pond," Katerine says.
"Ripples eventually fade," Mariusz points out.
"Geez," Janusz says, in an American accent, "you really know how to put a positive spin on things."
Radek stares at his hands. His fingers tremble. This should be important, he thinks, but he can't remember why.
"Radek."
He looks up. McKay has sat up, and is now staring at him, blue eyes oddly intense.
"The important thing is to be remembered, right?"
Radek shivers. The sun is hidden behind a cloud, and the air has turned cold. "For good reasons."
"To record everything. That's what you're doing here. Remember?"
He shakes his head. Beside them, Katerine and Janusz and Mariusz have disappeared, and only Teyla remains, a sad expression on her face.
McKay leans across and grips Radek by both his wrists. The man is so close, Radek can feel his breath on his face. Cold, and sterile.
"Try and hold on. I'll fix this."
He doesn't understand. The sun above emerges from the cloud, quite suddenly, and the brilliance of it blinds him.
Someone shouts his name.
There is light, light all around him and a mask on his face and shadows above him and McKay's hands are on his wrists holding him down, while Radek kicks and fights and screams, needles in his scalp and skull and brain, burying themselves into his synapses, and all he can think is that if there is a god, he has been forsaken.
He can still smell grass, damp with dew.
Radek wakes to the sensation of a pigeon, nibbling his ear.
Groaning, he rolls over and swats the bird away half-heartedly. Feathers stir in the brief breeze, and float in the air above him, making him sneeze.
Light streams in from the window behind him. He can hear the ocean outside his window, the familiar lap of a wave against the city walls.
He has often wondered how a place so reliant on technology, so artificial, can also seem so organic.
He can hear the pigeons, cooing softly to each other. They are hungry, wanting breakfast. Reliable in their needs but never predictable in their behaviour.
His grandfather kept pigeons. He can still remember the story his grandfather told of the day he came home to find his wife had killed one of his favourite birds, and served up the roasted meat for evening meal. But that was a different country, one of hunger and suffering, and what once might have been a tale of historical pain, a generation licking its collective wounds, now becomes a humorous anecdote.
His grandmother never found the story so amusing.
Atlantean architecture is beautiful, Radek thinks, but they also knew comfort. The mattress yields to the pressure of his body, providing a very comfortable bed that is difficult to leave. He turns his head against the pillow and reaches out for his glasses, folded neatly on the bedside cabinet.
A pigeon, sat next to the lamp, pecks his hand without real violence.
He puts his glasses on so he can fully appreciate the extent of the damage to his room.
There are feathers everywhere. Feathers and droppings. A dozen pigeons watch him from their various perches - one atop the wardrobe, another two above the window, several scratching the floor, and his friend on the bedside cabinet.
The maintenance crew will not thank him for this.
"Radek!"
His mother calls him for breakfast, just as she did every day until the day he left for university.
"Radek, come down!"
Better than any alarm clock. Radek forces himself to sit up, pushing back feather-strewn bed covers. He has the sense to put on shoes before touching the floor, although the military boots look ridiculous when matched with his pyjamas. He picks up his radio from the cabinet, fitting it to his ear, fingers operating on autopilot.
He can smell coffee, and almost taste the rye bread bought that morning from the bakery down the street. Atlantis breakfasts are not unpleasant, having improved greatly from the first few months in the city, but they are quite different from the ones of his childhood.
Radek walks to the balcony, disturbing yet more feathers into the air. He touches the lock, and the door slides open obediently.
Outside is a desert, and three tents in military beige. There are stone ruins, half buried in the sand dune, the rock carved with words in the Ancient language.
Sheppard has set up a campfire, and hands a bag of marshmallows around to his team members, sitting on the sand.
"How is it that sand gets everywhere?" McKay grumbles, examining the contents of an MRE with a grimace. "This thing is supposed to be vacuum sealed! And as for my equipment - you realise my laptop will probably never work again, don't you, Colonel?"
Radek brushes a stray pigeon feather from his uniform, and walks across to seat himself between McKay and Teyla. "If you are going to continue to complain, Rodney, I will have to reconsider my agreement to join you on this mission."
"Look, I thought you'd appreciate the time off-world. I thought it was a nice thing to do." McKay glares at him.
"More like you wanted someone to do all the work," Ronon rumbles, experimenting by holding a marshmallow above the fire with his fingers.
Sheppard winces. "You're supposed to use a stick. Stops you getting burnt. Here," he demonstrates with a fork, stolen from the Atlantis mess hall, and hands the result to Ronon. "One I prepared earlier."
Ronon accepts the offering with a grin, licking his fingers free of the remains of the first marshmallow.
Teyla is eating her own delicately. "And this is a speciality of your culture?" she enquires.
"Of their culture," Radek says, "Not mine."
"Unless you have a fondness for beetroot then Radek's cultural specialities are best avoided," McKay says, putting three marshmallows onto his fork.
"Ah, cultural stereotypes, McKay. Inaccurate cultural stereotypes. And here I thought Canadian humour only extended to Leslie Nielson and jokes about hockey."
"Now now," Sheppard interrupts, lifting his hands. "I'm not here to listen to scientists squabbling." He grins, a look of mischief on his face. "Beside, I'm sure there are better ways of spending our time."
McKay groans, but Ronon looks interested.
"What?"
"Did Sateda have a game called 'Truth or Dare'?"
McKay's second groan is louder, and Radek empathises.
"How do you play?" Ronon asks.
"It's easy. We take it in turns to ask each other a question - and you have to answer truthfully."
The Satedan frowns. "Doesn't sound like much of a game."
"What happens if you do not wish to answer?" Teyla asks.
"Then you have to do a dare. You know - recite the alphabet backwards while standing on one leg, that sort of thing."
"I don't remember any game of truth or dare being that innocent," McKay mutters, loud enough for Radek to hear.
Sheppard throws a pebble at him. "Buck up, McKay. It'll pass the time. Besides, it's your fault. You insisted we come to a planet with a eighteen hour night."
"Only because I thought there was something worth investigating." McKay scowls. "I'm not sure it was worth this."
"Look, if it makes you feel any better, you can ask me a question," Sheppard offers.
The physicist blinks, momentarily thrown. "Oh. Well, in that case…" He pauses, clearly trying to think. "Did you really take the Mensa test?"
"Yes. Too easy, McKay."
Teyla leans over to Radek and whispers, "What is a 'Mensa'?"
"My turn." Sheppard rubs his hands together eagerly. "Ah, Teyla."
Teyla lifts her head to face him, expression serene. "Yes, Colonel."
Sheppard points a finger at her. "Is there someone aboard Atlantis that you like?"
Radek has to admire the Athosian when she does not even blink.
"Like, Colonel? There are many people I like."
"You know what I mean."
McKay is leaning forward, a little too eagerly. "Ah, yes. Nice question."
"There is someone, yes," Teyla admits, calmly.
Ronon stifles what might have been a snort with a marshmallow.
"Who is it?" Sheppard demands.
"No, Colonel. I understand that you can only ask me one question."
Sheppard pulls a face. "Yes, but…"
"Those are the rules of the game," Radek interjects. He can still smell coffee.
"My turn, I believe." A slight smile graces Teyla's lips. "Colonel, please tell us about the first time you fell in love."
"That's not a question!" Sheppard objects.
"It requires the truth," Ronon points out.
"Play by the rules," McKay warns him. "Otherwise it's a dare."
"Maybe I'd prefer a dare."
"Hah! Like Sheppard wants to resist telling us of his first conquest." McKay folds his arms. "What were you, eight?"
"What were you, McKay, thirty five?"
Teyla coughs delicately. "Colonel. I believe you should now answer?"
Sheppard heaves a sigh, as though in protest, but the action is too exaggerated to be believed. "I was nineteen. She was…" He hesitates, considering. "She was older."
"How much older?" Ronon wants to know.
Sheppard ignores him. "I was at university, and she was a local music teacher. We met in a bar, got to talking - we had the same interests. Travel, music. She was fascinating. Spoke three languages. One thing led to another and, well," he shrugs.
Radek trembles. A chill runs down his spine, and he can feel pain behind his eyes.
"Your first kiss is outside the jazz club," he says, softly.
No one appears to hear him.
"What happened?" Ronon asks.
Teyla glances at him. "The Colonel does not have to answer."
"No," Sheppard admits, "but it doesn't matter. Our relationship - if you can call it that - didn't last very long. A few weeks. Always at my apartment, never at hers."
"I should have realised something was wrong," Radek says. His lips are numb.
"Anyway, it was a couple of days since I'd seen her - she hadn't replied to any of my messages, I'd not seen her in the usual bars. Then I spotted her in a restaurant, with another man. Older than me. Later, when I went to confront her, she told me the truth." Sheppard shrugs, casually.
"I'm married."
Her eyes were dark, her words unfeeling.
"I'm married."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"She told me to leave, so I did."
"I became angry." Radek picks up the story. Sheppard continues to speak, but his words are muted, and it is hesitant Czech that fills the air. "I went back to confront her."
He remembers looking up at her apartment window, and seeing them, the pair of them. They were arguing, and he remembers wondering if he were the cause.
Had she told her husband the truth? Had she admitted her indiscretion?
The distance was too great for Radek to hear the crack of a hand against a cheek, but he remembers the sight. He has replayed it in his head a thousand times.
It is odd, the way a dream can change so quickly. She was first the object of hatred, a schemer, a temptress - then she became the victim, the princess, and Radek was to be her rescuer, her knight. He would save her from a loveless, abusive marriage.
"I asked her to come away with me. Said that I could keep her safe." Sheppard shrugs. "I was an idiot."
"Come with me. We could leave - go to Paris, to Frankfurt, anywhere you like…"
"With you?"
"I love you."
She had laughed. Radek remembers the sound as cruel and ugly.
"You're a child. What could you possibly offer me?"
Then, despite dark glasses and heavy make-up, he had seen her for the first time.
A woman in her forties, with grey in her hair and lines around her eyes, using faded youth and false regency to lure in youth. She did not love him. He, Radek Zelenka, was a nineteen year old student and only the latest in a long line of distractions from an empty marriage.
She was cruel and desperate, and he was finally wise enough to see that.
"She was the first woman I loved," Radek says, to the desert air.
McKay stares at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Colonel Sheppard's story. It isn't his."
"Well whose is it?" McKay snaps.
"Mine."
Sheppard laughs, but the sound is nervous. "Funny, Radek."
"No." Radek feels his anger grow, his frustration. "I must have told you that story."
"When?" Ronon challenges him.
"I…" He pauses, trying to think. "I don't know. But…"
"Come on, Radek," McKay interrupts. "Teyla asked Sheppard the question. Maybe you experienced something similar…"
"No!" he shouts, standing up. "This is my memory, Colonel! You have no right…"
"Hey!" Sheppard retorts, getting up from the sand. "I know what I remember. If it happened to you - tell me, where were you?"
Radek falters, staring at Sheppard. "What?"
"Where did it happen?"
"University."
"Where did you go to university?"
He opens his mouth, but no words come. "I… I do not remember."
"What was her name, Radek?"
"I know…"
"If you know it then tell us!"
"Colonel," Teyla interrupts, her tone soothing. "Perhaps Doctor Zelenka is feeling unwell…"
"No!" He feels himself grow flustered. "I remember, I just…"
"You can't remember her name," Ronon challenges.
"I…"
Sheppard grabs him by the wrist. "You don't remember," he says, tone harsh, "Because it never happened. Not to you."
"I remember," Radek repeats, but the words sound pitiful. He attempts to pull back from Sheppard's grip, but the Colonel's hold on him is fierce. "Please…"
Sheppard grabs his other wrist.
"Try and hold on. I'll fix this."
Radek gasps. Sheppard presses in on him, forcing him down into the sand.
"Why can't you remember it, Radek? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"No." His words are weak, and his legs fold, his knees hitting the desert floor. "Don't."
Sheppard moves closer, so all Radek can see is the man's legs, the dark uniform. "When did it happen, Radek?"
"I…"
He sees folds of black, then nothing.
"It appears similar to the programming of the Ancient library."
"Yes, yes, that is what I thought."
"But there are differences…"
"The output and input remits."
Radek opens his eyes. He is aboard Atlantis, in one of the science labs. He is laid prostrate on a workbench, while next to him a Japanese woman and another Radek Zelenka consult each other over a strange machine.
"Input relates to the user interface, but there appears to be no obvious output relay," the second Radek says, frowning. "There are notes on the device in the computer?"
The Japanese woman nods, her head bobbing. "Yes, but we are still translating them."
They both appear to be oblivious to Radek's appearance in the lab. He sits upright, staring at the scene unfolding before him.
"Try narrowing the selection down to words relating to memory translation and imaging."
I look tired, he thinks, watching himself with the woman. Tired, and unkempt. Hair in disarray.
I was working on the device. Inside it, taking it apart…
He can't remember.
"You have a theory?" the woman asks. Her face flickers, features blurring.
"A hunch," second Radek says. "I have been working on a project related to the Ancients' search for Ascension methods."
The device.
He looks down at himself. There are pigeon feathers and sand on the cuffs of his trouser legs.
"What is happening?" he wonders aloud.
Neither the Japanese woman nor his double answer.
Somewhere, somewhere in the city below him, something explodes. He can feel the vibrations, running up through the floor and into the bench. Acting automatically, Radek starts to move, getting down from the bench, touching his radio.
"Don't go down there," his double warns him, suddenly.
Radek stares at himself for a moment, then turns away. He could not obey his doppelganger even if he had wanted to. His feet act of their own accord, carrying him down corridors, past frightened faces and whispers.
His radio is silent. There should be a crackle of voices, someone screaming at him down his earpiece, screaming for someone…
Radek mouths the name as he runs, but he cannot remember how to speak.
There is the smell of smoke and something else, something unpleasant. The scent of a nightmare. Soldiers block Radek's path, but he can see sparks, hear the sounds of a fire being extinguished. The metal of the corridor is torn and blackened.
Someone is crying. A woman.
A man with fair hair stops him, forces him back.
L…
He tastes the name, trying to remember.
"You don't want to go down there."
"The second explosion." He attempts to move forward, but the blonde's fist in his shirt is firm. "Please, if I can help…"
"You can't." The man shakes his head. "It's too late. It's over."
There is a pain in Radek's stomach, a grief he cannot yet place. He stops fighting the other man's grip, and in response the soldier steps away, allows him a glimpse of the scene beyond.
What happened here?
Radek rubs a hand across his eyes, as though he can clear the cobwebs from his mind. His fingers come away wet.
Tears.
A nurse is standing to one side, shoulders wrapped in a blanket. She is speaking to someone, struggling between sobs.
Beyond her are two other figures. Zelenka struggles, and puts a name to them. Sheppard - black hair and dark eyes, his hand on the shoulders of another. The shoulders are bowed, the figure broken.
He does not recognise the other man.
Zelenka rubs his eyes again. "What happened?" he asks, of the corridor.
No one replies.
He turns, wild, frightened. He should remember. He should…
But I couldn't remember her name. I can't remember…
He was a pall-bearer. The second time he has borne a friend upon his shoulders.
"Tell me his name," he begs, but the blonde soldier walks past him, as though Radek were not even there.
"Tell me what happened!" he screams, grabbing the arm of a passing medic, but the man shrugs him off, his touch insubstantial.
Radek turns, the damaged walls of the corridor closing in. He starts to run, wanting to escape the fragment of memory, wanting to know the whole.
Someone knocks into him.
"Doctor Zelenka!"
He pants, breathless. A figure is stood before him, the body flickering. The face is a blank canvas, with two black holes for eyes.
It stares at him, its hands outstretched as though in supplication.
"Who…" he swallows, his mouth dry. "Who are you?"
"Doctor…"
Static.
"Where are you going?" the figure asks.
"What?"
It takes a step forward, a very small, hesitant step. "You need to get back into bed."
Radek stares at it, then around at the walls. The blackened look has gone. He is in the infirmary, dressed in hospital scrubs, and Doctor Keller is looking at him as though afraid he will break.
He is acutely aware of a draft on the back of his legs.
"What happened?"
"You don't remember?" she asks, carefully.
"No." He presses a hand to his eyes, as though he can hide from the world. "I don't."
He is aware of Keller approaching him, of laying a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright. Let's just get you back into bed, okay?"
He nods, blindly. The hand encourages him forward.
The world flickers.
"Back to bed, Radek. You're not well." A pause, then, "How is it that you obey me, when your sister remains so stubborn?"
He drops his hand, looking up at his mother. "I'm sick?"
"Just a bad cold," his mother assures him. She guides him towards the stairs, away from the warmth of the kitchen and the smells which first lured Radek from his bed.
"What about my pigeons?"
"Those birds, always with those birds!" She shakes her head. "Don't worry, your uncle is taking good care of them. Now to bed. I'll bring you up some soup in a little while."
"And K…?" He struggles with the name, cannot remember.
"Your sister," his mother sighs, heavily, "has been out of bed six times already. I'm ready to lock her in her room. But that's not for you to worry about." She pushes the bedroom door open, and follows Radek inside.
The room is a white space, with a bed in one corner. The bed has a patchwork quilt, and is covered with papers, pencils, books, copper wire, the remains of an experiment. The shadow that is Radek's mother tuts, and sweeps the entire collection onto the floor with one arm.
Nails roll past Radek's feet.
"To bed," the shadow instructs, pulling back the sheets, "and try to sleep. You're running a slight fever, but we don't want that to get worse."
He nods and gets into bed, wriggling his toes between the bedclothes. "Is my sister as sick as I am?"
"About the same," his mother says, gently taking one of Radek's wrists and holding it against the bedrail. "I imagine you both caught it from that boy, M..."
Static. The absence of a name makes Radek's headache pulse.
The shadow that was once his mother uses a leather cuff to strap Radek's wrist to the rail, then leans across him and repeats the procedure with his other arm.
Radek watches her dreamily. "Chicken soup," he says, voice slurring slightly. "Not vegetable."
"Vegetables are good for you."
"Not those vegetables."
"Hmm." The thing leans forward and kisses him on the forehead, before moving away. "When you're well, I will want you to clean this room. You're as bad as your father for mess."
Radek nods. His eyes are heavy, his limbs like lead. He watches the figure walk towards the door, then stop and speak to the man stood in the corner. The words are whispered, too quiet for him to hear, but the man nods.
He is, Radek thinks, feeling removed from his body, a most unusual looking man. Long white hair, and grey skin, and a leather coat.
He shivers, and realises the sensation is fear.
"Not to worry," the white haired man says, in a Scottish accent. He approaches the bed, stethoscope around his neck, smiling widely. His teeth are pointed and sharp. "We'll soon have you mended, eh Radek?"
Then the Wraith leans over Radek, and slams a hand into his chest.
Radek howls.
"Doctor Zelenka? Doctor Zelenka, can you hear me?"
The man who may or may not be Radek Zelenka fights against the straps on his wrists and legs, he fights against the needle in his skin, he fights against the hands which try to grab him and hold him down, he fights against the unfamiliar faces who hover above his own.
"He's pulled out the IV."
"BP is rising."
"Switch the machine off!"
"I'm trying, believe me…."
"Rodney, now!"
The man in the bed hears somebody scream. Then his eyes roll up into the back of his head, and he collapses.
There is silence.
The space in which he lives is dark. Shadows move over him, say sounds, but he cannot connect the words to any meaningful experience.
"Total amnesia. But I believe that it is only temporary."
"And the seizures?"
"We're testing his responses. When he's more conscious we'll be able to tell more."
Sometimes Radek opens his eyes, but the alien nature of his environment frightens him, and he does not stay awake very long.
Later, when he should be sleeping but is only pretending, visitors talk over his bed.
"Did it work?"
"Not quite as we expected, Colonel."
"Better than his brain dribbling out of his ears…"
"Rodney…"
"What? Going to tell me we did the right thing?"
There is a pause. Footsteps, moving away.
"Sorry. Rodney's just... frustrated."
"Hmm."
"Colonel Carter?"
"He blames himself."
"Oh. Well… yes. I suppose you're right."
"But the effects of the machine aren't permanent?"
"At this stage, I can't be sure. But given his progress I'm confident that Radek can regain all of his memories - it just may require a little assistance."
"I won't sanction another use of the machine."
"No, no. I'm thinking more of the old fashioned method."
"What's that?"
"Psychology. And time."
He remembers…
Radek Zelenka.
Radek is sat on his bed, back against the wall, staring at the scene in front of him. He holds a piece of paper in his hands and keeps turning it over and over, folding and unfolding the edges compulsively.
The door chimes. Then a voice calls out, hesitantly: "Radek? You in there?"
He sighs heavily. "Yes, Rodney. The door is unlocked."
"Oh." A second later and Rodney is standing in the doorway to Radek's quarters, holding a plate in one hand and a laptop tucked under his other arm. "I didn't see you at dinner, so I saved you a muffin." He holds out the plate like a peace offering. "It's chocolate."
In the strange world of Doctor Rodney McKay this counts as a great sacrifice, which Radek accepts in the manner in which it is intended.
"Thank you, Rodney. It is appreciated."
"Okay. Great." Rodney turns to put the plate down onto the desk, then sees what Radek is staring at, and gasps. "Jesus."
There are four walls to Radek's quarters, and three of them are covered in paper. Scraps of notepaper blu-tacked together, post-stiks of different colours, envelopes sellotaped to the plaster. Every piece bears a tight scribble, written in blue, black, red ink - whatever pen was nearest. There are arrows, and pieces of string, and several larger sheets of paper bear complicated diagrams. At the top of the wall, set at roughly even intervals, are several rectangular pieces of paper bearing only four digits each.
1967.
1972.
1977.
A piece of paper for every fifth year between Radek's birth and the current date. Below them, the events of his life. Birth. School, college, university. Moving out from home. First kiss, first girlfriend. Graduation. Jobs. Joining the Atlantis expedition. The Wraith siege.
"You've, ah, you've been busy," Rodney says.
Radek rubs a hand across his eyes. "I have been trying to put the pieces back together," he says, his voice rough.
He screamed when Rodney first switched the machine on. He remembers that.
"It looks like you're planning to catch a serial killer," Rodney jokes, "or you are one."
Radek doesn't laugh. He stares down at the piece of paper in his hands.
"Did you work out what the device was supposed to do?"
"Oh. Yes." Rodney steps forward over the threshold, and the door shuts behind him. "It was supposed to just record memories. Like a download, almost, into the computer, so Atlantis could incorporate the information into its central library. Pretty clever really - no need to write your autobiography, just have the information copied right out of your head…" McKay stops and gives a small cough. "Sorry. Anyway, the problem with it is that it was only designed for users with the Ancient gene and, well… it's ten thousand years old. When you and Miko accidentally switched it on it picked the closest user - you - but when it tried to copy your memories it damaged the originals."
Radek laughs, short and humourless. "That is an interesting way of describing it."
"Sorry." McKay pulls a face. "But you're better now, right? You remember things."
"Mostly." He offers the piece of paper in his hand to McKay.
After a moment's pause Rodney takes it, reading the contents. His jaw tightens. "Oh."
"I can't remember it. I remember him but I cannot remember…" Radek gestures, frustrated.
The Canadian fingers the piece of paper gently, then turns and places it on the third wall, close to the end of the paperwork.
In small print is the name 'Carson.'
"So," McKay says, his voice tight and strange, "what else have you got?"
Radek indicates the piles of papers scattered around his legs.
McKay picks up another piece of paper. "Ice skating with Alena," he reads aloud.
Radek shrugs. "I remember I was not very good at it, but as for when…" He shakes his head.
"It'll come to you," McKay says, clearly trying to sound reassuring.
"I know," he admits.
"Keller told you not to rush things."
"But I cannot just wait," he snaps, grabbing a handful of papers and crumpling them into a ball. He tosses it across the bed, where it bounces, and falls to the floor.
After a moment McKay bends down and picks the ball up, unfolding the paper. He walks across to the second wall and, after a second of hesitation, sticks one of the pages firmly under '1992.'
The paper reads: 'First article published.'
"I read it," McKay says, casually. "I was bored one day."
"Thank you."
"It's just something I remembered."
"Not just for the assistance." Radek picks up another piece of paper and starts to smooth it across his palm. "If not for your work on the device, I would still be…"
"A human vegetable?" McKay finishes, tactlessly.
Radek grimaces, but persists. "You took a risk, you and Keller both. You didn't know if using the machine a second time would work."
"I didn't know for certain," McKay corrects, sounding disgruntled, "but I had reason…"
"Thank you," Radek interrupts. "I would rather you took the risk, than allow me to…" he pauses, struggling for the right word, "to linger."
"With more time I could have perfected the technique, avoided the confusion…"
"It is temporary," he says, repeating Keller's diagnosis and, for the first time, believing it. The amount of paper on his bed is decreasing, the walls becoming fuller. He no longer has to struggle for names, though the continuity of his life's events are still muddled.
"Right. So I thought, since you'll be back at work soon…" McKay holds out the laptop. "I always find it a good distraction."
Radek frowns. "I do not want to be distracted, Rodney. Not until everything is as it should be."
"Yes, well, I might agree with you, except," Rodney nods at the wall behind him, "that isn't a great demonstration of mental stability."
He considers the three walls, the papers stuck to their surface, and tries to remember the last time he saw the mess hall, or played chess.
"Perhaps you have a point," he concedes, accepting the laptop.
"Good. Great. There are some files on there I want you to have a look at, reports from the last mission to P3-52A." McKay folds his arms across his chest, looking awkward. "So I guess I'll leave you to it." He starts to edge towards the door, then pauses.
"Rodney?"
"I'm going to one of the break rooms. Sheppard's holding another movie night. He's trying to indoctrinate Ronon into American culture." McKay pulls a face. "If you wanted to come, well, it's another distraction. And there are marshmallows."
"Ah." Radek smiles slightly. "Marshmallows."
"And popcorn."
He considers the walls again, and the remaining notes on the bed. "Perhaps later."
"Right." McKay moves towards the door, which opens obediently at his approach. "I'll see you later."
The door closes, leaving Radek alone with his memories.
He traces a finger across the ink, then puts the paper back onto the paper. Getting up from the bed, he disrupts the scraps of paper, some rising to the air, fluttering.
Like pigeon feathers.
He considers the nearest wall and his most recent experiences, then picks up a marker pen from the desk, and one of the larger pieces of notepaper.
He writes slowly and carefully on the paper, the ink leaving smudges on his fingers.
I am Radek Zelenka.
He uses sellotape to fix the paper to the central wall, up high, as high as he can stretch. Then he steps back to observe his work.
After a moment's consideration, Radek makes a decision, abandoning the papers and his quarters, ducking out through the door.
Perhaps, he decides, McKay is right. He needs a distraction. Some new memory to add to the wall.
Marshmallows. Popcorn. A movie.
It is not much, but it will do.