Chapter Two
Ronon was annoyed in a way that only Satedans could be annoyed. He was hunkered down beside Teyla, sitting on the grass, within spitting distance of the dialing podium. They'd been made to wait there by the guards at the 'gate. Guards who delighted in controlling the precise time as to when Ronon and Teyla could dial up the Atlantis address and make their escape. Teyla had been waiting patiently. Ronon had not. Every so often an entirely innocent insect was crushed under Ronon's boot, or thumb.
"Ronon, those insects have done nothing to you," said Teyla. Her people had strong belief in letting all living creatures go about business if they did no harm. Squashing bugs just because they happened to be in the way was not part of her belief system.
The Satedan tried to look contrite and stopped himself from ending the life of a brightly colored beetle.
"Sorry," said Ronon.
It wasn't hard for Teyla to guess the reason for Ronon's mood. She knew exactly what he was thinking. They'd allowed themselves to fall of the most obvious trick in the book and now they were separated from Sheppard and McKay. A team of four might have stood a chance against Dren and his henchmen, but for two people, the odds were significantly reduced.
Even more insultingly, after Ronon and Teyla had been captured and disarmed, Dren's second in command had given them a piece of paper with a list of demands, told them that their leader had better meet the demands or Dren would be sending pieces of Sheppard and McKay back through the 'gate until they got what they wanted. Then Ronon and Teyla had been herded out of town.
"When we come back here with a jumper and a team of marines, I am going to find Dren and personally string him up by his toes."
"I think we should worry about getting back to Atlantis first," said Teyla with a hint of amusement in her voice.
"I'm just saying."
"It's an admirable plan but the plan should also include finding Colonel Sheppard and Dr. McKay."
"It does. I string Dren up; he tells us where Sheppard and McKay are."
"Ronon, did anyone tell you that you are an uncomplicated man?"
"All the time."
One of the guards gave them an annoyed look. "Shut up. You go through when we feel like letting you through."
Teyla shifted her focus to the guard and tried for a different tack. "Dren will not be happy to know that you have delayed our passage."
"Dren isn't here now, is he?"
The man smiled at her, a mouthful of broken and brown teeth, with a suggestive smirk she'd seen too many times to count. Ronon instantly reacted, his body tensing, ready to fight.
Teyla regarded the man with composure. She'd learnt that such men took great pleasure in the fear of others and she'd swore long ago to never give them the satisfaction.
"You do not want to do this. Dren has given us his orders. We are to go back to Atlantis."
The man stepped forward, leaned over towards her. The smile did not leave his face.
"He didn't say when you had to go back."
"Tobar Reece. Slow as usual I see. If you hadn't been delaying your guests' departure, you'd still be alive."
Teyla turned her head at the new voice. Six more men. Dressed the same as the others, but clearly not from the same camp.
The lead guy – a burly man with a crossbow - strode towards the man that had been menacing her and shot him through the chest without hesitation. The other four men that had been guarding the 'gate instantly dropped their weapons and held up their hands.
The leader of the band of six pointed his crossbow at the ground. "Tell Dren that I - Syrus - claim the Ring of Transport for himself!"
They didn't need any further encouragement and promptly ran for their lives. Syrus turned his attentions to Ronon and Teyla.
"Presumably we're in trouble," said Ronon. Straight faced.
"I beg to differ friend. Unlike Dren, I treat my hostages with kindness. So… What exactly was he going to trade you for?"
((--))
McKay didn't like it when people screamed. Liked it even less when the people doing the screaming were his friends.
Sheppard had screamed non-stop for thirty minutes. He knew because he'd been timing it on his watch. The cool one they gave him when he left on the expedition to Atlantis. Big face, waterproof, digital read out, battery life of about a billion years.
The screams had died off around the forty minute mark and he wasn't sure whether it was because there was no more reason to scream, or if Sheppard had run out of the energy or vocal power to keep going.
He didn't like this, didn't like having to hang around and not being able to do a thing about it. Mind you, on the positive side, Brother Darius had seemed as perturbed as McKay. The only calm one in the room had been the Benevolent Father, who was fussing around the control panel. The screen on the panel kept displaying strange colors, and bursts of white, and then vague images, like a photo half way through the development process.
Benevolent Father finally decided to speak after another five minutes, shifting his attention briefly away from the fuzzy picture on the screen.
"You should not concern yourself. Sometimes the joining between Machine and Seer can be difficult. The worst of it is over and she has been able to successfully bond with him."
McKay crossed his arms, thought he should say something amazingly brave and sanguine but could only manage, "Yeah, like I believe you."
The Benevolent Father gestured at the screen. "I can understand that you are upset but your friend is one of the chosen few. You should be happy for him. Machine begins the process with him. Together they will create a solution."
McKay wondered what had happened to the threatening language. "Of course I'm upset! You forced him to go in there. You told him you would kill me."
The Benevolent Father once more looked as if he was having to explain himself to a rather slow monk. "You should put your mind at ease. We would never harm you in a way that would permanently maim you or cause your death. Years of experience have taught us that when we wish someone to cooperate, most people fear giving up their own lives, or the lives of their loved ones or friends."
"Charming. I bet you guys are really popular."
"We are not here for popularity. We are here to fight the Beast and help the people of this country."
"Well, it's admirable that you're aiming big with your goals but if you did have a way for me to contact our home, it would be very much appreciated," said Rodney. That was about as polite as he could get. Of course, he knew before he asked that he didn't stand a chance of contacting Atlantis or anyone else for that matter.
The Benevolent Father shook his head, smiled at McKay in fake sympathy. "We had to do what was necessary. To quote Abbot Sheleel: Sometimes the Beast of Lies must be defeated by his own hand."
Rodney was about to say something fantastically witty about how it was strange that everyone's God always thought lying and threatening other people was perfectly okay as long as it didn't mess with the chosen few, when the Benevolent Father's attention was drawn back to the screen.
The image was stronger now. A house. The garishness of both the wallpaper and the carpet pointing to a time in the seventies. A woman, her face alarmingly out of focus, seemed to stride towards the screen and then turn away. The view was low, as if a camera was mounted down at knee level and was pointing upwards.
Another quick flash and a strange view of a pair of legs, clad in dark blue trousers, seams creased to a sharp edge. The view shifted down to the shoes. Black. Polished to a blinding shine.
"Johnny, what's wrong?"
((--))
Military training was big on teaching people to keep going through pain and fear. Fear would paralyze you, stop you in your tracks and in a war, and the act of not moving could get you killed. Pain did a similar thing. So the Army, the Marines, the Navy, and the Air Force taught their recruits the same lesson.
You don't stop until you're dead.
If you were injured, the injury could be fixed eventually. If you were so scared you were throwing up, or you wanted to run for your life, you ignored the sensation and did what you had to do anyway.
Then again, the very real threat of a court martial or getting shot did tend to focus a soldier's resolve.
Right about now Lt. Colonel John Sheppard was certain that he was scared enough to throw up, that he wanted to run away and that he was potentially injured but unfortunately he was also floating around on his back in alien gunk, surges of power apparently drilling little holes in his head and he was unable to move.
Life, it seemed, sometimes sucked to the nth degree.
"Aw, crap," he said. To himself. But of course, Machine was eavesdropping. In their short time together, as he was forced into bonding with her in a way he didn't quite understand, Sheppard had discovered that Machine liked to learn all about her new buddies. She'd burrowed right into his skull and now she was parked there, yanking memories out of his brain left, right and center. Currently she was a point of light up on the ceiling of his bedroom. She was looking down at his mother from a time when his mother was young and pretty and he'd barely came up to her knee.
"Seriously, you need to get out of my head," he gasped out. Neither his mother nor Machine took any notice.
"John sweetie, what's wrong?"
Another figure entered, the figure wore blue trousers and shoes that were always shined to perfection. After all, the man had standards to set.
A hand went out to his forehead.
"Hey, little soldier; Mommy says you're not feeling well."
He would have replied but he felt like he was swimming through concrete, and he could barely breathe. Instead he lay in his bed, the blankets over him, watching a mobile swing from the ceiling. It was one that his mother had bought for his birthday. It featured birds. He liked it.
"I'm going to call the base doctor."
There was a rustle of a dress, his bed sunk slight as his mother sat down beside him. She took his hand.
"It's okay sweetie. You'll be okay."
((--))
Ronon Dex didn't like it when people used their power to bully. The Wraith, the Genii, and all those other races were so convinced of their superiority, that the end somehow justified the means. He'd been a solider but he'd had a different understanding of what it meant to be powerful.
An army's role was to protect its populace. It was there to beat back the enemy, protect families and then its role was to help rebuild. You didn't destroy a city and expect the populace to thank-you, no matter what the intentions. People didn't care about right and wrong when their families were dying of starvation or being blown to smithereens.
Running from the Wraith had hardened him, made him a loner and it was hard to trust people again.
But he still knew what was right, what was wrong and he knew that Dren and Syrus and all the other competing war lords on this crappy planet didn't care one iota for their own people. They were bullies, plain and simple.
To Ronon's way of thinking, they deserved what all bullies deserved. A good beating. He also wished that they would somehow wind up as Wraith bait but unfortunately if the Wraith arrived, and then the rest of the populace would suffer too. So it was going to have to be a beating. One that he was going to deliver personally.
Syrus was as bad as Dren. He may have been more polite, but as yet, he hadn't let them through the 'gate and Ronon was thoroughly and completely pissed off.
"You would think Dren could have come up with something more original than this," said Syrus, reading the hostage note. "Merely requesting some weapons, some explosives… I didn't realize Dren was thinking so small these days."
Ronon could tell that Teyla was running out of patience as well. She sighed, explained again.
"I told you before, we need to go back through the stargate. Our people will be expecting us."
Syrus just shook his head, looked at the list from Dren again. "If your people are really that valuable, then it makes sense to get as much as we can. Now, I could keep you two as hostages and hope that I can get a good price for you, but it sounds like Sheppard and McKay are worth a lot more. So with all four of you, well, I expect to make a small fortune."
Ronon decided that Syrus was an overly optimistic fool. Then again, you didn't get far in the war lord business without being hopelessly over confident about your own abilities.
"You expect us to believe you're going to kidnap McKay and Sheppard from Dren, hold all four of us hostage and then Atlantis is going to give in and send a huge weapons cache just to get us back?"
Syrus regarded Ronon with a genuine smile that said he was incredibly proud of his idea. "Of course. You're off-worlders. You obviously come from a place that's technologically more advanced, otherwise Dren wouldn't have bothered. It's not unreasonable to expect that we can trade for you."
Ronon raised an eyebrow, regarded Syrus with a look of pity. "Did it ever occur to you that if we come from a technologically superior civilization that we could just as easily destroy you?"
Syrus found Ronon's statement amusing. "Of course I considered it. We're not stupid. That's why you got through the 'gate in the first place. We always let visitors come through. Then we assess them and determine whether it's worth making our move or not. When people get back to the 'gate, we usually charge them a little fee and everyone goes on their merry way." Syrus rested his hand lightly on the trigger of his crossbow. "So, your people come through, we check them out, decide whether it's worth pursuing or not. From a safe vantage point of course. If it really does look like they can defeat us, then they'll never see us. When they leave, you two pay us a little toll for using the 'gate and everyone's happy."
Teyla, of course, was the first one to wake up to Syrus and Dren's game. "This isn't the first time you've controlled access to the stargate, is it?"
"Of course not. Sometimes Dren takes over, sometimes I do. Depends on the number of men we have at any one time as to who manages to take control. Charging exit tolls is a good way to make money."
There wasn't much Ronon could say to that. Except that at least on the positive side, if Syrus was dumb enough to go and grab Sheppard and McKay back from Dren, the team would be reunited. And the four of them back together meant only one thing.
Syrus' days as at war lord were numbered.
((--))
McKay wasn't entirely sure what was going on but whatever the screen was showing, it appeared to be snippets from John Sheppard's life.
Only not so much life. More like near brushes with death. Or in the case of Machine, actual brushes with death.
The first time he'd seen the scene played out, he'd lost it. It had taken him a while to wake up to the fact that the two-year old in the base hospital, struggling to breathe through a bout of bacterial pneumonia was Sheppard. The images were indistinct at times, didn't make sense, but then again, from the point of view of a two-year old, a hospital was nothing but a scary encounter with an incomprehensible adult world.
He heard a voice off to one side as the image remained focused on a far wall.
"He's very ill. We've given him antibiotics but his oxygen saturation levels are extremely low. We don't even dare move him for an x-ray. We've got a mobile unit coming to his bed."
There was the sound of muted crying from Sheppard's mother. The male voice continued. McKay figured out that the voice he was hearing was probably that of a doctor.
"Didn't he show any signs at all?"
The next voice McKay heard was that of Sheppard's father.
"No. He was just quiet for a couple of days. He's a tough little kid."
"It's not unusual. Very young children don't have the vocabulary to really tell us what's wrong. A lot of times the parents don't know until they're running a fever."
"He's going to be okay, isn't he?" A woman's voice. Sheppard's mother.
"I won't lie to you. It could go either way."
That was the thing. It didn't go the way that McKay had expected. The two-year old John Sheppard died the next day. He didn't quite understand it to begin with. The screen flashed white as soon as the death was pronounced. A sobbing mother and a stoic father at the child's bedside were the last images he saw.
He turned to Darius. "What's going on?"
"As far as I know, Machine needs to calculate all the different paths that the Seer could have taken. The one's that should have been his death."
"You're kidding…" McKay paused a minute, his brain conjuring up a possibility that was possibly too insane to really be regarded as a legitimate theory. But from what he'd just seen, and from what Darius had told him, it was the only thing that made any sense.
"Holy crap. She's calculating multiverses."
"Multi… What is a multiverse?" Darius looked at him, clearly confused by this new term.
"Look, you're probably not going to understand this but every time we make a decision or take some action, we create a number of universes that contain the other decisions and actions we didn't make. For example, in another universe, I'm popular and cool. And I go by the name of Rod."
Actually, Darius did seem to understand it and in fact picked up the concept quickly. "If I left the room now, there's another universe where I decided to stay?"
"Yes. Yes, that's right. In some universes the differences are very minor, and in some universes the differences are major."
"In some universes, John Sheppard didn't live. That is what Machine looks for and calculates."
"The question is, why?"
Darius shrugged, seemed to be trying to figure how to phrase it in a way that McKay could understand. This struck McKay as ironic.
"That is what Machine does. Looks for all the possible outcomes. She is given a problem and she will work to find the best solution. She uses the Seer to find the answer."
"But why does she need a person with the Ancient gene? Couldn't she just run the scenario herself?"
"I do not understand what a gene is Dr. McKay. If you mean the Seer's special abilities – she cannot calculate without the Seer. The Seer lets her calculate."
"In other words she needs the Seer to activate her and keep her activated," said McKay.
"No, Machine can still function without a Seer. But she cannot calculate. The Seer is the key and the outcome."
"That's far too cryptic and not at all helpful."
Darius shrugged. "That is how it is written in the scrolls. I do not know how else to explain it."
Their conversation had drawn the attention of the Benevolent Father. "You two! Stop your infernal chatter. If you have to talk, then leave. Darius – take McKay to his room. Explain to him his new duties."
Darius eyes went wide, realizing he'd committed an etiquette error and bowed low. "Of course Benevolent Father. Forgive my rudeness."
Benevolent Father dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "You were distracted. Now go and leave me to my work."
McKay was going to protest and demand to stay but he didn't get an opportunity. He was grabbed by the upper arm and hastily led out of the room.
"Hey!" He said. Then he pulled his arm from Darius. "I'm going to stay here." Because he had to. If for no other reason than to somehow convince himself that ineffectually standing around was helping Sheppard.
"There's nothing you can do here. You would do better to learn your new duties as the Seer's caregiver."
It was the way that Darius said the term that sent a shiver down McKay's spine. Caregiver – a person that looked after the young, the old and… The incapacitated.
"Darius, I think it's better if you let me stay here. I cannot emphasize the point enough."
Darius shook his head. "Did you not listen to the Benevolent Father? We would not kill you, or permanently maim you. But we are not above physical punishment for those that disobey."
Rodney didn't say anything further. He simply followed Darius. He knew he didn't stand a chance and that despite his loyalty to Sheppard, he would be of no use to either of them if he managed to land himself in serious trouble.
He turned his head back, tried to make out what was on the screen. It felt wrong to look. He felt like a voyeur and a witness, all at the same time.
((--))
He'd died. He'd been two and he'd died. He'd died drowning with an oxygen mask strapped to his face, small and not really understanding until the last minute. He'd looked into the eyes of his mother and he'd known then. He managed to say something to her. He said, "Don't worry, Mommy. It's okay."
Except of course that hadn't happened. Yes, John Sheppard the toddler had almost died from pneumonia. He wasn't a child that whined and he did what he would later do as an adult. Keep going until one night he couldn't move any more.
IV antibiotics and a week long stay in hospital had brought him back. His mother and father had both paid him a little too much attention for the next month until they were reassured that he wasn't going to relapse and that if he was sick, he'd bother to tell them.
He felt himself sloshing around in the liquid of Machine. The pain in his body, the feeling of someone trying to drive nails through his head had dulled to a manageable level. He was going to say something like, "Phew, I'm glad that's over." Then he felt himself lurch, his brain pulling another memory and it was 1975 and he was holding his father's gun…
((--))
Teyla had a lot of patience but even she was sick of waiting. Syrus' men let her move around to work off any cramps in her legs, as well as Ronon. They didn't seem concerned that they'd try anything. In fact, they were smug with self assurance. As if they were waiting for Teyla and Ronon to try to escape and they knew perfectly well that Teyla and Ronon didn't stand a chance.
Much like Ronon, Teyla thought that this degree of over confidence would only lead to mistakes. But she didn't like the way Syrus was so handy with a crossbow and she definitely didn't like the way the others kept themselves armed at all times. Ronon could probably take three people by himself and Teyla an equal number, but Syrus' ranks had been swelling as the day went by. They were officially out numbered, and out gunned. She had no desire to get herself killed for no tactical advantage whatsoever.
The sounds of someone running, of branches breaking, put them all on alert. One of Syrus' men burst into the clearing, changed his course and jogged straight to Syrus. He'd been sent ahead to scout for intel on where Sheppard and McKay were being held.
"Syrus, I have bad news. Sheppard and McKay were taken by Brother Darius to the Abbey of the Seer."
"You're sure?"
The man nodded, then waited until Syrus dismissed him. Teyla noted that he did not look pleased by the news at all.
"It appears that I only have two hostages after all."
Teyla approached him warily, hoping that he wasn't prone to mood swings like so many other psychopaths and mercenaries she'd encountered over her lifetime. "You cannot retrieve Sheppard and McKay?"
"If they are in the Abbey, it doesn't bode well."
"They are prisoners?"
"Sort of. They are guests of the Abbey. Whether your friends make it out with their sanity intact is an entirely different matter."
((--))
McKay had followed Darius to a small room furnished with a chair, a table, a single uncomfortable bed, and a simple set of clothing. Two sets of robes and it turned out, some woolen undergarments designed to keep the wearer of the robes reasonably warm. There was also a set of sandals.
"I'm not wearing that," said McKay.
"You are part of the Abbey now. You must not stand out. Those are the Abbey rules."
"I don't do brown. Or robes. My figure doesn't suit them." It was one of his better one-liners.
He hadn't counted on the response however. Darius removed his dagger from his robe sleeve, grabbed McKay by the arm and before McKay could even blink, the right sleeve of his jacket had been sliced from his wrist clear up to his shoulder. He'd jerked back, checked himself quickly for what he was sure would be a twenty-six centimeter gash requiring about five hundred stitches. Fortunately there wasn't even a scratch. This meant instead of panicking, he could go straight to indignant.
"Do you know what you could have done?! Are you crazy?!"
Darius was still clutching the dagger. "You can either put on the robes, or I can call more of my brethren and we can slice your clothes off."
"Well, if you put it like that, I hear robes are really in this year."
Darius stood his ground, crossed his arms.
"I draw the line at undressing with an audience and that would include my girlfriend, if I happened to have one." Rodney made a gesture that Darius should turn around. Darius hesitated briefly and then turned his back.
McKay quickly disrobed, pulled on the woolen vest and the leggings over his underwear. Then he pulled on the robe, finished it off with the rope tied around his waist. Darius turned around again as he was trying to do up the sandals. He still had on his socks. He anticipated Darius' next question.
"I don't do cold feet."
Darius seemed to be prepared to let the socks go in exchange for the wearing of the robes. In fact he seemed bemused. "That is fine. Some our elderly, infirm brothers wear socks."
McKay didn't bother to hide his sneer. "Normally I'd be insulted but my toes say otherwise." Then he picked up his clothes, folded them neatly, put them on the bed and put his shoes to one side.
"Your duties will be to attend to the Seer in the Seer's room."
"Seer's room? You mean he's not going to be in Machine permanently?"
Darius seemed to find his question strange. "No. That would not be right. Seer needs to eat, drink and sleep. Machine cannot give him food, or water. If he stayed in Machine he would die. We do not want the Seer to die if we can help it."
McKay had never been so relieved in his life. If Sheppard was going to be released from Machine on a regular basis, then they stood a chance of getting out of the Abbey. Sheppard would help him figure a way out of this. Because that's what Sheppard did.
Darius led him a short way back towards the antechamber before veering into another corridor. He entered another room and McKay, when he caught a glimpse of the furnishing, couldn't help but let out an appreciative whistle. It may have been primitive but the Brothers were definitely pulling out all the stops for the Seer. The room was huge. A fire roared in an enormous fireplace. A large cast iron pot hung over the fire. A large king sized bed that looked damn luxurious was in the middle of the room. There were chairs, comfortably padded. A table. A large window that let in a lot of natural light. Scrolls in a bookcase on one side of the room.
Okay, they really, really liked the Seer. Rodney figured this was what it was like to be upgraded from the YMCA to the Hilton.
A man, also around the mid-fifties was moving around the room, seemingly to ensure everything was ready. The man was the same height as McKay, a stocky build that was mostly made of wiry muscle. Darius beckoned to him.
"Brother Tibs, come over here. You can help explain the duties of the Seer's caregiver to McKay."
The man did as he was instructed, couldn't help but show his disdain for McKay. "I've been looking after the Seers for thirty years. I do not need any help."
"And you have done an excellent job Brother Tibs. But the Benevolent Father has instructed that you and McKay will be the caregivers. Of course, I will help whenever I can."
McKay decided it would be a great opportunity to at least try and gather some intelligence. Maybe work out what was going on in more detail.
"So… Brother Tibs. How many Seers have you looked after in thirty years?"
Tibs held up his fingers and indicated 'two'. "I looked after the Seer known as Lalm when I first arrived. Lalm and the Machine could not join properly and then I took care of him until he died a year later. Then the Seer known as Desul arrived and I took care of him until the Machine could no longer understand him. He went to the Sisterhood for continued care."
"Okay. So what you're telling me is that a Seer doesn't come along that often."
Tibs nodded.
"Are you also telling me that the Seers have a limited shelf life?"
Darius and Tibs both gave him a confused look.
"What I meant to say is that the Seers appear to get… sick." Or more to the point, from Tibs description, they seemed to go nuts but McKay wasn't going to say it out loud until he knew more.
Tibs once more nodded. "The joining can go well, or it can go badly. Lalm wanted to serve the Abbey and he was loyal. He tried. He tried many times. Machine tried too. But they could not bond. He died inside her."
These were not words that McKay wanted to hear. "Died?"
"Yes. Machine had asked him to stop but he wouldn't. The last time it went wrong and the Seer died inside her. When this happens, the Seer is left to bond with the Machine in death in ways that the Seer could not bond in life."
McKay felt sick. "I don't even want to know, but you're going to tell me anyway."
"Machine needs energy. Machine consumes the dead Seers." Tibs said it in a way that implied it was perfectly natural. "After all, they are dead and it is their last way to serve Machine."
McKay had to go and sit in a chair. Sheppard was in there. In Machine and God's know what else was in there with him. Presuming of course, that she didn't just somehow zap the entire corpse. Then again, from the looks of Machine herself, she didn't exactly appear like an organism that had a nice, clean way of feeding from a corpse. The giant pulsating sac that McKay had seen spoke of messy organic processes that took their sweet time to come to completion.
((--))
Sheppard coughed. At least Machine hadn't dampened down his reflexes. He'd never forgotten the incident from when he was eight. His father was careful with his sidearm. When he took his service weapon home, it was immediately put into a locked metal box and the box was put into a cupboard, which was also locked.
John was not allowed to touch the gun. The gun was for the adults and not for children. His father had lectured him endlessly about gun safety. He had one simple rule drilled into him: if you see someone playing with a gun, and they're not in uniform, you should run and tell an adult.
But he'd been a curious, stubborn kid and the fact that he had to get two keys wasn't going to stop him from being able to hold the gun. He was besotted with it, probably because it was so forbidden. Later on, his father would admit that his own fears had turned the gun into an object of desire and a better tactic would have been to take away some of the mystique. Then again, he'd seen two accidental shootings. You could never be too cautious.
The keys were kept on his father's key ring. His father always put the key ring on his bedside cabinet, within easy reach. To a determined eight-year old, this presented no real problem and neither did the thought of his father's ire counter his plans either. If he was caught, the consequences wouldn't be good. In fact, his father scared the crap out of him. He wasn't a man who showed affection that often, but he was a man who seemed to disapprove of everything John did.
He was more used to being in trouble than being praised, so his punishment for trying to get to the gun would be nothing unexpected. The trick of course, was not to get caught.
With an eight-year old determination and resolve, he'd kept himself awake. Pretended to be asleep when his mother had checked on him around ten in the evening. Heard his mother go to bed and then his father. He'd waited patiently for their bedroom light to go out. Made himself wait long enough for them to go to sleep.
It was a long time for a child but if nothing else Sheppard had learnt early on that delaying immediate gratification usually meant better things.
Carefully, slowly, and quietly, he opened his door, padded across the shag carpet, turned into his parent's room. The bedroom door was open. They left it open out of habit, as a result of his trip to the hospital at two, worried that he wouldn't be able to get to them.
His eyes had adjusted to the dark and it was easy to spot the keys. He wasn't stupid. It didn't make any sense to try to remove the two keys from the key rings. His father was an experienced combat veteran and would be wide awake at a perceived change in his environment. Instead, he would take the entire set, use the keys and then put them back.
Just as carefully, he quietly palmed the key ring, making sure he held the keys tightly so they didn't jangle against each other. Stopped temporarily dead in his tracks when it appeared that his father was stirring. Thankfully the man settled back to sleep and then John turned, crept away, downstairs, towards the cupboard, his heart beating loudly, the blood rushing in his ears.
The cupboard door was easy to open, even in the dark. He didn't dare turn the light on just yet. He gently got the locked box out of the cupboard, headed for the bathroom. Shut the door, turned on the light. Inserted the last key and opened it up.
It was silver and it glinted in the light. One the side the gun was marked: Colt Mark IV . There was nothing for it now. He picked it up. His hand was not big enough to hold the grip properly but he held it as best he could, pointed it as an innocent set of towels hanging from a towel rack.
"John. Put the gun down."
It was his father. He turned his head and his father was there, tall, thrown into shadow by the darkness in the hallway. His heart started beating faster again. He didn't let go of the gun. How had he not heard the bathroom door opening?
"John. Please put the gun down." His father's voice was calm. Soft. Not what he was expecting.
"I'm in trouble, aren't I?"
"We can talk about that later. I want you to put the gun down."
He tried for a different tact, using the logic of a child. "It's okay, Dad. You never leave it loaded. I remember you telling Mom."
"That's not the point. You can never presume that a gun isn't loaded."
He did a dumb thing at that point. Determined to show his father that he knew what he was doing. He tried to slide the hammer back and cock the pistol but that involved using a few more pounds of force than he had in his arms, and in doing so, he wound up with the barrel of the gun pointing upwards and towards his head.
"John."
"It's okay, Dad. I know what I'm doing."
He was going to put it down. He was. But his hand was on the grip, his fingers naturally going to the trigger.
You should never presume that a gun isn't loaded.
The bullet hit him square in the face and exited out of the back of his skull, burying itself in the wall behind him.
The distraught wailings of his father could be heard all the way to the entrance of the base.
((--))
Brother Tibs seemed to be obsessed with baths. With McKay pressed into service, their first task had been to drag a huge, wooden bathtub into the room. It was sealed with pitch by the looks of the substance coatings the sides and it weighed a bloody ton.
Tibs positioned it in front of the fireplace in a way that would keep the bather warm, but not set the bath tub on fire.
McKay was exhausted already and it seemed there was even more work to do. Darius had conveniently excused himself to rejoin the Benevolent Father and monitor the Seer's progress.
Tibs was tugging on his sleeve, and not in a gentle way. It was a sharp yank, as if the man would prefer it if he could just hit McKay instead.
"What now?"
"We have to fetch water and get the bath ready."
"Oh, goody. Presumably the bath is for the Seer?"
Tibs regarded McKay with a barely disguised hate for the sarcastic comment. "You would do well to remember to respect the Seer. And yes, he will need one when Machine releases him."
McKay was beginning to loath the various statements from Tibs and Darius that were perfectly obvious and obtuse, all the same time.
"I need to get some clarification here. Why the bath?"
"He has been inside Machine."
"Great. That answers everything. Fantastic. Well done."
Tibs shot him a look that made the hairs on the back of McKay's neck stand on end. He roughly handed a bucket to McKay.
"There is a well outside. Fetch the water and heat it."
McKay eyed up the cast iron pot, the buckets and the wooden tub. It was going to take the rest of the day if he was lucky. It was going to be a long day.
((--))
"That's not what happened," gasped out the adult Sheppard as he felt the pain of the bullet ripping through his brain.
In his reality, he'd shifted his grip and the bullet had missed his face by a couple of inches. Instead, his ears had rung for a day and he'd then been yelled at, confined to his room, and made to do chores.
But first his father had raced into the bathroom, thrown the gun into the bath, hugged John tightly and then given his child the whipping of his life with the belt from his trousers.
He didn't understand that particular gesture until he was well into adulthood. His father loved him but had no real way to show it. He was a career solider and he'd been in combat and he'd survived. For his father, it was at the cost of shutting down emotionally. It was at the cost of being unable to show his son he loved him except to discipline him.
"This could take some time. It is unusual to encounter so many examples of alternate futures," Machine blurted out. She seemed puzzled.
"Machine, I don't know about you but I think we should just call this whole thing off. I'm pretty sure you're not the life partner I was expecting. I thought they'd be, you know, younger, and prettier and really smart. They'd also be human. I'm big on having a long term relationship with a human. No offence." His voice sounded like he'd been chewing glass for breakfast. Must have been all that non-stop screaming at the beginning of their little tête-à-tête.
"None taken, Seer. We should continue."
"Let's not."
But of course, he had no choice in the matter. She was driving those nails into his head again and now he was fourteen, hormones all over the place, a risk taker in all the wrong ways.
Man, if she hated all the variations in his childhood, she was going to completely freak when he joined up and then shipped out to the first Gulf War.
End of Chapter Two.
