"We have to get everyone with the ATA gene out of the city," Beckett said
"We have to get everyone with the ATA gene out of the city," Beckett said. "At least to the mainland. Off-world might be better still."
He, Elizabeth Weir and the remainder of John Sheppard's exploration team were gathered in the infirmary, along with several of the civilian scientists and Marines. Weir and Teyla had come in just as Beckett's team brought in Sheppard from where he'd collapsed, lieutenant Ford following anxiously behind him. None of them had left. The other ATA gene carriers were trickling in, from all over Atlantis.
Now they were having an impromptu briefing in the infirmary out of deference to Beckett-—because he had so many patients to look after, and because he honestly didn't think he'd be able to make it all the way to the briefing room.
"The Althosians would be more than willing to accommodate your people, Doctor," Teyla said.
"Thank you." Beckett managed to smile for her, though the barest movement felt like it might split his skull. "But I'm worried the mainland won't be far enough."
He'd taken the strongest painkillers he could that wouldn't knock him out, and they'd barely made a dent in the pain in his head. He couldn't recall ever being in such raw agony. It felt like someone was using a claw hammer to slowly pry his skull off his brain.
He dearly wished he could be lying on one of the infirmary beds, heavily sedated, as were the majority of everyone with the ATA gene. But he was the chief medical officer here and that simply wasn't an option.
"Do you have any idea what's causing this, Beckett?" Weir asked. She was standing with her arms crossed, her narrow face pinched with concern. "Apparently there's been two malfunctions in the city's power, but that doesn't explain why these people are so ill."
"I don't know," Beckett admitted. "Obviously the gene is responsible in some way--but I don't know why. We've had power outages before, but nothing like this ever happened."
"It doesn't make sense," Ford said. He was looking between Major Sheppard and Sergeant Markham, on their infirmary beds, his eyes wide and worried. "I mean, the Ancients all had the gene--they wouldn't've built a city that would've hurt them, right?"
"Most likely, no," Beckett said. "But don't forget that we're not Ancients--even those of us who have the gene, it's not necessarily expressing itself the way it would in an Ancient's body. Not to mention several thousand years of possible mutations…" He sighed, rubbing between his eyes. He hurt too much to try to explain something like this.
Ford's head suddenly snapped up. "McKay!"
Beckett looked at him, squinting through his pain. "What?"
"Sorry," Ford said quickly. "But I was thinking about McKay, and how he only has the gene artificially, and then I remembered that the major was talking about him, before I came to get you."
"I have not seen Doctor McKay in some time," Teyla noted. Beckett realized that he hadn't, either. Not since McKay had all but fled from the infirmary.
Weir shook her head. "I tried contacting him from the control room, when Ford came in. We couldn't raise him." She turned to Ford. "What did the major say?"
"It was weird--I didn't really get it," Ford said. "But he told me that I had to help McKay, and then…" he licked his lips, thinking. "Sheppard said something about… something like, 'he's not bad.' And it was like he was asking the city to stop."
"Stop what?" Sergeant Bates asked. His eyebrows lowered. "Are you saying Doctor McKay is responsible for this? For these people being injured?"
"I'm sure he's not saying that," Weir put in quickly. She gave Bates a look that Beckett knew was a warning. She turned back to Ford. "Do you mean Sheppard was communicating with the city? That he knows what's going on?" She looked over her shoulder, at the nearest bed where the major was lying. Sheppard was in a drugged sleep--it was the only way to keep him free of pain. As it was, he'd been barely conscious when the medical team had brought him into the infirmary. Only Markham was in worse physical shape after the second blackout.
"I don't know." Ford shrugged helplessly. "He was already pretty out of it--he might not have been really saying anything."
"But he did tell you that Rodney needed your help?" Weir asked. Her eyes were still on Sheppard, obviously considering.
"Yes, ma'am." Ford nodded. "He was pretty insistent about it."
Weir turned back to Beckett. "How long until he wakes up?"
Beckett did a quick mental calculation. Even thinking seemed to hurt. "Perhaps an hour--but we're going to give him a second dose before that." He didn't like where this was going at all.
"No." Weir gave him a curt nod. "Let him wake up."
Beckett's eyes narrowed. "I'm not going to subject my patient--"
"Carson," Weir's voice was like steel, "we've got a lot of very sick people here-—including you-—and one who may be in danger. Major Sheppard might know why. I don't think we have much choice here, under the circumstances."
Beckett looked at her for a long moment, seeing no way past her determination. "All right," he said. "But it has to be for as little time as possible. I'm not going to let him suffer so you can interrogate him."
Weir nodded. "Very well. All right, people…" She shifted her focus to the others in the room. "We need to get Carson's patients off-world as quickly as possible, and we need to start a search for Doctor McKay." She turned to Bates. "You're in charge of the search, sergeant. Peter--"
She cut herself off, and Beckett saw her quickly concealed wince. Peter Grodin was currently sitting on one of the infirmary beds. Grodin was better off than most of the patients--he hadn't needed to be sedated, at least--though he had his elbows on his thighs and his bowed head in his hands.
"Simpson," she amended quickly, turning her attention to one of the other scientists. "I need you to collect a team to go over every bit of data in the city's database. Maybe there's information about what's happening somewhere in there. And do a diagnostic of every system you can as well."
She finally looked at the two members of Sheppard's team. "Teyla Emmagan and Lieutenant Ford are in charge of the evacuation. Let's get to it."
The group left, each moving quickly to their appointed tasks. Beckett waited until the last of them was well gone before he let himself sag forward, crossing his arms on the table and leaning his forehead on them.
Mother of God, he was in such pain. And he doubted it would end until they got this mess sorted out.
McKay sighed and leaned against the wall. It felt cool against his back as he slid down to sit on the floor. He rested his forehead against his left hand, cradling his more injured right hand on his lap. He felt like crap. He must have hit his head when they transported in, because right now it felt like his skull was going to explode. On the upside, it made his hands feel better in contrast. The corridor they had been exploring for the last hour or so felt uncomfortably hot and stuffy and it was making him lightheaded. That and lack of food, but right now he felt too sick to his stomach to actually be hungry.
"Doctor McKay?" Peterson came back over to him from the room she had been checking out. "Are you okay?"
"No," he said testily, and then stopped. He looked up at her, squinting against the pain in his head. She was shivering. "Are you okay?"
She gave him a brief smile. "Fine, just cold. I think the temperature is dropping in here."
"Where's your jacket?" he asked, watching her.
"It got left in the transporter alcove."
He shifted and pulled off his jacket, holding it up to her. "Here. I don't know why you're cold-—it's so hot I can't catch my breath."
Peterson frowned and knelt down beside him, resting the back of her hand against his forehead and then his cheek. He raised his eyebrows in question to her.
"You're hot," she and then quirked a smile. "In the temperature sense."
He rolled his eyes and then flinched, the pain in his head flaring. When he opened his eyes again, Peterson was staring at him in concern. "I'm fine," he snapped.
She just shook her head and stood. "I found something that might be a door, but it's not working for me."
He blew out a breath. "And you want me and my gene to open it."
"Standard drill," she said, holding out a hand to help him up.
Reluctantly, he took it. The room tilted a bit as he stood and he struggled to hide it. Peterson reached out and steadied him and he tried to shrug off her hand.
"Would you stop that? You're hurt and something's wrong with you. Let me help you," she snapped at him.
"I don't need help," McKay said, shrugging his way past her. He closed his eyes. He didn't mean to snap at her like that, but something felt seriously wrong with him and he didn't want her close. Better to piss her off now and make her keep her distance-—he had a bad feeling it might be safer for her in the long run. McKay squared his shoulders and headed into the room Peterson had just come out of. It looked like some kind of lab, but he wasn't sure. He looked around. "That was weird," he said softly. It was almost as if the already dim lighting dimmed even more when he stepped into the room.
It didn't take much looking to find the door Peterson was talking about. A narrow alcove led to a depression in the wall in the size and shape of a door. He saw a small panel on the right side that looked like an activation plate. He heard Peterson behind him as he lifted his left hand to touch it.
Fire lanced up his arm and seemed to explode in his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Pain consumed his every thought, then nothing.
His head hurt and this irritating rasping sound grated against his ears.
Something cool brushed against his face and then went away. He frowned. That felt good, why did it stop? He knew he would have to open his eyes to find out, but he really didn't want to. He was almost comfortable, if he didn't hurt so much.
He sighed and something tickled in his chest and he started to cough. Pain bit hard into his chest again and he rolled onto his side, curling against the pain. The cool hand rested against his forehead again and another hand rubbed his back until the worst of the coughing let up. He sagged in exhaustion and realized someone was talking. They had been talking before, but he really hadn't understood it. He struggled to pay attention this time and the words slowly started to make sense.
"…Need to talk to me here. You really need to open your eyes for me, Doctor McKay. Please, just open your eyes and I'll stop bugging you for a while."
He took him a lot more effort than it should have to manage to get his eyes open. He blinked a few times before things finally came into focus and a red-haired woman with a relieved, yet still worried expression came into view. Peterson. Daria Peterson.
"Hi," she said.
He blinked a few more times, before trying to answer. He managed a hoarse, "Hi."
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
He just closed his eyes and then he felt her shake him a bit.
"Come on, you need to keep with me here. I need you to tell me what happened, Doctor McKay," she said.
He groaned, but she wouldn't leave him alone. In exasperation, he opened his eyes. "It doesn't like me," he said, struggling to get the words out.
She frowned. "What? What do you mean?"
McKay frowned. He didn't really know himself. He just knew something didn't like him and wanted him to go away, but he didn't know what. He frowned, trying to puzzle it together and a chill swept over him. He started to shiver and he felt something being placed over him. He opened his eyes and saw that Peterson was tucking his jacket around his shoulders.
He struggled to sit up, but pain flared behind his eyes in very interesting patterns. Kind of like Doppler plotting. Very pretty colors. Very…