The morning and afternoon passed at a mercilessly slow pace. Sheppard was given some of the plant paste and soon after his fists and jaw unclenched and he fell back into a quiet stupor. Conversation was limited to him waking, bleary and confused, asking where they were again and again. Rodney managed to get him to drink some water he caught in the empty pot, hoping the rainwater would be clean enough for drinking but swishing it until the remaining dregs of Halazone dissolved for good measure.

Martha's daughters, Miriam and the other he learned was Zipporah, came in infrequently to bring food. He mushed the bananas into tiny, slimy balls and got Sheppard to eat some of it while he gnawed on a breadfruit and dried meat of unknown (not that he really wanted to know) derivation.

The smell in the dank hut was rancid; body odor and urine and dried blood overlay the subtle stench of infection from Sheppard's leg. Ominous red lines had begun streaking up his calf from his ankle.

And the rain never let up.

Rodney stayed propped up against the wall but still close to his CO. As the day dragged on he allowed his chin to drop to his chest and he would doze until Sheppard moaned or cried out. Rodney would hurry over with answers and reassurances, and coax some more rainwater between his trembling cracked lips, then collapse back against his wall as Sheppard would drop back to sleep.

Evening came with only a darkening of the gray outside. Ronon returned with a bullet graze on his arm but no water. The gunner's mood was dark and threatening as the storm clouds overhead. But he didn't say a word, just dropped down, cross-legged, on their CO's other side and rested his chin in his hands, his elbows on his knees as he kept silent watch.

Martha came back late with Feathers and Fatty, who turned out to be her sons, Daniel and Jacob. They had different colors of mud held in clam shells and coconut rinds and refreshed the symbols painted on Sheppard's body where they had smudged or rubbed off. They spoke softly over his body and Rodney caught a few words that made him realize they were praying.

He also didn't fail to notice the way they pointed at the streaks of infection on Sheppard's leg and murmured amongst themselves over it.

Late that night, Rodney was awakened by something. He rushed over to Sheppard's side but the man was still asleep or in a deep stupor.

Rodney wiped a shaky hand over his face as he felt his heart drumming in his chest. Then he heard what had woken him up. There was a subtle booming off in the distance, almost covered by the susurrus of rain outside. But seconds later the ground shook beneath him.

"The bombing's begun."

He looked over to see Ronon's eyes shining in the dark.

"Of course it has," Rodney moaned. "Because we didn't have enough to worry about."

"It's miles away from us, McKay," Ronon said quietly. He laid back down and knitted his fingers behind his head. "It's a good thing, actually."

"What?" Rodney hissed. "How is being trapped on an island being bombed a good thing?"

"Because first off, it means there's gonna be American troops on the island. And secondly, it means I can take another crack at getting some water tomorrow. Nips'll be running for the caves under all that shelling. Means the water won't be guarded. Or at least as not as heavily," he added as he glanced at the torn piece of his shirt tied around his bullet wound.

Sheppard stirred and let out a low moan then settled back into sleep.

Ronon looked pointedly at their CO and met Rodney's eyes. "Maybe I should skip the water and just go for help."

Rodney didn't reply, just curled up on his side and tried not to panic at the thought of another day trapped inside the hut with his dying friend.

Whatever was in the plants and other mumbo jumbo that Martha and her family had been using, it was enough to keep Sheppard breathing into another day.

This time Rodney was awake before Ronon was. The bombing had continued through the night and every tremor had Rodney bolting awake, his heart pounding as he waited, counting like he had through thunderstorms as a kid, to see if the bombing was getting any closer. He'd finally gotten so wired on adrenaline, around sunrise he gave up trying and convinced himself to get some work done before the heat really set in the next morning.

The rain stopped, for the first time in a week, when Ronon sat up abruptly on his mat. Rodney himself had started as the silence after the deluge was ironically almost deafening.

Before the gunner could voice it Rodney said, "He's still alive."

Ronon swallowed roughly and nodded. "Good."

"You uh, still planning on going out again today?"

"Yup." Ronon wiped his face and stretched, then noticed the uncomfortable silence that had followed his answer. "Why?"

"I think you should stay," Rodney said with only the slightest of hesitation.

"'s that an order, sir?"

"Do I have to make it one?"

The big man showed no defiance on his face; in fact were there to be a description for the normally stoic man's expression it would be… much like the one Rodney was probably wearing right now. Fear. Desperation. Panic at being forced to watch a man, a friend, dying by literal centimeters as the infection crept up his leg.

Rodney couldn't bring himself to force the man to stay. And maybe some of their fabled luck, woefully unseen these last several days, would make an appearance and Ronon could find help and get them rescued.

The word 'go' had barely finished leaving his mouth before the big man was vaulting to his feet, hovering only a second at the doorway to glance back at Sheppard and then meet eyes with Rodney. "I'll bring back help," he said, then slipped off into the early morning light.

Martha and her odd brood came in a short time later, the one girl (Rodney thought it was Miriam) carrying a basket of fruit and the other a pot of what Rodney thought was boiled potatoes but turned out to be something they called taro tru.

Feathers (he just didn't look much like a Daniel) and Fatty (ditto for Jacob) bore massive pots of water.

Martha caught him staring and shook her head. "This is from the slow part of the river, where it rests on its journey down the mountain. It is not for drink, only to wash and cool the shepherd."

So Rodney contented himself with some bananas and even tried gnawing on a lump of the taro stuff. It tasted pretty much how it looked, but the pit in his stomach didn't much care… potayto, potahto….let's call the whole thing off…

He stepped outside and allowed himself to call it stretching his legs, taking in some fresh air and enjoying the first merely horrifically humid day in a week. Certainly not avoiding watching as his commanding officer was manhandled through what passed for an outback sponge bath.

For the first time he was actually able to see more of the layout of the tiny grouping of huts. They were laid out roughly in a spoke and hub pattern, smaller huts like the one they were sharing circled a much larger central hut. The children were out with their dog, enjoying the break in the rain, and they splashed about in the puddles as only kids do.

Several women were gathered around a fallen log, pounding out what looked like giant lumpy pancakes over it as they chatted away.

Rodney was struck by how a scene could be so foreign and yet so… provincial.

No longer hampered by the heavy rain, the bugs were already out in force. Rodney slapped at stings on his neck, then pulled out his damp, mildewy handkerchief to mop his already sweat-covered face. He almost missed the rain.

After waiting what he thought a sufficient amount of time for Sheppard's flock to be done with his ministrations, he dove back into the cover of the hut, chased by a swarm of tiny black flies.

He had timed it well. Sheppard looked… cleaner. At least he did for a few seconds as Martha and her girls began painting him once more with mud and charcoal. The rosary was back in its familiar nest in the middle of Sheppard's chest. And thankfully, the banana leaf was back in place.

Martha looked up at his entrance and smiled. "The shepherd is awake. He asks for you. I asked him if he knew the Father…"

Oh, God… literally.

"…He said he knew many fathers, some better than others. I have offered to teach him of Our Father who art in heaven…"

Rodney groaned and rubbed at his aching arm. It was purely reflex, the pain was particularly bad, probably due to the lack of sleep and water and palatable food and the lovely green plant paste that he'd actually come to look forward to in all its nastiness.

But his actions served to distract Martha from her impending sermon. She frowned and looked at his arm. "David is making more of the dawadawa. You would like?"

"Oh, I would like," Rodney replied eagerly. Then he looked at the still stirring man on the mat and paused. "Is there… is there enough to share with Sheppard?"

"Oh, yesir. It grows most plentifully around our home. But only David can make. David is puri puri… a sorceror. The Father works through him when he makes medicine. Very powerful magic."

Rodney just blinked at her pronouncement of the great and powerful David, a man barely taller than the niece his sister sent pictures of.

"Here." Her daughters helped her to her feet. "You sit with your friend. Eat. I will come back with medicine."

Rodney lowered himself to the floor next to his CO and waited while the man fixed his wandering eyes on him. His gaze was bleary but had more clarity than it had the previous night. Plants and mud, or maybe finally getting some food and water had perked him up measurably.

"Hey," Rodney started out lamely, at a loss as to what to say. How are you feeling just didn't seem all that wise a question to start with.

"McKay? We still on Biak?"

"I wish I could say you slept though our rescue but sadly, we are still on Biak."

"Whr's Ronon?"

"Oh, he's around. Probably flirting with one of the pretty native girls."

Sheppard fixed him with a muzzy but still heated glare. "Where. Is. He?"

"He went to get help. The raid started last night. He figured our troops would be on the ground today."

Sheppard tried feebly to rise to his elbows.

Rodney waved his hands in what turned out to be a needless gesture as Sheppard collapsed back after only the briefest of attempts.

"Just stay laying down! Uh, please, Major, sir," he quickly added at the glare that earned him. "You've been unconscious for the better part of two days, living on nothing but banana pap and Halazone-flavored rainwater."

Sheppard closed his eyes and lay back, ran his tongue over his dry, cracked lips and grimaced. "That explains the taste." Then he opened one eye and fixed it on Rodney. "They feeding you? You tell 'em about the--"

"Hypoglycemia? Yes, and I offered a dissertation on the pancreas and the cyclical nature of blood sugar levels and they fed me bananas and cold potato things which, actually, now I think on it, were ideal choices as they both contain complex carbohydrates. And yes, before you ask, they are feeding Ronon as well."

He sat back on his heels and smiled. "Martha and her family have been taking very good care of all of us, Major. In fact, I may have Beckett come back and learn a few of her tricks."

"I'd take some a Beckett's good stuff right now," Sheppard moaned.

Rodney paled and the smile dropped from his face. "Sorry, I know. Martha has some stuff that seems to get you through, but no… it's nowhere near as good. I think it's probably like aspirin… it's a plant paste, probably contains salicylates like willow bark, which is where Bayer first… sorry. Um, we… we have one more ampule of morphine. I could maybe split it… Unless…" he swallowed and noticed the rigidity of Sheppard's form on the thin mat. "Unless you need the whole thing now."

True to form, his stubborn CO just shook his head shortly. "I'll wait for the jungle aspirin. What did the raid sound like?"

Rodney recognized a change of topic when he heard one, was used to them from his year long acquaintance with his reticent CO. He sighed but answered. "It sounded like bombs. Lots of bombs. But Ronon said they were miles away."

"Wonder if Lorne got any intel back."

Ah. He knew where this was leading. They hadn't completed their mission, but the raid had gone on anyway, possibly without their badly needed information.

"I'm sure he did," Rodney replied smoothly. "Besides, Major, you know they wouldn't have stopped the landing, no matter what intel we supplied them with. You told O'Neill what Teyla told you. He wired it up the chain of command and nothing changed. Because what MacArthur wants…"

"MacArthur gets," Sheppard sighed. "They'll be lambs to slaughter, McKay," he whispered.

"If that's so, it'll be no fault of yours or ours," Rodney spat out. "Japan started this whole mess, blame them! Germany started it before them, blame Hitler! Blame Roosevelt and Churchill and, and …"

"Alright, Rodney. I get the picture."

"You uh, you want something to eat?"

"Nah. 'm good. Thanks. You eat."

Rodney would have believed the man was drifting to sleep, his eyes closed in silent repose on the mat. But Sheppard's hands were balled into tight fists at his side and he was shaking; with fever or fear or anger… Rodney had never been one to read others' emotions well, but he figured it was probably a combination of all the above and then some.

Thankfully, Martha and David returned a short time later, the little old man bearing an earthenware bowl of the promised painkiller. They managed to coax Sheppard into taking a generous mouthful and gave him some water from their drinking stores. After half an hour his fists uncurled and though still silent, he looked a little more at ease on his mat.

Martha caught Rodney's eye and gestured him to follow her and David out of the hut.

The afternoon heat had built up, but at least it had cleared away some of the bugs, and looked to be working on drying up the muddy puddles.

Rodney watched as the odd couple exchanged loaded looks, then David spoke, for the first time that Rodney could recall. His lack of teeth gave him a weird, whistling lisp.

"The shepherd is very sick."

Rodney nodded, "I know, but he's doing better, so thank you. Whatever you're giving him really seems to be doing the trick."

"Nosir," David said solemnly. "I make his pain better, but he is very sick. The blood poison, it is here," he said tapping his knee. "When it reaches his manhood," and at that the little man made a completely unneeded gesture next to his gourd covered groin, "he will die. We must take the leg."

"Take- take the leg?" Rodney said, way too loudly he realized. "Take the leg?" he repeated in a harsh whisper. "No, no way. You can't do that here. You can't do that, period. He'll die!"

Martha put her meaty hand on his arm and squeezed. "David tells truth. We have seen it, many times. But David has big power, power of the Father and the magic. He can save the shepherd but only if we take the leg."

"Look, I appreciate what you're doing here, I really do. I mean, honestly, you've kept him alive longer than I thought possible, and you and your f-family have been great, just aces. The fruit and the plant stuff and the… mud. But there? The real world? He swept his hand in a giant circle. Out there it's almost halfway through the twentieth century. And we have penicillin and, and, IV's, and, and sterile operating theaters. Do you even understand what a germ is? Have you heard of Joseph Lister?"

Martha's soft brown eyes just watched him calmly throughout his tirade. Her lack of response deflated him and left him physically and mentally sagging.

"If you 'take his leg' in these conditions, he'll just wind up dying anyway. So why put him through it?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

The big Papuan woman appeared to consider his question. Then she brightened and shouted something in her native language. Another woman, only slightly thinner and younger popped her head out of a nearby hut; Rodney was struck by how the scene could've been transplanted to his neighborhood in the Falls.

A few words were quickly exchanged and then the second woman bellowed for someone else. Word went down the New Guinea version of Ma Bell, down the line of huts. From the fifth hut emerged a tall, strapping man. His gourd was long and curled and the feathers in his headdress plumed out in a riot of reds and golds.

And he was on a primitive pair of crutches.

He ambled over, gracefully maneuvering through the sloppy mud. As he neared Rodney saw why Martha had beckoned him. He had one leg. The other had been severed at the knee and ended in a scar covered stump.

"This is Jonah," she said proudly. "He was one of our best hunters. The evil ones planted thunder in the ground and during a hunt he stepped on it." She made an explosive gesture with her hands. "His leg was too badly damaged to save, so David took it and saved his life. Now Jonah is a teacher for the boys coming of age for their own hunts."

That would explain the half dozen little heads stuck out of the tent Jonah had left, staring wide-eyed and giggling. One of the boys was bold enough to fully leave the hut and the others laughed and tried to jostle each other into joining the brave one. So apparently Guinean classrooms were the same as any other once the teacher was called away.

"Okay, Martha. Message received, loud and clear. But, I think it best that I talk to him about it. Um," he rubbed listlessly at his arm and tamped down on thoughts of what it would feel like to have his own limb hacked off. "How long until… You know."

"It is a job best done while the shepherd still has strength left. We will make preparations and wait on your decision."

Rodney nodded and took a deep breath, steeled himself to go back in and tell his CO that a headhunter wanted to chop off his leg. And Rodney agreed with the idea.

His news got the reception he predicted. Sheppard stared stonily, his one better eye glazed over and rolling a little in its socket. After repeated reassurances that no, Rodney wasn't off his rocker, and no, he hadn't been chewing on the local galanga, a root that the troops had quickly discovered through the fuzzies that when chewed gave them a buzzy, hallucinogenic high.

As the realization sank into his bruised melon head, Sheppard settled and chewed on a scabby lip. Then he rolled his head slowly on the mat. "No way, McKay. Just…. Just tell 'em thanks but no thanks."

"Major, I believe them. Do you understand what it means to say no?"

His CO managed to fix his roaming eye on his lieutenant. "I. Understand."

"You can't!" Rodney fumed. "You're the great and powerful John Sheppard, hero of the Pacific, killer of seven Zeros in one blow, breaker of hearts in every port. And you're just gonna lay there and die on a filthy mat in the middle of the jungle?"

Sheppard paled but scowled angrily. "If that's what it means, then yeah, Lieutenant, that's what it means." He sucked in a breath and shuddered hard, his fists balling once more at his sides.

"But why?" Rodney squeaked out. "They can save you. I've seen what they can do."

"They can't save all of me, McKay. So you may as well just go and let me die on my filthy mat in peace." Then Sheppard closed his eyes and continued to breathe deeply and raggedly in silence.

"What? Is that what this is about? Of all the…" Rodney felt heat rise to his already sweat-covered face. "It's a leg, Sheppard! Once we get back they can fit you with a new artificial leg."

"Yeah, and then what, McKay?"

"What do you mean, then what? You LIVE. You go home with the rest of us and find a Mrs. Major Sheppard and make little Sheppards. Get a dog and a job and pay a mortgage. Normal things."

"I'm a pilot, McKay. That's all I am."

"No, that's what you do," Rodney spat back. "What you are is a headstrong, stubborn ass." He paused and smiled. "Sir."

"That's what I do then," Sheppard bit back. "And what I can't do if I don't have both legs."

Rodney waved an aha! finger in the air, oblivious to the fact that Sheppard still wasn't looking at him. "Douglas Bader."

"Who?"

"Douglas Bader. RAF. Lost both legs in the 30's, plane crash while performing some dunderheaded stunt, much like the kind I'm sure you loved to do. He's out there now, over Europe, giving Hitler's demon spawn all kinds of Hell in the air."

That got a response. Sheppard cracked one eye back open and stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely," Rodney affirmed. "Cross my heart and hope to not die in the armpit of the world. Please. Trust me. This needs to happen. Do you trust me?"

His CO gazed back evenly at him for a long heartbeat. Then he closed his eyes and swallowed roughly. "You're my navigator, Rodney. I've always trusted you to get me home."


The hours after his conversation with his CO passed long and painful for Rodney. A great deal of that pain was witnessing Sheppard's obvious growing agony. The dawadawa was clearly no longer able to even put a dent in what must have been excruciating pain in the man's mangled leg.

The brief respite they had from the rain ceased at noontime, the hottest part of the day. The hut was a reeking sauna that Rodney couldn't escape from. He swatted aimlessly at swarming black flies, barely even flinching at their tiny stings and trying not to think on all the diseases they carried.

They particularly liked the blood soaked mud and fabric patch on Sheppard's ankle, gorging in numbers so great they were almost a solid teeming black mass. The sight made Rodney nauseous and he fought mightily to keep his taro and banana breakfast where it belonged. In a rock hard lump in his stomach. Mercifully, the conversation had been more than the pilot's weakened constitution could bear and he'd drifted off into a fitful sleep, oblivious to his tiny feasting visitors.

So Rodney watched out the hut's opening as the natives began their 'preparations.' Men and women carrying wood and earthen pots and trays laden with fruits and tubers filed in and out of the largest hut in the center of the village.

But keen in the back of Rodney's head was the realization that Sheppard had never actually said that he agreed to or wanted the butchering that Martha insisted was needed. Implicit in his statement was that he was relying on Rodney to make the decision for him.

It may have been the only time the pilot had ever shown fear.

And who could blame the man? Sick, in horrible pain, confronted with - -with options too ghastly to even try to imagine. Options that would leave him crippled for life… or mean he watch his body continue to sicken and fail as the rot continued its insidious march… and there was always a third scenario, one that niggled at the back of Rodney's head that said they would put the man through unfathomable agony and have him bleed out or have the infection already established a foothold beyond stopping.

As late afternoon finally crawled in, the smell of wood smoke and flowers began to drift over through the heavy air from the big hut. Miriam came by with food that Rodney ignored but the black flies loved; a little later Zipporah showed up with a strange package.

She laid it at Rodney's feet, roughly square and wrapped several times over in a tanned animal skin. She smiled shyly, then said, in the first English Rodney had heard her speak, "Mama said this is … to … help you and the shepherd."

Rodney was briefly stunned by the pronouncement, but as the girl slipped back out of the hut he began unwrapping the package with one shaky hand, his heart racing with anticipation as his brain flipped through all the possible things that could help them. A radio, left behind by one of the missionaries, or a box of penicillin? As he fumbled with the heavy skin he laughed almost hysterically. A time machine, to take them back to before the fateful mission or even back to home and America and they could warn the government about Pearl Harbor or… he'd always thought that Einstein was wrong, that time could be changed, that great bridges between the stars could be breached with…

Then he did choke out an actual laugh as the final piece of skin was parted to reveal a very worn leather bound Bible.

He allowed the manic burst, fed it with all his misery and disappointment and fear. Then he wiped away the sweat mixed with hot tears from his cheeks and tossed the book as far away as he could.

The sky was finally darkening, Ronon still hadn't returned, and Martha would be coming soon for his decision. Rodney had never felt more alone or scared in his whole life.


By the time Martha came to him, Rodney had settled on his decision. Which was to not settle on a decision. The longer Ronon was gone, the more Rodney's fantasies took hold, nurtured with his growing desperation. The gunner was returning with help, a whole platoon of the United States' finest. They had blasted away the last of the Japs and Ronon was right now leading a team with a corpsman. No, a doctor. A field surgeon, maybe even MacArthur's private physician. And they would come with a full complement of antibiotics and morphine and, and, they would radio in one of those fancy new helicopters that Sikorsky had produced. It would land in the middle of the village and sweep them all back to clean sheets and painkillers and the creamed chipped beef Rodney'd been oddly craving. And Sheppard would keep his leg and the war would end and Rodney could go back to his lab and his coffee and dismiss all this as a horrid nightmare.

So he waved Martha away and told her with bold certainty that Ronon was sure to arrive at any minute with help and they could just keep their voodoo Christian magic to themselves.

The big woman looked at him with great sadness in her eyes, but she nodded, went over and picked up the Bible and turned to leave the tent.

Without looking back she paused and said, "I will pray for the shepherd. And for you, Rodney." She folded her bulk protectively over the book and walked back out into the rainy night.

Rodney snorted dismissively. Then hunkered back down near the doorway and peered out into the inky blackness, waiting for their rescue.

The long night that followed badly shook his resolve. Sheppard's fever spiked high and fast, and Rodney was kept busy running outside to dunk his emptied food bowl into the muddy rainwater and trying desperately to cool his CO's burning flesh.

As if the rain wasn't enough, a full-fledged thunderstorm blew in. The walls of the hut swayed in the strong winds and the pitch black night would whiten with lightning bolts so close Rodney could swear he heard the electric shriek as they rent the sky. The crack of thunder followed so immediately it was almost simultaneous with the bursts of light.

Sheppard moaned and tossed in his fever and Rodney found himself muttering curses, damning everyone. Ronon for abandoning him and probably getting himself killed out in the jungle, Martha for her pious reserve and certainty that God could solve everything. Sheppard for getting hurt and not getting better and most of all his cowardice in leaving the damned decision up to Rodney.

And then he cursed himself, for not knowing how to fix things, for not having figured out a way to save them all and get them home in one piece. It was the only goddamned job he had, and he was failing. Failing them all, but mostly failing one of the few men he actually considered a friend.

Then, as if maybe there really was a big guy upstairs, laughing it up most likely, there was a lightning strike so close that Rodney felt the electric charge run through his body, calling every hair on his body to attention just as the world went white and the explosive boom shook the ground.

His heart hadn't even had time to pick up its frantic beat when another jolt shook him.

"That was close."

He whirled around to see a dripping, mud-covered, blood-spattered Ronon filling the doorway. He sloshed in a few feet then collapsed into a heap on the floor of the hut.

Rodney immediately began to head over but the big man waved him away where he sat, breathing heavily. He wiped water from his eyes and squeezed out his short dreads, flinging raindrops away from his hands.

He tried to give the man some time to gather himself, but Rodney was too anxious. "Did you find help? What did you see? Where did you go? Are you alright?"

Ronon leaned back tiredly on his hands. "Got close. Real close. I was up on a ridge, and I saw some of our guys. Infantry. They had a couple howitzers, they were putting up a good fight."

"And?"

The gunner shook his head. "Japs were everywhere, McKay. They were completely outnumbered. The Japs managed to swarm into the one bunker, took over the howitzer. They turned it back on our boys. It… it was a massacre, Rodney. They never had a chance."

Then he growled and pounded the floor with a fist. "Sheppard told them it was foolish! We knew there were too goddamned many of them!"

Then he sighed and looked over at their CO. "How's he doing?"

"Not good. His fever spiked. I've been doing what I can but… Ronon, they want to take his leg."

"What do you mean? Who wants to- you mean they want to cut his leg off?"

"Martha and David," Rodney confirmed grimly. "They say it's his only chance of survival."

"Yeah? And what does Sheppard think?"

"I think you can gather how he answered."

Ronon shook his head angrily. "I'll head back out in the morning. I'll try a different route. I'll get help, Rodney. No way they're taking his leg."

"He doesn't have time for that," Rodney replied quietly. "And now he's so out of it… it's up to me to decide. I'm…" He straightened a little. "I'm ranking officer and his wingman. He's getting worse, Ronon. I think we should let them do it."

"You're gonna decide to make the man a cripple?" Ronon hissed back.

"You think I want this? You think I like having to make a decision like this? To have his life and literal limb on my conscience?" Then he sighed. "I'm a genius."

Ronon scowled. "Yeah, so I've heard."

"No, I mean, I'm really a genius," Rodney repeated.

"Yeah? That's so, what are you doing here when you should be doing thinky things at some college or laboratory?"

"Actually, that's where I was, before the war. I was at MIT, working with Loony Loomis in the Rad Lab. That's the radiation lab. We had a good run there; I helped develop the radar system we're using right now, as a matter of fact, although I take no credit for the half-assed way they've set up the towers or the way -- anyway, I hooked up with Lawrence and moved out to Berkeley. I was working on the cyclotron, we were making real headway and I was considered something of a rising star at my young age, especially my work on wormhole theory. Then at a party I was introduced to J Robert himself."

"Oppenheimer?" Ronon filled in, disbelief clear in his voice.

"Ol' Oppie himself, yup. I knew I'd met a kindred spirit when I overheard him say 'I need physics more than friends'." Then Rodney smiled sadly. "At least I thought so at the time. To sum up, I joined his team and we began…" He paused and debated a moment, then decided to hell with national security if he couldn't share it with a lowly gunner or risk a feather-wearing cannibal overhearing. "We were laying the groundwork for an atomic bomb. The bomb to end all bombs.

Then one day I was talking with Feynman. His parents were Jewish, came over from Russia or Poland or somewhere. And they'd had word from the homeland that Jews were being taken from their homes, never to return. Hitler had just started his shenanigans apparently. Feynman was a screwy kid, scrawny and mild-mannered. Real milquetoast. But he got all fired up, said he'd love to see Hitler's ugly mug when they drop the bomb over Berlin. And that's when it hit me. This was a real bomb- a nuclear bomb, that could kill literally millions of people. Just one! I have trouble killing spiders, though granted, not that much, but I couldn't have that kind of life or death power. I'm not that guy," he finished lamely. "So I packed up, went home and worked at Bell Aircraft back in Buffalo until the war started. I got drafted and here I am."

He returned back to Sheppard's side and scooped up a handful of murky water and poured it gently over his CO's head. "I don't want to make this decision, Ronon. I have to."


Ronon agreed to take over caring for Sheppard while Rodney slept. When he awoke at daybreak, he cracked his eyes open with dread, but Sheppard was still alive and had even woken up enough to talk with Ronon.

Rodney knew that today would be the day. He would tell Martha to carry on with the amputation. Trying to postpone the inevitable, he remained curled up on the ground, and watched through slitted eyes as Ronon fed some brown banana mash to their CO.

"You sorry I put you on my crew?" Sheppard asked the gunner.

Ronon shook his head. "Nope. Knew what I was getting into, how dangerous it'd be. Don't beat yourself up about it. I'd rather be here than driving fuel trucks."

Sheppard cracked a sickly smile then gestured Ronon closer. Rodney strained to hear his weak voice.

"You need to think about getting you and McKay outa here. Make your way down the mountain to the shore."

No way, was the grunted dismissal.

"I'm serious. Keep moving, you and Rodney should be able to outrun the Japs in all this jungle."

"We're not leaving you behind, Major."

"I'm…" Sheppard winced and his forehead creased as he took a sharp breath. "I'm not trying to be the hero here. But I'm… I'm not doing so good, buddy. And I need you to get McKay home."

Rodney sat up and cleared his throat loudly. "That's my job, Major, remember? To get us all home."

"Rodney, I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant. You meant Ronon and I should abandon our commanding officer to save our own hides. That what you think of us, Major?"

Sheppard rolled his head on the mat. "No, Rodney, but--"

"Good, glad to hear it. We are all going home. I… I think you should let them save you, Sheppard."

"You mean let them chop my damn leg off," Sheppard growled.

"It's just a leg, Sheppard," Ronon said, meeting eyes with Rodney. "If McKay says it needs to be done, I believe him."

Their CO looked from man to man, then squeezed his eyes shut and clawed fitfully at the dirt floor as an obvious wave of pain swept over him. Without opening his eyes he muttered, "do it."


Once the decision was made and communicated to Martha, the natives swarmed in and took charge, leaving Rodney gaping at the organization and care they all took. Bare naked, mud covered and feather bedecked savages, operating like a modern medical staff, they hoisted Sheppard onto a stretcher made of vines and bamboo and carried him over to the center hut, Ronon and Rodney scrambling at their heels.

As they entered Rodney's jaw went from gaping to the floor. It was as if the interior had been designed by one of those surrealist painters currently in vogue, working from pictures of the Sistine Chapel.

One whole wall was taken up by a massive wooden crucifix. Jesus was stretched out on it but he'd been painted in different colors all over his body and feathers had been woven into the crown of thorns. Mary filled one corner; she too had been painted and befeathered and trays of fruit and flowers had been arrayed around her sandaled feet.

Rows of roughhewn benches faced a massive altar that held a bulbous clay oven that belched thick black wood smoke out its chimney-like top. Staves of metal stuck out of the front opening. Rodney gulped as he realized they'd be used for cauterization, thus answering one of the many questions he had about how this would work.

The procession passed through the main room into a second, smaller area. They laid Sheppard out on a table and Martha's daughters hurried over with pitchers of rainwater. They sluiced it over his body, washing away the mud, sweat and blood, allowing it to pool around their feet under the table.

Ronon then took up his position at the head of the table. He hoisted himself up on to the tabletop and pulled Sheppard's head and chest into his arms. Sheppard grabbed on to the arm wrapped tightly around him with white knuckles. His one good eye was saucer-wide and he was visibly trembling. Rodney saw Ronon bend to mutter something in his ear and he stuttered out a nod but grabbed on even tighter.

Rodney came forward with the last ampule of morphine. He waited until Sheppard was able to meet his gaze. There was fear there. No, more like terror, but there was at the end, resolution. And trust. Rodney squeezed his arm in reassurance then jabbed the needle into his hip.

Seconds later Sheppard wilted a little, the lines in his face eased a bit and his eye closed down.

Ronon firmed up his tight grip around Sheppard, then wrapped his other arm around him, effectively pinning his arms to his chest between them.

Fatty and another native Rodney had never seen, this one almost as tall as Ronon and built like a bulldog, all chest and shoulders, each stood at Sheppard's feet. Fatty took the good leg and Bulldog gently grasped the bad one.

Rodney took it as a good sign that manipulating the mangled ankle had only elicited a grimace out of the drugged pilot.

Then Martha and David entered together with their daughters. Martha held the Bible and David had been decorated with dots of white mud and strings of flowers around his neck.

Feathers came in last, holding the largest machete that Rodney had ever seen.

He stepped to the side of the table and waited, weapon in hand, for the command from the sorcerer.

David kissed Martha, then walked up to the table. The top almost came up to the little man's chest. He closed his eyes and muttered softly. It was the third time through the incantation that Rodney recognized the 'spell' as the words of the rosary he'd been trying to remember. He slipped his hand into his shirt pocket and pulled out his lucky compass. Began murmuring the words along with them.

Then the little man dipped his finger in a bowl held out for him by Martha. The tip was covered in a purple dust that Rodney recognized as pulverized clam shell.

The sorcerer drew a line above Sheppard's knee, stepped back, and nodded at Feathers. Then he proclaimed solemnly, "It is time."