Time Immemorial
Chapter 36: Renovatio
July 17th
1100 Hours
A bolt of lightning coursed through John's body, sending him to his knees, doubled over in pain. He screamed in agony. Then just as quickly as it had come, it ceased.
John steadied himself with a hand to the floor. He caught his breath. "What the hell...?"
He looked to see if any of his teammates had succumbed to the same phenomenon, but they stayed locked in battle with the advancing Wraith. They remained deaf and blind to his presence. Whatever had happened had been mercifully isolated to him.
A new flash of light, paired with percussive thunder, redirected his attention outside. Hundreds of familiar pink blisters once again dotted the shield's outer surface, turning purple and blue as they cooled. At first John thought another wave of Darts had kamikazed into the shield, but he dismissed the thought. Surely the entirety of the cruisers' Dart fleet had been depleted in their initial attack. John continued to watch. The impacts didn't let up, they just kept coming...
"Say again, I can barely hear you!" he heard Ford call over his radio.
"The cruisers!" the voice on the other end, Sergeant Stackhouse's, answered. "They've opened fire on us from space, all three of them!"
Looking up again, the major realized it was Wraith plasma cannon fire he was seeing. The shots peppered the entirety of the shield's semispherical surface, each one an assault on the senses.
"Last time this happened, the Ancients had three ZPMs to hold the Wraith off," Ford thought aloud. Then into the radio, "Get ahold of McKay! Ask him how long our one ZPM will last!"
Teyla watched with grave unease as Sheppard's lifeless body arched with the surge of electricity sent through it. It fell back to the table, still.
She looked away, eyes catching McKay in the far corner. He spoke rapidly into his radio.
"What do you mean exactly: 'firing from orbit'?" the Canadian demanded of whoever was on the other end. "All three cruisers?"
Teyla watched the exchange, privy to only half of the conversation. She joined her teammate in the corner. "Assuming their rate of fire remains constant," she heard Rodney reply to an unknown question, watching as he performed some brief mental math, "we should expect the shield to last no longer than 48 hours on a single ZPM."
Apparently the person on the other side of the line didn't like that answer.
"Yeah, well, that's why the Ancients were forced to submerge the City in the first place," Rodney snapped back, "and that was with three ZPMs at their disposal! Now if you're not going to believe my math, don't bother calling again! McKay out!" He noticed Teyla's proximity, her questioning gaze, and forced himself to calm down. "All three Wraith cruisers have begun bombarding the shield with plasma shells," he explained quietly, hoping Elizabeth could not overhear.
"And in two day's time the shield will fail," the Athosian surmised. She received a despondent nod in reply. "But certainly the cruisers will have exhausted their plasma supply long before then, yes?"
"If they're worried about that they certainly aren't showing it," he grumbled. "But two days is enough time to call in reinforcements in the form of more Darts, more cruisers, or worse: a hive ship."
McKay felt the gravity of their situation sink in. This was it, the end, whether in two hours time or two days. He had exhausted every fathomable possibility, tried every trick he could think of, and now had nothing left up his sleeve. All of the sacrifices his friends had made, all of their valiant efforts, they had all been for naught.
Atlantis was going to fall.
"I'm sorry," the scientist muttered, staring off into space. "I really thought… I really thought it would be enough."
Placing a supportive hand on his arm, Teyla said, "It was a good plan. No one could have anticipated this tactic. With the ZPM in place, you have given us the ability to evacuate through the Stargate."
"Yeah," McKay acceded. He nodded in Elizabeth's direction. "We should tell her."
Teyla watched as Beckett checked Sheppard's wrist for a pulse, though they all knew there was none to find. Everyone knew it was a pointless exercise — everyone but Elizabeth. The scene was a deeply disheartening one. "No. Let her be."
Standing opposite Beckett, Elizabeth watched the doctor work. His face said it all: their first attempt at resuscitation had been unsuccessful. She simply nodded, the result disappointing but not unexpected. She was under no illusion this fight would be an easy one.
"Again," she directed Carson.
The doctor had already anticipated the request. "Charging," he announced. In the 60 seconds it took the defibrillator to build up a charge, Carson regarded Elizabeth with concern. She never took her eyes from Sheppard's, never took her hand from his.
The steady ready tone jolted him from his reverie. "Clear!"
John screamed in anguish. The pain was excruciating, like nothing he had ever felt before. It sent him sprawling to the deck, writhing in misery. But just as before it passed in a manner of seconds.
Lying flat on his back, he took a moment to steady his breathing. He watched bullets and Wraith plasma fire whiz through the air above him, anger, frustration, and confusion tearing at him.
What's happening to me?! Sheppard screamed inside his own head.
As before, Sheppard's torso lifted off the table before is crashed back down, unresponsive.
"Damn," the Scot groused with a small shake of his head.
"Again," Dr. Weir ordered.
Carson nodded grimly, his voice betraying his prognosis. "Charging," he said despairingly.
"Come on," she whispered. "I don't remember giving you permission to leave, Major," she said with a forlorn smile.
"Clear!"
Elizabeth watched the pilot's back arch for a third time. For a third time it fell back down. No response.
Rodney cursed under his breath. He bit his thumbnail nervously and resumed his pacing near the front of the room.
Shaking her head, Elizabeth just looked at the dead body before her in disbelief. This wasn't right. It couldn't be.
"Don't you leave me," she threatened the inanimate body. She was starting to lose her calm. Indignation and dismay tinged the edges of her words. "I have come too far to lose you. I refuse to accept that we live in a world where I die and get to come back and you—"
She choked on her words, unable to verbalize the increasingly likely truth. She put a hand on her chest and took a deep breath, centering herself.
"Carson, again, please," she beckoned.
Unable to meet her imploring gaze, the doctor set his eyes forward, questioning the wisdom of another attempt.
"I won't give him up without a fight, Carson. Again." It wasn't a request.
"Elizabeth, love," Carson pleaded. "The odds of someone being resuscitated decreases 15% for every unsuccessful attempt, assumin' the patient receives timely treatment in the first place—"
"He's never had a problem beating the odds!" she yelled, rounding on him with ire he didn't deserve. Finally, the tears she had been so expertly holding back began to stream down her face. "Now, please. Again."
Beckett saw the tears and realized she was beginning to accept the truth she so feared. And while that should have appeased him, it only made him feel worse. With pity for his friend, he depressed the charge button. "Charging."
Brought to his knees by the most agonizing shock yet, John clenched his muscles against the torment until the surge passed. His fingernails had dug into his palm, drawing blood. His teeth ached on account of his clenched jaw. He smacked his fist on the floor in vexation.
"Keep it up, marines!" Ford yelled encouragingly down the line. "Shoot smart — we can beat these guys!"
John watched a pair of Wraith leapfrog steadily toward them, feeling that sickening sensation creep into the pit of his stomach once more, and knew it was a lie. A fabrication. A falsehood. Just like him.
Slowly, he stood. As he raised his head above the barricade, he waited for the shout warning him to get back down. But it never came. He waited for a Wraith to target him - the foolish, exposed human - and fire its handblaster. But there was no shot.
And so John just stood there, above the line of fire in dismay. He holstered his sidearm; it would be of no use. It wasn't real. Its bullets weren't real. He wasn't real.
He backed away from the frontline, at a loss for what to do. He wanted badly to help his team. He was supposed to fight with them, die for them if needed, but he couldn't even do that. His teammates couldn't see him, couldn't hear him. As if to prove the point, he didn't move out of Dr. Perrot's way as the historian handed his last full magazine to a neighboring marine. The Frenchman's arm reached right through him.
"Single-round shots from here on out!" Sheppard heard Ford bark. "Make every remaining bullet count!"
John saw the majority of the Wraith focus their aim on the source of the voice, saw the narrow gap in coverage between tables and benches.
"Ford, watch out!" the major called out futilely. He watched as a blast of energy found the hole and hit Aiden square in the torso. The captain slumped to the floor. John slumped against the wall, slamming it with a fist, tears of frustration welling in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to tear his gaze away but he couldn't.
Ford was only the first domino to fall. Bolstered by their first win, the Wraith attacked with renewed vigor. Corporal LaDage fell next, followed by Lance Corporal Cipollini. Two of the braver scientist crawled on their bellies to take their places. One made it; the other was picked off.
The major stumbled, feeling his way along the wall to the nearest exit. He needed to leave. He was never one to run from a fight, but this wasn't a fight. It was a bloodbath, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. He couldn't stay and watch his friends get slaughtered. As gallant of a resistance as his marines would put up, it was a hopeless effort. It was only a matter of time before their ammo ran dry and the Wraith overcame them. They would be fed upon, each and every one of them. It made his stomach churn.
John careened off the wall like a drunken oaf, his momentum carrying him at a pace his feet could not match. He trundled blindly toward a pillar and clung to it like a crutch, trying to catch his breath. Why? he demanded to himself. You don't need to breathe. You're not here, you goddamned ghost. You don't even fucking exist!
Bitterly he pushed himself away, letting his legs carry him, rudderless, through the storm until—
John wailed in agony as another round of electricity surged through him. He fell to the cafeteria floor, his momentum causing him to slide across the tile several feet before coming to a halt. He curled into the fetal position, tears of pain escaping the lids of his tightly shut eyes.
As before, Carson checked for a pulse but to no avail. I canna do this anymore. "Elizabeth," he began. "I'm sorry, but…."
The tears that bad begun to flow surged in full force now. She clutched Sheppard's hand firmly with both her own, holding it tightly to her heart. She kissed it tenderly, rocking with pangs of misery. "I'm not ready to say goodbye to you yet," she whispered to him.
Then, with conviction, "Now wake up, you stubborn son of a bitch!" She slapped him across the face. Hard. "Wake up, John!"
Beckett watched the uncharacteristic display of emotion, transfixed by what he was seeing. "Carson, again!" he heard, snapping him back to reality. Beckett placed his finger on the charge button. He hesitated, wondering how a fifth attempt could possibly yield a different result than the first four.
Decisively, he moved his finger to the off switch. "And if this attempt fails? How much longer are you goin' to try—"
"For as long as it takes!" she affirmed. "As long as I still draw breath I will not give up on him, understand?"
Carson heard the determination in her voice. He didn't have the heart to tell her the great sadness he felt seeing the same scene unfolding once again. Only hours ago she herself had been lying cold and lifeless on the floor, while John had screamed at him, begging him to revive her. Now their roles were reversed. Beckett's efforts had been fruitless then. Looking at his teammate's prone body on the table before him, he knew they'd be fruitless now.
Teyla moved to Elizabeth's side and placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, attempting to convey through touch what Caron had failed to do verbally: it was over.
"Please," Elizabeth wept, ignoring the Athosian. One hand still clutched John's; her other clasped Beckett's where it still hovered over the defibrillator's off switch. She moved it back to the charging button. "I am begging you, Carson, from the bottom of my heart."
Looking into her tear-filled eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot with grief, Beckett's own threatened to mist. The normally composed diplomat had finally crumbled. The layers of fortitude and poise they had all demanded of her had been peeled back. She was so desperate, caught between what her mind knew to be true and what her heart could not accept. And while she could have easily initiated the machine's charge on her own, he suspected she needed his support, as a friend more so than a medic.
A doctor by trade, Carson had vowed to help others physically. But if the only help he could provide was emotional, he would do that, too, for as long as it took.
Carson cleared his throat, blinking to clear the moisture from his eyes. He pressed the button. "Charging."
A grateful smile broke through Elizabeth's waterfall of tears. "Thank you," she mouthed, unable to find her voice.
"Carson, this is ridiculous," McKay objected over the machine's steady beeping as he made his way over. "Can't you see what you're putting her through? We both know this won't work—"
But the doctor simply stopped him with a hand and a small shake of his head. At any other moment he might have appreciated the physicist's rationality, but not now. Not here. Rodney scoffed and turned his back on the scene, unwilling to be a participant in the sadistic delusion any longer. He wandered aimlessly to the corner, let his black slide down the wall and covered his face with his hands.
Oblivious to McKay's words of dissent, Elizabeth stared down at John's form. She continued to squeeze his hand in her own. "Wake up, John," she implored. "We really need you here. I really need you."
She stole a glance at the defibrillator. 75% charged, and about 10 seconds before it reached full capacity.
"Remember how I said you don't know how to give up? That you don't know how to fail?"
Five seconds. Beckett placed the paddles on opposite side of his chest.
"Prove me right."
The beep-beep-beep gave way to a higher pitched steady tone. She had been expecting it but she still jumped at the noise, and all of a sudden she was terrified because she knew that this was it, this was the moment, and if this attempt failed she would have to endure this all over again and she just didn't know if she could physically handle—
"Clear!" Carson yelled. He depressed the paddles' discharge buttons.
In a sick slow motion, as if to prolong his torture, John saw more civilians fall to Wraith fire. Stunner rounds continued to rush over his head from his position on the floor, the returning bullets too few in comparison. The cruisers' plasma cannon fire outside had not let up, bathing the outside world in an eerie orange. And intermixed with it all were Lacedami units, intent with hunting down and killing his marines.
Sobbing with physical and emotional torment, he didn't care that no one could hear him, or how much of a coward he'd sound to anyone who could. It was too much, all of it. He couldn't bear it. He wanted desperately to run away, to leave behind the nightmarish mess hall, but lacked the willpower to move.
You deserve every bit of what you see here, his inner voice screamed. This is all your doing, anyway. This is your sentence. You can't run from it.
It had become clear. Whatever had been done to him was some cosmic joke, a cruel trick meant as reparation for his sins.
It was his people, though, not him, who would suffer the consequences of his actions. Their deaths, on his hands, would not be pleasant ones, and he would be made to watch them all.
The thought enraged the major deeply. It was wrong. Unfair. Cruel.
He felt a furor stoke up inside him unlike anything he had felt before. It was so intense, so raw, so powerful. He pictured the Wraith and the Lacedami scattered about the City, and the cruisers in orbit above. With all of his hatred he envisioned their annihilation.
Without a second's hesitation, Sheppard lashed out with his mind.
In an instant the world was bathed in a bright white light. He held his hand up to shield his eyes, but he was blinded. For an interminable amount of time, he could see nothing. He heard nothing. He felt—
The major bellowed in pain as a now all-too-familiar jolt surged through his bones, his muscles, his nerves; every organ of every system seized in protest. But the familiarity ended there. This time was different. This time he felt as if he was being ripped away by an external force.
His vision began to gray at the edges, closing inward and adding to the illusion he was being pulled downward through a tunnel. Electricity arced and crackled around him. The tunnel vision closed in until his vision was replaced with nothing but black. But the pain was gone. Mercifully, the pain was gone.
John looked around. There was nothing. It was pitch black in every direction as far as the eye could —
There. A small pinprick of light in the distance. It was tiny, but intense.
Before he could decide whether or not to pursue it, John felt himself being being thrust toward it. It grew and grew in size until it occupied the majority of his vision, and before he knew it he was back fully immersed in white light.
No, something's different this time, he said to himself. I can feel… something. I can hear… noises?
Suddenly he bolted upright. Like it was the first of his life, John pulled in a lungful of air with an arduous gasp. He felt his chest heave, aching with the exertion. It was like his muscles were either unaccustomed to or out of practice with the action.
He was in a seated position, that much he could tell, atop a cool metal surface. John still couldn't see anything, but he began to perceive blurry shapes at the center of his visual field. Colors came next.
Voices. They were muffled, as if they were speaking to him from underwater. Or maybe he was underwater. No, he was breathing. They were chattering rapidly, apprehensively, shouting directions and calling his name all at once, but he didn't recognize them. He had a hard time discerning words.
"My dear God in heaven…" he heard a heavily accented voice mutter. Male.
"Major Sheppard?" a female voice asked. "Major, can you hear us?"
"Take it easy, lad," the first voice cautioned. "Stay still, this is a lot to take in."
"This isn't possible," a new speaker murmured. Stunned, edgy.
He felt himself leaning as a powerful sense of vertigo overwhelmed him.
"Whoa, easy, now," the accented voice urged. "Take your time. The dizziness should pass in a moment."
John felt the speaker's hand on his arm. He didn't like it. Without his sight he felt vulnerable, defenseless. Who were these people? How did he know their intentions? Another hand, smaller, was placed on his back. They grabbed at him. He was surrounded. Exposed.
His hand brushed against metal at his thigh. Instinctively he pulled the Lacedami gun from its holster and pointed it forward. He wasn't even sure at what or whom he was pointing it, but the voices had fallen into shocked silence. That was a pretty good indication that he was warm.
Stumbling off the table to the floor below, Sheppard fought an overwhelming wave of lightheadedness. He stood in a half-crouch, his legs weak, his right hand pointing the pistol forward while his left cradled his aching head. He leaned heavily against the table off of which he had just tumbled, gasping for air.
His sight swam. The room was dark but there were several small sources of artificial light from within. He squinted against them — they were so bright. His vision could now make out the individual objects within the room: tables, shelving, smaller items stacked up high. Interior. Cold.
The major also saw the room's six occupants. They converged upon him slowly, looming en masse, arms reaching out for him. He waved his weapon at them in an ungainly arc, uncoordinated and weak. The pistol quaked in his hands.
Shaken from their bout of silence by the sight of the gun, their shouting resumed. A flurry of voices assaulted him at once. They were so loud, it was overpowering. He swung his gun at each as they spoke, but there was too many. He couldn't tell who was who. He couldn't keep up.
"Sir! I need you to put down your weapon, sir!"
"Drop your weapon, Major!"
"Major, listen to us, we are your friends. Put the weapon down and we will talk this through—"
"Take it slow, lad. Settle now, no one wants to get hurt—"
"Lower your weapon, sir! I mean it—"
"Put your guns down, you... barbarians! Can't you see he's just confused? He's not going to shoot anyone—"
"Sir, if you do not lower your weapon I will be forced to fire—"
"Corporal, continue aimin' that rifle at my patient an' I swear I will use this defibrillator on you, understand me?"
John stumbled backward, unsteady and off balance until his back hit the wall. He was cornered. He continued to aim his gun forward, but he didn't trust his aim any more than he trusted his compromised vision. He was so disoriented, so confused.
Then he heard it: one voice, clearer than the rest. Closer, too. It approached him. "Everyone take a deep breath and just relax," it intoned.
Instinctively he trained his aim on its source.
"Ma'am—" cautioned one of the others.
"It's okay," the new female voice called, squelching the warning.
It was soothing, calm, compelling. He strained to see who the owner of the voice was. There — through the fog stepped forward a female form, an emergency blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She stopped only a foot from him, undeterred by the pistol pointed at her chest.
"Ma'am, until he's disarmed I really have to advise against proximity to the major."
Sheppard watch her turn her head slightly, her pointed words meant for someone behind her. "Corporal Jenkins, Corporal Nowak: I assure you, the only people in this room in danger of shooting anyone is you two. Now please, lower your weapons."
Though his sight had near fully returned, Sheppard didn't notice if they had obeyed. He couldn't focus. His eyes still darted around the room wildly, the mayhem of seconds ago still palpable.
"John, it's okay," she spoke to him.
His name. She knew it. And when she said it, it sounded… right.
"John, look at me," she directed. But his mind was a million places at once. These people, he knew them, he knew he knew them, but he couldn't place them, and this room, so familiar in its design, had he been here before or had he merely been to a place like it—
"John," the woman insisted more firmly, gently clasping his head between her hands. "Look at me. Look at me, John."
He calmed at her direction, drawn by her strength and composure, steadied by her touch. He let the others fade into the background. Against his training, he felt himself slowly lowering his sidearm, succumbing to instinct over reason. His eyes finally met hers.
"Good," the woman said, a cautious grin spreading across her face. "That's it. Just keep your eyes on me," she said, pointing at her own.
He found himself obeying, trusting her without question. She seemed so in control. He felt his muscles relaxing. His eyes, though still wide with unease, remained fixed to hers. She looked as though she had been crying, but now only wore a face of determination and calm.
He recognized that face.
"Elizabeth…?" he croaked, his voice nearly gone.
The woman before him instantly broke down, a broad, relieved smile showing through tears of joy. She nodded, her voice now gone, too.
He closed the gap in one swift step and enveloped her in a tight embrace. He drank in the scent of her hair, felt the softness of her skin, leaned into her touch. She was real. This was real. And whatever the improbable reason she was standing in front of him now, unmistakably not dead, Major John Sheppard decided that in that moment he really didn't care.
He held onto her tighter, and he never wanted to let her go again.
He let his pistol fall to the tile. His quaking legs finally gave way and the entwined pair slid down against the wall to the floor below. As Elizabeth buried her face into his shoulder and cried, he couldn't prevent tears of his own from streaming down his face. He kissed the top of her head once, twice, before resting his chin atop the crown of her head. John closed his eyes and breathed deeply with her in his arms.
Oblivious to all but each other, they didn't see the other five occupants of the room staring in stunned silence at the scene. Both Teyla and Beckett shared in their joy and relief, while the two marines diverted their gaze respectfully. Rodney just pointed at the pair, his mouth agape, silently demanding an explanation for either's inexplicable presence in the land of the living.
"Ma'am," Corporal Nowak beckoned Teyla, a hand to his earpiece. "We're getting reports from all across the City: the plasma bombardment of the shield has stopped." He listened for a few more seconds. "In fact, it sounds like the three cruisers have broken up in orbit."
"Destroyed?" Teyla asked. "How?"
"I don't know, but there's more." Nowak's face contorted in confusion as he listened in, before his eyes widened with dismay. "All teams report that the Wraith and the Lacedami occupying the City are… dead."
"How many?"
"I can't be sure, ma'am, but I think they said all of them—"
"Carson?" Elizabeth called suddenly.
She looked into John's pallid face. The marks of the past day's torture was evident, but that was not what had worried her. He had closed his eyes only moments ago and hadn't opened them since. His head lolled against the wall in his semiconscious state.
Suddenly she felt a hot wetness against her own skin. She pulled back from him. Fresh blood had begun to pour out of the knife wound on his side. "Carson!"
John teetered in and out of consciousness. He felt himself being hoisted onto a stretcher and rushed out of the morgue, the fleeting scenes of hallways rushing by, Beckett running beside him, forcing an oxygen mask over his face, speaking to him reassuringly one moment only to yell into his radio for support the next. He didn't understand any of it.
Then there was Elizabeth — yes, she was still there, still real. She held his hand reassuringly, but she looked afraid.
He couldn't take his eyes off her. Every time his eyes threatened to close, he had to force them open, terrified that when he awoke again she'd be gone. But before long he lost the battle, and the world faded to black.
In the corner of the vacated morgue, discarded and forgotten about, the Ancient ascension device lay cold and dormant, its soft white glow mow dimmed and gone.
TBC
