Severn's report was good and bad. On one hand, McKay had woken, however briefly, and seemed to be oriented. On the other, he'd had a severe reaction to the knowledge that Sheppard had managed to get himself damaged, again. That reaction had pushed his already weakened system too far, and Hoffman had made the decision to intubate him.
Sighing - he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately - he moved up and laid a hand on McKay's arm.
There was no response.
"Doctor Beckett?"
He turned, seeing Teyla at the door. He beckoned, and she slipped in, moving to stand at his side. He glanced down, and she read the question in his eyes.
"Ronon is assisting Colonel Sheppard. I wished to see Dr. McKay for a moment."
He nodded. It wasn't a pretty sight. When it took this much energy just to draw air, it had an effect on all the body's systems. Though the machine was doing the work of breathing for him now, his face was gaunt, eyes sunken, the tendons standing in clear relief on his neck…Teyla's eyes filled and she laid one hand on his forehead, almost like a blessing.
"The chamber," she said.
"We'll take him there in a moment. It's a two man chamber with an airlock, just room enough for everything we need in there…"
"It is pressurized?"
"Yes. It means that whoever goes in has to decompress on the way out. I want to go in."
"But you are needed out here, too."
He sighed, knowing she understood how torn he was. "Yes."
A small commotion at the door, and they both turned. Sheppard was in a wheelchair, flanked by Hoffman and Weir, pushed by Dex. At the same time, Severn was beckoning - the chamber was ready.
He nodded, held up his hand a moment.
"He's non responsive. You can have a few moments, but we have to move him soon."
Dex pushed the chair up beside the bed, and they withdrew to a discreet distance.
xxxxxx
"Guess you heard, huh? The trip could have gone better, but Kavanagh actually did pretty well for a change."
Sheppard reached out, ignoring the pull and ache of the stitches, and took the cold hand briefly.
"We're not giving up. Don't you. We need you, Rodney." His throat closed on him, and he swallowed hard.
A monitor began to beep, and Severn looked over at him, then at Beckett.
"Sir, we've got to move him."
xxxxxx
Beckett sat, pulled a report towards him, idly noting the title - it was the DNA match report, and it was heavy going.
At first.
"Hoffman!"
"Doctor?"
Hoffman trotted towards him from the other side of the lab.
"Look at this and tell me what you see. Or - don't see."
Hoffman scanned it, looked up disbelievingly. Scanned it again.
xxxxxx
"What do you mean, they don't match?" Weir put down the coffee, rubbed her eyes, and reached for the report.
"Well, actually, they do match – but they don't. It seems the virus mapped to Rodney's DNA using complementary RNA, and it used this RNA to form a sort of coating around the nanobot-like part of it. It looks like that's the way it escaped detection by the humoral immune system. As far as I can tell, he's had no Th2 response whatsoever. It really quite fasc-" Beckett caught her expression and let his professional enthusiasm fade. But it didn't wipe the smile from his face. If anything, that grew broader. "There appears to be a significant difference though. The virus doesn't have complementary RNA for the modified ATA gene!"
It took her a moment to catch on to what he was suggesting. "But that means…"
"It would appear that Rodney was infected before he received the gene therapy. That's what I'm thinking, yes."
"He was carrying this virus before he got the gene? Before he even came through the gate?" Weir shook her head. "But that means if he got it on Earth - it's not natural, so he has to have been infected sometime when he was working for the SGC. And he got here, and something…"
Understanding made her speechless.
"…caused it to activate - or the absence of something made it virulent again." Beckett finished.
"All the medical records from the SGC are on the database, the Daedelus upgraded our computers when they first got here…"
"We need all the technicians we can lay our hands on. We have to go through everything in the records we have on Rodney, the SGC, Area 51, everyone he worked with; and find out where and when he might have contracted this. Maybe we can punch through to the SGC, once we have it narrowed down, and get some help with a way to fight it." There was an edge of hope in his voice, and she smiled. It had been a while since she'd heard it, and she hoped she'd heard right.
"Pull as many as you need," she said. "Send some of the data up to me, I'll work on it, too."
xxxxxx
"We wish to help," Teyla said, Ronon standing behind her.
Beckett nodded. "I know you do, and I know your ability to read English has improved, but I need you for something else."
He looked down, at Sheppard, who was listening quietly.
"John was sitting with him, before, and it helped. I need you to be on the comm, into the chamber, talking to him. It may not sound like much..." he raised his hand as Dex made to comment, "but for someone like Rodney, keeping his mind engaged is vital."
"I was going to suggest we join him inside," Dex observed, and he sounded a bit put out.
"Oh, lad, that's a kind idea, but the chamber is too small for more than the patient and an attendant."
"The thought's appreciated, though," Sheppard contributed.
Dex nodded. Teyla touched his arm, and they left.
"And where is my research?" The colonel looked up expectantly.
Beckett shook his head. "No research for you, son. You just get to rest."
xxxxxx
He wasn't unconscious. Well, not completely.
Somehow, he'd been more or less aware since hearing about Sheppard, through all the uncomfortable, undignified and unavoidable processes medical science put someone in his dire straits through, and he knew he'd been moved. He'd figured out to where even before the nurse told him, and that bit of knowledge made him feel satisfied. His mind hadn't completely gone to mush.
He wasn't really in pain. Beckett had seen to that, he was lying on an angle that made it easier for the oxygen to find the unflooded alveoli of his lungs, and the constant burning pain of overworked muscles was deadened by some lovely cocktail – clearly, when this ill, he warranted the good stuff. He knew, in an abstract way, that he was intubated, but it wasn't worth worrying about anymore.
The awareness, though, that was something surprising. He found himself fighting to regain it when it drifted, unable to open his eyes for some reason, but hearing in jumps, like a fast forwarded video. He was bored, very tired.
Was he scared? He supposed so, but it was hard to spend the energy to actually feel that emotion. Worry, though, didn't seem to need as much. Sheppard – the man could get into trouble in a paper bag. He had appreciated hearing the familiar voice earlier, reading to him, and he'd wished he could respond – especially when Sheppard took the opportunity to explain in detail one of his own, personal, more outrageous theories.
Heck, he just wished he could respond.
Sheppard would be fine; he had assurances from practically everyone who came in contact with him. He'd long since stopped trying to figure out what it was made them friends. He overthought stuff like that all the time, anyway, he'd been informed. All he'd said, late one night after a particularly silly movie, with Teyla and Ford snoring gently on the couch between them, was that he was surprised that he and Zelenka got along as well as they did.
Sheppard's profound advice – don't overthink it. Just go with it.
He didn't overthink his current situation, either. He really didn't want to die, he discovered, and found it was more of an intellectual decision than the gut-instinct reaction that he had expected. He had far too much to do, still, and it wasn't all about the science this time.
He was bored. He was tired. He was…hearing something?
Teyla and Dex, speaking, he was hearing them as if the three of them were standing around, and he was listening to them chatting. Their subject…he would have laughed if he could have…they were talking, in a soft alto and a deep bass that he secretly envied, about their favourite foods, where they came from, how they tasted…
Ronon and he shared a fascination with food, it was one of their few commonalities, and obviously they knew him well enough to know it would be something that could hold his attention, keep his mind active.
They knew him well enough. It was corny, but his aunt had told him once, 'To make a friend, be a friend.' Accidentally, unintentionally and through various crises, it appeared he had been a friend. He whispered her a silent 'thank you', and mentally settled back to listen.
Chapter 11Beckett heard, later, from his head nurse. Wading through records, he was not surprised to find out that Sheppard had flown the coop. He had evidently been aided and abetted by Zelenka, and a purloined wheelchair.
Briefly, he considered going after him, but knew any effort to return him to the infirmary would meet heavy resistance. Normally, that wasn't an issue, but today he just hadn't the energy. Zelenka would keep an eye on the man, and he supposed he'd better arrange some painkillers…he sighed and tapped his comm.
xxxxxx
Sheppard was absorbed in the data, concentrating so hard he didn't hear the step beside him; though in fairness, he thought later, the Asgard was very quiet. Whatever the reason, he glanced up to see Hermoid's face mere inches from his own, gazing calmly. With a yelp, he straightened suddenly - which did nothing for his back - and pushed away from the desk, rolling several feet before catching the wheels.
Hermoid's eyes followed him, curiously.
"Of all the humans, I alarm you most," he said in his direct manner. "Why?"
Sheppard dragged the remaining bits of his dignity around him, grimacing at the pain of the wounds that had been rudely jarred.
"Firstly, you startled me. That's just rude. Secondly..." he looked for a way to say it kindly, without success, "until a year ago I thought little grey men were just a story. A myth, like UFOs."
He could have sworn he saw understanding in the black eyes as he pulled himself back to the table.
"You are a recent arrival to the Stargate program."
Sheppard nodded. "I have a bonus version of this gene," he said. "Without that, I'd still be back on earth, in blissful ignorance of all this." He gestured, unwittingly tugging on stitches, and then hissed at the pain, dropping his hand.
"Ignorance is never blissful," Hermoid contradicted. "And you would not have made the friends you have."
"Yeah, well." Sheppard dry-swallowed a couple of the pills Carson had sent up a few hours ago, in tacit acknowledgement - if not approval - of his escape. He settled himself and began to review the records again.
"You are searching for a way to assist Dr. McKay."
Squashing the impulse to heave a sigh, Sheppard merely nodded, paging through the next set of records.
"And who is assisting you?"
He glanced over at the other laptop. "Radek," he said. "He's getting us some coffee. We don't know exactly what we're looking for, but..." He tightened his lips. "I still think there may be something in here."
"May I assist as well?"
It was unexpected. Sheppard stared at the Asgard, but it merely regarded him calmly, no expectation, no expression. Yet somehow Sheppard sensed it was sincere.
"I would appreciate it, Hermoid," he said finally.
xxxxxx
Radek's coffee had been brought and long ago consumed when Sheppard finally lost it. It might have been the time - past three in the morning. The hopelessness - the records seemed unending. Maybe it was the pain - the pills were having less effect. Whatever the reason, he grabbed a box of discs with his good hand and threw it at the wall, where it broke open on impact. That wasn't enough. He flung the coffee cup, watching as that shattered into oblivion, too. Hermoid seemed a bit startled, but Radek merely looked up, nodded once, and threw his own cup after Sheppard's.
"We need new plan," he said. "Rodney doesn't have time for this page, page, page."
"I agree," Hermoid concurred.
"Well, I'm open to suggestions," Sheppard snarled, leaning back - sitting forward again with a yelp of pain.
Radek glanced at Hermoid, who shrugged. 'It's his decision to be here.' it seemed to say, and Radek nodded slightly, unnoticed by the Lieutenant Colonel, whose string of swearing was winding down.
"We can learn no more from these records. They are too specific; they tell little about the person. Let us consider these beings, how they lived."
"Right. How do you want to do this?"
Hermoid stood. "Let us start at their beginning. Where were the people who worked with Doctor McKay born?"
"Rodney's Canadian," Sheppard said tiredly.
"And where is Canadian?"
Sheppard sighed and put his head on his undamaged arm.
"I will show you," Radek said.
xxxxxx
Sheppard couldn't remember the last time he'd been this tired - or hurt this much. In a way the pain was a help, it kept him reasonably focused, but the images on the screen had begun to blur. He'd felt a bit of embarrassment at first, looking into the intimate histories of people he might know, but the answer had to be there.
Radek and Hermoid were muttering together, and it formed a backdrop to his hazy memories. He tried hard to remember before, the friendship, but his mind wouldn't go back past the last time he'd seen McKay - semi-conscious, woken by the movement, with a machine doing his breathing, as he was being loaded into the hyperbaric chamber.
He'd arranged himself where the physicist could see him, knowing from Carson how much the news of his injury had distressed the man, and been rewarded by a faint smile - he chose to interpret it as such - behind the mask.
Never mind he'd slumped back into the wheelchair, before Hoffman had a chance to do more than steer him down.
It had been almost a day, now, and McKay was still worsening, if more slowly now that he was under the pressure of three atmospheres. And the answer had to be here. The specialists and bio-chemists and bio-engineers and mechanical-whatsit-oligists were working round the clock for a pattern, a commonality, for something that would defeat the nanites. The virus seemed to originate in his lungs, and was as close to invulnerable as Superman's shorts.
He raised his head, listening.
"...in the northern hemisphere, and the other masses are in the south."
"Explain to me the Arctic and Antarctic, please."
"The earth does not spin on a vertical, the axis is tilted. This means the equator is more constant of temperature than the northern and southern halves, and the poles are frozen always."
"It is remarkable life developed at all, let alone intelligent life..." Hermoid trailed off, staring at Sheppard, who had straightened.
"There's something there," he breathed, pulling the laptop towards him and tossing two more pills into his mouth. "Radek, Hermoid, follow this with me."
Radek nodded, slaving his laptop to Sheppard's with a few keystrokes.
"Deaths by a respiratory illness, of people who worked with him."
He keyed the query in, and was shown a list. Seventeen names.
"Ok. Now the dates they worked together, and we'll see if there are any matches."
Seven names remained. Sheppard leaned on the table, willing the pain tablets to work faster.
"Were they in the same lab?" Zelenka asked. Sheppard pulled up their histories, scrolled down.
"They were on the same team. The same damn team!"
Hermoid blinked, reading the detail over Sheppard's shoulder.
"Working on an artifact...it appears to be one of the few failures in Doctor McKay's career. They worked with it for three weeks, at a place designated 51. No useful results were retrieved."
"Seven member team, led by McKay. Eight people total, and he's the only survivor."
Nods from the others. "But they didn't die at the same time, the last one died only a year or so ago." Radek looked at the grid of dates, frowned.
"But neither is there any regularity."
"No, but there may be a pattern." He leaned forward. "Radek, can you plot the team members on a globe? Where they went?"
The Czech nodded, setting to, and Hermoid tilted his head quizzically.
"I don't know," Sheppard replied to the unasked question. "It may be nothing. Let's see."
A moment later, Zelenka sat back.
"Is crude," he cautioned.
"That's fine. Bring up the team, from when it was disbanded, and track them month by month."
Eight dots of different colours appeared, centered over a non-descript part of California.
"One month," Zelenka said, and four remained, three headed east, and one north.
"Run it until the first deaths occur," Hermoid suggested, and the transparent representation of the earth grew coloured veins, reaching around the planet.
"Almost fourteen months," Zelenka observed, and pointed. "Javid and Zora Penter. Husband and wife, with two children. The children did not take ill."
Sheppard winced. "Poor kids."
"The next deaths, please," Hermoid said neutrally.
Zelenka marked the first with two stars, and the veins grew until, "About sixteen months, Petrov Pacheco."
Another star, and, "Twenty two months. Two more, within days of each other. Jack Brook and Sarah Lorenzo."
The colours, few now, seemed centered in the Americas. "Two years ago - Sal Benton. Last year, Ted Truesdale."
The stars gleamed. Sheppard stared at them, absently rubbing his chin.
"Is there a concentration of population around the equator?" Hermoid asked suddenly. "All the deaths occurred there."
"Not a particular concentration, no. Is a more clement part of the world, and sought after for teaching positions and lab positions."
"Unless you get sent to Siberia for months, or end up teaching in Winnipeg in the winter," Sheppard said slowly. "Or posted to Antarctica."
"Boze moi. Cannot be that simple?"
"Check their history. How long were they in warm places before they got sick?"
And when Zelenka showed him the data, Sheppard straightened, the pain of his wounds falling away. He tapped his comm. "Carson. I think we have something."