"This is it? This is a bocce ball." Sheppard tossed the small orb in his hand. "I've seen this. What does it do?"

"That I do not know, but I have been analyzing the data." He plugged his datapad into the larger screen on the desk and swivelled it to face them. "We have yet to figure out exactly what this object does, but I believe there was some sort of energy burst in the lab right around the time that Drs. Beckett and McKay were reported missing." He pointed. "Right here. You see?"

"Yeah, I see it. But I don't understand it. What kind of energy are we talking about?"

"I do not know. I've not been able to replicate the readings."

"So . . . we can assume this surge is responsible for their disappearance?"

"Not sure. It could be coincidence. But this was the last project that Rodney was fixated on. He would not leave the lab, he wanted to be beside this thing all the time." Radek sighed. "All I wanted was some quiet, but no. He talks as he works like one talks in his sleep. And makes about as much sense." Radek abruptly pointed to a desk in the corner. "I moved my station over there until he sorts this out."

"As it stands, you're the one who has to sort this out, especially if this burst has anything to do with their disappearance."

"That's what I am afraid of. This thing might suck me right in as it did Rodney, and I'll not be able to escape it. I have other projects, I hate to interfere with this one."

Sheppard stared. "Even if his life is on the line?"

"He has been gone only four hours! Granted, that is very odd. But I still see no reason to panic."

"It's been over eight hours, and I can't believe you're fighting me on this!"

Radek stared at the screen. He exhaled and removed his glasses, and action which always caused Sheppard to marvel at the physical difference the lenses made. Radek's features softened as he spoke. "I did not realize. I am sorry. I apologize. What you say is correct, and we should be concerned."

It was too odd, even for Radek, whom Sheppard always pictured as a bit eccentric. "What happened?"

"We had an argument. Not uncommon, but this time was bad. I don't even know what we fought about, but I nearly hit him, and I am certain he felt the same. I stormed out." Radek gave his head a sorrowful shake. "I don't want to believe he is now missing."

Sheppard straightened and patted Radek's shoulder. "Best thing you can do for him now, is help find him."

"What if he does not want to be found?"

"You think Beckett doesn't want to be found?"

"I don't know! Maybe they talk. Maybe they want privacy."

"For eight hours? Besides, they would still answer their radios."

"That is true." Radek replaced his glasses and stared regretfully at the orb. "There really is something wrong, then."

Sheppard leaned in once again. "I need answers, Radek." He made no attempts at persuasion.

And Radek merely nodded.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Son of a bitch!" Carson rubbed his hands over the door, searching desperately for a crevice, anything he could jut his fingertips into and pry, but the surface was solid, like nothing had ever been there. He rounded on the people behind him. "Don't the lot of you just sit there, help me!" He gritted his teeth and tried pressing his fingers into the wall. But there was no budging something that didn't exist, and Rodney didn't answer his frantic calls. After some time, his voice hoarse with yelling, all he could do was back away. "Oh my god," he whispered, leaning dejectedly against the wall. "This – this isn't happening . . . that didn't just happen."

"Dr. Beckett . . ."

"God, he's . . ."

"Doctor Beckett!"

"What?" Carson's attention snapped.

"I'm sorry." The man grunted and visibly repressed a yell as Lenore pulled the long needle from his back.

Sorry? Did he just say . . . Carson finally turned a disbelieving face to Abrams. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said I'm sorry. I know the two of you were friends."

Carson slowly stood, pressing his back against the wall. "What the hell?"

"You know, I do believe he was right." He was staring at the wall, almost reflective, his voice almost too contemplative. "We soldiers do know how to handle death, because right now I don't feel a god damned thing for him."

It was a staged comment. Heat flooded Carson's face. "And just what the hell do you mean by that?" He forced out his question in a measure of calm, but there was no way, no way, he was going to allow anyone to talk about a man's death in that manner. Of course it could be shock. It had better be shock.

"Don't get me wrong, I liked him well enough. I guess. Just seems a waste, that's all."

Carson's voice was low. "A waste. You do realize he was our best chance to get out of this hell."

"Yeah, that's what I mean by waste." Abrams' face was tight with pain.

Carson took a step forward, and was stopped by Lenore's hand on his chest. "Let it go," she said softly. "He needs help right now. Remember, he lost two of his men."

Her focus surprised him, and brought him back. He walked over to Abrams, his footfalls sounding hollow in the small room. The back wound was raw, leaving Carson to wonder if the seemingly slick needles were actually barbed in some way. He tore the bottom of Abrams' shirt and handed the cloth to Lenore. "Hold this to the wound." He pressed it into her hand as she hesitated, and picked up the needle for further examination. A prick, and he looked at his finger. "I thought these were smooth."

"Some were," Abrams gritted through Lenore's pressure, "the ones that shot out first were, I guess."

Carson dropped the needle to the floor, fighting the vulgar images intruding his mind. With a conscious, careful touch, he took over the ministration from Lenore. "I'm . . . sorry about your men."

Abrams merely nodded. His face was set in stone.

"I'm sorry for all of them," Lenore said softly.

Carson looked over his shoulder at her, filling with sudden anger and trying his hardest to choke it back. "You've been keeping quiet, love," he said, his voice forced, "and I'm certain you're the only one who knows what's going on. I really, really wish you would tell us."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"Can't or won't? Dammit, have you not seen these deaths? Or are you like Mr. Machismo here, and truly don't give a bloody damn?" The room tilted without warning, and he crashed to the floor.

Apparently this time it was just him, and not the room itself. He stared up at his companions as they bent over him, Lenore resting her hand on his forehead, avoiding the gash, and Abrams just looking on like a curious spectator. "Why needles?" he asked Carson.

His head was spinning. "What?"

"Seems if this were a death trap they'd use something other than long needles. Something like swords or . . . I don't know. Something."

Carson's brow furrowed as he tried to focus. What Abrams said made sense, seemed there would be a more efficient weapon, yet the needles seemed as effective a killing weapon as anything. The room spun again, and he knew for a fact he hadn't moved. "Needles," he said. "I used to be deathly afraid of them."

"And so you became a doc?" Abrams asked sarcastically.

Carson managed to level a glare at him, or rather, where he should have been. "Not really. It's not like I have to inject myself."

Abrams just snorted.

Lenore, as usual, ignored the circumstances surrounding her and focused her attention on the doctor. She took Carson's hand in her own. "I am sorry for the other two," she said softly, "but I do not include your Rodney with them."

"Why, love?" he asked softly. She was rather lovely in a motherly, consoling kind of way. She was also blurry. He hurt, everything hurt, and the fight was gone from him.

"I do not believe he is dead. I believe he got out."

A wry smile managed to break through Carson's despair as he croaked out a laugh. "Oh, my dear, I do hope you're right."

He managed to hold onto the smile for only a moment more before his face fell, and his body gave in.