Part Twelve: Prayer for the Living

"Your friend died in the night."

These simple words hit Carson like a sledgehammer, even though he expected them. Bettina took Carson's arm, pulled him up off the straw mattress on which he'd slept and motioned onwards. Eoin was obviously still hoping to distract Carson with this flea-bitten woman.

It was very early morning, when everything looked cold and blue as the sky began to lighten. The woman was taking him to the place where Ronon had breathed his last. Carson did not believe the warrior was dead, would not trust the words of these odd, superstitious people over his own assessment.

"We are sorry," Bettina interrupted his thoughts, her harsh voice grating. "He could not tolerate the cara oil. Most strange. A large one like that, when you, so much smaller, are unharmed. He was a good friend of yours?"

Carson nodded.

"Using the oil was necessary. We must be cautious of strangers. The Wraith use humans as spies. Did you know that?"

He nodded again, wondering for a moment how a human could resolve to turn against his own kind. Then he thought of all the wars that had been fought on Earth, and a great chasm of sadness opened up within him. Bettina was watching his face, Carson knew, searching for signs of duplicity, for the woman didn't trust him, probably never would, although she seemed eager enough to sleep with him.

They walked to a hut, strode between villagers, many of them youngsters, some of whom followed them inside.

…..

"One minute to self-destruct."

It was happening again.

He was kitted up to the max this time, armed for bloody combat. Somehow his headset had reasserted itself in its proper location. Tapping it, his stomach sinking at the futility of it, McKay gave fate another chance.

"McKay to Control. Somebody speak to me!"

To his utter surprise, someone answered, an unfamiliar voice breathless with fear. "McKay! Thank God you're here. Someone's overloaded the naquadah generator in the southeast pier. It's been patched into the generator system and, once it goes critical, the rest of the units will detonate. Can you power down the unit in your area?"

This was too easy.

"Forty-five seconds to self-destruct."

Without taking time to respond, he plunged through the hallways, sliding on the angles and gaining traction on the inside corners. His P90 bounded against his chest and the knife stuck beneath the waistband of the trousers nicked his skin as he ran. None of this mattered right then, as the generator room came into view. The naquadah unit seemed so small and innocent, hardly the cause of Atlantis's destruction, but he still had time to bring it off line.

"Thirty seconds to self-destruct."

Wouldn't take but a moment, really, as McKay stormed through the last several yards to the room's opening.

"Okay, okay, don't panic. You can do this."

At last, he would do it right this time, save Atlantis and everyone in it. Again. No matter what came before, this time it would work.

"Fifteen seconds to self-destruct."

So it felt devastating, scathing, just completely wrong when he entered the room and found himself slammed to the floor a half-second away from his goal. He panted against the cold, hard surface and then turned to see standing above him the embodiment of every living thing that had ever terrified him, a life form that morphed from Wraith to a floating black vision, to his dead colleagues, his sister's off spring, Cindy the post-grad in his bed, Ford packed with enzyme and Ronon just being so damned big.

"Ten…nine…eight…"

"Oh, no," he whispered, as his attacker pinned him down, placed his foot—her foot, its foot, its feet, its hand, its self--on McKay's chest.

"Seven…six…five…"

"Oh, yes," they all said in return.

"Four…three…two…"

…..

Beckett approached slowly, feeling the draw of dread from his gut. There was no doubt who lay beneath the soiled sheet, for few people he knew were as tall. The smallest child of all toddled up and tugged the covering away. Beckett jerked his head in alarm, then let his eyes still on the form once again. Ronon was, in this place, a good friend. His only friend. He was so young, a fighter, like Teyla. This galaxy produced the fiercest people Beckett had ever known. Such a pity, Ronon dead in his youth, killed by people younger still. He would have taken some peace if Ronon had not died in solitude, but Carson had failed at that.

"What are you doing?" asked one of his captors, stepping forward with a crossbow cradled stiffly in his arms.

"Lad?" Beckett looked up curiously. "You mean you don't know?"

The boy shook his head, his eyes still taking in Beckett's every movement.

"I'm crying, son," the doctor replied, wiping his cheeks against his sleeve.

The children present looked at each other uneasily. Then the leader took another step forward, anger creasing his brow.

"Stop that! We will not have that here!"

But Beckett was beyond caring, as he stood next to the funerary dais where Ronon had been laid out, hopeless tears overwhelming him. He could not have stopped and he did not stop, even when the boy came ever closer, more threatening this time. And it seemed strange to Beckett that nothing scared these people nearly as much as pure grief. Perhaps muscle was all that they knew. Perhaps a man crying for a fallen comrade was beyond their scope of reference.

He laid his hand on Ronon's chest, willing it to rise again. The children were murmuring, now, thoroughly confused, becoming agitated, looking to the eldest for interpretation.

"He is dead. He will not breathe again."

"I know that, son."

"You will not touch him. It is a sin to touch the dead!"

Beckett looked up at the boy, unwilling to be cowed. "Listen you, I was precious little help when he was dyin'. At least let me help send off his poor soul."

"It is a sin! Stop or I will kill you, now."

Beckett closed his eyes for a moment, weighting his options. Then he considered that he didn't really care any longer.

"Do what you have to do," he intoned. "I'm going where he is, anyway."

He expected a little more time to mourn, a few moments at least before his last. Funny how life ends like that: When you think you have a while to go before the chariot comes and takes you, you look out the window and see it parked right in front of your house. Just like that.

And just like that, the boy drew his weapon closer to his body, aimed it carefully at Carson Beckett's chest and fired.