Chapter 7

Teyla, descending the stairs next to John, caught the glimmer of a smile on his face as the Ancient wall sconces flickered to life at their approach.

"John?"

"It reminds me of Atlantis," he said. "The early days. The first time we came through the Gate and it lit up for us."

"It lit up for you," she corrected. "It must have been amazing."

"Huh, yeah. Amazing, terrifying. And that pretty much set the tone for the galaxy, I guess." They came to a landing, with passageways leading off. "We keep going down, right, McKay?"

"Yes." Rodney descended the last couple of steps, Ronon behind him. He looked wistfully at the branching corridors. "Bypassing who-knows-what scientific delights and curiosities!"

"Eyes on the prize, Rodney," said John. "How many more floors?"

"There should be three more."

"Onward and downward, then!"

Teyla was halfway down the next flight of stairs when she felt it; a slight twitch and shiver of the step beneath her, that had her grasping for the handrail in anticipation. The tremor tailed off and she heard John begin to speak, when the stairs gave a massive lurch, she lost her balance and felt something heavy impact her from behind. She fell forward, tried to regain her footing, then her left knee struck something solid and she felt a sickening wrench and a sharp, hot shaft of pain. There was confusion and shouts; she fell further and her mind cringed away from the inevitable, painful impact; it didn't come. Teyla felt pressure around her chest and under her arms and realised someone was holding the back of her tac vest. She felt sick and her vision was clouded with faintness, but she brought her sound leg beneath her and she was lowered carefully to sit on the stairs. Somebody was moaning, and, as lights on the floor below came to life, Teyla saw Ronon, carefully disentangling himself from Rodney, picking up the scientist and setting him on his feet. Rodney promptly crumpled up to sit on the bottom step, holding his arm.

"Teyla? Are you okay?" She realised that John was repeating his question.

"My knee." She tentatively flexed it and was relieved to feel the pain somewhat less. "I think it hit one of the uprights on the handrail."

"How bad?" John asked. His hands pressed gently around her kneecap, assessing the damage.

"I felt it move out of alignment and snap back. It was... unpleasant, but should not hinder me much."

"Don't move yet," he said. Teyla closed her eyes and breathed slowly and deeply, feeling her equilibrium return. She heard a crunching sound and then there was the relief of something cold on her knee. She opened her eyes; a chemical ice pack.

"Hold that there for a bit. I'd better check on McKay."

Teyla watched as John took over from Ronon in trying to assess Rodney's injuries.

"I would've been fine if I hadn't had six foot whatever of caveman land on me!"

"I said sorry, McKay."

"Alright! This isn't helping!" John ran one hand through his hair, glaring at them both. "Ronon. You okay?"

Ronon shrugged. "Yeah."

"That's because he had a soft landing!"

John ignored Rodney. "Break out some water and power bars, check on Teyla," he directed Ronon. He then knelt in front of Rodney and there was a brief argument before Rodney reluctantly held out his arm, and then further imprecations, alternately muttered and loudly emphatic, as John examined the injury.

Ronon sat down next to Teyla. He handed her some water, then a power bar. They both ate, silently.

"I'm sure it's broken!"

"I don't think so, Rodney."

"How would you know? You can't feel my agony!"

"You were moving it just then."

"Hence the agony! An ice pack? No! You need to splint it, or there'll be tissue damage, nerve damage! I'll lose the use of my hand!"

"I'll bind this in place," said John, doing so. "And you can rest it in a sling for now. There. Good to go."

"Go? I can't go anywhere! I have a broken arm! You need to get the Jumper!"

"You have a sprained wrist. And a ZPM to collect. And," John held out a hand and neatly caught the power bar that Ronon threw to him, "a snack to eat."

Rodney's grumbles became muffled by chewing. Ronon turned to Teyla.

"You good?"

"I think so," she said, holding onto the railing as she stood. She carefully increased the weight on her injured leg. It twinged and she knew it would not take much exertion, but she could at least walk.

"I'll take your stuff," said Ronon, shouldering her pack as well as his.

oOo

Rodney almost forgot about his injured arm and his various bruises as they descended further into the mountain and his excitement rose. Also, a puzzle distracted him for a while; how come the underground structures hadn't distorted and cracked under the onslaught of repeated tremors? His conclusions were threefold: firstly, that the construction material used by the Ancients was, to a certain extent, flexible; secondly, that there were sections of a different material where the stairs met the floors and at certain corridor junctions, which must be an extra flexible material. Rodney's third conclusion was pure speculation; perhaps the rooms and passageways were built on a system that separated them from the structure of the mountain. Springs, or slings, or something. Anyway, it didn't matter, it wasn't as important as what, he hoped, lay ahead, and Rodney let his thoughts trail away as he approached the end of the long corridor that led deep into the heart of the mountain. In the darkness ahead, faint but unmistakeable, was an orange-red glow that he was sure came from a long-coveted ZPM.

Of course, Sheppard wouldn't let him go first, making Rodney wait in the passageway while he slipped round the corner, his handgun raised (to shoot what, for heaven's sake?) to carry out a threat assessment, or whatever he called it. Lights in the large room ahead came to life and Rodney, standing on tip-toes, could see that it dropped down, far below the level he was on, and Sheppard must be standing on some kind of walkway. Did it run all the way round the room? What for?

"All clear."

Rodney didn't wait to be told. He rushed forward to stand, leaning on the railing, looking down upon the large, round space with its central console, in the very centre of which, the stuff of which his dreams were made, was a glowing, active ZPM.

oOo

"Pull it and we can go," said Ronon.

"Oh, yes, I'll do that, and then what? Shall we admire its pretty colours first, or maybe dance round it?" Rodney's sneers continued to float up to Ronon as he followed the scientist down the stairs to the ZPM level. "Or maybe we should just enjoy the effect as the whole place falls down on our heads! Pull it! Chuh! I need to study this system..." Rodney's words tailed off as he approached the console, began to flex his fingers in anticipation and then winced as his sprained wrist protested.

Ronon silently helped Rodney remove his pack, took out his laptop, rested it on what looked like a clear area, ("Not there! Put it here!"), moved it, opened it and stepped back; out of the way, but ready to help.

Rodney muttered a grudging, "Thanks."

Ronon amused himself by reciting, in his head, the first canto of the Satedan poet, Bahran's epic, 'The battle of Ti'ani'. He could easily have continued smoothly through all ten cantos, and then expounded on such things as verse forms and Bahran's idiosyncratic use of assonance, but the one canto was all it took, like a delicate suggestion of spice to perfect the dish of his amusement. It was an unacknowledged game, that McKay didn't even realise they were playing. Ronon's habits, after his seven years' running, had indeed become crude, like a primitive, like a caveman, as McKay called him; but he hadn't always been like that, and McKay knew that, really, if he thought about it. Except he didn't think about it, and so Ronon could play up as much as he liked to the caveman role, which did seem to come remarkably naturally sometimes. Anyway, Ronon thought, it was funny.

Sheppard and Teyla reached the bottom of the stairs. She'd had to go slow, her knee obviously hurting and Sheppard made her sit down on the step, her injured leg stretched out along its length; he put her pack behind her for her to lean on and then rolled up the leg of her pants to inspect her knee and put on a fresh ice pack. Ronon kept alert while John was occupied, running his eyes around the room, getting a feel for the space, McKay's movements in one corner of his awareness, John's and Teyla's in the other. There was a role-reversal in progress in the John-Teyla corner; it looked like Teyla had noticed the filthy state of the wrappings on John's palms, and the fact that he'd aggravated the injuries, if his winces as she unwound the bandages were any guide. He caught the usual 'fine' and 'good' in opposition to Teyla's 'dirt' and 'infection'. Teyla won, obviously, and Sheppard had to suffer her ministrations before she allowed him to escape.

"All good, Chewie?"

Ronon grunted an economical affirmative.

"No other exits."

A negative grunt stood for Ronon's agreement.

"Must be some ventilation, though. The air's fresh. Or fresh-ish."

Ronon shrugged.

"There!" McKay pointed a peremptory finger without looking up. There was a series of pipes running up the wall in just one area, a large one flanked by several smaller. "The big one discharges what one might call the 'payload', the others are for ventilation."

"Payload?" Sheppard's eyes sparked with interest. "As in, our earth-shaking weapons system?"

"Yes. Well, no, I don't think it's a weapon."

Ronon looked at Sheppard in mutual disappointment.

"So, what...?"

"Maybe I really should get Teyla to teach you not to interrupt busy scientists!" said Rodney, standing up straight, the better to deliver his furious glare. "Nothing I say seems to make a difference! I will tell you," he said slowly, "when I know!"

oOo

John sat cross-legged on the floor at the bottom of the flight of stairs, Ronon next to him, Rodney and Teyla on different steps. Teyla had wanted to help John set out the sleeping bags and heat up the MREs, but he'd made her stay still and rest her knee, thinking about the following day, when there'd be a long walk ahead. Rodney was shovelling in his meal absently, his thoughts still deep in his work, his meal pouch clutched awkwardly between his injured arm and his body; he'd dispensed with the sling as he was working, John had noticed. He watched Rodney try to scoop up another sporkful and realise the pouch was empty. He looked lost for a moment and then glanced down to see his crackers, already spread with cheese, one of the empty wrappers serving as a plate. He frowned, then looked up and met John's eyes.

"Did you...?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Thanks." Rodney picked up a cracker and began to eat it. "I suppose," he began, "you want to know what that thing does. Or did."

"Did?"

"Yes. I turned it off."

"Is it safe now, Rodney?" Teyla asked. "There will be no more earth tremors?"

"Yes, safe in that respect, at least. There's still a lot I need to look at before we can 'pull and go'." He glared at Ronon, who smirked.

"So?" encouraged John, finishing the last of his cheese tortellini.

Rodney sighed and broke off a piece of one of his crackers irritably. John got the impression that he wasn't the target of Rodney's irritation this time, however. Rodney sighed again, as if reluctant to speak, but then began, in what John thought of as his 'lecturing students of moderate idiocy' voice.

"Although we, obviously, don't know the full facts, the full circumstances under which this device, mechanism, was designed and created, it is, however, important to note that..." He stopped and his eyes and voice suddenly snapped with anger. "Oh, you know what? There's just no dressing this up! It's their fault! Those interfering, know-it-all, holier-than-thou imbeciles! They leave these amazing places for us to find and we think, 'Wow! Ancients! They were so much better than us! So advanced, so... so evolved!' These?" He waved his hand to encompass their surroundings. "Places like this? These shouldn't be their memorials, the lasting monuments to their hallowed race! No! There should be... there should be a slab of stone, a mile high! A fitting memorial for all to see! And I'd happily carve into it, by hand, the words: 'Stupid Ancients!'"

He stopped, breathing heavily. Nobody spoke. Rodney, who had stood up in his agitation, slumped back down to sit on the stairs.

"It's for climate modification," he said, in a small, weary voice. "It releases a highly-compressed form of methane, held by a forcefield, which bursts apart high in the atmosphere, sending smaller packages far and wide. Then their forcefields switch off, the methane sublimes and bingo, global warming."

John broke the heavy silence that followed Rodney's revelation.

"Global warming? So, um, what..." He struggled to see his way through the implications. "Why?"

Rodney shrugged. "They must have been heading for an ice age and thought, 'Natural fluctuations? We're too good for those!'" It was possible to eat a cracker sarcastically, John noticed.

"It's off now," said Ronon. "You fixed it."

"No!" said Rodney, bitterly. "Yes, I turned it off, no, I didn't fix it. It's been broken a long time, pumping out methane, ruining the climate, ruining it for... everyone."

John knew that Rodney was thinking about their friends, who they could now call the Montareans; he didn't feel like giving them an Ancient designation right now, though.

Teyla, sitting above Rodney, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Can we do anything to help?"

"I don't know," Rodney said, miserably. "I don't think so. I think it's too late."

oOo

The climate change machine switched off, they were no longer in any imminent danger from tremors, so the mission had lost a certain element of urgency. John let Rodney work for another hour after their meal, to try to find a solution to the global warming problem and to assess the risks of removing the ZPM. Then he called a halt, told his team to get a good night's sleep and that he'd take first watch.

John sat on the stairs, the main lights turned off, just the dim red-orange glow of the ZPM lighting the space. He sat, alone with his thoughts; his bleak thoughts, beginning with the damage that the Ancients had done to this world, this galaxy, and the impact it would have on their friends, and leading inevitably to his own feelings of guilt. The Ancients had clearly loved this place, in their own way, and had done their best to preserve and protect it, not just for themselves, but for the human inhabitants. They had seen the danger that the Wraith posed and attempted to create a race of guardians, in the form of the grenza; John considered the creatures' capabilities and decided that they must have been created before the Wraith developed beaming technology, or how could they have helped, even if they'd been inclined to? And, presumably, the Ancients' attempts at climate control had been made in a similar spirit of benevolence, and, John guessed, would have been successful if they hadn't been driven out of this galaxy by the Wraith. They could have switched off their toys before they left, though, he thought.

John recognised that his own actions had been, were always, carried out in the same spirit; with a drive to do the right thing, to help, to protect, to never, literally or metaphorically, leave anyone behind. And yet, look at the damage that he had caused. His insistence on that fateful first rescue mission where, at the cost of waking the Wraith and causing the deaths of thousands, hundreds of thousands, he had saved Teyla, along with the others captured at the same time. Of course, Colonel Sumner had died, by John's hand, and he wondered what would have happened had Sumner lived. Would he have led the military contingent on Atlantis more effectively than John? Made better decisions? Saved more lives? John felt the urge to make some kind of promise, a vow that he would never make the wrong decision again, that his actions would never lead to more harm, more deaths; but he knew he couldn't. The only thing that he could promise himself, that he had always promised himself, was that he would do his best; he would make the best decisions he could, based on the information available to him at the time. And he knew that, try as he might, risk his own life as he undoubtedly would, his best would never be good enough.

A movement, a rustle and Teyla climbed out of her sleeping bag and joined him, limping only slightly on her way. She sat down next to him.

"You have watched for long enough, John," she murmured. "You should sleep now."

"Not sure if I can."

Teyla massaged either side of her knee with her strong fingers.

"You are worried for this world, and for the friends we have made," she said. And then, in her usual intuitive manner, she guessed, "and you compare the Ancients' damaging actions to your own."

"Makes sense," he admitted.

"No, John, it does not," she responded, firmly. I know you blame yourself for much and I cannot tell you how to feel. But consider this: in each case, where you believe yourself to have failed, what would the alternative have been? How many have you saved? And how many would have died anyway, regardless of your actions? You are but one man in a galaxy, and you cannot take all its ills and injustices on yourself."

"No, just some of them."

Teyla shook her head and breathed out a long sigh. "Somewhere, John, there is a universe where you do not exist, or have been killed," she stated, baldly. "And that universe is a darker place than this, of that I am certain."

John felt the force of Teyla's words, and glanced sideways at her, seeing the conviction in her expression even in the dim, shadowy half-light.

"Now, you can rest," she directed, "because I am here."

It flashed across John's mind that Teyla sometimes reminded him of his mother and he quickly shied away from the thought, and was glad of the red glow from the ZPM that hid his embarrassment. I bet she knows, anyway, he thought.