Good News, Bad News
Sitting with Mum in the mess hall, I can't help but feel somewhat, self-conscious. It's not just that I'm in a wheelchair, in stark white scrubs, my hands shaking when I move to eat some of the small mountain of food in front of me. It's that I know the jumper landed, probably even before in fact, the rumor mills of Atlantis began to grind. Another wraith. Another queen dead. Another "rescued" wraith. Not a baby wraith, an adult wraith. Once the nursing shift changes, it will only get worse.
"Mairghread."
I glance up from my study of the speckle patterns in the mica on the table top to see Mum staring at me intently.
"Mum?" I feign innocence.
"Eat."
"Yes, Mother," I draw out with a smile, viciously stabbing an innocent pot sticker with my fork, studying it a moment to determine its edibility before I actually put it in my mouth. I think this looks like the work of Ming—in other words, definitely edible and probably tasty.
"Ah, I thought I'd find ye here," Dr. Beckett sits down across from me and Mum, surreptitiously catching a Clementine as it rolls off the small mountain of food on my tray in accordance with the laws of gravity. "There's good news and bad news. The good news is that yer brother does still have the eating gene, although a slightly weaker presentation than yours."
He tries to replace the orange fruit on my tray only to have it promptly roll off for him to catch again.
"There was any doubt?" I demand sharply. "You thought he might be lying?"
Dr. Beckett holds up his hands, one still clutching the fruit, placatingly.
"Nay, nay, not at all, lass," he soothes. "We were just a mite bit afraid that all that feeding and unfeeding the queen did might have diminished the long term effectiveness of yer father's serum." Failing once again to replace the small citrus orb on the mountain, Dr. Beckett settles for placing it next to the tray.
"I'm sorry," I apologize, relaxing from an aggressive stance I didn't know I had taken. "I didn't mean to jump down your throat. So," I pause. "That's the good news—no more feeding worries. What's the bad news?"
I regret asking the question as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Carson sighs heavily and leans forward, resting his arms on the tabletop. "We cannae feed him normally. We've started him on intravenous feeding tae help build up his strength, but you know as well as I do—"
"It's not a perfect substitute," I finish. In humans, long term intravenous feeding can lead to liver failure and a whole host of other complications—it's just not a natural way to receive nutrients. But for a wraith it means that only 70-80 of its energy and nutrients can be used. The rest is sacrificed to correcting the damage caused by the feeding itself. "Why can't you feed him? If he's not strong enough, why not a feeding tube?"
Again, Dr. Beckett sighs, pulling a PDA out of his pocket and sliding it across the table explaining as I pick it up and activate the screen. "As ye can see, the scans revealed a great deal of damage tae his gastrointestinal tract. It looks like he was repeatedly stabbed and the wounds healed improperly."
A pit opens in my chest and my heart falls through when I see what the scans revealed to Dr. Beckett. It is both the beauty and the horror of the Lantean scanner—unlike x-rays or even MRIs, which are two-dimensional and so lose something of the actual state of the being's interior that they represent, the images from the scanner though on a two-dimensional screen show a person in three and somehow can show its parts wind backwards and forwards in the body.
It does not take long for me to realize what Dr. Beckett knew, why Gilleasbachan couldn't eat. Instead of forming one, long tube, his stomach and intestines turn, connect at odd places, double back on themselves, a maze of smooth muscle daring any food it traps to ever find its way through.
I push the device back to Carson and begin peeling the errant clementine with trembling fingers just because I need something to do with my hands.
"So," I begin to section the poor fruit, making sure my voice sounds far more calm and steady than I feel. "What now? Where do we go from here?"If I were strong enough, I could perhaps try to heal him, but to rearrange incorrectly healed…
"Don't even think about it, luv," Dr. Beckett seems to read my thoughts. "No, as soon as he's strong enough from the feeding, we'll do surgery."
My heart disappears altogether in the pit. There is no concept of surgery among the wraith. Among queens, the closest they come is dissection, usually on live victims. I fear that this is one of the reasons that his internal organs have healed so badly. How can I explain to Gilleasbachan this alien concept of cutting a person open in order to heal them?
"How soon?" I swallow the lump in my throat, chasing it down to the pit of my stomach with if section of clementine.
"He should strong enough in about 8 hours, but we probably wont start surgery till tomorrow morning."
Over 20 hours. Time enough I hope to explain what will happen. But…
"Why the delay?"
"Well," Carson steals a section of my clementine, "Extra strength can't hurt but really, Dr. Biro and I only you want to open the thoracic cavity once, and there's a lot of damage that needs to be repaired—we want to have a good plan before we go in."
I nod, feeling myself slip into a state of shock. My brother is here, but terribly hurt. He's growing stronger, but I know the unspoken words of Dr. Beckett which hanging over us, that Gilleasbachan might die on the table.
"Hey, why aren't you in the infirmary?" Dad taps me on the shoulder as he sits down next to me, once again dressed in his brown linen and leather.
"Why aren't you?" I counter. "You were nearly drowned and Mum did give you a nasty knock."
"Don't need to," he answers shortly, popping a chicken nugget from his tray into his mouth. "You, on the other hand…"
"I'm fine," I tell him, flashing what I hope is a convincing smile. "Once I finish this mountain of food, I'll be better fed than when I set out yesterday morning."
"Aye, well," Dr. Beckett stands up. "Be that as it may, I want ye back in the infirmary when ye're done."
I give him an exaggerated, exasperated sigh. "Fine," I glance at my scrubs distastefully. " But can I go back to my quarters first, change into some real clothes?" I give my best try for the "sad puppy dog look" which seems to get John anything he wants, but I'm told that in my case, the blue skin and cat-like eyes works rather against it.
Carson smiles indulgently, as if willing to excuse my slight rudeness on the difficulty of the past 40 hours.
"Aye, but don't dawdle," he cautions in mock severety.
"Of course," I give a sweet smile (which I am told is somewhat ruined by my not-so-round teeth. They are not serated like the queens, just a little sharper with slightly large canines. Come to think of it, most 'cute' human expressions fail miserably for me. Perhaps I would be better off sticking with 'mysterious and Mona Lisa-esque enigmatic')
"In the mean time, why don't ye take yer lunch out tae the balcony?" Carson suggests as he rises to leave. " 'Tis a lovely day, and ye could use the sun."
"I believe that is an excellent idea," Mum rises, picking up my tray. "A bit of sunlight would be beneficial to us all."
No one objects—we all feel it, the need for fresh air and sunlight after hours on the platform. Dad gathers up his own heaped tray as Carson negotiates my wheelchair through the crowded mess hall out to the nearest balcony.
It is getting into late fall for the Lantean planet. The prevailing winds are from the north-west, bringing cool, damp air with the first taste of winter on them. The sunlight is golden and clear, still warming the stone balcony despite the winds. The sky is beautifully blue and cloudless and I am comforted simply because it is there. In a day of discoveries and trials and horrors, something familiar and easy and lovely.
"Don't be too long now," Dr. Beckett reminds me before his face softens and he squeezes my shoulder gently. "Do nae worry, luv. He'll be alright. Ye'll see."
"Thank you, Carson," I squeeze his hand back, before once again addressing myself to the mountain of food which Mum places net to me on a small table.
"Hey Mairghread, eat," Dad commands me as he sets down his own tray on the balcony ledge and leans himself against it to continue his meal.
"Or else?" I prod, feeling the need to have some fun and lightness in this dark and heavy day. Days. It was yesterday that this all started. It has been a very long two days.
"Or else I'll make you do a training session with the new marines," he offers me his 'patented' feral grin.
"No! No!" I cry out dramatically and throw one of the stranger fruits on my tray at his head. Dad, of course, catches it deftly and bites through the thick skin and into the juicy flesh. "Not green marines!"
"Yes!" he growls and runs at me, scooping me out of the wheelchair and spinning me around till he has me over the railing, prevented from falling only by the grace of his strong arms.
"Wanna go for a swim?" Dad asks me, a playful look in his eye.
"Ronon, put her down. She needs to eat," Mum intercedes, but we're having too much fun to listen to the voice of reason.
"No! No! put me down!" I giggle like a little girl, trying to reach him and tickle him so he'll let me go. There's only one spot…
"Put you down? Okay," he tosses me lightly into the air before catching me again. I scream and laugh and hit his arms ineffectively.
"No, put me on the balcony, ya great lump!" I demand through my uncontrollable laughter.
Dad sighs dramatically before laying me down on the balcony like a rug. "Fine." He says defeatedly before he starts tickling me mercilessly.
"No! No! hehehe No! Stop! Stop it!" I shriek breathlessly, futilely reaching for where his jaw meets his neck—his one ticklish spot.
"Oh no you don't," he growls, pushing my hands away and rearing back while continuing to tickle me. Damn his long arms!
"Enough!" Mum steps in, more or less pulling Dad off me. I can't stop giggling though, even as I push myself up on my elbows and then sit cross legged.
It feels so good. Laughing, playing, forgetting obligations, worries, half-finished projects and finished failures. Just relaxing, simply being with family.
How long has it been since Gilleasbachan was able to do this? To laugh? To play? To be care-free for even a moment? To have fun?
Over ten thousand years.
Will he ever be able to? Will he ever be healed enough to stop outside? To have a tickle fight? Physically, maybe. Psychologically? Spiritually?
"Mairghread?"
Mum's voice cuts through my thoughts and I shake myself.
"Hmm? Sorry, just thinking," I pick myself off the balcony and grab a banana off Dad's tray. "Um, I'm gonna head back to my room and change before I go back to be with Gilleasbachan."
"You should eat more," Mum tells me, gesturing to my still full tray. I sigh and pick it up to take with me, despite the fact that I feel fine and my stomach is fit to burst.
"Fine," I acquiesce, but feel I have to add, "But I'm really alright now. I don't need to eat more."
Mum gives me a look that is at once disbelieving and says "humor me". Dad seems to wonder where he went wrong—always take food when its offered. Dad has never quite got over the years of near starvation as a runner, the times of feast(rare) and famine(common).
Back in my room, I set the tray on my desk before I head into my bathroom to take a shower. I strip off the scrubs, folding them neatly to return to the infirmary. I know there's no real need to fold them—they'll just be dumped in the laundry to be bleached—but some habits are hard to break.
I take a quick shower, nothing like my dermis-scalding shower on the station, just enough soap and water to wash off the stickiness from the EKG pads and IV tape and the thin layer that the infirmary seems to deposit on all its visitors.
I step out, dripping wet, realizing I left my towel on the rack across the room. However, I get caught by the image of my own reflection in the mirror. I turn slowly to study myself, a sudden fascination with my body now that I have seen another wraith body in the flesh.
Pale blue-green skin, smooth, nearly flawless except for countless needle scars on my arm, and the jagged, pearlescent scar which snakes across my left breast and my sternum, the reminder of the marine who thought that no wraith deserved to live, innocent or not. Soft curves from neck to ankles, slender but not thin. Hip-length, raven-black hair which seems to shimmer with blues and greens in the sunlight. Large, almondish, green, cat-pupilled eyes set above high cheek bones and slight facial slits, my mother's six-pointed star tattoo on my temple, akin to the asterix symbol on earth computers.
My brothers skin is covered with pearlescent scars and raw, open wounds. He is angular, bony, starved. Too thin, skeletal. Roughly shorn hair, black like mine except for the silvering temples. Eyes like mine, but tired, so tired.
I towel off quickly, dressing in a soft white shirt and a rosy pink dress. My limbs are stiff, so it takes longer than usual to do up the lacing in the back but I am determined that Gilleasbachan should never have to see anyone like the queen again. I must to my best to be the antithesis to her—dress in soft, bright colors. I comb out my hair, but other than to pull back some of it out of my face with a barrette, I don't really bother with it, now I need to be with my brother.
I need to go past the Control Room to get to the Infirmary from my quarters, and as I pass, I can't help but over hear a loud commotion—it sounds like Dr. Weir is yelling at someone. There was a scheduled check in, today, I seem to remember, but what on earth, literally, is getting her so upset?
Curiosity has always been one of my faults or virtues, depending on who you ask, so I peek my head through one of the more distant doors.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Weir, but the IOA's decision is final," General Landry is telling her over the screen.
"They can't just decide that they don't like me anymore!" Dr. Weir is angrier than I have ever seen her—her face is red and she seems to be on the verge of screaming. "Why are they doing this?!"
"Elizabeth," the General looks tired and very much like he would rather not be doing this today, "Do you really want to discuss this here?"
"Yes, yes I do," she snaps back, just barely maintaining her composure. "What reasons do they give?"
"Mairghread."
I jump to see Kate Heightmeyer standing behind me, a look of…regret?...on her face.
"Come on," she whispers, gently pulling me away towards the infirmary. "You don't want to see this."
We walk down the hall for a bit before I have the courage to ask, "What's happening?"
Kate sighs. Everyone seems to be sighing today. "The IOA is recalling Dr. Weir to earth. They have some…concerns."
I want to pry deeper, but I don't think I would get very far. I'm better off listening to the kitchen and laundry room talk for information. People forget that my hearing is many times better than theirs is. Instead I ask a more pressing and troubling question. "Who will replace her?"
"I'm not sure. I'm sure that we will be told as soon as it's finalized," she replies, somewhat evasively. I sense that she had something to do with Dr. Weir's recall. Everyone has noticed how…jumpy Dr. Weir has become, easily antagonized. Kate must have noticed it even more when Dr. Weir let down her guard in her mandatory sessions. Abruptly, she changes topics. "So, can you tell me anything about your brother? Dr. Beckett called me for a preliminary psych eval. He said that your brother had been a queen's slave for 10,000 years?"
"Or more," I reply bitterly. "Time as measured in years becomes slightly pointless after a certain point."
"I suppose it would," she agrees sadly, guiding me out onto a balcony. "Dr. Beckett said your brother's name was Gilleasbachan, right?" She stumbles slightly over the strange name and grimaces faintly. "Did I pronounce that correctly? I admit between Dr. Beckett's accent and the radio static I couldn't be sure."
"You pronounced it fine," I affirm. "But you can call him 'Gil'—the rest of family often did."
She smiles encouragingly as we walk over to stand by the railing. "That's very good to know. A large part of your brother's healing will be making him feel safe and at home here with you. His time with the queen will probably have shattered his sense of safety and possibly his sense of trust for anyone. We're all going to have to help him see that there is life that can still be lived," she tells me. "Anything you can remember him liking before his capture? Any games, a kind of food, a particular smell or type of music? Anything he might associate with home and safety?"
I close my eyes, delving into the memories of my father and myself for such things. Images of games played with light balls tossed back and forth or kicked around; games played with rolling hoops, courts drawn in the dust; games of chase played out in the water.
"Water games," I say, my eyes still closed to hold onto the memories of the hive. "Um, similar to your game of 'Marco Polo'."
"Good," I hear her jot it down on her tab let. "That should play beautifully into his physical therapy as well. What about food? Smells?"
Meals prepared by Mathair or by the whole hive-roasted vegetables, flat breads baked on stones by an open hearth, thick meat stews, honey-sweetened cakes…
"Um, home-y food. Stews. Roasted things." A memory pushes itself to the forefront and I smile. "Anything sweet. Mathair said every tooth in his head was a sweet tooth."
I open my eyes and Kate smiles encouragingly at me before she jots it down.
"That's something. That's very helpful," she assures me. "And with so many sweet-junkies on Atlantis, I'm sure we can find something your brother likes without too much trouble." She puts her tablet away. "Mairghread, you know that I'm here for you too. If you need someone to talk to, my door is always open, anytime of the day or night."
"I know," I reply simply, staring out to sea. "Thank you."
A Heavy silence falls between us. The wind blows cold across my face, making the damp spots on my clothes left by my wet hair feel like ice and I shiver.
I can only hope and pray to whoever and whatever will listen that the mind healer I am willing to search the universe for resides down the hall from me.
TBC
A/N: thank you for your patience and reviews! This chapter is somewhat longer, and more developments are on the horizon. And yes, Dr. Weir is going. To anyone who would have liked to see her stay, I'm sorry. As to who will replace her, stay tuned! Sorry this is not an action-y chapter, but the characters simply demanded a short playtime. Please let me know what you think!