Reliquary

Chapter Nine

After the heat of the plain, the cool air of Atlantis was a mild shock. They walked into a ’gate room that was lit only by low-level emergency lights and the wormhole’s watery blue glow, the late afternoon sun muted by the colored window insets. The Stargate was playing a loud surrealist concert in John’s head, and he hadn’t stepped into a darkened ’gate room since they had first found Atlantis resting on the bottom of its alien ocean, just before the city had come alive to welcome him and the others who had the Ancient gene. The large space would be oppressively dim to normal human eyes, but John could see and recognize the figures standing on the gallery level.

There were a dozen or more Koan up there, as well as Ford, Benson, Kinjo, Parker, and Yamato, all with P-90s, all of whom must be under Dorane’s control. That really wasn’t good. But Dorane still stood beside the dialing console, and he couldn’t control anybody if he was dead. John pulled off the sunglasses, meaning to disguise the motion of raising the pistol; he stopped just in time.

Though he couldn’t see it, there was a little harmonic of active Ancient technology, announcing its presence right in the center of Dorane’s chest. Oh, crap, John thought, sick, his hand tightening on the pistol’s grip. Apparently Plan B was worse than we thought. He kept the pistol at his side.

Managing to talk without moving his lips, Rodney said, “Why aren’t you shooting him?”

Teeth gritted, John replied the same way. “Because he’s wearing a personal shield.”

“Oh, God,” Rodney said aloud.

“Shut up,” John snarled at him, making it loud enough to hear up in the gallery. All they had between them and being shot by their own people was convincing Dorane. And John had just recalled that McKay, like most people with minimal filtering between brain and mouth, was kind of a lousy liar. “Seriously,” he added, hoping McKay got it. McKay looked righteously offended, so John could only hope he had.

John heard the Stargate make a low bass groan right before it shut down. The wormhole popped out of existence, plunging the ’gate room into another level of shadow. In its absence John could hear whispers and echoes in the crystals and conduits, murmurs under the floor, in the walls, stretching up into the sealed jumper bay above the room. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t intrusive, but it made his skin crawl like a constant low-level electric charge. In a way, it was a relief. If Atlantis’ ATA had sounded anything like the repository’s screaming and dissonance, John would have been out of his head before he got ten feet away from the Stargate. But still, he had the feeling this wasn’t right. I really, really don’t think the ATA gene is supposed to work this way.

Dorane was coming down the steps from the gallery, dressed now in a loose gray jacket and pants. It might just be John’s altered eyesight, but he looked different. The flesh around his eyes was sunken and his cheeks were hollow, as if he had aged another decade in the past day. It might be some kind of delayed effect of the stasis container.

John could see Peter Grodin up at the dialing console, watching anxiously. It was Ford who was covering Grodin with a P-90, and that was just weird. Ford’s face was blank, his eyes on Grodin. He hadn’t looked down at the Stargate, at John and McKay standing on the embarkation floor. It suddenly occurred to John that they had been assuming the people who were infected with the mind control would get over it, either with help or on their own, and they had no guarantee of that. The empty expression on Ford’s face made John wonder what it did to your mind, your brain, if there was permanent damage.

Dorane stopped at the base of the stairs, watching them with that thoughtful absence of emotion. Carson Beckett probably felt more in common with his lab mice than Dorane did with his experimental subjects; he certainly treated them better. “I’m surprised you trusted me to open the force shield,” Dorane said. He made no signal, but several Koan followed him down from the gallery, moving fluidly in the half-light. Most of them were armed now with pistols or P-90s. John wondered what their learning curve was, how many of them had accidentally or on purpose shot each other so far.

“I didn’t have to trust you,” John told him, “The Stargate said it was open.” Dorane must know John could hear the bastard version of the ATA gene that the repository was saturated with; John just wasn’t sure if he knew about the side effect on the real ATA gene. And it was easier to sound crazy if he could just stick with the truth and not have to make things up.

Dorane’s gaze flicked to the Stargate, but he didn’t argue. He said, “Then demonstrate trust by giving up your weapon.”

John could see from here that the personal shield, a small crystal device that rested on the chest, was concealed by a fold of Dorane’s jacket. If John hadn’t had the new sensitivity to the Ancient technology, he wouldn’t have known it was there and would have blown what little cover they had. So giving me a clear shot at him was a test. Maybe Dorane really did need them here for some reason, which seemed to indicate they might survive longer than the five minutes that was John’s original estimate. He grabbed McKay’s arm, dragging him forward, while McKay helped by saying, “Ow,” a lot and trying to look more beat up than he actually was.

The Koan shifted forward, blocking the way, their dark eyes alert and steady. They looked far less twitchy, and somehow even more dangerous here than they had in the tunnels under the repository. John would have thought being removed from the place might have made them less susceptible to Dorane’s control, but it just seemed to have solidified it.

John said, “Hi, guys. Miss me?” He ejected the clip and laid both it and the 9mm on the floor. It wasn’t like the gun was going to do them any good anyway. The shield made Dorane invulnerable, creating an impervious body-hugging force field. He must have brought it with him; they had only found one in Atlantis, which had initialized to McKay so no one else could use it. Then the Darkness creature had sucked the energy out of it when McKay was trying to get it out through the ’gate, and the shield had never worked since.

Dorane’s expression was impenetrable. “Search them.”

John submitted to being awkwardly patted down by the Koan, though the one doing him growled the entire time, making it clear it would much rather be disemboweling him. When they stepped back, empty-handed, Dorane said, “Very good,” and didn’t order anybody to shoot. He turned away, starting back up the steps to the control gallery. The Koan gestured with their weapons and John and McKay followed.

Seeing Dorane in control of their ’gate room, was painful in a way John hadn’t expected. He had never been part of the SGC; this was a Pegasus Galaxy thing, where access to a Stargate was to be protected at all cost, at any cost. Wraith might come through the ’gates, but mostly they came from the air, and controlling your ’gate meant survival.

McKay asked tightly, “What did you do with the rest of the people who were stationed in this area?”

It was the question John had been trying to think of a way to ask without wrecking his act. Dorane glanced back with mild interest. “They are being held in a secure room on the level below. Your leader Weir was very sympathetic to my people’s plight, and obligingly sent two gateships back for them. Teyla and Kinjo accompanied them, and by the time they landed to pick up the Koan, the majority of each crew, besides the pilots, of course, were mine.”

The pilots would have had the Ancient gene or the ATA therapy. John hoped they were both still alive. “And so you’re moving in permanently?” he asked. He threw a look at Ford where he stood like a statue on the gallery, guarding Grodin.

Dorane laughed. “Of course not. Without full power, this city is ridiculously vulnerable to the Wraith. It’s fit only for scavengers, now.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” John said, giving Rodney, whose mouth was open, a chance to think twice and shut it.

Dorane reached the gallery and stopped to look directly at McKay. Private Benson came to stand at his side, his expression dull-eyed and blank. Dorane said, “Some of your people have managed to fortify one of the levels lower down in this section. The doors are sealed, the transporters refuse access, and I can’t convince the city systems to give me control.”

That’s a relief. John was betting it was the area around the medical lab, which was in one of the most defensible sections of the city’s center and a designated point of retreat if the operations tower became compromised. Which meant, if they were lucky, Dorane hadn’t found and killed Beckett, who was the strongest natural Ancient gene carrier next to John. He doubted Dorane had managed to trap the entire expedition. If the group holding the medlab had been able to raise any kind of alarm, there were probably people who had escaped to go to ground in the remote parts of the city. But even if they couldn’t be found, they were still trapped. There was no way off Atlantis other than the Stargate or a jumper, and the mainland was too far away to reach except by air. Hopefully Dorane hadn’t had time to send anybody there to mess with the Athosians yet.

Dorane was still eyeing McKay with thoughtful deliberation. Rodney said grimly, “I don’t know yet if anyone has told you about my various allergies, but if you use any of your freakish retroviruses on me, I’ll probably just fall over dead.” He managed to sound as though he was sort of looking forward to it.

Dorane countered, “But it might just make for a more interesting — if brief — experiment.”

John shook his head and stared at the ceiling. See, this is why I told you to shut up, Rodney. McKay did a little uncomfortable twitch, but lifted his chin and snapped, “Would it be more or less brief than getting shot?”

Dorane didn’t bother to answer that one. “Are you willing to help remove the naquadah generators for transport back to the repository in exchange for your life — for the moment? Dr. Kavanagh has explained how the generators are tied in to the original power systems, but he admits that they are dangerous devices, and that as you installed them, you are better qualified to remove them.”

The naquadah generators? John thought, eyes narrowing. He’s serious — he really is going back there. McKay looked as if he had been asked to remove his own kidney with a spoon, but he said, “Oh right, as if I have any choice.”

Dorane inclined his head, apparently taking that for acceptance. “If you complete that successfully, perhaps I will need you for a longer time.”

“You’ve been here before, after the Ancients left,” John said, interrupting whatever McKay was about to reply. “Why didn’t you take the ZPMs? You could have gotten through the ’gate with at least two of them without collapsing the city shields.”

“I had no need for them at that point. I had given up.” Dorane’s eyes fixed on John. He said, with an eerie lack of inflection, “Your people have given me new hope.” His expression shifted and he almost smiled. “And you seem to have done an excellent job of reviving the city of your forebears. Except of course for the essential defensive elements. I’m certain the Lantians would be delighted that their children have made such good use of their legacy. And that those children will be of such help to me.”

It wasn’t comforting to know that their speculation had been correct; Dorane didn’t want the city, he wanted the people in it. John said, “Yeah, it’s too bad they aren’t here to see it. Of course if they were, they’d probably be killing you right about now. Too bad they didn’t take care of that earlier.” He showed his teeth in something that wasn’t a smile. He could feel McKay glaring at him, but he was supposed to be crazy, so he didn’t think a lot of hostility was out of place.

“I’m sure they felt their punishment was effective.” Dorane turned, starting down the gallery, telling John, “Come with me.”

John followed, Benson trailing behind him, obviously as insurance he didn’t change his mind.

McKay started to follow, but a Koan blocked his way. John glanced back over his shoulder, keeping his expression noncommittal. McKay managed to glare and look frightened at the same time. John didn’t like the idea of being separated either, but he didn’t see any way to prevent it.

Dorane led the way down to the conference room. The embossed panels were already open, allowing access into the room where the walls were all soft metallics, with squares of copper, lapis, and turquoise. When Dorane walked in and sat down at the table, John had that sudden feeling of violation you got when your house was robbed, that “unwelcome strangers touching your stuff” feeling. This was the room where they had briefings, yelled at each other, made plans, worried about overdue ’gate teams.

Laroque, one of the operations staff who worked with Grodin, was seated at the table already, an open laptop in front of her. The dead expression on her face told John that she had been given the control drug. She had a bruise on her cheek, and her dark hair had been pulled out of its usually scrupulously neat bun, as if someone had grabbed her by it. It provided John with an image of what might have happened on the control gallery, and he had to stop in the doorway and quell a violently homicidal impulse. Benson had a P-90 aimed at his back, and it wasn’t like the personal shield would let him rip Dorane’s throat out anyway.

Dorane regarded him for a moment with that chill calm, then gestured to another chair. As John dropped into it Dorane said, “There is another small pocket of resistance. They have not sealed themselves off as well as the others, but they are trapped, so there is not much point in attempting to extract them, at least for the moment. I have jammed your communication devices and had the Lantian com system taken offline, but I can speak to them through this technology.” He glanced at Laroque, and she used the laptop’s keyboard to call up a program.

John just had time to realize that the laptop must be set up for video conferencing when the screen flickered to a view of another room. Elizabeth was leaning on a table, turning her head to face the video feed. He heard a rustle as someone else moved just out of the camera’s range. It gave John an instant to brace himself. Elizabeth saw him and straightened. “John!” Then, staring, she asked uncertainly, “John?”

He didn’t answer her, on impulse slumping in the chair and avoiding her eyes like a sulky teenager. He knew he might not be able to resist trying to give her a signal of some kind, and Dorane would be watching for that. It was probably one of the reasons that he wanted this little confrontation.

“Your Major Sheppard is helping me now,” Dorane told her. He didn’t gloat, he just said it calmly, as though they were at a staff meeting talking about reassignments.

John could feel Elizabeth’s eyes boring into the side of his head. The laptop’s microphone picked up other people moving in the room, a startled murmur. John slumped a little further in the chair. He hoped she had Bates with her, and at least a couple of men from the Marine security detail. He realized his claws were out; there had to be some sort of impulse-control mechanism there that he just hadn’t mastered yet. She asked quietly, “What did you do to him?”

Dorane gestured, as if the answer was obvious. “Just a successful experiment.”

John slanted a look at her in time to see her expression harden. Behind her he could see blue-gray wall panels with silver trim, but that didn’t narrow it down enough to tell him which room it was. She asked, “Is Dr. McKay alive as well?”

“As long as he is useful.” Dorane leaned forward, sounding reasonable. “This can all be solved in a very simple way. You have something I want. If you give it to me, I will leave you in peace.”

John didn’t think there was any way Elizabeth would buy it, but just in case he looked at Dorane, brows lifted in incredulous amusement. He considered bursting into laughter but decided he should hold onto that until later.

Elizabeth smiled thinly, making it clear she was humoring Dorane. “And what would that be?”

“The memory core of the display chamber you found recently. Your people spoke to me of it, that you managed to make it play a portion of the display, and found the ’gate address for the athenaeum there. I have been to the chamber, but the memory has been removed.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” Elizabeth eyed him. “Why do you want it?”

Good question, John thought, keeping the surprise off his face. He wouldn’t have guessed that the display held any information that Dorane didn’t already have.

“It contains data that is useless to you, but important to me. I’ve tried to retrieve it before. After the Lantians departed, I had to destroy two subspace power sources in order to make my crippled dialing device work, to come here searching for it. I found the display, but I thought it damaged beyond hope.”

Elizabeth’s brows drew together, and John knew she didn’t understand. He didn’t either. He came to the city just to look for the display, and when he found it was broken he didn’t trash the place, didn’t go anywhere else through the ’gate, he just gave up and went home. Okay, that…doesn’t make sense. Elizabeth asked, “If you’ve come here before, why didn’t you escape through our Stargate to another world? You could’ve taken a jumper—”

Dorane spread his hands. “Woman, escape from what? I have always been exactly where I wanted to be. I would not stay in this city for any reason; its atmosphere is inimical to me. I need to stay at my athenaeum.” He showed faint exasperation. “Now the only reason to remove the memory core was to try to read the damaged portion. Tell me which of your people would do that.”

Zelenka, John thought. He must have removed the core after they left, to keep working on it in case there were maps or structural information that they could have used. Elizabeth said, “I have no idea. No one was assigned to work on that.”

“I hate waste, but I will begin killing your people if I do not get a satisfactory answer.” Dorane regarded her steadily.

Dorane must have already asked the personnel he had under his control, who would have had no choice but to answer. But unless Zelenka had mentioned it to some of the other scientists and techs, they might not realize he had been with John and McKay when they found the thing. Except Ford. Ford knows Zelenka’s the most likely candidate. And Ford knows I know. John said, “I bet I can guess who has it.”

Dorane shifted, lifting his brows. “And?”

“And it’s Dr. Zelenka, but you already know that from questioning the others.” He tilted his head toward Benson. “I’m guessing what you really want to know is where he is.”

From the screen, Elizabeth said sharply, “John, don’t—”

Dorane motioned to Laroque, and she cut the video. He turned to face John directly.

John said, “He’s down in the medlab, keeping you out of the computer system.” Elizabeth wouldn’t have been as worried if Zelenka was holed up with her. “You’ve cut off access to Atlantis’ com system and you’re jamming our radio traffic, so they won’t know about me. I can get in there and talk them into giving me the memory core.”

Dorane lifted his brows. “I thought you said that they would no longer trust you, or consider you one of them, after your transformation?”

Crap. John hesitated for a half a heartbeat, then remembered just in time that he was supposed to be crazy and crazy people believed contradictory things all the time; he shouldn’t be trying to come up with an elaborate rationalization here. He made himself look confused, and gave Dorane his best “I said what?” expression.

It worked. Dorane’s eyes went hooded. “Very well. I suppose it will be quicker than waiting until they starve.” He leaned back in his chair. “The Koan will follow you to the first obstructed passage.”

On the control gallery, the Koan guards, who seemed more in charge here than the Atlantis personnel Dorane had under his control, let Peter Grodin untie Rodney’s hands. Squinting in the dim light, Rodney eyed him suspiciously. Kavanagh had behaved normally, or at least in a Kavanagh-like fashion, for a long period after being infected. “Why didn’t he give you the control drug?”

Grodin threw a grim look at Ford. “He wanted someone to operate the equipment up here. As far as I can tell, he can’t allow an infected individual enough initiative to perform any kind of complicated task without losing control over them. Unfortunately, ‘stand here and shoot anyone who disobeys orders’ isn’t a complicated task.”

“Well, that’s just fantastic.” Rodney sat down at one of the locked stations, rubbing his eyes. It explained why Dorane needed Rodney to disconnect the naquadah generators. He hadn’t maintained that strict control over Kavanagh initially, but the first order he must have given was for Kavanagh to forget anything out of the ordinary had happened. That kind of loose control wouldn’t work on people who were dismantling Atlantis’ power grid.

Grodin said quietly, “He tried to initialize some of the other consoles, the ones we haven’t been able to make work, but he couldn’t. Is—”

One of the Koan came and stood over them, glaring suspiciously, but after that Grodin kept trying to catch Rodney’s eye, until Rodney turned and gave him the “oh my God, will you stop that” glare. Ford, his head still bandaged from the blow Kavanagh had given him, stood nearby watching them completely without expression, like some alien pod-person replica of the real man. Rodney had no idea whether Ford would be compelled to volunteer information to Dorane or not, but he didn’t want to take the chance.

“McKay,” Grodin whispered.

“Not now,” Rodney said through gritted teeth.

Grodin persisted, “Sergeant Stackhouse’s team has been on that three-day trading mission to the Enarians. They’re due back later tonight—”

Rodney interrupted, “He’ll order you to open the force field. You won’t have to kill them.” Though if we don’t get out of this, they may not thank you for that later.

“How do you—”

“He doesn’t want them dead. That’s what, six more bodies for his experiment? Markham’s with them, so that’s one more Ancient gene carrier to torture.”

Grodin hesitated, watching Rodney uncertainly. “What did he do to Sheppard?”

“What did it look like?” Rodney snapped. He was desperately afraid of giving something away, and starting to have flashbacks to the Genii and Kolya’s occupation of the city. Not to mention the sour stomach and a pounding in his left temple that signaled the incipient arrival of a headache from hell.

He finally saw Sheppard and Dorane emerge from the conference room, the Koan and Benson following. The tight pain between Rodney’s shoulderblades eased just a little. He realized he had been waiting for the sound of gunfire.

Sheppard swept the gallery with one tight glance, giving nothing away, then went down toward the center stairwell without glancing back, the two Koan following him like well-trained attack dogs at heel.

Rodney swallowed in a dry throat, craning his neck until Sheppard was out of sight. Great, great, great. I have no clue what we’re doing. Or if Sheppard had a clue what they were doing. In the shadows of the gallery it was impossible to tell if he looked any worse. In the bright sunlight before stepping through the ’gate, he had already looked drawn and obviously ill. Sheppard had always seemed as if he was nothing but bone and muscle, but in the last few hours Rodney was willing to swear the man had actually lost weight.

“You are concerned for him?” Dorane asked, and Rodney realized with a start that he had been watching him. Dorane strolled down the gallery toward him. “He betrayed you.”

“Well, you know, that would really be your fault, wouldn’t it?” Rodney snapped, swiveling around to face him. “And can we just get back to threatening me? Because frankly I’m not comfortable discussing my personal relationships with you, considering how you’re planning to kill everyone I know.”

Dorane dismissed that with a slight shrug. “It will be interesting to see how long he survives.”

Rodney hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t fall for the bait but unable to stop himself. “What do you mean?”

Dorane watched Rodney, his eyes opaque. “The Lantian-descended Thesians I tested that particular strain on only lived for one or two days. But I understand that your people also have some degree of genetic variation from the prototypal Lantian stock, so that estimate may be unrealistic.” His voice hardened. “Now, let’s get started on your naquadah generators.”

Rodney stared at him, trying to tell if that was the truth or just another sick little lie. It was depressing enough to be the truth. His jaw set, he stood up. Dorane would be gauging the time by the rotation of the repository’s planet, and by that measure it had already been a full day since Sheppard was infected.

They didn’t have much time.

John took the central stairs down, ignoring the two Koan for now. Despite this minor victory, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Plan B was still circling the drain. The problem was that Dorane really, really liked playing with people, and he had a tremendous amount of experience at it. John could too readily imagine that Dorane was playing both him and McKay, making them think they were fooling him.

But he obviously wanted that memory core very badly, badly enough to risk letting John run loose around the city to get it.

They had speculated that all the Ancients’ tinkering with the Stargate had been a cat and mouse game to force Dorane to give up something. If all he gave up was information… what’s the point in getting it back? But if there was something else there, something the Ancients might have recorded on the core that Dorane needed, or at least thought he needed, maybe to keep his experiments going… Since he now had a new pool of human DNA to meddle with, he would be all the more anxious to get it.

John paused on the next landing, getting a view down the corridor. There was a room down there that was used for big meetings and science team conferences. It had one door and had always looked as if it would be relatively easy to secure. And yes, there were at least six Koan and four dead-eyed Marines stationed outside it. That had to be where Dorane was keeping the rest of the operations staff and the other expedition members he had managed to capture.

John eyed the corridor, considering it. Dorane had basically tried to hand them a scenario where John would have to kill half the Marines to save the rest of the expedition. But John had no plans to take him up on that one. Though it was really starting to worry him that he hadn’t seen Teyla yet. He had expected to find her guarding the prisoners.

The Koan growled, and John moved on.

The lights were dimmed through every section they passed, the green bubble pillars motionless and silent. A few levels down in an open foyer, another group of Koan were gathered around the sealed door to the medlab corridor. They growled, glaring at John, but apparently they had gotten the word to let him through. He pushed past them, pretending to ignore the claws and bared teeth and the inexpertly held guns. As he reached the door, it slid open without waiting for him to touch the control, invitingly undefended. It revealed the long corridor that accessed most of the labs and work areas on this level, the walls decorated with copper bands enclosing squares of soft metallic grays and blues. The Koan hung back uneasily.

The half-light was like daylight to John’s altered eyes, and he could see there were six dead Koan scattered at various points down the hallway. It was probably lucky that Dorane was using the Koan for cannon fodder so far, obviously meaning to save expedition personnel for experiments.

John took a long step forward and, without glancing back, said, “Bye, guys,” and told the door to close.

It slid shut, leaving the Koan on the other side.

He studied the corridor again, making out a wet area about midway along, and something further down that looked like a car battery that had been blasted to bits with gunfire. John would bet that the car battery object was a decoy; this corridor had been booby-trapped by desperate and frightened men and women, some of whom had been able to build atomic bombs by the time they were twelve. There was no way he was going down there, not even in rubber-soled boots.

Maybe that was the game Dorane was playing; he had sent John down here to be accidentally killed by his own people.

John turned left instead, taking the side corridor toward the outer ring of this section. He knew it would be easier to get to the medlab from the level above through some access passages in the floors, but he didn’t want the Koan to twig to that. Dorane obviously didn’t know about it, or he would have tried it by now.

Even though Dorane had lived here with the Ancients for a time, they had probably never had to send people to crawl around in the floors replacing fried crystal conduit, with Kavanagh and Simpson debating the right procedure and giving contradictory instructions via headset radio, with the added attractions of McKay berating them between bouts of claustrophobia and Miko having to be retrieved from where her pants had gotten caught on a support brace. The Ancients probably had robots or genetically-trained sea monkeys or something to do those little jobs for them.

The next doorway was quarantine-sealed and stubbornly refused to respond to the wall console or ATA coaxing, but John fiddled the crystals the way McKay had shown him. As the door started to slide open, John got the sunglasses on, wincing. Even though the sky was starting to redden into sunset, the glare off the water was still bright enough to blind him.

Outside, his back to Atlantica’s endless sea and the cool evening breeze ruffling his hair, John sized up the expanse of city wall looming above him. There were tiny little ledges and arching girders that formed a decorative roof over all the balconies. The open platform he thought he had remembered was there, up one level and over to the side. It was the “over to the side part” that was going to be tricky. It would have been crazy to try this without the claws; they would give him just enough extra purchase to make it possible. Sort of possible.

John stepped up on the railing, balancing easily. A long way down, waves washed up against the platforms and supports at the tower’s foot. He knew his own weight and the approximate distance down, so it was hard not to automatically calculate the velocity he would reach by the time he hit the base. Right. Here goes. He caught a handhold in the decorative embossing, and wedged a boot into the junction where the girder met the wall, and hauled himself up.