Secrets

Chapter Ten Acceptable Risks

Richard Woolsey eyed his Chief of Sciences expectantly. He was rather getting used to Dr. Zelenka as Chief of Sciences, and whether or not he would remain so on a permanent basis was as yet to be seen. Of course Dr. McKay might recover and return to work. It was possible. But Dick had spent far too many years auditing Stargate Command to feel that it was likely.

The first time he’d looked at the SGC’s files he’d been appalled. They were losing more men than a full combat brigade in Afghanistan, more KIAs and more permanent disabilities, with nothing to show for it except the vague goal of ’advancing human knowledge.’ That was unacceptable. A couple of dozen lives a year. A couple of dozen? For nothing that could be quantified, for no ground gained, no allies reinforced, no enemies captured? George Hammond was spending lives like water for aims that shifted and changed constantly. He was spending lives like he was at war.

Woolsey had always been suspicious of the undeclared war. Wars were meant to be conducted in the full light of day, with the sunshine of public scrutiny. That’s why the President could not declare war — it required a vote from Congress, a public declaration from those responsible to the American people. Of course, that had been thrown out the window in recent decades, with one ‘police action’ or ‘limited response’ after the other, Presidential detours around the fact that the public didn’t want war. Tens of thousands of men of his generation had died in a war that had never been declared.

Hammond was running his own war out of a basement in Colorado Springs, with subordinates who only vaguely seemed to acknowledge the authority of the United States government. O’Neill was a bronco, and he’d seen that before. Jackson was uncooperative to a degree that would have been insubordinate had he not been a civilian contractor, and Carter was hostile to a degree one step this side of charges. Reynolds stonewalled and Makepeace seemed to have the brains of a guard dog who had been kicked in the head, while the entire medical section cited patient confidentiality at every question. Retired General Carter couldn’t be found as he was apparently off in space, and their alien contractor, Teal’c, simply glared at him with a stony gaze. If the president hadn’t been in love with covert operations with cool names the entire place would have been shut down. But such was the tenor of the times. No one was asking too many questions in 2004.

Five years later everyone was asking a lot of questions. Unfortunately for him, as he now had to answer them, not ask them. Woolsey frowned at Zelenka, still waiting patiently. “And what do you see as the risks of this mission?”

“Minimal,” Zelenka said. He thrust his hands in his pockets. “There is no reason for us to go anywhere near the lower levels where Ronon’s team encountered the bears. Colonel Sheppard turned it down before because he thought it was a waste of time, not because he thought it was dangerous.”

Woolsey nodded thoughtfully. “And how long do you think this would take?”

“If the Hammond will beam us in, two hours, maybe three.” Zelenka shrugged. “There is either a ZPM there or there is not. If there is, it is the work of ten minutes to pull it. If there is not, there is no need for further action.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “If there is the remote chance of finding a ZPM, it is worth the minimal expenditure of time.”

It occurred to Woolsey that Zelenka was better at selling him on things than McKay. Possibly because it had dawned on Zelenka that the way to persuade people was to address their objections, not drown them in technobabble.

“All right, Dr. Zelenka,” Woolsey said. “I’ll query Colonel Carter and see if she would be gracious enough to beam you in. If so, I see no reason this isn’t worth a couple of hours.”

Ember looked around the striated walls of his own lab, grateful once again to be safe aboard his proper hive. He had come here a refugee, but Queen Steelflower’s law was to welcome a stranger’s talents no matter what his lineage — unless he proved himself an enemy, and Bonewhite and Guide had dealt aggressively with the very few who had tried to take advantage of her generosity. And now that he had seen her himself… He could not repress a sigh. Death was perhaps more beautiful, taller, finer-boned, and Steelflower was barely out of her adolescence, but already she carried herself like one of the First Mothers. A cleverman did not aspire, could not aspire, but — if she had wished to taste his life, he would have bared his chest and begged for her touch. A true queen, a queen of queens, indeed.

And a queen with a cleverman’s appreciation of possibilities. While he had played Guide’s triple game with Death, she had brought a Lantean scientist to Guide, and the three of them together had opened up an almost frightening range of possibilities. If one could feed on humans without killing them — well, what then? They would not need to tempt the Lanteans’ wrath, seeking their homeworld; the Lanteans in turn would have no need to hunt them down, and they could maybe even join forces against Death’s fleet. Such an alliance would not last, but it might buy them time to repair and rebuild their hives, and then — well, then there would be the familiar cycle of Culling, the constant hunt for those humans who had developed technology that might allow them to fight the Wraith on their own ground. Perhaps the Lanteans would be slower to trade such knowledge, if they knew it brought only retribution? It was hard to know.

The first retrovirus had failed, but it had promise. He could see that, reading over the notes and the formulae, watching the molecules turn and twine in the projection. Guide was more skilled than any blade he’d ever known — well, he was old enough, had had time to learn both the methods and their necessity — and the human had been working from a solid foundation. But this was what he was born for, his true talent, and he reached into the simulation, shifting the chemical traces slightly. A part of him wished Quicksilver could see: it had been a long few weeks, and he had grown tired of the changeling’s arrogance. The worst thing about it was that it was not unearned. He smiled at that, soothed by the familiar rhythm of his own work. Quicksilver was brilliant at the sciences physical, but this was purely science biological. There were very few who could match him in this.

He studied the new form, subcorporial bonds sparking incomplete, used familiar reagents to fill the spaces, bridge the gaps, and stabilize the compound. He could see why the human hadn’t chosen this path. There was more risk that it would incapacitate the subject for some period, but he thought it would make the necessary changes. The subjects would be sick for some days, and some would die, but the survivors would emerge protected from the worst of the enzyme. Indeed, it would bind with the new blood markers, suppress the flood of chemicals that ravaged the body. It would not be a pleasant process, but the subject should survive, and could be fed on again.

Of course, that was just the beginning. There were tests to be run, the precise dosages to determine — perhaps the retrovirus could, should, be tailored to each recipient? That might prevent or mitigate the illness, reduce the inevitable death rate. But the basic idea was, he thought, solid.

He shut down his equipment then, turned to the nearest screen to call up the ship’s status reports. The holds were nearly empty: they must be due to Cull soon, he thought, and laid his hand on a communications pad.

“I would speak with the Commander,” he said, and there was a moment of silence.

“He will see you,” a voice answered — Springgreen, who had taken over the commander’s household. “In one hour in his quarters.”

“Thank you,” Ember said.

One did not call on the Consort in any less than one’s best. He took time to bathe, to change his clothes and dress his hair properly, and presented himself at the entrance to Guide’s quarters precisely on time. The drone admitted him, and Guide lifted his eyes from the game table.

*So. You’ve made progress?*

Ember dipped his head. *I have.*

Guide gestured with his off hand. *Sit. And tell me.*

Ember did as he was told, settling the skirts of his coat in graceful folds. *I believe I have a variation of your work that is ready to test.* Quickly, he outlined the changes he had made, the direction he had taken the work, and Guide nodded.

*I see. What made you choose that path?*

Ember hesitated. *Forgive me, Commander,* he said at last, *but you were working with the human female. I do not think she would have agreed to the changes I have made. The risk to her kind is greater, though I believe the results to be assured.*

Guide smiled. *That is possible,* he said. *Still, this was as our queen wished.*

*And if our queen would have me do more to eliminate the side effects, I will most certainly do so,* Ember answered. *But I believe we should test this version as well.*

Guide looked down at the board, veiling his thoughts. The game was one of pattern and strategy and speed, one Ember knew well; he did not doubt that Guide was a master, and was not surprised to see all seven jewels in play. The game had reached a crucial stage, the forerunners embattled, the rearguard pressing on, and everything would depend on the next jewels to appear. Corundum, jet, and diamond were neutral, beryl would win all, aster would lose all, pearl and opal merely prolong the loss. Guide saw where he was looking, and smiled. He pressed the release, and the next sphere popped into play: beryl, glowing green. Guide placed it, and the pattern collapsed with a clatter of chimes, the gamble paying off a hundredfold. Ember bowed his head again, acknowledging the point.

*So what is it that you want?* Guide asked.

*We must Cull soon,* Ember said, and the commander nodded. *I would like to accompany the hunting party, and choose suitable subjects from among the humans. In addition to those we Cull, I would not deplete our stores.*

*Do so,* Guide said, after a moment. *It would be as well to have alternatives.*

*Thank you, Commander,* Ember said.

*We will reach Lymours in three days,* Guide said. *And Cull there. In the meantime…* He waved his off hand at the board. *Would you care to join me in a game?*

*I am honored,* Ember said, and bent his attention to the board.

John turned away from the sun and the soaring towers, sparkling as the ice melted in the noon light. It would freeze again by the end of the afternoon, a thin treacherous glaze, but at the moment it felt like a promise of better days. Or it had, until Teyla called. They’ve taken Rodney to surgery, she said, and that was pretty much all she knew. He reached for his laptop to check his schedule, saw it stretching empty into the afternoon. He’d been planning to get paperwork done, the endless round of emails and approvals that Lorne couldn’t handle, but the thought of retreating to his office to try to concentrate while Rodney was in surgery did not appeal. He wouldn’t get a damn thing done, and there wasn’t much point in pretending otherwise. Not when there really wasn’t anything important going on.

He found Ronon in one of the turret rooms that the scientists called aeries, high on the side of the tower and bumped out and angled so that the big window gave a view beyond the city’s edges. Some of the scientists had speculated that the rooms might have been watchposts, or even weapons emplacements, but John was pretty sure they were meant for exactly what Ronon was doing. The big man was folded into one of the padded Ancient chairs, his feet up on the window’s low sill and a book in his hand. The sun had warmed the still air, struck gold from the metal band woven into Ronon’s hair. Beyond him, the empty south pad was drying in the sun, and past its edge the sea stretched to the horizon, touched here and there with specks of white. The exact point where sky and sea met was hazed with fog.

“Ronon,” John started to say, but the other was already turning, looking up, his face sharpening.

“What’s wrong?”

For a second, John was tempted to deny it, but he knew Ronon wouldn’t believe him. Why else would he hunt him down in person rather than use the radio, if something wasn’t wrong?

“Rodney’s in surgery,” he said.

“What happened?” Ronon asked, after a moment. The book was still open on his lap, an accordion-like spill of paper between wooden covers. It had to be Satedan, John thought, irrelevantly, and looked toward the sea.

“Apparently they need to take out what’s left of the feeding organ,” he said. He’d poked into the medical computers after Teyla called. “Carson and Dr. Keller were worried about infection.”

Ronon slowly folded the book back together. “I thought they were worried about doing too much to him. That his systems were too weak to mess with.”

“Yeah.” John bit his lip.

“This sucks,” Ronon said, conversationally, and John nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Keller said getting him back to normal wasn’t going to be easy.” Ronon’s voice was very quiet.

“Not so much,” John said.

There was another silence. Even Atlantis seemed to be holding its breath, not even the faint noise of the ventilators sounding in the little room. Ronon dug into his pockets, came out with what looked like a wide rubber band and slipped it around his book.

“Who’s doing the surgery?”

“Keller. With Carson.”

Ronon nodded, all his attention seemingly still on the book in his hands. “Did they say how long?”

John shook his head. “Look, I was thinking. Maybe Teyla would like some company. You know. While we’re waiting.”

“Yeah.” Ronon straightened. “Yeah, she might.”

Teyla had her bed pulled up to a sitting position, sat with her knees up frowning at a battered-looking paperback. She looked up at their approach, her expression easing a little.

“John. Ronon. There has been no news.”

“They say that’s good news,” John said, and seated himself on the foot of her bed. Ronon lowered himself cautiously onto a flimsy-looking plastic chair. It crackled, but held.

“How long as it been?” he asked.

Teyla didn’t need to look. “Not quite three hours.”

That didn’t sound good. John bit his lip to keep from saying anything stupid, and Ronon looked at his feet, his hair falling forward to hide his face.

“At least — maybe Keller was right.”

Teyla gave him a questioning look, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“About — when she let him feed.”

“I do not think they would have risked surgery otherwise,” Teyla said.

See? John wanted to say. Keller was right. But the point might be moot, and he didn’t feel like pushing it.

There was movement from the door, and all three of them turned sharply. It was only Jeannie, a paper cup of tea in her hand. John looked away, but Teyla beckoned to her.

“Jeannie. Join us if you wish.”

Jeannie gave them an automatic smile, but drifted closer. Ronon rose to his feet and pushed the chair in her direction. She took it with a tired nod, and he perched on the next bed.

“He’s still in surgery,” Jeannie said. “I couldn’t watch.”

“No one should expect you to,” Teyla exclaimed.

“I don’t think they really did,” Jeannie said. She paused. “Marie came out a while ago and said it was going well. It was just taking them a while to detach the various nerve connections.”

John flinched in spite of himself, and Ronon grimaced.

Teyla said, “Both Jennifer and Carson are excellent surgeons. Though I tell you something you already know.”

“I don’t mind hearing it again,” Jeannie said “I can’t help worrying.”

“Rodney would expect it,” John said, and Jeannie made a sound that might almost have been a laugh.

“He would, wouldn’t he? Oh, I’ve got a few things to say to him when he gets well.”

“Get in line,” John said.

“She is his sister, John,” Teyla said. “I believe that takes precedence.”

“Thank you,” Jeannie said.

“If you want me to hold him down for you, I will,” Ronon offered.

“I appreciate —” Jeannie began, and the door slid open again. Her breath caught, seeing Marie still in her scrubs, the mask dangling at her neck, and John swallowed a curse.

“Oh, Mrs. Miller,” Marie said. “I was looking for you. Rodney is out of surgery.”

John let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and Jeannie put her hand to her mouth. Teyla carefully closed her book, her face unreadable.

“Is —” Ronon began, and couldn’t finish.

“He came through beautifully,” Marie said. “Dr. Keller was able to remove the feeding organ intact, which minimizes the risk of infection or any other response to Wraith molecules, and she was able to preserve all of the nerves. That’s what was taking so long, making sure that there was no damage there. But it’s out, along with the vein, and his fever has already subsided considerably. Dr. Keller thinks he may be on the mend.”

Jeannie took a breath, tears welling, and John held out his arms. She rose to his awkward embrace, clung for a moment, her shoulders heaving, then pushed herself away.

“I’m all right,” she said. “Really.”

Marie nodded, touched her shoulder gently. “He’s back in isolation — it’s still safer for him there — but he should be waking up soon. Would you —”

“Yes,” Jeannie said, firmly. “I’d like to be there.” She looked at the others. “You should be there, too.”

“We will come when he is awake,” Teyla said. “Go.”

“He’s really all right,” Ronon said, as though it had just hit him, and Marie nodded again.

“It’s still early, but — it looks that way.” She started for the door, Jeannie at her heels, and Ronon smiled.

“He’s going to be OK.”

“So are we all,” Teyla said softly. “So are we all.”