Secrets

Chapter Nine Isolation

Rodney glared down at his laptop. The infirmary was full of people, both his own staff — who really ought to know better than to experiment with things they didn’t understand, and he looked forward to having words with Zelenka once he got out of here — and a couple of sheepish-looking airmen with a sergeant who looked a lot like a sheepdog. At least Carson finally seemed to have the chaos under control. A couple of the technicians were leaving, one with his hand on the other’s shoulder, the most embarrassed-looking of the airmen had finally gotten her boot off to reveal a swollen ankle, and Marie was bandaging the last of the minor burns. That was Dr. Russell, who really did know better, and Rodney was looking for a chance to tell her so, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

And maybe that was all right after all. The screen swam before his eyes, and he leaned forward as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. How could he feel sick? He hadn’t eaten in — weeks, certainly. It wasn’t as though he could just throw up the last meal he’d eaten before he was captured.

That thought made him feel even worse, his mouth flooding with metallic-tasting saliva. His head was spinning, his breath short, as though his lungs were clogged. The laptop slipped through his too-slow fingers, slithering across the sheets. He grabbed again and missed, opened his mouth to swear, and realized he couldn’t make a sound. He tried again and choked, struggling against an impossible thickness. The laptop fell with a clatter — a part of him was glad it was one of the rugged models — and Marie swung around, her eyes widening in shock. Rodney drew a crowing breath, slapped his chest as though that could somehow dislodge the blockage. It was like an allergic reaction, but not; the shortness of breath, the closing throat — those all fit, but not the nausea or the loss of voice —

“Dr. McKay?” Marie caught his wrist, her expression changing from surprise to worry. “Dr. Beckett!”

“Aye, what’s wrong?” Carson moved quickly between the beds, abandoning his other patients for the new emergency.

“His blood pressure is sky-rocketing,” Marie said. Somehow she’d gotten a cuff on him, but its pinch was remote. “Oxygen levels are dropping.”

“Rodney?” Carson said. “What happened?”

Rodney opened his mouth again, but couldn’t force the words through the tightness in his throat. His vision was narrowing, a tunnel with gray edges.

“Talk to me, Rodney,” Carson said, his voice sharpening. “Marie —”

Rodney put his hand to his throat. The was the universal sign for choking, he remembered, and he just hoped Carson knew that, too. Something stung his arm, ice and fire flooding his veins. He flailed blindly, caught Carson’s chest with his feeding hand. Someone screamed — Dr. Russell — and there was the distinct sound of P90s being cocked.

“Stand down!” Carson shouted.

“Get back, doc —”

“Stand down, I say!” Carson turned into Rodney’s grasp as though the handmouth wasn’t pressed against the fabric of his lab coat, as though Rodney couldn’t feel the heat of his skin, his life, pulsing against his palm.

“It’s all right, airman,” Carson said, with a quick glance over his shoulder. “I’m not in any danger.”

“Doc,” the airman protested, but the sergeant caught his arm.

“Let the man do his job, son.”

“Rodney,” Carson said again. “Rodney, say something if you can.”

Rodney shook his head, his mouth gaping. He was losing consciousness, he realized, and reached out with his last scrap of will.

*Steelflower —*

He fell back, distantly aware of being handled, felt at last the touch of her mind on his. He stilled, muscles unknotting, and faintly he heard her say, “He cannot breathe, Dr. Beckett. Or speak aloud.”

*I’m sick,* he thought at her. *I’m sick and I can’t breathe and my throat is closed—*

*Yes,* she said. *We have you, Carson and I.*

He could hear her repeating his thoughts aloud, her voice quick and clear and urgent, but the touch of her mind was strong and sure.

*Rest,* she said, and he let her lower him into darkness.

Something was wrong in the infirmary, a muffled cry from behind the door, noises that could only be explained by trouble. John reached for his pistol as he turned, leaving Lorne to follow at his best pace, the doors slamming open before he reached them. Carson and Marie and a tall doctor whose name John hadn’t yet learned were huddled around Rodney’s bed, and another of the nurses was dragging over a tower of serious-looking machinery. Teyla was there, too, standing a little back to be out of their way, her face intent and worried as she looked from Rodney to Carson and back again. She was pale and drawn, deceptively fragile-looking in the oversized hospital gown. The rest of the scientists John had seen earlier had drawn aside into a nervous knot, all of them wearing the expression he associated with people watching a bad traffic accident, and a trio of Air Force personnel were clustered by the bed to Rodney’s left. One of the airmen was sitting up on the bed, her ankle bandaged and one hand on her P90; the other had his P90 at the ready, held in check by the sergeant’s hand on his arm. Somewhere an alarm was sounding, and it took a second for John to identify it as something medical. Something to do with Rodney.

He wanted to rush in, demand to know what was happening, but he knew better than to interrupt the doctors. Teyla looked over toward him as though she’d felt his thought, gave the tiniest shrug of her shoulders. John nodded back, looked at the sergeant instead.

“What’s going on, Sergeant?”

“Not sure, sir.” The man’s face was wooden. He was one of the new men, with a face like Ford’s if Ford had lived to be thirty-five, and John squinted at the name above the pocket: Trotter. “Medical emergency, sir.”

“Why the weapons, then?” John asked.

Trotter hesitated, and behind his shoulder, the two airman exchanged nervous glances. “The — Dr. McKay — he tried to attack Dr. Beckett, sir.”

“No, he didn’t,” Carson said, over his shoulder.

“With respect, sir,” Trotter said. “He slammed his feeding hand into the doc’s chest.”

“But did not set his claws,” Teyla said. She came to join them, wrapping her arms around herself as though she was cold. The effect was to diminish the remains of her Wraith disguise, and John guessed she was doing it deliberately. “Or even try to do so. He was choking — I do not think he remembered that he had been made Wraith then, just that he was in distress.”

Trotter looked skeptical, but nodded anyway, and the airman shifted his P90 back to port-arms. The rhythm of the alarm had changed, and even as John realized that, it cut out, was replaced by a steady, softer beeping. The movements of the medical team changed, too, became less urgent, and Carson turned away from the bed.

“He’s stable for the moment,” he said. “And, no, sergeant, he did not attack me.”

“If you say so, Doc,” Trotter said, and John lifted an eyebrow.

“And the doctor would know, Sergeant. If your people are through here, I suggest you get out of the way.”

“Yessir.” Trotter saluted and turned to help the airman off the table. They limped away, one airman steadying the other, and John looked at Carson.

“How bad is it?”

Carson shrugged. “I warned you that this might happen. All our simulations showed that the process of purging the Wraith drugs from the system was a violent one, and involved some unpredictable shifts in systems and even in physiology. Frankly, I’d like to know how the Wraith kept him alive through the first process, given that the changes are progressing at different rates in different parts of the body. This — it looks as though the changes to the lymphatic system that allowed Rodney to feed are reversing themselves, and that’s caused swelling in a number of critical nodes. I think it’s that rather than an autoimmune response that cut off his breathing. We’ve got him on a ventilator for now, and, as I said, he’s stable.”

“He is sedated,” Teyla said. “I thought you did not want to do that.”

“I didn’t,” Carson said. “But there’s no choice, not with him on the ventilator.”

John looked past him at the bed, at Rodney flat on the pillows, body slack, arms straight like a corpse laid out for burial. He bit his lip at the thought, and looked away. That wouldn’t happen. Carson was the best, Carson and Keller together would take care of him — and where was Keller, anyway?

Even as he thought that, he saw her, standing beside the farthest bed, clinging to her IV pole with one hand, the other hand knotted in the curtain. Her hair straggled loose over gown and scrub pants, and she looked as though she was about to fall over. Of course she wasn’t working, she was still recovering — he remembered how he had felt for the first week after Todd had fed on him, the hollow exhaustion that was almost an ache in the bone, and that was with Todd restoring what he’d taken. He ought to go to her, or someone should, and he tipped his head to one side.

“Carson.”

Carson’s eyes flicked sideways, and he nodded. “Aye. I’ll take care of that. In the meantime, I’m going to have Rodney moved to the isolation room. His immune system may crash on us, and it’ll prevent any more — misunderstandings.”

John nodded. “That’s a good idea, Doc. I’m going to put a guard on the door, too, but that’s mostly for the same reason. Consider that they’re there to reinforce your orders.”

“I will,” Carson said, and turned away.

“Major?” John looked over his shoulder, and Lorne drew himself up.

“Right here.”

“Dr. Beckett is going to move Dr. McKay —”

“I heard, sir,” Lorne said. “I’ll set up a guard detail.”

“Thanks,” John said. That was everything taken care of, or at least everything that he could actually do anything about, and he gave Teyla a wry smile. “You look like crap.”

She smiled back, but her mouth wobbled. “That is at least better than I feel.”

“Back to bed,” John said.

She started to nod, but grabbed at his sleeve as she lost her balance. John caught her, steadied her for a moment until he realized she was swaying.

“Doc —”

“It is low blood pressure, I think,” Teyla said. “I will be fine once I lie down again.”

“Right.” John stooped, swept her up before she could protest, and carried her to the bed, setting her down among the pillows. She made no objection, and John felt fear spike through him.

“Excuse me, Colonel,” Marie said, and brushed past him, brandishing a hypodermic.

“I am fine, John,” Teyla said. Her voice sounded a little stronger, and John relaxed.

Marie finished the injection, looked up at him with a faint smile. “We’re still getting her blood pressure stabilized — it’s still fluctuating a bit, but, basically, she’s fine. It’s just getting the last of the drugs out of her system. This —” She held up the empty syringe. “This is going to put her to sleep, so there’s no point in staying.”

I don’t mind. John swallowed the words, understanding what was really being said. Teyla was in no danger, and he was in the way — but he didn’t want to leave. Teyla smiled as though she’d read his mind.

“If he could stay just a bit, Marie. He will leave when I am asleep.”

“I will,” John said.

“Suit yourself,” Marie answered, but she was smiling again.

John tugged a stray chair over to Teyla’s bedside, pulled the curtains partly closed to give her a little privacy. “Are you OK?”

She nodded. “I am. It was — it was a shock to see Rodney so.”

“They’ll take care of him,” John said. Out of her sight, he crossed his fingers like a kid. “He’ll be fine.”

Rodney was vaguely aware that the room was swaying, that he was rushing forward, feet first toward something. Toward the light, he thought, with sudden panic, then realized that it was the bed that was moving, and he was surrounded by medical staff in gowns and masks. An allergic reaction, then — but, no, they wouldn’t need masks for that. Was he sick? He felt awful, weak and fuzzy-headed. Maybe he’d caught something on one of the stupid planets, some weird Pegasus virus, and they were isolating him so he wouldn’t infect the entire base. He tried to lift his hand, and immediately Carson bent over him, the corners of his eyes betraying the reassuring smile behind his mask.

“Easy, Rodney. You’re on a ventilator, so don’t try to talk. You’re still undergoing the transition, and it’s affecting your immune system. We’re moving you to isolation as a precaution.”

Rodney blinked, memories flooding back. Capture, the hive, Quicksilver, Ronon and Jennifer and rescue… He tried to nod, but his neck hurt, and Carson laid a gloved hand on his forehead.

“Easy, now,” he said again, and nodded. One of the nurses did something out of Rodney’s line of sight, and he drifted back into fitful dreams.

Jennifer stood for a moment in front of the mirror in her quarters, smoothing her hair into a tighter ponytail. She was definitely feeling better, she told herself; even if she did feel as though she’d been in a car wreck, it was an improvement from yesterday, and the day before. She had talked Carson into releasing her to her quarters yesterday afternoon, once her electrolyte balance had finally stabilized and she had proved she could not only keep down the recovery drinks but could, and would, eat real food. He had told her to get some rest, to come back only when she was ready, and from the sound of it, he’d expected that to be another day or two. And that was more than she could stand.

She drew herself up, studying her reflection. She still looked tired, her face drawn, shadows dark and puffy under her eyes. She looked older — but that wasn’t possible. The retrovirus had worked. Rodney had fed — which, incidentally, had saved his life, Carson had been clear about that — and she was unharmed. She hadn’t lost even a year. That was just exhaustion that she saw, nothing more.

For a moment, she wished she were back on Earth, where she had had friends who would understand, who wouldn’t look down on her if she went to them and said, Do I look older? Please tell me if I look older. They wouldn’t think she was shallow, the way Teyla would, or think she ought not to worry about side effects as long as Rodney was alive — that was Jeannie’s attitude, she was sure — or look completely confused, like Colonel Carter. She still cringed when she thought about being trapped with her and Rodney, about that stupid, awkward conversation. She couldn’t ask Marie, or any or the other doctors and technicians; she didn’t know many of the other scientists, and certainly none well enough for a question like this. None of the military personnel, even the women, would get it, either, because what she was asking wasn’t just about how she looked, but what price she’d paid for Rodney’s life. She closed her eyes, the tears prickling at the back of her throat. It wasn’t that she begrudged it. She’d do it again, she knew that. But was it so unreasonable to want to know what it had cost her?

She shook herself, hard. Whining was pointless, and there was work to be done. Carson would at least give her an update on Rodney, and on Teyla. At least she was doing exactly as expected. In a day, no more than two, she’d be ready to start getting back to normal. Jennifer smiled then, though she didn’t look to see if it was believable. Teyla didn’t need to look like a Wraith Queen to be intimidating. Lucky Teyla.

She fiddled with her hair again, then tugged her jacket into place. She was Atlantis’s chief medical officer, no matter how easy it was to forget that now that Carson was back, and no matter how much of a fraud she felt sometimes. Now she had to do her job.

For once, the infirmary was quiet when she arrived, only Teyla looking up from a borrowed e-reader to give her a nod of greeting. Marie looked up from her tablet with a smile.

“Good morning. I hope you’re feeling better, Doctor.”

“Yes, thanks.” Jennifer picked up her own tablet. “How are things?”

Marie tapped the edge of the nearest desk. “So far, so good. No overnight disasters — well, except the Marine with the broken condom — and both Teyla and Dr. McKay are stable. And Dr. Beckett asked if you’d check in with him as soon as you had a minute.”

“No time like the present,” Jennifer answered, and headed for the isolation chamber.

The young Marine on duty at the door gave her the sharp nod that was the substitute for a salute, and Jennifer forced a smile and a murmur of greeting. It still bothered her to see guards on Rodney’s door, even if she understood the logic; it felt like just one more thing they’d need to overcome before she could have him back to normal. Or for what passed for normal with Rodney. Beyond the door, she could see Jeannie Miller sitting in a chair beside the bed, a mug in her hand, and she was guiltily glad to see that Carson wasn’t there as well.

She found him in the observation area, frowning at a workstation screen. Behind him, a cot was set up, neatly made, but even so, her heart skipped a beat.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s for Mrs. Miller, not for me.”

Jennifer allowed herself a sigh of relief. “Marie said you wanted to see me.”

“Aye, I did.” His eyes raked her, frankly assessing. “You’re looking better this morning.”

“I’m fine,” Jennifer said.

“No dizziness, no headache? No other untoward symptoms?”

Jennifer shook her head. “I’m still tired, but otherwise — nothing.”

“Good.”

“And Rodney?” It still felt odd to use his first name when she was thinking about him as a patient, but ‘Dr. McKay’ was even weirder.

“Some things are better, some are worse,” Carson said. “I’m hopeful we can take him off the ventilator very soon. And his latest labs are showing some improvement.”

Jennifer scanned the reports, frowned as she reached the third page. “This isn’t so good.”

“No,” Carson agreed. “And, no surprise, he spiked a fever overnight.” He looked pensively toward the window, at Jeannie’s gold curls bright beside the drab hospital blankets. Rodney looked even greener by contrast, unconscious against the sheets. “I’ve developed a theory that I’d like to run by you.”

“OK,” Jennifer said.

“I think that not all of the transformation was biological,” Carson said. “Specifically, I think whoever did this used surgery to create some of the changes, specifically the feeding organ and the enzyme vein that runs along the back of that hand. I don’t know whether they grew organs tailored to his DNA — I wouldn’t put it past their capabilities — or if they used organs harvested from cadavers, but I don’t think that Rodney grew his own bits there. I’m also thinking that the withdrawal of the support drugs has caused the connective structures for those organs to die, and now the actual feeding organ and the vein are dying as well. It’s the necrotic tissue that’s causing the fever.”

“OK,” Jennifer said again, still studying the notes. It matched what she was reading, made a pattern out of otherwise meaningless numbers. “So are you proposing — surgery to remove them?”

“That’s my first choice,” Carson said. “Take them out now, before they can do any more harm.”

“Wow.” Jennifer paused. “You know, I — that’s a big risk. He’ll have to be fully sedated, and we don’t know how that will react with the remaining Wraith characteristics. I mean, we can sedate a human, and we can sedate a Wraith, but somebody in between —”

“I know,” Carson said. “I think the vein would just slough off, but the feeding organ is in pretty deep. I’m very worried about infection there. If it sets in badly —”

“He could lose his hand,” Jennifer said. She made herself distant, as though this were all academic, nothing whatsoever to do with her. She took a deep breath. “I agree.”

Carson gave her his quick smile. “Thank you.”

“Oh.” Jennifer felt herself blushing. “I can’t — I’m not — Mrs. Miller is his next of kin.”

“Oh.” Carson looked startled, and Jennifer found herself babbling on.

“We were going to set up powers of attorney, do all that, but somehow, you know, it never happened.”

“It’s all right, love,” Carson said. “I’ll talk to Jeannie.”

Jennifer nodded, wrapping her arms around herself, hugging the tablet to her chest.

“Jennifer,” Carson said. “This isn’t — it can’t be an easy time for you. Have you considered having a word with Dr. Robinson? Eva’s a remarkably level head.”

“I’m fine,” Jennifer answered, and willed it to be true.

Jeannie sat beside the bed, the machine chirping softly in the background. Rodney looked surprisingly peaceful, despite the IV lines and the tube of the ventilator, peaceful and distant, as though he were fading already into oblivion. She had sat like this before, when Caleb’s grandmother died, but this was worse. This was her brother, white-haired and green-skinned, motionless against the pillows. He was looking a bit more human, she thought — she hoped, anyway, but it seemed as though the dark veins had faded a little.

She looked up as the door slid back, admitting Dr. Beckett, and managed to match his preoccupied smile. She knew from his earlier visits that she wasn’t in the way, so she stayed where she was until he’d finished checking the machines and making notes on his computer. He looked up then, met her eyes unsmiling.

“We need to have a word.”

That was never good, and she wondered where Jennifer was. She needed to be here, needed to be involved in these decisions, if she was going to marry him, she had to be able to assume some responsibility — Jeannie shook herself, hard, ashamed of her reaction. Jennifer wasn’t here because she’d saved Rodney’s life, was still recovering. “Of course,” she said, and pushed herself to her feet.

“One of the things we’ve been finding out as the effects of the Wraith drugs wear off is that not all of the changes are purely chemical,” Carson said. “Some of it was accomplished with surgery, particularly the creation of a working feeding organ in the palm of his hand, and the associated enzyme veins. And, as the vascular and other structures sustained by the Wraith maintenance drug atrophy and disappear, these added organs are beginning to die.”

Jeannie stole a glance at Rodney’s hand, at the shriveled vein that wound up his forefinger. “What do you need to do?”

“We have two options,” Carson said. “And there are problems with both of them. We could simply leave the added structures alone, and trust that Rodney’s body will reject them more or less naturally. The venous network would probably slough off harmlessly, but the feeding organ is fairly deeply embedded into the structure of his hand. If it were to become infected, there is a very real chance that it would affect his ability to use his hand. And his immune system has been affected in unpredictable ways already, and I’m concerned that this would be too strong a challenge.”

“And the other option?” Jeannie’s eyes were dry, her voice remote.

“We remove them surgically,” Carson said. “Under normal circumstances, that would be the preferred, even the obvious method, just cut it out, but — we don’t really know how the Wraith made it functional in the first place. There may be deeper connections that we won’t find until we actually try to take it out. And there’s still the risk of infection, plus — Rodney’s already been through a lot. I’m concerned about the effects of further surgery on his already weakened systems.”

“And you’re asking me to choose?” Jeannie was starting to get the faint, familiar headache that came from being in a strange galaxy after her brother had been kidnapped by aliens.

Carson nodded. “You’re his next of kin.”

“Damn it, Meredith!” Jeannie glared at the figure on the bed. When he recovered, she was going to kill him. How could he be moving in with someone, be planning to marry her, and not give her the right to take care of him? “It’s just like him.” She took a breath. “Ok. Sorry. What are you recommending?”

“I think surgery is best,” Carson said. “But I won’t pretend it isn’t a gamble, too. And — if it’s to be done, it needs to be done right away. Before he gets any weaker.”

“Have you asked Dr. Keller?” Jeannie knew she ought to talk to the younger woman herself, but she couldn’t do it, couldn’t make stilted conversation, struggling to be polite while her brother might be dying.

“Dr. Keller agrees that surgery is the better choice,” Carson said.

Jeannie nodded slowly. “All right, then. When — will you do it now?”

“As soon as I can get an operating room readied,” Carson said. “So if you’ll excuse me —”

“Of course.” Jeannie watched him bustle away, then turned to lay her hand on Rodney’s forehead. His skin was warm, too warm, and dry, papery to her touch. “You idiot,” she whispered. “You complete idiot. I’ll be waiting.”