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This story is completed
John sighs, looking out into the dull pre-dawn light. The ocean is a mottled gray, stormy but without any real intent. The waves barely sound against the rocks below and he can't for the life of him remember if they've gotten quieter or if he's just stopped listening.
His bed is cold, big and empty like all the indulgences of this house.
"Good morning, Colonel Sheppard," she says, voice feminine but metallic. She doesn't sound like Atlantis at all.
"Tea, Earl Grey, black." When he became Captain Picard is anyone's guess. When he stopped drinking coffee – that, he knows.
He pulls on a fleece and his running shoes and makes it out onto the bluff, running down the switchbacks on the narrow cliffs until he hits the sand. Running along the coast used to burn his calves, but not anymore.
Out in the fog he sees the muted projection, an advertisement for Star Wars, Episode VIII. Maybe he'll catch the movie in town today – in the old theater with the ratty silver screen.
Beyond the silent projection of the Olsen Twins being wowed by Anakin Solo's huge light-saber, the casino looks lonely, floating out there on the water, an eyesore for everyone on land, a sinkhole for those trapped within. John shakes his head. One of these mornings he'll pay for the $10,000 cloaking service – he just has to think of a special occasion to justify it.
Three miles and he's ready to turn back, looping up another trail to the road where there's a Wal-Mart Convenience. He hates to buy from the Man, but where else can he get a Gatorade at six in the morning?
‘Asgard Conspiracy Revealed: Thor exposes Roswell Pornography Ring,' the tabloids proclaim. ‘Mysterious Black Fog Confronted in Montana: Eyewitness Testimony;' The Weekly World News. ‘Astronomers Discover New Form of Energy Nebulae: How this Affects your Horoscope;' Astrology Digest. ‘Rodney McKay's Addiction Story;' The National Enquirer.
"Yeah, addiction to power," John mumbles.
Dylan, the cashier, doesn't say anything. He hasn't put out the new copies of the Star yet. There must be something about John in it. He grabs a copy of the Enquirer and Dylan doesn't even flinch. John sighs, swiping his hand over the credit sensor, Gatorade in one hand, paper tucked under his armpit.
PCH is never busy in the mornings, but the fog is thick and John is wearing black so he runs back along the waterfront, kicking his shoes off half way and running through the surf. The water doesn't bite like it should. All of reality seems numb.
The shower is hot, just as he likes it, spewing in from all sides. It's a KavanaghGE. McKay/Canadian also make a model, but John tells himself that Kavanagh spent way more time dealing with city utilities anyhow. The spray pounds into his sore muscles. Six miles is harder than it used to be.
The article in the Enquirer is stupid, but there's a pretty funny picture. It's supposed to be ‘in the throws of stimulant addiction' but he'd bet anything it's just the shot right in the middle of a typical rant. He looks tired though – strung out.
John doesn't bother switching on CNN today. It's all high-speed chases and corporate espionage anyway. In an hour, he's got a strategic briefing at the Mountain that promises to tell him more than he needs to know.
The Jumper's controls are cold when he clasps them, flipping on the automated flight controller and waiting for a go. He doesn't need to follow it – the Jumper has a proximity alert and he has the cloak. But today he's going to be a good citizen. The last thing he needs is for them to take away his last true friend and have to replace her with a GateShip. John hasn't ever set foot in one, though he has promised Kavanagh he'll test drive his HoverRide when they finally work out the kinks in the drive mechanism
Lifting out of the clouds and dancing between them in the morning sunlight should be fun. But he still feels this emptiness gnawing at him. Maybe it's just the blinding whiteness of the clouds, bringing back images of the night.
Last night, he dreamed of snow, a storm cloud of a thousand colors opening up and coating the world in white. Rodney was there, lying in a huge white drift, looking up at the sky, eyes blue and filled with pride and wonder and joy, so different from the blank stare the paparazzi captured. In John's dream, the snow kept falling and falling until Rodney was just a big white mound, trying to make snow angels in a storm. John tried to warn him, but he said to trust him. And John did.
The desert heat is scorching, even beneath the great white awning they've constructed just for this event. Politicians, officers, reporters, and the only people who could possibly be comfortable are the cameramen, wandering around in khaki cut-offs and t-shirts, smug smiles on their faces.
"Remind me again why we decided to build it in a giant oven?" Rodney asks from beside him, the warmth of his body pressing more sweat-marks into John's dress uniform.
"Because it was classified," John responds.
"I swear if this goes on one more minute, I'm going to pass out from manly overheating."
"You mean ‘faint.'"
"Ha. Ha. Mock the man dying of heat stroke."
"You know, he is the president of the United States. He might actually have something insightful to say."
Rodney snorts.
On the other side of the podium, John can see Elizabeth giving them the evil eye. He shrugs helplessly at her.
"I would like you to join me in celebrating these great men and women who have toiled ceaselessly for our protection and committed great acts of ingenuity and heroism, all without a heroes' welcome."
Rodney rolls his eyes. "Without publishing either."
John grins, knocking his knee a little. "I think I'd prefer a heroes' welcome."
"You would, Mr. Happy-Go-Suicide-Bomber. They must be keeping your harem of dancing virgins around here somewhere."
"It is because of these men and women that we are here today, presenting the world with the greatest discovery since the dawn of the Information Age."
"Greatest since the advent of fire," Rodney corrects.
"Today, ladies and gentleman, is a day that will be remembered in the history books, not just as the day when our place in the galaxy has been revealed to you, but as the day where we will have rightfully taken that place with pride and honor and freedom. We, Citizens of the United States, Citizens of Earth, will the first among all the stars we know of, to run our civilization freely on a source of near-limitless energy, to harness the energy that surrounds us all, the energy of life."
John shudders a little, the oppressive heat and the weight of these words cloying.
"Today, we say goodbye to fossil fuels and greenhouse gas and dependence on foreign oil. We say goodbye to starvation and environmental destruction, and social inequality. All because of the reactor that we will unveil today, thanks to the brilliant efforts of the SGC, of Atlantis, of all our allies off-world and on, and especially thanks to Dr. Rodney McKay, who is here to speak with us today."
Rodney's smile is pinched but still radiant. John smiles, happy for him, even as he shies back from the incessant pulsing of the flash bulbs.
"We're talking about a calculated first strike. No risk to our own soldiers, no non-combatant casualties."
"We're talking about blowing up and entire planet," John spits, still unable to believe what he's hearing.
"An Ori stronghold," the man says from across the table. John forces himself to look him in the eye. The stare is just as cold and piercing as always, calmly judgmental in that ring of hazel.
"With all due respect, Sir, I think you're forgetting that not everyone who believes in the Ori is necessarily an enemy combatant."
Mitchell, seated at John's side, looks away at that, like maybe he disagrees. John kicks him underneath the table.
"True, they are non-combatants until they don their armor and load into Ori ships or put on the prior's robes and set off to the nearest star to spread disease and earn more followers. We're talking dominoes, son, dominoes."
John grits his teeth, forcing the anger to calm. "Yes, because containment worked so well in Vietnam, in Nicaragua."
"And if we had dropped the bomb on Hanoi, we would have won!"
"Without any civilian casualties, too, right?"
"Well, Dave does have a point . . . somewhere," O'Neill points out from where he's half-slouched at the corner of the table. "The people who follow the Ori are brainwashed to believe the things they do. They aren't given a choice and they won't stop fighting until they have either converted or killed us."
"So what, we're just going to keep fighting until we've either converted or killed them?" John asks, frustrated.
"No, we're going to beat them. Thanks to you, son, we've won the war. Now step back and let the experts wage the peace."
John's ten years old again and his father's telling him he's too young to fly the silvery plane parked casually on the tarmac. He's twenty-two and his flight instructor is telling him he's lucky he's a damned good pilot because otherwise he wouldn't last a week under a real commanding officer.
"Well, you can't expect me to just approve . . ."
"John." David Sheppard is rigid and gruff and his voice promises later punishment. "You are on this committee for one reason and one reason alone: Rodney McKay would not keep working for us if you weren't."
John's gaze goes straight to O'Neill. Why had he never heard about this? O'Neill just shrugs.
"With all due respect, General," Mitchell says from beside, John. "Colonel Sheppard is on this committee, regardless of how he got here. We have an obligation to at least hear him out."
The general nods, as oblivious as ever to John's glare. "Thank you, Colonel. We will indeed hear you out, son. That is assuming that you have alternatives to offer us."
"We can send a team, convince them of the futility in fighting."
"That didn't work out so well the last time," O'Neill puts in, trying for amused even when John can see the charred husks of SG-5 haunting the dark spaces of his eyes, Daniel Jackson and Samantha Carter, who died on another world, crushed by an angry mob, all their ingenuity unable to save them.
"Then we do it again! We show them video of what the weapon can do. We take an assault team and we round up all the Priors."
"So the enemy can send more, son? How many of our men do you want us to sacrifice to spare enemy lives?"
"When we're talking about a death toll in the millions, I don't see how . . ."
"If we hadn't dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, the projected casualties for a land invasion were 500,000 American troops and more for the Japanese."
"This is different!"
John's expecting his father to do something, to hit him, or send him to his room, or tell everyone about the time he was so sure he was right that he ended up with a totaled car and a broken collar bone. But instead, it's General O'Neill who speaks. "Give us another way, Sheppard."
But John's not the Answer Man. He doesn't have a clue.
"That's what I thought," his father says, the look on his face just shy of a sneer. He'll never forgive John for not writing him from Pegasus, even if he was the one to disown his son first.
John can't think, he can't speak, not through the haze of anger exploding red across his vision. He's not a child. He's right and they are all so wrong. There are lines you cross as a soldier and there are lines you can never cross and they're crossing them one by one and are damned proud of it.
John doesn't even realize he's stormed out until he's out in the corridor, ready to run or fight or god knows what.
"Sheppard! John!" Mitchell calls, heavy boots echoing down the hallway as he chases after John. Mitchell always wears combat boots, even when they're off duty.
John doesn't slow his stalk, but he does stop when Mitchell grabs him by the arm and turns him around. His first instinct is to whirl around and strike the man intervening in his wholly justified anger. He forces in a deep calming breath.
"John, if you leave now, you know it's the equivalent of turning in your resignation."
"What does it matter? They're not going to listen."
"Hey, I'd be intimidated if I had to serve alongside my father too, but if you leave now, we'll be losing your opinion forever."
"You can't expect me to just go along with this! They're talking about a planet, Cam. Millions of innocent lives. Now, if you think we can convince O'Neill . . ."
Mitchell shakes his head.
"You agree with them, don't you?"
"You weren't in that battle, John."
"I fought the Wraith."
"And you blew up armadas of hive ships, human cargo included. Trust me when I say it's too late for hearts and minds."
John sighs. "You're right, it is too late." He grabs Mitchell's arm. He's a good guy, too good a guy to get sucked into this crap. "Take care of yourself, Mitchell."
"John! John, please . . ."
John doesn't even hear Mitchell's protests as he stalks out. He doesn't know this world anymore, even with the Puddle Jumpers and the gene-based security systems, the thousand things that remind him of Atlantis.
"It's almost beautiful, isn't it?" Rodney asks, explosions lighting the space around him like fireworks.
"If you say so," John says. In truth, he's kind of creeped out by this, standing on a balcony among the stars, Wraith hive ships going up in flames beyond the shield. The huge hulks look close enough to touch, clear in the starlight.
"Hm." Rodney closes his eyes. He hasn't slept in seventy-six hours. But the war is over. After this, he'll have all the time in the world to sleep.
"You know, a flying city that can blow up armadas and planets and stuff could be called the Death Sta . . ."
"Don't say it," Rodney mumbles, leaning forward to rest his head on the railing of the balcony.
"Afraid they'll call you Darth Vader?"
"I'm not the one that can move things with his mind, Colonel Skywalker."
"Hmm. Does that make Elizabeth the Emperor then?"
Rodney gets out a choking laugh, nudging John a little with his hip but not raising his head.
"And you're C3PO," John adds.
"Go away. I'm trying to sleep," Rodney moans.
How he can sleep when there are still Wraith hive ships crashing into each other, exploding, spiraling into the atmosphere of the nearby gas-giant to disappear forever, John doesn't know.
He stares out at the destruction before him for one long moment before tugging Rodney up and maneuvering him inside, towards the living quarters.
"I wonder if sleep feels better when you've just conquered the galaxy," Rodney mumbles.
John's not sure it does. Not at all.
John has always thought that Teyla was radiant – luminescent skin, brilliant cinnamon hair, voice full of warmth and comfort and this wonderful feeling of home. But she's even more beautiful now, eyes glowing, belly full and rounded, her hands clasped lovingly around it.
"Teyla," John breathes, practically throwing his shopping bags aside to embrace her. She's soft against him, safe and familiar and perfect, still smelling of cedar and honey blossoms and a forest a galaxy away.
"John." Her voice is a smile as she pulls back and brings his forehead to hers. "It has been many days."
"You can say that again."
"It has been many days," a gruff voice echoes, stomping in from the porch.
"Ronon! Hey, buddy!" John's going for a manly back pat, but Ronon catches him in a full-on bear hug, lifting him up off the ground with embarrassing ease. "I've missed you guys," he pants out when Ronon has finally released him.
"We have missed you as well, John. Dr. Zelenka does an excellent job maintaining the city, of course. And Colonel Lorne and Dr. Xiaoyi are very amiable, but it is not the same."
John sighs. "Yeah." He never should have left. He smiles at Teyla. "You look . . . you're glowing."
She laughs at that, one of her deep rich bubbling laughs. He's missed her so much. "Thank you. Though I must admit that I feel more like an overripe casala melon than anything else. And I fear that the lack of a sparring partner has been driving Ronon to madness."
John raises his eyebrows only to be answered with a grunt.
"You miss it too," John chastises her.
"Yes, indeed I do. I have tried to get him to walk with me, though he proves too restless.
But, then, if Denan could have his way, I would do nothing but lie on my back, knitting baby garments."
John smiles a little. "What are husbands for?"
"Earning pay and fighting off unwanted suitors," Ronon fills in.
Teyla shoots him a glare. "Some say they are good only for 8 daily minutes of pleasure and foot massages and that sometimes those two things overlap."
Ronon looks affronted. "Good thing I'm not married."
Teyla smiles at that. "Why marry when you may share your 8 minutes among many?"
John laughs. He's almost forgotten how playful Teyla can be. "Someone's quite the player, I take it?"
Ronon shrugs. "I'm bored."
"Ronon was banned from the assimilation programs long ago. He works with Captain Parker on SGA12 now."
"Really?" John doesn't let on that he's read all their mission reports. He especially enjoyed the one in which Parker mentioned that ‘Ronon's size was well appreciated by the people of MX337. We were unable to convince them that imitating his hairstyle would win the favor of the Gods.' "You like it?"
Ronon shrugs. "Parker is prettier than you and both scientists together make less noise than McKay."
"I'll take that as a yes?"
"It's not the same." Yeah, John figures. He's still kind of frightened by the idea of Ronon with no Wraith to kill.
"What about you, John?" Teyla says with a smile. "Your world is as enticing as ever."
John takes in the shell-shocked look on Ronon's face. "You went shopping, didn't you?"
Teyla nods. "The R Us of Toys is most exciting." Dear God. "Though you must certainly be enjoying more of it than that." She looks out the window. "Your home is beautiful. And these waves must be very ‘cool' breakers indeed."
Well, he can't argue with that. "Oh, it's pretty awesome."
Teyla is giving him this look like she absolutely does not buy it. Of course not. John has never been able to lie to Teyla. "It's not the same. Though, Ronon, if you wanted to surf I've got an extra board. It's a longboard for absolute beginners, so I'm sure you'll be up on the first try."
Teyla looks out brightly at the waves, eyes dancing with the breakers. Her hands move over her belly, pensive - worried, almost.
"But this isn't a social visit," John says, staring at her reflection in the glass.
Teyla spins around, forced smile rising like an old habit. "No, John, I fear it is not."
"Weird things have been happening," Ronon adds, flopping down into one of John's beanbag chairs and playing with one of his knives. How he got through airport security, John has no idea. Probably got a private Jumper in from the mountain.
"Like what?"
"Sateda's gone."
"Gone? What do you mean, gone?"
"I was going to head back there. Maybe try to recolonize. The Gate wouldn't dial. We sent the Orion. There was nothing there." Ronon looks up at him with those big worried brown eyes, the ones that make him look more like Marmaduke than a seven-foot alien warrior that could probably snap John's neck with his pinkie toe.
"That is not all, Colonel. My people tell stories of ribbons of rainbow light in the sky."
"That's the Aurora Borealis. It's a natural phenomenon. Something to do with the atoms in the atmosphere. Rodney could . . ."
John looks away. He can't stand the look of concern in Teyla's eyes. She should save her mothering for the child on the way.
"Dr. Zelenka is having increased trouble with Ancient technology – strange energy bursts, systems going dead for no reason."
"So it's reached the expiration date. Ten-thousand years is an awfully long time."
"We have found more of the black energy creatures on several worlds. We have had to build new traps to contain them."
John shrugs, even as he's thinking about the tabloid selection for the past few weeks, the whispers of energy clouds and government conspiracies. "Maybe they're breeding. Sure, all this is very strange, but I'm not sure what you expect me to do about it."
Ronon stands at that. "The monks of the Desal'a say that it is the end of the world."
"What, some last chance to ascend?"
Teyla sighs. "They say not even the Ascended can survive the rewriting of the Sacred Book of the Ages."
"Wait, you're not telling me that the two of you actually believe this?" Teyla had always been very traditional, but he always got the sense that it was more for her people than anything. And Ronon . . . well, how religious could a guy who picked his teeth with a dagger really be?
Ronon gives one of his ‘whatever you want to believe, Sheppard' shrugs, but Teyla is looking him straight in the eyes, imploring. "While I find many of the prophesies of the End of Days hard to take to heart, I cannot deny that there is something . . . off. You must feel it too, John."
He sighs. He was happier when he thought it was just depression.
"What do you want me to do about it, Teyla? I mean, it's more Ro . . . oh."
Teyla smiles. It's her ‘if you do this for me I will love you forever, but if you don't I'll cut off your penis and send it up a flagpole' smile. Shit.
"But . . ."
Teyla raises an eyebrow.
Thankfully John manages not to say ‘You're pushy when you're pregnant.' It would not go over well.
Elizabeth is wearing a formal suit and a smile as she addresses the gathered crowd. "A part of me wants to say that we have fought together and fought together well, because we have had a tough fight and we have won it. But fighting is only one of the things we've accomplished here, though sometime it seems like the hardest, the most important."
John smiles down at his people, the Marines he can no longer think of as dumb grunts, the officers who have learned to be just as sarcastic and quasi-insubordinate as he has, the people he's sacrificed for, and have sacrificed so much for him in return. He's never had people look up to him like this, depend on him, trust him, walk through fucking fire for him, and he knows, beyond a doubt, he'll never have this again.
"But we came to Atlantis for discovery. We came here to uncover the wonders of the Ancients. And what wonders we did find."
John's tempted to look over at Rodney, to share the proud indulgent smile he knows will be on the scientist's lips, but he doesn't want to take his eyes off the people standing before him, smiling up at Elizabeth, mesmerized, perhaps unable to believe that this day has finally come. Some of them, he will never see again.
"Each and every one of you has played a key role in these discoveries, in these victories. Whether it was diving into battle with a terrifying enemy or figuring out the intricacies of the Ancient subjunctive clause or baking a tuttle-root cake that reminded us of home, know your efforts were appreciated, that they will not be forgotten. You have found joy in every puzzle, met every challenge head on, and stayed hopeful even in the darkest of hours. I am proud of you all, more proud of what I have seen of your dedication, commitment, and bravery than I can be of all our accomplishments. Though I'm pretty damned proud of those too."
Elizabeth swearing. No one looks surprised. Though Lorne is grinning.
"We have fought our great fight, but that does not mean that we will not continue to encounter challenges. I do not know where all our roads will lead. But I wish you all the best of luck in your endeavors. It has been an honor."
And then they are making their way down the lighted steps, their familiar hum comforting beneath John's feet. Rodney is at his side, chin held high, defiantly struggling not to be swayed by the emotion of the moment.
Elizabeth is embracing Zelenka, pulling him tight to her chest as he seems to flounder, not knowing what to do with himself, before she breaks off, shaking hands, nodding, eyes shining, glazed and bright.
John is fielding salutes left and right, nodding to scientists and shaking hands and plastering on his bravest smile.
Teyla and Ronon are waiting for them, closest to the shimmering wormhole, wide open and ready to catch them.
Teyla hugs Rodney, but for John she just holds him with her forehead to his for an impossibly long time. They'd shared a private goodbye earlier, where under the influence of a bit too much Athosian ‘cider' they had acted out their first meeting for Rodney and Ronon. Now, Teyla is far too sober. "I thank the Ancestors for the time I have spent with you, John Sheppard."
John smiles, their foreheads still touching. "You just liked kicking my ass."
"That was only one of the many pleasures."
They finally pull back and John looks into her eyes, at the pleasure and melancholy dancing there so gracefully. Teyla has always been such a wonderful portrait of emotion. "Don't be a stranger."
"John, how could I be?"
On impulse, he pulls her into a tight hug after that. "I'll miss you, Teyla."
After he releases her, he turns to Ronon, giving him a hug and pat on the back.
"You were a good taskmaster, Sheppard. Don't let McKay make you soft."
Rodney splutters at that, clutching his hand and complaining about how of course Ronon's last act of barbarism would be to ensure with a fatal handshake that he'd never work again.
"I won't," John chuckles, patting his breast pocket, where he's keeping the knife Ronon pulled out of his dreads and gifted him. "See you around."
"Yes, yes, you're of course always welcome to visit," Rodney adds.
And then they're stepping side-by-side through the familiar ripple of the wormhole and into a brave new world.
That night, John dreams of a world without color. He walks over hills and glaciers, lakes liquid but still beneath him, trees and endless deserts and rich plains of waving wheat all black and white and dull. He roams through deserted cities, across abandoned highways, through towering spires, the footprints of giants.
While I find the prophesies of the End of Days . . . Teyla's voice is brittle echoing through this empty world.
We tear a hole in the fabric of the universe . . . which is much less likely to happen than the Nobel Prize. Rodney appears beside him. His eyes are blue, blue, blue, but cold, like liquid nitrogen – impossible to touch.
Then a light, so bright that it does not matter this world is bleached to the bone. It consumes everything.
I came for you, John . . .
"Chaya?" John shoots out of bed, panting.
He's not surprised to find her there, clingy blue dress spread out before her as she sits delicately at the foot of his bed. She looks the same as when he fed her strawberries beneath the stars, but now her eyes are tired, filled with a kind of harried desperation that her righteous imperialism should not permit.
"John." She does not reach for him. Her weight on his bedspread is as insubstantial as the fog.
"What do you . . . what are you doing here?" He rubs the sleep from his eyes.
"I have come to ask something of you."
John nods. Of course she wouldn't come all the way here for a social call. He shouldn't feel so disappointed by that. "Yeah, I sort of figured."
She smiles sadly, pushing a piece of insubstantial hair back into place. "I am sorry to bring this on you with such haste, John, but we are dying."
"What?!" Ronon and his millennial priests couldn't be right, could they?
"We are . . . unbending, dissipating, unable to even control our own energy."
"But if you're Ascended, how can you . . ."
"We are no longer matter, John, but that doesn't mean we are not still confined to the laws of this universe. We still need energy to survive. But it is impossible. More and more are falling prey to their hunger or giving in to the temptation of the Ori. I myself survive only because there are those on my world who still worship me as goddess. But it is only a matter of time when that small indulgence will not be enough. Please, John, you have to help us."
He wants to reach for her hand, but he knows he would just grasp air. "And what can I do about it?" He's just a barely-organized bundle of organic matter anyhow, right?
She smiles a little ruefully. "You can turn them off. Turn all of them off."
And just like that, she's gone and he's blinking against the colorless grey of the cloudy morning, wondering if she was ever really there at all.
It's a morning like any other morning when Daniel Jackson comes tumbling through the Gate, already talking a mile a minute by the time John and Elizabeth have made it down from the control room. Behind him is a soldier John vaguely remembers as Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell, leader of SG1.
Jackson has that same look of slight panic, overwhelmed entirely by excitement that John remembers from when he sat in the chair in Antarctica. "And the sketches were almost identical, Elizabeth. And the equations . . . Dr. Lee has compared them to the notes Rodney sent back in the Arcturus report and they fit."
Elizabeth's brow wrinkles. "What are you saying, Dr. Jackson?"
"I'm saying that Merlin was the director of Project Arcturus."
John raises his eyebrows. "Merlin?"
Elizabeth and Jackson ignore him. "His journal says," and then they started speaking in Ancient, that look of dogged historical fascination appearing on Elizabeth's face.
John shrugs and saunters over to Mitchell, who's standing with his arms crossed over his chest, looking on lazily. "So, Merlin as in the guy with the staff and the pointy hat? Friend of King Arthur?"
"One and the same. He was an Ancient. We think he came up with a weapon capable of destroying Ascended beings."
"And you're here because . . ."
"Merlin was working on a weapon to defeat the Ori, who are currently establishing a beachhead in our galaxy. Jackson saw his notes, put two and two together and here we are."
"You mean the Weapon can kill the Ori?"
Mitchell nods, "Looks that way."
At this point, Rodney comes storming in, Zelenka in tow, and they join the discussion.
"Where's Colonel Carter?" Rodney demands loudly, at which point John goes back to tuning him out.
John rolls his eyes to Mitchell.
"Yeah, he doesn't have a chance in hell with her," Mitchell says with a smile.
"Good."
But then, John has a question. "So, wait, if Merlin eventually came up with the right equations, why didn't it work?"
Rodney whirls to face him, eyes already rolling. "Because he didn't figure it out in time. The Ancients were already losing the war. The evacuation to Earth wasn't long after Arcturus failed."
"But why didn't they try to do it again there?"
"I don't know; do I look like a historian? Maybe they were scared by the first failure. Maybe they didn't have the necessary materials. Maybe they were lazy."
"Actually, Rodney . . ." Zelenka begins, only to have Jackson cut him off.
"We're not sure that the failure on Arcturus wasn't deliberate."
Rodney's attention snaps back to Jackson in a second. "What?! Why would the Ancients give up on something that could win the war . . ."
"Well, as far as I can tell from Merlin's records, there were two sorts of cliques within Ancient society: those fighting the war and those working on Ascension. Now, those working on Ascension didn't care about the war because once they Ascended, they wouldn't have to worry about the Wraith. Normally they tolerated those still trapped thinking on the material plane, but . . ."
"When there was a weapon that could cause death to a supposedly eternal being, they sabotaged it," Rodney finishes.
"Merlin himself was the one to do it – the lone survivor. That's why he was the only one who could come up with a weapon against the Ori. That's why he finally decided to become human again."
"Or maybe . . ." Zelenka says, but nobody hears him, already rushing off to the labs to figure how to bring Arcturus back to the Milky Way.
John pulls frustratedly at the collar of his dress uniform. He didn't even bring his dress uniform to Atlantis, but here he's had far too much use of it for his tastes. He doesn't want to be here and he doesn't want to do this, but after Ronon and Teyla and Chaya he really can't say ‘no.'
As is typical, he hears Rodney coming before he sees him. "Well that's not my fault, now is it? If Miller can't finish it, that's his problem. Look, I know you can't possibly live without the shining light of my brilliance, but despite the striking resemblance, I'm really not Superman. I can't be everywhere at once and I don't have time to rewrite your entire grid-interface protocol, which trust me, needs doing . . ."
John sighs, rolling his eyes as Rodney storms in, a terrified looking Plant Operator trembling beside him, an entourage of secretaries and photographers behind him.
He stops dead in his tracks when he comes upon John, a soon-to-be-fired minion stumbling into him. Rodney doesn't even turn to berate her.
"Oh," he says, "I didn't expect you to show."
John lounges back into one of the horribly stiff new chairs of the green room, trying to look like his heart isn't pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. He forces a smile. "You know, good cause." It's not as though he could exactly say, ‘no, I don't care about the unveiling of the biggest development project ever in Africa.'
"Yes, erm . . ." Rodney says, looking around, never at John. "Well, it's good to see that we can still expect all the money thrown at this project to be poorly spent on substandard fake lounges with lifesize Barbie furniture."
John misses the old days, when he found Rodney's complete lack of tact amusing. "What were you expecting, the Ritz?"
Rodney makes a beeline for the coffee maker, sniffing the steaming cup already there. "Does this have citrus in it? Because I'm deathly allergic . . ."
"It's coffee, McKay. It doesn't come in lemon." So much for not engaging him.
"Yes, well, this is Nigeria. Who knows what weird sort of tribal rituals they have going on down here. Remember P4Z-809 where it was considered an honor to have the Chief piss in your tea?"
The entire room seems to make a face at that.
"Yeah, and remember the big ass arrows they shot at us when you refused to drink it?" Before, that wouldn't have been an insult, but now . . .
"Not in front of the minions, John," Rodney spat.
"Colonel."
Of course Rodney couldn't take it as the rebuff it was. "Oh, yes, because we couldn't possibly forget that the world's premiere organization of jarheads has finally declared you stupid enough to promote. If they promote you again, you won't have enough brain cells left to build a fire."
"I couldn't anyway, not with your ego sucking all the oxygen out of the room." Some of the aides look a little sympathetic to that, but they hide it well.
"So what? It's deserved. Unlike some people who think that surviving a couple of suicide missions gives them the Darwinian advantage to blow up entire planets."
"Hey, I had nothing to do with that!" You put me on the committee, he wants to say. You trusted me.
"What? Couldn't stand up to Daddy?" Rodney sneers. John tries not to think about all the times Rodney'd told him that he was so much better than his father, that it was okay, that he didn't have to satisfy that bastard.
"Fuck you, McKay."
"Sorry, Colonel, but my standards require a few braincells and a backbone."
"You mean you've moved up from fish to farm animals?" John clenches his fists. God, this is why he can't stand seeing Rodney. It's not the jibes. The insults he can take, but it's still Rodney. Where the fuck did they go wrong?
John looks at the truly gaudy cuckoo clock above Rodney's head – 30 minutes to the ribbon cutting ceremony. He feels the comfortable weight of the memory crystal Teyla and Ronon left him with in his palm. He might as well do it now. Either that or spend the next half hour doing John vs. Rodney round . . . god, there's been so many he's lost track.
"Look . . . McKay. I didn't come here to fight. I have to talk to you."
"Are you sure you want to hold a conversation with a guy who's supposedly fucked Shamu?"
John can't help but laugh a little at that, even if it only ups the level of McKay-glare to Defcon 5.
"Do you think I'd come to you if it weren't serious?"
Rodney sighs, looking put upon, but there's that old frightened shimmer in his eyes – the one that usually comes before some statement about how monumentally screwed they are. "Okay. You . . . you . . . out, out, out!"
The aides look a little unsure, like there might be bloodshed if he and Rodney are left alone. "What? Little-Asian-woman, I'm fine. Close your mouths, turn around and get out of here. That's it good . . . and if I catch anyone eavesdropping, so help me god, you'll wish that I'd liquefied your brain in my Cuisinart by the time I'm done with you!"
John smiles a little, careful to not let Rodney see. Hunting Season in the labs had always been one of John's favorite spectator sports.
After slamming the door behind the retreating mass of adoring fans, Rodney sighs. "I swear, they're like sheep, have to be handheld through everything. I'd take Conan and Xena any day over these imbeciles."
"Yeah, can't get good sycophants like you used to, huh?"
Rodney scowls, crossing his hands defensively across his chest. "No. You can't. Now, are you going to tell me what this is all about or did you just want me alone so we could get into a fistfight or something equally barbaric?"
John sighs. "I just spoke with ‘Conan and Xena.'"
For a second, Rodney's eye brighten and John can almost, almost believe that this is the old Rodney, the one that cared about more than just the next thing he was going to feed to his own Napoleon complex. "Really? Ronon finally stab himself with one of the knives he keeps in his ‘do?'"
John shakes his head. "No. Teyla's pregnant."
"Oh? Good for her. Though that's also kind of terrifying."
John smiles. It's awkward. "Yeah. I think Ronon is mostly bored."
"Well, I guess there's not enough room for a dung-sniffing, weapons-concealing, mountain man in a world where the scientists are responsible for all the real fighting."
It's a true statement, but it still hurts, Rodney dismissing Ronon's and John's contributions just like that. "He's probably just getting older and is pissed about it."
"So, I assume that the need to buy something small and fluffy to send to Teyla isn't the main reason you needed to talk to me?"
"No. Though I think what she'd really enjoy is a gift certificate to Toys ‘R Us. Teyla and Ronon are worried about strange things that have been happening in Pegasus. Here, too – black energy creatures, weird lights in the night sky . . ."
"You mean like the Aurora Borealis?" Rodney snorts.
"I mentioned that."
"Look, as interesting as this X-file seems, I really have a lot more important things to do . . ."
"Ronon's planet disappeared."
"What do you mean? Planets just don't . . ."
"Yeah, it did. And I'm not sure it's the only one. Something's wrong, Rodney." John wants to scream, ‘Don't you feel it? Doesn't it hurt you? How can you go on like this?'
"Even if it is, what am I supposed to do about it? Zelenka's there. He's not a complete and utter idiot most of the time. He should be able to figure it out."
"He's been trying, but Dr. Xiaoyi and the rest of the IOA keep him on a pretty tight leash. They're still more concerned about acquiring new technology and the assimilation camps than they are about mysterious phenomena."
"Yes, yes, all very interesting."
"Rodney . . ."
"Look, I'll talk to the IOA, try to get Xiaoyi off Radek's back, but it's really not my problem."
"Rodney, it's about the Reactor."
"Energy clouds? Aurora Borealis? Planets disappearing? How could you possibly know it's connected to the weapon? It could be some newly Ascended punk-kid using the universe as his playground. It could be The Heart of Gold creating an improbability field. Just because the ZPR is the biggest discovery in the history of science does not mean that it's to blame for every crazy thing that happens in Pegasus of all places."
"She asked me to stop it," John says quietly. He was hoping he'd never have to bring this up.
"Who?"
"Chaya," he mumbles.
"Oh, no . . . see, this is what happens without my rational judgment to guide you. You go crawling back to that ascended bitch and she feeds you more lies just to sabotage me. I can't believe you actually expect me to . . ."
"The Ancients are dying, Rodney."
"So let them die! They've had their ten-thousand years of Hippie Non-interventionist Nirvana. When we needed them, where were they? They deserve what they get."
"But it's more than that. It's . . ." John can't even hope to describe it, this feeling of wrongess, the way it seems written deep into his existence, a minute ache in every cell of his body. "Please, Rodney. Please, just take a look at it." He holds out the data crystal.
Rodney looks at it skeptically for a minute, then finally sighs, snatching it. "Fine. But only to keep Teyla from freaking out too much in her . . ." he waves his hands, miming what's either a request for the Heimlich or a sperm wale, "You know, her fragile state."
John breathes a sigh of relief.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," Rodney adds, huffily.
"I know." John doubts that day will ever come.
The champagne opens with a resounding pop. John's fingers are sticky as the bubbles overflow, raising goosebumps on the back of his hands. He licks the bubbles off, only to find Rodney staring at him, a fond smile on his lips.
"Can't do anything without causing an explosion, can you, Colonel?"
John winks at him, holding up the bottle. Rodney, Elizabeth, Colonel Carter, Radek, and Rodney's sister, Jeannie, all hold up their glasses and John pours.
"To Rodney McKay. Largest head in two galaxies!" Radek proclaims, a conciliatory smile on his lips.
"Hey!" Rodney squawks.
"Oh, sorry, sorry, ‘brain.' Of course I meant ‘brain.' I am still so poor with the English, yes?"
"You're doing just fine, Dr. Zelenka," Jeannie says, patting his arm sympathetically. How such a sweet, beautiful woman is related to Rodney, John still can't quite figure out.
Rodney rolls his eyes.
"To Dr. Rodney McKay, finally receiving his much bemoaned Nobel prize," Elizabeth grins, raising her glass.
"Here, here!" John says, spilling a little more champagne on himself in the clink of glasses.
As he drinks it down, Rodney's eyes are on his, wide and blue and full of so much gratitude.
Afterwards, he holds the prize up for all of them to see and admire, bright gold like a giant nickel, Nobel looking somehow lonely on the face, staring off into the distance.
"You deserve it," John says, arm going casually around Rodney's shoulders for a quick half-embrace.
"He has the Physics, he will now be wanting Chemistry and Peace too. Who is to know, he may even try for Literature?" Zelenka adds.
They all laugh, but John squeezes a little tighter. He's so damned proud of Rodney, he'd give him all of them . . . well, maybe not Literature.
Today the surf is quiet, though John can never quite figure out how the same waves crashing against the same shore can really change all that much in tone. The sky is cloudy, drizzling down the pinprick raindrops of a dismal California winter. Today the Pacific will be too cold to go out surfing. So he sits by the window, feet pressed up against the chilled glass, The Return of the King laying open in his lap.
The bell chimes and he pushes to his feet, slipping into sandals, wondering if this is the call he's dreaded ever since he bought this lonely house by the sea, the news that something has happened to Atlantis, even though he barely knows any of the people still there.
He still knows the city though. He misses her. When he tries to think the door open, it stays silent and white, almost mocking.
"Door Open," he says to the house, and finally, it swings open to reveal Rodney McKay standing there, a mist of raindrops blanketing his thinning brown hair, his lips flattened into a solemn frown. It's the first time in two years John's seen the man appear without an entourage.
"Rodney?"
Rodney storms in. "Fine, let me freeze to death out on your doorstep, why don't you?" John would've pointed out that it's probably impossible to freeze to death on a beach in California, but Rodney seems far too preoccupied for his arrival to be anything good.
"Sorry."
Rodney looks up at John, shaking a little in his thin white shirt. His eyes are wide and almost terrified. "I am, too."
It's strange; for two years, John has been waiting for an apology, but he'd never ask for it like this – never so defeated. "What is it?"
Rodney's jaw juts out. "You were right. It isn't a coincidence. It is the weapon. The universe is going to end."
"What?!" John reaches out, gripping Rodney by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You're serious."
Rodney points to his own dismal frown. "Do I look serious to you? This is my ‘we're all going to die and there's nothing I can do about it' face."
John smiles a little. "I've seen it before. And we're all still here. What if we shut them all off? Right this second, every single reactor? We could stop it."
"I don't think you understand, Colonel. I checked what you gave me against new astronomical data. The Universe is no longer expanding. We're tumbling towards maximum entropy as we speak, so fast it's actually causing rips in space-time. Planets disappearing like they never existed, energy curtains appearing in the sky, Ancient technology that uses the essence of the Universe all going haywire. And the Ascended aren't dying – they're giving up."
Rodney's hands still dance as he talks. He still sounds exactly the same when in lecture mode – didactic, but still kind of smugly amazed beneath it all.
"What do you mean?"
"Ascended beings aren't energy. They're potential energy. They are consciousnesses that move through the baseline, Zero Point Energy that makes up the Universe. They don't die. They sort of go Supernova."
"So the energy creatures . . ."
"Ancients."
"So what are we going to do about it? Is there any way to, um . . . undo it?"
Rodney shakes his head. "Entropy. There's nothing we can do to stop it."
"What kind of timeline are we talking about here?"
"Well, if we stopped all Reactor use right this very second, there's a chance that the Universe will just slowly unravel, a natural process. Then we're talking about billions of years. Though we'd still be the cause of it."
"And if we don't?"
"I really don't know. In terms of universal destruction, we're still talking about your grandchildren's grandchildren's grandchildren, but in terms of our planet not winking out of existence or all being eaten by living black-holes or something equally disastrous, I have no idea."
"So we get them to stop using them. Look, I'll call Elizabeth. No, I'll fly us over there right now." John already has Rodney by the wrist, dragging him out into the soft drizzle, hands clammy with raindrops.
"John?" Rodney asks, voice small, softer than he's heard it in ages.
"Yeah?"
"I'm not sure . . . ." Rodney trails off, not willing to say what they both know he was going to. "So, um . . . how are you?"
John shrugs. "Same old. Surfing, military, hanging out. You?"
"Oh, you know. Fame, fortune, scientific progress."
"That model I heard you were dating?" Ridiculous Swedish slut. It pisses John off just thinking about Rodney settling for a vacuous airhead just because he can.
Rodney shrugs. He brings his hands up to his chest, miming imaginary breasts. "Heavy down here." He taps his head. "Light up here. I think I was supposed to break up with her tonight, but you know . . . saving the universe, probably takes precedence."
He smiles one of his rare shy smiles.
John smiles back.
"Radek!" John says into the phone – surprised. "Aren't you supposed to be in another galaxy?"
"Yes, yes, I am in another galaxy, Colonel. Therefore we have only 38 minutes in which to converse. I have called to offer you my congratulations on your promotion."
John smiles at that. "Thanks. Though I'm not sure it warrants a cross-galaxy phone call."
"Do not complain. As Rodney likes to remind me – it is not collect."
John chuckles at that.
"Speaking of Rodney. He is not there, is he?"
John looks around. Well, he doesn't smell coffee and the house is pretty quiet so . . . "No, I don't think so. But we have a date with a news crew in about an hour, so I'm sure he'll pop his head in any minute now to make sure I'm not going to say anything to sully his stellar reputation."
"You mean of making reporters cry, using killing of children as metaphor, and in general behaving as arrogant ass?" Zelenka's voice is crystal clear, though he speaks like a ghost from a million light years away.
"Yeah, pretty much. Do you want to talk to him? I can go look."
"No, no, actually, I was hoping that you would do the talking to for me."
"Oh? What's the matter?"
"Rodney will not listen. He thinks the Reactors are McKay's gift to humanity – to be used to save starving children and clean the world's streets and tie your shoelaces, yes?"
"Well, he did discover them." Rodney likes to say invent, but John doesn't want to stroke his ego more.
"Yes. He does not listen when I caution against overuse. And not just for the danger of them falling into the wrong hands, but for overdependence."
"Overdependence?" He had to agree that the power usages of this planet were beginning to get a little ridiculous. The press conference today was about yet another Reactor to be built in China.
"Perhaps the Ancients knew something we did not, yes? Perhaps they made the project fail for reason other than they did not want people to be able to kill them."
"And what reason might that be?"
"If you were Oppenheimer, Colonel, and you knew what the world would be after the result of your work, would you still build the bomb?"
John shakes his head. "I don't know, Radek. I don't know."
"But you will speak to Rodney? Urge caution?"
And of course, Rodney would choose exactly that moment to walk in.
"Colonel?" Zelenka asked.
"Hi, Rodney," John said with a smile.
"Please tell me that's not what you're wearing to the press conference."
John looked down at his old Atlantis field gear. It was more comfortable than the dress-uniform, but just as effective with the press. "Why? What's wrong with it?"
"If you're standing next to me wearing that, I'll look like a blimp! You know the camera adds ten pounds."
John heard a snicker on the other end of the line and then a click.
"Radek? Did you just hang up on me from another galaxy?"
"Radek? You're talking to that jealous little weasel?"
"Woah, Rodney, I thought you and Zelenka were friends."
Rodney snorts. "Friends? The man clearly does not support my genius. He tried to block me at the beginning of this project and now he's trying to do it again. Do you know how hard it is to do good when even your so-called ‘friends' will try to hold back the whole of science in order to keep you from outshining them, eh? I mean, you'd never suspect it of the little fuzzy guy, but really, beneath that bumbling Czech exterior, there lies a backstabber with a heart of iron."
At first it was kind of amusing, but then, could Rodney really think that about Zelenka? "Rodney, listen to yourself for a minute. You don't really think Zelenka is out to get you."
"Oh? No? Then why did he say it wasn't possible? Why did he call Elizabeth to try to get her to stop the test when we were already there, hm?"
"Because he honestly thought it wouldn't work!"
"Maybe. But why now? It clearly does work. And the only reason he can give me for why we should halt the scientific progress of our society is the fact that the Ancients were too scared to use it and we should be too!"
"Rodney. We're no longer at war. I don't see what's wrong with a little caution."
"Oh, coming from Colonel ‘Did I Do That?', sitting on Ancient devices willy nilly, charging 10,000 year old SuperWraith, disobeying orders at every turn . . . and he says I should use caution! I'm sorry, but do you want to be the one to tell the Chinese, ‘no. your one billion people do not get a Reactor because I want to be a good little chickenshit hippie when I grow up?'"
"Will you stop thinking about how things look for a second and listen, Rodney? You were right about the containment field, but you're not always right."
"I haven't failed yet, John."
"Rodney, have you completely forgotten about how you got sent to Siberia? About Allina and me almost dying? About Kolya during the storm? About not modifying the Jumpers to remote control in time? You're human and you make mistakes. I'm seriously tired of your ego and your more-scientific-than-thou bullshit!"
Rodney's eyes are shining now, his lips trembling in anger. "You don't mean that, John."
"Absolute power, Rodney. I'm tired of press conferences and book signings and fielding phone calls about you insulting the entire fucking world and what I have to say about it."
"Okay, so step back. It's okay. You don't have to defend me to the press or go to all these events and things if you don't want to. It's your choice. But I have a duty to my public . . ."
John can't help a chocked snort of laughter at that. "God, McKay, you're worse than an Italian opera diva."
"Well, I did make possibly the most important contribution to science in all of history, so I think a little of it is deserved."
John sighs. "Be as arrogant as you want for your adoring public, Rodney, but you're talking to me. I know you. I like you as a human being, not God's gift to science. And I have to deal with you day in and day out."
Rodney doesn't say anything, which is as close to a concession John's going to get.
"Now, hold off on the Reactor. Just check it out. Please. If you won't do it for Radek, then do it for me."
"Oh, I see how it is. You're just guilting me into doing the ridiculous little saboteur's bidding. Great. I thought I could count on you, John."
"You can. Please, just do it. Elizabeth can smooth things over with the Chinese."
"So I should listen to a conniving Czech bastard and a grunt who knows just as much about astrophysics as my cat instead of all the scientific consultants and oversight agents that are pushing this project forward."
"You asked me to trust you. Can't it work both ways?"
"I'll trust you with my life and with a lot of other things, but you are in way over your head here, Colonel."
But does it really matter? Is trust dependent on qualifications, or is it about how far you're willing to go for someone? To believe them? To take their beliefs to heart? Yeah, John would understand if he was telling Rodney to make all the compression ratios add up to forty-two or something silly like that, but all he's asking for is a little consideration.
"Rodney, tell me you'll do this for me."
"No."
"Tell me." John feels his voice tightening, his muscles clenching for a fight he knows they're not going to have.
"Or what?"
"Or I'm gone."
"Are you threatening me? Do you actually think trying to manipulate me with an ultimatum will work? John, be reasonable."
"No, Rodney! You be reasonable! If you care about my trust in you at all, you'll do this."
"Don't you dare try to make this personal!" But it's too late for that. They've already made everything far too personal.
"What difference does it make?"
"John . . ."
"Bye, Rodney. Have fun at your damned press conference."
John doesn't turn to leave as he walks out the door because he knows if he looks back and sees the hurt in Rodney's eyes he'll fold, and he can't afford to fold. If Rodney is so in love with himself that he won't listen to anyone else, even John, then he deserves to be alone.
"We do not negotiate with terrorists," Elizabeth's voice, that almost sing-song lit to even her most aggressive command. He'd recognize it anywhere.
"I understand your concern, Dr. Weir. But the members of the free Jaffa Nation have worked with the Tau'ri for many years as loyal allies. Do we not deserve the same benefits that you have afforded your own people?"
"Trust me, Teal'c, I understand your demands, I really do. But the Jaffa have been easily swayed by our enemies before. You yourself have expressed doubts as to the unity of your own people. And the evidence that the attack on the Asgard-run reactor on Orilla is mounting to indicate a band of Jaffa separatists. Now, Earth would be happy to provide energy in the form of Naquadah generators or possibly even ZPMs, but we cannot risk the possibility of a Zero Point Reactor falling into the wrong hands."
"This is Elizabeth?" Rodney asks, pointing at the door, skeptical.
John shrugs. Elizabeth's changed in the past years. They all have.
"My people are suffering, Dr. Weir. Goa'uld technology was never manufactured on a large enough scale to provide for all."
"Now, I understand that fact, Teal'c. But you have to understand me when I say that we take the safety and security of our people and the people of this galaxy is our utmost concern . . ."
"Let's walk in before this gets heated," John whispers to Rodney, who nods.
"Elizabeth!" John lets Rodney enter first, then does his patented slouch in the doorway. "Teal'c," he greets the Jaffa with a nod.
"John," Elizabeth seems annoyed, to say the least. "Rodney?" She looks back and forth between them, dismayed to see them coming to her together. "Teal'c, do you think maybe you could excuse us for just a moment?"
"Certainly, Dr. Weir. Though I expect to be met with much more reasonable offers when I return." He nods to her. "Colonel Sheppard. Dr. McKay."
After the seven feet of hulking warrior has passed, Elizabeth gathers the papers on her desk and returns them to the folder before her. "So, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"
"You have to stop using the Reactors," Rodney says. Blunt, as usual.
Elizabeth only quirks an eyebrow. "Would you care to tell me why?"
"Because the Universe is about to end."
She nods a little. "Okay, I guess I can put a monkeywrench in the plans for the reactor on Tolan, but only until you figure something out."
"Figure something out? Elizabeth did you not hear me when I said the Universe is going to end?"
"Rodney, my interests have to be the safety and security of our people."
"Clearly, because apparently in my absence you've turned into Nikita Krushchev."
"Now, Rodney, I know this is hard for you to see, but in order to maintain a balance of power in this galaxy, we have to either all have the weapon or none of us have it."
"Yes, yes, mutually assured destruction. I get it. We're just going to have to go with none."
"Rodney, you of all people should know the leaps and bounds this technology has brought to the people of Earth. You can't just ask people to give that up!"
"Personally, I think people would rather live in grass huts than, I don't know, be torn apart by the tidal forces of the Universe imploding on itself!"
"And if I had to make that choice for people, I would make it. But Rodney, even if we shut off our reactor, what about China? The European Union? Africa? Argentina? And that's not even counting the Asgard or the Tok'ra or the Lucian Alliance. And even assuming we can trust our allies not to take advantage of us if we disarm, what about the Ori? Do you really think the military will willingly give up our only weapon against them?"
"I don't think you're understanding us, Elizabeth. The Universe is going to end." John emphasizes, as if Rodney hadn't already made it obvious enough.
Elizabeth sighs. "Do we know that?"
"I can show you the models. If we sustain this level of use, we're talking within the millennium."
"I'm sorry, Rodney," Elizabeth says, "But no matter what models you show to people, the ones that hold the power just aren't going to listen."
"Since when did you become such a pessimist?" John demands.
Elizabeth just shakes her head. There is tragedy written in her eyes.
"We will not hesitate to use lethal force," Elizabeth says, voice stone-cold and threatening. "You know that."
The Queen makes a sort of frustrated hiss, violently red hair swinging as she denies it. "And you know that we would rather die fighting than starve. You, too, hunger. You must know this."
Elizabeth nods. "I understand that. But we don't exactly enjoy being fed upon, either. Believe it or not, I don't want you to suffer. But if it's kill or be killed, trust me, we will destroy every last one of you."
"I could suck you dry in an instant."
"Now that would be a little impolite, doncha think?" John asks, feeling both angry and ridiculous. Negotiating with the Wraith?
The Queen narrows her eyes at him then ignores him. He wonders if Elizabeth garners more of her attention because she's female. Or maybe because she's actually taking this seriously. John, himself, doesn't believe the Wraith will ever negotiate. It's not in their nature.
"Why are we here, pointlessly negotiating if you just intend to kill us? We are willing to accept culling only the worlds you specify. You must have enemies, Dr. Weir. We all do."
Elizabeth holds up her hand. "I would not wish that even on my worst enemy."
The queen's lips curve up into a malicious smile.
"There is another way," Elizabeth pulls a vial out of her jacket pocket, presenting it to the Wraith.
"Explain."
"Our scientists have developed a serum that can turn a Wraith into a human. You will have to take booster treatments for the time being, but eventually, we hope to perfect it to make the change permanent."
The queen crushes the vial easily in her hand. "What you ask is impossible. You would turn yourself into a stalk of grain, into a thoughtless beast of burden? You could not possibly understand what our society is, Dr. Weir. It is too far outside your grasp."
"That's the deal," Elizabeth says, a small smile building at the corner of her lips. "Take it or leave it. You know the kind of power we possess."
Elizabeth sits tall and regal, spine straight, eyes narrowed, voice humming with power. This is how she's supposed to be, able to mold the world.
"Well, that was a complete and utter failure," Rodney complains, arms crossing over his chest.
John wasn't expecting it either, from Elizabeth of all people. "Well, there's gotta be someone else you can ask . . . . You got me onto the strategic planning committee. You have to have contacts."
"No, Elizabeth has contacts; I have people I blackmail by threatening to withhold work."
"Then don't work. That'll at least slow them down, won't it?"
"I mean, right now, Radek and I probably are the only ones capable of constructing a reactor from scratch. But all my work, my published journals, lectures, the working models they have at the moment. Someone greedy or desperate enough could do it. If I died right now, that wouldn't change a thing."
"And if we destroyed all the Reactors?"
"Yeah, us and what army? It'd have to be simultaneous before they caught on, and there's no way I could guarantee doing it safely in a short period of time. We're talking probably a whole solar system if something goes wrong. God, everything's a military solution with you."
"Well, science and diplomacy haven't gotten us all that far. What about just one of them?"
"One? What good will that do?"
"If we can make it look like an accident . . . maybe if they see how dangerous they are . . ."
"Because Chernobyl really stopped us from using nuclear weapons. No, Elizabeth's right . . ."
"An entire solar system is a lot bigger than some French forests."
"Yeah, and how many people are we going to kill with that kind of explosion? Could you really just kill that many? Even if it is for the sake of universal integrity?"
"It doesn't have to be populated. There's still the original Weapon on Doranda."
"Which they'll blame on age and poor manufacturing . . . wait . . . Doranda." Rodney frowns. He looks alive for the first time John's seen him in years, eyes sparking with that perfect mix of passion and discovery, with just a little smug surprise mixed in. "Yes, that's it. Okay, we have to get to Pegasus. You can do that, right? Tell them you need to be there for some Athosian prenatal party or something?"
"Yeah, sure. But what's your plan?"
"The weapon on Doranda created particles, unpredictable new particles that would break the containment field. At first we thought this was just sort of a universal slap on the wrist for trying to mess with the laws of space-time, sort of like the radioactive waste that comes out of a nuclear reaction. Later, we found that those particles were actually possible in this universe - they just hadn't been allowed the time to develop. Even under extreme relativistic conditions, we're still talking like ten-thousand-odd years or so."
"Ten-thousand years?"
"Yes, elemental backwash, particles trapped on the brink of existence from another firing that escape the event horizon of the energy generation at any given time. We've never seen this phenomena on any of our reactors."
"Because none of our reactors have ever failed."
"And they never will fail. In sabotaging their own system, the Ancients introduced an element of temporal instability into the weapons core that can never be overcome."
"Okay, so why do we have to go back to Doranda?"
"So we can introduce more instability into the system. Make sure the weapon never succeeds."
"Isn't that sort of . . ."
"A paradox, I know. But if OldElizabeth can do it, so can we."
"I was going to say dangerous. I mean, we could end up throwing some original weapon's test, killing Merlin, changing the tide of the War with the Wraith. We could kill ourselves."
"Actually, we're probably going to kill ourselves, but quick death by solar-system destroying blast of energy is infinitely preferable to the universe ripping itself apart and taking me with it."
"Yeah," John sighed.
"So let's do it, hm? You have any last goodbyes, or should we make for Pegasus?"
John looks Rodney in the eyes, finally seeing the man he used to know lurking there, a man who used his arrogance like a shield instead of like a fucking noose.
He shakes his head. "There's no one."
"Congratulations, gentlemen," Elizabeth says, beaming.
Across the table, Rodney looks ready to burst. His grin is wider than John has ever seen it, and he's practically dancing with excitement. Earlier, he was humming.
John returns the smile with a smirk, giving Rodney a nudge under the table when he looks ready to bliss out and not listen to what Elizabeth is saying.
Radek is seated on the other side of the table, eyes downcast, but also nervous with excitement. Rodney smiles at him smugly, but looks willing to forget the small fight between them. Teyla and Ronon are conspicuously absent, though John's not sure what they would do in a meeting like this.
Their place is taken by Caldwell, leaning into the table, like a barely leashed dog, eager to begin the hunt. "Yes, congratulations. This may very well be the greatest discovery since the atomic weapon."
Instead of saying, ‘of course, Colonel, there have been other kinds of discoveries that haven't been weapons,' Rodney smiles wider. "Well, yes. I'm aware of the sweeping magnitude of this invention, including the Nobel Prizes it will no doubt win me. I mean, not only do we have a weapon that can destroy an armada of hive ships, but we've proven the existence of energy that theoretical physicists have searched for since the dawn of the nuclear era. I'm not sure you can even comprehend the revolutionary nature of this discovery, Colonel." Rodney expected John to, though. He smiles at that. He likes seeing Rodney this charged – this excited about something for its interest instead of its weapons potential.
"And we're very proud of your accomplishment, Rodney," Elizabeth adds, before Caldwell can get the intended insult to his intelligence. "But we're here to discuss practical applications. What exactly is the next step?"
"Well, obviously, I can't be around to manually adjust the field strength at all times, so we'll have to keep running tests until we can come up with an automated containment protocol."
"What about building more?" Caldwell immediately asks.
"What? Itching for a new arms race, Colonel?"
"No, the colonel is right, Rodney. While we're all fascinated by the workings of this weapon . . ."
"Speak for yourself," John says, earning him a playful glare from Rodney. They both know that's not true.
Elizabeth gives him a warning glance anyway. "The fact of the matter is that we are hidden for now, but we're still not safe from the Wraith. A weapon, even of this magnitude, does us no good if we can't use it to defend ourselves. Now, I would like to establish an evacuation site on Doranda, but safeguarding Atlantis is still a key priority of this expedition."
"And we will, as soon as we can," Rodney insists. "Zelenka can start materials analysis right away."
"But Rodney . . ." Zelenka protests.
"And I'll be looking into the possibility of using the reactor to charge our ZedPMs."
"You can do that?" Caldwell asks.
Rodney shoots him a glare.
"And we're not just looking for military applications," Elizabeth adds. "I mean, imagine what this kind of power source could do for Earth. No more nuclear reactors? No more greenhouse gas emissions? We could bring power to every home, produce all sorts of things. And this is not to mention other planets, Goa'uld devices that we haven't been able to power. This whole city, living to it's full potential. Imagine the kind of future this will bring."
There's a stunner tucked into the lining of John's coat, knives in his belt buckle, his boot, his pocket. He draws the line at concealing anything in his hair.
Rodney walks nervously before him, hands dancing at his sides. It's clear for anyone who's watching to see that he's nervous, but then again, he's Rodney McKay, the eccentric kook that invented the ZPR and defeated the Wraith and the Ori and made at least one press photographer jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.
Doranda is a museum now. Japanese tourists crawl through the ruins of the ‘old city', fleshy skeletons all cleaned out, quaint little snack shops built into the hollows of crumbling buildings. The sky is bright above them, a shimmering sparkling ribbon. John and Rodney are probably the only ones here that know what that means.
Tour guides walk backwards, explaining the war with the Wraith, the heroism of John Sheppard and Rodney McKay, the dynamic duo of Pegasus. They talk about how Rodney's parents abandoned him, how he was exiled to Siberia for being too brilliant, how he fought a fog creature with his bare hands, finally earning the respect he deserved from John Sheppard.
The John Sheppard of history is heroic, courageous and kind. They never say he was a loose cannon, always that he fought to do the right thing when it was the people at the top that turned against him. They talk about Colonel Marshall Sumner and how his ghost haunted John's every action even as he took up his mantle. They talk about his abiding and unlikely friendship with Rodney McKay. They don't mention his failures, or the men he's killed and gotten killed. Above all, they say, John Sheppard's role was to protect and be loyal.
The museum is closing now, the one with the stages of the project (many of them falsified to give it an appropriate timescale). The real history would look more like: Rodney yells at someone. He discovers the compression ratios. He eats a Powerbar. He barrels through failsafes. He looks over material schematics. He dismisses a perfectly good design so he can create his own. He sleeps. He argues with Elizabeth. He stops a Wraith attack. He and John watch a movie in his quarters. He builds the weapon that would destroy the Universe.
The guard at the entrance smiles at them, then almost falls over his cheap uniform and unnaturally shiny black boots. "Oh god . . . you're . . ."
"Yes, yes, Rodney McKay. John Sheppard."
Neither of them has been here since the opening ceremony, where they stood side by side, tense smiles on their faces.
"Can I get your autograph, Sir? I've read your books, cover to cover, all of them. I can't believe you're really here. I mean, sometimes I double as a tourguide on the weekends and . . . wow . . . just, wow."
"Hm." Rodney says, pulling out a pen and . . . a photo of himself? Signing casually, like he's done it a million times before.
"To Danny, yes . . . good, thank you."
John rolls his eyes.
"You too, Mr. . . . erm . . . Colonel Sheppard?"
John looks dumbfounded. He told the press to fuck off long before the autograph stage. Rodney gives him a nudge to the ribs, right on the stunner.
"Sure. Why not?"
He gives a fake smile and signs a big loopy John Hancock right across Rodney's receding hairline.
"Thank you, Sir. Though I've been meaning to ask you. Did you really take on a 10,000 year old Wraith with nothing but a knife?"
John wonders where he's heard that. It's not a story he likes to tell. He raises his eyebrows. "Well, I had Dr. McKay there to protect me."
"Yes, but in his book he says that you were on your own at first and . . ."
John smiles a little at Rodney. He couldn't stand to read that damned book, even though somewhere in the home he'll never see again, there must be a copy.
"Yeah, it's true."
"Wow." The guard should really hope that the when the Universe ends, his face won't get stuck like that.
"Well, as lovely as this has all been, Colonel Sheppard and I have business and it would really help us if you could . . ."
"Oh, anything, Sir."
"We just wanted to take a look at the reactor room. You know, for old times sake."
"Of course, sir. Right this way. Though . . . ha . . . silly me, of course you know the way. I have to confess I've looked up to you pretty much since . . ."
The guard drones on and on until the reach the ladder that leads down into the room. There are posters lining the walls, detailing the first test here and its tragedy. To the left there's a white room where a vase of fresh flowers are kept in memory of Dr. Andy Collins, who died in the pursuit of knowledge.
John and Rodney's story is here too right next to life-sized models of them, standing tall and proud, but they choose not to read it. They remember how it happened.
"Um, if you wouldn't mind . . . we'd like a moment alone," John says, clearing his throat.
The guard shoots them one last knowing look before climbing the ladder up and out of there.
"That was disarmingly easy," Rodney says, as John pulls out that knife that has been rubbing uncomfortably against his hipbone.
Closed he thinks at the door.
Rodney's already at the console. The modifications take barely a minute. And then Rodney looks up, meets John's eyes. "So, this is it."
"Yep," John takes a step closer.
"Last words?"
"Not if you're going to talk about leadership for an hour." He offers with a small chuckle.
"Regrets?"
John smiles a little at that. He's got plenty.
"A ‘So long, Rodney?'"
John reaches out and grabs Rodney's hand, it's clammy beneath his palm. "So long."
"John . . ."
"Don't say it." John's happy here like this. Things aren't unresolved, because they're going to get another chance. They'll probably fuck that one up too, but does it matter?
"I'm glad you're here . . . with me."
"Me too."
Then Rodney presses a button and the Universe ends, only to begin again.
The world shakes. John looks up at the ceiling. "What was that?"
Rodney runs from console to console, frantically typing.
"The weapon's discharging to prevent a catastrophic overload."
It's all going to hell, going to fall down around them and John was so stupid for not listening to his gut on this, for wanting so desperately to trust Rodney that he'd throw caution to the wind. But maybe it's not to late. Maybe they can still make it out of this with their lives.
"All right, that's it. We're outa here."
Sparks are raining down. It's too late. It's too fucking late.
"It's not safe! The weapon's firing at random targets above the planet. This is the safest place to be right now."
"The place isn't gonna be safe for very much longer!"
"I can bring it back under control! Just give me a second!" The conviction in Rodney's voice is both mesmerizing and terrifying. He still believes . . . that's one of the things that John's come to both love and hate about Rodney - that no matter how much he panics and complains, in the end, he always believes in his own genius.
Another blast shakes John to motion. If he has to haul Rodney out of here kicking and screaming, he'll do it, because if he doesn't . . . he doesn't want to think about what will happen if he doesn't.
"No, you can't!"
Rodney pulls out of John's grasp. "Just one second!"
"I've seen this before, Rodney: pilots who wouldn't eject when something went wrong – trying to fix their planes right until it hit the ground." He's begging Rodney to trust him now, trust him to be the conscience Rodney never quite seemed to have.
And then the readout beeps. Rodney types another frantic code. The blasts sounding above them cease. And then there's nothing but the lights flashing green again, the klaxons dimming into a quiet but tense peace.
John can hear his own breath stuttering, his muscles tense and alert. Rodney keeps typing.
"Power levels stable. Containment field functioning . . ." He keeps staring at it. "I'm bringing it up to fifty percent. Sixty. Eighty. One hundred percent."
John is leaning over Rodney's shoulder now, lights below them flashing happily. Readouts normal. Inside the chamber, the reactor practically purrs.
"Stop breathing down my neck," Rodney complains, but doesn't back away.
They stay like this for fifteen tense minutes before Rodney shuts the reactor down. He closes his laptop in silence. "Oh my god. We did it."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not . . . of course I could . . . I mean, I'm Rodney McKay, after all . . . and . . . well, I knew I could do it but I just never imagined this . . . this . . . do you know what this means, Major?" Rodney stands, looking John in the eye for the first time since things started going pear-shaped.
"Colonel." John smiles ruefully. "Yeah, I know what this means."
And then he's reaching out, pulling Rodney into his arms, feeling him warm and solid and here. Comfort, contact, trust, like he's always wanted and is finally allowing himself to have. Rodney's not going to turn on him like his father, disappoint him like his mother, betray him like the first woman he ever loved. He breathes in Rodney's scent, feels his heart pound excitedly in his chest, his breath panted into John's ear. "I never doubted you." Not really.
"I know."
FIN