STARGATE SG-1: Transitions

by Sabine C. Bauer

  “Why?”

  “Because I… uh…” No telling how she would react to that revelation, but Daniel figured the truth was his safest bet. “I interfered.”

  Whatever reaction he might have expected, it wasn’t this. The woman, tense and borderline hostile even a second ago, transformed entirely. She relaxed, and for the first time since they’d entered the cavern, Amara smiled a genuine smile, warm and friendly and utterly delighted.

  “You’re one of us!” she cried. “The Teacher must have sent you. Welcome, brother!”

  One of us.

  The words of that document jumped into Daniel’s mind. Amara was a fifth columnist. Perhaps she even was the author. If he played along, he’d have to wing it and wing it correctly, otherwise… Well, right now, Daniel didn’t care about the consequences of any incorrect guess. He’d have engaged in any charade, no matter how dangerous, as long as it saved Jack’s life.

  “It is always good to meet friends,” he said. Keep it noncommittal. “I wish the circumstances were better. As it is, I have to beg your assistance. Our companion will die without your help.”

  “Of course.” As Amara hurried out to where Jack lay, a subtle wave of her hand brought the wall panels to almost painful brightness. It showed up the devastation within the cavern in brutal clarity. Daniel recalled his own battle with Anubis and suddenly had a pretty good idea of what exactly had happened here. No wonder Cassie had decided to take matters into her own hands.

  He scrambled after Amara, back out into the tunnel. Jack lay in a pool of light spilling from the cavern. He was deathly pale, and under the pallor lurked a bluish tinge that said he was running out of air, drowning in his own blood. Nearly as ashen as Jack, Cassie stood over him, misery in her eyes.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Cassie,” Daniel said softly.

  “Oh no?” She stiffened. “I pulled the trigger!”

  “That is why you will help me now,” Amara said with surprising gentleness. Then she took Cassie’s hand, pulled her to a crouch. “Do as you see me do. Be what you need to be.”

  Eyes closed, Amara placed her hand on Jack’s chest, right beside that ugly hole. After a moment’s hesitation, Cassie did the same. For an interminable stretch of time nothing seemed to happen.

  Daniel knew what to expect, he’d seen Jack save Bra’tac’s life in just this way, but some irrational part of him craved to see or hear some sign that this was actually working. Or maybe it wasn’t so irrational— he didn’t trust Amara, and he couldn’t be sure she was doing what she’d promised to do.

  Suddenly he thought he saw movement, a tiny lift of Jack’s chest. He almost discarded it as wishful thinking, but then it happened again, much stronger this time. And then a third and a fourth. Inhale. Exhale. Jack was breathing alright, and that hideous sucking rattle was gone. His color improved, the blue tinge fading rapidly.

  A heartbeat later he opened his eyes, looking a little confused and disoriented and frowning at the woman hovering over him. He watched as Amara withdrew her hand and sank back onto her heels. Then his gaze drifted away from her, found Cassie’s.

  “When we get back, you and I have a date on the shooting range,” he croaked. “Gotta teach you how to shoot bad guys.”

  For a moment Cassie just stared at him, speechless. Then a little shudder ran through her, as if she’d unexpectedly thawed from some frozen nightmare, and she finally burst into tears. She said something then, but it drowned between sobs.

  “Oh for cryin’ out loud…” Jack muttered, trying to push himself up.

  He didn’t get terribly far. Sam had put a hand on his shoulder, firmly pinning him down. “Give it a couple of minutes, sir. We don’t want you keeling over and busting your nose on top of everything else.” Head cocked, she smiled at him. “Good to have you back.”

  “You say that every time.”

  “It’s true every time.” The smile grew into a grin.

  “Indeed,” Teal’c said gravely. “Although I do wish you would not put our response to the test quite so frequently, O’Neill.” He turned his attention to Sam. “We may not have a couple of minutes, Colonel Carter. The guard called for reinforcements, which may arrive at any moment.”

  “It’s about half an hour to get up here from the camp,” offered Cassie, her voice still thick with tears. “I don’t know how long ago the guard—”

  “Long enough for us to get the hell out of here. Now,” Jack decided, and this time nobody stopped him from sitting up.

  Amara had been listening wordlessly to the entire exchange. Perhaps she was simply too tired to speak. She looked worn out, dark rings under her eyes where there hadn’t been any before.

  “Amara? Are you okay?” Daniel asked.

  “I am reasonably well.” She leveled a tired glance up at him. “You have certainly learned to enhance the power of your weapons. Even with Cassandra’s help it was difficult. The projectile caused considerably more damage than was apparent from the surface wound.”

  “Yeah. We call those hollow-points.” Jack scrambled to his feet, a little shaky still, but given what had happened it was nothing short of a miracle. “Right.” He scanned the cavern, frowned at the bodies, frowned harder when he spotted the stasis chamber. “Carter! What did I tell you about leaving alien technology lying around for the less advanced to find?”

  “I know, sir. But there’s no way we can secure the place, and I’m afraid I’ve left the C4 at home. Nothing we can do about it.”

  “You wish this place to be obliterated?” Amara asked.

  “That’s one option. Any ideas?” Jack’s eyebrows rose.

  “I may be able to assist. However, you need to be at a safe distance.”

  Daniel felt Jack’s gaze on him, returned it, and shrugged. “Uh, sure. But you’re coming with us, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Jack flung an arm around Cassie’s shoulders, guiding her toward the niche where she’d hidden earlier. Sam and Teal’c and Daniel followed, and watched.

  Amara had stepped back into the cavern and slowly raised her arms. As she did so, the gem in the bracelet she wore on her right wrist began to glow in a brilliant green. Without warning, a liquid ball of fire erupted between her palms. It engulfed her and everything around her in the blink of an eye.

  Daniel heard himself scream, felt an iron fist— Teal’c’s?— clench into his shirt, preventing a foolhardy attempt to rush in and try and save the woman.

  “Why?” he whispered. “Why on Earth did she—”

  The mad dance of the flames seemed to thicken, slowing its gyrations and gathering around a dark shape that appeared at its center and approached. Moments later, Amara stepped out into the tunnel, completely unscathed. Not a hair on her head was so much as singed.

  “Shall we leave?” she asked.

  Chapter 22

  Dr. Elizabeth Weir stood outside the isolation unit, fingers brushing the clear plastic curtain behind which a well choreographed form of pandemonium was in full swing. She struggled with the temptation to break into a good old rant. Except, in her experience, ranting had never solved any problem. Well, with the possible exception of scaring Rodney McKay out of blowing up further solar systems.

  Besides, she knew exactly where that need to vent came from. She was feeling utterly helpless, a lookie-loo watching the disaster of the year unfold without a prayer of stopping it. Helpless was her least favorite look. Worse than that, it had gotten personal.

  Of course, every single member of the Atlantis expedition should be of the same importance to her, but if that had been actually true, Elizabeth wouldn’t be human. Every mother had a favorite child. Or something. And even objectively one might argue that the expedition’s military leader was somewhat more important than, say, the guy who’d put him here.

  So sue her.

  And what the hell had he been thinking anyway, to try and stop a mob of panicked, utterly irrational quarantine breakers single-handedly? Not only that, he’d known full w
ell that she’d never have given the go-ahead, as witnessed by Rodney’s sheepish confession that he’d been under express orders not to inform Dr. Weir of the genius plan Colonel Sheppard had taken into that thick skull of his.

  Inside the isolation unit Carson Beckett finally straightened up, clearing a view of the figure on the bed. It was a momentary glimpse, here and gone, because one of the nurses immediately stepped in. But Elizabeth had already seen enough. John had ice bags stacked all around him and still seemed to be sweating in spite of them— unless the droplets were melting ice. More troubling than that, his head had been shaven. Which wasn’t a good look either, though the real implications of it were a deal more worrying.

  Carson gave a tired nod to his staff, looked up and spotted her. He trotted into unit’s airlock and for a minute or two stood under a ghostly beam of UV light designed to kill off the virus. This kind of radiation couldn’t be healthy either, but in the short run it probably was life-saving.

  Which, Elizabeth admitted, was precisely the rationale John would have given for said genius plan of his. It had worked, too. They still had control of the city. Whether it would prove worth the price remained to be seen.

  The door of the airlock released with a hiss, and Carson stepped out. Her chief medical officer looked ready to drop, which piled another worry on top of all the others. If they lost him, they’d truly be up that creek without a paddle.

  “When did you last sleep, Carson?” she asked. “And for how long?”

  “Touchy subject. Can we talk about something else?”

  “Depends.” Elizabeth gave him her best hard stare. “If you promise to get some food and some downtime as soon as you’ve briefed me, then yes.”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “As a matter of fact, we can do the food thing right now, if you don’t mind.”

  She followed him into his office, which was cluttered with boxes of MREs; the emergency rations distributed to medical staff and patients. Elizabeth tried not to calculate how long they would last.

  Carson uncertainly studied the boxes. “Anything you can recommend?”

  “Chow down on the nearest one. They all taste like sautéed wallpaper.”

  “That’s a relief.” As advised, he ripped open the nearest box, pulled out one of the ration containers, read the label. “Vegetarian pasta. Are you absolutely sure it doesn’t make a difference?” Without waiting for an answer he tore open the packaging, snatched a granola bar that was hidden under the cutlery. “Safe option,” he said and dropped heavily into his office chair.

  Elizabeth sat atop one of the boxes. The cardboard dipped a little under her weight, but otherwise the perch was sturdy enough. Apparently she’d just found a half decent use for MREs. “So how is he doing?”

  “Not good.” Carson was picking at the granola bar wrapper, toying with it instead of actually opening the small package.

  Leaning forward, she snatched it from his hands, tore it open, handed it back. “Eat!”

  Left without much of a choice, he took a bite, pulled a face, but chewed obediently. “You know how the Ancient virus works?” he asked.

  “According to Dr. Fraiser’s notes it acts like cerebral-spinal meningitis.”

  “Only more so. At least as far as this strain is concerned. In addition to all the other symptoms this one causes a massive fluid buildup inside the skull… though not in all cases. That’s why I didn’t catch it right away. I should have, dammit!” Disgusted, he tossed the half-eaten granola bar on his desk and scrubbed both hands over his face. “Rodriguez— patient zero— is showing small signs of improvement. The second patient, a biogen technician who was brought in half an hour after him, didn’t make it. By the time I realized what was happening, she’d lost all higher brain functions. The brainstem is still intact, which means the body machine is still working, but it’s only the shell that’s left. Her mind was literally squeezed to death. And I didn’t notice,” he said again. “When she started seizing, I put it down to the fever. A bloody first-year medical student would have done better!”

  “I doubt that.” And she’d be damned if she allowed Carson to beat himself up over this. In her presence anyway. “Remind me, how many cases have you got now?”

  “Fifty-nine and counting. That includes most of the quarantine breakers. When they came in we ran out of isolation units in a hurry, so we set up one of the conference rooms on this level as quarantine ward. The less severe cases are in there.”

  Another bit of great news. Elizabeth shoved it aside for the moment. “And how many have you lost?”

  “One. So far.”

  “The biogen technician?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you want me to do the math for you, Carson? Given the size of the outbreak and the less than ideal conditions you’re working in”— thanks to the computer virus, the entire medical wing had lost power three hours ago, after which Rodney had rigged a naquadah generator to power the most essential equipment— “I’d say that’s as close to a miracle as anyone could get.”

  “Close doesn’t cut it, Elizabeth!” he replied savagely, his brogue thicker than usual, a sure indicator of how upset he was.

  “I hate to tell you, Carson, but you’re human.”

  “I’m a doctor. I’m supposed to be superhuman,” he retorted, but that desperate edge had seeped from his voice and he gave a crooked little grin.

  Her next question likely as not would nix all that, and Elizabeth knew it, but she didn’t have much choice. “Any headway on a cure?”

  “Not enough. It looks as if both Ronon and Teyla have a natural immunity, and we’re chasing after whatever it is that makes them immune, but I’m not holding my breath. As a matter of fact, I’m about ninety-eight point nine percent certain that this virus was engineered to affect people of a certain genetic makeup.”

  “Excuse me?” Shock snapped her to her feet, and she reluctantly sat down again when it dawned on her that the good folks who’d stored the MRE boxes in here had neglected to leave any space for pacing. “Are you telling me this is a bio weapon?”

  “In a word, yes. I very much doubt the fact that it targets humans is an accident. There’s something else, too, and as far as I’m concerned that pretty much clinches it.”

  “What?” Elizabeth was anything but sure that she wanted to hear this.

  Going by the way he fished for words, Carson was fully aware of it. “The patients with the most severe symptoms? Those who develop the intracranial fluid buildup? Each and every one of them has the ATA gene.”

  “Oh my God…” The image of John Sheppard on that bed, shaven-headed and unresponsive, danced an ugly little dance in her mind. “John,” she said, her throat tightening.

  “Oh yeah.” Carson sighed. “We’re doing what we can. I’ve placed a shunt so that the fluid can drain, relieving the pressure on the brain, same as with all ATA patients. Hence the haircut. I’m sure he’ll have my guts for garters if he wakes up.”

  “When.”

  “What?”

  “When he wakes up.”

  “Aye.” Carson’s nod lacked conviction.

  Suddenly a whole different problem occurred to Elizabeth. As far as worst case scenarios went… “Carson, you have the ATA gene.”

  “So they tell me.”

  She was sure that, if she looked up evasive in the dictionary, she’d find a picture of Carson’s current expression next to the word. So she spelled it out for him. “You can’t go back in there. You can’t go near anyone who’s infected.”

  “That’s not an option, Elizabeth. Never mind that I took an oath that requires me not to leave sick people in the lurch. The only way I can hope to get on top of this thing is to stay with it and chart every new development, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.”

  “Atlantis losing its chief medical officer isn’t an option either!” Shouting wouldn’t do any good, Elizabeth reminded herself and lowered her voice. People who shouted generally had the weaker argument. She could
only hope that she’d prove to be the exception to the rule. She could hope… “You can stay in your office and do your research here, access patient files through the computer.”

  “And how long do you think that’ll last? From what Rodney’s saying, the bug in the mainframe’s spreading just as fast as its biological counterpart here, and it’s every bit as resistant to treatment.” He shook his head. “Out of the question, Elizabeth. Apart from anything else, two of my staff also have the gene. How do you think they’ll feel if I bail out? Would you in my place?”

  He had her there.

  Not for the first time, Elizabeth noted that it was easy to underestimate Carson Beckett. Underneath the cuddly, personable exterior the man was implacable. Possibly some Scottish thing. She wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to hear that one of his ancestors had beaten the ever-loving what’s-it out of some unfortunate Sassenach at Culloden. Then it occurred to her that this might be precisely the mindset required to get through this mess.

  “Alright. You win,” she said. “But I want you to take every possible precaution.”

  “Don’t worry. Martyrdom never appealed to me.” As if to prove it, he retrieved the granola bar and took another bite. Less than a square meal, which was what he really needed, but better than nothing.

  “Do we know the source of the infection yet?” Of course the question was almost redundant. Figuratively speaking, they’d opened that can of worms themselves— the stasis pods.

  But Carson surprised her yet again. “No,” he said. “And no, I didn’t make a mistake a few days ago when we opened those pods. I retested the samples I took then, and there’s absolutely no trace of a pathogen in any of them. I also autopsied the one body we managed to retrieve before the levels flooded. Near as I can tell, it was the failure of the pods that killed them. Not the virus.”

  “But what else could it be?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked grim. “Which means that, in all likelihood, the source is still out there, and until we find it, we can’t really get this under control.”