“Some things are better, some are worse,” Carson said. “I’m hopeful we can take him off the ventilator very soon. And his latest labs are showing some improvement.”
Jennifer scanned the reports, frowned as she reached the third page. “This isn’t so good.”
“No,” Carson agreed. “And, no surprise, he spiked a fever overnight.” He looked pensively toward the window, at Jeannie’s gold curls bright beside the drab hospital blankets. Rodney looked even greener by contrast, unconscious against the sheets. “I’ve developed a theory that I’d like to run by you.”
“OK,” Jennifer said.
“I think that not all of the transformation was biological,” Carson said. “Specifically, I think whoever did this used surgery to create some of the changes, specifically the feeding organ and the enzyme vein that runs along the back of that hand. I don’t know whether they grew organs tailored to his DNA — I wouldn’t put it past their capabilities — or if they used organs harvested from cadavers, but I don’t think that Rodney grew his own bits there. I’m also thinking that the withdrawal of the support drugs has caused the connective structures for those organs to die, and now the actual feeding organ and the vein are dying as well. It’s the necrotic tissue that’s causing the fever.”
“OK,” Jennifer said again, still studying the notes. It matched what she was reading, made a pattern out of otherwise meaningless numbers. “So are you proposing — surgery to remove them?”
“That’s my first choice,” Carson said. “Take them out now, before they can do any more harm.”
“Wow.” Jennifer paused. “You know, I — that’s a big risk. He’ll have to be fully sedated, and we don’t know how that will react with the remaining Wraith characteristics. I mean, we can sedate a human, and we can sedate a Wraith, but somebody in between —”
“I know,” Carson said. “I think the vein would just slough off, but the feeding organ is in pretty deep. I’m very worried about infection there. If it sets in badly —”
“He could lose his hand,” Jennifer said. She made herself distant, as though this were all academic, nothing whatsoever to do with her. She took a deep breath. “I agree.”
Carson gave her his quick smile. “Thank you.”
“Oh.” Jennifer felt herself blushing. “I can’t — I’m not — Mrs. Miller is his next of kin.”
“Oh.” Carson looked startled, and Jennifer found herself babbling on.
“We were going to set up powers of attorney, do all that, but somehow, you know, it never happened.”
“It’s all right, love,” Carson said. “I’ll talk to Jeannie.”
Jennifer nodded, wrapping her arms around herself, hugging the tablet to her chest.
“Jennifer,” Carson said. “This isn’t — it can’t be an easy time for you. Have you considered having a word with Dr. Robinson? Eva’s a remarkably level head.”
“I’m fine,” Jennifer answered, and willed it to be true.
Jeannie sat beside the bed, the machine chirping softly in the background. Rodney looked surprisingly peaceful, despite the IV lines and the tube of the ventilator, peaceful and distant, as though he were fading already into oblivion. She had sat like this before, when Caleb’s grandmother died, but this was worse. This was her brother, white-haired and green-skinned, motionless against the pillows. He was looking a bit more human, she thought — she hoped, anyway, but it seemed as though the dark veins had faded a little.
She looked up as the door slid back, admitting Dr. Beckett, and managed to match his preoccupied smile. She knew from his earlier visits that she wasn’t in the way, so she stayed where she was until he’d finished checking the machines and making notes on his computer. He looked up then, met her eyes unsmiling.
“We need to have a word.”
That was never good, and she wondered where Jennifer was. She needed to be here, needed to be involved in these decisions, if she was going to marry him, she had to be able to assume some responsibility — Jeannie shook herself, hard, ashamed of her reaction. Jennifer wasn’t here because she’d saved Rodney’s life, was still recovering. “Of course,” she said, and pushed herself to her feet.
“One of the things we’ve been finding out as the effects of the Wraith drugs wear off is that not all of the changes are purely chemical,” Carson said. “Some of it was accomplished with surgery, particularly the creation of a working feeding organ in the palm of his hand, and the associated enzyme veins. And, as the vascular and other structures sustained by the Wraith maintenance drug atrophy and disappear, these added organs are beginning to die.”
Jeannie stole a glance at Rodney’s hand, at the shriveled vein that wound up his forefinger. “What do you need to do?”
“We have two options,” Carson said. “And there are problems with both of them. We could simply leave the added structures alone, and trust that Rodney’s body will reject them more or less naturally. The venous network would probably slough off harmlessly, but the feeding organ is fairly deeply embedded into the structure of his hand. If it were to become infected, there is a very real chance that it would affect his ability to use his hand. And his immune system has been affected in unpredictable ways already, and I’m concerned that this would be too strong a challenge.”
“And the other option?” Jeannie’s eyes were dry, her voice remote.
“We remove them surgically,” Carson said. “Under normal circumstances, that would be the preferred, even the obvious method, just cut it out, but — we don’t really know how the Wraith made it functional in the first place. There may be deeper connections that we won’t find until we actually try to take it out. And there’s still the risk of infection, plus — Rodney’s already been through a lot. I’m concerned about the effects of further surgery on his already weakened systems.”
“And you’re asking me to choose?” Jeannie was starting to get the faint, familiar headache that came from being in a strange galaxy after her brother had been kidnapped by aliens.
Carson nodded. “You’re his next of kin.”
“Damn it, Meredith!” Jeannie glared at the figure on the bed. When he recovered, she was going to kill him. How could he be moving in with someone, be planning to marry her, and not give her the right to take care of him? “It’s just like him.” She took a breath. “Ok. Sorry. What are you recommending?”
“I think surgery is best,” Carson said. “But I won’t pretend it isn’t a gamble, too. And — if it’s to be done, it needs to be done right away. Before he gets any weaker.”
“Have you asked Dr. Keller?” Jeannie knew she ought to talk to the younger woman herself, but she couldn’t do it, couldn’t make stilted conversation, struggling to be polite while her brother might be dying.
“Dr. Keller agrees that surgery is the better choice,” Carson said.
Jeannie nodded slowly. “All right, then. When — will you do it now?”
“As soon as I can get an operating room readied,” Carson said. “So if you’ll excuse me —”
“Of course.” Jeannie watched him bustle away, then turned to lay her hand on Rodney’s forehead. His skin was warm, too warm, and dry, papery to her touch. “You idiot,” she whispered. “You complete idiot. I’ll be waiting.”
Chapter Ten
Acceptable Risks
Richard Woolsey eyed his Chief of Sciences expectantly. He was rather getting used to Dr. Zelenka as Chief of Sciences, and whether or not he would remain so on a permanent basis was as yet to be seen. Of course Dr. McKay might recover and return to work. It was possible. But Dick had spent far too many years auditing Stargate Command to feel that it was likely.
The first time he’d looked at the SGC’s files he’d been appalled. They were losing more men than a full combat brigade in Afghanistan, more KIAs and more permanent disabilities, with nothing to show for it except the vague goal of ’advancing human knowledge.’ That was unacceptable. A couple of dozen lives a year. A couple of dozen? For nothing that could
be quantified, for no ground gained, no allies reinforced, no enemies captured? George Hammond was spending lives like water for aims that shifted and changed constantly. He was spending lives like he was at war.
Woolsey had always been suspicious of the undeclared war. Wars were meant to be conducted in the full light of day, with the sunshine of public scrutiny. That’s why the President could not declare war — it required a vote from Congress, a public declaration from those responsible to the American people. Of course, that had been thrown out the window in recent decades, with one ‘police action’ or ‘limited response’ after the other, Presidential detours around the fact that the public didn’t want war. Tens of thousands of men of his generation had died in a war that had never been declared.
Hammond was running his own war out of a basement in Colorado Springs, with subordinates who only vaguely seemed to acknowledge the authority of the United States government. O’Neill was a bronco, and he’d seen that before. Jackson was uncooperative to a degree that would have been insubordinate had he not been a civilian contractor, and Carter was hostile to a degree one step this side of charges. Reynolds stonewalled and Makepeace seemed to have the brains of a guard dog who had been kicked in the head, while the entire medical section cited patient confidentiality at every question. Retired General Carter couldn’t be found as he was apparently off in space, and their alien contractor, Teal’c, simply glared at him with a stony gaze. If the president hadn’t been in love with covert operations with cool names the entire place would have been shut down. But such was the tenor of the times. No one was asking too many questions in 2004.
Five years later everyone was asking a lot of questions. Unfortunately for him, as he now had to answer them, not ask them. Woolsey frowned at Zelenka, still waiting patiently. “And what do you see as the risks of this mission?”
“Minimal,” Zelenka said. He thrust his hands in his pockets. “There is no reason for us to go anywhere near the lower levels where Ronon’s team encountered the bears. Colonel Sheppard turned it down before because he thought it was a waste of time, not because he thought it was dangerous.”
Woolsey nodded thoughtfully. “And how long do you think this would take?”
“If the Hammond will beam us in, two hours, maybe three.” Zelenka shrugged. “There is either a ZPM there or there is not. If there is, it is the work of ten minutes to pull it. If there is not, there is no need for further action.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “If there is the remote chance of finding a ZPM, it is worth the minimal expenditure of time.”
It occurred to Woolsey that Zelenka was better at selling him on things than McKay. Possibly because it had dawned on Zelenka that the way to persuade people was to address their objections, not drown them in technobabble.
“All right, Dr. Zelenka,” Woolsey said. “I’ll query Colonel Carter and see if she would be gracious enough to beam you in. If so, I see no reason this isn’t worth a couple of hours.”
Ember looked around the striated walls of his own lab, grateful once again to be safe aboard his proper hive. He had come here a refugee, but Queen Steelflower’s law was to welcome a stranger’s talents no matter what his lineage — unless he proved himself an enemy, and Bonewhite and Guide had dealt aggressively with the very few who had tried to take advantage of her generosity. And now that he had seen her himself… He could not repress a sigh. Death was perhaps more beautiful, taller, finer-boned, and Steelflower was barely out of her adolescence, but already she carried herself like one of the First Mothers. A cleverman did not aspire, could not aspire, but — if she had wished to taste his life, he would have bared his chest and begged for her touch. A true queen, a queen of queens, indeed.
And a queen with a cleverman’s appreciation of possibilities. While he had played Guide’s triple game with Death, she had brought a Lantean scientist to Guide, and the three of them together had opened up an almost frightening range of possibilities. If one could feed on humans without killing them — well, what then? They would not need to tempt the Lanteans’ wrath, seeking their homeworld; the Lanteans in turn would have no need to hunt them down, and they could maybe even join forces against Death’s fleet. Such an alliance would not last, but it might buy them time to repair and rebuild their hives, and then — well, then there would be the familiar cycle of Culling, the constant hunt for those humans who had developed technology that might allow them to fight the Wraith on their own ground. Perhaps the Lanteans would be slower to trade such knowledge, if they knew it brought only retribution? It was hard to know.
The first retrovirus had failed, but it had promise. He could see that, reading over the notes and the formulae, watching the molecules turn and twine in the projection. Guide was more skilled than any blade he’d ever known — well, he was old enough, had had time to learn both the methods and their necessity — and the human had been working from a solid foundation. But this was what he was born for, his true talent, and he reached into the simulation, shifting the chemical traces slightly. A part of him wished Quicksilver could see: it had been a long few weeks, and he had grown tired of the changeling’s arrogance. The worst thing about it was that it was not unearned. He smiled at that, soothed by the familiar rhythm of his own work. Quicksilver was brilliant at the sciences physical, but this was purely science biological. There were very few who could match him in this.
He studied the new form, subcorporial bonds sparking incomplete, used familiar reagents to fill the spaces, bridge the gaps, and stabilize the compound. He could see why the human hadn’t chosen this path. There was more risk that it would incapacitate the subject for some period, but he thought it would make the necessary changes. The subjects would be sick for some days, and some would die, but the survivors would emerge protected from the worst of the enzyme. Indeed, it would bind with the new blood markers, suppress the flood of chemicals that ravaged the body. It would not be a pleasant process, but the subject should survive, and could be fed on again.
Of course, that was just the beginning. There were tests to be run, the precise dosages to determine — perhaps the retrovirus could, should, be tailored to each recipient? That might prevent or mitigate the illness, reduce the inevitable death rate. But the basic idea was, he thought, solid.
He shut down his equipment then, turned to the nearest screen to call up the ship’s status reports. The holds were nearly empty: they must be due to Cull soon, he thought, and laid his hand on a communications pad.
“I would speak with the Commander,” he said, and there was a moment of silence.
“He will see you,” a voice answered — Springgreen, who had taken over the commander’s household. “In one hour in his quarters.”
“Thank you,” Ember said.
One did not call on the Consort in any less than one’s best. He took time to bathe, to change his clothes and dress his hair properly, and presented himself at the entrance to Guide’s quarters precisely on time. The drone admitted him, and Guide lifted his eyes from the game table.
*So. You’ve made progress?*
Ember dipped his head. *I have.*
Guide gestured with his off hand. *Sit. And tell me.*
Ember did as he was told, settling the skirts of his coat in graceful folds. *I believe I have a variation of your work that is ready to test.* Quickly, he outlined the changes he had made, the direction he had taken the work, and Guide nodded.
*I see. What made you choose that path?*
Ember hesitated. *Forgive me, Commander,* he said at last, *but you were working with the human female. I do not think she would have agreed to the changes I have made. The risk to her kind is greater, though I believe the results to be assured.*
Guide smiled. *That is possible,* he said. *Still, this was as our queen wished.*
*And if our queen would have me do more to eliminate the side effects, I will most certainly do so,* Ember answered. *But I believe we should test this version as well.*
Guide looked down at the boa
rd, veiling his thoughts. The game was one of pattern and strategy and speed, one Ember knew well; he did not doubt that Guide was a master, and was not surprised to see all seven jewels in play. The game had reached a crucial stage, the forerunners embattled, the rearguard pressing on, and everything would depend on the next jewels to appear. Corundum, jet, and diamond were neutral, beryl would win all, aster would lose all, pearl and opal merely prolong the loss. Guide saw where he was looking, and smiled. He pressed the release, and the next sphere popped into play: beryl, glowing green. Guide placed it, and the pattern collapsed with a clatter of chimes, the gamble paying off a hundredfold. Ember bowed his head again, acknowledging the point.
*So what is it that you want?* Guide asked.
*We must Cull soon,* Ember said, and the commander nodded. *I would like to accompany the hunting party, and choose suitable subjects from among the humans. In addition to those we Cull, I would not deplete our stores.*
*Do so,* Guide said, after a moment. *It would be as well to have alternatives.*
*Thank you, Commander,* Ember said.
*We will reach Lymours in three days,* Guide said. *And Cull there. In the meantime…* He waved his off hand at the board. *Would you care to join me in a game?*
*I am honored,* Ember said, and bent his attention to the board.
John turned away from the sun and the soaring towers, sparkling as the ice melted in the noon light. It would freeze again by the end of the afternoon, a thin treacherous glaze, but at the moment it felt like a promise of better days. Or it had, until Teyla called. They’ve taken Rodney to surgery, she said, and that was pretty much all she knew. He reached for his laptop to check his schedule, saw it stretching empty into the afternoon. He’d been planning to get paperwork done, the endless round of emails and approvals that Lorne couldn’t handle, but the thought of retreating to his office to try to concentrate while Rodney was in surgery did not appeal. He wouldn’t get a damn thing done, and there wasn’t much point in pretending otherwise. Not when there really wasn’t anything important going on.
STARGATE ATLANTIS: Secrets (Book 5 in the Legacy series) Page 11