Second thoughts about that pointless hunger strike? Personally, I don't care about whether or not you're killing yourself, but I'd take exception to any attempts at killing me. Especially pointlessly.
.,Who said it was pointless`? Hunger strikes worked for Mahatma Gandhi."
Ma-who?
"Mahatma Gandhi. One of the great- Oh, no, no, no! I am not going to validate a delusion by talking-to it."
There was no other choice, he supposed. He had to start eating again.
With sudden determination, Rodney heaved himself off the dank, half-rotten heap of straw that unsuccessfully tried to impersonate a pallet, and shuffled over to the bowl. Giving an aggressive squeal, the rat turned on him. He launched a kick at it, missed, but it sufficed to send the rodent scurrying for a hole in the corner. Inside the bowl sat a fist-size heap of gray gunk that looked like nothing so much as a mix of oatmeal and lard, left standing in a hot, moist climate for at least a day too long.
"Oh God..."
The mere thought of swallowing any of it made him feel nauseated.
It looks like an excellent medium for Clostridium botulinum, E-coli, and salmonella. By the way, don't rats carry Yersinia pestis?
"Who asked you?"
Nobody. I like to give the benefit of my expertise voluntarily.
"I don't like. So shut up already!"
He'd been yelling loud enough to give himself a tinnitus. In the slowly settling silence, Rodney got the distinct impression that his invisible playfellow had gone into a sulk. Good. Maybe now he could have some peace and quiet. The gunk beckoned.
Clostridium botulinum, E-coli, salmonella, Y pestis.
Great. The worst part was, the blabbermouth had a point. There was no way anybody could safely eat this, though Rodney's stomach begged to differ. You could actually hear the growl, and for some reason that provoked a lurid mental image of steak and lobster-plenty of butter for the lobster-baked potatoes and coleslaw. Chocolate brownies for dessert. Definitely chocolate brownies, though lemon meringue pie might be a viable alternative. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee, with whipped cream on top...-
Rodney moaned, buried his face in his hands, and tried to picture the first of Bell's equations for describing quantum states. When the lemon meringue pie inserted itself as a variable, he gave up, sagged back onto the straw and blankly stared at the wall.
You were right the first time, you know?
"About what?"
You don't have a choice. If you eat, you might die. If you don't eat, you will die. In my experience, definite beats possibility every time.
"Deep. Really deep. Moving, even. Did I tell you to shut up?"
Repeatedly. You don't like me, do you?
"Whatever gave you that idea? I don't even know you."
That's beneath you. Especially in view of the fact that, for a human, you're remarkably intelligent.
"Oh thanks. I still don't know who you are."
Which wasn't entirely true. Rodney had a pretty good idea, but in this instance at least, the possibility outweighed the definite-in other words, as long as he did nothing to verify it, he could pretend this wasn't happening or, more pertinently, hadn't happened. Not again! As if that whole hideous episode with Lieutenant Cadman hadn't been embarrassing enough...
"Why me? Why does it always have to be me?"
Wrong place, wrong time.
"Oh, so now it's my fault?"
If you hadn't decided to hop the moment you did, I wouldn't be here.
God, Rodney could almost see the smug little bastard shrug! At least there were no indications of his body wanting to do the shrugging... so far. "Hop? I don't hop."
Do, too.
An image surged up from some reservoir of memory that had remained blessedly untapped so far. John Sheppard shouting `Pull the plug, Rodney!' over sounds that, like all things electromagnetic, were already being distorted in the singularity created by Charybdis. He himself leaping for the naquada generator and straight into that soaring column of light born of the fusion of Charybdis and its creator. Evidently he'd somehow become incorporated into the mix, or the mix had become incorporated in him. Either way it was perfect. Just perfect.
"And why this remarkable reticence up until now? If you don't mind my saying so, it seems a little out of character."
Your amnesia presented a bit of a problem. I didn't want to risk freaking out you and, by extension, those superstitious country yokels.
"Too kind." Rodney was tempted to bash his head against the wall. Brain damage suddenly seemed a small price for driving out the incubus.
Kindness had nothing to do with it. Itjust struck me as counterproductive. So I decided to on a more subtle approach.
"I can't tell you how glad I am that you didn't opt for blunt," groaned Rodney. Then something dawned on him, and he sat up straight. "It was you! You led me to the ruins. You got me to salvage the equipment."
He sensed a distinct surge of pride.
The idea was to nudge you into fixing some essential equipment to enable us to go back and repair the damage. It would have worked, too, ifyou'd been a little more careful about covering your tracks.
Of course! He'd known that someone, somehow would manage to twist this around and blame him. "And what's this us business? There is no us. As far as I'm concerned it'd be best for everyone involved if you simply disappeared. It's way past your bedtime."
For a long, blissful moment he thought Ikaros might have taken the hint. The stillness in his mind felt comfortable, relaxing as a hot bubble bath. Just as Rodney wanted to slip in deeper, the goddamn kid bounced back.
Look, Dr McKay, I'm sorry. I was only trying to help.
"That's what you said the last time," Rodney snarled savagely. "Do the world-the universe! -a favor and stop helping!"
The stillness descended again, but this time he was under no illusion that it would last. Ikaros seemed incapable of taking no for an answer. True to form, the kid floated back in short order.
1 know why you don't like me. I remind you of yourself.
"Oh, please!"
It didn't sound convincing, even to Rodney's own ears, because the kid had a point. Almost from the get-go, he'd seen bits of himself in Ikaros. The smarts, the pushiness, the arrogance-and the solitude underneath. Naturally you couldn't admit to the latter, which was where the arrogance came in. Besides, if you didn't believe in your own superiority, who else would?
"Fine. Okay. So we have certain things in common."
The kid was smirking. Don't ask him how, but Rodney knew it.
"It still doesn't mean I'm going to play along with this"
There's nobody else who could fix this. You were right from the start. Charybdis doesn't work.
And that's what they called `laying it on with a trowel.' How stupid did Ikaros think he
Listen to me! I'm telling you Charybdis doesn't work, and don't for a moment think I enjoy making this kind of confession. My best guess is that it has created an infinite number of timelines, all of which will become affected by cascading entropy if it isn't happening already. I suppose I should have seen it coming, but you know how it is when you're enamored of an idea. You've been there.
Hadn't he just? He would have done anything to follow through with Arcturus-as a matter of fact he had, up and including the abuse of people's trust-because he'd absolutely believed in it and in the fact that he was right. Not that this was any of the kid's business.
"Let me see: destruction of the better part of a solar system; destruction of unknown multiples of galaxies, potentially universes. Can you spot the difference?"
Are you familiar with fractals?
Did bears go potty in the forest? And what did fractals have to do with the price of fish?
They're always the same shape no matter what their size. There is no difference, Dr McKay. You know where I'm coming from, and I need your help. The universe needs your help, if you will.
Oh, that's just great! Roll out the big guns
, why don't you? "Do you see me wearing a red cape?"
What?
"I don't have a great big `S' emblazoned on my manly chest either. And finally, there's the minor detail that I'm looked up in a cell."
There was a distinct sense oflkaros shakinghis- its? -head, bristling with impatience.
Dr. McKay! Unless I'm completely wrong, which has happened no more than once in the past ten thousand years, Charybdis has become sentient. This means it'll attempt to neutralize everyone who could potentially threaten it.
"Sentient? Charybdis is a program! Granted, it's rather sophisticated, but it's still a piece of software that-"
So am I. A piece of software, I mean. But, as you realized quite astutely from the outset, we're talking about quantum computing here. And that's what makes all the difference. Because, if you whittle it right down to the basics, you're no decent from Charybdis or me. You consist of quantum hardware and software. All life does.
Rodney felt himself go very still. Infuriating as it might be, the kid was right. It was entirely possible. For all they knew now, higher consciousness-soul, if you will-ultimately functioned on a quantum level. Charybdis could very well have become sentient. Sentient life made from the very building blocks of the universe, with the capacity to manipulate those building blocks... there was no telling what Charybdis could affect if it wanted to. Anything was possible. Anything at all...
Exactly. The very fact that you-we-are locked up here with some kind of witch trial to look forward to would attest to it. You have to get us out of here and destroy Charybdis, and you have very little time to do it in.
Naturally. Why was it that nobody ever said, `Rodney, life as you know it is at the brink of destruction and you have five years to work out a solution'? Noooo, it always had to be, `Rodney, do the impossible. Within the next fifty-eight seconds!'
That's because you work better under pressure.
"How the hell would you know?"
Ikaros didn't answer. Of course there wasn't much to be added.
Away out.
Sure. Nothing easier than that.
After all, the cell was only carved from solid rock, with a narrow, barred slit just below the eight-foot ceiling to admit a measly trickle of daylight. The ensemble was closed off by a nicely crafted hardwood door, reinforced by metal bars. In other words, all it took was small amount of high explosives. Piece of cake.
In the first instance, though, he had to survive to get out. Rodney's gaze wandered to the gruel bowl. The rat had slunk back, and even it seemed to have second thoughts about the bowl's contents. Then again, the brain needed energy to function. He slid off the pallet and angled for the bowl. The rat bared its teeth for show and backed off. There was no cutlery to go with the feast, presumably to frustrate any suicidal tendencies the prisoners might develop-which in a roundabout way suggested that the substance impersonating food wasn't immediately life-threatening. Somewhat reassured, Rodney poked a finger into the bowl and scooped up a small amount of gunk. It drew strings.
Yeah, well, so did macaroni cheese.
Scrunching his eyes shut, he tentatively licked his finger. Bad idea. Prolonged contact with the taste buds definitely was a bad idea. Still not looking at what he was eating, he scooped up some more, gulped it down without daring to chew-for all he knew he might encounter things that moved in there-and emptied the bowl within a couple of minutes. The gourmet meal sat in his stomach like a lump of rubber, but at least the hunger pangs had stopped. On the downside, he still was no further on the genius escape plan. Perhaps if-
For a moment he thought he'd imagined it, but the sound continued, proving that, for the first time in nearly two weeks and not counting the priceless situation with Ikaros, the unexpected was happening. Nobody ever came down here, except the warder who made his round at dawn to leave the fresh-relatively speaking-food bowl and remove the old one, and that would be it for the rest of any given day. Now Rodney heard footfalls-correction: bootfalls-out in the corridor.
At least two sets as far as he could make out, neither of them the indifferent, wooden-clogged shuffle of the warder, and they were coming closer.
A new prisoner?
He listened carefully.
No, the steps were too confident.
Whoever these people were, they were coming to get someone. And that someone would be him. As if to underline the point, the bootfalls came to a halt outside his door, and he thought he heard the metallic clink of keys. He backed into the farthest corner of the cell, for all the good that would do.
"Idiot," he muttered, mainly because it distracted him from being scared out of his wits.
You can't afford to be! Keep your head together!
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do! You got me into this-"
The rattle and clank of bolts, then the scrape of a key, and then the door swung open. Rodney broke out in a cold sweat. He was under no illusion that they might have decided to let him go and figured that this was how the strapped-to-the-rack part started.
They were huge, Ronon-sized, and they looked twice as mean.
Raising his hands, Rodney took a tentative step forward. "I'm coming voluntarily. So don't... don't... Just don't. Where are we going, by the way?"
If they'd heard him, they did a good job of hiding it. Or maybe they were mute. Without a word, they flanked him, each wrapping a beefy hand around his biceps, and hauled him through the door, along the corridor, past a dozen other cells and up a narrow flight of stairs.
Ina lobby at the top of the stairs, swathed in pompous purple robes, stood the bureaucrat Rodney remembered from his remand hearing-if you could call it that. The man stared at him mournfully. "Your trial is concluded. It has been-"
"What trial?" spluttered Rodney before he could remind himself that, when dangling between two linebackers, silence was golden. "I haven't even had a defense! I should have-"
"Quiet!" the linebackers roared in unison. Not mute after all.
"Why should you have had a defense?" the bureaucrat inquired reasonably. "What you have done is indefensible. Your punishment shall be commensurate with the crime, and it shall be public. Before that you shall be on display for three days, as a warning to others. Take him away."
"Just wait a minute! What about my appeal? There has to be-"
"Quiet!" Unlike their physique, the linebackers' vocabulary needed work.
But nobody listened anyway. His job done, the bureaucrat had turned around and was slouching back to his office. The linebackers, having been given their orders, started dragging him into a humungous hall lined by fluted columns, through a succession of smaller rooms, and finally out onto a small balcony. At last Rodney knew where they were; the northern side of the acropolis. Below spread the vast square of the agora, and he could see the tiny shapes of market traders and shoppers scuttling all over like busy insects, seemingly impervious to the rain. Of course it was raining. What other weather was there in this place?
Mounted on the parapet was a sturdy wooden crane with a basic pulley system, and suspended from that on a hempen rope was an empty cage. Rodney blinked at it, took in the contraption, and succumbed to a queasy shudder when he realized the exact nature of the display.
Like automata the linebackers went about their chore. While one of them kept hold of Rodney-who had no intention of flinging himself off the balcony; so what was the point?-the other reeled in the cage and opened a small door whose rusty hinges creaked in protest. Clearly there hadn't been a display in quite some time. Which should guarantee him an appreciative audience, Rodney thought bitterly as he was shoved into the cage.
More creaking as the door fell shut behind him. The linebackers didn't bother to lock it. Why should they, when the inmate had nowhere to go? The cage gently lifted off the ground, swung out over the parapet and descended in jerky bounds, each of which made Rodney throttle the life out of the metal bars he was clutching. After a drop of about thirty yards it came to a stop at last, swinging and twirling errat
ically.
A vertical rock wall wobbled past, the northern face of the hill on which the acropolis sat; then, on the agora below, a swirl of congregating insects, all staring up and pointing at the display amid shouts of excitement. Having reached maximum torque, the cage stopped revolving for a blessed moment before it started on its backward rotation. Rodney groaned. The second he did, he wished he hadn't because somehow the groan shook loose that lump of nausea he'd been trying to suppress. Still holding on to the bars, he slumped to the cage floor in a boneless heap and proceeded to rid himself of the gruel he'd forced down less than an hour earlier.
He only understood what a lousy idea that had been when his gaze inevitably followed the fall of the gunk, which was tumbling toward the bottom of a black chasm that seemed to reach all the way to the bowels of the planet. The memory of a long-ago trip to Athens, Greece, flashed through Rodney's mind. He'd taken the mandatory sightseeing tour to the Acropolis there, and the guide had obligingly pointed out the Barathron; a deep cleft in the rocks, which the ancient city state had put to good use by dropping convicted criminals into it for permanent disposal.
There could be no doubt at all as to what would happen three days from now. The knowledge that he'd likely die of a heart attack long before his body hit the ground wasn't quite as comforting as one might have thought.
I think Charybdis is on to us, Ikaros observed helpfully.
"Oh, really?"
CHAPTER 12
Charybdis + 13
he was stirring at last, and Ronon half wished she weren't, 'wished that something had gone wrong, that the technician had made a mistake, and that she'd never wake up. Anything, even death, had to be better than what was to come.
They'd been taken to a chamber behind the laboratory, a small, simple affair all in white that contained a single bed and a chair, and ostensibly they were alone. He knew well enough it was a fallacy. Embedded in those bland walls were photo crystals and audio receivers, and everything they'd do or say would be transmitted elsewhere in the complex, to a much more luxurious room where Marcon and his aides would monitor every word and move. Even without the surveillance equipment he wouldn't have any choice but to do exactly what Marcon had told him to do; the Behemoth was awake, trembling with excitement, waiting for betrayal to commence.
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