Fic: Fearless, part 2
Dec. 26th, 2005 01:19 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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sga_santaTitle: Fearless
Pairing: none
Rating: PG-13
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dr_dredd, who loves all things Scottish and wanted “team h/c fics where the team gets emotionally whumped and they all have to rely on each other to get out of it.” I hope this will please.
Spoilers: The story’s set somewhere between Hide and Seek and Letters from Pegasus. I’m fuzzy about the timeline in season 1, but I decided they had at least one Christmas before The Siege :o).
Summary: A sleepless night finds Carson striking off into the deep of Atlantis. What starts out as a somnambulant venture soon turns into a nightmare he is unable to escape.
a/n: I apologise for the story’s wip state. When I started to write, I imagined a much shorter plot, but somehow it mutated along the way. What I have now is almost finished and running through the mills of beta. You’ll have the rest as soon as possible. In the meantime, please bear with me.
Click here for part 1
Fearless, part 2
Atlantis, 6:17 a.m.
Dec 22nd
The dripping continued. Somewhere in the Ancient hall, waterdrops kept on splashing into the slowly growing pool. It seemed like a long while until the boy appeared at Carson’s side. At the periphery of his vision he could see the striped pyjama legs.
“Take me back,” Carson said softly and as the child did not respond, repeated: “Take me back.”
He’d brushed the wires away from Rodney’s face and lifted his hands out of the water. The arms, when Carson had tried to move them, were heavy and already reluctant to be shifted. He’d brushed water drops from the fringe of Rodney’s short hair, trying to ignore the fact that the hair was as cold and wet as Rodney’s face.
“Take me back,” he told the boy, but the child didn’t move. At length Carson looked up, seeing the boy watch Rodney with a frown. As Carson raised his head, the boy flinched visibly. His frown smoothed and he took two hesitant steps away from Carson. In direction of the far end of the hall, not toward the corridor through which they’d come.
No, Carson thought. No more. He didn’t move a muscle. The boy retreated another step, looking over his shoulder, then looking back at Carson. He didn’t plead, not openly, but there was a tension in his stance that made him look like a little animal that would like nothing better than break into a run. Still Carson didn’t react.
Suddenly a host of shallow waves rippled across the pool. It was the touch of water to his hand that loosened Carson’s paralysis in spite of himself. He turned to seek out the source of the disturbance. He caught sight of a door, the very same door the child was eyeing with a mixture of hope and apprehension.
It doesn’t matter, Carson told himself. Whatever was happening, it would end right here. It has already ended, a sad and quiet voice added in his mind. Another surge ruffled the pool. It could’ve been a breeze. Only there was no wind in the vaults. The boy clenched his fists.
Carson hesitated. The idea to leave Rodney for a reason other than getting help was appalling. To let him lie here, any longer than necessary – it was impossible. And yet there was the boy, waiting.
A small voice, a very tiny voice inside Carson’s head urged him to continue. Once he became aware of it, he also noticed a disquiet, growing beneath the hollow space that separated his mind from his emotions. It sickened him, but he almost listened, almost considered to follow the boy. That finally did it. Carson leaned back from Rodney’s body, seizing his curiosity and trampling it out of his system. Instantly going back became the foremost thing in his mind and he clung to it, pushing everything else away.
Carson stood, soaked trousers clinging to his shins. Forget the boy, he’d find his own way. He refused to think about doors that wouldn’t open, corridors that looked alike and silence. The goddamn silence.
He’d almost reached the corridor when another wave lapped against his shoes.
“No!” Carson shouted, startled by his own voice before the second word was out. “I won’t!”
By way of response a sob, small but clear, echoed in the empty hall behind him. It was that sob more than anything which unlocked the grief inside Carson, loosing a surge that threatened to overwhelm him. He felt his throat closing up even as he clenched his jaw and looked back over his shoulder.
“Go away,” he wanted to say. “Go aw. . .” Carson broke off, stunned. While he’d had his back turned the lad had moved to the door as was to be expected, but Rodney . . . Rodney was --
Gone.
Carson stared at the spot where he’d rested his friend. This time there was no sign of either the body or the spilling wires. The walls all around where as smooth as you’d wish. A shiver ran through Carson, chilling him to the bone. He wanted to scream. More than that, he wanted to run. His legs, however, seemed to be miles away from his control.
More ripples on the water. Carson sought out the boy who had withdrawn a mite from the door – quavering between staying and going to Carson, perhaps. He wore a Dodgers’ jersey, Carson noticed for the first time. He’d still need some years growing into it, though. The shirt reached well over his knees. Carson studied his little guide, inner turmoil receding like a wary predator.
You haven’t understood all, the small voice said, now slightly emboldened. Carson considered this. He forced himself to look back at the fatal light column, but Rodney was still gone. Almost as if the whole episode had been a bad dream. No, Carson thought. He’d felt Rodney, really felt the cool skin and lifeless hands. Rodney had been there and he had been dead. Yet what if . . .
Carson cast another glance at the boy, thinking. It was in that moment when another wail issued from – where? The Door, Carson realised. It had come from the door. More confusingly, the boy hadn’t sobbed after all, his lips had not even parted. Yet he had ducked his head on hearing the sound.
He could still head back. Or, the second option, he could in fact go on. Carson considered it for another moment. The truth, however, was simply that he’d gone too far already. There and then he was sobered enough to acknowledge that he was lost. Trying to retrace their steps on his own would only make things worse.
Carson made up his mind and started to walk. As the door behind the boy opened, he tried to loose the notion that he would regret his choice before the end.
Atlantis, 10:07 a.m.
Dec 22nd
Things were going too slow for John’s taste. They had passed Ford’s team once, went on to walk a bigger circle and still no trace of the missing doctor. So far they hadn’t got beyond the inhabited areas and John was itching to search the empty parts of the city. All his instincts told him that there they would find what they sought. Unfortunately his instincts didn’t tell him on which level or in which direction they should start. This was a job for Lassie, not him. He hated groping around in the dark. He needed a goal, a fixed spot that he could decide to steer for. No thing as bad as flying to confused co-ordinates. It was downright annoying.
At the moment, Peter Grodin was on the com, relating his progress. Which, apparently, was going down no better than John’s.
“Biometrical sensors?” John asked.
“Still scanning, but we can only go one parameter at a time. It also appears that the scanners are broken in some of the areas that have been flooded during the rise. Could be he’s there,” Grodin said then added: “Could be he isn’t.”
Fifty-fifty then, John thought dryly. Only not. “Keep looking.”
“Of course, Major.”
John had only just cut the connection when another voice crackled from his headset.
“Major Sheppard?”
Zelenka, John thought with a jolt of hope. “I’m here. Shoot.”
“We translated another source and it’s directly related to the ball.”
“Yes, so?” John said, trying to keep impatience from his voice.
He heard Dr. Zelenka say something in Czech, supposedly to someone else on the other end. Then a second of silence – all bad signs, in John’s opinion. At length Zelenka was back.
“Here, this source speaks of a central room . . . a ritual place for the meditation.”
“Meditation?”
“ Emendatio. Rozjímání. Meditation is close enough!”
“Sorry, go on.”
“It’s a round chamber, one door, no windows,” Zelenka continued. “Basically the text says, you go out the way you came in or you ascend. Not many options there.”
“Does it say where the room is?”
“According to Ancient quadrants, sector gamma zero four.”
“Where’s that?”
“We’ve no idea.”
Was it okay to scream? Probably not. “Great. Just great,” John grumbled, feeling more upbeat by the minute. “Anything else you’ve got?” Silence. John listened. And more silence.
“Doc?” John asked. “Your not-talking is no cause for comfort.”
“There is more,” Zelenka said and there was no mistaking the gloom in his voice. Go on, John urged, out with it.
“We found a protocol of one such meditation,” Zelenka continued. “The person who carried the ball did not . . . complete the procedure very well.”
“He died?”
“Ah, no. She lived. But the protocol says her body came out . . . mangled.”
“Mangled?” John repeated, gooseflesh trickling down his arms. “Mangled how?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Ahead of him, Teyla rounded another corner and John followed, stepping into a long-stretched corridor. From the far end, he could see Ford and his team coming their way. Ford’s fist shot in the air. Zero sighting.
“No,” John said into his com. “I don’t.”
Atlantis, 7:03 a.m.
Dec 22nd
It was like time had frozen around and inside him, suspending all coherent thought. His awareness had shrunk to a narrow space that included only the white noise in his head and Teyla.
Unlike Rodney, she was warm, her body pliant in his arms, pulse fluttering under his fingertips. Carson cradled her face with one hand, resting her head carefully against his chest. Her hair felt smooth against his palm, the white displaying beautifully against her old woman’s face. Only it wasn’t the face of a woman grown old in dignity. Lines ran deep around her mouth, her cheeks were fleshless and her brow furrowed like a hag’s. Pigment lesions covered her face, white specks on leathery skin. The worst thing was that her eyes, looking steadfastly at him from the sagging hollows, were still young. Young, alert, and full of pain.
She had begged him to help her with brittle words until her voice failed. He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t ever . . .
Carson was crying without being aware of it. His free hand reached up, grasping Teyla’s tattered shirt and trying to hold it together over the crude feeding mark. Teyla lifted her own hand, her drained face distorting with the effort. She grasped his fingers and squeezed. Her grip was like the claw of a bird - Carson could feel every bone of her small hand.
Please, her eyes said. Carson shook his head, clutching her shirt more firmly.
Please.
She let go of him then and closed her eyes. Carson fought, raging against the inevitable, knowing already he had lost. He broke. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat while he lifted his hand to Teyla’s face. Even as his mind wailed he couldn’t, couldn’t, he forbid himself to stop. Faltering would be a cruelty Teyla didn’t deserve. Still his hand trembled as he covered her mouth and nose. He squeezed his eyes shut against the scream inside his head and pressed down his palm.
Teyla didn’t even struggle, she probably had not the strength to anyway. Her body only tensed once, then she sunk limp against his arm. Carson sobbed, his hand fell from her face and grasped her shoulder, pulling her as close as he could. Let her go, he tried to tell himself. Let her go and it’s over. He had to repeat the words six times until they had any effect.
Carson placed a kiss on Teyla’s hair, then lowered her gently to the floor. As he looked up, his eyes fell on the boy. He was crouching on the floor, hands wrapped around his knees. It was the first time on their dreadful journey that he reacted in such a strong way. There even were tears clinging to the child’s dark lashes.
Beyond the ability to plan or care anymore, Carson reached out his hand. He was not even surprised when the boy took it. He stood, pulling the lad with him. The child stepped gingerly around Teyla’s feet, but even when he was past her, he didn’t let go of Carson. Together they walked away from the woman who Carson had known as a leader, a team-mate and a friend.
Part of Carson knew that the chance for Teyla being drained by a Wraith inside the city was next to nothing, and it was only that part which kept him sane. If only remotely so.
Teyla had died down here and at the same time she hadn’t. Carson had stopped asking how. He was too husked out, too empty to pursue the truth. Because no matter how obvious it was that this place messed with reality, there had been nothing delusional in Teyla’s grip or the feel of her lips against his palm. She’d been no more or less real than young Aiden, sprawling on the floor in his own blood. Lying there one moment, gone the next. Carson proceeded on tired legs, not even turning to see if Teyla had disappeared. The boy shuffled along beside him.
“They scare me,” the child whispered softly. Carson thought he’d never understood anything as well as this. Images of the dead were stuck in his head, haunting him with details like the splatter of scarlet on Aiden’s cheek or the faintly purple tinge of skin beneath Rodney’s closed eyes. Yes, they would be scary. But even as he thought himself burnt out of emotion, Carson felt something inside him reach out for the boy. The uneasiness in the little-one’s voice and the fact that he’d spoken for the first time touched Carson when he thought he couldn’t be touched anymore. “You needn’t be frightened of her,” he said quietly. “She was a kind woman. The way she looked just there wasn’t who or like she was.”
“Not her,” the boy said, now surprising Carson after all. Perhaps he hadn’t caught the child’s drift after all Carson looked down at the head of mussed black hair, realising that the child might refer to something quite outside his own nightmare. As if on cue, the boy added a single word. “They.”
Carson looked up, just in time to see someone walk across the junction of the corridor. Carson started badly. Not so much because he’d seen another living person in the vaults, but because that person had no face.
The shock ran deep, rooting Carson to the spot. At last he dared to breathe, taking one step back and pulling the boy with him. As he did so, something slipped free of his trousers’ pocket and clanged to the floor. The sudden noise almost jerked a scream from Carson. He let go of the boy’s hand and shrunk back from whatever it was he had lost. The thing rolled ponderously toward the child and came to rest against his toes.
It was the Ancient globe.
Puzzled, Carson stared at the silver sphere. He had forgotten that he carried it, now its sight woke an indistinct suspicion. He bent down and picked the ball carefully off the floor.
When Radek had given him the globe, it had been cold. Now the metal felt almost lukewarm against Carson’s fingertips. He turned the ball, holding it into the dim light. There he saw that not only had the globe’s temperature changed, there was also a difference on its surface. A hair-fine line circled the ball’s complete circumference and glowed faintly blue. A notion formed in Carson’s head, a creeping conviction that grew with every second.
Is it you? he asked the ball, not expecting an answer but preparing for one all the same. When nothing happened, he cast a glance at his guide. The boy stood stock-still, eyeing the ball with a wary frown. That confirmed it for Carson.
“What does it do?” he asked aloud. Nothing. If the boy knew anything, he kept it to himself, but judging by his expression, he was as clueless as Carson.
Easy, Carson told himself. Try to think this through. How could the globe leave a trail of not-quite-real bodies? Leave them, it seemed, for Carson to find and vanish them after he’d got a close enough look?
They scare me. The boys sentence echoed in Carson’s memory. Of course. What had Carson seen since this nightmare of a progress began? Only events he dreaded to happen, the deaths of people he cared about. The realisation dropped like a stone into his stomach. Somehow, by means that escaped Carson, the Ancient globe reproduced his fears.
Carson clenched his fist around the ball. He’d known these gadgets were dangerous. He’d known all along.
A whole world of good it did you, he thought angrily. Indeed, he felt far from relieved even though he now discerned the cause of his troubles. For one thing, he didn’t know how to deactivate the globe. Secondly, it would do him no good even if he knew. What would happen, should he shut off the ball? Would he wake from a bad dream, lying on the floor outside his laboratory? Not likely. Carson rather suspected that he would remain in the bowel of the city, only then without any leads to guide him or even the boy.
The boy. Thinking of him brought Carson up short. If the globe manifested fears, then what the hell did it want with a child? Not to mention a child Carson had never seen before. Or at least he was ninety percent sure he hadn’t. So why? Why this boy?
They scare me. Wasn’t that what he’d said? How did that sort with the concept of the ball tapping into Carson’s mind? It made no sense, that’s how. Yes, there was the slim chance Carson had somehow, subconsciously conjured the boy. That possibility, however, felt wrong in many ways.
The boy must have picked up on Carson’s contemplation, or at least sensed something, because he addressed him hesitantly.
“I want to go,” he said, and, more reluctantly still: “Are you coming?”
Carson swayed on the brink of trying to deactivate the globe all the same. In the end he held back and asked a question he’d posed at the very beginning of their odyssey. Back then he was eager for an answer. Now he was almost afraid he might get one. “Where are we going?”
“Dunno,” the boy admitted and in that moment sounded like any small child who was lost and frightened. “I can’t find my room.”
There was no way Carson could turn from him now. Truly, if ever there had been a time when he could have left the boy, it had come and gone. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, and panic was writhing at the back of his mind. Carson guessed that this must be how lemmings felt before they jumped off a cliff. He offered his hand once more.
“Then let’s look for it, shall we?” he asked and the boy slipped his fingers around his. Briefly Carson wondered if all this hadn’t been inevitable from the start. Walking, he slipped the globe back into his pocket.
Atlantis, 10:15 a.m.
Dec 22nd
Zelenka had hailed them on the com, calling them back to the medics’ laboratory. In other words, the place where Carson had last been seen. John didn’t waste time to ask for details on the radio. There must’ve been new leads, else the doc wouldn’t have broken up the search. All the same John had ordered Ford and Ferman to continue. Just in case.
They arrived at the lab before Zelenka was there.
“Do you think Dr. Zelenka has discovered the room he told us about?” Teyla asked.
“Could be,” John said. He’d just spotted something on one of the nooks in the wall. It was a blue mug - blink twice and you’d miss it. He walked over and picked it up. It was still full. Like the tea John had sipped this morning, this one was cold, too. Carson’s mug, no doubt. John sniffed the dark liquid, detecting again a whiff of strong single malt. John’s day would’ve been a lot better if the doctor had left more bredcrumbs like this. Zelenka picked that very moment to dash into the hallway. Two meds followed at his heels, both carrying red emergency kits. The fact Zelenka brought them along could either be a very good or a very bad sign. Zelenka’s brisk gait indicated just as much. The little Czech did not even stop at John’s side, he just continued down the hallway, aiming for the spot where the corridor forked. John took this as cue for his team and him to tag along.
“So you’ve got the room’s location?” John hazarded.
“No,” Zelenka returned, staring feverishly ahead. “But I think I figured how we can track Carson.”
They reached the crossroad and Zelenka stopped, peering down first the left branch, then the right. John knew they hadn’t searched either way – the med lab and these hallways where one level beneath their initial search area.
“See?” Zelenka said eventually, pointing down the left-hand corridor. John looked but didn’t glimpse anything out of the usual. The lights were dimmer down there, but other than that . . . nope. Naught. He threw a glance back over his shoulder and caught Teyla’s eye. She gave a minute head-shake, indicating she saw nothing, either.
“Doctor,” John set out. “Could you perhaps . . .?”
“Doors,” Zelenka forestalled John’s sentence, righting his glasses that had come askew in his haste. “We can find him by following the doors.”
That didn’t explain a lot of a much to John. Zelenka, turning around and realising his listeners had not yet caught up, began to elaborate.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “When the Ancients sank Atlantis and escaped to Earth, they shut down all systems that weren’t crucial to sustain the city. We know that, yes? Now, before they shut down everything, they closed all the doors.”
Finally John realised what Zelenka was on about. Of course. For the first time in their messed-up hide and seek imitation he felt halfways hopeful. This made sense, it really did!
“They created little cells all over the place,” Zelenka continued. “So if the shield failed in places, like we’ve seen it did, the doors would impede the flooding, buying Atlantis as much time as possible.” Zelenka’s hand went to his glasses again. “Like bulkheads on a ship, if you can imagine . . .”
“I know,” John cut him short. “I’ve seen Titanic, too.”
“You did?” Zelenka asked, looking surprised. John gave him a very dirty look and the scientist cringed. “Sorry.”
“That is all good and well,” Teyla cut in, stepping forward. “But how does it help us now?”
“The city’s doors stay close until we come in contact with them,” Zelenka explained. “We haven’t been to every part of the city, so down in the unexplored parts, the doors must still be closed. Except,” Zelenka lifted a finger and smiled, “for those Carson opened as he passed.”
“He’s left us a trail.” John nearly whistled.
“Exactly.”
Teyla nodded. “I see.” She switched on the lamp on her P90 and pointed it down the corridor. The light fell on an empty doorframe some couple of yards in the distance. Yeah, John decided. This topped the mug by far.
“You heard the man,” John told his team. “Let’s move. And make sure you don’t think at the doors.”
Teyla took the lead, Reynolds and the medics falling in line behind her. Zelenka, shifting his glasses once more for good measure, made as if to follow them.
“You don’t have to go, doc,” John said, seeing how the other man’s eyes were fixed on the hall that grew ever darker the further it went.
“It was I gave him the ball,” Zelenka said simply. “I come.”
* * *
It turned out that Zelenka’s plan worked to a fault. They’d followed Carson’s trail into the desolate underworld of the city, crossing threshold after threshold. They we’re doing good. If you defined good in a new and unsettling sort of way. John studied a looming crossbeam that was traced with rust, feeling more than a little concerned. He had a hard time concealing these catacombs with the beauty of the Atlantis he knew. It almost felt like they’d crossed some Event Horizon without realising, now walking through an entirely different city.
Teyla was still at the head of the troop. Not because she knew these halls any better than John did, but because she was a darned good scout. And John, for that matter, was a darned bad one.
Zelenka stuck to John’s shoulder. He hadn’t talked much since they descended into the lower levels. His taciturnity made him unfamiliar company to John, who was used to Rodney’s unstoppable eloquence.
“What else did you find in the pads?” he asked on impulse, vaguely intending to distract Zelenka and himself on the side. It worked, too.
“Oh, plenty of confusing stuff,” Zelenka said. “A recipe for oil against aftermath headaches, some chants, something about a guide. One Shadow to lead you to the centre of your fear.” He shrugged. “It’s all a bit vague. I get the notion that ascension demands a little too much trouble for me to seek it.”
John felt inclined to agree, but didn’t say so. The search-light of his P90 skittered along the ceiling and down the walls of the corridor. The air was unpleasant down here. A while back they’d first noticed some kind of sewer smell that reminded John of the flooded drains in Pathumthani. The farther they went, the stronger it grew. Yet what set John even more on edge was the fact that Teyla seemed nervous. And if you noticed agitation in a woman like Teyla, you knew trouble was boiling.
Did he mention the cold? John lifted one hand from his weapon to briefly rub the other. It was cold. Although not crisp-cold, like it had been in McMurdo. No, that would have been inconvenient but mostly bearable. Down here, it was a moist cold that trickled into your collar and clung to your skin like dirty sweat.
“Did you know that the Chinese picture their hell as an endless maze of ice?” Zelenka mentioned out of the blue.
John winced. “And you thought I needed that information exactly why?”
“Sorry.”
Another beat of silence passed, then Zelenka started to speak again, sounding troubled.
“I really hope . . .” But John never heard what the little Czech hoped. The sentence was cut off right after it started.
“Major!” Reynolds called from ahead. John tensed, picking up his pace until he arrived at the Lieutenant’s side. He saw at once what was wrong. All the same he felt compelled to state the obvious.
“It’s closed,” he informed Zelenka who had stopped right next to it. The scientist was staring at the closed door with a line between his brows that did nothing to console John. “Any other doors?” he asked therefore.
Reynolds shook his head. “None.”
“We must have missed one,” Teyla said, voicing the possibility that John hated to consider. He experienced a sickening rush of resignation This dead-end could render the last hour of their search futile. Come to that, it could easily push them back to square one. .
“I don’t think so,” Zelenka said thoughtfully, making John prick up his ears.
“How’s that, doc?” he asked.
Zelenka didn’t answer but placed a hand against the door.
“What is it?” John joked, trying to sound easy instead of hopeful. “Is there a disturbance in the force?”
Zelenka ignored him and pulled out his tablet computer instead. Two deft motions of his hand and the husk which covered the door’s control panel came loose. Zelenka linked his computer to the panel and studied the screen for a second and a half.
“I thought so,” he remarked at last.
“Come on, Dr. Z,” Reynolds intervened a split second before John could. “The suspense is killing me and all.”
“This door has been opened recently,” Zelenka explained, fingers hovering over his keyboard before typing a quick sequence of commands. “Five hours and four minutes ago, to be exact.”
“Well, can you open it?” John urged, eager to get going.
Zelenka stood aside, indicating the panel with a distracted flap of his hand. “You try.”
As he stepped up to the door, John thought that lately people felt awfully comfortable with bossing him around. And it really was conspicuous how Zelenka’s gestures mimicked that of a certain other physicist. Maybe, John mused, Zelenka was in truth a camouflaged clone. A mini-me McKay. An advanced rip. John stifled a grin. The thought was extremely amusing. A moment later, though, any notion of comedy fled John’s mind.
“I doesn’t work,” he announced after touching the panel a third time. John found he was honestly baffled by the refusal. Normally Atlantis answered him before he had barely formed a thought. This time he had to grope for a connection and even as he managed to hook on, the link remained as elusive as a coil of smoke.
Zelenka squinted at the panel for a second, then brushed it with his free hand. Nada.
“Is it broken?” Teyla asked. Zelenka repeated his head-shake.
“No, it’s locked, only how . . .” He bent close to his screen, pressing keys in quick succession. “I think I can work around the code,” he mumbled, pulling a crystal out of the panel and thrusting it in Reynold’s direction. “Hold this.”
John caught Reynold’s eyes, then turned to look at the door. Five hours, he thought, was a long time down here.
Atlantis, 07:47 a.m.
Dec 22nd
Carson clamped a hand over his mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. He kept away from the walls, avoiding the sticky spray of machine oil that covered every inch of alien steel. It seemed like they had escaped the latest horror, but Carson’s ears still rang with shrieks and tortured moans. It was like he’d hear those screams forever, hear one voice raging against death in a foreign language. That time they’d seen no-one, only shadows in the halls they hurried past. But there had been the clamour and the stench of oil on fire. Briefly it reeked as if flesh was burning, too. As they were pushing on aimlessly, Carson couldn’t shake the impression that they were crossing the courtyard to hell.
The boy was keeping it together in a way that was admirable and worrying at the same time. He’d put his hands over his ears, stumbling along as swiftly as he could. Only God knew what these experiences would do to such a wee mind.
Behind them, the shouting had died down. Carson slowed to a staggering halt and felt his knees give way at once. He was soaked in sweat and black dots flickered before his eyes. His hands were shaking, too, telegraphing the exhaustion of a body worn by lack of sleep and dehydration. He wiped at his face, his hand coming away slick and salty, then sunk sideways against the wall. He leaned his head against the cool metal, no longer able to care what he’d touch. The oil, however, seemed to be gone. Distantly he noticed that there was a new scent in the air, too. And much to his surprise, Carson found he knew it well. It was a mixture of disinfectant and cleaning liquid, a combination Carson had always thought of as dry smell. He’d lived with those subtly pungent vapours for years on end but the familiarity did nothing to console him. If anything, it added to the confusion that shadowed him ever since the whole cirque du macabre began.
He hadn’t much time to analyse this new sensual assault, though.
Just as Carson thought they were given a moment of rest, a person entered the corridor from an adjoining chamber. It seemed to be a woman – as far as you could tell from her dehumanised appearance. Carson recognised a green polo-neck sweater, long, brown hair, but no face. Somehow the absence of eyes made the creature’s staring even worse.
Enough! Carson’s pleaded inside. He couldn’t take much more, he knew. The urge to flee, to run from this place so fast his feet would barely touch the ground – this urge grew stronger by the minute. A few more apparitions and he would run into closed doors so he’d see no more. There seemed no other escape; the ball wouldn’t shut off. By now Carson had tried.
A second faceless figure joined the first, lifting a hand to stroke an errant strand of hair back behind his ear. The presence of these chimeras, their reality-defying solidity, was utterly abhorring. Looking at them made Carson queasy all over again. Where eyes or mouth or nose should be, there was only a smooth plain of creamy skin.
Carson shivered and grasped the boy’s shoulder, feeling him tremble likewise. They couldn’t go on. One way or another Carson needed to end this or it would end them. He had never been so sure about anything. In his despair, he went down on one knee and tightened his grip on the boy’s by shoulder. His other hand went to the pocket which held the Ancient globe.
“Look at me, lad,” he implored. “ Only at me.” Then he closed his eyes, concentrating harder than ever he had in his life. He plunged deep, digging into his memories until one stood out in overwhelming clarity. He held on to that one, focused every fibre of his being on it, building it up detail by detail.
Slowly but surely his pulse slowed down. He could even relax the tight control that kept his body terse. He breathed out.
When Carson sniffed the air carefully, the stench of amoniac was gone. It was replaced by a faint but sweet smell that carried a whiff of apples and cinnamon. Carson listened for a while, but no eerie sounds reached his ear. When he’d made sure that the sense of being watched was also gone, Carson opened his eyes.
The boy still stood in front of him, but the scenery above the child’s head had changed. The dark and dank confines of the Atlantean corridor had been converted into a wallpapered staircase. An astonishingly old-fashioned staircase, no less. The railing was made of polished cherry-wood, the wallpaper was pastel-coloured and dotted with tiny violets. Carson experienced a wave of relief so strong that it washed everything else away. It left him drained, utterly wearied as the adrenaline rushed from his system, but Carson was grateful all the same.
By all evidence, you didn’t need red shoes after all.
Carson looked down and smiled as he saw the thick auburn carpet beneath him. He had hoped helplessly that his trick would work but he hadn’t expected it to work so well. They’d been transported into the entry hall of a small house. A very small house, as Carson knew very well. Everything was how he remembered him. Behind him he suspected the open door to a living room. There was a tall lamp next to the telephone table and the door to the cellar down the hall.
Just seeing the familiar surroundings, calmed Carson in a profound way. If he paid close attention, he could still sense the walking terrors lurking somewhere nearby. But for the moment, he was content to ignore them.
“That’s apple-pie we’re smelling,” Carson told the boy. “Do you like pie?”
The boy gave it a moment’s consideration, then answered: “Only if there’s cream.”
In Carson’s opinion, that was as sensible an answer as he’d ever heard. He reached out and ruffled the boys hair, grateful for this glimpse of normality in his battered state of mind. The boy grinned a little, looking as if he generously indulged Carson’s antics.
Somewhere down the hallway, noises rumbled like distant thunder. Carson made out a stifled moan, followed by a long and devastated keening. It set his teeth on edge.
The boy’s head had turned in direction of the sounds and his hands had once more clenched into fists. Carson was not sure how long the sanctuary he conjured would hold, but he had an inkling it wasn’t exactly made to last. What was more, Carson doubted he’d be able to pull the same hoax again. Even the little control he had right now was about to slip away. As of yet, his consciousness repulsed the idea of returning. Still there was a formless dread at the back of his mind, looming like darkness on a withered back porch. Carson turned away from it; if the fear overwhelmed him now it would devour him for good. Instead he concentrated on the boy. Carson would hate to expose the lad to the chimeras again. Especially since he didn’t and couldn’t know what they would face.
During the last stage of their nightmarish progress Carson had become more and more convinced that the fears they encountered weren’t of his making. For one, the fourth and final body had been a complete stranger to him. Furthermore, despite the ugly and sad situations he’d experienced throughout his time as ward doctor and later, hospitals didn’t scare him. So why the scent of disinfectant, hanging in the wake of the faceless people? Carson thought he knew the answer. Some of the fears made no sense to him because they weren’t his anxieties at all. They belonged to the boy, his own lost guide. Though how that should be remained a mystery to Carson. It was him who’d activated the globe after all.
Or had he?
Carson frowned. Was it possible that he was merely a bearer, channeling the residue of another subconscious? But why then the visions of Rodney, Aiden and Teyla? If Carson wasn’t responsible for them then someone else of their expedition must be. But who . . .
Carson stopped, marvelling at his own idiocy. It had been staring him in the face all along and he, panicked and confused, had been too daft to see it. The globe, he realised, had never responded to him.
Carson contemplated the small person in front of him with new understanding. Now, safe from the terrors for the time being, the pieces finally clicked into place. Watching the boy, his mussed black hair and straight nose, Carson wondered how he could’ve missed it. Indeed, once you got aware of it, the resemblance was as clear as day.
“John.”
The boy pried his gaze away from the door down the hall and looked at Carson instead. The lad was clearly troubled, but made an impressive effort to hide it. Carson smiled and touched the child’s arm fleetingly. “Don’t be scared,” he said. “You don’t have to go there.”
The relief on the small face was plain, even though Carson saw that the boy did not quite trust the peace. This expression was now so familiar that Carson almost laughed.
“I think we’ve earned ourselves a giant piece of that pie,” he said instead with a wink. To his satisfaction he noticed that the child already looked less doubtful. Carson stood and led the boy around the staircase. “You know what,” he said, “you just sit down here and I’ll take care of that door.” He gently shoved the child down onto the steps. “If you’re bored, try to connect the violets on the wall into shapes. There’s a dragon on there somewhere.”
Intrigued, the boy turned to the wallpaper. Carson stepped away from him, but stopped one more time once he was behind the railing. Through the wooden poles he watched the lad, who already seemed to have forgotten that he was there. He touched one finger to a violet posy, at the same time rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his other hand.
Him. It was him they wanted. The errant terrors were tracking down the boy and in all likelihood, Carson only happened to stand in their way.
Well, Carson thought and moved away from the stairway, he was decided to stand in their way a little while longer.
TBC
Pairing: none
Rating: PG-13
Recipient:
dr_dredd, who loves all things Scottish and wanted “team h/c fics where the team gets emotionally whumped and they all have to rely on each other to get out of it.” I hope this will please.Spoilers: The story’s set somewhere between Hide and Seek and Letters from Pegasus. I’m fuzzy about the timeline in season 1, but I decided they had at least one Christmas before The Siege :o).
Summary: A sleepless night finds Carson striking off into the deep of Atlantis. What starts out as a somnambulant venture soon turns into a nightmare he is unable to escape.
a/n: I apologise for the story’s wip state. When I started to write, I imagined a much shorter plot, but somehow it mutated along the way. What I have now is almost finished and running through the mills of beta. You’ll have the rest as soon as possible. In the meantime, please bear with me.
Click here for part 1
Atlantis, 6:17 a.m.
Dec 22nd
The dripping continued. Somewhere in the Ancient hall, waterdrops kept on splashing into the slowly growing pool. It seemed like a long while until the boy appeared at Carson’s side. At the periphery of his vision he could see the striped pyjama legs.
“Take me back,” Carson said softly and as the child did not respond, repeated: “Take me back.”
He’d brushed the wires away from Rodney’s face and lifted his hands out of the water. The arms, when Carson had tried to move them, were heavy and already reluctant to be shifted. He’d brushed water drops from the fringe of Rodney’s short hair, trying to ignore the fact that the hair was as cold and wet as Rodney’s face.
“Take me back,” he told the boy, but the child didn’t move. At length Carson looked up, seeing the boy watch Rodney with a frown. As Carson raised his head, the boy flinched visibly. His frown smoothed and he took two hesitant steps away from Carson. In direction of the far end of the hall, not toward the corridor through which they’d come.
No, Carson thought. No more. He didn’t move a muscle. The boy retreated another step, looking over his shoulder, then looking back at Carson. He didn’t plead, not openly, but there was a tension in his stance that made him look like a little animal that would like nothing better than break into a run. Still Carson didn’t react.
Suddenly a host of shallow waves rippled across the pool. It was the touch of water to his hand that loosened Carson’s paralysis in spite of himself. He turned to seek out the source of the disturbance. He caught sight of a door, the very same door the child was eyeing with a mixture of hope and apprehension.
It doesn’t matter, Carson told himself. Whatever was happening, it would end right here. It has already ended, a sad and quiet voice added in his mind. Another surge ruffled the pool. It could’ve been a breeze. Only there was no wind in the vaults. The boy clenched his fists.
Carson hesitated. The idea to leave Rodney for a reason other than getting help was appalling. To let him lie here, any longer than necessary – it was impossible. And yet there was the boy, waiting.
A small voice, a very tiny voice inside Carson’s head urged him to continue. Once he became aware of it, he also noticed a disquiet, growing beneath the hollow space that separated his mind from his emotions. It sickened him, but he almost listened, almost considered to follow the boy. That finally did it. Carson leaned back from Rodney’s body, seizing his curiosity and trampling it out of his system. Instantly going back became the foremost thing in his mind and he clung to it, pushing everything else away.
Carson stood, soaked trousers clinging to his shins. Forget the boy, he’d find his own way. He refused to think about doors that wouldn’t open, corridors that looked alike and silence. The goddamn silence.
He’d almost reached the corridor when another wave lapped against his shoes.
“No!” Carson shouted, startled by his own voice before the second word was out. “I won’t!”
By way of response a sob, small but clear, echoed in the empty hall behind him. It was that sob more than anything which unlocked the grief inside Carson, loosing a surge that threatened to overwhelm him. He felt his throat closing up even as he clenched his jaw and looked back over his shoulder.
“Go away,” he wanted to say. “Go aw. . .” Carson broke off, stunned. While he’d had his back turned the lad had moved to the door as was to be expected, but Rodney . . . Rodney was --
Gone.
Carson stared at the spot where he’d rested his friend. This time there was no sign of either the body or the spilling wires. The walls all around where as smooth as you’d wish. A shiver ran through Carson, chilling him to the bone. He wanted to scream. More than that, he wanted to run. His legs, however, seemed to be miles away from his control.
More ripples on the water. Carson sought out the boy who had withdrawn a mite from the door – quavering between staying and going to Carson, perhaps. He wore a Dodgers’ jersey, Carson noticed for the first time. He’d still need some years growing into it, though. The shirt reached well over his knees. Carson studied his little guide, inner turmoil receding like a wary predator.
You haven’t understood all, the small voice said, now slightly emboldened. Carson considered this. He forced himself to look back at the fatal light column, but Rodney was still gone. Almost as if the whole episode had been a bad dream. No, Carson thought. He’d felt Rodney, really felt the cool skin and lifeless hands. Rodney had been there and he had been dead. Yet what if . . .
Carson cast another glance at the boy, thinking. It was in that moment when another wail issued from – where? The Door, Carson realised. It had come from the door. More confusingly, the boy hadn’t sobbed after all, his lips had not even parted. Yet he had ducked his head on hearing the sound.
He could still head back. Or, the second option, he could in fact go on. Carson considered it for another moment. The truth, however, was simply that he’d gone too far already. There and then he was sobered enough to acknowledge that he was lost. Trying to retrace their steps on his own would only make things worse.
Carson made up his mind and started to walk. As the door behind the boy opened, he tried to loose the notion that he would regret his choice before the end.
Atlantis, 10:07 a.m.
Dec 22nd
Things were going too slow for John’s taste. They had passed Ford’s team once, went on to walk a bigger circle and still no trace of the missing doctor. So far they hadn’t got beyond the inhabited areas and John was itching to search the empty parts of the city. All his instincts told him that there they would find what they sought. Unfortunately his instincts didn’t tell him on which level or in which direction they should start. This was a job for Lassie, not him. He hated groping around in the dark. He needed a goal, a fixed spot that he could decide to steer for. No thing as bad as flying to confused co-ordinates. It was downright annoying.
At the moment, Peter Grodin was on the com, relating his progress. Which, apparently, was going down no better than John’s.
“Biometrical sensors?” John asked.
“Still scanning, but we can only go one parameter at a time. It also appears that the scanners are broken in some of the areas that have been flooded during the rise. Could be he’s there,” Grodin said then added: “Could be he isn’t.”
Fifty-fifty then, John thought dryly. Only not. “Keep looking.”
“Of course, Major.”
John had only just cut the connection when another voice crackled from his headset.
“Major Sheppard?”
Zelenka, John thought with a jolt of hope. “I’m here. Shoot.”
“We translated another source and it’s directly related to the ball.”
“Yes, so?” John said, trying to keep impatience from his voice.
He heard Dr. Zelenka say something in Czech, supposedly to someone else on the other end. Then a second of silence – all bad signs, in John’s opinion. At length Zelenka was back.
“Here, this source speaks of a central room . . . a ritual place for the meditation.”
“Meditation?”
“ Emendatio. Rozjímání. Meditation is close enough!”
“Sorry, go on.”
“It’s a round chamber, one door, no windows,” Zelenka continued. “Basically the text says, you go out the way you came in or you ascend. Not many options there.”
“Does it say where the room is?”
“According to Ancient quadrants, sector gamma zero four.”
“Where’s that?”
“We’ve no idea.”
Was it okay to scream? Probably not. “Great. Just great,” John grumbled, feeling more upbeat by the minute. “Anything else you’ve got?” Silence. John listened. And more silence.
“Doc?” John asked. “Your not-talking is no cause for comfort.”
“There is more,” Zelenka said and there was no mistaking the gloom in his voice. Go on, John urged, out with it.
“We found a protocol of one such meditation,” Zelenka continued. “The person who carried the ball did not . . . complete the procedure very well.”
“He died?”
“Ah, no. She lived. But the protocol says her body came out . . . mangled.”
“Mangled?” John repeated, gooseflesh trickling down his arms. “Mangled how?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Ahead of him, Teyla rounded another corner and John followed, stepping into a long-stretched corridor. From the far end, he could see Ford and his team coming their way. Ford’s fist shot in the air. Zero sighting.
“No,” John said into his com. “I don’t.”
Atlantis, 7:03 a.m.
Dec 22nd
It was like time had frozen around and inside him, suspending all coherent thought. His awareness had shrunk to a narrow space that included only the white noise in his head and Teyla.
Unlike Rodney, she was warm, her body pliant in his arms, pulse fluttering under his fingertips. Carson cradled her face with one hand, resting her head carefully against his chest. Her hair felt smooth against his palm, the white displaying beautifully against her old woman’s face. Only it wasn’t the face of a woman grown old in dignity. Lines ran deep around her mouth, her cheeks were fleshless and her brow furrowed like a hag’s. Pigment lesions covered her face, white specks on leathery skin. The worst thing was that her eyes, looking steadfastly at him from the sagging hollows, were still young. Young, alert, and full of pain.
She had begged him to help her with brittle words until her voice failed. He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t ever . . .
Carson was crying without being aware of it. His free hand reached up, grasping Teyla’s tattered shirt and trying to hold it together over the crude feeding mark. Teyla lifted her own hand, her drained face distorting with the effort. She grasped his fingers and squeezed. Her grip was like the claw of a bird - Carson could feel every bone of her small hand.
Please, her eyes said. Carson shook his head, clutching her shirt more firmly.
Please.
She let go of him then and closed her eyes. Carson fought, raging against the inevitable, knowing already he had lost. He broke. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat while he lifted his hand to Teyla’s face. Even as his mind wailed he couldn’t, couldn’t, he forbid himself to stop. Faltering would be a cruelty Teyla didn’t deserve. Still his hand trembled as he covered her mouth and nose. He squeezed his eyes shut against the scream inside his head and pressed down his palm.
Teyla didn’t even struggle, she probably had not the strength to anyway. Her body only tensed once, then she sunk limp against his arm. Carson sobbed, his hand fell from her face and grasped her shoulder, pulling her as close as he could. Let her go, he tried to tell himself. Let her go and it’s over. He had to repeat the words six times until they had any effect.
Carson placed a kiss on Teyla’s hair, then lowered her gently to the floor. As he looked up, his eyes fell on the boy. He was crouching on the floor, hands wrapped around his knees. It was the first time on their dreadful journey that he reacted in such a strong way. There even were tears clinging to the child’s dark lashes.
Beyond the ability to plan or care anymore, Carson reached out his hand. He was not even surprised when the boy took it. He stood, pulling the lad with him. The child stepped gingerly around Teyla’s feet, but even when he was past her, he didn’t let go of Carson. Together they walked away from the woman who Carson had known as a leader, a team-mate and a friend.
Part of Carson knew that the chance for Teyla being drained by a Wraith inside the city was next to nothing, and it was only that part which kept him sane. If only remotely so.
Teyla had died down here and at the same time she hadn’t. Carson had stopped asking how. He was too husked out, too empty to pursue the truth. Because no matter how obvious it was that this place messed with reality, there had been nothing delusional in Teyla’s grip or the feel of her lips against his palm. She’d been no more or less real than young Aiden, sprawling on the floor in his own blood. Lying there one moment, gone the next. Carson proceeded on tired legs, not even turning to see if Teyla had disappeared. The boy shuffled along beside him.
“They scare me,” the child whispered softly. Carson thought he’d never understood anything as well as this. Images of the dead were stuck in his head, haunting him with details like the splatter of scarlet on Aiden’s cheek or the faintly purple tinge of skin beneath Rodney’s closed eyes. Yes, they would be scary. But even as he thought himself burnt out of emotion, Carson felt something inside him reach out for the boy. The uneasiness in the little-one’s voice and the fact that he’d spoken for the first time touched Carson when he thought he couldn’t be touched anymore. “You needn’t be frightened of her,” he said quietly. “She was a kind woman. The way she looked just there wasn’t who or like she was.”
“Not her,” the boy said, now surprising Carson after all. Perhaps he hadn’t caught the child’s drift after all Carson looked down at the head of mussed black hair, realising that the child might refer to something quite outside his own nightmare. As if on cue, the boy added a single word. “They.”
Carson looked up, just in time to see someone walk across the junction of the corridor. Carson started badly. Not so much because he’d seen another living person in the vaults, but because that person had no face.
The shock ran deep, rooting Carson to the spot. At last he dared to breathe, taking one step back and pulling the boy with him. As he did so, something slipped free of his trousers’ pocket and clanged to the floor. The sudden noise almost jerked a scream from Carson. He let go of the boy’s hand and shrunk back from whatever it was he had lost. The thing rolled ponderously toward the child and came to rest against his toes.
It was the Ancient globe.
Puzzled, Carson stared at the silver sphere. He had forgotten that he carried it, now its sight woke an indistinct suspicion. He bent down and picked the ball carefully off the floor.
When Radek had given him the globe, it had been cold. Now the metal felt almost lukewarm against Carson’s fingertips. He turned the ball, holding it into the dim light. There he saw that not only had the globe’s temperature changed, there was also a difference on its surface. A hair-fine line circled the ball’s complete circumference and glowed faintly blue. A notion formed in Carson’s head, a creeping conviction that grew with every second.
Is it you? he asked the ball, not expecting an answer but preparing for one all the same. When nothing happened, he cast a glance at his guide. The boy stood stock-still, eyeing the ball with a wary frown. That confirmed it for Carson.
“What does it do?” he asked aloud. Nothing. If the boy knew anything, he kept it to himself, but judging by his expression, he was as clueless as Carson.
Easy, Carson told himself. Try to think this through. How could the globe leave a trail of not-quite-real bodies? Leave them, it seemed, for Carson to find and vanish them after he’d got a close enough look?
They scare me. The boys sentence echoed in Carson’s memory. Of course. What had Carson seen since this nightmare of a progress began? Only events he dreaded to happen, the deaths of people he cared about. The realisation dropped like a stone into his stomach. Somehow, by means that escaped Carson, the Ancient globe reproduced his fears.
Carson clenched his fist around the ball. He’d known these gadgets were dangerous. He’d known all along.
A whole world of good it did you, he thought angrily. Indeed, he felt far from relieved even though he now discerned the cause of his troubles. For one thing, he didn’t know how to deactivate the globe. Secondly, it would do him no good even if he knew. What would happen, should he shut off the ball? Would he wake from a bad dream, lying on the floor outside his laboratory? Not likely. Carson rather suspected that he would remain in the bowel of the city, only then without any leads to guide him or even the boy.
The boy. Thinking of him brought Carson up short. If the globe manifested fears, then what the hell did it want with a child? Not to mention a child Carson had never seen before. Or at least he was ninety percent sure he hadn’t. So why? Why this boy?
They scare me. Wasn’t that what he’d said? How did that sort with the concept of the ball tapping into Carson’s mind? It made no sense, that’s how. Yes, there was the slim chance Carson had somehow, subconsciously conjured the boy. That possibility, however, felt wrong in many ways.
The boy must have picked up on Carson’s contemplation, or at least sensed something, because he addressed him hesitantly.
“I want to go,” he said, and, more reluctantly still: “Are you coming?”
Carson swayed on the brink of trying to deactivate the globe all the same. In the end he held back and asked a question he’d posed at the very beginning of their odyssey. Back then he was eager for an answer. Now he was almost afraid he might get one. “Where are we going?”
“Dunno,” the boy admitted and in that moment sounded like any small child who was lost and frightened. “I can’t find my room.”
There was no way Carson could turn from him now. Truly, if ever there had been a time when he could have left the boy, it had come and gone. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, and panic was writhing at the back of his mind. Carson guessed that this must be how lemmings felt before they jumped off a cliff. He offered his hand once more.
“Then let’s look for it, shall we?” he asked and the boy slipped his fingers around his. Briefly Carson wondered if all this hadn’t been inevitable from the start. Walking, he slipped the globe back into his pocket.
Atlantis, 10:15 a.m.
Dec 22nd
Zelenka had hailed them on the com, calling them back to the medics’ laboratory. In other words, the place where Carson had last been seen. John didn’t waste time to ask for details on the radio. There must’ve been new leads, else the doc wouldn’t have broken up the search. All the same John had ordered Ford and Ferman to continue. Just in case.
They arrived at the lab before Zelenka was there.
“Do you think Dr. Zelenka has discovered the room he told us about?” Teyla asked.
“Could be,” John said. He’d just spotted something on one of the nooks in the wall. It was a blue mug - blink twice and you’d miss it. He walked over and picked it up. It was still full. Like the tea John had sipped this morning, this one was cold, too. Carson’s mug, no doubt. John sniffed the dark liquid, detecting again a whiff of strong single malt. John’s day would’ve been a lot better if the doctor had left more bredcrumbs like this. Zelenka picked that very moment to dash into the hallway. Two meds followed at his heels, both carrying red emergency kits. The fact Zelenka brought them along could either be a very good or a very bad sign. Zelenka’s brisk gait indicated just as much. The little Czech did not even stop at John’s side, he just continued down the hallway, aiming for the spot where the corridor forked. John took this as cue for his team and him to tag along.
“So you’ve got the room’s location?” John hazarded.
“No,” Zelenka returned, staring feverishly ahead. “But I think I figured how we can track Carson.”
They reached the crossroad and Zelenka stopped, peering down first the left branch, then the right. John knew they hadn’t searched either way – the med lab and these hallways where one level beneath their initial search area.
“See?” Zelenka said eventually, pointing down the left-hand corridor. John looked but didn’t glimpse anything out of the usual. The lights were dimmer down there, but other than that . . . nope. Naught. He threw a glance back over his shoulder and caught Teyla’s eye. She gave a minute head-shake, indicating she saw nothing, either.
“Doctor,” John set out. “Could you perhaps . . .?”
“Doors,” Zelenka forestalled John’s sentence, righting his glasses that had come askew in his haste. “We can find him by following the doors.”
That didn’t explain a lot of a much to John. Zelenka, turning around and realising his listeners had not yet caught up, began to elaborate.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “When the Ancients sank Atlantis and escaped to Earth, they shut down all systems that weren’t crucial to sustain the city. We know that, yes? Now, before they shut down everything, they closed all the doors.”
Finally John realised what Zelenka was on about. Of course. For the first time in their messed-up hide and seek imitation he felt halfways hopeful. This made sense, it really did!
“They created little cells all over the place,” Zelenka continued. “So if the shield failed in places, like we’ve seen it did, the doors would impede the flooding, buying Atlantis as much time as possible.” Zelenka’s hand went to his glasses again. “Like bulkheads on a ship, if you can imagine . . .”
“I know,” John cut him short. “I’ve seen Titanic, too.”
“You did?” Zelenka asked, looking surprised. John gave him a very dirty look and the scientist cringed. “Sorry.”
“That is all good and well,” Teyla cut in, stepping forward. “But how does it help us now?”
“The city’s doors stay close until we come in contact with them,” Zelenka explained. “We haven’t been to every part of the city, so down in the unexplored parts, the doors must still be closed. Except,” Zelenka lifted a finger and smiled, “for those Carson opened as he passed.”
“He’s left us a trail.” John nearly whistled.
“Exactly.”
Teyla nodded. “I see.” She switched on the lamp on her P90 and pointed it down the corridor. The light fell on an empty doorframe some couple of yards in the distance. Yeah, John decided. This topped the mug by far.
“You heard the man,” John told his team. “Let’s move. And make sure you don’t think at the doors.”
Teyla took the lead, Reynolds and the medics falling in line behind her. Zelenka, shifting his glasses once more for good measure, made as if to follow them.
“You don’t have to go, doc,” John said, seeing how the other man’s eyes were fixed on the hall that grew ever darker the further it went.
“It was I gave him the ball,” Zelenka said simply. “I come.”
It turned out that Zelenka’s plan worked to a fault. They’d followed Carson’s trail into the desolate underworld of the city, crossing threshold after threshold. They we’re doing good. If you defined good in a new and unsettling sort of way. John studied a looming crossbeam that was traced with rust, feeling more than a little concerned. He had a hard time concealing these catacombs with the beauty of the Atlantis he knew. It almost felt like they’d crossed some Event Horizon without realising, now walking through an entirely different city.
Teyla was still at the head of the troop. Not because she knew these halls any better than John did, but because she was a darned good scout. And John, for that matter, was a darned bad one.
Zelenka stuck to John’s shoulder. He hadn’t talked much since they descended into the lower levels. His taciturnity made him unfamiliar company to John, who was used to Rodney’s unstoppable eloquence.
“What else did you find in the pads?” he asked on impulse, vaguely intending to distract Zelenka and himself on the side. It worked, too.
“Oh, plenty of confusing stuff,” Zelenka said. “A recipe for oil against aftermath headaches, some chants, something about a guide. One Shadow to lead you to the centre of your fear.” He shrugged. “It’s all a bit vague. I get the notion that ascension demands a little too much trouble for me to seek it.”
John felt inclined to agree, but didn’t say so. The search-light of his P90 skittered along the ceiling and down the walls of the corridor. The air was unpleasant down here. A while back they’d first noticed some kind of sewer smell that reminded John of the flooded drains in Pathumthani. The farther they went, the stronger it grew. Yet what set John even more on edge was the fact that Teyla seemed nervous. And if you noticed agitation in a woman like Teyla, you knew trouble was boiling.
Did he mention the cold? John lifted one hand from his weapon to briefly rub the other. It was cold. Although not crisp-cold, like it had been in McMurdo. No, that would have been inconvenient but mostly bearable. Down here, it was a moist cold that trickled into your collar and clung to your skin like dirty sweat.
“Did you know that the Chinese picture their hell as an endless maze of ice?” Zelenka mentioned out of the blue.
John winced. “And you thought I needed that information exactly why?”
“Sorry.”
Another beat of silence passed, then Zelenka started to speak again, sounding troubled.
“I really hope . . .” But John never heard what the little Czech hoped. The sentence was cut off right after it started.
“Major!” Reynolds called from ahead. John tensed, picking up his pace until he arrived at the Lieutenant’s side. He saw at once what was wrong. All the same he felt compelled to state the obvious.
“It’s closed,” he informed Zelenka who had stopped right next to it. The scientist was staring at the closed door with a line between his brows that did nothing to console John. “Any other doors?” he asked therefore.
Reynolds shook his head. “None.”
“We must have missed one,” Teyla said, voicing the possibility that John hated to consider. He experienced a sickening rush of resignation This dead-end could render the last hour of their search futile. Come to that, it could easily push them back to square one. .
“I don’t think so,” Zelenka said thoughtfully, making John prick up his ears.
“How’s that, doc?” he asked.
Zelenka didn’t answer but placed a hand against the door.
“What is it?” John joked, trying to sound easy instead of hopeful. “Is there a disturbance in the force?”
Zelenka ignored him and pulled out his tablet computer instead. Two deft motions of his hand and the husk which covered the door’s control panel came loose. Zelenka linked his computer to the panel and studied the screen for a second and a half.
“I thought so,” he remarked at last.
“Come on, Dr. Z,” Reynolds intervened a split second before John could. “The suspense is killing me and all.”
“This door has been opened recently,” Zelenka explained, fingers hovering over his keyboard before typing a quick sequence of commands. “Five hours and four minutes ago, to be exact.”
“Well, can you open it?” John urged, eager to get going.
Zelenka stood aside, indicating the panel with a distracted flap of his hand. “You try.”
As he stepped up to the door, John thought that lately people felt awfully comfortable with bossing him around. And it really was conspicuous how Zelenka’s gestures mimicked that of a certain other physicist. Maybe, John mused, Zelenka was in truth a camouflaged clone. A mini-me McKay. An advanced rip. John stifled a grin. The thought was extremely amusing. A moment later, though, any notion of comedy fled John’s mind.
“I doesn’t work,” he announced after touching the panel a third time. John found he was honestly baffled by the refusal. Normally Atlantis answered him before he had barely formed a thought. This time he had to grope for a connection and even as he managed to hook on, the link remained as elusive as a coil of smoke.
Zelenka squinted at the panel for a second, then brushed it with his free hand. Nada.
“Is it broken?” Teyla asked. Zelenka repeated his head-shake.
“No, it’s locked, only how . . .” He bent close to his screen, pressing keys in quick succession. “I think I can work around the code,” he mumbled, pulling a crystal out of the panel and thrusting it in Reynold’s direction. “Hold this.”
John caught Reynold’s eyes, then turned to look at the door. Five hours, he thought, was a long time down here.
Atlantis, 07:47 a.m.
Dec 22nd
Carson clamped a hand over his mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. He kept away from the walls, avoiding the sticky spray of machine oil that covered every inch of alien steel. It seemed like they had escaped the latest horror, but Carson’s ears still rang with shrieks and tortured moans. It was like he’d hear those screams forever, hear one voice raging against death in a foreign language. That time they’d seen no-one, only shadows in the halls they hurried past. But there had been the clamour and the stench of oil on fire. Briefly it reeked as if flesh was burning, too. As they were pushing on aimlessly, Carson couldn’t shake the impression that they were crossing the courtyard to hell.
The boy was keeping it together in a way that was admirable and worrying at the same time. He’d put his hands over his ears, stumbling along as swiftly as he could. Only God knew what these experiences would do to such a wee mind.
Behind them, the shouting had died down. Carson slowed to a staggering halt and felt his knees give way at once. He was soaked in sweat and black dots flickered before his eyes. His hands were shaking, too, telegraphing the exhaustion of a body worn by lack of sleep and dehydration. He wiped at his face, his hand coming away slick and salty, then sunk sideways against the wall. He leaned his head against the cool metal, no longer able to care what he’d touch. The oil, however, seemed to be gone. Distantly he noticed that there was a new scent in the air, too. And much to his surprise, Carson found he knew it well. It was a mixture of disinfectant and cleaning liquid, a combination Carson had always thought of as dry smell. He’d lived with those subtly pungent vapours for years on end but the familiarity did nothing to console him. If anything, it added to the confusion that shadowed him ever since the whole cirque du macabre began.
He hadn’t much time to analyse this new sensual assault, though.
Just as Carson thought they were given a moment of rest, a person entered the corridor from an adjoining chamber. It seemed to be a woman – as far as you could tell from her dehumanised appearance. Carson recognised a green polo-neck sweater, long, brown hair, but no face. Somehow the absence of eyes made the creature’s staring even worse.
Enough! Carson’s pleaded inside. He couldn’t take much more, he knew. The urge to flee, to run from this place so fast his feet would barely touch the ground – this urge grew stronger by the minute. A few more apparitions and he would run into closed doors so he’d see no more. There seemed no other escape; the ball wouldn’t shut off. By now Carson had tried.
A second faceless figure joined the first, lifting a hand to stroke an errant strand of hair back behind his ear. The presence of these chimeras, their reality-defying solidity, was utterly abhorring. Looking at them made Carson queasy all over again. Where eyes or mouth or nose should be, there was only a smooth plain of creamy skin.
Carson shivered and grasped the boy’s shoulder, feeling him tremble likewise. They couldn’t go on. One way or another Carson needed to end this or it would end them. He had never been so sure about anything. In his despair, he went down on one knee and tightened his grip on the boy’s by shoulder. His other hand went to the pocket which held the Ancient globe.
“Look at me, lad,” he implored. “ Only at me.” Then he closed his eyes, concentrating harder than ever he had in his life. He plunged deep, digging into his memories until one stood out in overwhelming clarity. He held on to that one, focused every fibre of his being on it, building it up detail by detail.
Slowly but surely his pulse slowed down. He could even relax the tight control that kept his body terse. He breathed out.
When Carson sniffed the air carefully, the stench of amoniac was gone. It was replaced by a faint but sweet smell that carried a whiff of apples and cinnamon. Carson listened for a while, but no eerie sounds reached his ear. When he’d made sure that the sense of being watched was also gone, Carson opened his eyes.
The boy still stood in front of him, but the scenery above the child’s head had changed. The dark and dank confines of the Atlantean corridor had been converted into a wallpapered staircase. An astonishingly old-fashioned staircase, no less. The railing was made of polished cherry-wood, the wallpaper was pastel-coloured and dotted with tiny violets. Carson experienced a wave of relief so strong that it washed everything else away. It left him drained, utterly wearied as the adrenaline rushed from his system, but Carson was grateful all the same.
By all evidence, you didn’t need red shoes after all.
Carson looked down and smiled as he saw the thick auburn carpet beneath him. He had hoped helplessly that his trick would work but he hadn’t expected it to work so well. They’d been transported into the entry hall of a small house. A very small house, as Carson knew very well. Everything was how he remembered him. Behind him he suspected the open door to a living room. There was a tall lamp next to the telephone table and the door to the cellar down the hall.
Just seeing the familiar surroundings, calmed Carson in a profound way. If he paid close attention, he could still sense the walking terrors lurking somewhere nearby. But for the moment, he was content to ignore them.
“That’s apple-pie we’re smelling,” Carson told the boy. “Do you like pie?”
The boy gave it a moment’s consideration, then answered: “Only if there’s cream.”
In Carson’s opinion, that was as sensible an answer as he’d ever heard. He reached out and ruffled the boys hair, grateful for this glimpse of normality in his battered state of mind. The boy grinned a little, looking as if he generously indulged Carson’s antics.
Somewhere down the hallway, noises rumbled like distant thunder. Carson made out a stifled moan, followed by a long and devastated keening. It set his teeth on edge.
The boy’s head had turned in direction of the sounds and his hands had once more clenched into fists. Carson was not sure how long the sanctuary he conjured would hold, but he had an inkling it wasn’t exactly made to last. What was more, Carson doubted he’d be able to pull the same hoax again. Even the little control he had right now was about to slip away. As of yet, his consciousness repulsed the idea of returning. Still there was a formless dread at the back of his mind, looming like darkness on a withered back porch. Carson turned away from it; if the fear overwhelmed him now it would devour him for good. Instead he concentrated on the boy. Carson would hate to expose the lad to the chimeras again. Especially since he didn’t and couldn’t know what they would face.
During the last stage of their nightmarish progress Carson had become more and more convinced that the fears they encountered weren’t of his making. For one, the fourth and final body had been a complete stranger to him. Furthermore, despite the ugly and sad situations he’d experienced throughout his time as ward doctor and later, hospitals didn’t scare him. So why the scent of disinfectant, hanging in the wake of the faceless people? Carson thought he knew the answer. Some of the fears made no sense to him because they weren’t his anxieties at all. They belonged to the boy, his own lost guide. Though how that should be remained a mystery to Carson. It was him who’d activated the globe after all.
Or had he?
Carson frowned. Was it possible that he was merely a bearer, channeling the residue of another subconscious? But why then the visions of Rodney, Aiden and Teyla? If Carson wasn’t responsible for them then someone else of their expedition must be. But who . . .
Carson stopped, marvelling at his own idiocy. It had been staring him in the face all along and he, panicked and confused, had been too daft to see it. The globe, he realised, had never responded to him.
Carson contemplated the small person in front of him with new understanding. Now, safe from the terrors for the time being, the pieces finally clicked into place. Watching the boy, his mussed black hair and straight nose, Carson wondered how he could’ve missed it. Indeed, once you got aware of it, the resemblance was as clear as day.
“John.”
The boy pried his gaze away from the door down the hall and looked at Carson instead. The lad was clearly troubled, but made an impressive effort to hide it. Carson smiled and touched the child’s arm fleetingly. “Don’t be scared,” he said. “You don’t have to go there.”
The relief on the small face was plain, even though Carson saw that the boy did not quite trust the peace. This expression was now so familiar that Carson almost laughed.
“I think we’ve earned ourselves a giant piece of that pie,” he said instead with a wink. To his satisfaction he noticed that the child already looked less doubtful. Carson stood and led the boy around the staircase. “You know what,” he said, “you just sit down here and I’ll take care of that door.” He gently shoved the child down onto the steps. “If you’re bored, try to connect the violets on the wall into shapes. There’s a dragon on there somewhere.”
Intrigued, the boy turned to the wallpaper. Carson stepped away from him, but stopped one more time once he was behind the railing. Through the wooden poles he watched the lad, who already seemed to have forgotten that he was there. He touched one finger to a violet posy, at the same time rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his other hand.
Him. It was him they wanted. The errant terrors were tracking down the boy and in all likelihood, Carson only happened to stand in their way.
Well, Carson thought and moved away from the stairway, he was decided to stand in their way a little while longer.
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Date: 2005-12-26 03:43 am (UTC)Your Carson POV is fabulous, as is your John, and your Zelenka's pretty great too. (I'm a fan of any story that gets Zelenka, John, and Carson all playing major rolls in one story together.)
From the first part, I really enjoyed the chess lessons--I can just picture Rodney's face once Carson starts beating him occasionally. *g* But then the creepy turn which is just very intriguing.
Can't wait to see where you're going with this!
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Date: 2006-01-03 12:19 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2006-01-03 12:21 pm (UTC)Thanks for commenting! The last part will be up by the end of next week at the latest.
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Date: 2006-02-05 05:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-27 04:23 am (UTC)I am *reaally* loving this! And thank you eversomuch for allowing Carson, Zelenka, *anybody* but 'John-n-Rodney' be the focus of your fic.
Not that I don't Absolutely Love 'John-n-Rodney', mind you, (Especially *together*...mmmm), but it's just so rare for any of the others to get spotlighted, it makes it all the more fantastic when one is done so well. I love this Carson, he's very much in-character and a joy to read.
Thanky.
(PS. When's the next bit?!? *g*)
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Date: 2006-01-03 12:25 pm (UTC)Not that I don't Absolutely Love 'John-n-Rodney', mind you, (Especially *together*...mmmm), but it's just so rare for any of the others to get spotlighted
You took the words right out of my mouth. I do care for John & Rodney or even John/Rodney, but there are a quite few other characters that fascinate me as well. Zelenka and Beckett being two of the few. There's a lot of unused potential there (same goes for the show, actually)
Next (and last) bit is in the making and will be up by the end of next week at the latest.
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Date: 2006-02-05 07:14 pm (UTC)Thank you!
*sigh* LJ folks are the absolute coolest.And I stand by that.
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Date: 2006-02-06 02:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-30 03:07 pm (UTC)The freakiest part of the whole thing was Carson's encountering the apparition-Teyla and helping her to die. That had to have shaken him to the core. The best, of course, was his childhood house. I wouldn't mind having grown up in a place like that.
Where's the next part?! :-)
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Date: 2006-01-03 12:29 pm (UTC)The best, of course, was his childhood house. I wouldn't mind having grown up in a place like that.
Neither would I :). I was at this beautiful B&B in Ft. William once and Carson's home is sort of modelled after that.
I'm in the process of pummeling the next part into shape. It's been petulant of late, but now that I've bribed it with whiskey & tea, it's coming along ;)
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