Mathématique: Chapter 26

“Did y’just call me ‘gate bait’?” Rush asked.

Chapter warnings: Stressors of all kinds. Grief. Physical injuries. Mental health challenges. Pain.

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

Chapter 26

He drags himself up the steep slope. His back is on fire, his broken leg trails behind him, useless. The air burns as he sucks it down. Next to him, David Telford, covered with blood and ash, claws at ash and loose stones, trying for traction. Failing.

“We’re not gonna die here,” Telford rasps.

Young coughs. “No?”

“No,” Telford snarls.

Young woke, covered in cold sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut and slowed his breathing. He didn’t move, didn’t sit, didn’t react to the mass of knotted muscle in his back. Slowly, the knife-hot edge on the pain faded with the shreds of his dream.

He opened his eyes.

Morning sun streamed through gaps in his venetian blinds.

He’d tensed up in his sleep. It happened sometimes.

Keeping his movements slow, he bent his knees, rolled onto his side, and pushed himself to sit with the strength of his arms. He shut his eyes, breathing through the discomfort, letting the worst of the pain ebb on its own terms.

He looked down at the floor and flinched in alarm, sending a spike of pain from his spine down his bad leg.

The former head of UC Berkeley’s Math Department lay face down beneath his coffee table, doing a bang-up impression of a guy who’d been left for dead.

“God damn,” he hissed, and tried to get his racing pulse to slow.

If the man didn’t want to sleep in a bed for reasons of his own, Young had no problem with that. Sure, it was weird—but Rush? Yeah. A bit of a weird guy. What Young did have a problem with was how alarming he found it to wake up and find the man passed out under the coffee table like he’d been slide-tackled by sleep.

After confirming Rush was breathing, he rolled his eyes.

He pulled his cane away from the wall and limped toward the bathroom. He stripped, avoiding the mirror, not ready to face down the scars that marked just how far he had to go before he had a prayer of waking without pain. 

After a shower, more painkillers, and breakfasting on a piece of cold eggplant pizza eaten over the sink, Young felt better.

It was a little before 0800. Whether he was expected to show at the SGC today was anyone’s guess. Duty hour regs would dictate that after a mission like yesterday’s he’d have at least the morning off. On the other hand, often those protocols were enforced or waived by upper level command staff, and given he was now acting head of Icarus, he was pretty sure the call fell to him.

He limped back to the living room and considered his neighbor, still in a crime-scene sprawl beneath the coffee table.

“You win,” he muttered.

His mind made up, he retrieved the locked, Kevlar-reinforced bag he’d taken from the SGC the night before and returned to the kitchen to start coffee. He unlocked the seven-digit combination on the bag and pressed his thumb to the portable scanner. He set a stack of highly classified files on the table, then slipped his laptop out of the bag.

He opened his email and worked through his unread messages.

 

To: Everett Young

From: Cameron Mitchell
Subject: DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

You come in today and we’re replacing you at che’swings night with your neighbor. (Seriously though, how good of a chess player do you think he is? He seems like a chess guy. Would he give me tips? Would YOU give me tips?)

Call me. We got ish to discuss.

-Cam

 

Young rolled his eyes and clicked to the next message.

 

To: Everett Young

From: Daniel Jackson
Subject: 

I assume you’ve got quite the reading list now you’re acting head of Icarus. You’ll want to talk. FYI, SG-1 is off world day after tomorrow; not sure for how long. Hope your back is okay. And your hip. And your leg? Even though Dr. Lam is formally out of commission, Cam gave her an informal heads up regarding your recent activities. I’d describe her as “irked.” 

Perpetually in translation,

-Daniel

 

Young sighed.

 

To: Everett Young

Cc: Daniel Jackson

From: Henry Landry
Subject: H7650

Colonel Young, I’ll expect your report by 0900 tomorrow. I won’t expect you until you’re cleared by medical. Dr. van Densen sent an internal memo titled: Medical Clearance and the Chain of Command. It’s attached. Long story short, she’s not happy with either of us. Bureaucracy will certainly ensue, so do us both a favor and write up the rationale behind your decision to go into the field using form H7650. Get Jackson to sign off on the thing. Politicians love the guy. Doctors love the guy. Everyone loves the guy. 

-HL

 

The quiet tones of his coffee maker pulled Young back to the kitchen. He poured himself a cup, then returned to his dining table to take care of his email. When that was done, he sat sipping his coffee, undecided.

He could start on his paperwork; he was sure that was what Landry would prefer. On the other hand, Rush was currently asleep, and Young wasn’t in love with the idea of trying to read a pile of classified files with the other man up and around.

No contest then.

He limped to his bedroom and retrieved his reading glasses from his nightstand. Back in the kitchen, he shut his laptop, dragged the files within reach, ordered them chronologically, and began to read.

—having completed a discussion of Dr. Beckett’s progress to date, we turn our attention to the following questions: 1) What is the biological purpose of the ATA, LTA, and NRA genes? 2) How were these genes introduced into human lineages? 3) What are the broader implications for human evolution? 4) How can current and future knowledge of these genes better inform our use of Ancient technology? Potential answers to these questions will be outlined below for the non-specialist reader. For a more technical analysis, please see attached documents prepared by Dr. Carson Beckett.

 

1)     Biological Function of Lantean Xenogenes. It’s tempting to discuss the “purpose” of xenogenetic elements in terms of their observed effects. Indulging this tendency, we might say ATA allows for projection of electromagnetic waves generated by the brain and its “purpose” is the activation of Ancient technology. We might call LTA receptive, in that it allows for mental calibration between an Ancient device and its operator. This interpretation is problematic. Genes are passed from parent to offspring because they confer a survival advantage. ATA has not persisted in the human lineage because it activates Ancient technology. Regardless of how this gene was introduced to humans, it endures because it confers a survival advantage independent of its ability to allow for use of Ancient devices. The same argument can be made for LTA. Speculation regarding the survival advantage conferred by these genes in the SGC medical community has centered on the possibility that they may allow for the primitive development of a quantifiable “sixth sense” that results from awareness of portions of the EM spectrum normally outside human perception. Measurements taken by Dr. Beckett and Dr. McKay following John Sheppard’s interaction with Lantean technology indicate there may be some basis for this hypothesis, though, by its nature, this evidence is anecdotal. It’s teleologically appealing to speculate that a survival advantage could be conferred by the ability to sense or influence the local electromagnetic environment.

2)     Lantean Genes in Tau’ri Lineages. Human variants of ATA and LTA exhibit such a high degree of genetic conservation vis-à-vis the Ancient genetic code that it’s a virtual certainty they were deliberately introduced. A covert project done in conjunction with the NID and Smithsonian has confirmed Lantean gene carriers were present as far back as the 1300s, and this project is ongoing and may identify earlier examples. Whether the genes were introduced via deliberate interference or as a natural consequence of sexual reproduction is a question we can’t yet answer. Examination of the genetic background of individuals with these genes suggests eight separate founder events: one in Sub-Saharan Africa, two in Central Asia, two in Western Europe, one in Eastern Europe, one in the Middle East, and one in Central America.

 

Young flipped back through the file to check the date of Dr. Lam’s summary report. He found it predated Rush’s employment by a few months. He skimmed the rest of Lam’s report and set it aside. With that file, he’d finished Landry’s recommended collection of background reading.

The remainder of the stack consisted of black card stock, emblazoned with red letters denoting the clearance level required for each file’s  removal. He picked up the first folder and opened it. To his surprise it contained typed pages. Literally the pages had been typed. On a typewriter. He frowned, adjusted his glasses, and began to read.

 

UNNAMED COMMITTEE #4 MEETING TRANSCRIPTION

Attendees General Jack O’Neill (JO), General Henry Landry (HL), Dr. Daniel Jackson (DJ), Colonel David Telford (DT), Dr. Carolyn Lam (CL), Aide to the General Walter Harriman (WH—scribe). Agenda: 1) Statement of purpose; 2) Discussion of project task group; 3) Proposed actions

HL: Hi everyone, thanks for coming. Given the civilization-level threat the Ori represent, this committee is tasked with oversight of unconventional solutions to the problem they pose. Dr. Lam, I’m betting you’re the only one who isn’t up to speed on events of recent days. Dr. Jackson will fill you in.

DJ: As you know, Vala and I exchanged consciousnesses with individuals in another galaxy using an Ancient device we’re now calling “Communication Stones.” During that experience, we encountered a race of beings similar, in some ways, to the Ancients. Like the Ancients, they exist as pure energy. They speak Ancient. But they call themselves the Ori. Unfortunately, these beings were—are—less scrupulous about the policy of noninterference with our plane.

CL: Hence the burning to death of their supplicants. Vala barely survived.

DJ: Right. What you don’t yet know is they made an overt threat against this galaxy.

HL: A threat they’re in a position to make good on.

DJ: They accrue power through the worship they demand from their followers. Hours long liturgical services create synchronized EM emissions they consume. The energy feeds them. Like food. They take it. They steal it. They—

DT: We don’t need the whole speech. We get it.

DJ: Do you?

JO: Bottom line, defeating the Ori may be a little more complicated than taking on the System Lords.  We need to think outside the box on this one.

HL: That’s the purpose of this committee. To explore less conventional options.

CL: Could someone clarify what my role is meant to be in all of this?

HL: You’re here in an advisory capacity, Dr. Lam. Dr. Jackson requested your inclusion. There are ethical concerns on the horizon.

CL: Ethical concerns?

DJ: Yes.

DT: We’ve got an option that may give us an edge against ascended hostiles.

DJ: There’s no evidence of that. No evidence of a tactical advantage of any kind.

JO: Back it up. Telford, lay out your case. 

DT: A reference to a nine-chevron address came out of the Atlantis database. The glyphs are cyphered. Surrounding text refers to a last ditch effort to save their civilization. Word choices suggest ties to ascension.

DJ: “And when the plague came, when it arose from that which they’d wrought, they set forth over two roads.”

DT: Not sure now’s the time to dive into etymology.

DJ: The Ancient word for “road” has high semantic ambiguity and includes things we wouldn’t conceptualize as “roads.” We’re applying our own cartographically informed concept of a “road” here, when Ancient disambiguations of “road” include more than a literal or metaphorical path.

JO: I’ve found there’s always time for etymology.

DJ: “Road” is a means by which any difficulty can be addressed and traversed, whether that be physical or metaphysical. The same word is used to describe “edge,” including the edges of dimensional tears in space-time that constitute the gate network. It’s also used for anything with a drive that can make vectored transit. You can get a sense for that here, because they go on to explicitly indicate that Atlantis is one of the two roads, and it’s the city’s star drive that marks or makes the road.

DT: The other “road” is whatever’s behind the nine chevron address.

DJ: I want to be very clear that whatever this encrypted address leads to…it might be another Atlantis or it might not be. It might be something like Celestis with direct ties to the Ori.

DT: Or, it might be something we can use. A ship. An outpost. A weapon. You’re the one who’s obsessed with finding Merlin’s—

HL: Let’s try to avoid discussion of other, equally classified, areas?

CL: I don’t see how any of this, as outlined, presents an ethical quandary.

DJ: That’s not all there was in the database. In order to access this—

DT: Place. City or road or ship or whatever.

DJ: We’re not calling it a ship. We’re not calling it a city. It’s a mistake to mislead ourselves into easy answers.

DT: Yeah. God forbid we “mislead ourselves into easy answers.” Meanwhile, we’re sticking our hands on Ancient Communications terminals and provoking an enemy galaxies away.

JO: Hey.

DJ: Jack, it’s fine. In order to gain access to this address, certain “benchmarks” must be met. The word in context most likely refers to the electrophysiological changes that take place in the brain prior to ascension. We know this, because Anubis collected every Ancient text he could get his hands on regarding ascension.

[See attached photo-WH]

CL: So if we want to do this, we need a person who meets these benchmarks?

DT: It may not be as far fetched as it sounds, seeing as we have access to Anubis’ research. We may be able to alter one of our own people to within the parameters specified in the database.

CL: Alter?

DT: It’s what Anubis did. He altered himself.

DJ: Yeah. It didn’t go so well, if you’ll recall.

DT: We’re talking about the destruction of our species if we don’t find a way to combat the Ori. Anything and everything is on the table.

HL: We’re not committing to anything yet.

DJ: If we do this, if anyone does this, it should be me. I volunteer.

JO: No you don’t. It’ll be the best genetic candidate we have, end of story.

DJ: Leave Sheppard on Atlantis. They need him there.

JO: Other people have Ancient genes, y’know.

DJ: You?

JO: I mean, I get around.

DT: Not possible. With respect general, you have one gene. I have another candidate who came up via my NMDP project. Someone with paired copies of ATA and LTA.

 

Young jerked, startled, as a chair scraped across the wood of the floor. He winced, bringing a hand to his back as Rush dropped to sit opposite him, his movements unusually slow.

“Well. Y’look like you’re about ready for a clap wi’ a spade,” Rush said.

“What?” Young asked, thrown. “That was, uh, Scottish.” 

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Rush purred with perfect British diction.

“No. I like it.”

“Y’like it?”

“You want an insult? You look like shit. You look like you slept face down on a hardwood floor. You look like even if you slept for a year you’d still be running a deficit.”

With imperial poise, Rush shook his hair back and arched a brow. “Speaking of deficits, are we? Audacious.”

“You’re impossible to talk to. Make me breakfast or something.”

“It’s nearly noon,” Rush replied. “You’re looking troublingly scholarly. What’s the occasion?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Young pulled off his reading glasses. “I’d be willing to substitute lunch for breakfast.”

“Would you now?” Rush replied, his chin resting in one hand.

“Or, there’s eggplant pizza,” Young said.

“Ugh, but is there coffee?” Rush asked.

“Not a meal. But yeah, there’s coffee.”

“Right then.” Rush stood, one hand at his chest, the other braced against the table.

“Sore?” Young asked.

“No,” Rush lied through his Scottish teeth.

“Don’t push your body to the limit then sleep on a hardwood floor. Did you take that stuff from Brightman?”

“No,” Rush admitted, with only a gloss of the hauteur he was probably trying for.

“Your funeral.”

Young waited until the other man had disappeared into the kitchen before he put his glasses back on and reopened his file. He finished scanning the minutes of the first meeting and moved on to the second.

 

UNNAMED COMMITTEE #4 MEETING TRANSCRIPTION

In attendance: General Jack O’Neill (JO), General Henry Landry (HL), Dr. Daniel Jackson (DJ), Colonel David Telford (DT), Dr. Carolyn Lam (CL), Aide to the General Walter Harriman (WH—scribe).

Agenda: 1) Progress made on Goa’uld research into ascension 2) Proposed plan for dialing nine-chevron address

 

DJ: This is the agenda? Are we really considering—

DT: Enough with the righteous outrage, Jackson.

JO: Knock it off, both of you.

HL: Dr. Lam, why don’t you bring us up to speed on what you’ve learned about Anubis’ work?

CL: I’ve prepared a document.

[See attached—WH]

CL: I’ll summarize, but I encourage all of you to read it, as our decision regarding whether or not to proceed will be made based on Anubis’s technical method and whether we deem it scientifically and ethically sound. From the clone that spent time in our custody, we learned Anubis was attempting to achieve ascension through biological means. To that end, he engineered his clone with the ATA and LTA genes. In preparation for this meeting I ordered a whole-genome alignment between the biological samples obtained from the clone and those we have of Ancient tissue. As expected, the alignment revealed the clone had two copies of ATA and two copies of LTA. What we didn’t expect was to discover another region of overlap.

DJ: Are you saying you found a third Ancient gene in the clone?

CL: Yes. We’re confirming it now, but everyone who tested positive for ATA or LTA is now being checked for this third gene. We already have at least one positive sample.

DT: Who?

CL: Nicholas Rush.

DT: We have got to lock this guy down.

DJ: I talked to him last week. He said no.

DT: Someone else should try selling it a little harder.

DJ: What’s that supposed to mean?

HL: Dr. Lam, please continue.

CL: We discovered something else in our research. The presence of all three genes isn’t enough to begin the cognitive transformation noted in Anubis’s clone, in Dr. Jackson as he ascended, and in Dr. McKay following his exposure to the Ancient modification console discovered on Atlantis. Something more is needed.

JO: It’s gonna be some creepy device, isn’t it? Why is it always a creepy device?

CL: Anubis’s research describes an organic compound capable of rapid, maximal induction of the protein products of these three Ancient genes. Far beyond their baseline levels. It may be that this kick-starts the process.

JO: Where can we get some of this organic compound?

HL: That’s the question.

DJ: Did anyone else notice that the clone of Anubis nearly destroyed the SGC?

 

Young stopped reading. His eyes flicked to the kitchen, where he heard Rush pulling dishes out of a cupboard. He rubbed his jaw, looked down, and continued.

 

DT: Yeah. It was a clone of Anubis. Not exactly a Goa’uld known for his civilized discourse or rational worldview.

DJ: Oh really? Are you sure? Do you know the first thing about Anubis’s long history? Protector of Graves, Weigher of Hearts, the kind of being that could hide his true intentions from Oma Desala for years upon years upon years? Do you know the first thing about this “compound?” Do you have a degree in advanced genetics? Do you specialize in organic synthesis? Do you have any real understanding of anything in here, or do you just attend Jay Felger’s Phriday Physics Phaire? Because there’s a difference. We need Sam on this committee. Why isn’t Colonel Carter involved in this?

DT: Give it a rest. When the Ancients activated these genes they ascended; they didn’t go nuts, Jackson. Calm down.

JO: Inside voices, kids.

DJ: They activated their genes through conscious control, not through a twisted Goa’uld device. This is a mistake. A bad one.

HL: You’re free to step away from this committee at any time.

DJ: I don’t think so.

JO: Dr. Lam, why don’t you keep going?

CL: That’s where the hard information I have ends. We don’t have a sample of this organic compound, but we do have its formula. We’re trying to synthesize a small amount, so far without success.

DT: We need to find another Anubis lab. Before the LA finds one. We know they’re interested in this. We know we have a leak.

JO: Agreed. 

HL: Most definitely agreed. Speaking of, do we have eyes on Dr. Rush?

DJ: I set up some unobtrusive security for him.

DT: Not good enough.

DJ: He doesn’t want to join the program.

DT: Let me talk to him.

DJ: No.

HL: Fine. Colonel Telford, give it your best shot. In the meantime, let’s draw up an internal list of Benchmark Candidates.

 

Young flipped ahead, skimming over the report describing Anubis’s lab. He’d written that one, after heading up the team that secured and documented the contents of the Goa’uld’s cloning facility. He scanned through pages of transcription about the contents of Anubis’ lab until he spotted Rush’s name.

 

HL: So we have an untested device to make the physiological alterations, but no candidate.

DT: Give me some time. I almost have Dr. Rush convinced.

HL: You have as much time as we all have, colonel. The truth of it is that we’d have an Ori beachhead in our galaxy right now if it hadn’t been for Vala Mal Doran, mind-boggling though I find it.

DJ: I’ll do it. I’ll do it tomorrow. Today. We don’t need Nick Rush.

JO: That’s a hard no. You don’t have the genes for it, and we need you on SG-1.

DJ: Since when has “not having the genes” been a problem for me? They’ll allow it. I know they will.

DT: “They?”

DJ: The Ancients.

DT: Sure. Just like “they” helped out when you landed yourself on the Ori’s front doorstep?

DJ: We shouldn’t use this device. I’m telling you, it’ll come with a cost. Nick Rush isn’t a mid-tier academic we can snatch up with minimal impact. He’s a Fields Medalist. He solved a Millennium Prize Problem last year. P=NP. Something about polynomial time and global cryptosystems. It’s over my head.

DT: It’s a proof that—

DJ: None of us need the thirty second soundbite from a guy who’s watched the Nova Documentary. It doesn’t make you an expert. The point is, he’s well known in academic circles even outside his field. People will notice if he disappears into the Air Force.

DT: As far as I’m concerned, his mathematical skills are a bonus and the fact his proof is making information security waves gives us the perfect cover for recruiting him. We’ll put him to work on the nine-chevron address. Maybe he’ll get somewhere, as opposed to our staff mathematicians.

JO: You don’t wanna mess with the math guys.

DT: We skim off the top fraction of the scientific community almost every year. This is no different.

DJ: There’s a reason we do it before they win Fields Medals. Or Nobel Prizes. Leave him alone. Leave him to Earth.

DT: He belongs here. He doesn’t belong in academia.

DJ: That wasn’t my impression.

HL: If it can’t be Rush, then it’ll be Sheppard.

DJ: It shouldn’t be anyone but me.

DT: I understand why you feel responsible for this situation, Jackson. And you know what? You should.

JO: Whoa. Out of line, colonel. Way, way out of line.

DT: But trying to block the recruitment of the best possible candidate out of a sense of personal culpability and martyrdom—

DJ: You don’t know where this address leads. You have no idea. Stop framing it as if it’s some magical solution.

DT: We’re under siege. It’ll be a damn miracle if we don’t have to open up a second front against the Lucian Alliance within the year. We’ll be annihilated if we don’t do anything.

 

“Well shit,” Young said, quiet in a quiet room.

 

DJ: We have a lead on Merlin’s weapon. We’re eroding the belief structure from which the Ori draw their power. We’re unmaking their beachheads, we’re—

DT: It’s not enough. None of it is enough, Jackson, and you know it. You know it as well as I do or you wouldn’t come to these meetings.

DJ: I come because the alternative is worse. I can barely stand—

HL: Control yourselves.

JO: Daniel.

HL: No decision needs to be made yet.

DJ: We’re making it. We are. We’re making it by inches.

HL: That’s enough, Jackson.

JO: Daniel. I think we all—we know what we’re doing. We know what we’ll eventually have to ask of someone. But I think we’re all clear that it needs to be asked.

CL: There’s something I’d like to say.

 

“Do you have an objection to discarding this?”

Young jumped. “What?” he asked, too sharp and too loud.

Rush stood in the kitchen doorway, tin-foil wrapped eggplant pizza in hand. The mathematician cocked his head and gave Young a searching look.

“Uh, no.” Young couldn’t hide how shaken up he was by the file in his hands. “Go ahead. Whatever.”

“What are you reading?” Rush flicked his gaze to the files on the table.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like a stack of classified files.”

“Exactly,” Young said. “Nothing.”

Rush rolled his eyes and vanished into the kitchen.

 

HL: Go ahead, Dr. Lam.

CL: We’ve determined the organic compound is a genetic transactivator. It’s lipid soluble and penetrates human skin rapidly and efficiently. We believe it was designed for transdermal application. Upregulation of gene expression begins immediately and ramps over several days to the biological maximum.

JO: So you rub goo on yourself and you’re good to go? Benchmarks met?

CL: There’s more to it.

JO: Isn’t there always.

CL: In the presence of LTA, the electrophysiology of the brain alters in response to Ancient tech, making synchronization between device and operator possible. But when LTA is massively upregulated by the transactivator, the carrier becomes sensitive to exogenous EM manipulation.

DJ: I knew it. I knew it would be something like this.

JO: Dr. Lam, can you rephrase with smaller words?

CL: The goo is applied, which allows the brain to be “rebooted” by an external energy signature. That energy signature may mimic the patterns that Ancients tried to create along the path to ascension.

JO: So you rub some goo on yourself, then a device resets your brain so you can boot up a higher consciousness?

Young stopped reading. He pulled off his glasses. He looked toward the kitchen. He heard the quiet sound of methodical knife work. He put his glasses back on and dived back in.

 

CL: Yes.

JO: Sounds familiar.

DJ: Unacceptable. Ethically, I mean.

CL: I agree with Dr. Jackson. To present this option to a person who is one of the very few who are genetically predisposed is to, in effect, apply a form of coercion.

DJ: Yes. Yes that’s it exactly. We need to find another way.

HL: Would you do it?

CL: Excuse me?

HL: Would you volunteer, knowing what you know about our current situation?

DJ: She shouldn’t be asked.

CL: Are you asking me, sir?

HL: No, I’m posing a hypothetical.

DJ: This is inappropriate.

JO: Daniel, cool it.

CL: I—yes. I would.

HL: We all know that Jackson would do it. What about the rest of you?

JO: What’s your point, Hank?

DT: I’d do it in a heartbeat.

JO: Sure. Why not. My brain’s been scrambled enough times. Doubt I’d even notice.

HL: All of us would do it. Knowing what we know.

DT: We should make a list of the most genetically compatible candidates.

CL: I have that list.

JO: Give us the top five.

CL: Nicholas Rush. John Sheppard. Dale Volker. Robert Caine. Carolyn Lam. In that order.

JO: Break it down by genes.

CL: Nicholas Rush has two copies of ATA, two copies of LTA, and one copy of NRA for a total of five. John Sheppard has two copies of ATA, and two of LTA for a total of four. Dale Volker has one copy of ATA, one copy of LTA, and one copy of NRA, for a total of three. Robert Caine has one copy of ATA and two copies of LTA for a total of three. Carolyn Lam has one copy of ATA and one copy of LTA for a total of two.

HL: This list is eyes only. This list cannot get out. What about Volker and Caine? Are they on the base?

DT: Yes. Volker’s an astrophysicist. He fits right in. He’s looking for sources of naquadria that could be used to power the gate if we can dial this address. Nice guy. Caine worked in IT. Sharp but not ambitious. We recruited him to our IT Department. Not sure he bought my rationale for pulling him out of a mid-tier software company, but he came. Neither of them know their genetic status.

CL: Is this why I was recruited? Because of my genetic status?

HL: You were recruited because you were the best candidate for the open position.

CL: Really.

JO: I don’t like that our number one guy is the only guy who’s not on the base. Hate it, in fact.

DT: Now isn’t a good time for him. I think I can convince him to come in the spring. It’d help if I had clearance to tell him about the address.

HL: Done. I want his name coming up on as little paperwork as humanly possible.

DT: Already taken care of.

HL: Walter, run a search for him in our internal database and start classifying or deleting files that contain any reference to him.

WH: Yes sir.

HL: Transcription of these meetings is to exist only in hard copy and will remain locked in the Records Department.

WH: Yes sir.

 

Young downed the dregs of his coffee scanned through several more pages, flipping through months of meeting minutes.

 

DJ: Icarus. It was Rush’s suggestion.

DT: Not very optimistic.

DJ: I like it.

DT: I don’t. If you want to go with Greek, how about Project Perseus?

DJ: Icarus.

DT: Theseus.

DJ: Can we move on?

DT: Icarus is a terrible name. Do you know what happened to Icarus?

DJ: Funnily enough, I do. I have a PhD in history and I can read Ancient Greek. Do you know what happened to Theseus? He was sent into exile and thrown over a cliff. Tragic. Undignified.

JO: Yeah okay, let’s have the angry nerd debate later. Is Rush on the payroll yet?

DT: Yes. He just relocated. He’s got access as a consultant and level one clearance. He’s been working from his apartment for a week now.

JO: There a reason you look so pleased with yourself, colonel?

DT: Rush confirmed the gate address is cyphered. And he’s already gotten a glyph to lock.

DJ: What?

HL: That was fast.

DJ: Explain.

DT: After seeing the address, he asked for the internal schematics of the gate. I gave him those, and I gave him access to Carter’s computational model of the gate. Right off the bat he pulled nine separate interlocking cyphers out of the crystal structure native to the gate. Functionally, he found hidden software. We’ve confirmed the cypher set is embedded in every gate in the Milky Way.

JO: No shit.

DT: He created a hybrid program to interface between our dialing algorithm and the embedded cyphers. I got Carter to interface his program with our dialing computer. She fed his solution into the program as input. A single chevron lit up and locked.

JO: No shit.

DT: Yeah. In a week he gets one? A week? We should ramp up our search for naquadria. He’ll bring this thing to its knees. We should invite him to these meetings.

DJ: No, we shouldn’t.

DT: Afraid he’ll volunteer and rain on your martyr parade?

JO: Outta line.

DJ: He should be told why he was recruited. It should be explained to him that it’s not for the math. It’s for something else. We should explain he can do whatever he wants. He can go to Atlantis. He doesn’t have to work on the cypher set.

DT: Terrible idea. Our top genetic candidate is also the guy who’s opening the door? That’s more than coincidence, Jackson.

DJ: What would you call it?

DT: Destiny.

DJ: He’s miserable. He’s unbalanced. He—

DT: He’s no more “unbalanced” than you. He was cleared by James MacKenzie.

DJ: Oh yeah, that means so much. He’s unbalanced in that he has no balance in his life—

JO: Daniel.

DJ: We need to stop talking about using Anubis’s device on any of these people. We need to stop talking as if that’s a tenable option.

DT: Says the guy who just last week begged Morgan Le Fay, begged her, on his knees, to get involved in this struggle—and when he had her convinced? Watched her get blown into so much silver dust.

DJ: I don’t know what happened to her. I—

DT: You don’t know much.

JO: Hey!

DJ: You try to use this device on a civilian and I’ll take this to the IOA.

JO: Daniel, c’mon!

DJ: I’ll take it to Wray.

HL: That’s unacceptable from an information security standpoint. You do that, Jackson, and I’ll strip you of your position.

JO: Whoa!

DT: The IOA will come down on my side, Jackson. Not yours. You know why? They don’t wanna be annihilated.

JO: EVERYBODY SHUT UP.

HL: No one’s involving the IOA.

DJ: I gave you another option. Try it on me.

DT: Fine. I have no problem with that. We’ll try it on you. And when it doesn’t do a damn thing? Then what?

CL: There’s no reason to—

DT: Then it’s going to be Rush. Do you understand that? I don’t like this any better than you do, but that’s the truth of it. When Rush unlocks the address, someone is gonna have to get into that god damned goo or we are fucked. We are fucked. Not just us. The Jaffa. The Tok’ra. The dregs of the Goa’uld Empire and the Lucian Alliance. We’re facing a future of mindless, eternal, empty servitude. Tell me that doesn’t horrify you. It horrifies me. I. Will. Not. Serve.

DJ: You can’t put all that on Rush.

DT: I put it on you, Jackson. I—

JO: Y’know what? We’re done here. Colonel Telford, I’m writing you up for conduct unbecoming.

DJ: You’re right. You’re right. It IS on me. You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t spend every waking minute—

HL: Put a lid on it, both of you.

DT: Then make an effort to fix it, Jackson. Sacrificing yourself won’t do anything other than make your own fucked up conscience a little easier to die with. Suck it up and deal.

JO: Knock it off. That’s a damn order.

 

“Are y’feeling all right?” Rush set a bowl of soup and the remains of some homemade bread in front of him.

Young stared at the food without comprehending what he was seeing for a few seconds. Then he snapped the file shut, stacked it with the others, and slid the pile to the edge of the table.

He was sweating.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” His voice sounded unconvincing, even to himself.

Rush quirked an eyebrow, as if to say, You’ll need to do better than that.

Young cleared his throat, looked to the soup, and said, “So, uh, what’s this?”

“Soup,” Rush said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Young growled.

“Oh yes? Congratulations.” Rush took the seat opposite him. The other man moved slowly, wincing as he sat. The mathematician glanced again at Young’s pile of files.

“What I meant was, ‘Where’s the Principles of Molecular Gastronomy Lecture to go with it’?”

“It’s not my best work,” Rush admitted. “It’s store bought.”

“I heard you chopping in there.” Young angled his head toward the kitchen.

“Canned soup, selected by Vala, supplemented with fresh vegetables.” Rush sighed. “I give myself no credit for style.”

“It looks pretty good.” Young blew on a spoonful of the stuff. “Lotta vegetables in here.”

“It’s barely adequate, but I’m quite fuckin’ sore and chopping is difficult with a dull blade. Y’need a whetstone.”

“You need a painkiller and a nap,” Young said. “A nap that’s not on a floor.”

“I’d like to recuse myself of responsibility for the culinary adequacy of this meal.” Rush ignored him.

“Request denied,” Young said. “Let’s see how you did.”

The soup looked and smelled like Rush had used a base of chicken noodle, but Young spotted kale and carrot, shallot and sugar snap peas from his own fridge. He caught the now familiar notes of herbes de Provence—but there was an undertone of earth and warmth he couldn’t place. He took a bite. The soup had a familiar, savory base. The caramelized carrot, the faint bitterness of the kale, the fresh pop of the tender snap peas, and the sweet onion notes of the shallot blended into a delicious whole. Young would’ve been willing to stake his life that it’d never seen the inside of a can.

“God damn,” he breathed. “This hurts.”

“Good.” Rush smirked.

“Like, you could have a show, hotshot. On the Food Network.”

“D’you consider ‘a show’ on the Food Network t’be the apex of culinary achievement?” Rush took a bite of his own soup.

Young crunched into a snap pea, bright and vegetal and sweet, and did his best not to groan. “Tell me what you think the apex is so I can put you there.”

Rush rolled his eyes and did his best to pretend he wasn’t pleased.

They ate soup and bread in companionable silence until Rush asked, “Who’s the acting head of Icarus?” He looked pointedly at the array of black cardstock folders piled next to Young.

“I’ll give you one guess,” Young said.

“Congratulations. What’s in the files?”

“Ask me again when you have level five security clearance.”

“I’ll never have level five security clearance.”

“Hmm.” Young took another bite of soup, comforting and warm, aromatic and fresh.

Rush gave him an irritated, exhausted glance that had more than a gloss of cute math professor sulk. “Who recruited you?” he asked, lobbing a grenade into the middle of a nice lunch, “The Jackson-O’Neill axis, or the Telford-Landry one?”

Young sharpened himself up at the dead-center assessment. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity.”

“It was a combined effort,” Young said. “Landry and General O’Neill made the offer. I think I’m supposed to be a neutral party.”

But into the back of his mind came Jackson, eyes of blue fire, a coffee cup shredding under his nails.

And, like Rush could see into Young’s head, he said, “Are you a neutral party?”

“Yeah,” Young said, but there was no strength in it.

“Odd that they’d choose my neighbor for this.”

Young dragged his spoon through chicken and kale, carrot and shallot. “Believe me when I say I have more qualifications for this job than living next door to gate bait of epic proportions.”

“Did y’just call me ‘gate bait’?” Rush asked.

“No?”

“I’m certain that’s an insult. It’s also far too witty to’ve originated with you.”

“Thanks. It’s a slang term referring to a valuable person or object that invites abduction, attack, or freak accident. It’s also used to refer to the SGC recruitment team that makes the rounds at MIT, Harvard, Caltech, West Point…” Young trailed off, waving his spoon. “They tend to be on the more attractive side.”

“Do not refer to me as ‘gate bait’.” Rush gave Young a full on math professor stare over the tops of his designer glasses.

“You got it, hotshot.”

Rush quirked an unimpressed eyebrow and directed his attention toward his soup.

Young spent a moment considering the man who was at the epicenter of the conflicts with the Ori and the Lucian Alliance. “You hanging in there with all of this?” he asked. “With everything that happened yesterday?”

“Yes.” Rush didn’t look up. “I’m fine. And, as it seems you are as well, I’ll be heading back to my apartment, post lunch.”

“What happened to a painkiller and a nap?”

“Sounds like an excellent plan. For you,” Rush countered.

“What are you gonna do in there by yourself?”

Rush gave him a nonplussed look. “The same thing I always do?”

“Take a day off,” Young said. “You’ve got five cyphers at this point. You’re halfway there. Read a book. Watch PBS. Listen to NPR. Online shop for blazers with elbow patches. Do whatever mathematicians like to do on the weekends.”

“They prefer to do mathematics.” With the slow and deliberate movements of a guy whose entire body was sore as hell, Rush stood and collected Young’s empty bowl. “Enjoy your disturbing, classified documents.” He headed toward the kitchen.

With a spike of pain that came from sitting too long, Young levered himself out of his chair and limped after him. “Rush—” he began, only to be cut off by the ringing of the other man’s phone.

The mathematician looked at him expectantly, eyebrows up.

“That’s your phone, hotshot, not mine.”

“Ah. Fuck.” Rush slipped his phone from his pocket and answered it. 

Young tried to think of a way to convince the other man to stay.

“Yes yes. I’m fine.” With a pained grimace, Rush aborted his attempt to trap the phone between his ear and shoulder. He rubbed his free hand over the side of his neck. “Thanks for—oh. Yes, well.”

“Who is it?” Young mouthed at him.

Rush quirked a wouldn’t-you-like-to-know eyebrow. “I thought y’couldn’t drive.”

Young glared at him.

“Ah. Congratulations. Unfortunately, this week—” he broke off, getting an earful about something if his expression was anything to go by.

“Is it Vala?” Young whispered.

“D’you mind?” he mouthed.

“It’s Vala, isn’t it.”

“How far have you progressed?” Rush ignored Young. He dug his fingers into the muscle at the base of his neck. “Really.” He frowned. “I’m afraid you’ll need to define ‘al’kesh’.”

Young grabbed the man’s phone and held it to his own ear. 

“—don’t worry about it, gorgeous,” Vala said. “It’s not important. Put another way, I have a good sense of spatial relationships that makes geometry easy, but I have a visceral horror of irrational numbers that I can’t shake for—”

“Vala,” Young growled.

There was a pause on the line.

“Oh. Hello, handsome. What happened to your neighbor?”

“Can we keep in mind the man has an extremely low security clearance? The lowest, in fact?”

Rush sighed.

“He must find that terribly demoralizing, don’t you think?” Vala said. “But I take your point. I may have let the word ‘al’kesh’ slip by me, but I didn’t define it for him, handsome, so you can calm down.”

“Why are you calling him?”

“Because he owes me dinner.” Vala’s tone turned cautious. “As do you. Is something wrong?”

“No,” Young growled. “Nothing’s wrong.” He returned the phone to Rush, who watched him with a wary expression.

“Vala,” Rush said. There was a short pause as he scanned Young appraisingly. “Not sure.”

Young limped out of the kitchen and sat at the table, eyeing the dark tower of files next to his laptop.

Jackson had prepped him. The man had told him nearly all of it—other than the part about screwing up the brain of their local Fields medalist—but it was different to see it play out across pages of meeting transcripts. It was different to look beyond the typeface and understand how deep the divide between Jackson and Telford ran.

Young had known the situation with LA was bad. He’d seen as much with his own eyes. The Ori, though, were the bigger problem. A huge, sweeping, galaxy-ending threat. The two conflicts converged around the nine-chevron address. Everything touching it was earmarked with desperation: finding a naquadria-laced planet; building of a base before the address was even half-unlocked; the recruitment of everyone and anyone carrying more than one Ancient gene; the subtle house arrest of the world’s most famous cryptographer.

If Telford was right, and the address led to some kind of weapon, some kind of defense against the Ori, if Rush was the only one who could unlock it—

Shouldn’t he?

If Jackson was right, and it wasn’t a weapon, they ran the risk of destroying a human mind. His neighbor’s mind. The same guy who hated music, loved math, and created art out of food.

But if it wasn’t UC Berkeley’s former Math Department Chair, then it’d be Shep. Or Jackson. Or Robert Caine. Or Carolyn Lam, who’d already demonstrated just how far she’d go for the SGC. God. It might already be happening to Dale Volker. Who knew what the LA had discovered. What they’d stolen.

“Colonel,” Rush snapped.

Young looked up.

The mathematician stood in the frame of the kitchen door. From the expression on his face, he’d said Young’s name more than once.

“What?” Young rasped.

Rush said nothing. He walked forward slowly, a glass of water in hand, a book in the other.

Young eyed the water. “You gonna throw that in my face?”

“Oh I was sorely tempted,” Rush replied, “but primarily out of a desire for revenge.” He slammed a massive book down on the table, then shook out his arm, paying for his theatricality with a wince.

Young frowned at the book. “Didn’t think I owned a cookbook. That thing looks new.”

Rush pulled a bottle of pills out of his pocket, shook two of them into his hand, then flipped open the cover of the book. “To Everett,” he read. “Don’t starve. Good luck, Emily.”

Young nodded and looked away, fighting a sudden tightness in his throat.

“This is what you get,” Rush said, in a reassuringly conversational tone, “when you allow your neighbors to do your unpacking.” He took a sip of water and threw back the pills.

“What are you doing?” Young asked.

“I’m about to make an inadvisably elaborate dinner,” Rush explained. “I need t’prepare.”

“Thought you were leaving.”

“Yes well.” Rush shrugged. “Vala’s called in the dinner I owe her. I volunteered your apartment as a venue.”

Young tried not to let his relief show. “She need a ride?”

“She does not. She passed her driving practical this morning.”

“Nice.” Young looked up at Rush. “What are you gonna make?”

“She requested Baked Alaska.” Rush leafed casually through the book, looking for inspiration. “Not exactly a meal though, is it? Paella, maybe.”

Young snorted. “Paella and Baked Alaska? Hotshot, you realize you just dosed yourself with—” he grabbed the bottle of pills Brightman had given Rush. “Yeah, so, speaking from experience, this is a muscle relaxant.”

“I’m unconcerned.”

“Oh,” Young said. “Great. Good for you.”

“Yes well, you try an’ layer ice cream when every muscle in your body has performed a functional marathon sans physical conditioning. It’s not so easy.”

“When I feel like that? I get take out.” Young tried to give the guy a stern look, but ruined it by smiling at him. “I don’t make paella and Baked Alaska.”

“I’m willing to wager there are no circumstances under which you make paella.”

“Hey.”

“Furthermore,” Rush continued, “I’ve stellar pharmacological tolerance for this sort of thing.” He shook the bottle of pills. “I’m wholly unaffected.”

“Yeah, because you took the stuff about forty-five seconds ago. Why don’t you give it half an hour to kick in and then decide if this is a good idea.”

“Read your fuckin’ files, colonel.” With a wince, Rush swiped the book off the table. “Leave acts of culinary art t’responsible professionals.”

Young let his smile get away from him. “Not sure how responsible you are. When are we supposed to be eating this masterpiece of yours?”

“Six hours from now,” Rush said.

“Sure.” Young slid his reading glasses into place.

“I take issue with your tone.”

“You have enough issues. I wouldn’t go taking any more.”

“Oh very witty.”

“A sarcastic compliment,” Young called after Rush, as the man returned to the kitchen. “I’m movin’ up in the world.”

Six hours later, Young had finished reading everything he’d removed from the SGC archives and drawn up a list of additional documents he planned to request. He’d just replaced the files in their locked case when he heard a knock on the door.

It took him two attempts to get to his feet.

He limped across the floor, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Hello, handsome,” Vala said as he opened the door. She wore a blue blouse, black slacks, a bold red lipstick and eye makeup that looked maybe a little unpracticed.

“Hey,” he replied. “You clean up nice.”

She held up a bottle of wine and rotated it for his inspection. “This little gem was highly praised by the man I bought it from. He called it a steal.”

“I’m gonna assume it wasn’t literally a steal.” Young gave her the ghost of a smile.

“That’d better be a joke.” She frowned at him.

He let his smile get away from him. “Who am I? Jackson? C’mon in.”

“You look exhausted.” Vala stepped around him, her eyes roving approvingly over his apartment.

“Long, depressing day,” Young said. “Congrats on the license.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “Your apartment smells wonderful.”

“Half wonderful,” Young corrected.

She looked at him quizzically.

“The culinary genius in residence dosed himself with muscle relaxants before starting the dinner prep. He layered a pan with ice cream and got halfway through the paella prep before he lost the ability to speak in complete sentences.” Young tipped his head in the direction of his couch, where Rush slept, shoes off, still wearing the SGC issued clothes he’d gone home in the previous night. The guy was dead to the world.

Vala made a small sound, midway between sympathy and amusement.

“How do you feel about take out?” Young asked. “Because I ordered from the Italian place down the street.”

“Take out sounds wonderful,” Vala whispered, “but I’m not giving up my quest to sample every possible incarnation of America’s Greatest Dessert.”

“You don’t have to whisper,” Young said. “The man is out. And I support your decision to make him follow through on the Baked Alaska. He’d never admit it, but I think he was pretty excited about it.”

Vala set the bottle of wine on his coffee table. “Would you like to see my car, handsome? Since we’ll need to pick up dinner anyway?”

“How do you already have a car?” Young asked. “Didn’t you just get your license this morning?”

“You’ll find I’m an adept planner,” Vala said primly. “Daniel graciously offered to let me borrow his for any driving needs I might have, but—“

“Stop right there,” Young said. “I get ya.”

“I knew you would. So? What’s the verdict? Want to see my charming little Earth Vehicle?”

Young grinned. “Yeah. I really do.”

They paused, looking at Rush.

“Goorrrrrgeous,” Vala called.

No response.

“We’ll leave him a note.” Vala fished through her enormous shoulder bag and came up with a legal pad covered in math. She flipped through pages dense with problems and scribbled:

Back soon!

Don’t you leave, you gorgeous thing.

She tore a hole in the center of the paper and threaded it over the doorknob.

Still they hesitated on the threshold of Young’s apartment.

“They’re watching downstairs,” Young said.

“At the monitoring station,” Vala agreed.

“Yeah,” Young said. “Let’s go.”

He locked the door behind them and headed for the elevators. After a day of sitting, Young’s back was giving him hell and he was slower than usual as his body warmed to the movement.

“How’s the hip, handsome?” Vala asked.

“Fine,” Young said. “Little setback. No big deal.”

She eyed him appraisingly, then said. “Good.” She smoothed her hair back then said, “I have important news of a personal nature.”

“Oh yeah?”

“September first,” Vala announced.

“Um,” Young began.

“—will be my birthday,” she finished, with an air of mild reproach. “I decided I should be a Virgo.”

“Oh. Right.” Young tried to rehabilitate his image through enthusiasm while wracking his brain for the details they’d discussed on the way back from Casper, Wyoming. “Good choice. That’s the perfectionist one?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think it sends the right sort of message about responsibility.”

“Pretty sure most people aren’t judging your reliability by your sign,” Young said. “At least not at Stargate Command.”

“You never know.” Vala held the elevator door as he limped inside. “You wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through for my Psychiatric Evaluation. Electra complexes. The collective unconscious. Turtles in the desert. Honestly. Your culture has a strange relationship with itself.”

“I’ll give you that,” Young said. “Speaking of weird culture stuff, let’s see your license.”

“Why?” Vala replied, intrigued.

“Driver’s license pictures are notoriously bad.” He was curious about her picture but more curious about whether she actually possessed a valid Colorado ID.

“I’m photogenic.” Vala dug through her cavernous bag.

“Can you explain to me why this is a thing?” Young waved a hand at her bag.

“The need for licensure in vehicular operation?” Vala asked, still digging.

“Uh, no. Women and giant shoulder bags.”

“Ah. Well, my take is that it centers around preparedness, really.”

“Preparedness, huh?” He peered over her shoulder into the depths of her bag. “Is that a textbook?”

“What is this?” She transferred her bag do the opposite shoulder with a haughty sniff. “Junior High School? The contents of my bag are none of your business.”

“Okay okay,” Young said. “Wait. There’s no way you’ve been to—”

“Hold this, will you?” She passed him a can of something.

He read the label, eyebrows up. “Bear mace? Vala, you can’t—”

“Oh you’ll find I very much can,” she said. “Bear mace is legal in all fifty states and doesn’t require a permit to carry. I hardly plan to use it on the street. It’s not for me, handsome. If I need to defend myself, I have a gun. First thing I bought, actually. Second thing was a Cosmo subscription, mailed to Daniel’s business address.”

Young laughed, overwhelmed and incredulous. “If it’s not for you, who’s it for?”

“Your neighbor, of course.” Vala gave him a winning smile.

“Why did you buy bear mace for my neighbor?”

“I should think the reason would be obvious.” Vala finally emerged with her wallet. She snatched the bear mace away from Young and stowed it away. “He’s got a delicate build. He needs defensive augments. I tried to explain as much, but he had no interest in weapons training, even when I offered to accompany him to a nearby shooting range that offered certification in—”

“Are you serious?” Young asked.

“I’d prefer he carried a gun, but one can’t have everything.” She opened the wallet, pulled her license out and handed it over.

Absently, Young took it. “When did you even talk to him about this?”

“A few days ago.” Vala held the elevator doors for Young. “On the phone. He’s puzzlingly anti-weaponry for some reason, but I’ve been working on him. The man should know how to use a firearm.”

“If he—“ Young lowered his voice, even though the apartment entryway was empty. “Trying to shoot his way out of an abduction attempt is a great way to get killed.”

Vala paused and looked up at him, her hair bronzed by the setting sun that shone through the glass doors to the parking lot. “Yes,” she admitted. “It’s a risk. But if it were me, I’d want the option.” She looked up at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

He couldn’t keep his answer off his face. “He’s never gonna carry it.”

“Give me time, handsome. I work on it daily.” She pouted at him. “You haven’t even looked at my license.”

Young held it up to the light, examining it carefully. It was, indeed, a legal Colorado ID. “Nice pic. You talk to him daily? Since when?”

Vala took her license back and stowed it in her wallet. “Since our impromptu road trip.”

Young followed her through the glass doors into 1800 sun. The heat pressed down like an invisible hand. Vala led the way through the parking lot.

He zeroed in on her car in a handful of heartbeats, but worked to keep his grin under wraps until she’d had a chance to make a sweeping gesture, then lean into its frame like she was starring in a cliché car advertisement.

“Well,” she purred, running her hand over the car’s smooth curves, “what do you think?”

It was a sea green, convertible VW beetle.

Young let his grin go and turned itself into a laugh.

“Handsome,” she breathed, mock-scandalized. “Are you laughing at my car?”

“No,” he said. “Nope. Little more girly than I’d been picturing, but—”

“Excuse me, the word you’re looking for is ‘feminine’.” Vala slid off the car. “And I’ll have you know that Colonel Carter has already offered to upgrade the engine for me. This little number will be quite formidable by this time next month.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Young said. “But, Vala, there’s no way I fit into that thing.”

“Nonsense,” Vala shot back. “They’re very spacious inside.”

Twenty minutes later, they were back in Young’s apartment, sitting on either end of the low coffee table in front of his TV, Italian food spread between them in white styrofoam boxes. Young stretched his injured leg carefully in front of him. Vala queued up the movie. As it began, she twisted to look back at Rush, who was still asleep, taking up the whole couch.

“Gorrrrrrrrgeous.”

“There’s no way that’s gonna work.” Young sampled a breadstick. It was bland. Uninspired. Not even a month deep into his neighbor’s cooking and already restaurant food was losing its luster.   

Vala caught the edge of Rush’s SGC-issued T-shirt. “We bought you dinner,” she said, enticingly, “and a very underrated Pinot Noir.”

“Pretty sure he’s racked up years of sleep debt.” Young shifted his whole body to get a better view of Vala and Rush. The man was on his back, eyes shut, glasses on. “Years.”

“You’re missing movie night.” Vala tugged on Rush’s shirt with each sing-song syllable.

Rush twitched.

“There’s manicotti,” Vala continued. “Manicotti and revenge and stylized depictions of violence.”

Rush groaned, tried to sit, then collapsed back with a wince, one hand coming to his ribs.

“Hello gorgeous,” Vala said. “You’re looking particularly poetic today.”

“Ah fuck,” Rush breathed. 

“Hey there champ,” Young said.

“Shut up,” Rush slurred, still mostly asleep.

“Five to four,” Young said.

Rush made a sound of inarticulate protest.

Vala made a sound of inarticulate sympathy.

The mathematician rolled over and executed a purposeful fall off the couch. It was poorly controlled, but it got the job done. Young patted the guy’s ankle as he dragged himself into a sitting position. 

“I don’t think you need any wine,” Vala said with theatrical solicitousness.

Rush made a sound of inarticulate assent, then eyed the spread of Italian food in front of him with groggy skepticism. “Did I…make this?” he asked.

“No,” Vala said, smiling at him. “You took some very strong pain medication and passed out on the couch.”

“You gave it a good shot though,” Young said. “You held out for a long time on pure willpower. Very respectable. If you’d gone with something that didn’t require continuous stirring, you might have powered through.”

“Did we have a conversation about th’etymology of the word ‘pan’?” Rush asked.

“Maybe?” Young said. “It was hard to tell.”

“Let this be a valuable lesson” Vala piled pasta onto a plate.

“Can y’summarize?” Rush looked at her blearily.

“Never trust a doctor,” Vala replied primly.

“Nope.” Young poured himself a glass of wine. “That’s not the lesson.”

“Never trust your neighbors,” Vala amended, passing Rush a plate.

“Try again,” Young growled, looking down, looking away, looking anywhere but the bag beneath his table that contained a stack of classified files.

“Trust no one,” Vala said, not missing a beat.

“Vala,” Young said. “You don’t wanna take The X-files too much to heart.”

Vala continued undeterred. “Trust no one, always carry your phone, and always carry a weapon. I bought you some bear mace, gorgeous.”

“Y’what?” Rush asked, astonished.

“We’ll buy you a designer bag to carry it in after we watch Kill Bill.”

Rush looked at Young. “What’s happening?”

“No idea,” Young replied, “but I plan on enjoying it while it lasts.”