Mathématique: Chapter 29

The Dodge Charger was a man’s car.

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

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

Chapter 29

The early morning sun promised another day of relentless heat and light. 

Young adjusted his sunglasses as he left the last Colorado Springs stoplight behind him. He sped over the empty road, enjoying the graded curves of the ascent to Cheyenne Mountain.

The Dodge Charger was a man’s car.

He liked the look of it. He liked the feel of it. He liked its bold lines, the deep black of its paint, the kick of its V8 350 horsepower engine, the precision handling. It brought no-nonsense raw power to the road. Like an earthbound jet.

Air Force pilots, like astronauts, put a lot of stock in their vehicles.

John Sheppard drove a muscle car. His mustang was agile. Maneuverable. Red and overpowered. Iconic and rebellious. Perfect for cutting curves and corners. Sheppard drove that thing like a hot knife through a world of butter. 

Sam Carter was known for her sweet little 1961 Volvo P1800, all elegant curves. Mechanical precision. Finesse. Practical style. The grapevine was pretty sure she’d put so much work into the car that it wasn’t street legal. Knowing Carter, it could probably launch itself into low Earth orbit.

Rodney McKay, not to be outdone by his Milky Way counterpart, had somehow talked himself into a hookup at Tesla and drove one of their prototypes. When it worked. Which wasn’t often, since the man wasn’t on planet long enough to keep the thing maintained.

Mitchell liked to claim his Camaro was more than a match for Young’s car and, on paper, sure, it could pull zero to sixty faster than the Charger, but Mitchell’s Camaro couldn’t outgun Young’s Charger. And they’d proved as much, late one night on the Bonneville Speedway after the first demo of the F-302.

Young sighed.

He was pretty sure Rush hadn’t noticed his car, despite the fact he’d ridden in it about ten times.

Young wasn’t offended.

Tactical obliviousness seemed pretty core to Rush’s personality, though it couldn’t be quite as complete as advertised, given the personal style and culinary skill set the guy had on him.

And then there was the Prius.

How the hell had that happened?

On some levels, it made sense. The man had spent a good chunk of time on the outskirts of Silicon Valley, so it stood to reason he’d be environmentally conscious and friendly to emerging tech. But if Rush was gonna have a Prius, it should at least be a silver Prius. At a minimum.

With his hair and his sunglasses and his appreciation for speed, the man belonged in a convertible. No question. But Rush had a strange blend of practicality and ostentation that was tough to predict. In the absence of anyone to impress, the guy probably ate peanut butter out of a jar. And yet, he was capable of busting out with watermelon bisque on a weeknight in under an hour. Young was pretty sure the man’s shoes and glasses and belt were designer, but he seemed to have one pair of jeans, a closet full of white dress shirts, and nothing else.

Suggest a luxury car, and Rush would probably object on philosophical grounds. Suggest a muscle car, and he’d probably get accused of hyper-aggressive masculinity. But suggest a sports car—

There was a lot to like about a sports car.

For one thing, it’d get the guy away from his automatic transmission. Nick Rush was a manual driver. Anything else was a crime. He’d dominated the hell out of Jackson’s Dart. Like he drove stick every day of his life.

Young’d have to ask the man about his car.

In such a way that didn’t imply he thought a Prius was a bad choice.

It wasn’t.

It just wasn’t an inspired choice. For Rush.

Maybe a Lotus Evora in quartz?

Just a thought.

He sighed.

Watermelon bisque aside, Rush had looked terrible the previous night. Pale. Exhausted. Even a little disoriented when Young had first knocked on his door. Didn’t take a genius level IQ to figure that you couldn’t transition someone under house arrest to a lethal alien world for a day, then shove him back in his apartment and expect him to cope all that well.

God, how many times had they “died” on that planet? Even Shep had lost count.

Rush should be talking to someone. Psychiatric evaluation and clearance had been a mandatory part of the program ever since SG-1 had been manipulated into abandoning Jackson with a Babylonian-speaking aquatic species while Stargate Command arranged the man’s first formal funeral.

Young navigated the final, winding approach to the base, flashed his ID, and was waved through by the guard at the gate. He parked his car as near to the entrance as he could and stepped into the shadow of Cheyenne Mountain.

Mitchell, parked nearby, settled a messenger bag over his shoulder.

“Hey,” the other man said. “Lookin’ badass today, what’s the occasion?”

“Oh yeah.” Young bent to retrieve his cane from the back seat. His spine sent a bolt of pain down his leg for his trouble. “Real badass.” He lifted the cane disgustedly.

“Eh,” Mitchell said, unimpressed with Young’s cane-brandishing, “did I ever tell you about the time I stopped a purse snatcher with a well-placed crutch? You can do a number on someone with that thing.”

“Thanks?” Young offered.

Together, they started for the NORAD entrance.

“What brings the ‘light duty restricted’ to the base at 0700?” Mitchell asked.

“A meeting,” Young said.

“Oh boy.” Mitchell’s tone was dark as he held the door for Young. After they flashed their badges for the guards, Young shot him a questioning look.

“Jackson’s got a meeting,” Mitchell said quietly. “Same one, I’m guessing.”

Young gave Mitchell a significant look. “Can’t say.”

“Not sure you need to,” Mitchell replied.

They boarded the elevator and descended in silence.

At level 21, the elevator slid open.

Mitchell stepped off and turned, placing a booted foot against the recessed doors. He looked Young in the eyes, hesitating.

Young, torn between disapproval and unease, said nothing.

“Play it cool,” Mitchell advised. “Don’t let Jackson heat things up.”

Young nodded.

The other man withdrew his foot.

The elevator doors closed, and Young descended to level 28.

In the briefing room, he found Walter Harriman and Jack O’Neill. The general sat at the far end of the table, folding a piece of paper into a compact triangle.

“General,” Young said as he entered, “Harriman.”

“Colonel.” Harriman nodded.

“Everett.” O’Neill waved away the burst of salutes that threatened to break out between the three of them. “Last time I saw you, you didn’t have a cane.”

“Small setback,” Young said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“That’s the spirit,” O’Neill replied. “Coffee’s on your right, if you want it.”

“Thanks.” Young moved to pour himself a cup. “Where is everyone?”

“Daniel runs on a schedule that’s at least five minutes out of sync with the rest of the world,” O’Neill said. “Hank’s coming with Dr. Lam this morning.”

“Didn’t realize she was back from medical leave.” Young stirred sugar that he didn’t really want into his coffee, hoping it’d cut the acidity.

“Day one post—well, everything.” O’Neill grimaced, then glanced at Harriman. “I think.”

“That’s correct, sir,” Harriman confirmed. 

Young eyed the table, trying to decide where to place himself to maximize the chances of sitting across from Jackson rather than next to the man. He left two seats between himself and O’Neill and picked the opposite side of the table from the one Harriman had chosen.

“Telford’s seat,” O’Neill said mildly. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Young replied.

O’Neill used his pen to flick his carefully folded paper at a trashcan near the coffee station. It sailed in a parabolic arc and hit the metal with a satisfying clang.

“Nice shot, sir,” Harriman said.

“Thank you, Walter.”

Young did his best not to fall into the casual mindset invited by O’Neill’s calculated irreverence.

He took a sip of his coffee. It was awful.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he looked up to see Landry and Lam come through the open door. Lam seemed pale and fragile without her high-heeled shoes, without the crisp lines of her white coat, and without her stethoscope draped over her narrow shoulders.

Young stood. O’Neill and Harriman did the same. O’Neill took a step forward but stopped at a shake of the head from Landry. Never had it hit Young so hard that Lam and Landry were related.

“Gentlemen.” Lam sounded stronger than she looked, her tone low and brusque.

“Dr. Lam,” O’Neill replied. “Glad to see you on your feet.”

Landry helped her to the chair next to Young.

Young pulled it out and slid it beneath her as she sat.

“Thank you.” She glanced up at him.

“No problem.”

“I heard you reinjured your back.” Lam lifted her brows and gave Young an appraising look.

“Just a little,” Young replied. “Can I get you something?”

Lam looked wistfully at the coffee station but shook her head.

“Where’s Jackson?” Landry rumbled.

“Right here.” Jackson swept through the door, a cup of coffee in each hand and a stack of files pinned under an elbow, slowly sliding free. He deposited everything in a pile next to Harriman, then leaned forward and placed a paper cup in front of Lam.

“I can’t,” Lam began, “I—”

“It’s herbal tea,” Jackson said softly. “Chamomile. I know you’re fluid-restricted, but it’s freezing in here with the AC cranked up. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Lam wrapped both hands around the cup and drew it toward her, revealing a bandage over her wrist. She looked up at Jackson with a faint smile. “Thank you. How’s Colonel Carter?”

“Spending her sick days reinventing physics,” Jackson said. “She’s doing great.”

Lam nodded and smelled her tea.

Jackson locked eyes with Young.

Young gave him a subtle nod.

“Where’s my fancy beverage?” O’Neill asked.

“I only have two hands,” Jackson replied, “and I like Dr. Lam better than you.”

“Sounds fair,” O’Neill said. “I like her better than me too.”

“Let’s get started,” Landry rumbled.

Harriman slid a typewritten agenda to each of them.

“Walter,” O’Neill said, “you wanna run though the rules for Colonel Young?”

“No documents pertaining to matters discussed within this closed door meeting are to leave this room, under penalty of court martial. Nothing discussed today may be mentioned beyond the confines of this room, under penalty of court martial,” Walter began.

It took all of Young’s willpower to avoid glancing at Jackson.

“All electronic devices are to be collected at the beginning of each meeting and placed outside the room for the duration. The room will be swept for microprocessors of any kind,” Harriman continued.

Around the conference table, people pulled out their phones. Young followed suit.

“No computers are permitted.” Harriman rounded the room, collecting phones and radios. “Note taking is permitted, but any notes created become part of the file and may not leave the room.” Harriman paused to examine the spectacularly cracked faceplate on Jackson’s phone before bagging it, along with the archeologist’s messy stack of files. “Typewritten transcripts of these meetings exist in single copy, which require the permission of General Landry or General O’Neill to access,” he finished.

“Got it.” Young studied his agenda. There was a small, handwritten numeral in the upper right corner, maybe indicating copy number. He felt a cold thrill of dread as he looked at the short list.

Item 1—SG-3 status and NID debriefing

Item 2—current movements of Lucian Alliance

“Start us off, Dr. Lam,” O’Neill said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Lam set her tea on the table and opened the file in front of her. “I’ve prepared a document.” She removed a type-written report and passed a copy to Young before handing the remaining pages to General Landry, who fanned them out and slid them around the table.

“Two members of SG-3 and Colonel Telford were sent through the gate during a foothold situation. The two remaining members of SG-3 died in the attack on their Tel’tak. The organic debris collected by the Odyssey confirm this.”

Young fought the impulse to wince.

“Telford, Reynolds, and Ramirez report being separated from one another and tortured for information with electrical devices of Goa’uld origin. Their physical exams match their story, with dermal burns and bruising. Labs showed electrolyte abnormalities consistent with moderate dehydration. They denied exposure to any pharmacologic agents. They also deny any attempted coercive persuasion.”

“What did their scans show?” Jackson asked.

Lam cradled her tea in both hands. “While we’ve made improvements to the Tok’ra Za’tarc detector’s ability to identify coercive persuasion, it remains a poorly tested and incompletely understood device, prone to errors in interpretation, especially in emotionally intense contexts.”

“I’ll vouch for that,” O’Neill said dryly.

“In cases like this one,” Lam continued, her eyes on Jackson, “it’s my opinion that it’s unreliable to the point of being functionally useless.”

“What did their scans show?” Jackson asked again, letting a little steel peek through his gentle delivery.

“Reynolds and Ramirez show indications of cognitive tampering by Za’tarc,” Lam said. “Telford was clear.”

Jackson’s expression didn’t change.

“What are we supposed to take from that?” O’Neill asked.

“Nothing,” Lam said.

“Nothing?” Landry echoed.

“Nothing in isolation,” Lam continued. “My top priority these past weeks has been the development of a robust and reliable chemical test to detect LA interference. I’ve been working with samples from Teal’c, Agent Barrett, and the few others we know to have undergone coercive persuasion.”

“Do you have something?” Landry leaned forward. “Tell me you have something.”

“We have something. It’s not definitive. It doesn’t tell us if coercive persuasion has been successful, or whether a person is free of influence, it only tells us about exposure to the agent used to induce the mental state in which coercive persuasion is initiated,” Lam said cautiously.

“That’s phenomenal,” Jackson breathed.

“It’s in no way phenomenal,” Lam said, flat and brusque. “It’s an indication of exposure; it doesn’t provide any meaningful data about the clinical question that interests us. Furthermore, the sample size of known positives isn’t large enough to determine the predictive value of this test. Its sensitivity. Its specificity.”

Young pulled his reading glasses from his pocket and glanced over the text of the page in front of him, taking in acronyms and bullet points about standard curves. He didn’t have the background to make much sense of it.

“You’re gonna bottom line this for us, right?” O’Neill asked.

“Yes,” Lam replied. “I’ll walk you through it. The agent used for coercive persuasion causes a modification of a surface glycan on circulating red blood cells. We can detect the modified red cells directly. So can the body. Teal’c and Agent Barrett both mounted immune responses against the modified red cells. The modified red cells don’t persist, because the life span of a red cell is about four months. But the antibody response evolves and persists.” Lam looked around the table, like she expected them to understand what she’d just said.

“Could you, maybe, bottom out that line a little more?” O’Neill asked.

“We have a way to detect acute exposure to the agent, and a way to detect exposure that happened in the past,” Lam said. “Teal’c, for example, would have the antibody but not the modified red cells. Same thing for Agent Barrett. If I got kidnapped by the LA tomorrow and the agent was used on me, I’d have modified red cells, but I wouldn’t have the antibody yet.”

“So you can determine the yes/no of exposure and get a rough sense of timing,” Jackson said. “But,” he paused, one hand raised, his eyes scanning the report in front of him.

The room waited for him to finish his thought.

Lam took a small sip of her tea.

“The drug,” Jackson said, frowning at the report, “The drug the Goa’uld developed and the Lucian Alliance stole, the drug that’s responsible for the brainwashing of our people—it modifies red blood cells? How does that make sense? Shouldn’t it be modifying the brain?”

Lam shrugged. “Maybe red cell modification is how it hitches a ride beyond the blood-brain barrier. Maybe it’s a secondary effect. To determine answers to these and other questions, we need the drug.”

“Who’s positive?” Young asked. “Out of SG-3, who was exposed?”

“The results match what we see with the Za’tarc detector. Ramirez and Reynolds are positive. Telford is clear.”

“Telford is clear,” Jackson repeated.

“Yes,” Lam said. “He’s clear. He had neither the antibody, indicating past exposure, nor the red blood cell modification, indicating recent exposure.”

Jackson glanced at Young.

The vents hissed faintly, blowing cool, filtered air into the room.

“Well,” Landry said, “that’s something.”

“Good,” O’Neill said. “Surprising, but good.”

Jackson shot O’Neill a knife-sharp look. “It doesn’t make any sense that he’d be clear if the other two aren’t.”

The fluid motion of Harriman’s pen paused.

“He should be tested again,” Jackson said. “He should be reassigned for at least the next sixty days pending—”

“Jackson,” Landry rumbled. “He’s clear by his own testimony and by every method we have.”

“Pending the results of final testing,” Jackson said, continuing undaunted. “He should be denied access to all classified projects. He should be relocated away from Cheyenne Mountain for the—”

“Daniel,” O’Neill said.

“—for the duration. His network access should be revoked. He should undergo the same recertification procedures as Barrett is undergoing. As Reynolds and Ramirez will be required to undergo, should they wish to come back.”

“Jackson, the IOA won’t let you railroad him off this project, no matter how much it might suit you.” Landry scowled at the archeologist. “Colonel Telford has senatorial backing. Alan Armstrong is—”

“Excuse me,” Jackson said with more icy self-possession than Young had ever seen him bring to bear, “but did you just accuse me of acting to consolidate my position in Colonel Telford’s absence? I have been and remain opposed to the entire ethos behind this unnamed committee but don’t mistake my recommendations for anything other than the professional opinion of the Stargate Program’s most senior civilian consultant.”

“Hey.” O’Neill glared at Jackson, then shifted his gaze to Landry. “Everyone cool it.”

Even Harriman’s shorthand stopped.

O’Neill took a breath. “Daniel, we’ll take your opinion under advisement, as always, but this is a military decision with political overtones and has to be handled as such.”

“We have a leak,” Jackson countered. “It could be him.”

“Yeah well, it could also be you,” O’Neill said, unimpressed. “It could be Everett.” He gestured toward Young. “It could be a lot of people. We’ve avoided turning this into a witch-hunt so far; let’s keep it that way.”

Jackson said nothing.

“Put Telford on medical leave,” Young suggested. “Don’t make him recertify, don’t reassign him, don’t revoke his passwords, just put him on mandatory medical leave. Sixty days. Test him again at the end.”

“No,” Jackson said. “He should be required to recertify. His access should be revoked.”

“I think enforced medical leave is a prudent compromise,” Lam offered. “You can send the IOA and Senator Armstrong to me.”

“I can live with that,” Landry said.

“Always nice when the red tape works in our favor.” O’Neill leaned back in his chair.

Jackson held a doggedly neutral expression and toyed with the plastic lid on his coffee cup like a man spoiling for a fight.

Young forced his gaze not to linger on the archeologist.

“Dr. Lam,” Landry said, “do you think the test that you’ve been developing could be rolled out to all base personnel?”

“Not yet,” Lam said. “We’ll need access to a large number of known negative samples to determine the rate of false positives. I’ve put in requests to several federal databases for access to civilian samples. I’m waiting to hear back.”

“How long before you have the data you need?”

“Two months,” Lam said. “Maybe more.”

“This should be a top priority,” Landry said.

“Already on it,” Lam replied, “but the US Government isn’t known for its quick turnaround times.”

“Y’don’t say,” O’Neill drawled.

“Let’s move on,” Landry said. “I have new tactical information regarding the current status of Anubis’s second offworld base, located on P3X-124.”

Young’s eyes remained fixed on Landry, but in his peripheral vision he saw Jackson go still. The plastic lid of his coffee cup rested on its edge, held steady between unmoving hands.

“SG-14 has been split up and embedded undercover with the Sixth House of the Lucian Alliance for months now,” Landry said, “following the successful extraction of Colonel Telford after his cover was blown.”

Everyone in the room looked at Young.

He shifted. A jolt of pain ran from his back down his leg.

“As of fifteen hundred hours yesterday, Lucian Alliance ground forces overwhelmed the Jaffa garrison and the supplemental personnel stationed on P3X-124 in an attempt to take and hold Anubis’s lab.”

Landry’s pronouncement fell on the room like a bucket of ice water. No one spoke.

After a moment, Landry continued. “Attempts to communicate with our personnel on the planet have been unsuccessful. The Jaffa High Council has dispatched ships to investigate, and we should be receiving reports sometime in the next twenty-four hours. I think we need to brace ourselves for the possibility that we’ve lost control of that lab.”

“Well,” O’Neill said into the silence, “that’s not good.”

“No,” Landry growled. “It isn’t.”

“If the Lucian Alliance is in control of that lab,” Jackson began, “and they have Dale Volker—” he trailed off, his eyes flicking between Young and O’Neill.

“Which house,” Young asked, “was responsible for the foothold here? Which house has Dale Volker?”

“Sixth,” Landry said. “SG-14 reports it was Sixth that took him.”

“They could have already used the device on Volker.” Jackson, speaking softly, said what they all were thinking.

“Yes,” Landry said. “That seems likely.”

No one spoke.

“The recommendation of this committee,” Landry continued, “will carry a great deal of weight in the decision of whether to devote resources to retaking the planet.”

“Such an act might be considered a declaration of war against the Lucian Alliance,” Jackson offered.

“Yup,” O’Neill confirmed quietly.

“If they’re moving openly against us,” Young said, “they probably already consider themselves to be at war.”

“We can’t survive a war with two fronts,” Jackson said. “We won’t.”

“We’re in a war with two fronts,” Young countered.

“The possibility of a diplomatic solution exists with them,” Jackson snapped. “It doesn’t exist with the Ori.”

“If we leave the LA in control of this device,” Landry rumbled, “they’re the ones who’ll have access to everything beyond the nine chevron address.”

“They’ll also have more incentive to take our people,” Lam pointed out.

“We don’t need that planet,” Jackson said, his blue eyes blazing. “We don’t need that device. We’ll find Merlin’s weapon. Something, anything that doesn’t require walking a path laid by Anubis.”

“Daniel.” There was a note of warning in O’Neill’s voice.

“We don’t know if this address will help us,” Jackson said. “But, to get to it, we’ll have to do something evil.”

“‘Evil’ is such a strong word,” O’Neill said mildly.

“What other choices do you see?” Landry growled. “Because I’m looking. I’m looking damned hard and I’m seeing none. The Ori are tearing through this galaxy. It’s only a matter of time before they reach Earth. The Jaffa are our allies. They’re already paying a heavy price for what we invited in. We lost Dakara, the weapon there was destroyed—the wolf is at the door, Jackson. We need options.”

“I will find,” Jackson said, his voice ragged, “Merlin’s weapon. I will find it.”

The room was silent. Lam smoothed the papers in front of her, her hands subtly trembling.

“If we devote resources to taking back P3X-124,” Young said into the silence, “It should be done with the intent of using the device. We’re spread too thin to hold it against a determined assault by the Lucian Alliance. And we know they want it. Badly.” 

Young felt the heat and pressure of Jackson’s gaze on the side of his face, but he kept his eyes on Landry.

“That being said,” Young continued, like spreading cards over a table, “I agree with Jackson.”

“Go on,” Landry said.

“There’s no point in subjecting anyone to this device if we can’t dial the address,” Young said. “Until the whole cypher set is solved, retaking P3X-124 should be a low priority.”

Jackson dialed himself back, and it was like a physical pressure vanishing from the other side of the table. It was all Young could do not to look at the man.

“Your neighbor’s gotten five chevrons out of nine in, what, the eight weeks he’s been in Colorado Springs?” O’Neill asked. “This is starting to look like a sure thing.”

“It doesn’t work like that and you know it,” Jackson fired back.

Young leaned back a bit in his chair. “For what it’s worth—if what’s beyond the nine chevron address is as important as everyone seems to think, I’d say it’s a crap idea to experiment on the guy unlocking the thing.”

“Well put.” Jackson shot Landry a pointed look.

“I concur,” Lam said. “Given the physical and ethical risks inherent to using Anubis’s device,all discussion of using the device on anyone should be tabled until dialing the nine-chevron address possible.”

“Colonel Telford would disagree,” Landry said.

“Colonel Telford isn’t here,” Jackson pointed out, neutral with the barest gloss of victory.

“That doesn’t render his position invalid,” Landry said. “Leaving that base in the hands of the Lucian Alliance grants them a valuable means to furthering their own objective and increases the likelihood they’ll make more attempts to access our intelligence and personnel. Their insurgency tactics have been honed for millennia under the yoke of the Goa’uld. We’ve never encountered anything so damned effective. Leaving the base under their power makes Nicholas Rush an outstandingly valuable target.”

Young tried to ignore the dread pitting in his stomach.

“Which is why he should be sent to Atlantis,” Jackson said. “Immediately. It’s the only safe place for him.”

“Atlantis has its own problems, and their gates don’t have the cyphers,” Landry fired back. “I’ll consider it after he unlocks the address.”

For several long seconds, no one spoke.

Finally, Landry said, “Jack?”

“I come down with Colonel Young,” O’Neill said. “We don’t move on P3X-124 until we’re ready to use the device, and, right now, we’re not ready.”

“Then it looks like you’ve got something to take up the chain,” Landry replied.

O’Neill nodded.

“Unless there are other pressing issues,” Landry said, “I say we adjourn here. In the interim, all of you should review the incident reports from the Jaffa garrison on P3X-124 and the transcripts of the SG-3 debriefings conducted by the NID.”

“I’d like to talk to Telford, Reynolds, and Ramirez,” Young said.

“You can talk to Telford,” Lam said. “He’s on base. He’s due to be released from secure confinement following final clearance by medical. He has a low-grade viral infection. Ramirez and Reynolds have been transferred to Area 51 at the request of the NID for further questioning.”

“Low grade viral infection?” Young asked.

“Yes,” Lam said. “It’s in my report. It’s an alien strain of EBV we’ve seen in the past, including in those with no Lucian Alliance connections.”

Young nodded.

“Any further issues?” Landry asked.

No one said anything.

O’Neill and Landry stood in tandem.

“Please return all paperwork to me.” Harriman put down his pen. “No one’s permitted to leave until all typewritten pages have been accounted for.”

Young leaned forward to slide his papers and Lam’s across the table to Jackson, who passed them to Harriman in a disorganized stack.

O’Neill eyed Jackson, a roguish glint in his expression. “I heard they’re resurrecting Dr. Levant for the Wormhole X-treme movie. About time, I say.”

“Do not even start,” Jackson replied, in a mock-threatening singsong.

“You’re more bossy than I remember,” O’Neill said. “Mitchell lets you walk all over him, doesn’t he? I warned him.”

“Not true,” Jackson replied.

“Eh, maybe a little bit true.” Young stood, collecting his coffee cup and the remains of Lam’s cold tea.

“Meh.” O’Neill watched Landry help Lam from her chair. “It’s good for him. You walked all over me, most of the time.”

“You both pick your battles,” Jackson said.

“Is that right?” O’Neill put a folksy gloss on the question, but it wasn’t enough to hide its serious undertone. “Maybe you should learn to do the same.”

Hours later, Young sat beside Lam in front of the one-way glass of the isolation room, looking in at David Telford. Mitchell hovered behind them, pacing the back of the room.

Telford looked spent. His dark blue medical scrubs emphasized the circles beneath his eyes. He’d lost weight. On the floor near the door, Young saw his breakfast, untouched on his tray. He was curled on his bed, back braced against the wall, a monster of a book supported by his thighs.

“He looks terrible,” Young said.

“Everyone looks terrible these days.” Mitchell put his forearm against the glass, leaned into it, and glanced over his shoulder at Young. His gaze shifted to Lam. Settled there. Softened.

“NID debriefings are stressful,” Lam said, oblivious. “They’re meant to elicit doubt.”

“I’d like to talk to him alone,” Young said. “It’s bad enough he’s stuck in here like a lab rat. He doesn’t need to be grilled by another panel, even if it’s friendly.”

Lam nodded.

“I’ll give you a ride home.” Mitchell offered. “I gotta buy Teal’c and Vala ice cream on my lunch break.”

Young snorted.

“Can it,” Mitchell said. “Jackson and I lost a game of two-on-two basketball yesterday.”

“You and Jackson lost to Vala and Teal’c?” Young asked.

“Jackson’s not good at sports,” Mitchell said. “Plus, Vala’s speedy. Doesn’t shy away from fouls.”

Young grinned. “I can see it.”

“Ahem.” With a show of cartoon chivalry, Mitchell bowed to Lam and offered her his elbow. “M’lady?”

Lam took his arm, and Mitchell helped her stand. “Thanks,” she said.

Young watched them go. When he was alone, he hit the controls on the one-way glass, turning it transparent.

Telford shut his book. His coal-dark eyes locked on Young. He stood, then dragged the room’s single chair in front of the window.

Young flipped on the intercom. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Telford rasped, like he hadn’t spoken in days. “How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“You look like shit.” Telford couldn’t hide the relief in his face, in this voice, though he did his best.

“You too,” Young said.

They looked at one another, half a dozen battlefields and missions gone wrong as context, and scanned one another for damage.

“What’s going on?” Telford rasped. “Can you tell me?”

“Not all of it,” Young said. “Not most of it.” He paused. “But I’m your XO now.”

Telford looked startled, maybe even a little hopeful, though he tried to hide it. “Icarus? I’m still—I thought they’d strip me.”

“You’re on mandatory medical leave,” Young said. “For the next sixty days, I’m filling your shoes.”

“Sixty days.” Telford tried to contain his dismay. “They’re gonna keep me here for—” he trailed off. Steeled himself. “I’m gonna need another book.”

“Not in here,” Young said. “Once you’ve cleared this virus, you’ll be allowed to leave the base. Get some real R&R.”

“Sixty days?” Telford repeated. “A lot can happen in that time.”

“I know it,” Young said.

Telford looked away, nodded. “Glad it’s you, at least.” He gave Young a faint smile. “You were on my short list.”

“What happened out there?” Young asked.

Telford shut his bruised eyelids. “It wasn’t—” his throat closed. “It wasn’t as bad as the first time,” he said, rallying. “The time you pulled me out. They—they didn’t know who they had. Kiva wasn’t there. Her inner circle wasn’t there. It was Sixth House, but none of them knew my face.”

“Good,” Young whispered. “That’s good.”

“We were a means to an end.” Telford swallowed with effort, like his throat was sore. Maybe from the virus. Maybe from screaming. Maybe both. “You read the NID debrief yet?”

“Not yet,” Young said.

“But you’re cleared?” Telford asked.

Young nodded, hesitated, then disclosed, “I’m sitting on the Unnamed Committee while you’re out.”

Telford nodded. “I was the one who destroyed the Tel’tak,” he began. “You know how they operate. They target drives and shields. They scan the interior. They slice everyone out. I knew what was coming. I blew the drive.”

Young nodded.

“Too late, though, obviously. They had a lock on half the bridge. Their perimeter got them me, Ramirez, Reynolds, half the bridge instrumentation and half of Lieutenant fucking Yang.” Telford’s voice cracked and he looked away.

“God damn it,” Young rasped.

“I’m sure the self-destruct killed Giles,” Telford said. “It must’ve. She was trying to get our shields back. No one will tell me.”

“It killed her,” Young confirmed.

Telford nodded, looking away. “We were tortured for information,” he continued, “but without the kind of precision that—ah. That you and I know they’re capable of. No one got creative. Only later did I realize they were keeping us alive for iris fodder. To generate the kind of signature a demolecularized human makes. Only for that. I think.”

“David,” Young said.

“That’s all,” Telford whispered. “They didn’t know who they had.”

“David,” Young said again.

“Did they get what they came for?” Telford’s eyes glittered.

“They took an astrophysicist,” Young said. “Dale Volker.”

Telford brought his hands to his face, then dropped them, looking at Young with a haunted expression. “Anyone else?”

“No,” Young said.

Telford nodded.

“We lose anyone?” Telford asked.

“Don’t worry about that right now.”

“It’s all I think about,” Telford breathed. “You know what it’s like. If you can tell me, tell me. Please.”

“Two new recruits from SG-19,” Young said. “Lieutenant Thomas. Sam Carter took a chest shot point blank with no vest—”

All the blood drained from Telford’s face. “What?”

Young raised a hand. “She survived.”

“How?”

“Dr. Lam injected herself with naquadah so she could use a Goa’uld healing device.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Young shook his head. “She lost both her kidneys because of the heavy metal deposition. Just had surgery to remove them. She’s on dialysis now.”

Telford stood and paced away from the window, his back to Young, his head bowed, his hands in his hair. 

Young looked at the floor. At the place where it came together with the low cement wall beneath the chemically treated glass.

Telford straightened and walked toward Young, his expression set.

“Carter’s okay,” Young said quietly. “Lam—Lam’s getting there.”

Telford just looked at him.

“It’s not—” Young began.

“I’ll carry it,” Telford said.

“This isn’t on you,” Young said.

“It is,” Telford said, “and I’ll carry it.”

Young nodded.

“They told me I was clear by Za’tarc,” Telford said. “But they tell everyone that, since sleeper operatives tend to start shooting when confronted.”

“You’re really negative,” Young said.

“So why am I on medical leave for sixty days?”

“It has something to do with Lam’s new test,” Young said. “There’s two parts to it. They can’t detect the marker in your blood, but antibodies might show up any time in the next sixty days. You’ve got alien mono; no one knows how that’s gonna impact things.”

Telford stared at him. “There’s a blood test?”

“Yup,” Young said. “It’s early days, though.”

“And I’m negative,” Telford repeated. “The blood test shows I’m negative?”

“Yeah,” Young said, packing all the reassurance he could muster into his tone. “You’re negative.”

Telford released a shuddery breath.

Cool, dry air hissed from an overhead vent.

“Do you think they know?” Telford asked.

“Know what?”

“The ones who are brainwashed. Do you think any part of them can tell?”

“No idea.”

“That’s the horror of it, I guess,” Telford whispered. “Even if it happens to you, you might never know. You have to rely on other people. On what they say. On tests that are experimental.”

“We do our best with what we have,” Young said, grimly philosophical.

“Damn straight,” Telford rasped.

“What are you reading?” Young glanced at the monster of a book lying on Telford’s bed.

“Les Misérables,” Telford said. “Jackson left it for me.”

“Jackson?”

“If Daniel Jackson gives me a book,” Telford said, his eyes glittering with suppressed hostility, “you bet your ass I’m gonna read it.”

At the end of the day, on his way back to his apartment, he stopped at Rush’s door. He stood, bracing himself, then knocked.

Nick Rush flung open the door, swept his hair out of his eyes, leaned into the frame, and sighed, “What,” in a put-upon, demanding tone. No shoes, great hair, flattering glasses, and a box-frame buckled belt.

It was possible Young was developing a crush.

“What do you mean ‘what’,” Young said. “I show up at your door every day.”

Rush pressed his temple against the dark wood of the doorframe and looked up at Young. “Yes well. Can’t decide if you’re an optimist or y’have a learning disability.”

Young leaned into his cane, cocked his head, and gave the mathematician a speculative look. “Those don’t sound mutually exclusive.”

Rush smiled faintly.

“Oh, you like that?” Young asked. “Jackson’s been giving me pointers on logical fallacies.”

Rush did his best to pretend not to be amused. “Has he? He must be an expert, seeing as he’s a walking fallacy of some kind. Definitely not a logical one.”

“Clever,” Young said. “Y’know, when you’re not around, he says nice things about you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Rush replied, with an indolent shoulder roll. “I suppose I’ll classify you as an optimist, but don’t let it go to your head.” Rush dug his fingers into the back of his neck.

“I would never. C’mon, hotshot. Let’s get this show on the road. I got reports to read.”

“I’m not at your beck and call,” Rush replied, all cool-poured poise. “I’m otherwise engaged.”

Crap.

Young was one unnecessarily slow sentence away from a door to the face. “I know,” he said hastily. “Bring your math. I’ll cook you dinner. I owe you, what? Probably twenty-four meals at this point?”

Rush gave him an appraising look, followed it up with the haughty lift of a brow, and shut the door.

Young leaned into his cane and tried to get enough of a grip to go toe-to-toe with the guy for another evening.

It took over a minute, but Rush reopened the door, his laptop under one arm.

“Phone?” Young asked pointedly. “Signal scrambler?”

“My phone’s in my pocket and the building has scramblers.” Rush pushed his disdain right to the bleeding edge.

“Yeah, because those have never gone down before.”

Rush sighed theatrically, rolled his eyes, and pulled a fluid 180, with no further argument.

Don’t hit on him, Young counseled himself. He’s a national resource, it’s possible he gets tapped as the chief scientist on the Icarus Project, and he’s first in line for a brain-altering alien device once he unlocks the nine-chevron address. He’s got mental health issues, he’s wearing a wedding ring, and there’s a good chance you’ll be working with him directly once Icarus is up and running. So do not. Hit on him.

Rush reappeared, gear in hand. He stepped into the hall and pulled his door closed behind him. As soon as the door clicked shut, Rush froze. He shut his eyes, leaned back against it. His expression was intensely annoyed.

Young studied him.

Gently, eyes still shut, Rush knocked the back of his head into the shut door.

“You just locked yourself out, didn’t you.” Young did his best not to smile.

“Yes,” Rush hissed, staring at the ceiling.

“Buck up, hotshot,” Young said. “It’s not the first time. Pretty sure it’s not gonna be the last.”

Rush sighed.

“C’mon.” Young started down the hall. “You can call a locksmith while I make you dinner.”

“Call a locksmith?” Rush echoed.

“Yeah. I took the key to your apartment away from the superintendent after the last time this happened. SGC threat assessments overlook the obvious sometimes.”

“Can’t the Lucian Alliance destroy my door if it comes to that?” Rush said. “I prefer to have access to a spare key.”

“You can have convenience or security,” Young said, as he unlocked his own door, “not both.”

“Well put. But I seem t’have neither.”

“You’ve got the best balance we can give you.” Young decided not to mention how close Rush was to being annexed into the protective custody of the NID. “I’d try not to rock the boat too much if I were you.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” Rush said darkly, following him into his apartment, squinting in the red-orange light of the setting sun.

“Days are getting shorter,” Young said as Rush closed the nearest set of blinds.

“Ugh. Marginally. How d’you people live like this?”

“Like what?” Young shut his door.

“Does it never rain here?” Rush asked. “Is it never fuckin’ overcast?”

“It rains.” Young followed Rush to the kitchen. “It rained the other day. It snows plenty. You’ll see. July’s over, August—well, August’ll be hot, but after that it’ll get better.”

“It snows,” Rush repeated flatly.

“Didn’t you do any kind of research before you came here?” Young asked. “How can snow in the Rockies be a surprise to you?”

“Yes well.” Rush deposited his electronic devices in a gentle slide over the surface of the table. “I was otherwise engaged.”

Young studied his neighbor.

The guy was losing his edge. In real time. The mathematician stared at the fanned tech on the table without really seeing it, no steel in his bearing, no bite to his tone. 

“What do you want for dinner?” Young asked cautiously. 

Still, Rush didn’t look at him. “Nothing you’re capable of making.”

The words fell far, far short of the acidity Rush had probably intended to lace them with. The emphasis was wrong, placing too much weight on Young’s identity and not enough on his capability. As if Rush knew it, as if he’d run out of energy and willpower—

The mathematician sat, folding into the nearest chair, his elbows propped in the table, his face in his hands.

Damn it.

Pieces that’d been coming together for weeks snapped into place.

Someone was dead.

Someone was dead, and this was grief.

It’d always been grief. There was no mistaking it: the insults like armor, the self-destructive drive, Jackson’s relentless, bottomless sympathy. It was written in the line of Rush’s shoulders, the way his hands came up to hide his face.

It seemed impossible he hadn’t put it together before now.

Young sat at the table.

Rush didn’t look up.

“Nick,” he said.

Rush did his best to brace himself, dropped his hands, raised his head and said, “What.”

Young wanted to ask him what’d happened to his wife.

“You okay?” he asked instead.

Rush’s hair was streaked with red where oblique rays of the setting sun crept through gaps in the venetian blinds. “I’m tired.”

Young shifted, and felt the familiar spark and fade of pain along his spine, down his leg.

He thought of Telford, locked behind glass with only a book for company.

He thought of Jackson, cut to pieces by the sharp edges of his own distress, his hands full of things he gave to other people.

He thought of Lam, her fearless voice and her terrified eyes. He thought of Vala, using misdirection and flirtation to distract from the way she tried to patch the cracks in her armor.

He thought of Carter, who couldn’t laugh without pain. He thought of Mitchell, who couldn’t help but charm her into it.

He thought of Rush, trapped in a Colorado Springs apartment and still, somehow, the lynchpin of a war on two fronts.

“Yeah,” Young agreed. “Me too.”