Mathématique: Chapter 36

Lam rested a hand atop her dialysis machine and looked up at Young, determined and wry. “This is a time of nightmares.”

Chapter warnings: Stressors of all kinds. Grief. Physical injuries. Mental health challenges. Panic attacks. Alien-induced psychosis.

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

Chapter 36

Telford leans against the chamber’s inner door, his skin pale and streaked with blood. His hand, trembling, presses against his face. He doesn’t speak. Maybe he can’t.

“I came to get you out.” Young’s whisper is too loud in the stillness of the room.

“I know,” Telford says. “I’ll never be able to thank you. To repay you.”

Reddish light throws defaced wall engravings into chiaroscured relief.

“Things aren’t like that between us,” Young replies. “This falls outside the bounds of debt. Outside repay.”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Telford rasps.

“Did they give you the drug?” Young asks.

“I don’t think they did,” Telford says, “but then, how would I know?”

Young woke with the August sun, before his phone alarm sounded. Something nagged at the borders of his barely awake thoughts, resisting his efforts to banish it along with his unwanted dreams.

Hadn’t that conversation happened in a shuttle?

But as he opened his eyes to the sun-warmed living room, the question fell out of his head.

There was something on his wall.

He frowned, trying to make sense of what he saw, trying to decide if it was real. On the white paint next to the window was a perfect circle, blocked off into nine arc lengths by tics of black marker with corresponding annotations. Next to the circle was a matrix containing either math so advanced he didn’t recognize the symbols or—

Nope.

Crap.

That was Ancient.

“Damn it.” He pressed his hands to his face, then swept them up through his hair, like he could physically rid himself of yesterday’s memories.

It didn’t work.

He studied the math on the wall, trying to decide whether it made him feel better or worse about Rush’s current state of mind. On the plus side, it looked pretty damn organized, maybe some real progress on the road to cracking the tonal cypher. On the minus side, Rush hadn’t written on his wall before—the man seemed with it enough to know that kind of thing was considered a little off, at best.

Where the hell was the guy?

He’d better be in the god damned apartment.

Young sat, and the hard edge of a pain that wouldn’t allow forgetting, that wouldn’t take a back seat to worry or necessity, cut into him. He clapped a hand to his bolted-together spine and limped toward the kitchen.

On the back wall of the dining area, there was another circle, also annotated.

Great.

He limped into the kitchen to find his neighbor, thank god, glaring down coffee beans as if they were a malfunctioning radio. Young swiped the bag out of his hands. “Try again, hotshot. Coffee’s the last—”

Rush startled so violently that he lost his balance. He steadied himself against the counter, one hand pressed to his chest. His hair, too long, fell into his eyes.

Young gave the man a you-have-to-be-kidding-me-with-this-bullshit glare, which was wasted on the mathematician. Rush looked away, breathing too hard for a jump scare in a sunlit kitchen.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Young asked.

“I’m trying. To solve. A problem.” Rush closed his eyes, like the stupidity of the world was crushing.

Young hadn’t meant to fall asleep the previous night, hadn’t meant to let Rush practically talk him into it, but he’d been exhausted, and Rush had seemed curiously solid for a man so clearly and so completely at sea. Whatever had been looming over his neighbor for weeks had come to a head in O’Malley’s, at a shit piano, which Rush had stared down for a good hour before he’d musically attacked the thing with eerie key combinations that, even to Young’s untrained ear, sounded wrong together, though they’d been played with uncanny fluidity.

“Yeah, okay,” Young said, “what I’m getting from that answer is you don’t have a damn clue what’s wrong with you.”

Rush stared into space, like he was listening to someone else.

“That piano did a number on you,” Young said.

“What?” Rush asked, distracted.

“C’mon, hotshot.” He took Rush’s elbow and guided the man out of the kitchen, directing him toward the table. He pulled a chair, and Rush dropped into it, his elbows braced on the table, his face in his hands.

“Don’t get up,” Young said. “Stay there.”

He limped back to the couch, retrieved his phone, and called Lam.

She answered on the first ring. “This is Carolyn Lam.” She was surprisingly on point for 0600.

“Hi.” Young eyed Rush uneasily from across the bright space of the room. “This is Everett Young. Sorry to call so early.”

“Not at all,” Lam said. “How’s your neighbor?”

“Not good,” Young replied, low and emphatic. “He didn’t sleep last night, and he’s looking worse this morning. I’m not sure after hours today is gonna work. I think he might need to be seen sooner. He looks—” he trailed off.

“How does he look?” Lam prompted.

He considered Rush, the light of early morning glaring off the broken white planes of his dress shirt, his head bowed and braced against the bridging of his hands. “Not right,” Young decided. “Distracted. Miserable. And maybe—” he watched the subtle rise and fall of Rush’s chest. “Maybe sick.”

“Bring him in now,” Lam said. “I don’t technically go on shift until 0900, but I’m here.”

“Thanks,” Young replied, “see you in thirty.”

He dressed, trying to ignore the ache in his spine, trying to put his finger on why Rush’s demeanor was riling up his nerves. Maybe it was the sense of progression, of something that needed to be halted sooner rather than later. Maybe it was the dulling of the man’s edge. Maybe it wasn’t either of those things.

Hell if he knew.

When he finished dressing, he returned to the living room to find Rush seated at the table, the heel of one hand pressed against his eye, his expression pained. “Come on,” Young said quietly. “Time to go.”

Rush didn’t respond.

Young put a hand on his shoulder, already bracing against the inevitable startle response.

“For fuck’s sake,” Rush hissed, his hands falling from face to table, “don’t do that.”

“C’mon,” Young said again.

When they arrived in the infirmary, Lam was seated on the edge of a gurney, her white coat beside her, one sleeve unbuttoned and rolled up. A doubled line of tubing snaked between her arm and a box-like machine next to her. At her side stood TJ. The fluorescent lights put yellow glints into the twist of her pale hair.

Young and TJ locked eyes for a moment, then the lieutenant dropped her gaze down and away. Young tried not to wince.

Lam glanced back and forth between Young and TJ before turning to Rush. “Hi. You look terrible.”

“Yes yes,” Rush replied. “So I’ve been told. Your appearance isn’t exactly confidence inspiring.”

“I’m tougher than I look.” Lam caught Young’s eye and glanced pointedly at an adjacent gurney.

Young helped Rush sit.

“Put him on the monitors,” Lam told to TJ. “Start a line.”

“You got it,” TJ replied.

“This isn’t necessary,” Rush said, as though he’d just now understood why Young had brought him here.

“Don’t be a pain in the ass about this, hotshot,” Young said.

TJ swept a curtain around herself and Rush, her expression neutral.

Young stared at the drawn white curtain inches from his face.

Lam wrapped her fingers around the handle of the portable dialysis unit and dragged it across the room, angling her head at Young to indicate he should follow. She stopped at the far wall and pressed a panel. A keyboard dropped from a recessed computer, revealing a screen.

“Tell me again,” she said, as she navigated Rush’s medical file. “The whole thing.”

Young gave a short narration of the events of the previous day and that morning. Lam began typing, occasionally asking for clarification on particular points.

“You gonna call psych?” Young asked when the click of Lam’s fingers over the keys had stopped.

She stood, considering, her eyes fixed on the monitor in front of her. “That’s a few branch points away on my current decision tree.” 

Young braced his hand on the cement wall next to the recessed computer. He glanced over his shoulder at the drawn curtain. “Fair enough,” he said, dropping his voice, “but I think he should be talking to someone about how screwed up his life is.”

Lam looked up at him, dry and eloquent. “The same could be said of all of us. But medicine, like everything else around here, is a turf war, and I’d prefer to keep him on my turf for as long as possible.”

Young raised his eyebrows. “You’re not a fan of James MacKenzie?”

“I didn’t say that,” Lam said, quiet and emphatic. “Please don’t mistake my comments as implying anything pejorative about Dr. MacKenzie or his unit. I value the work that the Psychiatry Department does, but given Dr. Rush’s unique genetic status and his recent offworld travel, I’d rather not assume anything about his current physical or mental condition.”

“I get that,” Young replied, “but this confining-him-to-his-apartment, no-written-word, protocol-free bullshit has gotta stop. And, regardless of what you find, he needs to talk to Psych about what happened on that planet. They made Sheppard debrief with Psych about it, and Sheppard—well, he’s either a rock or secretly insane; I have no idea—my point is you don’t shove an untrained civilian back into house arrest after a mission like that because you don’t wanna create a paper trail.”

“The less he’s exposed,” Lam whispered, “the safer he is, but I agree with you. I raised the same point with Committee Number Four.”

“What did they say?”

“Dr. Jackson shut me down.”

“Jackson?” Young hissed, incredulous. “Jackson shut you down?”

Lam scanned the room, as though the man might materialize from a cement wall. “There was an error made by the Psych Department. Years back. Suffice it to say, Dr. Jackson has a strong bias against SGC Psychiatry, and against Dr. MacKenzie in particular.”

“Great,” Young growled.

Lam leaned in. “James MacKenzie is a good man, but he doesn’t have the security clearance to understand what kind of deviation from protocol might be required here.”

He leaned into the wall, feeling the ache in his spine. “This is a nightmare.”

Lam rested a hand atop her dialysis machine and looked up at Young, determined and wry. “This is a time of nightmares.”

“Kafka fan, by any chance?” Young asked.

Lam gave him the ghost of a smile, there and gone. 

Across the room, TJ swept the privacy curtain back to reveal Young’s neighbor, sporting a hospital gown and connected to several monitors. Lam crossed the room, studying the readouts clustered on one side of the bed.

Young limped after her. “You look miserable,” he informed the mathematician.

“Fuck off,” Rush replied, more sulk than defiance, one hand pressed to his head.

“He’s tachycardic, diaphoretic, and his pressure’s on the high side.” TJ looked at Lam. “His responsiveness to questions varies. I don’t like how he looks.”

“Me neither.” Lam pulled a stethoscope off the edge of a monitor. “Dr. Rush,” she said, “how are you feeling?”

Rush didn’t reply, his hand pressed to his head.

Lam turned to TJ. “Start maintenance fluids and we’ll do an EEG,” she said.

“You got it,” the medic replied.

“Dr. Rush,” Lam said, raising her voice, “do you have a headache?”

Rush didn’t respond. He dug the heel of his hand into his eye socket, his head cocked.

“He’s been doing this off and on since yesterday afternoon,” Young said. “I think he might be listening to something.”

“Dr. Rush.” Lam laid a hand on his shoulder and the man looked up at her, startled. “Dr. Rush,” Lam repeated, “do you have a headache?”

“No.” Rush squinted at her.

“You look like you have a headache,” Lam said, short on patience for bullshit at 0700. She flashed a penlight into the mathematician’s eyes.

Rush flinched. “Yes yes. Congratulations on your diagnostic skills. I’ve a headache. This isn’t atypical for me.”

“I know,” Lam said, one hand coming to his chin. “Follow,” she murmured, as she moved her finger in changing paths through the air. “You want Colonel Young to stick around, or you want me to throw him out?”

“I’m sure I don’t care,” Rush huffed.

Young leaned into his cane and smirked at his neighbor.

“Okay,” Lam said. “You let me know if you change your mind. Now spill. What’s been going on?”

“Nothing,” Rush said. “I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Why not?” Lam asked.

“Happens when I’ve been working.”

“I get that,” Lam said. “Sit forward.” She listened to his lungs, then pressed him back against the raised head of the gurney. “So this is normal for you?”

“It’s atypically intense,” Rush replied, “but so is the work.”

Lam listened to his heart, then looped her stethoscope over her neck as TJ dragged what could only be a portable EEG over to the side of the bed.

“Hold off a minute,” Lam told TJ.

TJ nodded. Her eyes skittered away from Young when he looked at her.

Rush pressed a hand to his forehead, his eyes shut.

“Hotshot,” Young began, but stopped when Lam shook her head.

The doctor’s eyes flicked back and forth between Rush and the monitors. As the silence lengthened, Young and TJ glanced at one another, then away, not sure what Lam was waiting for. She stood, calm and silent, watching Young’s neighbor until—

Rush flinched, eyes shut, his heart rate spiking on the monitors.

“That was a startle response,” Lam said softly, “in the absence of a detectable stimulus.” 

“He’s hearing things,” Young said, equally quietly. “I’m telling you, he’s hearing things.”

Lam glanced at Young in confirmation. Softly, she said, “Dr. Rush?”

No response.

“Dr. Rush,” she said again, louder, her hand coming to his shoulder.

He flinched. Again, his heart rate spiked.

“Sorry,” Lam said. “We’re going to hook you up to an EEG. It’ll monitor brain activity, but it would help if you’d tell us what you’re experiencing.”

“It’s nothing,” Rush replied. “I’m tired. It’ll pass.”

“Are you hearing or seeing anything that I’m not hearing or seeing?” Lam asked, deadly serious.

“Why do you ask?” Rush asked, with transparent indifference.

“Rush,” Young began, but Lam silenced him with a look.

“I ask because your attentional focus is wavering, and stimuli I can’t see might account for that.”

Rush looked obliquely at Lam as TJ worked electrodes into his hair.

“I’m trying to help you.” Lam, quiet and direct, met his gaze.

“Yes yes,” Rush sighed, “I’m aware.”

Lam waited, but he didn’t add anything else.

TJ finished affixing the leads and flipped on the monitors. She and Lam examined the set of waveforms on the screen.

“Please check the temporal leads,” Lam said, her cool tone at odds with the worry in her eyes.

TJ, already moving, traced her fingers through Rush’s hair.

“What?” Young asked. “It doesn’t look normal?”

“No,” Lam said, her tone brusque, her expression strained, “it does not look normal.

“Temporal leads are correctly positioned and fully attached,” TJ reported.

“Tamara,” Lam said, “pull in a tech, get a copy of his baseline EEG from several months ago, get neurology on the phone, and upgrade his triage status on the roster.” She glanced at Young. “You said he’s been working through this?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah. He was doing math,” Young said. “Sophisticated math. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know yet.” Lam turned to his neighbor. “Dr. Rush.” She sat on the edge of his bed, her hands braced against the sheets, red tubing snaking from her forearm to the portable dialysis machine. “You’re displaying abnormal brain activity,” she said slowly. “I’ll ask again: are you hearing or seeing anything I’m not hearing or seeing?”

“Yes,” Rush admitted.

“Describe it to me,” Lam said.

Rush hesitated.

“You’re not the first person to have an altered sensorium after an encounter with Ancient tech,” she said encouragingly. “I’m sure you won’t be the last.”

Still, Rush hesitated.

“Describe it,” Lam said. “Please.”

“I’m hearing a warped version of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony transposed from D-minor into an Ancient equivalent, on loop, in my head, with occasional commentary provided by my dead wife.”

“What,” Young said.

Rush made a face and shrugged apologetically.

“Okay,” Lam said, admirably neutral, “is this becoming more intrusive or less intrusive with time?”

“More intrusive,” Rush admitted.

“How intrusive is it now?” Lam asked.

“Ugh, very,” Rush said, eyes shut.

“How long have you been hearing it?” Lam asked.

“Less than twenty four hours,” Rush said.

“Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” Lam asked.

“No,” Rush said.

“Yes,” Young said.

Rush and Lam looked over at him.

“Maybe a month ago, in my kitchen. He heard a continuous tone and then hyperventilated to the point he passed out,” Young growled.

Rush looked like he was on the point of arguing, then opened a hand. “Right. That time it was Mendelssohn.”

“And you said he’s been trending toward less responsive?” Lam glanced at Young.

“Yup.” Young tried to keep a lid on his anxiety. “Definitely.”

“Well,” Lam gave him a significant look, “then you can keep him responsive while we figure out what’s going on.”

From the room, one of Lam’s nurses called out, “Neuro’s on line two.”

Lam dragged her dialysis machine toward a nearby cabinet, pulled out a chess set, handed it to Young without ceremony.

“Uh,” Young said, but Lam was already halfway across the room, heading for the phone.

“Tamara.” Lam said, shook the tubing connected to her arm, “unhook me from this thing, while I talk to Neuro, will you? It’s done.”

“You got it,” TJ replied, following her CMO.

“And then let’s start recording his EEG for thirty second intervals every five minutes and sending the files down it down to the electrophysiology lab,” Lam said. “I’ll tell them it’s coming.”

“Sure thing,” TJ said.

Young looked at Rush.

Rush looked back at him.

“Seriously?” Young said. “Beethoven?”

“Oh shut it, will you?”

“I fully plan on kicking your ass, hotshot.” Young shook the box of chess pieces.

“Go ahead,” Rush said, one hand pressed to his forehead, “astonish me.”

By 1100 hours, Rush had been seen by a neurologist and by Dr. van Densen, who’d been recalled from the Odyssey for a neurosurgical evaluation. No one had a handle on what was going on. Rush himself didn’t seem all that concerned about the situation. Then again, the guy was distracted.

Young was concerned.

“No way that’ll work, hotshot.” Young eyed Rush’s position on the board as the other man nudged a bishop down a diagonal. “Your strategy is shit.”

“Yes well, I demand a rematch when you’re viciously distracted,” Rush replied, one hand fixed to his temple.

“Can’t say I’m in favor.” Young ignored Rush’s vulnerable knight and captured an errant pawn instead. “How about we throw out today’s stats?”

“Don’t let me win,” Rush said. “I can’t imagine anything more depressing.” He shot Young an eloquent side-eye, bleak and wry.

“Than me letting you win?” Young tried not to feel offended. “I play chess, y’know.”

Rush, unimpressed, dug the heel of his hand into an eye socket. “Do y’not have things to do?” he asked. “Things elsewhere? I confess I’ve been confused as to what your so-called job actually entails.”

“Yup,” Young said. “I’ve got plenty of things to do.”

“You’re terrible.” Rush looked past Young’s shoulder and raised his voice. “Almost as bad as Daniel fuckin’ Jackson.”

“No good of himself does a listener hear,” Jackson said from behind Young’s shoulder, “speak of the devil and he shall appear.”

Young jumped. “God damn, Jackson,” he growled.

“It’s the air vents in here,” Jackson said. “You can’t hear a thing near the walls when they’re on. I think the medical staff keep them going full blast for that reason alone.” He handed Young one of the two cups of coffee he held. “How’s it going, Nick? You look awful.”

“Thanks.” Young accepted the cup.

Rush squinted up at Jackson. “Where’s my coffee?”

“Actually, that was your coffee,” Jackson said apologetically. He took a seat on the end of Rush’s gurney and glanced at the cup in Young’s hands. “Unfortunately, Dr. Lam vetoed that plan. I would’ve argued for decaf, but what’s the point? You’re not gonna drink decaf.”

“Quite right,” Rush admitted.

“Sorry, hotshot.” Young took a sip, expecting the burnt acid of base coffee, but instead finding a dark, rich blend that must’ve come from Jackson’s office stash.

“Sooooo,” the archeologist said, “what’s going on?”

Rush shook his head, his hand over his eyes.

“He’s hearing classical music in an Ancient key signature,” Young began.

“Another concerto?” Jackson asked Rush.

“Symphony,” Rush admitted.

Young frowned at the pair of them. “According to Neurology, he’s got an EEG that looks like he’s in the middle of a seizure.”

Jackson eyed Rush, his gaze clear and concerned. “Lam’s putting together a team to take a look at the problem. We’re meeting in fifteen minutes in the briefing room.”

“The ‘problem’ meaning—” Young trailed off.

Jackson glanced meaningfully at the EEG.

“Who’s on the team?” Young asked.

“Me, Sam, Dr. Lee, Dr. van Densen, one of the guys who studies the Antarctic neural interface chair, and I think they’re gonna try and get a video feed to Atlantis so Dr. McKay and Dr. Keller can weigh in.”

“Quite the team.” Uneasy, Young glanced at Rush, who was staring into space. “I didn’t realize she was quite so concerned.”

“She doesn’t think this EEG pattern is sustainable,” Jackson said, “and he doesn’t seem to be snapping out of it.”

“Not really, no.” Young rubbed his jaw. “They should take a look at Sheppard, maybe. See how his EEG looks.”

“You think something happened on Altera?” Jackson asked softly.

“Maybe,” Young said.

“I’ll suggest it,” Jackson said. “Anything else you can think of?”

Young considered. “Pull Dr. Perry for Lam’s team.”

“Amanda Perry?” Jackson asked.

“She’s been working with him,” Young explained, “on the cyphers. On that game. She’s got the best insight into what he’s actually been doing.”

Jackson nodded.

For a moment they sat in silence, listening to the click of Lam’s heels as she paced an irregular semi-circle around the phone on the wall. They watched Rush, who sat frozen, staring into space, as though listening to something.

“Hotshot,” Young said.

No response.

“Nick,” Jackson said, low and urgent.

Rush opened his eyes and looked at Jackson.

“Don’t do that,” Jackson said.

“Hard to avoid,” Rush replied.

“Hang in there,” Jackson said. “We’ll fix this.”

“Oh yes?”

“Piece of cake.” Jackson’s smile didn’t make it to his eyes. He glanced at Young. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and turned for the door of the infirmary.

“I really hate that man,” Rush muttered.

“I’m not buying it.”

Rush gave Young a glare that was equal parts disapproval and offense.

“Pretty sure your greatest joy in life is pretending to be a misanthrope,” Young offered.

“There’s something wrong with him,” Rush said.

“Well, yeah.”

They looked at each other in silence.

“Rush,”  Young began.

“Lander,” Rush said.

“What?” Young replied, alarmed.

“Powell,” Rush said.

Young snorted. “I told you. You aren’t gonna get it.”

“Douglas,” Rush said.

“You definitely memorized a list of Wyoming cities in order of population density,” Young said. “Don’t deny it.”

“Torrington,” Rush said.

“I’ll tell you—” Young said, pulling out the words.

“Get t’fuck,” Rush said. “Ranchettes.”

“—If you ask me really nicely—”

“Worland.”

“—and admit,” Young continued, “you’ve utterly failed—”

“Buffalo.”

“—in determining where I’m from despite a ridiculous amount of effort.”

“Mills,” Rush said.

“How long a list did you memorize?” Young raised his eyebrows.

“Fuckin Fox Farm-College.”

“Nope,” Young said.

Rush sighed.

“Do you give up?” Young asked.

“Never,” Rush replied.

“Your choice.” Young repositioned the chessboard. “Can I interest you in a rematch?”

By the time 1300 hours rolled around, Young had beaten Rush at chess six times, had a quick conference with Colonel Carter in her lab, and sat in on a conference call between Perry and McKay.

No one had any idea what was going on.

The leading hypothesis was that all of this had something to do with Rush’s unusual genetic profile, coupled with his recent trip to Altera or his insomnia for the past several days.

Sheppard had copped to some difficulty sleeping, but otherwise, he claimed to be fine.

“Knew I shouldn’t have let you go through that damn gate,” Young muttered at Rush.

The mathematician stared into the middle distance, ignoring the soup in front of him.

“Rush.” Young clamped a hand on the man’s shoulder and gave him a quick shake.

“What,” Rush hissed, distracted.

“Eat your soup.”

“Make yourself useful and find me some paper, will you?” Rush asked. “I think—” he trailed off, one hand pressed to his head.

“You’re done working on that cypher set, hotshot,” Young growled. “You hear me? Done.” Privately, he suspected that no one in the upper echelons of the SGC shared that viewpoint other than Jackson.

Rush didn’t respond.

“Hey.” Again, Young shook him. “Cut it out.”

Rush didn’t respond, but something in the tone of Young’s voice pulled Lam from the room’s periphery. She approached with the measured click of high heels over the cement floor.

“He’s getting harder to reach.” Lam’s eyes were on the EEG’s jagged, repetitive waveforms.

“Yeah,” Young said, even though it hadn’t been a question.

“I don’t feel comfortable allowing this to escalate any longer,” Lam said. “He’s borderline non-responsive.”

Young grimaced and looked up at her. “What kind of intervention are we talking about?”

“Well,” Lam said, sounding more unsure than Young had ever heard her, “this looks like seizure activity, even though he’s not showing signs of physical seizing. I plan on treating it as such. I hope to cool his EEG down and buy us some time to figure this thing out.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Young said, as Rush flinched at an inaudible cue. “Please tell me that stuff’ll put him out. He hasn’t slept in days.”

“It may.” Lam glanced at Young. “But we’re dealing with a biological influence of unknown character and magnitude. It’s hard to say exactly what will happen.”

Young rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I get that.”

Lam left to assemble whatever drugs and personnel she’d need. Young looked at Rush. His neighbor pressed his fingers against his temples, his brow furrowed and his expression pained. He looked miserable. Like a man digging a beachhead against his own thoughts.

“Hey.” Young grabbed Rush’s wrist and pulled his hand away from his head.

“What?” Rush asked, less irritated than offering a question in good faith.

Young closed his fingers around the man’s wrist. “Can you hear me?”

“Barely,” Rush whispered.

“Lam is gonna give you something,” Young said, “to try and stop this.”

Rush nodded.

“We’ll figure it out,” Young said. “No problem. Jackson’s on it. I don’t think Jackson’s ever failed at anything.”

Rush shot Young a reproachful look, likely thinking of several of the archeologist’s galactic-level missteps. 

“Okay, well, his track record is pretty good,” Young amended. “As good as you’re gonna find around here.”

“I prefer Colonel Carter,” Rush said.

“Have you even met Carter?” Young asked.

“I’ve seen her code,” Rush replied, his expression pained. “Already, I like her better than Jackson.”

“She’s working this thing too,” Young said. “You’re at the top of everyone’s priority list today.”

“Fantastic.” Rush closed his eyes.

“Nope.” Young tightened his fingers around Rush’s wrist. “Don’t do that. Stay with us, hotshot.”

“That ship’s fuckin’ sailed.” Rush cracked an eyelid.

“You’re a lot of work, it turns out,” Young said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Only uncomplicated optimists who feel compelled by societal expectations to torque an insult into an approximation of constructive criticism,” Rush muttered.

“There ya go, champ.” Young grinned at him. “That’s more like it.”

“Dr. Rush?” Lam approached Rush’s bed, TJ at her heels. “Are you with us?”

“Yes yes.” Rush waved a dismissive hand.

“We’re going to try an anti-epileptic medication,” Lam said. “I’m hoping it’ll reduce your symptoms and tamp down on the activity we’re seeing on the EEG. It’ll make you feel tired.”

“Fine,” Rush said shortly.

Lam nodded at TJ. “Let’s do a slow push.”

Young watched TJ’s hands, her nails with the pale pink polish, as she fitted the needle to the IV port and began to slide the plunger of the syringe home.

“Dr. Rush?” Lam’s eyes flicked between the mathematician and the EEG readout.

Rush didn’t respond, but the tension seemed to be leaving his shoulders, his neck. His eyes were closed.

“Stop the push,” Lam said to TJ. “I want him to talk to us, if he can.”

“Hey.” Young shook Rush’s shoulder gently. “Nick. How ya doin’?”

Rush opened his eyes.

“Talk to us,” Young said. “How do you feel?”

His neighbor gave him a sleepily skeptical side-eye. “Fine.”

“His EEG is cooling down,” Lam murmured to herself. “Are you hearing anything?” she asked Rush.

“Key changes,” Rush said.

“Key changes?” Lam repeated.

“Changes of key,” Rush clarified with crushingly earnest precision.

“Okay,” Lam said gently. “So you’re still hearing things?”

Rush nodded. His eyes drifted shut.

“Dr. Rush,” Lam said, “what are you hearing?”

Young ran a hand over Rush’s forearm. “Hey,” he said, “hotshot.”

Rush quirked an eyebrow at him.

“D minor?” Young asked.

“And its variant,” Rush said.

“You’re hearing a key change between D minor and an Ancient variant of D-minor?” Lam asked. “Is that correct?”

Rush nodded, looking up at her.

“He seems better,” Young said. “He’s paying more attention to us than he has in hours.”

“I agree.” Lam studied the EEG readout running across the monitor. “How often does the key switch?”

“D-minor,” Rush said, like he was applying a label.

“It’s D-minor right now?” Lam watched the EEG.

Rush nodded, then winced. “Switch,” he said. The monitor broke into a series of jagged, high amplitude waves.

They watched it in silence.

“Switch,” Rush said.

“God damn.” Young watched neural patterns lengthen and flatten on the monitor. 

“We’re literally seeing this play out in the EEG,” Lam said.

“Switch,” Rush said, his eyes closing, one hand coming to his head.

“Start the push again.” Lam glanced at TJ. “Keep it slow.”

“Switch,” Rush said indistinctly, almost as soon as TJ started.

“Keep going.” Lam directed her words at TJ. “His tracing is approaching his baseline. Let’s bring him all the way back down.”

“How we doing, hotshot?” Young asked. “Hearing anything?”

Rush shook his head.

“Nothing?” Lam asked. “Not even the D-minor?”

Again, Rush shook his head.

“Good,” Lam said quietly.

“It’s in.” TJ pulled the syringe from the IV port with a delicate flick of her wrist.

“Nick?” Young said, his hand closed around the other man’s forearm.

Rush’s eyelids flickered.

“He’s pretty sedated,” Lam said.

"Well," Young said, not sure whether he was more relieved or more anxious at the idea that Rush could be medicated out of whatever the hell was happening in his mind, "you needed a damned nap anyway, hotshot.”

Rush closed his eyes, his expression relaxing, the last of the tension leaving his frame.

Young looked at Lam. "You have any idea what's causing this?"

“No." Lam returned to studying the now sedate waveforms of Rush’s EEG.

“Well, it doesn’t seem good,” Young said, looking down at his sleeping neighbor.

“No,” Lam agreed. “It doesn’t.”