Mathématique: Chapter 45

“Damn it, hotshot,” Young whispered, looking up, as if he could see into low earth orbit. 




Revised Author’s Notes: This is a piece of fan fiction. It’s a trope-twisting, epic-length, crossover AU that spans all three series of Stargate. There’s a lot of science. A lot of plot. A lot of emotions. Timelines have been slightly altered so that season 4 of Stargate Atlantis (without Carter in command) occurs contemporaneously to season 10 of SG-1, which occurs in the year prior to season 1 of SGU.


Disclaimer: I’m not making money from this; please don’t repost to other sites. 

Warnings: Stressors of all kinds. Injury. Allusions to torture.




Chapter 45


Young sat on the rear of Mitchell’s Camaro, his forehead braced against his interlaced fingers as the sun rose over Cheyenne Mountain. His back ached, vicious and horrible, a coiled and tangled mess of nerves that sat somewhere around his left hip, like a laired serpent.


The briefing, scheduled for six hundred hours, had been postponed.


General Landry and the representatives from the Pentagon and the NID were waiting for them. Waiting for them to finish. The new scene had to be documented. Information had to be exchanged. To that end, Young and Jackson had been briefed about the security footage from Cheyenne Mountain, while Mitchell and Carter and Teal’c had been updated on what the two of them had found on the road, in the dark.


He looked at his Charger, still askew in the shallow ditch on the side of the road.


Yards away, like people out of another world, Jackson and Mitchell and Carter and Teal’c stood together in a loose arc of competence, Jackson’s hands in his pockets, Carter’s hands everywhere, at her chest, on her phone, around Jackson’s elbow. The pair of them stood together, thinking, talking, analyzing, planning, behind the bookends of Cam and Teal’c’s gatekeeping.


Young had stepped away. Shortly, he would be called upon to explain his reasons.


“I came to get you out,” he whispers, the last word cracking with accusation, with betrayal as he strains against repurposed bonds of Goa’uld manufacture.


“I know,” Telford says, his voice a ragged smear, as if any amount of guilt could atone for what he holds in his hands. Young has seen it before. There’s one at the SGC. They keep it for the orientation of new recruits. It’s shown to them as the nature of Goa’uld interrogation techniques are explained.


Shortly, he’d need to tell them. He’d need to tell them what he suspected. What he was beginning to—


To realize.


He would need to figure out how to phrase it.


Young looked at the dark contours Telford’s Acura NSX. Someone had killed the engine, but no one had shut the doors. By now the car battery would be dead.


Photographers snapped pictures at irregular intervals—of the car, the road, the coffee, the position of Rush’s phone. The position of his ring.


His ring.


God.


God damn.


The good thing about Telford—the good thing—was that—


Young pressed a closed fist against his mouth. He could almost see them, walking out of the building in a synchronized skirting of the red tape that Telford was so good at ducking under and Rush was so good at ignoring. Walking together, into the dark of the parking lot, toward Telford’s car, only one of them knowing where they were truly headed.


“Rush, you idiot,” he whispered, his eyes shut. And then, “I came to get you out.”


“I know,” David answered out of memory, the words so ragged they were nearly unrecognizable, his eyes tormented, the rest of him a shifting blur—covered with blood against the door of an LA skimmer, imprisoned in an LA holding cell, or had it been—


Had it been Young himself who had been imprisoned?


He tried to put together no narratives, but—


Narratives came together anyway, organizing themselves out of the dark places in his thoughts.


And, try though he might, he couldn’t assemble a story that didn’t involve his genius neighbor, who’d been on the wrong end of an Ancient city for weeks now, throwing himself out of Colonel David Telford’s moving car. He could picture it perfectly. The quick snap of Rush’s wrist in the darkness, the click of a releasing door—


But nothing else. He couldn’t order his thoughts. Telford’s car had been turning as it stopped, that much could be seen from the skid marks along the road that became more and more apparent as the sun rose.


“Damn it, hotshot,” Young whispered, looking up, as if he could see into low earth orbit.


The good thing about Telford—


The good thing—


The good thing was that he—he was professional. Even if he had been warped, even if he had been twisted to an Alliance agenda—he wouldn’t lose that. Because if he lost that—if he lost that, well then he wouldn’t be David anymore. Would he. Would he? Because David—David, the David that Young knew, the David that Young had known would never do this. He wouldn’t betray the SGC, he wouldn’t kidnap a civilian and hand him over to torture and death, he wouldn’t give a scientist to a culture that didn’t understand the value of free inquiry because if he did these things, then—then he wouldn’t be David.


“Did they give you the drug?” Young asks, his eyes on his sensors.


“I don’t think they did,” Telford says, his eyes half shut, his hands dark with his own blood. “But then, how would I know?”


There were places in his mind that weren’t his own. He might be—he might be just as guilty as David. Just as complicit, in some way unknown to him. And so. He couldn’t help them. Not Vala, if she needed his help. Not David, who certainly did, whether he knew it or not. And not Rush, who needed it most. And not SG-1, on whose shoulders this entire fiasco would come to rest. He looked at them there, arrayed in profile against the dawn, and, as if he could feel the pressure of Young’s eyes, Jackson turned, looking back at him.


Young held his gaze.


Jackson shoved his hands into his pockets, broke away from SG-1, and started toward him. Young watched him come, wishing for something, anything to intervene to put off this moment that should have come already.


That should have come when he had knelt in the road, looking at Rush’s ring. That should have come weeks ago, when he’d begun to dream of Kiva.


“Hey,” Jackson said, his eyes down, coming to perch next to Young on Mitchell’s Camaro. “You all right?”


Young supposed that was Jacksonese for something like, ‘What the hell are you doing sitting on the back of Mitchell’s car in the middle of a code five in triplicate?’


“Um,” Young said, rubbing his jaw.


Jackson reached into his pocket and pulled out Rush’s wedding ring. He held it out, wordless and merciless, in the space between them.


“Jackson, that should be in a labeled bag somewhere,” Young said, looking at the ring and then away.


“There are some things that need to be rescued from consignment to the bureaucratic substrata,” Jackson said. “I already signed it out, ideally indefinitely, post photographing, finger-printing, and energy signature scanning. I thought you should hang onto it.”


Young shook his head.


Jackson backed off, his elbow coming to rest on his knee. He did not re-pocket the ring.


“What about Vala?” Young asked, “you rescue anything of hers?”


Jackson pulled a white flower out of the front pocket of his jacket. “It was in her hair,” he said, looking at it.


“Yeah,” Young said, the word no more than a breath.


“She wasn’t involved in this,” Jackson said, looking toward the dead husk of Telford’s car. “I know she wasn’t.”


Young looked at him but said nothing, convinced that Jackson only knew she was honest because he walked, open eyed and defenseless, into every sword that had ever been pointed in his way, trusting that someone would remove the blade. That, or jump in front of it. 


“Take it,” Jackson said, again extending Rush’s ring. “For safe keeping.”


“You’re gonna have to do it,” Young whispered.


“Do what?” Jackson asked.


“All of it,” Young said. “I’m turning myself in.”


“You’re—“ Jackson said, trailing off into nothingness.


“I went,” Young whispered, the words a wreck of broken emphasis, “to get him out.”


“Telford,” Jackson said.


“Yes,” Young whispered. 

“But you did,” Jackson said, his voice cracking. “You did get him out, you rescued him—no one could have done it but you. You—”


Young turned his head and Jackson stopped talking.


Did I get him out?” Young asked. “Did I ‘rescue’ him? Or did he come back with me.”


Jackson said nothing.


“For weeks,” Young whispered, “I’ve been dreaming of Kiva.”


“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jackson asked.


“What do you dream of, Jackson,” Young snarled.


The other man looked away.


“I’m turning myself in,” Young said again. “I’m asking Lam to test me.”


“Please,” Jackson said, abrupt and pained before he cut himself off, his eyes closing his head tipping back. “All right,” he said after a long moment. “All right.”


Young nodded.


Jackson repocketed Rush’s ring. “You realize,” he said, “once you’ve admitted that you might be on the wrong side of that one-way glass—there may be no coming back.”


“I know,” Young said.  “I know that—that’s the worst part.”


“Cam will fight you on this,” Jackson said quietly.


“I know that too.”


“So don’t tell him,” Jackson continued. “Not until it’s too late.”


Young looked over at Mitchell, standing between Carter and Teal’c, his phone pressed to his ear, his eyes hard. He nodded. “Jackson,” Young said.


“Still Daniel. Still and always Daniel,” Jackson said, quietly, looking east, toward the rising sun.


“Daniel,” Young said. “Tell me you’re going to find him.”


“I’ll find him,” Jackson said. “I’ll find both of them.”





They dressed him in the blue-white scrubs of those medically restricted to the base. It was a courtesy. Because he was in a cell. The same cell that Telford had been in before his medical clearance, behind a one-way mirror, attached to the infirmary, continuously monitored. A pair of guards posted outside the door stood between him and his capacity to be of use. To anyone.


Soon, they would come to question him.


He wondered who it would be.


It might be Mitchell.


God, he hoped not.


He sat down on the edge of the bed and dropped his head into his hands.


“I came to get you out,” he whispers, the last word cracking with accusation, with betrayal as he strains against repurposed bonds of Goa’uld manufacture.


“I know,” Telford says, his voice a ragged smear, as if any amount of guilt could atone for what he holds in his hands. Young has seen it before. There’s one at the SGC. They keep it for the orientation of new recruits. It’s shown to them as the nature of Goa’uld interrogation techniques are explained.


“And you will,” Telford continues. “Just—not quite the way that you imagined.”


“You can’t mean that,” Young says, trying not to show any sign of distress, suppressing the urge to pull against his bonds.


“I’m sorry,” Telford says, looking at what he holds. “Oh Christ. Oh shit. Oh fuck, I’m sorry. This is my fault.”


“Yes,” Young replies. “It is.”


Jackson had arranged for the entire thing to be processed through medical, rather than through base security, which was where Young would have taken himself. That was why he was here, in blue, on level twenty-one, instead of locked in the holding cells on twenty-six with Nerus, the odd clone of Baal, and whatever low-level members of the Goa’uld that had unwisely allowed themselves to be caught on Earth, posing as Tau’ri.


Young stood, pacing the length of wall near the door, across from the one-way mirror. Five levels down, in the briefing room outside Landry’s office, they would be holding the meeting that had been scheduled for six hundred hours. SG-1 would be there, and Lam. Lam. Lam who had, for some reason, released Rush from the infirmary last night.


He rubbed a hand along his jaw.


Landry would be there, along with someone from the pentagon and someone from the NID. They would begin by reviewing all available information. Someone would assemble a narrative. Likely it would be whomever the NID had sent. The narrative would go like this: 


At 1900 hours the previous evening, Vala Mal Doran had been allegedly abducted from a social event.


Jackson wouldn’t like that. There was nothing ‘alleged,’ about it, he would say. I saw her forced into that van.


The NID representative would stop. No one would say anything. And then the NID rep would begin again. Vala Mal Doran was forced into an unmarked white van by parties unknown. All available resources were devoted to determining her location. Teams were standing by for a hostile extraction. SG-1, and SG-4 had been mobilized. SG-9 was standing by. At approximately 2000 hours, Dr. Lam released David Telford and Nicholas Rush from the infirmary, but gave the order for Rush to stay on base. At this time, Dr. Rush and Colonel Telford proceeded to the mess. At 2300 hours, Dr. Rush and Colonel Telford left the mess. Dr. Rush proceeded to his assigned quarters, VIP suite #4. Colonel Telford proceeded to the gym. At 2400 hours, Colonel Telford left the gym and entered the men’s locker room before proceeding to staff quarters. At 0100 hours, the van was found, abandoned, in the woods near the base of Cheyenne Mountain. No activity was detected by low earth orbital sensors during this time.


Doesn’t mean much, Mitchell would say. And he would be right.


The NID rep would keep going. At 0330 hours, Colonel Telford left his own quarters, and proceeded in the direction of the VIP suites. Dr. Rush also left his quarters at this time. The two met in the hallway and then separated. Rush returned to his quarters. Telford retrieved two cups of coffee from the mess. They met each other once again at the NORAD exit on level three. At 0345 they were caught on camera leaving the base in Colonel Telford’s car. From the security footage it can be confirmed that at the time they passed the base perimeter, Telford was driving and Dr. Rush was in the front passenger seat. At four hundred hours this morning Colonel Young received a cellphone call from Dr. Rush. At four hundred hours and twelve minutes, Colonel Young and Dr. Jackson located Colonel Telford’s empty car. At four hundred hours and fifteen minutes, Colonel Young located Dr. Rush’s still transmitting cell phone at a distance of eight feet from the edge of the road. Faded evidence of a transport signature was present at a distance of thirty feet from the abandoned car, where Dr. Rush’s wedding ring was found.


And then—


The arguing would begin. It would start as they attempted to prioritize targets, as the NID rep floated the idea of Vala’s abduction being the bait half of a bait and switch. Jackson would fight that suggestion with every verbal tool at his disposal, fiery-eyed and even toned, his relentlessness backed by Teal’c’s unspoken and unswerving support while Mitchell and Carter, exhausted and frustrated, tried not to miss anything as Landry decided which way he would throw his weight. For Vala, or against her. Either way, they’d put most of their resources toward finding Rush. Young was sure of that.


He continued to pace.


They would find him. Jackson would find him. Jackson had said he would. And so, he would.


God damn. This was his fault.  At least partially. Maybe it was more his fault than he knew.


“I came to get you out,” he whispers, the last word cracking with accusation, with betrayal as he strains against repurposed bonds of Goa’uld manufacture.


“I know,” Telford says, his voice a ragged smear, as if any amount of guilt could atone for what he holds in his hands. Young has seen it before. There’s one at the SGC. They keep it for the orientation of new recruits. It’s shown to them as the nature of Goa’uld interrogation techniques are explained.


“And you will,” Telford continues. “Just—not quite the way that you imagined.”


“You can’t mean that,” Young says, trying not to show any sign of distress, suppressing the urge to pull against his bonds.


“I’m sorry,” Telford says, looking at what he holds. “Oh Christ. Oh shit. Oh fuck, I’m sorry. This is my fault.”


“Yes,” Young replies. “It is.” There’s no sound in the room but for the ragged syncopation of their breathing.


“If it’s any consolation,” Telford says, looking away, “you won’t remember this.”


“How could that,” Young replies, his voice finally breaking, “be consolation. For anyone. Except you.”


He stopped pacing. He sat back down on his bed. He wasn’t going to think about Rush. He wasn’t going to think about what was happening to him. For Vala—well, there was still the hope that she—that even if what had happened the previous evening had been exactly what it looked like—there was always the chance that Vala would be able to twist her circumstances to her advantage. She’d done it before. He’d seen her do it. And do it masterfully. Rush though—


Rush—


They’d torture him. They just would. There was no question about that. They’d do it immediately. They’d do it as policy, whether he cooperated with them or not. They’d certainly already done it to Dr. Volker. They’d do it because it was what they did. Because they’d learned it from the Goa’uld. Rush wouldn’t do well with torture. The guy hadn’t been doing well at baseline. In his own apartment.


Young pushed away from the cot in the corner of the room and paced across the floor to the opposite wall. One time. He returned. He sat back down. How would they do it?


“I came to get you out,” he whispers, the last word cracking with accusation, with betrayal as he strains against repurposed bonds of Goa’uld manufacture.


“I know,” Telford says, his voice a ragged smear, as if any amount of guilt could atone for what he holds in his hands. Young has seen it before. There’s one at the SGC. They keep it for the orientation of new recruits. It’s shown to them as the nature of Goa’uld interrogation techniques are explained.


“And you will,” Telford continues. “Just—not quite the way that you imagined.”


“You can’t mean that,” Young says, trying not to show any sign of distress, suppressing the urge to pull against his bonds.


“I’m sorry,” Telford says, looking at what he holds. “Oh Christ. Oh shit. Oh fuck, I’m sorry. This is my fault.”


“Yes,” Young replies. “It is.” There’s no sound in the room but for the ragged syncopation of their breathing.


“If it’s any consolation,” Telford says, looking away, “you won’t remember this.”


“How could that,” Young replies, his voice finally breaking, “be consolation. For anyone. Except you.”


Telford looks away.


Young does not.


Still looking away, his head angled down, Telford says, “Kiva is— Kiva has decided—that it’s going to be me. It’s going to be me who does it.” Even now, even holding the thing in his hands, he cannot say what it is he means.


“Does what,” Young says, pitiless. “Does what, David?”


“You don’t understand,” Telford whispers.


“You,” Young snarls. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Not anymore.”


Young shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. Distantly, he could feel the sickening, waiting ache of his back.


He knew what they’d do to Rush. They’d use the devices that they had stolen and then backwards-engineered from the Goa’uld. Devices that caused excruciating pain and a contracture of muscles via application of electricity. He didn’t have to imagine what Rush would look like, his spine arching beneath the forceful contracture of muscles, obeying signals of disordered thought. Because he knew. He’d already seen it. He’d seen it only a few days ago, until Lam and Carter and McKay had—


Attached the cortical suppressants.


“Oh god, hotshot,” he said, nearly soundless. “You’re fucked.” The LA would take them off. They’d take them off. They’d take them off to see what they did, they’d take them off because they were curious, they’d take them off because they were cruel, but, fundamentally, they’d take them off because they’d feel they had to, because they’d be worried that they were some kind of tracking device, they’d worry about broadcasting a signal, and, if they had anyone in that godforsaken organization with the capacity to analyze the things without breaking them, they’d find out that they were transmitting a signal. And Rush—


Rush would be dead in hours.


Except.


Right, except. Except. There was an except. Telford. Telford wouldn’t let that happen. Even brainwashed, if that’s what that he was, even as a defector—Telford wouldn’t allow that. If he had a choice. If he had any way to prevent it, he would.


Telford liked scientists. He’d always liked them. He’d given them more respect than was typical, even within the context of the science-friendly SGC. He was friends with Carter, he bought Bill Lee a drink from time to time, and he had taken—god he had taken every single night seminar on the physics of gate travel that Carter gave in the fall, he had gone to every single one of Perry’s “Hops and Hyperdrives” happy-hour lectures and he had taken notes; he had always respected the practice and the products of hypothesis testing, he had always been interested in it and he wouldn’t, even if he were brainwashed he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, just give them Rush, he had to have some other plan, he had to have some other agenda, it couldn’t have all been, it couldn’t all be brainwashing—but god he wished he’d said something, anything to Telford yesterday about the cortical suppressants, he wished he’d given the other man some kind of indication that they were important, that they shouldn’t be removed.


A flicker in his peripheral vision caused him to look up, and he saw the silver surface of the mirror transform into the darkness of a window. Lam stood in the center of the dimness, pale behind the glass, the light reflecting off her white coat. She was alone.


“Colonel,” she said.


“Yeah,” he replied, approaching the glass.


She said nothing, her expression strained.


“Tell me what you can tell me,” Young said. “I’m not asking for anything more.”


“Over my objections,” Lam said, quiet and direct, “your debriefing has been turned over to the NID. Entirely.”


Young nodded. “Am I being charged with anything?”


“You’re not,” Lam said. “But I’m not sure that’s a necessarily a good sign.”


Young nodded. They were silent, watching one another.


“You haven’t asked about your blood-work,” Lam whispered.


“I’m pretty sure I know what you’re going to find,” Young replied.


“I’ll tell you as soon as I know,” Lam said. “It’ll be a few hours.”


He looked away.


“Colonel,” Lam said, “you’re entitled to representation during your questioning.”


“Great,” Young said.


Lam stepped closer to the glass. “Choose Teal’c,” she said, low and intent.


“Teal’c?” he repeated. “Teal’c isn’t a lawyer.”


“Name a lawyer that will be able to effectively help you combat a charge of brainwashing. The Jaffa have a method of recognizing and dealing with this. If you want to have any chance of exonerating yourself, you’re going to need to give them something that looks like a resolution. Teal’c has gone through this himself. Teal’c has identified coercive persuasion in others. Teal’c is the Jaffa Ambassador to Earth and for that reason alone has a lot of bureaucratic pull. Not to mention all he’s done for this planet.”


“I doubt that Teal’c has the time to—“


“He’ll do it,” Lam said. “I’ve already asked him. I asked him after the briefing.”


“Why are you helping me?” Young whispered.


“Because that’s my job. Because I’ve seen what the NID call ‘questioning’,” Lam said. “Because there’s no evidence that you’ve done anything wrong but they will nail you with this because the only other person to blame is Telford and he’s gone.”


Young nodded and looked away.


“You’re not responsible for something that was done to you,” Lam whispered. “You’re only responsible for your actions. And sometimes? Around here? Not even for those. Remember that. Hold to that.”


“Yeah.”


“They’ll want a timeline from you. A timeline of what happened when you were on that planet with Telford. The things you’ve been dreaming about. They’ll need corroboration for that narrative. But once they get it, once you can pass the Tok’ra’s Za’tarc scan, once Teal’c clears you, they’ll let you out.”


“Should they?” Young asked.


“People have come back from this,” Lam said. “Teal’c has come back from it.”


“Did you say this to Telford?” Young asked. “When he was in here?”


Lam looked at him steadily before speaking. “Telford was never turned over to the NID,” she said quietly, “because his bloodwork was clear. Given the level of intelligence that the LA has, this proves very little. There are ways he might have engineered a false negative. He could have undergone plasmapheresis. The LA might have technology unknown to us. But there is at least some chance that he’s truly negative. That he was never exposed to the agent used for coercive persuasion. I know what that implies to me, Colonel. What does it imply to you?”


“That he was a true defector,” Young whispered. “I don’t believe that. I’ll never believe it.”


“We may never know,” Lam replied.


They looked at one another in silence.


“Discover the truth of your own experience,” Lam said quietly, “in whatever way you can. Don’t let the NID keep you locked away, simply for the sin of getting injected with something against your will.”


He raised his eyebrows at her.


“The Icarus Project,” Lam said, “needs a leader. Unnamed Committee Number Four needs another member. Dr. Jackson can’t carry all of this by himself.”


Young looked away, nodded once. “When are they going to start?” He waved a hand, a loose circle in the air, unable to meet her eyes. “With all of it.”


“I’m not sure,” Lam replied. “It might be today. It might not.”


“You hear anything about Rush or Vala?”


“I can’t say,” Lam said quietly.


“I know,” Young replied.


“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” Lam offered.


“One question,” Young said. “What would the effect of—“ he lost his momentum, regrouped, and tried again. “What would the effect of an electrically-based torture device be on someone who was wearing cortical suppressants?”


Lam looked up at him, her expression pained. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s a delicate device. You think that they might torture him?”


Yes.


Definitely.


“Maybe,” Young said.


“My best guess,” Lam said, “is that it would interfere transiently with the operation of the device. However, it might also damage the suppressants in such a way that their action might be compromised.”


Young nodded.


With an abruptness that startled him, Lam brought one hand up, pressing it against the glass.


They looked at each other for a long moment.


“I’m sorry,” Lam whispered, the words nearly strangling her as they ripped their way free of wherever they’d been. “I’m so sorry. That I let him leave.”


“Yeah,” Young said, bringing his own hand up and pressing it against the glass where hers rested. “Me too.” 

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