Mathématique: Chapter 59

“What do we look like to you?” McKay snapped. “Broken-down, burnt-out, worn-out shells of human beings who’ve spent half a decade battling soul-sucking monsters?”

Chapter warnings: Stressors of all kinds. Grief. Physical injuries. Mental health challenges. Panic attacks. Mentions of torture. Depression.

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

Chapter 59

“Y’know, this would almost be hilarious if it weren’t such a hot mess.” Mitchell favored Young with a wry, lateral glance.

“Tell me about it,” Young growled.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the base of Cheyenne Mountain, waiting for the gate to activate. Young’s back ached, his hip ached, but, somehow, the pain felt far away, pushed to the edges of his awareness by the overwhelming drive to finally, finally—

Get.

His goddamned neighbor.

Back.

He’d spent months believing the man to be in the hands of the Lucian Alliance. Brainwashed. Tortured. Dead. When really he’d been—

“Vala spends eight weeks waitressing? Rush spends nine weeks as a barista? I just—” Mitchell broke off. “I’m a little offended.”

“Offended?” Young echoed.

“Yeah. I mean, you and Jackson nearly killed yourselves. Actually, scratch that. Jackson nearly killed both of you. Himself with work, and you with—y’know. His hands. By request. All with the idea of getting them back. And the whole time? Both of them? Both of them are, like, doing a memory-free stint in the service industry?” Mitchell shook his head.

Young shifted his weight to help the strained muscles in his back. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Sure seems like Vala had a great time.”

“Take it easy.” Mitchell glanced at him. “Just tryin’ to lever up some of the stress in the air before it crushes us to death.”

Mitchell had a point. With every hour that passed, the tension in Young’s body ratcheted higher. Presuming Rush really was in Boston, his position was way too vulnerable. No memories. No resources. Devices strapped to his temples, keeping his cognition intact while broadcasting a trackable signal. It was a damned miracle the LA hadn’t found him already. That kind of luck wasn’t gonna hold.

“You don’t seem as relieved about finding him as I pictured,” Mitchell offered.

“I’ll be relieved when he’s back in my kitchen, lighting pans on fire in pursuit of increasing culinary perfection, and not before,” Young shot back. 

“Yeah, okay. A lot can happen between now and then. I get it.” Mitchell paused. “But, while we have a minute—you wanna talk about Jackson?”

“No,” Young said, in a way that meant, Yes, I definitely wanna talk about Jackson. He looked over, catching Mitchell’s eye.

The other man nodded subtly.

“Remember the Chel’mek?” Young asked. 

“‘Remember the Chel’mek?’ That Chel’mek scarred me for life.” Mitchell looked up at the dark arch of the gate with a wry smile. “I’m gonna remember the freakin’ Chel’mek until the day I die. Doritos. Come on. Who’d have seen that coming?”

“Exactly,” Young said, staring resolutely at the closed iris at the top of the gate ramp. “Doritos. Outta nowhere. Never would have expected it. Couldn’t tell they were even in there. And the thing about Doritos is that they come in a lot of varieties. Good Doritos, Bad Doritos, Wild Card Doritos.”

Mitchell, too, stared at the closed iris. “You’re serious,” he said. “You think you and I are important enough for this? You think we really need—”

“Us?” Young cut in before Mitchell could ruin his setup. “Who knows. Probably not. Just a few Air Force colonels getting dragged into god knows what by scientists who can’t help themselves. But we’ve got that mutual friend. The one who worked at Doritos for a while? I’m convinced he’s important. He thinks Doritos, as a corporation, keeps tabs on him. Constantly.”

Mitchell shot Young a guarded look, then said, “I get that. Not sure about ‘constantly.’ Let’s keep in mind he has some serious PTSD from the time he fell into a vat of chips? Sometimes I think he takes the paranoia a little far.”

“Maybe,” Young said. “Maybe not.”

“I’m guessing you’re comin’ down on the ‘maybe not’ side,” Mitchell replied.

“True,” Young admitted. “But keep in mind—you were blindsided by the Chel’mek because there was a lot about it that no one told you. You didn’t live through the creation of the Chel’mek. You couldn’t understand it for what it was.”

Mitchell nodded.

“Our friend came away from his experience with a few proprietary Doritos recipes, I think.” Young shot Mitchell a significant look.

Mitchell glared at the gate, his shoulders tense.

“The stuff you’d most wanna know?” Young finished, “Is exactly what he’s least likely to tell you.”

Mitchell huffed a frustrated sigh. “I admit—our guy’s a planner. I wouldn’t put it past him to have a Doritos Agenda.”

“He really doesn’t want my neighbor to work there,” Young said. “Probably because my neighbor is amazing in the kitchen.”

Mitchell snorted.

Young paused. Sure the other man hadn’t yet picked up on his point. “Cam. What I’m trying to tell you is that our friend thinks someone needs to go work at Doritos. He doesn’t want it to be my neighbor. Doesn’t leave a lot of other options.”

Mitchell’s frustration split down the center and he turned to look at Young, dismayed. “Shit,” he said.

Young gave him a took-you-long enough look.

“Chel’mek changes you,” Mitchell said quietly. “How much a’this do you know, and how much are you guessing.”

“It’s about half guesswork,” Young admitted, “but—I know there’s a weapon in the mix.”

“If he said something about a weapon,” Mitchell said through gritted teeth, “that would be very classified.”

“Sounds like that weapon might be a person.”

Mitchell’s ice-blue gaze homed in on Young like it was seeking heat. “A person?”

“Yup.”

“News to me,” Mitchell said softly. “But no one’s goin’ back to Doritos if I can help it.”

Before Young could answer, the gate activated. Eight chevrons lit sequentially and the event horizon burst blue behind the iris, lighting up the back wall of the room.

“Okay,” Mitchell said, shaking himself. “Step one: retrieve Fields Medalist. Step two: boycott Doritos, open a farm-to-table restaurant.”

Young snorted.

The iris dilated, and their Atlantis guests stepped through the gate.

John Sheppard and Rodney McKay paused in front of the rippling blue of the event horizon, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. From the top of the ramp, they scanned the room.

“Huh.” McKay frowned. “I thought Colonel Carter would be here.”

“It’s probably best for you that she’s not,” Mitchell replied.

“You, I remember.” McKay ignored Mitchell and directed himself to Young. “Storm guy. Storm Colonel. Colonel Young. Nick’s neighbor.”

“Hi,” Young said.

“But you.” McKay leveled a puzzled look at Mitchell that struck Young as a little too theatrical to take seriously. “Do I know you? You’re not ringing a bell. What’s your name? Richards? Satchell? Who are you? No one important?”

“Mitchell,” Mitchell said. “Cam Mitchell, SG-1.”

“He knows your name.” Sheppard gave McKay a subtle eye roll. “Hey guys.” With a low-energy wave, Sheppard started down the ramp.

“For your information,” McKay continued, glaring at Mitchell, “Sam Carter and I have a science bromance the likes of which humanity has never seen. And will never see again, probably. Nothing will come between us. Nothing could. We built a bridge between galaxies.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mitchell said. “Tell her that, maybe.”

“I do. Constantly. She’s as excited about it as I am, frankly.”

Sheppard walked up to Young, dropped his bag on the ramp, and pulled him into a tight hug. Young wrapped his free arm around the other man.

“Hi,” Sheppard murmured, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “You look great.”

“Haven’t heard that in a while,” Young replied.

McKay and Mitchell bantered behind them.

“Yeah.” Sheppard pulled back with a gentle shoulder clap. “That’s because it’s not true. Just mixin’ it up for you.”

“You okay?” Young gave Sheppard a critical look.

“Not really,” he replied. “Is anyone? Has anyone ever been okay?”

“No,” McKay snapped, interrupting his back-and-forth with Mitchell to glare at Sheppard. “Don’t get philosophical. We agreed that no one, especially you, would get philosophical on this trip. This trip was and is about practical expedience. We get Nick back, we fix the bridge, then we fix you. Someone write that down. Pencil it into whatever ridiculous agenda you Milky Way People have cooked up.”

Young glanced at Mitchell, only to find Mitchell already looking at him. They looked at Sheppard.

McKay sighed. “It’s like, sometimes, I wonder if I’m speaking English. I am speaking English, right?”

“I’m never sure, Rodney,” Sheppard replied.

The gate shut down.

“HEY! MILKY WAY!” McKay shouted at the control room. “Did Pegasus not ask for A WARNING?”

Sheppard staggered, one hand coming to his head. He dropped to a knee at the base of the gate ramp.

Young followed him down, paying for it with a wrench in his back. He got there in time to control Sheppard’s fall out of his crouch. Just when his back was really beginning to protest, McKay was across from him, kneeling, taking Sheppard’s weight, helping him turn, pressing him flat against the floor at the base of the ramp.

“Can we get medical down here?” Mitchell shouted in the direction of the control room. 

“Shep.” Young shook the man. “John.”

“Damn it,” McKay hissed, his hand over the center of Sheppard’s chest. “I told you. I told you. Did I not tell you? A roomful of people witnessed me telling you that leaving Atlantis—”

“Rodney,” Sheppard said, his eyes shut tight, one hand cemented to his temple. “I’m fine. I just need a minute. And maybe, like, some tweaking.” He cracked an eye and looked at Young. “Sorry guys. This—happens sometimes.”

“‘Tweaking’ is a Samantha Carter term and does not belong in this space.” McKay pulled a handheld device out of his pocket.

“Samantha Carter terms belong nowhere if not this space.” Mitchell dropped into a crouch next to McKay. “What’s happening?”

“His cortical patterns vary as a function of his proximity to Ancient tech. There’s a lot of it on Atlantis. Comparatively, Cheyenne Mountain is a desert.” McKay’s eyes were on the device in his hand.

Young shifted to align his knee, hip, and spine. The pressure on his back eased. “You think this happens to Rush?” he asked, unable to help himself.

“M’not sure.” Sheppard’s brow was furrowed, and a thin sheen of sweat formed on his forehead.

“Your local cryptographic prima donna is probably fine,” McKay said absently, studying the screen in his hand. “He’s not passing through regions of space with varying loads of Ancient tech. Whereas this guy, on the other hand, needs a neocortical adjustment every time he tries to lead a mission. It’s VERY inconvenient for the Lantean Flagship Team. Okay.” He glanced at Sheppard, then back at the device in his hand. “What’s three hundred and forty-eight times fourteen?”

“Um?” Sheppard said. 

McKay made a frustrated sound and frowned at his device. “Hang on. What’s seven factorial?”

“Five thousand forty,” Sheppard answered, a note of disapproval under the strain in his voice. “C’mon Rodney. You know I love combinatorics. Give me something I need to calculate.”

“Oh excuse me for trying to take it easy on the guy lying on the floor,” McKay snapped back. “What’s five hundred and eighty-seven times seventeen?

“Ten thousandish.”

“That’s—yeah. That’s right. This is looking better. Can you sit?”

“I think we wait for medical,” Young growled. He didn’t like the way Sheppard was holding himself. Very tense. Very still.

“And I think I gave a whole speech about the utility of JOINT BRIEFINGS,” McKay blazed. “We’ve been doing this for weeks. It’s not new. I’m recalibrating interlocking wave equations that allow him to function after that little jaunt he took with our missing Fields Medalist to the Capital City of the Ancient Afterlife. Something happened on that planet and we need to deal with it. In an intergalactic fashion. To be clear? That means me. And Carter. No one needs your opinion.” McKay looked back at Sheppard, and his tone softened. “Can you sit?”

“Nope.” Sheppard’s hand was still at his temple.

Young looked at Mitchell. Again, he found Mitchell already looking back at him. “Nope?” they repeated in tandem.

“Sorry.” Sheppard squinted at them. “Almost there. Probably.”

“I think I see the problem.” McKay frowned at his device, applying gentle pressure with his fingertips against the touchscreen. “Waveform two is coming on a little strong. Once this briefing happens we’ll sit in a dark room and take our time with this. What do you say?”

“Can we get pizza?” Sheppard asked in a cracked whisper.

McKay smiled faintly, most of his attention on the device in his hand. “Uh, obviously we’ll get pizza. What’s the point of even being here if we don’t get pizza for literally every meal?”

Sheppard looked up at him, pained and fond and full of quiet confidence.

“Can anybody crash this party?” Mitchell asked, picking up on the vibe. “Or is it a McShep thing.”

McShep ignored him.

Young and Mitchell exchanged a wry look.

Sheppard unclamped the hand from the side of his head and, slowly, sat.

“Okay, this is definite progress,” McKay said. “Gonna move to waveform three.”

“You gonna be able to go into the field?” Young gave Sheppard a dubious look.

“Of course he’ll be able to go into the field, once we get his tech up and running,” McKay snapped. “What do we look like to you? Broken-down, burnt-out, worn-out shells of human beings who’ve spent half a decade battling soul-sucking monsters?” Solicitously, McKay turned back to Sheppard. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Sheppard breathed. “Yeah, I think I’m good.” He shifted, centering his weight. “Pretty sure I can walk.”

“John,” Mitchell said, from where he was hovering above McKay’s shoulder, “and I say this in the nicest way, but what the hell, man?”

Sheppard shrugged, gave Mitchell a faint smile, then glanced at Young. “Everett knows what I’m talking about.”

“Maybe.” Young offered Sheppard his hand.

“No!” Mitchell slapped their hands apart. “Let the guy without the shattered spine help you up?”

“Still got all your grandma’s common sense I see.” Sheppard took Mitchell’s hand and got hauled to his feet. He reached down to offer Young a hand in turn. “Come to Atlantis,” he said. “We’ll form a Disabled Colonels Support Group.”

Young took his hand.

The three of them stood on the gate ramp, and Young felt the absence of David Telford like a kick in the gut.

They all did.

No one spoke.

No one spoke, except McKay.

“Yeahhh this is all very touching and whatnot. I can feel the Colonelness in the air. But my priorities? Are to have this briefing, get the Fields Medalist, secure the McKay-Carter Intergalactic Gate Bridge, and then figure out what the hell is going on with the Lantean Dream Team because I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time restoring Sheppard’s ability to y’know, multiply and walk over the past several weeks, which he’s pretty good natured about, but which I find excruciatingly stressful, so whatever machismo bonding thing is happening between you three right now can wait.”

“Lantean Dream Team?” Mitchell repeated.

Young looked away, hiding a smile.

“Sheppard and Rush,” McKay snapped. “Colonel Young gets it. Keep up, Satchell.”

“He made a sarcastic name for us because he’s jealous,” Sheppard said. “Also, we kinda share dreams it turns out.”

“Anything useful turn up recently?” Young asked.

“Last night I dreamed of piano. All night. It was twenty percent nice, eighty percent exhausting. I think he might have moved on from the barista life.”

“He’s moonlighting as a pianist?” McKay asked. “Can you tell where?”

“A restaurant. No details yet. Fancy enough to have a nice piano. I don’t think he looked up from the keyboard for hours.”

“That’s it? Think harder.”

“Give it a rest, McKay,” Sheppard said, real fatigue in his voice. “I’ll share anything useful as soon as I get it. Dreams are hard to remember.”

“Yeah, I know.” McKay softened. “You walk. I’ll ‘tweak’.”

“If you’re dreaming about his life,” Young asked, watching Mitchell climb the gate ramp to pick up Sheppard’s duffel, “you think he’s dreaming about yours?”

“Stands to reason,” Sheppard replied. “Hope I haven’t done anything horrifying in the past two months.”

They’d gotten underway when Lam and Johansen burst through the gateroom doors. TJ had a med bag strapped across her shoulders. Lam was in her white coat. Her low heels clicked on the cement floor.

“What’s wrong?” Lam was already scanning the four of them. Her gaze settled on Sheppard.

Sheppard gave her an exhausted nod.

“Are you Doctor Lam?” McKay asked. “Our doctor, Dr. Keller? You may have heard of her? She’s extremely famous. Operating on people’s brains in hostile territory and whatnot? She said to tell you she’s a huge fan. But, y’know, personally, I’d add that she tends to minimize her own accomplishments. So—”

Lam looked to Young, probably because she’d tagged him as the person least likely to bullshit her. “We were paged for a medical emergency?”

Young nodded. “Colonel Sheppard’s wearing cortical suppressors. When the gate connection to Atlantis cut off, he needed readjustment. McKay took care of most of it.”

Lam gave Sheppard a critical once-over. “‘Took care of it’?” She demanded.

“Mostly,” Sheppard admitted.

“We have some experience with fine-tuning waveforms,” Lam offered. “Dr. Perry, in particular, has a protocol that may be of help.”

“Amanda Perry?” McKay asked. 

“Yes. She finalized Dr. Rush’s calibration.”

“And I bet he was an exacting asshole about it,” McKay muttered.

“His standards were high,” Dr. Lam confirmed.

“Perry leaves at four,” Young said. “If we want her to take a look before the end of the day, we’re gonna need to give her a heads up.”

After a short argument between Sheppard and Lam, which Sheppard only won because Lam seemed in a hurry to get back to the infirmary, they headed to the conference room overlooking the gate. They were the first to arrive.

Sheppard collapsed into a seat at the table, utterly exhausted. 

McKay made a beeline for the coffee.

“You all right?” Young dropped into the seat next to Sheppard and leaned his cane on the edge of the table.

“Yeah.” Sheppard rubbed at one of his cortical suppressors and got a mild shock for his efforts. “Ow.” He shook out his fingers and glared at McKay.

“Don’t touch,” McKay said in a sing-song from across the room. 

Young gave Sheppard a sympathetic look. 

“You think this’ll be one of those brief-and-go things?” Sheppard asked. “Or are we gonna have any downtime?”

“We’ll get you your pizza,” Young said. “Plus, I’m guessing you’ll need to be cleared by Dr. Lam before we go anywhere.”

“Nice.” Sheppard leaned back in his chair. “Any intel on David?”

“Not a thing.” Young kept his voice even.

“He liked the science so much.” Sheppard let his eyes fall closed. “And the LA poisons free inquiry. I don’t get it.”

“Me neither,” Young agreed. “Sometimes I think maybe—maybe he has some larger plan.”

“David Telford with a master plan?” Sheppard smiled faintly, exhausted and sad. “Sounds like him, doesn’t it?”

McKay approached, set a coffee in front of Sheppard, and tapped him gently on the shoulder.

Sheppard opened his eyes and looked at McKay.

McKay pointed at the coffee cup, then took a seat.

Sheppard nodded, sat forward, and took a sip.

“You don’t look so good.” Mitchell eyed Sheppard, echoing Young’s thoughts.

“Yeah,” Sheppard admitted. “I’m okay, I’m just feeling my accessories right now. Rodney and I will do a recalibration before we go to Boston. We thought this might happen when I left Atlantis.”

“More like we knew this would happen, for sure, when he left Atlantis,” McKay muttered into his coffee cup. “I hope Nick appreciates this. Oh, who am I kidding. He definitely won’t.”

Over the next few minutes, SG-1 minus Jackson filed into the room, along with Greer, James, and Ginn. Vala slid into the seat next to Young. Her bright smile was all solid effort, but it didn’t touch her eyes.

Finally, Landry entered and shut the door behind him. Before the general sat down, the questions started.

“Where’s Daniel?” Carter demanded, echoing Young’s thoughts. “We need to wait for him. He—”

Landry plowed over her. “Dr. Jackson won’t be joining us.”.

Young felt a sickening sensation, as though the floor had dropped out from beneath him. He pulled out his phone, checking for any missed messages from the archeologist.

Nothing. Radio silence.

“Why not?” Vala leaned forward in her seat.

“This briefing will be solely focused on the extraction of Dr. Nicholas Rush—”

Young noted Teal’c, too, had pulled out his phone. Young caught his eye, trying to communicate his wordless question. Teal’c shook his head.

“No,” McKay said. “No no no no NO. This is supposed to be an information exchange. We need Jackson.”

“And you’ll get that exchange, Dr. McKay—”

“Sir.” Young added his voice to the growing chorus. “With respect, we need Jackson on this.”

Landry dropped into his chair and stared them all down. 

The room fell silent.

::Where are you?:: Young texted the archeologist.

“Dr. Jackson,” Landry said, more gravel in his voice than Young had ever heard, “has been placed on mandatory medical leave by Dr. Lam. As of about,” he looked at his watch, “half an hour ago.”

“What?” Vala was on her feet.

Young closed his hand on her forearm and squeezed, trying to communicate she should sit the hell down. Slowly, she dropped back into her seat.

“He was in the middle of a meeting with the IOA,” Landry explained, “laying the groundwork for this very effort, when he collapsed from exhaustion. He’s got some kind of viral illness. SG-1 hasn’t been offworld for several weeks, so Dr. Lam has every expectation that the virus will be terrestrial in origin. She’s working to identify it now.”

The room was silent.

Young felt a sinking feeling in his chest. “We may need to wait for Jackson on this one,” he said reluctantly. “Rush is gonna be tough to extract.”

“He’s a college professor,” Landry said. “I’m sure this room of people can manage it without Jackson.”

“A college professor,” Carter repeated with a faint lift of her brows.

“Oh very nice,” McKay snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, he made pretty spectacular work of the one field mission he was sent on. So spectacular, in fact, that within the course of a single offworld trip he discovered something new about DHDs, located the Ancient home world, cracked a cypher in the nine-chevron address, and left Atlantis with a problem we haven’t been able to solve for months now, not that anyone in the Milky Way cares, apparently.”

Young felt his phone buzz. Surreptitiously checking it, he found a text from Jackson. 

::Hey, sorry I’m missing this. Fill you in later. I’ll tell you my plan though, hang on::

“It’s not complicated,” Landry growled. “Put Rush under military arrest if you have to. He’s one civilian. On his own. Working in a coffee shop.”

“That,” Sheppard said bluntly, “is a bad plan.”

Landry eyed Sheppard, gathering himself. He took a breath.

“Okayyy,” Mitchell slid in before Landry could address Sheppard’s insubordinate comment. “Say for argument’s sake we tackle him in the middle of Boston and drag him away in handcuffs. What’s the plan afterwards? We gonna keep him under military arrest? Because Carolyn says we can’t use the Tok’ra tech on him while he’s wearing cortical suppressors.”

Young’s phone buzzed again.

“Carolyn?” Landry repeated mildly, looking at Mitchell.

::Listen to Vala. That was my plan. She and Rush are terrestrial BFFs. They have a lot in common and she knows him better than anyone in that room, other than you. Plus, she was in his shoes only days ago::

::I got you, Jackson:: Young texted. ::Get some rest::

Mitchell cleared his throat. “Dr. Lam, I mean. I meant. I meant to say Dr. Lam. Sir.”

“You corner him,” Sheppard said, “and he’ll fight. Tooth and nail. Trust me on this.”

“He can fight?” McKay asked.

“He can handle himself,” Sheppard said. “He won’t be easy to take down.”

“No one’s taking anyone ‘down’,” Carter objected.

Sheppard fixed his attention on Carter. “What I’m saying is, if you go in with this half-assed plan? You’ll have to.”

Young cleared his throat.

“The last thing Dr. Jackson did before he collapsed was get Nicholas Rush classified as a Planetary Asset,” Landry growled. “If we need to ‘take him down’ to bring him in? We will.”

Young got to his feet.

The room got quiet. 

“I think,” he said, supporting his weight subtly on the edge of the conference table, “we should hear the take of the one person who’s been in his shoes.”

He turned to Vala. Inquisitively, she scanned the room, as though waiting for someone to step up and take the floor.

Young nudged her foot under the table.

She looked up.

He gave her a significant look, then sat.

“Oh.” Vala’s eyes were wide, her expression uncertain. “You mean—” she trailed off, pointing at herself.

“Yup,” Young said.

The room stayed quiet. Waiting.

Vala straightened in her seat, brought her hair forward over one shoulder, then just as quickly brushed it back. She placed her hands flat on the table and cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said, pouring herself into her poise. “Thank you, Colonel Young. And, actually, yes. I do have thoughts. First of all, I think it highly unlikely that our Planetary Asset shows for the arranged meeting at Rational Grounds.”

“What makes you say so?” Landry asked.

“We know he had his wallet,” Vala replied, “because he contacted Atlantis.” She glanced at Sheppard and McKay. “He knows who he is. Furthermore, he had my business card. He could’ve called me any time.”

“You have business cards?” Mitchell asked.

“Later,” Carter elbowed him.

“He had the means to contact the Air Force, but he didn’t,” Vala continued. “He chose Atlantis instead. Most likely because of Colonel Sheppard’s drawing. Handcrafted. Personalized. Written in Ancient, which he must’ve found interesting. He has discipline. He’s smart. He’s not so desperate about his past that he’ll compromise his present.”

Landry nodded. “So we need to watch Rational Grounds, but we also need to watch the people watching Rational Grounds.”

“Exactly,” Vala said. “I think if we set up a dialogue with him and work on convincing him to come with us, without the use of threats or force, we’ll succeed.”

“What about the LA?” Young asked. “They’ll be looking for him too.” He paused, braced himself, then said, “David Telford is probably spearheading their effort. Any sustained SG presence in Boston will be enough to tip them.”

Vala grimaced. “Well, the more progress we make toward earning his trust, the less traumatic the forcible extraction, should it come to that.”

Landry crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“I like it,” Sheppard offered.

“Ooh, and I like you, flyboy.” Vala winked at him.

Sheppard gave her a small smile.

McKay rolled his eyes.

“So we’d be talking about embedding ourselves locally, providing security until we can talk him into coming with us?” Mitchell asked. “How long is that gonna take?”

“Probably too long for SG-1 to be assigned for the duration,” Landry said. “But I can give you a few days. If you haven’t convinced him by then, our specialized LA counterinsurgency team can take point.”

“Specialized counterinsurgency team?” Young echoed.

Landry’s mouth quirked int the direction of a smile. “Congratulations, Colonel Young. Your command’s got a title, and consists of Sergeant Greer, Lieutenant James, and Ginn Keeler.” He nodded at the trio, who sat at the far end of the table, stunned.

“Am I—cleared to go into the field?” Young asked.

“We need him,” Mitchell said before Landry could answer. “We’d need ‘im anyway, but if we don’t have Jackson, we definitely need him. He’s got more deep cover experience than any of us, and he’s got a way with Rush.”

“Fortunately, per Dr. Lam, staking out a Boston Coffee shop looking for a runaway math professor officially qualifies as light duty,” Landry rumbled. “Just don’t get yourself in a damn firefight, please?”

Young nodded and tried to think positive thoughts in the direction of his bolted-together bones.

“With respect,” Carter said, “I’m in favor of Colonel Young joining us in the field. I think he’ll be a big asset, especially if we have to go without Daniel. But I think we’re setting the wrong expectations with all this ‘math professor’ shorthand. Dr. Rush is highly capable. He’s evaded terrestrial surveillance and the LA for nine weeks. I’m concerned he’s being underestimated.”

McKay leaned in “It’s the glasses,” he whispered. “I told him he should lose the glasses if he wants anyone to take him seriously.”

Carter shot McKay a dubious look.

“I’m with Carter,” Sheppard said.

“Of course you are. We all are,” McKay replied. “Everyone with a brain is literally always with Carter.”

“Glasses or not,” Sheppard said, a grimness in his voice Young had only ever heard a few times, “everyone in this room needs to respect his capabilities in the field.”

“You want to elaborate on that?” Mitchell asked.

“Yeah. He’s your classic Nightmare Bar Fight,” Sheppard said. “Mostly untrained, not afraid to get hurt. Takes a hit surprisingly well. Keeps coming. He’s the guy smashing bottles on the edge of the bar or pulling your sidearm when you’re restraining him. And that was before he had three hours of close quarters combat training with me. He got better over the course of those three hours. A lot better.”

Young raised his eyebrows, locking eyes with Mitchell.

“Rush,” Mitchell repeated. “The math prof who developed heat exhaustion in his own apartment. That Rush.”

“Hey,” Sheppard said, dark and smooth. “I get that’s the party line around here. He told me as much. But I was in the field with him and—” Sheppard pressed his fingertips to the surface of the table, “—in my professional opinion? We don’t want to get physical with him. He’s not easy to handle. He doesn’t stop. The odds guns get pulled are high. The odds that a gun deters him are low. If he pulls a gun on a member of this team, the odds he also pulls the trigger are at least twenty percent. At least.”

“Okay.” Mitchell grimaced. “Great. So we talk to him.”

“And if he won’t come,” Sheppard said, “we let him go. We keep tabs on him.”

“If he even shows,” Vala added. 

Mitchell sighed. “This is gonna be a long briefing, isn’t it?”

“Yup.” Carter crunched down on a chocolate espresso bean. “Real long.”

The following day, they beamed down without Jackson.

To Young, it seemed like a bad omen.

The morning was cold, and he shivered in his blazer. 

The back alley where his little counterinsurgency team had been placed was deserted and confirmed free of cameras by a quick sweep from the Odyssey. Young’s two junior officers and civilian consultant stood huddled together, near a dumpster, looking to him for orders.

And god damn, but out of fatigues they looked like kids.

Especially Ginn. Who, maybe, was a kid.

Their phones all buzzed simultaneously. Young pulled his from his pocket to see Sheppard had texted the group thread.

::Nidus in place:: 

“Okay.” Young looked up at his team. “James, you’re first. Plant yourself near the front entrance.”

She nodded, then turned to go. The outline of her flak jacket was almost invisible under her blue sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail that sat high on her head. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder, containing tear gas, flash grenades, a Zat, zip ties, and two copies of Cosmo, leant to her by Vala. Her jeans concealed a small sidearm at her ankle.

Greer gave her a short lead, then followed. He wore jeans, a sweater, and a blazer, his weapon in a concealed holster under one arm. He had a knife strapped to his ankle, and he carried a messenger bag big enough to accommodate a laptop and a Zat.

Given Ginn’s bare-bones orientation and unfamiliarity with Earth, Young had wanted to keep her with him. This made for a slightly uncomfortable cover story.

Young was dressed like an academic: jeans and a button-down shirt, with a blazer overtop, concealing a sidearm. Between his hair and the cane, he damn well looked the part, he supposed. Ginn was dressed like a high school student, complete with a lavender hoodie and a pale green backpack, loaded up with the same equipment James was packing. Someone had curled her hair.

“Who did the—” Young trailed off, motioning at his own head.

“Vanessa. She said it would make me look younger and less serious,” Ginn replied solemnly.

Young gave her a half smile. “Happy birthday, kid,” he said.

“Thanks,” Ginn replied. “When does the burning cake happen?”

“Tonight.”

Ginn nodded gravely. “If we survive.”

Young snorted. “I’ll tell ya—I have high hopes for surviving this one.”

Ginn tightened a strap on her backpack, then looked up at him. “You seem concerned.”

“Mostly I’m worried about our target.”

Ginn gave him a short nod. “I won’t let anything happen to him.”

“We.” Young gave her a faint smile. “You’re part of a real team, now, kiddo. We won’t let anything happen to him.”

“Will we be a team for a long time?” Ginn asked.

“Not sure,” Young said truthfully.

Ginn looked away, toward the busier street beyond their quiet alley. “I’d like to have a team that doesn’t change.”

“Not a lot of continuity where you came from?” Young asked.

“No. Friendships among low and mid-rank House members are discouraged.”

“I remember,” Young said softly. “You’re gonna have a whole pile of friends before long.”

“So far, I have two.” Ginn shivered in the cold morning air. “Camile Wray and Vanessa James. She lingered on the full name of each woman, as though savoring the words. “They each said yes when I asked them.”

“You might collect a few more before the day is out.”

Ginn stuck her hands into her pocket, rounded her shoulders, and resettled her backpack. 

“Ready?” Young asked.

She nodded, then dropped back to trail behind him as they left the alleyway. Young leaned more heavily on his cane than was necessary. When he got to the door of the coffee shop, he pulled it open and gave her an annoyed glare.

“Jane,” he said. “Come on. It’s cold.”

“Yeah yeah,” Ginn said sullenly, her hands in her pockets.

“You’d think,” Young growled, trying not to case Rational Grounds too obviously as they entered, “you’d be able to keep up with your old man. Especially given this thing.” He thumped his cane on the floor.

Ginn huffed a sigh, rolled her eyes, then studied the interior of the coffee shop with obvious interest, her gaze ranging over the walls, then up to the menu. Young stayed ahead of her, skirting the table where Shep and McKay had parked themselves. They were occupying a four person table, laptops out, sitting diagonally from one another.

In front of Sheppard, near the edge of the table, was the book Rush had requested he display. Physical Chemistry: A Molecular Approach. The thing was NOT subtle. It was bright red and weighed upwards of ten pounds.

Young glanced over the menu, walked up to the woman working the register, and ordered a Kafkaesque Cappuccino. He glanced at Ginn, who was inspecting the pastry case with a furrowed brow.

“What do you want, kiddo?” he asked.

“One of these.” Ginn pointed to the most elaborate pastry in the case.

“And uh, one of those.” Young gave the woman working the register a small smile. “Please.”

“Dad, I want tea,” Ginn added imperiously.

“What kind?” Young growled. “I’m not a mind reader.”

“The Grey Lady.”

“And a Grey Lady Tea.” Young gave the woman at the register an apologetic look. He glanced over his shoulder at Ginn and said, “Pick a table.”

Ginn scanned the room and chose a spot near the register, adjacent to Shep and McKay. It put her across the room from James and a few tables deep into the room from the spot near the wall Greer had selected.

Not a bad choice. Lines of sight were clear. No one was in anyone’s way. The path to the front door was open, and the front counter was close enough to use as cover.

Not that it would come to that.

Ginn dumped her backpack on the tabletop, then darted to the counter to retrieve her pastry and tea before Young had finished paying for them.

The kid was damn sharp.

More likely, his whole team was damn sharp. Ginn was quick, but he knew James had spent the previous night prepping her for her bored teenager role. She’d done a good job.

Much as it pained him, he gave Ginn the seat with the best view of the room. He took the one opposite her, which had a view of the register, the back hallways to the restrooms, and not much else.

Ginn unzipped her backpack and pulled out a copy of The Boston Globe. She slid it to him, then pulled out a textbook titled: We the People. She plunked it on the table and opened it with bad grace.

Young took a sip of his Kafkaesque Cappuccino. “Camile lend you that?”

“Yup.” Ginn didn’t look at him. She let her hair fall forward.

Young sighed, oriented the newspaper toward him, and pulled out his phone.

::Inner Circle in place:: he texted. ::Report::

James: No sign of the target.

James: Kid by the counter is watching Sheppard. Gray sweatshirt.

Greer: Agree. Sweatshirt Kid been eyeing Shep since the book came out.

Sheppard: Any sign of the LA?

James: No.

Greer: No.

Ginn: I need to watch longer.

Sheppard: SG-1 where you at?

Mitchell: Sam and I are across the street at Ground State, watching the front door. Vala and Teal’c have the back entrance.

Young: Any sign of Rush at Ground State?

Carter: Nope. Ground State is a science/math place. Doubt he’ll show here.

Mitchell: Wait, why?

Carter: He’d get recognized in two seconds.

Greer: Gray Sweatshirt Kid is texting. Lots.

James: Gray Sweatshirt Kid may be recording from his laptop.

James: Gray Sweatshirt Kid also has a monster pen he hasn’t touched. Could be a mic.

Carter: Greer can you activate the network analyzer program? Maybe I can see what he’s texting.

Young shifted his chair to get a look at Gray Sweatshirt Kid. He might be older than Ginn, but not by much. A red T-shirt with white block lettering reading YOU ARE HERE was layered beneath his hoodie. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow. He was texting furiously and doing a terrible job of not looking at Sheppard.

Young looked back at the daily paper.

He took a sip of his Kafkaesque Cappuccino, which was distractingly good. And, damn it, maybe had a shot of Kahlua in it?

Carter: I can’t see the content of his texts, only the frequency

Carter: His data is encrypted.

Mitchell: Ups the odds Rush is involved, yes?

McKay: I’d say so.

Carter: Maybe…he’s an academic. Not sure how practical his over-the-air crypto would be.

Sheppard: Very.

McKay: Very. I helped him hack a DHD so hard it literally exploded.

Young: Don’t anchor too much on Gray Sweatshirt Kid (GSK) until we know he’s involved.

Ginn: I have concerns.

Ginn: Two people on north wall watching GSK.

Young angled his phone to get a view of the north wall in its reflective surface. Two people, dressed like grad students, sat with their backs to the wood paneling, sipping drinks and looking out at the room. They didn’t speak to one another. They had open postures, angled toward the kid in the sweatshirt.

Sheppard: They look like bad news. Rodney and I are gonna try to get the kid over here.

McKay: We are?

Young tried to relax his grip on The Boston Globe. He turned a page, then idly glanced up at the ceiling of Rational Grounds.

He did a double take, his heart rate picking up. Running in a narrow band at the top of the room was a ribbon of chalkboard. In block capitals, he read as much of the chalked-up quote as he could see without turning his head. 

—IT’S NOT FOR ANY ONE GENERATION TO SEE THE COMPLETED PICTURE. THAT’S THE POINT. THE PICTURE IS NEVER COMPLETED. THERE IS ALWAYS SO MUCH MORE—

And yeah. No question about it. That was Rush’s handwriting. The man had been here.

Across from him, Ginn also scanned the ceiling, overdoing her bored teenager look.

“You reading that, kiddo?” Young glanced pointedly at her book. “American Studies isn’t gonna pass itself.”

“Yeah.” She rolled her eyes and looked back down at the page in front of her.

At the adjacent table, Sheppard cleared his throat. “Rod,” he said, his eyes on his laptop, his voice pitched to carry. “Remind me of the crystal structure we agreed on for the DSDs?”

McKay looked up, relaxed his shoulders, smoothed his expression, and started channeling charismatic venture capitalist. “Nested. Obvious paneling on top, but demonstrate quantum competence and it’ll open to the Promethean Array.” He snorted. “Too complicated, I think. But what do I know. I’m just the money.”

Sheppard frowned at his laptop. “We don’t have a great solve rate.”

McKay leaned back, crossed his legs, draped an arm over the adjacent chair, and exhaled in a confident little huff. “Well, it’s hard,” he said affably. “Forget the cyphers. Almost sixty percent of players get stuck on the Prismatic Drake.”

God damn. Young tried not be distracted by McKay’s aptitude for improv.

Greer: GSK showing strong interest.

Carter: Srong possibility that GSK is looking in on OUR encrypted network traffic?

Carter: When I packet analyzed him I got packet analyzed back

Ginn: Pair on north wall watching Sheppard and McKay

Ginn: Recommend not speaking target’s name aloud

Young: I second that

Sheppard: Noted

“It needs to be hard,” Sheppard fired back, but instead of his usual blunt edge, he put the gloss of a whine on his tone. “Otherwise, there’d be too many candidates.”

McKay smiled blandly, then leaned in. “Keep your voice down. You’re the one who lost our cypher guy.”

“I didn’t lose our ‘cypher guy.’ He was taken.”

Young felt a gentle pressure on the toes of his boot. It was Ginn.

She glanced at his phone.

He picked it up.

Ginn: Strongly suspect pair on north wall are LA

Carter: No unusual EM signals

Young: McShep stop talking

Sheppard: They were here when we got here

Sheppard: So was the kid

Mitchell: SG-1 can tail them

Sheppard: I say we take the kid. Now.

Mitchell: We get too rough with the kid and we lose our line to Rush

Carter: Agree with Cam. The kid is here to make sure McShep aren’t threatening

Young: Shep, why you coming in so hot?

Sheppard: I dreamed about this kid. He knows Rush

Mitchell: Sure. Sounds right.

Young glanced up at the kid in the gray sweatshirt. He’d started packing up. His headphones were out of his ears, his laptop was closed, and his pen was back in his bag. Young fixed his eyes on the lateral edge of the newspaper he was holding, and softened his gaze, letting his peripheral vision take in Sheppard, looking absently at the back entrance to the coffee shop; McKay, typing on his laptop; the kid, settling his backpack and squaring his shoulders.

Greer: SG-1 look alive

Greer: GSK on the move, not sure where yet

Greer: He’s going for Sheppard.

“Um, hi,” GSK said, from a few feet away.

Young didn’t look up. He kept his gaze soft, his attention focused on his peripheral vision.

“Hi.” From the tone of Sheppard’s voice, Young could tell he was smiling.

“Nice book,” the kid said.

“Thanks,” Sheppard replied. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“There’s a coffee shop across the street—” GSK lost his momentum, then cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, for the math types. Ground State. Y’know. Like for—”

“Electrons,” Sheppard said.

“—electrons,” the kid finished.

There was an awkward silence. Young held his position.

“We’re meeting someone here,” Sheppard said.

“And this guy, or, person? This person you’re meeting. Could be a girl. Um. Are they a math person?”

“Yeah,” Sheppard said gently. “He’s a math guy.”

“Well, uh, pro tip: no math guy worth his salt would ask for a meeting at Cambridge’s most literary coffee shop.”

“Hmm,” Sheppard replied. “Sounds right. You wanna sit?”

“Thanks, but no. I’ve gotta go, but, um, one question before I do.”

“Sure,” Sheppard said.

“Are you from Canada?”

“I’m from California,” Sheppard replied. “But my friend Rod is from Canada.”

“From sea to sea.” McKay gave the kid a smile.

“From sea to sea?” the kid echoed

“Canada’s motto.” McKay was pouring on the charm. “A mari usque ad mare. Hi.”

“Hi,” the kid replied. “Nice Latin. You whipped that right out.”

Young glanced at Ginn, to find her bent studiously over her book, her hair falling to obscure her eyes. He shifted in his chair, trying to improve his angle on the conversation at the next table.

“You sure you don’t wanna sit?” Sheppard asked.

“My mom taught me never to take Latin from strangers,” GSK said.

Sheppard laughed, short and delighted. “I wish my mom had told me that. Might’ve saved me a lot of trouble. Would you do me a favor, kid?”

“Maybe.” GSK watched them warily. “Depends what it is.”

“Smart,” McKay said, dry and affable. “This one’s smart. You go to school around here?”

“MIT,” GSK answered.

“Ah, very nice,” Sheppard said. “Now look. I just met you. And this is crazy. But here’s the favor. This book is heavy, so take it with you maybe? I’m tired of carrying it around. Hand it off to the first guy you see who looks like he knows his way around a wave function?”

“Um, sure.” GSK edged forward.

Sheppard pulled out a pen and scrawled a quick message on the inside cover of the book.

Immediately, the kid flipped it open to read it.

Young was distracted by a pressure on the top of his foot. He looked across the table to find Ginn giving him a worried expression. She glanced at his phone. He picked it up.

James: Couple on the north wall up and left.

Ginn: Still strongly suspect they’re LA

Ginn: I want to follow

Ginn: Suspect they’re here for GSK

Young stared her dead in the eyes and shook his head.

She gave him an imploring look.

He shook his head again.

She looked over at GSK, who was taking a photo of whatever Sheppard had written in the book. “I’m gonna use this too,” the kid said. “I hope you know that.”

“You’re the one running outta here,” Sheppard said mildly. “Pull up a seat. Stick around.”

“I work for a real tyrant,” GSK said. “Last question. For real this time. You’ve got some technoswag on your head, man.”

“Technoswag,” Sheppard repeated, amused. “I’m stealing that.”

“What’s it for?” GSK asked.

“It’s for a rare medical condition,” Sheppard replied.

“What medical condition?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Does your medical condition have to do with—with memory?” the kid asked.

Young had to work to hold his expression, to keep his gaze trained on the newspaper in front of him.

“No,” Sheppard said, kindness in his voice, and damn if the man wasn’t doing a great job at nonverbally communicating he knew exactly where the kid was going with this.

“So you, like, know who you are and stuff.” 

“Yup.” Sheppard’s tone was quiet and friendly. “The technoswag doesn’t affect memory. It prevents something bad. As long as I wear it, I’m fine. It’s important for me not to take it off. You get me?”

“I get you. I really really get you. But, to be clear, you, like, know who you are and what you’re doing and your whole past and stuff, right?”

“My name is John Sheppard. I grew up in California. I was a math major. What’s your name?”

“Ummmm, Dave. Yup. My name is Dave. Okay, well, uh, nice to meet you, John. Gotta go.”

“Bye Dave,” Sheppard replied.

Greer: Kid’s heading for the back

Young: Vala, Teal’c?

Vala: We’re on it, handsome

Mitchell: Don’t get too close. Don’t spook the kid.

Ginn: Get close. I am concerned about the couple on the north wall.

Mitchell: That’s a negative. Hang back and tail the kid.

Again, Young felt Ginn press down on his foot. Again, she gave him an imploring look. Again, Young shook his head.

She grimaced, her eyes tracking the kid as he walked out. She flipped a page in her book. 

Sheppard: We staying to see if Rush shows?

Vala: I’m telling you he won’t.

Mitchell: Yes, hold position.

Ginn was breathing rapidly, her eyes twitching from her phone to her book and back to her phone. Her fingers had closed around the edge of the table. The veneer of bored teenager was turning more transparent by the second.

“Jane,” Young said. 

She met his eyes. “Later,” she whispered, her expression solemn and determined, “we will have a Word Fight about this.” 

She exploded out of her seat and tore toward the back exit of Rational Grounds.

“Damn it.” Young stood so fast his cane caught on his chair and set it crashing to the ground behind him. Greer and James were up as well. “Go,” Young shouted, motioning after Ginn. “Stay with her.” Even as he spoke, they were already threading through tables, sprinting for the back hall, Sheppard on their heels.

They cleared the door.

There was dead silence in the coffee shop.

Everyone had their eyes trained on Young and McKay, on their feet at adjacent tables.

Young locked eyes with McKay.

The scientist sighed. 

“Ugh. Fine. You go. I’ll deal with this.” McKay turned to the silent coffee shop, opened his hands, dug into his left-field improv skills, smiled, and said, “You’ve just witnessed a scene in an interactive play sponsored by MIT’s School of Drama. Those of you who are paid ticket-holders, you know who you are, and we’ll see you at the next site! If you’re not a ticket holder, you could be! MIT School of Drama: search for us online.”

Young made his way toward the back exit, leaning on his cane, resisting the urge to run.

He couldn’t afford to injure himself now.

At the back exit, he pulled out his phone and dialed Mitchell’s number. “Cover’s blown,” he said, as soon as the other man picked up. “Ginn hared off after the LA.”

“No.” Mitchell, out of breath, sounded like he was running. “Really? The LA operative with two days of orientation didn’t respect the chain of command? You’re kiddin’ me.”

“Where are you?”

“Vala’s on the phone with Sam. Long story short, the defector was right. The LA couple tried to jump the kid, a few cross streets down. We got this. Well, we’re gettin’ this. Don’t break your back.”

With that, Mitchell hung up.

Young stepped out of Rational Grounds and found himself in a narrow alley. The air was crisp and cold.

Two cross-streets away, he saw an LA operative on the ground. James kneeled over her, zip-ties and gun in hand.

The other operative was a block further, tussling with the kid in the gray sweatshirt. Ginn was in the mix, hauling the man back, kicking his weapon out of his hand, kicking him in the face, knocking him off the kid, dragging him back, only to take an elbow to the solar plexus. 

Greer, Vala, Sheppard, and Teal’c were coming up on them fast. Young crossed the alley, angling for a better view. 

The LA operative gave up on the kid, slithered free from the tangle in the street, and bolted, trying to stay ahead of the group closing in.

Young limped forward, keeping to the brick wall across from the back entrance of Rational Grounds.

The kid in the sweatshirt yelled something at Ginn, pointing at the fleeing LA member. Ginn yelled back at the kid. The kid yelled again, pointed again, and then Ginn was off like a shot, sprinting after the LA operative for all she was worth, that curled hair flying.

Damn, she was fast.

Fast enough to catch the guy. Fast enough to leave SG-1 and Sheppard in the dust.

“Kid,” Young growled, under his breath.

She’d almost reached her target when he vanished in a glare of blue light. She dived at the last second, like an idiot, but, fortunately, the beam was dissipating as she passed through it. She crashed to the asphalt, skidding and rolling before coming to a stop.

“Jesus,” Young whispered, sick with adrenaline he couldn’t use.

He passed James, who had her weapon trained on the restrained LA operative. “Good work, lieutenant,” he told her. “Get this one up to the Odyssey, quick as you can.”

“Yes sir.” She shifted her sidearm and pulled out her phone.

Vala put on an extra burst of speed and was the first to reach Ginn, helping her up, her hands running over the girl’s arms, tipping her chin to take in the road rash along the angle of her jaw.

Teal’c and Greer flanked Sheppard, who stopped once he reached the kid in the gray sweatshirt. Young watched them exchange a few words, then Sheppard helped the kid off the ground, brushing him off, checking for injuries.

As Young approached the little group, the kid’s voice, full of anxiety, carried on the crisp breeze. “He got my phone. He got my phone.”

“Take it easy.” Sheppard’s expression was grim. “I get you.”

“Do you? Do you know who’s on the other end of that phone?” The kid shouted.

“Yeah,” Sheppard replied. “We do. Keep it down.”

“Like, obviously, well, I mean I hope ‘obviously,’ you guys are the good guys. Right? Are you good? Tell me you’re good. Say something good.”

“Uh.” Sheppard looked to Greer for inspiration.

Greer shrugged.

“Right. That’s probably what the good guys would say.” The kid’s gaze landed on Ginn, and he paused in obvious admiration. “Anyway.” He looked back at Sheppard. “They have my phone. Which means all kinds of terrible terrible things for America’s least favorite cryptographer.”

Young joined their small group.

“Everett,” Sheppard said. “Hey. This is Eli Wallace, Nick’s intern.”

“His ‘intern’?” Young eyed the kid skeptically.

“Yes. That’s my official title. Well, he didn’t say no when I gave it to myself. Which, from him, is as good as a yes. But you guys. The Air Force has my phone now.”

“The Air Force?” Young repeated.

“Yes! The evil, giant, military-industrial complex that stripped your math bestie of his memories and has been tracking him through Boston for weeks now! The organization that tried to silence the guy who has ruined or is ruining most global cryptosystems! Those creepers! The ones that just jumped me in an alley like we’re living a nineties movie! You guys. That’s. The Air Force. The Air Force is gonna get him! We have to stop them, somehow.”

“Hate to break it to you, kid,” Sheppard said, “but, uh, we’re the Air Force, a little bit.”