Mathématique: Chapter 81

“‘Nightmarish’ can mean many things.”

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

Text iteration: Witchingest hour ever.

Additional notes: None.

Chapter 81

“So this is the guy?”

“That’s my strong impression.”

Rush clawed toward consciousness. His mind was full of fairy song and energy signatures. Spirit guardians (too forward with their gifts). The steady presence of John Sheppard, his eyes like fallen sparks in a submerged, sea-colored chamber, where no fire should be.

“You sure? Sheppard said he was a good fighter.”

“I believe Colonel Sheppard described his fighting style as ‘nightmarish’.”

“Nightmarish is good.”

“‘Nightmarish’ can mean many things.”

Rush’s head ached. His mind, fettered and slowed, poured into narrow tributaries around cognitive dams. His awareness had split from his physical body. He couldn’t move. The world was nothing but the vast darkness created by his own closed eyelids. The lead of his own immobile body sealed him in.

“Even unconscious, he’s better looking than McKay.”

“Ronon!”

There were two people nearby. Their voices carried the reassuring, dream-like familiarity that McKay’s did. Beneath their conversation, he heard the subtle sounds of machinery blending into the song that wouldn’t leave his thoughts.

“Just sayin’. He’s kinda delicate though.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“That’s some Earth bullshit right there. Looks are looks. Acts are acts.”

The give of the mattress beneath his back was hard to localize, but the pressure of a pillow behind his head and the slight pull of trapped hair told him he was lying in a bed. His cortical suppressors warmed the skin of his temples. Cool air passed over his exposed forearms, and he thought he could identify the ache of an IV at the crook of his elbow. His expedition belt dug into his right hip. His SGC-issued boots felt like they were still in place.

He was cortically suppressed. He might not’ve registered it if he hadn’t had the (unpleasant) experience on Midway, but once he’d identified the issue, the sensation was unmistakable. His thoughts came like sludge. Like hardening glue.

“We’ll see how he does in the sparring ring.” Ronon said.

The woman hesitated, with a small intake of breath.

“Teyla,” Ronon growled.

“John may have mentioned his intention to put me in charge of Dr. Rush’s combat training?”

Rush gathered himself for a massive effort, pouring everything he had into a heroic desire to fuckin’ open his eyes and sit. Nothing happened. Not a flicker of an eyelash. Not a shred of muscle contraction. Not so much as an alteration of his breathing pattern. His body remained helplessly slack against cool sheets.

(Wonderful.)

“You’re advanced combat only,” Ronon protested. “No way is this guy actually any good. No offense.”

“I don’t think it’s a matter of being ‘good’,” Teyla said cautiously. “My impression was he lacks control. And self preservation.”

Rush gave up on anything so ambitious as trying to sit, and focused instead on opening his eyes. He tried thinking about dragging his eyelids up, about the contraction of small muscles that’d allow them to come open.

Then, he tried not thinking about it, just willing it to happen.

His eyes stayed closed.

“You guys already talked about it?” Ronon asked, a hurt note in his voice.

“Ronon, it wasn’t like that. It came up in passing.”

“In passing? Sheppard was unconscious for hours.”

“He…may have mentioned it a few weeks back. As a hypothetical. Dr. Rush has been on his mind.”

Rush thrashed in frustration (rather, he tried to thrash in frustration). His breathing didn’t even bloody change. His body was nothing but leaden relaxation. with a beating heart. Not a scrap of tension anywhere.

He stopped trying to move and took stock.

Stood to reason that this was a direct consequence of the blasted devices affixed to his temples. His memories of the hour or so he’d spent as incorporeal energy were turning clearer. More present. As if the more he used his mind, the more workarounds it found.

(That sounded like him.)

Reacquiring a sense of calm was easy in a body that was (currently) incapable of panic. He sank into his leaden immovability, drawing it around him like a blanket.

“He must really like this guy,” Ronon muttered, “if he tapped you to train him before he even got here.”

“It’s sweet, is it not?” Teyla asked.

Rather than trying to use his body, he reached beyond the tilt of his own head, the feather-light touch of his gray t-shirt, the confinement of his military boots. Beyond his physical form, there was a world of energetics. Beyond the dampening field of the devices at his temples, the city sang, full of quiet joy. He knew it did, even if (now) he couldn’t hear it.

As though it sensed the attention he paid it, he felt a curious pressure in and around his mind. Mostly blocked, it came through as emotion. Pure, exogenous query.

//I’m having a bit of problem,// he confessed.

//!!!!!!!//

The city’s solicitous excitement knocked him clean out of awareness.

His consciousness resurfaced and was hit by a wash of apology.

//(!)//

He tried to groan, shift, bring a hand to his head.

It didn’t happen.

//!(?)!//

“You’re the one who wants to talk to him,” Ronon said.

“John Sheppard is blessed with a good heart,” Teyla replied. “A keen mind.”

“But, yeah, he’s balls at romance,” Ronon grumbled.

“He is,” Teyla agreed.

(Poor fuckin’ Sheppard.)

//!(!)!// The city commented, in restrained agreement.

Fascinating.

//Good morning?// Rush tried.

In response, he got a surge of of overwhelming attention, coupled with the mental image of the sun passing its zenith and sinking toward the horizon.

//Good afternoon,// Rush amended, encouraged.

//!!!!!!!!!!// the city replied, with a galvanic excitement that, this time, felt better calibrated.

“You sure it’s a good idea?” Ronon asked. “It could backfire.”

“We’ll keep it simple,” Teyla said.

“It could backfire hard.”

“We’ll keep it very simple,” Teyla amended.

Rush focused on the uncomfortable tilt of his head against his pillow, the lax uselessness of his muscles, the leaden weight of his body. He yoked the sensations to his frustration, wrapped the paired concepts with a question, and sent the whole thing in the direction of the attentiveness at the back of his mind.

//(!!)????(!!)//

//I can’t move,// he tried to clarify.

//!(!)!(!)!(!)!// The city’s excitement had a commiserating quality to it. As though it’d said, Me neither.

Fuckin’ fantastic.

//Right, but you’re a city. I’m meant t’be able to move,// he tried, without much real hope.

The city’s presence in this mind turned intricate and recursive, like it was looping on his input.

“How’re we supposed to make it simple?”

“We’ll simply explain John is incapable of expressing sentiment.”

“Harsh.”

“It’s for his benefit.”

With the shadow of blocked melody and an image of moving tumblers within a physical lock—

Rush blinked his eyes open.

A man and woman sat at his bedside. He recalled them from dreams of green forests as they slipped through moss-covered trunks of alien trees; he recalled them from dreams of dark ships, treading organic corridors veined with bioluminescent blue; he recalled them from dreams of simple meals beside the open sea.

Ronon was powerfully built, with a profusion of dredlocks that extended past his shoulders and neatly trimmed facial hair. He was dressed in a tunic and leathers that looked as though they belonged at a Medieval Fair. Teyla was athletic, with a sweep of light brown hair. She wore a fitted top of purple silk beneath a half-zipped Lantean jacket with red stripes. Her head was cocked, her gaze keen and concerned.

“Hi,” Ronon said. “You’re not supposed to be awake.”

“Can you speak?” Teyla asked.

Rush made an attempt, pushing through layers of resistance the city helped him sweep aside. “Yes?” He tried again. “Not well. With difficulty.”

“You sound pretty good,” Ronon offered.

“Yes well. It’s evolving, I think,” Rush breathed, already finding communication easier. “The city’s helping.”

Teyla and Ronon exchanged a look.

Perhaps he shouldn’t’ve said as much aloud.

“Dr. McKay and Dr. Keller succeeded in correctly calibrating Colonel Sheppard’s cortical devices,” Teyla offered. “He asked us to keep watch over you, given your security team was invited to the general staff briefing.”

Ronon snorted and crossed his arms. “‘Security team’. If you can call ‘em that. A kid, two green recruits I could snap like twigs, and an injured colonel. You’re better off with us. Sheppard knows that.”

“I’m sure they have some…hidden competencies,” Teyla said dubiously. “Can you move? You’re very still.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Rush admitted.

They stared awkwardly at one another.

They stared awkwardly at one another until Ronon said, “Sheppard likes you. Don’t break his heart.”

Teyla sighed. “Ronon, I was picturing waiting until—”

“I’m aware,” Rush interjected. With effort, he made a fist against the bedcovers.

They looked at one another. “You’re aware?” Teyla demanded, abjectly astonished.

“Yes well. He let me know as a courtesy, seeing I’ve no personal memories.”

They studied him, speechless. Rush took advantage of the conversational gap to make another fist. He planted it weakly against the mattress and used the leverage to reposition his head. (Bloody smashing success.) He took a break. Settled his breathing.

//!***!// The city sent wash of approval and a whisper of melody that pressed on his mind like waves beyond a sea wall.

Ronon recovered first. “Do you have impersonal memories?”

“Yes.” Rush levered himself up on an elbow to survey the room. It was longer than it was wide, with stained glass doors at either end, and silver-trimmed walls of stone or a synthetic material that looked like stone. The light was warm and almost day-spectrum. It felt strange to be in a room with no windows, after what he remembered from his disembodied stroll through the city. He collapsed back against the bed, his heart working hard.

“How does that work?” Ronon asked.

“I’m told the leading theory is ‘engram isolation’ of memories with emotional salience in conjunction with a more subtle blockade of certain limbic pathways tied to those isolated engrams. I hear Dr. Keller may have more to say about it?”

“She’s quite gifted,” Teyla agreed.

Ronon sighed. “I need to learn more science.”

The stained glass door at the far end of the room swept open to reveal a blonde with cherubic features, wearing a form-fitting charcoal jacket with buttercup yellow stripes at the shoulders. She hurried toward them, her expression concerned, a hand-held device glowing blue in her palm.

“How are you awake?” she breathed, as she approached the bedside, already scanning him. “Can you talk?”

“Yeah, he talks great,” Ronon told her.

“Have we met?” Rush asked, because he was never bloody certain these days.

“Oh. Hi. No, not officially. I’m Jennifer Keller.” She finished her scan, clipped her device to her belt, and rested her hands on the metal rail at the side of his bed. “Welcome to Atlantis.”

“Thank you,” Rush replied.

“How are you feeling?” Her cheeks dimpled with the hint of a smile.

“Having some difficulty with movement,” Rush admitted. “Complex thought.”

“That’ll be my fault,” she said. “You’re supposed to be under a pretty heavy dampening field that should’ve kept you under until Rodney and I had a chance to do some delicate EM modulation.” Her smile turned even more generous. “Colonel Sheppard said you were a troublemaker. He wasn’t kidding.”

Nor, it seemed, had he been kidding about the extent to which he’d discussed Rush with members of the Atlantis Expedition. Was there a soul in this floating city who hadn’t already heard of him?

(It’d likely bother him more if he had any reference frame for anything happening.)

“Apologies,” he said.

No one replied. A quick scan of the parties involved showed Teyla to be watching Ronon with an expression of concern while Ronon watched Keller with an expression of wistfulness. Keller was, again, studying her small Ancient device, her brow charmingly furrowed.

“How did you do this?” She looked up at Rush in concern. “You’re energetically eroding a blanketed EM field in a targeted manner.”

“He said the city helped him,” Ronon offered, before Rush could put anything into words.

//!!(*)!!// The city opined with a burst of internally conflicted pride.

//Yes yes,// Rush replied.

“There!” Keller looked up at him. “What happened right there?”

Rush said nothing, internally debating how exactly he was to describe what was, mostly, an emotional connection between himself and, presumably, crystal networks distributed through the heart of the city. His cognition certainly wasn’t operating at peak performance, but even if it had been, he suspected articulating his experience wouldn’t come easily. He wondered what Sheppard would say.

(The answer occurred immediately. Nothing. Sheppard would say nothing.)

“Not sure,” he said, which was true, as far as it went.

“We’re getting functional shifts,” Keller murmured, looking at the device in her hand. “This could be good, if your unknown gene gives you some facility with energy fields, maybe amplified by Atlantis. It could also be bad, meaning the field is breaking down, and it’s breaking down first in the areas your cortex is trying to punch through.”

The glass doors at the end of the room slid open and McKay strode in, handheld device in hand. “WHY are you SUCH a BRAT, Nick.” He held up his device, which appeared to be flashing, strobe-like. “What the hell is this?”

“Rodney,” Keller said, frowning. “He’s still operating under a dampening field. Be nice.”

“At least Sheppard has the manners to be electromagnetically comprehensible.” McKay came to stand at Keller’s shoulder, glowering down at Rush. “How am I supposed to pay attention in the middle of a briefing when this is pinging me every ten seconds?” He waved his handheld device at Rush.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Keller whispered, her hazel eyes warm. “He yells because he cares.”

“Yes, I care,” McKay averted his eyes. “He’s—a friend. Or. Whatever. Sheppard’s math love interest.”

“We said we weren’t gonna talk about that,” Keller muttered under her breath.

“I thought it was the regular love we weren’t gonna talk about.”

“Are they different?”

“Math love? Yeah. C’mon.” McKay gave Keller an incredulous look.

“You guys have ‘math love’ now?” Ronon leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. “This Earth stuff goes too far sometimes.”

“Agreed,” Keller muttered. She switched her focus to Rush. “Ignore all of us, please? We’re the worst.”

“Is this good or bad?” McKay frowned at the screen in his hand. Even though it appeared to be identical to Keller’s, it glowed brighter and its blue was pale. Almost white. Unlike Keller’s device, Rush could feel the little gadget looking at him. “I’m thinking good.” He looked at Rush. “Did you modulate your own EM dampening field? Did we just discover what your mystery gene does?”

“What?” Rush asked, a bit thrown by the introduction of his genetics.

“Ugh, you’ve ruined everyone’s day,” McKay informed him.

(Rush was unclear how that followed.)

The door at the far end of the room opened again to reveal Sheppard and Young, both dressed and black and sporting concerned glowers.

This was becoming entirely too many people for a man with tenuous control of his thoughts and his physical form. The city seemed to feel his edged anticipation.

//!*?// it suggested cautiously.

Rush sat. Mostly successfully. The arm with the IV ached, unpleasant and sharp.

Dr. Keller seemed to sense the situation escalating through some sixth sense, and instead of stopping him, she raised the head of his bed, lowered the bedside rail, and said, “Let’s get rid of this, yeah?” her fingers closing delicately on the IV.

“That’d be nice,” he said.

“What’s goin’ on here.” Sheppard’s speech had a pressured intensity, as though a waterfall of thought forced itself through a cracked wall.

“We like your man,” Ronon offered genially.

“What did you say,” Sheppard asked, like an unsheathed knife.

Keller pulled on a pair of gloves, stepped in, and turned a room of room of seven into a room of two. She gave Rush a conspiratorial smile. “Give me ninety seconds,” she whispered. “I’ll turn this around.”

Young, faintly amused, laid the back of two casual fingers against Sheppard’s biceps. This was, apparently, enough to stop an escalation.

“Apologies, John,” Teyla said formally. “Ronon does not understand Earth culture.”

“Ronon understands ‘Earth culture’ just fine.” Ronon leaned back in his chair. “Ronon’s not that impressed with it.”

“There are a lot of people in here,” Keller said, raising her voice and addressing the room with a gloss of apology and a cherubic smile. Her gaze shifted to McKay, sharpened, and she mouthed, “Go.”

McKay, hurt, pointed at himself with an expression of wounded incredulity. “But—”

“I can handle it.” Keller gave McKay what would’ve been a steely look on anyone else’s face; given her features, she looked like an out-of-sorts cherub.

“Oh all right,” McKay muttered. “C’mon, team. We’re getting kicked out. Let’s find dinner.”

“It’s not yet time,” Teyla said, as she and Ronon followed him toward the exit.

“Doesn’t usually stop me,” McKay said, as the doors swished shut behind the trio.

Sheppard, arms crossed, met Keller’s disgruntled-cherub expression with a wall of resolve. “We’re staying.”

Keller compressed her lips and looked back at the device in her hand, shining a weak sky blue.

Rush angled a foot beneath him for some additional stability and eyed Sheppard, trying to figure out how one might work the word “athleisure” into casual conversation. He should have suggested something more innocuous. Sheppard looked back at him with concern, but when he spoke, he directed his words to Keller.

“He’s modifying his own EM field?”

“I’m not sure.” Keller angled her device, passing it near Rush’s temple. “Maybe.”

Rush queried the city, pairing the subjective experience of cortical dampening with the tactile sensation of the devices themselves and packaging them in the form of a question.

//!!(**)!!// the city confirmed, with a nested sense of pride.

Sheppard’s gaze snapped to Rush, then raked the walls. Curiously, though, he said nothing.

Young hung back, his gaze sharp. Evaluative. When he saw Rush looking at him, he lowered himself into Ronon’s chair and said, “You look like a man with a theory.”

“Don’t be shy.” Keller fixed her hazel gaze on him. “I’m watching your field shift in real time. I don’t want to interfere until I know what I’m dealing with.”

“I think there’s some chance the city is modulating the field,” Rush said, his eyes on Sheppard.

“The city?” Keller frowned. “Atlantis? You think it’s acting with agency on your behalf?”

“Yes,” Rush admitted. “I regained consciousness and found myself paralyzed.”

Keller’s face fell. “Shoot. I’m sorry about that, I—”

“It wasn’t long before I made energetic headway,” Rush continued. “That being said, it didn’t seem to come under my own power. Not sure how much more I can elaborate.”

Sheppard’s eyes met his and dropped away, a flicker of something unexpected in his expression. Gratitude, maybe? Relief? He boosted himself onto the end of Rush’s bed. “Maybe we call this good luck, for a change.” He lifted his eyebrows at Keller.

“How are you feeling now?” Keller asked, unmoved by the prospect of hypothetical good luck.

“Well enough, I suppose.” Rush flexed the fingers of his right hand, examining them, noting a continued, mild resistance to movement, lessening as he seated himself in his own mind.

“I want to keep you for observation overnight,” Keller said. Her gaze shifted to Sheppard. “Both of you.”

Rush tensed.

“All right,” Sheppard said, light and casual. “No problem. As long as we get computers. We’ve got an Astria Porta campaign to start.”

“That can be arranged,” Keller said with a small smile. “I’ll see about getting dinner sent from the mess. In the meantime, I’ll analyze the data I’ve collected so far.” She held up her device before clipping it to her hip. “Carolyn Lam sent me Nick’s file. I’ll compare your baseline to where you are now. Hopefully by tomorrow we’ll have you fully recalibrated.”

Rush nodded.

Keller stepped back from his bedside. “I’ll give you three a moment.” She turned and headed for the glass sliding doors. “I’ll get Rodney to bring your laptops for the campaign.”

“Astria Porta’s popular here, seems like,” Young said mildly.

“We don’t have TV,” Sheppard admitted. “You wouldn’t believe how much you can get done without TV.” He gave Young a self-deprecating smile.

Rush watched Young eye Sheppard like he was probing the man’s defenses. 

From an information theory standpoint, this situation was a catastrophe. Rush suspected that, of the three of them, he (might’ve) had the clearest picture of what was happening. Unfortunately, ninety percent of that picture’d been stripped by an LA drug that’d either overwritten or (more likely) siloed his personal narrative.

For all Sheppard’s supposed reputation for difficulties in articulating his emotional state, he’d done pretty fuckin’ well where Rush was concerned. His halting half sentences and propensity to turn into a cyphered vault presented in full force when he was meant to speak about Atlantis.

//<3// the city agreed, in a warm wave. 

(Wonderful.)

And then there was Young. With his reasonable tone, his solid disposition, and his stalwart good looks, Young seemed like he might apply for a job with the Normative Police for all the middle-of-the-road American values he seemed to represent. But he was the bloody worst problem of the lot of them. At some point, in some way, he’d become spatio-temporally unglued from reality itself.

This piqued the city’s interest. //??//

//It’s none of your business. And are ya in fuckin’ mental continuity with me?// Rush demanded, annoyed. //Explain yourself.//

//.(!).// The city replied sulkily.

(Rush felt like doing some bloody sulking.)

Sheppard watched him speculatively.

Young watched Sheppard, managing to channel wary disapproval pretty fuckin’ well.

Rush, Sheppard, Young, the entire Expedition Force, and the city itself was part of a system under, presumably, multiple levels of quantum observation. At least two layers had been implied by the Morgan versus Morgan debate he’d witnessed earlier. Each Morgan represented a layer. Local ascension versus superposition.

There was at least one wave function it was worth collapsing.

“Anyone know what happened to my athleisure jacket?” He looked at Sheppard.

Sheppard’s gaze locked on his with unmistakable acknowledgement.

Young snorted. “Athleisure, huh?” he got to his feet. “I’ll find it for you.”

Rush and Sheppard watched the man scan the room, then pass through the doors Keller had left.

“The city,” Rush hissed, “is in here.” He pointed at his head.

//*****// the city preened.

“Yeah,” Sheppard admitted. “Little bit.”

“And you’ve not said anything to anyone about this because—” Rush trailed off.

Sheppard shrugged. 

“No,” Rush hissed. “Absolutely not. Use words.”

//…// The city projected a wave of faint reproach.

“It’s—” Sheppard looked away. “It’s not a great look. For me. The issue is the kinetics question.”

“What?” Rush asked, mystified.

“Everyone’ll wanna know when it started, what makes it better and worse, what’s the trend line look like. Woolsey’ll bench me until the whole thing gets figured out, which it won’t since it’s been like this from the beginning. Our trip to Altera just made it better.” He paused, seeming to catch himself. “Worse, I mean. Our trip to Altera made it worse.”

“Nice recovery,” Rush said acidly.

“If it makes you feel better, it’s not—” Sheppard paused, then restarted. “I think of it like a dog. In the best way. Like a smart, loyal dog, following some qualitative features of your thoughts. It responds more to emotional valencies as opposed to factual content. You were stuck in your body, right? And it pulled you out. Like little Timmy, down a well.”

Rush stared at Sheppard.

//Y’realize he compared y’to a collie, yes?//

//!!!(***)!!!// The wash of pride and excitement that came from the city seemed about right. For a bloody Rough Collie.

Rush blinked, shook his head, and tried not to lose what little of his mind remained.

Sheppard clapped him bracingly on the shoulder. “The more you talk to it, the more involved it’ll get. Keep that in mind.”

“I told it you think it’s a dog,” Rush muttered mutinously.

“I like dogs,” Sheppard said with a grin. “Let me guess. You’re a cat guy.”

“No comment,” Rush said.

Young reentered the room with his jacket.

“I don’t believe in the dog/cat binary,” Sheppard replied, raising his voice enough that Young was sure to hear.

“Now that,” Young said, “is a binary I can stand by.” He approached the bed, tossed Rush his jacket, and said, “You’re one hundred percent cat, hotshot.”

Rush, not about to dignify that with a response, slipped into his jacket.

Night in the Atlantis Infirmary had an ethereal, undersea aesthetic. Amber lights glowed from tracks at the base of the walls, where water ran, shimmering and silent. The walls and stained glass of the doors faded to deep blues and greens.

Young sat in a chair backed against the wall between Rush and Sheppard’s beds, his bad leg propped on a low stool. The man looked exhausted, but he’d stubbornly stuck with Rush through the afternoon and into the evening, allowing his team to settle in and get some rest before, presumably, the night shift started.

(Rush was beginning to think he was likely t’never get a shred of solitude for the rest of his natural life.)

Sheppard hunched over the screen of his laptop, typing furiously in quick bursts. His pose was relaxed, but the speed of his typing and the intensity of his gaze suggested high engagement with whatever was happening on his screen.

“You tryin’ to launch a nuclear missile over there?” Young asked.

Sheppard looked up at Rush, as though he were the offending party.

“I believe he’s talking to you,” Rush said delicately.

“Oh. No. Just texting with McKay. We gotta either get headsets, or invite everyone here.”

They stared blankly at him.

“For the game?” Sheppard explained. “We gotta be able to hear each other.”

Young snorted.

Rush sighed. “Is this really necessary? I could very easily place myself on mathematical standby. It’s not clear to me why I need to actually play the thing.”

Sheppard and Young looked at one another, as though jointly participating in a cost/benefit analysis.

Young seemed to win. (Or lose.)

“Hotshot,” Young began, “we think you should play. And, uh. The slower the better.”

“Whyyy?” Rush drew out the word suspiciously.

“The SGC top brass,” Sheppard said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial drawl, “meaning Landry, Woolsey, all the Washington guys—don’t really understand that we could dig the cypher architecture out of the game and just—give it to you. Jackson was the one who set up the concept of playing. McKay, Everett, and I backed that.”

Rush, astonished, stared at the pair of them.

Again, Sheppard and Young exchanged looks.

“You crack the whole thing,” Young said, “and you box leadership into a corner. The corner where they need to send someone to the gate address. There’s some reason to think that might—be a bad idea.”

“You’re undermining your own command structure?” Rush asked.

The pair of them winced.

“Yeah,” Sheppard said, unbothered.

“No,” Young corrected, “we’re modifying the timing of certain decisions.”

“You’re gonna crack that tonal cypher in two days, max, if we let you at it directly,” Sheppard said. “I might even be able to crack it, based on what we saw on Everett’s walls.”

“Jackson and I strongly advised him not to.” Young eyed Sheppard.

“Which is why we haven’t been talking about it nonstop since your dinner party,” Sheppard explained.

“But—” Rush hesistated, at a loss for words. “Who are the pair of you to—”

Sheppard stopped him before he finished his sentence. “I gotta say. The idea carried weight with me mostly because it came from Everett.” Sheppard’s gaze was galvanic slate. “He might be wearing fatigues, rather than athleisure Expedition gear,” he paused to trace a line across his own shoulder, where a civilian stripe might run, “but I find he’s got a pretty good head on his shoulders.”

“Let’s hope so,” Young growled, “because I’m starting to worry Shep enjoys bucking the chain of command so much he can’t run an accurate threat assessment.”

Sheppard bit down on a smirk and gave Young a small shrug.

“You gonna throw in with us, hotshot?” Young asked. “Or the bureaucracy of the US military?”

“When you put it like that,” Rush said dryly, “it hardly seems a choice. But—is the plan to continue indefinitely? Making sham progress until—what? Humanity loses what I gather to be a war for its very existence?”

“Heard about that, did you?” Young asked gently.

“My intern has his sources,” Rush replied.

Young nodded. He glanced at Sheppard, then back to Rush. “No, hotshot. The plan is to buy Jackson a few weeks. Out of all of us, he’s our best shot of making it through. He has the only line of communication with a higher plane that we’re aware of. And if we win this, we’re gonna need him to chart the path.”

Rush and Sheppard locked eyes.

“I think delay is the right move,” Sheppard said, low and sincere. “For now.”

Reluctantly, lacking the context for his own informed assessment, Rush nodded.