"I'm afraid so." Readying herself for bad news due to sheer habit, Elizabeth entered the room and leaned her forearms on the lab bench. "The star drive?"
Immediately he shook his head. "I wish I could say differently, but it cannot be done. Given the problems I have already seen, not to mention the others that surely exist, Atlantis is simply not capable of space travel in its current state"
Against her better judgment, she allowed a rueful smile to slip free. "Rodney wouldn't have said that."
"No, he would not," Radek admitted. "But neither would he have succeeded with the repairs."
She wanted to believe that, but the uncertainty fed into other doubts. She'd been questioning her decision not to mount a rescue mission almost from the moment it had been made. Not because of John; although she understood that the situation had to be tweaking all of his Afghanistan-related defenses, he was clearly too sick to lead such a mission. Ronon and a team of Marines might still be able to bring Rodney home, but at what cost? And what would be left of him if they found him?
Right now, survival for as many as possible was Elizabeth's only goal. Anything else had to come second. Her com alerted her to the check-in from Jumper Three, and Radek listened in, looking progressively tenser, while Lieutenant Corletti described the situation on the mainland.
"We can wait no longer," Radek said regretfully, covering his microphone with his hand. "If the nanites have appeared on the surface, I must reconfigure the city's shield and boost power to it immediately. We have no way of knowing if or when they will become airborne. When that occurs, it will still be several hours before they can reach Atlantis, of course, but we must act now to be certain."
The consequences of that proposal hung like a solid weight around her neck. While Radek expertly multitasked, packing equipment and rattling off instructions to other scientists and, at the same time, explaining to Corletti how to reroute the auxiliary power systems in the jumper, Elizabeth sank into a chair. The other jumpers' DHDs afforded them the ability to dial out to the Alpha site, but it still remained a race against time.
Vaguely aware that the many scientists, engineers and technicians in the room were looking to her for a decision, for leadership, she lifted her chin and gave the order that would result in a death sentence for those left on the mainland. "Reconfigure the shield."
Radek went to the computer and typed in his access code. "It will have to be at full strength. Rodney is-was-correct. We cannot risk allowing anything to enter, not even air. At this rate our ZPM will be depleted very quickly. I must get back to Polrusso and make preparations for obtaining at least one more."
Elizabeth nodded and watched him go, feeling a creeping sense of despair and a weariness deeper than she'd ever known.
Midway through the fifteenth straight hour of tending to the injured Athosians on the Daedalus and the control room personnel on Atlantis, it occurred to Carson that the entire expedition was now engaged in a form of triage. Everyone was attempting to treat the most critical issues first, keeping the city alive for as long as possible. It wasn't the most eloquent metaphor ever dreamed up, but he couldn't be faulted for being a bit sleep-deprived.
After checking on the control room techs again, he'd hoped to retreat to the relative safety of his office and rest his eyes for a few minutes. Then two Marines had all but carried in an ashen Colonel Sheppard, and suddenly Carson was putting the Ancient equivalent of an MRI machine into service.
When the results of the scan appeared on the screen, Carson had to fight to rein in the despondency that threatened to surface. Certainly he'd been the bearer of considerably worse news in his career as a doctor, but this was one diagnosis he dreaded giving.
The sand had done extraordinary damage to the Colonel's middle ear and sinus cavities — it was a wonder that the man had stayed on his feet as long as he had. From the evidence, Carson could only theorize that the residual properties of the iratus retrovirus in Sheppard's system had somehow stopped the caustic substance from reaching his brain. Either fate or coincidence had prompted a virus that had once nearly killed him to save his life now, but it still felt like a cruel trick. The pain, severe though it surely was, would be treatable. The vertigo would be a bit more complex-but…
Given the physical and mental gauntlet Carson had run over the past couple of days, he'd almost expected to hit his breaking point sooner or later. This might just be the straw that broke the camel's back.
Outside, the nanites had begun their destruction. Inside the city, people he called friends were injured or dead. All of it a consequence of events set in motion by his own hands. The ravaged face and utterly destroyed eyesight of that poor lad from the control room, the Athosian woman whose leg had been so badly mangled-God, an entire planet brought to ruin. Had he really expected to be able to sleep after seeing that? Or ever again?
"Carson."
Sheppard rarely called him by his first name, and it swiftly brought him out of his introspection. As directed, the Colonel had hardly moved since settling on the bed, to mitigate the pain as well as to facilitate the scan. Now he only turned his head far enough to better listen with his good ear. "Cut it out"
With false cheer, Carson said, "And what is it you'd like me to cut out, Colonel?"
"You know what I mean. Quit thinking that what's happening is your fault. It isn't-none of it."
He sighed. "That's all very well to say, but it's hard to get around the simple cause-and-effect nature of it all."
"Yeah, I know. Remember, I'm the one who kept skulking around here after Ronon got shot" Sheppard looked at him intently, not letting him off the hook. "You don't owe anyone any apologies. You couldn't have done anything to stop Ea."
And that was the heart of it. Carson badly wanted to believe that, but one thing held him back. "I could have stayed away from that pod."
"Yeah, you could have. But you're a doctor," Sheppard said, as if it explained everything. Someday, perhaps, that sentiment might not ring so hollow.
Trying to regain his professionalism, Carson stepped closer to the bed. "You may not feel so sympathetic when you hear your diagnosis."
Although the pilot's expression didn't noticeably change, the openness he'd shown only moments ago suddenly vanished. "Hit me."
"There's a fair bit of damage. A lot of it can be rectified with surgery, and we can manage the vertigo with medication until then. As for your hearing…I'm not a specialist, but I believe a cochlear implant would help you regain enough to meet the military's medical standards."
A flash of unbridled anguish tightened Sheppard's features as the implications became clear. "Doc, you know what the limits are for the flight physical."
"Aye. I'm so sorry, John."
The Colonel closed his eyes. A familiar mask of control slid into place within seconds, but its edges were frayed. "Can you get me on my feet to go back to Polrusso?"
Carson hesitated, not sure he'd made himself clear. "Right now, lad, I don't think you'd be able to fly even as a passenger. The worst of the inflammation will subside in time, but only in the event of an evacuation would I want you going through the 'gate. Just rest here for a while. If the pain gets too bad, or you start to feel any nausea, let me know so we can adjust the meds."
With a quick, awkward pat to Sheppard's shoulder, he moved away, sure the other man wouldn't want anyone hovering while he came to terms with the shattering blow he'd just been dealt. Before Carson could leave the room, though, Sheppard spoke up again. "Just for the record, this isn't your fault, either."
Turning back, Carson asked, "Then whose, Colonel?"
Sheppard stared up at the ceiling, his eyes lifeless. "Does it matter?"