He only understood what a lousy idea that had been when his gaze inevitably followed the fall of the gunk, which was tumbling toward the bottom of a black chasm that seemed to reach all the way to the bowels of the planet. The memory of a long-ago trip to Athens, Greece, flashed through Rodney's mind. He'd taken the mandatory sightseeing tour to the Acropolis there, and the guide had obligingly pointed out the Barathron; a deep cleft in the rocks, which the ancient city state had put to good use by dropping convicted criminals into it for permanent disposal.
There could be no doubt at all as to what would happen three days from now. The knowledge that he'd likely die of a heart attack long before his body hit the ground wasn't quite as comforting as one might have thought.
I think Charybdis is on to us, Ikaros observed helpfully.
"Oh, really?"
Chapter twelve
She was stirring at last, and Ronon half wished she weren't, wished that something had gone wrong, that the technician had made a mistake, and that she'd never wake up. Anything, even death, had to be better than what was to come.
They'd been taken to a chamber behind the laboratory, a small, simple affair all in white that contained a single bed and a chair, and ostensibly they were alone. He knew well enough it was a fallacy. Embedded in those bland walls were photo crystals and audio receivers, and everything they'd do or say would be transmitted elsewhere in the complex, to a much more luxurious room where Marcon and his aides would monitor every word and move. Even without the surveillance equipment he wouldn't have any choice but to do exactly what Marcon had told him to do; the Behemoth was awake, trembling with excitement, waiting for betrayal to commence.
And Ronon would betray, as planned. Marcon wanted to know how Teyla had managed to make the Stargate work, and Marcon would get what he wanted. He always did. Once he had the information, Teyla was expendable. There could be no doubt as to what that meant. Besides, Marcon had as good as ordered it already, and she wouldn't be able to keep herself alive by proving her usefulness as a warrior. According to the technician, she was blind.
Ronon couldn't even begin to imagine what it must be like for her. Horrible frustration at no longer being able to accomplish the simplest tasks, and he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to still go on in her place. But out of the two of them she'd always been the stronger, the one more in control-not that he'd ever admit it.
She sighed, then tensed, telling him that she was awake and alert to his presence. "Who is there?" Her voice sounded hoarse, sandpapered by the sedative they'd given her. "I need to find a woman called Teyla Emmagan."
"So you've gone looking for yourself now?"
A gasp, then her right hand reached out, groped, searched, until it found his and held on. Hard. "Ronon? You're Ronon!"
He couldn't help it. He smiled. "Good job you can't see me. You might not have recognized me."
"I'm surprised you were able to recognize me. After all, I'm-" Cutting herself off, she let go of his hand, flexed her fingers several times, looking stunned. She bent her knees as though she were testing the joints and at last sat up in one fluid move and touched her face. "Oh… that… that's unexpected," she murmured.
"What is?"
"In the timeline where I've come from I was over seventy years old and afflicted with all the aches and pains you'd expect at that age."
"Timeline?"
"Charybdis… You remember Charybdis?"
"Yeah. Unforgettable" Ronon snorted. "As a matter of fact, until I saw you, I thought everybody else was dead. What about Charybdis?"
But she'd already jumped ahead to another subject. "You remember. Only the originals… You're the original!"
"The original what?"
"It's not possible…" She still wasn't listening. "I shouldn't have been able to find you. I shouldn't have got here. I-" Her face lit up with a spark of realization. "Of course! Your finger!"
He remembered Marcon showing him that ghastly chunk of dead bone and tissue he couldn't recall losing, but how did that matter? She wasn't making sense, probably still dazed from the sedative. The Behemoth hissed, angry and impatient, pushing him to pursue the information it wanted to obtain. "What do you mean by timeline?" Ronon ground out.
"Charybdis created them all," Teyla replied distractedly and without making much sense. "And there's an infinite number of versions of us, but only one…"
A flash of agony blotted out what she was saying as the Behemoth demanded to know the identity of us. He hadn't meant to groan, but he must have, because the next thing he became aware of were Teyla's hands clamping his shoulders, sightless eyes trained to where she guessed his would be.
"Ronon! Ronon, what's wrong?"
And how was he going to answer that? I don 't want to betray you, but there's this thing burrowing through my mind forcing me to do it anyway? Hardly, though he wondered how many words he'd actually get out before the Behemoth… Did what? What could it do? Hurt him? Yes, obviously. Kill him? Given the situation, his death would be the best of any number of bad outcomes. Which made things very, very simple.
Suddenly he started laughing through the unholy pain in his head. For once Marcon had overreached himself. He'd manipulated Ronon into a situation where he had nothing left to lose and everything-his honor most of all-to gain. Marcon had made him invulnerable in a way he'd never expected.
"Ronon!"
Teyla sounded scared, and she had every reason to be. This could go terribly wrong. The only advantage they possessed, the one Ronon banked on now, was the fact that she had something Marcon wanted. As long as she didn't tell him anything, she'd be reasonably safe.
"Don't say another word until I tell you," he gasped and grabbed her hand. "Come with me. Quick!"
It was barely an idea, let alone a plan. The only thing he knew for sure right now was that he had to get her out of here. He pulled Teyla off the bed, and she was far too seasoned a warrior to resist or ask questions. She also trusted him implicitly, he realized, queasiness pooling in his stomach at the notion of what he still might do. No promises, no guarantees. He'd only ever pushed back so far against the Behemoth, because there'd never been a reason to endure the consequences of taking it further. Now there was.
Question was how long he'd last… The door, less than five steps away seemed on a telescopic slide into endless distance, its outline shimmering in colors that couldn't possibly exist. Five steps, and the two he'd taken so far had required inhuman effort, all but forcing him to his knees in a sludge of treacly heaviness.
"Ronon!"
"Don't talk!"
His own voice roared in his ears, unbearably loud, the sound distorted and pulsing, filling his skull with its insane pressure, and he could swear he felt the Behemoth move, thrashing about, raking his brain with its claws. The third step loomed like a rock face, impossible to scale, except he no longer believed that, couldn't afford to believe it, and he was going to-
The rock face burst apart in a white-hot explosion of pain, and Ronon fell, helplessly pitching forward onto hands and knees, bringing Teyla down after him, and he was screaming like a thing possessed, howling until the walls of the room bulged outward with the noise.