“The original retrovirus we used on Michael—”
“Causes global amnesia at any dose high enough to keep the physical changes from reverting,” Jennifer said. “That’s not an acceptable long-term solution. You know Rodney wouldn’t think it was.”
“It’s better than dead,” Carson said. “He could relearn what he knows—”
“A PhD in astrophysics and a couple of decades of incredibly specialized experience? There’s no way, and you know it. Not to mention not even remembering his sister, or… or anyone else who’s important to him. He’d hate that.”
“He’d hate being dead worse,” Carson said.
“I’m not sure you’re right,” Jennifer said. “But, okay, that’s our best idea right now. So what if we try it, and Rodney isn’t strong enough to survive the process? If he hasn’t fed recently — and I can’t really bring myself to hope that he has—”
“It could kill him,” Carson said. “I know.”
“I looked at your notes on the original experiment,” Jennifer said. “Your suggestion if the first research subject didn’t survive the transformation was for Sheppard’s team to go out and get you another Wraith.”
Carson closed his eyes for a moment, his good hand tightening on the lab bench. This was part of the reason he’d wanted to spend his time out in the field, not doing this kind of research anymore. It all twisted together in his stomach, the experiment on Michael that the first Carson Beckett had done but that he could still remember, the experiments on the hybrids, the ones who hadn’t survived, who’d been disposed of as wasted materials—
“Carson?” Jennifer said, sounding concerned.
He made himself take a deep breath and focus on Rodney. Rodney, who God willing would be their patient soon, and who deserved to be well and whole again if anyone did. “We can put him in stasis,” he said. “Take the time to come up with a solution that isn’t as risky—”
“And eventually we’ll have to test it,” Jennifer said. “His best chance of surviving that is if he’s fed recently. Tell me it isn’t.”
“I can’t tell you it isn’t,” Carson admitted after a long moment. “But I can’t imagine that he’d want you to endanger yourself this way just to make his chances better. And if you think he’s just going to be willing to feed on you to survive, even if you know it won’t kill you—”
“If it won’t kill me, then it’s like… like if he needed a kidney transplant or something. It’s an acceptable risk for the donor, even if the process isn’t very pleasant. I’d be willing to do that for Rodney, if it was what he needed to stay alive. Wouldn’t you?”
“A kidney is one thing,” Carson said. “Letting him feed on you—”
“We’re hoping the process won’t be nearly as painful if we get it right,” Jennifer said. “And even if it is, wouldn’t you do it if it would save Rodney’s life? Wouldn’t Colonel Sheppard, or Teyla, or… Okay, maybe not Ronon, not after what the Wraith have done to him, but you get my point.”
“I suppose I would,” Carson said.
“This is not going to kill me,” Jennifer said. “If the worst thing that happens is that I go through what just happened to me again, I can accept that.”
“We’ve seen that being repeatedly fed and revived causes significant side effects,” Carson said. “When you treated Ronon after the Wraith brainwashed him, he was physically addicted to the Wraith’s reverse feeding process. That wasn’t easy for him to recover from, and I’m not sure I would say there aren’t any lasting psychological effects.”
“He said they did it to him over and over,” Jennifer said. “I’m not talking about anything like that. Once more, maybe twice at the most. Colonel Sheppard survived more than that under worse circumstances, and he’s fine.”
“For a certain definition of fine,” Carson said.
Jennifer spread her hands. “The one we use around here,” she said. “I treat Marines and airmen all the time who’ve been wounded in action. Some I can patch up, and they’ll be fine in a week. Some are going to carry the scars they got here for the rest of their life. Some of them have disabling injuries, or disabling post-traumatic reactions. I can’t watch that every day and not be willing to do the same myself.”
“You’re not a soldier,” Carson said.
“I know,” Jennifer said. “And I don’t want to be one, and I’m actually not sure—” She hesitated, and then went on more deliberately. “I’m not sure I want to be part of a program that does that to people for the rest of my life,” she said. “But right now what’s important is that this is what I need to do to save Rodney’s life. Even if we never use this thing again, even if it never saves anybody else from the Wraith, if we can save Rodney, then I want to do this.” She raised her chin. “Will you back me up on this?”
“There’s no such thing as ‘never using it again,’” Carson said. “You can’t put the genie back in the bottle.”
“Yes or no, Carson?” Jennifer said.
“Everything you’re saying is true,” Carson said. “I’ll say as much to Colonel Sheppard. As to whether I think you should take the risk…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t do it to you as your doctor. But I want to help Rodney as much as you do, and if you’re determined to do this to yourself, I won’t stand in your way.”
“Thank you,” she said, her expression lightening.
Carson shook his head. “I just hope we won’t both be sorry.”
Sam ducked through the noisy gym to the small practice room in the back, dodging around four treadmills occupied by jogging Marines who were watching a long-ago recorded football game on the TV along the wall and arguing about every play. The door wasn’t locked and it was quiet. Which was a good thing. She preferred not to try to concentrate on yoga with TV and football and loud arguments about ‘You are so bogus, man!’ Her Zen was a little harder to find than that.
Teyla stood in the middle of the room, bent into an incredibly painful looking pretzel pose, her green Wraith skin incongruous with her Athosian gym clothes.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, starting to back out. “I didn’t realize this room was taken.”
“You are welcome to come in,” Teyla said, extending her arms to begin coming out of the posture. “It is very noisy in the main gym.”
“Thanks.” Sam put down her towel and bag on the bench beside the window. It was dark outside, and the stained glass looked muddy against the night. “I was looking for somewhere to do yoga without so much of a crowd.”
“It is difficult to concentrate with the television,” Teyla agreed, bending in another way that Sam thought seemed pretty much impossible. Teyla made it look easy.
“That, and I’m not sure I want some twenty year old commenting on my fat ass or saying, ‘Hey, Carter can only bench press whatever.’ I never used to be able to figure out why Jack started using the SGC gym at an ungodly time of morning, but now I get it.”
Teyla looked at her critically, and also upside down. “I do not think your ass is fat,” she said calmly.
“It’s not as skinny as it used to be, and I do a lot of sitting on it on the Hammond.” Sam sat down on the floor, taking off her shoes. “I have to be a lot more conscientious about going to the gym now that I don’t have people chasing me and shooting at me on a daily basis.”
“And you are not twenty,” Teyla said serenely, inverting and stretching forward on her toes.
“That too.” Sam started her stretches while Teyla leaned forward again, her back leg perfectly straight as she bent from the waist over her front leg. Sam was forty one. She couldn’t have done that when she was twenty, and Teyla couldn’t be more than a couple of years younger than she was. And she’d had a baby.