Fic: Silence Implying Sound (Urban Legend Slash Challenge)
Wait, what is this? A story with actual plot? My God!
Yes.
Title: Silence Implying Sound
Rating: R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: ~8550 words
Summary: For this prompt in the Urban Legend Slash Challenge. They need to take seven and they might take yours.
A/N: Many thanks to megolas, siriaeve, and wychwood, who provided invaluable help in wrangling this story into shape. With bonus font consultation. ;-)
A/N2: If you're thinking, "Wait, isn't this...?" let me just say: Yes. Yes, it is. Further notes at end.
Silence Implying Sound
The second the hologram shut off, they all started talking at once.
“-ridiculous, completely and utterly rid-”
“-new security measures, possibly suspend all non-essential gate-”
“-knew the Ancients were smoking some special crack, but this-”
“-one of the anthropologists down here, analyze the rhyme scheme-”
“-not unlike an episode of-”
“Gentlemen!” Elizabeth said, firmly. Rodney, Zelenka, Beckett, Cadman, and Lorne all stopped talking with varying degrees of rapidity and turned to her with, likewise, varying degrees of guilt written across their faces. John, who had not contributed to the outburst, also turned to her, his mouth set.
“I agree,” Elizabeth said, “that we need to discuss this in detail. But,” she raised an eyebrow, “not all at once. And not here. If you’ll follow me to the briefing room?”
They trailed behind her, like obedient ducklings; all except Zelenka, who paused to get some readings off the base of the holographic display. John waited with him, listening to his quiet Czech murmuring. He didn’t need to understand: Zelenka’s wide eyes, the slight shake of his shoulders-they said it all.
The rest of the group from the hologram room, with the addition of Ronon, Teyla, and Caldwell, was waiting for them when they reached the conference room. “Colonel!” Rodney said, with a back me up! bob of his head. “Tell the Major over here that he’s being completely ridiculous and paranoid.”
“You know what, forget it,” Lorne said, before John could speak. “If McKay thinks I’m being paranoid, then I want to officially withdraw my concerns.”
“Thank you...” Rodney said, and John watched his expression go from smug and oblivious to vaguely insulted by the end of the second word.
Luckily, Caldwell chose that moment to weigh in. “Regardless,” he said, “if Doctor Weir considered this important enough to call me down here, then I want to be fully briefed.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Radek, what can you tell us about the message?”
“Well-” He sat up straighter, adjusting his glasses. “It seems to have been programmed to project itself at set time, in three subsequent intervals. We missed the first broadcast completely, but I noticed power fluctuation from that area of the city. On your-on the advice of Doctor Weir, Major Lorne and Lieutenant Cadman escorted me to the room so I could proceed with investigation.” He paused, wetting his lips. “Doctor Beckett, uh, accompanied us, as he and Lieutenant were involved in, ah...”
“A domestic dispute,” Cadman said brightly. She turned to Carson and glared.
“Ah, right,” said Zelenka. “Anyway, we arrived in time to catch tail end of second broadcast.” He looked a little white, just at the mention of it. “At this point we had sufficient concern to radio Doctor Weir, McKay, and the Colonel, and they all arrived in time to hear third recording.”
“And what,” Caldwell asked, “did this recording say?”
For a moment, six of the seven people who had been in the room stared blankly at each other. Then Rodney grinned, and with a stage magician’s flourish, produced a micro recorder. John recognized it as the device Rodney occasionally used to record his thoughts-Every one of them is precious, Colonel. John supposed that he was going to have to start making slightly less fun of him for that.
“Got it on tape,” Rodney said, looking, as was so often the case, justifiably smug. He pressed the play button.
John had sat through this once before, but if anything it was even more ominous now, filtering through the tinny speakers of Rodney’s recorder, echoing around the clean, bright space of the conference room. The voice was female, and judging by the holographic image in the room downstairs, young. She spoke with all the solemnity of the woman in the recording the Ancients had left to warn them about the Wraith, yet there was a slight lilt to her voice, an air of sing-song playfulness. It was...disturbing, to say the least. Even Rodney’s grin faltered some.
“Can’t even shout, can’t even cry, the Lepidom are coming by. Passing through ‘gates, knocking on doors, they need to take seven and they might take yours. Can’t call for help, can’t say a word, you’re going to die screaming but you won’t be heard.”
The recording shut off quietly, like a soft exhalation of breath.
“And that’s just ludicrous, of course,” Rodney said, after a minute-summoning the words with effort, John could see. “Like a children’s story-probably what the Ancients used to frighten their kids when they got out of line.”
Teyla shook her head. “I have heard of these Lepidom,” she said. “There are stories about them among my people.”
“Same here,” Ronon said.
“But they’re just stories, right?” Rodney said.
John said, “Like the Wraith are just stories?”
Rodney shot him a betrayed look.
“I have certainly never heard of anyone actually encountering them,” said Teyla, diplomatically, “as we have all encountered the Wraith.”
“What I want to know-what I think everyone really wants to know,” Beckett said, “is are we in any danger? Is this a real threat we should start worrying about?” He looked like he was asking for official permission to freak.
“No,” Rodney said, emphatically. Apparently, John thought, he was still not fully disabused of the notion that he could control the universe with his brain.
“Whether or not the threat is real, we have to assume that the Ancients left that warning for a reason,” Elizabeth said. “We should err on the side of caution.”
“I agree,” said Caldwell.
“Well of course we should err on the side of caution!” Rodney said. “I just don’t see why we need to get all worked up about it!”
He sounded more worked up than anyone else in the room.
“All right,” Elizabeth said, clearly trying to project calm, though her voice sounded wire-tight. “John, I would appreciate it if you and Major Lorne would draw up a plan to minimize any security risks; Colonel, I assume you will be doing the same for the Daedalus.” Caldwell nodded. “Since the term ‘Lepidom’ seems Ancient in origin, I’m going to see what the database can tell us. And Teyla, Ronon, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear what you know on the subject.”
“We will tell you everything we can,” Teyla promised.
“I shall return to the hologram room and see if there is anything else I can ascertain about the message,” Zelenka said.
“I’ll keep you company,” volunteered Cadman. She shot Beckett a look that said he was not to follow.
“Well, what should I do?” Carson asked, looking flustered.
“Yeah!” Rodney said. “What about me?”
“Nothing,” John said. “If there’s nothing to worry about, you don’t have to do anything.”
This earned him a look far too similar to the ones Cadman had been hurling Beckett’s way all afternoon.
“The important thing,” Elizabeth said, “is not to start a panic. Let’s keep this information inside this room as much as possible for the time being.”
“So the banner-making’s canceled, then?” John said, mostly for Rodney’s benefit.
Rodney's shoulder bumped John’s as he left the briefing room. “Ha ha, Colonel,” he muttered. “You always say the cleverest things.”
*
John awoke to the sound of his radio switching on. He fumbled on the nightstand for a moment before pressing the com into his ear. It was on-he could hear static from the other end-but no one said anything (or shouted. Or screamed). Huh, he thought. Glancing at his alarm, he saw that it was nearly five o’clock. He might as well get up.
He was in the shower, yawning into the spray, when a frantic explosion of knocking burst through the silence. He wrapped a towel around his waist, walking dripping back into the main room; he was about to shout, Just a minute! when the door slid open and Rodney spilled inside. His face was flush with panic, his eyes unnaturally wide. John braced himself for the onslaught of words.
It didn’t come. Rodney’s mouth opened, and his hands moved, darting through the air, but it was like watching television with the sound turned down. Rodney, John said, and he felt his throat move, felt his tongue drop: but no sound came out.
John blinked. Fuck, he said.
Rodney waved his hands, mouthing, Yes, yes! relieved that John had figured it out-or possibly, that he wasn’t the only one afflicted.
Elizabeth, John said, forming the word slowly and carefully. They had to go find Elizabeth. He started for the door.
Rodney grabbed John’s arm, strong fingers sliding against the wet skin of his bicep. For a moment, John wasn't just mute: he was completely at a loss for words.
Then he blinked, his brain rebooting. Oh, right. Clothes.
He held up a finger. Just a sec.
Rodney, panicked though he was, still managed to smirk.
*
Fully dressed, John followed Rodney up to Elizabeth’s office. There were already more than fifty people outside, all gesticulating wildly, all shouting without sound. And that was just Atlantis’ contingent of early risers. John looked at Elizabeth, standing on a chair just outside the door, attempting to make calming gestures. Next to him, one of the organic chemists angrily stomped his foot.
They were in serious trouble.
Rodney pulled on John’s sleeve and jerked his head in Elizabeth’s direction. Letting go, he started pushing through the crowd, unashamedly employing his elbows. John followed in his wake, casting apologetic glances left and right. When they reached Elizabeth, John had a moment of worrying that she was going to throw herself on him in relief, but her composure barely slipped, and she limited herself to a firm squeeze of his shoulder. John got it: We’re in this together, she was trying to say, trying to show the crowd. We’re united.
Rodney had disappeared inside Elizabeth’s office; now he returned, carrying an open laptop. He held it out to her and mimed typing. She shook her head, pulling a small pad and pen out of her pocket and holding them up. Rodney saw her headshake and raised her an eyeroll, miming typing again. When Elizabeth still looked confused, Rodney jerked the laptop back. Balancing it awkwardly on his knee, he began to type.
YOU ARE ALL IDIOTS, said a slow, computerized voice that sounded disturbingly like HAL. I THINK WE HAVE ENOUGH PROBLEMS WITHOUT HAVING TO DEAL WITH A CRAZED MOB. GO BACK TO YOUR ROOMS WHILE THE INTELLIGENT, LEVEL-HEADED PEOPLE AMONG US FIGURE THIS OUT.
There was more disgruntled gesticulating and foot-stomping from the crowd. John glared at one Marine whom he caught flipping Rodney off.
Elizabeth indicated that Rodney should hand her the laptop, and he passed it up. DR. MCKAY IS RIGHT, she typed, and Rodney silently preened. PANICKING ISN’T GOING TO SOLVE ANYTHING. THE BEST THING FOR YOU TO DO RIGHT NOW IS TO HEAD BACK TO YOUR QUARTERS. DO YOUR BEST TO CALM ANYONE WHO SEEMS UPSET. WE WILL STAY IN TOUCH.
Some people nodded and started to trail away. Others were still eyeing the three of them with looks of incredulity and anger. John spotted Sergeant Sable, one of the pilots he’d been training on jumper runs. He gave him a meaningful look, raising an eyebrow. Sable swallowed; then he tapped the shoulder of the Marine next to him, gesturing over his shoulder and nodding. The crowd started to break up even more.
Rodney wrested the laptop back from Elizabeth. BELIEVE ME, he told the remaining personnel, NOBODY WANTS HIS VOICE BACK MORE THAN I DO.
John smiled quietly to himself. Rodney wasted a lot of words, but sometimes, he knew exactly the right thing to say.
*
John took it upon himself to round up the rest of the people on his mental shortlist of essential personnel. Most were still sleeping, still in their rooms, so John had to go through the silent song-and-dance each time, explaining what was going on with gestures and carefully mouthed phrases. He wished Rodney hadn’t given him a computerized HA HA HA when he’d asked to borrow his laptop.
Zelenka took a little longer to find than the others; he was not in his room, but asleep on the couch in one of the labs, his glasses askew and a datapad hugged tight against his chest. He took John’s mime routine stoically, rolling his eyes and sighing, mouth moving through Czech mumblings that John could still understand without understanding.
That left Ronon. John found him running through one of the halls on the east side of the city. He’d been awake for hours; he hadn’t noticed that his voice had up and left him in the middle of the night.
Back up in the conference room, Rodney was configuring Elizabeth’s laptop with one hand and mechanically shouting at everybody else with the other. YES, I’M SURE THAT’S THE BEST USE OF MY TIME AND SKILLS. HOW ABOUT I JUST CONFIGURE EVERY LAPTOP IN THE CITY? I MEAN, WHY SOLVE THE PROBLEM WHEN WE CAN SIMPLY ARM ATLANTIS WITH ARTIFICIAL VOICE BOXES?
Lorne, who had apparently just been denied the opportunity to play Stephen Hawking, pouted.
John took a seat. He saw that somebody-Elizabeth, probably-had dumped several reams of scratch paper out onto the table and placed Sharpies in front of every chair. John uncapped his. So. he wrote. Alien laryngitis?
They all turned to Beckett, who shrugged, shaking his head in bafflement. John saw that the good doctor had acquired Lieutenant Cadman at some point between his quarters and the briefing room; they were clearly holding hands underneath the conference table. It was a marked contrast from yesterday. John shook his head: bewildered, amused.
There was the sound of another pen being uncapped, loud in the silent room. Zelenka bent to the page, filling it with row after row of careful cursive script. He conscientiously capped his pen before holding the sheet of paper up for everyone to see.
Can’t call for help, can’t say a word- it read. I believe whatever is affecting us is directly related to the holographic message we received yesterday-it is exactly as the Ancient warning predicted.
WELL OF COURSE IT’S RELATED! Rodney’s fingers stabbed the keys. PAGE ONE OF THE PEGASUS GALAXY BROCHURE: THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES!
Zelenka rolled his eyes. Therefore, he wrote, we must assume that the rest of the warning was valid also. He put the piece of paper down and picked up another. We are in danger.
His computer made an undignified squawk as Rodney leaned on the wrong key.
Elizabeth touched his shoulder gently, then pointed at her laptop, giving him an inquisitive look. He nodded, taking in a shaky breath.
JOHN, Elizabeth typed and the strange, artificial voice spoke. WILL YOU STILL BE ABLE TO IMPLEMENT THE ADDITIONAL SECURITY MEASURES NOW THAT
Her fingers froze, hovering above the keys. Lorne and Caldwell were shooting him doubtful glances, but John nodded, sure, emphatic.
GOOD, Elizabeth typed. SEE TO IT.
Teyla reached for a piece of paper. Have you been able to find out anything more about the Lepidom? John was surprised to see how messy her handwriting was.
Elizabeth shook her head. THE NAME WOULD SEEM TO BE RELATED TO THE ANCIENT WORD FOR CHARMING OR PLEASANT, BUT I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO FIND ANY REFERENCE TO THE LEPIDOM, A NOUN, IN THE DATABASE.
Teyla nodded; she was hard to read, sometimes, but John thought that she didn’t look especially surprised. With your permission, she wrote, I would like to take a jumper to the mainland and check on my people. They may be affected also, and frightened; further, I believe it was Halling from whom I first heard the story. He may know more.
I THINK THAT’S AN EXCELLENT IDEA, Elizabeth typed.
John thought so, too. Get Sable to fly you, he wrote. He’s a good pilot, and I think he could use the distraction.
Teyla nodded, the gesture conveying both assent and thanks.
Yes, but what did this? Beckett was anxiously waving a piece of paper. There has to be a physical cause!
I’M SURE THERE WOULD BE PLENTY OF PEOPLE WILLING TO LET YOU RUN SOME TESTS, Elizabeth wrote. Sure enough, Cadman pointed at her own chest and nodded, resignation and a hint of ironic amusement in her eyes.
SO, WHAT? Rodney typed. THAT’S IT? BUSINESS AS USUAL?
Do you have a better plan, Dr. McKay? John was not surprised that Caldwell’s letters were straight enough to have been made with a ruler. What other course of action would you propose?
More furious, emphatic keystrokes. SOMETHING! THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING FOR ME TO DO!
A pop as Lorne uncapped a pen. You could always configure laptops, he wrote.
*
Besides the current of deep unease underwriting everything, the day passed fairly normally. It reminded John of the days before the Wraith siege, actually: everyone went about their business, but even those who weren’t fully informed knew that something was wrong, that something bad was coming. Yes, it was a lot like that, John concluded, crossing the mess with his tray, watching a huddled group of scientists and Marines, their eyes flickering nervously toward him at the sound of his approaching, echoing, footsteps.
A lot like that. Only quieter. So much quieter.
He sat down at the table opposite Rodney, the slap of his tray making the other man jerk. Then Rodney was sighing, rolling his eyes. I hate this, he mouthed.
John could kinda tell.
It could be worse, though, John thought, his mouth full of something that tasted rather like mashed broccoli. After all: silence he knew. Silence he could endure.
It could be a lot, lot worse.
*
In the morning, it was. At first, it didn’t seem that way. They were still a silent city, a city without voice, but people seemed calmer, resigned. They had adjusted to the looming threat of the Wraith; if need be, they would adjust to this.
Then the ceiling opened up and a jumper stuttered drunkenly into the bay, colliding with one wall before shuddering to a lurching stop in the middle of the room. Campbell, on duty in the control tower, set off the alarm they had rigged: it whooped loud and angry across the base.
John ran to the gateroom, then up to the jumper bay, following Campbell’s assertively pointing finger. He was the first one there, beating out Lorne by a fraction of a second. They both raised their weapons as the rear hatch of the jumper groaned open.
Ronon stepped out, holding up his hands: Don’t shoot. John relaxed his shoulders and lowered his gun; so did Lorne, albeit much, much more slowly. Ronon gestured toward the inside of the jumper. He was not what John would call a cheerful man, but even for him, the expression he wore was unusually grim.
One look at the body spread out across jumper’s floor and John understood why.
It was Sable. It had been Sable. His eyes were wide and glassy, and like his mouth and hands, frozen in a rictus of terror. He had died, died horribly, struggling and in pain. And no one had heard.
No one had heard him scream as his heart was cut out.
John looked away. Beside him, Lorne braced one hand against the side of the jumper and silently retched.
Teyla was standing in the front part of the jumper, rubbing the shoulder of the woman in the pilot’s seat, who was sobbing, hysterical and mute, onto the control panel. It took John a moment to place her, but then yes, of course: this was Doctor Lambert, the anthropologist who had accompanied Teyla for the purpose of talking (or exchanging notes) with Halling. John hadn’t even known she had the gene; she must have never flown before. John lowered his gun and placed a hand over hers where it was still gripping the controls. He rubbed her knuckles. It’s okay, he mouthed. You did it. It’s okay.
He doubted even real words would have been enough.
*
Eventually, the alarm brought everyone else who was needed (and more than a few people who weren’t) running. Beckett and Biro wheeled the body away to be autopsied; Heightmeyer finally coaxed Lambert out of her seat. Elizabeth let out a breath, then nodded wearily at Teyla and Ronon, Lorne and John. They retreated back to the conference room.
John grabbed a pen. Need to take 7 and they might take yours = hearts? he wrote.
Teyla nodded. Halling wrote the story down for Doctor Lambert and myself. She handed Elizabeth a sheet of-now very crushed-paper. The entire village has been affected also.
Elizabeth scanned the page, looking increasingly grim, then passed it over to John. He felt Rodney’s breath hot on his neck as the other man scooted closer to read over his shoulder.
The story was much what he'd expected: something that, prior to coming to the Pegasus Galaxy, prior to sitting down in a Barcalounger in Antarctica, he would have dismissed as the plot to a bad sci-fi B-movie, as a twisted fairy tale. He’d never wanted, or needed, to believe in monsters. He knew that people were bad enough.
But then, the Wraith. And now. Now this.
They come to a village. They steal the voices of the men, of the women and children, so that no one can call on the gods for help. Then they take from the people their hearts. Seven hearts. No one knows why they do this. The Wraith cull us for food. The Lepidom have no such reason.
Rodney’s breath was coming quicker now; John felt the brush of his shoulder, and his hand, gripping the arm of the chair.
But, it is said that if ever the Ancestors raised their voices and screamed, the Lepidom would die, and they would come no more.
John blinked at the page, frustrated and annoyed. They were supposed to wait around for the Ancestors? They would die of old age first.
He passed the paper over to Lorne, then looked back up at Elizabeth. She bent over the laptop Rodney had rigged for her. I THINK OUR FIRST PRIORITY SHOULD BE TO GET THE REST OF THE ATHOSIANS SAFELY WITHIN ATLANTIS’ WALLS, she typed, nodding at Teyla. JOHN, COULD YOU...
On it, he mouthed, and moved to turn on his radio.
Rodney rolled his eyes at him. Lorne just gave him a pointed look.
Right. Well. John grabbed a piece of scrap. Major, he wrote, organize teams to bring the Athosians over from the mainland. I trust you can handle this without my help. He pushed the paper across the table with a smirk.
Lorne’s salute as he left the room was possibly just a little sarcastic.
AT LEAST, Elizabeth was typing and Rodney’s software was translating, THEY HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO GET INSIDE THE CITY.
Rodney’s hand, which had been fishing in his pocket for a powerbar, fell against the table with a thunk.
Then he was scrambling for his laptop and typing furiously. HOW DO WE KNOW THAT? THE WRAITH DON’T INTERACT NORMALLY WITH OUR LIFESIGNS DETECTORS; WHY SHOULD WE ASSUME THAT THE LEPIDOM DO? AND HOW CAN WE BE SURE THAT THEY HAVEN’T ALREADY ATTACKED SIX OTHER PEOPLE? WE SENT EVERYBODY TO THEIR QUARTERS; IF THEY SCREAMED, WE WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO HEAR THEM.
The entire speech was, of course, delivered in a flat, computerized voice; John had never thought he could miss Rodney’s panicked burble so much. He looked around the table as the words sank in: the jaws dropping open, the eyes going wide. Elizabeth’s silently uttered My God.
John gripped his pen. Search teams. Now. he wrote. Everyone has to be accounted for.
Hurrying out into the silent halls, the city had never felt more strange to him.
*
John was just beginning to feel at ease, having worked his way through about 5/6ths of his portion of the hastily-divided personnel manifest, when Zelenka came up behind him and tapped him on the arm. After he’d finished working his way through a series of gestures he hoped would convey how sorry he was for nearly shooting the scientist in the face, he followed him back down the hall the way he had come. Zelenka kept shooting glances back over his shoulder: his mouth looked thin and nervous, his expression serious.
John wasn’t surprised when he saw a bunch of people gathered around in one of the residential corridors; he broke his stride, however, when he realized that they were clustered outside Rodney’s room. John swallowed, forcing down an irrational stab of panic. He had just seen Rodney, had just seen him. His breath had smelled like coffee and Altoids, crunched between anxious teeth.
He looked over at Radek, searching for some sort of reassurance or denial, but the scientist’s back was to him, his shoulders set. He reached out to grab Zelenka’s arm and jerk him around, but then he heard a familiar voice say, YOU’VE HAD THE OTHER CORPSE FOR HOURS ALREADY. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN’T FOUND ANYTHING? Sure, Elizabeth’s computer sounded exactly the same, but only Rodney could imbue his typing with that much sarcasm and annoyance.
John, much to his own surprise, felt a genuine smile break out across his face. It was short-lived, however. Other corpse, Rodney had said, and it was then that John realized that the group of people were really circled around the room next door to Rodney’s, and that its former occupant was being wheeled out on a gurney, covered with a sheet.
Stony-faced again, he pushed through the crowd. Beckett looked up as he approached; he tapped Rodney on the shoulder, then handed the pad and pencil he was holding over to John. Carson’s last note was still scrawled across it. A very delicate instrument, we’ve ascertained that much. Not unlike a scalpel.
John tore the page off and crumpled it up. What happened? he wrote, and because he was writing, writing and not speaking out loud: Who was it?
DOCTOR THUAX, Rodney typed, his face conveying everything that the artificial voice could not. SHE LIVED NEXT DOOR TO ME, he added pointlessly. RIGHT NEXT DOOR.
On the one hand, he could be saying, It could have been me. But John thought he had learned to translate Rodney-speak better than that by now. He could read between the words.
When did it happen? he wrote, then passed the pad back to Beckett.
Judging by the level of rigor mortis, sometime during the night, we think. Around the same time as the other He scratched it out. as Sergeant Sable.
He looked between both of them, pale and helpless. Dr. Biro is working as fast as she can, he wrote. A complete autopsy will tell us more.
THEY’RE IN THE CITY AND THEY’RE GOING TO KILL AT LEAST FIVE MORE OF US, Rodney wrote. WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED TO KNOW?
*
I NEED TO KNOW HOW YOU THINK WE SHOULD HANDLE THIS, Elizabeth typed. FROM A MILITARY STANDPOINT.
This was not a decision that John wanted to have to make. He looked at Caldwell, but the Colonel’s expression clearly said: You wanted this job. You make the tough decisions. You deal with the consequences. Caldwell, for his part, had taken the Daedalus up into orbit as soon as he had learned that Sable was dead. He was having Hermiod beam him up and down for meetings, lending himself out.
John took a deep breath. He reached for a piece of paper, and was surprised when Rodney subtly nudged his laptop over, pushing it in front of John. John gave him a questioning look; he nodded, and after a moment, John nodded back.
He positioned the laptop in front of himself and began typing-awkwardly, with two fingers. Rodney would make fun of him later. Now, though, he simply sat silently as the computer spoke. Well. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice.
WE STILL KNOW NEXT TO NOTHING ABOUT THE LEPIDOM, ABOUT WHAT WE'RE FACING, John typed. WE KNOW SABLE WAS KILLED IN THE ATHOSIAN VILLAGE-A RELATIVELY EXPOSED AREA-BUT WE DON'T KNOW HOW He paused, then continued, committed: THEY GOT INTO DR. THUAX'S ROOM. IT'S POSSIBLE THAT THEY KNOCKED, AND SHE LET THEM IN, THINKING IT WAS A FRIEND, OR MAYBE ONE OF US COMING TO
He paused, flexing his fingers. He glanced over at Rodney, who was scribbling across a piece of scrap paper in big block caps:
ARE WE OR ARE WE NOT SAFE IN OUR ROOMS?
I DON’T KNOW, he typed, each keystroke seeming painfully final. AND BECAUSE OF THAT, I THINK WE HAVE TO ASSUME THAT WE AREN’T.
There was a pause. Then, Right, he said to himself. He drew the laptop in closer. TONIGHT ALL THE CIVILIANS ARE GOING TO HAVE A LITTLE SLEEPOVER IN THE MESS. IT’LL BE FUN, he added, off Rodney’s look, YOU CAN ROAST MARSHMALLOWS, MAKE S’MORES, PLAY TRUTH OR DARE. THE ATHOSIANS TOO, he continued, looking at Elizabeth, who was-nothing new there-raising an eyebrow at him. WE’LL PUT HALF THE MILITARY PERSONNEL IN THERE WITH YOU, HEAVILY ARMED. YOU WILL ALL BE IN ONE PLACE, AND BE GUARDED.
MEANWHILE, THE REST OF US WILL PATROL THE CITY. IF THESE LEPIDOM ARE HERE, WE WILL FIND THEM, AND WE WILL TAKE THEM OUT.
Elizabeth nodded: Very good. WE NEED TO KEEP AT LEAST A FEW KEY PERSONNEL IN THE CONTROL TOWER, HOWEVER, she typed. THEY SHOULD BE GUARDED, TOO.
He nodded back. OF COURSE.
Colonel Caldwell held up a piece of paper. It’s a good plan, Colonel, read his mechanically neat print. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist you.
And John meant it as he typed, THANK YOU.
*
Rodney caught up to him after the meeting. He had his laptop back, held open against one hand, propped against his hip. COLONEL, MAY I HAVE A WORD?
John got out the pad Elizabeth had given him. I really don’t have time to chat.
Rodney shook his head, following after him, typing awkwardly. I UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS A DIFFICULT SITUATION, AND ONE OUTSIDE MY AREA OF EXPERTISE. And that, admittedly, was enough to make John stop in his tracks. I ALSO APPRECIATE WHAT YOU’RE TRYING TO DO FOR US-AND BY US I MEAN THE SCIENTISTS, THE CIVILIANS. BUT I’M NOT SURE HERDING US ALL INTO THE SAME SPACE LIKE CATTLE FOR THE SLAUGHTER IS THE BEST DECISION.
John couldn’t write fast enough. You’re the one who was so worried about not being safe in his room! he scrawled, then ripped the piece of paper off and shoved it at Rodney’s chest. Rodney nearly dropped his computer.
I KNOW, Rodney typed, once he had recovered. BUT I’M REALLY NOT COMFORTABLE WITH BEING SHUNTED INTO A ROOM WITH A BUNCH OF TERRIFIED MORONS AND TOLD TO WAIT IT OUT.
Rodney, John wrote, gripping his pen tight, in situations like these, you are one of the terrified morons. And before Rodney, his mouth open in shock, could recover from that, John was pushing another piece of paper into his hand. And in case you’ve forgotten, this is not about making you feel comfortable.
He turned and walked away. He had to concentrate; he had work to do.
The mechanical whine of Rodney’s computer followed him, however. YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS ALONE, it said. SHEPPARD, PLEASE TALK TO ME.
John waved it away. It was just noise.
*
He took it upon himself to lead one of the units patrolling the areas farthest away from the central hub of the city, an area dark and damp and far from well-known. And thus, he was much too far away to be of any use when the gateroom’s alarm sounded, erupting out of the city’s speakers, echoing through her silent and empty halls.
John turned, gesturing to his men, and began racing back toward the control tower. Into one transporter, then down another long corridor, then another transporter... The doors slid open as he approached, slow and silent, and John’s boots skidding across the slick surface of the floor made a painful squeaking noise as he tried to stop himself from slamming right into them.
Two of them. Two, tall and thin and pasty-pale. But if the Wraith were the Rastafarians of the Pegasus Galaxy, then these guys were their terrifying Hare Krishna cousins. Moonlight, filtering in through Ancient stained glass, glinted off their shiny bald skulls as they floated toward him, gliding serenely, several inches above the ground.
John started firing.
Nothing. The bullets did nothing. The bullets did less than nothing; the Wraith, at least, had the courtesy to jerk back when struck, to make a show of going down before bouncing back like the demented jack-in-the-boxes they were. These-the Lepidom-they just kept coming, grinning their mad, manic grins. One of them, John noticed, had what looked like an old-fashioned leather doctor’s bag hooked over his elbow; he nodded at John as he slid by, one step away from tipping an invisible hat, as if they were two proper English gentlemen, passing each other in the park.
Around another corner, feet never touching the floor: and then they were gone.
Two of the Marines with him were still firing, expending round after round of ammunition. John darted forward and clapped a hand over the closest one’s arm. He stopped, and the second Marine soon followed suit.
He jerked his head toward the transporter, then turned and started walking. They fell in behind him: like ducklings, like lambs for the slaughter.
*
It was chaos in the control tower. Stepping inside, the first thing John was confronted with was the bodies of two Marines. Dead, their hearts cut out: John didn’t need to look long enough to establish the relevant details. He knew.
He found Elizabeth sitting beside Sergeant Campbell, whose hand was visibly shaking as he wrote on a pad. There was an open computer beside him on the console, which John recognized as Elizabeth’s; in his troubled state, the technician must have been unable to type with enough precision to make good use of it.
Campbell ripped off the first page and moved onto a second. Before Elizabeth could read it, however, John was covering her hand with his own. He jerked it back almost immediately. He had been shaking, too.
He gave himself a different kind of shake and pulled out his own pad and pen. What about the people in the mess? Did the Lepidom get in? Is everyone OK?
Elizabeth nodded. They didn’t even try to come near us, she wrote, turning John’s piece of paper over and leaning against her own knee. Unwritten, unspoken: But they just as easily could have. She gestured toward the window, where the first rays of daylight were shining in. And I don’t think they will try, now. She paused, then added, Not ‘til tonight.
John grimaced. Vampires in space, he wrote. I thought we were already filming that movie.
Elizabeth didn’t add anything, but simply turned and took the rest of Campbell’s statement out of his shaking hand. John thought he knew what Rodney would say, though, if he were here; he could hear his voice in his head, plain as day.
No, this one’s a classic, Colonel: In space, no one can hear you scream.
*
I would say I told you so, read the note that Rodney passed him under the table when they had once again-oh God, again-assembled in the briefing room, but it’s gonna have to wait as currently my vocal chords have been stolen by a bunch of alien organ harvesters belonging to the Mr. Clean hair club for men.
John almost wrote back, Don’t be jealous; I’m sure you’ll earn your membership soon enough, but now was really not the time to be petty.
Instead he wrote-large, for everyone to see-We’re going to have to revise our strategy now that we know that a little thing like bullets isn’t enough to stop them.
Lorne scrambled for a piece of paper. Rocket launcher? he wrote, punctuating the query with a hopeful little question mark.
Rodney shook his head before ushering in the triumphant return of the laptop. WE’RE ALL WELL AWARE OF HOW MUCH YOU ENJOY BLOWING THINGS UP, BUT I DON’T THINK CONVENTIONAL WEAPONS ARE THE ANSWER HERE, MAJOR.
Lorne’s expression was impressively dry. Oh, so suddenly you do believe in fairy tales? He paused, then added, Doctor.
Rodney rolled his eyes. NO, OF COURSE NOT. WHAT I’M SAYING IS, UNDER THE His fingers slipped, distracted by Cadman’s frantic hand-waving. WHAT?
Cadman pointed at Elizabeth’s laptop and made Gimme! motions. Elizabeth, looking exhausted, slid it over. DON’T WORRY, Cadman typed, I’M AGREEING WITH YOU, RODNEY. She waited a moment, to let that sink in. SEE, I WAS KEEPING DR. LAMBERT COMPANY-BECAUSE NOBODY ELSE WAS, she added, looking around accusingly-AND SHE WAS TELLING ME-WELL, NOT TELLING ME, OBVIOUSLY, BUT WRITING EVERYTHING Rodney made hurry up motions, which John secretly seconded. FINE! SHE WAS TELLING ME THAT WHILE TEYLA WAS TALKING TO HALLING, SHE SPOKE-WELL, NOT SPOKE, BUT ANYWAY, THE OTHER ATHOSIANS KEPT REPEATING SOMETHING ABOUT HOW ‘NO SWORD, NOR SPEAR, NOR WELL-HONED STICK’ COULD DEFEAT THE LEPIDOM. BUT She raised a finger. THAT WE SHOULDN’T WORRY, BECAUSE THE ANCESTORS COULD.
Rodney’s face went the particular shade of red that only Lieutenant Cadman could provoke. WE ALREADY KNEW THAT! he typed furiously. WE KNEW THAT YESTERDAY, WHICH YOU WOULD HAVE KNOWN IF YOU WERE PAYING ATTENTION INSTEAD OF PLAYING MAKE-UP FOOTSIE WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND UNDER THE TABLE!
Beckett folded his arms, his mouth forming the unutterable Hey! But Cadman merely flashed Rodney an indulgent-possibly even affectionate-Mona Lisa smile. DON’T YOU GET IT? she wrote, and boy, was it disconcerting hearing two identical voices go at it like that-like listening to the same person arguing with himself. WE’RE THE ANCESTORS! OR ANYWAY, THIS IS THEIR CITY! I BET WHATEVER WE NEED TO DEFEAT THE LEPIDOM IS RIGHT HERE!
John saw the words That’s ridiculous! rise automatically to Rodney’s lips, but in the extra millisecond of lag time that separated speaking from typing, something made him pause. He turned to Zelenka, and they engaged in few seconds of the type of silent communication that John hadn’t even realized was part of their regular working relationship until that moment. Then the spell was broken and they both sprang into motion, Rodney none-too-gently folding up his laptop and tucking it under his arm, and Radek scrambling for a pen. John caught a glimpse of him holding up a paper that said, Elizabeth, what did you say ‘Lepidom’ translated to? before he got up and followed Rodney out of the room.
He couldn’t shout, Hey, Rodney! Wait up! or even, Don’t be an idiot, Rodney! Don’t play the hero! But he could run twice as fast as Rodney ever could, could run circles around him if need be, so it didn’t take much work to catch up with him, grab his elbow, jerk him around.
What do you think you’re doing? he mouthed.
Rodney’s hand arced up though the air, but for once, John had no idea what he was saying. The look in his wide, blue eyes was a mystery to him.
Rodney was walking again, marching along. He stepped into a transporter and prodded the screen with an emphatic stab, smirking at John as the doors slid shut and he vanished-from view, from existence. John’s throat vibrated in an inaudible growl. He waited until the doors reopened, then duplicated Rodney’s destination.
He found Rodney in his room, shoving stuff into a pack. What are you doing? John mouthed again-if he’d still had a voice, then the volume would have been quite loud. But there was only silence, echoing silence, and the pad nearly ripped in John’s hands as he jerked it out of his pocket. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? he wrote.
Rodney barely glanced up. He finished packing the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then, only then, did he pluck a pad of stickies off his bedside table. John tried not to see the irony in the fact that the pad had I SEE DUMB PEOPLE written across the top.
Stopping this, Rodney wrote. Getting our voices back. Killing the nasty aliens. He slapped the note against John’s chest, where it stuck. John was about to do something immature, like turn it around and stick it on Rodney’s forehead, when Rodney peeled off the next sheet and held it up. I hope.
John shook his head. Do you even have a plan? he wrote. You can’t just go running off like this. You haven’t seen these things, I have.
I read Campbell’s report, Rodney wrote. There were two of them, and they were unstoppable. Yet they didn’t kill everybody. They took what they wanted and they left. Do you know why? Because they think we’re helpless. They think they can take their fucking time because there’s nothing we can do to stop them.
John blinked at the trio of notes stuck to Rodney’s outstretched fingers. One by one, he peeled them off, crumpled them up. You’re not helpless, Rodney, he wrote.
Rodney stared at him for a long moment, a long moment they probably shouldn’t have, that they couldn’t afford to waste. Then, You left me in the mess along with everyone else, he wrote. With the rest of the civilians.
I know. I’m sorry.
Rodney shook his head: not saying, That’s not good enough, but possibly, only because he couldn’t. I have to do this now, he wrote. You of all people should understand that.
He started toward the door. For a moment John stared at his back, feeling choked, feeling the horrible, cruel impotence of it, of not being able to cry Stop! and have himself be heard. Then at the last second, he darted forward and seized Rodney’s arm, spinning him around, slamming him against the wall.
Pointlessly, he covered Rodney’s mouth with his hand.
He waited until he was sure Rodney’s eyes were on him, wide and blue and angry. Then, Don’t be like me, he said. Don’t charge into battle without saying goodbye. Without accepting help if it’s offered.
John released a shaky breath once the words were out, ghosting silently across the narrow space between them. He drew his fingers away from Rodney’s lips.
They stared at each other, and the air between them was filled with things unsaid.
Then a piece of paper, hastily torn: I’m going with you, it said.
*
Fortunately, Rodney was good at multi-tasking. His explained his plan-what there was of it-as they walked, tossing scraps of paper over his shoulder like bread crumbs, leaving John to catch and follow what he could.
Charm-there’s a reference in the Ancient database to a device that captivates, captures a person’s language. Then on another scrap, an addendum: That’s their word-language. Stupid Ancients. At first (continued on another page) we thought it was some sort of translation tool-an Ancient Babel Fish!-or less revolutionary, maybe a phonograph.
He stepped into a transporter and they paused their “conversation” as it whisked them away. John was concerned-but not especially surprised-when it spilled them out in the same hallway where he had encountered the Lepidom.
Then we found a device-in this tower, up ahead, tearing off the sheet of paper and passing it to John with one hand as he pointed with the other, with similar properties to the containment unit the Ancients had been using to imprison the energy creature we found when we first came here. Remember?
John rolled his eyes at the question, and at-but no, not at Rodney, who was jogging ahead of him like he was still invulnerable somehow. Which made the question even more ludicrous: how could he forget?
Anyway, it had some of the same characteristics of the device described in the database, but we couldn’t get it to do anything, and it was really huge and heavy and at the top of several billion flights of stairs-they were mounting these now-so we just left it there. Forgot about it.
John lacked Rodney’s talent; he had to stop walking while he wrote, but it looked like Rodney could use the breather anyway. What are you saying? They’re using our own satellites against us?
The corner of Rodney’s mouth quirked up, just as John had known it would. But he shook his head. No. That was the other funny thing about the device. It didn’t look Ancient in design. Didn’t look Wraith, either, though, so we mentally put it back with all the other inexplicable stuff...
He looked angry with himself. Not your fault, John mouthed.
Rodney waved his hand. Yeah, well, and John stared at his lips, watched carefully. Tried to understand. Earlier? Not your fault, either.
In silence, they nodded to each other. It was so quiet that you could hear the proverbial pin drop-or even the penny dropping, inside John’s mind.
So quiet, and yet in all that silence, they never heard the sound of encroaching footsteps, or the labored breathing of the two strong-armed aliens that seemingly melted out of the walls and grabbed them each around the neck. John could only watch as Rodney silently cried out, and then they were both being hauled up the stairs, locked in the grip of creatures that looked like shorter, squatter, more brutal versions of the Lepidom John had encountered the night before. He should have known, he thought, struggling to reach a weapon that was far outside his grasp. The Wraith had their bone-faced minions; why shouldn’t the Lepidom have minions, too?
They were thrown on the floor at the top of the tower, side by side, gasping. John drew his Beretta, but it was instantly swept from his hand and sent spinning across the room. The knowledge that it probably wouldn’t have done any good was not a comfort in the least.
Rodney’s bag, too, was snatched from him. Then he was jerked to his feet by one of the grunts and backed up against a long, low, cylindrical device. John recognized it as the containment unit Rodney had been talking about. Rodney, unsurprisingly, did too, and John saw hope flicker across his features for a brief moment: maybe they were so stupid that they were inadvertently bending him over the source of the city’s salvation. But of course there was no convenient RELEASE VOICES switch. Rodney’s fingers scrambled over the controls anyway: trying to do something, anything. Refusing to go down without a fight.
John wasn’t going down without a fight, either. He leapt to his feet-only to be instantly slammed back against the far wall by the other grunt. He struggled, but the alien-worse than the others, than the Wraith, almost: at least with the Wraith, he could make out recognizable eyes-only pushed him more firmly against the cool, Ancient metal. And the Lepidom were coming.
Gliding out of the shadows, coasting silently across the air. Rodney got one glimpse of them and started struggling even harder. But it was useless. Futile. A scalpel blade glinted brightly in the shadowy light, and John wanted to laugh, wanted to cry. Of course now would be the time he got his heart cut out. Just when it had started speaking to him again.
But it was worse than that, John realized, watching one of the Lepidom advance on the cylinder over which Rodney was draped. Because they were going to take Rodney first, and make John watch.
John closed his eyes. He felt his heart, his heart beating in his chest. The frantic, yet still steady rhythm of it. And he felt the cool metal against the palms of his hands, felt himself and the city palm to palm, and he felt the rhythm of that, too.
The connection.
Rodney’s eyes were locked on his, silently trying to communicate what his tongue would need years and a dozen languages to properly convey. He was still struggling, thrusting his shoulders and hips against the hands that held him, but his mouth was closed. He might die unheard, but he wasn’t going to die screaming.
He wasn’t going to die.
Yes, John thought, no more dying in silence! No more, no more!
Soft flesh against cool metal and fragile glass and ancient, Ancient wires; John felt it, the link that was always, that had always been there; and as the knife flashed down in the dark, John opened his mouth and the city screamed.
From the crumpled blankets and clustered sleeping bags of the people huddled in the mess; from the hallways where Lorne was bravely leading his men on another futile search; from the room where Elizabeth and Radek sat poring over the Ancient database, frantically trying to find a solution: Atlantis sucked air into her lungs. Air rushed into her and out of John’s mouth as from her buried corridors, deep below the ocean waves, to the tip of her tallest tower, scraping the darkening sky: she screamed. And the mirror of the Lepidom’s world shattered as, with John’s help, she struck the perfect pitch.
Rodney shuddered, pushing the body of the fallen Lepidom off of him. He was covered in bright green ichor-the room was, splattered in arcs of iridescent viridian. John, he mouthed, still speechless. John?
John took a step forward, away from the body of the creature that had been holding him, and sank to his knees. Rodney stumbled forward, bending down beside him. John shook his head, gesturing him away; The charm, he mouthed, but he squeezed Rodney’s wrist as he turned to his work, and that said what he needed it to, for now.
Rodney retrieved his bag and set about connecting wires and adjusting knobs and doing other things that were meaningless to John, outside his knowledge that Rodney knew what he was doing, and that John trusted him to fix this for them. Eventually, he began to feel less light-headed and the feeling of-of being huge and hollow but all encompassing, a floating cradle-it began to dissipate, until he was just himself again, and any remaining hollowness was all his own.
He didn’t feel hollow, though. He felt light, like a mountain, a mantle of unsaid words had been lifted from his shoulders. He watched Rodney work, watched the look of triumph flash across his face as he made the pieces connect, returned everything once again to its proper order; then he flipped a switch, and John knew with utter certainty that if he opened his mouth he could say anything he wanted without any trouble at all.
But there was nothing, in that moment, that he wanted to say; not a single thing that couldn’t be better expressed without words. So when Rodney opened his mouth to shout his triumph to the heavens, John covered it with his own, and they both were silent for a little longer.
************
NOTES:
1. So yes. This is 'Hush.' I must do the gentlemanly thing and tip my hat to Joss Whedon for the concept, the creepy aliens monsters, and the prophesy rhyme, which I "cleverly" adapted to the SGAverse. If you've never seen the episode itself, you should really make the effort to track it down: it's immensely clever and creepy, and beautiful, too. And if you squint, you can ignore the fact that it has Riley in it.
2. This was not what I originally intended to write for this challenge: I had this vague idea about fear, and mob mentality, and some sort of meta-commentary on what urban legends are. Unsurprisingly, this never got off the ground, so when I realized that 'Hush' fit the prompt pretty darn closely, I ran with it.
3. John makes reference to Alien and Independence Day. The story's title is from Robert Browning's "Abt Vogler." And that about sums me up, really.
4. Also, my icon has never been more appropriate OMG.
Yes.
Title: Silence Implying Sound
Rating: R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: ~8550 words
Summary: For this prompt in the Urban Legend Slash Challenge. They need to take seven and they might take yours.
A/N: Many thanks to megolas, siriaeve, and wychwood, who provided invaluable help in wrangling this story into shape. With bonus font consultation. ;-)
A/N2: If you're thinking, "Wait, isn't this...?" let me just say: Yes. Yes, it is. Further notes at end.
Silence Implying Sound
The second the hologram shut off, they all started talking at once.
“-ridiculous, completely and utterly rid-”
“-new security measures, possibly suspend all non-essential gate-”
“-knew the Ancients were smoking some special crack, but this-”
“-one of the anthropologists down here, analyze the rhyme scheme-”
“-not unlike an episode of-”
“Gentlemen!” Elizabeth said, firmly. Rodney, Zelenka, Beckett, Cadman, and Lorne all stopped talking with varying degrees of rapidity and turned to her with, likewise, varying degrees of guilt written across their faces. John, who had not contributed to the outburst, also turned to her, his mouth set.
“I agree,” Elizabeth said, “that we need to discuss this in detail. But,” she raised an eyebrow, “not all at once. And not here. If you’ll follow me to the briefing room?”
They trailed behind her, like obedient ducklings; all except Zelenka, who paused to get some readings off the base of the holographic display. John waited with him, listening to his quiet Czech murmuring. He didn’t need to understand: Zelenka’s wide eyes, the slight shake of his shoulders-they said it all.
The rest of the group from the hologram room, with the addition of Ronon, Teyla, and Caldwell, was waiting for them when they reached the conference room. “Colonel!” Rodney said, with a back me up! bob of his head. “Tell the Major over here that he’s being completely ridiculous and paranoid.”
“You know what, forget it,” Lorne said, before John could speak. “If McKay thinks I’m being paranoid, then I want to officially withdraw my concerns.”
“Thank you...” Rodney said, and John watched his expression go from smug and oblivious to vaguely insulted by the end of the second word.
Luckily, Caldwell chose that moment to weigh in. “Regardless,” he said, “if Doctor Weir considered this important enough to call me down here, then I want to be fully briefed.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Radek, what can you tell us about the message?”
“Well-” He sat up straighter, adjusting his glasses. “It seems to have been programmed to project itself at set time, in three subsequent intervals. We missed the first broadcast completely, but I noticed power fluctuation from that area of the city. On your-on the advice of Doctor Weir, Major Lorne and Lieutenant Cadman escorted me to the room so I could proceed with investigation.” He paused, wetting his lips. “Doctor Beckett, uh, accompanied us, as he and Lieutenant were involved in, ah...”
“A domestic dispute,” Cadman said brightly. She turned to Carson and glared.
“Ah, right,” said Zelenka. “Anyway, we arrived in time to catch tail end of second broadcast.” He looked a little white, just at the mention of it. “At this point we had sufficient concern to radio Doctor Weir, McKay, and the Colonel, and they all arrived in time to hear third recording.”
“And what,” Caldwell asked, “did this recording say?”
For a moment, six of the seven people who had been in the room stared blankly at each other. Then Rodney grinned, and with a stage magician’s flourish, produced a micro recorder. John recognized it as the device Rodney occasionally used to record his thoughts-Every one of them is precious, Colonel. John supposed that he was going to have to start making slightly less fun of him for that.
“Got it on tape,” Rodney said, looking, as was so often the case, justifiably smug. He pressed the play button.
John had sat through this once before, but if anything it was even more ominous now, filtering through the tinny speakers of Rodney’s recorder, echoing around the clean, bright space of the conference room. The voice was female, and judging by the holographic image in the room downstairs, young. She spoke with all the solemnity of the woman in the recording the Ancients had left to warn them about the Wraith, yet there was a slight lilt to her voice, an air of sing-song playfulness. It was...disturbing, to say the least. Even Rodney’s grin faltered some.
“Can’t even shout, can’t even cry, the Lepidom are coming by. Passing through ‘gates, knocking on doors, they need to take seven and they might take yours. Can’t call for help, can’t say a word, you’re going to die screaming but you won’t be heard.”
The recording shut off quietly, like a soft exhalation of breath.
“And that’s just ludicrous, of course,” Rodney said, after a minute-summoning the words with effort, John could see. “Like a children’s story-probably what the Ancients used to frighten their kids when they got out of line.”
Teyla shook her head. “I have heard of these Lepidom,” she said. “There are stories about them among my people.”
“Same here,” Ronon said.
“But they’re just stories, right?” Rodney said.
John said, “Like the Wraith are just stories?”
Rodney shot him a betrayed look.
“I have certainly never heard of anyone actually encountering them,” said Teyla, diplomatically, “as we have all encountered the Wraith.”
“What I want to know-what I think everyone really wants to know,” Beckett said, “is are we in any danger? Is this a real threat we should start worrying about?” He looked like he was asking for official permission to freak.
“No,” Rodney said, emphatically. Apparently, John thought, he was still not fully disabused of the notion that he could control the universe with his brain.
“Whether or not the threat is real, we have to assume that the Ancients left that warning for a reason,” Elizabeth said. “We should err on the side of caution.”
“I agree,” said Caldwell.
“Well of course we should err on the side of caution!” Rodney said. “I just don’t see why we need to get all worked up about it!”
He sounded more worked up than anyone else in the room.
“All right,” Elizabeth said, clearly trying to project calm, though her voice sounded wire-tight. “John, I would appreciate it if you and Major Lorne would draw up a plan to minimize any security risks; Colonel, I assume you will be doing the same for the Daedalus.” Caldwell nodded. “Since the term ‘Lepidom’ seems Ancient in origin, I’m going to see what the database can tell us. And Teyla, Ronon, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear what you know on the subject.”
“We will tell you everything we can,” Teyla promised.
“I shall return to the hologram room and see if there is anything else I can ascertain about the message,” Zelenka said.
“I’ll keep you company,” volunteered Cadman. She shot Beckett a look that said he was not to follow.
“Well, what should I do?” Carson asked, looking flustered.
“Yeah!” Rodney said. “What about me?”
“Nothing,” John said. “If there’s nothing to worry about, you don’t have to do anything.”
This earned him a look far too similar to the ones Cadman had been hurling Beckett’s way all afternoon.
“The important thing,” Elizabeth said, “is not to start a panic. Let’s keep this information inside this room as much as possible for the time being.”
“So the banner-making’s canceled, then?” John said, mostly for Rodney’s benefit.
Rodney's shoulder bumped John’s as he left the briefing room. “Ha ha, Colonel,” he muttered. “You always say the cleverest things.”
*
John awoke to the sound of his radio switching on. He fumbled on the nightstand for a moment before pressing the com into his ear. It was on-he could hear static from the other end-but no one said anything (or shouted. Or screamed). Huh, he thought. Glancing at his alarm, he saw that it was nearly five o’clock. He might as well get up.
He was in the shower, yawning into the spray, when a frantic explosion of knocking burst through the silence. He wrapped a towel around his waist, walking dripping back into the main room; he was about to shout, Just a minute! when the door slid open and Rodney spilled inside. His face was flush with panic, his eyes unnaturally wide. John braced himself for the onslaught of words.
It didn’t come. Rodney’s mouth opened, and his hands moved, darting through the air, but it was like watching television with the sound turned down. Rodney, John said, and he felt his throat move, felt his tongue drop: but no sound came out.
John blinked. Fuck, he said.
Rodney waved his hands, mouthing, Yes, yes! relieved that John had figured it out-or possibly, that he wasn’t the only one afflicted.
Elizabeth, John said, forming the word slowly and carefully. They had to go find Elizabeth. He started for the door.
Rodney grabbed John’s arm, strong fingers sliding against the wet skin of his bicep. For a moment, John wasn't just mute: he was completely at a loss for words.
Then he blinked, his brain rebooting. Oh, right. Clothes.
He held up a finger. Just a sec.
Rodney, panicked though he was, still managed to smirk.
*
Fully dressed, John followed Rodney up to Elizabeth’s office. There were already more than fifty people outside, all gesticulating wildly, all shouting without sound. And that was just Atlantis’ contingent of early risers. John looked at Elizabeth, standing on a chair just outside the door, attempting to make calming gestures. Next to him, one of the organic chemists angrily stomped his foot.
They were in serious trouble.
Rodney pulled on John’s sleeve and jerked his head in Elizabeth’s direction. Letting go, he started pushing through the crowd, unashamedly employing his elbows. John followed in his wake, casting apologetic glances left and right. When they reached Elizabeth, John had a moment of worrying that she was going to throw herself on him in relief, but her composure barely slipped, and she limited herself to a firm squeeze of his shoulder. John got it: We’re in this together, she was trying to say, trying to show the crowd. We’re united.
Rodney had disappeared inside Elizabeth’s office; now he returned, carrying an open laptop. He held it out to her and mimed typing. She shook her head, pulling a small pad and pen out of her pocket and holding them up. Rodney saw her headshake and raised her an eyeroll, miming typing again. When Elizabeth still looked confused, Rodney jerked the laptop back. Balancing it awkwardly on his knee, he began to type.
YOU ARE ALL IDIOTS, said a slow, computerized voice that sounded disturbingly like HAL. I THINK WE HAVE ENOUGH PROBLEMS WITHOUT HAVING TO DEAL WITH A CRAZED MOB. GO BACK TO YOUR ROOMS WHILE THE INTELLIGENT, LEVEL-HEADED PEOPLE AMONG US FIGURE THIS OUT.
There was more disgruntled gesticulating and foot-stomping from the crowd. John glared at one Marine whom he caught flipping Rodney off.
Elizabeth indicated that Rodney should hand her the laptop, and he passed it up. DR. MCKAY IS RIGHT, she typed, and Rodney silently preened. PANICKING ISN’T GOING TO SOLVE ANYTHING. THE BEST THING FOR YOU TO DO RIGHT NOW IS TO HEAD BACK TO YOUR QUARTERS. DO YOUR BEST TO CALM ANYONE WHO SEEMS UPSET. WE WILL STAY IN TOUCH.
Some people nodded and started to trail away. Others were still eyeing the three of them with looks of incredulity and anger. John spotted Sergeant Sable, one of the pilots he’d been training on jumper runs. He gave him a meaningful look, raising an eyebrow. Sable swallowed; then he tapped the shoulder of the Marine next to him, gesturing over his shoulder and nodding. The crowd started to break up even more.
Rodney wrested the laptop back from Elizabeth. BELIEVE ME, he told the remaining personnel, NOBODY WANTS HIS VOICE BACK MORE THAN I DO.
John smiled quietly to himself. Rodney wasted a lot of words, but sometimes, he knew exactly the right thing to say.
*
John took it upon himself to round up the rest of the people on his mental shortlist of essential personnel. Most were still sleeping, still in their rooms, so John had to go through the silent song-and-dance each time, explaining what was going on with gestures and carefully mouthed phrases. He wished Rodney hadn’t given him a computerized HA HA HA when he’d asked to borrow his laptop.
Zelenka took a little longer to find than the others; he was not in his room, but asleep on the couch in one of the labs, his glasses askew and a datapad hugged tight against his chest. He took John’s mime routine stoically, rolling his eyes and sighing, mouth moving through Czech mumblings that John could still understand without understanding.
That left Ronon. John found him running through one of the halls on the east side of the city. He’d been awake for hours; he hadn’t noticed that his voice had up and left him in the middle of the night.
Back up in the conference room, Rodney was configuring Elizabeth’s laptop with one hand and mechanically shouting at everybody else with the other. YES, I’M SURE THAT’S THE BEST USE OF MY TIME AND SKILLS. HOW ABOUT I JUST CONFIGURE EVERY LAPTOP IN THE CITY? I MEAN, WHY SOLVE THE PROBLEM WHEN WE CAN SIMPLY ARM ATLANTIS WITH ARTIFICIAL VOICE BOXES?
Lorne, who had apparently just been denied the opportunity to play Stephen Hawking, pouted.
John took a seat. He saw that somebody-Elizabeth, probably-had dumped several reams of scratch paper out onto the table and placed Sharpies in front of every chair. John uncapped his. So. he wrote. Alien laryngitis?
They all turned to Beckett, who shrugged, shaking his head in bafflement. John saw that the good doctor had acquired Lieutenant Cadman at some point between his quarters and the briefing room; they were clearly holding hands underneath the conference table. It was a marked contrast from yesterday. John shook his head: bewildered, amused.
There was the sound of another pen being uncapped, loud in the silent room. Zelenka bent to the page, filling it with row after row of careful cursive script. He conscientiously capped his pen before holding the sheet of paper up for everyone to see.
Can’t call for help, can’t say a word- it read. I believe whatever is affecting us is directly related to the holographic message we received yesterday-it is exactly as the Ancient warning predicted.
WELL OF COURSE IT’S RELATED! Rodney’s fingers stabbed the keys. PAGE ONE OF THE PEGASUS GALAXY BROCHURE: THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES!
Zelenka rolled his eyes. Therefore, he wrote, we must assume that the rest of the warning was valid also. He put the piece of paper down and picked up another. We are in danger.
His computer made an undignified squawk as Rodney leaned on the wrong key.
Elizabeth touched his shoulder gently, then pointed at her laptop, giving him an inquisitive look. He nodded, taking in a shaky breath.
JOHN, Elizabeth typed and the strange, artificial voice spoke. WILL YOU STILL BE ABLE TO IMPLEMENT THE ADDITIONAL SECURITY MEASURES NOW THAT
Her fingers froze, hovering above the keys. Lorne and Caldwell were shooting him doubtful glances, but John nodded, sure, emphatic.
GOOD, Elizabeth typed. SEE TO IT.
Teyla reached for a piece of paper. Have you been able to find out anything more about the Lepidom? John was surprised to see how messy her handwriting was.
Elizabeth shook her head. THE NAME WOULD SEEM TO BE RELATED TO THE ANCIENT WORD FOR CHARMING OR PLEASANT, BUT I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO FIND ANY REFERENCE TO THE LEPIDOM, A NOUN, IN THE DATABASE.
Teyla nodded; she was hard to read, sometimes, but John thought that she didn’t look especially surprised. With your permission, she wrote, I would like to take a jumper to the mainland and check on my people. They may be affected also, and frightened; further, I believe it was Halling from whom I first heard the story. He may know more.
I THINK THAT’S AN EXCELLENT IDEA, Elizabeth typed.
John thought so, too. Get Sable to fly you, he wrote. He’s a good pilot, and I think he could use the distraction.
Teyla nodded, the gesture conveying both assent and thanks.
Yes, but what did this? Beckett was anxiously waving a piece of paper. There has to be a physical cause!
I’M SURE THERE WOULD BE PLENTY OF PEOPLE WILLING TO LET YOU RUN SOME TESTS, Elizabeth wrote. Sure enough, Cadman pointed at her own chest and nodded, resignation and a hint of ironic amusement in her eyes.
SO, WHAT? Rodney typed. THAT’S IT? BUSINESS AS USUAL?
Do you have a better plan, Dr. McKay? John was not surprised that Caldwell’s letters were straight enough to have been made with a ruler. What other course of action would you propose?
More furious, emphatic keystrokes. SOMETHING! THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING FOR ME TO DO!
A pop as Lorne uncapped a pen. You could always configure laptops, he wrote.
*
Besides the current of deep unease underwriting everything, the day passed fairly normally. It reminded John of the days before the Wraith siege, actually: everyone went about their business, but even those who weren’t fully informed knew that something was wrong, that something bad was coming. Yes, it was a lot like that, John concluded, crossing the mess with his tray, watching a huddled group of scientists and Marines, their eyes flickering nervously toward him at the sound of his approaching, echoing, footsteps.
A lot like that. Only quieter. So much quieter.
He sat down at the table opposite Rodney, the slap of his tray making the other man jerk. Then Rodney was sighing, rolling his eyes. I hate this, he mouthed.
John could kinda tell.
It could be worse, though, John thought, his mouth full of something that tasted rather like mashed broccoli. After all: silence he knew. Silence he could endure.
It could be a lot, lot worse.
*
In the morning, it was. At first, it didn’t seem that way. They were still a silent city, a city without voice, but people seemed calmer, resigned. They had adjusted to the looming threat of the Wraith; if need be, they would adjust to this.
Then the ceiling opened up and a jumper stuttered drunkenly into the bay, colliding with one wall before shuddering to a lurching stop in the middle of the room. Campbell, on duty in the control tower, set off the alarm they had rigged: it whooped loud and angry across the base.
John ran to the gateroom, then up to the jumper bay, following Campbell’s assertively pointing finger. He was the first one there, beating out Lorne by a fraction of a second. They both raised their weapons as the rear hatch of the jumper groaned open.
Ronon stepped out, holding up his hands: Don’t shoot. John relaxed his shoulders and lowered his gun; so did Lorne, albeit much, much more slowly. Ronon gestured toward the inside of the jumper. He was not what John would call a cheerful man, but even for him, the expression he wore was unusually grim.
One look at the body spread out across jumper’s floor and John understood why.
It was Sable. It had been Sable. His eyes were wide and glassy, and like his mouth and hands, frozen in a rictus of terror. He had died, died horribly, struggling and in pain. And no one had heard.
No one had heard him scream as his heart was cut out.
John looked away. Beside him, Lorne braced one hand against the side of the jumper and silently retched.
Teyla was standing in the front part of the jumper, rubbing the shoulder of the woman in the pilot’s seat, who was sobbing, hysterical and mute, onto the control panel. It took John a moment to place her, but then yes, of course: this was Doctor Lambert, the anthropologist who had accompanied Teyla for the purpose of talking (or exchanging notes) with Halling. John hadn’t even known she had the gene; she must have never flown before. John lowered his gun and placed a hand over hers where it was still gripping the controls. He rubbed her knuckles. It’s okay, he mouthed. You did it. It’s okay.
He doubted even real words would have been enough.
*
Eventually, the alarm brought everyone else who was needed (and more than a few people who weren’t) running. Beckett and Biro wheeled the body away to be autopsied; Heightmeyer finally coaxed Lambert out of her seat. Elizabeth let out a breath, then nodded wearily at Teyla and Ronon, Lorne and John. They retreated back to the conference room.
John grabbed a pen. Need to take 7 and they might take yours = hearts? he wrote.
Teyla nodded. Halling wrote the story down for Doctor Lambert and myself. She handed Elizabeth a sheet of-now very crushed-paper. The entire village has been affected also.
Elizabeth scanned the page, looking increasingly grim, then passed it over to John. He felt Rodney’s breath hot on his neck as the other man scooted closer to read over his shoulder.
The story was much what he'd expected: something that, prior to coming to the Pegasus Galaxy, prior to sitting down in a Barcalounger in Antarctica, he would have dismissed as the plot to a bad sci-fi B-movie, as a twisted fairy tale. He’d never wanted, or needed, to believe in monsters. He knew that people were bad enough.
But then, the Wraith. And now. Now this.
They come to a village. They steal the voices of the men, of the women and children, so that no one can call on the gods for help. Then they take from the people their hearts. Seven hearts. No one knows why they do this. The Wraith cull us for food. The Lepidom have no such reason.
Rodney’s breath was coming quicker now; John felt the brush of his shoulder, and his hand, gripping the arm of the chair.
But, it is said that if ever the Ancestors raised their voices and screamed, the Lepidom would die, and they would come no more.
John blinked at the page, frustrated and annoyed. They were supposed to wait around for the Ancestors? They would die of old age first.
He passed the paper over to Lorne, then looked back up at Elizabeth. She bent over the laptop Rodney had rigged for her. I THINK OUR FIRST PRIORITY SHOULD BE TO GET THE REST OF THE ATHOSIANS SAFELY WITHIN ATLANTIS’ WALLS, she typed, nodding at Teyla. JOHN, COULD YOU...
On it, he mouthed, and moved to turn on his radio.
Rodney rolled his eyes at him. Lorne just gave him a pointed look.
Right. Well. John grabbed a piece of scrap. Major, he wrote, organize teams to bring the Athosians over from the mainland. I trust you can handle this without my help. He pushed the paper across the table with a smirk.
Lorne’s salute as he left the room was possibly just a little sarcastic.
AT LEAST, Elizabeth was typing and Rodney’s software was translating, THEY HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO GET INSIDE THE CITY.
Rodney’s hand, which had been fishing in his pocket for a powerbar, fell against the table with a thunk.
Then he was scrambling for his laptop and typing furiously. HOW DO WE KNOW THAT? THE WRAITH DON’T INTERACT NORMALLY WITH OUR LIFESIGNS DETECTORS; WHY SHOULD WE ASSUME THAT THE LEPIDOM DO? AND HOW CAN WE BE SURE THAT THEY HAVEN’T ALREADY ATTACKED SIX OTHER PEOPLE? WE SENT EVERYBODY TO THEIR QUARTERS; IF THEY SCREAMED, WE WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO HEAR THEM.
The entire speech was, of course, delivered in a flat, computerized voice; John had never thought he could miss Rodney’s panicked burble so much. He looked around the table as the words sank in: the jaws dropping open, the eyes going wide. Elizabeth’s silently uttered My God.
John gripped his pen. Search teams. Now. he wrote. Everyone has to be accounted for.
Hurrying out into the silent halls, the city had never felt more strange to him.
*
John was just beginning to feel at ease, having worked his way through about 5/6ths of his portion of the hastily-divided personnel manifest, when Zelenka came up behind him and tapped him on the arm. After he’d finished working his way through a series of gestures he hoped would convey how sorry he was for nearly shooting the scientist in the face, he followed him back down the hall the way he had come. Zelenka kept shooting glances back over his shoulder: his mouth looked thin and nervous, his expression serious.
John wasn’t surprised when he saw a bunch of people gathered around in one of the residential corridors; he broke his stride, however, when he realized that they were clustered outside Rodney’s room. John swallowed, forcing down an irrational stab of panic. He had just seen Rodney, had just seen him. His breath had smelled like coffee and Altoids, crunched between anxious teeth.
He looked over at Radek, searching for some sort of reassurance or denial, but the scientist’s back was to him, his shoulders set. He reached out to grab Zelenka’s arm and jerk him around, but then he heard a familiar voice say, YOU’VE HAD THE OTHER CORPSE FOR HOURS ALREADY. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN’T FOUND ANYTHING? Sure, Elizabeth’s computer sounded exactly the same, but only Rodney could imbue his typing with that much sarcasm and annoyance.
John, much to his own surprise, felt a genuine smile break out across his face. It was short-lived, however. Other corpse, Rodney had said, and it was then that John realized that the group of people were really circled around the room next door to Rodney’s, and that its former occupant was being wheeled out on a gurney, covered with a sheet.
Stony-faced again, he pushed through the crowd. Beckett looked up as he approached; he tapped Rodney on the shoulder, then handed the pad and pencil he was holding over to John. Carson’s last note was still scrawled across it. A very delicate instrument, we’ve ascertained that much. Not unlike a scalpel.
John tore the page off and crumpled it up. What happened? he wrote, and because he was writing, writing and not speaking out loud: Who was it?
DOCTOR THUAX, Rodney typed, his face conveying everything that the artificial voice could not. SHE LIVED NEXT DOOR TO ME, he added pointlessly. RIGHT NEXT DOOR.
On the one hand, he could be saying, It could have been me. But John thought he had learned to translate Rodney-speak better than that by now. He could read between the words.
When did it happen? he wrote, then passed the pad back to Beckett.
Judging by the level of rigor mortis, sometime during the night, we think. Around the same time as the other He scratched it out. as Sergeant Sable.
He looked between both of them, pale and helpless. Dr. Biro is working as fast as she can, he wrote. A complete autopsy will tell us more.
THEY’RE IN THE CITY AND THEY’RE GOING TO KILL AT LEAST FIVE MORE OF US, Rodney wrote. WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED TO KNOW?
*
I NEED TO KNOW HOW YOU THINK WE SHOULD HANDLE THIS, Elizabeth typed. FROM A MILITARY STANDPOINT.
This was not a decision that John wanted to have to make. He looked at Caldwell, but the Colonel’s expression clearly said: You wanted this job. You make the tough decisions. You deal with the consequences. Caldwell, for his part, had taken the Daedalus up into orbit as soon as he had learned that Sable was dead. He was having Hermiod beam him up and down for meetings, lending himself out.
John took a deep breath. He reached for a piece of paper, and was surprised when Rodney subtly nudged his laptop over, pushing it in front of John. John gave him a questioning look; he nodded, and after a moment, John nodded back.
He positioned the laptop in front of himself and began typing-awkwardly, with two fingers. Rodney would make fun of him later. Now, though, he simply sat silently as the computer spoke. Well. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice.
WE STILL KNOW NEXT TO NOTHING ABOUT THE LEPIDOM, ABOUT WHAT WE'RE FACING, John typed. WE KNOW SABLE WAS KILLED IN THE ATHOSIAN VILLAGE-A RELATIVELY EXPOSED AREA-BUT WE DON'T KNOW HOW He paused, then continued, committed: THEY GOT INTO DR. THUAX'S ROOM. IT'S POSSIBLE THAT THEY KNOCKED, AND SHE LET THEM IN, THINKING IT WAS A FRIEND, OR MAYBE ONE OF US COMING TO
He paused, flexing his fingers. He glanced over at Rodney, who was scribbling across a piece of scrap paper in big block caps:
ARE WE OR ARE WE NOT SAFE IN OUR ROOMS?
I DON’T KNOW, he typed, each keystroke seeming painfully final. AND BECAUSE OF THAT, I THINK WE HAVE TO ASSUME THAT WE AREN’T.
There was a pause. Then, Right, he said to himself. He drew the laptop in closer. TONIGHT ALL THE CIVILIANS ARE GOING TO HAVE A LITTLE SLEEPOVER IN THE MESS. IT’LL BE FUN, he added, off Rodney’s look, YOU CAN ROAST MARSHMALLOWS, MAKE S’MORES, PLAY TRUTH OR DARE. THE ATHOSIANS TOO, he continued, looking at Elizabeth, who was-nothing new there-raising an eyebrow at him. WE’LL PUT HALF THE MILITARY PERSONNEL IN THERE WITH YOU, HEAVILY ARMED. YOU WILL ALL BE IN ONE PLACE, AND BE GUARDED.
MEANWHILE, THE REST OF US WILL PATROL THE CITY. IF THESE LEPIDOM ARE HERE, WE WILL FIND THEM, AND WE WILL TAKE THEM OUT.
Elizabeth nodded: Very good. WE NEED TO KEEP AT LEAST A FEW KEY PERSONNEL IN THE CONTROL TOWER, HOWEVER, she typed. THEY SHOULD BE GUARDED, TOO.
He nodded back. OF COURSE.
Colonel Caldwell held up a piece of paper. It’s a good plan, Colonel, read his mechanically neat print. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist you.
And John meant it as he typed, THANK YOU.
*
Rodney caught up to him after the meeting. He had his laptop back, held open against one hand, propped against his hip. COLONEL, MAY I HAVE A WORD?
John got out the pad Elizabeth had given him. I really don’t have time to chat.
Rodney shook his head, following after him, typing awkwardly. I UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS A DIFFICULT SITUATION, AND ONE OUTSIDE MY AREA OF EXPERTISE. And that, admittedly, was enough to make John stop in his tracks. I ALSO APPRECIATE WHAT YOU’RE TRYING TO DO FOR US-AND BY US I MEAN THE SCIENTISTS, THE CIVILIANS. BUT I’M NOT SURE HERDING US ALL INTO THE SAME SPACE LIKE CATTLE FOR THE SLAUGHTER IS THE BEST DECISION.
John couldn’t write fast enough. You’re the one who was so worried about not being safe in his room! he scrawled, then ripped the piece of paper off and shoved it at Rodney’s chest. Rodney nearly dropped his computer.
I KNOW, Rodney typed, once he had recovered. BUT I’M REALLY NOT COMFORTABLE WITH BEING SHUNTED INTO A ROOM WITH A BUNCH OF TERRIFIED MORONS AND TOLD TO WAIT IT OUT.
Rodney, John wrote, gripping his pen tight, in situations like these, you are one of the terrified morons. And before Rodney, his mouth open in shock, could recover from that, John was pushing another piece of paper into his hand. And in case you’ve forgotten, this is not about making you feel comfortable.
He turned and walked away. He had to concentrate; he had work to do.
The mechanical whine of Rodney’s computer followed him, however. YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS ALONE, it said. SHEPPARD, PLEASE TALK TO ME.
John waved it away. It was just noise.
*
He took it upon himself to lead one of the units patrolling the areas farthest away from the central hub of the city, an area dark and damp and far from well-known. And thus, he was much too far away to be of any use when the gateroom’s alarm sounded, erupting out of the city’s speakers, echoing through her silent and empty halls.
John turned, gesturing to his men, and began racing back toward the control tower. Into one transporter, then down another long corridor, then another transporter... The doors slid open as he approached, slow and silent, and John’s boots skidding across the slick surface of the floor made a painful squeaking noise as he tried to stop himself from slamming right into them.
Two of them. Two, tall and thin and pasty-pale. But if the Wraith were the Rastafarians of the Pegasus Galaxy, then these guys were their terrifying Hare Krishna cousins. Moonlight, filtering in through Ancient stained glass, glinted off their shiny bald skulls as they floated toward him, gliding serenely, several inches above the ground.
John started firing.
Nothing. The bullets did nothing. The bullets did less than nothing; the Wraith, at least, had the courtesy to jerk back when struck, to make a show of going down before bouncing back like the demented jack-in-the-boxes they were. These-the Lepidom-they just kept coming, grinning their mad, manic grins. One of them, John noticed, had what looked like an old-fashioned leather doctor’s bag hooked over his elbow; he nodded at John as he slid by, one step away from tipping an invisible hat, as if they were two proper English gentlemen, passing each other in the park.
Around another corner, feet never touching the floor: and then they were gone.
Two of the Marines with him were still firing, expending round after round of ammunition. John darted forward and clapped a hand over the closest one’s arm. He stopped, and the second Marine soon followed suit.
He jerked his head toward the transporter, then turned and started walking. They fell in behind him: like ducklings, like lambs for the slaughter.
*
It was chaos in the control tower. Stepping inside, the first thing John was confronted with was the bodies of two Marines. Dead, their hearts cut out: John didn’t need to look long enough to establish the relevant details. He knew.
He found Elizabeth sitting beside Sergeant Campbell, whose hand was visibly shaking as he wrote on a pad. There was an open computer beside him on the console, which John recognized as Elizabeth’s; in his troubled state, the technician must have been unable to type with enough precision to make good use of it.
Campbell ripped off the first page and moved onto a second. Before Elizabeth could read it, however, John was covering her hand with his own. He jerked it back almost immediately. He had been shaking, too.
He gave himself a different kind of shake and pulled out his own pad and pen. What about the people in the mess? Did the Lepidom get in? Is everyone OK?
Elizabeth nodded. They didn’t even try to come near us, she wrote, turning John’s piece of paper over and leaning against her own knee. Unwritten, unspoken: But they just as easily could have. She gestured toward the window, where the first rays of daylight were shining in. And I don’t think they will try, now. She paused, then added, Not ‘til tonight.
John grimaced. Vampires in space, he wrote. I thought we were already filming that movie.
Elizabeth didn’t add anything, but simply turned and took the rest of Campbell’s statement out of his shaking hand. John thought he knew what Rodney would say, though, if he were here; he could hear his voice in his head, plain as day.
No, this one’s a classic, Colonel: In space, no one can hear you scream.
*
I would say I told you so, read the note that Rodney passed him under the table when they had once again-oh God, again-assembled in the briefing room, but it’s gonna have to wait as currently my vocal chords have been stolen by a bunch of alien organ harvesters belonging to the Mr. Clean hair club for men.
John almost wrote back, Don’t be jealous; I’m sure you’ll earn your membership soon enough, but now was really not the time to be petty.
Instead he wrote-large, for everyone to see-We’re going to have to revise our strategy now that we know that a little thing like bullets isn’t enough to stop them.
Lorne scrambled for a piece of paper. Rocket launcher? he wrote, punctuating the query with a hopeful little question mark.
Rodney shook his head before ushering in the triumphant return of the laptop. WE’RE ALL WELL AWARE OF HOW MUCH YOU ENJOY BLOWING THINGS UP, BUT I DON’T THINK CONVENTIONAL WEAPONS ARE THE ANSWER HERE, MAJOR.
Lorne’s expression was impressively dry. Oh, so suddenly you do believe in fairy tales? He paused, then added, Doctor.
Rodney rolled his eyes. NO, OF COURSE NOT. WHAT I’M SAYING IS, UNDER THE His fingers slipped, distracted by Cadman’s frantic hand-waving. WHAT?
Cadman pointed at Elizabeth’s laptop and made Gimme! motions. Elizabeth, looking exhausted, slid it over. DON’T WORRY, Cadman typed, I’M AGREEING WITH YOU, RODNEY. She waited a moment, to let that sink in. SEE, I WAS KEEPING DR. LAMBERT COMPANY-BECAUSE NOBODY ELSE WAS, she added, looking around accusingly-AND SHE WAS TELLING ME-WELL, NOT TELLING ME, OBVIOUSLY, BUT WRITING EVERYTHING Rodney made hurry up motions, which John secretly seconded. FINE! SHE WAS TELLING ME THAT WHILE TEYLA WAS TALKING TO HALLING, SHE SPOKE-WELL, NOT SPOKE, BUT ANYWAY, THE OTHER ATHOSIANS KEPT REPEATING SOMETHING ABOUT HOW ‘NO SWORD, NOR SPEAR, NOR WELL-HONED STICK’ COULD DEFEAT THE LEPIDOM. BUT She raised a finger. THAT WE SHOULDN’T WORRY, BECAUSE THE ANCESTORS COULD.
Rodney’s face went the particular shade of red that only Lieutenant Cadman could provoke. WE ALREADY KNEW THAT! he typed furiously. WE KNEW THAT YESTERDAY, WHICH YOU WOULD HAVE KNOWN IF YOU WERE PAYING ATTENTION INSTEAD OF PLAYING MAKE-UP FOOTSIE WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND UNDER THE TABLE!
Beckett folded his arms, his mouth forming the unutterable Hey! But Cadman merely flashed Rodney an indulgent-possibly even affectionate-Mona Lisa smile. DON’T YOU GET IT? she wrote, and boy, was it disconcerting hearing two identical voices go at it like that-like listening to the same person arguing with himself. WE’RE THE ANCESTORS! OR ANYWAY, THIS IS THEIR CITY! I BET WHATEVER WE NEED TO DEFEAT THE LEPIDOM IS RIGHT HERE!
John saw the words That’s ridiculous! rise automatically to Rodney’s lips, but in the extra millisecond of lag time that separated speaking from typing, something made him pause. He turned to Zelenka, and they engaged in few seconds of the type of silent communication that John hadn’t even realized was part of their regular working relationship until that moment. Then the spell was broken and they both sprang into motion, Rodney none-too-gently folding up his laptop and tucking it under his arm, and Radek scrambling for a pen. John caught a glimpse of him holding up a paper that said, Elizabeth, what did you say ‘Lepidom’ translated to? before he got up and followed Rodney out of the room.
He couldn’t shout, Hey, Rodney! Wait up! or even, Don’t be an idiot, Rodney! Don’t play the hero! But he could run twice as fast as Rodney ever could, could run circles around him if need be, so it didn’t take much work to catch up with him, grab his elbow, jerk him around.
What do you think you’re doing? he mouthed.
Rodney’s hand arced up though the air, but for once, John had no idea what he was saying. The look in his wide, blue eyes was a mystery to him.
Rodney was walking again, marching along. He stepped into a transporter and prodded the screen with an emphatic stab, smirking at John as the doors slid shut and he vanished-from view, from existence. John’s throat vibrated in an inaudible growl. He waited until the doors reopened, then duplicated Rodney’s destination.
He found Rodney in his room, shoving stuff into a pack. What are you doing? John mouthed again-if he’d still had a voice, then the volume would have been quite loud. But there was only silence, echoing silence, and the pad nearly ripped in John’s hands as he jerked it out of his pocket. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? he wrote.
Rodney barely glanced up. He finished packing the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then, only then, did he pluck a pad of stickies off his bedside table. John tried not to see the irony in the fact that the pad had I SEE DUMB PEOPLE written across the top.
Stopping this, Rodney wrote. Getting our voices back. Killing the nasty aliens. He slapped the note against John’s chest, where it stuck. John was about to do something immature, like turn it around and stick it on Rodney’s forehead, when Rodney peeled off the next sheet and held it up. I hope.
John shook his head. Do you even have a plan? he wrote. You can’t just go running off like this. You haven’t seen these things, I have.
I read Campbell’s report, Rodney wrote. There were two of them, and they were unstoppable. Yet they didn’t kill everybody. They took what they wanted and they left. Do you know why? Because they think we’re helpless. They think they can take their fucking time because there’s nothing we can do to stop them.
John blinked at the trio of notes stuck to Rodney’s outstretched fingers. One by one, he peeled them off, crumpled them up. You’re not helpless, Rodney, he wrote.
Rodney stared at him for a long moment, a long moment they probably shouldn’t have, that they couldn’t afford to waste. Then, You left me in the mess along with everyone else, he wrote. With the rest of the civilians.
I know. I’m sorry.
Rodney shook his head: not saying, That’s not good enough, but possibly, only because he couldn’t. I have to do this now, he wrote. You of all people should understand that.
He started toward the door. For a moment John stared at his back, feeling choked, feeling the horrible, cruel impotence of it, of not being able to cry Stop! and have himself be heard. Then at the last second, he darted forward and seized Rodney’s arm, spinning him around, slamming him against the wall.
Pointlessly, he covered Rodney’s mouth with his hand.
He waited until he was sure Rodney’s eyes were on him, wide and blue and angry. Then, Don’t be like me, he said. Don’t charge into battle without saying goodbye. Without accepting help if it’s offered.
John released a shaky breath once the words were out, ghosting silently across the narrow space between them. He drew his fingers away from Rodney’s lips.
They stared at each other, and the air between them was filled with things unsaid.
Then a piece of paper, hastily torn: I’m going with you, it said.
*
Fortunately, Rodney was good at multi-tasking. His explained his plan-what there was of it-as they walked, tossing scraps of paper over his shoulder like bread crumbs, leaving John to catch and follow what he could.
Charm-there’s a reference in the Ancient database to a device that captivates, captures a person’s language. Then on another scrap, an addendum: That’s their word-language. Stupid Ancients. At first (continued on another page) we thought it was some sort of translation tool-an Ancient Babel Fish!-or less revolutionary, maybe a phonograph.
He stepped into a transporter and they paused their “conversation” as it whisked them away. John was concerned-but not especially surprised-when it spilled them out in the same hallway where he had encountered the Lepidom.
Then we found a device-in this tower, up ahead, tearing off the sheet of paper and passing it to John with one hand as he pointed with the other, with similar properties to the containment unit the Ancients had been using to imprison the energy creature we found when we first came here. Remember?
John rolled his eyes at the question, and at-but no, not at Rodney, who was jogging ahead of him like he was still invulnerable somehow. Which made the question even more ludicrous: how could he forget?
Anyway, it had some of the same characteristics of the device described in the database, but we couldn’t get it to do anything, and it was really huge and heavy and at the top of several billion flights of stairs-they were mounting these now-so we just left it there. Forgot about it.
John lacked Rodney’s talent; he had to stop walking while he wrote, but it looked like Rodney could use the breather anyway. What are you saying? They’re using our own satellites against us?
The corner of Rodney’s mouth quirked up, just as John had known it would. But he shook his head. No. That was the other funny thing about the device. It didn’t look Ancient in design. Didn’t look Wraith, either, though, so we mentally put it back with all the other inexplicable stuff...
He looked angry with himself. Not your fault, John mouthed.
Rodney waved his hand. Yeah, well, and John stared at his lips, watched carefully. Tried to understand. Earlier? Not your fault, either.
In silence, they nodded to each other. It was so quiet that you could hear the proverbial pin drop-or even the penny dropping, inside John’s mind.
So quiet, and yet in all that silence, they never heard the sound of encroaching footsteps, or the labored breathing of the two strong-armed aliens that seemingly melted out of the walls and grabbed them each around the neck. John could only watch as Rodney silently cried out, and then they were both being hauled up the stairs, locked in the grip of creatures that looked like shorter, squatter, more brutal versions of the Lepidom John had encountered the night before. He should have known, he thought, struggling to reach a weapon that was far outside his grasp. The Wraith had their bone-faced minions; why shouldn’t the Lepidom have minions, too?
They were thrown on the floor at the top of the tower, side by side, gasping. John drew his Beretta, but it was instantly swept from his hand and sent spinning across the room. The knowledge that it probably wouldn’t have done any good was not a comfort in the least.
Rodney’s bag, too, was snatched from him. Then he was jerked to his feet by one of the grunts and backed up against a long, low, cylindrical device. John recognized it as the containment unit Rodney had been talking about. Rodney, unsurprisingly, did too, and John saw hope flicker across his features for a brief moment: maybe they were so stupid that they were inadvertently bending him over the source of the city’s salvation. But of course there was no convenient RELEASE VOICES switch. Rodney’s fingers scrambled over the controls anyway: trying to do something, anything. Refusing to go down without a fight.
John wasn’t going down without a fight, either. He leapt to his feet-only to be instantly slammed back against the far wall by the other grunt. He struggled, but the alien-worse than the others, than the Wraith, almost: at least with the Wraith, he could make out recognizable eyes-only pushed him more firmly against the cool, Ancient metal. And the Lepidom were coming.
Gliding out of the shadows, coasting silently across the air. Rodney got one glimpse of them and started struggling even harder. But it was useless. Futile. A scalpel blade glinted brightly in the shadowy light, and John wanted to laugh, wanted to cry. Of course now would be the time he got his heart cut out. Just when it had started speaking to him again.
But it was worse than that, John realized, watching one of the Lepidom advance on the cylinder over which Rodney was draped. Because they were going to take Rodney first, and make John watch.
John closed his eyes. He felt his heart, his heart beating in his chest. The frantic, yet still steady rhythm of it. And he felt the cool metal against the palms of his hands, felt himself and the city palm to palm, and he felt the rhythm of that, too.
The connection.
Rodney’s eyes were locked on his, silently trying to communicate what his tongue would need years and a dozen languages to properly convey. He was still struggling, thrusting his shoulders and hips against the hands that held him, but his mouth was closed. He might die unheard, but he wasn’t going to die screaming.
He wasn’t going to die.
Yes, John thought, no more dying in silence! No more, no more!
Soft flesh against cool metal and fragile glass and ancient, Ancient wires; John felt it, the link that was always, that had always been there; and as the knife flashed down in the dark, John opened his mouth and the city screamed.
From the crumpled blankets and clustered sleeping bags of the people huddled in the mess; from the hallways where Lorne was bravely leading his men on another futile search; from the room where Elizabeth and Radek sat poring over the Ancient database, frantically trying to find a solution: Atlantis sucked air into her lungs. Air rushed into her and out of John’s mouth as from her buried corridors, deep below the ocean waves, to the tip of her tallest tower, scraping the darkening sky: she screamed. And the mirror of the Lepidom’s world shattered as, with John’s help, she struck the perfect pitch.
Rodney shuddered, pushing the body of the fallen Lepidom off of him. He was covered in bright green ichor-the room was, splattered in arcs of iridescent viridian. John, he mouthed, still speechless. John?
John took a step forward, away from the body of the creature that had been holding him, and sank to his knees. Rodney stumbled forward, bending down beside him. John shook his head, gesturing him away; The charm, he mouthed, but he squeezed Rodney’s wrist as he turned to his work, and that said what he needed it to, for now.
Rodney retrieved his bag and set about connecting wires and adjusting knobs and doing other things that were meaningless to John, outside his knowledge that Rodney knew what he was doing, and that John trusted him to fix this for them. Eventually, he began to feel less light-headed and the feeling of-of being huge and hollow but all encompassing, a floating cradle-it began to dissipate, until he was just himself again, and any remaining hollowness was all his own.
He didn’t feel hollow, though. He felt light, like a mountain, a mantle of unsaid words had been lifted from his shoulders. He watched Rodney work, watched the look of triumph flash across his face as he made the pieces connect, returned everything once again to its proper order; then he flipped a switch, and John knew with utter certainty that if he opened his mouth he could say anything he wanted without any trouble at all.
But there was nothing, in that moment, that he wanted to say; not a single thing that couldn’t be better expressed without words. So when Rodney opened his mouth to shout his triumph to the heavens, John covered it with his own, and they both were silent for a little longer.
************
NOTES:
1. So yes. This is 'Hush.' I must do the gentlemanly thing and tip my hat to Joss Whedon for the concept, the creepy aliens monsters, and the prophesy rhyme, which I "cleverly" adapted to the SGAverse. If you've never seen the episode itself, you should really make the effort to track it down: it's immensely clever and creepy, and beautiful, too. And if you squint, you can ignore the fact that it has Riley in it.
2. This was not what I originally intended to write for this challenge: I had this vague idea about fear, and mob mentality, and some sort of meta-commentary on what urban legends are. Unsurprisingly, this never got off the ground, so when I realized that 'Hush' fit the prompt pretty darn closely, I ran with it.
3. John makes reference to Alien and Independence Day. The story's title is from Robert Browning's "Abt Vogler." And that about sums me up, really.
4. Also, my icon has never been more appropriate OMG.