Cedarfiction.net - Apostasy

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Act 2

McKay waited uncomfortably while the others assembled behind him. It wasn't so much that he was worried about presenting what he knew to Sheppard and Woolsey, even Caldwell, to a degree, but the addition of Hollick and the professor made him profoundly nervous.

As if sensing the way McKay felt, Sheppard clapped him on the shoulder as he came to a halt in the semi circle of listeners gathered before the wall mounted computer screen.

McKay took a breath – game on – and switched the display to show the information he'd managed to piece together of the fragmented data from the Daedalus' sensors.

"As you know," he started, "I've spent the last several hours trying to make sense of the readings provided by Colonel Caldwell in order to extrapolate the possible destination for our friend the Wraith."

He switched to the next screen on the computer, showing a star map of part of the Pegasus Galaxy as he said, "I was just getting to that."

"All in good time, Colonel," Varnerin murmured, and as McKay glanced his way, he saw that he too had folded his arms, almost as though he were mimicking Sheppard. McKay frowned, and Sheppard threw the psychologist a withering glance.

Knowing that look, McKay quickly turned back to the display, and continued his explanation.

"As you know, the battle took place in close proximity to M8F-392, here," he circled that point on the display. "Now… the Hive opened a hyperspace window, here, with a trajectory that suggests they'll have to make their regenerative stop… right around… here."

He drew a square onto the screen where he had calculated the Wraith Hive would have to leave hyperspace.

"That's a pretty big window, Doctor," Caldwell said, leaning closer, obviously to get a better look. "And how do we know they aren't just heading for any one of a number of other planets along the way?"

"By combining the location of those planets revealed by my calculations as being along the Hive's current course with the Intel coming in from those areas, I've determined that it's highly unlikely that any of those planets would hold any interest for the Wraith."

"Except maybe for people to feed on," Hollick said bitterly, but McKay shook his head again.

"According to the database that Kell—Beckett's people have been putting together, too many of those worlds, scattered randomly in that area, are suffering the effects of the Hoffan drug," he said. "It's simply not worth the risk for a Wraith Hive – even Todd's – to try culling around there."

"So he goes beyond, stops to regenerate his Hive," Sheppard said, uncrossing his arms to point at the box McKay had drawn and asked, "Then what? Where does he go from there?"

"Because having stopped," Varnerin took up the explanation, "There's no telling his trajectory once he begins his journey again."

"My best—" McKay spluttered, "Sheppard, there's no way of telling. He could literally have gone in any direction from there, even back the way he's come, supposing he wants to go… pick off any survivors or… something."

"What do you want me to say, Sheppard? He could have gone any way. There are at least half a dozen planets scattered around those systems nearby that he could visit, try culling, whatever the hell his plan is, there's just no telling. I'm sorry but I'm out of options."

Sheppard sighed heavily, and McKay could see he was running all the possibilities through his head. He knew it wouldn't take Sheppard long to guess there was something he wasn't saying.

Woolsey shifted beside him, looking at the various displays on the screen in front of them.

"Any there were would have to make planet-fall on M8F-392," McKay answered, "because there are no other habitable planets within range of Darts' capabilities."

"Stargates?" Sheppard asked. "They don't need habitable if they can get access to the Gate."

"There is a 'Gate, yes," McKay said slowly, "But it's not going to do them, or us, any good."

"Well, because it's…" he flipped the display to show a closer map of the system where the battle had taken place, and drew a circle on a planetoid in close proximity to the system's star. "… here. The radiation from the sun, not to mention the solar flare activity and gravitational forces… well basically it's deadly."

"What about if we modified one of the Jumper's cloaks again, made it a shield instead," Hollick asked.

McKay shook his head. "Of course by we you mean me. Even with shielding the gravitational sheering forces would tear the ship apart, and as far as the Wraith are concerned their Darts don't have shields. In fact it's a very recent addition for the Hives to have shield capability – only since the Aurora Mission reports were stolen by Michael's former Hive, which, now you come to mention it, begs the question—"

"What?" he swung around to face Sheppard, irritated by the expectation that he would provide answers to all of their impossible questions and provide a solution to an impossible situation. "I told you, there's no way to scientifically predict Todd's destination. I can't make it any clearer than that, and Sheppard I'm sorry, I wish I could, but I can't. I've done what I can. I've told you where he'll stop to regenerate. That's as much as I can do."

"Then there's only one thing we can do," Sheppard said, "because I doubt there's a way to catch up to him before his ship finishes its regeneration."

"Then we head for the Wraith survivors," Sheppard said. "We know from when Michael released Teyla the first time that Todd was working with that queen. Something made him turn on her, and her Wraith have gotta know why, and where he would go."

"Colonel, no offense," Hollick said, "but… are you out of your mind? We have no clue how many survivors there were; their military capability, nothing!"

"We know that Todd kicked their ass," Sheppard said, "and for right now that'll have to be good enough. We go in; we hit 'em hard, get prisoners and take the rest of them out."

"I'm sick of this," Sheppard snapped in return, and McKay cringed at the tone in his voice, somewhere between anger and desperation. "It's time we started putting these Wraith bastards in their place."

"But they are in their place, Colonel Sheppard. They're the apex predator of this galaxy. The top of the food chain – everything stops with them," Varnerin pressed.

"Not any more," Sheppard said bitterly, and McKay realised just how far he had been pushed by the events of the latest encounter with the Wraith. He also worried that Varnerin was looking for a reason to remove Sheppard from command and put Hollick in his place, and that, displaying this attitude, Sheppard was playing right into his hands. He opened his mouth to say something, and then almost choked in surprise when Woolsey spoke.

"Colonel Sheppard is right," he said, "and we have to act quickly. Even if these Wraith can't give us the location of Todd's Hive, by eliminating them we rid the Pegasus Galaxy of one dangerously powerful Wraith faction. That has to justify the risks involved."

Sheppard nodded. "We get out prisoners, and then make a no quarter strike against the remaining Wraith. They've left us with no choice."

McKay glanced around at the assembled, at the mixture of expressions on each of their faces. His eyes meeting the haunted gaze in Sheppard's eyes, he sighed. There was nothing he could say that was going to deter his friend from the course of action, so he had no choice but to stand with him, no matter how much his gut was telling him that this was a very bad idea.

Jethera glanced around at the faces of those assembled in the gathering space of the village they had settled, facing out toward the field. She stood behind the Queen with the other two handmaidens, praying that the Queen would remain calm. She faced her people with the Commander and the Second flanking her – surveying what remained of her Hive.

Movement beside the Commander drew her gaze, and she bristled. There beside him stood the harlot Merihanna, revelling in her position as his concubine, standing with her nose in the air, when her face, her eyes, should be downcast. She was the cause of this. Had it not been for the distraction she was for the Commander, they would not have lost the Hive and be stuck in this position.

The woman behind her nudged her, hard in the ribs, and she almost yelped, until she realised that the Second had turned his head and was regarding her coolly, the ridge of his brow raised in query. She gave him a respectful bow, and then keeping her head lowered, shook it slightly from side to side to indicate that there was nothing wrong.

She shivered as his mind invaded hers to convey his brief message and then withdrew as the Commander began to speak, aloud, for the benefit of the worshippers gathered behind the Wraith.

"We are set back," he said, the tones in his voice merging and swirling around the clearing, "but we are not defeated; damaged but not destroyed and we will continue. Take heart, those of you that serve us, we will rise again – and soon."

Jethera could not help but wonder when. She was not stupid and it seemed to her that the ships gathered in the meadow beyond the village were too few to mount a defence should any other Hive come against them.

"We will continue to gather the resources we need, as we were doing before the attack came," the Commander went on, "and among those resources will be the fuel we need for the rebuilding of our Hive…"

Malcolm took a breath, long and slow, to calm the irritation rising in him. How could the Commander not feel the waves of affliction coming from the Queen, and how could he flaunt his Human plaything at his side, especially as disgraced as she had been before the loss of the Hive?

Perhaps he should step in and suggest the woman to the Queen as a possible candidate, since she would have to choose one from among her people to begin the creation of her new Hive – and sooner rather than later. Their defences, even once the cruisers had returned to them, were fragile at best.

He huffed slightly as he glanced at her and caught a coquettish smile in return. Perhaps his best recourse would be to lure her to his quarters, appearing to be responding to the, somewhat obvious, advances she was throwing his way, and once he had her there, to feed on her until she was nothing more than dust.

=go to my Second= =to my Second= =my Second= =Second= =Second= =he is discomposed= =discomposed= =discomposed= =discomposed=

The instruction was a whisper in her mind, but filled with sincere concern, and this puzzled Jethera enough for her to forget that obedience would bring her to the attention of the assembled masses.

She moved around behind the Queen and the other handmaidens and stepped forward to reach out timidly and brush an almost touch against the side of his flexing hand.

"Lord Second," she whispered when he cast a glance her way. "The Queen bids me tend you. What are your needs?"

"I have none, girl," he murmured softly, "It was merely a fleeting thought that disturbed me."

Jethera blinked. Why should he allow her to hear his response to the Queen? This one, she knew, did nothing without a reason. Was he bidding her to seek the reason? Her mind whirled, and she felt a touch of approval from the Second.

She glanced at him again and this time saw that his eyes were fixed on the woman that stood simpering at the Commander's side. She filled her mind with understanding, not certain if the Second would read her thoughts or not. It mattered little. She acted in obedience to the Queen…

{for the good of the Hive, watch that one} {watch that one} {that one} {that one} {that one} {obey me in this one thing} {obey me in this} {obey me in this} {obey me} {obey me}

"I obey the Queen and she has bidden me tend you," Jethera murmured at his side, making her own position absolutely clear.

There were always rumours among the worshippers about those in the upper echelons of the Hive, but there were never so many as existed concerning the Second. He was somewhat of an enigma among the worshippers, and the stories named him as not being from the Elder's Hive at all. While this was not particularly unusual – quite often allied commanders and sub-commanders ensured their life by swearing fealty to the strongest Queen of their alliance if their own Hive were destroyed in battle – in the case of the Hive Second, it was said that he had come from a place only whispered of in the minds of the ranking Wraith.

He had quickly, so the stories said, risen through the ranks of the Hive, and not with the usual accompanying blood bath. His ascension had been subtle, quiet and above all unquestionable. In fact, some said, they could not see how or why he had not taken the Commander from his fragile perch long ago.

These were just stories, told from one pureborn mother to her child, from pureborn father to his son. However, enjoined in mind to mind contact with the Wraith about whom they, and other tales, were told, Jethera couldn't help but wonder at the truth of them – and just how understated that, too, was.

Her memory of having fallen asleep was hazy at best, almost dreamlike, and she ached in a way that was of strong emotions that defied any clear explanation, save one, and that she was not yet ready to concede.

She sat up, trying to stretch out the physical aches, and the soft blanket he'd used to cover her fell away, tugging her shirt against the wound on her chest. She winced slightly…

…swinging her legs around to the side of the bed to rise, she pressed her hand against her chest and rose unsteadily to her feet, crossing the room to the viewing port. They were still at rest, the grey gasses of the nebula swirling around the Hive, presumably as protection while the ship recovered from the effects of being in hyperspace, and she suddenly wondered just how far they were to travel.

She turned her head slightly as she heard the door open, to find an unfamiliar figure, another of Michael's hybrids, waiting just inside the door, and pulling the front of her shirt so that it straightened somewhat, she turned to face the hybrid.

"I am Rissek," he gave her a respectful nod. "He has asked me to bring you to more suitable quarters than these. If you will permit me to guide you…"

Teyla looked around the quarters and considered arguing that they were perfectly adequate. The last time she had been aboard Michael's ship, the quarters she had been given were no better, and she could not help but realise, suddenly, the position she was in. The presence of the hybrid, conveying Michael's wishes, doing his bidding… all was familiar, as before. Was she not here of her own volition this time? After everything in the last several hours, did he still not trust her?

"There were matters that required his immediate attention," Rissek told her. "Please, your quarters are waiting for you. I am certain that he will come to you there. In the meantime, I have orders to ensure your comfort; to see to your needs."

Unsettled, Teyla took a deep breath and peeled away from the bulkhead, and trying not to allow her mounting nervousness to get the better of her, approached Rissek. If Michael was trying to keep her off balance, his success only became more apparent as she passed the hybrid and he did not immediately grasp her elbow in order to guide her. They always had before.

Perhaps, then, she had not dreamed the relative gentleness she had seen in Michael's eyes.

The hybrid's worry turned to fear, and fear to panic as he watched the expression on his master's face turn from one of consternation, through anger to a wry coldness as his head tipped to the side, regarding him uncompromisingly.

"What did I do wrong?" the hybrid asked, struggling with the soldiers even before they brought him to a halt in front of their commander. "How have I failed you?"

He stumbled as the soldiers released him, and realised that in his terrified state, he had completely missed the mental instruction to the others that must surely have come, since next, they turned without a word, and left him alone before their leader, who took a controlled step back, out of reach. The meaning was clear – there would be no aid, no support forthcoming.

"I followed your instructions," he protested, "to the letter – I did not deviate. I told him where to find the key to the recombination, just like you asked. I was discrete in the way I delivered the information. There was no way he could have known my aid was anything other than a betrayal of your research – just as you instructed. Everything you demanded of me I performed to th—"

"Then why," the tone was like a whip that cut across the words that were tumbling from his mouth, "did the Wraith scientist specifically question me about Raltara – eighteen, zero-five, forty-eight – negative thirty, twenty-five, twenty-six?"

"I… I told him nothing!" he yelped, trying to back away as his leader advanced on him but the vice clamped around his mind without warning, halting his muscles and then driving him to his knees.

"Do you think my capacity still weakened? Do you believe I am still flawed – injured?"

"It is the truth, I swear," the hybrid looked up at his creator. "All I gave him were the amino acid chains. I—"

"You gave him the knowledge of their existence, and the origins of much of my work." He-that-led-them circled around behind him, and the hybrid could only hear the movements he made; imagine with horror the instruments that were being prepared; what ignominious death awaited him for whatever act of failure – and he realised then it did not truly matter what he had done or had not done – that the Wraith-Human hybrid he served believed he had committed. "You were told to avoid specifics; to ensure he believed the process had been due to constant trial and error; to prevent any thought or mention of—"

"The Returned," the hybrid murmured. He could not have anticipated the response.

The hand in his hair was uncompromising and pulled back until his neck ached with the unnatural angle, and the breath rasped in and out of his body through constricted airways. The cold press of the blade at his throat made every muscle tense in anticipation of the coming darkness, but still, painful hope bubbled in his chest as his master hissed beside his ear, breath stirring against his cheek.

"You will not speak those words again." The skin against his face was Wraith-cool, but warming fast in contact with his own. "When did you work it out? How much did you see? Answer, quickly!"

Knowing that the answer he gave would be the difference between his continued existence, albeit in a different state than this, and a sudden, likely painful death, the hybrid gasped, "Your… research."

The pressure on his neck eased enough for him to be given the opportunity to speak more easily.

"When you made it… clear what my… duties were," he said, still finding breathing hard, "I grew curious… accessed the database."

He fell forward as he was suddenly released, physically and mentally; barely had the chance to stretch out his arms to catch himself.

"Because of what I saw… when she was here before," he admitted softly, though explaining nothing.

"Why?" his master repeated, an icier blast yet as the compulsion to answer pushed into his mind. He tried to resist, afraid of the reprisals the truth was sure to bring.

His mind was ahead of the words, as he tried desperately to stop the outpouring of the truth. He realised his error only in the moment that the hand slammed against the middle of his back and propelled him through the air toward the far bulkhead of the laboratory. He felt his ribs crack, and the rush of what little breath he possessed as he connected with the unforgiving surface.

The smell of burning roused her, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out as the flames leaped from where they cracked against the bulkhead, to kindle against the sleeve of her dress, and their heat began searing her flesh. She slapped at the flames with a bloodied hand, extinguishing them quickly.

The cry she had sublimated burst from Isla a moment later when the bulkhead beside her exploded as the flames reached a power node, and forgetting the need for stealth for a moment she scrambled out of the narrow space into which she'd crammed herself, into the rear compartment of the transport ship on which she had stowed away in order to escape the Hive.

She tripped and falling to her hands and knees, turned around suddenly to scramble away backwards, almost screaming again as a hand flopped against her ankle. The Wraith drone attached to it was quite dead, as were several others she could now see littering the cargo area of the ship.

She took a huge breath, and held it to calm the panic rising in her, only letting it out with a barely contained moan when her lungs ached in protest.

Pushing herself to her feet again, she staggered forward toward the control centre of the ship. If the drones were dead it was a fair expectation that there were injuries, perhaps even death among the other Wraith aboard the ship, and her duty demanded that—

She stopped in the open doorway, looking at the single Wraith sub-commander slumped over the control podium. She could see that he was injured – bleeding from a gash she could see that ran along his side – and that he had lost consciousness spoke of others she could not see.

She should go to him; tend his wounds… but… if he woke, injured as he was, his first instinct would be to feed on her; to regenerate.

Leaning heavily against the bulkhead she turned to look at the rear of the ship. If she could find a way to open the hatch she stood a chance – chance to get back to the others; a chance to find her master… a chance to live.

Cautiously, barely moving with each step, she began to inch her way toward the controls.

The tray Michael carried was laden with the supplies that would be needed. Any that saw him would think him impassive, yet beneath the surface he seethed, his temper would not be placated, and was only fuelled by the knowledge that this unacceptable delay had been caused by the necessity of dealing with the traitor.

He took a breath, another attempt to calm himself before he reached the suite of quarters at the centre of the Hive. Given what they had to discuss, it would not do for him to be agitated when attending to her needs.

"Michael," she stood from where she was sitting on the side of the low bed to greet him as he entered.

He stopped, setting down the tray and tilting his head to regard her, halting her as she began to walk toward him with the slight shake of his head.

"I have brought you fresh clothing in case you wish to change, and water for washing, though you have bathing facilities through those doors," he nodded toward a set of doors on the far side of the chamber. "However, I must treat the wound I have inflicted on you."

She didn't, but he picked up the medical supplies from the tray anyway and crossed the rest of the way to her. He waited beside the bed, where she had just been sitting, looking at her pointedly until she joined him, and they could both sit, so that his hands could be free to apply the necessary treatment.

"I trust these quarters are acceptable," he said as he filled a large syringe with a saline wash.

"They are more than acceptable," she said watching his hands for a moment before looking up at him.

Her eyes found his, finding him watching her. He was waiting. Trying not to be obvious about her nervousness, she unfastened the shirt she wore enough that he could easily reach the feeding mark he had left on her chest. He handed her a piece of gauze, as before, careful to ensure there was little or no contact between their hands.

"Hold this beneath the wound, it will catch the solution," he said, and pausing for a beat he added, "It will sting."

She prepared herself, but even so hissed as he squeezed the fluid over the raw space in the centre of her chest, and carefully used antiseptic covered swabs to clean away what blood remained, evidence of her complicity in his healing. Tears came to her eyes.

He was thorough and by the time he was done, she was breathless from the stink of the solution.

"Wait!" she gasped, as he moved to take the gauze from her, and to dry the area.

Michael nodded, and got up to take the container of solution and the syringe back to the tray. She couldn't help but notice the slight shuffle in his step, as though he favoured his left leg.

"It will pass," he assured her, turning to look at her across the distance, "when my healing is complete."

"And when will that be? You—" She broke off as he returned to her, and sat once more.

"You need not worry," he said, his words overlapping hers. "My recovery will be complete… thanks to you. Now…"

Michael reached to pick up a small jar and unscrewed the lid. The air came alive with a slightly pungent scent that only increased as he picked up a small wooden spatula and used it to pick up some of the contents of the jar. She watched his hands again, still wary, the trust fragile at best, indefinably strained.

"I gave you my word," he added aloud as though still not confident in the bond she so clearly felt returning.

"A regenerative compound," he told her, "with antiseptic qualities – quite harmless."

As if to prove his point he applied some of the paste from the wooden spatula to a deep scratch she had not previously noticed on the back of his left hand.

"What happened?" she asked, frowning as she watched the thick paste dissolve into his skin, almost immediately subduing the redness around the scratch.

"Nothing of consequence," he told her, then his voice softened as he added, "May I?"

Swallowing, she nodded and was unable to shake the feeling that – far from being of no consequence – whatever had occurred was of great significance, especially between the two of them.

The mental tone was weary and she realised then just how tired he was. He hid it well, but it was there, disguised in the deliberate way he picked up a clear wooden spatula and with it, spread the restorative compound against her still tender chest.

"With you, it may take a little longer to have a full effect," he said, but she shook her head.

Already she could feel an icy tingling spreading from the area over which he had applied it. It was not a painful feeling, but discomforting in the strangeness, almost like the scurrying of tiny feet over and into her flesh.

"Good." He rumbled the word, and she watched his face as he raised his eyes to find hers. "It is better than I could have—"

"Michael," she interrupted, "aboard the other Hive, when I was trying to find you; to reach you, the Queen—"

At the mention of the Queen an intense fury came over him and, more quickly than she could hope to counter, he reached out to catch her by the arms and draw her closer.

"I told you never to attempt contact with her," he snarled fiercely. "She could have killed you!"

Conflicting emotions warred within her in response to his anger. On the one hand she felt her own bubbling anger, rising to drive her to respond, and yet, a part of her knew his reaction was born of the concern he showed for her, and found herself warming to that.

"But she did not," she told him earnestly, pushing at his chest to try and free herself. "And in her mind I saw—"

"No!" he snapped, his tone colder than the protective mental whisper that wrapped around her; began to relax the pressure of her arm that still pushed, struggling against him; tried to change the subject. "It is irrelevant."

"You do not believe that," she accused, feeling the underlying fear and resentful aggression. "You are afraid."

"Do not…!" he roared, then breathing hard let go and rose to pace back and forth across the space in front of her. She almost fell at the sudden nature of the movement, the lack of something against which to push. As he turned to point angrily at her, she rose to her own feet and he continued, "Do not seek to guess what I believe and do not believe! The Elder is dead – killed in the explosion that destroyed her Hive."

"Then why do I still feel your fear?" she demanded, walking toward his still outstretched hand.

"I am afraid for you," he said, his tone never more imploring, but as she reached him, reached for him, he snatched his hand away. She stood for a moment, eyes locked with his, caught between his words and the feelings that were rushing up on her at his admission and the only sound between them was their unsteady, shallow breath.

She felt his mind in hers, the strength of the protection he held waiting for her… that was hers if only for the want of it… felt a confused and desolate loneliness that spun around a single point of hope – the dangerous potential for too much change…

Empathy flared as a nervous longing, a need she pushed aside, clinging to established sophistry even as she took a step toward him, but he swallowed hard and looked away and she halted.

"Th…there is food," he said, gesturing, and then walking, to the table on which he had set the larger tray on which he had carried things, his back toward her as he spoke. "Bread and cold meats, cheeses – little enough until we make our next stop, but I… will provide for your needs, Teyla."

The fingertips of his left hand came to rest on the top of the table as he stood looking down. She crossed the short distance to stand behind him; raise the fingertips of her opposite hand to barely brush between his shoulder blades.

His head snapped up, startling her to silence. He turned his head to give her an almost-smile, awkward… tense and said, "I will leave you to your comfort." His eyes darted away again as he added, "If there is anything you require you have only to ask it of one of my men."

The thought left her unbidden… of one of his men, not of him. She saw him straighten, and he took a step away.

"There is work I must attend to," he said. The tone was soft, but it was one that would brook no debate. She sighed softly, and closed her eyes as he went to retrieve the tray of medical supplies he had brought. She heard, rather than saw, his steps carry him out of the room.

Michael's question echoed over and over, a clarion that disturbed his remembrance and made him push back his chair in preparation for standing.

"Maybe I've been going about this all the wrong way," he said, shaking his head as he caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror-like darkened windows of the mess hall.

"About what?" McKay said, "Eating? I'll say. You've hardly touched any of your food."

"I've been basing my investigations on what… might have happened to her at the hands of the Wraith," he said.

"Aye, if you say so," Beckett answered absently, then leaning forward added, "but I've completely overlooked the fact that he and Jennifer were working with one of the most insidious infections I've been stupid enough to encounter."

"Are you trying to tell me you think Jennifer is infected with the Hoffan drug?" he asked, horror in his voice.

Beckett shook his head. "I've found no traces of it in her blood screen, but that doesn't mean it's not responsible for her current condition. She and Todd were working on trying to find a cure, or at least a way to neutralise the infection, make it safe for the Wraith to feed."

"Don't you see, Rodney," Beckett reached across the table to grip McKay by the wrist. McKay yelped. "In order to do that they'd need to manipulate the receptors in both the Wraith and Human blood cells. If she somehow came into contact with any of that research material…"

"To cure Sheppard," McKay's frown deepened as Beckett's own creased with his lack of understanding. "To reverse the hybridisation that the alternate Michael subjected him to, when we accidentally went to that universe from M3F-227?"

"You have got to be kidding me, McKay!" Beckett suddenly couldn't breathe. A mutated form of the Hoffan drug by itself was bad enough, but with the added possibilities of exposure to a retrovirus at the same time. Letting go of McKay he got to his feet. He needed to be in the lab working. "Why the hell wasn't I told about any of this?"

"Well," McKay stammered, looking up at him, "It didn't seem relevant to the fact that Todd more than likely raped Keller."

Michael checked the simulation, and the projected outcome of the manipulation for a fifth time. This had been the point at which his plans had come unravelled – almost literally – the last time, when the slightest mistake in his calculations had caused the degradation in his DNA. Apparently his Wraith heritage, the insidious weakness he now exploited, was tenacious, and defied rejection, genetically or... otherwise.

He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, remembering her insistence, her logic… the strength and healing she had willingly given up to him. His head tilted in thought, reaching along the bond, strengthened now not only by the child, but by the Gift they had shared… as Queen and her Commander – almost.

She was resting – sleeping. He nodded to himself, relieved. After everything that she had been through, she needed to rest, as did he… but there was yet so much to be done. First he must complete the modifications to his DNA to completely undo the transformation that the Wraith scientist had forced upon him. Soon it would be over, and he could rest as they travelled to their destination.

Teyla's mind stirred, and curious, he reached out again, still at rest, but she was dreaming, dreaming of her child… and though she dreamed of the baby, in spite of his accusations, Michael realised that Teyla had not yet asked after the child. The two facts did not fit side by side with his suspicion that the boy was her only reason for having come to him.

Michael sighed as the painful twinge of hope twisted against his psyche, and turned his head to look to the chamber wherein the child slept. Perhaps it was time…

A muted snarling from the doorway broke in on his considerations of the child and he turned his head to watch as two of his hybrids dragged the partly subdued queen between them.

Abandoning his place at the computer, he moved to the side of the unoccupied operating table, to coordinate securing the queen in place with the hybrids. Afterwards, he dismissed them without a word.

Slowly he walked around the table looking down on his captive as he had the would-be mutineer that occupied the laboratory's other operating station. She struggled fiercely, but only for a moment before she lay back and fixed him with her hunger-rimmed eyes.

He did not answer her question. It would do her little good to possess the knowledge she demanded.

"Why would I not?" she growled as he came to a halt. "When the only vision I see of my future is death."

"Far from it," he said, feigning boredom and the queen snorted, evidently disbelieving.

He reached to pick up a syringe with a very long, very fine needle attached, holding it so that she could clearly see.

"I do not seek your death," he said softly, though with great menace as he leaned closer. "Not yet."

He allowed the image of his intent to flow over her mind, showing her clearly the fate to which they had brought her and the results he expected gleaned from the many simulations he had run.

"Get out of my mind!" she snarled at him, struggling against the restraints on the operating table. "I told you – I told your slaves – I will never give you what you want."

"What makes you think," he asked softly, "that I expect you to give anything to me? Do you really think you would be here if I intended anything other than to take from you that which I require?"

He felt her attempt to reach into his mind and force a stay of his hand as he moved the needle toward her body, weak and ineffectual, but an attempt none-the-less. In return he pushed the full strength of his mind around hers, leaving her gasping softly. Holding her in place he watched the screen beside the operating table as he activated the inbuilt scanner to guide his needle aspiration of the genetic material he would take from her before he began to administer the necessary serum to begin the next stage of the experiment.

"I see your palsy has improved," she said, and her tone mocked him, hissing as he pushed the needle into place.

"Do not seek to anger me," he warned her. "It will not work, so you are wasting your time and I think you will find that what little you have left, that you will remember, will be precious to you."

Carefully he withdrew the needle, and carried the acquired base material directly to the waiting test tube, depositing it quickly into the luminous fluid within. Setting down the syringe he picked up the test tube and holding it between finger and thumb, held it aloft, as if he could see the microscopic sample within.

"However, you need not fear," he said, almost as though he were musing, "should I have miscalculated in the simulation of the next step in the process, you… and all the others will not be… entirely lost to time."

Suddenly business-like once more, he turned and approached the workbench where the stasis unit stood open and waiting to receive the queen's sample.

He looked up to find her head turned to regard the hybrid on the other table. Of necessity he had trusted that one. Allowed him access to key systems – key research – and the trust had been betrayed. He had questioned the progression of The Cause based only on glimpses of the whole, and on a very mistaken observation…

"But your anger…" the queen growled softly, and Michael narrowed his eyes, realising she had felt the echo of the emotion that had driven his retribution. Even knowing that the hybrid had saved Teyla when he could have left her to die after the explosive decompression aboard the Elder's Hive, he could not allow one with such an opinion to continue uncurbed. "Your anger was driven by something more."

Michael tilted his head, closing down on the queen and beginning to prepare the lines and tubes that would connect the Wraith to the generative fluid in the tank close by the table on which she was restrained.

"If I were to believe that you could possibly be redeemed, I might pity you," he said softly, leaning over her to pierce her eyes with his gaze, "but you… and your kind, are contemptible and will always be."

Malcolm barely looked up from the tablet as the soft voice sounded from the doorway of his quarters, knowing it would be Jethera – the Queen's handmaiden that had come to him in the field. At the same time he breathed out a long slow breath to banish the memory.

"The woman," he said, his voice as clipped as his belly was churning. "The former handmaiden."

"Yes," he said, and did look up then, and for a moment his vision shifted into memory.

He blinked, and took a breath, before closing his eyes in a long slow blink to open them again.

"Jethera," he said, "it is very important to me to discover the movements and the purpose of that one."

Without a word he set down the tablet he was holding and unfolded himself to his full height, making a slow advance toward the feisty young handmaiden.

"Time is coming, girl," he said, releasing his triple tones around the room, "When you must decide how best to do that."

She yelped as his hand closed around her wrist and he dragged her further into the room, pulling her back toward where he had been sitting on the side of his bed, feeling her unfolding panic as she fought with him, pointlessly and ineffectual, but a fight all the same.

Without correcting her for the moment, he pushed her the rest of the way to the bed and coming to one knee, trapping her there with his presence, he dragged the tablet toward her, and grasped the back of her neck.

As she began, he released her and sat back on his heels, watching and feeling the past come creeping over him again.

"All of this?" Jethera looked up at him, her eyes filled with horror as though she reflected the emotions of his memory back to him.

He nodded slowly, swallowing hard to maintain his control. "All of that. Now do you see why it is important?"

"I do, Lord," she breathed, a rush of breath. "Does the Queen know? Her Commander?"

"No," he said. "And nor are they to know from your lips. The Commander should know for himself and it is his duty, not mine, to inform the Queen."

"Is a record of what we have lost in the battle, nothing more," he said, "than proof of what his carelessness has wrought, and of one Human given far too much power to influence a feeble mind."

He tilted his head as he spoke, reaching out toward her with his feeding hand, holding her in place with his own vice-like mental grasp, watching her breathing quicken as his fingertips brushed her sternum.

"I… will…" she fought him for the ability to speak, eventually forcing out the two short words.

"You will watch her," he said, hissing softly amid the triple tones of his voice that ran, sing-song, around the woman as he turned his hand as he ran it upward, to cup her chin and bring her to her feet as he rose to his own. "And you will report to me, and me alone."

Woolsey looked up as he heard the footsteps approaching his office, and fixed a neutral expression onto his tired face.

"Come in, Major," he invited as the young officer hesitated by the door. "I hope I didn't disturb anything with my call."

"Not at all, sir," Hollick replied. "Just me and the boys getting a little R&R before the mission."

"Please, sit down." Woolsey nodded toward the chair in front of his desk. "There's something I'd like to discuss."

Woolsey held up his hand. "It's fine, Major. In actual fact, I wanted to talk to you about taking a little more command responsibility."

"I have a… mission for you – for want of a better word," he said, leaning back in his chair and regarding the major frankly. "More of a directive, really – relative to your assault on the Wraith with Colonel Sheppard and the others."

"I'm listening," Major Hollick finally sat down, not quite at ease, leaning forward slightly in the chair.

"I've always been able to count on you, Daniel," Woolsey said softly, "to be discrete."

"For… reasons I can't go into," Woolsey waved a hand dismissively, adding, "I'm sure you understand – it's been decided that one of those Wraith prisoners Colonel Sheppard is so insistent on taking, should be the Queen herself… if she survived."

"Makes sense, Mister Woolsey," Hollick agreed. "She is their leader, after all, will know more about—"

"Exactly," Woolsey nodded. "So… I'm putting you and your team in charge of making sure that if she's still alive, she's captured – along with any other Wraith prisoners the Colonel wishes to take."

"Thank you, Major," he said, beginning to turn his chair, subtly dismissing the man. He heard Hollick get to his feet. "One more thing, Daniel."

"If you should happen to come upon any further Intel, from the Wraith survivors – or their technology, the kind that we might otherwise not be able to… convince the Wraith to reveal under interrogation…"

"I'll be sure to see what I can find, sir," Hollick said, nodding his understanding. "Anything… specific?"

"Certainly if there's anything you can find concerning our personnel… or former personnel," he paused for just a moment, turning to watch the understanding creep over the young Major's face. "And of course, then there's Michael…"

The tension in the room was palpable as the three sat, waiting for the sub-commander to place the stasis container carefully on the table.

"You are certain that all is in place, my Commander," the Queen purred, glancing at him. Malcolm tilted his head, questioningly, interested in the answer that the Commander would give, since it had been he that had made the necessary arrangements, including the selection of the Worshippers that would sacrifice themselves for the sake of the continuance of their Hive.

"Everything is ready, My Queen," he said, lowering his head in a respectful bow. "We are ready to proceed."

The sub-commander finally stepped away from the stasis container, and bowed as he backed away. Malcolm couldn't help but give a wry, inward smile at the subordinate's haste to depart.

"You have given thought to containment?" the Queen asked of the commander. "It would not do for all of us to become infected; for there to be a Hive and no Wraith to give it life."

"Containment will be made possible by the use of one of our small cargo vessels that was damaged during the descent to this world," Malcolm said, speaking out of turn, he knew, but it was too painful to watch the other Wraith stumble so much, for all that he detested the pitiful creature. "As we speak it is being moved to the site deemed suitable to support the growth of the organism."

Malcolm slowly inclined his head in acknowledgement of her praise. If only she knew…

"Then… come dawn on this miserable rock," the Queen's distaste was clear not only in the words she spoke, but in the wave of emotion that buffeted Malcolm as he sat to her left. "In the meantime, once you have informed your two immediate sub-commanders, return here, and together we will contact those that command our cruisers and bid them return."

She had heard his unvoiced request by virtue of the touch she sent briefly to his mind, and the images he had left there, of the necessity to place in orbit some of their Darts. He felt grounded and vulnerable, and it would take some time for the recalled cruisers to reach them.

He rose from the chair, refusing to be drawn by the querying expression he glimpsed on the Commander's face.

"I will see to your request, my Queen," he said for good measure, knowing that it would play to the Commander's rising paranoia and before anything more could be said, he slipped past him and left the gathering hall.

Every part of him ached from the tips of the fingers of his right hand, to the deep burning in his gut. Michael knew it was a side effect of the treatment he had finally been satisfied was safe enough for him to take. The action of yet another retrovirus with which he reshaped himself, but even that knowledge was cold comfort against the consuming fatigue the constant pain wrought on him.

Though he tried to disguise it, refusing to show weakness in front of his men, his steps dragged as he travelled the corridors between the laboratory and the Queen's Chambers at the centre of the Hive, but there was one more thing that he must do before he allowed himself to succumb to the necessity of rest.

The infant in Michael's arms, though awake, lay quietly acquiescent against the warmed leather of the long coat he wore, nestled as though taking that warmth from the chest against which he was cradled.

Michael took a deep breath. This would be the test of her sincerity, of the words she had spoken to him, and a chill caught in the sudden trembling he fought to contain within his body. Once Teyla had her son – what then?

Teyla became aware of Michael the moment he entered the outer room of the suite and felt his fatigue coming ahead of him in waves. As the inner door opened she began to turn.

She took a breath, shivering at the mental tone, even through his fatigue, the unexpected warmth she felt there, in comparison to the tone of his voice.

Standing still and silent, she tried to make a picture of the sounds she could hear. Booted footsteps crossed the room to set something down close beside the bed. As it scraped across the chitinous material of the biopolymer floor, she thought it had a wooden quality. She frowned in confusion as the sound of those steps retreated toward the door and were gone, and almost afraid, she turned her head to see what they had set down.

The wooden crib was a perfect replica of those made by her people, the base of it covered with a deep pillow. The blankets looked soft and warm. She gasped softly and spun to fully face Michael.

"Teyla…" he said softly, and moved toward her, an unmistakeable bundle held in his arms.

Tears blurred her vision as Michael set her son into her arms. The baby's warmth and softness, the clean child's scent rushing over her, winding around her. Trembling, she reached up to uncover him enough to see him better, blinking away the tears. Even in the dim light of the chamber she could tell he was hale and whole – unblemished… and then the child's fingers closed around the side of her shaking hand.

A relief so deep it was painful followed in the wake of the touch, and the tears became sobs, and the sobs so intense that she could not catch her breath between. Unashamed, oblivious, she cradled her son against her, giving voice to the emptiness of the months since his birth, so suddenly filled.

She stumbled, her knees turning to water beneath her. She didn't register Michael's movement until his hands slipped beneath her own, supportive and strong as he guided her through the few steps toward the bed, and to sit.

"My son," she wept, rocking the baby against her, and lowering her cheek to rest against his warm young body, whispered, "Nethaiye…"

Michael turned, releasing Teyla with the motion, the echo of the whisper filling his every awareness, subsuming his mind in the fathomless need and palpable epiphany of a solace… denied.

Almost counting the steps he must take to reach the door, breathless and needful he made his retreat, palming the door closed behind him.

In the outer chamber his steps faltered, and he reached for the wall, almost clawing at it to draw himself near enough to lean into its support.

Closing his eyes, he put his head back against the bulkhead, his chest heaving with the voiceless cry he did not know how to release.

The dream broke, and Keller woke, drenched and burning still. Trembling she threw back the covers from her bed and tried to sit up, but her strength failed and she was forced to lie, gasping like a grounded fish, atop her bed until she began to shiver as her body cooled.

Her head ached, pounding as though her heart had changed locations in her body and somehow squeezed her brain with every beat, and the heaviness she felt as she moved did not abate, but at least she managed to sit up.

Tears gathered in her eyes and fell to sting her cracked, fever dried lips, and dizzy with the unfulfilled need still coursing through her, she pressed the heels of both hands against herself as if she could somehow push the need away – hide it within her again.

She needed to rest, not to suffer these fever-filled nocturnal remembrances. Perhaps she should take Doctor Beckett up on his offer of the prescription of a mild sedative – something to help her sleep.

Her steps dragged as she crossed the room to where she had left her earpiece, and her hands shook as she fixed it into place and activated it quickly.

"Fine, just… having a little trouble sleeping," she lied. "I… I wonder if you'd mind… you offered a sedative a while back, and I was wondering if you'd be able to drop it by my quarters, just… I don't feel like getting dressed and…"

"Not a problem, Jennifer," Carson answered. "The early shift takes over in an hour. I'll drop it by on my way home, as it were."

Taking out the earpiece she set it down again, and turned to look at the mess she had made of her bed; the sheet all crumpled against the mattress and the cover for her quilt clearly soaked where she had sweated through her fevered dream.

Crossing to the bed she began to pull angrily at the cover, dragging it off, practically tearing it as she pulled it from the comforter, pulling, seemingly endlessly at the soft cotton covered quilt within.

A wave of dizziness gripped her and would not leave, and she slumped forward to try and catch herself on weakened arms. Failing she toppled sideways, to lie still in a rapidly gathering darkness… breathless and afraid.

…he falls to the side… lies gasping in pain at the sharp branch that has punctured the flesh of his side…

The soft cry woke her in an instant, and Teyla gasped as she opened her eyes, panic gripping her until she set eyes on the little one, curled against her chest.

"Nethaiye," she whispered, running her fingertips over his cheek, down over his shoulder to his chest, finally she unwrapped him from the blanket in which he had been brought to her, to discover the reason for his uncomfortable cry.

She moved away the soiled wrappings, and fetching warm water from the bathroom, gently bathed him, running soft cloths over him, and checking every inch of him for any sign of anything that should not have been.

In her mind there was both no reason, and every reason for her suspicions, for Michael had promised her that he would not harm the child, but she knew also that his very creation had been to further Michael's agenda and in her confused emotion, her trust for Michael's word was fragile at best. Finding nothing, she sat back for a moment, sighing, and blinking back fresh tears of relief.

Nethaiye reached for her, and she caught his tiny hands in hers, kissing the palms of them both, laying his soft hands against her cheek.

He kicked his legs, moving around happily in his freedom, but she worried at the child, and began looking around for something in which to wrap him. It was then she noticed that as she had been sleeping, someone had brought a bundle of wrapping cloths, and some baby clothes, and fresh blankets. They had been laid on the table, and close by was another light meal, obviously left for her, and a bottle filled with what looked like milk of some kind.

Reaching to the crib, to pick up one of the blankets there, she lifted Nethaiye to her chest and wrapped the blanket around them both, so that she could investigate what had been left for them.

Everything seemed to have been handmade, with great care and attention to the details of her people. The blankets were woven with the softest wool, the edges of them stitched in patterns that were almost recognisable to her. She ran her fingers over them all, and then picked up the clothes, a simple outfit that would keep Nethaiye warm against the chill of the Hive.

Forgetting her own needs, though her belly growled with hunger, Teyla took the things she would need for Nethaiye's care back to her bed where he could lie comfortably while his inexperienced mother saw to the needs of his dressing and feeding, thankful that such things had been left for her

It did not occur to her that neither of them had been disturbed while they slept.

Beckett stopped just as his foot crossed the threshold of the infirmary. Part of him wanted to tell the orderly to turn it over to Doctor Lindley, the duty shift's physician, but something else inside of him told him to stay. He turned slowly.

"What about him?" Beckett stepped back toward the orderly and laid a hand on her shoulder, turning her to lead her over toward the Satedan's bed.

Beckett frowned. "How the hell—we gave him enough sedative to keep an elephant under."

He moved past her quickly to come to Ronon's side, looking at the readings on the monitors at the same time as physically laying his hand against Ronon's wrist to feel the drumming of the man's pulse against his fingertips.

"Easy, big guy," Beckett murmured, and nodded to the orderly, who quickly moved to assist, a tray already in her hands to receive the tube that he quickly but carefully removed from Ronon's throat.

"We'll get you another blanket, Son," Beckett said, softly, "Open your eyes for me… that's it…"

"What happened?" Ronon asked, his eyes clearly unfocussed. He blinked several times before he steadied a pained gaze against Beckett's.

"You were shot as we were escaping from the Hive," Beckett said, keeping Ronon from moving too much with a light pressure against his shoulder. "But lie still now… you were badly hurt and have had extensive surgeries. It's important for you to rest."

"They're fine," Beckett answered, glancing briefly to the side. Now was not the time for Ronon to find out about Teyla. He'd tell him, but not until he was stronger. "John, Rodney, we're all fine, thanks to you."

"Ronon," Beckett interrupted, looking at him fiercely. "If you don't rest, I'm going to have to sedate you again. There will be plenty of time to tell you everything… when you're rested."

He met Ronon's eyes then, his expression practically begging the big Satedan to let it go; to stop pushing. Ronon tried to move instead, and grunted in pain. Immediately he lay back and stopped trying to sit up, and asked, "How bad?"

Beckett patted his shoulder, finally satisfied that he could release him without Ronon trying to move again.

"We almost lost you, Son," he said sorrowfully. "It was touch and go for a while."

Michael paused before stepping through the door into her quarters to take in the scene in front of him. Teyla had dressed in the fresh clothes that he had provided for her, sitting with her legs crossed in front of her, her hair clasped lightly behind the nape of her neck as she bent over the weaving materials she had asked for.

Every now and then she would glance over to the crib to check on the child, sleeping peacefully within – and he could feel how deeply the child slept. It was an image that filled him with a breathlessly poignant, yet unsettled sensation deep in his belly.

"I came to ask you," he started as he stepped within, but found himself unable to continue as she set down her weaving and unfolded to face him standing. Her nervousness reached him first, but behind it was a cynical, wary suspicion. Hurt, he swallowed hard. "That is… I—"

As he moved closer she took a step to the side, putting herself between him and the crib. He stopped.

"So, you truly believe that is why I am here?" he said, caught between disappointment and rising anger.

"Why does it surprise you, Michael?" she countered. "Did you not take me from the others for his sake?"

"The others?" he asked, almost choking on the hope that whispered against the ache inside of him to hear her name them in this manner.

"Your friends," he corrected her, testing. She did not protest and disappointed resentment bubbled to the surface. He stalked closer still and she moved with him, circling to the side, toward the more open space in the chamber; away, he noted, from the child.

"Why must you see me as a threat!" his frustration burst and he roared at her. "Where is the cause for your suspicion? I said I would not hurt him – have I? In all of your examinations, have you found even a scratch upon him?" He glared at her as she shifted her balance again; felt the fight or flight instinct rising in her. When she did not speak, he demanded, "Answer me!"

"Believe what!" He had not missed the almost imploring tone in her voice, but could not afford to let it sway him now. He caught her by the arms, suddenly, and even as she struggled with him, advanced on her. She backed away, maintaining their distance.

"That you took him for any other reason than to use in your vicious experi—"

He almost shook her as they moved, a hollow pain swirled in his chest, his gut trembled with emotion.

"I took him to keep him safe from the coming Wraith; to keep him from harm at the hands of your friends," he sneered the word, unable to banish the bitterness he felt toward them for what they had done, not to him, but to Teyla. Still he went on, "To be sure of his health and the balance of his genes."

"Why would you need to—" She frowned, confusion and anger mingled on her face.

Painful confusion flooded through her. Had they been right? Michael's DNA? Michael's son? But that could not be true because…

"At my behest," he growled and she backed up as he took a step, pushing her hands against his chest.

"It is not true," she tried again, but the conflict resolved into a single image that had always been in her mind. "I—"

"Michael, stop!" she gasped as he backed her still further, and she retreated, the denial that had lent her strength, faded, replaced instead with a rush of hurt and anger. "Stop!"

Her back collided with the wall, and winded she looked up at him, burning with the thought of having been the unwitting subject of one of his experiments.

Tears stung eyes, trembling with the potential of every churning emotion. She ceased pushing at him to hold him back, instead released the tension, both emotional and physical and, inside his reach, slapped him so hard that the palm of her hand numbed from it.

He growled in response as he turned his gaze back to hers. "I told you never to strike me again."

Every fibre within him screamed denial of her accusation, unable to stand the pain he had caused, but his own anger, his own pain at the same, bit deep and was unwilling to be tamed, even for her. In spite of longing for comfort, for solace, he lashed out, meaning to hurt.

"The end justifies the means," he repeated, sarcastically, something that, several times, they had passed back and forth, like a poisoned apple. He asked of her then, "How does it feel, Teyla?"

Her response… screaming agony through their bond, she lashed out, pushing him away and following him, striking toward him with a rapid punch. He caught the blow against his forearm, raised to meet the strike, then shifted his balance to meet the downward blow she aimed his way in a similar fashion, feeling her anger, feeling her denial and matching the hurt with his own as he snarled at her wordlessly.

Advancing he retaliated, aiming to take her down; to end the madness with a blow to the side of her neck, but she pushed his assay wide, the palm of her hand slapping hard against the inside of his elbow.

Turning full circle to free himself, he came at her again, but he couldn't hurt her… wouldn't. If he could bring her back to the bulkhead, hold her there until he could calm them both…

Tear-blind and breathless she moved on instinct, knowing the strikes, the parries, the defence.

She crossed both hands down, trapping his wrist between them and turned her hand to hold him tightly as she pivoted partly, aiming the blow of her thigh at his middle, but he let one knee bend, and her leg struck harmlessly against his hip.

He turned again quickly, coming at her, his hands moving so rapidly she fought, suddenly, to keep up and block the incoming blows – forced to give ground, until she sensed an opening and struck… hard.

He caught her wrist, and pushing hard, drove her back once more against the bulkhead, using his body to pin her in place, breathing hard as he looked into her eyes, his right hand pressed against her chest, the fingers of his left grazing her wrist as he slowly passed the touch across her palm to entwine their fingers.

Malcolm almost leaped to his feet as the Queen entered his quarters unexpectedly as he was trying to rest for the night. He took a deep breath, caught in the moment between sleeping and waking. Behind her the lone handmaiden she had brought in attendance stood with her eyes downcast, and her head lowered, as if it would be the death of her to see him in such a state of undress.

He lowered his head and forced himself to stillness as she approached and circled him, her hand trailing over his shoulders and his chest; let out a long, slow, hissed breath at the scratch of her blade tipped fingers.

{there was a matter that had come to my attention of which I thought you should be made aware}

He stopped as she came to a halt in front of him and her eyes flared with a flush of anger.

"She is loyal, my Queen," he said of the handmaiden, whose head twitched up just slightly.

With the slightest inclination of his head Malcolm turned to pick up and put on his undershirt, noticing the slight movement of the Queen's hand as she waved her handmaiden forward.

"Assist him," she said, and Malcolm tensed as Jethera came forward, reached for the ties at the front of his shirt. He had no choice but to allow the touch; allow her to act in Isla's stead, but he did not welcome it. He would not insult the Queen's consideration, however, he could not contain the hiss that escaped his lips at the too deft touch of the woman's fingers.

He shrugged on the heavy leather coat as Jethera lifted it along his arms, and then raised his chin to allow her to fasten the topmost catch. He did not miss the Queen's amused expression.

"She was body servant to the commander of one of my cruisers," the Queen said, nodding toward the woman. Then she turned, beginning to pace, her steps taking her away from the both of them, adding, "Most… adept, I'm told."

"She sends you into danger," Jethera whispered quick and urgent against his cheek as he leaned down to allow her to straighten his collar, "at her commander's request. She will send you to guard the Hive organism and he will send Hanna to release it."

She shook her head briefly and then while the Queens back was still turned, jerked her head back to indicate the Queen, her expression pained, her meaning clear.

Stilling himself for a moment, Malcolm did what he had not for many long years, dissolving reality around him as he entered the woman's mind, at the same time bringing her hands to the next of the catches on his leather coat.

Jethera gasped and pulled away from his grasp, and the Queen turned to him with an amused frown.

Before he could answer, Jethera said, "No, My Queen, he is most agreeable. But his armour is not. I caught my finger against the sharpness of one of the fastenings, see?"

She held out her hand, to show the run of blood from a cut on the side of her finger. Malcolm frowned, until he saw the bright glint of metal in her other hand, one of the Queen's finger guards, from her un-dressed hand, no doubt. He gave Jethera the slightest of nods.

"Leave us," the Queen ordered her handmaiden, somewhat with distaste. "Go see to your injury."

{wait until morning, just as she wakes. whisper to her of her Commander's betrayal with his concubine while the Hive burned}

He risked sending Jethera a parting instruction, neither knowing, or particularly caring whether she would comply.

"Tell me something, Second," the Queen purred, coming to him again and running her fingers down the front of his leather clad chest to reach for the next catch, fastening it for him.

She chuckled. Evidently he had passed some kind of test, but her nearness was maddening. His every breath infecting him with a greater animalistic response to the pheromones she wound around him. His fingers flexed, just out of her line of sight, and it took every fibre of his being to keep from moving – acting.

…The Elder Queen's mental touch blew the thought away like smoke on a rising wind.

"My scientist," she said, "he left rather suddenly, with much of his work uncompleted, and took with him one of my handmaidens. Why?"

He shook his head. He had ideas, possibilities that he had gleaned from the information he had managed to tear from the mind of the Renegade, but he would not share them. Not yet… it would do her little good to have the knowledge of them and it was information better given to his Matron, than to this lowly Queen.

The reminder was gentle enough, but he needed to be out of the Queen's maddening presence.

Beckett frowned as he waved his hand in front of the door chime for a third time with no answer. He was just considering contacting Rodney and asking him to come down and open the door, when it opened, and Jennifer stood in front of him partly dressed and looking more than a little exhausted.

"Jennifer?" he reached to catch her as she stumbled, and without waiting for an invitation, wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her to sit on the side of her unmade bed.

"I was trying to change the covers," she gestured helplessly at the balled up sheet, and half removed quilt cover.

"I can do that," he told her, gently reaching to feel the glands at the side of her neck, then catching her hand to count out her racing pulse. "You just stay right where y'are, and rest."

"It never stopped, Carson," she said, and sighed tearfully. He gave her a sympathetic look and briefly cupped the side of her face in one of his hands.

"Jennifer," he began, "Perhaps you really ought to see someone… talk to someone."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?" she said, leaning into the kindness of his touch.

"I won't talk to Varnerin," she snapped, suddenly pulling away from him and getting up to pace to the chair and throw herself into it. Her legs curled up under her. "Not after what he did to Lorne. Not after the way he treated Teyla."

He gave her a smile, and then, gathering fresh sheets and a fresh quilt cover from her closet, began to make her bed.

Keller sighed, and he saw her look all around the room before answering, "Same thing that happened, just… in different ways." She sighed again, then gave a little humourless laugh as she added, "Guess I'm just feeling… guilty, I s'pose… for doing what I did."

The bed made, Carson turned to sit on top of it and look at her as he asked softly, "What do you dream, Jennifer?"

"I'm with him. Wanton and complicit… and… even when I wake up I can…" she pulled back into the chair, wrapping her arms around her. He didn't move or interrupt. Going on she whispered, "…I can feel him… as if we're still together… still…"

"Jennifer, listen," he moved slowly, to perch on the table beside the chair and take her hand in his. She was cold. "He's a Wraith. He messed with your head. You… have nothing to feel guilty for. The things you're experiencing are very clearly symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress, and if you weren't so exhausted, you'd see that."

"Aye, they will, come on." He tugged on her hand, "Let me tuck you all up, I'll get you some water, you can take some of this medicine. Sleep dreamlessly."

"Of course I will," he told her softly, handing her the glass of water and two of the tablets. "You'll be asleep in no time."

Her breath came in snatches, startled. She trembled with the urgent aching that subsumed the whole of her as he held her in place, their eyes locked – his burning.

She gasped, pushing against his unyielding strength, only succeeding in bringing them closer and, suddenly overheated, she felt her skin slicken with perspiration that ran between her breasts, beside his hand. Another gasp, high and desperate escaped her as the rest of her teetered on the edge of a moment so fragile, yet so sharp it cut her to the quick and she felt herself bleed.

Her free hand, her fingers, found his hair; wound into its short strands and dragged him closer still until his mouth met hers – lips sparring briefly in the desperation of the kiss.

She felt him tense, but momentary, fleeing, before his tongue pressed between her lips, filling her mouth with the sweet-spice taste of him and she gave voice to the flood she made of herself as she opened to him, becoming nothing but sensation.

Instinct grasped his senses as he tore away from the kiss, spinning her in his arms until he could wrap her in himself, her back to his chest, nipping lightly at her cheek and at the side of her neck. His hands ran the length of her arms, her body burning perceptibly against the possessive touch of his fingers over the swell of her breasts, the flat of her belly, down toward the heat at her centre.

She moaned and pushed her head back against his shoulder, turning it until her temple nuzzled against his chin and her desperate breath flew like wings over his throat. He rumbled as she nipped at him and her fumbling hands reached behind her to tug at the leather of his coat.

The rumble became a growl as she called for him and turned again in his arms, pushing him away only far enough to strip away the restrictive body armour the coat provided, and to tug on the softness of his shirt until she could slip her hands beneath to find his skin.

The spiralling ache became a fire at her touch and centred in his sex and he pressed against her, reaching to pull on her hair until she gave the vulnerability of her neck to the sharpness of his teeth, murmuring for her between each shuddering breath.

Her fingers trembled against his body, mapping him by touch not sight, her head had fallen back, and she cried out as his kisses and nips against her skin drove her toward a greater need still, beautifully painful.

Primal desire possessed her, and she responded, pressing the heel of her hand against the tightness in the leather of his pants, needing more and thrusting the sensitive pads of her fingers over the length of him; fumbling to free him… lost in the feeling of his touch against her sensitive inner thigh.

His mind in hers was an echo of the sensations, the feelings, and the savage emotions that ravaged her. Shared and sharing, she could not tell where she ended and he began, save for the terrible need burning through everything she was.

He lifted her, and she wrapped herself around him as his fingertips found her, glided over her wetness to tease until breathless she pulled him closer still, another needful moan biting into his consuming kiss.

Freed, the hard, risen length of him found her, moved over her to hold one glorious, timeless moment before their passion subsumed them both, and joined as a single voice he surged to fill her, and she sheathed him perfectly.

He could not hold the cry, and pulling back, thrust deeply into her again, feeling her arms tighten around his shoulders, her heels pull him harder still against her body. Matching the rhythm of her need to the pulse of his possession, the spiral of sensation tightened around them both until she matched his needful gasps – a glorious friction between them.

He was so lost in her that the trembling in his arms, that supported the two of them against the wall, did not register until they faltered, and the two of them tumbled, gracelessly, to the floor.

She pushed against him until he lay back and then straddled him, sinking onto him again, her hands against his chest as she raised herself and thrust back to take him deeply, rocking against him.

She cried out and her head fell back, spilling her hair over his fingers as he reached to support her. The beauty of it drew a growling hunger deeper still inside of him, and he grasped her shirt, pulling until he freed her from it; until he could trail touches over her shoulders, brush the light scar on her chest until, caressing the globes of her breasts, teasing her nipples between questing fingers became his only thought amid maddening sensation.

He reached for her then, to draw her down to meet the passion of the kiss, taking her mouth for his own, nipping at her swollen lips, drinking deep of her needs; his mind winding deeper still with hers.

Teyla moaned as Michael caught her hips, eased her away and wordlessly moved to pick her up, carry her the few short steps towards the bed. She reached for him as he lay her down and he came to her, lifting her hips as he joined with her again, taking her deeply, so deeply that she cried out from the overwhelming sensation of him inside her.

She tugged on his shirt, pulling it over his head, and then pushed up on her elbows until she could take his nipple between her teeth, bite until he cried out and thrust hard against her. She threw back her head and cried out, running her fingernails down his back, rising to meet the deep consuming thrusts that made her his. She squeezed around him and he snarled, pleasure washing over her anew from both sensation and the rush of his feelings within her mind.

Their shared passion pulsed through her, until she trembled with each moment, a heat and light growing within her so intense it was consuming all that she was; the tight spiral they had woven around each other stretched to be the fragile breaker that barely held back the tide.

"Yes," she whispered breathily, and then cried out as he answered her desire, taking her harder and more consuming still until the brightness she so desperately sought burst over her. He shattered with her and she felt the waves of him washing deep within, as their mutual ecstasy broke over them, and drowning, both breathless, he sank onto her, and she into the security of his arms.

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