Cedarfiction.net - In Truth... Freedom

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Previously On Stargate Atlantis:

"The joint taskforce is sending a representative to… assist; to gather more information, and to back you up. I believe you already know each other. Professor Varnerin."

"Varnerin? Reuben Varnerin?" Woolsey couldn't stop the frown from crossing his face.

"The same," she said. "The DHS believe he has the necessary skill set to help… alleviate the problem."

"An unfortunate misunderstanding," she interrupted smoothly, "A senate committee delivered their findings very recently on the subject of the alleged incident and he was cleared of all wrong-doing."

The man that stepped through the Gate was tall, and dark, and not at all handsome. His face was scarred on the one side, and the story was that one of his former patients had covered him with gasoline and set him on fire. His blue eyes were completely devoid of warmth as he swept his gaze around the Gate Room, and the dark suit that he wore only accentuated the impression of a brooding, crow-like presence.

"Richard Woolsey," he greeted the man, and though he sounded glad, and held out his hand for the requisite handshake, the coldness in his eyes did not change.

"Professor Varnerin," Woolsey said, shaking the man by the hand and gesturing toward the interior of the city. "Welcome to Atlantis."

"Please, Todd," she whispered, her voice full of pain and fear, "don't let me die."

Todd breathed out long and slow. He frowned, and barely tilted his head at her appeal. It would be easy to do that – to turn the situation around and report to the Queen that the Abomination had planted a poisoned apple in their midst and that he had been the instrument of the Queen's salvation, the removal of the threat to her, in discovering the infection in the girl.

"Please…" she whispered again, and her hand trembled against the side of his neck.

On the other hand, her death would weaken his position; his ability could be called into question, and perhaps his resources limited only to those he needed in connection with his work for the Queen. He would no longer have the satisfaction of knowing that at any moment the Queen could make a fatal mistake and that his could be the power to save her, and displace all those that would come before him.

He let out another long, almost hissed sigh, on the end of the breath he finally voiced his thoughts. "Alicia Vega, what are you to me?"

"It's a file. One file," McKay said, throwing up his hand as if it insulted his intelligence to have done all that work for only one file. "And it isn't even a very interesting file, it's just an image. One image? That's all that he could give us? An image? Throw us a bone, why don't you, Mister Friendly-Wraith. I—"

Sheppard frowned, watching the way Doctor Keller was peering at the screen. "What is it?" he asked, cutting off McKay's tirade.

"It's a visual representation of an amino acid chain," Doctor Keller answered, and then asked, "Why would he give us that?"

"No," Sheppard said, pointing to the screen. "If Todd gave us that, he gave it to us for a reason."

"When he first started to develop the drug it took approximately one in every six of them this way." Todd frowned and looked toward the alcove from which the hybrid spoke. "They all died. You're wasting your time."

"And yet…" Todd rumbled, still looking across at the hybrid, who stood dispassionately watching him. "…you are here, and are infected. Therefore he must have found a way to neutralise the issue causing this particular reaction."

"You're assuming that he didn't just start over and take a different route," the hybrid said.

"And I suppose you are about to suggest that if I… refrain from experimenting on you, you will tell me which of these avenues of possibility I should investigate first." Todd raised an eyebrow.

"I know that I won't survive your experiments," the hybrid confirmed softly. "And I very much want to continue living."

Todd turned and looked on the mutated hybrid. It was still humanoid, though bent and twisted as though the frame on which its flesh hung had somehow buckled. One of its hands had swollen, and was club-like, bruised and blackened. The hair that hung from its head was lank and colourless, as though bleached… and was patchy where the mutant had scratched at its misshapen head, but it was the eyes that were most chilling… Wraithlike, no more the pale, colourless orbs the hybrids usually seemed to have, but bloodshot as though in great hunger.

Todd gathered every part of him to make the lie convincing. He had been concentrating almost solely on the solution to the Hoffan problem, and his primary reason for having been brought aboard the Elder Queen's Hive had been pushed aside.

"Don't you feel used?" the hybrid behind him asked softly. "I mean, what is it she expects you to do for her? Remove our Wraith DNA? Make us human again and therefore weak? Have you given any thought to what will happen if you should succeed?"

Todd stopped, and drew away from the microscope, then turning to face the hybrid, said, "I have given it a great deal of thought and above all it will ensure the survival of my kind in a universe that seeks to destroy us."

"She was here at the beginning, and she will see us safely thought this next evolution of history. It is what they do." Todd snapped.

"Tell me then," the hybrid asked, "what makes being of your kind deserving of survival, over all others."

"We are Wraith," Todd answered, snarling just a little, and as though that reminded him of his experiment in progress, he began to mix together the required components to create a larger batch of the compound he would use as a test on one of the three remaining hybrids. This time, the results would not be the unrecognisable regression toward a baser life form.

Michael turned to face his lieutenant as he entered the room, already knowing what the hybrid would tell him, but taking a breath, needing to hear it anyway.

"The Elder's Hive has just left hyperspace and is approaching the planet." the hybrid said as he came to a halt and handed a Wraith tablet to Michael.

"So," Michael said softly, "time has caught me." He sighed and reviewed the data on the tablet. "All is prepared, the arrangements have been made?"

"I took a sample of Lorne's blood, and added the serum to it. The result was almost instantaneous. The serum stopped the Wraith cells from feeding – stabilised them completely. I realised that it was the only way to save the major, but…"

"…it's also made this change irreversible." Sheppard finished her sentence, and she nodded sadly.

"When we brought Teyla back to Atlantis from Michael's facility on M7S-445, Doctor Keller took blood and tissue samples."

"Standard medical protocol," Sheppard said, "of course she did. Especially since Teyla had just recently given birth, I'm sure she wanted to make sure that everything was all right, she—"

"Doctor Keller found strong traces of… Wraith DNA in the samples, especially in those…" he paused, and when he finished the sentence, Sheppard realised he had been trying to be subtle, "… that bore relevance to the baby."

"Okay," Sheppard said slowly, drawing out the word, not entirely following the direction of McKay's concern. "But… Teyla has Wraith DNA in her genetic make-up anyway and..."

"Then what do you mean, Rodney?" Sheppard said, becoming irritated with dancing around the issue.

McKay sighed again, and a pained expression crossed his face as he blurted out, "Keller found elements of Michael's DNA in the blood samples."

"Very little," Teyla said, "Snippets only, and those I do recall are disjointed and confused, as they come to me mostly in dreams."

"But you are afraid that something terrible has been done to you," Raisa said. "Without even knowing you the way I do, it's obvious. This creature… this monster—"

"Raisa, please, I know you will not understand this, but…" Teyla stopped, and sighed heavily. "I share a connection with Michael. I feel him… even now."

"Teyla, it is dangerous… and reckless… and—" Halling paced and ran his fingers through his hair, looking at Colonel Sheppard, and past him at Doctor Keller, both of whom had accompanied her to the new Athosian settlement, whose numbers were recently swelled by the addition of the survivors from Mikalos.

"Halling, please," Teyla caught him in his pacing and placed a hand onto each of his shoulders. "I understand the dangers, but… there is no more hope. For me this is my last and I must know. I must find those memories."

She stared at the candle flame until it was the only thing that she could see… a point of brightness in the dark that was all that she had lost… she pictured him… building his face… drawing it out of the darkness beyond the candle flame… shining… his golden eyes…

Stepping closer, keeping in close quarters, Michael struck in quick succession against the Wraith Scientist, unarmed, but no less able to hurt his rival. He hit out time and time again, his fist striking at Todd, and blocking the answering attacks that he made. Yet, even as many times as Michael blocked the blows, and deflected the knife aimed his way, an equal number slipped past his defences, the pain was mounting, he was tiring, his movements slowing, perpetuating the vicious circle the fight had become. Still, as hard as it was, he would not yield to this Wraith.

Michael grabbed Todd's wrist, trying to bend the hand that held the knife, to bring it around under him. Todd resisted with all the strength he still possessed, pulled the knife back as it twisted one way and then another. Then suddenly Michael thrust his shoulder against him, grabbing him around the waist and using the momentum to topple them both toward the ground.

They collided with the workbench, overbalanced and both hit the ground hard, with the knife beneath them, and for a long time, neither combatant moved.

Her guards approached the middle of her chamber, dragging a semiconscious figure between them. Quickly, but sure to appear unhurried, she rose from her throne, and began to descend the steps, frowning and turning her head to watch the approaching scientist that accompanied the guards.

"I made a promise to you, My Queen," the scientist said softly, inclining his head in a small bow. He gestured toward the prisoner.

The Queen turned quickly and flicked her hands toward the guards. They let go of the prisoner and the semiconscious figure, suddenly unsupported, staggered a few steps before the strength in his legs gave way and he sank to his knees, in spite of an obvious effort to remain upright. He began to slump forward, but caught himself, leaning on a torn and bloodied arm.

With growing satisfaction she unleashed the full force of the mental command on the unfortunate prisoner, on his knees before her. She watched as the trembling began, felt the mental struggle. He was strong even in such a physically weakened state.

She tightened her mental grasp still further, and relished the sounds of his physical discomfort, watching the tendons straining on the side of his neck as he fought her; relished the sound of the cry that came from his throat, past clenched teeth as he finally began to succumb and raised his head toward her….

…and she shivered, as at last the eyes, slowly rising from the floor of the chamber, finally met hers, and she saw the cold, hard fury of hatred burning in the Wraithlike golden orbs that captured hers as she finally came face to face with the Abomination.

Act 1

The crushing presence in Michael's mind, familiar and deadly, lent strength to his resolve if not to his body. He would not obey; would defy her until the last shuddering breath in his body prevented his insolence.

The floor of the chamber under him was bathed in shifting, pulsating redness, so much that the blood, which dripped from his bruised and torn arms, became lost in the ebb and flow of her anger.

Every muscle trembled uncontrollably as he strained to resist the fire that burned along every nerve with the desire to move, until at last, stifling the cry of effort that rose in his throat, he began to raise his head toward her.

He kept his eyes downturned until the very last, but even that small satisfaction faded the moment his eyes swept over her.

The folds of her deep red gown did little to hide the unique ancient Wraith physique. The characters, so carefully and painstakingly inked over her pale flesh, marked her as the life and strength of the Hive. He had not forgotten… would never forget.

Cold, hard fury… hatred… swept through him as their eyes finally met and he could not help but wonder if she even remembered the Wraith that he had once been.

The thought filled him with sudden wry amusement. How many millennia had it been? How many others had come and gone at her behest? How many others had graced her—?

He tensed, anticipating the blow as she drew back her arm, cutting off his sarcastic contemplation of the servitude of her Commanders. The back of her hand struck him, hard, across the face. The metal at the tips of her fingers, the dull sides of the sharp blades she wore, drawing more scratches over his already bruised face.

The harshness, the finality of the mocking tone, and the memory combined, stung more than the Queen's brutal blow, and under the pain of it, he fell forward, his aching arms no longer able to support him, he hit the floor of the chamber, and rolled to the side.

"Take him away," she ordered, "Remind him how he should behave in the presence of a Queen."

The flame still burned bright in her awareness, a light in the gathered press of dark around her. Still the vision she had made… of his eyes… golden and shining, as bright in the dark as the burning candle that anchored her to life, dominated her sight.

Her breathing was laboured, and she moaned softly as Halling, supporting her still, mopping away the exertion of the inner battle she fought, shifted behind her, to ease the pressure on both of their bodies.

Abruptly, as if suddenly a switch had been thrown, the resistance against which she had, for hours, been so terribly struggling, ceased.

An unexpected, dreadful pain flooded through each nerve and muscle, spreading from that point of sudden non-resistance to subsume her; possess her in its cruel raking; stifle her. Teyla finally gave voice to the bubbling in the back of her throat and screamed.

"No!" Halling snapped, speaking quickly, urgent and firm in his command. "Focus… Focus…!"

"Focus!" Halling told her as she began to struggle with him, against his supportive, restrictive grasp. He raised his voice just a little, "Find that point again, Teyla, and focus!"

She fought to breathe, to obey… to find those shining golden eyes that filled her mind, and couldn't help but cry out for him.

Time flowed, like white water, backwards up the perilous rocky falls… a dizzying spin, dragging her in its reversed current, drowning her in everything she could not grasp at such speeds, in such a whirlpool…

Teyla could feel him, the presence of his mind in hers, even as he stood waiting… poised and watchful beside the console. Her own muscles tensed in response to the control by which he held himself in stillness. As the cruiser pitched again from another explosion, this one somewhere deep within the ship itself, her belly twisted, tensing in worry. She folded her arms across her torso, deeply afraid for her child.

His confidence of that safety flooded into her through their mental contact. It warmed her, insulated her from the fear. She still did not understand, but in that moment it did not matter.

She heard Michael instruct the one hybrid that remained in the control room, "As soon as we're clear, target the remaining Hive. Force them to make the jump to hyperspace."

With the two remaining soldiers at his side, Michael turned and started toward the waiting ships – toward her. They were half way across the launch bay when the cruiser rattled in the aftermath of another explosion. It was beginning to tear itself apart.

Pain, sudden, deep and penetrating tightened the ache from her back like a vice around her middle. It was brief, fleeting, but unmistakable.

Michael's head snapped up and back to capture her with his eyes, burning now in deep concern that was coloured with his anger toward the Lanteans.

They were the cause of this added danger to her now. But for their interference she would be settled and safe in the facility he had chosen for this, not fleeing from the midst of battle at such a time.

"Protect her. Protect the child," he ordered the hybrids who would pilot the Darts. Then he began to quickly climb aboard his ship.

"Michael," she sobbed his name again, aloud this time, but shook her head in refusal to follow his command. "My child… my baby is coming."

Under the press of his mind, she raised her head and opened her eyes to fall into the almost luminous gold. He drew her deeper, surrounding her, possessing her.

She began to feel heavy, a deep lethargy covered her like a blanket and she had to fight to keep her eyes open. Events blurred. She barely felt the sharpness of the needle as he fixed an intravenous line into her forearm, or the movement of his hands as he settled her properly into the flight seat and fastened the harness around her.

The nausea at the sudden rush of speed and light against the artificial gravity of the ship and the abrupt freefall into the darkness of space before the inertial dampeners stabilised, lit only by the flash of battle around them, became a half remembered memory. Only the promise remained.

-I will protect you. No matter what, I will protect you both- -protect you both- -protect-

Deeper she drifted, her mind unlocked and all of her past now open to her. Where before, there had been nothing, now all of it sang to her, through her blood, through her body, through the remembrances of her body, muscle and bone.

He had sedated her, and then anaesthetised her completely for the duration of the desperate flight away from the battle… away from the fear of death that had gripped her, subsumed her, and brought the two of them closer together…

She surfaced in a rush, and gasped as though she were a drowning woman striking for the surface of a river, to escape the undertow. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

Michael came towards her and lowered himself to sit on the side of the low bed on which she found herself. An unexpected burst of mistrust rushed through her and she scrambled, against the tightness in her belly, to sit up. She moved away from him, pressed against the cushioned board at the head of the bed.

"What is this place?" she asked, her voice as taught as the muscles in her belly.

He froze as she moved away, and lowered the hand, with which he had been reaching toward her, to his lap. His eyes shifted away, almost darting one way, then another before he looked at her again, swallowing hard. Then he answered.

"That does not answer my question," she said, tightening her jaw against her growing discomfort.

"One of my facilities," he answered, matter of fact. "Not my preferred location, but good enough; safe enough to serve us while you give birth to the child."

As if his words reminded her that the coming of her child was the cause of her discomfort, she voiced the small sob she had not realised she had been holding inside.

Michael gestured around them, and in spite of her fearful anger, she followed his lead, looking where he indicated. Around the low, undeniably comfortable, bed hung drapes in warm, earth tones. It masked the clinical coldness of the room beyond, even though the one side, on which Michael sat, was still open to it. The drapes were familiar to her, almost Athosian. At that thought she looked back at him, surprised.

"Some of your people," he said softly, almost with a shrug, "I asked them to help me make the process as… comfortable as possible."

His eyes shifted away again, almost in a kind of soft awkwardness at revealing that to her, and for a moment she softened toward him. She was touched at the concern it showed, but in that same moment she looked down at herself, noticing for the first time that she was no longer dressed in the clothes she had been, but a shapeless, loose fitting robe.

Anger and more than a little embarrassment gripped her and she lashed out, slapping him, hard, across the face. He blinked, and his lips tightened for a moment, but otherwise he did not move.

"You would prefer that I had left you dressed, to struggle as you labour?" he said softly, finally tilting his head to the side. There was no sarcasm in the tone, just honest query, and that bothered her more than if he had been mocking her anger. Fear twisted inside her and stole her breath, and in the wake of it she lashed out again. This time he caught her wrist. "Teyla, I have not, nor will I harm you. You must understand that. Have I not promised to protect the both of you?"

He laid her hand onto the top of his shoulder and she gripped him tightly, making another small, gasping cry. As she clung to him, he gently felt around the swell of her belly, as finally the contraction began to fade.

"Good," he said softly as he lifted his hand away, "Your child is correctly positioned."

"How do you—?" she asked, finally able to catch her breath. She continued to hold him, as he picked her up, to move her to a more comfortable position. Then she lay her head against his shoulder beside her hand as he moved her, "Michael, I can't…"

"This is as it must be," he told her as he almost tenderly set her down again, and helped her to lie back against the supportive pillows behind her, until finally he slid his hand along her arm, and lifted her fingers away from his shoulder. For a short time he held her hand in his.

"Why?" she clung to him as he arranged the pillows again. Another pain gripped her, stealing the rest of the question from her lips.

"Because I need him," he told her, and he sounded almost apologetic as he freed himself from her grasp. "What must be done cannot be done without him."

At his words, tears of fear and anger came to her eyes and she looked away. He must have seen because he reached to cup the side of her face in his hand, to make her look at him again. "I will not harm him. Why can't you just accept that?"

"Because—" she started, and was forced to stop again as another pain stole her breath. Her anger evaporated. He was the only one who could help her. She reached for him again, and gasped, "Michael, please…!"

He pushed aside her hands as she pleaded with him and said, "We must do this, and then you must rest… trust me…" For barely a heartbeat he caught one of her flailing hands, and laid it, beneath his own, against his chest. His heart beat strongly beneath her fingers, even as the tight wave of pain came crashing over her.

The hard edge in his eyes softened and for a moment he looked as though he would speak. His lips shaped her name.

He sighed and let go of the hand he held against his chest, his jaw tightening just a little as he looked at her face. He shifted as though he would stand. She feared he would not answer her; reframed her question, needing to understand.

"Michael, why are you doing this…?" she laid her hand on his arm as he moved to rise.

For a moment he looked at it before he began to speak. "All these worlds filled with people, busying themselves with their pathetic lives. They come and they go, they live and they die and the galaxy is no better for it. But your son – your son will be an instrument of change."

"I'm afraid," she gripped his arm suddenly with the onset of another contraction.

"For a brief period, I was able to access Atlantis' medical database," he told her softly, and he let go of her hand, laying it gently onto her belly. She frowned at him a little, wondering how. Before she could ask, he tipped his head to the side, catching her eyes with his in a gesture of query. His hand rested against her thigh and his eyes flicked downward before returning to meet hers. Seeking permission…

She closed her eyes in a long, slow blink, and nodded, taking her lip between her teeth. When she opened them again he was still regarding her softly.

"How?" she finally asked to cover her uncertainty as he began to move. He blinked at her – incomprehension. "The Atlantis database."

She closed her eyes as she felt the movement of fabric against her body; the warmth of his hand against her. She bit her lip and stifled a soft whimper. He instantly stopped moving and called her name softly.

"It is all right," she said, shaking her head, refusing to open her eyes. "Just tell me how."

As he completed his examination, he told her, "It does not matter how. What is important is that I now understand the process of human birth." Almost tenderly he covered her once more and drew up a soft blanket over her. "I will not let anything happen to you, Teyla. You or the child."

"I know," she whispered, as she felt him move away. The admission brought tears to her eyes, that for a time she fought to keep inside, listening to the sounds of his movement; of the slight splash of water, the metallic rattle of a buckle. Soon the emotion of it became too overwhelming for her to contain and the tears spilled out onto her cheeks.

"What is this?" she had not heard him return to her and jumped at the gentle touch of the side of his hand against the wetness on her face. She opened her eyes and watched as he sat on the side of the bed once more. He had removed the stiff, leather coat he wore, and appeared almost approachable in the linen shirt. It made the tears come even more. "Why do you weep?"

"I understand," he said softly. Needing to feel the contact, she reached for him, but he caught her hand and, while he held it, gently in his own, he pressed a restraining touch with the other against her shoulder. "You need to rest as much as you can through these coming contractions. Your body still needs a little more time to adjust before you will be ready to bring the child to birth. I will remain here."

She tried, but the tightening band of pressure from each contraction grew ever more frequent, ever more intense, and she gripped his hand more and more tightly as the pain mounted.

Through each moment, through every long hour of her labour he remained, gently mopping her brow of the perspiration that her continued effort to resist, as he had told her she must, had caused; dripping sweetened water onto her parched lips; ensuring what small comforts he could bring to her as the needs of the moments dictated.

Long after the rush of wetness burst from within her, she could no longer easily resist her body's urge to push the child from inside her. She called to him in desperate mental appeal, the tone of her voice as she echoed the mind to mind touch was almost frantic.

As he moved from her side at last, she welcomed his touch against her body. His hand felt cool against the burning she had become, as he repeated the examination, and nodded slowly.

Carefully he helped her to move, adjusted the pillows to support her more fully, made of himself a lever against which she could rest her bended knees, and still be in a position to help bring the baby into the world.

She gave a gasping cry as the newest contraction wrapped itself around and through her… her flailing hand caught the front of his shirt and she made a claw of her fingers against his chest, holding on to him as she obeyed her body's command.

"Yes," he encouraged her softly, "feel the beat of my heart, and use it to guide you."

The stretching, burning fire, that was her only awareness, grew hotter and deeper within her. She lost all track of everything save the labouring of her body and the beat of Michael's heart against her fingers. As each pain swirled and grew inside her she pushed, and pushed hard, barely pausing for breath against the effort.

"You can," he commanded, and looked up to capture her eyes, drawing her in still further.

She took a breath, and cried out as the need to bring the child to birth possessed her, the vice around her middle pushing the descending ache into her very core. His mind in hers was equal in demand… gripping her, leading her, guiding her.

A pause, she barely felt the movement of his hands against her, or the brief clatter of instruments on the metallic tray beside the two of them, before once again she was overcome with the need to free herself from the pushing, stretching heat that was inside of her most intimate space.

A sudden rush, the pressure lessened and suddenly was gone. Her body trembled with the abrupt freedom from it. The vice of command from Michael's mind lessened from her own, but his presence did not leave her entirely… remained like a shadow in the deepest spaces within.

She struggled to see and listened carefully for the cry of the child. Exhausted, unable to move, she could see nothing but the hint of a tiny hand, grasping at the air, or the kicking of a petite foot, as Michael worked on the baby.

"Michael?" she questioned fearfully, when still she did not hear the child's cry.

As if in confirmation of his words, the baby gave a small cough, and then let out his first indignant cry, as if protesting the cold, protesting the harshness of the world outside of his mother's womb.

"My son," Teyla whispered, and tried to reach for him. Her body answered his small cry with an ache that began in her centre and spread through all of her. Her breasts, heavy with milk, leaked in answer. She watched as Michael wrapped him, and felt the fear returning as she knew then that he meant to take the child. "Wait..."

Ignoring her plea, Michael stood, the wrapped bundle in his arms, and began to turn. She tried to sit up, to catch hold of him and keep him at her side, but she had no strength in her muscles, and her arms were too slow.

"Wait, please," she sobbed the words. "No… Michael, where are you taking him?"

On the border between the almost-Athosian birthing room and the laboratory beyond, Michael stopped and turned back to her.

"He will be quite safe," he told her firmly, "while we finish what must be done."

With that, as she fought to shape the words of protest with her mouth; with a voice that would not cooperate, he turned and left her side, crossing the room to lay the bundle down into a small chamber she could barely see.

Her eyes opened, and she took in a gasping breath, struggled against Halling who still supported her gently.

"He took him, Halling," she said as he released her and turned her to face him. "I have never even seen my son."

Halling reached out and cupped the side of her face gently in his hand, looking into her haunted eyes.

"If you wish to speak of it, Teyla, you know that I am bound by the form of this ritual to listen without judgement, but you must understand that I may find it hard to remain objective, where Michael is concerned." he said.

"I know," she said softy. "Halling, will you walk with me? I feel the need to have the warmth of nature around me."

"You should rest, Teyla," Halling told her. "This meditation is not easy on body or mind. If you are to continue with it—"

"Please, my friend," she said, "walking… will be restful for me – for my mind at least, and I promise afterwards, I will sleep."

Halling looked at her a moment longer, and then nodded. He climbed to his feet and then offered his hand to her. She took it and did not let go as they began to walk.

Todd sighed, watching as culture after culture turned out to be the same – the wraith cells subsumed the human cells, and as soon as they had nothing left on which to feed, began mutating again. Nothing he could do, no adjustment he could make to any part of the helix would change that into the stabilisation that he needed to make his experiment a successful one. Sooner or later the Queen was going to want a demonstration and, as it stood, he would fail and fail badly.

He shut down the microscope and moved to return to the computer model, but something in the change of her breathing made him look toward, and then cross the room to, Vega. She gave a little hiccup in her breathing and then her eyes snapped open, and she instantly scrambled away from him, right into the corner of the laboratory, where she drew up her knees, wrapped her arms around them and turned partly sideways to him. Her eyes, however, remained glazed and uncomprehending. She stared in his direction in a startled, fearful way.

He remained still for a moment, before he bent down to pick up one of the blankets from his cot, and then took the few steps to the corner, where she cowered, conscious, but not yet awake, and carefully draped the blanket over her mostly naked form. He gave a moment's thought to carrying her back to the cot, where at least she could wake in comfort, but he doubted that, in her state, she would allow it.

With a soft growl of agreement with his own thoughts, he turned to go and prepare what he might need when she did properly wake.

Part way across the room, he turned back, and found her watching him. Her eyes, though heavy and dull with the aftermath of her illness, were at least focussed this time.

"You should return to bed," he came and offered her a hand to help her rise, asking as an afterthought, "Can you stand?"

She tried; stubborn independence prevented her from taking his offered hand and, for her sin of pride, she slipped, and began to almost tumble sideways. He reached out and grasped her arm quickly.

"Let me help you." His voice rumbled, a low tenor that sang around her already delicate head.

"I can—" she started, meaning to tell him that she could manage, but someone tilted the deck of the ship and she stumbled sideways, only to have him sweep her feet from under her, wrap her in the blanket and carry her the few short steps to the cot.

As he did, she closed her eyes. She should have answered; should have protested, she knew, at his calling her that, but she did not have the strength. Her body ached, her throat was dry and she was so hungry that she felt as though she was turning inside out. She opened her eyes again to find him holding out a small beaker in her direction.

She reached to take the beaker with both hands, trembling as she held it and began to drink. It was cold, and felt like nectar as it ran down her throat, soothing the ache, filling her with the desire for more. His restraining hand closed over her fingers.

She fought him, as best she could, revived a little by the water, which she never imagined could taste so good.

"Easy for you to say," she snapped at him, breathless from the hurried drinking she had been doing. "You haven't just been rearranged from the inside out."

As if reminded by her words that there were things he should do, to ensure that he had been successful in alleviating her problem, he turned and went to get something from his workbench. She watched him, her eyes narrowed with nervousness as he returned carrying another syringe.

"I need to take some blood, to ensure that the drug I synthesised has been successful." He tilted his head when she drew away from him again. "It would be a shame to have gone through all of that, only for you to become sick again."

"Just blood?" she asked, holding out the now empty beaker for him to take from her. He set it down and then came back, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the cot.

"Just blood," he confirmed, and then held out the syringe to her. "If you would prefer, if you cannot bring yourself to trust me, you can take the sample yourself."

She looked at him in horror. The very thought that he would suggest she poked herself with needles threatened to give her cause to revisit the water she'd just consumed. She didn't particularly have a problem with needles, so long as they were in someone else's hands when they were used. She'd had to give morphine to an injured soldier once, and afterwards, had voided the contents of her belly onto the battlefield beside him. No. She shook her head at him, and instead held out her arm.

"I will take great care not to injure you," he reassured her, and as he took the sample, added, "Afterwards, you should rest. It will not be long before the Queen will expect you to be returned to her."

Vega couldn't help but blush as she remembered the reason she was supposed to be with him in the first place. Some darkly curious part of her couldn't help but wonder what such a thing would be like with a Wraith. He had not, after all, specifically answered any of her queries as to whether the Wraith did engage in that kind of thing, had merely surmised that the Queen had 'sent her to his bed' as he had put it, which she supposed implied that they did but—

She flinched a little, as she unconsciously pulled away from him, as her line of thought took such wild directions.

"Be still," he said, thankfully not looking at her reddened face, but at what he was doing. "It will not be much longer."

"Todd?" she asked, almost a whisper in her hesitation. He looked up at her then. His eyes were steady and unwavering as he waited for her question. "What will she— I mean, when I go back, what will—"

"You need not concern yourself with such things," he told her, and she couldn't decide whether or not she liked the tone in his voice as he spoke the words. As he withdrew the needle from her arm, she shivered.

"How do you feel?" he interrupted, changing the subject, perhaps, but the question reminded her of just how hungry she was, as she sought to answer him.

"I'm starving," she told him, and looked up at him hopeful that he could find her some food. "I feel like I haven't eaten for weeks."

She watched as his expression passed through what looked like a deep, sympathetic understanding of her plight. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, before he said, "I will find you some food."

He raised an eyebrow, and let out that small, soft rumbling sound from the back of his throat that she had come to associate with his thinking process.

Halling kept her arm linked through his and walked close to steady her whenever she stumbled. She felt clumsy and uncertain, and a part of her knew that it was the effects of the drug that she had taken to induce the deep meditation, but there was another part of her that felt it could as easily be attributed to the questions that had arisen in her since she had finally been able to remember the birth of her son.

"He had," she continued her retelling of it to Halling, but could not bring herself to look at the tall Athosian at her side, knowing that he, too, had been among Michael's captives, and that this must also be very difficult for him to hear. "He had constructed a part of the room to resemble the birthing huts of our people; said that he had asked of some of you to help him."

"Yes," Halling answered, "He came for Kara and some of the other women, one day, and would not tell us why. When they returned we were only glad for their safety, and thought only that his questions were most odd. You have to remember that none of us knew you were with child."

"I know," she whispered, looking at him at last, to find him regarding her in a kind of soft sadness.

"You have to know, Teyla," he said, "Kanaan has… admired you for some time now, he—"

"I… do not know," she admitted, for a time disregarding the dreams that had shown him, lying beside her, injured by some kind of dart. "I only know that it is so. I felt it when I woke on Atlantis, and Ronon confirmed the truth of it to me."

She shrugged, and at the same time shook her head, "I do not know, Halling. All that I know is that he was with me, in the place where they found me. So it could have been Michael, yes. But why? He was one of his hybrids – why would he—?"

"On the ship, Michael's cruiser, Kanaan shot me with a stunner, and Michael was angry with him." She saw the surprise register on Halling's face and told him, "All through these memories, one thing remains a clear constant that I cannot deny. Michael was always very protective of me."

"Of both of us, Halling. I am sorry, I know that it is probably as hard for you to hear as it is confusing, disturbing for me to realise, but in my own right, Michael has protected me, separate from my baby," she said.

"He has no reason to be," she frowned, shifting uncomfortably at the thoughts that came into her mind. "He does not have feelings for m—"

The memories came so fast and hard on her that they stole her breath, and she moaned softly, pulling her arm from where it was linked with Halling's to wrap it around her; wrap both of her arms around her. She felt Halling catch her by the upper arms, and turn her to sit on the nearby stump of a tree.

"No," she gasped at him, gripping his arms tightly with her fingers. "As hard as this is, as difficult to understand, to accept, these are things I need to know if I am ever to find my son."

Halling sighed once more, "And what if you discover— What if the things you discover are—"

"Whatever I find, Halling," and she could not help but shiver in response to her own feelings, the sensation that flared in her in the wake of the last flash of memory, "I must accept it for what it is and… move on… find Nethaiye and—"

"And what of your son?" he interrupted. "You said that Michael would not let you see him…"

She was weeping when, barely a moment or two after he had taken her son to the chamber at the other side of the room, he returned.

"He is safe, Teyla, and well," he said to her, reaching to almost tenderly brush away a tear with the touch of his hand. She turned her head aside.

"He is my son, my child," she replied as vehemently as she had ever spoken to him, "he needs to be with his mother."

Before she had the chance to speak again, a small ripple of tightness passed through her belly and she made a small sound. Her discomfort drew Michael from his thoughts and, business-like, he moved to tend to her, and she was too tired to fight him any more.

His hands were gentle as they moved over her, attending to her needs, making her more comfortable and finally, almost tenderly covering her with a blanket, the softness of which surprised her.

He started to move away, but she reached out and in her tiredness, weakly caught him by the wrist, "Please… my son…?"

"Healthy," he smiled faintly and glanced from her to the opposite side of the room, "and resting as you should be."

"I do not think that is wise," he told her, almost with a note of regret in his voice for just a moment, before he continued more firmly, "It is better that you do not."

He stood then and turned from her to cross the room and, from a small chamber there, picked up the wrapped and swaddled baby, before heading for the door.

"Michael," she tried to rise, but was flooded with another wave of tiredness… weakness. "Michael, please…!"

"…why would he not? Unless there was something he did not wish for you to see," Halling finished.

"I do not know," Teyla whispered almost fearfully. "All that I know is that he said that it was better that I did not. The next day he visited the room in which he left me, courteous, as kind as my temper would allow him to be, but he did not bring my child to me."

"So who cared for him, one of our people, our women?" Halling asked. "Halaya has recently delivered a child, she—"

"He had no wet-nurse, Halling," she shook her head. "Michael took my milk from me and brought it to my son himself."

"I see," he looked at her, glowering in disapproval, and she shrank away from him.

"You think I did not fight him?" She stood up, and paced away, ignoring the spinning of the woodland around them.

She looked up as Michael returned a second time, stood just within the door, his eyes fixed on the empty cylinder that still rested on the workbench in the middle of the room. After a moment his gaze shifted to look at her sadly.

"You disappoint me, Teyla." He tilted his head as she looked at him defiantly. "I would have thought that you, of all people, would understand the importance of your son receiving nourishment from his mother."

"Then bring him to me, and I will gladly give it," she appealed to him. Even as she spoke the words, she knew that he would not. They were too alike. She was the immovable object to his irresistible force.

"I have told you that I do not feel it wise," he said as he came into the room, to pick up the empty container and turn it in his hands. Looking at it in quiet contemplation, but she could see his irritation rising, see the quickening of his breath, and felt the band of tightness inside her mind tightening still further. He raised his voice then, part in anger, but part, she felt, in some kind of anguish. "Why won't you listen to me!"

He slammed the container so hard against the workbench that it shattered, but he paid it no heed as he suddenly crossed the room toward her. She gasped, jumped at the sudden sound of the shattering cylinder, and tried to back away, but he was too fast. Before her aching muscles would allow her to move, he caught her by the shoulders, held her tightly, painfully, and almost shook her.

In frightened desperation she pressed both of her hands against his chest, to keep him away, terrified of what he might do, and cried out, "Michael, you are hurting me!"

"Why must you always fight me, Teyla?" he asked desperately, his eyes boring into her, full of hurt and the fury of feeling it. "I have done everything in my power to ensure that you are safe and comfortable. I have kept and will keep every promise I have ever made to you. Why won't you see that?"

Silence descended, punctuated only by her unsteady breathing, a counterpoint to Michael's own, desperately laboured breath. She looked deep into his eyes, felt the earnest verity of his words, and the stirring of something nearing curiosity beginning within her.

Wordlessly, she freed one trembling hand from where she gripped the front of his coat and reached up to almost hesitantly lay her palm against the side of his cheek. She watched as his muscles tensed, as he forced himself to accept the touch, and then, in an mostly human gesture, he almost leaned into the warmth of her hand.

"Please, Teyla," he barely whispered, and the grip with which he held her loosened just a little. "Do this one small thing I ask of you."

He pulled away from her then, beginning to rise. She almost fell as he let go of her shoulders, and pulled her hand from his coat.

"I will not ask it again, Teyla." he said, once more under control, almost emotionless. "Your son—"

He sighed softly, and for a moment did not move from the corner of her vision. Then he said, "I will bring another container to you."

She nodded, and doubting it would take him long, began to unlace the front of the birthing robe.

As he reached the door, he turned back to her and called her name. It was a quiet call, but full of depth and meaning that was never spoken.

"He was true to his word," she turned back to face Halling. "He never asked again. I think… perhaps he realised the pain it caused to me. I saw that in him as we argued then."

She stopped speaking as she watched Halling shaking his head. "You cannot attribute him with feelings, Teyla. You cannot judge him by your own emotions. He is a creature, a thing. Incapable—"

"I have to believe that, somewhere, there is some good in him, Halling," she took a step forwards, her arms open in appeal to her friend.

"No," she said softly, "because if I do not believe it is possible, then I must also believe that my son is already dead."

"You know he's using you?" Vega jumped, and opened her eyes again as the voice sounded unexpectedly from one of the alcoves. She looked over to see one of the hybrids looking in her direction, and she couldn't help but pull up the blanket over herself more fully. "Taking what he can from you to satisfy his own scientific curiosity."

Vega didn't answer, just stared at the hybrid. She couldn't help but feel antagonism and hatred toward him, though she understood, from what she'd been told, that he was probably as much one of Michael's victims, and now a victim of the Wraith, as was she. She should feel an affinity to him, but she just couldn't bring herself to feel it.

The hybrid laughed, cutting off her words, "Doesn't hurt you? Doesn't get you kil—"

"Whose master was it that put me here!" she snapped at him in anger. "Yours. While you are all running around playing… lapdogs to that murdering son-of-a-bitch, some of us were trying to—"

"To what? Make the galaxy a better place?" the hybrid asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Spare me!"

"Is that you talking, or him?" she countered, equally as sarcastic, "because from what I saw he keeps his curs on a pretty tight leash." she tapped the front of her forehead and added, "If you know what I mean."

"Interesting that you think all of us serve him with little choice or free will," the hybrid was not ruffled.

"Then you know very little about the galaxy in which you've come to be, Captain Vega," he said. "There are many who believe that the galaxy under his regime would be a much better place."

"Just as there are many in the Pegasus Galaxy that serve Wraith," Todd said as he returned, carrying a tray on which stood a steaming bowl. He set the bowl down on the workbench and gave the hybrid a fierce look, one that went some way to frightening even Vega. "You will watch your tongue or I will see to it that you are unable to use it."

"Afraid of the truth?" the hybrid refused to be cowed, even by the Wraith Scientist.

"What truth could you possibly know that would be a threat to me?" Todd purred, and dismissing the hybrid completely, picked up the tray and carried it over to Vega.

"Not chicken, I'm afraid," he said quietly, "but the other humans aboard the Hive have made this vegetable broth with supplies from our stores. I'm assured it's quite nutritious." He set it down where Vega could reach it, and returned to the workbench, and she couldn't help but watch him for a while as he worked. After a few moments, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

"What? I— no. No, thank you, everything is fine." She reached for the soup, the smell of it causing her belly to rumble, and picked up the bowl to sip at the thick liquid inside. It was good, and hot, and as wholesome as Todd had promised. After a moment though, she realised that he was watching her, and stopped… lowered the bowl.

"What?" she asked and tried very hard not to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I disagree," he said and turned to face her fully. "Something that has been said has bothered you so much that you are 'hiding' in the broth I brought you."

"I'm not hiding," she snapped, "I'm hungry, I told you. Whatever you put in that… concoction of yours, it's given me the appetite of an elephant."

"Your body has been working hard to heal itself," he said, "Of course you're hungry." He turned back to his microscope then, but not before adding, "But you're also lying to me."

"All… this?" He turned his head to look at her, "You would have preferred me to allow you to die. As I recall, you were entreating me not to do so."

"Yeah, but… and don't take this the wrong way, 'cause I'm grateful and all, but…" she sighed and eventually asked, "What do you get out of healing me? Grace from the Uber-Bitch for not letting her personal slave kick it?"

"So you do get something out of healing me," she said, "you're not just doing it out of the goodness of your heart."

"Just as you have decided that you are safer at my side," he accused softly. Then looking toward the hybrid, asked, "Is that what he was doing?"

"Trying to sour your… opinion of me by telling you that I was merely… using you?" Todd said.

"Aren't you?" The words were mildly spoken and without any real accusation in them. "Perhaps he will be singing on the other side of his face when he learns what has happened?"

After she drained the bowl, Vega looked over at him and frowned. "Something happened?"

"We have been tracking an individual, someone with whom the Queen very much wishes to speak. When we found this individual I went down to the surface of the planet and, surprisingly enough, bumped into Colonel Sheppard at one of the facilities I visited."

"Wait a minute, you saw the colonel?" Vega asked, and her frown deepened. "You told him I was here, right?"

"You—" she all but dropped the bowl and stared at him incredulously, "What! You didn't tell him, an—"

"If I had told Colonel Sheppard of your whereabouts, Alicia, he would have mounted a ridiculous and suicidal rescue attempt which would have served neither your purpose, nor my own." He frowned at her, "Do you not have faith in my ability to keep you safe?"

Caught by her own words, Vega closed her mouth on the protest she had been about to make. Todd was right. Sheppard, with his motto of, "No one is left behind." would do just as Todd said he would, and against this Hive… she shook her head.

Todd chuckled again, and said quietly, "I had my Darts take me to an alternate facility I knew of on the planet. I found him there," he glanced at the hybrid, "and brought him here… for the Queen."

Vega blinked, and looked between the impassive face of the hybrid, and the raised eyebrow on the face of the Wraith.

"Indeed," Todd said. "From what I hear, he managed to survive the first of what I imagine will be many… attempts at persuading him to acknowledge the error of his ways."

"Do not let it bother you, my dear," Todd said softly. "I do not imagine he will be going anywhere at all that the Queen does not wish for him to go."

The guards forced Michael to his knees in the centre of the chamber, swirling alternating red and deep purple, and from that he knew that someone had pleased her, though was not foolish enough to allow himself to think that would help to ensure his safety.

The pain of his injuries from the fight with the scientist had receded to a numb ache, the bleeding long since stopped. Still his belly churned with the nausea of the entire situation.

"How the mighty are fallen," the Queen purred in mockingly seductive tones as she finally descended the steps to the floor of the chamber.

The crushing press of her mind halted the words he would have spat sarcastically in answer.

She chuckled, reaching out with her hand as she began to circle him. He tensed, knowing the touch of that hand and the blades at the tips, but she had angled her hand in such a way that they merely scraped against him. Even so his skin crawled at her touch, and as she came to a halt in front of him, he drew himself away.

She laughed fully then, and turned away, lifting her hands to indicate the chamber around them.

"How does it feel," she asked, "to, at last, be home? Returned to the bosom of—"

"Spare me!" he snapped in defiance. Interrupting a Queen, under any circumstances, was a grievous transgression, but to do so while her prisoner would normally mean death. Therefore, even with the certainty of his belief that, if she wanted him dead, he would already be so, as the chamber flooded with the redness of her fury, and she spun, snarling in his direction, he flinched.

She stormed toward him, arm outstretched, and for the briefest of moments he expected to feel the excruciating finality of her feeding and he fought to keep his mind blank – to reveal nothing. Though her razor tipped fingers struck the centre of his chest, the only pain that followed was the stabbing of the blades that cut deep, before the force of her strike sent him across the chamber to fall, crumpled against the wall.

"You always were too arrogant; to insolent for your own good," she said, her voice the triple tone of a Queen in full power.

He struggled to right himself, expecting more from her, but even as he did her fickle temper waned. The reds in the swirling lights changed subtly in ways he thought he had forgotten…

"No!" he roared and, spurred on pure adrenaline and hate he flipped to his feet and lashed out, catching her unexpectedly across the cheek and sending her reeling away. He held no illusion that he would stand the chance to better her for long. "I will not allow you to subdue me."

She struck at him and caught him, painfully, across the side of his neck. In the renewed sting of pain, and the sudden fear that her blades may have cut deeper than they had, his concentration against her mental intrusion broke.

She reached into the air between the two of them, as if pulling him toward her. He staggered, fighting each step, resisting the compulsion to fall to his knees.

"No," he gasped through gritted teeth, even as his unwilling knees bent beneath him. "I am not your anything. Not any more."

"Never!" he cried, as if the admission were a painful one. "I was never your consort."

"A tool," he anticipated her question and spat the accusation like a dirty word. "A tool for you to use and then throw away – nothing more."

"And you were my tool to use," she growled at him, "it is why you were chosen and yet you chose to debase yourself with that—"

"You sent her to me. You expected it – you always expect it; are secretly excited by the second hand feelings you—"

"Do not—" she began to warn him, but he was beyond the point at which he could easily draw a rein on his temper.

"—siphon from your chosen, your Commanders. You think I did not feel the stink of your mind when—?"

He cried out with the sheer agony of the feeling as her fingers, blades leading, punctured the side of his chest, and the tearing a moment later when the guards she had silently summoned dragged him away from her.

"Take this offal out of my sight," she hissed. "Teach him to watch his tongue."

Keller sighed and leaned against the bench. She was exhausted. Pressuring herself to find a solution, a way to return Lorne to them, she had worked, almost non-stop to modify the retrovirus that Doctor Beckett had used to change the Wraith that Michael had been. To no avail… even with the cells stabilised, thanks to Michael's serum, the retrovirus had done nothing but cause severe trauma to the major, and almost sent him into complete systemic shock.

The sounds of his screams as the retrovirus had run its course had haunted her sleep, and prompted her return to the isolation room, where she now sat, watching him, trying to decide what to do.

She rose quietly from her chair and crossed to the centre of the isolation room where Lorne, restrained as per Woolsey's orders, lay immobile on the bed. The once smooth skin of his face and forehead was now lined with the veins and mottled look of Michael's hybrids, and on either side of his nose were the deep grooves of the Wraith physiology.

"What is it that you're looking for, Doctor Keller?" She jumped and almost took down the IV stand as Lorne spoke. "You already know that your retrovirus won't work any longer."

"Evan," she said, trying to mask her fear, her heart pounding so hard that she was sure he would see it. "How are you feeling?"

He opened his eyes then, and she found herself shuddering as she looked into their pale, washed out irises, the hints of yellow gold in them, and their shape, pale imitations of Wraith eyes.

"I feel stronger," he said after a moment or two, and tilted his head against the pillow to the side to regard her coolly. The arm furthest from her strained against the restraints, as though he was testing them.

"Major, you've got to stop doing that," she told him, "It's only a matter of time before someone is going to start asking questions, notice you're not sick, and then what. You think they'll keep you here? If you're lucky they'll toss you in the brig, I—"

"You shouldn't worry about me, Doctor Keller. I know my place," he said, and then turned his head to look in the direction of the marines guarding the door. "I know those men will shoot me if I try anything, and they should. I should be in the brig." He looked at her then, and in a sing-song voice added, "I'm a danger to Atlantis."

"No," she protested, "No, you're not. Michael did this to you, that's all, and I'm going to find a way to undo it."

He locked his eyes with her and stared at her for a very long time. She started to feel more than a little uncomfortable, a little afraid, as the truth sank in, slowly but surely. This was not the mild mannered, loyal soldier that Evan Lorne had once been. He was transformed… and now he was, almost completely, Michael's creature.

"What makes you think," he said slowly, confirming her chilling thought with his words, "that I want that?"

In spite of himself, Michael struggled against the restraints that cut deep into his wrists. The Wraith Commander approached him slowly, holding the glowing rod carefully in his left hand. His head tipped to one side, almost in amusement as instinct made Michael pull away from the extended instrument of his torture.

The Commander let out a hissing breath, merciless, relentless in his approach, and grabbed a handful of Michael's hair, pulling back his head, as he finally pressed the device against the nerve cluster at the side of Michael's neck.

Dreadful pain flooded through each nerve and muscle, spreading from that point of contact to subsume him; possess him in its cruel raking; stifle him.

A bubbling, agonized cry began in the back of his throat… his jaw tightened. His teeth ached where he ground them tightly together to stop the scream before it could escape. He would not give him; give her the satisfaction of hearing it. He lost awareness of all else… only the burning – worse than any hunger – remained.

Teyla had barely made it back to the hut in which she had been performing the ritual with Halling before exhaustion overtook her. Hungry, but too tired to eat, she lay down and, in the warmth of the fire in the hearth, she soon drifted into sleep… into dream…

She woke with a start. She had denied him and his disappointed anger, the betrayal in that had flooded him, and taken whatever moment that had almost existed between them.

She sat up, and pressed a hand to her chest, where she could almost feel his touch, whispering his name.

His ankles dragged along the cold hard floor of the Hive ship as they half carried him along the corridor toward the cell. He barely registered anything of the journey, though in the back of what remained of his conscious mind, he was aware that he knew the route well.

Every part of him trembled, his muscles still cramping, and he no longer cared that his faceless guards, nor their sub-commander, their handler – he knew – heard the small sounds he made. His one satisfaction, his one salvation, was that the Commander had not, and so neither had the Queen. He refused to give her that. She would not break him.

He barely heard the spiralling hiss of the bars opening to admit them. They let go of him and having little control over his body, and no strength in his muscles even if he had, he fell heavily to the floor. He fought to curl around himself, protective, possessing enough presence of mind to know what was coming… to at least try to protect those parts of him still vulnerable to blunt trauma. He was too slow.

The sub-commander kicked him, hard, in the soft parts of his belly… he retched, but without the strength to do little more than make the whisper of a sound.

"Don't get too comfortable," the Wraith hissed harshly against the spiralling sibilant crackle of the tendrils reforming to close the bars of his cell.

Trembling, every muscle tense and in spasm, he finally managed to curl around himself, reached inside of himself, seeking comfort, but refused to allow himself the one solace he craved.

On a swollen hand he pushed himself upright, dragged himself to lean into the wall of the cell, in the corner, for support. As he forced each muscle to work, his trembling breath brought weakening cries from deep in his belly, until he couldn't move any more and breathless, he whispered a soft, desperate appeal.

The early morning sun should have been refreshing, but with so many thoughts and questions crowding in on Teyla, even the cheery brightness of the day did little to lift her spirits, nor did the prospect of her expected visit from Colonel Sheppard.

Teyla sat, leaning against the outside wall of the small hut. Her eyes were closed as she tried to empty her mind, to find peace from the troubling thoughts of Michael and the growing realisation of the way she felt. She could not trust herself; could not trust that her feelings were her own, but she also found it hard to deny, as she had told Halling, that from what she now remembered, Michael had been very protective. Admittedly it had been in his own way but…

"Teyla," Sheppard's voice broke in on her thoughts. She looked up at him and noted the worried look on his face. He came closer, adding, "Wow, you look…"

As his voice trailed off, she tried to smile. "It is all right, John. I know that I look unwell."

"Well," he said, obviously trying to play down the way she was sure she looked to him. "Now you mention it, you do look a little pale."

Sheppard nodded and held out his hand to help her up. She took it, steadying herself for a moment against the lasting dizziness the drug in her system caused, and then with a thoughtful, serious expression, began to lead the way.

It wasn't far to the lakeside, and for almost every step of the way Sheppard looked at Teyla, trying to read her face, to get some clues as to what might be going through her head. When Halling had contacted him, he'd said something about some crazy talk over Michael protecting her or something. He shook his head.

"You have been looking at me all this way," she pointed at the lake, almost right in front of them, "and now you shake your head."

"Was there never any thought, any consideration given to his feelings?" she began, stopping to gaze out over the water.

"I know you have spoken with Halling," Teyla said, "and that more than likely he has asked you to come here to persuade me that I am not in my right mind if I think anything other than harshly on Michael and all that he has done."

Sheppard sighed. He'd meant to try and tread carefully, subtly with her on the subject, but she confronted him so bluntly, it was difficult to do other than respond in kind.

"Let's just think about that for a moment," he said, trying not to snap. "Think about all he's done."

She turned to face him, and he thought he saw a hint of her rising temper in her eyes, but mostly her whole demeanour made him think of a lost child, begging the adults around her to bring her home. It encouraged him.

"First of all, he killed Cole. Then he kidnapped you, killing two S.O.'s in the process—"

"Then he was rejected by his own people, assisted us to subject them to a biological agent, rendering them harmless to us, and then appealed to us for help, whereon we subjected him, against his will, to further use of the retrovirus, and ultimately tried to kill him," she interrupted, speaking in clipped tones.

"You want to talk biological warfare?" he snapped, his voice rising in irritation. "Hundreds of thousands of people in this galaxy are dead or dying because of Michael's use of the Hoffan drug as a weapon against the Wraith. Hundreds more are enslaved against their will – including Lorne – because of his use of a modified version of the retrovir—"

"Teyla," he finally called her name in exasperation, "stop! Would you listen to yourself?"

"I am just trying to understand, John," she said. "You and Elizabeth created this plan together. Did either of you ever consider the ethics of such a thing, or look ahead to see the possible consequences of such an action?"

"We did what we had to do in order to survive the Wraith," he said, as if he was spelling it out to a child.

For a long time, Teyla did not speak, simply looked him in the eyes until he began to shift his weight, uncomfortably, between one foot and the other. When she spoke, it was quietly, calmly, as if in sorrowful memory, "Then we are not that different. We kill to protect ourselves and our own. So does Michael. On his ship he told me that it was circumstances that necessitated the scale on which he does so, but that the principle of it is… still the same. Is he wrong?"

He squirmed uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze, and the words she spoke, before he said equally as softly, "This is war, Teyla. Things like this happen in war."

"And yet, your behaviour says to me that it is acceptable when it is done by the soldiers of Stargate Command, but not when Michael, or the Wraith—"

"He had no other way to fight. He was alone, vulnerable, betrayed by all sides. On Atlantis, he asked me for my help, begged me to kill him if I would not give him the help he needed."

"And maybe it'd have been better if you had," John said, turning away a little bit. He'd seen the tapes, heard the conversation, and seen the way she—

"No!" he exclaimed. Taking a breath to calm himself, then turned to her and took her by the shoulders. "Teyla, he messed with your head. I wish you could hear yourself; hear the way you sound."

"And I wish that you could understand how it is for me," she answered, "to know that. To have back these memories that I had lost, only to find that what I believed to be the truth, seems as far removed from it as—"

"How can you know that?" he asked, "How can you trust what you're remembering now. What if—"

"I know what you are going to say, John," she interrupted again, "but somewhere, some time, I have to begin to accept what is mine as my own. No matter how difficult it might be to come to terms with."

"Why?" she asked, "Because my view of everything in this galaxy no longer fits with the way you believe it should?"

"Bottom line, Teyla," he said, running a hand through his hair and pacing away several steps and reluctantly continuing, "Michael's campaign against both the Wraith, and the humans of the galaxy has been devastating for everyone. He's killed, and maimed, above and beyond what's acceptable in warfare. That in itself is an act of evil. He took your son, for what – some kind of genetic experiment? Come on, Teyla, your son."

She was clearly agitated, clearly in conflict with herself, and as much as it twisted his heart for her troubles, it warmed Sheppard somewhat, and was a relief to him that she was.

He reached out with his hand and laid it gently onto the top of her shoulder, and when she looked up at him, he said, "Then, enough with this crazy talk, hmm?"

"Answer me something, then, John," she said softly. "Back in the beginning, before we gave him the retrovirus for the second time, what in him was such a threat that even after he saved your life aboard the Hive, and the lives of Ronon and Doctor McKay; after he offered up the solution of sending over the aerosolised gas to the Hive; piloted that Hive safely back to Atlantis and offered no resistance at all – why, still, could we not have accepted him, helped him?"

For a long moment, Michael's words echoing, pounding in his head, Sheppard couldn't answer. Had he known, even then? Had he felt that threat?

When she did not take her eyes off him, he said, "Would you trust someone who could do something like that? Turn against his own people that way?"

She sighed and turned away, speaking softly, but not so softly that he could not hear her words.

"Anyone know what this is about?" Ronon asked, sliding into the seat next to Sheppard and then looking around at the others.

"Probably another stupid procedural rule that Woolsey's trying to introduce," Sheppard said absently.

"What's wrong with your face?" Ronon asked, taking a long look at the depressed expression Sheppard was wearing.

"Ah, I'm just—" Sheppard started to answer but a sudden thought made Ronon interrupt.

"Hey, how did the visit with Teyla go? How is she?" he asked. Sheppard's sigh told him that this was what was worrying his friend. Ronon frowned. "She's okay, right?"

Richard Woolsey swept into the conference room with a tight smile on his face. Beside him, a tall, brooding figure of a man suddenly dominated the room. Far from being dressed in Atlantis uniform, the newcomer's crisp, dark suit was like a lowering sky that threatened a storm.

"Thank you all for coming," Woolsey continued, taking his seat. "I know you're all very busy."

"Yeah," McKay looked up from his computer tablet, "In fact, any idea how long this will take? Only—"

"It will take as long as it takes, Doctor McKay," the storm cloud said. His voice sounded like twigs passing over uneven ground, an almost smooth rolling of gravel.

"Professor Varnerin has just been assigned to Atlantis to replace Doctor Williamson," Woolsey cut in.

"My primary field is psychiatry, as a matter of fact, Doctor," Varnerin answered, "though I do also hold several degrees in psychology, yes."

He finally took a seat at the table and spread out his files and papers in front of him.

"The point is, McKa—" Woolsey began, but again, it seemed that Varnerin preferred to speak for himself.

"If I might, Richard?" he said. Without waiting for Woolsey's assent the professor continued, "Stargate Command and the IOA felt that, in light of the recent troubles, recent developments and the pressures those issues have caused, Atlantis personnel would benefit from the kind of expertise I can provide."

"Williamson was more than capable," Sheppard grumbled, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "The men liked him. He saw to our debriefing needs just fine."

"Doctor Williamson is, I'm sure, a perfectly competent psychologist," Varnerin agreed, and Ronon's own suspicions began to deepen. He never liked a 'yes' man. They always had their own agenda, and it was never usually one that supported the good of the team.

"He does not have the necessary experience, nor the skill set needed to effectively deal with these events," Varnerin said.

"Look," Ronon growled, growing tired of all the nicely-nicely verbal tangos. "We're fine. We've been fine. We don't need anyone messing with our heads."

"Mr…Dex, isn't it?" Varnerin shuffled one file from the stack beside him to the top of the pile and placed another in front of him.

"Ronon, then," Varnerin smiled, but his blue eyes remained as icy as before. "Let me ask you: has anyone spoken to you concerning everything that has happened with the loss of your friend, Teyla, isn't it?" Varnerin looked around at all of them. "Have any of you?"

"I beg to differ, Mr Dex." Varnerin sat back and looked at him for a moment before flipping open the file in front of him and reading, "Dissociative Amnesia, severe post traumatic stress," he looked up again. "Did she have the opportunity to receive appropriate counselling? Did any of you?" Ronon opened his mouth to tell the man, once again, that he was – they were fine, but Varnerin went on, "I'd like to begin with you, Ronon. While Doctor Zelenka finishes integrating my equipment into the rest of the systems, I'd like to use this office, if I may, Richard."

"What the hell is this!" Sheppard demanded, grabbing Woolsey's arm and pulling him to a halt just outside the control room.

"I thought Professor Varnerin made it perfectly clear what this is, Colonel Sheppard," Woolsey answered. "The IOA has reiterated the requirement that all Atlantis personnel undergo a psychological evaluation, and we're beginning with the Alpha team."

"This is bullshit, is what it is," Sheppard said. "What the hell does anyone fresh from Earth know or understand about life in the Pegasus Galaxy? You ought to appreciate that more than anyone!"

"That it's happening at all," Sheppard growled and took a step closer to Woolsey. "Don't think you can use this to undermine the members of my team."

"Are you threatening me?" Woolsey took a step back until he was right against the rail.

"When I threaten you," Sheppard said, almost trembling in anger at the latest strategy the IOA thrust against them. How could they be expected to function effectively with so much interference from bureaucrats with no clue as to the pressures faced by the members of the Atlantis Expedition? "When I threaten you, you'll know."

Ronon sat in his seat not saying a word and glared at Varnerin. He had nothing to say to the man and didn't want anyone trying to influence his mind or second guess what he was thinking.

For a very long time, Varnerin sat, saying nothing, just watching him, maintaining eye contact. Ronon all but snarled.

"You're like an animal, Mr Dex, aren't you?" Varnerin finally spoke. The question, more an observation, was softly spoken. "A wolf… wounded, teeth bared against those you feel come in threat."

"What makes you think I feel you're a threat?" Ronon asked, tightening his jaw. He already disliked the man and being called an animal by him did nothing to change that first impression.

"I'm an unknown quantity; something outside of your experience. Of course I'm a threat." Varnerin answered.

"You come in here with your fancy theories, your better-than-thou attitudes and think you know me, what I've been through?" He snarled again. "You don't know anything."

"A murdering psychopath kidnapped someone who's like a sister to me; still has her son and murdered the father of her child. What do you expect?"

"I expect you to be angry and hurt," Varnerin said with a half shrug. "Interesting diagnosis, by the way."

"Psychopathy. I presume you're referring to the individual you have called Michael. From what I've read, I personally would say more of a sociopath than a true psychopath, but it's only recently that the two haven't been used interchangeably, so—"

"Are we done?" Ronon started to get up. "I figure since you've obviously stopped trying to shrink my head and have moved on to talking about that psychopath that we are, because I have work to do. In case you didn't know, we're trying to find where he's keeping Teyla's son; trying to cure Lorne, and Beckett… and every minute I sit here wasting my time with you, is another that I'm not doing that."

"Please sit down, Mr Dex," Varnerin said calmly. "I'd actually like to talk to you about Sergeant Wallace, the marine you attacked on M7X-884."

"We are so done," Ronon rumbled. Then he turned and stormed out of the room, ignoring Varnerin's quiet instructions to return and sit down, and entertaining the idea of heading for sick bay to go and set that 'superior officer's' record straight regarding Teyla as well.

He was confident that this time there would be no mutations. Based on all his research, and all the computer models he could run, Todd was confident that, this time, he would succeed and then would be in a position to offer the Queen the serum for which she had asked.

As he loaded the syringe, he glanced across at the woman, sleeping once more in his cot. Her blood had been clear of the floating debris from the Hoffan drug that had been there before. He had, at least, been successful in as far as curing her abreaction to the drug in her system. The next step, of necessity, would be to discover if his use of it had changed the effects that would occur should any Wraith attempt to feed on her. He doubted there would, but scientific enquiry demanded that he come to know. After that… well, as he had realised earlier, he now had a live test subject with whom he could work to—

He stopped and sighed. Wondering to himself just how much he should involve her; how much he should let her know what was happening, and what he intended. Of course, once she returned to the service of the Queen, access to Vega would be more difficult, more… troublesome than it was currently, and sooner or later she would have to return.

As he set down the vial containing his modified serum, he sighed a third time. Therein, of course, lay another problem, one that he had repeatedly avoided discussing with Vega. The Queen had sent the woman to him for a reason, a purpose, and would likely expect to see evidence of that purpose on her return. For the barest of moments, he considered the notion, his brow crinkling in a curious frown.

He let out a slight growling sound of indecision - time enough later to consider all of the ramifications of such an eventuality. He had work that needed attending to, otherwise nothing of any other consequence would matter.

Activating the command to tighten the restraints on the second of his three remaining hybrid subjects, he approached the alcove. He could feel the eyes of the first of the hybrids watch him, following him across the room and almost hoped the creature would say something. He felt the silence in the laboratory as a weight on him. The hybrid did not speak and neither did the one restrained to the wall, on whom he would conduct his experiment. He found it curious. It was almost as though they had some kind of hierarchy among them. He wondered if they had somehow set it themselves, or if they had been given some kind of ranking system by the Abomination. Todd glanced at the first alcove, and met the eyes of the leading hybrid as he administered the injection to the second of them and then backed away, touching the controls to activate the barrier, and loosen the restraints once more.

It was only a few seconds before the serum began to have an effect. The hybrid, once silent, almost sullen before him, began to moan. It was soft at first, but then with growing intensity as the effects of the changes began to take place. The flesh began almost to bubble as the hybrid DNA was rearranged by the retrovirus contained in the serum, designed to strengthen, to reactivate the Wraith element of the chromosomes and stimulate their growth until they would subsume, entirely, the human cells on which they were annealed.

"Todd?" Vega's voice, behind him, startled him. He turned and caught her by the shoulders before she could come too close.

"My work for the Queen," he told her. "Nothing with which you need concern yourself. You should go back to bed. Try to sle—"

"Oh my God!" she gasped, and he frowned to see she had indeed succeeded in looking past him.

He turned quickly to see what had horrified her so. She stayed close behind him, and he could feel her hand trembling against his back. As soon as he saw into the alcove, he knew at once what had frightened her.

The hybrid, now at least more Wraithlike in appearance, had begun to melt. The skin of its face, bubbled and waxy in appearance, had begun to slide and drip from the bone, as if the protein bonds had begun to come apart. In its agony it raked at the barrier, as though trying to get to Todd.

"Alicia, do as I tell you!" He raised his voice to her, and heard a slight whimper as he felt her obey.

Quickly returning to his workbench, he reactivated the restraints, and then entered the alcove to retrieve a sample of the hybrid's disintegrating flesh. He had to know, to understand, what was happening if he were to correct the problem.

"What happened?" Vega asked him tremulously from where she now sat, knees raised and clasped in her arms, with her head buried against the tops of her knees. He glanced at her as he returned with the sample to his microscope, and felt a pang of worry for her discomfort.

He pushed the feeling aside and said, "I will not know until I can analyse the sample, but I suspect that the primary bonds between the proteins in the cells are dissolving under the action of the reagents in the serum."

"Right," she said, and he could tell by her tone that she did not understand, even before she added, "And that means?"

"That means," he said, irritated with himself, "that I have made another miscalculation in my theory."

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