Games of Chance by X-parrot (second verse challenge) 2/2
Title: Games of Chance
Author: xparrot
Part 1
The truth is, Rodney never had any interest in seeing the future. Of the whole array of fictional abilities, prognostication had never sounded that appealing. Certainly in myth prophets never fared well, Cassandra or Laocoön, doomed to be ignored, if not eaten alive by snakes. To Rodney, it sounded like cheating anyway. What would the point of life be, if you had the answers before you asked the questions, if you always knew what happened next?
In principle, anyway; in fact, Rodney always read the last page of a novel before he read the first, always loved being in the know, understanding what was going on before anyone else. But then, he sincerely didn't want to know his own end, couldn't imagine any death that wouldn't horrify him, gray and feeble and senile, or young and frightened and failed. And to know the future but be helpless to change it would be as nightmarish as being locked in a box. So if he ever got offered superpowers, he had long ago decided to go for something cool and safe, like telekinesis, or telepathy.
When he started working for Area 51, and read about the quantum mirror and the SGC's experiences with time travel, he understood that future sight was a practical impossibility anyway. In the multiverse, the best you could hope to see is a future, a potential probability that was no more applicable than the certainty that flipping a coin would get you either heads or tails. And after he was sent to Siberia, Rodney decided he was content enough not knowing his destiny, if there was only more of that in store.
Then he came to the Pegasus galaxy, and sometimes he thought that seeing the future, however impossible and useless, would be worth the pain, just so he would know when to stop caring.
He used the FTC himself once, of course; every ATA-user did. The chamber was designed for privacy, with no way to record the holograms, and it would only activate when there was a single life-sign present. He wasted a few unashamed, entertaining hours navigating to a reality where Samantha Carter finally realized his appeal; she moved to Atlantis and they had a couple blue-eyed, tow-headed children, his convictions about superior genetics producing strikingly adorable little moppets that he'd almost wished he could take a picture of. He hadn't bothered to fast-forward ahead to the inevitable divorce, had shut down the simulation and not used it again. Better things to do than invent his own make-believe in holographic technicolor.
But Davos's visions were not only vivid, but accurate; reflections of potential futures, not fantasies. Rodney probably wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't been shown it personally-but he had, and he did, and afterwards he couldn't forget.
"Even if the visions were true," Sheppard pointed out, "they aren't much use anyway, out of context and with no way to change them." Sheppard was a pilot, used to steering his own course through the sky. Though he didn't say so, Rodney could tell it shook him, that the future could be pre-written, that free will might only be a kind illusion in a deterministic universe.
Rodney could have discussed it with him, could have argued universal wave function and quantum suicide long into the night. But he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Elizabeth, about Carson, about a hundred fifty thousand strangers dead because he hadn't realized what would happen next. About all the mistakes they had made, and all the mistakes they had yet to make.
He asked Dr. Keller for copies of Davos's brain scans, MRIs and EEGs and the Ancient devices' intricate analyses. Late in the night when the Replicator virus code blurred before his eyes, he brought up the scans, studied them. He was no neurologist, but the human brain was only an electrochemical computer, and he devised algorithms to simplify the data, describe it in functions and matrices he could more easily interpret.
Some of those functions were uncannily familiar. It took him weeks to place them, and when he finally did a chill went up his spine, putting them alongside the SGC's studies of the quantum mirror and seeing how perfectly the figures matched.
Not inevitable, then, but probable; perhaps Davos's visions had come when the probability passed a certain percentage, when a potential collapsed to practically a single datapoint. It didn't matter; what mattered was that Davos had seen them, had been somehow able, with merely the computational power of a human brain, to glimpse a slice of the whole broad spectrum of the multiverse.
Atlantis's network was a thousand times or more complex than even an advanced human brain, with countless more circuit pathways than a human had neurons. The Ancients who had designed the FTC hadn't bothered with accessing all that power; they'd been more interested in applying it to harness their own innate abilities. But in theory-if the system could be reprogrammed to call on its internal algorithms, rather than only the mental input from the chair's user...it wouldn't have the scope the Ancients might have seen; maxing out the processors would limit the futures to a single individual's perspective. But an accurate perspective, a vision of potentials drawn from the multiverse itself, uncoupled from observer bias.
The reprogramming was delicate, but more tedious than difficult. It would have gone faster with help, but there were more pressing tasks for the computer teams, and Rodney didn't need Zelenka around to tell him he had gone mad, or worse to tell Sam. He worked at night, on lunch breaks, in his off-time; not often, just a few hours a week. No one noticed; no one had used the FTC in a year. The novelty of a dream you can never really attain eventually loses its shine, even when you're living among nightmares.
He was within a week or two of a trial run when they went on the mission to Luarong. When they got back, it took him three hours to finish the coding, slapdash and buggy but it would have to do. Over a thousand worlds in Pegasus, and Sheppard might be stranded on any of them, if he weren't already dead.
Rodney had already obtained the right drugs weeks before. He had enough other prescriptions that Keller hadn't questioned his requests. A sleep aid to depress certain functions, a stimulant to keep him awake and lucid, antihistamines for the mildly hallucinogenic side-effects: a cocktail to alter his neurochemistry to best approximate Davos's unique patterns. He'd quizzed the medics on adverse drug interactions, and the worst he should suffer from this mix would be a mild hangover. He downed the handful of pills with half a bottle of water, set aside two other full bottles and sat down in the chair.
The wrist cuffs were only designed to steady the subject during the vertigo of the hologram activation, not to hold a person in place. Rodney made sure they were strengthened, fitting solidly around his forearms. He didn't know exactly what the effects of the reprogrammed chair would be, but it was bound to be quite a trip.
He tipped his head back against the chair, felt it glow to orange life as the mental connection was established. The holographic projections initialized, and Rodney plunged headfirst into any possible future.
* * *
Rodney thinks he might have been introduced to USMC Lieutenant O'Malley once before. He isn't quite sure. He hasn't been on Atlantis long, Rodney thinks, maybe a few months, one of the Marines on the latest six-month rotation. His first name is Connor or Sean or Patrick, something frighteningly Irish like that.
He's in his mid-twenties, taller than Sheppard and big-boned, with a shock of short orange hair and a broad, pale, freckled face and a broader, whiter smile. He wasn't smiling in the gateroom before the mission to M8G-723, though, all business in black, the same grim look on his face that all the soldiers had since they came back from Luarong minus Atlantis's military commander.
Rodney sits in darkness, thinking about Lieutenant O'Malley, how he doesn't remember exchanging any words with the man. He rarely bothers talking to any of the Marines, there's not usually a point, or a chance for him to. Sheppard knows all of them, their skills and hobbies and how best to deploy them; same as Rodney knows his scientists, although Sheppard also knows his soldiers' first and last names, and ranks to boot.
He thinks about O'Malley, and how he wouldn't notice if the man were gone, wouldn't register his absence from Atlantis, any more than he notices the absence of all the other soldiers who have died since they came to the city, as little more than funerals to avoid and painful but abstract statistics. Every single person who comes to Pegasus, who steps through the stargate, knows what they're signing on for, knows what their odds are of never coming home, and accepts them.
He thinks about his last chess game with Sheppard, the queen sacrifice Sheppard used to force a checkmate. Rodney doesn't arrange sacrifices, usually, doesn't think of the tactic; they never look right to him, somehow, even if it's just a single pawn.
He thinks about how O'Malley looks absolutely nothing and exactly like Aiden Ford, once upon a time, and he knows he can never do this.
And he knows that he wants to, and he doesn't know what's strength and what's weakness, the inability or the desire. Doesn't know which one's making him sick to his stomach, so nauseous he can hardly move.
Sheppard would have the strength, he thinks, if Sheppard were here in this chair instead. Strength for what, Rodney isn't sure.
He sets his head back against the chair, and reinitializes the system.
He stumbles on his way to Sam's office, the holograms blurred and tilting around him, thinks it's a programming malfunction until Sam takes his arm, sits him down and everything stabilizes. "Rodney," she says, "you look terrible," and it's not a bug but an accurate projection of his future, now; he's been in the damn chair long enough that he won't be walking out of it unaffected.
But there's no real harm done and he takes a few breaths and explains and Sam listens, as usual, and agrees. Except at the end she adds, almost as an afterthought, "But Lorne's team goes without you, McKay, you're not in any shape for this mission."
He argues, protests, rewinds three times but can't change her mind, not on this track. And he hasn't tried running the rescue without him; for all he knows he's been slowing them down. So finally he agrees, sits with Ronon and Lorne and tells them everything they need, every detail he can remember. He has a diagram of the Wraith facility on his tablet-he's made that already in reality, the tablet's resting on his lap now, ready to be used in all timelines-and he goes over it with them, explaining the best routes, where the Wraith are stationed, until Ronon says, "We get it, McKay," and they go.
Rodney watches O'Malley, nearly Ronon's height as he walks beside Rodney's teammate, step through the wormhole, unhesitating.
Skip ahead until they're coming back, just Lorne and O'Malley and Rodriguez, and Lorne shakes his head and Rodney listens long enough to find out where the hold up was, then rewinds and tries again, giving them appropriate warning. Ronon makes it back with them this time, but still no Sheppard. Third try Sheppard finally comes through, but without Ronon or Lorne, and Rodney gives up and resets.
Reinitializing is hard; it takes time for the holograms to solidify, and even when they look real, they're strangely distant, like he's squinting at them through the wrong end of a telescope. Something's tampering with the probability, making even the starting timeline harder to access, which doesn't make sense. The longer he's in here, the smaller Sheppard's chances become, but he still should have a day or two's leeway, and besides, the system doesn't care about Sheppard's chances. The eventual success or failure of the rescue should have no effect on the planning of it, and there's nothing improbable about Rodney simply walking down the hallway, so it shouldn't be this difficult to see.
But then, given how he rushed patching the programming, he's lucky it's lasted this long. And the timeline proceeds smoothly enough once he's on track. Instead of going straight to Sam's office, he goes back to his quarters, skips ahead through a full night's rest. It's worth trying the rescue at different times, anyway, as long as Sheppard's still alive, and Rodney looks well enough the next morning that Sam clears him for the mission.
Rodney debates a split second and requests that O'Malley not be included on the team. Lorne blinks, shrugs and selects Sergeant Denizard instead, and the mission proceeds.
It takes Rodney five tries to make it to Ronon in time, and Lorne and Rodriguez don't make it, when he radios back. Rewind, give them warning, and this time-two rewinds-it's Denizard. Another rewind, and it's Lorne.
Rodney can't catch his breath, in the hologram or in reality. The chair's cuffs dig into his wrists when he tries to gesture, though his body shouldn't be moving, not in reality. The mental interface has been damaged, or maybe it's the inexplicably decreasing probability, wreaking havoc on the system. He should have had Zelenka look at the programming after all. Radek's good at debugging, at nitpicking, at pointing out all the little insignificant places that Rodney might be wrong.
He's getting used to the sight of Sheppard's drained dead husk hanging in the cocoon, to the sight of Ronon's white-dreaded cadaver on the floor. He's getting used to the sound he hears himself make when the Wraith's slitted hands slam into his chest, sometimes the male, sometimes one of the drones.
He's charted the courses to hundreds of alternative futures, and someone dies in every one; he's a murderer in every one.
He'd give his own life, but it's not that simple, no matter how much he wishes it were.
In a fit of frustration he rewinds too far, to before the mission sets out. He doesn't stop Lorne from choosing O'Malley, this time.
"We could send more people," Sam says, but Rodney tried that earlier; any larger a contingent and the Wraith get spooked, feed on their prisoners too soon for Ronon to make it in time.
Teyla is standing at his side. "Rodney," she says, "if I go-" but he shakes his head. She makes no difference; he's tried, he's tried.
"There is a way," she tells him, holding his hand and he wishes he could feel the grip of her cool fingers, "we will find a way to save him," and he can't tell her that he knows a hundred ways, but is too strong or too weak to take any of them.
He doesn't tell Ronon but Ronon guesses, sometimes, and he's angry whenever he does, tells Rodney that it's worth it, tells him that it's his choice and if that's the way he can save Sheppard, then he's going to do it. But Rodney is a coward and rewinds every time, always erases that possibility.
Sheppard wouldn't choose that, wouldn't choose any of them; Rodney knows this, but it doesn't make it any more bearable.
Again, and again, and again, and every time it's a failure, every time there's death. His head is throbbing and his pulse is racing and it's getting harder just to rewind, as if every time he runs through a track its probability drops exponentially lower, but he grits his teeth and forces it. Because a limited infinity is still infinity, and there's always another option, another choice to make. He can fire twelve rounds instead of ten, he can take five steps instead of four, or six breaths instead of five in any given moment. It's addition, subtraction, simple arithmetic; and he was born a mathematical genius, even if Sheppard can beat him at chess three out of four matches.
He has a multiverse of possibilities and all he needs is one; one in a billion or one in a trillion, it doesn't matter; all he needs is to find it.
He's stepping through the stargate, again; he lost count of how many times this makes it dozens of permutations back. He tries to fast-forward-and everything flip-flops, holograms drained of color into a distorted black-and-white movie. He's in the gateroom; he's in Sam's office; he's in the infirmary.
Then he's in the chamber sitting in the chair, watching a hologram of himself in the chair, watching a hologram of himself in the chair, watching a hologram of himself in the chair. Hall of mirrors, infinite recursion. He's slumped over, not moving, unable to move; exceeded his own limits, unable to get up and walk out of the room, and he understands.
All the probabilities, reduced to nothing. One in a billion, to one in a trillion, to one in infinity, and one divided by infinity equals zero.
Oh God, John, I've killed you.
Rodney's eyes are closed; he can't see the holograms anymore. In one reality Rodney screams and sobs and can't order his thoughts enough even to release himself from the straps. In one reality Rodney silently rocks his head back against the chair and listens to his own breaths get slower and slower, until he's not breathing at all. In one reality Rodney snatches up his radio and calls into it, "Teyla, Ronon, I found him, the FTC, I found him, but it's too late, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and he hears Teyla's voice come crackling back, "Rodney, Rodney, where are you? We've been looking for hours-"
They're all possibilities, reasonable probabilities, but Rodney can't remember which he chooses, doesn't know what reality he's in. His head falls back and his body goes limp, and he can see nothing and say nothing, and there's no choices left for him to make.
* * *
Rodney is in the infirmary. He identifies the sounds, the smells, while he lies there hiding in the darkness behind his eyelids. Not a hologram; he knows from the metallic taste on the back of his tongue, from the twinges of stiff joints and the throbbing pressure around his temples. From how time flows at its fixed pace, only forward, immutable.
He's not in the chair anymore but he's seen this timeline a few times, flipped to it mistakenly before he could rewind. Teyla will be beside the bed, when he opens his eyes, or Ronon, or both of them. They won't believe him when he tells them it's his fault, that they'd have Sheppard back if he'd only had the endurance to keep trying. "You tried," Teyla will say, and Ronon will growl, "Did your best," and he won't be able to make them understand.
Except it's neither of them, nor Sam, nor Keller, saying, "Rodney? Goddamn it, McKay, if you're out of the coma and just napping now, I'm going to smother you with a pillow. Do you know how sore a guy's butt gets, sitting on these chairs?"
Rodney opens his eyes. His vision's blurry, but black and pale and spiky mess on top, and that tired rasp-"Sheppard?"
Sheppard's dropped his handheld, is standing up, leaning toward him. "Rodney?"
He never saw this one. It's not possible; he must still be in the chair. Program error, back to any dream you dare to dream, but he can't feel the straps around his wrists, can feel the foam pillow indented under his head.
"Hey, Doc, he's up," Sheppard calls, and the doctor on staff-not Keller, the guy usually on the night shift, and the infirmary lights are low-bustles over, checks Rodney over, quizzes him on his name and location and simple enumerative combinatorics.
Rodney stares past him to Sheppard the entire time, while Sheppard talks into his radio. He hears Ronon and Teyla's names, and then the doctor adjusts the IV and tells him to settle in for the night, promises he can look forward to a round of medical tests in the morning, and Sheppard's back by his bedside.
"So you're doing okay now?" Sheppard asks, as if his own health's not even a question, as if Rodney hadn't seen his shriveled corpse more times than he can remember or be able to forget.
"This isn't possible," he says.
"That's what I said," Sheppard shoots back, irritably. "I said that McKay couldn't possibly be so damn stupid as to activate another Ancient device that half-kills him, but then they brought me to the infirmary and there you were, half-killed. That was three days ago." He drops down on the chair with a thump, folds his arms.
Three days ago-but the rescue had succeeded, against all odds. The cost, however...for Sheppard to be here, for him to have survived-"Ronon-"
"Sleeping," Sheppard says, "or he was. He wanted to know when you woke up, he'll be coming down first thing tomorrow to thump you a good one. If Teyla doesn't beat him to it."
"But-how? It's not possible, I looked, I couldn't find it, it's not possible-" Rodney's in the chair again, seeing Sheppard's body, gray and fragile; and then Ronon's with the dreads bleached pale; and then both of them, dead. Every time. He failed, he knows he failed, felt it crush him. He's in the chair and can't get out; he's hyperventilating again, not enough air around him to fill his lungs, trapped in the chamber, that tiny walled-off space.
Monitors start beeping in high anxious pitches and the doctor comes back, presses an oxygen mask over Rodney's mouth and makes him sit up and count his breaths until he brings them back down to a more reasonable rhythm.
Sheppard's face is drawn tight and wanly serious afterwards. "Jesus, Rodney," he says quietly. "It's possible. I'm right here. They rescued me from the Wraith resort, Ronon and Lorne and his team." He sits back down on the plastic chair, eyes Rodney with brooding apprehension, like he's awaiting another attack, but Rodney's too exhausted to manage an encore. "They pulled off the rescue with your intell," Sheppard tells him. "You had the address, the map to the base. You don't remember?"
Rodney feels wrung out, can only lie limp on the raised bed. "I found the information. But I wasn't able to tell anyone, I passed out-"
"You passed out and into a damn coma-Teyla says you were barely breathing, when they found you in the FTC. And Keller says it was a good thing the chair was off, because otherwise pulling the plug might've stopped your heart. But your tablet had all the info on the Wraith planet saved, including my location. 'JS' marks the spot."
Rodney stares at him. "But it was incomplete, I wasn't taking proper notes, I was going to explain in person-"
Sheppard shrugs. "It was enough. For Teyla and Ronon, anyway. Teyla convinced the Colonel that if you were crazy enough to risk your life to get the info, it had to be worth it. And Carter can read your handwriting, luckily enough, so they knew which X's were Wraith, and Ronon, well, you drew him a route, he was only going to go for it. According to Lorne it was some decent strategizing."
At Lorne's name Rodney swallows, shuts his eyes. It's too much, too fast, and he doesn't get any of it. Can't believe this to be anything more than a malfunction. Neurological if not technological. But he can ask anyway, might as well know the count this time. "How many losses?"
"Huh?"
"How many casualties?" Rodney asks clearly. From experience he knows that guilt is one of those pains that dulls with time, so better to start as soon as possible. "How many people died on the rescue mission?"
He can hear Sheppard's frown in his voice. "None," he says.
Rodney's eyes fly open. Sheppard is frowning, but more puzzled than remorseful. "No one died, Rodney," he says calmly, honestly. Not lying to spare his feelings; Sheppard wouldn't. "Rodriguez and Kim got stunned, and Lorne got a bit banged around by a drone, but everyone made it back intact."
"Everyone?" Rodney's voice cracks, but Sheppard understands.
He nods. "Everyone and then some. The Wraith had five other captives, we brought them back, too, the more the merrier. They're at the Alpha site now."
Rodney wants to laugh. So badly wants to believe in this glitch, because it can't be anything else; this is possibility stretched until it snaps, this is reality broken. He's seeing what he wants to see, even if he's no longer in the chair. "I wish I'd found this way," he says. "I wish I'd been able to make this real."
"Make what real?" Sheppard's still frowning. "What the hell did you do, Rodney? How'd you get the Wraith base intell? And what'd you do to the Fortune Teller, anyway? I couldn't get it to work."
Rodney sits up. "You used the FTC?"
"You were in a coma," Sheppard says, sounding annoyed. "And Keller didn't know why, after she'd ruled out physical trauma and hypoglycemic reaction, and it was a good bet the chair had something to do with it. So I tested it."
Rodney feels a glimmer of-confusion; the doubt he can't afford. But the Sheppard he hallucinates shouldn't be insane, should he, just because Rodney is? "You thought it had put me into a coma, so it would be a good idea to try it out yourself?"
"Keller had a team of medics waiting right outside the door, monitoring my life-signs. Hell of a lot more precautions than you took. But nothing happened, I couldn't get it working. I thought at first that the holograph display had been shot, but it was actually projecting a hologram of the room, overlaid over the room. But that was the only vision it'd show. I couldn't even picture myself eating lunch that day, couldn't fast-forward to you waking up." Sheppard narrows his eyes at Rodney. "And I tried."
"It's stuck in a recursive loop," Rodney explains. "Calculating one over infinity. It's broken," and God, if only reality were so easily busted.
"So I owe you one Ancient fortune teller?" Sheppard cocks an eyebrow at Rodney's baffled blink. "You burnt it out to rescue me, didn't you."
Except he hadn't, of course, and this is all in his head, where he's telling Sheppard, rushed with regret, "I'm sorry, I couldn't do it, I couldn't handle it-can't handle it, obviously, or I wouldn't be imagining you here. But I wanted this real. I looked, John, believe me, I looked-"
"Rodney!" Sheppard might not be real, but those two snapped syllables shut him up regardless. He's used to Sheppard saying his name, but not to Sheppard sounding scared. Sheppard's hand is on his arm, gripping almost hard enough to hurt and it feels so real, as the holograms never did. "Rodney," Sheppard says, slowly, patiently but for the way his gaze is fixed on Rodney's, but for the bruising pressure of his fingers, "I'm real. This is all real. You're not in the FTC or wherever the hell you think you are; you're here, with me, in the infirmary."
"You don't understand," Rodney replies, gesturing as well as he can without tangling the IV line. "I never got this far. You, everyone-there was no way to get here, there was no way to make this happen. I tried every alternative I could. It's not unlikely, it's not improbable; it's impossible."
"Yeah, so?" Sheppard almost sounds amused. "Like that ever stopped you before."
"But," Rodney says, "But," and he can't get further. Sheppard's gold-green eyes are bright and alive and so real that all he stammers out is, "but this can't be possible, this wasn't-the system could access every variable, every potential. It would've crashed immediately if it hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to see anything. I didn't make any mistakes, all the information was accurate, this shouldn't be-the rescue couldn't succeed. It couldn't."
"Actually I was thinking the same thing at the time. Now...frankly, Rodney, I don't give a damn." Sheppard shakes his head. "I've never been so glad not to see it coming. That green son of a bitch had his hand about an inch from my chest when Ronon blasted him, out of nowhere. I thought I was seeing things."
"But he couldn't shoot all of them in time," Rodney says numbly. "Not alone. There were too many Wraith."
"Too many for Ronon? Never see the day," Sheppard drawls. "Besides, most of the drones were busy going after the reinforcements Lorne dialed in for, after Rodriguez got taken down by the drone that wasn't on your map." He must mistake Rodney's expression for shame, because he squeezes Rodney's arm again. "Hey, it's okay, he was just stunned. Nobody expected the map to be perfect. It rescued me-you rescued me, from a fate worse than and also including death, that's good enough for me."
Except that Rodney hadn't. He hadn't rescued Sheppard, hadn't found the way to save him. That had been Ronon, battling his way through the base; and Lorne and the Marines, backing up Ronon's fearless charge; and Teyla, who had believed him, who had come and found him in the chair before he had stopped breathing.
He hadn't ever tried that, had he, the timeline where he was the one rescued, though he should have known better than to try to be the hero, when he can't even win at chess-and Rodney starts to laugh, not hysterically, but for real, because some ironies are so beautiful they can only be appreciated.
Sheppard's still got the death-grip on his arm, is saying, "Hey, buddy, want to let me in on the joke?" in a strained way, like he's talking down a rabid hyena. For his sake Rodney gulps back the loudest amusement, but he can't stop the grin, even if it's at his own expense.
"It's okay," he says, "I just got it. What I was missing. Or what wasn't missing, what should have been missing-the observer effect, of course, I could cancel out my bias but I couldn't change my perspective. I was always there; even when I wasn't on the mission, I was influencing it, dictating its course with everything I knew. Every detail, every insight; and they didn't need me, nobody needed me, when they all had their own choices to make, their own chances to take..."
Sheppard's staring, standing up, going to drag the doctor back over, perhaps, and Rodney breathes deep and tells him, "No, it's okay. Really. I'm okay. It's just. If I'd known..."
The chair's broken. If Sheppard failed to cancel the probability loop, with his genetic advantage, Rodney will very likely-probably-never get it working again. Infinite possibilities, lost to him; lost to all of them, all the things they might have learned, all the catastrophes they might have avoided.
But Sheppard's standing by Rodney's bedside with his tense little half-smile, not quite hovering but almost, not quite worry but nearly, and all the way alive. Later, most likely, in most probable futures, Rodney's going to be furious about the chair, all that effort and he didn't even take notes; such a great loss to science, not to mention the cost of his invaluable time. Right now, Rodney's too selfish to care about that price.
When he grins, Sheppard grins back, cockeyed and genuine, even if he missed the punch-line. "By the way," Rodney asks him, "what's O'Malley's first name?"
"Who?"
"Lieutenant O'Malley? One of your Marines? I know you've got lots of them, but he's tall enough to stand out."
"Oh." Sheppard has to think for a second-hah, Rodney smugly observes; even the diligent military commander doesn't have all his people down. "Darryl. Darryl O'Malley. Why?"
Rodney shrugs. "He went on the rescue mission?"
"Yeah, I think Lorne picked him." Sheppard leans back, crosses his arms. "So, about that-how'd you know where to send them to fetch me? And what were you using the FTC for? Telling the future? Is that how you got the address, divining it in an Ancient holographic crystal ball?"
"Not anything so linear," Rodney haughtily replies. "I wasn't telling the future, I was finding a future."
Sheppard's eyebrow goes up. "A future? Which one? The one with the Federation, or the one with Mr. Fusion? Or just any old future?"
Any one worth living in. "This one," Rodney says. "This one works fine for me."
fin
Author: xparrot
Part 1
The truth is, Rodney never had any interest in seeing the future. Of the whole array of fictional abilities, prognostication had never sounded that appealing. Certainly in myth prophets never fared well, Cassandra or Laocoön, doomed to be ignored, if not eaten alive by snakes. To Rodney, it sounded like cheating anyway. What would the point of life be, if you had the answers before you asked the questions, if you always knew what happened next?
In principle, anyway; in fact, Rodney always read the last page of a novel before he read the first, always loved being in the know, understanding what was going on before anyone else. But then, he sincerely didn't want to know his own end, couldn't imagine any death that wouldn't horrify him, gray and feeble and senile, or young and frightened and failed. And to know the future but be helpless to change it would be as nightmarish as being locked in a box. So if he ever got offered superpowers, he had long ago decided to go for something cool and safe, like telekinesis, or telepathy.
When he started working for Area 51, and read about the quantum mirror and the SGC's experiences with time travel, he understood that future sight was a practical impossibility anyway. In the multiverse, the best you could hope to see is a future, a potential probability that was no more applicable than the certainty that flipping a coin would get you either heads or tails. And after he was sent to Siberia, Rodney decided he was content enough not knowing his destiny, if there was only more of that in store.
Then he came to the Pegasus galaxy, and sometimes he thought that seeing the future, however impossible and useless, would be worth the pain, just so he would know when to stop caring.
He used the FTC himself once, of course; every ATA-user did. The chamber was designed for privacy, with no way to record the holograms, and it would only activate when there was a single life-sign present. He wasted a few unashamed, entertaining hours navigating to a reality where Samantha Carter finally realized his appeal; she moved to Atlantis and they had a couple blue-eyed, tow-headed children, his convictions about superior genetics producing strikingly adorable little moppets that he'd almost wished he could take a picture of. He hadn't bothered to fast-forward ahead to the inevitable divorce, had shut down the simulation and not used it again. Better things to do than invent his own make-believe in holographic technicolor.
But Davos's visions were not only vivid, but accurate; reflections of potential futures, not fantasies. Rodney probably wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't been shown it personally-but he had, and he did, and afterwards he couldn't forget.
"Even if the visions were true," Sheppard pointed out, "they aren't much use anyway, out of context and with no way to change them." Sheppard was a pilot, used to steering his own course through the sky. Though he didn't say so, Rodney could tell it shook him, that the future could be pre-written, that free will might only be a kind illusion in a deterministic universe.
Rodney could have discussed it with him, could have argued universal wave function and quantum suicide long into the night. But he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Elizabeth, about Carson, about a hundred fifty thousand strangers dead because he hadn't realized what would happen next. About all the mistakes they had made, and all the mistakes they had yet to make.
He asked Dr. Keller for copies of Davos's brain scans, MRIs and EEGs and the Ancient devices' intricate analyses. Late in the night when the Replicator virus code blurred before his eyes, he brought up the scans, studied them. He was no neurologist, but the human brain was only an electrochemical computer, and he devised algorithms to simplify the data, describe it in functions and matrices he could more easily interpret.
Some of those functions were uncannily familiar. It took him weeks to place them, and when he finally did a chill went up his spine, putting them alongside the SGC's studies of the quantum mirror and seeing how perfectly the figures matched.
Not inevitable, then, but probable; perhaps Davos's visions had come when the probability passed a certain percentage, when a potential collapsed to practically a single datapoint. It didn't matter; what mattered was that Davos had seen them, had been somehow able, with merely the computational power of a human brain, to glimpse a slice of the whole broad spectrum of the multiverse.
Atlantis's network was a thousand times or more complex than even an advanced human brain, with countless more circuit pathways than a human had neurons. The Ancients who had designed the FTC hadn't bothered with accessing all that power; they'd been more interested in applying it to harness their own innate abilities. But in theory-if the system could be reprogrammed to call on its internal algorithms, rather than only the mental input from the chair's user...it wouldn't have the scope the Ancients might have seen; maxing out the processors would limit the futures to a single individual's perspective. But an accurate perspective, a vision of potentials drawn from the multiverse itself, uncoupled from observer bias.
The reprogramming was delicate, but more tedious than difficult. It would have gone faster with help, but there were more pressing tasks for the computer teams, and Rodney didn't need Zelenka around to tell him he had gone mad, or worse to tell Sam. He worked at night, on lunch breaks, in his off-time; not often, just a few hours a week. No one noticed; no one had used the FTC in a year. The novelty of a dream you can never really attain eventually loses its shine, even when you're living among nightmares.
He was within a week or two of a trial run when they went on the mission to Luarong. When they got back, it took him three hours to finish the coding, slapdash and buggy but it would have to do. Over a thousand worlds in Pegasus, and Sheppard might be stranded on any of them, if he weren't already dead.
Rodney had already obtained the right drugs weeks before. He had enough other prescriptions that Keller hadn't questioned his requests. A sleep aid to depress certain functions, a stimulant to keep him awake and lucid, antihistamines for the mildly hallucinogenic side-effects: a cocktail to alter his neurochemistry to best approximate Davos's unique patterns. He'd quizzed the medics on adverse drug interactions, and the worst he should suffer from this mix would be a mild hangover. He downed the handful of pills with half a bottle of water, set aside two other full bottles and sat down in the chair.
The wrist cuffs were only designed to steady the subject during the vertigo of the hologram activation, not to hold a person in place. Rodney made sure they were strengthened, fitting solidly around his forearms. He didn't know exactly what the effects of the reprogrammed chair would be, but it was bound to be quite a trip.
He tipped his head back against the chair, felt it glow to orange life as the mental connection was established. The holographic projections initialized, and Rodney plunged headfirst into any possible future.
* * *
Rodney thinks he might have been introduced to USMC Lieutenant O'Malley once before. He isn't quite sure. He hasn't been on Atlantis long, Rodney thinks, maybe a few months, one of the Marines on the latest six-month rotation. His first name is Connor or Sean or Patrick, something frighteningly Irish like that.
He's in his mid-twenties, taller than Sheppard and big-boned, with a shock of short orange hair and a broad, pale, freckled face and a broader, whiter smile. He wasn't smiling in the gateroom before the mission to M8G-723, though, all business in black, the same grim look on his face that all the soldiers had since they came back from Luarong minus Atlantis's military commander.
Rodney sits in darkness, thinking about Lieutenant O'Malley, how he doesn't remember exchanging any words with the man. He rarely bothers talking to any of the Marines, there's not usually a point, or a chance for him to. Sheppard knows all of them, their skills and hobbies and how best to deploy them; same as Rodney knows his scientists, although Sheppard also knows his soldiers' first and last names, and ranks to boot.
He thinks about O'Malley, and how he wouldn't notice if the man were gone, wouldn't register his absence from Atlantis, any more than he notices the absence of all the other soldiers who have died since they came to the city, as little more than funerals to avoid and painful but abstract statistics. Every single person who comes to Pegasus, who steps through the stargate, knows what they're signing on for, knows what their odds are of never coming home, and accepts them.
He thinks about his last chess game with Sheppard, the queen sacrifice Sheppard used to force a checkmate. Rodney doesn't arrange sacrifices, usually, doesn't think of the tactic; they never look right to him, somehow, even if it's just a single pawn.
He thinks about how O'Malley looks absolutely nothing and exactly like Aiden Ford, once upon a time, and he knows he can never do this.
And he knows that he wants to, and he doesn't know what's strength and what's weakness, the inability or the desire. Doesn't know which one's making him sick to his stomach, so nauseous he can hardly move.
Sheppard would have the strength, he thinks, if Sheppard were here in this chair instead. Strength for what, Rodney isn't sure.
He sets his head back against the chair, and reinitializes the system.
He stumbles on his way to Sam's office, the holograms blurred and tilting around him, thinks it's a programming malfunction until Sam takes his arm, sits him down and everything stabilizes. "Rodney," she says, "you look terrible," and it's not a bug but an accurate projection of his future, now; he's been in the damn chair long enough that he won't be walking out of it unaffected.
But there's no real harm done and he takes a few breaths and explains and Sam listens, as usual, and agrees. Except at the end she adds, almost as an afterthought, "But Lorne's team goes without you, McKay, you're not in any shape for this mission."
He argues, protests, rewinds three times but can't change her mind, not on this track. And he hasn't tried running the rescue without him; for all he knows he's been slowing them down. So finally he agrees, sits with Ronon and Lorne and tells them everything they need, every detail he can remember. He has a diagram of the Wraith facility on his tablet-he's made that already in reality, the tablet's resting on his lap now, ready to be used in all timelines-and he goes over it with them, explaining the best routes, where the Wraith are stationed, until Ronon says, "We get it, McKay," and they go.
Rodney watches O'Malley, nearly Ronon's height as he walks beside Rodney's teammate, step through the wormhole, unhesitating.
Skip ahead until they're coming back, just Lorne and O'Malley and Rodriguez, and Lorne shakes his head and Rodney listens long enough to find out where the hold up was, then rewinds and tries again, giving them appropriate warning. Ronon makes it back with them this time, but still no Sheppard. Third try Sheppard finally comes through, but without Ronon or Lorne, and Rodney gives up and resets.
Reinitializing is hard; it takes time for the holograms to solidify, and even when they look real, they're strangely distant, like he's squinting at them through the wrong end of a telescope. Something's tampering with the probability, making even the starting timeline harder to access, which doesn't make sense. The longer he's in here, the smaller Sheppard's chances become, but he still should have a day or two's leeway, and besides, the system doesn't care about Sheppard's chances. The eventual success or failure of the rescue should have no effect on the planning of it, and there's nothing improbable about Rodney simply walking down the hallway, so it shouldn't be this difficult to see.
But then, given how he rushed patching the programming, he's lucky it's lasted this long. And the timeline proceeds smoothly enough once he's on track. Instead of going straight to Sam's office, he goes back to his quarters, skips ahead through a full night's rest. It's worth trying the rescue at different times, anyway, as long as Sheppard's still alive, and Rodney looks well enough the next morning that Sam clears him for the mission.
Rodney debates a split second and requests that O'Malley not be included on the team. Lorne blinks, shrugs and selects Sergeant Denizard instead, and the mission proceeds.
It takes Rodney five tries to make it to Ronon in time, and Lorne and Rodriguez don't make it, when he radios back. Rewind, give them warning, and this time-two rewinds-it's Denizard. Another rewind, and it's Lorne.
Rodney can't catch his breath, in the hologram or in reality. The chair's cuffs dig into his wrists when he tries to gesture, though his body shouldn't be moving, not in reality. The mental interface has been damaged, or maybe it's the inexplicably decreasing probability, wreaking havoc on the system. He should have had Zelenka look at the programming after all. Radek's good at debugging, at nitpicking, at pointing out all the little insignificant places that Rodney might be wrong.
He's getting used to the sight of Sheppard's drained dead husk hanging in the cocoon, to the sight of Ronon's white-dreaded cadaver on the floor. He's getting used to the sound he hears himself make when the Wraith's slitted hands slam into his chest, sometimes the male, sometimes one of the drones.
He's charted the courses to hundreds of alternative futures, and someone dies in every one; he's a murderer in every one.
He'd give his own life, but it's not that simple, no matter how much he wishes it were.
In a fit of frustration he rewinds too far, to before the mission sets out. He doesn't stop Lorne from choosing O'Malley, this time.
"We could send more people," Sam says, but Rodney tried that earlier; any larger a contingent and the Wraith get spooked, feed on their prisoners too soon for Ronon to make it in time.
Teyla is standing at his side. "Rodney," she says, "if I go-" but he shakes his head. She makes no difference; he's tried, he's tried.
"There is a way," she tells him, holding his hand and he wishes he could feel the grip of her cool fingers, "we will find a way to save him," and he can't tell her that he knows a hundred ways, but is too strong or too weak to take any of them.
He doesn't tell Ronon but Ronon guesses, sometimes, and he's angry whenever he does, tells Rodney that it's worth it, tells him that it's his choice and if that's the way he can save Sheppard, then he's going to do it. But Rodney is a coward and rewinds every time, always erases that possibility.
Sheppard wouldn't choose that, wouldn't choose any of them; Rodney knows this, but it doesn't make it any more bearable.
Again, and again, and again, and every time it's a failure, every time there's death. His head is throbbing and his pulse is racing and it's getting harder just to rewind, as if every time he runs through a track its probability drops exponentially lower, but he grits his teeth and forces it. Because a limited infinity is still infinity, and there's always another option, another choice to make. He can fire twelve rounds instead of ten, he can take five steps instead of four, or six breaths instead of five in any given moment. It's addition, subtraction, simple arithmetic; and he was born a mathematical genius, even if Sheppard can beat him at chess three out of four matches.
He has a multiverse of possibilities and all he needs is one; one in a billion or one in a trillion, it doesn't matter; all he needs is to find it.
He's stepping through the stargate, again; he lost count of how many times this makes it dozens of permutations back. He tries to fast-forward-and everything flip-flops, holograms drained of color into a distorted black-and-white movie. He's in the gateroom; he's in Sam's office; he's in the infirmary.
Then he's in the chamber sitting in the chair, watching a hologram of himself in the chair, watching a hologram of himself in the chair, watching a hologram of himself in the chair. Hall of mirrors, infinite recursion. He's slumped over, not moving, unable to move; exceeded his own limits, unable to get up and walk out of the room, and he understands.
All the probabilities, reduced to nothing. One in a billion, to one in a trillion, to one in infinity, and one divided by infinity equals zero.
Oh God, John, I've killed you.
Rodney's eyes are closed; he can't see the holograms anymore. In one reality Rodney screams and sobs and can't order his thoughts enough even to release himself from the straps. In one reality Rodney silently rocks his head back against the chair and listens to his own breaths get slower and slower, until he's not breathing at all. In one reality Rodney snatches up his radio and calls into it, "Teyla, Ronon, I found him, the FTC, I found him, but it's too late, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and he hears Teyla's voice come crackling back, "Rodney, Rodney, where are you? We've been looking for hours-"
They're all possibilities, reasonable probabilities, but Rodney can't remember which he chooses, doesn't know what reality he's in. His head falls back and his body goes limp, and he can see nothing and say nothing, and there's no choices left for him to make.
* * *
Rodney is in the infirmary. He identifies the sounds, the smells, while he lies there hiding in the darkness behind his eyelids. Not a hologram; he knows from the metallic taste on the back of his tongue, from the twinges of stiff joints and the throbbing pressure around his temples. From how time flows at its fixed pace, only forward, immutable.
He's not in the chair anymore but he's seen this timeline a few times, flipped to it mistakenly before he could rewind. Teyla will be beside the bed, when he opens his eyes, or Ronon, or both of them. They won't believe him when he tells them it's his fault, that they'd have Sheppard back if he'd only had the endurance to keep trying. "You tried," Teyla will say, and Ronon will growl, "Did your best," and he won't be able to make them understand.
Except it's neither of them, nor Sam, nor Keller, saying, "Rodney? Goddamn it, McKay, if you're out of the coma and just napping now, I'm going to smother you with a pillow. Do you know how sore a guy's butt gets, sitting on these chairs?"
Rodney opens his eyes. His vision's blurry, but black and pale and spiky mess on top, and that tired rasp-"Sheppard?"
Sheppard's dropped his handheld, is standing up, leaning toward him. "Rodney?"
He never saw this one. It's not possible; he must still be in the chair. Program error, back to any dream you dare to dream, but he can't feel the straps around his wrists, can feel the foam pillow indented under his head.
"Hey, Doc, he's up," Sheppard calls, and the doctor on staff-not Keller, the guy usually on the night shift, and the infirmary lights are low-bustles over, checks Rodney over, quizzes him on his name and location and simple enumerative combinatorics.
Rodney stares past him to Sheppard the entire time, while Sheppard talks into his radio. He hears Ronon and Teyla's names, and then the doctor adjusts the IV and tells him to settle in for the night, promises he can look forward to a round of medical tests in the morning, and Sheppard's back by his bedside.
"So you're doing okay now?" Sheppard asks, as if his own health's not even a question, as if Rodney hadn't seen his shriveled corpse more times than he can remember or be able to forget.
"This isn't possible," he says.
"That's what I said," Sheppard shoots back, irritably. "I said that McKay couldn't possibly be so damn stupid as to activate another Ancient device that half-kills him, but then they brought me to the infirmary and there you were, half-killed. That was three days ago." He drops down on the chair with a thump, folds his arms.
Three days ago-but the rescue had succeeded, against all odds. The cost, however...for Sheppard to be here, for him to have survived-"Ronon-"
"Sleeping," Sheppard says, "or he was. He wanted to know when you woke up, he'll be coming down first thing tomorrow to thump you a good one. If Teyla doesn't beat him to it."
"But-how? It's not possible, I looked, I couldn't find it, it's not possible-" Rodney's in the chair again, seeing Sheppard's body, gray and fragile; and then Ronon's with the dreads bleached pale; and then both of them, dead. Every time. He failed, he knows he failed, felt it crush him. He's in the chair and can't get out; he's hyperventilating again, not enough air around him to fill his lungs, trapped in the chamber, that tiny walled-off space.
Monitors start beeping in high anxious pitches and the doctor comes back, presses an oxygen mask over Rodney's mouth and makes him sit up and count his breaths until he brings them back down to a more reasonable rhythm.
Sheppard's face is drawn tight and wanly serious afterwards. "Jesus, Rodney," he says quietly. "It's possible. I'm right here. They rescued me from the Wraith resort, Ronon and Lorne and his team." He sits back down on the plastic chair, eyes Rodney with brooding apprehension, like he's awaiting another attack, but Rodney's too exhausted to manage an encore. "They pulled off the rescue with your intell," Sheppard tells him. "You had the address, the map to the base. You don't remember?"
Rodney feels wrung out, can only lie limp on the raised bed. "I found the information. But I wasn't able to tell anyone, I passed out-"
"You passed out and into a damn coma-Teyla says you were barely breathing, when they found you in the FTC. And Keller says it was a good thing the chair was off, because otherwise pulling the plug might've stopped your heart. But your tablet had all the info on the Wraith planet saved, including my location. 'JS' marks the spot."
Rodney stares at him. "But it was incomplete, I wasn't taking proper notes, I was going to explain in person-"
Sheppard shrugs. "It was enough. For Teyla and Ronon, anyway. Teyla convinced the Colonel that if you were crazy enough to risk your life to get the info, it had to be worth it. And Carter can read your handwriting, luckily enough, so they knew which X's were Wraith, and Ronon, well, you drew him a route, he was only going to go for it. According to Lorne it was some decent strategizing."
At Lorne's name Rodney swallows, shuts his eyes. It's too much, too fast, and he doesn't get any of it. Can't believe this to be anything more than a malfunction. Neurological if not technological. But he can ask anyway, might as well know the count this time. "How many losses?"
"Huh?"
"How many casualties?" Rodney asks clearly. From experience he knows that guilt is one of those pains that dulls with time, so better to start as soon as possible. "How many people died on the rescue mission?"
He can hear Sheppard's frown in his voice. "None," he says.
Rodney's eyes fly open. Sheppard is frowning, but more puzzled than remorseful. "No one died, Rodney," he says calmly, honestly. Not lying to spare his feelings; Sheppard wouldn't. "Rodriguez and Kim got stunned, and Lorne got a bit banged around by a drone, but everyone made it back intact."
"Everyone?" Rodney's voice cracks, but Sheppard understands.
He nods. "Everyone and then some. The Wraith had five other captives, we brought them back, too, the more the merrier. They're at the Alpha site now."
Rodney wants to laugh. So badly wants to believe in this glitch, because it can't be anything else; this is possibility stretched until it snaps, this is reality broken. He's seeing what he wants to see, even if he's no longer in the chair. "I wish I'd found this way," he says. "I wish I'd been able to make this real."
"Make what real?" Sheppard's still frowning. "What the hell did you do, Rodney? How'd you get the Wraith base intell? And what'd you do to the Fortune Teller, anyway? I couldn't get it to work."
Rodney sits up. "You used the FTC?"
"You were in a coma," Sheppard says, sounding annoyed. "And Keller didn't know why, after she'd ruled out physical trauma and hypoglycemic reaction, and it was a good bet the chair had something to do with it. So I tested it."
Rodney feels a glimmer of-confusion; the doubt he can't afford. But the Sheppard he hallucinates shouldn't be insane, should he, just because Rodney is? "You thought it had put me into a coma, so it would be a good idea to try it out yourself?"
"Keller had a team of medics waiting right outside the door, monitoring my life-signs. Hell of a lot more precautions than you took. But nothing happened, I couldn't get it working. I thought at first that the holograph display had been shot, but it was actually projecting a hologram of the room, overlaid over the room. But that was the only vision it'd show. I couldn't even picture myself eating lunch that day, couldn't fast-forward to you waking up." Sheppard narrows his eyes at Rodney. "And I tried."
"It's stuck in a recursive loop," Rodney explains. "Calculating one over infinity. It's broken," and God, if only reality were so easily busted.
"So I owe you one Ancient fortune teller?" Sheppard cocks an eyebrow at Rodney's baffled blink. "You burnt it out to rescue me, didn't you."
Except he hadn't, of course, and this is all in his head, where he's telling Sheppard, rushed with regret, "I'm sorry, I couldn't do it, I couldn't handle it-can't handle it, obviously, or I wouldn't be imagining you here. But I wanted this real. I looked, John, believe me, I looked-"
"Rodney!" Sheppard might not be real, but those two snapped syllables shut him up regardless. He's used to Sheppard saying his name, but not to Sheppard sounding scared. Sheppard's hand is on his arm, gripping almost hard enough to hurt and it feels so real, as the holograms never did. "Rodney," Sheppard says, slowly, patiently but for the way his gaze is fixed on Rodney's, but for the bruising pressure of his fingers, "I'm real. This is all real. You're not in the FTC or wherever the hell you think you are; you're here, with me, in the infirmary."
"You don't understand," Rodney replies, gesturing as well as he can without tangling the IV line. "I never got this far. You, everyone-there was no way to get here, there was no way to make this happen. I tried every alternative I could. It's not unlikely, it's not improbable; it's impossible."
"Yeah, so?" Sheppard almost sounds amused. "Like that ever stopped you before."
"But," Rodney says, "But," and he can't get further. Sheppard's gold-green eyes are bright and alive and so real that all he stammers out is, "but this can't be possible, this wasn't-the system could access every variable, every potential. It would've crashed immediately if it hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to see anything. I didn't make any mistakes, all the information was accurate, this shouldn't be-the rescue couldn't succeed. It couldn't."
"Actually I was thinking the same thing at the time. Now...frankly, Rodney, I don't give a damn." Sheppard shakes his head. "I've never been so glad not to see it coming. That green son of a bitch had his hand about an inch from my chest when Ronon blasted him, out of nowhere. I thought I was seeing things."
"But he couldn't shoot all of them in time," Rodney says numbly. "Not alone. There were too many Wraith."
"Too many for Ronon? Never see the day," Sheppard drawls. "Besides, most of the drones were busy going after the reinforcements Lorne dialed in for, after Rodriguez got taken down by the drone that wasn't on your map." He must mistake Rodney's expression for shame, because he squeezes Rodney's arm again. "Hey, it's okay, he was just stunned. Nobody expected the map to be perfect. It rescued me-you rescued me, from a fate worse than and also including death, that's good enough for me."
Except that Rodney hadn't. He hadn't rescued Sheppard, hadn't found the way to save him. That had been Ronon, battling his way through the base; and Lorne and the Marines, backing up Ronon's fearless charge; and Teyla, who had believed him, who had come and found him in the chair before he had stopped breathing.
He hadn't ever tried that, had he, the timeline where he was the one rescued, though he should have known better than to try to be the hero, when he can't even win at chess-and Rodney starts to laugh, not hysterically, but for real, because some ironies are so beautiful they can only be appreciated.
Sheppard's still got the death-grip on his arm, is saying, "Hey, buddy, want to let me in on the joke?" in a strained way, like he's talking down a rabid hyena. For his sake Rodney gulps back the loudest amusement, but he can't stop the grin, even if it's at his own expense.
"It's okay," he says, "I just got it. What I was missing. Or what wasn't missing, what should have been missing-the observer effect, of course, I could cancel out my bias but I couldn't change my perspective. I was always there; even when I wasn't on the mission, I was influencing it, dictating its course with everything I knew. Every detail, every insight; and they didn't need me, nobody needed me, when they all had their own choices to make, their own chances to take..."
Sheppard's staring, standing up, going to drag the doctor back over, perhaps, and Rodney breathes deep and tells him, "No, it's okay. Really. I'm okay. It's just. If I'd known..."
The chair's broken. If Sheppard failed to cancel the probability loop, with his genetic advantage, Rodney will very likely-probably-never get it working again. Infinite possibilities, lost to him; lost to all of them, all the things they might have learned, all the catastrophes they might have avoided.
But Sheppard's standing by Rodney's bedside with his tense little half-smile, not quite hovering but almost, not quite worry but nearly, and all the way alive. Later, most likely, in most probable futures, Rodney's going to be furious about the chair, all that effort and he didn't even take notes; such a great loss to science, not to mention the cost of his invaluable time. Right now, Rodney's too selfish to care about that price.
When he grins, Sheppard grins back, cockeyed and genuine, even if he missed the punch-line. "By the way," Rodney asks him, "what's O'Malley's first name?"
"Who?"
"Lieutenant O'Malley? One of your Marines? I know you've got lots of them, but he's tall enough to stand out."
"Oh." Sheppard has to think for a second-hah, Rodney smugly observes; even the diligent military commander doesn't have all his people down. "Darryl. Darryl O'Malley. Why?"
Rodney shrugs. "He went on the rescue mission?"
"Yeah, I think Lorne picked him." Sheppard leans back, crosses his arms. "So, about that-how'd you know where to send them to fetch me? And what were you using the FTC for? Telling the future? Is that how you got the address, divining it in an Ancient holographic crystal ball?"
"Not anything so linear," Rodney haughtily replies. "I wasn't telling the future, I was finding a future."
Sheppard's eyebrow goes up. "A future? Which one? The one with the Federation, or the one with Mr. Fusion? Or just any old future?"
Any one worth living in. "This one," Rodney says. "This one works fine for me."
fin