McKay's Metaphysics
by Pares

What is the difference between a cathedral and a physics lab? Are they not both saying: Hello? – Annie Dillard

 

The wreckage of the false Atlantis built by the Asurans, built of the Asurans, had drifted in the space above the true city, shining like satellites in the night sky. Some of its wreckage fell into the planet's gravity well; shooting stars fell for days as the flotsam hit atmosphere and burned all the way down.

The wreckage was dangerous in and of itself; it was too valuable as intelligence, should the Wraith come across it, and it was dangerous to even touch, as the nanites would consume you from the inside out. They had tried herding the wreckage in an energy field and hurling it into the sun.

Zelenka had not been drinking, but he hadn't slept in 26 hours. Generally, he didn't get philosophical until about 30 hours in, but the situation seemed more dire than usual, now that Lorne and Simpson were dead.

"Rodney, do you think there is a God?"

Rodney's stock answer was, "No." And several variants on the theme of no, with branching rants as the whim took him, but looking at Radek, his hair greasy and flat with sleepless failing hope, he took a moment to consider his answer.

All around him, his science team was working to keep Atlantis, now that she had left the atmosphere, from decaying in her orbit and crashing into the very planet she had just left. If they could keep her circling around the planet, they might have time to fix her engines and then keep her shield sufficiently powered to survive re-entry. Maybe.

Laws of averages were skewed all over the place whenever he got involved with a project, but even his own magnificence had to fail sometime. Why not now? If it did, the city would tumble and burn and probably end the world with its impact; the city was ten thousand years old. The geologists thought that the planet was probably ten billion. The planet wouldn't shatter, but its crust would buckle and blacken, its seas would die. It would go on Rodney's already inordinately long list of Things He Had Killed.

Someone laid a hand on his arm, and he lifted his blurring eyes to Teyla's. She was holding a tray piled with sandwiches.

"You must eat." She nodded at Zelenka. "Both of you."

Rodney was surprisingly unhungry, but Zelenka said, "Rodney. There is still time for this," and tucked a sandwich into Rodney's hand.

Almost absently, Rodney took a bite. The bread was soft, yielding gently to his teeth. The mayo held a creamy tang, the Swiss a nice bite, and the roast chicken was moist and still warm.

This could very well be his last sandwich.

"It's pretty good," he murmured, and Teyla gave him a sad crescent of a smile that made his heart twist a little.

Taking another bite, he noticed Ronon handing out coffees to Miko and Fenneli, the Colonel walking into the room just behind him, a stack of boxes in his arms.

"Donuts," he announced. "Somebody save me a Bavarian Cream, huh?"

"Where the hell did we get donuts?" Rodney demanded.

Sheppard gave a little shrug.

"I had 'em in the freezer. For emergencies." Before Rodney could ask how they would go about eating frozen donuts, Sheppard added, "I took 'em out a while ago. They should be thawed out by now." Giving Rodney an assessing look, he handed him a donut. Sheppard's face was creased and puffy from lack of sleep and even so, he was still freakishly attractive. Especially with his fingertips dusted with powdered sugar.

"Eat up, McKay." His voice rasped pleasantly in Rodney's ear, and he shivered a little.

"Maybe I should save it," Rodney said impulsively.

Sheppard didn't say, "For when?" but he tipped an eyebrow at him.

For no reason at all, Rodney had a sense memory of the time he'd been on a planet called Dejoria. Their people were tinsmiths and woodworkers, but especially renowned for working with glass. Their buildings had thick walls fashioned almost entirely of stained glass, some of them depicting historic scenes, some mosaic glories of abstract, fragmented color. But what Rodney remembered best about the place was their simple lanterns, like those found on Earth before the advent of electricity, except... exquisite. They had graceful, long-armed handles and, when they weren't filled with fragrant hornseed oil, were astonishingly light. The glass bells of the lanterns seemed spun as fine as soap bubbles, and the metals were hammered into curving panels thin enough for light to glow through.

At the close of every day, the artisans and farmers and shopkeepers of the village would gather in the square, every one carrying such a lantern. The square was sheltered by a high, sloping roof, like a picnic pavilion, and the beams that supported it studded with small hooks where the Dejorian's hung their lanterns before sitting at family tables to eat the traditional common meal: plates of sweet, triangular leaves from the horntree and thick soup ladled into clan bowls from a single huge cauldron kept boiling since dawn. Teyla had carried the clan bowl to the table and when Rodney had looked around for flatware, he noted that people at other tables merely drank from the bowl and then passed it to their neighbors—that Ronon was already tipping the bowl back in great thirsty draughts. Before he could say anything, Teyla had laughed, her face soft and shining in the glow of many small lanterns, the light glinting in her hair. Beside him, John's thigh was warm against Rodney's on the shared bench as he elbowed him gently and handed him the hot bowl.

What Rodney remembered now was the flicker of light in a hundred fragile housings, and he thought of his shining city, and his brilliant people, and he hoped, he hoped the oil would burn a few hours more.

END

The picture.