David Wilson: Brimstone

“What?” Rodney snapped. “Don’t you have something to calibrate?”

Cumby turned and left, and Rodney returned to the console, everything else forgotten as he lost himself in the data on the screen.

Richard Woolsey sat at his desk, drinking a cup of hot tea and scanning reports on his tablet PC. He smiled, because scanning reports was something he enjoyed — the regularity and security of continuity appealed to him. Since taking over command of Atlantis from Colonel Carter, his life had been a string of almost out-of-control adventures and crazed life or death situations. They were not activities he was comfortable with, because they rarely came with ready solutions or simple answers. He cherished the times when things ran smoothly and his post was largely a bureaucratic one.

When the door opened without warning and Dr. McKay charged in, nose buried in the laptop he carried, Woolsey heaved a heavy sigh. In his experience, such an incident rarely ended well. He closed the document he’d been working on and sat back. In his late forties, slender and balding, at first glance the commander gave the impression of being a timid bookkeeper. He’d proven, over time, that he was made of much sterner stuff than he appeared, but certain characteristics stuck with him.

“Dr. McKay,” he said. “I understand that you are very often caught up in your work, and that it muddies your otherwise impeccable judgment, but my door was closed for a reason. The least you could do…”

Rodney held up a finger, still staring at the screen in his hands.

“Rodney!” Woolsey raised his voice and glared.

Rodney looked up, startled.

“Did you hear a word I said?”

“I…no.”

Woolsey sighed again and rolled his eyes. “What is it, Doctor? I have a lot of work to get through this afternoon.”

“It’s something we found last night — well — I didn’t find it, but…” Rodney stepped up to the desk and placed his computer on the surface. He turned it so that the commander could see the information he’d been scanning.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been digging through the data we’ve managed to translate in Atlantis’ memory banks. Last night we — Airman Cumby, I mean — noticed an anomaly in the moon’s around one of the planets we’ve charted. One moon, designated MC4-502, broke orbit and changed course very suddenly.”

“That’s odd.”

“Of course it’s odd,” Rodney said. “Why else would we be talking about it?”

Before the commander could comment, Rodney continued.

“It’s possible for a moon’s orbit to erode over time, or for some unforeseen occurrence, like a strike from a very large meteorite knocking it off course, but this is different. From the trajectory it looks as if the planet propelled itself out of orbit.”

“Is that possible?”

“Of course it’s possible.” Rodney said, annoyed. “We can do it ourselves with our city, and a sufficiently strong tractor beam could do the trick. There are a number of ways the moon could shift from its orbit, but that’s not what I came here to tell you. Look.”

Woolsey saw that Rodney was irritated with him for not immediately grasping whatever it was that bothered him about the data on the screen. He counted to three, very slowly and very quietly, and waited.

“Here,” Rodney said. He traced his finger along a colored line superimposed over the chart. “This is the new path. If there is no other significant push to change that eroding orbit…”

“It will plunge into the sun.” Woolsey concluded.

“And soon.”

“I assume there is a reason you believe this is significant?”

Rodney turned and glared at him, and again the commander was forced to calm himself. Dr. McKay was possibly the most brilliant man the commander had ever encountered, but he was also very likely the most arrogant and the one graced with the least ability to interact properly with his fellow human beings. The doctor had little or no patience for the inability of others to keep up with his overly agile mind, and was fond of pointing it out when they failed.

“I found references to that moon,” Rodney said. “None of what I have is clear yet, but there was definitely a gate there at one time, a well traveled one. I believe it is possible that there was a great deal more than that, as well. I haven’t had time yet to work through it. I have a couple of people digging deeper right now.”

“A gate?” Woolsey said. He sat up straighter. “Do you think there might still be people on there? Surely if there are, and there’s a gate, they will…”

“Someone is on there,” Rodney said. “When I found the references, I started some long range scans. I picked up a power signature — a powerful one. It was just a spike, like some sort of power surge, and then it all went dead.”

Woolsey stared at the screen in front of him. He’d already seen all there was to see, but the moment of scrutiny bought him a few moments to order his thoughts.

“I don’t know what we can do, maybe nothing,” Rodney admitted. “Whoever was there has probably evacuated through the gate already. But I was able to pick up traces from the burst that knocked it out of orbit and the energy signature was consistent with that of a ZPM. I can’t be certain, but if there’s any chance, and if that gate is still operational…”

“Yes, I understand,” Woolsey said. “We could use the ZPM, and if there are other artifacts, or if there’s a civilization there in need of rescue…”

“Exactly.”

“There’s one problem,” Woolsey said.

Rodney glanced up, momentarily distracted. “What?”

“Do you have a gate address?”

Rodney stood very still. “Well, no, not yet, obviously. We’re working on that. I’m sure it’s in the database. There are records indicating others have traveled there.”

Woolsey picked up his reports and turned away. “Let me know if you find a way to reach that gate,” he said. “If you do, we’ll discuss our options. I also want to know how long you believe it will be before that moon is too close to the sun for human habitation.”

Rodney stared at Woolsey a moment longer, then smiled and turned away. No doubt he was already deep into his calculations and research as the door slid closed behind him.

When Rodney returned to his lab, he found Cumby hunkered over a console with Radek Zelenka and Colonel Sheppard. They were so intent on whatever it was they were studying they didn’t even notice his approach.

“What is it?” he said.

“These two found something about your moon,” Sheppard said, stepping back.

Rodney started to ask a question, thought better of it, and pushed Cumby out of the way so he could see what was on the screen. The top half of the monitor was filled with a series of Ancient hieroglyphic characters. The lower half was a text screen containing a partial translation. The Atlantis databases were filled with information that they’d not had the time, nor the facilities to unravel. When they had a particular object or subject in mind, they could narrow their efforts and often came up with amazing bits and pieces of the puzzle that had once been a city of the Ancients.

“We found a reference to the moon,” Zelenka said. “When we cross-referenced it with data we’ve translated from the city’s database, we found a name. It’s not the name of the moon…”

“I can read,” Rodney snapped. He scanned the screen rapidly, and then stepped back in surprise. “My God. It’s not just a moon.”

“It’s a city,” Cumby said. “Very much like this one.”

“Admah,” Zelenka added. “The city of Admah.”