Irreplaceable

The Destiny crew is finally Earth-bound, but a dying member won't make it home.

Not my Universe, not my characters. I own nothing.

Prologue

Sounds never seemed to echo the same in the day as they did at night. Even in the artificial day he generated with the ship's lighting, his footsteps never haunted him the way they did now, as he lurked down a darkened corridor, fearing the noise would wake the entire ship. There were no other feet to add to the noise, no voices to muffle it. It was only him and his silent shadow, creeping toward the infirmary where his target lay in ignorance.

He never meant for this to happen. Any of it. It was his desperation, his unyielding refusal to let go of the one final thing in his life which held any meaning, that had stranded them here. His selfishness (his desire to protect the crew?). His fear (his courage?). He hardly knew anymore. What did it all say of him? He had been called many things in his life. One thing in particular stuck with him, a word he despised, a description he never thought he would be associated with.

Coward.

He had never gotten on too well with David Telford, but even that was a low blow. Did the man truly think that about him? Or was he just trying to throw off the Lucian Alliance? Would a coward walk through a wormhole with absolutely no knowledge of what was on the other side? Would a coward go face to face - and sometimes head to head - every day with people he knew hated his guts? Would a coward stay behind on a dying ship to ensure the rest of the crew made it off safely?

Or was it a coward who had caused it all to start with? And what he was doing now…how would they perceive this?

He wasn't a quitter. He didn't give up on anything. He was committed to this mission with all his heart and soul. Since they'd…arrived, every single day out here had brought with it a dozen ways to die, and up to now they had always managed to find a way out. There had been losses, of course, and he regretted each one, but the critical members of the crew had endured the impossible odds, eluding death and outsmarting a hundred thousand things that by all accounts should have exterminated them inside a week. If that wasn't proof that they were supposed to be here, he didn't know what was. Everyone kept saying that they were the wrong people, they didn't belong, it's not up to them to finish it. And Nick had tried so hard for so long to persuade them that they were wrong. They were the right people. They did belong. They were there for a reason.

And for one incredible, glorious moment, he thought they believed him. When his future self showed up and told of the extraordinary few who had agreed to remain on the ship, Nick had felt a surge of relief and pride. They had united by his side and declared with one voice that there was nothing more important in that moment than finding out what the Ancients had wanted to learn so badly that they would send this magnificent ship out into the farthest reaches of the universe, knowing they'd never return. It was the apical moment of his life, and it was a serious test of his fortitude to have to stand there in the infirmary and listen to the tale without melting down to a puddle of honor and joy. The mission would live on. They understood.

And it was mind-blowing how quickly they'd turned on him. Everything changed a few months ago when he found another Icarus planet, and that very same hour he lost them all. He'd done everything short of falling to his knees and begging, because he refused to beg, to urge these people to stay. They had to, because he had to, and he couldn't without them. He needed them. They were a team, he'd told them, but it was no use. They'd given up on the mission. They'd given up on him. He was relying on them to keep him on the ship the same way they had relied on him to get them off of it. The tables turned so fast it gave him vertigo, leaving him off-balance, staggering to regain lost ground. It was hard - impossible - being the only one who cared enough about something to want to see it go on, and he had no resources. He had no support. He was alone, completely alone, deserted by every person he thought he could rely on, and everyone on the entire ship seemed too busy dreaming of Earth even to notice. Maybe they had been right all along. They were the wrong people. The disappointment was devastating.

Admit it, Rush. After everything that's happened, you're afraid they're not going to let you come back.

Telford was wrong. He was not afraid, he was convinced. He knew without a doubt that once he got one foot off of the ship he would never, ever be allowed back on. They'd find someone else, and they'd do it with glee. He didn't actually know when he became replaceable. He guessed it was right around the time he dialed the ninth chevron instead of Earth, or maybe even before that, the moment Eli solved the Dakara weapons puzzle. Whenever it was, there was something he knew for sure: the moment he became replaceable was the moment he became irrelevant. And relevancy is one of the most basic human hungers. Everyone wants to know that they matter. He'd learned long ago that if you can't be wanted, be needed. And now, he was neither.

It wasn't his decision to let go of the mission. The situation had been forced onto him, one of many things lately that he couldn't control, and he had no option but to release his grip on the very last thing that could offer him any sort of decent future. How interesting, he thought to himself, sneaking down the corridor, to find himself now in another position where his future could be snatched away; only this time, the decision was his to make. One last choice. One last chance to make something of this short existence, to have something to show for his time here, to make a tangible difference, and maybe be able to maintain control over at least that much. He wasn't a quitter, but he felt like a failure. He was going to change that right now while he still had something to offer.

Lieutenant Johansen always kept the infirmary door open at night, so he was not surprised to see it open now as he crept closer. He kept near to the wall and leaned around the edge to peer inside. There she was, asleep, as he'd hoped, at her work desk. This would be easy.

In practice.

He soft-stepped into the room and went silently to her side. Very, very gently, he checked both of her wrists, then the crook of both elbows. Finding nothing, he slid his fingers under her jaw, behind her ear, through her hair, and across to the other side. There. Just behind her right earlobe was a bulge, firm and hot to the touch; he brushed her hair aside and leaned in for a better look.

A long breath escaped him. The knot was ugly, swollen, and fiery red, with dark streaks webbing out from the edges. I knew it. With his other hand he touched an identical lump on the back of his neck.

That's it, then.

He turned from the lieutenant and went to her supply shelf, scanning it with his eyes first, then running his hands over everything in search. If he was going to do this, he had to do it fast, courage or no.

He wondered as he worked. He wondered how many would attend the funeral. He wondered what they would say. He wondered where the casket would rest. Not on Earth, probably. Decomposition would set in too fast to wait that long. That actually made him pause and glance again at Johansen. No one would ever be able to visit. No one could lay flowers on the grave. She didn't deserve that.

He licked his lips and shook his head, resuming his search. Stitching thread, bandages, plastic tubes, oxygen masks. None of which he needed. He crouched down to a lower shelf and picked through the containers there. Another minute and he found it - a small bottle of some numbing agent. He screwed off the cap, squeezed some generous drops onto a cotton swab, and crept back to Johansen's side. She was hunched over in her black sleeveless top, her hands pillowing her head, and both arms were in easy reach. Gently, he swiped the analgesic over a patch of her left arm. She was right-handed; this would affect her the least. He waited a very long, silent, fidgety minute, then drew a syringe out of his vest pocket and popped of the cap. After disinfecting the skin, he held her shoulder in his left hand, and with his right, he slid the needle through her flesh and slowly pressed the plunger down. She stirred again, but he was committed now, and he made himself stay until it was gone, praying she would not wake completely. When it was over, a surge of nausea hit his stomach like a fist. Shaking now, he capped the syringe, shoved it back into his pocket, and fought a rolling in his stomach even as gooseflesh rose all over his body.

It was done.

He was going to die.

He wasn't a quitter. So why did it feel like he was giving up?