november 2005
http://cakehole.org/zedpm
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When Rodney was ten, he built a particle accelerator in the upstairs bathroom. Jeannie complained about the wires every time she went in to fix her hair and his mother had a habit of sighing as she passed the door, but he paid them no mind, neglecting his meals (for the first time in his life) and the algebra homework Thomas had slipped him along with three candy bars in payment.
The model was hardly powerful enough to do any proper atom smashing, constructed out of fiberglass and duct tape as it were, but to Rodney, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. It would certainly beat all the kids who were recreating their projects from their elementary school fairs—plebeians, Rodney scoffed, who uses paper-maché after third grade?—and besides, the head of the science department liked him.
It took a month to finish the machine, and Rodney finally resorted to skipping school knowing that his mother would cover for him. He spent the night before the fair fixing all the imperfections, all the tiny chinks in the metal, until he was finally satisfied with his creation.
Rodney woke up at ten the next day, facedown on the tile, and the boy with the volcano won first place.
Time slips away from him still on Atlantis, a sleepless and sluggish circadian rhythm. Now Rodney measures the passage of days with his own exquisitely-crafted mechanism: hours a slow, sweet fuck against the jumper bay doors, minutes the furtive swipe of a tongue, and beneath it all the steady beat of Radek's heart against Rodney's ribs, marking off time as they sleep.
