Casualties of war

Chapter five

T'he off-world team trooped in for the debriefing in characteristic fashion. Teyla took her seat with poise, John slouched back in his, and Ronon all but hurled himself into a chair. Rodney brought up the rear, still working through a litany of complaints he'd begun seemingly before emerging from the gate.

"…is it too much to ask that they cushion the benches in their deplorable excuse for public transportation?"

Amused, Elizabeth let him wind down on his own. Tirade notwithstanding, her chief of science looked invigorated. As did her military advisor, come to think of it.

"Should I infer that the research facility showed some promise?" she inquired.

"You could say that." With a flourish, Rodney set a medium-sized box on the table in front of him. "Allow me to introduce you to adarite, an ore mined on P7L-418. It appears to have a few things in common with naquadah, but its energetic properties are pressure-dependent and far simpler to harness. Not to mention stronger. A simple whip infused with this material can release the electrothermal equivalent of a lightning bolt."

Next to him, John helpfully held up an innocuouslooking whip as a visual aid.

"I'll know more once we analyze the sample, but I'm convinced that this could be developed into a weapon to disrupt nanite cohesion." Satisfied, Rodney sat back in his chair, presumably anticipating a congratulatory word.

It was good news, so Elizabeth decided to play along. "That's excellent, Rodney," she said warmly. "So you found raw materials rather than research data?"

"We haven't been inside the actual facility yet," John told her.

"But we will," Rodney jumped in.

"We ran into some locals first." John elaborated on the Falnori and their disagreement with the Nistra. As she often did, Elizabeth found herself fascinated by the apparent evolution of the society. These people had once lived and worked alongside the Ancients, and their offspring had maintained some of the equipment for as long as possible. Without the full knowledge and capabilities of their predecessors, though, and hindered by periodic Wraith cullings, the Falnori had been unable to advance significantly in a technological sense.

She wondered fleetingly if maybe they were better off that way. There were times, many of them defined by the Asuran threat, when technological sophistication didn't seem like all it was cracked up to be.

"It's worth keeping in mind that we haven't heard the Nistra side of the story yet," John concluded, stealing a sideways glance at Teyla as he spoke. "Best guess is that they'll claim ethnic persecution or something along those lines. If what Cestan said is accurate, the Nistra probably believe the Falnori don't view them as equals. Of course, the Falnori deny that, which is why we need a diplomat."

"And we believe the Nistra will accept me as a mediator, in spite of the fact that the Falnori met us first?"

"They have to." Judging by Rodney's expression, he thought he was stating the obvious. "If they don't, they all stay mad at each other, and I don't get into that lab."

Elizabeth took that to mean `we're crossing our fingers and hoping for the best.' She tucked her hair back and leaned over her datapad to make a note. "What about the accusations that the Nistra have been raiding this Hall of Tribute? How would they benefit from such an act?"

"Beats me," John replied. "It's not like they can use anything in there. Most of what we saw in the outer building was broken, and they don't have the gene to operate anything further in."

"They could be doing it just to provoke the Falnori," Ronon said. "If they want a war, that might be the quickest way of getting one."

Something about that idea didn't feel right to Elizabeth, but she didn't have nearly enough information about the state of affairs to hazard another guess. "So now we just need a response from this Galven," she said.

"Ronon and I will travel back to the planet in the morning to await word," Teyla offered.

"In the meantime, I have a major analysis project to begin and a Czech to drag away from his futile study of jumper propulsion optimization," Rodney said, fingers drumming on his prized box. "So if we're done here-?"

"Go," Elizabeth told him, shooing him with her hand. "Keep me posted on what you and Radek learn. And let's finally take care of the mail call tomorrow. Everybody's about to start climbing the walls."

"I'll get with Lorne and make up a roster for security shifts at the peace talks." John aimed a thumb over his shoulder as he stood up from the table. As the group dispersed, Elizabeth heard him say under his breath to Rodney, "And you were sure she'd be pissed about me volunteering her services."

She smiled to herself, closing the file on her datapad. In truth, she was intrigued by the opportunity. The challenges of running the city were absorbing on their own merits, but she was a trained negotiator, and rarely did she get the chance to use those skills.

Having swiped her own mail out of the delivery pile yesterday-there were a few perks to being in charge-she'd read her university's alumni magazine last night before bed. So many of her colleagues were spearheading talks that would guide the years to come on their world: Africa, North Korea, the Middle East. They were doing truly noble work, the work to which she'd once dedicated her life; and she was a galaxy away, working without a net, occasionally signing off on tactics that her younger self would have protested at the top of her lungs.

Had she been on Earth, she probably would have had to fight the urge to knock various dignitaries' heads together. Squabbling over ideologies seemed so petty and useless now that she knew what other, more fundamental enemies existed.

If they were lucky- and God knew they were due for a streak of luck-the expedition would benefit from the upcoming talks just as much as the Falnori and Nistra. For that reason, among others, she couldn't find it within herself to long for home. There was a job to be done here, and she fully intended to see it through.

Looking over the landscape, unchanged since their visit the day before, Ronon heard the familiar sound of the gate disengaging behind him. "We were supposed to meet our escort here?"

"That was Governor Cestan's instruction," Teyla answered. "I will confess that the idea of another ride to town does not excite me."

"I know what you mean." For once, McKay's complaining had been justified. Ronon might have said more, but the sight of two figures climbing the hillside forestalled him.

"Day's greetings," Kellec called to them as he and Merise approached.

"To you as well," said Teyla. "Are you meant to bring us to the capital?"

"The governor bids us to wait here, with you, for the messenger's return." Merise swung a cloth sack off her shoulder and set it on the ground. "It should not be long. In any case, we have food and drink."

She took a seat in the grass, and Kellec joined her. Ronon exchanged a glance with Teyla. Maybe they should have brought something to occupy themselves. One of those number puzzles of which the scientists, and occasionally Sheppard, seemed so enamored… Or maybe not.

"We're out in the open here," Ronon had to point out. "If the Nistra don't like what the messenger has to say, or if they decide to mount a raid today, wouldn't it be better to have a larger group?"

"If warriors are needed, they will come." Kellec inclined his head toward the forest behind them. "When flying a flag of conference, it is prudent to show fewer arms than you care to use, but possess more."

It made sense, or at least enough sense for Ronon to accept. Someone was watching their backs; that was all he needed to know.

Teyla sat down, tucking her legs up beneath her. "Will the talks be held in this area as well, since it is considered neutral?"

"In his message to Galven, Governor Cestan requested that the Hall be used, as it has been in the past." Men' se set about unlacing the straps from her right shoe.

"Not a very comfortable place to hold a long negotiation," Ronon commented. "You'd have to move all the damaged equipment."

Kellec frowned. "I believe you misunderstand. Should Galven agree, the talks will be held in the main Hall, not the entryway. There is more than sufficient room inside, and it was left untouched by any attacks."

Ronon didn't want to be the one to tell these people that McKay had broken the door mechanism, even if the scientist could most likely fix it or find a way around it within hours. Except the transporter hadn't unlocked for him or Sheppard, both of whom had the gene. Which meant he'd just obtained some new information.

"You are able to enter the main Hall?" Teyla asked. "You know how to operate the security on the door?"

A perplexed look came over the chief warrior's face. "Security has never been a concern. We make use of the stairwell into the Hall, not the door with the lighted panel, which appears to have no exit."

There was a stairwell. Of course. The transporter probably led somewhere further inside the facility, either for convenience or for additional protection. Ronon smirked, thinking of the trouble McKay might have saved himself if he'd focused on the second door instead of the first.

After that, an awkward silence fell. It stretched for a few minutes, magnifying the wait, until Teyla broke it by turning to Merise with an inquisitive smile. "Do you choose to become warriors, or is the path chosen for you?"

Her shoe now adjusted to her satisfaction, the Falnori woman reached into her bag and withdrew a loaf of soft bread. Tearing off a piece, she offered the loaf to Teyla. "The choice to become soldiers is our own. Becoming a warrior requires something greater than a mere choice."

"It is a simpler road for some than for others," Kellec asserted, accepting the bread when Teyla passed it to him. "Merise, for instance, was nearly born with a whip in her hand."

"You exaggerate, Kellec." Merise shook her head, but tolerated the remark. "My father was one of the city's finest craftsmen," she explained. "From an early age he schooled me in both the art of creating the whip and the skill of controlling it."

The bread made its way to Ronon. He found it sweet and surprisingly delicate. "Much effort is devoted to the creation of a whip, is it not?" Teyla asked.

Unhooking her whip from her belt, Merise moved to show the visitors its attributes. "The most difficult aspect is the fall." She indicated the long, flexible part. "A thin strand of adarite runs from the top of the handle down the length of the fall. It must be a continuous strand of a certain width, or the weapon will not discharge sufficient power. Adarite can be worked with heat, but it is fragile. It takes years of apprenticeship to fashion a quality whip. Few who take up the trade have the focus to master it."

Teyla examined the whip's construction, skimming her fingers along the braided fall. "Would you teach me some of your handling skills?" she requested. "It would occupy our time, and I am curious to learn."

Men' se looked to Kellec for permission. The chief warnor responded by handing his own whip to Teyla. Once she had secured her dark hair away from her face, Merise dropped into a familiar combat stance: one foot slightly behind the other, toes turned out. The whip hung loosely at her side. Teyla copied the position.

"Guess you have to be careful not to accidentally turn the thing on," Ronon said.

A rueful smile curled the corner of Kellec's mouth. "A key reason why only the finest of our soldiers are selected for the warrior order."

The two women went through a series of basic motions, which Teyla picked up quickly. In the forward jabs, sideways sweeps, and spins, there were notable similarities to her usual fighting style, although the whip had a much longer reach than her staffs. It appeared almost like a dance: fluid, yet with a percussive force provided by the occasional snap of the weapon. Ronon was impressed by Merise's control. Despite the length and pliancy of the whip, she was able to put her strikes exactly where she wanted them, near or far. He found it difficult to predict her moves.

At the warrior's silent invitation, Ronon took her whip-careful to avoid the power band on the handle-and tried to mimic Teyla's movements. His fighting skills ran toward guns or hand-to-hand, so he wasn't nearly as coordinated at first, and he found that he had to work harder than he'd expected just to maintain the pace and keep the whip from touching anything it shouldn't. Still, he could see how such a weapon could have its advantages, even if the spinning moves made him a little unsteady.

After a few minutes, Teyla returned Kellec's whip to him. "Thank you," she told him, brushing damp hair back from her forehead. "It is a demanding style."

She looked tired, more so than Ronon would have expected for such a short period of activity. As he handed Merise her whip, something in the distance caught the attention of the group.

Arider approached, sitting astride one of the beasts that Sheppard had dubbed `Energizer Bunnies on steroids.' A scarlet and gold banner, presumably a flag of conference, billowed out behind him. The messenger, Ronon identified. That hadn't taken as long as he'd feared.

As the rider drew nearer, he slowed the animal to a walking pace and then dismounted, keeping hold of the reins. "Day's greetings, Chief Warrior," he called.

"Day's greetings," replied Kellec. "Have you the Nistra's answer?"

"I have, sir. Minister Galven accepts the governor's invitation. He will come to the Hall at the appointed time with only his personal guards. However, he cautions that if he does not find the guards provided by the mediator to be satisfactory, his acceptance is forfeit."

"That won't be a problem," Ronon said.

Kellec smiled. "I am gratified. Please go and tell your people that the talks are set. We will take the good news to the governor."

Something more than anticipation lingered in the man's eyes, though. Ronon glanced at Merise and found the same expression. Caution, maybe, or suspicion. From the looks of it, no one was all that confident about the prospects for a positive outcome from these talks. He found himself hoping that if these two groups really were primed to do battle, they would at least let him and his team get out of the way first.

"At last," Rodney said theatrically, plunking himself down on a nearby chair. "For a while I thought we were going to have to wait until the Daedalus came by again to get our damn mail."

"Relax, Rodney. I'm sure your bulk order of Twinkies is safe." John grinned at the immediate spluttering his comment produced.

"I do not hoard Twinkies. It was only that first supply run, because it had been so long since we'd had anything resembling actual food. And would you keep your voice down? The last thing I need is Marines with stealth skills and scientists with rewiring skills trying to break into my quarters in search of a junk-food stockpile."

The mess hall was one of the largest spaces in the occupied section of Atlantis, and it was rapidly filling with people, all eager for a taste of home in whatever form it might take. For John, who'd pretty much been military from birth, home tended to be wherever he was currently assigned, but he could admit to some interest in the latest movies and sports DVDs Stargate Command graciously provided with each supply run. And Frosted Flakes. God, he hated it when the mess ran out of Frosted Flakes.

They still had a few minutes until the official start of mail call, so he perched on the edge of Rodney's table. "How are you guys coming along on your analysis of the adarite?"

Next to Rodney, Radek Zelenka shrugged. "We have a good sense of its molecular structure. Similar to naquadah, as Rodney theorized-"

"More precisely, similar to naquadria." Rodney ran over his research partner's explanation without hesitating, oblivious to Radek's exasperated gaze. "In the sense that it's highly energetic and only stable in certain forms. It makes one wonder if the ore formed naturally on the planet or if it was a byproduct of the Ancients' charming pastime of terraforming."

Yeah, John had felt charmed by their all-too-recent terraforming adventure, all right. He figured he should probably take note of that comment about stability, but Rodney and Radek were on the job, so he wasn't overly concerned.

"However, the crystalline structure is brittle," Radek continued. "Manipulating it will not be as simple as standard metalworking. And we do not yet have a method for directing the discharged energy once it leaves the ore, which will be necessary before we can develop any sort of distance weapon."

"You'll make it work," John said, realizing a half-second too late that his tone had sounded more like a command than an expression of faith.

Rodney tossed him a long-suffering scowl. "If for no other reason than it would be vexing to break my streak of day-saving, yes, of course I'll make it work. But I'll need some time."

"How much time do you think we have, Rodney?" John retorted. "How long do you think it'll take the Asurans to build another cityship and point it toward us?"

Now Rodney was looking at him strangely. "You want to dial back the paranoia for a minute? That's supposed to be my role. As soon as I get into the facility on 418, things will go faster."

As tough as it was to admit, Rodney was right. John needed to step back and let them do their jobs. A little embarrassed, he pushed himself up from the table. "Well, good luck with it. Anyway, I think it's time to get this show on the road."

He headed for the front of the room, where Elizabeth was standing next to two large pallets stacked with boxes and four containers of envelopes. Her eyes twinkled. "Colonel, would you like to do the honors?"

The enthusiasm of the room was contagious. "As you wish, Doctor." John climbed up on the table and whistled sharply to get everyone's attention. "Okay, you all know the drill. No opening anything or making trade offers until all mail has been distributed, just to keep the noise level down. After that, you're on your own. Now, the first item goes to…" Elizabeth handed him a package. "Sergeant Ruiz." Cheers and clapping accompanied the beaming sergeant up to the front.

The event lasted nearly an hour, and John decided he was glad he'd come after all. It wasn't every day he got to see the expedition so uniformly happy. Carson lit up when he received an oversized box marked Perishable. "Mum's scones," he exclaimed blissfully, and the offers for bartering escalated so quickly that John had to whistle again to quiet the room down. Radek's stack of letters was an astounding four inches thick, but when Rodney and others demanded to know who'd sent them, he responded with only a closed-mouthed smile and a few hushed words in Czech.

One of the newer scientists had been worried for weeks about a brother in the Army who'd been deployed to the desert. John had heard about it through the rumor mill, so he especially enjoyed handing her an envelope postmarked Balad, Iraq. The young woman almost bowled him over in her joy. It was easily the highlight of his day.

When every package had found an eager owner, John jumped down from the table and wandered over to see what his colleagues were up to. Carson's scones had turned out to be the hot commodity this time around. His mother must have baked for a solid week, because his box was packed to the brim with dozens of the biscuit-looking things, frozen for the long trip. A crowd had formed around him, but he steadfastly refused to entertain any trades.

"Oh, I don't believe this!" Rodney fumed. Before John could ask what might be so offensive about scones, the chief scientist shoved a magazine in his face. "A typo. Have I somehow angered the gods of physics, or am I just surrounded by morons at every turn? I fight through three levels of Air Force bureaucracy to get this paper cleared for publication, and they introduce a typo!"

John squinted at the dense text and tried not to be too impressed by the alphabet soup of degrees following the name M. Rodney McKay. Rodney really didn't need the ego boost. And what was that `M' for? "I don't see it," he offered.

"I wouldn't expect you to. That insufferable Matthias Palmer at MIT, however, will spot it immediately, and criticism from lesser minds is high on my list of things that are intolerable."

"Okay, but he's on Earth and you're here, so how much crap can he really give you?"

Rodney paused. "You make an excellent point."

On that positive note, John elected to leave the controlled chaos of the mess hall behind. He headed for his quarters, wondering what movie would get the popular vote for tonight's rec-room viewing. Actually, they'd probably show a World Cup game or two. Soccer wasn't one of his favorite sports, but it had been a while since football season, so he'd take what he could get.

He waved his hand in front of the wall sensor, and his door obligingly slid open. Before he could enter, Elizabeth's voice called out, "John."

Turning in the doorway, he watched her take long strides to catch up to him. "I thought you were reading your mail with everyone else."

"I swiped mine earlier." Atlantis's leader gave him a conspiratorial smile, but he could sense the inquiry behind it. "I'm glad you were there," she said quietly. "You don't always participate."

"Yeah, well." John knew how perceptive Elizabeth was, and he was pretty sure she'd realized at some point how little mail he received. Truth be told, part of the reason he often volunteered to play postman was to distract people from noticing that fact. It didn't bother him- after all, he was used to it. He just didn't want to be fodder for the liveliest gossip mill ever spawned.

"I didn't really want to give you this in front of everyone, though, so…" Elizabeth held an envelope out to him, clearly watching for his reaction.

Puzzled, John took it from her and examined the postmark. Some tiny crumb of memory told him that he should recognize that address-

Then he got it, and his chest tightened painfully. Looking up at Elizabeth, he found sympathy in her expressive eyes. That was just about the last thing he wanted, so he forced a smile. "I appreciate it."

For once, she seemed hesitant in her response. "John, I'm sure she's still hurting. If she lashes out at you in that letter, just because you're the only one she knows how to blame… don't listen."

Easier said than done. What he said aloud, however, was a simple "Thanks."

Elizabeth touched his arm briefly, and left. John stepped into his quarters and sat down hard on the bed, feeling like he'd been blindsided. The door swished shut behind him.

He stared at the neat, feminine handwriting on the envelope, addressed to Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard at Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado. Surely Lara Ford had known when she wrote out the envelope that its final destination wouldn't be Peterson, even if that base had been the last official duty station of her cousin Alden. She'd shown a surprising level of comprehension and poise last year when John had visited her to break the news of Aiden's disappearance. What she hadn't shown was forgiveness. John respected that, because he hadn't wanted any.

Lieutenant Aiden Ford belonged to a terrible cadre that seemed to be growing by the day: people who had been lost under John's command, people who had followed his orders and hadn't come home.

Back on Earth the Air Force ran a class intended to teach unit commanders how to lead. John kept getting the class registration notices from the SGC and kept ignoring them, because there was no way he was leaving Atlantis long enough to attend, but also because no classroom course could tell him how to deal with what he saw and did out here.

His Marines looked at him like he had all the answers. Lack of alternatives, he guessed. There wasn't anyone else for them to look to.

He was a realist, and logically he knew that there was no way to completely avoid losing people. He wasn't arrogant enough to believe he could control everything that happened to the expedition. But the questions were always there, lingering in the back of his mind-what could have been different, what right turn should have been a left-and they just kept piling up.

After a long moment spent contemplating the envelope, he stood up and went over to his desk. Trying not to picture Alden Ford's too-young face, he opened the bottom drawer, put the still-sealed letter inside, and shoved the drawer shut.

I'm sorry, Ford. I swear I am. But I've got Harper and Travis and four other guys hanging over my head right now, and there are only so many ghosts I can handle at once.