Casualties of War

by Elizabeth Christensen

  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 w
as 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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  'he Marines fanned out, directed by Major Lorne to take up sentry positions around the gate area. Cestan had demonstrated how far out from the Hall the noweapon boundary lay, and they would follow it strictly. Elizabeth zipped her jacket higher against a cool breeze and watched the arrival of the two leaders and their parties.

  On her right, John leaned in and commented, "Does it say something disturbing about me that I feel naked without my gun?"

  "I'm more disturbed by your use of the words `gun' and `naked' in the same sentence," she returned under her breath. "Now be good."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  From the woods emerged a tall, navy-robed man who must have been Governor Cestan, flanked by four guards. One carried a banner attached to a pole: the flag of conference, she presumed.

  A similar quintet approached from the direction of the mountains, alighting from an animal-drawn cart. Elizabeth was mildly startled by the appearance of the Nistra delegation. The older man-Minister Galven, no doubt-had the grooming and deportment of a leader, but his guards didn't look nearly as strong and fit as the Falnori. They were lean from ill health rather than conditioning. Already, it seemed, there was more to the situation than she'd known.

  The delegations stopped a few yards apart and regarded each other without speaking. Elizabeth took that as her cue. "Gentlemen, thank you for agreeing to these discussions," she greeted. "My name is Doctor Elizabeth Weir. My team and I are visitors to your world, and we have not come to tell you how to lead your people. Rather, it's my hope that by acting as a third party mediator, with no alliance to either side, I can help you to reach an arrangement that will be equitable to all and promote understanding between your two societies."

  Neither side made any overt response to the introduction. Undaunted, she continued, "Shall we move to the Hall of Tribute so we may begin?"

  Stepping forward, two of Cestan's guards detached their whips from their belts and handed the coils of ore and leather to their comrades. Apparently both sides planned to leave personnel at the gate, because two of Galven's guards did likewise. Trust, obviously, was in short supply here. Ronon, who had shocked no one on his team by choosing t
o stay outside with the Marines, took custody of his teammates' relinquished P-90s.

  "Give a yell if anyone approaches the perimeter," John instructed, tapping the radio affixed to his vest. "From any direction. And keep an eye on your new pals."

  "Will do," said Ronon.

  The motley crew started toward the damaged outer building. Cestan and Galven both kept their gazes focused directly ahead, neither acknowledging the other during the walk. John, Lorne, and Teyla stayed between the two parties, maintaining a subtle separation, just in case. Elizabeth could see Rodney practically humming with anticipation beside her. He had brought two of the city's power specialists along to dig into whatever technological treasures lay within the Ancient facility, and he obviously didn't care to waste any more time.

  The interior of the structure was every bit as demolished as its exterior suggested. Flashlight in hand, Lorne helped Elizabeth climb over a splintered table as they followed the Nistra guards into a back corner. Behind a fallen section of roof lay two doors. The guards approached the second door and manipulated its handle this way and that. Eventually the door opened to reveal a nondescript stairwell.

  When he caught sight of it, Rodney's cheer dimmed, and he grumbled a complaint about information that would have been helpful earlier.

  The stairs led them down about two stories, depositing them in a room that caught Elizabeth off-guard. No evidence of any attack was visible here. At one end of the expansive room sat a V-shaped table and easily enough chairs for the proceedings. The rest of the space was lined with Ancient equipment, leading to a hallway at the far end that must have continued into the rest of the facility. All of it was clean, orderly-and lit.

  Her surprise must have shown, because Cestan spoke for the first time. "Our scholars are permitted to study and reflect here. A group visited earlier and prepared the Hall for our use."

  Already bouncing from console to console, trying to determine the optimal starting point, Rodney managed to quash his curiosity long enough to ask, "May I infer that we're free to look around?"