Amy Griswold - The Lost

“She and her Consort both?” Dust shook his head, and worry was evident in every line of his face. “That is ill news indeed. What can the Lanteans be up to?”

The other blade might have spoken, but Quicksilver broke in. “Is there no way to probe my mind for the information you seek? I am sure I know the gate address to Atlantis! If it is that the Queen is concerned about hurting me, I beg you to think no more of that! I would gladly suffer whatever is necessary to help!”

Dust came round the table to him, and put his hand to Quicksilver’s cheek in affection. “My brother, I know that you are brave and that you would like to help, but there is nothing that can be done. Your mind is so damaged that even the Queen can reap nothing from it. We have only to hope that as you heal you may remember. Give yourself time, and tell me of each thing that comes to you, for even the smallest thing may hold a clue, no matter how unimportant it may seem.”

Quicksilver nodded. “I will do that,” he said eagerly. “And perhaps if I try very hard to remember, I shall find more. Perhaps, if he disregarded the words of that queen he dreamed, he could find the information that hung just out of reach.

The door signal to his quarters jolted John awake. He had a moment of disorientation, the gray light from the windows making it hard to remember what time it was. By the time he decided it was early evening, he was already up and at the door, trying not to resent being woken up at a time when he shouldn't actually have been asleep. Torren was the only one in Atlantis anyone would expect to be in bed at seven.

Here is the thing, Ronon said without preliminaries, leaning in the door as it opened. Zelenka's a bad shot because he can't see well enough. He won't go see Jennifer about it because he thinks if he fails the eye test, Woolsey will send him home, Ronon said.

That's a problem, John said, shaking his head to try to clear it. He always hated getting the scientists shot at, and it helped if they were at least armed and able to shoot back.

I thought maybe if you talked to her.

Yeah, maybe, John said. You know Keller, though, she plays things by the book. If we still had Carson…

We do still have Carson.

It was tempting to take this to Carson, but John was pretty sure that Carson couldn't sneak this by under Keller's nose in her own infirmary, especially when it would mean borrowing whatever equipment he needed for an eye exam. I'll work something out.

Ronon looked a little skeptical. So you're going to talk to her.

I'm going to work something out, John said. Trust me.

He headed out to the pier where the George Hammond was docked instead of down to the infirmary. It wasn't a pleasant stroll in the evening with snow whipping across the pier, although apparently someone had been out long enough that afternoon to build a snowman that was now guarding the Hammond at icy attention.

He found Sam in the Hammond's galley, nursing a cup of coffee. She waved him to a seat and pushed the paperwork she's been reading aside. What can I do for you, Sheppard?

I was wondering if I could get someone on your medical staff to do an eye exam for Zelenka, he said. It's probably no big deal, but just in case there is something that might be a problem according to the letter of the rules.

Well, okay, Sam said. I think Dr. Keller could do that, though.

Well, then it's official, and if she doesn't put it in her paperwork, she could get in trouble. If it's just one of your people taking a look when they are off duty, though.

Yes, all right, Sam said. I can arrange that. You owe me, though.

Absolutely, John said, with his most charming smile. He figured that ought to take care of it. There might not be any problem after all, but better safe than sorry.

The morning briefing for the new military personnel on Ancient weapons technology was easy to do pretty much on auto-pilot, because it really boiled down to have some drones and some weird devices that we don't know what to do with, and that are equally likely to be actual weapons and to be things that we're just using in all the ways it says not to on the warning label. The fun part would be getting to actually play with the drones, which would be a later and much smaller training session.

John was thinking hopefully of coffee when his radio headset sounded.

Colonel Sheppard, Jennifer said. Could you stop by when you have a moment? There are something we need to talk about.

He considered getting the coffee first, I'll be right there, he said instead. It was never a good thing when a doctor said there was something you needed to talk about. It probably wasn't about him, unless he managed to contract a deadly disease in the last couple of weeks, but if one of his people had managed to wind up in the infirmary with something embarrassing and contagious, or, worse, something that suggested serious mental health issues, it was going to be his problem.

He was not really in the mood to deal with either contracted a social disease while the rest of us were trying to get some work done or probably crazy. Of course, Jennifer wouldn't put it that way. She talk about PTSD and the pressure everyone was under, and he nod and agree that of course whoever it was needed to go home. Or maybe send them over to Dr. Robinson, and let her find fancier words for couldn't put up enough of a good front.

John was beginning to think he should have fortified himself with coffee first, but it was too late now that he was almost at the infirmary doors. He squared his shoulders and walked in, looking around to see who was here and what they've done to themselves.

The infirmary was quiet except for a young Marine who was getting stitches on his cheek from one of the nurses. He relaxed a little; Jennifer had called him down here before to point out that the Marines inflicted an unnecessary number of injuries on one another in physical training, which John agreed was probably true but disagreed that he was in a position to do anything about. It wasn't like telling them to play nice was likely to have much effect.

Colonel Sheppard, Jennifer said, standing in the door of her office. He was alarmed by how grim she looked. Come into my office, please.

What's wrong? he asked, coming in.

She shut the door without answering, but made no move to sit down behind her desk, where her laptop still sat open. She had coffee, some part of his mind noticed enviously, although it looked like it had gotten cold.

I received a transfer of medical records from the Hammond this morning, she said. The records of Dr. Zelenka's eye exam. Does this ring any bells?

John considered I don't know what you're talking about and they weren't supposed to send you the records as possible answers, and struck out for some middle ground. How that go?

He's cleared for active duty. Is that your question?

He's been having trouble with firearms practice, John said. It was my advice that he should get his eyes checked.

It looks like that was good advice, Jennifer said. Now I want to ask you a really direct question, and I'll appreciate an honest answer. Was it Zelenka's idea to do an end run around me on this, or was it yours?”

“It was mine,” John said after a moment.

She shook her head. “Somehow I figured that.”

“We need him,” John said intently. “With Rodney missing, if we lose Zelenka, we’re totally screwed. You can see that, right?”

“Yes,” Jennifer said. “I can. His corrected vision is really borderline according to the regulations, and I’m going to keep on ignoring that, because we do need him.”