Sonny Whitelaw - The Chosen

On second thought, maybe that hadn’t been such a bright idea. “Stories, yes — stories to tell, not so much.”

“Because you can’t say? Or because you don’t want to?” The young man’s expression betrayed his naïveté.

“Little of column A, little of column B.” For John, part of the allure of the Pegasus Galaxy had been the fact that, here, his record wasn’t nearly as remarkable — and not in a good way, either — as it was on Earth. He’d been happy to let the Marines believe that he was nothing more than a throttle-jockey, rank notwithstanding. His days of relative anonymity on that front were probably over, thanks to his star turn during the Genii attack. Now, there could be no denying his…What was the proper euphemism? Breadth of experience? The trail of dead Genii in his wake during the storm had seen to that.

Then there’d been the unrelenting thud of bodies striking the ‘gate shield, one after another, until a rational person could no longer keep count.

Deliberately shoving that thought aside, John grabbed something that passed for a French fry off Rodney’s tray before redirecting the conversation. “I used that to decide whether to come along on this little road trip.”

“To Atlantis ? You flipped a coin ?”

John shrugged, choosing not to complicate the issue with details. Rodney, of all people, nodded understanding and pulled something from inside his jacket. “I keep a Loonie around for just such contingencies.” He held it out to Teyla, pointing to the bird on the dollar’s face. “This is legal currency in my home country, as opposed to whatever those two are carrying around.”

Behind a tall glass of Athosian fruit juice, Ford was hiding a smirk.

The Canadian scientist made a great show of turning to him in mock curiosity. “I presume you have some brilliant play on words to share? Because, gosh, I’ve never heard a Loonie joke before.”

“No, nothing.” Ford made a valiant attempt to resist the urge to make a wisecrack, but ultimately failed. “It’s just…Is that a Loonie in your pocket, or are you just happy—?”

John groaned and lightly smacked the back of the Marine’s head. “A wide-open shot like that, and that’s the best you can do? Not only are you banned from naming things, you’re relieved of mocking duty.”

“Yes, hilarious, Lieutenant. Did I miss your thirteenth birthday last week?” Rodney glared across the table at them both, but then his attention was diverted by a minor commotion. A huddle of three engineers, expressions running the gamut from irritatingly determined to determinedly irritated, strode into the mess hall.

“This oughta be good,” John muttered to Ford.

As the trio neared the team’s table, their back-and-forth chatter became audible. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t the power surge. It was—”

“Yes, yes, we know. Something else. Helpful suggestion, that.”

“Dr McKay,” the female member of the gang began. “We’ve run into a problem with the life-support systems.”

Regarding the three-person squad with mild interest, Rodney seized the last of his fries before John could sneak any more off the plate. “A little clarification goes a long way, people.”

“The storm caused a lot of damage.”

The remark had fallen casually from the engineer’s lips. Damage. That was one way to put it. John cast a surreptitious glance at Rodney.

While the scientist’s face didn’t overtly change, he tugged unconsciously at the sleeve over his bandaged arm, legacy of a Genii-style interrogation. “As usual, I’m impressed by the collective talent this group has for understatement,” he grumbled.

That sounded enough like Rodney’s normal self for John’s concern to fade somewhat. Normal was good. Hell, even fake normalcy was worth something, because eventually they’d start to believe it.

“Right,” replied the engineer. “Well, with the city’s help we were able to restore primary life-support power shortly after the storm. Problem is, there are facets of the system that the city doesn’t consider crucial. Potable water is critical, for instance, but waste disposal apparently isn’t. Hence, a few days’ worth of waste, even with a group as small as ours, is beginning to strain the capacity of the storage tanks.”

Of all the things that could cause problems on an intergalactic expedition, the possibility of clogged toilets had never entered John’s mind. Eat your heart out, Buck Rogers.

“And this relates to me in what way?” Rodney wanted to know.

“Kwesi thinks that—”

“Kwesi thinks that he can speak for himself, thank you,” another of the engineers cut in, his gentle Ghanaian accent sharpened by annoyance. “It takes someone with the ATA gene to make much of this technology work, Doctor. We believe that if you could interface with the city systems, you might convince it to rearrange its priorities.”

Rodney still looked nonplussed, but John imagined that he could see a glint of something new there. Pride, maybe. Rodney had successfully received the gene therapy, and there was something to be said for being one of the select few to have the magic touch.

“As flattered as I am that you see my potential for a job in sanitation, the city seems to like the Major here better than me.”

John’s focus snapped fully into the conversation. He got the distinct impression that he’d just been volunteered for something. “Say what?”

“Well put, as always,” Rodney muttered dryly.

“But you know the systems better than anyone, Doctor,” countered the female engineer, whose name John still hadn’t learned but whose skills at buttering up the boss apparently were top-notch.

“I suppose duty calls, then. I should have had overtime pay built into my contract.” Rodney rose from the table. Mess hall tray clutched in his hands, he somehow managed to adopt an air of unwavering self-assurance. “Lead on.”

The rest of the team followed, picking up their trays and carrying them to the cleanup area. Ford reached down to save his hard-won brownie and discovered it missing. He jerked his head up just in time to see Rodney pop the last bite into his mouth.

“Hey!”

“Don’t disparage a man’s national symbols or his coffee habits, Lieutenant.” The astrophysicist’s voice was entirely unapologetic.

John tried not to crack a grin at Ford’s crestfallen look. This version of ‘normal’ felt a little forced. Still, it was a start.

The computer screen stared at her, blank faced and accusing, until Dr Elizabeth Weir gave in and leaned back in her desk chair, massaging her temples. The gritty sensation behind her eyes warned her that she might be coming down with something. She told herself that it was probably just stress brought on by recent events. Nevertheless, she made a mental note to have one of the engineering teams analyze the city’s biohazard containment capabilities. While they’d brought HAZMAT gear with them, it would be good to know what facilities the Ancients might have installed in the city. One never knew what new pathogens lurked in this galaxy.

That small seed of data fell into a jumbled pile with all the others she’d collected over the past months. Precious few were finding an appropriate place to take root. There was so much to be done, so much to be learned. It was far more than they could possibly grasp in a lifetime — even if they weren’t stumbling into adversaries every other day. What had begun as an expedition to the lost city of Atlantis had almost immediately turned into a continuous battle for survival; against man, beast and nature, often simultaneously.

Had she honestly expected any less? When SG-1 had first stepped through the Stargate years earlier, they had opened the proverbial Pandora’s Box. That Atlantis was presenting similarly daunting challenges should have come as no surprise.