Plan Z, Part 1/4
Title: Plan Z
Author: Soledad
Fandom: Stargate-Atlantis
Genre: Action/adventure, Humour
Rating: 14+, for language, even though it's in Czech. *g*
Pairings: Radek/?/? - anything else would be telling. And it’s all implied anyway.
Warnings: none, unless you’re squicked out by the idea of Mpreg or cross-genre threesomes. Only mentioned, nothing shown.
Timeframe: Late Season 1, so that I could add my favourite supporting characters who never made it into Season 2.
Summary: Answering the 2007 Radek ficathon challenge. Written for leaper182.
The prompt was: When Sheppard's team is trapped off-world, they need Radek's help to get back to Atlantis. Slash (either Radek/Rodney or Radek/Carson) is lovely, but not required.
Series/sequel: none. Although the story uses the settings of my Darkroom alternate universe, it’s independent from everything I’ve ever written in this fandom.
Disclaimer: don’t own them, no money made. Only the wacky planet and a bunch of OCs belong to me.
Author’s note: As I not only generally suck at your regular action/adventure stuff but also never imagined Radek with either of the above guys, I was in real trouble when I got my assignment. So I’ve sent a distress call to Memory Alpha, my sci-fi Yahoo Group as well as post it to my LJ. The names of the generous people who’ve helped me to put the actual plot together can be read below.
I also used one of the unanswered challenges over at Wraithbait, where someone named Squid wrote:
Story should include Rodney, John, Carson, and Radek. Slash if you want. Threesome or more if you so chose. Whatever rating, yada...very forgiving structure so far, eh? Well, somewhere within the story should include the following statement from Radek: "You have found some Ancient impregnation device and have decided that I will be your brood-mare for wild-haired fey children with astronomical IQs, god-like ATA-genes, and sexy brogues?"
That gave me the basic idea, and things have spiralleddownward from that moment on. *g*
Thanks to: Lisa aka Firewolfe from Memory Alpha, who suggested the main plot idea, Squid who came up with the impregnation machine and the immortal Radek line, Jenn who gave her support, and Purpleyin who did the gargantuan Beta work and suggested the title. All remaining mistakes are mine - sometimes I’m just too stubborn to listen. My apologies. :))
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PLAN Z, PART 1
Dr. Radek Zelenka never felt the urge to go off-world. The one step through the Stargate - the one that had brought him from the Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado to Atlantis - had been enough for him. He wasn’t the adventurous type and preferred to study random pieces of Ancient technology in his own lab.
“Besides,” he explained to Dr. Carson Beckett in the mess hall, “there are only three teams that go off-world regularly. Sergeant Stackhouse’s team is good at trading for food, but they never find any Ancient tech. Sergeant Bates’ team is good at making useful contracts with natives, but the tech they find never works...”
“That is, sadly, quite true,” Dr. Peter Grodin agreed, eating something akin to lemon chicken with gusto. Dishes with citrus were only allowed on days when Dr. McKay was off-world, which gave the cooks one day's break from his rabid questioning of ingredients in the meals. The happiness at his absence wasn’t limited to his effect on the menu card, by the way. It was to the general relief of the entire science secton that this was one of those days.
“But at least Major Sheppard’s team often finds Ancient tech that’s still working,” Grodin added, wanting to be fair to Atlantis’ principal off-world team.
“And that’s trying to kill them in new and creative ways every single time,” Dr. Julia Simpson, the fourth one in their circle, commented.
“Unless Rodney upsets local tribe chief or the major seduces high priestess, in which case locals try to kill them,” Zelenka added. “There’s too much attampted killing involved for anyone in their right mind to want to join them.”
Grodin laughed. “Ain’t that the truth… But usually, it’s a bunch of Wraith who show up right after their arrival. Half the time they come in hot. If you think about it, it’s a little strange.”
“That’s what Sergeant Bates thinks, too,” Beckett said. “Only, he suspects the Athosians would sell out our people to the Wraith.”
“Sergeant Bates is grossly paranoid,” Zelenka said. “He’d have made great career in Czechoslovakia with attitude like that thirty years ago.”
“He has to be,” Grodin shrugged. “He’s the chief of security here. Paranoia is part of his job.”
“You really think Athosians would work with Wraith?” Zelenka asked doubtfully.
He knew, of course, that sometimes people simply had to cooperate with an oppressing force, but cooperation with the Wraith was pretty much a moot point. All one could have achieved was the questionable advantage to be eaten last.
“No,” Grodin admitted. “But I do think that Major Sheppard stays willingly blind towards the mere possibility because he wants to get into Teyla’s pants. And that’s a bloody dangerous attitude.”
“Is another reason why I don’t wish to go on off-world mission with Dream Team,” Zelenka declared darkly, stuffing two delicious Athosian biscuits into his mouth at the same tame. It was a shame, really, to eat them so fast, but if you worked with Dr. McKay on a regular basis, you learned quickly that the only safe place for your sweets - or for your coffee, for that matter - was your own stomach. The man definitely had a detrimental effect on everybody’s table manners.
“Do you accept them to get in trouble again?” Grodin asked. “It seemed a fairly simple recon mission to me. All the MALP showed was a large, dark room, with no people around the Stargate.”
“Which is exactly how their visit to Hoff started, and we all know how that turned out,” Beckett mumbled, pushing the food around on his plate.
The others exchanged concerned looks. The tragic events on Hoff were still haunting the good doctor, causing him insomnia and a general lack of appetite, which worried his friends sometimes.
“I bet they’ll get in trouble,” Simpson picked up the conversation again, mostly to distract Beckett from his guilt-filled thoughts.
Grodin treated her with a supremely British eyebrow raise that climbed up to the roots of his hair.
“You do? Well, I’m in. And I bet that they’ll get in trouble because the major will pick up the wrong woman.”
“Ne,” Radek said. “It will be Rodney. He will insult important people, calling them morons and imbeciles. Or he will try to steal holy item from local temple, thinking that it’s amazing piece of Ancient tech.”
“Oh, good choice!” Grodin grinned at him. “But my money is still on the major. What do you think, Carson?”
“I’m not a betting man, lad,” Beckett replied absently. But Simpson wasn’t allowing him to back off so easily.
“You have to vote for someone,” she declared. “There are four of us, and the team has four members. So choose.”
“All right,” Beckett said tiredly. “I vote for Ford.”
“Oh, please!” Simpson exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “How could our good little boy scout possibly screw up a mission?”
“How the hell should I know?” Beckett shot back, exasperated. “I’m a doctor, not a screenwriter! You tell me.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Simpson told him. “You came up with the name; you’ll have to come up with the reason, too.”
“Och, for the…” Beckett let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, perhaps he blew up the wrong person. Or he got on everyone’s nerves by being so bloody cheerful all the time.”
“That’s acceptable,” Grodin said. “Well, Julia? You got the really tough one: how is Teyla supposed to screw up the mission?”
“By beating up important people to defend any of the three men in the team,” Simpson replied promptly, and even Carson had to laugh at that - especially as the idea did have a kernel of truth. Things like that had happened before.
“The bet is on, then,” Grodin announced, placing a tiny, narrow box with five Pocket Coffee pralines - the ones that were filled with real espresso - in the middle of the table. It was a criminal waste to risk such precious goods for a stupid bet, but it helped to bring Carson down from his guilt trip, even for a short time, it was worth the sacrifice. Besides, there was a good chance that either Radek or Peter himself would win the bet, in which case they would share the winnings anyway.
Radek’s own contribution was an XXL-sized power bar - the brand with the really large chocolate chips. He’d won it from Rodney a few days earlier, so it was only proper to use it for another bet. Simpson offered a copy of her favourite music CD, and Beckett produced a small satchel of his excellent tea - shared only with very good friends, on very special occasions.
All these rare treasures were entrusted to Grodin, as usual. He was the one with the right mind to keep tabs on all the pools running in Atlantis, and he kept a spreadsheeet about every single one, noting the winners and the goods that had been won. It was a useful hobby, as it made him well-informed about Atlantis’ inner economy.
“Well,” Simpson said, finishing her dessert with the same speed as Radek, but in a somewhat more dignified manner, “I have to go back to my lab. We’ve been running an experiment since early morning, and Calvin needs a break to eat, too. When his blood sugar is low, he gets as cranky as McKay at his worst.”
“Calvin?” Zelenka repeated, raising an inquiring eyebrow.
“Dr. Kavanagh,” Beckett, who knew everyone’s personal file - hey, he was their doctor, after all! - explained. Zelenka’s eyebrows climbed up to the roots of his Einsteinesque hair.
“Dr. Kavanagh has first name? Wonders never cease to exist.”
The others grinned. Poor Kavanagh was often the recipient of such verbal jabs, both face to face or behind his back. He was simply too much like McKay in his social graces - or, to be more accurate, in the lack thereof - and two McKays were too much for such a small, closed community, to handle. And only one of them was a certifiable genius to excuse his manners.
“We should go, too,” Grodin suggested. “I could use your help with the deep space sensors, Radek - or are you too busy in your lab?”
“Am always a very busy man,” Zelenka replied with a sigh, “but now that Rodney is off-world, I can at least work in peace, without constant interruptions.”
“Oh,” Grodin said with a long face. “Well, I’ll ask Dr. Moosekian, then. He’s a decent enough engineer, even if he’s not as good as you are.”
“Ne, ne!” Zelenka protested. “You misunderstood. I’ll go to control room with you now and help you with deep space sensors. Then I’ll go back to lab and finish my own work in peace.”
Grodin thanked him, and they took their leave from Dr. Beckett - who was still struggling with his food; Athosian cuisine didn’t agree with him - and returned to the control room. It seemed fairly deserted at the moment, with only Chief Technician Eddie Wong and Sergeant Jenny Hagiwara on duty. Dr. Weir was in her office above the Gate room, working on some translations with one of the linguists.
They weren’t expecting Sheppard’s team back from M7L-982 for at least another day or two, so it was the ideal time for Grodin and Zelenka to try and bring the newly discovered deep space sensors back online. Having a forewarning should any Wraith ships approach the planet would be helpful.
It promised to be one of the rare peaceful days in the Pegasus galaxy. As everybody knows, however, those are the days when the proverbial shit likes to hit the fan - and this time wasn’t any different.
Grodin and Zelenka had been working for about an hour and a half, when the Stargate came alive. The bluish lights began to run around its great circle and various symbols flashing up briefly before locking in place. Dr. Weir, noticing the activity, stepped out onto the balcony of her office.
“What’s going on down there?” she demanded to know.
“Incoming wormhole,” Eddie Wong replied, raising the shield without waiting for her order. Living in Atlantis had taught everyone the advantages of independent thinking and fast reflexes.
Grodin left Zelenka’s side and hurried back to his usual station. “Do we have an IDC?” he asked.
“It seems to be Major Sheppard’s team, returning from M7L-982,” Wong replied, “because I’m receiving Lieutenant Ford’s IDC.”
“That’s strange,” Dr. Weir said with a concerned frown. “They weren’t supposed to be back before tomorrow or the day after. It hasn’t even been twelve hours since their last check-in. Perhaps they found something important.”
“Or someone found them,” Zelenka commented sotto voce.
In the meantime, the security team on duty had reached the Gate room, led by a grim-faced Sergeant Bates. Grodin glanced at his watch; it had taken the Marines exactly 85 seconds to get there. It was a new record. Apparently, all those drills Bates loved to run paid off, in the end.
“Do we have any audio messages?” Dr. Weir asked the Gate technician.
Wong shook his head. “All they’re sending is the IDC, Ma’am.”
“Gate room secured, ma’am,” Bates reported. “You should step back into your office, though… just in case.”
“Agreed,” Dr. Weir retreated behind the protective glass (or rather its Ancient equivalent) of her office, and then gave the order. “Lower the shield.”
The shimmering veil of energy warbled for a second, then it vanished, giving room to the familiar sight of the blue-white pool of the event horizon. An air of tense anticipation settled over the Gate room.
For another moment or two, nothing happened. Then the middle of the pool gave way to a tall figure who stepped out of it in a somewhat theatrical manner.
Needless to say that it wasn’t any member of Sheppard’s team. Human, yes, or at the very least human-looking: a tall, bony and dignified man in a long, stiff robe, made of some shiny fabric that rustled at his every movement. He wore an elaborate headdress that had a vague similarity to the helmets of ancient Greek or Roman warriors, only with an elongated metal crest on it, instead of a feather plume.
“Greetings!” he said in a somewhat high-pitched voice, almost falsetto. In fact, that peculiar voice matched the slightly insane look of his large, dark eyes and his strange mannerisms. He spread his long hands with what must have been a ceremonial gesture. “I am Diggory Suelze, and I am here on behalf of the Holy Synod of Furlonia.”
To say that all Atlantis personnel present were stunned would have been an understatement. Their collective jaws hit the floor in unison. It had been hard enough to get used to the astonishing speed with which the various Pegasus galaxy races picked up English, but at least the different structure of their brains gave a good explanation for that. If you were able to follow Dr. Beckett’s explanations, that is. Meeting some intergalactic clown for the first time and finding he already spoke perfect English was a different matter.
Nonetheless, Dr. Weir decided to go for the diplomatic course of action. For the time being anyway.
“I’d say it’s my pleasure, Mr. Suelze,” she said, “but it would be helpful to know what the Holy Synod of Furlonia is and what they want from us.”
“Ma’am,” Sergeant Bates said quietly, “I don’t know who this guy is, but I know what he is. I’ve met another one like him before.”
Dr. Weir made a sharp turn towards him. “Where?”
“On Manaria, where my team and I have established a trade agreement for food with the locals,” Bates explained. “He’s a professional mediator. It’s a traditional occupation on Manaria; in fact, Manaran mediators are often hired by other races to negotiate difficult treaties for them, as they’re considered very skilled.”
“That explains the good English,” Dr. Weir said thoughtfully. “One of his colleagues must have passed on the language skills.” She turned to the man in question. “So, Mr. Suelze, have you been hired by these Furlonians to negotiate for them?”
“Furlings, actually,” the man with the weird outfit corrected, “and please, call me Diggory.”
“I’ll consider that when I’ve gotten to know you better,” she said dismissively. “But what do these Furlings want to negotiate about? And how have you come to have Lieutenant Ford’s IDC?”
“Why, he offered it to me voluntarily, of course,” the mediator replied, “so that I could use the Gate and come here. Because, you see, I am to negotiate the possibility of survival - for him, for the other members of his team, and for your entire city here. And believe me, this won’t be an easy thing to achieve.”
The Gate room became eerily silent at once. The thought that they might have made a third mortal enemy aside from the Wraith and the Genii - and possibly a very powerful one at that - wasn’t encouraging, to put it mildly.
“What the hell have our people done to upset these Furlings so much?” Dr. Weir asked in resignation.
“Their team leader offended the moral operative of the Synod members by breaking a religious taboo,” the mediator explained with a sad face. “The Furlings are a highly advanced people, but a little… sensitive when it comes to their beliefs.”
Dr. Weir suppressed a groan. Of all the possible dangers of the Pegasus galaxy, Sheppard’s team had to run into religious fanatics! More than that: into religious fanatics with possibly deadly weapons. Not that it would be the first time this had happened, unfortunately.
“What, exactly, has Major Sheppard done?” she asked in exasperation, repressing the urge to add on this time. “Has he seduced the high priestess?”
No,” the mediator replied gravely, “it was a much worse offence. He actually rejected the advances of the Chief Warlord.”
The collective jaws of all Atlantis personnel present hit the floor again (only Grodin whispered “pay up” to Zelenka). Dr. Weir blinked in confusion a few times, trying to adjust her preconceptions to the actual problem… with very little success. Nonetheless, she collected herself in record time. That ability came with the field for an accomplished diplomat.
“I think we’d better relocate this discussion to my office,” she said calmly; a lot more calmly than she felt, to tell the truth. “Peter, ask Dr. Corrigan to join us; we might need the insight of an anthropologist here. Sergeant Bates, Dr. Zelenka, come with me, please.”
Zelenka frowned. “Dr. Weir, I doubt I could contribute much there; I’m needed here with deep space sensors more.”
“You’re Rodney’s right-hand-man,” Dr. Weir said. “We might need you yet; and besides, you need to know what’s going on.”
“Perhaps we should include Halling as well,” Grodin suggested. “He’s just arrived on Atlantis this morning, with Sergeant Markham’s regular flight.”
“What a coincidence,” Bates murmured conspiratorially, but just low enough for everyone to hear. Zelenka gave him a look of mild annoyance.
“There’s paranoia and there’s obsession, Sergeant,” he commented, marching after Dr. Weir already.
Go to Part 2
Nominated for 2007 Stargate Fan Awards
Author: Soledad
Fandom: Stargate-Atlantis
Genre: Action/adventure, Humour
Rating: 14+, for language, even though it's in Czech. *g*
Pairings: Radek/?/? - anything else would be telling. And it’s all implied anyway.
Warnings: none, unless you’re squicked out by the idea of Mpreg or cross-genre threesomes. Only mentioned, nothing shown.
Timeframe: Late Season 1, so that I could add my favourite supporting characters who never made it into Season 2.
Summary: Answering the 2007 Radek ficathon challenge. Written for leaper182.
The prompt was: When Sheppard's team is trapped off-world, they need Radek's help to get back to Atlantis. Slash (either Radek/Rodney or Radek/Carson) is lovely, but not required.
Series/sequel: none. Although the story uses the settings of my Darkroom alternate universe, it’s independent from everything I’ve ever written in this fandom.
Disclaimer: don’t own them, no money made. Only the wacky planet and a bunch of OCs belong to me.
Author’s note: As I not only generally suck at your regular action/adventure stuff but also never imagined Radek with either of the above guys, I was in real trouble when I got my assignment. So I’ve sent a distress call to Memory Alpha, my sci-fi Yahoo Group as well as post it to my LJ. The names of the generous people who’ve helped me to put the actual plot together can be read below.
I also used one of the unanswered challenges over at Wraithbait, where someone named Squid wrote:
Story should include Rodney, John, Carson, and Radek. Slash if you want. Threesome or more if you so chose. Whatever rating, yada...very forgiving structure so far, eh? Well, somewhere within the story should include the following statement from Radek: "You have found some Ancient impregnation device and have decided that I will be your brood-mare for wild-haired fey children with astronomical IQs, god-like ATA-genes, and sexy brogues?"
That gave me the basic idea, and things have spiralleddownward from that moment on. *g*
Thanks to: Lisa aka Firewolfe from Memory Alpha, who suggested the main plot idea, Squid who came up with the impregnation machine and the immortal Radek line, Jenn who gave her support, and Purpleyin who did the gargantuan Beta work and suggested the title. All remaining mistakes are mine - sometimes I’m just too stubborn to listen. My apologies. :))
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
PLAN Z, PART 1
Dr. Radek Zelenka never felt the urge to go off-world. The one step through the Stargate - the one that had brought him from the Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado to Atlantis - had been enough for him. He wasn’t the adventurous type and preferred to study random pieces of Ancient technology in his own lab.
“Besides,” he explained to Dr. Carson Beckett in the mess hall, “there are only three teams that go off-world regularly. Sergeant Stackhouse’s team is good at trading for food, but they never find any Ancient tech. Sergeant Bates’ team is good at making useful contracts with natives, but the tech they find never works...”
“That is, sadly, quite true,” Dr. Peter Grodin agreed, eating something akin to lemon chicken with gusto. Dishes with citrus were only allowed on days when Dr. McKay was off-world, which gave the cooks one day's break from his rabid questioning of ingredients in the meals. The happiness at his absence wasn’t limited to his effect on the menu card, by the way. It was to the general relief of the entire science secton that this was one of those days.
“But at least Major Sheppard’s team often finds Ancient tech that’s still working,” Grodin added, wanting to be fair to Atlantis’ principal off-world team.
“And that’s trying to kill them in new and creative ways every single time,” Dr. Julia Simpson, the fourth one in their circle, commented.
“Unless Rodney upsets local tribe chief or the major seduces high priestess, in which case locals try to kill them,” Zelenka added. “There’s too much attampted killing involved for anyone in their right mind to want to join them.”
Grodin laughed. “Ain’t that the truth… But usually, it’s a bunch of Wraith who show up right after their arrival. Half the time they come in hot. If you think about it, it’s a little strange.”
“That’s what Sergeant Bates thinks, too,” Beckett said. “Only, he suspects the Athosians would sell out our people to the Wraith.”
“Sergeant Bates is grossly paranoid,” Zelenka said. “He’d have made great career in Czechoslovakia with attitude like that thirty years ago.”
“He has to be,” Grodin shrugged. “He’s the chief of security here. Paranoia is part of his job.”
“You really think Athosians would work with Wraith?” Zelenka asked doubtfully.
He knew, of course, that sometimes people simply had to cooperate with an oppressing force, but cooperation with the Wraith was pretty much a moot point. All one could have achieved was the questionable advantage to be eaten last.
“No,” Grodin admitted. “But I do think that Major Sheppard stays willingly blind towards the mere possibility because he wants to get into Teyla’s pants. And that’s a bloody dangerous attitude.”
“Is another reason why I don’t wish to go on off-world mission with Dream Team,” Zelenka declared darkly, stuffing two delicious Athosian biscuits into his mouth at the same tame. It was a shame, really, to eat them so fast, but if you worked with Dr. McKay on a regular basis, you learned quickly that the only safe place for your sweets - or for your coffee, for that matter - was your own stomach. The man definitely had a detrimental effect on everybody’s table manners.
“Do you accept them to get in trouble again?” Grodin asked. “It seemed a fairly simple recon mission to me. All the MALP showed was a large, dark room, with no people around the Stargate.”
“Which is exactly how their visit to Hoff started, and we all know how that turned out,” Beckett mumbled, pushing the food around on his plate.
The others exchanged concerned looks. The tragic events on Hoff were still haunting the good doctor, causing him insomnia and a general lack of appetite, which worried his friends sometimes.
“I bet they’ll get in trouble,” Simpson picked up the conversation again, mostly to distract Beckett from his guilt-filled thoughts.
Grodin treated her with a supremely British eyebrow raise that climbed up to the roots of his hair.
“You do? Well, I’m in. And I bet that they’ll get in trouble because the major will pick up the wrong woman.”
“Ne,” Radek said. “It will be Rodney. He will insult important people, calling them morons and imbeciles. Or he will try to steal holy item from local temple, thinking that it’s amazing piece of Ancient tech.”
“Oh, good choice!” Grodin grinned at him. “But my money is still on the major. What do you think, Carson?”
“I’m not a betting man, lad,” Beckett replied absently. But Simpson wasn’t allowing him to back off so easily.
“You have to vote for someone,” she declared. “There are four of us, and the team has four members. So choose.”
“All right,” Beckett said tiredly. “I vote for Ford.”
“Oh, please!” Simpson exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “How could our good little boy scout possibly screw up a mission?”
“How the hell should I know?” Beckett shot back, exasperated. “I’m a doctor, not a screenwriter! You tell me.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Simpson told him. “You came up with the name; you’ll have to come up with the reason, too.”
“Och, for the…” Beckett let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, perhaps he blew up the wrong person. Or he got on everyone’s nerves by being so bloody cheerful all the time.”
“That’s acceptable,” Grodin said. “Well, Julia? You got the really tough one: how is Teyla supposed to screw up the mission?”
“By beating up important people to defend any of the three men in the team,” Simpson replied promptly, and even Carson had to laugh at that - especially as the idea did have a kernel of truth. Things like that had happened before.
“The bet is on, then,” Grodin announced, placing a tiny, narrow box with five Pocket Coffee pralines - the ones that were filled with real espresso - in the middle of the table. It was a criminal waste to risk such precious goods for a stupid bet, but it helped to bring Carson down from his guilt trip, even for a short time, it was worth the sacrifice. Besides, there was a good chance that either Radek or Peter himself would win the bet, in which case they would share the winnings anyway.
Radek’s own contribution was an XXL-sized power bar - the brand with the really large chocolate chips. He’d won it from Rodney a few days earlier, so it was only proper to use it for another bet. Simpson offered a copy of her favourite music CD, and Beckett produced a small satchel of his excellent tea - shared only with very good friends, on very special occasions.
All these rare treasures were entrusted to Grodin, as usual. He was the one with the right mind to keep tabs on all the pools running in Atlantis, and he kept a spreadsheeet about every single one, noting the winners and the goods that had been won. It was a useful hobby, as it made him well-informed about Atlantis’ inner economy.
“Well,” Simpson said, finishing her dessert with the same speed as Radek, but in a somewhat more dignified manner, “I have to go back to my lab. We’ve been running an experiment since early morning, and Calvin needs a break to eat, too. When his blood sugar is low, he gets as cranky as McKay at his worst.”
“Calvin?” Zelenka repeated, raising an inquiring eyebrow.
“Dr. Kavanagh,” Beckett, who knew everyone’s personal file - hey, he was their doctor, after all! - explained. Zelenka’s eyebrows climbed up to the roots of his Einsteinesque hair.
“Dr. Kavanagh has first name? Wonders never cease to exist.”
The others grinned. Poor Kavanagh was often the recipient of such verbal jabs, both face to face or behind his back. He was simply too much like McKay in his social graces - or, to be more accurate, in the lack thereof - and two McKays were too much for such a small, closed community, to handle. And only one of them was a certifiable genius to excuse his manners.
“We should go, too,” Grodin suggested. “I could use your help with the deep space sensors, Radek - or are you too busy in your lab?”
“Am always a very busy man,” Zelenka replied with a sigh, “but now that Rodney is off-world, I can at least work in peace, without constant interruptions.”
“Oh,” Grodin said with a long face. “Well, I’ll ask Dr. Moosekian, then. He’s a decent enough engineer, even if he’s not as good as you are.”
“Ne, ne!” Zelenka protested. “You misunderstood. I’ll go to control room with you now and help you with deep space sensors. Then I’ll go back to lab and finish my own work in peace.”
Grodin thanked him, and they took their leave from Dr. Beckett - who was still struggling with his food; Athosian cuisine didn’t agree with him - and returned to the control room. It seemed fairly deserted at the moment, with only Chief Technician Eddie Wong and Sergeant Jenny Hagiwara on duty. Dr. Weir was in her office above the Gate room, working on some translations with one of the linguists.
They weren’t expecting Sheppard’s team back from M7L-982 for at least another day or two, so it was the ideal time for Grodin and Zelenka to try and bring the newly discovered deep space sensors back online. Having a forewarning should any Wraith ships approach the planet would be helpful.
It promised to be one of the rare peaceful days in the Pegasus galaxy. As everybody knows, however, those are the days when the proverbial shit likes to hit the fan - and this time wasn’t any different.
Grodin and Zelenka had been working for about an hour and a half, when the Stargate came alive. The bluish lights began to run around its great circle and various symbols flashing up briefly before locking in place. Dr. Weir, noticing the activity, stepped out onto the balcony of her office.
“What’s going on down there?” she demanded to know.
“Incoming wormhole,” Eddie Wong replied, raising the shield without waiting for her order. Living in Atlantis had taught everyone the advantages of independent thinking and fast reflexes.
Grodin left Zelenka’s side and hurried back to his usual station. “Do we have an IDC?” he asked.
“It seems to be Major Sheppard’s team, returning from M7L-982,” Wong replied, “because I’m receiving Lieutenant Ford’s IDC.”
“That’s strange,” Dr. Weir said with a concerned frown. “They weren’t supposed to be back before tomorrow or the day after. It hasn’t even been twelve hours since their last check-in. Perhaps they found something important.”
“Or someone found them,” Zelenka commented sotto voce.
In the meantime, the security team on duty had reached the Gate room, led by a grim-faced Sergeant Bates. Grodin glanced at his watch; it had taken the Marines exactly 85 seconds to get there. It was a new record. Apparently, all those drills Bates loved to run paid off, in the end.
“Do we have any audio messages?” Dr. Weir asked the Gate technician.
Wong shook his head. “All they’re sending is the IDC, Ma’am.”
“Gate room secured, ma’am,” Bates reported. “You should step back into your office, though… just in case.”
“Agreed,” Dr. Weir retreated behind the protective glass (or rather its Ancient equivalent) of her office, and then gave the order. “Lower the shield.”
The shimmering veil of energy warbled for a second, then it vanished, giving room to the familiar sight of the blue-white pool of the event horizon. An air of tense anticipation settled over the Gate room.
For another moment or two, nothing happened. Then the middle of the pool gave way to a tall figure who stepped out of it in a somewhat theatrical manner.
Needless to say that it wasn’t any member of Sheppard’s team. Human, yes, or at the very least human-looking: a tall, bony and dignified man in a long, stiff robe, made of some shiny fabric that rustled at his every movement. He wore an elaborate headdress that had a vague similarity to the helmets of ancient Greek or Roman warriors, only with an elongated metal crest on it, instead of a feather plume.
“Greetings!” he said in a somewhat high-pitched voice, almost falsetto. In fact, that peculiar voice matched the slightly insane look of his large, dark eyes and his strange mannerisms. He spread his long hands with what must have been a ceremonial gesture. “I am Diggory Suelze, and I am here on behalf of the Holy Synod of Furlonia.”
To say that all Atlantis personnel present were stunned would have been an understatement. Their collective jaws hit the floor in unison. It had been hard enough to get used to the astonishing speed with which the various Pegasus galaxy races picked up English, but at least the different structure of their brains gave a good explanation for that. If you were able to follow Dr. Beckett’s explanations, that is. Meeting some intergalactic clown for the first time and finding he already spoke perfect English was a different matter.
Nonetheless, Dr. Weir decided to go for the diplomatic course of action. For the time being anyway.
“I’d say it’s my pleasure, Mr. Suelze,” she said, “but it would be helpful to know what the Holy Synod of Furlonia is and what they want from us.”
“Ma’am,” Sergeant Bates said quietly, “I don’t know who this guy is, but I know what he is. I’ve met another one like him before.”
Dr. Weir made a sharp turn towards him. “Where?”
“On Manaria, where my team and I have established a trade agreement for food with the locals,” Bates explained. “He’s a professional mediator. It’s a traditional occupation on Manaria; in fact, Manaran mediators are often hired by other races to negotiate difficult treaties for them, as they’re considered very skilled.”
“That explains the good English,” Dr. Weir said thoughtfully. “One of his colleagues must have passed on the language skills.” She turned to the man in question. “So, Mr. Suelze, have you been hired by these Furlonians to negotiate for them?”
“Furlings, actually,” the man with the weird outfit corrected, “and please, call me Diggory.”
“I’ll consider that when I’ve gotten to know you better,” she said dismissively. “But what do these Furlings want to negotiate about? And how have you come to have Lieutenant Ford’s IDC?”
“Why, he offered it to me voluntarily, of course,” the mediator replied, “so that I could use the Gate and come here. Because, you see, I am to negotiate the possibility of survival - for him, for the other members of his team, and for your entire city here. And believe me, this won’t be an easy thing to achieve.”
The Gate room became eerily silent at once. The thought that they might have made a third mortal enemy aside from the Wraith and the Genii - and possibly a very powerful one at that - wasn’t encouraging, to put it mildly.
“What the hell have our people done to upset these Furlings so much?” Dr. Weir asked in resignation.
“Their team leader offended the moral operative of the Synod members by breaking a religious taboo,” the mediator explained with a sad face. “The Furlings are a highly advanced people, but a little… sensitive when it comes to their beliefs.”
Dr. Weir suppressed a groan. Of all the possible dangers of the Pegasus galaxy, Sheppard’s team had to run into religious fanatics! More than that: into religious fanatics with possibly deadly weapons. Not that it would be the first time this had happened, unfortunately.
“What, exactly, has Major Sheppard done?” she asked in exasperation, repressing the urge to add on this time. “Has he seduced the high priestess?”
No,” the mediator replied gravely, “it was a much worse offence. He actually rejected the advances of the Chief Warlord.”
The collective jaws of all Atlantis personnel present hit the floor again (only Grodin whispered “pay up” to Zelenka). Dr. Weir blinked in confusion a few times, trying to adjust her preconceptions to the actual problem… with very little success. Nonetheless, she collected herself in record time. That ability came with the field for an accomplished diplomat.
“I think we’d better relocate this discussion to my office,” she said calmly; a lot more calmly than she felt, to tell the truth. “Peter, ask Dr. Corrigan to join us; we might need the insight of an anthropologist here. Sergeant Bates, Dr. Zelenka, come with me, please.”
Zelenka frowned. “Dr. Weir, I doubt I could contribute much there; I’m needed here with deep space sensors more.”
“You’re Rodney’s right-hand-man,” Dr. Weir said. “We might need you yet; and besides, you need to know what’s going on.”
“Perhaps we should include Halling as well,” Grodin suggested. “He’s just arrived on Atlantis this morning, with Sergeant Markham’s regular flight.”
“What a coincidence,” Bates murmured conspiratorially, but just low enough for everyone to hear. Zelenka gave him a look of mild annoyance.
“There’s paranoia and there’s obsession, Sergeant,” he commented, marching after Dr. Weir already.
Go to Part 2
Nominated for 2007 Stargate Fan Awards