Fic: Cloud (1/2)

[sgarb_mod]

Author: kriadydragon
Wordcount: 14,550
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): None
Summary: It's happening again. But this time, John has a new kind of help.
Warning highlight to read(s): violence
Notes: Huge thanks to my beta, linziday.

Companion piece to Airmail.



Cloud

It's for the best. You above all people should understand that

He ran through a forest, slapping aside thick-leaved branches with his two very different hands: one pale with dull nails, the other dark blue and the nails going black. There was a quadrant of his brain that whispered timidly how wrong this was. It would have been more insistent if it hadn't been compressed by the snarling, overbearing instinct to run and keep running.

He felt like he'd been running forever, that he'd been born - however he'd been born - upright and taking off. But that, too, wasn't right, said the timidly insistent part of his brain. Just like it wasn't right that he was two different colors. Just like it wasn't right that he was so damn hungry.

He leaped easily over a fallen log, ducked a low hanging branch and clawed aside a second branch. Then the obstacle of leaves and wood ended abruptly, as did the land, and he fell in a pulverizing tumble down the steep incline of a ravine. But instead of landing sprawled and winded, he rolled with the momentum, landing on his feet and scrabbling up the other side of the embankment, then he was running again.

It was funny, for such a demanding, painful hunger, it had yet to slow him down. But he forced himself to slow, to take in his surroundings, every sight, sound, feeling - the soft soil under his feet, the chirrups and squawks of animals, and the stench of those animals within the mildew and wetness of the forest. The humidity was heavy, adhering the material of his shirt to his body, but his body itself didn't care. Temperature was adequate, neither too hot nor too cool, though that timid part of his brain wheedled that it should be hot, and that he should worry that he couldn't feel it.

He ignored the logic for scanning the forest. Insects fluttered past his head or scurried up trees. He grabbed the nearest one, segmented with a hundred little legs like a... a... something, he couldn't remember what, though he vaguely recalled that it wasn't supposed to be bigger than his hand. He grabbed it anyway, shoving it into his mouth in disregard of things like poison, and satiated his hunger with chitin and pincers.

“I see him! There!”

“Shoot him! Shoot him!”

He was running again as things popped and pinged around him, spraying him with splinters, leaves and bug parts. Something unrelentingly metal-solid slammed into his shoulder blade on the flesh side of his body. He stumbled, but grabbing the nearest trunk, hauled himself upright and propelled himself forward. Pain throbbed in his back like fire that was already starting to dull. With his stomach partly satisfied with insect, his pumping legs increased speed, his pumping heart speeding up with them until the shouts and popping became a distant thing like a half-remembered dream.

He ran until the noises vanished all together, continued running until the light began to wan and the hunger gnashed at his stomach. Once again he slowed, searching the forest for sustenance - a segmented bug here, an armored bug there, impossible reflexes allowing him to grab flying insects right out of the air in a blur of his blue hand. He followed a distant burbling to a small stream, crouched and drank his fill.

It was while he was standing that he felt something scrape the bone of his scapula. He remembered the impact there. But when he reached back sliding his fingers through the hole in his shirt, he felt only a small lump beneath smooth flesh.

Something told him, like daja vu, that were he to feel around the back of his shirt, he would find similar holes, with similar lumps beneath his skin. His mind whispered something about this being screwed up. Instinct didn't care and told him to keep running.

John bunched his leg muscles, ready to dart back into the foliage.

“John?”

It shouldn't have meant anything. Just another voice, just more words. It should have encouraged him to run and not look back.

He looked back.

A “thing” slid from the forest, through the air, like a... a... his mind coughed up the words serpent and water. But it was wrong, all wrong. It was long, and huge like a... ana-something. A type of... snake, a really big snake but made of frosted glass, with a rounded head and two horns topped by bushy fuzz as wild and orange as a... his mind said “flare.” Like a flare. It swam through the air toward John, and when it saw him, it beamed at him as though he were the best thing in the world.

“John John!” it crowed, naively young and ecstatic. Only one problem - its mouth hadn't moved.

When he didn't answer, the smile gradually diminished.

“John John John? Me, John. Me.”

When he still didn't respond, tensing his body to bolt, the thing became sad.

“I sorry John. I came back not soon.”

He wanted to run. Crap, it's all he wanted, but that damn thing, every time it said John... there was something about that word. Something he knew, something so familiar even instinct couldn't pull him away. It was instinct that kept him rooted, because when you heard that word, you paid attention.

He opened his mouth.“J-ohn?”

It felt right.

The thing smiled beatifically.

“Yes. John. John, John, John Sheppard, John.” It bobbed its body as though bopping along to a song. “John, John, John.”

John licked his suddenly dry lips.

“John.” He furrowed his brow. “John.” And realized. “That's - that's my... name.”

“John, John, John...”

John swallowed, his stomach uncomfortably full. “You... know... me?”

“John, John, John.” It spiraled forward, right toward him. John flinched back, knew he was supposed to be doing something, but couldn't remember what. The thing touched its snout to his forehead.

“John Sheppard.”

His body lost the will to stand, and on his way down to being a crumpled pile of skin, scale and bone, darkness took him.

-------------------

Do you ever worry,” Rodney asked. “That it's not all gone? That you might rebound?”

John, negotiating a particularly crowded section of hallway, was only half listening. “That what's all gone?”

“You know.” Rodney angled himself sideways to slip between two marines heading the opposite way. It was like wading through a river against the current, slowing them down. Rodney twirled his hands. “It? Our former conditions that almost killed us? I almost ascended. You turned scaley...”

“Not really,” John said, more tetchy than he intended.

Because he had thought about it.

-------------------

”What are you?”

John was jabbed in the side with the shiny black stick. Pain ripped like wild fire across his ribs, the muscles spasming, his lungs seizing, locking a scream in his throat.

“What are you!”

The stick was stuck in his back. John stiffened, mouth a rictus of muted agony. He continued to convulse even after the stick was removed, then he doubled over and puked.

The stick-bearer twisted his lips in disgust and walked away. Metal clanged against metal when stick-bearer slammed the barred door.

John sat there, rocking, gripping his elbow beneath where the skin had turned blue, like cutting off blood to a gushing wound. But it was still spreading, inch by painfully slow inch; had already spread all the way to his shoulder, and now there were the thorny spikes.

John knew what he was.

He was a bad thing. A very bad thing.

He looked up, blinking away tears of pain now that the pain was gone. The walls were also barred, letting him see into the cage next to him. The snake thing like frosted glass lifted its oval head weakly. There was a thick collar around its neck, blinking. Snake-thing looked at him with bright, pitiful eyes the color of sunrise.

It asked, without ever opening its mouth, “You have sad, too?”

A sound like windchimes in a summer breeze filled John's head.

----------------

“John, John, John! Wake up, John, wake up!”

John opened his eyes and blinked away the blur. He stared sleepily up at the canopy of green, sunlight spilling through the gap in white shafts. If he squinted, he could almost see the sky, fat clouds drifting with all the time in the world through that endless blue.

An oval head with furry horns on a serpentine body suddenly blocked his view with it's massive smile. “John John!”

John gasped and bolted upright. His heart thrashed like an animal caught in a trap, pushing his blood like a stampede thundering against his ears.

Who was he? Where was he? What the hell was going on?

“John John!” Snake-thing crowed, then proceeded to head-butt his shoulder like an overly affectionate cat.

John Sheppard. His name was Lt. Colonel John Sheppard, military commander of Atlantis. He loved flying, ferris wheels and things that went psychotically fast. He had a team - Rodney, Ronon, Teyla. And he was turning into a bug... again. He released his breath as sharply has he'd inhaled it.

“Son of a...!” He slumped, giving himself a moment to get a grip as his brain rebooted itself. It was a lot more difficult than it should have been with a pressure headache throbbing behind his eyeballs and snake-thing's gently tapered nose nudging his shoulder.

John tried to wave it off. “Give me a minute... uh...”

“Cloud,” said snake-thing... Cloud.

John sighed wearily. “Yeah, Cloud.” This kept happening to him, this memory lapse like a tidal wave burying who he was, then receding as though it was cringing back from the weird yet not unpleasant noise in his head.

“I give you the song, John. You better now, yes, yes?” Cloud persisted, nudging away, scraping the metal lump under John's skin against his shoulder blade.

“Getting there, buddy,” John said, hand to his head, because the memory rush always made his skull throb.

“No time. Go now,” Cloud urged, nudging John harder. It sounded frantic which, from what John started to recall, wasn't the norm for Cloud. It was usually John who had to do the urging on. Needless to say, this wasn't good.

It was with a miserable grunt that John acquiesced, grabbing the nearest trunk and using it to climb to his feet. A head rush threatened to send him back to the soggy ground, but he locked his knees, shook off the vertigo and stumbled forward.

“Saw the 'gate, John. even heavier guarded. No way through,” said Cloud, cutting through the air alongside him as easy as an eel through water.

John replied absently, “Uh-huh.” Just because his memories flooded didn't mean they flooded all at once. He still didn't know where he was, what was going on, and who was after him. All he knew was who he was, where he was from and that, no matter what, he had to keep going.

Now that he was moving, his blood flowing and heart pumping, another swath of mindless animal haze made its retreat. John recalled, gradually, having sent Cloud back the way they had come to check out the gate. What he couldn't figure out is why he would do that. Cloud could have been spotted, it... he, she... could have been killed, and it would have been John's fault.

John's chest clenched and he swallowed. Why would he do that?

“This way, John!” trilled Cloud excitedly. “This way. Found safety way. They no follow you here. hurry!” And Cloud shot off into the foliage.

John had to run to keep up, the forest whipping by in a blur of green and brown, and not a moment too soon when gunfire rattled and popped behind him.

“Faster, John!” screamed Cloud. “Almost there! Be ready! You gonna jump!”

“Jump?” John yelped. There was no time for an answer. The forest ended, a cliff edge looming up fast, John's momentum making it impossible for him to stop.

So he didn't stop. He ran faster, and when his foot hit the edge, he leaped.

Time slowed to a snail's pace. He saw, in that split second turned minute, the distance to land, the dark gaping depth beneath him, and felt the wind tearing at him trying to slow him down. He wasn't going to make it, he was sure of it, his heart taking refuge in his gut.

Then he landed, hard, the impact shimming up his knees and dropping him. He went with the tumble rolling back to his feet and back into a run, whooping loud and manic with joy.

“That was damn awesome! Cloud, remind me to kill you later!”

Cloud just giggled a child's giggle, bobbing along.

Safely on the other side of the narrow canyon and hidden by the forest, the gunfire stopped and John could finally slow to a walk. He had become a conundrum, a living oxymoron, gasping for breath without feeling the burn in his lungs and with energy to spare to keep running all day if he wanted. It was exhilarating, beyond awesome...

John looked at his hand, the scales thickening on his wrist.

It was also wrong. Very wrong. He remembered, like something once buried by time but having crawled its way to the surface, the instinct - mindless, aimless instinct. And hunger like a blade in his gut.

John stopped. Tearing his hand through his hair, he looked around.

“Where are we?” What am I doing here? Why is this happening again? Where's my team

“Don't know,” said Cloud, circling John's head like a halo. “Don't know, don't know, don't know. Gate other way but it guarded good, really good. No way through.”

John nodded. “Okay. So... we're stuck here.” So now what? Keep going, that's what, but mostly because it was all he could think of to do; put distance between them and the bad guys and give himself the time denied to him by urgency to reorient. Once reoriented, then he could plan.

John continued on, creating a mental list of what he did know: He was on a strange world, his team wasn't here, he was turning into a bug. There was still an ache in his skull. That damn hunger was coming back. He was thirsty. Chances were good that, sooner or later, they were going to need a place to hole up, but not quite yet. His companion was a transparent flying snake with fuzzy horns and a child's happy disposition.

He was turning into a bug.

One thing at a time, John. Focus on one thing at a time.

He heard, in the distance but closing in, a stream, and smiled. Thirst you can do something about. It was a muddy little trickle of a stream, but John's dry throat didn't care. Crouching, he scooped up cold water by the handful, sucking it into his mouth. It satisfied the thirst but didn't put a dent in the headache, which was odd. He was going iratus, which meant uber cool healing abilities, which also meant he shouldn't be in any pain. But on the totem pole that was the grand scheme of things, a headache made up the base of what he needed to worry about.

Cloud hovered nearby, watching curiously.

“Not thirsty?” he asked. “Might be the only stream for miles.”

Clouds leafy fin-like protuberances all over its body rustled, the equivalent of a shrug.

“No thirsty,” it said.

They continued on, John swatting aside branches and leaves, Cloud flowing around the same as sinuous and careful as a cat.

Cloud had been a white lump on the floor when he first saw her, John remembered. A literal sad sack, the perfect picture of misery, fluting a sad song in John's head. He remembered... stories. He'd told her stories, about Atlantis, about flying, about the crazy crap he and his team always found themselves in.

Where was his team? Damn it, why couldn't he remember?

Why was this happening?

John sucked in a hissing breath. One thing at a time. One thing. Focus, John.

“John?” said Cloud, arching around and looking worried.

John shook his head and trudged on. “I'm fine.”

Cloud frowned severely letting him know just how much it didn't believe him, but with the decency not to push the matter. Silence surrounded them, long and uncomfortable, giving John's mind leeway to think too much.

John said suddenly, “I took your collar off.” If he could keep his thoughts on track, keep them from wandering, then maybe he could retrace them to the start of all this. “It was easy.”

Cloud beamed. “Was easy.”

It had slithered listlessly toward him when he asked it to, able to poke its head through the bars because the shield - like the shield on the detention cell on Atlantis, John remembered - only covered the front, not the entire cage. One press of a button, the collar popped off and Cloud was free to rise back into the air.

“And then...” John said, but his mind hit a brick wall.

Cloud chirped happily. “We escaped!”

“Way to state the obvious, bud, but how did we escape? How were we even caught in the first place?”

“They throw sparking net on me. No know how you caught. You was less blue, though. Lot blue now.”

“Yeah, not encouraging, there.” John looked at his hand, the back starting to scale, and frowned. “I'm dangerous like this. And I'm gonna keep getting dangerous.”

“No worry, you have song. Song makes you better.”

“Song?”

“Song. Make you feel better.”

John had no idea what Cloud was talking about and wasn't in the mood to figure it out if Cloud wasn't going to be straightforward. But that was the rub of the matter, because right here, right now, he should be insane - running, tearing, killing, knowing only the instinct talking disgustingly sweet in his brain, telling him what to do under the pretense that he actually had a choice; like it was something he wanted to do and had always wanted to do, he just hadn't realized it. Manipulating him, drowning out reason and morality. Driving him mad.

He should be insane. He wasn't, and for some reason that scared him even more.

One thing at a time, John. But it was getting harder, because the more he recalled, the more there was to ask, and the only headway he'd managed to make was to distance himself further from the gate.

Evening crept up on them, nearly unawares on John's part. So lost in thought, there wasn't much he'd been paying attention to, and if he hadn't been lost before he sure as hell was lost now. He kept going.

“Rest?” Cloud said.

John looked up at what he could see of the darkening sky through the foliage. Twilight always came early in forests but the way his eyes had adjusted it might as well still be midday, and he was far from tired. Then he looked at Cloud, body sagging, eyes at half mast. John wasn't a party of one on this run for dear life. A little shut eye might also be able put a few dents in his damn headache.

“Yeah, we can rest,” John said. He grimaced as he searched their surroundings - trees, trees, and more trees. “If we can find some shelter.” Just because there was a ravine between him and the bad guys didn't mean there wasn't a way to cross it.

Which begged another question - who the hell was chasing him?

In the end, John opted for climbing a tree, a cake walk with his current abilities. He scaled it as easily as those giant centipedes that liked to scuttle across the trunk. He didn't even realize it when he grabbed a centipede and stuffed it into his mouth, not until long after he swallowed it. He grimaced, only to grimace harder when the headache spiked and he nearly lost his grip on the tree. He scuttled fast the rest of the way to the nearest, thickest branch, straddled it, then leaned his back against the trunk, shifting when the bullet under his skin grated against bone.

Cloud gently lowered itself and draped like a scarf across John's lap. It was lighter than it looked, and when John placed his hand - his human hand - on its back, he found that its skin really did feel like glass, only soft and warm. Cloud sighed, contented.

“Better?” John asked.

“Better.”

John nodded. He said, conversationally, “So... what are you? Or did we already have this discussion?”

“Don't know,” said Cloud. “Don't have kind name. Just are.”

“Your kind don't have a name for yourselves?”

Cloud yawned. “No.”

“Okay. Do you have a family or anything? Anyone you need to get back to?”

“Don't know where are.”

John winced. “Feel your pain, there, buddy.” He sighed. He would have loved nothing more than to take his lack of memory concerning the where abouts of his team as a good thing, that maybe, just maybe, they hadn't been here when... whatever this was had gone down. That he hadn't gone ballistic and...

Don't go there, John. You don't want to go there.

But that was the problem. If his team was in some kind of danger, then he had to go there. Maybe they needed him; maybe they needed him to stay the hell away.

Maybe it was too late.

John's hand on Cloud's back began to shake.

Don't go there. One thing at a time.

John clenched his fist. He asked, his throat tight, “Do you know why you were taken?”

“No,” Cloud slurred. “No one talk to Cloud. No one understand. You only one...” it yawned again, “understand. You hear Cloud. No one else. Just you.” Then Cloud's eyes slid closed and its breathing even out.

“Only me, huh? Well, aren't I special.” But he didn't feel special, because he had a pretty good idea why he could hear Cloud and no one else could. As much as he hated it, it was the only explanation.

John chuffed.

Super abilities, super strength, super stamina and now the bonus of keeping his sanity. He was turning into a damn monster, and it was okay.

But that wasn't right. As grateful as he was to Cloud, that just wasn't right. Maybe he was being pessimistic, but it had been his experience that life wasn't so accommodating without a little compensation.

“Damn,” John sighed, stroking Cloud's glassy back. He closed his eyes. One thing at a time. One damn thing at a time.

------------------

Surellis Col raised his crystal glass. “To progress,” he said, tone and expression as stern as though he were giving an order and not a toast. But that, John had come to realize after four days in this guy's company, was just Surellis - military general in scientist's clothing. With his buzz-cut silver hair and trimmed beard, John had taken to secretly calling him General Stryker.

Everyone gathered around the blood-wood dining table - scientists and military, both Atlantean and local - raised their glasses in return. With the formality passed, they could finally sit and eat.

“You may find this forward, Academe Col,” said the “real” local general, High Commander Turin as he sawed through the local equivalent of sea bass. “But I prefer results over progress.” A crooked smile lifted one side of his pencil-thin mustache. “And no offense to our good friends the Lanteans but I was led to believe creations of quite an exquisite nature would be flying from your labs by now.”

The rest of the militia, with their slicked-back hair and trench coats despite the balmy weather, chuckled amiable.

Surellis did an excellent job of not responding, not even a twitch in his cheek as he cut into his tender fish, took a bite and savored it. That, too, was Surellis - about expressive as polished rock.

John barely managed to keep his smile from looking pained. “Well, that's results for you. They never happen when you want them to.” And then his smile did turn pained, because could that be any more of a crap answer? He could see Lorne grimace out of the corner of his eye, and he wished Teyla were here. But the flu, unlike results, happened when you didn't want them to.

A hard elbow to the ribs by Keller forced John to add, “But ask good Academe Col or Dr. Keller here and they'll tell you how closer to the results we are.”

John preferred his first reply. At least it hadn't sounded like an ad pitch. It also made him miss Rodney, who would have seated himself next to Jennifer and blocked Jennifer's “motivational” assault. But irony had decided to make up for Rodney getting the flu shot by making him fall off a ladder and break his arm. Ronon, Woolsey had decided, would do the mission a favor by not going. The Glocians had known the Satedans, and not in a good way.

“It's true,” Keller said, launching overeagerly into her sales pitch like she'd been born to it. “We've been making great headway in finding remedies for many of your illnesses...”

But of course the commander wasn't listening. Medicine might increase the population of the human race, but it didn't decrease the Wraith population. Turin's bored expression said everything John needed to know about the man and what he was really thinking. It was the song and dance for every world looking to save its civilization and come out on top. While they were happy enough to get what medical help they could, what they really wanted was weapons. Some worlds didn't waste time pussyfooting the subject, some worlds did. Some worlds, like Glocia, thought that by buttering the Lanteans up a little at a time - working with them long enough to gain a rapport - that it would pave the way to one day tossing weapons exchange into the trade deal.

Some could accuse John of jumping to conclusions, seeing too much into what wasn't there. Except John knew, because that was the nature of trade and the military. Atlantis had been there, done that. John knew a buttering up when he saw one. Even Ronon knew it the short time he'd been on this world (before the insults started flying and Ronon had to be hustled out before he had a chance to thumb his blaster to “kill.”) Hell, even Teyla knew from what John alone had told her. This world wanted something and would practice patience to get it.

“Which you need to be careful of, John,” Teyla had said. “Should their patience run out...”

She didn't need to finish the rest. Atlantis had also been there.

“What of this ability I have heard tell of that renders humans inedible to Wraith?” asked one of Turin's seconds.

“Uh...” Jennifer stuttered, the sales pitch dead in the water. Weapons talk to a soldier was like a dog with a bone. It was going to take some fancy vocal foot work on Keller's part to get back on the topic of medicines. “Well, if you've heard of that then I'm sure you've also heard of the Hoffan plague...”

This was what made John nervous. Glocian was a military society, armed to the teeth, but with a sudden, almost abrupt interest in science according to Atlantis' sources. Most especially anything in the medical field.

Except Sheppard had toured Glocian hospitals, their streets, the number of ill no more than what you might see in an American hospital. Jennifer had studied their illnesses, most of which already had effective medicines to cure them.

Nightmares of bio war fare had then danced in John's head night after night since meeting the Glocians. The last thing this galaxy needed was another bunch of benefits-over-risks wackos sucking Atlantis in with their promise of victory. John still mentally sifted through what remained of the Hoffan fiasco, trying again and again to figure out what they could have done different. Even clone Carson would bring it up more times than what was probably healthy.

Jennifer's polite but lengthy explanation on why the Hoffan serum was a bad idea left the Glocian commanders slightly sulky but not exactly thwarted. John had no doubts they would find a way to look into it, see if they could do what the Hoffans hadn't. Again, maybe he was being judgmental, projecting too much of an Earth military mindset on the aliens...

No. Hell no. He was right and he knew it. If these people could get their hands on the Hoffan virus, any virus, even the retrovirus to play with, they would. One thing you could always count on in any world in any galaxy: When the chips were down and you thought yourself backed into a corner, you took whatever advantage you could find. Being a relatively advanced society in a galaxy full of creatures that demolished advanced societies, the Glocians were well and truly backed into a corner. It was only because, like the Genii, they kept their technology hidden (in caves instead of bunkers) that they had lasted this long. They might look Victorian-Aged advanced on the outside, but on the inside they were skirting 1960s tech (including the beginnings of a computer). They were merely biding their time, scouring the galaxy for that one final piece of advancement that would make them untouchable.

The moment dinner was winding down to a close and John had polished off most of his kind-of salmon, he took polite leave of the table The consulate was a massive mansion, almost a castle, the epicenter of all things military and science in the guise of their president's home. The heart of its operations took place well below ground, in a maze of concrete and doors that could give the SGC a run for its money.

John preferred the well kept garden behind the house, flagstone pathways winding through a moon dappled forest of young trees and flowering bushes. Just beyond the patio was a fountain, water arching from the gaping mouth of two snake-like creatures with funky horns swimming away from each other. It was pretty enough, John supposed, but the snake-things looked too much like they were struggling to get away.

But the night was warm, the sky clear through the trees, water splashing into water almost musical. John took a deep breath of perfumed air and let it sooth whatever nerves it could. He wanted to relax, but “relax” wasn't in his vocabulary when off world.

“Colonel Sheppard.”

John whirled quickly around, hand going for his gun. He let out a breath when Academe Col stepped from the shadows, one hand raised, the other clutching tight to his crystal glass.

The smile he gave John didn't reach his eyes. “I did not think myself a danger of any kind to elicit such a reaction.”

“Habit,” John said, smiling tersely back. He let his hand relax at his side. “You're a quiet guy, doc. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Frequently.” Col took a breath, then a sip, and let the breath out. “I must apologize for the commander. He may not say it but it is quite plain he sees no fortune in our alliance.”

“I'm sure,” John said, neutral.

“He sees progress only in the number of Wraith dead.” He took another sip. “I wonder, though,” he said, gesturing at John with his glass. “What do you hope to gain?”

“We told you--”

Col waved him off, the movement so smooth the amber liquid barely sloshed against the crystal. “Yes, medicinal plants that hold the secrets against the illnesses of your world. But I am speaking of you directly, Colonel. You are a military man. Surely there is more you want other than a few medicines?”

John shrugged. “Actually I'm pretty content with the medicine. We have this illness on our world - we call it cancer. It makes your life a living hell and the cure isn't a picnic, either.” He bit his lip. “It took my mother. But Keller thinks your Caloy blossom could be the key to finding a cure that could increase the chances of permanent remission. I consider that a pretty sweet deal.”

Col nodded sagely. “I often forget your world does not suffer the Wraith.”

“No, but we still have our share of problems.”

“Perhaps. But I admire your perspective, Colonel. It is rare to know a guardian who seeks more than merely the increased body count of the enemy.” He tossed back the rest of his drink, curling his lip against its bite. “Still, I have been made privy to some of your people's research. I know what your people are capable of. Loathe as I am to have any sort of agreement with his high commander, I do agree that you seem to be holding back on your potential.”

“Yeah, well,” John said, keeping his voice level. “What you call holding back? We call learning from our mistakes. Trust me, Academe, there are roads we've traveled that you do not want to go down.”

“The nature of progress,” Col replied. “Roads are meant to be mapped, Colonel. Seas charted. Terrain explored. Even the dangerous places, or else the destination can never be reached.”

“Even at a price?” John said. “I can tell you, it gets pretty damn expensive.” Once again he found himself thinking back to the Hoffan drug, the retrovirus, Arcturus, Micheal, and how easily things went wrong when you favored results over caution. He added roughly, “And I'm not talking coinage.”

Atlantis had done a lot of good in the galaxy, but the road toward that good had been paved in a lot of screw-ups.

Col shrugged as though it didn't matter. He tilted his head to one side, the direction of his gaze angled at John's bared arm below his rolled up sleeve.

Col said, almost whimsically, “What a strange rash you have, Colonel Sheppard.”

John twisted his arm to catch more of the light from the porch lamps. His heart seized at the blue-violet carbuncle puckering from his skin.

-----------------------

A rod to the spine left John immobile long enough for someone to take blood from his blue-stained arm. They left him there, shaking, panting, tears racing each other down his face. His eyes met the crystal creature's eyes.

“They mean,” it said sadly.

“Tell me...” John coughed, “about it.”

“No stories?”

“Sorry... buddy. Not feeling... too hot.”

It lifted its head, or tried to as much as the collar would let it. “I tell you story. About clouds. Like clouds. Like to fly in them, around them. They wet. I like wet. Clouds are fun, yes?”

John smiled weakly. “Yeah. They are.”

“I like clouds.” It set its head back down. “I miss clouds.”

“Me too,” John breathed. He closed his eyes against another muscle spasm in his back. “Me too.”

Continued in part 2.