Mathématique: Chapter 87

“It’s not a party.” Woolsey compressed his lips, full of disapproval. “It’s an evening of elite gaming.”

Chapter warnings: Stressors of all kinds. Grief. Physical injuries. Mental health challenges.

Text iteration: Witchingest hour.

Additional notes: Sorry kids! Had to prioritize the revision grind for a while. But we’re back!

Chapter 87

Young stood just outside the Nautilus Suite, soaking up the morning sun and gathering his thoughts while he waited for Greer and Ginn. The day was clear, full of sea and sky. The warm breeze smelled of salt and marine life.

Hard to remember that, back in Colorado Springs, snow would be starting in in earnest.  

Aways along the stretch of silver walkway, the door to the Sand Suite slid open and Jackson stepped into the bright morning. He approached Young, his hands in the pockets of his green fatigues, the sun reflecting off a his pale gray T-shirt.

There was no sign of the terrible strain Young knew he carried.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Jackson came to stand at Young’s shoulder.

“Doubt they’re worth that much.” Young traced the undulating outlines of the city’s shadow on the morning waves. “What’s the going rate on yours?”

Jackson shrugged. “A penny’ll get you: it’s nice here.”

Young snorted. “Yup.”

“What’s on your agenda for the day?” Jackson asked.

“Ginn and I are spending a few hours with the Lantean Historical Team,” Young replied. “Then physical therapy.”

Jackson caught his eye. “For a security detail, SG-68 gets around.” The arechologist’s gaze was as blue as the dome of the sky. “I hear I’m clearing Eli Wallace for some kind of ‘Ancient language competency’?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Young said.

“There’s no such thing, y’know.” Jackson looked out over the sea. “You’d think there’d be a standard, after all this time. I’m constantly finding new layers of meaning in Ancient phrases.”

“Still,” Young said. “There’s gotta be some kind of floor that would save a life here or there.”

“It’s a good idea,” Jackson said softly. “Enough to read signage. Enough to read warnings. Maybe if the SGC had a central curriculum, we’d lose fewer lives.”

The image of Jackson, weeping under stars only a few nights back, stuck like a burr in his thoughts.

“Any more insight on why Morgan Le Fay might have directed you here?” Young asked.

Jackson shook his head. “I spent a few days trying to mediate my way to an answer. Got nothing. Landry’s given Vala and I a few weeks to recuperate here, but I won’t be able to stay forever. Woolsey passed on some Milky Way intel to me last night. Apparently Ba’al stole a collection of gate addresses from homeworld command. There’s some worry he could use those to find Merlin’s weapon.”

“Shit,” Young said.

“We need to beat him to it,” Jackson whispered. “We need to beat everyone to it, I can feel it. If we don’t—that’s when Anubis’s device turns into our best option. That’s when Nick turns into our best option.”

They listened to small waves chime against the base of the tower below.

Young debated a handful of follow-up questions. Studied Jackson’s face. Decided against all of them.

“We’re slow playing the cypher set,” he offered. “Shep’s on board. Nick’s on board. Eli’s got a schedule so full that he’ll be hard pressed to make any progress for the next few weeks.”

Relief wrote itself into every line in Jackson’s body. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“You got it, Dan.”

Jackson smiled faintly.

“You know anything about the Wraith?” Young asked, changing the subject. “Where they came from, what they want? I’m trying to get a handle on them.”

Jackson wrapped his arms around himself. “I’ve read a novel’s worth of field reports and classified briefs. In terms of their origins, there’s two things we’re sure of: one—they share a genetic lineage with a predatory insect native to Pegasus, called the Iratus bug. Initially, we thought they evolved directly from it. But, two—the Wraith language is a derivative of Ancient.”

Young rubbed his jaw.

“Yeah,” Jackson said, responding to the shift in Young’s body language. “It’s troubling.”

“Any chance the Ancients themselves created the Wraith? Experiment gone wrong? That kinda thing?”

“It’s possible,” Jackson replied, the sea breeze lifting his hair. “We’ve never found direct evidence of it, but we know they experimented heavily with genetics. Somehow, though—it doesn’t sit right. As much as they edited their own genes, thought about transcendence, about ways to overcome the physical, as much as they layered their aesthetic into everything the built or engineered or coded—I don’t see them purposefully hybridizing that body of work with another species. Especially not a bloodsucking insect. We know they interfered with human genetics, but we understand only a fraction of how and why that was done.”

“Are Wraith and Ancient similar enough that if my team learns to speak Ancient, we’ll be able to pick up some Wraith?” Young asked.

“It’s been done.” Jackson’s tone turned wistful. “Elizabeth Weir had a knack for it.”

“If you’ve got the time,” Young said, “and if you clear Eli as competent in Ancient, you might consider giving him a few tips.”

“Well I don’t know.” Jackson turned theatrically sour. “Maybe Eli should ask Flora Terrarium, half-Sprite Librarian if she knows any linguistic tricks.”

Young snorted.

The wind sang around naquadah filigree.

“Thanks,” Jackson said softly.

“For what?” Young asked.

“I see what you’re trying to do,” Jackson said. “It’s helping.”

Young leaned into his cane. “You’re something of a one-man inspiration detail.”

“Not sure about that.” Jackson hadn’t let that self-hug go.

“Before you,” Young said, “it wasn’t all that clear to me what it might look like to try and pull a galaxy or two outta the fire with a five-man band. Just hope we get enough time to turn ourselves into the kind of flex unit that’ll be useful when the war comes home.”

Jackson gave him a small smile. “You got anything on deck beyond Ancient lessons and physical training?”

“Plenty,” Young said.

“Carve something off the block for me,” Jackson said.

“The Wraith chased the Ancients outta Pegasus, right?”

“They did.” Jackson scooped the words like the world’s most skeptical ice cream vendor.

“Seems like it would be useful to know if the Wraith ever encountered the Ori. Have any perspective on them at all.”

Jackson turned to face Young, astonished. “Are you suggesting diverting, or, or, or—even directing the Wraith to the Alteran home galaxy?”

“No,” Young said mildly. “The relationship if any, between the Ori and the Wrath, is one of many things I’m thinking about when I expand to consider literally the entire universe as the tactical board.”

“There are good people in the Alteran home galaxy,” Jackson said.

“There are good people everywhere.”

“It’s an idea,” Jackson whispered. “but—no. Too risky. Too risky I think even to ask the Wraith about the Ori.”

“Ask? We have diplomatic channels with the Wraith?” Young demanded, astonished. “Thought they were suped up vampire bugs.”

Jackson gave him a wry side-eye. “Sheppard can tell you more. He and Teyla have worked with individual Wraith on several occasions. Even temporary alliances with entire hives have happened, but, Everett, If the Wraith fell to Origen—” the archeologist’s voice faded to nothing.

“You think that’s possible?” Young asked.

“As a religion, it’s extremely persuasive,” Jackson said, and Young could hear the frustration, the despair in his voice. “And the Wraith have more culture than we give them credit for.”

Young raised his eyebrows, waiting for more.

“Their hair,” Jackson said. “Braided and ornamented. Their clothes. Intricate, layered, full of detail. And their names—like something out of Lantean legend: Lastlight. Nightwind. Whitemoon. Coldamber, also known as Queen Death.”

Young shivered.

“They’re long-lived. Longer-lived even than the Goa’uld. They hunted the Ancients to extinction in Pegasus. Who can say what they might make of the message of Origen, of a feeding ground on a higher plane.”

Jackson looked over at him. “The question of how they came to be is a good one. An old one. It may be unanswerable—but keep it in mind, as you learn about the history of Pegasus.”

“That’s the plan,” Young said.

Behind them, the door to the Nautilus Suite slid open to reveal Greer and Ginn, dressed in Expedition track jackets. They stepped from the coiled glass entryway and the door shut itself behind them.

“C’mon, kids,” Young said. “Let’s start our day.”

While Greer joined Major Lorne for a tour of the city and a lesson in practical Ancient, Woolsey arranged for Ginn and Young to tour Lantean informational architectures. This included the Officina Stellaris Didactica (the Stellar Teaching Lab), a small, windowless room with a massive central display and a white-clad guide who commented on the features and politics of Pegasus over time; the Scrinium Cretarium Argentarium (the Case of Silver Chalk), a vaulted, museum-like collection of stone fragments, each with their own alcove, housed in a room etched with chalk-like mathematical whorls evocative of sea creatures and oceanic currents; the Armarium Submersum (the Submerged Library), a repository of historical artifacts in a grotto of undersea green and blue, amber and lavender. They ended their tour in the Arcada Voltua (the Spiral Arcade), a coiled shell of workstations at the tip of the tallest spire on Sanctuary Quay.

The Arcade was where the Expedition historians spent their days, reading shaded terminals in a tower of naquqdah-reinforced crystal with a 360-view of the ocean. The strongest sun was blocked by moving translucency in the overhead glass panels that looked like traveling, wafer-thin marble when one looked directly at it.

Incredible.

With the Lantean database open in front of her, Ginn sat in stunned silence, staring at the interface, her eyes full of tears.

Young let her have a moment.

The architecture, the resources, the beautiful split-apart heart of a long dead culture was overwhelming for him. For Ginn, who’d spent her short life fighting on the floor for table scraps of knowledge—Young couldn’t imagine how the experience would hit.

He settled himself in front of his interface and studied the dense Ancient script. Languages had never been a strong suit, but he was determined to make a start. He spent a few moments getting a sense for the shape of the language—elongated Tetris shapes that all looked the same. Not exactly accessible.

Rush had taught himself to read this stuff over—what? A few months?

Sheppard too, could read it.

Ugh. This was what he got for hanging out with geniuses.

He fired up the translation program the history team had set him up with and watched the display cascade from Ancient to English.

He started with the Wraith.

It felt a little counterintuitive after all the time and mental energy he’d been spent on Jackson, on Rush, on Telford, on the LA and on the crushing threat of the Ori—but he wasn’t consulting out of Cheyenne Mountain anymore. His boots were on the ground. And that ground—beautiful, borrowed, alien—was directly threatened by the Wraith.

If he wanted his team to cut their teeth on something real, the Wraith were a good place to start.

The general purpose entry on the Wraith in the Lantean database gave no clear origin story for the Wraith. Contradictory theories and snips of legends were quoted. The dominant theory seemed to be that the Wraith were a species with deep roots in Pegasus, that they’d slept in force for millennia before the Ancients arrived. But references were made to popular Ancient works that suggested scientists from the Lantean population itself may have experimented heavily on the Iratus bug. A city founder and powerful geneticist named Ganos Lal was mentioned several times as the foremost expert in the insect.

Young chased down that thread and found nest of politics worthy of his own planet.

Ganos Lal’s daughter had been killed by one of the insects while exploring a forested world in the heart of the galaxy shortly after Atlantis had arrived in Pegasus. That was cut and dried fact, and it was widely accepted that it was her death that spurred her mother’s interest in the insect.

From there, it got messy.

After navigating his way through a few sets of contradictory articles, Young ended up at an entry on the political and personal rivalry between Ganos Lal and someone named Moros.

They were both scientists. Both leaders. Both of them sat on the Council of Ten, which seemed to be some kind of governing body.

Young sat back in an ergonomic chair of spring and silver and rubbed his jaw. His back ached, but not as much as it would have if he’d been sitting in an Earth chair for the same length of time.

“How you making out?” he asked Ginn softly.

She raised her head and regarded him solemnly. “The Wraith are a fearsome enemy.”

“I’m getting that,” Young replied. “Their origins are a snarled mess. Anything strike you about their biology?”

“The latch of an appendage, the secretion of a novel enzyme, the withdrawal of a victim’s life force—these are all explainable in the light of their insectoid ancestry,” Ginn said. “But there’s one feature that doesn’t fit.”

Young tried to conceal his approval. Maybe he’d make a tactician of the kid. “Oh yeah?”

“Psychic communication strong enough to stretch across star systems.”

Young locked the terminal in front of him and leaned into it, subtly stretching the aching muscles in his lower back. “Can’t insects coordinate all kinds of complex behaviors? Building hives, finding food? It’d make sense if they had something similar.”

“Such communication occurs via pheromones,” Ginn said pointedly. “Those cannot be translated without a medium of atmosphere. Psychic communication across heliocentric distances must be energetic.” 

Young raised his eyebrows. “Good pickup. That’s, maybe, another thing beyond language that connects the Wraith and the Ancients.”

“We’re looking for connections?” Ginn asked.

“Right now we’re learning the terrain,” Young said. “But—yeah. In military intelligence terms we’re angling toward pattern analysis. You can think of it like a threat assessment matrix—you identify the capabilities, behaviors, movements of multiple adversaries, looking for shared tactics. Common origins.”

Ginn shifted in her chair. “Adversaries,” she repeated. “You mean to connect the Wraith and the Ori.”

“I mean to connect neither if there’s no real connection,” Young said. “But as theories go, it’s a strong one.”

“The Wraith and the Ori gained gifts from the Ancients that empowered them in battle?” Ginn asked, attempting a summary of his position.

“Yeah,” Young agreed. “But if you want the Tau’ri military equivalent, it’s ‘The Wraith and Ori acquired strategic assets through Ancient technological or cultural transfer, which served as a potential force multiplier, allowing them total dominance in two separate theaters of war: Pegasus and Altera. The Ancients lost both galaxies. Or—let them go.”

“‘Theater’,” Ginn said, a note of disapproval in her voice.

Young shrugged. “The analogy comes from Tau’ri military history. Really gained ground during the Napoleonic Wars, when generals started thinking about containment strategies, how to manage multiple fronts as distinct operational spaces, each with their own command structure, supply lines, tactical requirements. Like civilian theater, it emphasizes control over space, over events, over the narrative that emerges. Director. Stage. Script. Actors. Only we’re dealing with galaxies instead of stages.”

“The Lucian Alliance has no such concept.”

Young looked down at his hands, thinking of the hard, spare people she had come from, of the First World of the Sixth House of the Lucian Alliance, where the only art that received public recognition was the art of defacement, where curiosity was associated with the Goa’uld but conquest was not, of a muscular embrace of ignorance after too long beneath the gilded heel of a nest of serpents.

“I know,” he said. “C’mon. Let’s get some lunch.”

As soon as they’d filled their trays with expedition cafeteria food, Ginn slipped away to sit with Eli. Young scanned the room and saw Sheppard and Ronon Dex seated across from one another at silver table near a window left open to a gentle tropical breeze.

“Mind if I sit?” Young asked.

Sheppard gestured at an empty seat.

“You guys are everywhere,” Ronon grunted.

“Don’t mind him,” Sheppard replied. “He’s just annoyed Eli could swim.”

“Excuse me?” Young leaned his cane against the table, then carefully lowered into the seat next to Ronon.

“Eli Wallace,” Ronon said, “is the worst soldier I ever trained.”

“He’s not a soldier.” Young speared a promising berry from a cup of alien fruit.

“I know.” Ronon shot a sidelong glare at Young, stabbed a chunk of fish with a fork, pointedly chewed it, then said, “Why do want him trained up like he is?”

“You don’t have to answer that.” Sheppard gave Ronon a knock-it-off glance.

“He needs discipline,” Young said.

Ronon held Young’s gaze, then filed the edge off his aggression. “Never met a scientist with any kinda discipline.” He speared another piece of fish. “But it’s not a bad idea.” He looked at Sheppard. “I could add McKay to our morning workout. Better yet, you could order him to come.”

Sheppard smirked. “McKay’d turn around and make you put in an hour of math.”

Ronon sighed.

“Fair’s fair,” Sheppard replied, and forked off a piece of his own fish. He met Young’s eyes. “How’d the morning go?”

“Pretty impressive information repositories you guys have.” Young sampled a bite of his own fish. It flaked like cod and was topped with a buttery sauce had little flecks of fresh herb. It wasn’t bad—but it did taste like it’d been cooked in an institutional tray. He was pretty sure his neighbor would have a few things to say about it.

“What’d you see?” Sheppard asked.

For the life of him, Young wanted to answer with the correct Ancient names for the places he’d seen, but they didn’t come easily. “The Stellar Lab, the Scrinium, the library, and the Arcade.”

One outta four wasn’t great.

“Which library?” Sheppard asked.

“Submersum.” Young clawed back a shred of self respect.

“Nice,” Sheppard said.

“Spent the morning in the Arcade, doing a dive on the Wraith,” he offered.

“Why.” Ronon dragged his bread roll through the last of the sauce from his fish, then shoved it in his mouth.

Sheppard rolled hie eyes subtly. “His team, his business. They’re our guests.”

“Nick Rush is our guest,” Ronon said. He waved the remains of his roll at Young. “You really wanna leave your new man with these guys?”

“My what?” Sheppard hissed.

Young snorted.

“No offense,” Ronon’s eyes flicked to Young. “I’m sure, for Earth, they’re great. But if you care about this guy enough to ask Teyla to take over his training, why are you leaving him with an injured colonel and three green recruits?”

“Never,” Sheppard said, fixing Ronon with his best icy gaze, “say anything like that again.”

Ronon picked up his fruit cup and dumped its contents into his mouth. “Just trying to help.”

“Help. Differently.” The words came low and slow, like Sheppard was drawing them over a whetstone.

“Okay.” Ronon looked at Young. “I’ll see if I can keep Eli Wallace from getting your whole team killed.” He eyed Sheppard. “How’s that for help.”

“That’d be great,” Young said, dry and mild.

“Better.” Sheppard glared onyx daggers in Ronon’s direction.

“I’m gonna go.” Ronon gathered his tray.

“Yeah.” Sheppard kept staring the other man down as he stood, picked up his tray, and left the table. After Ronon bussed his tray, Sheppard dropped his eyes and forked off another bite of fish. “Sorry about him.”

“He’s not wrong,” Young said.

“Give it two weeks,” Sheppard replied. “Eli’ll be able to run a mile, your team will be able to read the walls, The Astria Porta B Team’ll be the talk of the city, and you’ll ditch your cane. The optics’ll start to make sense.”

“Two weeks, huh?”

“We rehab better than anyone,” Sheppard said. “Had to, in the early days. No ships home.”

“We’ll see,” Young said. “I see Keller this afternoon. Vala’s gonna tag along. See what she can do with that healing device.”

Sheppard looked up, a little of the cloud and combat magnetism he’d displayed in Young’s bathroom the previous night. “Good. It’d be nice to be a little less…careful.”

Young gave the man a hint of a smile. Let a charge build between them under the strong tropical sun. Admired the profile Sheppard’s dark hair and dark shirt cut against the bright day, the silver architecture. The man was wearing cargo pants and a black shirt. If it weren’t for the gun at his thigh and the knife in his belt, he’d look like a civilian.

“This place suits you,” Young said.

“I know,” Sheppard replied.

Before Young could say anything further—

“Gentlemen!” Richard Woolsey approached, tray in hand. “Just who I was looking for!” He set his tray next to Young and settled himself in the chair Ronon had vacated. “I love Athosian Thursdays. You know they catch these fish with cross-river nets? It’s fascinating. And these berries are hand-harvested by school children as part of their education about the natural world.”

“Oh,” Sheppard said. “Cool.”

Woolsey gave Sheppard a look of poorly concealed pity, then turned to Young. “Colonel, how did you find the Arcada Voltua? I’d love to hear where your first database perusal took you.”

“I did some reading about the Wraith,” Young confessed.

“You’re a man of action; I’d expect no less.” Woolsey dug into his fish with gusto. “Tell us, what did you learn?”

“Seems to be some controversy as to whether the Ancients created the Wraith or discovered them,” Young said.

“Oh yes,” Woolsey replied. “A very hot historical question, especially given the linguistic similarities between the two peoples. Did you read enough to form a preliminary opinion?”

“No,” Young admitted, “but I think I know where I’m gonna start.”

“Do tell,” Woolsey said.

“Does the name Ganos Lal ring a bell?”

Across the table, Sheppard made a choking sound. He coughed, reaching for his water. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Fishbone.”

Woolsey gave him a solicitous look, then turned back to Young. “Oh yes. A towering figure in Lantean history. And in Earth’s history. She was known on our planet as Morgan Le Fay.”

A chill dumped itself down Young’s spine.

Ganos Lal was Morgan Le Fay?

Sheppard bridged his hands, looking away, breathing slowly.

“Colonel, are you all right?” Woolsey asked.

“Oh yeah,” Sheppard whispered. He gestured at his throat. “Wrong pipe. Keep going.”

Gathering himself, Young eased into the topic like he was crossing spring river ice. “Sounds like some people think she might’ve had some role in the creation of the Wraith.”

Woolsey nodded. “I’ve heard that theory. It seems unlikely to me. She was highly respected. A huge authority. She took on massive leadership responsibility after the Second Exodus, during the height of the plague. She had a reputation for backing controversial ideas, and she was a brilliant geneticist. The Lantean historical record is deeply colored by her centuries-long feud with Moros, the Ancient better known as Merlin.”

Sheppard took another sip of water.

“I was thinking of looking into that feud,” Young said cautiously, trying to let the warmth of the sun chase the chill from his bones. “As a starting point.”

“A wonderful little corner of history to dig your teeth into,” Woolsey said, full of approval. “Who knows what it might turn up. I must warn you, though, the database is vast, bias is rampant, and primary sources are hard to identify. There’s always some deeper, older document.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Young said.

“Dr. Jackson will be an excellent resource,” Woolsey said. “He’s taken a special interest in the life and work of Moros. I can’t say more—it wouldn’t do to dive into classified topics in the mess hall, after all. I’d consider looping him in on what you find.”

“I will.” Young tried to force some strength into his voice. 

Felt like one hell of a coincidence that his instinct to dig into the origins of the Wraith had turned up a connection to not only Morgan Le Fay but to Merlin as well.

He tried to steady himself. Found it almost impossible.

How much watching from a higher plane might be happening now, here? Was it possible that Lantean tech, like the database itself, could be manipulated? Was he being pulled in?

Again, he recalled the black-clad version of Nick Rush he’d seen sitting on a starlit parapet overlooking a midnight sea.

He took a breath.

He had a direction.

He’d tack it down.

Trace its contours.

“Thanks for the tip,” he told Woolsey.

“You’re quite welcome,” the administrator replied. “Now, if you don’t mind a lighter topic, how is your team shaping up in terms of their Astria Porta skills?”

“Uh,” Young said, still trying to settle himself, “hasn’t been at the top of the priority list.”

“No matter,” Woolsey replied, cheerfully. “An inexperienced team will only up the drama of their debut.”

“What?” Young asked.

“Tonight! Hasn’t Dr. Zelenka mentioned anything? I’m hosting a small get together for the players and their friends.”

Sheppard snorted.

“Back up,” Young said. “What’s happening?”

“The B Team is making their Expansion Pack Debut!” Woolsey beamed. “We’ll set everyone up in my quarters right after the evening meal and livestream the battle with the Prismatic Drake to the entire city. Colonels, I insist upon your presence.”

“Um, I’m not sure how much my team has really played the game,” Young began.

“Nonsense!” Woolsey said expansively. “Dr. Zelenka is a world-class player and no one has better reflexes than Ronon Dex. Mr. Wallace, no doubt, can coach your team through the worst of it. Or—even better—” Woolsey eyed Sheppard hopefully. “Perhaps we pair up the A Team one to one with the most inexperienced B team members. I heard Sergeant Greer is playing a Serpentis Shock Trooper…” Woolsey trailed off.

“I could probably sit in his corner, give him a few tips,” Sheppard agreed.

“Excellent!” Woolsey hit the table with the flat of his hand, overcome with enthusiasm. “Teyla can always be prevailed upon to dispense advice in a pinch, especially if someone volunteers to watch the little one.”

“I hear he likes you,” Sheppard said mildly.

“We’ve come to an understanding.”

“You and—” Young said, not following.

“Torren,” Wolsey said.

“He’s a baby.” Sheppard shot Young a wry look.

“A very advanced baby,” Woolsey corrected, full of pride and poise. “He has his mother’s presence.

Sheppard shrugged like an agreeable predatory cat.

“A game night tonight should be doable,” Young said, hoping he hadn’t just volunteered SG-68 for public humiliation.

“Wonderful!” Woolsey declared. “Seven o’clock sharp. Bring the B Team, Mr. Wallace, and Dr. Rush. I’ll arrange the rest.”

“Arrange?” Vala purred from behind, snaking a hand over Young’s shoulder

Young didn’t bother to turn, just ate another bite of fish.

Woolsey craned his neck to frown up at her.

“Arrangement is one of my special talents,” she said, smiling brilliantly. “Do I sense a party in the offing?”

“It’s not a party.” Woolsey compressed his lips, full of disapproval. “It’s an evening of elite gaming.”

Vala, undeterred, said, “Sounds like you could use a caterer, Administrator.”

Flummoxed, Woolsey stared up at her. “Are you—volunteering?”

“Of course,” she said brightly. “I’ve made fast friends with a woman named ‘Teyla’ just this morning. She and I are going shopping on the Athosian mainland once I set Colonel Young on the road to recovery.”

Woolsey tried to internalize his sigh with minimal success.

“I’m sure my terrestrial BFF and I could whip a little something up.” Vala examined her immaculately painted nails. “If you’re looking for testimonials, perhaps Colonel Sheppard might vouch for us?”

Sheppard smirked. “You might want to consider it. She’s a great hostess. And her terrestrial BFF knows his way around a kitchen.

“Really.” Woolsey gave Sheppard a skeptical look. “I’m expected to believe that Dr. Jackson, a man who forgets to eat two out of three meals, has an undisclosed culinary skill set?”

Sheppard braced his forearms against the table and leaned in for the kill. “Her terrestrial BFF is Nick Rush.”

Woolsey made a wounded sound.

“It’ll make McKay’s week,” Sheppard said. 

“Consider it a peace offering, administrator,” Vala cooed. “A modest atonement for some ill-considered little aspersions I may have cast upon your character many many weeks ago? What do you need?” She gave him a glittering smile. “Hot hors d’oeuvres? Artisanal cocktails? A summer dessert?”

“A summer dessert wouldn’t go amiss,” Woolsey began cautiously. “I have a few bottles of an Athosian wine I’ve been saving for a special occasion, perhaps something that would pair well with a full bodied red?”

“Consider it done,” Vala said, leaning into Young’s shoulder. “How many people will we be serving?”

“Colonel Young and his team, Dr. Zelenka, Ronon, Colonel Sheppard, Teyla, Mr. Wallace,” Woolsey said, counting on his fingers.

“Let’s not forget the caterers, mmm?” Vala said. 

“Yourself, Dr. Rush,” Woolsey added agreeably.

“McKay,” Sheppard said. “And Keller.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Woolsey added a few fingers.

“And Daniel,” Vala finished.

“Fifteen,” Woolsey said.

“No problem.” Vala gave him a winning smile. “Come, handsome.” She leaned into Young’s shoulder. “You’ve got a date with a with the discarded husk of a former sex goddess.”

Woolsey, pained, shut his eyes.

“That’s me, flyboy,” Vala stage-whispered to Sheppard. “I’m the divine husk.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Sheppard said. “Thanks.”

Young got to his feet before Vala could scandalize the city administrator any further. “C’mon,” he said, tray in one hand, cane in the other. “Let’s get this over with.”

“See ya,” Sheppard said.

“Seven PM sharp,” Woolsey added.

“We’ll be there at five thirty to prep!” Vala called over her shoulder.

Vala led the way to the infirmary, the red gem of the Goa’uld healing device braceleting her wrist, catching the light of the tropical sun. She didn’t seem to be leaning so heavily into her crutch as she had been even a few days prior.

“What’s your secret?” he asked her, as they followed a hallway arcing up through the city’s central spire.

“You’ll have to be more specific.” She glanced back at him with a toss of her glossy black hair. “I have so many.”

“You’re healing up pretty quick,” Young said.

“This little number doesn’t hurt,” she said, brandishing the device at him. “But there’s no replacing the basics: massage, heat, stretching. You are doing those things, aren’t you, handsome?”

“Yeah,” Young said, unconvincingly.

The truth was that he’d never gotten himself into a real routine. Cam Mitchell, after he broke his back in Antartica, had been told he’d never walk again. But he’d gone after his own recovery like a dog with a bone, every second of every day working himself back, fingernail by fingernail. Ignoring despair with clear-eyed, midwestern grit.

Young didn’t have his bloody-minded optimism. Maybe that was the difference. He’d let himself slip into depression, into drinking too much and thinking too little, sensing, maybe, the physical and emotional dread of the deeper trauma that’d been locked away with an LA drug. He’d had an affair with the best physical therapist Cheyenne Mountain had on offer.

That hadn’t helped.

He’d been depressed, living in a world of ash before Jackson had carried the most ridiculous guy in the world into his apartment.

Young was deluding himself if he thought he’d ever be free of what’d happened on the upslope of that volcano.

The hallway curved along a bank of windows, open to the day.

Vala stopped, looking out over the sea, where small clouds cast irregular shadows on blue water.

Sheppard had been right about this place. The Lucian Alliance was light-years away, out of reach, out of mind. For as much as the Alliance had taken from the SGC, from David Telford, from Dale Volker from Young himself—they’d taken something in return.

Ginn. Sharp eyes, sharp mind, as much heart as any new recruit Young had ever seen. She’d been crucial to that LA foothold, and they’d plucked her from the beating heart of an old and vengeful engine, and set her in a city that glowed, that sang in the wind, that powered itself with a core of fused crystal.

Even out of the field, his mind had been in the trenches. In the mud and the ash, looking up here and there to glimpse Jackson, fighting it out on inaccessible heights.

It had seemed like all there was for him. All there ever would be. The trenches. But that had been, maybe, a failure in perspective.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Vala asked, looking at the sea.

What a strange thing it was, to spend what might be the twilight of his civilization on healing his mind, his physical body, his friends, a beautiful city on an alien sea that had, just in the past days, begun to turn green.

“Yup.” Gently, Young touched the curl of a young vine, twining itself around the grating at the base of the open window. “Let’s see what kind of mileage we can get outta my back.”

“I say we start with your leg.” Vala tipped her face to the tropical breeze. “I’m good at legs now.”

“Lead the way,” Young said, and followed her up the arcing hall.