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: Brunch.

Additional notes: None.

Chapter 87

Waiting for Greer and Ginn just outside the Nautilus Suite, Young let the sun soak into his back and drive away the worst of the ache. The morning was a blue bowl of sky over a blue plate of sea, and the breeze smelled of brine and wet shell.

Back in Colorado Springs, fall was turning colder. The snow would be starting in earnest, settling on the upper slopes of the Rockies. The road to the base would be pale with the residue of salt. He wondered what Emily was doing. Planning Thanksgiving, probably. Cooking for her parents. Meeting someone new. 

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 forest-colored fatigues. The sun reflected off his pale gray T-shirt.

Jackson posted up at Young’s shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Doubt they’re worth that much,” Young said. “What’s the going rate on yours?”

“A penny’ll buy: it’s nice here.”

Young snorted. “Yup.”

The city cast an undulating shadow on the waves below.

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

“Ginn and I are spending time with the Lantean Historical Team,” Young replied. “Then Vala’s gonna put in another round on my back.”

Jackson caught his eye. “For a security detail, SG-68 gets around. 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 smiled ruefully. “You’d think there’d be a standard, after all this time, but I’m constantly unearthing new layers of meaning in Ancient phrases.”

“Still,” Young said. “You’d think Ancient 101 might save a life here or there.”

“It’s a good idea,” Jackson said softly. “Enough to read signage. Enough to read warnings.”

The memory of Jackson weeping under stars clung like a burr. “You got any better handle on why Morgan le Fay directed you here?”

Jackson shook his head. “I tried to meditate my way to an answer and got nothing. Today I’ll wander around, I guess. Landry’s given Vala and me a few weeks to recuperate here, but time is limited. Apparently Ba’al stole a collection of gate addresses from Homeworld Command. Sam is worried he could use them to find Merlin’s weapon. Some—” Jackson ducked his head and waved a hand, “—combinatorics thing.”

“Shit,” Young said.

“We need to beat him to it,” Jackson said, low and fierce and staring at the sea. “We need to beat everyone to it. If we don’t, well, that’ll be when Nick turns into our best option.”

Small waves chimed against the base of Sanctuary Quay.

Young debated a handful of follow-up questions, studied Jackson’s face, then 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 packed he’ll be hard pressed to make any progress for the next few weeks.”

Relief eased the hunch in Jackson’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“You got it.” Young lifted his eyebrows. “Dan.”

Jackson huffed a laugh.

“You got a personal take on the Wraith?” Young asked. “Where they came from, what they want?”

“A personal take.” Jackson frowned, and wrapped his arms around himself. “There are two things we’re sure of: one—they share genetic material 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. “My personal take is: that’s troubling.”

Young nodded.

“The Ancients edited their own genes,” Jackson continued. “They thought about transcendence, about ways to overcome the physical, then layered that aesthetic into everything they built. I don’t see them hybridizing that hard-won body of work with another species. Especially not a bloodsucking insect. It’s true they interfered with human genetics, but we understand only a fraction of how and why that occurred.”

“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. “C’mon. You’re the one-man inspiration detail around here, not me.”

Jackson shook his head and wrapped himself a little tighter in his self-hug.

“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 asked.

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

“They did.” Jackson scooped the words like a 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. “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 Wraith, 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 even to ask the Wraith about the Ori.”

“Ask? We have diplomatic channels with the Wraith?” Young demanded. “Thought they were souped-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. Temporary alliances with whole hives have been negotiated, but, Everett, if the Wraith fall to Origen—” his voice faded to nothing.

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

“As a religion, it’s persuasive,” Jackson said, frustration and 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, “is braided and ornamented. Their clothes are intricate and layered, full of detail. They’re named like something out of Lantean legend: Lastlight. Nightwind. Whitemoon. Coldamber, also known as Queen Death.”

Young shivered as a gust of sea breeze found its way inside his collar.

“They’re long-lived,” Jackson continued. “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 an old one. Controversial. Full of misdirection that may be purposeful. 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. They left the shadowed entryway and stepped up smartly, full of green promise.

Jackson sighed, remembering, maybe, scores of other young marines, young scientists. 

“C’mon, kids.” Young turned his back on leagues of sea. “Let’s start our day.”

~~~

While Greer joined Major Lorne for a tour of the city and a lesson in practical Ancient, Woolsey arranged an orientation to informational architectures for Ginn and Young.

Not exactly Young’s usual thing, but that was the point. Time to see how the academic side lived.

They started in the Officina Stellaris Didactica, also known as the Stellar Teaching Lab. The room was small by Lantean standards, and circular with a domed roof capped with an oculus that let in natural light. Beneath the oculus was a central display pedestal where a white-clad holographic guide could be summoned to provide personalized instruction on a variety of topics. A primitive AI was embedded into the control console, and according to their guide, the room was a power-hog for that reason. To use it, one needed to submit a written request to the city Administrator.

Next came the Scrinium Cretarium Argentarium (the Case of Silver Chalk), a vaulted, high-ceilinged room that was a cross between a cathedral and museum. This housed a collection of carved stone fragments, each in its own alcove. Brushed silver murals etched with chalk-like mathematical whorls evoked sea creatures and oceanic currents. Woolsey’s historical team had created small placards that translated some of the carven script. All of it seemed to be verse. Ginn wandered from stone to stone, studying the writing and reading the translations where they appeared. Young glanced at a few translations while he waited for her to make the rounds.

Windblown, a bell bursts

[At its] own hammer’s strike.

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 naquadah-reinforced crystal with a 360-view of the ocean. The strongest light was blocked by moving translucency in the overhead glass panels, which took on the warm glow of wafer-thin marble when the sun was behind them.

When the tour was complete, Ginn took her seat at a Lantean interface, her fingertips hovering over the glass touchscreen, her eyes brimming with tears.

Young let her have a moment.

The architecture, the resources, the beautiful split-apart heart of a long-dead culture—it was overwhelming for him. For Ginn, who’d spent her life fighting on the floor for table scraps of knowledge, well, Young could imagine all of this hitting pretty hard.

He settled himself in front of his own interface and looked over the dense Ancient script. Languages had never been a strong suit, but he was determined to make a start. He spent a few moments studying the letters themselves, which resembled elongated Tetris-y shapes that all looked the same.

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

Sheppard, too, could read it.

He sighed. This was what he got for hanging out with geniuses.

Young fired up his translation program, and the display cascaded from Ancient to English.

He started with the Wraith.

It felt a little counterintuitive after all the time and mental energy he’d 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 threatened by the Wraith.

It made sense to get a handle on them.

The entry on the Wraith in the Lantean database was full of biology. A geneticist named Ganos Lal was mentioned several times as the foremost expert in the insect. She’d figured out the connection between the Wraith and the Iratus bug, she’d studied their feeding patterns, the compounds they injected into their victims, explored the molecular underpinnings of their functional immortality.

When it came to the origins of the Wraith—where they’d come from, who they were, what they wanted—there wasn’t much, and what little he could find scattered and contradictory.

That was odd. Maybe he was looking in the wrong place.

He started looking for information on the Wraith expert, Ganos Lal. Maybe he’d turn up a book, a log, some personal correspondence. It would be an entry point, at least.

Young typed her name in, and the database returned an avalanche of information.

She was a member of the Wandering Generation, born just after the First Exodus, when the Ancients had fled Altera and settled in the Milky Way. That was about all he understood from her early life. The database translation program yielded up a mishmash of poetic nonsense where sensible nouns should be.

For a soil-cresting sprig, she coiled and wove stone melody into flake-folded Song. 

Okay, sure.

Young was gonna guess that probably meant something like: as a kid, she was good at…mystical stuff. Or physics. Or sculpture. Or music?

Young kept reading. Not all nouns were metaphor. He was able to nail down a few things. She’d been elected to the Council of Ten, which was a governing body. There were some good years that Atlantis spent floating on a nice Earth sea, where Ganos Lal had been working on calling the spring wind. He wasn’t sure what that meant. She’d partnered up with (or maybe married?) a classmate, and they’d had a daughter. There was a whole section about her contributions to the cultivation of fruit and the fermenting of wine. The description of the land made Young think of the Mediterranean, but he couldn’t be sure.

From there, things went downhill for Ganos Lal.

A plague hit. That was the first thing. Young shifted in his seat and pressed a hand to his aching lower back. Young had spent paragraphs and paragraphs unsure what Ganos’s “weaving” actually meant, but as he read, he started to get the idea that she was some kind of molecular biologist, or biochemist, or geneticist, because she was the one unraveling the nature of the disease.

She couldn’t cure it. Neither could anyone else.

Young had a hard time following the events leading to the event known as the Second Exodus. The Council of Ten split. The city where Ganos Lal lived also split along a quarantine line. After deliberations, the city’s heart departed. Young couldn’t decide if that was metaphor or not, but when the heart landed in Pegasus, he decided “heart” had to mean “Atlantis.” Ganos Lal and her daughter made it out, along with Moros, Chaya Sar, Janus, and Amelius. The other five members of the Council stayed on Earth. 

After Atlantis left for Pegasus, there was a set of truly incomprehensible paragraphs about what had happened in its wake. The Council executed one of its own members, maybe? Then everyone left behind either died or ascended.

In Pegasus, Ganos Lal continued to have a hell of a time.

Gate-seeding, outpost-building, exploring—she’d been at the heart of all of it. Young started to doubt his guess about her occupation as a geneticist, wondering if he might have been wrong, because she seemed to have an unmatched gift for concealment. She traveled world-to-world, “weaving” and “tuning” what could only be cloaking devices. She took her daughter with her.

On one of these planetary expeditions, while her mom was working on the cloak for a weapons outpost, Ganos’s kid had gotten herself killed by an Iratus bug.

That’s when Ganos’s obsession with Wraith/Iratus genetics had kicked off. Young frowned, trying to parse the prose. The Wraith started popping up as the culprits behind attacks on outposts, gates, protected communities. Maybe they’d been there, lying in wait?

Young flagged the date of the kid’s death. Maybe he could put together a timeline. Maybe someone already had. He’d ask Woolsey. He kept reading.

Ganos Lal pushed her obsession with the Wraith to such extremes that she alienated the High Councilor, a guy named—Moros. 

Finally, a name he knew!

Their rivalry had a whole subsection, long and full of bitter, spiky nouns that probably layered meaning in quintuplicate.

Young sat back in an ergonomic chair of spring and silver and rubbed his jaw. His back ached. On the plus side, it didn’t ache as much as it would have if he’d been hunched over his dining table.

“How you making out?” he asked Ginn.

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

“I’m getting that,” Young replied. “Anything strike you?”

“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 yet. “Oh yeah?”

“Psychic communication strong enough to cross 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. “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.

Young made an equivocal hand gesture. “We’d say something more like: ’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 echoed, 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.

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

~~~

As soon as they’d filled their trays with lunch, Ginn slipped away to sit with Eli. Young scanned the room and saw Sheppard and Ronon Dex seated across from one another at a silver table near a window open to the 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 said. “He’s just annoyed Eli could swim.”

Young leaned his cane against the table, then carefully lowered himself into the seat beside Ronon.

“Eli Wallace,” Ronon said with a glowering side-eye, “is the worst soldier I ever trained.”

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

“I know.” Ronon stabbed a chunk of fish with a fork. “So why do you 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 chewed his fish. Swallowed. “Never met a scientist with any kinda discipline.” He speared another piece of fish. He looked at Sheppard. “I could add McKay to our morning workout.”

“No way he agrees to that,” Sheppard said.

Ronon grunted in agreement. “You could order him to come.”

Sheppard smirked. “If I do that, McKay’ll make you put in an hour of math.”

Ronon sighed.

“Fair’s fair.” Sheppard 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 flecked with fresh herb. It wasn’t bad—but it did taste like it’d been cooked in bulk in an institutional pan. He was pretty sure Rush 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 Arcade.”

One outta three wasn’t great.

“Nice,” Sheppard said. “The Scrinium is Woolsey’s favorite. ‘Cause it’s got rocks, I think.”

“He likes rocks?” Young asked.

Sheppard snorted. “He prefers Ancient text that isn’t inscribed on mysterious machines. Did you and Ginn find anything interesting in the Arcade?” 

“We did a dive on the Wraith,” Young said.

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

“His team, his business,” Sheppard said. “They’re our guests.”

“Nick Rush is our guest.” Ronon waved a half-eaten roll in Young’s direction. “You really wanna leave your new man with these guys?”

“My what?” Sheppard hissed.

Young snorted.

“You care about this guy enough to ask Teyla to take over his training,” Ronon grumbled, “so why are you leaving him with an injured colonel and green recruits?”

Sheppard fixed Ronon with an icy gaze. “That’s enough.”

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 try and keep Eli Wallace from getting your whole team killed.”

“That’d be great,” Young replied, 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.”

“Eh,” Young said. “He’s not wrong.”

“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 be better.”

“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 and Vala’s gonna tag along to see what she can add with her healing device.”

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

Young let a charge build between them under the strong tropical sun as he admired the profile Sheppard’s dark hair cut against the bright day and shining silver architecture. The man was in 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. That was probably the idea.

“This place suits you,” Young said.

“I know,” Sheppard replied with the hint of a smile.

“Gentlemen!” Richard Woolsey approached, waving as he came. “Just who I was looking for!” He placed his tray next to Young’s 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.” He popped a small purple fruit in his mouth, and chewed with relish. “Wonderful.”

“Uh,” Sheppard said. “Yeah.”

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 started with the Wraith,” Young said.

“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 like there’s some ambiguity about 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 of your own?”

“No,” Young admitted, “but I found a point of entry into the question, I think.”

“Do tell,” Woolsey said.

“Does the name Ganos Lal ring a bell?”

Across the table, Sheppard choked and coughed. “Sorry,” he whispered, reaching for his water. “Fishbone.”

Woolsey gave Sheppard a solicitous look, then turned back to Young. “Oh yes. A towering figure to be sure. In both Lantean and 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.”

Young had the uneasy feeling that came with standing on river ice in spring. “I—don’t know much about her yet. I didn’t realize—” he trailed off. 

Woolsey nodded. “She was highly respected. And took on massive leadership responsibilities after the Second Exodus. She had a reputation for backing controversial ideas. She loved long shots and grand gestures. A woman after my own heart. And she was a brilliant geneticist. You can’t believe all you read about her in the database. The Lantean historical record is biased by her centuries-long feud with Moros. It got quite ugly, it seems.”

Sheppard took another sip of water and rubbed the ring of bruises just beneath his collar. “Oh yeah?”

Woolsey frowned with worried solicitude. “Did Dr. Keller clear you for duty?”

Sheppard waved the question away.

With a look of skeptical misgiving, Woolsey returned his attention to Young. “I must warn you—the Lantean 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 recent 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 loop him in on what you find.”

“I will.” Young tried to force some strength into his voice, but it felt like one hell of a coincidence that his instinct to dig into the origins of the Wraith had turned up a connection to Morgan le Fay, the same person who’d directed Jackson to Atlantis.

He tried to steady himself. Found it impossible.

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

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 SG-68 shaping up with regards to their Astria Porta skills?”

“Hasn’t been at the top of the priority list,” Young confessed.

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

“What?” Young asked.

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

Sheppard snorted.

“Back up,” Young said. “What’s happening? I thought we were having dinner.”

“Ah. Forgive me, colonel. But ‘dinner’ was a bit of a placeholder. I had to confirm a few logistics first, but I’m pleased to announce that tonight, the B Team will be 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 whole 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 world-class and no one has better reflexes than Ronon Dex. Mr. Wallace, no doubt, can coach the rest of the 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…”

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

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

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

“We’ve come to an understanding,” Woolsey agreed.

“You and—” Young said, not following.

“Torren,” Woolsey 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.”

“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.”

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

“Of course,” she said. “I’ve just made fast friends with a woman named ‘Teyla.’ 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 at Woolsey. “I’d 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. “He’s been stressed.”

“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 leaned into Young’s shoulder. “How many people will we be serving?”

Woolsey counted off on his fingers. “Colonel Young and his team, Dr. Zelenka, Ronon, Colonel Sheppard, Teyla, Mr. Wallace—”

“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, including myself,” Woolsey said.

“Perfect.” Vala squeezed Young’s shoulder. “Come, handsome. You’ve got a date 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.”

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

Young stood before Vala could scandalize Woolsey 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. She didn’t seem to be leaning so heavily into her cane as she had been even a few days prior.

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

“You’ll have to be more specific.” She tossed her glossy black hair. “I have so many.”

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

“This little number doesn’t hurt,” she said, waggling 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.

The truth was that he’d never gotten himself into a real routine. Cam Mitchell, after he broke his back in Antarctica, 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 that kind of 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 a deeper trauma locked behind an LA drug. Maybe part of him had known he’d never be free of what’d happened on the ashy upslope of that volcano.

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

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

For once, the Lucian Alliance seemed far away. And for all they’d taken from him—

He had something of theirs, now.

Ginn.

Sharp eyes, sharp mind, plucked from an old and vengeful engine, planted in a city that glowed and sang in the wind, that powered itself with a core of fused crystal.

His mind had spent a season in the trenches. In the mud and the ash, looking up here and there to glimpse Jackson fighting it out on inaccessible heights.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Vala gripped the rail, her eyes on the horizon, the wind in her hair.

How strange to spend the twilight of his civilization healing his mind and his physical body. Making friends. Exploring an inherited city on an alien sea. Watching green stems sprout and grow after millennia of waiting.

“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.”

“Today, let’s start with your leg.” Vala smiled, her face tipped to the afternoon sun. “I’m good at legs now.”

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