Speech Matters (SGA/Traders xo) no 15
Author: Sealie jimandblair
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis/Traders xo [Atlantis: sur la mer segment]
Series spoilers: none
Beta: L’s help was invaluable. I have made changes in response to her edits. Any errors are solely mine… mine

Warning/story spoilers



Speech matters.
by Sealie

John -- free from Rodney grouching over his choices at breakfast -- absently peeled an orange. Teyla raised an eyebrow at his choice.

John shrugged. “Rodney’s not going to come to breakfast. He’s got a personal assistant.”

Teyla followed his gaze to where Grant doggedly made his way along the length of the canteen breakfast table. Nothing was touched until his choice was made, then rattlesnake fast Grant snatched banana or box of cereal and piled it on his tray. Miko beside him pointed out a small carton of milk.

John shook his head and returned to his fresh fruit.

“I do not understand the--” Teyla tapped the carton of semi-skimmed milk on her tray, the one-person sized cardboard box which had contained muesli, the empty sachet of sugar, “--waste.”

“Honestly?” John said. “Never gave it much thought. There’s recycling at h-- on Earth. But when you’re on base or deployed this stuff can be easily transported. The Daedalus brought it. Actually, bulk would probably…” John licked his lips. He hadn’t lied; he hadn’t given it much thought. “I’m sure that Rodney can design a particle whatsis that can recycle it.”

Selections made, tray a pyramid of food, one foot carefully placed in front of the other, Grant wended his way out of the commissary. Once Grant had turned into the corridor, John leaned back into his chair returning to his conversation.

Teyla sat primly, hands folded on her lap, expression inscrutable.

“Sorry, distracted,” John apologised. “Er, recycling. We’re wasteful. Too many material goods; it’s cheaper to make new instead of re-using. Not everyone but in the West. Although, Scottish people are known…”

“Aye, can it, Cliché Boy.” Carson set his breakfast tray on their table with a thump. “Some folk say that the Scots are tight. Like all rampant generalities they’re wrong. We’re lovely, generous people.”

“No porridge?” John pointed an orange coated finger at Carson’s toast and cereal.

“I don’t like porridge, unless my mam makes it. And even then not often. Bacon, now. A bacon sandwich with tomato sauce.” Carson sighed lustily as he sat opposite John beside Teyla.

“Tomato sauce?”

“Ketchup,” Carson translated. “Bloody Americans. I could go for a sausage sandwich with fried onions.”

“There is bacon,” Teyla noted, pointing at the hot plate at the end of the long table. “It is very good.”

“Oh, it is. But I try, Luv, to only have bacon butties on the weekend. Moderation in all things,” he said piously.

“But there is no porridge?” Teyla half questioned.

Carson heaved out a sigh. “The colonel is just being facetious. The cooks give us oatmeal, but it’s not proper porridge. It’s too weak and watery and sweet. Proper porridge like my mam makes is made out of pinhead oatmeal; it sticks to the ribs.”

“It is a great pity that the Daedalus could not bring food from your home?” Teyla said.

Carson pointed his spoon threateningly at John before he could say the word ‘haggis’ – it hovered unspoken on his lips. “Yes, it is a great pity. But I bet Radek’s thinking the same thing and Miko, ‘cos not everyone likes burgers, meat loaf, chips and fried chicken. Actually, the first thing that I had once I was home was a first class Indian. I had the best tandoori chicken makhani with saag aloo and peas pilau rice ever. I almost cried.”

“American cuisine isn’t just about fried chicken,” John pointed out.

“Tell that to the cooks in the canteen,” Carson said dryly. “This food reminds me horribly of school dinners.”

“School dinners?” Teyla questioned obediently.

“When I was at school: stodgy, over cooked, salty crap. I kept my dinner money, scarpered over the wall to the newsagent and got pop, mars bar and a packet of crisps or went to the chippie.” Carson eyed John in question.

“My school was too far away from stores. You ate what you were given or starved.”

“You what, eh?” Carson cocked his head to the side as he cogitated. “Couldn’t pick up snacks on the way to school? Ha, you went to boarding school or something in the middle of nowhere.”

John leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

“You so did!” Carson said gleefully.

“And why is this an issue?” Teyla questioned carefully. “What is a boarding school?”

“It’s a school where the kids stay -- board -- for a period of study. They only visit their parents for vacations,” John supplied pointedly not looking at Carson.

“Aye,” Carson said solidly. “We have lots of different schools. I went to an inner city comprehensive, which means that there were lots of kids, thousands in the school. There were forty-five in my registration class and six classes in the year. Miko told me once that she went to a girls only school.”

Teyla spent a long moment looking at John, before taking the opening that Carson offered.

“You segregate your children in schools by gender?”

“Not all schools. My school wasn’t…” Out of the corner of his eye, John spied Grant reversing into the commissary. He held the tray of food high. One of the Marines spun deftly out of his way as he shuffled backwards. Rodney turned the corner and stalked into the canteen.

Eyes rolling, Rodney spun his finger in the air, directing Grant to face the right way.

“Come on.” Rodney strode straight over and plonked down next to Carson. Grant slid in opposite, setting the tray between them. Rodney latched onto the coffee as if deprived, getting that mouthful before even attempting the solid food.

“Morning,” John leaned back in this chair.

Rodney grunted.

“Good morning,” Grant chirped around the rim of his own coffee cup.

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Carson waved, encompassing Rodney and Grant’s presence at their table.

“First full day back on duty,” Rodney non-answered.

“Aw, you missed us,” John interpreted.

Teyla froze and then cocked her head to the side, finger going to the comm. hooked over her ear.

“Yes, of course, Elizabeth.” She stood.

John waited a heartbeat for his own call, but his comm. remained silent.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Teyla’s nod took them all in. She inclined her head, “Grant.”

“Oh, what is your problem?” Rodney snapped waspishly.

“Rodney?” Carson questioned looking between Teyla and Rodney, perplexed.

“The freezing. The singling out. Why?” Rodney demanded.

Grant shuffled down in his seat, concentrating on his mug of coffee.

“I--” Teyla shuffled uncomfortably.

“Grant’s probably the nicest person in this entire galaxy,” Rodney continued loudly. “You cannot have a problem with him just because he can’t access the gate translation programme.”

The silence blanketing the table was stifling.

“Or can you?” Rodney said slowly.

“Teyla?” John asked, disbelieving.

The sigh that escaped was heartfelt. Moving almost arthritically, she clasped her hands together. Her gaze was fixed on her entwined fingers.

“Luv?” Carson prodded.

“It is only… Not ‘only’ -- that is the wrong word,” Teyla said quietly. “Those such as Grant are not favoured by the Ancestors. It is a shame which is not borne well.”

“I don’t believe it,” Rodney’s pitch rose. “Just because he thinks differently you’re prejudiced.”

“McKay!” John snapped.

“Teyla will barely even look at Grant. How do think that makes him feel?”

Grant was a hunched little ball, perched on the very edge of his seat.

“There’s nothing wrong with Grant,” Rodney shouted. Silence fell in the words wake. Heads turned.

Grant scrunched a little lower.

“Well, there isn’t,” Rodney continued mulishly.

Even Grant appeared a little surprised at that assertion. “I think Dr. Beckett, Dr. Firth, Dr. Hannah, Professor Hyde. Professor Jacks, Mr. Jefferson, Dr. O’Connor and Dr. Sommers would disagree with you.”

“There’s wrong and wrong. They’re two entirely different things,” Rodney responded acerbically. “Not favoured by the Ancestors, my ass.”

“Well, when you think about it,” Carson said apologetically, “it’s not as if we see a lot of mentally ill people in Pegasus.”

“I always thought that Kolya came across as a little psychotic,” John noted.

Teyla’s comm. chirruped loudly. “I apologise. There is a sensitive issue that I have to mediate. Dr. McKay -- Rodney -- Grant, we will talk further on this matter. I will attempt to explain.” She pursed her lips over other words and with a curt nod took her leave.

“Way to go, McKay.” John said as soon as she exited the commissary.

“What? I just called her on something which is blatantly obvious to even me.”

“It’s Teyla, McKay, she doesn’t have a nasty bone in her body.”

“I think that I’ve ran hundreds clinics in Pegasus,” Carson said inserting his words into the conversation like a scalpel blade. “I’ve seen one child with Down’s syndrome – no adults, no schizophrenics, no sufferers with biopolar affective disorder. I’ve seen depression and post traumatic stress disorders. I’ve seen no deaf adults. Two blind adults.”

“What are you saying, Carson?” John asked.

“I’m saying that the people in Pegasus don’t generally have access to a lot of technologically advanced medical care, but have a low incidence of chronic disease and disability.”

“So they’re lucky?” Rodney hedged. “Generally, healthy?”

“You’re saying something really horrible, Carson.” John shuffled back in his seat.

“Aye.” Carson pushed his tray away. “Aye, indeed. But we saw similar statistics in the Milky Way under Goa’uld regime. Different drivers in the Milky Way but similar outcome. It even occurs on Earth.”

“You’re saying that ill people are fed to the Wraith?” Rodney seemed to disbelieve his own words.

“Makes sense when you think about it logically,” Carson said dispassionately, but couldn’t hold the objectivity for a second and his bottom lip trembled. “I figure some people are easier to catch than others. And perhaps some people, both victim and relatives, think it’s a… a… an acceptable trade.”

“Geez,” John set his mangled orange peel on his tray. He tapped an orange coated finger against his comm.. “Really, okay. Yeah, sure.” He stood abruptly. “I gotta go, guys. We’ll talk later. Give Teyla some time, McKay, I’m sure that she’ll explain….”

As he ran from the hall, he could hear Rodney grumbling,

“Okay, yeah, blame it all on me.”


~*~

“I think that you’re simplifying a complex subject, John,” Elizabeth said so diplomatically that he grated his teeth together. “I can understand the stigma associated with not being able to use the translation programme--”

“‘Not favoured by the Ancestors.’”

“It would single you out in a galaxy where the majority can communicate easily and efficiently. And coupled with other behaviours -- hearing voices, perseveration -- you’re suddenly possessed, demon-spawn. It is easy to imagine.” Elizabeth set her folded hands on her desk. “And the other aspect, related but distinct. The Wraith are predators and humans their prey. While I can’t, actually, say what the Wraith eat and whether quality or quantity is important, Grant would be easier to catch than say, you.”

John slumped in his chair, a cold, hard lump under his breast bone.

“This really upsets you, doesn’t it, John?”

“Of course it does.” He straightened defensively. “Just – think about it. All those hundreds of thousands of people over the time, considered--”

There were not words to encapsulate it all.

“It is unfair,” Elizabeth supplied. “Yet that is not just a problem confined to Pegasus.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?”

“No, but perhaps it gives you perspective?” Elizabeth hazarded.

John didn’t have any response to that, there was so many things wrong with the sentence he didn’t know where to begin.

“What of Rodney and Teyla? How will this affect your team?” Elizabeth continued doggedly. “Teyla was very upset during our meeting with Lill of the Athosians.”

“Teyla’s the most well-adjusted person I’ve met. Okay, Grant creeps her out a little. But it didn’t stop her spending time and naming things for him in Athosian. Neither Rodney or Teyla are going to let it fester; can you imagine Rodney letting it go?” John scratched at his hair. Rodney had learned his lesson well; when Grant had first been diagnosed Rodney had admitted to being scared and ignoring Grant. Eventually realising that, Rodney had become the staunchest of defenders.

“Incoming wormhole.”

“Oh, that must be Lorne and his team on P3M-736.” Elizabeth stood.

“The radiation planet with all the plant life that had the botanists drooling?” John followed her out onto the concourse.

~*~

John stamped down the puddlejumper ramp, his team and Lorne’s team around him. The light of P3M-736 was a sickly beige-orange lending an oppressive cast. The high end electro-magnetic radiation might be dangerous to humans, but the detrimental effects on their scanners made it the perfect place for Ford to hide.

Rodney followed lathering on his homemade sun-block cream. He glared at all and sundry.

We’ll sort out the team stuff when we’re back on Atlantis. Get Ford home first.

“Teyla, you’re with me. Coughlin, take Billick. Reed, you and Sherman cover the ‘gate. And major, you’ve got McKay.”

“Oh, lucky me,” Lorne drawled.

~*~

Grant perched on the articulated walkway over looking the arena where the Marines housed their exercise equipment and indoor track. There was a new wave of thoughts and emotions clattering through Atlantis. At its epicentre stood a giant of a man -- this Ronon Dex –- who was destroying a punching bag with bloody fists. He was a glowing red volcano of barely banked fury as he strove to demolish the hanging pad. The Marines seemed oblivious to his need to destroy. Suddenly he stopped, his hair whipping around as he jerked his head up to look directly at Grant.

With a bleat, Grant scurried away.

~*~

The corridor was clear. Grant stayed where he was, tucked up against the transparent column filled with bubbling water. Waiting, watching and wondering.

Grant was infernally curious about the man that Flyboy had described as the Lion to Dr. Beckett’s Androcles. Curiosity was, however, well known for killing the cat. Grant liked cats. And killing couldn’t even enter into the equation. There was a red miasma slowly dissipating in the air that whispered of violence. The air rocked with the passage of Mr. Dex. Grant knew people did not believe him when he spoke of auras and when he had taken his haloperidol sometimes they seemed a little bit beyond marvellous.

There was a lot to contemplate on; the whole of Atlantis was complicated.

Flyboy wanted Mr. Dex to join his team.

Question was: should Mr. Dex be on Atlantis? Dr. Elizabeth Marjorie Weir was very leery about having Mr. Dex running free through Atlantis. But Mr. Dex would be safe here and he would be able to heal.

“Grant?”

The scientists in the main science laboratory had had an intense discussion about ‘Caveman’ Dex. The name didn’t make any sense, because the MALP scans of the planet had shown a technologically advanced society and according to Flyboy his military designation was ‘Specialist’. Yet he ate his mashed potatoes with his fingers. Actually, Grant could get behind that; he liked the way that the mash squished between his fingers. But that was not the ‘right way to do things.'

“Grant!” Rodney snapped. “What are you doing?”

Grant spun on his toes.

Rodney’s arms were crossed over his chest and his chin was up.

Grant scrunched down a fraction.

“What are you doing, Grant?” Rodney leaned to the side to better peer down the corridor. “Why are you hanging around outside the grunts’ gym?”

Grant shifted from side to side, making little squeaks with his white tennis shoes.

“Miko said that you were… Well, to be honest it just sounded like you were being... you. Are you going to tell me what’s happening or what?” Rodney’s tone rose, meaning that he was tired, cranky and wanted answers as soon as humanly possible. So nothing unusual there.

Grant waved his hand, sketching an angry aura complete with spiky bits, words sometime just didn’t cut it.

“Are you going to tell me or are you going to do sock puppets next?”

Grant gnashed his teeth in frustration. “I don’t know until I know. The variables are complex and there are conflicting arrays of data.”

“Hey, docs,” Major Lorne said affably.

Grant got behind Rodney faster than the speed of light even if that was impossible. Major Evan Lorne and Mr. Specialist Ronon Dex had been in the gym. They were sweaty and more than a bit smelly.

“Major.” Rodney let Grant stay where he was, safe and sound. “Dex. Hmmm, Ronon. Or um Dex?”

Mr. Ronon Dex said a bundle of gobbledygook and Grant sagged; realising here was another language that he had to learn. Mr. Dex peered down at them. He shrugged resting a hand on his hip, near his shiny blaster. He had been allowed to keep his blaster. Grant added that data point to his personal threat assessment matrix.

“This is Dr. Grant Jansky, Dr. McKay’s brother,” Lorne explained, somewhat inaccurately.

Curiously, Rodney did not correct the major.

Grant kept his gaze on the gleaming weapon at Mr. Dex’s hip. “Did you make it? Did your people on Sateda, make it?”

“Sateda?” Mr. Dex growled, one world recognisable in a mess of gibberish.

“Hmm, good question.” Rodney bent over a fraction to peer at the holstered blaster.

“Dr. McKay,” Major Lorne said patiently, “Dr. Weir is expecting us; I’m afraid that we have to get to the showers.”

“Yes,” Rodney said fastidiously, raking them both with a disgruntled glare. “Go shower. Come on, Grant.”

Obediently, Grant let Rodney tug him along. He counted, wagering a jelly bean against a cup of hot chocolate that Rodney would speak as soon as he guessed that they were out of earshot from the other men.

The chocolate was a sure win.

“Did you understand Dex?” he asked he was towed onto a sea-side balcony.

Mutely, Grant shook his head.

“Damn, I was hoping that it was just Athosian. But that would have made no sense, whatsoever.”

“I don’t mind. I know I’m not a demon.”

“I know that you’re not a demon. It’s just biochemistry. You’re lacking some kind of neurological transmitter or you don’t have enough of it or something.”

“I don’t like that Ms. Vit e’ Emm-gen doesn’t like me because of it.”

“Vitty?”

“Vit e’ Emm,” Grant said, emphasising the ‘Mms’. “I think that it denotes her position in Athosian society. Like, princess?”

“Princess Teyla?”

Grant shrugged. “Lady?” he offered. “Head? Head might be better.”

“Hmmm. See it can be kind of an advantage being a little different, sometimes.” Rodney looked smug.

“I’ve always thought so,” Grant concurred.


~*~

The habit of their team lunches had eroded following the combination of Ford’s getaway, a trip back to Earth for debrief and then the pneumonia from hell. When Rodney’s comm. had pinged fifteen minutes before the commissary-scheduled lunch time, Rodney knew that Sheppard was trying to start the lunch dates again. His automatic grunt to Sheppard’s softly drawled question had been met with a ‘Come on, Rodney.' Reluctantly, he found himself agreeing, even though he had a thousand and one things to do. But he hadn’t had it out with Teyla and he had never been one to leave things festering.

It was a little different this time, because it wasn’t about solid, logical, demonstrable proofs. It was about thoughts and beliefs and people weren’t sensible when they got into the realm of beliefs.

He tagged Grant on his way to the commissary, cajoling him out of his sea view, computer and hard drive filled lab with a crooked finger and a, "Now, Grant!”

The commissary staff supplied hot food at every meal from breakfast to supper. It was a good plan; Rodney always worked better when the mundane tasks of life were fulfilled by someone else. If only if he could get a cleaner. But Elizabeth refused to sign off on his android plans.

They were early so the line for the hot trays was short (scientists were invariably late, because that last minute before going anywhere just had to be used to its utmost). Sheppard was ahead of them, pointing out dishes to Dex, who trailed in his wake.

Absently, Rodney pushed Grant ahead of him, focused on the serving dishes on the right --the marked food: no dairy; no nuts; no lemon; no fish/shellfish; no wheat and combinations thereof.

Grant squeaked and backed away from Dex almost as if he had been transported. The Runner canted his head, staring at them both.

“What?” Rodney said belligerently. He caught Grant’s sleeve, and Grant used him as a fulcrum swinging around until he cowered behind him. “What’s the matter?”

Grant’s finger came over Rodney’s shoulder. “There’s a bug. A bug in his hair.”

Sheppard was suddenly on the other side of the room. Rodney thought it hilarious.

Ronon shook his mane and Rodney saw the black, iridescent, little finger-nailed sized, stubbly legged bug spinning down to the floor.

“Didn’t anyone DEET you?” Rodney demanded, grabbing a glass from the rack above the hot trays and upending it over the insect.

“Deet?” he rumbled.

“You. You’re a biologist.” Rodney pointed at the blonde pony-tail (cute) who was already pushing back from a canteen table. “Alien bug for you.”

“Oh, Excellent.” She squatted to better see it, so Rodney stepped right over her, intent on getting food while it was hot.

Grant scuttled around her, giving her the widest berth possible, until that put him into Dex’s orbit. With mathematical precision, Grant selected the correct trajectory to avoid them, score what looked like the juiciest burger and then scarper to Sheppard’s table.

“How do you wash that hair? You do wash it, don’t you?” Rodney demanded.

“Yes, McKay. I wash my hair,” Dex said, face impassive.

“Really? How.”

“With soap and water.” He rolled his eyes. “You telling me that you’ve never had a feithid in your hair.”

Rodney automatically scrabbled a hand through his hair. “Of course not. Okay, yes, maybe. A money spider once or twice.”

Point made, Dex turned back to the hot trays selecting a mound of chilli con carne. Suitably galvanised, Rodney focussed on grabbing his own lunch.

Elizabeth was at their table, a meagre salad portion constituting her meal.

“You big, fat girl,” Rodney said mocking Sheppard’s escape from the dangerous, infinitesimally tiny bug.

Elizabeth’s bristle was totally predictable.

“Bet you wouldn’t have said that if Teyla was here,” Sheppard said around a forkful of salad leaves.

“Speaking of Teyla, where is she?” And Rodney looked, no Teyla hiding anywhere. “She’s avoiding us, isn’t she?”

“She’s on the mainland, dealing with Lill of the Athosians,” Elizabeth said calmly.

Sheppard twirled his fork. “She does have responsibilities outside of the team.”

“What is all that Lill stuff about?” Rodney sat with a thump.

“I’m afraid that it’s deeply personal,” Elizabeth answered.

“And?” Rodney said. “What’s it about?”

“And private,” Elizabeth said with finality.

Rodney tutted loudly and applied himself to his bowl of chilli. “I did want to talk to Teyla.”

“To or at?” Sheppard said pointedly.

~*~

“I need you to translate,” Teyla said interrupting John’s concentration.

“What?” He automatically hit control-S on his laptop.

Teyla stood in the entrance to his main office, hovering, which was somewhat out of character. “I am disturbing you. Sergeant Campbell implied that you were not busy.”

“Just catching up.” He couldn’t help himself hitting the save combination of buttons again. He didn’t want to lose the carefully crafted letter of reprimand. “When did you get back? Everything okay?”

“The matter is under control. I now have other issues to -- how do you say it? -- sort out.”

“That’s more of a Beckett saying. But… you and Grant?”

“Grant and I, indeed.” Teyla inclined her head.

John was so not looking forward to this and unfortunately Teyla was between him and the door.

~*~

“Hey, Grant, you got a second?”

Grant spun in a complete revolution in his computer chair before coming to a stop. His mobile face lit up in an open grin. It shut down just as fast when Teyla stepped into the computer lab behind John. He ducked his head in a shy welcome.

“Grant?” John said softly. “Teyla has something that she’d like to say, but I need to translate. That okay?”

Grant nodded fervently.

John took as deep breath. “Over to you, Teyla.”

Composing herself, Teyla settled her hands over her abdomen as if preparing to sing, and began.

“I owe you apologies and I have no excuses,” John echoed. “It is such in our society, some more than others, that we follow the guidance of the Ancestors. It comes as a hard pill to swallow when what we are taught is so unpalatable.”

At that so obvious and clunky Non-Athosian saying, John could almost hear a guttural rising and falling cadence under Teyla’s words that bore no resemblance to any tongue heard on Earth.

“I have always strove to rise above this dictate of the Elders. I know, personally, that it is…” Teyla looked at John, for once mute.

Grant hunched on his computer chair, surrounded by banks of computers, all idling into swirly fractals. Eyes wide with trapped horror, he gnawed on his thumbnail.

“Complex,” he mumbled around his thumb.

“Complex?” John said unnecessarily.

Teyla nodded. “Complex.”

“Grant.” Teyla moved so that she stood before him, instead of partly angled to include John. “I stand at the forefront as we face the Wraith, as I should due to my own nature. I did not intend to judge you and strove not too. Nor did I wish to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Grant said, again around his thumb, “jl’fd hdfd gddh.” He hunted for the next word in Athosian, nose scrunching as he failed to find it.

“English, Grant. Teyla appreciates the effort. But I haven’t got a clue what you trying to say. And I think your pronunciation is…” John winced at Teyla’s constipated expression, “awful.”

“You’ve never been nasty, Ms. Emmagan.” His thumb popped free. “I know that *I* made you uncomfortable. But you still came and patiently named things for me. We’re taught things in our heads and we understand them in our hearts. But what we’re taught isn’t always the truth that we know in our hearts.” Grant ducked his head blushing.

“Nice, Squirrel,” John added as he finished echoing the words.

“You see,” Grant said earnestly, talking to his lap, “you’re allowed to struggle. Struggling’s good. It’s when your head’s been taught wrong and your heart doesn’t know, then it’s bad.”

“Okay,” John inserted brightly and loudly. He went for a hearty tone, so both would know that it was his turn. “So we’re happy now? All friends?”

Teyla blinked. “We are working towards it?” she offered.

“Excellent.” John clapped his hands together once. “Right, I’ll get back to my really interesting paper work.”

His escape could only be described as gauche. Maybe they would have another Athosian-English language session. He didn’t really care. The corridor outside Grant’s nepotism-sized office was thankfully empty. He set off at a brisk pace, knowing that it would take him into Rodney’s orbit, mainly because he was heading to his suite of laboratories.

Rodney was hunched over the dissected innards of what looked like an autobot. The man was going to have serious back problems when he got older. His science-hunch when he was concentrating, intrigued, or scared was begging for sciatica.

“Android?” John picked up an articulated appendage, twisting it around.

“No.” Rodney sulked. “It’s a remote manipulator, part of the foreign atmosphere clean room.”

John cocked his head to the side, remembering what had been first identified as a hazardous materials lab, complete with a wall of different types of remote control attachments. Mounted on shelves, each manipulator was controlled by one of three control units housed in the windowed room overlooking the lab. A third of the array of robot arms had been inactive. Simple math indicated that one of the control units was not functioning.

“What have you been up to?” Rodney asked as he pried off a decorative covering to reveal a blank, protective sleeve.

“Been talking with Teyla and Grant.”

“What?”

“She apologised to Grant for being distant.”

“Hmm,” Rodney grumbled, and the black sleeve sproinged off out of the appendage and across the room. He was left holding a Phillip’s screwdriver.

“Hey, they’ve made up. Grant was happy. So what’s the problem?”

“Like you don’t know,” Rodney snapped “I expected better of Teyla. I mean: God, told her to hate Grant. That type of hidebound thinking keeps people in the Dark Ages.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“It isn’t. It all about interpretation and not thinking. Look at the Bible, it’s inconsistent,” he said sounding mortally offended. “Corinthians states that there is one God and then later on, states that Satan is the God of Earth. Let’s see one plus one -– hmmm, equals two. Basic Math.”

“It was translated by people; there has to be some interpretation.”

“Oh, interpretation,” Rodney said darkly. “Okay, classic example. I should stone you if you don’t rotate your crops or if you’re an adulterer. I haven’t seen that happen recently, have you?” Rodney finished belligerently.

“It isn’t--”

“It is. Religion is just an excuse not to think for yourself and put decisions in the hands of someone else. It’s sugar-coated by saying that if you obey you’ll go to Heaven.” He slashed at his words with his screwdriver.

Sheppard huffed an ironic sigh. He couldn’t disagree. Aptly, he had faced that old adage that there were no atheists in foxholes. But equally in the cold light of day, seeing atrocities and then, since Pegasus, the evidence that the Ascended Ancients were omnipresent, omniscient, un-acting deities made any religion a bitter pill to swallow.

The defensive cast ebbed from Rodney’s very being.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “You agree?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know.” He held up his hand forestalling Rodney’s automatic objection. “I know that condemning Grant as cannon fodder is because he’s bipolar – or whatever the Hell he is… is… wrong. I mean that whole--”

“God Thing,” Rodney interrupted going down the garden path and out the door. “There’s no empirical evidence that God exists.”

“Isn’t that the point of faith?”

Rodney ignored him. “In fact every miracle in any religion can be easily explained by Ascended Ancients getting off their High Horses. Jesus was probably an Ancient with poor impulse control.” Rodney raised a finger emphasising his point in jerky taps. “There is no evidence in any of the cultures that we’ve found on any of the associated worlds in the Milky Way or Pegasus Galaxy having anything remotely like organised religion apart from Goa’uld manipulated Religions. Those cultures which were not touched by the Goa’uld or Wraith or Ancients for that matter – should get on well without it.”

Oooh, that was in need of dispute; John thought rapidly. “Didn’t SG:1 find some totalitarian regime split down the middle over a Ring religion and where the Stargate was on their continent.”

“One: it was based on the Stargate and hence linked to the Ancients and, subsequently, Goa’uld.”

“Okay, without the Stargate how are we supposed to find these,” Sheppard made mocking speech quotes, “uncontaminated cultures?”

“And two,” Rodney continued, “it didn’t improve things did it? Just an excuse for war, terrorism, atrocities and hatred of those that don’t agree or are different.”

“Geez,” John bit down. Rodney was almost spitting his vehemence. “It brings a lot of people comfort.”

“And?” he snapped. “It’s built on false premises. It’s a placebo.”

“Placebos work.”

Rodney tapped at his temple. “Because it’s all in your head. You might as well believe in Fairy Moonbeam.”

“I believe that now is not a good time,” Teyla observed from the doorway.

“I think that it is marvellous timing.” Rodney spun on his chair, eyes bright.

“Rodney,” John said quellingly.

Rodney stood, wheeled chair spinning away and stalked out into the open area of his lab where he liked to lie on the floor when really stuck on the solution to a problem.

Teyla slid forwards, balancing lightly on her toes.

“Guys?” John raised his hand.

“Here to convert me to the Cult of the Ancestors?” Rodney said bitingly.

“I would not do that, Rodney.”

“Why isn’t that the goal of a true religion? Convert followers and non-believers to the true path.” Frustrated, he jabbed the screwdriver angrily, each jerk an emphasis. “Or kill. Sacrifice those that don’t believe or are unclean.”

“Rodney,” Teyla said with her unerring calm. “You do not believe that of me.”

“Guys, don’t fight,” John said simultaneously.

“Fight?” Rodney froze, stabbing screwdriver brandished. “Fight? Fight Teyla? I just want her to realise that she’s putting her faith in absolutely nothing. Yeah, let’s worship sparkly squids or old men with long beards.”

Teyla folded her hands together. “That is not the issue. And you are being deliberately offensive. The issue is Grant.”

“And? What about Grant? He’s not leaving Atlantis. He’s not defacing it by his presence.”

“Rodney!” Teyla interrupted sharply. “I do not wish him to leave. Nor do I fear Grant. I will admit to jealousy.”

“Jealousy?” John checked.

“Yes, of his ease of acceptance within Atlantis. I had thought that that was true of your home planet. I know now from Miko-san that on Earth those like Grant are feared and ostracised. It is that his family makes him welcome. Your interpretation is simplistic, Rodney.”

He bristled, predictably.

“If I was a burden on my family and I could stand between them and the Wraith, I would. I cannot step away from that. That is my choice. That is the way that I have been taught. We cannot carry burdens and survive.”

“Grant is not a burden.”

“Within Atlantis, he is not a burden.”

“But outside?” Rodney said poisonously.

“I have spent time learning to talk to him and I do not think so. Grant would step between you and a Wraith.”

Rodney blanched white. “That will never happen.”

Teyla inclined her head. “That is a good decision.”

Rodney turned a bewildered glance on John.

“Yeah, well.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “We said from the start that Grant wasn’t going to be on a team or anything. Keep him safe. He’s a non-combatant, like Miko. We protect them. Now… Kavanaugh.”

Teyla shot him a dismayed look. “You are both very cruel to Dr. Kavanaugh.”

“He wouldn’t step between me and a Wraith.” Rodney grumbled.

“He’ll be cowering in a cupboard, so he’s not going to get in the way either,” John said clinically.

“That is not fair,” Teyla said.

“Fair, eh?” Rodney pounced. “I wasn’t aware that fair was allowed.”

“I understand that you--”

“Nah-ah. Tell me, how do you dictate fair. Magic fairy dust. Spin of the bottle? Life is not fair.”

“I am fully aware of that!” Teyla shouted.

John jerked a step back.

“You are spoilt and protected. You are favoured and protected. Until you came to Pegasus you knew that tomorrow would come and that there would be food on the table.” Teyla rose onto the balls of her feet, left leg braced behind, torso curved and weight evenly distributed.

“I--” John began.

“Do not tell me that that is not true.” Teyla’s hand sliced through the air. “I know that what I say is a generalisation. I have seen your television programmes on your audio visual displays of your Third World. But, John, Rodney, it is an abstract concept for you – you were not born to threat and privation. You know privilege and you only barely understand need.”

“And what,” Rodney said pithily, “does that have to do with hating Grant.”

“I do not hate Grant!” Teyla said, offended to the point of gasping.

“But you’d sacrifice him to the Wraith, eh? And the justification would be that the Ancestors don’t favour him?”

Teyla snapped, “You are deliberately being very offensive, Rodney.”

“No, I’m just not sugar-coating it.”

“Time out,” John yelled. “Back off, the pair of you.” He stepped between them, hands out stretched. “I’m damn sure that Teyla’s never given anyone to the Wraith.”

“But it happens,” Rodney said mulishly.

“You need to apologise to Teyla, McKay, now!”

“Okay.” Rodney rolled his eyes. “I apologise.”

“Properly.”

“Teyla. I know you wouldn’t. But it happens, right?” he couldn’t help insert.

Teyla sighed wetly, she dropped her defensive posture. “Yes.”

“Really?” John blurted. “The Wraith come in and just take the…”

“The Wraith rarely negotiate,” Teyla said. “Those that cannot receive the gift of the Ancestors can be wrong in many ways, twisted and cruel. A council can decide to make it easy for the Wraith to take them. Or those that cannot hear may choose to stand and delay the Wraith when they come for their families.”

“With a little bit of persuasion from said friends and family,” Rodney said sarcastically.

“As always you strive to break down an argument into its simplest components.”

“Because that way you understand exactly what is happening. Break it down and build it back up,” Rodney retorted.

“This is not your physics.” Teyla deliberately placed her hand over her heart. “What do you hear when I speak?”

“English,” Rodney answered, smartly.

“Ah,” John breathed. “Whoa...”

“What? What? What did I miss?” Rodney asked.

Teyla’s smile was heart sore. “John, would you care to explain?”

“Teyla speaks perfect English. No contractions. Measured, even tone and carefully constructed sentences,” John said. “What do you hear when I speak, Teyla?”

“And?” Rodney spluttered. “So Teyla’s polite…oh… No way? Really?”

“When you speak, Colonel, I hear a mismatch of so many words and the sense behind them that it is both a blessing and a curse. When I speak I have to chose my words carefully Perhaps it is the Wraith within me that make me a poor recipient of the Ancestors Gift.”

“But you’re a diplomat and negotiator,” Rodney pointed out. “The Vitty thing for your people.”

“I am also the Daughter of Tegan, a poor cook, a warrior, a musician and one who stands before her people in the face of the Wraith. I am many things.”

“So, you actually find it difficult to talk. Did that mean that your people treated you badly?” Rodney said with his customary bluntness.

“Some, not all. I have, of course, no problem speaking with my fellow Athosians from within my clan. It took me many years to fully understand what many travellers were saying when they spoke, when presented with so much information. It is, as I said, a blessing and a curse.”

Rodney cast his screwdriver into its tool box. “So you’re cannon fodder. You’re expected to do what you do?”

“McKay.” John rubbed at his face, tiredly. “I think what Teyla’s trying to say is that it’s not cut and dried. There’s a spectrum thing. It sounds like some people who can’t use the Babelfish might be psychopaths, and giving them to the Wraith is a little like reverse-pest control. You know, so if you can’t do the translating stuff, you’ve sort of got a black mark against you.”

“Sucky way of controlling mental illness or stigmatising someone because of a biochemical glitch.”

“Never said it wasn’t, McKay. I don’t agree with it. I’m sure Teyla doesn’t. But the real cause of this is the Wraith.”

“Wraith? The Wraith are just means to the end. It’s the way it’s justified – wrapping it in religion.” Shoulders rounded, Rodney stomped over to his desk. “This has been going on for ten thousand years. So when was the last time you met someone as deficient as Grant, Teyla?”

Teyla crossed her arms, fingers clenching into her biceps. “To have no words is rare. And they are normally dangerous to those around them.”

“Ten thousand years of eugenics.”

John blinked. “What do you mean?”

Rodney sat at this lab table, automatically reaching to fiddle. “Many illnesses have genetic components. You show the symptoms, you get sacrificed to the Wraith and you’re out of the gene pool. The rate of attrition on genetic illnesses, mental or physical, won’t be absolute -- some schizophrenics don’t manifest until in their twenties. But I bet the genotype of any population in Pegasus is -- damn, Carson should be here -- less messy?”

“Hullo,” Grant said meekly. He scuttled along the wall coming further into the lab. “You should stop fighting.”

“We’re not fighting,” Rodney snapped.

Grant glanced sideways at him. “Yes, you are.” He quickly looked away. “You’re yelling.” Grant made the dash across the expanse of the room to the intriguing nuts and bolts scattered across Rodney’s table. “Yelling isn’t going to solve anything.”

“I’m not yelling!”

“You can yell until the stars go out but you won’t solve anything until you listen to each other,” Grant said.

John started edging towards the door. Grant’s gaze flicked sideways at him, before returning, ostentatiously, to scrutinise the equipment on the table. John froze.

Deftly, Grant began sizing all the screws. “Maybe your ancestors are right.”

“No, you--” Rodney interrupted.

“But I don’t think that the Ancients set up the gate network to identify people with--” Grant flashed Rodney a grin, “--biochemical disorders, because I don’t think the Ancients care about the Tau’ri on that level. They’re more concerned with populations or whole civilisations. Vit e’ Emm-gen’s real ancestors are the people who survived when the Ancients abandoned Pegasus. ‘Destroying burdens’ makes sense when you think about it, when you’re fighting for your lives every minute of every day.”

“You’re not a burden, Grant,” John was impelled to protest.

“I know,” Grant confirmed, emphasising his words with a head twitch. “I’m not, when I’m here or when I was at Gardner Ross. I’m a magician. A magician with numbers. But if I was in a village growing things, or I had to man a palisade against Wraith, I wouldn’t be very good at that. I know what I am.” Grant snuck another glance around the room.

John shifted from side to side, but didn’t bolt. Teyla was watching Grant closely, waiting for him to continue. Rodney was simply scowling, arms crossed and chin up.

“Ooooh,” Grant picked up a black diamond headed screw and held it out to Rodney.

Rodney sighed heavily, and unfurled enough to snatch the screw.

“Thing is,” Grant continued, “what might have been true ten thousand years ago, isn’t true now. People change, if they don’t forget. If you forget you just keep repeating the same mistakes. So you just have to make sure to tell people that condemning me to death or people like me to death is wrong, because you know better.” He finished brightly and smiled at them all.

Great, John thought uncomfortably, as silence stretched after Grant’s words. He guessed that he should say something, but there was a large gap inside of him where there were no words.

“Easier said than done,” Rodney said waspishly.

“It’s a matter of conscience.” Grant waved his hand. “Teyla doesn’t like it, Flyboy doesn’t like it and you hate it. I bet there are mums and dads out there who don’t like it. Some people would listen.”

Rodney coughed into his hand. “And the fundamentalists would chase us off with flaming torches.”

“And that is different, to eighty percent of our missions, how?” John couldn’t help but smirk.

Rodney wrinkled his nose.

Teyla said sedately, “Perhaps Carson may advise those afflicted or their families when he runs his clinics.”

“Exterminating the Wraith would solve the problem,” John pointed out.

“It wouldn’t really, because you’ve still got the brainless ‘Not Favoured By the Ancestors” idiocy going on.” Rodney raised a triumphant finger. “I could look at the Stargate Babel framework. Tweak the parameters.”

“I think--” John began to interject. That was large scale modification that Elizabeth would insist on a committee assessing before it got the go-ahead.

A technical solution made Rodney glow like a newborn sun. “Grant, you will help. In fact you would be invaluable as the control. Hah, that would be a kick in the face of the Ancestors, using you to ultimately destroy the basis of such an idiotic rule. Come on. Operations, Grant. Now!”

Rodney gathered up his laptop and tool kit in one swoop and ran for the door. Grant spared them one glance, before he set off in hot pursuit.

John tapped his ear piece. “Hi, Elizabeth. Yeah. No, I’m not in my office. Rodney’s on his way up to Operations. You might want to intercept him or redirect him? No, no, no. I’d just say, advocate that he collates some data and then he and Grant can hole up in a lab and run some simulations -- before upgrading the Babelfish. Yeah, sure, I’ll be along soon.”

John flicked off his communicator. He supposed that they’d identified a problem and proposed a solution but there was weight, unaccountably, like an anvil pressing on his chest. They hadn’t actually solved anything. It would be arrogant to assume that they had.

Teyla canted her head to the side.

John rolled his shoulders. “Wanna go spar for a while?”

“Yes, that would be acceptable.”

He bowed extravagantly, letting Teyla take the lead. John kinda thought that Teyla might take it easy on him

Or perhaps not.

Just another day in Pegasus.

Fin