The enthusiasm of the room was contagious. "As you wish, Doctor." John climbed up on the table and whistled sharply to get everyone's attention. "Okay, you all know the drill. No opening anything or making trade offers until all mail has been distributed, just to keep the noise level down. After that, you're on your own. Now, the first item goes to…" Elizabeth handed him a package. "Sergeant Ruiz." Cheers and clapping accompanied the beaming sergeant up to the front.
The event lasted nearly an hour, and John decided he was glad he'd come after all. It wasn't every day he got to see the expedition so uniformly happy. Carson lit up when he received an oversized box marked Perishable. "Mum's scones," he exclaimed blissfully, and the offers for bartering escalated so quickly that John had to whistle again to quiet the room down. Radek's stack of letters was an astounding four inches thick, but when Rodney and others demanded to know who'd sent them, he responded with only a closed-mouthed smile and a few hushed words in Czech.
One of the newer scientists had been worried for weeks about a brother in the Army who'd been deployed to the desert. John had heard about it through the rumor mill, so he especially enjoyed handing her an envelope postmarked Balad, Iraq. The young woman almost bowled him over in her joy. It was easily the highlight of his day.
When every package had found an eager owner, John jumped down from the table and wandered over to see what his colleagues were up to. Carson's scones had turned out to be the hot commodity this time around. His mother must have baked for a solid week, because his box was packed to the brim with dozens of the biscuit-looking things, frozen for the long trip. A crowd had formed around him, but he steadfastly refused to entertain any trades.
"Oh, I don't believe this!" Rodney fumed. Before John could ask what might be so offensive about scones, the chief scientist shoved a magazine in his face. "A typo. Have I somehow angered the gods of physics, or am I just surrounded by morons at every turn? I fight through three levels of Air Force bureaucracy to get this paper cleared for publication, and they introduce a typo!"
John squinted at the dense text and tried not to be too impressed by the alphabet soup of degrees following the name M. Rodney McKay. Rodney really didn't need the ego boost. And what was that `M' for? "I don't see it," he offered.
"I wouldn't expect you to. That insufferable Matthias Palmer at MIT, however, will spot it immediately, and criticism from lesser minds is high on my list of things that are intolerable."
"Okay, but he's on Earth and you're here, so how much crap can he really give you?"
Rodney paused. "You make an excellent point."
On that positive note, John elected to leave the controlled chaos of the mess hall behind. He headed for his quarters, wondering what movie would get the popular vote for tonight's rec-room viewing. Actually, they'd probably show a World Cup game or two. Soccer wasn't one of his favorite sports, but it had been a while since football season, so he'd take what he could get.
He waved his hand in front of the wall sensor, and his door obligingly slid open. Before he could enter, Elizabeth's voice called out, "John."
Turning in the doorway, he watched her take long strides to catch up to him. "I thought you were reading your mail with everyone else."
"I swiped mine earlier." Atlantis's leader gave him a conspiratorial smile, but he could sense the inquiry behind it. "I'm glad you were there," she said quietly. "You don't always participate."
"Yeah, well." John knew how perceptive Elizabeth was, and he was pretty sure she'd realized at some point how little mail he received. Truth be told, part of the reason he often volunteered to play postman was to distract people from noticing that fact. It didn't bother him- after all, he was used to it. He just didn't want to be fodder for the liveliest gossip mill ever spawned.
"I didn't really want to give you this in front of everyone, though, so…" Elizabeth held an envelope out to him, clearly watching for his reaction.
Puzzled, John took it from her and examined the postmark. Some tiny crumb of memory told him that he should recognize that address-
Then he got it, and his chest tightened painfully. Looking up at Elizabeth, he found sympathy in her expressive eyes. That was just about the last thing he wanted, so he forced a smile. "I appreciate it."
For once, she seemed hesitant in her response. "John, I'm sure she's still hurting. If she lashes out at you in that letter, just because you're the only one she knows how to blame… don't listen."
Easier said than done. What he said aloud, however, was a simple "Thanks."
Elizabeth touched his arm briefly, and left. John stepped into his quarters and sat down hard on the bed, feeling like he'd been blindsided. The door swished shut behind him.
He stared at the neat, feminine handwriting on the envelope, addressed to Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard at Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado. Surely Lara Ford had known when she wrote out the envelope that its final destination wouldn't be Peterson, even if that base had been the last official duty station of her cousin Alden. She'd shown a surprising level of comprehension and poise last year when John had visited her to break the news of Aiden's disappearance. What she hadn't shown was forgiveness. John respected that, because he hadn't wanted any.
Lieutenant Aiden Ford belonged to a terrible cadre that seemed to be growing by the day: people who had been lost under John's command, people who had followed his orders and hadn't come home.
Back on Earth the Air Force ran a class intended to teach unit commanders how to lead. John kept getting the class registration notices from the SGC and kept ignoring them, because there was no way he was leaving Atlantis long enough to attend, but also because no classroom course could tell him how to deal with what he saw and did out here.
His Marines looked at him like he had all the answers. Lack of alternatives, he guessed. There wasn't anyone else for them to look to.
He was a realist, and logically he knew that there was no way to completely avoid losing people. He wasn't arrogant enough to believe he could control everything that happened to the expedition. But the questions were always there, lingering in the back of his mind-what could have been different, what right turn should have been a left-and they just kept piling up.
After a long moment spent contemplating the envelope, he stood up and went over to his desk. Trying not to picture Alden Ford's too-young face, he opened the bottom drawer, put the still-sealed letter inside, and shoved the drawer shut.
I'm sorry, Ford. I swear I am. But I've got Harper and Travis and four other guys hanging over my head right now, and there are only so many ghosts I can handle at once.
Chapter six
T'he Marines fanned out, directed by Major Lorne to take up sentry positions around the gate area. Cestan had demonstrated how far out from the Hall the noweapon boundary lay, and they would follow it strictly. Elizabeth zipped her jacket higher against a cool breeze and watched the arrival of the two leaders and their parties.
On her right, John leaned in and commented, "Does it say something disturbing about me that I feel naked without my gun?"
"I'm more disturbed by your use of the words `gun' and `naked' in the same sentence," she returned under her breath. "Now be good."
"Yes, ma'am."
From the woods emerged a tall, navy-robed man who must have been Governor Cestan, flanked by four guards. One carried a banner attached to a pole: the flag of conference, she presumed.
A similar quintet approached from the direction of the mountains, alighting from an animal-drawn cart. Elizabeth was mildly startled by the appearance of the Nistra delegation. The older man-Minister Galven, no doubt-had the grooming and deportment of a leader, but his guards didn't look nearly as strong and fit as the Falnori. They were lean from ill health rather than conditioning. Already, it seemed, there was more to the situation than she'd known.