"This isn't going to be an overnight fix," she continued. "Many of these people will be setting up new homes, and there's a lot of infrastructure to rebuild."
"Well, we can help them with some start-up supplies, at least. Seems like it ought to get easier as they go."
A question in his gaze, John tipped his head in the direction of the gate. Elizabeth nodded, and they began a comfortable stroll up the incline.
"I think they'll settle in quickly," she agreed. "Galven has allowed Carson's staff to monitor a few of the miners over the next week to see how their neurological function changes as the adarite influence fades. If they're lucky, a lot of the effects will be reversible."
"Here's hoping."
He didn't raise the issue of the weapons research again, nor had she expected him to. Rodney had studied enough records from the Hall for them to agree with the Ancients' decision to abandon the concept. It was frustrating, but it was reality. The Ancient scientists had devoted a massive amount ofmanpower and resources to the study of adarite within a short time. Becoming increasingly desperate for technological methods to slow the advance of the Wraith, they had built up the ground facility and the associated orbital station in mere weeks, determined to maintain control of the planet against any level of Wraith assault. In that, at least, they had succeeded.
The discovery of adarite's harmful effects had not been made until the scientists took on humans to assist in their research. Then, like the expedition, they had reached a point when they became unwilling to subject themselves and their assistants to further exposure. As a consequence, there was little data on the long-term effects, irrespective of the presence of the ATA gene.
Elizabeth had raised that issue with Galven and Cestan, and she hadn't objected when they'd made clear their intentions to continue mining, at least for the near future. Already their societies had changed dramatically as a result of recent events. She wasn't in a position to dictate to them what risks they could and couldn't assume. They were aware of the potential hazard and would have to make their own decisions as to how to monitor it.
She changed the subject. "I trust you found a suitable planet for our friends from the Cadre?"
At her inquiry, the Colonel couldn't hold back a smirk. "Sure did. It's a quaint little out-of-the-way place with a scenic view of pretty much nothing." He gave a small shrug. "Probably won't take them all that long to find a way to limp home, wherever that is, but at least 418 is one planet they won't be able to bully anymore. If they're dumb enough to try coming back after the warning we gave them about the gate shields. .well, I doubt too many people will miss them."
That concept shouldn't have given Elizabeth as much satisfaction as it did. It wasn't terribly moral to imagine someone's molecules slamming into a technological brick wall, criminal or not.
In all likelihood, the Cadre would be up to their old tricks in no time, and she wasn't naive enough to believe that they were the only scavengers and miscreants prowling around. Still, Atlantis didn't have the resources or the mandate to police the Pegasus Galaxy. All her people could do was try to stamp out trouble where they found it. They had enough problems to handle already, with the constant Wraith threat lurking in the background and now the replicators joining in.
Of course, she had another, more pressing issue to address at the moment, and she had every intention of resolving it before the sun set. "John, before we head back…"
He must have heard something cautious in her tone, because he stopped walking only a step after she did. Taking the initiative, she withdrew his resignation letter from inside her jacket. "I'd like to talk about this."
She knew him too well to expect much of a perceptible reaction. Even so, it gave her hope to see a flicker of regret cross his face. "Did you read it?" he asked neutrally.
"I did." It had hurt, seeing the anguish between the carefully chosen lines, but she'd owed it to him. "And I understand why you felt you had to write it, so I won't trivialize your reasons or ask you to forget about them. But I also understand how you got to that point, even more so now that I can see how strongly I fixated on brokering this peace treaty. I was sure we were doing the right thing for these people, and I wanted so badly to achieve something unquestionably good for a change, that I lost sight of what was happening around me. I made a mistake, just as you did. We're human; we make those sometimes. So I'm asking you…" She held the envelope, slightly creased, out to him."…to change your mind."
His gaze remained locked on hers for a few seconds, and she was struck by a semi-rational fear that he wouldn't comply. Then, slowly and deliberately, he took the letter from her and pulled a small lighter from his pocket.
The paper was consumed in less than a minute. John held it by one corner, the brief, bright flare sharpening his features. When the flame neared his hand, he let it fall to the ground and extinguished it with the heel of his boot.
Relieved beyond measure, Elizabeth dug into her jacket again and came up with the other item he'd surrendered to her. "I believe these belong to you, then."
She pressed the silver wings into his palm, and he tightened his fingers around hers for a moment, letting the gesture convey everything he couldn't put into words.
"Thank you," he said simply.
"You're welcome."
They resumed walking, and within moments the Stargate loomed over them, surrounded by the iris implementation team packing up their equipment for the night. Elizabeth glanced over at her military commander again, this time with less certainty. "John, if you ever want to talk-about what that letter said or about anything else-you know where to find me."
He nodded and offered a too-ready flash of a smile, and she knew he wouldn't take her up on the offer. He never did, despite how closely they worked together. Although he'd always listen on the occasions when she absolutely had to get something off her chest, he was clearly more comfortable when such conversations were a one-way street. If asked, he evaded, saying that she had enough on her plate without adding anyone's personal hang-ups.
She understood that underneath John's casual demeanor lay a fiercely private man. As much as it disappointed her to know that he was keeping her at arm's length, she wasn't concerned, because she knew that there were others who could and would get to him-whether he liked it or not.
"You really think it's a good idea to go running with a bad shoulder?"
Ronon started to shrug, then thought better of it. He was tired of sitting around, and the arrow hadn't done a great deal of damage. Besides, he had goals for today. From a certain point of view, this was one of them. "Doesn't hurt that much."
"Yeah, yeah, just a flesh wound and all that." Sheppard didn't look convinced. "I'll go with you, but the odds are good that Carson's going to yell, and at that point you're on your own.
Giving a minor concession to his tightly-bound shoulder, Ronon set a sedate pace, one that his team leader had no trouble matching. He made up for it by taking a longer route than usual. The pair wound through much of the occupied portion of the city, jogging past corridor after corridor of laboratory space and down into the more secluded sections that housed the armory and some of the military training rooms.
They ended up on the skywalk that arced high above one of the central atrium areas. Ronon slowed to a walk for a few steps before leaning his good arm on the railing. Beckett probably had been right about not jarring the shoulder, but it didn't ache enough to mention. Taking a long drink of his water bottle, Sheppard braced his forearms on the railing as well and looked out at the activity below.
A squad of Marines emerged from the transporter nearest the shooting range. From their voices and expressions, it was obvious even from a distance that they'd won a competition with one of the other squads. Across the atrium, two blue-shirted scientists walked briskly, in the middle of a heated debate. Early sunlight spilled in through high-set windows and painted angular patterns on the floor, broken only by occasional footsteps.