center of the sun

John wanted to turn back as soon as they came through the gate. Since they didn't have that option, he settled his aviators over his eyes and led the team toward their goal. Their boots scuffed over bronze-brown cobblestones. Sweat trickled down his back under the weight of his tac vest.

The great bazaar of the Xichta hummed like a honeyed hive, the effect heightened by the rounded shapes of the stone buildings that baked under the high summer sun.

With the Mejdar gone, Atlantis needed another trading partner. Xichta had more to offer than the Mejdar had had and would trade for the sea salt they extracted from New Lantea's ocean. They had a good reputation in Pegasus. They dealt honestly.

But John couldn't see much difference between their bond servants and slaves.

The first time they'd encountered the Xichta, they'd chosen to go home without trading. They'd had options then. Now all their choices had narrowed to holding on to their morals or feeding a city full of refugees.

Between the Wraith and the Replicators, he and Rodney were the two guiltiest men in the galaxy.

Woolsey never reminded them, but they knew.

Woolsey had made the final decision, but John knew he could still call it off. The team would support whatever decision he made. Woolsey might doubt them, but would never call them on it. Replacing Carter hadn't meant much to the day to day operations of Atlantis. The expedition members, not to mention the displaced natives now living in the city too, all looked to AR-1 for their leadership, with Radek and Evan close behind.

Whatever the authorities on Earth thought had stopped mattering entirely. Atlantis was on its own

Woolsey could tell them to go and John could refuse. Woolsey could tell them no, the price to their principles would be too high and, if John disagreed, Atlantis would still deal with the Xichta

He hated it, but John couldn't watch children starve in their beautiful city. Not when there was any other way. Even if it meant treating with the Xichta or worse.

Trading salt didn't really constitute supporting slavery, he rationalized. The Xichta bond servants weren't in servitude for life. They actually sold themselves for set amounts of time, from months to years, but not lifetimes.

Yes, it could be worse for the bond servants of Xichta.

It could be worse for Atlantis too.

They weren't selling weapons tech to the Genii yet. Though John feared it would be a matter of time until they were forced to market both scientific and military skills. Weaponry and soldiers trained to utilize them professionally were rare enough in Pegasus to bring a high price.

A time would come when Lantean became synonymous with scavengers and mercenaries if they went on this way.

Two weeks ago they had hired out a squad of marines as bodyguards to the Hierarch of Trielle in exchange for sweetroot to refine into sugar.

It depressed John as much as watching the half-mad shield dancers in Atlantis.

"Don't like it," Ronon observed from beside John as they walked down the main thoroughfare. Teyla had taken point from him.

"Too hot," Rodney complained.

"Have you ever been anywhere you thought was just right?" John asked.

Rodney sneered at him. "Of course not, that can only lead to being eaten by unhappy bears."

"And he thinks I'm strange," John muttered to himself, because no one would ever mistake Rodney for Goldilocks. A spot of happiness glowed inside though, because he was the only one who knew Rodney well enough to even get half his references.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and lengthened his stride to catch up with Teyla. Ronon fell back to cover their six, keeping Rodney between them as always.

The unforgiving midday sun had John almost as red-faced as Rodney. He felt overheated despite having stripped down to tac vest and tee shirt. He let his P90 dangle from the sling instead of keeping his hands on it, forced a friendly smile and a casual attitude as they approached the first trader's kiosk. He made himself ignore the two women wearing bond bracelets in the back.

Trade, John told himself. Necessity. Tolerance of other cultures as Elizabeth would have called it. The bond servants smiled back at him.

Five hours later, they were halfway through the marketplace. Good progress considering its size. Xichta was rich by Pegasus standards. John paused in the shade of orange-and-brown striped awning, wishing for just a breath of breeze. An old man, iron-gray hair cut in a stiff brush, sat on a stool, gnarled fingers moving deftly over the twelve gut strings of pear-shaped cross between a guitar and a cello, the long fretted neck lying against his shoulder. Next to him, a young man with the same ski slope nose played a doubled flute. A third person, a girl in bond bracelets, slapped an unceasing rhythm on a pair of drums from the shadows.

Teyla tipped her head, obviously enjoying the music, while Rodney smeared sunscreen on his nose, muttering sourly about melanomas and UV exposure. Red and gold glinted in Teyla's hair as she absently retied her ponytail into neatness again. Rodney shuffled into the shade next to John, ducking through the long tassels adorning the edge of the awning. Ronon stayed in the sun, glowering with his arms folded over his chest.

John sighed. He didn't like it, either, but they had struck several deals already. Atlantis had enough of a reputation now that none of the merchants would chance defrauding them either. Atlantis would deliver salt and several other refined minerals. The merchants would deliver grains, tubers, dried beans and greens to the stargate in exchange. The nutritionists would be particularly pleased they'd obtained an agreement to get naxi leaves, which provided a plethora of much needed vitamins. The end of the week would see the mess halls in Atlantis offering up more than a thin stew of fana, dried beans and hopalong meat.

They still had enough time to explore the rest of the market and with any luck negotiate an agreement for fresh fruit too. It would be a little more complicated and involve picking the goods up in jumpers instead of delivery to the stargate, but in the end it wouldn't make too much difference. They had to send someone through to authenticate any delivery before dialing in and lowering the shield. They'd make it work if they could get nerfa berries and the other warm weather fruits Xichta boasted.

He dropped a coin into the beaten brass bowl in front of the musicians.

"Can't we find some place to sit down?" Rodney complained. "I'm going drop from heat exhaustion soon."

"Drink a little water," Teyla advised.

"I have," he snapped back. "I'm sweating it all away."

John looked him over and decided Rodney did look like he was suffering. Instead of being red, he'd gone sort of pale. "Okay, we'll find some place – " He arrowed in on group of benches placed under three ancient trees. Two were occupied, but one was clear. "There."

The Xichta on the other benches were eating something probably bought from the nearby stall. Teyla settled Rodney in place while John and Ronon fished out some of the coins they'd obtained for a single block of sample salt and bought them all something to eat and drink.

The food proved to be kebobs with mystery meat interspersed with various vegetables, dipped in a thick honey-colored sauce. It tasted of nutmeg and chili and apples to John. They washed it down with chilled, too sweet fruit juice sold in waxed paper cones that the seller kept in beds of crushed ice.

"You sure this has no citrus in it?" Rodney asked, looking worriedly at the pink juice.

John tasted it again. "Yeah. Sugary though."

Rodney drank some and grimaced, then he laughed.

"What?"

"Put some ice in it and it'll be a Slushy."

John went back to the stall and paid for four more cones filled with ice, which improved the syrupy juice into something enjoyable. The four of them filled up the third bench so that eventually Ronon made a noise of frustration and sat on the ground instead. The long, tassel-like leaves of the trees hissed and shushed against each other above them, letting little flickers and spikes of light through their cover in an ever shifting fractal pattern. Dust covered their boots, sifting off to fall between the cobblestones of the marketplace plaza. Children in brightly striped robes ran up and down between the stalls and kiosks and tents, screaming and laughing, barefoot and oblivious to the heat. Somewhere near, a woman sang in Xichta to a Pegasus melody John knew and a killa bellowed in distress, though not at the woman's singing. John smiled to himself and crunched the last ice from his cone, fingers slipping over condensation and wax, suddenly reminded of carnivals and fairs and bazaars back on Earth. It didn't even hurt.

"It's not so bad," Ronon said, almost echoing John's thoughts.

"No, I suppose we've been much worse places," Rodney agreed. His color looked a lot more normal. "I'd still like to get back to the city as soon as possible. There's not much for me to accomplish here, except insult someone at just the wrong time."

John didn't disagree, but they were a team and that meant sometimes Rodney had to go along when it wasn't a mission based on his research. He'd pulled out his equipment and scanned for any obvious energy signatures the first time they came to Xichta and found nothing. This time he hadn't even bothered. They were there for food.

"We aren't due to check in with Atlantis for another four hours," Teyla said.

Rodney sniffed, but said, "I suppose I can stand it."

"Well, if you suppose," John teased.

"I could be accomplishing something in my lab instead of sweltering around here on Planet Gor."

"Gor?" Teyla prompted. She had to get sick of Earth references, but like John and even Ronon, she would start Rodney off on a rant or fluster him often just for the pleasant distraction of being amused by him. It was familiar and soothing, a distraction from all the things none of them wanted to think about.

Rodney's cheeks turned pink. "Never mind," he mumbled.

"John?"

He shook his head. "No idea what he's talking about," he said, quickly choosing discretion over valor. Let someone else, possibly someone in need of an ass-kicking, explain the John Norman oeuvre to Teyla.

They disposed of their cones and skewers in a barrel filled with similar detritus and wandered on. Rodney's nose wrinkled when they neared the animals on sale and Teyla steered them away. They wouldn't be trading for meat here. They were still thinning the hopalong herds and there were other unpopulated planets with plentiful meat animals they could hunt. It let them pass on worrying about picking up any parasites or food poisoning from dirty butchering.

They poked through the quarter devoted to tools and machinery instead. Ronon stopped and watched a smith working, two bond servants feeding coal into the fire, maintaining the heat, sweat running slick down their arms. Rodney looked interested in the bellows apparatus, but stayed back, away from the searing heat, along with John and Teyla.

John checked his watch and the sun. "Let's get going, okay?"

Ronon grunted but they moved on.

A stall with the glint of machined metal and Ancient alloys caught Rodney's attention. John wanted to keep moving and walked on, figuring Rodney wouldn't let himself get separated from the rest of the team.

"Wait, wait, I should see if they have anything of..."

John stopped in his tracks. When Rodney lost his words, something big had happened. He turned around, trying to move casually, not like a man ready to pull a gun and shoot whatever threat had materialized. He knew Teyla was scanning the crowd ahead of them for threats and Ronon would have his back, because they both picked up the same cues he did.

There were no bruisers with guns or knives, no Wraith, no obvious threats anywhere John could see though. Just Rodney, his mouth hanging open, staring inside the stall.

"Rodney?" John asked carefully. He wasn't sure Rodney was even breathing, he'd gone so still.

Rodney drew in a shuddering breath and pointed into the shady interior.

John looked, then took off his sunglasses and looked again. His mind went blank for a heartbeat, but he managed to catch hold of Rodney's vest as he started inside.

"What?" Rodney demanded.

John held on. He held on so tight his knuckles were white and the webbing and D-ring he'd grabbed bit into his palm.

"Slow. Down," he hissed. He could barely tear his gaze away from the back of the stall himself, but he did. "Slow down and figure out if they're real first. Don't blow this."

Rodney's eyes flicked toward the ZPMs sitting in a row high on a back shelf, their brilliant orange-amber crystals dulled by shadows and dust. He stopped pulling away, though.

"Okay, okay, you're right." He fumbled at his vest and pulled out the multipurpose scanner he tended to use in the field rather than a PDA. "They're probably depleted. Nothing more than paper weights."

Ronon drifted up to them, his gaze moving from Rodney's scanner to the contents of the stall. His expression barely shifted. "Those what I think they are?"

"Yes," Teyla said from John's side. She reached up and detached his hand from Rodney's vest, where he'd forgotten it. John gave her an embarrassed smile. ZPMs wouldn't feed them, but they'd hold the shield against the Wraith, let them use the stargate to dial Earth directly. There were so many functions in the city that they couldn't use without sufficient power.

Like the stardrive.

John never wanted to be marooned in the long dark between stars again. He still had nightmares about the men who died as the city collapsed the shield to save power. They couldn't leave the planet Atlantis was on with only the single ZPM. Rodney and Radek's random accelerated spot shielding program wouldn't maintain atmosphere in vacuum.

They wouldn't need to run anyway, because more ZPMs would mean being able to use weapons and transporters and lights, the greenhouses, the factories, the hydroponics labs that could turn raw organic material into edible protein, and they could hold the Wraith off without worrying about starving even if those bastards figured out Atlantis' new gate address and dialed in to deny the city use of the stargate.

"My God," Rodney muttered and repeated it, "My God, my God." His eyes never lifted from the screen of his scanner. John's pulse speeded in reaction to the near reverence in his tone. "It's – they're – John." He finally raised his gaze. He had that look; amazed, awed, relieved and so open, all the emotions there in the way his eyes were so wide, his mouth softened and nearly wordless for once. John had to look away, because this wasn't the place or time to touch the way that look always made him want.

"Rodney?" he croaked.

"Fully charged. Five. Five zero point modules. Think what we could do."

The possibilities had already begun running through John's head. The shield first, because even one more ZPM would make a difference in the stress on the one they were running. Power to run the city systems they'd taken off-line in order to maintain the shield. Power to activate the stargate more than once or twice a week. Power to use for hot water, for heat in their quarters, air conditioning, lights...He almost shuddered at the thought. They could do more than endure the Wraith's hit-and-run siege that left them never knowing when another hive would blink into the system from hyperspace and rain destruction down on the city.

John wanted that so bad it made his hands shake.

He started calculating exactly how they could get it. Or maybe he was just trying to figure what they could afford in exchange. No stroke of luck in Pegasus came without a blood price.

Did the merchant there even know what he had? What would he want for the ZPMs? They were pretty much useless to anyone lacking Ancient level technology, which meant either Atlantis or the Wraith. Maybe the Travellers, though they'd need someone like Rodney to adapt what they had. Most Pegasus worlds couldn't tap the power in a ZPM if they spent the next decade in an all out effort to create an industrial complex and infrastructure. That wouldn't stop the merchant from demanding the most he or she could for them.

He jerked his head to the side. "Let's go."

"What!?" Rodney demanded. "But – "

John resisted the urge to clap his hand over Rodney's mouth and clutched his arm instead, frog-marching him away. "Whatever you do, don't even say ZPM," he hissed.

"Wh—why?"

"Because we want to buy those things without having to mortgage Atlantis to pay for them," he said.

"Oh. Fine." Rodney cast one last, longing glance back at the stall, then came along without protest. He shoved his scanner back in his vest pocket. His fingers fumbled over the snap that closed the pocket as he added in a sour tone, "Let's go buy some stupid fruit that will probably give me hives if I don't actually go in shock. It's like shopping with my parents. No, Rodney it costs too much; here, have a lemon bar."

Ronon chuckled behind them.

They walked away. John noted that the merchant sat back in obvious disappointment; he'd seen their interest. That would make things harder.

Out of sight of the stall, he stopped and Rodney immediately began talking.

"You'd better have a plan for us to get those ZPMs," Rodney said. He poked at John's chest with one finger, then raised it to wave in John's face.

John stepped back despite himself. He didn't have much of a plan, because the facts were that they didn't have much to trade. All the salt was earmarked for supplies and he didn't think the promise of some medical care would buy them much here.

"I think Teyla should be the one who goes back," he said. She nodded at his words. "You're the best negotiator on the team."

"Thank you, John," she said.

He smiled at her calm acknowledgment.

"Rodney can head back to the stargate with Ronon."

"But – "

"Someone needs to," John said. He tried to ignore Rodney's wounded look. "Come on, we'll check out the fruit venders' quarter first, see if we can find something that isn't lemon, okay? Kill a little time before Teyla and I head back to that merchant."

"What if he sells the ZPMs in the meantime?" Rodney demanded.

"You really think that's going to happen?" John asked. If it did, then it meant the merchant knew exactly what he had and they had little to no chance of buying the ZPMs anyway.

"I should go with Teyla," Ronon said. "You should stick with McKay."

John looked over the top of his sunglasses at Ronon. Despite the blistering heat, he felt suddenly cold, and knew it had something to do with Ronon's tone. He couldn't see anything on Ronon's face besides his usual sardonic amusement at Rodney and John, but he knew he'd heard it. He couldn't find any reason to protest their usual arrangement when the team split, though. Ronon made a better bodyguard than John did and John generally understood what Rodney was trying to tell them faster in tight situations.

"Okay," he said slowly, still with the shiver under his skin, the sense of something bearing down on them all, that made him want to pack his team up and run for the stargate. "We'll head for the stargate and you and Teyla will buy Atlantis some bright, shiny ZPMs."

None of them had the heart to work out any agreements for the fruit on sale, but they looked it over and John made a note of the commoner offerings. After an hour of sightseeing that left no impression at all, he gave up.

"Teyla, good luck," he said.

She looked at him and with an embarrassed sigh, John bent his neck and shared an Athosian forehead touch with her. His ears felt hot.

"Ronon..." He gave up trying to articulate the bad feeling. "Don't shoot anyone you don't have to."

"Teyla, we really need those ZPMs," Rodney added earnestly.

"I know."

"Well, just, do whatever – do what you always do," Rodney mumbled.

"Rodney and I will keep our radios on," John said.

He watched Teyla turn and slip into the crowd, soon lost among the Xichta, followed by Ronon, who remained visible longer, but who eventually also disappeared.



It took an hour to work their way back to the stargate. By then they were close enough to the check-in time, John didn't see any purpose to dialing ahead of it, when Teyla and Ronon might radio with news before then. They sat on dusty cobblestones within sight of the DHD, beyond the stargate's splash zone, and sipped warm water from their canteens. Rodney listed all the things he could do if Atlantis had three charged ZPMs again, never mind five; a list that had the wistful sound of something he'd gone over and over at the edge of exhausted sleep, rearranging the order each night. John just listened, smiling sometimes because Rodney's plans were so much more ambitious than his own hope for hot showers on demand.

Squinting up at the sun's position revealed a sky so pale it appeared almost white. John tried to judge how much longer the heat would last. Xichta's rotation gave it a thirty-three hour day. Twenty-two hours of daylight at the summer solstice. He could feel the sun on his face and burning his bare forearms through the sweat and coating of thin dust.

A glance at Rodney showed his nose and cheeks were reddened despite his liberal use of sunblock. If John had had the gall to put his hand on Rodney's head, he knew the fine brown hair would have been hot, too. He rubbed his palm along the side of his pants' leg instead.

He checked his watch and then activated his radio. "Teyla? How're things going?"

The double two-click in response meant Teyla had received his transmission and was okay, but couldn't respond verbally.

"Okay," John said. "Ronon? Can you acknowledge?"

Click-click, click-click.

"Okay, guys. We'll be monitoring. Sheppard, out."

"Well?" Rodney demanded.

John shrugged.

Rodney dug out his sunscreen and dabbed more on his nose. The scent, a mixture of cocoa butter and whatever unpleasant chemical actually composed the screening part of the formula made John wrinkle his nose. Rodney noticed and sniffed, then squirted more into his palm, scooted closer and began smearing it on John's arms. John tensed, but the stuff felt good.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"I don't want you covered in melanomas some day, even if you don't end up looking like a cooked lobster the way I do," Rodney said.

John reflected that he kind of thought they were all in the same fix as those lobsters and Pegasus was the pot.

Rodney stroked a dab down John's nose, from just below the bridge of his sunglasses down, following the way it arched and curved where it had been broken once. It tickled and John had to hold himself still to keep from ducking, unused to anyone touching his face. It seemed too much, too intimate a thing to do in the open daylight. At the same time, he was grateful for it, for what the sunscreen symbolized and Rodney's oblivious generosity, that admitted no ridiculous embarrassment at touching another man.

Time ticked away in a smeared blur of tired, too hot and teetering between excitement and expected disappointment. They didn't talk, because the only thing they could have talked about was the ZPMs. They settled into a somnolent daze. Passersby paid no attention to them. Rodney sat cross-legged and pecked at his tablet, making small, dissatisfied noises periodically. John sat with his knees folded up, arms resting on them, hands dangling, staring into the heat-hazed distance, the brown and gold of the town shimmering in waves streaked with brightness from the colorful awnings.

The click and hiss of static over his radio earpiece made John jerk back to alertness. Ronon's voice jolted him again, with a sense of apprehension.

"Sheppard. Meet me at the blacksmith's."

"Ronon? Sitrep. Where's Teyla?"

"Here. Deal's done."

"I can dial the gate, get us back up," John said carefully, wondering if something had gone so wrong Ronon was being forced to lure them back into an ambush. "Just say everything's fine if you've got a situation."

"Sheppard." He could hear the impatient growl through the radio transmission.

"On our way, buddy."

So, not an ambush, but John had a crappy feeling anyway.

He glanced at Rodney. "C'mon," he said as he got to his feet then gave Rodney a hand up. "We gotta go back. Ronon says they're done."

"Did we get the ZPMs?" Rodney asked eagerly.

John thought about that 'deal's done'.

"I guess."

Rodney dusted his hands together and headed for the town. He glanced back. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

John glanced at his watch, thought they were going to be late for check-in before they got back to the gate again, but it would totally be worth it. He caught up with Rodney in a few strides.

"Slow down, Speedy Gonzales."

Rodney glanced back at him and said with a perfect straight face, "¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!"

John's gesture in response translated in any language.



Teyla was down.

That registered first, then the rest: Ronon standing, the ZPMs, a lush woven rug edged in golden tassels, several Xichta gathered around, watching, waiting, the clang of work from within the smithy, the bright spray of sparks as a hammer hit white-hot metal, Ronon's pistol and knife collection shining on woven wool the color of plums. Teyla's bronze hair tangled with the tassels. Her eyes were closed. Unconscious. One arm was obviously fractured just above the wrist, though the displaced bone hadn't pierced her skin.

He could hear Rodney breathing behind him and nothing else as his world telescoped down to the open space in front of the blacksmith's stall.

So much wrong with the picture that John had his P90 in his hands before he thought it out. A scan of the scene just added to his unease. Two Xichta flanked Ronon, men even bigger and harder than him. John had a good memory for faces and these were two he'd seen earlier, working in the smithy. More men in the gear Xichta peace officers wore stood back from the front of the forge, long green sashes dangling from their waists, long pikes with razor sharp blades braced butt to the cobblestones. The sun gleamed sharp and white from sickle curved metal that might have been forged right there.

Metal gleamed on Ronon's wrists, too.

"Ronon," he breathed out, as it all added up to an answer he never wanted. "No."

Rodney stepped forward and looked past John. His gaze swept over the ZPMs to Teyla. "Oh, God."

"What did you do?" John asked. He knew, but he wanted to be wrong so badly.

"It's done," Ronon declared. He folded his arms over his chest and the bond bracelets gleamed, freshly welded into place, Xichta marks hammered into them giving the date and the term of service sold. Xichta wasn't that different than Ancient. John could read them.

Five years.

"Take Teyla and the ZPMs," Ronon said. "Go."

Five ZPMs.

Teyla shifted and moaned. A lock of hair slipped away revealing a bloody contusion on her temple. "Sonova – McKay, check her out."

Rodney moved around him with a single look at Ronon and went down to one knee. John fingered the trigger of his P90. "Who hit her?" he asked. He knew he sounded calm. Ronon, at least, knew how deceptive that was. Rodney, too. Under the sweat-soaked tee shirt stuck to his skin, the muscles of Rodney's back tensed. He went on examining Teyla, though.

"I did," Ronon said.

Rodney's head jerked up and he swiveled so that he could stare. His mouth opened and closed. His hands stayed gentle and still on Teyla's shoulder and neck, stilling and steadying her, but his attention was all on Ronon. Maybe it was just fitting together for him. Rodney's genius didn't extend to grasping something so antithetical to his own nature. Not that Rodney wasn't capable of self-sacrifice, but Ronon's decision encompassed something Rodney, like John, had been taught to never consider: giving up. Without thinking about it, John shifted to the side, placing himself subtly between his downed teammate, Rodney, and Ronon.

"Did you have to break the same arm she broke last time?" Rodney complained.

John looked at Ronon's face, deliberately keeping his gaze up, not wanting to see the bracelets that had replaced his bracers.

"Want to tell me why?" he asked.

"Nothing else was going to do it. Teyla kept trying but the man wanted more than you could afford," Ronon said simply.

"No kidding," John snapped. "We can't afford you doing this." He pointed at the damned bracelets. "We don't sell our people."

Ronon shrugged. "You didn't sell me."

"Then you'll be coming back to Atlantis with us?" John said sarcastically, with a nod toward the peacekeepers watching them. "I can't believe you pulled this without even talking to me."

"You don't own me, Sheppard."

It felt like he'd been hit. John took a step back. Rage flared briefly, but he shut it down, hard. "No, apparently someone here does." A muscle in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth against anything more.

"Her arm's broken, her fingers are smashed, she's got possible cracked or broken ribs, and a contusion to her head," Rodney said in the silence that followed. "Probable concussion. How long has she been out?"

"Twenty minutes," Ronon answered. "She tried to stop – I had to knock her out or she'd have gotten hurt worse." His nod encompassed the other men and the damage they could have done to her.

John glanced at Rodney.

"We need to get her back, have Keller check her out," Rodney said. "Her arm needs to be reduced and set and her ribs stabilized, even without the potential complications of a head injury."

Ronon grimaced when Rodney glared at him.

John made the only decision he could. He safed the P90, then went to the rug, crouched and scooped Teyla up. He grunted as he lifted her. Tiny or not, Teyla was dead weight. Rodney steadied her loose arms and folded them over her chest, making it a little easier.

John nodded to him, then turned toward the road to the stargate.

"McKay," he said, ignoring Ronon. "Get the ZPMs."

"The gun's yours," Ronon called.

John stiffened but didn't look back.

Five years in Pegasus could be a lifetime. The Wraith could cull Xichta before Ronon's service finished. The only way John had to deal with that was to accept it as already done. To him, Ronon Dex was dead.

He started walking and eventually Rodney caught up with him.

---

(last worked on 11.29.09 - discontinued)