The society which scorns excellence in plumbing because plumbing is a humble
activity and tolerates shoddiness in philosophy because philosophy is an exalted
activity will have neither good plumbing nor good philosophy.
- John W Gardner

All the Good Stories
By EllieV

Chapter Two

She was tall, his height; green eyes, his color; and she had long, honey-blond hair. She was stunning. Or maybe just stunned. He stepped backwards, bumping into her, and as she dropped the basket they both bent to grab it. Sheppard knocked her over. She sank to the ground. He wished he could fall over that gracefully.

"I'm sorry," he started to say. But it was the color of her clothes that stopped him.

"If you were really sorry," she said tartly, "you'd be helping me up."

"Sheppard, if you're done flirting with your girlfriend," Elliot called.

McKay and Stackhouse, whose dismayed looks hadn't changed since Elliot and his cronies—Sheppard couldn't think of them as airmen—first came through the gate, were the only ones not sniggering.

From the ground, the woman peered around Sheppard at Elliot. "Who is that?" she asked interestedly.

"General Elliot. He's in charge," Sheppard said neutrally. Sheppard's sunglasses hid myriad opinions. He had always been good at poker.

She gazed up at Sheppard shrewdly and held out her hand. He helped her up.

"Why are you here?" he asked her. She was incongruous. Out of place.

She held up the basket. "They do wonderful weaving."

"Sheppard! Perimeter!" Elliot barked at him. Lt Colonels didn't do perimeters.

"I'm sorry for ..." Sheppard gestured at the ground. "Excuse me."

"Is it not an argument," she said softly, watching Elliot but with a sliding glance at Sheppard, "if a pilot run his ship upon a rock, or if a general mount his cannon against his army, he is to be resisted?"

"Sheppard!"

"I ... I ... have to go," he said now thoroughly rattled. There was no way she should know that quote.

As he turned away she said, "Those who aren't aware that the word 'rank' has more than one meaning ought not to be in charge of anything. I'm sure you know the maxim, Lt Colonel Sheppard." She pronounced it "Leftenant" in the English manner.

The woman gazed at him then walked away. He knew the maxim. It was something that his Nana always said.

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do
than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor.
Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
- Mark Twain (attributed)

The negotiations had gone well. At least, the General said they'd gone well. No one else, it seemed, had an opinion or at least, not one any of them was willing to share. McKay said he'd found nothing of interest—the villagers, he said irritably, made baskets, as though weaving water rushes offended his scientific sensibilities. Stackhouse, just as in every other meeting, had nothing to say. John Sheppard just smiled and looked at his hands. Distraction No. 4, the smile she could never interpret. Weir spent a lot of time on that smile.

She asked, "Colonel Sheppard, do you have anything to add?"

"Sheppard picked himself up a girlfriend. That was about it. I supposed he didn't want to tell you that one," Elliot guffawed. She hadn't thought that anyone could guffaw outside of bad fiction but there was Enema actually doing it.

Sheppard blinked at Elliot and said, "No ma'am, nothing to add. I was on the perimeter."

Lt Colonels didn't do perimeters.

Williams muttered, "Best place for him," and was nailed by identical glares from McKay, Stackhouse and Weir. Sheppard gave no sign of having heard.

Elliot kept talking. Weir tuned out and started thinking up various unpleasant ways for him … not to die, she thought primly, but to be made supremely uncomfortable. She had a team of scientists at her disposal and a city full of laboratories. One idea she had was so elaborate that she almost missed Sheppard's sudden movement across from her. He jerked up his head and was frowning at Elliot. It was the most reaction she'd seen from him since the General arrived.

"If they don't want to cooperate, we'll just have to persuade them, forcibly if need be," Elliot declared, tapping his sidearm. Weir's jaw dropped. What had she missed? This was negotiations going well?

Sheppard opened his mouth and Weir spoke up hurriedly, "I'm sorry, General, I don't know that's a good idea. Perhaps if I went …" Elliot interrupted her with a kindly, pitying, damned ignorant look.

"I think, Dr Weir, you should stay in administration, here in Atlantis, at least until the President determines what role you're best suited to. I think he'll likely send you back to Earth. After all, this is now a military mission. If they do not cooperate, we will persuade them. Dismissed."

Weir sat, her hands flat on the table and her eyes shut, too furious to speak. She was furious at Elliot and above all, at herself for not paying attention. She didn't even know if the "they" were the nice people willing to trade crops and woven reed baskets. As Elliot and his cronies left, her team slowly began filing out. She felt each of them pause at her side. No one said anything, though she thought she heard Stackhouse mutter "Moron" at Elliot. She might have imagined it.

She opened her eyes and looked across to John Sheppard staring at her. He seemed to be grinding his teeth. Weir shook her head at him and he stood to leave. Like the rest, he paused at her side. When he spoke, it was so soft she could barely make out the words. Even then, she didn't understand what he meant. The language was old and his accent suddenly weirdly English.

"I would fain know what the soldier hath fought for all this while? He hath fought to enslave himself, to give power to men of riches, men of estates, to make him a perpetual slave."

She had no idea what he meant. Sheppard touched her arm and left.

Inside where nothing shows, I'm the essence of a man spinning double-headed coins,
and betting against himself in private atonement for an unremembered past.
- Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

He led the life of an experimental lab rat:

"Major, come over here."

"Major, pick this up."

"Major, what do you know about the Goa'uld?"

"Major, can I just get a blood sample?"

"Major, can you switch on this drone?"

"Major, I want you to ..."

And the ones that were harder to respond to.

"Major, are you interested in spending the rest of your life in another galaxy?"

"We need you. You're a natural at this. No one can do what you can do."

"This is so important. The benefits to humanity alone ..."

"All these people are volunteers. Everyone of them. A. Volunteer."

There should have been an "ed" on volunteer.

He had a case of books, one of them War and Peace. He'd had that one for a while. One football DVD that had replaced the worn out video. He wondered if he looked as bewildered as he felt. Until the moment he sat in the chair, he'd figured the little Scottish guy had been putting him on. Ancient humans with mental powers to switch on missiles that look like overgrown plastic squids, the sort of plastic squid found in pretend Greek restaurants. Alien parasites that take over human bodies. Little gray men. Visits to other galaxies. Humans on other worlds. Second evolution of this lifeform. Nana would have laughed. Ten minutes to pack eleven months equaled one point one. He clambered onto the plane and sat as far away from General O'Neill as possible. It wasn't necessary. Aside from ordering him home, O'Neill ignored John Sheppard completely until they landed back in the States.

"That's my direct number," the General said, handing him a card. "Call me."

"Sir," he'd replied, but he sat in a park, flipping a coin. Heads: Antarctica. Tails: Colorado. It was heads. Sheppard looked at the coin, pulled out his phone, and called General O'Neill. He was met at the airport.

"I told you to come straight to see me," O'Neill said.

"I ... I ... Dr McKay ..." He wondered if he still looked bewildered. As soon as he arrived McKay had nabbed him, getting him to switch things on. He didn't escape for hours.

I am a youth inclined to ramble
To some foreign country I mean to steer
- I Am a Youth Inclined to Ramble (trad)

He started reciting the entire DVD football commentary from the beginning. One pace, around the perimeter of the village was half a line. He knew it by heart and could do the whole game, including his own ad breaks.

"There's no such thing as American football," she said. The blond woman was sitting about four feet away from him, her sea-green colored skirts spread elegantly around her, a woven reed basket at her side.

Maybe he was insane and was only imagining her. It was a logical enough explanation—except that everyone had seen her when he knocked her over. They had certainly seen her when Williams pointed out that she was watching them leave. And, everyone had seen her when they had come back through the gate. Maybe it was the conversation he was imagining. Yes, that was it. Sheppard decided that he was probably going crazy no matter whether she was really there or not.

He walked past her, like the character in A Beautiful Mind who got over his insanity by ignoring his imaginary friends. The woman not being there would explain, for one thing, how she knew his rank without anyone calling him "Lt Colonel." It wasn't as though the rank would mean anything to anyone in the Pegasus galaxy anyway. Maybe people thought it was his first name. That gave him pause. He should probably stop using his rank whenever they were out in case the Pegasus denizens got confused.

He stopped, thought a little more then turned back. "What do you mean that there's no such thing as American football?" he demanded.

"Well, it's just a poor man's rugby, isn't it?" she said.

"No, it isn't!" He gathered himself together and took a breath. "Who the hell are you?"

"Who do you think I am?" she countered.

"I think you're reading my mind," he said.

"Maybe," she hedged. "Manchester United, now there's a football team."

Manchester United? What? Wait. He paused again, then snarled, "Don't change the subject!"

"Which was?" she asked archly.

"Who are you?" he snapped. "Let's start with your name, then you can tell me what the hell you're doing here."

"Why don't you tell me?"

Sheppard shook his head and walked away from her. She wasn't there and he wasn't having this conversation. He got as far as the end of the DVD intro before he turned back. He was wary, scared and exhilarated all at once.

"No, tell me about yourself, and about … them." He turned on the charm. "Please."

"About them?" she said, waving her hand around as though "they" would just magically appear.

"Yes," he wheedled.

She smiled at Sheppard. "I could tell you a story, if you want."

"Is it a good story?" he teased. He was charming. He knew it. Everyone knew it. He realized she saw past it but he tried the charm anyway. He sat down beside her and started picking at the reed basket.

"You'll like it," she said. "It is a good story. There was an ..."

"Wait," he interrupted. She raised an eyebrow at him. "All the good stories," he said, a little embarrassed, "start with 'Once upon a time'." He shrugged. "At least in Disney films."

She looked amused. "Oh, very well, if you insist. Once upon a time?"

He nodded, relieved that he didn't need to explain Disney or films. She was laughing at him now.

"Then … Once upon a time there was an evil tyrant ..."

"An evil tyrant?" Sheppard asked.

She considered this. "More venal than evil, probably. I wasn't actually there at the time."

"You didn't seem that old," Sheppard ducked as she swatted at him. "Keep going. Venal tyrant, divine right of kings …"

"Precisely. Venal king offed with his head," she slit her hand across her throat for dramatic emphasis.

"Hurrah!" Sheppard threw his arms up in the air with a tinge of mockery. He put them down again, self-conscious, when she sighed at him.

She waited to see if he'd interrupt again. After a moment she continued, "The revolution succeeded but those in charge who were as bad as any king. Power hungry, bureaucratic, rules, regulations, real tyrants. There were protests, pamphlets, leaflets, imprisonments, murders. Eventually, of course, the people grew tired of them and invited the king back. The next king," she put in hurriedly as Sheppard opened his mouth, "not the old one. Would have been awkward."

"You mean with him having no head?" Sheppard asked. This time she really did hit him. "Ow." He rubbed his ear. "I'm, um, a little more interested in recent history."

"How recent?"

"You're here, aren't you?" he pointed out. "I want to know how you got here. When you got here. Why here?"

"I can't tell you that," she said. "Grandfather paradox."

"I'm not parricidal," Sheppard said sarcastically, "I have no intention of killing my grandfather." He paused. "Besides he's already dead."

"So, if you didn't kill him, who did?" she asked. At his look, she said, "We left. We arrived. When doesn't matter because we're not in time. Where we are … it's a little hard to explain: we have time, hence we're here, but we're not in time. We're outside it; it depends where we want to be."

He thought about that for a moment. "You do realize that what you just said makes absolutely no sense, don't you?"

"Yes," she nodded. "It's complicated."

"McKay's gonna have a field day with this," Sheppard muttered. He scratched his head and asked again, "When did you leave? Why here?"

She got to her feet and held out her hand, hauling him up as easily as he had her the previous day. She held the basket, almost in pieces now from Sheppard's unconscious fiddling, and said, "I need another of these." Turning away, she said over her shoulder, "Did you believe me being here was accidental?"

"Well, it isn't me!" he shouted after her suddenly angrily, not knowing why he was saying the words. "It's not going to be me!"

She turned her head back at him and said, raising an eyebrow, "What is my name, Lt Colonel Sheppard?" She waited.

Finally, after long minutes, he said, "Overton," he said. "It's your hair color. Your name is Overton."

"Yes," she said. She curtsied mockingly at him, and kept walking. He didn't follow.

I am the slave of my baptism. Parents, you have caused
my misfortune, and you have caused your own.
- Arthur Rimbaud