Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis, nor am I making any sort of profit from this story. It is for fan reading pleasure only.

The Tournament

By Kerr Avon

2. The Nightmares Begin

"So, that's pretty much the agenda for today." Weir gazed around the conference table at the faces before her. For the most part she had their undivided attention, with two notable exceptions. Dr. Kavanagh was slumped lazily in his chair, openly doodling on the pad in front of him, and John Sheppard was sitting uncharacteristically silent and stiff-backed in his, staring through his empty notepad. She briefly considered dismissing everyone at that point to give the Major a chance to reconsider, but realized that the entire situation would only get worse.

She cleared her throat and continued. "One last point of business. As we are pretty much on our own here, I think it's time we had a team-building exercise." Several people straightened up at this, wondering where it was going, while others groaned. "I propose a tournament. It will be mandatory for every member of the Atlantis Base to participate, no matter the language or rank of the individual."

McKay looked worried, "What, are we talking about some sort of track and field event? That would give the military members an unfair advantage."

Weir shook her head once, smugly. "Not a physical contest; a mental one. I propose we have a chess tournament."

Kavanagh, who had been glowering at her, suddenly appeared interested. 'Ah-ha....Gotcha!' she thought as she went on to explain the rules. "The tournament will be triple-elimination, so if there are one or two out there who are far superior at the game than the rest of us, no one will feel cheated by encountering them early in the competition. The initial pairings will be set up by a random-number generator; could I ask you to do that, Rodney?"

"Certainly," he nodded with interest.

"Now, I know that some of you have a chess club, while others have never played. I'd like those of you who know how to play to instruct some of the neophytes in the basic rules, and maybe play a game or two for practice. I've had engineering make up a number of sets for this, and you can sign them out at will. Of course, many of you play on your computers, but the actual competition will be with the boards in the main room so that anyone can watch. We'll give it a week before the first round, so that those who want it will have time to practice." Weir looked about the table. "Any questions? Well, then, dismissed. Rodney, I'd like that list by Wednesday so we can post it on the wall in the Common Area." She began gathering her notes as the others filed out. "Oh, John?"

Sheppard turned back, stiffly formal. "Yes, Doctor Weir?" Carson Beckett shot him a surprised glance as he exited.

"Would you mind checking with the soldiers and instructing those who don't know how to play in the basic rules? I'm certain Teyla could use some help."

"Why give the poor girl a handicap?" she heard muttered by one of the departing men, but let it slide. 'We'll see who's handicapped.' Sheppard just nodded once and walked out.

----------------------------------------------------------

The board was missing more than half its pieces at this point. The boy's hand tentatively reached forward, then withdrew. He repeated the gesture several times as John watched his face expectantly. Finally, pursing his lips in defeat, the sandy-haired youngster reached for his king, intentionally tipping it over. A roar erupted from the crowd.

Major Sheppard shot up in bed, drenched in sweat. 'OK, that was nasty.' Raising a shaking hand to his forehead, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, grimacing at its dampness. 'I'm sweaty anyway; might as well go for a jog. God knows I won't be sleeping any more tonight.' With that thought in mind, he got up and pulled on his sweats.

------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Carson Beckett was not a happy man. Glancing down at his clipboard, he realized that he had lost track of where he stood in the inventory yet again. The Hoffans had been quite generous in the supplies they had provided as part of their 'payment' for his help. He closed his eyes momentarily. 'Help. Ha! What a laugh.'

Still, cut off from Earth, possibly forever, made him appreciate the little things that would normally come on a resupply flight when they were in the Antarctic. Things like bandages, needles, IV fluids....He had to make certain he knew what was available to him, and when he would have to improvise something else. So why did he keep thinking about the conversation at lunch?

The Mess Hall had been crowded when he arrived, but he spotted a chair next to McKay and some of the other scientists and headed over. "Is this seat taken?"

McKay, taking a sip of coffee, gestured to the spot. "No, Carson, go right ahead."

The physician sat down quickly, opened his box, and groaned. "What'd you get?" McKay asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Chicken tetrachloride." Beckett replied in disgust.

"Don't you mean 'tetrazini'?"

Carson just sighed again. "Have it your way..." McKay chuckled and returned to his own lunch.

As he picked at his food, Beckett became aware of the conversation among the group, and for once it wasn't about the physics behind the newest Ancient technology. No, today it was about chess.

"Be serious. I've beaten you more times than I can recall. In fact, I've beaten everyone at this table at one time or another!" Kavanagh was stressing his point.

"Yes, but not always." Zelenka managed around a mouthful of food. "And there might be somebody else on base that is better than you."

"Like who?" The young man snorted derisively. "I'm a founding member of the chess club; I'd know if there was anyone here significantly better than me."

McKay swallowed another slug of coffee, then interjected, "Yes, but just because they don't play on base doesn't mean they aren't good. Weir has made this mandatory for everyone to participate." He gestured to the doctor. "Carson, here, for example. I'm sure he knows the game, and I'd wager he's not half bad...but have you ever seen him play?"

Simpson nodded. "He has a point, you know."

Kavanagh fixed the physician with a stare. "So, are you any good?"

Carson gulped, then opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by Simpson. "Of course he is; he's smart enough to figure out that gene, isn't he?" Beckett snapped his jaw shut. No reason to disillusion them yet; he hated chess. Maybe he could manufacture some medical emergencies to get him out of participating in this ridiculous tourney.

Zelenka's eyes suddenly widened, then he started smiling at a private joke. "I will bet, literally, that no one at this table will win this contest."

The group erupted with various sounds of derision and disbelief. Kavanagh finally clarified the proposed wager. "Let me get this straight, Zelenka. You would bet money that the winner of the triple-elimination chess tournament will not be Beckett, McKay, Simpson, myself, or yourself?"

The Czech spread his hands inoffensively. "I'm sure we will all do well, but yes, I will wager that there is at least one other person at this facility who is better."

"Oh, I have to get in on this!" Rodney was pulling out his wallet. "How much?"

Spirited haggling ensued, much of which Beckett ignored. When asked, however, he declined to place a wager. "Chess playing ability is not a direct reflection of one's intelligence," he protested, his brogue thickening.

"Exactly my point!" exclaimed Zelenka.

"Oh, you don't really believe that, do you?" scoffed Simpson.

'Oh dear.' He kept quiet, concentrating on his plate. He looked up again once the conversation had moved on to safer subjects. To his surprise, Zelenka looked like a cat that ate a canary.

----------------------------------------------------------

The room was crowded with young people in their nicest clothes, and their families. A huge four-tiered cake stood against the far wall, with pieces being cut and served by two men in chef hats. Nonalcoholic sparkling cider was being passed around in champagne glasses made of real crystal; he knew because Dad had once showed him how crystal rang, while glass 'clunked'. Tinging his empty goblet with his thumbnail, he peered anxiously around the ballroom trying to catch a glimpse of his parents. All the while people pounded him on his back as he shook their hands distractedly. The anxiety that had been building climaxed as he spotted the Detective Bebense at the entrance.

Sheppard shot out of bed, trembling. OK, this was ridiculous. Here he was, a thirty-eight year old man, being plagued by childhood dreams. 'It's just a game' he kept repeating to himself, trying to still his racing heart. Glancing at his watch, he realized that it was almost time for him to get up, anyway. He was sure looking forward to his run this morning.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Private Michaels, a word?" Sheppard nodded toward a quiet corner of the hangar where the young man was currently doing weapon maintenance.

"Yes, sir?" He carefully set the M-16 components on the tarp where he would be certain to find them again, then came over.

"I'll get straight to the point, since I can see you're busy. I assume you've heard about the chess tournament?"

Michaels grinned. "The whole base has, sir."

"And how are you at the game?"

The young man winced slightly. "I know the basics, but was never particularly good at it. My little sister would routinely beat me."

"How would you like to get better?"

"Well, I know they're letting us borrow practice boards..."

"Tomorrow at ten, on the far side of the gym, I'll be holding classes for beginners and those who just want to improve. I won't promise that you'll win, but I will promise that you won't embarrass yourself in the competition."

Michaels' eyes widened. "Are you good at chess, sir?"

"Used to be. I could use a little practice myself before next week." He paused uncomfortably, then smiled at the young man. "Get back to work; be there tomorrow." As he turned to leave, Sheppard swore to himself that he wouldn't give Kavanagh a reason to belittle the soldier again.

---------------------------------------------------

The Detectives were speaking quietly to a man in scrubs and a white coat, who kept shaking his head and gesturing at John, who had curled up into a small ball on the hard plastic seat, awaiting a verdict. The man in the hospital garb finally threw up his hands in surrender, and the words, 'I'm telling you, this is a bad idea' floated over to him. He tried to make himself even smaller as the three men approached.

Bebense grasped his shoulder gently. "Son, I know you're in a country foreign to you, but our laws are strict. We need a family member to identify the bodies, and your grandmother won't be here until tomorrow night at the earliest. If you'll come with me..."

Hurling the covers off the bed, Sheppard muttered, "I am not going there." He looked up at whatever gods might be watching, and shook a fist. "You hear me? I am so not going there again!" A brisk walk would be just the thing tonight, rather than a run. Something, anything, to get these thoughts out of his head. He cursed himself for agreeing to go along with Weir's little 'if we show them up they have to respect us' plan. He'd thought that, after all this time, he could handle it. He'd been wrong.