CHOOSING HIS TEAM by Tipper

CHAPTER TWO: FEELING THEIR WAY

Rodney rubbed the sleep from his eyes—what little of it he'd had—and grimaced as the laptop he was working on froze for the third time in fifteen minutes. Frikkin'...

They knew integration would be difficult, but he hadn't expected it to be this bad. So much for trying to be prepared for every contingency...God, they were in so far over their heads...

Taking what he pretended was a deep, calming breath, he forced the computer to shut down, just so he could power it back up. His fingers rapidly drummed the tabletop as he waited for the laptop to beep angrily at him, eyeing the small portable generator attached to the laptop as it blinked at him.

He was sitting at the conference table in a room just off the Gate Room with a cup of coffee and a half finished MRE. He'd been unable to sleep the night before—his mind just moving too quickly to allow him to actually rest. Finally, at about 4:00 a.m. (for the time being, they were still using Earth time, despite the fact that it did not match the sun rotations here), he'd gotten up and gone in search of food.

The marines who were awake, about ten of them, one of whom he thought was named Bates and another named Ford, had quietly put together some food on a hot plate and handed it to him. They were using this conference room and the one next door as the mess halls for now, so Rodney had walked into the empty one.

It's not that he didn't want to sit with other people, just….

Oh, who was he kidding. He never sat with anyone in cafeterias. Or rather, no one ever sat with him. He'd just gotten used to it. He didn't need the company anyway. People were too distracting, and there was so much to do.

He'd brought the laptop in here with him, and was trying to skim through the tiny portion of the database they'd managed to download onto it. The sheer size of the actual database had blown him away. Even if they wanted to, on the equipment they brought with them, they'd never be able to preserve more than 3-4 percent of the database on their computers, should they ever need to evacuate.

The thought had him quickly typing a note to himself—come up with a way to condense more information. He'd worked on the compression code for the Air Force, and he was fairly sure he could….

"Hey," Major Sheppard's voice called softly into the room.

McKay jumped a little, looking over in surprise at the tall man standing in the doorway. Frowning a little at the interruption, he gave the major a curt nod in return then turned back to his laptop, fingers once more lightly brushing over the touchpad. He assumed the major was just saying hello to be polite, and McKay had no time for polite.

Undeterred, or, more likely, too tired to notice the rudeness, Sheppard walked right up next to the scientist, set down the breakfast he had found for himself and sat down. He yawned widely and his shoulders slumped, hazel eyes staring down at the nutritious but flavorless food without interest.

McKay had jumped again when the major's tray hit the table next to him, and he now looked at the major with obvious confusion, blinking away rapidly as he tried to make sense of the other man's choice of seat. Why was Sheppard sitting next to him? Did he need something? Sheppard pushed his dry eggs around for a moment then shoveled a forkful into his mouth, not even looking at the scientist as he did so. Not surprisingly, Rodney found this irritating, and decided he could not wait to find out what this was about. Sheppard must need him for something, because there was no other reason for him to be there, so...he decided to ask.

"Something you need, Major?"

"Hm?" Sheppard looked at him blearily, then gave a small smile. "No, no, just food. Coffee." He looked at the mug he had with him, then at Rodney's. "Hey, how much of this stuff did we bring with us, anyway?"

Rodney's eyebrows lifted—was that what Sheppard wanted to know? What did he look like, the quartermaster? "How much coffee? Um..." Rodney snorted as he picked up his own mug and looked at the cold dregs, shrugging. "Not nearly enough, I'm wagering." He put the mug down, and tilted his head. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

Sheppard sniffed and shrugged, "Yeah." He smiled blearily again, peering at his coffee for a few seconds before taking a sip, grimacing a little at the bitterness. His fork pierced the hash browns next, his eyes once more seemingly intent on the breakfast. McKay watched him for a moment longer, still not quite sure why Sheppard was sitting with him, then decided to ignore the question and return to his laptop.

"Man, I'm tired," the major muttered, moving his mouth around the lukewarm potatoes. "Yesterday was one hell of a day."

McKay stopped his scrolling of the database, looking at the man next to him again. Was he supposed to respond? When Sheppard didn't speak again, Rodney cleared his throat.

"Um, yes…yes it was. We got lucky."

"Damn lucky. Still, something good came of it."

"What," McKay gave a small smile, "That we didn't all drown at the bottom of the sea?"

Sheppard gave a short laugh, then shook his head, "Yes, well, that, but I was more talking about the Athosians. Teyla and her people."

"Ah, yes," Rodney nodded, then tilted his head. "Teyla is…the woman with the long, reddish hair, yes?"

"Yeah."

"She's very pretty."

Sheppard grinned, "Yeah. I noticed." He eyed Rodney, "I'm surprised you did."

"Are you kidding?" Rodney smiled broadly, "I may have been a little distracted with the whole, uh, Atlantis rising thing, Major, but I'm not blind. Believe me, the men of Atlantis all thank you."

That earned him a laugh, and Rodney felt oddly pleased at the reaction. He watched as Sheppard attacked his eggs again, and found his mind wandering to other things concerning the man. Namely…the major's ability to use the gene. The jealousy he'd first felt had faded, replaced by a sudden insatiable curiosity. He just had to know….

Sheppard caught the stare out of the corner of his eye, and furrowed his brow. "What?" he asked, swallowing the eggs.

"What it's like?" McKay asked, his eyes bright. He looked like a child sitting before his father, asking why the sky was blue. The eggs felt like a lump of coal in Sheppard's throat. This was part of the reason he hadn't wanted to sit with the other marines—to avoid questions like this…about what had happened...about Sumner…about his responsibilities...Since McKay was not military, he hoped the scientist would leave those things alone. But maybe he was wrong.

Crap, he should have taken the food to an empty room.

"What's what like?" he asked softly, trying to keep the dread out of his voice.

"Flying the puddle jumper? Like driving a corvette? Flying a 747 jet? What?"

Sheppard's relief was palpable, and he grinned like a Cheshire cat in response. Now that was a question he could answer!

"It's amazing," he admitted freely, his eyes brightening. "She handles like a Rolls or a Caddy—smooth as silk—but with the power of the old muscle cars. She's got inertial dampeners that react automatically to every shift in the atmosphere, plus she responds in an instant to whatever command I give it. I haven't yet seen how fast she can move, at least, not when I could measure it, but, she's really amazing in the air."

"Damn," McKay shook his head, "Even after 10,000 years, still runs that well. Can you imagine any earth vehicle running that long?"

Sheppard laughed, "Someone should get GM the patent."

"I can't wait to see what it's like," McKay sighed wistfully.

"You have to see the equipment inside, the stuff that's hidden," Sheppard nodded. "For one thing…." He continued to describe everything he'd discovered about the jumper's machinery thus far, and McKay lapped up every word, while Sheppard grew increasingly animated as they talked. Soon they were laughing like old friends, discussing what cars had the best handling, about old junkers they had fixed up when kids (turned out they both loved the old muscle cars), about planes and why Sheppard had become a pilot, about a whole lot of things that were fascinating…and really had nothing to do with Atlantis.

A sharp knock on the door had startled them, and Peter Grodin stuck his head in. His eyes locked on McKay's.

"Sorry, Doctor McKay, but I need you to look at something. Could you come with me?"

Rodney stared at him, and, for a brief instant, almost said no. He was loath to leave. He blinked, glancing down at his now cold, unfinished MRE, then at the laptop screen, where the screensaver had blanked out the screen. That's when he remembered himself—where he was and why. He nodded, looking back at Grodin and standing up.

"Yes, yes, of course." He reached over and closed the laptop, unhooked the generator, and lifting both up to tuck under his arm, he reached down to grab the MRE. That's when he stopped moving, holding the half-eaten package. He really wasn't quite sure what to do with it—he'd never not finished his food before. "I'll, uh…," he looked up at Grodin.

"I'll take that," Sheppard said, reaching to pull the MRE from McKay's hand. "I'll see you later, Doctor McKay." He smiled up at the man, "Probably sooner than later."

"Yes," Rodney nodded, "Thank you." He gestured to the MRE, then slid out from the table and walked over to Grodin. Peter nodded at him and turned, letting McKay follow him out, already explaining the problem. The Englishman's voice was oddly soft.

"We're hooking up the generators—oh, by the way, you were right, five of them should suffice for our current needs—but there are a few systems that are not powering up as we expected. Oh, and before I forget, Doctor Beckett let me know you could head down there as soon as you were ready..."

Sheppard stopped listening as Grodin's voice faded away, figuring, anything important would be told to him later.

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Lieutenant Aiden Ford stopped and closed his mouth, snapping his teeth together in annoyance. That was the third time he'd realized he was gaping at the funky architecture. Thankfully, none of the other marines were around to see him making a fool of himself. He had enough to deal with, proving to them he wasn't just a punk-ass kid, without looking like a punk-ass kid at the same time...

Gritting his teeth, he pursed his lips, straightened his posture, and strode more purposefully down the corridor he was supposed to be patrolling.

As he turned the corner, he saw Stackhouse and Markham peering at something in the wall, Markham snaking a hand out to touch it.

"Hey!" he called, picking up his pace, "Sergeant, stop!"

Markham responded immediately, drawing the hand back. Next to him, Stackhouse frowned slightly, then quickly adopted an expressionless face. Stackhouse was older than Ford by a few years, and had been in the service longer, but Ford still outranked him. In fact, Ford outranked all of the marines except, of course, the Major, and he was also younger than all except a few. It was not an unusual situation in the forces, but Ford had yet to prove his mettle with these men, and the young lieutenant knew it. Until he did, they would tolerate him but not necessarily like him.

He bit back a sigh and tried to look older than his 25 years as he reached the two men and focused on the wall.

There was a diamond shaped pattern, a panel of some kind, in the center of something that appeared to be a tall, narrow door. The door was flush with the wall, almost invisible, as if deliberately intended to be unobtrusive or invisible unless you were looking for it. He frowned.

"What is it?" he asked, looking to Stackhouse.

"I don't know, sir," the sergeant replied. "We were considering finding out when you arrived."

"You were just going to touch it?" Ford arched an eyebrow in what he hoped was a wise looking manner.

"Yes, sir, that was the plan," Markham replied. "I...the gene, you know? I was going to activate it and—"

"Sergeant," Ford shook his head at them, "We have orders not to attempt to activate anything unless and until Doctor McKay or one of his team leaders has approved the activation."

"But I think this is just a door, sir," Markham said, looking again at the panel. Yes, it was clearly a door, but it looked more like the entrance to a linen cupboard or a water closet than a door leading somewhere—it was just too narrow. "I thought...well, I thought it might be a bathroom. Kinda looks like one."

"A bathroom? Are you kidding? Markham...," Ford shook his head and sighed. "For God's sake, we have no idea what's on the other side of this door," he jerked his thumb at it. "It could be anything, from a bathroom, to a fancy robot of some kind, to an elevator shaft, to a...a dimensional portal." He winced a little, realizing he was beginning to sound like a 12 year old babysitter, pretending to know more than he did. "Look, you have your orders. For now, we patrol these corridors until the Major sends us out to learn more. Is that clear?"

Markham grimaced, but nodded. Stackhouse, still expressionless, snapped a quick salute—there was a surprisingly large amount of disdain in the simple motion. Ford pursed his lips, but did not say anything more. Instead, he just nodded at them both and headed off, back towards the current living quarters. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Stackhouse and Markham walking in the opposite direction away from him. He heard them muttering, and Markham snorted a soft laugh.

Damn.

So focused on each other, none of the three men had noticed that the panel had begun to blink. Markham hadn't needed to touch it for it to sense his desire to open the door, and, inside the wall, long disused gears started to turn.

Ford was still lost in thought as he reached the T junction at the corridor's end, trying to pretend he didn't care that these men didn't trust him yet. "Damn," he muttered out loud this time, standing in place and rubbing at the back of his neck. Well, he'd proved himself before. He could do it again. At least the Major seemed to like him.

He turned left and started walking again, passing a side corridor at a crisp pace, glancing only fleetingly down it before moving on.

What the...?

Something had been there...or rather, someone. Blinking a few times, he stopped and turned around, just in time to see Halling walk out of that side corridor and head away from him...towards the other corridor Ford had just left—the one with the panel. If the tall Athosian saw him, he gave no sign, looking lost in thought himself. Halling's head was down, eyes on the ground, and his hands were tucked behind his back.

The lieutenant opened his mouth to call out, but wasn't quick enough as Halling disappeared down the other corridor. Sighing, Ford turned and jogged after him, turning the corner just in time to see that Halling had stopped at exactly the same place where he had just dismissed Stackhouse and Markham.

This time, though, Ford could see that the panel was fully activated now. For a second, he was struck dumb by the light show from the panel.

And, well, so was Halling.

Before the lieutenant had time to react, the Athosian leant over and gingerly touched the panel, looking lost in its beauty, a blissful smile on his face.

"Hey!" he called, prompting Halling to turn and look at him. The big man offered a friendly grin at his appearance and started to stand up straighter, hand still on the panel, when the wall suddenly disappeared. With a yelp of surprise, Halling fell sideways into the now open door.

"Halling!" Ford shouted, running over to where the man had disappeared into a narrow, pitch-black room, and, without a second thought, went in after him turning on the light on his P90 at the same time...

And found himself falling, his scream merging with the Halling's echoing down below...

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TBC