JUSTICE

CHAPTER 9

The Taluna government weren't happy that Woolsey had refused to meet their demands. Carson admired and respected the diplomat for standing his ground. Never the less, all this argy-bargy wasn't helping the Colonel.

Woolsey had tried every angle, but relations were at an all-time low. They'd refused to allow Carson to visit the Cleamund family. They'd even refused to allow Atlantis to resume a surgery there. He was painfully aware time was moving on. Time in which Sheppard was living in misery, believing he'd killed an innocent. Time in which the Colonel was being punished going through agonies, for something that wasn't his fault. After five days of fruitless negotiations, Carson decided enough was enough. It was time to intervene. He was going to take matters into his own hands.

"Do you have a minute, Mr Woolsey?"

Carson felt sorry for the man. Woolsey looked drained. He didn't have the healthiest complexion at the best of times, but the dark circles under his eyes gave him a ghostly pallor.

Woolsey looked up, bemused. Then it seemed to Carson as if the diplomat gave himself a mental shake. He started to focus, and sat up straighter in his chair. "Certainly, Doctor Beckett…but I'm afraid I don't have anything new to tell you. Unfortunately the situation remains unchanged. I still haven't managed to obtain permission for you to visit the planet."

"Not for the want of trying though." Carson smiled sadly.

"Yes indeed." Woolsey took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've been a diplomat for a long time, Doctor. While I haven't always managed to succeed in obtaining all my goals, this is the first time I've failed in any negotiation. The pity is…this is one of those occasions when it really mattered."

There was silence for a moment. Carson broke it by coming round the desk and lifting his wrist. Woolsey's pulse told him what he'd suspected. The diplomat narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Carson forestalled him.

"You're exhausted, Mr Woolsey. And I can tell from the strain around your eyes you have the onset of a migraine. I'm going to give you something for it, but you must get some rest."

"I appreciate your concern, Doctor, and I will. But first I must prepare some kind of report to the IOA." He sighed, and leaned back on the chair. "I've been putting them off…hoping this situation would have resolved itself, but Stargate Command are starting to ask why Colonel Sheppard hasn't submitted any updates."

Carson removed his hand stood back on his heels, and folded his arms. "I understand your position…can't you tell them he's on vacation?"

"I've already tried that, but they're starting to get suspicious." Woolsey elaborated, sounding weary. "Apparently the Colonel isn't known for taking vacations." He raised an eyebrow and winced.

"Right - that's it. The report can wait until tomorrow. I'm taking you off duty for twenty-four hours."

"Doctor…" Woolsey sighed and drew him a look. "I take it there's no point in arguing with you?"

"Absolutely none." Carson gave him a small smile. "C'mon, I'll walk you to your quarters. We can stop by Major Lorne's office on the way to inform him he's temporarily in charge."

Woolsey slowly rose to his feet. When they reached the door he stopped. "I sincerely hope you're not trying to get me out of the way, Doctor. I would hate to think you would do anything underhand…perhaps even dangerous while I was out of commission."

Carson met his suspicious look with a wounded expression. "Certainly not, and I resent the implication. You, Mr Woolsey are responsible for the base. However…your health is my responsibility. It's clear you've been running on pure adrenaline. Now it's gone, and your body is starting to feel the effects. If you don't take a break, there could be serious consequences."

Woolsey peered at him through half closed eyes. "I apologize, Doctor...I was out of line. You were right about the headache. I confess it is starting to make me…irritable. However if, hypothetically speaking, something were to happen while I'm off duty, I would recommend that person…or persons don't get caught."

Carson suppressed a smile. He hadn't intended to do anything underhand. In fact his initial plan was to resign his position so he could travel to Taluna as an ordinary citizen, not a member of the expedition. Now it looked like he wouldn't need to lose his job. The once straight-laced diplomat who'd rigidly stuck to the rules had obviously torn another page from his book. Woolsey was clearly giving him his unofficial blessing to make the journey.

If he'd needed to make the sacrifice, Carson would have willingly done it. John Sheppard wasn't just the Military leader of Atlantis. He'd also saved the city, including his own life, many times. John was also his friend. Carson would miss Atlantis if he ever needed to leave. It was his home. But the bottom line was - he could practice medicine anywhere.

And, regardless of what Woolsey had initially thought, he would never abuse his Hippocratic Oath. The man wasn't well, and his decision had been made purely based on his condition. Still, once he'd made sure his patient was comfortable, he might just pay another visit to Major Lorne.

It had been a quite a while since he'd flown a jumper, and who knew when another emergency might arise. The infirmary was quiet. It would be the perfect opportunity to get some practice. In fact, he might even ask Sheppard's team if they'd care to come along for a wee jaunt…

ooooOoooo

The first day passed in a pain filled blur. John couldn't remember much about it, except when it had got too bad he'd got lucky and passed out. The effects of blood loss had kicked in on the second. He'd managed to keep down some of the tasteless gruel Dulane had poured down his throat. Afterward, he'd pretty much slept away the rest of the day.

On the third, wound fever had set in. John had expected it. It wasn't possible to inflict that much damage, leave so many gaping wounds without consequences. The raging heat that had started on his back seemed to seep into the rest of his body and burned him inside out. He'd been on fire. Roasted alive one minute, frozen to his very core the next.

During the worst of it part of him had wanted to quit, let the fever take him. Then he'd remembered the man he killed. While he felt the whipping was a punishment too far, he had caused the family pain, so this pain was his to endure. He also had to survive. It was instinctive. He owed that to himself.

His fever had broken two days before – day five. His back still hurt, but the heavy dull throb was manageable - sort of. If he moved too quickly, a stab of sharp intense burning soon slowed him down. At least now he was strong enough to go to the toilet himself. He was also more alert, able to take in his surroundings.

John had been put in with the rest of the prison population. His narrow wooden bunk was third in a long line hugging the entire length of the rough grey stone prison wall. An identical line ran along the other side. Neither he nor the other prisoners had a mattress, or pillow, but they did have a blanket. John reckoned the Commander must have a soft side after all. Either that or else it had been an oversight. He'd forgotten about the luxury.

There were a couple of dim lights dotted along the ceiling. They barely made an impression. When they were turned on by the guards in the morning, it was their cue to start the day. They lined up and one by one were handed a bowl of something. It was so thin, it didn't qualify as cereal. At least it didn't taste bad. Then again, it didn't taste of anything.

When the prisoners retuned hot, grimy and sweaty at the end of the day they were pushed into the latrine six at a time, and hosed down. From what John could tell, it saved the expense of a laundry. Just like when he'd been in the hole, their clothes dried on their back. He'd been spared that ordeal so far. His eyes watered at the thought of how a fierce spray would feel on his shredded back.

A second meal of bread and cheese followed. He was thankful he wasn't dairy intolerant. If he'd had McKay's sinus condition he would have been in trouble. It was the same meal every day. They had barely finished when the lights were turned off, the door slammed shut, and they were left in total darkness until the next morning. The hours that followed were the longest of the day.

No one said a word – ever. He'd tried to strike up a conversation but had been met with a tense silence. It was obvious they were terrified to talk to him. Only the groans of those who'd received punishment hung in the air. The fear was palpable. John didn't know what these men had done to merit coming to this place, but no one deserved to be treated like this.

He'd been vaguely aware of Jalune's presence during the last few days. John was sure it hadn't been out of concern. Now he was able to stand on his feet, he wondered when he'd be taken to meet the Commander. He didn't have long to find out.

The guy who'd whipped him pulled him out the line before he'd got breakfast. Chains were slapped around his wrists without even a good morning. His ice blue eyes didn't even register acknowledgement as the soldier grabbed his arm and led him outside.

John hated him. Yet from his blank, stoic expression the guard neither knew nor cared. He wasn't rough with him. The strong, muscular arm that had wielded the whip with such power, only held on with enough force to make sure he wouldn't escape. There was no malice there. There was no compassion either. He was doing the worst kind of job, and did it well. It was clear this guy gave no thought to his actions. He did was he was told, regardless of the pain, misery and distress it caused others.

Unlike Jalune he didn't push him. He waited for John to climb the stairs under his own steam. Wasn't impatient at the time it took for his chained feet to manage all the way to the top of the fortress. At the end of a long corridor he motioned him to stop. The large hand that had caused so much pain held, but didn't press down on his shoulder, while the other knocked softly on the door.

"Enter…"

There was a man sitting behind a large heavy wooden desk. He was too preoccupied by whatever he was writing to look up when they came in. By the white streaking the short grey wavy hair John guessed he was somewhere in his sixties. This however was no ordinary pensioner. He sat poker straight in the high backed chair, and his solid build hinted at muscles, not flab, under the same blue uniform the rest of the militia wore. There was no doubt this was the Commander, and John wondered what rank he held. He didn't recognize the insignia on his stand up collar, but guessed he must be a Major, or maybe a Colonel. John doubted if this was a General's billet.

"Bring the prisoner in closer and lift his tunic. I want to see his back."

John bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue. He hated being treated as if he was dumb. Worse, that he was a piece of meat. On this occasion he stayed silent. He didn't give a shit about rule number one, but he was still healing and didn't want to annoy the brass too soon.

He winced as his tunic was lifted up, and only gritted teeth held back a moan when the Commander left his desk and started prodding his lacerations. "You did a good job, Ceeland." He said to the guard.

The young man with the short spiky blonde hair blushed under the praise. "Thank you, Colonel."

"Almost too good…This prisoner took longer to recover than I would have expected. Some of the deeper lacerations still have a trace of infection." The older man pulled down his tunic. "I see you're a slow healer, Sheppard. I will take that into consideration in planning the rest of your prescribed punishment."

The guy stared at him, and John wondered if he expected a thank you. Like a good boy he stayed quiet. For the first time rule one had its merits after all.

The Commander returned to his chair, and resumed writing. John was aching after his impromptu exam, and felt a little dizzy. Sweat was starting to break out on his brow, but it wasn't just because of the heat. He was still weak after the fever, plus he was starving. The tasteless gruel he'd missed at breakfast grew more appealing with every passing moment.

John could tell the guy was sizing him up. His dark brown eyes flicked up, bored into his, but John didn't flinch under his scrutiny.

Eventually he put down his pen and leaned back on the chair. "You have a long sentence. However, twenty lashes every month until the remainder have been carried out shouldn't unduly incapacitate you from carrying out most of your normal duties. If the amount proved onerous, I can reduce it to ten every other week. I'll make that determination after your next punishment. In the meantime, the period you've spent in recovery will be added to the end of your sentence."

The way things were going John half expected that. What surprised him was the old man's tone. The Commander sounded disappointed. John felt like he was a new recruit who hadn't lived up to his potential. The terse statement about his delayed recovery time sounded like a rebuke. It was almost as if the guy was making allowances for his failings, trying to encourage him to do better. The Commander had him pegged as weak, just because he couldn't bounce back from a sound whipping.

Again came the look, and again John stayed quiet. He was furious, but it looked as though his silence was annoying the old man. Rule one was really starting to grow on him.

"What rank did you hold before you destroyed your career? And yes…I expect you to answer the question."

The barb hurt, just as it was meant to. John inwardly flinched, but kept the anger out his voice. "Lt Colonel."

The Commander's eyebrows raised, and John saw his lips twitch. "Which regiment did you serve in?"

Kilund was no pushover, but John reckoned the same answer he'd given the sergeant wouldn't wash with this guy. It was time to be creative. "The Yankees'…Sir."

"Can't say I've heard of it…Never mind, it doesn't matter. However…as a former commander yourself, I am interested what you think of it here. I am always open to suggestions. New ideas how to keep the men in line. Please…speak freely."

Silence was overrated. John didn't mind a bit of quiet time, in fact he enjoyed his own company now and again. What they had going on here, was overkill. Everyone was so terrified of breaking the rules, he didn't know if or when he would ever have another change to have a conversation. He wasn't going to waste maybe his last opportunity, regardless of what the consequences would be.

John coughed to clear his throat. "I understand the need for discipline. It's necessary to keep order. I also understand the need for punishment. When I took the life of an innocent man I expected to be incarcerated. What I didn't expect, and don't understand is the brutality here."

He saw the flush of anger growing on the older man's face but he was on a roll, and wasn't about to stop now. "In my base punishment is designed to fit the crime. Minor misdemeanors are treated with extra duties, maybe even a fine. We only lock people away as a last resort, or for the most serious cases. In our society we consider being taken away from family and friends, being denied freedom punishment enough. Even then we use that time to rehabilitate those who've violated our laws. Show them crime doesn't pay, encourage them to atone for what they've done. Teach them new skills so when they're released, they can contribute something to the community, make a fresh start. All I see here is oppression and cruelty. I just don't get the purpose in breaking a man's spirit. What you hope to gain from a tyranny of fear…"

The Commander put his hand up. "I think I've heard quite enough."

John shrugged, unfazed by the commander's furious expression. "Well…you did ask."

He stared at John. "So I did…Has anyone ever mentioned you have an attitude problem?"

"Yeah…I've been told that before." John tried, but couldn't suppress a smile. He knew it was dumb. It didn't matter. He was already in big trouble.

The commander smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Well I intend to do something about it. I am going to break you, Sheppard. A man like you is dangerous, and I won't have you setting a bad example to the rest of the prisoners."

"Really..." John glared at him, and he didn't try to disguise the contempt in his voice. "Well, Commander...you can whip me. Beat me till I'm black and blue…but you sure as hell won't break me. Trust me…others have tried."

"I'm sure they did…but they aren't me - take him to the hole!"

As the guard dragged John away, the commander stopped them. "Ceeland…watch your strength – I don't want him killed. I intend for Colonel Sheppard to spend the next fifteen years regretting the day he ever came here. "

ooooOoooo

TBC

A/N:- ar·gy-bar·gy (ärg-bärg)n. pl. ar·gy-bar·gies Chiefly British Slang A lively or disputatious discussion.

[Scots, reduplication of argie, argument, from argue.]

Many thanks to my wonderful beta and good pal Sherry 57 for the great work she's done. And thanks too pet for supplying me with the above definition. I confess I sometime forget you guy's won't know some of the Scottish words and expressions I use - sorry! Of course, all mistakes are mine!

And thank you to everyone who's taken the time to review - I really appreciate it.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and as always, please share your thoughts with me - thanks, Joanie.