Instead, here he was sitting in his hotel room, thinking that he’d give anything to be back in Atlantis in his cold office eating something that came out of a plastic tray while Doctor McKay explained the latest incomprehensible technical problem that could potentially doom them all.
He’d worked with military personnel who felt that way for years, but he’d always thought he was immune to the appeal of facing constant danger in uncomfortable working conditions. Apparently not. He gazed down at the parking lot where his rental car was sitting.
After a moment, he pulled out his phone and dialed General Landry’s number.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything,” he said when Landry picked up.
“Not since the last time you called,” Landry said. “I promise we’ll let you know just as soon as we hear from your people.”
Your people, Dick thought as he hung up. He was used to hearing it sound like a curse in the mouths of SGC personnel. For so many years, your people had meant the NID, and then the IOA, and he’d been perfectly aware that the men and women in uniform who he was overseeing viewed him as their enemy.
That wasn’t what Landry and O’Neill meant now, though. The Atlantis expedition members were his people, and he was responsible for them, at least for the moment. At least for a little while longer.
“Come on, Colonel Sheppard. Pick up the phone,” he said, but his own phone stayed stubbornly silent.
Chapter Sixteen
Discoveries
William held the last of the plates he’d recovered from the museum closet up to the light, checking for the cracks that had made a couple of them shatter when they were exposed to the heat of the lights, then slipped it into the improvised reader. He’d guessed right, they were part of the cataloging system, though it also looked as though they’d been superseded, if he was reading the dates right and if his assumption that sticking them in that closet meant that they were rarely used was actually correct. But at least they were going to be able to get some idea of the parts of the collection that weren’t on display…
The airman that he’d borrowed from photo recon fiddled with the lenses, trying to get the image as clear as possible. They’d clean it up on the computer, of course, but you need to start with the best possible —
“Whoa,” the airman said, and William blinked.
“Isn’t that —?”
The airman looked up at him. “That looks like a ZPM. Doesn’t it, doc?”
“Yes.”
It was a line drawing, like all the images, not a photograph — another reason to think this was an older listing, because it was clear from talking to Ronon that the Satedans had had fairly sophisticated photography. They’d set it wrong side up, rested it on the broad base, but the jagged shape, the veins of shading, were unmistakable. And, just like that, William thought, all their priorities changed.
“Get that onto the computer right away, please, and get it cleaned up. Forget about anything else for the moment, see if you can get the text as clear as possible.” He touched his earpiece. “Dex. Ronon, are you there?”
“Lynn?” Ronon sounded wary, and William wondered belatedly what he’d interrupted. He hoped it wasn’t a training session, or something else that couldn’t be put off. “What’s up?”
“I need your help translating one of the record plates we recovered,” he said aloud.
“Now?”
“It’s — rather important,” William said, and crossed his fingers.
There was a little silence, and then Ronon said, “I’ll be there.”
William let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and the airman looked up from his monitor. “Shouldn’t we let Dr. Zelenka know?”
“Not yet,” William answered. “For all we know, the notes say something like ‘if you ever find one of these, don’t touch it’ or ‘we used to have this, but it was destroyed’. Let’s be sure it’s actually there first.”
“OK, doc,” the airman said, and reached for his mouse.
William watched him for a few minutes, seeing the Satedan letters — typed, with handwritten notes — come into focus. Ronon would be able to read what it said, would be able to tell them if they’d just found the ZPM to go with the hyperdrive crystal thing, and all of a sudden he couldn’t stand still. He turned away from the console, paced the length of the room and back again, and the airman gave him a wary glance.
“Still working on it, sir.”
“Sorry.” William stuffed both hands in his pockets to keep from tapping his fingers. Coffee, he thought. If I go get coffee, by the time I get back, Ronon will be here and the file will be ready — “I’m going to the mess hall,” he said. “Do you want coffee?”
The airman looked at his own half-full cup, and shook his head. “No, thanks, doc.”
“Right.”
It was far enough to the mess hall that he had to take a transport chamber, though a part of him just wanted to keep walking, burn off the nervous energy. But that would take too much time — it was a fine line he had to walk. But the airman would work better if he wasn’t hovering over him the whole time.
It was mid-afternoon, and the mess hall was almost empty, just a couple of Hammond’s crew talking over a laptop at the far table, one of the mess crew pushing a broom across the spotless floor. There were a few sandwiches left, and a wilted-looking salad; he ignored them, filled another mug of coffee. He hadn’t consumed this much caffeine since his postdoc days, though then he’d been tougher about drinking it black. He added sugar and powdered creamer, and glanced out at the clouded sky. A few flakes of snow drifted by, but it was hard to tell if it was actually snowing, or if they were just blown from the buildings. Summer was supposed to be better, he reminded himself, and reached for the creamer again.
“You know that stuff explodes,” Ronon said, and pointed to the jar.
William jumped in spite of himself, and gave the Satedan a narrow look. He was never entirely sure when the man was joking… “Oh, yes?”
Ronon nodded. “Sheppard showed me, on one of those how to blow things up shows he likes. They used it to shoot off a rocket.”
“Really.” William eyed the container for an instant, then, determinedly, added another spoonful to his coffee.
“I thought you were in a hurry,” Ronon said. He had his own mug of something, William saw.
“I needed coffee,” William said. “But I’m glad you’re here. We may have found something.”
“Something useful?”
“That depends on what you tell me it says.”
They made their way back to William’s lab in silence, Ronon steering them to a shortcut through what looked like a service corridor. It was the first one William had seen, and he made a note to come back and examine it later. He was pretty sure he’d find out more interesting things about the Ancients in their support areas than in the soaring public spaces.
He waved his hand at the lab’s door sensor, checked abruptly as he saw Radek looking over the airman’s shoulder. Ronon made an irritated noise, and dodged past him into the lab.
“I thought — ” William began, and the airman gave him a guilty look.
“Dr. Zelenka called while you were gone, doc, asked what kind of progress we were making.”
“And when he told me, I thought I would come down and see for myself,” Radek said briskly.
“So what is it?” Ronon asked.
“There.” William pointed to the screen. “We found — well, it looks a lot like microfiche, except stiffer — ”
“Dataleaves,” Ronon said, and William nodded.