They circled each other, exchanging experimental kicks and punches that mostly didn’t connect, and then Gradon closed the distance between them, not a good move in John’s opinion. Dar grabbed for him, but Gradon managed a sharp uppercut that bloodied Dar’s nose and drew whistles and shouted encouragement from his men.
Dar stepped back and to the side, a move that might have looked like a staggering recovery to Gradon but that John had learned from sparring with Ronon to associate with the ground coming up toward him fast. Before he thought Gradon knew what was happening, Dar kicked Gradon’s feet out from under him and sent him sprawling.
Gradon came up mad, rolling to his feet and making as if to throw himself at Dar, but Caldwell grabbed him by the jacket at the same time that John stepped — if not happily — between the two would-be combatants. Teyla’s going to ask why I stepped out in front of a drunk soldier who was looking for somebody to punch, he couldn’t help thinking, and I’m going to have to say that it sounded like a good idea at the time…
“You agreed to the rules,” Caldwell said. “Now this needs to be over.”
“You heard him,” John said. “Shake hands and make up.”
“I expect they’d rather kiss and make up,” Gradon said. “Or haven’t you heard what they say about the Satedan Band — ”
“You mean that we win fights?”
“I mean that you’re a bunch of perverted — ”
“I really don’t give a damn what they say,” Caldwell said, in a tone that cut through the general noise. “You had your fight, you lost, now let me suggest that you take it like a man and walk away. Otherwise, this is going to turn into a diplomatic incident, and I don’t think either of your commanding officers are going to like that.”
“Everybody break it up,” John added, although it felt a little weak after that.
Gradon glared at the Satedans and then stormed off with the rest of his friends following. Dar scrubbed at his bleeding nose with his sleeve and said something under his breath that sounded a lot like speculation on whether anyone had ever bedded Gradon without being paid for it.
“Nice plan, Sheppard,” Caldwell said as the Satedans also began heading back in the direction of other people, and probably of more to drink.
John shrugged. “At least they were talking?”
Caldwell shook his head. “That kind of talking we could do without.”
“Well, that is the military for you,” Radek said a little sharply, and suddenly John could see the conversational pit opening up but wasn’t sure how to avoid it. Radek had been drinking, too, and he did have a temper, and if a member of his team was less than complimentary about the American military and Caldwell made the kind of remark in return that John was expecting, he didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to say —
“Like anybody has time for that crap,” Caldwell said instead. “The Genii are stuck in about 1950. They kept assuming Colonel Carter was somebody’s secretary when she tried to meet with them.”
“It’s apparently cultural,” Radek said with a more conciliatory shrug.
“I’m getting tired of cultural,” Caldwell said. “Is there any way to get these people to come to terms?”
“We’ll give it a try in the morning,” John said.
Caldwell shook his head. “At this rate, everybody’s going to be too hung over in the morning to make any sense.”
“Well, if they’re too hung over to endlessly repeat the same positions that they started with, we might actually get somewhere,” John said.
He wondered what Woolsey would say to that theory. At this point, possibly that it was worth a try.
Teyla set her cup carefully aside, took a step backward so that she was outside the circles of light, sheltered by the shadows. Dahlia Radim had retreated to a tent some time ago, before the men started drinking, but the Satedan women were still present, though they were careful to stay together, or grouped with their men. Most of the Marines had been told to consider themselves on duty, and were following orders, sticking to the perimeter and avoiding the drinks. And then there was Sora. There was no mistaking her anger, for all that she seemed to have herself rigidly under control, it shrieked in the set of her shoulders, the tight smile and the hands clenched on whatever was nearest, cup or chair back or closed tight on themselves. She was dangerous, Teyla thought; perhaps the most dangerous person at this meeting, because her agenda ran counter to everyone else’s, and she had no reason to stand aside. More than that, it was not in her nature to stand passive, and never had been.
Teyla scanned the crowd, thinning now as people began to retire, the Satedans to their houses, the others to the temporary camps. John had been wise to say that the Lanteans would be staying: there would be no complicated dialing procedures to betray the problem with the shield. Not all of the Genii were doing the same — she suspected that Ladon did not like to be out of touch with his government for too long — but enough were remaining that it didn’t seem to be a slight.
Movement caught her attention, a shift of light and shadow at the edge of her vision, and she let her head turn, to see Sora sliding out of the lamplight. She waited, but the younger woman did not reappear. And that was not a good thing, she thought. Sora’s camp lay in the opposite direction. She turned, looking for John, but he had disappeared somewhere, along with Colonel Caldwell. And Sora should not go unwatched.
One of the young Marines was standing off to the side, arms folded on the P90 clipped to his chest. He had been with Atlantis on the first mission, a skinny dark youth with his head shaved almost bare; he had filled out since then, grown his hair, gained weight to go with his rangy height, but he was still one of the ones she knew she could trust — more importantly, who would trust her, and not waste time with questions.
“Corporal Kneeland.”
“Ma’am?” He didn’t quite come to attention, but his stance shifted.
“Come with me, please,” Teyla said. “Sora Tyrus has gone off in an — unexpected direction.”
“Sora,” he said, and she remembered he had been stranded on Manaria during the hurricane, had heard all about Sora’s part in the attack on Atlantis. “Yes, ma’am.”
Teyla glanced sidelong again, saw no one paying them any particular attention. “This way.”
Outside the circle of lights, the ruined streets were very dark. Teyla paused in the shadow of a door, blinking as though that would make her eyes adjust faster, and Kneeland slipped a pair of IR goggles from his pocket.
“Do you want them, ma’am? I’ve only got one pair.”
“You keep them,” Teyla said. Her sight was clearing, with her back to the lights. Sora had stepped out of the light, and moved — left, she thought, left and back, and sure enough, there was a break in the wreckage. “This way,” she said, pointing, and Kneeland followed, goggles in place. He wasn’t as silent as Ronon would have been, but he moved with care and grace and she thought they might have a chance at catching Sora unaware.
Something moved ahead of them, and she lifted a fist. In the same instant, Kneeland breathed, “Ma’am.”
Teyla nodded. They were in cover, of a sort, a pile of rubble that slanted halfway across the street. The person — Sora, it wouldn’t be anyone else — was moving toward the corner of a building that jutted above the wreckage like a single tooth in an old woman’s mouth. The Genii uniform blended well with the darkness, but her hands and face in profile were bare and white, and her movements were still angry, jerky and abrupt and noticeable in the dark. Teyla eased forward, peering over the edge of the rubble, and after a moment Kneeland joined her, holding his P90 away from his body to keep it from clattering against anything.