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Atlantis was an amazing place. Skipper had never been too fond of big cities, other than the obvious benefits of having an actual nightlife, but Atlantis was definitely an exception. It was beautiful, although not so beautiful as it would be if anyone could be bothered to replant all the public parks out on the piers, and surrounded by ocean. The people were nice too, military and civilian alike, if a little bit weird, and there was a real sense a family that any good unit had. Also, it was an alien city in a different galaxy, which was inherently awesome.
Of course, Atlantis was still a military base, and there were some aspects of military that you couldn't escape no matter where you went. Early-morning meetings were among them. There were twenty officers gathered around one of the conference tables in the HQ Building, everyone barring a single lucky lieutenant up in the control room. At the head of the table was Colonel-Uncle Cam, with John and Lorne to either side, followed by first the captains then a small horde of lieutenants. Unlike the SGC, Atlantis wasn't top-heavy with majors and colonels; it was also decidedly skewed in makeup toward marines rather than Air Force, at least in the lower ranks. There were a couple of familiar faces, though.
"Major Lorne," Uncle Cam said, looking about as thrilled to be up as he ever did before 0930 or so. "Have I ever asked you why we need to do this so early?"
"It's the easiest time to get everyone in one place," Lorne replied. He looked perfectly well-rested, but in all honest Skipper couldn't remember a time when he looked less than perfect, even after that New Years Eve spent hopping bars in London. "Also, I like mornings. They're the best part of the day."
"You've got a command staff meeting at 1000, so it couldn't be later anyways," John helpfully pointed out.
"We have a command staff meeting."
"That's what I said."
"I'm going to fire you both one of these days," Cam muttered. "Right. What's first on the agenda?"
"Introductions, sir," Lorne supplied. "First, Captain Laura Cadman, U.S. Marine Corps, who is returning to us after getting her master's in civil engineering. Welcome back."
A woman sitting across the table from Skipper raised her hand in a small wave and smiled. "It's good to be here, sir."
"Have fun at school?" John asked.
Cadman shrugged. "It was okay. I learned new and exciting ways to blow stuff up."
"And on that terrifying thought," Lorne continued, "we have Captains Spencer and Beauregard Griffith, USAF, formerly of SG-9 and SG-13 respectively. One's going to be our new intelligence officer, after I have them fight to the death for the position."
"Mornin', everyone," Spencer said.
They got a few odd looks from around the table, and after a moment one lieutenant with a German flag asked, "Cloning accident?"
"Twins," Skipper supplied.
"More like demonic hell-spawn," Satterfield said.
"I have no idea why you would call us that," Skipper said.
"After all," Spencer added, "no one ever proved we had anything to do with that."
"Which that?" Grogan asked quietly.
"Any of it."
Cam snorted. "Of course not. You're completely innocent of any wrongdoing, ever."
"That seems accurate, Colonel," Spencer said.
"See to it that it stays that way," Lorne said, his pointed look and tone making it clear that he fully expected them to behave like they had agreed and promising dire retribution if they did not. Skipper figured it would be best to play it safe for a few months before testing the waters. "Next, we have the mission schedule for next week."
"Anything interesting?" Cam asked.
"That would depend entirely on how you define interesting, sir."
"Of course it does." Cam shook his head. "Doctor Weir, Teyla, and I are going to that moon thing, right?"
"Festival of the Grand Conjunction, Tuesday and Wednesday. You'll be going with Ronon and Stacks as escorts, since someone else got himself un-invited."
"I didn't know those plants were flammable," John said.
"Neither did the monks, I think," Lorne replied. "Moving right along. Colonel Sheppard, anything you want put on the schedule?"
"McKay's got some outpost he wants to visit, and Teyla has a couple of potential trade missions. I sent you an email about them."
"I got that, thanks. I've already checked with her about the best times." Lorne make a note on his tablet before looking around. "Anyone else?"
"Doctor Porter wants to visit some kind of geothermal site on M9X-223," Captain Vega said.
Grogan raised his hand. "We need a return visit to P1A-619, so that we can look at their holy sanctum now that we're," he hesitated a moment, "pure. And it needs to be by Tuesday at the latest."
"Got it," Lorne said with a nod. "Anyone else? No? Okay, then. We've got five planets from the database for initial exploration up this time around, and about another half-dozen follow-ups to various places. My team is going to sunny M2X-848, which Teyla tells me is noted for its good weather, nice eating, and a possibly Ancient temple. Cadman, you have a team picked out yet?"
"I have an idea of who I want, but still need to ask them," she replied.
"M7X-319 for you then, since we know nothing but what's in the database and it doesn't matter what kind of geek you pick. Let's see... Deveraux, do you know if anyone on your team has any phobias about bugs?"
It went like that for a few more minutes, as each of the captains was handed an exploration mission or two. Skipper and his brother, not having the benefit of already knowing people in the city, didn't have permanent teams of their own yet and were passed over as less important missions were given to the lieutenants, mostly ones involving escorting civilians or supervising marine labor teams going to established trade partners.
"Salinger, you'll do the check-up on the Taranians, see how they're settling in," Lorne said. "Next, the regular trade run to P1G-930, and it looks only Quartaro and Costanza are available on that day. Gentlemen, bidding opens at one Snickers."
John chuckled. "You know, Lorne, I don't think blatant bribery is the right way to assign missions."
"Will it be right if I give you a cut, sir?"
"Well, when you put it like that, sure."
"Actually," Cam said, "give it to Skipper. He's got plenty of off-world experience, and a few months with Dixon should have left him well-equipped for this sort of mission."
Lorne raised an eyebrow. "Yes, sir."
The relieved looks on the faces of two of the marines did not inspire confidence in Skipper.
"While we're at it," Cam continued, "Spencer's been doing diplomacy with SG-9. We're supposed send a couple people to that Jalapeño --"
"Jalanapey."
"-- place right?"
"Didn't we decide to accidentally forget that?" John asked. "Even Elizabeth said it was okay."
"We can't get a reputation for ignoring invitations, can we, Colonel?" Cam asked with a decidedly evil grin. "Put him down, Lorne."
"Yes, sir."
"And Parrish needed some help with that harvest thing, right? I'm sure a couple strapping young men like them could help him out, since they don't have anything better to do with their time."
"Sure, why not, sir."
Spencer leaned a little closer and asked, "Does this seem ominous to you?"
"Yep."
The meeting continued for another hour, mostly turning toward the mundane operational details that wouldn't have been out of place at any other base. There were drills, patrol rotations, supply and personnel issues, and all the rest. The big differences were that drills involved live-fire exercises with intars, patrols were conducted in an alien city, and supplies included off-world foodstuffs. There were also the civilians to consider, as they were even more involved than the handful lurking around the SGC.
When the meeting finally broke up, Lorne paused on the way out to say, "Don't forget, you asked to be here."
The mission briefings that they were emailed were surprisingly innocuous, which only made Skipper's well-honed sense of paranoia throw up even more red flags. His attempts at gathering more information were met with stonewalling and amusement on all fronts. His worries that something was up were only further heightened when he came into the ready room and found the senior noncom on his temporary team, Gunnery Sergeant Warrington, stuffing tissues up his nose.
"Gd morn'n, srrr," he said, sounding like he had the sinus congestion from hell.
"Gunny," Skipper replied warily. He had plenty of experience working with Marines, both at the SGC and while on detached duty with Force Recon before that, but this was a new one on his list of Weird Things Jarheads Do. The other two members of their party, Corporals Hendricks and Novotny, did not seem to particularly find it odd. If anything, they looked like they wished they had thought of it first.
Cam was waiting in the gate room, along with a FRED piled high with some simple medicines, stainless steel tools, and other goods that were part of their trade agreement. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
"Ready for your first mission, Captain?" he asked.
"I have been off-world quite a few times, sir," Skipper pointed out.
"Maybe, but I still think this mission will be more memorable than most." Cam gave him a thumbs-up and started walking up the stairs. "Dial it up, Chuck!"
The gate whirred and buzzed in its fancy, digital way, then kawooshed. Warrington began steering the FRED through the wormhole and the rest of them followed him through. There was the now-familiar momentary flash of cold and rush of motion before Skipper found himself on another alien world.
The first thing that hit him was the smell.
No, he was hit by The Smell, because if anything had ever deserved capital letters, this smell did. Skipper had been exposed to numerous strange stenches over the years, from farm animals to unwashed marines to his brother's farts after chili night, but none of them compared to The Smell. At the base was something similar to hog shit, with an overlay of decomposing fruit and the slightest whiff of rotten eggs. It wasn't just the unpleasant stench you might smell while driving past a pig farm, either, but closer to what Skipper expected you'd experience if you stuck your head right into one of the shit ponds and breathed deep. He was extraordinarily glad that he'd eaten a light breakfast, because otherwise he was pretty sure he'd have upchucked right there on the spot.
"You 'kay, srrr?" Warrington asked. Even he looked a little green, and at the rear Novotny was muttering something in Russian.
Skipper nodded and tried breathing through his mouth, which really didn't help much. The weird thing was that it didn't look like Planet Shit. The gate was positioned on a low hill with a gravel road leading away, and on all sides were lush fields with waist-high grain. In the distance were some woods and the town they were supposed to visit.
"I'm peachy, Gunny," Skipper said once he was sure he wouldn't vomit. "What the fuck is that smell?"
"Hnnka m'nrrr, srr. Lk ah chckn-coow," Warrington explained. "Vrrry gud frr plnts."
"Lovely. That's just lovely."
"T's prrfctly saf, srr. Jst sm'ly."
"Right. Whatever. Let's get moving."
The team walked down the road to the town, which was about twenty minutes away at FRED-speed. The Smell didn't let up at all, even in the town's market square, although it didn't get worse either. No one else seemed the least bit perturbed by The Smell as they happily went about their day, talking and shopping and even eating, the mere thought of which made Skipper sick to his stomach. As quick as they could, they handed over their trade goods, got their load of low-grade naquadah and melon-things, and headed back for the gate.
It all went pretty smoothly, until they got stuck on the road because of a herd of chicken-cows being driven into town. A herd of freaky-looking, squawking, crapping, and in general ornery chicken-cows, several of which took exception to the FRED and tried to peck it to death. Skipper, while trying to keep their fresh melon-things safe, got knocked onto his ass right into a fresh patch of chicken-cow shit. That wouldn't have been quite so bad if, upon stepping though the gate, an alarm hadn't sounded and device hadn't popped out of the wall and sprayed him down with some kind of Ancient disinfectant.
"Huh," Chuck said, staring down at him from the balcony along with the rest of the control room staff. "I didn't know it could do that."
"Neither did I," Doctor Weir replied.
"You learn something new every day," Skipper said. "If you'll excuse me, ma'am, I need to go change." He walked off to the locker room, dripping the whole way. He didn't doubt for a second that half the base would know before he even got there, and that there would probably even be pictures.
"It's only fair that the new guys get the shit jobs," Satterfield said over lunch.
"On the bright side," Skipper's traitorous brother added, "I'm fairly certain your reputation is good enough that the guys won't think you're chickenshit even with this little incident."
"And if it's any consolation," Grogan went on, "on my first mission, Jaffa killed my entire team and beat the shit out of me."
They all stared at him for a moment, until Spencer asked, "Are we supposed to be amused or express sympathy?"
"I don't care either way," Grogan said with a shrug. "Doctor MacKenzie used to say dark humor is a method of expressing my inner survivor guilt or some shit like that."
"Just checking."
"Honestly, I got off lucky compared to some people. Just look at Elliot -- his team was killed, he got snaked by a Tok'ra, and then taken out by the Carter Curse." Grogan shrugged again and took a bite of his Fried Lizard Thing sandwich, pausing mid-chew to ask, "What's with death glares?"
They, along with a dozen other people including his uncles, continued to give him shit for the next few days. It only stopped when Spencer gave them a better target by returning from his mission wearing a grass skirt, a crown made of interwoven flowers, an elaborate paint job, and considerably less body hair than he started out with.
"I have paint everywhere," Spencer complained from inside the shower. "It's leaving stains on my skin. I'm going to be multi-color for weeks."
"Good for you," Skipper said, lying on Spencer's couch and working on their plans for creating an intelligence section.
"No, seriously, everywhere," Spencer reiterated. "There's paint on my balls, Skip. On my balls."
"Okay, way too much information there."
The lights in the bathroom turned off for a few seconds. "Did I mention the paint glows in the dark?"
"It's not like anyone's going to see it anyways," Skipper muttered. A two-to-one male-female ratio did not make for lots of dating opportunities, even if suspiciously large portion of the Marines appeared to be gay.
"This is deliberate, you know," Spencer went on. "Uncle Cam damn well knew this would happen to me."
"I kind of guessed that after Planet Chicken-Cow. I don't think I even want to know what this Parrish guy is going to drag us in to."
Parrish was a botanist, from what Skipper had heard. He didn't trust botanists. The first time he had gone off-world with SG-13, they'd arrived at the start of what the locals called Pollen Week. They had managed to get out before they'd gotten a large enough dose to do more than make them high and horny, but Skipper shuddered to think of what might have happened otherwise. Strictly speaking that bit of bad timing was Vala mal Doran's fault, but never the less it had left him firmly convinced that alien plants were evil, and by extension that xenobotanists were mad scientists.
"We need to solve this, fast," Skipper went on. "I don't know what's crawled up his ass, but I can guarantee he's going to keep giving us every unpleasant assignment he can find until we can appease him."
"I suppose we could point out that it's unprofessional and could interfere with our duties," Spencer suggested. Skipper silently rolled his eyes and after a moment Spencer said, "Okay, right, maybe not."
"What we need is an oblique approach. Some way to calm him down without being too obvious about it. We just need to figure out what's up first."
"Ask John?"
"Ask John."
Skipper had a chance to get some time in private with his uncle a few days later. Basic flight training was mandatory for everyone with the gene, which he and his brother had from the therapy, and military personnel had to at least give combat flight training a shot. Cam normally taught that, being the only officially qualified fighter pilot on base, but Skipper was smart enough and humble enough to beg and plead for John to take the time to give him lessons. That left Spencer stuck with Uncle Angry Pants, but hey, he should have gotten to John first.
They spent a few hours going over the most basic rules of aerial combat, during which Skipper learned that you could not, in fact, just do a barrel roll and expect not to die horrible. Afterward on the flight back to Atlantis, the opportunity for some prying came up.
"You mind if I ask you a personal question?" Skipper asked.
"Sure, why not," John replied. "I can always make up an answer if I don't feel like telling the truth."
"Uncle Cam seems a bit... annoyed with us. You know why?"
"Hmm, good question." John leaned back in his chair and adopted a thoughtful expression. "Maybe it has something to do with the way you sneaked into his command without asking permission first?"
"I'd hardly call it sneaking. We just talked with the personnel officer instead of bothering the CO."
"Which is why your emails never mentioned working at the SGC and you bribed Sam to stay quiet." John smirked. "She told us about how convenient it was to have someone to do all the chores, by the way. She even said your earnest determination to get here was adorable."
"We're not adorable," Skipper muttered. "Dashing. Handsome. Admirable. But not adorable." Not that he wouldn't settle for adorable if that was what it took to achieve his ends or get laid, but still, a man had his pride.
"Hey, those were her words, not mine," John said, spreading her hands. "You only have yourselves to blame. If you had just been up front about your intentions, there wouldn't be a problem."
"Because we wouldn't be here."
"Maybe, maybe not. Life can be a bitch like that."
"Any suggestions for how we can get back on his good side?"
"Personally, I'd go for hard work, good behavior, and a lot of ass kissing," John said.
Skipper shook his head. "Hard work I can manage. I'd just prefer to end the smelly work as soon as possible."
John laughed. "I don't blame you. I'd suggest attacking through his stomach, maybe with something simple like Momma's lemon bars or snickerdoodles. Coconut cookies would be a good idea, too."
"Cam doesn't like coconut."
"Yeah, but I do." John smirked. "Consider it a consulting fee."
"Fair enough. What about ingredients?"
"Talk to Doctor Holtzer. She's our dietitian and head chef. Everyone has a small personal allotment, and if we don't have exactly what you need she's brilliant at finding local substitutes. I'm pretty sure she'll do just about anything in exchange for a good recipe."
"I can't just give away family secrets, sir," Skipper said, half-jokingly. There were recipes, and then there were recipes.
"Think of Atlantis as one big, extended family. That can't be too hard. The expedition's smaller than your horde."
"It is not."
"Want to compare the org chart to the latest family tree and see?"
Skipper rolled his eyes. There weren't anywhere near four hundred family members, especially if you only counted people who regularly showed up for at least one holiday a year, deployments permitting. Maybe if you were generous and counted a few extra fourth cousins, in-laws, and temporary strays the number might get close, but only because Raymie brought most of his platoon home once.
"How long do I have to work, sir?"
John hesitated. "Let's just say you better get on his good side again by the time Parrish gets done with you, otherwise chicken-cows will be the least of your worries."
That was more than enough encouragement for Skipper. Luckily, he and Spencer had already been working their wiles on Holtzer and crew as part of their long-standing tradition of staying on the good side of the mess staff, one of the many invaluable tips that they had been given by Uncle George and other experienced members of the family. It had paid off many times before, netting them snacks on good days and food that was, if not great, at least edible on the days that everyone else was eating questionable baloney and oddly-colored cheese. Now it was a matter of life or death.
Atlantis was blessed with good cooks who made sure that their food was good and hearty, even if a little odd at time. There were a handful of professionals like Doctor Holzer who made sure no one got scurvy and supervised the rotating horde of grunts who did most of the actual prep and cooking. They were more than glad to demonstrate how the ovens worked and hand over supplies in exchange for a new potato salad recipe, especially when Spencer smiled at them and said they were making something for Colonel Mitchell. After a little experimentation, they managed to produce several trays of cookies, just in time to deliver them the night before their next mission.
This turned out to be incredibly awful timing.
They showed up at Cam's quarters with a box of still-warm cookies and rang the doorbell. They had already checked his office and other usual hangouts, and it was too early for him to be asleep. There was no answer, though.
"He could be at John's place," Skipper suggested after a minute.
"Could be, yeah," Spencer admitted. He hit the door controls again. "Colonel Mitchell, you in there? It's Spence and Skip!"
There was a quiet noise inside, a muffled shout perhaps, and then a few moments of silence. Skipper had enough time to hope they hadn't woken him up before the door opened.
Cam was there all right, although sleeping probably wasn't what he had been doing. He was clad only in boxer-briefs and dogtags, his hair was mussed, and he was a bit sweaty. He also had a wild look in his eyes.
"This had better be important," Cam growled, making his irritation at the interruption perfectly clear.
"I, uh, well," Skipper said, at a loss for words.
"Sorry to bother you, sir," Spencer said smoothly. "We just brought some cookies."
He shoved the box at Cam, who stared at it incredulously and repeated, "Cookies?"
Suddenly there was laughter from past the divider separating the sleeping area from the rest of the suite. First it was just John's distinctive hyena-like cackle, but as if that wasn't bad enough, someone else joined it. It sounded like it might be Lorne, but that couldn't be right, because Skipper knew for a fact that Lorne was with someone. Although that might actually explain why it sounded like there was yet another person saying something.
God, Skipper did not need to know any of this.
"I think we'll be leaving now, sir," Skipper said.
"You do that," Cam said firmly, before snagging the cookie box and closing the door.
Spencer's expression was a mix of horror and shock, no doubt a mirror for Skipper's own. They staid silent until they reached their level and got safely inside Skipper's quarters. Spencer sat down on the couch while Skipper searched for a bottle of bootleg booze to numb their pain.
"You know," Spencer said, "when people said that gate travel could shake the foundations of your world, I didn't think they meant it quite like that."
"Yeah." Skipper took a long drink. "Okay, it's not that bad, is it? I mean, we've seen them come stumbling half-naked from their bedroom at home before."
"True." Spencer could never leave well enough alone, though, so of course he started to say, "But it sounded like --"
"I know."
"I'm pretty sure we're not even allowed in the doghouse anymore."
"Yeah." Skipper thought about it some more. "I wonder if there's a brain-erasing machine around."
"For us or them?"
No brain-erasing machine turned up, although a few more shots of moonshine helped a little. In the end they decided to pretend that nothing had happened and hope that they never had reason to think of the incident again. With any luck, anyone else involved would do the same. That plan seemed to get off to a good start in the morning with their pre-mission briefing.
"Morning, guys," Lorne said as they entered his office, breaking off from a conversation with the scientist sitting on the other side of his desk. He was smiling, but it seemed to be his normal smile, not his "I'm an evil bastard under this friendly face" smile.
"Good morning, sir."
"Morning, Major."
"This is Doctor David Parrish," Lorne said. "He's the geek you're going to be escorting the next week or so."
Parrish waved. "Hello."
"By escorting, of course, I mean being lab assistants, plant-handlers, pack animals, and whatever other help he might need," Lorne went on. "I'm sure you know the drill."
"Do the grunt work while making sure no one snatches the doc," Skipper said. "Not our usual jobs, but I think we can manage it."
"Exactly. Seledon's as safe a planet as you get, really, so it's mostly just the science you'll be doing. We made contact with them almost three years ago and they've been one of our best trade partners since. That's another reason you're going. They get a fair amount of traffic, so they should be a good place to start making some contacts."
"Oh, so this isn't just another punishment detail," Skipper replied. "We'll keep that in mind."
"Punishment?" Parrish said with a confused look. "I hardly see how spending a few days in the outdoors while studying some absolutely fascinating tomato variants could be considered a punishment."
"Oh, I'm sure it'll be thrilling," Spencer lied, "but we were just extrapolating from our experiences so far."
"I'm sure it'll be different this time," Parrish said. "Like I said, the tomatoes are gorgeous. And the peppers, well, they have some truly astounding features. Not only do they grow significantly larger, but they're much hardier, too. Do you like peppers? I hope you do, because the Seledonians are very fond of cooking with them. They've got pepper stews, pepper kabobs, pepper bread, pepper juice, pepper-glazed peppers --"
As Parrish paused to take a breath, Skipper eyed Lorne, who seemed to be hiding a smile. "He's full of shit, isn't he?"
"Maybe," Parrish said, "but at least I'm not covered in it."
Spencer laughed and said, "I think we're going to get along just fine, doc."
"Leaving peppers and entirely baseless accusations of punishments aside," Lorne said, "the standard twice-daily check-in procedures will apply. It's friendly territory, but the Wraith could still show up. There's some kind of festival thing in a few days and my team has been invited, so we'll stop by then and see whether you've managed to destroy our diplomatic relations or get eaten by a mutant tomato in that time."
Parrish gave Lorne an amused look, then said, "If we do encounter a mutant tomato, captains, I'd appreciate it if you'd try not to kill it, or worse, set it ablaze."
"Hey, I'm not the one who started that forest fire," Lorne protested. "And those ents had it coming."
"Ents?" Skipper said.
Lorne shook his head. "Never mind. Do you have any questions?"
"Is there anything special we should know about, sir?" Spencer asked. "You know. Weird customs. Strange animal byproducts. That sort of thing."
"Not that I can think of," Lorne said. "This planet's about as normal as they get. Just do what Parrish tells you and trust your instincts and you'll be fine."
"That's good to hear, sir," Skipper said. He wasn't sure he believed a word of it, but he couldn't really accuse the major of being a lying liar who lied.
"Great. You depart in an hour."
"Well," Parrish started.
"An hour," Lorne repeated firmly. "Katie can take care of watering the cactus-thing without your help."
Parrish sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, fine. An hour."
"I'm glad we agree. If there's nothing else, you guys can go ahead and get ready."
Nothing else came up, so they broke up and went their separate ways. Skipper made sure to pack a few more changes of clothing than he probably needed, just in case. It wasn't that he was paranoid or anything, just that unspecified botanical work could potentially be messy, what with there being dirt and juice and pollen, hopefully of the non-psychoactive variety.
Seledon was a nice enough place when they reached it. The sun was bright, the temperature just right, birds were signing in a cheerful, non-homicidal way, and there was an orchard not far from the gate that filled the air with a pleasant citrus smell. There was a town a short distance away, one of the odd, modern-medieval places so common in Pegasus, where they used stone and wood buildings but had separate sewer and drinking water systems because they knew germ theory. Perhaps the most striking feature was the decent-sized mountain a few miles past the town itself, which had a time-worn crater halfway up the side.
"That's not a volcano, is it, doc?" Skipper asked as they walked toward town.
"No, it's just a mountain," Parrish replied. "According to the database, the Wraith nuked an Ancient outpost that was there."
"Oh, okay." No exploding mountains, then.
"When you say 'nuked'," Spencer asked, "that doesn't mean that it's still radioactive and that's why all the plants are so great, does it?"
"No, they're just the result of a good breeding program. Besides, it's been ten thousand years. The radiation would have died off a long time ago."
"Regular radiation, maybe, but Ancient gizmo radiation? I wouldn't be so sure."
Parrish considered that for a moment, then nodded. "You may have a point there, but in this case, there's no radiation. Take a left here."
They turned off the main road onto a gravel path, which led to a small temple or shrine of some sort. Skipper had gotten good at identifying religious buildings after a bunch of insane maniacs had tied him up to an altar and tried to sacrifice him to their gods. It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been all because of a huge misunderstanding over whether he was a virgin or not.
A small, wrinkled old woman came out of the temple. She would have fit right in on the streets of Seoul or Pyeontaek if it weren't for her bright green eyes and the traces of red remaining in her gray hair.
"Welcome, David!" she called out with a wave.
"Hello, Shala-Ti!" Parrish said, waving back. "It's good to see you again."
"And you as well."
"Shala-Ti, these are Captain Spencer Griffith and Captain Skipper Griffith," Parrish went on. "Captains, this is Shala-Ti, the town's head witch-woman. She's graciously agreed to put us up while we're here."
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am."
"Thanks for the hospitality."
"It's no trouble at all, my dears." Shala-ti peered more closely at them. "Brothers, are you? No -- twins! Your mother was blessed."
"We like to think so," Spencer said. "She might disagree, though."
Shala-Ti laughed. "Perhaps, perhaps."
"Oh, before I forget, I've got a gift for you," Parrish said. He half-unshouldered his backpack and dug into it, producing a clear plastic container. He handed it over to Shala-Ti. "I happened to luck into getting some of these last night and thought you might like them."
Skipper did his best to ignore the fact that the cookies inside the container looked suspiciously like the peanut butter cookies he had baked the day before. Spencer, for his part, looked like he had suddenly acquired an unnatural interest in the birds chirping in a nearby tree.
"Thank you, David. I'm sure they're delightful," Shala-Ti replied. "Please, come in and let me show you your rooms."
She lead them around the shrine to a separate building behind it. As accommodations went, it was actually pretty nice. Skipper had to share a room with his brother, but that was normal enough and they had separate beds. More importantly, they had lice-free beds. There was even a bath house with running water and something almost like a toilet. It was practically Club Med.
They got to work immediately, starting with a whirlwind tour of the many fields, gardens, and orchards surrounding the town. The botanists of Atlantis had small plots scattered here and there, and there were even more sites where they were working with local farmers on projects. They mostly involved importing Earth crops or examining local plants that might be useful to send the other direction. The reasons for the exchanges varied but they mostly involved plants that were hardy, resistant to bugs or disease, grew quickly, or were just good eating. That was the gist of it, at least; Parrish's explanations about genes and exuded oils and cancer-curing goodness or whatever went sailing right over Skipper's head. That was fine, because all he really needed to know was that none of it was going to make him high, horny, or dissolve his skin or clothes.
The next few days passed quickly. They spent them mostly following Parrish around, hauling sample containers and baskets full of plant parts, digging around in the dirt, climbing trees, and generally playing botanical sidekicks. It wasn't especially hard or exhausting work and Parrish did his fair share, unlike some of the other scientists who had graced the halls of the SGC. The three of them labored from dawn to dusk, ate meals that were hardy and tasty, exchanged stories about the many perils of gate travel, made friends with the locals, and in general had a pretty good time.
The mission was, in short, going entirely too well.
No one tried to steal Parrish. The Wraith did not attack. They spent some time in the local tavern meeting other travelers and making some possibly useful contacts, but no bar fights started nor were there any mysterious strangers lurking in a dark corner. Pollen did not try to make them do it. The worst that happened was Spencer almost falling off the shrine's roof while helping put some new shingles on it and scraping his elbow a little. The wound was neither grievous nor did it become infected.
By the morning Lorne and his team arrived, Skipper was almost starting to believe that everything would go perfectly. That was a mistake.
"Ah, Evan, how good to see you!" Shala-Ti said as the team arrived. "And of course you too, Sam, Neill." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Dean."
There was a chorus hellos and ma'ams, one notably slower than the rest. Lorne had an oddball bunch for a team, composed of the major and three civilians who were some vague but decidedly non-sciency type of specialists. They had briefly been an SG team back at Stargate Command, but honestly Skipper wasn't sure what to believe about them. There was no way that they could have gotten up to the kind of hijinks they were rumored to have in such a brief period of time.
"Come along, I have prepared brunch for you all, so that you will not be hungry during the harvest," Shala-Ti continued. "I hope you enjoy it, although if you wish to eat something you have brought with you, that is fine too." That last was aimed at one of Lorne's team, a cocky-looking man of about Skipper's age who he guessed was 'Dean'.
"We'll all be fine with whatever you have," Lorne said, also sending a brief glare at that teammate. Said teammate gave him a grumpy look in response.
"Good, good. Come along, then."
"What's up with the attitude?" Spencer asked Dean.
"She's a witch," Dean replied, as if that explained everything.
"Uh... okay," Spencer said.
"Dean has issues with witches," the tall, shaggy-haired one said.
"Completely legit 'issues'," Dean snapped. "They're all evil bitches."
"You know, maybe if you didn't spend all your time insulting them, they wouldn't feel the need to curse you." Shaggy shook his head and told the rest of them, "He's never recovered from when he spontaneously grew a pair of breasts and had to beg the witch responsible to get rid of them."
"What, really?" the fourth member of Lorne's team said. "Tell us more, Sam. I think we need to know everything so we can be prepared."
"Yeah, how about not," Dean growled.
"I think Neill has a point," Sam said. "If Shala-Ti is evil, they need to know what she might do."
"Shut your pie hole, Sam, or I'll shut it for you."
"Uh huh, sure. So Dean was eighteen at the time, although that's not what his fake ID said, and he was out at a bar looking for 'hot chicks' -- hey, get off!"
"Gentlemen, no roughhousing in public, please," Lorne said with a long-suffering sigh. He looked at Skipper and Spencer. "Never let it be said that you two are the worst-behaved brothers to grace the city. You could blow up the control tower and still be better than these hooligans."
"Thanks," Spencer said. "I think."
"I'm still stuck on the witches thing," Skipper said. "It's just a title, an odd way of saying priestess."
Neill snorted. "I wouldn't count on it. My life has reached entirely new levels of insane since I met these guys."
Brunch was uneventful. After they finished eating, they were taken out to what was apparently a sacred apple-orange grove to take part in the ritual picking of the holy apple-oranges. It didn't seem like a particularly sacred place, but then, they rarely did until someone tried to shove a spear up your ass for trespassing. The activity was surprisingly innocuous for an alien ritual. All they had to do was climb up some trees, pick any ripe apple-oranges, and put them in a basket so that they could later be used to make holy apple-orange juice and apple-orange cake and no doubt many other types of apple-orange delights. It wasn't even a particularly special ritual; apparently there were several other groves of holy peppers, cabbages, and other plants that also got ritually harvest on a regular basis. It was exactly how Skipper liked his rituals: simple, harmless, and ending in food that wasn't long-pig.
In the early evening, they returned to the shrine bearing overflowing baskets of fruit. After putting it all away, they went out front and found Shala-Ti sitting in the shade of a tree and drinking tea with John. He was laughing and smiling about something and his smile grew wider when he spotted them coming, never a good sign in Skipper's admittedly biased opinion.
"I see you decided to join us after all, sir," Lorne said.
"We got back from 623 early," John replied. "Funny thing -- apparently blue eyes are a sign of demonic possession."
"You sure that wasn't just an excuse to shut McKay up?" Neill asked.
"We didn't stick around to find out," John said. "I figured I'd swing by, since I was invited."
"I am glad you came, Colonel," Shala-Ti said. "Boys, you should have told me you were cousins!"
"I can't imagine how we forgot to mention it," Spencer said dryly.
"I've been filling her in on some of the more color moments of your childhood," John said, instantly earning himself a demotion from Skipper's Second-Best Uncle to somewhere down in the low thirties.
"He has said many fine things of you both," Shala-Ti confirmed. "Another thing -- if I had known the date of your birth was so close, I would have prepared an appropriate celebration."
"We were here for my birthday and we didn't celebrate," Dean muttered softly. He wasn't quiet enough to escape the notice of the sharp-eared witch.
"Are you and your brother twins?" she asked sharply.
"Well, no, but --"
"There you are, then."
"You know, I can't even remember the last time you cared about your birthday," Sam said. "When you were sixteen and got your license, maybe?"
"Shut it," Dean said.
"Although perhaps some reward for you all is appropriate as well," Shala-Ti said, "even if one of you might not be deserving. What do you think the major and his companions deserve, John?"
"Lorne? A vacation," John answered with a chuckle. "It won't happen, though. The entire city would collapse without him."
"A vacation... yes, that would do," Shala-Ti said thoughtfully. "I'm sure you can spare them for few days."
Lorne started to say something, but before he could Shala-Ti climbed to her feet, raised her arms, and started to chant something in Ancient. Skipper's skin started to tingle, there was a flash, and suddenly he was about three feet shorter. Also, he had four legs.
"Oh, shit," John said. "Oh, shit. Cam is going to kill me."
Skipper would guess that John's face was pale, although he wasn't quite sure because color seemed to be working strange. He could smell that John was worried quite clearly, which was certainly a new experience.
A growling noise drew Skipper's attention to the fact that his brother, Lorne's team, and Parrish were all looking about as dog-like as Skipper felt. Lorne -- or at least Skipper thought the oversized German Shepherd was Lorne -- was the one making the noise. He wasn't aiming his ire at Shala-Ti, oddly enough, but rather at John.
"Okay, hah hah, very amusing," John said weakly. "How about you change them back now?"
"Nonsense," Shala-Ti replied. "You said your self they need a vacation. I have given them a brief respite from the troubles of human life. They'll change back soon enough."
"But... I... um." John scratched his head, probably trying to remember if there was any kind of procedure for this kind of situation. He also seemed a bit concerned that Lorne might take a chunk of out him. "I think I might need to take them home instead of staying for the festival thing."
"Of course. If they don't revert by next week, bring them back."
"I'll do that." John looked down at them. "So, uh. Heel?"
Lorne barked sharply at him, turned about, and pointedly trotted off in the direction of the gate. Skipper followed along, as did the rest of them. It was a bit hard to stay focused, because there were so many interesting sights, smells, and sounds all around them, but Skipper had a vague idea that going off to investigate any of them would result in Lorne kicking his ass.
They safely passed through the gate and were lead straight to the infirmary, where they encountered their first problem.
"What do you think you're doing, Colonel?" Doctor Keller said as soon as she saw them. "You can't bring those into here!"
"Yeah, about that," John said, shifting from foot to foot. "This is actually Lorne and his team."
"It is," Keller repeated flatly.
"Yep."
"I... see." She seemed a bit stumped. "Well, I guess I can scan them or something, but I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian."
Over the next hour, various and sundry tests were run on all seven of them, which revealed several things. First, while the rest of their clothes had vanished, they still had their dog tags. Apparently witches enjoyed little jokes like that. Second, according to Keller they all seemed to have mostly-normal human brainwaves inside their doggy heads, which more or less matched those from everyone's last physicals. Third, they could all understand both spoken and written English perfectly well, and indeed were perfectly conscious. Skipper could have told them that, but, well, he had neither a mouth nor fingers to do so with.
An actual veterinarian was called in to examine them as well. Doctor Arasaratnam, who seemed entirely too amused by the situation for Skipper's taste, pronounced them all perfectly healthy, although considerably larger than they should have been if they were normal dogs. None of them had lost any weight because of the transformation. Further, they were all recognizable breeds. Skipper and Spencer were two identical black Labs. Lorne was indeed a German Sheppard, while Parrish was a Golden Retriever. Sam was an enormous, shaggy Newfoundland, Dean was a Blackmouth Cur, and Neill was a Doberman. No doubt that all said something psychological that Skipper really couldn't be bothered to think about.
"So, what should I do with them?" John asked.
"Don't look at me," Keller said. "Although if I were you, I would start thinking about what I was going to tell Doctor Weir and Colonel Mitchell when they got back."
"Don't remind me." John looked down at them. Skipper looked back and idly scratched behind his ear with his back leg, which was kind of cool. "Anyone up for a game of fetch?"
Lorne made a disgruntled noise and stalked off, with Parrish at his side and the rest of his team scampering along behind.
"Yeah, somehow I thought not," John said with a sigh. "Well, come on, guys."
Spencer looked at Skipper, who tried to shrug, found that he couldn't, and barked instead. It wasn't like they had anything better to do with their time.
They ended up out on one of the piers. John would throw a baseball, which they would scramble after, fight over, and then return. Then John would throw the ball again, and they would run and get it, and he'd throw it again, only in a different direction this time, or he'd try to fake them out, and they'd run and Skipper would usually get there first because he was the man and the entire game was incredibly awesome.
Vaguely, Skipper got the idea that there was probably a reason why Keller had said their brainwaves were only mostly human, but he really couldn't give a shit. He also didn't mind when they started to gather a crowd of marines and other hangers-on, because as far as he was concerned the more the merrier. The marines seemed to be equally thrilled to have dogs around, especially when the rest of them showed up, apparently having gotten bored with sulking. They played through most of the evening, stopping briefly for supper of raw beef and organs from various animals. Luckily for everyone, the issue of other bodily functions was solved when they discovered that the Ancient toilets could be lowered all the way to the floor and that their ATA genes still worked.
Skipper was quite thoroughly exhausted by the time they ended up in John's quarter, all curled together on a pile of blankets while John watched a movie. At some point he drifted off to sleep, only to wake up when the door opened and someone came in.
"There's totally a reasonable explanation for this," John said.
"You know," Cam replied, walking over and carefully avoiding the various tails and other extremities in his way. "When Chuck told me what happened, I said to myself, 'No, that can't be right. Even John couldn't do something like this.' And yet here we are."
"It's not my fault," John protested. "I just said they could use a vacation. How was I supposed to know the witch really did have magic powers?"
"I suppose we've volunteered to take care of them."
"Well, two of them are relatives, and someone has to keep an eye on them in case something goes wrong."
"Huh." Cam grimaced, sat down on the bed, and started stripping down to his underwear. "It's just that we were supposed to have some time together. Maybe we could herd them into the other half of the suite for a while?"
"I should probably mention that they can understand you, and Lorne keeps looking like he wants to bite me."
"Right, so that's out, then."
The rest of the night was pleasantly uneventful. In the morning Skipper got up and followed John around on his morning run, because running turned out to be sweet when you were a dog. Next came a brief meeting with Doctor Weir, who seemed torn between annoyance at the fact that her office was full of dogs and a desire to go 'awww, how cute'. Given that they didn't seem to be in any danger, she decided that for now they would wait and see if they returned to normal by themselves. Teyla suggested that perhaps it might be a good idea for them to spend some time outdoors instead of confined to the city, and asked if they wanted to come with her to visit her people on New Athos.
While Atlantis was cool, New Athos was the coolest place ever. There were trees all over and kids to play with, although really when you got right down to it marines were just oversized children. There was a great deal of running about through the forests and chasing after balls and sticks. Vaguely Skipper had the idea that maybe he should be concerned by the fact that John and Cam were carrying cameras, but every time he started to think about that sort of thing he inevitably ended being distracted by one of the other transformees or a kid or squirrelsquirrelsquirrel.
Being a dog was awesome.
Really, it would be pretty easy to sum up the next week as playing, eating, and sleeping. Even though they were intelligent, or at least as intelligent as they ever got -- it was rather questionable in Spencer's case -- it was really hard to care about anything else because of how much fun they were having. It seemed to Skipper like everyone else in the expedition was cheered up, too, although maybe he was just looking at the place through rose-tinted glasses. Maybe he would suggest getting some dogs permanently assigned to the base. They'd be useful.
Skipper did retain enough of his normal priorities to recognize what a golden opportunity he had on his hands. Almost everyone loved cute doggies, McKay being a notably and vocal exception. More importantly, most of the women loved cute doggies. Even if he was in completely the wrong shape to take advantage of it at the moment, he was positive there was some way he could make sure it carried over once he was himself again. If nothing else, he could get away with a lot while he was still adorable.
That was how he managed to finagle his way into Ladies' Game Night. Under normal circumstances his presence would have been strictly verbotten, but with a little whining and liberal application puppy-dog eyes, he soon found himself laying next to Cadman's chair and being fed snacks.
"I think we should just kill them all," Doctor Weir was saying to a group sitting around that table. "We'll probably have to do it anyways, so let's just get it over with and attack before they realize what's going on."
Teyla nodded. "I must say, that option does sound agreeable. It could even result in us getting more than we originally desired."
"I don't know, guys," Cadman said. As she did, she idly reached down and scritched Skipper behind the ears. It felt awesome. "That could be pretty dangerous. Have you thought about some kind of mind control instead?"
"That... could actually work out even better," Weir said after thinking for a moment. "Can we do that?"
"Let me see," Mehra said, checking something on her tablet computer. "No, we'd have to wait until tomorrow if we wanted to be sure about it."
"Oh, well, never mind then," Cadman said. "How about this: we ask nicely one last time, and then slaughter them if they don't give in?"
"That seems very reasonable," Teyla replied. The others nodded in agreement.
"Okay, so we go back into the the main chamber," Cadman told Doctor Porter. "I step forward a little, and say, "Are you sure there's no way that you can lend us the artifact? We're more than willing to offer a generous payment.""
"Mmm-hmm." There was a clatter of dice, then Porter said, "Actually, no. That's what you try to say, but it comes out, "We'll pay a pittance, and if you don't take it we'll kill you and take all your stuff.""
"Wait, what?"
Porter grinned evily. "Nothing like a zone of truth to ruin your day. The dragon rears up and shouts, "Kill them all!" to its minions. Roll for initiative."
Skipper wasn't sure what he had expected to find, but it really wasn't this. He was obviously going to have to bite the bullet and let Spencer show him what these RPG things were.
The impromptu vacation came to an end on the morning of June 18th. One moment they were sleeping in a pile at the foot of Cam's bed; the next, they were were awake, still in a pile, and naked except for their tags.
"Bwah?" Lorne said groggily.
"Well, this is different," Parrish said. At about that point, reality set in, and there was a mad scramble for control of the blankets they had been laying on.
"Fuck, that hurt!" Skipper shouted as he got an elbow to the eye. He gave Neill a quick kick in revenge.
"What the hell is going on?" Cam said, sitting up in bed even as the covers were snatched away. "Oh. Couldn't you have waited until a reasonable hour?"
"You know," Lorne said from the other side of the room, where he was opening up one of the dresser drawers built into the wall, "it's times like this that remind me why I keep emergency pants stashed in all of our quarters."
"I have to admit, it seems a lot more rational now," Parrish said as he accepted a pair of boxers and slipped them on.
"Okay, can I just say that I could do without all these references to your big gay orgies or whatever the fuck is up with you people?" Spencer snapped, belatedly adding, "Sirs."
"Don't blame us," Cam replied. "Maybe you should have called ahead."
"We were dropping off a gift. You didn't have to answer the door."
"I'm sure this could turn into a fascinating family moment," Neill said sharply, "but can it wait until we get some clothes?"
That was the end of that particular conversation.
In short order clothes were delivered courtesy of several amused marines. The obligatory medical examine followed and they were pronounced to be in as close to perfect health as they ever were. Debriefing came next, although there wasn't much to say: they had done their jobs and despite the furry interlude the mission had been a smashing success, with botany getting all its samples and relations with Seledon better than ever. Eventually they were released to go about their business, which the senior officers apparently interpreted as an opportunity to harass them some more.
"Are you sure they're back to normal?" John said, falling in step beside Cam as he and the twins left the control room. "These two still look like dogs."
"That's how they always look," Cam replied.
"Oh, right."
Skipper rolled his eyes. "Very amusing, sir."
"I take it this means the hazing is going to continue?" Spencer asked.
"Hazing? What hazing?" John said. "Hazing is strictly forbidden by order of Doctor Weir."
"Of course, sir."
"Do you think they've suffered enough yet, Colonel?" John said to Cam.
"I don't know, Colonel," Cam said, scratching his chin. "Normally I'd say that shape-changing is enough to wipe out a lot of bad karma, but they seemed to enjoy too much."
"They did bake us cookies."
"They did," Cam acknowledged. "I suppose that counts for something, even if they did interrupt."
"You answered the door."
"That's what they said. I suppose since Lorne didn't mind, we can ignore it. He was the one tied up, after all." Spencer groaned and Cam shot him a grin. "By the way, about once a week or so we screw around with Lorne and Parrish, disasters permitting. Sometimes there's bondage involved. Just in case you were wondering."
"We really, really weren't, sir," Skipper assured him. "Really."
They passed through a transporter and emerged in the headquarters building. Say whatever you wanted about the quality of the base leadership, the accommodations were spectacular. Even Skipper had an office that a four-star general would kill for. They stopped outside the door of Cam's office.
"So what to you think?" Cam asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "Do we let them get on with their normal work?"
"We probably should," John said. "Teyla's going to get annoyed if she can't take them out for the meet and greets she has planned because they smell like shit all the time."
Cam chuckled. "Fair enough. Well, guys, you're a week behind schedule and there's a pile briefings sitting on your desks. You should get cracking before Teyla kicks your asses."
Skipper grinned, because he didn't have the slightest problem with either piles of work, so long as it was meaningful, or getting his ass kicked by someone like Teyla, who at least wasn't ugly like the average marine and was unlikely see him as a surrogate punching bag like Teal'c had seemed to. "Thank you, sir. We'll get right on that."
"Have fun." Cam and John walked into the office together, but after a moment Cam stuck his head back out. "Oh, and by the way. I emailed Ash and Sam all those photos we took. Happy birthday."
The door hissed shut, cutting off the sound of laughter. Skipper stood there, doing his best to melt holes in the door with the power of his glare alone, torn between the desire for righteous vengeance and his oath of good behavior. In the end he did what he always did when completely flummoxed: he turned to Spencer for instructions.
After moment, Spencer said, "Of course you know, this means war."