FIC: Make the Pie Higher [R] McShep, Sheppard/Mara (1/2)
Title: Make the Pie Higher or How to Build a Nation Using Only 2 Alien Warriors, 1 Genetically Superior Flyboy, 1 Mad Scientist, and a Single 10,000-year-old Flying City
Rating: R
Warnings: AU (different ending of ‘The Tower’), hetsex
Pairings: McShep, Sheppard/Mara
Spoilers: The Tower
Disclaimer: Don’t own it, don’t make money.
Wordcount: ~10,700
A/N: This reality diverges from ‘The Tower’ sometime before Beckett gets there. John’s a little more gay that cannon could possibly support, but oh well.
Summary: What if they really had made John king? AU tag to ‘The Tower.’
MAKE THE PIE HIGHER
or How to Build a Nation Using Only 2 Alien Warriors, 1 Genetically Superior Flyboy, 1 Mad Scientist, and a Single 10,000-year-old Flying City
John’s First Proclamation as King of Planet X is as follows:
The old ways have been abolished. Planet X shall henceforth be a democracy. Elections will be organized in several weeks time.
He has it posted in the center of every village in his new domain. Nobody has yet informed him that even if the villagers could read, they wouldn’t know the meaning of the word ‘democracy’ let alone ‘elections.’
John Sheppard gets to be king of Planet X, thousands of light-years away from home like this:
“I would prefer it if you were to stay,” the Lord Protector says, looking fat and hostile sitting back in the control chair like that.
“Well, I’d prefer it if I left,” John replies, not bothering to keep the snide out of his voice.
“Please, John, you must stay. We can be married and you will make such a wonderful ruler. And our children . . .” Mara says, looking so very earnest. She’s a nice girl and he doesn’t like disappointing her, but he really really can’t stay with these crazy people and party like it’s 1399.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I mean, it’s not you; it’s me. I have obligations . . . duties. My own people depend on me and I need to get back to them right now.”
He tries to give her a charming smile, even as he’s activating his radio. “Rodney, Ronon, Teyla, get back to the Gate, we’re going home.”
“We’re already there,” Ronon says. Of course they are.
“Are you all right, Colonel?” Teyla asks, sensing the tension in his voice.
“I’m fine. Radio Weir, tell her we’ll be in early.” This way, if they try to stop him, the rescue team’ll come in quick.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow you to do that, Lieutenant Colonel,” The Lord Protector says. The chair reclines and John sees an image of the Gate, three figures stand there, two looking alert and the other impatient.
“No . . . don’t!” John shouts, thinking that he’s about to see another drone blast where his team is standing, but instead, the Gate deactivates.
“Huh,” he says.
John can’t hear anything, but he sees Ronon ask something and Rodney snap something agitated back. He tries to dial again. Nothing happens. Shit.
“You . . .” John yells, pushing his way past the alert but still non-threatening guards beside him to get closer to the Lord Protector. “I thought I was a guest here.”
The Lord Protector nods. “You were . . . until . . .” he gasps a deep gurgling breath and the chamberlain races forward to attend to him.
John can just make out Rodney looking frustrated and angry on the monitor before it flickers out. Double shit. He can’t see through the commotion happening in the throne chair, the guards suddenly body-checking him.
“The Lord Protector is dead,” the chamberlain says at the same time John’s radio crackles to life.
“He deactivated the Gate!” Rodney squawks.
John has just enough time to wonder why this always happens to him before he’s shepherded off to a very plush velvety holding cell.
Mara comes to visit him that night, and thankfully, he’s able to catch the shoulders of her robe before she can slip it off again. Velvet pillows or no, he’s not really in the mood for this, what with the whole prison bars and deactivated Gate thing.
“What happened?” he asks her as she sits despondently on the bed beside him.
“His heart finally gave out,” she sighs, leaning against him and not trying to protect her very perky breasts in the slightest.
“I’m sorry,” John says, putting an arm around her. It was her father after all, even if he was kind of an evil tyrant. He wants to ask about the Gate, but he knows that’s just not decent.
“If I am not married, succession will go to Tavius. He will mistreat the villagers and abuse his power. If you cannot find a way to escape through the Stargate, he will most certainly have you killed.”
John nods. What he really needs to do is to find out whether or not McKay got the Gate working. Getting killed in a struggle for succession is high on his list of things not to do in the Pegasus Galaxy. “I’ll think about it.”
She looks at him, eyes liquid and wide, almost reminding him of one of those Japanese animations. “You must have your decision by morning.”
Then she leans down to kiss him. It’s sweet, more an invitation than anything else. As she rises he stops her. “Mara?”
“Yes?” She sounds far too hopeful for a girl whose father has just died - bouncy.
“Is there any way for me to talk with my people?”
She nods, opening one of the intricate folds of her robe and handing him his radio. Huh. Well, that’s one good thing in there.
“Hey, guys, you there?”
“Colonel? Thank god. Are you okay?” Rodney’s voice comes over loud and clear.
“Yeah, yeah. They’ve got me holed up in the tower. You guys?”
“Back in the village. Any chance you can get the Lord Protector to unlock the Gate sometime in the near future? Cardboard stew doesn’t really do the body good, eh?” Rodney sighs, exasperatedly. John thinks he can hear his stomach grumble even over the headset.
“Um . . . that’s going to be a little hard, Rodney.”
“What’d you do now? Deflower his only daughter?”
He shoots Mara an apologetic look and a shrug. She takes the hint and heads out.
“No, actually . . . he’s dead. Is there any way you can get the Gate to work from your end?”
“If I could have, I would have, Colonel.” Oh yeah, this is why he doesn’t like to let Rodney go unfed - he’s pissy on an empty stomach. “He did it from the Chair and the only way to undo it is from the Chair. And seeing as how you’re the only one of us living in the lap of luxury up in the Penthouse, it’s going to have to be you.”
“I’m in a prison cell, Rodney.”
“Oh . . . well, maybe I should have called for those reinforcements after all. I didn’t want to risk stranding anyone else here before the Gate’s fixed, but I don’t think Teyla and Ronon and I really stand a chance against . . .”
“It’s okay, Rodney. The only immediate danger I seem to be in is getting married against my will.”
“Married?”
“Mara, the Lord Protectors daughter, says succession won’t go to her unless she marries.”
“Okay, first, can fictional characters have reincarnated lives? Because, seriously, this whole Captain Kirk thing is really starting to get old. Secondly, what are you waiting for?” This is about the last thing John’s expecting from Rodney, considering how he’s actually just skipped right over the jealous little tantrums and gone straight to . . . pimp?
“Rodney . . .”
“You marry her, sit in the throne chair, unlock the Gate, make a couple of laws about feeding the townsfolk and not . . . being fascist, and we get out of here. It beats climbing the castle wall using Ronon’s hair.”
“But . . .” John’s not entirely sure, ‘but, I don’t wanna get married,’ is an adequate excuse.
“Please, it’s not like it really means anything anyway.” Rodney huffs and hangs up on him.
The wedding ceremony and the coronation sort of blend into one. Ronon and Rodney eat their weight in local foodstuffs, Teyla gets hit on by disgusting noblemen, but pastes on a pained but diplomatic smile anyhow. John plays the one idiot that doesn’t know the ceremonial dance, lights up the chair once, and is forced to drink far too much. He also kisses his new wife and makes a proclamation.
By sundown, he’s drunk as a skunk, and also . . . king.
By the third day of John’s rule, the villagers have come to a consensus that democracy is either:
a) Rule by demon
b) Anarchy
c) Part of an intergalactic empire
d) All of the above
They are not particularly happy.
John’s wedding night goes down like this:
“Colonel? What exactly are you doing here?”
Rodney looks sleep-mused and comfortable, sitting up from a sprawl of plush pillows and silky blankets.
John slides down the door, looking both ways. He’s wary of something standing oafishly in the corner. But after a while he realizes that it’s just a statue. Oh right . . . still a little drunk.
“Um . . .” Rodney says. It’s kind of cute.
“I’m hiding.” John tries to struggle to his feet but fails spectacularly. Thank god the floors here are soft.
Rodney stands up, and walks over to help him. “Hiding from what?” he whispers.
“Her.”
“Oh, that makes it so much clearer. Who, exactly?”
“Mara.” John sniffles a little, leaning his head against Rodney’s shoulder as he’s manhandled over towards the bed. Rodney smells good.
“Your wife?”
“Yeah.”
“And why are you hiding from a gorgeous blonde with a nice smile and an a similarly inbred genetic lineage on the night that you’re supposed to consummate your marriage with said gorgeous and in all likelihood flexible space bimbo?”
Well, when he puts it that way, it does sound rather idiotic.
“It’s not a real marriage.”
“And since when has that ever stopped you from wallowing in alien pussy? Chaya wasn’t even a real human and you still slept with her.” Is Rodney never going to let that go?
“Wasn’t like that.” John waves Rodney away drunkenly, though he’s finally beginning to sober up. “It wasn’t real sex, either.”
“Okay, so non-human sex with non-humans who are possibly only trying to manipulate you is okay, but real sex with real women who you’re actually married to is not?”
“No.”
“If you’re trying to be noble and make me think that you’re not an inter-galactic space-slut by being here, you’ve succeeded. Now, please, go get laid. Then at least one of us will be.”
Rodney is kind of sexy when he’s frustrated - brings color to his cheeks.
“Can’t.”
“Why not? She married you for your genes. I don’t think she expects you to profess your undying love afterwards. But then again, knowing women . . .”
“Because she’s um . . . she’s missing some of the crucial parts.” So maybe he’s still a little to the left of sober, because there’s no way that he’d admit that to Rodney under ordinary circumstances.
Rodney’s mouth drops open. “You mean like she’s not really human and we’ve stumbled into some society of asexual mutants with tentacles for sex organs?” Okay, so John really does want to think about that.
John rolls his eyes. For such a smart man Rodney can sure be dense. “She’s a she.”
“Oh . . . oh . . . those missing parts. So you’re um . . . you . . .”
“I’m gay, Rodney.”
“Hmmm . . .” Rodney broods for a moment, looking down at his hands. Then he brightens, flashing on of his devastating ‘I’m so brilliant’ smiles. “Well can’t you just fake it?”
John sighs. “No, I can’t just fake it. Women just don’t turn me on. Can you even imagine yourself naked with a man?” John’s seen the straight guy tucking his tail between his legs and running thing enough times to know that there are just some things that don’t work.
“What kind of stupid question is that?” Rodney snaps in a way that somehow implies that Rodney’s imagined it plenty of times, thank you very much.
In all John’s fantasies of finding out he and Rodney are sexually compatible, there’s always a lot less patronizing stares and a lot more sex.
John’s options are either to take one for the kingdom or sit here and listen to Rodney ramble on about the qualities he can come to appreciate in a woman and how he couldn’t possibly imagine not being attracted to both genders (it’s a speech he’s heard before. In John’s opinion, bisexuals aren’t more open-minded; they’re just greedy.)
He doesn’t want to hear any more talks of beautiful blondes so he leaves Rodney to it and walks back to his rooms.
The royal bedroom is about the size of the Gateroom, with the biggest bed John has ever seen at the center. It’s so big he’s not entirely sure how it manages to be structurally stable. Everything smells of this heady mix of roses and cedar, a fresh deep floral scent that John can’t quite pin down. It makes his eyes want to close against the bright colors of the textured tapestries that hang from the walls, the transparent silk that surrounds the bed like mist.
Mara is laid out in the center of it all, perky rounded breasts partially covered by golden ringlets. She smiles at him. It’s a friendly smile, not a smoldering seductive one. He looks over the fine curve of her body, the small bulge of pot-belly from a little too much feasting, the small scar on her inner thigh, the clear blue of her eyes. She’s beautiful, a body more pleasing to the eye than a man’s, even with the alluring triangle of her pubic hair shaved away. But there’s no stirring in his insides, no heat rising up, no instinct even to take her.
Perhaps he could want to feel those rosy full lips on his. Perhaps he’d love the feel of soft skin flowing beneath his fingertips, but he can’t want her, not like this.
“John?”
He doesn’t realize he’s been sitting there, staring until she calls to him, drawing him down to nestle between her thighs as they kiss. She’s an amazing kisser - no blushing virgin being sold off to the mystery of her wedding night.
He lips are playful and soft and they draw delicate sensations from him like sorcery, but even as she hungers for him, thrusting her own hips up to meet his, he can’t feel anything, not even a hint of desire.
It’s far too long before she notices, but when she does it’s with a small disappointed sigh. “You are not used to our liquors, John. I am sorry I had you drink so much.”
“It’s okay,” he shrugs. He should probably explain right now, but he really doesn’t want to completely ruin this day for her. He collapses onto his back, clothes still on, and runs his hand down her belly and between her legs. At least one of them can come tonight.
He tries not to think about what he’s going to do the next night if Rodney can’t fix the Gate tomorrow, even as she whimpers and moans, crying out as his fingers move rhythmically within her.
Her hands reach blindly for him, fooling at his zipper, still trying to draw some pleasure out of him. He wants to tell her ‘no,’ to explain, when the door bursts open and he’s saved by the chamberlain charging in, expecting to find John in the throws of passion, an easy target.
You’ve got to love a galaxy where you’re relieved when people try to kill you.
John’s second proclamation is an amendment to the first:
When I said ‘the old ways are now abolished,’ I did not mean that it’s okay to kill the Lord Protector.
John, Rodney, Teyla, and Ronon get stranded like this:
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rodney asks, worriedly, clearly not liking the way John is wincing. “That was an incredibly strong poison he used if he really did die that quickly.’
Mara has ordered some of the palace soldiers to go burry the body of the chamberlain in the early morning light.
John closes his eyes further. “The only poison I’m suffering from is that wine.” This is a really bad time for a hangover.
Rodney is panicking, Ronon is agitated and pacing and Teyla is trying to keep them all together. “I am concerned with this attempt on you life, Colonel. Perhaps it would be best to attempt to repair the Stargate first and then return to help deal with the political situation.”
“But you can’t go!” Mara protests. “You’re the Lord Protector!”
“And your people are trying to kill him,” Ronon snarls, still obviously pissed that he wasn’t there to protect John himself.
“But that was just Otho and his own little political games. John, our people need you.”
“I already made a few decrees. I’ll come back if there’s trouble. Mara, you can rule on your own.”
“Not with my brother here. He will try to kill me the moment you are gone!”
“Then come with us. We’ll keep you safe.”
“And the villagers?”
“We’ll figure something out. Look, I already told you. I have other responsibilities. Maybe we can have time-share or something. I could come back on weekends.”
Rodney snorts. “As much as I’d like to discus your custody arrangements, Colonel, this whole discussion is academic until you sit in that Chair and find out if the codes Mara’s father wrote into the Gate are reversible.”
“But John . . .” Mara says, even as he’s already making his way across the deserted great hallway, the minimalist charm of the Gateroom obscured by a thousand garish tapestries, as hideous and useless as pimples on the smooth metallic surfaces.
John hasn’t even sat down when he feels the potential of this place, trapped by a society that can’t even comprehend the kind of greatness it was made for.
He sits, scrolling automatically through the villages, seeing people gathered around his proclamations, speculating about them as he hoped. But then the stargate is calling to him like a forbidden treasure, thrumming with energy, wanting connection with a thousand other worlds. He thinks about Atlantis, a city freed from their feudal pomp, the chevrons already written in gold in his mind. He reaches out a hand, not hand, to dial . . . but then . . .
A face, old and fat and laughing, laughing like lightning and thunder rolling in his brain and all the can feel are flabby hands gripping him and words in red, in the flashing scrawl of the Ancients, but he knows their meaning: forbidden.
The pain consumes him even as he pushes. It doesn’t have to be Atlantis. Any gate, anywhere. But the path is blocked, the storm clouds consumptive, and he can’t . . . he’s choking. How can he breathe when reality is liquid fire?
“Colonel! Sheppard? John?” a voice is yelling, high pitched and panicky. Rough hands grab him, pull him out of reality with a tear that rips a scream from his lips and then he’s lying back against something warm, panting.
“Colonel?”
He opens his eyes to find Rodney staring down at him, features creased with worry. The carpeted floor is still cold against his back and movement feels impossible, reality thick like a wet blanket. It takes so much effort to move his tongue, it feels fuzzy and alien. “He’s blocked it. There’s no way to dial the Gate.”
Rodney flinches back in horror. He’s got that panicked glazed look in his eyes, like the world has just come crashing down.
Perhaps it has, John thinks as he himself crashes into darkness.
In John’s absence, Rodney (who refuses to be humbled by the title of Chamberlain, no matter how many times people say it) makes another proclamation:
Democracy means a government decided by the people. And if I hear another person even talk about demons or evils spirits I will personally remove that rock you are clearly using for a brain and beat you over the head with it.
This results in the dismantling of approximately 1,421 shrines to the Earth Goddess Maya and 1 to the god Om, who appears in the form of an incredibly pissed-off tortoise. Many years later, the first generation of Planet Xian judges will take this as legal precedence for separation of church and state.
The first crime committed under John’s government happens like this:
“The Lord Protector demands your tribute,” the Constable says, gripping Eldred’s arm tight.
“But the proclamation . . .”
“The proclamation says government by the people. And I’m a people. So hand over your crops.”
“No!” Minedra shouts. “This is all we can spare! Can’t you see that we are starving?”
“I do not care!” the constable says, backhanding her quickly and efficiently. “You will pay tribute, even if we must take it in other ways!”
After he rapes her, Minedra does not tell anyone. Perhaps the new ways are not so different than the old. She even manages a brave smile when Ronon comes to visit the next day. But, like any soldier, he can smell violence.
Just one look at her and he ignores her pleasantries, arguments that the next time she will offer more than sufficient tribute.
“What happened here?” he says. And she tells him everything.
Minedra has never seen one look so angry. The people of her village have learned to suffer through their anger and the soldiers are stony-faced and superior. But Ronon, he looks as though any moment he will crack at the seams. “Where is he?”
“What?” she asks, timidly.
“Where is he, so I can kill him.”
Part of her wants that more than anything. But she knows that it will only stoke their anger. The Lord Protector needs soldiers as fish need water and all soldiers are the same, drunk with their own power. “He is a member of the royal guard. You cannot.”
Ronon stalks up to her. His size still surprises her and she shrinks back in fear. “Where is he?” he growls.
“In the Tower, in the soldiers quarters with the rest of the guard.”
He turns to leave, coat flying behind him, until he stops, looking around her modest hut. Eldred and her friends are out in the field, working to further increase their harvest for the next tribute, giving her one day of peace that they can barely spare.
“Come with me. We’ll take care of you.”
“But . . .” she protests. “I cannot come with you. I am not of noble blood.”
If anything, he looks even angrier. “Doesn’t matter.”
<<<>>>
Teyla is worried about John. He’s been unconscious, tossing and turning with fevered dreams for two days now. She thinks that perhaps Ronon was mistaken, removing him physically from the chair, despite the pain it seemed to be causing him.
The court is agitated that John will not grant them audience and throw the usual nightly feast. Rodney has tried several times to have them all removed from the Tower, but they will do nothing while their king sleeps.
Teyla’s two teammates react similarly for such disparate personalities. Ronon prowls restlessly, stalking around the grounds and into the nearby villages. He is going to visit Eldred today, which is in fact a blessing. Ronon’s agitation never fails to make Teyla nervous. It is hard enough to react against the difficult situations they often find themselves in, without having to control Ronon as well.
Rodney is also restless, and exorcises it mostly by shouting at courtiers and working on the Chair interface.
There is a tentative knock on the door, which Teyla ignores. It is no doubt Mara, making another attempt to look after her ailing husband. Teyla still does not trust her alone with John. How could a strange creature like her who knows nothing of battle or even hardship even hope to understand someone like John?
Rodney says they are stranded, and on this world with customs even more alien than the Atlanteans, all they have is each other.
Teyla’s meditation is broken by a soft moan. She’s at John’s side in an instant as he pushes himself up from his nest of uselessly decorative pillows, squinting and cradling his head in his hands.
“John?” she speaks softly.
“How much’d I drink?” he groans.
“You did not consume any alcohol, Colonel.”
“Teyla?” He blinks up at her.
“Do you know where you are, John?”
He looks around, taking in the plush cushions and the gold-detailed wall hangings and sighs forlornly. “Planet X.”
Teyla nods. “You tried to activate the Gate.”
John groans. “How long?”
“Two days.”
“How goes it in the kingdom?”
Unfortunately, Teyla has no good news for him. “Dr. McKay does not believe there is any way to activate the Gate. Atlantis is dialing in every twelve hours for radio contact, but they will not risk sending anyone else through.”
John nods, forcing himself up higher on the stack of pillows at his back and accepting a drink of water from Teyla. He hasn’t even finished when they hear shouting in the hallway.
“You can’t just kill them, Ronon. As much as these people want to believe it, this isn’t the dark ages.”
“What he did is unforgivable,” Ronon says, slamming the door wide open.
“Yes, yes, and maybe it deserves life imprisonment. I mean we don’t even know if he’s a repeat offender. We don’t even know that he’s guilty. You can’t just don your loin-cloth, grunt a few times and beat someone over the head for their crimes.”
“I’ll make it quick.”
This conversation is making Teyla nervous. First of all, Rodney arguing for compassion is always a strange thing. Second of all, Teyla’s only ever seen Ronon this unleashed once and that was after he’d walked into a room full of armed men and killed in cold blood.
“Ronon. Rodney. Please calm down, explain to us what happened.”
“Sheppard,” Ronon acknowledges with a nod.
“Oh thank God,” Rodney sighs. “Are you okay? Brain still intact? I mean who knows the true strength of the mental interface and without Carson here . . .”
“I’m fine, Rodney,” John says with a small smile, though he quickly shifts the focus to Ronon. “Now what’s this I hear about killing people?”
“The constable. He hasn’t learned that the old ways are over.”
“So you want to kill him?”
“He raped her, Sheppard. He deserves to die.”
Teyla wants to interrupt, to ask who, because, really in all this they have to put the needs of the victim to the forefront, find out what retribution she demands and decide on appropriate punishment, but before she can get over the shock, John is talking. “Rape is a horrible crime, Ronon, but I’m not in the habit of just killing people without knowing the full story.”
Teyla is not sure these are appropriate words for a soldier, but she holds her tongue.
“I’m not in the habit of killing people at all, Colonel,” Rodney huffs, crossing his hands across his chest.
“Yeah, yeah, save the socialism for when we get back home, Rodney. I don’t like the idea of it anymore than you do, but if I’m not sure if we have the resources to keep the ex-constable of the guard imprisoned.”
“We can’t feed him, so we’ll just kill him? Apply human-rights codes you learned from Steve-the-wraith now, are we?”
John rubs at his temples. “Look, just give me some time to think this over.”
“Who says it’s your decision to make?” Rodney asks indignantly.
“Well, I am king.”
“And if you want to be a good king you have to look at the future repercussions of this. Whatever you do now will set a precedent.”
“So we send the message that if you rape a woman, you get shot,” Ronon says. “Deterrence.”
John seems to be considering it. He and Ronon are both soldiers. Teyla is a warrior, but she has never lived a life of orders, clear-cut policies and hierarchies and physical punishment.
“Well can’t you just whip him or something?” Rodney asks. As Teyla has always suspected about Rodney, his line for compassion is very clearly drawn and it only extends so far.
Teyla herself is not entirely opposed to the idea of such punishment. On Athos the most popular punishment had been exile. That option has been removed from them here.
“Perhaps we should find out what the victim thinks about all this,” Teyla states, forcing herself to calm. She is used to being the serene one in this group of impulsive men. “It is her right to assign both blame and punishment, not ours.”
Rodney rounds on her. “Maybe that works in a small community of a couple hundred, but we can’t just invite familial retribution and things like that by letting the victim decide the punishment. The purpose of government is to at least look impartial.”
“Yes, but we do not yet know what is considered to be acceptable in this community. Perhaps rape is a regularly used tool of the guard and too-harsh punishment will cause an uproar. Or on the other hand, if whipping is as routine as I believe it to be, it will not convey the gravity of the offense.”
“Well, Teyla does have a point,” John muses. “We don’t know what the guards have been trained to do. We can’t just have a bunch of armed men roaming the streets without some sort of established code of behavior.”
“Yes, Colonel, but what are we to do with them?”
Rodney snaps his finger, already grabbing for his tablet. “Easy. We lock them in. They’re quartered here in the city. We just lock them in until we have this sorted out.”
“You can do that?” John asks, incredulously.
“Please. Who do you think turned off all the hot water and environmental controls in Bates’ room on three separate occasions, hm?”
Teyla smiles at that, knowing that Rodney had done it to defend her.
“Okay, good. You do that . . . um . . . Ronon, maybe tomorrow you can get started on er . . . retraining the guards.”
Ronon grins, nodding.
“And the woman who was raped?” Teyla asks, not wanting them to forget the focus of the conversation.
“We’ll hold a trial,” Rodney states, flatly.
“Okay, um . . . Teyla could you round up some jurors?”
“Jurors?” Teyla has never heard this word before. She hopes that it does not mean a certain type of whip or perhaps manacle, though she’s pretty sure she’s heard all of the Atlantean’s words for manacle - they’ve been held prisoner enough times.
“Um . . . random people, not related to the crime who will decide guilt or innocence.”
“Are you kidding me?!” Rodney exclaims. “These people are barely able to farm potatoes, what makes you think they have the ability to decide a legal case?”
“Well what do you suggest, Rodney. This is supposed to be a democracy.”
“And democracy doesn’t necessitate a jury. There are plenty of countries where judges are considered acceptable. And who do we make judge, hm? You? You can barely stay sitting up right now.”
“But I’m the Lord Protector and they’ll accept what I say. To them you’re probably just my Chamberlain.”
Rodney throws his hands up . . . “Fine, fine, I’ll just be in the Chair room, trying to figure out how we extract ourselves from this feudal mess.”
“Wait, Rodney. Maybe we should . . . you know, establish you in some official capacity. Like, if we’re going to have a government, shouldn’t we have ministers or something?”
“Yes, yes, it should all be very official. We need to prepare them to have a government even after we’re gone. Official positions . . . hm . . .”
And then there’s a tentative knock on the door and Mara asks. “John? Are you finally awake?”
“Maybe we should include her,” Ronon remarks.
Both Rodney and John shoot him twin glares. Rodney because he clearly believes her too stupid to determine her own people’s destiny and John because, Teyla believes, she makes him nervous.
Teyla has a bad feeling about all of this.
PART II
Rating: R
Warnings: AU (different ending of ‘The Tower’), hetsex
Pairings: McShep, Sheppard/Mara
Spoilers: The Tower
Disclaimer: Don’t own it, don’t make money.
Wordcount: ~10,700
A/N: This reality diverges from ‘The Tower’ sometime before Beckett gets there. John’s a little more gay that cannon could possibly support, but oh well.
Summary: What if they really had made John king? AU tag to ‘The Tower.’
MAKE THE PIE HIGHER
or How to Build a Nation Using Only 2 Alien Warriors, 1 Genetically Superior Flyboy, 1 Mad Scientist, and a Single 10,000-year-old Flying City
John’s First Proclamation as King of Planet X is as follows:
The old ways have been abolished. Planet X shall henceforth be a democracy. Elections will be organized in several weeks time.
He has it posted in the center of every village in his new domain. Nobody has yet informed him that even if the villagers could read, they wouldn’t know the meaning of the word ‘democracy’ let alone ‘elections.’
John Sheppard gets to be king of Planet X, thousands of light-years away from home like this:
“I would prefer it if you were to stay,” the Lord Protector says, looking fat and hostile sitting back in the control chair like that.
“Well, I’d prefer it if I left,” John replies, not bothering to keep the snide out of his voice.
“Please, John, you must stay. We can be married and you will make such a wonderful ruler. And our children . . .” Mara says, looking so very earnest. She’s a nice girl and he doesn’t like disappointing her, but he really really can’t stay with these crazy people and party like it’s 1399.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I mean, it’s not you; it’s me. I have obligations . . . duties. My own people depend on me and I need to get back to them right now.”
He tries to give her a charming smile, even as he’s activating his radio. “Rodney, Ronon, Teyla, get back to the Gate, we’re going home.”
“We’re already there,” Ronon says. Of course they are.
“Are you all right, Colonel?” Teyla asks, sensing the tension in his voice.
“I’m fine. Radio Weir, tell her we’ll be in early.” This way, if they try to stop him, the rescue team’ll come in quick.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow you to do that, Lieutenant Colonel,” The Lord Protector says. The chair reclines and John sees an image of the Gate, three figures stand there, two looking alert and the other impatient.
“No . . . don’t!” John shouts, thinking that he’s about to see another drone blast where his team is standing, but instead, the Gate deactivates.
“Huh,” he says.
John can’t hear anything, but he sees Ronon ask something and Rodney snap something agitated back. He tries to dial again. Nothing happens. Shit.
“You . . .” John yells, pushing his way past the alert but still non-threatening guards beside him to get closer to the Lord Protector. “I thought I was a guest here.”
The Lord Protector nods. “You were . . . until . . .” he gasps a deep gurgling breath and the chamberlain races forward to attend to him.
John can just make out Rodney looking frustrated and angry on the monitor before it flickers out. Double shit. He can’t see through the commotion happening in the throne chair, the guards suddenly body-checking him.
“The Lord Protector is dead,” the chamberlain says at the same time John’s radio crackles to life.
“He deactivated the Gate!” Rodney squawks.
John has just enough time to wonder why this always happens to him before he’s shepherded off to a very plush velvety holding cell.
Mara comes to visit him that night, and thankfully, he’s able to catch the shoulders of her robe before she can slip it off again. Velvet pillows or no, he’s not really in the mood for this, what with the whole prison bars and deactivated Gate thing.
“What happened?” he asks her as she sits despondently on the bed beside him.
“His heart finally gave out,” she sighs, leaning against him and not trying to protect her very perky breasts in the slightest.
“I’m sorry,” John says, putting an arm around her. It was her father after all, even if he was kind of an evil tyrant. He wants to ask about the Gate, but he knows that’s just not decent.
“If I am not married, succession will go to Tavius. He will mistreat the villagers and abuse his power. If you cannot find a way to escape through the Stargate, he will most certainly have you killed.”
John nods. What he really needs to do is to find out whether or not McKay got the Gate working. Getting killed in a struggle for succession is high on his list of things not to do in the Pegasus Galaxy. “I’ll think about it.”
She looks at him, eyes liquid and wide, almost reminding him of one of those Japanese animations. “You must have your decision by morning.”
Then she leans down to kiss him. It’s sweet, more an invitation than anything else. As she rises he stops her. “Mara?”
“Yes?” She sounds far too hopeful for a girl whose father has just died - bouncy.
“Is there any way for me to talk with my people?”
She nods, opening one of the intricate folds of her robe and handing him his radio. Huh. Well, that’s one good thing in there.
“Hey, guys, you there?”
“Colonel? Thank god. Are you okay?” Rodney’s voice comes over loud and clear.
“Yeah, yeah. They’ve got me holed up in the tower. You guys?”
“Back in the village. Any chance you can get the Lord Protector to unlock the Gate sometime in the near future? Cardboard stew doesn’t really do the body good, eh?” Rodney sighs, exasperatedly. John thinks he can hear his stomach grumble even over the headset.
“Um . . . that’s going to be a little hard, Rodney.”
“What’d you do now? Deflower his only daughter?”
He shoots Mara an apologetic look and a shrug. She takes the hint and heads out.
“No, actually . . . he’s dead. Is there any way you can get the Gate to work from your end?”
“If I could have, I would have, Colonel.” Oh yeah, this is why he doesn’t like to let Rodney go unfed - he’s pissy on an empty stomach. “He did it from the Chair and the only way to undo it is from the Chair. And seeing as how you’re the only one of us living in the lap of luxury up in the Penthouse, it’s going to have to be you.”
“I’m in a prison cell, Rodney.”
“Oh . . . well, maybe I should have called for those reinforcements after all. I didn’t want to risk stranding anyone else here before the Gate’s fixed, but I don’t think Teyla and Ronon and I really stand a chance against . . .”
“It’s okay, Rodney. The only immediate danger I seem to be in is getting married against my will.”
“Married?”
“Mara, the Lord Protectors daughter, says succession won’t go to her unless she marries.”
“Okay, first, can fictional characters have reincarnated lives? Because, seriously, this whole Captain Kirk thing is really starting to get old. Secondly, what are you waiting for?” This is about the last thing John’s expecting from Rodney, considering how he’s actually just skipped right over the jealous little tantrums and gone straight to . . . pimp?
“Rodney . . .”
“You marry her, sit in the throne chair, unlock the Gate, make a couple of laws about feeding the townsfolk and not . . . being fascist, and we get out of here. It beats climbing the castle wall using Ronon’s hair.”
“But . . .” John’s not entirely sure, ‘but, I don’t wanna get married,’ is an adequate excuse.
“Please, it’s not like it really means anything anyway.” Rodney huffs and hangs up on him.
The wedding ceremony and the coronation sort of blend into one. Ronon and Rodney eat their weight in local foodstuffs, Teyla gets hit on by disgusting noblemen, but pastes on a pained but diplomatic smile anyhow. John plays the one idiot that doesn’t know the ceremonial dance, lights up the chair once, and is forced to drink far too much. He also kisses his new wife and makes a proclamation.
By sundown, he’s drunk as a skunk, and also . . . king.
By the third day of John’s rule, the villagers have come to a consensus that democracy is either:
a) Rule by demon
b) Anarchy
c) Part of an intergalactic empire
d) All of the above
They are not particularly happy.
John’s wedding night goes down like this:
“Colonel? What exactly are you doing here?”
Rodney looks sleep-mused and comfortable, sitting up from a sprawl of plush pillows and silky blankets.
John slides down the door, looking both ways. He’s wary of something standing oafishly in the corner. But after a while he realizes that it’s just a statue. Oh right . . . still a little drunk.
“Um . . .” Rodney says. It’s kind of cute.
“I’m hiding.” John tries to struggle to his feet but fails spectacularly. Thank god the floors here are soft.
Rodney stands up, and walks over to help him. “Hiding from what?” he whispers.
“Her.”
“Oh, that makes it so much clearer. Who, exactly?”
“Mara.” John sniffles a little, leaning his head against Rodney’s shoulder as he’s manhandled over towards the bed. Rodney smells good.
“Your wife?”
“Yeah.”
“And why are you hiding from a gorgeous blonde with a nice smile and an a similarly inbred genetic lineage on the night that you’re supposed to consummate your marriage with said gorgeous and in all likelihood flexible space bimbo?”
Well, when he puts it that way, it does sound rather idiotic.
“It’s not a real marriage.”
“And since when has that ever stopped you from wallowing in alien pussy? Chaya wasn’t even a real human and you still slept with her.” Is Rodney never going to let that go?
“Wasn’t like that.” John waves Rodney away drunkenly, though he’s finally beginning to sober up. “It wasn’t real sex, either.”
“Okay, so non-human sex with non-humans who are possibly only trying to manipulate you is okay, but real sex with real women who you’re actually married to is not?”
“No.”
“If you’re trying to be noble and make me think that you’re not an inter-galactic space-slut by being here, you’ve succeeded. Now, please, go get laid. Then at least one of us will be.”
Rodney is kind of sexy when he’s frustrated - brings color to his cheeks.
“Can’t.”
“Why not? She married you for your genes. I don’t think she expects you to profess your undying love afterwards. But then again, knowing women . . .”
“Because she’s um . . . she’s missing some of the crucial parts.” So maybe he’s still a little to the left of sober, because there’s no way that he’d admit that to Rodney under ordinary circumstances.
Rodney’s mouth drops open. “You mean like she’s not really human and we’ve stumbled into some society of asexual mutants with tentacles for sex organs?” Okay, so John really does want to think about that.
John rolls his eyes. For such a smart man Rodney can sure be dense. “She’s a she.”
“Oh . . . oh . . . those missing parts. So you’re um . . . you . . .”
“I’m gay, Rodney.”
“Hmmm . . .” Rodney broods for a moment, looking down at his hands. Then he brightens, flashing on of his devastating ‘I’m so brilliant’ smiles. “Well can’t you just fake it?”
John sighs. “No, I can’t just fake it. Women just don’t turn me on. Can you even imagine yourself naked with a man?” John’s seen the straight guy tucking his tail between his legs and running thing enough times to know that there are just some things that don’t work.
“What kind of stupid question is that?” Rodney snaps in a way that somehow implies that Rodney’s imagined it plenty of times, thank you very much.
In all John’s fantasies of finding out he and Rodney are sexually compatible, there’s always a lot less patronizing stares and a lot more sex.
John’s options are either to take one for the kingdom or sit here and listen to Rodney ramble on about the qualities he can come to appreciate in a woman and how he couldn’t possibly imagine not being attracted to both genders (it’s a speech he’s heard before. In John’s opinion, bisexuals aren’t more open-minded; they’re just greedy.)
He doesn’t want to hear any more talks of beautiful blondes so he leaves Rodney to it and walks back to his rooms.
The royal bedroom is about the size of the Gateroom, with the biggest bed John has ever seen at the center. It’s so big he’s not entirely sure how it manages to be structurally stable. Everything smells of this heady mix of roses and cedar, a fresh deep floral scent that John can’t quite pin down. It makes his eyes want to close against the bright colors of the textured tapestries that hang from the walls, the transparent silk that surrounds the bed like mist.
Mara is laid out in the center of it all, perky rounded breasts partially covered by golden ringlets. She smiles at him. It’s a friendly smile, not a smoldering seductive one. He looks over the fine curve of her body, the small bulge of pot-belly from a little too much feasting, the small scar on her inner thigh, the clear blue of her eyes. She’s beautiful, a body more pleasing to the eye than a man’s, even with the alluring triangle of her pubic hair shaved away. But there’s no stirring in his insides, no heat rising up, no instinct even to take her.
Perhaps he could want to feel those rosy full lips on his. Perhaps he’d love the feel of soft skin flowing beneath his fingertips, but he can’t want her, not like this.
“John?”
He doesn’t realize he’s been sitting there, staring until she calls to him, drawing him down to nestle between her thighs as they kiss. She’s an amazing kisser - no blushing virgin being sold off to the mystery of her wedding night.
He lips are playful and soft and they draw delicate sensations from him like sorcery, but even as she hungers for him, thrusting her own hips up to meet his, he can’t feel anything, not even a hint of desire.
It’s far too long before she notices, but when she does it’s with a small disappointed sigh. “You are not used to our liquors, John. I am sorry I had you drink so much.”
“It’s okay,” he shrugs. He should probably explain right now, but he really doesn’t want to completely ruin this day for her. He collapses onto his back, clothes still on, and runs his hand down her belly and between her legs. At least one of them can come tonight.
He tries not to think about what he’s going to do the next night if Rodney can’t fix the Gate tomorrow, even as she whimpers and moans, crying out as his fingers move rhythmically within her.
Her hands reach blindly for him, fooling at his zipper, still trying to draw some pleasure out of him. He wants to tell her ‘no,’ to explain, when the door bursts open and he’s saved by the chamberlain charging in, expecting to find John in the throws of passion, an easy target.
You’ve got to love a galaxy where you’re relieved when people try to kill you.
John’s second proclamation is an amendment to the first:
When I said ‘the old ways are now abolished,’ I did not mean that it’s okay to kill the Lord Protector.
John, Rodney, Teyla, and Ronon get stranded like this:
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rodney asks, worriedly, clearly not liking the way John is wincing. “That was an incredibly strong poison he used if he really did die that quickly.’
Mara has ordered some of the palace soldiers to go burry the body of the chamberlain in the early morning light.
John closes his eyes further. “The only poison I’m suffering from is that wine.” This is a really bad time for a hangover.
Rodney is panicking, Ronon is agitated and pacing and Teyla is trying to keep them all together. “I am concerned with this attempt on you life, Colonel. Perhaps it would be best to attempt to repair the Stargate first and then return to help deal with the political situation.”
“But you can’t go!” Mara protests. “You’re the Lord Protector!”
“And your people are trying to kill him,” Ronon snarls, still obviously pissed that he wasn’t there to protect John himself.
“But that was just Otho and his own little political games. John, our people need you.”
“I already made a few decrees. I’ll come back if there’s trouble. Mara, you can rule on your own.”
“Not with my brother here. He will try to kill me the moment you are gone!”
“Then come with us. We’ll keep you safe.”
“And the villagers?”
“We’ll figure something out. Look, I already told you. I have other responsibilities. Maybe we can have time-share or something. I could come back on weekends.”
Rodney snorts. “As much as I’d like to discus your custody arrangements, Colonel, this whole discussion is academic until you sit in that Chair and find out if the codes Mara’s father wrote into the Gate are reversible.”
“But John . . .” Mara says, even as he’s already making his way across the deserted great hallway, the minimalist charm of the Gateroom obscured by a thousand garish tapestries, as hideous and useless as pimples on the smooth metallic surfaces.
John hasn’t even sat down when he feels the potential of this place, trapped by a society that can’t even comprehend the kind of greatness it was made for.
He sits, scrolling automatically through the villages, seeing people gathered around his proclamations, speculating about them as he hoped. But then the stargate is calling to him like a forbidden treasure, thrumming with energy, wanting connection with a thousand other worlds. He thinks about Atlantis, a city freed from their feudal pomp, the chevrons already written in gold in his mind. He reaches out a hand, not hand, to dial . . . but then . . .
A face, old and fat and laughing, laughing like lightning and thunder rolling in his brain and all the can feel are flabby hands gripping him and words in red, in the flashing scrawl of the Ancients, but he knows their meaning: forbidden.
The pain consumes him even as he pushes. It doesn’t have to be Atlantis. Any gate, anywhere. But the path is blocked, the storm clouds consumptive, and he can’t . . . he’s choking. How can he breathe when reality is liquid fire?
“Colonel! Sheppard? John?” a voice is yelling, high pitched and panicky. Rough hands grab him, pull him out of reality with a tear that rips a scream from his lips and then he’s lying back against something warm, panting.
“Colonel?”
He opens his eyes to find Rodney staring down at him, features creased with worry. The carpeted floor is still cold against his back and movement feels impossible, reality thick like a wet blanket. It takes so much effort to move his tongue, it feels fuzzy and alien. “He’s blocked it. There’s no way to dial the Gate.”
Rodney flinches back in horror. He’s got that panicked glazed look in his eyes, like the world has just come crashing down.
Perhaps it has, John thinks as he himself crashes into darkness.
In John’s absence, Rodney (who refuses to be humbled by the title of Chamberlain, no matter how many times people say it) makes another proclamation:
Democracy means a government decided by the people. And if I hear another person even talk about demons or evils spirits I will personally remove that rock you are clearly using for a brain and beat you over the head with it.
This results in the dismantling of approximately 1,421 shrines to the Earth Goddess Maya and 1 to the god Om, who appears in the form of an incredibly pissed-off tortoise. Many years later, the first generation of Planet Xian judges will take this as legal precedence for separation of church and state.
The first crime committed under John’s government happens like this:
“The Lord Protector demands your tribute,” the Constable says, gripping Eldred’s arm tight.
“But the proclamation . . .”
“The proclamation says government by the people. And I’m a people. So hand over your crops.”
“No!” Minedra shouts. “This is all we can spare! Can’t you see that we are starving?”
“I do not care!” the constable says, backhanding her quickly and efficiently. “You will pay tribute, even if we must take it in other ways!”
After he rapes her, Minedra does not tell anyone. Perhaps the new ways are not so different than the old. She even manages a brave smile when Ronon comes to visit the next day. But, like any soldier, he can smell violence.
Just one look at her and he ignores her pleasantries, arguments that the next time she will offer more than sufficient tribute.
“What happened here?” he says. And she tells him everything.
Minedra has never seen one look so angry. The people of her village have learned to suffer through their anger and the soldiers are stony-faced and superior. But Ronon, he looks as though any moment he will crack at the seams. “Where is he?”
“What?” she asks, timidly.
“Where is he, so I can kill him.”
Part of her wants that more than anything. But she knows that it will only stoke their anger. The Lord Protector needs soldiers as fish need water and all soldiers are the same, drunk with their own power. “He is a member of the royal guard. You cannot.”
Ronon stalks up to her. His size still surprises her and she shrinks back in fear. “Where is he?” he growls.
“In the Tower, in the soldiers quarters with the rest of the guard.”
He turns to leave, coat flying behind him, until he stops, looking around her modest hut. Eldred and her friends are out in the field, working to further increase their harvest for the next tribute, giving her one day of peace that they can barely spare.
“Come with me. We’ll take care of you.”
“But . . .” she protests. “I cannot come with you. I am not of noble blood.”
If anything, he looks even angrier. “Doesn’t matter.”
<<<>>>
Teyla is worried about John. He’s been unconscious, tossing and turning with fevered dreams for two days now. She thinks that perhaps Ronon was mistaken, removing him physically from the chair, despite the pain it seemed to be causing him.
The court is agitated that John will not grant them audience and throw the usual nightly feast. Rodney has tried several times to have them all removed from the Tower, but they will do nothing while their king sleeps.
Teyla’s two teammates react similarly for such disparate personalities. Ronon prowls restlessly, stalking around the grounds and into the nearby villages. He is going to visit Eldred today, which is in fact a blessing. Ronon’s agitation never fails to make Teyla nervous. It is hard enough to react against the difficult situations they often find themselves in, without having to control Ronon as well.
Rodney is also restless, and exorcises it mostly by shouting at courtiers and working on the Chair interface.
There is a tentative knock on the door, which Teyla ignores. It is no doubt Mara, making another attempt to look after her ailing husband. Teyla still does not trust her alone with John. How could a strange creature like her who knows nothing of battle or even hardship even hope to understand someone like John?
Rodney says they are stranded, and on this world with customs even more alien than the Atlanteans, all they have is each other.
Teyla’s meditation is broken by a soft moan. She’s at John’s side in an instant as he pushes himself up from his nest of uselessly decorative pillows, squinting and cradling his head in his hands.
“John?” she speaks softly.
“How much’d I drink?” he groans.
“You did not consume any alcohol, Colonel.”
“Teyla?” He blinks up at her.
“Do you know where you are, John?”
He looks around, taking in the plush cushions and the gold-detailed wall hangings and sighs forlornly. “Planet X.”
Teyla nods. “You tried to activate the Gate.”
John groans. “How long?”
“Two days.”
“How goes it in the kingdom?”
Unfortunately, Teyla has no good news for him. “Dr. McKay does not believe there is any way to activate the Gate. Atlantis is dialing in every twelve hours for radio contact, but they will not risk sending anyone else through.”
John nods, forcing himself up higher on the stack of pillows at his back and accepting a drink of water from Teyla. He hasn’t even finished when they hear shouting in the hallway.
“You can’t just kill them, Ronon. As much as these people want to believe it, this isn’t the dark ages.”
“What he did is unforgivable,” Ronon says, slamming the door wide open.
“Yes, yes, and maybe it deserves life imprisonment. I mean we don’t even know if he’s a repeat offender. We don’t even know that he’s guilty. You can’t just don your loin-cloth, grunt a few times and beat someone over the head for their crimes.”
“I’ll make it quick.”
This conversation is making Teyla nervous. First of all, Rodney arguing for compassion is always a strange thing. Second of all, Teyla’s only ever seen Ronon this unleashed once and that was after he’d walked into a room full of armed men and killed in cold blood.
“Ronon. Rodney. Please calm down, explain to us what happened.”
“Sheppard,” Ronon acknowledges with a nod.
“Oh thank God,” Rodney sighs. “Are you okay? Brain still intact? I mean who knows the true strength of the mental interface and without Carson here . . .”
“I’m fine, Rodney,” John says with a small smile, though he quickly shifts the focus to Ronon. “Now what’s this I hear about killing people?”
“The constable. He hasn’t learned that the old ways are over.”
“So you want to kill him?”
“He raped her, Sheppard. He deserves to die.”
Teyla wants to interrupt, to ask who, because, really in all this they have to put the needs of the victim to the forefront, find out what retribution she demands and decide on appropriate punishment, but before she can get over the shock, John is talking. “Rape is a horrible crime, Ronon, but I’m not in the habit of just killing people without knowing the full story.”
Teyla is not sure these are appropriate words for a soldier, but she holds her tongue.
“I’m not in the habit of killing people at all, Colonel,” Rodney huffs, crossing his hands across his chest.
“Yeah, yeah, save the socialism for when we get back home, Rodney. I don’t like the idea of it anymore than you do, but if I’m not sure if we have the resources to keep the ex-constable of the guard imprisoned.”
“We can’t feed him, so we’ll just kill him? Apply human-rights codes you learned from Steve-the-wraith now, are we?”
John rubs at his temples. “Look, just give me some time to think this over.”
“Who says it’s your decision to make?” Rodney asks indignantly.
“Well, I am king.”
“And if you want to be a good king you have to look at the future repercussions of this. Whatever you do now will set a precedent.”
“So we send the message that if you rape a woman, you get shot,” Ronon says. “Deterrence.”
John seems to be considering it. He and Ronon are both soldiers. Teyla is a warrior, but she has never lived a life of orders, clear-cut policies and hierarchies and physical punishment.
“Well can’t you just whip him or something?” Rodney asks. As Teyla has always suspected about Rodney, his line for compassion is very clearly drawn and it only extends so far.
Teyla herself is not entirely opposed to the idea of such punishment. On Athos the most popular punishment had been exile. That option has been removed from them here.
“Perhaps we should find out what the victim thinks about all this,” Teyla states, forcing herself to calm. She is used to being the serene one in this group of impulsive men. “It is her right to assign both blame and punishment, not ours.”
Rodney rounds on her. “Maybe that works in a small community of a couple hundred, but we can’t just invite familial retribution and things like that by letting the victim decide the punishment. The purpose of government is to at least look impartial.”
“Yes, but we do not yet know what is considered to be acceptable in this community. Perhaps rape is a regularly used tool of the guard and too-harsh punishment will cause an uproar. Or on the other hand, if whipping is as routine as I believe it to be, it will not convey the gravity of the offense.”
“Well, Teyla does have a point,” John muses. “We don’t know what the guards have been trained to do. We can’t just have a bunch of armed men roaming the streets without some sort of established code of behavior.”
“Yes, Colonel, but what are we to do with them?”
Rodney snaps his finger, already grabbing for his tablet. “Easy. We lock them in. They’re quartered here in the city. We just lock them in until we have this sorted out.”
“You can do that?” John asks, incredulously.
“Please. Who do you think turned off all the hot water and environmental controls in Bates’ room on three separate occasions, hm?”
Teyla smiles at that, knowing that Rodney had done it to defend her.
“Okay, good. You do that . . . um . . . Ronon, maybe tomorrow you can get started on er . . . retraining the guards.”
Ronon grins, nodding.
“And the woman who was raped?” Teyla asks, not wanting them to forget the focus of the conversation.
“We’ll hold a trial,” Rodney states, flatly.
“Okay, um . . . Teyla could you round up some jurors?”
“Jurors?” Teyla has never heard this word before. She hopes that it does not mean a certain type of whip or perhaps manacle, though she’s pretty sure she’s heard all of the Atlantean’s words for manacle - they’ve been held prisoner enough times.
“Um . . . random people, not related to the crime who will decide guilt or innocence.”
“Are you kidding me?!” Rodney exclaims. “These people are barely able to farm potatoes, what makes you think they have the ability to decide a legal case?”
“Well what do you suggest, Rodney. This is supposed to be a democracy.”
“And democracy doesn’t necessitate a jury. There are plenty of countries where judges are considered acceptable. And who do we make judge, hm? You? You can barely stay sitting up right now.”
“But I’m the Lord Protector and they’ll accept what I say. To them you’re probably just my Chamberlain.”
Rodney throws his hands up . . . “Fine, fine, I’ll just be in the Chair room, trying to figure out how we extract ourselves from this feudal mess.”
“Wait, Rodney. Maybe we should . . . you know, establish you in some official capacity. Like, if we’re going to have a government, shouldn’t we have ministers or something?”
“Yes, yes, it should all be very official. We need to prepare them to have a government even after we’re gone. Official positions . . . hm . . .”
And then there’s a tentative knock on the door and Mara asks. “John? Are you finally awake?”
“Maybe we should include her,” Ronon remarks.
Both Rodney and John shoot him twin glares. Rodney because he clearly believes her too stupid to determine her own people’s destiny and John because, Teyla believes, she makes him nervous.
Teyla has a bad feeling about all of this.
PART II