Monster Mayhem on Mystery Mountain

Chapter 1

“Chak-tah,” said John, pulling his snow goggles down over his eyes.  “Doesn’t that mean something in Klingon?”

“Probably.”  Rodney ran his finger underneath the bottom edge of his snow goggles, making sure the slick moisture of his factor one hundred sunscreen covered every square millimetre of exposed skin.  “And in Goa’uld.  And Unas too.  Chak-taaaah!”  He looked around the stone Gate platform and up toward the hill town.  “Shouldn’t there be someone here to meet us?  Make sure we don’t fall off a precipice or down a crevasse or something?”  He gave a titter of nervous laughter.

“The route is clear, Rodney.”  Teyla, her hair smoothly arranged beneath the band of her goggles, gestured up the narrow path.  Long poles punctuated the way, topped by tattered flags which streamed out in the stiff, biting-cold wind - the wind that was keeping a couple of nice strong gusts in reserve to sweep you off the knife-edge route and whip past your flailing body as you plummeted to your death.

Rodney cleared his throat and swallowed.  “Hm, I suppose.  You’d think if they’re that keen to trade their coffee-substitute, they’d send a guide.  Or put in a hand rail.”  He'd tasted, and fallen in love with the bitter, rich, smoky, vanilla-sweet brew the first time he and his team had visited this world.  “Chak-taaaaah!” he said again, in anticipation. “Can’t wait to get me some Chak-tah.”

“Better stop talking and get moving then.”  Ronon nudged Rodney toward the path, his white winter gear rustling as he moved.

“Yeah, Ronon, take point,” said John.  “Teyla, see if you can stop Mr Stay-Puft falling off the path.  I’ll be on six.”

“What?  Stay-Puft?”  Rodney looked down at himself and then up at John and Teyla, who, clad head-to-toe in white one-piece snowsuits, both looked like they were about to calmly take on a black run, but for their lack of skis.  “You both look cool!”  He glanced at Ronon who’d stopped on the slope above and was gazing out over the vista of sharp, white-edged peaks while silhouetted against the electric blue sky.  He looked like an ice god.  “He looks cool!  I must look cool!”

John gestured toward the path with his P-90.  “C’mon, Rodney, time’s a-wastin’”

“But -”  He looked down at himself again.  Then he followed Teyla’s gesturing arm, down the gritted steps of the platform and onto the compacted snow of the steep path.  “I look like a marshmallow man, don’t I?  Mr Stay-Puft with his face stuck in a sardine can.”  He flapped a hand at his reflective goggles.

“You look like a man well-equipped for the terrain, Rodney,” said Teyla.  Her lips curved beneath her goggles.

Rodney stomped past her, up the narrow path.  “It’s always the way.  No matter how many lives I save, how many last-minute miracles I pull off, I still end up a figure of fun.”  He passed a flag pole and used it to haul himself up over a sheet of exposed rock, slick with ice.  “You lot go around all long and lean and poised and I’m the dumpy hanger-on, the fat kid trying to fit in with the gang.”  His boots dug into a patch of newly-fallen snow.  He shifted his course so that he could step into Ronon’s boot prints.  “It’s discrimination.  Not to mention downright rudeness.  I’m not even overweight!  All this hiking sees to that.”  He passed another flagpole.  “Not to mention the running away.”  His breath puffed in front of him, a plume of tiny droplets in the thin mountain air.  “So, you know, long-distance hikes, short, run-for-your-life sprints - I can do it all.”  His foot went out from under him, but he ignored Teyla’s offered arm, righted himself and continued.  “And all I get is abuse.”  The snow crunched and squeaked beneath his boots.  He was glad he’d decided on three extra pairs of socks.  “Abuse, and name-calling and insults.”  He stomped on, his eyes down, his thoughts full of resentment.  Teyla could have said something nice.  But she didn’t.  Huh.