"If you don't mind," said Chaya, "I'd rather not discuss the others' actions."
"No problem," I raised my hands. "But we should talk."
"I agree," she nodded. "Though I have one request, Mikhail."
"Anything I can do," I assured her.
"In that case, please put some clothes on," she said, glancing sidelong at me, her tone kind but weary. Twirling on her small turquoise heels — matching her flowing dress — she left the infirmary. "Clothes are in the patient locker."
Her voice echoed faintly from the corridor.
"Excellent!" I called after her. "Don't worry, I'll find it! Wherever it is…"
***
My rescuer — the only Ancient I knew who wasn't lacking physical form — I rediscovered half an hour later.
She was sitting in the conference room near the Gate Room.
Seated at a luminous white table, her slender fingers flitted over a gleaming Ancient laptop. I'd seen such a model only twice — in the show.
Frame from the series. The lady holds that very same laptop.
"Sometimes I'm amazed by the logic of the Ancients," I said, stepping in and taking a seat opposite her across the horseshoe-shaped table, so we could look each other in the eye.
"Only sometimes?" she looked up, an eyebrow arched, skepticism glimmering in her gaze.
Chaya Sar and her skepticism.
"Exactly," I nodded. "Take that computer, for example. Why have two tiny screens instead of one large one? Wouldn't that make details clearer?"
"It's more efficient," she shrugged. "For us, perceiving fine detail isn't difficult, and working in parallel on two streams is convenient."
"Someone needs to teach you about dual desktops," I grinned. "Anyway… our introduction wasn't exactly smooth."
"True," she said calmly. She looked younger now — no older than twenty-five. The age when womanly steel first tempers youthful softness. "Still, I'm glad you found clothes before seeking me out."
"Sounds like you're scolding me, but we're not married, so maybe keep your claws sheathed," I teased lightly.
No, I was immensely grateful she'd saved me. But that didn't erase the irony that, in the canonical events, Chaya Sar had refused to become human even to help the Atlantis Expedition. Yet she'd done so for me.
From what I knew, her story was brief: the Expedition encountered her on a primitive world under Wraith attack; the Wraith were destroyed by her energy weapon. She posed as a priestess of "Athar," worshipped by the villagers. Later, she was revealed as an Ascended being punished to protect only her own people.
I'd always taken her for compassionate — someone who felt the suffering of others deeply, but powerless to intervene elsewhere. Now, though, she had defied that rule again. Strange, all of it.
"Good joke," she said without smiling. "I'll remember it."
"Since I've shared personal reflection," I said, "care to explain what made one already-punished Ascended step on the same rake twice?"
"You mean why I saved you," Chaya simplified.
"Spot on. It didn't require becoming human."
"Simple," she said. "I hadn't planned to. My assistance was only to trigger the drainage protocol before your biological death. You had retrieved the power; restored the shield. After that — you could act alone. Unfortunately, my interference was detected."
"Considering how much they hate me already, you wouldn't have gotten away with a slap on the wrist."
"That's what I thought," she admitted. "So I became mortal voluntarily."
"If you can't win — flip the table," I mused. "But they could have gone further. It's not like they answer to anyone."
"The Ascended don't know for sure whether the Ancients in the Milky Way still exist," said Sar. "So breaking the rules is… unacceptable."
"Because if the others are alive, they'd tan their hides," I concluded.
"Most likely," she murmured.
"You know, something doesn't add up," I confessed. "You said they erased your knowledge of your Ascended time. Yet you talk about them like you still know it firsthand. I sense a trick, my young padawan."
Sar ignored the joke — predictably.
She simply turned her screens toward me.
"I'll admit I have hawk vision, but these letters are tiny," I said.
"And you don't know Lantean well enough to read it," a faint smile appeared.
"Touché," I conceded.
"Apparently, I foresaw this possibility when I was still Ascended — I left myself notes," she explained, pointing to the upper monitor. "They include that you're from another universe and lack knowledge of our technology, yet possess information about potential futures. Quite notable, since cross-reality breaches were forbidden by the Lantean Council — and even before them, by the Alteran governance bodies."
So, what Hippophoralkus did was "haram" nearly since the dawn of Alteran civilization in the Milky Way. Makes you wonder what disasters forced them into such rigid laws.
"I heard time travel is banned too. A grave offense among the Ascended."
"I can't say for sure," said Chaya, her tone melancholy. "But in my time, such acts were punished by exile or stasis imprisonment. At best — social condemnation. Which was harsh enough; the entire society would turn away."
"They get offended and ignore you?"
"No. They'd still speak — just... nobody would help. Without support, no Ancient could achieve much alone. All significant works required collaboration."
That reminded me of something — something neither utopian nor entirely dystopian.
"How about we speak informally?" I interrupted.
"Excuse me?" she blinked.
"Don't tell me you don't understand — I'll lose all faith in Ancient genius."
"I understand perfectly, Mikhail," she said. "But given our age difference, I can hardly see such informality as appropriate."
"It's possible when we're the only two people in a city spanning miles!" I retorted. "We're in the same boat — might as well row together. They—" I pointed upward "—don't like either of us. So…"
"I don't recall issues with my shuttles," she replied evenly.
Was that... a joke? Or genuine confusion?
"I meant the Ascended."
"I know," she smiled faintly. Clearly playing back.
She hadn't been like this as an Ascended. The human Chaya was different. Warmer. Mischievous, even.
"So," I met her gaze. "We work together?"
"That would be the most optimal arrangement," she agreed.
"Perfect. Now tell me — you didn't raise the city to the surface, right?"
"That would forfeit Atlantis' tactical advantage," she explained. "It's far less energy-consuming to hold water at bay than to sustain surface-level shields against Wraith weaponry. The ocean disperses plasma charges effectively. So staying submerged is ideal — for as long as possible."
"We already think alike," I laughed.
Sar eyed me with quiet curiosity — perhaps wondering about my comment.
"Just an expression," I clarified. "Obviously, you're... older." I paused, hoping she'd fill in the blank. She didn't. "I mean, I can't possibly think like a more evolved version of humanity."
"True," she said. "My species' brain is more advanced. But a million years of evolution and experimentation could put us on the same level."
"Or create more Wraith," I muttered.
"Let's avoid that," she sighed.
"Then let's do what we do best," I said, clapping my hands.
"Talk?" she teased.
Why did her casualness always sound like provocation?
"I meant, figure out where we stand — assess damage," I explained. She nodded. "Then locate allies. Maybe some Ancients will join us and—"
"Unlikely," she interrupted, gesturing at her Lantean laptop. "At least according to this."
"What else does it say?" I asked. "Coordinates for ZPM caches? Warship sites? Drone armories? Ancient rejuvenation protocols? Surely you, as the smarter human version, planned ahead?"
"Perhaps," she said modestly, inviting me over. "But there's not much here. I may have deliberately kept it brief — to avoid attention. The Ascended would've destroyed it if they saw explicit instructions. Or stopped us before we read them."
That didn't sound reassuring.
I stepped behind her, glancing over her shoulder.
"If you don't mind—"
"Go ahead," she said quickly, pointing to several stacked lines of text, the first being the longest. "These are phrases — meaningless without context."
"I take it this one," I pointed, "is what you read to me earlier."
"I gave you the exact translation," she said. "Repeat?"
"No need," I waved a hand. "We primitive species have short memory anyway."
"That's partly why most Lanteans avoided close relationships with lesser civilizations," said Chaya. "Hard to remember faces — when you change yours every century."
"Not offended at all," I forced a grin. "So, what's written here?"
"They're unconnected statements," she explained. "Or I don't see the link. I think they were meant for me — since one mentions you..."
I smirked.
"Did I say something amusing?"
"Usually the first entries are the most important," I said. "If you wrote about me first, then I must matter to you."
"This text tool lists lines from top to bottom," she said calmly. "So if you're last, you still matter — chronologically."
So I came last. Typical.
"What else?" I asked.
"Something personal," she said quickly — deleting a few lines before I could read the symbols. "And if you don't mind, I'll keep it that way."
Fair enough. Everyone's got secrets.
"And the rest?"
"They're strange. One says: 'Everything has already happened'; another — 'The Jump'; and one more… that troubles me most."
She pointed to the final line.
"And what does that one say?" I asked.
What could trouble a ten-thousand-year-old ex-Ascended?
"'The Others lie,'" she whispered — as if someone could hear us. Though if any Ascended lingered nearby, they very well could. "I don't understand what it means…"
"Oh, but I do." Chaya looked at me. "In my universe, the 'Others' are what we called the Ascended."
***
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