by Karen Miller
“Yeah.”
“You okay with that?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter if I’m not?”
“I think it matters,” she said, carefully. “It just can’t be allowed to make a difference. If that makes sense.”
His smile was brief. “You sound like Frank. Colonel Cromwell. The guy who — ”
“Yes, sir. I remember Colonel Cromwell.” But with events overtaking them, avalanche-like, she’d pushed aside Dixon’s connection and the memories it stirred. She took a moment to eat some dinner before it went completely cold. To think about whether she should say something or preserve a discreet silence.
What the hell.
“That was a bad business all round,” she said. “I understand you and the colonel were good friends. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks,” said Dixon, after a moment. “You weren’t there, when he died.”
“No. I was topside.”
Dixon picked up his knife and started threading it through his fingers. “One of the closest calls the SGC’s ever had.”
“Yes,” she said, and shivered. A year and more later, it still brought up the hair on the back of her neck. “Too close.”
“But you’re still here,” he said, and put the knife down. “You still support the program.”
“Yes.”
He sat back. Looked around at the scattering of villagers. “And will you go on supporting it when this is over?”
She’d lost her appetite. After pushing the plate aside she folded her arms on the trestle table. “Yes, Colonel. I will. Because despite the bad times, despite the close calls, what we do is important.”
He almost smiled, then. “Saving Earth. The galaxy.”
“From the Goa’uld?” She nodded. “That’s the plan.”
He reached for his mug, took a sip from it. Swallowed. “O’Neill said the two of you are friends.”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly cautious.
Dixon stared into his mug. “He ever talk to you about Frank?”
Well, hell. “Colonel, you can’t seriously expect me to — ”
“Cromwell was my best friend and he died,” said Dixon, his fingers tight around the mug. “And nobody will give me the time of day about what happened. O’Neill won’t — ” Air hissed between his teeth. “Frank was my best friend.”
“Colonel,” she said gently. “I’m sorry. I am. But I can’t discuss this. If you want to know what happened with Colonel O’Neill and Colonel Cromwell, then you’ll have to ask Colonel O’Neill. And if he doesn’t want to tell you…”
“Yeah,” said Dixon, and shoved back his chair. “Okay. I’ve got rounds. I’ll see you in the trenches, Doc.”
She watched him leave the mess tent. He took the scenic route, stopping to chat with the villagers. Answer their questions. Smiling, joking, keeping up their morale. He really was a very decent man.
Oh, Jack. Jack. Do you have to be so stubborn?
Her meat loaf and mashed potato were cold. She ate them anyway, then got back to work.
The days after that disappeared in a blur. Every dawn, at noon and before they lost the light she conducted rounds with Daniel and Dixon, dictating treatment notes and doing what she could to ease the villagers’ suffering. Another eight people came down sick, and despite their best efforts twelve more died. One of them was Bhuiku’s mother. Twelve more autopsies. Twelve more funerals. Twelve more stinking smoke columns clouding the sky.
Miraculously, she, Daniel and Dixon remained off the sick list. Sam, like Jack, continued holding her own. Not getting any worse, not getting any better. Then Jack, the idiot, snuck out of SG-1’s tent when nobody was looking and tried to wander round Georgetown as though he felt fine.
Dixon found him in a heap under a tree and carried him back to bed in a fireman’s lift. Janet didn’t even bother scolding him; his own miserable discomfort was its own punishment. She continued to monitor and treat him, and Sam, and keep an eye on Daniel and Dixon…
… and in every other waking moment she worked with Teal’c and the symbiote, and in her makeshift lab.
Bill Warner concurred with her hypothesis regarding Teal’c’s immunity. Hearing that had been a huge relief. He was a brilliant scientist, her shelter in the storm.
The symbiote’s blood was proving hell to work with. Brittle, unstable, it deteriorated swiftly once removed. Every stage of the process was taking three times too long, they had to keep discarding samples and starting over with fresh blood. Which of course led to its own set of problems.
Teal’c had no idea how much blood could safely be taken from his symbiote before the creature’s life was threatened. She didn’t know either, since the SGC wasn’t in the habit of experimenting on its personnel. Terrified of hurting it, killing it, killing Teal’c, she took each sample in tiny drops, like a miser. Gave half to Bill Warner, kept half for herself. Worked until she couldn’t see straight, knowing Bill was doing the same.
Six days after her arrival on Adjo, while everyone else in the camp was sleeping, she put a call through to the SGC for one of her regular medical updates.
“Sorry, Janet,” said Bill. “The last sample you sent corrupted half-way through the testing process.”
She shoved her hands in her pockets to still their trembling. “Mine too. Before it corrupted, though, what were you seeing?”
“For the first time, definite indications that its leukocytes can be synthesized. You?”
“The same.” Through the blanketing exhaustion she felt a flicker of hope. “It’s a good sign.”
“We need more than that, though. And I need more blood.
How’s Teal’c holding up?”
“Bill, he’s like Superman. I don’t know how he keeps going. But all this blood we’re taking from the symbiote — I’m really concerned. It’s working overtime to keep him clear of disease. Its color’s changed, its sluggish. Its not fighting the needle anywhere near as hard as it did in the beginning.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d be so much happier if it was its usual horrible, aggressive self.”
Bill sighed. “What do you think about Teal’c’s blood? Is there a chance — ”
“I thought of that. But Bill, you know how comprehensively we’ve tested it over the last three years. The way a Jaffa’s immune system functions, it lacks the properties — ”
“I know, Janet. But we should try anyway.”
He was right. At this point no idea, however how unlikely or far-fetched, could be dismissed.
“Okay. I’ll get a blood sample from him and send it through ASAP. Don’t forget to — ”
“Test it against what we’ve got on hand, to make sure there aren’t any nasty surprises. I know.”
She winced. “Of course you do. Sorry. Bill, you sound tired.”
“And you look worse. Don’t worry about me. Just you take care of yourself.”
After a couple of minutes of medical housekeeping she disconnected the call and went in search of Teal’c. He was in his private tent, completing a session of kel’noreem. When she entered at his invitation, he stood.
“Doctor Fraiser. How can I be of assistance?”
Hell.He looks exhausted. What was I saying about him being Superman? “I’ve just spoken with Doctor Warner.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “I see. Am I correct in assuming the latest blood sample has corrupted?”
She really didn’t like the look of him. For the first time since they’d met — a couple of medical emergencies notwithstanding — he appeared to her unwell, his intimidating aura of vitality dimmed.
“I’m sorry. Yes.”
“Then you must take another.”
“Teal’c — ”
“You are not to concern yourself with me, Doctor Fraiser. All that matters is the creation of this vaccine. I am perfectly capable of continuing.”
She shook her head. “No. You need to rest. The symbiote needs to rest. Doctor Warner and I ar
e pursuing another angle. I’d like to take a sample of your blood, this time.”
“My blood?” Teal’c considered her. “Doctor Fraiser, if my blood were useful would you not have already begun experimenting with it?”
“Are you telling me my job, Teal’c?”
His eyes narrowed. “Of course not.”
“Good. Then if you’re finished here, we can take care of it.”
He accompanied her to her lab without further protest. She took his blood, ordered him away to get some sleep, split the samples and sent half back to Bill. Knowing as she did so that they were tilting at a very rickety windmill. Knowing, too, that they had no choice.
When that was done she stopped in to see Sam. Her friend was sleeping. Didn’t react to the digital blood pressure monitor or thermometer, the hanging of two more i/v bags — fluids and antiobiotics — or the inspection of her catheter, for infection or local irritation.
Looking down at her, Janet had to blink hard. Sleeping? God, she’s closer to comatose. She’s slipping again. She’s slipping away. The thought was unbearable, a knife-thrust of failure. Furious, helpless, she withdrew from the ICU tent and continued rounds, to check on Jack.
Daniel was in SG-1’s tent too, lying on his camp bed reading one of the paperbacks the SGC had donated to Georgetown’s library. When she entered he sat up, tossing the book aside. “Hey. Janet. Is everything okay?”
There was no point giving him chapter and verse. He knew how sick Sam was, he spent time with her every day. Reading aloud to her. Holding her hand. As for the problems with the symbiote blood… No. The last thing he needs is another burden. “Fine. Just playing doctor. How are you?”
“Fine,” he said, the bald-faced liar. “I’m a bit worried about Jack, though.”
“Why?”
“Ever since he tried to play tourist he seems to be getting more and more… listless.”
Jack stirred on his camp bed. “Hello, not dead yet,” he croaked. “Not deaf, either.”
She and Daniel exchanged tired grins. “Hey, Colonel,” she said, and went to him. “How’s things?”
He was looking a little dehydrated. His scabby, blood-crusted face was too thin. “Not dead yet. Not deaf.”
She sat on the camp stool beside him. “So I see. When was the last time you had something to drink?”
He shrugged. “Today.”
“Colonel, you need to keep up your fluids. I/vs aren’t a fashion accessory. If you don’t drink at least two liters a day — ”
“Okay. Okay.” He grimaced. “How’s the research coming?”
“It’s… promising.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He knew her well enough to know she wasn’t lying… and well enough, too, to tell that wasn’t the whole truth. But he didn’t push it.
“Okay,” he said, as his eyes drifted closed. “Keep up the good work. Let me know how it goes.”
She stood and looked across at Daniel. “I think — ”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s under control.”
“Okay,” she replied. “I’ll leave you in charge.”
If anyone could keep Jack in line, it was Daniel.
But he’s right. Jack’s listless. Oh God. Don’t let him be going downhill too…
Thrusting aside that fear, all her fears, she went back to her makeshift lab and focused on the work.
More days blurred by. Teal’c’s blood proved a bust. She wasn’t surprised but still, it was a hard setback to take. She wasn’t sure the symbiote was ready to lose more of its own blood, but when she expressed her doubts to Teal’c he took her wrist in a painful grip.
“It is my decision, Doctor. I wish you to use me to save SG-1 and as many Adjoans as you can.”
“I know, Teal’c. I know you do.” Her wrist was hurting. “But if I end up killing you to achieve that — ”
“I could die in battle for one of them tomorrow. This is no different.” He released her wrist. “Honor my wishes, Doctor. I cannot stand by, protected by my enemy, when my friends are suffering and in danger of death.”
What could she say to that kind of courage? “Okay. Okay, Teal’c.”
And she took more symbiote blood.
After that, time lost its meaning. There was light. There was dark. At intervals there was food. Drink. She virtually abandoned Daniel and Dixon, leaving them to take care of the sick villagers almost without her. They didn’t need her anyway. Dixon had always been competent and by now Daniel was a dab hand with a needle, taking blood, setting up i/vs. And Bhuiku was there, too, burying his grief in work, leading his people. More villagers died. More fell ill. Every day was the same. Hope seemed a long way away.
She wore a path from her lab to the Stargate, conferring with Bill Warner nearly every hour. They finally had a breakthrough in the synthesis process and were able to proceed to live testing on mice. The first attempt was a failure. In private she wept, and showed a brave face to the world.
Against her better judgment she continued to harvest blood from Teal’c’s symbiote. Weakened, perhaps frightened — though she’d never know for sure — Teal’c urged her on. Wouldn’t let her falter. He was suffering now, but never made one complaint.
It was Hammond who called Georgetown to say the second round of animal tests had yielded cautious success.
“Congratulations, Doctor. Yet again you’ve confounded expectations.”
She was so tired it took a moment for his news to register. “Thank you, General. But it’s not just me.”
“You came up with the idea. You risked your life to implement it.”
“Teal’c’s the one risking his life. Sir, I know we need to move on to the next stage but — ”
“Teal’c’s at risk?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s aware of the danger?”
“Yes, but he won’t let me stop. I don’t — I can’t — sir, what should I do?”
“Doctor…” Hammond sighed, so far away. “I can’t answer that. You’ll have to use your best medical judgment. Weigh the alternatives and do what you believe is right. Whatever decision you reach, you know you’ll have my full support.”
So, no pressure then. “Yes, sir. Sir… what would you do, if you were me?”
“I’d do what I had to, Janet,” Hammond said softly. “If Teal’c’s made his mind up, I wouldn’t stand in his way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How are Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter?”
Oh God. She was hoping he wouldn’t ask. “They’re deteriorating, General. Their symptoms are chronic, not acute, but… sickness is wearing them down. Wearing them out. They’re very weak now, and nothing I do for them is making a difference. Their only hope is the vaccine.”
“I see.” Thousands of light years between them, and the grief in his voice was as loud as though he shouted in her ear. “Well, when next you see them, give them my best.”
“Yes, sir.”
Feeling as though her own blood had turned to lead she returned to her lab, where Teal’c was waiting. The lamplight gleamed on his gold forehead brand. As she entered he sat up, his movements far less smooth than usual. He took one look at her face and bowed his head.
“Success.”
She nodded. “Yes. The vaccine works. But to treat Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter — ”
“You require more blood from my symbiote.”
She sat on the camp stool beside him and took his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“And the Adjoans? With the next blood I give you, can we also treat them?”
“One step at a time, Teal’c.”
He nodded, hearing too clearly what she hadn’t said. “In an ideal world, Doctor Fraiser, how long would you suggest we wait before harvesting more blood?”
“Two weeks at least. Preferably a month.”
“And in your estimation, how long do they Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter have before they succumb to the ravages of this plague?�
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He’d insisted she not keep their condition from him. “Sam? A week. Maybe ten days. The colonel… longer. But less than a month.”
He smiled, painfully. “Then we both know what you must do.”
Oh God. “In the morning, Teal’c. We can wait until the morning.”
“Very well,” he agreed. “But no later.”
She left him to rest, and made her way through Georgetown’s arc-lit alleyways to SG-1’s tent.
Thank God for naquadah generators. None of this would be possible without them.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. They’d come here in the first place to find a safe, reliable source of the damned stuff because without it their hopes of defeating the Goa’uld were slim to none.
And we did. We found it. But my God… the cost…
To her alarmed surprise Daniel was fast asleep on his camp bed. It was relatively early, by their reckoning only quarter to nine.
“Is he okay?” she asked Dixon, who was sitting beside Jack making notes on his medical chart.
“He’s exhausted.” Dixon dropped the chart, and shoved his pen in a pocket. “Surprise, surprise.”
She dropped to a crouch beside Jack and checked his pulse — sluggish — and then the level of fluids in the i/v she’d had to set up. He’d need a new bag in an hour. His swollen eyelids flickered at her touch, but he didn’t open them, or speak.
“He’s fading, isn’t he?” said Dixon, his voice soft.
She stood. “Yes.” There was little point in trying to deny it. Dixon was a medic and he’d seen active duty. He’d seen men die. “But there’s still time to save him, and Major Carter. We have a workable prototype vaccine.”
He started to grin. “Hot damn. Doc, you are a genius.”
Oh God, I wish. “We’re not home yet, Colonel. There are some significant hurdles yet to overcome.” Like, how do we create enough of the vaccine without killing Teal’c in the process?
His wide smile faded. “Oh. Okay then. Give it to me straight. What do you rate our chances of success?”
She wouldn’t insult him by lying. “Less than fifty-fifty.”
For a long time he was silent, then he sighed. “Okay.”
“Hey — the odds could be worse. Don’t give up just yet.”