Alliances

by Karen Miller

  Aching with exhaustion, he blotted sweat from his face. He was feeling pretty awful himself. Nauseous. A splitting headache. Pains in his gut. He hadn’t told Janet. There wasn’t much point.

  If my luck’s run out and the plague’s finally got me, my best hope is the vaccine she and Teal’c are cooking up. She can’t afford to be distracted.

  Outside the tent, Adjo was lightening towards dawn. Another day, another funeral. They’d farewelled ninety-four villagers so far. Everything stank of cremated flesh. Bhuiku was holding his people together, but only just. If they didn’t find a cure soon there’d be nobody left for the young man to lead.

  Behind him Dixon coughed and rolled off his camp bed. Groaned and muttered, then joined him beside Jack.

  “Morning.”

  Daniel glanced up. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

  “He’s still with us?”

  “He’s hanging in there. In his own words, he’s one stubborn sonofabitch.”

  Dixon nodded. “Yeah. Frank said. Did you know he was taken prisoner by the Iraqis in Desert Storm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Frank said they gave it to him pretty good, but… he held out.”

  Daniel shifted a little on the camp stool. “You know, you say that a lot. Frank said.”

  “It’s true,” said Dixon, shrugging. “He talked about O’Neill all the time. I guess O’Neill never talked about him.”

  “No. I never heard of Colonel Cromwell till after he was dead.”

  “Figures.”

  He sighed. “Dave… what is it you want?”

  Another shrug. “Doesn’t matter now. Doesn’t look like I’m going to get it.”

  Daniel looked up. There was such sorrow in Dixon’s face. In his glazed, exhausted eyes. “Jack’s a good man,” he said at last. “He’s also the most aggravating, complicated, difficult man I’ve ever known.” He hesitated again, then decided to continue. This might be his last chance to get through to Dixon. “We met a little while after his son died. He blamed — blames — himself for Charlie’s death. Not pretend blame, not self-pitying blame. It’s complete, uncompromising self-condemnation.” He took a deep breath. “So however hard you think he is on other people, on Frank Cromwell, believe me. He’s a hundred times harder on himself.”

  Dixon’s eyes turned grim. “Don’t be too sure. I met Frank after O’Neill kicked him to the curb.”

  Oh boy. “Look. Dave. I don’t know exactly what happened between them. Mainly I’ve just read between the lines. And all you know is what Cromwell told you. Not that I’m suggesting he lied — ” he added hastily as Dixon’s thin, pale face flushed with temper. “But every story has two sides.”

  “You’re just defending O’Neill because he’s your friend.”

  That made him smile, even though his head was pounding. “Trust me, Dave. That doesn’t stop us butting heads. We’ve come close to nuclear meltdown once or twice.”

  Dixon frowned, disbelieving. “Uh huh.”

  “Oh please. You don’t think we put everything in our mission reports, do you?” He rolled his eyes. “The thing is, Dave, assuming Jack survives this illness, you are never going to get him to discuss his friendship, or lack of it, with Frank Cromwell. Trust me, he will never talk to you about something that personal. And the sooner you accept it, the happier you’ll be.”

  After a long, heavy silence Dixon nodded. “Okay.” He checked his watch. “We should start rounds. Unless… you want me to do it? You’re not looking too hot.”

  That made him smile. “Don’t suppose you’ve checked in a mirror lately, have you?”

  “Nah,” said Dixon. “Too scared. Okay. We’ll do rounds, then you should get some more sack-time. Be damned if I end up doing this all on my own.”

  “You go ahead,” said Daniel. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

  “Sure,” said Dixon, and made himself scarce.

  Daniel stared down at Jack again, chewing his lip. “Okay. As much as I really want you to be better, I’m hoping you didn’t hear any of that. Jack…” He reached out, rested his palm on Jack’s quiet head. “I’m going to be really pissed if you make a liar out of me. You’ve survived so much already… don’t you dare let a snakehead virus get you.”

  With a wincing grunt he levered himself to his feet, then dragged himself off, stumbling, to the hospital tents.

  In her makeshift lab, Janet checked for the last time she had everything she needed, then turned and made herself smile. “Okay, Teal’c. Are you ready?”

  Lying on the portable examination table, stripped to the waist and surrounded by apparatus, he nodded. “Indeed.”

  She didn’t need him to tell her he’d endured a bad night. She’d shared his kel’noreem tent, wanting to be on hand, concerned about his diminishing strength. The Goa’uld symbiote, though still immature, was old enough now to recognize its danger and punish him with pain and nightmares for daring to risk its life in this way. He’d tried to repress any expression of his suffering, mindful of her desperate need to rest… but not even he was strong enough to remain completely stoic.

  It had nearly killed her but she’d stayed on her camp bed, knowing it would mortify him if she acknowledged his struggle. He was the proudest man she’d ever known… and that was saying something.

  “Doctor,” he said, and gently took her hand. “We are both aware this procedure entails risk. Should I succumb, I — ”

  “Don’t,” she said fiercely. “I don’t want to hear — ”

  “Doctor Fraiser.” His voice was husky. “It has been an honor and privilege to know and serve with you. I will die a fortunate man.”

  Oh hell. Oh crap. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. Now hush.”

  She reached her gloved hand into his symbiote pouch and carefully withdrew the weakly writhing larval Goa’uld. Was it her imagination, or could she see its eyes flash? Hear its screams of outrage and pain?

  I have to. I have to. I don’t have a choice.

  Working swiftly, she secured the symbiote in the padded clamps she’d set up. Inserted a needle into the great vein running the length of its belly. Pulled back on the plunger and sucked out its blood. Thin and pale blue, it trickled reluctantly into the syringe’s reservoir. 2ccs. 5ccs. 8ccs. The symbiote was barely moving now. Oh God, had she taken too much? She removed the syringe, placed it on the sterile tray. Unclamped the symbiote and thrust it back in its pouch.

  “Teal’c,” she said, and tapped his cheek lightly. “Teal’c? Can you hear me? Can you sense the symbiote? Is it all right? Are you?”

  His eyes were half-closed. His lips moved, then he whispered: “Yes. I sense it. It is… very weak.”

  She felt sick. “Okay. You rest. I’m going to get this blood back to the SGC so they can get to work.”

  “Yes… I will rest…”

  Hands shaking, heart racing, sweat sliding down her spine, she transferred the precious symbiote blood into a test tube, sealed it, packed it into a protected container then called Dixon on her radio.

  “Colonel, I’m ready to send this blood back to Earth. Can either you or Daniel come to the lab?”

  As she was dismantling the symbiote-restraining apparatus Daniel entered the tent. “How’s Teal’c?”

  “Very weak,” she said shortly, then gave him a second, more searching look. “Daniel, what’s wrong? You look like hell. Are you sick?”

  “No. Just tired,” he said. His voice sounded pale. “I need some sleep, that’s all.”

  Appalled, she stared at him. His skin was chalky white, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Oh God. I’ve been so wrapped up in Teal’c and the symbiote, so afraid for Jack and Sam, I’ve been taking him for granted. And Dixon. They’re dead on their feet. And Daniel looks… wrong. “Okay. I need you to stay here with Teal’c. Keep a close eye on him. I’ll be back ASAP.”

  She’d opened so many wormholes now she could do it in her sleep. She was doing it in her sleep. Hammond took her call.

  “Tell me yo
u have good news, Doctor.”

  By now she’d almost lost track of the time difference between Adjo and Earth, but she suspected he was staying up way past his bed time. “Sir, I’m sending through more symbiote blood,” she said into the MALP. “I just hope it’s enough, because I’ve pushed Teal’c as far as I can.” She felt the air catch in her throat. “Maybe too far. General, he’s very weak.”

  “Doctor, you did what had to be done. You can’t reproach yourself. Teal’c volunteered.”

  In theory that was supposed to make her feel better. In practice… “Yes, General. I know. Ah — hold on — ” She put the sealed container on the ground in front of the wormhole’s event horizon and gently nudged it through with her foot, then returned to the MALP. “Sir, the blood is en route now.”

  A few moment later: “Doctor, we have it. How are Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter?”

  “They’re still with us.”

  “Thank God.”

  “General, do I need to impress upon you the urgency of — ”

  “No, you do not. We’ll send you the vaccine the minute it’s ready. Just… hold on, Janet. A little longer.”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “Sir, the Adjoans…”

  “You’re doing all that is humanly possible, Doctor. You can’t reproach yourself. It’s not your fault we only have one symbiote.”

  No, but knowing that didn’t assuage her guilt. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Fraiser out.”

  As the wormhole collapsed she bent over, fist pressed to her guts. Hang on, Jack. Hang on, Sam. It’s nearly over. Her radio crackled.

  “Doc? Dixon. I need you in tent four. I’ve got a kid spiking a fever.”

  She toggled the radio. “On my way, Colonel. Daniel?”

  “Yo,” said Daniel, after a moment.

  “How’s Teal’c?”

  “Out of it.”

  “Okay. I won’t be long.”

  “Sure.”

  Dredging up her strength, she jogged through Georgetown’s deserted streets to hospital tent four.

  Hammond sat forward, his fingers laced on his desk, and stared at Bill Warner. “Let me get this straight, Doctor. Are you telling me there is absolutely no way we can synthesize enough vaccine for our people and the Adjoans from the blood Doctor Fraiser has sent you?”

  Bill Warner shook his head. “I’m sorry, General. We can reliably produce vaccine from the symbiote blood, but we can’t synthesize the vaccine from the vaccine. That is, we can, but it won’t work. Ah — in layman’s terms, more or less, it’s the difference between producing a lot of xeroxes from one original, and producing them by xeroxing each subsequent copy. The image degrades. In this case, exponentially.”

  “You’re certain?”

  He shrugged. “We’ve been trying ever since we first got the process to work.”

  “So the only way we’re going to make enough vaccine to save the Adjoans as well as SG-1 is by locating another source of symbiote blood.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sat back. “I see. Thank you, Doctor Warner. Don’t let me keep you from the lab.”

  Warner nodded, and hurried out. Alone again, Hammond rested his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands and rested his chin against them.

  So that’s it. I can save my people but nobody else. The people we helped to infect, the people we hope to exploit, I’m supposed to leave them to fend for themselves. To what — die out, leaving Adjo conveniently empty? So we can waltz in and take its naquadah at our leisure? Is that the plan?

  Washington would never openly admit it, but… yes. That was the plan. The question was, could be live with it?

  “Never in a million years,” he said, and picked up the phone. “Sergeant Harriman? In my office.”

  Harriman arrived thirty seconds later, his expression cool and contained. “Sir? What do you need?”

  Just like that. No hesitation, just rock solid commitment. Dear God, I have good people. I have the best. “I want to speak to Jacob Carter. Failing Jacob, a member of the Tok’ra high council.”

  Harriman’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “Yes, sir.”

  As the door closed behind Harriman, Hammond stared at the photos on his wall. A younger George. A more reckless George. The George who’d placed his trust in strangers, a long time ago in 1969.

  Perhaps the Tok’ra can’t help us. But by God, I’m going to let them try.

  Janet was finishing up with Dixon’s fevered patient when her radio crackled again.

  “Janet! Janet! Get over here, quick!”

  Daniel, sounding uncharacteristically panic-stricken.

  “We’re on our way!” she said, and followed Dixon out of tent four at a run, watched by alarmed and curious village nurses.

  Dixon let her enter the lab tent first. Teal’c was thrashing in a major convulsion, with Daniel struggling to keep him contained on the exam table. Dixon joined in, throwing himself across Teal’c’s kicking legs.

  “What happened?” she demanded, scrabbling in the medkit. God, God, where was the diazepam? There. Her fingers closed around the bottle and she grabbed a syringe. Ripped off its plastic steri-pack with her teeth. “What triggered this?”

  “You’re the doctor,” Daniel grunted. “You tell me!”

  There were flecks of blood-tinged foam on Teal’c’s lips. His eyes were rolled back, flickering crescents of white. His clenched fists beat the air, his heels drummed the table.

  “Hold him down!” she shouted, filling the hypo. “Before he wrecks the place and kills us all!”

  “We’re trying, Doc,” Dixon retorted. “Can you please hurry up?”

  She took a deep breath and lunged, hypo extended. As it made contact with his skin Teal’c bowed almost in half. Even as she depressed the plunger his flailing arm escaped Daniel’s precarious control and slammed with brutal force across her chest. She went flying. Landed awkwardly. There was an audible snap as her right distal radius broke.

  She screamed, in shock and fury as much as pain. No, no, no, I don’t have time for a wrist fracture!

  Teal’c heaved and flailed again, the damned sedative was taking too long, and this time it was Daniel who bore the brunt of his strength. Teal’c’s fist caught him in the belly. He dropped to the ground like a poleaxed steer, choking.

  Right arm cradled against her torso, her world scarlet around the edges, Janet scrabbled over to him. “Daniel? Daniel!”

  He was curled on his side, classic fetal position, knees snatched close to his belly, and moaning. “Oh God, Oh God, it hurts…”

  Tell me about it. “Daniel, where does it hurt?” she demanded. “Relax. Let me look.”

  “He hasn’t been feeling good for a couple of days,” said Dixon. Teal’c was finally calming down, with the diazepam taking effect he was restrained by the colonel’s body weight alone. “Said he was tired, but this morning I didn’t think he looked right. I was going to make him let you check him out, once you were done with Teal’c.”

  Daniel’s face was ashen. Sheened with sweat. With sweat on her own face, dear God her wrist hurt, she managed to slide her uninjured hand past his guarding defenses and feel his lower right abdomen.

  He nearly hit the roof.

  Oh, no. No. This cannot be happening…

  “What is it?” said Dixon, as she pulled back, swearing. “What’s wrong with him? Hell, what’s wrong with you?”

  “I’ve got a fractured right wrist,” she gasped. “And I think Daniel’s ruptured his damned appendix.”

  Dixon stepped back. “No. He can’t have. That means he needs surgery.”

  “Then isn’t it lucky for him that you’re here?”

  He gaped. “Me? I’m not a surgeon!”

  She looked up at him grimly, the hot pain blurring her vision. “You are today, Colonel.”

  “But — but can’t you do it? I mean, I’ll help, but — ”

  “Not a chance. I’m right-handed, and I’m not ambidextrous. Come on, Colonel, you’re a medic.
You can do this. If you don’t he could be looking at peritonitis.”

  “Oh Mary Mother and her sweet baby Jesus,” Dixon whispered. “Why me?”

  There really was no time for finesse. She got Dixon to give Teal’c another hit of sedative, then manhandle him down to the far edge of the tent where he could sleep off its effects and hopefully recuperate. While he did that she spread fresh sterile sheets on the table, one handed, frantically praying she could stay on her feet.

  “There’s an air-splint in the big medical kit there,” she told Dixon, pointing. “I need it on my wrist. Now.”

  As he applied the splint, his hands shaking, he said, “How can I take out Jackson’s appendix? We don’t have any way of anaesthetizing him!”

  “True,” she admitted, through gritted teeth. “Our circumstances aren’t exactly ideal. But we can do this, Colonel. We have to do this. Because I’m not going to stand here and watch Daniel die. Now get him on the table. Gently! We’re going to dose him to the eyeballs with sedative then take the edge off with morphine.”

  He stared. “Are you crazy? You’ll crash his central nervous system!”

  “Ha,” she said, teeth bared. “Thought you said you weren’t a surgeon? Come on. Clock’s ticking.”

  He was right, of course. What she planned to do was beyond insane. But what choice did she have? Daniel’s life was in danger. Peritonitis. Septacemia. A short, nasty road to the morgue. For a tiny, useless nub of flesh the human appendix could do one hell of a lot of damage.

  What the hell had brought on an attack in the first place? She wasn’t aware of any virus that could cause appendicitis… but they were dealing with the Goa’uld, after all. Where they were concerned, anything was possible.

  Or maybe it’s because his immune system’s been working so hard against the Goa’uld’s plagues, this infection snuck under its guard. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting that damned appendix out of him.

  The pain from her fractured wrist was so ferocious Janet risked giving herself a 5mg shot of morphine. Then she and Dixon got Daniel prepped: sedated him, stripped him, shaved him, swabbed him, draped him. Fitted with him a digital blood pressure cuff. Hard-eyed and focused, Dixon didn’t miss a beat.