STARGATE SG-1 STARGATE ATLANTIS: Points of Origin - Volume Two of the Travelers' Tales (SGX-03) (STARGATE EXTRA (SGX-03))

by Karen Miller

  Resigning himself to duty, he grabbed the next file, opened it, and started to read.

  How did that quote go? Troubles when they come do not come singly, but in battalions. Something like that. Good old Shakespeare, never lost for an apt word. Dismayed, Janet stared at the carnage that greeted her as she hesitated on the SGC infirmary’s threshold. Two beds occupied, one man walking wounded, three piles of red-stained fatigues on the floor. Nurses working quickly, voices steady and deceptively disinterested, slapping on pressure bandages, applying a cervical collar, testing reflexes. Damn. Once, just once, why couldn’t good old Shakespeare be wrong? Hell of a way to start a shift.

  “What’s the story, Bill?” she said, her hand reaching to nurse Jake Fleming for a fresh pair of latex gloves as she stepped into the noise and the blood and the pain.

  Bill Warner, her medical brother-in-arms, didn’t look up. He was inserting an IV needle into Lieutenant Valdez’s right arm. Her left was clearly broken, a shard of shattered radius poking through bruised and battered flesh. Valdez was trying to tough it out but she was chalk white and sweating, galloping into shock. A soft, steady mewl escaped her blueish lips.

  “Jaffa attack on ’114,” Bill grunted. “Seven down. Three critical.”

  Seven down? But they’d only sent two teams, which meant they were looking at an almost total wipeout. Damn.

  The IV needle slid home. Snapping his fingers for some surgical tape, Bill glanced sideways. “Nancy’s in OR 1, working on Esterhaz. Ruptured spleen, lacerated liver. The other two crits haven’t made it back yet. Some kind of snafu. Tomic’s trying to get them home alive. There’s a trauma team standing by in the gate room but —”

  “On my way,” she said, snatched the stethoscope someone tossed at her, and took off at an ankle-turning run.

  More chaos in the gate room, klaxon wailing, emergency lights whirling, Hammond in his aerie, nearly as pale as Valdez, glaring down at the trauma team and the response squad’s P90s and the splashes of blood on the ramp. A familiar scene. God, she hated it. The radio chatter from ’114 was being piped in from the control room. Captain Tomic, sounding pressured.

  “— pinned down, I can’t see a way clear to the — no, wait — ” The thunderous sound of concussive weapons fire, bouncing echoes off the gate room’s drab concrete walls. “Command, we’ve got some help. It’s the Tok’ra!”

  Startled, Janet looked up at Hammond. Any surprise he was feeling couldn’t be seen in his face. Their eyes met. He nodded, the gesture almost imperceptible. She nodded back, letting him know It’s all right, sir, we have this. Scant comfort, but it was all she could offer.

  “Command, stand by! We’re coming in hot!”

  “Look alive, people,” she said to the trauma team, smoothing out the last wrinkles in her gloves. “You know the drill.”

  They were the best, Stargate Command’s medical staff. Pounding heartbeats as they waited — come on, come on — and then the gate’s event horizon spat out Mads Tomic and the Tok’ra Aldwin, each man dragging a wounded team member to safety.

  “Close the iris!” Hammond ordered. “Doctor, what’s their status?”

  It was too soon for an answer and he knew it, but she knew that it was ask or come down from his eyrie, which wouldn’t help. What would help was her doing everything she could to keep his precious people alive.

  On her knees beside Paul Lapotaire, taking in the wide red slick over dark skin, clamping her emotions as tight as she clamped off his nicked femoral artery, she spared Aldwin a swift, reassuring smile of thanks. His right sleeve was scorched. His left sleeve was soaked scarlet to the elbow. Blood caked beneath his fingernails. With Paul’s femoral damage contained and no other life-threatening wound to tackle, she looked over at Tomic, who pressed his wadded jacket to Jill Massey’s right flank while Kate Abbott checked the field dressing secured around the lieutenant’s mangled right lower leg.

  “Mads! You’re okay?”

  “Fine, doc,” he said, his voice not quite steady. “How’s Lappo?”

  “Hanging in there.”

  Blood from a hairline scalp wound sluiced down Tomic’s right cheek, and his left sported a red blotch that promised to ripen into a massive bruise. His knuckles were scraped and bloody, his black tee-shirt ripped across the chest. Beneath the shredded fabric she could see more abrasions, but compared to the others he did seem fine.

  “Kate?” she said, seeing that the SGC’s best trauma nurse could at last shift her focus. “Status.”

  Kate’s eyes were grim. “Third degree staff weapon burn, likely some internal damage. We’ll need a neuro for the leg.”

  Damn. “But we’re good to go?”

  “Yes,” Kate replied. “Mads, keep up that pressure.”

  Janet beckoned. “Gurneys! Let’s hustle!”

  “Dr. Fraiser!”

  She held up a hand, telling Hammond to wait. Just wait. He obeyed, but she could feel his seething impatience, his fear, through the glass. It burned the air between them, sizzled her skin. The trauma team nodded at her, patient transfer complete, Lapotaire and Massey strapped still and safe on their gurneys.

  “Go,” she told her team. “I’m right behind you. Mads, Aldwin, go with them. You’ll need to be checked out.”

  Wisely, neither man tried to argue. As they headed out with the trauma team she looked up at Hammond. Tipped her head towards the corridor. Even as she turned away he was heading for the stairs. They met up on the way to the elevator.

  “Both critical but stable,” she said, before Hammond could ask again. “Can you call the base hospital, get Dr. Huang here ASAP? I need to prep for surgery.”

  Hammond’s eyes, as grim as Kate’s, went blank. “You’re saying Massey could lose her leg?”

  “I’m saying we’ll do our best to see she doesn’t. Sir, I have to go.”

  “Of course,” Hammond murmured. “Doctor —”

  She nearly cursed. “Sir?”

  “I want to see Aldwin as soon as he’s cleared.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and bolted for the elevator.

  He was still staring at her, his face stark with everything they’d left unsaid, as its doors glided shut and she was whisked away.

  Dave Dixon staggered out of his sleeping infant daughter’s bedroom, fumbled his way downstairs and escaped into the family room, where he tripped over Elliot’s toy truck and planted himself face-first into the cushions on the battered family couch. They were sticky, and stank of fresh cherry cola.

  “Shit! Goddammit it to hell and back! Lainie!”

  No answer. Why the hell didn’t she — oh. Right. She and Elliot were out back, playing. He didn’t have the energy to yell again. Groaning, Dixon flailed himself out of the sweetly smothering cushions and slid to the floor. Stared at the ceiling. There were cobwebs on the light fitting. Good job Lainie declined her mother’s offer to come stay with them and help while the kids were at their worst with the goddamned chickenpox. She’d make the cobwebs his fault, sure as shooting. Lovely woman, Lainie’s mom. Best appreciated from a distance.

  The phone rang.

  “Shit.” With another groan, he rolled onto his hands and knees, crawled out to the hall where he’d left the handset that morning, and answered. “Dixon. Whaddya want?”

  “Colonel, this is Lieutenant Denworth. Please hold for General McCreary.”

  Denworth. McCreary’s persnickety right hand. One wrinkle in his fatigues and the little pissant needed a stiff drink and a lie down. “Yeah. Okay,” he said, hauling himself to his feet. “But can you tell me —”

  Click click went the phone line. “Dixon? What’s your status?”

  Heart sinking into his boots, he looked at the phone. Mouthed a silent curse. “My status, sir?” he said, scrupulously polite. “Well, General, I’m beat,
my wife’s beat, my house looks like a tornado hit it and my kids look like a pair of join-the-dot paintings. Ah — why?”

  A pause, then a muffled sigh. “There’s a problem at the SGC. Hammond’s requested you on TDY. Am I correct in assuming you’re no longer a health hazard?”

  Another glare at the phone. No, sir, you’re dead wrong. Because right now I want to kill you. “That’s affirmative. I’m clear. Sir, what kind of problem?”

  “The off world kind, Dave. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t vital. So when you say you’re beat…”

  Abruptly he was torn between resentment and excitement. Once, he’d been off world. Just that once. Adjo. And all this time later he could recall the mission’s every twist, every turn, every adrenaline-pumping moment. Adjo had changed him, fundamentally and forever. Reading the SGC teams’ mission reports was more torment than treat, these days. For a few precious weeks he’d been one of them, drinking deep of their secrets and sharing the brilliant insanity of their lives. Then he’d returned to his old life, picked up the pieces and told himself it was fine, it was good, he was content. Only in the darkest corner of the night, alone, could he admit the bitter truth: he missed the SGC, the Stargate, the unexplored galaxy’s allure, and he wanted them back, dammit. Except now it was broad daylight… and like a flipped switch McCreary’s question had unleashed his ruthlessly repressed longing.

  Crap. Lying to yourself was a damned sight easier in the dark.

  “Dixon? Are you there?”

  With a shake of his head he pulled himself together. “Sir. Sorry. And no, I’m not that beat.”

  “So you’re available? Because Dave, I still won’t order you.”

  Just like last time. McCreary was a good, decent man. But then so was George Hammond. And he wasn’t the panicking type, either. No way would Hammond reach out like this unless the SGC was up shit creek and their paddle-less canoe was sinking. Imagining what might have gone wrong this time, he felt his pulse pick up more pace. Was Frank Cromwell’s old friend Jack O’Neill at risk? Or one of O’Neill’s team? Adjo had forged an odd alliance between them. They’d parted wary, problematical friends. At least, that was how he and O’Neill had parted. He and the rest of the team were just friends, plain and simple.

  Frank would want him to save O’Neill’s prickly butt. Hell, he wanted to save it, and not only for Frank.

  He took a deep breath. Let it out, slowly. “Sir, I’m available if you need me.”

  “Good.” McCreary didn’t even try to disguise his relief. “Report to Hammond no later than 0800 tomorrow.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  The call disconnected. For a while he stood there, looking at the phone. Wondering how he was going to explain this to his wife. Then he felt a stir in the air behind him, and turned.

  Lainie.

  “Elliot’s in the sandbox, digging his way to Australia,” she said, her hazel eyes sorrowful. “Tell me.”

  There was a pain beneath his ribs. A band clamped around his chest. His fingers tightened on the phone’s handset like it was a lifeline. An anchor. And then he dropped it on the hall table, like it was a tool of betrayal.

  “Hammond called McCreary. There’s trouble. He wants me.”

  The nightmares about Adjo had been loud and violent and totally unexpected. It was Elliot’s premature arrival that undid him. Unburied his memories of Adjo’s plague and the children it ruined. In sleep he’d had no defense against those dreadful images, or the immediate and soul-destroying threat of his newborn child’s imprisonment in the NICU. Somehow those events melded so he dreamed of Elliot consumed by plague, his tiny son’s skin swelling and sloughing and himself a helpless bystander, condemned to watch his boy die in lingering agony.

  Tormented by her own terrors, Lainie had held him through the nightmares… and learned from his disjointed distress the truths he’d kept hidden. It was the first time in his career he’d broken his oath of secrecy. Waking, seeing her face, he hadn’t even tried to make up a story. If he’d done that he’d have broken the most sacred oath of all. Instead, he trusted her. Because he could. Because her honor was no less inviolate than his own. Because to lie would have been to kill his marriage, his family, and turn every sacrifice he’d ever made into a waste of blood and breath.

  Before he could say anything else, try to explain properly, Lainie smiled. “It’s okay. I’ll call Mom.”

  He blinked, his eyes stinging. “You sure?”

  “The only difference between this and Afghanistan is the zip code.”

  That made him smile, like she’d intended. “I’m pretty sure aliens don’t have zip codes.” Then his smile faded. “I’ll come back, hon. I promise.”

  “Mmm.” Her lips trembled, a muddle of thoughts and feelings chasing across her face. Then she had hold of herself again. “So. You’d better get yourself out to the sandbox. Keep Elliot busy while I start dinner.”

  As he passed her he paused, and laid his hand on her shoulder. Tipped his head down and sideways to rest his head against her vanilla-scented hair. For a long moment they stood there, silent, no words required.

  “Go on, Colonel,” Lainie murmured, patting his butt. “Scoot, before your son spoils his dinner eating sand.”

  He handed over the baby monitor and did as he was told, so humbled he felt dizzy. God. This woman. What had he done to deserve her?

  Keep an eye on her for me, Frank. And help me get home again safely.

  “Hey! What’s up, doc?”

  Hearing the familiar, welcome voice, and despite her current crop of worries, Janet felt an unmilitary grin burst through her reserve. She stepped to one side of the corridor, letting a pair of airmen go by, banished the grin, then turned and was struck, yet again, by how damn tall Dave Dixon was. Tall and solid and ridiculously reassuring because of it. Hell, at six-three he was taller than Jack. Taller than Teal’c. And here she stood, a shade under five-two in her bare feet. Positively Lilliputian by comparison. Good thing she was a doctor, and a damn fine shot with a Beretta. Otherwise she might find herself feeling a tad over-awed.

  “Colonel Dixon,” she said, cool as a cucumber. “Welcome back.”

  Immaculate in his dress blues, service cap tucked under one arm and curiosity lighting his eyes, he nodded. “Dr. Fraiser. Or should that be Major? Which comes first, the rank or the stethoscope?”

  She couldn’t help it. She grinned again. “Depends on the context.”

  “Ah.” Dixon’s smile flashed, then vanished. “I’ll remember that the next time I feel intimidated.”

  By tacit consent they fell into step together, heading for the stairs to the conference room. “I’m glad you’re here, sir,” she said, glancing up at him. “How much do you know?”

  “Nothing yet,” he replied. “Your boss called my boss and asked me to help out. When I got here I was told to come right down for briefing. That’s it. But I’m guessing things aren’t great.”

  “No,” she said soberly. “They really aren’t.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  “Colonel, Doctor,” Hammond said, as they entered the conference room. “Have a seat.”

  For once Daniel was on time, despite being recalled a couple days early from his leave, so they were the last to join the party. Clearly the general had already warned Jack that Dave Dixon was incoming, and in turn he’d warned Daniel and Teal’c. Nods all round. Daniel smiled. Jack didn’t, but he didn’t protest either, which was a relief. Examining him covertly, Janet felt a tug of anxiety. Four days of leave and what good had it done him? He looked no less tense or unhappy. Damn. So much for the healing powers of rest and relaxation.

  Hammond gestured at Michael Griff, seated at the far end of the conference table. “Colonel Dixon, you’ll remember Major Griff, SG-2’s team leader.”

>   “Sure,” Dixon said, sliding into an empty chair. “Good to see you again, Major.”

  “And you, sir,” Griff said, almost smiling.

  “And seated opposite is Major Bridget O’Connell. She heads up SG-7.”

  Bridget nodded. “Colonel Dixon.”

  “Major.”

  “Finally, Colonel,” Hammond said, “this is Aldwin of the Tok’ra. Aldwin, Colonel David Dixon. He’s… a floating member of my command.”

  Aldwin offered a seated bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Colonel Dixon.”

  “Likewise,” Dixon said, with a swift, assessing look. “I’ve read a lot about you.”

  As Aldwin frowned, puzzled, Hammond folded his hands on the conference table and leaned forward. “All right, people, down to business. Colonel Dixon, I’ve brought you in because Major Carter is currently unavailable and I need the SGC’s best team at full strength. This is a top priority mission with a high degree of risk. You’re sure you’re fine with that?”

  Janet felt Dixon, seated beside her, tense up. “Yes, sir.”

  “I had to ask,” Hammond said, his eyes warming. “General McCreary wouldn’t like me taking you for granted.”

  Dixon relaxed. “You aren’t, sir.”

  “Good,” Hammond said briskly. “So, to fill everyone in. The day before yesterday, SG teams Six and Nine gated to P5X-114. Preliminary UAV footage had shown a large village, apparently deserted. No Goa’uld activity detected. On site, Six and Nine found evidence of recent deaths and a hurried evacuation. Not a living soul was left behind. Instrument readings registered some kind of new and highly unusual energy signature. Seven hours later, just after its source was located, our people came under attack by Jaffa in service to Cronus. Both teams sustained heavy casualties and barely made it back to the SGC. That they all survived is largely thanks to Aldwin and his team of Tok’ra operatives, who made landfall on P5X-114 after their passing scout ship picked up that same energy signature. They helped Six and Nine to the gate and finished off the Jaffa once our people were home safe. In doing so, they paid the ultimate price. Aldwin is the only Tok’ra to survive the engagement. Our appreciation, and sorrow for their loss, have been conveyed to High Councilor Per’sus.” Hammond’s steady gaze shifted back to the Tok’ra. “Aldwin?”