Alliances

by Stargate

His lips tightened. “You get yourself a doctorate in psychobabble while I wasn’t looking, Carter?”

  “At the very least, you should talk to Daniel.”

  His busy fingers stilled. “Why?”

  “Ask him, sir.”

  “Carter—”

  Dangerously close to losing her temper, Sam held up her hands. “Sir—due respect, I’m not your Girl Friday go-between. Talk to Daniel.”

  The colonel looked up then, his expression formidable. She almost never took a tone with him, no matter what he dished out, and he really didn’t like it when she did. Well, that was just too damned bad. Last time she looked she was a decorated Air Force officer, not a doormat. She held his hard gaze in silence. Not giving him an inch. Refusing to be intimidated.

  Incredibly, he was the first to look away. “That’ll be all, Major. Dismissed.”

  It was a cheap way of getting the last word. The fact that he took it told her, as if she didn’t know already, that his reserves of emotional endurance were running perilously low.

  “Yes, sir,” she said quietly, and left him alone.

  Sam didn’t see him again until dinner. Like the personnel of the SGC, the Tok’ra ate in a large communal mess hall. Although here there was no chow line, no appetizing array of food kept warm in bain-maries, just a softly spoken collection of wait-staff who ferried full and emptied plates between the hall and what she assumed were the kitchens. Like everywhere else in the complex the artificially constructed environment was warm, and faintly scented with something floral.

  She, Daniel and Teal’c were already seated at their commandeered table when the colonel walked in, more ruthlessly self-contained than ever. Only the merest tightening of the skin round his eyes suggested he found his surroundings distasteful. The other diners, all Tok’ra of course, inspected him under cover of their various conversations and the cheerful clattering of cutlery on plates. He had to be aware of the scrutiny, but nothing in his demeanor betrayed that. Look up ‘poker face’ in the dictionary, you’d find a photo of Jack O’Neill.

  “Hey, Jack, over here,” Daniel called, waving.

  The colonel threaded his way through the hall’s mostly occupied tables and slid into the chair Daniel pulled out for him. “Evening, campers,” he said. Reaching for the jug of water that had been placed on the table, he poured himself a generous glassful.

  “O’Neill.”

  “Sir.”

  “Jack.”

  He put down his almost emptied glass. “If you’re waiting for Jacob or Martouf to join us, don’t bother. We’re on our own tonight.”

  Sam felt a stab of anxiety. “Why? What’s happened?”

  He shrugged. “There’s something they had to do somewhere else. Jacob said it wouldn’t take long, and they should be back by morning. He went to tell you, Carter, but apparently you were asleep. I said I’d be thrilled to be his Boy Friday go-between and pass on the message.”

  “What?” said Daniel, as she and the colonel just looked at each other. “Did I miss something?”

  “No,” she said at last. “It’s nothing. A joke.”

  “Ha ha,” the colonel added.

  “You were asleep?” said Daniel, turning to her. “During daylight? That’s not like you. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just worn out by all that archaeology.”

  “Don’t you mean bored comatose?” said the colonel.

  “Not at all. I really enjoyed myself,” she replied. “You should try it some time.”

  Daniel choked on his own glass of water, and Teal’c banged him so hard between the shoulder blades he nearly fell out of his chair. When he was upright and could speak again he gasped, “Jack on a dig? God, Sam! What did I ever do to you to deserve that?”

  She was saved from answering by the arrival of a young woman wearing a brown Tok’ra tunic and a spotless apron. “Good evening, Colonel O’Neill, Major Carter, Dr. Jackson, Teal’c,” she greeted them. “Welcome to Vorash. My name is Uthisbe. If you’re ready to eat, Jacob has already provided the cooks with Tauri food for you. I believe it only needs heating, which will not take very long.”

  “Really? Uthisbe, did you say?” said the colonel. “Well, that’s great, Uthisbe. We’re all starving, so bring it on out.”

  She bowed. “Certainly.”

  The colonel watched Uthisbe as she disappeared through the swinging double doors at the rear of the hall. “Now that’s something I wasn’t expecting,” he observed. “Being waited on by a Tok’ra.”

  “She is not a Tok’ra,” said Teal’c.

  “She isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Carter?”

  “Teal’c’s right,” she confirmed. “No symbiote. She’s human, just like us.”

  The colonel shook his head. “No wonder we can’t get any respect around here,” he said, disgusted. “Servants and suitcases, that’s all humans are to the Tok’ra.”

  She sighed. “Sir…”

  He held up his hands. “I know. I know. I need to keep an open mind. Carter, my mind is always open. You hear that whistling sound? It’s the wind, whipping through the space between my ears.”

  “Jack’s not entirely wrong, you know,” said Daniel. “We do have a few perception hurdles to leap over. Jacob’s done a great job laying the foundations, but nobody can overcome a couple of thousand years of prejudice and preconceptions in a few months. Not even a race as advanced as the Tok’ra.”

  “Exactly,” said the colonel. “Though when you say advanced—don’t know what’s so advanced about walking round with a snake in your head.”

  “I’m talking technologically,” said Daniel, with an edge of impatience. “As you very well know.”

  The colonel pulled a face, then drummed his fingertips on the crystal-formed table. “So, boys and girl. Here we are on sunny Vorash. Except it’s not so sunny. In fact it’s a bit chilly. I may need to send home for a sweater. In the meantime, anyone got any thoughts about this mission Jacob’s dreamed up for us?”

  “I think it’s inspired,” said Sam.

  “Not that you’re biased, or anything,” the colonel murmured.

  “No sir, I’m not,” she retorted. “Scientific method 101: evaluate the facts with complete objectivity. As Teal’c, Bra’tac and the rebel Jaffa movement have shown, destabilizing the system lords from within their own ranks is one of the most effective methods of defeating them. It’s also a lot less dangerous, from our point of view. Every time we get into a pitched battle with loyal Jaffa, or someone like Apophis, we take major casualties and have to spend months and millions of dollars recouping our tactical strength. It’s crazy. This way we have the potential to inflict enormous damage on the enemy without firing a shot. And it puts the Tok’ra in our debt. It’s a win-win scenario, sir.”

  He stared at her. “And it doesn’t bug you, having to use Jolinar to get the job done?”

  She met his look without hesitation. Whatever she felt about using Jolinar—and she hadn’t quite made up her mind about that—this wasn’t the time or place to discuss it. “No, sir.”

  “Fine,” he said, not quite frowning.

  “Major Carter’s analysis of the situation is correct,” said Teal’c. “Do you not constantly complain, O’Neill, that we are given no access to the Tok’ra and their operations or intelligence?”

  “I don’t know about constantly…” said the colonel.

  “I do,” said Daniel. “But let’s not dwell. The point is that as long as Garshaw was High Councillor the Tok’ra were never going to treat us as equals. After this, they will. And while I’m here I’ll be able to start laying the groundwork for an official treaty. It’s what I’m good at. Talking to people, and making them listen.”

  Sam held her breath as Daniel and the colonel locked gazes. Incredibly, again, it was the colonel who looked away first. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that. But—”

  He broke off as Uthisbe and another waiter returned with their dinner: garden salad, spaghetti bologn
aise, garlic bread and a bottle of Australian Merlot. After serving it, they withdrew.

  Sam felt herself grinning like an idiot. “Oh my God. Dad must’ve raided the commissary supply room then got the base cooks to put a dinner together for us.”

  The colonel smiled back at her. “Go, Dad. The last time I ate Tok’ra rations my guts went on strike for a week.”

  She laughed. “Said the man who thinks beer and pizza form four of the five major food groups.”

  “And so they do, Carter, so they do,” he said comfortably, refusing to be baited. “But only if the pizza is pepperoni. Now pass me the wine, will you? The bottle’s staring at me.”

  By tacit consent they spoke no more about the impending mission. Used the meal-break to regroup, rediscover their rhythm, get back in the familiar, comfortable SG-1 groove.

  After dinner they drifted to the Tok’ra’s communal recreation area, where they found couches and board games and Tok’ra amusing themselves. In one corner of the hall a group of three women and two men sat in a circle playing a range of musical instruments: variations on a violin, recorders, guitar. The sound was pleasant, but felt… unformed. If they’d been on Earth, it’d be called jamming.

  Leaving the rest of his team to fend for themselves, Daniel made a beeline for the musicians, his face alight with enthusiastic curiosity. The group welcomed him politely, but within a few minutes their reserve had melted and they were animatedly explaining their chosen instruments to him and encouraging him to have a go.

  Watching, the colonel snorted. “There he goes again. Making instant best friends with everybody. He just can’t help himself, can he?”

  “Daniel Jackson has a pure heart,” said Teal’c. “He possesses no defences. No agendas. He has no guile. He cares about people, all people, and wants the best for whomever he meets no matter who they are or even if they wish him harm.”

  “Teal’c’s right,” Sam said, smiling as Daniel tootled on one of the recorders. “Even when he screws up, like that time with Shyla, it’s only because he cares. And it is because he cares that we’ve made a lot of the off-world friends we have today.”

  The colonel looked at her. “You had to mention Shyla, didn’t you?”

  “Sorry.”

  They made themselves comfortable on a couple of vacant couches and sat in amused silence, watching Daniel teach the Tok’ra musicians an old English folksong. Being an old English folksong it had to with witches, death and sex.

  “God,” said the colonel, listening to Daniel sing. “Where’s the earplugs when you need them?”

  “Oh, don’t be mean,” Sam said, wincing. “I’ve heard worse.”

  “So have I,” said the colonel. “When I accidentally trod on a cat’s tail. And on that note,” he added standing, “I shall bid you good night.”

  She smiled up at him. “Good night, sir. Sleep well. Pleasant dreams.”

  Was it her imagination, or did he flinch? “Yeah. You too. See you both at breakfast.”

  “What time?”

  He shuddered. “Half-past Oh God It’s Way Too Early, or thereabouts. I don’t know yet. When I find out I’ll slip a note under your door.”

  “I’ll make sure to look for it, sir.”

  “You do that, Carter.” And as he walked away added, plaintively, “I just hope Jacob remembered to pack the Fruit Loops…”

  At which point Daniel mercifully stopped singing, and beckoned her and Teal’c to join him. Which they did, with pleasure.

  And a hey nonny nonny in the dingle and the dell.

  The Tok’ra transport rings deposited O’Neill on Vorash’s storm-scoured surface with a thud-thud-whoosh. Bitter cold lanced through his jacket and BDUs and into his flesh, reminding him sharply of other nights in another desert on a world far, far away.

  Hey Jack. It could be worse. At least you’re in one piece this time.

  Vorash’s single moon rode high in the black, starred sky. It was obesely full, colored a bold, deep golden yellow: what Charlie used to call an egg-yolk moon. The worst of the weather had passed; the cold, the crackle of ice underfoot and vestigial puddles of water were all that remained of its fury.

  He took a few deep, lung-searing breaths, welcoming their bite and marvelling all over again how each world he visited smelled different. Smelled alien. This time ten years ago, if anyone had told him he’d be a seasoned intergalactic sightseer…

  Pshaw. Do tell. Oh, really.

  He started walking. Heading for nowhere in particular, just needing to move, to stir the sluggish blood, to regain that equilibrium the Eurondan mission had so wantonly disturbed.

  Recent conversation, flotsam-like, floated to the surface of his mind. “I don’t give one good goddamn that you don’t like the Tok’ra,” Hammond had told him bluntly. “This mission is your ticket out of trouble, Colonel, and you don’t have the luxury of changing your mind. You’re going to Vorash, do I make myself clear?”

  George Hammond didn’t often pull rank, but when he did it was like being clobbered with a baseball bat the size of a California Redwood. “Yes sir.”

  “The President has expended a lot of political capital to save your ass from Kinsey,” Hammond had added. “And I used up a lot of favors convincing Admiral Belweather to convince him it was worth it. Do I need to tell you not to waste this second chance, Jack?”

  “No sir,” he’d answered, humbled. “You absolutely do not.”

  Hammond had nodded, smiling fiercely. “I’m pleased we understand each other. You dodged the bullet this time, Jack. Believe me when I say that given your—colorful—career it’s unlikely you’ll continue dodging them indefinitely—no matter how many more times you save the planet.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now you’d better get going. Jacob’s waiting. And if you could avoid upsetting our Tok’ra allies I’m sure we’d all be very grateful.”

  Ouch. Hammond didn’t often use sarcasm, either, but when he chose to…

  “You don’t have to worry, George,” he promised the sparkling sky. “I won’t let you down again, I swear it.”

  A faint noise behind him spun him about. Small in the distance—had he really walked so far?—the ’gate was powering up. He jogged gently back towards it, mindful of his gimpy knee. Fraiser would have his guts for garters if he blew it for a third time.

  The inbound traveller was Martouf. They met halfway between the Stargate and the rings. “Hey.”

  Martouf frowned. “Colonel O’Neill. Is something the matter? Why have you left the complex?”

  “Nothing’s the matter,” he said, tucking his cold-stung hands into his armpits. “Just… taking a constitutional. Where’s Jacob?”

  “Finalizing details. He will return in the morning.”

  When it came to revealing emotions, Martouf would give Teal’c a run for his money. “Everything okay?”

  “It will be.”

  “This—new thing. Is it the same thing Per’sus is working on?”

  Martouf hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “There. See?” he said, and clapped Martouf on the shoulder. “You told me something and your head didn’t explode!”

  “Colonel O’Neill…” Martouf sighed. “I find it quite curious that while you and your General Hammond see nothing untoward in restricting some areas and information when the Tok’ra visit the SGC, when we do the same you perceive our actions as untrustworthy and take offence. Why is this?”

  “Why? Well—because when we do it, we know it’s for a good reason. When you do it, we think you’re trying to hide something,” O’Neill said promptly, then replayed the words for his inner ear. Met Martouf’s skeptical look, and shrugged. “Okay, so that didn’t come out right. Martouf—”

  “I understand, Colonel,” Martouf said gravely. “The Tauri are long used to acting autonomously. So are the Tok’ra. Perhaps this joint endeavour will show us how we can work together for mutual profit, while still retaining our sovereignty and some secrets.”

&
nbsp; He nodded. “That’s the plan, I guess. So. This other business…”

  “If you are concerned the matter will impact our project, you need not be,” Martouf replied with his trademark enigmatic smile. “The issues are unrelated.”

  To push or not to push, that was the question. And tonight, anyway, the answer was ‘not’. “Good!” he said brightly. “Pleased to hear it.” Martouf started walking again, and O’Neill fell in beside him. “Look. I’m glad I caught you. About earlier…”

  “Yes?”

  “If I was… you know… tetchy…”

  “Tetchy?” Martouf frowned. “I’m afraid I do not know that word.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, short-tempered, then. A little sarcastic. All right, I admit it, rude, I—”

  “There is no need to apologize, Colonel. Or explain,” said Martouf. “Jacob mentioned you have been under some stress lately.”

  Oh Jacob did, did he? Trampling his instinctive response, O’Neill said, “I see.” It came out snippy.

  “Jacob has a high regard for you, Colonel,” said Martouf earnestly. “As do we all. Your willingness to risk everything to save him and Selmak has greatly endeared you to the Tok’ra.”

  Endeared him? Really? Cool. Wait till he told Carter… “Ah—good. Glad to be of service.”

  “Perhaps you should consider meditation to ease your stress levels,” Martouf suggested. “Selmak is an expert in the practice; if you ask him I’m sure he would be glad to teach you.”

  Meditation lessons. From a snake. Right… “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  They reached the rings and transported back into the underground complex. “Please excuse me now, Colonel,” Martouf said. “I have several reports to compose. Someone will wake you in time for breakfast, then afterwards escort you to the conference room that has been allocated for our purposes. Good night.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Good night.”

  After two wrong turns O’Neill made it back to his quarters. He shucked his clothes, showered in the miniscule en suite that appeared when he hit the designated button—creepy, but effective—then crawled into bed. Sleep hit him like a hammer… then, like a scalpel, dreams sliced his soul to ribbons.