by Karen Miller
Okay. This was ridiculous. SG-1 couldn’t function with its highest-ranked members at each other’s throats.
“Look, O’Neill, if I was out of line before I — ”
“If?” said O’Neill, scathing, then stopped. Breathed out hard. “Forget it.”
Well, at least they were talking. “O’Neill, seriously, what are we doing?”
O’Neill turned, his flashlight strobing. “We’re being thorough, Dixon. For example, we’re at least five miles into the side of the valley and we’re still getting fresh air. How’s that possible?”
He shrugged. “Nifty Goa’uld technology, I guess. But it’s not our problem, is it? That’s for the tech-heads and science geeks to work out. You said you wanted to see the mine for yourself so you could write your report for Hammond. Well, you’ve seen it.”
“I’ve seen it up to this point,” O’Neill retorted. “And up to this point it’s clear. But what if I go round one more corner and come across a nifty Goa’uld booby trap? What if we lose a team of tech-heads and science geeks because I was too lazy — or too chicken — to poke around in the dark for a few hours? In case you’ve forgotten, Ra and Setesh went to war over this place and playing fair was an alien concept. No pun intended. So if you don’t mind, if I’m not inconveniencing you, I’d like to poke around just a little while longer. But only because the lives of people I work with might depend on it.”
Clearly, when he felt like it, O’Neill could be most eloquent. And he could wield words as effectively as a commando knife.
He also had a point.
Dixon nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Lead on, Macduff.”
In silence they explored the mine for another hour and twenty-two minutes and discovered exactly zero Goa’uld booby traps. By that time the temperature had dropped about five degrees, the air was growing stale and their footing uncertain.
Enough was enough.
“O’Neill,” he said, halting. “For Christ’s sake. Your report’s going to end up longer than War and Peace. Stop, already.”
Ten paces ahead, O’Neill slowed. Slowed. Stopped. Coughed. “Yeah. Okay.”
Well, break out the champagne and sing hallelujah.
They’d marked their progress roughly every hundred yards with fluorescent tag-pens, so getting lost finding their way out wasn’t an issue. Emerging into the Adjoan daylight more than three hours later, Dixon slapped a hand across his eyes.
“Man, someone needs to turn down the sun. Feels like my eyeballs are going to fry.”
When O’Neill didn’t so much as grunt in reply he risked permanent blindness and lowered his sheltering fingers. The man had dropped to sit on a nearby rock. His color was bad, chalky-white except for a hectic scarlet patch burning on each cheek, and a thread of fresh blood trickled from his nose.
Oh, crap. “Are you sick?”
O’Neill shook his head, then winced. “No.”
“You look sick. Like you’re running a fever.” He stepped closer, holding out his hand. “Are you — ”
“I swear to God, touch me and they’ll be calling you Colonel Hook,” said O’Neill, glaring.
The man was impossible. Dixon stepped back again. “Can you walk back to the village? Can you even stand?”
“Of course I can stand,” O’Neill snarled. He shoved to his feet. “See?” he said, swaying. “I told you. I’m fine.”
“Like hell. Is this from the raw naquadah?”
O’Neill sneered. “Worried about your own skin?”
He felt his temper rise to the boil. “Oh, enough with the friggin’ attitude. If it’s not the mine, then what? You’ve been swallowing Tylenol like it really is candy. How long have you been feeling bad?” That earned him a baleful look. “What, you didn’t think I’d notice?”
O’Neill swiped at the blood on his lips. Stared at his red-smeared hand, then the yellow creeping vines, resentful and trapped. “I get headaches. Big deal.”
“Oh, come on. This is more than a headache.”
“Yeah,” O’Neill grunted. Then he sighed. “Yeah, it is now.”
“Since when?”
Another sigh. “Since a couple of hours ago.”
“A couple of hours?” he echoed, incredulous. “And you kept up with the Seven Dwarves routine? You stupid bastard, are you out of your skull? What if you’d passed out in there? What did you think I was going to do, carry you down to the village?”
“No,” said O’Neill. “Thought you might drag me by one ankle.”
“God almighty, O’Neill, you’re a maniac.”
“It’s been rumored,” O’Neill said, and shrugged. “I wanted to make sure the mine was safe. It’s safe enough, at least for now. So let’s get the hell out of here. I need a gazillion more Tylenol.”
Getting back to the village turned into a nightmare. O’Neill struggled to keep his balance as they negotiated the rocky valley. There was no real path to follow, they just had to make it up as they went along. Worse than that the idiot resented and rejected any offer of help, even when he was in danger of pitching face first down the unfriendly slope.
The sixth time O’Neill narrowly escaped a broken ankle, or worse, Dixon lost his temper.
“That’s it!” he shouted. “Look, I get it, okay? You’re a tough guy. You’re a friggin’ superhero. But even Batman had Robin, and Superman had some damned dog. How is it going to kill you if you lean on me for five minutes? We’ve already had one team member go ass over eyeballs down this stupid hill. Why the hell would you want to make it two for two?”
Sweating, shivering, O’Neill stood there like a chastised school kid. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever.”
By the time they reached the bottom of the valley slope Dixon was afraid he really would have to carry his fellow colonel home.
Although the idea of dragging him by the ankle sure as hell sounds sweet.
Back on flat ground by the river they stopped to catch their breaths. O’Neill’s color was ashen now. His nose had stopped bleeding, but…
“What?” O’Neill demanded. “You’re staring like I’ve grown a third eye or something. What?”
Dixon swallowed. “You’ve got blisters. Pustules. Something. On your face.”
O’Neill’s expression blanked. Tentatively he brought up one finger and touched his cheek. Touched the clear bubbles on his skin. “Well… crap,” he said quietly. Then his head came up. “Hey. Do you hear that?”
“What?” he said. And then he heard it too, a low pitched droning sound, coming from the direction of the Stargate.
“There!” said O’Neill pointing.
It was a UAV, circling above the village and river. A moment later their radios crackled and a faint, staticky voice came over SG-1’s channel.
“— Stargate Command — SG-1. Colonel O’Neill, do — copy? Repeat. This — Stargate — calling SG-1. Does any member of — copy?”
O’Neill fumbled for his vest radio. “Stargate Command, this is O’Neill. Harriman, is that you?”
“— sir,” came a voice full of relief. “Colonel, what — your — stat — ”
“We’re fine, more or less,” O’Neill replied. “Why? What’s happening?”
“Sir, it seems you’re facing a medical em — ”
O’Neill shook his radio. “What? Say again, SGC, the signal’s pretty damned weak.”
“— a medical emergency. Has Teal’c reached — age yet?”
“I don’t know. I’m not in the village. What kind of medical emergency?”
“Colonel, this is Fraiser,” the doctor’s distorted voice said. “Listen care — much time. Teal’c found Lotar — gate — possibly contag — Code Red med — protocols apply. Take every prec — isolate yourselves imm — advise SGC ASAP on your team’s — status. Please confirm.”
O’Neill let out a harsh breath. “Crap.” He toggled his radio. “SGC, confirmed. Code Red protocols now in effect. We’ll contact you with a status report ASAP. O’Neill out.”
As the UAV dr
oned away into the distance, Dixon stared at him. Code Red? Code Red? But Lainie… the baby…
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh —
“Dixon!” snapped O’Neill. “If Lotar was contagious then we’re all in trouble. How are you feeling?”
With an effort, he dragged his anguished thoughts away from home. “I’m fine.”
“No headache? Nosebleeds? Sneezing? Burning sensation under the skin?”
What? He could’ve hit the man. “So there’s a burning sensation? Jesus, O’Neill — ”
“Dixon!”
“I’m fine.” For now. Oh hell. Lainie. “But you’re not. You should wait here. Jackson and I can come back for you with a cart.”
“No.”
“If you’re sick you shouldn’t be expending energy walking!”
“Yeah, well, you’d be surprised what it takes to stop me walking.”
Dixon felt his fingers clench into fists. “Yeah, yeah, I know all about your parachute adventure. I know all about a lot of things and frankly, Colonel, I don’t give a damn. You’ve got nothing to prove. This isn’t Iraq.”
O’Neill’s eyes went blank. “Screw you.”
Yeah. Okay. Wrong thing to say. “Jack — ”
“We don’t have time to futz around with carts,” O’Neill said, his voice cold and flat. “We need to get back to the village and make sure Carter and Daniel are okay, then find Teal’c so he can fill us in.”
They did. “Then let’s go.”
Once they made it across the river they took the long way round the outskirts of Mennufer, avoiding contact with any of the villagers. They both tried raising the rest of the team on their radios, but silence was the only reply.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Dixon. “Could be the batteries ran flat.”
O’Neill glared at him sidelong. More pustules had erupted on his face. “All of them? Simultaneously?” Then he faltered, stopped, and threw up. There was blood. “I’m okay,” he said, spitting.
Dixon shook his head. Yeah. Sure you are. Code Red protocols? Oh man, we’re so screwed.
Ignoring O’Neill’s protests, he slung an arm around the man’s shoulders and they kept going. By the time they reached the retreat O’Neill’s walk had degenerated into a stagger. He was almost out on his feet.
They made it into the building, barely. The first thing Dixon saw was Jackson, cross-legged on the floor beside Carter. She was layered in a sleeping bag, curled in on herself and unnaturally still.
“Oh no,” said Jackson, scrambling to his feet.
Dixon lowered O’Neill onto the nearest palliasse. “Oh, yes. But I’m okay. What about you?”
Behind the glasses Jackson’s eyes were wide and fearful. “I’m fine. It’s Sam. Something’s really wrong.”
“You’re telling me.” He took a moment to catch his breath and let his heart rate steady. “Jackson — ”
“Colonel, do you think you could get Jack some water? He needs antibiotics.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He needed fluids himself. Filling his canteen from the water barrel beside the door he heard Jackson talking to O’Neill.
“Hey, Jack. Um — you should lie down. You don’t look too hot.”
“I’m fine,” was O’Neill’s broken-record reply. Then: “Crap. Is that Carter?”
“Yeah.” Jackson sounded apologetic, as though somehow this was his fault. “She’s got a really bad fever.”
“Tell her to stand in line.”
Dixon quenched his own thirst then took the sloshing canteen inside and handed it to O’Neill. “Here. Drink.”
With a grunt — was that thanks? — O’Neill swallowed. Took the pills Jackson handed him and swallowed again. “Daniel,” he said, letting the canteen drop. “Why didn’t you answer your radio? The SGC was calling.”
“What?” Jackson pulled a face. “Oh. Sorry. When I couldn’t raise either of you I turned it off to save the battery. What do you mean the SGC was calling? How — ”
“They rigged a UAV with a transmitter. You didn’t hear it? Jesus.” O’Neill pressed his knuckles against his temples, hard, then lowered his hands. “Where’s Teal’c? Is he back yet?”
“Teal’c? No. Jack — ”
“Lotar’s sick,” said Dixon, as O’Neill started coughing. “Teal’c found her at the gate. I guess O’Neill and Carter have caught — ”
“No,” said Jackson. “It’s more than that. It’s rebirth.”
Still wheezing, O’Neill lifted his head. Whatever fluid filled the blisters was now tinged with blood. “What?”
“I don’t know what it means,” said Jackson. “Now that you’re back, I’ll find out. Jack — please. Lie down.”
O’Neill’s eyes looked like glass. “Yeah. Okay.”
Which said more about his condition than a battery of medical tests.
Dixon helped Jackson ease O’Neill onto his sleeping bag. Standing back, then, arms folded across his chest, his stark gaze shifting between O’Neill and Carter, Jackson said, “We have to get them to the SGC.”
Dixon shook his head. “We can’t. Code Red medical protocols are in place. We’re stuck here for as long as this lasts.”
“What?” said Jackson faintly. “No. That’s not right. We can’t be. Jack and Sam are really sick.”
And I’ve got a pregnant wife, you think I want to stay?
“Sorry,” he said. “We’re on our own.”
“But — but — ” Jackson looked shell-shocked. “Whatever happened to ‘leave no man behind’?”
Jesus wept, was he really that naïve? Where had he been for the last three years? “You’re the expert on myths, Doctor Jackson. You work it out.”
And then the retreat door swung open, and Teal’c came in. He looked… exhausted. Soaked in sweat, full of fear.
A Jaffa afraid. Now there’s a sight to give you nightmares.
“Daniel Jackson,” said Teal’c, his gaze fixed to O’Neill. “You are not sick?”
“No. Jack is. And Sam.”
Teal’c’s gaze shifted to Carter, then lifted. “Colonel Dixon?”
He shook his head. “So far so good. Where’s Lotar?”
“I have left her in the woods, well beyond the village,” said Teal’c. “Doctor Fraiser’s orders. Daniel Jackson — ”
“Yeah, I know, Teal’c,” said Jackson. “We’re really screwed.”
Hammond dug the tips of his thumbs into the corners of his eyes and pressed, hoping to short-circuit the headache rapidly building up steam in his temples.
God almighty, why can’t we catch one simple lousy break?
Across the desk from him Marcel Zola shuffled the pages of his report. “So basically, General,” he concluded, “this is the most superior naquadah anyone’s ever seen. .02 percent impurities which is, well, unheard of. I don’t want to get too technical on you, but — ”
“Then don’t, Doctor,” he said, lowering his hands and staring at the physicist. “I’m not in the mood. Bottom line, what you’re saying is that we need this naquadah.”
Zola nodded vigorously, his enthusiasm uncontainable. “Oh, sir. Yes, sir.”
He nodded at the bundle of papers crumbled in Zola’s excitable grip. “How layman-friendly is that report?”
“Layman-friendly?” echoed Zola. “Ah — well — ”
Scientists. They were all alike. The longer he worked around them the more sympathy he developed for Jack’s unkind opinions. “Doctor, I need a report for the Pentagon that won’t require a scientific dictionary to decode. You’ve got thirty minutes.”
Zola boggled at him. “Half an hour?”
“I suggest you get started.”
As Zola scuttled out of his office, his internal phone rang. It was Harriman.
“Second UAV’s away sir. You said you wanted — ”
“I’ll be right there, Sergeant.”
Harriman was monitoring the radio frequencies while Captain Raismith remote-piloted the UAV. As he entered the control room, Harriman gla
nced round. “Nearly in range, sir.”
His heart was thumping. Let there be good news, let my people be unscathed. “Good.”
“Sir, we’ve modified the second signal booster,” added Raismith. “I’m confident we’ll be able to punch through the local interference this time.”
“Glad to hear it. But we can’t keep sending through UAVs, Captain. Not when there’s currently no way of getting them back again. There has to be a way of establishing permanent radio communications with SG-1.”
“Sir, the communications team is working on that now,” said Raismith, not looking away from the UAV control-console. “Our best bet appears to be a naquadah-powered transmitter, which we’d leave in situ at the Adjo gate.”
“And how soon before we have ourselves one of those?”
“Well, sir,” said Raismith, pulling a face. “Donnelly and McLaren are still inventing it, so…”
He raised an eyebrow. “Tell them they might like to hurry up.”
“Yes, sir,” said Raismith.
Then something electronic beeped, and Harriman hit a switch. “SG-1, this is the SGC. Do you read?”
“SGC, this is Dixon. Reading you loud and clear. Go ahead.”
Hammond took over the mike. “Colonel, this is General Hammond. What is your status?”
“Sir, our status would be that we’re up crap creek without a functional paddle. O’Neill’s sick. Carter’s sick. It’s got something to do with the planet, but don’t ask me what.”
“Page Doctor Fraiser up here now,” he said, looking at Harriman, then turned back to the mike. “What about you, Colonel? And Doctor Jackson?”
“So far, sir, we’re right as rain. I can’t explain it, but we’re not showing any symptoms.”
“That’s good news, Colonel. Let’s hope you both stay that way.”
“Sir, we really need an immediate medical evacuation.”
He had to wait for a moment, to be certain his voice remained cool, calm and steady. “I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment, Colonel.”
“Then what do you advise we do, General? Whatever this thing is, it sure ain’t the common cold.”
“Sir,” said Janet Fraiser, behind him. “If I may?”
He hadn’t heard her come in. Turning, he considered her. Beneath the professional exterior, closer to its surface than he’d ever wanted to see, he saw fear. He felt the answering surge in his own blood, the slick of cold sweat.