by Karen Miller
“Yeah,” Dixon said quietly, reading his mind. “The thing is, if anyone dies we’re going to have to cremate them, so we don’t need a mortuary.”
“No,” said Jackson. “No, I guess we don’t.” He kicked the nearest pile of gear. “God, I hate this.”
After reading all those mission reports he’d always suspected Jackson was emotionally volatile. Temperamental. The kind of guy who was swinging from the rafters one minute, crying into his beer the next. Not a headcase, not exactly, just… prone to moods. So, with that in mind…
“Yeah, it sucks, it blows, life stinks, we’re screwed,” he said briskly. “And so on and so forth, aiee aiee aiee, woe is us. Let’s head back to the others. We’ve got some serious organizing to do.”
Which stopped Jackson cold, at least for the moment.
They found the silent, exhausted villagers huddled in family groups and O’Neill awake and on his feet. Swaying a little, but upright. In his eyes a fierce gleam. Daring anyone to comment on his precarious state. “Report.”
“We’re good to go,” Dixon said easily, at his most relaxed and unthreatening. “We’ve got lights and power. First delivery of equipment’s there waiting, and I’ve done a rough layout of the village.”
O’Neill held out his hand. “Show me.”
He handed over his sketch. Watched O’Neill’s swift, keen appraisal. Saw the approval, quickly dismissed.
“Okay,” O’Neill said, and handed back the sketch. “Let’s do this. I want the basics set up at least before we call it quits for the night.”
Like the trek from Mennufer the task of creating their tent village was daunting but, with gathering momentum, the miracle happened.
The sick villagers were made comfortable, then the women designated as child-minders got the little ones fed and settled for the night. Another group of villagers took care of feeding everyone else with the MREs the SGC shipped through the gate. Those who weren’t children or manning the chow line were organized into teams and shown how to put up the military-issue tents. Sunset didn’t stop them; more arc lights and generators sent through from Earth turned night into day.
Stubborn to the last, O’Neill refused to rest. He insisted on being a team leader, nearly taking Jackson’s head off when the archeologist tried to object. Not even Teacl’c could convince him to sit this one out.
Dixon took the Jaffa aside. “Don’t bother,” he said quietly. “He’ll fall over soon and then you can stick him on a camp bed out of the way. But until then he’s going to work like there’s no tomorrow and nothing anyone says is going to stop him.”
“Indeed,” said Teal’c, after a thoughtful moment. “You understand O’Neill well, Colonel Dixon.”
No. But he was a good observer… and he remembered everything Frank had ever said about the man.
Tent by tent, a village grew in the wilderness.
“God, it’s incredible,” said Jackson, pausing to slake his thirst with a beer that Siler had snuck into the last crate of supplies. “These people… look at them.”
In silence they considered the Adjoans: afflicted, afraid, their leaders dead, far from home and surrounded by evidence of a world they’d never even imagined could exist. And yet they were building a tent village. Had overcome their fear of the gate, of all the strangeness, and just… got on with life. Doggedly did what had to be done, to survive, to win, to make a tomorrow for their children.
Dixon swallowed the last of his beer and dangled the empty bottle loosely from his fingers. “Yeah. The human spirit. Just when you think it’s been trampled to death in the mud.”
Jackson looked at him. “I guess you’ve seen a lot of that.”
Oh yeah. Somalia. Afghanistan. Bosnia. Iraq. Manmade hell-holes, each and every one. “I’ve seen my share.” He shoved his empty bottle in a crate already half-full of rubbish and glanced at the pile of folded tables Jackson was unfolding. “You good to keep going? I’ll sleep better if we finish this up tonight.”
Jackson was sweaty, dirty, stinking and exhausted, but he nodded. “Sure.”
Dixon smiled. Yeah. The human spirit. “Cool.”
Snaring the last cold beer, he wandered off to find O’Neill. It took him a few minutes; the stupid bastard had wandered off the reservation and was puking his guts up into some handy shadows at the village’s most distant edge.
When he was done Dixon held out the beer. “You want this?”
O’Neill hesitated, then took the bottle. “Where’d you get it?”
“Siler.”
“God bless him,” said O’Neill, unscrewed the cap and swallowed deep. It hadn’t been in his belly more than thirty seconds before it came straight back up again. “Crap,” he said, when he was finished retching. “Oh well. It’s the thought that counts.”
Dixon, light-headed with fatigue, every muscle aching, leaned against a handy tree. “So. You done proving to Adjo that you’re a mighty man? Think you might like to call it quits now?”
The question earned him a searing glare.
“I’m fine,” O’Neill muttered.
“No, you’re just stubborn.” He scrubbed his fingers through his filthy, sweat-damp hair. “I looked in on Carter a few minutes ago. No change.”
There was just enough drifting illumination from the powerful arc lights to reveal O’Neill’s face. Beneath the blood-black blisters and the silvery stubble, the dregs of color left to him had drained away completely. He looked almost… fragile.
And that’s the scariest damn thing I’ve seen since I got here.
“She’ll make it,” said O’Neill. “If she can survive a snake in her head she can survive anything.”
“What about you, Jack?” he asked. “What can you survive?”
Another searing glare. “This conversation. But not by much.” Then he turned. Tried to walk away. But his legs buckled, and he nearly fell.
“Hell,” said Dixon, and grabbed him by one arm. “Okay. You’re done.”
“Hammond,” said O’Neill, his voice slurring. “Need to — ”
“I’ll do it.”
“No, Dixon, I’ll do it,” said O’Neill, rallying. “I’m still in charge around — ”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “You’re also dead on your feet. You really want Hammond to watch you pass out or barf your guts up? What if he’s eating breakfast? One look at your face, he’ll lose his appetite for life.”
O’Neill tried to tug his arm free. “I’m fine.”
Dixon stared at him. I swear, if he says that one more time I’m going to put him on the ground myself. “Jack. Come on, man. It won’t kill you to get some sleep.”
A miracle, then. O’Neill surrendered.
Hammond hadn’t been in his office for more than five minutes when another call came in from Adjo.
“Hey, General,” said Colonel Dixon, gamely smiling into the MALP camera. “Just thought you’d like to know we’ve got ourselves a dandy little tent city here. We’ve christened it Georgetown. Hope you don’t mind.”
Mind? He was honored. Touched. “What the hell time is it there, Colonel?”
“Dunno, exactly,” Dixon said vaguely. Cruel fingerprints of exhaustion showed clearly on his face, which was starkly lit by the portable arc lights. “My watch strap broke and my brain stopped working about four hours ago.” Another weary smile. “Auto-pilot’s a wonderful thing.”
“Colonel, you need to rest. If you over-tire yourself you’re more likely to get sick and we can’t afford that.” And speaking of sick… “How are Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter doing?”
“Sir, they’re sleeping like itty bitty babies,” said Dixon. “I’ll be joining them in a minute, I promise.”
“Good. What about Doctor Jackson and Teal’c?”
“They’re having one last look around, General, to make sure everything’s ship-shape. Sir, can you let Doctor Fraiser know we’ll be ready for triage 0900 tomorrow, our time?”
“Of course.”
Dixon scrubbed a filthy hand over
his face. “I have no idea how you pulled it off, General. Getting us everything we need so fast. It’s a Goddamn miracle, excuse my French.”
No, the miracle was the way his people coped with every dreadful thing the universe threw at them.
“Under the circumstances, Colonel,” he replied, “it’s the least we could do.”
“Sir, how are my guys holding up?”
“Actually, except for Major Logan, they’ve been recalled to Washington. He’s staying a while longer. Colonel, your men have done you proud. I’m sure when you read their mission reports you’ll agree.”
Dixon cleared his throat. “Yeah. They’re the best.” He hesitated, then, his expression changing. “Sir — I’m sorry, I hate to ask this — ”
“Ask.”
“Is there any way I can get a message to my wife? She’s — well, she’s pregnant.”
Oh, dear God. “Colonel Dixon — ”
Dixon held up a hand. “No, no, that’s okay, General. Forget I asked. I never should’ve — ”
“I wish I could help you, Colonel, but we’re under a communications blackout.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Forget I mentioned it.”
Damn. “If the blackout’s lifted, or if — ” No, he wouldn’t finish that thought. “If there comes a time when I can accommodate your request, Colonel, rest assured I will.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you sir. I’d — well, I’d appreciate it.”
“Colonel, I want you to know we’re doing everything possible to achieve a good outcome for this mission. The President very much wants the chance to welcome you home. As do I.”
On the video monitor, Dixon’s grainy image nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s good to know, General.”
Was it? Platitudes. Empty mouthings. That’s all his words were… and Dixon had to know it. He wasn’t some green lieutenant and this wasn’t his first barbecue. But he was a good man. He played the game.
I dread to think where we’d be without him.
“Colonel,” he said gently, “I want you to get some rest. Consider that an order. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dixon, and didn’t catch the yawn in time. “Sorry. This is Georgetown, signing out.”
“Georgetown,” Harriman muttered, half-smiling, as the MALP feed disconnected. “That’s a good one.” Then he sobered, and glanced sideways. “Is there anything you need me to do, General?”
Hammond shook his head. “No, Sergeant. Unless… Are you the praying type?”
“Not as a rule, sir, no,” said Harriman carefully. “But I’m making an exception.”
He rested his hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “Good man. SG-1 and those Adjoans need all the help they can get.”
Ten minutes after he returned to his office, Janet Fraiser was knocking on the door. One look at her face and he knew what she wanted. He’d been expecting this confrontation. Dreading it.
Before she could speak he said, “Those samples Teal’c took from Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter. Any results yet?”
“No, sir. It’s too soon. General — ”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Doctor. It’s out of the question.”
“Sir, you don’t even know what I’m going to ask!”
“Of course I do,” he said tiredly. “Now that SG-1 and the people of Mennufer have relocated to the Adjo gate, you want to join them as their physician. I appreciate your dedication, and your feelings, but as I said — the answer is no.”
“Sir — ” She stepped behind his office’s guest chair, fingers gripping its back so tightly her knuckles were ivory. “I understand the risks. But SG-1 can’t do this without help. Colonel Dixon trained as a field medic, and Daniel and Teal’c are proving competent with needles. That’s it. That’s all the medical firepower they have. One medic, one archeologist and a Jaffa against potentially hundreds of patients.”
“That’s not entirely accurate, Doctor. They have you, and your team, and your combined expertise.”
“On the other side of a wormhole,” said Fraiser, perilously close to scathing. “And sir, that’s just not good enough!”
“Well, I’m afraid it’ll have to be! Good God, Doctor! Don’t you think I want to let you go? Five times in the last hour alone I’ve stopped myself from ordering SG-1 home and to hell with Washington and the President. I — ”
“Sir,” said Fraiser, as he wrestled for self-control. “This isn’t your fault.”
There were only two people on the base with whom he could have anything approaching an open, honest conversation. Jack O’Neill was one of them; Janet Fraiser was the other.
“If not my fault, then whose?” he murmured. “I should’ve listened to Teal’c.”
“General…” She shook her head. “It wouldn’t have made any difference if you had supported his objections. The minute Washington knew there was naquadah on Adjo, this mission was always going ahead.”
For a moment he could only sit there, looking at her. She was right. She was right. The final word on the mission had never been his. Control of his people, his resources, the situation, had never been his. Washington and the Pentagon wanted that naquadah… and whatever they wanted, they made sure they received.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But there’s little purpose in dwelling on that now. Our focus must be SG-1 and the Adjoans.” He held up his hand as she went to speak. “Please don’t make me repeat myself, Doctor. Your request is denied.”
She went very still. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, I just spoke to Colonel Dixon,” he continued briskly. “Your MASH unit has been established, and he’ll be ready to triage the villagers with you and your team at 0900 Adjo time. Make sure you’re ready.”
“Yes, sir,” she said again.
He nodded. “Good. You’re dismissed.”
After all the frenetic activity, Georgetown at last had settled down to sleep. The biggest arc lights were switched off, just a few smaller lamps dotted the area now, intimidating the unfamiliar shadows. Dixon, wandering the dirt streets he’d helped to create, listened to the villagers’ drowsy murmurs through their tent walls. Mothers soothing children. Husbands comforting wives. Warm, human sounds, good sounds… but they stirred up his grief.
Lainie. Lainie. God, Frank, what have I done?
He looked in on Bhuiku, who sat in one of the isolation tents with Lotar. The kid was totally out of it, head pillowed on her camp bed, his hand holding hers. Hooked up to three different i/vs, she was still breathing. Another miracle.
Bhuiku had been nothing short of phenomenal. Once he’d been shown how to put up a tent and how to interpret the sketch-map of the intended village, he’d taken charge of a team and worked like a whirlwind. The kid was a natural leader. Yeah, okay, he was young, but so what? With Khenti and the other Elders dead someone had to step up to the plate. So far Bhuiku was the only one who’d shown the kind of chutzpah needed in a crisis like this.
So long as he doesn’t get sick. So long as he doesn’t die. Maybe we should quarantine him…
Except it was way too late for that. And besides, he wouldn’t go. No way he’d leave Lotar, his lovely, dying wife.
And I get that. I’d never leave Lainie.
Except… he had.
Walking blindly away from Bhuiku and Lotar, heading back to SG-1’s quarters, he came across Teal’c.
“Hey. Thought you were done for the night.”
“I have concluded my inspection,” Teal’c said quietly. “Now I must perform kel’noreem.”
Dixon nodded. They’d set up a single tent for Teal’c’s use beyond the edge of the village, so his meditation ritual wouldn’t be disturbed. “You got everything you need for that? Enough candles, a mat, some music — ”
The corner of Teal’c’s mouth turned up, just a little. “I require no music for kel’noreem.”
“Incense?”
“The candles are scented.”
Really? With what? But maybe that was an insensitive qu
estion. Better not ask it, just in case. “Is Jackson still wandering around here too?”
“Daniel Jackson has retired for the night,” said Teal’c. “You should retire too, Colonel Dixon. You appear fatigued.”
And you don’t. Must be nifty, being a Jaffa. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready to call it quits. Triage with Fraiser at 0900, okay?”
Teal’c offered his odd little half-nod, half-bow. “I shall be ready. Good night, Colonel Dixon.”
“Yeah. Sweet dreams to you too, Teal’c.”
A single halogen lamp burned in SG-1’s quarters. Dixon let the flap fall closed behind him and soft-footed it into the tent.
O’Neill slept with his back turned, soundless and still. Jackson was sprawled face-down on his camp bed, right arm dangling over the side, glasses still loosely clasped in lax fingers. A folded blanket poked from beneath one leg.
He slid the blanket free, unfolded it, and draped it over the lightly snoring archeologist. Then he crossed to Carter, to see how she was. He’d thought she belonged in one of the medical tents, but O’Neill wouldn’t hear of it.
“She stays with us. We look after our own.”
Carter was hooked up to an i/v with fluids. Teal’c had put it in. He was getting good at stuff like that. Putting in i/vs, taking blood and skin swabs. The SGC had insisted; the triaging of the villagers could wait till morning, but not SG-1. So O’Neill and Carter had been poked, prodded and sampled and their bits and pieces sent back to the base. They’d been given more antibiotics, too. Not pills this time, but hefty doses of intramuscular gunk intended to combat secondary infections.
O’Neill had insisted on injecting himself.
God, Frank. Does he ever let up?
Carter’s saline bag was half empty, slowly drip-drip-dripping through its plastic tube into the back of her hand. He checked the needle’s insertion site to make sure there was no swelling or inflammation. It looked fine. Next he checked her pulse. A little fast. And her skin was too hot. Fever still smoldering. God, she was pale. Almost translucent. He frowned down at her, so quiet, so vanquished by her disease.
Is O’Neill right, Sam? Are you going to make it?