STARGATE SG-1: Do No Harm (45 page)

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 brai
n 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-s
hape. 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 mi
racle, 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 question. 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?

Swallowing a groan, he dropped at last to his own camp bed. Good God, the sheer glory of sitting down…

A stirring behind him, then: “What did Hammond say?”