STARGATE SG-1: Do No Harm (47 page)

“And Colonel O’Neill? Major Carter?”

“
O’Neill can still get around,
if he has to. I’ve come pretty close to tying him to his camp bed once or twice. I think when this is over he’s going to shoot me with a zat again
.”

Hammond made a little sound in his throat. “Colonel, I don’t doubt that for a moment. What about Major Carter?”

Dixon scrubbed at his stubble.
“Sir, she’s been pretty unresponsive the last six hours. And — hell, I could be imagining things but it looks to me like her joints have kind of swollen up. Plus she’s developed this rash
…”

“General, if I may?” said Janet, and Hammond stepped aside. “Colonel, it’s Fraiser. Did you say a red rash?”

“
Yeah, that’s right, Doc.”

“And she’s still short of breath? Still running a fever?”

“
Yeah. I’m keeping her temperature down with cool wet cloths and feeding her Tylenol when s
he’s awake enough to swallow, but it keeps creeping up. O’Neill’s sitting with her at the moment, talking to her. I think he’s getting through, but
…”

Janet felt her insides twist viciously.
Oh, Sam. Hang in there. What am I supposed to tell Cassie if you d
ie
? “Maintain that regimen, Colonel. Make sure Major Carter’s checked at half-hourly intervals. If her temperature spikes I want to know immediately.”

“Doctor?” said Hammond.

She looked at him. “Sir, the symptoms he’s describing sound like rheumatic fever. The only problem is, rheumatic fever usually presents after an untreated strep infection. That doesn’t fit here.”

He stared. “And is it fatal?”

“Ordinarily no, although there can be cardiac complications. The trouble is this only sounds like RF. It could be another mutation of the virus.” She turned back to the mike. “Colonel Dixon, I need more blood and a throat swab from Major Carter, ASAP.”

Dixon rubbed a hand across his tired face. “
Will do
.”

Hammond bent to the mike again. “Colonel Dixon, how are your supplies holding up?”

“
You read my mind, General. On the medical front I need more of everything, basically. Lots more. I’m doing what Fraiser said, I’m treating the symptoms, trying to keep folk comfortable, but ev
ery time I turn around the symptoms have changed on me. Gotta tell you, it’s hard to keep up
.”

“I hear you, Colonel,” said Hammond. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your supplies within the hour. You’re doing a sterling job.”

“
Yeah, well, it’s not just me. Jackson
and Teal’c are working round the clock too. And the villagers. We’ve turned into a pretty tight team
.”

“And we’ve got your back. Stand by for Doctor Fraiser, with final instructions. Keep the faith, Colonel. You are not alone.”

“
Yeah
,” said Dixon, after a moment. “
That’s good to know. Thank you, General
.”

Janet took over the microphone. “Colonel, I need you to film your patients again, and send me blood samples of every new case you’ve got along with that footage. We’re building a database as fast we can, to track this thing. Once I’ve assessed your latest casualties I’ll give you my best-guess diagnosis ASAP and advise on the relevant courses of treatment.”

“
Okay. Copy that
.”

There was silence in the control room once the Adjo wormhole disconnected. Nobody was looking at anyone else. Hammond stared into thin air, Harriman pretended a passionate interest in the dial-up computer and the other tech, Lassiter, seemed to be having trouble with her pen.

“Doctor Fraiser,” said Hammond, subdued, shifting his gaze to look at her, at last, “can I leave you to organize the new medical supplies?”

“Of course, sir,” she said, scrupulously polite. None of this was his fault, she knew that in her head, but her gut was screaming
punch h
is lights out!
Earth’s smallpox vaccine might not be able to cure what was happening on Adjo, but she was sure it could help.
It’s not fair, it’s not fair…

“Good.” Hammond turned to leave, then turned back. “Doctor, what’s your best assessment of Colonel Dixon and Doctor Jackson’s chances of remaining off the sick list?”

She nearly laughed out loud, the question was so impossible to answer. “Sir… I don’t have any kind of assessment. There’s simply no way of knowing. The only thing I can tell you that might be helpful is that Doctor Jackson’s most recent blood samples have shown a steady rise in leukocyte — white blood cell — count.”

“Caused by?”

She shrugged. “White blood cells are the immune system’s warriors. Ever since his prolonged exposure to the Goa’uld sarcophagus Daniel’s exhibited an unusually robust resistance to infections. He heals faster than normal and hasn’t caught so much as a cold. It could be the sarcophagus permanently and positively impacted his immune system and that it’s gone into overdrive on Adjo.”

“You think he’s impervious to whatever diseases Ra and Setesh left on the planet?”

God save her from laymen… “I’m not prepared to go that far, sir. It’s possible even his immune system could be compromised eventually. But it’s clear, at least in the short term, that Daniel’s got some kind of advantage.”

“Then is there any way Doctor Jackson’s blood can be used to
prevent infection in those people still to succumb, or strengthen the immune systems of those who are sick now?”

It killed her, knowing she’d have to disappoint him. “Actually,
sir, we’re already working on that. We’ve isolated the serum from Doctor Jackson’s blood and are running tests now, but… it’s not looking hopeful. It seems that whatever effect the sarcophagus had on him, it’s not transferable.”

The flare of hope in Hammond’s eyes died. “I see.” He nodded. “Very well, then. We’ll just have to continue praying that their own bodies can successfully overcome these infections. Doctor, I’ll leave you to continue the medical relief effort. If you require any command assistance, I’ll be in my office.”

“Sir,” she said, and watched him depart. Then she turned to Harriman. “Sergeant, I need some help in the medical supply room. Can you raise Siler for me, and get him to meet me there?”

“Yes, Doctor,” said Harriman. “Doctor Fraiser…”

She paused, her fingertips touching the open control room doorway. “Sergeant?”

His face was somber. “We can do this, right? We can bring SG-1 home safely, in one piece?”

“We can do our best, Sergeant,” she replied. “It’s all anyone can do.”

“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “Ma’am, I’ll track down Sergeant Siler for you.”

“Thanks, Walter,” she replied, and left him to do that.

The unnatural wormhole spins and roars, ravenous. The g-forces it has spawned
are brutal. He’s afraid. So afraid. But he can do this. He has to. Frank’s cracking jokes, trying in heartbeats to regain the ground they’ve lost over years. It’s hard to stay angry at him.

You want me to forgive you, is that it?

Yeah. I guess I do.

Was t
hat all it took, then, to ease the barbed pain of betrayal? A simple apology? An admission of guilt? If he’d let himself see Frank years ago, if he hadn’t slammed the door in the man’s face, would they still be friends now? Maybe. Maybe not. Iraq had been
bad. Next to Charlie, the worst experience of his life. Sometimes ‘Whoops. Sorry about that chief’ didn’t cut it.

But if that’s true, why does he feel different since Frank laid his soul bare? Why is that hot, hating ball of ancient rage beneath his ribs f
ading? Is it because now, years later, he understands the difference between wanting to keep a promise and being able to keep a promise?

Only now, years later and dangling above the maw of a monster, does he realize how much he’s missed his friend.

A voice
shouts: “Colonel, look out!” and then he’s caught in a glass storm. Not even dilated time and g-forces save him from the pain. He feels his flesh slice, feels the blood escape down his arms, feels his mortality rise to choke him.

He loses his grip on the
rope. The monster roars louder, so eager. Frank catches him, holds him, keeps him safe. He’s so busy repaying debts he puts the mission at risk.

“Get up there and arm the damn bomb!”

“Just climb!”

“Arm the damn bomb!”

“Climb!”

And then it’s Frank who’s sli
pping, Frank whose rope is cut, flying free. They’re anchored hand to wrist, locked eye to eye. So much to say…

“Frank! No!” O’Neill shouted, and half-fell off the stool beside Carter’s camp bed. She was too sick to hear him, but another hand caught his arm.

“Hey,” said Dixon. “Take it easy. You okay?”

O’Neill snatched himself free and settled back on the stool. His heart was pounding. So was his head. Fresh pain burned through him that had nothing to do with fevers.

“I’m fine. What do you want?”

Dixon held up Daniel’s digicam. “Fraiser needs an update on everyone’s condition.”

His head snapped round. “You talked to Fraiser? Dammit it to hell, Dixon,
I’m
ranking officer here. You don’t talk for me or this team.”

Dixon just looked at him. There was irritated impatience on his face… and reluctant pity in his eyes.

The pity was like acid.

“Jack,” he said, “I came to get you when I realized it was time to check in with the SGC. You were asleep. I thought you needed the rest.”

“That’s
my
call, not yours!”

“Screw you,” said Dixon. “So long as I’m the one upright and toting bedpans it
is
my call. You shouldn’t even be perpendicular. You should be horizontal with an i/v in your arm.”

“You try putting an i/v in my arm, Dixon, and I’ll put one in you where no i/v has gone before.”

“Yeah, right,” said Dixon. “You’re so weak I could knock you
down with my pinky finger, Jack. Enough with the John Wayne routine, okay? You’re not fit for command. And if you’re even a fraction of the man Frank always said you were, you’d accept that fact
and
my help while you’re at it.”

Frank
.

The dream was still salt raw, still screaming in the back of his mind. The horror in Frank’s eyes as gravity sucked him towards the wormhole. He’d always been a science buff. He knew exactly what was waiting for him on the other side. Endless death, atom by atom. Seconds lasting eons. No hope of reprieve.

God. Frank.

He felt his guts contract. Tried to keep the dream from showing on his face. Dixon was watching him, and Dixon already knew too much. He looked at Carter, stripped out of her heavy field uniform and redressed in lighter, kinder surgical scrubs. Reached out to her, and let the tips of his fingers rest against her bare wrist. Beneath his cold touch he could feel her sluggish pulse. Her sunken eyes remained closed, but she was still breathing. She was still with him. He hadn’t lost her, yet, or let her down.

Beyond SG-1’s small tent he could hear the sounds of trans
planted Mennufer. Squabbling children, fretful and afraid. Adult
voices raised to soothe them. Other sounds, as the afflicted tossed in their fevers and worse, suffering.

On the trek from the valley he’d thought they’d never make it. Too many people, too much fear and confusion, too big a task looming ahead. But they’d managed it. They pitched all those tents, set up all those camp beds, the field kitchens, the latrines, the makeshift hospital. Georgetown had sprung to life in the wilderness.

And that was largely because of Colonel Dave Dixon, who’d quietly and calmly, without fuss or fanfare, thrown his back to the wheel and worked without rest, without complaint, to see the job got done. Who did indeed carry bedpans, and do medical rounds, and take blood, and put in i/vs, and hold hands with the sick when their pain overwhelmed them.

Dave Dixon did that.

God, Frank, I want to hate him.

He looked up. “So what are you waiting for, Dixon? Make Fraiser’s damned home movie. How’s she doing, anyway? Any closer to coming up with a cure?”

Dixon fiddled with the digicam’s buttons. “Don’t think so. She didn’t mention it. She’s looking pretty rough. Hammond too.”