STARGATE SG-1: Do No Harm (48 page)

Really? Maybe we could trade places…

Except that wasn’t fair. In Hammond’s place he’d give exactly the same orders: no way could this Goa’uld-inspired disease cocktail be allowed anywhere near Earth.

“They say anything I need to know?”

Dixon shook his head. “No.”

O’Neill shifted on the camp stool, feeling the grinding ache in his bones. Not since Iraq had he felt this damned bad. “How are you doing, anyway?”

Surprised, Dixon stared. “I’m fine.”

“You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“You should get some rest.”

That made Dixon grin, sarcastically. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that, Jack. Just let me, y’know, brief the relieving medical team.”

Smartass.

He looked at Carter, so still and distant on the camp bed beside him. It seemed the flesh was melting from her bones. Beneath the disfiguring red rash her skin was translucent. She hadn’t opened her eyes for him in quite some time.

Oh God. Please God. Don’t let her be dying.

Resting his hot and hurting gaze on her he said, “I’m glad you’re here, Dixon. Things are easier, because you’re here.”

“Hey,” said Dixon.

He looked up again, braced for something maudlin, something personal. A
bonding
moment.

“Smile! You’re on candid camera!”

Teeth gritted, he let Dixon record his scabby, crusted, blackened-pustuled face, his slitted eyes, and the fresh stinging blisters on his back and chest. He pushed to his feet, trembling, so the man could film Carter without interference, paying particular attention to the way her joints were distorted with swelling.

“Okay,” Dixon said eventually. “I’m done. Jack…”

“I know, I know,” he muttered. “I need to lie down.”

But he also needed Dixon’s help to do it. Dixon’s arm supporting his weight, easing him onto the camp bed, helping his legs to swing up from the ground. Movement was painful. Hell,
breathing
was painful.

“When did you last eat?” said Dixon, stepping back.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Didn’t ask if you were hungry, Jack.”

“Screw you.”

Dixon smiled. “When I’m done filming I’m coming back with food.”

The man was impossible. “When did
you
last eat?”

“A couple of hours ago.”

“And how long since you’ve slept?”

Dixon shrugged. “I’ll get my head down for an hour once I’ve sent Fraiser what she needs.”

He scowled at the tent’s sloping khaki ceiling. “For all the good it’ll do us.”

“Hey,” said Dixon, and nudged the camp bed with his boot. “Frank heard you talking like that, he’d kick your ass.”

Frank. Frank. The fear in his eyes as the wormhole swallowed him…

“I told you, Dixon. I’m not talking about Cromwell.”

“No,” said Dixon, after a moment. “No, you’re not talking about him.”

And then he left. Outside the tent, in the fading sunlight, he said, “Hey, Daniel. How you doing?”

So it was Daniel now, not Jackson? My, my, my. Weren’t they all just a cozy little team.

“Okay,” said Daniel. “Is Jack awake?”

“Awake and biting,” said Dixon. “I’ll see ya. Cinematic glory awaits.”

The tent flap pushed open and Daniel came in. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

It was galling, having to lie flat on his back and reply. But the effort of sitting up, even onto his elbows, was too much. He was drained again, all his energy poured into sitting over Carter.

“I’m fine. You’re not sick. Why aren’t you sick?”

Daniel blinked. “Ah… I don’t know. Give it time?”

“You don’t even have a headache, do you?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“Thank you.”

O’Neill sighed. “How’s Lotar?”

Daniel’s smile disappeared. “Dave keeps pumping antibiotics and vitamins into her, everything Janet can think of to keep her system strong, but…” He shrugged. “She’s dying. Probably it’s a miracle she’s lasted this long.”

“And Teal’c? Where’s Teal’c?”

“I shoved him into his tent and made him promise he’d
kel’noreem
before he collapsed.”

Crap. That was his job. He was SG-1’s team leader, he was the one supposed to be holding things together. They were his kids. His people. His… family.

“Hey,” said Daniel, and pulled a camp stool closer. Sitting on it, he reached out a cool hand. “You’ve still got a fever.”

“I told you. I’m fine.”

“Oh, Jack,” said Daniel, half-smiling, half-frowning, and removed his hand. “You are so far from fine. How’s Sam?”

He rolled his head on the miserly pillow, so he could see her sleeping face. “Well, she’s not dead.”

“
Jack
.”

Shrugging irritably, he pulled a face. “What? What do you want from me?”

Daniel heaved a sigh. “Nothing. Just… shut up. Go to sleep.”

He didn’t want to sleep. Frank was lurking in the dark behind
his eyes, spinning… falling…

“I’m fine. I don’t need a nanny, Daniel. You should sleep. You may not be sick but you still look like crap.”

“Can’t,” said Daniel, around an ambushing, jaw-cracking yawn. “I need to help Dave with the next round of blood samples, skin swabs and injections. That’s not something the healthy villagers can handle. When was the last time you ate?”

God almighty, what was this? Tag-team harassment? “I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah. I’ll go get you some soup. Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

There was no point protesting. “Daniel!”

Daniel turned. “I know. I know. If it’s not chicken noodle you’ll throw it at me.”

“Well, yeah, but I wasn’t going to — ” He let air hiss between his teeth. “I’ve hardly set eyes on Teal’c since we got back to the gate. You know what he’s like, Daniel. If one of us is sick or injured, he hovers. Like a Jaffa hummingbird.”

“What do you expect, Jack?” said Daniel, gently. “He’s blaming himself. He thinks if he’d just fought Hammond that little bit harder the mission would’ve been scrubbed and we wouldn’t be in trouble now.”

“That’s nuts. Washington was never going to let Hammond scrub the mission. Not with a Goa’uld-free supply of naquadah up for grabs.”

“I know that. You know that. Even Teal’c knows that… but he’s blaming himself anyway.”

Of course he is. He’s Teal’c
. Anger and grief and frustration clawed at him.
This isn’t his fault. No-one wins an argument with Washington, not even Hammond. Not even me
.

Abruptly he was too tired to think any more. Too tired to talk. Way too tired to eat.

“Daniel, forget the soup,” he said, hearing his voice slur. “Go help Dixon. Or better yet, get some sleep. Tell Teal’c… stop being an idiot. Nobody blames him. This isn’t his fault.”

He was out before the tent flap fell closed again.

The only way to take care of Jack was to ignore him and his irritable outbursts. Daniel fetched a mug of reconstituted chicken noodle soup, courtesy of the Air Force’s finest culinary chemists, but when he returned with it to SG-1’s tent Jack was so deeply asleep he didn’t even wake to the whispered magic words:
Mary Steenburgen wants to jump your bones.

As the soup cooled in its thermal mug he stood over his friend, noting the changes the Goa’uld bioweapon had wrought in him. Jack looked as bad as he had that time in Antarctica. Not for the first time he felt a prickle of guilt that he wasn’t suffering so much as a cough or a sore throat. Which was crazy, it was nuts. They were damned lucky he wasn’t sick. No way could Dixon and Teal’c cope with this mess on their own.

But even so. Just a little sore throat, to show some solidarity…

He turned to Sam and felt his heart’s rhythm hitch. Man, he’d never seen her so still. All of her Sam-ness, her energy, her humor, her intelligence, smothered beneath this weight of terrible illness. Crouching, he brushed his lips across her dull, brittle hair.

“Hang in there, Sam,” he whispered. “Don’t give up the fight. Don’t let the bastards beat you.”

No response, not even a flicker of eyelash.

Oh God.

He left her, and sat on the camp stool beside Jack. “Hey. Jack. You want this soup or not?”

Still no reply. Just like Sam, there was no hint his presence had made the slightest impression.

“Okay,” he said, and pressed his hand to Jack’s shoulder. “I’ll leave the mug here.” He set it on the ground beside the camp bed. “If it’s still warm when you wake up you should drink it, okay? Otherwise you’ll hurt the cook’s feelings.”

Which ordinarily would’ve provoked a sarcastically amusing retort. The persistent silence was hurtful.

Abruptly aware of his deep exhaustion, Daniel braced his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. He felt floaty. Disconnected. He might not be sick, but he had one hell of a migraine brewing. He should take a Tylenol. His eyes drifted closed…

The whooshing sound of an opening wormhole had him sprawling off the camp stool. “What? What?”

He’d sent the thermal soup mug flying. Cold soggy noodles littered the ground like dead worms. Gross.

Groggy, disoriented, he staggered to his feet. He’d fallen asleep?
Damn
. For how long? He checked his watch. Hell, nearly forty minutes. He looked at Jack, then Sam. Still breathing. No sign of waking. It was so wrong, them sleeping through a gate activation when it was practically on top of them. Just another reminder of the dire straits they were in.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. We’ll win this. We have to
.

He mopped up the soup spill then washed his face and hands and brushed his teeth, because somehow clean teeth always made things feel better. After that he took some painkillers, and went in search of Dixon.

The colonel was in the medical supply tent, unpacking the requisite equipment for the next round of sample-taking. His expression was melancholy, his eyes grieving and shadowed.

“Lotar died,” he said. “While I was filming her. I know we gotta cremate her but… Bhuiku wanted a little time. I figure an hour won’t hurt.”

They’d been expecting her death, but even so… the loss was like a knife thrust in the gut. A silent wail of grief pushed against his closed throat.

“You okay?” he asked Dixon, after a minute.

Dixon shrugged. “Sure. I’ve seen people die before.”

In some ways Dixon and Jack were a lot alike. “Doesn’t mean it’s not awful, Dave.”

Carefully, methodically, Dixon continued counting out the syringes and tubes. “Death is always awful, Daniel. Even when it’s a blessed relief, it’s still awful.”

And now they were straying into painfully personal territory. “Yeah. Look, if you don’t mind I’d like to go see Bhuiku. Then I’ll do rounds with you.”

Another shrug. “Sure. Teal’c and I can make a start.”

“Great,” he said, and then he hesitated. Harsh reality, creeping close. “Um — Dave — I’m thinking… maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to cremate Lotar. If there’s a way Janet could perform an autopsy…”

Dixon nodded. “Thought of that. Don’t see a way round the Code Red protocols.”

“We could try. We could start by asking Bhuiku’s permission.”

“Guess it can’t hurt,” said Dixon, after a moment. “The worst he can do is say no. Okay. Knock yourself out.”

The thought of asking Bhuiku to help them like that was horrible, but what choice did he have? For all he knew Lotar held the key to everyone’s survival.

Even so… necessity can be a cruel, cruel master.

He cleared his throat. “The wormhole, before. Incoming or outgoing?”

“Outgoing,” said Dixon, reaching for another case of syringes.
“I sent the latest video footage back to Fraiser so she can get a head start on recommending treatment.”

“You told her about Lotar?”

Dixon gave him a look. “Gee, no, I forgot. Because a little thing like a dead girl is the first thing to slip my mind.”

Yeah. A
lot
like Jack.
Way to go, Daniel. Just when you’re building a genuine rapport with the guy…
“Sorry. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean — ”

“No, no,” Dixon said quickly. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t bite. I just…” He shook his head. “She was so young. I hate it when they’re that young, is all.”

“I know,” he said.
Sha’re. Laughing. Luminous. Reckless in her love.
“I hate it too.”

Dixon’s capable fingers fumbled with the clasps on the supply case. “My wife’s pregnant. Did O’Neill tell you?”

“Pregnant?” he said, startled. “No. Jack didn’t — he doesn’t — wow. I’m sorry.” Then he pulled a face. “Okay, not
sorry
, but — ”

“I know,” said Dixon, briefly smiling. “It’s our first. We thought it’d take longer, but — boom. Just like that. I just wish — I wish I could see her, talk to her. I wish — ” The clasp snapped open. “Anyway.”

Oh God. Just what Georgetown needed: more heartache. “Dave, I know things look bad. But Janet Fraiser is brilliant. If anyone can find a cure for this Adjoan plague, she can.”

“I know,” said Dixon. “Read the mission reports, remember?”

He nodded. “Yeah. So, I’ll get going. I’ll try not to be too long.”

The isolation tent had been set up on the furthest edge of their canvas village. One of the SGC’s portable halogen lights illuminated its interior, throwing stark shadows across the dead girl on the camp bed and the young man frozen in grief beside her.