by Karen Miller
He turned his head. “If there was a problem with your wife, Dixon, don’t you think I’d’ve said so by now?”
Dixon shrugged. “I don’t know. Would you?”
Well, crap. “Hammond did say to tell you SG-6 was home safe. Your guy Logan’s fine. The other two are still deployed, but there’s no reason for alarm.”
“Good,” said Dixon, and let out a long, slow sigh. “That’s good. I was worried.”
I don’t want to know how he’s feeling. I don’t want to have anything in common with this clown.
“Someone’s coming,” he said, looking down the pathway. “Looks like the home delivery crew.”
He stood. After a moment Dixon stood too. That young kid, what the hell was his name, Asbestos, Az-something, and another youth, unidentified, Daniel would know, walked up from the village. They were loaded down with pots and jugs.
“Yep,” said Dixon. “That’s dinner.”
They went to give the boys a hand.
The shrine of rebirth was housed in a cave eaten into the side of the valley by wind, water and time. Kneeling in reverent supplication before its sacred statue, flickered by candle light, Khenti could feel the anxious thoughts of his fellow Elders kneeling behind him.
“Speak,” he said gently, as beyond the cave’s entrance the evening breeze flowed down the valley and the setting sun gilded the lazy river. “We are alone here. Our words will pass no further.”
“Our strange visitors have magic, Khenti,” said Madu. “They possess the power to defeat the evil spirits living in the earth and in the air. They say they wish to be our friends. If we ask them, they will share their magic.”
Khenti shook his head. “You do not know that.” Indeed, he suspected there would be no sharing without first Mennufer paying a heavy price. The look he’d seen on Jack’s face was the same look to be found on the traders from Zigooola’s other villages.
Nothing is given for nothing. The first rule of trade.
“They said they would help us, Khenti,” Sebak whispered. His surviving family had perished last rebirth. He was a man steeped in unending sorrow. “We must beg them to help us. Rebirth is upon us. Do you not smell its sweetness on the breeze? Do you not feel it scraping over your skin? Adjo is waking. The nightmare comes.”
“Yes. Of course I feel it. Am I not born of Adjo? Every one of us feels it, Sebak. But as Mennufer’s senior Elder I cannot act like a frightened child.”
He did not need to look to know that Sebak was offended. “I am no frightened child!” Sebak protested. “I am a man who fears for the people of our village. Since we were small boys we have seen that with every new rebirth fewer and fewer of us are strong enough to stand against it. Every rebirth we lose more to death. And not just in Mennufer. You know that, Khenti. I fear that when the youngest child among us today is as old as I am he will be the last of our people.”
Panahasi grunted in agreement. “That is if he even lives so long, and who can say if that will happen? Sebak is right. We must ask our visitors for their help.”
“I too think Sebak speaks the truth,” added Madu. “Be guided by us, Khenti. Ask for help.”
They were foolish, his Elders. They did not understand. Lifting his head he stared at the shrine’s brutal, bestial figurine then turned to face them, glaring.
“No, brothers. We must stay silent. If they are told what comes to us at rebirth they will flee through the chappa’ai. They will take their magic medicines with them and we will suffer alone, as always we have suffered alone.”
“But they call themselves friends,” Sebak protested weakly. “Daniel has pledged to help us in many ways.”
“Daniel is a good man but he is not their Elder. Jack is their Elder and he is a man with a stone heart for his people. He has come here for a purpose. We have something he desires.”
“The naquadah?” Madu whispered.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “Sam and her friends were climbing near the mine.”
“Then tell Jack he might have the naquadah if he gives us his magic medicines,” said Panahasi.
“He will want to know what we need medicines for.” Khenti shook his head. “No. Rebirth must touch Jack and his people. Then, when they have shown us their medicines can overpower it, we will say to them: the naquadah and anything else you desire is yours, but you must trade us all of your medicines.” He frowned. “If it is naquadah he wants. We should make sure of that.”
Panahasi twisted his fingers in his robes. “The other villages, Khenti. Maidum, Abusir, Dahshur… should we not speak with their Elders before — ”
“No. These strangers have come through the chappa’ai to us,” he said fiercely. “Let Mennufer be healed first. Brothers, I am right in this. You know I am right. I am senior Elder. My word is law.”
The breeze sighed. His brothers sighed. They knew he was right… and his word was law.
Baghdad, February 19th, 1991
The French used to call them oubliettes. Small windowless dungeons into which men were thrown and left to rot.
Even that would’ve been better than his life right now.
Someone nearby was being beaten. He could hear the muffled screaming. Hear the torturers shout. Broken English, over and over: Tell us. Tell us. You know what we want. Tell us or you die. Tell us and we stop.
They’d been shouting the same thing at him for the past eleven days. Shouting. Hitting. Giving him hell.
Jesus Christ, Frank. What happened to nobody gets left behind?
The bullets that had dropped him seemed to come out of nowhere. He’d felt the blinding shock of them, heard the echoes of the two swift shots bounce around the shadowy Baghdad alley. Smelled the stink of rotting vegetables as he spun then slammed face-first to the ground. Felt the blood spring from his breached body. Shoulder, and scalp.
Someone called his name. “Jack! Jack!”
And then the world tilted sideways, and the next thing he knew he was lying trussed up in the back of a jouncing, speeding truck, listening to the excited gabbling of Saddam’s Republican Guardsmen. Every third or fourth sentence one of them turned and hit with him with the butt of his weapon, right where one bullet had lodged near his collarbone. Crap. It really hurt.
And now he was here, in this little stone coffin. Naked. Bleeding. No bed. No blanket. No… amenities. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t weep with pain. Jesus. Good thing there was Charlie, because if the Iraqis had their way he’d be singing soprano before this was over.
Charlie. Sarah. Oh God. Did they know he’d been captured? Or did they think he was dead?
How can I be captured? Frank, you promised…
The sound of a key in the cell door’s lock whipped his head round. Oh, come on. They couldn’t be serious, they’d only dragged him back here a few hours ago.
The door opened, revealing two brand new inquisitors. Jeez, where do they find them? Psycopaths R Us? Smiling, predatory, they dragged him from his dungeon. Took him to their special room. Strung him up, and hurt him.
Sarah. Sarah. Christ, Frank. I hate you.
And that was his life for a long, long time. Hurting. Hating. Staying alive.
At the end of April, Operation Desert Storm ended. Kuwait was free. The allies had won. Eventually, too slowly, the prisons of vanquished Baghdad vomited out their victims — broken and bloody, but some of them unbowed. Jack O’Neill was one of them.
The brass threw him in hospital. Fed him to the shrinks. Weeks passed. His body healed quickly. His mind took longer. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Cold sweats and hot rage.
Frank came to see him. He told his doctors: Get rid of him. He’s persona non grata. You bastards keep Frank Cromwell away from me.
It was Sarah and Charlie who healed him in the end. After he was discharged from hospital and sent home to convalesce. Loving her. Holding him. Playing catch in the back yard. Steaming up the sheets. She never asked what had happened in Baghdad. He never told her. He didn’t have the words.
>
After six months, Frank stopped calling.
He went back to active duty. Not a Major now, but a shiny brand new Lieutenant-Colonel. New base. New team. And a new reputation. He did good work. Got rewarded. Full bird colonel, how about that?
He made no attempt to contact Frank Cromwell. As far as he was concerned, the guy was dead.
Chapter Fifteen
O’Neill woke early after a restless night’s sleep. Bad dreams. Bad memories. Iraq. The prison in Baghdad. Abu Ghraib, it was called. He’d found that out afterwards. Did the name translate as hell hole? If it didn’t, it should.
He shifted in his sleeping bag, uncomfortable. The retreat’s wooden floor was hard as rock, waking splintery pain in his hips and lower back. Whispers of the mocking past. Teasing. Tormenting. Those long weeks of confinement brought close again, close enough to smell. To taste. To feel…
He sat up, abruptly. Crap. I don’t need this.
Back then, safely home again, he’d had Sarah when the nightmares came to play. She’d never asked, she’d just held him until the shaking stopped. Nobody to hold him now. Nobody to cling to, lose himself in, to —
Yeah, yeah. Cue the violins, O’Neill.
He pressed a clenched fist to his forehead, rubbing. His damned headache still hadn’t surrendered to last night’s dessert of Tylenol. Still pounded, unwelcome as a neighbor’s leafblower on a Sunday morning. When was it going to let up? Fraiser had fixed his headaches, he hadn’t had one for months. Did she offer a money-back guarantee? He’d have to ask her when he saw her next.
Can that be soon, please? I want to go home.
On the other side of the dim room, lit by a single low-burning lamp, Dixon shifted and muttered. He flicked the bastard a sour glance.
Are you dreaming, Dixon? I hope so. Big, fat, juicy bad dreams. Last night is your fault. Stirring things up…
He hadn’t dreamed of Iraq for nearly eight months. Before Frank died it’d been years. Then SG-10’s mission had gone to hell in a handbasket and before he’d had a chance to catch his breath there was Frank on his doorstep. In his face. Just the same. Big and bluff and taking charge, pushing and prodding and making him say things… pain and compassion, sorrow and guilt. Chris, the look on Frank’s face as the wormhole swallowed him…
The physics was crazy. Was Frank still alive, still dying, one micron at a time? Did he know it? Was he conscious? Could he feel his slow death? How much did it hurt?
Screw you, Frank. Get out of my head.
The others slept on, oblivious. Even Teal’c. He kicked back his sleeping bag, helped himself to more painkillers from the medkit, and left them to it.
Outside the retreat it was yet another beautiful morning on planet Adjo. A soft warm breeze teased at his stubbled face, carrying on it the rich scents of spring. The vista before him was silently serene. No villagers stirred. Not even the ubiquitous birds were singing. Was he the only living thing awake in Mennufer? And was it his imagination, or were there more flowers blooming now than there’d been this time yesterday?
He chewed the Tylenol, grimaced, swallowed… and sneezed. Sneezed again. Something warm and wet tickled his nose. Rubbing it, he stared as his fingers came away red. What the hell? A nosebleed? Not having a tissue on him he sniffed, hard, and tasted iron in the back of his throat.
Terrific.
Behind him the retreat’s door creaked as someone else came out.
“Hey, Carter.”
He heard her sharp exhalation. “How come you always know when it’s me?”
“Magic,” he replied, allowing himself a tiny smile, and glanced at her as she came to stand beside him on the pathway. The smile faded. “Well, hello. You look like crap.”
She gave him a look. “Morning, Colonel Pot. Major Kettle reporting for duty.”
“Carter — ”
“Sir, I’m fine. Are you?”
“Yes.” Or he would be, once this mission was done and Dixon had crawled back under his rock. But obviously she wasn’t. Dark circles marred the skin below her eyes, which were glazed in a way he didn’t like one bit. Her cheeks were barely touched with color, and there was a drawn look about her that suggested she was suffering a constant undercurrent of pain.
She frowned. “You had a nosebleed.”
“A little one. It’s nothing. Don’t change the subject.”
“I had one yesterday too. When I was sneezing. Right before I went head over heels down the side of the valley.”
“Probably you’ve got a cold on top of the concussion, and now you’ve given it to me,” he said. “Very generous. Thank you.”
“Sir — ” she began, then sneezed.
“See?” He took a prudent step away from her. “I think you should go back to the SGC, let Fraiser check you out.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. Then she sighed. “Okay. Maybe not fine. To be honest…”
“Yes?” he prompted, when she didn’t continue.
Scowling, she scuffed the heel of her boot against the hard-packed dirt path. “Maybe, just for today, I could help Daniel with his cultural research.”
He’d been hoping she could guide him back up to the naquadah mine, but clearly as plans went that had been way too optimistic. “Yeah. Okay,” he said. “But if you’re not looking better tomorrow then you’re reporting to Fraiser. No arguments.”
She smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Marginally satisfied, he frowned at the scenery. “Okay. Is it just me or is Mennufer more floral?”
She considered the view. “No, sir, it’s not you. It seems a lot of flowers have bloomed overnight. But that’s spring for you. One minute everything’s dead and bare and the next it’s, like, where the hell did all these leaves and flowers come from? Haven’t you ever noticed that?”
He gave her a sidelong look. “Hello, have we met?”
She grinned. “Sorry.”
“Okay,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve got you organized. Think I’ll go wake up the others and get them organized too, while I’m on a roll.”
She followed him back inside the retreat, where the rest of the team were finally stirring. Once they’d woken up properly and they’d all taken care of business — eating, shaving, calls of nature — he sat them down for a briefing.
“Teal’c,” he said, “I want you to take the naquadah samples back to the SGC for testing. Let’s make sure the stuff’s as good as you think it is before we get the Pentagon’s panties in a twist.”
Teal’c nodded. “An excellent idea.”
“I thought so. Daniel, you and Carter spend the day in Mennufer. Chat up the locals, get to the bottom of our little medical mystery and find out how religious they feel about naquadah, gold and the like. I want answers.”
“And so do I,” said Daniel, carefully. “But — ”
“Daniel, we could slowdance with these folks until next Christmas and be no better off than we are today. Time’s not on our side. I said twenty-four hours and I meant it. Now have you got these villagers’ trust or not?”
Sitting cross-legged, Daniel linked his fingers in his lap. “I’ve established a good basic rapport, but if we’re dealing with some kind of cultural taboos…”
“Then you’ll just have to find a way around them.”
“Jack — ” Daniel gritted his teeth. “I know you need results, but do you really want to get us sent home empty-handed? No. So you can bluster all you like, but when it comes to digging around these people’s cultural sensitivities I’ll handle things my way or not at all.”
O’Neill glared at him. Y’know, it’s not that he’s wrong. He’s usually right. It’s the way that he’s right. From the corner of his eye he could see Dixon smirking at the floor. Thanks, Daniel. Thanks a bunch.
Carter cleared her throat. “Sir, we’ll get as much intel as possible. We know what’s at stake.”
And there goes Carter, defending him again. Anyone’d think Daniel was her little brother.
“Just get i
t done. Dixon — ”
Dixon looked up. “Yo.”
“You’re taking me up to the naquadah mine. I can’t report on something I haven’t seen.”
“Okay,” said Dixon equably.
“It might be an idea to check with Khenti first,” said Daniel. “Make sure they’re still okay with us treating the place like our own backyard.”
“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “Fair point. I’ll do that.” He stood. “We good to go? Then let’s go.”
He found Khenti and his merry men at breakfast in their official hall. Facing one side of the village square, it was a three-roomed building, impeccably neat and floored in the same decoratively laid hardwood as their retreat. One of the village women was serving them fresh bread, fruits and what looked like runny yoghurt swirled with honey or some kind of syrup.
Hey, it’s a tough life but someone has to be waited on hand and foot.
There was no door to the room where they were eating, so he rapped on the wall. “Excuse me, folks. Hope I’m not interrupting. Just wondered if I could have a quick word.”
Seated at a small, sturdy table, Khenti exchanged a look with his subordinates then dismissed the serving woman with an imperiously waved hand.
O’Neill smiled and nodded at her as she approached. “Morning.” She spared him a searching glance, waggled her fingers in acknowledgement then bolted like a startled rabbit.
Okay. Maybe I should’ve taken a bath last night after all.
“Jack,” said Khenti, and beckoned him in.
He entered. Pity about the lack of door, he’d have preferred this conversation to be less potentially public. But it was what it was. He’d just have to keep his voice low.
“Thanks for seeing me,” he said, and looked for a spare chair. There wasn’t one. Khenti and the others sat on theirs like complacent cats, and considered him gravely from beneath half lowered eyelids.
Okay. You want to play it this way? I can do that.
Assuming a comfortable at ease stance, he waited for one of the Elders to speak.
“How is Sam this morning?” asked Khenti. “We hope she is feeling better. We hope your magic medicines have made her well again.”
