by Karen Miller
“Fine,” said Jack. “Fine. You can go. Find Bhuiku, tell him about Lotar. But don’t make a big song and dance about it. Get him to one side, let him know quietly his girlfriend’s sick, and if he wants to see her send him up here and Teal’c can take him to her. Then you track down Khenti, because I want a serious talk with that old bastard.”
“Ah… Jack…”
That earned him another glare. “I said talk. I meant talk. Can you never not argue?”
This time it was Teal’c who shot him a look. Swallowing a retort, he said instead, “Yeah. Okay. And if I come across any sick villagers?”
Jack shrugged, wearily. “There’s nothing we can do for them tonight. We’ll take them with us to the gate in the morning.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, eyes screwed shut. “God.”
Daniel turned to Teal’c. “I think he needs more Tylenol,” he murmured.
Jack’s head jerked up. “Hello. Not deaf. Not so sick I can’t kick your butt.”
It was probably true. If only the same thing could be said for Sam… so still in the lamplight, her breathing slow and harsh. Sam sick was unnatural… like some fundamental law of nature had been broken.
“Daniel,” Jack said sharply. “Go, if you’re going.”
Their eyes met, and he nodded. Knew Jack didn’t want him slumping into despair.
And despair would be easy. We are so screwed…
“Yeah. Okay,” he said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
He left the retreat and hurried down the path to the village. The dusk was gentle, leaving him enough light to comfortably see by. Torches burned outside many of the houses, but there was no-one walking the dirt streets. He went first to the lamplit Elders’ hall. It was empty.
Probably they’re at the shrine of rebirth.
Which meant he’d have to wait till they came back. Except he wasn’t in the mood for waiting. Jack and Sam were sick because the Elders had withheld vital information about Adjo. He was angry enough over that to trample Khenti’s cultural sensibilities into the dirt.
If I can find him, that is.
Leaving the empty hall he knocked on the door of the first dwelling he came to with lamplight burning behind its shutters. After a moment the door opened to reveal a woman of middle age.
“You are Daniel,” she said, with a cautious smile. “You tell the children stories in the square.”
He smiled back. “Yes, that’s me. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“I am Rabiah.”
“Rabiah, I’m looking for Bhuiku. Can you tell me where he is?”
Rabiah nodded. “Until Bhuiku marries he lives with Odjit, his mother.”
“Where?”
From behind Rabiah came a child’s fractious cry. The woman jumped, and a little of the color drained from her cheeks.
“Rabiah?” he said. “Is something wrong? Is that your child crying?”
“Yes. It is nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing. Is your child unwell?”
Rabiah wrung her thin hands. “No. No.”
He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Rabiah, I know about rebirth. I know an illness comes upon you at this time.”
Her eyes opened wide. “You cannot know that. That is Mennufer’s secret business.”
“Yeah, well, the secret’s out. If you’d like, I can help you. But first I need to find Bhuiku.”
“Odjit and Bhuiku live in the third row,” she said, pointing. “The house with two windows in the front.” She pulled a face. “Only Odjit can have a house with two windows in the front. Odjit complains if someone else tries to make another window. She complains so loudly it is easier to have only one window.”
Daniel clasped her hand briefly. “Thank you, Rabiah. In the morning you’ll see me again, and we will speak of helping your child who is sick.”
Rabiah stared, her eyes hollow with fear. “No-one can help her, Daniel. She will live, or she will die.” Another wailing, hurting cry. “Go to Odjit and Bhuiku. I must see to my child.”
She closed the door in his face. Since there was nothing he could do for her right then, he turned and jogged the way she’d pointed, as the last of the sunlight bled from the sky.
He found Bhuiku and his mother’s home with no trouble and tapped on the door. Odjit opened it, but only a crack. The little he could see of her staring eye was puffy and bloodshot.
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to see Bhuiku.”
“You are one of the divide visitors. Why do you want him?”
“We were talking before, when I helped him make mud bricks for his new home with Lotar. I have a question.”
“It could not wait?”
He tried his most gentle, appealing smile. “I am sorry, goodmother Odjit. It could not.”
The door banged closed. Moments later it opened again and Bhuiku came out.
“What do you want?” he demanded, pulling the door almost closed behind him.
Daniel stared at him. I can tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want to stand here and ruin your life. “Bhuiku, where are the Elders? Do you know?”
Bhuiku glanced over his shoulder. “You cannot ask me that.”
“Sorry, but I think I just did.”
“They are praying at the shrine. They have prayed there since yesterday morning.”
“Is that usual?”
Another evasive, concerned look over his shoulder. “That is Elders’ business, Daniel. You should go now.”
Daniel took a deep breath. “Bhuiku, there’s something else.” Oh crap. He felt sick. Memories of Sha’re crowded his head. “It’s Lotar.”
“Lotar,” said Bhuiku. He tried to step back but the door was right behind him. “Lotar is in her passing time.”
“No. She’s in the woods near the village. Teal’c found her at the chappa’ai, Bhuiku. She’s sick. The rebirthing.”
For the longest time, Bhuiku said nothing. Then his dark eyes slowly filled with tears. “Take me to her. Take me to Lotar. I will say the marriage words to her. What do I care if she is sick? She is the woman I want as my wife. It might be she will not die. I did not. Lotar might live too.”
He put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You’re right, Bhuiku. Lotar might live. Tell me — is there any way to predict who will live, and who will die? Is there any way of knowing who will get sick?”
Bhuiku shook his head. “No. There are people in Mennufer, and in the other villages, who are old and were never touched by rebirth. Then there are the babies who die in their mothers’ arms. Nobody knows who rebirthing will blight. All we can do is wait and see.”
Daniel felt his eyes burn. Oh my God. Every year another crop of death. What a hellish way to live. He tightened his fingers. “Bhuiku, go to the Elders’ retreat. Teal’c will take you to Lotar. I must speak with Khenti. Where is the shrine of rebirth? How do I get there?”
“The shrine is in a secret cave.”
“How secret? Do you know where it is?”
Bhuiku looked at the darkening sky. “I know which way the Elders walk when they walk to the shrine. Everyone in Mennufer knows that. But we do not follow. The shrine is for the Elders. You cannot go there.”
“Bhuiku, because the Elders would not talk to us of rebirth, would not let anyone in the village talk of it, two of my friends are sick. If we’d known what was coming we might’ve prevented that. We might’ve prevented Lotar from getting sick. Khenti and the others have put us all in danger. Now I’m asking you — I’m begging you — show me how to find the shrine.”
“You can save Lotar?” Bhuiku said, his eyes narrowing. “With your medicines, you can save her?”
“I don’t know. It might be too late. But I promise you this, Bhuiku, we’re going to try as hard as we can.”
“Wait,” said Bhuiku, and went back inside his home.
Daniel stood in the street and tried not to listen as Bhuiku and his mother argued bitterly. It wou
ld be a long time before he forgot the look in Bhuiku’s eyes when he realized he might be a widower before he ever was a husband.
The door opened again and Bhuiku came out, carrying two lit lamps. “Come,” he said, and nothing else.
When they reached the edge of the village, and the path leading up to the Elders’ retreat, Bhuiku handed over one of the lamps and pointed at the sloping valley side ahead and to the left. “There is where the Elders walk to the shrine. You can walk there in the darkness if that is what you want, Daniel. I am going to find Lotar and marry her.”
He kept on going, up the path to the retreat. Daniel watched him for a moment, his heart heavy and aching.
Then he took a deep breath and started walking towards the shrine.
After Teal’c and the villager Bhuiku left to be with Lotar, Dixon said something about getting some fresh air and wandered outside.
“Yeah, whatever,” O’Neill muttered in reply. Like I could care less where you go or what you do. Another handful of painkillers had helped his pounding headache, a little. His skin still felt hot and scratchy though. The blisters on his face continued to tingle. No matter what I’m not looking in a mirror. He felt strangely disconnected. Somewhere inside him was rage, was fear, was gut-slitting disbelief that they’d been hammered, again, for doing their jobs. But his emotions were cocooned, bundled in something soft and slippery. He cared, God he cared… and at the same time he didn’t care at all.
On the floor beside him, Carter stirred. Groaned. Made a feeble attempt to shove aside the sleeping bag covering her.
“Hey,” he said, and pulled the bag from her face. “Carter. Welcome back.”
She groaned again, squinting up at him. “Oh. Sir. You look terrible.”
He managed a smile. “Yeah, well, I don’t think you’d win Miss Air Force USA right now.”
Slowly, she touched her cheeks. “No blistering. That’s something.” Then she winced. “Sorry. God. My head’s pounding. What’s wrong with me?”
“Spring fever,” he said. “Just lie still, Carter. I’ll get you a painkiller.”
Muscles aching, creaky, feeling as old as he’d become on Kynthea’s planet, he fetched Tylenol and a canteen for Carter. Helped her sit up. Helped her swallow the pills.
Nodding her thanks, she blotted her face dry. “Daniel? Colonel Dixon?”
“They’re fine,” he said, settling back onto his own sleeping bag. “Completely unaffected.”
She stared. “How is that possible?”
“Dumb luck, I guess,” he said. “You should lie down again.”
“No, no, I’m — ”
“Carter, lie down! Casper the ghost has more color than you do!”
“Yes, sir,” she said, wincing, and eased herself to the floor. “Wow. I feel spectacularly bad.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said automatically.
Her lips quirked. “Is that an order?”
Crap, she was trying to joke with him. She was lying there so sick, whiter than a ghost, and she was trying to joke with him. Not even the glowing lamplight could wash a semblance of health into her face. Her bloodshot eyes looked strangely sunken and her pallid cheeks had taken on a waxy sheen. And her arms… her arms… something — not blood, but something wet and glistening — had seeped through the gauze bandages on her bruised and scraped arms.
Carter saw him staring and looked down. “Holy crap. What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his heart banging his ribs. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
With an effort he stood again and went outside. Adjo’s single, Earth-like moon had risen. Full and fat, it draped pale yellow light over the lush green landscape. Dixon was sitting on the grass some little distance from the building. He was smoking. The scent of burned tobacco lingered on the air, stirring nicotine memories in the blood.
“I know, I know,” said Dixon, exhaling. “It’ll kill me.” He stubbed the cigarette out on the grass. “Have to give it up anyway, with a kid in the oven.”
Oh yeah. Dixon’s wife was pregnant. He’d forgotten about that. Crap. He didn’t like the guy, but it was still a tough break.
He stood awkwardly silent for a moment, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “You need to take a look at Carter’s arms. I can’t. Don’t want to cross-contaminate her by mistake.”
Dixon turned. Frowned. “Yeah. Okay.”
They went back inside. As Dixon fetched the medkit he sat down again. Crap, how much did he hate feeling this old, this decrepit? Tiny bonfires of pain burned in every joint. Roman candles ignited sporadically behind his eyes.
He watched as Dixon cut the mucky bandages off Carter’s arms. The man’s touch with the scissors was deft, delicate. There was no urgency about him, he was calm and self-contained, giving Carter confidence.
She’s scared. She doesn’t show it, but she’s scared. At least that makes two of us.
Dixon peeled away the gauze wrappings. The flesh beneath them was raw and suppurating a revolting yellow gunk. A flash of sickness crossed his face, swiftly suppressed. His hand was gentle on her shoulder.
“You’re not in screaming agony with this?”
Carter’s expression was odd, a fascinated revulsion. “It’s hard to say,” she replied. “I’m kind of hurting all over.”
O’Neill, his guts rebelling, glared at Dixon. “Enough with the chitchat, just fix it already. Put another bandage on it, give her more antibiotics.”
Dixon smiled at Carter. “Teal’c came back from the SGC with a whole back-pack full of goodies. Hang tight a minute, I’ll see what I can rustle up.”
For a moment Carter just lay there, staring at the gross wounds on her arms. Then she shifted her gaze. Looked at him, unflinching. “So. I guess we’re in trouble, sir.”
If he showed her he was worried, it’d be a kind of betrayal. “We’ll be fine, Carter. Fraiser’s on the case. A couple of hours and she’ll have come up with a wonder cure. You’ll see.”
“That sounds great in theory, Colonel,” Carter replied. Already her recuperated strength was fading, her voice a slushy whisper, her eyelids fighting to close. “But not even Janet can heal people from across the other side of the galaxy.”
“She won’t have to. By lunchtime tomorrow the only thing separating Fraiser and us will be an open wormhole.”
Carter couldn’t hide her relief. “We’re going back to the gate, sir?”
“Yes. We are.”
“But… not back home.”
He made himself look at her, as she’d looked at him. Her eyes were overbright. Her lips not quite steady “No. Not yet,” he said.
Maybe not ever.
But he didn’t have to say that aloud, because she knew what she’d signed up for. Knew better than most, the risks.
But Christ, it still sucks. Someone get us out of here.
Chapter Nineteen
Before things could get fraught, Dixon returned with an armful of stuff and proceeded to slather Carter’s gross arms with triple antibiotic ointment, rewrap them with fresh gauze bandages and fill her with pills. By the time he was finished she looked half-dead.
“Okay, nearly done,” Dixon promised, then eased an arm behind her shoulders. “Just drink some more for me. A few mouthfuls. Come on.”
She swallowed feebly, coughed, and swatted the canteen away. “No,” she muttered, her voice slurring. “I’ll be sick.”
“Come on,” he said sternly. “Three little mouthfuls. Come on, Sam. You can do it.”
Like a fretful child she swallowed. Dixon patted her shoulder. “Good. That’s good. That’s enough for now.” He slid his arm from underneath her, settled her back in her sleeping bag, then stood. In the lamplight his face was grave, preoccupied, as he stared at the canteen he still held in one hand. “Hell,” he said, almost to himself. “Getting back to the gate is going to be interesting.”
Watching him, resentfully grateful, O’Neill shrugged. “We’ll manage. You and Teal’c can carry Carter
on a stretcher. If Lotar survives the night, Daniel and Bhuiku can carry her on another one. I’ll walk. It’s all good.”
Dixon looked up. “Goddammit, you’re cold.”
“Actually, I’m hot. Got a fever, remember?”
“That’s not what I meant. You — ”
“Thanks for helping Carter,” he said. “I’m going to take a nap.”
Now Dixon’s face was baffled. “I don’t get you, O’Neill. I just — I don’t get you.”
He slid himself horizontal. “Yeah. Right. Because that’s my life’s ambition. Making sense to Dave Dixon.” He closed his eyes, and a moment later heard the door open and bang closed.
“You should cut him some slack, sir,” said Carter’s weak, drowsy voice. “We’re lucky to have him here, the way things have turned out.”
O’Neill bit back an acid reply. The woman’s delirious. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. “Shhh. Rest.”
But of course she ignored him. Stubborn to the last. “I’ve been thinking. I hope there’s a way we can get Adjo’s naquadah. It’s beautiful naquadah and we really, really need it.”
He should’ve asked Dixon for more Tylenol: the Chicago Bears were holding team practice in his skull.
“Carter, go to sleep. Let somebody else worry about the damned naquadah.”
She sighed. “Yes, sir.”
Silence. Abruptly he was reminded of Antarctica, and fear. “Sam…”
“Yeah?”
“We’re getting out of this.”
“Is that a promise, sir?”
“Yeah.”
Another sigh. “Okay.”
He closed his eyes. Tried not to imagine microbes and bacteria and viruses percolating in his blood. Tried to sleep.
And couldn’t.
“Oh my God,” said Daniel, and nearly dropped the lamp. “Oh — oh my God.”
He was standing in a cave, Mennufer’s shrine of rebirthing, where Elder Khenti and his colleagues sprawled in stinking, putrefied death. At the most they’d been dead forty-eight hours but already their bodies had swollen and burst, as though death had claimed them weeks ago. Never in his life had he seen anything so virulent.
Is this what’s going to happen to us?
