STARGATE SG-1: Do No Harm

by Karen Miller

  “A spare tire? Yeah. You could say that.”

  “Except you’re not really a spare tire, Colonel Dixon,” said Carter, her eyes deadly serious. “Sir, if you want the truth, you’re a bit of a Godsend. You and your men. It’s been — pretty tough around here lately. The program’s on shaky ground. We’re glad you came.”

  Her words warmed him, but he couldn’t help a cynical half-smile. “Even O’Neill?”

  Carter sighed. “Sir… look. Granted he’s not the easiest man you’ll ever meet, but he is one of the best. He’s one of a kind. Give him a chance to warm up to you. It’ll be fine.”

  Not a speech he’d expected to hear from her. “Okay, Major,” he said at last. “I’ll take your advice. Thanks.”

  She cleared her throat. “Sorry if I was out of line, sir.”

  “No, no,” he assured her. “I mean it. Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

  And he left her to find some peace and quiet, to think.

  Chapter Seven

  He did some of his best thinking in motion, so he changed into workout gear and headed for the nearest base gym. It was already occupied, by a petite auburn-haired woman running on a treadmill. He recognized her immediately from her abbreviated personnel file.

  “Doctor Fraiser, isn’t it?” he said, taking the treadmill beside her. “Colonel Dave Dixon.”

  Running easily, she smiled at nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you in the flesh, at last.” The smile widened to a grin. “I’m already intimately acquainted with your CAT scan, MRI and bloodwork. Not to mention a collection of very interesting x-rays.”

  Of course, McCreary would’ve sent her a copy of his medical file. He kicked his machine into life and started off with a slow, pulse-raising jog. “Not as interesting as some you’ve seen, I’ll bet.”

  She shrugged. “Oh, I’d say there’s at least one medical journal article in there. Aside from the fact the operational circumstances are classified, of course.” She ran in silence for a moment then added, “Actually, Colonel, you’re in my bad books.”

  Her bad books? How could that be, he’d only arrived five minutes ago. He stared at her. “Why? What did I do?”

  Not many women could look good dripping sweat. Janet Fraiser was one of them. She was a neat runner, too. Graceful and economical with a sweet, steady stride. She snorted. “It’s what you didn’t do, Colonel.”

  He bumped his treadmill’s speed up another notch. Trying to outrun her, maybe, if only psychologically. “Okay. What didn’t I do?”

  “You didn’t come to see me after you got zapped with a zat gun.”

  What the — “Jeez, is there a bulletin board I didn’t notice? A newsletter I’m supposed to subscribe to or something?”

  This time her smile was swift and mischievous. “Or something.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, and pushed his treadmill’s speed up again. “Don’t I look fine?”

  “Yes, sir. You look splendid,” said Fraiser, comfortably loping along at around seven minutes a mile. “But you still should’ve come and seen me. I don’t take zat gun hits lightly, Colonel Dixon. Didn’t Colonel O’Neill tell you?”

  “Well, yeah, he mentioned it, but I’m fine.”

  “And I’m the doctor, which means I get to be the judge of who’s fine and who’s not, Colonel.”

  She wasn’t kidding. Crap. “You mean I’m compromised? You’re going to pull me off the Adjo mission?”

  She blotted sweat from her face with the towel draped round her neck. “No, Colonel. Not unless your second round of bloodwork — which we’ll need to run after you’ve finished up here — shows any irregularities. But — ” She raised a warning finger. “At the first sign of a headache you come see me at once.”

  Hell, she wasn’t kidding. “Why? What don’t I know that I should know, Doctor Fraiser?”

  “Alien technology isn’t to be taken lightly, sir,” she replied. Not smiling now. “We’ve only ever had one case of a first-strike zat fatality, but that’s one too many for my comfort. When it comes to the Stargate program I’ve got a hard and fast rule: leave your machismo at the infirmary door.”

  “Got it, Doc,” he said. “Ah — what happened that one time? I don’t recall reading about it in a — ”

  “It didn’t happen off-world,” she said, blotting her face dry again. “It was a training accident. The captain in question had an undetected brain aneurysm. The zat blast triggered a hemorrhage.”

  “Oh,” he said, faintly. Ouch. “I’m sorry to hear that.” And was furious to think O’Neill had so cavalierly whacked him with the damn alien device. Although… be fair, Dave… if his brain was going to explode it was going to explode. Not much he or O’Neill or anyone could do about that. And for the sake of the team and the mission, better that it exploded in the safety of the base than off-world, in the middle of a firefight with the Goa’uld.

  “And I’m sorry if I broke medical protocols, Doc,” he added. “Won’t happen again.”

  “You’re forgiven, Colonel,” said Fraiser, rhythmically running. “Just don’t make a habit of it. The worst thing you can do around here is take your health for granted. We’re still learning what gate travel does to the human body. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Fraiser flicked him an appraising glance. “Colonel, do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “The idea of gate travel. How does it make you feel?”

  First Hammond, now Fraiser. Was it a trick question? “Doc, it scares the bejeezus out of me.”

  “Good,” she said, also like Hammond. Definitely a trick question. Some kind of test, maybe. “Because it’s a huge thing, what we do here. What we encounter. Alien civilizations, non-human life forms, the war we’re fighting against the Goa’uld. The Goa’uld, and the risks the SG teams run in opposing them. Within the next few days, Colonel, you’ll be stepping foot on an alien world. Breathing alien air. Seeing things no other human from Earth has ever seen. And potentially facing threats that are outside our known experience.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “Colonel, reading the mission reports and living them are two different things,” she retorted. “I strongly advise you not to underestimate the impact of what you’ll be doing while you’re with us. It’s profound. Even if nothing goes wrong, Stargate travel is life-changing. Our world will never look the same to you again. And that can be overwhelming.”

  Sobered, he stared at her. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

  They fell into a companionable silence after that, letting clean, honest exertion fill the space between them. Fraiser was running hard and fast now, close to six-minute miles, really pushing herself. Pushing harder than a planet-bound medico should have to, surely.

  “You training for the Air Force marthaon, Doc?” he said, his own muscles shaken down and loosened out, the blood thudding through his veins and arteries in time with his heart.

  She wasn’t smiling any more. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. “No.”

  Her eyes were haunted, all scolding humor extinguished, and her expression was grim and focused. As though she was trying to outrun an enemy.

  And I guess she is. She’s got a good game face, she has to in her business, but it must be hell for a doctor, watching good men and women die, knowing there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

  Fraiser was still running when he hit ten miles and called it quits. The look on her face stayed with him in the shower, and through a solitary dinner in the base commissary, and even as he fell face-first into sleep.

  Sam met up with Daniel in Jack O’Neill’s driveway.

  “Hey, fancy meeting you here,” she said, falling into step beside him as they headed for the colonel’s front stairs.

  “Yeah, fancy that,” said Daniel. “What’s the occasion, do you know?”

  “Ah, no,” she said, staring. “Don’t you?”

  “Not a clue. Jack’s charming dinner invitation
was even more cryptic than usual.”

  My place. 1900. Bring your own chopsticks.

  Yep, that was pretty cryptic all right.

  Daniel being Daniel he didn’t knock, just tried the front door and found it unlocked. He led the way in, calling out as he went.

  “Hey, Jack, so much for security!”

  The colonel appeared from the kitchen, at his most civilian in worn jeans, a sweatshirt and tragically battered sneakers. “Who needs security when Teal’c’s around?”

  “Good point,” said Daniel, grinning, and hefted the six-pack of beer he’d brought with him. “Fridge?”

  “You have to ask?” O’Neill turned. “Hey, Carter.”

  She nodded. “Evening, sir.”

  “Teal’c’s on the back deck. We’re dining al fresco tonight, at least until the heating oil runs out.”

  She left him and Daniel to their own devices in the kitchen and joined Teal’c outside. He was seated at the wooden picnic table, which was covered in a new red-checked cloth. One of those outdoors heaters washed the air with waves of warmth, and scattered lanterns splashed yellow light everywhere.

  “Hey, Teal’c,” she greeted him, sliding into an empty chair.

  He smiled. “Major Carter.”

  She looked around. “I don’t see Colonel Dixon.”

  “I believe Colonel Dixon has not been invited,” said Teal’c. His voice was neutral, his expression at its most inscrutable.

  Oh, great. “Really? Ah — why not?”

  “Why do you think, Carter?” said the colonel, coming through the open sliding door carrying a tray loaded with Dragon Palace takeout boxes. Daniel followed with beer and other essential supplies plus a bottle of Pepsi for Teal’c.

  “Honestly? I’m afraid to think,” she said, helping O’Neill spread the bounty over the table. “But it would’ve been polite to include him. Sir.”

  The colonel looked at her. “Say you’ve got a list of fifty words that could possibly be used to describe me, Carter. What are the chances ‘polite’ is one of them?”

  Daniel snickered. “If she’s got a list of one hundred words, Jack, you’re still not going to find ‘polite’ on it.”

  The colonel spread his hands. “See?”

  “Come on, Sam,” Daniel added, taking a seat. “How can we talk about Dixon behind his back if he’s actually sitting here in front of us?”

  “Is that why we’re here?” she said, reaching for the nearest steaming, aromatic box of food. “To talk about Colonel Dixon behind his back?” Because if it was, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to be here.

  Colonel O’Neill shoveled special fried rice onto his plate and passed the box to Teal’c. “We’re here,” he said severely, “to enjoy some fine Chinese cuisine, down a few beers, relax before what might be the most significant mission of our careers — ”

  “And talk about Colonel Dixon behind his back,” said Daniel.

  The colonel shrugged. “Yeah. And that.”

  Sam wrenched the top off a bottle of beer and chugged down a fortifying mouthful. “Then count me out. If that’s what you guys feel like doing, fine, but not me. In case the fact I’m in civvies has you confused, Dixon is still a superior officer and — ”

  “He’s not mine,” said the colonel. “Or Daniel’s. Or Teal’c’s.”

  She glared at him. “But he’s mine,” she said sharply. “Sir. As you damn well know.”

  O’Neill sat back, considering her. “Relax, Sam. We’re off duty. We’re on private property. We’re just four friends kicking back over takeout and beer, shooting the breeze. Where’s the harm?”

  She met him look for look. “The harm, Jack, is that I don’t feel comfortable.”

  The use of his first name pinged him, she could tell, even though his expression didn’t alter. “Well, neither do I, Carter. Taking a tourist with us on this gig isn’t exactly floating my boat. But we’re stuck with him and I want to make sure we’re all on the same page when it comes to covering each other’s asses while we’re on Adjo with Dixon in tow.”

  “Colonel…” She took a deep breath. “If there was a risk, Hammond wouldn’t have okayed him.”

  O’Neill tipped crispy-skin duck over his fried rice. “Ha! Are you kidding me? Hammond’s over a barrel. There’s no way he grounds Dixon any time soon.”

  Sam exchanged looks with Daniel and Teal’c. “What do you mean the general’s over a barrel?”

  The colonel pulled a face. “I can’t get into it. Just trust me: there’s more political crap going down behind the scenes than you even want to think about.”

  Of them all, he was the one closest to General Hammond. The one the general confided in and consulted with when circumstances permitted. And he wasn’t an alarmist, not even on his worst day. His problem was he was too taciturn and self-contained.

  If he was worried, and he was, then it was for good reason.

  “Okay,” she said, helping herself to beef and black bean sauce. “So if we’re stuck with Dixon we’re stuck with him. I don’t see how talking about him’s going to help.”

  “I told you,” said the colonel. “I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page. And I want to make sure you’re keeping an eye on him to identify his agenda.”

  “What agenda?” said Daniel. “I haven’t noticed any agenda.”

  “Then get your glasses checked, Daniel,” said the colonel. “The man’s got an agenda.”

  “As have you, O’Neill,” said Teal’c. “As is witnessed by our gathering here without Colonel Dixon.”

  “You bet your sweet Jaffa ass I’ve got an agenda,” said O’Neill, scowling. “And it hasn’t changed in three years. Go through the gate, get the job done, come home again in one piece.”

  “And you think Dixon’s agenda is different?” said Daniel, chopsticks and garlic chicken halfway to his mouth. “Why?”

  “Because in all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine,” said Colonel O’Neill. “That’s why. Sheesh, do I have to spell it out?”

  “Yeah, Jack, I think you do,” said Daniel. “Unless this is about Frank Cromwell.”

  The colonel’s glare should have lit Daniel on fire. “No. And the next person to mention that name ends up skewered on a chopstick, I swear. Come on, campers, isn’t it obvious? Dixon’s Pentagon. He’s Washington. He’s an outsider, and Hammond’s under pressure to produce results.”

  Sam choked. “You think he’s here to spy on us?”

  “Could be. All I’m saying is watch your step.”

  “Okay,” said Daniel, after a stunned silence. “We can do that. Now can we please enjoy the meal? For all we know it could be our last.”

  And on that cheerful, typically Daniel note they abandoned the subject of David Dixon and ate. A lot.

  The next day was crammed full of pre-mission business. Final physicals, final briefing, equipment checks, gear checks, one last MALP assessment of the gate and surrounding terrain. Then it was time to gear up. O’Neill, looking for his unwanted fifth wheel, found Dave Dixon sitting alone in an empty office staring at the phone on the barren desk.

  “Hey,” he said, slapping his palm on the door. “You ready?”

  “Yeah,” said Dixon, but he didn’t move. Just stared at the phone.

  O’Neill swallowed a groan. Was there a problem? He wasn’t interested in problems. He wasn’t interested in hauling this man halfway across the galaxy where there was a better-than-even chance he’d do nothing but get in the way and ask stupid questions… or find something to nitpick that’d cause trouble for Hammond. Probably Dixon would end up having to be rescued, too, because that was the kind of luck they’d been having lately.

  He was the team leader. He was paid to deal with problems.

  “Something up?”

  Dixon lifted his gaze. He looked stunned. “I just said goodbye to my wife.”

  “Ah… yeah?”

  “We’ve only been married six months,” said Dixon, and r
ubbed his hand across his face. “We’ve been married six months, turns out she thinks she might be pregnant and I’m about to take a hike to another planet which may or may not be a hot zone, depending on how much credence you give to alien fairytales. Man. When did my life get so weird?”

  Well, terrific. A fifth man on his team that he didn’t want who was a newly-wed, for crying out loud, and also an expectant father. How much more crap could the universe throw at him?

  “Hey, Dixon… you can always change your mind. I’m sure we can find an airman to drive you back to Petersen so you can hop the next flight home.”

  “And that’d suit you just fine,” said Dixon, eyes and voice sharpening. “Me gone? That’d make your day, wouldn’t it, O’Neill?”

  Dixon was a bird colonel. His equal. No way of pulling rank on the bastard. “I don’t have time for this crap,” he said flatly. “You’ve got fifteen minutes. Be in the gate room by 2250 or don’t bother showing up at all.”

  “Crap?” said Dixon, and pushed to his feet. “It’s not crap, it’s the truth. You don’t want me here.”

  You got that right. “What I want or don’t want is irrelevant, Dixon. I’ll see you in the gate room, or not. Your call.”

  Dixon took a step closer. “O’Neill, we can’t pretend he didn’t exist.”

  O’Neill felt his guts cramp, cold and tight. “Okay. I’ll say this just once, so listen up. Frank Cromwell’s not up for discussion.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack,” said Dixon. “We’ve been dancing round him from the minute I got here.”

  “I’m not dancing round anyone, Dave,” he said. “Because I don’t dance. If I had something to say to you about — well — anything, I’d say it. I don’t. Now gear up or stand down. I don’t give a rat’s ass either way.”

  He walked away, then, before cold anger got the best of him and he said or did something that couldn’t be excused. He found his team — his real team — or at least its male members, in their locker room, methodically dressing for their adventure to Adjo.

  “Sam’s done,” Daniel greeted him, buckling his belt. “She’s in the control room running a final gate diagnostic.”