by Karen Miller
“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.
Daniel crossed the space between them, walking softly, and touched a hand to Bhuiku’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Bhuiku turned to him, blindly, harsh sobs breaking through his reserve. “No… no… no…”
There was nothing to say. No words could ease this. Daniel opened his arms and held Bhuiku as a brother while the young man wept. As Jack had held him while he wept over Sha’re.
“I want to die,” Bhuiku groaned, stepping back. His face was ravaged. “What is my life without Lotar in it?”
“I know,” said Daniel. “Bhuiku, I know.”
Bhuiku opened his mouth to say something hard and hurtful, then closed it again. Stared. “You are weeping, Daniel. You do know.”
“My wife.”
“How do you live?” whispered Bhuiku. “Without her smile, her laugh, her touch, Daniel. How do you live?”
Struggling for the right words, he shrugged. Were there right words at a time like this? He didn’t know. “It’s what she would’ve wanted. Bhuiku, if you’d died instead of Lotar, would you want her to follow you into death?”
Bhuiki turned to stare at the bloated, disfigured young girl he loved so much. “No.”
“Then live for her, Bhuiku. Live a life to make her proud.”
Bhuiku’s face was slick with tears. “My mother grows weaker. She can barely speak.”
Odjit, the dragon. “We’re doing everything we can to help your mother, Bhuiku. To help everyone in your village who’s sick.”
Bhuiku dropped to his knees beside his dead wife. “Your people are so different to mine, Daniel.” His fingertips touched Lotar’s blotched, blood-smeared hand. “You command the chappa’ai. You have light without fire. You have many, many medicines and magics we cannot understand. But you are helpless against this sickness. Your people are so afraid they will not let you return home. You say Ra and Setesh were not gods. But if they were not gods, Daniel, how can they can punish us from so far away, from so long ago?”
“Evil can live a long, long time, Bhuiku,” he said quietly. “The evil Ra and Setesh sowed here has flourished for three thousand years. I believe we can defeat it, but we’ve not been here even a month. We need longer than that.”
Bhuiku looked at him, his eyes haunted. “I do not think my people have long, Daniel. I think my people are lost. Every rebirth season fewer and fewer Adjoans survive. Not just in Mennufer, but in all Adjo’s villages. Fewer babies are born. And for us, with Khenti and the other Elders dead, my people are leaderless. They look to you now, but either you will die or you will go home. And then what will happen?”
“Then you’ll find a new leader, Bhuiku. Someone brave and strong, who’ll hold the people together and help them make a new home. I think that leader could be you.”
Daniel watched Bhuiku consider that. Watched something old and cold creep into his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “If I do not die, I could lead Mennufer. But even if I live and do not lead I will make sure of one thing. We will never return to the days of the Elders, when all we did was wait for each rebirth and hope it touched our neighbor and not ourselves. Of that much I am sure.”
Staring at him, Daniel was struck by his uncompromising commitment. Young, yes. Grief-stricken, yes. But young men matured. Grief faded with time.
I think I’m looking at Mennufer’s future. Maybe even Adjo’s future, if he manages to survive.
It was a humbling thought. Like stepping through a temporal rift and being introduced to a young Alexander. A young Julius Caesar. Boadicea, before the Romans.
Oh God. Please let Bhuiku have better luck than them.
“Bhuiku,” he said, hesitant. “There’s something I need to ask you. Something difficult, but very important.”
Bhuiku smoothed Lotar’s dull hair. “Then ask me, Daniel.”
“Lotar might be able to help us defeat this terrible sickness, if you’d allow us to examine her body. It’s a procedure called an autopsy. I won’t lie to you, it’s unpleasant. We would need to… to cut her open. But if we did this thing, we’d treat her reverently. And afterwards there’d be a funeral.”
A shiver of revulsion flickered over Bhuiku’s face. “And if you did this autopsy. How would it help?”
“I’m not a medical doctor, I can’t give you medical answers. But it’s something we do all the time where I come from. And much has been learned, and many lives saved, because of it.”
A long silence. Another unsteady sigh. Then Bhuiku nodded. “Very well, Daniel. If you think it could help. If she could answer for herself, Lotar would say yes, I know it. She loved Mennufer and all its people. Even the ones she didn’t like very much.”
Daniel enveloped Bhuiku in a swift embrace. “Thank you. Thank you. Stay with her for as long as you need.”
Leaving the young man to his grief, he withdrew from the isolation tent and went in search of Dixon. The colonel was in the first hospital tent, collecting blood samples and skin swabs.
Daniel took a moment to steel himself against the suffering. It always took a moment, every time he came in. Then he made his way between the burdened camp beds, trying not to feel, not to react to the sights and sounds of putrid sickness. So much pain. “Hey,” he said, reaching Dixon, keeping his voice low. “You’re on your own? Where’s Teal’c?”
“Still doing his kel’noreem, I guess,” said Dixon. “It’s cool.”
He frowned. That didn’t sound right. Kel’noreem didn’t usually take so long to perform. If I didn’t know better I’d think Teal’c was hiding…
“So, what did Bhuiku say?” said Dixon, capping another tube of blood.
“About?” he said, tugged out of unpleasant thought. “Oh! The autopsy. He said ye
s.”
“Good,” said Dixon. “Now let’s get this finished.”
Swiftly, efficiently, tuned to each other now like Abbot and Costello in the baseball sketch, they completed their rounds. By the time they left the third hospital tent, burdened with samples, dusk had fallen. Arc lights and halogen kept the night at bay. In the field kitchens the villagers on cooking duty banged their pots and pans, filling the air with the aroma of dinner. Smelled like fried chicken tonight. There was a slow, steady drift of other villagers to the mess tents. Everybody seemed to love fried chicken.
“Okay,” said Dixon. “If you file the backup paperwork, Daniel, I’ll send the samples through to the SGC.”
Paperwork. Halfway across the galaxy in the middle of a crisis and they still couldn’t escape it.
He sighed. “Sure.”
It took him nearly twenty minutes to double-check the forms and slot them into the command center’s medical record filing cabinet. Filing cabinets! On Adjo! To his surprise, when he was done, he saw the wormhole back to the SGC was still open. Instead of going to find Teal’c he made his way to the gate, just in case something else had gone wrong.
But Dixon didn’t seem alarmed. He was standing in front of the MALP camera, hands shoved in his pockets, chatting to someone.
“ — be fine, Ben. Just tell McCreary I’m cool with it, if that’s what’s worrying him. If it’s not, tell him I’m cool anyway. I — ” Realizing he wasn’t alone, he stopped and turned. “Everything okay, Jackson?”
“Yeah. Filing complete. Have you told Janet about — ”
“She’s off-duty. I’ve told Ben — Major Logan. He’ll see she and Hammond get the message.”
Daniel leaned into the MALP camera’s field of vision. “Major, could be we’ll end up needing a refrigeration unit. We don’t want — ”
“I copy that, Jackson. Let me have Dixon again.”
Hmm. Major Ben Logan sounded… abrupt. Daniel stepped back so Dixon could get to the MALP.
“Yo, Ben.”
“Yeah, so, one last thing, boss. I spoke to Lainie today.”
Daniel saw Dixon’s face change. “How is she?”
“Kinda emotional. Dave, she told me your news.”
Dixon cursed, obscenely and inventively. “Okay.”
“I told her you were fine. You’d be home soon.” Logan’s pained frustration came through loud and clear. “Didn’t know what else to say.”
“You did good, Ben,” said Dixon, beneath his grime and stubble looking ten hard years older. “When you speak to her again, tell her — oh, hell. You know.”
“Yeah. Don’t sweat it.”
“Sure.” Dixon shook himself. “So I gotta go. Make sure Fraiser gets the message, yeah?”
“It’s a done deal, boss.”
“Good. Talk to you later, Ben. Dixon out.”
When Dixon made no move, Daniel shut down the MALP. The wormhole collapsed. Then Dixon sank cross-legged to the rocky ground and dropped his head to his hands.
Daniel, staring, forced himself to stand still. Just like Bhuiku, Dixon was ready to break. One touch, one gentle word, was all it would take. But unlike Bhuiku, the time wasn’t right. The colonel wouldn’t thank him for undermining his defenses.
“So, probably we should eat,” he said at last, when Dixon showed no sign of moving. “Then get some rest before the next round of bed checks and medication.”
Dixon nodded. “Yeah.”
“I just want to make sure Teal’c’s okay first. See you in the mess tent?”
With a grunt, Dixon levered himself to his feet. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll, ah, I’ll go then.”
“Daniel.”
He turned back. “Yeah?”
Dixon’s eyes were glassy with fatigue. He rasped a hand across his stubbled face, cleared his throat. “O’Neill.”
Oh God. Not now. “What about him?”
“You — might want to keep an eye him. He’s having nightmares. About Frank.”
Daniel felt his heart thud hard. “How do you know?”
“I know.”
Dammit. Dammit. “Dave, okay, I understand you want answers but — ”
“I haven’t said a word!” said Dixon hotly. “At least, not since we left Mennufer. I’m not stupid, Jackson.”
Maybe not. But just like Jack, you’re haunted by Frank Cromwell. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks for telling me.”
Dixon shrugged. “You’re the team’s mother hen. Thought you’d want to know, is all. I’ll see you at chow.”
Daniel watched him walk away until he was lost among the forest of tents: sturdy, dependable, courageous… and, despite all of that, still inconvenient.
Jack’s having nightmares? About Frank? Oh, crap. Then another thought occurred, indignant and unexpected. What does he mean, mother hen?
Feeling grumpy, feeling useless, he stomped off to find Teal’c.
Since it was impossible to knock on a tent flap, he had to stand outside Teal’c’s kel’noreem retreat calling his name. At first there was no reply. Then came a stirring, the sound of fabric rubbing fabric.
“You may enter, Daniel Jackson.”
Daniel flipped back the flap and ducked inside the tent. Within the warm canvas gloom Teal’c’s kel’noreem candles burned softly, perfuming the air with a faint scent of blown roses. Teal’c stood against the tent’s back wall, hands clasped behind him, as far from the opening as he could get. Shadows blurred his face, making him somehow… insubstantial.
“Teal’c, what’s going on? Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not feeling sick?”
“I do not get sick, Daniel Jackson.”
No, not usually. But he’d seen the paintings in the shrine. The dead Jaffa, their dead symbiotes beside them.
“Teal’c — ”
“What has happened, Daniel Jackson? You appear… distressed.”
Oh God. He didn’t want to say it. He had to say it. “Lotar died.”
Silence, profound and disquieting. “I see,” said Teal’c.
He took another step closer. “Teal’c, it’s not your fault.”
“That is your opinion.”
Another step. “Teal’c, the chances are good she was sickening when we met her. And you — we — didn’t create rebirth. The Goa’uld did that.”
“But our presence here has made it worse, Daniel Jackson. Is that not so?”
“It’s a theory. It’s not proven fact. Teal’c — ”
“And is SG-1 not now stranded on this planet?”
“For the moment, yes, but — ”
“And if I had not failed to prevent the approval of this mission, would not we and the Adjoans be far better off?”
Damn, it was Cor-ai all over again, Teal’c in an orgy of guilt-driven self-crucifixion. “Teal’c, this isn’t on you. This is on Washington. The Pentagon. Nothing you could’ve said would have stopped the mission going forward. The brass and the suits love the smell of naquadah in the morning.”
“Nevertheless,” said Teal’c, so typically uncompromising. His face was still shadowed. “I should have tried harder.”
Right. Okay. Time for an O’Neill-style pep talk. “Yeah. Maybe. But the point is, you didn’t. You didn’t, Teal’c. You backed down and we came. And now we’re stuck here, and people are dying, and what are you doing? You’re sulking in your tent. You’ve got Jack worrying about you, and he’s got enough on his plate right now, don’t you think? God. If he wasn’t fast asleep he’d damn well kick your ass, Teal’c.”
Smooth as poured oil, Teal’c stepped into the fitful candle light. His eyes were full of pain.
“You would be wise to consider your words, Daniel Jackson.”
“And you’d be wise to consider your actions,” he retorted, heart pounding. “Dixon and I need you, Teal’c. We’re running on fumes. I know you feel responsible. I know you hate yourself right now because of what’s gone wrong, because Lotar’s
dead, and the Elders. But — ”
Some deep emotion stirred in Teal’c’s eyes. “You did not side with me against General Hammond, Daniel Jackson.”
The accusation caught him unawares. Knocked the breath right out of him. “What?”
“None of you did.” Shockingly, Teal’c sounded hurt. “You dismissed my fears as fairytales.”
“I did no such thing! I — ” Daniel stopped. Flinched. Folded his arms, needing protection. Oh hell. “Teal’c, we took a calculated risk. That’s what we do. If we let the possibility of danger stop us none of us would set foot through the gate.”
“Nevertheless.”
“There was no proof. No concrete evidence that anything was wrong here! When we found out otherwise it was too late. And we never would’ve found out if we hadn’t come!”
Teal’c shook his head. “Like the Goa’uld, we have grown arrogant. Complacent. Because we have achieved some victories over our enemy we no longer fear them as once we did.”
Okay. Enough. “Newsflash, Teal’c! I’m plenty afraid! And — and — okay, maybe you’ve got a point. Maybe by not fighting Hammond with you, we let you down. That’s something we can talk about — when this is over. But first it has to be over. And for it to be over, Dixon and I need you back. We need you to get your head in the game.”
Teal’c’s eyes glittered. “My head is in the game, Daniel Jackson. I am not sulking.”
He unfolded his arms. Held up one apologetic hand. “No. No, you’re not. Poor choice of word. I’m sorry.”
“I merely…” It was disconcerting, seeing Teal’c lost for words. “I needed to recover my equilibrium.”
“And have you?”
Slowly, Teal’c nodded. “I believe so.”
“Good.” He let out a shaky breath. “That’s good. Now what say you and I get some dinner, before the last of the fried chicken is gone?”
A long silent moment, precariously balanced. Then Teal’c nodded again. “Very well.”
Daniel backed up a couple of steps, towards the tent flap. Then he stopped. “Tealc… I’m sorry.”
“As am I, Daniel Jackson,” said Teal’c, very quietly, and ducked his head to lead the way from the tent.
Returning to the base only five hours since leaving it the previous night — truly, he’d have been better off commandeering one of the guest quarters — Hammond read through the message slips stacked on his desk. Reached the fourth one and swore, unrestrainedly. Then he marched out to the control room, on the warpath.
