SG1-25 Hostile Ground(20)

“Yes sir.”

“Not just —” He broke off and shook his head. “We really need to get home.”

“We will, sir,” she said, surprised by his vehemence. “General Hammond won’t give up on us. We don’t leave our people behind, remember?”

“Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t look any happier. “I remember.”

“Do you?” She didn’t meant to sound pointed, but it had apparently only taken him three months on Edora to give up on them.

He skewered her with a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean, Major?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing?”

“No sir.” She looked away, squinting out toward the horizon — a slight hint of gray was emerging through the murk of mist. “You should get some rest, Colonel.”

He was silent, but she could feel his eyes drilling into her and she braced herself for a reprimand. But he said nothing and after a while moved past her toward the tent. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

A couple of steps behind her, the colonel stopped. “Carter?”

She turned. “Sir?”

He looked at her as if he might be about to say something reassuring, something more like the old Colonel O’Neill. But in the end he just said, “When it’s light, make coffee. We all need something warm in our bellies.”

“Yes sir.”

With another nod he turned back to the tent and she turned back to studying the horizon. Soon she heard the tent unzip and zip up again, and she was alone with her thoughts on this cold, bleak planet.

She hoped the sun rose quickly here; she was yearning for a little warmth.



The ritual of kel’no’reem was beneficial on many levels. Rest and restoration of the body was but one advantage. A more profound gain, if practiced with discipline, was a heightened level of self-perception that allowed a great deal of insight into one’s own motivations. A Jaffa so trained could not be surprised by his response to any situation, and the self-command thus gained was of incalculable value, not only in battle but in many other walks of life.

Teal’c had long observed that there were many among the Tau’ri who would benefit from the meditative discipline of kel’no’reem — O’Neill first among them. He had suggested this once, but his attempt at tutoring O’Neill in the art had proven… challenging. And, ultimately, futile.

Rising out of the deepest levels of meditation, Teal’c was slowly allowing consciousness to return when O’Neill crawled into the tent, bristling with tension. Teal’c, in his heightened state of awareness, could feel it as surely as the static charge of an open wormhole.

It was a pity that O’Neill had proven so resistant to the calming art of kel’no’reem, for this aura of unease had surrounded him almost from the moment Teal’c had first seized his hand through the rocky surface of Edora, and had only grown more intense since their return to Earth. Its cause, Teal’c could not guess, but its effect was evident.

O’Neill doubted himself, and increasingly, Major Carter and Daniel Jackson doubted him. It was a dangerous position for a commander and Teal’c was surprised that O’Neill, whose ability as a warrior he valued second only to Master Bra’tac, would allow such a situation to develop, let alone endure.

He was minded to challenge him about his behavior, but was hesitant to do so until they had returned to Earth. It would do no good to provoke a confrontation here, where all their lives depended upon cohesion.

At his side, Daniel Jackson stirred, feverish. His condition was a matter of great concern and it was his care that must be their first priority.

“Jack… ?”

“Hey.”

“Are you touching my head?”

There was a moment’s silence. “I’m checking your temperature.”

“I’ve got a fever.”

“I know. Go to sleep.”

“Yeah…” He hissed a little as he moved. “Turns out that’s not so easy with a hole in your side.”

O’Neill shuffled about, getting into the sleeping bag and settling down to rest. “I can’t give you morphine yet,” he said. “You have to stay with us a little longer. We might need to move again soon.”

“I know.”

There was another silence. Teal’c opened his eyes and, through the thin walls of the tent, he began to see a faint light that promised dawn.

After a while, Daniel Jackson spoke again, his voice containing that slight teasing edge it often did when talking to O’Neill. “You know, Sam was stroking my hair earlier, to help me get to sleep…”