Free STARGATE SG-1: Do No Harm by Karen Miller Page A

it up as a second career.”
    Crap
. He’d been hoping for a little more time to observe O’Neill from a distance before engaging with him one-on-one. Neatly corralled, Dixon stood. Nodded at Hammond.
    “Thank you, General.”
    Hammond offered him a genial smile. “Enjoy the tour, Colonel Dixon. Though I will add this — if you’ve any questions pertaining to the Stargate and its physics I recommend you ask Major Carter for enlightenment. She knows pretty much everything there is to know about it.”
    “Whereas what
I
know,” said O’Neill, “beyond the fact it’s a honking big metal circle that chews up a ton of power and spits you out on the other side of the galaxy, isn’t worth writing on the back of a used stamp. Eh, General?”
    Hammond just waved a hand. “Colonels, you’re dismissed.”
     
    “And
here
,” said Jack O’Neill, “is the most important room in the base.”
    Dixon nodded, looking around the concrete-walled commissary. The functional tables were covered in Air Force blue tablecloths. There were a few cheerful posters of dolphins on display. A handful of SGC personnel paid attention to their meals, breakfast or lunch or even dinner, depending on what kind of roster they were following and what time it was they’d recently left behind them
out there
. He sucked in a deep, scented breath. “Pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy. Smells good.”
    “If you say so,” said O’Neill, indifferent. “Personally I can recommend the cherry pie. Also the pumpkin. The pecan’s not bad either. I still say the lemon meringue could do with a bit of work but so far they’re not listening. I’m thinking of staging a protest. Are you in?”
    Dixon looked at him. O’Neill hadn’t been kidding about the tour guide spiel. Jovial, expansive, and underneath that… what? If Frank had told him once he’d told him a hundred times, as they discussed the mission reports fed through from the SGC:
The thing is, with Jack: there’s what you see and there’s what you get and the biggest mistake you’ll ever make in your life is thinking those things are one and the same
.
    He smiled. “Sorry, Jack. I’ve never been a fan of lemon meringue.”
    “Really, Dave?” said O’Neill, his eyebrows lifting. “Well, I guess nobody’s perfect. Okay. So now you’ve seen the boring crap and the beating heart of the base let’s go check out my other favorite place, the armory.”
    The trick was to play along until he had his bearings. Until the time was right to talk of Frank Cromwell. “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
    “Cool!” said O’Neill, with spurious enthusiasm. “Let’s go.”
    Hammond had called it, all right. The SGC was a rabbit warren, all narrow corridors, abrupt ninety-degree turns, unexpected doors and functional laboratories crammed full of equipment and scientists. It never ceased to amaze him, the sheer number of people required to support the Stargate program.
    I don’t want to think about how much this place costs.
    They reached the armory eventually, where he was greeted by an impressive array of weaponry and a few bits and pieces he’d never met before.
    “Staff weapons,” said O’Neill, pointing, “and zat’ni’katels. Zats. I guess you’ve read about them.”
    Dixon looked at the stockpile. “Once or twice. Doesn’t look like you’ll be running out of inventory any time soon.”
    O’Neill smiled, briefly. “We tend to pick ’em up off-world where and when we can. The staff weapon’s whacky glowy green power supply’s got some interesting applications and then, of course, there’s Teal’c. He keeps losing his. So careless. As for the zats, well, they’re handy in a tight spot. Grab one of each and we’ll take ’em for a spin on the firing range. Never too soon to learn how to handle these babies.”
    Dixon grabbed a staff weapon and a zat and followed his fellow colonel into the adjacent firing range, where somebody with a sense of humor had dressed the