Disclaimer: you know the drill—all theirs, nothing mine. Heavy sigh.
A Cup of Joe
By OughtaKnowBetter
"Where'd you learn to cook so well, Dr. J?" Major Raslow asked, leaning back on his arms and stuffing the last crumbs of whatever into his mouth. He wasn't sure what it was, but he was damn sure it tasted good and he was going to get as much of it as he could. And, seeing as how he was the second-highest ranking officer in camp as well as being the second-largest person, he got the lion's share.
"Egypt," Daniel replied with a hesitant grin, collecting the dirty dishes. He set a pot of water on for coffee.
"Naw, that can't be right," Lieutenant Abelard said, surprised. "I've been to Iraq, and they don't cook like this in the Middle East. They use mint, and cous cous, and bean stuff. No way this is Mid-East cooking."
Captain Malberg snickered. As the only other anthropological archeologist in camp—and, truth be told, the entire planet—she knew where Dr. Daniel Jackson, archeologist, Egyptologist, and a few other –ologists, had gotten his cooking skills: graduate school. A type of school, she knew, which regularly sent expeditions to uncivilized parts of Earth to collect things that would add to the known history of mankind. Those expeditions, funded by cash-strapped universities and foundations, rarely contained enough money to hire a cooking staff. Graduate students, otherwise known as indentured serfs, were pressed into service. It was an unproven theory among those graduate students that superior culinary skills could cut as much as a year off their post-graduate trek to the Ph.D.
"I used to be the low man on digs." Daniel confirmed her snicker. "You get to be pretty good with a can of beans when you have to."
"Whatever." Abelard waved around his fork. "Why can't you cook this good, Malberg? Aren't you an archeologist, too?"
"You ought'a be better at it," Lieutenant Tarkov chimed in, trying to get in his own jabs. "Cooking is a womanly chore."
On the other side of the campfire, Major Samantha Carter rolled her eyes. It looked pretty dramatic, too; big blue eyes tended to do that. She added a pointed groan for good measure, to make sure that both Abelard and Tarkov took her meaning.
Barbara Malberg snorted loudly, tossing the remnants of her meal onto the fire to burn clean. Physically, Malberg was far more the military mold than Carter was. No one would call her pretty; handsome perhaps, if she spent a day in the hands of experts. "Brick wall" was the title some bestowed upon her, though not within earshot of the lady or her teammates. Malberg was, as was Carter, like a sister to the others. And, like big brothers everywhere, her teammates were more than willing to defend her reputation to outsiders.
But not amongst themselves.
"You've tasted my cooking, Tarkov," Malberg drawled. "You want me to take my turn tomorrow night?"
"Not a chance," Tarkov said hastily. "Jackson here makes a far better woman than you!"
There was a guffaw of laughter at that from both men, with a politely restrained snigger from Major Raslow. Colonel O'Neill threw him a sharp look, unfortunately lost in the night's darkness. It was one thing to joke among themselves when off-duty in a bar somewhere. On a mission this was crossing the boundaries of military courtesy. Sure, Daniel Jackson was a civilian, but he was O'Neill's civilian. And there was something about the way Daniel hunched his shoulders that set O'Neill's teeth on edge. It was that here come the bullies after the geeky nerd look, but it was followed by Daniel reasserting control over his body language: that's in the past. I'm a well-respected member of the team now. O'Neill relaxed. Daniel had it under control.
Captain Malberg was actually the butt of the joke, and she seemed to be taking it in stride. O'Neill had no doubt that if she had been offended, Tarkov would've landed on his backside a few times, courtesy of a hefty feminine fist. Malberg took the martial arts part of her job seriously, as seriously as Carter, and O'Neill knew strong men who would refuse to get on the sparring mat with her, even in practice. They were the smart ones.
Teal'c leaned over to Major Carter, confusion edging out the usual impassive expression he habitually wore. "This Earth custom of attempted humiliation over food preparation puzzles me, MajorCarter. On Chulak, a woman who can provide her mate and family with nutritious sustenance is highly honored. Is it not the same on Earth? Just last week Colonel O'Neill escorted me to an establishment where the food was prized as a delicacy. 'Buffalo wings' I believe was the name of the dish; a fervently spiced protein offering accompanied by Colonel O'Neill's favorite beverage, beer. I understood the cook—who was male—to be a significant asset to the establishment, and the owner of the business to take great pains to advertise the fact." He considered, with an additional question coming to the forefront. "Also, the information that I have been able to obtain on the buffalo insists that such creatures do not possess wings, but are instead quadripedal in nature, with hooves."
"Al's Bar and Grill," came a quiet, wistful murmur from around the fire. "Damn fine wings."
Carter ignored her colonel. She opened her mouth to try to enlighten the Jaffa, then shut it again. How to explain that the two junior members of SG-14 were taunting both Malberg and Carter as well as Daniel out of sheer boredom? Sure, it was over the line, but making an issue of it would cause more problems than it solved. And to explain it to Teal'c would require a discussion of the communication chasm between men and women, as well as the history of women's rights. She could be here all night and still not get it right. If Teal'c had asked Daniel, he'd get a better answer but the lecture would've gone on for six months to a year. "They were complimenting Daniel's cooking," she finally said.
Teal'c still didn't understand, but he'd worked with these particular Tau're long enough to be able to decipher certain comments and actions. This one from MajorCarter meant, I can't explain right now. Teal'c hoped that MajorCarter could explain later, for he too noticed that DanielJackson had reacted like the runt of a talfass litter when teased by its larger kin.
On Chulak, where Teal'c had grown up, scholarship was not a trait that was sought after in a mate of either sex. A strong body, fast reflexes; these were the attributes that made for a successful Jaffa. But over the last few years Teal'c had learned to value the intelligence that both DanielJackson and MajorCarter possessed as well as their Tau're sense of honor. Both were certainly far better beings than the false gods known as Goa'uld that Teal'c had once served. He restrained himself from spitting in disgust; there were no Goa'uld present save for the immature one in his peritoneal sac.
O'Neill broke the stalemate, effectively closing down the smart remarks. "Who's up for the first watch?"
Daniel determinedly put up his hand. "It's my turn. I didn't do any last night."
"And there's a good reason for that, Daniel." O'Neill spoke to the civilian, but his words were aimed at the other SG team. "You're doing all the important work around here, you and Malberg. You don't notice her taking a watch either, do you?" It was a rhetorical question. "The rest of us are here to keep you safe and productive. Which means eight hours of sleep for both of you, so you can hurry up and get the translating over and done with so we can all go home to soft, cushy beds and hot showers. Besides, you cooked. You did your share of the trail work." He turned a glare on Abelard and Tarkov. "Why don't the two of you wash the dishes?" It was not a request. And it should have come from Major Raslow, to whom they both directly reported, but Raslow didn't look as though he were going to intervene.
Colonel O'Neill made sure to discuss the issue with Major Raslow. Turning over the watch in the dead of night was the perfect time; none of their subordinates were awake to listen in.
Raslow did not respond as O'Neill had expected. "What's the matter, O'Neill? Carter get her girlie feelings hurt? Went whining to you? I run a military outfit, O'Neill. All I saw was a little horseplay, and Malberg handing out as good as she got. I don't make allowances just because someone pees sitting down."
O'Neill gritted his teeth. Raslow wasn't going to make this easy, and it was clear that the shit was flowing downhill. "Nobody's whining, Raslow. But I am enforcing military discipline. You can run your team any way you like that gets the job done and your people back in one piece, but I'm here now, and I'm in command. And if I say that every person on this mission—Carter, Malberg, Jackson, or anybody else—gets the respect they're entitled to, then they get it. Clear?"
"Over-compensating because you got stuck with the civilian, Colonel?"
O'Neill's jaw nearly hit the dirt. He made it do a couple of push-ups to get his astonishment back under control. "Raslow, my man is here because yours couldn't get the job done. You send back a message that this world was declared persona non grata by the Goa'uld, then you can't figure out why in over a week. Which is why General Hammond thought you needed help. And, frankly, from what I've seen, I have to agree. You haven't even gotten to first base with the natives, let alone the translations on those pillars."
"Malberg would've gotten it done. She was half-way through it."
"She hasn't even cracked the first three words, and you know it. Malberg's a fine anthropologist, but Jackson's the man who opened the Stargate. This is not a contest, Raslow. This is about getting the job done. And right now the job is translating the stuff on those pillars that talks about weapons that we can use against the Goa'uld." O'Neill straightened up. This was getting out of control. He squared his shoulders, reasserting his authority. "Major Raslow, you keep your people in line. Not just here, on this mission, but anywhere and everywhere that I can see 'em. That clear?" His voice cracked like a whip, reprimanding a subordinate.
Raslow flinched. "Yes, sir."
"And while you're at it, have Abelard put back the coffee he stole from Jackson's pack. That's high octane fuel for my civilian archeologist, and it keeps him working at a pace that would run any two other men into the ground including yours." O'Neill paused for effect. "Or didn't you think I noticed Abelard zipping around like a hamster on an exercise wheel?"
Even the dark night couldn't hide the red flush of embarrassment.
"With your permission, Colonel O'Neill."
The day was young, the sun barely above the horizon, and everyone was ready to put in another day's work. Try as he might, O'Neill couldn't find any hint of sarcasm in Raslow's voice, though he tried. Raslow was simply a very fine actor, he decided. The sarcasm was there, just hidden so well that O'Neill couldn't call him on it.
"Be my guest."
Whatever his other problems, O'Neill couldn't fault the major on his command. "Abelard, Tarkov, take the perimeter. We're leaving you in charge of the camp; I want to find Dr. Jackson and Teal'c in good condition when we return." Was there a sneer there? A back-handed dig? O'Neill couldn't find it. "Malberg, help Major Carter get outfitted for our hosts. Major, I assume you got the costume specs we sent back?"
"Yes." Carter allowed a moue to cross her face. "Do I really have to wear all that stuff? I could move better in the gown I wore to my senior prom. With two inch heels, I might add."
"'fraid so, Major." Malberg smiled in commiseration, "assuming you want to treated as an equal on this world. Clothes really do make the man, or, in this case, woman. You wear your current uniform, the Sorority Ladies will treat you like a man. And, believe me, here on P6292, that can be pretty insulting. Sorry, colonel. No offense intended."
"Which brings us to our half of our trading team." Raslow turned to O'Neill. "Shall I refresh your memory about the reports we sent back?" Which was code for I'm not going to embarrass you in front of everyone else by proving that you haven't read my reports and done your homework, Colonel, sir!
"Oh, I think I can remember the juicy parts," O'Neill said easily, with just a hint of ice. Last night's discussion hadn't yet worn off from either man. "Something about men being seen and not heard?" Under the circumstances, he was grateful that he'd kept half an ear open while Daniel had burbled on about the unusual social structure that Malberg had found on this planet. He congratulated himself inwardly on picking the right time to pay attention. Usually everything the archeologist said was either so erudite or annoying or so incredibly boring that O'Neill didn't listen.
"That's right." Raslow's face didn't show a hint of the frustration he must be feeling. O'Neill looked forward to playing poker with the man. It would be a game to be remembered. "No man is permitted to speak in the presence of women. Women hold all the power here, tell the men what to do."
"Isn't that always the way?" O'Neill quipped.
"Not in my household." Raslow moved on. "Malberg thinks that the men speak among themselves when out of sight, but none of us have ever heard them so that's not a given. We trade for supplies, for food and artifacts that Malberg wants. We give them trinkets, beads and things that they find pretty. They're thrilled over a sheaf of copy paper. Go figure."
Malberg returned with Carter in tow. "I'm coming to the conclusion that this is a retrograde civilization," she chimed in.
"Deteriorating technology," Daniel translated in an aside for Teal'c, that O'Neill made a point to overhear. "The writings on the pillars we're working on contain references to high tech toys, but we're not seeing any of them in the present culture, suggesting that this world is moving culturally backwards at the present time. Their version of the Dark Ages."
Carter stepped into the light. After the lecture he'd given Raslow last night, O'Neill refused to give a wolf whistle, but he found it hard to restrain himself. Carter had reappeared, decked out as a proper lady of P6292. Everything was covered, but still managed to leave little to the imagination. Tight curves of a gentle beige hugged every crevice, and how had Stores managed to put so much embroidery on the bodice with only twenty-four hours notice? O'Neill hadn't thought that anyone in Stores knew how to use a needle and thread. The skirt swished around her ankles, and Carter had given up her comfortable army boots for dainty ivory slippers that looked like they wouldn't last more than a mile on the trail.
Malberg too had undergone a transformation, trading in her BDU's for a midnight blue gown with gold trim that accentuated her dark looks. No one yet could call her pretty, but in this garb she achieved a regal elegance that drew eyes to her in admiration. Her broad shoulders were accented for a commanding appearance, and if her waist was trim because of daily hand to hand work outs, no one was about to complain. O'Neill pitied the other side; Malberg looked well able to bargain on behalf of the combined SG teams.
The only thing that the ladies wouldn't be able to do, O'Neill mused, would be to fight. Long skirts would get in the way, and where an army boot properly applied to the groin would take out a guy for the next six days these dainty little foot coverings would do little more than tickle and invite.
Well, that was what Raslow and O'Neill were for. Raslow didn't make his weaponry obvious, and O'Neill took his cue from the man. The P-90 got left behind, but O'Neill slipped Carter's little Berretta into his pocket and slid a knife into its sheath on his calf. There were a few more little beauties tucked here and about, and he had no doubt that Raslow had his own collection. Raslow might be a horse's ass, but he knew how to go into a potential combat situation. O'Neill wasn't worried. "Move out," he barked.
Despite O'Neill's and Raslow's caution, Teal'c had overheard last night's conversation. There were no directives from Colonel O'Neill, and there didn't need to be. Teal'c had been left at camp for a reason. Teal'c believed that DanielJackson would acquit himself well should the situation deteriorate to more than verbal ripostes, but, like the sleeshat of Chulak, Abelard and Tarkov were more likely to attack from cover with the odds overwhelmingly in their favor. Teal'c resolved not to allow that situation to occur.
But both Abelard and Tarkov appeared to conduct themselves in accordance with Colonel O'Neill's commands. Clearly Raslow had had a discussion with them at an opportune moment. DanielJackson would not be in danger of harassment during the remainder of this mission, or so Teal'c surmised. And neither would MajorCarter. CaptainMalberg, however, seemed to invite such actions and enjoyed the attention. Teal'c sighed. Perhaps, if he lived another seventy years, he would understand the Tau're but he rather doubted it.
The two remaining SG-14 members bade him good-bye and went to secure the perimeter from malevolent influences. Last week, before SG-1 had joined them, Tarkov had seen signs of a group of people living in the hills. The people were living in what Malberg described as Neolithic fashion: foraging for food, cured animal skins draped around their bodies for protection against the weather, no written language. SG-14 had never caught sight of them, only hints of their presence as the hill people occasionally wandered within spitting distance of the SG camp; a shaking bush here, and a footprint there. "Just checking us out," was Malberg's opinion. "As long as we look formidable, they won't bother us." Major Raslow had agreed, but took the sensible precaution of assigning patrols to be done in pairs, including himself in the rotation.
Teal'c assigned himself the role of DanielJackson's assistant cum bodyguard, accompanying the scientist to the dig site. The writings that the linguist was attempting to decipher were nothing close to the Goa'uld that Teal'c himself could read, so Teal'c was of no value in the translation process, but he could fetch and carry and keep DanielJackson working at top efficiency. Which, in this case, meant refilling DanielJackson's coffee mug.
"Are you sure you don't want some, Teal'c?" Daniel offered. He could afford to be magnanimous; his private stash had returned to the quantity that he had packed for this mission. Daniel had been certain that someone was playing a subtle joke on him, taking and then putting back his caffeine-laced ground roast. Or maybe, as O'Neill had suggested, Daniel was simply losing his marbles. Jack had always said that Daniel drank too much coffee. Daniel always replied in kind, suggesting that Jack drank too much beer.
"Thank you, no. I am not in need of artificial stimulants," Teal'c replied, as Daniel had known that he would.
"Suit yourself," Daniel grinned, taking a long swig of the black stuff. He grinned again, feeling the heat burn its way down his esophagus. This was living: clean air, a fascinating site to work at, and a full thermos of high octane, coffee-flavored caffeine. It didn't get much better than this.
He returned to work on the pair of pillars, Teal'c fading away into the brush to do his own mini-perimeter sweep. Daniel grinned again. It wasn't that the big Jaffa didn't trust the two junior members of SG-14 to do their job, he just didn't trust them to do it as well he could. To each his own: Daniel lovingly traced one of the symbols on the larger pillar. Both pillars told the same story, of that he was certain, but with two different viewpoints.
The pillars were large and covered with the dust and dirt of several centuries of neglect. Daniel brushed off another layer of filth, peering at the symbols that he uncovered. Words and phrases began to filter through: a great war, weapons that flew through the air to wreak havoc and destruction—didn't they always? Otherwise, what was the point of building them? One side fought with honor and valor, the other with deceit, and the pillars disagreed with each other as to who were the good guys and who were the bad. Again, all very standard. What was impressive was that the big pillar winners hadn't demolished the small pillar of the losers. History is written by the victors, Dr. Jackson, he reminded himself again. Why hadn't they destroyed any records that contradicted their own?
Reluctantly he tore himself away from the sheer joy of translating to the mission goal of deciphering the details of those weapons. Earth had its own battles to fight, and Daniel could sympathize with General Hammond's need to acquire weapons of defense. The smaller pillar had those pieces; the losing side had apparently wagered most of its fortunes on weapons of mass destruction. He'd have to get Sam's input on what some of those chemical symbols meant for weapons design—chemical-ese was the most difficult language of all!—but he was fairly certain from the description that Earth possessed as good or better missiles. For simple bang-bang shoot-'em-up stuff, few could beat humans.
The larger pillar described more subtle devices. Daniel took another swig of his coffee and settled down in front of it, frantically scribbling notes. There was a lot more chemistry here than on the smaller pillar; that and biology. Daniel wondered if he'd have to ask Jack to send for a biologist. Carter was brilliant, but she was a physicist. Organic chemistry had the same effect on her that mechanical engineering did on the archeologist. As long as a machine did as it was told, Daniel was satisfied. He didn't want to take it apart to see how it worked. He took a second look at the pillar. The symbols he saw here did bear a startling resemblance to the chemical structure of caffeine that he'd seen once, a long time ago. What was the undergrad course? Chemistry for poets, to fulfill whatever science requirement the program had to make its graduates 'well-rounded'?
Daniel shook his head. Caffeine was probably the only chemical structure he could remember seeing, so every chemical structure he saw after that looked like caffeine. He set the thought aside. The rest of the pillar went on to say how this particular weapon had 'cast down the enemy, turning their courage to water' and had gone on to win the war for the big pillar culture.
After that, the history became a little vague. The winners took over and subjugated the losers, turning them into slaves. Daniel decided on the spot that he'd have to have a long discussion with Malberg as to what the current society of this planet was like. What had happened to those slaves? Did this culture still carry those memories? He wondered how he could wangle a place on the next trading expedition to see for himself, though it would be frustrating to have to ask all of his questions through Malberg or Sam. And those people in the hills, where they remnants of the losers? It seemed likely. Daniel wondered how he could get to talk to one or two.
Be careful what you wish for… Teal'c burst into the clearing. "DanielJackson! Lt. Abelard just radioed for assistance. He and Lt. Tarkov have been attacked by the hill people!"
Damn! Daniel snatched up the zat gun that O'Neill made him carry and dashed off after Teal'c.