A Fleeting Glimpse

by

moon_n_star

Part II

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing. 

 

Not a peep. 

 

Only his arm responded, contracting around her back, drawing her closer with each step as they crossed the threshold. 

 

He breathed in short, even blows, relief exhaling with each lungful of air.  Even in silence, O’Neill spoke volumes; but, although his apparent concern secretly elated her, it was hardly what Sam needed now. 

 

As they were finally left alone, she had expected *something* from him – an explanation, an apology, even a standard O’Neill scolding. 

 

Nothing.

 

O’Neill escorted her through the room, their feet flattening the woolen rug as he navigated toward the sofa.  The spacious room, decked with wood and leather, seemed familiar to her fuzzy eyes, but not in the sense that she’d actually seen it before. 

 

For she never had. 

 

Carter had imagined it, though, during those scarce moments when she allowed her mind to dally in fantasy.  She’d wondered whether his pond actually contained any fish, and whether the act of fishing, and not the fish itself, truly did beat working on a naquadah reactor; whether the mosquitoes nipped relentlessly like miniature piranhas, or if they just liked Teal’c; whether she’d ever get the chance to say yes to his invitation, at least once, or whether she’d ever call the place something far more intimate than just Colonel O’Neill’s cabin.

 

Arriving at their destination, his arm lowered her steadily to the seat nearest the crackling fireplace.  Excited sparks winging from the healthy fire warmed her thoroughly, although Sam suspected that their shared warmth from when he tucked her under his arm had accomplished that long ago.  Once firm in her seat, he draped a nearby blanket across her shoulders, his movement bequeathing her a brief peek around the snug room. 

 

Dark colors dyed the masculine room with their earthy tones, their coziness flavoring the space with an air of welcome.  Picture frames blushed the walls and the mantle, and a garlanded tree skulked gloriously in the corner, jazzing the room with the scent of pine. 

 

Dropping to the coffee table opposite her, his hands immediately clinched hers, his temperate fingers weaving almost desperately between her hands as they relaxed on her knees. 

 

And, yet, he said nothing; he just stared heavily at their joined hands.  Sam also found the site captivating, albeit for different reasons. 

 

‘Mrs. O’Neill.’

 

Carter had heard the Deputy call her that.  She knew she hadn’t imagined it, but she also had no idea what to make of it.  Nor did she know what to make of O’Neill’s reaction – not a flinch, not a smile, not even a flush.  Just pure acceptance, as if he’d heard it a thousand times.  She silently prayed that O’Neill had play-acted the scene in front of Deputy Hartmann, that it was all a front, and that he would spill everything once they were alone. 

 

Nothing. 

 

Once more, her weary eyes landed on their coupled hands.  And that was when she noticed it ... noticed *them*. 

 

One on his finger, one on hers.

 

Oh crap.

 

“You okay?” 

 

Amputating her trance, Sam lifted her eyes to him for the first time.  The shards of light leaking from the fireplace pooled on his face.  He looked younger, Carter thought, or happier perhaps.  The lines that swarmed his eyes and forehead – lines he associated with age, but she knew were formed from something much deeper than maturity – were noticeably absent.  And, in their absence, a brightness imbued his countenance in a way Sam had never before seen. 

 

Except for his eyes ... dark patches trimmed his ardent eyes, their depths peppered with relief and remorse.  But they seemed new, recent, and Sam had a pretty good idea what caused them.

 

“I’m fine,” she finally croaked, her voice dusty and raw.  “Really.” 

 

Following his gentle squeeze of her hand, her vision returned south to their tangled fingers.  Finding it too distracting, especially given her current situation, Sam disentangled her fingers and retracted them slowly, so as not to offend him.  But the damage was done.  And, although Carter instantly regretted the action when she noticed his frown deepen, she knew, realistically, that it was necessary.  “What’s going on?”

 

O’Neill pulled up from his crouched position, straightening his back against the air.  “What do you mean?” 

 

“What are we doing here?”  She gestured with her eyes, panning them around the room to silently indicate his cabin. 

 

O’Neill balked at the question, hesitating as he formed a response.  “Talking?”

 

A splash of guilt colored his expression, a culpability that Carter had recognized earlier as he dashed toward the car.  O’Neill, or at least the one she knew, took his command very seriously, and held himself accountable for his team’s safety.  But, he could hardly fault himself for a car accident.  Perhaps she missed something in his expression, or just misunderstood him completely ... in this place, anything was possible. 

 

“No,” Carter replied patiently, “I mean *here* – your cabin.”

 

His eyebrows rocketed at her words, his tongue darting quickly across his lips.  “I like to think of it as *our* cabin ...”

 

Elevated to shoulder-level, she waved her hand in the air between them, smearing his remaining words.  “Just ...”   Her eyes pinched together as her voice faded.  She wanted to tell him to stop ... stop the hand-holding, the ‘Mrs. O’Neill,’ the ‘us’ and ‘we’ and ‘our.’  She *needed* it to stop. 

 

But, when the opportunity arose, the words escaped her.  One look at his bruised expression, and she faltered.  Even though her mind hammered the probability that this man wasn’t her O’Neill, she just couldn’t hurt him like that.  Her O’Neill or not.  Not again.   

 

Eager to fill the awkward silence, her mind swiftly formulated a new approach.  “What’s the last thing you remember?”  She shifted forward as her mouth trickled out the words, careful to maintain the judicious distance between them.  “Last night, weren’t we ... someplace else?”

 

His once reluctant eyes rushed upward, watching her face intently.  “Uh, no.” 

 

Carter vaulted from the couch, unable to think under his intense, and baffled, stare.  Sam paced the floor, building a static charge as her feet scuffed the fluffy rug.  Since the first hit rock bottom, her mind hastily mulled over her next line of questioning.  Sam knew what she *wanted* to ask – she’d wanted to since before entering the cabin – she just wasn’t sure whether she should.  “So,” she started, inhaling sharply when she realized she might actually go through with it; against her better judgment, she continued.  “We’re married.”  

 

Jack’s eyebrows budged, allowing his dark eyes better access as they pillaged her eyes, her face ... and the fervent scrutiny caused her stomach to absurdly tie into knots. 

 

Obviously seeking an explanation for her odd behavior, and just as obviously not finding one, he answered inarticulately, “Uh, yeah.”

 

Carter halted mid-pace, stopping near the table where O’Neill sat.  “And that doesn’t seem – odd – to you?”

 

Unhurriedly, Jack arose from his seat and walked assuredly toward the end table.  Reaching to its surface, his hand grasped the item there – a cell phone – and tugged it closer to his chest.

 

“What are you doing,” Sam questioned anxiously, her feet securely rooted in their spot.

 

“Calling Jerry,” O’Neill answered impassively, his eyes fixed on the phone as his fingers dialed the small numbers. 

 

“Why?”  Sam inwardly cringed – why in the world would he call him?

 

Jack’s finger halted before it pressed another number.  “To get you to a doctor,” he responded calmly.

 

The thought was rational – she had been in an accident, after all – and one she’d considered several times since she’d awoken in the car.  Perhaps something had jarred her head, or perhaps the sheer stress from the accident somehow induced a temporary amnesia.  But, she dismissed it each time.  She couldn’t explain it, but Sam just knew that this wasn’t right … none of it was. 

 

“I’m fine,” she assured him, her feet unintentionally stumbling ahead a few steps.

 

“Yeah, I can tell,” he snapped sarcastically, his hand hoisting the phone to his ear, his eyes looking anywhere but at her.

 

Her eyes cringed at his tone.  She knew she sounded crazy to him, and she’d probably do the same thing in his position.  But this whole situation was crazy to her.  Sam had no clue what had happened, or what was going on; but, more and more, her gut convinced her that something was amiss. 

 

“Put the phone down, Colonel.”  The demand came out harsher than she intended; still, Sam suspected that his body had frozen, not from the chill in her tone, but from the chill in her words.  One word, to be specific. 

Colonel.  

 

His eyes staring vacantly out the window, he silently mouthed the title.  With little movement, his hand flipped the phone closed. 

 

Grazing a hand through her tousled hair, her voice lowered, sinking just above a whisper.  “I know what this must look like to you,” Sam muttered quietly, “but I’m fine.  You just have to trust me.”  O’Neill turned then, his eyes, which shrieked with concern, directed toward hers.  “If we could just talk, please.”

 

Nodding in acceptance, he plopped into the armchair that rested opposite the fireplace.  “So,” he finally spoke, a heavy hand rubbing over his face, “you said we were somewhere else.  Where were we?” 

 

Wishing to diffuse the tension that splintered between them, and figuring that her pacing more than likely only added to it, Sam trotted near the sofa, answering his question once her back reclined against its cushions.  “On a mission.” 

 

“A mission,” he repeated dubiously.  “What mission?”

 

Her interweaved fingers flexed in her lap, and her thumbnail absently scraped along the opposite thumb.  “Arecia.”
 

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

 

Well, that hardly surprised her, but it also failed to shed any light on her predicament.  It did, however, raise another point, one she hadn’t considered before.  “We’re married,” she questioned timidly, “so that means that one of us ...”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You retired.”

 

“You could say that,” he nodded grudgingly.  “I didn’t have much choice,” he added, lightly tapping his knee.  “It finally gave.”

 

“When?”

 

“’99.  You don’t remember any of this?” 

 

Biting her lower lip, Sam tugged her head sideways. 

 

Jack stood then, rounding the furniture between them and squeezing onto the sofa at her side.  “Sam,” he sighed.  His warm hand floated to her face, its tender strokes tinting her cheek a blushful rose.  Overwhelmed by his gentleness, her eyelids fluttered shut.  “Please,” he continued softly, “I really think you should see a ...”

 

“Why were you here?”  Eyes still closed, her parted mouth expelled the words, posing the question that had plagued her all evening.

 

“What?”   

”When I was out there,” Sam whispered, finally pealing back her eyelids, “you didn’t know what had happened to me, right?”  At his nod, Sam flushed slightly, lowering her eyes to the floor to conceal her unease.  “So, why were you here – waiting – instead of out there looking?”  Ever since hearing his name after the accident, she’d wondered why it hadn’t been him in that car, instead of the Deputy.  The man she knew could never sit still when someone in his care was possibly endangered. 

 

“Because,” he responded, his lips curling into a thin smile, “you had the car.”  Sam looked away, trying to stop the twitch in her cheeks.  “Besides,” he added seriously, “I couldn’t leave Jake.” 

 

O’Neill pointed absently behind him; Sam followed his direction, but could only see a dark hallway.  “Dad’s here?”

 

“Cute.”  His head slanted forward to allow his hand access to the back of his neck, as his fingers massaged the area sternly.  At her continued silence, his hand stopped, and his head slowly rose.  “Oh, you’re kidding me, right?”  Vehemently shaking his head, his hand dropped from his neck like lead onto his leg.  “You mean to tell me you don’t remember that either?”

 

Carter shrugged as she held his gaze.  “Remember what?”

 

“That’s it.”  Slapping his leg, O’Neill jumped from his seat.  Unwilling to discuss it further, O’Neill disregarded her previous arguments and reached for the phone.  “We’re taking you to a doctor *right* now.”

 

This time, Sam did move, flashing fire in her long strides.  “No, I told you ...”

 

“Dammit, Sam,” Jack exploded, all control forfeited as he blew his top; and, like a volcano, his blood boiled, filling his infuriated body like molten lava.  “Would you stop arguing with me?”

Standing a hair apart, Sam refused to step down, holding her own in spite of his overblown anger.  “With all due respect, Sir, I don’t ...”

 

The effect was immediate. 

 

His hands bundled into balls at his sides, their shape trembling from the strength of his emotions.  Jack had snapped, breaking like a homeless twig that turned brittle in the wintry air.  Except for his hands, not a muscle budged in his entire body for a long time, until his eyes plummeted to the floor. 

 

His mouth tightening into a straight line, he cleared his throat before speaking.  “Jake’s asleep in our bed,” he rasped, his voice dead and hollow.  “He tried to wait up.  Just ... I’ll, uh, be outside.” 

 

And with that, he toddled toward the back door, flipping a light switch before sliding the door open.  With his back turned toward her, Sam noticed the painful sag in his shoulders, the hunched frame of a man who usually walked so tall.  She’d hurt him again. 

 

Sometimes, it seemed that was all she ever did. 

 

With nothing else to lose, she swiveled her body to face the short hallway, assuming its path led to their ... his ... *the* bedroom.  Following the narrow corridor, she encountered two doors at its end.  Glancing inside the door to the left, and finding the bathroom, her eyes briefly shuttered closed as she braced herself for what lay beyond the door. 

 

Lightly urging the door open, Carter tiptoed into the room, the outsized carpet under her feet quieting her approach.

 

A dead silence governed the overweight room, except for the subdued burble from the television.  A makeshift entertainment stand crutched the noticeably portable screen, whose faint light cast an illuminated mist over the room.  Only as she stepped closer to the bed could she make out the shape. 

 

She had no idea who he was, but one thing was for sure. 

 

It *definitely* wasn’t Dad.

 

******

 

The room had frozen, not from the wintry wind or the falling temperatures outside, but from the utter cold shock of seeing what lay within its walls. 

 

Gone were the subtle noises that sighed throughout the room: the television, with its muffled laughs burbling from the corner, had silenced, its picture petrified as if paused on the screen; the bitter wind that had gusted through the tree branches, rapping their deadened edges weakly against the bedroom window, had stilled; the blood that once thrived in her veins drained, and in its wake swelled a river of frost that thundered in her body like a torrential rain of ice ... and it stopped her dead.

 

Everything had silenced, everything had stopped ... as if all were frozen in time.

 

Sam could no longer feel the legs that branched beneath her; nor could she feel her feet, or her arms, or any other part of her body.  The lungs that had once proudly puffed with breath sagged heavily in her chest, the once inflated sacks flat and airless.

 

Sam Carter, the scientist, the theoretical astrophysicist, always kept her cool, her mind always able to think rationally and analyze any situation before acting. 

 

It was the scientist that seeded her feet, planting them firmly in their position by the bed; it was the scientific part of her that prevented her eyes from closing, and that forbade them from looking anywhere but ahead.  Like with any new discovery, the scientist was fascinated, intrigued, and quite-rightly puzzled by the picture before her ... by him. 

 

But, unlike a symbiote, the scientist did not have control over the person ... and the person freaked. 

 

For the first time since she could remember, Sam Carter panicked.

 

Her mind raced, jolting her body into action.  Moving in a mad dash, her feet shifted frantically into reverse, recklessly retracing their steps toward the door.

 

‘God, this can’t be happening.’

 

She stumbled clumsily across the floor, the soles of her shoes grazing ineptly against the full-length carpet.  Sam stormed from the room, thoughtless to the noise she made.  She needed to get out of there, to escape the room’s ever confining walls, and she needed to leave *now*.

 

‘It’s not real.’

 

Her hand seized the edge of the door as she passed, giving ample strength to pull it closed behind her.  She didn’t once look back.

 

It was a trick, her brain reasoned ... a dirty, rotten, horrible trick.

 

Her limbs shook, trembling under the intensity of her emotions.  Sam’s abrupt movements had jerked her body into warmth, rekindling the flammable blood in her veins.  A ghastly pressure burned in her chest as her reanimated lungs pumped too much air too fast, the surplus air causing her to hyperventilate. 

 

Stretched chaotically against the wall in the slender corridor, Sam bent over, shoving her head down near her legs.  She focused solely on her breathing, ordering her lungs to cooperate. 

 

“It’s not real,” she rasped through shallow breaths, the words willing her mind into composure.  “None of this is real.”

 

It couldn’t be.

 

Waking up on Earth, staying at *his* cabin, being called Mrs. O’Neill by a total stranger ... none of it was real.

 

Oh, it definitely *felt* real, Sam thought dolefully, but none of it felt *right*.

 

And so the scientist reasserted herself, persuading her frenzied mind that only through logic would she figure this out.  Thus, her brain regrouped, inventorying everything that had happened since she woke up in the car.  Somewhere, somehow, there had to be an explanation ... and a concussion resulting from a car accident didn’t cut it.

 

Alternate reality. 

 

It had crossed ... no, more like pounded in her mind before.  It was an obvious solution ... obvious to anyone who traveled through a wormhole for a living.

 

It also would explain a few things ... the gold ring, for example, that resided contentedly on her left hand, its symbol representing a life, a commitment, with someone she’d only known as her commanding officer.

 

An alternate reality.  What else could possibly explain everything she was seeing ... a life that belonged to a Sam Carter, but not *this* Sam Carter. 

 

But, her brain reminded, her head still stooping over her body, a person isn’t simply replaced when their alternate enters their reality.  Which meant, there would have to be another Sam that existed here ... dead or alive.

 

Considering O’Neill had gazed at her out of concern, and not as if she were a ghost, she could safely assume the other Sam was alive.  But, it hardly seemed likely that Sam O’Neill would desert her family during the holidays.  Regardless, if this was an alternate reality, and another Sam did exist, she’d know soon enough when the tremors started.

 

Furthermore, the alternate reality theory couldn’t explain the small matter of *how* she got here.  Sam hadn’t remembered touching a mirror on Arecia, nor did she recall touching anything other than plants during their visit. 

 

It didn’t fit, at least not perfectly. 

 

Regardless, her panic was easing, its remnants gradually overwritten by logic; these new thoughts distracted her mind, cleansing it of the images she had witnessed not five minutes before. 

 

Straightening her back, Sam leisurely leaned against the wall behind her.  Tipping back, her head rested on the solid wood paneling; with eyes sealed shut, her fingers straddled her nose, kneading the skin between her eyes to massage the burgeoning pressure. 

 

If not an alternate reality, she pondered, then ... what? 

 

A dream? 

 

No, this was far too real to be a dream.

 

A Goa’uld trick, then?  An induced hallucination, perhaps?  She had experienced them before ... once too many for her liking.  They all had. 

 

The Blood of Sokar.  That hallucination had felt real, she recollected – *very* real, in fact.  Her father, her room, the conversation – it had matched her memory to a tee.  And, yet, something had felt amiss; and, although she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what that something was, it had tipped her off, forcing the realization that what she was seeing wasn’t real.

 

From that description, the events playing before her suspicious eyes certainly fit.  With the exception that no one had asked her anything of importance. 

 

Yet. 

 

But, perhaps this Goa’uld was smarter. 

 

Maybe, unlike Apophis, who had foolishly jumped the gun, he or she had decided to wait; they’d wait until Sam acclimatized to her new surroundings, until she settled into her new life, before slowly extracting the wanted information.  They’d build her trust patiently ... it was slow, methodical, and it made a great deal of sense. 

 

“Do your people always think so negatively?”

 

The unexpected words, accompanied by her resoundingly threadbare nerves, startled Sam from her preoccupation, driving her to whip her head forward. 

 

Despite the evident gender of the voice, Sam peeked to her side, checking whether the door had opened amid her distraction.  Still untouched, Sam quickly darted her eyes forward, staring into the direction from which the voice emanated.  And, there at the end of the narrow hallway, stood a figure Sam recognized instantly.

 

“Mivosa?” 

 

Her bright clothing projected through the dim passageway, nearly casting an angelic glow around the alien woman.  Sam readjusted her eyes, unsure whether it was the sudden exposure to light that had fuzzed them, or merely the disquieting sight of the Arecian woman before her.  Her lids, nonetheless, blinked violently, attempting to regain focus.   

 

“You do not trust easily.” 

 

Mivosa had read her mind, Sam realized; but, why that notion shocked her, Sam couldn’t say.  Truly, mind reading hardly measured up to the fact that an alien woman, one assumed to be simple and ordinary, had appeared in what Sam had figured was either an alternate reality or hallucination.

 

Mivosa looked the same as when Sam last saw her – colorful, but scant clothing; long, black hair; creased eyes.  Except that the color of her eyes had changed, Sam noted, transforming from the crystal-blue hue she had observed on Arecia to a dark shade of navy; in fact, as Sam crept nearer, they looked almost black.

 

“Let’s just say,” Sam addressed the woman carefully, her footsteps terminating upon attaining a safe distance, “that experience has taught us to be cautious.”

 

“Caution may be wise elsewhere, but I assure you it is not needed here, Samantha.”  

 

The woman appeared whole, as if truly present in the room, her image not filmy like in a hologram.  And yet, despite her skimpy covering, Mivosa didn’t look cold.  In fact, her bare clothing contrasted Sam’s heavy winter wardrobe altogether, insinuating that, whereas Sam belonged, Mivosa did not.

 

“Where is the rest of my team?”

 

“They are safe.”  The words crawled from her lips, her mouth delivering each syllable with precision.  “As are you.” 

 

Sam detected no deceit in Mivosa’s tone or demeanor.  Despite her current situation, Sam’s gut still trusted the Arecians; they were too unsophisticated and peaceful to affect any intended harm ... or so, at least, Sam hoped. 

 

“They are on Arecia,” Sam demanded delicately.

 

“Yes.”  Mivosa leaned forward then, her smooth voice reducing to a whisper.  “There has been a misunderstanding.”

 

“I’ll say,” Sam mumbled under her breath, her mind sneering at what had to be the understatement of the year. 

 

Mivosa skewed her head, tilting it on its side as the curious grin Sam remembered from before resurfaced.  The woman could read minds, Sam mentally reiterated, which explained the show of curious delight on her seasoned face.  Sam shrugged it off and disciplined her features as she readily awaited the forthcoming explanation.

 

“It has been explained to me by your team, quite persistently I must add,” her voice inflected the latter words, triggering a brief twitch of Sam’s lips, ”that the ritual of Qi is foreign to your people.”  Mivosa elevated her arm, positioning it across her chest, her body bowing slightly.  “For that, I extend my deepest apologies.  You must understand I could not have known.”

 

“I don’t belong here,” Sam said hesitantly, her words spoken as a statement of fact. 

 

“No,” Mivosa confirmed, her elfin feet taking meticulous steps closer to the fireplace.

 

“And they,” Sam continued, her finger pointing absently behind her, “don’t belong to me either.”

 

Reaching the fireside, the woman rotated her body, the ruddiness from the fire highlighting her fair skin.  “In a manner of speaking.” 

 

Sam understood Mivosa’s meaning, despite her vague answer; regardless of the explanation for this place, the life she observed was not hers.  “Then, why ...”

 

“Because you asked,” Mivosa professed, her body resuming its self-possessed posture after asserting itself near the fire.

 

“No,” Sam countered swiftly, her resolute eyes holding steady against Mivosa’s murky pools, which reflected the flushed light crackling from within the hearth.  “I didn’t.”

 

At those words, Mivosa shifted.  “You did, Samantha, on Arecia.  Do you not remember?”  Like a legendary statue bursting into life, the motion shattered her sculpted frame, one elegantly contoured by the adjacent fire.  “You wondered what it would be like to have both worlds, to have what both your heart and your mind crave.  I have given that to you.”

 

Sam nodded as she treaded mindlessly around the sofa, which segmented the spacious living room.  “But, it’s not real.” 

 

Mivosa’s mouth crooked into a smile.  “In a manner of speaking.”  

 

“Then what is this place?”

Twisting her head economically, Mivosa’s dark eyes panned their surroundings.  “I do not know,” she answered honestly, interpreting Sam’s question in the literal sense.   

 

“No,” her response immediate, the reproof slipped from Sam’s lips before she could even her tone.  “Not the cabin,” Sam added with a shake of her head, “but this place ... this thing.  I mean, is it an alternate reality, a dream?”

 

“It is Qi.”

 

“Qi?”  Sam sounded out the word slowly – as slow as one could enunciate a monosyllabic word – while she scavenged her mental stacks, referencing the word against everything she remembered Daniel ever talking about. 

 

“Yes.”  Mivosa walked in tiny strides, her movements light and melodious like rhythmic ripples sashaying across a peaceful brook.  Her trivial footsteps paused at the edge of the sofa, its other edge occupied by Sam.  “A place that exists neither in dream nor reality.”

 

‘Neither in dream nor reality?’  Sam’s mind reeled at the possibility, her arms crossing atop her chest.  “But how did I ...”

 

“That is not of importance,” Mivosa interrupted.  “Your mind searches for an explanation, Samantha, it searches for an external path.  But, there is not one.  Only a spiritual path will lead you here.”

 

Again, her vague, nebulous words revealed little.  But then, Sam realized, in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter.  Sam reallocated her priorities as the officer overruled the scientist, directing all attention on finding a way out of this place instead of trying to understand its true nature.  “How do I get *out* of ‘here’?”

 

“Only when you experience unity of actor and action, when you free your mind from its indecision, will you reach the end.”

 

Sam inaudibly reiterated the words, her mind fiddling pensively in order to absorb their meaning. “You mean, I must choose?”

”Yes,” the petite woman nodded.  “Then will you wake up on Arecia, and return to your home.”

 

Sam’s hands fidgeted behind her, the fingers from her right hand anxiously strangling the fingers on her left.  “Choose,” she muttered finally, unable to screen the reservation from her voice, “choose what?”

 

“Life is molded by choices – your life by your choices.  You focus on the bigger plan, Samantha, your mind always set on the end-goal.  But, just as you cannot reach the top of the ladder without taking each of its steps, you cannot achieve happiness if you do not listen to the moment. 

 

“Listen to the moment?”  Sam’s irritation multiplied; more and more, Mivosa’s dialogue frustratingly reminded her of Oma. 

 

“Qi removes all distraction.”

 

Sam balked at the statement.  Remove all distraction?  Mivosa considered this – waking up to a life where she was married to her commanding officer, someone so forbidden to her – as removing distraction?

 

“It dares you,” Mivosa continued, electing to ignore Sam’s annoyance, if she indeed detected it at all, “to be silent so that you may listen to your emptiness.”

 

“My emptiness?”  Sam repeated aloud; this time, however, Sam understood her meaning completely.  “Mivosa, I *am* happy.” 

 

“My dear Samantha,” Mivosa stated as she slanted forward, her voice descending to a whisper, “if that were true, you would not be here.”

 

The words stung, scalding her flesh like a searing-hot poker.  Their brutality pummeled her chest with a violence more ferocious than a thousand physical blows, and she quivered at their truth. 

 

Sam wasn’t happy ... not completely.

 

Her body sagged limply onto the nearby sofa; absently, her arms wrapped around her body, desperately clinging to the warmth that swiftly seeped from her skin.  Her eyes stared blankly ahead, their depths ensnared in a black hole of frustration and pain, both emotions wheezing stacks of smoke in her head and ears. 

 

In vain, Sam struggled to raise her defenses, to regain her composure; but this place, whatever it was, had shredded her armor, bulldozing it into a million unrecognizable pieces.  So knocked off guard, so wholly demoralized, the Major, and all her professional detachment, had been spurned, leaving only an unnerved and unsure woman in her place.

 

The air, beaten into a stony silence, stretched around her.  Vaguely, Sam was aware that Mivosa had moved, her poised body gracefully descending opposite her.  Unconsciously, Sam recognized that her new position mirrored that of Jack’s not too long before. 

 

“This is your opportunity, Samantha, to experience what your mind forbids you to see.  But you must choose, for Qi is only temporary; it is but a fleeting glimpse of one possible path.”  Her hand touched Sam’s, tearing her eyes from darkness.  In Mivosa’s face, Sam found not the curious, almost-patronizing smile from before, but one of genuine warmth and compassion.  “Do not waste it.” 

 

With a quick smile, Mivosa was gone, the air in the cabin undisturbed by her disappearance. 

 

Sam had her answer, her explanation ... and it left her paralyzed, her mind and body wholly immobile.  She felt constricted amid the airy room, as if its walls were increasingly closing in on her. 

 

Sam had to make a choice – to choose whether a life with someone she loved, a life of love and happiness, would be worth the price.  Could she sacrifice her career, flush away all her dreams and goals?  Could she relinquish her duty, effectually turn her back on her planet, for something so selfish as personal happiness?

 

Unless ... 

 

Sam did have another option, one that would apparently get her out of this mess.  She could surrender it, the idea, permanently; forfeit the secret hope that had haunted her heart like an anguished wraith.

 

It was the easier, more feasible, solution.  The other option – well, it was an impossible, useless dream ... a vicious cycle that left her heart tattered and bruised.

 

‘This is your opportunity.’

 

Her opportunity ... to do what?  To decide between two impossibilities?  To sacrifice something, someone, she so secretly longed for simply because it was the lesser of two evils?

 

It was unfair and cruel.  Sam couldn’t choose ... she didn’t *want* to choose, for it was the choice itself that terrified her.  Obviously, Mivosa hadn’t understood that; she hadn’t comprehended that it was exactly this, the *opportunity* so genially bestowed upon her, that she feared most ... because, ultimately, it only led to one resolution. 

 

But, left with no other options, with no other way out, Sam was forced to play by Mivosa’s rules ... she was forced to decide.  So, Sam ironed her face, calibrating her countenance with a dogged determination more reminiscent of Major Carter than Sam. 

 

Sam knew which way she would choose, the only option she *could* choose. 

 

But, before she extinguished the dream forever, there was something she wanted to do. 

 

*****