From Here to Alternity: Interlude
Disclaimer: I own no part of Stargate, but I have full and complete possession of the crackheaded ideas that form this plot.
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"This is not the best course of action. I fear that the strength of her recollection will override our safety protocols." The woman speaking in such a cold voice leaned forward to make her point to her two colleagues. "We have risked much to procure the subject and she has enormous value given the scarcity of replacements. We cannot hope to collect another now that the base is in such uproar. If she remembers the procedures performed upon her thus far, we may never be able to gain her conscious cooperation for the next phase of retrieval. And the rest of our experiment relies upon retrieval."
"If she remains sedated much longer, she may suffer permanent brain damage. That would doom my research before it has even begun." The next voice was androgynous and dry, as if the fruitless end of years of research was unimportant.
"I believe the cells extracted from her cerebrospinal fluid last week should suffice to test the transfer mechanism. Since the cellular replication has begun, my need for the subject is minimal. At least until the testing phase." The voice of the last person at the table was as high and sweet as a young princess's.
The second voice took on a tone of command. "Whether or not it is a wise idea, the sleeper must awaken. As you said, the possibility of replacement should this subject be damaged is slim to none. Your surmise is correct - if we proceed with the operative in place, we may lose this opportunity. However, if the subject's brain fails, we will lose all further possibility of research. Let us proceed."
A silent conversation ensued between the other scientists at the table before both gave nods – one reluctant, one eager. The androgynous speaker touched a comlink and ordered the operative to proceed as all three leaned into the security display to watch the crucial next few moments.
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Major Samantha Carter, USAF, SGC, SG-1 2IC, PhD, H2HC LVL 3 ADV and USAF ACAD VIP, was pretty sure she'd woken into yet another dream. She could feel all her limbs attached and even move them now – hallelujah – but the fog at the edges of her vision lingered. The cotton-stuffed condition of her mind reminded her of post-mission recoveries on Janet's best pain meds. It wasn't that she didn't know what she was doing or where she was, it was more that she didn't care. She was warm, swaddled in soft infirmary blankets and deliciously content. Her subconscious had done some scary things with her dreams over the years - not that she could blame it with SG-1's toughest missions for nightmare fodder - and she was glad to feel more like herself.
In her previous mid-sleep vision, she'd been just barely conscious, watching the high blue sky of the desert fade into strange metal or concrete ceilings and a flash that put her under again. None of her limbs had moved like she wanted and the terror of immobility coupled with the desperate trapped sensation she couldn't quite shake were enough to give her the shivers. No one had been able to see her or hear her except her captor, no matter how she tried to scream or thrash herself out of his grasp. Most of the ex-SGC scientists who'd transferred to Area 51, as well as a few of the NID guys she knew, had been all around her looking for something, but she couldn't tell what. They'd been talking about infrared sensors and heat signatures and shaped temperature anomalies, but she couldn't catch their attention.
It had been a nasty, if vaguely familiar, nightmare. Jolinar ghosted through her mind at the oddest moments, especially when she was exhausted or frustrated. Helpless captivity was no one's favorite dream, particularly when it was based on an actual memory. Sam dragged a leaden hand towards her equally unresponsive face and rubbed at her heavy eyes. If she were still dreaming, couldn't she at least have palm trees and white sand beaches? Cabana boys carrying fruity drinks out to her raft in the surf? A matriarchal Amazon planet full of advanced technology and valuable natural resources where she fit in like she'd been born there? How about a vintage Harley to rebuild from scratch? Please? Pretty please?
Apparently when you spent the vast majority of your time deep under a mountain, your subconscious took vacations to beautiful, scenic… isolation rooms? She blinked awkwardly at the ceiling and confirmed the information of her other four senses. If it sounded like a large echoing room and tasted like recycled air overlaid with the faint scent of disinfectant and electronics, it was probably one of Janet's subdomains on Level 21. Touch gave her a soft but firm mattress and a set of patient pajamas that were orders of magnitude less embarrassing than Janet's post-op paper gowns, but still nothing she'd be tempted to wear while walking the SGC's corridors. She closed her eyes again.
Sam could've sworn the last thing she remembered was standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon watching the sunset. The scenery had been wild and glorious, as usual, and she'd felt a strangely compelling freedom from the concerns of her daily life-is-work-is-life. Three days of open road with the windows down and her favorite music blaring had made an immense difference in her outlook.
She'd been so tightly wound for so long that relaxation had been almost painful the first day on the road. She'd kept twitching her hand over to her cell phone and snatching it back like she'd been scalded. She didn't need to call anyone, or so she'd muttered to herself between mile markers. Everything on base was fine, and if not they knew how to contact her. The gate-arch remote control was safely locked away awaiting further study before being passed to Area 51. Her projects were fine. Her lab was fine. Her team was fine.
Colonel Jack(ass) O'Neill was once again safe at home due to her intense unheralded efforts and was now subject to Janet's less than tender mercies. That thought had curved her tensely held lips into a properly wicked grin somewhere near Albuquerque. She supposed she shouldn't have talked so openly to Jan that last night before she left the Springs, but a few margaritas into an impromptu girl's night the overstressed dam had burst. She couldn't remember what exactly she'd said, but she recalled a declaration of over-him-ness that Janet could no doubt cite chapter and verse. It was that familiar. She winced at the inevitable recitation to come. When it came to others' embarrassment, Major Doctor Fraiser had a near photographic memory. Sam decided to pretend she had no memory of that particular evening.
At least her remaining best friend was discreet. Janet had been aware of Sam and Jack's bittersweet non-relationship at least semi-officially since the za'tarc incident that nearly wrecked their careers, but truly for much longer as Sam's feminine voice of reason. They all knew by now that this rift would eventually heal into a constant interpersonal alertness and careful professional demeanor between 2IC and CO, but never really resolve into anything… or nothing. It was just the way the Colonel and the Major worked. But the tiny divorced doctor had urged her more than once to 'fish or cut bait', among similar, more earthy metaphors.
And if this was her dream, why couldn't she think about something pleasant, like Daniel safe and sound where he belonged? The other possibility, that she was actually awake, was less comforting than it might have seemed. If this were real, she'd have to figure out the source of her emotional detachment and that odd fog, not to mention where she was and why and how and what part was injured this time.
Sam sighed quietly. Disorientation upon awakening usually meant a head injury, and she could just see her self-appointed guardian's reproving expression already. Teal'c's eyebrows would rise almost to the bottom curve of his gold tattoo as he'd ask a series of polite questions that just happened to point out the foolishness of whatever action led to her injury. But maybe he'd give in and tell her what was wrong first.
Sam opened her eyes.
The man in the white coat making notes at the foot of her bed was the first problem. Tall, dark and tanned, he looked more like a surfer than a doctor and he couldn't be more than five years older than Sam. The only thing that clued her in to his identity was the traditional white lab coat with a stethoscope peeking out of the pocket. As he frowned over her chart, Sam cast her loopy gaze over the rest of the room. That was the second problem.
This wasn't the SGC. It wasn't even necessarily a military hospital. The room was too large and airy to be part of the Academy Hospital and too colorful to be the infirmary. But, and she craned her neck discreetly to be sure, it probably wasn't Colorado Springs General as there were no views of the mountains in the background. Actually, there were no views in the background – the room seemed to have no windows at all. A quick glance at the door verified that there was no way to open it from inside, except that it was currently propped open.
She sensed motion near her toes and closed her eyes to slits, her view partially obstructed by her eyelashes. No, this guy wasn't at all familiar. Nor was he military, if she had to guess. His longish hair and slight slouch would give any proper basic training instructor fits. But he seemed to know what he was doing as he examined her I.V. line and made another note in her chart. He moved midway down the bed and turned his back to her as he checked a bank of monitors she couldn't study without admitting to consciousness. A glance to the other side of the bed showed a visitor's chair and assorted furniture, but nothing that helped her know where she was or what was going on. Crap.
Sam gradually became aware of a desert-worthy dryness growing in her mouth as the fog across her perceptions faded. Now the question became not where she was, but could she trust any food, water or information she got from this stranger. Probably not. Best to stay still and conserve her resources until he left, hopefully not closing the door behind him. But that became moot as he went to chair-and-table side of her bed and grasped her wrist with long, cool fingers. He frowned as he took her pulse and shifted his fingers slightly and Sam knew the rapid beating of her heart would put the lie to her stillness. She tried to moisten her arid throat and ask who, what, when, where, etc. The croak that actually made it past her lips had the doctor leaning over and gazing intently into her eyes.
Then he smiled. "Sam! I'm so glad you're finally up. You really had us worried for a while there." His bright white teeth and obvious happiness reassured her only a little. After all, lots of untrustworthy people could fake pleasantness – including Adrian Conrad's staff of mad kidnapping scientists.
"Wh-" Her cough stabbed through her throat like a stiletto. "Whe-" She couldn't make any more sounds, but her face must have told him what she needed.
"What? Oh, sorry! Here." The bed began to rise under her shoulder blades as he prepared her to take the straw between her lips. Blessed cool moisture trickled down her throat. "Hey, hey, wait. Don't take too much yet. Here, keep that down for the rest of the conversation and I'll give you more." He met her wide blue eyes. "Yeah, well, dirty looks have no effect on me, even if we were all biting our nails waiting for you to come out of it. How do you feel?"
That was a loaded question. Sam swallowed and cleared her throat experimentally. "Wh… Where am I? Who are you? Wh- " A fierce bout of coughing cut her off and brought the stiletto sensation to the back of her throat again.
The man's face clouded in uncertainty before he adopted a very 'Janet' tone and said, "Funny, Sam. Cute, very cute. But I'm not gonna fall for that."
She beckoned for more water and he indulged her with a playful scowl. Sam coated her throat in moisture and tried again. "This isn't a joke. And it's not cute, either. Where am I, who are you, and what am I doing here?"
His brows drew down as he assessed her expression. Apparently convinced, he slowly pursed his lips and made a 'concentration' face. "You really don't recognize me?" At her slowly shaking head, he looked even more concerned and reached for her pulse again. "Okay, we're gonna do this methodically. Let me take your pulse and check your lungs and pupils, tell me what your last clear memory is and we'll go from there."
Sam lay still as she watched him count her heartbeats and jot notations on her chart again. He certainly didn't act like someone who wanted to dissect her or pump her for information about her very classified job. Still, she'd been through this with both Hathor's SGC mock-up and Adrian Conrad's Earth-bound goons. She'd just have to be careful about what she said and keep her eyes and ears open. If he wasn't for real, she'd know before long. She leaned forward and let him listen to the front and back of her chest before gesturing for the water and keeping it when he would've put it aside again. Her possessive look was enough to have him sit in the visitor's chair and tell her to go on without trying to reclaim the cup.
Sam described her memory of sunset at the Grand Canyon in careful detail… and decided to ask this guy to the next poker night. His impassive expression was worse than Daniel's. "Okay, now it's your turn."
He scrutinized her face in turn and then looked up at the ceiling.
"Um, hello?" Sam's heart plummeted as he lowered his head with an exaggerated cheery expression.
"Well, Sam, the good news is that it's not as bad as it could be. You remember where you live?" She nodded and rattled off her address. "And where you work? And what you do there? How about your car, do you remember the make and model?"
Sam just nodded to the questions about the SGC and told him the details of her recent automotive purchase.
"Okay." He held his breath for a long moment. "You're not going to like this, but I think we'd better let you remember the recent past on your own. Now, listen! Here's the reason. You agreed to be part of a… Well, you… uh hmmm." He quickly came to some realization and answered her silently glared question.
"I'm trying not to give away any of the information we'll need to verify the extent of your cumulative memory loss." His face contorted through a series of editorial grimaces before he gave her a sharp nod. "Okay, this should work. Your short term memory seems to have been effected by some Alzheimer's research you agreed to be a part of. Now, that doesn't seem like something you'd agree to, I know, but your sister-in-law just found out that both her parents have the disease and she and her siblings and all their kids are candidates for early onset. Which includes your… brother's family. You contacted your father to see if his… ah, special connections could find something to help. Um… hm."
He looked back up to the ceiling and pondered. "Okay, one of his colleagues had a theory about some of your unusual experiences in the first years of your current employment and possible treatment options, but that research wouldn't be possible, ah, nearby because of FDA regulations. So you and your immediate superior and his boss contacted some friendly, um, individuals who had recently vacated real estate to offer, uh, outside of the United States. Unfortunately, that real estate is underground. The good news is that it's, ah, unknown to local thugs. So your doctor and some of her friends in the research community drew up a list of the people best equipped to meld new sources of… biological improvement with current neurological treatment.
"Now, I know what you're gonna say, but the issue of classified military… installations was made moot by the fact that the First Lady has made this disease her personal cause. The President was agreeable to using extraordinary measures to make progress on research because he didn't want to sleep on the First Couch with the First Dog for the rest of his term." A quicksilver grin fluttered across his expressive face as he met Sam's eyes. She kept her attention on him and any expression off of her face. He sobered and continued.
"So, we started working with you and a few of your father's associates last week. You haven't woken up since the last procedure. It's been a while and we were starting to be concerned. Your EEG was normal, but there were obviously complications. Now we just need to work together to find the extent of the memories you've temporarily misplaced. But I'll get into that in more detail once we redo some scans." The tall doctor closed his eyes and muttered a review of pertinent facts inaudibly for a minute before exclaiming. "Oh, right! And I'm Alex Jenkins, International Neurologist of Mystery. I thought you were joking when you asked who I was because I, um, lost a bet the other day and now I have to introduce myself that way for the next 67 hours. Thus the, y'know, 'funny/cute' reaction. Any questions? Ah, that I'm likely to answer?"
Sam wondered where to start.
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The silence in the secured room was fraught with tension as the three researchers watched their subject hammer the operative with questions. Where was her father? Which Tok'ra were included in the project? What exactly did she sign up for? Could they prove it? What did her CO and General Hammond say about it? How long would it take? After effects? Permanent memory loss or temporary inability to recall? Did Janet Fraiser sign off on all parts of this? How much had they learned so far? Who else was part of the project? How did they intend to restore her to normal when they finished?
Their operative, who actually was a neurologist and memory specialist, stammered out responses or deflections according to the parameters they had agreed upon and the limits of his assumed persona. The subject was skeptical and dogged in her interrogation. Without even noticing, she revealed information they didn't already have, but the trio looked less than pleased as her questions continued.
The androgynous voice said what they were all thinking. "She does not believe him."
The sweet-and-innocent voice held a tinge of acid as it replied, "We would not need her if she were stupid. Of course she does not believe him. That would require trust and trust must be earned."
The cold voice sounded reluctant. "We may have to move on to the next phase using alternative methods of insuring cooperation. That may impact the integrity of the data. All this would be much easier if she just believed the scenario."
The androgynous voice again brought their discussion to a close. "Belief is not necessary. Cooperation is. Use the false documentation and increase security patrols. We must not cause preventable damage, but cannot allow her to escape."
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Author's Notes: Well, I didn't see this chapter coming!
I apologize for the delay in posting, but it took a LONG time for this chapter to feel right. And, oh, about the investigation? It's ongoing. I promise we'll eventually get all those pesky clues together, but I've given up on predicting when. ;-)
An ENORMOUS Thank You to technetium for help and inspiration on this and subsequent chapters. If it weren't for such excellent beta reading and reviews, I would have pulled my own hair out by now. I still may. (Grrr. Stupid, Distractable Muse.) I tinkered withthis installmentafter technetium sent it back – so blame me for the parts you don't like!
As always, Please Review! Tell me what you thought of this chapter and why it worked or didn't, please! Thanks!