Binksbabe drifted off to sleep, snug in her bed, taking comfort in her dog's weight at her feet after a long evening of fanfiction browsing. When consciousness returned too soon, her first thought was Why is my bed so cold? . She shifted her weight slightly, trying to find the mutt at her feet. She did not find it particularly strange that he wasn't there; he'd probably gone to wait by her door. She shifted again, the realization that she was no longer smug in her bedcovers closer to dawning on her with each passing second.

Finally, she dragged herself onto her elbows and cracked her eyes opn. She stared at a wall, just as she expected, but it was... gray! She rolled over to see a large-ish gray room divided into four sections by walls of metal bars. Two red lasers guarded her side of the bars.

She yawned, still waking up. Reminds me of an episode of Stargate. She pulled herself onto her feet just in time for Richard Dean Anderson to make his grand entrance.

If that dream I had a few weeks ago wasn't foreshadowing, I don't know what is, she thought. She glanced again at his surprised face, and her jaw dropped slightly as she fell into a shocked silence.

His eyebrows lowered. "You're not that Goa'uld! How'd you get in here?"

Binksbabe continued to stare at him until his question finally registered in her mind. "Of course I'm not; Goa'ulds don't exist! And if you don't know how I got here, I bet I sleepwalked."

His brows furrowed as they often did on Stargate when Carter told him some scientific explanation. "How do you know about the Goa'uld?"

Binksbabe let out a sligh, half-hearted laugh. "What dedicated Stargate fan doesn't?" She noticed his alarmed and more than slightly baffled expression. "You're not Richard Dean Anderson, are you?"

"Ah, no." He took one step back towards the door.

Binksbabe's smile grew wider. "Well, it's very nice to meet you, Colonel O'Neill! "

"Do you know everything?"

She shrugged. "Everything from the episodes I've seen, but I've apparently missed the ones with you and big needles; Jonas and bananas; and Daniel and coffee."

One of the colonel's eyebrows rose. "Jonas?"

"Oh, so whenever I am, it's during the series and before Daniel ascended," she muttered to herself. "What year is it?"

"1998, why?"

"If it's 2003 now and we're in season 7, then this must be season... 2!" Her voice grew excitedly as she figured out the season.

"Since you konw so much, mind telling me where Major Carter is?"

"Sure, what episode?" At his blank look, she continued, "Sorry, forgot. Where was she?"

He pointed to the cell in which she stood. "Last time I looked, she was in there."

Binksbabe nodded, guessing she had been zapped into "In the Line of Duty," one of her favorite episodes. "Well, if I'm here and she's not, it would make sense to assume that Jolinar's waking up in my room this morning."

He frowned. "You mean that Goa'uld is," he began, poking his thumb up and behind his shoulder, "out there?"

She shrugged again. "Yeah, but if I'm right, she won't be able to do anything other than get in a whole lot of trouble. Besides, it's not like she's going to go out and demand the dedicated service of all the people in the world."

"She's--it's a Goa'uld; of course--"

"She's not a Goa'uld, but I really don't want to mess up the series by telling who she is. You know, the whole grandfather paradox thing."

"What?!"

Binksbabe bit her lip. "Yeah, I guess this is before '1969.' Well, that's a problem."

Jack looked at her with a rather confused expression. To the best of his knowledge and mathematical ability, the year 1998 came after 1969. "So when will Carter be back?"

She rolled her eyes. "Considering this situation has varied from the regularly scheduled episode... I'd say she'll return... by the time her last boyfriend dies." She could see the jealousy arise in his eyes at the mention of the possibility that she might romance someone other than him. "Or just when I've calmed you down enough to talk to her like you should."

"She's a Goa'uld, how am I supposed to talk to her?"

Binksbabe rolled her eyes again. "She's not a Goa'uld, and since she's gonna tell you anyway, she's a Tok'ra. I like Tok'ra; they're so cool, half Vulcan, half Jaffa kinda thing. I wish that they hadn't--"

"What are you talking about?"

"Tok'ra."

"I repeat: What are you talking about?"

"Ask Teal'c. But before you do that... can you get me outta here? I'm neither a Goa'uld nor a Tok'ra. I'm just some--"

"We'll see." With that, he up and left the room, leaving Binksbabe... alone.

Binksbabe in Stargate: Part 2

Binksbabe awoke to the Star Wars main theme. Her bed was just right, warm, and perfect. The last two times it had been like this, she'd woken up somewhere else in the Stargate universe. Now, however, it was her bed with her dog lying at her feet.

She eventually got up as the music automatically approached a deafening volume. Today, her birthday, the weather forecasters had predicted tremendous amounts of snow. She pulled herself out of her bed and wandered downstairs. She flicked on her school's television channel to find that school hadn't been cancelled for the second day in a row.

Deciding she still had enough time to get ready anyway, Binksbabe booted up her computer. She found that she only had one new e-mail from a carters@usaf.mil.

"Carters?" she wondered aloud. "If it wasn't a military address, I'd think this person was a Stargate fan. I don't even know anyone in the Air Force!"

She opened the message, briefly wondering if it should have really gone into the "bulk" folder.

From: Samantha Carter
To: Sarah Anderson
Date: Mon, 26 Jan 2004
Subject: Re: Orthodontist

Vinnet, I talked it over with General Hammond. He said we could get the X-rays back without drawing much suspicion. As for Mrs. Anderson, do what you can; I can't really help you.

-Carter

Binksbabe stared at the computer screen, her eyes wide and jaw dropped. "Vinnet? Major Carter? Is this some sort of joke?" She sighed and glanced out her open door. "So I suppose in this reality, I don't even have one review on Reeses . That stinks."

She sighed again and glanced around her room. Come to think of it, some things were different. For example, her desk was... organized! How odd! Everything in her room was... neat. If she didn't know Vinnet very well, she would have been scared half out of her mind.

A voice called up to her from the bottom of the stairs. "Sarah, don't forget! I'm picking you up at ten to go to the doctor's."

Well that explains that! I'm basically here to bail Miss Sarah Anderson out of any trouble she would have gotten in with further X-rays. With that thought, she scribbled a note back to the major.

From: Sarah Anderson
To: Samantha Carter
Date: Tue, 27 Jan 2004
Subject: Re: Orthodontist

Sarah and Vinnet aren't available right now. Don't worry, I look just like her, so when Mom (or rather, Sarah's mother) takes me to the doctor's today, the X-rays won't return anything unusual. I just hope the two don't mess up my life like you and Jolinar did when you dropped in.

-Binksbabe

***********

Sarah awoke to the theme from Stargate the movie. For all ironical purposes, it was unfortunate that she didn't know this. (She did enjoy the music, though.) Her bed was just right, too, warm and perfect. The last time it was like this, Vinnet had taken over and propelled her out into the cold air, as she did this time. Ted wasn't in her room like he usually was by now, but she could hear his tags clinking against his ceramic bowl.

She turned the music down just as it reached the part with the choral part began. Today, her birthday, everything seemed to be going the wrong way. Her mother was going to take her to the doctor's to learn more about Vinnet, and neither could think of a way out of it.

In order to try to find a solution from someone else, she booted up her computer. She found that she only had one new e-mail, though she couldn't recognize the sender.

She opened the message, wondering for an instant if it really belonged in the "Bulk" folder.

From: bot@fanfiction.com
To: binksbabe2001
Date: Tue, 27 Jan 2004
Subject: [Fanfiction.net] Review Alert!

Do not use the reply button to respond to the reviewer.
The reviewer's identity is revealed below.

binksbabe2001,
The following review has been submitted to: Reeses Chapter: 15

"Reeses!" Sarah snapped upright, hoping that the review had nothing to do with her.

From: seaarm123
Great little mini-chapter! :D
I love the interaction between Lauren and Vandrof/Gavan, and the way that it address laurens conflict about the tok'ra.
well done you! :D

She thought about the names. Lauren certainly sounded familiar; how could she forget her best friend? And though Vandrof didn't ring a bell in her head, Vinnet identified him as one of the other Tok'ra. "How did anyone find out about us?"

Sarah finally took notice of what her symbiote had been trying to point out to her: her room was a mess. Papers, folders, books, notepads, even tootsie rolls, dice, and gloves lay strewn about the surface. The rest of the room was similarly disorganized. It was Vinnet's worst nightmare.

She hurried to gather her stuff, wondering why everything was so... different, when her mother peeked into her room. "You can go back to bed; school's cancelled today."

"Are we still going to the doctor's?" she questioned timidly.

Her mother looked at her worriedly. "Why? Do you feel sick?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, I just thought I remembered you determined to take me to the doctor's. Must have been a really vivid dream."

"Okay, sweetie." With one last look, she turned and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

Sarah turned back to the computer, wondering what the whole Reeses thing was about. After running a search on her computer, she came up with several files with "Reeses" incorporated into their names. She opened the largest and spent a good amount of time reading through the twenty-six pages of text. At the end, she couldn't really say anything. She glanced one last time at the three words topping each page: Reeses and the author's name. (Which is to be replaced here by Shanay Armitage since there's apparently someone living in my house by that last name according to the phone book.)

"Shanay Armitage... SA... Sarah Anderson!" Some ounce of understanding came to the girl then. How else could this person know so much about her and be so willing to share it? The Stargate couldn't exist here. She ran a quick search on the word which returned: "MGM: Stargate SG-1," "SCI FI.com : Stargate SG-1," and "Gateworld : Your Complete Guide to Stargate" among others. Some power must have guided her to click on Gateworld, where she found her way to the omnipedia. There, she was relieved to find that her name was not there; not everyone knew of her.

"Someone wrote about me? Or, rather, what will happen to me in nine years?"

**********

Shanay (aka Binksbabe) treaded down the halls of the school, looking for familiar faces. When she finally saw one, she called, "Nichole!" When the girl didn't answer, she reminded herself that this was not her school. She walked up to her friend.

"Hey, Sarah! Guess what?"

"Look, I'm not really feeling like myself today. Something happened this morning that I can't get my mind off of, would you happen to know my schedule?" She winced at the thought that this person might not buy her explanation.

She shrugged. "You keep an extra copy in the top of your bookbag; you said that some Vinnet person told you to. Hey, guess what?"

Shanay glanced at the digital clock high in the hallway. "Um, I'm not really in the mood for guessing games?"

This parody of Nichole (for I shan't use her name either) shook off her bad mood. "They're coming out with a new X-men TV show."

"That's wonderful, N--" the author replied, forgetting that this wasn't the same exact hyper peer that had helped her with the plot for Reeses .

The bell rang, prompting the Nichole parody to rush off to her first period class. Shanay crouched next to the line of blue lockers and dug a folded piece of paper out of her bookbag. At a glance, she determined that the schedule differed only slightly from hers; the symbiote had no doubt convinced Sarah not to take drama and creative writing. So she hurried to a slightly higher version of power tech.

**********

Vinnet sat in front of the strange Tau'ri computer. She had attempted to e-mail Major Carter, but had gotten only a failure notice in reply. Her host's theory must have been correct; if the Stargate didn't exist, a Major Samantha Carter might not either.

She again glanced around the disorganized room, annoyed that whoever inhabited this space couldn't bother to keep it neat. She began sorting through the stack before the computer moniter. After moving a notebook with page upon page of sloppy handwriting, her gaze fell upon a half-decent depiction of a symbiote, the symbol for Earth, and two words at the top: "To Be." Setting that on a "to be organized" pile on the floor, Vinnet saw that two DVD cases had lain underneath that proclaimed "Stargate SG-1: Season 5."

Spurred on by her own curiosity as well as her host's, the Tok'ra placed one of the disks in the tray labelled "DVD-ROM"...


**********

Binksbabe stared at the huge, complicated circuit of wires, light bulbs, switches, and some really small thing that almost looked like a naquada reactor. This was just about why she took classes like drama and creative writing, where she just had to get inside the heads of her charactors, no matter how much concentration it required. She might have understood the monstrosity sitting on her desk had she taken this course before this day, but as of now, it made no sense to her. She glanced around the room, envying the smaller, simpler, more linear trinkets on everyone else's desks. Why couldn't Vinnet have left Sarah to her own devices? Or had Vinnet actually been taking the class?

"Is something wrong, Miss Anderson?" the teacher she didn't know asked, wandering over to her table.

Binksbabe leaned back in her chair. "I honestly don't know what I was thinking when I made this. It's just a mess!"

"I thought it was quite impressive when it started floating yesterday."

Great, so Vinnet had made a repulsorlift for a school project. Wonderful way to keep things classified, Tok'ra! "Mr..." She looked around the room, searching for some clue, which wasn't to be found. "May I go to the councilor's office?"

A concerned look grew on his face, and he nodded, pulling out a hall pass and scribbling out the required information. "Come right back."

Binksbabe nodded gratefully, grabbed the slip of paper, and headed out of the room, her character's classmates' stares gorging into her back. Carefully making her way to the office, she wondered what she would say to the guy. This day can go by faster so I can get out of here! Another thought struck her, stopping her quick pace dead in the hall. This all means that I'm not supposed to write fanfiction until I get back to my place! What kind of torture is this?! Breathing a deep sigh, she continued to the guidence office, where she whined to the councilor about something mysterious showing up on her X-rays and how worried she was. Not believing her story (though it might have been almost artfully told), he correctly figured that the whole thing was a ploy to get out of class and sent her back to power tech.


*******

"Hassak," Sarah hissed. Something was wrong with this computer in a mock-up of her room. The DVD drive wasn't working, but instead continuously spun the disk she'd put in it. "Too bad. It looked interesting."

She leaned back and looked around the room again. When her eyes rested upon a white board, she studied some of the shapes on it: four TIES, a Corellian YT-1300, an X-wing, a Y-wing, an A-wing... a Ha'tak? What was a Ha'tak doing there?

This was a strange place indeed.

********

DISCLAIMER: This chapter has some very specific views on cloning. Despite how it may look, it presents a one-sided argument. (That argument doesn’t necessarily reflect my views; I don’t really care about it.) Please do not form your opinions based on the facts stated in this chapter.

**********

Jack trudged down the halls of the school, trying to meander the ten yards between his history class and the office as slowly as possible. His efforts turned out to be futile as Mr. Jones happened to poke his head out of the guidance office. The councilor’s eyes narrowed, a look appearing on his face that screamed something to the effect of, “I should have known.” Without realizing it, Jack acquired the same expression on his own face.

“Jonathan, why are you here again?” Jones demanded. Jack didn’t answer, instead pretending to find something quite interested outside the windows on the left side of the hall. “I won’t be mad at you,” he promised, the edge in his voice showing his hand.

Jack allowed Jones to lead him back into the depths of the guidance office. Once in the small room again, the clone sank into one of the padded chairs in front of an excessively organized desk. Mr. Jones slammed the door then sat behind the desk with his elbows on the uncluttered surface, rubbing his face with his hands.

When he finally looked up again, Jones asked, his voice many times calmer than before, “What class did you come from?”

“History.”

The councilor’s eyebrows momentarily flicked skyward in surprise; the boy before him had gotten thrown out of his science class quite often, and he occasionally was sent from math and Spanish. But up until now, he hadn’t managed to bother his history teacher enough to wind up here.

Jones sighed deeply. “What happened?”

“A difference of opinion on ancient Egypt,” Jack grumbled in reply. “That’s all.”

“Can you tell me about this difference of opinion?”

“No.”

“Jonathan, you are only, what, fifteen years old? There is no way you could really know more than so many of your teachers. You just have to trust that they know what they’re talking about.”

Fifteen? Right! My body’s about one now with the mind at fifty-five. He shook his head. “They don’t.”

“I know you’re a teenager, Jonathan, but contrary to popular belief, that doesn’t mean you have to be rebellious.”

“I understand,” Jack replied, pausing to keep from adding “sir”, “but I’ve always been this way; it’s got nothing to do with the fact that I’m a teen.” As he said this, he recalled defying Hammond’s order and going through the gate to save the world. He also thought of the time SG-1 had gone through the gate with the special armbands on. No, nothing was new about his behavior.

Jones rolled his eyes. “Jonathan, you’re a bright person, but remember why you’re here.”

Jack nodded. “Girls.”

“No, you’re here to learn.”

Jack thought a moment. “No, girls,” he insisted.

“Let me ask you this, then: Where to you see yourself in five years?”

“The Air Force.”

“Ten years?”

“A general in the Air Force,” he answered in all seriousness.

Jones snorted with laughter. “Jonathan, it takes more than ten years to reach a rank like that!”

“I know.”

“Where do you really see yourself in ten years?”

He thought a moment. “A Brigadier General in the Air Force.”

“Jonathan, that’s never going to happen.”

“It depends on who’s in power.”

“You’re kidding! You think the president is just going to hand over a rank like that?”

“No.”

“Well?” Before Jack could answer, the bell rang. He stood up, pulling his backpack on, and headed to the door. “Jonathan,” the councilor scolded, “I’m not done talking to you.”

“I’m done talking to you,” he replied, gripping the doorknob.

“That wasn’t very polite.”

“I’m not very polite.”

“Where are you going?”

Jack stood a bit straighter, slightly adjusted his tie. “English class. I’ve got a debate to do.”

Jones rolled his eyes. “The debate can wait.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Jack began, too tired to correct any old habits, “it can’t. The last person to miss his debate got a zero on the project. So I’m off for Oz.” With that, the clone pulled open the door and stepped out, hurrying toward his next class.

**********

“If information derived from cloning research allows scientists to stop the division of the human ovum, a technique for terminating cancer may be found,” Jack’s classmate explained for his side of the debate, pro-cloning. “This is because the process by which the ovum divides—mitosis—is the same process the cancer cells use to multiply.” A slight murmur around in the classroom. Jack noticed an especially animated response from that Matt King.

That’s a good point, Jack ceded to himself. His turn. “Full-out cloning would make the clone feel inferior to the original person, leaving him to live in the shadow of the original. Even if, as my opponent said earlier, cloning could be used to replaced children who died at a young age, the clones of those children would grow up knowing that they were replacements, ghosts of the first kids. From what I’ve seen, anyone with older siblings can see something of that.” Saying that made him think of Charlie. It almost seems selfish to want a clone of Charlie, but I couldn’t put him through this. Skaara was almost like another kid, but he died, too. A brief, sad smile flickered onto his face. It would be impossible to clone Skaara now.

Jack’s opponent winced slightly. Apparently, he had an older brother. “Many people die because they need organ transplants,” the other boy stated. “Through the use of cloning technology, each person could have his or her clone standing by, ready if he or she needs an organ. Because the DNA is the same, there would be a much smaller chance for rejection, and blood types wouldn’t need to be checked. No one would need to worry about getting AIDS from a blood transfusion, because the blood could come from the clone.”

The clone rolled his eyes. “For crying out loud, how you like it if you woke up one morning and found out that your existence means nothing because you’re a clone of somebody else? And that somebody else needs an organ, so they’re going to kill you so that other person, who looks exactly like you, by the way, can live.”

The other boy swallowed. “Cloning is happening right now and has been for the past few years. Cloned fetuses for scientific research, by law, are to be destroyed before they are born. The Supreme Court ruled that clones are not people.”

Jack stared, trying not to reveal any top secret information. He sure felt like a person! No one had even suspected that he was a clone until Selmak came over and looked at some stupid DNA fingerprinting. He took a few deep breaths.

“Jonathan, is something wrong?” the teacher asked.

“No,” he replied, still trying to get a grip on his anger. “My final point is that genes change as an organism ages. If an older person is cloned, the genes of the clone are older than the body. This has been proven to create certain issues concerning genetic deterioration, which is apparently quite painful.” He tried not to wince as he remembered what that felt like. Stupid Loki.

His opponent frowned. “What about Dolly?”

“I was referring to human cloning.”

“I thought they’d only cloned fetuses?”

“I’m just reciting what my source said.”

The teacher smiled. “Very good, both of you. Let’s give a round of applause for Jack and Kurt, and get on with our next debate, school drug testing.” Jack barely heard the half-hearted clapping. As he collected his notes, he couldn’t stop thinking about Charlie. And Sara.

Hollywood Homicide X Stargate

"What've we got?" asked an aged cop as he approached another. Police bustled everywhere in the dark confines of a Hollywood back alley between two five-story brick buildings.

As a younger man fell into step behind the new arrival, the ploiceman answered, "Well, Joe, about an hour ago, someone trying to turn around here noticed a motionless body. This man," he continued, indicating the dark-skinned body on the ground, "was shot twice in the chest, and it looks like someone cut his gut a couple times, too."

"No blood," Joe Gavilan noted, studying the victum in the poor lighting. "H wasn't cut."

The other man shook his head, leading his superior in kneeling down for a closer look. "Are you sure?"

Gavilan frowned. Sure enough, two large slits in the shape of an X were plainly visible through matching slits in the man's shirt. As he had noticed before, though, not one drop of blood hovered around that particular wound. "That cut isn't new. This shirt was made to match it." He slid his hands into a pair of latex gloves, then carefully probed the wound. His fingers accidentally slipped into the dead man's body, and he jerked his hand away. Then he noticed something more peculiar: though his gloves had some sort of flied on them, it wasn't blood. "Have this analyzed," he ordered, jerking the gloves off and handing them to the plkiceman. "And bring me a cheeseburger. Well done. Raw onion, pickle, catsup. Nothing else."

While his partner examined the victum, the younger man, KC Calden, looked around the scene. There wasn't much to see. Any footprints that might have been in the mud were surely buried under the many belonging to the police force. He squatted, trying to find something more. All he saw was a dropped penny back at the sidewalk. He decided that it was something more than nothing, so he carefully placed it in a glorified ziploc bag with tweezers.

Maybe the body would show more.

**********

"He what ?" the colonel exclaimed, staring in disbelief. "How does anyone lose a Jaffa?"

General Hammon, only marginally calmer, replied, "I don't know, Jack, but you're going to find out. I want SG-1 to find him and bring him back. We can't have one of Anubis's Jaffa touring Earth, and we can't have anyone start asking questions."

O'Neill nodded. "Yes, sir." With that, he left the general's office to get started.

**********

KC shook his head. "I'm not covering the autopsy this time," he insisted.

Joe rolled his eyes. "C'mon, he's dead. Didn't you ever have to dissect stuff in high school biology?"

"My partner did it all," he explained, avoiding actually looked at his current partner. "I couldn't watch."

"Look, we'll go together," Gavilan decided. "The victum's our only clue for now. Be nice to have your sharp eyes in there."

KC sighed. "Fine. Let's go."

The two stepped out of Joe's car and headed into the morgue. Once inside, they found the victum's body.

Throughout the ages, mankind has undergone revolution after revolution, each of which changed the way the world worked. The agricultural revolution, the industrial revolution, the information revolution. We are long overdue for another! The sad condition of our world is such that it is ripe for a world revolution. We must be the catalysts for this; it will not occur on its own."

The President of the United States leaned back in his chair, his hands folded. "I'm gonna need some time to think about this, Mr. Reynolds. I'm still not convinced."

**********

The president peeked between the curtains hanging over the Oval Office's window with its newly installed, thinly painted, stainless steel reinforcements. "The cabinet's right , you know," he told himself, gazing out at the angry mob plainly visible on the far side of the White House's outer gates. "It's time for a change." If he couldn't tell that from all the political backhanding he'd had to deal with to get his position, the crowd blocking Pennsylvania Avenue gave it away.

The government had become corrupt. He couldn't begin to fathom the number of officials all the way up to Congress that regularly accepted bribes or manuvered innocent people just for a shot at better chances of more power. Though he thought himself to be an honorable man, he couldn't say the same for even his cabinet. Maybe the government hadn't become corrupt; it could have been that way since the United States proved itself a power to be reckoned with.

He watched as black-clothed police edged anxiously nearer to the crowd, riot gear ready, though no one had gotten out of line. As a whole, the people seemed restless, worried. Financial troubles seemed to infest the population like maggots on a three-days-dead deer by the side of the road, spreading like fuzzy, white mold on cheese. The rich were billion- or trillion-aires. The poor barely scraped by month to month, let alone when December 25 or April 15 rolled around. The middle class was dying with any sense of morality left in pop culture. Honor, duty, and respect were now just antiquated ideals replaced by more easily accessible and acceptable morals of violence, drugs, and premarital sex. Any surviving religions were persecuted and scarcely practiced but for one: that which trusted in the god of Money. He could barely let himself allow his five-year-old daughter to watch television, listen to the radio, or go to the movies in the fear that she might pick up on those behaviors.

As if all that wasn't enough, the Supreme Court had ruled on the case of Smith vs. Averton County Police. Reverand Daniel Smith had preached in his Texas church while the Averton County Police Chief had visited. Smith had made sever incredibly rude but true comments concerning both the police chief and the president, motivating the chief to suspend Habeus corpus and imprison Smith. The reverand sued. But at the Supreme Court, the issure arose that other key political figures were mentioned during the sermon. Although the president agreed with Smith's side, the Court decided in favor of the police to cover their own behinds in the future. Judicial restraint meant nothing anymore.

He turned from the window as some of the crowd caught a glimpse of him and begame more riled, shaking fists and pressing against the fenceline. Reynolds's report lay on his desk as the president imagined fire had lain on the pile of books at Hitler's bookburning party. It was alligned neatly with the edges of his oversized cherry desk. He flipped the slim, navy three-ring binder over to the third section, labelled "foreign issures."

Slavery now flourished again in Africa, some of which had been brought into the hidden places in the United States. While children starved in South America, Africa, and Asia, America farmers were being paid to not grow food.

On top of all that, They wanted him to do this. They didn't live here, nor did They seem to want any modicum of power. He couldn't imagine what They expected to get out of this, but Reynolds had assured him that the United States had better do what They asked. And They had asked a lot.

He thumbed through the other pages in the report then jabbed a button on an ornate, cream-colored box on his desk. "All right, Reynolds, c'mon in."

A bald head with round, black glasses poked into the room, followed by a short body.

Science fiction, among other genres and real-life experiences, explores the miracles inside people. We don't see them everyday because these miracles are so common. I understand that it seems like only rare, extraordinary happenings should be classified as miracles, but although those of which I speak are by no means rare, they are extraordinary by the expectations of modern mindsets.

Say you lose a loved one, and this loss slices a deep emotional wound into you. You are on the brink of despair because of it--and I'll get back to this later--but you press on and get through it. A couple months later, for the same reason, an acquaintance is also on the brink of despair, suicide even, but because you can relate, he or she gets through it also.

Now, this doesn't seem extraordinary, but look at it this way: Because some one you loved died, you were able to save someone else's life. Isn't that awesome?

As for another kind of miracles, often mentioned in science fiction, we should consider the human spirit, or at least one facet of it: endurance. I believe that deep inside, each person has a reserve of endurance in the form of hope, strength, or determination. It can be maintained by a number of things, especially memories.

You can see this endurance in the American POWs of World War II in Japan. Despite torture and harsh conditions, they didn't reveal their knowledge. This is greatly exemplified in "The Lord of the Rings" and the Star Wars novel "The Krytos Trap" and anywhere else where a person or character is on the edge of giving up but something keeps them going.

We don't like drawing on this reserve. It means that we are otherwise too weak to accomplish the task before us. What we don't want to admit is that drawing on our reservoirs of endurance makes us better and stronger physically, emotionally, and in the right cases, spiritually.

Then again, maybe we should save our endurance for the last, thereby ensuring that we've given it our best shot. I don't know. Maybe I'll never know. All in all, it just leaves me in greater awe of what is bestowed upon us, what power God has entrusted to us. May we learn to use it in the way He has ordained.

FATHER, WHERE ART THOU?

Jack slowed his bike as he neared the two-story, blue house on his right. He didn't know why he was here. Come to think of it, the last time he'd seen this house was during some Goa'uld torture session years ago, even though he now lived just a few blocks away.

As he turned into the driveway, Jack felt both relieved and disappointed to find the resident's car there. Why did this seem to hard? He'd known this person for years before he ever found out about the SGC.

Nudging the kickstand into place, he stopped his bike beside a smaller one. Jack sat there for a moment, staring at the tiny bicycle. He remembered taking the training wheels off one at a time as a young, blonde-haired boy stood nearby, watching eagerly. He recalled how many scrapes that boy had earned trying to learn to ride, but not a one had hindered the boy's enthusiasm.

Jack finally pulled his eyes away, desperately trying to keep tears from escaping his eyes. Almost ten years had passed; it shouldn't have hurt so much anymore, but it did. It must be horrible for her, he thought. And I left her here alone. k

He dismounted and walked up the sidewalk, which seemed to have magically, mockingly become ten times its normal length. Finally, he found himself at the front door. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, settling into an uneasy weight, but why? She wouldn't recognize him.

But he would recognize her.

Before he could do anything, the front door opened, revealing the worn and tattered face of an old man. "Hello," the man greeted pleasantly enough.

"Um." Jack shifted his weight, uncertain of what to do. "Is Sara O'Neill home?"

"Yes," the man replied, seeming a little baffled. He looked back into the house. "Here she is." Then he retreated into another room.

Sara stepped up to the door and studied the teen expectantly. For a few moments, neither could say anything. "Can I help you?" she finally asked.

Now that he'd gotten here, he could not figure what to say. "A friend of mine asked me to stop by and see how you're doing," he finally answered.

Her eyebrows rose. "Really? Who?"

Jack shrugged, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. "A Colonel Jack O'Neill."

Sara's eyes narrowed. "He couldn't come ask himself?" she demanded angrily.

Jack gulped. He was asking himself, wasn't he? Curse Loki! He couldn't tell her the truth! Maybe he could give her an explanation she'd accept. "Remember the last time you met? At the hospital?"

Her eyes watered, and she bit her lip. "Yes. Another Jack had showed up earlier, looking for Charlie." A tear slipped down her cheek. "When he left, the Jack that came to the hospital after us, he was holding Charlie's hand and walking him out. He said it wasn't Charlie, but it looked like him."

I remember that. When he and I got back to his world, he just went back into that crystal. The guy was as confusing as Oma Desala. Jack looked up at her, still trying to find something to say.

"You're him, aren't you?" Sara breathed.

Jack stared; how could she know?

"Charlie would have been sixteen this year," she explained. "Are you him?"

He stared a bit longer before shaking his head. "No, I'm not."

Sara's gaze hardened as she accepted this; she gained control over a tiny trickle of tears. "So why did Jack send you?"

"He thought you might want someone to talk to, someone who knows him well," the clone replied, briefly wondering what would happen if she called SG-1's leader.

"And how do you know him?"

"He, uh, saved my life during one of his missions. After that, he was just like a father to me." As he said this, Jack realized that it would remind Sara of Charlie again, maybe make her think that he was a kind of reincarnation of her son.

"You keep saying he sent you. Why did you come?"