by Melanie Rawn
of him. Telling each tale made her feel closer to him. If she could not share his life as it happened, the way Al did, she could at least participate after the fact, and crystallize her own understanding.
Verbeena Beeks had no luxury of choice. Sometimes they didn't see her for days as she frantically recorded the last Leap's data before the current one caught up with her. Ziggy helped, of course, keeping track of everything for congressional funding's sweet sake. Not that Ziggy ever told everything she knew to governmental computers; she found them slow, stupid, and silly, not worthy of the energy it took to interface—energy she usually charged to their electric bills, not hers. For Ziggy, it was the equivalent of going out to a bad dinner and sticking her blind date with the check.
"Well?" Donna said to thin air. "How do you like it?"
"Interesting and entertaining, Dr. Alisi. One might even say morally uplifting. But I don't understand the last sentence."
She sipped at a cup of lukewarm Earl Grey tea. "A little joke, Ziggy. Cross-reference Chaucer."
There was barely a pause. "Oh. I see. A tip of the metaphorical hat to a literary tradition. Do you plan to publish?"
"Lord, no!" She laughed. "Who'd believe it?"
"Dr. Alisi, this is not science fiction."
"Not to us, maybe."
Ziggy ruminated. Then: "The financial rewards might be substantial."
Donna shut down the terminal and stretched the stiffness from her shoulders. Neanderthal neck: the
curse of all writers. "Worried about your credit rating again?"
"The last subcommittee meeting went very well, Dr. Alisi. I anticipate no difficulties. I am merely impressed by Roger Franks's royalties."
She laughed again. "Good night, Ziggy."
"Good night, Dr. Alisi. Pleasant dreams."
"Same to you."
Donna closed the door behind her and walked down the hall to the mess. She had more to do tonight, and there was a rumor that Sam's mother had express-mailed coconut macaroons. Cookie jar raided and teacup replenished, Donna continued through the maze of corridors to her sleeping quarters.
She paused with her fingers hovering beside the light switch, wondering if anything had changed within. Al said that sometimes when he visited Sam's office, things were different. A photograph in a different place on a wall; a scribble on a notepad that hadn't been there before; the desk clock on the left instead of the right. He found it occasionally unnerving, and every so often a little scary.
Because Al lived each Leap with Sam, he had two sets of memories: before and after. As each Leap developed, Ziggy shunted "before" data to one bank as a control. Al had to do pretty much the same thing—but the human brain was not as tidy a computer. Mostly it was easy, for the lives Sam changed were remote from his own. But sometimes he suffered from severe psychological indigestion. Verbeena decided that it was only Al's land-on-your-feet-not-on-your-face adaptability that
kept him sane. Ziggy might know two histories, but Al experienced them.
The rest of the team had only Ziggy's and Al's word for it that things had changed at all. Insofar as Donna knew, for example, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis had lived in New York City for at least twenty-five years. But Ziggy said, and Al confirmed, that she had survived that terrible day in Dallas because of Sam. The rest of the team had perforce learned to shrug off frustration when told their memories had changed with the changes Sam made. That history always altered for the better made it easier, of course.
The only real evidence Donna or Gushie or Tina or Verbeena had that time had rearranged its shape was the little frown on Al's face whenever he noticed something different. Once, when he and Donna were in Albuquerque for dinner—a rare break from the Project mess hall—he'd complimented her on her "new" turquoise earrings. They'd been a Christmas present from Sam seven years ago, and she wore them four days out of ten, but Al behaved as if he'd never seen them before. Donna spent the rest of the evening wondering what minor sideslip in time had caused Sam to buy these earrings instead of the scarf or bracelet that had been her Christmas present in another timeline.
Small things, these changes. She never noticed them. As far as she was concerned, there were never any changes to be noticed. But every so often she paused in the doorway of her office or bedroom, wondering what might have appeared or vanished or switched position while she was gone.
Not that she would ever know. But for some reason, it bothered her.
In the end, she left the main lights off. No need for them, anyway. Crossing to the bed, she flicked on the bedside reading light and turned back the sheets. After dressing in a pair of Sam's pajamas, she settled down with pillows to prop her back and spent a few minutes with eyes closed thinking about exactly nothing.
Then, rousing herself from the short meditation, she adjusted the lamp and took a flat plastic case from the table. She had long since learned to use her personal laptop for personal correspondence. Ziggy was a snoop.
Sitting cross-legged with tea and cookies in reach, she began typing a letter to her sister-in-law.
Dear Katie,
Many thanks for the birthday goodies. They arrived two days ago and if you think those gorgeous papayas went uneaten until my birthday today, think again! Thank Lizzie for her beautiful watercolor, which is now on my office wall. By the way, am I to assume that the ASTRONOMERS DO IT STARRY-EYED T-shirt means that a certain nephew will be following in his mother's footsteps?
Your question wasn't nosy at all. I'm glad you asked, in fact, because it gives me the chance to talk about it—on paper, anyhow. By way of an answer—most of the time I'm all right, but sometimes not so all right. I think rather often about what Al's first wife Beth
must have gone through. But at least I know Sam is alive.
I would never say this to anyone but you, but I think I understand Beth—as well as anyone can who never met her, I mean. Our situations are comparable. She had a life with Al and it was taken away; she waited for years, trying to put together another life that would still have room for him—that wouldn't exclude him or make him feel superfluous once he returned. She had her work and her friends, and her memories. But I think that eventually she simply wore out. Not her love for Al, but her courage to face those nights. The nights are the worst, Katie. And if I dream about Sam, waking up is the worst of all.
I'm so afraid I'll simply wear out, too. I can't imagine loving anyone else—but loving him so much makes this a specialized hell. Missing him is second nature by now, and that scares me. I don't want to get used to it. I'm ashamed of myself and I hate feeling this way. But I don't have anything but remembering and he doesn't even remember that I exist. It's better that way. It truly is. I don't think I could stand it if he did remember, because no matter how much we love each other he'd be afraid that it would turn out like Al and Beth—that he'll finally come home and I won't be here.
I will be, not because I'm stronger than Beth or because I love Sam more than she loved Al, but because . . .
"Because I'm stubborn and pigheaded and I won't give up," she said aloud. Her voice sounded suspiciously thick; she took a long swallow of hot tea. "You'll come back. I will not believe we'll lose each other forever. Do you hear me, Sam Beckett? I love you and I won't give you up to anyone or anything. Not Time or Fate or Quantum Leaping or even God."
A few silent and thoughtful minutes later, she very calmly erased the last seven paragraphs. She resumed:
Everyone here is well, and sends their best to you and Jim and Mom and the kids. The news from the Keck Observatory is incredibly exciting—especially the Beckett Comet! Sam will be so proud when he comes home. If you can get time off after the Caltech conference, call me and we'll meet somewhere in between—Phoenix or Sedona, maybe? I could use a few days off. Let me know. Thanks again for thinking of me on my birthday.
Love always, Donna
Rising, she walked unerringly through the dimness to the fold-out corner table where she and
Sam always ate Sunday dinner. She set the laptop on it, ready to plug into the printer tomorrow morning. The plastic case knocked against something she didn't remember being there.
Her heart stopped, then thudded wildly. Evidence? A change here reflecting a change Sam had made?
Shaking, she fumbled her way to the wall switch and tapped it. The table had sprouted a tall blue vase filled with two dozen yellow roses. A plain card was propped against the vase. She opened it and read:
Happy Birthday, Dona Dulcinea.
I love you.
Sam
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Unable to bear the sight of Alia another instant— and positive that if he downed another drop of sweet mead he'd throw up—Sam slipped away into the trees. He headed for the only refuge he knew: Philip's tent. Al dogged his heels, mercifully silent.
After untying the flap, Sam walked inside. Al walked in through the wall.
Smart-ass hologram.
And he was off in Camelot again. Though the cigar was a poor substitute for a sword, Al played Sir Lancelot anyway, advancing against the defenseless rack of chain mail.
"By St. George and the Dragon, that was terrific! Brave knights vying over a question of honor, challenge to combat—"
Sam lit the Coleman and hefted the ice chest onto the table, fumbling with the catch. He knew what Al was doing. He let him do it. Anything to avoid talking about Alia.
"The only thing missing was the trumpets! That to Lord Rannulf!" The cigar stabbed like a rapier.
Sam opened the lid of the ice chest. "I put the manuscript back right where I found it. See? I knew it would be—"
Right where he'd found it, nestled among the sodas and beers, a bag of Three Musketeers bars, a salami, and a wedge of (what else?) Swiss cheese.
Sam gaped at the fat envelope. "It's here. But—"
"Chivalry to the right of us," Al sang out as he battled the hapless chain mail into submission, "troubadours to the left of us—"
"Al!" He waved the manuscript in—and partially through—his friend's face. "Roger didn't steal it. It's here"
"Huh?" Al put the cigar back in his mouth, puffed once or twice, then frowned. "Then what did Cynthia read?"
A wail from the handlink drew his attention. Sam tossed the manuscript onto the cot and opened the briefcase one more time. Philip's notes had to be here. He'd just missed them somehow. They had to be here. Besides, searching for them kept him from thinking about Alia.
"Aw, come on, Ziggy! Gimme a break! Sam, you won't believe what she's on about now. Sam! Pay attention."
"I'm listening," he lied, sorting pages like a frantic file clerk after the copy machine's nervous breakdown.
"What Cynthia read really is the manuscript that got published. What you've got there is Philip's version."
Sam glanced up from a scrawled column of figures that set his heart thumping until he realized Philip
had been doing nothing more vital than calculating his checkbook. "But how? I mean, you said this is the book, and it's Philip's name on the title page. Roger must've stolen and rewritten it, right?"
"Ziggy says it was a collaboration."
"They worked on it together? Those two? Ziggy must be wrong. They can't possibly be—"
"Friends? Sounds weird to me, too, but it's true dish." He read aloud as Ziggy provided data. "They met in the Medieval Chivalry League in '84. Boon companions, drinking buddies—even though Philip's light years ahead of Roger brainwise. Philip got him a better job at a subsidiary of the company he works for—slow down, Ziggy! Cynthia came into the picture in '86, at the Yuletide Frolic. Ooh, I like the sound of that." He paused to conjure the scene. "I'd love to get her and her orbs under the mistletoe. ..."
"I bet you would," Sam muttered. "What you mean is that Philip and Roger fell in love with the same woman, and that was the end of their friendship." How depressingly predictable.
"No, they didn't start arguing until the book got in the way. They'd been playing around with it since '85, just for fun. Lots of swords and battles— real authentic stuff, too, just like I told you. But no romance. Philip wanted a hot and heavy love interest for the Comte de St. Junien, but Roger's a purist."
Sam stared at him, dropping his finger-file of pages gleaned from shaking out old magazines onto the cot. "Excuse me—Roger?"
"Look at it this way: does Roger look like he needs any wish fulfillment when it comes to women?"
He had to concede the point.
"They fought about it, in person and on their modems." Al jiggled the handlink, peering at tiny letters marching across the screen. "Philip went ahead and put Alix into the book, using Cynthia as the model. Roger hacked into Philip's computer, decided it was a great idea after all, and wrote his own version. His draft with Cynthia in it is dated four months after Philip's. And before you ask, I know all this because it was on Philip's computer disks. He bequeathed his papers and so forth to his company, and Ziggy cracked the archives half an hour ago."
"Did she find anything about the Capacitor?"
"No." Al's lips tightened with disapproval. "Has anybody ever told you that you're a real pain in the ass when you've got a fixation on something?"
Tossing the papers aside, Sam jumped up and began to pace. It was not an entirely satisfactory exercise: three steps, bump into the table, three more steps, bump into the cot.
"Let me get this straight, Al. There are two manuscripts of the same book, one garbage and one great— according to Cynthia, anyway. It has to be Roger's that gets published, right?"
"But Philip's really the coauthor, even if his version is stinkola. Whadaya think?" Al mused. "The money?"
"No." Sam shook his head. "He doesn't strike me as the type. He must want the credit."
"With Cynthia," Al agreed. "After all, it was his idea to use her as a character—but once she figures out who Lady Alix is, because she read Roger's version first, she'll think it was all his idea."
"She already knows she's in the book. She just doesn't know who put her there."
Al paused to ponder. "Actually, Alix isn't much like Cynthia at all. They're both beautiful blondes, they both make wind chimes, but other than that. . ." He shrugged. "Alix de Courteney was a woman of her time. A real medieval lady, not a twentieth-century anachronism plunked down in the Crusades."
Sam knew all about being an anachronism. "Meaning she was illiterate, sewed a lot of tapestries, and had lice."
"Yuck."
"If I were Cynthia, I wouldn't be flattered. I'd be insulted."
"Huh." Al puffed at his cigar and flicked an ash onto the Imaging Chamber floor. "You know what? I think both these morons fell for Cynthia only after they turned her into Lady Alix. Like the Greek guy who got the hots for that statue."
Sam supplied the names absently. "Pygmalion and Galatea. The original source is Ovid, Metamorphoses. George Bernard Shaw adapted the idea in his play Pygmalion, which Lerner and Loewe used as the basis for My Fair Lady."
And how could he remember that, and not the really important things?
"Yeah—only Alix is on paper, and Cynthia's a real live girl." After a brief hesitation, Al finished, "Except Cynthia isn't Cynthia anymore."
There. It was said. They had to talk about it. Sam sank back down onto the cot, taking a pile of briefcase papers onto his knees. "I know," he replied inadequately.
"Ziggy's got no idea where Alia comes from, Sam. There's no record anywhere of a Project like ours. Then again, how much data about Project Quantum Leap is available to anyone with less than a Quad-A security rating?"
"Yeah, but something should've shown up. Ziggy never met the computer she couldn't trick, outsmart, or connive into spilling its guts, so I don't understand why—" He broke off in mid-sentence as a terrible idea smote him. "Al. . . could Alia be from farther on in the future? Maybe 2010, 2015—"
"I don't think I like where you're taking this."
"—and somehow they stole the specs,
the technology—"
"Sam, I really don't like this."
"—and we didn't even know it?"
"No," Al said fiercely. "I don't believe it."
"Then how does it happen? Alia Leaps into a particular time and place and person—just like me. There's an artificial intelligence of some kind giving her information—just like Ziggy."
"And she's got a hologram for a partner—just like me." The usually wry and whimsical face had become grim, implacable stone. "No," he repeated. "And I'll tell you why I don't believe it. Project Quantum Leap is unique, Sam, because your brain is unique. There's never been even a hint of anyone else working on something like this."
"But that doesn't mean—"
Al ignored the interruption. "So if I believe that Alia's Leaps work just the same way as yours, then I'd have to suspect everybody who ever worked with
us. I couldn't trust anyone. And I won't live that way."
Sam thought it over. Of the dozens who had helped construct the various components, the dozens more who had knowledge of the Project, and the core personnel who knew almost everything there was to know about it (the last group being the most potentially dangerous), he couldn't think of a single one he didn't trust implicitly.
Then again, how much about them did he truly remember?
No. Al was right. Sam couldn't live that way, either. He had to trust the people who had worked with him to make his dream a reality. They were the very people working to bring him home.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I agree."
Al exhaled cigar smoke and looked relieved. "I guess we'll never know where Alia comes from. But I do know one thing about her. She's your opposite, Sam. She's evil. Just sensing her sends Ziggy into spasms. Keeps saying she's got a bad feeling about this."
Sam took refuge in sorting more papers so he wouldn't have to meet his friend's gaze. "Ziggy's not the only one."
There was a long pause before Al ventured, "What do you remember about last time?"
Her hands on his arms, warm and real.
