Quantum Leap - Knights of the Morningstar - Melanie Rawn (v1) [rtf]

by Melanie Rawn

  In decent privacy, with Verbeena talking him down, he slowly adjusted. New memories fell into their proper places; old ones seeped away. He slept a few hours and woke with his act together. More or less.

  Later, much later, Donna confronted him—if a single questioning, worried glance could be called confrontational. So he explained.

  All of it. From the whirlwind of meeting, falling in love, becoming engaged, and leaving Sam at the

  altar, to the boozy English Lit. prof Sam had been when he reunited Donna with her father.

  She listened, saying nothing, twisting the wed­ding ring on her finger. At length, when he finished, she stayed silent for a long while.

  Finally, she murmured, "Then the years I had with him, I would never have had at all but for this thing that keeps taking him away from me."

  Al cleared his throat. "Yeah, I suppose you could look at it that way."

  "Does he remember me, Al? The way we are now, I mean?"

  "The first Leap, he didn't even remember his own name. Tina and Gushie are sure it's not because of glitches at this end. It shouldn't happen. He should be able to remember."

  "But he can't." She glanced up, dark eyes oddly serene. "It's probably just as well."

  "Just as—?" He gaped at her.

  "You must never tell him about me. Promise."

  "Donna—"

  "Promise, Al," she repeated. "There must be a rea­son he can't remember. If it's not the Project, then something else must be making sure he remembers only what he needs to."

  "Something else?" Al choked out. "What else?"

  "If I knew," she said, suddenly fierce, "I'd tell him or her or it that I'll do anything, if only it will give me my husband back!"

  That was the first time he'd considered what role Something—or Someone—else might have in their time-travel experiment gone awry. It had taken quite a while to admit that perhaps, from a certain

  point of view, it hadn't gone awry at all.

  "Al?"

  He snapped back to the present with a blink. Donna stood before him, very beautiful and just a little sad. "Just wanted to check on Philip. How's he doing?"

  She nodded over her shoulder. Sam's body was now standing at the mirrored table, gazing down. White clothing emphasized the streak of silver in dark blond hair. Al wondered if Sammy Jo might later develop that idiosyncracy of one prematurely white streak. Sometimes she could be so much like Sam. . . .

  And after that Leap—the Triple Play, Gushie termed it—they had all found out why. All of them except Sammy Jo. Donna had exacted solemn prom­ises from everyone not to tell. Barring a few "But doesn't she deserve to know?" protests, they had all agreed.

  It was the wisest course, until Sam came home. And perhaps it was Donna's wisdom that Al val­ued most about her presence on the Project. Sam was a mind-in-a-generation; Tina was only a few rungs below him on the IQ ladder; Gushie was a programming wizard; Verbeena nurtured their all-too-human souls. But Donna possessed an honest and gentle wisdom they all needed. Al didn't like to think what they would have done without her. In losing Sam, they had lost their Project Director, main brain, and friend—but Donna had lost her husband. If she could keep on, so could they. In some slice of Time, they had done without her. But that memory was mercifully fading now.

  "Has Philip come up with anything about the Capacitor?" Al asked.

  A slender shoulder lifted, shifting the turquoise silk of her shirt. "He's like Sam—gaps and holes in his memory. Besides, he hasn't even invented it yet, Al. There's not much for him to remember."

  He nodded. "How're you holding up?"

  "Me?" She frowned slightly, puzzled.

  "I've been kind of worried. You haven't been in here for a while."

  She met him stare for stare. "No, I suppose I hav­en't."

  So why are you in here now? And at this hour of the night? He couldn't ask.

  She saw it in his eyes anyway, and smiled. "Philip Larkin is our best chance yet, Al."

  He nodded, knowing this explained only part of it. What Sam—as Professor Bryant—had shown Donna long ago was that it was better to face your fear than to let it rule your life. What Donna feared most of all was abandonment by someone she loved. Renewing her relationship with her father had healed her childhood trauma. She'd been able to trust in Sam's commitment to her; she'd made her own commitment by marrying him instead of abandoning him at the altar.

  Only to be herself abandoned.

  Twice now, Al reminded himself. Once when Sam first stepped into the Accelerator. And again when Sam did the same to save Al's life.

  But this Donna, changed by the changes Sam had made in Time, would never run away. It might have taken her a long while to return to this room, and

  Al knew it always took courage for her to come in here. But at last she had—to face her sadness and her emptiness by facing yet another stranger who wore Sam's face.

  "He came back to me once, Al. He'll come back to me again."

  And now Al had to tell her about Alia, who wanted Sam's death.

  Halfway through his recital, Donna jammed her fists in the pockets of her jeans and stared hard at the floor. Al finished and waited for her to say something. Anything.

  "In a way, I've been waiting for this," Donna said. "You truly think she's there to kill Sam?"

  He hated to say it, but she needed to know. "She tried before."

  "And couldn't."

  "That's no guarantee." He fumbled in a pocket for a cigar, then recalled Donna didn't like the smell and Philip had sneezed for half an hour the last time Al had come in. "We don't know anything about Alia—who she is, who's controlling her, where she comes from. And when? Sam brought that up, and scared the hell out of me. Plus we don't know what's happened to Alia since that Leap. I thought she'd died. So did Sam."

  "No, Al. He might want to believe it, with some part of him that's frightened of her. Dead, she'd be no threat to him. But alive, he might be able to help her. Set her free."

  He rubbed the nape of his neck. Muscles were starting to tighten, signaling a tension headache. "Sam and his goddamned rescue complex!"

  Laughing softly, she moved to stand behind him and massage his shoulders. "Oh, Al! None of us would have him any different, least of all you!"

  "Yeah, well. . ." He closed his eyes. "God, that feels good."

  For a few moments neither of them spoke. Then Donna said softly, "Thank you for the roses."

  He was very glad she was behind him and couldn't see his face. "Sam left instructions, last time he was home."

  Her thumbs stilled on his vertebrae, then re­sumed their soothing motions. "And wrote the card."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Should I expect the same in June, on our anni­versary?"

  "I guess." He was terribly afraid she would ask how many cards Sam had written that night while she was asleep. "Just in case it takes me a little while to get back home again," his note to Al had read.

  "A little while"—oh God!

  "He knew the instant he got here that he'd be going back," Donna said musingly. "Maybe not con­sciously, but. . . The only way to bring you home was to Leap into you. He was willing to risk the retrieval program on himself, but not on you."

  "Donna," he began, then stopped as aching guilt closed his throat.

  "Al. How could it have been your fault?" Her voice changed, lighter and almost playful as her fingers probed at his shoulder blade. "You've got a knot the size of a baseball here. I think this is a job for Tina."

  The suggestion had definite appeal. But then he opened his eyes and happened to look at Philip Larkin: still bewildered, still afraid, willing to help but unable to do so. In a little over two years, this man would be dead in a completely avoidable acci­dent. Except that maybe by tomorrow, Sam would be dead, quite deliberately, and Philip would never go home to his own Time.

  "Ziggy goes into overload at the very idea of Alia," he said.

  "I talked with her about it the first time Sam encou
ntered Alia—or tried to." Donna gave Al's shoul­der a last pat and took his arm, guiding him to the door. "I have my suspicions, you know, about those nerve cells Sam used in Ziggy. I think they were just that: cells made up of nothing but your and Sam's colossal nerve!"

  Al chuckled, pleased to see her smile. "I'd be insulted, if you weren't insulting Sam, too."

  Velvet brown eyes blinked wide, dancing with mischief. "Al! That was a compliment!" She gave him a nudge out the door. "Go find Tina."

  "I ought to go back and talk with Sam."

  "You ought to get some sleep. Or at the very least go to bed." She winked, and the door slid shut between them.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Cynthia Mulloy's pale blue tent was instantly iden­tifiable to anyone who knew her League name. Outside, from tent poles and trees and a wooden coatrack, hung a score of her wind chimes. The night breeze teased music from flashing stained glass, toying with fanciful birds, winged angels, and abstract geometric shapes.

  Inside, the tent was furnished with things easy to transport in a car: cot and sleeping bag, folding deck chair, card table. The one elegant eccentricity was the Navajo rug on the canvas floor, dark red splashed with blues and greens and yellows.

  Scattered across the table were assorted wires, clippers, beads, and bright slices of stained glass edged in lead. A dozen completed wind chimes dan­gled from the tent struts. Light from at least twen­ty blue candles—large, squat cubes to tall tapers— glowed from the silent chimes. Fire-thrown shadows refracted down the tent walls and across the slim, pale form of the woman on the bed.

  Alia relaxed against embroidered pillows, Cyn-

  thia's crystal headdress tangled on the table and Cynthia's blue gown crushed and ignored on the rug. Alia wore an ankle-length shift, tiny cap sleeves deco­rated with ribbons, hem frothed with lace. Opaque and demure, it was the most innocently unrevealing of garments and she had chosen it precisely for that reason.

  A brief tour of Cynthia's possessions had told Alia much about her current host. Everything from the contents of her makeup bag to the partially edited manuscript beneath the cot (a veritable masterpiece of cliches about dragons) indicated that there were two distinct sides to this woman. One was a ruthless professional, the other a profound romantic. After perusal of Cynthia's tent, Alia secretly admired the graceful balance she had struck between her two selves, evidenced by the sturdy practicality of the furnishings and the dreamy profusion of candlelight. Even the nightgown was a clue to character: lovely and lacy, yet coolly comfortable on a warm summer night.

  It must be nice, Alia mused, to integrate the fac­ets of one's personality with such easy smoothness. Like a set of the wind chimes: separate pieces of glass turning as the air took each, yet cut from the same pane and tinkling a soft harmony.

  Had she not been a hologram, Zoey would have sent all the chimes ringing in a frantic cacopho­ny as she prowled the tent like a caged panther. Alia watched her through a piece of crimson glass. Curious, she thought, how a hologram could exude waves of nervous excitement; one would think that to sense it, the person would have to be physically

  present. Then again, Zoey's brain and Alia's were linked.

  Alia even knew what Zoey was going to say.

  "We've got a lot riding on this, Alia. You'd better not go soft on me again."

  Predictable. So was Alia's answer—the only one she could give. "I learned my lesson. Lothos made sure of that."

  "Please, darling!" Zoey shuddered in her purple leather jumpsuit. "Must you remind me?"

  Alia shrugged. She tossed the bit of glass in the air, caught it, tossed it again. The danger of slicing her fingers on sharp edges didn't concern her. She knew what she was doing.

  Zoey did not share her confidence. "You're very calm and collected, I must say. And without much reason to be, all things considered. Wasn't seeing him again something of a shock?"

  "You warned me he was here." She watched the flight of the crimson shard, slender and curving like a feather lost by some tropical bird. She caught it before it tumbled down into her lap. "I knew where I'd be going before I arrived."

  "A very successful scouting trip," Zoey acknowl­edged with a feral smile. "And this time . . ."

  "Mmm. This time." She held the glass to one eye, staring at the candle flames. She could have blown each one out with a soft breath, but Zoey's pacing disturbed the little fires not at all. Zoey was helpless here. She needed Alia to do her work for her.

  Lothos's work, Alia reminded herself, and won­dered what Sam Beckett's work might be this time. Wondered if stopping him would be enough.

  Perhaps it was the medieval milieu she found herself in, but it occurred to her suddenly that Sam Beckett was like a sword blade: strong steel, bright­ly polished, cleanly edged—a weapon of defense that could slice through her bonds and set her free . . . yet powerful enough to be her death.

  Zoey interrupted her thoughts again. "I'm curi­ous, my pet. Whatever made you think of goading them to challenge each other to combat? It was posi­tively inspired!"

  "It seemed appropriate to the circumstances." She smiled to herself. "And I thought Lothos would be amused."

  "The delectable Dr. Beckett didn't look at all amused." Zoey passed through a wind chime hang­ing in the center of the tent. No movement, no sound. A ghost would have more effect. But a ghost wouldn't be linked to Alia, a ghost couldn't be the focus of energies that wrapped around her and warped her back and forth in Time—or to a hell that terrified even Zoey.

  Alia thought it might be nice to be a ghost. To be dead. Really, truly, honestly dead, instead of being denied the chance to live. It was an intriguing idea, really. Dead, she would be free of all this, and may­be know a little peace.

  Zoey gave her none. "That great big gorgeous hulk—Roger, was that his name?—he'll make mince­meat of Sam Beckett tomorrow. I can't wait. All for truth, glory, and honor! Men are deliriously silly, aren't they?"

  "It seems very important to them," Alia mused. "Glory and honor. ..."

  "To Beckett, certainly. He believes all those pretty words that mean nothing in the end." She swung round abruptly. "You'd best hope he doesn't drop by tonight, Alia darling. He's bound to ask all sorts of tiresome questions. You can't tell him the truth— and don't think you'll be able to fob him off with lies this time."

  Alia repressed a sigh. How she wished Zoey would go away and leave her alone, just for an hour or two of peace.

  "What you mean is you're afraid I'll go all teary-eyed if I'm alone with him. Zoey, darling, that's exactly what I plan to do."

  "What?!" Zoey exploded. "Are you out of your mind? Do you want another fiasco like last time?"

  "You said that this afternoon he was feeling ter­ribly sorry for himself." Alia shrugged and said nothing more; let Zoey figure it out from there. She watched the hologram's dawning comprehen­sion through the crimson glass. Rose-colored? The touch of whimsy was instantly quelled by reality. Not roses. Blood. Whose blood, Sam? I bled last time.

  "Yes, I see!" Zoey laughed. "This has definite potential! Alia, do you think we might possibly . . . ?"

  "If I were given more time, perhaps." Zoey would never hear the bitter irony of it, that Time to Alia was no gift. Not anymore. "I don't know if he's ready." Or if he'll ever be—he didn't seem at all tarnished to me. "No matter what you overheard, his belief is very strong."

  "If only Lothos could do something about his part­ner," Zoey fretted, pacing again. "Losing all contact

  with home—he'd feel even more isolated, poor dear. And he wouldn't have any projections to help him, either. I'd love to be able to cancel his meddling hologram."

  Alia adjusted soft pillows beneath her head. "That might help. But I think the real problem is what he sees when he looks at me. It's very inconvenient to have him recognize me so quickly, Zoey. To see me as I am, not as whoever I've become."

  "What a lovely idea! Shall I have Lothos run some scenarios? It does sound fun, fooling Be
ckett as well as everyone else. I envy you sometimes, Alia."

  Yes, Zoey would envy her. Alia resisted the urge to laugh.

  Zoey prepared to depart, calling up the vortex that would return her to Lothos. She paused, fingers poised like claws over the handlink. "Our darling do-gooder already knows who you are this time. Our job is to make sure there isn't a next time."

  "I know," Alia replied. "It's just something I've been thinking about. It could be useful for this little encounter."

  "I don't understand."

  "Just ask Lothos if it can be done. As you say, it'd be fun to have the aura fool Sam, too."

  Zoey entered the final code. "I suppose it was too much to hope we could convince the nauseatingly good Dr. Beckett to change sides, as it were. See you later, pet."

  For a long time after Zoey vanished, Alia watched each candle flame: steady, bright, gleaming like tiny white-gold swords. At last she whispered, "We—as if she knows any of the real horror of it."

  Rising, she walked slowly around the tent, pinch­ing out candle flames one by one. By the time she reached the last, a tall blue column in a wooden holder on the table, her fingertips were black with soot and her skin was burned. The sting of it was nothing; she knew what real pain was. But it served to remind her of what awaited if she failed again.

  She stared into the flame until its image near­ly seared her eyes, but what she saw was Lothos, grim and terrible. And Thames, lurking in rainbow shadows, grinning hugely at the supple application of sheer power. Despite Lothos's seeming omnipo­tence, he needed others to do his work for him. Once, his offer had seemed the way out of a certain kind of hell.

  That was before Alia had been taught what hell truly was.

  She closed her eyes tight, the candle flame still burning in her mind. Ah, how she wanted to be her­self again. Alia, only Alia, whatever her weaknesses, whatever her sins. . . .

  But if she could not be herself, she thought it might be just as good to be a ghost. To be dead, and therefore free ... to find some kind of peace. . . .

  Would you do that for me, Sam? Would you kill me, if I told you it would set me free?