by Melanie Rawn
"What else?" Al prompted.
"Dad was so proud I thought he'd bust. He called Tom 'The Admiral' all through dinner that night—" Suddenly he chuckled. "While Katie flirted with Tom's roommate, at only eleven years old!"
Al was watching him through half-hooded eyes. "That's a good memory, Sam. The whole family together like that."
"Why'd you ask?"
"Because on April 8, 1970, your brother Tom died in Vietnam."
Sam felt the world fall away beneath his feet. The grief was both immediate and nearly as old as he was, the agony fresh as a new wound and old as a childhood scar that had never fully healed. It was as if he was learning for the first time of a tragedy he'd been trying to deal with for most of his life.
"No!" he cried. "Tom came back after his tour and—and—" Voice and memory failed him.
Al shook his head. "In the original history, Tom was killed."
"No!"
Inexorably, Al continued, "But you Leaped into that day in 1970. Because of you, Tom didn't die."
"V-Vietnam—"
The river and the jungle and the incredible heat. The welcome breeze of a helicopter's blades. A tough-talking woman photographer—Millie? No, Maggie, that was her name. Bullets screaming past. Slogging through paddies and running as fast as he could because Tom was in danger—Tom—
"You changed history, Sam."
Al's voice sliced off the memory before he could reach what his guts yelled at him was the important part, something vital about Maggie the photographer and—Al?
"I changed history?" He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it.
"Where I am, in 1999, Tom's daughter just made him a grandfather."
For a moment Sam simply forgot how to speak. At last he gasped out, "Tom? A grandfather?"
"Second time. His son's wife had a little boy last year. Samuel John Beckett." He gave Sam no time to react to—let alone recover from—that one, continuing, "This new baby's a little girl. Olivia Kate McPherson. Tom sent pictures last week. She's got his eyes, and a white streak in her hair just like yours."
Sam's much-vaunted brain had turned to porridge. "Like m-mine?"
Al nodded, his lean face as fiercely watchful as a hunting hawk's, though his tone was carefully casual. "Of course, at two weeks old she's about as prematurely gray as you can get. But Tom says it shows up in the Beckett family every so often."
"We get it from Dad's grandmother," Sam heard himself say, and ran a shaky hand through his own
hair. White? When had that happened?
And what did it matter? Tom was alive, and he had grandchildren—brand-new lives that had begun after Sam stepped into the Accelerator. Memories he couldn't forget because they'd never been there to remember.
Suddenly, stupidly, he felt like laughing. "My God, I can't believe it! Tom's a grandpa!"
"Yes, he is," Al said. "But if you hadn't been there, Tom would be dead. His kids and their kids never would've been born." The sharp dark eyes claimed and held Sam's stricken gaze. "And that's the bargain you make with every Leap, my friend."
The herald's voice split the silence between them like a roll of thunder. "If it please Your Majesties, the challenges of Lord Rannulf and Sir Percival will shortly commence!"
Al gestured to the tourney field. Sam moved like a sleepwalker.
I was wrong, he told himself. Quantum Leaping isn't a dream I'll wake up from someday. But in a way, Al's wrong, too. It's not a bargain with God. It's an incredible gift.
Tom is alive—he has children and grandchildren.
But it's not just him. It's all the people I've tried to help. All the lives that came out right instead of wrong.
Something began to well up inside him, compounded of emotions he could barely put names to, filling his mind and heart to bursting. As the herald called out the specifics of each challenge, Sam turned to Al one last time.
"Y'know what?"
Warily: "What?"
Sam could hardly contain the feelings. "Someday, when I wake up in my own bed again and see my own face in the mirror again, my first thought won't be that I'm finally home."
"No?" Al asked, brows arching, still watchful.
"No," Sam replied, grinning from one side of his face to the other. "I'll wonder what's gone wrong in my life that I've been sent to put right!"
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Donna set the breakfast tray on the mirror table, subtly and deliberately cutting off Philip's view of Sam's face.
"Good morning, Dr. Larkin. I hope you like spinach omelet and sourdough toast."
"Hello, Dr. Alisi. Sounds good. Thanks."
He gave her a tentative smile, and she had to steel herself against a flinch. Sam's smile, the shy and rueful one he'd worn the first time she ever saw him. If it looked anywhere near the same on Philip Larkin's face, Cynthia Mulloy would simply have to react to it. Heaven knew Donna had never been able to resist it.
Philip picked up a fork and dug in. "Is Dr. Beckett okay?"
"Fine. How about you?"
"There's still things I can't quite remember, but— I wish you'd let me talk to your computer. That laptop is faster than anything I've ever used, but it still has limitations. If I could get at the mainframe—"
"I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, Ziggy is as frustrated by the rules as you are. She's very eager to talk to you, too. But you understand why that can't happen."
"A person who knows too much about the future can be a danger to the past." Philip chewed, swallowed, and took a swig of cappuccino. "Captain Kirk's Dilemma."
"Capt—? Oh!" She smiled. "Yes, I remember the episode. And, you know, I have a pet theory I'd like to run past you. Do you think there are any scientists of our generation who aren't 'Star Trek' fans?"
Philip grinned and shook his head. "If there are, I don't want to work with 'em. Did they make any more movies after the one where they saved the whales? No, I guess you can't tell me that, either. Or if George Lucas finally films the rest of the Star Wars movies!"
"Don't hold your breath," Donna advised. She sipped at her own cup of tea. "You know, Dr. Larkin, most people want to know personal things. They ask about their own futures. Family, friends, work___"
Shrugging, he munched a bite of sausage rather than reply.
"You must be curious. Everyone always is."
"You can't tell me, so what's the point of asking?"
It was a sensible attitude. Donna often felt that perhaps they ought to reveal more of the truth to more people. Those who guessed the basics—and the very few who, like Philip, were told—handled
it fairly well. She suspected it was a result of this century's fascination with science fiction.
Disclosing enough of the truth to soothe any fears would certainly be kinder than letting people fret themselves into wild speculations. The "alien invaders" scenario—a very popular one with their guests— was definitely attributable to science fiction. Others thought themselves victims of a secret government interrogation squad, the Mafia, the not-so-funny practical jokes of highly creative "friends," international terrorists, and/or stark raving lunacy.
Knowing even the rudiments of Project Quantum Leap probably wouldn't matter. To date, nobody had returned to the past with intact memories. Ziggy devoted an entire memory bank to a zealous search for evidence to the contrary, but no one had gone to the newspapers, written a book, or guested on the talk show circuit. It was the computer's opinion that even if they did remember, they'd be too embarrassed to talk about it—or too apprehensive of being called what they were probably half afraid they were: nut cases.
Donna's theory was that during the passage back, enough of Sam's memories of the Leap were shared so that the person could function, with any glitches chalked up to stress. Thankfully, Ziggy's files had never shown any serious problems cropping up. One or two people had consulted their physicians about blackouts or memory loss, but medical records showed all examinations had turned up cle
an.
On the other hand, there had been one terrifying Leap when the man in Sam's body had retained much more of Sam than was usual—enough to
escape Project Headquarters and lead Al on a desperate chase. The near disaster had taught them that concealment was, after all, the best policy. There was always the chance that Sam would Leap into another Lee Harvey Oswald.
So with regret, because she liked Philip Larkin, Donna said, "No, I can't tell you."
"I figured." He applied butter to sourdough slices with quick, precise movements. Donna smiled to herself. Sam had a tendency to slather things, and leave crumbs in the bed.
"Besides," Philip went on, "Time is pretty much an illusion, when you think about it. We put labels on it, call it past or present or future like it was a verb tense. But those are artificial terms for our convenience. The instant I say now, it's already in the past. The now I'm in—here, I mean—is really the future as far as I'm concerned. And if you want to get seriously weird about it, doesn't the past become now when you're in the process of remembering it?"
Donna felt her brows arch. It really was a pity they couldn't let him converse with Ziggy, who adored this kind of temporal hair splitting.
"And what about seeing into the future?" Philip was saying. "Mainstream science scoffs at it, but the research gets done just the same. Do psychics experience the future as now, or as if they're remembering the past?"
Donna thought of Tamlyn, who had experienced the past as the now. Who had Seen past the aura to Sam's own face. Who had loved him, and been loved by him.
"Have you read Robert Heinlein's Time Enough for Love?" she asked suddenly, certain of the answer.
Philip looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. "That's just it! All anybody has is now, right this minute. No guarantees about tomorrow. And you have to make the most of today because—"
He stopped, as if hearing what he'd just said. Sam's frown creased his face, the lines more pronounced than Donna remembered. The aura changed with time; there'd been several instances when she'd found that between one day and the next, Sam had found privacy enough—and scissors—to make a try at trimming his hair. (Not being able to see himself in a mirror made the operation risky at best.)
Donna's long absence from this room had kept her from gradual notice of small changes. So it was with surprise that she saw the white in his hair was a little thicker and the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes were etched a little deeper.
"I never did that." Philip's weary self-accusation wrung Donna's heart. "I made time for everything except what's important."
"Your work is extremely important." Which was probably the most foolish and patronizing thing she could have said. Worse, it was selfish and self-serving. She kicked herself mentally.
"Sure it is," he muttered. "What about that stupid book? I can't write worth a damn, I know that. If I ever showed the manuscript to Cynthia, she'd know it, too. She'd laugh from now until Christmas."
Reminding herself to tread with more delicacy, Donna said, "I think if a man ever wrote a book with me as the heroine, I'd be flattered."
Philip brought his hand—and the fork—down onto the table with a force that rattled the teacups. "But Cynthia isn't like Alix! The more I wrote, the more I knew the Comte de St. Junien would never fall for someone as intelligent and independent as Alix—the way I wrote her, I mean, as Cynthia—so the book got worse and worse with every word!"
"How do you mean?" Donna asked, pretending not to understand.
He began to pace. "Subliminal physical interfacing," Donna heard Verbeena say in her mind, watching Sam's long legs carry Philip Larkin from one end of the Waiting Room to the other.
"Cynthia just doesn't fit into the Middle Ages!" Back and forth, back and forth, arms flailing and eyes flashing, he talked so fast the words tripped on each other. "I couldn't do it—make her someone she wasn't, even with another name and—but to be accurate, to make their relationship work—I couldn't make her fit and he wouldn't fall for her the way I wrote her—and to reflect the time as it was—"
"Alix can't be empowered," Donna finished for him. "Liberated," she translated, and he nodded again. "Trying to cram a twentieth-century woman into a twelfth-century society really loused things up, didn't it?"
His mouth opened, but no sound came out for a minute or two. Then he popped up with, "Cynthia doesn't belong in that time—any more than I belong here or Dr. Beckett belongs where I am. Was."
"Ought to be," she supplied.
Discovery lit his face. "All we have is now—"
"Yes." When do we get our now back, Sam?
"Dr. Alisi. . . ?"
His voice startled her, but not as much as it might have. Sam would have said Donna.
"For a while, with all this technology—and you must know what kind of lure that is for someone like me—and everybody's been so nice to me and all... I was thinking maybe ... I'd like to stay here."
"That isn't possible." And that wasn't the truth.
"I know. But I kind of wished it was." Lean shoulders squared. "But I've changed my mind."
"Have you?"
"Yes. Dr. Beckett shouldn't have had to do for me what I should've done for myself. And I shouldn't be trying to do it in the twelfth century, either."
When you remember the past, it becomes now— well, perhaps. But what about when you create a past? The way Philip did with Lady Alix . . . maybe the way I do by playing Dr. Watson—and the way Sam does with every Leap?
"When I return to my now, I'm not just gonna make the most of it. I'm gonna make the best of it."
She felt like shouting, Bravo! Instead, she hid a smile behind her teacup.
"And whatever I might forget about all this"—he waved a hand at the featureless room—"I hope I remember you."
"Me?" Donna asked, startled.
Philip was blushing. "It's not that you're much like Cynthia—to look at, I mean, she's blond, and shorter, and she's really beautiful, but you're—well, you must know how gorgeous you are."
She fought a blush of her own.
"And I don't mean you're not as smart and everything, because I know you are, to be part of all this, but—" He shook his head and laughed nervously. "I better stop, I'm just digging myself deeper! What I meant to say is—" He hauled in a deep breath. "Does it make any sense that the first time I saw you, I felt as if I knew you?"
Flustered, she replied, "It... it makes some sense, yes."
"I'm in love with Cynthia," he declared, his face even redder. "The more time I spend with her, the more I talk to her, the more I love her. But—there's things I feel for you, too. I don't understand it, but—"
She took refuge in quoting Ziggy. "A certain degree of merging occurs during any Leap, to a greater or lesser extent depending on the conjunction of neurons and mesons as they pass each other during transfer."
He seemed not to notice the pedantry, going right to the crux of the matter. "You mean I might have some memories right now that aren't mine? Memories that belong to Dr. Beckett?"
All she could do was nod, wondering just what those memories might be—and resisting another blush.
"Oh," Philip said thoughtfully.
Rallying, Donna told him, "Don't worry too much about it. Dr. Beckett often remembers bits and pieces of other people's lives."
"Oh," he repeated. And met her gaze straight on.
Her head spun. Sam's love looking out of Sam's eyes, via Philip Larkin? Feeling completely unequal
to this conversation, she made an involuntary move toward the door.
"I'm sorry," Philip said, crestfallen. "I just—do you know? How he feels, I mean. About you. Because I sure do." And with that, he turned crimson to Sam's earlobes.
"Yes, I know," she murmured. "He's my husband. I'm his wife."
Philip grinned in delight. "Really? That's great!" Then he caught his breath, and the smile and Sam vanished. "But he's—how long since you've seen him?" He glanced reflexively toward
the mirror table and blanched. "Oh my God—you're seeing him right now, aren't you? Except it's not really him."
All at once Philip crossed the chamber in four long strides and grasped her shoulders in his hands.
Residual. . . physical. . . oh, don't do this, Philip, please! Don't touch me the way Sam touches me—
But she couldn't pull away.
"My Capacitor—if that's what's gone wrong with all this, I'll do anything I can to help bring him home, I swear to God I will."
"I'll be back. I swear to God I'll be back___"
His face, Sam's face—the fine lines around his eyes and the faint stubble on his cheeks, the square chin and sharp nose and the yearning curve of his mouth, and the thicker streak of white in his hair that meant years had passed them by ...
Donna closed her eyes, and something whispered, Just this once. . . .
The lips she kissed, just this once and ever-so-lightly in a tiny fragment of now, were Sam's.
A tremor ran through his bones. She stepped back and he let her go. She looked at him once more. Not Sam. No, not him at all. She made herself smile. "Thank you, Philip."
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
"Why is he laughing!" Zoey hissed.
Alia shook her head wordlessly.
From the expression on Roger's face, he was just as baffled as she and Zoey, and angry into the bargain. Forehead corrugated in a mighty frown, he snarled something at Sam as they approached the royal dais. Sam glanced over, surprised—not, Alia thought critically, at Roger's words, but at Roger's mere presence. As if Sam had forgotten he was there—indeed, that any of this even existed. The laughter faded to a smile, but his eyes still danced with some private joke as they threw a glance to the empty air at his left side. No, Alia amended, not empty; the hologram must be there. And in Sam's shining eyes was acknowledgment of a secret only he and his friend Al shared.