Bad Moon Rising

Penelope Hill

"... I’m telling ya, Sam, the guy’s a damn werewolf, and it’s a full moon tonight! You gotta lock yourself up and throw away the key ..."

"Al! Stop it! There are no such things as werewolves, okay? The man just has some kind of paranoid delusion, that’s all. I’m not about to turn into a four-footed, fanged monster from hell, thank you very much. What I am going to do is go to bed, get some sleep, and worry about how I convince Marion to take that job and leave me - I mean George - to cope on his own. That is what I’m here to do, right?"

The hologram sighed. "Right, Sam. But listen ..."

"No." Sam Beckett was adamant. "Trust me on this, okay? Gorgeous George is not a werewolf and full moon or no full moon, I’m going to bed. I suggest you do the same."

"Well - " Al did not sound convinced, but he acquiesced with a wide gesture of his hands. A jab at the handlink summoned the Imaging Chamber door to open behind him. "If you wake up stark naked in the middle of Central Park tomorrow," he counselled as he was leaving, "don’t say I didn’t warn ya ..."

"Get outta here," Sam laughed, picking up a pillow and throwing it at the image of his friend. Al ducked instinctively, then grinned as it sailed harmlessly through him. The grin remained with Sam Beckett even after the Chamber door slid shut and the white light of the future was gone. "Werewolves," he muttered with a chuckle as he got ready for bed. Outside the clear night air revealed the loom of a full moon as it rose above the horizon. "Can you believe it?"

He slid down between clean sheets, tipped his head back on the recovered pillow, and set his mind firmly on the task he had to tackle in the morning. Sleep took him easily; the dreams took him by surprise ...

"I’m gonna check on our guest and then I’m outta here," Al Calavicci announced, dropping the handlink back into its waiting cradle and easing some of the kinks out of his shoulders. It had been a long day - a long day and a half, really, since, while for Sam his arrival had coincided with breakfast and an early start, back at the Project it had been late in the afternoon. By now it was getting pretty close to five o’clock in the morning of the new day, and the Admiral swallowed a yawn as he headed for the access to the Waiting Room. At least, he thought, he wouldn’t have reason to worry about the effect of a full moon on their guest. Ziggy had assured him that the moon was only just waxing over New Mexico, and by now dawn would be at hand anyway. He waved farewell at Gushie as he left, and the man acknowledged his departure with an abstracted "Uh-huh"; Ziggy wished him goodnight, then wondered if that should be ‘good morning’ instead.

"Either, neither, whatever," Al shot back, dismissing the query with an eloquent wave of his hand. His mind was already on the lure of a soft bed, a short sleep, and a good breakfast. Honey and pancakes might be nice - or, then again, honey and Tina might be nicer still ...

The prospect cheered him immensely. He was grinning as he activated the security code that gave access to the Waiting Room. "Hey, George," he called out as the door slid open, "what do you want for breakfast - ?" His words were drowned out by the horrendous growl that greeted his arrival. He barely had time to register the gleaming eyes, the slavering jaws and the snap of teeth before the monster launched itself straight at him. His arms went up in instinctive defence; the attack bowled him over with furious force. "Jeezuuus," its victim screamed, terror driving away rational reaction. Teeth snapped at his arm and claws raked at his chest as he fought to keep the thing from his throat. He was pinned to the ground, ripped and savaged without mercy. His last conscious memory was of all too human eyes staring into his, and the impact of hot breath against his cheek ....

"Aaalll!" Sam woke with a scream in his throat, images of slaughter dancing before his eyes. His heart was pounding in his chest and for a long moment he could not catch his breath at all. He’d dreamed - what had he dreamed? Something about being confined, about pacing angrily and wanting to get out ... He staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, bending to splash cold water on his face. Moonlight slanted through the window, spilling cold silver on the floor. Water splattered up against the mirror as Sam reached to steady himself against the wall. The handsome face of George Holden stared back at him, looking haggard and drawn, the drops of water slowly oozing down the silvered surface like a random spatter of blood ...

"Oh, god," Sam gasped, dragging the back of his hand over George’s mouth. The dream had been so real. The sensation of being trapped, of needing to get out, of the burning hunger and the scent of man so close. So very close. The world wrapped in crimson fog and the need consuming everything. Then the presence of prey and the taste of blood in his mouth and the scarlet tide of savagery that engulfed everything ... "Oh, god," he said a second time, shaken by the vividness of the images, by the impact of the recollection. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, trying to shake the memory, the impossible desire of wanting to sink his teeth into a man’s throat. "Come on, Sam," he told himself severely, "he may tick you off some days, but if Beeks caught you having that kind of subconscious longing, she’d have a field day for sure. It was that crack about werewolves that did it, right?" George’s reflection made no comment, and the memory of the dream persisted. He turned and made his way back to the main room of the small apartment, not comforted by the artist’s scattered work in progress. It had been Holden’s artwork that had started Al on his hypothesis; that, and the notebooks that spoke so vividly of the dreams the man had tried to capture on canvas. Dreams of hunting and the need to kill ...

"Bleedthrough," Sam realised blearily. "Just bleedthrough. Gorgeous George here really is psychotic or something." He glanced down at his hands, turning them over as he did so, reassuring himself of the smoothness of his skin, of the neat bluntness of his nails. No midnight transformation then, no wolf pelt or curving claws. Just Sam Beckett, having someone else’s nightmare.

A nightmare in which he’d just done his damnedest to murder his best friend ...

"Admiral? Can you hear me, Admiral?"

The voice penetrated the comfortable fog which had engulfed him. He wanted to make it go away. He didn’t want to wake up. To wake up meant facing - meant facing - He jerked awake with a strangled scream of terror, fighting the hands that reached to hold him down, the weight that restrained his escape.

"Easy," someone insisted. "It’s all right. You’re safe. It’s over."

"Thiasazine, stat," another voice snapped simultaneously.

"Al! It’s okay. Don’t struggle. You’ll hurt yourself ..."

He fought them, fought the pain that flared and consumed him. Hands pushed him back to a yielding surface and held him there with insistence; something sharp pierced his skin, filling him with a flood of ice, and the panic went out of him like air from a burst balloon. He collapsed back, gasping for breath, his eyes tight shut as he fought for an equilibrium that would not come.

Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god, oh, god ...
"Admiral?" The voice was familiar; he struggled to place it, hearing reassurance in its tones.

"That you, Beeks?" he questioned faintly. His throat felt raw and his chest hurt. Damn it, he hurt. All over. Gentle fingers reached to cradle his cheek.

"It’s okay, Al. Just relax. Take a deep breath. That’s it. One more. And another. Good. That’s good. You’re quite safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you. That’s it. Come back to us. That’s right ..."

He opened his eyes slowly, tense despite the ice-cold stir of the drug in his veins. He felt woozy, disorientated; he focused on the unmistakable features of Verbeena Beeks as she leaned over him with concern. "What ...?" he managed to gasp, and she shook her head, her touch reinforcing her encouragement.

"Sssh," she insisted. "Not now. Just relax. Slow breaths, that’s it. Easy." She smiled as he obeyed her words, the frantic pounding of his heart settling into a calmer rhythm.

"Vital signs are settling, doctor," a distant voice noted somewhere to his left.

"That’s good," someone else acknowledged. "Get me another litre of whole blood, will you? And some fresh swabs. The rest of these lacerations need to be cleansed and stitched. My god, ’Beena. He’s a mess."

His ministering angel frowned at the speaker. Al turned his head with an effort, finally identifying where he was: the Project medical facility, surrounded by a whole cohort of personnel. They all looked worried. What did the doc mean, he was a mess? He started to lift his head, was immediately held down by a determined hand to his shoulder.

"Don’t try to get up, Admiral. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Just lie back and conserve your strength."

He stared at the man, at the lines of concern that etched his face. Lost a lot of ..? Memory came pouring back with startling impact, pounding his heart back into overdrive. "Oh, god," he gasped, terror resounding in his soul. "It - he - "

"Easy," Beeks insisted, adding her own pressure to the concerned hand that held him down. "You’re safe here. Ziggy raised the alarm in time. We’ve restrained George and put him under sedation." Her words were meant to be professional, but she could not quite conceal her reaction to what had occurred.

"Did you see it?" he asked, and her face creased into wary lines. "The wolf," he insisted. "Did you see it?"

She glanced at the doctor, then adopted a professional smile. "We can talk about this later," she decided softly. "Just rest up for now. Let the doc take care of everything. Okay, Doc?"

"Sure," the man affirmed. "You’re pretty lucky, you know?" he observed as he bent to begin the delicate repair work. "It’s mostly your left arm and chest. There’s barely a mark on your face."

Al quirked a discomforted smile. "That’s reassuring," he joked, wincing as the man’s hand stirred pain across his skin. "I’d hate to lose my good looks. They’re my greatest asset. With one or two exceptions," he added with an indrawn breath. The doctor smiled, but Beeks’ eyes narrowed warily.

"Well, they’re intact," the medic declared with a grin, and nodded to his assistant who administered another hypodermic to their patient. Numbness followed the kiss of the needle and Al relaxed into the relief it offered. His skin burned, and he was shivering.

"I should hope so," he slurred, as the combined drugs and his own weakness dragged him down into weary sleep. "But I was talking about my irresistible - charm ..." Darkness took him like the arms of a lover, gentle and all-pervading. He slid into its embrace willingly, unaware that he took with him one more nightmare to add to those that already lurked in the depths of his soul ...

"I don’t understand you, George. I really don’t. One minute you’re rabidly insistent that you can’t live without me, and the next ..."

"I’m bad for you, Marion." Sam had worked hard at this explanation, and his little speech had gone just as he’d planned. Too bad Al hadn’t been there to hear him deliver it, but the hologram had failed to make any kind of appearance. Sam wasn’t too worried about that, although after the dream of the night before it would have been reassuring to see him. Still, he didn’t need Al right then, and some things were actually easier without an audience. "And this job you’ve been offered - you can’t turn that down."

"I would - if you asked me to." The young woman’s words were sincere. In a future past George had done just that - and she and he had been found together locked inside the car he’d driven over a cliff ...

"Well, I’m not going to. I think you should consider your own future for once. LA isn’t that bad - and I can always come visit you if you get lonely - ?"

"Okay," she smiled with a measure of relief. Marion Kelly really wanted this job, and only her concern for a young and tortured artist had kept her from it the first time around. Holden was still a tortured artist, but at least she’d be free of his nightmares from now on. "I’ll call them straight away. You won’t change your mind?"

"I might," Sam allowed, then gave her a goofy grin. "But don’t pay me any attention, okay?"

"Okay," she said a second time. She threw her arms around him and hugged tight. "Thanks, George. Thanks for everything."

"Don’t mention it," he whispered, and the Leap took him in a flare of brilliant light ...

"Honey, I wish you’d relax a little. I’m trying to watch the movie."

"I know," Al sighed, dropping himself into the low-slung couch beside Tina and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. He’d been restless all day, for no apparent reason, finding the offices and corridors of the Project confining and oppressive. It had been a week since Sam’s Leap out, and, while he always got impatient between Leaps, this day seemed to have been worse than most. He’d been unable to settle to anything and even now, with a warm and willing woman snuggling up against him, he felt displaced and uncomfortable. He reached to loosen his tie, kicked off his shoes and sank a little deeper into the couch. Tina leaned over and blew playfully in his ear.

"Commercial break, honey," she giggled, tugging on the loosened tie so that it slid all the way free. He turned toward her distractedly, unresisting as her hands undid his top three buttons so that she could slide her fingers gently beneath the fabric. He winced and she pulled her hand away, echoing his reaction with a contrite look. "I’m sorry," she exclaimed. "I forgot. Are you okay?"

"Sure," he sighed, capturing the offending fingers and kissing them. The damage was well on its way to healing, but the wounds were still tender and her caress had stirred the discomfort into unpleasant heat. He was so goddamn thirsty, too. "You want something cold to drink?"

"Okay." She smiled, leaning back so that he could regain his feet, and he circled the lounger, pausing to plant a kiss of promise on her upturned face. "Don’t be long," she called with another giggle.

He pulled open the refrigerator door and let the resultant wave of delicious cold reach out and enfold him. He felt hot and fevered, a state that had absolutely nothing to do with Tina’s eagerness, and the drift of icy air helped a little. He pulled out the jug of juice he’d put by to cool earlier and turned to fill the glasses on the worktop. For some reason the scent of the juice gagged in his throat. The air in the kitchen seemed thick and cloying, so he put the jug down and walked to the window, feeling in need of unfiltered, unprocessed air. He pulled back the curtain - and a shaft of moonlight speared through the night and into his soul.

Pain, pure unadulterated pain, flared inside him, turning him inside out, setting him on fire. He staggered back, dropping to his knees with a cry. Change cramped through him, twisting him, distorting self and vision alike. He fought it - fought the torment that came from nowhere to spasm his limbs and tear into his soul. It devoured him from within, consumed all his senses, and burned its way through his skin.

"Noooo!" he howled, feeling all control slip away; he knew what was happening, felt the fear and the terror of it engulf him.

"Honey? Are you all right ... Al? Oh my god, Al, what’s wrong?"

He twisted round in his agony of change, seeing Tina hovering in the doorway, catching her scent like sharp impacts of sweet hunger. "Get outta here, Tina," he growled, more snarl than words. "Get, out!" The convulsions of his transformation ripped another scream from his throat, half-pain, half-howl. Tina’s eyes went wide, then she turned and fled, her sudden terror leaving the fragrance of fear lingering in the night. "Noooo!" he denied, fighting what consumed him, but to no avail. The sound of his anguish became a howl of triumph, and the red mist descended, filling his world and his senses with fire ...

He woke cramped, the impact of sunlight spearing down with sharp indifference. He blinked, and groaned, feeling as if he’d been wrung out to dry. There was desert soil beneath him, gravel digging into his skin, and he shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to face reality, not wanting to wake at all ...

"Jeezus," he groaned, easing himself up by leaning on the overhang of rock that sheltered him from the wind. He ached everywhere, and the slightest movement sent waves of protest through his entire frame. His head pounded inside his skull, a sensation akin to the worst hangover he could ever recall having, but magnified several times over. "What the hell was I - ?" He took stock of his situation and sank his head into his hands with a sense of total disbelief and abject misery. He was sitting in a narrow, rock-strewn gully, overlooking a sweep of desert - and he was stark naked. "Oh, boy," he muttered, subconsciously echoing his best friend’s inevitable reaction to disconcerting circumstances. "Bingo," he told himself severely, "this is not good. Not good at all."

He levered himself upright, feeling every muscle complain as he did so. The sound of a vehicle drew his attention and he staggered down to the end of the small ravine, wondering just how he was going to explain himself. If he could explain himself. Nothing appropriate came to mind ...

The vehicle was a jeep, driven by a uniformed man, with one passenger. It halted out on the narrow track road and the occupants spilled out of it, pausing for a brief discussion before splitting up. The uniformed man headed one way, his passenger the other - straight toward the rise of land that held the gully. Al waited until she was well within hailing distance before he attracted her attention.

"Hey, ’Beena," he called softly. Beeks’ head went up, and her eyes darted round, trying to identify the source of the call. "Over here, sweetheart."

"Al? Are you okay?" She started to move toward him, and he wondered how he was supposed to answer that question.

"Ah - ’Beena?" he warned, as she drew closer. "I’m not exactly decent back here ..."

"Oh." She came to a halt, looking a little startled. "I see. Hold on a moment." She jogged back to the jeep, and returned with a bundled blanket which she placed on a nearby rock. "That any help?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He retrieved the blanket, and used it to recover a little of his dignity while Beeks paid careful attention to the far horizon.

"You want to tell me what happened, Al?" Her question was anxious although she tried to keep her voice light. He moved round to perch on the rock and stared at her doubtfully.

"I’m not sure you’d believe me," he decided after a moment. "Hell, I’m not sure I believe it myself."

"Try me," she offered with professional confidence and turned toward him with an encouraging smile. The smile was strained.

"Well, I - " He spread his hands to begin, then paused, turning to stare at his left arm in bemusement. The day before it had been tightly bandaged, nurturing the damage that lay beneath. Now both the bandage and the wound were gone, only a pattern of white scars marking the place where he’d been savaged. "What the - whoa ..." A wave of dizziness swept over him and he sank his head into his half-raised hand. Beeks was beside him in an instant.

"It’s okay," she assured him, wrapping his shaking shoulders with concern. "It’ll keep. Let’s get you home, shall we? Half the base is out looking for you."

"They are?" He staggered to his feet, leaning on her for support and unaware of the way her expression tightened as he did so. She’d been expecting some comment, some smart remark, and the fact that none was offered was more worrying than anything else might have been. For Al Calavicci to find himself in a woman’s arms without making note of it was unthinkable; particularly when he happened to be wearing nothing more than a blanket at the time.

"Yes," she confirmed, helping him down the slope toward the waiting jeep. "Tina raised the alarm just before eleven. You’ve been missing all night."

"Tina?" He pulled to a halt and considered his companion anxiously. "Is she okay?" Beeks eyed him for a moment, then nodded reassurance.

"I think so. She was in hysterics. I gave her a sedative and left her to sleep. Al - when we got to your place it was practically wrecked. What happened?"

He took a deep breath, and shuddered inside and out. "I did," he announced bleakly. "Remember Gorgeous George? Whatever he had - it’s catching."

"No," she denied, her hand tightening on his shoulder. "That’s not possible ..." Her voice died away at the look in his eyes. She’d not seen what their ‘guest’ had become, but she had seen the damage he’d inflicted. He watched her consider the possibilities for a moment before her face settled into determined lines. "Al," she said softly, "you’ve been under a great deal of strain just recently. Coping with Sam on the Leaps, and then the attack ... I think it’s time you and I had a heart to heart, don’t you?"

"I told you you wouldn’t believe me." She winced, covering the reaction with professional concern and he sighed. "Okay. Maybe I’m not turning into a werewolf. Maybe I’m just going crazy. Hell of a choice, wouldn’t you say?"

"It’s going to be okay," she insisted, guiding him the rest of the way to the jeep. "Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. I promise."

"Sure," he acknowledged without conviction. "Whatever you say, Doctor Beeks. Whatever you say ..."

The Leap in seemed almost anticlimactic; just a stretch of corridor, grey and featureless, and a door, an automatic one, tight shut. Sam peered around cautiously, then glanced down at himself; he was dressed in some kind of uniform, complete with holstered weapon. He checked his pockets, came up with ID; he was one Ensign Adamson, assigned to security at Stallion’s Gate, New Mexico ... He read it again, looked around with wide-eyed comprehension. He was standing somewhere inside the Project. He was home.

Oh, boy ....

Adamson’s guard duty was tedious. Sam had wondered whether he should abandon the post and waltz down to Control and announce himself, but several things decided him against it. To start with he couldn’t be sure when he was. It might well be a time prior to his initial Leap, in which case a young guard claiming to really be Sam Beckett was hardly going to be believed. For another, this seemed to be a Leap like any other; he wasn’t himself, and that implied he was here to put something right. And the most persuading reason was also the simplest. He couldn’t for the life of him remember just where the control centre was located in the first place ...

So he stayed on guard. And stayed. Wondering just when Al would appear with his box of tricks and fill him in on the details he needed. Like why he was here. That would do for a start. When would be pretty nice, now he came to think about it.

Eventually, just when he was beginning to think that everybody had abandoned him, the welcome and familiar sound of the opening of the Imaging Chamber door registered to his right. He turned smartly, intending to give Al a piece of his mind, but the words died in his throat. It wasn’t Al who stood there. It was a stunningly beautiful woman, her dark features instantly recognisable.

"’Beena?" he gasped, not expecting to see her there. He glanced round, wondering if perhaps she had simply been walking along the passageway and he’d assumed ... no, she was carrying the handlink, and the edges of her image were flickering, spurts of interference flashing across her presence. All the same he put out a cautious hand and then relaxed a little as it went straight through.

"Hi, Sam," she smiled. It was a sad, strained smile.

"It is you. Hi, ’Beena. Where’s Al?"

He almost wished he hadn’t asked the question. A tight, pained expression flitted across her eyes. "He’s - not here. Ziggy thought - "

"Whaddya mean, he’s not here?" Sam interrupted suspiciously. "’Beena? What’s going on?"

She took a deep breath, and stared down at the handlink as if it held all the answers. "Sam," she said softly, "you’ve Leaped into the Project. About a week ago. Ziggy thinks - " She paused to take a careful breath and looked away, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"What?"

"That you’re here - to kill the Admiral."

"WHAT?!" He stared at her aghast. "’Beena. You’re not serious ...?"

She shivered, staring down at his feet, her shoulders hunched.

"I wish I wasn’t. Please, Sam. Just listen to me, will you?"

He folded his arms and stared at her with clear hostility. "I’m listening. This had better be good."

She paced away, staring down the passage with haunted eyes.

"Do you remember a Leap you made a short while back? Into the artist - George Holden?"

"Yeah. The guy with the weird dreams, right?" He flashed a reminiscent grin. "Al thought he was a werewolf."

"He was."

The grin collapsed.

"What?"

"He was, Sam. And when you spent the night under the full moon - he transformed, back here. We didn’t expect it. How could we? Al left you, went down to check on Holden and - he was attacked."

A dark dream under the moon; a need and a hunger, and the taste of blood in his throat ...
"My god." Sam closed the distance between them, his face creasing into concern. "Is he all right?"

Beeks turned back toward him, hugging herself tightly, the handlink pressed against her arm. "Ziggy raised the alarm. When I got down there, security was hauling Holden - hidden in your temporal aura - back into the Waiting Room. We got the Admiral down to the MedCentre in plenty of time. He’d lost blood, but most of the damage was superficial. Painful rather than life-threatening. We knew Holden was unstable, and I judged that the trauma of the Leap had made him psychotic; he spent his last hours with us raving. At least - that’s what we thought. Even after the next full moon ..."

Sam stared at the speaker in confusion. "I don’t - "

"It’s simple," Beeks insisted, her voice tight. "At least, it is in hindsight. Lycanthropy is infectious, Sam. Holden was a werewolf. He attacked Al, and Al - "

"Became one too," the scientist completed in a dazed tone. "But why - I mean, what - what have I got to do with all this?"

Beeks’ tight expression became tighter still. "That first time," she explained, "when the fit took him? He was at home. Tina was there, but he realised what was going on and sent her away. I - I found him out in the desert the following morning. And I didn’t believe him. I hadn’t seen Holden change. How could I? He’d been wearing your image. I just thought - all the Admiral’s claims about the ‘wolf’ were just a protective fantasy. That, even knowing it was someone else, he wouldn’t have been able to face the reality of you doing that to him ... He’d been under stress, and with the trauma of the attack - it all pointed to some kind of breakdown, and I rationalised it as such. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, you know? I watch him constantly for that. It’s never been easy for him, all your Leaping around ..."

"No," Sam agreed warily. "I guess not. What changed your mind?"

She grimaced, looked away. "In less than half an hour, your time," she said, "a full moon rises over New Mexico. Al’s down in Imaging Control, checking on your progress. The transformation hits him violently. We have it on tape."

"And?" he prompted, sensing this was not the only issue.

"And - he attacked - will attack - the personnel on duty there. Sammy-Jo went to help him, not knowing what was going on. He just - ripped her throat out. And once he’d tasted blood ... Gushie tried to protect Tina and he tore them both to pieces ... I just - froze, Sam. It was ... it was terrifying. Security put six bullets into him, and he still struggled to reach them ..." She fought down a surge of tears, biting at her hand as the trauma of the memory rose to engulf her. Sam reached out, uselessly, since his hand passed straight through her. He still didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but her distress was real enough. The whole thing sounded utterly fantastic.

"This is crazy," he concluded, shaking his head in disbelief. "Isn’t it?"

"Crazy, Sam?" She rounded on him with angered despair. "You weren’t the one who had to tell him what he’d done, had to stand there and tell him while an armed man stood guard at your back. You weren’t the one who had to sign the papers when they came to take him away. He was hurt and he was hurting, and I had to send him to a place where they’ll lock him away forever. Forever, Sam. In a tiny padded room with bars at the door ... Do you know what that’ll do to him? Do you?"

The scientist stepped back at the tirade, a cold shiver running down his spine. He knew. He probably knew better than she did ...

"If security couldn’t stop him," he asked after a moment’s silence, "why does Ziggy think that I can make a difference?"

Beeks’ image took a careful breath and schooled her face back into professional lines. "Because you’re forewarned," she said, glancing down at the handlink as if it could help her through this. "And because if you go to Imaging Control via Al’s office you can pick up the clip of silver bullets he had made before I managed to talk him out of his delusion ..."

"Oh, ’Beena." Sam was moved by the catch of guilt in her voice. "It’s not your fault. You didn’t know. How could you? Silver bullets, huh?" He quirked a humourless smile. "Sounds like Al to me. Does Ziggy think they’ll be effective?"

She shrugged. "It’s in the literature. That’s all we have to go on. Sam," she added as he started to make his way down the corridor, "they say it works best if the bullet is fired by someone with the wolf’s best interests at heart. Someone who loves them ..."

He needed Beeks’ guidance to find the relevant office, although its contents were heartbreakingly familiar. He tried not to linger in that half-remembered place, didn’t want to dwell on the images that his Swiss-cheesed memory dragged up for his consideration. The clip was where the psychiatrist said it would be, tucked into the top drawer of the desk. Sam turned it over in his hand, wondering just why he was letting himself go along with this charade. Any minute now Al would replace the intent woman and her convincing act; April fool, he’d joke perhaps. Was it April? Sam certainly hoped so.

The new clip replaced the existing one in Adamson’s gun, and he worked the slide to ready the first bullet in the barrel. The young man had left his station, and Sam wondered if he’d get put on report for it. He had to remember to talk to Al about that before he Leaped out again ...

"Ready, Sam?" Beeks asked as he slid the safety catch back into place and the weapon back into its holster. "You have just over ten minutes before everything hits the fan. It’ll take you five to get to Imaging Control. You can’t run. You’ll have to walk. Someone will stop you if you draw attention to yourself."

He nodded, pausing to adjust the line of his uniform cap in the hanging mirror by the door. Adamson’s young and eager face stared back at him. Beside the mirror was a truer reflection, a photograph in which two men shared a single moment in time. Sam moved over to brush the glass-protected surface with his fingers. How long had it been since he’d stood like that, his arm draped so casually around his friend’s shoulders as if, together, the two of them could conquer the world ...?

"Sam." The warning was strained. According to Beeks he didn’t have a lot of time.

"I’m coming." He left the office purposefully, trying to walk the semi-familiar passages as if he had a perfect right to do so. As if he wasn’t on his way to prevent a murder by perpetrating one of his own ...

Damn it. It wasn’t usually this hot in Imaging Control. Al tugged at his collar as he leaned over the console and tried to make sense of the readout Ziggy was giving him. He’d already shucked his topmost layer and now he distractedly discarded his butterfly-filled tie, draping it over the chair back that carried the forest green of his jacket.

"What’s the time prognosis on this, Ziggy?" he asked, loosening his top button and swallowing against the dryness in his throat. Tina looked up at the sound of his voice, her eyes wary and her stance discomforted. She’d barely said a word to him since that day in his kitchen, almost a month ago. Had he really scared her that much?

"Approximately a week, Admiral." Ziggy’s voice was its usual sultry self. "I regret I cannot be more accurate than that."

"I’m ready to process this system patch you asked for," Gushie announced, leaning back in his chair and flexing his fingers. "Do you want to secure a full check sum and backup before I begin?"

"I have already started to do so," the computer responded a little archly. Sammy-Jo laughed.

"One step ahead, as usual," she grinned, sharing her amusement with Verbeena, whom she’d roped into helping with the image upgrade she was working on. Beeks grinned back in duplicate, her face copied faithfully on the screen the young scientist was manipulating.

"That’s nice," Al noted, glancing over in time to catch the effect.

"Uh-huh." Beeks stepped away from the digitising focus and her image collapsed in a swirl of colour. "Who’s for coffee? SJ? Gushie? Tina?" Her question elicited a series of nods. "Admiral?"

He’d turned back to study the trace and her query barely registered. Coffee? He was thirsty, but somehow the thought of fluid tightened his throat. And it was still too damn hot ...

"Al? Do you want coffee?"

"No. Thanks." He dismissed the idea with a sideways wave of his hand. Beeks grinned knowingly at Sammy-Jo, who laughed a second time.

"About time you turned down a cup," she joked. "If the Admiral drank any more coffee than he does already he’d turn Colombian." Gushie grinned. Even Tina giggled. The sound of it grated on his nerves. What the hell was Ziggy doing with the air conditioning, anyway ...?

"Admiral?" The new voice was unexpected. It pierced some of the fog that was settling in his head. He looked up and round, identifying first the face and stance of Ensign Adamson and then, with a startled blink, the second persona behind the young man’s eyes.

Sam? He took half a step forward - and it hit him, a resurgence of that almost forgotten pain. Nooo, he realised with inner terror. It was just a dream. Damn it, ’Beena. You promised me it was just a dream ...
He staggered back with a gasp, fighting the impact of the attack, fighting for a control that would not come. Instead his head went back in a scream of agony, and his knees gave way, spilling him to the floor. Change cramped inside him, twisted him without remorse. He was distantly aware of Sammy-Jo moving toward him in concern, and of Adamson - of Sam - pulling her back, pulling her away. He knows, his mind screamed, trying to warn them, trying to resist the irresistible. The pain was everywhere, nowhere, breaking him in two. Get them away, he wanted to shriek, but all that came out was an inarticulate howl. They just stood there - stood there in startled horror, while the wolf clawed its way through his skin and turned his soul inside out ...

Sam had walked into Imaging Control with an odd sense of unreality. The murmur of voices, of shared laughter and Ziggy’s unmistakable tones had sent a strange shiver down his spine. This was home, safe harbour, his longed-for goal ... and, according to the spectre who stalked at his side, it was all about to sink into the Twilight Zone ... Beeks was in the room twice, once a laughing smile, the second time a grim-faced haunt without substance. Sam felt his heart turn over as she moved to stand, stricken and anxious, at his friend’s shoulder.

"Do it now, Sam," she pleaded softly, turning to him with tears in her eyes. "Spare him what’s about to happen."

His hand was on the smoothness of the weapon but it refused to move any further. This was ridiculous. Al looked a little drawn, maybe a little tired, but otherwise no different from the last time he’d seen him.

"Admiral?" he questioned softly, not trusting his voice to speak the man’s name. Al looked up, looked at him, and recognition flared in his eyes. He took a half-step forward - and then stopped abruptly. Pain, and something else, twisted his face; he staggered back, hands clawing at his throat, then he went down with a heart-wrenching scream.

Oh my god ...
Sammy-Jo started forward with concern; Beeks’ image snatched at her as she passed.

"Stop her, Sam. Stop her!"

The cry propelled him into motion. He caught the young woman’s arm, pulled her back, pushed her toward the other startled occupants of the room. "Get back!"

They obeyed with a disconcerted shuffle; Gushie got to his feet, pushing Tina behind him. Beeks slid behind Ziggy’s console, staring in total disbelief at the figure that writhed and fought and howled as it did so. Sam swung round, lifting the gun with reluctant fingers, ignoring Ziggy’s plaintive request for input, for explanation.

"You have to do it, Sam." The hologram’s voice was tight. "You have to stop this."

The sight that met his eyes pinned him to the spot as certainly as every other witness in that room. The gasps of pain, the anguished sounds that accompanied the transformation, were nothing compared to the horror of the process itself. The wolf practically clawed its way out of its victim, twisting and distorting him, first into a parody of a man and then into a creature of nightmare. Not a halfway man-wolf, beloved of Hollywood, but a true beast that barely echoed a hint of humanity. The dark-crowned head dropped in a curl of distress, came up with snarling jaws and flattened ears; it ripped savagely at the remnants of fabric that confined it, then lifted to vent a blood-curdling howl.

Terror seized Sam Beckett’s soul. Death turned its head toward him; the gun bucked with involuntary reaction, spitting silver fire. The bullet caught the beast’s shoulder, halting its impetus to leap; it hunkered back with a cry of pain - and stared at the cause of its distress with suddenly bewildered eyes.

Human eyes.

Oh, god. It still has his eyes ...
"No," Sammy-Jo reacted, catching at the hand that held the gun. "God’s sake, that’s the Admiral!"

"No way," Gushie denied, almost as hysterical as the woman who clung to him. "That’s not the Admiral. Not any more ..."

"Call security," Beeks demanded of Ziggy. "Call security now."

"Sam," her image pleaded. "You have to. You have to."

He lifted the gun a second time, aimed it with shaking hands. Forgive me. God forgive me ...
He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t do it.

"Al," he murmured softly instead. "It’s okay. Nobody wants to hurt you, I promise. We just want to help. Ziggy?" He glanced upward. "Can you open the Imaging Chamber door?"

"You know I’d do anything you asked, Doctor Beckett," she acknowledged, her tones still sultry, despite the bewilderment they contained. Her reply generated startled looks all round, and a frown from Sammy-Jo. Across the room the relevant door slid open with a hiss. The wolf’s head jerked in that direction, then turned back with a snarl.

"Sam," the hologram protested with feeling, "you can’t. You can’t take the risk ..."

He had to. The alternative was unthinkable.

He took a careful step forward, keeping the gun between himself and the animal that was also his best friend. Its eyes watched him, wary and calculating despite the hungered need that filled them. "Come on," he cajoled. "Back up, Bingo. There’s a good doggy ..." He winced as he said it; there was nothing funny about the situation. Nothing at all. The beast hunched a little lower and loosed a low growl from its throat. If it chose to jump him he would have to fire ...

"Please, Al. I don’t want to have to hurt you. Just back up a little, huh? Trust me. You know you can trust me ..."

There was a commotion at the entrance, drawing everyone’s attention; security arriving like the cavalry at Custer’s last stand. The wolf’s head swung in their direction, its jaws opening, its body poised to spring ...

... they put six bullets into him, and he still struggled to reach them ...
Sam slammed off a single shot, deliberate and aimed to crease the creature’s chest. It jerked back in startled pain.

"Stay back," he warned, the words intended to be generally heard and obeyed. The security team froze, the officer at the head of it raising a restraining hand to command his men to stay where they were.

"Please, Al. I’ve got four more of these beauties and I don’t want to put one where it’s really going to hurt, okay? Just back up."

Inch by inch the wolf did just that, crouched down and growling, its eyes fixed on the gun and the man behind it. Sam followed, each step tense, each breath of progress drawn on a knife edge. Nobody else moved.

"That’s it. One more step. One more ..."

At the last it realised his intentions; its head jerked round to identify where his persuasion had taken it, and it launched itself forward with an angry snarl - just as Ziggy shut the Chamber door right in its face.

Something slammed hard against the metal barrier. Something that howled and scrabbled and tore at its inner surface. Sam lowered the gun slowly, setting the safety catch with shaking fingers, listening to the sounds of frustrated anger, of maddened desire vented against the unmoving steel.

Damn it. He’s going to hurt himself ...

"Is someone going to tell me what’s going on around here? Adamson?" The duty security officer stalked into the room and considered the situation with a suspicious frown. Tina was crying hysterically on Gushie’s shoulder, Beeks was staring at the Imaging Chamber door, and Sammy-Jo was also staring - straight at Sam.

"I believe Doctor Beckett has the situation under control," she said after a moment. "But perhaps you could seal this level for the time being. I don’t think we want anyone else down here just at the moment."

"Doctor Beckett?" The officer blinked in confusion. "But isn’t he ...? Where’s the Admiral?"

Sam winced at the question. He could still hear the scrabble of claws against steel.

"Ziggy?" he requested softly, "can you feed some images in there? Desert - or woodlands, or something? Anything that might distract him."

Ziggy’s lights flashed hesitantly. "I do not understand - " she stuttered. "The situation does not fit within defined parameters ..."

"Reroute, reprogram, reassess," Sammy-Jo ordered sharply. "And do what Doctor Beckett suggests, will you?" She circled the console to carefully uncurl Beeks’ tight grip from the console edge. "’Beena? Take Tina down to MedCentre and get her a sedative or something. And bring something back for me," she added as she pushed the psychiatrist in the right direction. Beeks shook herself and gathered her thoughts together with an effort.

"Right," she acknowledged, helping Gushie guide the hysterical woman toward the door. Both she and the programmer threw a discomforted glance behind them as they left. The security officer was still frowning.

"What was that thing?" he asked. Sam winced a second time.

"That," he said grimly, "is what happens when you get Admiral Calavicci really mad. Please, Lieutenant. We don’t have time for this now, okay? Just secure the area and keep everyone away from here. It’ll all be over by daybreak, I promise."

The Lieutenant eyed him doubtfully. "Are you really Doctor Beckett? You sure sound like Adamson ..."

"The correlation approximates to 98.67 percent, Lieutenant McFee." Ziggy had recovered some of her aplomb. "To all intents and purposes this is Doctor Samuel Beckett until such time as a further temporal relocation occurs."

"I see," the man noted with bewilderment. "Well, in that case ... I’ll be on standby at the duty station if you require assistance, doctor." He saluted warily, nodded to Sammy-Jo, and left, ushering out those of his men who were still at ready in the doorway. Sammy-Jo let out a slow breath and leaned back against Ziggy’s console. Sam knew exactly how she felt.

"I have never been so - so - frightened - in all my life," she announced, reacting with a shivered start as the muffled sound of a drawn-out howl echoed through the room.

"It’s okay," Sam assured her, closing the space between them to place a comforting hand to her arm. She looked down at the touch, then fought back a sob and reached for him. He enfolded her in a gentle embrace, feeling her quiver and tremble with reaction.

"I’m - sorry," she gulped, clinging to his reassurance. "But - oh, god ... He was in such pain."

"He still is," Beeks’ image remarked, hovering like an anxious shadow. "Sam - you knew what you had to do. Still have to do. Why put yourself through this?"

"’Beena was wrong, wasn’t she?" Sammy-Jo was muttering brokenly. "About - about - "

"Yeah," Sam interrupted tightly, glaring at the lady in question. "She was wrong. Werewolves do exist. We’ve got one trying to tear holes in the Imaging Chamber door."

"I wanted to help him ..."

"I know." He cradled her, letting her shiver the trauma out of her soul and half-wishing he could do the same. "But he would have hurt you, Sammy-Jo. He has no control over this."

She pulled away reluctantly, wiping at teary eyes with her fingers as she did so. "He listened to you," she realised, struggling to regain her equilibrium. "Is that why you’re here? To stop him from hurting anyone? You took an awful risk."

He sighed at the question. It was too close to being accurate to be comforting. "Al would never hurt me," he said with conviction. "But I’m not finished here, not yet. If keeping you safe was the only reason I was here, then I’d have Leaped out the minute Ziggy closed that door, right?"

"Right," she agreed, responding to his attempted smile with a watery one of her own. "So what do we do now?"

"Good question." Sam turned and paced away a few steps, coming to a disconcerted halt when he found himself stepping over shredded fabric. "Ziggy?" he requested softly. "Can you check out all the information pertaining to werewolves and lycanthropy for me? Anything you can find - legends, historic accounts, theoretics - you know the sort of thing. We need to get some idea of what we’re dealing with here. And - keep an eye on Al, will you? Let me know if there’s any change in the situation."

"Doctor Beckett?" Ziggy sounded unnaturally subdued. "I find it very difficult to correlate the current occupant of the Imaging Chamber with my expectations of Admiral Calavicci."

He shivered. "Yeah. Me too, Ziggy. Me too." He bent and swept up the ruin of a man’s clothing, tumbling it all onto the chair that still carried the pristine line of his friend’s jacket. His hand lingered there, on the fabric shoulder, and his fingers clenched as another howl filtered through from the sealed room beyond.

This can’t be happening, he thought, but it was. The blood he found on his fingers was all too real ...

Sammy-Jo made coffee, and Beeks reappeared with a handful of tablets and an anxious smile. There was nothing either of them could do and Sam, after a moment’s indecision, suggested that they both get some sleep. Ziggy’s research seemed to suggest that, once the moon dipped below the horizon again, the whole matter would end of its own accord. At least until the next full moon over New Mexico ... They left reluctantly, muttering together in low tones, no doubt attempting to rationalise the situation. The full horror of what they had witnessed - not to mention its implications - would only register with them slowly. There was a sense of unreality that hung in the air, a denial of a truth so untenable that only the vigilant hologram truly understood what had been revealed that night.

"You can’t let him go through this, Sam," Beeks’ image spoke reluctantly. "You can’t let any of them go through this."

"Stop it," Sam snapped, rounding on her with heat. "You keep saying that, and I don’t know why. You don’t shoot a man because he has a nervous breakdown. Damn it, you don’t shoot a man because he has AIDS, do you? Do you?"

"This isn’t the same," Beeks offered softly, not reacting to his anger, almost as if she were expecting it. "Sam - in a few short hours the man in there is going to come to his senses. Is going to have to face having become a monster. Maybe you could deal with that. Maybe he could, if you were here for him. But you’re not going to be. This is something he will have to face alone.

"You’re right. It is a disease, a measurable madness imposed on a sane man without his asking for it. But it’s a schizophrenia on a grand scale, a horror wrought in the depths of the soul, without relief, without release. It’s one you can pass to others, drag them down into your hell because you don’t kill clean and quick.

"And it’s going to tear him apart ..."

"Is that a professional diagnosis, Doctor?" Sam didn’t want to hear what she was telling him. "Or do you have a more personal interest in the matter?"’

She swung away from him, her shoulders rigid. "Personal, Sam? Of course it’s personal. I deal with people all the time in my work, help pick up the pieces, glue them back together with wise words and counselling. But there are some things you just can’t fix. We all have a - beast - caught up inside of us. Sometimes it get close to the surface, sometimes we lock it away, really deep. But generally we keep it under control, right?"

"I guess," he acknowledged tightly.

"So what do you do when the beast gets to be in charge? Sam - I’ve always been fond of the Admiral, you know? He’s been a tower of strength since you went, filled with fire and determination. He’s kept this Project going against all the odds and inspired us with purpose and the belief that we can succeed if we just hang on. I admire him for that, for his loyalty and his ability to get things done. And at the same time - he’s this vulnerable little boy, who knows his best friend is lost and a little scared and depending on him ... That little boy has nightmares sometimes. Echoes of old terrors and abuses reaching up to drag him down. He survives that - he’s learned how. But this - this is a nightmare that isn’t going to end. This is a tiger cage no-one can release him from."

She took a deep breath, finally turning to look Sam straight in the eye. "Don’t make him drown by inches, Sam. Don’t force us to watch that very gentle and compassionate man disintegrate piece by piece. The Project will disintegrate with him. Leave us with something we can hold on to, an inspiration, not despair. Do what you must - what you have to. You’re the only one who can. A clean wound will heal; the alternative will only fester and poison everything."

He stared at her, at the passion of her words. What she was advocating was unthinkable. And she was doing it with tears in her eyes.

"’Beena," he said softly, "do you really wish him dead?"

She shuddered, hugging herself tightly. "No," she admitted, the word so soft it was barely a breath. "But right now it’s what he wants. More than anything ..."

There’d been no sound from the Imaging Chamber for quite a while. Ziggy announced that its occupant appeared to have collapsed and was no longer responding to the images she presented.

"Save your power then, Ziggy," Sam advised, staring at the sealed door. "How long until the moon sets?"

"Another two hours, Doctor Beckett."

The scientist took a slow breath. "I’m going in," he decided after a moment’s struggle with his conscience.

"Is that wise?" Ziggy queried, her voice showing a level of anxiety.

"Probably not," Sam admitted, as he rummaged in the emergency locker for a blanket and the compact medical kit he knew he’d find there. "But I can defend myself if necessary."

Is that the way out of this? he wondered, his hand brushing against the holstered gun. If he goes for me, it’ll be self-defence, won’t it? Won’t it?
His friend was hurt, and alone. It didn’t matter how dangerous the situation was. He had to be there for him.

"Open the door, Ziggy. And you’d better shut it behind me, just in case."

"Very well. Doctor Beckett?"

"Yeah, Ziggy?"

"I believe, were he able to do so, the Admiral would advise you to be careful."

Her words brought a twisted smile to his face.

"I guess he would," Sam breathed softly. "So what would you advise?"

She spoke without hesitation, her voice low and fervent. "On this particular occasion?" she offered. "I would have little option other than to agree with him for once. Be careful, Doctor Beckett. Please. Be very careful ..."

Exhaustion seemed to have been the cause of the beast’s downfall. It lay on its side, huddled against the angle between wall and floor, its flanks heaving in savage gasps. Its eyes rolled toward him as Sam stepped cautiously into the Chamber, and it half-scrabbled to its feet before collapsing back to the floor.

"It’s okay," Sam murmured, spreading his hands to show he meant no harm. The gun was still a weight at his hip, but he made no move toward it. What had been a snarling horror was now a wretched bundle of pain, shivering and wary as he carefully closed the distance between them.

There was blood on the floor, a spatter of scarlet stark against the white surround; it was blood that matted the creature’s chest and side where the silver bullets had torn their way through flesh. Sam swallowed, finding his mouth had gone dry.

"Easy," he breathed, sinking to his knees beside the impossible creature. Human eyes stared back at him, clouded with pain and fear. The eyes of his friend. "Oh, Al ..." His hand went out to stroke the matted fur and the beast pulled back its head and snapped, snarling as it did so. The scientist did not flinch. Instead he completed the gesture with gentle persistence. The wolf growled, but submitted to the attention, its ears flattened back against its skull, its flanks moving in panting gasps.

Carefully, so carefully that he moved in slow motion, Sam Beckett twisted round and settled himself at the creature’s side, his hand offering continual reassurance. The beast hunched under his touch, tense and uneasy; when he had settled it edged forward, testing his scent, assessing his intentions. Eventually, while Sam held his breath and dared not move, it placed a cautious paw across his lap and, very warily, laid its head upon it. His arm slid down, enfolding the exhausted animal and, just as slowly, it relaxed against him.

I knew Al would never hurt me. We trusted each other, always have. Even in this state, confused, in pain, barely human - he knew me. And I knew I could not betray that trust, could not do what Verbeena begged. There had to be another way.

"What do I do, Al? This is all my fault, you know? If I hadn’t Leaped into Holden to begin with ..." He sighed, caressing the shaggy pelt that lay under his hand. The creature’s breath was hot against his leg, and yet it was shivering.

He pulled the mylar blanket from his shoulder and carefully draped it around them both, capturing his own warmth in its silvered folds.

"Ziggy?" he asked the general air.

"Yes, Doctor Beckett?"

"How do you cure a werewolf? I mean - is there anything in the literature to indicate there might be a way?"

She hesitated. "If you discount the suggestions of Hollywood," she offered cautiously, "it would appear that the cure is generally worse than the disease."

"Tell me."

She hesitated a second time. "The general opinion appears to be divided between the need for medicinal application and specific means of exorcism. The recorded medicines are highly poisonous and debilitating, while the suggested manner of exorcism include extremes of flagellation, and other techniques of torture. The success of such methodologies is not recorded. However - initial analysis would question their effectiveness."

There was unmistakable irony in her words; a hint of superiority that anyone should even consider the appropriateness of such mistaken suggestions. But then, Sam thought with a sigh, she hadn’t exactly accepted the evidence of lycanthropy until a werewolf transformed right in front of her ...

"It has to be the bullet, Sam." Beeks’ image hovered warily beside him. "One shot, straight through the brain ..."

"No," he denied, the word tight and determined. "I won’t kill him. I won’t."

"You think he’ll thank you for that?" Her voice sounded shaken. "When they lock him away? When he knows what he has become, what he’s capable of doing ...? Sam - he’s in pain. It doesn’t go away. And you will. When you Leap."

"I saved them, ’Beena. He didn’t kill. Surely you can help him ..."

She shook her head. "He won’t let me, Sam. I can’t reach where this has sent him. And there’s something else you should know - it seems that wounds made by silver bullets don’t heal."

"Oh, god." Sam looked down, at the sluggish ooze of dark crimson that tracked the damage he had inflicted. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

"I didn’t know - before."

He shuddered, gripped by a horror far greater than the one that had seized him at the sight of the impossible transformation. This just wasn’t fair.

He sat like that for what seemed to be a long time. Beeks went away after a while, promising to come back, urging him to think things over. He didn’t want to think at all. Instead he leaned his head back against the wall and remembered; remembered all the things his Swiss-cheesed mind allowed. The wry grin, the gravelled voice; the depth of a friendship that went beyond time and had carried him when nothing else remained ...

And while he remembered, the beast in his lap became a man.

It wasn’t the brutal, twisted transformation that had released the wolf. It was a slow process of dissolution, as if the creature’s hold upon his shape were given up with reluctance. The panting breath slowed to that of more natural sleep and the dark pelt faded into pale skin, while misshapen limbs eased into their true lines, and the heavyset head relaxed into familiar features. Only the scored wounds remained, evidence of trauma and necessity. When it was over, when the last trace of monstrosity was gone, Al Calavicci lay sleeping in his friend’s arms.

He looked completely exhausted and totally lost.

"Oh, Al ..." Sam breathed, afraid to move in case he woke him. How often had he wanted to reach out and touch this man, affirm the affection he felt for him, when all they shared was sight and sound, and contact was out of the question? Could he carry on his precipitate odyssey through time without his company? Don Quixote robbed of his Sancho, Gilgamesh bereft of Enkidu? It would be like losing part of his soul.

Yet neither could he leave him to face this curse alone.

Gently, so gently that he did not disturb his cradled charge, Sam Beckett reached down and drew out the deadly weapon from the holster at his hip. Beeks was right. One bullet would do it. A single, silver messenger, dispatched with love ...

He slipped the safety catch and considered the gun with dispassionate eyes. If he aimed it just right, he could be certain of a kill. Would he Leap out then, leaving Adamson to wake with death in his lap? Would Ziggy explain just what and why he had done what he had to? Could he live with himself afterwards?

If only this had never happened at all!
"This isn’t fair, Ziggy," he said, letting the gun slide slowly from his hand. It clattered to the floor and he kicked it away so that it skittered across the blood-spattered floor. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t kill the beast while it snarled and threatened him, let alone take the life of a wounded and exhausted man while he slept ...

He trusted me.
"Please define ‘fair’, Doctor Beckett." Ziggy’s request was offered in soft tones, almost as if she too had no desire to disturb the sleeping man. Sam sighed.

"Fair," he considered bleakly. "Right. Appropriate. Just. He’s never done anything to deserve this. Has he?" The question was rhetorical; Ziggy wisely did not choose to answer it. "Nobody deserves anything like this. Just being in the wrong place at the wrong time ... It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t Leaped into Holden - " He sighed a second time, pulling the blanket closer about his charge, frowning at the slow ooze of crimson his fingers disturbed. "Just for once," he muttered, not really intending his patient machine to hear him, "I’d like a little control over this damn Leaping. Why didn’t I get here before all this happened, rather than just in time to watch the world fall apart ...?"

"Doctor Beckett?" Ziggy spoke with a wary hesitancy which Sam might have remarked on had time and the situation been different.

"Yeah?" he acknowledged.

"Do you imply that a prevention of this night’s events would provide a suitable solution to your problem?"

"Do I ...?" He looked up, although her voice came from nowhere in particular. Al stirred under his hand, a discomforted shift that settled back into exhausted sleep. "Ziggy - I’d give almost anything right now to ensure this had never happened. I’d - I’d step back into that damned Accelerator if I could be sure of arriving when I was aiming for. But I can’t," he realised with a return of that utter sense of bleakness. "I couldn’t take the risk, could I? I’d be Leaping Adamson, not me. Bad enough I’m lost in my own past, let alone sending someone else back there ..."

His hand dropped to feel the reassurance of his companion’s pulse, his fingers registering the remnant of fever that added unnatural warmth to the skin beneath them.

"I could try getting Beeks to Leap the Ensign back to the right moment," he went on, his voice littered with resigned despair, "but I guess he’d just freeze up, the way I did, a couple of hours ago. Werewolves," he smiled without humour, "take a little getting used to, you know?

"No guarantees, Ziggy." His lips narrowed as he looked down at his sleeping friend. All too soon, the man would wake. And when he did so ... "Oh god, Al, I’m sorry. I just don’t know what I’m here to do. I’ve unlocked Pandora’s box and I’ve let all the monsters of the world crawl out ..." He tilted his head back against the Imaging Chamber wall and stared at nothing at all. "There’s supposed to be this little smidgen of hope left fluttering at the bottom, isn’t there? Isn’t there?"

Bleakness settled into empty desolation. I tried, Al, I really did. Maybe Beeks was right. Maybe I should have had the strength to use the gun when I had the chance ...
"There is a sixty six point seven percent chance that I have access to sufficient power in order to adjust the temporal alignment of the Imaging Chamber with the required level of accuracy. Do you consider that sufficient reason for me to attempt to do so?"

What?
"W- what did you say, Ziggy?"

Adjust the temporal alignment ...?
"I believe you were perfectly capable of hearing my statement, Doctor Beckett." Ziggy sounded vaguely hurt.

"Yeah," Sam hastened to assure her. "I heard you. I just didn’t understand you. How could - what temporal alignment?"

Silence answered him for a stretch that seemed to last forever, then Ziggy said, very quietly, "I believe that any answer I give you to that should remain strictly between ourselves. According to the parameters with which you have programmed me, the information I possess is not something that could be safely shared with those less intimately associated with their understanding of time."

I’ve got a werewolf asleep in my lap and she’s asking me to keep secrets ...?
"I can’t promise you that until you tell me what it is," Sam told his creation quietly. "Of course, once I do Leap out of here, I’ve no guarantee of recalling it anyway."

Ziggy hesitated a second time.

"Very well - father," she murmured at last. "I will try to explain as best I can. As you are aware - or may not be, depending on the depth of your memory loss - the space you currently occupy has physical, but no direct temporal existence. I exist in null-space, and as such am only affected by the flow of time as I perceive it. Normally I maintain a constant link with the external space-time continuum, and time for me therefore proceeds as it does in that environment.

"Since your first Leap, however, the Imaging Chamber has a far more fluid connection with real time than either you, or I have done. In order to project Admiral Calavicci’s image through the intermediate time between the now of the Project and the then of your experiences, I have to partially disassociate its temporal alignment and refocus it to match the required parameters. Due to the nature of the quantum states that allow this to happen I cannot, of course, adjust the timestate to any point prior to the one in which the null-space bubble we occupy came to exist, but the minute adjustments I am required to make are normally so infinitesimal as to remain unnoticeable to their occupant."

She paused, the precise way a human speaker might, when suddenly struck by a memory that contained unexpected significance.

"I believe in the beginning I was sufficiently far adrift for the Admiral to lose a measurable amount of time," she admitted with evidence of chagrin. "I made the mistake of attempting to adjust for the loss during his subsequent sessions with you. The impact of the change disturbed his body clock and he spent several days trying to understand just how he could be suffering from apparent jet lag when he hadn’t actually gone anywhere."

That’s why he was falling asleep on the Imaging Chamber floor ... Noisy neighbour, huh, Al? Or just trying to stop me from being concerned about you when my enigmatic technology screwed up? What effect does all this time you spend in here have on you?
What price have you paid for my impetuosity?
Rhetorical question. Sam had an answer to that in the reason that the man lay asleep in his arms right now ...

"So," he considered slowly, "you’re saying that you can control the flow of time inside the Imaging Chamber?"

"Not exactly," she responded instantly. "I am saying that time in the Imaging Chamber is not necessarily a constant when compared to that outside of it. What I control is the alignment of the two.

"Which need not necessarily be maintained at the same interactive point."

So ...
Comprehension dawned with a sense of appalled incredulity. No wonder she’d asked that he keep the information to himself. He had invented a true time machine after all - one in which all that you needed to do in order to travel into the past was to ask its pilot to open the door for you at the exact moment you required ...

No Accelerators.

No out of control Leaping.

Just - open the Chamber door, Ziggy ...
Except, of course, you couldn’t travel back any earlier than the first moment the Chamber came on line.

Which was several months before he made that first precipitate Leap ...

"I could go back," he realised. "Stop myself from Leaping altogether ..."

"That might be possible," Ziggy interrupted firmly, "but I would postulate that the power input required would be far greater than could be achieved in a single transition. I have never attempted to parallel my own existence, Doctor Beckett. I do not know how well I would survive such an experience."

"But you just said ..."

"The period I referred to was less than two months previous to our current one. I understood that you wished to intervene in the matter of the attack made on the Admiral ...?"

Of course!

Sam looked down at the wounded man he cradled, and hope stirred in his heart, just as he had been praying it might. If he could just stop Holden from causing the damage in the first place ...

"Can you do it, Ziggy? Can you really choose just when to open that door?"

And having done it once, could she do it again? Maybe I could never go back far enough to prevent my first Leap, but I could always tell Al to try ...
Only he wouldn’t. Because Ziggy was right. He knew how precarious the fabric of time really was. It had swallowed him up and set him on a journey that seemed to have no end to it. He changed things, put them right perhaps, but each time he did it, it was to send ripples of effect reaching out into a future that had once been his past.

And if I stop myself from Leaping, all those changes will never come to be ...
Bundling his life into a tangle of string was bad enough, without trying to tie it into a loop and cutting the excess away.

Just this once.
Because this little loop of time would be much better off never happening at all ...
Would he sacrifice the life he’d lived in between?

Were two months a reasonable price for a man’s life? For his sanity?

Of course they were.

For this man, at least ...

"I believe it is possible, Doctor Beckett. However, such a step can only be taken in one direction. It is necessary to enter the Chamber at a contiguous point, and I cannot, no matter what time I occupy, project forward more than few hours into a time that - theoretically - does not yet exist.

"Beyond that the factors affecting variations become too large to compensate for."

One-way ticket ...
He slid the rest of the blanket off his shoulders and tucked it closely around his sleeping patient, pulling Adamson’s jacket free so that he could bundle it into a makeshift pillow. The Admiral protested in his deepened sleep, but did not wake as Sam carefully extricated himself from their contact.

"Sorry, Al," he murmured, pausing to make sure the man was as comfortable as he could make him. "But I gotta blow this pop stand. See you a couple of months ago, I guess."

He took a deep breath, and one final look at the blood-spattered Chamber and its wounded occupant.

I hope to god this works.
I’d hate for you to wake up like that without me ...
And once, just once, I’d like to be able to give you that hug I owe you.
I don’t think this evening counts, exactly ...
"Okay, Ziggy," he decided, setting his shoulders and his determination, all in one gulp. "You’d better open the door, hadn’t you?"

And, after a moment, she did just that ...

The prospect cheered him immensely. He was grinning as he activated the security code that gave access to the Waiting Room. "Hey, George," he called out as the door slid open, "what do you want for breakfast - ?" His words were swallowed in a gasp of surprise as an agile figure hurtled across the corridor and pinned him against the wall. "What the ...?" His exclamation died in a gulp as the monstrous creature that had been George Holden landed in the precise spot he had just occupied.

"Don’t move," his abductor ordered firmly. "I got this covered."

He didn’t need telling twice. The werewolf howled with savage frustration, whirling round to confront his intended prey, its teeth dripping with foam. "Jeezus," Al choked, startlement freezing him to the spot with efficient terror. The figure in the uniform stepped away, drawing the beast’s attention; it hunkered to pounce a second time, and a crackle of power leaped from the man’s hand, briefly wrapping the animal in a flare of blue fire. It screamed, staggered, and then fell, a huddled bulk that twitched and shivered and finally lay silent. It took the watching Admiral a moment or two to remember that he ought to be breathing.

"Taser restraint," his rescuer announced with satisfaction. "Should have thought of this last time. Would have saved a lot of grief. You okay, Al?"

"Ah - yeah," Al managed in a dazed tone. "How did you - Sam?"

Sam grinned. "Who else?" he questioned brightly. "Al?"

"Y- yeah?"

"Next time I tell you there’s no such thing as a werewolf? Don’t listen to me."

Al stared at him. Just stared, breaking the contact only to glance briefly at the tumbled shape on the floor. "My god," he realised, "you saved my life ..."

"Not - exactly," the scientist acknowledged, still grinning. Grinning with relief and delight. He took half a step forward, reaching for his friend -

- and the Leap took him, with his hand barely inches from the man’s shoulder ...

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!
I came that close ...

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Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Donald P Bellasario, Bellasarius Productions, or any other holders of Quantum Leap trademarks or copyrights.
© 1995 by AAA Press. Artwork by Joan Jobson. Written and reproduced by Penelope Hill.