Tea was mostly just that; hot, sweet tea - or coffee for those who preferred it - with the addition of a few token cakes and pastries, and a whole slew of tablets and pills and hypodermics, which came lined up with the same careful precision as the foodstuffs. Sam found himself passing round cups while a white-coated nurse followed behind him with the medication. George cooed and sweet-talked reluctant appetites to have just one of these wonderful brownies, and Sister Mary pressed cookies on inmates and visitors with equal fervour. The young man with the white hair and the androgynous style lifted a brownie from George’s plate as he passed and proceeded to feed minute portions of it to his companion with the same loving care with which a mother might feed a sick child.
Mark, Sam had noted when handing tea to the pallid-faced figure that occupied that corner of the room. His eyes were drawn by that tender gesture, by the obvious concern that it expressed. So that must be Damian ...
"Don’t," he heard Mark protest, pushing his companion’s hand away with an obvious effort. Damian frowned at him.
"You must eat," he insisted softly. "The doctor said so."
"Fuck the doctor. And fuck you," the patient growled angrily. The young man’s face crumpled into pained lines.
"Oh god," he murmured, "I wish you could ..."
He loves him, Sam realised with sympathy, blushing a little at the blunt words and the need that the response to them expressed. Loves him enough to face this with him, to accept his anger and to deal with all the hurt ...
He found himself wondering whether he would have the same strength should such a situation ever arise in his own life.
"It’s harder for them, you know?" Chelsea’s voice interrupted his thoughts, the man’s hand brushing his sleeve to catch his attention. "The ones we leave behind. I wouldn’t wanna do that to anyone. Not make them deal with all this crap."
Sam looked down, seeing the finger bones etched beneath the tissue-paper skin that clad the extended hand, and in his mind’s eye he saw that same hand, glossed and strong, its fingers curling around his arm in a gesture of familiarity ...
If only I could remember!
But all he had were echoes that made no sense, and a warmth in his heart that went so deep he could neither find nor fathom the depth of it.
"Sometimes though - just sometimes," the velvet tones confided with irony, "I find myself wishing there were someone I could lean on. Life’s a bitch, ain’t it? You spend all your time trying to snatch the ball, trying to win the points, trying to get the cheer from the crowd - and when it comes down to the final whistle, the bench is empty and the rest of the team has moved on ..." The fingers tightened on Sam’s sleeve - as much as they could tighten. "You remember that, Kent Allen. Forget the hangers-on and the cheerleaders, and the spotlights. You need a good team. You need the best. Accept no substitutes ..." He broke off into a sporadic cough, the sound of it tearing at his lungs. It took a moment for Sam to realise he was laughing.
"Right," he acknowledged, a little warily. His reaction merely widened Chelsea’s smile.
"You’ll learn," came the assurance. It was followed by a brief flash of regret. "Hopefully sooner than I did. That my tea?"
"Uh - yeah." Sam handed over the cup, staring at the gaunt face and the brightness of the eyes that it framed. The man was dying; going down under the insidious onslaught against which his body had found no defence.
Just as his heart had found no friend to support it ...
I’m here, Chelsea, Sam thought fiercely. The resolve settled firmly in his soul, armouring him with defiant strength. I’m still on your team. You’re not alone.
Not any more ...
"I know why I’m here, Al."
The statement was offered with determination, a firm implication of you’d better not argue with me packed behind its confident tones. Commodore Calavicci suppressed a wounded sigh and adopted a patient yeah, sure expression instead.
Sometimes, he considered wearily, it would be nice to get a Hi, Al. Glad you could make it.
One he meant ...
"You do?" He kept his voice neutral, even though he knew what was coming next. When Sam launched into those kind of announcements - the ones without preliminaries, the ones that held such stubborn certainty - it was because the man had spent forever convincing himself of the righteousness of his causes, and nothing was going to argue him out of them, no matter what.
And his Observer had too much emotional investment in the current situation to admit that - usually - Sam was the one who turned out to be right ...
"It’s Chelsea."
The scientist was unpacking Kent’s bag, tugging out crumpled teeshirts and faded denim along with a number of battered books and what looked like a handwritten music manuscript. The young man hadn’t really packed - just stuffed; his mother, had he had one, would probably have winced at the result.
"I know him, don’t I." Another statement, not a question. This time, Al let the sigh escape.
"Yeah," he growled softly. "You know him - knew him." The correction was deliberate, an attempt to re-emphasise the reality of the situation. Sam ignored the implications entirely.
"I knew it." His smile was triumphant. "College, right? Something to do with basketball ... was he on the team?"
The Commodore folded his arms with defensive reaction. There were rules. Sam knew that. Sam had made them.
And they were too damned easy to hide behind, right there and then.
"He coached."
It was the truth - and probably more than he should have said. Just enough to let Sam think he was being helpful here.
Don’t ask any more, lover. Please. I can’t tell you, and I won’t tell you, because it would hurt too damned much ...
"Yeah? Oh - yeah. I remember - I remember ..." Sam’s voice tailed off, and he flung the shirt in his hand back down onto the bed with decided frustration. "No," he realised angrily. "I don’t remember. I just know he was important to me ... Al - " He turned toward his friend with a look of wretchedness in his eyes that turned its observer’s heart over, "I’m here to help him. I know I am. He’s so sick, and - "
"He’s dying, Sam." Al hated to have to say it, but he didn’t like the way the conversation was headed. There were wrongs that could be put right, people Sam could help. But not Chelsea. Nothing was going to save him.
No matter what Sam might say or do.
"I don’t care." The retort was sharp; Sam was looking for sympathy and support, and he wasn’t getting either. "I’m here for him. To be with him. There’s nobody else, Al. That isn’t fair."
"Life ain’t fair, kid." The comeback was slick, delivered with impassive certainty. Beeks - who’d told him to try to maintain a neutral stance - would have been proud of him; the Commodore just felt like a heel.
It isn’t fair, Sam. I know that. I know how the man died, and what it meant to you the first time round. But it happened. It’s happening again. And there’s nothing you can do to make a difference.
"I don’t want to hear that!" The scientist’s voice was fierce. He was - as Beeks had so carefully pointed out - battling with the bleedthrough from a thoroughly mixed-up and angry young man who seemed to think that the entire world was against him. Alonzo knew that Kent Allen had a problem, and that it was probably giving Sam a sore spot he couldn’t quite scratch. But that didn’t make this situation any easier to deal with.
"I make a difference, Al. Every life, every Leap, I make a difference. Make it fair. Make it right. I can make this right, don’t you see?" The threatened anger had slipped into an eager passion, into a surety of purpose that Al doubted he could argue with. He tried just the same.
"You’re not here for Chelsea, Sam. You’re here for Kent. To keep him out of trouble. To keep him alive. Just - do your duties here, keep your head down, and don’t get involved - "
"I am involved." The snap was caustic; Al winced, despite his careful façade.
"You’re out of control, Sam," he warned, probably sounding a little sterner than he intended. Sam threw him a look.
"In case you haven’t noticed," he pointed out with deliberate sarcasm, "it’s been a long time since I’ve been in control."
"You know what I mean." The Commodore’s response was an irritated one; it’s hard to ignore hostility when it’s directed straight at you, however forgiving you intend to be. He lifted his hand and began to tick off the rules against his fingers. "You can’t tell anyone who you really are, you can’t change your personal history, you can’t - "
"I can’t have a life!" The scientist’s interruption was forceful. "All I do is live someone else’s life. I right their wrongs, fight their fights - "
"Sam - !" The note of warning was sharper than Al had intended; it cut short the scientist’s tirade and earned its originator a resentful glare. "Look - " The Commodore tried aiming for patient reasonableness, and only managed pained forbearance instead - probably not the most conducive tone to use right there and then. "I know this is hard, kid, but - "
"Hard?" The note of suspect disbelief was almost tangible. "This isn’t hard, Al. Not for me. I’m not laden down with hidebound prejudices and bigoted attitudes. Chelsea needs me. And I’m going to be there for him, no matter what you say. You got that?"
The last three words were tight. The look that went with them was pure animosity: a heavy, smouldering look that would have drawn blood, given half a chance.
It certainly left its recipient’s soul bleeding ...
This is ridiculous. The more I say, the more angry he’s getting. With me. And it hurts, goddamn it!
"I got that," he registered, stubborn enough to give the matter one last try. "But you’re here for Kent, Sam. Don’t screw up his life chasing after your causes."
"Don’t fret yourself about that, Al." Sam went back to tugging teeshirts out of the bag with displaced energy. "I’m not going to get the kid infected, if that’s what you’re so scared of." He laced the final sentence with bitter sarcasm and managed to add a hint of pity for good measure. His Observer winced.
Just shut up, Calavicci. You’re making this worse. He’s not listening to you. He doesn’t want to hear what you have to say ...
Still, he had a job to do. And so did Sam, if only he’d stop to look at the situation dispassionately.
"Okay. If that’s the way you want to play it ... Just promise me something, will ya, Sam?"
"What?" The word came out as a growl. A lesser man might have backed off whimpering at the sound of it - but Al Calavicci was no quitter. It was one of the reasons why Sam had fallen for him in the first place.
"That Kent Allen will go to school tomorrow. And that you’ll stay off the subway, no matter what. Promise?"
The time traveller turned his head to stare moodily at the world beyond the window, the battered paperback book he’d half-lifted from the bottom of the bag falling back into its depths.
"Promise?" Al prompted warily. After a moment, Sam let out a soft sigh.
"Yeah. Yeah - okay. School. No subway. I can do that."
It was a concession - and the only one he was going to get, if the Commodore read the signs correctly. Sam stayed staring out of the window, his shoulders set into stubborn lines - and after a moment his Observer released a quiet echo of the man’s sigh, lifted the handlink and stepped back into the future.
There didn’t seem to be anything else he could do.
Sam waited until he heard the inevitable shwush-clunk that signalled the closing of the Imaging Chamber door - and then he let his shoulders slump and he sank down onto the bed with a despondent groan.
That was clever of you, Sam. Really clever. Bite his head off because he’s worried about you ...
Not that he could see any reason for Al to be worried - any more than he could understand why the hologram would so obviously disapprove of his desire to help Chelsea.
What would be so wrong about it?
Why can’t you see how important this is to me ...?
The thought stirred the residue of his inner anger - an anger he had found no real focus for - and he pushed it down with a sense of irritation. In many ways, he realised gloomily, Al’s presence had merely provided a convenient target on which he could vent his pent-up hostility; but his friend’s uncooperative attitude had not helped the situation one little bit. He shoved the limp bag to one side and used the space it left to stretch himself out on the bed. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions that fought for his attention.
Underneath the anger - Kent’s anger, perhaps - there were far more complex issues to consider. He had to admit that the shelter disturbed him. Deeply disturbed him; there was something uncomfortable about finding himself in a place where so many people stood face to face with the imminence of their own mortality. But he also found it strangely inspiring; its existence somehow expressed a strength and determination that was far more a defiant affirmation of life than it was a resigned acceptance of death.
Even now he’s so ill, Chelsea is more alive than most people will ever be ...
And Chelsea filled him with all sorts of emotions, most of which he couldn’t quite formulate. Warmth and affection, certainly. A sense of easy camaraderie, a comfortableness that was hard to define ...
We were friends. Close friends. I’m sure of it. But why would Al be so reluctant to confirm that? Did we part on bad terms? Did I know about his illness?
No memories surfaced from his Swiss cheesed brain, just simple certainties. Somewhere in the mists of his own history, Chelsea Harrington had been important to Samwise Beckett. Important enough for him to care - no matter what a certain vexatious hologram might think or say ...
Sam sighed yet again, an expression of quiet forbearance. He shouldn’t have got so angry with his friend. He should have found a way to talk to him - to explain, to make him understand ... But then, he’d expected that understanding to just be there.
The way it had always been there before.
I guess he just can’t deal with all this. I know he’s worried about me being here. Why can’t he just accept that I know what I’m doing?
Damn it, he knows perfectly well that if that were him down there ...
The thought clamped a sudden cold hand around Sam’s guts, one that froze his breath and stilled his heart for the barest second or two.
Oh - god. If that were him ...
For a moment - only a moment - the terror of that possibility meshed with a perfect comprehension of the depth of feeling that lay behind it - and then all that got tangled up with his sense of friendship for Chelsea, and the determined way he’d been told to leave the matter alone.
The diamond point of understanding became submerged in resentment; the man on the bed grimaced with unplaced annoyance and levered himself upright to stare moodily out at the gathered dusk. It wasn’t Al Calavicci that was sitting waiting to die some four storeys below. He was safely ensconced in the future, probably flirting with Tina - if he wasn’t sounding off at Vega about stubborn scientists and their pig-headed attitudes.
Let him, Sam decided, unaware of how his lips had tightened into petulant lines. I don’t need his approval to do what’s right.
And having come to that conclusion he snatched up Kent’s guitar and headed downstairs in search of company. He studiously ignored the little voice in the back of his mind which quietly pointed out that - while he probably didn’t need his friend’s approval - it was undoubtedly the one thing he really wanted ...
"That didn’t go very well, did it?"
Vernon Beeks’s voice was softly sympathetic; Al just threw him an irritated not now frown as he crossed the floor of Imaging Control and stared up at Vega’s colour-swirled interface.
"He’s as stubborn as you are, god help him," he growled, redirecting the frown at the machine as he did so. Vega’s lights flickered briefly in response. "Do we have any odds yet?" the Commodore went on to ask. "Any results of these scenarios you’re supposed to be running? You are running them, aren’t you?"
There was a conspicuous pause - and then Vega announced, a little peevishly, "As I told you before, Commodore, you will have the results when I have the results. Not one moment sooner. Now go away. I’m busy."
"Busy?" Al’s reaction was testy. "What the hell do you mean, busy? You’ve been working on this for hours. You ought to have something by now."
The colours within the globe pulsed to a soft red and then went back to being blue. Somewhere across the room Gushie threw Tina an I told you so look. Tina sighed. The machine said nothing.
"Vega - "
"Al - " Beeks’s hand was a gentle weight on his shoulder; he turned to glare at its owner, who immediately removed it with an apologetic half-smile. "You need a break," the psychiatrist advised, taking a precautionary step back as he did so. He disguised it admirably, turning it into an encouraging gesture toward the doorway, but Al wasn’t fooled for a moment. Nor did he blame the man for his caution; he was only too aware of how fragile his self-control had become. He’d had a simple choice - walk out of the Imaging Chamber fighting mad, or just stay there, soaked in misery. As usual he’d let the anger win - mainly because he’d learned long ago that the anger kept the pain at bay. Kept him strong.
And put the fear of god into Vernon Beeks’s eyes ...
Hah, he considered with an ironic sense of satisfaction. So you don't have such a perfect handle on me, do ya?
He seriously doubted that he would have hit the man; the urge for violence was strong, but it was mainly a desire to catch hold of Sam Beckett’s shoulders and shake some goddamned sense into him.
If I could just touch you, lover. Just for one moment ...
It was probably just as well he couldn’t, given the amount of adrenaline that was currently boiling through his veins. He might not commit murder - but after three years of frustrated separation, he might well end up charged with rape ...
"I’ll be in my office," he snapped, stalking past the wary psychiatrist and out into the corridor. He didn’t particularly care if the doctor followed him or not.
And he wasn’t entirely sure that he was grateful when he did ...
"Weitzman’s arrived back from Washington, if you want something constructive to hit," Beeks observed thoughtfully as he fell into step beside him. Al threw him a telling grimace.
"You wish," he growled tightly. "That’s all I need. You’d better keep the Rottweiler away from me, Beeks, or I won’t be held responsible for my actions."
"Things are that bad, huh?"
"That bad," the Commodore confirmed, coming to a sudden halt beside the elevator door. "You mind if we go topside? I think I need some air."
Beeks checked his watch. "It’s nearly midnight," he pointed out. "It’ll be kind of cold up there."
"So shiver," Al suggested, summoning the car and watching the lights tick down toward them with testy impatience. The psychiatrist sighed.
"Okay. Just so long as you explain things to Nai when I catch my death of cold."
He was in no real mood for light-hearted banter, and perfectly well aware of how Beeks was trying to distract him with it. Even so, the request quirked the echo of a smile onto reluctant lips. "You asking me to comfort your grieving widow? You think that’s such a good idea?"
"Maybe not. But since Sam isn’t around to do it ..."
"Yeah. Well." Al stalked into the empty car and jabbed at the ground level button with unnecessary violence. "Tell me something I don’t know."
"Kent Allen tried to commit suicide this evening."
"He - what?" The Commodore turned to stare at his company in startled disbelief; the psychiatrist was deliberately studying the elevator doors. He also looked - probably for the first time since Al had known him - vaguely guilty.
"He - ah - hung onto a beaker after the evening meal. One of our ceramic, environment-friendly batch? Well - he smashed it against the edge of the couch and tried to cut his wrist ... He didn’t manage it," Beeks added defensively, finally turning his head to meet agitated eyes. "But he wanted to. He really wanted to."
"What the hell were you people doing?" Al demanded angrily. Inside, his stomach was churning itself into knots. If anything ever happened to the guest in the Waiting Room ...
Sam would be trapped back there. No way to come home. Jeezus -
Maybe he’d die too ...
"I left him alone for less than five minutes - damn it, Al - " Beeks reacted to the hostile accusation with a rare display of frustration, "That kid’s a real mess, and he’s hard work, okay? I needed a break. I never even thought he’d try something like that. I’ll know better next time. He was angry. Confused. He doesn’t know who he can trust ..." He tailed off under the look he was getting, his chiselled features twisting into lines of distress. "Sound familiar?"
"Too damned familiar." Al dropped his weight back against the wall of the ascending car, slamming his fist hard into the steel as he did so. "Sweet bleeding Jesus," he swore, then followed the phrase with a whole string of invective, half of it in Italian. He finally ran out of breath just as the elevator reached ground level.
"You feel any better for that?" Beeks asked cautiously.
"Nope." The Commodore levered himself upright and led the way out into the lobby. "Hell," he growled as they passed through the double doors at the Project entrance and out into the sharpness of the desert night, "I don’t know how I feel. There’s a part of me that’s so mad I can’t think straight - and the rest of me feels like roadkill. De-press-o with a capital "D". Pit City. Midnight at Bluesville Junction." He dragged a cigar out of his pocket as he spoke, and he went through the ritual of lighting it as they walked the short distance across the visitors' parking lot. The night air was still - a drape of bitterness laid over a sprinkle of early snow - and the world around them was subtly illuminated by the soft blue-white flicker that had haunted the Project’s nights ever since Sam Beckett had made his precipitate Leap into the past.
"Want to talk about it?" Beeks asked softly. Al halted his steps and turned, looking up as he did so, past the shadow of the Project building and the mountain slope that sheltered it, until his eyes reflected nothing but that intermittent light and the stars that hung beyond it.
"No," he considered tersely, taking a long pull at the cigar and wreathing himself in smoke.
I don’t even want to think about it, Beeks ...
He waited for the next careful prompt, the cautious attempt to breach his defences, but it didn’t come. Instead the man gave him the benefit of silence, wrapping his arms around himself and simply standing there with sympathetic patience.
Watching a troubled man wrestle with turbulent emotions ...
When is all of this going to end?
When are we going to get off this crazy helter-skelter rollercoaster ride that’s going nowhere, nowhen?
Ah, damn it, Sam. I know you didn’t mean this to happen. And it hasn’t been easy for you, walking that yellow brick road without knowing where it’s gonna lead -
But it’s no picnic back here in the Emerald City, either.
I’ve gotta keep the committee sweet. I’ve gotta keep the team focused. I’ve gotta keep Vega entertained. And then I gotta deal with you ...
He sighed softly, breathing out a wreath of smoke and vapour as he did so.
You’d think after three years I’d be used to all this, wouldn’t ya?
All the hassle and the heartache.
All the frustrations and the fear.
Coping with Sam.
Missing him ...
And then God, or Fate, or Time - or whoever it might be - goes and throws me yet another curve ball, right out of the blue ...
The anger was ebbing away from him, leaving only bleak comprehension in its wake. Back in the early days it had been an easy thing to sustain; there had been so many things to be angry at. But now -
He sighed a second time, the taste of the smoke enhanced by the crispness of the air, and looked up a little further - at the stars that lay sprinkled across the night. After a moment, his eyes narrowed with stubborn determination. A look Sam Beckett would have undoubtedly recognised, had he been there to see it.
Well - we ain’t struck out in this crazy game of ours so far. And I guess I’m gonna keep stepping right up to the plate until the day Sam manages a clear home run ...
He tugged the cigar from his lips and turned to look at the man beside him. "You were right," he decided brusquely. Beeks - who’d been rubbing at his arms to keep the circulation going - looked a little startled. "It’s damned cold out here."
The psychiatrist allowed himself a knowing grin. "Told ya," he noted smugly. "Listen - you think you might find some time to talk to Kent? I’m not getting through to him, and someone’s got to, before he goes home. Otherwise he is going to kill himself - and all of Sam’s hard work will be for nothing."
Al’s frown was a puzzled one. "His history didn’t imply he was suicidal. Vega said he was beaten to death."
Beeks shrugged. "Maybe he was. But I’m willing to bet he invited it. He’s angry, Al. Spitting mad at the world and everyone in it, for some reason. And the person he’s angriest with is himself. If we don’t reach him, he’s going to strike out - or strike in - out of sheer spite. Not desperation. Just self-hate."
"What makes you think I might make a difference?"
"Well - " The man’s dark features were difficult to read in the shadowed light, but his company knew him well enough to pick up the implication of inner squirm.
You’re not going to like this ...
"He needs an authority figure. Someone he can justify getting mad at. If we can turn that anger outward, maybe he’ll tell us what’s eating him."
Al’s eyes rolled skyward. "Oh gr-reat," he reacted. "It’s not bad enough I have Sam biting my head off, now you want me to be a target for some snot-nosed, screwed-up kid with major attitude. Thanks a heap," he added, directing the comment upward with decided feeling.
Beeks looked apologetic. "I need your help on this one, Al," he admitted softly. "I really do."
The Commodore studied him thoughtfully for a moment, trying to fathom out how true that statement might be.
How do I know he’s not just trying to distract me? Finding something else for me to worry about?
The psychiatrist was shivering inside the huddle of his arms, and his smile still held that apologetic tinge. There had been genuine guilt lurking in his expression, back in the elevator; perhaps his motives now didn’t really matter. Not if it meant helping to make the Leap a success.
If Sam can’t concentrate on Kent right now, then perhaps I should ...
"Okay," he agreed, sounding suitably reluctant. "I’ll talk to him. You want I should do it tonight?"
Beeks had been briefly distracted by something over at the Project building. The question refocused his attention on his company, and his smile widened into good-natured warmth. "Tomorrow will do," he decided. "Tonight - " His hand gestured across the parking lot, "I think you should - ah - unwind a little. Get some sleep. Or something ..."
Al looked in the indicated direction. Tina was standing in the spill of light from the Project entrance, her slim figure bundled up in the baby-pink fun-fur coat he’d bought her last Christmas. A drape of darker scarlet hung over her arm; the jacket he had left hanging on the chair back in his office at the start of this long day. She was watching the two of them warily, her head tilted that little bit to one side, and the dance of light from her earrings was dappling enticing colours across her carefully painted face.
He was cold, inside and out; his heart was empty and his soul in turmoil. The warmth he really craved was a long way away and utterly beyond his reach. But there was comfort in the smile she found for him, in the hopeful look that hovered in her eyes. Let me help, her stance was saying; an offer of support, an extension of sympathy.
A moment’s shelter from the storm ...
He glanced back at Beeks, who nodded a hint of encouragement, and he sighed one more time. It never seemed right that he could find escape in such sweet pleasures while Sam was facing the traumas of a Leap. But he knew he’d never sleep that night unless it was with company; it was days like this that awoke the restlessness in his dreams.
Besides - he really hated to disappoint a lady.
So he put out his hand, and she practically flew to his side, giggling and breathless as she bid Beeks a warm goodnight. He found himself echoing the sentiments, then put his mind in neutral, switched his body over to autopilot, and walked Tina home.
The bus was crowded, and it reeked of stale sweat - among other things, which Sam decided he was better off not identifying. He hunched himself into the seat he’d managed to appropriate and once again tugged out the induction documents he’d found stuffed into Kent’s jacket pocket. It had been a relief to discover that his host had enrolled into a local college that lay on the outskirts of the Village - a three-stop subway ride, or two changes of bus - rather than some prestigious institution halfway across the city. He’d promised to stay off the subway, so the bus had been the obvious choice.
Kent had a tutorial appointment at ten, and a music theory class at eleven, then the afternoon was pencilled in for some kind of student event - a meet the people gathering for freshmen, by the sound of it. Sam wasn’t looking forward to any of it; his mind was still back in the shelter, reliving the events of the previous evening.
You got family, Kent?
He’d helped with supper, got caught up in the whirlwind that was Danny's gang - a whole slew of characters that had included a leather-clad ex-policeman, a couple of actors, and a man in a red velvet dress - and had finally found a breathing space at Chelsea’s side. The retired athlete had greeted him with a broad smile which had made Sam feel right at home. They’d fallen into conversation almost as if they’d been friends for years ...
Which we were. I know we were.
He’d asked about the man’s career, and got back an amused summary filled with casual name-dropping and warm reminiscences. Not that Chelsea was that specific on the details - he didn’t bother too much with the past, he'd said. That was over and done with.
You gotta live for the moment. Enjoy today. Tomorrow never comes, right?
Right, Sam had answered warily, and Chelsea had laughed, a baritone that had once been rich and booming - and now was a mere parody of itself, laced with the gurgle of congested lungs.
Guess I’m running outta todays, the invalid had quipped, once he’d regained his breath. And then the question, casual, asked as if it had no real importance behind it, just curiosity.
You got family, Kent?
Sam had wondered how to answer that. Al had told him very little about his host’s background - and he had somehow sensed that there was nothing casual about the question at all. He’d settled for a non-committal shrug and a vague remark; the kind of thing a nineteen year old might well offer in response to such a question. It had earned him a thoughtful look.
How ’bout a lover?
"Hi, Sam." Al’s voice interrupted his reverie and he looked up to find his friend advancing toward him - straight through the oblivious occupants of the bus. "Isn’t this your stop?"
It was. Sam leaped hurriedly for the exit, squirming through the crowd and emerging onto the road with a distinct sense of breathlessness. He turned to watch the bus drive off - and it left the hologram behind it, standing a foot and a half up in mid-air.
"Sheesh," Al noted, engulfed in a cloud of sudden diesel fumes. "When are they gonna pass a city ordinance about that? Don’t they know what this stuff does to people’s lungs?"
The remark brought a small smile to Sam’s lips, despite an inner surge of disquiet. A part of him had reacted to the man’s arrival with its usual sense of delighted relief - and the rest had responded with a suspicious what does he want? He didn’t know quite how to deal with his friend right there and then - wasn’t even sure that he wanted to - but there were things he needed to know, and the Commodore was the only one who could supply him with the appropriate information.
That’s if he gives me a straight answer, for once.
He watched as Al adjusted the settings on the handlink, the image of the man drifting downward until it stood beside him in illusory companionship. His Observer was dressed in soft colours that morning, all warm shades of amber and brown. He looked a little like a patch of autumn sunlight, an impression enhanced by the unobtrusive leaf patterns that dappled his shirt and tie.
"Nice day," the hologram noted affably, looking around himself with interest. "Nice place," he added, half-turning to better observe the arrival of a group of other students. Female students, clad in a variety of mid-eighties chic - including a kohl-eyed Goth and a stark blonde who was openly sporting a lace-trimmed corset. Sam shot him an irritated glare.
"When you’ve quite done ogling," he hissed, "I’ll be over there." After which he stalked away, not bothering to look back and see if he’d been followed.
Why does he have to do that? he found himself thinking angrily. Why does he - ?
"Saam - " Al’s voice held a note of plaintive apology, which its recipient studiously ignored. "Listen, I - "
"Don’t," Sam advised tightly. He climbed the college steps and turned right as he entered the cavernous hall that awaited him. He wasn’t entirely sure why the man’s flippancy had annoyed him so much; he expected it, didn’t he? Al often behaved that way, full of determined bounce and deliberate distractions, playing the consummate jester, the open-hearted fool.
My personal harlequin ...
Who should be paying attention to him, and not eyeing up pretty women young enough to be his daughters. Who had made him promise to be here, rather than back at the shelter where he really wanted to be ...
"Don’t what?" his intangible company questioned puzzledly, falling into step beside him. "Walk through people?" He did just that, his image intersecting with an oblivious student who was walking in the other direction. "Hey," he objected, half-turning to call after the young man, "watch where you’re going, why don't ya? It’s not my fault, Sam. I’m only a hologram. They don’t even know that I’m here ..."
"Al - " The interruption was an irked one, delivered half under its speaker’s breath. "In here."
Here was the otherwise empty confines of a classroom; Sam made a point of making sure it was unoccupied before he perched himself on the edge of a desk and favoured his company with a challenging look. "Did you come here to tell me something, or do you just like annoying the hell outta me?"
"Well - " Al obviously considered the smart comeback, then let it go with a sigh. He stuck both his hands in his pants pockets and wandered over to the nearest window, looking out at the scenery in preference to meeting the scientist’s eyes. "I was just - "
" - checking up on me?" Sam completed, unsure if it were sarcasm or anger that he used to lace the words. "Come on, Al. I’m here - at school, just as I promised. And I came on the bus. Happy?"
Dark eyes glanced briefly in his direction, then went back to their contemplation of the outside world. "Sam," the gruff voice considered slowly, "I know this isn’t easy, but - "
"Easy?" The snap was reactive, and Sam regretted it as soon as he’d made it. Maybe he had reason to be a little mad at his friend. But not that mad, surely? He let a little remorse creep into his voice. "Since when has a Leap ever been easy?"
There was a pause while Al thought that one over. Then he offered softly, "Sometimes, kid? I get the feeling you think it’s kinda fun."
Fun?
The idea was startling - and yet - and yet ...
Kent Allen’s uncertain anger retreated, leaving only Sam’s inner conflicts behind.
"I guess," he admitted after a moment, "maybe sometimes it is."
Nudging at the weave in the skeins of destiny; touching the lives of others; experiencing one-of-a-kind moments that will never come again ...
"But not this time."
"No. Not this time ..." Buried fears and frustrations bubbled their way to the surface; Sam slammed his hand hard against the desk that supported him. "It’s not fair, Al. Chelsea hasn’t committed any crime. He’s just sick. Just caught up in something he couldn’t even have known about when it happened to him. And nobody cares. He’s one more statistic in a bunch of statistics. One more faceless victim of a plague they talk about in whispers ..."
"You can’t change that overnight," Al pointed out, not unsympathetically. "But it will change."
"Not for Chelsea," was the instant comeback. "He’s all alone. There’s no-one. No-one to help him through this. No-one who matters." Sam looked across at his Observer, his face written all too clearly with the sense of anguish he felt at that realisation. "It’s not right. Someone like that - to go through all of this alone. Everyone needs someone, Al. Someone who’ll be there, no matter what ..."
He tailed off, suddenly aware that he might be treading on sensitive ground; the eyes that had turned to consider him held a decidedly haunted look. But Chelsea’s questions the night before had touched a raw nerve he hadn’t been conscious of, and he wanted answers.
Answers he didn’t think he was going to get ...
"Al," he asked warily. "Do I have someone? Someone I left behind? Is there someone - waiting - back home?"
The thought had come to him late at night, while he was wrestling with the confusion of emotions that assailed him. Chelsea had tried to dismiss the need for commitment, decrying the idea of causing anyone pain on his behalf. When you got someone, kid, all you do is hurt ’em when you leave ’em ...
And the fear had emerged, that he had done just that. That he had Leaped, and left a loved one waiting desperately for his return.
Say no, his heart begged silently, not wanting it to be true. Not wanting to be the cause of such distress in anyone.
Even though a part of his soul wanted it so desperately. Needed the assurance of knowing that he was loved ...
Al was looking uncomfortable. Decidedly uncomfortable. "I - can’t tell you that," he hedged, tugging the handlink from his pocket and studying it distractedly. "You know the rules, Sam. If you don’t remember - "
"Then you can’t say. I know, I know." Sam sighed and looked away, seeing the world that wasn’t his own hurrying past the doorway that concealed his borrowed existence. "I should know better than to ask."
But the answer is yes, isn’t it?
Because if it was no, you’d have said so ...
He looked back - just in time to catch the flare of light that marked the closing of the Imaging Chamber door as his hologram did his usual vanishing trick.
Damn it.
There’d been other things he’d wanted to ask - about Kent and his background, and what he should be doing at college. Questions about Chelsea, too - although he doubted he’d have got a straight answer to any of those.
What use is a hologram who can’t help?
Who won’t help?
The resentment flared anew, spurred by a sense of abandonment.
Sometimes, Alonzo Calavicci, you can be a positive pain in the butt.
I wonder why you even bother to turn up in the first place ...
Al was wondering much the same thing as he made his way out of Imaging Control and down the passageway toward the Waiting Room. There were Leaps - and this was unquestionably one of them - when he seriously asked himself if it would not have been better to have handed the job of Observer over to someone else as soon as he’d realised that Sam had no memory of their partnership.
I could concentrate on the Project then. Just - read the reports of his progress and spend my time trying to get the damned retrieval system to work ...
Except that better qualified minds than his were occupied with that task, and he knew perfectly well that Sam had specifically designed the system with the two of them in mind.
I’ll Leap, and you can watch my back ...
Which was exactly what he was doing, and would go on doing, until the man came home again. No matter what it cost him; no matter how many endless days or sleepless nights it might take. He’d live with the headaches and the heartaches, and he’d put up with Vega’s tantrums, and he’d try not to worry about the possible side-effects of the experimental chip Sam had buried inside his head.
But to do that, he also had to live with himself. Which included facing the fact that - when the moment that he’d dreaded actually came - he’d taken the first possible chance to turn and run. Because he’d been too scared he’d blurt out the truth in one godawful confession which Sam probably wouldn’t have believed for a moment.
Is there someone - waiting?
Perhaps he should have lied. Or even spoken the truth. Should have made it a joke, a slick answer that would have said everything and yet been easy to dismiss as nothing.
Only me, Sam.
Only me ...
He’d chickened out. Sam had put too much into the question. And turning the answer into a joke - however much truth in the words - would have been unforgivable in the circumstances.
He’s too deep into this Leap. Too fragile in his mood, too uncertain of himself. He needed me to take him seriously. He needed an answer.
Which he had had, in a way. Enough of one to accept, even if it was unsatisfactory. But after it his Observer had bailed out, scared that he might be asked that little bit more than he could answer right there and then. That he might let slip something that could crack open his friend’s fragile sense of self-surety.
That Sam might be shrewd enough to put two and two together and come up with us ...
Which was dangerous ground at the best of times, given the state of Sam Beckett’s Swiss cheesed brain, but on this particular Leap would probably tumble all the rest of it into place.
Which was something a part of Alonzo wanted desperately - while the rest of him didn’t want it at all ...
He’d reached the door to the Waiting Room; he took a brief moment to compose himself, focused his thoughts onto immediate business, and then walked in with what looked like commanding confidence.
As if he were utterly in control of the situation.
Kent Allen was perched on the edge of the central support table, swinging his legs moodily beneath him. He was watching Vernon Beeks pace, a long-legged stride that took the man from one side of the Waiting Room to the other and then back again. The young man’s look was sullen, laden with hostility. Beeks’s expression was harassed, an attempt at patience overwritten with frustration.
Both heads turned at the opening of the door; Al’s arrival was greeted by a disconcerting combination of thankful relief and smouldering animosity. He paused in the opening to study the pair of them with the kind of consideration that had once had Navy ensigns quaking in their boots. He’d pasted a deliberately neutral stand by for inspection expression on his face with the ease of long practice. He was well aware of just how intimidating a façade it could be - he’d modelled the look on one he’d been on the receiving end of far too often; the world-weary expectation of his commander at flight school.
"I trust I’m not interrupting anything. Am I, doctor?" he enquired softly. Beeks shook his head.
"Only the uncomfortable silence." He threw Kent a sideways look as he spoke, and earned himself a decided glower in return. Expressed with Kent Allen’s narrow features it came across as resentful attitude; Al suspected that on Sam Beckett’s far more open face it simply looked petulant.
And wouldn’t look right at all ...
The Commodore suppressed a sigh and walked in as if he owned the place. Which, of course, he did, in a way.
Their guest watched with suspicion as his visitor made his way to Beeks's side, returning his stern-faced assessment with tight-lipped hostility. The young man was clearly on edge, his body language tense and showing signs of an inner nervousness that contradicted his defiant attitude. Not for the first time, Al silently thanked the neural adjustment Vega had implemented for him, way back in the early days of the Leaping. Seeing Sam wear a stranger’s face had been hard to live with; seeing all those strangers wearing Sam’s had started to drive him crazy.
Especially that day he Leaped into Samantha ...
That seemed a long time ago, now - the moment when he’d collided with the ultimate in personal fantasies: Sam Beckett draped in the body of a goddess ... and then stepping into the Waiting Room afterward to find his lover’s shape occupied by that real cute character who’d started flirting with him. The combination had sent him straight to Beeks's office in a total funk - much to the patient psychiatrist's amusement.
Beeks wasn’t amused now, though. He was still facing Sam’s image, and was probably having difficulty reading some of the messages that Kent Allen was giving out. What the doctor saw was the equivalent of a man possessed - the open, honest face of an old friend twisted into surly defiance. The Commodore, on the other hand, was able to see some of the contradictions in the image the young man was trying to project. The dichotomy between the determined fuck you attitude and the child that lay behind it.
You really are screwed up, ain’t ya, kid?
And teetering on the verge of panic. Right on the edge ...
"So," Al said after a moment or two, "is he behaving himself, Doc?"
Beeks sighed. "Hard to tell, Commodore. He’s giving me the silent treatment today. I can’t answer any of his questions, so he won’t answer any of mine."
"I see." Al turned to look the young man up and down with deliberated assessment. Kent hunched down a little, obviously torn between a desire to glare back defiantly and a reflexively submissive response to the presence of authority. "He can speak, I take it?"
"I got nothing to say to you," the young man announced hotly. "Any of you. I just want out of here."
The Commodore responded to the outburst with a raised eyebrow and a calmly condescending look - the kind of reaction he tended to save for senators who let their love of their own voice run away with their rhetoric. It was another legacy from his days at flight school and it had the same effect it had had back then; instant discomfiture and not a little hint of remorse. "I’m afraid," Al remarked quietly, "you have very few options in this matter, Mr Allen. You will leave when you are ready to leave, and not one moment before."
It wasn’t quite a lie; more a stretch of the truth wrapped up in misdirection. It won him a sullen yeah, sure glance before Kent deliberately turned his back on them both.
Beeks took the opportunity to twitch a slightly astonished smile at his colleague. You’re good, he mouthed, earning himself a brief grimace of irritation.
God’s sake, Beeks. I served as a line officer in the damned Navy for thirty years. I had to be good. Or did you think I made my way through the ranks with bribes and blackmail?
You asked for authority, you got authority.
The flare of inner animosity - far more a result of his unsettled emotional state than it was genuine annoyance at the psychiatrist’s surprised admiration - added impetus to his adopted façade. He walked across to study the hunched shoulders, then round, so that the young man’s fixed and determined stare at the floor became a detailed study of his neatly polished shoes.
Kent shifted uncomfortably, looking away, then back, then finally up, reluctant to meet the eyes that waited for him, stern and uncompromising in their consideration.
"I don’t know what you want from me," he complained. "I didn’t ask to come here. Just leave me alone." The last held a plaintive note, the beleaguered cry of confused adolescence throughout the centuries.
"It’s not that simple, Mr Allen. I wish it was. Dr Beeks here is trying to help you - "
"Help me?" Real anger flared in the depths of confused eyes. The sullen glower became a confrontational glare. "If he wanted to help me, he’d have left me alone yesterday. I want out, don’t you understand? Out of this place, out of my life - " The explosion of words came backed with heat, packed with passion. They lashed out with frustrated anger, probably much in the same way that he had lashed out at himself, only the day before. He’d risen to his feet, and was practically shouting his fury, his face barely inches from Al’s own. "I hate it, you hear? What I am, where I am, what I have to be. And he - " His thumb jerked back in Beeks’s direction, "he stopped me from finishing it. I want to finish it. I can’t cope. I can’t go on. There’s nothing for me. Everything’s such a fucking effort ..." He tailed off, sinking back to the support of the couch with a grimace of confused wretchedness. It was clear that he’d expected an equally heated response to his verbal attack, and all he’d got was stony silence.
"Ah," he muttered. "Why would you care? Nobody gets it. Nobody. Richie was right. I’m just a worthless waste of space, that’s all."
Al’s eyes narrowed as he studied the young man’s slump of despair. Beeks was right. The kid had a real problem. But they weren’t going to be able to deal with it unless he wanted them to - and right now, he didn’t even want to deal with it himself.
"Nobody’s just a waste of space, Kent," he offered quietly. And his mind went back over the years, to a darkened room, and a moment of similar confrontation ...
"Ya should have let me finish it, kid," he’d said with quiet bitterness. "Saved yourself the effort."
"Don’t be crazy," Sam had snapped back with authority, leaning forward a little as he did so. "That’s the drink talking and you know it. Nobody has reason to do themselves this kind of damage. Nobody."
"How the hell would you know?" Kent’s bitter question was startling; it had been the same thing he’d demanded, all those years ago. "I know who you are: Mr I’m In Charge, all full of tight-assed shit. You’ve never even fucking lived, so how the hell would you know what it’s like when you wanna die ...?"
Never even lived ...?
That was it. He could deal with the anger, could be patient and understanding, could even put up with the mouthfuls of abuse. But there was no way he was going to stand there and listen to this wet-behind-the-ears kid try to justify his desire to end it all when he was barely out of the cradle and hadn’t got the faintest idea of what real grief and despair might be like. Long hours of recent anxiety, longer months of having to watch the man he loved face danger and pain, combined to kick Alonzo Calavicci out of the military act and into angry response.
"Is that what you think?" he snarled. "You’re so damned sure of yourself, ain't ya? You think you’re in so deep you’re drowning, right? Well, let me tell you something. You ain’t even wet yet. You’re all wrapped up in your own little problem, and you like it. You like having a chip on your shoulder, and you like having a reason for hating the world and everyone in it. That’s easy. That’s the excuse." He leaned forward a little and delivered his next words with contempt.
"You go ahead and kill yourself, kid. It’s so much easier than making the effort to live. Just - hurt everyone that cares about ya. Just - throw the rest of your life away - along with any chance of finding out what you might be worth. And all you’ll ever be is some two-bit nozzle who couldn’t face things the first time the world got a little tough."
Kent was staring at him. Beeks was staring at him. He ignored the startled psychiatrist and stared back at the young man, offering a challenging contact to his bewildered eyes.
Come on, kid. Show me you’re worth saving. Prove to me you’re worth all the crappola that Sam is taking on your account.
And, for god’s sake, stop wallowing in your own misery and start realising we’re trying to help ya ...
"You - you can’t talk to me like that," Kent protested angrily. "You’re not inside my head. You don’t know where I’m coming from ..."
"Don't I?" Al interrupted sarcastically. His eyes flicked across to where Beeks was standing, and his lips twisted into the barest of grim smiles.
I know exactly where you’re coming from, kid. Better than you do, I suspect.
Was it any coincidence that the events that this situation recalled had happened barely a month after Chelsea Harrington’s death? This Leap had helped bring the memory of those days back to him with aching clarity.
Sam laid himself on the line for me that night; opened his heart and offered me his soul ...
He hesitated only for a moment. Caught in that moment of remembrance he knew exactly how to breach the barriers that Kent Allen had raised around himself. Sympathetic words - however well intentioned - were merely adding weight to the young man’s barricades, allowing him to justify his arrogant self-pity.
You think you’re so unique, kid?
Kent was in for a shock if that was what he thought. And Beeks?
Hell, Sam probably told him a long time ago.
"Let me show ya something."
He was flicking open the cuff on his left sleeve as he spoke, peeling back the fabric to reveal what lay beneath it. The old abuse, the marks of his captivity, had faded somewhat over the course of time. But the scars that patterned his arm - that had done so for nearly twelve years now - were still deep. Long, savage slashes that served as a constant reminder of just how much he owed Sam Beckett - and why.
"I know exactly where you’re coming from, Kent Allen," he growled. "And, believe me, I’ve probably been way deeper than you’re ever likely to get."
Kent’s eyes went wide, flicking from the puckered marks to their owner’s face and back again; his mouth dropped open, and then he swallowed. Hard. A reaction of discomforted comprehension underwritten with decided alarm.
"You - ?" he squeaked, packing the sound with astonished disbelief. Al answered the question with a matter-of-fact nod, smoothing back his sleeve as he did so. The button fastened with a smart snap of his fingers, and he took the opportunity to adjust his other cuff with exaggerated care.
"Uh-huh," he acknowledged offhandedly, then looked across to return wide-eyed consideration with a hard stare. "I ain’t proud of it," he said softly. "I was drunk, I was drowning, and it was a dumb thing to do. But I had reason - and ya know something, kid? I got a feeling that - compared to where I was - your life is a real picnic right now.
"You’re nineteen," he stressed, packing a little envy into the emphasis. "And you’re telling me I haven’t lived? You don’t know what life is about yet. You can’t do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so eager to throw it all away."
Kent was looking at him as if he’d just stepped off the Mothership: his mouth agape and his expression stunned.
"Someone up there - " A jerk of the thumb in the relevant direction, "seems to think you might be worth saving. That’s why you’re here. I didn’t used to trust his judgement - " Al ploughed on, sure of his audience if nothing else, "but these days I’m not so sure. Maybe you have got problems. But I’m willing to bet they’re the kind of problems that can be dealt with - if you’ve got the guts to face ’em down.
"He’ll help," he added, jabbing a finger toward Beeks as he did so. "That’s what we pay him for. So think about it, okay?"
He’d pushed far enough. Said enough. Kent took a moment, then found a hesitant nod. "Okay," the young man agreed reluctantly. His eyes were still wide; dumbfounded. Al found him a personable, if somewhat wry grin.
"Okay," he echoed, accepting that small acquiescence as a sign of progress. He reached out and punched the youth’s shoulder, a bare contact of curled knuckles offered with friendly intent. Kent flinched in momentary startlement, before responding with a remarkably shy smile. The Commodore had started to walk away; he didn’t see the smile swallowed by an embarrassed grimace and a sudden flush of colour, but he did feel the young man’s eyes on him as he left the room.
"All right," Beeks’s voice announced firmly as the door to the Waiting Room slid shut behind them both. "What the hell was that about?"
"M'm?" Al’s mind was already miles away from the startled confrontation; he paused in his step to turn and consider his company with some confusion. He’d expected the psychiatrist to stay with his patient, and the determined interrogation was the last thing he’d anticipated.
"You know," the doctor insisted. "I was drunk, I was drowning, and it was a dumb thing to do ... Are you crazy, Al? Trying to throw him offguard with some ridiculous game of one-upmanship? The kid’s suicidal - not stupid. You might fool him into thinking some of those scars of yours were self-inflicted, but sooner or later he’s going to figure out that you were lying to him. And then he won’t trust any of us. Ever."
Al blinked at the tirade, a little nonplussed by its intensity. Then he clicked, and felt a cold dead weight drop right past his heart and into his stomach.
Oh, my god.
He didn’t know ...
Beeks was frowning at him, wanting an answer. Wanting an explanation. And for one long, yawning second the Commodore was tempted to go along with his incensed assumptions.
Scars of war, like all the rest?
I guess they have a lot to do with ’Nam, but I was the one that put ’em there, all the same ...
Sam kept it all off the record. Never said a word to you, either, by the sound of it.
He told Kate.
But then, I guess he had to, really ...
If he’d known Beeks hadn’t known, he’d have been a little more wary about making that particular revelation. But it was out now, and he had a choice of explaining it - or lying through his teeth.
He let out a slow breath and reached into his pocket for a cigar. It was tempting - but something told him that trying to deceive Beeks was probably not a good idea.
"Who said I was lying?" he asked instead. Quietly. Calmly. Unwrapping the cigar and dipping his hand back for his lighter.
Cool, calm and collected ...
Even if the cold weight that had impacted in his stomach was still in there doing somersaults.
Beeks threw him a look. One that started out as hey, come on here and slowly turned into an oh, my god ... He half-turned to glance up and down the corridor, professional ethics suddenly registering that this probably wasn’t something they should be discussing in a public thoroughfare. The glance confirmed that they were quite alone and he looked back at his company with anxious eyes.
"But - when?" he enquired in a slightly strangled tone. Al carefully finished puffing his cigar into life before he answered the question.
"Late ’86," he drawled, breathing the words out in a wreath of smoke. He eyed the wary psychiatrist through the resulting veil and added softly, "Like I said. I was drunk. I’d been drunk for months. Lost my perspective a little, I guess."
His company considered this statement for a moment. "So, why ...? And - what stopped you?" he asked eventually, his voice soft and his expression concerned.
Why?
Because I was ready to crash and burn, that’s why. Because I’d tried running away and just ended up hating myself for it. And because the kid who’d haunted my dreams had come back into my life for real - only to shoot me down in flames.
Thing is, after he’d done it he came back to haul my ass outta the fire - and I’ve been putting it on the line for him ever since ...
Al tugged the cigar from his lips and thoughtfully studied its length before he finally glanced up to meet expectant eyes. A haunted smile settled in his expression.
"Sam," was the only answer he was prepared to give.
But from the look that dawned on Beeks’s face, that was probably all he needed to say.
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