From: lalsoong@sprynet.com (Christine Wirick ) Newsgroups: alt.tv.quantum-leap.creative Subject: Paradox Delusion 20/23 Date: Sat, 22 Feb 1997 19:00:33 GMT Organization: Sprynet News Service Message-Id: <3324415a.1320621@news.sprynet.com> Nntp-Posting-Host: ad70-113.compuserve.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Chapter Twenty "Sam!" Calavicci exclaimed. "Can you hear me?" He waited desperately for a reply. "Ziggy, can you still hear me?" he asked into the handlink." "Yes, Admiral Calavicci." "I'm caught in some type of void. Can you amplify Dr. Beckett's signal at all?" "I am currently rerouting power to help you, Admiral. It should only take another twenty-five seconds." Less than half a minute and yet it seemed unbearably long to the project observer. "Power routed to imaging chamber has been increased by forty-three percent," Ziggy informed him. Slowly, the darkness shifted to light and the project observer found himself standing in a village with buildings made of brick and dirt paths that were used for roads. The streets were lit by lanterns hanging from posts every twenty feet or so. Three horses were tethered a ways ahead and people were walking along either the side of the street. None of them were Sam. "Where is he Ziggy?" The reply was painfully slow and garbled. The project observer smacked at the handlink without positive results. "Come on, Ziggy! You can't let us get cut off like this!" A few more seconds passed with Al fighting with the handlink when Ziggy finally came through clearly. "Can you understand me now, Admiral?" "Yes! What happened?" "A temporal displacement. Time passes much faster in the world you have entered. I have made a few adjustments to my audio program to compensate. For a moment, you sounded like one of the chipmunks." "Chipmunk! You should have heard what you sounded like, you--" "Now, now, Admiral, calm down. Dr. Beckett is in the third building to your left." "Thanks, Ziggy." "However, there is not enough power to automatically center you on Dr. Beckett. I am afraid you will have to walk to him." "Just let me know who he's leaped into once I get there." "Of course, Admiral." More than ever, Al was glad no one from this world could see him. Although they were outwardly human, there were distinct differences, which Al noticed every time he passed one of them--like wider noses and webbed fingers. He wondered if they were meant to aid in swimming, but he didn't see any water nearby. He reached the third building, which was the one with the tethered horses outside. At least the animals look normal, he thought, staring into their faces. This, of course, spooked the horses, and Al quickly slipped into the building before anyone noticed the commotion. The room was filled with men and cigarette smoke and probably reeked of alcohol--but as a hologram, Al was grateful he couldn't smell any of it. He glanced around the room for any sign that one of the men saw and recognized him. No one seemed to notice him. "Dr. Beckett has leaped into the bartender," Ziggy informed him and Al turned to look at a heavyset man standing behind the bar pouring drinks. Sam was trying to inconspicuously signal Al to come over, while playing out the duties of his leap host. Not an easy feat. Al rushed over to his friend. "Sam, boy am I ever glad to see you! I know you can't talk, so just keep pouring the drinks and listen to me. Ziggy came up with a formula based on your other two previous leaps into alternate dimensions that enabled her to track you down. She had to increase the power to the imaging chamber by forty-three percent for me to come to you. Do you have any idea where Patrick is in this world?--Ah, move your head, yes or no." Sam nodded and then tilted it slightly to his right. At first, Sam didn't understand what his friend was trying to tell him until he noticed the paper setting at the end of the bar. He walked over to read what it said. Convicted murderer to be executed. Saturday at Noon Village Square The paper went on to explain both the crime and the alleged perpetrator, a twenty-nine year old male named Polaris Ilod. He would be leaving behind a wife and two small children. The execution would be carried out in prolonged, agonizing detail on a what was referred to as the "agony wheel." Al shuddered at the thought of it. Finally, with a free moment, Sam walked over to the project observer. "So this is Patrick's fate in this world?" Al asked the time traveler. He felt strange asking Sam for information he usually supplied him, but somehow in this altered reality, it felt right to ask Sam for details. Sam replied in a low voice, "Yes." "But he's not guilty, right? We're here to see that he gets cleared of the charges." "No! We can't do anything that would stop the execution." Sam glanced nervously at the patrons, making sure no one noticed he was "talking to himself." Luckily, all the men were either too drunk or too caught up in what they were doing to care. "I know what I'm here to do. I have to help Patrick accept the torture, to not fight it, and to get through it." "Sam--" "I know, I know. It won't be easy, but it's the only way to save this world." "I'm not leaving you," Al said adamantly. "I'm going to stick by your side every second until you leap from this horrendous world." Beckett nodded his gratitude quickly before going back to his station to fill the next round of drink orders. The bartender Sam had leaped into, Nax, had a small apartment above the bar. Once the bar closed, Sam and Al went upstairs to talk in private. "Ziggy has no idea what day it is in this world, because the time is passing by at an astronomical rate compared to ours," Al said tapping the buttons on the handlink. "So she can't tell us how long we have before the execution takes place." "We have eight hours," Sam informed the project observer as though it were the most natural thing for him to know. "This is early Saturday morning right now. Al, you probably spent a couple of hours looking for me." Al nodded. "Well, like you said, time is accelerated over here. I've been bartending for more than a week now. A bartender can learn a lot from his customers." "It's amazing, Sam!" "What?" "You'd think the major shift in time acceleration would screw up your biological functions, or something." "That has been a theory of many scientist, but until now there has been no way to prove it--or disprove it. I'm fine. When I'm over here, in one of these altered--accelerated--realities, my biological functions seem to adjust just fine to the temporal shifts." "Well, even so, I'm glad I'm a hologram." "I think we better get a few hours sleep," Sam said. "Even holograms require that and we'll want to be rested to deal with. . .this." He could not bring himself to describe what they faced. It was bad enough that they would have to endure it. Worse that Patrick would have to suffer through it. Continual thoughts of the execution prevented either of them from getting much sleep. Sam wondered if his imagination was far worse than the actual punishment and feared it was not. When he awoke shortly after ten, Sam realized that he had managed a couple hours sleep. He noticed Al standing beside the dresser, accessing information from Ziggy and suspected that his friend hadn't gotten any sleep. "So, what does Ziggy say?" he asked, hoping the question didn't sound too serious. "Ziggy says that she has absolutely no data on this altered world and that I should take my cues from you. Talk about switching places!" Al's words sent something close to an electrical shock through Sam. For a brief moment, he almost remembered a time when their roles were reversed, but the memory was fleeting. Seconds later, he dismissed the notion to imagination. "If you're supposed to take my cue, then I want you to stand away from the execution." "Sam, I will not leave you during this leap." He punctuated every word with his cigar. "I'm not asking you to leave me. Just stand back several yards. If today goes as I suspect it will, I'm going to have to get right up close to Patrick's incarnate during his most agonizing moments. I don't want you to suffer through that needlessly." "I wish you didn't have to either." Sam looked away from his friend and stepped toward the door. "Well, that makes two of us. I'm suppose to save people's lives, not help them die." "Just what this world needs, a Jack Kovorkian." Sam paused with the door open to look back quizzically at his friend. "Who?" "Never mind, Sam," Al replied with a wave of his cigar. "This time your swiss-cheese memory is doing you a service. The correlation is a bit too morbid to explain." Sam dismissed the subject with a shake of his head and stepped out into the hallway. When they stepped outside a couple minutes later, a crowd of people were already heading toward the spot of the execution though the staring time was still more than ninety minutes away. There were even children among them! People were being examined thoroughly by armed guards as they came into the village center for any concealed weapons. The government did not want anyone shooting the prisoner, offering him a quick death that would end his misery. No weapons were uncovered that either Sam or Al could see, and people were permitted to pass. Sam morbidly wondered if that meant all the people wanted the prisoner to suffer for as long as possible--all the more fun to watch. Sam forcefully made his way through the crowd to get a close look at the round wheel standing at the village center. It looked almost like a satellite dish on a cement platform. But the obvious differences were startling. Its surface was abrasive and four shackles were spaced evenly apart for securing the arms and legs of its victim. Upon closer examination, Sam noticed several holes in the disk and when he looked behind it, he saw the blades. Being a medical doctor, Beckett was able to approximate where the blades would stab the man based on their location and angles and the placement of the shackles. The blades were precisionly aimed to stab the flesh in non-vital areas to prolong the torture. Others were interested in examining the execution device as well, though Sam doubted that most of them realized how grueling the execution they were about to watch would be. Thinking about the nightmares these people would have for weeks, perhaps years after this event made Sam queasy, but he knew it was necessary for them to realize the need to force changes. More spectators forced their way toward the torture device, and Sam allowed himself to be pushed away from it. Slowly he made his way back to Al, who was standing under the shade of a tree, though inside the imaging chamber, the shade had no real effect on him. "Don't describe it to me," the project observer pleaded. "I don't think my stomach can take it. I'm just glad I didn't have any breakfast." "Same here," Sam replied. "I have a feeling that there are going to be a lot of sick people today. I'm here to help Patrick's alter endure the pain, but maybe I'm also here to help these people deal with the shock of the trauma." He turned to gaze at the crowd. Off to the side, several children were laughing and playing. He prayed it wasn't the last time they would laugh. Three men in uniforms came out fifteen minutes before the execution was scheduled to begin and asked the people to back away from the torture disk. Their holstered weapons convinced otherwise reluctant people to obey. No one was permitted to stand closer than thirty feet of either side of the disk while the prisoner was brought out and shackled down. When the prisoner was brought out, he was surrounded by several guards, but Sam managed to get a good enough look at the man to notice his general features. Polaris Ilod looked remarkably like Patrick. Not that Sam couldn't see obvious differences as the man drew closer--he could--but his beard, his eyes, and especially the way he moved, were all characteristics of the Patrick Sam had known so briefly. This leap continued to get harder and harder to endure. "Oh. . .Jesus," Al said, removing his cigar from his mouth. He was obviously equally as taken aback by the sight of Ilod. Just as the guards were shackling the prisoner to the torture disk, Ilod looking in Sam's direction and gazed at the time traveler as though recognizing him. He knows the bartender I leaped into, Sam tried to convince himself unsuccessfully. There was something about the way Patrick's alter stared at Sam--like he knew who he really was and why he was here. But why in this lifetime? Not only had Patrick's alter not recognized Sam in the two previous lifetimes, but he hadn't even remembered his life as Patrick. What was different about this world? The crowd had grown very quiet as everyone became mesmerized by the preparation of the prisoner. Even the smallest children had grown still to gawk. Did they realize what was going to happen? Or did they think they were about to watch a circus act? As much as it repulsed him, Sam shared some of their awe and could not resist the urge to step dangerously close to the line the guards had drawn for the crowd. "Sam," Al exclaimed and a split second later, the time traveler noticed a guard walking toward him. He did not back down. Reaching Sam, the guard bruskly began searching him. "I don't have any weapons," Sam assured the guard. "I just want to watch like everybody else." The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but Sam knew he had to say them--knew he had to get even closer to Patrick's alter. The guard pulled the wallet of Sam's host from his pants pocket and began going through it. After reading the identification, the guard looked back up at Sam, startled. "Why didn't you just tell me you were Polaris Ilod?" he asked. "It would have saved us both a lot of trouble." "Tell you--" Sam began to question, but the guard had already grabbed him by the arm and was leading him toward Patrick's incarnate. They went past the victim to stand behind the disk. Some members of the crowd grew quite unruly and attempted to cross the line. The guards were prepared for the outburst and had night sticks ready to beat them back. "Congratulations on winning the contest," the guard said to Sam. "Contest?" "Now I know that one of the conditions was that you keep it secret from the general public, but you don't need to play naive with me. You have the honor of shoving the first blade through the execution disk." It took all of Sam's strength not to vomit. He turned away from the guard, hoping the other man hadn't noticed how ill he was becoming. He looked at the blades and thought of the still very-much alive man on the other side of the torture device. How could he, a man whose life mission was to save lives, thrust the first blade into Ilod's flesh? "Oh. . . .God," he said as he raised his hand toward a knife that would slice into Ilod's right leg. Here it goes, Sam thought, willing his fist around the handle. Before he had the chance to debate about how wrong this was, he thrust the knife through the hole. Ilod let out an agonizing scream, which sent a wave of nausea rippling through Sam, and he stepped back unable to cover his revulsion. The guard grabbed him by the arm to steady him. "I'm all right," Sam said, shoving the guard aside and making his way around the front of the disk. He stared into Ilod's grey, cloudy eyes and could say nothing to comfort the man. "You did what you had to do," he told Sam. A tear rolled down his cheek, but he didn't let it deter him. "We must allow my fate in this world to be carried out fully, Sam." "You remember?" Sam asked, shocked. "How is that possible here? You had no memory in the other two worlds." "It does not interfere with this world for me to know. It would have in the other two worlds for safety reasons. It is also possible for Al to join you here, but he couldn't before in the other two worlds. Don't ask me how I know. There isn't time to explain it. Tell me, Sam, how long will my torture last?" "It will depends on a number of things." Beckett swallowed heavily. "First, how frequently they stab you. . .how much you struggle." "A little difficult." Ilod demonstrated how restricted his movement was. "Okay. . .whether they remove any of the blades." Ilod was already shaking his head before Sam had finished. "How quickly you go into shock. . .how perfect their aim is." "They've had much practice--though this is the first time with an audience." He let out another blood- curdling scream. Without warning, a knife had been plunged into his left leg. "How long?" he said between heavy breaths. "Hours. . .maybe even more than a day." "Sam--" Ilod's lips began quavering uncontrollably. "Sam, I don't know if I can go through with this!" Sam clutched his friend firmly, but reassuringly by the right hand and leaned toward him. "You have to--for all the innocent people of this world. You are their wake-up call. They will see you as a martyr and they will no longer stand by silently allowing others to be tortured to death. Promise me you will be strong--that you won't let this break your soul. This will come to pass. God will award your soul." Ilod fixed him sternly and nodded with complete understanding--and acceptance. The pain would become more and more unbearable, but somehow he would get through it. And forget during the next lifetime. Sam stepped away from his friend to study the crowd. Their fascination had waned. As the third blade went through Ilod's arm, they no longer saw this execution as fun and games. A few were even backing off. Young mothers were rushing to the outskirts of town with their screaming children. Others, who chose to remain, covered their eyes only watching the execution tentatively. "Do you see this? Are you watching this?" Sam yelled out to them. "This is the exciting show you came to watch." Two of the guards came around through the crowd to bruskly escort Sam out of the village center. And yet, Sam continued to talk to the crowd. "Remember this!" he yelled, "and especially remember how it makes you feel. You don't have to stand for this. The voice of many will bring about change. Make a change!" There were only a few still more interested in the execution to pay attention to Sam. The majority were watching him, intent on his words. A couple were even nodding in complete agreement. They will be the leaders of the uprising, Sam supposed. They would bring about the change that Patrick had predicted in his journal. There would be a change. Ilod's painful death would not be for naught. Feeling at least an ounce of satisfaction over this knowledge, Sam leaped out of the bartender. * * * "Well, are you going to shoot me or are you going to just stare at me all day?" a woman wearing a long party dress asked. It took Sam a moment to realize that he had leaped into a man holding a camera in his hand. They were standing in the foyer of a very elaborate restaurant. Quickly, he took several shots of the woman at varying angles. As he finished, a man approached him. "Bobby, you are one lucky sonofagun getting this gig," the man said. "There's always rich pretty women at a charity ball. Too bad that other fella had to get hisself nearly killed, though." "Other fella? You mean, Patrick Marland?" "Of course! I hear his assailant didn't make bail and that the prosecutor's shooting for the maximum sentence. Who'd a thought an editor of a newspaper would ever attempt murder, huh?" "Yeah," Sam replied. "Have you heard how Marland's doing?" "It don't look like the poor fella's coming out of the coma any time soon. Can you believe he's been comatose for nearly two months? Of course, he's got a far sight to go before he holds any record. I heard that the longest coma--" "Are you with the newspaper?" a man in a three-piece suit interrupted them. "Take our picture. My wife, she's real photogenic." As Sam lifted the camera and snapped the picture, he leaped. * * * Al stepped out of the imaging chamber and rushed toward the artificial intelligence unit. "Where is Dr. Beckett, Ziggy?" he ordered bruskly. He had no reason to expect the computer to locate Sam the instant of his leap. Locating Sam usually took Ziggy several minutes. "I have not yet determined that, Admiral," Ziggy replied coolly. Unlike other computers, she had an ego--and didn't hesitate to show it off. "I have it narrowed down to sometime in the 1980's. . . ." Al waited, chewing on his cigar. "He's in 1983--somewhere in New York City. . . .Oh, sorry, Admiral, Dr. Beckett has already leaped again." "Where?! Can you tell me at least if he's still in our world?" "I'm afraid not--that is, I mean, to say I'm afraid he is not. he has crossed over to another dimension once again." "Then locate him and use your special formula to center me on him!" "I will certainly try. However, there is no guarantee that the formula will work with the new dimension." "Well, what are the odds this time?" "About fifty percent." Dread overwhelmed the admiral like bricks weighing him down. He hated waiting more than anything. He had no idea if Sam was safe wherever he was and Al's worst fear was that Sam would never return and would be forced to remain in limbo--or face tortures similar to those Patrick was enduring. "You know where I'll be," he told Ziggy and slipped out of the room. * * * Images flashed before Sam again. He saw people living in scantily-put-together huts that they called home. They had little clothing, little belongings, and their bellies were swollen with hunger. Sam saw a young man running with a sack of grain across a desert. He saw that same man sometime later and in another place, still running, this time without the sack of grain. The man was being chased by an angry mob. The man jumped off a cliff and hit his head on the stone floor below. His pursuers climbed slowly and carefully down the cliff side to retrieve the man. He was unconscious, but still breathing. They did not handle him gently. Why handle someone they were about to assassinate with care? Time shifted abruptly forward, and Sam saw a child eating bread made from the grain. The child was smiling. Her belly was full for the first time in weeks. Sam saw darkness, nothing more.