From: bewalton17@aol.com (BEWalton17)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.quantum-leap.creative
Subject: QL: The Enemy (Chapter 16)
Date: 2 Dec 1998 05:14:01 GMT
Message-ID: <19981202001401.27332.00000953@ng-fc2.aol.com>









                      PART FOUR: THE ENEMY
                         CHAPTER SIXTEEN
     Sam didn't know why, exactly, things were calmer today.
     He didn't imagine that all of the children in Sid's class had
suddenly matured since yesterday, but, for some reason, the
suspicious stares and hysterical outbursts seemed to have stopped. 
Maybe they had told their parents, and their parents had accused
them of making up stories, so they'd stopped.  Or maybe Whoever-or-
Whatever had sent them dreams telling them it was alright.  Or
maybe children were just resilient creatures, who could accept an
anomaly when it was staring them in the face, and let it be.
     He thought the last was the most likely.
     At any rate, there had been no incidents.  Little Lori Fox had
even come to him of her own accord and asked him to help her button
her sweater when she'd gotten cold near the window.  The entire
class had been quiet through a Hebrew alphabet lesson that Molly
taught, and had crowded eagerly around Sam when he read them the
story of "The Frog Prince" from richly illustrated fairy tale book. 
When that was over, Sam and Molly had conferred and decided that it
was time for "quiet play," which meant stuffed animals and books
and puzzles, all of which (in Sid's classroom, anyway) were
unobtrusively educational.
     Nate had spent most of the morning near Sid's desk.
     He'd painted a picture of himself and Sid at a swimming pool,
then a picture of himself in an airplane, with Al in the plane with
him and Sid and Ruthie on the ground waving.  He'd left both of
them on the desk without saying much.  Sam wasn't much of a child
psychologist, but he didn't need to be to know that Nate was trying
to tell Sid that he loved him, even if he was going away.
     After he'd finished the second painting, he'd sat down on the
floor in front of the desk, where he was working his way through a
dog-eared copy of _The Wizard of Oz_ -- the unabridged version, Sam
noticed with approval, with giant, green-gilt letters opening each
chapter, and illustrations only every other page or so.  He was
reading slowly and carefully, making sure he got everything.  It
had apparently been going on for awhile, as he was a few pages into
chapter three when he popped his head up above the desk, pointed to
a word, and said, "I don't know this one."
     Sam looked at it.  "It's 'sorceress.'"  He pointed to the
syllables, one at a time, a process he remembered as more useful
than sounding out every letter.  "'Sor-cer-ess,'" he repeated. 
"Got it?"
     Nate nodded.  He started to sink back down, but stopped. 
"Sid?"
     "What?"
     "I know it's your book, but could I take it to Pop's with me
or something?  I want to know how it ends.  Mama said it's
different from the movie."
     "It is."
     "How come?"
     Sam shrugged.  "I don't know.  A lot of times, movies aren't
like the books they're from."
     "That's stupid."
     Sam didn't argue.  Having a photographic memory of every book
he'd read had significantly lowered his enjoyment of adaptations,
and he'd never understood why, if a producer wanted to tell a story
that was not contained in the book he was adapting, he didn't
simply write a new screenplay, saving himself a rather large sum of
money in rights.  But such things were not his to question, he
supposed.  He was a physicist, not a showman.
     "I like in the movie when Dorothy says she's going to miss the
Scarecrow most of all," Nate said.  "Is that in the book?"
     "I think so."
     "What's different?"
     "I thought you wanted to finish the book."
     "I do, but I want to know how it comes out.  Does Dorothy wake
up at the end?"
     "No, she doesn't wake up," Sam told him, figuring that
wouldn't be too much of a spoiler.
     "What, then?"
     Sam tapped the book.  "You're just going to have to finish it
to find out.  Then you can call me, and we can talk about it as
long as you want."
     Nate stood on the other side of the desk, wanting to say
something but not quite able to.
     "Something wrong?"
     He looked up, wide-eyed.  "Will you still be my friend after
I go away?"
     Sam stood and went around the desk.  He knelt beside Nate and
put his hands on the child's shoulders.  "I'll always be your
friend."
     Nate fell into his embrace, and Sam held on to him tight,
trying not to think about the fact that the child would be dead in
six months unless he did something about it -- and that the
"something" he would have to do was, in his opinion, immoral.
     After a minute, Nate pulled away and wiped his face.  "Can I
go play now?"
     "Sure you can."
     By half-day, Nate seemed to have snapped out of his strange
mood entirely.  When the parents of the half-day students began to
arrive to pick up their children, Nate and the other full-day kids
were involved in an animated dodgeball game in the back corner of
the room, in the midst of a blizzard of Nerf balls.  Sam kept watch
from the door, making sure that no one slipped out in the
confusion.
     "Gotcha!" Nate yelled at one of the other players.  A barrage
of balls flew at him, and he dove for cover under one of the small
desks, grabbing a handful of balls as he went.  From the sheltered
spot, he fired several of them into the other team, knocking four
of them out of play, then he rolled back to the front lines.
     Sam shook his head and smiled to himself.
     "Hey."
     He turned to find Al standing on the other side of the door. 
For a disconcerting moment, Sam wasn't sure whether it was Al of
the present or Al of the future, but then he smelled the reassuring
aroma of frequently smoked cigars, and knew he was talking to a man
who was really here.  "Hi, Al," he said.
     Unfortunately, this Al had very little to talk to "Sid Weiss"
about.  He scanned the room.  "Where's Nate?"
     "Over there."  Sam pointed to the game.
     Nate caught sight of Al before he got halfway into the
classroom.  A wide smile lit up his face.  He ran out of the game
(several members of the other team fired at his back as he left; he
paid them no heed) and into his father's arms.  Al picked him up
easily.
     "Pop!" he said.  "Why are you here?"
     "I thought maybe I'd pick you up, and we could go to the
science museum before we finished packing.  How does that sound?"
     Nate nodded enthusiastically.  "Great!  Is Mama coming?"
     "No.  Your mom's painting."
     A tall, elegantly dressed woman wove her way through the chaos
from the coatroom.  She smiled at Sam.  "Hi, Sid."
     Sam nodded at her.  "Hello."
     "I was meaning to ask you if you and Ruthie and Nate would be
coming to the Hanukkah party at the Temple... "  She raised her
eyebrows in lieu of a question mark.
     "I'm really not sure what our plans are," he tried, figuring
it seemed safe enough, since he had no idea whether or not the
Weisses were planning to attend.  The woman seemed to accept it
without much question.  He noticed her looking oddly at Al, and
realized with an inner groan that she was waiting for an
introduction.  "This is Nate's father, Al Calavicci."
     To Sam's relief, she didn't wait for him to complete the
ritual.  "I'm Hannah Fox," she said.  "Lori's mother.  It's nice to
meet you, Mr. Calavicci."
     Nate smiled down at her imperiously.  "It's *Captain*        
                                                   ."
     Al tried to suppress a laugh by burying a smile in Nate's
hair.  
     Hannah looked uncomfortable and embarrassed.  "Oh, I'm sorry. 
Captain."
     "It's okay, Mrs. Fox... or is it Commander?"
     "Actually, it's 'Ms.'  I'm divorced."
     Al gave her a frankly appraising look.  "Oh, yeah?"
     Nate sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, apparently
recognizing the opening steps of Al's pickup routine.
     Hannah smiled and blushed prettily.  "I think Lori needs some
help with her coat," she said.  "It was a pleasure.  Captain."  She
turned to Sam.  "Sid, call me about the party, all right?"
     "Sure."
     Hannah Fox disappeared back into the crowd.
     Al put Nate down and knelt to look at him directly.  "It's not
polite to talk rank with civilians," he said.
     Nate was unswayed by etiquette.  "I like you being a Captain. 
I like the way people say, 'Aye-aye, Sir.'"
     Al laughed.  "So do I actually.  And you know what else I
like?"
     "What?"
     "I like the way lower officers do what I tell them.  So go get
your coat on, Cadet."
     Nate giggled and saluted.  "Aye-aye, Sir."  He ran off to get
his coat.
     Al straightened.  He looked around the child-size room with
affection.  "You got a good job here," he said.
     Sam thought about what was coming.  "Sometimes I wonder," he
said.
     "You shouldn't.  It's good work to do, taking care of kids. 
I wish someone had taken care of me this good."  He pointed at the
play area.  "Hell, if I'd had good stuff like that, I'd've only run
away about *half* the times I did."  He smirked.
     "Why run away at all?"
     Al answered with a non-committal shrug, and walked away.
     Sam watched him navigate through the crowd, and kneel down to
help Nate with his coat.
     I'm the enemy on this Leap.
     But what did that mean?  The dictionary definition of enemy
was "a hostile power or force or a member thereof," but Sam had
long since learned that dictionaries were rarely the best source of
such information.  The question was not what "enemy" meant, but
what it meant *to* Al Calavicci.  Any other meaning was, at this
point, trivia.
     Al had spent several years as a prisoner of war; maybe he
thought of the enemy as a captor or jailor of some kind, a thief of
time.  But somehow that didn't seem to fit the way he was using the
word.  It didn't apply here.
     He had been abandoned -- several times -- and that certainly
had a place here... but wouldn't it be asking Sam to *make him the
enemy, in that case, rather than saying that he already was?
     Sam rubbed his temples.  He felt like he was thinking right
past the problem, and that wasn't going to do anyone any good.
     A rain of Nerf balls fell on him suddenly, and he turned to
find Nate and Al on their way out.  Nate was sitting on Al's
shoulders, pulling a few more missiles out of his coat pocket.  "I
forgot these," he said, dropping them.
     Al smiled.  "Tell Ruthie we should be back by dinner," he
said, then left the room, weaving from side to side to make Nate
tip every whichway in the air.  Nate giggled madly.
     The enemy, Sam thought.  But *which* enemy?
                               ***
     The enemy is always the problem, not the other player.
     All well and good, Al thought, but what if the problem *was*
the player?
     It wasn't.  No amount of self-blame or arrogance could cover
up the fact that the problem went beyond Al Calavicci, or Ruthie
Minkin, or Sid Weiss.
     The problem was the damned Project.  If it weren't for Project
Quantum Leap, Sam could treat this as a normal Leap and just --
     Just what?  Break up Ruthie and Sid's marriage?
     Face it, that's exactly *what* you want.  That's why you won't
go into that Waiting Room to face the man.  You want Sam to ruin
his life, and you don't want to have to look him in the eye first,
because you know that would be wrong.
     It wasn't just the Project, either, although it would be much
simpler if it could be factored out.  He could have Sam just talk
him into moving back to Chi, where he'd be in easy contact with
Nate.  Then, get Sid and Ruthie into some marriage counselling to
shore up the weak spots, and _voila!_ everything would be okay. 
Not great, but liveable.
     Of course Al would miss out on the greatest adventure he'd
ever known, a greater one than he'd ever even imagined, but maybe
it would be worth the trade.
     Okay, so it wasn't very realistic.  He'd go crazy if he left
behind his life's work, and Ruthie and Sid wouldn't stand a chance
in hell if Al decided that, since he was giving up so much, he
should at least have an intact family to give it up for.  He knew
himself well enough to know that it would take him about two weeks
to come to this conclusion.
     So.  Define the problem.
     Given:  Nate would die if he moved in with Al, because Al had
been too heavily involved with the beginning of Star Bright Project
to give his son the kind of attention he needed.
     Given:  If Al *hadn't* been involved in Star Bright, he would
never have met Sam Beckett, and there would be no Project Quantum
Leap, and no chance to go back in time to cut back the involvement,
which would lead to Nate's death... cutting down that workload
wasn't an option.
     Given:  Al had been upset at the time of his meeting with Sam,
and it had stemmed mainly from Nate's death, and Ruthie's
disappearance from his life, although by that time it had
snowballed to include everything else that had ever gone wrong for
him.  Sam had helped him get through to the other side, and that
had colored their relationship ever since.  Whether this state of
mind was necessary for their later work together was not clear, but
Al wasn't willing to risk it.
     Solution?  Re-create the past in such a way that Al would lose
his family without Nate losing his life.
     Simple.  Brutal, but simple.
     He didn't plan on going into the Imaging Chamber until he was
damned well ready to act.
     Part of it was a question of planning: he wanted to have his
arguments straight before he fed them to Sam, and he had a great
deal of thinking left before he could do that.  The trick would be
to stir up his own memories in the right order to frighten him away
from trying to raise Nate, while not going so far over the line
that he would reject it.  He didn't remember his suspicion of Sid
Weiss yet, but Ziggy assured him that he had put a security watch
on the man concerning Star Bright Project; that would undoubtedly
come back later.  He thought there might be a way to use that
suspicion, although he couldn't see it yet.
     There was also the question of timing.  Sam might strike the
right chord, but if he did it at the wrong time, it would fall
flat.  Al remembered taking Ruthie and Nate out for lunch that last
day before he'd taken Nate, and Ruthie had seen something (he
either didn't know or didn't remember what)  that had distracted
her.  They'd both come home troubled, and that would be the weak
point, the moment when Sam would have to make a move, and Al didn't
see any reason to go before that time.
     Because he was afraid.
     Alright, yeah.  He was afraid.  He didn't know what his life
might become in an hour or two or three.  He was afraid of the
unknown, but even more afraid of the known -- he knew Sam could
talk him out of the whole insane scheme if he got a chance, and he
knew what would happen if he allowed it.
     He was standing by a table in the back corner of the Project
cafeteria, staring at the tiny portable chessboard he had set up. 
It wasn't anything like Father Brusero's hand-carved set, with its
mahogany and poplar pieces and inlaid wooden board; Beth had taken
that from the bungalow to wherever she had gone.  Al liked to think
that she remembered him by it sometimes.
     Sure, she remembers you hunched over it, sitting across from
Ruthie, knowing perfectly well what will happen later, and thinks
Yeah, *now* I remember why I left.  Probably keeps it in her
husband's study.
     It wasn't true; Beth didn't have a vindictive bone in her
body.  If she'd kept the set at all, she'd probably kept it nicely,
either in its box or set up as a decoration in a common room.
     It didn't matter, he supposed.  That game was in the past with
Beth, and it was out of reach.  The game on the table was the one
in the present.
     He wasn't playing either side very well, and both were pretty
much decimated.  The white had only the king, four pawns, a bishop,
and a rook; the black was down to the king, five pawns, both
knights, and a bishop.  He'd checked the white king with one of the
knights, and blocked a flight square with the other.  The bishop
was guarding another flight square.
     "Are you winning?"
     He turned, half-expecting to see a black-robed priest, leading
a frightened little girl through a crowded common room.  Instead,
he found Verbeena Beeks, dressed in a bright caftan and standing
alone in the sterile cafeteria.  He gestured to the board.  "What
does it look like?"
     "Depends on which side you're playing.  I think your white
king's in trouble.  You're going to have to capture the knight."
     Al nodded, and contemplated sweeping his rook down at it. 
"Gotta watch out for the knights," he said.  "You can't block them. 
All you can do is knock them out."
     "This isn't about chess, is it?"
     "Not really."
     She pulled a chair over from another table.  "You want to talk
about it?"
     "I've talked enough, Verbeena.  Last night was the last
talking I plan to do about this."
     "Where did you go last night?"
     "You wouldn't believe me."
     "Try me."
     "All right.  I went to confession."
     "Confession?  As in 'Bless me Father... '?"
     Al shrugged.  "I told you you'd never believe it."
     She raised an eyebrow.  "No, I believe it all right.  I've
always suspected there's a little more of the Catholic school kid
in you than you let on."  She thought about it.  "Confession is
actually a psychologically sound principal.  It's pretty much what
we do in therapy.  Except we try not be judgmental."
     "That's sort of the point of it."
     "Do you feel any better?"
     Al gave it careful consideration.  He wasn't sure that the
point of confession was to "feel better," exactly.  Psychology
seemed more suited to that.  Counsellors would open up your mental
wounds carefully, air them a little bit, then let you soothe them
with whatever ointment you liked.  Confession was more like an
emergency room, where festering infections were lanced and
cauterized, often without any regard for how much pain it would
cause immediately.  It hurt more, but, as far as Al was concerned,
it healed better in the long run.
     "Al?"
     "I said my Hail Marys and Our Fathers last night.  It had been
awhile."
     "And?"
     "And that was the beginning of it.  Tonight, I finish it."  He
swung one hand brutally across a row of the chessboard, knocking
the knight out of play.
     He didn't notice when Verbeena left.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Barbara