VIRTUAL SEASONS EPISODES

PROLOGUE

The Leap-in left him breathless, panting hard.  No, that wasn’t it – he was running, running fast, across a field.

A little way ahead and slightly to his right, another figure was running too, glancing over his shoulder at Sam, or rather whoever Sam had just become.  Was he racing or chasing this other person?  Before he had a chance to find out, or to take in his surroundings, or to work from the position of the sun what time it was or which direction he was going in – there was a sound like a sudden clap of thunder, and a force like hailstones struck him sharply from behind, knocking him face down on the ground.  A burning pain peppered his lower back, upper legs, and all points in between.

“Oooowww boy!”

The other figure skidded to a stop and dashed back to where Sam lay.  “Lenny?” Sam heard him query.

Sam looked up to see a young man, maybe in his mid twenties, with scruffy brown hair and dark brown eyes, ruggedly handsome and muscular, dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt, leaning over him with a look of concern.

Sam tried to get up, but a vicious pain lanced through his body, and kept him pinned to the ground.  He moved his hand around tentatively to explore his back, and felt warm moisture.  Bringing his hand back into view, he saw that it was stained a dark crimson red.  “I – I’m b-bleeding!” he stammered; his eyes wide with shock and horror.

Yeah.  Getting shot’ll do that to you every time!”

PART ONE

        “I’ve been shot??”

“We need to get outta here, before he shoots at us again.”

The young man bent down and swept Sam up with ease, sprinting with him in a fireman’s lift over his shoulder as if he were no heavier than a school satchel.

The bouncing motion sent throbbing pain through Sam’s body, and he pressed his lips together to keep from crying out.  He had no wish to attract further unfriendly attention, particularly from whomever it was yelling unintelligibly in the distance behind them.  With his head down, and his life’s blood leaking freely from him, Sam felt dizzy and faint.  He was glad when his rescuer hefted him off his shoulder and onto the back seat of a battered old car, though the movement jarred his already agonized body.  They drove off with speed.

“How l-long… till we get to h-hospital?” Sam wished Al would turn up.  He wanted to know what was going on and if he was honest with himself, he was just scared enough to want the comfort of a familiar face.

“I know you’re in shock, Lenny, but we can’t go to the hospital.  You know that.  How you gonna explain how you got your arse full of buckshot?”

“I have n-no idea!” admitted Sam, wondering himself how he’d got into this sorry state, but knowing now that it had to have been through the pair of them doing something illegal.

“Don’t worry; I’ll take care of you.   Don’t I always?”

‘Yeah,’ thought Sam, wincing.  ‘You took such good care of me that I’m bleeding to death in the back of some wreck of a car!’  He had no idea what the relationship was between these two – brothers, maybe; but the other guy was obviously the one in charge.  Though Sam questioned the wisdom of this arrangement, he was in no position to challenge him for leadership.  His life was literally in the young man’s hands and he didn’t even know his name.  ‘Just so long as it isn’t George!’ Sam’s confused brain tossed out, latching onto the fact that he had been addressed as Lenny, and for some inexplicable reason being suddenly put in mind of the Steinbeck story “Of Mice and Men.”

Sam must have drifted in and out of consciousness, for the next thing that he knew; he was lying face down on some old and none-too-well sprung bed.  His nameless companion was carefully removing the jeans he had been wearing, the T-shirt having been already cut away and the trainers discarded.  Soon, Sam was stark naked, but too light-headed from blood loss to be bothered with bashfulness.

“How you doin’, Lenny?”

“I’ve been better,” confessed Sam.

“Here, drink some of this; it’ll help numb the pain.”  He handed Sam a full bottle of whiskey.

“No thanks.”  Sam took one look and immediately handed it back.  Dr. Beckett knew better than to get drunk when he was already dehydrated from loss of blood, and in a fairly advanced state of shock.  “Water:  gimme some water.”

“I think you’ll change your mind in a minute; just let me know.  Meantime, it’ll serve to cleanse the wounds.”  He fetched Sam a glass of water, helping him to a few sips before placing it on the nightstand.  “This is gonna sting, darlin’.”  So saying, he poured some of the deep golden liquid onto a wad of cotton wool, and dabbed it over Sam’s lower body.

Sam yelped in response, both to the stinging pain, and to the surprise of this startling new term of address.  What sort of relationship were these two in?  Where the hell was Al?

As if in answer to his silent summons, a bright white light dazzled his eyes, and his friend stepped through the doorway from the Imaging Chamber to stand almost head to head with him, resplendent in an equally dazzling magenta suit.

It was a close run thing as to which of them looked more taken aback at the sight of the other.  Sam, his nerves raw and his senses distorted, had trouble focusing on the garish apparition.

Al, having gleaned nothing of any practical use from the terrified leapee suffering from shock in the Waiting Room, had no idea what he was going to find, and for a moment completely misread the situation.  He saw Sam prostrate on the bed, naked, with the man hovering over him, and saw no further.  He jumped to the obvious wrong conclusion.  “Whoa, Sam!  Am I interrupting something?” Al made a nudge-nudge sort of gesture, and grinned wickedly, a glint in his eye as he winked at his friend.

Sam gave him a hard stare, and stoically braced himself for the extraction of the buckshot.

His view obscured by the young man, Al was still unaware of Sam’s injuries.  He ploughed on with his attempt to embarrass his friend.  “If I’d known you were gonna be starkers, I’d have had St. John reconfigure Zig again so that I don’t see you as you, Sam.  From what I’ve seen of Leni in that tight fitting Fermi Suit, she’s got a fabulous pair of…” Al gestured with cupped hands at his upper torso.

“Al!” cut in Sam, automatically, at once relieved and alarmed to find out he’d leapt into a woman again.

“Sorry, hon. I know it hurts, but it’ll be over soon, I promise,” he said mistaking Sam’s sharp cry for one of pain.

“Hurts?  Sam, what’s wrong? What’s this nozzle done to you? Are you okay?” Al pushed his way forwards, through the image of Sam’s new ‘friend’ and gasped in horror at the state of Sam’s bloodstained punctured body, registering for the first time how pale the Leaper’s complexion was.  “Jeez, buddy, what the hell happened to you?”
        Al began bashing seven bells out of his handlink, hoping against hope that I would provide a positive prognosis.  It squealed in protest. 

He'd have got faster answers from Stephen's new model, but the boy was 'upgrading' it again, making it more robust in case he dropped it again.

        Sam sucked air in through his teeth, as his ‘lover boy’ applied a pair of tweezers, still hot from the scalding used to sterilize them, to the first of the pellets in his tender behind.  He gripped the pillow tight in his first and screwed up his eyes. 

        “One down,” the makeshift surgeon announced, rather too cheerfully, tossing it onto a plate with a loud clang, like something out of a western movie.

        Sam didn’t want to know how many that left to go.  What he did want was some more helpful information, and a distraction from the unpleasant, incredibly uncomfortable activity behind his back, so he held Al with a look that clearly said: ‘Talk to me!’

“Gnuh!” Sam gritted his teeth as number two came out.

Al gave his usual opening disclaimer: “We don’t have much, Sam.” He furrowed his brow in frustration. He wanted answers of his own, but Sam obviously couldn’t provide them, whether from ignorance, or because he was unable to speak openly in present company Al couldn’t be sure.

“Ouff!” Sam stiffened as another bumper-sized ball bearing was removed.

“You are Leonora Tucker, 22 years old…”

“Aaahh!”

“… currently unemployed. High school dropout. Ought to…”

“Aaargh!”

“… get a job as a model if you ask me,” Al said almost to himself, as a sort of aside. The young man currently picking lead out of your posterior…

“Aaaargh!”

“… easy Sam, - is her boyfriend, George Carmichael, 24…”

“Hah!” laughed Sam mirthlessly, remembering his earlier association of names. He was panting now, eyes moist with unshed tears of torment.

“You are just outside Tuscaloosa , Alabama …”

“Aaargh!”

“You’re gonna be fine, Leni,” George tried to reassure him, “Just hang in there.” He dug in again with the tweezers, pulling hard on a recalcitrant pellet, which had penetrated deeper than the rest.

Sam went rigid, his back arched, his body digging itself into the mattress as he tried to retreat from the torture. Stoicism went out the window. A long shriek escaped his lips: “Aaaaaaarrrggghhhhhhhhh!”

“Sam!” yelled Al, who then turned on the unseeing George, “Careful, you oaf!”

Though deep down he knew it was unwise, Sam propped himself up on one elbow, reached out and grabbed the whiskey bottle.
“That’s it, I give in!” Tilting it up, he took a hefty swig and swallowed hard. It burned his throat almost as much as the buckshot burned his back, and he coughed, the spasms causing him further discomfort. Undaunted, he gulped again. He wasn’t thinking clearly, he just wanted something - anything - to dull the indescribable pain.

“Sam, I don’t think you should…”

“Steady on, Leni…”

“Back off!” he snapped at them both. “Look, it damn well hurts, okay? It hurts… Aaargh… hurts like Hell. Just get the rest of those bastards out of me, you hear me, George? Aaargh! Get them out, NOW!” tipping back his head, he took another defiant slug of whiskey.

So it went on, for what felt like hours, with George digging pellets from Sam’s back, legs and buttocks, as Sam alternately cried out in agony and swigged on the whiskey bottle, till at last it was empty, and so was he. All the while, Al had paced the floor, and punched the handlink, and taken turns at berating Sam for drinking so heavily -- knowing he was a light beer man, and not used to strong liquor -- between words of comfort, solicitude and encouragement in sympathy with his suffering.

The nightstand was littered with misshapen pellets, and bloodstained cotton wool swabs, and the remnants of the bandages and tape used to cover the raw wounds left behind.

As George finally sank down onto the bed beside ‘Leni’, exhausted by his efforts, he saw that ‘she’ had slipped into a drunken stupor. She had been delirious for some time, mumbling all sorts of unintelligible nonsense to some non-existent third party, but that was no doubt the shock and the fever.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Several hours later, a long low moan heralded the fact that Sam was coming to. His right hand came up to cover his eyes. “Oooowww, my head!” his voice was hoarse. He started to roll over on the bed, getting to his side before remembering why he was there. “Oooohhhh, my back!”

George was bending over him now, instantly attentive as soon as he’d heard signs of wakefulness.  “Leni?”

Sam struggled to focus, but was distracted.  His cheeks puffed out.  “Ugh, my stomach…” he put a hand over his mouth.

“I anticipated that. Just lean over the bed, Leni; there’s a bucket there for you.”

Just in time, Sam leaned out of the bed, and vomited explosively and at some length into the well-placed bucket. Then he collapsed back into the bed with a groan, feeling exhausted.

George hastily removed the bucket and emptied it, cleaning it out with a disinfectant solution he had already made up. He brought it back in, fully expecting it to be needed again and fairly soon at that, judging by Leni’s greenish complexion. He wrung out a washcloth, which he’d left soaking in a bowl on the now tidied nightstand, and used it to mop Sam’s brow.

“You’re still feverish.” He pronounced, concerned by his diagnosis.

Sam moaned softly again in response, accepting with gratitude the Tylenol George gave him and the cooled, boiled water to wash it down. Almost immediately, and with a violent spasm, his system rejected both the tablet and the liquid, and he spewed into the bucket, nearly as profusely as before. This time, he leaned so far, he all but fell out of the bed, but George supported him, and eased him back in, before repeating his earlier routine. He used a separate cloth to clean around Sam’s mouth and chin, leaving the first on Sam’s forehead in an attempt to cool him down.

A large part of Sam (chiefly his intestines) didn’t want to accept the proffered water this time, but despite the temperature, and the shock, and the dizziness and faintness from loss of blood, and the confusion caused by the hangover and sickness, he had recovered just enough of his wits to know that he had to combat the dehydration. He sipped slowly, reluctantly: just a little, now, don’t overdo it.

“You’ll make… someone… a great Mom,” he told George in a croaky voice, as he mopped Sam’s brow anew.

George laughed, and made a playful swipe at Leni, but being careful not to make actual contact. He had no wish to cause her further suffering. She was in a bad enough state as it was. Though he was doing his best to appear up beat and confident, to reassure her that everything was, and would be, fine, deep down he was worried that she may not make it. The fever should have broken by now, and she had lost way too much blood for his liking. He had been stupid not to stop her from drinking so much, he was sure it had made things far worse, but he had been unable to bear the sound of her agonized cries, and to see her suffering like that had broken his heart. He didn’t know what he would do without his Leni. He couldn’t imagine life without her. It didn’t bear thinking about. So he didn’t. He pushed his concerns to the deepest recesses of his subconscious. He convinced himself that everything was going to be okay, because it HAD to be.

Sam cursed himself for his folly in drinking the whiskey, and so much of it. He had really put himself in serious peril. He calculated that he had lost a dangerous amount of blood, probably a couple of liters or more, and really should have been in a nice clean, sterile hospital bed having it replaced, along with his other depleted body fluids. Not to mention soaking up a hefty dose of pain relief. Since that was obviously not an immediate option, he should have been doing everything his training had taught him to ensure the best chance of his recovery. Instead, he had poisoned his system with alcoholic toxins, exacerbated his dehydration, and given his weakened body a host of unnecessary additional symptoms to overcome.

Another wave of nausea swelled up inside him, and he leant out over the bed again, his head reeling. This time, though he retched repeatedly, he was unable to vent his system further. There was precious little left inside him to regurgitate. The dry retching became painful, leaving his throat raw, and his innards tender, and he finally abandoned it, lying back on the mattress pale, panting and shaky. He felt like crying, but his body knew he could ill afford to waste any more vital fluids. He sipped at the water George held out for him, and lay there feeling utterly wretched.

Though George was doing his best, Sam really wished Al were there. His observer had disappeared back to Project Headquarters while he slept, naturally enough. It was a strain on resources to keep a lock on Sam at the best of times; when the Leaper was unconscious, it was nigh on impossible.

He was awake now, though, and in need of a friend of his own.
George obviously cared about Leni, and was attentive and reassuring. It helped to some extent; Sam couldn’t deny that. At least he was not alone. But George didn’t care about Sam Beckett.  George had never heard of Sam Beckett.

The problem was, Sam was an excellent physician, and he knew how to recognize the signs. All his exertions with the vomiting had opened up his wounds again, and he could feel his life’s blood oozing out anew. He was feeling distant, having problems concentrating on what George was saying to him, unable to focus his eyes on his surroundings. He felt himself drifting, floating, going somewhere far, far away, and then falling, plummeting like a runaway elevator.

He was dying.

He did not want to die.

But if he were to die, he did not want it to be anonymously, without the comforting presence of the one person who knew his true identity. He needed Al.

He thought of himself as a reasonably brave person. He’d faced many a seemingly impossible, often dangerous, challenge on his Leaps, and not flinched or run from any of them. But still he found himself afraid to die like this. ‘Al, please!’ he begged silently. ‘Please don’t leave me now. I can’t do this alone.’

“Leni, can you hear me?” George sounded concerned. He was concerned.

Leni was becoming more and more unresponsive. She was distant, and felt clammy to the touch, and so pale.

“Uh-huh,” Sam managed. He was so very tired, so terribly weak. Part of him knew that to conserve what little he had left, he would best off sleeping; allowing his body to heal, his blood to replenish itself.
Yet the irrational, shocked, side of him whispered to him that if he slept, he would never wake. That if he slipped into blissful sleep, he would slip away forever.

He was not ready to go. Not without a chance to say goodbye to Al.  He fought to stay awake.

“You should rest, hon.” George echoed his ‘sensible’ thoughts, stroking Leni’s long blonde hair back from where it had fallen in her bright blue eyes, now dulled by pain, “try to get some sleep.” But Sam was not to be persuaded.

“If I g-go… t-to s-sleep, I won’t ever… w-wake up!” Sam told him, an edge of panic in his voice.

“That’s silly, Leni. You’re gonna be fine. Just relax.”

“No!” Sam responded sharply. “I’m d-dying, George,” he continued, more matter-of-factly. “I need blood. I n-need h-hospital treatment.” He was almost pleading at this last, his voice thin.

George looked scared. He was. He was scared of losing Leni. He was also scared of the ramifications of involving the authorities. “If we… if we get caught… we could get up to 14 years! You know that, honey.” His tone was desperate. Though he had never been incarcerated himself, he knew some who had, and he knew enough from the horror stories of their experiences to be sure that he could never survive it.

Fourteen years – Sam’s expertise, though vast, did not encompass the law, he hadn’t a clue what sort of offence would carry such a sentence, but it sounded serious. He was clearly not going to talk George round that one in a hurry, especially in his current condition. He had to do something, anything, to tip the scales back in his favor, however slightly.

Then Sam’s genius brain penetrated through the fog of his suffering, and he had an idea. Not much of an idea, but it might at least buy him some time until Al got back.

“George?” George leaned forward, barely able to hear what Leni was saying. “W-would you g-get me something?” Sam looked up at George, “Please.”

“Name it, hon.”

“Can you… get m-me some… s-some young coconuts? As m-many as you can, but they… h-have to be y-young ones.”

George mopped Leni’s brow once more. The fever was returning, making her delirious again. He thought it was only pregnant women who got cravings.

“I don’t want to leave you alone like this, hon.” He objected. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I don’t want to b-be alone,” confessed Sam, “I’m h-hurting and I’m s-scared, and I n-need a fr-friendly face. But I need the c-coconuts more. T-trust me.” He reached out towards George, to try and grab his arm, and impress upon him the importance of what he was asking. The movement was too much for him, and he fell back exhausted, breathing heavily and feeling the blood oozing from his wounds. ‘I must be running on way less than half a tank by now, and no filling station on the map!’ Sam thought, and shuddered at the thought.
“Oh and George…” another piece of medical knowledge surfaced in Sam’s befuddled brain.

“Yes, hon?”

“Can you go to the d-drug store too? Get some… tranexamic acid tablets.”

“What the…?” George had never heard Leni talking like this before. She didn’t know aspirin from Elastoplast.

“Just tell ‘em it’s for a h-heavy period: Tranexamic acid pills. Got it?”

“Leni, I don’t….”

“Please, George!” Sam put on his best puppy dog expression, hoping to melt George into not asking too many awkward questions. He was too tired to have to fight for this. “Ple-ee-eea-ase!” he begged again, his desperation genuine, and evident in every syllable.

“Okay, hon. Take it easy.” Placated George. “You sure you’re gonna be okay to leave?”

“J-just h-hurry!” Sam commanded, fighting hard to keep from passing out.

“You promise me you’ll be here when I get back?” George admonished.

“I’m n-not g-going any…w-where!” breathed Sam. He hadn’t the strength to move, where did George think he would go?

“Too right you’re not, you hear me, Leni? You don’t go anywhere. Not even to sleep. Okay?” He leaned down and kissed his girlfriend lightly on the cheek. She flinched, but he guessed that was just the pain, though he’d tried not to jolt her. “I’ll be back before you know it, hon.” George was making Leni promise to stay alive.

George grabbed his car keys from the nightstand, and reached his jacket from the back of the chair without breaking stride as he hurried out, frowning in confusion at what sort of fool’s errand Leni was sending him on.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

”Admiral?” a soft seductive female voice invaded his dreams, or were they nightmares? It was not Beth; she called him many things, but rarely Admiral.

“Yeah, what is it, Ziggy?” answered Al sleepily. Al had learned to take his naps in synch with Sam, no matter what the time at Project Headquarters. Unfortunately, given the manic pace at which Sam often led other people’s lives that meant that Admiral Calavicci often didn’t get as much sleep as his stressful lifestyle warranted.

With Sam unconscious, Al should have had time to catch up on some much-needed rest, but his concern for his friend had made his sleep fitful, and not at all refreshing.  Nevertheless, as soon as Ziggy called him, he was instantly alert, and already heading for the shower. If he had been disturbed, it meant that Sam needed him, and he had no intention of keeping his buddy waiting a moment longer than was absolutely vital.

“As you have no doubt surmised, my sensors indicate that Dr Beckett has regained consciousness, Admiral.”

“How’s he doing, Zig?”

“His vital signs are weak, and growing weaker. I predict that under present circumstances, and without medical attention, Dr Beckett will not survive beyond another 5.3 hours at most,” the computer paused for a full second, an eternity in her processing time, almost as if she didn’t want to finish, “potentially as little as 19.27 minutes!”

PART TWO

“Dammit, Ziggy!” Al curtailed his shower, and dressed rapidly in the clothes he had sensibly laid out the ‘night’ before. Though it was 3 o’clock on a warm sunny afternoon in Mid March for the rest of the project staff, it still felt like the early hours of the morning to Al. His internal clock had long since given up trying to keep any sense of logic or accuracy. He grabbed naps and snacks when and where he could, and just hoped that once in a while his crazy shift work allowed his rare downtime to coincide with Beth’s.

In a very few minutes, he was dressed (though in his haste he poked a hole in one of his socks, cursing at himself for doing so. Not bothering to find another pair, he donned sandals for speed instead) and shaved - done on the move without benefit of mirror as he routed round for something he could eat as he traversed the corridors between his quarters and the Imaging Chamber. It played havoc with his digestion, and he would no doubt suffer for it later, but he could not afford the luxury of a leisurely meal when Sam was in the midst of such a hazardous leap.

Entering the Control Room, Al was shaking his head. The things GFTW demanded of Sam often seemed way beyond the call of duty to one who was forced to be a mere observer, and even though Sam had told him that he’d been warned the assignments would get tougher, this time he couldn’t see how Sam could possibly be expected to achieve anything at all when he had been placed at death’s door more or less the moment he’d arrived.

He didn’t have time to dwell on this injustice, though, for as he crossed the threshold, all Hell broke loose.  A loud strident klaxon sounded, startling St John and the technicians and causing Ziggy’s orb to glow twice as bright as usual. From somewhere down the corridor, a woman’s shrill scream could be heard, followed by the sounds of feet running in panic.

Al momentarily stopped in his tracks.

”What in Sam Hill is going on, Ziggy?” he snapped, “That sounds like the intruder alarm.”

“Indeed, Admiral.” Ziggy replied calmly and evenly, “My sensors indicate that the Project perimeter has in fact been breached.”

“Where? Who by? How many?” The Project Director demanded - his tone irate.

“Insufficient data to extrapolate, Admiral.” came Ziggy’s irritating reply.

“I can detect movement, but not life-signs as such, no pulses…”

“Never mind. Spare me your techno-babble, Zig,” Al waved a dismissive hand. “Just get Security onto it and get it sorted out. Keep me informed. I’ll be in the Imaging Chamber.”

Normally, he wouldn’t dream of leaving a situation of this gravity, and would have overseen every stage of the operation until all hint of threat to the Project had been eradicated.

But Sam was awake, and the prognosis was that he was very near death. Even if it transpired that there was nothing he could do to prevent that outcome, still Sam needed him. Therefore all other considerations were swept away.

Al knew where his place was at a time like this - at his friend’s side, and there was nothing on Earth that would prevent him from being there. Not Hell nor High Water nor a little matter of intruders at the Project.

“ St. John …?”

“Imaging Chamber on-line, Admiral.” St. John informed him.

Grabbing his handlink from its recharging station, Al hastened up the ramp to the door, and then turned at the top to hold St. John with a terse: “Just keep those intruders away from Zig, St. John , or I’ll have your hide! Now center me on Sam!” before disappearing toward the past.

St. John gulped, and muttered a “Yessir!” to the already closing door.  He was not at all sure what the Admiral expected him to do if faced with a full-scale assault, and just hoped to God that Security would prevent it from coming to that.
Al materialized a little closer to Sam than he had the first time. In fact he was centered firmly through Sam’s torso. Looking down, he saw his khaki casual suit (chosen to be gentle on Sam’s tired eyes) rising up from the vermilion of Sam’s bloodstained back. Suppressing his natural instinct to cry out in horror, Al jumped sideways, and moved to crouch down by his friend’s head. He was not at all reassured by what he saw. “Sam?” The scientist’s eyes were flickering, barely open.

His skin was deathly white and virtually translucent, in stark contrast to the deep red stains spreading across the bandages.
He was way too still. Al was suddenly afraid that Sam had sunk too far… “Sam, buddy, can you hear me?”

Al would have liked to shake a reaction out of him, would have liked to cradle Sam in his arms and tell him everything was going to be all right. He would have liked to believe it.

“Sam!”

“Huh?” a barely audible mumble.

“That’s it buddy, attaboy Sam. You’re still with us.” Al breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“Al!” Sam’s eyes opened a little wider. He struggled to focus, though his observer’s face was scarcely three inches from his own. “H-hi,” he managed, in a whisper. In those two tiny words he conveyed a whole range of emotions; how pleased he was to see Al, how tired and weak and scared he was, how desperately he needed healing…

“I’m here, Sam.” Al assured him. “I’m right here, buddy.” The older man fought to keep a rein on his emotions; to keep the tears from his eyes. He gripped his handlink as if it were a prayer book.
Sam could not keep his own tears from trickling down his cheek; he made no move to wipe them away. He hadn’t the strength.
He was trembling now, and he complained: “C-cold, Al. I-I’m s-so t-terribly… c-c-cold!” his voice sounded echoic in his own ears, as if it were someone else speaking, from somewhere on a distant mountaintop.

Al may not have been the physician in the partnership, but he knew enough to tell that this was not a good sign. It did not bode well at all. He didn’t like how Sam was shaking either, like he was about to succumb to another bout of hypothermia.

“I know, buddy. I know.” He empathized. “Hang in there, kiddo. We’ll think of something. It’s gonna be okay.” If only it would help, if he’d been more substantial than a mere hologram, he’d have slit open his own veins and squeezed his blood out for Sam to take. If only he were more than an insubstantial, damned helpless hologram! He’d fetch a blanket to keep the chill away. He’d get Sam to a hospital even if he had to carry him every last step of the way on foot. If only…
There were times when Al really enjoyed being a hologram, but this sure as hell wasn’t one of them.

For the first time, Al became aware that they were alone.  “Where’s George, Sam?” he could not believe that the young man would abandon his girlfriend in this condition.

“S-sent h-him… on a… an errand” Sam’s eyelids were all but closed again.

Al knew that once again, as so many times before, he had to get his friend to keep talking to prevent him from slipping away. That was one service he was able to provide, and he’d gotten to be damned good at it.

“Where, Sam? Tell me where he’s gone.”

At that moment, the prodigal returned, laden with a dozen or more small coconuts, and a still perplexed expression.  He was somewhat breathless, his heart beating rapidly in his chest, his face flushed and moist with sweat. This could be partially attributed to his desire to return to Leni as quickly as possible, and this would be the excuse he would offer if challenged, but it had not a little to do with the adrenalin rush brought on by bolting from the grocery store before he could be apprehended by the irate shopkeeper, who naturally took exception to him helping himself to so much of the stock without any attempt to pay for it.

He’d gladly have paid, if he’d had any money. But then, if they’d had money to live on, they wouldn’t have gotten into this predicament in the first place.

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” he called cheerily, aping some old 50’s sit-com in an attempt to raise Leni’s spirits. He didn’t get the reaction he’d hoped for.  She barely acknowledged his presence.

“C-cold. S-so c-cold…” Sam complained again thinly, after a few moments, but George was too far away to catch it.

“Will these do?” George asked, all jocularity aside. He presented his booty for her inspection.

“F-fine.” Sam replied, with all the enthusiasm he could muster, which showed far less than he felt, “P-p-perfect.”

“Are you hungry, hon?” George asked him, “That’s gotta be a healthy sign, right?”

Sam looked perplexed. What was George talking about? Then his addled brain realized he hadn’t told the young man what he had in mind. Something that George could be forgiven for not knowing about, it wasn’t exactly common knowledge.  “N-no! Not t-to… eat! Don’t w-waste… them!”

Now George was convinced Leni had totally lost it. She was speaking very faintly, but he was sure he hadn’t misheard. “What are you…?”

“Yeah, Sam, what’s going on?” echoed Al, totally bemused by this latest turn of events. Though he was not exactly jumping for joy - well, he could hardly be expected to, could he? - Sam seemed to perk up somewhat at the sight of the pile of hairy fruits. He had temporarily forgotten the rest of his order in his desperation to make George understand.

“Listen v-very care-f-fully,” Sam told them both. "I think I-I c-can only… say this… once." Talking was obviously a drain on his limited resources.

“In the s-second w-world war, they d-dis…discovered t-the…juice of… y-young co… nuts m-made good sub…subst-…stitute for b-blood plasma” he was panting with the effort; it took so much concentration to think what he wanted to say, and how to form the words. The cold was creeping insidiously into his brain, numbing his thoughts.

“How on earth would you know that, honey?” queried George. He loved Leni dearly, and she had many amazing qualities, over and above her knockout looks, and her athletic performance in the sack, but she wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the box.

Sam was usually very quick at covering up how he came by his vast store of knowledge, but this time Al decided he needed a helpful hint. He was used to Sam’s excuses, so it wasn’t hard to feed him a line. Sam repeated it gratefully: “Dis-covery ch-channel!”

Thankfully, George bought it, and decided to concentrate on the significance of the revelation. “How do I administer it?” he thought aloud. “Set up some sort of drip…?”

“N-no n-need.” Sam coaxed. “Just soak… d-dressings. It’ll be abs- absorbed t-through…ah… o-open w-wounds. P-please, h-hurry.”

“Brilliant!” enthused George, giving Leni a peck on the cheek. Racing round to get everything he needed, he set to work at once, carefully opening each of the coconuts in turn so as not to waste a single drop of the precious elixir, and replacing the bloodstained dressings with new, juice enriched ones.

Sam winced as he applied them, both from the gentle pressure on his tender flesh, and from the stinging of the liquid as it seeped gradually into his raw wounds. He did not protest though, for he knew his life depended on the procedure - at least for the moment.

George caught the look of pain on Leni’s face, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She gripped his hand back as the trial wore on, and weak as she was, her grip was surprisingly intense. “Does it hurt real bad, hon?”

“Uh-huh.” Confirmed Sam, face contorted with pain. Not only did the injured area burn and sting and hurt like crazy, but also all his muscles were stiff and aching from lying still too long.

 “That’s it, honey,” George encouraged with a forced smile, “stay with me, now. Everything’s gonna be just fine, you’ll see.”

“Is it?” Sam asked feebly, but his question was directed at Al, who looked away, unable to meet his eyes. That was enough of an answer for Sam.

“Not unless we do something… something different.” He prompted his friend, desperately seeking the information that could save his life.  Al knew what he wanted, and began trying to beat the information out of his handlink.

Unwilling to vocalize Ziggy’s earlier damning prognosis for Sam, Al referred back to the original history. “Zig says Leni died first time, back in ‘91 Sam, she passed out in the car and never regained consciousness. Ziggy hypothesizes that the chances you leaped in to save Leni’s life are something like 87%. No suggestions as to how, though!” He mumbled this last bit under his breath, giving the handlink a hefty whack on the side.

“George?” queried Sam, wanting to know what happened to his caregiver in the light of this history.

“I’m right here, honey,” responded George, who had picked up on Sam’s tension, and was gently massaging Leni’s neck and shoulders.

“Looks like he went a little crazy, Sam: blamed himself, couldn’t cope, went to pieces. He went back and attacked the guy who shot you; got himself arrested. Then he spent three years in a mental institution, before hanging himself with a bed sheet.”

Sam closed his eyes and sighed. He hated this sort of information: this tragic, unnecessary loss of life, this waste. He was undoubtedly here to save both their lives; Leni and George, but right now he was so very tired, so utterly drained, he wasn’t at all sure he could even save his own.

Frowning, Al continued to interrogate Ziggy through the handlink, but without any notable progress. His frustration was reaching fever pitch. Sam was getting visibly weaker by the moment, and they were no nearer to changing history than they had been when Sam arrived. They had to be overlooking something obvious, something simple that would make it all click into place and turn the tide of events to their advantage. But what?

He was sitting on his haunches, so as to be as close to his friend as possible, to reassure him with his presence. He shifted position to ease a cramp; his feet were tingling with pins and needles, when suddenly, Sam’s eyes widened.  “What is it, buddy? Is the pain getting worse?”

“Don’t… move, Al!” Sam silently mouthed a puzzling command, then said louder to George, “C-can you get… m-me some… fresh water, p-please?” This jogged his memory, and he decided to kill two birds with the same stone. “And d-did you get… those p-pills?”

“Sure, hon, sorry, I forgot. I’ll fetch them. I’ll be right back.”

As George scuttled out, Al gave Sam a questioning look. He knew the leaper was in dire distress, and Al would never dream of complaining about the comparatively minor demands made upon him, yet nevertheless the situation was taking its toll on the observer too. He was beginning to suffer the inevitable indigestion from his hurried breakfast, and he was so tired he was starting to get one of his nagging headaches. Ziggy’s handlink, amid the squeals of protest she normally emitted, had developed an ominous rattle, making him fear that the pile of gummi bears was about to die on him altogether. Al wished Stephen would hurry up and give him back the new one; he'd already come to rely on its advanced features. This old heap was way overdue for retirement.

Whilst the lack of information would be no great diminishment of the current status, without the link, he’d be unable to open the Imaging Chamber door. The cavern may be vast, but he still got claustrophobic when he was trapped inside, and he was anxious not to have a repeat of that experience just at the moment, thank you very much. He had enough to contend with.

“What is it, Sam?” Al didn’t like the look of alarm in his friend’s eyes.

Sam took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “Don’t panic, Al. You h-have to keep very s-still.” Talking tired him, but this was important, and it would be harder to explain once George returned. “Unless I’m h-hallucinating, which is quite l-likely given how m-much blood I’ve l-lost, there’s a r-rattlesnake c-crawling over your left s-sandal!”

PART THREE

“Whaaaaaaat!” naturally enough, the first thing Al did was to panic, though to his credit, he resisted the urge to jump up and run away. So that was the source of the tickling sensation he had put down to loss of circulation! “No offence, but personally, I wish you HAD been hallucinating, buddy! How in the Hell did that… that THING get in here?”

“Stay c-calm, Al” exhorted Sam. “They rarely s-strike unless provoked or attacked. If you don’t m-move, he’ll likely just… slide on. The l-last thing you w-want is to have him crawl up your trouser leg. When startled, they s-seek s-some…w-where w-warm and d-dark.” If it were not so serious, and if Sam didn’t feel so desperately frail, he could have enjoyed teasing Al over this one, in revenge for all the times Al had teased him. But he would not wish his friend in peril for all the world, and he would do his enfeebled best to help him through it now.

It was Al’s turn to widen his eyes in horror at this idea. There was no danger of him making any sudden moves now. He was totally paralyzed by fear. ”I h-hate snakes!” he whispered to Sam, hardly daring to breathe.

“Take it easy, Al, he’s m-moving off.” As the snake parted company from Al’s foot, it disappeared from Sam’s sight. “I c-can’t see it now, so b-back up slowly, Al. You’d better… g-get out of there ‘til… s-somebody can c-catch it.”

Al rose slowly and shakily to his feet and took a couple of steps backwards, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. He had spotted the revolting reptile now, and he was not about to lose sight of him.

To Sam, it looked as if Al’s torso had disappeared into the nightstand, and he blinked. He knew it was just the holography, but in his current state of health, it was one confusion too many, especially when George stepped up and blotted Al’s image out altogether.
Sam took the proffered caplet, washed it down with water, and then continued to drink thirstily. This was turning out to be one helluva day, and Sam’s exhausted body and mind screamed out to him to rest, but still he fought to stay awake. The cool fresh water helped.

“I’ll be right back, Sam! I promise!” Al positively yelled to Sam, despite their proximity. There was definitely an edge of panic to his tone. He pointed to the ground at his feet, leaning over George’s shoulder to make himself seen, still backing away as the snake, attracted to his body heat, followed in his wake. “We’ll get rid of this thing in no time, and I’ll be back. Hang in there, buddy!”

Sam conferred upon him a wan smile. He could manage nothing else.

Al shot out of the Imaging Chamber like a bullet from a starting pistol. He was gesturing back inside and babbling like a two year old.
Everyone in the Control room turned to stare at him, uncomprehending.

Donna was the first to snap-to and seek clarification, her heart in her mouth as she haltingly stepped forward and voiced her worst fear:
“What is it, Al? Is it Sam? Is he…?”

Al shook his head vehemently, still struggling to make his mouth coordinate to his brains commands. With trembling hands, he tried to take a cigar from his pocket, to calm his shot-to-hell nerves, but he fumbled clumsily and dropped it on the floor, treading on it before his feet realized it had fallen there.  “Dammit!” he managed, as his legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled down in the wake of the Havana .

Instantly, St. John and Donna were at his side, the latter just managing to prevent Al’s head from cracking on the cold hard floor.
With some difficulty, they managed to pull him back more or less to his feet, and help him stagger over to a stool that sat, little used, by Ziggy’s main Console.

Tina raced outside to fetch him water, and his wife, who also happened to be the best medic on campus. They loosened his collar, to help him breathe, and tried not to crowd him, though they were anxious to ascertain the cause of his collapse.

St. John asked Ziggy to monitor Al’s vital signs, in fear that he was about to succumb to an imminent cardiac arrest. Al was not at all sure his fears were groundless.

When he had somewhat recovered his wits, Al turned to look at the Imaging Chamber, to reassure himself that the door was firmly closed. He gulped in a succession of deep breaths, and mopped his sweating brow with his handkerchief. Then he turned his attention to sorting the buzzing noises in his ears into the separate voices that were all clambering for his explanation.

He wanted to jump to his feet and take charge, and get this problem sorted so that he could return to Sam, but his legs felt like jelly and his head was swimming. He accepted gratefully the capsule Beth offered him, not asking nor caring what it was or what it purported to cure, but trusting in her judgment. Then he swigged copious amounts of the water Tina handed him, much as Sam had shortly before, though his hand shook as he held the glass to his lips, and nearly as much dribbled down his chin as was swallowed. Beth took his pulse, and muttered with Ziggy.

Finally, after minutes that seemed much longer to all those assembled, Al found his voice.  “I h-have to g-get b-back to Sam!” he tried to rise again, but Beth put a restraining hand on his shoulder and ordered him to sit a while longer. His protestation was half-hearted, though his impatience was not diminished.

“What happened, Al?” she enquired anxiously.

“F-fetch Security!” he commanded. “I t-think I found our intruder, St. John !”

Again, they turned to him with questioning looks, even as the Programmer hastened to comply with his orders. How could an intruder have possibly penetrated security to this depth? How could anyone have possibly entered the Imaging Chamber unseen, when there was only one way in or out, and that was the door Al had used?

“Air vents.” Al answered their unspoken question by thinking aloud. “He must have slithered in through the air vent.”

“Slithered??” echoed several voices as one. Donna took a couple of subconscious steps back away from the ramp.

“T-there’s a rattler in there!” Al gestured toward the Imaging Chamber, shuddering at the memory of his close encounter.

Even as he spoke, a uniformed security officer entered in response to his summons, weapon in hand, alert and exuding efficiency.

Corporal Ralph ‘Rusty’ Kincaid was career military, his uniform spick and span, his ginger hair regulation cut. Though still young, he had proved his worth on more than one occasion (though in another time-line, his actions had unwittingly resulted in disastrous consequences for the Project).

“Get in and shoot that sonofabitch, soldier!” ordered Al. “I am needed in there.”

“Yessir!” Rusty moved purposefully forward, but the Imaging Chamber door did not open for him.

“Ziggy!” Al yelled. “Give him security clearance, for pity’s sake. We don’t have time….”

“He has clearance, Admiral.” Stated Ziggy, in her most superior tone, and then added before Al could order her to open the door:
“Unfortunately, I cannot permit the Corporal to exterminate the reptile.”

“What the devil are you talking about, you crazy bucket of bolts?” Al was turning beetroot with rage, the vein on his neck prominent as his impatience boiled over.

“Calm down, Al.” Beth restrained him from rising again, afraid he was going to have a stroke if he didn’t ease up. She tried to give him a comforting hug, but he shrugged her off.

“Not now, Beth!” he snapped, but then caught her hurt expression and added softly, “Sorry, honey, I know you’re trying to help.” He always got irritable when he was overtired and tense, and poor long-suffering Beth usually bore the brunt of it. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and then turned his attention back to the parallel hybrid computer with the ego as big as all outdoors.
He should have known Ziggy would clam up if he insulted her.
He sweetened his tone, though it galled him to have to suck up to her. She was there to provide information, and he shouldn’t have to wheedle it out of her. “Ziggy, please clarify. Why can’t Kincaid just get rid of that damned snake so that I can get back to Sam?”

“It is unlawful to kill a rattlesnake on federal property, Admiral. Technically, due to the source of the majority of our funding, this facility is classified as a federal property. Do you wish me to quote you the relevant…?”

“Heaven forbid!” cut in Al. “I don’t need to waste time on chapter and verse. Just tell me what the hell we ARE allowed to do with the confounded thing.”

“The correct approach is to call the local Environmental and Safety personnel who will catch the snake and transport it to a protected area.”

“How long is that gonna take?” Al’s exasperation was growing by the moment. He didn’t know how much longer Sam had left, and though he was desperate to be told, he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask in front of Donna.

“They are on their way, Admiral.” Ziggy informed him smugly, “I took the liberty of contacting them the instant you identified our intruder. I trust that was acceptable?”

Ziggy was fishing for praise again. Had Admiral Calavicci, or indeed anybody present, dared to suggest that she had exceeded her authority; she would have indulged herself in an Olympic sized sulk and been uncooperative for hours, as he was only too well aware.

“Thank you, Ziggy, that was quick thinking.”

“Naturally, Admiral, I am quite capable of processing in just one nanosecond as many thoughts as the average human being has in one day.”

“You should come and lie down while you wait, Al,” coaxed Dr Elizabeth Calavicci, “You still don’t look too good, hon.”

Al found the suggestion very tempting. His nerves were in shreds, and his pulse was still racing, and his head was throbbing. The indigestion was about the worst he’d ever had too. A quick lie down and some TLC from his gorgeous wife would work wonders, he was sure. Yet he declined, with a shake of his head that by its vehemence left no room for argument.

What good would it do for him to return to Sam rested, but empty handed in terms of a way to save his friend’s life? There would be time enough to sleep when the leap was over.

“Have Beeks meet me in the Waiting Room.” He ordered, and gently but firmly moved Beth aside so he could rise and make his way to the rendezvous.

Seeing that his usual stubborn streak was in overdrive, Beth settled for lending him a supporting arm, since he was still none too steady on his feet.

Once they were out of Donna’s earshot, Beth turned to Al and asked softly, hesitantly: “How bad is Sam?”

“Just about as bad as it gets, hon.” Al shook his head sadly. “He looks awful. There’s so… m-much, so much blood, Beth. He looks so pale, so helpless….” Al’s whole body was as shaky as his voice. Beth could see how this Leap was tearing her husband apart. They were all extremely fond of Sam, but next to Donna and his children, nobody cared for him more deeply than this man who called him friend and loved him like a brother. Al was a man of action – to have to stand by and watch his best friend dying and be unable to do anything to even try to prevent it had to be heart-rending in the extreme.

Beth decided that maybe Al did need to talk to the leapee after all. To feel that he was doing everything in his power, even if that power was but a candle flicker in a cavern of dark. She gave his arm a comforting squeeze.

“If only he was here, Beth. You could help him, you could save him - I just know you could!”

“I’d sure try, hon.” Beth empathized. “I wish Sam was here too. We all do.”
              Behind them, the Control Room had emptied of all but essential personnel. Corporal Kincaid remained to guard the Imaging Chamber door until the ‘cavalry’ arrived, and St John and Tina did their best to get on with their work. St John was distracted by his terror of the rattler; Tina – who kept a crocodile as a pet – was distracted by her fascination of reptiles and a desire to see the magnificent creature for herself.

Ziggy was distracted by the difficulty she was having keeping a lock on her ‘father’, since Sam’s vital signs were still alarmingly weak, despite the infusion of coconut plasma.

Thus it was that at first, none of them was aware of a second interloper who had sidled in through the door Donna and the others had just used to make their exit.

Rusty was the first to spot it, when it had made it’s way halfway round the room, and was sneaking up behind Ms Martinez-O’Farrell, who was bending low inside Ziggy’s mainframe, making ‘essential adjustments’ to one of her systems that only Tina seemed to understand.

“Keep still, Miss!” he called loudly, unfortunately startling Tina so that she jerked her head up, banging it on the framework of the computer.

“Oooooww!” she cried shrilly. She backed out, still bent double, rubbing her head, and coming within a few inches of skewering the snake on her high stiletto heel. It raised its head up, poised to strike at the huge enemy that was looming threateningly over it.

Rusty saw that it would imminently take a chunk out of her rather attractive rear end and reacted with the lightening reflexes he had been trained to trust. He lunged forward, pushing Tina out of the line of fire, taking the full force of the strike to his right cheekbone, just below the eye.

They both struggled back to their feet, the rattler still hanging, writhing from Kincaid’s face. Not willing to let go, the weight of the snake tore some of the flesh, which started to bleed profusely. A struggle ensued as Tina, having recovered her balance despite a twisted ankle, boldly moved forward to remove the offending animal.
Rusty, temporarily blinded in his right eye by the venom, and crazed by pain from the jagged wound, was twisting and twirling around, trying to shake the creature free, arms flailing uselessly at the snakes wriggling body.

“Hold still, Corporal!” she shrieked, “I can’t help you unless you hold still!”

Still panicked by the unusual assailant, it took a while for Rusty to gain control of his trembling body, but finally, Tina was able to grab the snake behind the jaws and prize him off from the young man’s face. Holding it aloft like some sort of fishing trophy, Tina admired his markings: “A Western Diamondback !” she declared, “Isn’t he a beauty!”

“G-get rid of it!” stuttered St John, while Rusty put a hand to his face, winced at the touch, and staggered backwards, till his shoulders touched the wall, whereupon he slid down it.

“Oh, right!” Tina seemed to become only now aware of the true gravity of what had happened. She looked around her, as if expecting to see a nice convenient vivarium to put him in. St John , meanwhile, was calling Beth back to attend to the stricken security officer.

“Give me your shirt,” Tina ordered him.

“I beg your pardon?” St John assumed he had misheard.

“I need to cover his head, to stop him striking again. Take off your shirt and bring it over to me, make a sort of bag by tying the arms and the tails together.” She gestured with one hand, the other being fully occupied.

With trembling hands, St John unbuttoned his jacket, took it off and laid it neatly on the stool Al had recently vacated, along with his tie, and proceeded to remove his starched white shirt. At this precise moment, he wished fervently he had worn his lab-coat this morning, as that would surely have served the purpose far more efficiently, and with infinitely less embarrassment to his person.

Eventually, Edward managed to cobble together something approximating the desired article, and he threw it to Tina, not wishing to approach the creature she held any closer than was strictly necessary.

Tina deftly dropped the reptile inside, and drew up the four edges to seal him in. Then she placed him carefully in the fairly large metal waste bin that thankfully sat in the room to contain all the redundant printouts and old scribbled notes that were generated during a normal day’s work.

“There you go big fella.” She said to the snake soothingly. “Nothing personal, but that is like the safest place for you just at present.”  

Beth left Al at the door to the Waiting Room, with a peck on the cheek, and strict instructions to “take it easy.” She contacted the infirmary on her wrist communicator, and instructed that somebody should meet her in the Control Room with the relevant supplies “on the double”. As she did so, she trotted back the way she had just come, to see what she could do for the casualty in the meantime.
The sight that met her eyes when she entered the room was worse than she had imagined.

By this time, Tina was bending over the crumpled form of Corporal Kincaid, using the sleeve of her blouse, which she had ripped off at the shoulder, to try to stem the crimson waterfall which splashed down the young man’s face, and tumbled onto his once pristine uniform. The soldier’s eyes were glazed and uncomprehending. He stared past Tina, past Beth, his gaze fixed unseeing on the bundle in the bin.

St John had put his jacket back on, to cover his modesty, and was shivering uncomfortably, highly perturbed by the whole experience.

“Let me see,” Beth bent down, and Tina moved aside to make room for her, keeping pressure on the wound until the Doctor had taken over control of the makeshift bandage.

“It looks nasty,” she admitted, lifting the pad momentarily before re-applying the pressure, “but it is actually a good thing. The copious bleeding has helped to flush most of the venom out by the looks of things.” “Lie still, Corporal, everything is going to be fine. We will soon get you patched up, I doubt if you’ll even have a scar to show for your little adventure.”

Rusty sat, trembling, hearing yet not hearing Beth’s monologue. The meaning of the words escaped his shocked brain, but he found her tone soothing and reassuring.

The medical team took an unacceptably long time showing up, and Beth called them again impatiently, whereupon she learned that Rusty had not been the only casualty. On their way to respond to her summons, the team had encountered Brenda, one of the girls who worked in coding, who, heading towards the canteen, had run into another of the reptiles in the corridor and sustained a bite to her ankle.

That made three rattlers located so far, heaven knew how many more could be roaming the complex. St John shuddered again at the news, and cast a nervous look around his feet. Tina giggled at his fear, and nudged him aside.

“Ziggy?”

“Yes, Tina?”

“Do you think you could do something for me, sweetie?”

“Calculations, hypotheses, floating point operations, almost anything but make your toast and paint your nails for you.”

“Cute!” Tina played this game often with Ziggy, she knew how to keep the computer on side, and being girl-pals with her was often one of the easiest ways.

“Seriously, now Zig.”

“What would you like me to do, Tina?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, just reconfigure some of your sensors, to search for reptilian life forms rather than standard human body heat, so that we can see the little darlings coming. We would be terribly grateful.”

“No sooner said than… done!” Ziggy declared; pausing just the merest hint of a beat to exaggerate the time it had taken to comply with the request.

“Would you like me to display a schematic of the complex, with moving lights to denote the locations of the snakes?”

“If you would be so kind, hon.”

Immediately the far wall of the Control Room, opposite Ziggy’s mainframe, became a huge projector screen, displaying a bird’s eye view of the complex, showing all levels and all corridors. A series of red blips began to appear; seven -no eight - now concentrated in the Imaging Chamber, and another couple of dozen dotted around the complex.

St John gasped and turned pale. “It’s a bloody invasion!” he tried hard, but with a pitiful lack of success, to keep his voice, and his hands, steady. “How did they all get in?”

“Extrapolating from their current locations and the directions in which they are traveling, I would suggest the most likely point of entry to be…” again the very slight hesitation, during which a series of lines superimposed themselves on the wall map…”here!” she announced triumphantly.

Referring to the notations helpfully provided by Ziggy, they were able to identify the location as a tiny ventilation grille just at ground level, to the rear of the complex.

Within minutes, Ziggy had dispatched a maintenance crew, who not only confirmed that the grille had become damaged, probably in the last sandstorm, but who reported in short order that they had fixed the offending object, so that it was even stronger than before, to prevent any recurrence of the security breach.

“Now all we have to do is get that lot out of here!” St John watched the slow moving blips with a morbid fascination.

“Ziggy, is there any news of that clean up crew you sent for?”
“I admitted them to the motor pool 2.15 minutes ago. I have informed them of the extent of the problem. They assure me they have the resources to “round them up in no time” though they have taken significantly longer than that already.”

St John sniggered in spite of himself. Though Ziggy had been taught about things which were ‘just an expression’, she had an annoying habit of taking things literally when it suited her.

Meanwhile, Al had taken a deep breath, and gone to confront Leni in the Waiting Room. He knew Verbena would not be far behind him, and he was anxious to do something to take his mind off the twin problems of Sam and the snake.

Though he was impatient to find something that would help his friend, and inside he just wanted to grab hold of her and shake her until that something fell out, Al sat down at the opposite end of the bed, in his most non-threatening posture, and spoke calmly and reassuringly to the leapee, hoping to gain her trust.

Heaven knew he had played this part enough times in the past; he had it down pat. After a few minutes of his coaxing, she looked up from her fetal position at the top of the bed, stopped rocking, and gave Al a half-hearted smile.

“That’s a girl!” Al enthused. “You look really lovely when you smile.”

The smile broadened. Her wet-with-tears eyes lit up. “D-do you really think so?”

“Mm-hmm.” Nodded Al - sliding just a shade closer.

“George says that too!” she positively beamed for a moment, then tilted her head to one side, looking pensive, and then shrank back, looking scared again. “Where is George? I was with George. What have you done with him?” She was starting to breathe faster as her panic mounted. “George!” she called, looking all around the room, though she knew full well he was not there. “Where are you, George? Don’t leave me here. I don’t like it here.” She drew herself up to a sitting position, curled up tight hugging her knees, and began rocking again.

At that precise moment, Verbena Beeks made her hasty entrance, panting somewhat and looking uncharacteristically disheveled.

Al looked up at her questioningly, but one look told him ‘Not here, not now, I’ll explain later.’ It took a lot to rattle Dr Beeks, but a close encounter with a rattler qualified.

Instead, she sat herself down next to Leni and drew her into a hug, letting her sob softly for a few moments while she reassured her that it would soon be alright.

Al wished he could be comforted by that reassurance, but he could find no grounds for such optimism.

“Al won’t hurt you, Leni. You know that, don’t you?” ‘Bena asked her quietly.

Leni looked from the woman to the man, weighing up whether or not they could be trusted. She looked them right in the eyes and finally decided she saw kindness there. She gave a brief nod.

“H-have you hurt George?” she dared to ask.  “Was he s-shot?”

“No, no. George is fine.” Al hastened to reassure her. “But he is very worried about you.” That much was simple truth. It was the rest of it she would freak out at.

Bena helped him to explain just enough about the leaping process to allow them to question her about her ‘current’ circumstances. She knew the girl was scared witless, and did not wish to further upset her, but she also knew how desperately Sam needed a break on this leap, more so than ever before. Anything Leni could tell them might literally mean the difference between life and death for Dr Beckett.

“We aren’t the police, and we aren’t here to judge you.” Al told her, “We are here to help. I promise you that. But we know that you and George are in a lot of trouble right now, and we can only help you if we know exactly what has been going on. Do you understand?”

Leni looked from Al to Verbena and back again, as she had before. She looked with frightened tear-filled eyes. This was all too much to take in.

“I-I don’t understand any of this!” she wailed. “I just want to go home. I want George.”

“I know, Leni. It is scary and confusing and you feel lost.” Soothed Bena - stroking her arm reassuringly. “But the sooner you help us, the sooner you tell us what we need to know, the sooner we can get you home to George.”

“And if I d-don’t?”

“If you don’t, honey, I’m very much afraid that you could be stuck here for a long, long time, and George and our good friend Sam will both die.” She said it as gently as she could, but Bena decided there was only so far you could sugar coat things when they were this serious.

“No!” shrieked Leni, pulling back away from ‘Bena’s comforting embrace. “No, it’s not true, it can’t be true; George can’t die!”

“We don’t want that any more than you do, Leni.” Al told her, almost choking on his attempt to keep his fears for Sam in check.
“Please, tell us everything you can remember - everything about you and George. Can you do that for us?”

She bit her lip, and then whispered, “I’ll try.”

She started with simple stuff, like where they met, and how they fell in love. Though driven almost mad with impatience, Al let her ramble, making do with frequent glances at his wrist watch as it measured out the precious minutes of Sam’s predicted lifespan. Then she started to get to the relevant stuff. There were gaps in her memory, inevitably, the Swiss cheese effect that confounded Sam so much worked both ways, but they were finally getting somewhere.
George had fallen in with a bad crowd. Neither one of them had any qualifications, nor a job, so they had been drifting, doing casual work.
An old school friend had persuaded George he could set himself and Leni up by winning on a “sure bet” boxing match. George had gambled what little money they had, and more, and lost it all.

With a group of heavies on his back to pay what he owed, the pair had been desperate to obtain funds. They traveled around the outskirts of Tuscaloosa , looking for casual work on farms, but could barely make enough to live on, let alone clear George’s debt. Then at one place, the farmer had come on strong to Leni, giving George an idea.

She had encouraged the farmer, until he got himself into a compromising position, whereupon George ‘accidentally’ interrupted them, and played the outraged boyfriend to the hilt. Threatening to tell the farmer’s wife, they blackmailed the farmer – not for a lot, for he was not a wealthy man and they did not want to ruin him, just for a couple of hundred dollars. They had hoped this would be enough to placate the bad guys, but had reckoned without the extortionate interest rate applied to the debt.

Under threat of them “spoiling the little lady’s good looks” they were forced to raise further funds, and fast. So George sought out a new farm in hopes of perpetrating their scam again; a new farmer they could entice to make advances to Leni. This one seemed to be working even better, for the farmer’s wife found herself attracted to George’s rugged good looks and muscular figure. So they went for the double whammy, a couple of hundred bucks from him, the same again from her.

George figured it was not really wrong to blackmail them. If not for their infidelity, the couple would have been in the clear. What they hadn’t allowed for was that the couple got suspicious when they ran into each other at the bank, and decided to go home and talk things out: Mutual confession and forgiveness. On realizing they had been set up, the husband chased Leni and George off his property with a shotgun, and the rest they knew better than she did.

Only too well, thought Al, glancing at his watch again.

Though it had given them a lot more to go on, and Al now had a pretty good idea what they were going to have to do, it had taken an inordinately long time to elicit the information from Leni’s magnafoozled brain. Time Sam could ill afford.

“Thank you, Leni.” Al patted the back of her hand, sincere in his gratitude. Then with a nod to Bena to look after their guest, he headed back to the Control Room as fast as his weary legs would carry him, hoping that the Imaging Chamber would be fully ‘decontaminated’ so that he could get back to his stricken buddy.

As soon as he was out of earshot of the Waiting Room, Al asked Ziggy to use the newly acquired knowledge to hypothesize what would happen to George and Leni if they gave themselves up to the police and confessed to the blackmail.

The results were more encouraging than he dared to hope. Ziggy predicted that the couple would not press charges, since the husband could also be charged with causing grievous bodily harm and attempted manslaughter for his attack on Leni.

The original victim would, however, pursue the matter vigorously, bringing it to trial, since he had nothing to lose, his wife having just left him over an incident with a barmaid. Nevertheless, Ziggy was confident that the judgment against the couple would be lenient, far short of the maximum 14 years George had feared. In fact, given their lack of greed, and the fact that Leni had suffered so severely as a result of the shooting, she would merely be fined, and George would get 12 months, of which he would serve only four before being released for good behavior.

The odds Ziggy placed on this outcome were an outstanding 91.6%, but only if they could get Leni to a hospital and treated in time to save her/Sam. If ‘Leni’ died, George would be charged with culpability over her death too, and the prognosis was worse than in the original history.

Feeling like Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Al picked up his hand-link and tapped his feet impatiently.

Beth had accompanied Rusty to the Infirmary, where he and the other casualties were recovering well. The ‘clean-up crew’ were just emerging from the Imaging Chamber, which, being idle appeared to them simply as a vast cavern.

They had the last of the snakes slumbering peacefully away in special cages, and a security detail was about to escort them to the reception area, where they would be debriefed and asked to sign the standard forms guaranteeing not to disclose anything of the little they had seen while inside the government facility.

Since their work often brought them into federal buildings, it was all pretty standard stuff. They barely batted an eyelid these days, though this “Control Room” looked pretty weird, with its whacky blue disco ball and dripping walls, and why these people needed such a huge open area under ground as the one they had just been in simply boggled the mind.

The instant they had departed, Al barked at St John : “Fire up the Imaging Chamber!” - As if the technician had needed telling. He was still visibly shaken from his earlier experience, though he had managed to send for a clean shirt and felt somewhat more at ease now he was once again properly attired. The sight of Rusty dancing round with the snake hanging from his face was one that would haunt him for a long time to come. It was not the sort of thing one forgot in a hurry. Yet despite this upheaval, St John remained his usual efficient self, and ensured that the Imaging Chamber was ready for the Admiral as soon as was humanly possible.

Al still thought this was too long, and hovered at the doorway like a greyhound at the trap, ready to bolt after the rabbit as soon as the door slipped open. He paced and he fidgeted and he played with the handlink and he chewed on an unlit cigar, and he fretted, and fretted, and prayed to God that he would get back to Sam in time.

PART FOUR

Eventually, Al emerged into the abandoned house George and Leni were holed up in.

He was torn in his emotions between the angst of not knowing what state he was going to find Sam in, and the excitement of the positive news he had to impart. Through years of long practice, he expertly masked the first of these sentiments, and broadcast the second for all he was worth. Seeing how desperately pale and distant and frail Sam was, it was no mean feat for him to do so. “You are outa here, Sam! We’ve cracked it!” he enthused.

Sam barely registered his return.

That is, as far as Al was concerned.

Inside, Sam was greatly heartened by his partner’s reappearance. Firstly, he had been worrying about his friend’s encounter with the rattlesnake, and concern for Al’s well-being had preyed on his troubled mind. Secondly, he knew he could not last much longer as he was, even though the application of the coconut juice had bought him a little time, and he had been devastated at the thought of slipping away without saying goodbye. Inside, he was cheering that Al had made it back again. Outside, his eyelids were flickering, his breathing shallow and uneven, his battle to stay awake becoming one he was closer and closer to losing.

“Sam?” queried Al, “Did you hear me, Sam? Sam!” he positively yelled in his best friend’s ear, searching his face for a flicker of a response. “Come on, buddy.” He urged, softly now. “You can’t give up now. I know what to do!”

The depths to which Leni appeared to be sinking equally concerned George. He reached over and grabbed the last of the coconut soaked dressings, swapping it for the one now stained pink on her lower back. It had been a couple of hours since they started this procedure, and the pills seemed to have kicked in. Certainly, Leni was not bleeding as profusely as before, though it had not dried up completely as he had hoped it would. When she spoke at all, it was to whisper a complaint about the cold, though the day was mild, and the sun streaked in through the broken window onto the bed in all its glory.

He had tried to cover her with a blanket, but the coarse hairs drove her raw back wild with itching and she said it was too heavy for her to bear. So he just lay with her, holding her, stroking her hair, and trying to still her shivering, quivering body with the closeness of his own. He laid her head upon his chest, and whispered reassurances in her ear, as he reached down and changed each dressing as it reached the end of its usefulness.

As he touched each new cold wet compress to her back, she sucked air in through her teeth, and winced in pain, her body arching away from the stinging contact. Her eyes widened in pain, even as the tears streaked down. “Stay with me, Leni. Please, don’t go.” George’s own eyes were moist with the tears he dare not shed.

Sam felt as if he were in a long narrow corridor, crawling slowly along on his belly toward a distant bright light that glowed warmly and invitingly. The light promised rest and freedom from the pain that blazed across more than a third of his body. But it was so small, and so far away.

“H-help m-me!” he breathed, of no one in particular. His body strived to attain that distant light, while his mind held him anchored, telling him he had to go back. The way back seemed equally far, and up a steep hill.

“Yes! Sam, that’s it. George has to help you. Understand? He has to take responsibility - to turn himself in. If he doesn’t get you to hospital, and soon, you’re gonna die.” Al’s voice was cracking with emotion as he tried to impress upon his friend the urgency of what he was saying. The cigar was in his hand now, but he had crushed it to shreds as he worried, the flakes falling like autumn leaves from between his unfeeling fingers.

“He will be alright, Sam. You gotta convince him it will go okay for him if only he acts now!” “Come on; buddy, snap out of it. You gotta do this!” Al urged his friend. “Zig says he’ll only do a few months if he gives himself up.  Tell him, Sam. Tell him he has to choose - a few months in prison or Leni’s life -your life. It’s that simple Sam. He has to choose. He just has to choose.” Al kept talking, trying to penetrate through the fog that Sam was lost in. He tried to keep it short and sweet. He knew that Sam would not be able to engage in a long debate. But George couldn’t see or hear Al - it HAD to come from Sam. Al had to bully his friend into this one last supreme effort, before it was too late.

“Ch-choose?” Mumbled Sam.

“Yes, Sam. Come on, buddy.”

“Say what, hon?” queried George.

“G-George…” Sam’s weary brain was fighting to latch on to what Al was telling him, to what he had to tell George. It was so tiring to have to think, especially when he had such a headache, even more so to talk. Yet he trusted Al with his life, and Al said his life depended on him talking to George, so that was what he would do. He tried to shift to a more comfortable position and the dressing slipped. George reapplied it, as gently as he could.

“No! Harder! More… p-pressure, I n-need… t-to f-feel it.” The contact stung, and that stinging helped him to stay awake, to focus. “Tsskkkkkkkkk” - that certainly roused him.

“Easy, hon, rest now,” soothed George.

“NO!” Sam spoke sharply, needing to get George’s attention before the fog enveloped him again. “You HAVE t-to… get m-me to… h-hospital!”

“B-but…”

“P-Please, George, l-listen.” Sam was panting with the effort of talking. He was already exhausted. Under normal circumstances, he would have been mortally embarrassed to be naked and cuddled up to another man like this, but right now, he had more important concerns, and he would use every trick he could muster. He reached up, slowly and painfully, and stroked George’s cheek. George’s tears were starting to escape from the corners of his eyes, Sam wiped them away.

“You’ll be okay, hon…” George tried to convince them both.

“N-no George, I w-won’t. I know you’re scared of jail, but what if I told you it would only… b-be for a little while, a few m-months.”

”You can’t know that, hon…”

“What if, George? Would you d-do a f-few months to save m-my life?”

“You’re gonna…”

“NO!” Sam would not let him voice the reassurance he knew to be false.

“I’m sorry, George, but I’m d-dying. You have to ch-choose. Either you… g-give yourself up and get m-me to hospital, or w-watch m-me d-die. It w-won’t be l-long n-now.” He shuddered as the cold burrowed deeper into his marrow.

George turned his head away, still not willing to face the dreadful decision, but wondering, in the light of how right Leni had been about everything else of late, if she could be right now. He didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to believe it possible – that he could lose her, or that he could go to jail.

“Y-you can’t h-hide forever,” Sam kept the pressure up, not allowing George to slip back into denial. “You h-have to… f-face y-your responsibilities…” again Sam had to stop for breath. His eyelids drooped as he fought the exhaustion.

“Keep at it, Sam!” Al encouraged him. “The odds are getting better; I think you’re getting through to him!”

Thus it was that for the next ten minutes or so, Sam kept rebutting all George’s excuses, reassurances and denials, while at the same time confronting him with the reality of their situation which he insisted was not as stark as George believed. All the time, George wavered, but whenever they thought they had convinced him, he would hesitate again.

Finally, Sam was so weak and so deeply fatigued; he was ready to give up. He shivered. “It’s now or n-never, G-George… I’m slipping and… I c-can’t hold on…so t-tired…so c-cold…”

“Leni! NO!”

Sam’s eyelids flickered, his breathing became shallower. His lips were bluer than a summer sky.

“No! Sam! Hang in there, buddy.” Al hit the handlink for all he was worth, as if that action alone could jump-start Sam’s heart back into action. “For God’s sake, man!” he shrieked at George, though he knew that he couldn’t hear him.

George looked around the room, as if seeking somebody else to make the decision for him. Then he looked at Leni, so pale, so fragile. “I can’t lose you, Leni.” He whispered, kissing her forehead lightly. “You win. Let’s go.”

Realizing that he had wasted too much time to risk waiting for an ambulance, he swept Leni up in his arms, and carried her out to the car, wrapped loosely in a sheet. She made little noises in her throat as the movement roused her, causing her pain, but beyond that, she was distant and unresponsive.

“I’m sorry, Leni. I’m so, so sorry. Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything. I promise, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t leave me.” He muttered the same litany over and over all the way over bumpy back roads and blacktop highway to the Druid City Hospital . Rushing through the double doors, he yelled for help, and was suddenly surrounded by a host of arms reaching out to take her, and mouths firing questions.

“Fetch the police... Yes, she’s been shot… I’ve got all the buckshot out… I’ll tell them everything, just help her… She’s lost a lot of blood…Yes, I do… she’s B negative...You have to help her! …It’s coconut juice… Never mind, just help her! Please!” No longer burdened physically by the weight of his girlfriend in his arms, George succumbed to shock, and collapsed, weeping to the floor.

Sam was hastily lowered to a gurney, and rushed through to an emergency room.  

Sometime later, two police officers led a handcuffed George out of one of the relatives’ rooms, which the hospital had allowed them to use while he made his statement.

“Please, before we go, can you find out how Leni is?” he begged the officers.

The younger of the two men looked to his senior colleague, who nodded his permission. He approached the nurse’s station, and there consulted in hushed tones with the angel on duty as to the status of the patient in question. After making enquiries, there was much tutting and shaking of heads and George strained to get closer, to hear what they were saying, his heart in his mouth….  

In the emergency room, the well-ordered team had set about assessing the damage to the young lady who had just been admitted. Her condition was critical, and they wasted not a single moment. Using the information supplied by the young man who brought her in, they lay her on her stomach while they x-rayed her to make sure all the buckshot had indeed been successfully removed. They set up a drip to deliver vital fluids, including the essential B-negative blood they had ordered for her. They cleaned and dressed the angry wounds.

Al, not needing to scrub up, watched over the proceedings. He moved aside to let them work, though he would not have encumbered them, and so as not to see the gory details of Sam’s injuries, but he never went far. And he kept talking to his friend throughout, willing him to pull through.

They watched her very closely for any signs of a reaction - positive or negative - to the treatment they were administering. She was dangerously close to slipping into a coma. They marveled that she had survived such severe blood loss, let alone remained conscious for so long. Unfortunately, the reaction they watched for was not long in appearing.

“Back-ache,” she complained her voice thin and faint. This was not surprising, given the nature of her injuries, but it rang alarm bells in the attending nurse. The patient began shivering violently, and tossing restlessly.

“Something’s wrong!” yelled the nurse, as the young woman thrashed about on the bed.

“Feel… s-sick…” she whispered.

The doctor checked her pupils, didn’t like what he saw.

Sam was still lost in the fog, but his instincts were pulling him in the right direction. As he shivered and tossed, his brain whispered to him: ‘Wrong blood’. He forced his flailing limbs to focus, and ripped the IV line from out of his arm.

“Sam! What are you doing, Sam? What’s going on?” Al paced rapidly, and pounded on the handlink, and panicked. Ziggy informed him that Leni’s B- blood was incompatible with Sam’s A+ blood type, and his body was rejecting the infusion, big time. The medical team had just reached the same conclusion.

“Fluids! Stat!” yelled the doctor. “I want a blood workup, now! Let’s find out what this young lady should be having, and get it to her, PDQ. Check her potassium levels – if they get too high, she’ll sustain heart damage! Come on, people, BEFORE her kidneys fail would be preferable.” Hands grabbed him from all sides and held him firm, lest his fitting should cause him further injury.

“Pulse over 100, temperature rising rapidly.” Reported a nurse, though his skin felt cold to the touch of those who restrained him.

“She’s going into shock!”

Gentle hands lifted his head and tried to make him drink. He did his best to swallow, but it was such hard work.

“Prepare an intragastric drip, insert it the instant she loses consciousness.” Ordered the doctor, surprised and impressed by the strong survival instinct the patient was displaying. “Come on, little lady, stay with us now, you’re a fighter. Keep with us.”

“Yeh, come on, Sam. Don’t you dare give up on me now.”

 As soon as the problem had been identified, the harmful B negative blood had been replaced with universally acceptable ‘O’ type, whilst her true grouping was established, whereupon stocks of A-positive were hastily commandeered.

“Keep her drinking!” the doctor admonished the nurse, “Get as much fluid into her as you can!”

Sam heard the doctor’s voice through his fog, and knew it was the right thing to do. And he was sooo very thirsty. He concentrated all his efforts on making his throat muscles work to push the precious elixir down. If he’d taken too much of the wrong blood, his red cells would clump together and could block his kidneys leading to potentially fatal renal failure. Re-hydration was essential to combat the problem.

“Keep reading off the blood pressure level, nurse,” the doctor instructed one of his assistants. “We have to keep at it until the systolic reading reaches at least 100 mmHg.”

“Supplies of A positive are running low, doctor,” came the unwelcome news.

“Dammit!” yelled the doc, “we need a break here people, or we’re gonna lose her.”

“NO!” shrieked Al. “You don’t give up on him, you hear me?” though he knew full well they couldn’t. “You are NOT gonna let this man die!”

Ziggy squealed.

Al read off her information. How damned ironic.

“Sam? Sam! George is A+ too. He could have given you blood all along, if only we’d known. Tell them to fetch George, Sam. The police are about to take him away. Sam. SAM. Sa-am!”

Sam was slipping deeper into a state of shock. He had fought too long and too hard. He was so weak and tired. Yet somehow, Al’s voice penetrated, and pulled him back out of the abyss.

“G-George…” he whispered.

The busy professionals took no notice of her call for her boyfriend. They had more pressing matters.

“G-George…” he repeated, “blood…”

“What was that?” queried the nurse trying to get him to drink. He took another sip, his mouth feeling dry even still.

“G-George, A blood…” why didn’t they understand? He couldn’t keep this up; it was far too exhausting to talk, to think. They HAD to understand.

“I think she’s trying to tell us something.” Observed the nurse.
“G-Geor…. B-blood….”

“I think maybe her boyfriend is the right blood type.”

Somebody hastily scurried out to find out, just managing to catch the criminal and his police escort in reception.

The situation was rapidly explained, and George protested. He could not give Leni blood. He would willingly have done so, but he knew they were incompatible. She was B-, he A+. They discovered that three years ago, when he had been in a car crash, and she had tried to offer her blood for his need.

Though they could not explain it, they assured him that right now, the only thing capable of saving Leni’s life was an infusion of A-positive blood, and having depleted their own stores, they looked to him to provide it.

The officers agreed that in the circumstances, they would allow him to provide assistance, though he would have to remain cuffed to a bed, so that they could remove him to jail once it was over. A condition he readily agreed to, though he still professed himself baffled at the strange turn of events, as did the medical staff.

He was escorted into the emergency room, where they were preparing the paraphernalia necessary to permit the transfusion.
The doctor was also ordering a backup plan… “If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to resort to peritoneal dialysis, to combat uraemia. She is starting to exhibit symptoms.”

A hiccough roused Sam from his lethargy. Oh boy, did he feel awful.

“Hang in there, Sam.” exhorted Al, “Don’t give up now, kiddo. George is here.”

With marked efficiency, the team hooked George up, and began the process of transferring his rich healthy blood into Sam’s severely depleted veins. Anxious minutes passed, as they drew off as much as they dare, without endangering the donor.

They explained to the police officers that he would have to remain and rest for some time, as the process would leave him weak and dizzy, and liable to fainting. As he was tethered, and in no condition to attempt an escape, it was suggested that they adjourn to the canteen and grab themselves a coffee and a doughnut while they waited. Somebody would be dispatched to inform them when he was fit to travel. He gave his word that he would not try to elude them, and based on his testimony thus far, they were inclined to believe him. 
       Finally, the doctor looked at the latest test results, and declared that the young woman appeared to be out of danger, though she would need close observation for the next 24 hours to ensure that her kidneys and heart had not sustained any lasting damage from the incident.

George was detached from the equipment, and they were both moved to a side ward to rest quietly. At Sam’s behest, they allowed them to remain together.

“I’m so sorry, Leni.” George murmured sleepily. “I nearly killed you, twice. I could never forgive myself if something happened to you…”

”Hush,” whispered Sam, feeling a little stronger, but still so very weary and worn out.

“Everything will be… f-fine now.” He assured the young man. “We get a second chance…t-to turn our l-lives around.” He looked at Al, smiling with relief as he stood by his friend’s bedside. Al nodded. Soon be time to go. Sam cast his mind back through the haze that had been this leap. Two thoughts echoed in his beleaguered brain.

“Ought to get a job as a model if you ask me…”

“You’ll make… someone… a great Mom…”

Even addled by his long suffering, Sam did not seriously intend to suggest that George had a career as a mother ahead of him. It did give him an idea, however.

“George…”

“Take it easy, hon. You need to rest now.” Knowing how hard he was finding it to stay awake having just given blood, George marveled at Leni’s constitution, that she still did not give in to sleep after all she had been through.

“Listen…” sleep beckoned to Sam like a siren call, but he knew the blue limbo of the leap would cure him of everything. He had just one more thing to do.

“You did a good….a good job of t-tending to my w-wounds. I th-think you should see if the p-prison can t-train you to b-be a nurse’s aide. If I’m n-not too scarred…” he paused, partly to catch his breath, partly to receive Al’s assurance that Leni would not show the slightest mark of Sam’s ordeal, “maybe I c-could try m-modeling…”

“You’d be a natural, hon - with that face and that drop-dead gorgeous body, you could make a fortune!” George hadn’t seemed to consider the possibility before, but now that he did, it struck him as the ideal way forward. Thinking about it, he supposed he had been afraid to suggest it before, in case Leni outgrew her need for him. Somehow, he knew now that they would be together forever – once he had done his time. Knowing that, the prospect of prison held fewer terrors for him.

“What d-do y-you think, George? A career in m-medicine…”

“I think maybe I do have a flair for it at that.” He conceded. “I’m not smart enough to learn doctoring, but a nurse’s aide…Leni…you’re a genius!”

Al smirked. “You don’t know the half of it, buster!” he declared, as a cerulean haze surrounded Sam, finally granting him the rest he so richly deserve.

EPILOGUE

Once again, the blue-white energy of the quantum field dissipated, and Dr. Samuel Beckett felt the tug of reality seep back into his senses. The first thing he felt was the coldness that seemed to be coming from the walls that he was surrounded by. It was a coldness that he hadn’t felt in quite a while, but one that was familiar nonetheless. As he looked around at his surroundings, a sense of confusion kicked in as he realized that the bluish hue of the leap was still surrounding him. ‘That can’t be right,’ Sam thought to himself.

Suddenly, he realized what he was actually seeing and why it felt familiar. He was inside a bright blue-white room, almost identical to the Waiting Room. ‘My God, could it be?’ Sam pondered with enthusiasm. ‘Have I finally leaped home?’

Just as Sam finished that thought, he heard the mechanical whoosh-zoom of a door opening behind him, followed by the voice of a concerned man. “Dr. Weller. You’re still here? I thought you were leaving to give that report to Dr. Connors.” Startled, Sam turned around to see a distinguished-looking man, who appeared to be in his late-forties, wearing a white lab coat. He was looking directly at Sam.

Since no one else was in the room, Sam assumed that he must be this Dr. Weller person whom the man was addressing. ‘What’s going on here?’ Sam thought. ‘Have I leaped into someone else at the Project?’

“David? You seem lost, are you okay?”

Sam simply replied, “Yeah, I’m just… uh… trying to get my bearings. Now, if I could just find that, uh, report?” he asked more than stated. ‘Sometimes,’ Sam thought, ‘it would be nice to get a briefing on a situation before I leaped into it.’

“Isn’t that it you’re holding in your hand?” the man, who Sam now assumed to be a scientist, asked as he pointed to Sam’s right arm. Sure enough, in Sam’s right hand was a clipboard with what appeared to be a typed report attached to it, with written notes scribbled on it. He hadn’t even noticed it when he first leaped in.

“Oh… right. Sorry, I’ll get right on it,” Sam apologized.

The scientist looked at Sam impatiently and replied, “Wake up, David. This experiment is in the final stages of completion. And Connors will have both our heads if he catches us slacking off.”

“Yes, don’t worry, I’ll get it to him right away,” Sam stuttered as he left the chamber. As he walked down the corridor, he could recall how the corridors of the Project looked. The architecture was slightly different, but there was no denying it – this complex had a similar “feel” to it. ‘If I’m not at the Project, then where the hell am I?’

Sam took a few seconds to look at the information on the report he was holding. The heading at the top read:

Second Genesis Project

Director: Dr. Maxwell Connors

And almost directly underneath he saw something that shocked him to his very core:

Status Report of VR Quantum Accelerator:

94.2 % Probability of Success

“Quantum Accelerator?” Sam whispered. ‘What situation have I leaped into now?’ Following that thought, all Sam could utter was his familiar phrase: “Oh boy!