Quantum Leap: The Virtual Seasons // The Tenth Season Archives

The blue haze dissipated, leaving Dr. Sam Beckett to find the lens of a giant video camera staring him in the face. His eyes widened in alarm as he leaned even closer to the circular black object hovering a few feet away from him. Behind the camera, the young man who was squatting on his knee holding it on his shoulders took his eye away from the viewfinder, giving Sam a look that he was expecting something from the Leaper.

Clearing his throat, Sam looked over to his right. A man in a brown suit was seated next to him, holding a microphone in Sam’s direction. The dressed-up reporter was also giving Sam a look of bafflement. Behind the reporter, Sam noticed a dugout.

Suddenly, a bright ray of sunshine broke through the clouds up above, forcing Sam to pull the brim of the cap on his head lower. Averting his eyes, he looked down from the brilliance of the sun and the now annoyed looks on the faces of the people around him. It didn’t take the Leaper long to realize he was seated in a folding chair and that he was wearing a brightly colored teal jersey and white pants with teal pinstripes. Before him on the grass, stretched a long line of white chalk heading behind the cameraman towards a backstop.

“Um,” Sam muttered, clearing his throat, banging his cleats against the chair. “Could you repeat the question please?”

“Sure, Mark. I guess it’s been awhile and you’re not used to these interviews anymore. It has been at least five years since you were hounded by all the press.” The reporter turned to the cameraman who by now was looking a bit uncomfortable balancing on his knee with the big camcorder on his shoulder. “When we get back to the studio just edit out the last few minutes. Use some of that filler B-roll footage we shot of the practice earlier to cover up the long pause.”

The cameraman nodded as the reporter turned back towards Sam. “OK, Mark, I’ll ask the question again, just take a deep breath and just let your answer come out naturally.” After a pause, “Can you tell us your first reaction on trying to make a comeback in the major leagues after battling injuries and being away from the game for so long?”

Sam found the microphone back in his face again. This time, Sam noticed the microphone had the letters ESPN labeled on it. As he opened his mouth to make up a reply, a hand whipped around from behind and slammed a paper plate full of shaving cream into his face. Sam’s eyes smarted as the plate fell from his face to the ground. People had gathered around, laughing at the Leaper’s plight. A big glob of shaving cream fell from his lips as he turned to the camera and sputtered, “Ohh, boy…”

With a groan, Admiral Al Calavicci turned off his alarm and climbed out of bed. To his dismay, the tired achy feeling in his arms and legs persisted. He was sure that a good night’s sleep would energize him, considering his routine was returning back to normal. It had been five days since Sam leaped out, and Al took advantage of sleeping as much and as often as he could while Beth was away babysitting their granddaughter Helene.

Stumbling over to his closet, Al pulled out a sweatsuit and quickly donned it, as aching limbs would allow. Beth would never believe it, but the Admiral was getting back on the exercise horse again, returning to his routine of jogging outside the Project as time and Sam would allow. Before long, Al was outside in the desert air, feeling his lungs close to bursting from the heavy breathing his morning run was causing him.

As he kept moving his feet, Al wondered how long his body would permit him to go today. It seemed that although he felt as fit as he could be, the running was tiring him out quicker each day. Ever since he had celebrated his 71^st birthday a few months ago, he kept feeling like he was getting rundown a lot more. The other week, he had even turned down a very seductive offer from Beth, citing fatigue from lack of sleep during Sam’s mission. The truth was, he was hiding his aches and pains from his wife.

Without warning, Al pulled up short in mid-stride as pain lanced through his right leg. Feeling dizzy from being out of breath, he collapsed to the ground. Shortly thereafter, the pain began to subside. As he entertained thoughts on getting back up, his wrist communicator beeped.

“Yeah, what is it?” Al asked it, not exactly in the mood to deal with anyone else.

“Dom here, Admiral. Thought you might like to be informed. Sam has leaped in again. Dr. Beeks is talking to the Leapee in the Waiting Room now. Hopefully, Ziggy will have a report for you and Dr. Beckett shortly.”

“Thanks, Dom.” said Al with a loud groan as he steadily made it back on his feet.

“Are you all right, Admiral?” The new head technician shot back over the communicator. “You sound like you are in considerable pain.”

Cursing himself for the slip, Al replied, “I’m fine, Dom. Patch Ziggy’s report to the computer in my quarters. I’ll look over it after I shower.” The Admiral winced as another jolt of pain hit him. Perhaps he’d get Beth to play nurse with him when she got back, he mused. ‘Guess I really am a dirty old man’ Al thought to himself.

Grunting, Al forced himself to limp back inside the Project. Yet another jolt of pain in his leg made him thank God or whomever that he wasn’t Sam Beckett, trapped in the past. He didn’t have the stamina for it. Admiral Al Calavicci was finally feeling his age, and he hated it.

Standing in front of a mirror in the team locker room, Sam Beckett worked at removing all traces of the shaving cream from his face. It had taken awhile for him to get over the embarrassment of being laughed at by everyone. In a way, it vaguely reminded him of all the teasing and ridiculing that a younger Sam Beckett received as a smart-beyond-his-years student. Still, the layers of shaving cream on his face hid any signs of him being upset as he had excused himself to get cleaned up.

Working a towel over his face, he failed to hear a gruff raspy voice behind him drawl, “Gee, Sam, most guys remove that stuff with a razor.”

Whirling, Sam turned to see his holographic partner in time wearing a bright electric teal suit and holding a lit cigar. “Very funny, Al.”

“Actually it is, Sam. Lots of ball players get razzed by their teammates, especially rookies. Just part of the big brotherly fraternity of organized sports.” The hologram rocked on his heels, then flinched quickly.

Fortunately for Al, Sam had ignored his discomfort in his leg, going back to removing the shaving cream out of his hair and uniform. “Where have you been? You obviously went someplace else before seeing me. I never heard the Imaging Chamber Door open.”

“Had to check out the sights, Sam. I don’t get much of a chance to visit this neck of the woods.”

The Leaper paused from scrubbing shaving cream out of his hair. “And just where would here be?”

“Give the genius a cigar for getting that one right.” Al tapped the handlink. “Space Coast Stadium in Viera, Florida as a matter of fact. You know, Beth and I talked once about retiring to Florida after I spent time with NASA, but a certain M.I.T. whiz kid tapped me on the shoulder for the Star Bright Project.”

The Admiral winced at Sam’s choice of words. “Hey, Kid, don’t be sore at me because someone humiliated you. You want Ziggy’s information or not?”

Sam took a handful of water from the sink and splashed his face with it. “Sorry, Al.” he sighed. “This whole Leap business is getting old.” He stared at the image in the mirror of the young man in the teal baseball jersey with a goatee looking back at him. The eyes Sam saw were fierce, as fierce as the dark black lettering across his uniform that read: Marlins.

Sighing, Al continued. “The date is March 18^th, 2002 and you have leaped into Mark Robbins, age thirty-two. According to Ziggy, he is trying out as a non-roster invitee with the Floor…Floor…” He smacked the handlink. “…Florida Marlins, a major league ballclub.”

The Leaper scratched his head. “There’s no major league baseball club in Florida, Al.”

Al gave a quick look skyward and sighed. “Swiss-cheese memory mania strikes again. Baseball expanded in 1993, Sam. You were so wrapped up in getting the project built, you probably never knew that Denver and Miami got expansion teams a few years before you first leaped. Believe it or not, there are two ballclubs in Florida now. Tampa Bay got one too.”

“Viera is where the Marlins practice for spring training, which is why you’re here. Ziggy says you have to make sure Mark makes the team. It won’t be easy because in the original history, he was cut from the squad and ended up selling shoes for a living. That over-glorified microchip doesn’t have much more to go on at this time.”

Sam grabbed a black ballcap with a big F and a picture of a marlin on it and placed it on his head, “So you’re saying this guy is a longshot to make the team?”

“Ziggy says no gambler in his right mind would wager on him in the original history.” The handlink beeped again. “Hold on, Sam, Ziggy has some more info. Apparently, this Robbins guy was a big-time prospect back in the day ten years ago with the Oakland A’s. Supposed to be the next coming of Nolan Ryan, but became more of a Todd Van Poppel instead.”

Al waved his cigar hand back and forth to fan some smoke. “Never mind, Sam. Mark was gonna set the baseball world upside down. Blazing fastball, devastating 12-to-6 curve ball, you name it, he could beat you with it. He was on the fast track to the Hall Of Fame.”

Sam was a bit amused by Al’s enthusiasm in describing the Leapee’s former potential. “What happened to him?”

“The guy kept suffering injury after injury. Finally, one day in spring training eight years ago, he blew his arm out trying to throw a fastball. I remember it like it was yesterday. Guy fell down on the mound clutching his arm in agony. It was all the sports shows kept repeating all day. Finally after months of trying to rehab the guys arm, he elected for Tommy John surgery.”

Finally, something Sam understood. “Tommy John surgery. I recall reading up on something about that in a medical journal. Kind of a radical procedure where they take a person’s ligament out of their leg and surgically place it in a person’s arm, giving them better use of it. The downside of the procedure is that it takes at least eighteen months or longer to fully heal from it.”

Al started to turn green from Sam’s explanation of the surgery, especially the part about pulling things out of people’s legs. It reminded him of the pain in his right leg. “Can we skip the play by play on that surgical stuff, Sam? Besides, Tommy John was also a pitcher for the New York Yankees. Bet you didn’t know that. HA!”

Sam put his arms up in surrender and sighed. “Never mind, changing back to the original subject. Is there anymore to Mark’s story?”

“Not much else. He had the surgery. Came back two years later with the Phillies and got shellacked. Poor guy retired and entered the wonderful world of shoe retail for the next five years. Deserves a better fate than being Al Bundy for a living.”

“Al Bundy. Scored four touchdowns in a Polk High football game, sold shoes for a living, goes to nudie bars…”

The click-clack sound of cleats walking across the hard clubhouse floor brought Sam and Al up short. A player in his early twenties rounded the corner. He was clean shaven with long stringy hair sticking out from the bottom of his cap and also wore the same uniform as Sam. He had the look of an old-school ballplayer: lean, thin arms that were amazingly strong.

“Hey, Mark, Tor says when you are finished cleaning up, get your butt back on to the field.”

Al checked the handlink. “Uh, Ziggy says that would be Jeff Torborg, Florida’s manager.”

“Ziggy says that was Pete Wilson, another non-roster invitee trying to make the team as a relief pitcher. Seems you two are competing for a job. He’s also one of the reasons you’re here.”

Al put the cigar in his mouth and punched some buttons on the handlink. “Not much time to tell you in here. The manager’s outside waiting for you. I’ll see you out on the field, Sam.” After a few more button taps, the Observer vanished.

Sam straightened up his baseball uniform and trotted out onto the practice field. While the stadium was quiet earlier during his botched television interview, it was now a bustle of activity. Players in teal and white were running sprints across the outfield grass, others were engaged in fielding drills or taking batting practice. The sounds of bats cracking against baseballs and the shouts of coaches and instructors filled the air. The slight breeze blowing did not do much to take away from the heat of the sun shining brightly through the wispy white clouds. It was ideal weather for a ballgame.

Looking around, Sam noticed Al off to the side watching a very young pitcher hurling fastball after fastball into the catcher’s glove. Each throw issued a strong smack as it hit its target. Al turned and noticed his friend watching with him.

“Look out for this one, Sam. This guy has some serious heat.” Again, more fastballs sizzled across the field. “I like this kid, Sam. He has a cocky swagger to him. Kinda reminds me of myself when I was a pilot. So young, that you’re oblivious to any danger or fear, just doing what you know you’re capable of doing.”

Sam could hear a tinge of nostalgia in the Observer’s voice, and he noticed a look of emotional pain well up quickly but Al pushed it back down just as fast.

“Ziggy says I’m supposed to make the team, Al? I can’t remember how old I probably am anymore but I gotta be at least twice the age of most of these guys. How am I gonna be able to compete with kids like this?”

The Admiral chewed on his cigar a bit. “Nothing, Sam. If Ziggy says you have to make the team than that’s what you do.” The young gun proceeded to throw a nasty 12-6 curveball dropping as if guided by remote into the catcher’s glove. “Jeez, Sam, this guy is good. I wonder who this guy is, he should be playing in the bigs.”

Just as Sam was about to respond, a familiar voice yelled, “Hey Robbins, what are you doing just standing there talking to thin air?”

“Looking cleaned up I see old-timer,” said the new arrival, a scrawny young player in his early twenties with curly blond hair, long sideburns and a bad suntan.

“That would be Steve Baxter, Sam. He’s an outfield prospect, acquired in a Rule V draft from Cleveland last year. Tagged as a power prospect but he needs more meat on his frame to hit the 30 home run plateau in a season.”

Sam nodded at Steve. “Yeah, I decided not to shave after all, I figure the goatee makes me look younger.”

Steve laughed at that. “Yeah, I suppose. But you should’ve seen your face when I slammed you with the shaving cream and in front of ESPN too.”

“Hey, Mark,” jumped in Pete, “Tor’s still looking for you. You better find him before you piss him off and ruin your chances of making the team. Come on Steve, we need to get some sprints in. Later old-timer.” Steve and Pete jogged off.

“That Baxter guy could sure use some maturity, Sam. Too bad you’re here for him too.”

“You’re here to do more than just help Mark, Sam. You’re also here for Pete and Steve.”

“Just how many people am I here to help? I can’t touch the lives of every single person on this team, Al.”

“I’m sure you don’t have to touch ‘em all, Sam. Just a few players on the te…” Al stopped hitting buttons on the handlink as Ziggy squealed back at him. “What?” Al smacked the handlink again.

“Ziggy can’t give me an exact number on how many people you are here for. That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard. Sam, this cuisinart of a computer says that although you haven’t changed anything yet, time is in such a flux here that no answer can be given. Lousy bucket of bolts.”

Sam could swear he heard the handlink give Al the raspberry but never got a chance to dwell long on that as an older voice behind him called out, “Hey, Robbins, you gonna get your throws in today or what?”

All Sam wanted to do was ask Al to break down the who, what, and why he was here for but the elderly man in his early sixties led him away towards a pitcher’s mound in the bullpen area.

“This Torborg guy has had an interesting career, Sam. Did you know, in 1965, he caught Sandy Koufax’s perfect game and in 1973 caught one of Nolan Ryan’s no-hitters, but why am I rambling, you won’t remember this stuff anyway after you leap out and holy moly…”

Sam looked at what made Al’s voice trail off. Standing just yards away was a very tall black man dressed in catcher’s gear.

“OK, Robbins, you’re gonna be tossing with CJ today. Don’t overdue it, get yourself warmed up, and the coaches and I will come back to see what you got.”

Torborg walked away as Al got more information. “Sam, CJ stands for Charles Johnson. This guy can block the plate and has a helluva cannon for throwing out baserunners. He was part of the ’97 Marlins team that beat Cleveland in the World Series. Big guy, I wouldn’t piss him off.”

CJ walked away from Sam and settled down in a crouch, exposing his big catcher’s mitt and waited.

The hologram pointed to a white strip on the pitcher’s mound. “That white thing is the rubber, Sam. You step off from that to pitch. Why couldn’t you have played baseball in high school instead of basketball?”

Ignoring Al, Sam stepped on the rubber and faced CJ who repositioned himself to receive the pitch. With his free hand, CJ pointed a few fingers down.

Taking a deep breath, Sam went into his wind-up and let loose what he thought passed as a curveball.

It sailed way over CJ’s head. The catcher got up and motioned with his arms to keep the pitch down as he chased after the ball.

“Don’t think you’re quite ready for Opening Day yet, Sam,” quipped the Observer.

Sam put his glove to his mouth in dismay, “I think I’m in trouble, Al.”

Rolling his eyes, Al looked skyward for help.

The rest of the session went horrible for Sam as he failed to throw any pitches with authority. Frustrated, he wanted to just throw down his glove and walk away but knew he had to keep trying for Mark’s sake. He looked in to CJ, who gave the next sign.

“One finger, Sam. He wants a fastball. Give him the heat. The blazing two-seamer. The cheese. The…” Al went quiet after a cross look from Sam.

Sam gripped the ball tightly, went into his wind-up, and threw as hard as he could. The ball skipped in front of the catcher, and rolled away. Al and Sam both groaned as CJ went to fetch the ball again.

“Not for something like this. I’m blowing this guy’s chances. I can’t throw.”

“Geez, Sam, nothing stopped you from throwing heavy objects when you were on a curling team a few months ago during a leap.”

“Never mind, Sam, that’s too much detail to go into. Besides, you pitched once before.”

“Sure, kid, and not too badly either…for a minor leaguer that is. ‘Doc’ Fuller ring a bell? Babysitting the pig team mascot?”

“But, Al, how long ago was that? I’ve gotten older and these guys are real major leaguers. At any rate, I think I’ve forgotten how to pitch.”

Al wiped a hand across his forehead and looked behind the Leaper. “Uh-oh, looks like Tor’s coming back for you.”

Torborg walked over to Sam and motioned for him to follow. “Take a breather CJ and then get some batting practice,” the manager yelled to the catcher. “Those Mets will be here in a few hours and I want you to get some work in today behind the plate.”

As he was being led towards the baseball diamond’s infield, Sam noticed Al working like mad with the handlink. Shortly, Sam found himself on another pitcher’s mound, this one with a fence-like netting erected in front of it with an opening that would allow him to pitch to home plate. By now, some coaches walked over to join Torborg standing in foul territory and a player with dark hair and a goatee stepped into the right side of the batter’s box.

“Let’s see that curveball when you’re ready, Mark,” ordered the manager.

Closing his eyes, Sam prayed that somehow he would get that ball over the plate.

“Relax, Sam,” said Al, “I think I got something for you. Just hold the ball out in your hand for a second.”

Sam did, and after a typed command by Al, a beam of light shot out of the handlink, forming blue fingerprints on the seams of the baseball. “Grip the ball like this, Sam.”

The Leaper quickly placed his fingers over the holographic marks as the Observer continued, “OK, Sam, now that you have the grip down, watch this.” Another image shot out of the handlink, it was in the form of a faceless baseball player. The image twisted around as it got into a wind-up and released a holographic baseball that vanished after leaving the player’s hand. “Just mimic the guy’s movements, Sam, especially on the release point, that’s crucial…”

“Is there a problem Robbins?” Torborg asked. The hitter had long stepped out of the batter’s box.

Grinning nervously, Sam answered, “Just getting a grip, sir. I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t have all day, Robbins,” said Torborg. “Just show us what you got.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam got back on the rubber as the hitter made himself comfortable.

“Just remember, Sam, don’t overthrow. This is your soft-toss day. A couple of days after a start, pitchers usually condition themselves by tossing about forty pitches and Robbins pitched 4 innings in a game recently.”

Sam went into his wind-up, copying what he had just seen through Al’s handlink and let loose a curveball that hung over the plate.

Crack! The hitter smashed the pitch right back at the head of Sam, who jumped off the mound as the ball struck the netting in front of him. Torborg and the coaches laughed at him.

“Hey, Mikey!” laughed Torborg. “Take it easy on the guy. It took him forever to try out for a roster spot again and you’re gonna scare him away.”

“Sorry, skip.” Mikey settled back into the batter’s box again as Al puffed on his cigar.

“Not bad, Sam, you got it over. Have to work on painting the corners of the plate though. You can’t keep putting it over like that.” Al tapped the handlink. “The guy up at the plate is Mike Lowell, so be careful, he’s a nasty fastball hitter.”

Again, Sam held out the baseball as Al trained another set of holographic fingerprints over the ball. After he was sure Sam got it, he showed another holographic image of a pitcher winding up and throwing a fastball. “Good luck, Sam,” he said as he turned off the image. “Remember, don’t groove this pitch.”

CRACK! Like lightning, the ball shot off the bat and cleared the left field fence. Some kids hanging around the area fought each other to get the souvenir.

All Sam could do was grin sheepishly at Torborg as Al commented, “Can’t throw him a fastball inside either, Sam. Wow, did he turn on that.”

“Good swing, Mikey,” Torborg clapped his hands together. “All right, Mark, throw him any pitch you want.”

“Slider, Sam.” Again, Al quickly showed him the grip and the wind-up, cautioning him on the proper way to turn the wrist to get some movement on the pitch. Settling in, Sam threw his slider towards the plate. At first, it looked like a fat pitch down the middle. Al groaned and Sam held his breath as the hitter Lowell looked to send this pitch into the heavens. At the last few seconds, the ball sailed to the left, just off the plate and away from the hitter as he swung and missed.

“Atta boy, Sam. You did it. Just remember those pitches with that photographic memory of yours and get a little more practice in and you’ll be fine.”

Lowell the batter walked out of the batter’s area. “Nice pitch,” he remarked.

“Best pitch I’ve seen from you yet, Mark,” praised Torborg. “Much better than what I observed of you and CJ just a bit ago. Must be nerves or something from that ESPN crew interviewing you earlier. Just remember to mix the location, speed, and pitch type more. You’ll get a chance to start Wednesday’s game before final cuts. Now let’s see a few more from you. Mikey, get back in there.”

Lowell stepped back in and gave Sam a good workout as the batter fouled off a few pitches and had a few solid hits, but nothing that would leave the yard. Sam even got him to swing and miss a few times.

“Much better, Mark. That’s the way.” Torborg slapped Sam on the shoulder, “Now go take a few sprints and cool off in the dugout. We got an exhibition game in an hour. You’re not slated to pitch any innings today so just watch what the other players do.”

Nodding, Sam trotted off towards the outfield where players were running and taking part in stretching exercises. The Leaper picked an out of the way spot in center field and plunked himself down to do some leg stretch exercises. Al appeared next to him shortly afterwards. “OK, Sam, we can talk.”

“Finally,” grunted Sam, stretching forward to touch his toes. “I need a break from this crash course in pitching. What have you got?”

“Well, to recap the box score, you have quite the to-do list Sam. You already know that Mark has to make the team…”

“Uh, yeah, Sam. According to Ziggy, sometime in the next thirty-six hours, Pete hooks up with some woman in a bar and she accuses him of rape. He’s later found guilty and sent to prison for awhile. Totally ruins his life.”

Sam continued to stretch his legs, “That’s terrible. So all I gotta do is keep him away from some woman in a bar. What about Steve?”

The handlink squawked as Al smacked it. “Let’s see. Steve apparently felt the need to bull…bulk up to be a power hitter and sometime around where you are now, he begins taking steroids. A few years later, major league baseball cracks down on steroid use among players and he is caught using a banned substance. Kicked out of the game. Went back home to Missouri and took over his dad’s hardware store and currently leads a boring miserable existence.” Al looked past Sam to see the Marlins players jog to the dugout. “Looks like the other team is here to practice, Sam. Better head to the dugout. Not much you can do until the game is over.”

“I agree.” Sam jogged towards the dugout, heading over to the third base stands area where some of the Marlins players were signing autographs for the fans now filling the stadium. The crowd seemed to be enthusiastic over the autographs they were getting. It appeared the players were done signing as Sam approached. A few kids noticed him coming, pointed at him and ran off. Coming from one child, he could distinctly hear the phrases, “Damaged goods,” and “Has-Been,”. Feeling unwanted, Sam closed his eyes and lowered his head.

A six year old seemed unfazed and stayed behind, holding out a ball for Sam to sign. With a smile on his face he approached the child. “Hey, slugger,” he said to the child, who seemed in awe to be in the presence of a ballplayer.

Still grinning, Sam reached over the rail to grab the ball and pen from the child when an adult, presumably the child’s parent, scooped the child away. “Don’t waste that ball on his autograph,” the adult scolded the youngster. “It’s not worth anything anyway.”

Sam’s smile faded as Al commented, “Ouch. I guess parents can be just as cruel, too. I wonder how much an autograph of a Nobel Prize winner is worth compared to some of these big leaguers?” The Admiral noticed someone else approaching. A young boy in his late teens came over with a ball and pen. Again, Sam reached out to sign but the boy pulled back, laughing.

“Uncle Mark, what are you doing? I just got Mike Piazza to sign this. Him and a whole bunch of Mets guys are signing on the other side of the field.”

“This kid is Donovan Hamilton, your, I mean, Mark’s nephew. He lives near Viera with your older sister and brother-in-law. They dropped him off so he could watch the game.” Another beep came from the handlink. “He’s one of the reasons you’re here.”

The Admiral got one of those “you’re kidding” looks from Sam but turned his attention quickly back to Donovan who was showing him the autographed Piazza ball.

“I can’t believe I got it, Uncle Mark. I’ve been trying to get him to sign for the longest time. Maybe someday, people will be asking for your autograph again.” A guilty look came over the kid’s face. “Sorry, Uncle, mom told me not to talk about that in front of you."

“Final cuts are at the end of the week. They’re letting me start Wednesday’s game against…uh…”

“Wow, that’s great, Uncle Mark. You get to pitch to Vladimir Guerrero. If you can strike him out at least once, I’m sure you’ll make the team. You just have to. Then you’ll be glad I made you quit your factory job to try out for this team. Game’s about to start soon. I’ll see ya Wednesday.” With an ear to ear grin, Donovan headed back to the stands, almost knocking over a young brunette woman watching the players in the dugout with a pair of binoculars. Sam found it odd, but then quickly thought nothing else of it.

Looking back at his holographic friend, Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I’m here for him, too? That’s four people now on this Leap.”

“Let’s see. Not much to go on from Ziggy. We already know he was the reason you, I mean Mark, decided to come back and pitch. I think I need to go right to the source on this one.” The Imaging Chamber door swooshed open. “I’m gonna talk to Mark in the Waiting Room. You’re safe from pitching today but you should try to get some extra throwing practice in tomorrow. Don’t forget to take your cap off for the national anthem, Sam.” The Observer quickly stepped through the door and it closed after him.

Al walked down the ramp and flipped the handlink to Dom. As he turned to head towards the Waiting Room, his right leg began to spasm on him. With as much dignity as he could muster, Al tried not to let it slow as a bemused Dominic Lofton raised an eyebrow. Cursing himself for his age, the Admiral approached the guarded door of the Waiting Room, punched in the keys and entered.

On the table lay a figure in a white Fermi suit. To everyone else, he looked like Sam Beckett, but to Al it was another person. Dr. Beeks was talking to him, offering him a cup of coffee. By the looks of the Leapee, he had consumed quite a few cups already.

“Easy on the java, Bena, or we’re gonna have to start taking the Leapee’s for potty breaks.” Al walked across the room and introduced himself. “Hi there, I’m Al.”

“Hello, Al. I’m…Mark.” It was almost a question to Verbena Beeks, the Quantum Leap psychiatrist, about whether he was right about his name. It was a common occurrence that the person Sam replaced in time usually suffered memory problems. Dr. Beeks nodded her head in the affirmative. Al wasn’t sure but he noticed that Mark was shaking. Whether it was from the chills of hurtling forward through time or the massive amounts of caffeine from the coffee in his system, the Admiral couldn’t tell. He approached Dr. Beeks as she motioned for him to follow her away from the shivering man.

“What is it that you need, Al?” asked the psychiatrist. “This is very bad timing.”

“Bad timing for what Bena?” It seemed naturally that an argument at some degree always erupted between them at any given moment.

“I was on the verge of making a breakthrough with him. Right before you walked in, I explained the whole Leaping business about him and Sam and he seemed pretty understanding about it. It was when we began discussing what Sam might be there to do for him when he was about to open up to me.”

“Sorry, but it can’t be helped. Ziggy is low on the info and I need to get the facts directly from our boy over there.”

Verbena sighed, trying to hold her tongue. It was obvious she very much wanted to get back to her patient before he clamed up on her.

Al put up his hand in a peace offering. “Look, I don’t wanna ruin what you got going in here with this guy. Perhaps I can help. What’s going on with Mark?”

“Look, Bena, I feel bad. Really, I do.” Feeling hurt for being told he was in the way, Al walked back towards Mark. The Admiral sat on the edge of the table, giving his aching leg a rest.

“Nice suit, Al,” observed Mark. “That teal jacket would go with my jersey.”

“Glad you like it.” Al got down to business quick. “Look, I’m gonna level with you, Mark. I’m gonna ask you some questions.”

“Yeah, Mark, to help Sam. What’s the first thing that you can think of that might explain why he is there in Viera, Florida?”

“Not sure, Al. My memory is kinda fuzzy. Does it have to do with my making the team?”

Al leaned forward. “Maybe. Do you think your nephew has something to do with it?”

“My neph…Donovan?” Mark’s forehead creased in deep thought. “Our bet? This is all about our bet?”

“Donovan got inspired by that baseball movie ‘The Rookie’ about an aging ballplayer trying to earn a shot at the big leagues. My nephew’s about a year away from graduating high school and he and his mom have been arguing because he wants to go to film school. His mother wants him to go to a “normal” college and get a real degree. Donovan then said he wouldn’t go to college period. So I made a bet with him and his mom. If I tried out again and made the team in any capacity, he would agree to go to school. Somehow he got his mom to agree that if I made the team he would go to film school. Whatever happens, it all comes down to me.”

“Helluva wager there,” Al said. “Somehow I think there’s more to it on your side of this deal.”

Mark hesitated. Al looked over at Verbena and noticed she was watching, waiting for the man to open up.

Al gave him his best sincere look. “C’mon, kid, spill it. Get it off your chest.”

Sighing, Mark conceded. “OK. I know that if I make a return as a pitcher, it won’t be the same for me as it once was. My fastball doesn’t have the huge zip it once had. My mechanics aren’t the same. I’ve trained myself to learn to be a smart pitcher with what I have left instead of being an overpowering one. I even started telling the younger prospects how to pitch smart and not try to throw fastball after fastball to strike everyone out. My locker is filled with journals on how to pitch to different hitters. Anything to give me an edge to make the cut, I used.” Anger started to creep into his voice as he struggled to keep back his emotions. “Dammit, once I was the best. I could intimidate the best hitters that faced me in the box. My fastball was impossible to hit on a good day. People came early to watch me pitch. Kids used to fight to get in line for my autograph. Not even worth two pennies now. You say this Sam is back in time to fix something for me. Can’t you send him further back to make sure I condition myself better so I don’t hurt my arm?”

Al looked down at the floor as he noticed the early sign of tears welling up in the Leapee’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Mark. We don’t control where Sam goes?”

“Can’t you at least try? This is a time travel experiment, right? You can’t make him change everything so I won’t hurt anymore, thinking of all those years of my life that could have been? My life is nothing but regrets, what-ifs. I’d give anything to pitch like my old self again. Finish off a complete college game shut-out and spend hours signing autographs and doing interviews for the media. Now, I can’t get anyone to give me a ball to sign. I’m a joke.”

Al had enough, an unexpected spark blazed in him. “You selfish bastard.” He noticed Verbena stare at him in shock but he went on. “This is not all about you anymore. It’s about helping your nephew get on the right path in his life. That’s what Sam is all about, helping people make better choices because he is in a position to do that. So quit your whining, and get on with your life. Jesus, you’re going on like you’re retiring already and realizing you’re worthless anymore. If anyone has a right to retire, it’s me!” Al was shocked to hear those words come from his mouth but it was too late. With the knowledge that he needed now acquired, he stormed out of the room past Mark and then the security guards and headed for the elevator to be alone. Verbena followed right behind until they were out of earshot of anyone inside the elevator.

“I’m sorry Bena.” Al fought to calm himself down. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Yes you do, Admiral. You’ve been really cranky ever since your birthday and don’t think I haven’t noticed you hiding the pain in your leg.”

“It’s not just the leg, Bena. I just feel rundown, tired, and achy all the time. I think the stress from all the years of Observing is catching up to me. But I can’t leave Sam behind when he needs me.”

Al shook his head glumly. “Yeah. Lately I just feel like I can’t keep up. It goes beyond my birthday. Ever since Stephen invented those handlink upgrades, I feel obsolete. All I do anymore is repeat Ziggy’s information. I’m an old parrot. I’ve been even avoiding Stephen lately to spare his feelings, switched off his upgrades and went back to using the handling just like the olden days but it’s not helping. Maybe someday when someone invents a computer that can act as a trained psychiatrist, you’ll understand. Sam’s current leap in sunny Florida is doing nothing but plant the seed of retirement even further. Beth and I deserve it after all those years together. We’re not getting younger.”

Beeks nodded. “I see. You know what I think?” After Al stared her in the eyes, she continued, “You called Mark selfish, but you’re acting the same way.”

“You heard me. You’re being selfish. You stand here complaining to me about how age has finally crept up on you and how you feel rundown and obsolete and useless and everything. Have you ever thought once about Sam? You would be leaving him behind. That man would die for you. He sacrificed a return trip home to save you once. I think you owe him to make sure he gets home no matter what ideas are rattling around inside your head. While we are on that subject, that’s how I feel about your problems. I think it’s psychosomatic. It’s all in your head and it’s causing all your aches and pains. You need to find your fountain of youth. It’s different for everyone but it’s out there. In your case, I think it would be replacing Sam and successfully completing a dangerous leap. But I don’t think that’s possible so you have to find something else. Find a way to feel useful again. Something that could help Sam finish a leap that he is unable to do.”

The Admiral drew a deep breath, realizing that there was truth to what she had to say. “Maybe. I don’t know, Bena. Look, I’m feeling uncomfortable even talking about retiring and all. Sam means the world to me and I can’t leave him. But what if he Leaps another ten years down the road? Will I still be here to help him?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Look, I gotta get back and check on Sam. Talk to ya later, Bena.” Walking past her, he left the elevator and headed back to the Control Room.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so. Fire up the Imaging Chamber.” The Observer grabbed the handlink and stepped through the door that took him to Sam.

Sam nearly dropped the notebook he was reading as he looked up from his seat in the dugout as Al reappeared through the Imaging Chamber Door. Something seemed different to the Leaper about his friend. Al seemed older than when he had seen him just moments earlier.

“Hey, Sam.” Al said trying to pass off a cheerful wave and failed to be convincing. He took out a cigar from his jacket pocket, lit it, and began puffing on it. “What’s the score on the game?”

“Yeah,” said Steve sitting next to him on the bench. “But our guys have a few runners on base. Looks like a rally brewing.”

“All right, Sam, just sit there and listen or else the team will think your looney tunes. I talked to Mark. Apparently there is this 3-way bet going on that decides Donovan’s future and it hinges on your making the team in some way, shape, or form. So basically, make the team, stop Steve from starting on steroids, and stop Pete from screwing up his life in a bar. Looks like you can’t do much until the game is finished so I’m gonna go back and take a nap. Been feeling tired all day.” Just as Al started to punch buttons on the handlink, he noticed the notebook in Sam’s lap. “What’s that you’re reading, Sam?”

“Pretty smart idea, Sam. You found Mark’s journals. He told me he kept his locker full of them. Now you can read the scouting reports on all the hitters you have to face on Wednesday. Ziggy says your odds of making the team skyrocketed just by having the book with you. Wonder why?” For some reason, Al looked like he had something else to add, but closed his mouth and rapidly hit buttons on the handlink. With a wave, the hologram stepped through the door and vanished once again, leaving Sam to wonder what Al almost wanted to tell him but seemed more comfortable to hide it.

Just as Sam resumed reading over the notebook again, a pair of feet stopped in front of him. Looking up, he saw Torborg standing over him. Peering down on Sam, he took a peak at what was on the pages.

“Smart thinking,” Torborg went on. “That’s the kind of initiative I want to see from my players. Always be prepared. I gotta say though, these are highly detailed notes. Better than some of the reports I see from my coaching staff sometimes. Keep up the good work.”

Pouring over every scrap of information in the book, Sam failed to realize the game was near the end. So absorbed in his reading, it took awhile to dawn on him that the game ended in a 7-7 tie (both teams had used up their scheduled pitchers) and that most of the players had already headed to the showers to go home for the day. By the time Sam made it to the clubhouse, most of the players had already left, including Steve and Pete.

After a shower, Sam got dressed in front of the locker baring his host’s name and sat on the clubhouse bench. He had nowhere to go. The address in his wallet was for his off-season residence in Texas. There was no one around to ask, no clue to tell him where he needed to go from the stadium, and Al was nowhere to be found.

An idea occurred to Sam, and he realized it was time for some sight-seeing around the clubhouse. He walked down a corridor that led away from the lounge. A minute later he found himself in front of the medical physician’s room. To his amazement, the door swung upon. Turning on the light switch, Sam stepped inside and found himself in an average sized room with a few exam tables and some glass cabinets with locks on them. Examining the cabinets closely, Sam found numerous small containers inside. The markings on them indicated various types of painkillers, sedatives, and other medical supplies.

‘Nothing in here that comes even close to being steroids,” mused Sam. “It doesn’t appear that Steve would be able to get them from the physician.” Turning to the counter that doubled as a desk for the physician, Sam noticed a container that was full of pills. Reading the label on the container, Sam smiled and pocketed the pills. Quietly, he turned off the light, closed the door, and headed back down the hall the way he had come.

It was already dinnertime and he was getting hungry. He had toyed with the idea of jogging into town, but was afraid the doors would shut behind him and he’d be locked out with no place to go. Making sure he had money in his wallet, he found a vending machine in the clubhouse lounge that had granola bars and another machine that had microwave food. Using up his money, he bought enough food to get through the evening. Satisfied, he ate what he could and settled on the lounge sofa to watch television. It was early evening programming, nothing from prime time yet, so he finally settled on the rerun of a show called “Seinfeld”. Thoughts of being powerless in the event that Pete and Steve needed his help right now kept echoing through his mind, but since Al wasn’t around with any updates, he hoped nothing needed to be changed until tomorrow. Before long, Sam’s eyes grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep.

Admiral Calavicci awoke with a start in his bed. What started out as a nap became a long period of sleep. Groaning, Al looked over to his alarm clock. Squinting, he tried to read the digital display. In frustration, he grabbed a pair of eyeglasses off the nightstand and put them in. To his surprise, it was eight hours later.

Quickly, he moved off the bed, showered, and got himself dressed. Once his neon orange suit was in place, he moved as fast as his body would permit him to the Control Room. Without a word to anyone in there, he grabbed the handlink and moved up the ramp to the Imaging Chamber. Dom didn’t have to be told, he already had everything on-line.

The image around Al changed from the metallic walls to the clubhouse lounge. Sam was sprawled in a sofa, with what remained of a granola bar scattered all over him in crumbs. The television was showing an early morning news program.

“Where were you, Al?” As Sam sat up on the sofa, the crumbs went flying. “I’ve been here all night because I had no idea where I was supposed to go.”

Al rubbed his eyes, still fighting drowsiness. “Sorry, pal, I went for a nap and I just really dozed off.”

“You’ve never slept like that on me before and left me without information. Has anything changed with Steve and Pete. I spent most of last night hoping that I wasn’t needed to change anything because I had no idea where they went after the game.”

Stifling a yawn, Al replied, “Sam, I said I was sorry. I was really tired.” He looked down at the handlink. “Anyway, Ziggy says Pete’s affair will happen later today and nothing has changed with Steve. Looks like Mark, I mean you, has some practice today. There’s no exhibition game today so everyone has the evening off. Then tomorrow, you have to start the game and go at least five solid innings to make the team.”

Sam got up and turned the tv off and headed for the locker room area. By now, a few players had already shown up and were getting into fresh uniforms. As Sam reached out his arm to open his locker, he let out a slight gasp of pain.

“I don’t know, Al. I felt a twinge in my arm just now. Think I might have slept on my arm funny.” He flexed it a few times. “Feels all right, now.”

“That’s not good. You better hope it’s nothing. If you can’t pitch tomorrow, Mark and Donovan’s futures are shot.”

The conversation between Leaper and Observer was suddenly interrupted by the loud clang of a duffel bag striking the locker next to Sam’s. The answer to who threw the bag became obvious when Steve slumped down onto the bench next to Sam.

Sam put up his hand to cut off Al from saying anything further. “What’s wrong, Steve?”

“Aw, hell, Mark, I just came from the manager’s office. Torborg and a bunch of the coaches were in there. They all ganged up on me. Told me I haven’t been hitting the ball for power and distance as much as they expected. Cuts are in a couple of days, so I gotta knock the shit outta the ball today or they said they are gonna give me my release. But I got as plan, see.”

Nodding, Sam indicated for Steve to continue. “I’m not gonna mess around a minute longer. I’m gonna hit the weights before batting practice and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to bulk myself up and be a power hitter. If the Marlins release me this week, I’ll come back with another team by mid-summer and make them pay when I take these pitchers yard.” A few pitchers walked past and glared at Steve.

Steve reached into his bag in a conspiratorial manner and motioned for Sam to look closer at the pill container he pulled out. “This is what’s gonna get my career off the ground.”

“Shhh.” Steve silenced him. “Not so loud. I don’t want everybody in here to know. Got a prescription of steroids in here. My personal trainer back home got ‘em for me. I’ve never used them before, and honestly I’m a little afraid of the side effects I keep hearing about.”

Al scowled his face at Steve. “Not to mention the fact that what you have is a banned substance in professional sports that will end your career if you get caught with it.”

“If it makes me a bona fide power hitter, then I’ll risk it. Hey,” Steve began to change the subject, “I’m getting a water bottle outta the machine. You need anything?”

“No thanks.” Sam answered. He watched Steve for a few seconds until he disappeared into the lounge area. Making sure no one else was looking (although Al caught on that something was going on and watched around to serve as lookout), he dumped the steroids out of Steve’s bag and into a Styrofoam cup. Working fast, he dumped the contents of the container he took from the physician’s office into the container in Steve’s bag. As Steve returned with his water, Sam got up and walked to the bathroom, where he dumped the steroids and flushed them away.

The Observer waited for him upon his return. “Pretty sneaky, Sam. Right after you went to the john, Steve popped a couple of whatever it was you gave him and headed off for the weight room. What did you give him anyway?”

The Leaper grinned. “I gave him a bunch of huge sugar pills. Since he said he never touched the stuff before, I gambled that he had no idea what they looked like.”

Al’s eyes widened as he caught on. “Giant sugar pills? You gave him a giant placebo. But that won’t help Steve become a better power hitter.”

“After all these leaps,” said Sam looking skyward, “I’ve learned to trust the little voices in my head. If all goes well, my plan will work.”

All Al could say in response was, “Oh, boy” as he stifled a yawn. ‘Another nap?’ he thought. “Hey, Sam, I’m gonna see if Dom needs help getting data from Ziggy.” Within seconds, Al stepped through the Imaging Chamber Door and was gone.

Shaking his head at the strange way his friend was acting, Sam sat down on the clubhouse bench by his locker and began flexing his arm. There were no more twinges of pain so he finished putting on his uniform and headed to the practice field to find it was another gorgeous Florida day.

Before long most of the players had reported to the field, followed by Torborg and the coaching staff. “All right, pitchers pair up and head down to the bullpen area for some soft-tossing exercises. Everyone else hit the field for fielding and batting practice.”

All the pitchers found throwing partners and spread out on the outfield grass, leaving Sam to toss with a forlorn Pete. After maintaining a decent sized space between them, they began to throw back and forth. Sam figured a good game of catch was the best time to get some information out of someone.

“Woman problems, Mark. My fiancée wants to call me later and talk about something. From what I can guess, I think she wants to break off the engagement.”

“Who knows? I think it has something to do with her not wanting to lead the life of a baseball player’s wife. She hated my being away from her in the minor leagues all last season. If I make the big club, I’ll really be away. I don’t think she wants that. She wants someone who’ll be around all the time.”

“Give her a chance, Pete. She hasn’t said anything yet so wait until you hear what she has to say.”

“Yeah,” Pete agreed. “Maybe you’re right. I’m making a lot out of nothing.”

Sam hoped things would go well for Pete. Just as he was about to toss the ball back, he heard a loud crack. Whoever was in the batter’s box taking practice swings had just connected on a longball. Players and coaches standing around the batting cage applauded the hitter. A few seconds later, and the hitter smashed a screaming line drive to the center field wall.

“Hey,” exclaimed Pete, “It’s Steve, and he’s hitting the hell outta those pitches. Atta boy, Steve!”

For a brief moment, Sam wondered if he had made a mistake with the pill switch in the clubhouse. Did Steve get a hold of some steroids elsewhere? Steve was really hitting the ball solidly. Unable to find out about that further, Sam resumed his throwing. After a couple more tosses, Pete backed up a few steps to increase the distance of the throws. Sam gripped the baseball and put a little extra on the throw to reach Pete. For a brief instant, fire exploded in Sam’s elbow and he clutched it to him in pain. Immediately, Pete and a few of the pitching coaches bounded over to examine Sam.

“I’m all right,” he insisted to the physician who also arrived on the scene.

“I’ll make that determination,” said the physician, massaging Sam’s arm and bending it in different directions. “Does this hurt?”

Another bend at the elbow and fire erupted again. It was worse than a twinge, it was pain. “Yoww!” Sam screamed into the physician’s ear.

“This is serious. I’m sorry, Mark, but as team physician, I might not be able to clear you to pitch tomorrow.”

Alarmed, Sam’s face took on a fearful look. “You can’t! I have to pitch tomorrow! A lot of people depend on it.”

“I am sorry, Mark, but rules are rules. I can’t let a recovering Tommy John player go out there and destroy his arm for good, and that’s just what you might do. Every time you have come back, you get injured again. I fear that unless your arm makes a full recovery this time, your pitching days are over. I’ll need to see you in my office right now for more tests.”

Dejected, Sam turned and followed the physician off the field. As he passed the coaches, he heard one call over to the cocky rookie whom Sam and Al watched in fascination the day before.

It was a long walk back to the clubhouse facility for Sam. His head was spinning from the latest blow this leap had dealt him. He had finished Mark’s career, ruined Donovan’s future, and still hadn’t changed Pete and Steve’s lives for the better. To top it off, his Observer was nowhere in sight.

Sam was miserable as he sat on the clubhouse lounge couch, icing his elbow. It had been quite some time since the physician made his observations in his office and told Sam to limit the use of his pitching arm. He needed Al to find out what could be done to complete the leap and leave but his friend still hadn’t arrived.

A while later, the players all spilled back into the clubhouse to shower and change after the practice. Pete and Steve spotted Sam and walked into the lounge.

“Yeah,” said an almost beaming Steve, “I hope so too. Sorry if I seem overly cheerful but I had a helluva day at the plate!”

“That’s a load of crap,” laughed Pete. “I’ll see ya guys later. I wanna shower before Lisa calls. Hopefully you were right earlier, Mark, about this phone call being positive.” With a slight smile, he headed for the showers.

Steve turned back to Sam. “Those steroids seemed to have taken effect already. I had those coaches dropping jaws. Yeah, I hit the weights good and the coaches had me working on a new batting stance today, but man it was those pills. They worked wonders. I know I have a shot at the team now.”

It made Sam wince but he knew he had to come clean. “It wasn’t the steroids, Steve.”

“I flushed your steroids away when you got the water bottle. I switched them with sugar pills.”

“You did what? How could you?” Anger formed across Steve’s face. “If your arm wasn’t hurt, I’d break it.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Don’t you see, Steve? You hit the weights, you changed your stance, you impressed all those coaches, but you did it yourself. Without the steroids, you did it on your own. It was the belief that you were bettering yourself that boosted your confidence. That was all you really needed.”

The scowl turned to an amused look. “You know, I think you’re right. I felt really focused and zoned in while I was batting because I thought I was pumped up on that stuff. Deep down, I never did want to take that stuff. You did me a really big favor. Thanks, Mark.” He slapped Sam on the back as he was then called into the manager’s office. “Evaluation time, Mark, wish me luck.” Grinning, he left Sam alone, who tried to figure out what was going on by reading everyone’s body language in the office. A few moments later, a crestfallen Steve walked back into the lounge.

“Well, that’s good, right?”
“I suppose. The bad news is they re-assigned me to AA for more work. But you know what, I still have a chance. I’m not done yet. With this new batting stance and the weightlifting program I wanna start, I will force them to notice me and promote me to the bigs.”

A tingle came over Sam as he realized one problem was solved. “That’s the spirit.”

“Gonna hit the weights again before I pack up and get my travel details.” He offered a hand to Sam. “Good luck, I hope you make it. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” Steve left the room just as the phone on the lounge wall began to ring.

“Don’t get up,” Pete motioned as he bounded into the room. “I’ll take this one.” He picked up the phone. “Hello? Yeah, Lisa, it’s me. I missed you, too…”

Sam tried to tune out the personal phone call as Pete merely stood there and listened to Lisa for a few minutes. With each passing second, Pete looked worse and worse. “OK, then, Lisa,” Pete finally said. “Have a good life.” He placed the phone back on the receiver and turned, seeing Sam, whom he had forgotten was in the room. “You heard?”

“Yeah,” said a sympathetic Sam. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out between you two.”

“I was right,” said a distraught Pete. “She wanted no part of playing a small role in the life of a ballplayer.” He walked over to his locker and grabbed his duffel bag.

“I’m going out. I need some time alone. See you tomorrow before the game. Hope you get to pitch your heart out.” Pete bolted from the room and out the door of the clubhouse facility. Sam got up and ran after him. By the time, he made his way to the outside exit, Pete was already in his car and gone.

“Damn,” Sam cursed as he looked around for any means to follow Pete. He had no idea where his car was or which one was his. Another curse was directed at Al, for not being there to help him. Disgusted, Sam went back into the lounge to ice his arm some more, wondering if he would indeed get to pitch to complete the leap.

Loud rap music blared through Al’s quarters, waking him up with a start. Half-awake, he picked up his alarm clock and threw it across the room.

Thankfully to the Admiral, the rap music ceased. “You poor man’s excuse for artificial intelligence, why did you wake me?”
A disembodied female voice responded, “I determined that you were going to take a long nap so I notified Dominic and he was kind enough to leave your handlink in its cradle in the Imaging Chamber. Having just run an update of my

Goniospectrophonometer program, I detected large levels of stress emanating from Dr. Beckett. Therefore, I found it necessary to wake you from your beauty rest.” After a pause, the voice continued. “Somehow I do not think it helped you any, Admiral.”

“If Stephen could make you real instead of a holographic image, I wouldn’t be opposed to hitting a woman for just this one instance. I may be getting old but I still have some fight left in me.” Al marched out the door and headed for the Control Room. If Ziggy was in holographic form that very moment, she would have smiled for the way she just brought out Al’s youthful energy.

Upon entering the Control Room, Al was greeted immediately by Dominic. “Greetings, Admiral, I trust you had a good nap and feel back to your old self again?”

“What is it with everyone around here getting on me about my age?” Al snarled at Dom, who stepped back in surprise. “If I hear one more wisecrack about my age I’m gonna crack some skulls, got that?”

“Y-y-yes, sir, Admiral sir. Your handlink is in the Imaging Chamber. It’s online I’ll open the door for you.”

The door wasn’t even halfway up when Al ducked under it and grabbed the handlink. The scene shifted and Al found himself in the Marlins clubhouse lounge with a very angry Sam holding an ice pack on his arm.

“I know, kid. I’m sorry, I know I let you down. This whole leap, I’ve felt pretty much useless to you.”

Some of the anger left Sam. “Well, you can make up for it now. Pete’s girlfriend dumped him a few hours ago and he took off. I need to find him.”

Al was on it. “OK, Sam, there’s a Toyota parked in the player’s parking lot. It’s your rent-a-car. I’ll get more details while you find it.”

Sam rushed out of the clubhouse and spent little time finding his car. Reaching into his pocket, he found the keys and climbed in. As the ignition turned over, Al popped in next to him.

“Ziggy says Pete is near his hotel, getting drunk at the bar just down the street from it so we need to move. He’s staying at the Baymont Inn so turn left outta here onto Wickham Road and then follow it down to North Wickham Road and turn left. The inn is only a short drive down.”

Following Al’s directions, he made record time getting to the inn. Just down the street from the inn was a sports bar with all the neon beer signs lit in the windows. Above the main entrance was a big neon sign that said, “Homer’s Bar”. Locking the car, Sam trotted up to the entrance and stepped inside.

Al popped in next to Sam and they began looking around for Pete. There were booths along the walls, each one with a small television screen hooked into some kind of sporting event. Plenty of tables filled up the main floor area and there was a bar with stools and a counter towards the back with plenty of larger screens mounted on the walls above it and to the sides. Sports memorabilia adorned the walls and ceiling of the place.

“Sam, Ziggy says Pete is in here someplace among all these people. She can’t get a fix because of how packed the place is. According to the original history, Pete pulls a Kobe Bryant sometime in the next few minutes.”

Attendance seemed to be good that day. A large crowd had already come in for Happy Hour and early dinner specials. As Sam and Al passed one of the tv screens, an image appeared with a guy throwing a heavy object on a sheet of ice with other people sweeping in front of it. “That’s curling, Sam,” Al remarked, “but no time now to explain it to you.”

Sam headed towards the farthest back corner of the bar where an unused jukebox sat. It was crowded with a loud of people, in particular a couple was making out.

“That’s him, Sam, with that brunette in the corner. Ziggy says you have to stop him now.”

Urged on by Al, Sam quickly grabbed the brunette and moved her away from Pete. To the Leaper’s surprise, he realized who she was. It was the odd woman who was watching the players with her binoculars.

Before Sam could remember further, a fist connected with his jaw and sent him sprawling. He crashed to the floor and looked up to see a very drunk Pete looming over him. The pitcher was totally bombed, his eyes were bloodshot and his face took on a reddish color.

Groggily, Sam got to his feet, nodded to Al he was fine and immediately got hit again.

“Ouch, Sam, that had to hurt. Don’t hit him back, he’s drunk and you might hurt your arm and ruin Mark’s career.”

Nodding, Sam slowly got up. Feeling around his face for blood, he found no trace of injury and assumed a defensive position. By now, many of the patrons had either run out or hovered by the other side of the bar to watch the fight. The bartender was trying to calm everyone down and shouting at the two ballplayers to stop.

Stumbling, Pete came forward, swinging his fists at Sam who managed to side-step the assault. After a few more minutes, Pete slumped tired to the floor.

Breathing heavy from the fight, Sam turned to the bartender. “Sorry about all this. My friend is having a bad time and he’s really drunk. I’ll take him to his room now.” He looked around for the brunette but she was gone. “Where did she go?” he asked Al.

“That woman?” asked the bartender. “Her name’s Rachel. She comes in here all the time trying to pick up ballplayers, seeing what she can get out of them. I swore if she tried anything like that in here again, I’d ban her. That woman’s trouble.”

Al looked up from his handlink. “It doesn’t appear she tries the rape scheme on anyone else. There’s no mention of anyone with her name or description linked to any “raped-by-athlete” claims.”

Reaching into Pete’s pocket, he found a key with the number 32 on it. With the help of one of the bar patrons, Sam managed to get Pete off the floor and began to carry him out with Al following. Oblivious to the memorabilia on the walls around them, neither Al or Sam noticed as they passed a picture on the wall with Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris…and a familiar moustached bartender named Al standing between them, almost watching the two members of Quantum Leap with approval as they walked by.

Before long, Sam and the patron helped Pete back to his room and left him on the bed. The patron closed the hotel door behind him as he returned back to the bar.

The Observer took a drag on his cigar and looked at the passed out player. “He’ll have one helluva hangover but he’ll be all right.”

“I should probably stay with him to make sure he reports to the game tomorrow on time.” Sam winced as he moved his arm.

“What happened?”
“I think I pulled something when we moved Pete into his room.”

“Geez, Sam, at this rate, I don’t think you’re gonna start tomorrow’s game.”

Before Sam could comment, there was a knock at the door. Looking quizzically at Al, wondering if the brunette returned, he cautiously opened the door. On the other side stood a thin, very attractive blonde in a dress.

“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong room,” she said. “I was looking for Pete Wilson’s room.”

“He’s here.” Sam moved away from the door to let her in. Tears came from her face as she rushed over to Pete snoring loudly on the bed.

“I found him drinking in the bar and brought him back here to sleep it off.”

“He must have been drinking because of me.” More tears came as she held out a hand to Sam. “I’m Lisa. Lisa Edwards.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to make the team just like Pete. I was gonna stay here and make sure he is all right for tomorrow’s game.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Lisa wiped a tear from her cheek. “I came here to surprise him. I felt horrible after I called him earlier to break off the engagement. But all I could think about was what I was throwing away. I realized it was a mistake and I came here to tell him that personally. He’ll get to the stadium tomorrow morning, I promise that.”

“In the original history,” the Observer reported, “Lisa walked in on Pete and that bimbo doing the bingo-bango-bongo and destroyed any chance of them getting back together. Lisa went on to one bad relationship after another and became an alcoholic, but you fixed that now.”

Sam tried to sneak Al a nod that he was pleased with what he had changed as Lisa knelt by the bed and began soothing Pete’s face.

“Lucky dog,” Al commented. “He gets to wake up in the arms of a caring attractive woman like that. Reminds me when I was first married to Beth. I’d wake up hungover and Beth was my nurse.” He trailed off reliving the memories of his past as he exited the Imaging Chamber in a hurry.

Sam thanked Lisa and left the hotel room. As he fished for his car keys, he noticed a key on the ring similar to the one Pete had. It had the number 45 on it. Smiling, he drove down to the inn parking lot, opened his hotel room door, and crashed on the bed.

JUPITER, FLORIDA

“…Welcome fans to Roger Dean Stadium…” crackled the loudspeakers. “Today’s exhibition game is the Florida Marlins versus the Montreal Expos…” The announcer’s voice trailed off as John Fogerty’s ‘Centerfield’ song began blaring.

Al hurried through the Imaging Chamber Door and found himself in the visiting team’s dugout. He had gotten another good night’s sleep and felt slightly better than he had in weeks. The updates he had gotten from Ziggy only added to his increasingly good mood.

Sam was sitting on the bench reading over his scouting report journal with the physician examining his arm. The Observer noticed his friend wince in pain as he tried to bend his elbow and move his arm. Standing near them was Pete, looking very tired from all the drinking from the day before but with an expression of concern, and the young cocky pitcher hovered around as well.

Jeff Torborg, the Marlins’ manager walked into the dugout just as the physician completed his exam. “What’s the verdict, doc?” he asked.

“Well, Jeff, he’s experiencing quite a bit of discomfort in his arm. There’s no way I can clear him to pitch today. I’m very sorry, Mark.”

“No,” cried Sam, “I have to pitch today. It means a lot if I can do it.”

“Someone will need to tell the umpires about the change in pitchers.” said Torborg. A coach ran onto the field to pass along the change.

“Mark, from what I could tell,” stated the physician thinking Sam was talking to him, “I highly doubt you’ll be able to pitch again. I am truly sorry.”

Torborg turned to the young man standing with Pete. “Are you ready to pitch on short rest?”

The cocky young pitcher responded by taking the baseball from his manager’s hands. “Just give me the ball.” He followed Torborg out of the dugout and onto the field to begin warming up.

“Tough break, Mark,” Pete sympathized when they were the only two left in the dugout. “I was really rooting for you, especially after last night. You did me the biggest favor anyone could ever do. You stopped me from making one of the biggest mistakes in my life. There’s no way I can repay you for that. Thanks to you, the wedding is planned for June. If it’s any consolation, I want you to be best man, considering you’re not sore at me for toughening up your jaw.”

“Great!” Pete grinned as he trotted on to the field, leaving Sam finally alone.

“…Your attention, please…” announced the voice over the loudspeaker. “…There has been a change in today’s line-up. Mark Robbins will not be pitching in today’s game. Now starting for the Florida Marlins…Number 61…Josh Beckett…Game time will begin in forty minutes…”

Sam did a double take on hearing the name of the brash young pitcher taking the mound in his place. ‘Beckett?’

Confusion crept into Sam’s voice. “Wait a minute, Al. This doesn’t make any sense. If I pitch, then most likely Mark makes the team and Donovan goes to film school. Now you’re saying if I don’t pitch, I change this Beckett guys future for the better?”

“Could you please enlighten me as to what the hell’s going on then? I thought I was supposed to pitch to help out Mark and Donovan. Now you’re saying not pitching helps change more than that? I’ve helped so many people apparently I can’t keep track of it all. I should be leaping, right?”

Al took a drag on his cigar and then took a deep breath. “Um, not yet, Sam. You have one thing left to do and I have one thing left to do. Ziggy says to make sure you give your scouting report journal to that other Beckett before the game starts and then you’re finished with this leap.”

“Sorry, Sam, I can’t explain it all yet. Ziggy says I have to finish your leap for you.”

Al shrugged his shoulders. “Really, Sam. I have to do something for you in my present. I’m on my way to a ballgame in Albuquerque. See ya later, Sam, and make sure that kid gets the book.”

Sighing in total exasperation, Sam took his seat on the bench. The game was about to start and the Marlins players were approaching the dugout since they had first at-bats. Josh Beckett trotted into the dugout and sat down next to Sam. The young pitcher noticed the book Sam was reading. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Something you need to read before you pitch today. Pitching strategies to the other team’s hitters I came up with.”

Josh Beckett’s eyes twinkled as he took the book that Sam offered him and started leafing through it. “Wow, this is some really great advice in here. I’ll definitely take advantage of this.”

Closing his eyes, Sam expected to leap out but nothing happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting in the stands, Donovan gasped as heard the announcement. He knew better than to bother his uncle on gameday because starting pitchers are deeply focused on who they are facing. But now, his uncle was being taken out of the game, right before player cuts. His chances of going to film school and his uncle’s chances of pitching in the big leagues were now extinguished. Fighting back tears, Donovan slumped forward, burying his face in his hands as his future spiraled away from him.

“You betcha, kiddo. Isotope Park, home of the Albuquerque Isotopes. Kind of a weird name if you ask me.” Al remarked as he and Stephen Beckett approached the admissions gate to the stadium and waited in line at the ticket booth.

“Nope. When the Florida Marlins moved their AAA franchise to Albuquerque a few years ago, they held a contest to name the team. Because there was a Simpsons episode where the Springfield Isotopes threatened to move to Albuquerque and Homer went on a hunger strike to protest it while chained to the outfield, the choice for the team name here was almost unanimous.”

“Life imitates art, I suppose,” Al said dryly, tugging at the loud Hawaiian shirt he was sweating in. He knew not to wear any of his louder outfits in this weather, especially in a day game. “You remembered the bag, right?”

“I believe you are holding three tickets for Calavicci, please.” Al informed the attendant behind the window. “I need two of them, the third person will be arriving later.”

“I’m telling you, sir,” the attendant reminded Al, “there is nothing here for that name.”

“That blasted Ziggy,” muttered Al. “She told me she took care of everything.”

“Ziggy, sir?” asked the attendant. “I have three tickets under the name Ziggy. Thought it was an odd name for a woman when she called.”

Al paid for two of the tickets and escorted young Stephen into the stadium. An usher showed them to their seats. Players for both teams were already practicing as the two on a mission for Sam found their box seats on the third base side.

“Wow, Uncle Al! Front row seats! Right up where the action is. Ziggy is awesome.”

“She has her days I guess,” agreed Al. “Now, remember why we’re here. We need to find one of the pitching coaches. He should be in his mid thirties with a goatee, almost looks like he should be playing.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar.

“…Fans…,” crackled the loudspeaker, “…we urge you to refrain from smoking in the stands and only to do so in designated smoking areas near the concession stands…Thank you for your understanding and enjoy today’s ballgame…”

“I never cared much for that rule myself,” said a man who had just sat down in the next box seat section from Al. The Admiral turned and found himself face to face with a man slightly older than himself with silver hair and glasses. He was seated with a clipboard in his lap.

“Naw, we can’t set a bad example in front of your kid over there. My grandkids always make sure I behave myself. They don’t like it when Gramps gets into mischief,” the silver haired man chuckled.

There was a certain boyish charm to the gentleman seated next to him. It was a kind of charisma that seemed to rub off and affect everyone around him. To Al, it seemed like he was sitting with an overgrown kid and he found comfort in that.

“Uncle Al,” Stephen called back to him from the railing seperating them from the field. “Is that the guy over there?”

Al peered into the group of players about to run past their seats. “Yeah, Stephen. That’s him. Call him over.”

Stephen reached into his bag and pulled out a baseball and ballpoint pen. “Hey, Mark!” He yelled. “Mister Robbins!”

One of the men trotting past stopped and looked into the crowd. “You calling for me, kid?”

With a quizzical look, the man approached Stephen whose arms were outstretched. As if the ball and pen would burn his hands, Mark Robbins slowly took the ball from Stephen.

“I thought you were gonna pull them away last second like Lucy and Charlie Brown with the football,” Mark explained as he signed the sweet spot of the baseball. “No one ever asks for my autograph.” Stephen almost thought the man was about to cry as he handed the ball and pen back to him. “Thanks, kid,” the man continued with an ear to ear smile, “as selfish as it may seem, you made my day.” He tussled Stephen’s hair and ran off after the ballplayers, who overheard everything and began to teasingly ask him for his autograph. Looking back momentarily, Mark noticed the figure in the Hawaiian shirt and paused. Shaking his head, he continued on.

“Good going, kid. Hold on to that ball, your dad could use a souvenir… someday.”

“Mark Robbins?” Al replied. “Maybe we bumped into each other, once upon a time. Didn’t think he’d remember me though.”

“McKeon. Jack McKeon. Most people call me Trader Jack. “ He shook Al’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Sam here.” Al returned the handshake and then turned to Stephen. “You mom’s gonna be here pretty soon. She’s gonna stay and watch the game and take you back.”

“Aw, Uncle Al, can’t you stay and watch the ballgame with us?”

“Sorry, kid. I gotta get back and help your dad.”

“You sure you won’t stay, Al?” Trader Jack asked.

“Well, maybe for a few minutes,” Al sat back down. “So, Trader Jack, what brings you out here for this game?”

It was the top of the fifth inning when Al returned to see Sam. The game was low scoring and moving very slowly. Sam kept feeling there was something he hadn’t done yet to leap out. He stayed on the far end of the bench away from everyone else trying to figure out what he missed.

“That Beckett kid is pitching a great game.” The Leaper declined to comment on Al’s loud Hawaiian attire.

“Yeah, I know. He actually pitches five innings of one-hit ball against the Expos. Ziggy says you leap out after the fifth inning, right after Beckett leaves the game.”

“Well, does it take one inning to explain to me everything that happened during this leap?”

Al smiled and rocked on his heels. It wasn’t lost on Sam how upbeat his friend seemed since he last left and that Al experienced no pain in his leg. “Right, Sam, let’s start with you, I mean Mark. His pitching career is over.” He saw Sam’s face fall as he continued, “But wait, Sam, he does make the team.”

“Yeah, it appears Torborg was so impressed with all the journals Mark kept on all those hitters, that he convinced the Marlins front office to give him a job as a pitching coach with their AA team in Portland, Maine. In 2005, he gets promoted as a pitching coach to their AAA team in Albuquerque. Every spring training, he assists the manager with evaluating the players that try out for the team.”

“He’s not playing though,” argued Sam. “Wouldn’t that affect his bet with Donovan?”

“Technically, no. The bet was that Mark had to make the team in any capacity. The fact that he is a coach in the Marlins organization falls under that. Donovan’s mom apparently sticks to her side of the bargain and Donovan enrolls next year at USC film school, so he is on the path to turning out fine.”

“Steve is assigned to AA Portland and spends a year with Mark before he is traded to Texas by the Marlins for a play-off run. Last I heard he is on Texas’ AAA team being considered for a September call-up. He doesn’t bulk up on steroids and turn into Mark McGuire.”

“I’ll get to that in a minute, Sam. Hold on. As for Pete, he doesn’t make the ballclub and retires as a player, but Mark gets him a job as a pitching instructor with him in Portland. Pete marries Lisa in a huge pre-game ceremony in a few months with Mark as best man.” Al let out a cloud of cigar smoke. “Now, here come the larger changes you caused on this leap. In the original baseball history, the Yankees beat the Chicago Cubs in the 2003 World Series. It was a total mis-match, right after Sammy Sosa injured himself sliding into second in the first game. The Yankees took the series in 5 games, a really boring series.”

“By not pitching this game, you opened the door for Josh Beckett to cement his chances of being in the starting rotation. Although he’ll battle blister problems on his throwing hand this season and next season, the Marlins go on to the post-season. This kid will shut out the Cubs in game five of the National League play-offs and will then go on to shut out the Yankees in game six of the 2003 World Series, earning the Series M.V.P. award. Congratulations, Sam, you just launched the career of another Beckett.”

“Amazing that all of that came out of one leap. I’m getting dizzy trying to keep all this straight. At least there wasn’t anyone else I was here for.” He noticed the odd look that came over Al’s face.

“Actually, Sam, you were here for me too.” Al continued as Sam could only stare at him. “You probably don’t remember Sam, but a few months ago I celebrated my 71^st birthday.”

“Thanks, kid.” After a pause, Al continued. “At the time of my birthday, I seemed all right, but lately I was feeling warn out, tired, getting in the way, and that soon I would be replaced or no longer needed for this project. Eventually, I considered retiring from this project, even though it meant leaving you.”

Sam’s eyes shot up, but he let Al go on with his story. “The other day, Verbena cornered me and told me I had to do something to feel useful again. Something that you couldn’t do in the past. This one thing would be my fountain of youth. After I had talked with Mark in the Waiting Room the other day, he mentioned something about his life that bothered him. Right after he left the game years ago to have arm surgery, no one wanted his autograph. It finally hit me yesterday that I could help him with that.”

“Yeah. It wouldn’t mean anything if you got asked to sign an autograph for him while still posing as Mark. He had to be asked personally and not in the Waiting Room. It would’ve seen like a mockery to do that to him and he probably would forget it after he leaps out. So, I went to the game and had Step… Er, I got him to sign a baseball.”

“Seems odd that I would leap here just to have him sign a ball in the future.”

“I haven’t finished, Sam. Before the game I met this guy named Jack McKeon who was at the game assessing who warranted a September call-up for the Marlins. He’s a great fan of cigars himself. You probably never heard of him but he was a result of this leap.”

“Maybe, Sam, I don’t know. There were so many people you affected on this leap that Ziggy couldn’t figure them all out, especially Josh Beckett. I’m gonna have some fun with Ziggy on missing that one. Anyway, something happened that changed history. Your current manager, Jeff Torborg, now gets fired in May of next season and replaced by McKoen. Trader Jack goes on to manage the Marlins to a World Series title and gets Manager of the Year.”

Sighing, Sam started to grow impatient. “As great as all this is, Al, how does this all tie in with you?”

“You should meet this guy, Sam. Managing a World Series team at the age of 73. The guy is so exuberant that he made me realize I’m only as old as I feel and that a number shouldn’t control me. The half-hour I had to talk with him really helped me. I don’t have any strong desires to retire anymore. For the record, I will be here to help you until the day you are home for good. It’s amazing how much I feel energized because I met him. That reminds me,” Al said, fishing around in his pocket, “I hope I didn’t lose his address. We’re gonna exchange cigar brands.”

Sam shook his head as Al triumphantly pulled out a piece of paper with an address on it. “Only you, Al.”

Al pocketed the paper as Sam began to write a message on the front of the scouting report journal Josh Beckett had left on the bench next to him before taking the mound to pitch the inning.

“ ‘Tell your nephew you “made” the team!’” Al read as Sam put the book down. “What’s that for?”

“Donovan’s gotta be in the stands right now, probably worried to death that his dream is gone because I didn’t pitch today.” Sam answered. “I figure this will give him some hope until the official announcement is made.”

Suddenly, the players at the other end of the dugout began clapping as the Marlins trotted off the field. The fifth inning was over. Sam and Al had become so involved in their conversation that a whole inning had elapsed.

“Way to go, Josh,” players congratulated the young pitcher and future World Series hero.

“Way to go, Sam,” Al congratulated his friend. “You hit a grand slam on this leap and touched ‘em all.”

Sam felt himself start to blush with the praise as the familiar electrical tingle started to well inside him. “Al, you’ll never be obsolete. I’ll always need you. Without your experiences and intuition, I wouldn’t have gotten this far. You’ll always have value to me,” he said as he leaped out, not realizing that he made his friend blush as well.

The blue light was always soothing – a reminder of how truly wonderful a creation the universe was. For Sam Beckett, it was breathtaking, to say the least, to be able to see the multilayered levels of reality all around him without a physical outlet to process and comprehend the information. Here in this void between infinite timelines, he was completely himself. Drifting in unreality with the memories of Al, Donna, Sammy Jo, Alia, and so many others whose lives he had touched, he remembered everything and yet nothing. In the nanosecond it would take for Sam’s mind to realign itself with the realities he created, it would unravel just as fast. It was the constant driving force that kept Sam focused on his mission to put right what once went wrong.

This time, things had changed. In the quantum void, he saw… a mirror? That had never happened before, had it? He tried to look at his reflection, but he couldn’t see one. Sam couldn’t put his finger on it, but something felt different this time. He could feel some “force” pulling him in a new direction. The universe became small once again as the blue light faded. He was leaping…

The first thing Sam noticed was the smell. It was an odor unlike any he had ever smelled before – the stench of death, and it frightened him. He looked around at his surroundings. He was outside and it was dark, but it was a different kind of darkness. Not the dark of night, but rather, the dark of terrible destruction – like a black cloud billowing over the world. He started coughing and suddenly realized he was breathing in toxic fumes of smoke. All around him, he could see the debris of cars and buildings. Dust covered everything and when Sam looked closely through the dense fog, he could literally see hundreds, maybe thousands of skeletons – the remains of human bodies caught in the throes of a deadly cataclysm.

‘My God, where am I?’ he thought, as he saw the faint outline of a figure moving toward him. Before he could make out the form, he collapsed and fell into unconsciousness.

Sam awoke to the sound of a female voice. The coarseness of her voice made it hard to distinguish, but she was talking to someone else. “He’s coming to. Thank God!”

Sam looked up through strained eyes and found the source of the voice. Leaning over him was a beautiful woman with lovely brown eyes – a contrast to the dark hooded shroud she wore around her body. Although most of her physical features were hidden underneath the cloak she wore, Sam guessed that she was most likely in her mid to late twenties.

“You’re in an underground shelter, about 500 feet below ground level. You were beginning to succumb to the radiation. If I had arrived a few minutes later, you would most likely have been permanently exposed to fatal toxins without proper protection. Luckily, you were only a few hundred yards from where you were supposed to be. Thank God it worked, otherwise the Prophecy would have remained unchanged.”

“The prophecy? I don’t understand. What’s going on here? What happened to all those… people… up there?” Sam asked as he pointed a finger upward.

“All in good time,” the woman calmly replied. “Just try to relax. You have a long journey ahead of you, Dr. Beckett.”

Sam jolted up as he heard his name. “D-Dr. Beckett? D-did you just call me Dr. Beckett?”

The voice of an older man shouted out from across the enclosed shelter. “Damn it, Izzy, I warned you that he’d get all riled up over this. He needs time to adjust to his new surroundings.”

“Time is something we don’t have a lot of, Adam,” Izzy huffed. “In case you’ve forgotten, our society is on the brink of extinction, and Dr. Beckett might be the only one who can help us change things for the better!”

Sam had to shake his head just to make sure he was hearing the words correctly. “Society… on the brink of extinction? Dear God, what’s going on? Please, tell me!”

Izzy gave Sam a look devoid of emotion. “I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I’ll just come right out and say it. You’re in the future. The 39^th Year of Ascension, or to be more specific, December 31^st, 2034 on the Roman calendar.”

As Sam came to grips with what he had just been told, he uttered a very sorrowful, “Oh boy!”