Message-ID: <udDKiYAbDeu1MwIr@sam-tech.demon.co.uk>
Date: Sat, 25 Jul 1998 14:42:51 +0100
From: Heather Markham <Heather@sam-tech.demon.co.uk>
Subject: alternus-tempus.p01

CHAPTER ONE     


Syracuse Military Police Headquarters.
February 25th 1997.

  Mulder and Scully descended the long flight of stone steps 
leading from the large Military building. They discussed the 
evidence of their most recent case. They were both concerned 
and disturbed about the events surrounding the plane crash 
and the mysterious events leading to the death of Max Fenig, 
who had died in the crash. Max Fenig had claimed to be a UFO 
abductee and that he had vital evidence proving the 
existence of extraterrestrials and also the Governments 
conspiracy in developing UFO technology. He was thought to 
have been carrying that vital piece of evidence with him 
when he boarded the ill-fated plane.

  Scully was bringing Mulder up-to-date with the events of 
the previous night.

   "On the night we left the crash site, Sharon Graffy was 
found wandering, in a daze, around the same area. Strange 
lights were witnessed in the sky above the spot where she 
was found." 
  "Max's sister?" asked Mulder, as they reached the bottom 
of the steps and began walking from the building. Scully 
answered the question, 
  "That's another thing....she's not Max's sister. She's 
spent most of her time in and out of mental institutions. 
That's where she met Max." 
  Mulder raised an enquiring eyebrow, "Why would she lie?" 
  Scully stopped walking and turned to face her partner. 
"All I know is, that plane continues to kill people as it 
sits on the ground." She paused, sadness and concern showing 
on her face, "Mulder, Pendrell is dead." 
 Mulder's expression changed to one of surprise and 
disbelief, he could hardly accept the information. 
 "How, why?" he asked. 
 Scully swallowed in an effort to dislodge the lump in her 
throat but she couldn't hide the emotion in her words, "He 
was shot in an attempt on Sergeant Frisch's life in our 
local bar back in Washington. Mulder, Pendrell saved his 
life....and mine too." 
  She moved as if to walk away from the awfulness of it all, 
the needless waste of an innocent life. Mulder put out a 
hand to stop her, "Hey, Scully, Scully." 
  She stopped and searched Mulder's face, searched his eyes 
hoping to find some kind of sense to it all. Mulder put a 
comforting hand on her shoulder. Her voice reflecting her 
sadness, "Mulder, what are all these people dying for? Is it 
the truth or is it for the lies?" 
  A tiny muscle twitched at the side of Mulder's jaw, it was 
a question he often asked of himself, "Probably for the 
truth. If we owe them anything Scully, we should make sure 
of that. Pendrell's life shouldn't have been sacrificed for 
nothing."

         ***    ****  ****  ****  ****  ****    ***

   Sam's body tingled, a blue light crackled and flashed 
around him as he leaped. He opened his eyes and blinked, he 
was staring intently down a long dark tunnel at some 
hideous, crawling mass of worms.

   He recoiled back in horror and disgust. The microscope 
he'd been peering down toppled over. His sudden movement 
sent his seat careering backwards on its castors, it 
collided with someone behind him. Something crashed, his 
chair overbalanced and sent him sprawling to the floor in a 
very undignified heap.

   The heavily built figure of a man dressed in a white coat 
looked down at the mess and swore. "Oh damn....Pendrell 
there goes another piece of evidence from the Mandon case. 
Well, you can explain it to Skinner this time!"

   Sam surveyed the damage he'd caused, the broken remains 
of glass test tubes and jars lay amongst puddles of blood 
and other suspicious looking substances. He looked down at 
himself, he was wearing a man's dark coloured suit, over 
that was a white lab coat, it too, was spattered with blood 
and something he didn't care to think about too deeply.

    He looked up at the big man......."Oh, boy, what a 
doof!" he muttered to himself as he took stock of the 
situation and took in the surroundings. He seemed to be in 
some kind of combined office, laboratory or forensics lab 
and his name was Pendrell, he supposed that, at least, was 
something.

   Sam struggled to regain some kind of composure. He 
grabbed hold of the seat in an effort to pull himself up, 
only to find that the wheeled chair seemed to have a mind of 
its own, one which appeared to have an appreciation for 
slap-stick comedy. It suddenly shot from his grasp and 
dumped him right back onto his butt, right in the middle of 
the mess. His latex-gloved hand slipped through the mess, he 
grimaced and cursed silently as he wiped them off onto his 
overall coat. If he'd felt a doof before, he now felt an 
even bigger jerk!

   The big man's sour gaze drew from the mess to regard him. 
He stretched out a large plump hand towards Sam and hauled 
him to his feet. He looked at the state of Sam's coat and 
clothing, apart from the blood, most of the mess had ended 
up all over the unfortunate time-traveller, "Jeez! What the 
hell were you doing? You should be more careful! Look at all 
the mess. It's a damned good job that stuff had already been 
tested and was on its way out and not on its way in. At 
least we know it's not something toxic." The man paused to 
sniff the air, "Argh, sheesh, it may not be toxic but it 
sure as hell stinks!"

   Sam's nose was beginning to pick up the offensive odour. 
His face creased into a look of repulsion and his nose 
wrinkled in disgust as he sniffed tentatively at his coat, 
"God, that's awful! What is it?" he paused for a second, 
while he surruptitiously read the name on the man's 
displayed identity tag. It was an FBI tag, which bore the 
name, Jones.....Special Agent T. Jones. Sam's eyes widened a 
little in surprise as he realized he was an FBI agent of 
some sorts, yet again! He stammered slightly as he 
continued, "Jo...Jones, I recognize it from somewhere....it 
smells like..." Jones cut in before he could say more, 
"Yeah, manure or to be more precise, Theyrozine liquid 
fertilizer. Mandon's suspected of making homemade bombs. 
That was part of the evidence!" 

   One of several other men who were sitting across the 
other side of the large crime laboratory, swivelled his 
chair around to watch the scenario. The young man pulled a 
face and pinched his nose, "Hey, Pendrell! What's going on? 
Of all the things to trash, you have to go and choose that 
stuff! You were thinking about her again, weren't you? You 
know, if you kept your mind on the job and a little less on 
a certain lady, we'd all be better off, besides she's way 
out of your league and you know she never dates any of us 
guys, she's too wrapped up in her work!"

   Sam wondered who the young man was referring to, who was 
the mysterious 'she', he surmised that it was probably one 
of the women in one of the other offices, one on which the 
man he'd replaced must have had an obvious crush. Or was 
there more to it. After all, as he knew, life and his leaps 
were never that simple. He shrugged, grinned apologetically 
and tried to think of a suitable comment, "I wasn't thinking 
of her. I wasn't thinking of anyone, I guess I just leaned 
too far back in my seat. It just kinda flipped over from 
under me." 

   Jones had covered his nose with a handkerchief, "You'd 
better go and get washed up. Look, it's getting late anyway, 
you may as well go home and change." Sam nodded in 
agreement, he didn't much care for the way he was smelling 
either. He'd be glad to get out of the tainted clothes but 
where was the washroom, more to the point, where was home 
and where was Al? He looked back to the floor, gesturing 
with his still gloved hands, "What about all this, shouldn't 
I clean it up first?"

   "No, I'll phone through to get that done, dump the coat 
and gloves with the mess. If you put them in the 
sterilization bin they'll stay there for most of the night 
and reek the place out. I'll have them removed but you can 
still explain this to Skinner....first thing in the morning! 
Although I dare say we can salvage something from it and we 
already have the report......So, I suppose not too much 
damage has been done. Now, get outa here. I don't think my 
nose can stand being around you much longer!"

    Removing the name tag from the offending coat, Sam 
dropped it carefully into his jacket pocket then peeled off 
his spattered white coat and surgical gloves, 
unceremoniously dropped them to the floor, stepped over the 
remains of the broken glass tubes and container jars and 
moved back to his desk. He righted the toppled microscope, 
tidied a few scattered papers and uncovered a standing desk 
calendar. It was turned to show February 97 but none of the 
days had ben crossed through, still, he thought, at least 
it's something more. It was only a small clue as to what he 
might be there for but there was something about the date, 
something about February 97 that pricked at his thoughts, it 
was something he thought he ought to remember. 

   Temporarily he put it to the back of his mind as he 
turned to walk from the room. The young man who'd spoken 
before called out to him, "Hey, are you going over to the 
'Headless Woman', later on? The rest of us guys will be 
there from about nine o'clock. Come and join us." The big 
man Jones shouted across the room, cutting into the 
conversation, "Hey, Barnes! You speak for yourself, me and 
Rutherford are working late tonight. I doubt if we'll be 
able to make it. And anyway, don't you guys ever get tired 
of that place?" The young man called Barnes ignored the 
remark and continued, "If you're real lucky SHE might be 
there too. Hey, that reminds me, how come you weren't there 
for the surprise party last night. I wouldn't have thought 
you'd want to miss out on that." Sam half turned and glanced 
back at the man. He assumed the 'Headless Woman' was their 
local bar but he had no idea about the rest of the 
conversation. He wasn't sure where he'd be that night but he 
felt he'd better say something and if Al didn't show up, at 
least he'd have someone to talk to, someone he could glean a 
little information from. "Er....well Barnes, something 
important came up last night, but yeah, okay," He looked 
down at his clothing and sniffed again, unfortunately, his 
lab coat had been unbuttoned and his suit had also been 
spattered with the foul-smelling chemical. "If I can get 
this smell off of me, I'll take you up on the invite." 

   He walked through the door and looked both ways down the 
bustling corridor, now, he thought to himself, which way to 
the washroom?

   It appeared he was on on an upper floor of a large 
building. He decided it probably wouldn't matter which way 
he went, sooner or later he'd come to a wash room. He turned 
right and casually walked down the corridor, taking stock of 
the lay-out and functions of each office as he passed them. 
>From somewhere deep within his subconscious, a familiarity 
for the place seemed to seep through his mind. It irked him 
that he couldn't quite remember it properly. It was a 
strange feeling, not like forgetting something because his 
memory had been swiss-cheesed and had huge holes in it, it 
was different, something subtler, more of an instinct about 
the place. Somehow, he knew he was in the Headquarters of 
the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington D.C. He 
tried to shrug off the thought as he considered that perhaps 
he had been an F.B.I Agent on a previous leap or something 
and residual memories were lingering. He paused at a large 
window and peered out into the inkiness of the evening city 
street. Water sparkled on the outside of the rain-soaked 
window, the lights from the tall street lamps reflected and 
shone yellow haloes  on the broad, wet sidewalk.  Even in 
the darkness he recognised the scene outside, he 'was' in 
the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

   A sudden, electrifying jolt of pain stabbed through his 
head accompanied by a lightening flash of memory, the two 
things hit him and rooting him to the spot with intensity. A 
large chunk of solid memory slapped into his mind just as 
hard as if he'd just walked into a brick wall.

   He gasped from the sudden agonizing pain. He threw his 
head back and pressed his hands around his skull in a vain 
effort to squeeze the pain away. His face screwed into a 
look of agony. Shock and realization shuddered through him, 
he could recall who he had been in his last leap and most 
astonishingly of all, what had happened. He could  clearly 
remember working for the bureau as a Special F.B.I 
Investigator. He could recall with clarity being in the 
persona of Fox Mulder! Then he remembered going back to the 
Project Centre, he remembered rewriting the retrieval 
program....his heart began to pound. He had been with 
someone, someone for whom he had cared for deeply, a woman 
for whom he'd had strong feelings. He could remember 
everything but that. Why couldn't he remember who she was? 
Why remember everything else but block that? There was 
something else too, something strange took place during that 
leap, something which seemed to be clouded in a thick swathe 
of mist, not forgotten exactly but hidden away. He struggled 
desperately in a vain effort to remember how the leap had 
ended, annoyingly, it evaded him.  He felt it wasn't exactly 
lost, it didn't feel as though it had become one of the 
usual holes in his memory, it seemed to him as if it had 
been buried and covered over purposely, locked in a thick 
blanket of irritating amnesia. It felt as if that part of 
the leap had been put out of his reach by someone or 
something for a reason.  Battling with his own subconscious, 
he fought hard to remember something, anything, he needed to 
know how the leap had ended, whether or not he had fulfilled 
his mission. The part for which he so desperately searched, 
frustratingly remained clouded and out of bounds. He prayed 
for Al to show up and help him but his prayers went 
unheeded. 

   The impact of the thoughts and memories rocked him, the 
pain which had added to the confusion of the sudden 
revelations, brought a wave of dizziness and nausea. He 
staggered and leaned against the wall to steady himself. Two 
men who'd been standing nearby arguing the pros and cons of 
the evidence relating to a particular case or other, stepped 
forward to his aid, supporting him, 
  "Hey, are you alright? You don't look too good, do you 
want us to call for the doctor?" The other man wrinkled his 
nose, "You don't smell too good either, what happened?" 

   The words brought him back to the here and now. He 
swallowed hard and tried to shake away the confused 
feelings. Concentrating his focus on the man who'd first 
spoken, he stammered "Er, yeeeeah, th...thanks. I'll b...be 
okay. There was a slight accident back in the lab room, I 
got Theyrozine spilled onto me. I was on my way to the 
washroom. I guess the fumes are getting to me."

   The two men exchanged a knowing glance. One of them took 
hold of his arm, "It's Pendrell, isn't it? Why didn't you 
use the washroom just down from the lab, why come all the 
way down here?" It was a good question but Sam couldn't give 
the real reason, he just let his mind come up with yet 
another little white lie."Er...the other washroom was pretty 
crowded. I didn't want to walk in there and have everyone 
else run out!"

   "Well, that's very considerate but hardly practical. Come 
on, we'll get you to the bathroom along here." 

   The uncomfortable feelings had only been brief and had 
now passed but he allowed the two men to guide him. After 
all, the quicker he got the stuff off him the better. 
Perhaps Al would deign to show up and give him some help, he 
really needed to see his friend. He needed to find out why 
he was able to recall so many things from his last leap. But 
most of all, he needed to know why he was here, he needed to 
know what he was supposed to do.

   The two FBI agents led him the short distance to the  
washroom. They'd been talking to him but the conversation 
hadn't really sunk in, his mind was still reeling from all 
the possibilities this new leap posed.

   The two good samaritans guided him to the appropriate 
door and left him to it, cautioning him to be more careful 
in future. Sam thanked them, turned and pushed open the door 
to the men's room. He sighed with relief, the white tiled 
room was empty. He headed straight for the sink, turned on 
the hot tap, scrubbed at his hands and washed his face. The 
hot water revived him, he felt a little fresher for it. He 
grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, soaked 
them with hot soapy water and sponged at his stained jacket. 
It didn't make much of an impression, the stains were still 
there but at least the smell had decreased. Why hadn't Al 
shown up yet, where the hell was he, what was keeping him? 
The worried quantum physicist called quietly into the 
emptiness of the room "Al, where are you? Come on, come on, 
old buddy, I could do with some help here?" Nothing 
happened, no response, no Al. He shrugged and resigned 
himself to the fact that this might be another awkward leap.

   Slipping his hand into his inside jacket pocket he drew 
out two wallets. One contained an FBI Special Agents badge. 
It told him that he worked as a forensics specialist here at 
bureau. The other contained money, identity papers, driving 
licence and insurance documents. He was glad that for once 
he'd leaped into someone who had the good sense to carry so 
much useful information. He put the badge wallet down on the 
edge of the sink and extracted the I.D. papers from the 
thicker wallet and read the details. Daniel Pendrell, 
thirty-two years old, five foot ten. Address I35 West 65th 
Street, Washington D.C. He studied the face in the photo 
accompanying the document. He looked up and into the steamy 
mirror above the hand basin, carefully wiping the away the 
condensation with one hand, he stared intently at the face 
of Pendrell then looked back to compare himself with the 
depicted photograph. Apart from the fact that the face in 
the passport-style picture bore no expression, it was quite 
a good likeness. He had short wavy, dark red hair, 
penetrating blue eyes and pale eyebrows and lashes. It was a 
pleasant, open, honest face. It had the well scrubbed 
shininess of a man much younger in years. Sam turned his 
attention to the driving licence and insurance papers. 
Somewhere he had a car, the papers gave a description and 
the number plate, it was a red Ford Taurus. He patted at his 
pockets, searching for the car keys. A jingle in the pocket 
of his pants soon disclosed their whereabouts. He took out a 
bunch of keys attached to a car alarm activator. He turned 
them over in his hand, looking at them, wondering what 
secrets the keys would unlock. 

   With a burst of noise, the washroom door opened and a 
group of laughing, joking, dark suited men barged into the 
quiet room. One of them made a rude comment about the 
pervading odour. Sam cringed, he'd hoped it wasn't that bad 
now, it was obviously still a little offensive, he gripped 
the bunch of keys in his hand and decided it was definitely 
time to leave and go home.....wherever home was. He wondered 
what this man's home would be like, would it be an 
apartment, a house or what? He still had no idea if he lived 
with anyone. Though, he guessed he didn't have a girlfriend 
or was married, otherwise Pendrell would have kept his 
fanciful feelings for the mystery woman to himself. 

  Still in deep thought, he hurriedly left the room 
muttering quietly to himself, "Okay, I have a car but where 
do I have it? Where the hell did Pendrell park it? Well, I 
suppose I'd better try the most obvious place first......the 
car park!"

   Finding an elevator, he rode it down to the bowels of the 
large building. He checked his watch, it was six-thirty p.m. 
He idly wondered how long it would take to reach his 
intended destination. The elevator reached the desired 
level, the doors swished open and an icy draught swept in 
and wrapped him in a cold, winter's dampness. He shivered 
and turned up the collar of his jacket, wishing Pendrell had 
brought a long thick overcoat to work with him, as most of 
the other FBI officers seemed to have done.

   Feeling a little despondent, he began to search the 
parking lot for Pendrell's auto. He pulled his jacket 
tighter about his body as he walked between the seemingly 
never ending rows of parked cars.

  It was gloomy and deserted. As he walked, his footsteps 
echoed through the enclosed concrete compound. Even though 
it was beneath the FBI building it wasn't the sort of place 
he really wanted hang around. It seemed to him that the 
world and his dog owned the same type of car as Pendrell. 
Red Fords seemed very popular here. 

   The search was becoming tedious, he had a sudden thought, 
stopped, smiled and took out the bunch of keys, he separated 
the car alarm, held it at arms length, pressed the 
de-activation button, made a sweep of the area and listened 
for the tell-tale beep from his car.  The smile turned into 
a wide grin of satisfaction as he was rewarded with a 
beep-beep sound emitting from one of the cars just off to 
the left of him. He strode over to the car, peered into the 
dark interior, then opened it and slid into the comfort of 
the front seat. 

   The time-travelling quantum physicist edged the car from 
its day-time home and followed the street signs across the 
town to his......to Pendrell's address.

   Every now and then Sam checked the rear view mirror, 
hoping, half expecting, that Al would appear in the back 
seat making some wise-crack, or trying to sneak up and 
surprise him. He let out a deep sigh, no such luck! His 
worries were growing, it wasn't like Al to leave him 
unobserved and stranded for so long. He frowned and stared 
intently  at the passing scenery, as if he were searching 
for an answer somewhere out there in the rain-soaked city 
night. What kind of problems could be keeping his friend 
from reaching him, were there problems back at the Project 
Centre or was it connected with his last leap, or rather his 
leap-out? He still didn't know. He was annoyed with himself 
that he, Dr Samuel Beckett, noted quantum physicist, Nobel 
prize winner, someone with an IQ almost off the scale and 
possessing a photographic memory could forget something so 
simple.....just a few hours worth of memory! He had 
remembered most of everything else, why couldn't he make 
himself recall all of it. With furrowed brow, his jaw set in 
concentration, mouth forming a tight, thin line, he was 
determined not to let it beat him. Slowly, very, very slowly 
something began to surface from the deepest reaches of his 
memory, something to do with problems back at the Project 
Centre. It had something to do with trying to leap home. 

 A tightness in his chest informed him that he'd been 
holding his breath in sheer effort of deep concentration. He 
drew in a deep lung full of air and let it out slowly, a few 
more memories were trickling back, little pieces that would 
would eventually fit together to reveal the bigger picture 
of the jigsaw puzzle of that leap. He'd been back to the 
Project, he'd re-written the retrieval program, there had 
been problems with unidentified power fluctuations. Is that 
what had happened to him, had he tried to leap home and 
something had gone wrong, he'd failed? Had the power surges 
hit at critical mass, had it blown out the accelerator or 
the Imaging Chamber, had it damaged the sensitive workings 
of the hybrid super computer? Was that the reason he 
couldn't remember the last part of the leap, had an 
unexpected power surge temporarily, short circuited his 
brain causing a selective memory? The questions spun around 
his head, one question chasing the next.

   Suddenly and seemingly out from nowhere, a stray dog 
dashed out into the road. Sam just caught sight of it in 
time, he swerved to miss it, a car hooter blared from 
somewhere behind him. It overtook him, the angry driver 
mouthed something at him and drove on. Collecting his 
thoughts and pulling himself together, he nosed the car over 
to the curb, looked out of the side window, checking to see 
if the animal was okay. The dog was happily scampering up 
the street, stopping now and then to sniff at lampposts. Sam 
shook his head and smiled, if only life was as simple as 
that. It might be quite nice to lead a dog's life, perhaps 
one day he might even get the chance! 
   His notice was drawn to a 'Pay-and-Read' Newspaper stand. 
Now, that could be useful, he thought. He hurried out to the 
stand, found a coin, fed the machine, lifted the lid and 
helped himself to a paper. Back inside the car he read the 
date at the top of the front page, it was the 24th of 
February. Okay, another piece of the jigsaw. His eyes were 
then drawn to the headlines......
'Passenger Air Crash Disaster.' Over three hundred souls 
lost in Syracuse plane crash.' 
He read on, 'Sabotage is being considered as the possible 
cause of the tragedy. The F.B.I and Special Airline Service 
Inspectors are to make a thorough investigation of the 
site.' 
   Sam hated to read about bad news, there always seemed to 
be so many bad things happening. Why would anyone want bring 
down a passenger flight, who would want to cause the deaths 
of all those innocent people? His face creased into a look 
of unfathomable horror, as he considered what possible 
purpose could something like that fulfil, what warped mind 
could conceive of a plan to deliberately destroy all those 
people's lives?

   A cold shudder ran through his spine, setting the hairs 
on his neck crawling. How many other people's lives would be 
affected by that plane crash? How many families had been 
waiting for their loved ones to return home on that flight? 
More than three hundred people had died, men, women and 
children.  What of all the people whose lives might have 
been touched by those that were killed. Sam's eyes closed in 
sorrow, the misery didn't stop with the loss of those lives.  
The passengers and staff aboard that plane had families 
somewhere,  wives, husbands, children, sisters and brothers, 
mothers and fathers. What about all the people that were 
left behind. Could a reason ever be found to quantify the 
actions that caused that plane crash. He sighed deeply and 
wished he was home, his real home. It had been several years 
since he'd seen any of his family. It hurt him to think that 
they might think that he had forgotten them, that he had 
abandoned them in his passion for his work,  or was just too  
damn busy, too self-absorbed by his work and not interested 
in them to even bother to return their calls or go home for 
Thanksgiving or Christmas. Perhaps, he could contact them 
during this leap. It was 1997, he wasn't too far  in the 
past, there was no reason not to call his family. He could 
easily pretend to be calling from the Project Centre, he 
could cover the difference in his voice by saying he had a 
bad throat. Surely there would be no harm in it, from his 
point of view, there was absolutely no reason not to do it! 

   The idea began to generate an almost childlike excitement 
within him, raising his spirits with an overwhelming feeling 
of happiness. The grin on his face broadened until it almost 
stretched from ear to ear. Yes, if Al didn't show up, he 
would do it tonight. With that thought in mind he drove on, 
with added incentive, to find Pendrell's home.
-- 
Heather Markham