Date: Sun, 10 Jan 93 22:35:23 CST From: Ingrid de Beus Subject: "Enemies" part one update _Enemies_ by Ingrid de Beus Copyright (c) 1993 by Ingrid de Beus saga cell: leap-in: July 20th, 1979 An iridescent curtain of blue light envelopes and melts across the form of a man on his knees on a tiled floor. The time traveller gasps slightly, as though breath had been long denied him. His hands convulse instinctively, and he feels cloth tear between his fingers. A ragged breathing fills his ears, and his blurred vision is suddenly eclipsed by a descending blackness. Pain wraps his hands around his forehead, and he slams into unconsciouness like a farmboy into a fifth of whiskey. The tile floor is very cold. Moaning, Sam sits up, touching his head in and trying to focus on his surroundings. His hand comes away from his forehead with blood on it -- there is a slight cut just above his hairline, and a large bump. The blood on his fingers brings a shock of adrenalin to Sam. He sits up straight, and begins to take in his environment with more urgency. He is sitting on the floor of a small kitchen. The tiles are white with a blue flower pattern, and badly need scrubbing. There is a tiny table stacked with spice boxes crammed into the corner beneath the one window, which has opaque glass in it. The walls are a dingy beige painted over crumbling plaster. By contrast, the stove, gas range, refrigerator, and countertop are spotless. Sam grips the countertop and hauls himself to his feet, wincing at a minor spasm of vertigo. He looks around himself again. "Did I fall?" he asks the air quietly. He shudders slightly in automatic denial. Something hit him, he thinks. Something black, and hard! Receiving no answer, he picks up a lone pot off the stove, and turns it on its side. The reflection he sees there is distorted by the curve of the pot, but it is clearly male, and very tired looking. The eyes (brown) are bloodshot, the hair (brown) is greasy and unkempt, despite its sharp hairstyle, and the chin unshaven. Noticing a twisted collar in his reflection, Sam puts up his other hand to correct it, and sees a wedding ring. "Well, hopefully this means that there'll be someone around here who can clue me in as to my name," he muses. "I only hope I don't make too much of a fool out of myself trying to find out." Sam turns to face the door to his culinary abode. It's wooden, and looks much newer then the kitchen. He straightens his rumpled shirt, considers tucking the ends into his pants, but decides to open the door first, and face the rest of his world. As he opens the door, he hears a gasp. The room is dark due to heavy curtains having been pulled shut across the windows. There is a couch, and a chair, and to his right another chair with an end-table next to it, with an unlit lamp on it. There is also a phone, which is off its hook. The receiver is the property of a young girl who is pressing herself against the wall. Sam moves slowly out into the room, wary both of the unfamiliar surroundings, and of the girl's palpable fear. He stops at the couch, and sits on the edge. He can see the girl now, in the light from the kitchen. She looks about ten or eleven -- dressed in jeans and some sort of blouse. Her hair is blond, and dangles thinly just past her shoulders. Sam can't see her eyes very well, but he guesses from the girl's stance and white-knuckled grip on the phone that they're wide-open with apprehension. He decides to try the friendly approach. "Take it easy," he begins. "Why?!" the girl says immediately, with the barest of squashed tremolos. The word is forced, as though she wants to scream, and can't. "I'm not going to hurt you," he continues, trying desperately to imagine the circumstances before he leapt in. His fingers twitch, as though trying to recall an act, or a sensation. What had happened here, to terrify this child? His words seem to make the girl become even more tense, if that's possible. "That's what you said before --" she bursts out, and then bites off. "I want to leave." she says, before Sam can react. Slowly, she sinks to her knees, and grasps a dark shape that Sam cannot resolve. As she rises, he sees that it's a cast-iron pan. Is it his imagination that there's blood on the rim? A nauseating churning begins in Sam's gut. The girl begins to walk backwards away from Sam, towards a door set in the wall perpendicular to the kitchen door. "Wait.." Sam says, trying to look non-threatening. "Why?.." "I want to leave!" the girl hisses again, her voice threatening to rise to a scream. Sam gestured for her silence automatically. Somehow he felt that noise would be very dangerous right now. The girl has reached the door, and is twisting the knob behind her back. The sudden harsh light from the corridor outside throws her into sharp relief as she tosses the pan into the room. Sam is about to take a step forward when he stops, shocked. In the corridor light he can see the livid bruise on the girl's face, the rip in her blouse, and the vivid, staring hatred in her eyes. She slams the door shut, leaving Sam in the semi-dark. "Oh boy, " he whispers. Opening credits: Sam stares at the shut door for a minute, his hands still moving spasmodically. Shaking his head in denial to he knows not what, he moves like a robot to a window, and draws the curtains. Light stabs into the room. There's a city street outside, and townhouses lining the opposite side of the street. It's overcast, and there are puddles in the gutters, though it's not raining now. The Imaging Chamber door opens behind him. "Hi, Sam," says Al, straightening the cuffs of a bright green bolero jacket. Sam turns to look at him and grimaces. "What?" asks Al, looking down at his attire. The ensemble, besides the green jacket, includes a pale rose shirt, tapered green trousers, and metal-heeled boots. "You certainly bring color to this room, Al" says Sam. He smiles quickly. The girl, the iron pan, and the sound of ripping cloth are bundled to the side of his mind in the face of his friend's flamboyance. Even the room's already-pallid decor seems to dim in Al's vicinity. The observer, adopting a hurt expression, takes a cigar out of an inside pocket with a flourish, and begins the ritual of lighting it, pointedly ignoring Sam. "Al?" Sam prods. The observer takes a long, appreciative drag on the cigar, and very slowly blows two smoke rings into the air, his eyes twinkling. "Al," Sam insists. The gaily-clad man continues to smoke, gently rocking back and forth on his heels, patently enjoying himself, and Sam's good-humored frustration. Sam brings his hand up sharply, just close enough to the front of the man's face that the dark head involuntarily ducks backwards. The action dislodges the cigar from his mouth, and it vanishes from Sam's sight. "Sam, I oughta.." the man growls, glaring straight at the taller man, who grins at him unabashedly. The now cigar-less observer stops mid-threat, reaches quickly into his pocket, and pulls out a brightly beeping panel and pokes at with great concentration. An answering grin tugs at the edge of his mouth. "Pretty dull life you've leaped into this time, Sam," he mutters. "It didn't seem very dull a second ago," responds Sam, his grin falling from his face. He looks away and begins to drag the fingers of one hand nervously across the back of the couch. The bump on his head seems to throb, and he resists the urge to rub it. "Oh? what happened? " the observer's voice deepens slightly into a conspiratorial tone. "Anything I'd be interested in? " Sam's hand grips suddenly and his lips tighten. He turns away from Al and begins to wander around the room. Al's smile fades. "Sam? hello? " The observer walks towards Sam, passing through the couch. He pauses, halfway. "Look, if you don't want to let me in on it, no problem, " he says, " so long as it's nothing that will interfere with the leap, you've every right to your little secrets. " Attempting an admonishing tone, he says, "Better fix this rip before you leap out. " Sam turns back to look at Al, and leans on the couch to look at the cloth. It is, indeed, ripped open. Sam pushes himself off the couch, and resumes his pacing. "Do you mind? " he asks, gesturing at Al's legs, which are still invisible within the couch. Sam swings his arms around while while paceing, trying to loosen up. He wrings out his hands, which brings back Al's smile. The observer obligingly continues his passage through the furniture. "As I was saying, " Al said, poking absently at the computer link in his hand, " there's nothing immediately dangerous-looking about this guy's life. Your -- his -- name is Gerald Funddiker, and you work for Xerox, in management. You're divorced, with no kids. " "No kids? " Sam looks up sharply, then sighs gratefully. "Thank god, no daughters. " Al raises an eyebrow. Sam doesn't seem to notice, and continues to massage his hands. The action brings the wedding band around his finger to his attention again, and he turns inquiringly to Al. "If Gerald is divorced, why is he still wearing his wedding ring? " he asks, holding out his hand, fingers up, palm inward, so that Al can clearly see the ring. The observer is unmoved by this spectacle. "Some guys like to keep the ring for a while, Sam, " he says, looking as casual as possible. " I never did, of course, I never _needed_ to..." "What do you mean, 'never needed to'? " asks Sam suspiciously. Sam's hand drops, and he places both hands on his hips, trying to stare the information out of Al. Al looks at Sam, as if to gauge his mood, and then speaks, pitching his voice as if conveying a secret. "Well, you know, Sam, there are some men in this universe who like to fool around with women. " "Do tell. " Now it is Al's turn to glare, albight jokingly, at Sam. Sam's look does not waver. Gradually Al's amusement turns to genuine perplexedness. "What's so serious about it, Sam? " he asks, raising his arms in an elaborate shrug. Seeing that Sam's expression alter to include a frown, he elaborates quickly, " I mean, I find it just a little pathetic, sometimes, that a guy can't talk to a lady without hiding behind a wedding ring. " Al adds a brief laugh to his expansive gestures, partly to make light of the idea, and partly to hide his own concern with Sam's intensity. "So you're saying that Gerald's still wearing his wedding ring because he wants to lead women into a false sense of security around him. " says Sam slowly and somewhat acidly. "Well, yeah, to put it bluntly --" "Great, just great, " Sam begins to pull at the ring, trying to get it off. "Well, I've got one easy solution to _that_ little trick.. " He flings the ring away from him. It flies through Al, and thumps into the couch. Al winces slightly, but says nothing. Sam lets out a long, slow breath, and looks at the floor. "This is Stamford, Connecticut, by the way, " Al says, nodding towards the window, his mind racing to discern the cause of Sam's outburst. Not for the first time, Al finds himself mentally cursing his big mouth. "No wonder it looks so grey outside, " mumbles Sam, rubbing at his forehead, welcoming the change of subject. "Yeah, well, " shrugs Al, " it's late April. Friday, April 21st, to be precise. The East Coast can be really miserable this time of year " Al pauses, and then decides to make a last attempt at humor, " -- I remember when I was stuck on shore leave in Norfolk, Virginia once I holed up with this nice little girl named -- " "Quit it, Al! " snaps Sam. Al blinks, and looks closely at Sam. "Sorry, " amends Sam, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head, "sorry, Al. " The observer continues to peer into Sam's face, looking for he knew not what not what. After a moment, Sam's head lifts. He starts back a half-step, not expecting the observer to be so close to him. Al's eyes widen slightly and he points to the lump and scratch above Sam's hairline. "Sam, where did you get that? " he asks quietly. There is no answer. Despite this, the observer seems to relax a notch, as though an important question has been answered. Sam drops his eyes, and says, "Al, does Gerald have any.. " he swallows convulsively, " younger sisters? ". He finishes in almost a whisper. The observer looks quickly at his handlink. "No.. no, Sam, he's got brother, two years younger, who lives in Houston. " Al pauses. " Sit down, will you? You may have a concussion. Why? " Sam sits down in one of the chairs, and closes his eyes. Al looks at him with concern, and jiggles the handlink, as if to force an answer to his worries from it. The handlink squawks in protest. After a long moment, Sam speaks, still with his eyes closed. "There was a girl here, when I leaped in, " he says, his voice barely above a whisper. Al raises his eyebrows, and poises his fingers over the handlink. " I was in the kitchen, and she was too, and I think she hit me with that pan. " Al glances briefly over his shoulder, but doesn't bother to look for the pan. "So that's how you got that, huh? " the observer tenders. When no more commentary from Sam is forthcoming, he says, "Well, I could try and find out if Gerald has a girlfriend--" This brings Sam's focus back from his inner turmoil and back on his friend. "I ripped her clothes, " he says, looking at Al in anguish, who returns a concerned but honestly baffled expression. "She was only ten years old, Al! " Sam's voice chokes off, and tears of anger and horror glimmer in his eyes. Al's jaw drops open. "Ten-- are you sure it wasn't an accident, Sam? I mean, they could have been argueing before you leapt in, and the shock of your leap-in could have-- " "Well, I don't have your experience in these matters, Al " Sam interjects sarcastically, " but I don't think it was an accident. " There is a distinctive stillness about the hologram next to him. Sam's face crumples as he realizes his gaff, and he scrambles out of the chair to face Al. The observer is looking steadily at him, his face blank, his eyes remote. "Al, I'm sorry, " Sam says. "That's okay, kid, " responds the observer, his voice matching his eyes. He hits a button on the handlink, and the Imaging Chamber door appears behind him. He takes a step backwards. "Al.." says Sam, ready to apologize multiple times, if necessary. The observer's eyes thaw slightly. "I'll run a check on this little girl, Sam, and on everything else. Take care of that bump. " Al says, gentling his tone a notch. Despite a ghost of a smile on Al's lips, the closing of the IC door sounds like an unforgiving slam. To be continued...