Ashley McConnell - Quantum Leap - Prelude

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I would like to thank Lisa Winters for providing the title of this book and awkward details, Linda

Young for reminding me of the meaning of the Vietnam Memorial to a hero who lost his brother in that

conflict, and Pathman Ed and Claire from GEnie's Medical RT for details about cell cultures. Special

thanks also go to Claudia DeGailler for invaluable and voluminous research on Navy retirement

ceremonies, Ginjer Buchanan for excellent suggestions and more awkward details, and Charlie Grant,

who traded the earthquake for gravity. Any mistakes that appear in this work are mine, not theirs.

Synchronicity happens: the August 1992 issue of Discover magazine featured an article about Masuo

Aizawa's work at the Tokyo Institute of Technology on combining nerve cells with electronics. My

conception of Ziggy as a neural "hybrid computer" predated this article by over a year, and Ziggy is, of

course, several generations beyond Aizawa's work, but it's fun—and a bit disconcerting—to find yourself

writing science fiction when you thought it was fantasy.

Several fans have noted a discrepancy between the Quantum Leap books as I write them and the

series as it's presented on television, to wit: in the series, Sam's body Leaped, and the person he replaced

appears in the Waiting Room. In the books, Sam's mind Leaps and his body stays home, to be occupied

by the mind of the person he replaces. All I will say in defense of this is that in the first season of the

series, the distinction wasn't clear, and I made my choices based on the inherent dramatic opportunities

involved, and have remained consistent with them thereafter. It may help the determined purist to

consider the books an alternate-universe version of "Quantum Leap."

In that spirit, therefore, one might take Prelude to be the story, not of "how things happened," but one

version of how things might have been. . . .

SUMMER, 1990

Theorizing that one could time travel within his own lifetime ...

He reads much; he is a great observer, and he looks

Quite through the deeds of men.

—William Shakespeare Julius Caesar, I, ii, 200

CHAPTER

ONE

The morning paper had announced that Iran blamed the United States for the recent earthquake. A

Navajo student attending the University of New Mexico had found a "New Gap to Bridge" that was, in

fact, as old as the clash of cultures. A New Mexico man had been elected President of the League of

United Latin American Citizens. It was going to be another hot, dry, sunny day in Albuquerque.

Admiral Albert Calavicci was nearly as white as the sheets he was lying on, his eyes closed and his

left arm dangling from a traction hook to keep it elevated.

"You know, that stunt last night really took it out of you," his visitor continued. The kid couldn't take a

hint in a package. "You're going to have to take some time to get back on

your feet." The eyes snapped back open, challenged. "What, you think

I'm some kind of old man?"

The young man—Al decided grudgingly that he deserved that—lifted his hands in protest. "No, no,

no, nothing like that. It's just that, you know, lots of things are changing for you now, and you've got this

broken arm. Makes a great excuse for sitting back a little and taking some time to think about things.

You should take advantage of the opportunity."

Al's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about what's changing for me?" Pushy, this kid was. Poking

in. Interfering. Of course, if the kid hadn't been there to apply pressure and all of that stuff, Al might be

dead right now instead of in the hospital with his arm hanging from a bunch of wires and pulleys. On the

other hand, if it hadn't been for this kid, Ross Malachy, he wouldn't have gotten shot in the first place. It

served him right for barging in on a robbery in progress.

His attention had been attracted to the situation in the first place because he recognized Ross. It

wasn't as if Ross Malachy were a friend; he was just the kid who worked for Stephen Wales, and

Stephen Wales was the guy who led the encounter group Al had gotten mixed up in. But he'd recognized

the kid when he'd seen him in the notions store, and then seen what he was trying to do: disarm another

kid armed with a gun. Al didn't really know Ross; he would have provided a diversion for anybody under

the same circumstances.

Of course, he was the one who got lucky and caught a bullet. If he wasn't so hazed out from pain

medication, he might get a little ticked off.

Ross shrugged. "I dunno. I heard it somewhere. That you were retiring from the military, and . . . that

you were retiring. I knew somebody once who was retiring from the military. It wasn't easy, being a

civilian all of a sudden."

Al studied him. Ross had a really dumb grin on his face. In fact, he was acting like he had some kind

of secret, some surprise he was hugging to himself. Al didn't like surprises. But aside from that, he was

the first person who really seemed to understand. Getting shot, hey, that could happen to anybody. But

retiring from the only life you'd known for thirty years— that meant something. His suspicions thawed.

"Well, I can't stay here." He glanced up at his arm in disgust. "This really sucks."

"You know what I think you should do?" Ross said, the picture of innocence. "Since you really

shouldn't stress yourself any more. Right now, I mean," he added hastily. "With a bullet wound. You

ought to take some time. That's serious stuff."

"Yeah, kid, what do you think I should do with all this time you think I have?" The words were heavily

laced with sarcasm, but not too heavily that it wasn't clear Al was curious about the answer. He tilted his

head, watching as Ross came around the bed and adjusted the wires and hooks and trappings so the arm

would hang more comfortably. The kid was deft and professional about it, and the changes helped

considerably.

"I think if you've got any friends in this part of the country, you ought to give them a call," he said. "I'll

bet they'd be glad to see you. I'll bet they want to see you."

Al opened his mouth to dismiss the idea, then closed it again, slowly. There was somebody—and he

was somewhere around here. "Yeah. I guess I could do that, come to think of it."

"Sure you could. He really wants to hear from you. Like his life depends on it," Ross said cheerfully.

"And you wouldn't want to disappoint an old friend, would you?"

"No, I guess not... ." Al watched him, confused and wary.

"Oh, and I got you a present. Call it a get-well, thank-you-for-saving-my-life, welcome-to-retirement

kind of thing."

"Oh yeah?" Presents were always good. This explained that air of glee, too. Suspicion wiped away,

Al smiled, and tried again to sit up.

"I'm gonna have to open it for you," Ross warned. He took out a narrow, flat box. "There's a card,

see?"

The cover of the card featured a crudely drawn cartoon of a man fairly mummified in bandages. Al

opened it with his free hand—"I'm not helpless!"—and read it aloud. " 'When you leap into the unknown,

make sure you've packed your parachute! Get Well Soon!' "

"You didn't sign it," he said. But he was distracted by the box, and set the card aside, watching

eagerly as the gray satin ribbon slid off, finally taking the box away from Ross to open it. "What the—"

He held up a tie—a fine silk tie, heavy, expensive, beautiful, fluorescent purple with tiny bright pink

squares and circles.

"Oh boy," Al said, awed and appalled in equal measure. "Hey, I'm in the military. I don't wear

anything like this."

"You will," Ross assured him.

Three weeks later, having finished a course of IV therapy to prevent possible bone infection and

having tried (and failed) to make dates with every female nurse in his ward, Al was released from the

hospital with a sling, a recommendation for physical therapy, and an abiding distaste for civilian hospitals.

By rights he should have been transferred to the Kirtland Base hospital, but a snafu in the paperwork had

kept him where he was while surgeons repaired the damage caused by a bullet in the upper arm, a trifle

too close to the shoulder for comfort. A fraction of an inch closer and it would have ripped out an artery

and he would have bled to death. Ross Malachy had shown an uncanny knowledge of emergency

medical procedures, the doctors said later. It kept the damage from being permanent. He'd get back full

use of the arm if he did exactly what he was told.

Come to think of it, doctors in military hospitals said the same kind of stupid stuff. When he got out of

the hospital after getting back from 'Nam, they'd given him a list of things to do and let him go, too.

Doctors were the same everywhere. It was the same now as it had been more than twenty years

before—out of the dim shadowed lobby and smell of antiseptic into blazing sunshine and an empty feeling

that he didn't quite know what to do next. He squinted and looked around for the taxi that was supposed

to be waiting for him. There was no taxi.

Heroes on TV could take a bullet in the arm and keep on going like the Energizer Bunny. He'd been

pushing to get out of the hospital since he woke up from the anesthesia. But he sure as hell wasn't going

to stand around in hundred-degree, July-in-New Mexico summer sun until a taxi showed up.

Unfortunately, there wasn't any place to sit down, and it wasn't as if he could stroll over to Central

Avenue and flag down a cab. For one thing, his flagger was temporarily out of order, and for another,

taxicabs weren't all that common in Albuquerque. Come to think of it, the only place he could ever

remember seeing one was at the airport. He was contempla-

ting going back into the shadows and sitting down for a while when Ross Malachy came out of the

hospital entrance behind him. The kid was visiting Wales's wife, Al remembered.

"Admiral?" Ross was different somehow. A moment after he'd given Al the tie, he'd stepped back,

blinking, and backed out of Al's room, confused. Probably a little self-conscious about giving a guy a

present, Al figured. He still had that look—younger somehow, less self-assured. As if when the gift left

his hands, something else did, too.

Weird present, too, but the more he'd looked at the thing— a horrendous pink-and-purple

creation—the more it grew on him. It appealed to the somewhat warped sense of humor the military had

never quite managed to get rid of. So, now, he nodded and smiled, acknowledging the greeting.

"Did they release you, sir? Is your arm okay?"

Al glanced down at the white sling and forced himself not to shrug. "Yeah, it's fine. They just let me

out. There should be a taxi any year now."

"Do you need a ride back to your hotel? I can take you." The offer was instant and without strings, an

impulsive generosity Al had found in only a few people.

Being less generous himself, he was inclined to take advantage of the offer. "Sure," he said promptly.

"God knows when a taxi will show up. I guess I still have a room."

"If you don't, the hotel will still have your things," the kid assured him. "I'm sure the cops or somebody

let them know what happened."

"Speaking of the cops, are you okay?"

The blue eyes clouded, as if Ross were having trouble remembering. "Oh, sure," he said uncertainly.

"They said I'd have to testify, but then Stenno pleaded guilty, so I guess that's it. Lisa wasn't even

charged."

Lisa must have been the girl in the store, Al thought. When he'd walked by and seen the boy pointing

the gun at Ross and the store owner, Lisa, Stephen Wales's daughter, had had a look of sheer horrified

enlightenment on her face. Al had been willing to bet that she didn't really know what she was getting

into. It was nice to know that she wasn't going to have to pay the price.

Ross led Al over to a red Blazer, and Al settled back with a sigh of relief. The arm was hurting more

than he wanted to admit, and the interior of the car was an oven. The warmth felt great.

They were more than halfway to the hotel before the air conditioning kicked in. By that time the cool

air felt great, too. Thunderheads were forming over the Sandia Mountains, but the rain wouldn't hit until

later. Now, the heat was still shimmering off the asphalt, blurring the cars in front of them.

Ross left him in the vehicle, air conditioning running on high, while he checked with the front desk,

without suggesting that Al didn't look quite ready to walk the dozen yards to the lobby. When he came

back he had a key and Al's battered leather suitcase.

"They gave you a new room on the ground floor," he said. "The public relations lady was at the front

desk. She was real- ly nice." His dark eyebrows were knotted, as if once again he I was trying to

remember something. "I'll drive you around."

He not only drove Al around, he unlocked the door and carried the little black suitcase in. Al

wondered if he was ; expecting a tip. But Ross only smiled awkwardly, waved, and then got back into

the red Blazer and pulled away, leaving Al wondering what had caused him to change.

The hotel room was identical to the one he'd had before, decorated in Pueblo Deco, with an imitation

R.C. Gorman print next to the bathroom and walls that were painted brown and orange, presumably to

evoke thoughts of a desert sunset. The bedspread was gray and black and brown and cream, reminiscent

of a Navajo rug; the carpet was standard hotel-room mustard yellow. Everything was faded out by years

of dust and wear. He lay back carefully on the bed and stared up at the ceiling and wondered what he

was supposed to do now. He could have a cigar, he supposed. They wouldn't let him smoke in the

hospital.

He'd called Washington already. The final separation papers had been filed while he was in the

hospital, and his office had postponed his last debriefings yet again. He'd asked for, and received, two

more weeks of leave. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with them. But once they were gone, he'd

be going back, finishing up the last bits of paperwork, getting ready to turn over his "command" of the

current projects. His life was winding down. He wasn't sure what lay beyond retirement; the military had

been his only home for too many years. Even when he was a POW, he'd been a member of the United

States military, and he'd known exactly who he was. He hadn't always liked it, but he'd known. A few

months from now, he wasn't sure what he'd be. He exhaled a stream of pungent smoke toward the

ceiling.

He didn't want to go to any more encounter groups.

He was really, really tired of moving around from station to station, of having no home but military

housing.

Maybe it was better than not having a home at all.

Maybe not.

There was always Ross's suggestion.

Well, why the hell not.

But he wasn't going to tell Sam about parading around with his shirt off, participating in a men's

encounter group. With luck, Sam'd never find out. It was just too embarrassing.

He reached over, wincing as he stressed the injured arm, and picked up the phone.

cHAPTER

TWO

"Now, Dr. Beckett," the senator said, looking up from under beetling brows, "tell us again about how

this idea of yours is going to pay off for this country." He leaned back in his leather executive chair,

causing it to roll away from the cherrywood desk. The chair squeaked against the floor mat, and the

senator swiveled back and forth, repeating the sound, smiling to himself.

Sam Beckett sighed and sat up to go into battle again. The other senator, a motherly type seated not

quite behind the desk but definitely on her colleague's side of it, smiled in a non-motherly fashion. Sam

failed to notice. He, unlike the senators, was seated in a straight, uncomfortable suppliants' chair, and as

he opened his mouth he looked over his audience's shoulders at the glass-fronted bookcases. The glass

was shining clean, evidence of recent dusting. He wondered sourly if the dusting hid the fact that no one

in this office actually read the books behind the glass.

"It's essential research, first of all, Senator Bantham." Sam was repeating himself, and he knew as well

as anybody that you couldn't make someone understand an explanation by simply repeating the same

words over and over, as if repetition would make them magically understandable. But he had worked so

hard on this presentation, and the image of the words on paper wouldn't leave his mind. He'd hoped they

would sweep the committee away.

He hadn't expected to meet a snake and a... he didn't quite know what to make of Senator Judith

Dreasney. There was no committee, no hearing. Just two senators and their aides. He wasn't even sure if

this was legal or not. Committee meetings weren't usually held in private offices with rubber tree

plants—fake rubber tree plants at that—in the corners. It was a very nice office, other than that, he

admitted. Broadwood floors and heavy rugs and a very expensive desk set that must have set a few

taxpayers back. It smelled of very stale cigar smoke, and he wondered if Bantham observed the rules

about not smoking in government offices. Maybe he didn't think of it as a government office. Maybe he

thought it was his office.

No computers, though. He wondered how the Senate got any work done without computers.

"Yes, Dr. Beckett?" Bantham prompted. "You were saying?"

Sam dragged himself wearily back to his argument. In order to do applied research, Senator, such as

we were trying to do on Star Bright, you have to do the basic work first. That work may appear to have

no relevance to the lay observer; it may even appear frivolous; but you can't ever get to a final product

unless you have a complete foundation to build on."

"Oh, 1 see. Foundation. And empire for Dr. Beckett, no doubt?" Bantham slanted a glance at

Dreasney, inviting her to share the joke. Dreasney, clearly not a science fiction aficionado, looked blankly

back. Bantham snorted and turned back to Sam, letting a thick drawl color his words. He was just a

good ol' boy, sure enough. "So you came in on Star Bright, decided it didn't have itself a good

foundation, proposed to shut it down so you could go do something else?

"Now, I do respect your intelligence, Dr. Beckett. It's damned hard, I tell you, to ignore a Nobel

Prize winner when he comes into my office, hat in hand, to ask for funding for a pet project." He paused

to enjoy the look of incredulous irritation beginning to bloom on his visitor's face as the fact that he'd been

insulted sank in. "But I've got to keep in mind the best interest of the American people," he went on. "This

budget you've drawn up, well, Judith and I have gone over it, and it's just way too much money. What

you're asking for here, why, do you have any idea how many children we could feed for that kind of

money?"

Sam looked from Bantham to Dreasney and back again. The fading sunlight lit them unevenly, like a

Lucifer and his shadow, and he wondered momentarily what he was going to be tempted to now. Sam

Beckett as Dr. Faustus, perhaps?

"It's a shame that we can't find some kind of practical application," Judith, shadow, said. She was

smiling again, uneven white teeth showing.

It was always this way, Sam thought. He'd been coming back to Washington from New Mexico at

least once a week, every week, for almost a year now. Star Bright had been shut down because there

were just too many things they didn't know, and Sam Beckett had been the one to say so. Then they'd

asked him to put together a project proposal, given him just enough seed money to get started. Now they

were reexamining the proposal. They were interested, all right. They just didn't want to pay for it.

'This is based on Hawkings's theories, isn't it?" Bantham mused. "So you could say, in a sense, that

Hawkings did the basic research. You could take his work and ..."

"No, Senator. I don't want to mislead you," Sam said. "We're actually extending the scope of

Hawkings's work. We're taking it into a whole new area, integrating it with Lotfi Zadeh's work in fuzzy

logic ..."

"You say you can build a computer that can handle 'a greater level of complexity than heretofore

achievable,' " Bantham interrupted, with the air of a man cutting to the chase. "We've got a dozen

computers that can handle complex problems. Now if you had one that could handle the deficit, you

might have something there." He chortled, would have dug an elbow into Dreasney's ribs if the woman

had been close enough. She drew back an inch, not sharing his camaraderie.

"It's not just a matter of complexity," Sam said wearily.

"You've tried pitching this to the Energy Department, I assume," Bantham said. "They seem to be

getting into weird stuff these days. Maybe they can find a weapons application, or something."

"I thought that would be Defense," Dreasney said thoughtfully, as if Sam weren't present.

"Nah. They only use the stuff. Energy does the research." Bantham set his elbows on the desk pad,

swiveled his head around vulturelike to give his full attention to her.

"There's that new department," Dreasney suggested, unperturbed. "Nobody seems to have figured out

what they do yet. And they're certainly interested in new projects. They might have some stray budget

money they haven't committed yet."

"That's possible," Bantham agreed, picking up a pencil and tapping it against his teeth.

Sam closed his eyes. He'd have to go back and write up his proposal again and haunt somebody

else's halls for financial support. And it was so simple, really. Just a matter of building a computer.

Not multitasking, not parallel processing. A computer with inspiration. A computer that could dream.

A computer that could send Sam Beckett into the past, to see and understand what really happened:

when the Kennedys and King were shot, when Marilyn died, when all the mysteries happened. When

Donna left him at the altar.

He got up and left the office, leaving the senators squabbling behind him, and wandered down the

halls, thinking. It was one of the things he did best, and he stepped around a line of schoolchildren, not

noticing when the teacher recognized him and spoke excitedly to her charges, not aware of the second

glances and sharp looks from the people he passed. He'd been getting those looks ever since the Time

cover. It made his mother proud, he supposed, but other than that it wasn't important.

He hadn't had a chance to do more than think since he'd given the final briefing on Project Star Bright.

He wanted to work. He wanted to build that computer, to see his theories take shape. He'd been

working on this since ... he couldn't remember when he'd started thinking about time as a string. He'd

been watching television, he knew that. And he knew if he really tried to remember, he would.

Often enough he didn't bother to try to remember. It was I too easy, for one thing. And for another it

made him feel a little more like a normal person.

He was not a normal person.

He wanted to build that computer.

He wanted to walk into the past and find out what went wrong, and fix it.

Once he understood the past, he could go back to Star Bright and deal with the future. First time,

then space.

Unfortunately, in order to do all that he had to deal with I politicians and money people and others

who wanted concrete I results, right now, so the world could beat a path to their [ doors. Not one of

them could appreciate the sheer fun of I scientific research.

He wandered out of the building and down the marble I steps and up the street, ignoring the traffic

and noise and | humid haze of a Washington afternoon. He could have been 1 anywhere. It didn't matter.

He was lost in the calculations, the I theory.

A message was waiting for him when he got back to the hotel that night, after a late dinner and a

show. It hadn't been I difficult to get a single ticket to the Performing Arts Center. It I usually wasn't. He

always tried to attend at least one concert, one musical when he was on the East Coast; it was his private

reward for having to be there at all. He checked at the desk when he came in, hoping forlornly that

perhaps Dreasney, at I least, had had a change of heart and that all was not yet lost. [

The message was from Al. He grinned in delight, and practically ran to the elevators. He fumbled for

the key to his room, slid it into the door, and lunged for the phone.

He'd already dialed before the familiarity of the area code I registered, so when the phone was picked

up on the other end I his first words were, "What the heck are you doing in New I Mexico?"

"Hello to you too," came the familiar, raspy voice. "I'm recovering from a gunshot wound. How's your

day been?"

"You what?"

And then there were explanations and amazement and recriminations and laughter, and two old

friends trading stories and recent events.

"What are you doing anyway?" Sam said at last. "Were you out at the Labs? I wish I'd known—I

was going through there just a couple of days ago."

"Two days ago I was doped to the gills in a hospital," Al growled, exaggerating only slightly for the

sympathy effect. "Where were you?"

Sam took a deep breath. "I was out at the project." What I hope will be the project, he amended

mentally.

"Ah?" Al was trying to pretend he was only casually interested. He wasn't succeeding. "This is the

new deal you're working on? So, what's going on?"

"I can't talk about it over the phone," Sam said, belatedly remembering the limitations. "But listen,

when are you going to be coming back to Washington?"

He could hear movement on the other end of the line, as if Al were shifting, a grunt and a sigh. Sam's

nose wrinkled automatically at the memory of cigar smoke.

"I think I might want to stick around here for a few more days," Al said at last. "I'm probably going to

go stay on the base, in Bachelor Officers' Quarters."

There was strain in his friend's voice, and he wanted to ask if Al was okay, but something told him the

question wouldn't be welcome. Al was his closest friend, but he didn't confide much. If he'd been badly

hurt, he'd joke about it. Saying he'd stay in New Mexico was tantamount to admitting he was in pain.

"Okay," he said. "That'll work too. I'm going to spend a couple more days here and then I'll be going

back to—" He hesitated. He couldn't tell Al, not yet. And he certainly couldn't tell him over the

telephone. "I'll be in New Mexico. So stick around, and I'll take you to Sadie's or the Sanitary Tortilla

Factory for dinner."

"Deal," Al said. "Let me give you the base locator number."

Information exchanged, Sam hung up, a smile beginning to spread across his face as he considered

the possibilities. Al Calavicci, in New Mexico. Right on the verge of retirement —

he'd be looking for something to do with himself. And Sam had something in mind. Sam Beckett

needed a shark for the Washington waters, and nobody fit the bill better than Al Calavicci.

"Oh boy oh boy oh boy!" he crowed, delighted.

CHAPTER

THREE

The next day Sam headed for the Library of Congress to spend a few hours checking out the latest

journal articles. Afterward he had lunch with colleagues also visiting the capital in the endless quest for

government funding, and gently turned down an invitation to come join them at their various institutions of

research and/or higher learning.

"What's the matter, you going to Los Alamos?" one, a bearded, slight man who stooped even sitting

down, asked.

Sam grinned and shook his head. "Nope. Got some other irons in the fire."

"Like what?" another man wanted to know, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

When he wouldn't say more, the bearded man traded knowing glances with his two friends. Refusal to

talk about work in public meant secrets, and not just industrial secrets, either.

The third man, the only one at the table not wearing a tie, changed the subject immediately. "So, Sam,

how d'you like being the patron saint of the Nonluddites?"

"The what of the who?" As a subject-changing tactic, it worked beautifully. Sam set aside the fork

with which he'd been digging into his salmon and took a long swallow of coffee. He'd better get funding

soon, he thought irrelevantly. He'd have to bring his own lunches otherwise.

"The Nonluddites. That technology-no-matter-what bunch." The bearded man stabbed at a lettuce

leaf. "Just when DOE is making our lives miserable with the Tiger Teams looking for safety and

environmental problems, this group pops up and starts proclaiming the gospel of Build that Computer,

Kill that Spotted Owl."

"I'm all for the Build that Computer end of it," his bespectacled compatriot smiled. The others,

including Sam, nodded enthusiastically. "But you'd think they could give the bird a break. It's the visible

symbol of the ecosystem—"

"Okay, Shelby, enough already about the ecosystem," the bearded man interrupted. "He was lecturing

to us all the way out here about the damned ecosystem," he informed Sam.

"Sam knows what I mean," Shelby protested.

'The point is, these Nonluddites don't. They think more machines, more factories, more industry, more

Ashley McConnell - Quantum Leap - Prelude

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: