Message-ID: <19980104233605.13675.qmail@hotmail.com> From: "Carol Belyea" Subject: Chances - Chapter Seven Date: Sun, 04 Jan 1998 15:36:05 PST Chapter Seven As students at MIT, Yen Hiroshi and Sam Beckett got along very well despite their differences in extracurricular amusement. Sam liked to study and read books on Lotfi Zida's theories on fuzzy logic and Yen liked to create viruses and send them to people he didn't really care for. Yen was the mischievous fellow of the twosome. Sam was shy and private. But somehow they managed a friendship together. They became best friends from two different worlds. Much like Sam and Al, opposites attracted. In the early years at MIT, Yen was the little guy and Sam was just there, passing by and noticed the little nerd being bullied by a group of jocks. Though Sam was a nerd himself, he was big. Six feet and some training in martial arts can scare anyone away. Especially after one of those jocks received two very nasty, personalized bruises. After that little incident Yen and Sam became acquaintances, saying hello to each other while passing through the halls. As time passed, the MIT students got to know each other more and more, discovering that they shared similar interests. They were both computer geeks, liked quantum physics and so on. They both wanted to travel in time. After college, Sam introduced his string theory to Yen. Thus was born the Star Bright Program some time during the early eighties. But as the years went by for the duo, Yen no longer was the weaker one. He became a stronger person and maybe even a little jealous of Sam's mental ability exceeding Yen's. Jealousy can be stronger than one thinks. Sam was doing all the calculations and equations while Yen was traipsing behind. At first, the delay to catch up with Sam amused Yen. Then it began to frustrate him. Finally, the stage of pure, unrefined anger came along. Sam explained all this to Al while Sam nursed his fifth beer in the local bar in Albuquerque. Al watched Sam carefully while he himself sipped on a snifter of brandy. He had only seen Sam this bad when his life was in danger or when he was depressed. From what Al could tell, he was both. Thinking about this Yen character sent a chill through his own body. "Why'd he get so angry?" Al asked with a furrowed brow. Sam chugged the rest of his beer down then slammed the bottle down on the table. "Well," he started with a drunk slur, "See, he was angry because he grew up in Japan. They have a high suicide rate there you know." Al knew what he said made absolutely no sense but he answered anyway. "I didn't know that, no." "Well, anyway, Yen grew up in a very pushy family. Very pushy family. Over in Japan you're either the best or ...," he made the notions of a beheading. "Get the picture?" "Oh. So he got angry at you because you were better than him. And he wasn't used to being beaten." Sam's eyebrows shot up along with a sort of smile that held drunk delight. "Right!" Al shook his head with a repressed impish grin. It was kind of amusing to see Sam like this sometimes. But only a little. Al didn't think it was too fun to see his best friend suffering in emotion. "Sam." Al beckoned the man across from him. Sam had laid his head down on the table like in kindergarten. Moving his head so he could look at Al from just above his arms Sam said, "Hey, Al. Why are your clothes so weird?" An eyebrow shot up. "My clothes?" He looked down at himself. A green, blue, red, and yellow polo shirt and khaki slacks clothed his body. Not-so-special casual shoes covered his feet resting on the foot plates of the hospital's wheelchair. "What about 'em?" Almost whimsically, Sam sighed out, "They're weird!" "You've had one too many drinks, pal. I think we'd better go." But he forgot already. He can't drive yet and Sam was the one who brought them to this place. He's drunk. The realization of his limitations struck Al like a bolt of lightening. He looked down at his disobedient limbs. "Damn. You know what?" He looked at Sam whom was attempting to stand up straight. "I think we'd better call Donna to pick us up." Sam leaned on the table trying to keep his balance and nodded. "Let me go to the bathroom first." "Go on. I'll make the call." As Sam disappeared into the men's room, Al rolled over to the pay phone in the corner of the bar. There were two phones. One was considerably lower than the other and Al never thought he'd have to use it before. He rummaged through his pocket for a quarter and inserted it. Donna answered the phone and Al explained the situation. The physicist's wife she'd be there in 20 minutes. With that they both hung up and Al turned his chair around to head back to the table, accidentally colliding with a man. "Excuse me." Al said as politely as he could. He hated when this kind of thing happened. "No problem." Said the Asian man. As Al began to make his way around the man, he was stopped. "Hey, aren't you that Admiral guy that got shot about two months ago?" He had a low tone to his voice, as if he were undercover for something and just happened to bump into someone that had been in the news for the past few weeks. 'National hero shot and paralyzed' and it seemed like the whole world knew. With his hands still poised over his wheels, Al hung his head, dwelling over this person's absolute rudeness and said, "Yeah, that's me." This man had the blackest eyes he'd ever seen. Very cold, heartless and scrutinizing, as if he were gloating some how. He had a very ugly and very large scar along the left side of his face along the jaw line and Al briefly wondered what had made that scar. He shrugged. "What? You want my autograph for somethin'? 'Cause I gotta tell you, I've got plenty of other better things to do than to put up with someone as presumptuous as you." Just as Al started back toward the table, he heard the man say, "I bet Banes left a hell of an impression on you." Al stopped. Banes? How would that guy know about Banes? The name of the shooter was never mentioned in the newspapers. Even though the whole thing was supposed to be kept secret, somehow the media managed to get the main idea of the situation that happened in the Project. And Al Calavicci was already known to John Q. Public, so that made the story more interesting. So it was perfectly understandable that Al was spotted. But the shooter's name was never mentioned. So how could the Asian man have known his name? The man walked out the door as Al sat there trying to quickly put two and two together. When it clicked in his mind, he turned around but it was too late. Was it him? The coincidence would be too strange. It had to be him. Turning back around and heading for the table, Al thought about it for a second. Asian man in a bar who knew the name of the shooter. It can't just be coincidence. Sam came back to the table. "Hey, Sam. This Yen guy you told me about......." Sam shrugged. "Yeah, what about 'im?" "Well, did he have a scar on the left side of his face? Along the jaw line?" Sam's glazed over eyes widened somewhat. "How did you know? Did I tell you?" Al shook his head. "No, you didn't tell me." He backed up a bit and pointed to the front door, "But a man I just bumped into, an Asian man, had a very nasty scar on the left side of his face. And he knew a lot more about the shooting than anyone I know." Sam asked, "Like what?" "Like Banes. His name wasn't released into publicity." Al watched Sam. "You think it was him?" Sam didn't even give himself time to think and ran for the door, Al chasing after him. Sam ran out the front door, stumbling down the steps into the street. "Sam!" Al called out as he rolled down the ramp. "Get out of the street." A car sped out of the parking lot and thinking it was the car the supposed Yen was getting away in, Sam made a lame attempt to follow it on foot. He didn't get very far, and Al kept yelling at him to get out of the street. Finally getting his bulky wheelchair out into the street to Sam, Al realized another thing. "Sam! It's a setup! Damn it, Sam! It's a setup!" But before either of them could move, the headlights of another car grew brighter as the vehicle approached at a rapid speed. In one tenth of a second, Sam pulled Al out of his chair and onto the asphalt as the car sped by and sent the empty wheelchair flying through the air, irreparably bent. The car drove away. Al moaned softly. "Aw, geez." He rolled over onto his back side, Sam moaning next to him. "Damn it." Sam said, picking himself up and dusting himself off. Patrons from the bar ran out after seeing what happened through the windows asking Sam and Al if they were alright. "We're fine." Al answered them. "Are you sure?" asked a woman. She turned to her husband. "Henry, he was in a wheelchair." Henry, a very large burly man kneeled down beside Al, "Need any help?" Al was trying to get to the curb. Meanwhile Sam was behind a car throwing up, another man at his side asking, "Should I call an ambulance?" Sam finished retching and shook his head. "No, it's okay." Sam coughed a bit. "We'll be fine." He looked around and saw Al somewhat sitting on the curb in front of the bar. Sam went to him. "Al, are you okay?" "Yeah, just a little dazed is all." He answered. Henry and the other man came back with what's left of Al's chair. If it could still be called a chair. "Great." Al said sarcastically. "Now what am I gonna do?" "I guess we'll have to wait until Donna comes to pick us up." "You fellas gonna be alright?" Asked Henry. His wife chimed in, "We'd be more than willing to take you home or something." "Thank you, but no. We're waiting for our ride." Al responded. The couple and the man nodded and went back inside the bar. "I should have seen it coming. For sure, it had to be him. Who else would want to try to kill us?" "One of your ex-wives?" Sam asked. "That's not funny." Al looked at the broken heap of metal in front of him, wondering how he was going to get around without it. He cursed his limitations for the umpteenth time. "And now that I've seen him, he's gonna want to kill me too." "I think he just tried to do that." Sam slurred. Al rolled his eyes. "No Shinola." Donna came a few minutes later, parking the car next to the curb close to where Al and Sam were. She got out of the car and looked at Al and then at the very destroyed wheelchair in front of him and then to Sam. "What happened here?" Al looked at Sam. "G'head. Tell her." Looking down and stumbling for the right words, Sam said, "Well, um......you see...... we kinda almost........," "......Got ran over." Al added casually. "Yeah," Sam hesitated, "What he said." With a hand on her hip, Donna asked, "What? What do you mean you almost got ran over? What were you doing in the middle of the street in the first place?" Then she noticed Sam's slurred speech, concluding that he was drunk. "Well, in your shape I'm surprised you didn't run into the cars on purpose. Sam Beckett, I'm ashamed of you. And you," she pointed to Al, "You're no help either! Is this how you both planned to spend your evening? Getting drunk?" "Do I look drunk to you?" Al asked Donna. "It was his idea. Not mine. And I tried to keep him from going into the street. Can we please talk about this in the car?" "What happened to your chair?" Donna asked. "I'll tell you in the car. Um, Sam?" Sam turned to Al. "Hmm?" Looking up at the six foot tall figure standing above him and straining his neck, Al said, "I think I'm gonna need a little help here." After getting the mutilated wheelchair into the trunk and Al into the back seat, Al and Sam retold the evening's events to Donna while she drove. Al was doing most of the talking. Sam was about ready to fall asleep. "Are you saying," Donna started, trying to understand what happened, "you saw Yen in the bar and then Sam goes out, you chase him, and you almost get killed again?" "We both almost got killed this time." Donna sighed. She couldn't believe that a man would have a big enough ego to gloat and then try to reach his goal again. "I don't believe it." "Neither do I." Briefly taking a look in the rearview mirror to get a glimpse at the shaken Admiral Calavicci, Donna sighed again. "Do you have any idea how you're going to get around?" Al shook his head. "No. I'll probably have to get a new chair. Heard about this thing called a Quickie from some people at rehab. Dumbest name I ever heard but it's supposed to be a great chair. I'm sure the infirmary should have a spare around I could use until I get a new one." "So, Sam," Donna began. Sam jumped a little at the tone of her voice. "Which couch would you like to sleep on tonight? Because you're certainly not sleeping with me." Sam sighed heavily and said nothing. No one said anything to each other for the rest of the ride home. It was known to them that the committee would be visiting the next day for the proof that time travel is now possible to humanity. All three hoped nothing wrong would happen on that big day.