Date: Wed, 9 Jun 93 11:21:18 EDT From: Tracy Finifter To: alt-ql-creative@cisco.com Subject: "A New Face to Reality" Part 2 Message-Id: "A New Face to Reality" by Tracy E. Finifter Part 2 "How's it goin', Sam?" came Al's voice. His image was not quite leaning on the door frame, quietly puffing on a cigar. Sam spun around, unable to contain his excitement. He gestured wildly at the mirror. "Al! Look at me! I've leaped into Tom! And I'm home!" "Yeah, I can see that," Al said. He seemed much more reserved than usual, and rather unimpressed with Sam's latest identity. Sam calmed down, but didn't notice Al's apparent lack of interest. He turned back to the mirror, gazing at his brother's face. "For the first time, Al, I really know he's alive. I really know that he made it out of Vietnam alive." He had been told that Tom had come home, but this was the proof he really needed to believe. "Yeah, Sam, that's great," Al said noncommittally. Sam noticed Al's unusual tone this time and turned back to his friend. "What's wrong, Al?" he asked quietly. He knew how painful the Vietnam leap was for Al. The memories it brought back, the images he had to relive, and ultimately, the decision he had made for Sam. He didn't want to bring back painful memories, nor did he want to seem ignorant of all Al had done, both then and now. Al's immediate concerns, however, regarded another matter. "Well it's nice to see that you're enjoying your leap into Tom, but have you thought about why you're here?" The sudden realization that Fate had brought him to fix something else that had gone wrong in his brother's life brought Sam's mind crashing back to the present. There was now no doubt in his mind that his dream had something to do with it. His voice grew suddenly quiet. "No, I haven't. I've just been trying to figure out what's going on. I haven't had time to think about what my mission is." Al eyed Sam with new worry. "What do you mean, 'what's been going on'? You just leaped in here, right? And it's the middle of the night. What could possibly have happened already?" Sam stepped out of the bathroom into the living room. He had an absent gaze, a look that Al had learned to watch out for. "Al, I, uh, I had a flashback." "Flashback?" he asked, his voice relaying nothing but concern. Sam was choked and quiet. "To my leap-in to Vietnam." Al was silent. He knew as well as anyone what flashbacks were like, and though he knew what Sam had experienced was nothing compared to what he and so many other vets had gone through, he still knew how much it must have hurt Sam. "Gee, Sam, I'm sorry," Al said at last. "I know what that must have been like for you..." "But why now? Does it have anything to do with my leaping into Tom?" Sam sat down on the sofa, considering. He remembered the time he had leaped into Jack Stone, and the childhood trauma he had picked up from him. He usually didn't retain the memories of the people he leaped into; whenever he leaped he was still Sam Beckett in mind and body. But if he could still have Jack Stone's memories during a leap, then maybe he had Tom's memories this time. But no. That wasn't the case here. The flashback had been of his experiences, not Tom's. They were his memories, coming to the surface after so many years. Al pulled out his handlink from his pocket and started fiddling with it. "Ziggy says he's not sure, but it could be." "What do you mean?" "Well, in this history," Al fought back his habit of using the term 'original', "Tom was so disturbed by his flashbacks from the war, that he let it ruin his family, his career, and eventually his life." "And what exactly does that mean?" Sam asked bluntly. He could tell that there was more. Al looked down. He had more news, but desperately didn't want to tell Sam. "Tell me, Al," Sam prodded. "He, uh," Al started, "he hits the bottle and ends up on the skids." Al's voice was barely audible. "What!?" Sam shot up from the sofa and began striding around the room. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it. For his brother's life to turn out the way Al was saying it would was absolutely impossible. Tom had always been strong, always a fighter, and the thought of delayed stress syndrome destroying his life as it had other vets' was too much for Sam to take. "You've got to be wrong, Al. That doesn't sound like the brother I know." "Because it's not the brother you know!" Al suddenly retorted. At Sam's startled reaction, he softened his tone. "Think about it, Sam. Your memories of Tom stop when he shipped out to Vietnam. Whatever or Whoever's been leaping you around in time has kept your memories of the original history. You never knew the Tom after the war, or what it did to him." Al was right. Sam calmed down and walked towards the fireplace. On the mantle were at least a dozen photographs, one of which was of Tom at his wedding. Surrounding Tom and his bride were Sam's mother, his father, his sister Katie, and himself, along with some other people Sam didn't recognize, no doubt the bride's family, all smiling and laughing and having the time of their lives. Sam thought hard, but try as he might, he had no memory of this picture ever having been taken. He had no memory of his brother's wedding, his sister-in-law, or any of his new family. What he did remember was the Naval officer coming to the door of the farmhouse with the telegram and Tom's funeral on a cold April morning. He remembered his mother nearly collapsing from grief and himself trying to comfort Katie's tears as the Honor Guard fired the twenty-one gun salute. He remembered Tom's death, not his life. "It doesn't make sense, Al. Tom knows that he has a family who loves him and would try to help him. Why wouldn't he have come to us in the first place?" "I don't know, Sam. You all had your own lives to lead and maybe he didn't want to burden you with his problems. Or else he didn't think that you would take the time out to help. Or maybe it was because he was ashamed to ask for help. Whatever the reason was, he didn't, and nobody could do anything before it was too late." "Then I've got to help him now, Al. What I do or don't remember doesn't matter. He's my brother and he needs my help." "I know, kid. Let's see here..." he started punching the buttons of the handlink, every now and again slapping it on the side as the handlink squealed in protest. "It's April 8, 1980, you're in Newport News, Virginia." Sam winced at Al's mention of the date. In the history that Sam knew, Tom had died on April 8, 1970, ten years to the day before. It was a date that he could never forget, no matter how Swiss-cheesed his brain became. Al noticed Sam's uneasiness, but continued without pause. "You're a commander now. You're wife's name is Sandy Jennings Beckett, and you have two daughters: Rachel, 5-years-old, and Karen, 3-years-old." Sam couldn't help but to smile at the thought of his nieces. He picked up another picture off the mantle, this one of two young girls. The older had light brown hair, the younger was blonde, both with curls and broad smiles. Because of him, Tom had come home to have two beautiful children. They were his family, Sam's family, and Sam silently vowed to his brother that he would take care of them, to make things right in his life that once again had gone wrong. "Talk to him, Al. I'll do what I can here, but someone there has to help him, I can only help his family. You've got to help him." "I'll see what me and Beeks can do," Al responded noncommittally, and stepped through the Imaging Chamber door. He didn't want to get Sam's hopes up with promises that he might not be able to deliver. "Hang in there, Sam." With that, the door closed. Sam sat back down on the sofa, considering everything that had already unfolded during this leap. Tom was just as disturbed by the events of ten years ago as he now was, and he was letting it destroy his life. Of course, it wasn't ten years to Sam, although leaping from decade to decade could make it seem even longer. But the memories were still fresh and vivid in his mind, and coping with them while trying to sort out Tom's problems was a little more than he felt he could handle. Confused, depressed, and exhausted, he drifted off to sleep. * * * * Tracy Finifter | "Life is what happens to you while * * finifter@gandalf.rutgers.edu | your busy making other plans." * * Douglass College, Rutgers University | - John Lennon *