Date: Fri, 16 Apr 1999 16:26:21 -0600 (MDT) From: "Katherine R. Freymuth" Subject: Whale - Ch 1 Message-ID: PART 1 GREGOR Chapter 1 Samuel Beckett had leaped. His soul began its well-remembeed search for his next assignment. Where and when Sam would arrive, he did not know. He only knew that time would send him where he would be needed and he knew that the place and time would be sometime after 1953. Dr. Samuel Beckett, quantum physicist. Born August 8, 1953. Son of John Samuel and Thelma Louise Beckett. Brother of Thomas and Katherine. Child prodigy. Winner of the Nobel Prize. Concert pianist. Sensei of seven martial arts. Holder of six doctorates and one Master's degree. Quantum physicist. It all came back to quantum physics. That was why he was here in a blank void and why his memory was almost as blank as the void in which he was. His memory faded and/or increased with every leap. He'd remember Tom's death in Vietnam in one leap and then Tom's returning home in the next. He'd remember the faces of those he had leaped into but rarely the faces of those whom he knew and loved. When he did remember those faces, the memories were bittersweet. However, there was always one constant memory: that of his constant and faithful Observer, his best friend, his private counselor, his only contact with his home in the future. Sam sighed mentally at his inadequate memory and a phrase that someone - he couldn't remember who - had once said came to memory: "Time and space can be a bitch!" It was an apt statement. Sam was never used to Quantum Leaping in Time. Every time he leaped into a person, he lost his balance and became slightly dizzy. Then, after he regained himself, there was the familiar, yet still shocking, revelation of seeing himself in the mirror. Or rather not seeing himself in the mirror. Every time he looked in a mirror, it wasn't his face he saw; it was the face of the person into whom he had leaped. Sam arrived at his destination. There was no fanfare. There was just a slight tingling sensation and then - POOF! - he was there. He didn't remember being in the blank void. The last thing he did remember was his last leap, and that only sporatically. There was a soft cool wind against his face. He was looking out a window. He noticed the calm blue sea which stretched into the distant horizon. He could hear men talking in the background but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He looked around. He was in a small kitchen. Looking down at himself, he noticed that he was dressed in jeans, t-shirt, boots - ordinary work clothes except for the apron he was wearing over them. *Okay*, Sam thought. *Obviously, I'm aboard a boat and I'm a cook of some sorts. But none of this tells me what I really need to know: where am I, what is today, who have I leaped into, and what am I here to do.* He picked up a pan and looked at his reflection in its surface. The face was young, about thirty years old, yet weather- beaten. He really couldn't tell the man's nationality from the reflection even though the features were obviously European: round brown eyes, black hair, and a slight cut on his high forehead. *Okay, now I know what I look like.* A voice coming from behind him said something. Sam turned around, lowering the pan, to see a short man of about five feet four inches in height with black hair and black eyes. *He's speaking to me in Russian!* Sam realized. *And I can understand him!* The man spoke again. "Are you feeling all right, Gregor? You worry me. You're very quiet." "I'm fine," Sam answered in Russian. "I just need some time alone." *Oh, boy! I just answered him in Russian!* "Very well. Don't be too long. The Captain expects is to come across something soon," the man told him. Sam nodded. "And Gregor? You'd better hurry up. You have ten to feed within the hour. Remember?" "Feed?" Sam questioned. "Oh, yeah. That's right. I'm the cook." The man laughed. "You're funny, Gregor," he told him as he left the kitchen. *Gregor. Well, at least I now know what my name is*, Sam thought as he looked around. Apparently, Gregor had just finished preparing the main dish when Sam leaped into him. However, it looked as if Gregor was going to prepare a vegetable dish as well. Sam got to work on the dish, not knowing what else to do until he found out what he was there to do. Sam was shouting at the top of his lungs in Russian. *Only he's not Sam*, Al reminded himself. *He's someone who speaks a foreign language and who is definitely very angry with us.* Admiral Albert Anthony Calavicci knew he should have been used to this by now but, then again... Al sighed. No, he doubted he would ever become completely used to the fact that the person in the Waiting Room wasn't who he appeared to be. The person in the Waiting Room wasn't Sam Beckett, Al's best friend; he only looked like Sam. "Sam" stopped shouting as Al walked into the Waiting Room. He looked at Al with suspicion. Al was wondering what the man was thinking. *Probably what most people think when they arrive in the Waiting Room: where am I and what the hell is going on?* "You can relax," Al told him. "No one's going to hurt you." The man didn't alter his position. "You probably don't understand a word I'm saying." The man didn't answer. "My name's Al. What's yours?" Al gestured to himself and then to the man, indicating his meaning. No answer. "Can you understand me at all?" No answer. Al sighed and left the Waiting Room, encountering Dr. Verbina Beeks as he left. Dr. Beeks was hired as a neuro-psychiatrist. Her job was to have been to track any neurological changes in either Al or Sam. Now she had the added job of being the Project's psychiatric expert. "No progress?" she asked as Al entered the Control Room. "Nothing. The guy just won't answer me. Ziggy, what the devil was he speaking anyway?" "Russian, of course," answered a female voice from a bright blue ball that hung over the main control console. "Of course," Al repeated the answer with slight sarcasm. "What was he saying?" "He demanded to know what was going on and swore that he knows nothing." "Oh, great!" Al exclaimed. "Sounds like he thinks he's a prisoner of war!" He turned to Verbina. "We have to get some information from him. Otherwise, we can't make contact with Sam. You heard what Ziggy said earlier. She just doesn't have enough information for a lock." "Admiral, we have already discussed this," Verbina replied. "There is no one in the complex that speaks Russian..." "There's Ziggy," Al interrupted. "Hearing her speak from seemingly nowhere might traumatize him even further than he is now." Al glared at her. "I doubt it. Intercoms have existed since before World War II and, since we know he came from within Sam's lifetime, he probably knows all about them. If not, he'll probably think we're aliens from another world. It wouldn't be the first time." He looked at the sphere hanging from the ceiling. "Ziggy, translate for me. I'm going back in." Verbina exhaled in slight frustration. "Just go easy on him, Al." Al smiled reassuringly at her as he headed up the ramp to the Waiting Room. When Al entered, he noticed that "Sam" had a suspicious look on his face as he examined the bright baby blue room. He turned and gave Al a similar examination with his eyes. It was obvious that he didn't trust Al in the least bit. "Listen," Al said as Ziggy translated over the speakers. "We thought that it would be easier on both of us if we had a translator." Was that fear Al saw in the man's eyes? "We just want to know a little bit about you. My name's Al." "Gregor Stawpahvich," the man replied, looking very resigned to a fate he didn't want. "Okay," Al said, nodding his head. "Let me just assure you, Gregor, that we mean you no harm. I know your very confused right now but I really can't answer a lot of questions just yet. I want to see how you are first." He paused. "How's your memory, Gregor?" "Why?" Gregor was looking at Al with deep suspicion again. "Relax. I just know you're having some trouble remembering thing and I want to help. Can you remember what year it is, Gregor?" "1988." Al nodded his head again. "Good." He pressed some buttons on the handlink. "What do you last remember? Where were you?" Gregor lowered his eyelids. "You mean you don't know?" Al looked at him carefully. "This is a test of your memory, Gregor, not mine. Where were you the last you remember?" "Aboard ship, heading home to Volgograd. Now it is my turn to ask questions," he told Al firmly. Al hesitated a moment and then nodded his head. "Fair enough," he answered. Gregor stood up off the Waiting Room table and walked around it. He pointed to the surface of the table. "Who are you and what have you done to me?" He asked the question with remarkable calmness. Al walked to the table and looked down. Gregor had already seen his reflection in the mirror-like surface of the table - a reflection which showed the face of Dr. Samuel Beckett.