VIRTUAL SEASONS EPISODES

Theorizing that one could time-travel within his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett led an elite group of scientists into the desert to develop a top-secret project known as Quantum Leap.  Pressured to prove his theories or lose funding, Dr. Beckett prematurely stepped into the Project Accelerator…and vanished.

 

He awoke to find himself in the past, suffering from partial amnesia and facing a mirror image that was not his own.  Fortunately, contact with his own time was maintained through brainwave transmissions with Al, the Project Observer, who appeared in the form of a hologram that only Dr. Beckett can see and hear.

 

As evil does their best to stop Dr. Beckett’s journey, his children, Dr. Samantha Josephine Fulton and Stephen Beckett, continuously strive to retrieve their time-lost father and bring him home permanently.  Despite returning home several times over the last decade, Dr. Beckett has remained lost in the time stream…his final fate no longer certain.

 

Trapped in the past and driven by an unknown force, Dr. Beckett struggles to accept his destiny as he continues to find himself leaping from life to life, putting things right that once went wrong with the hopes that his next leap…will be the final leap home.

 

 

We will abandon it all for the sake of the call

No other reason at all but the sake of the call

Wholly devoted to live and to die for the sake of the call.

--Steven Curtis Chapman, "For the Sake of the Call"

 

PROLOGUE

The last leap faded like mist in morning sunlight as Sam Beckett once more returned to the endless blue from which he had begun.  The serenity of lingering there was fleeting, the draw of his next assignment seeming to seize him with unexpected force and jerking him into another life that needed something set right or fixed.  So strongly was the leaper yanked into that life that the sudden assault on his senses... heat, voices calling and yelling... a smell that took him a few moments to recognize as fear... set Sam's mind awhirl.  As the world around him became sharper, he shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment, and drew in a deep breath.  And then he opened his eyes to find himself face to face with a tall, lean black man, dressed in some sort of military uniform, glaring at him, his dark eyes glittering in the bright sunlight.  A clicking sound drew Sam's attention from the man, and he gulped at the sight of the military rifle in a soldier’s hands just a few feet away. 

"Ohhh boy," Sam whispered.

"SHUT UP!" the man in his face screamed, his fury and hatred of the infidel in front of him rising like lava from a volcano.

"I..." Sam began but was silenced in the next instant when the man, an officer of some sort, gave a wild roar and faster than Sam would have believed possible, grabbed a rifle from another man and slammed the butt of it against the leaper's head.  Sam dropped like a stone to the hot dusty ground, gasping at the pain flaring through his head, knowing without seeing or touching that the warm stickiness beginning to run down the side of his head was his own blood.  Even that was forgotten as he slowly rolled onto his side and opened his eyes to find himself staring into the wide-staring eyes of a dark-skinned young man, who was clutching a book against his chest.  "Are you..." he began then stopped, the blood in his veins turning cold as he noticed the hole in the middle of the young man's forehead.  Long seconds passed as he stared into the dead man's eyes, words unable to make sense enough to speak swirling in his mind.  Then words came to him.  "Oh my dear God," he whispered.  His words, coupled with a repeated scream of, "SHUT UP!" were the last things Sam heard as the same rifle butt connected with his head again and the bright, sunny day went black.

PART ONE

Project Quantum Leap

Stallion's Gate, New Mexico

Sunday, May 20, 2007

0200 hours

Al Calavicci hurtled through the hallways of Project Quantum Leap.  Minutes earlier he'd been notified that Sam had Leaped, and just as quickly, Ziggy had sounded an alarm that signified that Sam was in danger, his vitals spiking and then abruptly crashing.  The blue and white institutional corridors were a blur as he dashed into the Control Room, demanding a handlink.  It was slapped into his hand and the Imaging Chamber door opened for him a second before he barreled through it.

The hologram of Sam's location snapped into place and Al squinted against the glare.  The horizon melded with the bright sky and Al's breath caught in his throat as he scanned the scenery for Sam.  Movement to his left caught his attention, and Al turned to see a cluster of dark-skinned men dressed in green fatigues shoving other dark-skinned people wearing colorful clothing into a building.  A split second later, they roughly hauled a limp, unconscious figure from the back of a nearby parked truck, and Al instantly recognized Sam.  He hurried over, a hand instinctively rising to his mouth as he saw the blood matting Sam's hair, the congealing not entirely stopping the continuous flow.

"Sam?  Sam, can you hear me?" Al urgently asked.

Not even a groan answered him.  Al kept pace with the group as they entered a spartan building and unceremoniously dumped Sam into a room not much bigger than a broom closet.  The Leaper's body fell awkwardly, his limbs sprawling uncomfortably, but Sam didn't even twitch.

"It hasn't even been two days," sneered one of the soldiers.

"Stupid," agreed another, spitting on Sam's slack face.

Fury bubbled up within Al, and he took a futile swing at the man, his fist traveling unseen and unfelt through the man's face.  The pair closed the door and blackness obscured Al's sight of his friend.

"Ziggy!" he yelled.  "How is Sam?"

"He is unconscious, Admiral," replied the computer.  "I estimate he will remain unconscious for another one-point-two hours."

"Are these monsters going to come back before then?"

"I don't believe so, Admiral."

Al rubbed a hand across his face, wishing he could make out Sam's.  "All right," he said wearily.  "I'll be back, Sam.  I promise."

No sooner had the words passed his lips than the holographic image of tiny room where his best friend lay unconscious and bleeding, faded.  The pristine whiteness of the Imaging Chamber's walls caused Al to blink for a moment as he stared straight ahead, unable to get Sam's bloody head out of his thoughts.  Yet he wasn't allowed to linger with that too clear mental image, as yet another alarm sounded.  Brushing Sam's image aside, Al rushed out of the Imaging Chamber, tossing the handlink to a technician as he hurried to the main control panel where Dom was focused on certain fluctuations that had been brought to his attention by Ziggy.  "What's the problem?" he demanded.

"When the Visitor arrived," Ziggy spoke above the alarm’s noise, "it was immediately apparent that he needed medical assistance."

"Then what's with the alarm if the doctors are with him?" Al demanded.  The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle when Ziggy responded, "Due to his injuries, the Visitor became combative.  It was necessary to summon additional assistance to the Waiting Room."

As Ziggy talked, Al heeded instincts developed by the years of experience born out of Sam's leaping, heading for the Waiting Room at a run nearly as fast as that which had taken him to the Imaging Chamber just moments ago.  As he approached the last corner of the hallway where the Waiting Room was located, Al called out, "Ziggy, open the door!" Rushing around the corner, however, he skidded to a halt at the sight of Beth standing near the two Marines assigned to guard the Waiting Room's entrance.  He stared at his wife for a second then moved determinedly forward. "What are you doing here, Beth?" he asked, unaware of the sharp edge that worry for Sam had honed in his voice.

Beth's brows drew together briefly at his tone, but she didn't comment on it.  She put a hand out as she said, "Al, honey, before you go in there..."

"Beth, I don't have time for this," he snapped.  "Ziggy!  I told you to open this door!"

"You don't have to get so snippy," groused Ziggy as she released the locks and the door automatically slid open.

Al stormed through, ignoring Beth's cry of, "Al... wait!"  He heard her shoes clicking on the floor as she followed him, but he kept moving towards the bed where Verbena Beeks was just lowering the Visitor’s wrist to the mattress, having finished taking his pulse.  She looked inquisitively at Beth, then her gaze shifted concernedly to Al, who had gotten his first clear look at the Visitor.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It wasn't the first time that Verbena Beeks had been summoned to the Waiting Room.  A major part of her duties was interviewing each new Visitor, helping him or her to understand that they were safe as well as to help them coax as much information as she could about themselves and their life in search of whatever would help Sam accomplish his mission.  It was a different matter, however, in those occasional instances when she was summoned by the sound of a specific alarm indicating her special skills were needed immediately.  She had arrived in the Waiting Room, barely hesitating a moment before wading into the flurry of medical personnel, led by Dr. Chet Sanders, second only to Aurora, as they worked to settle and assure the Visitor. 

The sight of the man's severely bruised face, one eye swollen nearly shut, was among the worst facial injuries she'd seen in the Waiting Room. But she'd dismissed that notion and set about talking to the man struggling to get away from the people doing their best to help him.  Verbena had exchanged a glance with Chet when she heard him order a low dosage of a sedative, nodding her understanding when he told her, "We've got to get him calmed down so we can assess his injuries." As it was, the injection had just begun to take effect when the room's occupants heard the door 'whoosh' open.  Verbena finished counting the Visitor's pulse and was laying his wrist down on the bed and turned to see Al and Beth.  Sparing a brief look at Beth, the psychiatrist's dark eyes shifted to Al, watching his reaction, and saw, a moment later, realization replacing the impatience in his expression.

"Chet gave him a sedative," she said softly.  "He's resting better now."

"He didn't need a sedative last time," Al responded in the same soft tone, a cold fist clenching his stomach.

Verbena cast her full attention to the Admiral, concerned by the way he stared down at the Visitor, all color having fled his face.  "Al?"

"His face," said Al, ignoring her.  "Why?"  He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling.  "Why?  He was going into stand-up.  What happened?"

Beth gripped Al's shoulder.  "I tried to warn you," she quietly said.  "We got his name just before they sedated him."

Al looked at her, pain in his eyes.  "I never checked, Beth.  I just assumed he was going to turn out fine."  His gaze went back to the man in the bed, seven years older than the last time he had seen him, his blond, fresh good looks more mature now, but marred by the signs of both fresh and old beatings.  "Howie..."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

His body was still aching and his muscles were stiff and sore, but that hadn't slowed him down or caused him to hesitate when the sound of multiple vehicles were heard outside the modest building where Pastor Howie Lockwood was reading to the members of the village and several others from nearby tiny villages.  He had spared a glance at the door then let his gaze drift with deliberate calmness across the assembly and picked up from where he had stopped.  Even when the door was kicked open and the tall, lean figure of Naasir Waitimu strode in, Howie Lockwood paused just long enough to say, "We are almost finished. Please sit down..." That had only gotten him dragged outside, held tightly between two of the soldiers until Waitimu began again to attempt to intimidate him and the small flock of new Christians demonstrating their new-found faith by gathering together to learn and worship.  The repeated hits with fists and then a glancing blow to the left side of his face with the butt of one of the AK-47s, though driving him to the ground again and again, did not stop the words of faith and conviction pouring steadily from the young American pastor’s mouth like an endless stream.  As it was, it wasn't the fresh throbbing pain in his already hurting body that caused Howie Lockwood to pause.  It was, instead, a sudden flare of dizziness deep inside, followed by suddenly finding himself encompassed every which way by a vast field of blue that had stilled his tongue.  That stillness lasted only a moment before the pain rushed back into his body and instinctively he struggled against the many hands touching and holding him.  Even the sound of a gentle feminine voice urging him to relax and trust wasn't enough for him to cease his attempts to get away.  It was the sting of an injection and the effortless ease of the drug flowing through his bloodstream that finally induced Howie Lockwood to lay still.

‘No more...please,’ he whispered in his mind, yet in the next instant it was followed by, ‘I am Yours, Lord. Use me.’  But it wasn't the small, still voice inside that finished easing the last fragments of tension from the beaten and abused man's body.  It was the sound of his name spoken softly.  Behind his closed eyelids, Howie searched back through bits and pieces of memories until he found the one he was looking for.  Slowly, squinting against the light, he opened his eyes, blinking several times to clear his vision as he gazed at the figure standing at the foot of the bed where he lay.  All the danger and pain was forgotten as he smiled carefully.

"Long time... no see... Al," he whispered.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Somewhere in Sudan

April 25, 2004

3:30 PM

James Matunde's breath was ragged as he ran across the burning ground, leaving his village far behind.  The screams of terror he'd heard, and the vision of his young cousin, Peter, falling dead to the ground, shot through the forehead for refusing to drop his Bible and renounce it… those piercing and painful memories were as close to him as the sweat on his brow.

A sob rose up in his throat, a combination of grief and guilt.  Grief at the bloodshed and chaos that had struck his village... and guilt at his cowardice... fleeing from the soldiers, refusing to take a stand.  He thought again of Pastor Howie, the bruises and cuts from his last captivity hardly healed, standing firm, preaching loudly despite Naasir Waitimu’s verbal abuse and repeated strikes with the butt of a rifle, and tears flowed steadily down his face.  ‘Why?’ thought James, as he ran.  ‘Why would Pastor Howie endure such things?’

His lungs burned for rest and, casting a terrified look over his shoulder and seeing only the open grassy field behind him, he looked ahead again and forced himself to get to a small scraggly cluster of bushes near some trees and crawl into it.  Collapsing on the ground, James curled up close to the base of one of the trees and tried to catch his breath.   It was hard to do through the tears washing down his face as his own question came back to him again and again.  Why would Pastor Howie never back down?  Weren't the beatings enough to convince him?  Why didn't he just pretend to give in to Mulalo al-Haatim, the leader of the local militia doing whatever it took to rid their country of the Americans and Europeans trying bring their religion to where it “wasn't wanted”? Even as that question echoed in his mind, as clearly as if the young American pastor with the wide smile stood beside him, James heard again one of the first verses that he had memorized... "A house divided against itself cannot stand."

"Pastor Howie," James had asked, puzzled by the words. "What does it mean?  What has a house to do with you... and al-Haatim’s men?"  He saw again in his mind's eye the expression on Pastor Howie's face as he explained.

"If you take a saw and cut through the middle of this house," Howie had gestured around the room of the modest small dwelling. "Even though the wood is good and the house built well, will it still stand?"  The American pastor had just nodded when several, including James, had responded, "No. It will fall.  It would soon fall apart."

James had wondered when Pastor Howie had not said anything for a moment before speaking again.  "It is the same with my faith in my God.  If I come here to tell you... to teach you about Jesus Christ... and I don't stand up to whatever comes against my faith... if I deny my trust in God in bad situations... it is the same thing as the house.  I would be dividing myself from God by denying him.  And God is the Rock of my salvation.  He is my strength through all things, even in the face of a storm named al-Haatim."

"He is a big storm, Pastor Howie," James had said seriously, and the others in the group voiced their assent.

Pastor Howie just grinned.  "My Jesus is bigger," he answered them, picking up the Bible and telling them the story of Jesus calming the storm that scared the disciples in their little boat. 

James' thoughts lingered briefly on the memory of Pastor Howie's teaching, the way he'd changed his voice to act out the parts of the disciples.  The group of villagers had been rapt at the storytelling, and James had drawn his knees into his chest like one of the children, his attention never straying from the blond American missionary. 

He rubbed his face, trying to stem the tears that continued to fall.  The soldiers had been so angry... never before had they killed!  Peter was not the only one that had been slain.  Little Maria Wamagunda, not even five years old, had told the leader, "Jesus loves you."  Steely-eyed, Waitimu had reached for the knife strapped to his leg and stabbed her without flinching.  At that moment, James had fled the village.  If even the little children were not safe, what hope did he have?

James didn't know what had been done to Pastor Howie; he was just grateful that the missionary had been knocked unconscious by Waitimu's repeated blows with the rifle before he witnessed the slaughter of the little girl in the bright pink dress.  When Sarah Wamagunda had begun keening for her daughter's death, crying out to God, the soldiers had shot her dead as well.  The sudden abrupt end to her wails had been the last sound James heard as he ran.

The oppressive heat of the summer day, even more oppressive within the meager shelter of the bushes around the tree, took its toll on the distraught and confused young man. As the minutes slipped by it was as if the heat sucked the last of his tears dry along with his strength.

Getting carefully to his feet, though remaining in a semi-crouched position, James looked out around the wide field but saw nothing. More importantly, he saw no men in the dark mottled green fatigues with rifles combing the area looking for him.  He debated with himself whether or not to try to continue on to his village; it was only five kilometers from where he was hiding.   As strong as the draw was to get to his home, stronger was the urge to stay where he was and wait for the cover of night.  As he sat down again, this time with his back to the tree, giving him a fairly clear view of the field and the road that ran by it, James slowly, a little at a time, relaxed.  It was only the birds flitting about in the trees that saw when the young man who had run away fell asleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Project Quantum Leap

Stallion's Gate, New Mexico

Sunday, May 20, 2007

0230 hours

As Howie Lockwood's weak voice whispered, "Long time... no see... Al," a smile broke across Al's face despite his concern for the young man who had claimed a spot in his heart not too much lower than that held by his sons-in-law.

"I wasn't sure you'd remember me," Al said in an easy tone.

Howie nodded, "Sometimes the memory was clearer than others... but God let me hold you in my heart."

A fresh sheen of tears suddenly coated Al's eyes at Howie's words and rocks of guilt settled in his stomach as the Admiral thought about how he had never checked the histories to see what had happened to Howie.  The young man looked earnestly at him, despite one eye being nearly swollen shut.

"Howie," Al began, "what happened?"

"I ran into the wrong crowd," Howie said lightly.

Al frowned.  "Howie, level with me."

The devil-may-care smile that was still on Howie’s face as he looked down the length of the bed to Al slowly diminished before the steady dark brown gaze fixed on him.  In spite of the frown and the vague firmness in the statement, Howie saw in the older man's eyes a worry for him.  When he said, "I got caught in a storm," and Al interrupted, "Come on, Howie..." Howie accepted that the lightness wasn't going to work this time.

"The force behind that storm is al-Haatim," he said quietly, holding the Observer's attentive gaze. "Mulalo al-Haatim, to be exact." Just saying the man's name was enough to remind his body of the beatings and a wave of aching swept slowly through him.  "It wasn't the first time he's tried to stop me."

"Tried to stop you?" echoed Al.  "Tried to stop you from doing what?"

Howie shifted in the bed, trying to get into a more comfortable position, but he aggravated the still-sensitive wounds from his last imprisonment.  He gasped, his breath shuddering in his chest, and his body stiffened up.

"Check his back," ordered Al, temporarily abandoning his questioning as he recognized Howie's movements.  Chet and Verbena gently levered Howie into a sitting position.  As they supported him, Beth carefully lowered the zipper on the back of the Fermi suit, exposing his back and studying Al's expression.  The look of recognition and anger on his face mingled with sorrow as he saw a series of welts, slightly healing scabs, and older scars lacing the younger man's back.

"How badly do they hurt?" he asked Howie, hovering his hand just close enough that Howie could feel his presence, but without touching the wounds.

"Not... not nearly as bad as they did the day before yesterday," Howie said, wincing slightly even at the closeness of Al's hand to his back.  He knew that the touch of lightness that had crept into his words hadn't made any points with his friend and so abandoned the levity.  He didn't offer any resistance when Chet Sanders gave place at his side, replaced by Al.  The moment the older man's hand carefully grasped his arm to help him remain sitting up, Howie felt the resistance melt inside him. Lifting his other hand, though his arm was still held by Verbena to steady him, Howie placed it over Al's hand, squeezing tightly.  "After the first couple of times, I stopped thinking about it." He paused then added, "It hurts a little less if you don't think about it."

It was a fact that Al wished to the core of his being Howie had never had to learn.

"I know," he whispered in Howie's ear.  "I'm sorry you had to learn to do that."

Howie raised his head and looked into Al's eyes.  A wordless exchange took place between the two of them for a moment, in which each communicated to the other the knowledge that came with imprisonment and torture.

"Why?" Al asked again.  "Why is this al-Haatim torturing you?"

Howie kept his gaze steady on Al's face as he replied, "Because I won't pack up my Bible and go home."

A slow furrow of confusion wrinkled Al's forehead as he looked into the younger man's steady gaze.  He shook his head lightly after a moment. "What's he got against you and your Bible?" he asked. As the Visitor opened his mouth to answer the question, another question stopped him.  "Howie, the last time you were here, you had your focus set on doing stand up comedy." As the young man's green eyes never wavered from his, Al asked, "How did you get from Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida to some little... God forsaken village in..."

"...southern Sudan," Howie finished the sentence then added with gentle conviction, "And it is not God forsaken.  God knows where all of His children are, even if we don’t." He smiled at the Observer’s reaction when he told him, "Somewhere between college, Disney and Hollywood, God called me."

"God called you?"  Al glanced at his wife, who, with Chet, was applying an antibiotic and analgesic spray to Howie's back, liberally coating the entirety of the Visitor's exposed skin.  Beth looked up to meet his eyes and slightly narrowed her eyes at him, cautioning him to watch what he said.  Al looked back at Howie and gave him the reaction he figured Howie had been hoping for.  "That must have been some long-distance bill."

Howie laughed, and the infectious sound brought smiles to the faces of the medical team.  Al caught Beth's approving nod before returning his attention to Howie.  "I think you're going to have to explain that to me a little better," Al said.

Smiling and nodding, his posture relaxing slightly as the analgesic began taking effect, Howie explained.  "After graduation, I had every intention of trying my luck on the comedy tour.  Don't get me wrong... I was planning on starting out with the Christian groups circuit.  But, that summer, as I was working on my routines....I just got this overwhelming sense that God wanted me to do something else with my life."  He paused, flinching as Beth zipped up the Fermi suit again.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she said.

Howie shook his head, "It's okay, ma'am."  He took a deep breath and continued.  "I started praying for God to show me what He wanted me to do, and two days later, a brochure and application for seminary arrived in the mail."  The contagious grin spread across his face as Howie said, "I decided to send it in and see what happened.  When I went to church that next Sunday... I hadn't even told Brother Frank what I decided, and he asked me if I'd considered seminary."

As Howie talked, Al was glad to see how his face had relaxed some, even as he, himself, was trying wrap his mind around the picture of the seven years younger Howie going off to become, of all things, a preacher!  He tried it from several different angles but he finally gave up and just shook his head.

Howie saw the considering look in his friend's eyes and ultimately the slow shake of his head, and grinned.  His grin got wider when Al eventually lifted his eyes and found Howie watching him.  Howie chuckled, saying, "My Dad had about the same reaction when eventually I got around to telling him and Mom."

"How did she take it?" Al had to ask. He was glad that the younger man hadn't taken offense at his reaction to the very one hundred eighty degree-turn the direction of his life had taken since their last meeting.

Glancing at Beth Calavicci as she moved away from the bed to speak with Chet Sanders, he smiled at her then looked back at Al.  "Like she'd been stunned," Howie chuckled.  "She and my sister went around for days insisting that I was playing a joke."  His grin returned in full force when Al asked, "What finally proved to them that you weren't kidding?"

"I think it was when Brother Frank came by to deliver his letter of recommendation," answered Howie.  He paused, and Beth and Chet took advantage of the silence to indicate that Al and Verbena should ease him down to the bed.  Al supported his head so that Howie would be able to control better how heavily his back touched the mattress.

"Thanks," Howie exhaled, looking from Al to Verbena.  It took another moment before he continued relating his story.  "Mom and Dad asked him to stay for dinner and we all had a long talk about my 'calling' and then we prayed for about an hour afterwards.  By the time Brother Frank left, they were fully supportive of my 'career change'."

"It sounds like you've got a good family, Howie," commented Verbena, smoothing his hair back.

"The best," Howie agreed, turning his head slightly so he could look up at the handsome African-American woman with kind eyes.  To her question, "How is your vision?" he said, "It's fine, in both eyes. Though I know it's hard to tell from the way I look at the moment."

"Speaking of which," Beth re-entered the conversation as she stepped up beside Verbena. "We need to clean your face up and get a better look at your injuries." 

"Yes, ma'am," Howie responded quietly, then lay still for the few minutes it took for his face to be gently cleansed and some soothing eye drops administered.  He responded with a soft nod of his head when told to keep his eyes shut for a couple of minutes, adding almost as an afterthought, "O...kay," followed by, "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to...yawn in your face."  He then blinked slowly and opened his good eye and looked up at Beth then to Al.

It was apparent that the sedative was rapidly taking a stronger hold on the Visitor; Beth gave her husband a significant look that he read clearly. 

"We'll leave you alone to rest for a while," Al began, reaching to lay a hand on Howie's arm.  He was surprised when Howie moved his other hand to grasp Al’s fingers, holding on firmly.

"Tell... your friend," Howie said after a moment when the name of Al's friend escaped him.  "Tell him not to be afraid." 

Concern returned to Al's dark eyes at that as he said, "He's in a very dangerous situation, Howie.  Anybody would be scared...."

Howie nodded.  "al-Haatim can definitely be scary," he affirmed.  "But... tell him... not to be afraid... just pray."  His eyes were drifting closed now and his voice trailed off again as he said, "Just.... pray...."

Al held onto the limp hand a few moments longer before pressing it and then releasing it.  He watched the young man sleeping for a moment then turned to the medical staff.  "Take care of him," he said, unnecessarily.

It was a testament to how in tune they’d been to the significance of this encounter that they just nodded.  Al knew Beth would understand-- they'd often discussed Howie after that Leap, but he was gratified that Chet and Verbena didn't comment on his apparent attachment to the Visitor.

Al spared another glance at the abused man in the bed before leaving the Waiting Room and entering the Control Room.

"Is Sam still out?" he asked.

"Yes, Admiral Calavicci," responded Ziggy.

"Have you come up with a theory as to why Sam is there?"

"I am still computing; however, I should like to point out that Dr. Beckett has already changed history."

Al stared slack-jawed at the blue orb that flashed at him.  "How?  He was knocked unconscious practically as soon as he Leaped in."

"Precisely," said Ziggy smugly.  "In the original history, Howie Lockwood refused to back down before the soldiers and he and the entire group in the underground church meeting were slaughtered.  Due to the confusion of Leaping, Dr. Beckett was mostly silent when he arrived, and he, therefore, was merely beaten and knocked unconscious."

For a moment then another Al stared at the blue orb, thinking about what Ziggy had just told him.  To him the next question to be asked was obvious.  "If Sam's already accomplished his mission on this leap, then why hasn't he leaped out already?"

"That is what I am in the process of computing, Admiral," Ziggy answered, her tone having a familiar air of patient smugness to it at the obvious question.  "It is rare for Dr. Beckett to accomplish a mission so rapidly," she reiterated.  "Therefore, logic dictates that there must be a second mission."

Al rolled his eyes and silently counted to ten before forcing himself to remain calm.  "How long before you have a possible theory on what that second mission is?"

"Once Dr. Beckett recovers consciousness and perhaps is able to speak to some of the people who survived because of his Leap in, I will be in a better position to project a possible scenario."

Dom had watched and listened without comment to the familiar pattern of exchange between Al and the super hybrid computer.  Sometimes the back and forth between man and machine made his jaws ache from suppressed laughter. Other times... too many times it seemed... his jaws ached from being clenched due to the tension brought on by the gravity of a Leap.  At the moment it was sort of a toss up.  Right now, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes and ears open would give him the guidance he needed to give his best aid to Al and to Sam.

Al counted to ten again as he turned away from the main control panel and began to pace back and forth in front of it.  "All right, in the meantime, what information have you come up with about this al-Haatim?" He stopped pacing with the first words Ziggy spoke.

"Mulalo al-Haatim is the commander of a para-military group who were  suspected but never proven as the cause of the murders of at least a half dozen Christian missionaries to Sudan, as well as several hundred Sudanese Christian converts," Ziggy said, her tone straightforward and emotionless.  Though considered by most of the Project Quantum Leap personnel to be an almost sentient being, Ziggy was nonetheless a machine.  However that machine seemed to anticipate the Observer's riveted focus on the blue orb, as if looking into her “face.”  If the personnel in the Control Room hadn't known better, most would have sworn Ziggy was waiting for Admiral Calavicci to ask the next question.

"What about..."

"The Visitor?"  Ziggy observed that Admiral Calavicci nodded his head once to respond. "In the original history, as I have already indicated, Pastor Howie Lockwood was slaughtered under Mulalo al-Haatim’s authority on April 25, 2004 along with twenty-two Sudanese villagers, all of whom were converts to Christianity."

"And now that Sam has changed history?" Al asked softly, not realizing that he was staring at the blue orb as if willing it to give him the answer he wanted.  He didn't get it.

"Without more input from Dr. Beckett in his present situation, it is difficult to arrive at a more precise figure," Ziggy began.  "However, based on what information is available at this time, including your conversation with the Visitor a short time ago, I estimate there is a ninety-four point seven percent probability that Pastor Howie Lockwood will be killed by Mulalo al-Haatim."

"But Sam is Howie," protested Al.

A note of sadness actually entered Ziggy's voice, "Then I suggest you impart the seriousness of this Leap to Dr. Beckett.  He should be regaining consciousness in five point four minutes."

Al wasn't about to let the computer dismiss him.  "If there's that much hatred between al-Haatim and Howie, how is Sam supposed to affect this?"

"I don't have an answer for you, Admiral," said Ziggy.  "However, you should both bear in mind that al-Haatim's hatred is primarily with the Christian faith, and secondarily with Pastor Lockwood."  She paused, then said, "Dr. Beckett will awaken in five minutes."  With that, her blue light went out and she fell silent.

Al scowled at the computer, having been dismissed after all, but the knowledge that Sam was waking up spurred him into motion and he turned to Dom.  "Rev up the Imaging Chamber again," he said, retrieving the handlink from the control panels at the center of the room.

"The Imaging Chamber will be online in two minutes," said Dom.  "You should have a lock on Dr. Beckett shortly before he regains consciousness."

Nodding, Al moved to the Imaging Chamber entryway to wait.  He mulled over what he'd learned from both Howie and Ziggy, so lost in thought he was startled when Beth's slender hand touched his arm.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

"Why do you ask that?" he returned.

Beth tilted her head to the side and pursed her lips. "I know how much Howie means to you.  It's not often you take to a Visitor the way you've taken to Howie--the last time he was here, and now.  I just..."  She hesitated and Al knew where she was going.

"I can't think about the fact that Howie died the first time, and I can't think about the fact that Sam might die in his place.  Not in that way... I've got to focus on getting Sam through this.  And, hopefully, make sure they both survive it."

It had amazed Beth at how quickly her husband and Howie Lockwood had bonded during the first time the young man had occupied the Waiting Room.  Now, with the months in between and the occasional conversations they'd had about the young man with a joker's heart and a grin to match, as well as an unshakeable faith in God, she could see how much this Leap had already wound up the tension in Al.  She studied his face, his eyes a moment then gently urged, "You better go see how Sam's doing," then watched him march up the ramp to the Imaging Chamber and enter it.  She remained in the Control Room until Ziggy announced, "We have a link." Knowing that Al was now focused solely on Sam, Beth exited the Control Room and headed off to check on Aurora before returning to her and Al's quarters.  What she couldn't know was how glad Al was that no one at the Project could see how Sam looked when he stepped through the Imaging Chamber door and into the tiny locked room where he'd last seen his best friend’s unconscious form.

PART TWO

al-Haatim's compound

Somewhere in Sudan

April 25, 2004

4:30 P.M.

Al stood in the darkness until his eyes adjusted to where he could see Sam.  His friend had not yet awakened, though Ziggy's countdown had not run out.  The bruises, which had just begun developing an hour ago, had darkened and swollen ominously while Al had been gone.  Al was glad to see, at least, that the bleeding appeared to have stopped, though dried blood trails remained on Sam's face, and his hair clumped at the site of the wound.

"Sam, buddy, wake up," urged Al, kneeling beside the unconscious form of his friend and wishing (not for the first time) that he could touch him.

Sam's groans came low and quiet in response, and Al was heartened by the sound even as he regretted the pain he knew his friend was experiencing.

"Come on, Sam... wake up."

From somewhere in the blackness he heard a sound that was familiar. To get to that sound meant he had to acknowledge the huge pain that seemed to have taken him over. Still, for as comforting as lack of pain would have been, he knew he needed to get closer to that familiar sound.  Slowly, Sam Beckett clawed his way up from the depths of the blackness. He was rewarded by the sound... Al's voice, he knew now... becoming stronger and clearer.  He tried to speak but only managed a groan.

"Al," Sam croaked, his throat dry and seeming claws of pain digging into his skull. Wincing as his muscles protested as he clumsily worked to right himself into a sitting position, he gasped when he bumped the back of his head against the wall. "What... happened? Where am I?"  The unexpected sound of male voices somewhere nearby was enough to help dispel a bit more of the fuzziness in his mind and he remained silent until the men passing by outside his prison were gone.  "Al?" Sam called out softly, afraid that the sound of his friend's voice had been a trick of his mind.

"I'm here, Sam," Al assured him.  "I'm right here.  Just give your eyes a moment to adjust to the dark and you'll be able to see me."

Releasing a tense breath, Sam nodded and turned his head toward the Observer's voice.  "Where is here, Al?" he asked, plainly trying to tamp down fear brought on not only by disorientation but by what he could recall of the Leap in.

The comforting sound of Al pressing buttons on the handlink, whose lights Sam *could* see, filled the room before Al said, "I can't quite pin down the name of a village, but you're in Mulalo al-Haatim's compound somewhere in Sudan.  You were knocked unconscious and brought here for violating the law."

"What?"  Sam gawked at Al, whose face he was now able to distinguish.  "What happened to placing someone under arrest?  What happened to 'you have the right to remain silent'?"

Al shook his head firmly at the Leaper.  "Sam... you're in Sudan... in Africa.  This isn't America."

Reaching up to touch the stickiness of hair matted by blood, Sam frowned back at his friend.  "What kind of criminal did I leap into that they had to beat him into submission?"

Seeing again in his mind's eye the picture of Howie Lockwood's beaten figure on the bed in the Waiting Room when he had first seen him, Al took a breath and broke the startling news to his friend.  "He's not a criminal, Sam," he explained, keeping his voice even and calm.  "Sam, do you remember a leap into Walt Disney World? It wasn't that long ago."  He watched the Leaper's face as best as he could make out in the near darkness.

Carefully leaning his head back against the wall again, Sam closed his eyes and tried to think, but the pain refused to allow him any latitude and he sighed. "No.  What's Walt Disney World got to do with why I'm here with a gash in my scalp in a ... broom closet?"

All Al could hope was that perhaps hearing Howie's name again might trigger some small fragment of a memory.  "Sam, you've leaped into Howie Lockwood, again."  He paused, watching Sam's face, hoping.

Sam didn't bother trying to fight the pain though the name did seem to strike some distant note somewhere in his ever Swiss-cheesed memory. "You're sure he's not a criminal?" he insisted.

"No," Al said. "The first time you leaped into his life, Howie was a college student on vacation at Walt Disney World. This time," he paused, licked his lips then finished his thought.  "This time Howie is a missionary preacher in Sudan, Africa."

"But you said that I was in here for breaking the law," Sam said, trying to keep track of everything Al was telling him.

"You are."

Sam was stunned silent for a moment.  "Al," he said, pressing a hand to his head and instantly gasping in pain.  He waved off Al's concern and continued trying to get his thought out.  "Al... this doesn't make any sense.  How is Howie breaking the law?"

"By bringing the Christian faith to the people of Sudan," Al said quietly. He just nodded when his words got through to Sam and his friend gaped at him.

"I nearly get my brains knocked out because he's teaching Bible verses to these people?" Sam demanded, only keeping his voice down when reminded by Al to do so. "Al, how is that a crime?"

"Because the primary religion practiced in Sudan, like many nations of Africa, is Muslim," the Observer said simply.  He watched Sam's face, saw the conflicting emotions displayed and understood a lot of them. 

The question slipped out before Sam could stop it.  "And he knows what they do to missionaries who come over here... and he came anyway?  Is he crazy?"

Al stared at him for a moment, anger rising within him despite Sam's condition.  "I want you to understand something, Sam.  What you've been through---Howie's endured several times already!  And that 'crazy man' wanted me to tell you to not be afraid when you face al-Haatim!"

Sam was taken aback by his friend's sudden flare of anger.  "I'm sorry, Al.  I just... I just have a hard time understanding how someone could come here knowing the danger."

He heard a sharp exhale of breath as Al relented.  "No, Sam, I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have yelled at you."

From the moment he'd Leaped in, from where he sat at the moment, things had started out bad and gone downhill from there.  Judging by the near argument he and Al had almost had, it didn't appear to be getting any better.  Without thinking, Sam lifted a hand a