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 do 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.

 

SUMMARY OF PART 1

In Part I, Sam has leaped into the life of Howie Lockwood for the second time.  Just his act of Leaping in seems to have accomplished his mission even while landing him face to face with a furious man in military fatigues and with an AK-47 in his hands. Sam is beaten, flogged and intimidated, and when Al shows up, he learns that he has a second mission to accomplish.  Even though he saved Howie Lockwood’s life just by leaping into him again, when he eventually leaps out, the Visitor is still going to die, but there’s a catch.  What’s the catch?  The catch is that the Visitor is aware of his impending death, and while Al is dealing with what Sam is going through, he’s also having a hard time coming to terms with the Visitor’s acceptance of his approaching death.

What kind of joy is this, that counts it a blessing to suffer?

What kind of joy is this, that gives the prisoner his song?

What kind of joy could stare death in the face, and see it as sweet victory?

This is the joy of a soul that's forgiven and free.

--Steven Curtis Chapman, "What Kind of Joy"

PART ONE

Project Quantum Leap

Stallion's Gate, New Mexico

Sunday, May 20, 2007

1107 hours

Al blinked groggily and stared up at the ceiling.  He turned his head to the side and saw Howie sitting in a chair at his bedside.

"I think things are a little backwards here," Al said.

Howie threw his head back and laughed.  "Can I help it if you usurped my bed?"

Grinning, Al sat up and stretched before rising.  "Well, you better get back in it before the docs come in and skin me alive."

"Too late," Howie grinned, but complied all the same.  "Your wife came in about ten minutes ago."

"Oh great," muttered Al.  "I'll probably get reamed out later."

"I don't think so.  She seemed pretty pleased, actually."  Howie arranged himself in the bed, punching the pillow behind his sore back several times before settling against it.  He waited until Al sat down in the chair he'd just vacated before he casually asked, "When does it happen?"

Al played stupid for a moment.  "What are you talking about?"

"I know I'm going to die in Sudan," Howie said simply.  "When does it happen?"

If the ceiling had caved in on top of them at that precise moment, Al was positive that he wouldn't have been more startled than he was right now. In spite of Howie's calm demeanor and forthright manner of asking, he didn't answer immediately.  When he did, he remained cagey a moment longer. "What makes you think that?" he asked, but the look on the younger man's face, and even more that in his eyes, told him that he was wasting his breath.  Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he closed his eyes a moment then lifted his head and met Howie Lockwood's gaze. They were among the hardest words Al Calavicci had ever had to say, bar none.

It didn't make it any easier when Howie chose to get up and come over to kneel down in front of him and ask, "When, Al?"

Swallowing a couple of times, Al finally got the words out, forcing himself to look into those calm green eyes.  "al-Haatim is going to make an example of you," he said, hesitated then finished. "He's going to execute you tomorrow morning. He's going to make your people watch it."

Howie sat thoughtfully for several long moments, then looked up at Al from his place kneeling before him.  "He... always likes a show," Howie said slowly.  He reached for Al's hands and gripped them meaningfully.  "Thank you for telling me."

Al silently nodded, for once not ashamed of the tears filling his eyes.  "We're still trying to figure out a way for Sam to change things, though."

Howie smiled ruefully, "He won't be able to."

‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ thought Al, as he said, "He already has."

Howie looked up, surprised at that, and rose to sit on the edge of the bed, not releasing Al's hands though.  "What do you mean?"

Al looked down at their joined hands and cleared his throat before looking at Howie.  "You said you were surprised you hadn't already been killed.  Thing is, the first time around you and your congregation were all killed.  But now…”

Howie finished the thought for him, nodding, “When Sam switched places with me, he saved my life.”

"And the lives of most of your congregation."

Howie considered that information silently before squeezing Al's hands and saying, "When you see Sam again, tell him I said thanks."

Al nodded.  "I will, but like I said, we're still working on finding a way...."

"Like I told you before, Al," Howie reminded him, "you won't.”  The trademark Howie Lockwood grin slid into place.  "Besides, one good turn deserves another, don't you think?"

"And that means... what?" Slowly Al was regaining control of himself in this difficult situation. It didn't help any when Howie quoted another Bible verse to him.  It seemed so... accepting, so... final.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend," Howie said.  "I may not have met Sam, face to face, but I still consider him a friend.  Almost as good a friend as you, Al."

Al now found himself saying something he normally wouldn't, but the circumstances warranted it.

"Howie..." Al paused, reaching to grip the young man's shoulder.  "Beth and I never had a son.  But if we had, I’d have been proud if he had turned out like you."

As Al spoke, tears spilled down Howie’s cheeks, and he grabbed the older man in a hug, declaring, “I love you, Al.”

Neither man knew how long the embrace lasted but at least for one of them, it ended far too soon.  Al wanted to hold onto Howie Lockwood and protect him as much as he would any of his children.  Yet the resolution he saw in Howie's eyes when at last they separated told him that even were it possible, there was nothing that would sway the young man from the destiny that both knew awaited him.

Getting up from the bed, Howie walked over to the table and looked down at the Bible, thought a moment and said without looking back, "Al, would you do me a favor?"

Stuffing the handkerchief he’d just used into one of his pockets, Al sniffed lightly and got up from the bed to cross the room to stand beside the Visitor. Looking up at Howie he said, "Name it."

"You sure?" Howie asked.  He grinned lightly when Al replied, "Whatever it is, I'll make it happen. You can take that to the bank." Howie waited a moment then said, "I'd like to write a letter to my family.  Would you see that they get it... later?"

"Just make sure you write legibly," was all Al said.  He would have said more, but at that moment the door into the Waiting Room opened and Beth stepped in but didn't make a move to approach them.  Her husband read her eyes without hesitation.  "I'll be there in a minute," he told her then turned back to Howie.  His voice was steadier than he would have believed possible given everything that had been said in the last couple of hours.  "I've got to go take care of some things," he said, firmly clasping the hand that was offered to him as he and Howie looked at each other.

It was Howie's turn to try to counter a shaky voice and fight off another wave of tears.  So much to say and so little time.  He smiled at the older man he'd only spent the sum total of maybe twenty-four hours with, if that, yet was as close as family.  "I have treasured every moment I’ve spent with you, Al." 

"Same here," Al said, his voice husky.  He didn't want to leave the young man's side, as if by remaining in the Waiting Room he could keep the inevitable from happening.  But that was foolishness.  Sam needed him, too. 

"We'll see each other again," Howie said firmly, tears sliding down his cheeks.  “Where the streets are made of gold…”

Al didn't know what to say to the younger man who was as special to him as the son he'd never had, so he just grabbed him in an embrace.

When they broke apart, neither spoke, neither able to trust his voice.  Both knew if they started talking again, they wouldn't be able to tear themselves away.  Howie sat at the table and opened the Bible, raising a hand to his forehead to hide the tears that continued to fall.  Al, meanwhile, fought to regain control as he walked to the exit, where his wife waited with tearstains on her own cheeks.

Al didn't care whether the two Marines guarding the Waiting Room door saw or not as he went to Beth and drew her into an embrace, kissed her then turned and headed for the Control Room, his emotions at last again in firm check.

Entering the Control Room, he asked, "How long for the Imaging Chamber to come on?"

"Two minutes, Admiral," Ziggy informed him.  Al glanced up at the blue orb when there wasn't some sort of pert add-on from the computer but didn't say anything.  While he waited for the signal from Dom, he got the recharged handlink.  A moment later Dom said, "The Imaging Chamber is online, Admiral." 

Al marched up the ramp and into the chamber, barely noticing when the door sealed behind him.  Stepping onto the small pad in the center of the chamber, he said, "Ready." Then, taking a deep breath, Al pressed the button on the handlink that opened the Imaging Chamber door and stepped out into darkness and waited for his eyes to adjust to it.

Looking far worse than he had when Al left him, Sam lay crumpled on the floor, small pools of blood forming beneath him from the open wounds on his back.  The Leaper's head was tilted at what had to have been a painful angle, but there was no way for Al to try to make him more comfortable.

"Sam? Can you hear me?" Al asked.  Sam twitched, but didn't respond.  Al didn't know if the movement had been involuntary and coincidental or if Sam really could hear him.  He decided to operate under the latter choice.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier. What you did was incredibly brave.  I don't know how you stood it as long as you did, pal."  He knelt and hovered a hand over Sam's shoulder, as if he could actually touch him.  "You’ve saved those people twice now, you know."

Sam remained unconscious and quiet, and Al exhaled a shuddering sigh.  "Howie's ready, he says.  So, you just do whatever you have to do."

Time continued to slip by, quietly but inexorably drawing dawn closer. Not once did Al stray more than a few steps from Sam's still unconscious form.  The hour or so of sleep he'd gotten in the Waiting Room began to wear thin, and the resumption of the heavy stress of the situation began to take its toll on him.  After an hour, he grabbed the chair that was kept in the Imaging Chamber for those times when he had to be in there long hours, dragged it over close to where Sam lay, and got as comfortable as he could.  When he caught himself nodding off, after taking himself to task, Al had Ziggy center him on the rest of Howie's congregation where they were housed in another building. A couple were awake and talking or praying, most, however, were getting what sleep they could since there was no telling what the morning would bring.  Al could have told them what was coming, but he refused to allow himself to dwell on it, and recentered again on Sam.  He paced and pondered, doing whatever it took to keep himself awake, but after a while, he couldn't deny his need to sit down for a few minutes. Before he sat down, Al went again and knelt beside Sam and called his name. "Sam?  You okay, buddy?"  Another almost imperceptible moan was his only response.  "Okay," he said softly. "I'm here for you, Sam. I'm here." 

Taking a seat in the chair, Al tucked the handlink into his shirt pocket then leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs comfortably, last of all folding his arms loosely across his chest.  The vague sounds of the compound beyond the door of Sam's prison were almost soothing.  Closing his eyes for a moment, Al sighed, whispering under his breath, "I will be so glad when this leap is over." But he didn't realize what he'd said as his body took advantage of the few moments of stillness to seize the rest it so desperately needed.  So soundly did Al fall asleep that he didn't hear the soft moan some time later that heralded Sam's return to consciousness.

PART TWO

Al-Haatim’s compound

Monday, April 26, 2004

9:38 A.M.

As Sam forced his swollen eyes open, he wondered at the dreams he'd had.  He'd been dreaming that he was folded into a magician's trunk, while Al fumbled with the locks, calling to him in a muffled voice.  As awareness returned to him, Sam realized that his dream had been partially grounded in reality.  He was, in fact, crumpled once again in the closet-sized cell, and the sound of heavy breathing alerted him to the fact that he wasn't alone.  Since he would obviously feel if another person were in the tiny room with him, he had to be hearing Al.

"Al?" Sam croaked around a bone-dry throat.  He dragged himself into a sitting position, and instantly regretted doing so.  His back screamed in agony and he only kept himself from vocally doing the same by cramming a fist into his mouth.  When the red flood of pain faded, he tilted his head back, resting it against the wall behind him, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.  When he was able to see Al, he sighed at the view he had.  The Observer's lined face was slack, but his brow was crumpled, and his head was dropped against his chest in a way that told Sam the nap had not been intentional.

"Al," Sam said again, only slightly louder, too aware that any patrolling soldiers would hear him and might decide to take advantage of his consciousness to have a little "fun" with him.

After a moment, Sam called to his friend again, but still gained no response.  Though the darkness was intense, the thin line of light managing to get under the bottom of the door was almost enough to allow him a fairly good view of Al's face.  Though it meant gritting his teeth as stars of pain danced before his eyes, Sam shifted his position a bit, gaining a more side-by-side situation to the chair on which the Observer sat sleeping.  Now, by leaning forward a bit, he was able to get an even closer look at his friend.  The look made him forget for a moment, the pain burning every inch of his back.  It was soberingly clear that this leap was taking a harder toll on his best friend than he would have guessed.  Sam wasn't foolish enough to think that Al didn't take every leap with a high degree of seriousness, however  this was the first time he could recall seeing the unmistakable signs of exhaustion so plainly exhibited on Al Calavicci's face.  "Oh, Al," he murmured under his breath as he watched his friend twitch as if in response to hearing his name. The Observer didn't wake and Sam decided that unless something changed radically, he was going to take a turn at watching over his friend while he rested. It was the least he could do for the man who had for over a decade, without fail, always been there for him.

Wondering how his host would have reacted to the situation, Sam sat up a bit straighter when the most obvious thought occurred to him.  A faint memory of the last time Sam had occupied the aura of Howie Lockwood returned to him without him having to struggle much past the sharp pain that fogged his mind.  A college football captain... and Al... kneeling... to pray.  Slightly self-consciously, Sam bowed his head and began to pray, not quite certain what he should be praying for.  After a while, a focus came to him, and he prayed for guidance to do the right thing.

However, it was as if something or someone meant not to allow the Leaper any opportunity to make a connection with whatever it was he was praying for.  Sam had barely passed two minutes in his praying when the unmistakable sound of men approaching jerked his head up.  The increasing volume of voices, along with the sound of trucks moving somewhere close by told him that something was up beyond the door he was staring at.

***Yes, Sam. That's right. Your time is up.***

As if confirming the cold thought that had darted through his mind, the men's voices outside the door dropped to silence and Sam’s gaze flew to one side of the door as a key was inserted in a lock and turned and the door thrown open wide.  Involuntarily, Sam threw his arms up before his face against the bright sunlight that suddenly poured into his cramped cell.  It must have looked to the guards like he was attempting to fight them, because before he could utter a sound, two of the soldiers surged forward, each grabbing one of his arms and hauling him outside. There a couple of punches, one to his middle and the other to his face, sent Sam to the ground where he lay face down in the dirt for a moment. After that, he was grabbed up again and dragged across the compound and hefted unceremoniously into the back of a truck.  He lay on his wounded back, the agony of the already sun-heated bed of the truck searing his back and bringing tears to his eyes.  The two soldiers climbed into the truck, each taking a position on either side of him.  When he started to raise a hand to shield his eyes, Sam froze as he heard a gun cocked then suddenly found the muzzle of an AK-47 aimed directly at his right eye.

‘Al....wake up!’ he screamed in his mind, almost afraid to breathe.

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

As the handlink in his breast pocket started to squeal like a panicked piglet, Al started awake, nearly taking a spill from the chair in which he'd spent his vigil.  He rubbed his eyes, panicked that he'd nodded off for a few minutes.

"Sam?" he started to say, before he realized that the door to the cell was open and he was alone.  Al jumped to his feet and seized the handlink, ripping his pocket as he yanked it free.  "Center me on Sam, now!" he bellowed, mentally cursing himself in every language he knew.  If he could beat himself with the whips that had tormented Howie and Sam, he would, Al thought murderously as the image around him changed from the empty, dingy cell to the bumping, dusty bed of a truck bouncing its way down dirt roads.  Sam was lying on his back, squinting against the sun, while two guards sat on the bumps of the rear tire allowances, their rifles pointed at him.

"Sam!  Oh, God, Sam!" Al said, moving to stand over Sam, straddling his friend's form out of respect rather than necessity.  Though he  wished that his holographic form could cast a shadow, Al nonetheless hoped  that the fact that Sam could focus on his face rather than the direct light of the sun would help. 

"I'm an ass, Sam," Al said, his face crumpling.  "I shouldn't have fallen asleep.  I let you down."

"No... you didn't," Sam forced out.  The guards looked down at him, then at each other.  One of them made a "loco" gesture with his free hand.  Obviously, they thought the injuries and the sun had addled the American's brain, so they felt no need to interfere with his babbling.

"Yes, I did, Sam," Al insisted.  "I meant to..."

"It's okay," Sam gritted the words, striving not to give in to the agony and just scream. "You're here now. Just... just tell me what's happening now.  Where are we going?"

"To the village, you fool!" snapped one of the soldiers, prodding Sam with the muzzle of the gun.  Sam cried out in pain, and both soldiers sniggered.

"al-Haatim's getting ready to make an example of you, Sam," said Al, casting a venomous look at the soldiers.  "I don't know how I'm going to get you out of this, but I swear to you... I will."

"Just...stay with me..." Sam said.

"I will.  Right by your side the whole time," Al assured him.

Sam nodded, and let his eyes slide closed.  "You're...a good friend..."

It was the second time those words had been uttered in Al Calavicci's presence, and the effect they had on him now was no less powerful than it had been before.

When Al didn't say anything, Sam opened his eyes to mere slits; it was enough to see his best friend ostensibly standing astride his body.  It reminded Sam, oddly enough, of a picture of the Colossus of Rhodes that he'd seen in a book as a boy.  The mental picture of an Al Calavicci the size of that particular one of the Seven Wonders of the World made Sam chuckle in spite of the situation at hand.  He didn't care that one of the soldiers told the other, "It won't take much for al-Haatim to do this one in.  The heat has already begun to destroy his brain."

Just then a hard jolt sent Sam's body skittering sideways against one of the soldiers' legs.  He cried out when the man planted a boot on his side and shoved him back to the middle of the truck bed.

"Oh, God," Sam gasped. "How much further? I can't take much more of this."  The suddenness with which the truck ground to a halt just then, made Sam wish he'd never said a word.  Shifting his eyes upward to look at Al, he asked with his eyes what he'd just voiced aloud.

Al, looked around, dread gathering in his heart with the ferocity of a Class 5 tornado.  "We're here, Sam," he said quietly.

"Here?"  Sam whispered.

"Yeah," Al said as he looked down into his friend's eyes.  "We're back at the village."

Sam weakly lifted his head to try to see where they were for himself, but at his first movement, the soldiers seized his arms and yanked him to his feet.  He yelped in pain, which earned him a sharp cuff that drove him to his knees.  His fall caused him to pass through Al's image, and he apologized.

Over Al's gentle, "It's okay, Sam," one of the soldiers jeered, "It's a little late to be sorry now."  He aimed a kick at Sam's backside, sending the Leaper flat onto his wounded stomach and chest.

Naasir Waitimu had ridden in the lead truck, and so was one of the first to get out and turn to watch the third truck come to a halt.  Marching toward it, he watched the two men assigned to ride with Lockwood, approving their handling of him.  He glanced over the side of the truck at the man who had become a thorn that just wouldn't be plucked out of their flesh... at least not until now.  Walking around to the back of the truck, he lowered the tailgate and stepped back, waiting until the man he saw as Howie Lockwood raised his head just enough to look at him. Naasir just smirked at the pleading expression in the man's eyes then allowed the smirk to fade to coldness.  Giving a sharp wave of his hand, he barked, "Get out of the truck, Pastor."

His arms trembling from pain and exhaustion and not a little fear, Sam pushed himself to his knees, and then shakily stood.  He made as if to sit on the tailgate before stepping down, but the soldiers in the truckbed with him grabbed him roughly under the arms and hefted him to the ground, practically throwing him.  He crumpled into a kneeling position before Waitimu, who reached down and grabbed him by the hair to yank his head up.

Looking down into Sam's eyes, Waitimu said, "You shall beg US for mercy before it is all over.  And where shall your God be then?"

"Right... where He's always been," Sam gasped, paying for the answer with a heavy slap to his face.

"Hiding," Waitimu snarled.  Flicking a glance at the huts and small buildings of the village, he waved his arm, carving a wide arc to encompass them all as he added, "Just like all of these people whom you have tricked and misled."  Grabbing Sam by the hair again, he hauled the Leaper to his feet then used his grip to turn Sam physically as he pointed around the center of the small village.  "They hide from us because you have made them weak and afraid."  Finally shoving Sam away, Waitimu gazed malevolently, watching him slowly get to his feet again then  turn toward him.  "When they see you crying and begging for mercy... calling out to your... God," he sneered the last word, "they will see for themselves what a weak and useless God he is."  Waitimu would have said more, but the sound of another vehicle approaching drew his attention and he moved away to gaze back up the road then smiled.  Turning to look at the condemned man, he told him, "al-Haatim has arrived.  We will soon be finished here... and so will your God."

Sam looked defiantly at the cruel man.  "Even when I am gone," he said, "God will not be finished here."

Waitimu narrowed his eyes at him, but turned to shout at the other soldiers.  "The commander is coming! Get those villagers into position!  And drag the ones hiding in their huts outside if you have to!  al-Haatim wants a full audience!"  They scrambled to obey his orders, snapping themselves out of their enjoyment of their lieutenant's badgering of the missionary.

Sam risked a glance at Al while Waitimu's attention was distracted.  The Observer's face was white and he drew near to Sam.  He'd shouted uselessly at the soldiers who'd thrown Sam from the truck, but fallen silent while Naasir had taunted his friend.  Al looked back at Sam and met his eyes.  Raising the almost forgotten handlink, he shrugged helplessly.  "Something more needs to be done... but Ziggy won't make a prediction beyond reiterating that Howie's work has to continue."  Al's face told Sam that his heart's desire was that the prediction meant they'd be able to spare Howie's life.

"Doesn't she have anything... some theory beyond that?" Sam whispered again, ducking his head and wiping his hand over his mouth to disguise his talking.  His answer was a shake of Al's head and a quiet, "No.  Ziggy's clammed up."  Glancing at the handlink a moment, he looked again at his friend. "I think Ziggy's scared."  In another situation it might have made him chuckle to say that, determined to go back and have sport with the hybrid computer, but something inside wasn't allowing levity about any of this. That point was hammered in harder when a shadow fell across the ground in front of Sam.  The look on his friend's face was clear enough; al-Haatim was standing behind the hologram.

"Frightened?" the lean man asked, sweat glistening on his face so that he only looked all the more evil as he unknowingly stepped through the hologram.

Sam didn't respond, just looked at a spot just behind the man's shoulder--to Al--so that al-Haatim wouldn't be able to read the fear that would slip into his eyes if he looked the commander full in the face. 

"Do you honestly think your God will save you?" al-Haatim sneered again.

Sam now looked to the right, where the villagers who'd been captured had been ushered after being escorted out of the trucks at gunpoint.  They were joined by the villagers who'd escaped capture, either by running or by not attending the underground church meeting.  Keeping his gaze fixed on the sea of trembling Sudanese people, Sam said evenly, "He already has."

Fury rose up in Mulalo al-Haatim and a low growl boiled up from his throat and he started toward the missionary, jerking one arm back, prepared to knock the man to the ground.  It was the way Lockwood stood a little straighter and lifted his chin and stared at him, that caused him to rethink then stop.  He would not be cheated of the agonizing end he intended for this one.  The people had to see for themselves their error, and they were going to see it when Howie Lockwood at last lay in a pool of his own blood in the dirt under their feet.

Pursing his lips a moment, al-Haatim stepped back, signaling to his second in command.  Waitimu hurried to him and nodded once at the order, "Tie him up again."  As Waitimu and another soldier went to grab Sam, al-Haatim said, "This will, I think, be the lesson that teaches... them," he waved a hand at the tight cluster of frightened villagers to one side, "who is stronger."

“No!!  Leave him alone!  Stop!” yelled Al as Waitimu and one of his subordinates tied Sam's hands together and tethered him to a high tree branch, no set of poles at the ready here in the village.  Al’s breath caught in his throat when Sam cast a pleading glance his way, unobserved by the soldiers.  "Be strong, Sam!" was all he could think to say to his friend.

This time, Naasir Waitimu prefaced each strike with a question, obviously hoping to weaken the pastor's resolve.

"Will you renounce your God?" he shouted, lashing Sam's already torn back.

"No," grunted Sam.

"Will you stop preaching?"

"No!"  Another lash.

After every answer another lash was laid across Sam's bleeding back. His body twisted and turned each time he jerked, fighting back the screams that he knew were inevitable.  Behind him, he heard Al alternating between encouraging him and berating Waitimu.

"Will you leave this country and never return?"

"N-no!" Sam gasped then cried out when the lash again bit into his flesh, his eyes squeezed shut for a moment.  When he opened them after a moment, he blinked against the sweat beginning to sting his eyes, managing to shake his head a little.  Blinking again, he scanned the small building that he happened to be facing at that moment. Hearing al-Haatim's second in command barking another question to which everyone present knew he would answer 'no', Sam started to close his eyes and wait for the lash to fall. A small movement near the open window of the building caught his eye and he turned his head a bit to look more closely.  What he saw was a young, dark-skinned man watching what was happening in the middle of the village.  For a moment, he and the young man stared at each other, but in the next instant Sam screamed as another vicious lash tore across his shoulders.  "No!" he answered the question when he could get his breath. Darting a look at the window again he saw the young man was gone.

PART THREE

Dropping the whip to his side for a moment at a signal from al-Haatim, Naasir walked up to Sam and roughly spun him around to face the villagers.  To a person, they were weeping. 

"Do you see what this Christian faith gets you?" al-Haatim said, pacing in front of his second-in-command and the annoying American missionary.  "Do you honestly think this is worth it?"

From somewhere outside of the forced gathering,  a shaky voice responded, "We must obey God rather than man."

Every head whipped around to see who had spoken.  Sam was astounded to see the young man who'd been watching from the window now emerge from the building, looking terrified, but holding a Bible in his hands and reading from it.

He took another step forward, his hands shaking so furiously Sam wasn't sure how he managed to read, "The God of our fathers raised up Jesus, whom you had murdered by hanging Him on a tree.  God exalted this man to His right hand as ruler and Savior," he paused, swallowing hard, but his voice was a bit stronger when he continued, "to grant repentance to Israel, and forgiveness of sins.  We are witnesses of these things, and so is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey Him."

When he finished reading and finally looked up, the soldiers seemed to snap out of a reverie.  al-Haatim was livid, and his first action was to punch Sam in the stomach.

While the missionary moaned and coughed, al-Haatim pointed at the young man holding the open Bible, shouting, "Bring him to me!"  Within seconds, three soldiers swarmed at the young man, grabbing him then pushing and shoving him toward their commander.  One of the men tried to grab the Bible from the young man's resistant hands, even slowing down the small group’s progress toward al-Haatim by yanking and pulling at the book. At a curt order from Naasir, the man stopped, having to settle for spitting in the youth’s face as they brought him before the commander.

"Who are you, boy?" al-Haatim demanded, fury in every inch of his body, as he raked the young man with cold, glittering eyes.  "What is this?" he slapped at the Bible. "Are you one of the stupid who blindly follow this man after his God?"

"M-my name is James Matunde," the young man said, even as he quivered.  He hugged the book tight against his chest, answering the second question now, "This is Pastor Howie's Bible, the one he teaches us from."  He looked at his toes, dusty in their sandals for a moment before looking up to meet al-Haatim's eyes.  "And if it is stupid to follow God, then I am a fool for God.  B-because," he turned to look at Sam, who appeared to be his beloved Pastor Howie, as he finished, "because I am not ashamed of the gospel of Jesus Christ!"

Rage began to burn in Mulalo al-Haatim's blood as he moved forward until barely a hand could have been put between him and the young man standing before him on shaking knees but with a lift to his chin and a look in his wide dark eyes that he didn't like.  A long moment passed then he took a step back and walked closely around James Matunde, crowding him until they were again face to face.  "How strong will your faith be, Mr. Matunde," he mocked, "when you watch this... man groveling on the ground at my feet before I kill him for the infidel dog that he is?"  He shoved his face into James' sweating one. "How long will your faith last when you have no pastor to lead you?"  He waited for the young man to answer and when no sound was forthcoming out of James Matunde's mouth, al-Haatim's fury turned to gloating as he threw his head back and laughed long and loud.  He laughed until he doubled over for a moment then stood up and gradually reined in his enjoyment of winning the challenge with the misled younger man.  Scanning James from head to toe, al-Haatim smirked at him then flicked a hand, ordering, "Put him with the rest of the sheep over there.  He can bleat along with them."

"Stand up to this bully, James.  You can do it, kiddo!"  Al tried to encourage James, but the youth couldn't hear him.

Tears streamed down James Matunde's face as he was roughly shoved to the front of the crowd.  Comforting hands touched his shoulder, but it was clear the young man was devastated by his failure to respond to al-Haatim.

"Al," Sam breathed under al-Haatim's renewed laughter at the way Matunde was crying, "do you think...?"

Al was already punching the handlink, frantically trying to get an answer, as al-Haatim turned to Waitimu and gestured at Sam.  "Cut him down," said the commander.  "I doubt he has the strength to run now."

At the sound of the order being given to cut Sam down, Al reactively looked across the way, wincing and hurting for his friend as Sam  collapsed under his own body weight onto the hot, dusty earth.  Yet as much as he felt like rushing to Sam's side to offer him whatever encouragement he could, the Observer felt even more the need to move closer to young James Matunde. A whisper flickered through his mind, mocking him that he was turning his back on his best friend, but Al dismissed it; Sam would understand his reasoning.  Turning back to face James, Al looked past the tears on the youth's cheeks, looking into those dark eyes as if they could see him.

"It's no sin to be afraid, James," he told the young man. "But trust me, that one's nothing but a dressed up bully." When he saw James' glance shift in his direction, Al hesitated. Had his voice reached across time to reach the young man?  A minute passed and as the seconds ticked by, he watched James bow his head, covering his eyes with one hand, while the other clutched Howie Lockwood's Bible tightly against his chest. His heart started to sink; it appeared the boy was giving up.  In the next moment, however, Al got a reminder that appearances are sometimes misleading, as James lifted his head high, the look in his eyes determined.

James took a step forward, never loosing his grip on the Bible he hugged to his chest.  "I love you, Pastor Howie," he said in a loud voice.  "But my faith does not rely on Pastor Howie... and... yes, my faith will be strong when he is gone!"

al-Haatim whirled to face the young man who had now stepped away from the safety of the crowd.  His eyes blazed for a moment and he narrowed his gaze on James Matunde as if he were tightening a laser beam.  James flinched, but took another brave step forward, and then another.

"Is that so?" said al-Haatim finally.  "Then let's see about the truth of that statement."  He turned back to Waitimu and jerked his hand toward the missionary who still lay heaving in the dirt.

Nodding, Naasir Waitimu reached down and yanked Sam to his feet, ripping the ropes from his wrists in the next moment.  Sam cried out as the scratchy fibers scraped his skin.  He swayed slightly as he stood there, but didn't flinch as Mulalo al-Haatim moved closer, turning to address the villagers.

al-Haatim stabbed another icy look at James Matunde where he stood almost halfway across the small area. Raising his arm, he pointed a finger at James then moved it as if pointing to each person still crowded together.  "Anyone who renounces the Christian God is free to leave without fear.  You will not be harmed." He let his eyes linger upon a few of the faces, staring into one's eyes a second before moving to the next person.  "Those who choose to remain in stupidity... you will watch and see what awaits you.  And that is death!” Mulalo roared.  “You will be killed as surely and as dead as this one is about to be.” He gave them a moment to consider his offer then demanded, “Choose now!”

At the back of the crowd, amongst those who’d remained in the village following the previous day’s raid, five people backed away from the crowd, running for their homes before al-Haatim changed his mind.

“Only five?” Mulalo barely hid his surprise, which quickly transformed into disgusted anger.  “Very well, then.  Say goodbye to your precious Pastor Howie,” he said, as he turned to face Sam.  He reached for the holster at his side and withdrew the Glock, releasing the safety and aiming it directly at Sam.

"NO!!!!!!" screamed Al.

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

Many times in his years of leaping Sam Beckett had come face to face with death. A handful of those times he perceived  the cold clamminess of his mortality staring at him, but he had never before felt with such certainty that his life was being measured not in minutes but in seconds.  He heard Al's frantic scream but even the fear in his best friend's voice could not drag his eyes from those of the man releasing the safety on the pistol then aiming it at him with calm deliberation. At first the aim was at his head but as a slow, cold smile crawled across Mulalo al-Haatim's face, Sam watched the aim lower several inches.

‘So this is it?’ he thought. ‘This is where it ends?’

Sam swallowed as he stared at the gun then swallowed again as his gaze moved from the muzzle back to the hand holding it.  A shiver ran through him as he realized he was watching the finger on the trigger begin  to squeeze, one tiny increment... then another.  But he couldn't just stand there and watch until the trigger’s release sent the bullet into his body, so Sam lifted his eyes once more to al-Haatim.  It was the sight of the triumph now shining in those small, dark eyes that helped him find the strength to straighten his bleeding back and square his shoulders as he held his head up.  The thought that it didn't matter now who might think he was crazy, ran through Sam’s mind as he looked across the way to where Al stood, seemingly riveted to the ground, his face white. The only sound Sam could hear was a soft little breeze ruffling through the leaves of the large tree to which he had been tied and beaten.  In some part of his mind, in that moment, Sam made his peace. ‘All I've ever wanted was to go home,’ he thought then put that aside as he looked intently at Al. He didn't hear the calm strength in his voice as he called out, "I love you, Al."  Even as his friend's name crossed his lips, Sam heard a loud noise... and then all he knew was the brilliant blue as he Leaped.

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

Al barely had time to even nod at Sam's words when Mulalo al-Haatim let out a tight shriek of rage and pulled the trigger.  "NO!!!!" he screamed again, as the bang of the gun went off, but at virtually the same instant, Sam Leaped, and as he did so, Al wondered for a split second why the image hadn't shifted or altered, as he heard a cry of pain and was stunned to see Howie Lockwood standing where Sam had been nanoseconds ago.

Howie's green eyes widened and his hands went reflexively to a spot midway between his navel and his breastbone.  Blood began to trickle out between his fingers and Howie raised one hand to see the thick red stains there.

"No," Al whispered.  "No..."  He was so horrified at what he saw it barely dawned on him that for him to be witnessing this, Sam must have Leaped into someone else in the immediate vicinity.

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

As rapidly as he was swallowed up in the vast blueness, equally as fast, Sam felt himself jerked out of it again as he was slammed into the next life he had to fix or help with such speed and ferocity that he swayed then stumbled a step.  Opening his eyes, the memories of the leap just past were as crystal clear in his mind as if he were still standing…  A chill passed over Sam as he looked at the spot where he’d been, where now stood a tall man with blond hair and a huge spreading circle of blood in the middle of his body.  What was scarier was when the wounded man slowly turned his head to look at him. Sam wanted to say something but the words wouldn't come.  Unnerved, Sam watched the man's gaze divert to what should have been a patch of thin air in front of him and utter, "Al?"

Sam forgot about everything, about the people screaming and soldiers shouting orders as he started forward. It was only then he realized he had a rifle in his hands, flinging it aside as he rushed forward the few steps separating him and the mortally wounded man smiling almost gently at Al.  Sam reached the man just as his knees gave way under him and he dropped to the ground.  Grabbing him and easing him down, Sam went to his knees and drew the man against his own body.  "Easy," he said softly, even as his gaze dropped to the ugly open wound from which the man's lifeblood was steadily oozing.  Sam, however, wasn't prepared for what happened next when he heard Al attempting to encourage the man.

The first shocking thing was hearing Al tell him, "Sam... you gotta help Howie."  Sam's heart almost stopped beating when he realized, without hesitation, whose eyes he was looking into, but he couldn't seem to make his tongue work.  All he could do was nod when Howie Lockwood, now with a trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth, looked up at him and said, "Ni..ce to meet you... Sam."

Sam sat still and quiet, holding the younger man as Howie added, "It's... okay.  I... knew be-before... I came here... this would... happen."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, finally finding his voice.

Howie shook his head slightly, a small smile on his face.  "N-nothing ... to be... sorry about."  He turned to look at Al, who cried unabashedly, and he reached out a hand to the hologram.  Al extended his own hand, but Howie's went through it.  Shaking his head, Al gasped for breath to speak around his sobs, but Howie was struggling to say something, and Al waited.  "That... that goes... for you, too... Al.  Just... keep your promise...."

"I will," replied Al in a small voice.

In the next moment, James Matunde had joined them.  Howie's bloodstained lips spread in a smile when he caught sight of the young man.  "J-James," he coughed out.