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excerpts from
Quantum Leap:
The Unrightable Wrong
a novel
by Steve Anderson
SGAcreative.com
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DISCLAIMER: These are the key scenes from an unpublished fan-fiction novel. They are posted here
purely for entertainment, and are in no way meant to infringe on any copyrights, trademarks, or other
intellectual property rights belonging to the original creators of the TV series, Quantum Leap.
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As he had so many times before, Dr. Sam Beckett Leaped. For an instant, he held onto a handful
of images of his surroundings: of the anxious faces all around him breathing freely for the first time
in what seemed like forever; of Al, relieved and excited, clutching the Handlink in triumph; of his own
breathless relief at having survived yet another brush with certain death; of the thousands of tiny details
that divided that reality from the unreal flux he was plunging into now--the sounds of footsteps and
voices and the creaking of the walls, the feel of the cool October air and of the ground beneath his
feet.
He held onto them by reflex, but they only faded away, as he had known they would. The
colors washed away like a brightly-colored shirt left out in the sun too long. The sounds grew distant,
unreal, and finally inaudible, as though someone had turned down the volume of the world. Even the air
and the ground and his sense of identity faded and were gone. His memories of the Leap died away, like
camera film exposed to the sun.
And then, at last, into the void came the whispers of other memories,
older memories, memories of a single life as a single human being in a single, linear time. Bits and
pieces, then more and more, not quite the full picture but more, so much more, than he was ever allowed
in a Leap. He remembered his mother, singing to him as a child. He remembered his father's strong presence
supporting his decisions. He remembered Tom, who had died in Vietnam but also survived to teach at the
Academy. He remembered Al, and Gushie, and Tina, and Donna; he remembered college and Star Bright and
the long, hard road to Quantum Leap.
And he wasn't alone with his memories, either. He almost
hadn't noticed, diving into them like a child overwhelmed under a Christmas tree, but the voices had
crept in, as well. Al's voice, gruff but reassuring. The voice of a woman he almost remembered. And
the great voice, the one he dared not name, the one that promised to send him home--soon, soon, but not
yet.
And then the memories were fading, the voices as well, lost in the rush of new surroundings,
light and sound and substance, all rushing in at once. He tried to hold on, tried to resist, tried to
keep hold of some of what he had remembered, but it ran swiftly away like sand grasped in an open hand.
The voices were distant, vague, all but gone, and soon all he would know would be the new life he was
entering.
"No." A new voice, larger and more powerful than the others, more a snarl than a human
voice, almost bellowing inside his mind. "No, not here."
A great fist, bristling all over with
claws, seemed to wrap itself about him, and suddenly, for the first time he could remember, he was pulling
away, the new Leap fading before it had even taken substance, the flux of interLeap reclaiming him, thrusting
him somewhere else, somewhen else.
It hurt. He had never felt anything physical between Leaps
before, but now he did, oh yes. Pain, agony really, the horrible contact of razor-sharp claws buffeting
him about like a mouse in the talons of an eagle or the paws of a lion. Helpless, he drifted, waiting
for whatever was happening to finally be over.
Even the memories didn't come to break the terrifying
dislocation. Only one memory came, and it was nothing but the sheerest wisp of an image: Al flickering,
explaining that Ziggy had been hurt. A battle, two computers, a fragmentation grenade of viruses and
carefully-crafted programs. Al worried, even frightened, concerned that Ziggy might lose contact--but
there was something else. Something deeper, not in the holographic image but in the flickering itself.
A message, an order, a destination. Yes, a destination. Was that where he was going now?
He
tried to fight, tried to resist, but it did no good. He was being dragged away, led by the force of
a message buried in a hologram, a directive now planted deep in his own subconscious mind. He didn't
want to go, but he couldn't stop himself. For a long time, an eternity, he floated, batted about, clawed,
scratched, unable to scream for lack of tangible lungs. And then, at last, it subsided.
The
horrible ride slowed to a halt, and the sense of the beast faded away like his memories and the voices
of an ordinary Leap. Now his new surroundings would come, filling the void with substance and revealing
a new time and place and identity. Out of instinct, he braced his mind, trying to prepare himself for
the inevitable wash of sensations and the dizzying swirl of the new reality.
But the wash didn't
come. No roar of traffic or crying of babies, no sight of a landscape familiar or strange, no whisper
of air or rush of wind. Nothing. He blinked his eyes, or tried to; the dark was so complete, it made
no difference at all. The beginnings of panic caught hold of him, and he thrashed his legs in the darkness;
only the exertion of his muscles told him he might have legs to thrash at all, and that might have been
an illusion. He screamed, and only a distant mumble of his own voice reached his ears.
Panic
would get him nowhere, he knew that. Before that knowledge could swim away from him, he resolved to
do something about his predicament. Deep breaths, that was the answer. In through the nose, out through
the mouth, a nice, slow rhythm--but he couldn't do it. He tried to work the muscles that would control
his breathing, but he couldn't feel his breath. He tried to take a deep breath, but couldn't tell if
he had succeeded. Desperate for any sign of life, he tried to hold his breath and waited for the inevitable
ache in his chest, but it didn't come.
Now beginning to panic in earnest, he grasped for the
one thing that had always calmed him before. With his photographic memory, he could call up pages of
books read long ago and project them, as it were, before his eyes so that he could re-read them now to
calm himself. Trying to hold his panic at bay, he dug through his memory, and an instant's triumph flooded
him as he found what he had been looking for: the memories of pages from books he had loved as a child.
The first page appeared before him, clear and crisp and reassuring in its apparent solidity--and
then, as he watched, it fell away, quickly growing distant and unclear. He tried again, and again, but
without anything to focus on, he couldn't keep the image clear; it was like trying to show a movie by
pointing the projector out into a bank of fog. The books he remembered were no good at all to him.
And as he realized that, he realized something else, as well: here in the dark, he was alone. Completely
and utterly so. No Al, no identity, nothing whatsoever to tell him where, or when, or even if, he was.
He tried to fight that last possibility, refusing to believe this was death, but the moment of doubt
was all it took. The panic he had been fighting flooded him, and for a long, long time, all he knew
was the darkness.
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A relieved smile on his face, Al was already beginning to congratulate Sam on a Leap well done as
he walked in through the Door.
Then he saw what Sam was doing, and froze in his tracks. It had
taken every bit of effort they could muster to defuse the situation before those hateful banners could
spark a full-blown riot, and now that they’d been torn down and the factions had finally been lured to
the bargaining table, here was Sam, putting the damned banners right back up again.
"What are
you doing, Sam?" Al demanded.
Sam ignored him and hung up another sign.
"Sam? Sa-a-am!"
Sam stared straight through Al to hang yet another sign.
"Dammit, Sam you're scaring me!"
Again, no response, except perhaps for a faint satisfied smile.
"Talk to me, Sam! I'm your
friend!"
Sam whirled at that, fire in his eyes. "You're my friend?" he asked, disbelieving and
scornful. "My buddy, my pal," he spat, grinding the words under his heel with his tone, "the man who
wants to help me get home."
Al raised both hands, shocked and unnerved and more than a little
confused. "What's gotten into you, Sam?"
"Sense." The syllable hung in the air like a lone
black cloud of hate.
For once, Al was absolutely speechless. "Huh?" he managed after a long,
long pause.
"You've known all along, haven't you?" Sam demanded, glowering at the hologram.
"Haven't you!" he bellowed when Al didn't respond.
"Haven't I known what??" Al asked. Not since
they had Leaped together had he been so confused by--or at odds with--Sam.
"Known how to get
me home," Sam said, a sneer forming on his lips. "You laugh at me when you go through that damned Door,
don't you? See the little physicist, hopping through my hoops?"
Al gaped at Sam, honestly at
a loss. "What are you talking about?"
"Set things right that once went wrong," Sam jeered.
"That's how you get home. Ha! The more I do that, the more useful I am to God or Fate or Time, or whatever
the hell it is, and the longer it'll keep me here, Leaping around and around and around. Dammit, Al,
I'm tired! I want to go home!"
Al cocked his head. "I don't understand."
"Like hell!
I taught Ziggy better than that. As long as I'm useful, whatever it is will keep me around. Isn’t
it obvious? All I have to do to get home--"
Al pulled out a cigar and gnawed at it without bothering
to light it. "You're asking for a pretty powerful enemy," he observed.
Sam blew out a dismissive
breath. "I've been Leaping for how long? How many months? How many years? And all I want is to go
home, and it won't let me. You don't consider it an enemy already?"
Al nibbled his cigar and
sighed. "I understand how you feel, Sam. You're tired, and alone, and you're starting to feel desperate.
I got that way in Nam once or twice."
"Oh, that's right, I'd forgotten. You were a POW for
six years. Well, I'm not that stupid."
"Stupid?" Al echoed, too stunned to say more.
"Yeah,
stupid," Sam sneered, his expression becoming a bitter snarl. "Putting yourself through that kind of
hell just because of a line on a map."
Al's eyes narrowed. "You're talking treason."
"I'm
talking survival," Sam corrected him. "You wouldn't understand. You and your stupid, outdated code
of honor. I don't need it! Any of it! I don't Ziggy. I don’t need Whatever It Is. And—" His eyes
bored a hole through Al. "--I don't. Need. YOU!!!"
Al's head snapped back as though he'd been
slapped. After a long while, he spoke, a bare whisper: "You can't do this alone, Sam."
The corner
of Sam's mouth rose in a sneer. "I have other friends."
A cold shiver ran down Al's spine.
"Who?" he managed to ask.
Sam stared him in the eye and smiled, a cold mouthful of teeth that
sent another shiver all over the Admiral's body, and when he spoke, gooseflesh followed: "Lothos."
Al's mouth fell open, and his cigar fell away and vanished from Sam's sight.
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Sam sneered down the barrel of his gun at the insignificant, meddling insects who would develop
the misbegotten Quantum Leap. "It’s time to stop this damned quest before it ever begins," he growled.
"It's time for you to die."
At his side, Al had turned a brilliant shade halfway between beet
red and deep forest green. "What the hell do you think you're doing??" he screamed.
Sam paused
for just an instant to favor his old friend with a ghastly smile. "Erasing a mistake," he answered,
and then his eyes were back on their targets, oblivious to everything else, and his forefinger was slowly
squeezing the trigger.
A distant part of his mind still heard Al's voice, but it sounded dull
and unreal and terribly unimportant. Only the curl of steel under his finger and the steady beat of
his heart was real to him now. He bore down on it, pouring his rage and hate into the steel of the gun.
And then the world was shattered by the awful crash as it went off, and in the same instant he saw
his younger self go spinning down to the floor and felt the searing pain of the wound deep in his own
chest. The pain seemed to break the spell that had claimed his mind, and his eyes swam back into focus
as the pain overwhelmed him.
Slowly, painfully, he turned his head. "Al," he whispered, reaching
out a hand.
Al reached a holographic hand back, wishing he could feel Sam's grasp like he had
twenty years ago on the other side of the room, when he’d cradled his fallen, nearly unconscious friend
in his lap. But all he could do now was close his hand around empty space and imagine that he could
somehow hold Sam's hologaphic hand in his own.
On the other side of the room, a much younger
Al cradled his Sam in his lap, squeezing his hand, and Sam squeezed back, that contact the only link
the young physicist had left to reality. He drew in a breath through clenched teeth and forced his mouth
to work. "Build," he gasped, and broke off, mouth opening and closing, sweat pouring down his face in
sheets.
"Don't talk, Sam," Al said quietly, and glanced at Gushie in desparation.
Gushie
just shrugged, helpless, lost.
And Sam, buoyed by the support of his friends, tried again. "Build,"
he gasped, shuddering as waves of pain racked his body. "Build... Quannum.... Lea--"
A final
choking cough swallowed the end of the final word, and then at last, Sam's eyes rolled up, and his head
lolled limply back, devoid of life.
Al stood watching, his hand wrapped painfully tight
around the Handlink, seeing his friend die. "Sam," he said aloud, and turned for support to his own
Sam, who also stood watching.
The older Beckett stood silently, tears of grief and remorse flowing
freely, and then suddenly, as his younger self coughed and died, he clutched at his own chest as terrible
pain flooded into him. "Al," he gasped, and broke off, overwhelmed with pain.
Al reached out
a hand again, but before he could move, a blinding flash of blue seared his eyes. He blinked furiously,
trying to see past the spots, but already he knew that Sam was gone.
"SSSSAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMM!!!!!"
he screamed, and the name echoed dully against metallic walls. Confusion surged in him, and he slowly
opened his eyes. And found himself staring at the bare walls of the Imaging Chamber.
But that
was normal, he realized. The Chamber hadn't actually been online since its last field test, four years
ago, and he had certainly seen bare walls in here much more often than anything else. Why it had seemed
odd just now, he couldn't... quite... remember.
And why he had been thinking about Sam again,
he didn't know, either. His death had been a blow, but that had been ten years ago, and he had been
sure he had put it behind him. So why had the memories come surging back, and why did his death seem
so... wrong?
Al shuddered and stepped back out into the Control Room. "Donna?" he asked when
he saw her standing there, talking to Ziggy. "Can we talk?"
She looked up at the tone of his
voice, and concern came into her face. "Sure, Al," she said with a reassuring smile.
He managed
a weak nod. "Thanks, Donna."
She ended her session on the computer, and the two of them started
for the cafeteria. It seemed right and comfortable, walking there at her side--but somehow, Al also
knew, she wasn't the Project Director he was supposed to be walking these corridors with. He shuddered,
and started trying to explain the strange thoughts running through his head.
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"Ready the Accelerator," Al ordered, struggling into the white Permese bodysuit and already heading
for the ramp.
"Admiral?" Gushie asked from behind the controls.
Al shot him a glance.
"You heard me. Ready the Accelerator. I'm going back."
"No," came Donna's voice from the doorway,
"you aren't."
Fury came into Al's eyes, and even before he turned, he was beginning to protest.
"We agreed," he insisted.
"You're not going back," Donna responded, zipping up her own Permese
Suit. "I am."
Behind the controls, Gushie had turned a bright shade of verdant green. "What's
going on?" he asked.
"Ready the Accelerator," Donna ordered. "Al will give you the target coordinates."
Gushie tried to swallow the sick taste in his mouth. "Yes, ma'am."
"Donna," Al said, "you
don't have to do this."
"Yes," she replied. "I do."
Al frowned, but when he met her
eyes, he knew he couldn't argue. "All right," he said at last. "But I don't like it."
Donna
nodded and stepped up the ramp.
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Sam sneered down the barrel of his gun at the insignificant, meddling insects who would develop
the misbegotten Quantum Leap. "It's time," he growled, "for you to die."
At his side, Al had
turned a brilliant shade halfway between beet red and deep forest green. "What the hell do you think
you're doing??" he screamed.
Sam paused for just an instant to favor his old friend with a ghastly
smile. "Erasing a mistake," he answered, and then his eyes were back on their targets, oblivious to
everything else, and his forefinger was slowly squeezing the trigger.
A distant part of his mind
heard what sounded like Donna Alissi's voice bellowing his name, but it sounded dull and unreal and terribly
unimportant. Only the curl of steel under his finger and the steady beat of his heart was real to him
now, and so it was only his younger self who turned toward the voice in surprise and confusion and involuntarily
took a step forward.
And then the world was shattered by the awful crash of the gun, and in the
same instant he saw his younger self go spinning down to the floor and felt the new old wound in his
shoulder protest against the kick from the gun whose bullet had caused it half a second--and twenty years--ago.
The pain seemed to break the spell that had claimed his mind, and his eyes swam back into focus
just in time to see the brilliant flash of lightning-streaked blue as Donna vanished from his side.
Slowly, he turned his head and looked at his own Al, who stared back with the same uncertain, dizzy feeling
that seemed to fill his own head. "Was there--?" Sam asked, then trailed away, uncertain how to ask
the question.
Al started to answer, then simply shrugged his shoulders. Had it been an illusion,
or had someone--Donna, perhaps--been standing there, just for an instant but long enough to ruin Sam’s
aim, to turn a mortal wound into a mere glancing blow, to stop him from--
Sam shuddered uncontrollably,
and with a trembling hand, lowered the gun to his side. "I... tried," he whispered, trying to come to
grips with what had happened. "I tried to kill him--me--him...." He shuddered again.
Al took
a deep, shaky breath. "But you didn't," was all he could think to say.
Sam felt a lump in his
throat, and swallowed. At last, he turned to Donna and Al where they knelt holding their Sam in their
arms. "Get me," he said, then paused and corrected himself, slurring his words in his confusion, "get
him to the Infirmary."
Numbly, they complied, helping their Sam to his feet and staggering together
toward the door, and Sam silently watched them go.
"I'm afraid I'll have to take you into custody."
Sam turned his head, trying to identify the source of the voice, and found himself looking at the
security guard who still stood in the corner, quietly regarding him. The guard nodded toward Sam's hand
and spoke again: "Would you mind giving me that?"
Sam followed the man's gaze to the gun and
stood motionless for a moment, just staring at it. "I," he said quietly, and stopped. "I almost killed
him."
"Sam," Al offered quietly from his side, compassion written in his features, "it wasn't
you fault."
Sam's eyes widened, and he turned to his friend. "It wasn't my fault?" he repeated.
"Then whose was it? I'm the one holding the gun!"
Al nodded. "I know." He paused, searching
for words, and then went on, feeling his way as he went. "But we finally figured out where you were
when we lost contact, Sam."
"So?" Sam asked, not at all seeing the connection.
"You were
in a sense-deprivation tank, Sam. One controlled by Lothos."
Sam shivered at the name, then
cocked his head, waiting for the rest.
"He brainwashed you. You weren't in control of your actions."
Sam nodded, and sighed. "He's that powerful."
"I'm afraid so."
A look of disgust
and exhaustion blossomed on Sam's face. "Then we've lost, Al."
"No, Sam--"
"We've.
Lost." Slowly shaking his head, Sam pressed on. "If Lothos could turn me into an Evil Leaper, then
he can turn anyone, and we'll never really beat him."
Al began to turn green again.
Sam
bit his lip, and a look of infinite sadness crept into his eyes.
"What is it, Sam?" Al asked
at last.
"There's a way," Sam sighed. He made a futile attempt to smile. "A way to beat him,
Al."
Al looked at him sideways, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Remember what I
told Alia?" Sam asked.
Al thought back, and suddenly started in fear. "You can't mean that,
Sam!"
Sam nodded slowly, grimly, and the gun he still held rose slowly to his temple.
"Sam!"
Al blurted, instinctively lunging for his friend, his outstretched hand passing through the Leaper's
arm.
"Without Good," Sam whispered, "there is no Evil."
Horror, and grief, and panic
all vied for control of Al's features. "Don't do it, Sam!" he insisted.
Slowly, Sam shook his
head. "I'm tired, Al," he said, and tears formed in his eyes and started down his cheeks. "So tired.
I can't go on fighting alone."
A hand touched his shoulder, and a female voice, familiar somehow,
spoke quietly: "You're not alone, Sam."
His eyes still blurred with tears, Sam raised his head
and peered at the young woman who stood in the place and uniform of the security guard. "Alia," he whispered.
She just nodded, and repeated, "You're not alone."
And he saw that she was right. For Alia
was not standing alone. To her left, a large Puerto Rican woman stood, her dress pointing back to the
time of Flappers and Prohibition. "Angela," Sam said, and she nodded.
And to Alia's right, an
old man with white hair and a kind, eccentric face smiled at Sam. "Captain Galaxy," Sam said, a smile
of recognition breaking through the tears that still stained his face. "Moe Stein."
"I got my
time-machine working, Sam," Stein answered.
Sam smiled, and his eyes moved on. Behind Alia and
Angela and Stein stood row upon row of kind, encouraging faces. Some, like the three in front, he recognized.
Others, like the stooped man with the crafty, weathered face, and the old Czech with the long white
beard, he did not. But all of them looked at him with understanding and reassurance in their eyes.
As he watched, Stein took a step back, and then Alia nodded past Sam's shoulder. For an instant,
Sam frowned uncertainly, and then he saw Al step forward, drawn by the signal, to take his place at Alia's
side among the legion of the Good. "You're not alone, Sam," Alia said again. "You never were."
Sam smiled, and tears ran again, these a light and cleansing sort, not the dark and dismal drops
he had shed before. He nodded slightly, feeling his chin tremble, and then he found himself stepping
forward and wrapping Alia in a tight and trembling embrace. She held him in silence for a time, and
then at last Sam stepped back, regarding her.
Once, he had helped her to find the strength to
resist Lothos and fight to make the world better rather than worse, and now she had done the same for
him. Setting right what once went wrong was, indeed, too big a job for a single man, but for all of
these good, dedicated people together, and all the other people they encouraged--perhaps there was a
chance, after all. Perhaps it was worth fighting and at least trying to make a difference.
A
tiny smile of hope curled at the edges of Sam's mouth once more, and he regarded Alia, and all the men
and women who stood with her--and with him--and mouthed the simple words, "Thank you."
And Alia,
speaking for all of them, just tipped her head modestly and smiled.
And they Leaped.
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