A Question of Charity
Chapter Five
Penelope Hill
Day 3: Sunday, November 1, 1998
He wasn't, although he wouldn't have admitted the fact to anyone. He'd slept, which had surprised him a little, but it was to dream of emerald eyes and cold fire, the image of Charity's death and her interminable imprisonment somehow tangled with a vision of Sam endlessly Leaping from life to life. Morning brought a tumble of disjointed thoughts and conflicting emotions. The memories of the night before were disconcerting ones and he felt restless and disturbed without quite understanding why. He showered, downed a jugful of black coffee, remembered to feed the Afterburner, then jogged to the airstrip, turning his thoughts toward nothing at all in preference to the maelstrom that awaited his consideration.
His route took him past the small congregation gathered for morning service at the base's non-denominational church. One or two off-duty service personnel saluted him as he passed, where civilian acquaintances settled for a friendly wave. He waved back non-committally, tucking his head down and concentrating on the rhythm of his run. Guilt welled up in him like a tide; he hadn't been to mass for weeks, and the last time he'd seen the inside of a confessional, Sam had been in it. Normally he had no problem with any of that; despite his recent reaffirmation of the faith he had once thought lost to him forever, he dealt with his perception of god as he found him, the Catholic ritual of his childhood a refuge and reassurance that he sought only when the mood and the opportunity coincided. Today, however, he felt a sudden aching hunger for that comfort, for the calm and solemn atmosphere of worship. It was Sunday morning and All Hallows, and he was desperately in need of peace of mind.
The ritual of donning flight suit, speed jeans, harness and helmet provided a little of that. He strode out onto tarmac that was already beginning to bake under the impact of sun and focused on the task ahead of him. The T-45 sat in hunkered readiness outside its hangar, the duty flight crew swarming over it like a regiment of ants. They lined up to greet him with respectful salutes and he paused to exchange the normal gossip and wisecracks as if it were any other day that he took to the sky. A pilot relied on his flight crew and he took care to treat his own with the friendly attention to detail that helped make their task a pleasure and not a chore. They joked as they strapped him in, the senior technician handing him the checklist and going over the most recent modifications made to instrumentation. He'd checked Ziggy's flight plan while getting changed and found he was actually looking forward to the flight after all; by the time he was comfortable in the cockpit the familiar buzz had settled in the pit of his stomach and his mind was crystal clear. Donna had accused him of being addicted to adrenaline, but she didn't know the half of it; there was practically nothing that compared to the sweet sense of total freedom that flying gave him. Good sex, of course, but that went without saying, and the high that came with that was a completely different sensation anyway.
He taxied down the service road and onto the runway, clearing his takeoff with the Stallion's Gate tower as he did so. The duty flight controller wished him a good flight, warned him about the scheduled chopper en route from Santa Fe, and then let him go; within moments he was a thousand feet up and completely alone. He turned onto the first leg of the route Ziggy had prepared, heading out over the desert, keyed up the latest head-up display he'd been asked to evaluate, and finally allowed himself to think. He found he had a lot to think about.
My boyfriend's back, and you're in a lot of trouble-
Hey la, hey la, my boyfriend's back...
The breathy chorus rang through McGowan House, a raucous medley of voices accompanying the music on the radio. The group were relaxing; they danced, and they sang, and they laughed, an afternoon party seized as an excuse for letting go and freaking out. The Admiral made his way through the crowd, trying to spot his friend in among the colourful company. At any other time, in any other circumstances, he might have paused to enjoy the atmosphere; girls in tight jeans, cheesecloth shirts, tiedyed smocks, peasant dresses, and wild face paint jiggled around him, sharing space and energy with each other. Forty eight hours before he'd walked through this same hall and this same company and thought himself in paradise. Now his nerves were taut and his expectations tense; he moved with the wary step of a man certain of being ambushed at any second and his eyes darted around the room with suspicious alertness, as if trying to see what wasn't there.
You should be scared, 'cos you know you've done wrong -
Hey la, hey la, my boyfriend's back ...
Sam Beckett was leaning against the doorjamb outside the entrance to the library, a wry look on his face as he echoed the chorus along with everyone else. Mary Ann McGowan hung on his shoulder, a proprietary grip but an affectionate one; she was laughing and moving her head in time to the music. Her blonde hair tossed around her face like the surge of waves on the ocean. Al halted a short distance away to watch the pair of them, reading the messages sent by their body language. There was no doubt that Mary Ann's feelings for Carson O'Leary reciprocated those of the man himself; Sam was responding to that proffered intimacy with the wariness of a man who knew how he should be behaving but didn't feel entirely comfortable with it. He's improving with practice, Al thought to himself, the realisation a discomforting one. There was a concern, generally not openly expressed among Project personnel, that the longer Sam Beckett lived the lives of other people, the less of himself he would retain. The Admiral knew him well enough to understand that the 'Swiss-cheese' effect suffered in respect of the man's memory had not severely affected the core of his personality, but there had been the odd Leap where Sam had had to wrestle with the persona of the individual he had replaced. Verbeena had postulated that the interchange between body and temporal aura was never a complete one, a process which allowed Sam to adopt the mannerisms and characteristics of his temporary life and sometimes spilled over to cause uncertain side-effects. Al hoped that that was the explanation.
I walked up to her and I asked her if she wanted to dance ...
The music changed with a less than subtle shift as the DJ segued into a second record. The Admiral sighed, gearing himself up to make the last step forward into Sam's eyeline. Before he could do so, something else drew his attention, although he could never say exactly what it was; it might have been static electricity that prickled the back of his neck, but he didn't think so. A sense of presence suddenly swirled around him, and an unseen breeze brushed his cheek, only to be replaced by the touch of a phantom hand.
"Charity?" he whispered, his heart thudding to a halt at that gentle caress. The handlink squealed an electronic protest, and Sam looked up at the sound of it, registering his Observer's presence with a relieved smile.
And then I kissed her...
Invisible lips impacted briefly against his own and somehow he managed not to look as startled as he felt. The contact was a disconcerting one, stirring equal reactions of terror and desire; what she was still scared him rigid, but who she was seemed another matter entirely. He suddenly understood how a moth might feel as it battered itself against a lightbulb: anguish and delight wrapped in one exquisite, bitter package, instinct screaming one thing, intellect the exact opposite. Sam was surreptitiously tilting his head toward the library door, indicating a quiet place to talk, and Al nodded a rapid and relieved acknowledgement. He lifted the handlink and keyed in the shift, the images flicking from crowded hall to deserted room in a single blink. Charity's sense of presence shifted with him; she flickered briefly into vision and kissed him again, a passionate greeting he found himself returning as best he could, seeing she offered nothing for him to hang onto. The door opened behind him and he sprang backward with a sense of embarrassed guilt, even though he knew that Sam would see nothing of his company.
"We have to talk," he hissed, hoping she would both hear and understand him. He got no reply from her, but the man who had entered the room threw him a wary look.
"Something wrong?" Sam enquired, moving around the book-strewn tables to join his intangible friend. Charity's presence melted away with his approach, leaving only the lingering echo of her touch tingling across his skin.
"Ah - no." Al knew his response was too quick, too defensive to convince the scientist of anything, but, even after the morning's long and hard look at the situation, the sheer reality of his phantom lover had flustered him. "Nothing wrong, Sam. Should there be?"
"I don't know." Sam stared at him suspiciously. "You tell me. First there's power problems at the Project, then you spend yesterday acting as jumpy as a mouse in a roomful of cats, and today you don't arrive for hours. And you're still on edge. What gives?"
"Nothing," Al insisted a second time, then wilted under the scepticism in his comrade's patient look. "Well, maybe something. A little something, that's all. Nothing you need worry about."
Sam merely went on looking, the sort of look that made its recipient inwardly squirm, mostly because there were a great many things he just couldn't talk about; things concerning the Project, the pressures they were under to justify budgets, issues concerning the operation of Ziggy and all the other equipment that enabled them to maintain this fragile link. All of those things and more were matters he held back from their time-absented Director, since it was vital that Sam survive and function, not drown in anxieties and concerns he could do nothing about. Some of the secrets he kept were even more personal - the matter of Donna's anxious vigil, detailed information concerning Project personnel - all of those were dependent on Sam Beckett's Swiss-cheesed memory and the strict rules he had laid down for Project operation before his precipitous departure. Al had bent more than a few of those rules over the years, but he was always conscious of - if not directly lying, as such - not being entirely honest with a man who trusted him to tell the truth. It had become too easy to spin the picturesque line, to cover panics and problems with minor tattletale and gossip. While Ziggy wrestled with software glitches and her support team ran themselves ragged isolating them, the Admiral spoke about birthday parties and baseball games; when the committee demanded representation or required them to accommodate disruptive work for other projects (thereby ensuring their funding for a few more precious months) he would excuse his tardiness and absences with tales of snatched liaisons or complaints over Tina's behaviour. He'd never actually had to make anything up as such, just embroider detail a little, probably giving Sam the impression he was more concerned over his own problems than those the scientist faced. What Sam generally saw was the casual, devil-may-care Calavicci, and not the part of him that was the Stallion's Gate Military Commander or the harassed Project Observer and Co-Director. Right now the three matters happened to coincide with a vengeance, since Charity's presence affected himself, Sam and the Project in equal measure; he just didn't know how much or what he might be able to explain, let alone how much of it Sam was likely to believe.
"It's - the ghost," he announced with caution. Sam burst out laughing, which he might have expected but which didn't help things very much.
"Al," the scientist chided with amusement, "will you cut that out? I told you yesterday I wasn't going to fall for that line and I meant it. There are no such things as ghosts."
Charity chuckled softly somewhere in the room and then a whole line of books started to tumble from a shelf: thunk, thunk, thunk, one after another, as if an invisible finger were tipping them out onto the floor. Both men jumped at the first impact. Sam turned to stare at the phenomenon, while Al shivered and brought up the handlink rapidly, using it as an excuse to cover his reaction. The scientist probably thought it was fright; it was actually a strong desire to burst out laughing. The handlink showed a mishmash of letters and disinformation, scrambled by Charity's demand for power. He frowned and thumped it in the usual places while Sam strode over to the offending pile of books and glared down at them with disconcertion.
"This is an old house, in poor repair," the time traveller decided after a moment. "Things tend to happen in a place like this. It doesn't mean they're directed and it certainly doesn't mean they're supernatural."
"No, Sam." The Admiral humoured him. "But Ziggy thinks - " He took a deep breath and tried to offer an explanation the man might accept. "It's something to do with a temporal eddy - ah - some sort of vortex effect. It's drawing on the Project's power transmissions." A second deep breath, remembering to keep his voice steady, not to emphasise the matter overmuch. "I saw her, Sam. Last night, I saw Charity O'Leary. And in some senses she's as real as you and I."
Sam turned to look at him, the slow consideration of a scientist prepared to keep an open mind; then he shook his head. "You're not real in this timeframe. And I don't belong here. I still don't believe in ghosts, either. Temporal eddies though... Does it matter? Where were you this morning, anyway?"
Al sighed. It was clear his friend was not convinced and didn't particularly consider it of any importance either. "Oh," he extemporised, "nowhere in particular. I just felt like a morning off, that's all. Why - did you miss me, Sam?"
His companion eyed him thoughtfully. "I might have done," he said. The implication of something left unspoken hung heavily between them.
Dammit, Sam, the Admiral thought with more than a little pain, I can't tell you everything. Not unless you remember enough to give me an opening. It's your damn rule. I went flying this morning, that's all. Just a routine flight, keeping my hours up. And I went because your wife ordered me to take a break - the way you would have done if you'd been there. But I can't tell you, okay?
"Never mind," Sam sighed, bending to pick up the scattered books. "Let's get to work, shall we? Has Ziggy found anything new for me yet? Or is she so busy chasing ghosts she hasn't had time for that?"
"No, and no, in that order. We haven't been able to track down the architect's drawings that you asked for, so they're probably still in the house somewhere. She's working on those other requests, but wants to know if you can clarify the dates a little. Did you enjoy dinner last night, by the way?"
"Yes, and yes - in that order." Sam stood up and grinned at him, his brief sense of frustration clearly forgotten. "Mary Ann is a great cook. And before you say anything," he went on, stacking the collected books back on their shelf, "nothing happened, okay? We talked a little. About her hopes for the future - and the damn bank." He paused to grimace self-consciously. "I promised her it wouldn't happen. So we have to fix this, Al. We have to."
She got to you, huh, Sam? "We may not be able to," the Admiral pointed out. "There is the little matter of the curse..."
Sam slammed the last book in place and rounded on him with annoyed reaction. "There is no curse, and no ghost, okay? Just a load of superstition and coincidences. The only thing stopping me - Carson - from finding the evidence is the stupid lack of organisation around here." He waved his hand round the cluttered library, indicating its chaotic state. "Nothing is properly dated, nothing is in any order, and somebody keeps shuffling my papers about."
Al winced. He knew who that had to be. "I just think you should be careful, that's all, Sam."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm always careful." He sighed. "Funny," he noted, moving to the spiral staircase in the corner of the room, "that's exactly what Nan said to me this morning. 'Be careful, Kit,' she said." He paused, a half-turn up, to look down on his company with a thoughtful frown. "It was as if she knew something. What the hell could happen to me in a library?"
Al shrugged. "She's got the gift, you know, Sam. Rose O'Leary. Carson says she's the town witch, and I believe him."
"You would," Sam chuckled, completing his ascent to emerge on the upper balcony. Al hit a combination of keys, letting the image move down around him so that they once again stood on the same level. It didn't bother the Admiral that he now appeared to be standing in mid-air; three trips into zero-gee are an effective way to rid yourself of any sense of vertigo. The scientist glanced over the balcony edge warily, then grimaced at the sight of his friend standing on nothing at all. Sam, of course, had a thing about heights.
"Sorry," Al apologised and walked forward to at least appear to be standing on something solid. Sam looked relieved and moved down the length of the room, scanning the books beside and above him as he did so.
"I just wish I had some idea as to what Alex McGowan was up to," he mused, unhooking the restraining chain on the upper ladder and pushing it ahead of him. "I found some of the letters he sent his son, but all they do is hint about some 'secret' or other. A sacred trust he calls it. But he doesn't say what it might be. Do those look like diaries to you?"
Al glanced up at the indicated shelf, some eight feet above the balcony. A group of faded green leather-bound books sat in among a parade of box files and paper jacketed volumes. "Could be," he agreed. Sam nodded, rehooked the ladder and started to climb it.
"If I could just find something that corresponds with those dates Ziggy put together ..." He reached the level he wanted and stretched out to lift the first of the tempting volumes from their resting place. His weight shifted as he did so, and something gave way with a loud and startling crack. The left side of the ladder came away from its upper restraint, twisting the whole thing sideways with a jerk.
Sam fell.
Al moved forward with sheer instinct. Pointless instinct, since he was nearly thirty years and more than a thousand miles away from the event. He was no more than an overlay, a holographic image played out on the fabric of time past. The situation dictated that he could neither affect, nor be affected by what he saw around him. His outstretched arms were mere gesture, an automatic reaction to the sight of a friend in peril.
No-one was more surprised than he was when he actually caught him.
Sam had fallen backward, his impetus threatening to carry him over the balcony rail and down onto the tables below. Al had sprung forward to intercept his descent, expecting to pass straight through him; instead he impacted against the warmth of a solid body, his arms encircling the tumbling figure and his weight imparting sufficient momentum to carry them both to the floor of the balcony rather than over the edge.
Three things registered in the moment that followed: the sensation of actually touching his friend, the impact of the balcony rail pressing into his shoulder blades, and the sense of presence that enwrapped him. Charity’s presence was an impact of static with no point of focus, a shiver of power binding the past and the present together in an impossible embrace. "I have no wish to hurt the man," her voice murmured in his ear. "For I have no wish to be hurting thee."
"What ...?" he started to question, but she was gone, the sense of her melting away. With her went everything else, the feel of textured cloth under his hands, the warmth of Sam's closeness, the support of the wooden rail. He rolled sideways, nothing to hold him, nothing to hold on to, and found himself lying on empty air, staring disconcertedly at the ceiling. His heart was pounding loudly in his chest and he was finding it difficult to breathe.
Not two feet away, Sam was staring at him in total astonishment, equally winded by the impact. Al began to curse angrily at himself, then turned it into a heartfelt prayer of thanks instead. Had Sam completed the fall he had begun he would have been badly injured - perhaps even killed. A miracle had prevented that, and he would not curse the briefness of it, however much he would have wished for that impossible contact to continue a little longer. Charity's power was something he could neither measure nor predict, and that she had chosen to use it as she had was a gift to be treasured.
"Admiral?" Bettenhoff's voice echoed in the confines of the Chamber. "Are you okay? Ziggy just measured a massive power surge and we lost the monitor system for several seconds."
"I'm fine," he acknowledged, wondering if that were true. He had managed to hold onto the handlink, but when he lifted it, its tiny screen was filled with garbage and all its lights were flashing emergency codes. He shook it experimentally and everything seemed to settle back to normal operation with no more than a squawk of protest. Which was probably a lot more than could be said for him. He pushed himself up on one hand and returned Sam's stare with wary consideration.
"Al," the scientist said slowly, "you touched me."
"Yah," he agreed, still trying to accept what had happened.
"You caught me."
"Yah."
"How the hell did you and Ziggy manage that?"
He took a deep breath, then let it out again slowly. "We didn't. I mean - I don't think Ziggy had anything to do with it."
"What?" Sam was totally nonplussed, still shaking a little from the shock of the whole event. Al sat up and looked worriedly at him. He didn't think he could explain what had happened; he didn't quite believe it himself.
"I told you. It's the ghost. Charity. She - interacts with things. That is, her presence does." That was enough, just enough, to slip past those listening back in Imaging Control. They'd missed the moment, anyway, and wouldn't really know what he was talking about. He could still feel the lingering remnants of the man’s impact against him, the moment seared into his soul. I guess you owe me one, Sam. As if I didn't already owe you plenty.
Sam was shaking his head, levering himself carefully to his feet. "I don't understand," he muttered. "This isn't possible." He looked up at the broken ladder, then down at the floor below him and went a little green. "I could have been killed," he realised. He glanced back at his Observer and his puzzled expression softened into one of relief. "I don't understand how you did that," he said, "but thanks, anyway."
Al shrugged, standing up and readjusting his jacket with exaggerated care. "Don't thank me," he insisted. "Thank her." He glanced around the room, finding no sign of Charity's presence anywhere. Sam looked anxiously at him.
"You really think - Al, I can't accept that. I really can't."
"Yeah, well - let it go then. Are you okay?"
The blond head nodded, fingers curled a little too tight around the balcony rail. Al eyed him for a moment, then jabbed a finger downward in a definitive gesture. "I think downstairs might be safer," he suggested, keying the appropriate shift into the handlink. Sam heaved a sigh of relief and edged his way back to the spiral staircase, only pausing to look at the broken ladder with a wary eye.
"She was right, wasn't she?" he said, once he'd regained the surety of the main floor. The Admiral gave him a puzzled look.
"Who? Charity?" She was on his mind, and he wanted to see her, talk to her, but he didn't think that Sam...
"No, Nan. Rose O'Leary. Warning me to be careful." Al made a silent "Oh," of understanding. "I don't get it. How did she know?"
The hologram shrugged. "I told you. She has the gift. The second sight. I knew this girl once, she..."
Sam waved an impatient hand through his image. "You always know 'this girl'," he interrupted, trying to sound stern and failing utterly. "Don't you have any principles? Don't answer that," he went on as Al opened his mouth to protest at the accusation. "I should know better than to ask. Let's see," he mused, walking round his friend. "There must be something you wouldn't do... Apart from the obvious, that is." He'd caught Al's frown, but plunged on with the tease nonetheless. "I mean, it has to be the opposite sex, right? M'mm. You like leather, I know that - "
"Saaam," the object of his attention protested, not used to the usually uptight scientist being so open in such matters. He knew the man was kidding him, and he knew he shouldn't rise to the bait, but while he often enjoyed disconcerting his straitlaced friend, he'd never expected the same weapon to be so effective against himself. It didn't help that he was sure Charity would be listening. Sam smiled, pleased at having hit an unexpected nerve.
"I suppose - I know." His smile widened into broad triumph. "Dead people. You don't like dead people, right? So necrophilia has got to be off your menu. See? You do have principles after all. Squeamish ones."
Al closed his eyes for a moment, feeling as if the man had punched him in the solar plexus. It's meant to be a joke, he told himself severely. Laugh, Calavicci. For god's sake, laugh. He managed a twisted grin somehow, his thoughts suddenly aswirl with memories of the previous night. The trouble was, Sam was right. Charity was a ghost, not a corpse, but even so ... The scientist was eyeing him with sudden concern.
"Hey," he questioned softly. "Are you okay? I was only joking ..."
"Yeah, yeah, I know." The Admiral took a deep breath and managed a convincing shudder. "Just don't - okay? There are enough weird things going on around here as it is."
Sam nodded agreement, his hand reaching up abstractedly to ease the muscles of his shoulder. "You can say that again. Look - I'm going to have to speak to Mary Ann about that ladder. Do you wanna go get a coffee or something? I'm not going to be able to get on with things until I can look at those diaries so..."
"Sounds good to me, Sam." Al didn't particularly want to leave, but just standing around while Sam got things fixed wasn't going to be very productive. "I'll chase Ziggy on those details you wanted. See you in - an hour?"
"Make it two," Sam suggested, still working at his shoulder. The Admiral wondered if he'd taken any damage from that fall after all. "I think I ought to let Nan know I'm all right."
"Okay." They stared at each other for a moment, then Al keyed up the Imaging Chamber door and left, waving a small farewell as he did so. Sam waved back, a twist of fingers meant to convey reassurance, although his look was vaguely haunted. His Observer didn't blame him, well aware that the sudden attack of humour had been a means of covering up the shock and disconcertion of the fall and its aftermath. They both needed to think about that, although Al wondered if leaving Sam to do so on his own was entirely a good idea.
If there was one place the Admiral could guarantee a measure of privacy, it was in his office. Not the large, impressive room on the second level which, decorated with relevant photographs and appropriate diplomas, served as the command hub of the base, but his other office, six levels below, just along the corridor from Sam's workshop. The Base Commander's office, complete with personal aide, was more showpiece than workplace, somewhere to carpet malcontents or praise good works, greet official visitors and generally impress natives and VIPs alike. It made him feel uncomfortable most of the time, the 'by the book' efficiency it implied far removed from his normal way of working, but he used it the way he liked to use any other weapon in his arsenal, sparingly and with great effect. The Project Observer's office, on the other hand, was a haven of well-maintained chaos; tidy, but cluttered with books, papers, files, and all sorts of other things, collected over the years and treasured according to their history rather than their material wealth. It lacked the sweeping desk and the high-backed, dark leather chair, both well polished and gleaming; instead it held a battered drawing board, stained with coffee rings, an equally battered pair of swivel chairs, a low-slung sofabed which had endured many late nights (not to mention a few entertaining visitors), and the metal locker where he always kept a change of clothes, a clean uniform, and a number of personal bits and pieces he liked having to hand.
He strode through the autodoor, keyed the lock to his private code, shrugged out of his jacket and dropped to the sofa with a sigh. The jacket landed neatly on the nearest chair seat, aimed with the ease of constant practice. He'd just tipped back his head to consider the pattern of constellations pasted on the ceiling when the intercom bleeped for his attention. He sighed a second time and went to answer it.
"Calavicci," he acknowledged, unsure of who it might be. Donna was well aware of where he was, since she had suggested he take the break while they analysed the latest impact of the time vortex on Ziggy's monitors. Tina was still in Vegas, and Ziggy never buzzed, merely announced herself .
"Admiral?" It was Lieutenant Means, his military aide, her well-modulated tones spilling into the room like honey from a jar. "Doctor Eleese told me you might have a moment to spare me. Do you?"
He stifled the third sigh and straightened a little, putting his mind to matters military rather than personal. "I'm all yours, Lieutenant," he announced, and she sniggered at the other end of the connection. They'd had the inevitable fling once, a matter of snatched moments aboard a transport jet between New Mexico and Washington, and had subsequently settled for affectionate respect as a way of keeping their professional relationship. He was fond of 'his' Lieutenant, who maintained a protective and determined barrier between him and the everyday hassles of the base. Before anyone could face the eagle in his lair they had to pass the she-wolf that guarded the foot of the mountain and it was very much to Kay Means' credit that very few did so without the scars to prove it.
"Commander Fairleigh has submitted the new security rosters," she told him, "and we have notice of an inspection due for next month. Do you want to see either of them?"
He thought about it. It would be very easy to let his subordinates take care of all those kind of details, leaving him free to concentrate on the meat of the Project, but he knew from long experience that to do so would only land him in trouble because he wouldn't catch what might be going on. "Leave the rosters on the flight deck," he requested, referring to the vast sweep of desk that he rarely used, "and you'd better punch the inspection details down to me. I'll pick them up on the e-mail."
"Very well, Admiral. Did you have a good flight this morning?"
Trust Means to notice he'd logged unscheduled hours. "Yeah, it was fine. I've annotated the report on that new head-up system - can you make sure it gets to the right people?"
"Of course. Admiral?"
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
"Are you all right? I mean - I heard about the accident the other day and I wondered ..."
"I'm fine," he insisted, unable to suppress the wry smile at her question. Very little got past this particular lady. "Look - I'm going to be busy for the next couple of days. Can we reschedule the staff meeting for the end of the week?"
"Of course," she said for the second time. "How is Doctor Beckett today?"
"Flying close to the edge - as usual," he answered. Means was well aware of the situation, often having to cover for him when he was summoned to the depths of the mountain at short notice. "Was there anything else ... hey, who scheduled you duty on a Sunday?"
"You did, Admiral." Her voice held a hint of laughter. "I've long leave next weekend, remember?"
"Oh. Yeah." He'd forgotten that, what with everything else going on. "Better make that staff meeting Thursday, then. I'll want you to be there."
"Aye, aye, sir." She wouldn't actually snap the salute at the intercom, but he could hear one in her voice all the same. He grinned; there was something decidedly reassuring in the way she did that, although he couldn't tell anyone why, exactly.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Over and out."
He killed the connection with a flick of his fingers and turned to consider the contents of the room, trying to direct his mind back to its original line of thought. Whatever the minor problems the running of the base threw at him, his primary concern was always Sam Beckett. A man who, up to half an hour ago, he had seen constantly yet hadn't been able to touch for over three years. He dropped back to the sofa and tilted his head back a second time, recalling the disconcertion of that moment with an odd sense of delight. There had been so many times, on so many Leaps, when his insubstantialness had been a major frustration to him. He had had to watch as Sam fought to survive, unable to use anything other than words to help him. But today - today had been different. He knew, he had to accept, that without Charity's aid his instinctive reaction would have been no more than shadowplay, but had he not been there... He closed his eyes and shuddered, picturing the inevitable, seeing in his mind's eye Sam's descent to the scattered tables that had waited to break both his fall and his body. The image he conjured was not a comfortable one; he opened his eyes again to rid himself of it - and found Charity watching him with anxious expectation.
"Thou wished to speak with me," she murmured, her voice little more than a soft sigh. He sat up slowly, considering her presence. She was standing by the door, or rather an impression of her was, a misted shape laid like an afterimage over the solidity of the room. "I have only a small presence in the day," she had said; had he seen her this way, the first time, he would never have dared approach her, let alone... He held out his hand and she drifted across to him, a shadow that shimmered and reformed until she sat at his side. Intangible fingers enwrapped his own and he let the nothingness that contained her slide into the curve of his arm, a half-glimpsed image, a subtle weight, and her electric existence pricking against his skin. Even like that she stirred him, and he quelled his instinctive reaction with difficulty.
"I disturb thee," she whispered, a hint of laughter in the words. He shook his head to deny it, then turned it into a nod instead.
"Too damn right" he admitted, reaching to cup her barely-glimpsed cheek in his free hand. His fingers passed through her image as if it were no more than smoke. "Damn it," he breathed. "This isn't fair."
She smiled sadly. "No. Thou must choose to see, or to touch me. The power in this place enables me to be with thee, yet when thou art away from its magic I do not have the strength to offer thee both in full."
He thought about it for a moment, then sighed, fixing his mind firmly on what needed to be done. Seductions in the dark were all very well, but he had to talk to her. "Then I'll choose to see - for now. We've got to talk. And I do mean talk, this time."
"Very well." The ghost dipped its head; the woman lifted it, complete, present - and totally insubstantial. The sense of weight at his arm vanished as if it had never been there. He reached for her cheek a second time, his fingers slipping through her without resistance. Just like a hologram. He could cope with that. He did it all the time. Is this how I am to Sam? he wondered, reading the patient look in her eyes. When he was in the Imaging Chamber everything was immaterial, his entire world a reality he could not reach, but here... The sofa shifted beneath his weight as he moved, the texture of it firm beneath his fingers, but the one thing he wanted to touch was no more than a ripple of light, a image formed for his eyes alone. His heart turned over with a silent thump; it hurt, an intensity of feeling that had nothing to do with frustrated desire.
"Charity," he said, unsure of where or how to begin what he really had to say, "why did you save Sam today? It was you who broke the ladder, wasn't it?"
"Aye," she sighed, looking away from him. "I am as my curse dictates. I can be no other. But when he fell..." She paused, perhaps to consider motivations that she could not easily define. "He is thy friend," she said after a moment, her face still turned away. "And part of thee. I have no wish to hurt thy cause. I could wish to help him, after thy words last night, but I cannot." She finally looked at him, her eyes filled with ancient pain. "I am trapped in a web of my own making, and there is no way free of it."
He allowed himself a small smile. He'd spent a long time thinking this one over, and there was no way she'd have even considered the solution he'd chanced upon. "Oh yes there is," he announced, waiting for the flare of hope to bloom on her face. It came, then was just as quickly dashed.
"You tease me," she accused, biting at her lower lip to stop it trembling. The gesture thumped his heart over a second time.
"No," he insisted, his voice cracking a little on the single word. "I mean it. There is a way. At least - I hope there is."
"Then tell me," she commanded, the air between them crackling with sudden power. Al forced himself to swallow against the dryness in his throat. She's as good as promised she won't hurt me, he reminded himself. She was wearing that look - the one that both Carson and Rose O'Leary had worn, the one that made you feel as if the one looking at you wasn't seeing surface things at all.
"You told me that the end of the curse was to witness the end of the McGowan line, right? But you can't bring that about yourself, or you'd have done it a long time ago, yes?"
She nodded, the intensity of her gaze unchanged. "I will not kill," she said, her voice soft but certain. "Not purposefully. I am cursed, but have no wish to be damned for it. Had’st thou not been there to save thy friend, I would have cushioned Carson’s fall in some other way. Less certainly, perhap."
"Right," he acknowledged. "But Mary Ann is the last McGowan, isn't she? I mean, once she - look, this sounds crazy, but I'm getting kinda good at finding loopholes in the rules and I thought..." He took a careful breath, seeing only doubtful expectation on the face in front of him. "What happens if she gets married? She wouldn't be a McGowan any more, would she?"
Charity blinked, clearly taken aback by this sideways reasoning. "I suppose not," she admitted cautiously. "But the line would continue. There would still be the two families to stand between."
Here came his trump card. "Not," he pointed out, "if it was Carson who married her. No more McGowans - just O'Learys."
She stared at him. Just stared, her face suddenly devoid of any expression at all. Then she started to laugh. "Oh, thou devil and thou prince," she exclaimed, dissolving into nothing as she leaned forward to kiss him in delight. He kissed back, reasoning that closing his eyes would avoid the disconcertion of there being nothing there to see. It did, quite effectively. His arms closed around solid flesh and the impetuous contact became considerably passionate. "Enough," Charity protested, still laughing. She freed herself of his grip by the simple expedient of becoming no more than mist; he opened his eyes and sighed.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," he complained, then caught the look she gave him and sighed a second time. "Sorry," he apologised. "It's just that ..."
"I know," she smiled. "It is thus for me, also. But we must think this matter through. You have brought me hope as well as warmth, and the fire of that has not smouldered in my heart for a long time. Is this thing possible?"
He eyed her thoughtfully. "You mean you haven't noticed?" he asked. "Carson has a real thing for Mary Ann - and it's quite mutual, I can assure you of that. Poor Sam is having a hard time fending her off. Now, if I were in his shoes..."
"Thou art not," she snapped, and he blinked at her, not expecting the sudden surge of jealousy that flared in her eyes.
"N- no," he agreed, a little taken aback. She immediately looked contrite.
"Forgive me," she asked. "I speak from fear, and old jealousies. I do not own thee, nor would wish to do so. Any who sought to bind thy soul would surely lose thee; fly as thou dost wish and I will not challenge thee again."
"Hey," he breathed, reaching for her without thinking. His hand went straight through her. "I was only joking. Honest. I mean - Mary Ann's a real looker, and the man who gets her will be a lucky son of bitch, but - but I'd rather be with you." He startled himself with the admission, mostly because he meant it. It was an old line, and one he should have worn out and thrown away a good many years since, but this time it was true. She stared at him, with that look, and he shivered, all the way down to the depths of his soul.
"Thou hast a heart strewn with ashes," she murmured, "and I have stirred them into a fire that burns thee. If our meeting was meant, then it was writ with a cruel pen. Win or lose, we shall surely part. I am but spirit, and thou - thou art flesh and blood, and heart and soul."
He managed to quirk a smile, not liking the way her words were leading. "Just don't make any promises, sweetheart," he suggested. "Live for the moment. Tomorrow only counts when it is tomorrow, right? And sometimes Sam makes sure it doesn't happen anyway. You've waited long enough. Three hundred years too long."
Her own smile was a haunted one. "Thou art right," she said. "But still wounded deep enough to bleed. An old wound too, oft bandaged, never healed." She shook her head, as if to clear her eyes of what she saw. "Forget I spoke," she decided. "This is not the time, and I - I have no answers. No promises either, for they are not mine to make. Thy suggestion brings me hope - save that there is no way that thou or I could influence such matters."
She'd turned back to the original subject of their discussion and he had to think for a minute to make sense of what she'd said. Once he had done so, he grinned. "I wouldn't say that," he offered, reaching into his pocket to extract a fresh cigar. "See - I've got this little ace in a hole back there, by the name of Sam Beckett. Scientist, time traveller, and all-round good guy. If he - as Carson - asks Mary Ann, and she says yes..."
"I would be free," she completed, then shook her head. "Nay. It cannot be that simple. Can it?"
He shrugged. "It's the way it seems to work for Sam all the time. I've never figured it out, but Ziggy can give you good odds, I expect. Now, if Sam does that for you..."
"Then certes I will help him." Charity looked thoughtful for a second. "But he must promise. And Carson must agree to abide by that promise, else I will aid against my own nature."
Al lit the cigar and drew in a lungful of the dark smoke. "I guess I could get him to commit himself," he said. "And then I'd have to persuade Sam - damn. Nothing in Ziggy's predictions will cover this. Donna's gonna start thinking I've gone crazy again."
"When I am with thee," she pointed out, "they do not hear thy words. Speak to thy friend. This tale of mine will go no further than that."
He thought about it, turning the cigar over between his fingers as he did so. "All right," he said, finding her a conspiratorial smile. "I think we can swing this one between us. You do know the secret, don't you?"
"Certes," she laughed. "And so will all the world, if fate decree it so." Her expression became intent as she studied his face. "What hand wreaks these matters, to bring them to pass?" she asked softly. "By whose will did thou come to me? Is it thy god, or one of the many that are mine?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "Sweetheart," he advised, "sometimes it's not wise to ask too many questions. Someone's looking out for Sam, I know that much. And I made a kind of promise once that if - he - went on doing just that, then I'd have a little more faith in the way the universe got put together. But as to who he - or she - is, exactly..." He shivered, remembering just whose company he currently kept. The precepts of his Catholic upbringing would label him as damned, just for talking to her, let alone ... He'd contemplated, on his morning flight, the reaction he'd get should he ever admit to this meeting in the confines of confession. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have enjoyed unnatural concourse with the spirit of a witch, dead these three hundred years..." If it didn't get him sent to an asylum, he'd almost undoubtedly be considered beyond saving. But he just couldn't believe in a god that would condemn him for what he had done; Charity was a lost soul, not an evil spirit. She had power, yes, but with it her own kind of faith, and she'd paid a price for her sin of pride that few could have endured and still retained such strength and inner beauty. The force, or power, or higher spirit - whatever or whoever controlled Sam's Leaping these days - had chosen the errant scientist to put things right. And what could be more right than to free this caged angel from her own cursing and lay her restless spirit to its final peace?
Her arms slid around him as his thoughts took him away from her. Her touch was gentle and he leaned into the embrace, shivering inwardly with the conflicting emotions that had welled up inside him. He wanted to save her - but to do so would be to lose her forever. She's dead, a little voice insisted at the back of his mind. If you do love her, let her go. You can't cling to what cannot be. The only one you'll hurt that way is yourself. Admit it. Do what's best for both of you. The thoughts clawed at him with bitter recollection. He had clung to the image of Beth that had kept him sane during his sojourn in hell, clung to it long after the truth had torn him apart and left him dead inside. Had she thought this way, waiting without hope for his return? He had loved her and cursed her because she had not waited, not had faith in his return. But to wait forever, without hope, or expectation... He found he was shaking, and he didn't quite know why. She loved me, and she let me go, he realised, with a surge of inner pain. She didn't love me enough to wait, but she loved me enough to set me free. And I never saw the open door - until now. All I had to do was step out of the cage and learn to fly again... The image was almost too raw to bear, as if all these long years a part of him had stayed locked in a cramped tiger cage, clinging to the comfort of its pain. It wasn't fair. After all this time, after all this self-delusion and the years spent bruising himself against the bars of the past, when he finally found the way out, he no longer wanted the freedom that awaited him. Or rather, he wanted it, but he wanted this woman to be with him when he flew, and he knew, deep in his heart, that he had to let her go. Why does love have to hurt so much? he wondered, dropping the crumbled remains of the cigar into the waiting ashtray and reaching to enfold the woman at his side. Is this how Donna feels, day after day, knowing what she wants and being unable to have it? At least she knows Sam is alive, and there's a chance to bring him home.
"You never lose what you truly treasure," Charity murmured, as if knowing his thoughts. "That lesson, at least, I have learned. Let us cherish what we have, not regret the future or the past. There is naught in tomorrow, as thou hast said. Are we not together now?"
"Not exactly," he sighed, closing his eyes and burying his face in the tumble of her hair. "But I guess it will have to do." He breathed in the coolness of her scent and let her presence overwhelm his senses. There would be other times to face the pain: times when he was alone and only the memories of this moment would remain to armour him against the what-ifs and might-have-beens. If he was going to be damned, he might as well be damned for the right reasons - and what better reason than being able to steal heaven from the arms of an angel?
A Question of Charity. Chapter Five. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Donald P Bellasario, Bellasarius Productions, or any other holders of Quantum Leap trademarks or copyrights.
© 1996 by AAA Press. Written and reproduced by Penelope Hill. Artwork by Joan Jobson
Chapter Six