A Question of Charity
Chapter Six
Penelope Hill
"... and I promise I'll be careful. No more ladders, okay? Listen, if I don't get this stuff sorted there won't be a library to get fixed, so if I can get back to work ... Yeah, I know. Don't play too long in the poison ivy." Sam Beckett closed the library door with determined finality and turned, finding his holographic companion watching him with an amused smile. "Don't you start," he said, with evidence of harassment. "I don't know how Carson copes with all these women fussing over him all the time."
The Admiral's smile widened even further. "Paradise," he breathed, managing to put soulful longing into every syllable. Sam scowled at him, which was precisely the reaction he was fishing for.
"Who pushed your happy button?" the scientist complained, heading back to the piled desk and its avalanche of papers. Al's smile briefly faltered before he turned it into a broad grin; he felt good, and he knew why. He wasn't going to let anything spoil that, especially contemplating unavoidable consequences. Besides, although he'd got Carson to go along with his suggestion for ending the curse, he still had to convince Sam to make it happen.
"No-one you know," the Admiral shrugged, with what he hoped was dismissive nonchalance, then changed his mind. It might just be the perfect opportunity to broach a difficult subject. "At least, not back at the Project, anyway."
Sam's eyebrows rose in an "Oh?", and Al fought down a snort of laughter. Charity was perched on the edge of the desk, and was coquettishly sliding her skirt up to reveal a line of shapely leg - right under Sam's oblivious nose. It was a nice leg too - he found he was staring at it, rather than at the main occupant of the room, who was now frowning at him with distinct anxiety. "Did you come to stare at the furniture, or do you have that data for me?" Sam asked, probably a little more sharply than he intended. Al covered his second surge of laughter by pretending to examine the handlink with studious attention. It wasn't a lot of good, since the tiny screen was simply rolling garbage past him.
"Ah - I wasn't staring at the furniture - exactly," he announced, lowering the link and studying his friend instead. The anxious frown deepened into clear suspicion.
"What?"
Al waved at the shapely figure Sam couldn't see and prayed the monitor was as badly fritzed as the handlink seemed to be. Donna had been unhappy about letting him go back into the Imaging Chamber while they couldn't guarantee continual contact, but he'd insisted, and she'd relented - eventually. "I was staring - I mean, looking - at Charity. She's right there," he went on as Sam turned to look in the indicated direction. "I'd say in the flesh, but she's a ghost, so I guess that's not the term as such. In the ectoplasm?" he questioned, aiming it in her direction. She shrugged, flowing off the desk to come and hang on his arm instead. Sam, seeing nothing, turned back toward him, clearly expecting a punchline and not really wanting to hear it.
"Al," he said slowly, "do I have time for this?"
"You'd better," the Admiral growled. "Listen, Sam. She's real, okay? Not a figment of my imagination, not a temporal eddy, not an echo, or anything like that. She's Charity, she's stuck here, and she needs your help."
The time traveller's jaw dropped. "Do you want to run that by me again?" he asked. "A ghost - which I don't believe in in the first place - needs my help? Are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine," Al insisted, realising this might not be as easy as he'd hoped. "You're not. You're getting nowhere fast, right? That's the curse working - and it works both ways. So, Charity can help you - but only if you help her first. Or at least promise that you will. She knows the secret," he ploughed on, conscious that he was losing half his audience. Sam's suspicions were shifting to vague disbelief. "I know you can't see her," he added in desperation, "but I sure as hell can. She scared the life outta me to begin with."
"Only to begin with?" Sam looked amused. "What changed your mind?"
That was too hard a question to answer. He settled for not meeting the man's eyes and Sam, who knew him pretty well, went an interesting shade before total disbelief settled on his features. "Get outta here," he exclaimed. "You really had me going for a moment. You crazy idiot. Not even you would ..." He trailed off under the hard stare he was getting. "Would you? Al, surely not. Surely not."
The Admiral drew in a careful breath. "Sam," he said, "just hear me out, okay? Forget the hows for a minute. I can see and talk to this lady, and she's been waiting three hundred years for someone to fix her problem, so if you're here to help anyone I guess she gets first call. She can't - go - unless the McGowan line comes to an end, and if the house gets sold she'll never be able to leave at all. So you gotta make sure we fix both matters, and we fix 'em good, okay? You - as Carson - get Mary Ann to say yes, and she - Charity that is - will help you find the McGowan treasure. Fair deal?"
Sam gaped at him. "You want me to ask Mary Ann ... Because a ghost says so? Come on ..."
"No," Al decided patience was the best tack. "I want you to ask Mary Ann to marry you because I say so. It's the only way to get this Leap to work."
The scientist shook his head. "I'm sorry, Al, but you can't expect me to believe - I mean, even after this morning ... There has to be something you're not telling me."
Beside him Charity shook her head with resignation. "I knew 'twas too good to be true," she whispered sadly. The words brought a hurt look to the Admiral's features.
"Isn't my say-so good enough any more?" he asked, appealing to both of them in the one sentence. She looked contrite; Sam Beckett abashed.
"Normally, yes." An abstracted hand pushed at Carson O'Leary's spectacles. "But - Al - this whole idea is just too fantastic. Now look - " Sam went into analytical mode with a contemplative frown, "there's some strange things going on around here, I don't deny that. And you may have seen something. Maybe even some kind of echo, like you said, but I just can't believe in three hundred year old curses. It's not rational. The evidence isn't strong enough. And you come and tell me this - tale? What am I supposed to make of it?"
Al sighed, glancing sideways at Charity as he did so. He'd expected Sam to be sceptical, but they'd encountered so many strange things during his Leaping that he'd hoped the scientist would keep an open mind. "I know it sounds crazy, Sam, but - so does the technology to produce a neurological hologram. And Leaping about in your own lifetime."
The man winced. "Ouch. I take your point. What does Ziggy say?"
Again he glanced at Charity; her smile was a haunted one. "Ziggy doesn't really know," the Admiral confessed reluctantly. "I haven't told her everything." A dark eyebrow lifted at this, and he ploughed on, hoping that the simple admission hadn't blown it for him. "I couldn't - I mean, at first, I didn't know what to think, and afterward ... Hell, Sam, if I start claiming all the problems we've had on this Leap are due to one lonely ghost, they'll be likely to drag me off to the funny farm. With Beeks' blessing."
Sam merely looked at him, a patient "I told you so," in his eyes, and the Admiral fought off a strong desire to hit something. Anything. He knew his solution was practical. He just had to persuade Sam to put it into action. Perhaps he should never have brought up the issue of the curse and pretended the proposal was Ziggy's idea. Except that that would be a barefaced lie, and however much he might bend the truth for Sam's benefit, he didn't like to lie to him. Government committees, senior officers, the occasional girlfriend, okay. But not Sam. Never Sam.
"He needs to see me," Charity murmured softly in his ear. "Else he will not believe. I read it in him. I had hoped not to come to this. Dost thou trust me, beloved?"
He turned to stare at her, a little thrown by the question. After a moment he nodded a wary "Uh-huh," wondering what she was thinking. Her eyes held concern and a hint of fear, as if whatever decision she had come to was one she didn't like at all.
"He seeth thee," she stated softly. "And through thee my strength was able to touch him. If thou hast the heart for it, lend me thyself - thine own form, that he may know me in truth."
His stare became a wary frown. He glanced sideways at Sam, who was watching him in puzzlement, then looked back at her, unable to push away the shiver that ran down his spine. It sounded such a simple request and yet the look in her eyes scared the hell out of him. She clearly made the suggestion with reluctance, but on the other hand ... He took a deep breath and agreed with a careful nod. "I guess," he announced, turning back toward his friend with a somewhat forced smile, "you need a little more convincing. Sam - " He swallowed hard, unable to help wondering just what she was going to do. "Say hi to Charity."
He felt her step sideways. Not past him, not through him, but into him. Felt her melt into his presence the way water seeps into a dry sponge. He went cold all over, mind and body forced apart, self and sensation no longer quite connected, and intimately conscious of another soul entwined with his own. Charity filled him, possessed him, a strength of will and a presence hungry for a life it could no longer claim. Had he not trusted her, not shared other intimacies on a more human level, he would have fought to resist that unnatural intrusion, knowing it to be a violation of his innermost self; but he did trust her, and forced himself to be still and endure what had to be. She held him, became him with deliberate intent, divorcing himself from himself and imprisoning him in her own existence. He could not move, could not breathe except she wished it. She cradled him with the same gentleness they had shared in the flesh, but this was soul to soul and she touched him to the very core of his being.
Through eyes that were no longer just his own he saw Sam Beckett's expression change from mild puzzlement to startled bewilderment. He was Charity, aware of the curve of her body, feeling the drape of dark fabric swirl about her legs, and more - the pain that mottled his throat, the fire that ate hungrily at his skin. They spoke, but with her voice, echoing and effort-filled as she fought to be human yet protect him from the memories of her death.
"Do not fear me," she asked. "I intend no harm. He submits to me freely and that for love of thee." The words startled her captive, who had not thought to question the why of his agreement to this; she was right, and she was wrong. He was willing to bear this for both of them, since without it they might both be trapped, both condemned to reap cold reward for their impetuosities.
"My god," Sam whispered, reaching almost involuntarily for the vision in front of him. His hand met flesh. Al could feel the touch against cheek and shoulder. Charity lifted their hand and curled it gently around the scientist's disbelieving fingers.
"Listen," she offered urgently. "I will not hold this matter overlong, lest it harm one we both love. I have waited for many years for one who might free me of mine own foolishness - waited in vain hope, since my fate is to be but a shadow, seen only by the most gifted or sensitive. Destiny has woven its threads against me, and all my cursing has come to naught save mine own imprisonment. I wish to be free: to rejoin the wheel and know again the pains and pleasures of life. Thy coming here has wrought me that chance, empowered me to reach beyond my bonds and to share, if only for a little while, the warmth of this man's soul. Help me. End my curse and with it my exile. Promise me you will do this little thing and I will aid thee in every way I can."
Sam's fingers tightened at the pain in that appeal. To his eyes this child of history was a soul in torment, marked with the manner of her death and draped with the weight of long years alone. "How - how can I help you?" he asked, his voice sounding shaken. Charity smiled with lips that were not her own.
"He will tell thee. He will be the voice of my past as he is of thy future. Promise me, Sam Beckett. Promise me."
"Admiral?" Bettenhoff's voice was fogged with distance but tight with alarm. "Admiral, your vital signs are off the scale. What's happening in there? Can you answer me?"
He couldn't. He couldn't do a thing. He was wrapped in chains of ice and fire, held by her presence, drowning in her, choking, wanting to scream and unable to do even that.
"Promise me," Charity demanded, urgent and anxious. "Each second that you delay demands too great a cost. Please. If not for me, then for love of thy friend."
Sam took a deep breath. "I promise," he said.
"Admiral - the power demand is accelerating exponentially. The feedback is taking out the peripheral systems like a chain reaction. Admiral, can you hear me? Admiral?" If Bettenhoff had never panicked in his life, he was doing it now. "We've lost all monitoring except the primary systems. What's going on in there?"
Charity, honey, Al thought through the miasma of her fire, you're blowing Ziggy's fuses. Mine too, he realised. Sensation was somehow crystallised in the feel of Sam's hand within his own, its actuality rapidly becoming the only thing he could perceive as being real. Charity smiled softly, a smile of thanks offered with grateful perception; through her eyes Al could see the shimmer of light that surrounded his friend, honesty and sincerity cloaking his life. Silver and blue overlaid the more complex colours, lightning blue, the electricity that took him when he Leaped sparking around him like a protective shield. My god, Sam, he considered abstractedly, that's beautiful ...
She leaned forward, lifting her face to plant a gentle kiss on the bewildered man's cheek. He nearly backed away, then realised - or remembered - what that contact would mean. He caught at her, hugged her to himself in earnest desperation; not for her comfort, but reaching for the man she contained. The sudden intensity of his feelings burned so brightly about him that it hurt. Al found he was fighting for a sense of self he didn't have, but she understood and returned the embrace as strongly as he wished he might. "Thou art loved," she murmured, addressing both of them with comprehending sympathy - and let go, all at once.
Her presence fell away: everything fell away. Sam's warmth, the sense of his solid existence, the fire in his soul, just everything. He dropped like a broken puppet, with no strength to stop himself. He hit the floor hard and rolled onto his back, his lungs labouring for breath and his heart pounding its way out of his chest like a jackhammer. The room spun around him, his stomach spun inside him; despite that, despite everything, he reached desperately for some sense of her, feeling his awareness of her shred into nothing along with almost every other perception he possessed. A spark remained, only a spark, an ember of her soul left like a diamond point of pain.
"Al?" Sam was crouched beside him, helpless to intervene, his instinctive reach of support no more than an intersection of images.
"Admiral?" That was Ziggy, her voice as anxious as her creator's. Al forced away the queasy sensation in his stomach and lifted himself cautiously up on one hand.
"Cancel the alert, Ziggy," he managed to gasp. "I think I'm okay."
"You don't look okay," Sam said with concern. "My god, Al. There really is a ghost, isn't there?"
Al blinked, staring at his friend for a unbelieving minute; then he began to laugh, which proved to be a mistake, since he didn't seem to be able to breathe. He was shaking, and icy cold, and the beat of his heart was the loudest sound in his ears. "Yeah," he panted, wondering where all the air had gone. His throat felt raw, and his voice sounded harsh even to himself. "Next time, will you just believe me?"
"Admiral, do you require assistance?" Bettenhoff again, calmer now, but somehow more concerned. "The Chamber environment has destabilised, and I can't get a reading on it. Oh my god ..." His voice trailed off and then the handlink gave a shrill squeak. "Don't move, Admiral," the man advised, sounding shaken. "I'm rerouting the oxygen supply right now. We'll open the door as soon as we get equalised pressures."
"What?" The message didn't seem to make any sense. He hiked the handlink from his pocket and stared blearily at its readout. It felt like a lead weight in his hand. According to Ziggy, the atmospheric pressure in the Chamber had been reduced by over 50%, which explained a lot of things - except maybe why it had been allowed to get that way. He quirked a crooked grin at Sam, who still looked extremely anxious. "Now Ziggy tells me," he joked. "She put the air conditioning in reverse." The scientist's expression became one of horror and the Admiral fought down a second reactive surge of laughter. It threatened to become hysteria. "Don't look at me like that, Sam," he gasped. "You were the one who designed this damn thing, remember? Accounted for everything - except the ghosts in the machine ..." Dammit, it was hysteria. Lack of oxygen to the brain, probably. He forced himself to be calm with a supreme effort. "Forget I said that. Just remember what you promised."
Sam nodded slowly, still watching him with an intent expression. The fingers of his hand moved slowly, as if recalling the pressure of another's touch within his own. "I remember," he said softly. "No more McGowans, no more curse. Al - do you trust this ghost of yours?"
"She's not - " He was going to say 'mine', but the denial died in his throat. If there was any question of responsibility where Charity was concerned - beyond that of Charity herself - it rested very firmly on his shoulders. And he wanted Charity to be 'his' - wanted it in a way that would never be. "Yeah. I trust her. Why?"
"Because she just came pretty close to killing you, that's why."
Al drew in a careful breath, registering that the air was getting easier to breathe but was still freezing cold. The increase in pressure was only slowly dispelling the icy blanket he seemed to have been wrapped in. "She didn't have much choice. You needed convincing, Sam. Charity wouldn't hurt me deliberately. I know she wouldn't."
"You're sure?" The man's question was full of anxious doubt; he looked around as he asked it, as if expecting the subject of their discussion to be watching him somewhere. She wasn't, Al knew. Their interaction had asked as high a price from her as it had from him; he had gleaned that much at least from the intimacy of her presence.
"I'm sure," he announced firmly, levering himself to his feet. The world spun alarmingly. "Look," he announced, "I think I'm gonna need to go lie down for a while. Can you get things moving at your end? You pop the question and we can all go treasure hunting in the morning."
"Treasure hunting ... wait a minute!" Events were finally coming together in Sam's agile mind. "You meant what you said - I mean, she knows, right?"
"Right." Al studied him with weary patience. "She can't just - come out and tell me, as such, but we'll manage, somehow. Providing you keep your promise?"
"I always keep my promises," Sam said indignantly, then added, "don't I?"
The Admiral found his friend a tired smile. "You sure do, Sam. You sure do."
There was an anxious reception committee in Imaging Control; Challens was part of it, his patience clearly worn a little thin by the need to wait while Ziggy restored atmospheric equilibrium. Al stepped - or rather staggered - out of the familiar tingle of the buffer zone and into the man's support, too tired to argue with the way the doctor immediately took control. Someone draped a blanket around his shoulders, someone else pried the handlink from his grip; he was steered into a waiting chair where he sat with some relief.
"I don't know," Challens muttered, taking his patient's pulse and glaring at Bettenhoff as he did so. "So busy watching the power monitors, nobody bothers to check environmental control."
"None of the systems were indicating a problem until after the Admiral's life monitor raised the alarm," Ziggy protested. She sounded offended at the implication that she might have made a mistake.
"That's no damn excuse," the doctor retorted, frowning at the Admiral's pale face and then across at the monitor panel that displayed the man's vital signs. "Finding the latch on the loosebox door is faulty after the horse has bolted still leaves you with an empty loosebox. Hypoxia can kill a man - even one used to high altitude flying, right, Admiral?"
"Uh-huh," Al acknowledged, still shivering inside his blanket.
"Someone should have been watching those monitors, not relying on Ziggy's alarm systems. No offence, Ziggy, but not even you can watch everything at once."
"The point is noted, Doctor." Ziggy still sounded offended. "Has the Admiral taken any harm from the experience?"
"I'm cold, I'm tired and I feel sick," Al muttered disgruntedly. "What do you think?" He rallied his energies enough to fix Bettenhoff with a positive glare. "Bettenhoff, what the hell were people doing out here?" He didn't mind tearing a strip off the man if the opportunity presented itself, and this was the perfect opportunity. He was well aware that the cause of the incident was not the technician's fault, since it was the power that Charity drew through Ziggy's focus that was mostly to blame, but Challens was perfectly right. He had to rely on the control team monitoring what was going on in the Chamber and somebody should have spotted trouble as soon as it began.
"I'm sorry, Admiral," Bettenhoff grovelled with genuine contriteness. "There were power surges taking down all sorts of equipment. I guess the environmental control just slipped past us unnoticed."
"Here." Donna appeared from a side corridor to thrust a steaming mug of coffee into Al's hands. "The machine on this level was down, so I used the perc in Sam's office. How are you feeling?"
"Terrible," he admitted, sipping at the welcome warmth of the coffee and allowing himself a smile at the taste of it. She'd loaded it with sugar - the real thing, not sweeteners - and it tasted wonderful.
"I don't know what to say," she said, laying her hand to his shoulder. "I was trying to stabilise the dampeners and Ike was juggling with bringing in the power reserves. We just didn't notice the circulation failure until it was almost too late ..."
"Well, you will in future," Challens announced firmly. "From now on, there will be a medically qualified operative in this room every time that Chamber is activated. I know the team is short-handed this weekend, because of Gushie's absence - "
Thank god Tina wasn't here, Al thought with unexpected relief. She'd be screaming at me right now. As if it were my fault.
" - but, even so, this matter is too important to ignore."
"I agree," Donna said wholeheartedly. "This may be an unusual occurrence, but I think we have to take account of the risks. I'll draw up a new set of procedures straight away. Can you make up a roster from your team, Doc?"
"I suppose so," Challens sighed. "Short-handed as I am. Feeling any better, Admiral?"
"A little," Al decided, taking another mouthful of coffee. "Look - Sam's gonna be okay on his own back there for a while, but I promised I'd catch up with him in the morning. Can we get everything sorted by then?"
"It will take several hours to run the required diagnostics, Admiral." Ziggy's voice was back to being smug. "I will have completed the necessary checks within four. Component replacement may take a little longer."
"I want to take a good long look at this, Ziggy." Donna frowned at the computer's interface. "This minor glitch of yours just turned into a major incident. I don't know, Al. Tomorrow may be too soon for confidence."
"I don't care." Al dismissed the objection bluntly. He meant it. He was just too damn tired to argue. "Just fix it. I promised Sam I'd be there, okay?"
"Okay," she breathed, glancing at Bettenhoff as she did so. "On one condition - you go with the Doc, right now, and you do exactly what he tells you."
"It's a deal. Doc?"
"Uh-huh?"
"Tell me to collapse - 'cos I'm gonna do it anyway."
He did, too, although not until he'd reached the sanctuary of Medcentre and the comfort of its beds. Challens prescribed some arcane concoction which went straight to the fug in his head and turned it into cotton-wooled oblivion. He woke only once during the night, and that to curl a comforting arm around the slender shape he found nestled against him. He embraced her without heat or desire, just glad to find she was there. They exchanged no words, nor had any need to do so. For once in his life it was enough to simply hold her. He did not allow himself to consider that it might be for the very last time.
Day 4: Monday, November 2, 1998
"Donna," Al protested, for what felt like the hundredth time, "the Imaging Chamber isn't dangerous!"
"Not dangerous?" She glared at him with barely concealed frustration. They were sitting in the privacy of her office, the place she had dragged him to after his morning appearance in Imaging Control. Ziggy had announced that all of her systems were back online and operational. Donna had overruled the computer's assessment and his insistence on being satisfied with it by raising objection after objection; eventually, to avoid the threatened argument becoming public spectacle, she'd simply caught his arm and dragged him away, leaving Bettenhoff shaking his head over an exposed circuitry board. "Al," she pointed out determinedly, "over the past three days you have been electrocuted, subjected to physiological stress and damn near suffocated. And you're insisting it's not dangerous?"
"Yes," he answered, keeping his own frustrations under a tight rein. He had a good idea why she was being so stubborn, but he didn't have time for this. He had promised Sam he'd be there; Charity was depending on the both of them and Mary Ann was likely to change her mind if they didn't get Carson back to her real soon. "It's just this particular Leap, that's all. Hang it, Donna. We've three years under our belt and - "
"Three years," she interrupted firmly, "of constant use, in unpredictable conditions, continually groping in the dark as to what might be happening ..."
"Yesterday was a freak of circumstances," he stated confidently. "Ziggy says the odds of it happening again are infinitesimal."
"Ziggy says ..." She sighed, leaning her elbows on the desk that lay between them, and considered him with wary intensity. "It was Ziggy who said that the possibility of a feedback discharge was less than point five of a percent - it still happened. And she should have noticed the failure in the circulation system as soon as it kicked in. She's not infallible, Al. She's - well, sometimes she's more human than she likes to admit. She can't predict everything - and you know she tends to go to pieces when she can't make sense of what she sees. I don't like what's been happening this weekend. I don't like it at all. You may be right - there is a temporal echo, and I wish we had some way to measure it - but we can't be certain that's the only reason for all these problems. I just think we should take a little more time to correlate and consider all this data we've been getting."
"And leave Sam stranded in the past with no support and no input? Without contact, or any idea why we might have abandoned him?" It was cruel to phrase it that way, but he had to convince her. For Sam's sake. "He's expecting me. Right now. Save your data checks for after he Leaps out, Donna. Shut down the whole system and process diagnostics as much as you like - once Sam is safely on his way." Her expression told him he'd hit a nerve, but he ploughed on mercilessly. "I'm the one gonna be in the hot seat. I'm the one willing to take that risk. What gives you the right to overrule me?"
A tense moment of silence stretched between them; then she looked away, unable to face the challenge in his eyes. "Because I'm scared, Al," she admitted softly. "Scared I'm going to lose both of you to that infernal machine he built."
The admission didn't surprise him. It was an old tale and one he'd thought she'd come to terms with; clearly the concerns of the past few days had shaken her confidence deeper than he had thought. "Don't call Ziggy an infernal machine," he reacted, deliberately obtuse. "Not within her hearing range, anyway."
"I wasn't talking about Ziggy!" she snapped, rounding on him with heat. He merely looked at her with a practised patience; since Sam had gone he'd learned to be the wall against which she could dash her frustrations and anger, knowing it was never meant to be personal. Her fury dissipated as quickly as it had flared. "I'm sorry," she apologised, reaching forward to clasp his hand where it rested on the desktop. "It's just that - sometimes - I get to wondering 'why me', you know?"
"Yah," he acknowledged softly. "I know." He laid his other hand over hers with sympathetic pressure. "You knew Sam's dream when you married him, Donna. You took him for better or worse, and I guess you meant it. Unlike some women I can think of," he added with a self-mocking smile.
Her lips quirked in reaction. "They probably had their reasons," she said. He smiled self- deprecatingly.
"Think I don't know that? I'm probably not worth fighting for." He pushed the humour away, aware he was stirring old pains he didn't want to think about, and focused on what needed to be said. "Sam is. I know that, you know that. Don't give up on him, Donna. Just keep believing he'll come home to you, because he will. I know he will." She was looking at him with unreadable intensity, and her hand tightened within his own. He understood how important it was that she hold on to her faith; he'd come home from hell to find only cold ashes awaiting him, and he wasn't going to let that happen to Sam. No way was he going to let that happen. "And don't worry about me," he went on, giving her hand a friendly squeeze. "I trusted Sam enough to let him talk me into this crazy situation; enough to let him use me as backup guinea pig when he was building Ziggy; enough to let him put this piece of hardware in my head - and enough to be willing to walk into that part-time torture chamber every day for the rest of my life if I have to. I owe him. All he needs from you is a little faith."
"You know, Al," she said after a moment, "if you ever find someone you'd be prepared to commit yourself to the way you have to Sam - she's gonna be the luckiest bitch in the whole of the space-time continuum." She laughed softly. "But I guess she'd have to be some kind of a saint - and you don't get to meet that many saints, do you?"
He thought of Beth, whom he'd believed in, yet who hadn't had the strength to wait forever, and he thought of Charity, the dark angel he might choose to die for, were she not already dead, and he sighed. "No," he answered with resignation. "I guess I don't. And you're spoken for."
Now the laugh was truly genuine, for once not touched by sorrow or laced with strain. "Too damn right," she said. "And if my husband ever found you putting moves on me ..."
He echoed the laugh, releasing his hold on her with one hand to reach into his pocket for a waiting cigar. "Now," he grinned conspiratorially, "would I do that to Sam ...?"
She pushed his other hand away with friendly affection. "You might. But I trust you. You know - " She thought about it, "I must be one of the few women around here who can say that, mean it, and know you're not about to disappoint me."
He looked faintly aggrieved. "I never disappoint a lady," he protested, sounding hurt. "And I'm not about to disappoint Sam, either."
Her smile was resigned. "Okay," she agreed. "We'll fire up the Imaging Chamber and you can put your neck on the line. But the minute - the very minute, understand? - there's any sign of a problem, you're out of there, okay?"
He held her eyes and reached to clasp her hand a second time, stilling her move to rise. "My discretion, Donna. I call the shots. Ziggy can call off the odds, but I get to choose."
"There may not be time ..." she protested. He kept his look insistent.
"You just told me you trusted me. Trust me on this one. I know what I'm doing, and this is the way I want to play it. I'm not gonna walk out on Sam just because of a little turbulence."
She looked at him carefully. Anxiety and indecision resurfaced on her face, and she chewed the side of her lip as she weighed up what he was asking her. Finally she sighed and gave a reluctant nod. "You're the pilot, Admiral. I guess you get to fly the way you want. Just don't think you need to be a hero, that's all."
He released her hand and leaned back with a reassuring smirk. "You know what they say," he told her, lighting up the cigar. "There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. How do you think I got to be an Admiral in the first place? The Navy don't hand out gold stars just for looks and charm, you know. Pity, really," he sighed. "If they did, I'd probably be Chief of Staff by now ..."
The buffer zone engulfed him in its usual flare of light and he turned to give Donna a reassuring wave as he stepped through into the image of the past that lay beyond it. The cheeriness of the wave belied the tension in his stomach; despite his insistence, and the determined reassurance he'd used to get his way, he felt a certain level of reluctance about taking that last step. He knew the Imaging Chamber was as safe a place as it had ever been - or would be, once this particular Leap was over and the cause of the turmoil safely sent on her way - but even so, the trauma of the last few days was beginning to get to him. Then there was the knowledge that today should be the day - the day of Sam's success and the end of the McGowan curse forever. Charity's day. He didn't want to lose her, but he knew he had no choice; knew that his desire to keep her with him was only selfishness. The same selfishness that had clung stubbornly to Beth's memory as if it had a power to change what had been meant to be. He took a deep breath and then the final step. He had the strength to do this, and he was going to do it. For Charity's sake - and for Sam's. Because if he screwed this up he'd never be able to live with himself again.
Sam was pacing the confines of the library with an impatient step. He looked up as the Imaging Chamber door slid open and a look of heartfelt relief chased over his features. "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded, skirting tables to join his holographic company. Al raised what he hoped was an amused eyebrow at him.
"Nice to see you too, Sam," he acknowledged mildly. "I'm fine, thank you for not asking." The approaching man's face became immediately contrite.
"I'm sorry, Al," he offered hurriedly, "I didn't mean ..."
"I know, I know." The Admiral dismissed the apology with a wave of his half-smoked cigar. It was clear, from his friend's expression, that the night past had not been an easy one for the time-stranded scientist. Sam's sculptured features were drawn and his eyes were shadowed. If the man's concern surfaced as anxious impatience it was understandable; he had to be focused on the purpose of his Leap, not distracted by consideration of events back at the Project. That was one of the reasons for the rules.
"No, you don't," Sam corrected, perching himself on the edge of a table and watching his intangible companion with disconcerting intentness. "I had a lot to think about last night. About curses, and ghosts - and about you. I guess I get so caught up in all this Leaping I'm doing that I don't stop to consider the risks you might be taking in helping me ..."
Didn't I just leave this argument? Al asked himself, and decided defensive embarrassment was probably his best weapon where Sam Beckett was concerned. "Ah, hell, Sam. I don't take any risks worth mentioning. Unless it's spending too much time in the steno pool."
"Aaal." The response contained a warning note. The younger man wanted to be serious, and he wasn't going to take flippancy as being a good enough answer. "I mean it. I take you for granted, and I shouldn't do. And yesterday - " He paused to run an abstracted hand through the tumble of his hair, the gesture itself speaking eloquently of his anxious state of mind. "Yesterday was scary. It didn't hit me until later but - you saved my life. And then when she ..." He broke off with a shiver, a reaction Al watched with wary comprehension. "She was so real, Al. And the way she looked at me - "
"Yah," the Admiral agreed softly. "As if she could see all the way to the bottom of your soul and then some ..." He shivered himself, covering the moment with a deliberate puff at the cigar. Sam gave him a thoughtful look, his instincts spurred to reach a concerned hand to his friend's shoulder. He pulled the half-completed gesture to a halt, only too aware of how pointless it would be. Al looked down at the hand and then up at the man it belonged to, allowing a grimace of understanding to curl onto his face. "Save it," he suggested, with as nonchalant a growl as he could manage. "I still got bruised ribs from yesterday."
Sam's eyes widened in a brief moment of delight, to be followed by a flare of embarrassment. "Yeah?" He forced a small laugh. "Me too."
Al considered how best to respond to that without becoming mushy and settled for a dismissive shrug and another puff at his cigar. "She was the pilot, Sam. Now, that was scary."
"I bet." Sam glanced around the cluttered room. "Is she here?"
"Nope." He didn't need to look. "But she will be."
The scientist nodded, looking oddly relieved. "I kept thinking - last night. About her watching me, you know?"
The Admiral spoke without thinking, the reactive laugh as much self-directed as anything else. "Don't flatter yourself, Sam. She spent the night with me."
Sam's head jerked sharply round to stare at him, his eyes narrowing in wary suspicion. "Oh?" he queried. "All night? Didn't Tina have anything to say about that?"
Al champed down on the end of his cigar with a surge of undirected anger. "Tina's in Vegas," he snapped. "With Gushie." His companion looked a little taken aback at the unexpected vehemence of the words. "Besides," the speaker continued with a little more self-control, "Charity is - special, okay? Just leave it there, willya, Sam?"
Familiar features creased into an even more familiar grin of sympathy. "She's really got to you, hasn't she?"
"I said," Al growled warningly, "leave it."
"Okay," Sam agreed, raising both hands in mock surrender. "I'll leave it." The amusement didn't leave his eyes though, and his Observer had to fight down a futile desire to strangle him. Charity's situation wasn't funny and if Sam had really thought about it he'd realise that. However - the scientist couldn't possibly know just how special Charity had become to him and this was neither the time nor the place to confess that particular sin. It didn't matter anyway. In a few short hours, if all went well, Sam would be on his way and she - Charity O'Leary - would be just a memory. A thirty-year-old memory. That was his problem and not a concern for the errant Beckett, who had enough to worry about as it was.
"Good." He registered the subject closed with a determined frown; a frown that became a warm smile as the object of their conversation misted into existence on the far side of the room. He didn't notice Sam's questioning glance that became a quiet "Oh," of comprehension. He was totally unaware of how expressively that spontaneous greeting had revealed his feelings. All he knew was that she was there, and that her presence was a bitter sweetness that pierced him to the soul. "Hi," he offered silkily as she moved to join the two of them. She blew him a ghostly kiss that shattered against his cheek with tangible force.
"Thy friend is better than his word," she smiled, eyeing Sam as she did so. "The hall is echoing with the tale of his proposal."
"It is? Sam," he rounded on the man, who was watching him, not his company. "I didn't know you had it in you."
"Had what in me?" the scientist asked bemusedly, not having heard the other half of the short conversation. "Al, do you know how weird that looks? There's nobody there."
Their eyes met - and then both men burst out laughing. "You do it all the time," Al reminded him. Sam nodded, fighting a little for breath.
"I know," he managed. "I just never saw how it looks before. Not really. And you weren't - trying to pretend not to, if you see what I mean."
"Surely," Charity remarked with mischief, "it is that he does not see what he means."
Al choked on cigar smoke, and then waved away Sam's reactive offer of help. "She made a funny," he said by way of explanation, taking several deep breaths to recover his equilibrium. "I'm okay," he insisted, glaring at Charity's innocent smile. "I gather Mary Ann said yes."
"Not in so many words," Sam noted, trying to stare at where he thought Charity might be. "It's sort of conditional."
Two pairs of eyes rounded on him. "How conditional?" Al enquired, wishing he could check history with Ziggy and knowing better than to try. The handlink was tucked firmly in his pocket and was going to stay there until he really needed it. Otherwise people out in real time were going to start jumping all over the place.
"Oh," Sam shrugged, "dependent on my getting the bank off her back and the group staying together, and Nan agreeing to teach her ... that sort of thing."
Charity's eyes widened in awe. "She knows? About the old ways and the crafting? 'Tis a secret, kept for generations. Not for those outside ... Aye," she realised with a sudden smile. "'Tis she will not be outside if all goes well. Say that she can be taught, for future generations."
"Ah - " Al wasn't quite sure what to make of this speech. "I don't think it's a problem, Sam. You find the family treasure, the bank is gonna have to back off, and Charity says - " He grinned, seeing an opportunity to get his own back, "Mary Ann should be taught a lesson."
"Demon," she hissed, vanishing from sight. Next moment he went distinctly pale as a firm but invisible hand seized the more intimate parts of his anatomy. "Speak the words as I say them," her voice demanded sternly, "or else thou shalt speak in higher tones hereafter."
"Ah - " He gulped down his reactive yelp, earning himself a very puzzled look from Sam. "I mean, she says that's okay by her. Okay?"
"Okay," the scientist shrugged, eyeing him doubtfully. The hand let go - very slowly, an intimate caress that brought the colour back to his cheeks and then some. This wasn't fair. He couldn't even retaliate, since she wasn't wholly there. "Are you all right, Al?"
"Yeah," he insisted hurriedly, dragging his mind back to immediate matters. Charity materialised beside him, her eyes laughing but her face composed. "Bitch," he hissed sideways at her. She smiled sweetly.
"What else deserves a demon lover?" she said with smug confidence. "Or wouldst thou prefer I punish him thusly?"
The suggestion jerked his thoughts to a sudden halt. "Whoa," he requested. "Hold on a minute, Sam. I need a time-out here."
"Sure," Sam laughed. "It's not easy trying to talk to two people at once."
"Right," Al growled, not wanting to talk, exactly, but having to settle for that. He rounded on Charity's amused expression. "Charity, honey," he said with determination. "If you have a problem with this, deal with me, okay? Leave Sam out of it."
She nodded, her smile undiminished. "Certes," she laughed, " 'twas thou that began the teasing. I shall be good," she insisted, since he continued to glare at her. "And not disconcert thee before thy friend. For that I apologise."
"Good," he muttered, still unsettled by her impish mood. She stepped forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek, misting into bare smoke as she did so.
"'Tis only that the prospect of my freedom giddies me," she whispered, sounding a little contrite. His irritation collapsed immediately.
"Oh, Charity," he breathed, conscious of the man who watched him with wary amusement. "I know exactly what you mean. But we have to get on with this," he decided firmly. "Time is a-wasting, right Sam?"
"Right," Sam acknowledged, then smiled at his use of the phrase. "Where do we start?"
Al looked at the misted image of the woman, who sighed and became wholly visible again. "I cannot speak directly," she warned. "Only in riddles - much as the map the McGowan left for his son. I say this, and hope it may be understood: that what is sought is only words, and the guide to it words again. The answer is writ plain all about this place, and if one but looks and obeys, the trail is clear. Start at the beginning and if thou goest astray then I have power to warn thee, but not to guide thee further."
That wasn't what he'd been expecting, but if that was all she could offer ... "Okay, Sam," he breathed doubtfully. "I hope you're good at riddles."
"Riddles?" The scientist slid off his perch and eyed his company warily. "What sort of riddles?"
The Admiral took a deep breath, considering Charity's patient eyes rather than Sam's anxious ones. "I hope I get this right," he muttered. "What is sought is only words and the guide to it - words again?" She nodded and he plunged on, trying to remember her exact phrasing, since that seemed to be important somehow. "The answer is writ plain about this place and if one but looks and - obeys? Obeys, the trail is clear. We got to start at the beginning apparently." He didn't add the comment concerning the matter of being warned; he suspected it had been directed at him and not the man beside him.
Sam threw up his hands in reactive despair. "Oh, great," he announced. "Al, when you said we were going treasure hunting, I didn't think you meant it literally. Literally ..." he echoed, suddenly struck by the term. His eyes narrowed, and hope sprang up in Al's heart. Sam was good, real good when it came to brainpower, even working with a Swiss-cheesed memory. If anyone could crack this matter, it was going to be him. "Oh, boy." The scientist moved away to a spot by the library windows and looked back - and up - into the room. "Deny men steel and gunpowder," he read, quoting the script painted along the balcony edge. "Yet while we have words we are armed for battle. With both the war for freedom may yet be won."
"Very profound, Sam," Al growled, wondering what he was doing. "So what?"
Sam turned and flashed him a grin. A triumphant grin, backed by admiring amusement. "That's the answer," he laughed. "All along, that's been the answer. Writ plain. The words on the house," he explained as Al continued to look at him puzzledly. "They're all over the place, right? It's a trail. Right out in the open, a map to wherever Alex McGowan put the family secret. All we have to do is figure out where to start, and follow the clues until we find the answer. It's that simple."
"That's simple?" Charity was smiling now, a soft nod of her head affirming Sam's diagnosis. "Sam," he pointed out, "there's one of those quotations in practically every room of this place. Are you saying ...?"
"I bet most of them are red herrings," Sam interrupted with enthusiasm. "That's how I would do it, anyway. We just have to start in the right place, that's all. Now, where would you put the first clue ...?" He began to pace, his lips narrowed in thought, while Al glanced at Charity in a silent appeal for help. She shook her head with reluctance and he sighed and went back to watching Sam. "It has to be somewhere obvious," the man pondered. "Somewhere in plain sight, and practically the first thing you'd see ... I got it!" He jabbed his finger at the door. "Meet me outside. Front porch." He set off at a run, leaving Al staring after him in bemusement.
"Front porch?" he echoed. "Oh, right." His hand dipped for the handlink, but was intercepted by a gentle touch.
"Beloved," Charity's voice said softly, "I think perhap that I am afraid."
He turned, a little startled by that confession. She stood beside him as a true ghost, mist and smoke against the colours of the room. Her hand was a soft whisper of contact at his wrist and he reached to lay his free hand over hers, meeting the eyes of her image, emerald green and intense. His heart turned over with that quiet thump she had inspired the day before. "Don't be," he said, half-advice, half-plea. "A moment ago I got the impression you were looking forward to this."
She looked away - drifted away, and he reached after her, catching only cold air and a shiver of tingling contact. "I do not know any more," her voice whispered. "What I want. I want to be free, aye. Yet what freedom beckons me? A darkness I cannot see beyond, an end to all things." She turned back toward him, a spirit dancing on air, smoke buffeted by unseen winds. "I am afraid. Not of true death - aye, three days past I would welcome its embrace without regret or hesitation. I am afraid for thee ..."
"Don't," he interrupted, a snapped order that silenced her sigh with astonishment. "Charity O'Leary," he announced, taking a deep breath and steeling himself, "if you think for one minute that I am worth sacrificing a moment of eternal rest over, you can just damn well think again. I go through women like water; I'm about as faithful as a rabbit on heat, and the next pretty face that passes me by is gonna get my full attention - until the next one, and the next one after that. I can't help it - and I can't help you if you insist on making more of what we've shared together than it ought to be. Right?"
Charity stared at him - just stared, with a look that pierced his soul and made him squirm inside. He knew every word he said was the truth - much as he hated himself for it - and that every word was also an excuse, and the unspoken conclusion was a total lie. "Thou art nobler of heart than thou know'st," she murmured softly. Her voice was sad, a resurgence of the ancient pain that made her long so desperately for an end to her imprisonment. "Thy friend is waiting. Go to him. I will accept the fate you craft for me." She was fading away completely and he wondered if his deliberate rejection had hurt her, whether she understood the why of what he had chosen to do. "Accept it with a sorrowed heart," she whispered, her presence merely an echoed sigh. "For in another time we may have made it otherwise ..."
She was gone, as if she'd never been there in the first place. The handlink gave a plaintive squeak and he lifted it from his pocket abstractedly, feeling like a complete heel. Ziggy's datascreen was a flicker of random letters that slowly fell into ordered patterns. The odds of Sam's success seemed to have risen by several percent. Somehow the information only made him feel worse.
A Question of Charity. Chapter Six. 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 Seven