Reading, Writing, and Murder
Blue light crackled as Sam felt himself settle into a new environment. He stood for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He noticed that he was standing in front of a chalkboard, on which several lines of poetry were written. The chalk was in his hand.
"Uh, Mr. Tyler?" a tentative voice spoke from behind him. He slowly turned and faced twenty-nine teenagers, all sitting in desks arranged in rows. The boy in the front spoke again.
"Was that Coleridge or Byron?"
Sam looked again at the board, then back at the expectant faces. He honestly had no idea.
"Oh, boy," he said. He began looking through the notes on the podium. "Uh, okay," he said. "Um, let's see."
A bell rang. Everyone began gathering their books and leaving the room.
"I'll tell you tomorrow," Sam called to the retreating students. "Just as soon as I remember myself," he muttered to himself.
Sam waited expectantly, but no one else came into the room. "Must be the end of the day," he thought. He could hear locker doors slamming and the chaos of teenagers in the hallway. Suddenly, it was quiet.
He began looking around the room. It appeared to be a fairly typical high school classroom. Thirty desks were arranged in rows of five. The walls were plastered with posters of various plays, portraits of famous writers, and cartoons. A teacher's desk stood in the front left corner of the room, its top buried under piles of papers and books. As Sam walked to the desk, he noticed something move out of the corner of his eye. Surprised, he turned and noticed that a small mirror was hung by the desk. He looked intently to see who he was.
It wasn't too bad, this time. Dark blue eyes stared back at a face that appeared to be about forty. His hair was a light brown, parted deeply on the right side and cut to rest at collar length. The nose was straight, almost patrician. The full mouth and square jaw suggested a strength of character. Judging from the height of the mirror, he was tall, perhaps six feet.
"I almost look like me, " Sam said to himself.
"That's for sure."
Sam jumped at the sound of the voice behind him.
"Al, stop doing that!" Sam exclaimed.
Al puffed his cigar complacently, looking very pleased with himself. "Well, I guess you were so busy admiring yourself that you didn't hear me come in."
"How could I hear you over the sound of your suit?" Sam retorted.
Al had outdone himself this time: Lime green satin bolero jacket and slacks, pink shirt, yellow tie.
"This was a gift from Tina. I did her a favor and she was very appreciative," he said with a leer.
I don't even want to hear about it," Sam replied, raising his hands in surrender as he sat down at the desk. "So, what's Ziggy got?"
Al consulted the handlink. "Your name is Sam Tyler."
"Huh! I get to use my own name this time."
"That'll be nice for a change. You're an English literature and writing teacher at Kennedy High School in Portland, Oregon."
"Literature!" Sam exclaimed. "Al, I don't remember.... Wait a minute. Yes, I do!" He turned and re-read the poem on the chalkboard. " 'In Xanadu, did Kublai Khan a stately pleasure dome decree' is from Coleridge. He never got the ending right because someone knocked on the door and he lost the idea. I've always hated that poem. Al, I remember!"
Sam rose excitedly from the chair and began striding around the room. Al gazed at him in shock. "You got your memory back?"
"Yes!" Sam laughed. "I remember designing Ziggy, the Project... Al, it's wonderful! Except..."
His faced darkened as he turned to Al.
"You remember everything," Al said.
"Yeah. God, Al, I left her twice! How is she?"
"She's fine," Al quickly assured him. "She understands, Sam."
"I want to see her."
"I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Al!"
"Sam, think! It's too painful for her. She never monitors the Imaging Chamber. Think about it!"
"You're right," Sam sighed heavily. "It wouldn't be the same if I couldn't touch her."
They stood in silence for awhile, lost in thoughts of what should have been. Finally, Sam recalled himself to the present.
"What year is this?"
"It's March 27, 1995. That's all we got so far. Ziggy is still working on why you're here."
"1995. That's the year I leaped."
"Yeah, so?"
"No wonder Ziggy's having trouble. I still exist in 1995. I'm in New Mexico right now."
"So what? You've existed somewhere else in all your leaps."
"Yeah, but this time I know exactly where I am and what I'm doing. Do you know what that means?"
"No."
"Al, get Donna in here," Sam ordered quietly.
"Sam, I already told you..."
"Just do it," Sam interrupted. "I don't care about feelings right now, I need her help. I think I know how to get home."
Without a word, Al activated the Chamber door and left.
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They were laughing as they left him. Painfully, Jason picked himself up off the ground. This beating, he knew, would add new bruises to those acquired in earlier encounters. He picked up his books from the sidewalk and began walking home. "Just wait," he thought. "John, you'll be first. Then Darrell, then Tyler, then Jared. Then anyone else who gets in my way. Just wait."
He continued his silent walk home, reveling in his plans for revenge.
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Sam was a little shocked to see Al leave so quickly. But there was no time for sentiment. He sat down at the desk, pulling paper and a pen from the pile. Quickly, he began writing. It had to work.
He was working so intently that he didn't hear the Chamber door. She stood there for a moment, gathering herself for this encounter. To see and not touch. To speak, but not feel. A small exclamation escaped her lips. Sam immediately looked up.
"Donna!" he said, springing from his chair and coming as close as he could without passing through her.
"Oh, Sam!" Donna replied, tears sparkling in her eyes. For long moments they just looked at each other, communicating wordlessly their feelings for each other, their pain at separation.
"I'm sorry," Sam began.
"Don't be," Donna interrupted. "You did what needed doing. Now tell me," she said, smiling, "how do we bring you home?"
Sam took his cue from her down-to-business attitude. Burying his emotions, he too focused on what needed to be done. "Does Ziggy have a fix on why I'm here yet?"
"Ziggy hasn't been able to get an exact lock on you yet, but we have consulted the database. On March 28, 1995, Jason Matthieson, a sophomore at this school, stole his father's rifle and shot six students while they were in the cafeteria waiting for school to start. Two students died. It's likely that you're here to stop the shooting."
"Okay. Come over here and take a look at this," he said, moving to the desk. "Look this over and tell me what you think."
She carefully studied the papers that Sam spread before her. "You're updating the retrieval program using data from your original leap," she said, puzzled.
"Yes. Since I haven't leaped yet in 1995, we know exactly where I am, that is at the Project in New Mexico. Therefore, I should be able to use the New Mexico me as an anchor as I travel out of this space/time continuum and into the next. Theoretically, that will give the retrieval program something to hold onto. It will sling-shot me back to your time ... which is when, by the way?"
"May 12, 2001," she replied absently, still studying his equations.
"You're the only other person who understands this," Sam said. "Can it work?"
She pondered for a long time. "I think I may need to make a change here, based on what is happening currently in my time," she said, pointing to a section of his work. "But I think this will work!"
"There's only one catch," Sam said. "You'll need to activate the new retrieval program the moment I leap out of here. We will only get one chance at this."
"I know," she replied. "Let's get started." Donna began inputting data into the handlink.
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"Godammit, Ziggy! You'd better start giving me some answers, or I'm gonna rip out all your circuits myself!" Al exclaimed in frustration. Gooshie moved protectively a little closer to his terminal.
"You know I don't respond to threats, Admiral Calavicci," Ziggy replied softly. "Right now I'm processing Dr. Aleesi's data from the handlink. I'm afraid you'll have to wait your turn."
"You can do more than one thing at a time," Al growled.
"True. I just don't want to."
"Ziggy!"
He was met by the obstinate silence of the computer. He turned to Gooshie. "Have you been able to find out anything about this leap?"
"Al, honey," Tina interrupted. "I don't get it. Why doesn't Dr. Beckett just, like, call himself or something and tell himself not to leap?"
"Because if he did that, he'd change history. Everything he's done in the last six years would go back the way it was."
"Oh, wow! I didn't think of that."
"Well, don't think right now."
Al paced nervously around the room. Too much was at stake. In order for this to work, they would need to know if Sam was indeed in 1995 to stop the shooting. They would then need to get a firm lock on him as he leaped. Without the data from 1995, they were shooting blind. And Ziggy chose this time to get playful!
"I have the data you requested, Admiral," Ziggy said.
"About time."
"There is a 92% probability that Dr. Beckett is in 1995 to stop the shooting that will take place on March 28th at 7:55 a.m. There's just one problem."
"What's that?"
"Dr. Beckett has already changed history. There's now a 95% chance that Dr. Beckett will die at 7:56 a.m. on March 28, 1995."
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Donna looked up from the handlink. "It'll take awhile for Ziggy to update the retrieval program, Sam." She looked at him for a long time.
"You're leaving."
"Yes. I can do more outside of the Imaging Chamber."
"And this is too hard," he said softly.
"If it works, you'll be home soon," she replied with a slight smile.
"If not," Sam replied, letting the thought hang in the air unfinished.
"If not."
They stood for a long time, just looking at each other, knowing this was goodbye.
"I'll come back," Sam said.
"I know you will." She activated the chamber door.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you, too," she replied, and walked out of the chamber.
Wearily, Sam sat back down at the desk. He studied his equations again, looking for any possible errors. Sighing, he set the papers aside, letting his mind work on two tracks while he thumbed through the papers on the desk. On one level, he was reviewing the calculations in his head. On another, he was reviewing all that had happened to him since his original leap. He was hardly aware that he had been reading short stories until he saw the name Jason Matthieson. Refocusing on the here and now, he began reading the paper. Astonished at the incredible violence and hatred written, he read through it again, slowly this time. Then, making up his mind, he strode out the room in search of the main office.
He immediately realized his mistake. He had no idea where he was. Unsure, he turned right and followed the locker-lined corridor for several yards. It finally ended in a wide flight of stairs. As he began descending, a short, blonde woman began skipping up the steps two at a time towards him.
"Hey, Sam," she said. "Where're you off to? You look a little lost."
"Uh, I was looking for the principal, uh," he looked at her name tag, "Jenny."
"Well, he should still be in," she said, gesturing with her head in down the stairs. "You'd better hurry, though. I think he's off to the central office."
"Thanks," Sam said, and continued down the steps. The stairway emptied into a large entryway. On the opposite side was a collection of offices. He went through the door marked "Principal" to find a secretary guarding the door to the inner sanctum.
"Ah, Sam," she said, brushing her gray hair from her eyes as she turned from the computer screen. "What can I do for you today?"
Sam glanced at the name on the door. "Is Dr. Wilson in, uh, Mrs. Westin?" he asked, surreptitiously reading her name plate.
"Mrs. Westin? Aren't we getting a little formal today?" she asked playfully.
"Uh, sorry. I'm used to talking to the students."
"I'll let it go this time. To answer your question, he's on his way out."
"Well, its rather important that I see him. It's about one of my students."
"Let me check." She picked up the phone and punched in a quick series of numbers. "Carl? Sam is outside. Do you have a moment?" After a moment, she turned back to Sam. "Go right in."
"Thanks."
Sam opened the door and walked into a small, Spartan office. A large wooden desk dominated the room. Two black cushioned chairs stood before it. Behind the desk, stuffing papers into a briefcase, stood a man of medium height. He appeared to be about fifty, with silver hair and brown eyes. He looked up as Sam entered the room.
"Sam," he said. "I'm on my way out, so I only have a few moments. What's up?"
"I think we may have a problem. One of my students wrote this story." Sam handed the paper to Carl. "I'm very concerned about it. It describes in detail how he plans to shoot his fellow students. I'm worried that he might just do it."
Carl looked over the story, frowning as he read. "Well, it is pretty bloody," he said. "Still, so what?"
"So what?" Sam repeated in disbelief.
"Yeah, it's just a story. People write this kind of stuff all the time."
"Carl, this is more than just a story. I think he means to carry this out."
"Look, Sam, I'd like to be able to say something profound here, but there just isn't anything I can do. Haven't you heard of the First Amendment? You can't suspend a kid for writing a story. Besides, such writing is a healthy outlet for violence. Would you rather have him get in fights? Who is this kid, anyway?"
"Jason Matthieson. He's in my sophomore writing class."
"Don't know him."
"No, I don't imagine you do."
"Well, anyway, I don't think there's anything to worry about."
"But..."
"Look," Carl interrupted. "If it will make you feel any better, I'll have Mr. Rollins to speak to him, all right? Discipline is his job anyway. Now, I really have to go." He handed the story back to Sam, and walked out the door.
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He sat in his room, going over the plan one more time. First, he'd get the gun. That would be easy, since he knew where the key was kept. Next, he would go through the back door of the school, thus avoiding the office. Then, a short walk to the cafeteria. They would all be sitting at the usual table. Sitting ducks. There was only one problem, Jason thought as he prepared for bed. He needed to add one more target. After the phone call, his parents were suspicious. And it was Mr. Tyler who had betrayed him by going to Mr. Rollins. It was obvious that he would have to die. But how would he get to Mr. Tyler after the shooting started? There must be a way.
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Sam struggled briefly with the keys he found in his pocket, trying to figure out which one opened the door to the apartment. Finally, the lock turned and the door opened directly into a small living room. Closing the door behind him, Sam wearily examined an apartment that appeared to have been furnished from garage sales. He dropped the keys on the small oak coffee table and made his way into the kitchen. Rummaging through the fridge, he found it stocked mainly with lettuce and beer. Shrugging, he took a beer and went back to the living room.
"Strike one," Sam said to himself as he flopped onto the worn, overstuffed couch.
At least he got the vice principal to call Jason's parents. But neither they nor Rollins really believed that Jason was capable of carrying out his plan. He would have to find another way.
The Chamber door opened and Al stepped into the apartment.
"Sam, what the hell have you been doing?" he demanded.
"Sitting here thinking."
"You've been doing more than that."
"Well, first I went the principal, who was so preoccupied I don't think he even realized that there were any students at his school. Then I went to the vice principal, who called Jason's parents. They all thought I was making a mountain out of a mole hill. Meanwhile, I'm trying to complete my calculations before I leap again. Other than that, everything is going smoothly, thank you for asking."
"Well, brother, you've changed history. Now Ziggy says there's a 95% chance that you get killed tomorrow."
"Christ! Al, why didn't you tell me this sooner!" Sam said, launching himself off the couch and pacing the small living room. "You know, I'm getting really sick of you coming in here with no data, just leaving it up to me to figure things out, and then you tell me I just screwed everything up. Can't you, for once, offer some constructive advice?"
Al could feel his patience start to snap. "Sam, I've been arguing with that goddamn computer for the last five hours trying to get some data for you! What am I supposed to do when you go off half-cocked and change history!"
Sam flopped back on the couch. "I'm sorry, Al," he said, feeling truly guilty for snapping at his friend. "It's just..."
"I know," Al replied. "Look, we now know that Jason begins his shooting spree in the school cafeteria at 7:55 a.m. Then, he runs down the hall to your classroom, where you're killed. So, all you gotta do is not be there tomorrow. Then he'll be caught before he can shoot you, you leap out, and we use the retrieval program to bring you back. Simple."
"That won't work, Al. If I don't stop the shootings, I don't leap. No, we're gonna have to do this the hard way. I'll have to be at the cafeteria in the morning, and try to find some way to stop Jason."
"Sam, that's suicide!"
"It's either that or I don't get home. Unless you and Ziggy can come up with a better idea."
Al activated the door. "All right, I'll go back and see what we can come up with. Also, I'll check on how the retrieval program is coming. Just do me a favor. Go to bed, don't try to change history anymore today."
Sam smiled, "You've got it."
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The house was quiet. Once again he had been left alone. He walked into his parent's room. Taking the key from his father's nightstand, he made his way downstairs. It was then a simple matter to open the gun cabinet in his father's den. He took a rifle, along with all the ammo he could carry. Might as well take as many with him as he could.
Heading out the front door, Jason felt that today was definitely his day.
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Sam nervously entered the school cafeteria that morning, unsure of what exactly he would do. He still had not heard from Al. It looked as though the direct approach would be necessary after all.
He walked across the large room, weaving through the tables until he reached the concession stand on the far wall. He bought a cup of coffee, then settled in near the door to wait.
Slowly, groups of students began entering the cafeteria. He watched carefully as they made their purchases and sat down. Soon the air was filled with loud chatter.
Young voices loudly teased each other across the room, discussed last night's TV shows, fretted about the day's tests. No one was the least suspicious that soon their world would be turned upside down.
A group of four boys, each about sixteen, entered the cafeteria at about 7:50. They were laughing and pushing each other as they came in.
"Those are the victims, Sam," Al said.
"Anything new from Ziggy?
"No. I just..." his voice trailed off as another boy entered the cafeteria. He was about sixteen as well, but rather than wearing the usual khakis, T-shirt, and plaid short sleeve shirts that the other students were wearing, he was wearing a long black trench coat.
"Sam!" Al exclaimed.
Jason raised his arms, leveling the rifle he had hidden in his trench coat at the four boys who had come in before him. "Gun!" Sam shouted as he launched himself toward Jason.
It was like swimming through sand! The gun rose higher as Sam lunged toward Jason. Sam heard a loud explosion and felt a searing pain in his right arm. Then, he was crashing into Jason, his momentum carrying them both to the ground.
"No! No! I have to kill them! I have to!" Jason kept screaming as he struggled to free himself from Sam's hold.
Suddenly, security guards rushed into the cafeteria. Immediately, they pounced on Jason, pinning his arms and legs to the ground. Sam slowly got up and looked around. Everywhere there was chaos. Students were running from the cafeteria, or hiding under the tables.
"Sam, are you all right?" Al asked anxiously.
Sam looked at his right arm, and was a little surprised to find he was bleeding. Wincing, he examined the wound.
"Looks like it just winged me. He must have fired just as I jumped."
"Yeah, well, try to be more careful next time," Al said, with obvious relief. He consulted his handlink. "You've done it. Ziggy says that Jason is arrested on charges of attempted murder, but is sentenced to a psychiatric institution. Apparently, this kid is a mass of psychoses. But, you've managed to change history, so get ready to leap."
"Is the program ready?"
"We're just waiting for you."
Suddenly, a blue light crackled around Sam, slowly expanded to cover his entire body, and he again felt that familiar feeling of nothingness.
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Sam felt himself settle again. Opening his eyes, he found himself seated in front of a computer. The screen was filled with programming code. Light blue carpeted cubicle walls surrounded his desk.
Thinking carefully, he was struck by the sudden feeling that he shouldn't be here. His last leap was supposed to send him home. Someone besides Al was waiting for him, but he couldn't quite remember. Grief washed over him, though he couldn't recall the reason. So Sam Beckett, once again lost in time, buried his face in his hands and wept.