Chapter Two
Deanna Calavicci dumped out the contents of her black carry-on suitcase for the fourth time in the past hour, then sighed and began to re-fold the clothing she'd selected for her weekend getaway.
Deanna knew that the "recommendation" earlier that morning from Al Calavicci had not been a mere suggestion. He hadn't pressured her to take a few days off just for her sake, but also for that of the Project; as much as he appreciated her assistance, Al looked at things long-term, and he knew that mental and emotional burnout would serve neither of them. Since Sam resumed Leaping through time, and Sammi Jo performed her little disappearing act, Al (with the wisdom of age and experience) had weathered the new changes just fine, but Deanna felt the growing governmental pressure to retrieve both scientists and bring them home. As a result, her coping mechanism involved jumping from one interest to another, in an effort to find a suitable distraction for herself.
Distraction.
Deanna turned the word over in her mind several times and frowned. It felt as if her entire non-working life had become a series of distractions. From the moment she stepped into the Imaging Chamber until several minutes after she separated from that holographic world, everything felt fine. Then the restlessness set in. To combat that feeling, she'd resumed the sport of figure skating, using the unused space at the Project to re-hone the skills she'd learned in childhood. She spent long nights and early mornings studying Ziggy's systems, using her experience in holographic technology to map out new virtual pathways that might reverse whatever Sam Beckett had done to the system. She also became an audiophile, downloading a dizzying collection of music to various devices. And, because she appreciated the constant attention of a co-worker named Doctor Steven Boyd, she got herself a boyfriend.
Is that all he was to you, then? she asked herself. A distraction?
Her thoughts spun helplessly back to the accident, and her gaze traveled over to the bare nightstand beside the twin bed. After she'd been discharged from the hospital, it had been Al's decision to move her out of the apartment she'd shared with Steve, twenty miles away from Stallion's Gate, and have her live at the Project. Here, he reasoned, she could not only benefit from doing rehab in the employee gym, but also from the assistance of psychiatrist Verbeena Beeks. To make the sterile living space seem more "homey," he'd outfitted it with various items from her and Steven's apartment.
Then, among his other poor decorating ideas, he'd put a photo of her and Steve on the nightstand.
Even though she'd shoved the photo into a drawer as soon as Al left the room (and later tossed the picture and Peter Pan-themed frame in the garbage), that happy photograph of them together—taken during a vacation to Anaheim, with him wearing a pirate's hat with skull and crossbones, and her in a green Robin Hood-style cap—continued to haunt her. That first night, she'd stripped the room of all her personal items, using her anger to ignore the pain that every movement brought her. Anything that might've been his, or that reminded her of the time she'd spent with him, went to the nearest charity shop the next day. In no time at all, her personal possessions went down to a few boxes, her Navy uniform items and a handful of civilian clothes.
On the bright side, she thought, as she pushed aside the unpleasant thoughts and memories that played around the edges of her mind, it makes packing a hell of a lot easier.
As she finished replacing the few non-military clothing items in her possession back into the suitcase and zipped it closed, she pondered her choice of location. Where could she go? Three days didn't offer a lot of opportunity for a good rest, especially if the journey required going across the country or even out of it; the travel time alone would cut into her spare time at any given location.
So don't go anywhere. Just grab a hotel room, get a tan, chill for a few days, then come back and get to work.
The idea appealed to her more than she cared to admit. She'd loved to travel and had done so for most of her life, but since her recovery, the notion of visiting another city or a different country held no appeal. Verbeena Beeks once asked if perhaps Deanna felt vulnerable, if things felt too fragile now, or if she feared another accident could come out of nowhere… and although Deanna had a hard time disagreeing with that assumption, it only felt like part of the picture.
What hotel? She prompted herself to ponder her impending destination, if only to stop thinking about her ongoing psychological issues. Where am I going?
Deanna turned and went over to the built-in, polished-silver desk against the far wall, opened the top drawer, then removed her laptop and sat down on the matching metal chair, her thin fingers restless over the flat keyboard. Her online searches flirted around Las Vegas and its themed motels, up to Washington state, back down the coast to San Francisco, over to Colorado, and finally halted when she saw the words, "San Diego." Something about those two words appealed to her—perhaps because of the city's ties to the Navy, or the fact that her parents had met there. She'd never been to San Diego; in her childhood, the family vacation schedule had involved plans to go there, but things came up, the Navy demanded her parents' attentions elsewhere, and she'd spent that summer at a summer camp in upstate New York instead.
A few clicks of the mouse revealed exactly what she wanted. A sprawling beachfront hotel came up on the screen, and she smiled at the beautiful Victorian-style, brown-and-white structure.
"The Hotel del Coronado," she whispered. "That's it. That's where I need to be."
Her brow furrowed. Why? Why would that be "it"? She grimaced and clenched her fists as an uncomfortable shiver ran through her body. She recognized the familiar emotion immediately, as part of the "Project-sense" that guided her in her Observer duties—an instinctive understanding of an unknown situation, one that stemmed from the connection between her DNA and Ziggy's circuitry. The subliminal, mysterious driving force guided her decision-making in the Imaging Chamber. It either directed her to make wise decisions or made her flirt with disaster on the days that she chose to ignore it.
"Damn it," she cursed in a low voice. Her gaze went over to the closed suitcase and she glared at the com bracelet that sat beside it. Had Ziggy chosen her destination for her? Couldn't she even have one moment of free will? But as soon as her anger flared, it died out.
I'm a pawn. She let her hands drop into her lap and gave her head a slight nod. This is nothing new. I always knew that Ziggy issued the orders that brought me here, and that's what brought about all the changes, so that Sam Beckett would continue to live. And Leap. Now she's doing it to me again, telling me where to go. But why? Why is it so important that I go here?
A light snicker echoed in the back of her throat, and she quoted a line of Sir Alfred Tennyson's poetry to herself.
"'Theirs not to reason why, theirs to do and die.' Only," she added with a smile, "you don't send us to die. You send us to live, and to fight for life. Don't you?"
The com bracelet flashed to life for a moment, then the lights faded. Her smile also faded.
"Yea," she breathed. "That's what we're here for."