Chapter 2: Waiting Game

Donna turned into his shoulder the minute Sam disappeared behind the med ward doors. For a bizarre moment, Al was almost jealous of his friend for getting a blond, brunette, and redhead while he got stuck with a weeper. You lucky dog. The thought vanished before he could grasp it.

He managed to calm Donna enough for her to sit down, then he began to pace, his mind in a whirl. What the hell had made Sam do something so stupid? When he said this afternoon that it wasn't ready, it wasn't ready. And Sam was the last person on this Project – on this planet – that would pull an April Fool's joke, let alone a stunt like this.

Sam made the rules, Al broke them. That's the way things were, so what the hell was he thinking?

Al was an hour into this circular thinking, wearing a path into the floor, when the sickening answer clicked in his mind. So livid he could barely speak, Al slapped in an order for a list of all calls and visits since an hour before he and Beth left the Facility. If any of those jerks on the Committee had tried to put the thumbscrews on Sam, he would personally go and deck every last one of the bastards.

For all his brains, Sam was still an innocent. Honest. If you told him his baby was going to lose its funding, Sam would believe you unless he had proof otherwise. And Al knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty that didn't need fact, that Sam had nearly killed himself to get that proof.

Al forced himself to stop, take a deep breath, and release his anger. This is not the time to throw a temper tantrum. He rolled his neck, trying to ease his tense muscles. Sighing, he sat down, propped his elbows on his knees, and tried to calm his racing thoughts.

"He's gonna be okay, right?" Al nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice. Donna stared at him hopefully, "Sam's gonna be okay?"

He actually teared up a little when he recognized her, and peace enveloped him as he grabbed her hand, squeezing it. "He's gonna be okay." Her eyes filled again as she squeezed back.

From that point on, time began to stretch. One minute took twenty; ten took a lifetime. Al thanked God there wasn't a clock in the room, ticking them to madness, then three seconds later he wished for a damn clock to watch. Nervous energy pushed him to pace, only to sit again after a few turns, deriding himself for worrying when he knew Sam – or, at least, the one they saw as Sam – would be alright. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

After about forty-five minutes of silence – and his third round of pacing – Al gave up. He left the waiting room and went back to Control to see what Goushie and Ziggy had compiled from the experiment.

He stopped short just inside, feeling a little sick. Who was the brunette flirting with Goushie, and how'd she get insi – Oh, boy.

Tina rolled out from under Ziggy and glared Goushie into behaving again, then saw Al in the doorway, and brightened. "Hey! How's Sam doing?"

"He's still in the O.R.," Al said.

Everything froze for a moment as Tina and Goushie exchanged worried glances. Even they knew two hours were too long for a basic check up. Something was wrong.

"He'll be okay," Al growled, glaring at them.

"Statistically, Admiral, - "

"Sam's always beaten the odds, Ziggy," he said, now glaring at the computer, "You know that."

After another awkward moment, Al asked Ziggy to print out two copies of whatever they'd gotten from the run, and left. He wasn't in a talking mood, anyway.

Al snagged a couple cups of coffee on his way back to the waiting room. He didn't really expect to understand anything in the reports, but it'd at least give them something to stare at while waiting for news.

He was taking a deep breath, fighting off another wave of nausea, when he realized Donna wasn't the only one in the room. "Isn't it a little early for grief counseling?" he asked, and nearly bit off his tongue.

Verbeena Beeks just gave him a cold stare, then whispered a last bit of encouragement in Donna's ear and left.

Not knowing what else to do, Al offered Donna a cup of coffee and a report in silent apology. She accepted, and he sat back down.

Two more hours passed . . . The forgotten coffee went cold . . . Four . . . Occasionally a page would flip when one or the other developed enough momentum. Finally, somewhere near dawn, Beth and Terry walked out.

Beth immediately went into his arms, and they held tight while Terry did the usual doctor's wind-down of pulling off the mask and shaking her hair loose from its net.

"Sorry it took so long," she finally said, scratching her scalp, "I wanted to run some tests; try to get some answers before coming out here."

"How's Sam?" Donna asked.

"Chock fulla drugs, right now. He'll sleep 'til late afternoon, at least." Terry rubbed at her tired eyes. "Figured I oughta let his body get some rest before he wakes up 'n starts tearing though the place again."

Beth murmured something about going to bed, kissed his cheek, and left the room as Donna asked the second biggest question.

"Can I see him?" Terry nodded her consent, and Donna went through.

Al stood there a moment, not quite sure what to do, then decided he might as well inform every one else and turned to leave.

"Daddy-?"

Goosebumps gathered on his arms as Al turned back to his eldest daughter. She looked like a ten-year-old who'd gotten caught red-handed. Oh, boy.

Al stood in front of her and said the most inane thing he could think of: "Took an awfully long time for a few tests."

The dam broke and Terry fell into her father's arms. "It was horrible, Daddy. One minute his eyes'd be fluttering like he was waking up, next he'd be thrashing 'n screamin' bloody murder, next he'd flatline. It took four hours just to stabilize him, and even then we had to strap him down."

"Daddy," She looked up at him, a terrified grief in her eyes.

"I don't know if he'll wake up."



Just as the sun broke free of the horizon, Ziggy began running her morning diagnostic. Three-quarters of the way through, a sub-system snagged something and she pulled it to the foreground. It was a file. Labeled 'Leaps,' it contained both audio and word documents that only seemed to grow the longer she scanned them. Hesitantly, she opened the first one: Tom Stratton 8-12-56.

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