QUANTUM BEAST (Part 1)

Nov. 2, 1990

I must first make mention of my biggest fan: John Byrne. Anyone can read my column and enjoy it, but only John is so dedicated that he continues to peruse it, week after week, even though the very act causes him to vomit.

Only a real man would endure such physical discomfort to stick with me. And rest assured– should my enthusiasm for this column ever waver– all I have to do is picture John face down at the porcelain life preserver, tossing his lunch while clutching my column, and that image will be more than enough to sustain me.

With that out of the way, we now move into the first installment of an irregular feature of But I Digress, namely:

Useless Stories

For all writers (well, almost all) there are stories which literally write themselves– that spring full-blown into one’s mind with a kind of “Eureka” finality, there-it-is, game-set-and-match.

But the simple act of writing a story down isn’t sufficient, because the purpose of writing is communication. Putting the story down is only one half of a writer’s job– the rest is to get it out to an audience, to share the ideas.

So you have to find a marketplace or a means by which to get the story to readers. In my case, I have a number of directions I can explore– comics, novels, short stories, screenplays (I’ve written three, none produced)– all of these are avenues I can pursue, with varying degrees of success, in getting stories told. And every so often, I come up with a Useless Story. This is a story which, by its very nature, cannot possibly appear in any of the media stated above. It doesn’t mean it’s a bad story. It’s just that no one could possibly buy it. But if it’s a story that I like enough, it sits in my head and shouts at me, and I can’t shut it up until I tell it to someone.

So I’m telling it to you.

The first germs of it began when I saw a two-hour episode of a certain television series and absolutely hated it. I wanted to do something about it but naturally I couldn’t. And then, very recently, I was watching another TV series and suddenly realized that I could do something about it. And here’s what I did, in a story titled:

Quantum Beast

Dr. Sam Beckett felt the abrupt tingling and sudden disorientation that warned him he was leaping once more. The world kaleidoscoped around him, a shimmering burst of blue, and for one fleeting moment came the customary prayer– Please. Please, let this be the one that brings me home. He wasn’t certain to whom he was praying or why. Whatever gods there were, they certainly had their own game plan for him and would only return him to the site of the Quantum Leap project when they were ready.

Then reality irised in again, coalesced, and the world reassembled itself into a different time and place.

When someone wakes up in an unfamiliar situation– a hotel, for example– there’s always a momentary feeling of confusion. Of trying to get one’s bearings. It was a feeling Sam knew all too well. There was the usual flash of despair, as Sam realized that he had not returned to the origin point of the time-travel project that had launched him: the project that had him travelling, always within his own lifetime, always in the bodies of others.

The despair was immediately replaced by puzzlement. The air that hung around Sam was heavy and dank. There was an odd silence, punctuated by– what? A faint tapping of some sort, as if people were banging on metal. It sounded like annoyed tenants, pounding on radiators somewhere, sending a message to some superintendent that heat should be sent up.

Was he in a tenement or something? No. No, definitely not. He was in a room lit only by flickering tapers, and the room was, incredibly, made of rock. He was in a cave somewhere, but what a cave: beautifully decorated with an old-world charm, like something out of a fairy tale.

He glanced around, his eyes resting on a small library against the wall. Dickens was there, and Shakespeare. Dante and Chekhov. Playwrights and poets, philosophers and dreamers, the greatest minds and thinkers of humanity were all represented in this bizarre place.

“What the hëll– ?” he murmured, his voice echoing softly in the small chamber. He spun, his eyes searching out a mirror on the wall.

The face of a monster stared back at him.

Sam Beckett jumped back a good five feet, letting out a scream of alarm that, to his horrified ears, was the roar of an infuriated animal. He tripped over a bed and tumbled back. He cowered there a moment, afraid to look, afraid the creature might still be looking back at him.

Slowly he pulled himself up and went again to the mirror. The creature, with long, flowing brown hair and a face like a lion, cocked its head in curiosity.

He brought his hands up to look at them, as well. They were covered with thick fur, and at the end were– claws?

Then he laughed.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s Halloween or something. This guy’s going to a party.” He pulled at the furry gloves and they refused to come off.

He reached up, grabbed his muzzle, and yanked. It felt warm and firm and alive. He yelled again, this time a full-throated roar of terror.

There was the sound of pounding footsteps, and an instant later a bearded man burst into the room. His hair was tinged with gray, and he was dressed in the same earlier-century style as the body that Sam was inhabiting. He walked with a carved cane.

Sam took a step back, waiting for the man to scream at the sight of him. “Vincent!” said the bearded man. “What’s wrong?”

Sam glanced behind himself, not able to grasp the idea that the creature whose body he possessed had a name. “Vincent?” he said.

The bearded man looked at him with tremendous concern. “Don’t you recognize me?” he said slowly. “It’s me. Father.”

“Father!” gasped Sam. “My God? You mean– ” He looked in the mirror again. “I got all this from my mother’s side?”

Father went to him and put his hands on either of Sam’s muscled arms. “Vincent– please– sit down.”

Sam allowed himself to be guided to the edge of the bed, still disoriented and confused. “You’re my father–”

“As much of a father as you’ve ever had,” said Father, still sounding worried. “You know that you were found as an infant, abandoned at nearby St. Vincent’s hospital, and were brought here.”

“Yes, of course, I– ” Sam tried to shake it off. “Of course, I remember– Father. I’m sorry, I’m– a little shaky these days,” he finished lamely.

And yet Father seemed to accept this. “Of course,” he said. “Of course you are. All these months, not knowing. I’m aware of how your concern over Catherine has eaten at you.”

“Catherine–” said Sam slowly, still not getting it. “Catherine Chandler.”

It was not the bearded man who had spoken, however.

Al had stepped through a rock wall. He was wearing one of his usually loud suits, this one with dazzlingly glimmering gold trim.

Sam looked up at him with tremendous relief. “Catherine Chandler?”

“Yes, Catherine Chandler,” Father said. “Vincent– have you been getting enough sleep?”

“I– feel like I’m dreaming right now,” said Sam, looking helplessly at Al. Al flashed a high sign.

“I must admit, Vincent, for a moment I thought that we were going to see a recurrence of the unpleasantness from some months ago,” said Father ruefully. “You’re quite all right?”

“Fine. Fine, Father. Really. See?” He flexed his muscles. “One hundred percent. Tip top.”

Father stared at him as if he’d just muttered an obscenity. ” ‘Tip Top?’ ”

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

“You usually sound more– I’m not sure– poetic.”

Sam blinked and said, “Uhm– Roses are red– grass is green– Catherine’s not here– and I feel keen.”

Father stared at him long and hard. “Get some rest, Vincent. Please.” He eased Sam back onto the bed, turned, and walked right past Al.

Sam snapped back up. “Al, get me out of here!”

“Can’t do that, Sam,” said Al apologetically. “You know you can’t leap until you’ve accomplished whatever you’ve been sent here to do.” He glanced around. “It’s not so bad here. Nice little getaway.”

“You can say that; you’re a hologram!” said Sam. He walked around the room in confusion. “I don’t like the insides of caves! They make me nervous! And that dámņëd tapping won’t shut up!”

“This isn’t a cave, precisely,” Al informed him. “You’re under Manhattan.”

“Manhattan?”

“Yup. That tapping you hear is their way of communicating, via underground pipes. There’s a whole society living under here. You should see it.”

“I don’t want to see it! This is creepy, Al. This is really creepy.” Sam sounded more nervous than Al had ever heard him. Sam held up a hand. “These are claws, Al. I could rip somebody to shreds with these things!”

“You have. Or rather, this guy named Vincent has.”

“What?”

Al was busily tapping into the computer back at the Quantum Leap project. He studied the readout on the hand unit. “According to Ziggy,” he said briskly, “there was a series of slayings in Manhattan in the late ’80s– you’re in 1989, by the way– that involved various underworld types being ripped to shreds by something like a wild beast.”

“Wild beast,” murmured Sam. He stared at his claws in the mirror.

“Newspapers drew a link between those killings to a woman in the D.A.’s office named Catherine Chandler. The problem is, she was eventually found dead, as well.”

Sam felt his gorge rising. “Ripped apart?”

“Poisoned,” said Al. “Found in her apartment, poisoned. According to Ziggy, that’s apparently why you’re here. There’s a 97% probability,” Al looked up, “that you’re supposed to save Catherine Chandler.”