The very moment Sam uploaded the timer data to Project Quantum Leap, Al burst into the Imaging Chamber, carrying a hefty stack of dot matrix printer paper.
“Well, Sam, congratulations, you have twelve thousand lines of code to transcribe, and I have to sit here holding it for you, so you better be quick about it,” Al deadpanned.
He took a hold of the first page, and let the stack drop, allowing the pile of perforated pages to concertina from his hand to the floor.
“Ziggy said she made some improvements for efficiency and cut the line count down twenty per cent. So at least there’s three thou you can skip.”
Sam flushed, and turned to Quinn who was soldering something at the kitchen table.
“I got the code.”
Quinn looked back. “Great! Let’s see it.”
Sam scratched his head, embarrassed.
“Well, it only exists in the future, so I have to copy it out line by line from Al’s hard copy.”
Quinn blanched. “How long do you think that’s gonna take?”
“Maybe eight, ten hours? Assuming I don’t get a cramp in my hands.”
“Oh boy,” Quinn said.
You said it.
“It’s alright, I didn’t need to sleep tonight,” Sam said with a wry smile.
“You definitely owe me one,” Al said. “I had a hot date planned with Beth, you know.”
“Sorry,” Sam said, beginning to type. Fortunately, his fingers were plenty nimble from a lifetime of piano playing followed by years of contributing to Ziggy’s programming. His fingers danced across the keys, and within a minute had almost completed the first page.
Over his shoulder, Quinn watched the code being written on the screen with interest.
“I’ll spot you for errors,” he said.
“Thanks.”
After a few more minutes watching the code appear, Quinn let out a low whistle.
“Either your computer added in new functions, or I knew way less about that timer than I thought.”
He pointed to a subroutine on the screen.
“That’s some kind of safety protocol I’ve never seen before.”
Sam looked at it for a moment. Then he resumed copying the code as he spoke:
“Oh yeah, you definitely want that. Prevents you from becoming un-anchored in spacetime. That could have some disastrous effects, if there’s an overload of energy in your wormhole. Of course, there tend to be other effects that can occur, but un-anchoring is by far the most dangerous. That was one of our most important developments when we were designing our system. Have you really been… ‘sliding’… without this?”
“I didn’t know that could happen…”
“Better safe than sorry, huh?”
In the reflection of the monitor, Sam watched Quinn nod, hanging over the shoulder of Maggie.
“Well, thank Ziggy for that.”
* * *
Rembrandt puffed as he finally reached the top of the stairs. He headed to the door of the motel room, arms loaded up with bags of takeout. Sheriff Maggie had encouraged him to try the Chinese place where she usually got her dinners, and he had to admit the food smelled amazing.
The wound on his knee from the slide in was stinging, and he hoped that meant it was healing rather than becoming infected. He figured he would need to go see ‘Doctor Beckett’ again to make sure.
He hoped Colin and Maggie were a little less bored now than when he’d left them; they had been looking pretty damn under-stimulated, watching some old western movie on the crappy television. Colin had been pointing out the inaccuracies, while Maggie seemed to be driven up the wall by his commentary.
He fumbled for the key in his pocket, but as he reached the door, he observed that it was ajar. This made his heart skip a beat.
Alarmed, he pushed the door open and cried out as he saw the scene in front of him. Takeout boxes tumbled to the floor.
Sprawled on the bed lay a prone Colin, blood matted in his hair.
“Colin!” cried Remy, rushing to him. He turned Colin over and checked for a pulse. “Colin, wake up, man!”
Colin groaned, and reached to the back of his head. “It hurts…”
“Colin, where’s Maggie?!”
“I… I don’t know,” he said, appearing to have trouble focusing his eyes.
“Did you see who hit you?”
Colin carefully sat up, then hunched over, head between his knees.
“No… the, the last thing I remember I was coming out of the… um, bathroom. I heard her scream.”
With that, he vomited all over his feet.
“Oh man, you need a doctor.”
He grabbed a hold of the phone by the bed and moved to dial 911, but then spotted the slip of paper with Maggie’s home number, and decided that might be a better option. He could get a doctor and report back to Quinn at the same time.
As he finished dialling, he straightened, and watched his friend struggling to keep his equilibrium.
“Hello?” Quinn’s voice was a relief to Remy.
“Q-ball, we need both of you. Maggie’s gone, and Colin’s hurt.”
“Oh no… we’ll be right there, Remy.”
And as quickly as that, the phone call was over.
Remy returned to Colin’s side, carefully avoiding the bile on the floor, and held onto him.
“Hey, you gotta stay awake, okay?”
Colin’s response was a groggy moan. Rembrandt wiped nervous sweat from his forehead, and inspected the back of Colin’s head, but it was difficult to see through his hair. Besides, a head injury was much more than what could be seen on the outside.
He felt Colin starting to slump over, and he gripped onto the man as best he could. “Stay with me, man. Help’s coming.”
“Did Billy know…?” Colin mumbled.
“That we were here?”
Rembrandt sighed. “I don’t know. We’ve been real careful, but there’s always a chance he saw her when we were bringing her here, or maybe he knows someone who works here that saw her.”
Through the open door, Rembrandt heard a car come to a screeching halt in the parking lot, then came the familiar chime of Higgins opening the squad car doors. Remy stayed on the bed, holding Colin up, as Sam and Quinn hurried up the stairs.
Finally, they reached the door. Rembrandt looked away from Sam, with the knowledge that he looked like Maggie, but wasn’t her, a little too much for him at this moment.
“Oh man, what happened?!” Quinn said as he stepped over the stray noodles and vomit on the floor.
“We don’t know. I found him like this when I came back from the restaurant,” Rembrandt explained, though he felt that it wasn’t at all helpful.
Sam had approached Colin, and was checking his eye reactions.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” He asked, holding two fingers in front of his eyes.
Colin, eyes dull, seemed to look through the fingers. “Uhh… four?”
“Damn,” he said, and peered around to the wound. “Rembrandt, find me a clean cloth and dampen it for me. Quinn, I think I saw an ice chest out there, see if you can get some.”
Quinn dashed back out of the room, and Rembrandt hurried to the bathroom, where he grabbed a washcloth, and ran it under the tap for a moment.
He passed it to Sam, who started using it to clean the wound.
“The bleeding seems to have stopped, but there is definitely internal damage, concussion at least. Stack some pillows at the head of the bed. I’m gonna get him to lie down on his side. When I get the ice we can apply some to help with the swelling. But unfortunately, we are going to need an ambulance. So once you’ve got the bed done, can you call 911?”
“Sure. And I think I saw a first aid kit in the closet,” Rembrandt offered as he started arranging pillows.
“Okay, great. That’ll help.”
“I thought people with head injuries shouldn’t fall asleep?” Remy wondered, looking at the pillows.
Sam shook his head. “Only if nobody’s around to help. Passing out alone won’t cause him to deteriorate, it’s the lack of medical care and monitoring of his vital signs that would make it a problem.”
Quinn walked back in the room with a bag of ice.
“Good job, Quinn. Grab a towel or washcloth and wrap up a handful of cubes.”
Quinn obliged, heading into the bathroom.
Rembrandt had completed his work on the bed, and moved to the phone to call an ambulance.
It really spun him out that this stranger who looked like Maggie was so ice cool in a crisis. If anyone had to swap bodies with her, he was glad it was this guy who seemed to be good at just about everything.
He gave the details to the 911 operator, and assured the dispatcher that Colin was getting first aid from someone who knew what they were doing.
Colin was now lying on the bed, with Quinn holding the makeshift ice pack to just above the wound, avoiding the actual laceration in case of pain.
“Hold on, bro,” he murmured.
Sam was pulling the first aid kit out, and rifling through it. He pulled out some gauze and disinfectant swabs, and crossed to treat Colin, who seemed to have lost consciousness.
Remy took this opportunity to step outside and take a breather. He felt terrible; he’d been entrusted with guarding Maggie, making sure nothing happened. And, at that, he couldn’t have failed harder.
He slammed a fist onto the railing, and realised that some of Colin’s blood was still on his hands. He looked at it with guilt, and went back into the motel room to wash up.