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Wanderer's Surprise

By Bill Kieffer

Icthorian inspired another story with his contests. This one was combine two universes... one from television and one from one of the TSA universes. I'm happy to say, this story won second place. The Blind Pig meets Quantum Leap... and, as always, you don't have to know either storyline to enjoy this story. It also made a cool, but cheap, present for Wanderer, the Bard of the TSA.

1978.

Sam smiled as felt the bond form. Brandon smiled, awkwardly, but it was a smile all the same. Brandon was a nice shy kid but he was also a genius. That wouldn't stop him from taking a header off a motorcycle without a helmet this summer on the way to a Star Trek convention. It wouldn't kill the kid, but for 30 years afterwards he'll wish it had.

"Rocket Science?" Brandon said, turning the word over in his mouth. "Isn't the space program, like... dead?"

"Tell him about SkyLab," Al said helpfully, jabbing a scentless cigar in front of Sam.

Trusting Al, rather than his swiss-cheesed memory, Sam said, "There's SkyLab," even as the remote unit his observer carried shrieked shrilly.

Brandon let out an exasperated sigh. "Don't you read the papers? Last fall, Nasa determined that Skylab was no longer in a stable attitude as a result of greater than predicted solar activity. It's going to fall out of the sky within months."

Al, apologetically, read off the hand-held unit. " In the fall of 1977, it was determined that SkyLab was no longer in a stable attitude as a result of greater than predicted solar activity. Uh, on July 11, 1979, Skylab impacted... will impact the Earth surface. The debris dispersion area stretched from the Southeastern Indian Ocean across a sparsely populated section of Western Australia."

Sam tossed his hands up in defeat, although it was eerie the way Al and Brandon had spoken quite nearly the same words at the same time. "OK, forget about SkyLab," he said as he got up from his seat. Sam shot Al a sarcastic "Thank You" look and tried to think quickly. He thought very well on his feet, usually.

Today was no exception. Within minutes, he had Brandon hooked, complete with stars in his eyes. "Gee Mr. Harris... I mean... I like Science Fiction and everything..."

"And that's why we need people like you, Brandon," Sam said, although his name wasn't Harris. He'd been answering to it for three days now. "People who think outside the box."

"Outside the box?"

Al smirked as Sam draw an invisible box in the air. "You know, in the box... standard thinking... thinking about things one step at a time... SkyLab was rocketry by committee... expensive piece of PR for NASA... in the box thinking says send men to Mars... out of the box thinking says... I don't know... send robots."

Something clicked inside of Brandon's head and for one moment his face brightened, then it fell. "Robots aren't that smart... they never will be... not really."

Sam smiled, thinking of Ziggy. He missed her. "Ooops, you're back in the box... get out of the box Brandon... you can always have the robots send the information back to Earth."

Brandon smiled, the dawn breaking on his mind. "Or... they could send the samples back to the Earth..."

Sam squashed the cost effective analysis that threatened to wipe the smile from his face, cost effectiveness belonged strictly to the box, a place Sam studiously avoided. Sam made pistols out of his fingers and fired them in Brandon's general direction. Mr. Harris had thought this gesture cool and Sam found himself unwittingly imitating the man who he had never met.

"Sam, you did it." Al announced happily. "Brandon here buys a moped instead of a motorcycle, giving him the freedom to get a summer job. Which he saves for his college fund... which gets him to the Technology University of Virginia. Oh, this is cool... in 1990, he becomes a Project Manager for NASA... hmm. Oh. Oh-Oh."

Sam turned his head to face the man in the blue Mylar suit. He meant to ask what Al meant by Oh-Oh but it was too late.

He leapt.

---

2041.

A rare treat, Sam actually lept into someone alone.

Of course, this was the first time Sam had ever lept into someone in a men's room stall. Well, he hoped it was a men's room, at least. Taking stock of the drab beige steel, personalized by some rather crude patrons, Sam decided Mens room. Not that women couldn't be as crude or as gross as men - and he'd been in enough Ladies' rooms by now to know this as a fact - but generally speaking women didn't leave horse shoe shaped dents in a stall doors. And this door was puckered with dents.

He exhaled gratefully. Not that he had anything against woman, but given a choice, Sam would rather be a plain old guy. After what he hoped was an appropriate time, he pulled up his pants... and sighed at the hole in his pants. Well, he'd wanted plain old maleness, didn't he?

The coat on the door turned out to be a royal blue cloak, which he put on, wondering if he was some sort of crazy homeless person or actor. He pulled out his wallet... or rather the wallet he would claim as his for however long he would be standing in for the real owner of the wallet. "Charles E..." he started to read before he saw the id sported a holographic picture of a dog's head. He saw that the ID was issued in 2038 and would expire in 2042 and he chuckled as he stepped from the stall, smiling as he sorted through the wallet.

He saw the mirror, out of the corner of his eye and looked up as he shoved the wallet in his surrogate pants. Let's see what Charles really looks like.

Sam blinked. "Oh boy," Sam said and then howled until his throat was raw.

---

Sam was playing the piano to distract himself from his nightmare. Previously, only his memory had been distorted by leaping. Never his sanity... well, not to his recollection at least. But now... all bets were off.

Al appeared before him, walking into the middle of the piano as if it wasn't there. To Al, it wasn't. Al was someplace else, safe in the future. Someplace where his patchwork suit might be considered tasteful, perhaps, although Sam rather doubted it. The piano was here in the past with Sam.

Or at least, Sam hoped it was. All bets were off, after all.

"Sam, Ziggy is having trouble locking onto you... do you realize you've lept into a werewolf?"

Sam gave Al a dangerous look. "He thinks he's a werewolf? OK... that explains it. Somehow are minds got scrambled and his psychosis is in my head, too, now..." Ziggy could amplify his voice to be heard over the music, Sam knew.

Al leaned forward, "Think, NOTHING! He IS a werewolf... furs, fangs, tail... all he needs now is the freakin' High School Varsity jacket and he's Micheal Landon reborn!"

Sam didn't catch the reference, but sensed it wouldn't matter. A thought was slowly forming in his head, but it wasn't one he was sure he liked. "Look around the bar, Al, tell me what you see."

Al looked around and the cigar fell from his lips, vanishing the second it left his lips. Sam felt a small degree of vindication in seeing the blood drain from Al's face. Than Al reminded Sam that he was still a Naval officer by spouting a blue streak a mile wide.

Sam began a rendition of "Animal Crackers, in My Soup." The bar quickly began to sing along.

By the end of the song, Al was under control. "There's no monkeys, but there are Tigers... rabbits... dogs... there's a minotaur behind the counter... thank god I can't smell this place. It must be a freaking zoo!"

"Actually," Sam said thoughtfully, "The smell is kind of comforting."

Al walked across the room to the pool table where a group of anthropomorphic dogs where trying to play pool. The scene looked vaguely familiar to Sam, but he instead concentrated on the music. Pop Goes the Weasel! If anyone had any complaints about his musical selection, they were keeping it to themselves.

"SAM!"

Sam looked up and stopped playing. Al was backing away from a mechanical device that was... walking towards him. It was a stainless steel stool with red padding... yet it somehow seemed to move under its own power. Al was openly horrified and actually backed through a wall that was only a hologram to the observer rather than let the ambulating object touch him... even if the ambulating object was only a hologram to the observer, too.

Sam didn't know what to make of that. He had to be in some alternate universe, or crazy. If both he and Al were seeing the same things, it stood to reason that neither was crazy... unless Ziggy was crazy too... and that was more than he could deal with on this side of the leap.

At that moment, a group of wolves on two legs dragged him away from the piano bodily and told him it was his turn to deal.

Apparently, his name for the duration was Wanderer, and he had to chuckle at how accurate a name that was for him. At first, he worried that the other... SCABs, they called themselves, he learned... that the other SCABs would see him for what he was. Many animals and even very young Children weren't fooled by whatever gave Sam the image of who he was replacing, after all.

However, they only thing Sam did was confuse some of them with his scent... or lack thereof. "Pokerscent," one wolf-man yipped happily. The rules of poker, other than a five dollar penalty for clawing the deck during a shuffle, were the same as in his universe, so bluffing was a big part of the game... when one could control his scent, that is.

After a bit, one of the wolves looked up at him. "What's the matter, Wanderer? You've got a big pile of chips and you're looking so... well, hang dog."

It was true, Sam was beginning to worry that Al wasn't going to come back. "Nothing," he said. "It's your turn to deal."

Silence broke out as if Sam had cursed. "Nuthin?" The wolf next to him asked.

"What? No long Shakespearen quote? No fancy-schamncy epic spilling out of your muzzle?"

Sam tried to stammer out an explanation and the wolf's eye went wider still. "Now I KNOW something's wrong."

"It's not because of the prank we're playing on Greyflank is it? You feel bad because he's totally bought the idea that the jukebox is an inanimorph."

"No, it's you who feel bad, because you're sweet on the horse."

"I am NOT! He gives me the creeps."

"But you like that kind of thing!"

"Are you and Lady Death fighting?"

Sam tried to follow the rest of the conversation, but was lost... completely and utterly lost. They just kept hounding him. He denied everything but that seemed to entice them to guess wilder still. Until finally he gave in and just said yes. He didn't care what he was agreeing to.

"Your birthday? We forgot your birthday?"

Sam grabbed that with all his might. "Yes! You forgot the anniversary of my lowly birth," he said and hammed up the slings and arrows such a slight had caused him. He mangled Shakesphere and Emerson, but apparently it was enough to convince Wanderer's friends.

"But we didn't forget your birthday, " the wolf opposite him said glibly. "We were just waiting until tonight when were would all be together."

"We were?" the wolf next to Sam said.

Instantly, Sam was kicked and the wolf who kicked him growled at the wolf to Sam's left. "YES... WE... WERE."

"T'would be my leg, you are so daintily tapping," Sam said, now into character.

Impossibly, the wolf across from him managed to look sheepish.

Sam excused himself and ran to the library on the excuse that he had to do some business before he could really relax and enjoy the party. The other wolves graciously said they would wait for him, although Sam suspected there would be a last minute rush to the gift store the second he turned the corner.

The Library was easy to find, and even though it was just barely dusk, only one or two people ever gave him more than a second glance. Within minutes, he found the books he needed.

That's when Al appeared. Sam looked at him and smiled... "Did the big bad stool scare you?" he whispered at the hologram. Al glared back and then plopped a fresh cigar in his mouth. "You know what your problem is, Sam? You just not sensitive to the feelings of other people."

Sam's mouth opened as wide as it would go, and he laughed at that mockingly. But silently... it was a Library after all.

Al opened his eyes and smiled for a second, and then tilted his head sideways. "Sam, put your tongue back in your mouth, we've got work to do. I talked to our guest and it's the year-"

"2041"

"You know? Doesn't that bother you?"

"No... actually, it's a bit more realistic than the alternate dimension thing I was worried about a few minutes ago."

"How so?"

Sam went to explain and then stopped himself. "Remember how I went back in time to the Civil War?"

"Yeah, but..."

"Well, this is nothing more than a rebound compensation effect."

Al bounced his head around as if accepting this fact on a trial basis only. "Ok... but Sam... how are going to know what to change if it hasn't happened yet?"

Sam wiggled his eyebrows and shoved an open book towards Al. "What year is it there, Al?"

Al growled his name warningly but, Sam just tapped the book insistently until Al actually read it. "The Mission To _and_ From Mars."

"All these people were changed because of a virus... a virus traced to this mission."

Al ran out of the room, to do what he could do, although to Sam it appeared that he ran into a blue rectangle that appeared and disappeared with a mechanical "whoosh." Sam sighed and closed the books, and wandered out of the city library.

His mind was awash with the history of the world... somehow, he felt he was to blame. But then he always felt that way, didn't he? In some ways, this SCABs was so potentially life enriching, as to take Sam's breath away. If the books were to be believed, SCAB victims sometimes had the chance to live virtually forever while others had the ability to force Father Time to give back the years cruelly stolen. Yet, in most ways, it took from people their commonality, their identities, and sometimes even their minds or even their very humanity. Then there were even a few who were dead by every definition known to science, except they still walked the earth, as that "stool" at the bar had.

Many were treated like Lepers. And when Sam thought how that stool that had once been a man or woman, he felt a wave of revulsion that hit him at two angles. As a man of science, the very idea of a inanimorph appalled him. As a man of great empathy, the idea of spending eternity in a numb shell of steel aware of humanity's parade, but unable to march in it, made him sick to his stomach for the poor thing.

The poor man.

Person.

*sigh*

Still, Sam's greatest asset was that has was also a man of wonder and whimsy. With their very version of reality knocked askew, civilization did not fall. To be sure there were riots and wars and very dark days, but within a short time, people stood back on their own feet faster than Sam might have guessed possible. It amazed him, it really did. Next to people, man's greatest inventions would always fall short.

Eventually Sam found himself back at the bar where he'd started. The Blind Pig. It was dark now, making the bar seem just slightly more inviting. He wrapped his cloak a bit tighter about himself and wondered what would happen when if Al got NASA to actually scrub the mission. He'd probably just Leap Out just like he always did.

Well, there was nothing to do but wait it out and try to figure out what the "real" Wanderer would do. With a wolfish grin, Sam realized that, whatever the wolf-actor would do, it would have to be big.

There was a birthday cake with beef-flavored frosting and doggie biscuit shaped candles.

The gifts were impromtu and small, yet almost every gift seemed to have been given some thought. A deep purple flea collar to match his cloak. A book of Shakespearean Sonnets in the original Klingon. A movie database. And then they delivered the coup de gras, which floored Sam... "a captive audience." They arranged the bar so that all the seats and chairs were facing him and they looked expectantly towards him.

Sam looked at the many odd and bestial faces staring back at him, all giving him their undivided attention. Sam was a man of Science, of great empathy, and of wonder.

Sam was also something of a ham, although he might never admit it even to himself.

Sam launched into a one-man version of Man of LaMoncha.

Sam leapt 45 minutes later, tired and exhausted, and the real Wanderer found himself standing in front of his friends, a bit tired and a little disorientated. Had he really forgotten they were all there before him? To his other amazement, they stood and the sound of their applause actually hurt his sensitive canine ears, but such a pain he was willing to bear gladly.

"Encore! Encore!" they screamed.

Trouper that he was, Wanderer paused only for a quick lap of water, and then gave voice to a medley of Andrew Lloyd Weber songs. It was a little self-indulgent, but what the hell.

It was his birthday, after all.

*** 1978.

Sam Leaped.

Sam Lept and landed in a small office, decorated with posters and bright colours, as if to disguise the fact it was built out of cinderblocks by the lowest bidder.

Steve Martin, Sam thought awkwardly, why am I posing like Steve Martin?

The boy he was pointing at with his gun shaped hands, smiled curiously at him. Sam knew the face, but couldn't place the name. He was tired and exhausted, not that Leaping made recalling names an easy task. Sam put his finger "weapons" away before he could hurt anyone.

"Mr. Harris? Do you think that might work? Having the robots bring back samples?"

Sam glanced down at the folder in front of him. Brandon, the name on the folder said... this was a career counseling session, his desk blotter informed him. He was a guidance counselor. He shuffled the forms around as Brandon seemed to grow less comfortable and found the battery of tests Brandon had taken.

"Or you could consider cosmetology as a career choice."

Brandon blinked. "Don't you mean Cosmology, the study of celestial mechanics?"

Sam thought about it for a moment, and felt dozens of red flags pop up surprisingly in his head. "No, no... I mean cosmetology, as in make-up."

"But... that's so... gay." For a moment, Brandon seemed as if he'd foreseen his own death, or that Sam had suddenly turned into a werewolf before his eyes.

Hmmm, something niggled in the back of Sam's mind, but he couldn't place it. It was that darn swiss-cheesed memory of his. Brandon sat there like a corpse, which almost prompted Sam to suggest that many men make their living as make-up artists for funeral parlors, but he kept his mouth shut.

Then Sam had a thought, "Yeah... make-up artists rake in the big bucks, Brandon. Werewolf movies, horror movies... even Star Trek movies."

That woke up Brandon. " Star Trek movies?"

Sam nodded. "Science Fiction is going to be big, Brandon..."

Brandon looked thoughtful, "Oh... like Tom Savini!"

Sam nodded. "You'll have to work hard, but I think you could do it."

Brandon got up to leave after a bit more chit-chat, but Sam stopped him. That niggling was back. "Brandon... here's $30... buy a helmet."

-END