How long have I leaped? Has it been ten years? Twenty years? A century?
I don't recall, exactly, and I stopped inquiring years ago. I no longer
care how long I've leaped, just that I've leaped again and not found myself
in my own body in the imaging chamber. Am I an old man? I probably am,
but each face I see isn't mine, so I'm not absolutely sure. Maybe all this
leaping has actually stopped or deaged me a little, and I just can't see
it for each mirror image mocks my every attempt to find out. How long will
I continue? How long must I endure the fact that I have once again leaped
into another person's life instead of my own? When will this Hell stop?
Will it at all? Or is my leaping my eternal punishment for a catastrophic
crime I have no recollection of committing?
I find myself there, my only way of realizing I'm in someone else's
aura. I'm in a small room with faded blue walls, an old springed bed who's
only clothing is a bare mattress and a pillow, one window looking out into
a cityscape, and one head-sized mirror hanging above the bed. I feel old
as I tried to step up onto the bed. Nowadays, I seem to be leaping into
old men or women, and it has been many years since I've been a young person.
Or has it been many centuries? I don't know. All I care about is finding
out what my aura looks like and moving on with the leap, and finally I
see my face. The hair is white, the face is pruny, but the body is in pretty
good physical shape. Apparently the man I've leaped into likes to keep
in shape.
But the face seems familiar. I don't know where I've seen it, but
it is definitely familiar. My photographic memory searched my history,
and my instinct leads it to a memory. I'm in a bar, and the date, August
8, 1953, comes to mind. In that bar, I see my reflection and realize it's
my own. In a quick check, I superimpose that last look at myself on the
mirror image of today, and I realize with shock that the person I see before
me is myself, old and decrepit. I try to speak, but nothing comes out,
but then something comes to mind, and I say the words that have brought
me into many situations, that have started off each adventure... "Oh, boy."
* * *
Al looked around the main area of the Project and sighed. Many good
people have worked here, and those that Al had grown most fond of died.
First it was Gooshie, and Al continually missed the man's bad breath. He
wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he knew they all knew. Second it was Dr.
Beeks, a fine person that Al wished he had gotten to know better. Lastly,
Dr. Donna Alessi died. Sam's wife. She was the last, and she was a tough
fighter. She had overworked herself trying to get her husband back, and
on her deathbed she said that she would rise and finish the work she started.
She had spunk, but she never finished her vow. In 2014, Donna died of a
broken heart.
Over the course of time, replacement were made. Verbena became a Pulse
Communication Technician and worked along side Tina, who, God bless her,
had refused to let her position go. Al's wife, Beth, had taken Gooshie's
job of fixing and repairing Ziggy, but she, like Gooshie, wasn't very successful
in keeping the parallel hybrid computer together for more than five minutes.
In fact, the only thing that hadn't changed in the twenty-five years they
had served on the Project was Ziggy's ego. Ziggy knew that she had started
out as a male computer, but once Sam married Donna, his wife decided to
make him a she, but Ziggy still preferred to be called a he because it
kept his ego boosted. Yes. Some thing never changed.
This leap was like any other. Once Al was notified that the leap was
complete, he made his way to the waiting room to see what information he
could squeeze from the person inside. He was getting a little old for this,
being eighty-six, but Al was just as stubborn as Tina was in relieving
his post. He had been with Sam from the beginning and he would be with
him until the end. And then something happened.
Beth came out of the waiting room. For the past several years, she made
it a point to greet each leapee, but when she emerged from the waiting
room she was running like there was no tomorrow.
"Al!" she shouted. "It's terrible; just terrible."
"What is it?" he asked, taking his wife into his arms.
"It's Sam. When I confirmed that the leap was completed, I went to see
who was in the waiting room, and it was completely empty! Sam's body wasn't
in there; no one's in there!"
Al moved quickly to the room and the doors parted after giving his security
code. The chair and mirror table were still in the room, but sure enough
no human body was there to be found. Quickly, Al and Beth returned to the
main area.
Once there, Tina was working one of the control stations, and Al told
her what had happened. Tina immediately went to work in finding Sam. Surprisingly,
it took her five seconds to locate him.
"He's in May 24, 1998, Washington D.C. His brainwaves are somehow being
amplified, making him stick out like a sore thumb; I'll see what's causing
it."
Al nodded and grabbed his control mouse from off the top of the station.
"You do that," he said, and entered the imaging chamber.
