Atlanta, 1996

"Man," Richie Ryan said, tilting his head back to gaze in awe at the fifty- story lobby spiraling up over their heads. "This place could give anyone vertigo. What do you think would happen if you dropped a water balloon from the top of this puppy?"

"We better not find out," Tessa Noel warned with a smile. "Remember, we're here for the Olympics, not fraternity pranks."

"Not fair, Tessa. My fraternity is made up of only the most respected, academically gifted and morally upstanding young men at Seacouver University - "

" - who like to dance around in togas and nearly got expelled for that gatetailing fiasco - "

"Tailgating," Richie corrected. "Besides, the reports of my collegiate misconduct have been greatly exaggerated."

"Tell that to the dean," Tessa retorted.

Duncan MacLeod edged his way towards them through the thick crowd. He palmed two electronic room cards. "All set," he announced over the din of conversation, luggage carts, dinging elevators, rotating doors and clinking silverware. The open air lobby of the Marriott Marquis, curving gracefully upwards for over six hundred feet, stood framed by lounges, restaurants, gift shops and sports bars. Red, pod-shaped elevators encrusted with jewel-like white lights whisked guests up and down the hotel's central core. Colorful Olympic banners fluttered from dozens of brass railings, stirring in the cold air-conditioning.

Richie pressed his nose against the elevator glass as they slid up towards their rooms on the thirty-second floor. For weeks he'd been consumed with pre-Olympic fever, driving his classmates and fraternity brothers crazy. On the flight from Seacouver he'd been so restless Duncan had threatened to seat belt him permanently into place. Although he'd lived in France and traveled through Europe with Duncan and Tessa, he was ready for the Olympics to impress him more than anything else had in his nearly twenty two years of life on planet Earth.

Well, almost anything else. Immortals and their cryptic Game, known to Richie and a handful of other mortals, still fascinated him. The sight of men and women fighting with swords always resonated with some deep, hidden instinct in the very center of his gut. He didn't especially envy Duncan's strange gift - that lifestyle seemed to demand a high toll in pain and sorrow in return - but he sometimes wondered what it would be like to be an Immortal.

A group of athletes in blue team uniforms crossed the lobby far below. Richie wondered what country they came from, what sport they played, and enjoyed a new surge of excitement. Only the three of them were in the elevator, and as he slid his gaze sideways he saw Duncan taking advantage of the relative privacy to nuzzle Tessa's beautiful neck.

Richie didn't mind interrupting. "So, Mac, how many Olympics have you gone to? I know you weren't in Ancient Greece for the original one."

"No," Duncan agreed. He planted a kiss below Tessa's left ear and then pulled back with a smile. "That was a little before my time. When they first started them up in 1896, I thought they'd just be a fad. I've been to both the ones in Paris - 1900 and 1924, I think. Los Angeles in '32, Berlin in '36. Then I missed a few years. Melbourne in '56, Tokyo in '64. Moscow in '80."

"And don't forget Barcelona four years ago," Tessa reminded him. "Just a month before you decided to introduce yourself through the window, Richie."

"Well, Tess, you know, it's always easier to go through a glass window than break open a deadbolt," Richie said gamely. Although he sometimes liked to boast about the 'good old days,' he would never forget how hard, lonely and sad his juvenile delinquent days had really been. The memory of scouring garbage dumpsters for food scraps contrasted with the opulent hotel around him and made him fall into a reflective silence.

Duncan sensed Richie's mood shift but didn't try to cheer him up or change the subject. The last four years had changed a brash, troubled teenager into a young man with goals and confidence, but Richie still needed space sometimes to reconcile his past and present.

Their rooms proved to be medium-sized, well-furnished and decorated mostly in brown and beige. Duncan and Tessa had a king-sized bed and a view of the Peachtree financial district. Richie's room, right next door but on the corner, held two twin beds and a view of the Hilton. The bellhop arrived with their luggage - two bags each for Duncan and Richie, and four for Tessa. Duncan had no sooner finished tipping the man than Richie announced he was starving.

"This hotel has four restaurants." He waved the hotel directory in his hands in case proof was needed. "And twenty-four hour room service."

"Pick one."

"Um. . . the Mexican one. Garden level."

"Fine. We'll meet you there in fifteen minutes." Tessa raised her eyebrows. "Fifteen minutes? You're optimistic."

Duncan gave her a devilish grin. "It only takes me three minutes."

Tessa moved to deftly start unbuttoning his shirt. "Only when we do it your way. My way, it takes twenty."

"If sex was an Olympic sport," Richie told them good-naturedly, "you guys would be gold medalists. I'll be downstairs."

While waiting for them he struck up a conversation with two college women from U-Penn named Kelly and Robin. Duncan and Tessa arrived disheveled but in good spirits, and in only twenty two minutes. After a very good lunch of tacos and fajitas Richie went with Kelly and Robin to Underground Atlanta and the World of Coke museum. Duncan and Tessa stayed in their room. That night Richie, Kelly and Robin met up with a group of frat brothers from Florida State University and stayed out drinking at Centennial Park until four o'clock in the morning. At nine a.m. Tessa, beginning to feel a little guilty, prevailed upon Duncan to get out of bed so the three of them could eat breakfast.

"He'll think we're ignoring him," she said.

A bleary-eyed and somewhat grumpy Richie didn't seem enthusiastic about breakfast at all, but agreed to come down with them to one of the lobby restaurants and nurse his hangover with a cup of coffee. Halfway through his own breakfast of sausages, bacon and eggs, Duncan lifted his head with the glint in his eyes that signaled awareness of another Immortal in the vicinity. Richie and Tessa tensed, both dreading swordplay in the middle of the Marriott Marquis hotel. Duncan scanned the breakfast lines, seeking his potential enemy, and grinned when he sighted his quarry.

"Connor!" he called out, rising from the table.

At the opposite end of the buffet line Connor MacLeod, leaner and fairer than his kinsman, raised a hand and offered his own bright smile. He'd come dressed as fashionably as usual, in worn jeans and ragged sneakers.

"I didn't expect you to be here until tonight," Duncan said as they shook hands.

"I took an earlier flight." Connor turned to Richie, a slightly puzzled look on his face as if he sensed something odd about the young man. Nevertheless he clapped him warmly on the back and said, "Good to see you." Then he focused on Tessa and stiffened in shock. His smile slipped away and the white plate in his hand toppled to the floor, smashing into a dozen shards and a mess of fruit salad and scrambled eggs.

Duncan didn't understand the confusion on Connor's face and tried to make a joke of it. "Surely you haven't forgotten Tessa."

Connor couldn't take his eyes off her.

"But you're dead," he told her. Duncan scowled. "That's not funny."

"You were shot," Connor said, without even the slightest indication he'd heard Duncan. He shook his head as if trying to clear it. "I remember . . .you died - but it's like a weird dream."

"A nightmare," Duncan corrected sternly.

Tessa offered an uncertain smile. "I don't feel dead, and I'm sure that if I'd been shot I'd remember it. Jet lag will do funny things to you."

A busboy arrived to clean up the mess at Connor's feet. Still frowning, Connor went back to the buffet line to get more food. Richie asked a passing waitress for another cup of coffee. Duncan went after Connor, and pulled him aside to a corner.

"What was all that about?" he demanded.

Connor appeared genuinely perplexed. "I don't know," he admitted. "Duncan, I remember Tessa dying. You called me in the middle of the night and asked me to come. You took her body back to France and I stayed with Richie. He was shot, too - he became one of us."

"You're *hallucinating,*" Duncan insisted. "Does she look dead to you? Is Richie one of us?"

Connor rubbed the side of his head. "I know what the evidence of my own two eyes tells me, Duncan, but that doesn't change the little voice in my head."

"Tell the little voice to shut up," Duncan retorted, and went back to the table.

Connor followed moments later, making an obvious effort not to stare at Tessa. Richie gave up all hope of staying awake and stumbled back to bed. Duncan, Tessa and Connor explored Atlanta during the day, a field trip made somewhat awkward when Tessa would catch Connor staring at her. The three of them met Richie back at the hotel at five.

"What did you do all day?" Duncan asked.

Richie yawned. "Slept."

They took the MARTA train to the Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. Connor and Duncan knew they'd have to leave their swords behind because of the metal detectors, but resented the imposition. The stadium was surprisingly clean and well-planned, and their seats on the club level were air-conditioned against the thick, muggy air. They could see the stadium perfectly, and over the next two hours the eighty thousand seats began to fill to capacity. Richie stood in line for the concessions and came back with hot dogs, French fries, popcorn, and a giant container of Coke he almost spilled on Connor.

"What did you bring us?" Tessa teased. When the ceremony started with a burst of fireworks and dancing Duncan leaned forward in his seat, shivers racing up and down his body. No matter how many Olympics he attended, the thrill and exhilaration never stopped amazing him. When spokesmen from the city of Atlanta welcomed the world he vividly remembered the smoking, charred ruins William Sherman had left behind during the waning days of the Civil War. Had it only been one hundred and twenty two years ago? Pride surged through him at what the city had accomplished, rebuilding itself from the ruins.

He thought of Berlin in 1936, and how Hitler had tried to humiliate Negro athletes. Of Sarajevo, home to the 1984 Winter Olympics, and how a once graceful city had been destroyed in the violence and cruelty of ethnic cleansing when Yugoslavia collapsed. Of eleven dead Israeli athletes in Munich. Despite every horror nations managed to inflict on each other, he'd seen enough in four hundred years to retain a measure of hope and joy, a deep faith that mankind could still learn to live in peace.

John Williams launched the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra into a stirring rendition of his new Olympic theme, almost moving Duncan to tears. Tessa pressed a handkerchief into his hands and rubbed his arm. Connor gazed at the ceremony solemnly, his face inscrutable in the stadium light. President Clinton started his welcome remarks, and Richie and Connor took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. They hadn't returned by the time Celine Dion broke into "Georgia on My Mind," and a small nagging fear prompted Duncan to go in search of them. Connor wasn't helpless without his sword, but a public confrontation with another Immortal could prove disastrous in any case.

The men's restrooms weren't far. He found Connor and Richie safely inside - Richie sitting on a bench with his head between his knees, and Connor pressing a wet napkin to the back of his neck. "What happened?" Duncan asked, crouching down against the white tile. Fluorescent lights and banks of mirrors at every turn spotlighted Richie's pale complexion as he lifted his head.

"I got real dizzy all of a sudden. Maybe I ate something bad," Richie said. "Who would have thought? Food poisoning at the Olympics."

"One minute he was fine, and the next he was swaying like a drunk," Connor added matter-of-factly. "There's something else. I felt another Immortal close by, but didn't leave him to go find out who."

Duncan felt Richie's forehead. Cool and damp. "We should get you back to the hotel."

"No way," Richie insisted. "I don't want to miss the rest of the ceremony."

"Richie - "

"I'm fine." Once Richie's voice might have carried the petulant tone of a teenager, but now he was a young adult, capable of his own decisions. Duncan reluctantly acquiesced. Richie stayed in his seat for the parade of nations and cauldron lighting. By the end of the evening he'd regained most of his color and claimed to feel fine.

Duncan was grateful for that, because with eighty thousand people all leaving the stadium at the same time they quickly discovered not a single cab or bus was available. The nearest train station and the one five blocks from it were both mobbed. The four of them wound up walking back several more blocks to the Marriott, through streets crowded with boisterous revelers and aglow with the light of skyscrapers. In the hotel lobby, waiting for their elevators, Connor apologized to both Duncan and Tessa.

"I don't know what I was thinking about this morning," he said. "I'm sorry if I upset either of you. It must have been some very odd nightmare that I thought was real. You're obviously not dead."

Tessa kissed his cheek. "And I'm going to stay that way."

Duncan followed Richie into his room. While the younger man changed clothes and used the bathroom Duncan stood against the bank of windows overlooking the city.

"Stop being a mother hen." Richie switched off the bathroom light and sprawled face-down on his bed. He'd put on nothing more than ragged shorts and an old T-shirt, and shivered a little in the room's cold air- conditioning. Duncan adjusted the thermostat control and pulled the bedspread across Richie's legs and back.

"I'm not being a mother hen," Duncan said. "You're sure you feel fine?"

"Cluck cluck."

"Good night, Rich," Duncan smiled. He pulled the gauzy curtains shut against the lights of the Hilton Hotel right next door, barely noting the rooms clearly illuminated in the night and the shape of a man's silhouette standing at one window.

Across the street, on the twenty-eighth floor of the Hilton, the guest registered as Jason Pryce gazed blearily at the lights of the Marriott and Atlanta. Despite holding tickets to the Opening Ceremonies, he hadn't left his room all day. Empty room service trays littered the floor, along with hundreds of notes charted on hotel stationery, napkins, newspapers, and even toilet paper. He hadn't showered or washed his face, and his rumpled boxer shorts had offended the maid. He'd woken at six a.m, torn from a dream of holding a dying woman in his arms. It had taken him twenty minutes to discover where he was.

The "why" was much more important.

The "how" drove him nuts.

And the "when" was completely in flux.

Someone, Methos decided with a curse, was messing around with history again. Methos finally succumbed to the luxury of a hot shower. Soaping himself down under the powerful pressure of water, he reviewed his circumstances. In 853 and 1556 he'd documented similar occasions of waking up with dual sets of memories. In the first instance he'd written of a very vivid dream in which he'd been not in Sicily but in Japan, leading a life of different circumstances. The second time he fell into a drunken sleep at the marriage feast of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn's son James and woke to a world in which Anne had been beheaded in 1536 without any male heir. His dual memories had persisted for three days before fading away, and his only proof of the "other timeline" was the words he'd hastily scrawled in ink across a parchment page.

As far as he could ascertain, his current memories diverged sometime in the last two or three years. In the life he remembered, he'd been living in a Paris townhouse when a hoarse Immortal named Kalas came looking for his head. Trailing Kalas was a Scottish Highlander named Duncan MacLeod who had later become a close friend. He could distinctly remember visiting MacLeod and his protege Richie Ryan in Seacouver, settling there for awhile, and falling in love with a beautiful waitress named Alexa who worked for the head of the Watcher Northwest region. Alexa had died in a hospital in Switzerland, taking a large chunk of Methos' heart with her.

In the life he'd woken up to, Kalas had been nearly successful in slaughtering him and only a quick-thinking leap off the Eiffel Tower had saved Methos' head. He was dead in France for at least a generation, his cover story as a Watcher shattered. He'd never even been to Seacouver, and the only MacLeod he knew was an old friend and Scotsman named Connor who had ridden with him and Simon Bolivar in the heady, rousing days of rousting the Spanish from Columbia in 1819. He'd never much liked the Spanish much anyway.

One of the things he'd done during the afternoon, in between writing down every fact and detail he could remember from his old life before they faded like sunsets, was to call Seacouver. The operator gave him a listing for a jazz bar named Joe's. Joe Dawson himself answered the phone. With a dry throat and unsettled stomach Methos asked for Alexa. Joe said he was sorry, that she had died two months earlier of a brain tumor. Methos then identified himself as Adam Pierson and asked if Joe remembered him.

"Can't say I do," was Dawson's puzzled reply.

"Have you seen Duncan MacLeod lately? Did he marry that woman Anne?"

Dawson's voice turned suspicious. "Who is this? What woman Anne?"

Methos hung up.

Scrubbing his eyes in the shower, he wrestled with the feeling his best friends had all died on him. Even if some were alive, they might be inexorably lost to him, stranded on receding shores by a diverging river of time. Should chance make them cross paths, Duncan wouldn't remember sharing beers and trading tales of Immortality. Joe would never recall the week they'd spent cruising bars and seducing easy women in New Orleans. In this new life they didn't know him as either Jason Pryce or Methos, and would never even notice his absence from their lives.

In his current life, the incidents in Paris had sent him fleeing to Boston. He'd settled into a Beacon Hill brownstone apartment, accepted a position teaching European history at Boston College, and was working on a new nonfiction book about the overthrow of the Mongols in Russia. For the last six months he'd been dating a lovely physics professor named Helice Brooks, a vivacious redhead whose summer residency at Harvard precluded her from accompanying him to Atlanta.

Helice. Alexa. Boston. Seacouver. Both worlds persisted as equals in his mind. Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson, Richie Ryan - their faces would fade soon, and they would become nothing more than dry, dusty names in his frantic notes.

But why?

What person or force was responsible for ripping apart the life Methos had been leading? How, in a world of thousands of nations and billions of people, could he ever hope to track down clues to this mystery? In a just a matter of days, when the memories faded, he probably wouldn't even feel compelled to treat the issue as anything more than a curious phenomenon.

Methos stepped out of the shower and toweled himself dry. Only one man seemed to play a significantly changed role in his dual memories. In his old world Kalas was dead, having lost his head to Duncan. In the new one, Kalas had lived past 1994. Methos wasn't sure where the man was now, but felt confident that a few of the more unscrupulous Watchers he still knew might be able to come up with some information for the right price. Failing any definitive information on Kalas he would ask about the present whereabouts of Duncan MacLeod, Connor MacLeod, or Richie Ryan. Maybe the mystery might start to unravel around one of them instead.

Looking out again at the lights of Atlanta, Methos debated returning home to Boston to initiate his search. His computer and Chronicles were there. But something about the Olympics and the city nagged at him in an elusive way, and he couldn't help but think maybe the answer was close at hand.

More memories came into his head, more details. He groped for his pen and scrap paper to document them. When everything faded he would have only his notes by which to remember his old life. By which to remember Alexa. Her death hurt like a sharp knife twisting in his gut. He thought of her standing on a Santorini beach, her hands upraised to the gorgeous sunset sky as Mediterranean water lapped at both their legs. He saw her asleep in the bus in which they'd driven across America, curled up in the passenger seat with one hand still linked to his as he barreled down the highway collecting speeding tickets.

In one world she'd died in his arms.

In the other she'd died never even knowing his name. He wiped at his eyes and wrote down everything he remembered of her.

***

On Saturday morning Duncan's good friend Joe Dawson called from Seacouver. Someone using the name Adam Pierson had called for Alexa and Duncan both. Joe had done some researching. Adam Pierson had been a Watcher who'd died after a mysterious plunge off the Eiffel Tower. His body had disappeared from the morgue hours later.

"Ten to one he's an Immortal now," Joe said. "We just haven't caught up to him yet."

"I've never met him," Duncan said, reclining on his bed as he watched Tessa pull on tight white shorts and a green cotton jersey. "Name's not familiar."

"He also said something about you marrying someone named Anne."

Duncan frowned. "I don't even know an Anne."

Tessa brushed her hair back into a ponytail. "Anne who?" she asked curiously.

"I don't know," Duncan told her.

"Just chalk up another notch in the weird category," Joe said.

On Wednesday, Richie went with his friends Robin and Kelly to the artificially constructed Atlanta Beach. Two hundred and forty tons of sand had been trucked in to create a playing surface for the first volleyball teams to ever compete as Olympians. Twenty minutes before Karch Karaly and Kent Steffes beat the Italian team, Richie collapsed in the hundred degree heat. The paramedics in the first aid tent said he'd probably been out in the sun too long. His vital statistics were fine and after a brief rest and plenty of fluids they released him. Richie didn't want Duncan and Tessa to find out, but Robin had already called and left a message at the hotel. That evening Duncan tried to persuade him to go to the hospital, but classic Richie Ryan stubbornness kicked in.

"Maybe it's just one of those inner ear infections like Tessa had last year," Richie suggested. "It doesn't matter. I feel fine."

They argued about it and Richie finally agreed to go to the hospital if he fainted again. Duncan, Richie, Tessa, and Connor spent most of Friday at the Georgia Tech Aquatic Center, watching the 10 meter platform diving competition. Connor rooted for Chinese favorite Fu Mingxia while Duncan and Richie cheered on American Becky Ruehl. They ate a late dinner at a vegetarian restaurant called the Sunflower Cafe. Richie and Tessa left the restaurant bound for Centennial Park, but Duncan was tired and Connor wanted to do nothing more than relax in the hotel pool and sauna.

Upon returning to the Marriott they immediately sensed the presence of another Immortal. Connor saw him first - a pale, slender, dark-haired man standing harmlessly at the brass rail of a lounge above the main lobby. The Immortal was watching them both, and appeared to have been waiting for them. "I think I know him," Connor said, squinting. "I'll be right back." Duncan watched him climb the stairs and carefully approach the other Immortal. After a few seconds they shook hands, and Connor waved for Duncan to join them.

The Immortal introduced himself as Jason Pryce. He appeared to be in his late twenties and spoke with a British accent. Connor said they'd ridden together with Simon Bolivar. Although Duncan had no interest in reminiscing about Spanish revolutions he agreed to sit and drink a Scotch. The three men retired to a discreet alcoved lounge of brown leather chairs which offered a stunning view up the lobby's fifty-story height.

"Imagine meeting like this," Connor said, leaning back and allowing his long, lean legs to stretch across the rug. "It's been a long time."

"Our meeting wasn't by chance," the other Immortal said, with a slightly bashful duck of his head. "A friend of a friend told me you were in Atlanta. I've been looking for you for a few days."

"Why?" Connor asked, sounding both interested and wary. "We haven't seen each other in one hundred and eighty years."

Jason tilted his head slightly. The movement reminded Duncan of someone he'd once known, but he couldn't place who exactly. "I was wondering if you'd noticed anything different recently."

Duncan kept his voice level. "Different how?"

"Different . . . divergent. Having a dream that seems very real, perhaps, and waking up to find that everything's changed."

Connor glanced over at Duncan. Duncan continued to stare at Jason Pryce, wondering why he seemed so familiar.

"Perhaps," Connor offered grudgingly.

"I have," Jason confided quietly, running his thumb around the rim of his beer glass. "But not a dream ... " He fixed a frank gaze on both of them. "I remember an entirely different history going back three years. I remember meeting you, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, and staying with you in your loft above Charlie DeSalvo's gym in Seacouver. I remember that your fiancee Tessa Noel had been tragically shot in a mugging, and that you had a student named Richie Ryan who was getting rather good with swords. I remember falling in love with a woman who worked for Joe Dawson in his little jazz bar on Dupres Street."

Duncan said nothing, caught in an ice cold chill that rose from the center of his stomach and exploded outward through every inch of his body. The faint background noise of the hotel - the elevators, the front desk, conversations in the lounges and restaurants - swelled into the space between the men. Jason's expression shaded into disappointment. "You don't remember," he sighed.

Connor struggled for words like a man who'd been bashed repeatedly on the side of the head. "I remember telling Tessa that she was dead. At the time it seemed real, but now I don't remember why. Richie . . . I thought he was Immortal. There's no reason I should have thought that, either."

Duncan reached for his Scotch, desperate for something to warm himself with. The alcohol slid down the wrong way, and he spent a minute coughing it out. He didn't remember any of the events Jason had just described, but the unfathomable feeling he *should* pummeled through his head, trying to find a way to his vocal cords.

"The memories are fading," Jason admitted in a sad voice. "In a few days I think they'll be completely gone. But I wanted to tell you. I guess I needed to tell you."

Connor shifted in his chair. "Tell him the other thing."

Jason didn't answer right away. Duncan saw an unspoken communication pass between his kinsman and the dark-haired Immortal sitting across from them.

"He has a very long life line," Connor said to Duncan.

Jason gave them a half-smile that seemed both rueful and shy. "A very long life, and many, many names."

Duncan snorted. "I suppose you're going to tell me you're Methos?"

Jason's eyebrows lifted. "Got it with one guess, didn't you?"

"You can't be serious," Duncan said, looking to Connor for help, but Connor just sipped his Scotch. Duncan's gaze shifted back to Methos in disbelief. "He's supposed to be four thousand years old."

"A little over five, actually, but who's counting?" Methos returned.

The whole conversation had turned too bizarre for Duncan's taste. Alternate histories, Tessa being murdered, a five thousand man sitting across from him. He had no reason in the world to believe this Immortal's ridiculous claims. Perhaps some part of him already did, however - the same deep instinctive part that had fallen in love with Tessa at first sight and had trusted Richie when the teenage thief showed no evidence of being trustworthy.

Unsettled more than he wanted to admit, he stood up. "I'm going to go find Tessa and Richie."

Connor rose too. "I'll come with you."

"Duncan - " Methos said, a world of regret in the one word. Duncan looked at him, bewildered, overwhelmed. Methos shook his head and looked away, unable to complete the sentence. "If you want to talk again, I'm staying at the Hilton across the street."

Duncan didn't say anything. He left the hotel, trying to lose himself in the dark, busy streets, but Connor persisted at his side and they walked several blocks toward Centennial Park locked in private thoughts.

They were only two streets away when the bomb exploded.

Richie slid through the partying crowd at Centennial Park, tired and sweaty but happy, bound for one of the beer tents. He and Tessa had been dancing up a storm near the bandstand. Tessa had complained earlier that while Duncan could certainly tango, waltz and do the meringue, he was appallingly bad at just dancing to rock'n'roll and absolutely refused to have anything to do with line dancing. Richie grinned to himself at the thought.

He bumped up against a dark-haired woman older than himself who was wearing a short halter top and blue jeans. "Sorry," he said, trying to go around her. Her hand reached out and grasped his arm, and she bent to say something in his ear.

"Huh?" Richie asked, unable to hear her over the music and crowd. People jostled them from all sides, and it took several seconds for him to realize the hard, blunt object poked against his right ribs was a gun.

"Come with me," she said again, so close to him he could smell her perfume and the hint of flowery shampoo in her shoulder-length hair. Her clammy hand tightened on his arm. "Come with me or I'll shoot you where you stand."

Richie pulled back his head, startled at the threat.

She nudged the silenced muzzle of the gun deeper into his side.

***

Captain Richard Ryan moved slowly through the crowd, trying to keep a safe distance from himself. The semantics of quantum leaping, he mused silently, could drive an English teacher to distraction. His younger self, the mortal Richie Ryan, had just broken away from the dance area and was looking for something - beer, the bathroom, or maybe his second hot pretzel of the evening. Captain Ryan knew better than to get too close to his younger version - twice he'd carelessly let that happen, and they'd both been stricken by vertigo.

That interesting side effect made it impossible for him to ever hold a face- to-face conversation with himself. Sam Beckett had never experienced that problem, having done all of his traveling by leaping into unwitting local hosts, but Captain Ryan was hopscotching through time in his own body. If one of him - if his younger self or older self, that is - were unconscious, asleep or dead, close contact brought no adverse reaction. He'd proven that on his last leap, when he'd stumbled across his younger self unconscious in Pallin Wolf's library. Only when Richie had started to come around had Captain Ryan felt a pronounced shakiness in his muscles. With profound regret he'd hit Richie hard on the side of the head with a candelabra, delivering a solid thump that sent the younger man spinning back to unconsciousness.

The regret had been worth it. After defeating Wolf and freeing Tessa, Duncan had found Richie unconscious in the downstairs hall exactly where Captain Ryan left him. Instead of staying behind to search Wolf's computers as in the original history, Duncan carried Richie to the car and drove him and Tessa to the hospital. Watching from a window, Captain Ryan was immensely relieved to see Mark Roszca's shadow appear on the street just seconds after Duncan had driven away.

"No murder for you tonight," Captain Ryan said in smug satisfaction, and then Leaped into a massive stadium in the middle of eighty thousand people, watching the parade of nations inaugurating the centennial Olympic Games. Ten minutes later he'd almost run into his younger self and Connor MacLeod in the bathroom. He'd been keeping close tabs on himself ever since, wondering what his mission was.

His Observer and wife, Dana, had yet to put in an appearance. Captain Ryan was only vaguely worried about that. Sometimes she and the project computer Ziggy had trouble tracking him through the centuries. His current stretch of leaps had started eight weeks earlier and thrown him into seventeen different conundrums. He had three left to go in the pre- programmed sequence before he was returned home. Unlike Sam, his predecessor and hero and still the driving force behind the Quantum Leap project, Captain Ryan had control over how long he was away from home. He had no control over where the leaps took him, or over what he was supposed to do, but Ziggy could recall him in the middle of a Leap and bring him home.

Home. Thoughts of the New Mexico ranch he and Dana shared with ten horses and four dogs made a wave of homesickness rise in his gut. He wished she'd show up and tell him what he was supposed to be doing. The predictions weren't always accurate, but they helped. The Leaps themselves seemed to be controlled by a powerful, loving force of justice and forgiveness - God, Sam once said, in a reverent tone. The quest for that God was one of the propelling forces of the Quantum Leap project.

His younger self had stopped to talk to a dark-haired woman. Captain Ryan slid sideways, trying to get a closer look. Her features looked exactly like - no, it couldn't be. What would Valerie be doing here? The woman and Richie started to move away, Richie's expression unaccountably tense. A swelling sense of foreboding made Captain Ryan follow them. They had gone no further than fifty feet when a bomb exploded with a horrific burst of sound and light, throwing the park into chaos.

Cries of pain and surprise deafened him from all sides. Captain Ryan whirled, caught off-balance by the explosion. He berated himself for not remembering this forgotten footnote of history even though the Atlanta bombing had happened six hundred years in his personal past. Maybe the purpose of this Leap had been to save innocent lives and he'd failed. Dana was supposed to remind him of things like this, guide him, give him the information he needed. Shit. Captain Ryan spun back to find his younger self but Richie had disappeared. He started pushing his way through the crowd, desperately elbowing people out of the way in an attempt to find Tessa. He couldn't bear to believe that he'd saved her on his last Leap only to lose her again on this one.

The blast of light and noise had registered only dimly on Tessa. Thrown to the ground by a dull whoosh of air, she found herself lying in pools of soda and beer amid discarded plastic cups, crushed cans, dirty paper plates and entangled bodies. For a moment all she could do was lay breathlessly, half-blinded by something wet and sticky in her right eye, disoriented by the screams and cries that filled the air around her. Had something bad happened? She struggled to sit up against a powerful wave of dizziness. Her head ached horribly and she felt as if she'd been cut in a dozen different places. Someone grabbed at her arms, steadied her from falling back and injuring herself.

"Richie?" she asked, trying to focus on the blurry image in front of her.

"You're okay," he said firmly. He eased her so that she was lying on her back and pressed a napkin to her forehead. "Just stay here and don't move. Help is on the way."

He disappeared. Tessa wanted to weep at the abandonment. Why did he leave her? Men and women she didn't know came to her, asking her questions, holding her hands. When she heard Duncan's shouts she cried out for him, and within seconds he was holding her tightly against his chest and murmuring reassurances into her ear.

Connor had come with him, and crouched beside the reunited couple. "Where's Richie?"

"He was here," Tessa said, clinging to Duncan for comfort. Even against the strong muscles of Duncan's chest she couldn't stop shaking. "But it was so strange . . .he was different . . . "

"Sssh," Duncan soothed, stroking her hair. "It's okay. Connor will find him."

Connor stood, wondering just how he was supposed to accomplish the task in the thousands of people still crowded into the park. Police and ambulance sirens drowned out his shouts for the young mortal. Weaving his way through the chaos, forcing himself to blot out the sight of the injured as if Centennial Park were just another battlefield, Connor stiffened as the presence of another Immortal crashed over him.

Then he saw the two Richie Ryans.

One knelt in the dirt at the edge of the park grounds, swaying and clutching his head as if concussed. He gave off an Immortal hum that startled Connor. The other Richie, mortal and barely conscious, was being manhandled by a dark-haired woman into a blue sedan. "Valerie, we have to talk about this! This can't be the plan!" the Richie Ryan on the ground protested. "I have to!" the woman yelled back. "You'll understand later! I'll see you at home."

Connor hesitated, unsure of what exactly to do, but then decided the Richie Ryan being shoved into the car was his first consideration. Richie's weight was proving hard for the woman to shift and he flopped limply out of the back seat. Valerie shoved him back inside and tried to close the door. Connor covered the distance between them quickly and yanked her back. "I don't think you want to do that," he growled.

She flinched in his grasp, her eyes growing wide as all color drained from her face. "Connor!" she said, as if they knew each other, as if they were somehow linked. But he'd never seen her before. Before he could answer something heavy and hard pressed against his belly.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," she said. "But I'm doing this for you."

The gunshot ripped through him, skewering his middle with a white-hot agony that doubled him towards the ground. With a sob Valerie circled the car and slid behind the steering wheel. Dragging at all the strength he could muster, Connor snagged the passenger door and grabbed for Richie just as the car accelerated. Richie fell out lifelessly, his head smashing against the dark pavement, bouncing, smashing again.

The sound of mortal skull cracking against cement sickened Connor. "I'm sorry," Connor gasped, trying to feel for a pulse, unable to find one because of his own badly shaking hands. He knew as well as Duncan that Richie was destined to become an Immortal, but not so soon. Dear God, not so soon. The fact that Connor himself had caused the injury by pulling Richie from the moving vehicle made the situation even worse. The effort to breathe and stay conscious made the Highlander's vision blacken at the edges, and he slumped against the unconscious man's leg. "I should have let her take you."

"No," said the other Richie Ryan, who hadn't moved from his kneeling position a dozen feet away. He lurched to his feet, groping at mid-air as if hoping to find a handhold. "You did what you had to."

Connor blinked, his thoughts growing muddy, his body beginning to fail. "Who are you?" he coughed out. "Why didn't you stop her?"

The Immortal Captain Richard Ryan shook his head and retreated into the darkness.

Connor slid into the cold and welcome embrace of death.

***

Duncan couldn't imagine a worse night.

The emergency triage teams took Tessa from him and loaded her into an ambulance bound for the Scottish Rite hospital. From her gurney she insisted vehemently in both English and French that Duncan stay behind to find Richie and Connor. After several minutes of searching Duncan found a knot of paramedics and spectators at the edge of the park. He could only see Richie's arm and Connor's sneakers, but the pulse of Connor's Quickening raced in time to the beat in Duncan's temple and reassured him his kinsman still had his head. He forced himself in closer.

"This one's breathing," one paramedic announced as he examined Connor. "Vitals look good. Lots of blood, but I can't find any goddamned wound. We need more light!"

By the time they carried Richie away he was strapped to a backboard, immobilized by a cervical collar and breathing direct oxygen from a portable tank. Duncan identified himself as family and insisted on riding in the ambulance with the young man. He spent the trip holding Richie's cool, limp hand and talking nonsense words to him. Connor went in a separate ambulance. The three of them wound up at a hospital off Peachtree Road, one of several accepting bombing victims. Connor regained consciousness in an examination cubicle and demanded to be released. He obviously wasn't injured, he argued, and must have just fainted at the sight of someone else's blood on his torn clothes. Richie was whisked away to deeper warrens in the hospital, but no one would give Duncan an update. He tried calling the Scottish Rite hospital to find out about Tessa, but the lines were jammed and when he finally got through the nurses didn't know who he was talking about.

Connor squeezed the tight muscles in Duncan's shoulder and said, "Go to her. I'll stay here with Richie."

Duncan rubbed his eyes. To almost lose both of them in one night scared him horrendously. He didn't think he'd be able to handle that. Richie would come back, intact but fundamentally changed, requiring instruction and discipline and a whole new approach to self-preservation if he was going to survive as an Immortal. Tessa would go to the ground, her love and vitality and artistry stolen from him for the rest of time. He'd lost lovers before but the grief of losing Tessa would consume him and sear like a branding iron on his soul, and he feared it even more than he did his own death.

"Duncan," Connor said, pulling him into an embrace. "It's okay. It'll all be fine."

Duncan relaxed fractionally against his kinsman's hold, struggling to contain the fear and relief that threatened to breach his fragile control. "I know," he said, sniffing, and pulled away after a minute to fumble with a Kleenex. "But it was so close. What would I do if Tessa died?"

"You'd live. You'd survive."

"What if Richie dies here?"

"Then he does," Connor said, a shadow flitting across his face. "And we deal with it. I called Jason - Methos - whoever he is. He has a rental car. He's coming to pick you up and take you to Tessa."

Duncan frowned. He'd almost forgotten about the other Immortal and his improbable tales. "Do we want his help?"

"At this point I'd say we want all the help we can get."

Methos appeared within thirty minutes, and with very few questions whisked Duncan to the Scottish Rite hospital. Tessa had already been stitched, cleaned with antiseptic, bandaged in a half dozen places and released with a prescription for painkillers. She and Duncan held each other for several long minutes, clinging together as if lost at sea. Methos turned discreetly away. Finally Duncan asked Tessa if she wanted to go straight back to the hotel, and she said no, she wanted to see Richie.

By the time they returned to the North Side Hospital, Richie had been admitted to a fifth floor private room and was being monitored for a concussion and a severe neck strain. The ER physician had given him fifteen stitches and he had an egg-sized lump on the side of his head, but he was damn lucky his skull hadn't broken into little bits. He had regained consciousness, the doctor said, which was a good sign, but was very disoriented and in considerable pain. They could see him when visiting hours started at noon. Connor decided to camp out in the waiting room, reasoning that the woman who'd tried to kidnap Richie might come back. Methos took Duncan and Tessa back to the Marriott, and although Tessa fell asleep almost immediately it was a long time before Duncan could close his eyes without thinking about death.

Saturday proved to be gray and rainy, weather which exactly matched Duncan's mood as they crossed the parking garage into the hospital. He, Tessa and Methos had said very little in the car on the way over. The morning news had been filled with reports about the Centennial Park tragedy and a palpable gloom had settled over the Olympics. One woman was dead as a direct result of the bombing, and a foreign newscaster had suffered a fatal heart attack. Tessa wept in the shower over the senselessness and cruelty of it all, and all Duncan could do was hold her beneath the stream of water and try to take away her hurt.

Part of the heavy weight in Duncan's chest lifted when they entered Richie's room and found him propped up in bed, bedecked with a cumbersome cervical collar and bandage around his head. An IV line and long needle was plugged into his right arm, but he looked much, much better than he had in the ambulance.

"You okay?" Richie asked Tessa in concern as she bent to kiss his cheek.

"Fine." She carefully wrapped her arms around him, squeezed gently, and let go. "You scared me, though."

"Me? I'm fine too. Look what I got." Richie waved in the general direction of a table against the wall piled high with boxes of sneakers and Olympic memorabilia. Duncan noted that he was very careful not to move his head or neck, and each word deepened the white lines in his forehead and around his eyes. "They think I got hurt in the bombing. Get blown up in Atlanta and you get a lot of free stuff, you know."

"How did you get hurt?" Tessa asked, smoothing back the curls from his forehead.

Richie's tired gaze shifted inquisitively to Methos. Duncan introduced him as Jason Pryce, a very old friend of Connor's. Both Richie and Tessa understood the connotation of "old friend." Richie's gaze lingered on the third Immortal, as if he was trying to remember something, but then he looked back to Duncan.

"Someone tried to kidnap me," he said. "A woman. Dark hair, good looking. She had a gun. She said if I didn't come with her she'd shoot me where we were standing. She took me to her car and then I started to faint, like the other times but even stronger. The next thing I know I'm falling out of a back seat and then nothing until here."

The words obviously exhausted Richie, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment when he was done. Connor ruefully picked up the story. "I pulled him out of the car. I didn't mean for him to get hurt. I tried to stop the woman - she was one of us, you know - but she shot me."

"Shot you!" Tessa exclaimed. "But why? Why would anyone want to kidnap Richie?"

"We'll have to ask her friend," Connor sighed. "The other Richie Ryan. Let me tell you about him."

Connor related the details of the other Richie, but left out the part about the twin being Immortal. Duncan listened in disbelief, wondering if his kinsman's memories hadn't been somehow muddled. But when Tessa chimed in about the Richie who'd come to her aide, Duncan was forced to face the possibility of twin Richie Ryans.

"A twin brother?" Despite the horrendous throbbing in his head and general haze of painkiller, Richie was intrigued by the prospect. "Two of me?"

Duncan patted Richie's arm fondly. "Heaven forbid. I worry enough about the one of you."

"Two might be somewhat taxing," Connor agreed. "I don't trust the other one, though. I think he and the woman are working together. He knew her name - Valerie - and said something about a plan. He could have stopped her from driving away, but he did nothing. Then he left us in the street."

Richie made a small sound as if remembering something. Duncan gave him a quizzical look. The young man asked hesitantly, "Do you guys remember Pallin Wolf?"

Tessa stiffened. "That bastard. Yes."

Methos threw a quizzical look at Connor, who obligingly asked about this Pallin Wolf person.

Duncan squeezed Tessa's hand and told the story in a level voice. "He would kidnap the wives or loved ones of Immortals and lure them to a fight in pitch blackness. He had infrared glasses that gave him the winning advantage. He took Tessa three years ago."

"Mac rescued me," Tessa said, kissing the back of Duncan's hand, "and killed Wolf." She turned a speculative gaze on Richie. "You wound up in the hospital, though. You had a bad concussion. For days later you thought I was . . . "

She trailed off.

"Dead?" Methos hazarded.

"Mac told me to stay outside," Richie said in a distant voice, eyes locked on something only he could see. He took a deep breath before continuing. "I didn't listen, of course. Wolf hit me in the back of the head with something. I remember waking up in the house - I remember . . . "

"What, Rich?" Duncan leaned closer. "What do you remember?"

"Me," Richie said in a tiny voice. "I remember waking and seeing myself. Or I thought I did. Then something else hit me, and everything went dark again." He groaned softly and pressed his hands to the side of his head as if trying to contain his headache. "That's all there is."

"You need to rest," Tessa said firmly, fixing the blanket across his chest. To the others she said, "I don't want to hear anything more about my being dead. Every time someone says it I feel like someone is walking over my grave. I'm here now, alive and reasonably well. Does anyone here seriously believe I'm a ghost?"

The men shook their heads.

"Good," Tessa said. "Now shoo. Go find this mysterious twin of Richie's, why don't you?"

***

Captain Ryan was currently rummaging through his younger self's room at the Marriott. It had taken three days of distant observation to figure out which room belonged to Richie. Captain Ryan waited for the housekeeper to go in, gave her five minutes to get started, and then went in after her waving a stolen card key. He handed her a generous tip with the instructions to come back later. For a moment he stood still in the quiet room, studying the clothes scattered on the dresser and chairs. Dana always complained that he was a terrible housekeeper. But with all the exciting things to do in the world, and so very little time, how could he waste any folding underwear into perfect squares or making sure his socks matched?

His younger self had brought a horrendous green vinyl jacket with him to Atlanta. Captain Ryan eyed it doubtfully, wondering if he'd really worn such a thing. Maybe he'd blocked out the memory as a traumatic fashion catastrophe. If Dana saw it, she'd never let him live down the humiliation. He thought about throwing it out, but reluctantly dismissed the idea. His younger self would have to learn to dress himself on his own.

Richie had apparently stopped off at a photo shop and developed pictures during the week. Captain Ryan leafed through them, smiling at images of Connor, Duncan, Tessa, a volleyball game, two winsome coeds. Some photos were too dark to see clearly, but Richie had taken several good pictures of Kerri Strug crippling herself for the sake of American gymnastics. Near the bottom of the stack Captain Ryan found photos taken at the preliminary track and field qualifications, and in the background of one group shot he saw Valerie.

She must have been following Richie all week, waiting for an opportunity to kidnap him. The bombing at Centennial Park had proven to be a useful if tragic diversion. But what in the world was she doing? She should be safely ensconced in the future, working on the Quantum Leap chronicles. She'd never expressed a desire to go into the field before. She certainly had no reason to step into the accelerator. Had something gone horribly wrong with this assignment?

He pushed the disquieting thoughts away to concentrate on the task at hand. As hoped, the connecting door to Duncan and Tessa's room was unlocked, and on the bedside table he found the yellow pages open to the hospital listings. North Side Hospital was circled with blank ink. He copied the name and number on a piece of hotel stationery and stuck it in his pocket One mystery solved. Knowing where his younger self was should make it easier to protect him. Dana should have been able to provide the information for him, but she still hadn't put in an appearance.

During the last Leap he'd worried about somehow doing something to screw up his entire future, jeopardizing his marriage to Dana or his work on the Quantum Leap project. But Sam himself had said repeatedly he would have to trust the Leaps. Nothing good would be stolen away from him. The only failure came from not righting a wrong.

His last Leap had righted one wrong - the untimely death of Tessa Noel. What wrong existed here in Atlanta, or was he just here to stop Valerie's plans?

An Immortal buzz filled his senses. Captain Ryan rose from Duncan and Tessa's bed and reached for the hilt of his sword. He moved swiftly and surely into to the hall, which overlooked the stunning vista of the lobby. Valerie had stopped her approach at the sense of him. She'd refrained from donning the black wig that had confused him at Centennial Park, and her short gold hair had been pulled from her face by a clip. She put a hand on her hilt too, flinching back slightly from his larger form.

"Why are you here?" Captain Ryan challenged.

"Don't try to stop me," she begged, her expression torn. "It's Richie. It's - your first death. It has to be now, not later."

"Why? What's happened?"

"Please," she said. "Tell me where he is. I promise, I'll make it painless. But he has to lose his mortality now, while Duncan is here to guide him."

"What does Mac have to do with this?" he demanded, before a ghastly fear kicked into his gut. Had he somehow changed events and inadvertently caused Mac's death in the future? Valerie and Duncan barely knew each other, though. He couldn't imagine that Duncan's death would propel her into a Leap. Her husband Connor's, maybe -

"Is it Connor?" he asked. "Did my not dying in 1993 somehow change Connor's future?"

"Richard, please. I have to find him."

The four of them - he and Dana, Connor and Valerie - had spent twenty years working on Quantum Leap, rescuing Sam Beckett from the currents of time and working to set things right again. He trusted her as much as he trusted his own wife, and in any other circumstance wouldn't have hesitated to answer her. Surely if she felt it was necessary to kill his younger self he owed it to her to listen, no matter how ludicrous her reasons might sound.

Just as he started to voice those thoughts aloud another Immortal buzz debuted in his senses, and he saw Connor and Methos step off the elevator car that had just slid to a stop on the lobby's central core. Connor saw him and pointed for Methos' benefit.

"Richard, please!" Valerie begged. "Tell me where he is!"

He knew her. He trusted her.

"No," he said.

She looked as if he'd stabbed her. With a quick deft movement Valerie hoisted herself over the balcony and dropped down from sight. For a moment he was sure she'd plummeted thirty-two stories to the lobby, but then he saw her dart away on the floor below. She'd merely swung down to the next balcony. He didn't feel confident performing the same acrobatic stunt. Instead he raced for the fire escape, broke through the alarmed door, and started pounding down the stairs.

Only seconds later he heard Connor shout for him to stop. The Highlander's footsteps chased after him. Captain Ryan tried the door on the twenty-ninth floor but it was locked and he didn't have time to break it open. Swearing and sweating in equal profusion, he rapidly descended five more flights, and then figured out that Methos was probably waiting for him at the bottom. Not exactly a winnable situation. He reversed his strategy and pulled his sword. He didn't think Connor would take his Quickening, not with so many questions left unanswered, but if he got very, very lucky he might leave the Highlander dead on the stairs and still manage to find Valerie before she did something everyone regretted.

Sometimes luck was all Richard Ryan had ever had anyway.

Connor lurched into view, ducked under the swing of Captain Ryan's sword, and whipped out his own steel to lunge in counterattack. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded as their blades clashed with sparks of power. "Why do you look like Richie Ryan?"

"Coincidence," Captain Ryan grunted. He had the low ground, not easily defendable, and Connor blocked each swing he made for the Highlander's ankles and calves. In retrospect, maybe he should have just thrown himself to a horribly public death in the lobby. He scored a hit slicing up across Connor's thigh, but took no satisfaction from the other Immortal's bitten off cry of pain.

"I'm not here to cause trouble," Captain Ryan panted, wishing he could wipe away the sweat blinding his eyes. "Just let me go and forget all about this."

"Forgetting never has been one of my strong points," Connor returned, a victorious smile lighting up his face as his sword found a home buried between Captain Ryan's left ribs. He ripped the weapon free and watched as the Immortal bearing such a startling resemblance to Richie fell to his knees, mortally wounded.

"Who are you?" Connor demanded, yanking his head up by his hair. "What do you and your friend want with Richie Ryan?"

Captain Ryan struggled to speak past the fluid drowning his lungs and the spasming of his heart in his chest. "I can't tell you," he choked out.

"But you will," Connor promised, and Captain Ryan died on the cold, dusty stairs with the promise ringing in his ears.

Duncan refused to leave with Connor and Methos. He didn't like the idea of some unknown Immortal woman trying to kidnap Richie, and couldn't possibly leave him and Tessa unguarded in a public hospital. He let them have time together, though, and retired to the nearby lounge to leaf through old People magazines and glance at the afternoon episode of Xena. He didn't understand how anyone could bear to watch such a historically inaccurate television show. Tessa joined him on the sofa an hour later, patting his knee and then his thigh.

"He's sleeping," she reported. "Duncan, he's terribly upset about missing the rest of the Olympics."

"He won't miss the rest of the Olympics," Duncan promised. "There are still seven days left."

"It's not quite the same with a concussion and neck brace, you know?"

Duncan knew. He'd suspected Richie of putting on a good front for Connor and Methos but the young man never could quite fool Tessa. "Maybe we should just go back to Seacouver when he's released. He'll feel better back at his place."

"If we go back, he's staying with us. After all, you spent all of May redoing the guest room." Duncan had bought a rambling white house in the hills and spent the last year renovating it by hand. Although he still had work to finish in the kitchen and his office needed new sheet-rock, they'd moved in back in April. He hadn't told Tessa yet there was an Immortal buried in pieces in the back yard. Kanis had made the mistake of trying to use attack dogs to wear down his prey. He supposed he should tell her, but it wasn't something to bring up in casual conversation. Her head tilted against his shoulder and he gently touched her hair.

"Tired?" he asked. "You must be. Why don't you take a cab back to the hotel? I'll stay with Richie."

"No," she murmured. "I'll just rest here. You make a good pillow, Duncan MacLeod."

He smiled. "I've heard women say worse."

The hospital paged him a few minutes later. Duncan snatched up the phone to hear Connor's insufferably cheerful voice.

"We've got a present for you," his kinsman said.

"What present?"

"Looks like Richie Ryan, walks like Richie Ryan, and talks like Richie Ryan. Or he would if he wasn't dead at the moment. We should know soon what's going on. The woman Valerie was here but she got away and might be heading in your direction, so take care. I'll call back as soon as we know anything. We're in your hotel room."

Duncan hung up slowly, scanning the busy hall and nurse's station for anyone who might mean harm to Richie. He roused Tessa from the couch and moved her into Richie's room with him. The young man was sleeping restlessly, liquid dripping steadily down a plastic tube into his arm. A nurse came in to check Richie's blood pressure and even though she was mortal he made her show her hospital identification card. He did the same to the orderly come to collect the lunch tray and a second nurse who wanted to check Richie's chart. The head nurse came and told Duncan that although everyone was extra conscious of security after the bombing, he was upsetting the staff.

"Let them be upset," Duncan said tightly. "I'm checking anyone who comes in here."

And as he made her present her own credentials he wondered what Connor and Methos were doing to the other Richie Ryan.

***

Captain Ryan jerked back to life and found himself staring at his own lap. His neck ached horribly from the weight of his head hanging down against his chest. His wrists, twisted behind him and fastened in some way to the chair, fought against the unseen restraints even as Connor's voice said, "Welcome back." He lifted his head and squinted at the two Immortals in front of them. They had carried him back to Duncan and Tessa's room. The thick drapes had been pulled against the light of day, and all the lamps in the room were on. Connor sat directly across from him on the edge of the bed, and Methos stood in the bathroom doorway with a guarded expression. Captain Ryan's sword lay beside Connor, glittering on the dark bedspread.

He glanced at the bedside clock as he fought to steady his ragged, back-to- life breathing. Three-thirty. He'd been dead for at least forty minutes. "The hospital," he said, thinking of Valerie.

"We'll worry about the hospital," Connor reassured him. "You worry about you. What don't you have a wallet or passport? That would make this so much easier."

Captain Ryan closed his eyes briefly. "They don't have passports where I come from."

Connor leaned forward with keen interest. "Tell us."

He shook his head. At the same time he heard the observation chamber door open, and Dana appeared by the dresser. The mere sight of her lifted him out of dismay and fear. She'd dressed in a gold satin gown, red silk vest and blinking white boots. Braided cords of emeralds and diamonds lay tangled in her dark unruly hair. "Richard!" she exclaimed, relief spreading across her face. She rushed to his side and dropped by his knee to plant invisible kisses on his face. "I couldn't find you anywhere! What in the world - why are you tied to that chair?"

"Long story," he told his wife. "Valerie's here. What happened?"

Dana slapped the handheld computer link in her hand. "Everything is all messed up. Your last Leap had unseen consequences. Valerie broke into the lab, set the accelerator to coincide with this Leap, and threw herself into the quantum divider. She damaged Ziggy and the observation chamber so that I couldn't warn you. It's taken us this long just to fix the basics, and we still can't recall you or her back to the present." Having said all of that in one breath, she stopped to drag in another. "Richard, she's here to save Connor's life."

Captain Ryan struggled with his restraints. "Save his life? By killing my younger self? How?"

"Killing who?" Connor asked. "Save whose life?"

Dana's free hand fluttered uselessly near his wrists, but she couldn't free him. Her holographic image could touch nothing. "Ziggy's not sure of the whole thing, but now your younger self dies in 2005 while Duncan and Tessa are living in Paris. Connor takes him to New York and agrees to be his first teacher. Within weeks, Richie - you - your younger self - all of you fall in love with a girl named Tasha who runs drugs for an Immortal named Kristov. Kristov challenges you but Connor goes in your stead, saying you barely know how to lift your sword. Kristov cheats and Connor is killed." The story made Captain Ryan's stomach lurch. "I can't believe it!" he said to his wife, forgetting that Methos and Connor were in the room. "Something must be wrong. Saving Tessa can't mean Connor dies."

Privy to only half the conversation, Connor lifted his head defiantly. "I'm not dying anytime soon," he said. "Saving Tessa from what?"

Dana shook her head. "Ziggy says there's a ninety nine percent chance that if Valerie kills your younger self now, Duncan will become his teacher, not Connor. Connor won't cross paths with Kristov. He won't die."

Captain Ryan loved Connor MacLeod, considered him a brother. Not this Connor in the room, perhaps, but definitely the one who he'd worked with and traveled with for centuries, the one who'd helped him propose to Dana, the one who believed just as passionately in the Quantum Leap project as he did. He didn't want Connor to be dead anymore than Valerie did, but how could he condone her actions? Young mortal Richie Ryan was not supposed to be a tool for them to manipulate as they wanted. "Dana, what does Sam say?"

"He can't make any sense of it - he says no one should have to leap back and kill someone to save someone else. Leaps are supposed to right wrongs, not inflict new ones. Your younger self has nine more years of a normal life left - a life not spent training, running, hiding, killing. He thinks you should stop her."

The present-day Connor, alive and snarling, said, "Stop talking to your imaginary friend and tell us where the woman is. Is she going after Richie again? Is that why you had the phone number of the hospital in your pocket? Where is she?"

Connor walked through Dana and around to the back of the chair. Captain Ryan had only a few seconds to wonder what he was doing before he felt his right thumb snap into two pieces. Pain spiraled up his arm and into the twisted muscles of his shoulder and neck. He gasped, surprised at how much it hurt. He'd been tied to a chair like that before, tortured in a similar way -

"Hey!" Dana yelled at him. Of course Connor couldn't hear her, but her anger carried her past common sense. "That's the last time you ever come over for dinner, Connor MacLeod!"

"Dana," Captain Ryan said, through gritted teeth. He couldn't think with her yelling at Connor. He fought down his own surge of anger and hurt, reminding himself that Connor was only doing what he thought was good for him. Good for the young mortal Richie Ryan, to be more exact. Semantics again. Connor's mouth moved uncomfortably close to his ear and brought words carried on warm, ticklish breath.

"Next I'll break your wrist," the Highlander promised. "Then your forearm, then your elbow, then your shoulder. It's amazing how many times you can break an Immortal's arm. In fact, I think the number is infinite. Who are you?" "You absolute son-of-a-bitch - " Dana started.

"Find out where Valerie is," Captain Ryan pleaded with his wife. "See what she's doing."

Dana disappeared. Connor's fingers closed on Captain Ryan's wrist and he took a sharp breath, trying to steel himself against the impending crack of his own bones.

"Wait," Methos said from the bathroom doorway. His voice held a calm measure of curiosity mixed with the same deadliness audible in Connor's words. Captain Ryan fought down a shiver as he remembered exactly how lethal his best friends could be. "Which 'younger you?'"

Had he blurted that out? Warmth tingled in his fractured thumb as the appendage healed. He concentrated on the bedside clock. Methos said, "You are Richie Ryan, aren't you? Come somehow from the future."

He didn't answer.

Methos unfolded something from his pocket. "I found this today. It reads, "Dear Methos. History has changed. Each day it becomes harder and harder for you to remember, but you led another life last week. You had friends named Duncan and Joe who cared about you. You were in love and loved in return by a beautiful woman named Alexa. But a thief of time has snuck in and changed the way things are supposed to be. Keep this note handy and read your Chronicles. Soon they will be the only memories you have. Signed . . .Methos."

The ancient Immortal's hands trembled slightly as he folded the worn note and put it carefully in his pocket. He raised his gaze to meet Captain Ryan's and asked, "Is it true?"

The hollow ache in Methos' voice worked stronger than any torture Connor might have inflicted. Methos was the oldest living man in the world. Was it really a surprise that he might be able to sense changes in history? Connor had also noticed something amiss. Sam would be fascinated by the implications of that, but for the first time Captain Ryan saw how someone might be adversely affected by a Leap. The depth of Methos' loss gouged at his own chest.

"Yes. It's true." he murmured, closing his eyes for a second. He too remembered the way things had been. He remembered Duncan's tears, his own rage and helplessness, and the haunting sight of Tessa's coffin going into the ground. He'd fixed that, never realizing what else might change. "I'm sorry."

Methos' voice was very quiet. "Why change things?"

Captain Ryan fumbled for the appropriate words. "Because something went wrong the first time through. I don't . . . I don't control it, I don't pick it, I just Leap and try to fix it. I don't mean harm to anyone." He looked away from them, no longer able to bear the distrust in their eyes. "Please untie me," he asked hoarsely. Connor hesitated. Methos nodded. Connor loosened the pantyhose that had been tied around his wrists. Captain Ryan stumbled from the hated chair to the bed, rubbing his wrists. After a moment of silence Connor handed him a glass of water.

"Will you tell us everything?" Connor asked, sounding surprisingly gentle.

"Not everything," he answered. "But I'll tell you what you need to know."

***

Connor came and relieved Duncan's watch at the hospital. "But you've gotten hardly any sleep!" Duncan protested. Connor said it didn't matter.

"Someone's got to watch Richie," he reminded Duncan. "And you'd better get back to the hotel. We'll be fine."

Duncan and Tessa held hands tightly as the elevator whisked them up the hotel's central core. Neither said much. The evening crowds in the streets and hotels still seemed subdued by the bombing, but most people shared a stubborn, defiant attitude that insisted the grandeur and glory of the Games continue in the face of cowardly terrorism. Duncan and Tessa approached their room warily, held back by fear of what exactly they would hear, but Methos sensed Duncan's approach and opened the door for them.

"He really doesn't bite," Methos said, reading the reluctance on their faces.

Duncan stepped inside first. The young-looking man sitting in a chair by the windows stood against the stunning backdrop and faced him. For a moment all Duncan could do was stare. Captain Ryan looked exactly like the Richie he knew, perhaps younger by a few years. He kept his hair shorter than his mortal counterpart, but dressed better. Duncan's experienced eye could see the barest fold in his jacket that indicated the presence of a sword. Connor had been careful not to mention Captain Ryan's Immortal status. Duncan didn't know how long he could continue that ruse in front of Tessa, but wanted to keep trying. Nothing good could be gained from Tessa or Richie know Richie's future, and Richie just might start taking more foolhardy risks than he did already.

Tessa spoke to Captain Ryan first.

"You . . . are Richie, aren't you?"

The barest trace of a smile crossed his face. "I go by Richard, now. But yes, I'm Richie."

She moved towards him, stopping just a foot away. Duncan's heartbeat quickened as he fought down the irrational fear this mysterious twin - this Leaper, Connor had explained at the hospital - would hurt her. But the Leaper was Richie. The future had come back to see them.

"Did you change history?" she asked. "Did you save my life?"

Duncan heard awe in her voice and saw wonder in the curve of her expression. He still didn't remember any reality in which she had died in his arms on Briarcliff Street. He knew she didn't either, not consciously. Maybe some deep instinctive part of her remembered explosions of sound, a fall to oblivion, her own murder. Captain Ryan obviously did. Tinges of pink came to his cheek, and his eyes grew bright.

"I just rearranged things," he said.

"You saved my life."

He looked away. "You weren't supposed to die, Tess. Not like that. Not that night."

She lifted her hands to cup his face, then leaned forward gently and kissed his forehead. "Thank you," she murmured, and folded him into her arms. Captain Ryan squeezed her tightly, momentarily overcome by the release of old sorrows. She might not live another year. She might live for fifty. But at least he'd fixed one wrong, righted a senseless death that never should have happened. He didn't want to cry but her cheeks turned wet first, and when they broke apart he swiped self-consciously at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Aren't we sentimental?" Tessa laughed, sniffling into a tissue, and her humor released the tension in Duncan's shoulders. Methos, who was busy reading a set of worn notes pulled from his pocket, almost but didn't quite smile.

Duncan spoke the question that had haunted him all the way back from the hospital. "Why does your friend want to kill Richie? Kill - you?"

"Kill my younger self," Captain Ryan said, providing a useful way of addressing the semantics. "It's complicated."

Complicated because he didn't want Connor to know it was his own wife who'd shot him at Centennial Park and who hoped to end Richie Ryan's mortality. Complicated because he didn't want them to face the ethical dilemma of Richie's mortality for Connor's life. Complicated because he didn't want to give Duncan hints of the future that waited for him. And complicated because any information he gave them might adversely change that very future. Though the word "adversely," was relative, he reflected grimly. Tessa's life but Methos' consequent pain and lost memories proved that.

The observation room door slid open and Dana appeared at his side. "Are you okay?" she asked anxiously. "Did Connor hurt you?"

"I'm fine," he reassured her.

"Who are you talking to?" Methos asked. "Is it the same person who was here before?" At Duncan's quizzical look he explained, "There's an invisible Observer who gives him information."

Tessa glanced around the room. "I could do with one of those." "You told them about me?" Dana demanded.

They could argue about it later. "Where's Valerie?"

Dana shook her head. "I can't find her anywhere. She really did a good job sabotaging the subroutines, you know. I had no idea she could do half of what she did. Then again, if it was you, and I thought this was the only way to save you, I'd be doing everything she is. What's your plan?"

"Please excuse us. I need to talk to her in private," he said to Duncan, Tessa and Methos. He went into Richie's adjoining room and closed the door. Dana walked through the wall and dropped on the bed as if it really could support her holographic image. Captain Ryan rubbed his aching head. "What happens if I just tell Duncan not to go to France in 2005? He stays behind and becomes my teacher. Would that save Connor's life?"

Dana plugged the information into the computer link. "Ziggy says that the chances of Connor's death drop to ten percent, but the likelihood of Duncan's death shoots up to eighty. It looks like some other Immortal shows up in Seacouver - Kronin? - Krowbar? - Kronos. He muddles everything up."

The one thing Sam had taught him was that he couldn't outwit Fate. Fate did not stick to any known rules. The more he tried to contain it in a box of probabilities, the more it oozed out over the edges and seeped out at the seams. The most important tool he had was his faith that what Valerie was doing - committing a wrong - was not the purpose of Quantum Leap.

But could he stop her, knowing Connor would die as a result?

The mortal Richie Ryan was discharged the next afternoon. He had to wear a neck brace and couldn't move very quickly, but he was happy to be out of the hospital. Despite his misgivings, Duncan was happy too. They hadn't found Valerie yet, but Captain Ryan said the scientists in the future were working hard to fix the recall equipment that would yank her back where she belonged. In the meantime they decided to guard Richie - he joked he was the best-protected man in Atlanta, with a phalanx of sword- bearing old men - and book plane tickets back to Seacouver. The next available flights weren't until Tuesday morning, which left Monday for lounging around the hotel room and watching television. Richie took the restriction easier than Duncan hoped he would, persuaded no doubt by a lingering headache and weariness.

Richie wanted to see Captain Ryan. Captain Ryan didn't like the idea. He knew what would happen if they came too close to one another. Methos suggested they could try talking to each other on the phone, but the same side effect that kept them from meeting in person made Richie sway the minute he picked up the phone.

"Too bad," Richie said, as Tessa helped him lean back against the headboard of the bed. "I was going to ask him what tonight's winning lottery numbers are."

Tessa turned into a field-marshal, supervising the packing of eight bags of luggage. Her newfound friend Methos helped her and she charmed him into talking about his girlfriend Helice. The days he'd spent away from her had made him seriously consider proposing. He'd had quite a number of wives in his lifetime, and although he cherished the memory of every one of them he was beginning to think it was time he wed another.

"I'm the first Duncan ever married," Tessa smiled, folding Duncan's jeans carefully.

"The first one I wanted to marry," Duncan put in from where he and Connor stood trying to watch Olympic coverage on NBC and pack at the same time.

Connor rented a van and drove them to Hartford airport the next morning. Methos and his passenger followed in Methos' rented sedan. Duncan fidgeted anxiously during the thirty-minute trip. He didn't like the openness of airports, he especially didn't like packing his sword for the flight, and he was afraid of how far Valerie might go in her mission to end Richie's mortality. He'd tried to persuade Tessa to travel separately with Connor for her own protection, but she insisted on sticking with them. "You don't know what's going to happen," she pointed out. "The plane I went on could crash. We can't live our lives on the defensive every moment."

"If she goes after Richie I don't want you to be in the firing zone."

"And I don't want you to be within the range of her sword," Tessa returned, quite reasonably. "We both have to deal with the risk."

Curbside porters took their luggage and swapped their tickets for boarding passes. The temperature had broken eighty degrees at seven a.m., and already their clothes were beginning to grow damp with sweat. Duncan wanted nothing more than to get his wards inside to the relative safety of a departure lounge. They jostled their way through the thick crowds of passengers, porters, luggage carts, lost children, and harried employees. A twisting hall with poor ventilation led down to long lines waiting to pass through the scanners and security check. They'd scarcely joined the line when a passenger shouted, "It's a bomb!"

Light and noxious smoke erupted from one of the scanners. The crowd scattered, crying out in panic. Duncan yanked Tessa to the carpet, shielding her with his own body, and then raised his head, searching for the source of a new buzz in his head. He saw her standing by the scanners, wearing the uniform of an airport janitor. "She's here!" he yelled to Connor over the chaos.

Connor quickly pulled Valerie's target towards the nearest exit, which was already jammed with people. She came up against him, her face creased with a frown. "I'm sorry," she said, shooting him again with the silenced revolver.

"You keep saying that," Connor grumbled as he slumped, bloody and gasping, against the wall. She turned to press up against Richie, her finger already beginning to tighten again on the trigger, but with a quick strike he knocked the gun from her hands and pushed her into the men's bathroom.

Too late she realized her mistake. Too late, her shifting senses distinguished his Immortal song from overlying ones of Connor and Duncan.

"Richard!" she yelled at him, as he pulled off his sunglasses and hat and borrowed cervical collar. "You can't stop me!"

"I have to," Captain Ryan returned grimly, pulling his sword. It had been a gamble to carry it, but he'd figured she would make her move before the security checkpoint. By now Methos and his younger self would be on the east concourse at a different gate. Men along the urinals hastily zippered their pants as Valerie whipped out her own blade. They had no hopes of privacy, no plausible cover story for the airline police who would soon come running. It was a worse-case scenario, one he'd wanted to avoid at all costs. But her desperation had driven her past the border of common sense.

"It's Connor's life!" she cried at him, throwing out a wild swing. He blocked, parried, tried to disarm her. She'd always been an excellent fighter, but now her blows went wide. The steady clash of their swords bounced off the bathroom tiles, nearly deafening him.

"You can't interfere this way! You can't make this kind of decision," Captain Ryan told her, trying to think of some way to persuade her. "Val, it's not what the project is about!"

"You Leap to fix things that went wrong," she said, backing him towards the corner. "You make decisions every day. I can't just let him die because you wanted to save a dead woman."

Fury rose in his chest. "You don't know anything about her!"

"I know you traded her for Connor! If she'd died - if *you'd* died - as scheduled, none of this would have happened."

He lunged, enraged at the accusation, and slipped. Her sword drove into a point just below his collarbone. She ripped it free, heaving in great gasps of air, tears and sweat on her face.

"Let me do what I have to do," Valerie begged.

"No," he choked out, blood filling his mouth. "You'll have to take my head first."

With a cry of pain and regret Valerie lifted her sword and swung it in a powerful, shattering arc.

They Leaped.

***

Methos paid the cabdriver and carried his suitcase up the stairs of the brownstone. He picked up his accumulated mail - bills, junk, more bills, a sword catalog - and climbed up the stairs to the third floor. Sounds of automobile traffic drifted up through hall windows. He passed Mrs. McDonald's door, hearing the soft clicking of her keyboard. Old Mr. Jordan was entertaining guests in his apartment, and from the thump of little feet and sound of giggles Methos guessed the retired teacher's grandchildren had come to visit. The dark hall paneling and streaks of sun along the red carpet seemed far, far removed from the Olympics, and he was glad to be home.

He was even gladder when he found Helice inside his apartment, reclining on his blue sofa in a very revealing white satin slip. She'd pinned her gorgeous red hair into a pile of curls and donned her best stiletto white shoes. She knew the shoes drove him wild. George and Gracie sat perched side by side on the fabric above her, purring, watching him with twin Siamese expressions.

"Welcome home," Helice grinned, reaching out for him to join her.

He let the mail slip to the floor unnoticed.

Later, after several hours of lovemaking, he asked her to marry him. And then he asked if she would mind honeymooning in Seacouver. He had friends there.

***

Duncan knocked on the guest room door and let himself in. Richie sat on the bed against the headboard, dressed only in a T-shirt and shorts, flipping idly through the pictures he'd taken at the Olympics. From the careful way he held his head Duncan knew his neck was still bothering him, but the cervical collar lay discarded to the side for a moment. The windows lay wide open to the sunny Seacouver afternoon and Duncan heard the chirping of birds happily flitting around the backyard feeders.

"Hungry? Tessa's making lunch."

Richie didn't look up from the photographs. "I guess."

Duncan sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry you had such a rotten time in Atlanta. I know how much you looked forward to it."

"Rotten time?" Richie looked up at that, smiling slightly. "I wouldn't say rotten time. Okay, some parts weren't so hot, but look at all we got to see and do. The opening ceremonies, gymnastics, volleyball, diving, hospital emergency rooms, exploding airports - hey, it might have been different than what I hoped for, but it was still pretty damn interesting."

Duncan grinned. "That's for sure."

Richie looked out the window, at the glen of pine trees down the lawn. "What do you think happened to him? To . . . me? I mean, they just vanished."

"I don't think we'll ever know."

"Even if we both live for a thousand more years?" Richie asked.

Duncan didn't answer. Richie grinned devilishly at him. "Come on, Mac, how could you think I wouldn't figure it out? CNN produced five witnesses who said a man and woman had started dueling with swords in the airline bathroom just after the fake bomb exploded."

"That's why I didn't put a TV in here for you," Duncan grumbled.

"That night, with Pallin Wolf - the night Tessa died - do you think I died too? And that's how I became an Immortal the first time?"

"Richie, there's no way we'll ever know. And about you becoming an Immortal . . ."

"Yeah?"

Duncan tried to sound stern. "I don't want to see it happen for a long, long time."

"You've always known I would, though," Richie prodded.

Duncan sighed. "Yes."

"And you never told me."

"What good would it do?"

Richie appeared to ponder the issue. "Well, I could start learning how to fight with a sword now instead of later," he said thoughtfully.

Duncan patted him on the knee. "We'll talk about it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do in the garden. I promised Tessa I'd dig up and get rid of some old fertilizer."

"I'm really going to become an Immortal," Richie said to the room once Duncan left. He smiled to himself. "Go figure."

***

Captain Ryan hated Leaping back. As usual, his brain felt like it had been strained through a colander, and his body shook with the aftereffects of a momentous surge of energy that felt like a Quickening in its own right. Speaking of which . . . . he brought up a hand to feel his throat. Only after he was sure that his head was still safely in place did he blink his eyes open to the white sterility of the observation chamber and find lying himself flat on his back.

Valerie pulled herself up from an ungainly sprawl on the floor and buried her face in her hands. "I can't believe I would have killed you," she said brokenly. "But Richard, what have we done?"

He tried to quell the sickness in his own chest. "I don't know."

They sat in the cool room, together but apart, divided by the gulf of decisions made and consequences waiting. When the door slid open it was all Captain Ryan could do to focus on Dana, who'd changed into a gold and red fishnet jumpsuit and furry black boots.

She dropped to his side and lavished him with kisses. "You did it! Honey, you did it!"

"Did what?" he asked.

"Fixed everything," Connor MacLeod said from the doorway, a cocky grin stamped on his face.

Relief surged through Captain Ryan, and he staggered to his feet to clap Connor on the back. "But how - I thought - you're alive!"

"How?" Valerie asked, not moving from the floor. She stared at Connor as if he was a ghost. "Ziggy said the prediction . . . "

"Ziggy was wrong," said the handsome Immortal who'd come in behind Connor.

"I beg to differ, Sam," said the computer's petulant voice from the ceiling.

Sam Beckett raised his hands in an apology. "I meant to say you didn't have all the information. We're going to have to work on the random variable generator. Ask Connor what happened after you two leaped."

Captain Ryan pulled Dana up against him, snuggling into her warmth and perfume. "What happened?" he asked obediently.

Connor grinned again. "Well, I was dead again, very publicly. My name was on all the news broadcasts from coast to coast, and the disappearance of my body from the morgue only made the notoriety worse. I couldn't go back to New York. So I wound up staying in Georgia under a different name. Bought a horse ranch, in fact. Raised three consecutive winners of the Kentucky Derby."

Captain Ryan sorted through the assorted memories in his head. Then he turned to the glass partition on the wall and studied his face. He was no longer frozen in time to look like a teenager. The features and countenance facing him belonged to a thirty year old man.

"I did die in 2005. Duncan and Tess were overseas. You became my teacher. . . "

"And you became a half-decent horse breeder," Connor finished.

Sam Beckett fixed a stern look on Valerie. "What you did was inexcusable. After all we trusted you with - to try and take matters into your own hands - I'm severely disappointed in you."

Connor didn't say anything, but his expression mirrored Sam's.

Valerie lifted her head stubbornly toward her husband. "Tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing if you thought it was my life at stake."

Captain Ryan pulled Dana from the chamber. He didn't want to hear Valerie's arguments, or consider how close she'd come to severing his head. Maybe she would have pulled her swing at the last minute, nicking an ear or some other part instead, but then again, maybe she wouldn't have. It didn't matter. He was home, and Dana was with him, and they didn't stop kissing all the way down the hall back to their quarters. Sun poured through the skylights, drenching their white sheets with dazzling light as he stripped off his clothes and pressed Dana to the mattress.

"Leaping always makes you so excited," she murmured, planting dozens of tiny sweet kisses on his face.

"You mind?" he asked huskily.

"Never, Captain Ryan."

He started undoing her jumpsuit. "That's good to hear, Commander Ryan."

"By the way," she said, beginning to squirm deliciously beneath him, "Admiral MacLeod is coming to dinner. He hates it when I call him Admiral, you know. Says we all retired from Starfleet fifty years ago so can we please stop using rank?"

"Dana . . . "

"Yes?"

"Let's not talk about Mac right now," he pleaded, and amid peals of laughter she surrendered to his lovemaking.

THE END

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That's it! Hope you liked Sam's appearance :-) Talk about a show whose final episode I *hated* . . .

Sandra