A SLIDERS Story
by Nigel G. Mitchell
(DISCLAIMER: This document can be freely distributed with the condition that it is not sold or modified, and this notice is included with all copies. Some characters and elements of this story are the property of St. Clare Entertainment, used without authorization. The author receives no compensation from the distribution of this work.)
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Based on the official chronology of SLIDERS rather than the FOX Network's airing chronology, the following story takes place sometime in the first season between the episodes "Eggheads" and "The King is Back.")
Rembrandt sat beside Professor Arturo, listening to the rumbling that came from all around them. He wiped away a trickle of sweat that was running down his cheek. The sweat instantly returned, joining the thin film that covered every inch of exposed skin on his body.
Finally, Rembrandt spoke. "Sure is hot."
Professor Arturo glared at him over his shoulder. "Mr. Brown, we are sitting on an active volcano. Of course it is hot."
Rembrandt looked around himself at the horizon, one that was peppered with smoldering volcanoes. Some of them filled the air with clouds of thick, black smoke, blocking out the sun. He himself was perched on a jagged rock along with Wade, Arturo, and Quinn. They were huddled together to avoid the slow oozing lava that surrounded their refuge.
Rembrandt glared at Arturo. "Hey, I was just tryin' to make conversation, okay?"
Arturo tugged at his collar to loosen his tie. "Well, reminding me of our predicament is not the way."
"Hey," Wade said, "I've got a question. You figure out what's going on in this world yet, professor?"
"I am a physics professor, Miss Wells, not a geologist. There could be many reasons why California seems to be a volcanic region in this world. California has always suffered severe tectonic activity in our world as evidenced by the San Andreas Fault. That must have something to do with it. Beyond that, I could not begin to guess."
"I just hope nobody was around when these volcanoes popped up. They could have wiped out San Francisco."
Rembrandt watched the river of blackened lava sweep by, broken by the occasional glowing crack in its surface. "Well, all I wanna know is how soon we can get outta this mess. All this smoke is not doin' the Cryin' Man's voice any good."
"Thank heaven for small favors," Arturo murmured.
Quinn unfolded the timer from his pocket. "Well, according to this, we've got...eight more seconds before the next window."
"About time," Rembrandt said.
As they all rose, struggling to maintain their balance on the rock below them, Quinn aimed his timer at an empty area of space beside them. He turned the dial on its face. A cone formed ahead of it that seemed to warp the air it touched as it expanded. Then the cone formed a gap in midair that flowed into itself like a florescent waterfall.
Wade was closest and jumped first. She leaped into the portal and disappeared in a flash of light, accompanied by a popping sound. Then Professor Arturo followed, screaming as he burst out of existence. Rembrandt was murmuring to himself as he threw himself into the gateway's depths.
Quinn cast one last look at their world before he left. He was just in time to see a huge wall of lava come rumbling down the volcano's slope towards him. He jumped into the dimensional bridge just as the lava engulfed their former perch.
Quinn slid through the tunnel, banging up against colorful walls made of solidified energy. He could hear the cries of the other Sliders as they went, then the series of puffing sounds as they came out. Quinn shielded his eyes as he headed towards the end of the wormhole, one that glowed with a blinding light...
Quinn was falling, screaming, as he landed on wet grass. He scrambled to his feet, finding himself in a wooded area filled with trees and bushes. The others were lying nearby, groaning and clutching themselves.
"Is everybody okay?" Quinn asked.
"I believe so," Arturo said, kneading his temples. "At least in spirit, at any rate."
Wade looked around at their new location. "Where are we?"
"Looks like Golden Gate Park," Quinn said. "About the same place we were in before we slid into Volcano World."
Rembrandt got to his feet, brushing light stains of mud off his clothes. "Hey, it's cool, it's green, and there's not a drop o' lava in sight. I'm happy as a clam."
Arturo rose, buttoning his collar up as he did so. "Let us not be too hasty, Mr. Brown. We do not know what awaits us in this world. I suggest we find some source of information about our new home like a... a TV or a newspaper. Perhaps this may turn out to be our own world, after all."
Quinn checked the digital display on his timer. "We've got four hours, three minutes, and fifty-four seconds in this world. Let's make the best of it."
They headed for where they knew the open street lay, one they had crossed many times. The city became visible through the trees, people roaming from place to place, cars roaring by, the stores and buildings all familiar.
"This is it," Rembrandt said. "It's all here. Everything's just the way it's supposed to be."
"Hey, yeah," Wade said, "maybe this is home."
Arturo pointed at a store across the street. "Not quite. Look over there at that newsstand."
Quinn read the sign aloud. "'Bernie's. Home Of Newspapers, Magazines, And The World's Finest Pretzels' Oh, yeah, I see what you mean. On our world, Bernie's is an outdoor newsstand. Here, it's indoors."
"Well, if that's the only difference, then that means we're gettin' close to our own world," Rembrandt said.
"Perhaps," Arturo said. "But I think we should find a more reliable source of information. I'll just pop across the street, duck into Bernie's for a newspaper, and be out again in a jiffy."
Quinn tucked the timing device into his pocket as he said, "Hey, is it okay if I come with you, professor? I'd like to pick up the latest copy of QUANTUM QUARTERLY. Wish I could get my subscription forwarded to me in other dimensions."
Arturo gave him a strange expression, then looked away, quickly. "Uh, no, of course not. Come along, my boy."
They headed across the road to the Bernie's newsstand.
Wade looked at Rembrandt with a puzzled frown. "What's with the professor?"
The bell over the door chimed as Arturo and Quinn walked into the newsstand. A smile broke on Quinn's face as he looked over the racks of magazines along the walls of the store.
"Wow," he said, selecting a copy of POPULAR SCIENCE. "Great selection."
"Indeed," Arturo said. "This newsstand appears to be much larger than the one in our world."
Arturo approached the clerk behind the main desk as he picked up a copy of THE SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE. "Good afternoon, sir. I'll take this, and, uh..."
He lowered his voice, but Quinn could still pick out the words that followed. "...a disposable lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Marlboro, if you please."
The clerk nodded and headed into the room behind him.
Arturo turned away to face Quinn's horrified expression.
"Professor," Quinn said, "you're smoking?"
Arturo scowled. "Now, look here, my boy, I haven't touched a cigarette in ten years. But if sliding through alternate realities isn't enough to drive one back to smoking, I don't know what is. I just want one. I'll throw the rest away and that will be the end of it."
Quinn began fishing through his pockets. "Fine. But that stuff'll kill you."
"I am well-aware of that, Mr. Mallory. I am not a child."
Quinn patted his jeans, then said, "Oh, no. My wallet. It's gone. I must have lost it in the slide. Great. It's probably buried in three feet of molten lava by now. Uh, professor...I really need this magazine, and..."
Professor Arturo plucked the copy of QUANTUM from his hands. "Mr. Mallory, I shall purchase your magazine for you if it will cease your self-righteous prattling."
"It's a deal. But I'm a little worried about our cash flow. We haven't gotten jobs in weeks."
Arturo flipped through the CHRONICLE, studying the headlines. "Not to worry. I have been squirreling away a few pennies here and there to prepare for this eventuality."
"That's great," Quinn said. "How much you got?"
"Five thousand two hundred and sixteen dollars at last count."
"Five thousand?" Quinn repeated. 'You saved away a few pennies and got over five thousand dollars?"
"Yes," Arturo murmured as he studied an ad for umbrellas. "And I would appreciate your secrecy on the matter. The bulk of my funds are intended for emergencies only."
"Hey, mum's the word." Quinn peered over his shoulder. "Find anything yet?"
Arturo turned the newspaper's page. "Not really. Usual nonsense. There does seem to be a significant lack of the crime-ridden articles the Chronicle usually prints, but..."
The clerk emerged from the backroom with a small white box. "Sorry, sir. Didn't have Marlboros. How about these, instead?"
Arturo took the package with a frown. "Hm. Generic. I suppose it will have to do. Oh, and I shall be purchasing this magazine as well."
"No problem." The clerk began ringing it through the cash register. "That'll be forty dollars."
Arturo raised an eyebrow. "Forty? Good lord. Perhaps there is high inflation in this world."
Arturo fished out two twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. He handed the money to the clerk.
The clerk took the money. He reached under his coat. He pulled out a gun and aimed it at Quinn and Arturo.
"Freeze!" the clerk yelled. "DEA! Nobody move!"
"What?" Arturo asked.
Men in black body armor came charging out from the backroom of the newsstand. Before Quinn could react, they were on him and Arturo. He found himself being pressed face-down onto the floor, knees pinning him there as they rummaged hands through his pockets. Then handcuffs were snapped onto his wrists.
"What's going on?" Quinn yelled.
The men hauled him to his feet again, facing the vendor of the newsstand who whipped out a badge.
"DEA Agent Bernard Watterson," the clerk said. "You're under arrest."
"Arrest?" Arturo sputtered. "On what charges?"
"For attempting to purchase a controlled substance."
"What controlled substance?"
The clerk's eyes narrowed as he shoved the white package of cigarettes into Arturo's face. "Whadda you think these are, gumdrops? You're in a lotta trouble, mister."
The clerk who called himself Agent Watterson faced Quinn, a smile spreading across his face. "Well, well, well. Quinn Mallory. I don't believe it. Looks like our little net caught us a big fish." "How do you know my name?" Quinn asked.
"Don't gimme that song and dance," Watterson growled. "You think I wouldn't recognize Quinn Mallory, the biggest druglord in San Francisco?"
"What? No..."
Agent Watterson turned away with a wave of his hand. "Take 'em away."
"No, wait!" Quinn screamed as he was pulled to the door of the newsstand. "You're making a mistake!"
Wade kicked idly at a nearby fire hydrant as she stood on the curb with Rembrandt. "Wonder what's taking so long."
"Yeah," Rembrandt said, "they could've bought the Brooklyn Bridge in the time they...hey, here they come."
Wade looked as Quinn emerged from the newsstand. But he wasn't alone. Ten or twenty men in black armor came out with him, all with the letters DEA emblazoned on their chests. Arturo came out as well, handcuffed and being moved as roughly as Quinn. The two of them were yelling at the men who dragged them towards black cars waiting at the curb.
"Quinn!" Wade yelled.
Quinn looked up at her. "Wade! Get back! Don't come near us!"
Wade ignored him, bolting into the road to reach him. But a sudden blare alerted her to the car that was hurtling towards her. Suddenly, Rembrandt was there, his hand closed around her arm, pulling her back onto the sidewalk. Wade shook off his arm as the flow of traffic continued. She searched for a chance to cross. There was none.
"Quinn!" Wade screamed.
Quinn was barely aware of the Miranda Rights being read to him by the DEA officers as he watched Wade across the street. She was going hysterical, but couldn't come after him. Quinn was glad. He wasn't sure what he was mixed up in, but he was positive that getting Wade and Rembrandt involved would only make things worse.
Quinn was pushed down into the back of a police car. As he climbed in, Quinn noticed a billboard overlooking the square. He wished he had seen it earlier, because it would have saved them a lot of trouble. It was a large picture of a cartoon camel holding a package of cigarettes with a frown on its face. The caption was written in bold red lettering.
It read, "Joe Camel Says, 'Just Say No To Tobacco.'"
Quinn and Arturo sat in rays of sunlight cast from a barred window in the interrogation room. Quinn traced circles on the table his hands rested on, about the only thing he could do with his wrists cuffed together.
"You had to do it, didn't you?" Quinn asked. "You had to have a cigarette."
Arturo glared at him. "Oh, I see. So I was expected to know that we had landed in a world where tobacco is a controlled substance? Or perhaps I should have been clairvoyant enough to foresee that the one newsstand where I buy my first cigarette in ten years is the target of a DEA sting operation."
"I told you smoking was bad for you," Quinn said. "Man, I hope the others are okay."
The door of the interrogation room swung open. The man they knew on their own world as Bernie, a simple newsstand vendor, walked in. Here, he was Bernard Watterson, the DEA agent who had busted them. He was joined by two other men in suits.
Watterson gave Quinn and Arturo a broad grin. "Well, I've just delivered the news of our good fortune to the district attorney's office. After they get done partying, they'll start drawing up the papers for your indictment. Thought you might like a little preview."
Watterson slid a thick manila folder filled with papers across the desk to Quinn, who glared at him, then opened the file. He began turning pages with his cuffed hands. Quinn felt a chill come over his body as he read.
"No," Quinn whispered. "This...this can't be true."
Arturo read over his shoulder, his brow wrinkling. "Good lord. Possession of controlled substances, trafficking in controlled substances, extortion, kidnapping, murder...all multiple charges going back five years."
"There's gotta be some mistake," Quinn said.
"Don't give me that, Mallory," Watterson said. "I've been tracking your every move for the last three years. We've got eyewitnesses, fingerprints, shipping reports, money-laundering companies tracked to your bank accounts, ballistics reports...and then, of course, there's me. The man who watched you pump fifteen bullets into my partner's chest just to cover your escape. All we needed was you. And here you are."
Watterson pulled out a chair and sat down. "There's one question I'd like answered, Mallory. You've always covered your tracks, always stayed one step ahead of us. Why'd you let yourself walk into this one? What's the angle?"
Quinn closed the file. "Look, you gotta believe me. I'm not the guy you're looking for."
"Oh, really? Okay. If you're not Quinn Mallory, then exactly who are you?"
"Well...I am Quinn Mallory. But not the Mallory you're looking for."
Professor Arturo murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "Do not try it, my boy. They will not believe you."
"I don't have a choice," Quinn whispered, then said to Watterson, "I'm from another dimension."
Watterson stared at him.
"I'm a duplicate of your Mallory," Quinn continued, "from another Earth where tobacco is legal. And I'm just a college student. I didn't do any of this."
Watterson scratched the side of his nose, then said, "You know, Mallory, I've seen you do some lousy things in your career, but this takes the cake. Do you honestly think any jury in the world would buy a stupid insanity plea like that?"
"But I'm not insane! I'm telling the truth!" Quinn opened the file on the desk, skimming it until he found a report that he tapped with a finger. "Look, right here, it says your Quinn has a tattoo of a skull with a cigarette in its mouth on his right forearm. I don't. See?"
"Tattoos can be removed," Watterson said.
Arturo spoke. "Uh, actually not without scarring. At least, not on our world."
"Okay, I've had it with Mallory. Now it's your turn. What's your angle on this? How do you know him?"
"I'm Mr. Mallory's physics professor, Maximillian Arturo. I teach physics classes at California University."
Watterson grinned. "Of course. The biggest drugrunner in the United States attends your physics classes. Why didn't we think of looking there? And you just happened to wander into a newsstand to buy a cigarette for the road, is that it?"
"Uh, actually, no. I bought it because I was a little stressed from our recent slide into this dimension."
Watterson closed his eyes, then snapped his fingers. One of the other DEA agents in the room stepped forward, resting a plastic bag filled with objects on the table. Watterson rummaged through it with a gloved hand, finally producing Quinn's timer from its depths. He slammed the device down on the table.
"We found this in your pocket," Watterson said. "What is it?"
"It's a timing device," Quinn said. "We use it to open the gateways to...other dimensions."
Watterson rested his palms flat on the table. "Okay, that's it. I don't know what you think you're trying to pull with this little game, but I want you to know that it ends now. I don't buy it, the judge won't buy it, it won't work. Here's the deal. You and your friend the professor are gonna tell me the addresses of every single one of your factories. You're also gonna give me the dates and times of all the tobacco shipments you're running in and out of California, as well as the methods you're using to distribute your cigarettes and cigars, the names of every single subordinate in your operation, the law officers you've got on the take, and any of your other little business associates. In return, I'll talk to the D.A. and try to swing you a deal."
"But we can't tell you anything," Quinn said, "we..."
"If you don't talk," Watterson interrupted, "then I will become state's witness in your case. I will watch you both tried and sentenced. You, Mr. Professor, will be found guilty of attempting to purchase a controlled substance. You'll be lucky if you get away with a whopping fine and six years in jail. And you, Mr. Mallory, will be found guilty of eighty-three misdemeanors and nineteen felonies, including the murder of my partner. You'll get the chair. And I will be the one to pull the switch."
"But..."
"Take 'em away," Watterson said. "And let me know when they feel like talking."
Quinn and Arturo were hauled out of their seats and guided out of the interrogation room.
"You're making a big mistake!" Quinn yelled. "You've got the wrong guys!"
Watterson ignored the cries as Mallory left the room. Just like Mallory had ignored the cries of his partner, the begging and pleading in an attempt to appeal to the heart of a man Watterson knew had none.
Agent Watterson looked down at the device Quinn had called a timer. He flipped open its face, exposing a digital display. It was counting down numbers from three hours and twenty-one minutes. It didn't make sense. The bomb squad had confirmed that it wasn't a detonator for a bomb. Other than that, they couldn't figure out what it was.
Watterson shrugged and pushed the device back into the evidence bag. Probably just a fancy stopwatch or something. It didn't matter. Bernie Watterson finally had Quinn Mallory right where he wanted him.
Arturo and Quinn allowed themselves to be led across the DEA offices to the holding area. Quinn spotted a pay-phone beside the bars, then turned to the man roughly pushing him.
"Hey," Quinn asked, "don't I get one phone call?"
"Yeah," the man growled. "Get on the phone and call your high-priced lawyer. See if he can get you outta this mess."
Quinn went over to the phone. The man pushed a quarter into the slot for him, unhooked the receiver, and stood poised to dial the number Quinn gave him. Quinn began to recite a number from memory, one he hoped was the same on this world as it was on others. It was the number for a room at a Motel 12.
Wade paced the floor of the motel room, wringing her hands over her lap. When the front door opened, Wade jumped with a little scream.
Rembrandt walked in carrying a newspaper, his jaw working. "Wade? You okay?"
Wade pressed a hand over her forehead. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just don't sneak up on me like that."
"Have they called yet?"
"No," Wade said. "But they have to call eventually. This is our fallback position for whenever we get separated. When Quinn or the professor get their one phone call, they'll be sure to call here."
Rembrandt sat down on one of the beds.. "Who says they give prisoners phone calls in this world?"
Wade began pacing again. "Nobody. But it's our only hope. You get the newspaper?"
"Yup. Also got some gum. When I get nervous, I gotta do somethin' with my mouth. Want some?"
Wade grabbed the newspaper from him, flipping through the pages. "No thanks. The way I feel now, I'd probably swallow it and choke myself. Anything on how this world works?"
"Yeah," Rembrandt said, "there's an article in there on the anniversary of some big day they had a few years ago. Seems that back in 1987, when the Soviet Union fell, the U.S. sat down and reworked the government budget. They decided to cut military spending to fight what they call 'the urban war.' Drugs. President Bush started this big campaign to end the drug problem in America in two years."
"Wow," Wade whispered as she read the article. "This is amazing. They gave the DEA six billion dollars to fight drugs in America. Hired over three million agents, bought army surplus equipment from the military, funded drug-rehabilitation programs..."
"And check out the next page," Rembrandt said. "All the other countries in the world got into the act. America, Britain, Japan, Europe...all of them announced they'd declare war on any nation that allowed the production of drugs within its borders. South America, the Middle East, Thailand, everybody shut down their coca, marijuana, and opiate crops. With no supply, demand dried up. By 1989, the drug- abuse rate had dropped to zero."
"No drug problem. That explains the low crime rates listed here."
"Only one thing. In 1990, the World Health Organization declared tobacco a controlled substance and banned it. All the addicts started buyin' it on the black market, which brought all the slimeballs out of the woodwork, and it all started up again."
"So tobacco is illegal here," Wade said. "But that still doesn't explain why they arrested Quinn and the professor."
The phone rang. Wade dove over the bed to reach it before the second ring. "Hello?"
A familiar voice emerged from the handset. "Wade?"
Wade gave Rembrandt a thumbs-up. He grinned.
"Yeah, it's me," Wade said. "Where are you? What happened?"
"We're in jail. The professor tried to buy some cigarettes."
"What?" Wade screamed. "Is he crazy? Put him on the phone."
"I'd better not, for the sake of his eardrums. I guess you know about this world, huh?"
"Yeah, smoking is illegal. What was he thinking? Okay, no problem. What's the charge? Can we pay a fine or what?"
"Actually, that's a problem," Quinn said. "It seems my double in this world is on the FBI's ten most-wanted list as a big-time drug smuggler. And I look just like him, so..."
"They think you're him. Well, that's just great. What'll we do now?"
"I have an idea. The Mallory of this world has a tattoo of a skull with a cigarette in its mouth on his right forearm. If you can find him, that'll prove that I'm innocent, and maybe they'll let me go."
Rembrandt was sitting closer to Wade, trying to hear. "What's goin' on?"
Wade waved him off as she said, "Okay, okay, we'll try. Hang in there, Quinn."
"Right." Quinn hung up.
Wade hung up on her end as Rembrandt said, "Come on, man, don't leave me out. What'd Q-Ball say?"
Wade told him.
"You gotta be kiddin'," Rembrandt said. "We gotta find Quinn in this world?"
"Exactly," Wade said. "It's the only way."
"The DEA's been lookin' for that clown for who-knows-how- long. What makes you think we can pull it off by ourselves?"
"I dunno," Wade said. "But we gotta. Besides the fact that he's our friend, Quinn has the timer, and the window to the next world opens up in three hours. If we don't get him and the timer out of jail by then, there won't be another window open for another thirty years. We'll be trapped here just as much as Quinn and the professor are."
Rembrandt closed his eyes. "It's always somethin'. Okay, what's our first move?"
Quinn hung up the phone and let himself be led into the holding cell. Arturo was already there, sitting on a bench against a wall, trying not to get too close to a large, greasy man at the other end.
"Well?" Arturo asked. "Did you contact the others? Are they all right?"
Quinn sat down next to the professor. "Yeah. They're both at the motel."
"Well, thank heavens for that. Did you tell them our situation?"
"Yeah. They're gonna try to find my double in this world. With him, maybe the cops'll let us go."
"So in other words, our fates lie in the hands of Miss Wells and Mr. Brown."
"Yeah."
Arturo nodded again, then began surveying the holding cell. "Then, my dear boy, we are truly doomed."
Rembrandt sat in the glow of the library's reference computer, clicking with the pointer of his mouse. As he began to read another article from TIME Magazine, Wade appeared over his shoulder.
"How's it goin'?" Wade asked.
Rembrandt rubbed his eyes. "I think I'm goin' blind from reading this thing. I must have read every newspaper and magazine article in the country that had anything to do with this world's Quinn Mallory."
Wade sat down next to him. "What've you got?"
"Nothin' special. Seems like in this world, Q-Ball put that egghead o' his to the other side o' the law. He's been growin' tobacco in the U.S. and shipping it all over the world as cigarettes and cigars. Nobody can catch him. And I'm gettin' eyestrain from readin' about all his enemies that've been found dead. He even killed a cop once. Tied the poor guy up and shot him fifteen times in the chest to cover his getaway."
"Wow. It's hard to believe our Quinn could be such a... monster."
"Yeah, but it still don't get us any closer to findin' out where he is."
"Keep reading, Remmy. There's gotta be a clue in here somewhere. Something the cops missed."
Rembrandt glared at the article on his screen. "You know, I'm startin' to wonder if we can pull this off. I mean, we've got two hours to do what the cops couldn't, and this Mallory's too fast even for them. Take this girl he was runnin' around with. They couldn't...wait a minute. That's you!"
"What?" Wade moved closer to the screen.
She read the headline of an article that read "MYSTERY WOMAN SEEN WITH DRUGLORD." The article was about an unidentified woman seen with Quinn at a nightclub a few months ago. It was easy to see why the police hadn't found her; in the accompanying photo, the woman was seen wearing sunglasses, a thick coat, and a scarf draped around her head and hair. But the nose and face were exposed, and it was enough for Wade to recognize it.
"You're right," Wade said. "That's me. I mean, it must be the Wade of this world. That's the connection. Come on."
She ran down the aisle of the library. Rembrandt fumbled around with the computer for a moment, trying to shut down his research, then hurried after her.
Rembrandt was running down the front steps of the library outside when he finally caught up to her. She was at a phone booth on the curb, flipping through the White Pages.
"Bingo," she said, tapping a page. "The Wade Wells of this world has a different address from mine, but at least she's listed. Now all we have to do is get to her."
Rembrandt raised an arm, whistling at a passing taxi cab. "Yo, taxi!"
The cab pulled up, Wade and Rembrandt got in, and headed off across San Francisco.