by Mike Chen
To save his daughter, he’ll go anywhere—and any-when...
Kin Stewart is an everyday family man: working in IT, trying to keep the spark in his marriage, struggling to connect with his teenage daughter, Miranda. But his current life is a far cry from his previous career...as a time-traveling secret agent from 2142.
Stranded in suburban San Francisco since the 1990s after a botched mission, Kin has kept his past hidden from everyone around him, despite the increasing blackouts and memory loss affecting his time-traveler’s brain. Until one afternoon, his “rescue” team arrives—eighteen years too late.
Their mission: return Kin to 2142, where he’s only been gone weeks, not years, and where another family is waiting for him. A family he can’t remember.
Torn between two lives, Kin is desperate for a way to stay connected to both. But when his best efforts threaten to destroy the agency and even history itself, his daughter’s very existence is at risk. It’ll take one final trip across time to save Miranda—even if it means breaking all the rules of time travel in the process.
A uniquely emotional genre-bending debut, Here and Now and Then captures the perfect balance of heart, playfulness, and imagination, offering an intimate glimpse into the crevices of a father’s heart and its capacity to stretch across both space and time to protect the people that mean the most.
Praise for Here and Now and Then
“A subtly woven meditation about the fragility of time raises the bar in this smart, fun, and affectionate story.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Heartfelt and thrilling... Chen revitalizes the trope of the absent and unavailable father... Chen’s concept is unique, and [his characters’] agony is deeply moving. Quick pacing, complex characters, and a fascinating premise make this an unforgettable debut.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“A strong and very real father-daughter relationship is tested across the centuries as Chen’s characters navigate adventure and consequences together. A tight net of excitement and wonder.”
—Fran Wilde, award-winning author of Updraft and Hugo and Nebula finalist
“A rare, fresh gem of a story that blends high tech time travel thrills with the all-in stakes of a parent’s love for their child. The world needs more butt-kicking middle-aged chef heroes.”
—Delilah S. Dawson, New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: Phasma
“Gripping and gorgeously crafted. Chen takes the fabric of space-time and gives it real humanity in this compelling tale of love, family, and the choices made to protect them.”
—Cass Morris, author of From Unseen Fire
“A generous, warm-hearted adventure. It’s the story of a father, a daughter, and a love stronger than time itself. I absolutely loved it.”
—Kat Howard, Alex Award–winning author of An Unkindness of Magicians
“Chen does what the very best sci-fi writers do—he takes a fascinating concept and elevates it with brilliant execution and deeply heartfelt plot twists that make this story less about the (fun) conventions of the genre and more about the profound experience of being human. Here and Now and Then is a page-turner, an examination of love and loss, and, most of all, a dazzling debut from a wonderfully unique new voice.”
—Michael Moreci, author of Black Star Renegades and contributor to StarWars.com
HERE AND NOW
AND THEN
MIKE CHEN
Mike Chen is a lifelong writer, from crafting fan fiction as a child to somehow getting paid for words as an adult. He has contributed to major geek-culture websites (The Mary Sue, The Portalist), covered the NHL for mainstream media outlets, and ghostwritten corporate articles appearing in Forbes, BuzzFeed, Enterpreneur, and more. A member of the Codex Writers’ Group, Mike calls the San Francisco Bay Area home, where he can often be found playing video games and watching Doctor Who with his wife, daughter, and rescue animals.
www.MikeChenBooks.com
For Amelia
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
No pulse beat beneath the skin.
Kin concentrated, waiting for the familiar thump to barely register with his senses. Not his heartbeat, but something equally important: a Temporal Corruption Bureau retrieval beacon, one fine-tuned to his specific biometrics.
After twenty-eight assignments over eight years, the implanted beacon’s soft pulse usually faded into the background, another subtlety of time travel that was simply part of the job. Like one’s own heartbeat, it was one of those things that went unnoticed until it vanished. Now it was gone.
And with it, his return ticket to 2142.
Kin unwrapped the bandage, ignoring the burning pain through his abdomen as he tore the fabric off. His fingers found the dried green edge of binding gel and peeled the adhesion away from the gunshot’s entry point beneath his ribs. He carefully collected any dried gel fragments in a motel towel to be burned later—even in his roughest shape, he always adhered to timeline corruption protocols. No need for nosy 1996 janitorial staff to find future medical tech, even after usage.
The bright LED numbers on the wood-trim clock radio across the motel room showed that eight hours and four minutes had passed since his encounter. He could still feel the factory rooftop gravel digging into the back of his neck while wrestling his target, a time-traveling merc who’d been hired to delay a senator’s husband, causing her to miss a vote on a seemingly benign banking regulation that would actually have decades of negative consequences. They’d engaged, his arms and legs locking hers in a vise hold before she managed to grab a brick fragment and smash his kneecap.
Now his fingers gripped the bathroom sink’s rim and he steadied himself, his left knee refusing to carry much weight.
A brick to the knee and a boot to the ribs. Then a gunshot, not from a plasma discharger but an era-appropriate semiautomatic pistol.
The target’s smirk still burned in his memory, the slightest of smiles visible through thin moonlight. For a flash, he’d wondered why she found their encounter amusing, but when the gun’s barrel slid down from his forehead to the implanted retrieval beacon, he knew.
Stranding him, it seemed, was a crueler twist than murder.
Kin cursed himself for letting her get the better of him, for trusting his gut instead of the endless intel notes provided by the TCB.
She’d let her guard down a few seconds later, which was the only opening he needed, adrenaline powering a takedown. The sickening crunch of a snapped neck brought on both relief and self-loathing, typical rushes that came wit
h TCB Protocol Eight Ninety-Six:
In case of life-threatening resistance, field agents are authorized to eliminate the target in lieu of apprehension.
Mission accomplished. Now what?
Kin racked his brain, searching through memories of processes, protocols, and training, anything that might give some insight into what happened when the beacon went offline. But the endless list of technical specifications and failsafe details offered little comfort, things field agents memorized for no good reason, really.
Except there was a good reason: the beacon never went offline. It couldn’t. Not while he was alive.
Assess and execute, he told himself. Processes, lists, mental visualization, his mind’s eye sorted it all using years of agent training. Kin’s hand pressed firmly against the wound, waiting for the slightest of tremors to register across his palm. Blood oozed out, bright red slipping between his dark brown fingers and running down his shirtless side. One drop hit the bathroom tile of the motel room safe house, then another and another. “Temporal Crimes field agent I-D-R-one-five, code E-six, interface active.” The activation phrase given at the end of every mission.
Two minutes passed, a hundred and twenty frozen moments.
Kin waited, then repeated the activation phrase. One second ticked by, then another and a third. Everything after became a blur; he stared, eyes squinting, awaiting the holographic projection with tactile interface, what always appeared when he said the activation phrase.
He could see the holo now: the blue-and-orange semitransparent lines with a simple input/output display floating a few inches from his face. He could feel the tactile thump response of the virtual keyboard while entering in mission status codes and confirmation thumbprint signature.
But only in his head. No holo interface, no ability for end-of-mission transmission to the Mission Control war room.
Kin grabbed a small black rectangle from his first-aid kit. “Vital measurement scan,” he said, and a hologram of letters and numbers floated in front of him, broadcasting his body temperature (slightly elevated due to injury), heart rate (same), hydration level (dehydrated), respiratory rate (normal), and blood pressure (steady). All of that should have coordinated with the beacon to confirm his identity and fuel its thermal-generated power source.
A thin black stick popped out of the device with a quick hydraulic hiss. He gripped the plasma scalpel, palm wrapped around the cylinder so tight that his hand throbbed. Two inches above the gunshot wound. Then a diagonal line about eight inches down, held at a slight angle inward.
In theory, if the beacon had even a flicker of power coursing through it, removing it would fire an emergency retrieval signal to a Mission Control tracking system in 2142 as its final shutdown act, a trigger upon exposure to raw air.
Kin ignited the scalpel, the stench of burning flesh harsher than the gradual burn into his skin.
But if the beacon was totally dead, he’d have a gaping wound on top of his existing injuries. Not ideal conditions for patching up ad hoc surgery, especially with a lack of basic medical supplies.
The scalpel retracted its thin beam of heat.
Towel. Water. Pressure. Binding gel. For now, he bandaged the wound while considering the next logical step. Two more days in 1996 until the end of his two-week mission span, two more days in 2142 before Mission Control scanned for a retrieval signal. Normally, he appreciated the TCB’s strict scheduling, a one-for-one policy that prevented field agents from appearing to age at an accelerated rate. Now that just meant two more days of asking what-ifs.
When the TCB failed to detect a signal from his beacon, common sense dictated they’d pick him up and bring him home. Even without the beacon’s geopositioning, access to all of the digital records in human history made this easy.
That had to be it. They wouldn’t leave him here.
Would they?
His wound bound and cleaned, Kin sank his naked back against the bathroom wall. He slid down and let out a breath, an oppressive weight collapsing down on his chest.
A new option appeared in his mind, the only one left: stay calm, wait, and see.
An unknown future. The thought gripped every muscle in his body. Kin’s groan echoed off the thin, dirty walls of the motel bathroom, and though this room had harsh lighting, his eye caught something behind the toilet. Despite the burn in his side and stinging in his knees, Kin reached, gut cramping from the wound, and he slid the object into view while fighting off the slight tremble taking over his hand.
A penny.
A quiet laugh fought past the pain spidering throughout his battered body, past the fears he didn’t want to acknowledge. The most worthless piece of physical currency in 1996. Or a sign of something else.
He grasped the coin, his fingers curled into a fist, pressing so hard the edges dug into his skin. A calm came over him, his breath returning to normal and his heartbeat slowing to a regular rhythm. It had to be something, this one little sign of his past—or his future, depending on perspective.
Hope. Of course. What else would a penny be to him?
CHAPTER 1
Kin Stewart used to be a time-traveling secret agent.
Eighteen years ago, give or take a few months. At least that’s what his instincts told him. But even now, he wasn’t sure where he was or what just happened, let alone who he was supposed to be.
His eyes opened.
Lights. Light, and a hard pavement. Aching in his knees. Cold on his cheek, his ear.
A car horn.
Then voices. Two female voices, muffled but gradually coming through, one distinctly younger than the other, speaking at urgent clips.
“Kin? Kin! Are you okay?” the older one said.
“Should I call nine-one-one?” the younger one said, panic wrapping each word.
“Come on, come on, get up. Can you hear me?”
“What about a doctor?”
The world blinked into focus. He closed his eyes, took in several breaths, then pushed himself to remember.
Something must have knocked him out. Cold fingers touched his face, and agent instincts immediately kicked in.
From the way the fingers felt, he calculated the angle of the hand. His peripheral vision picked up two kneeling silhouettes—they were behind him. He was on the floor, facedown. Prone. He had to get to safety. But where?
His hand flew up, pushing the fingers away, and he rolled a full circle, shoulders to back to shoulders again until propping himself on his knees, arms in a defensive position.
Two terrified faces stared back at him. Around them, sparkles in his vision flashed and tracked with his eye movement.
Heather, still in office attire with her long red hair hanging down, one arm extended and hand open. His wife.
Miranda, standing slightly behind her in her high school soccer uniform, concern tinting her wide eyes. His daughter.
And the blind spots, like fireworks everywhere he looked, another symptom that arrived shortly after a blackout.
His mind registered Miranda’s fear. Heather’s concern. He’d had another fainting spell and he needed to reassure them, even though his wobbly frame barely stood. He projected a smile, not a huge one, but one grounded in warmth, a father and husband offering comfort through a single expression despite the tornado whirling inside him.
“I’m okay, guys. I’m okay. I just...” The dull aches in his knees lit into a sudden burning, causing him to buckle ever so slightly. The pounding in his temples thumped to its own rhythm. Daylight from the open garage door blinded with an overwhelming intensity, and the rumble of Heather’s idling car filled his ears. “I must have just tripped.”
Miranda leaned over to her mom. “I think we should call a doctor,” she said. “This is the third time this month.”
Her voice was low, but Kin still heard it. He had to put them at ease, especially his
daughter. “It’s fine. I promise, let me get my bearings. See?” He straightened past the aches and muscle spasms firing up and down his body. “I’m good.”
“Miranda, I know you have to go. I’ll help Dad out.”
“Okay.” The fourteen-year-old reached into the car and grabbed a backpack and gym bag before approaching. “I hope you’re okay, Dad.”
“I am. I’m fine, sweetie.” He put his arm out, and she half leaned into his attempted hug. “I’ll get started on dinner soon. Lasagna tonight. My own recipe. Adding a layer of quinoa for texture.” The sentence finished, prompting details to flood his mind. Years of training and missions had informed his mental muscle memory to scan every scene and identify all variables, so much so that he couldn’t shake it during the simpler tasks of cooking and garage cleanup. He visualized the recipe, steps and ingredients superimposing in his mind’s eye, along with projected cook times and the bubbling cheese of a perfect lasagna, something he hoped worthy of TV’s Home Chef Challenge—if he ever got the nerve to audition.
Kin looked at Heather, who offered her usual smirk and subtle eyeroll whenever he prattled on about recipes, and Miranda, who shot a worried glance back at him while rolling her bike out of the garage.
Now all that training was used for family mode—and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Wait—the four questions.”
Whatever concern Miranda had seemed to slip away, a crinkled brow arriving instead. Kin fired off the first of the four questions asked whenever she went out. “Where are you going?”
“Tanya’s. To work on our programming project.” The answer arrived with slanted lips and weight shifting back and forth. He’d happily take irked teen disrespect over a worried daughter at this point.
“Who’s going to be there?”
“Just Tanya. And Tanya’s parents.”
“When will you be home?”
“Seven-ish. It’s—” Miranda glanced at the wall clock “—three forty right now. So in time to try your lasagna.”
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