Showdown
Time Trap: Book Two
Deborah Chester
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1992 by Deborah Chester
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition January 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-594-0
More from Deborah Chester
Time Trap Series
Time Trap
Showdown
Pieces of Eight
Restoration
Turncoat
Termination
Ruby Throne Series
Reign of Shadows
Shadow War
Realm of Light
Anthi Series
The Children of Anthi
Requiem for Anthi
The Omcri Matrix
The Goda War
This book is dedicated with respect and love to my grandfather, Lewis Dalton Hatcher, who gave me childhood summers of cow punching, fence building, water trough cleaning, and branding under the wide New Mexico sky.
No kid could have had it any better.
PaPa, here’s the Western you asked for.
Chapter 1
Drowning was no fun.
Materializing on the other side of the time vortex, historian Noel Kedran expected to find himself safely home in the familiar twenty-sixth-century surroundings of the Time Institute.
Instead, he was caught unexpectedly in a swift current of water, suddenly struggling for his life, with no time to wonder where he was or how he came to be in this rushing, roiling torrent. Water roared around him, foaming creamy slobbers and sloshing sometimes higher than his bobbing head.
He flailed out in confusion, his survival instinct forcing him to swim even before his mind could comprehend what had happened. It was hard to see, hard to keep his head above water. The sunlight overhead was blinding. The water was opaque with mud and debris. It stank.
He tried to stroke against the current, but it was too powerful. A tangled mess of tree limbs swept over him without warning, pushing him beneath the surface to be tumbled and battered among the rocks. Desperately he clawed his way back to the surface, broke through, and dragged in a mighty breath. His arms and legs felt leaden. His medieval clothes—especially the knee-length tunic—weighed him down. He felt the temptation to let the current sweep him wherever it wanted. But if this was a river, he knew he could not last in the water indefinitely. He started swimming toward the bank again.
Constantly swirled around and tumbled, he caught only glimpses of the banks rushing by. They were steep rock faces on both sides, narrow like a canyon. They were too sheer to climb, even if he reached them, but he hoped to catch hold of something before he was pounded to death between the water and the rocks.
Some object struck his shoulder, spinning him around. He fought to keep his head aloft, and one of his flailing hands touched wet hair. The object was a dead antelope, tan and cream, with staring chocolate eyes. Before he could react, another tangle of tree limbs overtook him and drove him deep beneath the surface.
He hit his head, and a white explosion went off inside his skull. His limbs went slack, and by sheer willpower alone he clung to consciousness, holding on against the dark death that awaited him. The spin of the water bobbed him back to the surface. Desperately he dragged in a breath.
Water slopped into his mouth. He choked and went under again.
For an instant it seemed almost too difficult to go on fighting. But Noel wasn’t a quitter. With the last reserves of his strength, he made the surface again, aware that his odds of survival were worsening. What was that old principle of drowning? The third time you went down, you stayed down? He’d gone under twice.
But then the steep canyon walls dropped to low dirt banks, and the water spread out into a sandy draw that absorbed and slowed its brutal progress.
When the force of the current slackened, Noel kicked out with renewed hope, angling toward the bank. This time he made headway. A tumbleweed floated by, just inches from his face. He found himself staring into the yellow eyes of a snake wound up inside the tumbleweed.
His stroke faltered, and something bulky rammed him from behind. Noel whirled around, every nerve screaming, and saw it was a man, floating limp in the water.
Unconscious or dead, Noel couldn’t tell. He snagged the man’s arm, then grabbed him around the middle, momentarily giving up his chance of reaching the bank. Instead, he grabbed a passing fence post and clung to it with wet-slick fingers, keeping the man’s head out of the water.
In a few minutes the draw’s sandy banks dropped still lower to almost nothing. The water petered away into dozens of tiny side draws, and its force abated. Noel’s knees dragged the bottom. He released the post, letting it float on, and half dragged, half floated the man to the bank.
Noel heaved him onto shore first, then climbed out beside him and collapsed, winded and so tired he could hardly see. He knew he should check his companion in case resuscitation procedures were called for, but he needed to catch his own breath first. He closed his eyes to fight off dizziness.
When he reopened them an unknown amount of time later, he was conscious of overwhelming heat. Sunlight burned through his lashes when he squinted open his eyes. It was harsh light—dazzling, merciless. He felt like he’d been baked.
Slowly, aching all over, he sat up and looked around. The water had receded from his feet. Small puddles dotted the bottom of the draw. Most of them were already forming a scum and drying up. At his movement, birds and lizards scuttled away from the small water holes. Across the draw, he saw a flash of tawny fur bound through the brush and vanish before he could determine what it was.
It was wide, empty country—as stark and bleak as anything he could imagine. A cloudless sky of cobalt-blue stretched forever. The tawny ground supported only scrub and weeds. Out beyond the draw ran a low strip of flat ground about fifty meters wide. The land was filled with clumps of dead grass that grew in knee-high, skeletal tufts. Here and there, a variety of cactus bristled tall, snakelike arms to the sky, its pink blooms vivid against such desiccated surroundings.
Noel rubbed his face, trying to piece together what had happened. He was a historian, a time traveler. He’d been on his way home from medieval Greece, but instead of landing back in bustling, overcrowded Chicago at the Time Institute, he was here in this desert wasteland.
A shadow flitted over him. Startled, he glanced up and saw buzzards wheeling in the sky. He got to his feet and waved at them, but they didn’t leave.
His companion moaned.
Noel knelt beside him and rolled him over onto his back. He was a boy, not a man—perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old—but already honed to sinewy steel by this harsh country. His tanned jaw showed the faint blond beginnings of a beard, and his hair was a light, streaky brown beneath its crust of dried sand. He wore a shirt of rough cotton, a faded red bandanna twisted about his throat, long trousers with an empty gun holster, and high-heeled boots of scuffed cowhide.
Noel frowned, not wanting to believe that he was in the old West. He checked the boy’s pulse and found it steady. A darkening bruise on the boy’s temple seemed to be his only injury. He would be coming awake soon.
> After a split second of hesitation, Noel made a swift search of the boy’s pockets. He found a U.S. silver dollar stamped 1885, a cloth bag of waterlogged tobacco, a sheaf of ruined cigarette papers, and a dog-eared sepia photograph of an unsmiling girl in a white dress embellished with lace and ribbons. Her hair was pulled back with a broad ribbon. She looked enough like the boy to be his sister. Frowning, Noel turned the coin over in his fingers several times. It was worn rather than new-minted, but it gave him the information he needed. He placed the items back in the boy’s pockets.
It was likely he’d saved this boy’s life. And if that meant another change of history that he was going to have to correct, he did not want to deal with it now. He had enough complications on his hands, just being here.
Besides, it was time to find out where here was.
Noel looked around and headed for the cover of a massive, squat mesquite bush growing over a mound of earth riddled with holes. Noel guessed it was a rat den. At any rate he hoped it was a den for rats rather than snakes. He crouched cautiously near the bush and started the routine self-check that was mandatory for any Traveler.
He still wore his medieval garb of long tunic and hose, and already he was roasting in the light wool cloth. His blue hose were ripped and encrusted with sand and dried mud. He shucked them off, then put back on his cloth shoes with their thin leather soles. His legs were pale in the harsh sunlight.
Pretty soon they would be lobster red. He didn’t think his footgear would be of much use in this country of scorpions and rattlesnakes, but the shoes were all he had. Ripping the long sleeves off his tunic, he discovered the arrow wound in his shoulder was gone.
Noel flexed his left arm experimentally. It was as good as ever, although his muscles were still tired from the swim. That was one of the better side effects of time travel. It accelerated healing at an unheard-of rate, as though growth cells were stimulated. Yet the side effects did not include corresponding aging.
A lizard flicked by, and Noel flinched. An image of the diamondback rattler wound in that floating tumbleweed returned to him, as vivid as life, and still scary. He listened to a gentle but steady breeze rustle through the clusters of drying mesquite beans hanging from the thorny branches of the bush and imagined he could hear snake rattles.
This country was stark, primitive, savage. He tried to tell himself that he was still jumpy from materializing in the wrong place, but deep down he knew better. He had the sense of being watched, although the only living things he could see around him were a pair of jackrabbits, the lizards, and the buzzards still wheeling patiently overhead. Only the toughest could survive in this land. The heat was intense, smothering him, baking harshly into his brain. He squinted at the sun, and judged it nearly noon. He needed to find shelter.
He was acutely conscious of thirst. His mouth felt as though it had been scoured with sand. He could barely work up enough spit to swallow. And of course, he felt the pangs of intense hunger that traveling always brought on.
At least, however, he still had his LOC. The Light Operated Computer was programmed with molecular shift capability and could disguise itself to blend in with destination and time. Noel examined a wide cuff of Indian silver on his left wrist. Turquoise studded the metal in a handsome design. But this was not the time to admire it.
“LOC, activate,” he said in a low, urgent voice.
The computer hummed softly to life, shimmering into its true configuration of a clear-sided bracelet that pulsed with a complexity of miniature fiber-optic circuits.
“Working,” it said.
“No, you’re not,” snapped Noel, shoving his fingers through his black hair. “What the hell are we doing here? We’re supposed to be home in Chicago. Twenty-sixth century, remember? Can’t you get anything right?”
The computer made no reply. With a sigh, Noel realized he’d asked it too many questions at once. He hauled his temper under control.
“Okay, let’s start again. Specify time and location.”
“New Mexico territory, year 1887.”
Noel’s puzzlement grew. It made no sense for him to be here. A trained historian and experienced time traveler, his specialty was classical antiquity—the Greek, Roman, and Egyptian variety. His mission was to visit events of historical significance and make recordings of what transpired. With his own century marred by social unrest, a widening gap between uneducated labor and technocrats, and the population’s increasing dependence on fantasy, drugs, and head chips, Noel sought to bring back evidence of courage, involvement, and valor. Civilization in the twenty-sixth century had stretched about as far as it could go. It was teetering on the edge. Anarchists were doing their best to bring everything down. Noel felt a commitment to saving mankind by showing it examples from the best moments of the past.
However, on his last mission anarchist saboteurs had tampered with his LOC, and he had found himself in the wrong place and time. But he’d been certain he’d corrected his LOC. Apparently, he was wrong.
What was special about New Mexico in the late 1800s? He couldn’t think of anything. It was a time of settlement and expansion. The worst of the Indian uprisings had been suppressed. The massive cattle drives along the Goodnight-Loving trail from Texas to Wyoming had ended, with railroads probably shipping steers to market. So why was he here?
He recalled that medieval Greece was a rather obscure part of history as well. Perhaps his LOC had somehow been reprogrammed to send him away from anywhere significant.
The awful dread that he was never going to get back to his own time grew in Noel. “Why are we here?” he asked the LOC.
“Unknown.”
“Damnit!”
The LOC waited, humming to itself.
Noel started to count to ten but gave up at three. “We were on set recall coordinates, correct?”
“Acknowledged.”
“Recall failed. Why?”
The LOC hummed for a few seconds. Noel forced himself to wait despite the impatient urge to pound the device with the nearest rock. Those saboteurs back home had really messed it up. He was supposed to get lightning-quick answers to his questions. He was supposed to have full information access from extensive data banks. He was supposed to come and go on the correct time stream and materialize where he belonged, not be jerked randomly through time and space.
“LOC!” he snapped. “Respond. Why did recall fail?”
“Working,” said the LOC almost sullenly. “Recall did not fail.”
He could have yelled. He could have pulled off the LOC and thrown it into the farthest mesquite bush. Neither alternative would help.
“What,” he said sarcastically, “do you call where we are?”
“New Mexico territory, year 1887.”
“I know that, you piece of junk. Recall was set for Chicago, year—”
“Recall limit reached,” said the LOC flatly.
Noel’s brows knotted, and he chewed on that unwelcome response for a while. Finally, in a quiet, almost hopeless voice he asked, “Is the time loop closed?”
“Affirmative.”
“And its maximum limit points are 1332 and 1887?”
“Checking…affirmative.”
Noel drew up his knees and rested his chin on them. He felt as though the bottom had dropped from his stomach. He felt cold and disassociated, as though pieces of himself had detached and were floating.
“Oh, God,” he said softly, aware that he was truly and for all eternity trapped. Unless he could find a way for the LOC to repair itself, he would never see his own time again.
He had faced that possibility when he’d landed in medieval Greece by mistake. But he had managed to get the LOC to perform certain self-diagnostic and repair functions. He had corrected the anomalies caused by his presence in that time. He had thought everything was set up for his return home.
False hope.
A quavery whistle brought him from his reverie with a jerk.
“Roan?” called the boy. “Ro-an! Her
e, boy!”
Noel whispered, “Disguise mode.”
The LOC blinked off and resumed its shape as the silver cuff. Noel climbed cautiously to his feet and went back to the draw. He kept to cover, not yet wanting to make his presence known, and watched the boy a moment. The boy was limping along the bank, scanning the plain anxiously. He whistled again, but without much conviction. Whoever he was looking for wasn’t around.
Noel stepped into plain view, and said, “Hello.”
The boy spun around fast, and reached for the gun that was missing from his holster. His eyes were blue and as big as saucers. It took him a second to realize his pistol was gone. He straightened, looking faintly sick. Noel saw him swallow.
“Easy,” said Noel in a quiet, steady voice. “I’m a friend.”
He stepped forward, but the boy stumbled back. Noel stopped, afraid the boy was going to back himself right off the bank of the draw.
“Friend,” said Noel.
The boy swallowed again, then steeled himself. “No ’pache is my friend.”
He spoke English in the broken, gruff-shrill range of a boy-man. A tide of red flooded his cheeks, but his eyes held steady with Noel’s.
Noel smiled. “You mean Apache? As in a Native American? Son, I’m neither.”
“Oh.” The boy blinked, then pointed at Noel’s clothing. “You’re rigged out like an Indian. You live with them maybe?”
“No. It’s either wear this or go buck naked.” Noel grinned. “There are a few places where I’d just as soon not be sunburned.”
The boy grinned back, then ducked his head. “My mistake, I guess. No offense?”
“None taken. I’m Noel Kedran.”
Noel held out his hand, and after a moment of hesitation the boy came forward and shook. His hand was strong and work-callused.
“Cody Trask. I’m with the Double T outfit. I sure thought I was a goner when I got caught in that flash flood. Did you pull me out?”
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