Borrowed Time

by Greg Leitich Smith

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Sample Chapter from CHRONAL ENGINE

  Buy the Book

  About the Author

  Clarion Books

  3 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10016

  Copyright © 2015 by Greg H. Leitich

  Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Leigh Walls

  Cover illustrations copyright © 2015 by Owen Richardson

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Smith, Greg Leitich.

  Borrowed time / Greg Leitich Smith.

  pages cm

  Summary: “In this time-travel adventure, Max Pierson-Takahashi and his friend Petra return to the days of the dinosaurs, where they must survive attacks from deadly prehistoric creatures and a vengeful, pistol-toting girl from the 1920s”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-544-23711-7 (hardback)

  [1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Dinosaurs—Fiction. 3. Survival—Fiction. 4. Science fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S6488Bo 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015013600

  eISBN 978-0-544-23666-0

  v1.1115

  For Cynthia, my Muse. Always.

  Chapter

  I

  Nate

  LABOR DAY WEEKEND, 1985

  “IT’S A RACE,” NATE TOLD HIS BROTHER. “THE POINT IS TO RACE!”

  The pair had just finished their heat in double sculls in the Labor Day Regatta on the Colorado River in Bastrop, Texas. Their boat, the Velociraptor, rested upside down on stands in front of the boathouse. The pair was hurriedly wiping it down to clear it out of the way of the high school crews.

  The race itself had gone well, and the brothers had made it through to finals tomorrow. They didn’t make it as the lead boat, though, and as far as Nate was concerned, that was because Brady had slacked off at about the three-quarter mark.

  “The point is to win,” Brady answered, gesturing with his rag. “The heats don’t matter.”

  Nate made a choking sound and resisted the urge to strangle his brother. Not for the first time. The two were fraternal twins, and people said they saw the family resemblance only after they were told this. In contrast to everyone else in the family except their mother, Brady was blond and gray eyed. He was also the only one of the family who didn’t need corrective eyewear. And he was good at almost everything, which only sometimes bothered Nate. Strangely enough, most people who met Brady liked him.

  But to Nate, the bigger issue was that this was going to be their last regatta together. Brady had announced last night that he was giving up rowing to join the football team. “The hours are better,” he’d said. “And so are the girls.”

  Nate tossed his rag into its bucket. “And what’s wrong with winning the heats?”

  “Nate,” his brother said, with not quite a sigh, “I knew we were going to make it, so why burn ourselves out ahead of finals tomorrow, when it actually matters?”

  Nate didn’t answer as they loaded Velociraptor onto its rack and looked out at the frenzy on the docks, where teams were lining up to put their boats in the water.

  Just to the north of the boathouse, along the river, a temporary grandstand had been erected in City Park for the event. It was filled to capacity with fans and spectators. More well-wishers were pressing at the barricades to yell congratulations and watch the crews come off the water.

  “I didn’t see him—did you?” Nate finally asked, scanning the mass of people. Their father had said he was going to come to the regatta, then celebrate with them afterward. They were supposed to be going into Austin for dinner at Threadgill’s and to hear the Lofty Pigs play live. “Was he in the stands?”

  “I was concentrating on rowing,” Brady replied. “You know, because it was a race.”

  Nate didn’t reply. Neither of them said a word as they headed into the locker room to shower and clean up.

  It was supposed to have been only the second time in about seven years that their father emerged from the family ranch. The first time was two months ago, just after the Fourth of July. He’d taken Brady, Nate, and their sister, Ernie, into downtown Bastrop to see Back to the Future. To Nate’s embarrassment, halfway through, he got them kicked out of the Pegasus Theatre when he started talking loudly and at length about how Dr. Emmett Brown had gotten it all wrong and was a menace. He’d even recited differential equations.

  Nate figured he would still be hearing about this from everyone in town five years from now, when he graduated from Bastrop High West and left the state of Texas entirely, for anyplace that hadn’t heard of the Chronal Engine, the family time machine.

  Their father spent most of his days and nights working on it and obsessing over it.

  According to family lore, Nate’s Great-Grandpa Pierson, nicknamed “Mad Jack,” had invented the Chronal Engine and had used it to defeat the Nazis. Nate wasn’t clear on the details of exactly how the time machine had won the war, since history books tell the story differently, but the Chronal Engine itself was about the size of a minivan, took up much of the basement, and had lights and dials that sometimes lit up randomly for no reason he could see.

  Despite himself, Nate was a little surprised his father wasn’t at the regatta. He’d gone out of his way to say he’d come, even though he thought sports were for fools and the people who watched them were ninnies. So on top of being angry at Brady for his performance, Nate was mad at their dad. He was also kind of mad at himself for hoping his father might be starting to let go of the craziness.

  Their sister, Ernie, also wasn’t there, though, and that was unusual. The three had established a kind of solidarity, supporting one another even if their father didn’t, especially since losing their mom in a car accident three years ago. She went to the boys’ regattas and recitals and Brady’s science fairs, and the twins went to her academic decathlons and track meets. It worked out, mostly, although slightly less regularly now that she’d started dating that idiot Jacob Takahashi. He was on the football team, and Nate really wanted to bludgeon him with an oar.

  But apart from the fact that their father had promised he’d be here and wasn’t, the boys didn’t have a way home.

  Nate tried calling their dad using the pay phone in the boathouse, but all he got was the
answering machine.

  “He’s probably on his way,” Brady said.

  “Right,” Nate answered, slamming the receiver down. It was possible. In the same way it was possible he could win the lottery while getting struck by lightning. Twice.

  “He’s working,” Brady said, as if working on a time machine was perfectly normal.

  The pair spent the next couple of hours helping the organizers clean up the boathouse and grounds and prepare for tomorrow. As always, Brady stayed calm while Nate stewed. By sunset, their father still wasn’t there and there still wasn’t an answer on the home phone.

  As Nate hung up, swearing loudly and expressively, Brady reprimanded him for cursing, and the rowing-team coach approached.

  “Next time,” Coach Halverson said, “maybe your dad can use that time machine of his to pick you up on time.” He laughed that hearty and annoying laugh he used to make people think he was joking. “Can I give you kids a lift?”

  Brady shrugged. Nate nodded because they didn’t really have much of a choice.

  The twins were silent most of the way home—Brady didn’t really like the coach, and Coach Halverson jabbered enough for three people, anyway. This time, he talked about how in high school the boys’ dad used to be normal. Back then, it was their dad’s father, Samuel Pierson, who had been the eccentric. Nate grunted in the right places and, every now and then, wiped imaginary dust off his glasses with the end of his T-shirt.

  Finally, they got to the ranch, and Coach Halverson turned down the winding, tree-lined road that led up the hill to their house.

  Almost before the truck had come to a stop adjacent to the stairs leading to the porch, Nate jumped out and said through clenched teeth, “Thanks!”

  Without waiting for Brady, Nate turned and climbed the steps. Coach Halverson waved and spun the wheels and roared off. It actually had been good of the coach to come all the way out here to the ranch, Nate admitted to himself. Of course, that was as much because he wanted the twins (Brady, mostly) on the team next year as anything else. Nate hadn’t really needed or wanted to be reminded, though, that their dad was just the latest member of the family to be widely known as the town freak.

  Still, Nate figured Mad Jack Pierson must’ve had something going for him. He was Nate and Brady’s great-grandfather and the one who’d bought the three-thousand-acre ranch and built the house in the 1890s. It was a twelve-thousand-square-foot Texas Victorian perched on a hill between Austin and Bastrop and in the shadows of the Lost Pines. It had given him space for his time travel experiments without interference from neighbors, and there was enough land for his own power plant to run the Chronal Engine.

  Nate opened the leaded glass door and wiped his feet on the doormat, not bothering to remove his shoes. At that point, he didn’t care that if their housekeeper, Frau Lindenhofer, saw him, she’d give him grief about dirt on the hardwood. Of course, it was late enough that she was probably already upstairs, watching the soap operas she recorded every day on videocassette. The front of the house was dark, with only a small table lamp lit in the parlor.

  Straight down the hall to the back, behind the closed kitchen door, Nate and Brady heard frantic barking.

  “Thor!” Nate yelled, picking up the pace. When he opened the kitchen door, he was nearly bowled over by eighty pounds of golden retriever.

  The next few minutes were occupied by the vigorous petting and scratching of dog. Then Nate grabbed a much-slobbered-over plush toy stegosaur from the hallway floor and threw it toward the front. Thor bounded after it, claws clicking and skittering on the wood.

  “Dad must be downstairs,” Brady observed as Thor returned with his toy. “He told me yesterday he was near a breakthrough with the Recall Device.”

  Nate rolled his eyes.

  According to their dad, the Chronal Engine itself remained fixed in time and space, while the time traveler could operate the machine remotely using these baseball-size things Mad Jack had unimaginatively called Recall Devices. The problem was, it had been years since anyone had seen a Recall Device in the wild. Their father had convinced himself that he could build one, though, and he was perpetually nearing the necessary breakthrough. But who built any kind of machine that could be operated only from a remote control?

  As Nate opened the door, Brady grabbed his arm. “Don’t.”

  Nate shook free and plunged on, stomping down the stairs. The last time he’d been down there, his dad had complained that he’d startled him, ruining three hours of work. Thor raced ahead. Brady followed.

  They called the basement “the workshop,” but it looked more like a library. The Chronal Engine—lights glowing—occupied one side, and an array of oak bookshelves and file cabinets lined the walls. A burgundy and gold Oriental rug covered the floor. At the far end, French doors opened to the patio, with its barbecue pit and smoker.

  Their father was where he usually was, at the library desk, which was about the size of an aircraft carrier. A pile of tiny parts and a set of watchmaker’s tools were arranged in front of him on the blotter. He wore a jeweler’s loupe over his right eye and held a tiny screwdriver in one hand and, in the other, a small round object made of glass and brass. A fine-tip soldering iron sat next to him on the desktop.

  Thor ran between the red leather armchairs to push his head forward on the desk.

  “Get that dog out of here!” their father said without looking up.

  “We were supposed to go to Threadgill’s!” Nate approached to rest a hand on the back of one of the chairs.

  “You’re already home,” their father replied, making an adjustment with the screwdriver. “Therefore, to drive into Austin would’ve been a waste. And you know better than to bring that animal in here!”

  “The regatta ended hours ago!” Nate shouted.

  At this, his father looked up at him, the loupe reflecting the lights from the Chronal Engine. “Impossible!”

  “It’s dark out! Look!” Nate pointed toward the French doors.

  His father glanced over, momentarily startled, and seemed about to say something. But then Thor plopped his head, tongue lolling out, onto a small pile of tiny spare cogs and gears. At least, Nate thought they were spare. His father recoiled and yelled, with emphasis on every word, “Get him out of here now!”

  Thor wagged his tail and barked, running toward the patio through the open doors.

  Nate’s father peered down at the pile the dog had disturbed, then looked over the edge of the desk to see where parts were now scattered on the floor.

  Nate clenched his jaw and, like Frau Lindenhofer always recommended, counted silently to ten in German before he said something regrettable. Then he shook his head and followed Thor, wanting more than anything to just get out of the house. Besides, there’d been a couple of reports recently of coyotes and Nate didn’t want to leave Thor outside alone.

  Brady caught up with him as Nate stepped onto the patio. Back in the workshop, their dad was on his hands and knees, picking up tiny pieces.

  “He always does it,” Nate said.

  That was when they heard barking from down the hill near the garage.

  “He’s got something,” Brady murmured, and raced ahead.

  The garage had been built in the 1930s and was two stories tall, with a yellow-brick face and a red tile roof. As Nate ran after his brother, he could see that the side door was open.

  Thor had already pushed his way through and disappeared into the interior. Nate flicked on the lights and hit the buttons that opened the doors to the three bays. Only two were occupied now.

  “You don’t think he caught anything, do you?” Brady asked as they entered and circled around a station wagon.

  “Oh yeah,” Nate muttered. “He brought down a caribou.” Thor was a good dog—mostly obedient and loudly aware of strange noises in the night. This had been useful when Nate was five and was scared of the bogeyman and Sasquatch. Now Thor’s barking in the middle of the night wasn’t so great. And Nate had never, ever
seen him catch anything.

  The first bay in the garage held the station wagon. A blue ’75 Chevy Bel Air with the 454-cubic-inch V8 because their dad didn’t believe in four-cylinder engines. The middle bay was empty, and the third, where they could hear Thor, was occupied by Dad’s bass boat on its trailer.

  The boat was top of the line and had been used maybe once. About twenty feet long, with a row of three bucket seats in the middle, the rightmost one behind the control console and dashboard. Behind the row of seats were a raised fishing chair and the outboard motor. In front of the cockpit was a flat deck with storage compartments beneath it and another fishing chair. Stowed at the bow was a small electric trolling motor.

  Along the far wall of the garage, past the bass boat, was a tool cabinet and mini-fridge. At the wall’s base, where the floor trim was brittle with dry rot, Thor was scratching away plaster and wood lath. Nate raced over and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him back. Then he peered into the hole the dog had uncovered. A small brown and white shape sprang out and raced across the garage floor. Both Brady and Nate jumped back, and Thor lunged after it, chasing it out through an open bay door.

  “Rabbit,” Brady said. “Harmless. It’ll get away.”

  “Thor!” Nate shouted. Then he spotted something in the hole. He pulled away a bit more of the wood and plaster to reveal an object nestled in the back.

  It was a dusty brass and glass sphere. Nate swore in disbelief. This time in German, which Frau Lindenhofer had also taught him how to do.

  “It’s a Recall Device,” Brady said, leaning in.

  “I know.” Nate reached in, pulled it out through the hole, and stood, blowing away dust.

  Brady turned away, sneezing. “How long do you think it’s been in there?”

  “A while.” Though the cloud was dissipating, the glass and brass ball was still coated with a layer of grime.

  “Dad is going to freak out,” Brady said.

  “If we tell him,” Nate replied, only half serious, though still angry about this afternoon.