In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Nathan Van Coops

The guys have varied success with Mr. Cameron’s clothes. Robbie and Carson find some corduroy pants to wear with some polo shirts. Blake and I are too tall for any of the pants and opt to stay in our athletic shorts, but help ourselves to some of Mr. Cameron’s long-sleeved T-shirts.

  We regroup downstairs near the kitchen and Mr. Cameron provides us with a phone book to search for the St. Petersburg Temporal Studies Society. Blake finds the number and dials it into Mr. Cameron’s phone.

  “Hello. Yes, good afternoon. I was wondering what your address is?” He scribbles hastily on a pad next to the phone. “Okay, wonderful, and do you have any tours, or interviews for students interested in your work? . . . Uh-huh, would that be available today? . . . Okay, thank you very much.” He turns back to us. “Good news. They have a designated intern for giving information on the organization and he’s available till four-thirty. I got the address. That should at least get us in the door.”

  “Awesome. How far is it?” I ask.

  “It’s actually really close to the softball field. It’s over on Twelfth Ave.”

  “Good. Robbie and Carson can hit up the Police Station on Central and see if they can find out anything about the van thing.”

  “I can give you two a ride down there if you like,” Mr. Cameron suggests. “Central is a bit far to walk. I can’t fit everyone in my car, otherwise I would take you all.”

  “Thanks, that would be great,” Robbie replies.

  “What’s the phone number here?” I ask. “We can call back here if we get in trouble.”

  “I’ll write it down for you.” Mr. Cameron scribbles the number on two slips of paper and hands them to Robbie and me. “If we make it back prior to you three, give a call and perhaps I can pick you up.”

  “Do you have your phone on you, Francesca?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t work here, remember?” she replies.

  “Yeah, but bring it anyway. It may be of interest at the Temporal Studies Society if we need to tell someone our story. You should bring your I.D. too.”

  We split up, and Spartacus is left to tend the house. It’s a familiar walk back toward the softball field. Blake and I walk quickly, only slowing when Francesca is in danger of lagging behind.

  The St. Petersburg Temporal Studies Society is located in a fenced in warehouse on a corner of an otherwise residential block. A small parking lot along the building is full, and a number of people in lab coats and I.D. badges are loitering around a back door, smoking. We enter through the main door and are greeted by a red-haired receptionist at the desk.

  “Hello, we called about getting some information on your program,” Blake says as we walk up to the desk.

  “Are you students?”

  “Er, yes,” he replies. “We’re doing a research paper on theories of time travel for our physics class.”

  “Okay, our intern, Elliot, will be able to answer your questions. I’ll need you to sign in and I’ll get you some visitors’ badges.”

  We sign the form and pin on the badges. A few moments later a tall, lanky blonde man about our age, walks through a set of double doors and greets us.

  “Hello, I’m Elliot. I understand that you’re interested in getting the tour.”

  “Yes.” Francesca smiles. “We want to learn about time travel.”

  “Well, we study a lot of things here at the Temporal Studies Society, everything from quantum theory, to the affects of aging. It’s true that some of the scientists here have been studying theories of time travel, but that’s not all we do.”

  “Which scientists have been working on it?” Blake asks.

  “Dr. Simons is head of the department on temporal physics but a lot of the work is being done by Dr. Quickly, who came out with a published theory on the subject a few years ago, and has been considered a leader in the area. Let me show you around. There are some areas that I won’t be able to show you due to safety concerns, but I can show you a few of our projects.”

  Elliot leads us down a hallway to an expansive open laboratory. There are bulky machines that I can’t begin to identify, as well as volumes of manuals and charts laid out on tables around them. A few men in coveralls are working on one of the machines in the center of the room.

  “Our creation department is devoted entirely to the construction of the equipment we need for various tests. In our field, many of the tools we need don’t exist anywhere else, so we’re required to custom build them to our purposes. That’s one of the costs and challenges of being on the cutting edge of scientific technology.”

  “So what are the current chances of someone time traveling?” I ask.

  “Ha, for a person, zero,” Elliot responds. “Unless you live in Hollywood. We’ve been getting that question a lot, ever since this summer, when Back to the Future came out. We don’t have a Delorean in any of these labs, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “But the theory is there, right?” Blake asks.

  “Yes and no. There are still a lot of things we don’t know about space and time and how they interact. We’ve been studying a lot of possible scenarios.”

  Elliot leads us through another set of doors into a smaller room that has a few large computers and a number of chalkboards and drafting tables. A dark-skinned man of about thirty is working on a drawing on one of them. “This is Malcolm. He’s one of our draftsmen and also does some of the tours. He was an intern here before me and they liked him so much they gave him a permanent position.” Malcolm nods from behind the table and gives a small wave before he goes back to his drawing.

  “So how does Dr. Quickly propose to develop the theory of time travel further?” I ask, hoping to get the conversation back to items that can help us. “What are his methods?”

  “There’s been a lot of talk over the years about speed being a key to time travel,” Elliot says. “Some of Einstein’s theories suggest that traveling at speeds close to that of light could make one capable of time travel. The fact that you cannot make matter go that fast without first converting it to energy, obviously makes it a challenge to discuss ever sending a person through time. There have been experiments done trying to send individual particles that fast. So far there has been limited success. Most recently the science has moved into the study of wormholes, or passages through the fabric of space and time. That has of course presented the problem of finding the energy to keep such a wormhole open.”

  “Like electricity?” I suggest. “I thought I read something about this sort of blue electricity . . .”

  Malcolm’s head lifts at this and I catch his eye momentarily before he drops his gaze again.

  “I don’t know that I’ve heard of color ever having anything to do with it, but there have been some theories in the works there also. I believe Dr. Quickly has been developing some recently. But I’m not the one to talk to on that subject. You would probably have to get that information from the source.”

  “Can we do that?” Francesca asks. “Can we talk to Dr. Quickly?”

  “He has a pretty busy schedule. He doesn’t take appointments very frequently.”

  We move into the next room. It has a number of steel tables in it. Some of them hold flowerpots under glass domes. The flowers are in various states of growth, from budding leaves, to pathetic withered twigs. There’s also a row of cages with lab rats in them.

  “Hey, it’s Pinky and the Brain.” Francesca nudges Blake with her elbow. I notice that Malcolm has followed us into the room and is fiddling with a pencil sharpener on the wall.

  “This room has a number of our aging tests. I’m sorry about the heat. We keep it at a pretty warm temperature for the plants. They’ve been doing various longevity tests here for years. Not all that exciting if you ask me.”

  Francesca starts taking off her sweater. “Isn’t it a little hot for these rats? I’m burning up.”

  As Elliot explains the nature of the tests on the rats to Francesca, she folds her sweater over her arm. Her cell phone falls out of the pocket and bounc
es off of her foot, then skids across the floor. Francesca mutters to herself, then notices Malcolm frozen in place staring at the phone with a pencil in his hand. He looks from the phone to the three of us with wide eyes for a moment, then quickly composes himself, and walks out of the room through the doors we entered by.

  Francesca grabs the phone and sticks it back under her sweater before Elliot pays any attention. She catches my eye and jerks her head toward the door that Malcolm has departed through. I noticed the reaction, too, and nod to her.

  We continue to follow Elliot through a couple more rooms of the lab but are unable to gain any more information about Dr. Quickly or his current experiments. About fifteen minutes later, Elliot leads us back to the lobby at the end of the tour.

  “If you need more information on The Society, The Saint Petersburg Times has written some nice articles recently. They have them on file at the library. I wish you the best of luck with your research.” He shakes all of our hands and disappears back into the lab.

  We begin to walk out the front door when the receptionist calls us back, pointing to our I.D. badges. Francesca and I hand our badges to Blake and he walks them back to the desk.

  The receptionist smiles and then leans past him and calls to Francesca. “Miss! I have a message here for you.”

  “For me?” Francesca raises her eyebrows and walks over to the desk. The receptionist hands her a white envelope.

  “Have a great day!”

  Francesca smiles and takes the envelope, and the three of us exit back onto the sidewalk.

  “What was that all about?” Blake asks.

  Francesca tears open the envelope, and removes a small slip of paper. It contains only two lines.

  “We need to talk. Meet me at the pier tonight, 8pm.”

  Chapter 5

  “It doesn’t pay to insult another time traveler. In fact you should make it a rule of thumb to never anger anyone today, who can go back and stab you yesterday.”

  -Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2008

  I’m staring out the back window of the house as Mr. Cameron pulls into the driveway. Spartacus meets everyone at the door as Mr. Cameron, Carson, and Robbie hustle through, anxious to share their news. “Dude, we ought to be detectives!” Carson declares as they enter the kitchen. “They need to make a show about us.”

  “I take it you got some good info,” I say.

  “Carson is an excellent sleuth,” Mr. Cameron agrees.

  “What did you find out?” Francesca asks.

  “The van is a GMC Savannah like Blake thought. It’s a prisoner transfer van. Only thing is, they have no idea who killed the guys in it. They’re looking into the possibility that it was the prisoner who escaped. That’s the assumption.”

  “Was there more than one prisoner in the van?” Blake asks.

  “They don’t know because they don’t have any info on where it came from. But guess what?”

  “What?”

  “The police wouldn’t give us any actual information on the case, because it’s an ongoing investigation or whatever, but I talked to this teenage kid who was on a ride-along at the station, and he told us where the van was. It turns out he had been with one of the cops who had responded to the scene yesterday. Apparently the cop had told this kid all about the experience and even drove him by the place where they were keeping the van. He was super chatty, so we got as much as he knew out of him as he was leaving the station.”

  “Then Grandpa took us by the site where they were keeping it,” Robbie continues the story. “The van was locked up behind a fence but it was outside. We were able to see over the fence and could see the license plate. It had government plates registered till 2010.”

  “Wow. So we aren’t the only ones,” I respond. “At least one other person is running around from the future.”

  “An escaped killer,” Francesca adds.

  “It looks that way,” Mr. Cameron says.

  “What if it’s Stenger, the psycho bomber serial killer guy?” Francesca asks. “That guy just finally got convicted. Now he could go right back to killing people.”

  “We don’t know it’s him. There could be any number of people. There are plenty of prisoners in the world,” I say.

  “Yeah, but not many driving around in St. Pete the day we left,” Carson argues. “His was a special case. It wasn’t even supposed to be tried here, remember? His lawyer argued something about him not getting a fair trial in Tallahassee, so they moved it to another city. They chose St. Pete, but I don’t think there are many big cases like that here usually.”

  “That’s true,” Robbie agrees. “Should we warn the police here?”

  “Do we want to tell them who we are?” Blake asks. “What if they take us in to question us? Who knows where we’d end up? We know the future. I don’t plan to spend my time being interrogated. We need to get back.”

  “Speaking of that topic, what did you all ascertain on your adventure?” Mr. Cameron asks.

  We describe our tour of the Temporal Studies Society and show the others the cryptic note we received.

  “We’re thinking it’s from that Malcolm guy who was acting so sketchy, but we can’t know for sure,” Francesca explains. “But whoever it is wants to meet us.”

  “Are we all going down there?” Robbie asks.

  “That’s actually a good question,” I reply. “We don’t really know how much we can trust this person. Since they only saw three of us, maybe it’s a good idea for you two to keep a low profile till we know more. That way we aren’t showing all our cards at once. I’d like to know more about what we’re into before we go telling just anyone our story.”

  Spartacus trots into the room and drops a toy at Robbie’s feet. Robbie picks it up and tosses it for him. “Blake brings up a good point,” I say, watching the dog dash after it. “We do know the future when it comes to a lot of things. That information would probably be valuable to a lot of people. We ought to be sure of who we can trust.”

  “I want to be around in any case,” Carson says. “Robbie and I can hang out and watch from a distance. They won’t know what we look like. We can observe, and if anything goes wrong, we can jump in.”

  “You can use my car if you like,” Mr. Cameron says. “And you can call here if you get separated from one another. It’s good to have a point of contact.”

  The temperature has dropped significantly by the time eight o’clock rolls around. Blake and I have borrowed some sweatshirts from Mr. Cameron that are slightly too small, but are better than nothing. Francesca is hugging herself in her sweater as we walk down the long expanse of the St. Petersburg Pier. The city is lit up and I marvel at the difference in the skyline without the high rise condos that I know are going to bloom up over the next two decades.

  The pier itself looks less colorful than we knew it, but the pelicans still swoop along the road and fishermen are still lining the edges. The inverted pyramid building at the end of the pier has people coming and going, and I realize how hard it will be to pick anyone out in the dim light. We look for anyone who resembles Malcolm, but don’t see him. We linger outside the entrance so we can be easily found. Carson has followed us up the pier at a distance and is keeping to the north edge, pretending to be interested in one of the fishermen’s catches. Robbie is at the parking lot near the car.

  Fifteen minutes go by as we lean against the wall, waiting for our contact. I’m starting to worry that we’re going to be stood up, when at last a trolley pulls up to the entrance, and after a couple of families descend, Malcolm steps down and walks immediately toward us. He’s wearing a black coat and jeans and doesn’t look at anything else as he walks up and addresses us quietly. “Follow me, please.”

  He leads the way to an edge of the pier, then pivots to face us. Malcolm is about Robbie’s height but not as athletically built. Olive skin and dark eyes make his slightly curved nose and sharp features seem exotic.

  “He wants to know what you want,” he s
ays.

  “I’m sorry. Who wants to know what?” I ask.

  Malcolm glares at me, but seeing that I was asking sincerely, starts over again. “Why did you come to the Temporal Studies Society today? It wasn’t for a research paper.” He has a slight accent. Somewhere in Eastern Europe or the Middle East maybe?

  “We were looking for Dr. Quickly,” Blake replies. “We need to talk to him.”

  Malcolm studies each of us intently. He looks lastly at Francesca and sees her hand fidgeting in her pocket. “When are you from?”

  “2009,” I say.

  Malcolm doesn’t blink. “How did you get here?”

  “That’s what we need help figuring out,” Blake replies. “We’re trying to get back.”

  “You didn’t come here on purpose?” Malcolm asks, surprised.

  “No!” Blake exclaims.

  This seems to change Malcolm’s disposition toward us. He looks us over again, apparently deciding what to do next. “Where are you staying?”

  “We’d rather not say,” I respond, before any of the others can reply. “We don’t know you and we’d rather not take any unnecessary chances.”

  Malcolm nods. “Very well. I’ll discuss your situation with Dr. Quickly and see what he says. I’m sure he’ll want to meet you.”

  “How should we get in touch with you?” Blake asks.

  “Dr. Quickly isn’t here at the moment. I can’t say exactly when he’ll be back. Meet me here again next week. Same time.”

  “Next week?” Blake replies angrily. “What’re we supposed to do until then?”

  “Try not to screw anything up,” Malcolm snaps. He begins to walk away.

  “But you can help us?” Blake continues, his tone more conciliatory now.

  Malcolm turns around and considers us. “If you’re being honest, and all you want is to get back, we can probably help you. If we find you have ulterior motives, things will not go well. Don’t come by the Temporal Studies Society anymore. It isn’t wise. It’s especially important that you do not disturb the Dr. Quickly there.” He turns and walks back to the front of the building and boards a trolley that is loading passengers, leaving the three of us to dwell on what he said.