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

by Nathan Van Coops

  “Gangs?”

  “Yeah, groups or family clusters at least.” She turns back to me. “First time seeing an off-worlder?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Unless your eyes always pop out of your head like that.”

  I frown and take my seat. Jettison leans across the table toward us. “I heard he’s good. Fast. Adaptable. Super-tough skin. He’ll have an advantage against the elements.”

  “He’ll need it,” Cliff chimes in. “With a face like that he’ll have plenty of disadvantages, too. This race isn’t all about being fast. It’s about completing missions. And that takes all kinds of skills. People skills.”

  “No one wants to hear about your brothel expeditions,” Charlie quips.

  “Hey, they can hide your objective anywhere.” Cliff grins. “Can’t blame me for searching the most fun places first.”

  Our chatter is cut short by a brunette woman at the head table standing and tapping a microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please, our honorable chairman will now say a few words.”

  The silver-haired man rises slowly and casually waves to acknowledge the smattering of applause.

  “Thank you. Thank you.” He waits longer than necessary for the applause to die off. “I’m pleased to be in the company of so many esteemed colleagues, and accomplished athletes.” He holds a hand to his chest. “And humbled to be selected as your chairman for what is, beyond a doubt, the most exquisite and fascinating chronothon that has ever been designed. This race committee—” He gestures to the others at the table, “—as well as many members of ASCOTT, have really outdone themselves, and are to be commended.” He initiates another round of applause himself this time, and the other heads at the table bob and nod at each other.

  I catch a shared look between Jettison and Genesis. Jettison rolls his eyes and Genesis smiles.

  I lean toward her. “What’s ASCOTT?”

  “It stands for Allied Scientific Coalition of Time Travelers. They’re what you might call the leadership of the time travel community, but we aren’t very impressed with their methods.”

  “Coalition of ass clowns,” Jet mumbles, and Genesis snickers into her sleeve.

  The chairman continues his speech, holding his arms wide to the audience. “All of you racers and accomplished guides will be experiencing the collective work of dozens of committed volunteers, who have journeyed into the far reaches of time to set up the levels and time gates for this competition. The scale and grandeur of this course far exceeds that of any prior chronothon. We owe a great debt of gratitude to our generous sponsors, especially Digi-Com, United Machine, and Ambrose Cybergenics, for funding this venture. And of course a big thank you to Doctor Pia Chopra for organizing our sponsors again this year.” An Indian woman at the right side of the table pops to her feet for the next round of applause.

  Charlie has been scanning the tables of competitors and nudges me with an elbow, pointing toward a table at the front. “You see the man in the silver cape? That’s Admiral Silas McGovern. Usually just goes by ‘The Admiral.’ He’s competed in every chronothon since the beginning. Doesn’t always place very high these days, but he’s got experience out the ying yang. We’ll be keeping an eye on him out on the course. Guy next to him is Harrison Wabash. He has his pro guide credentials and at least three chronothons as a racer under his belt. He was always a contender as a racer, so together they make quite the team.”

  Both the men are older than Charlie by as much as a decade, but they look to be in great shape. They are dressed in slacks and sport coats that would easily escape attention if it weren’t for the shimmering silver cape hung from the Admiral’s shoulders. The Admiral’s white hair is smoothed back from his prominent forehead. He is listening attentively to the chairman’s ongoing litany of gratitude. The man identified as Wabash has struck a more relaxed pose, stretched back from the table with legs crossed and his hands resting atop his knee. His posture is attentive to the speaker, but I notice him casually sizing up the other tables also.

  My gaze drifts back over the tables behind him. The Academy of Temporal Sciences group seems to have rapidly lost interest in the speaker. They have their heads leaned close together, and the bulky one who saluted me earlier is pointing at the table next to them, where the kid in the snail helmet is facing away toward the chairman. The other two guys grin, and the black-skinned one, who looks to be the youngest, stretches out a hand to the breadbasket and slides a roll into his lap. He casts a couple of surreptitious glances at the neighboring tables, then lobs the roll, bouncing it perfectly off the boy’s helmet.

  The group immediately goes back to affected attention to the speaker. The blonde girl has a slightly scolding frown, but the guys are barely containing their mirth. The boy in the helmet turns his head just slightly after the impact, but goes back to listening to the speech without facing their table. The dog, having seen the roll become a projectile, apparently deems it to now be fair game, and stretches up to the table to snag it. This causes the guys at the ATS table to contort their faces in even more silent laughter.

  “Hey, is there an age limit to this race?” I ask Charlie. “That kid over there seems awfully young to be a competitor.”

  Charlie glances toward that side of the tent then returns his gaze to the speaker’s table. “Don’t even get me started on that mess. The kid obviously met the committee’s qualifications, but how they let him enter his dog as his guide is beyond me.”

  “The pooch probably has keener senses than you, Barnes,” Cliff says. “He’d definitely know to stay clear of that temple in Goa you barged into. What did they throw at you? Tiger urine?”

  Charlie’s eyes narrow, but he can’t hold his expression of irritation against Cliff’s euphoric smile. He wags a finger in Cliff’s direction. “I probably still smelled better than you that round.” He turns to me. “Ask him about the best way to cross a Palestinian pig farm some time.”

  The chairman has finally concluded his thank-you speech and is scrolling down an electronic display under the microphone. “All of you have been registered at this point and have been entered into the lottery for starting position. The results will be posted in the morning. We will synchronize the race bands at noon, and the first team will be through the gate at 12:30. You’ll be staggered in five-minute intervals, per usual for the first level. Pole positions and intervals will vary after that according to rank. Remember that no individual time traveling is authorized from now until entering the start gate. Violations will result in disqualification and heavy fines.” He pauses and smiles. “Celebrate with anticipation tonight, because tomorrow will bring wonders. Good luck racers, and may time be on your side.”

  The rest of the head table stands to applaud the chairman. A few racers and guides do as well, but the majority of us keep our seats. The musicians in the corner strike up their song again as a rotating hologram of a trophy appears over the head table, peppering the tent with light beams like a prism. A small army of servers appears, bearing trays and dispersing entrees. The tent quickly fills with the clamoring of excited voices and the clatter of forks and knives.

  “So where are you from, Benjamin Travers?” Genesis tears open a roll and gestures to her brother for the butter.

  “Florida. Saint Petersburg.”

  “Oh yeah? Which timestream?

  “Oh.” I think back to my lessons in timestream navigation. “I’m from the November Prime.”

  “A prime, huh?” She jerks her head toward her brother. “We’re from a prime, too. Victor Prime. Hopefully that name works to our advantage.” She grins.

  The servers deposit platters of food along the center of the table, and we each get little plates to use, tapas style. I pack mine full of little pasta shells stuffed with cheese, a kabob of roasted meats and veggies, and a handful of fresh berries. My plate runs out of room fast, but I try to wrangle some grilled corn on the cob along the edge anyway. Charlie has finished
a brief survey of the other tables and turns his attention back to me.

  “Lots of new faces in here. It will be hard to know who the toughest competition is going to be till we’re through the first stage. They usually space rendezvous locations every couple levels in the beginning. They call everything up to that first rendezvous a stage. First ones to arrive will get the most time to rest up. That can be crucial toward the end, when everybody is wearing down. The rendezvous get shorter and farther apart. By then we’ll definitely know who’s who.”

  “How important is the pole position lottery?” I get the words out between mouthfuls.

  “It gets more relevant later on. The first level usually takes place over a large area. Plenty of room to get lost and lose time. If they stick to that model, it leaves a lot of possibility for position changes. We just need to get our mission objective and make sure we get our orientation right. People love to go dashing around right out of the gate before they really know where they’re headed. A few minutes spent on good navigation can save hours of backtracking later.” He reaches into his pocket and extracts a tarnished brass compass, laying it on the table between us. “You want to know your best tool? It’s that right there.” He forks a chunk of ham into his mouth and stares into space while chewing on it. “Well . . . that and the shotgun.”

  Cliff chimes in. “And the matches, and the water, and the flashlight . . .”

  “Okay, fine,” Charlie replies. “There are a lot of things. But that one,” he stabs a finger at the compass again, “that one is going to save us time. And that’s what it’s all about.”

  Charlie and Cliff continue to regale us with stories of past exploits throughout the rest of dinner. Genesis and I laugh loudly at their jokes. Jettison smiles, too, but there are moments where his reaction to some of Cliff’s tales makes me wonder if he’s worried about his choice in guides. Genesis’s guide shows up midway through the meal and takes the seat on the opposite side of her. She introduces herself as Mayra and nods to Charlie and Cliff. She’s in her early forties, fit and attractive, with short auburn hair, and delicate features. Her face bears a serious edge, and before long, she and Genesis are caught up talking about the race. Mayra seems a bit uncomfortable with me in such close proximity, but I’m happy to see that Genesis gives no indication she’s concerned that I might be spying on their strategy.

  By the time we’ve finished dessert, tiny plates litter the table in teetering stacks, despite the servers’ best efforts to clear them. Charlie leans back from the table, balancing his chair on two legs, and holds out the beer in his hand. “Here’s to the last good meal this side of who-knows-when. From here on out it’s liable to be dried seaweed and charred dog.”

  “To charred dog!” Cliff holds his mug aloft as well.

  I clink my beer against Charlie’s, hoping the Labrador across the aisle isn’t somehow smart enough to be offended, and take a swig.

  The post-dinner festivities include a massive bonfire at the edge of the lake and live music from multiple bands. While the dinner music had been instrumental and soothing, the bands at the lakeshore range everywhere from folky banjo and guitar ballads to alternative grunge rock. Jettison and Genesis name off some of the artists for me from our VIP section on the elevated hilltop next to the lake. The race fans have been allowed right up next to the stage and are a mass of jumping, cheering applause with the introduction of each new song or artist.

  “This is one of my favorite parts of being a time traveler,” Genesis says, leaning closer to me so I can hear her. “You don’t have to wait for all the best bands to come up with their good stuff. You can go straight for the ‘Best of’ albums and only fill your music library with the cream of the crop.”

  “You’re always ahead of the trends, huh?”

  Genesis smiles. “Oh yeah, time travelers are the worst kind of hipsters.”

  Jettison pauses his beer on the way to his lips. “You want to hear what a collaboration of Regina Spektor, Billie Holiday and Johann Sebastian Bach would sound like? Gen’s probably found a timestream that has that album.”

  Genesis nods slowly. “Yeah, I think I actually have that already. They got Clapton to play guitar.”

  I find myself smiling irrepressibly. I open another beer and take in the view of the sky. Flashing stage lights mix with moonlight and the orange glow of the bonfire, casting bizarre moving shadows on the backdrop of forest around us. The sounds are all music and laughter and applause.

  “Are these fans all time travelers? I never realized there were this many.”

  Jettison finishes a swallow of his beer and nods. He gestures to the crowd with the bottle. “This is a pretty good sized group, but you’re looking at travelers from two or three centuries and probably fifty different timestreams. They aren’t all fulltime, licensed travelers; most are probably here on waivers, but they didn’t want to miss an event like this.”

  “How many time travelers are there?”

  “Hard to say. You don’t have many in your timestream. Time travel won’t go public there for a while. In other streams there are at least a few thousand with licenses, then there are the off-grid folks, and old-school travelers that got grandfathered in.”

  “What am I considered?”

  “Oh, you’re definitely old-school.” Jettison raises the bottle to his lips again.

  I turn away from the spectacle the musicians are making and see Cliff, Charlie, and Abraham chatting at the rear of the VIP section, as far as possible from the speakers. Abraham notices me and gestures for me to join them. I work my way through the other racers till I can face them.

  “It’s about that time, Benjamin,” Abraham says. “Charlie and I moved the few belongings you had in my tent over to his. You’ll be able to sleep there tonight.”

  “If I’m capable of sleeping.” I smile. “Excitement is going to have to wear down a bit first.”

  Abraham shakes my hand. “It’s good to be excited. This will be quite an adventure. I’ll be looking forward to your retelling of it when I see you on the other side.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Abraham. You’ve been amazing.”

  “Thank me by paying attention to Charlie here. He’s got plenty of experience to guide you through this. You listen to him and keep yourself safe.”

  “I will.”

  Charlie looks at me. “My first bit of guidance for you to heed, since Abe is here as a witness, is to not stay up too late. Go have your fun with Jet and Gen, but get to bed at a decent hour. We’ve got plenty to do yet in the morning before the starting gun.”

  “Yes, sir.” I nod.

  “All right. I’ll see you back at the tent. Abe, I’ll walk you back.”

  Cliff pauses before following them. “Tell those two that the same goes for them.” He jerks his head in the Marsh siblings’ direction. “Especially Gen. Mayra looks like a sweet woman, but she’s a holy terror when she’s angry. Ain’t none of us needs that with our cornflakes.”

  “Got it.”

  I linger, watching the three men working their way down the other side of the hill to the camp. It makes me wonder what it must be like to have contemporaries to share a lifetime of adventures with.

  First you have to live that long, Ben.

  I work my way back through the crowd to Jettison and Genesis. Jettison salutes me with his beer. “How are our fearless leaders?”

  “Headed to bed. They told us we’re expected at breakfast, bright and early.”

  “Well, it’s all the same to the ones sleeping. They won’t know the difference.”

  “Mayra will,” Genesis says. “She’s probably pacing the tent right now, waiting for me.”

  “How did you pick her as a guide?” I ask.

  “Dad knows her. She’s been in a couple of chronothons, and he thought she’d be a good mentor for me. She knows her stuff, that’s for sure. She’s just wound a little tighter than most.”

  “Well Mayra can wait up for another beer.” Jettison pop
s the top on a bottle and hands it to his sister. He holds his own drink aloft. “Here’s to tomorrows. And lots more of ’em.” The three of us clink our beers together.

  “Maybe some more yesterdays, too.” Genesis says.

  <><><>

  Charlie is snoring lightly when I eventually make it back to the tent. Our packs are organized and ready to go near the door. Charlie’s other crates and containers have disappeared. It makes me wonder where his home is and whether he was just there for a visit. I guess he can get away with it. No bracelet on his wrist. I look down at mine. The countdown is less than twelve hours now. I watch a few more seconds blink away, then kick off my shoes and crawl onto my cot. I pull my shirt off, then give it a cursory sniff. It smells like bonfire. Or the rest of me does. I need to find where they’re hiding the showers in the morning.

  I lie back and stare at the ceiling of the tent. I can still hear the distant sounds of the concert crowd dispersing. A woman’s laugh stands out among a backdrop of slowly fading chatter. It makes me wonder where Mym is tonight. Someday after this race, I’ll just have to go find out. The thought gives me pause. Would that work? Could some future version of me be out there with her right now? I think about the possibility and realize it could be true. I just need to live long enough to make it happen. I drift off to thoughts of finding her after being victorious in the race. No more rookie time traveler. Chronothon veteran. Maybe that would bring her back . . .

  My dreams are blackness and sound. I feel like I’m drowning. Rushing water is pounding over me, and I can’t find which direction is up, but I can hear someone calling my name. Then I’m staring at an open plateau that stretches as far as the eye can see. In the center is a cluster of circus tents, all stripes and fluttering canvas. A warm breeze is making the illustrated banners on top snap and pop. The wind has kicked up a dust devil that’s whirling toward me across the cracked earth. I turn to walk away, but stumble and fall. The image changes and I’m in a field of grass in darkness, slumped to my knees, my hands outstretched on my lap. They are dripping blood. I’m transfixed by a droplet jiggling on the end of a blade of grass. I don’t want to breathe because the droplet will fall. Most of all, I don’t want to move my eyes because I don’t want to see what’s lying in the grass. The gravitational pull is too strong. My neck muscles betray me and my gaze lifts. Mere inches, but far enough to see the bloody fingerprint on the glass lens of a tarnished brass compass.