An
Altered
Course
R.A. Carter-Squire
Lavish Publishing, LLC ~ Midland, Texas
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AN ALTERED COURSE. Copyright 2015 ©
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Lavish Publishing, LLC.
Second Edition
All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States by Lavish Publishing, LLC, Midland, Texas
Previously published as Dancing to a Dangerous Tune, by R.A. Carter-Squire
eBook ISBN: 9781944985004
Cover Design by: Wycked Ink
Cover Images: Adobe Stock
www.LavishPublishing.com
table of contents
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
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter 1
Michael Eldridge gazed out his office window, the fingers of his left hand mindlessly rubbing the palm of his right. Memories of a day thirty years ago plagued him as he neared the solution to his current problem.
The company was developing software for a NASA project to Mars. He needed one more solution, and the project would be complete. Eldridge Computing was the largest commercial software and hardware developer in Silicon Valley. Everything was riding on this. Failure could mean the end of the company unless they finished on time. Or he could also complete another project he’d been working on for the last fifteen years.
Michael sighed and wiped at his face. The trouble lay in a section of the program dealing with the transfer of data over long distances in real time. An algorithm to manage the problem should be obvious, but time kept getting in the way.
His mind envisioned the probe streaking towards the Red Planet. Twenty minutes to send radio signals at the speed of light. How do I get the signal to move faster? He closed his eyes.
Once he had the solution to the Mars program, Michael could concentrate on an answer to a thirty-year-old mystery. He had a plan to go back to his childhood, but the time sequence issue was the same. He’d started thinking about a resolution to this problem twenty years ago, which led him to where he was today. This last piece would make time travel a real possibility.
“Time is the issue in both cases, not the sending or receiving data,” he said to the window and leaned back in the leather chair. “Ground controllers need instant feedback from the probe at every stage and machines in my lab need the same from whatever time I’m in at that moment. In both cases, adjustments may be necessary, especially to keep the probe and me from being lost or killed.” He sighed once more and opened his eyes.
A knock sounded on the door. Turning away from the window and taking a second to compose himself, Michael sat forward and said, “Come in.”
Billy Dunsten strode through the door and flopped into the chair in front of Mike’s desk. His six-foot body sagged into the cushion while he stretched his legs. The remaining hair on his head had gone gray. Michael remembered the boy he’d grown up with as a friend; kind, happy, and yet many people saw Billy as depressing. The boy had grown into a man who frowned a lot.
“What’s up,” Mike asked.
“I’m exhausted,” Billy sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. “All I’ve done for the past two weeks is put out fires and kiss the asses of those NASA engineers. Are you close to winding up the program? We only have two weeks to complete this project, or they cancel, and we’ll be screwed.” Mike opened his mouth to say something, but Billy interrupted. “No, change that. We’ll be so fucked it’ll take the rest of our lives just to be able to walk straight again.”
“You sound just like you did in high school. Even as the quarterback, you’d get overly dramatic about perceived problems. Would I lie to you? There’s only one thing left to finish, which shouldn’t take more than a couple of days. After that, all we need to do is run a few simulations to prove the system works.” Mike leaned back in the chair and forced a smile.
“I’m glad one of us is so confident. I might be less anxious now if I knew more about this technical mumbo-jumbo. Since I don’t have half your smarts, please tell me we aren’t going to fuck this up.” His voice went from a baritone to an alto as he spoke.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Billy. I was working on the final problem when you came in. All I need to figure out is the time shift equation, and the puzzle will be done.” His eyes dropped to the blank pad in front of him. Wrinkles appeared between his eyebrows.
“You’ve been working on this same problem since high school? I may not know how to program a computer, but I can still see where this is leading. There’s no way that you going back in time will change what happened to Joe in that drainage sewer.”
Michael strode confidently along the sidewalk. He’d been anticipating this day for a year. Today was going to change his life forever. It’s Friday, June 2, 1957—Sports Day.
Most of the other kids treated the day like a holiday, but for some, it was a chance to shine as they showed off their physical abilities in track and field events. Mike had imagined himself as the next Olympian, even while racing against other boys his age. Billy Dunsten, his best friend and neighbor since before they started school always won the hundred-yard dash, but the distance between them got smaller every year. Today would be different; he was energized, and his feet seemed to float over the concrete.
His gaze dropped to the sidewalk. The only things keeping his mood from flying were the shadows. They scared him. Mike knew spirits were waiting to steal his soul in the darkness. At least that’s what his older brother told him. If you can’t believe your brother, who can you believe? What’s an older brother for if he can’t look out for his little brother? These and many other sayings frequently came from the twelve-year-old Scott. Darkness didn’t scare him. That would be silly because everyone would be taken at night. Mike had reasoned it all out. No, the shadows hide the evil spirits, and they can only get you in the daylight.
Mike moved to his left, hugging the picket fence while tiptoeing around the shadows of leaves and branches on the sidewalk. He saw them clutch and grab for his feet in the light breeze. Each time they moved toward him, his heart skipped a beat, and he jumped high into the air to avoid their grasp. Finally, clear of the shadows, he sensed he was safe and moved forward again with confidence.
Nothing was going to stop him from winning the races today, not any old shadows at least. Three more trees were reaching out over the sidewalk between him and the school.
He remembered walking this way with his parents. Dad laughed when he saw his son skirting the shade on the way to watch the summer fair parade on Main Street. Michael jumped and dodged the shadows. Mom hadn’t said anything, but she must have been upset because she wore her unhappy face when he turned around. Ever since then, that was the look his parents would give him if they saw him jumping shadows. Don’t they know about the soul-stealing spirits?
The schoolyard, another two houses, and he’d be there—safe for the rest of the day. Billy stood waiting at the gate, which was really just an opening in the chain-link fence, but everyone called it a gate. He was wearing a pair of gym shorts in the school colors of blue and yellow with the crest of the eagle mascot on the side. He had a new pair of black-and-white high-top running shoes tied together by the laces slung over his shoulder. His dad managed the bank.
Michael had overheard his Mom on the telephone last year talking to someone about the Dunstens, saying, “They can afford to pay for anything he wants. The boy is going to grow up spoiled rotten and probably in jail.” She didn’t know he’d been listening. Holy crow, she would have flipped a lid if she’d caught him. He smiled at the thought. Billy was standing at the gate with his new clothes on and a smug expression on his freckled face. Mike understood then what she meant by spoiled, and his young mind yearned for a better life.
“It’s about time you got here, slow-poke,” Billy called from the gate as Mike passed the last house. “Try running past the shadows instead of tiptoeing, you might get faster and beat me some year.” This good-natured jab still stung. Billy was three months older and two inches taller, which made Mike wonder if there was a combination of age and size before the shadows didn’t want your soul anymore. Maybe they only want the good kids, his mind whispered, or maybe Scott is just full of shit.
“I’d get here sooner if I got a ride to school, too. How come you need a new pair of runners every sports day? Mine were new last fall, and they’re still fine for running.” Not being quite as good as his friend nagged at him and made his stomach flutter.
“Dad says new tires on the car give it a better grip on the road, so it makes sense to have new runners to race with.” He shrugged and scraped the ground with his toe.
“Well, this year you’re gonna need ‘um. I’m feeling as fast as a rabbit. Let’s go watch some of the older kids run; maybe we can get some Kool-Aid.”
“Yeah, maybe we’ll get lucky and see Fred Stoddard trip over his laces like last year. Cripes, his face was a mess after falling on the track. I think he nearly tore his nose off by the way it looked.” Billy puckered his face in disgust.
“He’s too old to still be going here but seeing all that blood made some of the girls upchuck behind the bleachers, and that made it all worth it. There’s Joe.” Mike trotted off without waiting for Billy. The three boys were like peas in a pod, his mother said. They sat together in class, played together at recess, and nearly always agreed on how to have fun.
Their parents were happy with the boys being friends; they were good students. None of them caused a problem in class, and they got excellent report cards. The teacher this year, Miss Belfridge, was kind, and she was pretty, too. A sweet young thing with ta-tas out to here, Michael heard his dad say to a friend at a barbecue last October before giving the other man an elbow in the ribs, and they laughed.
Michael didn’t know what was so funny. Sometimes, when she was trying to show him how to print or pointing out a mistake in his arithmetic, she would reach her arm around his shoulder, and her chest would press into the back of his head. He’d go all goosy and lightheaded between her perfume and the soft pressure of her breasts.
“Hey guys,” Joe called. “Your dad got ya new tires again this year, eh Billy. Boy, that must be nice. I wish my mom weren't so cheap.” He stared over at the start line even though nobody was there yet. Mike could see they shared the same sense of embarrassment. Don’t let the shadows get you drifted into his thoughts.
“Here, they’ll fit you,” Billy handed the new runners to Joe. “I wish Dad didn’t keep buying me stuff like this, it feels…,” he shuffled his feet and stared down at the ground, but still held the shoes toward Joe. “It makes me feel yucky around you guys. I don’t like it.” His face had gone red as he spoke with his heart.
“Naw, I couldn’t take your shoes, Billy. You might finally lose to Mike, and I’d stand a chance of catching you, too,” he laughed and pushed the shoes back. Billy laughed too, but his eyes were sad.
“We’re best friends, right? No matter what. We’ll always be friends because we’re the Three Musketeers—all for one and one for all,” Mike shouted and they clasped hands over their heads holding imaginary swords. When Joe was sick two years ago, Mike had visited his house every day until his friend recovered.
“Wanna get some Kool-Aid and go watch the grade eight girls high jump?” Joe moved without waiting for them to answer.
The sun shone down on competitors and spectators alike, baking them like Sunday hams. It was only nine-thirty but already 85 degrees. The temperature was supposed to rise to 102˚ F, his mom had warned Michael as he left the house. Unusually hot for June in New England, this would be a record year some said.
Mr. Fredrickson, the Principal, had taken off his coat and tie; the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows revealed the pale skin of his forearms. He stood by the bleachers with a clipboard in one hand and a megaphone in the other. The loudspeaker would come up to his mouth, and he’d shout for groups of people to go to the broad-jump pit or to the starting line for upcoming events. Other teachers herded children, trying to assist in completing the events in a timely fashion. They seemed to be enjoying their time outside as much as the kids.
The three amigos spent the next few hours together, watching their friends and classmates compete, sometimes cheering, but often laughing at the failures of the athletes. The bell rang to signal lunchtime. Most of the students ran for the bleachers or toward the school to find some shade while they ate their bag lunches. Joe and Billy were headed toward the school until Mike saw an empty spot next to the bleachers. There was only enough shade for two of them, so Mike sat in the sun, keeping an eye on his friends to see if their souls would be stolen by spirits.
“What did you get?” Joe asked Billy.
“Cold beef, I think.” He wasn’t sure yet as he pulled the sandwich from the bag.
“Peanut butter and grape jelly,” Mike said quietly. Being poor nagged at him again.
“Yeah, me too,” Joe chimed sadly. The friends ate in silence, wolfing the food like starving animals. Their meals were gone in a few minutes, but they remained silent for another five, each boy thinking about the afternoon race.
“Ya wanna do something after school? We could go by that new drainage ditch on Maple Avenue and see what’s happening. They’ve got some gigantic equipment over there,” Joe said. Mike knew his friend would go whether he and Billy went or not. They all understood that getting into trouble was better with friends.
“I can only go for a little while. My mom said we were going out for supper to celebrate.” Billy shifted a bit more into the shade, but the heat wasn’t making him feel uncomfortable.
“What are ya celebrating?” Mike asked with a grin. Joe laughed.
“I don’t know. I’m just the kid, and I do what they tell me.”
“I’ll go,” Mike agreed while ignoring the obvious lie from Billy. He knew Billy only got angry when he was embarrassed. “As long as I’m home by five, my parents don’t worry about where I am.” He lifted the baseball cap with the Yankees logo off his head and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. His dad had bought him the cap last summer. The Yankees was his favorite team, and he only took it off when he was in the house or in school.
“All seven-year-old b
oys competing in the hundred-yard dash to the starting line now. If you’re running the hundred-yard dash, and you are a seven-year-old boy, you need to be at the starting line now,” Mr. Fredrickson shouted through the megaphone. Mike, Billy, and Joe scrambled off the ground and trotted across the playground. There were always enough boys to make up two races, so they didn’t hurry. As friends, they tried to run together.
When they approached the area where they were to run, a teacher neither of the boys recognized was sorting kids onto the start line. She turned and grabbed Mike by the arm and pulled him into the only empty spot available. He looked back at his friends with an expression of fear and sadness. This was the first time he’d run the race without them.
Another teacher shouted, “On your mark,” and he instinctively bent into his starting position. When the gunshot sounded, his arms and legs pumped his body down the track. He felt like he was flying. Wind whipped past his face; the ground flew by under his feet so fast the stones seemed to melt together into a smooth surface. He saw the finish line, a white strip of chalk with another unknown teacher standing to one side with a stopwatch. His shadow crossed the track mere feet before the white line.
Mike couldn’t see anyone else running on either side of him; he was winning the race. He leaned forward just a bit to make his legs move faster. There was no way he would lose this time. This would be his year to take home a blue ribbon.
Two yards from victory, just four more strides at most, he saw another boy coming up on the right. A moment of blurred color and motion out of the corner of his eye, but he caught it. His mind made the next few seconds pass in slow motion. Two steps to go and Mike turned his head. The boy was red-faced and moving as hard as he could, but he was tired. Mike smiled inside. He was at least a step ahead still and didn’t feel the least bit tired. His head snapped back to the front, and he tripped on something.
The forward motion carried him over the finish line, but tripping hadn’t reduced his speed. He put his hands out to save his face from becoming spaghetti like Fred Stoddard. Sharp granite stones cut into his hands as he slid across the chalk line, lifting dust into his face and eyes. Memories of beating the blackboard erasers against the side of the school came back to him. Pain shot up his arms, and tears came to his eyes from the dust, not the pain. Remember, big boys don’t cry, his brother’s voice said in his head.
An Altered Course Page 1
