Tangled in Time
by Pauline Baird Jones
Published by L&L Dreamspell
Spring, Texas
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
Cover and Interior Design by L & L Dreamspell
Copyright © 2010 Pauline Baird Jones. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
ISBN- 978-1-60318-269-0
Published by L & L Dreamspell
Produced in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
With grateful thanks to:
Alexis Glynn Latner and Dr. Eileen K. Stansbery for advice and support (and being okay with my made-up science).
Sharon and my sister for believing in the short story that turned into a novella.
To my husband for finding out everything I need to know about Big Bend National Park (and some I didn’t).
Linda and Lisa for making my books look awesome.
* * * *
ONE
Braedon Carey, Col. USAF, was used to waking up in strange places.
He wasn’t used to waking up nose-to-beak with a buzzard.
He stared at the buzzard. The buzzard stared at him.
It dawned on him he had a buzzard on his chest.
He yelled. He may have waved his arms at it as he scrambled to his feet. With an air of offended dignity, it retreated to a chunk of rock. Carey retreated, too, and did an SA—situational awareness—assessment. It didn’t take long.
He knew where he was supposed to be and this wasn’t it.
He’d flown over, driven through, and trained in and around, Area 51. He knew it as well as he knew his Dauntless. This is what he got for playing test pilot without a ship. No surprise it had turned into a Charlie Foxtrot right off the launch pad—or in this case, right out of the Garradian portal. At least the pucker factor was low with that buzzard gone from his chest. He’d been fine when he left the Kikk Outpost, but now his ribs hurt, a sign he’d bent them on something inside the wormhole. Was that possible? He shifted gingerly. His ribs said it was. His brain was neutral on any subject that involved physics—not that he knew this was a physics problem. His skill set involved pointing, shooting and blowing things up. Until this moment, he’d also have said he was good at getting from point A to point B, but he hadn’t been driving. The doc and her geek team had been on the stick for this trip.
He picked up his cap and slapped it against his leg before settling it on his head. He pulled out his GPS, but it couldn’t get a signal. If the GPS wasn’t working, then the SAT phone probably wouldn’t either, but he tried it anyway. He gave it a shake and tried it again. Something was gooned up. Had he bent his tech the same time he bent his ribs? The tech didn’t look bent. He shook both. Didn’t sound bent. He tried them again, just to be sure. Still no joy.
He extracted his compass next. It found a pole, but it had found a pole on Kikk. Some tech had no loyalty to their home planet. He eased the bill of his cap up some and did a slow circle, taking care not to make eye contact with the buzzard. Could the doc have dropped him on the wrong planet? She’d seemed to know what she was doing, while admitting she might not, he recalled now. Kind of like those drug commercials. This will work great unless something goes wrong, which it might. Could the misfire goon up his retrieval? The doc had been confident while managing to not be confident about that part, too.
He caught the buzzard looking at him like he was a buffet opening soon. It took flight, rising in a series of slow circles that kept him at the center, so Carey wouldn’t get to thinking he’d lost interest. With that red noggin and turkey-like build, it could be a turkey vulture. If he recognized the buzzard, maybe he’d recognize something else. There’d been a few years in there, until Carey got too cool to go tripping with his old man, where they’d visited every national and state park within driving distance. He’d seen a serious chunk of the USA on those road trips. Could this be one of those chunks? He gave the chunk his undivided attention.
Looked like he’d landed in a long valley, a cut between two offset peaks. The incline was brutal going up and down. Toward what could be the west, was a long desert plain, and rising from it, a set of peaks that looked familiar. Was it hopeful thinking? Two peaks. Two ears…mule ears? They looked kinda like mule ears. Mule Ears Peak. He’d seen them before, but where? He needed to get higher. Couldn’t see crap in this valley. Up always improved SA. His ribs grumbled dissent.
He could make his ribs happy, sit tight until his extraction—if it came. Not the place he’d have picked, but he had water and energy bars for a few days. The buzzard’s shadow passed over him. On the other hand, maybe he ought to keep moving. Ribs didn’t feel broken—he’d know—so they could man up. Bad idea to give a buzzard false hope.
Sun rode low in the east. A bit of a chill in the air. Based on the ground cover, he’d guess it was early spring. He was supposed to have arrived in late fall and in another state—not that he was complaining, because who would he complain to? The buzzard that wanted to eat him?
He started up, using the scrub as handholds to keep from taking an involuntary down turn, while his ribs groused at him. He’d spent too much time in space, he decided. He shouldn’t be puffing this hard. Couldn’t even blame it on the altitude. This mountain wasn’t any higher than Area 51. About one hundred yards shy of the peak, he topped a slight rise and the ground leveled out enough to let him catch his breath. He didn’t sink to his knees. He had his pride—and that buzzard was still stalking him. With his eyes on the ridge line, he almost didn’t notice the bogey.
When he did—he blinked—it couldn’t be for real. He rubbed his eyes—it had to be a mirage—but it didn’t go away. It didn’t waver around the edges either. He looked both directions, half expecting a camera crew to pop out from behind a rock, but that was even crazier than the big ass bogey. He eased in for a closer look. Kind of oblong in shape and metallic in appearance, it sat close to the mountain wall on the only bit of semi-flat real estate around. It looked like a mutation of a car and an upside down train, with a little rocket thrown in just for fun. An inverted fan of dark metal covered the area where a view port or window shield should be. Or eyes. It kind of looked like it should have eyes.
The wheels on the mongrel machine were as whacked as the whole of it. Looked like old stage coach wheels, but metal and black. There was no road for it to drive up, even if the wheels touched the ground, which they didn’t. Whoever built this bad boy had a great sense of humor or his elevator didn’t go all the way to the top.
He approached with caution, half expecting it to dissolve when he touched it, but it didn’t. It felt cooler to the touch than he’d expected, though he wasn’t sure why he expected anything. Up close, the surface was black and appeared to be made from sheets of metal fastened together with rivets. In addition to the wheels it had a series of fins along the side and front. He touched one and it moved, like they retracted and extended. He tugged one until it stopped. They extended pretty far, but fifty of them couldn’t put this hunk of junk in the air. Might improve the aerodynamics, but that was another physics problem. Still didn’t do those. No sign of windows or openings down the left side, though he did find something that could be vents. On the right side of the bogey, an open hatch door had three fancy looking steps hanging off the edge.
I
t looked like—a cartoon version of a Jules Verne space ship or submarine, which seemed to support the mirage theory. Only it refused to fade like a good, big mirage.
It hadn’t crashed here. There were no impact indicators. Could’ve been built there, he supposed, but how had it been built in a place with no roads or signs of human intrusion? And why? Besides, the metal wasn’t corroded or aged and there was very little grit on the surface. It didn’t look dug in, more like it had recently arrived. Only thing breaking ground around it was his footprints.
And someone else’s.
It shouldn’t be a shock. He had noted the opening in the side. But it still gave him a jolt to see them. Instinct had him reaching for his side arm, but the sound of a gun cocking off to his right changed his mind. He raised both arms, taking it non-threatening slow, and turned toward the sound. His jaw dropped.
It was Mary Poppins’ twin sister, holding an umbrella and a gun.
* * * *
For most females of her acquaintance, a parasol was the final touch in a proper ensemble, but Miss Olivia Carstairs never felt completely dressed without her derringer. According to her brother, she had a steady hand and excellent aim though she hoped not to need either on the likely gentleman she was pointing it at. He was the only person she’d seen since the experiment went awry—something Mama had warned might happen when Olivia took the position as Professor Twitchet’s assistant, instead of accepting Mr. Lester Heplinger’s proposal of marriage.
The need to keep him covered required her to study him in way she normally considered rude, though she was uncertain about the etiquette involved in holding someone at gunpoint. If she read the dropped jaw correctly, he was surprised, though it wasn’t clear if it he was shocked by a lady with a gun or a lady being rude.
His attire was as puzzling as his reaction to her. His uniformly dark attire appeared to be neither in, nor recently out of vogue. His shirt clung to a chest that was very fine and the sleeves were short enough to leave improperly bare, from hand to above the elbow, his brown, muscled arms. He wore no cravat and his vest was bulky in places, unfastened, and ill-fitting, but not in a dreadful way. His trousers hung low on narrow hips and he wore a pack on his back. He was armed with a pistol in a holster like a Western gunslinger from a penny novel, had a knife strapped to his upper leg and an odd looking rifle hung from a strap under one arm.
A parasol and a derringer were hardly a match, but instead of being frightened, Olivia felt a need to loosen her tie, which had tightened around her neck as if she’d tugged it, though she knew she hadn’t. She could have also used her fan.
He had fine eyes in a shade of blue that was a particular favorite. His deeply tanned skin, and the fact that he was in need of a shave, should not have enhanced the impact of his eyes. Perhaps it was the combination of height and vigor or the generally pleasing arrangement of features and form that earned her instinctive approbation.
She very much hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to shoot him.
“Mary…Poppins?” He broke the silence, his husky voice a pleasing addition to his whole.
Etiquette allowed a lady to converse with a gentleman she had not been introduced to if she were in difficulties, which she most certainly was.
“I am,” she said, in a tone that was cool, because even in difficulties one should maintain a proper distance, “Miss Olivia Carstairs from Gotham City, personal assistant to Professor Emelius Twitchet.” Her association with the Professor would, she hope, give her stature and credibility, which her odd circumstances might not. She could have added, “the Professor is at present absqualated or possibly transmogrified” but etiquette cautioned against overwhelming a new acquaintance with a surfeit of information. And the professor had expressed a need for confidentiality before, during, and after the experiment. She had to assume that his possible absquatulation or transmogrification would not alter this desire.
“Braedon Carey, Colonel, United States Air Force.” He paused, then added, “formerly of Colorado, currently of nowhere in particular.” He paused again, “Gotham? Like Batman’s Gotham?”
Olivia blinked, uncertain just what an “air force” was, or if this “Batman” were a big bug in New York. She had heard of Colorado and understood the message implicit in “nowhere in particular.” He was a border ruffian, an adventurer. It somewhat explained his attire. He didn’t try to shake her hand, which indicated he knew something of proper manners, or perhaps he had noticed that, between her parasol and the derringer, she lacked a hand free for social niceties.
Before she could inquire more particularly into his odd comments, he smiled. Lines and creases forming into interesting channels around his mouth and eyes in such a way as to make her heart give an odd—but pleasant—flutter. Her knees distinctly wobbled, too.
Olivia had observed many smiles on various gentlemen’s faces, but none had affected her like this smile. Mr. Heplinger, for example, had had a smile that made her want to shoot him with her derringer. It was one of the reasons she’d given the muffin to his obliging offer of marriage, though by no means the only one. Her Mama had been forced to concede that a marriage was unlikely to be successful with a man one wanted to shoot. And then there was Professor Smith, a colleague of Professor Twitchet. His smile was both sinister and lacking in charm. It filled her with a desire to shoot him, as well, though not for the same reasons as Mr. Heplinger. She’d not mentioned this desire to the Professor. It felt like a breach of etiquette, wanting to shoot someone who hadn’t offered an unwanted marriage proposal.
Colonel Carey’s smile was all that those gentlemen’s smiles weren’t, including charming.
Mama used to say that too much charm in a gentleman could be the sign of an unreliable, possibly wicked disposition. Colonel Carey didn’t look unreliable or wicked, though Olivia felt wicked looking at him. It took considerable willpower to keep the derringer steady and not return his smile. So engaging was it, resisting almost felt like a breach of etiquette. Perhaps that was the danger Mama had foreseen from a charming smile?
She executed a half curtsey. “How do you do.” She was not unaware of the irony of observing social niceties while pointing her derringer at him.
“I’m fine, ma’am.” He didn’t bow. His smile deepened, making his eyes crinkle at the edges. He crossed his arms, resting them on the end of the rifle stock. He looked relaxed, but he was, she was certain, not born in the woods to be scared of an owl—or a lady holding a derringer. There was an alertness about him, despite his relaxed stance, that she was not inclined to under estimate. In contrast, his eyes had a twinkle in their depths that was most engaging.
Of their own volition, her lips curved up, though she managed to stop them before her smile became unbecomingly unrestrained. He lifted his hat—an odd affair scarcely deserving to be called a hat—and rumpled his dark hair…vigorously…before replacing it. A gentleman shouldn’t wear a hat, nor muss his hair in the presence of a lady, vigorously or otherwise. Despite this blatant disregard for basic conduct, Olivia felt a not unpleasant sensation in the region of her middle.
One might be…pleased he was not always overly constrained by the dictates of society.
“You don’t need that, ma’am.” He indicated the derringer with a friendly look.
His mien invited trust. Olivia hesitated. Mama used to say a lady should only give up an advantage if it would give her a greater one, but Mama hadn’t been stranded on a mountainside by a transmogrification machine. After a suitable pause, Olivia lowered the derringer, adjusting the cocking mechanism so that it could be returned to its pocket. If he attacked her, she still had her parasol—though there wasn’t any part of him she particularly wished to puncture.
He nodded toward the transmogrification machine. “That yours?”
Her brows arched. No gentleman she knew would assume a woman could or would possess any machine, let alone a transmogrification machine. Could he be forward thinking? It was unthinkable to lie, and poor manners to bury a new
acquaintance in one’s personal problems. One should to be entertaining first. “It’s complicated.”
“It looks complicated.”
If his expression represented his thoughts, he was bemused, though it was unclear if it was by Olivia or the transmogrification machine. Olivia tried to remember if she’d ever bemused a man, with or without a transmogrification machine. Mr. Heplinger had never appeared bemused, even when he proposed, though he was shocked when she gave him the muffin. She was forced to conclude, a bit sadly, that it was the transmogrification machine doing the bemusing.
“What is it? Some kind of ride? A new age house?”
His tone was relaxed, friendly, as if there’d never been a derringer between them. Olivia liked that he didn’t hold a grudge. The same could not be said for Mr. Heplinger.
“It’s a transmogrification machine.” It wasn’t a lack of discretion to admit the obvious.
He blinked twice, his lashes absurdly long. “That was gonna be my next guess.”
She had nothing to judge by but her instincts and his eyes. Both indicated he was someone a lady could rely on—though she was a bit muddled on what she hoped she could rely on him to do.
“Would you like to see inside?” It was a bit improper, but then so were her circumstances. She didn’t wish him to leave, and not just because of his eyes and likely aspect. When one sought to see the elephant, one shouldn’t balk at the locale where the elephant lived, but it was still unnerving to be stranded in such a unruly place.
“Oh yeah. I’d like to see inside.”
She’d thought his smile could not get finer, and was happy to be proved wrong. The sight of it affected her knees even more than previously and she was grateful for his steadying hand on her elbow as he assisted her up the steps. He not only had a nice smile. He was very strong.
Trust no one. The professor’s last words were a distant warning inside her head. She wanted to honor his request, truly she did, but she had to trust someone. At the moment, Colonel Carey was the only someone available.
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