Summary: Jillian dreams of abandoning her business major and going to culinary school in Europe, but her parents’ expectations and a crippling fear of flying threaten to keep her grounded. To address her fear of flight, she travels to 1908 to meet Wilbur Wright. She doesn’t plan on meeting handsome Everett, who broke from his privileged life to pursue a love of flying contraptions and who claims they’ve met before. When she realizes she’s falling for him, she’s faced with a heartbreaking choice that could destroy her chances of happiness and even unravel history itself.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Cover art © by Nathalia Suellen.
Also by Cidney Swanson
The Ripple Series
Rippler
Chameleon
Unfurl
Visible
Immutable
Knavery
Perilous
The Saving Mars Series
Saving Mars
Defying Mars
Losing Mars
Mars Burning
Striking Mars
Mars Rising
The Thief in Time Series
A Thief in Time
A Flight in Time
Other Books
Siren Spell
In memory of my grandfather D. Wayne Rose, who approached life with a steadiness not unlike that of Wilbur Wright.
Contents
PROLOGUE KHAN
1 JILLIAN
2 JILLIAN
3 EVERETT
4 JILLIAN
5 EVERETT
6 JILLIAN
7 LITTLEWOOD
8 JILLIAN
9 KHAN
10 EVERETT
11 JILLIAN
12 LITTLEWOOD
13 JILLIAN
14 EVERETT
15 JILLIAN
16 LITTLEWOOD
17 KHAN
18 JILLIAN
19 KHAN
20 KHAN
21 JILLIAN
22 KHAN
23 KHAN
24 JILLIAN
25 JILLIAN
26 KHAN
27 JILLIAN
28 KHAN
29 JILLIAN
30 JESÚS TORRES, JD
31 JILLIAN
32 JESÚS TORRES, JD
33 JILLIAN
34 KHAN
35 LITTLEWOOD
36 JILLIAN
37 KHAN
38 JILLIAN
39 JILLIAN
40 LITTLEWOOD
41 KHAN
42 LITTLEWOOD
43 JILLIAN
44 LITTLEWOOD
45 JILLIAN
46 KHAN
47 JILLIAN
48 JILLIAN
49 JILLIAN
50 JILLIAN
51 JESÚS TORRES, JD
52 JILLIAN
53 JILLIAN
54 JESÚS TORRES, JD
55 LITTLEWOOD
56 JILLIAN
57 LITTLEWOOD
58 JILLIAN
59 KHAN
60 LITTLEWOOD
61 KHAN
62 JILLIAN
63 JESÚS TORRES, JD
64 JILLIAN
65 KHAN
66 JILLIAN
67 KHAN
68 LITTLEWOOD
69 KHAN
70 JILLIAN
71 KHAN
72 JILLIAN
73 EVERETT
EPILOGUE QUINTUS VALERIUS
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
· KHAN ·
Santa Barbara, California, 2001
Someday, thought Jules Khan, he would be the person standing for accolades rather than being the person stuck standing behind the registration table. He’d organized the conference almost single-handedly, but as Dr. Llewelyn Jones’s youngest postdoc, he received none of the credit and was forced to do things like handing out packets to PhDs. PhDs who couldn’t remember the spelling of their last names, judging by the number of them yesterday who’d stood in the shortest line rather than the clearly delineated A–G, H–Q, and R–Z lines.
Yesterday’s talks, too, had been disappointing. Why bother to present at a conference dedicated to the understanding of space–time if you didn’t have anything constructive to add to the field? It had been the same old tired arguments: why the manipulation of space–time was impossible, why the special theory of relativity was inadequate although it was damn well the best anyone would ever come up with, and even one paper on why the exploration of the space–time continuum was immoral. It was the twenty-first century, not the Victorian age. One didn’t attend physics conferences in the year 2001 to be preached at, thank you very much.
Khan flipped through yesterday’s notes. Simms’s paper on parallel universe theory had been intriguing, but the man didn’t believe in it himself, not really, judging by the number of times he used the phrase “wishful thinking” in his concluding remarks. Dr. Arthur Littlewood’s paper had been the only one to break anything like new ground, and Littlewood was out on a yacht today, drinking California sparkling wine and visiting the Channel Islands. It was going to be a long, dull day.
Khan sighed.
As to the question of why anyone bothered coming, that was easily answered: free booze and conference add-ons, such as the optional excursions to the nearby Getty Museum, the Channel Islands, and even some pretentious winery in the Santa Ynez Valley, of all places. Khan scowled. Someday he would be in charge of more than the grunt work. His only contribution of actual significance to the conference this time had been suggesting a name change from “Existential Problems in Space–Time Theory” to “2001: A Space–Time Odyssey”—a title that had actually drawn attention to itself. A title that had drawn the likes of Doctors Arthur Littlewood and Sathya Simms.
Flipping through the day’s schedule, Khan was relieved to see Simms would be presenting again, this time on a study done by one of his more promising graduate students. At least Simms credited his underlings, which was more than Dr. Jones ever did. Khan had been refused so much as a byline on the last submission to Physical Review D journal. What was he doing here, really? Waiting around for Jones to throw him a bone? He should start looking for a real job. Something in industry rather than academia. Somewhere where he could make a mark and be paid what he was worth.
He finished the last of his coffee—cold and burned-tasting—and headed for the keynote address, small though his interest was in hearing Dr. Rogers’s squeaking tones amplified by a microphone with feedback issues. If only Khan had had the money to sign up for the excursion to the Channel Islands. He might have introduced himself to Littlewood and picked his brain on one or two topics.
Khan set his coffee cup on a crowded bussing tray and turned to leave, whereupon he experienced a momentary shock: there was Littlewood himself. Not on a yacht. Not bound for the Channel Islands. But headed straight toward him. Khan looked over his shoulder in expectation that someone was behind him. Someone Littlewood would want to chat with. But Littlewood was making a beeline for him—Dr. Jules Khan, lowly postdoc.
Khan straightened
his tie. Then regretted the action. It made him look nervous. He ran a hand over his head, smoothing his too-long hair. Idiot.
Then, exiting into the hall from a corridor on his right, he heard a woman’s voice. Dr. Miranda Ching, the only female presenter at the conference.
“Miranda,” called Littlewood, his face lighting up at the sight of Ching.
Littlewood must have arranged to meet Ching here. Khan had never been the object of his attention. Khan attempted to look busy with his (very dated) PalmPilot.
“You look like hell,” Miranda said, returning Littlewood’s greeting, while simultaneously managing to rebuff conversation.
Khan looked up from his handheld device. Littlewood did look like hell. Khan heard him murmuring something about a rough night as Ching swept past and out of hearing range.
Littlewood said softly, “There’s a postdoc I shouldn’t have let get away.”
Then he turned back to Khan, his hand extended. “Dr. Khan?”
Khan took Littlewood’s hand automatically, relieved his own was the cooler (and drier) of the two.
“I’m sure you’re busy,” said Littlewood, “but I wonder if I might borrow a moment of your time?”
Khan’s brow furrowed and he nearly looked over his shoulder again to see if Littlewood might actually be addressing anyone else. What could Dr. Arthur Littlewood want with him?
Littlewood was waiting, a rather pained smile on his lined face.
“Uh . . . yes,” Khan blurted out. “Yes, of course.”
And then he realized what was probably going on. Jones must have sent Littlewood, telling him Jules Khan was the person with whom to lodge complaints about the conference. Littlewood’s excursion had evidently been canceled, and he probably wanted a refund.
Khan pasted what he hoped was an inviting expression on his face. He might be able to turn this encounter into an opportunity. Ask Littlewood a few questions about his research after dealing solicitously with any complaints. If he played his cards right, he might get the opportunity to casually indicate his own interest in Littlewood’s research group. Mention he wasn’t sure his current postdoc really suited his talents, that sort of thing.
“I appreciate it,” said Littlewood. “Maybe we could go somewhere more . . . out of the way?”
Arthur Littlewood looked nervous. And exhausted. Or maybe he had simply looked better from the remove of ten rows of seats from the podium.
“I didn’t sleep,” murmured Littlewood. “Damn time change.”
Khan nodded. Littlewood worked in Florida. Eastern time.
“What can I do for you?” Khan asked in his most solicitous tone.
The two had passed from the central hall into the narrow corridor leading to the department’s office—empty because it was Saturday—and the lavatories.
Littlewood indicated the office. “In here, I think,” he murmured.
He did a lot of murmuring. A classic absentminded professor, right down to the god-awful 1980s tie and the Harris Tweed sport coat.
“So, how can I be of service?” Khan repeated.
He had a sudden fear Littlewood might have sequestered the two of them away to inquire about where to get lucky in Isla Vista, but Littlewood evidently had business on his mind. He’d already set his laptop computer—a drool-worthy PowerBook G4 if Khan wasn’t mistaken—on a desk and was scrolling through a document.
“I want your opinion on something. In your dissertation, you advocate for what you call ‘temporal inertia’ in your discussion of the existence of the space–time singularity . . .” Littlewood broke off, evidently having trouble locating what he was after on his G4.
Khan stood a little taller. His doctoral work had been on the singularity. It had won him the attention of Dr. Jones and gotten him the postdoc he now held in Jones’s lab. Jones, however, was not a believer in temporal inertia, refusing to allow Khan to pursue his theoretical model while he was “on the clock.” It was the sorest of several sore points between the two.
“Just here,” Littlewood said, tapping an equation. “Do you have any reason to believe you were on the wrong track? Would you argue for a more chaos-driven explanation at this point in your thinking?”
Khan pushed his over-long hair out of his eyes to get a clearer view. Littlewood had taken his original equation and altered it slightly, essentially taking Khan’s theory a step further than Khan had been able to since joining Dr. Jones’s group. For the second time in five minutes, Khan asked himself what he was doing here in Santa Barbara, wasting his time with Jones when there were minds like Littlewood’s.
“This is . . . good,” murmured Khan, frowning.
“Thank you,” said Littlewood. “But do you think it might be right?”
Khan continued to frown. He wasn’t accustomed to having his work taken seriously. He was accustomed to keeping his theories to himself. Perhaps he was even temperamentally disposed to keeping things close to the vest. But Littlewood was taking his theory seriously. A swelling of pride expanded inside Khan, and for once, he didn’t want to keep his thoughts to himself.
Littlewood slid his jacket off, arranging it haphazardly on a pile of letters that scattered. Joyce, the department head secretary, would be furious. Khan ignored the letters for now. He had more important matters to address.
He cleared his throat.
“Everyone agrees temporal history is an infinitely complex, chaotic, nonlinear system. I’m not arguing that point. However, if my theory is right, there are robust ‘strange attractors’ that make massive changes in the time line very unlikely. Virtually impossible.”
“Hmm,” replied Littlewood. “Like traffic funneling onto trunk roads. In theory, motorists could use alternate routes, but in actual practice they stick to trunk roads.”
“Exactly. Drop a boulder in a stream, and the water appears to shift its direction, but only until it rounds the boulder. The boulder won’t change the course of the stream. It’s the same with time. Temporal history is locally changeable yet globally stable.”
“Kill Christopher Columbus in 1490—”
“And some other European sets off the pillaging of North and South America instead,” finished Khan. He paused and then pointed to the equation on Littlewood’s PowerBook. “If anything, I think you’ve underestimated the degree of rift necessary to move the temporal system from one stable attractor to a different one.”
“Underestimated?”
A burst of raucous laughter sounded in the hall outside the office.
“The rift in space–time would have to be significant—really significant—to change the course of history. In the imaginary example of Columbus, you’d have to have stopped Basque fishermen from crossing the Atlantic. You’d have to get rid of the European lust for gold. The changes to history would have to be . . . incomprehensibly inclusive for Europeans to have left the so-called New World alone. Or take Caesar. Plenty of historians agree history would have looked different without Julius Caesar, but something like Rome’s empire period would have happened anyway—”
“Because of the strong attenuation in the temporal fluctuations,” Littlewood said, completing the thought. “Right. You’re right, of course. That’s very . . . comforting.”
What an odd response, thought Khan.
Hearing another burst of laughter, Khan looked over his shoulder. That was Jones’s laugh.
“Listen, that’s Dr. Jones. If you want a second opinion—”
“No, no,” replied Littlewood. “Jones and I have gone round and round on related topics. He’s great at securing grant money, but I wouldn’t want him in my research group, if you know what I mean.”
Khan did know. And Khan wanted nothing more than to seize this opportunity to ask Littlewood if he might have an opening in his group, but at that moment Dr. Jones burst through the office door with two other men. Khan felt his face heating. Felt as though Jones could see his intentions written across his forehead: I plan to jump ship and work with Littlewood!
“Change of plans,” replied Littlewood, a little more eagerly than Khan thought warranted. “Bad night’s sleep compounded by too many shots of your excellent tequila. I didn’t feel up to a day on the water after all.”
“You look like hell,” said Dr. Jones, frowning at Littlewood.
Littlewood laughed nervously.
“Come with me for just a moment,” said Dr. Jones. “There’s someone you must meet.”
“I’m a bit busy,” replied Littlewood, shifting his G4 so that the screen wasn’t visible to Jones.
“No, no. I won’t take no for an answer,” said Jones. “It’ll just take a second; then you can go back to complaining about the bad coffee or whatever it is you’re wasting my postdoc’s time with.”
Littlewood laughed again. Khan smiled blandly. Jones grabbed Littlewood’s arm. “Come on, come on. Just a quick second.”
“I’ll wait for you,” said Khan.
Littlewood reached for his laptop.
“Oh, leave it!” said Jones. “I just want to introduce you, not exchange state secrets.”
Another of Littlewood’s nervous laughs sounded as Jones dragged him out the door.
And then Khan was alone with Littlewood’s laptop. Alone with his intriguing paper, or whatever this was. Khan hesitated for only the briefest of moments and then sat down at the desk. He toggled back to the beginning of the document and began reading.
It was . . . fascinating.
Littlewood had been withholding; he hadn’t explained the half of it, of his interest in the equation or Khan’s theories or potential rifts in space–time. This was more than fascinating. Littlewood wrote of things that were, or should have been, impossible. Littlewood had taken Khan’s argument that the space–time continuum could be manipulated, could be focused, and drawn the argument into an elegant proposition for the construction of a device meant to . . . meant to what, exactly? Focus the singularity? Did Littlewood believe he could pull at the very fabric of space–time itself? Create a pocket into which objects could be inserted and transported? Barely able to contain himself, Khan scanned ahead. Littlewood wrote as though he had done . . . the impossible. As though he’d already created a singularity through which to focus space–time and perhaps—good gods—perhaps even tried it out experimentally. Khan felt suddenly faint.
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 1
