Losing Time (Lost Time, Book 1): A Time Travel Romantic Suspense Series

by Nicola Claire

  Miss Groves needed to prove to me she had it. Perhaps that was why Fawkes had handed her off all of a sudden.

  "Well, sir," she said. “No."

  I frowned. Lucky bugger. Bryan owed me a beer or two, then.

  "Be prepared for anything, Miss Groves," I instructed. "Time is fluid. Rips disturb the flow. If the tear is big enough, it can destroy it. And any Surgeon who happens to be close.”

  I continued towards the door to the Crew Vehicle, slipping inside and finding Rafe at the controls. The time rip's sine wave was displayed on one screen, the bright orange noticeable as soon as you entered the main cabin. A still shot took up the majority of the second screen, salient points in regards to location and customs were listed beside it. All in International Orange.

  "A category one rip, then," I commented quietly.

  Rafe met my gaze. "It's an origin tear, Jack. Maybe the origin tear.”

  "Why wasn't it picked up in Dispatch?" a small voice said from behind me. I stepped to the side, allowing Miss Groves ingress.

  "Because the event is unravelling in real time," Rafe explained, inputting coordinates, and handing me his equations to check.

  Groves stepped closer to the screen and narrowed her eyes.

  "Bloody hell," she muttered. “That's..."

  "Yes," I said, handing Rafe the co-ordinates back with a nod. "Cape Canaveral, Florida.”

  "And th..the time?" she asked on a stutter.

  Rafe looked at me but said nothing; he was letting me field this one.

  “1969."

  "Thank goodness," she said on a breath of air. "Prior to the first Origin Event.”

  What the hell had Fawkes been teaching her?

  I raised an eyebrow at Rafe; this one was all his for the taking. And then turned to the open door. Reaching out, I waved up at the viewing room, catching the shielded look of concern on Crawford's face, and then accepted the door as it was closed by a technician. I'd checked the locks by the time Rafe had explained a few basic tenets to Miss Groves.

  "The wave indicates possible planes, you see," he was saying. "At any given point, Time can shift.”

  "But we're going past the OE.”

  "In linear time, yes. But the location is also a dimension. And a major contributing factor in a temporal paradox.”

  "What is a temporal paradox, Miss Groves?" I asked, taking my seat at the helm.

  "A causal loop, sir. A paradox of Time. Where a future event is the cause of a past event." Recited verbatim.

  "And where are we going?" I asked, starting our pre-flight internal checks.

  "Cape Canaveral," she said quietly.

  "Buckle yourself in," I ordered just as quietly, allowing the girl to settle her nerves with the familiar. Once checks had been completed, and our Novitiate sat securely in her seat, I turned to her and said, "The original Origin Event occurred decades after 1969, as you know. But it occurred at The Kennedy Space Center.”

  "Yes, sir," she said, attempting to raise her voice above a whisper.

  "You'll be fine, Groves," Rafe offered. "Jack's never lost a Novitiate yet.”

  I was quite sure I heard a very subdued, "There's always a first.”

  I grimaced. Flicked the last remaining switch bringing power to our boosters. And said, "Relax. This isn't my first rodeo.”

  The MPCV shuddered, the lights flickered, outside a dense nebula would have formed, miniature stars shining brightly, and then we shifted.

  Usually a rather smooth motion, but this time the entire Crew Vehicle vibrated, the sound of grinding alloys deafening to the ears, followed by a reprieve of space-like silence. And then the entire module convulsed, our seat belts - which rarely saw any use - straining, sparks flying, the console flickering, and dear sweet Miss Groves screaming above it all.

  I actually held my breath.

  With a screech and a horrendous thud, felt right through to the seat of my pants, the Vehicle stuttered, trembled, and then spluttered. Blackness engulfed us momentarily, and then the blinding brightness of a thousand stars.

  When it all righted itself again, I let a slow breath of air out.

  "Everyone all right?" I asked.

  "All clear," Rafe said immediately. "Time corresponds with calculations. We're in 1969. Location fits too.”

  "Good," I said as if I'd expected little else.

  Truth be told, that had been an extremely rough flight, and we'd be doing extensive checks before attempting another. We might be in 1969 for a while.

  "Miss Groves?" I queried, turning in my chair to check on the Novitiate.

  Who was staring wide eyed at the back if the MPCV. I followed the trajectory of her gaze and felt the blood drain from my face, leaving me embarrassingly light headed.

  "Has that ever happened on one of your rodeos before, sir?" Groves asked, pointing at the object of my bloodless fascination.

  "What's that now?" Rafe queried, turning in his own seat. "Bloody hell!" He all but fell off his perch in fright.

  Dishevelled, handcuffed it would seem, and stunned immobile. But I would have recognised her anywhere. I'd not long ago been rather close to her in my dream.

  "Who are you?" I asked, surprised I could voice a single thing.

  "Why is she here is the better question," Rafe exclaimed.

  No. I rather thought I knew why. Origin Events never go smoothly.

  The woman looked around the Crew Vehicle eyes wide, expression beyond confused, and then her gaze landed on me. Or more precisely my flight suit. She showed absolutely no shock at the colour or design; I could have sworn she recognised it. Our roots at the Academy were very deep.

  "Who are you?" I demanded abruptly, making Groves jump in her seat and Rafe reach for his sidearm.

  Tension, thick and heavy, enveloped the module.

  "Your name?" Rafe reiterated, his weapon aimed at her chest.

  She squeaked. The handcuffs rattled.

  And then she whispered, "Mouse."

  Bloody Hell, Indeed

  Mimi

  The world turned topsy-turvy. Lights and colours flashed around my head. They sped up. They slowed down. Fast. Slow. Fast. Slow. Fast. Fast. Faster. My body revolted. Three Gs. Four. Five. There was no way to tell, but my head was spinning, and my mind was a blur.

  I felt sick to my stomach, but more importantly, I felt like this might just be the end.

  I cried out, but no sound was made. I tried to move my hands, but whether the cuffs restricted movement, or the centrifugal force made that impossible, I didn't know.

  Within seconds, I think, it was over, and I was sitting unceremoniously on a rather cold metal floor.

  I'd been on concrete, hadn't I? Or maybe not. The room spun, lights flickered, and then everything slowed down and kept slowing down, like a spinning top losing kinetic energy.

  I sucked in a breath of air, thankful to still be breathing, and then blinked away spots. I was dizzy, nauseous, and a little spacey; as if I'd drunk too many Margaritas at Cocktail Hour.

  Nothing looked right. Nothing made sense. For what felt like minutes, I stared at a scene that simply did not compute.

  Lights and dials, switches and screens, wires and toggles. I couldn't identify more than that, but I did know one thing.

  I wasn't in the VAB.

  It smelled different for starters. Closed in and stuffy. A hint of overworked electrical wiring met my nose, the tang of perfume mixed with sweat. Aftershave? Something spicy.

  I blinked again, making out figures. People. Chairs, like astronaut seats; moulded to the body. I swallowed, tasted aniseed. Aniseed? Then felt the world contract, expand, and finally settle.

  "Miss Groves?" a voice said.

  Who the hell was Miss Groves and what the hell had happened to Carter and Dawson?

  My eyes watered with the effort to focus, but slowly details became clearer. The voice belonged to a man, sitting in what had to be the command chair. Tall, if the length of those long legs tucked under the instrument panel would
indicate, thick auburn hair, brushed back from his face, broad shoulders covered in the brightest shade of orange available. Rescue Orange they called it or considering he was wearing NASA coveralls, International Orange.

  Test pilot? Technician? Astronaut?

  How the hell did I get here?

  My head spun, my stomach flipped, and I'd had just about enough of that, thank you very much. Today just did not make any sense whatsoever.

  I blinked up at the guy in orange, vaguely aware there were other people in here with us as well, when a female voice said, "Has that ever happened on one of your rodeos before, sir?”

  My still slightly blurry gaze had naturally tracked to the female, also in orange, but with a tight brown bun on top of her head. Her eyes were as big as flying saucers.

  Much like the man's were when I felt myself drawn back to his face.

  His nose was crooked, just slightly, giving an air of roughness to an otherwise striking face. There was a small scar along his jawline, bisecting a day’s worth of dark stubble, which I hadn’t noticed before then. It was stark white, much like the rest of his pale skin.

  "What's that now?" the third occupant of the room said. But I didn't look away from the first man. I'm not sure I could have.

  "Who are you?" the first voice asked, tone steady.

  "Why is she here is the better question," the other man said, something I would have dearly liked the answer to, as well.

  "Who are you?" the original man repeated, this time with a hint of demand in his tone.

  My heartbeat faltered. I could feel myself beginning to sweat. Oh, God. Not again. First Carter and Dawson, and now these people.

  "Your name?" the second man ordered, and that's when I noticed the gun.

  I squeaked. The handcuffs rattled.

  And then I whispered, “Mouse."

  "Mouse?" the one clearly in charge asked. "You're going with that?”

  Sometimes, when I'm pushed too far, when things just get too much, I snap. It takes a lot. It's not my go-to setting. I'm usually more analytical than that. But it can happen. Carrie has a unique way of drawing my darker side out. She calls it my Hyde-side. And woe betide anyone who is faced with it.

  Hearing the condescension in his tone, I went all Hyde.

  "What exactly does that mean?”

  "The entire gamut of names to pluck from thin air and you choose a rodent,” he said equably.

  "It's a nickname," I growled in defence.

  "Pardon me?" He was British, I realised. Pompous and an arse. How had NASA accepted this one? They had a certain advocacy to uphold, astronauts. They were the face of the Space Program; they needed to be charming.

  This one might have fitted the role of handsome and buffed - there were muscles under that flight suit, I had checked - but charming was not a word I'd associate with him. At all.

  I narrowed my eyes and shook my hair back off my face - better to glare at him - a movement that caused me to lose balance. Stupid handcuffs.

  “Mimi,” I said, grinding my teeth. “My name is Mimi." I dared him to laugh with a lift of my chin.

  Carrie had lucked out on the name front. Taken the smidgeon of normalcy my parents had and claimed it for herself. Being the second born sometimes had its benefits. My parents tried everything out on me. Those three-hundred seconds might as well have been months for all the good being a twin did me.

  The guy just stared for a suspended moment and then cleared his throat.

  "Mimi Mouse?" he asked. "That's even worse.”

  The other guy snorted but didn't lower the gun. The girl just attempted not to smile.

  I took a deep breath. It didn't work. It had been a very tiring day. And then I snapped. Mimi style.

  With infinite precision, I said, "Eff you!"

  "Ah, the mouse has claws," he drawled. Sarcastic bastard. "I wasn't aware many young women in the 60s used such language.”

  "She is in handcuffs," the gun wielder pointed out.

  "She's not from the 60s," the girl immediately offered.

  The one in charge stilled.

  "What day is it?" he asked, looking at me.

  "Tuesday," I offered.

  "Date. Date," he snapped back.

  "Eff. You," I helpfully supplied.

  He let out a huff of air and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. Eyes closed. Head down. I was intrigued, I admit it. I shouldn't have been. For any number of reasons. But he carried an air of command that drew the eye, mixed in with a smattering of vulnerability.

  I think my presence here had thrown him off kilter.

  Well, welcome to the club.

  "What date do you think it is?" I asked. It was a peace offering, but I'm not sure he realised. He lifted his head and looked at me, but no one uttered a sound, let alone replied.

  I let out a frustrated breath of air.

  "You know, I dreamed about coming here," I said, noting the way the man in charge frowned. "I used to drive my sister crazy with stories about space ships. Apollo 13 is my all-time favourite movie. I made her watch it a dozen times.”

  The silence from all three orange jumpsuit wearing strangers was almost defeating.

  So, I forged on. I was beyond caring if anything I said could be used against me, now. That boat had long sailed. Maybe that was Special Agent Dawson's plan. Frighten me beyond reason, wear me down completely, confuse the hell out of me, and then throw me in here - I took a brief moment to look around the confined space and orientate myself; a command module, possible an Orion capsule, I realised - with the object of my supposed evil fixation.

  "And finally I get here," I said with a handcuff rattling shoulder shrug for emphasis. "After, you know, a shit year. Carrie insisted we come to Florida first. See the sights. Walk where Armstrong walked. All that jazz. Only to have you lot act like a bunch of Nazis, just because we dug a little hole under the chain link fence to get better pictures of 39A.”

  The handcuffs clinked loudly again, drawing everyone's eye to my shrugging shoulders. My sigh was louder. Perhaps nonchalance was not the most appropriate behaviour, but along with a sudden onset of Hydism, from time to time, I also tended to overdo “not bothered”.

  "And now she's gone," I finished. A full stop if ever there was one. "And none of you even care.”

  "Apollo 13," the gun wielder suddenly said, looking at something on his screen. "Released in 1995 by Universal Pictures.”

  The one in charge swallowed thickly.

  "She's out of time," gun wielder added.

  And I squeaked again, all semblance of nonchalance forgotten, shuffling backwards, feeling the hard edge of something metal at my back.

  "I've co-operated!" I shouted. "I didn't mean to trespass. I just wanted to walk where Armstrong had walked. You know, live the dream. We had nothing to do with the bomb!”

  The gun came back up again; I hadn't realised it had lowered at all until then.

  "What bomb?" the prick in charge said.

  "The hole in the side of the VAB," I rushed to say. "The hole you think we made.”

  They all shared a look. The girl blanched considerably. The gun wielder tightened his hold on the gun.

  "What do you want to do, boss?" he asked, confirming who exactly was in charge here.

  The boss looked at me. His steady gaze enough to still my rapidly beating heart. Ridiculous, but that whisky shade seemed safe, somehow. Where everything else screamed danger. Our eyes locked. Time stopped. Or that’s what it felt like to me. I have no way of knowing what it felt like for him. As far as I know, he could have been contemplating how to remove bloodstains from orange jumpsuits.

  "What date do you think it is, Mimi the Mouse?" he asked softly, surprising me. "What century?”

  I felt the fight drain out of me, my shoulders relaxed, giving my poor scraped wrists a much-needed break.

  The guy could do voodoo with that gentle tone of his.

  I licked my lips. His eyes followed the movement. Then flicked back up to min
e. He raised an eyebrow. Cocked his head. Waited patiently for my reply.

  “Twenty-first," I finally said, the words drawn from deep within, it felt.

  “Bloody hell," gun wielder said.

  "I don't understand," the girl offered. On closer inspection, I thought she might not be too much younger than me. A year or two at most. Hardly a girl. But the way she cowered made you think naïve, innocent, frightened. Even I wanted to protect her.

  "Do your checks, Dr Hoffman" the leader guy finally said, his steady gaze never leaving me. "Write up the log, Miss Groves. An accurate reflection of what has transpired, if you please.”

  "I'm not sure I understand what has transpired, sir," she admitted with some reluctance.

  "Retell it how you see it, Novitiate.”

  "Yes, sir," she replied and turned away toward a small screen.

  That left the leader looking at me.

  "Do you have a surname, Mimi?" he asked in that gentle tone that seemed to unlock something inside me. "Or must I continue to use...Mimi?" He said my given name as though it were a joke.

  The lock snapped shut again. If I'd been able to, I would have crossed my arms over my chest in defiance.

  The rattle of the handcuffs caught his ear. He frowned.

  "Are you a criminal?”

  "She did use the word 'bomb,'" the one called Hoffman helpfully supplied, not turning around from his own screen.

  "Yes, thank you," his boss said. "I was also present at the time.”

  "Just making sure we don't forget the 'bomb,'" Hoffman offered.

  "Would you stop saying 'bomb,'" the girl, Miss Groves he'd called her, pleaded.

  "Mimi?" the one in charge pressed. "And for God's sake, tell me your real name.”

  Hoffman snorted. Groves grimaced. Both looked pityingly upon their boss.

  I smiled sweetly.

  "Mimi Blossom Wylde," I said, articulating each name with the utmost care. "My parents were hippies. Three-hundred seconds later they reformed.”