“So you complete your task, get to the next time gate, and then what?” I ask.
“Do it all over again,” Cliff says. “Usually there’re eight or ten levels depending on complexity. First one through them all, with all their tasks completed, wins.”
“Seems simple enough.”
“It’s a good time,” Cliff says. “Nothing quite like it. You’ll get people who say it’s just thrill seeking, and too dangerous, but there’s much more to it than that. Strategy and planning, and all kinds of skills make up a winning run. It’s the best challenge out there if you ask me. Nothing else will give you that edge, ’cept maybe fightin’ in a war. But this way has better scenery and better looking women.” Cliff pushes up from the table and adjusts his pants under his slightly sagging belly. “But you’ll get to see it all firsthand. I’d best be getting back to my own brood of up-and-comers. They’ll be wondering where I’ve wandered off to. Good meeting you, kid. Barnes, I’ll catch up with you later.”
Charlie salutes with his fork and mumbles something unintelligible through a mouthful of grits.
“He seems pretty cool,” I say when Cliff has left.
Charlie swallows and dabs at his mouth with a paper towel. “Cliff’s a good man. We’ll be able to count on him during the race if we need him. The Marshes aren’t a bad bunch, either. Their father used to be on the race design committee, so they grew up with chronothons. They’ll be tough competition, but they’ll be allies, too.”
“This sounds like a lot of fun. The Quicklys kind of made it sound like I was on a suicide mission doing this. It doesn’t seem like anything sinister that I need to be scared of.”
“Sinister? Nah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty of danger, and we’ve had a few accidents and fatalities over the years, but most folks who have their heads on straight come through just fine. The race committee usually does a pretty good job of balancing ‘interesting’ with ‘safe’ when it comes to their race designs.” Charlie gets up from the table and tosses his trash into a bin.
“Do you really think we have a chance of winning it?”
Charlie considers me thoughtfully. “I’ll be honest. You with no race experience and us with scarcely any training time together, we’re definitely going to be considered a long shot. But this ain’t my first rodeo, and if you have half the guts Harry says you do, we should do all right. Now, come on. We’ve got work to do.”
We spend the rest of the morning unloading crates of supplies in Charlie’s tent and organizing the things we’ll need. Charlie trades out my shoulder bag for one of his packs. Besides having substantially more room, the new pack boasts the ability to keep its compartments watertight and has a number of straps and clips for attaching accessories. I stuff it with whatever Charlie instructs me to. The vitals include: flashlights, matches and a flint, first aid supplies, rope, and drinking water tablets. I manage to cram my leather jacket in there, along with the few other items I brought from home. I also end up rolling Abe’s shoulder bag into it, in case I need another bag later. Charlie pores over the variety of maps and timestream charts, before settling on two detailed maps of the world and some blank paper and pencils. He rolls them into a waterproof tube and tosses it to me. “Each chronothon can take you to entirely new places, so we’ll most likely have to figure it out as we go.”
“So you don’t have any idea where they’re sending us?”
“The game designers are limited by only being able to send us to locations where they’ve installed time gates, but they’ve been working pretty hard at developing new ones from what I’ve heard. I wouldn’t be surprised if they really push the limits this round.”
“Who are the game designers?” I work on shoving the tube into my pack.
“They’re a combination of engineers and other creative types, usually. Most of them have science backgrounds or previous game management experience. They coordinate the installation of the gates for each race, and design the challenges for the levels.
“There’s a larger race committee that the designers for each round are chosen from. The race design is kept secret, even from other committee members, so as to keep the competition fair. There’ve been occasional information leaks, but they usually keep a pretty tight lid on things. This round, the security has been extra tight. When we go for dinner tonight, we’ll see if anyone has any new details, but I doubt anybody will know much.”
“When do we get to know our order for the race?”
“They should post it in the morning. We’ll have a few hours to strategize depending on our position, and then we’ll be through the gate and running.”
“How will we know what we need to do?”
“We’ll find our task box and go from there. Usually it’s somewhere near the outlet of the gate. First priority will be figuring out where we are, based on our environment. The designers love to throw curveballs at you right in the beginning. One time I came out of a gate into an underwater tube and hadn’t the foggiest clue which way was up. The tube filled with water quick when I tried to get out of it, and I had to think fast. Luckily I had an inflatable vest with me. I deployed that and it hauled me to the surface.”
“Are we going to have those?”
“Oh. Good point, we should probably pack some. Check the crate in the back.”
<><><>
The afternoon sun is already well into its descent by the time I get a break. I wander back through the camp, looking for Abraham’s tent among the cluttered new arrivals. I find him out front in his camp chair, much as I left him, ensconced in a book, with little attention spent on the myriad passersby.
“Having a good day?”
He looks up at the sound of my voice. “Splendid. Just finishing an account of castaways in the South Pacific. Fascinating tales.”
“Going to pay them a visit?”
Abraham considers the cover of the book. “Hmm. I suppose I could. But I don’t imagine their solitude would have been as meaningful then.” He flicks a bug off the cover and sets the book on the ground.
“Charlie wants to know if you want to join us for dinner. Apparently there’s going to be some kind of presentation. He says the food will be good.”
“That sounds like a marvelous idea.” Abraham eases himself out of the camp chair. “And how about you? You adjusting all right?”
“Yeah, I guess so. It’s a lot to take in. I’m definitely in way over my head, but Charlie seems really knowledgeable. He’s pretty nice, too, so I think I’ll be okay.”
“I’m glad you two are getting along well. I figured you would. You both have adventurer’s souls. I’m sure you gentlemen are going to have a lot of planning and strategizing for your start tomorrow, so if you are settled okay, I think I may depart after dinner.”
“You aren’t going to stick around for the start?” I feel a twinge of disappointment.
“I think it’s going to be a tumultuous affair, and you’ll have plenty to keep your attention. I’ll do my best to be at the finish line, however, to see you come through victorious.”
“I’m just shooting for coming through, period.”
“That will be a victory in itself then.” Abraham smiles.
The camp has been filled to capacity now, and as Abraham and I make our way back to Charlie, we’re forced to navigate through more and more people. I recognize a few as racers from the mess tent this morning, but the newer arrivals have a different attitude about them. Excitable. Frenzied even. A teenage girl in a turquoise skirt snaps a picture of me as I walk by. They’re race fans.
“Hey, Abraham?”
“Yes, Ben.”
“Am I a celebrity? Among time travelers, I mean.” I check Abraham’s face for any kind of surprise or derision. I see neither. He surveys a group of young twenty-somethings sharing beers from a cooler. Most of the group are wearing red shirts with the letters ATS on them and a shield emblem with an hour glass. One shirt says ATS Prep.
His manner is unchanged when he re
plies. “I would imagine in this sport, you might be a candidate for some celebrity by the end.”
“But I wasn’t a celebrity before, right?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Did you do something noteworthy?”
I won the dunce award for getting suckered into this. “No. I guess not.”
When we arrive at Charlie’s tent, he’s standing out front wearing a clean polo shirt. A tiny square of tissue is stuck to his skin just above his collar, remedying a mishap from his latest encounter with a razor. He has an electronic tablet in his hand and gestures for us to hurry. We follow him into his tent and as soon as we’re inside, he holds up the tablet. “Did you know you were under contract with Bellini & Phillips for this race?”
“Who?” I try to read his expression. Is he upset or excited?
“Bellini & Phillips! The bank! What made you sign a contract with a mob bank?”
Okay. Upset.
“I didn’t sign a contract with anybody.” I try my best to look innocent.
Charlie waves the image on the tablet. “This is a fingerprint authenticated contract with Bellini & Phillips, with your name on it! I went to check with the committee about financing the race fees, and they gave me this. Your fees have been covered. My fee as well. Very well covered. You must have some kind of confidence in winning this thing to want to take out a contract with B&P. Talk about some sharks.”
“I didn’t mean to sign up for anything. This was all a setup.” I give Charlie an abbreviated account of my time in Geo’s house, doing my best to avoid the embarrassing parts, but with limited success.
“You let some girl swipe your fingerprints, and you didn’t even ask what you were signing?” Charlie appears dumbfounded.
“Yeah. Sort of,” I mumble.
“Why? What could compel you to do that?”
“I don’t know exactly, this guy was being a jerk, and she was really pretty . . .”
Charlie’s other hand comes out of nowhere and thumps me in the head.
“Ow.” I straighten back up from the blow, on guard for any more surprises.
“I ought to give you about fifty more of those,” Charlie grumbles. “B&P . . . you really are green. Worst-case scenario, if we come in last, I probably have enough cash around to cover my end, as long as their interest isn’t too outrageous, but you’d better hope to place somewhere pretty decent if you’re going to pay off those goons and still keep your fingers and toes.”
“I didn’t do this on purpose.”
Charlie’s expression softens. “I know you didn’t, kid. But it’s time you learn, this world isn’t full of sunshine and daisies. These people mean business, and sometimes that business means running over the folks who aren’t paying attention. If you’re going to play in their game, you’d better start learning how to either keep up or steer clear.”
Abraham rests a hand on my shoulder. “We have established that Benjamin was persuaded into this arrangement by less than honorable means, but what we don’t have an explanation for, is why. Gioacchino Amadeus is not likely to go to this much effort simply so a bank can make a few grand in interest payments. I think we need to assume there is more going on.”
Charlie frowns. “Geo made his money as a bookie, so I’d bet my last Cohiba that he’s got a fix in somewhere.”
I slump onto a crate. “Well I don’t get the impression he’s banking on me winning, so I guess we can rule that out.”
“No. That’s a given.” Charlie tosses his tablet onto his cot. “But we need to see if we can’t find out more specifics. I’ll poke around and see if any of the other guides know anything. For now, let’s get over to the mess tent for the opening and see what’s going on. We have a lot of work to do yet and I’d like to get a good look at our competition.”
Abraham and I trail Charlie to the mess tent, only slowing for the periodic greetings Charlie receives from other racers headed the same direction. The mess tent has been transformed since breakfast. The area has been roped off with a perimeter of about fifty feet on every side, where stern-faced men in suits are keeping rows of oglers at bay. Some race staff volunteers are checking bracelets and keeping out curious race fans at the entrance, but they allow Abraham through after a nod from Charlie. A man in a fedora along the rope line nudges his teenage son and begins snapping photos of Charlie. The crowd murmurs and more cameras begin to flash. Charlie ushers us into the front antechamber of the tent to get us out of sight. Through the opening in the next set of canvas flaps I can make out diners at long tables with floor length tablecloths and sparkling silverware. Most are wearing ties or dresses. The ambient buzz of conversation is interspersed with the clink of glassware and what sounds like live instrumental music.
“I didn’t know this was going to be dressy.” I lean in toward Charlie’s ear. “Should I go put on a nicer shirt or something?”
Charlie considers my T-shirt and jeans before responding. “Did you bring a nicer shirt?”
“No. Not really . . .”
“Don’t worry about it then.”
“But I feel pretty underdressed. Am I going to be laughed at or anything?” A woman in a sequined top slips past us, followed by a man in a sport coat.
Charlie peeks through the flap at the seated diners, then turns his attention back to me. “Listen, kid. We may not have much going for us right now in this competition, what with you being greener than hell, and us with no time to train together, but none of these jokers know that. For all they know you could be the most promising racer in chronothon history. They’ll all know me, and more than a few will recognize ’ol Abe here. You walk in between the two of us and that’ll get a little attention. You may not have much in the way of credentials or style just yet, but you’ve got mystery on your side.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Ben Travers. Man of Mystery. Who’s going to know any better? So just stand up straight and walk in there like you have all the confidence in the world. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Okay.”
I try to straighten out a crease in my shirt as Charlie pushes open the flap to the dining room. Abraham smiles and gestures me forward. The sea of faces turns to see who’s entering.
Mystery man. Mystery man. No problem. I got this.
I step inside.
“Time travelers have experience with racism and sexism and all manner of social ills from their journeys through the centuries. You would think it would make them more tolerant of other people’s freedoms. Hasn’t seemed to stop them from criticizing my taste in ties . . .”–Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 1968
Chapter 8
The creature staring at me from the back table isn’t human. I’m pretty sure of that. For one thing, he’s forest green. Then there are the horns to consider, little nubby horns that run in parallel ridges from his brow to the back of his head. More ridges adorn his cheekbones under his pitch-black eyes. But even with the horns, I’m not sure he’s the most intimidating face in the room.
Charlie leads us past dozens of diverse faces that show varying levels of interest in our arrival. Horacio is lounging at a table near the main aisle in an expensive, three-piece suit. The top three buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned, exposing the two gold chains around his neck. He looks away with a smirk when I catch his eye, returning his attention to the two women on either side of him. Did he bring dates to this thing? Ariella is seated at the far end of his table also. I try to contort my face into some expression that will convey my displeasure with her—let her know that tonight I’ll be immune to her even more dramatic beauty—but she’s absorbed in conversation with a frigid-looking woman beside her and never looks up.
The Academy of Temporal Sciences logo adorns a tablecloth to my left. I recognize the three guys and the blonde from the lifted truck seated around it. The bulky fair-haired guy facing me makes a comment I don’t hear and the other three snicker. He grins, flashing brilliant white teeth and casually holding his pint glass aloft at my passing.
The only face
that seems legitimately excited to see me is a sandy-colored Labrador retriever that wags its tail as I pass by. Its owner is a boy of nine or ten, seated by himself and wearing a colorful helmet in the shape of a snail. The boy doesn’t look up as we pass, but stays engrossed in the menu in his lap.
The far end of the tent has been altered to include a raised platform. A head table has been erected and a dozen well-dressed officials are seated at both sides of a man in a distinctly more elaborate chair. His silvered hair adds an air of authority, though he’s not distinguished enough to avoid needing a name badge like his contemporaries. I’m too far away to read it, however, and Charlie gestures me toward a seat before we get any closer.
We’ve been given a spot at the same table as Cliff. He shakes Charlie’s hand and introduces the guy and girl sitting next to him. “Charlie, I think you’ve met Jettison and Genesis Marsh?”
Charlie extends his hand to the girl first. “Good to see you again, Genesis. You’ve both grown up since I saw you last. I think you might have only been waist high the last time.”
Genesis smiles and accepts his handshake.
“You know Abraham as well, I believe,” Charlie continues.
I watch Genesis shake Abe’s hand. Her dirty blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail. She’s athletically built, and I’m happy that she and her brother seem to have missed the dressing up memo too. They’re both wearing Adidas tracksuits. Even so, they somehow seem to fit in better than I do. Jettison stands to shake Charlie’s hand. He’s likewise broad-shouldered and fit. His light blue eyes match his sister’s, but his expression is more serious. When Charlie introduces me next, Jettison’s handshake is solid but brief. Genesis invites me to take the chair next to her.
My curiosity won’t wait any longer. I stoop toward her.
“What is that green dude back there? Is he . . . an alien?”
Genesis casts a casual look toward the back of the tent, making me wonder if she could have thought I meant a different horned creature. “Yeah, looks like an Anya Morey. Kind of unusual to see one alone. Usually you see them in gangs.”
In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 52
