Serving Time

By Nadine Ducca

Handling Neptunian meth and dodging security cannons are all in a day’s work for Tristan Cross—not that he's one to complain. Working for the smuggling company StarCorp is an improvement over what he used to do for a living.

However, when StarCorp gives Tristan a one-way ticket into the brainwashed—and disturbingly suicidal—Loyal League, he decides to run from the company and start a new life in the only safe haven he knows: Earth. With the help of his brother, Tristan embarks on the most hazardous journey of his life, one that will place him at Time’s mercy. Little does he know the demons running the universe are craving a feast, and his own soul is the next item on the menu.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nadine Ducca
• Release date: Aug 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301503414

Nadine Ducca

When Nadine Ducca was a child, she wanted to be a muppeteer for the Jim Henson Company. Several years later, she found herself far from the Muppets, living in Spain and studying Translation and Interpreting at the Autonomous University of Barcelona. After completing a Master’s Degree in Medical Translation, she set her eyes on a PhD, then shrugged, and said, “I need a break from all this studying.” From then on, she decided to dedicate her free time to her greatest passion: writing. She has published several flash fiction pieces in online magazines, although her biggest ambition has always been to write a novel. Serving Time is her debut novel, and more are on the way. Nadine is currently working on her second novel, Making Time. When she’s not giving her characters a hard time (especially Eneld), she’s at work coordinating the Cambridge English Language Assessment examinations, and occasionally translating documents or interpreting seminars for the city hall of Granollers, her place of residence.

Book preview

Nadine Ducca’s writing can be compared to a dinner party where she plays hostess supreme. Serving Time is a brain-melting cocktail. While reading it, I often laced my fingers and exclaimed, Oh, wow.

—Ivan Borodin, author of Pandora 2012: Southern Belles and The Martian Shuffle

SERVING TIME

NADINE DUCCA

Serving Time

By Nadine Ducca

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Nadine Ducca

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo

Follow Nadine online

@NadineDucca

http://www.nadineducca.cat

To my mother, who was one of the last to find out I was writing a book. Surprise, Ma!

And to Salva, an innocent bystander of my writing obsession.

PROLOGUE

In the beginning, the Logos created the universe. It was a lonely place, empty and quiet, so the Logos brought forth three goddesses: the Past, the Present, and the Future. With them came nostalgia, audacity, and uncertainty. The three child goddesses gazed at their creator with expectation, for now that Time existed, so could life.

Robert stood in the center of the astral circle etched on the hardwood floor of his living room. His brow creased as he studied the ring of symbols. His fingertips tingled. The portal was ready, and no matter how much a small—yet insistent—part of him wished to put it off, he knew the time had come to open it. He closed his eyes and recited the first two verses.

As the words tumbled from the edge of his lips, a blast of air whirled around him. The wind’s fingers plucked at his clothes and buffeted his face, so he crouched and lowered his head. Just one more verse to go. He yelled the final words, raising his voice over the increasing howling of the wind.

The living room dissolved into gray and blue smudges. With a sickening lurch, Robert felt his body somersault through the air. His concentration vanished into the wind, and he rolled over himself, his stomach wadding into a knot.

Abaddon, he whispered, my Keeper. Protect me.

Only the gale answered.

Something was wrong. Why was it taking so long? Why hadn’t he practiced the chant one last time before rushing to open the portal? If he had made a mistake—even the tiniest of mistakes—in the runes or the chant, he was as good as dead.

He cupped a hand over his breast pocket and felt the capsule within.

Cyanide.

He ground his teeth together. That isn’t the answer. He wasn’t ready to quit—not yet—and he refused to entertain that idea any further. He hadn’t worked for twenty years to end up swallowing a pill. My calculations are correct, he reminded himself as he weathered the storm. But the shrieks of the wind begged to differ.

Just when it seemed that his mission—and his life—had come to an end, the gale swept past him and vanished. Nonspace retreated, and Robert once more felt solid ground beneath him. He trembled from head to toe and waited for his stomach to stop shuddering before daring to open his eyes. Although he was gaining skill in the art of astral jumps—like learning to land on his feet—he hadn’t traveled to other planes often enough to suppress the wave of nausea that overwhelmed him after each trip.

He hesitantly opened one eye, and when he realized his calculations had been, in fact, correct, his heart skipped a beat. He was crouching on a barren white plane under a blazing white sky. He couldn’t distinguish a horizon, for there was none to see, only a tenuous mist a million miles away.

He narrowed his eyes and looked up at the goddess before him. She stood a few feet to the right, her slender, bare back turned to him. Her gleaming silver dress streamed from her shoulders to the spotless, featureless ground, where the fabric dissolved into ripples that flowed all the way to Robert’s feet. Her golden, waist-length curls spilled over her shoulder, and she twirled a lock between her fingers as she stared into the empty distance.

Robert pulled himself upright. He couldn’t bring himself to take that first step or utter that first word which would break the beautiful silence between them. He had so much to offer her…so much to gain from her.

The cream! His hand shot to his pocket. Nothing. His heart jumped in his throat. He patted his clothes and searched through his overcoat. Had he forgotten to take the cream along at the last moment? But that was impossible; he would never forget something so important.

Did they—?

He ran trembling hands over his entire body. Sweat dampened his armpits and clung in beads over his lip. He had read sufficient literature on nonspace to understand the dangers of traveling outside the boundaries of time and matter. Something supernatural inhabited those corners, and that something had sticky fingers.

But those creatures wouldn’t open my pockets—would they? He wiped the sweat from his face. Of course they would.

The wind had been prying at his clothes like an impatient child searching for candy, but Robert had hidden the tube of cream in his pocket and had zipped it closed. But now the cream was gone. Mugged in nonspace. A zipper. What was I thinking? Robert could flay himself for his stupidity. He glanced at the goddess, who stood in silence, either unaware of his arrival or uninterested. Just then, his hands came across something in one of the open pockets of his overcoat. He pulled out the white tube of cream and his jaw dropped open. Those tricksters. But now was not the time for revenge. He needed to concentrate on his mission.

As if sensing his rekindled determination, the goddess spoke. What do you want? Her lazy words wove their way across the emptiness toward him and wrapped themselves around him.

Robert cleared his throat. Greetings, my Goddess. It is an honor to be in your presence. His voice faltered and he swallowed. My name is Robert Westbrook. He bowed his head. A second flitted by. Another. He cautiously glanced up.

The woman standing before him had not stirred. The ripples in her dress gently swelled and receded.

Robert licked his lips. A pearl of sweat tickled as it ran down his temple. I have dedicated my life to finding you. I am your humble servant. He dropped to one knee.

How interesting. The woman’s sweet voice coiled tighter around him.

She turned, and Robert gasped for breath. Her eyes were two unsettling black pits speckled with stars—the cradle of the universe itself.

Oh, my… I must say… Finding words became more and more difficult. Your beauty has no rival, my Goddess.

The woman’s brow furrowed, and the corners of her mouth sank into an unflattering scowl. Yes…beauty. She lifted her chin. "That is why your kind represent me as an old man. With a beard and a scythe—and an hourglass. You call me Father? She pointed at herself. Look closely at me. Observe my brilliance! Now imagine me in a black cloak, lugging a useless hourglass and a scythe from one place to another!"

Without uttering a word, Robert settled his gaze on the ground. It was best not to infuriate her.

"Black is not my color! she continued. Have the Grim Reaper wear black if he so wishes. Not me! I am Time, overseer of the universe!"

Robert waited for her to finish with a bowed head, his lips pressed together.

How did you arrive at my plane? Time demanded. For what reason do you dare interrupt my passage?

Robert took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and in a smooth, unwavering voice, said, I have dedicated my life to the summoning of Devourers and the travel from one astral plane to another. Years ago, the Devourer Abaddon, my Keeper, suggested I study your magnificence. Since then, I have spent my life honoring you and investigating how to contact you. Today, I have achieved my lifelong ambition. I am finally here, with you. He smiled. Time did not look impressed. He swallowed and said softly, Abaddon informed me of the state of the universe.

Time awarded him a withering look. So you know. Those beasts cannot hold their tongues.

We are living in interesting times.

And your prattle is boring me. Time turned.

No! Wait! My Goddess, I’m here to make a deal, if you would listen to what I have to offer. Robert swallowed and his ears clicked. I wish to buy a bit of time.

Time gasped, and a cold breeze swept across Robert.

Foolish little man! Buy a bit of me? How dare you insult me! A purple mist rose from the ground, making Time’s dress flutter in bubbling waves and locks of her hair dance like serpents. She swelled into a fifteen-foot colossus, her silhouette overshadowing the white plane beneath her.

Robert clambered to his feet and braced himself.

Many have tried to beguile me, Time’s voice thundered from above. Many have come to me speaking promises of glory or revenge, but none have succeeded. Why should you be any different?

Robert sensibly stepped back and clasped his hands together. Please forgive me, my Goddess. It was not my wish to offend you. I only wish for some time for myself…to enjoy the expanse of the universe around me. Surely you understand this modest man’s yearning? If only you had a little time to spare for me, for my purposes, for my—

"A little time to spare? Your people only understand divisions of me—you are too closed-minded to fully grasp my brilliance. Time brushed her waving hair away from her face, her voice now breathy and low. So be it."

She placed a finger against her temple and closed her eyes. "Eight hundred and fifty-five billion, nine hundred seventy-five million, eighty-three thousand, seven hundred, and eleven years, two months, twenty-six days, four hours, thirty-seven minutes and nineteen…eighteen…seventeen seconds is what remains of me, if this helps your organic brain to understand my magnificence." She crossed her arms, still scowling, still towering over him.

Despite himself, Robert smirked and muttered, Ah, so now I know when you come to an end. Lucky I won’t be there to see it. He raised his voice. All I request is a little bit of you for myself. Not much, you see. Perhaps something as simple as one hair from the top of your head. May I ask how much time it would be?

Pluck a hair from my head? Preposterous! Her voice echoed until it was lost, blended into the mist.

Robert’s lips curled into the beginning of a smirk. I have an offer that might interest you, my Goddess.

Those words made Time stop short. The winds receded.

Just one hair, Robert pressed. In exchange for what I have to offer.

Time gently pulled at her locks. One of these…? Slowly, her rage ebbed away and she shrank. Well, she murmured as she caressed her hair, this one is quite long… I would say this one would be about nine hundred forty-seven thousand, six hundred and eighty-two years. Her eyes locked onto Robert’s. Does your eminence consider that an adequate amount?

Robert’s stomach turned into a simmering lump of coal, and when he spoke, his voice came out dazed, hardly his own. Oh, yes, it would be more than enough.

And what are you planning on giving me in return for my generosity? A heartfelt thank you? A dedication in your memoirs? I have been offered all that before, and have turned down whoever was foolish enough to believe I could be interested in honor. Surprise me, please. I would appreciate it if you were more original than the fools before you.

Robert gave her a shy smile, although excitement pulsed through his veins. Now was his moment to shine. His hand disappeared into his pocket and came back out holding the unlabeled tube of cream. He held it on his open palm. I bring this. His voice rang out across the empty plane. Especially made for you.

Time leaned forward. What is it?

Please understand I do not wish to insult you, my Goddess, my Time…but there is something I must tell you.

Tell me what? She lifted an eyebrow.

I have discovered an imperfection in your otherwise flawless complexion.

Time’s starry eyes narrowed. She stared at him, her mouth now no more than a thin crimson line. Robert nodded to himself. She suspects something… Now he could chance being more direct.

He lowered his voice to a murmur. "You wouldn’t want people to begin traveling through them, now would you?"

Time gasped and her hands flew to her face. Robert’s chest swelled with pride, for he had discovered her secret, her shameful, embarrassing secret. He knew she had…wrinkles.

Her fingertips caressed the tiny web of crow’s feet at the corner of each eye. Robert waited in silence, still holding out the tube of cream.

Time straightened her shoulders and said in a huff, You dare come here and distract me with your ridiculous request? And now you call me a wrinkly old hag! Presumptuous little man! The constellations in her eyes shifted, and, for a speeding second, Robert thought he saw Sagittarius place an arrow in his bow.

He collected his thoughts. Believe me when I say I would never call you anything other than beautiful. Your beauty is what inspired me to fabricate this cream, to protect you from harmful cosmic agents. Please take it. Do not let anything alter your perfection.

Time glared at him, her lower lip trembling. Her shoulders sagged. My perfection is gone—adulterated! Millions are using my cursed wrinkles as interstellar highways. She sighed and let her head drop in defeat. They come and go. With each voyage, they make the furrows run deeper. I do not know what to do.

Robert caught his breath. W—what? His hand trembled. No, no! Time, who’s using them? I never heard of anybody traveling through your wrinkles! They’re so insignificant that physicists haven’t discovered them yet, much less developed the technology to send spaceships through them! This cream is for you to erase the lines from your lovely face before anyone recognizes your flaws and tries to exploit them.

Time cocked her head, locks of hair falling over her face. What species are you, again?

Human.

The stars in her eyes dimmed and she waved him away. I was referring to the Vermeen. They have been using my misfortune to their advantage for so long.

Oh. Robert lowered his hand and the tube disappeared into his closed fist. He bit his cheek. So somebody with the correct technology had discovered Time’s wrinkles. But wait—that shouldn’t be a problem. If all went well, an alien race he’d never heard of would lose a priceless method of transportation. With Time almost ready to do business with him, he couldn’t care less for the Vermeen and their interstellar highways.

He splashed on a renewed smile and once more offered the cream. It looks like you should teach those Vermeen some respect.

Time gazed at him, surprise crossing her face. Robert couldn’t blame her for her distrust, for he had studied the occult journals of others who had traveled to this astral plane before him. Seekers of the past had feared the goddess and treated her as nothing more than a heartless, supernatural creature. Yet for some reason, one after another had insisted she owed them favors and chastised her with their petitions. Robert knew better, especially now that God had left the universe.

A thin smile formed on Time’s lips. Let me see. She snatched the tube from his upturned palm. She uncapped it, squeezed it, and sniffed the pink cream.

Now, I must inform you that this is only a trial, Robert said. It took me months of investigation, over a dozen active ingredients, and more than one failure. I completely trust its safety, but I cannot be sure of its potency until you try it. If it works and you accept my request, I will make you more.

Yes, yes, Time answered without looking at him. She dabbed the rich, pearly cream onto her finger, sniffed it again, and patted it across her face. Here, she said as she handed back the tube.

With both hands, she massaged the cream onto her forehead and the corners of her eyes while Robert waited and held his breath. All of a sudden, the untrusting, scowling avatar of Time vanished, and Robert found himself gazing upon a radiant woman made up of everything he could ever desire.

This feels wonderful! she said. "I am fed up with all those Vermeen taking advantage of my flaws. As if it is not embarrassing enough to look at myself and have my crow’s feet greet me, having mortals use them to travel is simply humiliating."

Robert gave her a lopsided grin but kept silent. He was too busy praying for his concoction to work.

Once Time had finished spreading the cream across her face and neck, she let out a quick sigh.

He watched her for a few anxious moments, then leaned forward. Do you feel it working?

Not yet. Wait. The stars shivered excitedly in her eyes. She tilted back her head.

Robert’s heart drummed against his chest while he screwed the lid back on the tube. Then the inevitable happened. The hem of Time’s dress trembled. Her hands shot to her face.

I felt it!

Robert jumped. Are you sure?

Yes! A wrinkle closed while a Vermeen vessel was in mid-trip! That ought to teach them!

She locked her gaze onto him. The constellations inside her eyes sparkled brighter than ever. It works. Make me more.

Robert grinned and bowed. I will be honored to, but only in exchange for you-know-what.

Once he had selected the precious hair he wanted for his own, Time yanked it out and handed it to him. Robert’s eyes softened as he held the golden thread in his open palms. Then, without further hesitation, he rolled it up into a ball, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed it.

He had achieved his goal, and now time stretched out ahead of him, as endless as all of creation. He would observe humanity’s plight for the better part of a million years. He would watch it rise and expand, and he would watch it fall if he had to.

Oh, he expected to enjoy every moment of it.

CHAPTER 1

The Vollmer F84 automatic hung from Tristan’s limp hand. He drew a ragged breath and shuffled his feet to steady himself. Apart from him, the shadowed streets were empty—well, almost.

Earl Wiggin, sales representative for the Arcadian water mining industry, lay on his back in the middle of the street in a pool of his own blood. The comm-link receiver sticking out of his ear flickered every few seconds with an intense green light, a last vestige of life on a dying body. His blue eyes stared ahead, his mouth locked in a grimace. His upturned hand twitched, and Tristan’s gaze flickered to it.

A long, wild shudder raced down the back of Tristan’s neck. He stood bolted in place, staring at those chubby fingers splattered with blood. Their mechanical spasms were hypnotizing, tapping the air as if searching for the keys on a piano.

His gut knotted. He couldn’t take any more of this. He aimed the Vollmer at Earl’s head and fired. The silenced bullet sliced through the air and put an end to all ticking, jerking, and trembling.

A window lit up in one of the apartment blocks across the street. Tristan tensed. Where the hell was the wrap-up bot? He’d have to wait until the damned bot arrived, confirmed the assignment, and paid him. Well, he wouldn’t stand around out there in the open. He sidled away from the body and into the recess of a nearby doorway.

He rested his head against the wall and took a deep breath. I’m a pilot, one of the best. How did I come to this? As if in response, the shadows of the doorway spread around him and clutched at his arms and legs. He tried to pull away from them, but the numbness felt too good. A smoky curtain spread over his eyes. Even so, he could still make out the figure lying in the street, the puddle of blood cooling in the quiet Arcadian night. A dark blue almost black starless sky hung overhead like a cloak thrown over the city. The real stars glowed outside, only visible through the hundreds of portholes along the edges of the colony.

The shadows tightened their grip and the buildings darkened. Earl Wiggin’s body melted into the blackness. Tristan’s legs trembled. No, don’t do this. Not again. But the shadows didn’t listen. They quivered like curtains and revealed the gaunt faces of all the people he had killed, peering from behind their tombstones, waiting for their moment in the spotlight. They beckoned Tristan with silenced screams—screams he had silenced.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images continued their parade through his mind. Sticky sweat rolled down his nape. I don’t even know you! Why can’t you leave me alone?

Warmth spread across his face. A strong tremor ran down his arm, and with a nauseating lurch, he realized he was pressing the barrel of the Vollmer against his temple. He tightened his finger on the trigger. One bullet. That was all it would take to find peace. He sucked in air and pushed the warm barrel harder against his head. He wouldn’t fire it. He’d fantasized about pulling the trigger, but was too afraid of what he might find on the other side.

Fucking coward.

He jerked his hand and the gun clattered onto the ground. As if startled by the noise, the mob of the dead dancing before him vanished. But then the world rocked and teetered, and bile surged up his throat. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Stop deluding yourself, man. You kill because it’s what you’re told to do. And if you’re ever offered money to kill again, you can bet your sorry ass you’ll do it.

He rubbed his temples. I disgust myself. As he crouched to retrieve the Vollmer, out of the corner of his eye he noticed the burly silhouette of a wrap-up bot watching him from a yard away. All the air rushed out of his lungs. How long had it been there?

The robot rolled toward him. Its hum made his scalp itch.

"Repeat. The recorded voice crackled with some static, which it cleared with an electric cough. Adequate performance. Please return weapon."

Tristan gritted his teeth. That lucky bastard. Thanks to its integrated preservation chip, the wrap-up bot wasn’t capable of harming a live human being. He, on the other hand… He glanced at the light sequence running back and forth across the robot’s chassis, then into its single black eye. The lens contracted slightly and dilated. Was it judging him? No, wrap-up bots weren’t programmed to discern right from wrong, just to clean up messes. He dropped the Vollmer into its retrieval chute.

The robot jiggled and creaked as it processed the firearm. "Weapon correct. Thank you. Prepare for compensation. It whirred and clicked, and a plastic card rattled down its dispenser. Retrieve compensation."

Tristan picked up his commission. Earl Wiggin’s life—and Tristan’s integrity—was worth eight thousand statis, enough to live comfortably for about half a terrestrial year. Tristan’s lips pulled back in disgust. He’d ended one life just to add six more months to his.

The wrap-up bot chirruped. "Assignment: completed. Agent status: available. You may leave."

As Tristan stuffed the money into his pocket, the bot wheeled around to focus its camera on the corpse. With a click and a whir, it deployed two thick suction tubes and rolled forward.

Tristan staggered away from the scene and into the shadows of the city. Something popped and crunched behind him, and although he already knew what was happening, he couldn’t help succumbing to morbid curiosity. He looked over his shoulder.

The wrap-up bot had cleaned itself a path through the puddle of blood around the corpse and now worked with its rows of rotating blades. With them, it shredded flesh, tendon, and bone into smaller, more manageable portions, which it then fed into the fine grinder. Half a leg was already missing. Soaked and tattered cloth concealed the stump.

The comm-link receiver in Earl’s ear still flashed green.

Tristan wandered away from the sound of cracking bone, feeling miserable and underpaid.

***

Aix-Chapelle’s black leather shoes click-clacked against the stainless steel floor as he marched down the hallway of AC Human Resources. His fine arms and spindly legs, cinched by a tailored gray suit, made him look like an anthropomorphous daddy longlegs. Flatscreens lined the walls on either side of him and automatically lit up with images of downtown Arcadia as he approached. He glanced from one screen to the next, his chin high and his shoulders back.

The permanent space habitat Arcadia would be celebrating its one hundred and third anniversary in a couple of weeks. It had begun as little more than a water extraction station in orbit around Jupiter’s moon Europa, but was now one of the most important space colonies in the Jovian system. Skyscrapers towered over every street under an artificial sky littered with holographic projections of clouds. Business moguls from all over the system flocked there to attend congresses, negotiate the fate of the off-Earth water industry, and sign multi-million statis deals.

Aix-Chapelle liked to think his agency played a vital role in business management: redistributing—and occasionally thinning—the crowd. He reached the door at the end of the hall and stopped, his hand hovering above the doorknob. Chamberlain, the piggish CEO of StarCorp, had been waiting for him for ten minutes. Just the right amount of time.

With a wry smile on his lips and a curl in his red hair, Aix-Chapelle burst into the meeting room. Excuse me. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.

Chamberlain nodded from between the cushions of his armchair, blue smoke curling over his head. Don’t worry about it. What do you have for me?

Aix-Chapelle dropped into his seat, a green and gold recliner, and took a cigar from the box that lay open on the table in front of them.

Ah! Today I brought you a fine specimen. He sniffed the cigar and broke off its self-combusting tip. An employee from Crimson Quarters. He pushed a button on the recliner’s armrest and the sixty-inch screen embedded in the wall lit up.

"Welcome, Chamberlain, the screen said. Its voice was cool and calm, like the babble of running water. It is always a pleasure to see you. Greetings, Aix. What may I do for you?"

Greetings. Please show us the specimen.

"Certainly."

The screen flickered and showed a man in his mid-thirties. He was defiant, with broad shoulders, an angular face, and a deep gaze that stared at some point above the camera. His short dark hair was matted, and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. He was speaking and gesturing—from his expression, possibly arguing—but his voice had been muted.

Aix-Chapelle froze the image. Tristan Cross, Crimson Quarters gunman. He’s worked in the trade for many years, and has more than proven his dependability. I am offering you pure stealth, a master of shadows—

Save the showman for someone else. Chamberlain scratched the folds under his chin. If he’s so proficient, why is Crimson Quarters, of all companies, willing to sell him to me?

Oh, a technicality. The truth is that the company is deeply pained at having to discard this particular employee, but you see… Aix-Chapelle dropped his voice and leaned forward. Just between you and me, Crimson Quarters is undergoing an employee recycling phase. It’s all part of the normal—

What’s wrong with the guy?

Aix-Chapelle’s jaw tensed. He held his breath for a moment, then forced out a chuckle and sat back, propping his elbow on the armrest. Always searching for faults, aren’t you? He puffed on his cigar. I believe we’ve known each other long enough to be frank. The truth is, he’s completed his cycle at Crimson Quarters. The company believes he has achieved his full potential in the skill sets required. They are well aware that he possesses many other skills that are not being exploited, and that may stagnate with disuse. Crimson Quarters believes it is time for him to move on, to explore new territories. He steepled his fingers as he studied Chamberlain’s face for a reaction.

According to Aix-Chapelle’s source at Crimson Quarters, the real reason the company wanted to get rid of Cross was because he was quickly becoming a threat. The guy’s execution was good enough, but once the job was over, he crumbled. Video imaging from the wrap-up bots showed him rooted in place next to the body, gawking at the empty air in front of him. More than one wrap-up bot had repeated its instructions two or three times before he reacted. Then there was that dreadful spectacle a couple weeks ago when he put a gun to his own head. Of course, those were the sorts of details Aix-Chapelle kept to himself.

Chamberlain nodded, his eyebrows pulled tight. I brought a bottle of wine. Care for some?

Yes, thank you. What an excellent year!

So this is a matter of staff rotation. Chamberlain filled their glasses and stared into Aix-Chapelle’s eyes.

Aix-Chapelle met his gaze. Yes, the Board of Directors firmly believes that, in the correct company, he will continue to be a productive and loyal asset for years to come. He turned to the screen. Please display the specimen’s resumé.

Of course.

Chamberlain studied the information for a few minutes. Always best to sell while the merchandise is still functional—that’s what I say. He brought his glass to his lips. With a considerable discount, I presume.

Aix-Chapelle’s stomach fluttered and his mouth spread into a large grin. Without a doubt. But…there’s one more detail I didn’t mention. I blotted it out of the resumé because I just had to tell you myself. He sat back, glass of wine in one hand, cigar in the other, and felt quite happy with himself.

Chamberlain raised an eyebrow, his raven eyes glimmering. Well? What is it?

Mr. Cross is a fully-qualified interplanetary pilot. At the programmed cue, the flatscreen displayed an image of a younger Tristan in his dark blue Spaceflight Academy jumpsuit.

Chamberlain gasped and sputtered, red wine spilling over his chin. Egad! Why didn’t you just start from there?

An earnest chuckle escaped Aix-Chapelle’s lips. I was building up to it. Here, take a napkin.

Now I’m interested. We’re always needing dependable pilots at StarCorp. When can I meet him? Chamberlain wiped his ample chin. He ran a finger under each fold of skin and lifted them to clean the wine that had spilled between the grooves.

Aix-Chapelle looked away. Er…I was thinking of sending him on a mock mission for you to intercept him.

Fabulous idea. Fabulous. Yes. How much does Crimson Quarters ask?

First try him out. We’ll have time to negotiate a fair amount later.

***

Tristan pulled out a cigarette and broke off its self-combusting tip. He studied the doorway from across the street. It looked harmless enough, just the entrance to your friendly neighborhood delicatessen. Yet something was off. The encrypted message he’d received that morning from Crimson Quarters hadn’t offered much information, and that was not like them at all.

Whenever given an assignment, he usually received a detailed account of where to go and who to snuff. Cloaked in the darkness of Arcadia’s artificial night, he’d been sent to office buildings, private homes, sometimes even coordinates in the middle of the street, but never to a running downtown business. And at this time of day, the deli was bustling.

In the few minutes Tristan had been standing outside, three customers had left, clutching their purchases to their chests, and five more had wandered in.

A man stepped out the door carrying a small bag with the delicatessen’s orange and yellow emblem. From the opposite side of the street, Tristan watched him glance at his surroundings. Their gazes crossed. Tristan sucked on his cigarette. The man frowned and quickly walked away, his knuckles white from gripping the bag.

Strange…

Tristan appreciated food—hell, he’d downloaded and watched every episode of E-Wok: Online Cooking with the Pros—but the way that man clutched the package against his chest as if it were a newborn baby was just weird.

The comm-link beeped. Tristan took a final puff of his cigarette and tossed it onto the street.

Inside the deli, a small group of people lined up at the service counter. The scent of freshly baked bread wove a hunger-inducing path across shelves packed with preserves.

The message from Crimson Quarters hadn’t said who to ask for or what to do, so Tristan stood back as the customers picked up their orders. The shopkeeper, a burly man with hairy arms like scouring pads, filled a plastic container with green olives. The customer paid and scuttered out, cradling the olive container in both hands, and the screen on the wall switched to number ninety-eight. A new customer took her place at the counter. The whole process was so rudimentary and devoid of robotics, Tristan could’ve sworn the front door was a portal back to Earth.

Mr. Cross?

A small woman with short blond hair eyed him from the back of the shop, a curious smile on her face. Over her black trousers and shirt, she wore a green apron with the delicatessen’s yellow and orange emblem embroidered in the center. Tristan’s heart dropped with a splash into his stomach. Not another woman, he couldn’t bear to hurt another—but then, Crimson Quarters hadn’t told him what to do. There was a slim chance she was the client and wanted to give him a last-minute briefing.

He nodded and went up to her. But company policy never allowed the client to meet the gunman. No, that couldn’t be it. He must’ve missed a message.

I’m Quinn, the woman said. I saw you from the shop window. You could’ve come in once you got here, you know, instead of waiting outside. Her smile spread.

The message said seven. I like punctuality. He glanced at his comm-link. No new messages.

Fair enough. Let’s go.

Tristan followed Quinn into the tidiest storage room he’d ever seen. Crates of packaged foods snuggled against each other on chromed metal shelves. The intermittent flash of preservation indicators signaled that temperature and humidity were perfectly balanced. She opened a door at the back and they stepped inside. Tristan’s feet sank into the lush red carpeting. He gave the room a quick appraisal. Nine flatscreens hung on the wall to his right, all switched off. In the center of the room sat a black glass table large enough to seat a party of twelve. As Quinn closed the door, he heard a beep followed by the faint hiss of hydraulics.

Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.

You just locked the door.

She shrugged. There’s nothing wrong with a little privacy.

Tristan creased his brow. What’s the privacy for?

Quinn untied her apron, pulled it over her head, and folded it on the table. I know what you’ve been forced to do for a living, Mr. Cross, and I must say I’m appalled. She looked up at him, her eyes cold.

And we’ve got ourselves a critic. Tristan’s patience was already gasping its last breaths. Being pulled into a bluff assignment

Reviews for Serving Time

[kimberlynwm · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

First of all, I would like to thank Nadine Ducca and LibraryThing’s giveaway program for my copy of the book. So, my original reaction when I first got the book was “great beginning, highly original world building.” There were some really amusing situations: the prologue in which aliens were cruising their space ships along the wrinkles in Time’s face, the fact that demons have been left in charge of the universe because God has decamped, and the Triangulate Sisters were a particular favorite.However, I have to say that I found myself a little stymied by the relationships in the book. Tristan and his brother had a really promising start: I was intrigued that there wasn’t the usual wise-cracking repartee between a man and woman in the throes of sexual tension, but instead, the world-weary sibling rivalry of two really interesting men. I liked the way they were maneuvered into the care of each other, but considering their previously passionate anger and loathing for each other, their relationship throughout their various scrapes and predicaments was rather lackluster.Another issue is the rather complex universe that the author created that I feel was never given an opportunity to add color and character to the situations she devised. There were so many times where I felt the tension developing into a clever dilemma that never really materialized into chances for the characters to confront their issues with their lives and with each other.All in all, good potential. Hopefully, the next installment will benefit from the exposition of the first book.

[tldegray-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Serving Time is really two stories: the first is about the goddess Time, her loyal servant Robert, the True Soul she once wronged and her desire to help that soul; the second is about brothers Tristan and Eneld, desperately running from the evil corporation that wants to own Tristan body and mind. The first story is boring and serves only to interrupt the much superior science fiction adventure of the second. The three stars are for the second story, the first would have garnered only 1.

(Provided by publisher)

[t.arkenberg · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

For this review, another thank you is in order to the LibraryThing giveaways program, and of course Nadine Ducca herself for offering the first volume of her Timekeepers trilogy. Although I was often confused over what was going on, the original mythological background of Serving Time was strong from the beginning. The author has clearly spent time developing this mythology and shows it by demonstrating her characters' familiarity with its workings. I found Robert, the wizard who figured out how to blackmail Time, a fascinating character. He didn't play a major part until the end, though, as there is a wide cast of characters scattered across multiple planets, satellites, and outposts. And as for the story's mythology, it's far from comforting. After the Angels meant to guide souls through their many incarnations have fled, the demonic powers, kept barely in line by a frazzled Time, try to pick up the task. Nobody is particularly happy about this. Not Time, who has her own concerns. Nor the demons, who are meant to devour souls, not look after them! And who must contend with the ever-present threat of clerical work.Things are no more comfortable on the mortal plane, where big businesses now run pretty much everything with no sense of corporate social responsibility. It forms an interesting parallel with the bureaucracy on the mythological plane. Our protagonist's Tristan's opening scene, which shows a day in his life as a hired assassin dogged by robots ready to clean up after his "job," was pulpy goodness worthy of Blade Runner, or perhaps The Fifth Element.The demands of being a killer for hire have driven Tristan to a breakdown, making him less than useful to his bosses, who sell his contract cheap to another corporation even more lacking in concern for employee welfare. Meanwhile, Tristan's brother Eneld is visited by a demon who gives him a warning: it's his task to look after his brother's soul in this, Tristan's final incarnation before he's damned to the Respository (hell in this setting) as damaged metaphysical goods. Although the brothers may be less than convinced by this vision, they clearly have pressing problems as Tristan is pursued by his new bosses, who he's trying to escape.The prose and tone of the story varies widely. I admit I have nitpicks--like when the Goddess Time is described as a "fifteen foot" colossus on a limitless plain. The exact number makes her size ever so slightly less impressive (I like to think most mortals won't whip out a yardstick on their first confrontation with a deity). But the dialogue is plausible and mostly snappy. There are also points where the prose becomes playfully visible-"It was on the verge of hyperventilating, if soul dew could ventilate in any way." Fun and fitting with the bizarro tone. And yet in other cases I just couldn't figure out where the author was coming from. What does it mean that Time has strands of hair "like honeyed spiderwebs"? And another thing that puzzles me, and makes me wonder how seriously the science-fiction worldbuilding is being taken: why is Tristan's drug run for his corporate overlords done under cover of an interplanetary shipment of tiramisu? Glad as I am to know we'll still be eating tiramisu centuries from now, wouldn't it be a thousand times faster and cheaper to bake it on-planet? Did nobody find this sort of suspicious?Speaking of baked goods in the future, fruitcake and Christmas are still going strong, even as the Sagrada Familia cathedral in Barcelona has not only been completed but also fallen into ruin again (I see what Ducca did there, and it amuses me, not least because of the sense of scale it gives). All the homey anachronisms could probably be excused in the end, although I always like to see spec fic writers dream a little weirder. But the tone never quite recovered from the revelation that the highly laid-back population of the Stone Cloud spaceship call themselves "Stoners". I love puns from the likes of Peirs Anthony, but I felt rather offended on behalf of my sense of humor at that one. How much danger in Tristan's soul really in, and how much should I fear for him, in a world built with puns?Puns aside, a sort of wordplay does go into the mythology-building of this story too, at least for fans of Madeline L'Engle. Over the ages, Time has developed quite a few *wrinkles*, and is displeased twice over when various galactic species start exploiting them for time travel--plus the apparently unforgiveable indignity of being a female deity who does not look like a teenager. I mean, Lucifer certainly isn't worried about his looks. Then again, Lucifer doesn't have the problem of being a gorgeous young woman everyone pictures as a white-bearded Father, so I guess I can cut Time some slack here. Mythological figures being irritated by mortals' mistaken impressions of them is a trope I usually enjoy, but I enjoy them because of the surprise factor; a female character being caught up in her looks is, alas, not much of a surprise. In any event, Time's vanity is assuaged by Robert's offer of a cure, in exchange for perks like power and immortality. But Time has another favorite human: Tristan, who in a past life was Time's good friend Alexia. Perhaps I only dreamed the lesbian subtext between those two, but they were certainly very close--Alexia medicated Time's vanity just as Robert does in the present, but they also went on adventures together literally to hell and back. The sweet girlfriendship plot, and Time's tendency to call Tristan "Alexia" even when he's romancing her, redeemed the otherwise disappointing representation of female characters. I warmed to Eneld only very slowly after his intro shows him in bed with a woman who he calls a slut (granted, logical thinking is never his strong point, but why is this supposed to be attractive in the character who serves as the moral center? Tristan's much more screwed up, in that he actually kills people for a living, but he's very upfront and equal-opportunity in his screwedupness). Jim Kirk spoiled me; I expect the 23rd century to be a touch more progressive, to say nothing of free love.This story ends on a definite cliffhanger, but its resolution centers more around Robert than Tristan in my mind. This is fine, except Tristan has been the more central character, and winds up nothing but a pawn for the last chapters. His story will be continued in the sequels (Serving Time is the first of the Timekeepers Trilogy). Overall, while this story has an entertaining setup and I appreciate the devil-may-care attitude blending mythology and gritty science fiction, the sometimes corny tone and lackluster character development made it hard to lose myself in. Readers more used to irreverence in their stories (use the "Stoners" pun as a guideline) might even love it. This review is cross-posted from Story Addict.