Perfect Timing

By Jeffery J. Smith

Caterer Crik Duvall is bewildered. In the city he thought he knew, suddenly buildings grow, people incorporate animal powers, smart phones know it all, and vehicles defy gravity.

He's been accidentally transported to a future where he's unwanted. To keep their past intact, the future's authorities must return Crik to the moment he left, a moment when he was dodging gunfire. That is, unless he can show he was vital to progress.

With his cat-woman guide, Tepper —could she be his distant descendant? —the duo dash around to suss out what makes Geotopia work so well for people and planet. Vigilante Voltak, protector of the status quo, pursues them to return the "Pastian" runaway before his allotted twenty-four hours are up. If by then Crik can prove he's their Founder, he'll be a celebrity in his new time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: Apr 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781624203671

Book preview

Chapter One

Hotel & Mansion: So Busy, Becoming an Accidental Busybody

The image of a bellhop perches first on one leg then the other by the edge of a roof of a downtown skyscraper. Gazing downward, with both hands he raises a golf club over his head. The scene occurs on a large monitor.

Far below, the people look like a school of minnows flitting across the downtown central plaza. Others resemble tufts of beach grass clumped around street performers break dancing or juggling. The bellhop arches his back.

In a darkened laboratory, two wide-eyed technicians wearing white coats watch the monitor. In grainy color, the young man bends and stretches. Mouths agape, the viewers take notes and wipe their brows.

This is your candidate? the taller researcher says. This golfer? Crik Duvall?

The shorter one nods. He’s a bellhop, too.

~ * ~

At the wall atop the city’s tallest hotel, Crik in the hotel’s uniform lowers his club. The height does not frighten him, rather, the view always intrigues him. People sure look little, Crik thinks. Must be how landlords see us.

Crik takes a few practice swings. He steps back from the edge and tees up. He drives a Wiffle golf ball into the air without a hitch. The headwind blows the hollow ball back to him. He catches it. Yes! He replaces the plastic ball on the tee—yo-yo golf.

Lifting his bellhop cap, Crik runs his fingers through bleached streaks. Yo-yo golf will challenge enthusiasts of all nations, even become an Olympic event. I could pay down my tuition. Even help Randy with his debt. How dumb, messing with dudes from the vodka importers convention. What’d he know about ostrich racing anyway?

Crik’s knuckles are tattooed with esoteric symbols. A stud twinkles in one ear but no weighty choker worries his swing. He’s up to twenty-three straight successful drives-then-catches, closing in on his personal best.

The word Fore! rings out from a phone in his pocket, but he ignores it.

Steadying himself, Crik cocks his club for another swing and drives the white ball into the onrushing breeze.

Crik!

Crik blinks. The plastic dot sails past him, into the void. Zippers.

Whenever you don’t answer your phone, I know where to find you.

Crik looks over his shoulder, resting the club on his other one.

Randy lets the door close behind him. My man, break be over. Also, a bellhop, Randy has his cap on backwards. As he crosses the roof, his body lags behind his head, his neck nearly level.

Like offering his empty melon to a guillotine, poor sucker. Crik takes out a twenty-dollar bill. Another big date before next payday, bro?

Man, you are like family. Randy takes the note.

~ * ~

‘Crik’. That short for cricket? People always ask.

No, Crik was named Crik because Brook was already taken; his older brother got named that.

Oh, I get it, the hotel manager said when interviewing him, Creek.

Crik nodded. His hair waved, didn’t curl, despite him being the black sheep of the family. Yeah, Crik.

Crik is too busy to finish college. How many decades would it take to pay off the student loan—a necklace of stone—anyway? Especially with good friends unable to budget themselves. Better to have a fun job. Make money and enjoy life.

~ * ~

In the gloomy laboratory, tall Dr. Alvin Ultra and his short assistant Yuri Ivanov, both middle-aged, emit gasps and wag their heads, jotting down notes.

The monitor, thin as a sheet, hangs from a ceiling in a high corner. It’s cabled to a device shaped like an oversized dog biscuit with a sharp point like a syringe, big as a sled, some parts shiny, some opaque. Colored wires twist and run to other odd-shaped devices that whir and jerk.

While Randy waits, Crik hides his club on the ledge beyond the perimeter wall.

Dr. Ultra glances at Yuri. Neither of these two has indicated any interest in social evolution, never mind founding an entirely new way of viewing the world.

Under his beret and bushy eyebrows, Yuri shrugs. Destinon said to check out this moment.

~ * ~

The two bellhops enter the hotel’s darkened conference hall. It’s packed like a tent revival on the eve of the Second Coming. Of course. Who hates money?

Strains of Wagner’s majestic movements accompany the big-screen video of unabashed luxury. Acres of vineyards remind Crik of the south of France where he backpacked one summer. A sleek car barely looking street-legal swerves through hills.

Tesla Roadster, Crik whispers to Randy. 0 to 60 in 3.7.

On the screen, a limousine grand enough for comfortably hosting small celebrations sits in the driveway of a mansion with the long lines of Frank Lloyd Wright draped over a seaside cliff. Inside, fashion models adorned with jewelry befriend vain hosts sipping champagne. Famous paintings hang on the walls.

Crik leans over to his pal. I have a print of that Van Gogh.

With his autograph? Randy whispers.

A sharp-dressed salesman in a flawless Armani suit strides onstage. His shiny hair neatly styled, Julian Seizure keeps his posture erect and full-chested, as would a cocksure general before his troops. His blistering smile stretches his narrow-featured face.

Seizure fires his words forcefully and pounds the air with a fist, keeping time with his avarice. Andrew Carnegie, a billionaire back when a dime bought you a complete breakfast, noted, and I quote: ‘It takes hard work to amass a fortune in industry, but any fool can get rich in real estate.’

Perking up, Randy whispers to Crik, "Did he say any fool?" His eyebrows bounce up and down.

The big screen shows slender beauties gliding in Olympic-size pools and robust businessmen driving golf balls a mile down the links. The pitchman exhales. The old boy nailed it. Nothing else comes close to how much people pay over the course of their lives for a place to live. Directly or indirectly, a big part of everyone’s spending goes to a lease or mortgage.

The audience nods in assent. The speaker opens his hands in empathy. Since all of us have been foolish at least once...

Amid the sea of heads, only Randy bobs agreeably—until he sees nobody else owning up and slinks lower into his seat.

Why are we not all very well off? Seizure stares down his audience.

Crik shrugs. Ethics teaches us virtue is its own reward.

Randy frowns. Economics teaches that reward is its own virtue.

My reward would be to never get another bill, late notice, or harassing phone call.

The instant-riches guru taps his skull. Foresight. It’s not speculation when you see what’s coming.

Crik snorts. Too good to be true. Why can’t telling the unvarnished truth work to sell?

I believe! Randy says.

Time to go, bro. Crik tugs his friend’s sleeve. I have a better idea. You think Seizure plays golf?

~ * ~

On the giant, wafer-thin monitor, hotel employees in a locker room change clothes and joke around. Somebody plays rave. Another paints his nails black.

The two observers fixate on the events above. Dr. Ultra, a slim man, twirls his curling sideburns. Yuri, whose mis-buttoned lab coat makes one side higher than the other, lets his mouth hang open.

The pointed cylinder sits on a counter. It’s covered in tubes and wires. A lone bookcase has one book, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas Kuhn.

The image of hotel employee Shane waves around a clipboard. We must enjoy the abundance, brothers. It’s real. Dutch boy Shane doesn’t need to shave but does.

Too good to be true. Randy needs to shave but doesn’t.

Our civic duty. Shane extends to Randy the clipboard with a sheet on it. For more pay and fewer hours.

Yawning, Crik slowly undresses. Sweet. Even better than the real estate guru.

Randy barely glances at the petition. I’ve signed dozens.

Not the most enthusiastic response, one of the scientists says.

Randy wears threadbare pants, billowy shirt, and a vest. He puts on a rubbery skullcap that makes him look bald.

A curious way to conduct business, notes the other observer.

The co-workers regard Randy skeptically. What? Her preferences said she swoons for shiny, smooth tops. The others roll their eyes.

In the dim light, the researchers each raise an eyebrow, exchange a glance, and write feverishly.

~ * ~

Cologne scents the air.

Shane taps the clipboard. So, No Paddle, can I get your signature?

Sure, I’m not using it.

Crik aims a finger at his co-workers. "Can I get your life savings? You are entering cutthroat golf, right? Saturday. Both nod. Get lots of sleep. You’ll need it."

Sleep? Shane asks. Not tonight. I need you at another gala.

I’m done. I’ll watch some Monty Python...doze off. Slouching, Crik checks his reflection image in a mirror. With his forefingers, he pushes up the corners of his mouth.

Crik stares past the mirror, into his hopes for the future. Catering the mansion—extra bucks, fresh connections, maybe even a cuddly one. Can exhaustion get in the way of rubbing elbows with the high and mighty who could fund a deal?

He holds up a tux on a hanger. The pressed suit looks sharp but he doesn’t, not with dark circles under his eyes. Rank, you want the extra bucks?

Randy snaps a towel at Crik. The fun’s just begun.

In a vast salon of high ceilings, ladies in gowns and pompadours laugh; some hold masks before their faces. Julian Seizure and a knot of gentlemen in tuxedos exclaim loudly. Seizure wears a Roman soldier’s breastplate and leather kilt; the others are topped off with powdered wigs. A string quintet plays Vivaldi.

Crik ferries delicate morsels and bubbly drinks to the costumed guests. Who wants to invest in a dynamic young guy brimming with fresh ideas? Who has a measly million for a wind tunnel to practice yo-yo golf?

Humming the baroque melody, Crik unloads empty crystal glasses from his tray.

Shane tends bar, decked out in the same dark suit, minus the jacket. A professional drink slinger, he moves his hands and arms as fast as a magician mixing shells hiding a pea. His words, too, come rapid-fire, brooking no interruption. Thanks for working a double. Wise move, man, leaving college for gigs like this. Shane nods at their surroundings.

Framed paintings hang between tall windows with florid trim. The polished furniture supports expensive baubles. Thick rugs cover wood floors.

Imagine being the one to inherit this? Help yourself to the caviar.

Crik snarfs a gob.

Shane pops the cork off a bottle of Vueve Clicquot. What is it with guys like Otten, who can afford to pay on time, but pay late?

Quit busting your balls about money, Shane, when you’re waltzing knee deep in it. Everywhere you look—investors.

Since the last posh reception, Edgar Otten, the owner, has added a clock of golden moving parts within a glass bubble to his collection of antique clocks—grandfather clock, sand clock, and water clock.

Crik gazes at a half-naked statue. A woman younger than the rest sparkles in her bling and perfect orthodontics. The rich and beautiful can be as susceptible as anyone else. Crik serves a tapa to the marble figure, making the living lady giggle. She’s no Ellen (may she come to her senses), but she seems playful. Tilting her way, inhaling her perfume, Crik lowers his voice. Introduce me to your rich daddy, let him invest in my latest invention, and someday I, too, will have my own cuckoo clock.

Clucking her tongue, the damsel moves her forefinger and thumb like the hands of a clock. There are some soiled flutes in the master. Would you mind fetching them? She bats her eyes.

Clean up on aisle...OK, fetch. Pay my dues. Keep hope alive. Then close the class gap.

~ * ~

The image of Crik carries an empty tray into the master bedroom, and a thin beam on the other side of the room goes out.

Yuri nudges his boss, Dr. Ultra. The race to find our Founder is as good as over, sir. You’ve won!

Crik’s image flicks on a wall switch, revealing an immense room: a majestic four-poster bed with its carved footboard, a big screen TV, a large executive desk—and Seizure closing the door of a wall safe with his gloved hands.

Dr. Ultra jabs his bony finger at his helper. "You programmed the chronoscope to look back further than it ever has, to find the very first meeting of our Founders, and you show me this?"

Just following Destinon’s suggestions, sir. On tiptoes, Yuri tilts the monitor. They haven’t seated themselves, so no meeting has started yet.

Crik’s jaw drops. Oh. Harvest time. The image of Crik takes a deep breath. Well, I can see there’s no dirty dishes in here. He turns to go.

Aht-aht-ah. From his breastplate, Seizure pulls out a chrome-plated pistol.

Yuri taps his pursed lips. I can see how my search command might find a burglary as the launch of our era of prosperity, but how does armed robbery inaugurate peace?

It doesn’t, you amoeba! Dr. Ultra throws up his hands. Your search command had bad parameters! Cheap chips. He inhales deeply then mouths counting down from ten.

Waiter, your timing is impeccable. Before you go, your fingerprints will prove useful.

We should try another suggestion, Ultra says.

Yuri slaps the remote against his palm. The tension is so captivating.

I’m shocked, Crik says. You seemed so civilized. Like an ancient Roman.

Their voices sound tinny, as if coming from a speaker.

And he sounds earnest, Yuri adds.

In the monitor, Seizure’s smile reveals rows of large chalk-white teeth. He waves Crik closer.

Ultra shakes his head. Get us back to serious business.

Crik shakes his head. Don’t you want to get gone before the silent alarm brings the law?

Seizure’s smile fades. He glances at the safe, then the door. Good point. I should knock the true burglar unconscious. If caught on camera, that’ll look good on the news. He raises his gun above Crik’s skull.

Yuri aims the remote at the screen, then pulls it back, then aims again.

On the monitor, the bedroom door opens. Mr. Otten, dressed for a safari, bounds in, armed with a double-barrel, pump-action shotgun. About sixty, white hair puffed up, he looks like a patriarch on a daytime soap. He exudes an energy that renders his wrinkles meaningless. His designer shotgun is engraved with Three Musketeers in gold. His lips curl.

Dr. Ultra covers his mouth. Barbarous! That must be loaded with real bullets!

Holding his chrome pistol over Crik, Seizure aims it at Crik’s head. It was only by good fortune that I followed this suspicious character in here.

Yuri waves the remote. May it be our good fortune, too.

Me? Crik yanks Seizure’s breastplate. A stack of bills peeps out from below the armor.

"You crook, you’re supposed to fleece others!" Otten’s voice, too, sounds filtered.

Ultra and Yuri watch enraptured, breath abated. The assistant begs his boss to boost the display from flat images to holograms and tosses him a remote. The senior scientist flinches, pointing out the machine is already taking more power than ever.

Yuri tips his beret. Chalk up another first for us.

Poking the bills back into place, Seizure lowers his handgun.

Otten cocks his shotgun at the much smaller weapon. You want to drop that toy.

Crik inches backwards. You two be perfect gentlemen.

Otten pumps his shotgun at both suspects. On your knees, both of you. He casts the barrel of his shotgun up and down. The law says I can splatter your brains all over my Persian carpet.

No, sir, I believe you’re mistaken. Crik tugs at his collar. That would be a desecration of Islam.

Otten scowls at the rug then aims his gun at Crik. You. Call 911. Tell them to come pick up the bodies.

Dr. Ultra peeks between his fingers then slowly lowers his hands from his face. Stubby Yuri mimics the slender Crik who is extracting his phone from his pocket. Please, Dr. Ultra. It’s like you’re making us watch this in black-and-white.

Wide-eyed, Seizure dives behind a tall burgundy armchair. His chrome pistol whips up above the back of the armchair and pivots like a submarine’s periscope, but unsteadily as if in rough seas. Otten—eyes wild, mouth agape—slinks backward.

Sir, the greater realism of three dimensions would honor our nation’s two hundredth anniversary.

Ultra barely nods. However, no permit for extra power has been granted.

Otten sweeps his shotgun from side to side. Freeze.

Phone in one hand, Crik cocks his other arm with the tray.

"We practically have it, Yuri pleads. It’s in the email. All Geotopia would be so grateful."

The lead scientist shifts his weight, trying to find the comfort zone on his chaise-lounge.

Crik throws the round tray like a Frisbee toward the pistol as he dives for the space beneath the desk.

Roaring in panic, Otten and Seizure aim at the leaping Crik.

Well, Ultra clicks the remote. I guess another Hertz couldn’t—

The image of Crik freezes in mid-leap. Colors fade, leaving shades of grey, flashing back and forth from positive to negative. A sudden brilliance floods the screen. The chronoscope hisses, a sound reverberating into a deep roar, then pops. The lights go out. All is black.

Yuri’s voice completes his boss’ sentence. —hurt.

Some lamps come back on. In the murkiness, the huge, slim monitor is cracked and blackened. The large syringe-shaped device smokes, spilling its mechanical guts.

Covered in ash, Yuri holds his beret over his nose and waves at the grey haze. At least the walls are still standing.

Dr. Ultra, mouth agape, pats his smoldering hair. Go. Just go.

Chapter Two

Foyer & Cellar: From Chaos to Clarity...sort of

Beneath the desk in the master bedroom, vapor rises from Crik’s back. He lies still, arms wrapped around his head, phone clutched in one hand. His heart races, his thoughts scatter. He pokes his bleach-streaked head out above the desk, like a dazed prairie dog from its dusty burrow. Gentlemen?

Sunshine slams in from the window. Crik winces. Daytime? Already? He runs his tongue over his palate. Did I black out? For hours? The room has a musty aroma. Why’d they just leave me here? Crik brushes off his suit. This is a first—waking up alone, in a fabulous mansion, in a man’s bedroom—on the floor.

Crik tries his cell phone to see if anyone can come pick him up. It won’t work. Don’t charge it for one night and it dies. Cheap piece of...

Outside the window of a corridor, the trees and hedges look familiar, but...fuller. A scooter glides by without wheels. Crik whistles. Magnetic levitation? Rich guys and their toys. He’s disappointed with himself for not keeping up with tech breakthroughs. But cheers up. Good thing some people are rich. They can pony up the starter cash.

At the top of the wide staircase, Crik looks both ways. If I’m ever going to do it, now’s my chance. Hands in the air, he slides down the banister.

In the spacious foyer, Crik spots a pink plant. Unpumpkinbelievable—bonsai gone bonkers! The flower is a face. Bloodthirsty lord of the manor, Miser Otten.

"That’s Mister Otten to you."

Busted!

At the entry of the foyer of dark wood panels, a young woman stands, arms folded, one hand aiming a watering can like a fencer’s foil.

Is that can loaded? Crik gulps.

With repellent. Her hair in spikes, she looks about Crik’s age. Shorts and blouse cover an exquisite pelt of a cheetah from head to toe. The triangle ears and long white whiskers accentuate her exotic beauty.

More stunning than anything on a Broadway stage. Crik lowers his arms. But too old for dressing up.

Out! she says. This half of the house is private. Only the museum is public.

Relieved to be getting off easy, Crik ambles doorward. Otten must’ve opened up that part to get a tax write-off. Miser Otten fits.

Researcher Ivanov enters from a side hall. Ultra’s mad at me again, Tepper. Yuri’s in his burned beret and badly buttoned lab coat.

The young woman’s eyes twinkle. And it’s still early. Anything to do with the whoosh that shook the building?

Do they live together? Niece kitty and Uncle Igor? Crik sniffs the air. Burnt plastic? This stubby guy knows a beauty in a cat suit, and smells like that? Crik pulls the front door open.

In the distance, a tall slender structure that reminds Crik of Seattle’s Space Needle dominates the skyline. When did that go up? Crik turns to Yuri. You recognize that building? I thought I knew this town like the sag in my sofa.

Which would be in your own home.

Witty. Like Ellen. Why’d that fizzle when it seemed like it was going to soar?

Tepper turns to Yuri. This one’s another amateur history buff slash intruder.

Straightening his tie, Crik clarifies. Neither. Another caterer slash late riser who missed his paycheck and his ride out of here. He nods at Yuri. You want to split a cab?

"You overslept where?" Tepper’s ears twitch.

If you can call it sleep. I don’t feel the least bit rested.

Jaw fallen, Yuri points at the intruder. "Caterer? Here?" Yuri snaps his fingers.

A vaporous green light emerges from his thumbnail and condenses. It’s a hologram of Dr. Ultra, about half life-size. Just leave, Yuri!

Crik steps back. Bedazzled! This meta-cutting-edge gadgetry had to cost a fortune. He passes a hand through the head above Yuri’s thumb. It ducks. Crik whistles under his breath. This is like a quantum leap! When did it come out? Where can I get one?

Tepper steps closer to Crik. Helloooh. Welcome to the twenty-second century.

Crik tilts his head. Uh, maybe you counted an extra claw on your paw? Easy to do in this ritzy palace: hologram, phenomenal disguise, facial flower, mag-lev scooter.

Yuri, holding the hologram of Ultra, tiptoes around the caterer, inspecting. Crik chuckles. They look at me like I’m some sort of exotic specimen. The super-rich really are out of touch with us regular people.

Suddenly the hologram of Dr. Ultra and Yuri gasp and grab their foreheads. The hologram runs both hands through its ethereal hair. Yuri twists his beret around 360 degrees. He extends a forefinger toward Crik, stops, starts to touch him again, stops. Ultra points at the intruder. Holy hazy! He’s here!

Worse! He’s now! Yuri twirls around as if spun by a phantom dance partner.

Have these lunatics lost it? Crik turns toward the door. And...he’s gone.

A poke in the chest halts Crik, part of him enjoying cheetah girl’s assertive contact.

Tepper’s tail swishes. "Exactly who is here now?"

Holographic Ultra surveys their surroundings, panting. Reality’s still the same.

What will the Directorate say? Yuri yells at Ultra.

The who? These techies seem so earnest. Is there a hidden camera?

A stoop-shouldered butler in a black jacket takes up position by interior doors. He stares discreetly into space. Despite his age, his skin resembles porcelain: pale and unblemished.

He at least seems sane, not part of this, this what, charade?

Andrei, take a rest. Dr. Ultra waves forward like a platoon leader. Yuri, bring the, uh, visitor downstairs now.

Why? What is it? Tepper blinks, looking as confused as Crik.

The hologram of Ultra gulps. It’s, it’s...

A secret, Yuri wails.

He’s changing. Ultra nods. Cosmic radiation. Very bad.

Crik holds out a palm, as if checking for raindrops. Crazies, but they sound so certain.

Sensory deprivation! Ultra barks. This instant!

Tepper swivels her ears. What’s he done?

Did you really just swivel your ears? Crik throws out his hands in bewilderment. Is everyone having a mass hallucination? ‘Deprivation’? He grabs through the hologram then examines his empty hands. Am I losing it? I’m jawing with a freaking wisp of color.

Tepper lays a reassuring