A Time to Mourn A Time to Dance: A SciFi Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novella

By Lisa Shea

Phuong Nguyen grew up a foster child; she knew the true meaning of Hell on Earth. In her teens, she'd desperately sought refuge in the online virtual world. Within those computer-based communities she could be anyone. Do anything. She became known around the world as Ratridevi, co-founder of the Hive Collective. With the Hive's assistance she'd taken down dictators. Brought child pornographers to justice.

She'd at long last found love.

But now her research into consciousness, meditation, and virtual reality had unearthed a stunning breakthrough - she could view any time in history before 1966 and create an exact video recording of what occurred. These revelations could help viewers track down long-lost gold mines, reveal the truth behind religious systems, and destroy corrupt empires.

Now she just has to stay alive long enough to share the news.

* * *

A Time to Mourn A Time to Dance is book one in this series. In general, my novellas are written without explicit intimacy or violence. As such they are suitable for teens and up.

I support battered women's shelters.

I would love your input as I'm writing these - it's your suggestions which will help guide the direction the story moves in! If you prefer to read your stories complete, you are welcome to wait until the sequence is complete and then buy the box set. Either way, you support the cause! I traditionally create a boxed set for my novella series every three books or so.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Shea
• Release date: Jul 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463718568

Lisa Shea

I love writing in a variety of genres. I currently have over 300 books published in all lengths from full 500+ page novels down to short stories. I love writing series. Some are with unconnected characters, like the 14 full-length medieval novels with a sword being passed from heroine to heroine. Some have connected characters, like the 31 mini-mysteries featuring a detective in Salem, Massachusetts. All of my books are written "clean" with no explicit intimacy, no harsh language, and no explicit violence. All are suitable for teens and up.For a full listing of my books please visit:http://www.lisashea.com/lisabase/writing/gettingyourbookpublished/lisalibrary.html

Book preview

A Time To Mourn

A Time To Dance

A SciFi Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novella

Book 1 in the Series

Time Viewing of History Exposes Society’s Truths

Lisa Shea

Copyright © 2019 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Lisa Shea.

Book design by Lisa Shea

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

- v3 -

Paperback ISBN: 9781080035991

Kindle ASIN: B07V4PND1X

Be the change

You wish to see in the world

A Time To Mourn

A Time To Dance

Prologue

"To every thing there is a season,

and a time for every purpose under Heaven."

― Ecclesiastes 3:1

The Hive Collective hackers had done their work with the precision of a neurosurgeon; twelve virtual monitors were laid out in a grid on the wall before me, each displaying an exact mirror of a computer screen somewhere around the world.

One belonged to Lila, a brilliant climatologist working with the U.N. in Denmark. Another was for Roger, an insightful professor of divinity in London. Penjani was researching cutting-edge genetics in South Africa.

My gaze strayed to the twelfth –

I reined myself in.

There. Number seven. That was the one I had to pay attention to. It was the wildcard of the bunch. The carefully calculated risk.

Finally. Mary had at last arrived at her desk, undoubtedly with her double-espresso latte in hand. I could see the mouse-clicks as she reviewed her email.

I flicked a finger, and the audio kicked in. The Hivers were nothing if not thorough.

She blew out her breath in exasperation. What’s this nonsense? A seven day seminar in … where? Manila? Isn’t that in Singapore? And it’s in two weeks?

She yelled, Sarah! Get in here!

The sound of running feet echoed, and a woman’s voice said, You needed something?

Damn right I needed something – why’d you let this ridiculous offer come through? You may have won some shiny awards in those Ivies, but you’re here at my think tank now to learn real-world knowledge. And if you can’t even manage to figure out which email messages are important enough for me to read –

Sarah’s voice was low but calm. Please continue on to that next paragraph.

In two weeks … all paid … at the end of the seven days, if you choose not to participate in our full offer, as a thank-you for your time we will deposit $500,000 in any account …

Her voice dwindled away. Apparently Mary was now re-reading the material more seriously.

I smiled, but my hands clenched.

Please … please … please …

Mary’s voice took on a more unctuous tone. Sarah, you know what? I think it’s time that you show us what you’ve got. I’m going to give you that opportunity. I’m going to send you to this conference. You wanted to see the world, right? Well, I hear Singapore’s beautiful this time of year.

The Philippines.

Huh?

Manila is in the Philippines.

Yeah. Right. In any case, they say it’s all expenses paid. So use the link. Reserve your ticket. Go out there for the seven days.

Her voice grew rich with delight. And then, of course, you’ll refuse whatever follow-up plan they might have. Make sure the $500,000 is immediately deposited into my personal account.

Sarah’s voice held no emotion. Of course, Mary.

It says here not to tell anyone – that this is a private offer. Mary snorted. Of course it is. They don’t want anyone else trying to horn in on a half-million dollars. Her tone grew sharp. We can’t risk losing that. So make sure nobody else knows about this seminar, whatever it is. I’ll just tell people you’re … you’re in a rehab facility. Nobody questions that sort of thing. It’s just for a week, anyway. You got all your shots?

I’m ready for travel, Mary.

Good. Good. Go get your schedule arranged. Make sure you arrange for a temp to cover for you. Keep it all hush-hush.

Footsteps faded away.

Mary chuckled with glee. The screen changed to a search engine. A few more clicks, and she was on an auction site featuring vintage cars. Apparently she was interested in a cherry-red Ferrari Spider.

She groaned in pleasure.

I flicked off the sound.

Relief coursed through me. If that sequence had gone poorly, the focus group could have included Mary herself. I wasn’t sure I could last the full seven days without strangling Mary in her sleep.

Or maybe even while she was awake.

Anastasia had suggested we could just invite Sarah directly, but I’d seen huge risk in that gambit. Sarah could easily have requested permission to attend the seminar from Mary, and if Mary had thought she’d missed out on a plum offer she could have simply not allowed Sarah to go. Or Mary could have used her influence to delve into what the seminar was all about.

And we just couldn’t have that. Not now. Not when everything balanced on the head of a pin.

One by one, as the day progressed, the other emails were opened. The audio feeds and resulting web activity showed that each custom-crafted message had done its job. Some of our invitees responded best to flowery flattery. Others preferred straight talk and clear objectives. We had invested days into optimizing each email to lure in its target as surely as a petunia’s long, delicate throat was a siren song to a hummingbird.

At last I allowed my gaze to go to that twelfth screen.

To Jason.

He was a night owl, of course, like me. There had been countless late evenings where he and I had virtually strolled a lavender-sand beach, or walked along a boardwalk in a sentient forest, or simply sat side by side on a swinging porch bench, gazing out at a double sunset.

But we’d never met in person. Not once. He had no idea what I looked like. He didn’t even know my real name.

His screen shimmered. He’d woken up.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

This was silly. There were far more important things for me to worry about. The stakes for this project were as high as they came. We seemingly had the other eleven invitees on board. One additional participant would not make or break the mission’s success.

And yet, if Jason didn’t … if he didn’t …

He was reading the message.

There was a pause.

Was he … was he hesitating? Was he unsure about coming?

If he didn’t come, if he wasn’t there, I didn’t know, I wasn’t sure …

He clicked the link. The one to start the acceptance process.

I collapsed back into a chair, relief coursing through me. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until the long gasps came, refilling my lungs.

It was going to be all right. It was all going to be all right.

And in two brief weeks, we would at long last begin.

Chapter One

The entry lounge was arranged with exquisite attention to detail. I knew how critical first impressions could be, and, after all, we’d all be cooped up in this submarine for at least seven full days. I had worked hard to craft a welcoming sense of relaxation and ease which would touch each new arrival.

I looked around the room. The elevator came down a central, cylindrical shaft into the very middle of the lounge space. All around were small groupings of sofas and plush chairs in sea foam and ivory. The wooden tables were inlaid teak. The walls were painted ivory with swirling wave patterns.

I had to hand it to the Sheik Maktoum bin Zayed Al Tayer. He had gotten every penny’s worth of the $2.8 billion he had paid for this craft.

It was a shame he never got to see it in its completed state.

Champagne bottles were chilling in silver ice buckets. Crystal flutes were arranged on a padded counter, to keep them from sliding. The ship’s motion was barely noticeable, thanks to state-of-the-art baffling systems, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I glanced in the shiny metal doors of the elevator one last time, looking myself over.

My amber hair fell just past my mid-back in a soft curtain. My crimson dress flowed with each step I took. The entire outfit, from the subdued jewelry to the sensible shoes, spoke to respectability. Trustworthiness.

My gaze went to my face.

I sighed.

Twenty-nine years. You’d think after twenty-nine years that I’d have found peace with my features. They documented the history of my Vietnamese villager grandmother and the US Marine who had encountered her. But my foster mother had told me in no uncertain terms that the reason I wasn’t chosen, the reason family after family looked past me to take a green-eyed blonde American or a chubby-faced Chinese, was my face was wrong.

She’d instructed me to follow every order without complaint. To be a good girl. If I did as I was told, and I prayed really hard at night, I would at last wake up with a pretty face.

One which would earn me a family.

In the reflection, my eyes shadowed.

That day had never come.

I shook off the past and deliberately brought on a quiet smile. Today was not about me. It was about our arriving passengers. Every one of them would be a tumult of curiosity, anticipation, and nervousness.

After all, we’d never told them what the seminar was about, exactly. Just that it was on a topic which could transform our entire society within the next two months.

We hoped each would choose to join us for the long haul. But, if not, they’d receive $500,000 as a consideration