2000

By Robert P. Fitton

Colorado: 1539- Ricardo and Martin stumble upon an abandoned alien mountain outpost called Cibola. The Entities inside allow Ricardo to jump at will into many worlds. Just before the millennium Ricardo rips Peter Sturgis from Jeannie and his children, and inserts him ahead in time, where Jeannie is a Hollywood star, Jean Carlisle, married to Ricardo. Peter pursues Jeannie but faces his ultimate showdown when Ricardo orders Jeannie's death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469192154

Robert P. Fitton

Robert P. Fitton grew up in small town America with an appreciation history. Summers were spent in North Easton, Massachusetts, often competing in baseball and other sports. With television’s increasing infl uence, Fitton reveled in the 1960’s Star Trek and The Twilight Zone programs. On cold winter nights he pointed his telescope skyward and dreamed of traveling to the stars or back through time. He graduated with honors from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, concentrating in American History and political science. After graduation but he added numerous literature courses, including the study of science fi ction, and began writing science fi ction and time travel stories. Fitton resides on Cape Cod and continues writing new and exciting time travel and science fi ction novels.

Book preview

Copyright © 2012, 2015 by Robert P. Fitton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/08/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

595370

CONTENTS

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

Cap Esterel, France

August 6, 1999

It was not the first time he had murdered nor would it be the last. Ricardo slicked back his dark wet hair and started up the white marble villa steps, stirring the crispy leaves in his wake. If he did not act with great alacrity, the National Police would sweep the grounds and discover he had slashed the French woman’s throat and pushed her limp body into the villa pool. Survival, not remorse, dominated his psyche. Remaining in this reality for even a day was risky. He would journey to Cibola, where the Entities would transcend him into another world.

He barked into the cellular as he skidded onto the veranda, Martin! Martin!

If necessary, he would leave Martin behind. The little scrounger, having bolted earlier with some tramp, had taken a joyride in his car and spent his money. After five hundred years, Martin did not appreciate his benevolence. Martin would have died at the mountain pass without his mercy at Cibola so long ago.

The cellular connected to a scratchy transmission. Martin’s voice wavered. Yeah . . .

Martin, where the hell are you?

Coming past the front gate, old friend.

The woman with Martin laughed in the background. Incensed, Ricardo sharpened his focus beyond the rippling palms and long linear gardens to his tiny yellow sports car racing through the front gate.

Move your ass! He pressed the phone to his ear as the car spun up the hill.

What’s the problem? asked Martin.

We’re going to Cibola.

You’re kidding?

This is no joke!

They needed to board the corporate jet well in advance of the police snooping around the villa. And then in eighteen hours they could be at Cibola. Martin revved the engine and then skidded to a stop in the gravel. As Ricardo descended the veranda steps, his thin little gray-haired friend leaped over the driver’s door. Ricardo rounded the hood, yanked the blonde from the car, and hurled her across the driveway stones.

Get back in the car, Martin!

Martin’s shaky nerves always made his hands tremble. He slid into the passenger seat as Ricardo gripped the wooden steering wheel and shifted and spun around in a wide semicircle. Stones kicked up behind them as a trail of swirling dust billowed upward. Martin stared at the naked body, face down in the pool, as they passed.

That woman is dead!

Shut up! We’re going to the Marseille airport. It’s a hundred and sixty kilometers. We have to haul ass.

Are you crazy, killing her? The longer this goes on, the more chances you take!

She pushed me, said Ricardo, his knuckles whiter on the wheel. The blue ocean spread outward along the coast. Claudette should never have tried blackmail.

But to kill her?

Ricardo slowly smiled and squinted in the sun. No one challenges me, Martin . . . no one.

*     *     *

The hum of the jet engines assured Ricardo they had escaped trouble. He confidently gazed out the portal as the jet banked over the island. The white sands and slow moving breakers were bathed in twilight along the coast. He gripped his pen as he perused his papers on the table and then verified his calculations on his laptop. In his new world, he would become a powerful force in the defense establishment. Power resided with armaments.

Two hundred years ago, during the American Revolution, he had amassed a fortune supplying arms early to the colonists. The thought of that duplicitous Franklin, the chief of the rebels, and his lying spies upset him even now. The British had nearly arrested him just after Christmas because Franklin’s contacts had divulged his dealing with de Beaumarchais and his smugglers. He had fled with Martin from Le Havre, on L’Amphitrite, at the end of January 1777. The voyage had made him rich, and he remembered the cargo well: 54-pound cannons, fourteen thousand muskets, a hundred thousand flints, and assorted munitions. After docking in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in late April, he and Martin had stayed in the shadows. The image of the powerfully built Washington on his white horse outside Morristown had remained with him.

He smiled subtly as the jet paralleled the coast. As the millennium approached, today’s technologies and expenditures bore no semblance to the cannon and musket of those days, but his lust for power and fortune had become ingrained in his soul.

Again, Ricardo studied his notes on the laptop. By constructing a reality geared toward prodigious defense expenditures, he would possess a private empire, selling to the government as he accumulated great wealth and power. He wanted work instead of subsisting within the playboy atmosphere of the last fourteen months.

Martin slept with his arms folded across his blue Polo shirt. His unshaven face and disheveled gray hair gave him a crude appearance. He had whined about leaving this scenario, but staying behind would have only hastened his demise.

A number of companies fit his profile. In sixteen hours, they would land in Denver and be whisked off by a helicopter over the craggy snow peaks to Cibola. The consciousness of the Entities, residing within a galactic civilization’s remnant outpost, would elevate his desire for a powerful defense corporation into a new reality.

1

Westerly, New York

August 6, 1999

The sun warmed Peter’s face as he scampered up the shaky platform steps, and he shielded his eyes as he panned the colorful, cheering crowd of friends and citizens of Westerly, New York. He raised his arm upward when the school band produced a strained rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever. Jeannie and the kids jumped up and down, applauding from the first row as he approached Susan. She smiled and pointed to a huge red, white, and blue banner draped over the Westerly Middle School’s brick wall.

Westerly Days

Peter Sturgis

Citizen of the Year

Westerly, New York

Congratulations, Peter. She shook his hand and spoke over the crowd’s noise resonating off the wall. You aren’t thinking of running against me for mayor, are you?

I’m one of your biggest supporters, Susan.

Good. I think you’d trounce me if they held a vote today.

She tapped the silver microphone a few times and raised her arms up in the air to quell the crowd. Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for that warm applause for this man beside me. You know him as the coach of Westerly Ford’s Little League team, assistant scoutmaster of Troop thirty-five, assistant coach of the Roosters in soccer, and church league basketball coach for St. Pius. What you don’t know is how much money he has raised for charity. Susan turned toward Peter. How am I doing?

Don’t stop, he said, laughing with the crowd.

He has worked at Riccom Corporation for the past thirteen years, first as an accountant and now in the controller’s department. He is a great father to his four children and has been married fifteen years to his wife Jeannie . . . I am describing, Ladies and gentlemen, Westerly’s Citizen of the Year, Peter Sturgis!

Mildly embarrassed, Peter inched up to the microphone stand and stared at the long white Riccom plant wedged below the linear purple mountain range and puffy little clouds hovering over the ridges. His friends and family continued the applause. But what he had found on Riccom computers last night squelched the jubilation. Melvin had aided him in the computer audit after they had spotted the irregularities on a report two weeks ago. He snapped back to the ceremony as the crowd noise simmered to a breezy silence.

I want to thank my manager. He pointed to Jeannie’s furrowed mass of brown hair, and she flashed her reassuring smile. He waved her and the kids up on the platform. Jeannie led them up the stairs, and then she kissed Peter and put her arms around him.

She leaned toward the mike. Don’t give Peter Sturgis the mike.

Peter opened his mouth. Are you saying I’m long-winded?

Yes! called big Fred Watson from the Chamber of Commerce. He stood with his petite wife, and his jowls shook from his cheekbones to his shirt collar when he laughed.

Well, that reminds me of a story, said Peter. A little boy grows up amidst the beautiful Ganienkeh Mountains. He is brought through the Westerly Public Schools and goes away to college. And there, on the first days of classes, he meets this . . . this . . . woman who refuses to go out with him.

I had a boyfriend, said Jeannie, cupping her hand to her mouth.

Peter lip smiled as he paused. Had a boyfriend.

Near the school’s chain-link fence, the smoke from Melvin’s cigarette billowed upward as he faced the mountains.

To continue, he meets his sweetheart, returns home, and raises a family. Finds a career with a great company. And I thank Riccom, the company that has allowed me to do well here in Westerly. Now, I promised Susan I wouldn’t go on.

As he took one step back from the microphone, Susan held up a huge gold trophy. Peter Sturgis, as Mayor of Westerly, as a part of Westerly Days, I am proud to name you Citizen of the Year.

She placed the trophy in Peter’s hands. Again, he faced the applauding crowd. I thank you all. I thank my family, and I thank my wonderful wife.

Jeannie and the kids ran over to him. He hugged her as she whispered through the new round of cheering. I love you, Peter.

I love you too.

Peter, Jeannie, and the kids then left the platform and merged into the crowd. Don Williams, from the Little League and a Westerly cop, patted him on the shoulder. Atta boy, Peter.

Thanks, Donnie.

Jonathan, his white baseball uniform dirt-smeared, shook his hand and spoke in a serious tone. Nice going, Dad.

You’re the one who won the game with that double, he said, embracing his son.

Tears welled in Wendy’s brown eyes. I’m just so proud of you, Dad.

She hugged him, and Peter’s throat tightened. Coming from a teenager, I consider that an act of courage.

Not bad, Daddy, said little Petey.

Peter ruffled his thick mop of brown hair.

Jeannie quickly wiped a tear off her cheek and then raised her brow. What?

You and I have a date. Ricardo is coming to town, and Riccom is having a big company bash.

How romantic—but I’ll take it.

Then I’ll take that as a yes.

She had an amazing smile. Sign me up.

His arm around Jeannie, Peter and the kids were met by the gray-haired chain-smoking Melvin. His friend fidgeted with his dark-rimmed glasses and spoke in a low, grumbling voice. Congrats, Peter.

A lull in the action, Melvin?

Can I talk to you for a minute?

Sure. He raised his brows to Jeannie and shrugged his shoulders. I’ll be right back.

Jeannie nodded, and Peter trailed Melvin under the bleachers. Melvin, it’s Saturday, you don’t have to wear your white shirt and tie.

Melvin turned quickly. Peter, we have to meet with Berringer from the IRS tomorrow. Ricardo is in serious trouble.

Hey, Peter! The high school baseball coach waved as he jogged by the bleachers. Good job, buddy!

Thanks, Tommy. Peter turned and held Melvin’s shoulder. Look, Melvin. I just want to work my job here in Westerly. I know what Ricardo has done is bad, but—

It may involve people in Washington. Meet me over the lodge tomorrow afternoon. Two-thirty.

Melvin, I’ve got a wife and four kids and a sometimes-not-too-bright dog. I don’t want to rock the boat by going after Ricardo. And you, you’re ready to retire and open up a chain of cleaners, right?

Ah, I don’t have the money for that. Listen, Peter, I don’t think you understand. This is the IRS. I would make it a point to be there.

Okay, Mel. I’ll be there but only because I have to.

Good. I’ll leave a message for Berringer. Thanks.

Melvin briefly tapped his shoulder and turned. He quickly removed his lighter and lit a cigarette as he shuffled along the fence. His body hunched, he crossed the school parking lot and got inside his white Subaru compact. Peter creased his brow. He never thought the IRS would snoop into this. With the IRS involved, where would his innocent audit lead?

2

Peter backed his blue Highlander into a space under the leafy trees in front of the lodge hall’s cinder blocks. He got a strong whiff of fried hamburgers and fries as he entered the dimly lit hall through the battered aluminum door up front. The Yankees game blasted from the elevated portable TV in the corner. A few guys sat along the Formica tables and more sat at the bar, but Melvin had not arrived. All of his friends stood and pretended to bow.

Any special requests, Peter? asked Ritchie from behind the bar. He had straight brown sideburns, a perpetual beard shadow, and beady brown eyes. After all, you are Citizen of the Year.

Eddie Fitzpatrick raised his frothy beer mug. It’s Citizen Sturgis!

Be sure and post that in the window at the gas station, said Peter. Listen, has anybody seen Melvin?

Follow the cigarette trail, said Brian O’Connell, still dressed in his sport coat for work at the bank.

I’ve told Melvin to cut down, but he just keeps smoking, said Peter as he sidestepped to the bar. Thick comb marks furrowed through Ritchie’s greasy black hair. Melvin call, Ritchie? He was supposed to meet me here at two-thirty.

Ritchie wiped the glossy wood bar with a white linen rag. Old Melvin usually spends Sunday with his wife’s sister. I like Melvin. Good guy. It’s his wife that’s the lunatic.

Mildred can get a little—emotional at times.

I don’t know how many times Melvin has been in here after taking a verbal pounding.

That is true.

The aluminum door slammed, and the silver-haired Melvin, belly bulging into his white shirt, scanned the lodge and then strutted toward the bar.

Ritchie put his hands on his hips. Speak of the devil. If it isn’t Melvin Pervis.

Pervis worked for the FBI, said Melvin. He adjusted his dark-rimmed glasses and kept a stern face.

Peter smiled but sensed fear in Melvin’s shaky voice, and the evident fatigue resided in the pronounced bags under his eyes. Melvin positioned himself on the next stool, said nothing, and lit a cigarette. He shook the match before pitching it in the bulky glass ashtray.

Where’s the lighter, Melvin? asked Peter.

Ran out.

Ritchie pulled the tap, filled two chilled mugs, and set