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By Mark Gregory Akins

Physicist George Norwell has always wanted to experiment with time travel. Funded by the government, the supersecret black holes he has created are potentially too dangerous to hand over to any government. So he "borrows" them.

Successfully making a random trip into the past, Norwell cautiously expects to create no disturbance in the timestream. An unavoidable cascade of entanglements puts his faith and humanity on the line.

Joined by friends, risks are undertaken to rescue an innocent woman from certain death. But a high price is to be paid in the form of angry villagers, domestic and international spies, and an unexpected galactic threat.

No good deed shall go unpunished.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885408912

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Mark Gregory Akins

ISBN 979-8-88540-890-5 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88540-891-2 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Mark Gregory Akins

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Part 1

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part 2

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

My hired security had been pleasantly professional, never lax in their protection of my crates. All equipment now ringed the most level area along this section of slope. Our business was concluded only for the moment, there being an ironclad standby clause in our contract, easily the most expensive part of this operation. Peace of mind had a price tag. Happiness? No. Happiness is self-created.

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part 3

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Part 4

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Part 5

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Part 6

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

About the Author

Part 1

Prologue

Where did one hide black holes?

Why, in plain sight, of course, when they were small, three in number, invisible to the naked eye, and supremely supersecret, all of which aided in their transfer of ownership. And yes, theft was wrong, ordinarily, but was stealing wrong to protect lives?

The unsuspecting guards, also three in number, and courteously provided by the Department of Defense, would not know any one of these black holes from a hole in the ground other than the hole in the ground being visible. And that, in itself, was dependent on empty space defined as visible. Holes are said to be seen. The guards knew what the black holes were because I told them.

Such belief that my word was truth was not the guards' fault. They had no way to verify what they could not see. They possessed no bona fides in physics and the magnetic bottles were not labeled. Neither were the guards who wore suits and sidearms and wisely kept their sunglasses pocketed to avoid a complete stereotype. I had to admire professional nuance.

Or not. What I did was smile, thanked them for their cooperation, and expressed my gratitude for going above the call of duty in heeding my exacting instructions in the bottles' loading for transport.

And the other three bottles that looked exactly the same but were the real bottled black holes? Well, those were ostensibly going into storage and, yes, I thanked the three guards for their help in winching them onto separate specialized carts. Courtesy counted for much in this evil old world.

Would they also, please, hold open that one door?

Thank you for your help, I said, shaking hands.

Stealing top secret, government funded, black ops, one-of-a-kind, specially-crafted, over-the-top, experimental black holes had never been easier.

For a guy determined to carry out clandestine experiments in time travel, I really should amend that last statement: It had never been easier to steal hush-hush black holes that I know of.

Right. Everything would get kind of tricky from here.

Part 1

Chapter 1

My name is George Norwell, and I maintain excellent notes. I am a professional particle physicist, not a meek apologist. Everything I do is in pursuit of my God-given talent for discovering hidden truths, allowable by the scientific method.

It is my duty to use my gift. As such, I am perfectly capable of reasoning that those in government, any government, would only see fit to put black holes to some terrible use. I can do better.

Just as with the appropriation of the black holes I created, I conduct all experimentation with utmost care and excellence. To make inroads into humanity's first attempt at no-nonsense time travel, I will call upon such focus to keep myself alive.

I am the most careful man in the world. I take more unnecessary risks than any person before me—a logical assumption.

To bridge the above dichotomy, allow me to say that I am shockingly careful in the risks I take, up to a point.

Please notice I did not use the term unnecessary a second time. It can be said that most risks, by definition, are unnecessary. No one forces me to enter upon life-or-death situations I undertake.

Well, that's not strictly true, for someone clearly does force myself: me.

I am not the tiniest bit suicidal. I am sane, to wit I harbor no ill intentions, inclinations, obsessions, or mental defects that would, say, entice me to murder my own grandfather as a time travel experiment or deep-six Hitler.

Understand that I will be quite happy not to harm a gnat, let alone assassinate a historical figure. That, in case you have not thought it through, would be borrowing trouble.

And as for my grandfather, either of them, why would I, or anyone else, even contemplate such horror? As an experiment, that would be insane. Besides, I like my grandfathers.

Alas, some past theorists and writers had too much time on their hands. I scoff at literature in which one simply pops in as a time traveler to conduct a look-see and to enjoy a jolly good time. Bah. Time travel novels are 99 percent inexcusable.

In short, I am a cutting-edge scientist who believes in the time-honored steps of theory, experiment, and proof or disproof. I fear nothing except God and avoidable mistakes.

Fear and risk are two separate issues.

Chapter 2

Aren't you going to let me in? Trudy huffed, pushing past my ineffectual attempt to use body language suggestive of now not being a good time to visit. She added, "Sheesh!" I received a squint on the bypass.

My girlfriend looked stunning in a red-and-white floral pattern sundress that showed off her toned physique. She had trimmed her black bangs, the balance of her hair falling square cut to the middle of her back. The toes of her right foot keyboarded sequentially like drumming fingers within their supporting chic sandal, the red toenails hypnotic.

Fine eyebrows flattened their arcs. What's the matter with you anyway? Are you avoiding me? Trudy began her interrogation, straight to the point. Normally I liked that about Trudy Chavez.

Avoiding? Yes. But I was not stupid enough to admit the truth. Diplomacy trumped argument.

Of course not, I said, smiling. Just busy.

I had dodged all attempts at contact for a full week. Trudy showing up today was not unexpected.

Busy, Trudy pronounced the word as if its utterance should come with mouthwash. Mikey said you took a sabbatical. Is that right?

Wow. Both sets of toes tattooed a rhythmic ebb and flow like red-crested wavelets. Trudy's large dark-brown eyes were quite pretty and expressively put out with me. Serious boyfriends should be more accessible and, after prolonged dating, more marriageable.

Fair-minded, I told a lot of white lies, part of my time-saving diplomacy, Strictly speaking, I—

Got cut off. Trudy dearest had launched into her rhetorical voice, all personality traits thus far following a predictably normal curve, an observation best kept to myself.

"You can't take a sabbatical, George! You are the head of particle research for AUC! The squint returned. Are you feeling all right?"

Trudy took a step closer to peer for symptoms, an eye-to-eye search for incipient instability known to affect all overachieving geniuses, or so one would be led to believe. Einstein was amused by busybodies. Me, not so much. This was not a character flaw.

Should any individual fully realize the limited number of days inherent in one's life in which to fulfill all set goals, that individual would understand the truth of how very little God-given time there was to squander. Like right now.

I opened my mouth to emit mild reasoned protest.

Trudy was not done. "You cannot quit AUC! AUC needs you!"

Pronounced AWK, AUC stands for (the) American Ultra Collider. This was our nation's once abandoned, years-and-years later reimagined, restarted, reengineered, immense Texas-based construct in answer to Europe's aging CERN.

Ours is bigger. Built cheaper and in record time thanks to robotics, our researchers no longer went begging, smashing atoms right in our own backyard.

I leaned forward to place a peck on Trudy's lips, grinning at the repugnant face she wore for my untamed whiskers and coffee breath. This was a woman who liked for her man to be rough outdoors yet clean at all times when not at one with nature.

Okay, I was not cruel. I relinquished three feet of space, judged the look on her face, and backed off one more step.

Sorry, I said. I've been working. I kept the smile going, spreading wide my inconsiderate whiskers.

Showering and shaving take minutes, Trudy declared, gripping my shoulders to nudge me into a pivot toward my downstairs bathroom.

Bidden, I went forth to do, in time, that which arguing would have robbed. Time management was key in all things.

As I closed the door, I heard, "Mikey said you canceled your playtime. You never do that!"

Playtime. Amusing. One rescheduling is not a big deal, Trudy, I said, stripping off my soiled jeans. Peanut butter stains were off-white smudges overlapping pizza sauce and a smear of chocolate. Those were the identifiable stains.

My girlfriend was right. I needed a bath—downstairs, a shower only—an encounter with a razor, a change of clothes, and another cup of coffee.

Did you really quit?

Safely behind the closed door, I smiled through a quieted sigh. A sabbatical is not a terminal event, sweetcups, I answered. We shared a minor obsession for homemade peanut butter cups, much better than store bought.

I'm going to make you a sandwich and you're going to eat it, Trudy commanded, voice dopplering away.

You might not want to go into the kitchen! I called loudly. Shoot. Hearing my warning would only force the sandals to a higher pace, lively toenails in the lead.

I looked in the mirror and grimaced. Some minutes were better spent than others

Chapter 3

What are they doing? Lyle Pettigrew asked as he peered around his team leader's shoulder. Taller by six inches, this shouldn't be a problem.

Conner Compton cranked his neck ten degrees left. Hard-blue eyes lasered upward to show displeasure at the minimal physical contact. Pettigrew was breathing on him.

His subordinate wisely backed off. In reply to Pettigrew's question, Conner said, It sounds like they're eating. If the interior noises within George Norwell's house were not caused by food consumption, then he didn't want to know. The National Security agent had standards.

Pettigrew grunted. We can get closer. We could make it to the garage's near side in under eight seconds.

Conner Compton lowered the high-tech mini shotgun mic to consider Pettigrew's suggestion.

Way too many windows, Lyle. We stay.

At 6'4" and 230 lbs., Lyle Pettigrew would not be exactly invisible while sprinting across Norwell's backyard in the bright Texas sunshine. Suddenly Compton jerked back behind the cover of Norwell's nearest neighbor's utility shed. The shed's owners had been called away this afternoon on fabricated urgent business.

"What?" Lyle hissed.

Groundcar. Norwell's got another visitor.

Can I listen?

Recruited from the Army Rangers upon completion of a second enlistment, Compton, now thirty-seven, thought about the kid's request. He scratched at his oversized nose and brushed a palm across his retro-blond flattop. Then he scratched his scalp. Something out here was an irritant besides Pettigrew.

No. Quiet.

When my doorbell chimed, I scrutinized Trudy's inability to camouflage her well-meant duplicity from trumpeting itself. Her guilt showed in the false surprise of widened eyes. Only two people in the entire world, using my name, were admitted entrance to this gated community.

You called Lamb.

"Ah, he kind of called me," Trudy sidestepped, defending her honor with the thrust of a half-eaten pepperoni and pepper cheese sandwich, a parry to my unerring pinning of elemental truth.

I ran a comb through my still-damp sandy-brown hair that would lighten as it dried.

"Kind of?" I teased, not upset. All details of this unfolding drama were foreseen. When I was a small child, this returning of a radar's ping would have most adults fleshing out quietly begun monologues.

All envisioned, as was my buzzing update to my pocket screen, an alert that Agents Compton and Pettigrew were back. I hoped they would be more careful of the Johnsons' flowers this time.

I climbed from my kitchen stool as Trudy kind of followed on my heels. I knew precisely what was going on. Try to be too secretive and this was what you netted—a good old-fashioned crisis intervention. To be fair, I really should invite the NSA guys in, exhibit to all concerned that there was nothing to see here.

By the way—Trudy tossed out as we congaed to the front door—why is your basement door locked?

My interior basement door, accessed off the kitchen, was locked to keep Trudy, Lamb, and all NSA-type goofers out of my business.

Chemicals, I answered, face unseen.

Chemicals? Trudy's disbelief was honest.

And stuff, I amended, covering all secrets.

Chapter 4

Lamb.

Norwell.

For me and my best friend, this greeting seriously constituted warm fuzzies. Big Mikey, taller by three inches than my 6'0", stockier and stronger than myself, Lamb was black Irish/English/Texan with green eyes and skin closer to Trudy's shade than mine. The imposing fellow was stretching his poor shirt just by breathing.

I'm shocked, I announced, door open, meaning that I was not shocked the teeniest bit by his uninvited presence.

You shouldn't be, Michael Lamb replied, meaning just that.

Come in! Come in! Trudy cheered, putting a megawatt smile on this gruesome intervention-to-be.

I was somewhat less thrilled than some people; I had work to do. Lamb let himself be physically dragged across the threshold of the mad scientist's lair, giving me one of his patented "Beat that!" smirk-olas.

Mikey and I had met online years ago when I was seeking a new freestyle Frisbee partner whose enthusiasm, skill, and availability matched both my prowess and my odd working hours. Trudy and I had discovered each other rock climbing, no social screening needed.

We're making sandwiches, Trudy the hostess said, her we being she. Want one?

As long as Norwell isn't making it.

Lamb was one of those weirdos who hate mayo. In the midst of this festive sandwich enchantment, I got buzzed. Checking my screen, I found Compton and Pettigrew racing each other to the far end of my carport. They flattened their backs to the wall like cartoon characters.

I've listened in on their conversations over the past week. Compton got talked into a lot of brainless crap. Nice haircut though.

We ought to go sling the disc. It's beautiful out there, Mikey suggested as he straddled a stool at my kitchen island. A long glance was anchored to the trash can stuffed with delivery boxes, thanks to my girlfriend/hostess/maid.

Nope, I did not look toward the kitchen windows. I knew what the forecast was and was not. Lamb's smile slipped. I was being stubborn.

So…what? Are things, like, slow at work? he asked. Decided to take a vacation?

I graduated MIT at seventeen. I have been heading AUC's operational side since I was twenty-three. In all that time, I have never taken what I would call a vacation.

Sure. Why not? I might have answered a little too breezily, rubbing at my chin, pleased to be absent whiskers.

The NSA boys and girls would likely analyze my voice for stress. Let 'em.

Then we should go to the Tetons! Go climbing! Trudy boostered, lacking only pom-poms and a cattle prod.

I had never considered rock climbing as a vacation. It was a sporadic hobby and hard work. I supposed there were those who relaxed while affixed to a vertical rock wall, but I would not recommend the combination.

I'm doing research, guys. If you must declare my sabbatical to be a vacation, then it is of the stay-home variety. Seriously, you two, everything is fine. It's just that after nine years at AUC, I decided to take time off to pursue a few lines of personal interest.

Like what? Trudy said, she being the one most likely to trip me up.

Trudy had more than a nodding acquaintance with physics. The sandwich maker had inherited an asteroid mining firm, Star Stuff, and was worth a bundle. I had stock in her company without any conflict of interest, having purchased my shares before we met.

I flapped a hand, low-key, careful not to overplay any diversion. Theoretical junk. Maybe relevant. Maybe not.

Quantum jigsaws, Lamb concluded, eyes crossing. He was forever labeling anything in my professional field of expertise that he did not understand as quantum jigsaws.

Mike Lamb was a builder, high-end residential, and much in demand. If one was one's own boss, one could very well sling a Frisbee when the mood hit. Having someone to sling it back was more complex.

He's got the basement door locked, my girlfriend the snitch announced.

I could well picture Conner Compton's ears growing longer and pointy with wildly quivering tips. Seriously, if I had my diagrammed WAYBAC machine already built, up and running, I would send Peabody and his boy Sherman back a few seconds to distract Trudy from that