The Fractime Saga

By Steve Hertig

Imagine within Fractime (the multiverse) a universe seeded with science fiction plots and characters from an adjacent universe to motivate and give hope as the Universal War approaches. Fractime’s story tells of key times surrounding this war, a conflict pitting humanity against machine as well as itself throughout time.

Part -1: Timestone
With the Family in crisis and war looming, Mick goes to Hell. Sam must find out who is responsible and enlists old friends from O'Shanley's bar to help find the Timestone, a key through the Tree of Life and into the realm of evil. However, a devilish poker tournament challenges Sam to obtain the ancient stone orb when his wife and daughter also mysteriously disappear; all with the Universal War looming ever closer.

Part 1: Symmetry-
The US National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency's (NGA) Agent Scott enlists John Mackinac’s help in unravelling the truth behind a time-inconsistent artifact (TIA) discovered on the Caribbean island of Martinique during a geology field trip in 2052. Based at the Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station, a top-secret NGA research group has developed technology that makes travel to adjacent, not so parallel, universes possible. Scott and John trek across the multiverse to discover if the TIA proves terrorists also have this technology.

Part 2: Sojourn-
When John Mackinac stumbles upon a means to stop enemy entering his universe involving the reversal of the Earth’s magnetic poles, an ancient and secretive society, the Family, comes to the NGA’s aid in this seemingly impossible feat. The Family, citing an archaic legend, enlists John to their cause claiming he is the key to ending a wider conflict in the multiverse, the Universal War.

Part 3: Prophesy-
With allies in adjacent universes facing certain defeat, John Mackinac and Scott uncovers an ancient machine ship, hidden between universes that is intent on destroying all organic life but has recruited humanity to win its Universal War. John and Scott must somehow destroy the ship to save the rest of humanity before the machines can escape.

Part 4: Legend-
John Mackinac learns that the creation of a space-time rip during their attack on the ancient machine ship threatens the multiverse with increasing instabilities, dangerous paradox loops and disastrous changes to the Family’s past and future. Scott and John must travel over a billion years into the past to the center of the Milky Way, and a ship built by the first enemy of the machines to discover the truth behind the legend, stop the impending rip and restore the Family’s timeline.

Part 5: Shadows-
John Mackinac and Scott learn the machine's first officer has escaped and now commands forces threatening humanity from its own past. With the help of a forsaken part of the Family, John and Scott journey back over 65 million years to the Cretaceous Period in a daring attempt to stop an alternative evolutionary path for Earth’s humanity.

Part 6: Equilibrium-
When John Mackinac discovers a single surviving derelict machine ship near the center of the galaxy, the ship's AI gambles on a bold plan for another chance to conquer the multiverse. It begins with destabilizing the Higgs field and pushes all humanity to the brink of annihilation unless John Mackinac along with the crew of the Family's new timeship can find it.

Part 7 Eternity
After the teenage Mackinac twins meet a stranger from the Mór Continuity, they discover the real cause of the Universal War and learn they must confront an old enemy to stop the continuing destruction of all Fractime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Hertig
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215866399

Steve Hertig

Steve Hertig is a geologist with over thirty years experience observing and studying the Earth. With degrees in geology and physics and author of numerous technical publications, he is now incorporating his love of the Earth and the universe into science fiction.All Fractime ebooks are free! Please pay it forward and give a STAR review!

Book preview

Part 1: Symmetry

All matter is simply undulations in the fabric of space.

- William Clifford 1870

Chapter 1

8 May 1902

Horloge, ignoring the chilling yowls of a troop of Howler monkeys above him on the steep mountainside, continued to adjust his apparatus.

What is it now? he asked turning from the equipment when a boy he had hired for a few francs as a guide tapped his shoulder. He turned to see a stranger with a pistol trained on him.

What you want man with that gun? the boy demanded bravely.

Recognizing the weapon, Horloge pulled the boy close.

The man just glared at them both, oblivious to the churning volcano in the distance.

The boy looked fearfully up at his employer. Mr. Horloge?

It's all right, Horloge said calmly, grasping the boy's shoulder.

Move and hands in the air, the man finally spoke while waving the weapon to direct them away from their gear.

Do you know what day this is? Horloge asked coolly as he pulled out a tarnished pocket watch from his vest and then thumbed it open. Winking away sweat, he took a casual glance at the digital display. The day was, in fact, May 8th, and it was surprising that the man did not react more to his question.

Damn, Horloge said between clinched teeth, knowing he had taken a big risk staying so long, but the ongoing recording of the eruption was crucial.

The day? The day is your last, asshole, the man said.

It's 1902, Horloge said emphatically, knowing eruption of Mount Pelee on the northern end of the Caribbean island of Martinique was imminent. The eruption killed over thirty-thousand people in fewer than five minutes, boiling the town of Saint-Pierre in a thousand-degree Celsius bath of gas, ash and debris– what geologists call a nuée ardente. Horloge also knew official records noted only two survivors; they were not the boy or him.

Move, the man commanded while taking aim at Horloge and then stopping to stare at the equipment.

A large drop of sweat somehow clung to the end of the boy's nose as a strong tremor rocked the peak and the mountainside. The stranger fell to the ground as great Poui tree in full yellow bloom tumbled amid rocks, dust and red earth in a terrifying roar down slope.

Struggling to stand on the remaining, crumbling ledge the man choked violently as a wave of volcanic gases enveloped them all but the boy and Horloge instinctively held their breath.

Horloge blindly pulled the boy back yet again before a massive lurch of the earth, coinciding with a low-frequency rumble, threw them all to the ground. Struggling to his knees, Horloge screamed to the boy above the growing roar, Get to the instruments!

Horloge glimpsed through blistering ash the man struggling to raise his weapon when a massive flash and pressure wave consumed all his senses. Partially sheltered by the eroding cliff, he heard a torrent of bullet-like, mini-fireballs whiz overhead. Stumbling in the growing darkness, he shoved the petrified boy towards the equipment as the man tried in vain to re-aim his weapon. Lightning illuminated small, bloodless holes enveloping the man's body as the weapon spat a flash of its own, exploding the trail in front of Horloge that hurled him back towards his equipment.

The boy was gone. Above him, Horloge saw the stranger suspended by a violent updraft of volcanic gases and swirling ash. A continuous barrage of pryroclastic debris ripped and pulled the body to pieces then finally away into a dark sky.

12 Feb 2052

The GS has got to be joking, Professor John Mackinac said, resolutely studying the current semester's calendar tacked onto the wall behind his desk.

The United States Geologic Survey never jokes, Carl Watkins, the professor's post-doctorate, quipped.

I can't believe we're still waiting on their required sample locations, John said.

They change their mind and fully fund the original proposal even with some helicopter support thrown in, all with the stipulation of new sampling, but no locations for over a month, Carl said. Doesn't make much sense.

John sighed, sympathizing with his post-doc over the current budget constraints on the GS, which meant headaches for both. More delays and we won't even get a break from the weather, he lamented knowing the Caribbean island of Martinique was an enjoyable alternative to Ann Arbor in winter. Even though it did not snow much in Michigan anymore, he still hated the usual relentless February rain.

John's workstation announced an incoming message.

And here's the punch line, he said shaking his head in disbelief at the coincidence. It looks like we've got all the sample locations' coordinates as well as a new GS team leader on the project, a Victoria Johnston, and she is seeking a vid-con before leaving for Martinique.

Shrugging his shoulders, Carl said, I guess given the increase in funding that's not too surprising.

Nothing would surprise me when it comes to governmental funding, John said with disgust.

He had a department review coming up, and this project made him nervous; he could not put his finger on it, but it just didn't feel right. Any setbacks now could be precisely the excuse the dean needed to delay his tenure again and that would cost him research funding.

At least we've got a field program that's finally moving forward, Carl said.

I guess we should get the viz space booked for the GS. I'll tell Sophie in the office to sort it out, John said.

Will we using the Joseph and Louisa's villa as base camp again? Carl asked hopefully.

John knew he was thinking about Louisa Andrews' home cooking. Don't worry, John said, I'll let Joseph know to expect us, but don't get too excited yet as we still have to talk to our new friend in Reston first.

On the way to the department's visualization room, John glanced at the various antique geologic maps and cross sections they passed in the hallway. He adored these relics of earth science not only for their historical value, but to him, they were an art form.

They joined a virtual team of earth scientists from Lansing waiting for them in viz space. It was fifteen minutes past the planned start time, when an unusually tall woman connected from Reston.

Dr. Mackinik, it's good to meet you. Victoria Johnston, she said. I'm the new Chief Research Scientist with the GS for this project,

Carl couldn't help but lean back from her large image.

Please call me John, and it's 'Mack-in-awe'. John hated to correct people on his last name, but he had too many 'nik-nac-mac-attacks' as a kid to let it go unchallenged. And, this is Dr. Carl Watkins. If we can just set up the media interface, we've got a presentation, and it'll cover most—

Excuse me professor, Victoria interrupted. I just wanted to meet you in person, so to speak, and go over our required sample locations. I am familiar with this project; the original proposal was very complete, and your progress updates have been comprehensive. However, the previous samples although interesting, are less than conclusive. These new samples could be critical to the project's success.

I've got the sample location base map here, let's roll it out, Carl said, always ready for any contingency. He pulled a rolled-up map out of its protective tube and caught John's gaze with an anxious look.

John insisted on often using paper maps; he was infamous in the geology department for the indulgence. While Carl unrolled the map and got it situated on a table in the center of their viz space, John said, Thanks for funding the full amount of the proposal allowing more sampling this year. I know initially that was impossible.

Let's just say your project is timely, Victoria said with a subtle smirk. Although we will have to cut the helicopter support, budget issues again, she added flatly. Also, we'll be overseeing the laboratory analyses of any new samples, so just send them to my attention at the Reston office.

The change in geochemistry labs shocked John; it was not a good procedure if you wanted consistent analyses, but he had a bigger concern.

Pointing to a small area on the map, he said, I'm not sure I understand the reasoning behind these locations to the southeast near Mount Piquet.

There was only one cluster of small yellow triangles marking the new sample locations on the map. They're more than ten kilometers away from the Pelee caldera, he said.

We are finding that during the early moments of a violent eruption, such as the Pelee nuée ardente, the chemical composition of the gas cloud can change rapidly. This is because of dramatic increases in entrained debris, water and atmosphere, Victoria explained dully. All leading to possible reactions altering the chemical signatures of the ejecta and perhaps the surrounding strata it touched.

John knew all this. Why only in this area? he asked. He could tell his colleagues from Lansing were also uncomfortable about the new locations, and his uneasy feelings about this project had just resurfaced.

Our previous field programs' results suggest the nuée ardente traveled mostly west, away from Piquet. Carl added.

Victoria flipped through the stack of files she had brought with her and then showed a paper page to John. We dug up some rather cryptic notes from a botanist describing unusual mineralization in that area and thought it was worth having a look, she said. The locations themselves came from our sat-image group. They did their best to pick accessible ones.

John looked at the page. It was from a small notebook, obviously old and worn. It contained a short comment in French about white crystals and an exceptionally well-drawn sketch of both mountains, Pelee and Piquet. John assumed a mark on the northern flank of Piquet showed the location of the usual mineralization. Written on the top of the page was Martinique 1932.

It could be just quartz or even calcite, John said looking at Victoria. You think Pelee could've altered rocks this far away?

That's the nature of the proposal isn't it? she said tersely while avoiding eye contact.

Okay, sounds like a plan. John conceded the point, rolled up the map and then handed it to Carl. They were supposed to go all the way to Martinique and back again because of a cryptic note from a botanist. Maybe the USGS had a sense of humor after all.

Purposefully looking at his colleagues from Lansing, Carl asked, How tied to the exact coordinates are you?

They are starting points only, the projects geochemist, Dr. Larry Sullivan said. The terrain will dictate how close and how thorough you can be. Just look for anything out of the ordinary, changes in mineralization or texture; subtle thermal alteration can be tricky to spot. Hopefully, the geochem lab work will provide the definitive results.

That should wrap things up, Victoria said quickly. Anymore questions?

There was none. The meeting was obviously over.

Did you think the meeting was a bit bizarre? Carl whispered to John after Johnston had terminated the Reston connection.

John nodded and said, Let's hope these new locations produce some useful data. He sighed and tried not to think about what the consequences of more worthless samples could mean to his ongoing research.

John and Carl's flight to Martinique at thirty-five thousand feet over the Florida Keys and down the arc of the Lesser Antilles was spectacular. The infinite shades of blue in the shallow waters contrasted the brownish-green keys with threads of encircling white sands.

Staring out the cabin window, John pictured the colossal Atlantic tectonic plate falling down past the top of the earth's mantle while grinding away at the underside of the Caribbean plate. The collision was uplifting the islands and melting the crust deep beneath. All forming the volcanic chain they were here to study. He took a sip of his beer, happy to be going into the field again.

They landed unusually on time mid-morning, and it was a quick trip from Lamentin airport to their base camp at Louisa and Joseph's bungalow in the hills high over Martinique's western coast. From there it was only a short hike to reach the trail leading up Mount Piquet. The closest small yellow triangle on the map was almost eight hundred meters above. It would take the rest of the morning to reach it.

After several hours hiking, Carl announced. GPS indicates we're close to the first location.

Carl was extremely capable with most of the department electronics and gadgets, so John had made him responsible for their orienteering.

Taking his cap off, John wiped the sweat of his face with his sleeve. Let's take a break and catch our breath, he said then passed a water bottle to Carl as he took a seat amidst the tropical flora. After a quick scan for snakes, he re-hooked the lace on his right Fabiano and wondered how many more field seasons the comfortable, old boots would see and sighed, knowing their time was running out.

We've been walking this ridgeline for an hour, Carl said trying to blink sweat out of his eyes, and it's impossible to see anything through all this vegetation.

Just a bit farther, John said hopefully.

After pushing through particularly dense undergrowth, they both burst out into sunshine and gasped. The trail ended abruptly at a large gully almost fifty meters wide.

Carl strained to make out the trail across the gap. It's hard to tell if this trail continues on the other side.

What's the GPS telling us? John asked as a single bead of sweat dripped from his nose.

There is still another hundred and fifty meters to go.

Another damn landslide, John said stating the obvious while looking down at the rubble below. He could see the gully also extended upwards another fifty meters or so to where the slope became vertical.

Great, we can't go up and around that vertical face without climbing gear, John said. We'll have to try to go down here, around and backup, but be careful, there's no sense in wrenching an ankle or worse.

Where's a 'copter when you need one Doc? Carl said with a wink and scrambled down the steep, boulder-strewn slope, leaving John to follow while shaking his head at his post-doc's rashness as well as another terrible pun.

Descending the difficult slope took time but they finally reached a break on the grade where most of the debris from the landslide had come to rest.

What a mess, Carl said as he took in all the large boulders cropping out between trees and ferns.

Carl clamored to the far side of the boulders. There're some recent slumps exposing fresh outcrops over here, he called out while waving his rock hammer overhead to catch John's eye.

Let's have some lunch before we start, John said as he joined Carl and pulled two boxed lunches that Louisa Andrews had prepared for them that morning out of his pack. He sat down on the nearest boulder and handed Carl a spare water bottle.

They ate in silence as John sensed his post doc's apprehension at yet more landslide debris. He wondered if Carl knew the landslides had destroyed any hope of reaching the rest of Johnston's locations as he noticed his young colleague shaking his head.

What? John asked.

I don't know how you do it, Carl replied. You're hardly sweating or winded and you don't even work out.

Probably just good genes, John mused. We might as well collect some samples around here, he added trying to sound optimistic.

Where do we start? Carl said looking at hundreds of choices represented by the boulders.

Let's take a good look around for anything remotely resembling Johnston's unusual mineralization. After that, we'll just have to be random. You got any other ideas? John asked.

Carl shook his head. Sounds like a plan. Do we bias the samples simply by color? Carl said cleaning the glass of his hand lens that hung round his neck on a worn, dingy orange cord.

Hopefully, there'll be textural differences, John said lacking confidence in finding anything interesting.

They both set about working their way through the heavily vegetated landslide debris, pounding on the hard rubble with their hammers to chip off flakes for inspection and comparison. It was all part of a decision, whether to bag a sample or not.

It was hot work and after two hours, they were running low on water. A sweep of most of the area resulted in twelve samples marginally suitable for bagging and assignment of an official sample number in John's pad. None had anything remotely resembling the botanist's mineralization. John felt a twinge of guilt at the extra baggage cost the university was going to have to pay for these poor samples.

Hey Doc! Carl shouted. Here's something weird.

Squeezing through two large boulders, John could see that Carl had removed soil and loose rocks from around a conglomeratic rock exposed in a fresh slide scar. The conglomerate, about 20 centimeters in diameter, consisted of a mixture of various other rocks all held together by reddish, gray matrix.

It's a pyroclastic flow deposit, John said stating the obvious. Look at the other smaller components; they are similar to what we've been pounding on for the last couple hours. But what's that? John asked, kneeling down as he saw what had caught Carl's attention. Maybe it's a root cast? John knew that sometimes minerals would replace a plant's root during fossilization.

It's too regular, Carl argued on his hands and knees while peering through his hand lens at a white tube.

There are only a few of millimeters exposed, John said as he took a turn to look closely at the tube with his hand lens, a Ruper 10x. But it should be good enough for X-ray diffraction. Grab it and let's finish up, he added.

Think this will qualify as unusual to Dr. Johnston? Carl asked a tad sarcastically.

It looks man made, John replied. Ceramic maybe. But it tops the short list of good samples we have so far.

What list? Carl asked, with a confused look.

Exactly, John said with raised eyebrows. However, he was unconvinced even this curious sample would help the Geologic Survey's project.

After taking a few photos, Carl set about removing the conglomerate containing the tube from the soil. He used a permanent marker to write the last sequential number, 13-C, on one end and put the rock in his pack.

John couldn't believe their field program had lasted only one day.

It was two weeks later, back at the university, when John received a vid call from Johnston. He knew it was too early to be expecting geochemical results from the GS's lab on their samples.

John, Victoria said casually, The global volcanic risk assessment project is on hold indefinitely; the budget has been slashed.

That's unfortunate, John said with a curse to himself. But we'll be ready to send you the final field report next week. I'm afraid there were no signs of the botanist's mineralization. And unless you call an odd piece of man-made ceramic interesting, I guess that's it.

Carl carefully extracted the slightly conical, white tube of 13-C from the conglomerate and had sent it for X-ray diffraction analyses a week ago. It turned out to be composed of mainly silica, with lesser amounts of aluminum and carbon. Out of curiosity, the lab had run an electron microscope sweep of the specimen. It showed a subtle honeycomb pattern on the tube's outside. Carl had not included the unusual specimen in the samples sent to Reston for analyses.

You never know what you'll discover in the field, she said seemingly lost in thought. At least we'll get some in-house analyses to compare to the world-wide database.

Let's hope your geochemist can extract something useful from the other samples.

Victoria didn't answer.

Let us know if we can help further…ah, when ever, John said feeling awkward in the conversation.

I will Dr. Mackinik, she said and then closed the connection.

John sat back in his chair looking out his window at the scenic campus. Considering the less than stellar results from the Martinique project, he wondered where he would find other thesis topics for his new graduate students.

Below John's office in the basement, Carl had already finished the Martinique report for the USGS. Now absorbed into net research, he searched for anything to do with ceramics and guns with tapering barrels. He had no success, but he was getting many comments on several forums where he had posted a few images and information on its discovery and simple chemistry. Various forum posters called the tube a gun barrel from the future, a time-inconsistent artifact or TIA. And like the Angkor Wat stegosaurus, the theorists asserted it was proof of time travel.

Chapter 2

2 Mar 2052

John sat in the front porch of his 1940's bungalow that offered a great view of the campus. Previous faculty tenants had enclosed the porch against what were once harsh winters, but John had the windows fully open to enjoy a warm March breeze.

Reading the latest Geological Society of America journal, he spotted an EV slowly drive by and stop; it then reversed and parked in front of his home. He watched as woman and man got out of the car; both wore similar navy blue jackets and looked almost young enough to be students.

Hi there! John called, getting up to stand in the porch's doorway. Can I help you? he said as they walked past the mailbox on which his wife had hand-painted a multitude of starbursts. He wondered if they were campus security.

Dr. Mackinak? the woman asked. Her dark auburn bob bounced as she trotted up the concrete steps to the porch.

Actually it's Mack-in-awe, John replied with a sigh as they approached him.

My apologies, she said. This is Agent Donald Wultz from the FBI, and I'm Agent Jenny Scott from Homeland Security. May we talk to you?

They both showed John their government identification.

John's stomach tightened. Could this be about Carl and the damn internet theories? A week ago, he had a long conversation with the dean and department chair about the whole affair; it was not pleasant. John knew his near obsession with research and not department politics irked the dean to no end even though his introduction to geology was one of the most popular of the entry-level science courses. He was beginning to think his complexion or too broad nose might be factors in his tenuous relationship with the dean. He shook his head trying to rid himself of the possibility.

Inviting the agents in, he asked, Coffee or tea?

Nothing thanks, replied Jenny.

Wultz added, I'll pass.

Dr. Mackinac, Jenny said, as you probably are already aware, there are significant stories on the net about time travel that leads back to your department.

John shook his head again at the continuing TIA nightmare.

There have been concerns raised, Wultz explained looking quizzically at John, at certain levels in our government about potentially harmful political ramifications this TIA may represent. As you know, trust is critical to our relationships outside the US and stories like this just feed terrorist propaganda.

Are you saying this TIA stuff is a matter of national security? John asked in disbelief.

We just have to check things like this out these days, Jenny added.

So, what can I do for you? John asked.

If you can tell us the history of the TIA, that would be a start, she said, taking out a pad from inside her jacket.

It won't take long. We can talk in the kitchen, he said ushering them through the bungalow.

John saw Jenny observe the few family photos on his fireplace's mantle in the living room. My foster parents, he said with a nod to an elderly couple in a canoe. And my wife Helen and daughter Steph, he added, touching gently another frame. They died in an EV crash almost five years ago, he said smiling at the iconic uniforms they both wore in a self-pad pic at the annual convention they never missed. Drunk driver, he added automatically.

They look like big fans? Jenny said obviously recognizing the uniforms and adding a fairly good impression of a heart-felt smile.

You could not even guess, John said flatly and moved a dusty guitar from the kitchen table, laying it gently on a nearby counter. Can't even get it in tune, he said embarrassed at his ineptitude with anything musical. He refilled his coffee mug and pointed the pot to the agents who had taken seats at his kitchen table Sure you don't want a cup?

Positive, Jenny said for them both.

John told them about the volcanic risk analysis project the USGS scrapped and the three associated Martinique field programs. He guessed they probably knew all this, but he went over it all anyway. Finally, he described briefly how Carl found the sample known as 13-C.

Agent Wultz just sat and listened, while Jenny used her pad occasionally.

Can you go over the analyses that occurred on the project's samples? Jenny asked head down, looking at her pad.

I'm sure it's all in the USGS final report, John said.

We'd like your personal recollection, she said manipulating the touch screen on her pad again, if you don't mind Doctor. There seems to have been issues with finding these data at the GS.

All the samples were photographed and geologically described in our field report, John explained. Carl sent them to the USGS for geochemical analyses, but I think the analysis could have been better

Why was that? Wultz asked.

The GS changed the lab doing the analyses for the last set of samples, John replied. It's best to stick with one lab for consistent results.

Any idea why the Geological Survey did this? Wultz asked.

They got a new chief scientist just before the third field trip; it was probably her decision, but I don't know the specific reason. At any rate, 13-C was not included within the report, but it had several pictures taken of it that you've probably seen on the net. It was the only thing atypical on the last field trip, and out of curiosity, we sent the sample for X-ray diffraction. That analysis showed its composition is mainly silica with, if I remember correctly, some carbon contaminated the sampling procedure.

Why wasn't it included in the final report? Jenny asked.

Because it's a man-made artifact, John said catching her gaze, then shyly turning away.

What do you think it is? Wultz asked.

I don't know. At first, I thought it could have been a root cast. That's a fossilized plant root replaced by mineralization, usually quartz, calcium carbonate or even pyrite.

Fools gold, Wultz said.

Jenny looked up from her pad at her colleague with a raised eyebrow.

John continued, A small section of a root cast can appear fairly rounded and are sometimes even hollow. But this thing, the angularity close to the melted end, the parallel groves inside and its asymmetry proved it was definitely man-made debris of some sort caught up in the Pelee eruption.

You're sure? Wultz asked.

Positive, John said, there was a pebble melted to one end.

He meant, Jenny clarified, are you sure it was man-made?

No doubt.

What did Dr. Watkins think? Scott asked.

I'm not entirely sure, John reflected. He initially thought it was a gun barrel, but I'm not clear where he ended up on that as the tube was slightly conical. You'd have to ask him, but I know he was embarrassed by the net theories and didn't say too much about it after the field report was sent to the GS.

We're having difficulties finding Carl Watkins, Wultz said reaching in his jacket pocket.

He finished up his post-doc work last month, John said. He told me he was going back to Montana to see his family, and he was keen on getting some hunting in this fall. I'm afraid haven't heard from him. It was all too typical for students and even post docs to lose contact once they leave the university.

If he contacts you, please let us know, Wultz said, then handed John his bureau card.

What about this picture, Dr. Mackinac? Jenny showed him an image on her pad.

That's an electron microscopic image at very high magnification of 13-C, John explained. The X-ray diffraction technician was curious because of the hardness of the specimen, so they took a couple looks at it under an EM. You can see subtle hexagons in the material, John said pointing the pattern out.

How hard was it? Wultz asked.

John hesitated, trying to remember the analyses' details. A diamond drill bit was the only way they could get material for XRD analysis and even that contaminated the sample so it would have a Mohs 9 plus. That's a hardness scale indicating it's very hard, diamond-like, John explained and then sipped his coffee.

Did you say there were multiple images Dr. Mackinac? Jenny asked. This is the only microscopic image on the net as far as we can find.

You're right, he said, I've only seen the one image, too. However, I'm sure the tech said they did more. Anything else is probably on the hyperdrive.

A drive? Wultz asked with a hopeful look at his partner.

We get a copy of all data from any laboratory analyses, John replied, but as they did this on their own, we didn't pay it too much attention.

And where is the drive now? Jenny asked.

Probably still somewhere in my office, John said.

Is there anything else you can tell us about sample 13-C? she asked studying her pad.

I think that just about covers it, John said hoping the interview would end soon.

Very well, Jenny said standing up then pushing her kitchen chair under the table, "if we can go by your office and see if we can find that drive; that should just about do it.

John sighed and took a last, long sip to finish his coffee.

They walked in silence across campus to the geological science department in the C. C. Little building. Thankfully, there were not too many students around Saturday at lunchtime to notice him with the agents; the last thing he wanted was more rumors floating around campus.

After rummaging around in various file cabinets and drawers in his office, he finally remembered where he had put the drive. Fishing it out from among his colored pencil collection in the top drawer of his desk, he said, I'll just copy this to my hard drive.

I'd like to sync it with my pad first, if you don't mind, Jenny insisted, taking the drive. She brushed her pads screen a few times and then handed the drive back to John.

Do you still have the sample in question Dr. Mackinac? Wultz asked.

The entire Martinique sample collection is at the sample storage facility outside of Jackson, I'm afraid, John said.

No problem, we'll drive, Jenny said.

Half an hour's drive west of the university, they arrived at an old, red barn surrounded by a chain-link fence. On the fence, a sign read: Authorized Personnel Only, Property of the University of Michigan.

John opened the gate's combination lock for the agents and led them inside. Carl filed the samples before he left, he said pointing to the back racks. The newer samples should be over there on the left in the far row.

The dusty barn housed what appeared to be hundreds, if not thousands, of sturdy cardboard boxes and crates, each stacked in rows on heavy-duty steel racks.

When they rounded the last racks on the left, John shook his head in disgust seeing several crates had fallen into the aisle, their contents spilled on the plank floor.

How often is this facility used? Jenny asked.

It can be a while between visits, maybe a couple of months or longer, it just depends, John said bending down to inspect the mess as Jenny took a few pics with her pad.

John explained, The two earlier Martinique trips' samples were identified by the suffixes 'A' and 'B' on the bag's tag. The 'C' samples are from the last field program on Mount Piquet.

The agents helped John sort the various bagged and un-bagged rocks by sample numbers and locality designation. When they had finished there were six piles of samples, one for each fallen crate. Three of the piles were from the Martinique project.

There were thirteen samples collected, John said pointing at the 'C' pile, but there're only twelve here: 13-C is missing. Shaking his head, he muttered, Net idiots.

Thanks for all your help Dr. Mackinac, Jenny said.

I'll have to get these crates repacked and stacked, John said to himself as the agents were already heading back to their car.

Carl jammed the garden fork under the potato plant and then levered several large spuds aboveground in one quick motion. He sighed as he tossed them into a nearby bucket. Somehow, the three months of planned post-university decompression turned into a nightmare. He had canceled several job interviews, hoping that the notoriety he had gotten from the TIA eventually would die down. He had tried to hide out with his family in Montana, but TIA lunatics as well as reporters hounded him and his family. Someone even approached his uncle with a gun demanding Carl's whereabouts. The sheriff, his cousin, dubbed his aunt's response as justifiable homicide. Soon after that, he decided it best to move into a long-time friend's cabin just outside of Colorado Springs.

The cabin was nestled in a secluded valley and looked over a picturesque meadow and stream. The bio-insulated, one-room cabin would be warm and comfortable in winter heated by only a small wood stove. And by bartering with neighbors and hunting, Carl figured he could be nearly self-sufficient.

The noise of an aircraft in the distance distracted him from his garden; looking up, he saw his friend, Curtis, enter the meadow in front of the cabin.

Hello Carl! he called out, waving a large white bucket by the handle.

Hey! Carl shouted back to his friend with a big smile.

I'm returning your primary fermentation bucket, Curtis said. The ale should be ready by Memorial Day, and Nick said he's got a couple smoked rainbows for a bag of your hops.

Good thing, Carl said relieving his friend of the bucket. I just finished drying a bunch out back.

I should have the new side plate for your snowboard cut by next week, I had to order an Aluminum blank.

I still don't know about Beaver Creek this year, Carl said rubbing his right jaw.

That tooth still bothering you? Curtis asked. Don't forget my cousin's a dentist in Colorado Springs.

I know, Carl said. It's not time yet.

Chapter 3

8 Aug 2053

William Lutzger, leader of the Order- one of the largest organized-crime syndicates in the US, watched the old F150 approach the A-frame nestled amidst tall, old-growth pines. The cabin's large windows and deck overlooked a small lake; its smooth surface mirrored the surrounding peaks in the distance. Solar panels provided the only power. There was no net.

Welcome to the boonies gentlemen, Lutzger said holding up a cigar. Max, any trouble? he asked as three men climbed out of the pickup. The youngest, Max, after only several years in the organization was one of Lutzger's personal flunkies and main driver

Nope, Max reported with disinterest.

Good. Get some lunch. Lutzger pointed at a pile of sandwiches on a redwood picnic table in the middle of the deck. Then hang out until we're through or go check out the lake. There is a fishing pole on the dock.

Yes, sir, Max said taking a ham and cheese and then heading toward the dock.

Lutzger and the remaining two men sat down around the deck's picnic table to wait for Jeb Gurman, a commander in the Utah ultra, right-wing supremacist group, The Sword of God.

Well, Richards how has business been? Lutzger asked the biggest man with indifference.

Good, Richards replied. Since the Feds put the pressure on the west and east coast gangs not to mention our Mexican friends, we've had increased profits in all areas, especially drugs. The war chest has grown 12 percent since our report last quarter. And Cliff has made an important recruit in the local FBI branch in Denver.

We always need people inside, Lutzger said as he retrieved a Bud tallboy from a cooler under the end of the table, Eh, Cliff? He popped the beer's top, spraying his main gopher, Cliff Henrys, in the process.

Sure, Cliff said nervously, taking a bite from his soggy sandwich.

All three turned to look up the driveway past the old pickup as they heard the high-pitched hum of a protesting EV motor.

Cliff checked his watch.

Lutzger got up and opened the cabin's sliding door to expose a vintage AK-47 leaning against an overstuffed leather chair just inside. Can't be too sure these days, he said taking a long draw on his cigar and picking up the weapon. He had told all of them to come unarmed to the meeting.

An old Chinese Chery EV pulled up next to the pickup. Jeb Gurman opened a squeaky driver's door and climbed stiffly out of the car.

When you going to get rid of that piece of foreign shit? Lutzger said in contempt as he worked the weapon's bolt to clear its breach.

It keeps the Feds on their toes. They don't expect it, Gurman replied with a smile and then slammed the squeaky door in subtle defiance.

Let's get inside, Lutzger said tossing the AK on the picnic table and into the remaining sandwiches to the obvious disappointment of Gurman. He watched them take seats around the cabin's table; a small cardboard box sat in its center. Still holding the Bud tallboy, he stuffed the stubby remains of his cigar into the side of his mouth. There was an uneasy silence at the table as the others waited for him to say something.

Lutzger finally sensing he had their full attention, smiled and began the short speech he had practiced earlier. Our alliance over the years has been profitable. We have waited for an opportunity to use all of our combined resources in an operation of sufficient magnitude that would effect the changes for which we have made war on our own country.

Cliff and Bob listened in silence, and Gurman just stared at his water bottle, gently swinging it by its top threads.

Lutzger noticed Gurman's apparent disinterest but continued, We now are part of something big and there is big money backing us.

Gurman looked up and asked, Backing us?

Cliff winced at Gurman's audacity to disrupt Lutzger's speech.

Ignoring the interruption, Lutzger continued, There is an opportunity for us to get exactly what we want and to make the Feds pay for all their bullshit. It revolves around the contents of this box. He opened the intertwined top flaps on the box and dumped out a white bag. This, he said, is what it's all about, tipping the contents out of the bag, an off-white tube about ten centimeters long fell on the table. The yellow tag on the side of the bag read 'Piquet 13-C'.

Pushing the brim up on his cap, Cliff asked, What is it?

Lutzger looked across the table at each one and then replied, This is the TIA.

Dropping his bottle, but catching it in mid-air between his knees Gurman asked, The thing on the net?

Picking it up and looking down the muzzle, Cliff asked again, What is it?

It's supposed to be from the future, some kind of ray-gun. Gurman explained sarcastically and shaking his head.

How'd it get here…I mean, now? Cliff asked.

It proves time travel is possible, Lutzger said ignoring both Henrys and Gurman. And that means: who controls time travel, controls the future. I intend we do just that.

You are serious, aren't you? Gurman asked in disbelief and then took a long drink from his water bottle.

Lutzger stood up and said, We are not alone in this plan. How can we risk not being in the game when to succeed would mean everything?

Who's going to back us? And, why us? Gurman persisted.

Looking at Gurman, Lutzger blew cigar smoke in his direction then hissed, Their identity will stay unknown.

Gurman shook his head skeptically. How do we know they can be trusted?

Lutzger pointed to 13-C as if it was concrete proof.

Okay, how do they know they can trust us? Gurman said.

Lutzger continued, We have a mission—

I won't take fuckin' orders from somebody I don't know! Gurman shouted while squeezing his water bottle until it overflowed on the table.

Lutzger scowled and took a deep breath. He pulled from his belt in the small of his back a snub-nosed, Smith and Wesson 340 revolver. Pointing it at Gurman's forehead, he hesitated only long enough to let what was about to happen sink in and then pulled the trigger. Stretching across the table, he stuffed what was left of his cigar in the wound, stopping a small trickle of blood before it could run down the dead man's face. Gurman's bottle emptied itself on the floor where it fell; its water swirling with blood dripping from the 357's exit wound.

Cliff and Bob instinctively pushed back from the table as Jeb Gurman and cigar sagged backward in his chair.

Lutzger continued, looking at Henrys, Keep looking for Watkins. We still need him unharmed.

We'll find him, Cliff promised.

Richards, Lutzger said, money is no object. Understand?

Richards, looking pale, just nodded.

Lutzger, looking Gurman's body over, said, We're done.

Squeezing by Richards and Cliff on their way out, Max ran into the cabin as Lutzger was repacking the cardboard box. Gun smoke still hung over the room as he examined Gurman's body and the end of Lutzger's chewed cigar butt.

Max, clean up here then get ready to go. Lutzger made an obvious glance at the lake, And there's bleach under the kitchen sink, he added.

From the deck, Lutzger watched Richards leave in Gurman's old Chery. He was satisfied how things had gone. Gurman had been a real bastard, and that problem was gone for good; he reckoned he could deal with the rest of the swords of God.

However, Lutzger's new alliance created a significant increase in activity and that brought increasing pressure from the Feds on all fronts. They had not yet made a move against them, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

As a result, their new allies' contact was cautious. Lutzger knew him only as Zaman. Lutzger did not have any respect for his new benefactors much less his contact. He knew they were too tolerant; he had promised to give them Watkins months ago but so far, Henrys had failed. They had to find Watkins and achieve his rightful place in the new world. That was the deal.

He would then exterminate the men that stood in his way, making a world where these problems never had to occur in the first place. He was absolutely convinced time travel would accomplish that.

Walking down to the dock, Lutzger told his pad to call the private number he recited from memory. The high-pitched whine told him it would be a secure call. As the call connected, he knew he would soon have what he wanted most: the destruction of the government of the United States of America.

Hello, the voice on the other end said flatly.

Tell your boss that we have a deal, he told Zaman. I'll leave the TIA at our prearranged drop, and we'll have Watkins for him as soon as possible.

Inshallah, Zaman said sarcastically. Watkins still at large is very disappointing. However, I had assumed as much, or you'd have left word at the drop, but I have a lead for you. It seems facial recognition picked him up at a convenience store two days ago near Beaver Creek, Colorado. You can thank your new man in Denver for the information. For your sake, let's hope Watkins is still in the area.

Lutzger grimaced at the insinuated threat as well as the worthless, outdated intel. He hated the way Zaman talked down to him and consequently, could never admit to the humiliation that someone killed one of Cliff's best men in Montana.

Brother, Zaman continued, you and I can be kings after the cleansing. We should trust each other. We need each other now and will need each other even more in the future. Trust me.

Lutzger's frustration was growing. Easier said than done, he scowled.

We're considering some help in that respect, Zaman said, someone we both can trust to work for you.

I bet, Lutzger added mockingly.

He's committed at the moment, so it might be a while, Zaman said. I'll keep you informed, he added and then terminated the communication.

With their conversation finished, Lutzger thoughtfully surveyed the serene lake. Having to admit again that Watkins was still at large to Zaman put Lutzger in a terrible mood as he turned to walk back to the cabin.

Watkins needed to be found, he snarled at Henrys, picking up the AK-47. You couldn't find your own ass with both hands, he snarled.

The Rockys are a big place, Cliff said flinching at Lutzger's tirade as well as the weapon.

I gather our friends are already organizing a replacement for you, Lutzger said, his knuckles going pale gripping the old AK.

I understand, Cliff said meekly.

They had combed the Rockys, both in the United States and Canada, for almost a year searching for Watkins and Henrys had staked out Watkins' professor in Michigan for months.

Lutzger knew Watkins was long gone, back into his hole in the mountains; they could forget about Beaver Creek.

The apartment block in the south Chicago slum was rife with decay. The blackened and dented apartment door on the sixteenth floor did not betray the man and woman seated in the clean and well-furnished safe room within. From a small, dingy window, Johnston observed people scurrying quickly in and out of the complex to the nearby tram station, it was four o'clock in the afternoon, and the building was fairly quiet.

How much longer do we keep managing Lutzger and his organization? the cell's second in command, Aaron Limpkin, asked his commander.

He's still useful and provides a level of insulation from the FBI, Johnston replied. His group has significant funds we can manipulate. Lutzger is hooked. He wants his racist world. It's as simple as that. We risk nothing and Zaman is the only access point to us, she said. You disagree, Aashif? she asked using his current cover identity.

It's just another ball in the air, he said. They are weak. I wouldn't be surprised if the FBI busted them any day now.

As the region's commander, she knew the ordained strategy. They were supposed to use these right-wing extremists, but now they seemed a growing liability.

We know the Feds are keeping Lutzger under tight surveillance, he said. Maybe they are using him to look for Watkins, too?

Ignoring him, she said. At any rate, it's amusing to watch them chase their tails. Zaman has told Lutzger about Watkins being in Colorado. We'll see what happens, if anything.

Don't you think that after all this time, Watkins would be of use? he asked.

Johnston spent costly time providing the Michigan professor rough coordinates from a vague citation she uncovered hidden deep in a collection of war protocols and technology they called the Prophesy.

She knew many others in the Leadership also continuously mined the collection for anything of value. Such activity was not without risk as shown by the very location of the citation she had uncovered. She hoped the dangerous location also indicated a high-potential reward and was the very reason she had chosen that part of the Prophesy to explore. Besides, the citation was also anonymous, a serious breach in protocol.

The citation concerned a possible alien artifact in Martinique, and it had several supporting documents attached to it that appeared authentic. She knew any alien tech of value would give her a vast advantage with her superiors. With few resources, she had manipulated several university and USGS scientists in an attempt to find the artifact, and the Michigan professor stumbled across it last year in Martinique. Unfortunately, it had turned out to be only a damaged phased pistol, but it was not without value.

Watkins was only a means to an end, she said. But his highly unusual discovery of the weapon puts him in a curious position in this timeline. For now, I still want to know what he knows about the TIA.

Our manipulation of the net surrounding his fortunate discovery has helped our cause with recruitments increasing significantly, he acknowledged.

Was there any doubt? she said flatly, knowing the Prophesy dictated they needed scores of recruits for an extensive training period that would span years to come. And the fact that she had been able to turn the wasted time looking for the alien artifact, as well as Watkins, into a productive recruiting tool, pleased her.

The NSA and their puppets, the NGA, have made too much progress, Aashif said. They could have made major breakthroughs we don't even know about.

Fuck, you worry too much. If they had any breakthroughs, she said confidently, we would know. And without the actual weapon as proof, the enemy will never get the funds it needs to do real temporal research. What's the tech update? she asked impatiently, changing the subject and resumed looking out of the apartment's dingy window.

The new Iranian physicists are working diligently under the sand on the programmer design, he reported. As you know, it is a tedious task, and production will take years.

So the Prophesy says. She sighed. No matter, we'll still be ahead of schedule.

It's being ahead of schedule that has put us at a disadvantage as utilizing available technology is proving time consuming, Aashif pointed out. And there's still a need for more quantum physicists, he said to Johnston's back as she stood at the window.

Fermi has dried up, she said, not moving her gaze from the scene below of two men fighting on the tram platform. I was working on a lead from UCLA, but she's quit her quantum dissertation topic in favor of more phenomena-based research. It's become a closed community in the last couple years, and most good physicists have already disappeared into the fucking NGA.

I agree; it's not a good situation. Perhaps, you should try the rounds again in Europe. France is nice at the moment.

That kind of recruiting takes time. She glared at him before returning to look out the window. It's not just a summer on the Med. The personnel we have will suffice.

One of the men upon the platform below fell into a heap. The other ran. She turned to Aashif. I have been ordered to return to the Navis to discuss the quantity and placement of the new portal sites. You're in command.

Chapter 4

5 Jul 2068

John was sitting on his porch steps sipping a tall glass of lemonade and watching his neighbor's lawn mower traverse around its yard in a preset pattern. He had somehow committed the track to memory over time. He swirled his glass, clattering the cubes of ice as he thought about yesterday’s abysmal meeting with the dean. After more than fifteen years, the TIA still haunted him.

Tenure offered both not only financial and academic security but access to more research funding. Getting tenure had become a blood sport at top-class universities. It could be intensely competitive and brutal and the University of Michigan, obviously, was no exception.

The phone on the porch table activated. He got to it on the third tone. Hello. John Mackinac, he said.

Dr. Mackinac, this is Jenny Scott. Agent Wultz and I paid you a visit in '52 regarding the TIA. Do you remember?

Agent Scott, unfortunately it has been impossible to forget the TIA as well as you and agent Wultz. How have you been?

Let's just say there has been a lot of water under the bridge, she replied. Agent Wultz is still with the FBI, but I'm now with The National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. It's a combat support team for the DOD. We report indirectly to and support the Secretary of Defense as well as the Director of National Intelligence.

Letting that sink in, John asked, So, how can I help you? Please don't tell me it's about the TIA.

Unfortunately, Dr. Mackinac, she said, it is. Can I visit you next week? I'd like to talk with you in person.

Sure, it's summer break and I was just catching up on a couple of proposals, he said. What day is good for you?

Monday's good.

Monday it is; about ten o'clock? And after all these years, you can call me John. Still remember how to get here.

Yes, I remember, Dr. Mackinac. See you Monday about ten. She hung up.

He crunched an ice-cube as he said aloud to the neighbor's mower swinging around a bed of spring marigolds in full bloom, What the hell is the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency?

The mower broke from its program and quickly headed for its back yard.

The doorbell chimed as John had just finished clearing at least a week's worth of dishes from his kitchen sink.

Agent Scott, still chasing time travelers, I take it? he said as he opened the porch door.

Something like that. My ancestral Dutch tenacity no doubt, she smiled, entering his home, and it's just Jenny now.

He saw her glance at the picture of his wife and daughter, still in the same place on the mantle.

Jenny Scott had not changed much; her hair was now shorter, as was the style these days, and she did not look like such a young kid anymore.

A huge gray tabby jumped on the back of the couch to get closer to the newcomer. Purring loudly the cat was obviously trying to get attention from her. Don't mind Angstrom. He's usually not this happy to see strangers, John said wondering what had got to into the cat.

He's enormous. Genetically altered? Jenny asked, rubbing behind and between the cat's ears.

No, he's a Maine Coon. It's a big breed, John explained as he picked up a golf ball from a dish on the mantle and tossed it into the porch making a clatter. Fetch! he said as the large cat jumped down and ambled after it.

New ink? Jenny asked as he tossed the golf ball. I didn't notice it last time. Do they have a meaning?

John rolled down his sleeves. The marks on his left forearm were not a tattoo, but there from birth, so said his foster mother. There were three overlapping chevrons, the center one deepest. Or it could have been tallest. John really did not know which way was up to the form. He had called them his mountains ever since he could remember so he had taken them to be upside down, as he looked at them. But he knew the marks were a mystery that had been literally at arm's distance all his life.

Old ink, very old, he replied. They're my mountains.

Jenny giggled. Perfect and ironic for a geologist. Passing her thin briefcase to her left hand, she shook John's hand and said, Thanks for making time to see me.

Just a conscientious taxpayer, John said flatly. Can I get you anything?

Angstrom raced around the corner, bounded up to John and dropped the golf ball at his feet. Good boy, John said with a sigh.

Looking at Angstrom, Jenny said, I'm fine, thanks. Perhaps we should walk. I wouldn't mind seeing more of the campus.

Outside, as they reached the sidewalk, John joked, Don't like cats?

Cats, yes. Cougars, no, Jenny said through a smirk.

They headed down the sidewalk flanking State Street toward the student halls. John thought they could sit outside at the Union with privacy as most students were gone in the summer. They found a table on the lawn with flanking bench seats and sat opposite each other.

Jenny laid her brief case on the table and said, We have yet to find your sample, however—

Any news on Carl? It's been a long time.

However, she repeated, there have been other possible TIAs discovered since the first theories about your sample flooded the net. Most seem to be phony, but one, we believe, could be potentially verifiable.

John looked at her, You think there's something in the TIA theories?

All I can say is there are some in the government still intrigued by it. But the other specimen disappeared as well before we could study it.

You mean stolen like 13-C.

Likely. However, this artifact's disappearance from a Paris museum is possibly more important. It means there could be a broader conspiracy than we earlier thought possible.

You're afraid Dr. Watkins could also be a victim of this conspiracy. John glanced around to make sure no one was nearby and said, What were the other objects?

"I'm sorry I can't say more; however, one of the artifacts was found on Martinique in the 1930s."

That's a big coincidence, John said.

I agree, Jenny said. We would like your help, but it will mean sometime away from your work.

How long? John shifted his weight on the bench and finding it hard to think about a possible hiatus in his current research.

Difficult to say, she said looking past John to the unusual architecture of the Union building. We'd like to have you comment on our analyses of the TIA's electron microscopic images, she said.

He hesitated trying to recall the EM work. Images? Wasn't there just the one image? he asked.

There were several images on the drive you provided us. It turned out the raw data was incredibly fascinating.

I'm not an EM guy.

It's not so much the analyses, but the interpretation. And what that means to your and possibly Dr. Watkins' safety, she said reaching into her briefcase. You'll need this for now. She pulled out an ID badge with his driver's license picture and name imprinted on it along with 'Contractor NGA' in bold red letters at the bottom. There was a small, animated hologram of an eagle clutching an hourglass in the upper left corner; the ID was smart.

They won't let you on the plane without it, she explained.

Plane? He disliked the new RPAs in common use across the US.

Will you help, John? she asked. I'd like to show you the data this week, if possible. We can fly out day after tomorrow.

Staring at the geometric pattern in the tabletop, he remembered his last disappointing talk to the dean about tenure. Now worries about Carl had resurfaced after all this time, and he did not even know if Carl was still alive. Classes would not resume for another five weeks, and he could reschedule a couple of meetings about research projects until the term started again. In