In Time For Revenge: Scott Standalones, #3

By Jasper T. Scott

A SCI-FI MYSTERY FROM MILLION-COPY BESTSELLER JASPER T. SCOTT
He invented a machine to take people to the future
Then he was accused of murder, but he can't remember killing anyone.
Billionaire genius Byron Gaines is accused of murdering his wife and her lover, but he swears he didn't do it. This couldn't have come at a worse moment: he is so close to a breakthrough in his research. He's about to invent a device that will change the world forever. The irony is, if only he had a little more time, he'd be able to make his legal problems disappear--along with himself.

Travel to the near future with unforgettable characters and evocative depictions of imminent technologies. See how society could evolve in both utopian and dystopian ways. Twists abound in this unpredictable read. A perfect novel for fans of Michael Crichton, Blake Crouch, Matthew Mather, and AG Riddle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthem Press
• Release date: Jul 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223556299

Jasper T. Scott

Jasper Scott is a USA Today bestselling author of science fiction and a three-time Kindle all-star. With more than forty novels published and over a million copies sold, Jasper's work has been translated into various languages and published around the world. Jasper writes fast-paced books with unexpected twists and flawed characters. He was born and raised in Canada by South African parents, with a British heritage on his mother's side and German on his father's. He now lives in an exotic locale with his wife, their two kids, and two Chihuahuas.

Book preview

Chapter 1

—July 29th, 2020—

R

ain pelts the tin roof of the converted barn on my family’s estate outside Denver. I watch through the slanting skylights in the vaulted ceiling as a blue fork of lightning slices the night in half. A primordial boom makes the panes of glass shiver. The storm is directly overhead.

I drag my eyes down from the ceiling and look around the big open space. A dozen desks are arrayed around an egg-shaped capsule on a raised platform in the center of the room. The computer screens on those desks are all off, the hard drive lights strobing red and yellow in darkened corners of the room. I really should install more lights in here. Everyone went home hours ago, everyone except for me and my lead engineer, Grant Coleman.

He’s busy staring at one of the three computer screens on his desk, occasionally typing something before clicking something on another screen. He’s running diagnostics on the "STCD Mark I" before we fire it up for the first time. The acronym stands for Space-Time Compression Device, but only Grant and I know that. The technology we’re working on is far too valuable (and dangerous) to tell just anyone. Another jagged flash of lightning draws my gaze up to the skylights, followed by a boom of thunder.

Byron, it sounds bad out there, Grant says. He looks up from his work to catch my eye. His pale face and blue eyes are highlighted by his computer screens. You should tell Alison not to come, he adds.

And have her miss this? I shake my head. Not a chance.

Grant smiles. You’re assuming we’ll succeed.

The first rule of success is believing in it.

So, we’re waiting for Alison to get here?

I nod and glance at the cell phone sitting on my desk. My wife hasn’t called or texted to say that she isn’t coming, so she probably still is. Besides, it’s not that far from the manor to the lab, and she can have Alex drive her, or just take the Tesla on auto.

While we wait I stare at the screen saver on my computer. It’s looping through pictures of me and Alison from our world tour last year. I see us sitting on the back of my yacht in the Caribbean, then toasting with wine at a five star restaurant along the Seine in Paris. A picture of us at the Colosseum. A gondola ride at sunset in Venice. Learning to Salsa in Barcelona, and touring the royal palace in Madrid. I move my mouse to wake the computer just as a picture of us touring Mount Fuji appears.

I type in the password for my computer. Twelve digits, numbers and letters. I click over to the software I wrote for the STCD and begin checking Grant’s values for the test run. This isn’t our first test, but it is the first one that’s likely to succeed. There’s a lot riding on tonight: I’ve poured seven years of work into this project, not to mention about ten million dollars. But that’s just a tiny fraction of the Gaines’ family fortune. I’m an only child, so I inherited all seventy-seven billion of that fortune when my parents’ plane crashed into the Rocky Mountains. If this works, though, I’m going to need every penny that they left me to scale this technology up to commercial viability.

Grant is drumming his fingers on his desk. Thunder rumbles on, more distantly now. A faint squeal draws both of our attention to the barn door—a reinforced steel security door that looks like it belongs in a bank. Locks clunk as they slide away and the heavy door groans open. The sound of rain roars into the lab. My wife, Alison, appears standing in the entrance wearing a red designer trench coat. Her long blond hair is pulled into a ponytail, and looks dry. Her makeup is still in good shape, too—not that she needs any with a face like hers. She’s holding two brown paper bags, lightly freckled with rain, while Alex, our driver and personal assistant, stands beside her sopping wet, holding her umbrella. Despite the late hour, he’s still in his working uniform, a black suit and red tie. Alex is a tall, fit African-American man with a shaved head and a thick black mustache. He’s still strong and vital-looking at forty-three, but I still remember him in his twenties, when he first started working for my parents.

Alison half turns to him with a bright smile. Thank you, Alex.

He inclines his head to her. Any time, ma’am. He retreats just as a flash of lightning illuminates the falling sheets of rain. The door groans shut, sealing out the storm. Alison strides toward me, her Louis Vuitton heels clicking on the polished concrete floors. I stand up and greet her with a kiss.

She smiles radiantly. I brought you both some dinner. Theodore insisted.

Theodore Wilson, our major-domo. If it weren’t for him reminding me to eat and sending down meals with other members of the staff I’d probably have starved to death by now.

Alison glances at Grant and holds out one of the two bags. He pulls himself away from his desk and walks over to take it from her.

Thank you, Mrs. Gaines, he says.

You’re welcome, Grant.

He returns to his desk and pokes his nose inside the bag. It smells like heaven.

I take the other bag from her, but put it on the desk behind me. I don’t have time to eat right now. It can wait until we’ve successfully tested the Mark I.

So, what is so exciting that you had to call me down here in the middle of the next great flood? Alison asks.

I grin and point to my creation, the egg-shaped silver capsule sitting on the dais in the center of the lab. Seven years to get to this. I can feel my eyes burning with the threat of tears. Happy tears. I’m getting ahead of myself, but somehow I know that this time it’s going to work.

It looks the same as it did the last time I saw it, Alison said.

That’s because all of the changes are inside. I take my wife’s hand and lead her up to the platform. Grant increased the power supply by adding twenty additional power walls around the perimeter of the building. I point to a thick black braid of several dozen cables leading to the egg-shaped capsule. He also fixed the overheating problem and increased the number of field conductors in the outer shell.

So what did you do? Alison arches an eyebrow at me.

I supervised.

Grant snorts. He thinks he’s the Brain. I guess that makes me Pinky.

I laugh at that. It’s a running joke between us.

Pinky? Alison asks.

I remember the 10-year age gap between us. Alison wasn’t even born when that cartoon went off the air. I’m thirty-five and she’s twenty-five. Sometimes I wonder if she was ready for marriage, but it’s too late for us to go back and wait now. I try to give her space, which helps. She still models from time to time, and she’s working on a few projects of her own.

What happens if it doesn’t work? she asks. Back to the drawing board?

I shake my head. It will work.

Alison’s brow furrows. I admire your confidence.

I flash a lopsided grin at her and grab her hand again to lead her behind the circle of work stations around the testing platform. Grant comes over with three welding masks, one for each of us.

What’s this for? Alison asks, her nose scrunching up as he hands her a mask.

Safety, Grant explains as he slips his own mask on. He’s a big man. With the mask and his disheveled black hair he looks worse than a mad scientist. He looks like someone you don’t want to meet in a dark alley.

Alison is still staring at the mask in her hands. We didn’t use these the last time.

Last time we weren’t using enough power to run a whole city block, I say. If this works, the Mark I is going to light up like the sun.

Okay. Alison slips the mask on with an unhappy frown. I put mine on, and then pull Alison back to the far wall of the lab. I haven’t mentioned that there’s about a one percent chance that the STCD could explode. I nod to Grant. Let’s fire it up. Start with ten percent power.

Aye aye, Captain, he quips. His fingers fly across his keyboard for a few seconds; he grabs the mouse, his index finger poised to click. The compression field is charging. And in three... two... one.

Nothing happens. Grant leans forward, staring at his screens through his mask. I can hear a discernible buzzing sound fill the air from all the electricity suddenly flooding through the room. My heart is pounding. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, but that could just be my nerves. Outside, the storm has moved on, but we have our own electrical storm brewing in here.

Well? I ask. Grant slowly shakes his head. The clocks are still running in sync. I leave Alison’s side and stalk up behind Grant to see what he’s looking at. His screen is full of numbers and various graphical gauges. One of them is the Mark I’s internal temperature; it’s creeping up to 50 degrees Celsius. I look up at the egg-shaped device. If the temperature keeps rising, that egg is going to be poached.

It’s not glowing, Alison says from the side of the lab. Can I take off my—

NO. Keep it on. To Grant I say, Increase the power to twenty percent.

Increasing power...

The persistent buzzing in the room grows louder. It’s like a swarm of cicadas now. I stare hard at the STCD, my breathing shallow, my whole body tense. This has to work. I can’t have wasted my time. The math checks out, and I’ve checked the schematics and the code a dozen times. I’ve given everything I had to this project. I’ve—

My thoughts cut off in midstream as I realize something is different. The hair on the back of my neck is rising again. I lift my mask cautiously. The capsule is glowing faintly.

Byron, Grant whispers. You’re not going to believe this.

Try me.

The lab clock is running a full second ahead of the Mark I’s.

I lower my mask. I’m feeling lighter than air. If I flapped my arms I swear I’d go soaring straight into the ceiling. You’re certain?

We’re up to one point five seconds’ difference now! he crows. We have a confirmed compression factor of one point one zero five two. He looks up, his expression inscrutable behind the mask. We did it.

I take a quick step back, look to the prototype, then back to him, and slowly shake my head. I can barely breathe. Is this a dream? It can’t be real.

What does that mean? Alison asks. I hear her heels clicking across the floor.

Increase the power, I say, ignoring my wife’s question. Fifty percent.

Ramping up to fifty...

What is— Alison cuts herself off and her heels stop clicking. The buzzing sound is a roar now, and the inside of the lab is blindingly bright. Even with the welding mask on, staring at the capsule is like staring into a hundred watt bulb.

The clock is running ten seconds behind... Grant says. Fifteen... twenty! Compression is up to five point six!

I stumble back another step, half-blinded by the capsule. It’s getting hot in here, and the buzzing sound is ominously loud, but to me it’s the drum roll of things to come.

We did it. It worked.

The temperature is up to one hundred and fifty degrees C.

I do the conversion in my head. Over three hundred Fahrenheit. Hot as an oven. Ramp up to seventy-five percent, I say.

Increasing power, Grants says.

Are you sure about this? Alison asks.

Pretty sure, but I can barely hear myself. The air is practically crackling with electricity. My skin feels hot. The light pouring from the prototype grows so intense that I have to look away.

Climbing to seventy percent! Grant calls out. Compression factor is up to twenty times. It’s scaling exponentially with the power!

I peer over his shoulder. The temperature is climbing past two hundred degrees. I can feel the heat radiating in waves from the testing platform. We still have a cooling problem to solve.

Seventy-four percent! Grant says. The clocks are six minutes apart!

I can barely see, and the buzzing feels like it’s inside of my head. Then something goes pop! and the lab plunges into darkness. Alison screams. I’m adrift in a sea of black. I put my hands out, feeling for something solid to anchor me. Finding Grant’s desk, I hold onto it with one hand and rip my welding mask off with the other.

What happened? My ears are ringing from the sudden silence. A ghostly blue tendril of electricity crackles through the lab, arcing off the Mark I.

I think we blew a fuse, Grant says. His phone’s screen snaps on, spilling pale light around us. He finds the flashlight app a second later, and shines the beam toward Alison. She’s standing with her arms out like a scarecrow, her mask still on. She reaches up to pull it off. I thought it was going to explode, she says shakily.

I decide not to mention that it actually could have. Instead, I look to Grant. The significance of what we just accomplished is only now dawning on us. Grant’s beam shines my way, blinding me, then dips to the floor. It’s enough to see the giant grin on Grant’s face. We did it! Can you imagine what will happen when we scale up further?

I match that grin and throw my head back and whoop like an animal.

Alison creeps over to us, her blue eyes wide and long blond hair sticking up with static. Maybe the hair standing up on the back of my neck wasn’t just nerves. What will happen? she asks, looking between Grant and me.

I stare at her, surprised that she hasn’t grasped the significance of this yet. I don’t even know where to start with answering her question. The applications for this technology are too vast.

Well? Alison prompts, getting impatient with my silence.

I’ll explain later, honey. Turning to Grant, I say, Right now, it’s time to celebrate.

Chapter 2

W

e’re sitting in the parlor of the manor drinking hundred-year-old rum, laughing and talking about how we are going to rule the world. A dazzling flash of lightning catches my eye through the towering window beside us. The clouds glow purple for a second, and a jagged line of skyscrapers are silhouetted by the light. My family’s manor sits atop a hill at the foot of the Rockies, peering down on Denver like a lord over his realm.

What if we could expand space-time, too? Grant asks.

I drag my eyes away from the windows and take another sip of rum. What do you mean?

We could use the same concepts to create opposing compression and expansion fields and propel a vehicle with them.

I’m nodding along with that. You mean like an Alcubierre warp drive?

Exactly!

It’s possible, I concede. But first things first. We need to perfect compression fields. For now, that’s where the real money is.

Most of our discussion is likely flying over Alison’s head, but she’s all smiles as she saunters over from the bar to sit in my lap with a fresh appletini.

Is that your fifth? I ask, nodding to the drink. Her eyes are so glassy that they could be marbles rolling around in her head.

Alison makes a show of counting on one hand until all five fingers are up. Oops, she says, giggling. I guess it is.

How much would we charge? Grant asks, getting my attention back on our project.

A million dollars per year might be a good starting point, I say. I mean we have to power the thing that whole time. It’s not like we get to condense space-time on our side of the compression field, too.

So, a hundred million per century? Maybe tack on a fee for each additional year to factor in inflation.

I swirl rum in my glass. Sounds reasonable.

We’d get it all up front of course, Grant adds.

Of course.

Alison is looking at me with big eyes, one hand on my shoulder, the other sliding discreetly up my thigh in an effort to get my attention. A million per year doesn’t sound like much, she says.

Not if you only have one client at a time, I reply. The idea is to have thousands. We could make a cool ten billion a year without breaking a sweat, but why stop there? This is something that you could easily see millions of people paying for, and then we’re talking about trillions of dollars.

Alison’s jaw drops open and I grin back. But what if they won’t pay that much?

Oh they’ll pay it. They’ll probably pay even more. Especially if there’s more demand than we can meet, which there will be for quite some time. How much do you think a dying man or woman would pay to travel a hundred years into the future where they could cure their disease, or maybe even become immortal?

That’s what this is for? Alison presses. It’s a time machine?

Kind of, but it only works in one direction—into the future.

Her eyes drift out of focus. I’m pretty sure she’s seeing dollar signs. That’s okay, because I am, too. You can actually do that? she asks. You can send people to the future?

Grant sits up in the chair across from us. Well... we’re still a long way off from testing with live subjects, Grant says. And we have to increase the power a lot more. We need the compression field strong enough that a hundred years passing for us will only be like a day to them. After all, they’re going to be trapped inside one of those capsules the whole time, and there’s only so long you can keep someone asleep without feeding them. We can mitigate some of that with a life support system if we have to, but again, there are limits.

I wave my hand to dismiss those concerns. What Grant is trying to say is that we still have work to do, but sending people to the future is the goal, and it doesn’t stop with medical applications. There’s tourism to consider as well. Granted, we can’t bring people back when they’re done touring around, but that hardly matters. There are enough rich, adventurous people out there to keep us in business selling one-way tickets. Hell, I might even buy one myself.

Grant takes a sip of his rum, then says, Well, as I see it, we still have two problems to solve.

I swirl the dregs in my glass, nodding slowly. Power is the first problem. We need to increase it, get that compression factor as high as we can.

Easy enough if we scale up to a bigger prototype. We just have to add more power walls and a bigger generator and more solar panels to feed them.

Heating is the other issue. If we stick a live test subject inside the device it’ll be roasted alive if we can’t get the temperature down and keep it down.

Again, that should be easy to fix with a bigger prototype. I can isolate a chamber inside the device and circulate a super-cooled fluid through it.

I shake my head. Forget the prototype. How long do you need to build a full-scale model that could take human passengers?

That depends on my budget. The more money you give me to play with the faster it will go.

Let’s say I want it done in two months.

Grant chokes on his rum.

Give me a number.

The Mark One cost us five million to build, but we had a whole year to build it. It’s also a tenth of the size that you’re talking about.

But now we know how to build it. Building a bigger wheel is easier than inventing one.

Granted.

I smile at him. No pun intended.

He ignores my attempt at humor, lost in his thoughts. To scale up to a full-size STCD in just two months... maybe fifty million? That’s assuming we put a rush on all of the components and hire more people to help me at the lab.

STCD? Alison asks. That’s an awful name.

I flash a smile at her. We know. That was half the fun of it. I look back to Grant, giving his budget some thought. It’s a lot of money, but not unreasonable considering the task at hand. Consider it done. We start the build tomorrow.

Grant’s brow lifts at that. Tomorrow?

Is there a problem with that? Tomorrow is Sunday, but that doesn’t matter. You can’t change the world on a nine to five schedule, and Grant knows that. Besides, he doesn’t have kids or a family to worry about.

No problem. Grant sets his glass on the end table beside his chair and rises to his feet like an old man. I can almost hear his bones creaking. We haven’t slept much over the past week. But I’d better get home and get some sleep if we’re going to work again tomorrow.

It’s late, I say. You can stay here. We have plenty of empty rooms.

Grant looks to Alison, as if asking her for permission. I frown at that. It’s my house. She doesn’t have a say in it, but I wait for her response anyway.

Yes, please stay, she says and jumps out off my lap. She walks unsteadily over to him, sloshing her appletini all over the marble floor. She loops an arm through Grant’s. Come with me, I’ll show you to the guest wing.

Grant glances over his shoulder as she leads him away, as if he’s worried how it looks that my wife is leading him off to bed. I smile indulgently and wave my hand for them to go on. Grant appears to relax. He’s a handsome man, but no better looking than me, and certainly not richer or smarter. I’ve noticed that there’s chemistry between them, but even as drunk as Alison is, she’s far too smart to do anything about it. Her prenup is clear. She has too much to lose.

I take another sip of rum, and my thoughts drift back to the project. Absently, I look out the window beside me. Denver is sparkling like a jewel in the distance. I wonder what the city will look like in the future. What will my first passengers see? I almost wish I were going to be one of them. I’d take Alison with me, of course. But no, I can’t leave yet. I need to consolidate my resources and build an empire that will stand the test of time. Otherwise, I’ll travel to the future just to become a pauper.

I tap my finger restlessly against the tumbler in my hand, counting out the seconds. The nail draws ringing clinks from the glass. I smirk to myself, feeling almost mythically powerful as I peer down on the city in the distance.

I have mastered time. I may not be ready for the future yet, but the future can wait for me.

*     *     *

Alison and I lie in bed together, her naked body wrapped around mine. I’m drifting off on a cloud of rum and post-coital bliss, but Alison is wide awake and running her hands through my chest hair. Her nails lightly trace raised red welts that she clawed out a few moments ago.

What about us? she asks.

Hmmm? I’m too tired for words.

Say it all works out and you become richer than ever. You accomplish everything you ever set out to do. What’s next?

That question takes me by surprise, and my mind wakes up to deal with it. I don’t know, I admit. I’ve never thought that far ahead.

Well, what about kids?

Kids? I regard her steadily, blinking the sleep from my eyes. Are you sure you’re ready for that?

Alison sits up, and I experience a flash of disappointment as she pulls the blankets up with her to keep herself covered. I think I am. Her eyes drift out of focus, and a smile twitches to her lips as if she’s already imagining our kids.

We’ve talked about it. She knows that I’ve been ready for a while now, but I’m also acutely aware that my wife is still in her twenties. And still modeling.

What about your career?

She shrugs. That’s just to keep me busy. If we have kids, I’ll be more than busy enough with them. And I have my other projects.

True. She’s been trying to start a few businesses of her own. Something to do with fashion and travel. Trying to become an Instagram Influencer, I think. It’s not a career if you ask me, but it keeps her busy. So... when should we start trying?

A sly smile crosses Alison’s face. She turns to me and begins tracing circles on my chest again. We could start now....

I laugh lightly. I may have to explain the concept of entropy to you.

Her smile broadens, turning mischievous. I wore you out?

You and seventy-hour work weeks.

That’s okay. Tomorrow.

Sounds like a plan. My eyelids droop and begin sliding shut once more.

But there is something I wanted to talk to you about first.

I crack one eye half open and wait for her to go on.

She’s wringing her hands and biting her lip. Don’t get mad.

Mad? That wakes me up again, and I wonder what she’s on about. Both my eyes are open now. Mad about what?

Just promise me that you’ll think about it. Try to see it from my point of view.

Okay...

She spreads her hands to take in the room. All of this is yours—the estate, your family fortune, your amazing discovery and everything that’s about to happen as a result... but what do I have?

You have me. I have a bad feeling about where this is going.

Until I get fat and pregnant. And what if I never look this good again?

You won’t.

She scowls.

I laugh and squeeze her hand. You’re going to get older. We both will. That’s not something we can avoid whether we have kids or not.

Well, fine, but having kids accelerates that, and it will end my career, making me even more dependent on you.

And that’s a bad thing because...

Because as long as we have a prenup that says I get nothing if you leave me, I know that you still don’t trust me. And that makes me wonder if I can trust you. How can I have kids like that? I’ll never be able to relax.

I was right. That’s what this is about. I sit up next to her, my brow furrowing. A stabbing headache lights up the space behind my left eye. You wouldn’t get nothing in a divorce. You’d get a million dollars per year of marriage regardless of why or how the marriage ends. And if I’m unfaithful, then you get half of everything. There’s plenty of security in that agreement for both of us. It should make it easier to trust each other, not harder, because it means we both have a lot to lose.

She’s shaking her head, her eyes sliding away from mine. "You don’t understand because you’re the one holding all of the cards. You have all of the power in our relationship, and that means every time we fight or even disagree I feel like I’d better watch my step or else."

So you’re saying that you won’t have kids with me unless I void the prenup?

Alison offers a shaky smile and turns to me, her eyes searching mine. She starts running her hands across my chest again. Would that be so bad? Having to trust each other like a normal couple?

I bristle at that, but bite my tongue. I’m too tired and drunk for this shit. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Doesn’t Alison know how this sounds? And the timing is more than a little suspicious.

"Let’s say I void the agreement. What if you decide to divorce me after that? I stare hard at her. I just hand you half of everything on a silver platter?" My mouth twists sardonically.

Alison is blinking fast. She leans away from me, as if offended that I would even suggest that. After all this time, you still think I’m after your money?

I never said you were, but right now you’re making me wonder.

Alison lets out a breath and unleashes her most sarcastic smile. No, you didn’t have to say it. The prenup said it for you. What do you think that’s for? It’s for people who don’t trust their spouses.

Funny, you didn’t seem to object when you were signing it.

Because I didn’t have a choice! Besides, it was reasonable back then. We hadn’t been together long enough for you to trust me. But now we’ve been together for three years! Three happy years, and you’re telling me that after that you still don’t trust me.

I don’t like how she keeps turning this around on me. I climb out of bed and stand there stark naked in front of her. My chest is heaving. I’m seeing red, but holding myself back, trying to calm down. I have to work on my temper. I promised her that I would. "I’ve just made a huge scientific breakthrough—maybe the biggest breakthrough in history—and right after I tell you that it could be worth trillions of dollars, suddenly you’re suggesting that I void our prenup. How do you think that sounds?"

Alison’s eyes flash with hurt, a tear slides down her cheek. She flings it away. Get out.

Excuse me?

You heard me. If you don’t leave, I will. I’m not sleeping in the same bed with you tonight.

You’re joking.

Get out! she screams. A pillow flies at my head. Whup. It muffles my incredulous laughter. I stare at Alison for a handful of seconds, working on my breathing exercises. Deep breaths. In and out. Fine, I say. My voice could freeze a lake in hell. I’ve learned to turn the heat into ice, but ice can burn, too, and I can tell that I’m scalding Alison right now. We’ll talk about this in the morning.

She shrugs and looks away. I grab the pillow she threw at me and use it to protect my modesty as I leave the bedroom. I walk down the hall to one of the guest rooms. Halfway there Grant emerges from one of those rooms. He looks startled to see me, even more startled to see that I’m not wearing any clothes. He holds up a hand to ward off my nakedness and averts his gaze. I smile, wondering if that’s for my sake or his. What do I care if he sees me naked? I thought you were in the guest wing, I say.

So did I, Grant replies. I can move to another bedroom if you want.

Why? We have ten bedrooms. I don’t care which one you stay in.

He nods, still not looking at me.

Relax, I’m covering myself with a pillow. You’re not going to go blind if you look at me.

Grant drops his hand and regards me with a frown. The hall is dimly lit. The manor is in night-mode, and the wall sconces are dimmed down to a soft golden hue. Shadows crouch in the recessed doorways that line both sides of the hall. Four of the ten bedrooms are up here. Along with a game room, an office, and a nursery that was once used by yours truly.

Is everything okay? Grant asks. I heard shouting.

Alison and I had a fight. She’ll get over it when she realizes that she’s wrong.

A slow smile creeps onto Grant’s face. If she’s wrong, then how come you’re the one in the hall?

A laugh bubbles from my lips. Said like a man who’s never been married. I clap a hand on Grant’s shoulder. It was the hand holding the pillow. Oops.

Grant grimaces and looks away again.

I’m amused by his reaction. I don’t bother to pick up the pillow on my way down the hall to the room next to his. See you in the morning, Coleman, I say as I turn the knob and open the door.

Good night, Byron, he replies.

Chapter 3

Six Months Later...

—February 4th, 2021—

A

warm beam of sunlight streams through the master bedroom window, doing nothing to melt the ice in my soul. This room feels strange to me now. Foreign. I’ve barely been in here for the past six months now that Alison and I no longer share a bed. She thinks that if she freezes me out in the bedroom I’ll cave and void our prenup. She doesn’t realize just how wrong she is. I’m already talking with my lawyers.

I grab a stack of pants and socks and stuff them in my suitcase. Pushing the personal matters from my mind, I consider the task at hand. I’m taking a business trip to a remote island in the Pacific, looking for a safe place to build my new empire. A technology like mine could be seized by a government in the name of national security far too easily, so I’m going to buy an island in the Pacific and build everything surrounded by international waters. The Mark II is working and Grant and I have had successful tests with mice, rats, and chimpanzees with no ill effects. We’ve got the power consumption levels down, the heat problem is solved, and now we have the compression factor up to more than a million at the highest power levels. There are thirty-one and a half million seconds in a year. So, at a compression factor of one million, that means I can send a given passenger a hundred years into the future in what seems like just fifty-two minutes to them. Functionally, the technology is identical to the concept of stasis or cryo-freezing. Everyone outside of the STCD experiences the passage of time as usual, whereas anyone (or anything) inside of the STCD will experience time passing at a much-reduced rate. At a compression factor of a million times, light bounces off the shell of the vehicle so slowly that it appears to shine like the sun. We were lucky we didn’t blind ourselves the first time we fired up the Mark II. I smile at the memory and shake my head.

Nice to see you in such a good mood, my wife says as she storms by me on her way to the master bathroom. Her heels click across the marble floor at a furious pace.

I stare at her back as she adjusts her make-up in the mirror. She’s dressed up. On her way to a modeling job, perhaps? Who knows. I zip up my suitcase and hesitate before hauling it off the bed. You’re not going to say goodbye to your husband? I ask. I’m not sure what I’m hoping for. Maybe that the ice between us will melt and that she’ll relent before there’s no turning back.

Bye. She doesn’t even turn from the mirror to look at me as she says it.

A sharp pang stabs through my heart. The sting of her dagger. A dark haze clouds my vision. I can hear blood roaring in my ears. My therapist’s words come back to me: when you feel yourself losing control, take yourself out of the situation. Don’t suppress your reaction, just delay it. Walk away if you have to.

And so I do. I yank the suitcase and my briefcase off the bed and walk out without another word to my wife. It’s been a while since I’ve had a real outburst. I guess all those years of therapy paid off. Alison can be thankful that she never got to see Mr. Hyde. There are still scars on the walls of the manor where I threw things that narrowly missed members of the staff. Theodore and Alex are the only ones who actually stuck around, but Alex almost didn’t. Theodore was like a second father to me, though, so I suppose his affection for me runs deeper.

I wonder what will happen after the divorce is finalized. Will I go into another dark spiral? The last one lasted from age ten to twenty-five. Fifteen years of rage.

A scowl sears my lips. Leaden feet carry me down one side of the double staircase to the foyer. My driver, Alex, is waiting for me