The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance (17 page)

Cloning had been considered a fair solution to the drop in population, but there were flaws – especially in the intellectual capacity of the subjects. And until those flaws were corrected, the Federation could not rely upon clones for the perpetuation of the human species.

The group had decided that the creator of Fusion XJ could not be allowed to invent his process. GreenPiece’s scientists had calculated the likely consequences of Fusion XJ’s absence. Population growth would remain steady, due to death from war and disease. There would be no artificial decline due to a genetically engineered aversion to sex.

“Correct. D499-DG-098 is the logical choice to go. He is a temporal-spatial physicist,” said M277, sitting on her sleek white sofa, wearing the white uni-suit that was identical to everyone else’s, “and with his interest in history, he knows States better than any of us.”

“United
States,” D499 muttered. He’d studied the available information, but the documentation was fragmented, with very few info-discs that survived the terrible wars of the twenty-third century. D499 believed the year he needed to visit would be fraught with the dangers of violence and disease. The people of that long-ago era allowed their emotions – and their libido – to rule their actions. It was likely to be absolute hell.

“My mistake,” M277 said. “
United
States. Now that our data is in, it is imperative that we act.”

D499 knew it was his duty to go. Someone had to stop the man who would invent Fusion XJ, and change the course of the world.

Time travel was not exactly trivial, but it was not the impossibility pronounced by scientists all through the Technical Age. Certainly, it posed problems, but they were solved by the advent of the
computrons,
the thinking machines that were immeasurably superior to the computers of the Technical Age. He was a physicist in the Knowledge Age and, as every Federee knew, knowledge was power.

“I’m prepared to go,” D499 said. He knew that people of the distant past used family names. There were no Identi-Checks, and people exchanged currency for goods and services.

“Do you need time to make preparations?” M277-CZ-398 asked.

D499 shook his head. Expecting to be the one chosen to go, he’d already considered what he needed to do to fit in. He’d made arrangements. “No. Just a few hours to assemble what I’ll need to take with me.”

“Then we’ll meet in the Old Town factory at first light.”

For the past two years, D499 had added an additional hour of exercise to his daily regimen of swimming and running, in the likelihood that he would be called upon for this mission. He’d wanted to be ready, both physically and mentally, for the task. An added benefit of his weight-lifting and vigorous Aten-Ra exercises was that his physical fatigue had helped him control the lust that often plagued him when he retired at night.

He left the group and took a transit to the Restoration Center for one last workout before his departure. Though he was the lead scientist on the Federation’s Temporal-Spatial team, he was vaguely nervous about the undertaking. “Sliding” through time was not something to be taken lightly. Creating a wormhole was no simple feat.

And there was a possibility that they had some of the historical details wrong. Andrew Gibson-Booth might not have done his breakthrough work on Fusion XJ in the year 2015. If that was the case, D499 might arrive a year or two late, too late to do what he needed to do. To compensate for this, his colleagues agreed that he should arrive a few years early.

He’d chosen a name, one that he’d found in his own sketchy family records. He would be Sean Dugan, and once he arrived in 2010, he would be able to use the rudimentary computers of the Technology Age to locate Andrew Gibson-Booth, and make any necessary arrangements. Perhaps the old machines could be used to create the credentials he needed to become one of Andrew Gibson-Booth’s colleagues. However he managed it, he would stop Gibson-Booth before he ever got started.

Two

Chicago. April 2010

“Where’s your backpack, Drew?” Erica Gibson-Booth asked her son. “Hurry up, honey. Mitch’s guy will be here in a minute!”

“Who is Mitch’s guy?” asked five-year-old Drew as he went into his bedroom for his pack.

Erica didn’t want to frighten her son with talk about stalkers and bodyguards. She just hoped her smarter-than-average little boy would accept a bare-minimum explanation. “He’s just a good friend of Mitch Crandall who wants to come to work with me.”

She heard a knock at the door. Looking through the peephole she saw that it was indeed the bodyguard, a man she’d never seen before, and she would have remembered this one. The guy must be six-five. He had a face that looked like it had been chiselled from granite, and those shoulders . . .

Erica felt a twinge of something that hadn’t been active in her life in a very long time, in spite of the profession she’d been forced to turn to. She hadn’t felt the pull of attraction since Andy’s fatal car accident five years before, when they were both grad students and had a promising future ahead of them.

Back when she was pregnant with Drew.

She took a deep breath and opened the door. “You’re right on time.” She put out her hand. “I’m Erica Gibson-Booth. And we’re almost ready.”

Her bodyguard’s formidable dark brows lowered over his brown eyes and he hesitated for a moment before taking her hand and looking into her eyes. “Sean Dugan,” he finally said, his voice deep, his hand warm. “Is Andrew here?”

The bottom of Erica’s stomach fell out at the strength of the man’s gaze. His hair was thick and nearly black, and he wore it short, almost military. He seemed to be in complete command, and yet he stood quietly, as though waiting for . . .

Erica gathered her wits and put away every lascivious thought that had just flown through her brain.
She
wasn’t the one with overblown hormones. It was the guys who came to drool over her when she danced. “Drew will be ready in a sec. Drew?” she called. “Come on! It’s seven-thirty!”

The apartment was so tiny that when she went into the kitchen alcove, she was standing only a few feet from Mr Dugan, who seemed to take up a great deal of space. “We’ll be ready in a moment,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable while I make this PB and J.”

But he didn’t look comfortable at all. He glanced around the apartment as though he’d never been inside an 800-feet flat before. He was almost too big for it. Too big for her apartment-sized furniture anyway, and Erica had a sudden image of him lying naked in her double bed, and taking up almost all the space.
Almost.

She cleared her throat and refocused. “I know it’s not much, but Drew and I manage.” She took bread out of a drawer and slapped together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then wrapped it in wax paper.

“Don’t say anything to Drew about why you’re here,” she said quietly as she grabbed her coat and purse, and Drew’s sweatshirt. “I don’t want to scare him.”

He frowned at that, and at the sandwich she’d just made. She was going to ask him if he wanted one, but Drew came out of the bedroom with his backpack just then, and they wasted no time heading out of the apartment. She couldn’t feed
everyone.
“Where did you park?”

“Park?” he asked.

“You didn’t drive?”

“No. I—”

“We’ll take my car, then. It’s probably better if I drive and you keep an eye out for the bald guy, anyway.” Her stalker. A man named Bernie Sandino. She’d learned his name from the cops, and knew that he used to be a prize fighter, but there wasn’t anything the police could do about him. He hadn’t made any threats, and rarely came within ten yards of her.

But he gave her the creeps, and he always seemed to be around. It was pretty obvious that he was following her. Mitch had told the bouncers at the Purple Moon to keep him out of the club, but he always seemed to be lurking nearby, after hours. “It’s a relief to have you along, Mr Dugan,” she said quietly, hoping not to alert Drew to any danger.

It was true. Sean Dugan had an imposing presence, even though he looked at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. Maybe he’s never seen a redhead?

In any case, Sandino wouldn’t dare come near her with a man like Dugan standing with her. “Did Mitch show you any pictures of the creep?”

“Creep?”

“You know, Sandino – the guy who’s been following me.”

“Uh, no.”

They walked towards Sheffield Street and when they reached the corner Erica tossed the sandwich to the homeless amputee who hung out in the same place every day. He shouted his thanks and they moved on.

“You feed the . . .”

“He’s harmless and, well, look at him. He needs help.”

She led them to her eight-year-old Corolla and unlocked the car. “Andrew, into the back.”

“I know, Mommy.”

“And you, Mr Dugan,” she said, “can ride shotgun.”

Three

D499 wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. The colours here were more vivid than any he’d seen in his time, the sounds louder and the smells far more intense. He could not get over the height of the trees. They were tall and . . .
majestic
was the only word he could think of, even though it was an archaic usage. Federation trees were mere shrubs compared to these. And they only grew in neat clusters, or straight rows that lined the laz-tracks.

The pure sensuality of the woman – Erica – was something he couldn’t possibly have anticipated. She wore a light blue sweater, which hugged feminine curves that had obviously been bred out of the women of
AD
2743, and black pants, which fitted her like a second skin. He felt the punch of something hot and sultry, and so intense he could barely swallow.

She had red hair.
Red.
It was something D499 – or rather, Sean – had never seen before. It looked smooth and glassy like sheets of styron, and had streaks of gold running through it. Amazing. Her eyes were green and her lips were full and pink. Sean’s gaze was drawn to them so often, she was sure to notice if he didn’t get his bewilderment – and his Deviant urges – under control.

With the assumptions she’d made about him, he hadn’t had to use the ruse he’d come up with to get close to Andrew. But he wasn’t quite sure what she expected of him.

In consternation, he dragged one hand across his mouth and got into the vehicle, folding his long legs uncomfortably into the small space. She had the engine started before he could bring himself to turn back and look at the child whom she’d called Andrew.
Could this be the Andrew Gibson-Booth he’d come for?

“Buckle up, Mr Dugan,” said the boy.

He didn’t know what the child was talking about, and in his hesitation Erica leaned over him and reached for some sort of wide belt hidden beside his shoulder, which she pulled across him and fastened into a metal holder that lay between their two seats.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as she did so, taking in the pleasant scent of what could only be her warm, feminine body. Scents that had all but disappeared in his time.

What a mistake that was.

She drove out into the street and Sean turned his attention to the business at hand. “Where is the boy’s father?” he asked Erica. Even her name was sensual, the sound of it resonating through his brain almost as much as her enthralling scent.

“My daddy went to heaven before I was born,” Andrew said.

Sean tried to mask his shock. He knew that the father of the man who’d developed Fusion XJ had died a few months prior to his son’s birth. Which meant that the child –
this child –
was the inventor.

And Sean was meant to stop him, using whatever method he deemed necessary. Many of the members of GreenPiece believed Andrew Gibson-Booth would have to be killed.

Sean swallowed hard. He was no child-killer. But what was he supposed to do? GreenPiece had sent him back to deal with the scientist who’d invented Fusion XJ. Clearly, the records they’d pieced together were wrong. Gibson-Booth must have patented the process years later, certainly
not
in 2015, as they’d concluded. Sean had come twenty or thirty years too early.

The boy resembled his mother – he had fair skin, though his hair was more yellow than red. His bright, intelligent, green eyes watched the road.

Sean could easily
slide
ahead in time in order to deal with Andrew as an adult, but he could not quite bring himself to leave the Erica Gibson-Booth of 2010, possibly to face her twenty or thirty years in the future.

She drove through traffic, and Sean’s attention was violently whipped away from his quandary by the speed they were travelling in her uncontrolled vehicle. There were no laz-tracks to keep this and the rest of the speeding vehicles in place, nothing preventing them from careening into one another.

“How fast does this vehicle travel?” he asked.

Erica shot him a sidelong glance and he felt more than a small degree of alarm, wishing she would keep her eyes on the road. “You’re not from Chicago, are you?”

He swallowed, hanging on tightly to the sides of his seat. “Why do you say that?”

“Your white knuckles,” she responded with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ve been driving in this kind of traffic for a long time.”