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  She dove into the stream with the echo of something stinging against her protective shields. It broke about a thousand Council imperatives—including the one about making sure no one knew she’d been there—but she didn’t have time for absurdities. Besides, hard to fix that mess without time pause ability. So there. Lurch didn’t distract her with a memory download but did let her feel his urgency to acquire the target. When Smith had flashed out ahead of his takedown, Lurch had started to swear in about twenty of his available billion languages—something both distracting and prolonged.

  This time she didn’t make the mistake of getting too close to her target. She didn’t completely escape it when another one of those things came back at them, but she only went top over tail once. When she caught up with Smith, she was going to get her some of those things. And use one on him. Once stopped she caught a scent of Constilinium, though slightly different from the previous smelling.

  Don’t get distracted. Lurch was still hot for Smith. It seemed he had a temper, too. Ashe let the scent simmer at the back of her brain while she kicked back onto the trail, taking it even slower. It was a good decision. She had time to brake before she fell into the void. It was as if someone had gouged out a piece of time, leaving a big jagged hole, a place where time felt…dead.

  Do I go in?

  Another prolonged hesitation from Lurch. Ashe drifted in the time stream, felt eddies nudge her against the void, but they stopped at the edge, washing back on her like waves against a shore. She let the current take her a short distance, first one direction, then the other, trying to pick up the trail again, but everything appeared to stop at the brink. It was possible she couldn’t go in.

  Let’s follow your energy trail. His concession was heavy with reluctance, but it was the only answer. If Smith had gone into the void, she lacked the skill or knowledge to follow him. And without a trail, it wasted their time—which was a weird thought to have when all of time streamed around her. She turned back, though she didn’t kick into high. If Smith had backtracked on his own trail, there could be new traps.

  What do you know about those automatons?

  Something is very wrong.

  Really? I hadn’t noticed. The automatons?

  If you’d asked me that before we set out on the “drill,” I’d have told you they were a fictional device most often in steampunk literature and some movies of Earth late 20th and early 21st century.

  Yeah, they didn’t look fictional. She pondered what they knew, which didn’t take long. And they are hostile to nanites.

  I had noticed.

  His concern lived inside her, as tangible as her beating heart as she backtracked. The scent of the Constilinium was both strong and easy to follow, but like everything she’d faced in her current pursuit, it got odd when she crossed back over Smith’s trail. It’s like time is stuttering, she mentally muttered, looking at the three trails her nose had identified. If Smith was striking across time, that might explain the tremors striking the base. There were theories about coordinated time assaults but those theories didn’t list signs, since no one had observed a time assault event—that she knew of. Nothing she’d read matched what was happening, so either someone was hiding data or it was new.

  Which one should I follow?

  No way to know. Pick one.

  One bent away from Earth, one headed straight for it. She tried to relax, to let her instincts kick on as she studied one of the trails.

  The age of the tracks varied. People-caused time events faded quickly from the stream, but minerals and energy signatures tended to linger in the stream, the trail intensifying if the track was multi-traveled. This was definitely a multi-traveled route. It was the pointer she needed. If Smith was messing with Earth time across the stream, if he was involved with taking down trackers and killing nanites, she had to stop him. She might be mostly Garradian, but it was heavily mixed with Earth bloodlines. They messed with Earth, they messed with her past, too.

  And it was possible they were the only ones left to mess with him back.

  THIRTEEN

  It was a crash course in “all hell breaking loose,” when Robert thought he was already an expert. And it seemed hell had many faces, one of them involving a metal “bug.”

  It shuddered and it shook.

  Metal shrieked.

  Rivets groaned.

  Robert gripped Emily, grateful but not confident in the straps as centrifugal force tried to throw them from the chair. He braced his feet against a floor that felt…gone. He’d lost his footing once and didn’t like it, but this wasn’t that. This wasn’t a fall into that crazy. This was a tumble into a different kind of insanity.

  Space yanked them one direction.

  Stretched them another.

  It pulled them all directions—then it didn’t.

  Shards of color-filled light stabbed and darted around them. Some came in bursts, others in long lines pointing to infinity. It bent into angles he tried to calculate, but they changed too fast. At times the light was so bright, he had to squint, but he was determined to see as much as possible. He needed data to figure out what had gone wrong and what was supposed to be right. He needed data to understand.

  He needed data.

  It was their curse—he and Delilah—and their blessing, though it was less of a curse thanks to the nanites.

  Through it Emily stared, too. Her head tilted back against his shoulder, turning to follow the various changes, her eyes wide, her mouth open just enough to be cute.

  The nanites…stabilized him…no, them. That’s why the pulling had stopped. Robert felt it, felt their position in an eye of this strange storm, one that kept them with it, but not completely part of it. Even as the man he’d been, the scientist he was, inhaled the data—and yes, felt fear and awe at what happened around him—other senses kicked on and remained on.

  It seemed the download from Delilah had been more successful than they could reasonably expect. He’d reacted far above his normal skill set. Her downloaded skills had shifted into high even before he’d seen the attack, seconds before he’d heard the attack. He’d sensed it on a gut level, though he’d tried to ignore it. Other senses, less lethal senses, had wished to keep kissing Emily. But through the kiss, his body had…changed into this hybrid of who he was now and who his sister had been. He’d known how to approach the opening to minimize risk.

  He knew his normal speed. Knew he’d exceeded it. Liked it. Knew his arms were full of woman. Liked that a lot. He held her while time and space bent around them. The strain on his arms, on the straps that held them in the chair, and on the machine reached breaking point…and then…stopped. The lights flickered twice, then steadied at about half what they’d been before the machine activated. Silence outside, and inside only their breathing and soft hissing from the steam engine. Emily didn’t move for longer than he’d expected, except for her eyes. They moved. Her finally asking would be unexpected, so expecting her to finally ask a question would be expecting the unexpected wouldn’t it?

  Not really.

  Nice try though.

  He almost frowned, sensing something different with the nanites, but before he could put his mental finger on what had changed, Emily lowered her chin, taking her time. Her head angled so her gaze could meet his, presenting a profile that pleased. In that gaze he expected…not delight. She was delighted?

  She fumbled for the straps and wriggled her way off his lap—leaving physical disarray in the process—dropping like a cat on the machine’s metal decking, the tremor so slight, had he not been attuned to it, he might not have felt it. She moved like an athlete he realized, because she wasn’t that light.

  Don’t tell her that.

  Even I know better than that. Didn’t he? In case he didn’t…Thanks.

  You are welcome.

  “That was totally smoking cool.”

  Her smile beamed out on high, calling his attention to her mouth. She spun in a circle that looked like dancing, laughing with s
oft delight. He’d kissed that red mouth he realized. Grabbed her like a teenager—embarrassment started to burn his cheekbones—she turned to face him, her mouth just shy of contact with his. His brows drew together. Not as red as before. More in the pink range now—

  “I need my iPod. This so calls for a slamming victory dance.” She jinked her hips both directions, then stopped halfway through and dug a handkerchief out of one of the pockets of her cargos. She jumped to his side as if she could hardly contain her delight. His instincts jumped as the garish square headed for his face.

  “What—” The question choked off when her free hand cupped his cheek, nudging his chin up.

  “My lipstick is supposed to be non-smear, but…” her voice trailed off as she focused on applying soft cotton to his mouth. Her look of intent ignited a desire to engage in further lipstick transferring behavior except it appeared he’d gotten most of it that first time.

  She rubbed her bare thumb across his lower lip. “There.”

  Her hand lingered against his face for a few seconds before falling to her side. He swallowed twice before he managed, “Thanks.”

  “Well, I did help put it there.”

  Her head was at optimum angle again, though her body position was less than ideal. It could be managed, but it was her eyes that caught his gaze and stopped him from acting on what he wanted. From this angle they appeared slanted, exotic, the dark makeup she’d applied increasing the contrast between eyes and skin that was almost white. She appeared pleased to be close, but he had yet to see something that didn’t please her. And looking at her was pleasant, not as good as kissing, but still excellent.

  She made a face, her chin lifting as if the ceiling held some answer he couldn’t see.

  “What?” his voice husky, his core temperature climbing.

  “It’s okay that my grandma was right, because, you know, she’s my grandma, but my mother was right. That’s so wrong. Not forever, but there is a progression. I should get to be older before my mom gets to be right. It’s like cosmic wrong, while still managing to be totally cool.”

  None of his impossibly high IQ helped him understand what she’d just said.

  “What?” He produced with the word with extreme caution, understanding on some level why Emily might have trouble with questions.

  “She was right about Uncle E. He was a genius.”

  “Right. This is true. He was.” He paused. “Perhaps we should ascertain where we are.” He managed this without having to clear his throat. She wanted to dance and he sounded like a prig.

  It wasn’t that bad. Wynken said it, though the tone lacked conviction.

  Yes it was. Blynken sounded more something, though not sympathetic. Robert got distracted by Emily’s lower lip losing alignment with the upper. The slight protrusion fascinated. Her words cleared the forming fog.

  “You know where we are.”

  That she could ask, without asking was, he realized, an art form. Emily art.

  “No.” His gaze lifted from her mouth to her eyes. He had a couple of suspicions, but he didn’t know. He had a sense of not liking not knowing that wasn’t like him. For a scientist, not knowing was a state of being that sometimes led to knowing, but just as often didn’t. He’d been to another galaxy, so he shouldn’t feel apprehensive about what might wait outside and he didn’t exactly. He felt confident and worried but what worried him, other than the obvious concerns about Smith?

  Disappointing Emily.

  How did Blynken know this? He lifted his gaze, hoping to drag his attention with it, settling focus on her hair. He needed a break from the intensity, the insistence of her nova bright gaze. The odd mix of dark hair with a splash of rainbow seemed almost normal now that he knew her almost an hour and one kiss better. On some level he knew that he was responding from his experience with women, which was sixteen years and six months, give or take a few minutes. But he also knew that even if he’d lived the years he’d lost, he’d still be here, in this moment, with this woman and no clue what to do about it.

  She reached up and pulled one of the devices snaking down from the ceiling. Thanks to his briefing, he knew it was a sort of periscope.

  “What do you see?” he asked, because he knew she wouldn’t.

  “Not much.” Her frown told him more than words. “It’s…dark.”

  His frown matched hers, though the root source differed because he knew more about what was possible. The lost hours indicated another time shift, unless they were on the other side of the world. Would Twitchet have pushed the bounds of the device that far?

  She shifted the periscope so he could look. His hand brushed hers as control transferred, her scent circling him like a slow moving hug. He applied his eyes to the proper spots, but it took a few seconds for his vision to clear enough for him to see. Not that he needed it to clear. She was correct. It was dark. He shifted back, meeting Emily’s “I told you so” look from far too close for true clarity of thought.

  He cleared his throat. It didn’t help. “So.”

  This brought out the low beam smile but its effect on him? It might as well have been high beam. It felt like circuits in his head were spontaneously unplugging. The…peeps—it felt right to call them that now that he’d more fully integrated his Delilah memories—weren’t helping him out this time. They just sat and watched him deconstruct. He did manage to refrain from grabbing her again however.

  Her smile gentled. “You’re a nice man, Robert.”

  Ouch.

  Thanks for pointing out the obvious, he shot back.

  She turned and bent over the GPS. She’d left her coat off—he could see it crumpled in a corner—so the view was…nice. He’d held her dressed like that. He tried to remember if his hand had, at any time, touched her bare skin, and couldn’t. He’d remember that, wouldn’t he? Cause he’d hate to have done it and missed it.

  “Where are we?” He managed to sound almost normal, though his core temperature was still in the uncomfortable range.

  “According to the GPS, we’re in New Mexico.” She straightened.

  So they had experienced a time shift. But to when? New Mexico. Could that be where the device was heading prior to the impact with the wormhole? “Where—”

  Before he could finish the question, she’d typed something into the Mapulator Retrieval Device’s ancient typewriter. A map emerged, suspended on two rods. One of the rods stayed fixed, while the other slid along a track until the map was fully exposed.

  “That just couldn’t ever get old,” Emily said.

  He jumped up, bending to look, almost at the same time she did, but he didn’t know the numbers to look for, so he managed to pull back before whacking her in the head. And it was a big globe, small spot.

  Emily studied it for twenty-five seconds before looking at him, her nose less than an inch from his. “We’re not far from Roswell. This gets better and better.”

  Something about her expression said he should know this Roswell. They straightened at the same time, managing to stay close enough to impede his mental processes.

  Think for yourself. Our mental processes are just fine.

  So the peeps had mastered sarcasm. Great.

  “Roswell?”

  Her brows arched. “Color me dumbfounded, sweetie.”

  Sweetie. She called me sweetie. That’s good, isn’t it? The peeps seemed to agree, while admitting it was outside their experience paradigm. “I don’t get out a lot.” He tried to come up with a non-priggish way to ask. Had to settle for a prompting repeat of, “Roswell?”

  “July 1947. The Roswell saucer crash and cover-up. The birth and beginning point of all alien conspiracy theories. Area 51?”

  Area 51 was the only thing he recognized. Nineteen-forty-seven? Olivia and Cary’s collision had occurred in 1944. Was there a connection? He frowned. Case could be made for or against—

  The other dent. Could there have been two collisions? Neither Carey nor Olivia had mentioned a second impact or noticed the
other dent. Of course, Carey had been inside the device, but hadn’t ridden the device while it was in motion. It could have hit something during unmanned travel. Alien conspiracy theories.

  He thought he knew about aliens, but he might be wrong about that.

  * * * *

  “What went wrong?” The tone was mild, the chill in the air pronounced.

  Smith stared directly into a gaze as mild as the tone. He didn’t fool himself it meant anything good. “Everything.”

  The gaze tracked to the single automaton. A brow arched.

  “The machine is traveling through time.” The master’s inscrutable became briefly less than. Smith took encouragement from it, though he didn’t let it show. “At first I thought we’d gone back to the Twitchet’s warehouse, but there was a team there. Well trained. One armed with an energy weapon. One of them from my last encounter. He knew my name.”

  The other brow rose. “Interesting. It is possible you visited the museum I spoke of.”

  The sense of menace eased somewhat, but Smith didn’t relax as he described the firefight, the arrival of the tracker. That brought the brows down and close together. He didn’t ask Smith to provide a description. A tracker, with gear deployed, was a silver blob, and then he’d activated his camo and blended with the Earth team. Smith didn’t comment on the snares or asked if someone had been missed. Not his job.

  “They were deployed in teams,” the master said, more to himself than Smith. “But those who eluded the traps should have headed for the stations. Would one of them disobey orders?” He sighed, as if weary with the details.

  Smith knew he wasn’t.

  “When they arrive, I’ll know if anyone eluded the snares.” The frown returned. “There shouldn’t have been anyone capable of challenging your team left.”

  Smith tensed. “I followed procedure.”