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  Praise for The Continuum

  “Nikel’s inventive spin on time travel and eye for sumptuous detail make her writing a treat to read.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The Continuum packs a staggering amount of well drawn world-building into a short space, making for enough time travel adventure to launch a series…full of heart, humor, and thrilling action and adventure scenes that make for a fun, fast read.”

  —Foreword Reviews

  “Nikel’s time travel narrative is brisk and energetic, with a relatively straightforward and action oriented plot…those interested in a light and enjoyable SF read in the style of popular time-travel tropes such as Doctor Who should give it a look.”

  —IndiePicks Magazine

  “Fans of Jules Verne, Dr. Who and Quantum Leap (minus the body jumping) should settle in for a time traveling puzzle that keeps our heroine on her toes.”

  —Tangent Online

  “Nikel is a solid writer with vivid description, an imaginative future, and a command of accurate historical speech.”

  —Unreliable Narrators

  The Continuum

  Elise Morley is an expert on the past who’s about to get a crash course in the future.

  For years, Elise has been donning corsets, sneaking into castles, and lying through her teeth to enforce the Place in Time Travel Agency’s ten essential rules of time travel. Someone has to ensure that travel to the past isn’t abused, and most days she welcomes the challenge of tracking down and retrieving clients who have run into trouble on their historical vacations.

  But when a dangerous secret organization kidnaps her and coerces her into jumping to the future on a high-stakes assignment, she’s got more to worry about than just the time-space continuum. For the first time ever, she’s the one out-of-date, out of place, and quickly running out of time.

  The Continuum

  A Place in Time Novella (#1)

  Wendy Nikel

  World Weaver Press

  Copyright Notice

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of World Weaver Press.

  THE CONTINUUM

  Copyright © 2018 Wendy Nikel

  All rights reserved.

  Published by World Weaver Press, LLC

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  www.WorldWeaverPress.com

  Cover layout and design by Sarena Ulibarri

  Cover images used under license from Shutterstock.com.

  First edition: January 2018

  Also available in paperback - ISBN-13: 978-0998702223

  ASIN (mobi): B076R9Z6DS

  B&N ISBN (ePub): 2940154866757

  Kobo ISBN (ePub): 1230001974454

  This novella contains works of fiction; all characters and events are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Please respect the rights of the author and the hard work they’ve put into writing this book: Do not copy. Do not distribute. Do not post or share online. If you like this book and want to share it with a friend, please consider buying an additional copy.

  THE CONTINUUM

  THE PLACE IN TIME TRAVEL AGENCY’S TEN ESSENTIAL RULES OF TIME TRAVEL

  1. Travelers must return to their original era as scheduled.

  2. Travelers are prohibited from Jumping to any time they have already experienced.

  3. Travel dates must be prior to the traveler’s birth.

  4. Travel within the Black Dates is prohibited.*

  5. Only pre-approved objects may be taken into the past.

  6. Travelers are prohibited from disclosing information about PITTA or its excursions.

  7. Travelers are prohibited from disclosing any foreknowledge to people of the past.

  8. Travelers must avoid all unnecessary fraternization with people of past eras.

  9. Extractions must occur in secure, unobservable locations.

  10. After Extraction, clients must immediately return their Wormhole Devices to PITTA headquarters.

  *for complete list of Black Dates, see PITTA handbook Appendix B

  THE PAST

  CHAPTER ONE:

  April 9, 1912

  The imposing Romanesque architecture reminds me of a fairy-tale castle, with its arched windows, parapets, and rough-faced stone. Vines crawl up a corner tower, and the scents of freesia and lilac waft through the air. As I climb the steps, I search for signs of life but see none aside from the pair of sparrows hopping boldly across a stone lion’s nose.

  I rap on a door knocker, and my gaze follows the flow of etched swirls and vines that encircle the doorway and meet at the top with an elaborate capstone of a face. It glares down at me as if it knows I don’t belong here.

  The door shudders and the handle rattles so violently that when it creaks open I’m startled by the tiny, narrow-faced woman peering out from behind it.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  It’s show time.

  I flash my warmest smile and carefully consider my accent before speaking. “I wish to speak with Miss van Grete.”

  It isn’t her real name, of course. Not that anyone in 1912 would recognize the twenty-something pop star, but one can never be too careful when touring the past.

  “Who’s calling?” the maid asks.

  “My name is Elise Morley. Marie and I knew one another in New York, and when I read of her engagement in the paper this morning, I simply had to stop by and congratulate her personally. Is she home?”

  I pull the clipping from today’s Daily Telegraph from between the pages of my notebook. It’s proof of the client’s infractions, starting with the fact that she’s still here when she ought to have already returned from her little vacation. When I Jumped back to 1912 New York to Retrieve her, I discovered she’d relocated to London, where she’d somehow convinced an influential businessman that she was his long-lost niece. What’s worse, she also won the heart of a local gentleman, known for his scientific genius and his family’s sizeable fortune.

  Her blatant disregard for the Rules is the worst I’ve ever seen.

  The maid nudges the door open further, but her slight frame still blocks my view. “Very sorry, miss. She left with her fiancé yesterday. He’s arranged a trip for the two of them as a surprise engagement gift.”

  A new hire, then, obviously. Any seasoned domestic servant would know better than to gossip with her employers’ callers.

  “Will they return soon?”

  “Afraid not. They’re bound for America, so he might ask her father for her hand in marriage face to face.”

  Curious, considering her father hasn’t been born yet.

  “Of course! How very proper. I do hate that I missed an opportunity to see her, though.” Again, I silently fume. “When do they depart?”

  I check my PITTA-issued watch, which displays not only the current time and date, but also the time and date in my own present. April 9. I’m running out of time.

  “Noon tomorrow. Out of Southampton.” She beams at me and leans in closer, as if imparting a great secret. “They will be crossing on the Titanic!”

  Fortunately, she obviously misreads my horrified expression for surprise and continues. “I’ve been reading about it in the papers for weeks and would never have expected Miss Marie would have the luck of being one of its first passengers. Oh, not that the master couldn’t afford the tickets himself.”

  “Of course.” I’m only half-listening. Dr. Wells is not going to be happy about this.

  “But he is always too busy to travel, and Miss Marie will
be delighted at all of the wonderful amenities. And the company they shall keep!”

  I nod absentmindedly as she rattles off the names and occupations of all the Duff-Gordons and Ismays and Rothschilds and Strauses and Hayses who will be aboard. The names clatter around in my brain, and I try to recall which of them will survive.

  “Were they going directly to Southampton from here?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her head bobbles up and down. “They booked rooms at the South Western Hotel.”

  “Thank you so much for your help. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall see what trains are running to Southampton. Perhaps I may even catch a glimpse of this famous Titanic myself.”

  CHAPTER TWO:

  April 10, 1912

  The South Western Hotel’s lobby is vast and luxurious, appropriate lodging for the first-class passengers awaiting their voyage. Chandeliers hang from coffered ceilings, and above each door, half-moon scenes of Greek mythology give the room a classical air. The excitement of the Titanic’s departure tingles through the groups of waiting travelers, manifesting itself in hushed whispers and nervous laughter, as porters scramble around them.

  I check my watch. 11:00 A.M. on April 10, 1912. The wrongness of my presence here weighs on me. It’s a Black Date, one of the periods of time that Dr. Wells has deemed too dangerous or too pivotal in history to risk traveling. Linchpins, one might say. I’m stuck with two terrible options, but in this case, leaving Marie van Grete here alone seems the more dangerous choice.

  “Pardon me?” I lean against the front desk’s polished surface.

  “How may I help you?” Exhaustion overshadows the clerk’s face, though he tries admirably to hide it.

  “A friend of mine has a room here, and I wondered—”

  “Sorry, miss,” he says, as if sensing my intentions. “I’m not permitted to give out room numbers.”

  “Of course not! I only wish to know if Miss van Grete has departed for the docks yet.” I bat my eyelashes at him.

  He hesitates but turns to his records. “She has not yet turned in her key.”

  “Oh, thank goodness! You’ve been ever so helpful!” I beam at him. I’m rewarded with a hint of a smile as he returns to his work.

  I stand guard over the lobby, my toes tapping impatiently against the sea-green rug. Finally, she appears, gliding through the doorway on a gentleman’s arm as if walking a red carpet. She whispers to him, and he laughs in response.

  Her carelessness unsettles me. Most runaway clients would be watching over their shoulder, suspicious that any stranger might be the Retrieval Specialist sent to apprehend them. She has to know we’ll be coming; it’s in the contract.

  I follow them out the door, strategizing how to get her alone, even for a moment, so I can complete the Extraction without breaking yet another Rule. Southampton’s bustling Canute Road is hardly a “secure, private location.”

  Her companion’s top hat bobs through the crowd, making it easy to keep them in sight. Finally, an opportunity arises. Just before the harbor comes into view, a second man joins them, slapping Marie’s fiancé on the back so forcefully he nearly drops the black, leather-bound journal he’s carrying. The gentlemen laugh and shake hands, but their animated conversation isn’t loud enough to hear over the crowd.

  A small boy of about eight years old rushes by. I grab his shoulder.

  “Hey! Lemme go!” He glares up at me through tangled blonde curls, and I know instantly that he’ll fit the task perfectly.

  “See that woman over there?” I point to Marie.

  He nods, lips still clamped shut.

  I quickly count out a few coins into my palm, careful to keep one eye on Marie and her companions. “I’ll give you three-halfpence to knap that woman’s handbag.” The boy gawks at me.

  “Are you off your onion?” He pulls away, but his gaze never leaves the coins. “You must think me a juggins, askin’ me to flimp that haybag, what with ‘er flash toff right there, an’ all the crushers out today!”

  “Oh, tosh! A fine tooler like yourself; you’d do it even without my encouragement!”

  “Fo’ no less than a sprat.”

  “Done.” I hand him the coins. He shoots me one final squinty-eyed look before running off and nearly knocks Marie over before disappearing into the crowd.

  “Allen! That boy stole my purse!” Marie points in the direction where he’d disappeared. I wait, muscles tensed.

  A frown wrinkles the gentleman’s brow, and he signals for his porter. He lowers his head to speak briskly and watches with grim resolve as the hired man darts off towards the nearest cluster of policemen. I curse under my breath. Of course the gentleman would delegate the work to the lower classes. He gives Marie a pat on the arm, reassures her in hushed tones, and leads her towards the White Star Dock’s Berth 44.

  As I round the corner, there it is. The enormous mass of steel and machinery looks so noble, so deceptively steadfast. The smokestacks form a perfect line, like four giant tin soldiers standing guard, and flags flutter up and down its length, lending a festive air.

  My eyes are drawn to the first-class promenade deck and to the skeletal davits emerging from it, reaching out over the edge. I squint, trying to count each one and imagining the lifeboats—far too few—that will be lowered from them in a mere matter of days. I have to Retrieve Marie. Now.

  A crowd of thousands has converged on the dock, and I wedge myself between two men in bowler hats to keep Marie in my line of sight. The crowd threatens to smother me as it surges forward towards the gangways where the passengers are boarding the ship.

  “Oh! Allen,” Marie says, “I had a letter for Aunt Clara in my bag. I do hope the police find it before we set sail. Perhaps you could persuade the captain to send a telegram for me while on board? Aunt Clara would be thrilled to receive a message from the middle of the ocean. That would more than compensate for the loss of the letter.”

  “Anything for you, Mademoiselle.” Allen presses her fingers to his lips. He gestures to their party’s third member, a man with sharp features similar to his own. “Henry met Captain Smith at a party last spring; perhaps he can arrange an introduction.”

  “I found the captain to be a fine gentleman.” Henry takes off his spectacles and shines them on a handkerchief. “His retirement will be quite the loss for the White Star Line.”

  “Always the pessimist,” Allen chides.

  Henry frowns, his forehead wrinkling beneath his black top hat. Strangely, it seems to me his scowl is directed more at Marie than Allen, but she’s too busy tugging on her beloved’s arm to notice.

  “Allen, look! It’s Ida Straus!” She unhooks her arm from his and melts into the mass of people. Henry, meanwhile, has drawn Allen’s attention away with a question about the quantities of coal needed for the voyage. This may be my best chance.

  “Miss van Grete?” I say softly, taking hold of her arm. The men’s deep voices resonate through the crowd, and Marie glances over her shoulder at them before giving me a puzzled look.

  “Do I know you?”

  “I work for a travel agency in New York. You are a client of ours.”

  Normally at this point, a wayward traveler’s fight or flight defense mechanisms kick in. I tense, ready to block her escape, but she simply blinks at me.

  Something’s not right.

  “Truly? Oh, you must have a fabulous memory for faces.” She smiles warmly. “I am sorry to admit that I cannot recall much about my previous voyage at all!”

  “Here.” I pull one of the orbs out of my handbag: a Wormhole Device. Its surface is charcoal black, sleek, nearly liquid in appearance, except for one tiny circle indentation.

  “What—?” She reaches for it, but the crowd surges forward, jostling us. Allen turns, searching for her.

  “Darling, you wandered off. We must be more careful; I’d hate to lose you in this crowd.” He tucks his journal under his arm and reaches for her. She allows him to steer her g
ently back towards the line. His eyes linger on me, and I hurriedly tuck the device into my handbag. His mouth tightens under his sleek black mustache. How much did he see?

  “Of course, Allen.” Marie nods a parting to me and, arm in arm, they weave their way back to Henry. I watch, powerless, as they climb the steps of the gangway.

  I can’t let her board that ship. I push through the crowd as the trio approaches the upper gangplank that extends from the shore to the ship. Allen releases Marie’s arm so they can climb single-file onto the steel structure. His attention is on his conversation with Henry as they step out over the water. I pick up my skirts to run.

  “Oh, my!” A gray-haired woman gasps as I push past her. The pug curled in her arms yaps and strains toward me. So much for blending in.

  My mind races. I try to put together a scenario where I don’t end up breaking yet another Rule. It’s too late, I realize with a sinking feeling. I should’ve been more aggressive. I should’ve called for backup. I should’ve acted sooner.

  I’ve nearly reached them as Henry disappears into the ship. Allen fumbles in his waistcoat pocket for their boarding passes. They’re mere steps from the ship.

  Disregarding her alarmed gasp, I grab Marie’s arm. In one swift motion, I pull the Wormhole from my bag and thrust it into her palm. She looks at it, then up at me with eyes wide and pink lips parted in surprise. With a reassuring nod, I press her thumb down on the button.

  In a flash of light, she disappears.

  Allen drops his journal, its thump on the gangplank barely audible over the crowd’s chatter. A glimmer of light reflects off the silver compass rose embossed on its cover. A quick look over my shoulder assures me that the density and excitement of the crowd has worked to my advantage; no one else seems to have noticed a woman blink out of existence. Except Allen.