TimeSlip

Time Slip

Caroline McCall

Blush sensuality level: This is a sensual romance (may
have explicit love scenes, but not erotic in frequency or type).

Shocked by the brutal murder of her colleague, curator
Ingrid runs for her life through the dark exhibit halls of the museum where she
works—straight into the arms of Temporal Agent Strom. He’s been sent back in
time to stop a twenty-sixth-century criminal who is stealing artifacts from the
past.

Falling in love with Ingrid wasn’t part of the mission.
Strom knows they can have no future together. Five hundred years separate them,
but the attraction that flares between the couple is impossible to resist.
Their brief, passionate affair has consequences. When Strom returns to his own
century, Ingrid must find a way to send him a message across time.

Chapter One

Winter 2524

Despite the partially regenerated arm, the man in stasis-pod
six had a body that would make a four-star general blush, something she was
trying not to do in front of a junior ensign.

Her face assumed an expressionless mask as she continued her
inspection. Floating in the clear stasis gel was two hundred and forty pounds
of Alpha Class combatant, enhanced with a titanium skeletal frame and the
latest in nanotech sensory and communications systems. His left hip was
imprinted with a small barcode denoting, rank, DNA group, education and number
of kills. The kill ratio was high, and she knew it didn’t include the ones from
his last mission. Her eyes flashed the ensign an icy stare that wiped the grin
off his face.

“His tattoos are in breach of Star Regulation 339.29.”

“Sorry, Ma’am. We usually remove them in stasis, but next
time the guys are off world they just get ‘em back on. General Holmes turns a
blind eye—”

“I am not General Holmes.”

The ensign blushed nervously. “Yes, Ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am.”

The offending artwork stretched from the left side of his
face to his hip, a swirling, intricate pattern of Celtic and Norse symbols,
merging into a wolf’s head low on his abdomen.
ATarsian wolf head. I wonder
how may women have seen that particular work of art?
Two words were
tattooed on the underside of the big toe of his right foot.

This time the general did blush.

She crossed the chamber to the spaceport window. Med Unit
One was situated on a narrow promontory away from the main space station. In
the event of a contagion or new viruses, it could be sealed off instantly, or
if there was a real emergency, jettisoned completely. Through the porthole, she
could see the vast inky darkness of space. Far below was the small blue planet
she used to call home.

“How did he lose the arm?”

“He caught it in a launch station door, rescuing one of the
hostages on Tarsus Four, Ma’am. Doc says Captain Hallstrom tore his own arm
off. Can you believe that?” The ensign eyed the sleeping form with a mixture of
admiration and revulsion.

The general could believe it. Strom was creative, intelligent
and ruthless. Three qualities he would need for his next mission. “Thank you,
Ensign. That will be all.”

She waited until she heard the swish of the automatic doors
closing behind him before she turned to face the pod again. “Central Com, this
is General Leona Hallstrom. Authorization code
one-zero-alpha-seven-alpha-zero.”

“Affirmative,” the disembodied voice of the Central Computer
System responded.

“Captain Hallstrom is being reassigned to the Department of
Temporal Security, effective immediately. Download a full cultural, security,
and language pack for early twenty-first century Earth into his memory.”

“Affirmative, please indicate precise location of next
assignment.”

“Dublin, Ireland, 2011. The Captain also requires knowledge
of archaeology and European art to doctoral standard.”

“Will that be all?”

The general looked at his sleeping face. In stasis, Strom’s
dark, sherry-colored eyes were open, which was a little disconcerting. If he
knew she was here, those eyes would quickly turn cold. Once they had looked at
her with affection, and perhaps the possibility of something more, but they
hadn’t spoken in over five years—not since she’d married his father. It was
perhaps the only time she had ever surprised him. She pursed her lips and tried
not to smile. Maybe it was time she gave him another little surprise.

“Will that be all?” Central Com’s disembodied voice came
again.

“One further requirement. The Captain also requires a
knowledge of Women’s Studies to Master’s degree level.” She didn’t want to be
around when he woke up with that one.

Early spring 2525

He heard a sudden whoosh as the stasis gel drained into a
tank below him, and Strom Hallstrom floated slowly downward until his body
rested on the base of the Medi-Pod. He flexed his left hand. It almost felt the
same. Once they had completed the tech enhancements he would be ready to return
to duty. His glance ranged downward. All present and correct, but Wolfie was
gone. Damn medi bureaucrats.

“Full report, Com.”

The micro-computer embedded in his skull replayed a series
of data across the retina of his right eye, all systems were normal. Then he
sat up abruptly, banging his head hard against the lid of the pod.

“Damn and blast. Who authorized this?”

Seventy-two hours of enhancement surgery, rehab and mission
debriefing followed. Strom was usually a patient man, but by the time they had
finished with him, he was ready to go supernova. His first officer and chief
engineer, Jake Svenson and Pete Olafson, were waiting in the lobby. Jake had
used the downtime to secure a date with two nurses for later that night. The
men jumped to their feet when he came through the door and rushed to greet him.

Jake gave him a lopsided grin. “I hate to be the one to
break it to you, Boss, but
Regen
hasn’t worked. You’re still an ugly
bastard.”

Strom clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you too. Now
let’s get out of here. I need a drink.”

* * * * *

Saturn’s Mead—it was far from Saturn or mead, but it was
cold and alcoholic and it was almost eight months since his last beer. The
bottles clustered in an ever-increasing pile in the middle of the table of the
crowded spaceport bar.

Pete’s eyes streamed with tears as he listened to the story
of Jake’s latest romantic entanglement.

Jake swigged his beer. “She said she was a twin, but I
didn’t realize that the other one was a man. That balcony sure got cold after
midnight.”

Strom sat back in his chair and laughed along with them. But
inside he felt withdrawn, somehow disconnected from the warm merriment of the
bar. The last mission had been a bitch and three months was a long time to
spend in
Regen
. It would take a while to reconnect. The server brought
another round, on the house. She tossed her long blonde hair, giving Strom a
meaningful look. Jake winked at her and nudged Strom, who shook his head.

“He never ploughs the same field twice.”

“Shut up, Pete.”

But it was too late. She had already heard him and her face
flushed as she turned away. Strom had slept with her before the last mission. A
half remembered episode of too much alcohol and random sex.

“I can’t. I take up my new post tomorrow morning.”

Strom couldn’t believe it when he was given his latest
assignment. He was due three weeks’ furlough and sick leave, but it had all
been cancelled by the Department of Temporal Security. What the fuck did they
want with him?

Pete’s face was flushed from the beer. “Ah, the DTS—the hive
of the wicked step-mother. Didn’t you and she have a thing?”

There was a crash of empty bottles as the chair disappeared
from under him, leaving Pete on his back with his legs in the air, much to the
amusement of the other drinkers. “We never had a thing.” Strom dropped a pile
of credits on the table and left the bar.

* * * * *

“Good morning, Captain, the General is expecting you.”

I bet she is.
Strom’s anger simmered just below
boiling. A sleepless night in a lumpy bunk at the flight station hadn’t helped,
and the anti-rejection meds for the tech implants in his new arm were making
him feel nauseous. Pete had commed him several times during the night to
apologize, but it wasn’t Pete’s fault. He knew that he had overreacted, and he
hated when anyone got under his skin.

General Hallstrom sat behind the antique desk; her face was
cool and expressionless, as usual. He sat down without being invited and
lounged back in his chair, knowing that his disrespect would irritate her
almost as much as if he called her mom. He would save that one for when he
really wanted to piss her off. Strom’s eyes took in the chestnut hair, folded
into a neat chignon, and the pristine uniform, which barely showed a crease.
The bitch must sleep standing up.

Leona regarded him patiently, as if he was a particularly
tiresome child. The reality was that she was barely five years older than him.

“I wanted to speak to you privately before the meeting. I
hope that you won’t let our personal relationship interfere with the mission.”
Her expression was friendly, but guarded.

His eyes narrowed. So Leona was afraid that he would damage
her precious reputation. “I never let anything interfere with the mission.”

Strom detected a flicker of hurt in her expression, but he
ignored the brief spasm of guilt. If Leona wanted to play at being friends, she
could wait ‘til Pluto melted. “Let’s get this briefing over with.”

The mission-advisory team consisted of three temporal
agents, two nerds who specialized in temporal probability studies, and an aging
historian and twenty-first-century cultural analyst. He seemed to be the only
muscle—the rest of them wouldn’t know one end of a weapon from the other. If
this was a geek outing, what did they want with him? If he agreed to take on
this mission for Leona, he would insist on having his own team with him. Strom
sat back and waited.

“First, how about we have a quick revision session on
temporal mechanics?” Leona looked pointedly at Strom.

“The simplest way to consider time is to imagine it as a
tree-like structure with an infinite number of branches, in which the future is
not yet determined. We know that a great number of factors can affect the
outcome. At the Department of Temporal Security, we work to minimize any
interventions, which would have an adverse impact on the time line we live in.”

She paused, taking a sip of water. “We also monitor
incursions into the past for illegal or terrorist purposes. Com, dim lights
please, and display file.”

The room darkened and the overhead screen lit up with the
image of a man, Raoul Jasson, one of the most notorious Cyraelian terrorists.
His clothes and hair might have been old-fashioned, but Strom would recognize that
face anywhere. The images flashed by—London, New York, Paris, Rome and finally
Dublin. The MO was the same in all cases. He presented himself as a security
specialist to international museums, relieved them of their most prized
portable treasures, replacing them with twenty-sixth century replicas. The real
treasures were sold to private collectors in his own time for millions of
credits, creating a nice little fund for Raoul and his boss, crime-lord Atam
Sorza.

The lights came back on again. Strom tapped his fingers
impatiently on the table. “Would someone like to tell me why I’m here?”

Leona looked around the table. “Gentlemen, if you could give
me five minutes alone with the Captain.”

She waited for the room to empty before sliding an archive
file across the table toward him. It was a paper photograph. Strom had seen
them in museums as a child, but he had never held one before. A smiling girl in
a garden, her long dark hair fell around her shoulders in waves. She was
utterly different from the females of his time, slender and delicate, with no
weapons enhancements and little or no muscle. She was just, soft. He could
probably break her in two with one hand.

But it was her expression that captivated him. She looked
into the camera with such love, such naked adoration in her eyes that Strom
felt like a voyeur. This was a personal image, something to hold, to treasure.
He experienced a surprising stab of jealousy for the photographer; he was
certain it was a man.

“Pretty,” he murmured. He didn’t slide the photograph back.
Instead, his hand rested lightly on the sleeve.

“Strom, look at the photograph again.”

He scanned the image, running it through his internal
database, checking it against criminals, known terrorists and missing soldiers,
nothing.

“No, Strom. Look with your eyes.” He glared impatiently at
her. What was this, a guessing game?

In the background were a few people wearing twenty-first
century clothing. He looked at the girl’s eyes again. She seemed to be looking
at him, smiling for him. She was carrying a single rose and she wore an unusual
ring on her left hand. Two wolf heads intertwined, their eyes were set with
tiny Cerulian rubies. Strom felt as though he’d been punched in the chest. It
was his grandfather’s ring—a souvenir of his first trip into deep space. The
ring had been made off-world, more than four hundred years after this
photograph was taken, and it was hanging on a chain around his neck. His finger
reached inside his uniform, it was still there.

Strom’s eyes shot up. “No chance that this is a fake?”

Leona shook her head. “I’m sorry, Strom. I’m afraid it’s
real. From what we’ve been able to find out about the girl, she’s the one who
first uncovered the museum thefts. Raoul murdered her the same year this
photograph was taken. We need you to stop him.”

Strom was surprised by the level of anger that burned
through him. He had witnessed the aftermath of battle, the horror of death
among the civilian casualties, but that was just business. This felt personal,
almost.

“Tell me.”

Leona’s expression was tinged with pity. There was something
bad coming. “Her name was Ingrid Sorenson. We believe she was your wife.”

Dublin 2011

“Calm down. Calm down. Just calm down, Sorenson.”

Ingrid repeated the words like a mantra as she crawled
slowly to the end of the storage bay. She hadn’t heard their voices for at
least five minutes, but that didn’t mean anything. They could still be here,
waiting for her. Ingrid winced, her knees hurt from crawling along the concrete
floor. The sheer stockings and short dress weren’t exactly designed for running
away from killers and the blood on her hands had already started to dry. Ingrid
suppressed a cry as she looked at the dark stains, David’s blood.