To resuscitate his fading celebrity, tech CEO Stephen Lucas would sell his soul for one more hit. When the subspace network for his holographic gaming empire crashes, his hardware guru makes a discovery proving that Einstein was right once againâ information can be sent backward in time.
Lucas sees a dream product for procrastinators. Want a pizza now? Send your order back in time 30 minutes. Forgot to make reservations at that chichi french restaurant two weeks ago? No worries. Buy that PowerBall ticket. Invest in that stock. Make a FaceTime call to a loved one that passed away a month ago.
It's the time machine for the rest of us.
In a culture built on instant gratification, Lucas knows he has a hit that will make Wall Street sit up and beg. But when he rushes into beta testing, he learns that the stuff dreams are made of can quickly become the stuff of nightmares.
To resuscitate his fading celebrity, tech CEO Stephen Lucas would sell his soul for one more hit. When the subspace network for his holographic gaming empire crashes, his hardware guru makes a discovery proving that Einstein was right once againâ information can be sent backward in time.
Lucas sees a dream product for procrastinators. Want a pizza now? Send your order back in time 30 minutes. Forgot to make reservations at that chichi french restaurant two weeks ago? No worries. Buy that PowerBall ticket. Invest in that stock. Make a FaceTime call to a loved one that passed away a month ago.
It's the time machine for the rest of us.
In a culture built on instant gratification, Lucas knows he has a hit that will make Wall Street sit up and beg. But when he rushes into beta testing, he learns that the stuff dreams are made of can quickly become the stuff of nightmares.
No one is an asshole all of the time.
Even the most epic asshole has moments in which, or people to whom, they are not an asshole, not even a smidgeon. Conversely, even the most kindhearted person is capable of being an asshole when the wind turns a certain way. So it was with Bobby Erskine of Clarksdale Crossroads, California. A straight-A student at Clarksdale Crossroads Intermediate, he sang in the choir at the Jamison United Methodist Church and sold popcorn with Troop 0443. He was, by all accounts, a good and dependable boy of twelve. He was no saint, but neither was he much of a sinner.
His earPods were delivering Green Dayâs âAmerican Idiotâ at 112 decibels as he struggled to tip the top pallet onto the stack. He pushed and twisted to square them into a proper tower. He thought they looked cool when aligned, so he arranged them into a nearly perfect wind tunnel. Then he found the mason jar of paint thinner.
Bobbyâs older brother, Ernest, who was working after school at the nearby big-box hardware store, had hidden a stash of illegal fireworks in the barn. Bobby knew he wouldnât have an opportunity to light them when Ernest was around until at least the Fourthâover a month away. When the vision of setting all those pallets ablaze with a volley of fireballs from a roman candle popped into his head that afternoon, Bobby knew he had to seize the day. Carpe diem.
With the pallet tower doused in half a pint of paint thinner, Bobby walked back to the box of fireworks, pulled out his dadâs lighter, and eyed his target. The tower stood in the middle of his familyâs parched pasture. It was going to go up like nobodyâs business. The black, yellow, and red paper-wrapped cardboard tube was emblazoned with flaming red letters declaring it âThe Devilâs Bargain,â a ten-shot roman candle. He peeled the fuse as a giggle escaped from his diaphragm. He touched the blue flame to the powder-crusted fuse and held the tube in front of him, aiming roughly at the tower.
Poom! The first fireball erupted and sailed over the pallets, landing somewhere in the pasture beyond. Poom! He tried to adapt, and the next fireball fell short of its target, leaving a dark smudge in the dirt. He widened his stance and steadied himself. Poom! The third fireball hit the target, and the thinner caught with a wallop. Bobby laughed out loud at the beauty of the result. Poom! The fourth fireball hit dead center. Then the wind turned, racing past him toward the tower.
Poom! The tower was already engulfed, but the wind was now adding to its energy. His heart rate climbed, and he began to surge with adrenaline. Poom! As the wind picked up velocity, the palettes acted as a venturi, funneling the wind and shooting flames out the backside.
Poom! The gout of fire shot out the back for fifteen feet and caught the dry pasture hay. Bobby was panicking now, realizing heâd unintentionally engineered a wind-powered flamethrower. He stood wide-eyed, waiting for the last of the roman candleâs shots to fire. Poom! How many more could there be? Heâd lost count. Poom! Poom!
He dropped the spent tube, ran to the nearby barn, turned on the faucet, and uncoiled the tangled hose. When he returned, the back pasture was a circle of flame, growing wider and higher by the instant.
The fire would go on to burn for the next five days, destroying Clarksdale Crossroadsâ neighbor township to the south, Jamison, California. The blaze would end the life of a decorated war hero and become a part of human history. But, in the here and now, Bobby couldnât see beyond the fear of his fatherâs punishment.
He felt like a full-time asshole.
* * *
Chief John Banks could hear his executive officer, Jaime, ruffling papers and clicking her mouse furiously over the Jeepâs speaker system. âThe Bluff Fire, north of Weitchpec in Humboldt County, itâs at fifty-one acres, and weâre looking atâYeah, weâre at 40 percent contained there. Parkside Fire in Riverside County is seventeen acres and, as of this morning, 100 percent contained.â
âTell Captain Brooks âgood workâ from me.â Banks grinned as he pulled off Interstate 125. It was the kind of golden late-spring day that made living in California worth everything, even three months of wildfires. âAre all those updates posted to social media?â
âYou bet.â
âIs that all weâre looking at this afternoon? Anything else?â
His â26 Gladiator-E3 whirred to a stop at the end of the off-ramp. Banks smiled, looking across State Route 3 at forty acres of lush, leafy vineyard.Â
âNothing major. So? Who are you meeting for lunch?â Jaime asked with a gossipâs interest.
âAn old army buddy.â John shrugged it off.
âNot a woman? Not a date? Where are you going for lunch?â
âJaime, if I told you, I wouldnât be off duty, would I?â
âHold on, Chief. A new update from Butte Unit. Thereâs a two-acre vegetation fire at Elks Branch Road right off I-125.â
âWhere? Clarksdale Crossroads?â He was fewer than a dozen miles from the crossroads. He was having lunch in Jamison, a few miles south.Â
âClarksdale Crossroads, California. Chief, you know your California wine country.â
âLieutenant, I know all of California that well,â he bragged truthfully as he turned left and crossed over I-125. âDoes the fire have a hashtag yet?â
âNope. Jamison County and Clarksdale Crossroads FDs are responding. Looks like nothing for us to worry about. BTU Captain Reed has his eye on it, judging by the channel traffic.â
âDarrenâs a good guy. Well, keep me apprised.â
âChief Banks, all due respect, you havenât had a day off in the last six months.â
John smiled and said, âNah, I took that Tuesday off in March.â
âNope. That was a trip to Sacramento for the Governorâs Black Leadership workshop, and it was in February for Black History Month.â
John smiled impishly. âHave I mentioned recently that Iâm the first Black director in the history of CAL FIRE? Has that come up before? Cuz Iâm thinking maybe it hasnât come up.â
Jaime reacted with dead air.
John smiled wider. âAre you sure I didnât take a day off in March?â
âChief, CAL FIRE can get by for the afternoon. If you donât take some lost time before hell season starts, you wonât get a chance till November.â
She was right. Four of the worst fires in the stateâs history happened last year. Climate change was making his job tougher each season.
âIâll text if anything comes up. But judging by the report from meteorology, the fire behavior analysts say we can handle everything on our board,â Jaime said cheerfully.Â
âKnock on wood. Thatâs an order, Jaime. Okay. Okay.âÂ
He made a mental note to swing by the BTU deployment in Clarksdale Crossroads after he filled up on barbecue. By then, it would be contained almost certainly. He might even take Sergeant Lucas along to show him what real men do for a living.
âHave a good time, Chief.â
âThanks, XO. See you in the morning.â
* * *
âWelcome to Kay-Ronâs. How many in your party?â The cowgirl hostess self-consciously adjusted her corset. Her darkly lined eyes swept all of Johnâs six-feet-four inches with appreciation.
âJust two, but we planned on meeting at the bar.â
She nodded and gestured for John to follow. âBooth or barstool?âÂ
âLooks like I can take my pick,â he joked, facing a row of empty booths lining the bar area. Even for a Wednesday afternoon, the place seemed dead. He sat in the middle stall, and the hostess handed him a pair of menus. It looked like Sarge hadnât arrived yet, which was unusual. His former sergeant, Stephen Lucas, was all about punctuality. He had been since he arrived, a fresh-faced kid of nineteen, in Johnâs platoon in early 2016. Stephen was intense, a hard ass, too self-assured by half, and whip-smart. People either loved him or hated him. John was among the former. It was no mystery why his former protĂ©gĂ© was now the famous tech billionaire. Stephen was incredibly smart, rigorously disciplined, and stubbornly courageous. John had witnessed and appreciated these traits firsthand. It was hard to get through an hour of shows or social media without catching at least a few ads for ONEwindow. If he had a dime for every ONEwindow game his younger firefighters played while killing time on duty, heâd be a rich man. John guessed Stephen made much more than a dime. Stephen had done all right for himself, no doubt about it. He was keeping his loud and oft-repeated promise to leave a mark on the worldâto carve his initials in it or some shit.
âCan I get you an adult beverage while you wait for your friend?â a short brunette server asked.
âWhat have you got on draftââ John looked down at the name tag. ââJoni?âÂ
Joni ran through an impressive list of brews, ales, pilsners, and beers until John heard his choice. âValley Forge Stout. Thatâll do.âÂ
Joni smiled at his good taste and pirouetted to place the order.
Flat screens tuned to the Giantsâ game echoed throughout the bar. As they took an inning break, the local news teased a report of that brush fire in the nearby town of Clarksdale Crossroads. John watched with interest, debating going out and grabbing his mobile. As head of the statewide task force for managing wildfires, he had built the best team in North America, maybe the world. He could let them track this one for an afternoon.Â
Joni returned with a dark foamy glass and set it on a cardboard coaster. âAppetizers?â
John shook his head. Room for seconds or thirds was required. It had been too long since he and Stephen had slaughtered the fatted calf together. He didnât want to spoil his appetite. Their little meat-fests stretched back to their time together in Afghanistan, though back then the main course was more likely to be goat than swine. Glancing at his watch, he wondered again at Stephenâs tardiness just as the front doors opened. Instead of Stephenâs lean, angular frame, a pudgy, nondescript white man entered the restaurant. John dismissed him almost unconsciously. The man entered the bar area, looked directly at John, proceeded to his booth, and sat opposite him. John turned to appraise the intruder. He was in his mid-thirties to mid-forties, with light brown hair. John thought this might be the most beige white man heâd ever seen.Â
The man opened his briefcase and handed John a factory-fresh ONEwindow gaming tablet and a matte-black plastic capsule. âHello, Lieutenant,â said the beige man as he extended his hand without a smile.
âChief John Banks, MrâŠâ John said as he shook hands.
âMy employer, Mr. Lucas, told me youâd answer to Lieutenant or LT.â
John smiled and looked around the bar. âAnd where is Sergeant Lucas? Is he standing me up?â
âNo,â the man said firmly as he closed his briefcase. âMy instructions were to make sure you put in the earPods there in the capsule, and opened the @Once app on the tablet.âÂ
He opened the capsule and offered John the earPods.
âWhat the hell?â
âIâve found, with my employer, things work out for the best if you just go with it.â
John frowned as he plucked the black tear-drop-shaped plastic buds from the capsule, inserted them in his ears, and pressed the tabletâs power dimple. The device vibrated and chimed. He tapped the single icon floating in the middle of the display labeled @Once. Beige man rose from his seat, bowed slightly, and strode over to the bar. He handed Joni a credit card, spoke quickly and quietly for a minute, signed the tab, and then left as abruptly as he arrived.
âClimb to Glory!â a familiar voice shouted in Johnâs ears.
He responded instinctively with, âHooah!âÂ
Then he looked down at the tablet and Stephen Lucas, his old army buddy, peered up at him.Â
John smiled. âYou son of a bitch. Where the hell are you, Sergeant?
âIâm sorry, LT. Iâm sorry I couldnât join you at Kay-Ronâs. I canât tell you how much I miss that place. God, I can almost smell the pork fat from here.âÂ
The ONEwindow tablet had an 8K Holopanel display that gave John the impression he was looking through an eight-by-eleven-inch window at a miniature of his friend. At that resolution, Stephen looked terrible. John could see every pore and wrinkle. It had been three years since theyâd been together, and Sarge had aged far more than his appearances on the weekly news magazines reflected. His golden hair showed new streaks of white, and a network of fine scars was just visible on the left side of his face.
A frown of concern crept over Johnâs face.
Stephen smiled, and something of his youthful charm showed through. âYeah, LT, itâs been a rough few years.â
âNo, Iââ
âNo need to apologize.â
âWere you in a fight? Your faceââ
Stephen touched his left cheek. âI wouldnât call it a fight, but I could have used your help, like back in Asadabad.â He managed a superficial smile and shook his head, a lighthearted imperative to change the subject. âLetâs not go down that rabbit hole yet. Iâll tell you all about it, I promise.â He paused and turned serious. âLT, Iâd like to offer you a job.â
John laughed. âOh, no. Not me, Lucas. You know I fucking hate video games.â
Stephen shook his head slowly. âThis is no game. Iâm afraid I canât offer you a cushy desk job. This is more along the lines of our missions back in Afghanistan. This isââ He grimaced. ââa tough assignment.âÂ
John couldnât believe how much Stephen had matured in the three years since theyâd seen each other. John was three years his senior, but now Stephen seemed more than a decade older, more serious, less confident. Stephen had always been arrogant, a side effect of his admitted white privilege. John sensed that arrogance was gone now.Â
âYouâre serious,â he said.
Stephen nodded. âI am. And I know how much your current job means to you. I know how good you are at it. I know how much the governorâhell, the entire stateâowes you for your work. But this is bigger even than the work youâre doing now.â
John shook his head, preparing to graciously decline. He loved his job. Heâd never been more suited to an assignment in his life. He was at the top of his game. âLook, man, Iâm honoredââ
âOkay, LT. Before you gear up to say no, donât forget I know you a little,â Stephen teased.Â
John laughed. Stephen knew him as well as any living soul.Â
âIâll make you a deal. Iâm going to perform a magic trick. If I pull it off, listen to my complete mission brief. If you donât sign on after that, Iâll admit defeat. Deal?â
âWhat kind of magic trick?â
Stephen nodded upward. âOver your shoulder, I can see the fifth inning of the Giants game on the big screen. Theyâre playing the Astros?âÂ
John turned to look back at the game and nodded. Stephen continued. âHereâs the deal. If the next at-bat proceeds precisely as I say, take the time to listen to the sit-rep. If Iâm wrong, Iâll pay for a yearâs worth of barbecue. â
John considered the probability of predicting an at-bat in pro baseball with any precision, liked those odds, and said, âOkay. Iâll take that bet.â
The image of Stephen froze for a moment, a break in the connection, then he said with confidence, âSheldon is next at-bat. Heâs going to swing and miss twice, foul high and down the left baseline. Iko will try to steal third and think better of it. Sheldon will pop a long fly and get caught out. Last out of the inning.â
âHold on, hold on, Sarge.â John laughed, then turned and shouted over to his server, âJoni, excuse me. Is this game live?â
The bartender intercepted the exchange and shouted back, âYeah!â
Stephen said, âAlright? Watch it play out.â
âOkay.â
Whitmer struck out and sauntered to the dugout past Sheldon. Sheldon struck once on a fastball. Sanchez, the Astros pitcher, went to that well again, another fastball, low and barely within the strike zone. Sheldon was again too slow. Iko, on first, was threatening to steal, and Sanchez froze him with a sudden bluff.Â
John glanced wide-eyed back at the tablet. Stephen shrugged with an impish grin.
Sanchez tried a fast curveball. This time, Sheldon caught it and sent it flying with a crack. The Giantsâ fans stood only to watch it fade foul to the left. Sanchez tried another fastball, and Sheldon connected again with a mighty swing. The ball popped up. It looked like it might have the distance but dropped into the glove of the Astros outfielder. The entire at-bat played out, moment-for-moment, exactly as Stephen had described it.
John turned to the device. âHow the fuck did you do that?â
âThatâs what I want to tell you. Ready for that sit-rep?â
John nodded, bewildered.
âOrder another round,â Stephen said. His smiling face was shadowed briefly with a micro-expression of grief. âThis all began a couple weeks after you died.â
Tech CEO Stephen Lucas is in trouble. His next big thing was announced with the usual hype that it was going to change the world of communications, but itâs now six years on and it⊠hasnât. Stephen survives an attempt by some of the board to force him out of his company, but he knows heâs on borrowed time. Then his tech genius, Walrus, comes to him with a genuine breakthrough: a way to send information back in time. The effects of the technology will change the world; that is, if the world can survive the beta test.
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Parris has come up here with a refreshing take on time travel and gives some tantalising hints about the moral implications which will hopefully be further explored in the sequels. Itâs also a wild ride, with wildfires, serial killers, plagues and zombies all making an appearance. Parris is adept at keeping track of all the disparate threads of the plot, so strands which seem unconnected at the time do come together in the end.
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The plot zips along so entertainingly that I found I didnât question some of the more preposterous bits until after I had finished reading. The serial killer element in particular allows Parris to introduce some fairly spectacular developments which donât on reflection have much justification other than that this particular character is insane and therefore does and plans insane things. It seemed fair enough at the time, but does introduce an almost comedic tone which could undermine the more serious points Parris is making about irresponsible development of technology.
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The speed and escalating absurdity of the plot also precludes any real character development. This isnât a problem for the genre, as you donât expect this sort of tech thriller to be character-driven, but given this, I could have dispensed with the sub-plot of Stephenâs relationship with a cop on the serial killer case. There are a few hints though that we are supposed to be more interested in Stephen as a character than I found I was able to be. His comment at the end, âIâm the bad guy in this story. Iâm the villainâ seems to have crept in from a different book, where the action is less important than the psychological consequences of unintentionally unleashing Armageddon.
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I would probably have enjoyed looking back on that alternative book rather more than this one. The Dent in the Universe was however a fun read while I was reading it, and from a tech thriller, you canât really ask for more than that.