A pivot in time alien ar.., p.1
A Pivot In Time (Alien Artifact Book 2), page 1
A Pivot in Time
(Alien Artifact Book 2)
Douglas E. Richards
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Douglas E. Richards
Published by Paragon Press, 2020
Email the author at douglaserichards1@gmail.com
Friend him on Facebook at Douglas E. Richards Author
Visit the author’s website at www.douglaserichards.com
All rights reserved. With the exception of excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.
First Edition
PART 1
“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
—Saint Augustine (Bishop of Hippo Regius in North Africa, Fifth Century)
1
The man chained to one iron leg of a heavy marble bench had no idea where he was.
Or who he was.
He had no idea that he had been born in Berlin, Germany, as Otto Richter. Or that he had taken on a new identity while still in his teens, becoming Jim Connolly, and had gone on to carve out a wonderful life for himself in Spokane, Washington.
For the moment, Jim Connolly knew nothing. He was a creature of pure sensation and no reason. He only knew that he felt a cool, hard floor beneath him, a smooth wall at his back, and heavy iron cuffs around his wrists, while the rest of his towering mind struggled to reorient itself back to a universe of only three spatial dimensions.
He couldn’t conjure up either of his two identities if his life depended on it. Which might soon be the case. Especially if he couldn’t recall the reason he was presently in chains.
It never even occurred to him to wonder when he was. And this was perhaps the most important question of all.
Bits and pieces of consciousness and memory returned. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter as he fought for understanding. His mind, perhaps the sharpest in human history, was strangely blunted, and what he would normally have assimilated in an instant took him several long seconds to process.
Jim Connolly barely managed to stifle a gasp as he finally remembered that he had traveled into the past, and that loss of consciousness and extreme disorientation were expected results. Not that he had any personal experience. This was his first time-traveling journey—and he intended to return to the future as soon as possible and make it his last.
He began to remember more of his life. As Otto Richter he had been a scientific prodigy, torn from his family and home in Berlin when he was sixteen and pressed into service on the highest-profile superweapons program Hitler’s Third Reich had ever undertaken.
But those days were long past, and he had been Jim Connolly, the American, for far longer than he had been Otto Richter. So long, in fact, that he couldn’t recall the last time he thought, or even dreamed, in German.
He desperately wanted to travel through time again, immediately, and get this episode behind him, but he realized he needed to fully recover before doing so. But how much time would be sufficient?
Perhaps the AI embedded in the cube-shaped alien object, whose limitless power had brought him to this time, could offer guidance. It was often maddeningly unhelpful, but since he was only asking a simple question relating to his personal health, he had high hopes it would answer.
“Cube AI,” he called out with his thoughts, trying to get its attention. He had taken to calling it Trek in the future, but this version wouldn’t yet know that. “Where am I, exactly? And how much recovery time would you recommend before I jump again?”
Connolly waited to hear its telepathic response in his head, but after several seconds there was nothing. It often refused to supply answers, but it always at least acknowledged his questions.
“Cube AI, please respond!” he thought at the alien AI once again, mentally screaming the words with all the strength he could muster.
There was still no reply. Which meant only one thing. The cube wasn’t in his immediate vicinity. Experience had taught him that the onboard AI wouldn’t converse telepathically if he was greater than fifty yards away from it.
He had no doubt that it could do so. In fact, he wouldn’t have been totally shocked to learn that it could receive and transmit thoughts from the other side of the galaxy. But the things it could do, and the things it would do, were often quite different, as it obeyed complex and often inscrutable programming.
At least this refusal to allow long-distance communication was a rule that made some sense to him.
The cube could exist in two distinct modes, active and inactive. When the cube was in its inactive form—which presented the most glorious, daunting, and spectacular sight any human could ever imagine—it didn’t matter where it was kept, because it couldn’t be wielded, or stolen. No power on Earth could budge it even a micron from the protective gravity well it created around itself, which caused it to weigh the equivalent of hundreds of millions of pounds.
But when it was in its less-showy active form, it was the most dangerous and powerful object in the Solar System, including possibly the sun, and it could be easily wielded—and moved.
So it was sensible that the alien AI wouldn’t let the object be telepathically remote-controlled from great distances.
If you created a nuclear device that even a child could trigger, you wouldn’t want your designated owner to let it too far out of sight. And the cube’s destructive power made a nuke look like a squirt gun.
The cube’s very existence made it clear that humanity was still in its technological infancy, and was a species that had repeatedly shown a barbaric willingness to harness power for destructive ends. So the advanced builders of the object had made sure that even those humans sophisticated enough to unlock the cube were forced to obey a proximity rule.
The cube’s AI would typically only communicate with the first person it encountered in its active state whom it deemed to be worthy. Which meant someone it believed intended to use its power for constructive, rather than destructive, purposes.
But even those with only destructive, power-hungry motives could use it. They would just have to deploy the alien artifact manually—by touching certain glyphs.
If the AI did deem you worthy, on the other hand, it would help you wield the cube. In a sense, you would become its boss.
Until it decided that you weren’t its boss. Or decided not to answer your questions.
The man who was once named Otto Richter took a deep, silent breath. He had counted on the cube being stubborn. What he hadn’t counted on was waking to find it no longer present.
Since time travel required the same cube present and active in both its past and future, anchoring a time portal on both ends, it had to have been just a few feet away from him when he had arrived.
The reason why this was no longer true was entirely unclear.
Connolly opened his eyes just a hair and took in his surroundings. He was in a residence that spoke of great wealth, especially for the day. The floor he was on was a colorful tiled mosaic, depicting men in togas among various leaping hounds. Numerous well-appointed rooms and a courtyard swam into hazy view, illuminated by natural sunlight flooding through the courtyard and window-shaped openings high up on the walls. The walls were made of plaster, colored a maroon hue, and paintings, sculptures, and ornate pillars gave the residence the feel of a tiny museum.
An olive-skinned man was sitting nearby at a circular table made from pink marble, reading from a small parchment scroll, deep in thought. A wicked double-edged dagger, almost eight inches long and two wide, was near his hand on the smooth tabletop, well out of his prisoner’s restrained reach.
Connolly studied his captor through lidded eyes, and, despite the menacing presence of the dagger, was immediately impressed by what he saw. Even reading, and deep in thought, the man exuded a magnetic presence, perhaps due to his movie-star looks, or perhaps his posture—relaxed yet confident, self-assured without being arrogant.
He seemed calm, centered, at peace. His raven-black hair was short and shimmered with health and vitality, and his tanned face was clean-shaven, revealing a strong jaw and a perfect masculine symmetry. His brown eyes sparkled with life and intelligence that seemed to radiate outward in a way that was nearly mesmerizing. And this without him even knowing he was being watched or turning on any charm.
The man, dressed in a simple tunic and leather sandals—as was Connolly—also looked benevolent somehow, but the time traveler decided this was probably wishful thinking on his part.
Still, even though Connolly was presently chained, he was also alive and uninjured. Given the relative brutality and disregard for human life that was so prevalent in this age, this was a big win. He had taken a significant risk coming to this time, knowing as he did that he would be totally helpless during the blackout period to come.
The process didn’t strain the body at all—which was critical given the deteriorating condition of Connolly’s cardiovascular health. But it did savage the mind, as a cascading avalanche of incomprehensible sensory input crashed into the center of consciousness with astounding ferocity, arriving from a dimension no human could hope to comprehend, forcing th e brain to shut down to survive.
Connolly noted that he could no longer feel the presence of three large handheld road flares that he had tucked into an inner pocket. He had wanted to bring a weapon—just in case he ran into trouble—but the cube had rightly refused. A modern weapon left behind could easily change history.
Trek had finally agreed to let him bring three self-lighting road flares, which could at least be helpful in engineering an escape from danger. He had rigged them to self-activate after twenty-four hours if he didn’t use them, making them toys from the future that would take care of destroying themselves.
While their absence was troubling, they couldn’t have done him any good, anyway—not while chained to a heavy marble bench.
The lone resident of the room finally looked up, as if sensing his prisoner’s change in status from unconscious to awake, even though Connolly’s eyes weren’t noticeably open. He studied his prisoner calmly, appearing to be as curious as he was wary. “Salve,” he said softly. “Quomodo sentis?”
Connolly blinked rapidly in confusion as his extraordinary mind failed him, as if his neurons were swimming in a sea of molasses. Since he had moved to the United States decades earlier, he had become fluent in over a dozen languages, in addition to the four he had already spoken, picking them up effortlessly and speaking them all without accent.
Finally, comprehension returned, and he recognized this as Latin, which was one of the sixteen languages he had mastered.
“Hello, how are you feeling?” his host had asked him.
He was about to reply when his host changed gears, asking him the same question in Greek. Connolly noted that the man spoke both languages like a native, which indicated he might have the same knack for languages as Connolly himself.
“Bene sum,” the time traveler managed to reply in Latin. I’m fine. “Postulantes gratiam,” continued Connolly. Thanks for asking.
“I know my presence must have startled you,” added Connolly, still in Latin. “And I’m truly sorry about that.” He lifted his hands and nodded at his restraints. “So I can’t blame you for these. But I promise you, I mean you no harm.”
The man smiled broadly, amplifying his already extraordinary magnetism and charisma to stratospheric levels. “As reassuring as that is,” he said in amusement, “forgive me for not offering you a sword.”
The time traveler smiled back. “Again, sorry for the trouble. My name is Connolly, and if you’d be so kind as to unchain me, I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
“Connolly?” repeated the man. “An unusual name.”
“I’m not from here,” said Connolly. He grimaced. “In fact, I’m not even sure where here is—at least not precisely. I just know that I’m somewhere in the Roman Empire.”
This was all the cube would tell him. That his destination would be several thousand years in the past, within the vast realm of the Roman Empire, and that it would be spring when he arrived, so he could get away with wearing sandals and a homemade tunic.
Trek possessed knowledge both vast and breathtaking, and could at times be quite generous with this knowledge. Unfortunately, it could also be as stingy as a miser, choosing to be helpful or not with no apparent rhyme or reason.
The man at the table looked down at his captive sitting on the floor and shook his head. “Are you really trying to pretend you don’t know where you are?”
“I wish I was only pretending. I think I was carried long distances over several days or weeks, kept mostly unconscious, and then left here for dead. My faculties haven’t fully returned.”
The Roman considered his prisoner for several long seconds. “Interesting,” he said finally. “Let me get this right. You were kidnapped from a far-off land, beyond the borders of the empire. Your kidnappers managed to travel this entire way with you blacked out.” He shook his head. “And they went to all this trouble, just so they could drag you into my inner courtyard and leave you there.”
Connolly winced. “I know how crazy that sounds,” he said.
“I don’t think you do. Because when I left my villa it was empty. I’m sure of it. And no one was in the courtyard either, which can only be accessed from inside. When I returned a short while later, you were in a lump on the ground. Yet the door was still locked, and I had the only key.”
Connolly was momentarily surprised that locks even existed in ancient Rome, but he quickly realized that he shouldn’t have been. He did know better.
In the first century, the Roman city of Pompeii, near Naples, had been buried under millions of tons of volcanic ash, spewed out by the eruption of nearby Mount Vesuvius. When the city was rediscovered almost seventeen hundred years later, many of the homes and shops were found to have been fastidiously locked and barred, secured by the residents before they attempted to flee their own imminent deaths.
“So your abductors must be very impressive,” continued his captor. “First, to successfully make such a long journey with you as dead weight. Then, to have the ability to enter and leave my home without disturbing the lock, and to deposit you here as some sort of gift.”
He paused. “I appreciate the gesture. But I prefer not to own any slaves, even if they are freely given.”
Connolly swallowed hard. “Good to know,” he replied. “And for what it’s worth, I very much prefer not to be a slave.”
Not that this mattered, he knew. If he didn’t find a way to get out of here, he’d be dead in less than a month, slave or otherwise.
The Roman looked troubled. “Still, even though I don’t believe your abduction story, you did manage to break into my home without disturbing the lock. Which shouldn’t be possible. I’d be interested to know how you managed it.”
Connolly debated telling him the truth but decided now was not the time. “So would I,” he replied. “But I have no idea. I was as shocked to find me here as you were. Wherever here is.”
The man studied him for several long seconds in silence, and then sighed. “We are presently inside my personal residence on Aventine Hill in the city of Rome. In case you don’t know the geography of the city’s seven hills, Aventine is the one closest to the Tiber River, which is to the west of us.”
Connolly nodded appreciatively. While he had known he would land somewhere in the Roman Empire, this realm encompassed much of the known world at the time, so the chances he’d end up in the city of Rome itself were small. “Thank you,” he said earnestly.
“You’re welcome,” said his captor. “But answering your question isn’t a sign that I trust you,” he added. “I just find it hard to fathom why you would lie about not knowing where you are. So I’ll humor you, at least for the moment. But my patience, while considerable, isn’t endless.”
“Understood,” said Connolly, swallowing hard. He needed to get clearheaded in a hurry and learn what had become of the cube.
As a non-citizen of the empire who had broken into a wealthy Roman’s personal villa, he was at the mercy of the man in front of him. And in this age, he didn’t doubt that his captor would be fully within his rights to kill him on the slightest whim—judge, jury, and executioner-style—and likely wouldn’t lose a second of sleep over it.
Connolly needed to choose his strategy, and his words, with exquisite care.
Because the Roman’s dagger was not there for decoration.
And he didn’t doubt that his life was very much on the line.
2
Jim Connolly glanced at his hands, shackled to the iron leg of a heavy marble bench, and then back at his captor. He needed to quickly establish as much rapport as he could with this man, garner more information, and decide how much of the truth he could risk telling.
“Would it be too forward of me to ask you your name?” he said pleasantly.
The hint of a wary smile crossed the Roman’s features. “I consider myself a good judge of people, but you’re a total mystery to me. I find your reactions and responses unpredictable. You enter through a locked door. You play stupid, and claim to be a stranger from a distant land beyond the empire. Yet you’re obviously sharp, even in a diminished capacity. And you speak unaccented Latin like an educated nobleman.”
