The quantum chain, p.1
The Quantum Chain, page 1
PRAISE FOR NICK JONES
“Simply the best time-travel series out there.”
—Nick Pirog, Amazon bestselling author, praise for the series
“Awesome characters, a stunning setting, and a breathtaking ending that crackles off the page . . . This is how you do time travel.”
—Rhett Bruno, USA Today and Washington Post bestselling author,
on The Observer Effect
“Smart, emotionally intelligent, and full of surprises—page-turning time travel, with a twist you won’t see coming.”
—Nicholas Sansbury Smith, New York Times bestselling author
on And Then She Vanished
“Jones brings time travel alive by getting all the little details right—the sounds, smells, colors, and textures . . . leaving the reader wishing they could climb on board for the next jump. Fast-paced and engrossing.”
—David Pedreira, author of Gunpowder Moon,
on The Observer Effect
“Smart and fun . . . It’s easy to become engrossed in this fascinating plot which culminates in a thrilling climax. Fortunately, Nick Jones has left the way open for Joe to engage in more time-traveling adventures.”
—Mystery & Suspense on The Observer Effect
BOOKS BY NICK JONES
THE JOSEPH BRIDGEMAN SERIES
And Then She Vanished
Shadows of London
The Observer Effect
Copyright © 2022 by Nick Jones
Published in 2022 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by James Egan
Book Design by Blackstone Publishing
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the
publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-9826-9372-5
Library e-book ISBN 978-1-9826-9371-8
Fiction / Science Fiction / Time Travel
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
PROLOGUE
As I climb the wooden steps of the beach house, I turn back, shielding my eyes against the glare of the midday sun. Pale sand stretches for miles. Gulls swoop and ride the thermals of a warm sky. Alexia is a dark silhouette, shin-deep in the ocean, surrounded and accentuated by a million sparkling diamonds that dance over the surf. She’s throwing a ball for Jack, her dog—our dog now. He reaches the ball, and as he paddles his way back, she claps with joy. This holiday was her idea. Time away from everything and everyone. I soak in the moment, my heart swelling with love and appreciation.
I pad barefoot back to the beach house for lunch duty. The owners have tastefully decorated the place, a coastal theme with pale pastel colors and paintings of the local harbor. As I pass an impressive mirror framed in bleached driftwood, I pause and study my reflection. My skin is lightly tanned. I look healthy and happy. I’m a lucky man. For so long I thought I had lost Alexia. Now, our relationship feels written; finally, it can’t be undone.
As if in reaction to these thoughts, my reflection breaks the rules. I don’t move, but he glances toward the beach and then turns back to me. My eyes widen. My mouth falls open.
My doppelgänger doesn’t follow suit.
He’s speaking, but there’s no sound. My mind flashes briefly back to Nils Petersen, trapped inside the void. Is that what’s happening here?
“I can’t hear you,” I say, my voice already thin with shock and fear.
My silent ghost steps closer, sending my stomach into a crawling knot. He beckons me. Tentatively, I approach the mirror. Mouthing my words clearly, I ask, “What do you want?”
He places his right hand against the mirror, his expression urgent. He’s asking me to do the same, for us to connect. Nervously, I scan the beach house. There are two realities. Which one is real? Can they both exist? I take a moment to consider how I got here. And that’s when my fear really takes hold because I don’t remember arriving, let alone packing a case, or saying goodbye to people at home. Nothing. This feels compartmentalized.
Am I dreaming? I hope so . . . But if I am, this is turning into a nightmare.
My reflection is insistent, his eyes pleading for me to place my hand against his. I can’t just ignore him. That’s when I notice that the beach house on his side of the mirror has begun to fade and darken, as though foreboding clouds are forming overhead. I place my hand against the cold glass, and the room beyond immediately brightens again.
My reflection exhales, clearly relieved. It appears that the crisis—whatever it was—has been averted. Our hands peel apart. I glance around, and a wave of shocked panic rushes over my body. The beach house on my side of the mirror has been replaced with an all-encompassing darkness. I call out but have no voice. My clone stands where I had just a few moments ago. He considers me, offers me a faint, apologetic smile, and then turns away. He’s talking to someone, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Alexia is in the room now. She walks over to him, and they embrace. She kisses the man who has just stolen my life. Our places have been switched. He tricked me.
The distant sound of an air-raid siren shocks me into action. The one thing I know about the void is that doorways are the only way out. The mirror. It’s how I entered, perhaps I can exit the same way. But it’s drifting away from me. I try to move, but my legs don’t work. I’m rooted to the spot.
I need to warn Alexia, to tell her that the man she’s with is an imposter. “Help me,” I cry, my voice nonexistent. All I hear is the incongruous sound of that air-raid siren. The mirror starts to crack, splintering at the edges, and then explodes in a shower of brilliant light.
PART 1
1
The sound in my dream wrenches me awake.
“Huh, what?” I flail around in the dark until I find the cord of my bedside lamp. I switch on the light, whining, still trying to figure out where I am. The numbers on my digital clock inform me that this is a very unsociable hour. My heart is racing. The air-raid siren blares from my phone, which vibrates facedown on the side table. My anger builds. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Only one person would call me at this hour, the woman who earned this dramatic ringtone.
“Seriously? It’s five a.m., Gabrielle! This better be important.”
“I’m good, Golden Balls, thanks for asking.” There’s a boozy slur in her voice. “How you doin’?”
“Fine, thanks,” Annoyingly, my British mental programming forces me to respond politely, which makes me even more irritable. The fact that she saved me from a guilt-ridden nightmare is beside the point.
Gabrielle Green is a touchy American time traveler who works for The Continuum, the organization based in the future that sends time travelers back to fix the past. I had the dubious pleasure of accompanying her on a mission to 1873 Paris a few weeks ago. I nearly died. Twice. She’s pushy, annoying, and rude, and she always manages to brush me up the wrong way, but occasionally her cold black heart is in the right place.
I rub my face vigorously and swallow my annoyance. “OK. I’m awake now. What’s up?”
“Oh, you know, making friends with a bottle of bubbly, minding my own business. Gimme a minute, will ya?” I hear muffled voices in the background, then raucous male laughter. She shouts, “What’s your problem?” without moving her mouth away from the microphone. I yank the phone from my ear.
“Bridgeman? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. Where are you?”
“I was over at Bruce’s house the other night, and—”
“Who’s Bruce?”
“Hang on, I need to get away from these guys.” She breathes heavily, apparently walking, and then resumes. “He’s a singer, you’ve heard of him. If I told you who he was, I would have to kill you, or at least drug you and leave you for dead in the Nevada desert. Anyway, I was at his place the other night, and we’re on the wrong side of a bottle of scotch, and he’s getting all teary-eyed. I’m thinking either he’s going to make a move, or he’s getting choked up about his latest divorce, or both, but no. Turns out Bruce was coerced into selling an antique from his personal collection.”
“Right.” I rub my hand wearily across my eyes, trying to figure out where this is going. “What did he sell?”
“One of his horses. He collects them—not real ones, obviously. Antiques. He sold it to a collector ‘under duress,’ his words. I’m like, Bruce! Why the hell did you sell it if you didn’t want to? Anyway, he did. It was old. Chinese. Yang dynasty, I think.”
“Tang dynasty?”
“That’s what I said.” She sighs heavily. “It’s mega-ancient, apparently. Some kind of kimchi—no, wait, that’s not right.”
“Mingqi.” Now my interest is piqued. I’ve read about the objects the Chinese used to bury with their dead, but I’ve never actually handled one. I’d be afraid of dropping it too—some of them are worth a ton of cash. “Is it pottery?”
“Like I said, a pottery horse. Geez, Bridgeman, do y ou listen to anything I say?”
“I do actually, but what does this have to with me?”
“Finally, the right question.” Her voice drips sarcasm, but when she speaks again, she shows signs of the Gabrielle who turned the Paris mission around, the woman who’s a legitimate asset to The Continuum. “Bruce didn’t know what he had, obviously. He just loved the thing, but it turns out the horse is a focus object, a powerful one too. Its story involves union, one of the most powerful forces in the world and a massive multiplier on the Future Change Index, which means we need to get it back ASAP, before it gets sold and we lose it for good.”
I’ve completed a couple of missions myself, which means I’m sort of part of this too. It’s how I know about focus objects. They get charged up with the past, and when travelers touch them, they form a bond and create a portal back through time.
“What’s the mission?” I ask.
“Oh, great, here we go.”
“Er, are you talking to me?”
“Yes!” She growls, “I know what you’re like, panicking already.”
“I’m not panicking, I just want to know—”
“The horse links all the way back to ancient China. It’s a love story, and those always have far-reaching outcomes, but listen, before you get all wound up. We don’t need to actually do the mission, there’s plenty of time for that. The problem is losing track of it. Bruce was supposed to keep a hold of that horse for at least another twenty years.”
Visions of rock stars as time guardians for The Continuum fill my mind. “Hang on, are you saying that Bruce knows about time travel? That he takes care of focus objects?”
“Nooo.” She says this like I’m being slow. “He doesn’t know the horse is special in that way, but it was supposed to stay with him, to follow its correct and known path, nice and quiet, until we were ready. But in a massive case of Murphy’s Law, the dummy sold it! Which means that now we have to get it back. Once we do, The Continuum can take it from there. Got it?”
“Er, yes, I think so.”
“Good. So, are you in?”
I consider this carefully. Gabrielle prefers to work alone, has made it clear numerous times, so she wouldn’t ask me to join her for the fun of it. There’s more to this. “Obviously. I want to help, but I’m trying to figure out why you need me.”
“I don’t.”
“OK, so why don’t you go and buy it back yourself.”
“So annoying.” She tuts. “All right, listen. I’m in the middle of a mission, and my next jump is coming up any day. I could travel now, while we’re on this call. Who knows?” I guess that makes sense—if it’s true. Once you are bonded to a mission via an object, time decides when to throw you back. “And the dealer who bought Mister Ed from Bruce is super picky about who he’ll work with. I tried, but he runs his whole setup face-to-face and won’t talk to anyone who’s not in the biz. So, I thought, who do I know who’s into boring antiques and has nothing better to do? I’m not asking you to head over there on your own. I’ll come with you, but like I said, I don’t know when my mission might drag me away, and we can’t run the risk of missing our chance to get this focus object back.”
I’m actually quite excited about getting my hands on such an ancient object, but I’m not going to let Gabrielle get off so lightly. “So what you should’ve said, when I answered the phone, was ‘Hey Joe, we lost a really expensive, very important focus object and need to get it back, but I’m clueless about antiques, so I need your help to secure it, pretty please, cherry on top, etc.’ Does that about sum it up?”
“Whatever,” she says sulkily. “Listen, my champagne is getting warm and my guys are getting cold, what’s it gonna be?” I hear her take a slurp. “It’s a really special piece, eighth century, I think Bruce said. Just your bag, right? Come on! How often do you get your clammy paws on stuff that old?”
She’s right. I do want to get my clammy paws on it.
“Anyway,” she continues, “you’d better say yes because I already booked you a flight.”
“A flight?” I’d assumed it must be in the UK, since she was asking me to join her. That will teach me.
“Yep. Leaving tomorrow, three p.m. I’ve checked you in already.”
“Where to?”
“Amsterdam.”
“Gabrielle!”
“What?” I can imagine the face she’s pulling, the picture of innocence. “It’s only an hour’s flight from Heathrow. I’ll meet you there tomorrow night, presuming I don’t time travel on the plane, although I guess I could go hide in the bathroom. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone pop in the middle of a flight, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Gross.”
Gabrielle laughs gleefully. “You’re just jealous. Anyway, see you at the hotel tomorrow. I’ll text you the deets. Ciao, Chosen One.” She hangs up.
I put my phone back on the bedside table and stretch, breaking into a yawn. It’s 5:10 a.m. I consider trying to get some more sleep, but my heart is racing, and my brain’s in overdrive. I have to say, despite the short notice and sideways manner of her invitation, Gabrielle’s call at least interrupted one of the most bizarre and uncomfortable dreams I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something, given my viewings. Her call also got my antiques juices flowing.
I grab a nearby antiques magazine. I sometimes read them at night to help me drop off to sleep. Did she call me boring? I’m searching for a particular article . . . there it is. The headline reads: Chinese Grave Goods Back in Fashion. Maybe that’s why this dealer bought the horse, wanting to cash in on this year’s fad. There’s plenty of money in this business if you play it right.
It’s funny. None of the other focus objects I’ve come across have been worth anything, other than sentimental value. The radio, the metronome. Hugely valuable to a time traveler, of course, but it’s interesting that some focus objects can be worth a financial fortune too.
My phone vibrates. It’s a text from Gabrielle. I skim through it. She writes like she speaks, in partial sentences and with no additional information. I’m to meet her at the City Hotel, Amsterdam, at 5 p.m. local time.
If it weren’t for the fact that I’m traveling with the red-haired hand grenade, I’d be excited about this trip. It’s been a while since I’ve visited another country in my own time. I always find it good for the soul, for resetting my perspective. Whatever transpires, I know one thing for certain—visiting Amsterdam with Gabrielle Green will be anything but dull.
2
Heathrow Airport is heaving. A chirpy woman behind the check-in desk takes my passport, taps her keyboard, and says, “Good news, Mr. Bridgeman, you’ve been upgraded to business class, courtesy of Miss Mandalay.”
“Miss who?”
She double-checks her screen. “Yes. I have a note on the system here, says to let you know the upgrade was paid for by . . . Anita Mandalay.”
Anita Mandalay?
Oh God.
I need a man to lay.
Gabrielle is so immature, but also, kind of funny.
Stifling a grin, I take my boarding pass and for the first time in my life, I turn left as I enter the plane. It’s been years since I’ve taken a flight, and I’m excited about leaving the UK. I’m not exactly basketball height—five foot eleven—but I always feel cramped in a plane. The wider seats in business class more than take care of that problem. The cabin crew hands out newspapers, drinks, and snacks, but before I can really enjoy the upgrade, the seat belt sign lights up, my ears pop, and we begin our descent into Schiphol Airport.
As soon as we land, I turn on my phone and receive a text.
Yo. Meet me in the hotel bar. Anita x
I text back.
Will do. Hugh Jardon x
An oldie but a goodie.
The taxi ride takes half an hour, an interesting journey along wide streets with tramlines down the middle and electrical wires overhead. People on bicycles everywhere, some with single riders, some with kids on the back or dogs in their baskets. A woman balances a plant across her lap and a shopping bag over the handlebars.
