“Myriad has been in so many time streams she’s lost count – hiding from her feelings about her brother’s death she works to prevent crimes from happening but finds herself committing one instead . . .”
From the Publisher: “Agent Miriam Randle works for LifeTime, a private law enforcement agency that undertakes short-term time travel to erase crimes before they occur. Haunted by the memory of her twin brother’s unsolved murder at the age of six, Miriam thinks of herself as Myriad—an incarnation of the many lives she’s lived in her journeys to rearrange the past.
When a routine assignment goes wrong and Miriam commits a murder she was meant to avert, she is thrown into the midst of a conspiracy that reaches to the highest levels of LifeTime. Along with her partner Vax, Miriam flees into the past in an attempt to unravel the truth before LifeTime agents catch up with her.
But then her brother’s killer reappears, twenty years to the day since he first struck. And he’s not through with the twin who survived, not by a long shot.
Myriad is a mind-bending time travelling sci-fi thriller that will keep readers guessing to the very end . . .”
More info About the Author: “[Pittsburgher] Joshua David Bellin is a college teacher by day, and has published numerous works of fantasy and science fiction, including the two-part Survival Colony series, the deep-space adventure Freefall, and the Ecosystem series. In his free time, Josh likes to read, watch movies, and take long nature hikes with his kids. Oh, yeah, and he likes monsters. Really scary monsters.”
Author Site “Myriad is a clever time-travel premise wrapped up in a very human story of surviving trauma. An action-packed sci-fi thriller told with depth and heart, this book will grab you and not let go.” – Cadwell Turnbull, bestselling author of No Gods, No Monsters and Shirley Jackson Award finalist.
“Joshua David Bellin is a master craftsman. In Myriad, he’s reached an all-time high for plot twists that rock your understanding of what has come before… and after. Enjoy the fast-paced action that will leave you dazzled.” – Diane Turnshek, Carnegie Mellon University astronomer and science fiction author
“Joshua Bellin’s protagonist is traumatized by her past, and because of her job as a time cop, can’t avoid reliving it. Myriad is a dark and clever exploration into the horror of getting answers to all your questions and, worse maybe, getting a second chance to make things right.” – R.W.W. Greene, author of The Light Years, Twenty-Five to Life and Mercury Rising
“Joshua David Bellin’s Myriad blends the time-travel genre with a compelling cast to tell the story of Agent Miriam Randle, a woman caught up in the Gordian knot of her brother’s untimely death. As Miriam begins to unravel the strands of her tragic past, Bellin masterfully weaves suspense with non-stop action to create a heroine and a story that will be impossible to forget.” – Ginger Smith, author of The Rush’s Edge
“Exciting and thought-provoking, Myriad posits a truly original twist on time-travel. Joshua Bellin’s first adult novel hits all the right notes from its conflicted main character trying to undo a tragic, life-changing past event to multiple twists, turns, and surprises the reader won’t see coming.” – Larry Ivkovich, author of The Sixth Precept and Magus Star Rising
“Minority Report meets The Fugitive in this breakneck thriller that kept me guessing—and madly flipping pages—until the bitter end. The devious plot zips nimbly through wormhole after wormhole, but Bellin shines brightest in his nuanced exploration of the light and dark in all of us. Myriad is an antihero for the ages.” – Kat Ross, winner of the Readers’ Favorite Gold Medal for City of Storms
Thursday, August 31, 2017
I hear the sound of fireworks, crack crack crack.
Except it’s not the Fourth of July, I know because Daddy took me and Jeremy to the parade in Lancaster the month before we moved to our new house in Pittsburgh.
Is this the way they do it in this place? Is this how they celebrate the start of school?
My teacher moves quickly to the classroom door, pulls the black blind and turns the lock. She opens the side drawer of her big wooden desk, scrambles through it as if she’s trying to find something, then closes it and edges the desk in front of the door. When she shuts off the lights, there are shrieks of surprise. She spins toward us, her face twisted in fear.
“Children.” Her voice is a band pulled tight. “Remember what we learned. Be as quiet as can be.”
I can’t remember what we learned. It’s my first day in a new school, and I can’t even remember anyone’s name, including hers. The only name I know is Crystal, the pink fish in the tank under the windows.
The other children rise from their desks and march to the back of the room, all of them sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the cubbies. No one is laughing anymore. Some are crying quietly, some not so quietly. All are holding something sharp, or as sharp as they could find inside their desks. A pencil, a ruler, a pair of purple safety scissors.
The teacher walks from child to child, counting off with her fingers, laying a hand on the shoulders of the crying ones before moving to the next. When she’s done, she turns to see me sitting at my desk.
“Miriam,” she whispers. “Do as I said.”
I slip out of my chair and stand there for a second, my fingers nervously rubbing the smooth metal and plastic. Some of the children have curled into balls, their heads tucked between their elbows or in their laps. Some are rocking back and forth, some holding so still it’s as if they’re playing hide-and-seek.
The fireworks erupt in the hall again.
Children scream and cry. The teacher spins, a finger to her lips, and the moment her back is to me, I run to the door. The desk blocking my way is huge, but hot fear gives me strength to shove it aside and free the lock.
“Miriam!” the teacher whisper-yells, but I can see in her eyes she’s too scared to come after me.
Another second later I’m outside the room, where the flash of fireworks lights the dim corridor and the explosions hurt my ears. I glance over my shoulder and see my teacher standing at the classroom door. Then the fireworks explode again, and she shrinks into herself like Chicken Little waiting for the sky to fall.
“Miriam,” she calls out weakly. “You must stay here…”
I don’t listen to her.
“Jeremy!” I cry, and run to where I left him.
PART ONE
No Exit
CHAPTER 1
I step through the doorway five minutes before the man kills his wife.
The penumbra crackles like a thunderstorm played in reverse. Nausea folds me in two. I fang my lip to make the pain my own. There’s a taste of blood on my tongue, but the world grows sharp, reality replacing the memory I relive every time I travel.
I’m standing in a guest room in the Sleep Rite Motor Lodge, just off the interstate in Monroeville. Low cost and proximity to the highway make it a favorite spot for a midday frolic. It’s the tail end of another sweltering Pittsburgh summer, the blinds closed against a hot, bright sky. The room has that baked-in smoky smell universal to such places, adding insult to injury since I haven’t had a cigarette all day – no stimulants allowed on the job.
In the dimness, I scan the unexceptional décor. Ersatz wood paneling, faux-bronze floor lamp, rustic paint-by-number scene above a nickel-plated headboard. The rattletrap air conditioner competes with a daytime soap, Days of Our Lives or something, while the shower hisses and spits behind the door to my left. More like the Last Rites Motor Lodge if you ask me, but the clientele this place caters to aren’t choosy.
A specimen of that clientele stands by the rumpled bed, waiting for the other occupants of the room to emerge.
He’s in his forties, badly overweight, sweaty in his brown business suit. Graying, unshaved. Whiskey on his breath. So nervous his hands shake. I know what he’s going through, and I feel for him. He doesn’t want to be here any more than I do. But the gun he’s holding doesn’t leave either of us an option.
I train my eyepiece on his trembling hand until the AI returns a match.
Smith & Wesson M&P 380.
An older model, the kind the trade shows used to pitch as a safe bet for newbies. Even if I didn’t know that, even if I didn’t know every salient detail of this man’s recent history, the tentative way he handles the weapon would tell me he’s never fired a handgun before, possibly never touched one until today.
He looks amazed to see me. They always do.
His story’s the oldest one in the book. Businessman gets a funny feeling, decides to turn detective. Tracks receipts and bank transactions, pockets the pistol his wife bought for home protection when the kids were babies and follows her to the Sleep Rite, where she’s been humping his business partner on her lunch break. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, since the husband’s a neglectful lover at best and the twentysomething year-old partner has the time – and stamina – to give the wife what he can’t.
But the hubby’s not thinking clearly, what with the booze and betrayal. He confronts them in the act, shouts, threatens legal action. Only means to scare them, but gets so worked up when his wife taunts him, he squeezes the trigger like he’s letting out an accidental fart. After a single, stunned moment to eyeball what he’s done, he turns the gun on himself in a spasm of guilt and despair.
The result: two dead bodies, lots of brains and blood, a pair of orphans. A tragedy any way you look at it.
That’s where we come in.
The blinds rustle as Vax arrives a second later. Thunderclap played backwards, face fighting the urge to vomit. He holds his trusty Glock out straight, left hand cupping the grip to steady it over the nausea.
The husband’s eyes flick from me to my partner. Obviously terrified. Absolutely no idea what’s going on.
Vax briefly takes his left hand from the gun to flash his badge. “LifeTime Law Enforcement. Place your weapon on the floor and raise your hands above your head.”
The man stares, chews the end of his mustache as he nervously processes what must look like two glowing aliens who’ve unaccountably crash-landed in the motel room. Will he feign bravado, misunderstanding, innocence? Or will he be a good boy and do as my partner says?
None of the above. He blinks, stares, but holds on.
“Sir,” I say, trying for a steady, soothing tone. “We’re going to have to ask you again to place your weapon on the floor and raise your hands above your head. You’re under arrest.”
“What for?” A primal wail.
“Attempted murder.”
“I didn’t kill anybody.”
“Not yet.”
He sucks in a breath, looks us over again. His eyes are teary from the strain or the hooch or both.
I’ve often thought we could save ourselves a lot of trouble if, instead of confronting imminent murderers at emotionally fragile moments like this, we nabbed them well before the act. But the law’s the law. You can’t arrest someone for a crime they haven’t committed, even if they’ve already committed it, until you have what the government calls “reasonable inference” that they’re about to commit it again. Booking the husband in the motel room passes the test as, say, collaring him while he’s downing his last shot of Jack Daniel’s at the neighborhood pub doesn’t. We’ve debated among ourselves whether anyone could actually make a violation of the timecode stick, but in the end, we’ve opted for playing it safe.
“Sir,” I say. “Make this easy on yourself.”
He wavers. I see it in his eyes. Like most people, he’s naturally timid, doesn’t want to hurt anyone. If we can get the gun off him, set him up with a cup of black coffee and a long talk with the court-appointed shrink, he’ll be all right. At least he won’t have to carry around the burden of knowing that, the first time around, he did exactly what he never dreamed he was capable of doing.
He’s edging toward me, the gun held gingerly like a bag of dog doo he’s about to drop in someone else’s trash can, when the bathroom door bursts open.
All eyes shift as the two emerge from the steam. They’re naked, beaded with water, the wife’s legs wrapped around her lover’s waist, his face buried in her long black hair. Both of them so focused on the moment they seem unaware that their exclusive party has become something of a social hour. She moans as he carries her to the bed, arranging her in what must be one of their tried-and-true positions.
The husband takes a step back, his fleshy face turned scarlet. I see the change come over him, and I know what he’s about to do.
“Now, sir!” I say. “Drop your weapon!”
The wife screams. Untangles herself from the business partner, who drops to the floor, shouting something incoherent. The husband bellows right back as he stumbles toward the bed. I’ve got him lined up for a shot that should hobble him, not kill him, when he slips in the pool his wife and former partner left. His hands flail to catch himself against the headboard.
Deafening explosion. Blood smears the sheets. After a moment of silence, the word “Babe!” comes from his mouth.
Vax leaps for him.
You’d think the newly minted murderer would be too paralyzed by the sight of his wife’s head pumping blood to react, but no. He dodges, shrugs off my partner’s charge. Vax goes for him again, but now that the man knows what he’s capable of, he eludes his much fitter adversary and wields the gun with newfound purpose. Vax should be over the wobbles by now, but he seems more sluggish than usual, and the husband has weight and desolation on his side. He throws Vax against the lamp. The bulb shatters, plunging the room into deeper dark.
“Vax!” I cry.
He’s rising woozily. I can’t see if he has his Glock. The husband is a lot closer than I am, and he takes aim like a sharpshooter. He even smiles, his teeth gleaming in the TV’s ghostly glow.
I fire two rounds from my Beretta. The first hits the husband in the chest, spinning him against the wall. The second reddens the paneling behind his head, and he slumps to the floor.
Blood. Brains. Bodies. The only one left alive of the original three is the cowering, whimpering business partner, who’s curled into the fetal position beside the puddle his bladder left on the shag rug.
Vax stands, feels the couple for a pulse. A mere formality. He shakes his head.
“You OK?” he asks.
I nod.
“I had to do it,” I say.
He looks me in the eye. “I know.”
My hands fumble as I holster my gun. My partner peels the sole survivor off the floor while I make the call.
This excerpt from Myriad is published here courtesy of the author and publisher (Angry Robot Books) and should not be reprinted without permission.
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