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Scardown, by Elizabeth Bear

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The year is 2062, and after years on the run, Jenny Casey is back in the Canadian armed forces. Those who were once her enemies are now her allies, and at fifty, she’s been handpicked for the most important mission of her life–a mission for which her artificially reconstructed body is perfectly suited. With the earth capable of sustaining life for just another century, Jenny–as pilot of the starship Montreal–must discover brave new worlds. And with time running out, she must succeed where others have failed.

Now Jenny is caught in a desperate battle where old resentments become bitter betrayals and justice takes the cruelest forms of vengeance. With the help of a brilliant AI, an ex—crime lord, and the man she loves, Jenny may just get her chance to save the world. If it doesn’t come to an end first…

• Sales Rank: #1109415 in Books
• Published on: 2005-06-28
• Released on: 2005-06-28
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.90" h x .90" w x 4.20" l,
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 400 pages

From the Inside Flap
The year is 2062, and after years on the run, Jenny Casey is back in the Canadian armed forces. Those who were once her enemies are now her allies, and at fifty, she's been handpicked for the most important mission of her life-a mission for which her artificially reconstructed body is perfectly suited. With the earth capable of sustaining life for just another century, Jenny-as pilot of the starship Montreal-must discover brave new worlds. And with time running out, she must succeed where others have failed.
Now Jenny is caught in a desperate battle where old resentments become bitter betrayals and justice takes the cruelest forms of vengeance. With the help of a brilliant AI, an ex--crime lord, and the man she loves, Jenny may just get her chance to save the world. If it doesn't come to an end first...

About the Author
Elizabeth Bear was born on the same say as Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, but in a different year. This, coupled with her childhood tendency to read the dictionary for fun, has led inevitably to penury, intransigence, and the writing of speculative fiction. Her hobbies include incompetent archery, practicing guitar, and reading biographies of Elizabethan playmenders.

She is the recipient of the John W. Campbell Award for best New Writer and the author of over a dozen published or forthcoming novels, including the Locus Award-winning Jenny Casey trilogy and the Phillip K. Dick Award-nominated Carnival. A native New Englander, she spent seven years near Las Vegas, but now lives in Connecticut with a presumptuous cat.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1200 Hours
Thursday 2 November, 2062
HMCSS Montreal
Under way


The Montreal has wings.

They unfurl around her, gossamer solar sails bearing a kilometers-long dragonfly out of high Earth orbit and into the darkness where she will test herself, and me. She’s already moving like a cutter through night-black water when Colonel Valens straps me to the butter-soft leather of the pilot’s chair and seats the collars. I’m wearing the damned uniform he demanded; it’s made for this, with a cutout under my jacket for the interface.

Cold metal presses above my hips, against the nape of my neck. There’s a subtle little prickle when the pins slide in, and my unauthorized AI passenger chuckles inside my ear.

Gonna be okay out there, Dick?

“With a whole starship to play in? Sure. Besides, I have my other self to wait for. Whenever Valens lets him into the system, pinions clipped.” He grins in the corner of my prosthetic eye. Virtual Richard. I’ll miss him. “I’ll go when you enter the ship. They’ll miss me in the fluctuation.”

Godspeed, Richard.

“Be careful, Jenny.”

Spit-shined Colonel Valens raises three fingers into my line of sight. I draw one breath, deep and sweet, skin prickling with chill and cool sweat.

Valens’s fingers come down. One. Two. Three.

And dark.

My body vanishes along with Valens, the observers, the bridge. Cold on my skin and the simulations were never like this. Richard winks and vanishes, and my head feels--empty, all of a sudden, and ringing hollow. It’s strange in there without him. And then I forget myself in the Montreal, as the sun pushes my sails and the stars spread out before me like buttercream frosting on a birthday cake. Heat and pressure like a kiss gliding down my skin, and the Montreal’s sails are eagle’s wings cradling a thermal.

Eagle wings. Eagle feathers. A warrior dream.

I pull the ship around me like a feathered skin and fly.

Valens’s voice in my ear as Richard leaves me. “All good, Master Warrant?”

“Yes, sir.” I hate the distractions. Hate him talking when I’m trying to fly. The simulations were mostly hyperlight; I didn’t get to play much in space I could see. Only feel, like the rough curve of gravity dragging you down a water slide, and then the darkness pulling you under.

This is easy.

This is fun. Richard? I don’t expect an answer. He’s gone into the ship, part of the Montreal now with her cavernous computer systems and the nanotech traced through her hull, her skin, wired into my brain stem so her heartbeat is my heartbeat, the angle of her sails is the angle of my wings.

“Got you, Jenny,” he says, and if my heart were my heart it would skip a beat. I can’t feel myself grin.

Dick!

“Guess what?” His glee tastes like my own. “Jenny, the nanites can talk to each other.”

What do you mean?

“I mean I can sense the alien ships on Mars--the ship tree and the metal one--and I can sense you and the other pilots. And the Chinese vessel following us.”

The Huang Di?

“On our tail. No lag, Jenny.”

I don’t understand. No lag?

“No lightspeed lag. Instantaneous communication. I think I was right about the superstrings. It’s not so much faster-than-light technology as . . . sneakier-than-light.”

Implications tangle in my brain. Richard.

“Yes?”

Can you feel our benefactors? Somebody alien left the ships on Mars for us to find. Somebody alien meant for us to come find them, too.

“And they can feel me,” he answers. “Jenny, I can’t talk to them. Can’t understand them. But I know one thing.

“They’re coming.”

I almost stall the habitation wheel as the Montreal and I continue our ascent.


Three hours previous
0900 Hours
Thursday 2 November, 2062
HMCSS Montreal
Earth orbit


Don’t all kids want to grow up to be astronauts? It’s not a strange thing to ask when you are hauling yourself along a series of grab rails on your way to the bridge of a starship, floating ends of hair brushing your ears like fingertips.

Let me say that again in case you missed it.

A starship.

Her name is the Montreal, and she’s as cold inside as a tin can on an ice floe. Her outline is gawky, fragile-seeming, counterintuitive to an eye that expects things that fly to look like things that fly. Instead, she’s a winged wheel stuck partway down a weather-vane arrow, a design that keeps the hazardous things in the engines as far as possible from the habitation module without compromising the angle of thrust. The wheel turns around the shaft of the arrow, generating there-is-no-such-thing-as-centrifugal-force, which will hold us to the nominal floor once we’re on it. There’s no gravity in this, the central shaft. You could float along it if you wanted, and never fear falling.

I prefer the grab rails, thank you.

The “wings”--furled against the rigging like the legs of some eerie spider--are solar sails. The main engines are not to be used until we’re cruising well clear of a planet. Any planet. From the simulations I’ve been flying back in Toronto, the consequences might be just as detrimental to the planet as to the Montreal.

Don’t ask me how the engines work. I’m not sure the guys who built them know. But I do know that the reactor and drive assemblies are designed so they can be jettisoned in the case of an emergency, if worst comes to worst. And that they’re shielded to hell and gone.

Don’t all little kids want to grow up to be astronauts?

Not me. Little Jenny Casey--she wanted to be a pirate or a ballerina. Not a firefighter or a cop. Definitely not a soldier. She never even thought about going to the stars.

I catch myself, over and over, breaking the enormity of what I’m seeing down into component pieces. Gray rubber matting, gray metal walls. The whining strain of heaters and refrigerators against the chewing cold and searing heat of space. The click of my prosthetic left hand against the railing, the butt of a chubby xenobiologist bobbing along the ladder ahead of me.

Did I mention that this is a starship?

And I’m expected to fly her. If I can figure out how.

Big, blond Gabe Castaign is a few rungs behind me. I hear him mumbling under his breath in French, a litany of disbelief louder than my own but no less elaborate, and far more profane. “Jenny,” he calls past my boots, “do you know if they plan to put elevators in this thing before they call it flightworthy?”

I’ve studied her specs. Elevators isn’t the right word, implying as it does a change of height, which is a dimension the Montreal will never know. “Yeah.” Grab, pull, grab. “But do me a favor and call them tubecars, all right?” He grunts. I grin.

I know Gabe well enough to know a yes when I hear one. Know him even better in the past few hours than I did for the twenty-five years before that, come to think of it. “Captain Wainwright,” I call past Charlie Forster, that xenobiologist. “How much farther to the bridge?”

“Six levels,” she calls back.

“At least her rear view is better than Charlie’s,” Richard Feynman says inside my head. If I closed my eyes--which I don’t--I’d see my AI passenger hanging like a holo in front of the left one, grinning a contour-map grin and scrubbing his hands together.

Richard, look all you want. I marvel at the rubberized steel under my mismatched hands and grin harder, still surprised not to feel the expression tugging scar tissue along the side of my face. It’s almost enough to belay the worry I’m feeling over a few friends left home on Earth in a sticky situation. Almost.

A starship. That’s one hell of a ride you got there, Jenny Casey.

Yeah. Which of course is when my stomach, unfed for twenty hours, chooses to rumble.

“Master Warrant Casey, are you feeling any better?” says Colonel Frederick Valens, last in line.

“Just fine, sir.” Not bad for your first time in zero G, Jenny. It could have been a lot worse, anyway. Gabe had me a little too distracted to puke when the acceleration cut in the beanstalk on the way up. “I suppose I don’t want to know what sort of chow we get on a spaceship.”

“Starship,” Wainwright corrects. “It’s better than you might expect. No dead animals, but we get good produce.”

“Whatever happened to Tang?”

Charlie laughs, still moving hand over hand along the ladder. “The elevator makes it cheap to bring things up, and life support both here and on the Clarke Orbital Platform relies on greenery for carbon exchange. No point in making it inedible greenery, so as long as you like pasta primavera and tempeh, you’re golden. I’ll show you the galley after we look at the bridge. Which should be--”

“Right through this hatch,” Wainright finishes. She undogs the hatch cover and pushes it open, hooking one calf through the ladder for purchase, her toe curled around a bar for a moment before she pulls herself forward and slithers through the opening like a nightcrawler into leafy loam. Charlie follows and I’m right after him, feeling a strange chill in the metal when my right hand closes on it. The left one picks it up, too, but it’s a different, alien sensation. After twenty-five years with an armored steel field-ready prosthesis, I’m still not used to having a hand that can feel on that arm. I rap on the hatch as I go through it, examining a ceramic and metal pressure door that boasts a heavy wheel in place of a handle. I pick up the scent of machine oil lubricating hydraulics; when I brush the hatch it moves smoothly, light on its hinges.

Except light is the wrong word here, isn’t it? My left eye--prosthetic, too--catches the red glimmer of a sensor as I pass through. “Seems a little primitive,” I call after Wainwright.

She propels herself down the corridor--a much larger one--keeping one hand on the grab rail for the inevitable moment when she starts to drift to the floor. She gets her feet under her neatly, but even Charlie follows with better grace than me. All my enhanced reflexes are good for is smacking me into the wall a little faster. I stumble and catch myself on the rail. Gabe muffs it, too, God bless him, although Valens manages his touchdown agile as a silver tabby tomcat.

“The ship?” She turns, surprised.

I amuse myself with the hopping-off-a-slide-walk sensation of each step heavier than the last as I close the distance between us. This corridor must spiral through the ring, to take you from inside to outside “feet-down.” I speculate there’s a ladder way, too. One I wouldn’t want to lose my grip in. “The hatchways.”

“Less to break.” She shrugs her shoulders, settling her uniform jacket over her blouse. I make a mental note to requisition some jumpsuits, if they’re not already provided. Valens always seems to think about these things.

Wainwright continues. “And if it does, we can fix it with a wrench and a can of WD-40. That might be important a few thousand light-years out. Saves power, too. They’re just like submarine doors, but less massive.”

Gabe lays a hand on my elbow as he comes up beside me, still soft on his feet for all he’s got three years on me and I celebrated my fiftieth last month. “Let me guess,” Richard says in my implant. “Ask about the decompression doors, Jenny?”

“Captain.” I brush against Gabe as I move past him. Valens’s gaze prickles my spine as he dogs the hatch behind us. I swallow a grin. “What do you do if there’s a hull breach?”

“Try not to be in a doorway. The habitation wheel is designed like a honeycomb, for strength. There are automatic doors for emergencies, and if the air pressure drops suddenly--they come down.”

“They don’t wait for pedestrians to clear the corridor?”

“No.” She turns her back on me and walks away, leading us farther out of the floating heart of her ship, now my ship, too. “For Christmas, I guess we’ll hang the mistletoe in the wardroom.” She glances back over her shoulder with a grin that stills my shiver.

“Hostile environment,” Gabe mutters in my ear.

“Enemy territory,” Valens adds from my other side. “What’s outside this tin can is trying to kill you, Casey. Never forget that for a second.”

I square my shoulders and don’t look up. He needs me enough that I can get away with it. “I’ll bear that in mind, Fred.”

He chuckles as I walk away.

The bridge lies near the center of the habitation ring. It’s long enough I can see the curve of the floor, but not particularly wide. Remote screens line the walls with floor-to-ceiling images of blue and holy Madonna Earth on one side, Clarke Orbital Platform spinning like a fat rubber doughnut at an angle. “I’ve never felt claustro- and agoraphobic at the same time before,” Gabe says. He brushes past me and rests one bearlike paw on a console, bending down to examine the interface. “Sweet.”

I’m the only one to hear Richard chuckle.

I find myself staring at the padded black leather pilot’s chair. Leather on a starship? Well, why not; at least it breathes. But it’s not the look of soft tanned hide that pulls me forward, has me bending to trail my fingers down the armrest.

Most pilot’s chairs aren’t equipped with straps and clamps intended to keep the operator’s head and arms immobilized. They don’t have a glossy interface plate with a pin-port mounted on a cable-linked collar at neck level, either, and another one right where the small of your back would rest.

It looks like an electric chair. I sink my teeth into my lower lip and turn. “There aren’t any physical controls?”

“That panel over there,” Richard tells me, even as Captain Wainwright moves toward it and lays her dainty right hand possessively on padded high-impact plastic. It’s a good three meters from my chair. The chair that’s going to be mine.

“Somebody else flies her sublight,” Wainwright says. “We save you and Lieutenant Koske for the dirty work. When she’s moving too fast for anybody else to handle.”

I nod, barely hearing her. Remembering the simulations, the caress of sunlight on solar sails. A little sad that I won’t be feeling that for real.

“Jenny.” Richard again. “Don’t get greedy. You’ll be driving faster than anybody else ever has.”

Except for the pilots of the three ships that didn’t make it. China’s already broken two, the Li Bu and the Lao Zi. Montreal is Canada’s second attempt. The first one--Le Québec--had an unexpected appointment with Charon. Pluto’s moon, that is. These babies are very hard to steer.

I look from Wainwright to Valens and grin. “When do I get to try her, then? And who is Lieutenant Koske?”

“Your relief,” Valens says. He moves to stand beside and behind me, just enough taller to loom.

I touch the interface collar, metal fingers clicking softly on plastic. “Do I get to meet him?”

“He’s probably eating,” Wainwright says, on my other side. “As for trying her out--how does this afternoon sound?”

Most helpful customer reviews

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Good solid writing
By Tmax Amazon Customer
Good writing, this is another after the collapse of most of civilization stories. But it is well done and has a different slant than most. Good character development and so far, i have read 2 books, a solid story.
I would buy it again.

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Builds on a Good Beginning
By Cypherpunk
As others have noted, you should start with Hammered, the first book in this series.

In the first book, Bear's writing was a little stiff, and her dialog was VERY weak in sections. She's clearly learned and improved. Where her first book took cues from early William Gibson, in this one, she clearly cues off his later work, as well as Neal Stephenson and others, moving the action onto a global/space opera stage.

For those who have read the first book, things are definitely going downhill, and they continue to do so in this book. Much of the action is dark, betrayal on betrayal in the background, while good folks (Master Chief Warrant Officer Casey and family/friends) fight to be able to do the right thing. On the other hand, we do get to know Col. Valens and his granddaughter Patty much better. We meet a new Chinese pilot, and we learn more about other characters.

A much-improved writer telling a dark story. If you liked the first book, or you like the other authors named, you will enjoy this one. Bear could still do with some editing (which seems to be more and more scarce in the publishing world), but she's definitely writing a solid story with a good mix of science, intrigue, and characterization. I had the third one waiting before I finished this one, so I'll be looking for more from this author.

13 of 17 people found the following review helpful.
Bear tops her debut with an even better novel.
By Jvstin
Hammered sucked you into Bear's future world of climate change, cyberware and strange technologies of dubious origin, Scardown ratchets up the tension a few more notches.

Giving little concession to those who did not read the first, Scardown gives us MORE. Alien technology influenced spacecraft. Space Warfare. Nanotechnology. Artificial Intelligences. And characters we care about.

Its no wonder that Bear won the John Campbell award for best new writer at the 2005 Hugo Awards. If you've not read Hammered, go read that, and you will want to read this. And if you did read Hammered, its likely you don't need me to sell you on reading this book, save for me to tell you that its not as good as Hammered.

It's BETTER.

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## Free Ebook Exit Strategy, by Kelley Armstrong

Free Ebook Exit Strategy, by Kelley Armstrong

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From the author of the acclaimed Women of the Otherworld series comes an exciting new heroine whose most secret identity is both lucrative…and lethal.

Regulars at Nadia’s nature lodge don’t ask what she does in the off-season. And that’s a good thing. If she told them, she’d have to kill them. She’s a hit woman for a Mafia family. Tough and self-sufficient, Nadia doesn’t owe anyone any explanations. But that doesn’t mean she always works alone. One of her contacts has recruited her in the hunt for a ruthlessly efficient serial killer cutting a swath of terror across the country. The assassin is far too skilled to be an amateur—and the precision of the killings is bringing the Feds much too close to the hit man community for comfort.

To put an end to the murders, Nadia will have to turn herself from predator to prey as she employs every trick she knows to find the killer. Before the killer finds her…

• Sales Rank: #1026750 in Books
• Brand: Armstrong, Kelley
• Published on: 2007
• Released on: 2007-06-26
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.90" h x 1.10" w x 4.20" l, 1.00 pounds
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 512 pages

From Publishers Weekly
Armstrong deviates from her popular Women of the Otherworld series to introduce a new protagonist, Nadia Stafford, a cop-turned-hit-woman, saddled in her first adventure with a killer vs. killer mission. After being retired from a Canadian police force for shooting a suspect dead, Nadia becomes a hit woman—temporarily, that is, while she waits for her lakeside lodge to take off—targeting smalltime career criminals for clients who are often their direct competitors. Now, she's teaming up with her mentor, Jack, to apprehend a hit man–turned–serial killer known as the Helter Skelter killer. As Nadia pursues the case deeper into the dangerous world of assassins and spies, she finds reason to suspect just about everybody in Armstrong's fine cast of shifty, complex characters. The sexual tension between Jack and Nadia is entirely believable, adding a compelling, organic layer to the suspense. Armstrong's expert plotting never falters, and she's able to keep ramping up the intensity throughout more than 500 pages—no easy feat—making this a top-notch entertainment sure to seduce fans of tough heroines. (July)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Review
“The hugely talented Armstrong delves into a truly shadowy world where honor and morals are set to a different frequency. In Nadia Stafford, she’s created an anti-heroine whose motivations are convoluted, yet utterly gripping. Take a walk on the dark side—where contract killers become both the bait and the hunter of a vicious serial killer.” Romantic Times Book Reviews
 
“This one is a real hoot, and I hope Nadia returns soon.” Margaret Cannon, The Globe and Mail

About the Author
Kelley Armstrong lives in rural Ontario with her husband, three children and far too many pets. She is the author of a new crime series, the Women of the Otherworld series and an upcoming young adult trilogy, The Darkest Power.

Most helpful customer reviews

0 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
LOVE THAT HIT WOMAN !
By POLLY MAYS
LOVE LOVE LOVE-CAN'T BELIEVE I'M SAYING THIS ABOUT HIT PEOPLE, BUT IT IS
A FUN READ. DID'T WANT THE BOOK TO END.

3 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
Not bad, but not Armstrong's best work
By Potterygirl
I liked the characters, but this was not Armstrong's best work. It was definitely good enough to read a sequel (if one comes along) but it was my least favorite of her books so far.

32 of 36 people found the following review helpful.
silliness overcomes plot
By Constant Reader
Fans of Kelley Armstrong's Otherrworld series know that she usually delivers strong plotting, tough female characters (usually with a hunky male counterpart for some sizzle), and an overall fun read. In this book, however, the transition to the real world from the Otherworld strains the reader's credulity to the utmost. The plot is straightforward enough: a hitman has turned serial killer, and a group of other hitmen get together to take him down before he draws too much attention to their profession. OK as far as it goes... but it's one thing to have hitmen as heroes, another to have them as uncomplicated heroes. The hitmen Nadia meets (all of whom kill people for a living, some without caring why or who the hit is on) turn out to be hunky, well-educated, charming, and altruistic, far more concerned with 'doing the right thing' than the general public. By t he end I found that it required less suspension of disbelief to read Industrial Magic or No Humans Involved; once you accept witches and demons, the story flows. Asking the reader to buy this image of hitmen... no one, or two, but three mega-attractive remarkably altruistic hitmen... made this a very silly and ultimately unsatisfying read for its genre; fans of realistic mysteries or suspense novels will be very disappointed.

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Tim LaHaye created the Left Behind Series, which has become one of the most popular fiction series of all time. Those novels, with more that 50 million copies sold, presented a unique combination of suspense and substance drawn from his lifelong study of Biblical prophecy.

Now Tim LaHaye has created a new series that begins with Babylon Rising. The novels in this new series are even faster-paced thrillers based on prophecies that are not covered in the Left Behind books and that have great relevance to the events of today.

Babylon Rising introduces a terrific new hero for our time. Michael Murphy is a scholar of Biblical prophecy, but not the sedate and tweedy kind. Murphy is a field archaeologist who defies danger to fearlessly hunt down and authenticate ancient artifacts from Biblical times. His latest discovery is his most amazing—but it will send him hurtling from a life of excavation and revelations to a confrontation with the forces of the greatest evil. For the latest secret uncovered by Michael Murphy accelerates the countdown to the time of the end for all mankind.

• Sales Rank: #967880 in Books
• Brand: Bantam
• Published on: 2003-10-21
• Released on: 2003-10-21
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 9.62" h x 1.30" w x 6.71" l, 1.38 pounds
• Binding: Hardcover
• 400 pages

Features

• Great product!

From the Inside Flap
Tim LaHaye created the Left Behind Series, which has become one of the most popular fiction series of all time. Those novels, with more that 50 million copies sold, presented a unique combination of suspense and substance drawn from his lifelong study of Biblical prophecy.

Now Tim LaHaye has created a new series that begins with Babylon Rising. The novels in this new series are even faster-paced thrillers based on prophecies that are not covered in the Left Behind books and that have great relevance to the events of today.

Babylon Rising introduces a terrific new hero for our time. Michael Murphy is a scholar of Biblical prophecy, but not the sedate and tweedy kind. Murphy is a field archaeologist who defies danger to fearlessly hunt down and authenticate ancient artifacts from Biblical times. His latest discovery is his most amazing--but it will send him hurtling from a life of excavation and revelations to a confrontation with the forces of the greatest evil. For the latest secret uncovered by Michael Murphy accelerates the countdown to the time of the end for all mankind.

About the Author
Dr. Tim LaHaye is a renowned prophecy scholar, minister, and author. His Left Behind® series is the bestselling Christian fiction series of all time. He and his wife, Beverly, live in southern California. They have four children and nine grandchildren.

Greg Dinallo is a veteran suspense novelist. He lives with his wife, Gloria, in New York City.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One


EXACTLY THIRTY-THREE HOURS and forty-seven minutes after he had last been in church, Michael Murphy was hurtling through a terrible dark abyss. Prayer had never seemed more necessary to him than at that moment. In pitch blackness, with the only sound the whoosh of his body falling through the air, Murphy had no idea where he was heading.

Except down. Quickly. All six feet three inches of him.

Just a moment ago, Murphy had been standing on the rooftop of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse on a desolate street in Raleigh, North Carolina. It was an unusual place for him to be on a Monday night during the university semester, when he normally would be preparing for his next day’s lecture.

Yet it took only one word to make him drop all normal activities and race to this dank and deserted height. Granted, that word was in Aramaic, one of the many ancient languages Michael Murphy could read with some fluency.

The Aramaic letters had been penned with elaborate style in a bright blue ink that had seeped deeply into a thick, expensive ivory-tinted paper stock that had been wrapped with great care and tied up by a translucent ribbon around a heavy stone.

A stone that came crashing through the lower window of Murphy’s campus office late that afternoon.

Whoever threw the stone into his office had disappeared by the time Murphy got to the window. As he unwrapped the paper and translated the single word that appeared there, he first stared, then began to count.

Thirty seconds until his office phone rang. He knew what voice he would hear at the other end of the line, although he had never seen the face to go with that voice.

“Hello, Methuselah, you old scoundrel.”

There was a high cackling laugh in answer, a sound Murphy would recognize anywhere. “Oh, Murphy, you never disappoint me. I take it I’ve piqued your interest.”

“And cost me a replacement window.” He looked down again at the single word on the paper. “Is this for real?”

“Murphy, have I ever let you down?”

“Nope. You’ve tried your weird best to kill me several times, but let me down, never. When and where?”

The cackling now was replaced by a tongue-clucking. “Now, don’t rush me, Murphy. My rules. My time. My game. But trust me, this will be the best ever. For me, anyway.”

“Then, I assume that, as before, no sane man would take you up on this challenge?”

“Only an eager lad like yourself. But as always, you have my word. You survive, you get what you came for. And trust me, you’ll want to survive for this prize.”

“I always want to survive, Methuselah. Unlike yourself, to me life is a precious thing.”

The old man snorted. “Not so precious that you won’t come sniffing like an eager dog after this bone I’ve just tossed you. But enough chatter. Tonight. Nine-seventeen. Be on the roof of the warehouse at Eighty-three Cutter Place in Raleigh. And take my advice, Murphy boy. If you do come, and I know you will, make the most of these last few hours.”

With another cackle, the line went dead.

Murphy shook his head, put down the receiver, and picked up the paper. He double-checked his translation. This time, the name he read set his mind racing even faster than before.

For Michael Murphy, a scholar who could not confine himself to library stacks of dusty, ancient tomes, an archaeologist dedicated to hunting and rescuing artifacts that could authenticate events from the pages of the Bible, this was the name of the prophet who was guaranteed to intrigue him more than any other:


D A N I E L


For the rest of the day, Murphy could think of little else besides speculating about his nighttime rendezvous with Methuselah. It had been approximately two years since Murphy had first been contacted by this eccentric figure. Each time, without warning, and without ever showing his face, Methuselah would get a message to Murphy, always a single word in an ancient language that would turn out to be the name of one of the books of the Bible.

This would be followed within a minute by cryptic directions, always to some deserted location, where Methuselah would watch from a secure hiding place and taunt him while Murphy would try to survive some very real, very deadly physical challenge.

The risk of death was very high and very real each time. Methuselah was seemingly as serious about his sadistic games as he was about the scholarship behind his finds. And apparently he had enough money not only to sponsor the acquiring of the artifacts but to indulge his wildest ideas to lure Murphy into the most elaborate death traps. Would he actually allow Murphy to die if it ever came to that? So far, each time Murphy had come extremely close to losing his life, and each time he had no doubt that Methuselah would have let him die.

Yet, despite two broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and too many scars to recall, Murphy had so far somehow managed to muster all of his considerable abilities to stay alive long enough to claim his prize.

And what prizes they had been. Three artifacts Murphy never would have seen in any other way. Each proven with laboratory tests to be genuine, yet Methuselah never uttered a word about his sources. There were lots of issues that plagued Murphy about these mad, whirlwind chases, but each time Murphy went public with the artifacts, no organization, government, or individual collector had come forward to claim they had been stolen.

So, however and from where Methuselah was getting his occasional treasures, they had proven to be just that.

Methuselah remained a complete mystery to Murphy. To say he was eccentric would not begin to explain his actions. The man was clearly a scholar of ancient artifacts, yet Murphy could find no trace of where he came from or how he found these artifacts that any archaeologist would drool for. It was especially mystifying why Methuselah did not keep these treasures for himself, or for a museum, or why he chose his really strange games to give Murphy a chance to claim them.

As a man of high integrity, Murphy believed he could overlook some potential gray areas regarding the source of these artifacts. Some wealthy, connected, but truly mad collector was as close as Murphy could come to an explanation of who Methuselah was. However, there was the troubling religious aspect.

Methuselah was clearly not a religious man. Quite the opposite. A good deal of the pleasure Methuselah seemed to get from these challenges was to taunt Murphy about his faith. So far, Murphy had been up to every challenge, and he had to admit that in addition to getting the artifacts, part of what drove him was the chance to defy Methuselah’s nasty verbal insults about Murphy’s faith.

Which was hardly a justification for his risking his life, Murphy realized. However, pride, temper, stubbornness were all high on the list of Michael Murphy’s imperfections. Probably Murphy’s greatest reservations about his Methuselah adventures were a result of his deep religious faith, which made it far more difficult to justify the extreme risk to his life and limb.

Justify the risk not merely to himself, but to his wife, Laura.

So far, his passion for the quest for artifacts had been a real test of Laura’s passion for Murphy. It certainly helped his cause that she held a degree in ancient studies herself. However, there were many arguments after the fact, many pledges that he would try to resist the next Methuselah temptation, but Laura knew there would always be another insanely dangerous Methuselah trap. All he had to do was to dangle another artifact before her husband.

It was that understanding that caused Murphy to dash off a quick note to Laura before he left for Raleigh that evening. She was at a conference in Atlanta and would not be home for another night, and Murphy wrote down what little he knew about where he was going. He left the note on the mantel in their living room. Just in case.


Murphy kept a touch light on the accelerator all the way from Preston to Raleigh to make sure he did not get a speeding ticket. That was one risk he could definitely avoid for the night. The address Methuselah had barked at him was for an eight-story building on an empty street in a deserted neighborhood. When he got to the rooftop, Murphy looked for some sign for a next move.

Without warning, the very roof beneath his feet opened, and that was when he found himself dropping through the building.

Free-falling.

In the fleeting seconds after he started his descent, his multitasking mind flashed on how beautiful Laura had looked yesterday afternoon before she left for her plane, he offered up a quick prayer, and he forced himself to focus on his years of martial arts training, specifically on the best position for his body to be in when he finally landed.

Assuming he had to land eventually, it would not be pretty.

He settled on the combination he had come to call Cat’s Last Gasp, his own poor interpretation of a Tibetan landing maneuver. He thought of it as the moves a cat in its ninth life would make to land safely. Murphy loosened every muscle, fighting the natural instinct to tense up in anticipation of what was bound to be one fearsome impact.

Instead, he bounced. In the pitch-black space his body hit what felt like a huge net, and Murphy bounced up and down, rapidly making him more disoriented than the falling had.

Feelings that were intensified by a blast of bright light that completely blinded Murphy.

“So good of you to drop in, Murphy.”

Methuselah. Though Murphy still could not see, there was no mistaking the cackling laugh that filled the space. Murphy also knew that even if he could see clearly, Methuselah would be well hidden, as he always was.

“You’re probably still getting your bearings, eh, Murphy, so you can’t appreciate what a great old building this is. They built that chute to go through all the floors so they could drop things from the roof down to the main work floor here. I had my people set this up especially for you, but I took pity on you at the last minute and provided the net. I’m getting soft. Let’s hope you’re not.”

Murphy finally stopped bouncing and rolled himself to the edge of the net. His sight was beginning to normalize, but there did not seem to be much to see inside this building. There were white walls enclosing one giant floor space. The ceiling, if there was one, must have been several stories high, but the combination of gloomy darkness and now the piercing glow from spotlights mounted on the walls made it impossible to be certain.

The netting was strung up at one end of the floor space. It was made of thick rope in a crosshatched pattern. The net had been stretched between four heavy wooden poles that were bolted to the floor and stabilized by heavy bags of what Murphy guessed was sand. At the opposite end of the vast room, what looked like a sliding door of shiny silver corrugated metal stood closed.

Surrounding the floor was a raised work area that was protected by heavy glass. That was where Methuselah must be, Murphy thought, but he could not make out any specific figure up there. His head was clearing and his breathing was starting to normalize.

“That was certainly worth the trip from home, Methuselah. Now, may I claim my prize and get back there?”

“You call that earning your keep, Murphy? That was just my special way to get you inside the tent. Get ready for the real show. Right now.”

For the first time, Murphy heard an ominous sound, a low rumble that filled the empty space, but he was not sure what he was hearing. “Aaah, I see, Professor Murphy, by your perked-up ears, that you are ready to meet your match.”

Murphy sighed. So, now it really begins, he thought. Then came a second, much more ominous sound. Something crashed against the metal door from the other side. Something that Murphy suddenly realized was about to come shooting out that metal door, heading directly for him. “Say, um, Methuselah, aren’t you going to tease me first with a look at your latest artifact? So I at least know what it is that will make you try so hard to kill me.”

“Yes, you do know I love to have my sport with you, Murphy. I actually wish you could live to get this one. It’s hot stuff. Tell me, what made you so excited about seeing the word ‘Daniel’ from me today?”

Before Murphy could answer, there was another, even louder banging against the door. Murphy could not help but flinch where he stood and looked anxiously at the rattling metal.

“Up to now you’ve put into play some amazing artifacts from Biblical times, Methuselah. I don’t know how you got them, but I never would have found them on my own. And Daniel, well, you know he was the most important prophet of all. I have studied him for years. Let me at least get a good close look at whatever Daniel artifact you’ve gotten your hands on.”

“No. Enough talk, Murphy. You’re about to get a closer look than you’ll want. Because tonight you’re not going to study Daniel, you are going to be Daniel.”

With a metallic clang, the sliding door at the other end of the room was raised.

Most helpful customer reviews

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Awesome read.
By Nichole Geery
I wish Tim LaHaye would continue with this series, I am dying to know what happens with Professor Murphy, the Seven and more. I've been captivated by this, and each time I read these books again I find more intriguing things, and sense that more stories could grow from this.

13 of 13 people found the following review helpful.
What a disappointment
By Barbara Thibodeaux
I have been a fan of Tim LaHaye's for a long time now, and eagerly started reading this new Babylon Rising series. I loved the first book, the second was not nearly as meaty, and this one is even less so. It seemed it was quickly written, and very much on a surface level. And the worst part was when they did not even catch a huge error in the storyline...there was a character that almost died. They were all so happy he did not die, then all of a sudden, Micheal was talking about what a shame his death was...what is up with that?? For the price I paid, that was just unacceptable, and totally sloppy. I do not like to think money is behind the quick writing, but...hmmm... The only good parts were the stories from the Bible itself...those were great!

3 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Stupidity Rising (Spoilers Ahead)
By Jay Mack
I like LaHaye, and I like the historical and Biblical content of the book. The Daniel "italic" sequences are cool. I liked the first two books of the series, especially the second. However, this book as a whole seems rushed, stupid, and sloppy. Let's see, where do I start? Murphy takes on people with automatic weapons, choosing to be unarmed himself. He won't touch a gun, for the most part, and he seems never to kill anybody who is trying to kill him. I don't know if this is supposed to show him as loving toward unbelievers, but it comes off as stupid. The authors make sure Murphy never kills anybody, but he shatters plenty of bones with "reverse punches". The scene in Iraq where they fought off armed terrorists was stupid, as well, because they threw away the automatic weapon and ammo, not even knowing if anybody else was waiting down the street to attack them. Asinine. Nobody would do this. The Methuselah stuff is just tedious; it almost caused me to walk away from the first book. Also, what is this need the authors have to destroy anything as soon as Murphy finds it? I can't imagine how that will all come together in "the end". The dumbest, sloppiest thing I noticed in this book was that a character late in the book named Bingman was said to have flown home to be with his family. In the next chapter, Murphy was lamenting his death. Huh? Where? How? The authors can't even slow down to remember who died. I have a Bantam "book club" edition; maybe it was a flawed early release. This book is lighter on history and the "fascination factor" and heavy on depressing violence throughout. A character is introduced, then he/she dies. Also, enough with the Talon character already. He knows where Murphy lives and teaches, yet he never simply waits for him to kill him there. Many parts of the book seem to be written by a high-school student.

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New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Brockmann casts a spell of fantasy, suspense, and romance in this classic tale of a woman whose one chance at true love could not only shape her destiny but alter the course of history itself.
 
Level-headed Maggie Winthrop never expected her love life to turn into science fiction. Then a Navy SEAL–trained scientist named Chuck Della Croce turns up one day in her backyard—naked and with an impossible-to-believe explanation: He has come back from the future in a time machine of his own creation in order to stop terrorist killers from laying waste to America. Maggie sympathizes with the rugged, handsome stranger—but can she trust him?
Chuck can’t complete this mission of mercy alone. He needs Maggie to use all the wiles a beautiful woman has at her disposal to convince his younger self not to create the technology responsible for the tragedy.

But when Maggie falls for both versions of the same irresistible man, she confronts a wrenching choice no woman should ever have to face: abandon a love she’s waited for all her life or stay with Chuck and watch the future she longs to build with him go up in flames. 
 

• Sales Rank: #1931311 in Books
• Published on: 2010-08-31
• Released on: 2010-08-31
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.88" h x .76" w x 4.18" l, .32 pounds
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 288 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9780553593471
• Condition: New
• Notes: BRAND NEW FROM PUBLISHER! 100% Satisfaction Guarantee. Tracking provided on most orders. Buy with Confidence! Millions of books sold!

Amazon.com Review
Chuck Della Croice travels back from the future into the present to stop the man that he is from becoming the man that he will be in the future. Confusing? Not really, it's just incredibly clever. Chuck must convince Maggie Winthrop that she will prevent her own death as well as the destruction of the world if she can stop him from inventing the time machine. But Maggie finds she is falling hard for Chuck--the Chuck that is 10 years older than the guy she's supposed to be going after. Who will she choose? And how will it affect her future?

About the Author
After childhood plans to become the captain of a starship didn’t pan out, Suzanne Brockmann took her fascination with military history, her respect for the men and women who serve, her reverence for diversity, and her love of storytelling and explored brave new worlds as a New York Times bestselling romance author. Over the past twenty years, she has written more than fifty novels, including her award-winning Troubleshooters series about Navy SEAL heroes and the women—and sometimes men—who win their hearts. In addition to writing books, Suzanne Brockmann has co-produced a feature-length movie, the award-winning romantic comedy The Perfect Wedding, which she co-wrote with her husband, Ed Gaffney, and their son, Jason. She has also co-written a YA novel, set in the world of her paranormal Fighting Destiny series, with her daughter, Melanie. Find Suzanne Brockmann on Facebook, follow her on Twitter, and visit her website to find out more about upcoming releases and appearances.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One


There was a naked man pounding on Maggie Winthrop’s back door.

She did a double take as she looked out her kitchen window and realized that he was covered with dirt, as if he’d been crawling around in her garden. Dirt and . . . could that possibly be blood? Streaks of something that looked like blood were on his shoulder and arm. He was wild-eyed, with dark, shaggy hair that exploded around his face, looking as if he’d just been ejected from a wind tunnel.

And yes, he was definitely, undeniably naked.

Somehow he knew her name. “Maggie!” he shouted, hammering on the door. “Mags, let me in!”

It was locked, thank God, and Maggie ran to be sure the front door was locked as well.

She had her cordless phone in her hand, ready to call the police when he called out again.

“Maggie! God, please be home!” There was such anguish in the man’s voice. Anguish and something that stopped her from dialing the phone. Something oddly familiar.

Maggie took the stairs to the second floor of her house two at a time. She set the phone down on the vanity of the sink as she used both hands to open the bathroom window and push up the screen.

The man heard the noise, and he stopped pounding on the door. He looked up at her expectantly as she peered down at him.

“Maggie.” There was such relief in the way he said her name. But despite the strange flash of familiarity that she felt once again, she didn’t recognize him. The naked man was a total stranger.

Maggie definitely would have remembered meeting a man like this one before—even with his clothes on.

He was tall and almost sinfully well built, all hard muscles and not an extra ounce of fat on him anywhere. And in his current state of undress, she had an extremely accurate view of all of his anywheres. He had extremely broad shoulders and powerful-looking arms. He had one of those sexy washboard stomachs leading down into narrow hips, a perfect butt, and lean, long legs.

He had thick dark brown hair that he now ran his fingers through, taming it somewhat as he pushed it back from his face. He had dark hair on his chest and other places as well.

Maggie hurriedly brought her gaze back up to his face. His nose was gracefully shaped with almost elegant nostrils. His cheekbones were prominent, too, as was the firm set of his jaw and chin. He had a scar on his cheekbone, underneath his left eye, making him look faintly dangerous. But it was his dark brown eyes that held her attention. They seemed to burn her with their intensity and fire.

Without question, he was the most gorgeous naked madman she’d ever come face-to-face with. Not that she’d come face-to-face with many madmen, clothed or otherwise, in her life.

“It’s me,” he told her, holding out his arms as if that would make her recognize him. “Chuck.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But . . . I don’t know you.”

He stared at her, confusion in his eyes. “You don’t?”

“Maybe you have the wrong house,” she suggested hopefully.

The man shook his head. “No. Maybe I have the wrong—” He interrupted himself. “What’s the date?”

“Thursday, November twentieth.”

“No, the year. What’s the year?”

She told him.

He swore sharply, clearly upset, and Maggie reached behind her for the telephone, ready to dial 911 at the least little eruption of violence.

“The damned prototype overshot my mark by three years,” he muttered, talking more to himself than to her as he paced back and forth on her patio. His words didn’t make sense, but he was insane. His words weren’t supposed to make sense. “Okay. Okay. So here I am. Better early than late.”

As Maggie watched he took a deep breath and seemed to pull himself together then looked up at her again.

“I’m Chuck Della Croce,” he introduced himself. “And you don’t know me, and . . . I’m naked.” There was a flash of chagrin in his eyes, as well as something that might have been amusement. “God, talk about making a good first impression.”

“Is there someone you want me to call to come and get you?” Maggie asked, trying to remember what she knew about insanity. Was she supposed to back slowly away, speak softly, and keep from looking directly into his eyes? Or was that what she was supposed to do if she encountered a wild animal? Something about this man was wild, that much was for sure.

The man shook his head, again trying to tame his hair, combing it back with his fingers. “No, I’m right where I want to be.” He snorted. “Give or take three years.” He took another deep breath. “I could sure use a pair of pants, though.” He seemed to notice the gash on his shoulder for the first time, along with the dirt that covered him, and he swore again, softly this time. “And maybe the use of your garden hose to wash up?”

Maggie hesitated.

“Please?” he added, gazing up at her.

What was it about him . . . ?

“I don’t think I have any pants that will fit you,” she told him. “But I’ll look. And yes. Use the hose. It’s in the—”

“I know where the hose is, Mags.” Sure enough, he seemed to know that the hose and the spigot it was attached to was inside the little garden shed built onto the side of her house.

Maggie felt a chill run up her spine. How did he know that the hose was there instead of outside, the way it was for most houses? And how did he know her name?

Mail. He could have checked her mail. Or looked in the phone book. There were a zillion ways he could have learned her name. And she’d used the hose to water her fig tree just the night before, after the searing southwestern sun had set. He could have been watching. He might well have been watching for days.

The thought was a creepy one, and she shivered again as she shut and locked the window. Why was she doing this? She should just call the police and have this man removed from her yard. There was surely some Phoenix city ordinance that prohibited people from walking around naked in other people’s yards.

She carried the phone with her as she went into the guest bedroom and opened the closet door. The small space was jammed with boxes of Christmas ornaments and Halloween decorations and a rack of clothing that she couldn’t bring herself to throw out. But there was nothing inside that would fit a tall, solidly built man.

Maggie had a muscle or two herself from taking long bike rides around the city, but at five feet two, she was seriously height-challenged. She bought her clothes from the petite rack at the store. No, nothing she owned would even begin to cover the handsome, naked, extremely tall madman in her backyard.

Her bathrobe. That might at least cover him. Of course, it was pink with little flowers on the lapels. A friend had bought it for her, as a kind of a joke. Maggie was not and never had been the pink-with-little-flowers type. She would be embarrassed even to show it to him.

Still, it was the only thing she had that would fit him.

And hey. He was crazy. Maybe he’d like it.

Unless . . .

Maggie quickly pulled one of the boxes down from the shelf. It was the wrong box, but there were only two others marked christmas, so she knew she didn’t have far to search.

She found what she was looking for in the second box she took from the closet.

A Santa Claus suit. Huge red pants with a drawstring waist and a red jacket with fluffy white trim and a black plastic belt sewn directly onto it.

It was big enough, that was for sure.

She carried it back to the bathroom window. Out in the yard, Chuck What’s-his-name had somehow hooked the hose to the old clothesline. He’d also managed to make the water come out in a spray. He stood underneath it, as if it were a shower, water streaming onto his head and down his face. The water made his muscles glisten and shine.

Maggie felt like some kind of voyeur, watching him like that. She was grateful her yard was enclosed by solid wooden fencing and that none of her immediate neighbors in this little Phoenix development had more than a single-story house. No one could see the naked man taking a shower in her backyard.

Except for her.

He opened his eyes and looked directly up at her—catching her staring at him.

Quickly, she turned away from the window, rummaging through her linen closet for one of her older towels. She found one that was worn and tossed it down, directly onto the center of the sun-blistered picnic table on her patio. She tossed the Santa suit down too.

“Thanks.” He grabbed the towel as he moved to shut off the water.

Maggie tried not to watch him as he dried himself, but it proved impossible. She had to move away from the window and gaze up at the bathroom ceiling to keep herself from staring.

What was it about this guy? she found herself wondering again. The man was matter-of-factly casual about his nakedness, but so would she be, if she were as physically fit as he was.

“Hey, Maggie?”

She peeked out the window, relieved to see that he had pulled on the bright red pants and tied the drawstring around his waist. They were baggy and much too short, but at least they covered him.

He was holding the Santa jacket up, looking at it with barely concealed horror.

“Don’t you have a T-shirt I can borrow?” he asked her. “I’m going to roast if I have to put this on.”

Actually, she had a number of oversized T-shirts that she wore to bed as nightshirts. “Hang on,” she told him, and carefully closing and locking the window, she went into her bedroom. She grabbed one of her T-shirts from her drawer. On second thought, she took a comb from the top of her dresser as well.

He was sitting on the edge of the picnic table, drumming the fingers of both hands on the rough wood, waiting for her when she returned to the bathroom window. She tossed down the T-shirt and comb, and again, he thanked her politely.

He was clean now, and while the lack of dirt and blood made him look slightly less certifiable, the Santa pants took him well in the opposite direction.

But as he ran the comb through his dark hair, he looked up at her again and his eyes were clear and sharp. “Will you take a walk over to the park with me?” he asked. “I’d like to talk to you about—”

“I’m sorry,” she cut him off. “I have to get back to work.”

He saw right through her excuse. “We could go somewhere less deserted,” he suggested. “That restaurant around the corner—you know, the place you like to go for Mexican food.”

“Tia’s?”

“Is that what it’s called? The place that makes that killer black-bean soup?”

How did he know black-bean soup was her favorite? This was getting downright weird. “That’s Tia’s. But you’ll never get in without shoes on.”

“I’ll improvise.”

Still, Maggie shook her head. “I’m sorry, I really can’t—”

“Look, you don’t have to walk over there with me. I’ll go first. You can meet me there in twenty minutes. In the bar. In public. I won’t get near you. No tricks, I swear.”

“Why do you need to talk to me so badly? And how do you know my name?”

Chuck Della Croce gazed up at her silently for a moment. Then he dropped his bomb.

“I’m from the future,” he told her almost flatly, matter-of-factly. “And in the future, we’re friends. I’m a time traveler, Mags, and I need your help to save the world.”

...

Chuck watched as Maggie took a fortifying sip of her beer.

“Okay,” she said. “All right.” She pressed her palms flat against the table in the bar in Tia’s restaurant, as if needing to feel the solidness of the wood beneath her hands. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. I’m supposed to believe that you’re some kind of a rocket-scientist genius type who’s invented a time machine. Despite the fact that you look like some crazy, homeless guy wearing Santa pants, a Phoenix Film Marathon T-shirt, and ugly cardboard shoes.”

Chuck glanced down at the cardboard and string sandals he’d made. He didn’t think they were that bad—considering the choice of materials he’d had to work with.

“I’m supposed to believe that you’ve zipped back here in your little Runaround time-travel pod—”

“Runabout,” he corrected her.

“—from seven years in the future, where you and I just happen to be friends.”

She didn’t believe him. Why should she believe him? Time travel. It seemed so science fiction. She was gazing at him with such cynical disbelief in her eyes, he couldn’t help but smile.

He smiled as he hid his trembling hands, as he fought to keep these waves of emotion from overpowering him.

God, three hours ago, he hadn’t thought he’d ever smile again. Three hours ago, the woman sitting across the table from him had bled to death in his arms. Three hours ago, she’d used her own body as a shield, taking bullets meant to kill him. Three hours ago, he’d escaped through the ventilation system in the Data Tech building, running for his life.

The pungent odor of gunpowder and blood still lingered in his nostrils despite the shower he’d taken underneath Maggie’s garden hose. Boyd was dead. Maggie had seen Chuck’s best friend and security chief take a bullet in the back of the head. She’d told him about it before she, too, had died. He was still shaking from all that he’d been through, all that he’d seen. Destruction of his lab. Death on a massive, global scale in the form of a bomb taking out the White House, and with it, the President of the United States. And death on a smaller, far more personal level too.

Chuck gazed at Maggie, shifting slightly in his seat, trying to rid himself of the disturbing memories of death on an extremely personal level. He took a deep breath.

None of that had happened yet. And he was here to make damn sure it wouldn’t happen again. This time around was going to be different. He’d never tried to tamper with time before, not to this degree. He had no idea how easy or hard it was going to be. But easy or hard, it didn’t matter. He was determined to set things right and keep innocent people from dying.

But for right now, all he wanted to do was gaze into Maggie’s light brown eyes. He didn’t care that they were filled with skepticism. He didn’t care that one graceful eyebrow was lifted in disbelief. He’d expected as much from her. She was so straightforward, so honest and down-to-earth, he would have been surprised had she believed him without an argument.

Chuck was ready to argue with her all night, if she wanted. He didn’t care. He just wanted to look at her. She was just so beautifully alive.

His hand was shaking as he picked up his mug of coffee, so he set it back on the table without taking a sip. He wanted to touch her hand, or the soft smoothness of her cheek, but he didn’t dare.

She thought he was nuts.

“So if what you’re saying is true, there’s some kind of time machine—this Runabout thing—sitting in my backyard?”

Chuck shifted in his seat. “Actually, no—”

“No.”

The look in her eyes made him want to laugh, but he was afraid if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Of course not,” she continued. “Come on, tell me why it’s not still there, and make it a really good one.”

“I had to program the return jump in my lab, before I left, and since I knew this was going to be a one-way trip, I set it up to self-destruct,” Chuck told her. “See, there’s a long recharging delay between jumps. If the mechanism is engaged too soon, the device malfunctions, and the Runabout is destroyed.”

“Of course,” she said. “I should have known.”

“It’s the truth.”

“It sounds like anything but. I mean, really, Chuck. You’ve traveled back in time because some evil government agents from some ridiculous-sounding organization—”

“Wizard-9,” he supplied.

“Yeah. Right. These guys from Wizard-whatever got their nefarious hands on your time machine and managed to plant some kind of bomb in the White House that killed the president and his entire staff, including the Speaker of the House, in order to trigger a political coup.” When she said it that way, it sounded like the bad plot of a comic book.

“The coup is just my theory. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out if I was right.”

“So you’ve come back in time to stop yourself from developing time travel, in order to prevent this assassination. Have I left anything out?”

“That’s about it in a nutshell,” he told her.

“Why not just go back in time and warn the people at the White House about the bomb? Why stop the entire project before it even starts?”

He answered her gravely, as if her question were serious. “I figured if I did only that, the door through time would still be left open. This way, the problem of unauthorized time tampering is solved once and for all.”

Chuck had actually considered going back to his childhood, back before the time when the idea of time travel first flashed into his head. But he couldn’t be sure that a change made that far in his past would be enough to alter his entire future. He knew he had only one shot, and he had to be damn well certain it would work.

Maggie sat back in her chair. “Meanwhile, while all this was happening in Metropolis, Superman couldn’t do anything to stop the evil Wizard-9 agents, because he had been struck down by a bullet made of kryptonite.”

Chuck had to laugh. “I’d almost forgotten how sarcastically funny you used to be.”

“What, I’m not as funny seven years from now?”

He couldn’t quite meet her gaze, unwilling to tell her the truth. He realized he was nervously drumming his fingers on the table and he forced himself to stop, to sit calmly, without moving.

She leaned forward. “Come on, Futureman. What am I like seven years from now? Does my freelance-writing business finally earn enough to pay my mortgage? Do I move into one of those big houses on Camelback Mountain? Do I have any kids? A rich, handsome husband? No, wait a sec. Don’t tell me. You’re my husband, right?”

“Wrong.” He looked across the table at her. She was incredibly pretty, but she didn’t know it. She’d probably never know it.

Her hair was brown and from a distance it seemed to be nothing special. It was only up close that one could see that it hung in shining waves around her face, long and thick and glistening. Her eyes, too, were an average shade of brown, but they sparkled and danced when she smiled and laughed. Her face was long, with a delicate cleft in her chin, her jaw strong and almost square. Her nose turned up very slightly at the end.

She was gorgeous in a girl-next-door kind of way, with a brilliant smile that could light up the darkest night.

She was funny and smart and sweet. And incredibly sexy.

He’d been wildly attracted to her from the very moment he’d first set eyes on her—seven years ago, his time. And she’d been attracted to him. It had happened this time around, too, despite the fact that she doubted his sanity. He could feel the familiar sexual pull, even now, each time she looked into his eyes.

If history was going to repeat itself, she would learn to hide that attraction from him, letting him see only friendly warmth in her eyes. But he was here to make sure that history didn’t repeat itself.

“Two years from now you’ll marry a man named Albert Ford,” he finally told her. “An accountant. It won’t work out. One of the last times we spoke, you told me you were waiting for the divorce papers to arrive. I think the whole thing was pretty nasty. So, yeah, it’s been a while since you’ve made very many jokes.”

Maggie stood up. “Well, this was more fun than I’ve had since the last time I played with my Magic Eight Ball.”

He stood up, too, and Maggie felt a flare of panic. Shoot, she’d forgotten how big this guy was. When she’d come into the bar, he was already sitting down. But now he towered over her.

He sat down quickly, as if he could read the sudden fear in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I have to go,” she told him. It was the truth. She’d already lost more than an hour of her workday thanks to him, and she had a deadline to make, writing copy for an upscale landscaper’s brochure. She should be thinking of ways to describe mulching and privacy shrubbery instead of wasting her time with incredible tales of presidential assassination and Wizard-9 agents told by a too-handsome escapee from a mental hospital.

She was a fool for coming in the first place. It was her attraction to this man that made her meet him here—and that made her an even bigger fool. What did she honestly think? That he was potential boyfriend material? A lunatic who walked around naked and thought he came from the future?

She’d never considered herself a particularly good judge of character when it came to men, but this situation was a no-brainer.

He was trying to hide his desperation the same way he’d tried to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. He was good at hiding things. When he spoke, his voice was calm, and when he looked up at her again, his manner was cool, almost distant. He’d even managed to lose some of the heat in his liquid brown eyes. “Maggie, what can I say to make you believe me? To make you stay?”

He was remarkably attractive with the restaurant’s dim mood lighting casting shadows across his rugged features. He was good-looking despite the grim set to his mouth and the clenched tightness of his jaw.

It was funny, she’d never found the Clint Eastwood type of man so attractive before. She usually preferred a Tom Hanks. Sensitivity with a healthy dose of good humor usually won out over ominous, smoldering danger any day.

And this man sitting across from her did exude danger with the start of a five o’clock shadow darkening the lower half of his face, his damp longish hair swept back from his forehead, and blood from his wounded shoulder seeping through the thin cotton of his borrowed T-shirt. Fortunately, from where she was sitting, she couldn’t see the Santa pants.

She pulled the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “Well, you might’ve tried telling me that I’m going to win the lottery next year rather than all that doom and gloom about a failed marriage.”

He shook his head. “But that wouldn’t be true.”

Maggie felt a flash of pity. Poor crazy guy. He actually believed all that he’d told her.

“I really have to go.” She looked down at her half-empty glass of beer and his barely touched coffee. “I don’t suppose you have the money to pay for this.”

He looked embarrassed. “Not at this time, no. I used an early prototype to make the leap back. It was in my basement—the Wizard-9 agents didn’t know about it. It was less sophisticated than the final version of the Runabout, and because of that I could take nothing with me—not even my clothes.”

“Well, there’s a convenient explanation for why you were walking around naked.” Maggie opened her purse, took a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet, and set it down on the table. “Keep the change, Nostradamus, all right?”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I will. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”

His quiet words stopped her, and she turned to look back at him. “I’d rather you just stayed away from my house. In fact, if I see you again, I’m going to have to call the police and—”

“Then maybe I better warn you. We’re going to meet for the first time in just a few days,” he told her. “At Data Tech’s Thanksgiving party.”

Maggie took a step back toward him, startled. Data Tech. She’d recently signed a contract with Data Tech to write a prospectus for a public offering. And the ink on a second contract with the software giant—this one for editing an annual report—was barely dry. And she had received an invitation to the annual Thanksgiving party at Data Tech. She’d already decided to go to the Tuesday-night affair, to schmooze with her new clients and to sniff around and see if there were any other potential projects requiring her talents.

“You won’t meet me,” Chuck told her. “At least not exactly. You’ll meet my younger self—Charles. Dr. Charles Della Croce.”

“Your younger self . . .” Maggie had to laugh. “Of course. If you’re from the future, then it stands to reason that there’s another you—a younger you—running around somewhere.”

He didn’t crack a smile. “Look, I know this sounds crazy to you.”

“Well, there you go,” Maggie said. “We’ve finally agreed on something.”

“I really need your help.”

“Chuck, you need help—that’s for sure, but I’m not the one who can give it to you.” Silently she cursed herself for not just turning and walking away. Instead she sat down across from him again, knowing she was going to kick herself over and over as she was forced to work late into the night to make up for this lost time. “Let me make some phone calls, call a few friends, find you a doctor who can—”

Most helpful customer reviews

19 of 21 people found the following review helpful.
Great book in many ways
By A Customer
I found Brockmann either on the RITA list or on an AMAZON recommended list - I'm not sure which, but I was looking for some new authors to feed my appetiite for good writing. And Suzanne Brockmann is a great find. I now am working my way through her published list.

But this book is the best so far. I read romance and science fiction and rarely do I find a book that combines the two really well. . . one that is good science fiction and still has the elements of romance that I like. (Many romance authors really don't have a grasp of the need to start with a science fiction premise and then extrapolate in a credible manner to an end point that allows an intelligent reader to logically and willingly suspend disbelief so to enjoy the read.) Brockmann's idea, that in time travel when the past is changed, people actually are aware of the old time line - like faintly remembered daydreams - is one of the best solutions to this hoary science fiction problem I've come across. It may or may not be new to her, but she used it really well in this story which is still a good romance . Excellent stuff - and one of the reasons I'm persuing her other books. FYI - I also am enjoying her S.E.A.L books in Silhouttte's Intimate Moments Tall, Dark and Dangerous series. She is the only author I read in series romances unless the books are early writings by big name authors. I think Brockmann will be one of those and these are her "early" writings.

6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
Great little romance packed with a good story line...
By janlouise
You know I really enjoyed this one. It's an oldie but a goodie to me and one that I really recommend. I normally don't read time travel romances but I am glad I gave this one a chance. Chuck has invented a time travel capsule and has travelled into the past hoping to change the event that took place and save the life of his sweetheart who was killed during a "take over." Chuck lands in Maggie's backyard naked. Boy, is that hard to explain. Though he is ten years ahead of the time he is still great looking and Maggie hasn't met the young Chuck yet. The older Chuck has to convince Maggie to convince the younger Chuck not to invent the time capsule to keep from landing in wrong hands that plan on controling the world with it. Romance is mixed with science fiction. A great little read!

6 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
Great book
By Tracy J (joneses@iline.com)
If you know someone who's skeptical about how much good writing could be packed into "those little books," give him or her this one. This is simply one of the best short romances I've ever read. Fans of Connie Willis and similar speculative SF authors will love it as well. Nominated for the prestigious RITA award.

See all 17 customer reviews...

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## PDF Ebook Brother Odd (Odd Thomas Novels), by Dean Koontz

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Loop me in, odd one. The words, spoken in the deep of night by a sleeping child, chill
the young man watching over her. For this was a favorite phrase of Stormy Llewellyn,
his lost love, and Stormy is dead, gone forever from this world. In the haunted halls of
the isolated monastery where he had sought peace, Odd Thomas is stalking spirits of an infinitely darker nature

Through two New York Times bestselling novels Odd Thomas has established himself as one of the most beloved and unique fictional heroes of our time. Now, wielding all the power and magic of a master storyteller at the pinnacle of his craft, Dean Koontz follows Odd into a singular new world where he hopes to make a fresh beginning—but where he will meet an adversary as old and inexorable as time itself.

St. Bartholomew’s Abbey sits in majestic solitude amid the wild peaks of California’s high Sierra, a haven for children otherwise abandoned, and a sanctuary for those seeking insight. Odd Thomas has come here to learn to live fully again, and among the eccentric monks, their other guests, and the nuns and young students of the attached convent school, he has begun to find his way. The silent spirits of the dead who visited him in his earlier life are mercifully absent, save for the bell-ringing Brother Constantine and Odd’s steady companion, the King of Rock 'n' Roll.

But trouble has a way of finding Odd Thomas, and it slinks back onto his path in the form of the sinister bodachs he has met previously, the black shades who herald death and disaster, and who come late one December night to hover above the abbey’s most precious charges. For Odd is about to face an enemy who eclipses any he has yet encountered, as he embarks on a journey of mystery, wonder, and sheer suspense that surpasses all that has come before.





From the Hardcover edition.

• Sales Rank: #1125460 in Books
• Brand: Bantam
• Published on: 2007-10-30
• Released on: 2007-10-30
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.88" h x 1.04" w x 4.15" l,
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 464 pages

Features

• Great product!

From Publishers Weekly
Bestseller Koontz's third Odd Thomas novel (after Forever Odd) offers an irresistibly offbeat mix of supernatural horror and laugh-out-loud humor. A resident of St. Bartholomew's Abbey, a monastery in the Sierra Nevada mountains, Thomas has the ability to see the spirits of the dead, a gift he has used to resolve mysteries and prevent future tragedies. As the story opens, the seer is unsettled by visions of bodachs, sinister ghostlike entities whose appearance precedes some dire tragedy. Thomas frantically searches for some sign that will help him head off disaster, even as St. Bart's is thrown into turmoil by the disappearance of one of its members. Thomas must figure out both the identity of the person or being behind the terror and the most effective way to restore peace to his haven. While newcomers may find the villain's underlying motive a bit over the top, the narrator's engaging voice should continue to give this series cross-genre appeal. (Nov. 28)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From Booklist
The third adventure of Odd Thomas, the boy (well, he's 21, but still . . .) who sees ghosts, has a lighter feel to it than the gruelingly suspenseful Forever Odd(2005) and the funny and moving Odd Thomas (2003). It's reminiscent of a sunny monster-movie sequel--say, Son of Frankenstein--in which stock characters do their shtick with a wink and a nod: "Dontcha just love us?" In this case, yes, we do. Odd has retreated to a monastery in the Sierra Nevadas that permanently hosts a billionaire physicist in an underground lab. The mogul has given his entire fortune to support the monastery and attached convent in their work of housing and educating severely damaged children, the most interesting of which is now a 25-year-old artistic savant. As the story opens, bodachs--animated shadows that gather in anticipation of lethal violence, which only Odd among the living sees--are invading the children's quarters. Can Odd mitigate the coming cataclysm? Of course he can, despite the arrival of murderous bone creatures and grim Death itself, for the monks include quite a contingent of reformed martial sinners, most memorably Brother Knuckles, formerly of the New Jersey Mob, and another guest, a mysterious Russian librarian from Indianapolis, who is more and different than Odd thinks he is. Koontz salts Odd's narration with some wonderful zingers at the expense of cultural degeneracy and political folly. A darned good time should be had by all readers. Ray Olson
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Review
“The final chapter of Brother Odd is delightful and makes a promise to readers that Odd will return. Hooray.”—Sacramento Bee

“Odd Thomas' latest adventure will make a believer out of even the hardest-nosed soul.”–Denver Post

“The nice young fry cook with the occult powers is Koontz’s most likeable creation.”—The New York Times

“Odd's strange gifts, coupled with his intelligence and self-effacing humor, make him one of the most quietly authoritative characters in recent popular fiction."—Publishers Weekly, starred review

“Odd Thomas [is] exactly the kind of hero that’s needed.”—South Florida Sun-Sentinel

“Odd Thomas is another name for courage, truth, and devotion to your fellow man.” —Baton Rouge Advocate



From the Hardcover edition.

Most helpful customer reviews

168 of 173 people found the following review helpful.
A Worthy Sequel to Odd Thomas
By Thriller Lover
Dean Koontz is one of my favorite writers. He has been writing novels for longer than I've been alive (and I'm approaching middle age!). I've read most of Koontz's fifty plus novels, and I'm happy to say that BROTHER ODD is definitely one of the better ones.

BROTHER ODD is the third in a series of novels featuring the character of Odd Thomas, who Koontz introduced to the world in 2003. Many Koontz fans consider the first ODD THOMAS novel to be one of Koontz's best books, perhaps rivaled only by WATCHERS, his 1980s classic.

I personally agree with this assessment. The first ODD THOMAS was a true masterpiece of popular fiction. It is a remarkably well done novel with a highly imaginative plot and fully-drawn characters. Odd Thomas, the title character, is a enormously likable young man from the small town of Pico Mundo who has the uncanny power to see the lingering dead. He is probably my favorite Koontz character of all time. If you have not read ODD THOMAS, I strongly recommend that you give it a try; Koontz has received more reader mail about that book than any other novel in his forty year writing career.

Due to the overwhelming popularity of ODD THOMAS, Koontz released a lackluster sequel, FOREVER ODD in 2005. That sequel is considered a major disappointment by most fans, lacking the fine characterization and strong plotline of the first book. I personally found it to be Koontz's worst novel in several years. Needless to say, after reading FOREVER ODD, I was not thrilled to learn that Koontz was planning a third entry in the series.

However, I was pleasantly surprised by BROTHER ODD. This novel is a major return to form for Koontz, and is very similar in tone to the first ODD THOMAS novel. I won't rehash the plot, but it involves Odd retreating to a monastery in response to the events of earlier books. This novel has a much stronger plot than FOREVER ODD, and Koontz has wisely decided to spend more time on creating a brand new set of likable and interesting characters. I found this novel to be a pleasure to read. I especially enjoyed the funny and clever dialogue scenes between Odd and the other (highly eccentric) occupants of the monastery.

This novel isn't perfect, however. My major quibble with BROTHER ODD is that it's far too short. BROTHER ODD had a bit of a rushed quality that I found unfortunate. There are a lot of very interesting characters in this novel, but some of them only last for a few pages or so. Koontz writes two or three books a year now, and as a result his novels are dramatically slimmer than they used to be. A shorter length is fine for a fast-paced suspense novel like VELOCITY or THE HUSBAND; but I think the Odd Thomas books should be longer to allow more room for character growth and development. If Koontz had spent a few more months on this novel, he could have produced another masterpiece in my opinion.

Overall though, BROTHER ODD is a winner. If you read and enjoyed the first ODD THOMAS, you should enjoy this third entry. Highly recommended.

35 of 38 people found the following review helpful.
A Perfect Series, Absolutely Perfect!
By Marion
I never, ever read a Dean Koontz novel in my life until a few weeks ago when I stumbled across a review of the first 'Odd Thomas' book. I have now read all three of them and I can say that I have never read a series of books with a recurring character that I have enjoyed this much. I hope and pray that there will be MORE!!!!

Odd Thomas is one of the most loveable, humble, engaging and endearing "people" I know....even if he does see ghosts and is only a lowly fry cook! I came away from the series feeling as if I'd made a quirky, sweet, new friend. The scenes with the ghost of Elvis are both bittersweet, heart-rending and funny as hell.

When I finished this book, I was crying my eyes out and my husband walked in shaking his head and said, "I don't think I've ever seen a person crying over a Dean Koontz novel!" I won't give away what made me cry, but it was joyous, poignant, moving and heartrending. I read it again later and cried again.

This is a fabulous, different, enjoyable series and a must-read if you like fabulous characters.

14 of 14 people found the following review helpful.
Brother Odd -- Ever so Wonderful
By Maureen Thomas
_Brother Odd_ leaves me with no doubt that the Master of Story-Telling is back, and in rare form!

I really enjoyed the first in the ODD series, _Odd Thomas_, finished it at 3 am because I couldn't put it down. Being a long-time Koontz fan, I bought _Forever Odd_ the first day. I could not believe the difference in the books. I had to struggle to continue with the second book, it had such a forced feeling about it.

Now this one, Brother Odd, brings back all my faith in story-telling. The characters are very well-drawn, despite the "supernatural" elements. Odd is a believable sort of guy in this one, even without having the protection of all his hometown buddies. His feelings are real, the journey keeps its ups and downs, suspense, chase scenes, it's got them all. My only regret is that I finished it already. I want to read more.

This is the type of Koontz book that I know and love. I put it up there with Whispers, Strangers and Lightning, which are my all-time favorites.

You gotta buy this one -- IT'S A KEEPER!!!

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