Edge of Time: A Time Travel Adventure Novel

by David Darling

Genres: Visionary & Metaphysical; Time Travel

Synopsis

From the bestselling author of the Noah Hunter series, and Grim Measures, comes a novel that spans centuries as a farmer from the 1700s and an FBI agent travel through time to stop a black hole from destroying the world.

"Darling has crafted a truly fantastic time-travel novel. Riveting, page-turning, and mind-bending from end to beginning..." - James Downe, author of Sisters of Jade.

FBI Special Agent Bradley Holman has been hand-picked to investigate the mother of all cover-ups: a three-hundred-year-old meteorite fragment, sealed away in Fort Knox, was stolen from under the government’s nose. The more he digs, the more he becomes embroiled in a conspiracy kept secret by every president since the formation of the United States.

As Holman draws closer to finding the thief, it’s clear he’s out of his depth—both in terms of the powers at play and his understanding of the very fabric of the universe. Thrown into a race to save all life on Earth, Holman must unravel the mysteries of time itself—and not lose his mind in the process.

 

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Release date: April 25, 2023

Print pages: 341

Sample

Prologue 

Golden energy flickered across a dark landscape like a nebula exploding in a distant galaxy or a universe-sized Tesla experiment gone wrong. Lightning clusters twisted in endless loops before vanishing. Ripples of green light shimmered like a cosmic aurora borealis stretching into infinity. However, the most fantastic views of the universe didn’t occupy his attention—he remained focused on the other two men.

He stood in a triangle formation, facing two others. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, while the man on his left wore a black suit and tie. The man on his right also wore a matching jacket and tie, which was blue. He had a week’s stubble, while the other two looked fresh from the shower, hair combed to the side, still damp.

“This is awkward,” the man in the black suit joked.

He nodded at the same time as the man in the blue suit.

A casual conversation would be appropriate if they were standing on a street corner or in a park. Instead of such a mundane venue, they met in an area without time.

The quantum realm.

The man in the dark navy suit gestured to his companions. “I have no memory of this event. It must be new.”

“Agreed.” He ran a hand through the scruff on his face and glanced over his shoulder. All light was swirling in a circular pattern like water going down a drain. Space and time were being bent along with reality. “I’ve done everything possible, but it wasn’t enough.”

Despite the different clothing, the men in the suits had his mannerisms. Their right hands rose, and all three rubbed their chins with their thumb and index finger. The men in suits were identical and could have been his brothers, but they weren’t. They were much closer than siblings could ever hope to be.

Moments passed, and he was lost in thought, as were the others. But a minute could have been an eternity in a realm where time can’t be measured. While reality was being destroyed, he questioned his sanity. Were the others real? What if my mind snapped? I have to check. When he stepped toward the other two, vibrations on the sub-molecular level reverberated across the universe. Sheets of lightning flickered behind his eyelids as his teeth ground together, and he scrambled to his original position. Once they resumed the spacing, the vibrations halted. The sensation of being torn in two wasn’t one he wanted to repeat.

There was only one possible answer, and the others came to the same conclusion.

Dark Suit Man slipped a hand inside his jacket pocket, and Blue Suit Man copied the move. “The answer was right here all along.”

The lingering headache was painful, but he could still function. He turned his back on the others and faced the anomaly in the distance. “We won’t remember this, will we?”

“Doubtful. However, we must remember. Somehow. Three is too much. Two as well? Not sure.” Blue Suit Man moved to the side but not closer to the others. “I will go first.”

“I’ll go second.” Black Suit Man cupped an object in his right hand.

“Three is too much.” He stood back and repeated those four words, hands in his jeans

Blue Suit Man looked at the others and winked. Like a fastpitch at the World Series, he wound up and whipped his arm forward with a grunt of exertion. An object flew from his palm and rapidly grew as it hurtled across the quantum realm toward the pinpoint of light. Another golf ball-sized stone thrown by Black Suit Man immediately followed with the same results.

All three turned to avoid the brilliant flash of light, but it was too late.

There was no time to scream before he was erased from the universe and his atoms scattered throughout time and space.

Three is too much.

The thought was echoed by a fourth man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts hidden in a fold of time. His eyes squinted against the power of a collapsing universe, and a golden nimbus surrounded him for a moment. The shield parted the energy, and he was safe.

He rubbed his chin with a thumb and index finger, an old habit. “It will come down to just one, but which one?”

Faster than a firing neuron, he disappeared from the quantum realm.

Space and time collapsed too fast for the human mind to comprehend as all matter in the solar system fed the anomaly, but no one was around to witness the occasion, as all life on the planet ended instantly.

CHAPTER 1

 

Boston, Massachusetts

2 November 1783

 

Clement stared at the two ceramic mugs on the farmhouse kitchen table, and his eyes watered. For twenty-five years, he had made tea each morning for them both, and it was the third time this week he rested two mugs on the table instead of one. Each time he did, a little piece of him died.

“I’m losing it. Sorry, dear.”

The desire for tea fled, and with difficulty, he controlled the urge to hurl the cup across the room. Instead, he gently placed it on the open wooden shelf. Trembling fingers turn it to hide the chip. After Clement slipped on his jacket to ward off a sudden chill, he grabbed the wicker basket, and with a final look around the kitchen, he stepped outside the cabin.

Bare fields stretched before him, covered with a light blanket of frost. Most of the leaves had fallen with the autumn weather, allowing him to see deep into the farm’s woods. Within four weeks, winter would have Massachusetts firmly in its grasp—it was in the air and long overdue.

When the rooster crowed from the barn, Clement blazed a trail across the whitened lawn to collect the morning eggs. The frozen weeds crunched underfoot, and his breath plumed as he followed the worn path under the frost. He would let the chickens out to roam once it warmed up in the afternoon. It was part of the morning chores and life on a farm; frankly, it was welcome right now.

“Come on, girls. Only four eggs? You can do better.”

Clement returned the basket to the kitchen and filled the water pitcher from the well. Soon he was sweeping the kitchen and living area, but it only took a few minutes. He needed to keep busy, and as usual, he turned to the pile of logs. Cords of wood were stacked six feet tall, the same height as Clement, running the length of the thirty-foot cabin. There was enough seasoned wood to last many years, not just one winter, no matter how brutal. But there could always be more, and it would keep him warm.

A calloused hand gripped the worn shaft of the heavy chopping ax. The pile of rounds to be split had taken a week to accumulate, and his back and arms still ached. A wrist flic

k buried the ax head into the two-foot log, and Clement placed the column on the chopping block with one hand. Biceps, the size of most men’s thighs, easily lifted the weight. With a twist, the blade came free, followed by a continuous arc of momentum. As the ax passed the apex, a second hand rose to grip below the first and guided the edge through the log with a well-aimed blow. It sounded like a gunshot as the dry elm cracked, and two halves fell. With further efforts, the halves became quarters and were tossed to the side. After a few minutes, the physical work warmed him, and he removed the light brown coat. The pile of split wood steadily grew to either side of the chopping block as he found his rhythm.

Clement’s mind wandered as usual when he performed repetitious work. It started when his eye caught the apple tree on the far side of the field.

A coughing sickness caught hold of his wife the year before, and by early spring, she didn’t have the strength to carry on. She had loved the spring blossoms—her favorite spot—and they had countless meals in

its shade.

He tore his eyes away, picked up the splits, and stacked them in a new row along the cabin. When his kids were young, this was one of their chores. However, both sons had died in the war against the British several years ago, and his heart still ached. He couldn’t do the mundane task without them coming to mind. The farmer shook his head and ran a hand through his short brown hair.

By the time he turned forty-five last summer, Clement had more heartache than many carried. Besides his family, there were many years with failed crops or weather which would not cooperate. A blight had destroyed eight acres of corn four years ago, and there was barely enough money to last that winter. Belts were tightened, and they had made do.

Life without his wife devastated Clement, and he had no idea how he kept placing one foot in front of another. Gods will? More likely, I’m too suborn to die. However, he continued to do so daily. He vowed not to place a second mug on the table the next morning.

Being physically exhausted daily left no time to grieve or wallow in misery. When falling into bed, sleep came swiftly. Clement’s feet hung over the end, but he never complained. The mahogany bedroom set was an expensive gift from his wife’s parents, and she loved it.

In the middle of another backswing, Clement froze. The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end, and he had the feeling of being watched. On the other side of his main field, the low rumble of thunder echoed off the tree line.

He spun around as a bright blue and orange ball of fire, wreathed in black smoke, streaked through the crisp morning sky. The roll of thunder intensified, reverberating in Clement’s chest, and stole his breath. He swore when the fireball clipped the tallest pine, vaporizing a twenty-foot section like a match stick, “Mary, Mother of Jesus.”

The fireball hurtled over the eight-acre field and roared into the leafless woods in the blink of an eye. An invisible shockwave rippled outward, and there was no time to run or think. Clement’s heavy-set frame lifted like a pile of dried leaves, and he crashed through a pile of tinder an

d rolled to a painful stop on the porch. The cabin creaked and groaned in protest. The window beside the front door rattled in the frame before shattering into a thousand pieces. Clement scrunched his eyes and covered his head as shards of glass rained over him.

Slow to regain his feet, Clement shook his head as the high-pitched ringing in his ears faded. Across the field, swirls of dust and leaves rose twenty feet in the air before settling in concentric rings. The urge to hide inside the cabin was real, and he even stepped back, grasping the handle with a shaking hand.

Contrary to what happened, silence reigned, and the sky remained clear as he waited for death. Was the world ending? Not going to lie, Lord. I’m okay if that happens. Wildlife and even the light breeze stilled. Clement hoped the horses in the far pasture hadn’t bolted. His eight hens and rooster, still inside the barn, were now silent, the usual clucking noise absent. The vapor trail across the sky slowly dissipated.

The silence was unnatural and did little to appease the sudden dry throat and queasy stomach. After looking down at the glass shards, Clement was surprised to find he wasn’t cut or injured beyond a few bruises.

“That doesn’t happen every day.”

His whisper seemed unusually loud. Clement had seen meteor showers across the night sky, but nothing like this. Past the apple tree, the rock should have landed a hundred yards farther into the woods. There had been little rain this fall, and the threat of a forest fire was real. The way this year has been, having my lands burn wouldn’t surprise me. He shouldered the ax and strode across the field.

After two-hundred yards, his steps slowed. Clement removed a small branch before the gravestone, threw it off to the side, and shifted a handful of leaves to clean the area. He knew it to be a fruitless gesture with the season, and more would fall, but he didn’t mind. It had been almost eight months since his wife passed, but it seemed like yesterday to him. The world had lost a bright light, and everything dimmed in comparison. They had spent many nights staring

 at the stars, and she would have leaped at a chance to see a meteor up close. Clement kissed his fingertips and laid them on the crude, hand-carved headstone under the apple tree. 

“I miss you every day, Jeanne. You wouldn’t believe what I just saw.”

Clement swallowed the lump in his throat and entered the woods. He followed an animal trail up the hill north through the trees. After a few minutes, the scent of burned wood let him know he was getting close, and the fear of fire returned.

The meteor had collided with a stout oak and won. Eight feet above the ground, the thick tree was sheered through, and tendrils of smoke still rose from the stump. The remainder had fallen to one side and was hung up in a neighboring pine. A swath of broken branches decorated the forest floor leading to a large limestone slab.

The rock, like the oak, was two feet thick, and the meteor had passed through the corner without effort. A hole lay on the other side, burrowed into the ground. Debris had blown clear in a wide circle from the impact revealing the bare forest ground. Steam rose from the earth, and a sharp scent of sulfur tickled his nose. A ticking noise echoed off the trees like a wet kettle on a hot wood stove.

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

Damp palms gripped the ax handle, turning his knuckles white, and his knuckles cracked. He tried to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach and rushed forward. Once he stood beside the crater, Clement waved away the smoke and peered down, his eyes wide.

Almost two feet in diameter, a jagged black rock lay at the bottom of the narrow shaft bored into the hillside. Sparks of lightning flickered under the surface before vanishing. His jaw muscles unclenched, and the tightness in his shoulders disappeared.

“You don’t look dangerous.” Clement peered at the eight-foot-wide path the meteor had cut through the forest canopy and shook his head. “Not now, anyway.”

He leaned the ax against the limestone rock and searched along the swath of destruction. It didn’t take long to find a straight branch.

Clement held it firmly like a spear and moved to the hole’s edge. Before prodding the meteor

, a dull thud sounded behind him. His heart leaped in his chest, and he spun around with the stick held high, ready to use if needed.

There was nothing to see, and he was alone. There wasn’t a chance a squirrel or any wildlife was within a mile—they were too smart, unlike him.

Clement turned back to the hole. His foot knocked a pebble from the edge, and it fell into the depression. Before it could strike the meteorite, the little stone hung in midair. It neither rose nor fell but hovered in place, defying gravity.

“What in God’s name is happening?”

Clement’s jaw dropped as his heart rate doubled. He was too old to believe in magic, but before his eyes was a trick he could not explain. He took a firm hold, extended the branch, and poked the small rock. Every time the end of the stick got close to the meteor, it went in a different direction.

As a child, he played with lodestones. When aligned, the magnets would attract, but you could push one away without touching it when you flipped one over. When the end of the stick got near the stone, it reacted in the same manner. Is it a giant magnet?

Clement had done rather well for the last few years, growing and selling tobacco since the corn had failed, but he could always use more money for labor around the property. With such a rarity, someone in Boston would buy it. A lot of the city folk had more money than sense. With that decision made, he threw away the branch and picked up the ax. It was too expensive to leave behind.

As he returned to the cabin, Clement thought about the meteor’s strange properties and what it could mean. Cautious, he kept one eye skyward in case more were about to fall. He leaned the ax against the chopping block and headed to the barn.

It was a simple structure with a large double door, horse stalls, and a pen for the chickens inside. The loft stored enough hay for the horses to get through the winter, and there was still room in the back for farm equipment. Outside, a large overhang ran along the side, protecting his tools and equipment from the rain or snow. He loaded a shovel and a length of r

ope into the wheelbarrow.

Clement crossed the field and followed his footprints in the dew past the apple tree. The morning sun had burned off the frost, and his leather boots kept the damp chill from his feet. He could only bring the barrow so far into the woods. Roots and uneven ground made it difficult, and he had to abandon it. He carried on with the coil of rope over one shoulder and shovel in hand.

Short of the impact site, Clement froze when a noise filtered through the woods. A flicker of movement ahead sent his heart racing once again. He wasn’t a woodsman but could move silently enough to hunt, and he used those skills to remain hidden. Clement gingerly felt with his toe for sticks, and walked along the outside edge of his heels with bent knees, and rocked forward. Slow and steady. But most importantly, quietly. Using larger trees as cover, he made it to the base of the sheared-off oak and peered around the trunk.

A large man stood at the crater with his back to Clement. The figure leaned over to place something down against the big rock. Is that a short-barreled musket?

Clement peered around the trees, concerned for his safety, searching for others, but the man appeared alone. The stranger picked up a long branch before facing the hollow once more. It was the same limb Clement had used to poke the meteorite.

A nervous sweat beaded Clement’s forehead, and his hands grew clammy. A chill ran down his spine, and the shovel slipped in his grip. The blade arced into the tree trunk with a thunk. Panicked, he ducked behind the oak. The man beside the meteorite didn’t see him, but he got a good look at his profile.

Clement’s stomach churned, and he swallowed a few times while a second chill rippled through his body. He clutched the shovel tight against his chest so his hands wouldn’t shake.

He looked down at his white cotton shirt and tan work pants. The rugged dark leather boots were still wet from crossing the field. His light coat still lay across the woodpile beside the cabin. It took a minute, but slow deep bre

aths calmed his nerves, and the tremor in his hands vanished. There should be no reason to be calm, but he was.

Once again, Clement leaned around the tree to observe. As the stranger poked the meteor, he studied the man’s clothing. The stranger also wore a white shirt and tan work pants. Clement’s wife had repaired his left boot, and the red stitching down one side was unique. Even the man’s boots appeared the same, down to the red thread.

Clement shaved every few days looking into a small polished-steel mirror that rested on a shelf outside the outhouse. He caught the man’s profile by the impact crater again.

Clement knew that face very well.

It was his own.

Chapter 2

Captain O’Sullivan was a lean man in his early thirties with a thick red beard, sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes. His nose had been broken several years ago and never healed straight. He absently straightened his dark brown uniform and then patted the side of his mare’s neck. Molly was a great horse with an even temperament. She had seen him through many years of service, and they had grown quite fond of each other.

After John Hancock became the first governor of Massachusetts in 1780, resigning from his position as senior major general of the militia, O’Sullivan worked with the man, and they were uncomfortable years. Handcock’s effectiveness as a leader of six thousand troops remained in question by many, and the militia leadership sighed in relief when he retired. One of Hancock’s first acts as governor was to hire his former militia to patrol the roads in and around the Boston area. Brigands, highwaymen, and Indians were still known to lay an ambush, and the constant patrols helped keep the peace.

O’Sullivan led his troops along the southeastern road for an early morning patrol. They adopted various marching formations: staggered lines, single file, and parade riding while covering their arcs of responsibilities. The horses steamed from their excursions in the crisp autumn air, and their breath billowed in plumes.

Fallen leaves littered the road and quieted the clomp from the horses’ hooves on the hard-packed soil. The bare trees allowed them to see deeper into the woods and helped alleviate the paranoia of an ambush—they wouldn’t be surprised or taken unawares. It didn’t stop him from constantly scanning ahead.

After the patrol passed a dairy farm, they stopped at a narrow creek to water the horses and rest. The six-man detachment dismounted and alternated, leading their horses to drink. The stream continued to flow steadily with clear and cold water, but it’ll be frozen solid and covered with snow next month.

“Don’t let them drink much. The water’s too cold for that.” Brandan took a deep breath of the fresh air and enjoyed the view over the valley below. A hawk circled on the rising thermals, and two squirrels chattered. After a few days in the city, he was glad to get out into the country. The city of Boston was crazy as they filled in the swampland and marshes to give them more room to expand. They brought in more gravel by the wagon load daily than he had ever seen. ...