The Quantum Chain

Book 4: Joseph Bridgeman

by Nick Jones

Genres: Time Travel; Space Exploration

Synopsis

Secrets of the past hold the key to the future.

Joseph Bridgeman is now an official member of the Continuum, a group of time travelers that heal the past to protect the future. When a rare focus object is stolen and put up for sale, Joe jumps at the chance to retrieve it, but a simple auction turns into a dangerous new mission that takes him farther back in time than he’s ever been before.

Alone and unprepared in ancient China, Joe must not only complete the mission, but also unravel the mystery of a secretive organization known as Extempero. Who are they? And why do they seem intent on destroying everything the Continuum has achieved so far?

When all hope appears lost, an unexpected ally helps Joe unlock a unique form of time-travel loop that sees him flung into the past yet again. Caught up in a shocking natural disaster, Joe must face a terrible choice, a decision that will have far-reaching consequences for the Continuum and a delicate future that hangs in the balance.

Release date: October 4, 2022

Publisher: Blackstone Publishing

Sample

1

The sound in my dream wrenches me awake.

“Huh, what?” I flail around in the dark until I find the cord of my bedside lamp. I switch on the light, whining, still trying to figure out where I am. The numbers on my digital clock inform me that this is a very unsociable hour. My heart is racing. The air-raid siren blares from my phone, which vibrates facedown on the side table. My anger builds. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Only one person would call me at this hour, the woman who earned this dramatic ringtone.

“Seriously? It’s five a.m., Gabrielle! This better be important.”

“I’m good, Golden Balls, thanks for asking.” There’s a boozy slur in her voice. “How you doin’?”

“Fine, thanks,” Annoyingly, my British mental programming forces me to respond politely, which makes me even more irritable. The fact that she saved me from a guilt-ridden nightmare is beside the point.

Gabrielle Green is a touchy American time traveler who works for The Continuum, the organization based in the future that sends time travelers back to fix the past. I had the dubious pleasure of accompanying her on a mission to 1873 Paris a few weeks ago. I nearly died. Twice. She’s pushy, annoying, and rude, and she always manages to brush me up the wrong way, but occasionally her cold black heart is in the right place.

I rub my face vigorously and swallow my annoyance. “OK. I’m awake now. What’s up?”

“Oh, you know, making friends with a bottle of bubbly, minding my own business. Gimme a minute, will ya?” I hear muffled voices in the background, then raucous male laughter. She shouts, “What’s your problem?” without moving her mouth away from the microphone. I yank the phone from my ear.

“Bridgeman? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Where are you?”

“I was over at Bruce’s house the other night, and—”

“Who’s Bruce?”

“Hang on, I need to get away from these guys.” She breathes heavily, apparently walking, and then resumes. “He’s a singer, you’ve heard of him. If I told you who he was, I would have to kill you, or at least drug you and leave you for dead in the Nevada desert. Anyway, I was at his place the other night, and we’re on the wrong side of a bottle of scotch, and he’s getting all teary-eyed. I’m thinking either he’s going to make a move, or he’s getting choked up about his latest divorce, or both, but no. Turns out Bruce was coerced into selling an antique from his personal collection.”

“Right.” I rub my hand wearily across my eyes, trying to figure out where this is going. “What did he sell?”

“One of his horses. He collects them—not real ones, obviously. Antiques. He sold it to a collector ‘under duress,’ his words. I’m like, Bruce! Why the hell did you sell it if you didn’t want to? Anyway, he did. It was old. Chinese. Yang dynasty, I think.”

“Tang dynasty?”

“That’s what I said.” She sighs heavily. “It’s mega-ancient, apparently. Some kind of kimchi—no, wait, that’s not right.”

“Mingqi.” Now my interest is piqued. I’ve read about the objects the Chinese used to bury with their dead, but I’ve never actually handled one. I’d be afraid of dropping it too—some of them are worth a ton of cash. “Is it pottery?”

“Like I said, a pottery horse. Geez, Bridgeman, do you listen to anything I say?”

“I do actually, but what does this have to with me?”

“Finally, the right question.” Her voice drips sarcasm, but when she speaks again, she shows signs of the Gabrielle who turned the Paris mission around, the woman who’s a legitimate asset to The Continuum. “Bruce didn’t know what he had, obviously. He just loved the thing, but it turns out the horse is a focus object, a powerful one too. Its story involves union, one of the most powerful forces in the world and a massive multiplier on the Future Change Index, which means we need to get it back ASAP, before it gets sold and we lose it for good.”

I’ve completed a couple of missions myself, which means I’m sort of part of this too. It’s how I know about focus objects. They get charged up with the past, and when travelers touch them, they form a bond and create a portal back through time.

“What’s the mission?” I ask.

“Oh, great, here we go.”

“Er, are you talking to me?”

“Yes!” She growls, “I know what you’re like, panicking already.”

“I’m not panicking, I just want to know—”

“The horse links all the way back to ancient China. It’s a love story, and those always have far-reaching outcomes, but listen, before you get all wound up. We don’t need to actually do the mission, there’s plenty of time for that. The problem is losing track of it. Bruce was supposed to keep a hold of that horse for at least another twenty years.”

Visions of rock stars as time guardians for The Continuum fill my mind. “Hang on, are you saying that Bruce knows about time travel? That he takes care of focus objects?”

“Nooo.” She says this like I’m being slow. “He doesn’t know the horse is special in that way, but it was supposed to stay with him, to follow its correct and known path, nice and quiet, until we were ready. But in a massive case of Murphy’s Law, the dummy sold it! Which means that now we have to get it back. Once we do, The Continuum can take it from there. Got it?”

“Er, yes, I think so.”

“Good. So, are you in?”

I consider this carefully. Gabrielle prefers to work alone, has made it clear numerous times, so she wouldn’t ask me to join her for the fun of it. There’s more to this. “Obviously. I want to help, but I’m trying to figure out why you need me.”

“I don’t.”

“OK, so why don’t you go and buy it back yourself.”

“So annoying.” She tuts. “All right, listen. I’m in the middle of a mission, and my next jump is coming up any day. I could travel now, while we’re on this call. Who knows?” I guess that makes sense—if it’s true. Once you are bonded to a mission via an object, time decides when to throw you back. “And the dealer who bought Mister Ed from Bruce is super picky about who he’ll work with. I tried, but he runs his whole setup face-to-face and won’t talk to anyone who’s not in the biz. So, I thought, who do I know who’s into boring antiques and has nothing better to do? I’m not asking you to head over there on your own. I’ll come with you, but like I said, I don’t know when my mission might drag me away, and we can’t run the risk of missing our chance to get this focus object back.”

I’m actually quite excited about getting my hands on such an ancient object, but I’m not going to let Gabrielle get off so lightly. “So what you should’ve said, when I answered the phone, was ‘Hey Joe, we lost a really expensive, very important focus object and need to get it back, but I’m clueless about antiques, so I need your help to secure it, pretty please, cherry on top, etc.’ Does that about sum it up?”

“Whatever,” she says sulkily. “Listen, my champagne is getting warm and my guys are getting cold, what’s it gonna be?” I hear her take a slurp. “It’s a really special piece, eighth century, I think Bruce said. Just your bag, right? Come on! How often do you get your clammy paws on stuff that old?”

She’s right. I do want to get my clammy paws on it.

“Anyway,” she continues, “you’d better say yes because I already booked you a flight.”

“A flight?” I’d assumed it must be in the UK, since she was asking me to join her. That will teach me.

“Yep. Leaving tomorrow, three p.m. I’ve checked you in already.”

“Where to?”

“Amsterdam.”

“Gabrielle!”

“What?” I can imagine the face she’s pulling, the picture of innocence. “It’s only an hour’s flight from Heathrow. I’ll meet you there tomorrow night, presuming I don’t time travel on the plane, although I guess I could go hide in the bathroom. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone pop in the middle of a flight, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Gross.”

Gabrielle laughs gleefully. “You’re just jealous. Anyway, see you at the hotel tomorrow. I’ll text you the deets. Ciao, Chosen One.” She hangs up.

I put my phone back on the bedside table and stretch, breaking into a yawn. It’s 5:10 a.m. I consider trying to get some more sleep, but my heart is racing, and my brain’s in overdrive. I have to say, despite the short notice and sideways manner of her invitation, Gabrielle’s call at least interrupted one of the most bizarre and uncomfortable dreams I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something, given my viewings. Her call also got my antiques juices flowing.

I grab a nearby antiques magazine. I sometimes read them at night to help me drop off to sleep. Did she call me boring? I’m searching for a particular article . . . there it is. The headline reads: Chinese Grave Goods Back in Fashion. Maybe that’s why this dealer bought the horse, wanting to cash in on this year’s fad. There’s plenty of money in this business if you play it right.

It’s funny. None of the other focus objects I’ve come across have been worth anything, other than sentimental value. The radio, the metronome. Hugely valuable to a time traveler, of course, but it’s interesting that some focus objects can be worth a financial fortune too.

My phone vibrates. It’s a text from Gabrielle. I skim through it. She writes like she speaks, in partial sentences and with no additional information. I’m to meet her at the City Hotel, Amsterdam, at 5 p.m. local time.

If it weren’t for the fact that I’m traveling with the red-haired hand grenade, I’d be excited about this trip. It’s been a while since I’ve visited another country in my own time. I always find it good for the soul, for resetting my perspective. Whatever transpires, I know one thing for certain—visiting Amsterdam with Gabrielle Green will be anything but dull.

2

Heathrow Airport is heaving. A chirpy woman behind the check-in desk takes my passport, taps her keyboard, and says, “Good news, Mr. Bridgeman, you’ve been upgraded to business class, courtesy of Miss Mandalay.”

“Miss who?”

She double-checks her screen. “Yes. I have a note on the system here, says to let you know the upgrade was paid for by . . . Anita Mandalay.”

Anita Mandalay?

Oh God.

I need a man to lay.

Gabrielle is so immature, but also, kind of funny.

Stifling a grin, I take my boarding pass and for the first time in my life, I turn left as I enter the plane. It’s been years since I’ve taken a flight, and I’m excited about leaving the UK. I’m not exactly basketball height—five foot eleven—but I always feel cramped in a plane. The wider seats in business class more than take care of that problem. The cabin crew hands out newspapers, drinks, and snacks, but before I can really enjoy the upgrade, the seat belt sign lights up, my ears pop, and we begin our descent into Schiphol Airport.

As soon as we land, I turn on my phone and receive a text.

Yo. Meet me in the hotel bar. Anita x

I text back.

Will do. Hugh Jardon x

An oldie but a goodie.

The taxi ride takes half an hour, an interesting journey along wide streets with tramlines down the middle and electrical wires overhead. People on bicycles everywhere, some with single riders, some with kids on the back or dogs in their baskets. A woman balances a plant across her lap and a shopping bag over the handlebars.

The City Hotel is in an upmarket part of town. Tall Dutch baroque buildings line either side of the street. The smoked glass doors open automatically, making me grin. One of Vinny’s favorite things to do is pretend that he has magic powers and waft his hand as they open. I give it a go. It’s fun.

The hotel is trendy and buzzing with activity. Guests in small groups chat around stylish coffee tables and low leather sofas. A man in a smart concierge uniform welcomes me into the foyer, and when I ask, he points me in the direction of the bar.

I pass through a kind of anteroom dotted with modern sculpture. The bar is busy but has a laid-back vibe. Cool music plays over the loudspeakers. Along one side of the room is a long bar, studded here and there with clusters of barstools. In the center, hanging above a forest of chairs and tables, is a mobile made up of full-size orchestral instruments.

I spot Gabrielle balanced on a barstool. She raises her hand. As I weave my way over to her, I’m surprised to see she’s swapped out her usual, grungy attire for a green dress, jacket, and boots. She’s even wearing normal-looking makeup.

“What?” she says, scowling at me.

“Nothing. You look . . . nice.”

She growls.

We’ve hardly spoken since I got back from Paris. Gabrielle confuses me. I thought we had made some ground on that mission, but every time I meet her it feels like I’m starting from scratch.

She drains her cocktail and waves her little paper umbrella coquettishly at a young dark-haired man at one of the tables near the brasserie. He winks. She makes a slow throaty noise. “Well, that’s my evening sorted.”

“OK,” I say awkwardly, wondering if I might need a drink.

“Before you start whining, let’s talk about the plan. The dealer who coerced the horse from Bruce is called Johan Decker. He has a shop nearby. I checked, and his assistant said he was at his warehouse. So, we go there now, buy the horse back, and who knows, we might even have time to party.”

“We just go to the warehouse and buy it back?”

“Yep.” Her expression is pure innocence. Butter wouldn’t melt, as Grandma Bridgeman used to say.

“And you really needed me to come all the way here for that?” I glare at her, arms folded. “Why do I get the feeling you aren’t telling me the whole story?”

Her face scrunches into a scowl. “I told you when I called you yesterday. This Decker guy is particular about who he deals with. You’re in the antiques business; you can talk about old stuff. Plus, I’m bonded to a mission already. Remember?” She pushes her phone into my face. On the screen is a photograph of a wonderful antique horse. It’s impossible to guess the scale from this image, but the artistry and craftsmanship are exquisite. “What’s it worth?” Gabrielle asks.

“Difficult to say. I won’t know for sure until I see it, but only five percent of Tang horses have that blue cobalt glaze. It was more expensive than gold at the time, so that’s going to push—”

“Ah, ah, ah. Let me stop you there.” Gabrielle rolls a hand. “Let’s fast-track this.”

“OK, well. It’s an impressive-looking piece. I’ve seen similar go for a million dollars, but it really depends on whether—”

“Bruce bought the horse a few years back for six hundred thousand dollars, said he couldn’t really say no when Decker offered him nine hundred thousand.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of money.” My brain catches up. “Hang on a minute. If we’re going to buy it back, he’s going to want more than that.”

“There it is.” Gabrielle claps sarcastically and hops off her stool. “Right, come on, Golden Balls, we’re not just here to smoke weed and have sex with random people. Let’s go spend some cash.”

She sashays across the bar, ensuring that her future prey is watching. I follow behind and stick my tongue out at her back. A little boy at a nearby table giggles.

Outside, the late afternoon air is chilly, but Gabrielle hares along at speed, and I don’t have time to feel the cold. We cross the street and walk along a footpath as cyclists zip past us. It’s good to be soaking in the atmosphere of the Netherlands’ capital. I read on the plane that Amsterdam is building a circular economy, and I think it’s having an impact already. People smile in public here. It’s the opposite of Cheltenham, where a happy face tends to make people suspicious.

I catch up to Gabrielle. “So, the horse is a focus object.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And The Continuum can see those? Sort of keep track of where they are?”

“Yeah.”

This is how most of my conversations with Gabrielle play out. I do some guessing; she does some brief and occasionally sarcastic confirming. It’s one way to learn, I suppose, like gaining crucial life skills from a grumpy but experienced teenager.

She groans. “I’ve just remembered what you’re like. You’re going to keep asking me questions, aren’t you?”

“I’m trying to understand how this works. I understand why the horse is important, it’s the link to a mission—”

“Not just any mission,” she corrects me. “Union . . . love, baby. The kind of mission that can light the Index up.”

“Sure, OK, but I don’t know how you decide when to activate a mission. I don’t know why we can’t just wait and let the horse pass through different hands, maybe pick it up later.”

She bobs her head and keeps walking. “Fair enough. I do forget sometimes that your training hasn’t been exactly . . . extensive. All right, I can play teacher, briefly. Listen up, and pay attention. Focus objects emit energy that The Continuum can track. Initially, they’re in a kind of stasis. Waiting. They can be like that for a long time, sometimes hundreds of years, waiting for activation, something we call ‘priming.’ The metronome we used in Paris? I primed that before you arrived at my hotel room. We get to choose when we do it. The horse has got at least fifty years left in it, but we’re worried that we’re going to lose it.”

“Lose it? Why?”

“Objects have a normal path through time, but there’s something . . . off about this one; it’s not right.”

“In what way?”

“Felix said the data appeared to be . . . unnatural. Objects have their correct place in time, a path they follow naturally. Bruce wasn’t supposed to sell it. Not yet anyway. And sometimes when that happens, objects can end up lost forever, or even worse, destroyed. It’s like they get disrupted and then we lose the chance at the mission. So that’s why we need to get it back and ensure it’s safe.” She checks her phone. “This way.”

We turn onto a pretty street with a narrow canal to our left. Trees and old-fashioned streetlamps stand at intervals beside the water. It’s the first canal I’ve seen since I arrived. Boats and barges pass by.

After a twenty-minute walk, we end up in a quiet part of town filled with low gray and white buildings with up-and-over-style garage doors, like aircraft hangars. The water in the harbor is dark brown and lackluster, and there are no plants or trees or people, just an odd abandoned truck and forklift. It’s more than a little creepy. Instinctively I rotate my silver hunter pocket watch in my hand, its body reassuringly heavy.

Gabrielle’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Here we are. Cacaohaven—the cocoa port. That’s Johan Decker’s warehouse over there.” She points to a hefty red hangar door, half-open. Light spills out onto the cobbled walkway.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask her.

“Nah. Kind of burnt my bridges there.”

Gabrielle’s version of burning bridges plays out like a Vietnam movie in my head. “What did you do?”

“Let’s just say it’s best he doesn’t see me.”

Finally, we get to the truth. “This is why you wanted me here. You’ve already tried buying the horse back, but you messed up.”

“Listen, Joe,” she says, clearly annoyed. “The Continuum trusts us to track this object down.” I love her tactical use of the word us. “When I pushed Decker, he slipped up and mentioned an auction, which he then fervently denied. If that’s his plan, you need to snap the horse up before that auction happens.”

“OK, so presuming Decker is here, and he has the horse with him, let’s say that I persuade him to sell it to me. How am I supposed to pay for it?”

Gabrielle reaches into her handbag and hands me a jet-black credit card. I turn it in my hands. There’s no writing on it—no raised characters, no chip—just a glistening, colorless gem in the middle of the face.

“That’s a diamond, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Yeah. You’re authorized up to 2 million dollars. Try and get it for less if you can. I promised Iris we’d do our best to limit the damage.”

Feeling a bit sweaty, I slip the card into my jacket pocket. I guess when you can see the past, money isn’t really a problem. You can invest in whatever you like at pretty much any stage in history. I’m wondering how that kind of insider trading might work with resistance, the natural force that repels changes outside of time’s plan, when Gabrielle jabs me in the ribs. “You know I mentioned that we prime objects when we are ready to bond and travel?”

“Yeah,” I say, cautiously.

“Focus objects want to tell their story; they react when a time traveler is near. If the horse is in there, you need to be careful not to prime it.”

“I have no idea how to prime it, so that’s probably not going to happen, right?”

Nodding, she says, “Highly unlikely, but, so you know, it’s all about intention. If a focus object thinks you’re ready to hear its story, it’ll want to pop its cork. And that would be a little . . . premature. I’m sure you know all about that.”

I can’t help but laugh. Gabrielle’s acerbic wit is an acquired taste, but I’m learning to appreciate it. “OK, so worst-case scenario, I prime the focus object. What then?”

“Unless you want to waste a perfectly good mission, you have a few minutes to bond and then jump. You’re still a rookie, so don’t do that. It takes a lot to prime them. Just don’t beg the horse to talk and you’ll be fine.” She hands me another card. Matte charcoal gray with embossed silver lettering: James Theodore Blake. Fine Antiques.

“Why didn’t you use my real name?”

“This sounds more distinguished, and I figured it was safer.” She gestures toward the warehouse door. “Good luck, Mr. Blake. Just get the horse, and we can go home.”

The warehouse is cavernous, with floor-to-ceiling racks stacked with various crates and boxes. To my left is a desk with an old-fashionedlamp and an in tray neatly stacked with papers. There doesn’t seem to be anybody around, so before I call out, I close my eyes and try to pick up any energy from the focus object. I’m shocked when I immediately hear a weak whisper, faint but undeniable. I don’t mean the object is talking to me: the feelings, visions, or sounds that I pick up all come from my unique, psychometric connection. They are silent in the real world but powerfully evocative to me, a form of spooky action at a distance. It makes me think of the observer effect, how we influence and interact with the present and the past. Objects know when you’re paying them attention, just like animals seem to know when they are being watched. There are senses and powers in this world that we don’t fully understand.

“Can I help you?” says a loud voice behind me. I turn and face a tall, slender man in his midforties. His Dutch accent is strong, but I could easily have guessed his nationality by his stylish attire. He’s dressed in a sharp blue suit, with a white shirt and an orange tie that matches the laces on his expensive cream-colored running shoes. His round glasses are thick and match his tie.

“Mr. Decker?” I venture.

He offers me a guarded smile, difficult to see beneath a sharply styled mustache. “And you are?”

“James Blake.” I hand him my card, impressed that I remember to use my new alias. He studies the card and then looks up. “I have a shop in town. We mainly specialize in high-quality Dutch furniture and fine art, anything up to mid-twentieth century. If you want to drop by some time, I would be happy to show you around.”

“Actually, I’m here about an item you recently bought from an acquaintance of mine.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“It’s an antique horse, Tang dynasty.”

His displeasure is immediate. “For God’s sake. Not this again. I don’t appreciate the constant harassment.”

“Harassment?”

He lets out a frustrated breath. “OK, I admit I lost my temper, but that woman—a colleague of yours, I presume—was extremely rude, not to mention persistent and annoying.” He seems to have Gabrielle pretty well pegged. He steps toward me. “I will tell you what I told her. I run an honest and professional business. When I agree to a deal, it’s between me and my client.” He hands my card back. Clearly, I won’t be joining his list of preferred customers. “As an antique dealer, you must understand. I bought that piece in good faith. What I paid was generous. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of the matter. I don’t appreciate the threats, the constant phone calls.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger over his ample mustache. “You know, I can’t remember the last time someone screamed down the phone at me. So unprofessional.”

When Gabrielle burns her bridges, she doesn’t mess around. With a calm, considerate tone, I say, “What you just said makes complete sense to me. I’m sorry about my colleague, but this is one of those times when the seller made a terrible mistake. The horse means a lot to him, has huge sentimental value. If you could see your way to returning it, I would make it worth your while.”

He holds up a finger. “I’ll save you the trouble. It doesn’t matter what you’re about to offer, it’s too late. I already have a buyer. The horse is sold.”

This might be true. Sometimes you can find a buyer before going to auction, and it’s always nice to get a deal done, but the horse is nearby, which means there’s still hope. I decide it’s time to up the game.

“I can pay you 1.3 million dollars.” A silly number, and I’m impressed that I’m able to say it without the words catching in my throat.

His brow narrows. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. I can pay you now.”

For a few seconds, he is clearly tempted, but then he visibly deflates. “My reputation is worth more to me than anything else. It’s been sold. I can’t go back on that deal.”

“One point five million,” I announce confidently. Turns out that negotiating with someone else’s money is more fun than I expected.

The frown is back. He lets out a small laugh, perhaps wondering if I’m joking.

“I’m serious. We can do the deal right now.”

His demeanor shifts. He glances nervously around the warehouse, checks his watch, and says, “Listen, I’m closing up here. We’re done, you need to go.” His eyes flick back toward his desk, where I spot a metal case. For just a few seconds, the colors in the warehouse desaturate slightly. The lamp on his desk has a green shade, which blooms into a glowing jade orb. The effect is subtle, but it’s the only clue I need. The horse is in that case. I’m so close to the focus object. All I need to do is get him over the line. “I respect your integrity, but this item is special. I hope that my final offer of 2 million dollars is enough to get this deal done.”

He swallows, the color draining from his face. “Two million . . . Are you mad?”

No, just desperate. “So do we have a deal?”