Jaguar Transit, SciFi Suspense with a Metaphysical twist: Crystal Ceres Time Travel Books, #2

prologue

I tried for six months to keep this story arc in Jaguar Transit, which I originally wrote in a burst of inspiration for a National Novel Writing Month.

When it eventually became clear that Zena and her crew simply were not appropriate for this stage of Alexa Jane Alden’s saga, I regretfully cut 45,000 words. And started over.

But here, you have a chance to meet Zena and Ferguson’s Fighting Fairies!

Click this button (or copy the link below) to grab your copy of the short story Zena’s Place, an alternate reality for Alexa Jane Alden. I recommend reading Jaguar Transit first, however. You could consider Zena’s Place an epilogue, of sorts.

Or use this address: http://bit.ly/1Rlc1gI

Jaguar Transit

Chapter 1

Even though the door to the Paris apartment had slid open, Alexa remained standing in the hallway, transfixed. The realization that dawned while striding toward the door practically made her jaw drop.

Literally, months had passed since KAG8 declared it would terrorize and dominate her.

Yet, in all this time, there’s been not a single peep from that nutzoid computer—oh, excuse me, artificial intelligence.

Hah. I win.

I stepped inside and the front door closed behind me with a swish, to be enveloped by the serene hush of Pearson’s home. Undoubtedly, life with Pearson—my robot lover—was good; all anyone could desire of luxurious living, with no desire unfulfilled.

Except, I’m still here in 2962. Not my century…

Shifting new clothes from one hand to the other, I maneuvered through the formal living room, marveling that the old epitome of all evil had lost track of me. Perhaps the thing was simply a crazed collection of zeros and ones, after all. On the subject of KAG8, I always put up a good front, while working hard to stuff churning anxiety.

At the master bedroom door, however, the sight of my dog curled on a pillow warmed my heart. Truly, Bill the Chihuahua effortlessly trumped a stupid fear. Maybe now I could relax and make a life for myself.

I tiptoed by. Evidently not quietly enough, however, because he raised his head right as I made it into the closet. Immediately, the questions began. Where have you been?

Shopping.

I had to laugh out loud at his response. My dog might be a machine, but somehow he’d picked up the very Parisian ironic gesture of lifting a single eyebrow.

Years earlier, Pearson created Bill the robotic canine to be unrecognizable from the real thing, just like his father. Thus, Bill appeared exactly as other dogs, until, of course, he launched on long and involved theories regarding the state of world affairs, or about the cute little girl dog that recently sauntered past.

Opinions of my afternoon’s activities aside, Bill pranced across the bed toward me. A quick kiss on his noggin, and I headed toward the office in the opposite wing of the apartment, Bill following along. About halfway across the living room, he peered up at me and asked, Want to play tug of war? Trying to keep from being dragged across the carpet by my foot-high dog is a good way to keep in shape.

How about later? I offered cheerily. When you’re desperate for something to do, even organizing a book collection is a pleasure.

Pearson’s library had become totally jumbled. I’d found a book on reincarnation buried in a folder labeled Mechanics of Space Flight, and his extensive collection of astrology books had been filed away in the Fine Literature folder. Pearson was a well-read robot.

Our path passed the kitchen, where real human ladies were cleaning. Pearson wouldn’t allow cleaning robots in his offices, spaceships or homes. And me taking care of the apartment also wasn’t part of his plan.

I never interacted with the ladies much, but their chatter in the background had been generally enjoyable, even soothing, the recent months. Since I had returned that day from my hunting-and-gathering activities early and lunch wasn’t expected until later, I said nothing to them.

Their conversation spilled into the living room, ultimately proving the ladies had no idea I was around.

Giselle wondered allowed, Why has not the Capitaine Pearson become tired of this woman?

You are only jealous, said the other lady.

Oui. The Capitaine is very handsome. If I was his mistress, I would remain faithful. Not like her. You see, two nights ago, I saw her with another man in their bedroom.

I could have responded. But they worked for Pearson, not me.

Besides, Pearson and I kept more than one secret. Very few knew about him being a robot. But that fact also made it possible for him to morph into my fiancé, Mac, every night. In fact, back in about 2012, Mac had specifically given the robot-that-would-evolve-into-Pearson that very ability, in case I wasn’t able to travel back through time.

Which I hadn’t. Yet.

Someday, perhaps I will return home. Maybe. I hope.

I was about to close the hallway door behind us on the way to the office, but stopped when the front door buzzer sounded. No one ever visited if Pearson wasn’t present, and the few people I spoke with—mostly Pearson’s employees—knew he’d be gone for days.

We waited in the hallway as a lady hurried to answer the door—the one who’d be happy to take my place. When she noticed my presence, her hand almost made it to her mouth. Eyes wide, she made a brief curtsy in my direction and scurried to the door.

Hello, is Alexa Jane Alden in? came a male voice. If so, would you tell her Zaire Chevalier is here?

Oh, oui, said the lady. Wait a moment, s’il vous plait. No surprise, Giselle was slow to come find me.

But that allowed a moment for me to touch my hairstyle here and there; corkscrew curls always refuse to stay in place.

Giselle came to a stop in front of me, hands tightly clasped. Mademoiselle Alden? Someone is at the door for you, a Monsieur Chevalier. She opened her hands wide in supplication. I am very sorry. I did not know you had returned.

My eyebrows might have risen to one of those haughty ironic places. I would be delighted to see Mr. Chevalier. Please show him in.

When he entered the living room, Zaire and I gave each other a big hug. He didn’t seem to mind that I accidentally pulled one of his dreadlocks from the professional brown band holding them back.

Unless this is a social call, Zaire, I’m guessing you located Rachel. As I made the statement, it struck me how long it had been since I’d thought of my best girlfriend—the one who went back in time, instead of me.

While easing into one of the chairs, Zaire absentmindedly tucked his dreadlock back into place. Yeah, found her. For a bit it seemed impossible, despite my best efforts in data mining. Then some anonymous source sent me access codes to three old databases. Zaire reached down to rub behind Bill’s ears. It was strange receiving those codes, and I wouldn’t usually trust that type of source. But the data was from exactly the time I needed.

Tell me, did Rachel have a good life? As I asked, Bill jumped up onto the sofa beside me and settled against my leg.

She did, if you define high society that way.

I snorted. Though beautiful, Rachel had never been the type to think much about the social elite.

Rachel and I had caroused together in our small Florida town during and after high school early in the 2000s. We lived a life that could not have prepared us for being wrenched to the planet Adalans and the current century. Four months ago, she and I parted ways in a tiny garden shed beside the River Ganges—on the same beach where I’d left Zaire.

Photos of her at various events appeared rather haute monde to me. He glanced up. You see, she married. Maybe she was a trophy spouse.

Married? Oh good, perhaps to that gallery owner. So, who?

As Zaire’s notepad powered up, he asked, You want the database information? After inputting my address he hit send, and then paged through his notes. Okay, here’s the name: Armstrong.

At this, my breath stopped. No, it couldn’t be.

Yeah, he said, nodding to himself. Armstrong MacPhearson, in the Bahamas.

I swear my heart dropped to the other side of the world, and broke when it hit. Stunned, I could only focus on the carpet.

Mac, my fiancé. For Mac, I had braved space pirates and murderous robots in order to return through time to him, and the marriage we planned. And now, it appeared the love of my life had managed to get along just fine without me.

Bill tried to nudge his nose under my hand.

The reporter turned his pad toward me, and I recoiled—though not quick enough to avoid certain details on the photo.

Thank you, Zaire.

He glanced up in surprise at my tone. Is something wrong?

Thank you for checking in. I stood and headed to the front door. He could hardly not follow along. But turns out I have an appointment.

I thought you would tell me the whole story, said Zaire. You said if I found Rachel you would explain everything, how Rachel could have such a life then, when I knew her now.

With a face that roughly translated into, How can I explain this?, I put him off. It’s a very long tale, so I’m afraid we will have to get together another time. Which would be never, if I could help it.

Being a newsman, he parried with, How about Thursday. I could take you to lunch.

I practically pushed him out the door. Check in with me later?

After the whoosh of the door sealing closed, I had a moment of silence. Even Bill said nothing. Alas, the sound of clattering dishes intruded.

Ladies? In the kitchen, they turned at my voice. You can take the rest of the afternoon off. They appeared afraid that I might fire them for gossiping. It’s all right, your jobs are safe. I took a deep breath. It’s simply time for you to leave. They continued to not move. For today.

Determined to reclaim my space, I lingered nearby. As the ladies finally headed for the apartment’s back door, I followed till they nodded to the guard outside and then disappeared from view.

Hard to know how long I stood there, staring at nothing. Eventually, Bill nudged me, and when I picked him up he reached to nuzzle my cheek. After creeping to a wall of windows, I gazed out over the ever-renewed city. The top of the Eiffel Tower was visible over some buildings, because Paris continued to insist that landmark dominate the skyline.

Zaire’s photo had betrayed a date only a few months after Rachel found herself in Florida—with strange clues about my disappearance and no memories to match the information. The authorities had declared me dead. Almost immediately, Mac had begun creating the robot that would become Pearson.

Recollections trounced through my heart. Times when Mac and Rachel shared an easy laugh over a joke that I needed an extra moment to understand. Naive, just plain naive.

Life in Paris with a human-shaped robot playing the role of an ersatz Mac; a sham, an illusion.

The dishwasher switched over to the next cycle. On the mantel, an heirloom clock from the 2700s marked the quarter hour with its intricate beeps.

Bill said, You are upset. Did you want me to bite his ankle? He looked up at me quite seriously. I managed a tiny smile at his joke, since we both knew he couldn’t hurt a human.

No, it’s okay.

My heart latched onto a possible explanation. The photo appeared to have been taken at a society event. So, perhaps Rachel had simply been a dinner companion and the whole scenario was conjured by an overeager journalist.

I marched into Pearson’s office and settled at the desk with Bill on my lap. A data pad was already rolled out flat, and Zaire’s list waited for me in my email. Finally, it made sense to make a payment from the account Pearson maintained for such necessities. I zeroed in on my century and my region; available were lists of driver’s licenses, voter registrations. I even found documents for Alexa Jane Alden, but there was no reason to linger over my death certificate.

Already in the correct part of the century, Rachel was easy to locate. A snort escaped me at the official record of us getting drunk and silly in our little town. The judge had promised to purge the file; didn’t happen.

Then the list of documents for Rachel Mulligan stopped, and Rachel MacPhearson appeared.

Abruptly I pivoted the swivel chair, and stared out the window, glanced at the room’s corners. Anything to avoid that name on the screen.

All right. The whole awful truth.

A slight switch to the Bahamas provided Mac’s data, including pictures of him and me at society affairs in the Bahamas. In one photo, I wore a dress we’d bought in Miami. He’d loved it, on me and not.

Next was his company’s announcement about a new line of underwater robots. I was beside him the first time they worked properly; Mac had been so relieved, he’d fallen to his knees. We’d celebrated with a happy dance. Those robots would have been the precursors to Pearson.

Then a newspaper story of Mac working with the police to search for my plane after my disappearance. The photo showed him looking so worried. We were to have been married in less than a week.

In fact, I kept my wedding dress in the back of Pearson’s closet.

More photos of Mac in social situations: mostly him standing alone, or with business associates. Very few of the images showed him with a smile. I used to be able to make him laugh—on command, never failed.

After that, I came across a photo of Mac and Rachel, also at a society event. Their grins were easy, happy. They stood very close to each other, touching, like they were a couple.

I had to swallow, with so much spit in my mouth.

Mac and Rachel. Undeniable.

Hunched over and rocking myself, my brain went empty. I lost track of the clock’s funny beeps from the living room.

By the time Bill had begun traipsing back and forth, I stood at the window, slowly beating the glass. Hell, let them be happy. They’re dead now. Dead and gone, forever.

Pearson, on the other hand, had been extremely supportive—the perfect partner. He’d gotten rid of all his sleek thirtieth-century furniture in an indestructible version of leather, after a side comment from me that I’ve always liked deep and cushy in some floral print. Too bad, that leather had been much more appropriate for Bill, considering his claws.

Basically, Mac had designed Pearson to take care of me—which the robot did admirably, using both traditional and unusual tools. His business acumen was a force to be reckoned with, while the study of esoteric knowledge never stopped.

Those astrology books weren’t accidental. Recently, Pearson had seemed genuinely proud of me when he figured out that according to my chart I would be considered a hero someday. Hah.

He’d also warned me about an imminent transit of the Moon over my eighth house. When I asked what that meant, he wouldn’t explain much; just said I should be careful.

A memory zipped through my mind: Mac back home, debating about Jyotish—an Eastern version of astrology—at the school of our meditation teacher, Brahmaji. Perhaps Mac had programmed Pearson to be interested in Jyotish.

Perhaps Mac had programmed Pearson to lie to me.

At one point I’d asked what happened to Mac, and all Pearson told me were the details of creating the robot that became him.

Not a hint about Mac marrying, even eventually. I could have understood the ‘eventually’ part, though wouldn’t have wanted to know specifics.

No, it was now clear that Pearson had withheld essential information about my best friend and my fiancé dedicating themselves to each other only months after I was out of the picture.

Can. Not. Bear. This.

I began pacing. Bill traced my movements from the sofa.

Being on his first trip away from me, Pearson was scheduled to call that evening from the furthest reaches of the solar system.

My dog trailed along into the bedroom, where I opened my old bag on the closet floor and began packing. Bill sat nearby. Where are we going?

"I don’t think we are going anywhere."

Instead of arguing, Bill jumped into the bag.

Underwear in hand, I stared. The dog could be turned off and left behind. But I didn’t have it in me to do that. To save space, I left behind my collection of little stuffed animals that reminded me of home.

Nope. No longer home. Neither here. Nor there. Leaving Bill in place, I zipped the bag closed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Reporter guided to disruptive data.

Outcome as predicted by KAG84950.301.

Female human dislodged from protection of humanoid robot.

Chapter 2

After a few blocks, my high-octane emotions began to fizzle. As usual, fashionable people and tooting horns of Paris proved distracting. People gawked at my roll-on bag, which certainly appeared ancient compared with the floaters everyone else used. A teardrop-shaped taxi darted over larger vehicles, while Parisians wove around traffic and back onto sidewalks. Cold had lingered long into springtime, and thus the dank wind cutting into my self-pity, finding its way past my coat.

A flash and then a blast of thunder barely preceded the sky opening. In seconds, freezing rain poured off my head and shoulders, over my hands and the bottom of my coat and pants, also drenching my bag. The sound of my chattering teeth might as well have been a snare drum.

Everyone scattered to his or her homes. No open doors for me, though. How was I going to provide even a shack for myself, if not under Pearson’s protection? Huddling under a bus shelter, it occurred to me it might be a good idea to verify how much remained from the sale of my grandfather’s airplane.

Thus, some blocks later, I was dripping onto the floor of my brokerage office.

What do you mean my money is not available? I tried to keep my screech to a whisper—without success, judging by the heads turned my direction.

A humanoid female robot responded in irritatingly calm tones. Its skin shone the same bright yellow as the accents in the company’s logo, and it sat encased in the reception desk. It never needed to go home and thus was an exceptionally valued employee. The bot’s face went blank momentarily before announcing, An associate is on his way to assist you.

Almost immediately, a human entered the front office through a door behind the robot’s desk. The guy wore a dark blue two-piece suit—or nice pajamas. A glimpse of a hive of glass-walled offices struck me as my probable fate.

Perhaps I pounced, considering how he stepped back when I spoke.

How can it be that my capital is not available for my use? Trying to not sound as if I doubted my own existence, I said, A little bit was supposed to be in short-term investments. Another deep breath before continuing. Then we divided the rest in medium-term, long-term and high-growth investments.

"You may take out the short-term money, although that account declined in value, I’m afraid. We always inform clients that no investment comes with