Shattered Snow Read online

  Appropriate for Teens, Intriguing to Adults

  Immortal Works LLC

  1505 Glenrose Drive Salt Lake City, Utah 84104 Tel: (385) 202-0116

  © 2019 Rachel Huffmire

  https://www.rachelhuffmire.com/

  Cover Art by Ashley Literski

  http://strangedevotion.wixsite.com/strangedesigns

  Interior Illustrations by Kaelin Twede

  https://kaelintwedeart.wixsite.com/kaelintwede

  Formatted by FireDrake Designs

  http://www.firedrakedesigns.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information email [email protected] or visit www.immortal-works.com

  ISBN 978-1-7324674-5-3 (paperback)

  AISN: B07K5MJ7CT (Kindle edition)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  To David.

  For always cheering me on.

  “Man’s first experiment with time travel destroyed the twenty-first century. Small changes in the past created wars and famines in the present day that erased millions of people. The International Time Travel Agency spent fifteen years reconstructing history to match the original timeline. Today, time travel is strictly limited to observational research. Any other use is illegal.”

  -Sample taken from A History of ITTA

  Carntyne, Glasgow, Scotland

  17 July 2069

  Keltson tapped on his earbud, drowning out the sounds of the busy street corner with the steady beat of a bass drum. A guitar began accented strumming patterns – his signal to start walking. Cars kicked up wakes of mist from the recently rain-covered street as they drove past. Keltson ignored the spray on his face and measured his steps with the even rhythm of the song while gripping two black duffel bag handles. He passed a filling station and glanced toward a low-tech security camera attached to an awning above the fuel pumps. It recorded his steps, creating the perfect alibi.

  Keltson always made sure he could be seen when he stole something.

  Continuing his steady pace, he reached into his jacket’s pocket and gripped the pen-sized ignition button hidden inside. He counted along with the beats, waiting for the musical drop he used as a signal to jump. One…two…three…drop. Keltson pressed the ignition linked to his vest, and space shifted around him. The cars speeding down the street stopped, frozen in time, then faded into the ground. Walls rose around him, forming the workshop of the Palais Garnier in Paris.

  Keltson stumbled to a stop and tensed his shoulders. A chilled stillness rushed across his skin, the frozen air bit into his lungs, and the light formed shadowy rays that darkened after he passed through them. Nothing about the Pause felt comfortable.

  Rows of clothing racks towered around Keltson, filled with carefully crafted costumes that had been prepared for an upcoming performance. Around the workshop, designers stood like mannequins caught in the motions of measuring, cutting, and sewing. They would never know about the man who stole between the quantum Plancks.

  Keltson studied the costumes on velvet hangers, looking for an ideal dress. He pulled out his photovoltaic transmitter and isolated a fifteenth-century noblewoman’s gown. Pressing a button, he slid the clothes into the Pause with him. He folded the fabric into one of the oversized duffel bags. Next, he selected a men’s peasant outfit and put it into the smaller duffel.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience,” Keltson muttered as he zipped up the bags. He glanced around at the designers. The frozen people quivered under his gaze and he quickly looked away. “My clients will put this to better use.”

  Turning back down the corridor of costumes, he started the song over, waiting as the music built to his cue. He began his measured steps and at the drop, pressed the return ignition.

  The Carntyne street corner rose around him and his skin tingled with the sensation of being pulled back into the flow of time. Cars rushed by again as Keltson continued his stride. To the world, he hadn’t missed a beat, though his duffel bags looked more stuffed than before. No one knew that he’d jumped from Scotland to Paris and back again in no time at all.

  He turned past shops and picket fenced houses on his way toward the molting grey box he called home. Symmetrical bay windows stood on either side of his front door and a stone chimney stuck straight out the center of the roof, just like every other house on this street. He strode confidently up the dilapidated stairs and pulled out his key. The worn teeth jammed in the knob, refusing to let him turn or pull it back out.

  “Blasted lock,” Keltson muttered as he balanced the duffel bags on the splintered stair rail and tugged. The peeling door swung open on its own, revealing a muscular man who had a butch haircut and scruff on his chin.

  “Baigh?” Keltson asked as his older brother smiled and pulled him into a crushing hug. Worry flushed through Keltson. He released himself from Baigh’s grip and closed the door behind him. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t supposed to leave Kilmarnock. You want to get lifted by the Polis again?”

  Baigh took a step back, lifted his pant leg, and revealed a bare ankle. “No more parole for this reprobate,” he said, a wide smile lighting his face. He shook his pant leg back down. “Though I still don’t get my license back.”

  “That’s a reasonable penance for getting caught in a stolen car,” Keltson said, dropping the duffle bags on the floor.

  Baigh shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t know my boss lifted that junker. The cell phones I transported, sure. But not a whole car.”

  Keltson stepped into his front room, ignoring the peeling yellow wallpaper covered in dark spots where the previous owner had once hung pictures.

  Baigh leaned over the armrest of the sunken couch and pulled a case of Vibe energy drinks from the floor. Keltson hung his keys on a nail near the door and turned just in time to catch the aluminum can that Baigh tossed at him.

  “Today deserves a little revelry,” Baigh said, opening his own can.

  “Ah, Baigh, I wish I’d known you were coming. I have work in fifteen minutes.” Keltson rolled the can around in his hands, offering his brother a truly apologetic smile.

  “Work? Is that what’s in those bags?” Baigh asked with a look of mischievous curiosity. Keltson’s stomach dropped. It was that same curiosity that always seemed to get Baigh sucked into trouble. Finding out the contents of those duffel bags would be no exception.

  “Is’na anything,” Keltson popped the tab on his Vibe and hid his face behind the can as he took a swi
g of the bitter drink. If Baigh recognized his nervousness, he’d dig even deeper.

  Baigh wrinkled his nose. “I know that look. You’ve something rich in there.”

  Keltson hesitated before he lowered the can and shrugged. “Someone had to keep the streets running after you left.”

  “Aw! Has my baby brother finally come around to being a scoundrel?” Baigh laughed.

  “I wouldn’t call myself a complete scoundrel. There’s a whole lot of grey between those black and white lines, Baigh.” Keltson folded his arms.

  “Took you long enough to realize that,” Baigh said, straight-faced. “I certainly got my fair share of moral lectures from you growin’ up.” A smile cracked through Baigh’s somber expression and he winked. “Don’t worry. If it’s paraphernalia for the Carntyne gangs, I’m leaving it alone. I can’t afford to go back to court again.” Baigh dropped onto the couch, slouching into the cushions. “Might I offer a bit of advice though? Stay off Edinburgh. My old crew is’na what it was. In fact,” Baigh eyed the bags, “perhaps you could make those scarce and we could jam for a while?” Baigh pulled Keltson’s guitar onto his lap.

  Keltson took the guitar and placed it back on its hook. “I told you, Baigh. I have work.”

  Baigh groaned and slapped the cushions as he pushed himself up from the sofa. “Daylight’s no time for crime, Kelts.”

  “I did’na quit my day job yet,” Keltson said.

  Baigh clicked his tongue then sighed in disappointment. “Fine, you keep the Vibe then. I’ll be back for it tomorrow.” Baigh did a sloppy jig on his way to the door, celebrating his freed ankle. Before stepping outside, he paused.

  “Kelts, I know we don’t know much else besides backstreet deals, but be careful with—” He nodded toward the duffel bags.

  “Thanks.” Keltson sighed in relief as Baigh closed the door behind him.

  He couldn’t be late.

  Keltson shut the blinds, picked up his bags, and headed toward the hall cupboard. Inside sat a rusted 20-gallon water heater. He reached around the corner and yanked on a hidden pulley system, lifting the tank from its base. A trap door opened into the cellar below. Keltson dropped the bags into the darkness, then remembered the Vibe. It might come in useful. He likely had a long shift ahead.

  Tucking the case beneath his arm, Keltson made his way down a thin ladder into the cellar. His trap door and water heater slid back into place as his feet touched the ground. The blue fluorescent lights attached to the underbelly of the house lit up, illuminating his headquarters.

  The cement walls radiated cool humidity across his various workstations. He crossed to the line of monitors and flipped them on for the day. After returning his photovoltaic transmitter to its hook in his workshop, he hefted the case of Vibe into a mini-fridge next to his sound station—a corner filled with speakers, soundboards, and guitars. Music didn’t have anything to do with time travel, but it helped him process problems when he hit a wall. Besides, now that he had some Vibe, it would get him amped up for the job.

  It wasn’t glamorous down here, but the room gratified Keltson. It combined his childhood surrounded by crime with his strict moral compass. This was a place where he made a difference.

  He selected a song by the Coroners and pressed play. He closed his eyes and listened as the gentle guitar solo eased into a heavy bass line. The energy drink seemed to rush beneath his skin as the volume built.

  Time was set in stone

  now it's fluid, bottled sand.

  You could shape fate if you want

  but instead, you stay your hand.

  Hindsight loses meaning

  on a king whose heart runs dry.

  You study others’ pains

  watching as they die.

  Saving what you see

  in the veins of history

  to defend ancient remains

  shows your morals wax and wane.

  You say that if we pull

  on the slightest living thread,

  the tapestry of time

  would be torn to tissued shreds.

  Preserving what you see

  on the skeins of history

  to preserve ancient remains

  leaves a million lives in chains.

  This song became Keltson’s mantra six years ago when he was still a teenager. Baigh had just been arrested for the first time and in order to fend for himself, Keltson took an apprenticeship with one of the best renegades in the hacking and tech-refurbishment business. The man commiserated with a group of time travel activists and though some of his ideas were a bit radical, Keltson found himself agreeing with a lot of what the man had to say.

  When the first time travel broadcast aired worldwide, people sanctioned it as the greatest frontier to be explored since the moon. However, within moments of sending back the first agent, the International Time Travel Agency released a special broadcast. They claimed that attempts to improve history had caused catastrophic wars and famines that nobody seemed to remember. ITTA also claimed their agents took fifteen years to restore the timeline to its original form, even though to the world, no time had passed at all. It was further proclaimed that time travel was too dangerous to tamper with. From here on out, it was for observation only.

  Countries rioted, insisting ITTA fabricated the videos to suppress the greater good. But the laws remained firm. Time travel became a mere reality TV mechanism and photon acceleration technology became one of the best-kept international secrets.

  Until Keltson cracked their system.

  After quietly breaking through ITTA’s secure database, Keltson had the world of time travel tech at his fingertips. He could have sold his findings on the black market, but he knew what happened when bigger, stronger, stupider people got hold of tools they weren’t prepared to use. So, he kept them to himself, developing a mission to change history for the better without ITTA noticing.

  Keltson took on clients who became vigilantes in the past. He didn’t break the law because he wanted to screw up history. He wanted to fix it. Even if politicians said his efforts were “illegal”. Their rules were for people who wanted anarchy. Keltson’s strict vetting process ensured he didn’t give power to any extremists. Crazies deserved the rules. Not him.

  The music faded and Keltson moved toward his desk, straightening a short pile of notes before grabbing a beanie, thin gloves, and a disposable cell phone. He usually wore plenty of layers when he jumped into the Pause. The trip to the Palais Garnier had been an exception since he wanted to be visible and the present weather didn’t justify gloves and a beanie.

  Keltson expected his newest client to call in a matter of minutes. He plugged an extension cord into one of the four full-length mirrors next to his desk. His shoulders tensed. Taking new clients often required long stretches of problem solving and physical labor. He already felt exhausted just thinking about it. He shook out his hands, then started the timer on his wristwatch to keep track of his hours.

  The phone rang. On time. Keltson took a deep breath and answered the call.

  “Once, some time ago, I sat in my bantam tower flat with a view of my neighbor’s cinderblock wall and recognized the depth of my entrapment. My career is filled with ladders I cannot climb and glass ceilings that hold me down like a casket. So, to answer your question, no. Leaving my lifetime behind is not an issue.”

  -The application of Lilia Vaschenko

  Zapasnoy Junkyard, Yekaterinburg, Russia

  17 July 2069

  Lilia stepped out of her oil-stained coveralls, resenting how the smell of petrol followed after her like a stray dog. A career spent scrounging through old engines in the Zapasnoy Junkyard was degrading enough without taking the scent home every day. Throwing her uniform into a plastic sack, she yanked the ties into a knot, wishing it would never come undone.

  Above her, Andrei whistled and clanged his slugger wrench against the catwalk rail. “I forget how skinny you are under that circus tent, Lilia.”

  “If you
worked harder you might lose a few pounds yourself,” Lilia said, not bothering to look up at him. She punched the junkyard's time-clock, ignoring Andrei’s continued taunts. Her muscles ached from salvaging in the upper lot and she didn’t have the energy to respond.

  The smell of grease faded behind her as she stepped through the chain-link gate. She folded her arms tightly against her ribs now that she no longer had the shroud of the junkyard to mask her scent. On the Metro, the other passengers gave her a wide berth. She didn’t blame them. The best she could do was to crouch next to the ventilation duct and hope it pumped her putrid essence outside.

  She hopped off at the Ulitsa Chapayeva station and darted down a narrow alleyway toward the cinder block high-rise she lived in. She took the metal fire escape to the tenth story. It was the only way up. Lilia opened the door to a minuscule room and stepped inside.

  “Not evicted yet, Misha?” Lilia asked a bear-shaped mildew stain on the ceiling. She dropped her uniform into a cooler by the door then picked up a half-formed device off a crowded shelf. “Now, where were we?” she asked the gadget. It had once been a flashlight, but she was repurposing the circuitry to also be an infrared heat detector. Her best customers were usually the ones who lived in the darkest alleyways. It would earn her a few extra rubles once she finished. She sat down at her rickety table and reached for the soldering gun.