Untimed by Andy Gavin
Publication Date: December 17th 2012
Genre: YA Sci- Fi
Pages: 325
~Summary~
Charlie’s the kind of boy that no one notices. Hell, even his own mother can’t remember his name. And girls? The invisible man gets more dates.
As if that weren’t enough, when a mysterious clockwork man tries to kill him in modern day Philadelphia, and they tumble through a hole into 1725 London, Charlie realizes even the laws of time don’t take him seriously.
Still, this isn’t all bad. In fact, there’s this girl, another time traveler, who not only remembers his name, but might even like him! Unfortunately, Yvaine carries more than her share of baggage: like a baby boy and at least two ex-boyfriends! One’s famous, the other’s murderous, and Charlie doesn’t know who is the bigger problem.
When one kills the other — and the other is nineteen year-old Ben Franklin — things get really crazy. Can their relationship survive? Can the future? Charlie and Yvaine are time travelers, they can fix this — theoretically — but the rules are complicated and the stakes are history as we know it.
And there's one more wrinkle: he can only travel into the past, and she can only travel into the future!
Purchase Links:
~About The Author~
Andy Gavin is an unstoppable storyteller who studied for his Ph.D. at M.I.T. and founded video game developer Naughty Dog, Inc. at the age of fifteen, serving as co-president for two decades. There he created, produced, and directed over a dozen video games, including the award winning and best selling Crash Bandicoot and Jak & Daxter franchises, selling over 40 million units worldwide. He sleeps little, reads novels and histories, watches media obsessively, travels, and of course, writes.
Author Links:
~The Heros~
Charlie: Not even his mother remembers his name
Yvaine: Comes with serious baggage
~One Bad Guy~
Yvaine: Comes with serious baggage
More fun stuff here,
Untimed
~Excerpt~
Chapter One:
Ignored
Philadelphia, Autumn, 2010 and Winter, 2011
My mother loves me
and all, it’s just that she can’t remember my name.
“Call him Charlie,”
is written on yellow Post-its all over our house.
“Just a family joke,”
Mom tells the rare friend who drops by and bothers to inquire.
But it isn’t funny.
And those house guests are more likely to notice the neon paper squares than
they are me.
“He’s
getting so tall. What was his name again?”
I always remind them.
Not that it helps.
Only Dad remembers,
and Aunt Sophie, but they’re gone more often than not — months at a stretch.
This time, when my
dad returns he brings a ginormous stack of history books.
“Read these.” The
muted bulbs in the living room sharpen the shadows on his pale face, making him
stand out like a cartoon in a live-action film. “You have to keep your facts
straight.”
I peruse the titles:
Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Asprey’s The Rise of
Napoleon Bonaparte, Ben Franklin’s Autobiography. Just three among
many.
“Listen to him,
Charlie,” Aunt Sophie says. “You’ll be glad you did.” She brushes out her
shining tresses. Dad’s sister always has a glow about her.
“Where’d you go this
time?” I say.
Dad’s supposed to be
this hotshot political historian. He reads and writes a lot, but I’ve never
seen his name in print.
“The Middle East.”
Aunt Sophie’s more specific than usual.
Dad frowns. “We
dropped in on someone important.”
When he says dropped
in, I imagine Sophie dressed like Lara Croft, parachuting into
Baghdad.
“Is that where you
got the new scar?” A pink welt snakes from the bridge of her nose to the corner
of her mouth. She looks older than I remember — they both do.
“An argument with a
rival… researcher.” My aunt winds the old mantel clock, the one that belonged
to her mom, my grandmother. Then tosses the key to my dad, who fumbles and
drops it.
“You need to tell him
soon,” she says.
Tell me what? I hate
this.
Dad looks away.
“We’ll come back for his birthday.”
While Dad and Sophie
unpack, Mom helps me carry the dusty books to my room.
“Time isn’t right for
either of you yet,” she says. Whatever that means.
I snag the thinnest
volume and hop onto my bed to read. Not much else to do since I don’t have
friends and school makes me feel even more the ghost.
Mrs. Pinkle, my
ninth-grade homeroom teacher, pauses on my name during roll call. Like she does
every morning.
“Charlie Horologe,”
she says, squinting at the laminated chart, then at me, as if seeing both for
the first time.
“Here.”
On the bright side, I
always get B’s no matter what I write on the paper.
In Earth Science, the
teacher describes a primitive battery built from a glass of salt water covered
in tin foil. She calls it a Leyden jar. I already know about them from Ben Franklin’s
autobiography — he used one to kill and cook a turkey, which I doubt would fly
with the school board.
The teacher beats the
topic to death, so I practice note-taking in the cipher Dad taught me over the
weekend. He shows me all sorts of cool things — when he’s around. The system’s
simple, just twenty-six made-up letters to replace the regular ones. Nobody else
knows them. I write in highlighter and outline in red, which makes the page
look like some punk wizard’s spell book. My science notes devolve into a story
about how the blonde in the front row invites me to help her with her homework.
At her house. In her bedroom. With her parents out of town.
Good thing it’s in
cipher.
After school is
practice, and that’s better. With my slight build and long legs, I’m good at
track and field — not that the rest of the team notices. A more observant coach
might call me a well-rounded athlete.
The pole vault is my
favorite, and only one other kid can even do it right. Last month at the
Pennsylvania state regionals, I cleared 16’ 4”, which for my age is like world
class. Davy — that’s the other guy — managed just 14’ 8”.
And won. As if I
never ran that track, planted the pole in the box, and threw myself over the
bar. The judges were looking somewhere else? Or maybe their score sheets blew
away in the wind.
I’m used to it.
Dad is nothing if not
scheduled. He and Sophie visit twice a year, two weeks in October, and two
weeks in January for my birthday. But after my aunt’s little aside, I don’t
know if I can wait three months for the big reveal, whatever it is. So I catch
them in his study.
“Dad, why don’t you
just tell me?”
He looks up from his
cheesesteak and the book he’s reading — small, with only a few shiny metallic
pages. I haven’t seen it before, which is strange, since I comb through all his
worldly possessions whenever he’s away.
“I’m old enough to
handle it.” I sound brave, but even Mom never looks him in the eye. And he’s
never home — it’s not like I have practice at this. My stomach twists. I might
not like what he has to say.
“Man is not God.”
One of his favorite
expressions, but what the hell is it supposed to mean?
“Fink.” For some
reason Aunt Sophie always calls him that. “Show him the pages.”
He sighs and gathers
up the weird metallic book.
“This is between the
three of us. No need to stress your mother.”
What about stressing
me? He stares at some imaginary point on the ceiling, like he always does when
he lectures.
“Our family has—”
The front doorbell
rings. His gaze snaps down, his mouth snaps shut. Out in the hall, I hear my
mom answer, then men’s voices.
“Charlie,” Dad says,
“go see who it is.”
“But—”
“Close the door
behind you.”
I stomp down the
hall. Mom is talking to the police. Two cops and a guy in a suit.
“Ma’am,” Uniform with
Mustache says, “is your husband home?”
“May I help you?” she
asks.
“We have a warrant.”
He fumbles in his jacket and hands her an official-looking paper.
“This is for John
Doe,” she tells him.
The cop turns to the
man in the suit, deep blue, with a matching bowler hat like some guy on PBS.
The dude even carries a cane — not the old-lady-with-a-limp type, more
stroll-in-the-park. Blue Suit — a detective? — tilts forward to whisper in the
cop’s ear. I can’t hear anything but I notice his outfit is crisp. Every seam
stands out bright and clear. Everything else about him too.
“We need to speak to
your husband,” the uniformed cop says.
I mentally kick
myself for not ambushing Dad an hour earlier.
Eventually, the
police tire of the runaround and shove past me as if I don’t exist. I tag along
to watch them search the house. When they reach the study, Dad and Sophie are
gone. The window’s closed and bolted from the inside.
All the other rooms
are empty too, but this doesn’t stop them from slitting every sofa cushion and
uncovering my box of secret DVDs.
Mom and I don’t talk
about Dad’s hasty departure, but I do hear her call the police and ask about
the warrant.
They have no idea who
she’s talking about.
Yesterday, I thought
Dad was about to deliver the Your mother and I have grown apart speech.
Now I’m thinking more along the lines of secret agent or international
kingpin.
But the months crawl
by, business as usual, until my birthday comes and goes without any answers —
or the promised visit from Dad. I try not to let on that it bothers me. He’s
never missed my birthday, but then, the cops never came before, either.
Mom and I celebrate
with cupcakes. Mine is jammed with sixteen candles, one extra for good luck.
I pry up the wrapping
paper from the corner of her present.
“It’s customary to
blow out the candles first,” Mom says.
“More a guideline
than a rule,” I say. “Call it advanced reconnaissance.” That’s a phrase
I picked up from Sophie.
Mom does a dorky eye
roll, but I get the present open and find she did well by me, the latest iPhone
— even if she skimped on the gigabytes. I use it to take two photos of her and
then, holding it out, one of us together.
She smiles and pats
my hand.
“This way, when you’re
out on a date you can check in.”
I’m thinking more
about surfing the web during class.
“Mom, girls never
notice me.”
“How about Michelle
next door? She’s cute.”
Mom’s right about the
cute. We live in a duplex, an old house her family bought like a hundred years
ago. Our tenants, the Montags, rent the other half, and we’ve celebrated every
Fourth of July together as long as I can remember.
“Girls don’t pay
attention to me.” Sometimes paraphrasing helps Mom understand.
“All teenage boys say
that — your father certainly did.”
My throat tightens.
“There’s a father-son track event this week.” A month ago, I went into orbit
when I discovered it fell during Dad’s visit, but now it’s just a major bummer
— and a pending embarrassment.
She kisses me on the
forehead.
“He’ll be here if he
can, honey. And if not, I’ll race. You don’t get your speed from his side of
the family.”
True enough. She was
a college tennis champ and he’s a flat-foot who likes foie gras. But still.
Our history class
takes a field trip to Independence Park, where the teacher prattles on in front
of the Liberty Bell. I’ve probably read more about it than she has.
Michelle is standing
nearby with a girlfriend. The other day I tapped out a script on my phone —
using our family cipher — complete with her possible responses to my asking her
out. Maybe Mom’s right.
I slide over.
“Hey, Michelle, I’m
really looking forward to next Fourth of July.”
“It’s January.” She
has a lot of eyeliner on, which would look pretty sexy if she wasn’t glaring at
me. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
That wasn’t in my
script. I drift away. Being forgettable has advantages.
I tighten the laces
on my trainers then flop a leg up on the fence to stretch. Soon as I’m loose
enough, I sprint up the park toward the red brick hulk of Independence Hall.
The teachers will notice the headcount is one short but of course they’ll have
trouble figuring out who’s missing. And while a bunch of cops are lounging
about — national historic landmark and all — even if one stops me, he won’t
remember my name long enough to write up a ticket.
The sky gleams with
that cloudless blue that sometimes graces Philly. The air is crisp and smells
of wood smoke. I consider lapping the building.
Then I notice the man
exiting the hall.
He glides out the
white-painted door behind someone else and seesaws down the steps to the slate
courtyard. He wears a deep blue suit and a matching bowler hat. His stride is
rapid and he taps his walking stick against the pavement like clockwork.
The police detective.
I shift into a jog
and follow him down the block toward the river. I don’t think he sees me, but
he has this peculiar way of looking around, pivoting his head side to side as
he goes.
It’s hard to explain
what makes him different. His motions are stiff but he cuts through space
without apparent effort. Despite the dull navy outfit, he looks sharper than
the rest of the world, more in focus.
Like Dad and Sophie.
The man turns left at
Chestnut and Third, and I follow him into Franklin Court.
He stops inside the
skeleton of Ben Franklin’s missing house. Some idiots tore it down two hundred
years ago, but for the bicentennial the city erected a steel ‘ghost house’ to
replace it.
I tuck myself behind
one of the big white girders and watch.
The man unbuttons his
suit and winds himself.
Yes, that’s right. He
winds himself. Like a clock. There’s no shirt under his jacket — just clockwork
guts, spinning gears, and whirling cogs. There’s even a rocking pendulum. He
takes a T-shaped key from his pocket, sticks it in his torso, and cranks.
Hardly police
standard procedure.
Clueless tourists
pass him without so much as a sideways glance. And I always assumed the going
unnoticed thing was just me.
He stops winding and
scans the courtyard, calibrating his head on first one point then another while
his finger spins brass dials on his chest.
I watch, almost
afraid to breathe.
CHIME. The man rings,
a deep brassy sound — not unlike Grandmom’s old mantel clock.
I must have gasped,
because he looks at me, his head ratcheting around 270 degrees until our eyes
lock.
Glass eyes. Glass
eyes set in a face of carved ivory. His mouth opens and the ivory mask that is
his face parts along his jaw line to reveal more cogs.
CHIME. The sound
reverberates through the empty bones of Franklin Court.
He takes his cane
from under his arm and draws a blade from it as a stage-magician might a
handkerchief.
CHIME. He raises the
thin line of steel and glides in my direction.
CHIME. Heart beating
like a rabbit’s, I scuttle across the cobblestones and fling myself over a low
brick wall.
CHIME. His
walking-stick-cum-sword strikes against the brick and throws sparks. He’s so
close I hear his clockwork innards ticking, a tiny metallic tinkle.
CHIME. I roll away
from the wall and spring to my feet. He bounds over in pursuit.
CHIME. I backpedal. I
could run faster if I turned around, but a stab in the back isn’t high on my
wishlist.
CHIME. He strides
toward me, one hand on his hip, the other slices the air with his rapier. An
older couple shuffles by and glances his way, but apparently they don’t see
what I see.
CHIME. I stumble over
a rock, snatch it up, and hurl it at him. Thanks to shot put practice, it
strikes him full in the face, stopping him cold.
CHIME. He tilts his
head from side to side. I see a thin crack in his ivory mask, but otherwise he
seems unharmed.
CHIME. I dance to the
side, eying the pavement, find another rock and grab it.
CHIME. We stand our
ground, he with his sword and me with my stone.
“Your move, Timex!” I
hope I sound braver than I feel.
CHIME. Beneath the
clockwork man, a hole opens.
The manhole-sized
circle in the cobblestones seethes and boils, spilling pale light up into the
world. He stands above it, legs spread, toes on the pavement, heels dipping
into nothingness.
The sun dims in the
sky. Like an eclipse — still visible, just not as bright. My heart threatens to
break through my ribs, but I inch closer.
The mechanical man
brings his legs together and drops into the hole. The seething boiling hole.
I step forward and
look down….
Into a whirlpool that
could eat the Titanic for breakfast. But there’s no water, only a
swirling tube made of a million pulverized galaxies. Not that my eyes can
really latch onto anything inside, except for the man. His crisp dark form
shrinks into faraway brightness.
Is this where Dad
goes when he drops in on someone? Is the clockwork dude his rival
researcher?
The sun brightens,
and as it does, the hole starts to contract. Sharp edges of pavement eat into
it, closing fast. I can’t let him get away. Somehow we’re all connected. Me,
the mechanical man, Sophie, and Dad.
I take a step forward
and let myself fall.
Thanks for stopping by!
Happy Weekend Everybody!
*Book
Spotlights are mainly dedicated to books I have received for review but have yet
to get to them*
