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  Slideways

  A Brothers of the Multiverse Novel

  Book One

  JEFF GRODE

  SLIDEWAYS

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Casey L. Williams. The cover’s background photography credits go to NASA, ESA, M. Robberto (Space Telescope Science Institute/ESA) and the Hubble Space Telescope Orion Treasury Project Team.

  Grode, Jeff

  SLIDEWAYS / Jeff Grode

  Copyright 2017

  ISBN-13:

  978-1977984951

  ISBN-10:

  1977984959

  To Lynn, Sean, Michael, Paul, Jessica, and my grandchildren, may you always be inspired to realize your dreams. And with love for Miss Bettye who always believed.

  Acknowledgements

  Hail to all of the science fiction, epic fantasy, and spy-thriller writers who followed their dreams and entertained and inspired insatiable readers like me.

  Thanks to my alpha readers Miss Bettye, Tim, Karen, Tom, and Ann-the-artist, the Cricket-writers of Howard County (Joann, Kim, Deb, Rick, Dave, Nneka), the ESWA of Maryland, and teacher P. J. O’Dwyer for lessons, wisdom, critique, advice, support, and inspiration.

  Special thanks to Ally Machate and Harrison Demchick of Writer’s Ally for developmental editing and a map through the maze of revision, Judy Reveal of Just Creative wRiting and Indexing Services for an expert copy edit, and Casey Williams for her fantastic cover designs. I appreciate you all.

  Slideways

  JEFF GRODE

  Chapter 1

  Ben lay on a white cotton hammock, eyes closed, waiting to die. High above him, the summer wind moaned through the bone dry branches of a tall cherry tree. If a dead limb snapped and fell, he would be gored through his abdomen, like an insect pinned in a bug collection. Just a matter of time.

  June’s sunshine prickled his fair skin. A quick breath of cool wind walked across his arm from elbow to wrist like ants on their way to a summer picnic. Somewhere above, two ravens squawked a slow dirge. Ben opened and closed one hazel eye – long enough to examine the birds and their brittle perch upon the highest dead branch.

  The wind gushed harder, the tree groaned, and the birds grew silent. A strong gust moved Ben’s brown bangs across his forehead and stole the light perspiration sheltered beneath. Overhead, dead limbs cricked against each other as he waited. Suddenly, the air grew still, the sunshine warmed, and nothing happened. Not today.

  “Ben!” a woman called sharply.

  Upon hearing the familiar voice, he peeked through slitted lids. The ravens lifted from the uppermost branch and wheeled away toward the north. Had the birds tried to warn him of her approach? Even so, they had abandoned him to his suffering.

  “Ben-ja-min,” she called again, closer now. Her voice rode the swells of his sadness as a warning buoy before a storm. Lying still in the hammock, he pictured himself in a dark brown coffin with pearl handles.

  “Benjamin Charles Fuller, I know you’re not asleep. Your father needs your arse in the garage. Now.” She stood three yards away. “We’ll see about cleaning out your ears later.”

  “Okay, Mom,” Ben said with a practiced tone of resignation and exasperation. He knew his mother nursed a swollen tooth and he shouldn’t agitate her, but he hurt too, and she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, help him. If I can help lift her out of her funk, maybe . . .

  He rolled from the hammock, stood at attention, and saluted. “At your service, Mum,” he said with a British accent.

  She startled, but held onto her basket of fresh spinach and kale from the garden. His mother wore a straw hat, denim jeans, and a blue and white striped blouse.

  Mom appraised him with the same tight look she used with Uncle Tony after his fourth beer. Unsure whether she would follow with the carrot or the stick, he lowered his hand and waited. She shook her head slowly and her red hair flowed around her sun freckled face. Her blue eyes held a touch of sadness and pain, but then a quantum spark of mercy lifted her left cheek into a smirk. “Go.” She motioned her head toward the garage.

  Carrot. If he could still make her smile, if only for a moment, there may be enough hope for both of them. “On my way.”

  Ben walked down the gentle hill toward the white cinder block garage that stood apart from the main house. Halfway across the yard, a puff of wind coaxed him to glance over his shoulder. His mother sat on the hammock. Ben stopped. His face flushed as he studied the dead branches atop the cherry tree. No, no, no.

  Before Mom could fully recline, her straw hat sailed away in the breeze. She chased after her hat as it pin-wheeled across the grass, past the picnic table, and around the side of the house toward the garden. Thankful for the gust, Ben sighed and walked toward the garage.

  Music leaked through gaps around the metal door. The three bay garage, once the site of Dad’s auto repair hobby, now sustained him after being ‘laid off’ by Dandridge Hardware. The official blame for Dad’s sacking fell upon the poor economy, but Ben had once overheard a talkative salesman whisper something about old man Dandridge’s daughter, Lucy. The salesman had shushed after noticing Ben nearby.

  Dad started a new career as a self-employed mechanic at “Big John’s Auto Repair.” Ben helped in the garage, but his father planned to hire help when Ben started tenth grade in the fall.

  “Hey, Dad,” Ben said as he entered the garage. He peeked at the green canvas shroud covering the Ford Mustang in the third bay. The cherry red paint of an exposed fender called to him. Remember me.

  A bright overhead light hung above the truck engine in the second bay, casting shadows as his father moved around the chassis. The air smelled of motor oil and pipe smoke. Dad wore stained bib overalls and a Pirate’s baseball cap turned backward over his salt and pepper hair. Van Halen’s “Love Walks In” soared on an ancient boom box as his father’s head moved with the beat.

  “Hey, Benzo.” Dad cocked his head to the left. Dark greasy oil clung to his nose where he’d wiped away sweat. “Help me guide this baby in straight. Watch your fingers.” Dad wore a miner’s flashlight strapped to his forehead, and looked as confident as an experienced surgeon in the middle of a heart transplant.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Where you been?” Dad wore an easy smile.

  “To the fair.” Ben eyes grew hopeful.

  “What ya win?”

  “A banana skin!” They both snorted with low laughter.

  While assisting his father with the engine, Ben caught a bright flash of light from the corner of his left eye. He turned, glanced out the open garage door, and saw a tall guy staring at him from across the street. The man looked both anxious and angry.

  “Ben, stay with me,” Dad said. “Bolt her in when I have the casing aligned.”

  “I’m on it.” Ben turned back toward the engine. “I think one of your customers is waiting outside.”

  “Who?” His father aligned the engine.

  “Some guy in a suit.” Ben dropped in the bolts and tightened them slowly. His father did the same on the other side.

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall, bald, thin gray mustache. Seemed pissed about something.”

  The odd light flashed again, but Ben focused on the bolts. “Done,” he said after a minute.

  “Me too,” Dad said. “We better see what he wants.”

  Both he and his father stepped back from the truck and walked outside, but the man had vanished.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Dad said.

  Ben scanned the street and shrugged. “H
e was there a minute ago.”

  “Well, we have work to do. He’ll come back if it’s important.”

  They worked together until Mom called them for dinner. Being a car mechanic seemed okay, but Ben wanted to be a scientist like his grandfather. Someday he hoped to design robots with artificial intelligence. If I live that long.

  He helped his father put away the tools in their assigned places with practiced efficiency. They shared the cleanser at the washbasin and cleaned their hands, or at least enough to pass Mom’s scrutiny. Dad hung his oily coveralls and cap on a hook, turned off the music and lights, and closed the garage doors.

  “Thanks for your help,” Dad said. You’re kinda quiet today. Everything okay?”

  Ben sighed. “You don’t want to know.”

  Dad raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

  “It’s Mom. I’m never sure if she really likes me. She always seems either angry or sad since . . . you know. Can you get her to chill?”

  His father tensed. “She loves you. She–”

  Ben’s face flushed. “She probably wishes it had been me instead.”

  Dad grabbed him by the bicep and squeezed. “That’s not true. She loves you. Don’t ever say that again.” A tempest of surprise, anger, and fear washed across his father’s face.

  Ben winced. “Okay, okay, but let go. I might need to use my arm again someday.”

  Dad released his grip. “Listen. His birthday is Monday, and she’s having a tough time right now. Understand? Just don’t bring it up.”

  “Yea, okay.” Bury it deeper. “Sorry.”

  “Me too.” Dad rubbed the sore shoulder. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Me neither.” Ben studied his father’s face. The storm had passed.

  “Let’s see what’s for dinner.” Dad turned and led Ben to the back of the house and through the screen door. They hurried inside, followed by a quick housefly.

  The scent of cooked beef, fried onions and baked bread met them. Ben’s stomach growled as they removed their shoes in the mudroom. Once inside the kitchen, he saw bubbling pots, steaming pans, and a plastic storage bag filled with kale.

  “M-mmm, smells good in here,” Dad said.

  “Like fresh baked rolls?” Mom said, coming around the corner from the dining room. She wore a white apron embroidered with pink flowers and green ivy. She carried a damp kitchen towel in one hand and hugged her husband with both arms. Dad gave her a kiss and she smiled.

  Kipper, a ball of red fur, barked and raced around the corner. Her forelegs drove her toward Ben as her rear wheels rolled on the hardwood floor. Her back legs dangled from the brown leather harness she’d worn since the accident. Kipper’s tail no longer wagged, but her eyes glistened with excitement.

  “Hey girl.” He bent down and rubbed between her ears. She stood two feet high, dangled floppy ears, and resembled a collie-terrier cross. “Where have you been hiding?”

  Ben stood and walked into the dining room. Kipper followed. The long wooden table held white serving dishes with wheat rolls, burgers, salad, sliced tomatoes, and baked beans with ground bacon. The table had six chairs and four settings. Four?

  “GranPat?” Ben called. His eyes searched beyond the dining room.

  “Your grandfather is washing up,” Mom said. “He’ll be right down.” A housefly buzzed past her head. She snapped the wet towel with such accuracy the fly seemed to vaporize.

  “Nice one.” Ben’s eyes searched the table and thought he saw the fly, feet up, in the beans. Before he could say anything, footsteps on the wooden staircase distracted him. He turned toward the foyer.

  A fit man in his late sixties wearing dark rimmed glasses and a light blue polo shirt walked into the room. His gray hair was combed up and over his bald crown with a stiff all-weather gel.

  “GranPat.” Ben smiled.

  “Ahh, me young friend. Gettin’ bigger I see.” GranPat’s grin spread from one side of his face to the other. His thick mustache floated like a white caterpillar on his upper lip.

  “Been lifting for football.” He hugged his grandfather with a quick double pat on the back. At sixty-eight years old, GranPat still kept his muscles toned.

  Dad shook GranPat’s hand. “Hey, Pops. How’s your train ride from Carmichael?”

  “Smooth, John. Took me a little nap. Needed one after me mornin’ golf game with Phylo Caliban and the boys.” GranPat grinned.

  “Phylo?” Ben’s mouth quirked into a half-grin.

  “Phylo means ‘friend’ in Greek,” GranPat said. “And I trounced him on a less than friendly back nine.”

  “Dr. Caliban?” Dad said. “Didn’t you use to work for him?”

  GranPat nodded. “Yep. Back when he worked for the Department of Defense. He left the DOD and got himself a fancy job in Homeland Security now. He wants me to work for him again, but I’ve seen Caliban sneak a mulligan or two per game. I’m stayin’ put.”

  “Golf is pretty good exercise,” Ben said. “Still working out every day?”

  “Got to. Not gettin’ any prettier, but the ladies love me buns.”

  “Okay, Dad.” Mom said. “Sit your tight arse down before a bus of blue haired old ladies shows up. What would Mom have said about your jokes at the dinner table?”

  GranPat sat. “Patty, your blessed mother laughed at me jokes and I believe she’s up there gigglin’ in heaven, even now. Humor is God’s gift to human kind, and Miss Betty loved a good’un.”

  “Are ya seeing anyone, GranPat?” Ben dropped into his chair.

  Mom cleared her throat. “Time to say grace. John?”

  All eyes shifted to his father. Dad put his hands together, bowed his head, and said the blessing.

  “Everything looks delicious,” GranPat said. “Especially the beans.”

  Mom smiled as she passed them to her father. “Thanks. I used Mom’s recipe.” She winced suddenly, picked up her ice tea, and pressed the cold glass against her jaw.

  By the time Dad passed the beans to Ben, the fly, if it had really been there, was gone. He took a double helping and rested his hand on his knee. A rough wet tongue washed across his knuckles. Peeking under the table, he found Kipper standing sentry as usual. She claimed dibs on any food that hit the floor, at least until Mom shooed her away.

  After the main course, Mom served warm blueberry cobbler. Ben’s fork pressed through the top crust and into the blue filling. As he raised his fork to his lips, he could smell its tart, sugary scent. He rolled his eyes as he savored the taste and the crunchy sticky textures. “Mom, this is really good.”

  She refilled Ben’s ice tea. “I could use your help in the kitchen after dinner,” she said in a low voice.

  “Sure.” Ben nodded. He sensed her pain.

  GranPat turned to Dad. “How’s the new business?”

  “Tough at first, but it’s starting to pick up. Patty’s my accountant.”

  “Good for you.” GranPat turned toward Mom. “Still working at Allied downtown?”

  “Yes.” She straightened her shoulders. “I have a big client meeting on Monday.” Her left eye watered. She touched her jaw, but managed to smile for her father.

  Ben leaned forward. “What are you working on GranPat?”

  “Top secret stuff. Can’t talk about my current project.”

  Ben lifted his eyebrow. “Robots and lasers?”

  “No robots, but I once dabbled with light wave communication via laser. That’s no longer classified. I could show you the diagrams sometime.”

  “Okay. I’d love that. I want to be a physicist someday.”

  “Really?” GranPat beamed at him. “Think MIT. You’re smart enough, but you’ll have to be committed. I remember your science fair project—”

  “An illustration of geothermal power and turbines to produce electricity.” Ben sat up straight.

  “It was brilliant. Come visit me this summer. I’ll show you around me lab.”

  Ben’s smile felt strange on his face. Maybe he could be a scienti
st like his grandfather. He glanced at his parents. “Will that be okay?”

  Dad kept silent and stared at the stubborn motor oil under his fingernails.

  His mother dropped her silverware onto her plate with a clank. “Ben will be busy helping his father.”

  “Mom, I can find the time. It’s important to me.” He leaned toward his father. “Please?”

  Dad melted. “We might find a day or two for a visit. But MIT? Better think Pitt and in-state tuition. It’s just up the road . . . unless you can earn a scholarship.”

  Mom squinted as if she ran the numbers in her head. “Don’t count your chickens just yet. Plan on busting your arse in school. You’ll need better grades this year if you want an academic scholarship.” She stood and collected the plates.

  It felt like a dismissal. And why did she have to bring up his grades in front of GranPat? Ben balled his hands beneath the table and squeezed. “I could get a football scholarship.”

  Kipper whined.

  Mom blinked her eyes slowly. “Those are hard to come by. Does MIT have a football team?”

  “Yes. The Engineers,” GranPat said. “They were seven and four last year. I can tell Ben is interested in science, and I believe he has the aptitude.”

  Ben placed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. “I’ll work hard, get my grades up, and bust my arse on the football field. I’ll be as good as Jack. Maybe better. I can —”

  Mom glared as if she’d been slapped. The stack of dirty dishes rattled in her hands, until she laid them back on the table. She tried to make words, but shook her head instead.

  The quiet became overwhelming, like the silence in church when the preacher lays his hand on the closed coffin - just before he speaks to the congregation.

  Ben glanced at his father’s face.

  Dad’s eyes, laser hot, scorched Ben, then softened as he turned toward Mom. Dad laid his hand on hers. Mom’s face grew slack and her eyes closed. A tear rolled down her cheek.