Excerpt

One of the most frustrating realities about life as a sentient being is the relentless nature of time.

No matter how much we might wish we could change what we said or did, or stop ourselves before making a mistake with either one, time doesn't care. Same with wishing we had taken action instead of hesitating. Or perhaps making a different decision altogether after it's too late.

As far as we know, humans are unique in understanding the consequences of time's forward motion. And worse, we're capable of obsessively considering what we've done.

I sometimes half-seriously suspect my pets contemplate what they might do differently in the future when it comes to obtaining attention or a treat. But their good-natured and happy demeanors make it clear they don't suffer from the human tendency to overanalyze.

And I often wonder if our robust abilities to Consider What We Might Have Done Differently are a big part of why people tell stories in the first place. After all, the chance to replay a situation with a new and improved outcome is a universal temptation.

So it's no wonder so many fiction writers are drawn to time travel stories.

Now that's the ultimate instant replay. If we can't give ourselves a reset, we can do that for our lucky characters. Perhaps not as satisfying as having the same opportunity for ourselves, but it's so much fun.

We also aren't putting ourselves at risk for those nasty encounters with paradox, not respecting timelines, and the possibility of accidentally making things so much worse.

If we go a step further and add a dash of crime—or at least misfortune—to the storytelling ingredients? Giving ourselves and our characters the chance to go back and figure out the mystery, right the wrong, and possibly make sure things get changed for the better? Even a supposedly minor thing that might seem insignificant to everyone else?

For me at least, the possibilities in that recipe are endless. And damn near irresistible.

The delightful prospect of mixing time travel with righting wrongs both large and small was the inspiration for all the stories in Taking Time for Justice. I wanted to explore different ways to use the ability to manipulate time in some way with an eye toward creating a better future.

Or at least a more just one. Even if that means something as simple and powerful as mending a loved one's broken heart.

I also didn't want to limit myself to either science fiction or fantasy, since each yields fascinating ways to defeat time's iron grip on our lives. Coming up with new ways to get around that limitation—and in one case, discovering how to do it—was a big part of the fun in writing these stories.

The means of getting closer to justice varied across the stories as well, as did the crimes themselves. And those changes gave me a nice range of tone for each tale.

In the end, the five stories are all speculative, of course. With our current understanding of physics, time travel is sadly impossible otherwise. But the main common thread is the characters get to live the human dream of visiting or revisiting the past.

Some have the chance to make changes, while others can only report back.

That second group can still end up changing things in unexpected ways, as it turns out.

The other common thread is I had a fantastic time—so to speak—writing these jaunts into a flexible timeline. I expect I'll encounter a few of these characters and settings again down the storytelling road.

I hope you have every bit as much fun reading as I did writing.

From Adventures Through the DNA Doorway:

Back in high school and college, Ben Tarix never would have believed he'd turn into a genetics enthusiast. Not when he'd struggled mightily with the few biology classes he'd taken and vowed never to go down that path again.

He hadn't fared much better in history.

Yet he found himself waiting in the sleek, silver-and-black, ultramodern lobby of DNA Doorways for his fourth visit, eager to dig more deeply into his own uniquely personal history.

Well, to be fair, it was the time travel part he was excited about.

And thank goodness he didn't need to understand how all his genes and chromosomes and inheritance worked, any more than he had to be an expert on the rumbling machinery surrounding the transit chamber he'd soon be stepping into.

Going by the latest body conforming chairs scattered around the lobby—each adjusting within seconds to not only proportions but temperature requirements and favorite color—the folks behind the scenes sincerely knew their stuff. Ben's work as an accountant sent him researching the cost of those chairs after his first visit.

He'd always been curious that way, far more than he'd wondered about his cells and mitochondria and blood type. Numbers always played fair instead of changing and rearranging themselves seemingly at random.

Turned out each of the dozen shapeless tan blob chairs retailed for about the same price as his two-year-old car parked outside. Even by tech-startup standards, DNA Doorways was apparently rolling in investments, or income, or maybe even cash for patents, from somewhere.

Same with the flat crimson handprint he touched when he entered that not only checked him in, but also summoned a smiling young attendant with his preferred afternoon beverage of apple juice mixed with orange juice. Ben suspected some kind of relaxing potion was included to get him ready for the trip, but he didn't much care.

Easy travel suited him just fine, especially when he'd be getting paid rather than trying to figure out how he'd swing what had to be an astronomical cost, investors or not.

Participating in research trials certainly had its advantages.

He stretched out his sweatpants-clad legs, smiling as his pumpkin-orange chair obligingly supplied a footrest. He'd worn his usual business-casual khakis and button-up for his first visit, of course. But he'd quickly learned comfort meant a lot more than appearances around here.

After all, he'd soon be departing the current era and its abundance of clean energy and constant scientific breakthroughs for a visit to a far more difficult time. With challenges like polluted air, no air travel, and rampant death from disease and warfare. Not to mention sanitation challenges he preferred to ignore by requesting his ancestor's sense of smell be dialed down for the trip.

That was one reason his preparatory juice blend was so pleasant. The fresh orange aroma not only woke him up and lifted his mood, but also lingered and gave his mind something to do with no olfactory input.

His self-adjusting chair lacked speakers or sound dampeners, so he was stuck listening to surprisingly bland classical music piped in through invisible speakers. Maybe adding sound to their remarkable capabilities would be a great topic for the next shareholders' meeting.

With no one else waiting for a trip so they could talk and drown it out, Ben was left trying to tap his foot to an unpredictable string quartet.

About the time he gave up and started humming a recent pop tune to himself instead, the same attendant who'd supplied his beverage stepped into view and waved him forward.

Ben nearly catapulted himself out of the chair, which immediately resumed its blobular shape and generic tan hue. Quickly enough that he absently wondered what would happen if one of them reverted to form with a person still sitting in it. But that didn't matter right now.

It was time for the real excitement, so to speak.