Thirty Days Later: Steaming Forward: 30 Adventures in Time Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Note from the Editors

  The Story Begins

  A Linear Mystery or How All This Madness Got Started! by T.E. MacArthur

  Ghost and the Birdman by AJ Sikes

  Visitor from the East by Harry Turtledove

  The Compassionate Moon by David L. Drake and Katherine L. Morse

  The Fall of the Falcon by Anthony Francis

  The Engraved Chest by Kirsten Weiss

  The Clockwork Writer, Part I by Steve DeWinter

  The Light of the Moon by Michael Tierney

  Airship by Janice Thompson

  Adelaide’s Trial by BJ Sikes

  Courting Adventure by Emily Thompson

  Two Days in June, Part I by Sharon E. Cathcart

  From the Ground by Justin Andrew Hoke

  Putting on Airs by Lillian Csernica

  Wild Card by Dover Whitecliff

  Thirty Days Later

  Minotaur in the Mistm or Never Trust a Tomb Robber to Tell You Everything by T.E. MacArthur

  Ghost Bets the House by AJ Sikes

  Peace Is Better by Harry Turtledove

  The Traitor Moon by Katherine L. Morse and David L. Drake

  The Rise of the Dragonfly by Anthony Francis

  The Honorable Eddy by Kirsten Weiss

  The Clockwork Writer, Part II by Steve DeWinter

  The Shadows of the Moon by Michael Tierney

  Dragon by Janice Thompson

  Adelaide’s Triumph by BJ Sikes

  Adventure Realized by Emily Thompson

  Two Days in June, Part II by Sharon E. Cathcart

  From the Sky by Justin Andrew Hoke

  Blown Sky High by Lillian Csernica

  Straight Flush by Dover Whitecliff

  About the Authors

  The Clock is Ticking!

  Miranda Gray and the Colonel are back! They’re in a race from Cairo to Crete to find an ancient treasure, but will a thief and a ghostly Minotaur beat them to it?

  The Queen and courtiers of France are dying, and Adelaide’s miraculous invention could save them, but will her mentor’s thirst for power force her into obscurity forever?

  The governor of the State of Jefferson has a full schedule of visitors this month, but it’s nothing a little sasquatch charm, a pound of bacon, and a couple of chocolate shakes won’t fix!

  Ghost never had a problem working for Mr. Bacchus, until the prize at the deb poker game was a fifteen-year-old girl. Can Ghost beat the House and set her free?

  Vivian is tired of the social whirl — nothing but teas, balls, parties and picnics. Surely there must be some adventure waiting for her somewhere. Surely!

  Kenna can play in ‘Raro, City of Guilty Pleasures and Never-ending Buffets, or do time to find the one person that can stop a war and break him out of prison. Choices. Choices.

  Sparky McTrowell wouldn’t hurt a fly, but the man that drove her father to an early grave is fair game. Will she risk her prized partnership with Erasmus Drake for vengeance?

  Fifteen pairs of stories, thirty days of action, adventure, romance, and intrigue — Steam forward through time with the Treehouse Writers!

  Find out what happens Thirty Days Later!

  Thirty Days Later

  Steaming Forward:

  30 Adventures in Time

  Editors

  AJ Sikes

  BJ Sikes

  &

  Dover Whitecliff

  Thinking Ink Press

  Campbell, CA

  Copyright © 2016

  A Linear Mystery / Minotaur in the Mist © 2015 T.E. MacArthur

  Ghost and the Birdman / Ghost Bets the House © 2015 AJ Sikes

  Visitor from the East / Peace is Better © 2015 Harry Turtledove

  The Compassionate Moon / The Traitor Moon © 2015 David L. Drake & Katherine L. Morse

  The Fall of the Falcon / The Rise of the Dragonfly © 2015 Anthony Francis

  The Engraved Chest / The Honorable Eddy © 2015 Kirsten Weiss

  The Clockwork Writer Part I / The Clockwork Writer Part II © 2015 Steve DeWinter

  The Light of the Moon / The Shadows of the Moon © 2015 Michael Tierney

  Airship / Dragon © 2015 Janice Thompson

  Adelaide’s Trial / Adelaide’s Triumph © 2015 BJ Sikes

  Courting Adventure / Adventure Realized © 2015 Emily Thompson

  Two Days in June Part I / Two Days in June Part II © 2015 Sharon E. Cathcart

  From the Ground / From the Sky © 2015 Justin Andrew Hoke

  Putting on Airs / Blown Sky High © 2015 Lillian Csernica

  Wild Card / Straight Flush © 2015 Dover Whitecliff

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright owners and the publisher of this book. Brief quotations may be used in reviews prepared for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or for broadcast. For more information, contact: [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Thinking Ink Press

  P.O. Box 1411, Campbell, California, 95009

  First Smashwords Edition, 2016

  Project Credits

  Cover design: Keri Knutson

  Cover image courtesy of Cottone Auctions, Geneseo, NY

  Ebook Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  This book is dedicated to the memory of

  Vicki Rorke, Treehouse Writer.

  On August 10, 2015, we lost Vicki to cancer.

  We will miss her wit and wisdom on Authors’ Row.

  A Note from the Editors

  Four years ago a group of steampunks from the greater San Francisco Bay Area started up a convention to celebrate all those things they loved: the styles and times that never were. They came with passion and creativity in hand and to share. They came to have fun. And they succeeded. Since that storied weekend in 2012, every Memorial Day has seen Clockwork Alchemy return to San Jose, California, with artists, artisans, musicians, performers of all stripes, and authors in tow.

  It has been our pleasure to number ourselves among the talented, imaginative writers who dwell on Authors’ Row at Clockwork Alchemy. A better bunch of friends and fellow storytellers would be hard to come by. For 2015, we gathered the collective wit and wisdom of the Row and produced Twelve Hours Later, an anthology of stories that showcases who we are and what we do as Clockwork Alchemy authors.

  This year, we’re thrilled to present to you stories ranging from the light-hearted and the grim to the marvelous, the fantastic, and the downright weird (and we mean that in a good way). The 2016 anthology, Thirty Days Later, gives readers a taste of everything that Authors’ Row has to offer. We have some new names in the crowd this time around, too.

  These are memorable tales and tales told in memoriam. These are stories of intrigue and deceit, stories of high adventure and low behavior. We have comeuppance, conspiracy, catharsis, and contraband. We have myths and monsters, time travel, time to waste, and time to kill. We have stories of derring-do and dastardly deeds, stories of defectors and dilettantes, and the warmth to be had from détentes.

  In editing the works herein, we were in turns delighted, surprised, stunned, and always excited. W
e hope you’ll enjoy this collection and, if you’re in the area on Memorial Day weekend, consider stopping by Authors’ Row while you’re out and about exploring the many wonders to be found at Clockwork Alchemy. We and all the authors would love to meet you and thank you personally for reading Thirty Days Later.

  Have we run out of time?

  Time is the one thing we can’t make

  but we can kill.

  —Unwoman

  The Story Begins

  A Linear Mystery

  or

  How All This Madness Got Started!

  by T.E. MacArthur

  The Nile River, South of Cairo

  November 23rd, 1893

  A lost codex found, a vast treasure recovered, and death by a ghostly Minotaur. What could possibly …

  The concept had been so intriguing that Miranda Gray hadn’t heard him coming.

  What a stupid mistake.

  “Do you really want to kill me?” The knife he held at her throat warranted the urgent question. Slowly she set down the pages of her meticulous notes. Her hand shook a little as she settled it on top of the Old Explorer’s journal, praying he wasn’t planning to take that from her.

  He gently swept his lips up her ear and kissed her temple, scratching her skin slightly with his rough facial hair. “Not if I don’t have to.” Such a proper English voice.

  The desert wind cut across the water and sent a shiver through the sails of the dahabeah as she waited to see what he’d do next. The Neshmet-Osiris slid quietly against the river’s flow, counting on the breath of the gods to get it up river. It was as cold as the time of year would permit, and in the blood-colored dusk, the river was strangely empty. No one was around to see the two foreigners seated under the boat’s canopy.

  “Tell me, Nefer, have you enjoyed my gift to you?”

  The knife notwithstanding, Malcolm Drummond Davies was an appealing, wild looking rake, with a slight beard defining his jaw, a linen shirt he left partially open, and thick dark hair. Were she not aware of his history, she might have mistaken him for a local aristocrat, with his dusky appearance and flashing black eyes. But, no, Davies was very English. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Tell me what you’ve discovered from the old man’s cryptic ramblings and I promise we will remain the best of friends.” The knife turned slightly, pushing the blade a little more into her skin without cutting it.

  “Why not,” she said with remarkable calm, satisfying her self-esteem. Would he really harm her? What might Davies do for untold wealth? “Do you know what a ‘Perigee-syzygy’ is?”

  “The Moon at its closest to the earth. It appears enormous in the sky. Very romantic.”

  Smart boy.

  “Do you know, then, what happens if you have a Perigee-syzygy at the Winter Solstice?”

  “A very long, well-lit night,” he smiled slyly.

  “And a Moon that appears even larger than ever.”

  Davies kept nuzzling her ear. “Obviously important or you wouldn’t mention it.”

  Taking a substantial risk, Gray cautiously pushed the knife away. Turning to him, she smiled. “It so happens that there had been such an event on the equivalent of December 23rd, 1424 BC, a year after the Mycenaean invasion of Crete. And again on the Winter Solstice in 1597 — when Sir Charles disappeared, but left this journal on board his ship.”

  “Any chance we have such an event coming up soon?” Davies lowered his knife, but kept a tight grasp on it. “I gather strong moonlight is essential to find the location of the treasure? And we might just discover whatever happed to old Bellingsfield and his codex.”

  “The find of the century.”

  He leaned in toward her. “Then come with me to Crete, Nefer, and we’ll find it together. I know where to look; you understand the Old Explorer’s book.”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t call me Nefer.”

  “But you are the Beauty of the Gods.”

  “Oh nonsense. What are we really looking for, Mr. Davies?”

  “The Bull of Heaven and the Heart of the Sea.” He leaned back on the pillows, grinning.

  “What?”

  “Allow me to explain ….”

  Timing, as the saying goes, is everything. The Ministry Agent, whom she did not like, and two of the boat’s crew mounted the stairs in three bold steps and leveled various guns at Davies. “Get away from her!”

  Gray tried not to roll her eyes.

  Bloody stupid ….

  Davies took up the knife and placed it firmly again under Gray’s chin. “Don’t block my way. The lady and I are leaving.”

  “No, Mr. Davies, we’re not.” Gray slid her left hand under his and pushed it away as she turned. Regrettably, while her knee did find its way between his legs, it did not strike with enough force. It did convince him to drop his knife.

  Davies shoved her backward with both hands into the on-rushing men: simple, inelegant, effective. There was no escaping down the ladder — the dahabeah’s crew was in the way. Instead, he smiled, turned on his heel, and dove headlong into the river.

  “Damn it!” she shouted, rushing to the rail and searching for Davies in the water.

  “Such language, Madam. Let the crocodiles have him,” the Agent snapped. “Be grateful I arrived to rescue you.”

  “You arrived to interrupt me. He was about to tell me what we don’t know: where to be on the 23rd of December.”

  The Agent looked down at her. “I don’t care. He would have killed you.”

  “No. He needs me to provide that which he doesn’t know yet. We have the Old Explorer’s book and he has the location along with additional clues.”

  Signaling the crew that all would be well, the Agent folded his arms tightly across his chest. “I’ll have to go after him.” The man was a retired Army major, too set in his ways to be of any use to Gray. She still wondered just what the Ministry was thinking when they sent him to her. “Stay put and work on that book. You’ll be safer here. I’ll take care of Davies.” He picked up the delicate, old journal and dropped it back onto the table. “Thirty days. Can you do it?”

  “Finish translating a rambling Elizabethan diary written in Latin, which may be a fake, and locate what Mr. Davies suggested is somewhere on Crete, so that we can discover the ultimate treasure? In thirty days? Perhaps we can.”

  “We, Madam Archaeologist?” he asked, pompously.

  “Indeed. I’m afraid I’ll need to call in specialized assistance. You do understand, don’t you?” She didn’t wait to hear his protest. She quickly wrote out a note on the back of one of her papers, folded it, and handed it to the Agent. “Please send that urgently to London: to the Punjabi Club.”

  It read very simply: Colonel – you are needed.

  The Nile River, headed north toward Alexandria

  Her black hair whipped around her face and she casually pushed it away. The sun was setting in the West, casting a glow of orange out across the fields and sands. Birds cried out their last of the day and a huff of water in the distance suggested a hippo was warning off the human craft approaching too near to shore. Ethereal music sweetened the air, coming from a distant mosque, or was it only the exotic meditations of an imaginative mind glimpsing the Giza Pyramids silhouetted in the distance? Gray pulled her right knee up toward her chest and lifted her chin into the breeze. Seated on a set of ornate pillows under the canopy, she was pleasantly alone, surrounded by scattered research. She’d done an incredible amount of work.

  Children called and waved at her from the shore; their robes maintaining a two-inch hem of caked mud. So many Europeans, women included, were flocking to Egypt. Most stayed on the elegant steamers or the Trans-Mediterranean Airships that offered tours up and down the Nile. Gray preferred the tried and true method of the dahabeah. The Neshmet-Osiris was a medium sized craft in that particular Egyptian style: a barge with sails, a shallow draft, and a canopied rooftop that doubled as seating for guests. Should the wind fail, oars could be reluctantly dipped into
the water. The barques of the Pharaohs had been of the same design, though far more opulent. Why change what works?

  Gray stared for a moment at the bottles waiting on a tray, touching each one with her fingers. Water: boiled for purity and cooled. Pomegranate juice: likely over-sweetened. Acceptable Champagne.

  She did not hear the report of a gun and yet the bottle shattered. So much for the water. Gray grasped the Champagne with a dramatic flourish and hid it in the pillows. She was being watched.

  Not even allowing a smile to form, Gray loosened the cork on the bottle of pomegranate juice and held it slightly aloft. The cork burst out of the bottle, shot away with only the whistle of a bullet.

  Gray poured half a glass, set down the bottle, and reclined on the pillows, the Champagne bottle protected by her side.

  One hundred yards away, waiting at the end of the dock, she could see her partner — the Colonel. A typical British male: overdressed, overheated, and over-confident. Yes, acceptably handsome, intriguing, and intelligent — she could imagine that any woman might fall in love with him, but no sane woman would ever marry him.

  The Colonel lowered the barrel of his Von Herder .455 caliber air rifle and lit his cigar as the Neshmet-Osiris slipped into the quay.

  Aboard the Neshmet-Osiris, Alexandria

  “Damn embarrassing, to say the least — it was damn stupid too, Madame.”

  So very proper, Gray thought, until of course, he opens his mouth. Quite the opposite of Davies, the Colonel’s crusty military voice often amusingly contradicted his distinguished appearance. Yet, after all that they’d gone through — what he’d put them through — he was still the agent she preferred to work with.

  The Colonel watched the river tensely. He’d finally allowed himself to be talked out of the brown twill suit he’d worn since leaving England. Reddish full beard, blue hound-dog eyes, and a keenness of bearing that reflected his military experience. Lanky and time-worn. Nothing missed his gaze. As was the custom with Agents of the Ministry, she was neither privy to his real name, nor he to hers. She was still certain they knew who the other was, but chose to play the game.