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

  The hole shook, and dirt fell on them from above. Both Davies and the Colonel braced themselves on the stairs. Gray pressed her back against the far wall — watching.

  The area around the lock shattered and fell inward toward the tunnel that now lay beyond the hole. The crash echoed for a good minute before it was silent again.

  Her first thought was that one of her compatriots might be injured. No. All were well, if confused and surprised. Then the amphorae: had they survived? They were important. They were beautiful. One appeared cracked, but not exposed. The others were safe.

  The howl erupted from deep inside the open tunnel, louder than ever.

  “That came from in there,” the Colonel noted, redirecting the muzzle of his rifle. Even Davies was startled, and drew a pistol. “There’s no wind in there.”

  Gray stared for a moment and searched for words. “I’m sure there’s some natural explanation. We are on a cliff side, after all.”

  “Are you sure, Madam Archaeologist?”

  “Well, Mr. Davies, if I’m wrong, we won’t be worrying about it for very long, will we?”

  Davies never took his eyes off the tunnel as he crept toward the entrance. “Do you believe in ghosts or Minotaurs?”

  “Prior to now?”

  Shaking his head, less in disagreement and more to clear away any doubts, the Colonel pushed Davies out of the way and held his rifle at waist level.

  “Don’t get in my way, Colonel. I want my treasure, and Nefer wants her codex. I don’t know or care what you want.” Davies pushed back and took the lead with a lantern.

  Stepping up to the Colonel, Gray whispered in his ear. “I doubt there’s any treasure, but he’s right, I do want the codex Bellingsfield used to translate Linear A. It’s worth far more than any golden baubles. It’s knowledge.”

  He nodded. “He’ll get tricky if he doesn’t get anything for all his efforts. He’s my problem. You just find your codex.”

  The howl warned them one last time. The Colonel had been right; that was no wind in that tunnel. “Ever bag a Minotaur?”

  He let her pass him, into the tunnel. He was now on rear guard, probably the more vulnerable and dangerous position on an expedition. “There’s a first for everything.” The tunnel was much hotter inside. “Remember what I said about things being too easy?”

  Ghost Bets the House

  by AJ Sikes

  Ghost flicks the cards from his hand, one by one, sliding them up and out with his thumb in time to the riverboat’s rocking. He watches them hit the green felt. First the Ace, then the King followed by his lady. Then the Knave and the ten.

  “That’s a lotta heart,” the other gambler says from across the table. “Wonder where a black man like you goes about gettin’ so much heart.”

  “Aw, go on, Macky,” says a light-skinned woman standing by the table. “Ghost played square. I was here watchin’ him the whole time.”

  “Yeah,” Macky says. “And who was watchin’ you?”

  Macky puts a hand on the table and keeps the other one out of sight. Ghost knows what’s going to happen. Same as happened the last time he pulled down big on a riverboat. So he scoots back from the table, reaches to a handrail, and pulls himself to standing. Macky tracks him with his eyes, keeping that one hand hid beneath the table.

  “Want to sit back down, Ghost?” Macky asks. “Seems you owe me the courtesy of a chance to win back some of my coin.”

  “Seems you’re mistaken,” Ghost says to Macky, flashing a look at the woman standing beside the table. He catches her slight nod and knows Macky didn’t see what passed between them.

  Ghost lifts his hat and nods to Macky. “Much obliged, Mister McClintock,” Ghost says. “I thank you for the game.”

  He turns to leave and hears the chair scrape across the deck as Macky rises. Ghost also hears the clicking of the hammer on Macky’s little Derringer.

  “You’re a cheat, and I want my money back,” Macky says.

  Ghost keeps walking, waiting for the sound he knows is coming.

  “I’ll shoot you in the back,” Macky says to him. “I don’t care.”

  For a second, Ghost half thinks Macky would shoot him in the back. Then he hears a solid thwunk and a body falling to the deck. The little Derringer clatters against the planking, too. Ghost turns around slow and sees the woman standing with a blackjack in one hand.

  “Thanks, Jenny,” Ghost says, tipping his hat and tossing a coin at her. She catches the dollar and slips it into her bodice to nestle against the others Ghost knows she has tucked away.

  “My pleasure, Ghost. You got enough now?”

  “Believe I do,” Ghost says, but can’t deny the nagging doubt he might be wrong. “Least I hope I do.”

  “Well good luck,” Jenny says. “Get that girl back to her momma.”

  Ghost tips his hat to her again and leaves the little upper deck saloon. He hears Jenny grunting behind him and the sound of shoes being dragged across planking. A little ways down the deck, Ghost pauses and listens. Another grunt comes his way, followed by a loud splash.

  “Rest in peace, Macky,” Ghost says, thinking about the thirty splashes that preceded that one. Thirty men from Bacchus’ krewe. One game for each of them. One loss for each man, too. And now Ghost’s pockets are full enough he can attend Bacchus’ game and get Namah and her mother and brothers out of New Orleans.

  The casino house looks like any other old plantation manor in New Orleans. Tall columns, fluted and flecked with moss and mildew, and chipped where Union bullets struck all those years ago. Back when the Southern Territory had the crazy idea to call itself the CSA and then really throw caution to the wind and open fire.

  “Should have just settled it all with a game of cards,” Ghost says to the night. He walks up the steps and shows his face to the boys there. Two of Bacchus’ tough roosters, one white and one dark and each with a neck as thick as Ghost’s leg. They stand aside, the sneers on their mugs hanging heavy like the air on a Louisiana spring day.

  “I hear you been playin’ well, Ghost,” the white one says. “Word is, none of your games ends without you makin’ a killin’.”

  Ghost pauses his step and stands across the threshold, one foot in and one still out. He turns to face the white man and gives him the one good eye he has left. He puts everything he has into the stare, aiming for as high a caliber as he can get. But with just one eye left, the trick falls flat and the heavy just keeps on sneering.

  “Maybe try it on the dealer,” he says. “If you make it to the table.”

  Ghost lifts a finger to his hat brim but switches to a different finger on the way. The doorman’s sneer turns to snarl, and his partner chuckles.

  “You asked for that one,” the Negro says and laughs some more.

  Ghost leaves the simple twins at the door and continues inside Bacchus’ gambling house. In front of him, a high stair leads up from the foyer to a landing and balcony that circles around to the right. Ghost knows that right now Namah is up there somewhere being preened and polished for the game.

  For a solid minute he stands there, breathing in the luxury and perfume. He smells the wine and hooch, the fancy feast laid out, all the scents of fine living and foul minds. He hates the gambling house, what it stands for and what it is. He hates it and always has. But most of all he hates Bacchus for making him party to what went on here, what has always gone on here.

  Off to the left is the main parlor where the guests grab their nosh and mix drinks with dances and try to keep off one another’s toes. To his right, under the balcony, is the doorway to the gaming room. A thick blue velvet curtain hangs in the entrance. Ghost hears the clicking of shuffled cards, the hoots and laughter, and once or twice a little groan.

  It’s time to change the way the cards fall in this town, he thinks, and steps through the heavy curtain.

  The tables are laid out in a ring around the pit boss, a heavy with light skin and a dark suit, a perfect match for the one at the door, exce
pt this one has a brain in his head. Ghost holds back from sending him a finger. He knows the man and isn’t ready to die. Not yet. So he waits while the pit boss approaches. He shows the man his billfold.

  “Like to get in on the deb table tonight,” Ghost says.

  The pit boss raises an eyebrow and looks over Ghost’s shoulder. Ghost waits like he did on the riverboat, knowing what’s coming. On cue, Mr. Bacchus rolls his voice into the conversation like a boulder down a hillside.

  “Ghost, I understand if you suffer from reduced vision these days. But surely you must see the error of your ways.”

  Ghost turns slow and keeps his hands clear and in sight the whole time. “I’m not here for any trouble, Mr. Bacchus. Just looking to get into the game. My money’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, if it is money, it’s good.”

  The pit boss holds out Ghost’s billfold and Bacchus lifts it in his meaty fingers, weighing it like a slab of beef ready for the scale.

  “So you’re here to conduct business?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bacchus. Just business, that and nothing more.”

  “Okay then, Ghost. But a condition. You see that man there?” Bacchus says and points to the table on the far edge of the room. Ghost turns his face fully to the side, bringing his good eye to bear. He sees a tall bird, the kind with more money than sense, but plenty of the latter still. Enough to earn him the money to charter an airship across territory lines from New York to New Orleans so he can play at Bacchus’ deb table.

  “What about him?” Ghost asks, half sure he knows the answer. He isn’t wrong.

  “Get him to go all in. That’s the condition, Ghost. You can play, but if you fail to get my guest from the Eastern Seaboard to empty his pockets, then it’ll be your pockets that end up empty. Your clothes, too.

  “And,” Bacchus adds, “your veins. Are we clear?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Bacchus. We’re clear.”

  Ghost accepts his billfold back from his former employer and doesn’t bat his eye when he sees the century note Bacchus palms and tucks into his jacket.

  Ghost takes his seat at the table. The house opens the match with an even money bet on a simple game of high card pull. Ghost and Mr. New York are joined by six other men, all with finer suits and hairstyles than Ghost has ever worn or ever will. He knows an act when he sees it. These birds are all planted by Bacchus, other attempts at getting the gentleman from the Eastern Seaboard to throw himself into the pot head first.

  One by one the players take cards from the deck. One by one they turn them over. Ghost flips a Jack. New York shows a King. The others all flip low cards. The deal passes to New York and he calls for a hand of stud.

  “Let’s keep it simple for now, boys. Nothing wild but our hearts, hey?”

  Ghost smiles at the man while the others sniff or just ignore his nonsense. He deals and Ghost lifts his cards.

  Two sevens and an Ace high.

  Bets go in and bets go up. Players go out.

  Ghost wins the hand with his pair. New York folded at the last, leaving Ghost to call against one of Bacchus’ dummies. The guy was sitting on a hand of junk, and if he could have kept from wincing every time he looked at his cards, or just stopped looking at them, Ghost might not have figured his bluff.

  But the guy doesn’t know cards, and Ghost makes him the first one he takes out.

  One by one he eats them alive, just like he ate thirty more of Bacchus’ krewe before this night, playing hard and sharp as a steel spike. The kind he’d like to drive into Bacchus’ eye one day. Or his own brother’s.

  But Ghost doesn’t spare too much time thinking about revenge. He’s here to win, and to make sure the man from New York loses.

  Everything.

  “Deal goes to New York,” Ghost says and passes the deck. The tall bird is down from where he started, but he’s still sitting on more money than sense.

  And he’s still sitting on more than Ghost has in his billfold. The others are all out, but for one, a guy who actually knows his cards. At least he knows them enough not to bet on junk or give away a bluff before the call.

  Two more hands and Bacchus’ final patsy goes all in. Then Ghost shows his ladies full of fives and Bacchus’ man goes out. New York loses with two pair, Aces and tens.

  The bell rings and Bacchus steps up to the table.

  “Two men left. So the time has arrived to reveal tonight’s debutante prize.”

  Following Bacchus’ cue, the pit boss brings Namah into the center of the room. She’s finer than when Ghost saw her before. Her dark hair is all finger waves and glossy shine, and her round face is powdered like porcelain. Bacchus kept his promise. She looks the perfect angel, and Ghost knows she’s been kept away from anything like corruption.

  The shackle on her wrist and the chain the pit boss holds in his hand tell a different story.

  New York has the deal. He calls a seven-card game and sends the cards out to play. Ghost checks the hole, sees two faces. Waits for the rest.

  He’s straightening while New York looks to be full of heart, just like Ghost’s last game on the riverboat. Ghost chances a bet, raises once.

  New York sees it, raises again. Ghost folds.

  They play another hand. Ghost loses again.

  New York passes the deal. Ghost calls a five-card favorite, slides the cards off the top. He answers New York’s first raise with one of his own, then calls on the next. Ghost wins. Another deal, another win.

  And then another. The deal passes and Ghost takes the next hand. And another after that. New York is sweating now. He checks his billfold, flashes eyes at Ghost, then at Namah.

  “Will the house — will the house accept collateral to cover a bet?”

  Ghost’s ears prick up. So do his hackles.

  Bacchus steps out of the ring of flappers, dandies, and dolls staring at the cards like they’ll reveal the future.

  “What type of collateral does the player propose?” Bacchus asks, eyeing New York with a hungry smile on his mug. Ghost waits, his cards face down in front of him. He knows what they are. He doesn’t need to look. New York checks his hand, puts it down, lifts it and looks again.

  “I—” he says. “I have a shipping concern here. At the port. The … the harbor master can confirm my ownership. It’s the Yak and Quail, she berths on Pier 13.”

  Ghost sees a tear hang in New York’s left eye when he gives Bacchus a nervous smile and says, “She’s a real hauler.”

  Bacchus smiles. He nods. Ghost watches the man’s fat fingers as they peel off notes from a roll in his hands.

  One of those centuries is mine.

  The bills hit the table. New York snatches them up and adds them to the pot.

  “I call,” he says and shows his cards. Three men, all in a row, crowns on their heads.

  Ghost drops his chin then lifts it, sending an eye full of sorrow in New York’s direction. One by one, he slides the cards across the table and turns them face up.

  “Three letters, all the same,” he says.

  New York groans, or croaks. The man makes a sound Ghost has never heard before. And then he cries. He puts his face in his hands and falls out of his chair and cries on his knees.

  Bacchus approaches and collects the bills he put down. He slides a key onto the table and Ghost picks it off the green felt surface.

  “I do appreciate a man who pays his debts,” Bacchus says. “Let this be the end of our rivalry, Ghost.”

  Ghost stands, says nothing. He walks by New York and goes to Namah. She’s got that fire back in her eyes, and Ghost sees that she means to let it out on whoever dares touch her. He presents her with the key and nods at the exit. She takes the key, unlocks the chain that was looped through the cuff on her wrist, then she undoes the cuff and throws it on the floor.

  Ghost feels the crowd. He feels Namah following him. She follows him out of the house and down the street to the sedan he won in his first game thirty days before.

  Namah’s mot
her and brothers wait in the sedan. They want to jump out, but Ghost told them to stay put, so put they stay. Ghost sees Namah to the car, opens the door.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ghost,” the mother says from the driver’s seat, still clutching the wad of folding money he gave her last night. “Thank you from my heart. Thank you.”

  Ghost shakes his head. He closes the door and waves them away. Namah wasn’t the first girl to stand in that house wearing jewelry that needs a key to come off. She was just the first one Ghost got free in time. She won’t be the last.

  Ghost has to get another bankroll in his pocket, and he’s got thirty days to do it.

  Peace Is Better

  by Harry Turtledove

  “Here we go again, Barbara,” Bill Williamson said. “Ready to roll?”

  Barbara Rasmussen nodded. From the left rear seat of the Mighty Mo, the sasquatch Governor of Jefferson watched his publicist’s blond curls bob up and down above the back of the right front seat. “I sure am,” she said. PR people never lacked for enthusiasm. That sometimes made them scary, but they needed it.

  “Then we’ll do it.” Bill stepped on the gas. He stood nine feet two in his stocking feet, though he was much too hairy ever to have put on stockings. The back seat of a car as humongous as his ‘74 Caddy with the extra-long steering column let him drive for himself, which he enjoyed.

  Yreka had been a state capital for sixty years now, but it was still a sleepy little place. Anyway, the government office building lay only a couple of blocks from the onramps to the I-5: Jefferson’s backbone and, when you got right down to it, the whole Pacific Coast’s.

  He put pedal to the metal as soon as he swung onto the northbound Interstate. He didn’t worry about 55, or about saving gas. Even at 55, the Mighty Mo’s mileage was a joke. The Eldorado’s engine was only a little smaller than a World War II fighter’s. The beast weighed as much as a Messerschmitt-109, too, especially with him in it.

  Fifteen minutes out of Yreka, he and Barbara rolled through Hilt, which was two gas stations and a Burger King. A moment later, Barbara said, “The old border between California and Oregon was somewhere right around here.”