The Cometeers by Steven R. Southard

NEW RELEASE SEPTEMBER 1, 2014!

The Cometeers by Steven R. Southard

#gypsyshadow #steampunk #armageddon

http://www.amazon.com/Cometeers-What-Hath-Wrought-Book-ebook/dp/B00N7YH0AO

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-cometeers-steven-r-southard/1120256981

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/472376

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenSouthard.html#Cometeers

A comet threatens Earth . . . in 1897. Of the six men launched by cannon to deflect it, one is a saboteur. It’s steampunk Armageddon! The Cometeers by Steven R. Southard. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenSouthard.html#Cometeers

 huge comet speeds toward a devastating collision with the Earth, but no one will launch space shuttles filled with nuclear weapons. It’s 1897. Instead, they’ll fire projectiles from the Jules Verne cannon and try to deflect the comet with a gunpowder explosion. Commander Hanno Knighthead isn’t sure he can motivate his argumentative, multinational crew of geniuses to work together. It turns out one of them is a saboteur. Then things get worse. Only a truly extraordinary leader could get this group to cooperate, thwart the saboteur, and jury-rig a way to divert the comet. Lucky thing Hanno brought his chewing gum.

Word Count: 10500
Pages to Print: 37
Price: $ 3.99 

EXCERPT:
This crew couldn’t figure out how to shoot a pop-gun, much less save the world, Commander Hanno Knighthead thought. As he chewed a stick of gum, Hanno wondered how he was supposed to lead such a mismatched and argumentative group, but knew if he didn’t, thousands of people would die when Comet Göker struck on September 9, 1897, just eight days hence. Just now, more bickering had broken out.

“No,” Sutton Woolsthorpe said with a snarl, “my preliminary calculations show we should fire cannon number three in five minutes, but I require time to refine the analysis.” He went back to turning gears on his portable Babbage Machine with pudgy fingers.

“There’s no time for calculating.” Gotzon Voegler’s rich German accent emphasized each consonant. “You must trust my judgment and fire the number three now.”

“Based on what?” Woolsthorpe asked, “The ramblings of a witch from a Grimm’s fairy tale?”

“No. Based on rules of thumb formed from decades of explosives experience.” Voegler held up a thumb. Prosthetic fingers made up the remainder of his right hand.

“A rule of thumb?” Woolsthorpe laughed. “But all your other fingers were blown off in an explosion.”

When Hanno saw Voegler cocking his other fist for a blow, he said, “That’s enough, gentlemen. Voegler, I’m siding with Woolsthorpe’s recommendation this time. Prepare to fire number three on his mark.”

Voegler grumbled, but then spoke aloud to Woolsthorpe. “One day you won’t have time for your calculating machine. On that day, you’ll have to trust my thumb.”

Hanno and his crew travelled within two identical, bullet-shaped vehicles, each quite cramped, being only twelve feet long and nine feet at the widest diameter. Once in space, they’d attached a short connecting tube to join the two projectiles together, allowing three men to sleep in each one. Hanno realized he’d soon have to rearrange the berthing arrangements to lessen the chance of brawling.

“What’s this?” asked Konstantin Golubev, pointing at some wires leading from a switch. “Someone tampered with my electrical system!” He glared at Hiroto Takahashi as he spoke.

Hanno had known a multi-national crew of experts would be a mistake for this mission, and had argued against it, but had been overruled.

Takahashi wore a mechanical, prosthetic right arm, and now used its screwdriver attachment to fasten his Buddha shrine in place near his bunk. “Not tamper, improve.”

“How dare you do that!” Golubev shouted, his voice reverberating in the enclosure. “I designed the system myself using minimal wire exposure for safety. I’ll also remind you it was Russians who invented our air purifier, our plumbing system, our—”

“I improved your design,” Takahashi shrugged, “by adding more switches to safely cut out sections in case of fire.”

“But just look at this loose wiring! I’ll have to re-route it all.”

“Leave the system alone for now,” Hanno told Golubev. “And Takahashi, no more improvements to the system without checking with Golubev first.” He hadn’t figured on treating geniuses like children, but that’s how they behaved.

The two manned projectiles travelled through space, linked to seventeen others of the same size, but those seventeen contained only gunpowder. After each projectile had been launched from the ground-based cannon, the crew had joined them together in orbit, linking the manned ones with an access tube, and the seventeen others with ropes. They’d installed small cannons on the exterior of the projectile cluster, and Hanno hoped the cannon they were about to fire would put them on a close path around the moon, increasing their speed and flinging them out toward their real target, where they could accomplish their mission, God willing. If they didn’t kill each other first.

“Upstart Japanese,” Golubev said, shaking his head at the wiring.

“Arrogant Russian,” Takahashi said to his Buddha statue.

“Reckless German.” Woolsthorpe watched the bulkhead chronometer.

Voegler rolled his eyes. “Haughty Englishman.”

And it never takes long for nationalism to emerge, Hanno thought, like the squalls that had often spoiled the fair weather days of his seagoing career. Only months before, Hanno had been serving as captain of a U.S. Navy torpedo boat. When in port, he’d followed with increasing interest the news of Comet Göker, named for its Ottoman discoverer. Astronomers had at first claimed this body would put on a spectacular show, visible even by the naked eye. Concern had become worry when orbital calculations showed it would pass quite near the Earth. This had given way to alarm when later observations confirmed a collision to be inevitable. Scientists could not say where it would strike. Most likely it would impact at sea, causing no harm, but it could strike a city instead. Experts had been clear about the date, however, and the comet would keep its unsought appointment on September 9th.

“Mark,” Woolsthorpe said, “Fire cannon number three.”

“Firing cannon three,” Voegler said as he moved the handle of the electrical switch.

Hanno heard a muffled report, and the walls of their vehicle shook.

Woolsthorpe brought out his handheld telescope and peered out a window, “I daresay that nudge should be enough.”

To Be First/Wheels of Heaven by Steven R. Southard

NEW RELEASE JULY 1, 2014

To Be First/Wheels of Heaven by Steven R. Southard

#gypsyshadow #alternatehistory #fantasy

http://www.amazon.com/First-Wheels-Heaven-What-Wrought-ebook/dp/B00LFW9V4S

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/to-be-first-and-wheels-of-heaven-steven-r-southard/1119886258

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/453881

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenSouthard.html#ToBeFirst

Twin tales of legend and fact—Ottoman space voyagers from an alternate universe, and the truth about an ancient Greek cosmic prediction machine. To Be First/Wheels of Heaven by Steven R. Southard. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenSouthard.html#ToBeFirst

                       

Two intriguing historical tales packaged together! “To Be First” follows two space voyagers from an alternate universe as they return from the moon, in 1933. In their timeline, manned rocketry began in the Ottoman Empire, which advanced and spread. When these Ottoman lunanauts end up orbiting our comparatively backward world, they have a choice to make, one that will forever change their future and ours. In “Wheels of Heaven,” an arrogant Roman astrologer finds a geared Grecian machine for predicting the positions of celestial bodies. On the voyage back to Rome, he meets a sailor who dismisses astrology, an astonishing notion in 86 B.C. But when the sailor's prediction is right, and every one of the astrologer's is wrong, he must question his most basic beliefs.

Word Count: 10350

Pages to Print: 37

Price: $3.99

EXCERPT:

Wheels of Heaven

Athens, 86 B.C.

The star-signs decreed it an ordinary day for routine matters, but when Drusus Praesentius Viator saw the box, he knew his world had changed.

“What is this device?” General Lucius Cornelius Sulla stood nearby with arms crossed. “Something related to your craft?” After conquering Athens, the General and his officers were inspecting the art and treasures of the Greek city-state, selecting items to send to Rome.

Viator, the General’s personal Astrologer, turned his gaze back to the box with his good right eye. A patch covered the left one.

The small wooden box sat on a waist-high pedestal, looking dull and ugly among the museum’s bronze statues, marble sculptures, and ceramic urns. Looking around at the Grecian artwork, Viator wondered how some of the museum’s delicate pieces would remain undamaged after being lifted onto carts, pulled by draft animals over rutted roads, and unloaded at Rome.

“Well?” Sulla asked. “I can’t spend a whole day on this matter.” The port wine stain birthmark on his face made him look angry even when he wasn’t, and he rarely wasn’t.

“I’ve heard of such machines, my liege, but never seen one,” said Viator, and never imagined they could be this small. The box stood no taller than the length of a man’s forearm, about as wide as a man’s hand was long, and one hand-width deep. A large metal dial with a projecting handle adorned the front face. Two similar dials dominated the back side, one above the other. Grecian inscriptions covered all sides of the wooden box and all three dials. No doubt the General saw the star and zodiac symbols and sent for me.

The machine’s dials showed a date in the Grecian Calendar, which Viator converted to the Roman equivalent, the Nones of Quintilis. He touched the handle and found it turned with ease. When he did so, concentric outer wheels turned as well, as did dials on the back of the box. “I think it is a device for showing the positions of stars, sun, and moon for any date.”

“Would it be of any use to you?” asked the General in an impatient tone.

“Yes,” Viator said. He didn’t want to sound too eager, but feared Sulla was losing interest and would turn to other matters. He gazed at the box with increased admiration for Greek mechanical skill. If this machine was accurate, it would save countless hours of computation time. “I believe it is worth further study.”

“Fine.” The General walked away and spoke to one of his men. “Have the box loaded aboard ship with the artwork and other treasures. The Astrologer will sail with the machine to Rome.”

Viator decided he would test the mechanism, see if it truly indicated celestial positions, and then—

Sail? Aboard . . . ship? Viator looked up at the receding General and his officers. “Wait! General! My liege!”

****

Viator’s heart sank when he arrived at the Piraeus quay, just southwest of Athens, and saw the tiny ship he would ride. Even just thinking how such a craft would roll in the waves brought on a pang of nausea.

He’d been given no chance to avoid this trip. General Sulla had ignored his pleas and his caution that the General should not march with his army all the way to Rome without the services of his astrologer. Years before, Viator had ridden a warship and well recalled getting seasick, but telling the General even this failed to reverse the decision.

He boarded, along with one of Sulla’s officers, the Decurion known as Metunus. Metunus supervised the loading of cargo, including Grecian artwork and the celestial prediction machine, into a hold beneath the main deck.

From Viator’s limited experience with vessels, this one looked odd. In contrast to the warship he’d once had the misfortune of riding, this ship held no oarsmen. Only sails moved her along. Even odder, a huge, wooden replica of the graceful neck and head of a swan jutted upward from the stern deck. Twice the height of a man, this white-painted swan gazed aft at the ship’s wake.

“Welcome aboard the Prospectus,” said an old man who came up to him. “You must be the Astrologer they told me about. I’m the ship’s captain.” Except for his pinched and wizened face, he could have been Neptune himself, complete with flowing, gray hair.

Rallying Cry/Last Vessel of Atlantis by Steven R. Southard

NEW RELEASE MARCH 7, 2014!

Rallying Cry/Last Vessel of Atlantis by Steven R. Southard

#gypsyshadow #steampunk #series

http://www.amazon.com/Rallying-Last-Vessel-Atlantis-Wrought-ebook/dp/B00IUSAIF6

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/rallying-cry-steve-r-southard/1118882041

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/416615

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenSouthard.html#Rallying

From a secret and amazing World War I regiment to a lone Atlantean ship facing a world of savagery—two stories of high adventure. Rallying Cry and Last Vessel of Atlantis by Steve R. Southard. Available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenSouthard.html#Rallying

Two adventure stories packaged together! In “Rallying Cry,” an aimless youth meets two old geezers who spin bizarre war stories. They tell of a secret World War I regiment in France with ship-sized helicopters and mechanized walking tanks.  Just as an inspiring shout can move soldiers to action, perhaps all Kane really needs to turn his life around is a rallying cry. In “Last Vessel of Atlantis,” a ship captain and his crew of explorers return to find Atlantis gone. While facing violent savages, braving fierce storms, and solving internal disputes, they must somehow ensure their advanced Atlantean civilization is not lost forever.

Word Count: 11400

Pages to Print: 40

Price: $3.99  

EXCERPT:

Rallying Cry

Kane Jones felt like he’d entered a video game set in some bygone era. Two geezers looked up at him from where they sat, each in a wheelchair, playing cards at an old oak table. Each face bore more wrinkles than Kane had ever seen on just two people. He wondered whether dinosaurs had manufactured their radio: a wooden box with large knobs and a bent coat hanger sticking out. A news program blared from its speakers. A film of dust covered the TV on its credenza as well as its remote. Few decorations adorned the room, except a number of framed family photographs.

“Maintenance,” Kane repeated loudly. He’d used his key to enter the room only after knocking and shouting for several minutes from outside the door. “Someone called about a leaking sink faucet.”

“Eh?” the old fossil on the right asked. He looked like he might once have been stocky, but that was before time had collapsed his body.

“He’s here to fix my sink!” the one on the left shouted at him. That man’s face and body looked too thin and cadaverous to be alive, but Kane decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Less than a month into his term,” the voice on the radio said, “President George W. Bush spoke today to troops in Fort Stewart, in Georgia . . .” The man on the left switched off the radio.

“Are you Mr.—” Kane checked his clipboard and frowned. “Loiseau?” He pronounced it Louie-seeow.

The man on the left nodded. “I’m Loiseau.” He spoke the name as Loo-zoh with a fluid French smoothness Kane knew he’d never master.

The room had a dry staleness to it, as if the air was seldom used for respiration. Kane felt he was aging by the second, as if he would walk out ten years older after a half hour in the room.

“I’ll be as quick as I can, sir,” Kane said, and really meant it. His last job of the day, only Loiseau’s sink stood between him and many hours of playing Baldur’s Gate II: Shadows of Amn. He took his toolkit into the bathroom.

. . . And laughed. In place of the sink’s cold faucet knob, a rusted pair of vice grips clamped the valve shaft. Ugly, but serviceable, Kane thought. Beneath the sink, layers of gray duct tape coated the hot supply pipe’s shut-off valve. While he watched, a drip formed on an edge of the tape, then dropped into a half-full bucket on the floor.

The old coot had tried to fix it himself, Kane thought, amused. Then he realized something. Most of the fifty residents of the Excelsior Nursing Home in Baton Rouge called Maintenance from time to time. Indeed, Kane suspected two old ladies of breaking things on purpose just to watch him work. But there were two rooms he’d never been in during his three years on the job. This was one, and next door was the other. The other card-playing fogy probably lived there.

A whirring sound startled him. Kane turned to see Mr. Loiseau sitting in his motorized wheelchair, blocking the bathroom door.

“Admiring my work, are you not?” His smile accentuated his facial wrinkles. His voice sounded like Jacques Cousteau must have on his deathbed.

“Out of the way with you, Marin,” the voice of the other man came from around the corner. “I can’t see the boy at all.” His French accent was even thicker and more filled with gravel.

Great, Kane thought, and sighed. So that’s how it’s going to be. Both old codgers looking over my shoulder.

With their wheelchairs, they jockeyed into position so the near-deaf one could look past Loiseau to see Kane’s work. Kane knew better than to ask if they had something better to do. With no polite way to avoid their scrutiny, he set to work. Since his toolkit contained spare faucet knobs and shut-off valves, Kane anticipated a quick repair.

After a period of silence, Loiseau spoke. “You have a knack for this. Are you a professional plumber?”

Kane shook his head. “Nope. Just licensed for general maintenance.”

“Ah,” Loiseau nodded. “That is good, your ability to repair many things. With such skills, you will have a bright future.”

A bright future, Kane thought. He’d never given any thought to the future. Too uncertain; anything could happen. No point in planning for it. “To me, the future means a fixed sink,” he said as he wrapped Teflon tape around the replacement valve’s threads, “me out of your way, and you two getting back to your card game.”

“Eh?” asked the one behind Loiseau.

“He said,” Loiseau winced as he turned his head, “his future is as limited as ours.”

“Now, wait. I didn’t say that,” Kane looked at Loiseau. He must think I’ll amount to nothing.

“Not so?” Loiseau gave his wrinkly smile. “Tell me, young man, what is your name?”

“Kane. Kane Jones.”

“Tell me, Monsieur Jones, about your plans. Where will you be in five years? Ten? Will you be in charge of all the maintenance men here? Will you be manager of the Home?”

Kane frowned, unable to understand. Five years? He shook his head. “No, no. I’m not gonna still be working here. It’s just a job; I’ve gotta have money, to . . .” To keep hitting the bars and buying the latest video games, he thought, knowing how lame that would sound out loud.

“You have a goal in life, no?” Loiseau’s eyes searched his own. “A passion for something?”

Kane didn’t appreciate the prying tone and didn’t feel like spilling out his life story to these ancient strangers. Not that there was much to tell. He tightened the valve in place with his wrench. “Look, no offense, guys, but I’m twenty years old. I don’t need goals or passions. You probably don’t remember what it was like to be my age, but . . .” Right away he regretted putting it like that, but they’d annoyed him and he wanted to end the conversation.

“It’s true I am old now. I never thought I’d breathe the air of 2001. And yet I still have the memories of being young, memories as clear as a glass of white wine.” Loiseau seemed to be staring across decades. “The Great War was on, and I served in the Regiment.”

A gasp came from the other man, who’d cocked his head so his ear was near Loiseau. “You’re not going to tell him about the Regiment! They ordered us to keep it secret forever.”

Kane had heard old men telling war stories before, but such tales were never as good as the video games. He tested the hot water flow and checked for leaks.

“What can they do to us now, Yvet?” Loiseau asked. “Send us into battle again?” He laughed, which led to a short coughing fit. “Monsieur Jones might just benefit from hearing it.”

Fishing around in his toolkit, Kane found a matching faucet handle. He checked his watch. “Look, I’ll be all done here in two minutes. You don’t have to—”

“Very well. Tell him if you must,” the one called Yvet said as he crossed his arms.

“But I warned you against it. It’s plain the lad doesn’t want to hear it. Moreover, he’ll never believe you.”

Loiseau put a hand to his chin. “It was July seventeenth of 1915. I served in the Jules Verne Regiment aboard the French aeronef Albatros.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Machine gun shells whizzed around me. Some bounced off the iron shielding, but most lodged in the wooden hull. From above came the monstrous humming of thirty seven propeller blades, each mounted atop a long shaft. The shafts differed in height, taller ones amidships and along the centerline, with shorter ones at bow and stern and outboard along the sides, giving our vessel a passing resemblance to an ocean-going clipper. Instead, these propellers kept her aloft. Albatros cruised as a clipper of the clouds.

I manned the number three gun mount on the starboard side, pouring all the ammo I could into a gigantic German Zeppelin. The enemy airship had appeared just as we’d completed our bombing mission against a German armaments factory. I had a poor angle for shooting, since our helmsman steered toward the enemy airship. I aimed at the Zeppelin’s gunners when they came in view, and also at the gas envelope when that was all I could see.

NEW RELEASE February 1, 2014!

Sci-Magickal by Teel James Glenn

#gypsyshadow #steampunk #youngadult

http://www.amazon.com/Sci-Magickal-Mabuse-World-Sci-Magickal-James-Glenn-ebook/dp/B00I5VQI20

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sci-magickal-teel-james-glenn/1118427411

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/403856

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/Teel.html#Sci-Magickal

Jeremy Cross goes to Germany to study Magick, but instead becomes the pawn in an incredible plan to kill a king and take over an empire. Three short steampunk stories from master story-teller, Teel James Glenn. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/Teel.html#Sci-Magickal

When Jeremy Cross gets his scholarship to the Mabuse School for New Magicks in Germany, he has no idea what he is in for: the only Englishman in the academy, he receives all sorts of ribbing, yet he makes friends. When some of those friends, Elke, Gert and Oswald, come up with a wild scheme to break into the old Castle Godesburg and search for an ancient treasure, he goes along with them. None of them imagine they'll discover an ancient talisman of power or that poor Jeremy will become the victim of ancient magicks so powerful that none of his instructors can control them.

Things go from bad to worse when he becomes the pawn of fellow students in an incredible plan to kill a king and take over an empire. Old school days have never been like this!

Word Count: 37,800
Pages to Print: 131
Price: $4.99

Coming March 1, 2014!

Rallying Cry by Steven R. Southard

#gypsyshadow #steampunk #series

From a secret and amazing World War I regiment to a lone Atlantean ship facing a world of savagery—two stories of high adventure. Coming to Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:

http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenSouthard.html#top

Two adventure stories packaged together! In “Rallying Cry,” an aimless youth meets two old geezers who spin bizarre war stories. They tell of a secret World War I regiment in France with ship-sized helicopters and mechanized walking tanks.  Just as an inspiring shout can move soldiers to action, perhaps all Kane really needs to turn his life around is a rallying cry. In “Last Vessel of Atlantis,” a ship captain and his crew of explorers return to find Atlantis gone. While facing violent savages, braving fierce storms, and solving internal disputes, they must somehow ensure their advanced Atlantean civilization is not lost forever.

Word Count: 11400

Pages to Print: 40

Price: $3.99

 

NOTE: This volume from the What Man Hath Wrought Series has two short stories. The second one is "Last Vessel of Atlantis."

EXCERPT:

Rallying Cry

Kane Jones felt like he’d entered a video game set in some bygone era. Two geezers looked up at him from where they sat, each in a wheelchair, playing cards at an old oak table. Each face bore more wrinkles than Kane had ever seen on just two people. He wondered whether dinosaurs had manufactured their radio: a wooden box with large knobs and a bent coat hanger sticking out. A news program blared from its speakers. A film of dust covered the TV on its credenza as well as its remote. Few decorations adorned the room, except a number of framed family photographs.

“Maintenance,” Kane repeated loudly. He’d used his key to enter the room only after knocking and shouting for several minutes from outside the door. “Someone called about a leaking sink faucet.”

“Eh?” the old fossil on the right asked. He looked like he might once have been stocky, but that was before time had collapsed his body.

“He’s here to fix my sink!” the one on the left shouted at him. That man’s face and body looked too thin and cadaverous to be alive, but Kane decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Less than a month into his term,” the voice on the radio said, “President George W. Bush spoke today to troops in Fort Stewart, in Georgia . . .” The man on the left switched off the radio.

“Are you Mr.—” Kane checked his clipboard and frowned. “Loiseau?” He pronounced it Louie-seeow.

The man on the left nodded. “I’m Loiseau.” He spoke the name as Loo-zoh with a fluid French smoothness Kane knew he’d never master.

The room had a dry staleness to it, as if the air was seldom used for respiration. Kane felt he was aging by the second, as if he would walk out ten years older after a half hour in the room.

“I’ll be as quick as I can, sir,” Kane said, and really meant it. His last job of the day, only Loiseau’s sink stood between him and many hours of playing Baldur’s Gate II: Shadows of Amn. He took his toolkit into the bathroom.

. . . And laughed. In place of the sink’s cold faucet knob, a rusted pair of vice grips clamped the valve shaft. Ugly, but serviceable, Kane thought. Beneath the sink, layers of gray duct tape coated the hot supply pipe’s shut-off valve. While he watched, a drip formed on an edge of the tape, then dropped into a half-full bucket on the floor.

The old coot had tried to fix it himself, Kane thought, amused. Then he realized something. Most of the fifty residents of the Excelsior Nursing Home in Baton Rouge called Maintenance from time to time. Indeed, Kane suspected two old ladies of breaking things on purpose just to watch him work. But there were two rooms he’d never been in during his three years on the job. This was one, and next door was the other. The other card-playing fogy probably lived there.

A whirring sound startled him. Kane turned to see Mr. Loiseau sitting in his motorized wheelchair, blocking the bathroom door.

“Admiring my work, are you not?” His smile accentuated his facial wrinkles. His voice sounded like Jacques Cousteau must have on his deathbed.

“Out of the way with you, Marin,” the voice of the other man came from around the corner. “I can’t see the boy at all.” His French accent was even thicker and more filled with gravel.

Great, Kane thought, and sighed. So that’s how it’s going to be. Both old codgers looking over my shoulder.

With their wheelchairs, they jockeyed into position so the near-deaf one could look past Loiseau to see Kane’s work. Kane knew better than to ask if they had something better to do. With no polite way to avoid their scrutiny, he set to work. Since his toolkit contained spare faucet knobs and shut-off valves, Kane anticipated a quick repair.

After a period of silence, Loiseau spoke. “You have a knack for this. Are you a professional plumber?”

Kane shook his head. “Nope. Just licensed for general maintenance.”

“Ah,” Loiseau nodded. “That is good, your ability to repair many things. With such skills, you will have a bright future.”

A bright future, Kane thought. He’d never given any thought to the future. Too uncertain; anything could happen. No point in planning for it. “To me, the future means a fixed sink,” he said as he wrapped Teflon tape around the replacement valve’s threads, “me out of your way, and you two getting back to your card game.”

“Eh?” asked the one behind Loiseau.

“He said,” Loiseau winced as he turned his head, “his future is as limited as ours.”

“Now, wait. I didn’t say that,” Kane looked at Loiseau. He must think I’ll amount to nothing.

“Not so?” Loiseau gave his wrinkly smile. “Tell me, young man, what is your name?”

“Kane. Kane Jones.”

“Tell me, Monsieur Jones, about your plans. Where will you be in five years? Ten? Will you be in charge of all the maintenance men here? Will you be manager of the Home?”

Kane frowned, unable to understand. Five years? He shook his head. “No, no. I’m not gonna still be working here. It’s just a job; I’ve gotta have money, to . . .” To keep hitting the bars and buying the latest video games, he thought, knowing how lame that would sound out loud.

“You have a goal in life, no?” Loiseau’s eyes searched his own. “A passion for something?”

Kane didn’t appreciate the prying tone and didn’t feel like spilling out his life story to these ancient strangers. Not that there was much to tell. He tightened the valve in place with his wrench. “Look, no offense, guys, but I’m twenty years old. I don’t need goals or passions. You probably don’t remember what it was like to be my age, but . . .” Right away he regretted putting it like that, but they’d annoyed him and he wanted to end the conversation.

“It’s true I am old now. I never thought I’d breathe the air of 2001. And yet I still have the memories of being young, memories as clear as a glass of white wine.” Loiseau seemed to be staring across decades. “The Great War was on, and I served in the Regiment.”

A gasp came from the other man, who’d cocked his head so his ear was near Loiseau. “You’re not going to tell him about the Regiment! They ordered us to keep it secret forever.”

Kane had heard old men telling war stories before, but such tales were never as good as the video games. He tested the hot water flow and checked for leaks.

“What can they do to us now, Yvet?” Loiseau asked. “Send us into battle again?” He laughed, which led to a short coughing fit. “Monsieur Jones might just benefit from hearing it.”

Fishing around in his toolkit, Kane found a matching faucet handle. He checked his watch. “Look, I’ll be all done here in two minutes. You don’t have to—”

“Very well. Tell him if you must,” the one called Yvet said as he crossed his arms.

“But I warned you against it. It’s plain the lad doesn’t want to hear it. Moreover, he’ll never believe you.”

Loiseau put a hand to his chin. “It was July seventeenth of 1915. I served in the Jules Verne Regiment aboard the French aeronef Albatros.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Machine gun shells whizzed around me. Some bounced off the iron shielding, but most lodged in the wooden hull. From above came the monstrous humming of thirty seven propeller blades, each mounted atop a long shaft. The shafts differed in height, taller ones amidships and along the centerline, with shorter ones at bow and stern and outboard along the sides, giving our vessel a passing resemblance to an ocean-going clipper. Instead, these propellers kept her aloft. Albatros cruised as a clipper of the clouds.

I manned the number three gun mount on the starboard side, pouring all the ammo I could into a gigantic German Zeppelin. The enemy airship had appeared just as we’d completed our bombing mission against a German armaments factory. I had a poor angle for shooting, since our helmsman steered toward the enemy airship. I aimed at the Zeppelin’s gunners when they came in view, and also at the gas envelope when that was all I could see.

COMING FEBRUARY 1, 2014!

Sci-Magickal by Teel James Glenn

#gypsyshadow #steampunk #youngadult

When Jeremy Cross gets his scholarship to the Mabuse School for New Magicks in Germany, he has no idea what he is in for: the only Englishman in the academy, he receives all sorts of ribbing, yet he makes friends. When some of those friends, Elke, Gert and Oswald, come up with a wild scheme to break into the old Castle Godesburg and search for an ancient treasure, he goes along with them. None of them imagine they'll discover an ancient talisman of power or that poor Jeremy will become the victim of ancient magicks so powerful that none of his instructors can control them.

Things go from bad to worse when he becomes the pawn of fellow students in an incredible plan to kill a king and take over an empire. Old school days have never been like this!

Word Count: 37,800

Pages to Print: 131

Price: $4.99

Excerpt

Part I:

The War Girdle

Chapter One

Breaking into a Donjon is Just Wrong!

I must say in all honestly, had alcohol not been involved in the incident, perhaps my life might have been different; perhaps not better, but certainly different.

The circumstance came about when we were sitting in the rathskeller in Bad Godesberg after classes. I was taking the usual ribbing. I was the only English student at the Mabuse School for New Magicks, but that was not the reason they hazed me. They would have tormented me, were I full blood Prussian like they, or French, or what have you, because I was the new student.

I had only been at the school for six months, having transferred in from the Academy D’arc in Ireland. My parents had decided the continent was where the best in alchemical arts could be studied and, since the opening up of the European conference of Magicks and Science had normalized such studies—even over the objections of the Papacy—it was now a respected profession.

I had been interested in Magick since as a child I had seen a minor conjurer at a fair back in Wycombe change a rabbit into a hawk. It was just before Germany won the World War using those principles when it was still frowned upon.

“Stop wool gathering, Englander,” Gert Von Handler said. “You have to throw the dart.” He stroked along the smite scar on his left cheek from his mensur dueling. He was very proud of his Schmiss.

I was standing in the underground, smoke-filled pub and had already had several tankards of good German beer. I had gained a reputation as the dart man in the underclass during the months I had been there and was straining to uphold it against my archrival, Gert.

“I’m just waiting for the spirit to move me,” I said. “One cannot rush perfection.”

This made Oswald, my rotund friend and Elke, the beautiful blonde classmate who seemed to always hang around with our group, break into gales of laughter.

“Oh shoot, Jeremy,” Oswald sneered. “I am growing old while you wait for ghosts to move you.”

I shot him a dirty look and went back to sighing my dart.

“Take your time,” Elke said with that pout that drove us all crazy. “He just doesn’t want to pay for another round of drinks.”

Gert made a disgusted sound and I knew her barb had struck home. I squinted at the board and launched my own missile. It struck true to the center of the board.

Bullseye!

“Have you ever paid for a round of drinks?’ Elke asked me when Jenna the bar maid brought our new drinks.

“Many,” I said, “but not for a time; I led a wasted youth in many pubs.”

Gert snorted at that. He was the poser image of the New Germany; a blond tall, well-muscled demi-god with piercing blue eyes and a dueling scar on his left cheek that proclaimed him as a child of the Junkers. He was the apple of his military family’s eye and had shocked many of the traditionalists when he chose to study the Magickal arts, but as he put it, “We won the war, in part because of the Sci-Magickal advances that great men like Mabuse and Himmler brought to bear. It is only logical that I learn all there is to know about it.” I remember he had smiled a predator’s smile when he added, “I will not beat my sword into a plow shear; simply add a wand to my arsenal.”

I had no such lofty or nationalistic goals. My parents were modest merchants who ran a hostelry outside of High Wycombe and simply had hopes for me to make it through university and find a profession. They were shocked when I took the entrance exam for the Academy D’arc, and more so when the inquisitor said I had true Magickal talent.

A year in Ireland, however, left me feeling that somehow I was not getting the instruction I could be. And when representatives of the Mabuse School had visited and presented a seminar on transformational energy, I knew that I had to study there. I had been able to convince the professor, one Herr Magus Shikelgruber, to allow me into an exchange student program.

My parents, especially my mother, were not happy with me being among the Irish, and now the thought of being in the midst of our former enemies and conquerors was almost too much for them. But it was a scholarship and they relented.

So now I was the new boy on the block, the Englander, to all in the school and often the butt of jokes.

I took it all in stride, for it meant I was learning things in the way I wanted. The instructors were the finest in the world and the students—even the self-possessed Gert—were some of the most talented in the arts. They, and I hoped I, would be the true future of the world.

“I overheard Magus Maurius shouting at old Adolph today,” Elke said. She was a lovely girl, almost as tall as me, with a girlish figure blossoming to womanhood in the most pleasing way. Her eyes sparkled all the time, and I think half the underclassmen had a crush on her. I know I did.

“What were they on about?” Oswald asked as he stuffed yet another piece of strudel into his maw.

We all leaned in to hear the details; the two professors seemed always to be at odds over issues Magickal. Their arguments were almost legendary.

“Maurius was going on about the Halbesel formulae that Adolph uses and saying it was nonsense.”

“No!” Gert said, “He actually said that?”

“Yes,” Oswald insisted, “he said nonsense! Then Adolph started that sputtering speech of his about the great past of Germany and Heimat historians using the spells and how could someone like Maurius who was not part of the Volk community . . .”

“No!” Elke gasped, then she giggled. “I wish I could have seen Maurius’ face.”

“I didn’t dare peek around the edge of the doorway to look,” Oswald said as he cleaned his third plate of the evening. “But Maurius went on about how it was pure speculation that the pre-Christians used the Halbesel spells that Skiky was so up on.”

“And Adolph let that sit?” I said. My sponsor was known for his powerful speeches and arguments.

“Oh, he shot back with, ‘the Heimat inhabitants used many peaks to call to the god Wotan the god of war, death and the hunt, and with such symbols as warrior girdles were able to effect changes like even to the bear shirts or Berserkers.’”

Elke laughed. “He gave that same speech last week when we asked him about the Godesberg references in the old spell book.” I noticed that the tip of her nose moved like a bunny’s when she laughed: a little thing, but a delightful one.

“Yes,” Gert said, his angular features taking on a stern cast. “I remember he talked about his theory about a secret vault from the late 14th century, somewhere up in the old fortress from when it had become the repository of the Elector’s valuables and archives.”

“Do you think it could be real?” Elke asked, “I mean, if it was, wouldn’t they have found it by now?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “I remember when I first got here I read in the guide book that the old castle was under the district’s historical agency and we weren’t supposed to go near it because of jurisdictional concerns.”

“I have heard something of that,” Gert said. “The Bonn city council claims it and Bad Godesberg claims it and the state historical council wants to restore it. And they have been fighting over it for years.”

“That’s what I love about your German courts,” I said, for once enjoying being the outsider. “If a thing can be drawn out for a day, it can be drawn out for a decade!”

“Do you think there really is a secret vault in the castle donjon, like Adolph says?” Elke asked.

“I trust what he says,” I said. “The fort itself was established on an ancient cult site, or so he said.”

“No matter how silly his mustache is?” Elke said with a grin.

“Yes,” I said, sticking my tongue out at her. “I think if he says it’s there, it’s probably in there.”

“We ought to just sneak in and see,” Oswald said casually as he slurped up another ale.

There was sudden silence at the table and the other three of us looked at each other with the same startled expressions.

“What are you all looking at?” Oswald asked when he realized we had stopped our usual banter.

“You are a genius, Oswald, my round friend,” I said. I knew by their look that the other two had indeed come to the same conclusion.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“We can get into the old castle and look for the vault of spells!” Gert said. “It would be a great coup, and the information we could find is rightfully the Fatherland’s!” He looked at me when he said it, and I knew he was already thinking of some way to exclude me from the expedition.

I was having none of that.

“Come on, then,” I said, rising from the table a bit unsteadily from the tankards I had consumed. “Let’s go!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TEEL JAMES GLENN has traveled the world for thirty years as a stuntman, fight choreographer, swordmaster, jouster, illustrator, storyteller, bodyguard and actor. One of the things he’s proudest of is having studied under Errol Flynn’s last stunt double. Mr. Glenn continues to teach swordwork in New York.

His stories have been printed in scores of magazines from Weird Tales to Mad to Black Belt to Fantasy World Geographic, Blazing Adventures and Tales of Old. He has over two dozen books and anthologies in print in many genres including Steampunk, Western, Mystery and the bestselling SF Thriller series, The Exceptionals. One was a finalist in the EPIC eBook awards in 2009.

He is the winner of the 2012 Pulp Ark Best Author of the Year. Epic eBook award finalist. Preditors and Editors Readers Poll winner: Best Steampunk Short finalist, Best Fantasy Short Collection, Best Fantasy Short Story, Best Horror Short Story and in the Thriller and Mystery Novel categories; Author of The Maxi/Moxie Series, The Dr. Shadows Series, Jon Shadows Series and others.

WEBSITE: http//www.theurbanswashbuckler.com
TWITTER: https://twitter.com/teeljamesglenn
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/teeljamesglenn

GSP's Book of the Day July 29

A Tale More True by Steven R. Southard

#gypsyshadow #checkeditout #fantasy #clockpunk #series

Baron Münchhausen has been known to stretch the truth a bit, then tie it in knots, toss it on the floor, and stomp on it.  But to prove him wrong, is it really necessary for Count Federmann to construct a gigantic clockwork spring and launch himself to the Moon?  If the Count should do so, and if he should drag his trustworthy servant along, perhaps he’ll learn enough to tell . . . a tale more true.

Word Count: 10500
Pages to Print: 37
Price: $3.99

http://www.amazon.com/Tale-More-True-Wrought-ebook/dp/B00D5XRH4Q
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-tale-more-true-steven-r-southard/1115473750
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/322306
http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenSouthard.html#TMT

History’s greatest liar, a colossal clockwork spring, a fantastic trip to the Moon . . . in 1769.  Read it, but don’t expect truth. A Tale More True, a short story by Steven R. Southard. Available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, other fine eBook vendors and Gypsy Shadow Publishing at:
http://www.gypsyshadow.com/StevenSouthard.html#TMT