Category: science fiction

Illegal Aliens 3

wewriwa
Welcome to weekend writing warriors. Many fine authors, and me, contribute short snippets for your delectation. This is the start of a new work, Illegal Aliens. It is something of a cross between a horror story, a science fiction tale, and a romance.

Roland, an archaeology instructor at Reading University (academic ranks in the UK are different than in the US, he’d be an assistant professor in the land of the free), is on his way to London. He’s on call when something unusual turns up in the works on the new underground.  After an interesting conversation on the train, he arrives to find the odd item – a block of Roman Concrete which is covered in inscriptions.

Two and a half hours later, after the train ride to Paddington, a shunt in the rattling cars of the circle line and a shuttle along the new but unopened tracks, with his bright yellow vest – lined with reflective tape, and a yellow hardhat Roland met the works manager at the site.

“So Mr Shah, where’s this block?” The works manager insisted on the ‘Mr’ so Dr Stevens used it, rather than the informal first names he usually found worked better with people; he wasn’t sure he even knew Mr Shah’s first name.

Mr Shah pointed the way, “You can see it’s right in the middle of the line; I’ve had the diggers expose as much as I can; as much as is safe, we think might be a UXB left nearby – from the war.”

“Is that why Carter’s here?” Roland waved at an army officer who was drinking a cup of coffee while he stood by the works office, a mobile shed constructed from a shipping container; he waved back.

Mr Shah spat, “Of course; we scanned the area with a metal detector; there are so many bomb fragments and other bits of metal rubbish around here – too many for my taste … and there’s something big near that bloody piece of concrete.”

“Best then if I take a look,” Roland and Mr Shah walked to the block.

After he inspected it, Roland said, “You’re right, definitely Roman mortar.”

Mithras, a Persian god, was widely worshiped in the Roman Empire. Most, if not all, of the legions participated in his cult before the emperor Constantine made Christianity the official religion of the empire (mind you, he adopted what is known as the Aryan heresy but that’s another story).

The cult was squashed by the early Christian church. Unlike the Olympian gods he didn’t get re-cloaked as a saint. There are several reasons for this.

  1. It was a mystery religion. You weren’t supposed to know about it until you were initiated and you weren’t supposed to proselytize. There were a series of initiations – think of the scene from the Magic Flute and you’ll get the idea.
  2. The early Christian church was a social welfare agency. After it more or less ‘went public’ and was (usually) tolerated, it fed the poor and helped the sick. This gave it wide support among the commoners. It also abraded the rigid class distinctions of the Roman Empire because it taught that all people were equal before God (if not each other).
  3. The mythological structure of Mithridates almost mockingly mimicked Christianity (though had things gone differently we might reverse that). Mithridates had twelve apostles, died for three days and rose (about the time of Easter), was born on December 25th, and performed miracles.

Mithriadic sites were typically in caves and a surprising number of them are underneath churches. The similarities between two faiths are not surprising – both were mystery religions in the 1st and 2nd century AD or CE. Christianity because the authorities did not like it and Mithriadism because of choice. Undoubtedly there were individuals who attended both and mixed the ideas.

Illegal Aliens 2

wewriwa
Welcome to weekend writing warriors. Many fine authors, and me, contribute short snippets for your delectation. This is the start of a new work, Illegal Aliens. It is something of a cross between a horror story, a science fiction tale, and a romance.

Roland, an archaeology instructor at Reading University (academic ranks in the UK are different than in the US, he’d be an assistant professor in the land of the free), is on his way to London. He’s on call when something unusual turns up in the works on the new underground. Something dashed odd has turned up and he’s on his way. This continues the conversation he’s having in the train.

“People didn’t always believe that; the prayer I’m working on is to Bastet, Goddess of cats, and healing; would you like to hear it?”

The boy shrugged, “My family is from Egypt.”

“I call upon thee, Bastet queen of my heart, to come and succour me, upon thee I call, o Bastet my queen.” Roland looked up at ceiling; the train carriage seemed lighter, somehow filled with the fragrance of flowers. “That’s as close as I can make it in English – they often wrote palindromes – to reinforce the magic.”

“What’s a palindrome?”

“Now leave the poor man to his work.” The boy’s mother said, “Enough of your silly questions.”

“A palindrome runs the same backwards and forwards.”

“Neat.”

My close collaborator dabbles in these sorts of things. I quote him below:

The jug with the falcon (of Horus) reads:

For my strong staff, the god Osiris, my spirit adores him.

The one with the baboon reads:

For my strong staff, the gods Osiris and Hapy

Illegal Aliens 1

wewriwa
Welcome to weekend writing warriors. Many fine authors, and me, contribute short snippets for your delectation. This is the start of a new work, Illegal Aliens. It is something of a cross between a horror story, a science fiction tale, and a romance.

Roland, an archaeology instructor at Reading University (academic ranks in the UK are different than in the US, he’d be an assistant professor in the land of the free), is on his way to London. He’s on call when something unusual turns up in the works on the new underground. Something dashed odd has turned up and he’s on his way.

Roland settled back in his seat on the 15:11 from Reading to Paddington, and pulled a sheaf of papers from his bag; he was working through them when a young boy committed the social solecism of asking what he was doing.

“Are those hieroglyphics?”

Roland studied the boy for a moment; he was about six, maybe seven; his son Thomas, if he weren’t at the bottom of some lake in Wales or rotting in the heather nearby, would have been that age; he said, “Not quite, they’re Demotic, almost hieroglyphic, but…”

The boy’s mother started to apologize for her son.

“No, it’s fine; I like children; this is how ancient Egyptian people wrote; something like cursive instead of printing.”

“Cursive?”

“I guess they don’t teach penmanship in school these days.”

“What’s it say?”

“This is a religious book, a codex to the book of the dead, invocations and prayers to the Gods.”

“Gods, they teach that there’s only one God at my mosque?”

Great Britain and England in specific, is layered with history. You can’t stick a spud in the ground without finding something (well you can, but you know what I mean). Reading University runs an excavation at the nearby Roman site of Calleva, where they are doing their best to undo the depredations of earlier, less skillful archeologists.
IMGP3173 This picture, from 2010, shows the works.

Calleva itself, was roughly the size of Londinium, but for a number of reasons (mostly that it isn’t on a navigable river and the Anglo-Saxons sadly let the road network go to Hades) was abandoned. Today it’s a walled livestock field about 10 miles to the south of Reading.

You can, if you are somewhat bored and insane, sample my writing here.

Next Morning, Another installment

I put out the first bit of a horror, well maybe a horror story, it’s morphing into science fiction so we’ll see. Here’s the second full chapter. My coauthor and I are about half done with the first draft. It’s been a hard slog, with several huge rewrites. Still that’s what makes writing fun!

Next morning.

Sunlight streaming through his window finally wakened Roland. He rolled over in bed, reaching for her, hoping last night had not been a dream. He had a panicked moment, “She’s not here!” Then he heard a tuneless humming from downstairs.
Then the humming stopped. Evaporating like the dew in the sunlight of the morning.
Roland leaped out of bed and took the stairs at a bound. There was no one down there, not in the kitchen, nor the front rooms, nor even the loo. The loo he, and … it was too much.
Then his mobile shot into life, “Bloody hell!”
He answered it, “What the hell now?”
It was Mr Shah. “Did you hear the news?”
“What news?”
“When we lifted that damned block of yours. The bomb, the bloody German bomb, it went.”
“Shit.”
“I lost two men. Two of my best men.”
“I’m sorry. Is there something I should do? Their funerals?”
“When they finally scrape up enough of the bodies … The bomb, it may have, must have been inside that block.”
“What?”
“Captain Carter examined the area before the blast. There wasn’t any bomb.”
“He must have missed it. That was Roman concrete, and you know as well as I do that the Romans didn’t even have gunpowder, let alone high explosives. What does he say about it?”
“Nothing. Can’t. He caught it.”
“Oh … I’m sorry.”
“Well. Just a head’s up mate. Expect you’ll get a call. They’re thorough bastards.”
“Who?”
“MI6. There’s a chance it wasn’t a German bomb.”
“Shit.”
“All I can say is it’s a good thing I’m Indian, Hindu. They’ve already interviewed Na’el. Gave it to him. Put him through the ringer, poor lad.”
A loud knock on the front door interrupted their conversation. Roland said, “There’s someone at the door. I’ll need.”
“May the Gods smile on you Dr Stevens. I think you’ll need them.” Mr Shah hung up.
Roland grabbed one of his wife’s old aprons and wrapped it around him in a semblance of decency. He hadn’t been able to face clearing them away. Then he answered the door.
A man and a woman, dressed in conservative suits. Suits that signally failed to hide the bulges under their shoulders waited outside.
“Yes?”
“Dr Stevens?”
“Yes, I am he.”
“Good. May we talk to you?”
“Who are you?”
“That is irrelevant.” The man pulled a warrant card from inside his jacket and showed it to him. “It’s better if you don’t know the details.” The card identified the bearer as an agent from MI6 and little else.
“For me or for you?”
“Very funny, Dr Stevens. May we come in?”
“I suppose. Not like I have much of a choice, is there. I need to shower. Do you mind waiting?”
“Not at all.”
The man followed Roland upstairs and waited outside the bathroom while he showered. The woman used the time to search the downstairs rooms. She found a letter, written in an obscure script, one that looked suspiciously like Arabic or maybe Farsi, on the kitchen table. After sending a picture of it to the office, she pulled a chair from the breakfast table and sat. Satisfied with her efforts, she’d await the outcome.
Roland refreshed from his shower and decently clothed, with his escort, walked down to the kitchen. “Care for some coffee?”
The woman rose when he entered. “What’s this? Arabic text from Al Qaeda or Isis?”
Roland looked at it. “No.” He paused, “Damn. Not ever. I couldn’t.” He laughed, “She’s good.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a note from my … I don’t know. She was here last night. It’s just I’ve never had a note left for me in Demotic before.”
“Can you translate it?”
“Am I a specialist in Roman Britain?”
“What’s it say?”
Roland blushed, “It’s sort of personal.”
“Translate it, or we’ll take you in and hold you while someone else does it.”
“Oh. Well. Here goes.” He cleared his throat and started, “Dearest love. Thank you for last night. It was wonderful. It was so good that I’ll have to sleep it off. By all the Gods, even if it risks his revenge, even Zeus wasn’t that good, nor Jason.”
He stopped for a moment. “I told you.”
“Keep going.”
“May I skip the details? She’s telling me what she liked last night. I think it’s encouragement for tonight.”
The woman laughed, “Embarrassed Dr Stevens? I’ve heard it all, done most of it.”
“The touch of your tongue upon my.”
She stopped him, “You can skip it.”
“Embarrassed after all?” Roland read, silently, until he reached a final passage that he could read aloud without a blush. “We are of one flesh, one blood, one people. It is foretold my love and so it shall be. I shall be back tonight. With all my love, Diana.”
Roland paused; then stared at his two visitors. “Not exactly subversive.”
The man said, “We’ll take it none the less. It’s evidence.”
“As long as I get it back. I don’t have many love letters. Do you mind if I take a picture of it?”
“We’ll see. Now what were you doing last night? You can skip the night-time acrobatics.”
Roland started with Mr Shah’s call when he was teaching, and ended up recounting his dinner. “Then we, ah, came here.”
“When did you meet your Diana?”
“I don’t know exactly. I was at the Roebuck when she walked in and asked for wine. There was some bloody murder mystery playing. Must have been eight maybe half-eight.”
“Then?”
“We ate, and came here.”
A cat scratching at the outside door interrupted them. The woman rose, “I’ll get it,” and let an animal in. A sleek, dark black animal, with glossy clean fur shot in and jumped into Roland’s lap. She, for it wasn’t a tom, purred. Then she turned and hissed at his two visitors.
“Did you own a cat? It’s not in your files, and I don’t see any cat dishes.”
“I guess I do now.” Roland stroked the cat, which had resumed purring and nuzzling him. He asked his uninvited guests “Are you done with me?”
The woman said, “Not yet.” Then her mobile chittered away, playing ‘Rule Britannia’ as a ringtone.
“Not exactly subtle.” Roland said.
The man replied, “We’re not undercover.”
Then they both listened to half of the conversation.
“So it really is Demotic.”
“A love note. That’s what he said too. Read it to us.”
“Roland Stevens, he’s a lecturer at the local.” She handed the phone to Roland. “I’d sent a copy to our specialist, at Oxford. Professor Welchmann.”
“I know him.”
“He wants to talk to you.”
Roland sighed, Welchmann wasn’t his favourite person, not since that time when he was a post-doc and the professor had made a pass at Janet. More than a pass in fact, but the police hadn’t been very enthusiastic about pressing charges. Not against an eminent and well-connected scholar when the charges were based on the word of a grubby post-doc and his wife.
He took the phone. “Yes,”
“Ah, Roland, I hear you’re reading Demotic now. Quite fluently if you translated that. Fairly obscure.”
“Yes.”
“Not a lot of call for that in Roman Britain, so I’d think.”
“You’d be surprised, besides I was thinking of a trip, need a change of scene.”
“No news about the lovely Janet … or your boy, whatshisname, then.”
“No.”
“Sorry, anyway there are a few cryptic inscriptions I’d like you to look at.” Roland looked at his male guest. The man’s mobile buzzed and he jumped. Welchmann continued, “I’ve sent them to our mutual acquaintance.”
The man handed Roland his phone, there was an image, a scan of a fragment on it.
Roland started reading, darkness, despite the sunny morning, surrounded them and ‘his’ cat hissed. Roland stopped and the room lightened. The cat resumed her purr. “It’s a curse. Not to be read aloud, at least not if you don’t mean it. It invokes Apep and Set.”
“Who?”
“Apep, the God of Chaos and Evil. Not to mention destruction. Set … basically the model for Satan the Bible, much as Osiris’s life and resurrection were models for Jesus or Mithras.”
“You don’t believe that tripe, do you?”
Roland shook his head, “No, not really, but it’s been such a strange last few days. I’d rather not tempt fate.”
He read further, silently, and then said, “It invokes them as protection. Protection from something else.”
The next image was spray-painted on a brick wall. “It’s from here, painted on the new biochemistry building, off Sherrington Road. Keeps coming back, no matter what they do to clean it.”
“It’s a warning, about transgenic animals. Bringing a curse from Bastet upon their efforts.”
His cat purred louder.
“What?”
“The transgenic is spelled phonetically, you know as well as I do that the Egyptians didn’t have them, but the curse is a standard boiler plate of a curse. May his … genitals … drop off. That sort of thing.”
The next two images were Arabic and Roland simply said, “I don’t read that. Not my period.”
The last image provoked a derisive laugh, “Are you sure, Dr Welchmann, that you can’t read it? The passage is from the book of the dead, a blessing. I mean, it’s in the textbooks. Even your books.”
The doorbell interrupted the readings. The woman went to the door, and after a heated discussion at the door, reluctantly escorted someone in. The man she escorted said, “Ah, Roland, I see you’re entertaining the funnies. What happened?”
“Apparently they’re worried about that explosion in London. Think I had something to do with it.”
“Did you lay gas lines in 1950, and not bother to put them on the map?”
“No.”
“Then it’s hard to see what you have to do with it. It wasn’t a bomb, it was a gas leak. Small comfort to the injured, but nothing to do with,” he nodded at the MI6 agents, “that lot.”
“Thank you John. I’m sure you didn’t visit just to tell me that.”
“No, this is … official. About Janet and Thomas.”
“News?” Roland’s attention focused on him.
“Good and bad. Something’s been found, but …”
“Not them.”
“Not a trace.”
The man from MI6 stood, self-important to the end, “Who is this?”
Roland said, “Sorry, I don’t know your name, but this is D.I. Davies. He, John, worked my wife’s disappearance. She and my boy … three years ago. We’re … friends, now.”
“I see … I’m sorry.”
“Yes, so am I” Roland shrugged, “I’ve been keeping busy … all I can do. That’s why I know Demotic. I’d taken Welchmann’s course as a student, but it was useless. I’ve been studying … thought maybe a sabbatical in Egyptian studies.”
John cleared his voice, “Roland, you remember we found her car, by Grwyne Fawr in the Black Mountains, dragged the reservoir and searched the hills.”
“I know; there wasn’t anything.”
“Some hikers, doing their Duke of Edinburgh award and taking a short cut through the heather. They found a child’s clothes. There was a name tag – Thomas Stevens.”
“You want me to take a look at them?”
John nodded, “If it won’t be too hard. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but-“
“I know. Were there any remains?”
“No … That’s probably good news.”
Roland paused, and then said to his guests, the spooks from MI6, “Are you finished with me?”
“For the moment.”
****
John drove Roland to the police complex in the hexagon, next to the county hall, in the centre of Reading. Then he led him inside, “I could have brought this to you, but with DNA evidence, we don’t want a chance of contamination. Gloves and facemasks when we handle it.”
Roland nodded, “Anything, if it helps.”
“We’re pretty sure it’s his. The amulet you described was attached.”
“The bulla I gave him? Didn’t work.”
“Maybe it did.” John opened the door to his office and showed Roland what he had.
It didn’t take Roland long to confirm that the clothing had been his sons. “It’s in remarkably good condition for three years on a Welsh mountain top.”
John replied, “It wasn’t there three years ago. There’s no way we could have missed it. No way I could have missed it, because my team swept that area, twice.”
“Shit.”
“With a cherry on top. There’s something going on.” He waited, examining his friend’s expression, “There isn’t anything you need to tell me about?”
Roland said, “No. It’s been classes, study, and that contract with the underground people. I’m one of the archaeologists they call when they find something. No one’s contacted me, no ransom … no nothing.”
“That woman last night?”
“You’ve been thorough … She walked into my life at the Roebuck. Never saw her before, but … well … we hit it off. More than that, to be honest. I hope she’ll be back. She said she would.”
“That’s what Paul said; more like you had it off.”
Roland snorted, “Janet’s dead, probably. That’s what you told me. I suppose these clothes.”
“As I said, Roland. Something’s going on. If you are involved, even if you aren’t, be careful.”
Roland shook his head, slowly, “Bloody Hell. I was just beginning to put my life back together.”
“Need a lift back, a talk?”
“I’ll walk, it isn’t far.”
****
Roland didn’t go directly home. He walked several miles along the Kennet and Avon towpath, past a pub, the Cunning Man, and past an ancient brick blockhouse. A blockhouse from 1940 that smelt of urine. It had been boarded up in a futile attempt to keep the vagrants out. Then he returned to the Cunning Man for a lunchtime beer or two. Or three.
It was almost dark when he finally returned to his terrace. The cat, now his cat, scratched to be let out, so he let her out the kitchen door and put the kettle on.
A minute later, the doorbell rang. It was her, Diana.
“Miss me?” She said as she stepped inside.
Anger, annoyance and love fought inside Roland. Love won, “You’ve no idea how much. Where were you?”
“Around. Sniffing out … things.” She wrinkled her nose. “Still stinks of those men.”
“Which men?”
She ignored him and walked to the mantle on his fireplace. It was, like most fireplaces, blocked. A bouquet of dried, dried for three years, flowers sat in a dried vase in front of it. She picked up a photograph and turned to Roland. “This, this was Janet?”
“Yes.”
“She was pretty. I can see why you miss her, and that boy.”
“How?”
“How do I know about her? Reading library, the stacks. I read English well.”
“Then we’ll have to work on your speaking it.”
Diana smiled at him; she had a smile that he could get lost inside. Then she said in English, “Dinner … I … am … have hunger.”
“Am hungry. I am hungry.”
“You as well? I’m starving.”
“First,” she said, “My bags, can you help me with them?”
“What?”
“If I’m to stay here, I need my things. I brought them, had to retrieve them from the station.”
“But?”
“I meant it to be a surprise.”
Roland kissed her, went outside and brought the bags in; then he kissed her again. “Where would you like to eat?”
“It’s your civitas, city.”
Roland chuckled, “Then what would you like to eat, besides meat?”
“I’d like to dance, too. Have fun. How do you say it? Walk a little wild.”
“Walk on the wild side?”
She grinned. “Yes. It has been a long time without that.”
“Me too. It’s been so long that I’ll have to google a place … That note, your Demotic is excellent. It’s the first time I’ve had a love note in Demotic.”
She continued to smile at him, “I hoped you’d notice. Univerisità di Roma.”
“And the … Latin, not modern Italian is it?”
“Of course. You wouldn’t have noticed me if I’d just asked for wine.”
“Fine, why me? It’s not like I’m exactly famous, handsome or desirable.”
She shrugged, “It was, how do you say it? Something of a lark. I finished my degree, there aren’t positions for me in Italy, and so I thought I’d make a tour of the Empire. I didn’t think I’d.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it, “Didn’t think I’d fall for you.”
Roland smiled back, “I suppose you picked Reading on a lark too.”
“No, I saw you give a talk last year. Even though we chatted, I doubt you’d remember me.”
Roland tried, but had to admit he couldn’t remember her.
“I called at your department, but they said you were in London. One of them told me that the Roebuck was your usual pub. I waited outside, and followed you inside.”
“I’m glad you did, but have you heard of stalking? That’s illegal.”
“Stalking,” she licked her lips, “Yes, stalking. I’m good at stalking. Besides,” she smiled, “You called me.”
“I did?”
“Yes, from the void in your distress. Clearly you don’t remember.” She smirked, “But I do … Now about that dancing?”
“I don’t remember calling you.”
She stared at him, forcing him to look into her eyes. They pulled him in until he was lost in their depths. Then she laughed with a peculiar deep laugh. “No, I wouldn’t expect that you would, but you meant what you said when you read that verse. I heard you and I came. We are of one kind, one flesh. I knew where you were, where you are.”
He shook his head, the spell broken. “Now you’re scaring me.”
“Don’t be.” She squeezed his hand again, “It is the way of us both of us. Now forget.”
Roland’s eyes briefly defocused and then his attention snapped to her. “Diana, where should we go?”
“Why don’t we just head to the centre of town? There’ll be something to do.”
“The Oracle, I don’t think. If worse comes to worse, there’s always the Roebuck. Trivia night.”
“Not trivia, dancing.”
“Not much dancing, in Reading on a weekday night.”
“Then we’ll make some.”

A teaser. #amwriting #romance #scifi


A Teaser.

This is the start of my latest WIP. It’s a steampunk space opera set in Dartmoor in the summer of 1893. There’s a reason I can be that specific, but you’ll have to wait for later to see it. It starts with the heroine arriving at her Uncle’s house. Her family hopes the fresh air and clean environment will help slow the progression of the consumption that is carrying her off.
Consumption it is, but not in the way that is usually meant.
 (c) 2015  Amelia Treader.

Uncle Sylvester Receives a Visitor.

It was nearly dark when the pony-trap carrying Elizabeth from the station at Moreton Hampstead finally arrived at the farm at Barnecourt. Venus, the evening star, shown brightly in the dull orange band of the western sky. She presaged a clear and starry night. Nobody noticed when she winked out and fell to Earth with a quick bright streak of light. George Trent, Dr. Standfast’s man-of-all-work, drove the trap to the front of a small farmhouse in the country not far from the isolated village of North Bovey on the outskirts of Dartmoor.
After stopping, he gently awakened his sleeping passenger, “Miss James? We’re here.”
Elizabeth James, a slight young woman, dark haired and pale, with the gentle slight cough of incipient consumption, stirred. Her parents had arranged for her to visit her uncle. He lived and practised in the country, and they all hoped that the fresh air would suit her lungs better than the stale smutty air of London. They had waved goodbye as she boarded a train in Paddington in the morning, her first step in the longest journey of her life. London, to Bristol, to Exeter, and then on the stopping train to the end of the line at Moreton Hampstead. There she was met by her uncle’s servant with a one-horse trap, and now, finally, she awoke in front of his house.
“We’re here?”
“Yes, Miss. Let me tie the horse and I’ll help you down.”
The clatter of their arrival brought Dr. Standfast to the door. Unusually tall, thin and surprisingly active for his sixty years, he shot out of the door and said, “Elizabeth! You’ve made it at last. How was your trip?”
Elizabeth replied, “Tiring.”
“I can see that, but are you feeling well. At least as well as can be?”
She gave a slight cough, and then said, “I think so.”
The cough made her uncle frown, “We’ll see what we can do about your cough.”
“If you can do anything, Uncle Standfast, it will be more than the doctors on Harley Street could.”
Her uncle walked to the trap and offered a hand to help her down, “You should call me Sylvester. Uncle Sylvester if you must. We’ll see, but I’m sure the fresh air and clean water of Dartmoor will help.”

A Designing Woman 4 for #wewriwar

More from the Steampunk book

Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors.  This is a sample from my latest work in progress, “A Designing Woman”, and I hope you enjoy it.  This is the start of the next chapter and introduces more of the family. Continuing from last week, Amanda’s father and brother quiz her about the mysterious Mr. Williams.
(last weeks snippet).

 She laughed, “Don’t get too far ahead in your hopes. He’s studying for the ministry, and I somehow cannot see myself as a minister’s wife. Could you imagine me doing everything Mrs. Peabody does?”

Privately, Lord Caterham had to admit that he couldn’t see that either, but this was such a step in the right direction for his daughter that he wasn’t about to throw the least bit of obstacle in its path. So he changed the subject, “Did Mr. Williams mention which college he was a member of?”
“New College, Freddie’s; doesn’t remember Freddy, though.”
“Who doesn’t remember me?” Frederick found his way to the parlor, having dealt with the horses, or at least ensured that the stable hands were at their work.
Amanda regarded her brother with a mixture of affection and envy. Affection, because he was a likeable if somewhat flighty, young man, and envy, because he could attend university while she could not.

This is a work in progress. Here are links on tablo and authonomy.  Apparently Steampunk implies Victorian, Dieselpunk the 1920’s. What-punk should a Regency period book be? Horse-punk isn’t right.

Despite being told in no uncertain terms that “steampunk” meant Victorian with ubiquitous steam technology, I’m calling this steampunk, although given the amount of time they will later spend on the river, maybe “Steampunt” is better. Amanda is working on what will become the defining technology of the 19th century, steam. Although, a few things, like the Napoleonic war will get in the way.

A Teaser

This is from my WIP Steorrum (c) 2015 Amelia Grace Treader.
Cynric had previously gone to the stars as payment for curing his beloved from TB. He’s come back home at the wrong time.

At the White Hart.

Dr. Bridget Heartney blearily scanned the menu at the White Hart. She said to her best friend Madge, “It’s been twenty days quarantine. I did my twenty-three days in-country and when I came back, another twenty-three. Damn idiots.”
Madge, a new-age believer, nervously fingered the quartz crystal she wore from a silver chain around her neck and said, “Can’t blame them. There’s not much hope if you have that virus.”
“That’s not true. Not if you aren’t half starved before you catch it.”
“Still, they’re scared. Afraid they might catch it from you.”
“That’s truly daft. I mean it. You have to have body fluid contact. Not like that’s going to happen here in Wroughton. Bloody stockbrockers.”
“You never know. Your aura says something’s afoot. A big change in your life.”
Bridget ignored her friends superstitious worries and said, “Damn, I missed this bitter in Liberia. Even if it is just Courage.”
“You shouldn’t drink that much, Bridge. Not good for you and,” she paused, “Your aura is showing red.”
“Stop it. What aura?” Bridget rather uncertainly, because two pints on an empty stomach is one too many for her, stood. She walked, almost stumbled, to the bar and placed her order. “Another pint of bitter, and a.”
“What, Dr. Bridget?”
She looked up at the barman. He seemed half her age, and she’d given him his school physical when she was newly qualified. “What’s good?”
“It’s all rubbish.”
“Then the bangers. Bangers, beans and chips. Tha’s what lipitor is for, and I missed them.”
The man smiled at her. In exactly the way he’d smile at his mother. “Ta love. You’re over at table four, with that crazy woman.”
“Madge isn’t crazy. A bit odd, but not crazy.”
“If you say so. On the tab?”
“Why not? Thanks.” Then she walked back to the table with her friend. Miraculously, or perhaps from years of practice, she didn’t spill her pint.
Bridget was halfway through her pint, and listening with barely concealed credulity to Madge telling her about the corn dolly’s she’d left in Wayland’s smithy and the Long barrow at Avebury when it happened.
“Come on Madge, you don’t really believe that tripe, do you?”
“Tripe? I’ll have you know this is the old religion, the way of the druids. It’s you new believers that cause trouble. There were lights last night; didn’t you see them? It is the coming of the new age for the old gods.”
“New believers? I don’t believe in much of anything. We’re just meat. When we die that’s it.”
Madge looked at her friend and said in sorrow, “No, Bridge, there’s more than that. You know it.”
“Maybe. Can’t tell. Where’s that damned banger and beans? Missed that in-country, more than you can possibly know.”
She was about to stand up and demand her food when the man came in. Tall, brown-haired, dressed in coarse linen and followed by a bobby, he looked completely lost.
“Is there something to eat? And some ale, mead?”

Bridget looked up, “Sound’s Swedish or Danish. Most of them know English.” She stood up and walked to him. “Ale?”

He nodded, “Aleand food.”

Bridget nodded to the barman, “Get him a pint, and double that order of bangers. Where’s mine, or do you have to kill the pigs first?”
“It’s coming Dr. Heartney.”
“Good.” She turned to the bobby who was shadowing the man. “He’s just a lost foreigner. Swedish or something like that. I’ll look after him.” She looked at the man, “Probably an extra from some remake of Robin Hood, or a similar piece of dreck.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, lot’s of Swedes in the MSF. Got on well with most of them.”
“Did they carry swords?”

“No, didn’t need them. Good enough with their fists when it came to it.I’ll keep him out of trouble.” Then she turned to the man and said, “This way.”
He seemed to understand and replied, “Fair maid, thank you for your kindness.”

“Whatever. Don’t forget your pint.”

The man picked up the pint and drained it. “Another.”

“Thirsty much? Get him another, but I’ll carry it. And hurry up with that food.”

“Yes, Dr. Bridget.”
Bridget thought, “I should never have encouraged them to use my first name,” but she took the pint and led the man to her table.

“This is my good friend Madge. What’s your name?”
The man almost understood, so she tried again, slowly. “What, is, your, name?”

“I’m called Cynric son of Cedric.”

“Cynric Cedricson. I’m Bridget Heartney, well Dr. Heartney, but you can call me.”

“Bridget? Is it really you?” He grabbed her arm. Bridget could not help noticing the strength of his grip and the muscles in his arms.

A designing woman #2 for #WeWriWa

More from the Pre-steampunk book

Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors.  This is a sample from my latest work in progress, “A Designing Woman”, and I hope you enjoy it. Mr. Williams has come for a visit, the day after the assembly, and is now walking with Amanda on their way to the riverbank. They’d have seen her workshop, but for wearing their good clothes. He’s just asked her about the papers he read (in last weeks snippet).

“What papers?”
“The ones in the library; I must say, you have a fine hand.”
“I hope you didn’t mix them up, they were in order.”
“No, I could see that.” Then Mr. Williams gently chided her, “May I add, that ‘Principles of Mechanics’ is an unusual read for a young lady. I’d have thought ‘the Mysteries of Udolpho’ or some such romance would be to your liking.”
Amanda stopped short. She was about to reply sharply, and then noticed the smile on his face, “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I never saw the point in those books, all heartthrob and passion in some made up land; I want to do real things.”

This is a work in progress. Here are links on tablo and authonomy.  Apparently Steampunk implies Victorian, Dieselpunk the 1920’s. What-punk should a Regency period book be? Horse-punk isn’t right.

Google’s being dashed odd – the only way I can reply to comments is to edit the post. Oh well, there’s always wordpress. Turns out, Google and Firefox don’t get along on windows, but they do on my trusty Linux box.

I’m calling this proto-steampunk simply because I was told in no uncertain terms that “steampunk” meant Victorian with ubiquitous steam technology. Amanda’s working before that and during the Regency, so it cannot be steampunk.

Aurora Springer’s latest release is GRAND MASTER’S GAME.

Blurb
Spin across the galaxy as Violet and her Grand Master hunt their enemies.
Cracks in the portal web threaten galactic civilization, and suspicions fall on the mysterious Grand Masters with their immense psychic powers. Once, there were twelve Grand Masters, humans and aliens, on the Council. Now there are eleven. One was killed when the young pawn, Violet, rescued her Grand Master, Athanor, from the Red Queen’s dungeon. The Red Queen fled the fight and now she lurks out of sight, regenerating her energies.
Athanor devises a risky plan to expose his enemies on the Council and force the Red Queen into the open. His strategy will employ Violet’s empathic skills as his secret weapon. Meanwhile, she wrestles with her erratic talents and doubts about their unequal partnership. In their search for revenge, they contend with the portal crisis, psychic traps and hostile aliens. In the inevitable battle of Grand Masters, Violet and Athanor each will face their worst nightmares. What is the sacrifice for victory?

Book 1, Grand Master’s Pawn is discounted to 99c for July: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TP1N5PM
Excerpt:
The spinning ceased. They had arrived at the destination. Kondric pushed the portal door open and stepped out onto a narrow shelf of rock. An icy wind roared into the cylinder from a murky gray sky.
Kondric recoiled, yelling, “This isn’t Avalon!” A fit of coughing convulsed his face and he tottered on the edge of the cliff. The Grand Master grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the cylinder. Holding his breath, Kondric pulled on the headpiece of his suit.
The frigid air stunk of rotten eggs. Violet gagged and blocked her nose. She sensed Athanor expand his shield to envelop the three of them. As a further precaution, she reattached the breather on her suit.
“The atmosphere is deadly,” Athanor said.
The lights on the control panel clicked off. The portal had died. With a squeak of alarm, Violet gripped Athanor’s arm. They stood on an unknown frozen planet with a toxic atmosphere, overlooking a bottomless precipice.
“Where are we?” she breathed.
No one answered.
Standing at the rear of the precarious ledge, Violet leaned against Athanor’s warm body and squinted through the gloomy atmosphere. The portal perched on a cliff surrounded by roiling umber clouds. Frozen peaks stabbed into the horizon. Far below the clouds, blue green spikes protruded from a glassy blue lake. Ice pillars carved into fantastic shapes were reflected in the mirror of the lake.
Overhead, jagged lightning zipped from the ominous black clouds and struck the frozen peaks. A fountain of water vapor sprayed into the sky. Cracks snapped across a pillar of ice. The severed top tumbled slowly into the lake and the splash rippled outward in concentric circles. Winds roared through the peaks, spinning dark streaks of cloud across the sky towards their shaky perch.
The hazy black swirls fired an alarm in Violet’s mind. “Athanor, it’s the black dust. Port us out of here!” she shouted, fearing the clouds contained the horrid dust that suppressed his telekinesis.
“Hades!” he grunted. Quickly checking that they were linked together, the Grand Master tapped his insert and they flipped into the soundless void. To Violet’s amusement, Kondric’s mouth had frozen open in a cry of shock. She and Athanor had slipped into their customary half embrace.  
They popped out beside the teleportal cylinder in the central square of the main town of Avalon. Violet inhaled the flower-scented air and relaxed.
Bio:
Aurora Springer is a scientist morphing into a novelist. She has a PhD in molecular biophysics and discovers science facts in her day job. She has invented adventures in weird worlds for as long as she can remember. In 2014, Aurora achieved her life-long ambition to publish her stories. Her works are character-driven romances set in weird worlds described with a sprinkle of humor. Some of the stories were composed thirty years ago. She was born in the UK and lives in Atlanta with her husband, a dog and two cats to sit on the keyboard. Her hobbies, besides reading and writing, include outdoor activities like gardening, watching wildlife, hiking and canoeing.
Aurora has published science fiction romances in two series, two novellas and short stories. Her first series, Atrapako on Eden, describes the interactions of humans on the terraformed planet of Eden with scaled aliens from the hostile planet of Vkani. She has published two books in this series: The Lady is Blue and Dragons of Vkani. Her second series is Grand Master’s Trilogy. Book 1, Grand Master’s Pawn, and Book 2, Grand Master’s Game, have been published. Her short story, Gifts of Jangalore, is set in the Grand Masters’ Universe. Her standalone novellas are: A Tale of Two Colonies and Captured by the Hawk.
Media links:
Amazon:http://www.amazon.com/Aurora-Springer/e/B00K2C4NL8

After the convergence #4 8-10 sentences for #WeWriWa

More about Sarah

Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors.  This is a sample from my latest work, and I hope you enjoy it. It continues after Alan has been interviewed by the machine. This selection is part of where Sarah Gonzales is introduced. She’s important, mostly by her absence in the first part of the book – she disappears – but takes a much more active role later. She’s just gone through “the selection”, a rather brutal sorting out of who is smart enough to go to “the academy” and work with or on “The Machine.” It’s done in school, in front of everyone. However, after that there seems to be a problem. While it’s not really emphasized, this is a critical clue to what’s happening in the story.




The machine beside him spoke, “Mr. Anderson, please, I don’t make that kind of mistake.”
They proceeded to discuss her as if she weren’t there.
“She doesn’t seem to have the depth we require; she is decent in logic and is highly imaginative, but.”
“Have you checked the date and signature?”
Sarah drifted off into her own world.
Lord Pershore pulled his sword and stealthily approached the highwaymen. They bound Lady Sarah Jane Gonzales and were carrying her off to their lair, a run-down public house near the Bath road.
“Ms. Gonzales, pay attention, please,” it was that man again. She stood and said, “Well if I’ve failed, I’ve failed; I’ll just go now.”
“No you haven’t; it looks like someone from the resistance has been at work; you don’t know anyone in the mutual impedance society?”

This work was recently published and is available for Kindle, including Kindle unlimited. It is a dark, noir detective story set in the near future, after machines have become intelligent. It uses a number of engineering/science puns – the “mutual impedance society.” 
Available here.