Sojourn by Jana G. Oliver
Acknowledgements
Just like time travel, there are many people behind the scenes who make the magic happen. Without their support, Jacynda, Alastair and Jonathon would just be rattling around in my head instead of yours.
It all began with the infamous Tee Morris, fellow author and force of nature. He ‘paid it forward’ so far that my heroine will still owe him in 2057. Liberal rations of rum don’t begin to even the debt, my friend.
Gwen Gades, publisher of Dragon Moon Press, took a gamble with my odd notions of time travelers, shapeshifters and Jack the Ripper.
Editor Adrienne deNoyelles gently prodded me toward a better story while teaching me the finer points of punctuation, all in record time. Her insight into the characters was uncanny and her humor decidedly wicked. Bless you!
Others who contributed include: * The delightful J.R. Fisher, whose generous contribution to the Wake Co. Literacy Council during the Trinoc*coN Charity Auction earned him the plum role of Chief Inspector J.R. Fisher.
Ripperologists Ally Reineke and Judith Stock (a noted collector of the weird and arcane) vetted my manuscript so my Victorian and Ripper facts were correct and my fiction plausible.
Thanks to: Aarti, Christine, Dwain, Eva, Fredda, Nanette, Ron, Teresa and Vally, the writers group that held my toes to fire.
Thanks guys!
Many thanks to Nanette Littlestone and Tyra Mitchell for their extensive input on the rough manuscript.
Cover art is, well, an art. I am blessed by the creative genius of two professional artists: L.W. (Lynn) Perkins who created Jacynda’s image and Christina Yoder who designed the cover.
They’re an awesome team.
Research is the lifeblood of a good plot. Doubly so when writing historical fiction. My infinite respect and gratitude goes to Stephen Ryder for his magnificent website, Casebook: Jack the Ripper. (www.casebook.org). It is a priceless resource. In addition, my thanks to all those who answered my curious questions about the crimes and the times.
My regards to Lee Jackson, purveyor of The Victorian Dictionary website (www.victorianlondon.org) for his incredible collection of Victorian articles and minutiae.
A tip of my hat to Hywel Williams for assistance regarding the London Underground in 1888. His excellent website may be found at: (http://underground-history.co.uk/front.php) To Linda Craigg (CMT/NMT) and Dr. Ross Jacobson for keeping my body healthy as I spent long hours at the keyboard.
A thanks to Melody and Steve Black who allowed me to use Casa Black in Las Vegas for a writer’s sabbatical. The Elf cookies were deliciously fattening!
Fellow authors Michelle Roper and P.C. Cast were always there to commiserate when things weren’t going right and to celebrate when they were.
To Harold, the ever-patient husband, who valiantly offers plot advice while soaking in the hot tub, edits my verbose prose and knows when it’s best to be very, very quiet so I can work.
And finally, Midnight the cat: GET OFF MY KEYBOARD!
Author’s Notes What was I thinking? Why would anyone try to weave a story around one of the most widely known crime sprees in history?
And, to add to the stress, include time travel and a new kind of shapeshifter? I have to admit this book has been one of the most challenging projects I’ve undertaken. I wanted the 1888 bits to be accurate, the 2057 bits to be unnerving, the shapeshifters completely different and still manage to tell a good story.
The mistakes are mine. I embrace them. None of us is perfect, especially those who poke our noses into history. No matter how many little pushpins you jam into maps and how many books you scour, you’re going to miss something.
How much is real, you ask? When I wrote about the two constables hauling an inebriated Kate Eddowes off to Bishopsgate Police Station to sober up on the night she met her end, that actually happened. When I mention street names, they existed in 1888. I tried very hard to ensure that all the facts relating to the Whitechapel murders were spot on. The mob’s attempt to hang Alastair was based on more than one incident where Whitechapel’s skittish citizens grew a little too zealous. The cost of an East End prostitute was a pittance, their lives brutal and short. Who was Jack the Ripper? I leave that to history and to the ‘Ripperologists’.
For those of you wanting to know more about the Whitechapel murders and Late Victorian England, visit my website (www.janaoliver.com). You can view my extensive bibliography, pour over maps and learn a few Victorian tidbits in the process.
Time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so.
Douglas Adams
Jana Oliver
Atlanta, GA
December 2005
Chapter 1
Pompeii, August, 79 A.D.
The sky was falling.
Pumice stones rained in a dissonant curtain, shattering roof tiles and clattering in the courtyards. An amphora near Jacynda Lassiter’s feet exploded. Crimson wine splashed her pure-white stola, cascading onto the ornate tiles. She braced herself in the doorway as an earth tremor rocked the walls of the villa, her eyes flooding from the scorching stench of sulfur.
She wiped away tears with the back of her hand. Alfred Bartlesby? The academic didn’t acknowledge her, his pale, bald head bent over a table illuminated by the anemic light of a halfdozen oil lamps. He huddled over a mound of papyrus scrolls, seemingly oblivious to Vesuvius’ rage.
Bartlesby? she called again.
Cynda turned at the sound of a choked sob. A terrified girl, infant in arms, fled along the street.
Cynda shivered at the sight. They were racing toward their graves. There was no sanctuary to be found here. The oncethriving metropolis of Pompeii, the jewel of Campania, was about to become an ashy footprint in history.
Her distraction had cost valuable time. Bartlesby? she called again, taking a few steps forward. The academic still ignored her, murmuring to himself as he furiously inscribed notes. One of the lamps guttered and died, but he didn’t notice.
Hey! she shouted. The bus is leaving!
Bartlesby glanced up, surprised to see her. Ah, well, actually, I would like to stay a while longer. He pointed at the papers in front of him. I have a bit more work to do.
Not an option, she called over the sound of the pounding stones on the roof. Ash filtered downward from the ceiling, from every crack and crevice, cloaking them in a fine layer.
I paid extra to stay until the last moment, Bartlesby protested.
Cynda swore under her breath. This one was a linguist. He’d be hard to budge. She opened the case of the golden pocket watch nestled in her palm. The time interface’s digital display hovered in the murky air above the watch.
It is the last minute, Mr. Bartlesby. You are about to become a permanent fixture of the Pompeian landscape.
His eyes widened. So soon? Still he made no effort to rise.
Exasperated, she grabbed the academic’s pudgy arm, hauling him off the low stool. He juggled his scrolls, grasping them to his chest while stammering protests. A parchment tumbled out of his fingers as they reached the door. He bent to collect it.
The digital display flashed bright red.
Time Incursion Warning!
Cynda leaned out into the street and stared up at the boiling mountain. An unearthly roar split the air, nearly deafening her.
Death surged toward them—an impenetrable wall of superheated material, the pyroclastic flow that would entomb the city for sixteen hundred years.
Oh, my God. Cynda’s hand shook so violently, it took her two attempts to perform the required maneuver to initiate the transfer—wind the watch stem four times forward, two back, three forward, one back. A hum emanated from the device, barely audible over the cacophony of destruction.
The holographic clock wavered in the murky air, counting the seconds until the transfer.
3…2…1…
Cynda closed her eyes and prayed as the characteristic halo encompassed them. A moment before they shifted into the future, blistering heat shrouded them. In the distance, she heard the agonized screams of those who had no means of escape.
2057 A.D.
Time Immersion Corporation Cynda bit her lip in frustration, waiting in the penitent posture until the disorientation lessened. Apparently, Bartlesby forgot that part of his pre-transfer briefing as he struggled to his sandaled feet. He was back on his knees in an instant, retching.
When she finally stood, the ‘tourist’, as the customers were euphemistically called, was out of the time pod and teetering toward the Arrivals Lounge, flanked by two customer service reps.
One toted his stack of papyrus, nodding her head in agreement while Bartlesby babbled incoherently, windmilling his arms to indicate explosions. A trail of ash cascaded from his stola. In his wake, one of the DomoBots tidied up the mess with electronic expertise.
Cynda was in no hurry to climb out of the time pod. Every Time Rover had a personal ritual to reorient to the Now. Some recited off-color nursery rhymes, others counted back from one hundred until they felt their brain cells stabilize. Cynda’s trick involved wedging herself in the door of the garlic-shaped time pod and inventorying the chronsole room: the ‘Reorientation to Place’ technique.
She began her mental checklist. Corporate cobalt decor—check.
High ceilings—check. Ergo chairs and desks—check. Bored employees—check. Low thrum of technology just one notch above my tolerance level—check.
Concerned eyes peered over the top of the chronsole counter.
Hey! Ralph called in greeting. That’s why she’d gotten out of Pompeii alive––Ralph had been the chronsole operator. He was known for swift extractions.
Hey, she responded in a dry whisper. Clearing her throat made no difference—most of Vesuvius still seemed lodged there.
Her first few steps out of the pod would have made a drunk proud. Until she put chocolate into her system, her equilibrium would be on the fritz, along with her sense of humor. PTS––Post Transfer Syndrome. It beat PMS hands down.
Behind her, the pod door closed and went into what they jokingly called ‘Spin Dry’: a maintenance cycle that reminded her of one of those old front-loading washing machines.
She halted at the chronsole desk and leaned on the nanolaminate top. It was currently a fetching shade of blue. At the beginning of each hour, it shifted color to add visual excitement to the work environment. In Cynda’s opinion, it failed miserably.
Hey, Ralph repeated, his glasses reflecting the overhead lights. Most folks had their eyesight corrected by an OpticBot, but not Ralph. He said the glasses made a statement.
Without prompting, he pushed a candy bar across the counter, one of the vintage kind with loads of sugar and preservatives. No high-protein, high-energy wallpaper bricks for her. Peeling off the wrapper with all the finesse of a gorilla, she demolished the first bar. Her hands continued to shake. He thoughtfully liberated the second candy bar, eyes blinking rapidly to overcome the stench of sulfur that seemed to envelope her. Wisely, he didn’t comment.
Her mouth half-full of chocolate, she demanded, Why in the hell are we cutting these so close? Why couldn’t I have snagged him a couple days earlier? If the transfer hadn’t worked… She trailed off, attempting to short-circuit the profound tremor running the length of her body. The jump from Pompeii had been suicidal, even for a Senior Time Rover. Neither she nor Bartlesby were meant to be entombed with the city. The discovery of their bodies during the excavations in the Eighteenth Century would have required a lot of ‘fixing’. Either way, she and the tourist would be dead.
Ralph looked genuinely chagrined. I guess marketing is trying to make up last quarter’s shortfall. The longer the tourist is on site, the more money. It’s all a matter of economics—at least from TIC’s point of view.
Economics? Do they have any idea how those people died? she demanded, the image of the young girl cradling the child replaying in her mind.
No, they probably don’t. Marketing’s never been real strong on reality. Ralph lowered his voice. I’m really sorry, Cyn. I wouldn’t have made you go that close to the end. I’d have fudged the time.
Her anger melted. It wasn’t right for her to chew on him. Ralph always looked out for her. They’d been buddies ever since he’d beaned her over the head with an alphabet block in pre-school and she’d promptly retaliated with a toy truck. They’d both been sent home with notes to their respective parents. From that moment on, they were joined at the hip. Lovers came and went, but Ralph was a constant.
All we need is for one of these guys to croak and—
He touched her arm, and she fell silent. A statuesque blonde customer rep was exiting the Departures Lounge, guiding a middle-aged couple toward one of the time pods.
You’ll see, Marjorie, it’ll be fun, the man said, tucking a hip flask into the pocket of his voluminous raccoon coat. The woman shook her head in dismay, apparently not as keen about the upcoming adventure as her husband. The rep ushered them inside the pod and encouraged them to relax.
You’ll be at your destination shortly, the rep said with practiced ease.
I have motion sickness, the woman warned.
Not a problem. No motion involved.
Ralph and Cynda traded looks. This lady was in for a helluva surprise. A forty-story plunge down a drainpipe was how one Rover described it. Oddly enough, the length of the drop didn’t seem to change no matter how much time you covered; just one long drop, followed by a very sudden stop.
The rep tapped her high heels over to deliver the Time Order and a warm smile to Ralph. She leaned against the chronsole, her well-rounded bottom jutting in the air. It was too perfect—no doubt the latest in posterior implants. Perky one day, sultry the next. You decided what you wanted your butt to look like, and the implant changed to match your expectations. From what Cynda heard, they cost a fortune. Apparently, customer reps made more than Rovers.
Hi, Ralph, the blonde said, her voice low and full of promise.
His eyes twinkled. Hi there. Are we still on for dinner?
She beamed. Sure are. And dessert, I hope.
Always dessert, Ralph replied.