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    Beyond the Mirror, Volume 6: Alternate Worlds: Beyond the Mirror, #6
    Beyond the Mirror, Volume 6: Alternate Worlds: Beyond the Mirror, #6
    Beyond the Mirror, Volume 6: Alternate Worlds: Beyond the Mirror, #6
    Ebook233 pages2 hours

    Beyond the Mirror, Volume 6: Alternate Worlds: Beyond the Mirror, #6

    By Blaze Ward

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    About this ebook

    Come with us as we explore Alternate Worlds, places where Science and Fiction intersect. 

    See how the past could have changed, how the present might be greater than you imagine, or how different futures could unfold. 

    Return to the Dieselpunk pulp era to use mad science to fight the Nazis. Explore space with a psionic ant nest. Ride with the Park Rangers in a post-apocalyptic wilderness. Discover historic adventures here on Earth. Find your future aboard the First Rate Galleon Hammerfield with Javier Aritza, The Science Officer.

    Those already familiar with Blaze Ward's work will enjoy the diversity of these stories, while brand new readers can sample an author sure to become one of their favorites!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKnotted Road Press
    Release dateJan 22, 2018
    ISBN9781943663682
    Beyond the Mirror, Volume 6: Alternate Worlds: Beyond the Mirror, #6
    Author

    Blaze Ward

    Blaze Ward writes science fiction in the Alexandria Station universe (Jessica Keller, The Science Officer,  The Story Road, etc.) as well as several other science fiction universes, such as Star Dragon, the Dominion, and more. He also writes odd bits of high fantasy with swords and orcs. In addition, he is the Editor and Publisher of Boundary Shock Quarterly Magazine. You can find out more at his website www.blazeward.com, as well as Facebook, Goodreads, and other places. Blaze's works are available as ebooks, paper, and audio, and can be found at a variety of online vendors. His newsletter comes out regularly, and you can also follow his blog on his website. He really enjoys interacting with fans, and looks forward to any and all questions—even ones about his books!

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      Book preview

      Beyond the Mirror, Volume 6 - Blaze Ward

      Beyond the Mirror, Volume 6

      Beyond the Mirror, Volume 6

      Alternate Worlds

      Blaze Ward

      Knotted Road Press

      Contents

      The Adventuress

      Author’s Note: Holly

      1. Survivors

      2. Hayden

      3. Phoenix

      4. Tommy

      5. Departures

      The Great Biblical Deluge

      Author’s Note: Beer

      The Great Biblical Deluge

      Eva

      Author’s Note: Eva

      1. The Rescue

      2. The Machine

      Hive

      Author’s Note: Hive

      1. Moonshot

      2. Menelaus

      The Earthquake Gun

      Author’s Note: Earthquake Gun

      The Earthquake Gun

      The Last Ranger

      Author’s Note: The Last Ranger

      The Last Ranger

      The Unbloomed Rose

      Author’s Note: Unbloomed Rose

      The Unbloomed Rose

      Author’s Note

      About the Author

      Also by Blaze Ward

      About Knotted Road Press

      The Adventuress

      Author’s Note: Holly

      I went to bed at the usual time.

      Normally, I fall asleep pretty quickly.

      Not that night.

      A voice prodded me, hard, told me to get my butt out of bed and start writing. She had things to say and damn it, I was going to listen to her, right bloody now.

      So I did.

      Chapter One emerged just about as quickly as I could write it. It hasn’t really changed all that much since then, either. A few words fixed, a little clarity. Not much.

      Managed to make it back to bed after about an hour and a half.

      Couple of days later, she was back. Chapter Two hit me during the evening, so at least I could write it all down.

      At this point, I had a story. No idea where it was going, but it was there.

      Chapter Three fell into place pretty quickly, and then Holly was done with words.

      Dunno. The woman is not to be brooked when she sets her mind, but she was done for now.

      After a bit of time, I thought I had a quick three-piece set and I was done. Then I started thinking about it and realized that there were an amazing number of stories I wanted to write, about Holly’s adventures, but life intruded. The world kinda turned upside down and suddenly I was writing Javier and Jessica and others.

      At one point, I even considered writing Holly’s entire novel, and then serializing it up on my website for folks to consume month-over-month, before I finally published the whole thing. The problem was that I just didn’t have time. And if I wrote it one chapter at a time over the course of several years, the beginning wouldn’t be nearly as good as then end, because one of the side effects of writing constantly is that my craft does improve.

      I can watch it, even. I’m a better writer now that I was three years ago (Nov 2013), when I sat down and wrote the very first piece of fiction in my modern age (The Slave Market, for those of you keeping score at home).

      Holly checked in again, and gave me Chapter Four. At that point, I realized that Chapter Five would round out the first bit of her story and set her up for more, but that was when I started trying to write novels with my focus, instead of shorter fiction. (There are very serious commercial considerations. Novels take longer to write, but still net me more money over the long haul. Short fiction gets to be a palate cleanser between long things, and to let me explore topics and craft ideas.)

      So I wrote Chapter Five and put the whole thing to bed, figuring I would publish it as a teaser/lead-in when I wrote Holly’s first actual novel.

      And then the whole world of publishing changed. Again. I realized that I can publish everything, and not leave it to sit in a trunk for whatever reasons.

      I showed it to a few readers and got a very positive response, so I decided to put it out.

      There will be a novel. Probably several. But they will take me a while to get there.

      Unlike Science Fiction or Fantasy, where I can make things up as I go, as long as I keep notes and maintain continuity, Historic Adventure Fiction (for lack of a better way to phrase it) requires that I do the research to get all the details right. And I like details. Holly understands fabric. And she is at the forefront of those changing trends that mark the Twentieth Century as such an interesting place.

      So I gotta read books on history and fashion and cultures and things. (I already have a pretty good handle on guns, ya know.) And then let all that bubble into back-brain so it can come back out as story later.

      World War One is a few years away. Women’s Suffrage and the Roaring Twenties will encounter her still as a relatively young woman. Technology is poised to radically change the world, in ways that no culture was prepared for.

      But I gotta get the details right.

      In the meantime, I hope you enjoy her transformation from a London Barrister’s wife into something more interesting.

      shade and sweet water

      blaze

      Nov 2016

      1

      Survivors

      She sat in the drab little room, this industrial space located in a dank basement, and waited. Stone-faced. Impervious. Determined .

      She was a lady, a patriot, a Briton.

      He would not make her cry. Not now. Not ever again. Hell would just have to freeze over. That was the only thing there was to do about it.

      She looked down at her hands, clasped firmly in the lap of her riding habit. Hidden by the softest gray suede gloves one could find on High Street. She could only envision them dripping with the fresh blood she could see in her mind. She resisted the urge to wring them.

      Briton. Unbending.

      Stone.

      For once, the tightly-laced corset worked in her favor. She could not imagine the capacity to draw a sigh, there being no place to even put it while she worked out the logistics of the action.

      Briton.

      She eventually settled for a small pursing of the lips, mostly at the tremendously uncomfortable wooden chair she found herself occupying. And the small wooden table dividing the room from the other two chairs.

      Banal. Industrial.

      Common.

      She worked her will on the closed door to this place, this interrogation room, this Star Chamber, but nothing responded. Very well. She would outlast the stone of the building itself, if necessary.

      Briton.

      She had wondered who would finally come for her, as a man opened the only door. He was dapper in the latest evening attire, as though called away suddenly from the opera or a gentleman’s club, red silk tied four-in-hand, his jacket’s bottom button fashionably undone.

      Oh, so modern, so Edwardian.

      He carried his top hat and gloves in one hand, spoke backwards over his shoulder as he entered, and pushed the door on some unheard response.

      His entire being communicated that this was no time for frivolity or argument.

      Yes, I’m aware of the hour, he cast his exasperation into the diminishing gap. Look for him at his club or send someone ’round for his secretary. This will not wait for the dawn.

      John Kimball closed the door firmly, stopped to catch his breath, turned to study her .

      Michelangelo, perhaps, could have captured her spirit in stone. Few others.

      Gibraltar might have quailed.

      He nodded, soundlessly, and moved to the near side of the table from the unhappy woman, pleased to keep some distance between them yet. The top hat and gloves were deposited on the empty third chair as he sat across from her. Eyes met. He should be amazed at her resiliency by now, but he had known her for most of her life, his best friend’s youngest daughter, and some things never changed.

      Time passed.

      He shepherded his thoughts, his fears, the implications.

      Finally, he spoke. It is as bad as you feared. Perhaps worse.

      Only someone who knew her so well could see the impact of his words on her psyche. The slight fluttering of an eyelash. The faintest tightening around the lips. The slight squeak of the chair as her tension shifted, hidden beneath the folds of her riding habit.

      She would not speak. That much he could see.

      Even now, he continued, important personages are being notified.

      Her eyes flared.

      And yes, your husband is going to be arrested, likely within the hour. He will be tried and he will be executed.

      Now he watched the pain washing up from the depths, the loss. Another woman, any other woman, would be wailing and pounding her fists indignantly on the table. Crying for mercy. Anything. This creature, this magnificent artifact, this British Woman, sat stoically, as though disappointed to learn that the shop was out of that particular shade of fabric.

      Time passed.

      She broke.

      And I? she inquired quietly, calmly. Shall I be arrested as well? Or would you prefer that I return home quietly and hang myself from a suitable rafter?

      He chose his words with extreme care, understanding. He could see the fire roiling in her depths now, carefully hidden away at the back of her eyes. You have done no wrong, madam.

      No. She laughed harshly. I am merely the wife of the man about to be arrested for conspiring to kill the Prime Minister. I will have no family, no children, no friends. Merely distant acquaintances who will never dare be seen in public with me again. I have no life, no place, and no future, sir.

      She would not cry. She would not rage. She would not beg. She was British. Such things were not done. He could see that determination carved deep into her soul.

      Kimball chose a different tack. You are also the daughter of a very dear friend of mine, who was an honored comrade, a man who saved my life more than once. You are the daughter I never had. A niece to make up for the ones I barely know.

      She rounded on him now, anger beginning to eat away at her reserves of inner cold. "I am a Daughter of the Dragoons, sirrah. I have given my father, my mother, my uncle, and my brother to the Regiment and the Empire. What more can you take from me but my own life? There is nothing more I can offer. You have taken it all."

      Madam, you have just done the Empire a greater service than you can probably imagine. Did you think we would just casually throw that away? Throw you away? Have you so little faith in us? In me?

      He felt his own anger rise up at this young woman, this girl. He wanted to grasp her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.

      Her hands actually clenched once and released. For her, that was practically a scream of pure rage in a darkened opera hall.

      "Tell me, Uncle John, she hissed angrily. Tell me how you can make all this right." One hand waved to encompass all of London, the Empire, and English society in a flash.

      He paused, drawing a breath.

      There is a way. Rarely tried. Rarer succeeded.

      But, indeed, needs must when the devil drives, and all that.

      Amy, he said into the sudden quiet, if I may be so rudely personal in your time of anguish, I can think of an alternative.

      She actually blinked in surprise.

      He drove on, heedless. It will not be possible for Amy Dennell-Hudnall to survive this coming scandal. She will be lambasted as the foolish accomplice of a radical political schemer, or else a willing collaborator in his dread enterprise.

      She blinked again.

      Perhaps it was merely a basic reaction as the higher levels of her brain numbly shut down. Either way, she listened quietly. That was all he could ask for at this moment.

      The conservative forces in this country will destroy you as a tool of Satan for ignoring those wedding vows to honor and obey your husband and instead turning him in, even if his crimes are so monstrous as to beggar the imagination. They will expect you to go home and, yes, die, quietly and politely, in your chambers, as an example for why women cannot be trusted to think for themselves. But I think I can save you.

      Time passed.

      When she spoke, it was so quiet he could barely discern her whisper. How?

      He looked closely at her, saw all the rage gone, buried deep. She was ten again and had just skinned her knee in some tomboy foolishness.

      Do you wish to survive? he asked into the churning silence.

      Time passed.

      Yes.

      Then Amy Dennell-Hudnall must die. He overrode her as she took a breath to argue with him. You will become someone else.

      Time passed.

      Who? she asked, her voice still a whisper.

      Who would you like to be?

      A survivor. She whispered the word so faintly he heard it with his eyes.

      There I can help you, madam.

      How? Her word came louder now, almost audible across the table.

      He parsed his thoughts carefully. Young lady, you have known me, for as long as you can remember, as John Benton Kimball, your father’s boon companion and an adopted uncle who spoiled you and your brother utterly rotten on my various trips home, yes?

      She nodded blankly, unwilling to share more of her innermost thoughts.

      I am at liberty to tell you only that my mother originally named me Albert, in honor of the Royal Consort.

      She blinked once. Twice. A third time and her eyes grew to the size of saucers.

      He leaned forward conspiratorially. If you were a man in these circumstances, arrangements could be made to recruit you into working for certain personages. Perhaps even given some grand award and possibly eventually even a knighthood for services to King and Country. That is the scale of this undertaking, madam.

      She blinked again.

      Amy, Stansfeld Hudnall wasn’t just involved in some piffling little scheme to corrupt an irrelevant, minor functionary of His Majesty’s Government. He was the mastermind behind a plot to assassinate the Prime Minister and several members of the Cabinet. I’ve seen some of the papers you delivered. Thank you, by the way, for thinking of me and not just rounding up a bobby in your moment of need. The reach of the organization he controlled is somewhat frightening. But we have a map of it now and in hours it will be utterly shattered.

      He could see her breathing again.

      But what about me? her voice came stronger now, almost a sound in itself.

      He smiled warmly. What if you were to become instead a widow, as you shortly will be in any case, but of someone that the King had decided to reward, instead of the husband of yours who will most certainly hang? Perhaps you could be the beneficiary of a newly-wedded husband who died in some daring heroics somewhere vague in the Empire, and now have his pension and some income.

      Hope flickered in the back of her eyes, where rage had been.

      But?

      He nodded, recognizing her questions without addressing it. A woman who looked like Mrs. Amy Dennell-Hudnall, the widow of the notorious blackguard Stansfeld Hudnall, must disappear, never to be seen again. You will have to leave London, quite possibly never to return.

      He saw the hope flicker out, but then grimly return.

      So I must die. She said it matter-of-fact.

      He held his counsel as she continued. And I must become someone else.

      He smiled again. Risen like a phoenix from the ashes of despair.

      She nodded to herself. I must become a survivor.

      Amy hugged herself tightly in the dimly-lit hotel room, alone

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