Alternative History Sale and a Sneak Peek of a New Book
Independent books with an alternate history flare!
At the end of this post, I have included a sample chapter from a book I am working on titled A Tale of Two Presidents. A few paragraphs for free subscribers, and the entire chapter for paid subscribers.
As you can tell if you’ve read any of this Substack or any of my books, that I am a fan of alternate history. I’m taking part in an indie book sale centered around alternate history. Now through Tuesday, March 25 you can find dozens of books discounted to $0.99 or free. Make sure to check out the link below for the complete listings. I have also included a list of books I have read and recommend that are a part of the sale.
An Inconvenient Presidency by Eric M. Hamilton
A humorous time-travel misadventure where President Al Gore must relive his presidency over and over until he gets it right.
Franklin Pierce in Death of a Vice President by Eric M. Hamilton
A gothic thriller, the president haunted by visions of recent traumatic events must uncover who murdered the vice president before he becomes the next victim.
The Dream of the Iron Dragon by Robert Kroese
Spaceships, time travel, and vikings. This is the first of a five-novel series that is incredibly fun about spacemen stranded in medieval Norway and their attempt to return home.
Codex Babylon by Robert Kroese
This is the first of a trilogy about a secret organization sending people back in time to retrieve a book known to the Knights Templar in order to stop a demonic invasion in the future.
The Devil’s Dictum by Frederick Gero Heimbach
An assassin begins questioning his purpose and searches for answers to his past in an alternate history where devil-worshiping pirates found the United States instead of the Pilgrims. And if that sounds crazy, it is. And it’s glorious!
A Rambling Wreck by Hans G. Schantz
Book 2 in a series about teenage boys unwittingly discovering a vast conspiracy hidden within an old text book. My full recommendation for the series is here.
Below is a work in progress chapter from an upcoming novella in my Presidents of the Uncanny States of America series titled A Tale of Two Presidents. A few paragraphs for free, and the entire chapter for paid subscribers. It is subject to change by final publication.
The Oneida sliced through Long Island Sound, its sleek hull a whisper against the dark water, a vessel built for pleasure now cloaked in secrecy. The summer evening air hung heavy, clouds smothering the moon until only faint silver threads pierced the gloom. The yacht, a 67-foot beauty owned by Commodore Elias Cornelius Benedict, gleamed with mahogany and brass, its deck polished to a mirror sheen by a crew sworn to silence. Twin smokestacks stood dormant, the engine stilled to avoid attention—no plume of steam would betray their presence off the coast. Lanterns swayed from the rigging, their glow dimmed by shrouds of canvas rigged to shield the light from prying eyes onshore. The Oneida rocked gently, anchored a mile from land, a floating fortress hiding its grim purpose.
Below deck, the saloon had been transformed. Once a haven of plush velvet cushions, walnut paneling, and crystal decanters, it now bristled with the stark tools of surgery. A narrow table, bolted to the floor against the sea’s sway, bore a white sheet stained faintly with antiseptic. Steel instruments—scalpels, forceps, a small bone saw—lay on a tray, their edges catching the flicker of two kerosene lamps hung from the low ceiling. The air was thick with the sharp bite of carbolic acid and the sweeter, cloying scent of ether, a miasma that clung to the throat. Canvas curtains draped the portholes, lashed tight with cord, ensuring no glimpse of this scene reached the world beyond. The secrecy was absolute: no reporters, no aides, not even Frances Cleveland knew her husband was here. The cover story—a fishing trip—had been fed to the press, a bland lie swallowed whole by a nation unaware its president teetered on a blade’s edge.
Grover Cleveland lay on the table, his broad frame dwarfing it, his shirt stripped away to reveal a barrel chest matted with dark hair. His jaw throbbed, a tumor festering in his upper left palate, a secret he’d guarded since the election. Cancer, Dr. Joseph Bryant had whispered two weeks ago in a locked Albany office, his voice low as if the walls might hear. Public surgery was unthinkable—panic would ripple through a nation already reeling from the Panic of ’93, and Cleveland’s enemies would pounce, calling him weak, unfit. So here he was, on a yacht under a false flag, his fate in the hands of a select few: Bryant, the lead surgeon; Dr. William Keen, a Philadelphia veteran; Dr. John Erdmann, a meticulous assistant; and Robert Maitland, a nervous young aide barely out of medical school. Commodore Benedict himself stood watch on deck, his crew of three—handpicked for loyalty—sworn to speak of nothing but fish and weather.
Bryant adjusted the chloroform mask over Cleveland’s face, his thin fingers steady despite the ship’s gentle roll. “Deep breaths, Mr. President,” he said, his voice a calm thread in the tense air. “We’ll have you through this.”
Cleveland’s bloodshot eyes met his, heavy with exhaustion but sharp with resolve. “Make it quick,” he rasped, words thick with pain. “No one knows. Keep it that way.” The chloroform took hold, his lids fluttering as his breathing slowed, a rhythmic rise and fall that seemed to steady the room.
Anesthesia in 1893 was no novelty—ether since the 1840s, chloroform since the 1850s—but its use at sea was a gamble. Keen had insisted on both, a cocktail to ensure Cleveland stayed under despite the rocking deck. He stood ready with a second vial, his gray beard framing a frown as he watched the president’s chest. “Pulse is steady,” he muttered, pressing fingers to Cleveland’s wrist. “Let’s not lose him to the fumes.”
Dr. Erdmann and Maitland hovered near a tray of steel instruments, their edges glinting in the lantern light. The ship’s gentle sway would make the task trickier, but they all had practiced for this time and time again. The operation had to be a success. There could be no thought of failure.
Bryant paused, the weight of the moment settling over him like the damp sea air that permeated the Oneida’s saloon. He stood poised above Grover Cleveland, scalpel gleaming in his right hand, its steel edge catching the flicker of the kerosene lamps. The president lay motionless, his broad chest rising and falling under the ether’s spell, his face slack but for the faint grimace etched into his jowls. Bryant’s breath hitched—not from doubt, but from the gravity of cutting into the leader of a nation, a man whose vigor masked a secret frailty. He glanced at Keen, whose gray eyes met his with a nod, then at Erdmann and Maitland, their faces taut with focus. “Begin,” he said, voice steady but low, as if the walls might carry the sound beyond their canvas shroud.
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