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eBook Category: Fantasy
eBook Description: "Sojourn is a rare, well-researched and entertaining tale of time travel set against the backdrop of the Whitechapel Murders."--Casebook: Jack the Ripper London, September 1888 An aged QueenVictoria rules. The threat of anarchy hovers in the air. A new kind of evil lurks in the back alleys of Whitechapel. Enter Jacynda Lassiter, a Time Rover on a mission--find an overdue 'tourist' and return him to 2057 before he changes history. Victorian London is a dangerous place for the unwary. Mysterious shape-shifters haunt the streets, making friend and foe indistinguishable. When a fellow Time Rover is murdered, Jacynda's mission becomes personal. Can she trust the two gentlemen who come to her aid, or do they harbor their own dark secrets? In a few days, Jack the Ripper will add to his bloody legacy. But old Jack isn't the only threat in Whitechapel. Unless Jacynda can outwit a madman, her Victorian sojourn will rewrite history--and end at the point of a blade.

eBook Publisher: Dragon Moon Press/Dragon Moon Press, Published: 2006, 2006
Fictionwise Release Date: August 2006

This eBook is part of the following series:

• Jana G. Oliver's Time Rovers Series

6 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [2.5 MB], eReader (PDB) [427 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [434 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [402 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [371 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [408 KB], hiebook (KML) [1.1 MB], Sony Reader (LRF) [517 KB], iSilo (PDB) [364 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [464 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [498 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [577 KB]
Words: 123475
Reading time: 352-493 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 1896944418

"Jana G. Oliver's unique time travel novel, Sojourn is the adventure story of Jacynda Lassiter, a Time Rover sent on a mission to London in the year of 1888 to prevent a missing 'tourist' from disturbing and changing history. Featuring a deftly intertwining plot populated mysterious and dangerous shape-shifters, Irish anarchists edging closer to attacks on the Crown, and the murderous Jack The Ripper, Sojourn is a riveting tale of Lassiter's persistent struggle to save the time line necessary for the continued existence her own world of 2057, or perish in her failure to protect it. An original and well crafted story, Sojourn is very highly recommended reading for Sci-Fi buffs and clearly document Jana G. Oliver as a gifted storyteller and a master of the genre."--Midwest Book Review

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 half-dozen 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 once-thriving 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 nano-laminate 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.

Cynda noshed her way through another candy bar, watching the pair with amusement. For some reason, Ralph's silver-streaked ponytail and oval, Teddy Roosevelt glasses simply mesmerized young women. It never made sense, but the beneficiary accepted he was a skirt magnet. Last week, it had been a brunette in accounting. Today, it was Miss Well-Rounded Caboose in the nostalgia heels.

The blonde threw Cynda a sidelong glance. With a decided sniff, she returned to business. "The Hartmans are scheduled for 1925 Chicago. Mr. Hartman wants to get a glimpse of Al Capone."

"Roaring Twenties Chicago," Ralph said, inserting the nano-drive containing the Time Order into his terminal. His fingers flew over the touchscreen as the entries scrolled in the air. Studying the order, he observed, "A seven-dayer. Big bucks for that."

"It's their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary," the rep replied. "Mr. Hartman wants to give his wife something special and then write a few 'man on the scene' articles for Roaring '20s Retro Magazine."

Ralph raised an eyebrow, double-checked his entries and announced, "Ready."

The rep nodded her approval. "Go for it." He hesitated, looking around. "Which Rover's handling the Outbound?"

"No one."

Ralph shot Cynda a quick look. "They're flying solo?"

"New policy," the rep replied. "Unless it's a dangerous locale, no need for an Insertion Escort."

"Chicago in the middle of a gang war? Nah, no danger there," Ralph grumbled.