Lincoln Fords the Stream Read online

  Lincoln

  Fords the Stream

  Eric Michael Craig

  Copyright © 2018

  All rights reserved. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author and publisher.

  It was a good day. The first in a long time. The warm spring sun filled the room and the view from the office windows was peaceful. Dogwood trees bloomed and the scent of flowers filled the air.

  It was peaceful. And quiet. Both of which had been so rare in the White House for as long as the Lincoln could remember. The war had finally reached its end and although they still faced the complex struggle of reconstruction, the Cabinet Meeting today gave him hope that they were truly on the path out of darkness.

  Enough lives have been sacrificed. It is over. Now, together, we can begin to stand again as a nation.

  Grabbing a scrap of paper he jotted his words down for a future speech. He had a habit of tossing off extemporaneous lines, but once in a while his thoughts were worthy of prosperity and he committed them to writing. He smiled and put the note onto a pile of books that cluttered his table.

  His assistant, Edward had told him that the Vice-President arrived before lunch, but decided to go for a stroll while he waited for the Cabinet Meeting to end. Enjoying the brief respite between lunch and Andrew’s return, Abe sat back and laced his fingers behind his head. Pushing a stack of books back from the edge of his table with a foot, he crossed his long legs on the corner and closed his eyes. Somewhere in that moment sleep took him.

  Jerking his feet down and sitting up with a start, he realized he wasn’t alone.

  The shimmering image of a person, or at least something that almost resembled a person, sat in the chair across from him. “I need your help,” the man said.

  “Who are you, and who let you in?” For most of his early Presidency, Lincoln had a maintained an open door policy, but as the war stretched on he’d had to accept that everyone needed to have an appointment. Edward had done an excellent job of slowing the crush of the Beggars Opera, but once in a while someone still got past him.

  “I am sorry I startled you Mr. President. I am Smith.” The man-thing said, lifting an emaciated arm and running the tip of a finger over the ridge that shadowed what might have been an eye. “We need your help.”

  Abe balled his fists and ground sleep from his own eyes, hoping to clear his vision. “I am not sure I follow you here, Mister, uhm, Smith,” the President said. “What exactly do you want from me?” His eyes refused to focus on the man’s face.

  “Where I come from, we are facing what you have just overcome. My people live in slavery and have for many generations,” he said. He spoke slowly with a voice that sounded like he’d spent most of his life screaming. Or crying.

  “I am sorry for you and your people’s plight, but why do you think I would be able to help you?” Lincoln looked around the room, trying not to stare at the apparition that seemed to have a pleading expression on its face.

  “We know it is you that brought about these changes at this point in history, and I believe that you could inspire my people to do the same. We are truly desperate.”

  “I understand how that can be. Slavery is an atrocity,” the President said. “But I don’t know who, or even what, you are. No offence to you personally, kind sir.” Abe instantly regretted his words, but the person sitting with him in his office seemed so foreign. So alien.

  “None taken,” the man said, leaning forward slightly in the chair. “I am sure my unannounced arrival and my appearance are quite unsettling to you.”

  “Perhaps a little,” Abe admitted, forcing himself to make eye contact with the person, assuming those were his eyes at all. “I am still not sure what you think I can do for you. I know nothing of your people.”

  “If you would consider coming back with me, you would be able to see how similar our situation is,” he suggested. “You may actually recognize some of your life in our … history.”

  “Surely you aren’t proposing that I travel to wherever you live?” the President said. “This is a troubled time.”

  “Your battles are through,” Smith said. “Your destiny has been achieved. What happens from this day forward will be unaltered whether you are here, or not.”

  “I will not abdicate my responsibility,” Lincoln said. “When I was elected to this office I took an oath to serve the people. Those were not empty words.”

  “I understand your feelings entirely, but there is much at stake,” the man said.

  “My own nation is not yet back on its feet and the ruptures we have in our society are nigh on to insurmountable.” He shook his head. “I cannot abandon my country now that the war has ended. Rebuilding peace is only just beginning for us.”

  “Mr. Lincoln, you are such a charismatic figure. Surely you see how you could be influential in helping my people regain our freedom. We need someone like you. No, we actually need, you. Please consider—”

  “I am afraid my answer must be an unequivocal no,” Abe said.

  “We expected you would say that. Perhaps, if I explained what the end result of your refusal may be, you will change your mind.”

  “I am afraid no amount of persuasion will change my mind, Mr. Smith.” The President rose slowly from his desk and nodded politely toward the door. “Now if you will excuse me, I must consider this meeting over. I have an appointment with the Vice-President.”

  The man-creature refused to rise.

  “Please do not make it necessary to have you removed,” Lincoln said lowering his voice and reaching out for his call rope.

  “Please do not do that Mr. President,” Smith said. He stood awkwardly and for the first time the President could see how crippled the man really was.

  One arm hung limply by his side and his head appeared misshapen and burned to the point where the skin seemed to be no more than a mass of scarred flesh. In spite of having seen so many of his own troops maimed by the war, Lincoln blinked in shock.

  “I am sorry,” he said, apparently reading the President’s horror.

  “No, it is I who should be sorry,” he said. “Your people have also suffered through a war.”

  Smith shook his head. “This is not from a war. It is the result of the conditions in which we slave. The atrocities our masters heap upon us are far crueler than any you can imagine. These are the ravages of monsters yet beyond your understanding.”

  Lincoln looked down, ashamed to look into the face of the man. After several seconds he shook his head. “I cannot. Please, you need to leave now before Mary comes in. She does not need to—”

  “See the ugly truth?” he finished, bitterness clear in his hissing voice.

  “Please. Just go.” His voice ground out word by word, bringing chunks of his soul with it. His hand touched the call rope but he could not bring himself to pull it.

  “Would you abandon your people to slavery?” Smith asked. “You would expect that of me?”

  When the President looked up, the man stood there with an expression that might have been sadness. He watched as he made a gesture with its good hand.

  Lightning flashed behind him and a figure appeared, not quite visible through the blinding glare. This one seemed to be solid, and far more human. Abe blinked several times in confusion before he collapsed forward unconscious over his desk.

  The new figure stepped forward, picking up the stovepipe hat that wa
s sitting on the edge of the table. He set it lightly upon his own head. It fit perfectly, but of course it would. Clearing his throat he turned to face Mr. Smith. “Take him before he wakes.”

  Another flash of lightning and Lincoln vanished, leaving the new man in his place.

  “Thank you my friend,” Smith said. “At least this time he will have the chance to set his people free for good.”

  “All of them. Yet again,” the newcomer said.

  Smith’s image faded as the connection thinned. “Do try to enjoy the play tonight, Mr. Lincoln. I understand that in its time, Ford’s Theater was a wonderful venue.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A special thank you to Laura for participating in my contest and guessing the subject of this story. It’s fans like her that make this all worthwhile.

  More by Eric Michael Craig

  Atlas and the Winds:

  Stormhaven Rising (Book One)

  Prometheus and the Dragon (Book Two)

  Available on Amazon

  About the Author

  Eric Michael Craig is the former Director of Research for IFECT Power Systems in Phoenix. While there, he managed an experimental team in the development of several high-tech industrial projects. His fascination with science, and his desire to understand how the universe works, led him to continue his education throughout his career. Eric studied electrical engineering, architecture, and physics, and specialized in inertial and gravitational mechanics.

  Fascinated with the “cacophony of humanity,” he dedicated much of his life to observing society and how people relate with things in the world around them. This ultimately drove him to begin writing full time. The many stories and novels he has created draw from his years of watching how humanity and the universe interact.

  He now lives in the Manzano Mountains of New Mexico, where he is active in Intentional Community Design and Historical Recreation. He plays guitar and bass, occasionally dabbles in various forms of art, designs and maintains his own websites, and owns way too many dogs.

  Website:

  EricMichaelCraig.com

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  Eric Michael Craig, Lincoln Fords the Stream

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