Not Done Yet

By Anthony W. Eichenlaub

You're never too old to change the future.
A resident of a nursing home discovers something strange when he orchestrates his escape heist. A mother must decide what to do when four copies of her son return from the Duplication War. An elderly villain writes one last letter to her superhero daughter.  
Fourteen stories of justice, beauty, and innovation that prove you don't need to be young to be ambitious. Too old to make a difference?  
Step aside, kid. We're Not Done Yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oak Leaf Books LLC
• Release date: Nov 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223752110

Book preview

Not Done Yet

NOT DONE YET

Sci-fi Stories of Wisdom and Fury

ANTHONY W. EICHENLAUB

Oak Leaf Books

Copyright © 2023 by Anthony W. Eichenlaub

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The Soil Merchant copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub, first published in Little Blue Marble, 2018

Escape from the Sunset Vista copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub, first published in On-Spec Magazine #115, VOL 31 no 1

They Once Moved Worlds copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub

The Legacy of Beatrice Frost copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub

A Homecoming for Four Will Sunderlands copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub, first published in Departure Mirror, 2021

The King of Justice and Revenge copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub

The Mercy Court copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub

Guardian of Old Texas copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub, first published in Metal and Men, The Boxed Set, 2020

The Cemetery Merchant copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub, first published in Community of Magic Pens, 2020

Pulls Weeds and Does Dishes copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub, first published in Neo-opsis Science Fiction Magazine, Issue 32

Water and Soil copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub

One Final Walk in the Dust and the Rain copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub

Memory of an Apple Tree copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub

The Wabasha Street Butcher copyright © Anthony W. Eichenlaub

Contents

Foreword

The Soil Merchant

Escape from the Sunset Vista

They Once Moved Worlds

The Legacy of Beatrice Frost

A Homecoming for Four Will Sunderlands

The King of Justice and Revenge

The Mercy Court

Guardian of Old Texas

The Cemetery Merchant

Pulls Weeds and Does Dishes

Water and Soil

One Final Walk in the Dust and the Rain

Memory of an Apple Tree

The Wabasha Street Butcher

Bonus Content

Also by Anthony W. Eichenlaub

Foreword

It started with the Old Code books. I had been writing short stories seriously for over a decade, but when I went to write the retired hacker Ajay Andersen, I realized that I really enjoyed writing older protagonists.

And that I needed practice.

The idea for Escape from the Sunset Vista came first. It was my first sci-fi nursing home escape heist, and it was fun. So much fun, in fact, that I knew I was onto something.

You wouldn’t know it from the bulk of books getting published, but older people have stories, too. They have hopes and dreams, challenges and obstacles. Yet, most of what we see on the shelves are novels about young heroes coming of age.

There are exceptions, of course. One needs look only to John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War or any number of Terry Pratchett’s Smallworld books to find fascinating older characters living their complicated lives. I mean, who says that ‘coming of age’ has to be a young adult thing? There are lots of ages. People need to figure out how to be their entire lives.

Not Done Yet is fourteen stories of wisdom and fury. Not every protagonist is happy with where their life has taken them, but they’ve all had lives full of ups and downs. They come to the pages with rich histories and troubled pasts.

Just like all of us.

The Soil Merchant

Orson dragged his tired cart through the bustling square of another dust-covered town. A small bar built into the remains of an old gas station drew him in out of the heat. The place was empty but for a barkeep, and sun shone in solid beams through the dusty air. The soil merchant flexed his knobby knuckles and tossed a few kernels of corn onto the bar.

Something to get the grit out, he said, licking his dry lips. He was getting too old to be traipsing across the Midwest, but what else could he do? His cart contained every valuable thing he owned: dozens of soil core samples, bundled tight as a brick.

The barkeep brought vodka and water. Orson swallowed both.

You passing through? The name stitched onto the barkeep’s overalls said his name was Adam. There’s a dust storm coming.

Orson patted his two-wheeled soil sample cart. I’ll stay long as needed to make a sale. Though, a little dust storm didn’t bother him. This far north the dust storms tasted like fine bentonite. He rather enjoyed it.

Adam leaned forward. What are you selling?

Orson peered into the younger man’s clear, blue eyes—like the sky on a dust-free day. With a shaking hand, Orson withdrew a clear case the size of a cigarette pack. This, he said, opening the container.

Inside was his best sample: a dark sandy loam, still clumped with deep organic structures.

The barkeep’s eyes widened. May I?

Orson nodded. Adam pinched a clump and crumbled it into the palm of his hand. Spitting on it, he spread it around. The soil’s color darkened, and sand separated from silt and clay. The barkeep rubbed it between his fingers.

More where that came from, Orson said in a low voice.

I’ve never seen anything like this, the barkeep said. My parents grew corn off a pile of rocks in Iowa.

A sour taste welled up in Orson’s mouth. Corn’s death.

The barkeep shrugged. Corn’s money, too. They needed money.

Orson muttered to himself and started packing up his things. The thought of the barkeep’s corn-growing family upset him enough he might just brave that dust storm to get to the next town.

Wait, the barkeep said. Tell me, how deep does it go?

The soil merchant shot a glance back over his shoulder. The expression on Adam’s face drew him up short. It was an eager longing—something Orson remembered feeling back when he first started searching the Midwest for the remnants of its soil legacy. He unbuckled the straps around his cart.

I’ll show you, he said, but you talk corn again and we’re done.

Adam looked well sobered.

Orson spoke as he worked to unbind his samples. There were rumors of a woman who grew soy, but she didn’t plow and plant like everyone else. She planted rye in the winter when it was cold. Soy grew up through it in spring, and she fed her cattle in addition to selling beans.

He drew the core sample up out of the pack with slow deliberation. After all, what was a merchant but a showman with expectations?

The barkeep’s eyes were already wide after seeing the first six inches of black soil through the clear case. She didn’t plow at all?

Didn’t need to. Orson drew out a few more inches. Didn’t want to. She was one of the first soil evangelicals, telling everyone the soil was dying. Numbers backed her up, but farmers don’t like change. Another six inches. Layers became visible through the core case. Not one bit. Politicians were worse, granting subsidies to crops that killed our soil right up till it was dead.

But, why?

Why did your parents grow that corn? Orson pulled the rest of the core from the case and set the whole thing on the bar. He spoke with disgust. Money. Greed. Shortsightedness. People were so worked up with carbon dioxide in their atmosphere they forgot to worry about their soil.

What’s the infiltration? asked the barkeep.

Takes in point eight inches an hour. Orson pressed the ends of his core tube, and the top flipped open. He waited for the barkeep to get a good, close look at the layers of soil.

The top was black, jet black, full of organics. Below that sat a layer of strong brown, followed by the remnants of a hardpack—lingering evidence that the ground had once been plowed. Below that sat the pale brown of gypsum and a white that hinted at dolomite. It was a beautiful core—the best Orson had ever seen in all his years as a merchant.

The barkeep peered at something twenty-four inches down in the core. Is this …

Orson grinned, impressed by Adam’s keen eye. Rye root. When they mow the rye, roots decompose into better soil all the way down.

The barkeep poured another vodka for Orson. A real tear formed in the younger man’s eye. Thank you, sir, he said. It’s good just knowing something like this is still out there.

Orson took his time packing up his soil samples, padding each core so it wouldn’t rattle when he rolled the cart over the rough cobblestones. When he finished, he shot a sideways glance at the barkeep. You ever think of getting back in the family business?

Corn?

Orson scowled. Anything but.

Adam leaned forward, both elbows on the bar. Well, old man, I’m not even sure what I could offer you for an opportunity like that.

Later, Orson settled onto the stool behind his new well-stocked bar. He poured himself a vodka to toast the previous barkeep. Adam had gotten the better side of that deal, but Orson figured the younger man would do well by that plot of land with the healthy soil.

Escape from the Sunset Vista

One cloudy afternoon, sitting in his favorite spot in front of the bay window at the Sunset Vista Nursing Home, Bastion saw a drone, and it jostled free a lost memory.

He pulled his threadbare cardigan close to his body, protecting against the chill running up his spine. His four-pronged cane, with its four faded tennis ball feet, sat across his lap. He placed his shaking hands atop it and tried to steady his nerves. When he looked again, the drone was gone.

The drone had been there, he was sure of it. It had hovered with claw-like appendages dangling loosely below its jet-black, angular frame. The drone had lurched, swinging its single cannon around, searching for a target before dropping behind the billboard.

Hadn’t it? Bastion peered out the window at the faded Coca-Cola billboard. The billboard blocked over half the landscape, and the rest was obscured by a choked, silvery mass of Russian olive shrubs. What a sad state of affairs when a man doubts his own eyes—his own mind.

Rooster rolled his rickety old wheelchair up next to Bastion. He ran into Bastion’s cane, forcing Bastion to grab at it to keep it from falling. Rooster’s mane of white hair with the black streak right down the middle bobbed as he nodded his greeting.

Saw a drone out there, said Bastion.

Bullshit, said Rooster.

It flew out there by the billboard. Saw it with my own eyes.

Bull. Rooster licked his lips, milking a long, dramatic pause. Shit. His wrinkled face burst into a proud grin.

Julie rolled her chair up to Bastion on the other side. She was a tiny woman, and her bright blue eyes shone with amusement under her swoop of white curls. She still filled the room with her presence. At ninety-one years, she held the distinction of being Sunset Vista’s oldest resident.

Why do you even talk with that fool? she asked. He never has anything to say.

He’s the best conversationalist around.

Julie elbowed him. Quiet, you. I was talking to Rooster.

Ha, ha.

They sat in silence for a long time. Behind them, some terrible sitcom played in hologram for the other residents. Old Norton laughed too loud at the jokes, and everyone else watched without making so much as a disgruntled murmur.

Sitcoms never interested Bastion. He only wanted to look out on the garden and the vista beyond, even though the view was mostly blocked by that damn billboard. The hyacinths were blooming a shocking purple against the gray earth, and at least that was something.

When he finally looked back at Julie she was watching him, not the garden nor the billboard outside.

Are you okay? she asked.

He shook his head. I’m just trying to remember something.

Oh, that’s never a good idea.

It’s bullshit, said Rooster, nodding.

I’m so close, said Bastion. I need another reminder. One more little hint and it’ll all fall into place. He gripped his cane until his swollen knuckles hurt.

Julie placed a hand on his. Better to look forward, hon. You know that. Forgetting can be a blessing.

Jealous of them? Bastion gestured toward the residents watching the sitcom. Old Norton guffawed.

Julie looked sad. If it weren’t for my hip I’d be home baking a batch of cookies. I’m jealous of the ones who can still do that.

Baked cookies. Bastion could almost smell them.

Julie turned up her nose. From a real oven, not like the crap they make around here.

You ever wish you could forget?

Every day, she said.

Really? Why?

Because we’ve had this conversation every day since I got here two weeks ago, Bastion. It’d be nice to forget all the time you’ve wasted.

Bastion’s only real memories came from his childhood, and even those were hazy. He remembered playing war with three older boys. His brothers? He always needed to cheat or outsmart them. He won a lot, too. His heart swelled with pride when he recalled the time he brought down the old barn as a distraction while he snuck up and flanked them. All three said it was overkill, even though the old barn had been ready to fall for years. Unsafe, even. He didn’t think it was overkill. He always did whatever it