Eric Goebelbecker is the author of Shadows of the Past and an ongoing series set in the aftermath of the Martian invasion from The War of the Worlds. His lifelong curiosity about technology and science fiction led to a career repairing radars in the U.S. Army, followed by another as a programmer on Wall Street. This technical background lends authentic detail and rigor to the alien technology and military action in his work. When he isn't writing stories about Martian Tripods and tank battles, he's the CTO for a tech marketing firm and trains dogs in New Jersey.

Shadows of the Past by Eric Goebelbecker

It's 1915, and the trenches of the Somme are already hell for German soldier Emil Zimmerman. But when the familiar, terrifying howl of a Martian Wanderer sounds across the battlefield, he knows the true war has just begun. The invaders have returned, adapted to Earth's environment, and this time they have help.

Across the German lines, Emil discovers a treasonous conspiracy: a rogue General is hoarding alien weaponry, and negotiating a dark alliance with the enemy. Now, Emil must lead a mutiny and turn the enemy's own heat rays against them before Europe burns.

Meanwhile, in America, James Brogan, a brilliant engineer at Edison Laboratories, uncovers a silent invasion on his own soil. When transatlantic radios go dark and a massive explosion rocks Coney Island, James realizes German spies and Martian sympathizers are blinding the United States to the coming slaughter. Forced to step out from behind his workbench, James must expose a high-ranking traitor and restore the Planetary Warning System before the invasion reaches New York.

Twenty years ago, humanity only survived the first Martian invasion because Earth's microbes decimated the invaders. Now, the Great War rages on, fueled by scavenged alien technology—fearsome heat rays and deadly canisters of Black Smoke—which the Martians now wield with ruthless efficiency.

CURATOR'S NOTE

Imagine: It's 1915. The Martians are gone, but they left their weapons behind—and humanity is turning them on each other. Goebelbecker delivers an alternate history WWI thriller with espionage, conspiracy, and two heroes who never meet but whose fates are intertwined. Gripping and timely. The author's military background lends authentic technical detail to this take on a classic. – M.G. Herron

 

REVIEWS

  • "...a captivating sci-fi novel inspired by War of the Worlds. It features assassinations, invasions, death by black tar smoke from Mars, public executions, explosions, espionage, and escape missions. And there's a new threat to our protagonists at every turn of the page."

    – Reader review

  • "The world-building of Shadows of the Past is out of this-world amazing."

    – Reader review

  • "...created a world that I really looked forward to returning to every night when I picked up my Kindle, and the book was immersive enough that I thought about it when I wasn't reading."

    – Reader review
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

Emil launched himself out of the parapet and into no-man's-land. His heart pounded as he hurled himself downrange toward danger. Find the enemy gunners and kill them. Those were his orders. Kill the other men who don't want to be here any more than you do.

One hundred fifteen . . . one hundred fourteen . . . one hundred thirteen . . .

He stayed low as he scanned for cover. Fritz Seith pulled away as he ran to Emil's left. Fritz always outran Emil, a natural forward to Emil's midfielder back in their school days. Knots of barbed wire forced both men into a serpentine path. There were still blotches of vegetation scattered between the wire, and less erosion than one would expect considering the rain of the past two days.

This place had been someone's livelihood. A few weeks ago, it had fed a family. Soon, it would be an abattoir. And for the third time in a couple of weeks, Emil was leading an advance through hastily abandoned Belgian positions.

One hundred ten . . . one hundred nine . . . one hundred eight . . .

He threw himself to the ground and low-crawled behind a small berm sitting near an X-shaped barbed wire entanglement. The pounding in his ears slowed as he caught his breath, and he remembered to keep his head down to hide. Ahead, Fritz hurled himself to the ground, face down, almost as if he had read Emil's mind.

Rotting asparagus stalks jutted out from one side of the berm. Its leaves drooped, as if mourning the loss of their home. Emil held his breath, raised his head, and looked for a place to go next.

Ninety-four . . . ninety-three . . . ninety-two . . .

In ninety seconds, the rest of the company would charge. Emil and Fritz needed to get as close as they could to the Belgian trench and kill their machine gunners before they could fire on the Third Company.

Unteroffizier Oberacker always chose Emil and Fritz for this job because they were the smallest and fastest, and because they worked best together. But that didn't mean Emil had ever gotten used to it.

The count took over. It was something for Emil to focus on, instead of what he had to do.

Eighty-six . . . eighty-seven . . . eighty-five . . .

Emil rolled to his right, jumped up to his feet, and ran to another berm, this one barely tall enough to conceal him. Fritz found another one 200 meters away.

Eighty . . . seventy-nine . . . seventy-eight . . .

The sun was high enough to hang behind the enemy positions to the east, interfering with visibility. The German Army was attacking into the rising sun—a bold move. But they were rolling over the Belgians so easily that the officers didn't think they would lose.

The sun cut through the morning chill, but no-man's-land remained a cold and muddy shambles. Emil's knees sank into the ground as he peered over the berm and spotted the glint of a machine gunner's weapon. Either no one had shown him how to dull the metal with mud and oil, or he was as sloppy as this field. Emil scowled and brought himself back to the count.

Seventy-six . . . seventy-five . . .

It was a safe bet that the gunner was barely eighteen, his life dominated by schoolwork and schoolgirls a few months ago.

Emil scanned the line to either side of the shining enemy gun. There must have been at least two more gunners to the south.

He rolled to his left and stopped. No response. Staying in a crouch, he advanced to a thick entanglement of wire twenty-five meters downrange. Fritz appeared and started toward the next bit of cover in front of him.

Seventy-three . . . seventy-two . . .

The whistle blew.

They were sending the rest of the regiment in early? But Emil and Fritz hadn't taken out any gunners yet. The Belgians would cut their men to pieces.

The enemy gunners sprang to life. Emil dove back behind the wire, took a deep breath, poked his head around, and saw Fritz lying face down in the mud. Bile rose in Emil's throat. Fritz hadn't expected the early whistle, either, so he hadn't been behind cover. Emil jumped up, sighted the muzzle flash, fired, and dropped to his stomach. Behind him, the rest of the platoon advanced. Rounds flew over his head from both sides.

Fritz shifted, struggled to his hands and knees, and scooted forward to the nearest berm. Emil breathed a sigh of relief.

He jumped up again and fired another round toward the enemy's position. No response. He could still hear the other gunners firing, but the advancing men kept them busy. Maybe the gunner was already dead or had fled. Emil ran in a crouch and reached Fritz at a full trot, nearly landing on his face as he reached him.

"Are you okay?" Emil gasped, wiping mud from his chin.

"Yeah, got lucky," Fritz said, smiling. He held up a fold of fabric in his trousers, showing two perfectly aligned holes, and laughed. "Through and through!"

Emil dropped his head down toward the mud again, sighing in relief. He'd known Fritz since they'd been kids, playing soccer back in Euleheim. Losing his best friend here, in a field in Belgium, was unthinkable.

"I guess we might as well get this guy together?" Fritz asked.

"He's quiet now. I might have got him, or maybe he ran," Emil said. "The rest of the platoon is about to charge, anyway. If I didn't stop him, Fluse's early start will."

"So he sent them early? Idiot. I thought I lost count."

"No, he did. Maybe he thought he'd earn a promotion if he took that hole in the ground a minute earl—"

The whistle blew again, three sharp blasts this time.

"Gas?" Fritz said, his eyes huge.

Emil took his mask from its pouch and slid it on in one practiced motion. But no matter how many times he'd done that before, the thought of gas was always terrifying. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he looked toward the German position, expecting to see a cloud of yellow-brown mustard gas.

Instead, a massive, roiling black cloud swelled across the field, moving from behind the German trench toward them.

Black Smoke.